BLACKWOOD'S -^«* *,
*>s*
VOL. XLV.
JANUARY— JUNE, 1839.
12V"3 ,,
- 10
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH;
AND
T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON.
1839.
H-
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXIX. JANUARY, 1839. -VoL. XLV.
ANCIENT SCOTTISH Music. THE SKENE MS. ... 1
LEGENDARY LORE. No. V. THE ONYX RING, CONCLUDED, . 17
SOME ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER, 47
ITALY AS IT WAS, ....... 62
DE LAMARTINE, ....... 7<>
PERSIA, AFGHANISTAN, AND INDIA, .... 93
OLD ROGER, ....... IOC
MITCHELL'S SECOND AND THIRD EXPEDITIONS, . . .113
OUR POCKET COMPANIONS. 130
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET,
EDINBURGH:
AND T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON.
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PRINTED BY BALL ANT YNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
[o. CCLXXX. FEBRUARY, 1839. VOL. XLV.
(tatwtrf.
PAGE
JEW EDITION OP BEN JONSON, .... 145
CORN LAWS, ....... 170
SOME ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER
(CONTINUED), ...... 177
REFLECTIONS ON PUNCH — MORALS AND MANNERS, . . 190
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILOSOPHY OF CONSCIOUSNESS. PART
VI. CHAP. 1 201
IRELAND UNDER THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE, . . . 212
MATHEWS THE COMEDIAN, ..... 229
A DISCOURSE ON GOETHE AND THE GERMANS, . . 247
ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S LAST JUDGMENT, . . '. 257
THE IRON GATE— A LEGEND OF ALDERLEY, . . . 271
SECULAR AND RELIGIOUS EDUCATION, .... 275
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 4S>,
EDINBURGH:
AND T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON.
To whom Communications (post paid) may be addressed.
BOLD ALSO BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HVCHIS, EDINB0R6H.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,
No. CCLXXXI. MARCH, 1839. VOL. XLV
PAGE
PERU AS IT is, . . . . . . 287
SONNETS. BY WASHINGTON BROWNE, NEW YORK, . . 300
KATE. BY ALFRED DOMETT, ..... 301
EARLIER ENGLISH MORAL SONGS AND POEMS, . . 303
THE PICTURE GALLERY. No. VI. • . . . . 319
IRELAND UNDER THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE — THE POPULAR PARTY,
THE ROMAN CATHOLIC PRIESTS, AND THE QUEEN'S MINIS-
TERS, ....... 341
SOME ACCOUNT OP HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER
(CONTINUED), . . . . . . 353
EGYPT — THE TROJAN WAR — HOMER, . . . . 366
NEW DISCOVERY— ENGRAVING, AND BURNET'S CARTOONS, . 382
BANNISTER THE COMEDIAN, . . '. 392
BEN-NA-GROICH, . ' . . . . . 409
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILOSOPHY OP CONSCIOUSNESS
(THE CONCLUSION), » . « • « 419
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET,
EDINBURGH :
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BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,
No. CCLXXXII. APRIL, 1839. VOL. XLV.
TAGS
FRANCE AND HER ELECTIONS, . . . , . 431
ON THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, ..... 455
SOME ACCOUNT OP HIMSELF. By THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER
(CONTINUED), . . . . .. . 463
DESULTORY DOTTINGS DOWN UPON Doos, . . . 475
A WEEK AT MANCHESTER, . . . ^ . 481
MY AFTER-DINNER ADVENTURES WITH PETER SCHLEMIHL, . *467
Music AND FRIENDS, ...,;. *480
EMILY VON ROSENTHAL— HOW SHE WAS SPIRITED AWAY, . *490
WHAT is POETICAL DESCRIPTION ? . . ,«. . 529
SONG, . . ...» .V • 537
CHRISTOPHER IN HIS ALCOVE, • . 538
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET,
EDINBURGH :
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PRINTED BY BALI/ANlYKfi AND Hl\«HE»>
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXXIII. MAY, 1839. VOL. XLV.
Cmitentd;
OUR DESCRIPTIVE POETRY, No. I., . " « . 573
LEAVING ENGLAND, ...... 586
PICTURE GALLERY. No. VIL, ... * 588
HALLOWED GROUND, ...... 595
THE GODDESS VENUS IN THE MIDDLE AGES, . . . 603
SONNET, ........ 617
SOME ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER
(CONTINUED), . . . . . . 618
THE TWENTY- SECOND BOOK OF THE ILIAD. TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH TROCHAICS, .... 634
LETTER ON SCOTCH NATIONALITY, .... 643
SONNETS BY THE SKETCHER, ..... 651
ASSASSINS AND BULL FIGHTS, ..... 656
PROSPECTUS OF THE HISTORY OF OUR FAMILY, . . 669
NOTES OF A TRAVELLER, ..... 682
THE EUMENIDES. TRANSLATED BY MR CHAPMAN, . . 695
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACK.WOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET,
EDINBURGH :
AND T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON.
To whom Communications (post paid) may be addressed.
SOLD ALSO BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXXIV. JUNE, 1839. VOL. XLV.
C0ntnrt& PAGE
THE LATE POLITICAL EVENTS, .... 715
MY FIRST CLIENT, . . ... 733
MERIMEE ON OIL-PAINTING, . . . . 747
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO, ..... 75-5
SOME ACCOUNT OP HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER
(CONCLUSION), ... 761
Dn MINORUM GENTIUM. No. I — CAREW AND HERRICK, . 782
WHIG DECLINE AND DEGRADATION, .... 795
ON THE GENIUS OF RAPHAEL, ..... 809
HYMNS TO THE GODS. BY ALBERT PIKE, . . , 819
SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, . . . 830
OUR CHAMBERS, . . . . . . 831
THE LIFE OF A SPECULATIVE GERMAN, . . . 837
THE VISION OF CALIGULA. BY B. SIMMONS, . . . 849
INDEX, ...... . 856
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET,
EDINBURGH:
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BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXIX. JANUARY, 1839.
VOL. XLV.
ANCIENT SCOTTISH MUSIC — THE SKENE MS.
A NOBLE national music, if not a cer-
tain mark, is yet a probable indication
of many national virtues. The gene-
ral diffusion of beautiful traditionary
melodies among- a people implies the
prevalence of refined taste and of ten-
der or exalted feelings. Such com-
positions could not be produced, ap-
preciated, or preserved, among men
whole hearts were engrossed with sen-
sual or sordid things, or refused ad-
mittance to the kindly and imaginative
sensibilities of which music is the
powerful and universal expression.
We shall not deny that the qualities
which are akin to musical taste may
sometimes nationally, as well as per-
sonally, degenerate into softness and
effeminacy, or wander into impetuosity
and violence. But, if properly regulated
and attuned, the same affections that are
awakened by musical sounds, which are
but the echoes of a higher and holier
harmony, will not be insensible to the
voice of moral sympathies. Popular
music, too, it will be remembered, is ge-
nerally the parent or the sister of popu-
lar poetry. The mass of mankind are
too sensuous in their constitution, too
fond of vivid and tangible images, to
rest contented with the shadowy sug-
gestions and wandering idealities of
mere melody in its ethereal state, while
unincorporated with significant lan-
guage. National music is thus the
frequent origin, as well as subject, of
poetical genius. It will often, indeed,
happen that the finest melodies, in-
stead of being married to immortal
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX.
verse, are but very Indifferently pro-
vided with yoke-fellows ; but it is not
necessary, in order to produce a power-
ful effect, that the words of a song
should be equal to the music. Rude
and feeble expressions may be sufficient
to give a definite object and distinct
character to a melody, andmay, in com-
bination with its influence, create im-
pressions equal to those which proceed
from much superiorpoetry. The poeti-
cal feelings, that are thus called into
action, will necessarily belong to the
better parts of our nature, and, by the
exercise which is given to them, will
tend to ameliorate the character. At
the same time, and by the same pro-
cess, the music of a country will be-
come linked more strongly with those
local objects and events that are most
cherished and most memorable. It
will become the depository of all that
is interesting to human feelings or dear
to national pride ; and, by the innu-
merable recollections which it involves,
united with its natural power to ex-
cite emotion, it will acquire a magic
influence over the heartwhich no other
art can lay claim to. The love of
country', a love which is the concen-
tration of all social and domestic cha-
rities, appears to be the passion that is
most powerfully moved by means of
national music. A few characteristic
notes, breathed from a simple reed, or
sung by a rugged voice, will, to men
at a distance from their native land,
more readily and forcibly recall the
images and feelings of home than the
Ancient Scottish Music — The Skene MS.
[Jan.
most elaborate description, or the most
lively picture. The mind is at once
replaced amid those pleasing scenes
which formerly echoed to the same
familiar strain, amid those beloved
objects with which its melody so
sweetly harmonized. As an auxi-
liary, therefore, to virtue and hap-
piness, the possession of a national
music is an inestimable blessing.
It lightens labour, and enlivens re-
creation ; it embellishes plenty, and
compensates for hardship ; abroad it
reminds us of the loves that we have
left, and the hopes that are before
us ; at home it invests every spot and
object with the light of poetry and the
charms of recollection ; in the hours of
peace it knits more closely the ties of
neighbourhood and affection ; in the
day of battle it nerves the arm for
victory or the soul for death.
Having said so much of the mo-
ral influence of national melody, let
us add something as to its effects
upon the progress of musical art.
There is little doubt that the prin-
cipal charm of modern music arises
from the adoption, in scientific com-
position, of the peculiar attractions of
popular melody. We should still be
wearied with the drawling dulness of
the old chants, if composers of dis-
cernment as well as science had not
seen the necessity of following the uni-
versal taste of mankind, and of incor-
porating the results of experience with
the speculations of theory. Music is
the art of pleasing the ear, and the
only standard of such an art is suc-
cess. A scientific musical composi-
tion that gives no pleasure is a sole-
cism— a contradiction in terms. Mu-
sical science may be of service in
pointing out faults and in extending
knowledge, but it cannot create beau-
ties ; and here, as well as elsewhere,
the observation holds true — Maximum
est vitium carere virtutibus. To he
cold and tiresome is infinitely worse
than to be incorrect. But the art of
pleasing in music has been very much
derived, or at least improved, from a
study of those effusions which have
either spontaneously sprung from the
popular taste, or have been preserved
by its influence amidst the wreck of
other productions of a less congenial
and buoyant character. The most
successful works of modern composers
have been formed, in a great measure,
upon the model of national melody ;
and an enlarged view of the science
has shown that no sacrifice of musical
system is necessary in order to please
the simple as well as the erudite. The
sources of musical beauty are the same,
whether popularly or technically view-
ed. From adventitious circumstances,
the pleasing and the profound may at
times appear to diverge ; but in this
art, as in every other that is intended
to address and to ameliorate human
feelings, the highest perfection is to
be found in that region where popular
and scientific excellence are united and
identified.
The subject of national melody, its
origin, character, and influence in dif-
ferent countries, have been very im-
perfectly investigated or considered j
and we have no doubt that much dis-
covery, at once useful and interesting,
might yet be made in this department.
The affinities existing between the mu-
sic of different nations, if carefully and
scientifically traced, might, we con-
ceive, throw much light both upon their
community of origin, and also upon the
predominant principles of musical sen-
sibility among mankind ; and in this
last view we might, by such enquiries,
more surely approximate to those im-
mutable and universal laws of the art
that can best assist composers in writ-
ing for a permanent and extensive po-
pularity. Transcendent genius will
often attain this object by its own in-
stinctive perceptions : but merit, even
of a high order, might, by instruction
from this source, be preserved from
those local or temporary aberrations
into which it is often tempted by ca-
price or fashion, and- which, though
pleasing in a partial degree, must ul-
timately obscure its real excellence.
In the general dearth of informa-
tion, which we believe prevails on this
subject, we yet think that we cannot
be much mistaken in claiming a very
high degree of relative praise for the
national music of our own country.
The opinions of Scotchmen on such a
question, may be suspected of bias,
but the testimony of high and im-
partial authorities has been repeat-
edly given to the same effect. The
Scottish music is extensive and va-
rious, and in every department pos-
sesses unquestionable merit. Our
dancing tunes have a spirit and force
unrivalled to our ear by any other
music, and so electrically fitted to
rouse the national fervour and -en-
1830.]
Ancient Scottish Music— The Shene MS.
thusiasm, that we doubt not they will
ere long regain their legitimate ascend-
ency in the ball-room. Our humour-
ous airs have an eminent power of
clever or grotesque merriment. Our
serious melodies are often highly po-
lished and graceful ; and those of a
plaintive character are as exquisitely
pathetic as the most finished composi-
tions of the greatest masters. Taken
all in all, we are not convinced that
there is any other body of national
music in the world that surpasses that
of Scotland, in force, in character, in
versatility, or in genius. We certainly
feel not a little exultation at our su-
periority in this respect over our
neighbours of England, to whom we
are willing to bow with a proud humi-
lity in many other subjects of compe-
tition, but whom, we rejoice to think,
we can always out-do in the matter of
mountains and music. We are far
from denying to the English the praise
of musical feeling, and we arc grate-
ful for the great contributions which,
by their regular and scientific compo-
sitions, they have made to the general
stock of musical pleasure. Not to
enumerate the early madrigal and ca-
non writers of England, who were
equally remarkable for their talent,
learning, and ingenuity, or to refer to
her ancient church music, which will
always command admiration, the coun-
try that owns Purcell for her son, and
can boast of Handel for her foster-
cliild, deserves one of the highest
places among modern nations in the
s'-.tle of musical genius. But we are
here speaking of that aboriginal or
self-sown music which is referable to
no individual author, or school of au-
thors, but seems to be the fruit of the
very soil itself, and reveals, by the
raciness of its character, the peculiar
qualifies of its native bed. In point
of national music, properly so called,
we think ourselves entitled to claim
the advantage over our southern coun-
trymen. The English have, undoubt-
edly, a national music, and we see
with interest the present progress of
an elegant and judicious collection of
their melodies under the direction of
Mr Chapell. But although recognis-
ing the great spirit and sweetness of
many of the English airs, we think
that, as far we have yet seen, few or
none of them exhibit those decided
features either of antiquity or of pecu-
liar origin by which our Scottish airs
are so strikingly marked.
With these opinions, it will be rea-
dily conceived that we have hailed
with great pleasure a recent addi-
tion to the musical lore of Scotland in
the publication of the Skene MS.,
which has been long known and re-
ferred to, as existing in the Advocates'
Library, but which is now for the first
time given to the light, under the care of
Mr Dauney, a member of the Scottish
bar, who has engrafted on the legal
profession many elegant accomplish-
ments, and, in particular, a very re-
fined and enlightened acquaintance
with musical science. We shall give
a short account of this MS. in Mr
Dauney's own words : —
" The collection of ancient music
now submitted to the public is the
property of the Faculty of Advocates
at Edinburgh. It was bequeathed to
that learned body, about twenty years
ago, by the late Miss Elizabeth Skene,
the last surviving member, in a direct
line, of the family of Skene of Currie-
hill and Hallyards in Mid-Lothian,
along with a charter-chest containing
a variety of documents relating to that
family, of which that lady had become
the depositary, as their representative,
and great-great-grand-daughter of
John Skene of Hallyards, who was the.
son of Sir John Skene, the author of
the treatise ' De Verborum Significa-
tione,' and Clerk Register during a
great part of the reign of King James
VI." ..." The MS. is without date,
and there is great difficulty in speak-
ing as to the precise time when it was
written. Indeed upon this point we
cannot venture upon a nearer approxi-
mation than twenty or thirty years.
From the appearance of the paper, the
handwriting, and the fact that some of
the tunes are here and there repeated,
with very little alteration as regards
the music, it is extremely probable
that they had been taken down at dif-
ferent times, during a period of about
that duration. Further than this, the
most careful examination will only
permit us to add, that one part of the
MS. was written beween the years
1615 and 1620, and that while none
of it is likely to have been much more
recent than the last-mentioned era,
some of the collection may have been
formed as early as the commencement
of the seventeenth century."
Mr Dauney notices various circum-
stances of a chronological nature in
confirmation of this opinion, and ar-
rives at the conclusion that John Skene
Ancient Scottish Music— The Shene ?>I8.
[Jan.
of Hallyards, the son of the Clerk
Register, was the original owner of
the MS., and most probably the per-
son under whose auspices the collec-
tion was formed.
The degreeofinterestand importance
attaching to any collection of Scotch
music made in the beginning of the
17th century, may not, at first sight,
be apparent to those who are unac-
quainted with the length of time for
which national music may remain in
a traditionary form. The date which
has been assigned to the Skene MS.
would not, certainly, be considered
as of high antiquity in the general
history of music. England, in parti-
cular, had, before that period, pro-
duced very learned and eminent names
in musical science, and these were
closely followed by still more distin-
guished composers in the course of
the 17th century. It might be thought,
therefore, that the era of novelty, in
reference to the national music of
Scotland, must have long gone by,
when that of regular composition was
so far advanced on the other side of
the Border. It is a singular fact,
however, that, previous to the pre-
sent publication of the Skene MS.,
the earliest printed collection of
Scotch music was of so recent a date
as 17'25. The work that we now
allude to is the " Orpheus Caledonius"
of William Thomson, which appeared
in London, in the form of a single
folio volume, in the year we have just
mentioned, and of which a second edi-
tion, of smaller size, with an additional
volume, was published in 1733. The
Skene collection is thus more than a
century earlier in date than the earliest
similar work of which we have been
hitherto in possession.
It is true, that several Scottish me-
lodies had appeared in a scattered
form previous to the publication of
Thomson's Orpheus ; but none of
them, so far as we can discover, so
early as the date of the Skene MS.
In the Introductory Enquiry which
Mr Dauney has prefixed to his work,
we find the notices of these collected
together in such a manner as to direct
attention to this interesting subject,
which it would probably require a very
laborious and extensive investigation
to exhaust. The oldest printed edition
of any Scotch air previously known
was that of " Cold and Raw," or " Up
in the Morning Early," inserted iu the
collection of catches published by Hil-
ton in 1652. Of this very excellent
air, which seems to have been a popu-
lar favourite in the seventeenth cen-
tury, we have a gossiping story told
by Sir John Hawkins in his History
of Music, which we are tempted to
extract : — " This tune was greatly ad-
mired by Queen Mary, the consort of
King William ; and she once affronted
Purcell by requesting to have it sung
to her, he being present : the story is
as follows : — The Queen having a
mind, one afternoon, to be entertained
with music, sent to Mr Gostling, then
one of the chapel, and afterwards sub-
dean of St Paul's, to Henry Purcell,
and Mrs Arabella Hunt, who had a very
fine voice, and an admirable hand on
the lute, with a request to attend her ;
they obeyed her commands ; Mr Gost-
ling and Mrs Hunt sung several com-
positions of Purcell, who accompanied
them on the harpischord ; at length
the Queen, beginning to grow tired,
asked Mrs Hunt if she would not sing
the old Scots ballad, ' Cold and Raw ? '
Mrs Hunt answered yes, and sung it
to her lute. Purcell was all the while
sitting at the harpischord unemployed,
and not a little nettled at the Queen's
preference of a vulgar ballad to his
music ; but seeing her Majesty de-
lighted with this tune, he determined
that she should hear it upon another
occasion ; and accordingly, in the
next birth-day song, viz., that for the
year 1692, he composed an air to the
words, ' May her bright example
chase vice in troops out of the land,'
the bass whereof is the tune to Cold and
Raw; it is printed in the second part
of the Orpheus Britannicus, and is,
note for note, the same with the Scotch
tune."
Mention is made of other individual
Scottish airs, in anecdotes and notices
relating to the middle and end of
the 17th century. Thus, in refer-
ence to the period after the Restora-
tion, we are told of a " Scottish laird
who had been introduced to King
Charles, with whom he had afterwards
had many merry meetings while in
Scotland, enlivened by the song and
the dance of his country. Having
become unfortunate in his affairs, he
is said to have found his way to Lon-
don, with the view of making an ap-
peal to the royal favour, and for a
long while to have been unable to
obtain access, until one day, when he
bethought himself of the expedient ot
slipping into the seat of the organist,
Ancient Scottish Music — The IShtne MS.
1839.J
at the conclusion of the service, in the
Chapel Royal, and of arresting his
Majesty's attention as he departed,
•with the homely and unexpected strain
of " Brose and Butter" — a tune which
very naturally awakened the recollec-
tion of their former friendship, and in
a few minutes brought about the re-
cognition which it was so much his
desire to effect."
We have no edition of this very
characteristic song contemporaneous
with the time of the anecdote. But
we have no reason to doubt that the
air which is thus commemorated is the
same as that with which we are still
delighted at the present day, and which
is to some persons better known under
the title of " The Grinder."
In the year 1680, the air of Kathe-
rine Ogie was sung at a concert in
Stationers' Hall, by Abell, the lutanist
and counter-tenor singer, of whom the
strange story is told, that when he was
in Poland, the King, in revenge for
some exhibition of that caprice for
which singers are proverbial, compel-
led him to sing in a suspended chair,
upon pain of being let down among
wild bears ; a threat under the influence
of which Abell declared that he sung
better than he had ever done in his
life. There can be no doubt of the
identity of this air of Katherine Ogie
with that which now bears the" same
name, and of which a set is to be
found in print dated a few years after-
wards.
The accession of the Stuart family
to the throne of England, and the in-
creasing intercourse thence arising
between the two countries, may ac-
count for the popularity which the
melodies of Scotland seem gradually
to have obtained among the English
in the course of the seventeenth cen-
tury. Several Scotch airs are said to
be inserted in Playford's Dancing-
master, published in 1657 ; but we have
never seen that collection, of which we
believe there are very few copies to be
found in this part of the kingdom. It
would appear, however, as Mr Dauney
tells us, that little is to be gleaned,
at least from accessible sources of in-
formation, as to the publication and
performances of these airs in England,
before the appearance of D'Urfey's
Miscellany, as to which we shall now
make a few observations.
This extraordinary compilation
seems to have first seen the light about
the end of the seventeenth century,
under the title of " Laugh and be Fat,
or Pills to purge Melancholy." The
prescription seems to have been pretty
generally taken and well liked ; and
Addison, in No. 29 of the Guardian,
refers to it as the cause to which " so
many rural squires in the remotest
parts of this island are obliged for the
dignity and state which corpulency
gives them." Enlarged editions of the
work were published^ in six volumes,
in 1707-20, under the name of " Wit
and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melan-
choly." It would appear, both on his
own testimony, and on that of Addi-
son in another number of the Guardian
(No. 67), that D'Urfey had enjoyed
the good graces of Charles II., who
would lean on his shoulder, and hum
over a song with him from the same
paper. He seems, indeed, to have
been generally popular, and more par-
ticularly so with the fair sex, if we do
not suppose Addison to have had
either a jocular or a satirical meaning
when he recommended to the young
ladies, his disciples, to give their pa-
tronage to the benefit of his old friend,
" who," he says, " has often made their
grandmothers merry, and whose son-
nets have perhaps lulled asleep many
a present toast when she lay in her
cradle." If the ladies of the seven-
teenth century derived their merri-
ment from the fountain-head, and could
swallow the " Pills'* entire as they
came from Tom's own laboratory,
their constitutions must certainly have
been very different from those of their
modern descendants, who would be
shocked at a mixture where there was
so large a dose of indecency to so small
a proportion of wit. It so happens,
however, that the copy of the Pills
which is now before us seems to have
been the property of a lady who writes
her name " Ann Addison," with the
date 1744 ; though whether she was
any relation of Tom's illustrious friend
we are unable to say. It is but fair
to add, that Addison concludes his
character of D'Urfey by telling his
readers that " they cannot do a kind-
ness to a more diverting companion,
or a more cheerful, honest, good-na-
tured man." It is not here exactly
said that his life was a very regular
one ; but if it was so, Tom was cer-
tainly of the opinion expressed by Ca-
tullus,—
" Castum esse decet pium poetam
Ipsum : versiculos niliil necesse est."
6
Ancitnt Scottish Music — The Shcue MS.
[Jan.
A recommendation addressed to the
ladies by a moral essayist, in favour of
the author of such a work as D'Ur-
fey's Miscellany, and founded upon
the merits of that very work, would,
at the present day, be a curious phe-
nomenon. But we must allow for the
age ; and, after all, we would as soon
connect our name, or burden OUT con-
science, with the " Pills to purge Me-
lancholy," as with some modern poems
in which vice has been presented in a
more elegant costume.
Whatever deductions we may make
from the respectability of D'Urfey's
memory in other points, we feel a cer-
tain degree of gratitude to him for
helping to give celebrity to the melo-
dies of Scotland. In four, out of his
six volumes that we have at hand, we
find the following airs presented in a
very tolerable form, — " Dainty Da-
vie," "Diel tak' the Wars" (though
Mr Dauney doubts if this be not an
English air), a " Scotch song," of
which the music closely resembles
that of "Jock of Hazledean," " Corn
Riggs," " Cold and Raw," " Kathe-
rine Ogie," " Bonny Dundee,"
" Lumps of Pudding," " Over the
hills and far awa'," &c. It must be
confessed, however, that the compli-
ment thus paid to our nation is some-
what alloyed by the intermixture of a
number of spurious Scotch airs, of
which the music is very miserable5 and
by the union even with the best airs
of lyrical effusions in the Scottish
dialect, of which the sentiments and
diction are equally execrable, and fully
more libellous than any thing that
Wilkes suffered for as the writer of
the North Briton.
The publication of Thomson's Or-
pheus Caledonius, in 1725, was speed-
ily followed by other productions that
tended still further to bring Scotch
music into notice. Allan Ramsay, in
the same year, published, as a supple-
ment to his Tea- Table, a small collec-
tion of national airs, with basses ; and
the celebrity that soon attended his
Gentle Shepherd would direct atten-
tion to those airs to which the songs in
it were adapted. In 1727 the public
were regaled, in the Beggars' Opera,
with a melange of popular airs, which
were almost entirely selected from
those in D'Urfey's Pills, and of which
several were genuine and beautiful
specimens of Scottish melody. One
or two of the Scotch airs in the Beg-
gars' Opera must, we should think,
have been borrowed from the Orpheus
Caledonius. This we take to be the
case with the " Broom of the Cowden-
knows," " An thou wert my ain thing,"
and " The last time I came o'er the
Moor," none of which we remember
to have noticed in D'Urfey.
We should deviate, however, from
our present purpose if we further pro-
secuted this historical detail. We in-
tended merely to direct attention to
these important facts : — 1st, That the
Orpheus Caledonius, published in 1 725,
has hitherto been the earliest printed
collection of Scottish melodies ; and,
2d, That the earlier copies of any such
melodies as we possessed, in a scatter-
ed or insulated state, were to be found
in publications not of Scottish but of
English origin. These circumstances
are the more remarkable, as Forbes's
Cantus, a collection of secular music,
was published at Aberdeen about 1 666,
but, strange to say, does not contain
any native Scottish melody. From
that publication we should suspect that
our ancestors had then arrived at that
stage in the progress of taste in which
the proverb is realized, that a prophet
is not honoured in his own country.
The collector of that work seems to
have had his admiration entirely turn-
ed to the more regular airs which were
then coming into notice from the hands
of Italian or English composers.
In such a state of matters, it was
not wonderful that the antiquity of
Scottish music should have been alto-
gether questioned by some sceptical
enquirers. Ritson, after enumerating
the names of some airs which are re-
corded by early writers, observed — ,
" No direct evidence, it is believed,
can be produced of the existence of
any Scottish tune now known piior to
the year 1660, exclusive of such as are
already mentioned ; nor is any one
even of these to be found noted, either
in print or manuscript, before that pe~
riod." And in one of his letters he
enquired — " Upon what foundation,
then, do we talk of the antiquity of
Scottish music ?"
It is satisfactory to be able to ap-
peal to the publication of the Skene
MS. as affording a more decisive an-
swer to this question than any that we
were previously able to render. We
can now refer to an authentic national
collection, of a comparatively early
date, in which a number of our Scottish
melodies are to be found, and among
these, as we shall presently show
1839.]
Ancient Scottish Music — The Skene MS.
some of those which have been most
deservedly admired, and which are
here presented, as we conceive, in even
a more engaging form than that under
which they are popularly known.
While the Skene MS. thus carries
us back, by its direct evidence, to the
commencement of the seventeenth cen-
tury, it gives no indication that the
airs contained in it were then of recent
date. They bear, for the most part,
the appearance of antiquity, even at
that period, being designated by titles
that seem to be the initial lines of po-
pular or vulgar songs, with which
they must have been allied for a pe-
riod of at least some duration. The
instrumental symphonies and. varia-
tions, also, which are introduced into
some of the airs, seem to imply that
they were familiar themes, of which
the celebrity offered an inducement to
present them in a novel aspect. A
new point of time is thus, in truth, af-
forded us, from which we may, with
more confidence, direct our researches
into the regions of conjectural en-
quiry.
Mr Dauney has accordingly taken
the opportunity afforded by the publi-
cation of this curious MS. to review
generally the various questions that
relate to the history and character of
Scottish melody. The preliminary
dissertation, in which this task is per-
formed, is written with much ease and
elegance, and with equal judgment and
learning. We believe that in this Dis-
sertation the musical antiquary will
find the fullest materials that have
any where been collected for a candid
and deliberate investigation of the
questions at issue.
We may merely mention the heada
of the most interesting topics of which
he has treated.
Mr Dauney has brought together
all the vestiges of old vocal poetry
which are to be found in our early
writers — which consist chiefly in an
array of the mere titles of melodies
now unknown. He observes, accord-
ingly, that in this enquiry little solid
information is gained, except that
music and song did exist at those re-
mote periods. " We feel ourselves,"
it is said, " like beings wandering
among the tombs, surrounded by the
crumbled relics of former ages, with
nothing to guide us to the objects of
our search beyond a few casual in-
scriptions designative of the names by
which they were known in their gene-
ration, and which, now that they have
passed away, like epitaphs, serve
merely to mark the period of their ex-
istence, or the spot where their ashes
are laid." Sepulchri similis nil nisi
nomen retineu.
Mr Dauney's Dissertation, also, as-
sembles together much curious infor-
mation as to the musical instruments
chiefly used in Scotland, which seem,
indeed, to have been those which were
generally prevalent over the rest of
Europe. The harp, clavichord, or-
gan, and lute, seem to have been chiefly
in use. The bagpipe, presented to
us in monkish Latin under the sin-
gular name of chorus, seems not to
have been peculiar to Scotland, but to
have been more familiarly used by the
English.
Mr Dauney has mentioned a good
many MSS. of Scottish music which
he has seen, of various eras, from that
of the Skene MS. downwards, and of
which, it is to be hoped, the most
valuable part of the contents will, ere
long, be made public. He refers,
also, to a very important manuscript
volume, belonging to Mr Chalmers
of London, which had been presented
to Dr Burney, by Dr George Skene
of Marischal College, Aberdeen. It
bears this curious title : " An Play-
ing Book for the Lute, wherein ar
contained many currents, and other
Musical Things. Musica mentis Me •
dicina Mcestce. At Aberdein. Notted
and Collected by Robert Gordon. In
the year of our Lord, 1627. In Fe-
bruarie." The person here mentioned
as the collector, was Sir Robert Gor-
don of Straloch. We have reason to
hope that some of the most interesting
melodies contained in this volume, or
at least those of Scottish grow tb, will be
made accessible, ere long, to the musical
world. Mr Dauney further expresses
an opinion that, " if the archives of
some of our ancient families were well
and diligently sifted, other original
MSS. of a similar kind might still be
brought to light." It is probable that
many such MSS., where they are dis-
covered, are regarded as useless, from
the apparent illegibility of the musical
notation ; but the possessors of such
documents should be informed that the
ancient notation is generally well
known to scientific persons, and can
be perfectly well deciphered.
We have next our attention directed
8
Ancient Scottish Music — The Skene MS.
[Jan.
in Mr Dauney's Dissertation to the
importance which was attached in
Scotland to musical skill, and the study
which was employed in acquiring it.
Tradition has always taught us to
believe that the Scottish monarchs
were the steady patrons of this ele-
gant art, if not sometimes eminent
proficients in it ; and Mr Dauney has
corroborated the opinion, at least of
their encouragement of music, by a
good deal of miscellaneous evidence,
and in particular, by a curious docu-
ment, entitled, " Information touching
the Chapell-Royall of Scotland," sub-
mitted by Edward Kellie, in 1631, to
Charles I., who had appointed Kellie
to reform the constitution of the
Chapel- Royal, in anticipation of the
King's intended coronation in Scot-
land. Kellie there mentions that he
had received the King's directions to
see that " the service therein might be
well and faithfully done ; and that
none but persons sufficiently qualified
should have any place there ; and that
they should be all kept at daily prac-
tice ; and for that effect your Majesty
appointed me ane chamber within
your Palace of Holyrudehouse, where-
in I have provided and set up an or-
gan, two flutes, two pandores, with
viols, and other instruments, with all
sorts of English, French, Dutch,
Spanish, Latin, Italian, and old
Scotch music, vocal and instrument-
al." Mr Dauney has also printed a
series of extracts from the books of
the Treasurer of Scotland, from 1474
to 1633, showing frequent donations
from the royal purse, for musical
purposes, bestowed both on natives
and foreigners. Without entering
into some of the idle speculations as to
the actual compositions of James I.,
and still less into the foolish fables
regarding Rizzio, to whom, though
only three years in Scotland, the best
of our national music was at one time
attributed, it is evident, from the un-
doubted facts collected on this subject,
that from a very early period there
must have existed, not only a national
taste for music, but also a body of
scientific musicians in Scotland, who
were capable of giving to that taste a
right direction, and of imitating and
improving the " wood-notes wild,"
which native feeling might dictate.
This subject leads to a considera-
tion of the theories which have been
hitherto advanced regarding the exist-
ence of what is called a Scottish scale,
which, it has been supposed, furnishes
an infallible test to discover what me-
lodies are of geniune native growth,
and what are the results of refinement
or foreign imitation. Mr Dauney
conceives that these theories are with-
out foundation ; and for a further dis-
cussion of the question he has referred
to an Essay appended to his work,
being " An Analysis of the Structure
of the Music of Scotland," from the
pen of Mr Finlay Dun, a very eminent
and scientific musician, whose ardent
study of our native melodies, directed,
as it has been, by a thorough acquaint-
ance with the history and theory of
musical composition, entitles him to
be considered as one of the highest
living authorities on the subject. We
shall postpone our observations on the
views contained in this analysis, until
we have introduced our readers to a
better acquaintance with the Skene
MS. itself, which must now form an
important part of the data on which
every system, explanatory of Scottish
music, is to be founded.
The most interesting melody, un-
doubtedly, with which this MS. pre-
sents us, is that of the " Flowers of the
Forest." No air, perhaps, can be
more closely intervoven with our na-
tional feelings — in none has the very
soul of pity and of patriotism been
so tangibly embodied. How many
voices have, in years past, warbled
forth its plaintive strains, and invested
it, from the involuntary emotion of
their own faltering accents, with a
grace and potency beyond the reach of
the most consummate art! Under its
magic influence how many hearts have
throbbed — how many eyes have been
suffused with tears, of those who now,
like the Forest Flowers themselves,
have been " a' wede away ! " Neither
can we forget that this charming me-
lody has given birth to two of the
most beautiful songs that any nation
can boast of. " I've heard a lilting
at our ewes' milking," and " I've
seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling,"
are at the very head of their several
classes in lyrical composition ; and when
added to the beautiful ballad of " Auld
Robin Gray," compel us to acknow-
ledge that the women of Scotland
have enriched its minstrelsy with gems
of greater price and purity than any
that the stronger genius of the other sex
has ever been able to contribute. Com-
1839.]
Ancient Scottish Music — The S/ictic MS.
bined, as it is, with associations so
sweet and sacred, we own that when
we first heard of this melody, as occur-
ing in the Skene MS. in a different
form from that in which we were ac-
customed to hear it, we felt a fear lest
the spell should be broken, by finding
that in its most ancient and authentic
shape, it was destitute of some of those
peculiarities which we had been so
long taught to admire. If we had
missed, for instance, the flat seventh
to which our ears and hearts have
been wont to thrill from infancy, and
of which peculiarity the ancient origin
has sometimes been rashly questioned,
we should scarcely have thanked our
friends for disenchantingus fro in our de-
lusion. All, however, is safe. We are
delighted to discover that the old air dif-
fers from the existing one onlyin being
at once more simple and more beauti-
ful. The difference between them,
though considerable, does not destroy
a single association, or disturb a single
sentiment. On the contrary, we feel
that the native spirit of patriotic la-
mentation which it is designed to
breathe, is here more purely and
worthily represented, as well as more
directly conveyed to us from its origi-
nal spring. We wish we could here
present our readers with the old air,
according to the beautiful arrangement
of it, which our admirable friend, Mr
G. F. Graham, has contributed for Mr
Dauney's work, but we must deny our-
selves and them that pleasure, and
must be content to refer them to the
work itself.
The melody that appears to us to
be next in interest in the collection, is
that which has long gone under the
name of "Bonny Dundee," but which
is here presented under that of" Adew
Dundee." This air is one of the most
beautiful and ingenious of our native
melodies. Disfigured as it has been
hy idle embellishments, and perverted
from the natural expression which be-
longs to it, it has long attracted no-
tice, and produced delight. We have
it coupled in D'Urfey with the vilest
words that ever caricatured the Scot-
tish dialect or manners ; although the
chorus there introduced, and which
Scott has borrowed for his song on
Claverhouse, is apparently genuine,
and is certainly spirited. We are fa-
miliar with a modification of D'Urfey's
verses in the ordinary old song to which
the air was sung, and which possesses
some tenderness and simplicity. We
hear it periodically bellowed out by
Macheath, in "Thechargeisprepared,"
with an alternate burlesque of tragic
horror and connubial tenderness, and
are habitually nauseated by a mawkish
edition of it in " Mary of Castle Car)',"
which is equally offensive in the rolling
thunder of Braham's tenor, or the
squalling soprano of a superannuated
miss. The melody in its primitive state,
as exhibited in the Skene Manuscript,
though essentially the same, has a very
different aspect and expression from
the tawdry counterfeit which general-
ly passes current. It is given without
a single superfluous note, and so as to
present the native beauty of the modu-
lation in the purest and most instruc-
tive simplicity. The air deserves care-
ful attention, as presenting us within a
narrow compass, and a short space,
with some beautiful transitions, very
gracefully repeated and combined.
All its modulations are managed with
the greatest nature and simplicity, and
in a manner perfectly satisfactory to
any ear not corrupted by the effemi-
nacy of modern refinements.
We shall here mention some others
of our old favourites which are to be
found in the Skene MS. There is a
very beautiful set of the air, " The
Last Time I came o'er the Moor,"
under the title, " Alace, that I came
o'er- the Moor." We have " Jenny
Nettles" under the name of " I love
my love for love again," with a second
part in a different and more chromatic
style than the common set. " John
Anderson, my Jo" retains its name,
but is a little different in structure,
particularly at the close, where, as in
the case also of Jenny Nettles, a
major third is strangely introduced on
the minor key. " My Jo Janet" ap-
pears somewhat in masquerade under
the name of " Long er onie old man."
" Waes my heart that we should sun-
der," retains nearly the same name,
but is otherwise a good deal metamor-
phosed. " Good night and joy be
with you," corresponds closely to the
modern tune of nearly similar name ;
and " Johnny Faa" appears almost
in its present shape, under the name
of " Lady Cassilles' Lilt."
Of the new melodies brought to
light by this publication, some seem
to be in the old Scottish style, others
are fashionable airs intended to match
with the sentimental poetry of the day,
1 0 Ancient Scottish Music — The Shene MS,
many are dance tunes, and some, we
candidly confess, appear to us to be
nondescripts of no great merit, and
occasionally not very intelligible. Mr
Dauney has given us the MS. almost
exactly as it stands, and we think he
•was right in doing so, though the
consequence is, that a good deal of
alloy is mixed with the finer metal
which composes it. Of the Scottish
melodies now for the first time intro-
duced to our acquaintance, we may
particularly name three, which appear
to us to possess peculiar beauty or in-
terest. We refer to the airs which are
entitled " Peggie is over ye Sie wi ye
Souldier," " My Love shoe wonnis
not her away," and " I will not goe
to my bed till I suld die."
Having given what we fear is an
imperfect account of this MS., but
such as we hope will induce our
readers to look into it for themselves,
we proceed to offer some observa-
tions as to the elementary principles
on which the peculiar character of
Scottish music may be considered to
depend.
The melodies of Scotland, as is ob-
vious, on a very slight examination,
are not all of them of the same cha-
racter. Even where we cannot draw
a distinction in point of known anti-
quity, we see some of them that have
all the aspect of modern compositions,
while others present us with passages
of melody to which we are elsewhere
unaccustomed, and which have a wild
and strange, though, in general, also
a pleasing and touching effect. " The
Lass of Patie's Mill," for instance, is
not known to be a modern air, but, if
presented to us for the first time, with-
out information as to its history, we
might pronounce it to be beautiful,
but we should not conjecture it to be
ancient. Others of the Scotch airs
are in a different situation, and would
strike us, even without explanation, as
different from the compositions of mo-
dern masters, and as the probable
growth of another age, or country, or
system, from our own.
On these facts, it comes to be a
question, What are the essential pe-
culiarities into which this singularity
of effect can be analysed where it oc-
curs? And, perhaps, a second ques-
tion arises, How far the absence of
those peculiarities is demonstrative of
a recent origin in the airs in which
they do not occur ?
[Jan.
The most ingenious theory, per-
haps, for the solution of the first of
these questions is one which has been
suggested in various mus-ical publica-
tions, but of which the fullest view is
to be found in a " Dissertation con-
cerning the National Melodies of Scot-
land," prefixed to the edition of Mr
George Thomson's collection of 1822,
and which is generally considered as
the production of a musical critic and
amateur of well-known talent and in-
telligence. Supported by such autho-
rity, this theory is entitled to the ut-
most attention ; and it has certainly
the further recommendation of great
simplicity, if, in such a complicated
subject, a simple explanation is likely
to be a true and complete one. It re-
solves into these propositions, as ex-
pressed in the words of the Disserta-
tion referred to : " that there is but
one series of sounds in the national
scale, upon which every ancient Scot-
tish air is constructed, whatever may
be its varieties, either of mode or of
character." " This national scale is
the modern diatonic scale, divested of
the fourth and seventh," there being
" no such thing in the national scale
as the interval of a semitone."
It is said to appear, from a care-
ful examination of the whole body of
our national music, that " every air
(with a very few exceptions) which is
really ancient, is constructed precisely
according to this scale, and does not
contain a single note which is foreign
to it ; excepting, only, in the case of
those airs (which are few in number)
of which the series has occasionally
been altered by the introduction of the
flat seventh."
The supposition that the fourth and
seventh are absent in the Scottish scale,
is supported in the Dissertation we have
referred to, by several arguments of
considerable plausibility. In particu-
lar, it is noticed, that in some nations
instruments have existed in which the
intervals in question were wanting ;
and a good many Scotch melodies are
analysed and presented in a simple
form, according to which they appear
to be constructed out of a series of
notes in which those intervals do not
occur.
But, in our opinion, this theory is
opposed by many powerful consider-
ations. On the one hand, there is
no evidence that there ever existed in
Scotland any musical instrument defi-
1839.]
Ancient Scottish Music — The Shene MS.
11
cient in the fourth and seventh of the
key, by the limited compass of which
the composition of the whole national
music could be so restrained. On
the contrary, from time immemo-
rial, many different instruments are
proved to have been in use among us,
which, undoubtedly, contained a per-
fect diatonic scale. Again, although
it be true that some Scottish airs are
destitute of the fourth and seventh of
the key, that proposition is not true of
all, even of those which seem to pos-
sess a national character. And here
it becomes a question, Whether a
theory is first to be framed, and then
only those airs allowed to be ancient,
which agree with that theory, or
whether those airs are to be taken
as ancient which have been handed
down to us as such, and then a theory
is to be discovered which shall be ap-
plicable to all those airs, at. least in
their prevailing and substantial pecu-
liarities. No doubt, surely, can be
entertained on this point. We are not
to beg the very question in dispute.
We are not, like Procrustes, to insist
on fitting our visitors to the bed that
we provide them ; we are bound to
find them a receptacle that will neatly
and comfortably accommodate them.
Now, until it be otherwise shown that
those only are ancient airs, which
want the semi-tonic intervals, we are
not entitled to rear up a theory which
will exclude otherairs which have equal
extrinsic evidence in favour of their
antiquity. We do not say that a few
adverse cases would militate against a
very universal rule. Nothing is more
legitimate than to infer a general rule
from cases that show us some devia-
tions from its observance. But it
must be obvious that the theory of
such a national scale as the one sug-
gested, cannot be maintained, if there
are any considerable number of ex-
ceptions to its application. It is ob-
served in the Dissertation itself, that
our primitive musicians " could no
more introduce minuter divisions of
the scale, or sounds not comprehended
in it, than a musician of the present
day could introduce sounds not to be
found in the scale to which his ear has
been accustomed." The very admis-
sion, therefore, that there are ancient
Scottish airs having a flat seventh, is
an admission that the scale suggested
•was not, at least, the onty scale of
Scotch music. An attempt, indeed,
is made in the Dissertation in ques-
tion, to maintain that the flat seventh
is a modern innovation : but this opi.
nion seems scarcely to be insisted in
with any seriousness, and could not be
adopted on solid grounds, or without
overturning all our ideas of Scottish
melody. This qualification alone, then,
would go far to break in upon the sup-
posed scale. But the exceptions to
the theory under consideration, extend
greatly beyond even this class. Many
undoubted Scottish melodies possess
both the fourth and seventh, and still
more of them exhibit one or other of
those intervals. He would be a bold
theorist who would deny the genuine
origin of the " Broom of the Cowden-
knows." But that air has both the
fourth and seventh of the key, and
the fourth is a note of peculiar empha-
sis. We could not, without presump-
tion, dispute the authenticity of " Ca'
the Ewes to the Knowes," in which
the seventh is introduced with a beau-
tiful effect ; or of the " Souters of
Selkirk," in which the fourth is an im-
portant feature in the melody, while
the occurrence of the seventh, at the
close, is one of its most striking pe-
culiarities. Again, there is a large
class of airs, in which both the second
and third of the minor key are to be
found co-existent, in direct contradic-
tion to the theory referred to. " Jenny
Nettles," "Katharine Ogie," "Logan
Water," are striking examples of this
common peculiarity, and must either
be held destructive of the theory, or
must be violently deprived of the sta-
tus of genuine and ancient melodies, of
which they have enjoyed the undis-
turbed possession, ever since we know
any thing of them at all.
The result, then, seems to be, that
although the fourth or seventh of the
key are absent in certain Scottish airs,
we are only entitled to say that this is
an occasional peculiarity in the struc-
ture of our music, and not that it is an
essential or invariable peculiarity, or
that all those airs are spurious, or cor-
rupt, to which that category is inap-
plicable.
But further, the mere omission of one
or more intervals gives but an imperfect
explanation of the characteristic features
of the Scotch airs. They are not more
distinguished by the general progression
of the melody, than by the closes to which
the melody is brought, and which, un-
der the limited theory we have been
12
Ancient Scottish Music — The Skene MS.
[Jan.
noticing, are left to be considered as
anomalous or capricious. Though of-
ten terminating on the key-note, like
the music of modern times, the melo-
dies of Scotland have almost all possi-
ble sort of cadences ; namely, on the
second, third, fifth, sixth, and seventh
degrees of the scale ; and unless we
get some clue to these singularities,
we remain still in the dark as to an im-
portant part of the question.
We think that a new and most valu-
able light has been thrown upon this
question by Mr Finlay Dun's "Analysis
of the Scottish Music," to which we
have already adverted. Mr Dun ob-
serves with truth, that "we cannot say,
with our present scanty information
upon the subject, what the Scottish
scales originally were. But we know
to a certainty what the tunes are that
have been handed down to us." He
has, therefore, commenced his essay by
an analysis of ancient Scottish airs,
with the view of tracing their peculiar
features, before attempting to explain
them. Mr Dun's examples are taken
chiefly from the airs in the Skene MS.,
although he informs us that these tend
merely to corroborate the ideas which
he had previously adopted from a mi-
nute analysis of those common melo-
dies which have been transmitted by
tradition.
On an examination of their prevail-
ing modulations and cadences, Mr Dun
has been led to the conclusion that
our characteristic melodies are of an-
cient date, and. are, for the most part,
regular compositions, according to the
laws of melody which were then in
force. Those laws are illustrated by a
reference to the chants of the Church,
composed according to what are known
as the ecclesiastical modes, which
may be thus explained in Mr Dun's
words : — " The arrangement or dis-
position of the sounds composing the
scales upon which these chants were
constructed, was made according to
the natural or diatonic order of pro-
gression, without any accidental alter-
ations of flats or sharps, that is,
from D (the first mode) upwards to
its octave above: from E, F, G, A,
and B in like manner ; employing, in
short, in all these scales the same
sounds as the moderns do in the scale
of C major (which was also among
the number), but beginning the series
from D, E, F, G, A or B, according
to the mode." These modes are un-
doubtedly very ancient. " They were
originally four in number, and were
first reduced to fixed laws by St Am-
brose, Archbishop of Milan, in the
fourth century, and about 200 years
afterwards they were increased in num-
ber to eight by Pope Gregory the First."
They are probably the relics of a still
higher antiquity than the remotest of
these periods.
WV shall not enter into detail on
this subject, but shall content ourselves
with saying that the examples given by
Mr Dun, from ancient chants, ap-
pear to us strongly to confirm his pro-
position, that " in the character of the
melody, and in the peculiar cadences
upon various sounds of the modes-
cadences initial, medial, and final —
strong points of resemblance may be
traced between the ancient Canto
Fermo of the Romish Church, and a
number of the Scottish airs, particu-
larly those of a graver cast."
It is obvious how comprehensive an
explanation is thus afforded of the pe-
culiar structure of Scotch melodies.
It not only reconciles to a general
principle the cadences which other-
wise appear anomalous, but it shows
the origin, also, of those omissions in
the scale which the other theory is in-
tended to account for. Although in
the ancient music the various major
and minor keys of modern times were
not properly established, yet as the
sensibilities of the human ear are, in
all ages, substantially the same, there
must have been from the earliest pe-
riod a tendency to run into the same
series of sounds with which we are de-
lighted at the present day. In the dif-
ferent ancient modes, accordingly, im-
pressions would come,inagreatdegree,
to be produced, corresponding to those
of the major and minor keys, which are
now founded upon the several initial
notes from which the modes proceeded.
Thus there would be a disposition in
the mode of D to run into the sounds
which we now use in D minor, and in
the mode of F into those which belong
to the modern key of F major. The
circumstance, however, that the an-
cient modes were all framed upon the
notes which occur in the diatonic
scale of C major, made it necessary
often to avoid those intervals that
were inconsistent with the general im-
pression of the several modes. Thus,
in the mode of F, the natural B, or
fourth of the mode, would frequently
1839.]
Ancient Scottish Music — The Sltene MS.
13
be a disagreeable note, and there being
no flat B in the scale, that interval
•would come to be often omitted.
Again, in the mode of G, the natural
F, or seventh of the scale, would be
omitted for the same reason, except in
those cases where it could be made
subservient to a pleasing and peculiar
modulation. In this way the frequent
omission of the fourth and seventh in
Scotch music is accounted for, and the
occurrence of the flat seventh is, at the
same time, explained, as well as many
other peculiarities of structure.
The theory which we first noticed has
been familiarly illustrated by saying,
that the Scottish scale is to be found in
the black notes of the piano-fo.rte, which
exhibit the key of F sharp deficient in
the fourth and seventh, which, in that
key, are found in the notes of B na-
tural and F natural. The theory
now submitted to consideration, sup-
poses the Scottish scale to be comprised
within the white notes of the instru-
ment, which afford one perfect scale in
the key of C, while the other keys or
scales are, according to modern ideas,
deficient or peculiar in certain re-
spects, according to their several po-
sitions in the general scale. Thus,
the key of D is a minor key, J>ut has
a sharp sixth and flat seventh. The
key of F major has only a sharp fourth,
a note rarely admissible in vocal
music. The key of G has only a flat
seventh, and the key of A minor has
both the sixth and seventh flat.
It is important to observe that the
airs in the Skene MS. confirm the
views above submitted. They con-
tain numerous instances of semitonic
intervals, inconsistent with the idea
of their being systematically con-
structed according to a rude scale in
which those intervals were wanting.
They are generally, however, reducible
to the more comprehensive principles
which we have endeavoured to illus-
trate.
We have also, with reference to these
views, gone over the original volume
of Thomson's Orpheus, and the result
of our examination is — that out of
fifty airs which it contains, only about
half-a-dozen are defective, both in the
fourth and seventh. Ten of them
contain a flat seventh in the major key,
and the whole of them, abating here
and there a stray appoggiatura of the
editor's, are referable to the system of
modes, with this exception, that, in
minor keys, the ascending sixth and
seventh are generally made sharp a
feature which does not radically affect
the structure of the melody, and which
we know, from historical evidence, to
have been a modern innovation.
If it were necessary to account for
the influence of the ecclesiastical
modes upon Scottish music, it might
not be difficult to do so. The power of
the Church, built as it was upon truth
and knowledge, and extended by po-
licy and superstition, was not less con-
siderable in Scotland than in other
countries. Our ecclesiastical architec-
ture shows the tendency of our church-
men and their patrons to cherish the
arts of refinement ; and, if music was
cultivated by them in any proportional
degree, theinfluence of their style would
extend through all ranks of society.
Even the perversions of the system
might tend to a similar result. If we
suppose the reality and frequency of
such scenes as are described in the
" Freiris of Berwick," where the hos-
pitality and example of Symon Law-
der draw forth the convivial talents of
his clerical guest —
' ' They sportit thame and makis mirry cheir
With sangis lowd, baith Symone and the
Freir " —
we can easily conceive the foundation
of a school of parody, where the eccle-
siastical Cantus would soon be con-
verted into excellent drinking songs.
But, in truth, we do not know that
the Scottish music is derived from the
ecclesiastical : we only see that it re-
sembles it. For ought we can tell,
our own system may be, not the
daughter, but the sister or cousin of
the other.
Neither must it bethought that a cor-
respondence in the scales of the Scot-
tish music and the ecclesiastical modes,
while it proves the antiquity of our
national melodies, deprives them of
their title to originality. What is thus
accounted for is only the scale itself
and its general laws. These, as Mr
Dun observes, supply merely the co-
lours with which the artist is to work.
All that gives expression or beauty to
the composition must come from the
individual composer. " The Scottish
music has measure, rhythm, accent,
besides avery peculiar manner or style
of performance. The Canto Fermo
had none of these."
It remains to advert to a question
which we formerly proposed on tin's
Ancient Scottish Music — The Skene MS.
[Jan.
subject, how far, namely, the absence,
in any air, of the striking peculiarities
of structure above noticed, is demon-
strative of its recent origin. This
question is attended with difficulty.
But we would say that so long as an
air could be reduced to the diatonic
key of C, without any modulation re-
quiring notes extraneous to that key,
we have no right to infer that it is not
ancient, if it has been handed down to
us by immemorial tradition. We have
many regular airs for whose antiquity
we have the same, or nearly the same,
evidence as for others of a more pecu-
liar character. Thus the air of " Alace
that I came o'er the Moor," as given in
the Skene MS., has much of the polish
of a modern composition. " The Lass
of Patie's Mill," " The Bush aboon
Traquair," " The Bonny Boatman,"
" An thou wert mine ain thing," which
have all a character of much regularity,
are given in the first edition of the
Orpheus as the compositions of Hizzio,
and this may at least be received as
evidence that they were then repu-
ted to be ancient. Goldsmith, in one
of his essays, tells us that Geminiani
was of opinion that the Scotch mu-
sic was ot Italian origin ; and although
this evidence does not go far back, and
we are not bound to adopt Geminiani's
conjecture, it tends to show that a large
proportion of regular airs were consi-
dered to be mixed up in the general body
of our national melody. We have no
grounds for concluding that they were
derived from Italian models, as we
know little of the early history and dif-
fusion even of national Italian music.
But we have no precise right to limit
the powers of ancient melody except, at
least, to the boundaries of its own estab-
lished scale. Compositions might be
made at a very early period, on the
mode of C major, which would be little
distinguishable from modern airs. Mr
Dun has, in the plates accompany-
ing his Essay, given us a specimen of
the Ambrosian chant of the year 400,
which presents us with an exquisite
strain of melody, that has no peculiar cha-
racter of antiquity except its simplicity.
We cannot infer that Scottish com-
posers might not, in like manner, at a
very early period, have composed melo-
dies such as those we have above re-
ferred to, and which, it will be observ-
ed, are all confined within the limits of
one diatonic key.
To illuitrate the views which we
have submitted, we think it may be
curious and interesting- to go over the
different scales, as they occur within
the peculiar range we have described —
that is, on the notes of the diatonic of
C, or white notes of the piano-forte
— and to point out one or two airs,
which may be adapted to each of
them. In the key of C, " The Lass
of Patie's Mill," '« The Yellow-haired
Laddie," " Saw ye my Father,"
" Jenny's Bawbee," or any other
of our airs, that are composed on
what a modern ear would consider
a more regular plan. In the key of
D minor, " Ca' the Ewes to the
Knowes," " My boy Tammie," " Brose
and Butter," " Peggie is over the
Sea," (from the Skene MS.), all of
which illustrate, in different way?, the
peculiarities of this singular and beau-
tiful mode. In the key of E minor,
" The Mucking- of Geordie's Byre," a
pleasing and peculiar air, which wants
the second of the key. In the key of F
major, any air, defective merely in the
fourth of the scale, such as " Fye let
us a' to the Bridal," as given in the
" Orpheus Caledoniu?," and " Alace
that I came o'er the Moor," as in the
Skene MS., or even its modern repre-
sentative, with the omission of a sin-
gle grace note. In the key of G mnjor,
any air deficient merely in the seventh,
such as " An thou were my ain thing,"
" Auld Rob Morris," or, on the other
hand, any air exhibiting a flat seventh,
such as " The Powers of the Forest,"
either the old or new set, where that
peculiarity has a plaintive effect ; or
the tune of " Pease Strae," where its
occurrence is extremely quaint and
comic. On G minor we may arrange
the air of " Adew Dundee," as given
in the Skene MS. ; which, although
the signature of that key is two flats,
will, vhen thus set, exhibit no flat
note whatever, the B never occurring
at all in the melody, and the E occur-
ring only in its natural state. To A
minor we may adapt a great number
of Scotch airs, such as " Up in the
mornin? early," " Katherine Ogie,"
and " Logan Water." All the ar-
rangements, it will be observed, have
the character or impression of the dif-
ferent modern keys we have mention-
ed, and yet require no notes that are
not to be found in the key of C major.
On the mode of B it would be diffi-
cult to compose any effective air, and
no example of it occurs to us.
1839.]
Ancient Scottish Music — The Skene A1S.
It must, at the same time, be ob-
served, that all dogmatism on this
subject is unbecoming our state of
knowledge, and that we cannot expect
to reduce everything to strict regu-
larity. The principles of the eccle-
siastical modes themselves are but par-
tially understood by those who have
studied them most, and many ancient
ecclesiastical compositions are found
•which it is difficult to assign to any
mode. The same thing may, and in-
deed does, occur as to several Scotch
airs. It would not, we think, be an
argument for the correctness of any
view, if, in a matter so obscure and
perplexed, it left nothing for doubt or
investigation. It is a great matter to
trace a connexion between the modes
and the Scottish music, though we
should be unable to follow out all its
bearings.
The ideasabove adverted to,however
imperfectly here developed, may, we
think, be of use to performers and
harmonists in the execution and ar-
rangement of Scotch music. There
has long been a tendency to alter the
character of our melodies, by the in-
troduction of ornaments and intervals,
foreign to their structure, and at va-
riance with their essential features.
The result is a mongrel breed of mu-
sical monsters, which could never pos-
sibly have sprung from any genuine
and pure stock. The original part of
the melody has been composed upon
a certain system of tones, which is
disregarded by the modern artists who
are dealing with it, and who load it with
embellishments framed upon a totally
different system. Consistency is thus
destroyed ; the ear is perplexed be-
tween conflicting effects, and the heart
refuses to yield to affectation and effort
that tribute of emotion which is only due
to nature and simplicity. It is plain
that the performer of a Scotch melody
ought to place himself, as much as
possible, in the situation of the origi-
nal composer, so as best to give effect
to the true intention of the composi-
tion ; and, at least, not to thwart any
of its principles. For this purpose it
is necessary that something should be
understood of the ancient tonalities,
within the limits of which the melody
must be confined. Not that we would
exclude all ornament from such airs,
but only those graces are admissible
which an enlightened taste may sug-
gest, and which lie within the range
of the legitimate scale, so far as we
can discover it. Where we are doubt-
ful of our ground, the more spaiiug
we are of our embellishments the bet-
ter.
In arranging accompaniments for
our Scotch melodies, the composer has
considerable difficulties to contend with,
as the prevailing system of harmony
is chiefly founded on the varieties of
modern tonality. Nevertheless we
are of opinion that here also the an-
cient modes should be, as much as
possible, preserved, even at a sacrifice
in point of fulness of accompaniment :
and, at least, that all extraneous inter-
vals should be kept in the background,
and not brought in collision, as we
often see them, with those parts of the
melody which are regulated by different
laws. We believe that in this depart-
ment there is great room for the exer-
cise of ingenuity and taste, when guid-
ed by knowledge, and that the com-
poser who can imbibe the spirit of the
old Scottish melodists will overcome
or elude the difficulties of his position,
and will even elicit new beauties out
of those difficulties, and produce effects
in harmony which will at once sustain
the original airs, and add to their
peculiar and affecting character. We
find, in what we have above said, that
we have been expressing the ideas,
and almost using the very words of
Mr Dun, in his analysis, where these
views are strongly enforced, upon bet-
ter authority than ours. We hope
that the whole discussions which we
have been noticing, will meet with
the attention they deserve, and hasten
the attainment 01 the ends in view.
We cannot conclude this article
without a humble but earnest exhor-
tation to our musical artists and ama-
teurs to cultivate the study of those
delightful melodies of which Scotland
may so proudly boast. Enough has
been said to show that our music is
not harsh or crabbed, rude or caprici-
ous : but regular, according to laws of
high origin, and animated by a spirit of
true feeling and poetry. Without de-
preciating the Italian school, we would
say, that its tendency, at least in its
more modern shape, is to refine away
the language of melody till it loses its
strength and freedom, and becomes
soft and voluptuous. The reign of
very chromatic music cannot be last-
ing or extensive. The broad and grand
effects produced by the greatest com-
Ancient Scottish Music — The Skene JUS.
[Jan.
posers are calculated to be more ge-
nerally delightful and impressive, as
they excite feelings in themselves more
noble, animating, and powerful than
any that can be touched by the lan-
guishing refinements of minute divi-
sions. Those great effects, it is ob-
vious, are referable to a musical sys-
tem which, in many respects, has
an affinity to the laws of Scottish
melody. But it is needless, for our
argument, to assimilate these various
styles to each other. There is room
enough for them all in every com-
prehensive and vigorous heart. In
music, as in every thing else, a taste
which is not catholic in its objects,
cannot be pure or high. Let Scottish
melody occupy only its rightful share
of attention, and nothing further needs
be asked. But surely its claims are the
more strongly recommended by the
consideration, first, that it is the music
of our native land which, for ages past,
has been the language of all who have
gone before us, whether high or low,
who could give utterance in song to the
emotions of joy, or pity, or affection;
and next, that in this school success is
most easily attainable by our native
vocalists. Not that in our opinion it
is an easy matter to sing Scottish
music. On the contrary, it is a task
both hard and honourable to achieve.
The attainment of true simplicity of
taste is itself arduous, and requires
diligent study. But we think that
if this difficulty be overcome, and
it lies, in truth, at the threshold of all
musical education, it is more likely
that a pupil with a voice of ordinary
compass and flexibility will be able to
sing a Scottish melody well, than any
Italian composition equally well that
is at all worth hearing. It is, of course,
necessary that the airs to be perform-
ed shall be carefully chosen ; and for
this purpose we must draw out of that
well of undefiled simplicity which can
alone give nourishment or delight to
the affections. But if the best airs are
selected, we know of nothing which
affords a better scope for musical ta-
lent than this field. A genuine Scottish
melody, performed with all the recom-
mendations of regulated intonation,
simple embellishment, lucid articula-
tion, and appropriate feeling, is calcu-
lated, not only to please ordinary ears,
but to give more delight to the most,
scientific than they could derive from
any composition of a more ambitious
style attempted by the same performer.
It is only those, indeed, who are in the
debateable land between simplicity and
science that will seem indifferent to its
attractions, and affect to scoff at what
they are afraid to admire. We do not
know if we are heretical in saying
that one obstacle to the cultivation
of Scottish vocal melody arises from
the inferior and unsuitable character
of the poetry with which many of our
airs are united. In spite of what
Burns has done, and he, too, has been
often unsuccessful, there are many ex-
quisite airs which have no words that
can be sung to them without impro-
priety or absurdity. Much may yet
be done in this department by a fine
genius and taste, combined with a
thorough understanding of the cha-
racter of our music, and of the an-
cient form of our dialect, to which it
may be best adapted. But even as it
is, we have many beautiful melodies,
with words sufficient to give a direc-
tion to the music without disturbing
its effect ; and some of our lyrics,
united to the very finest of our airs,
possess a beauty and simplicity alto-
gether unrivalled. The finest judg-
ment may here be shown by a per-
former in the choice of the songs to
be sung, while the successful execu-
tion of our best music is at once at-
tainable, by moderate abilities, so as
to convey considerable pleasure, and
is, at the same time, a fit occasion for
displaying some of the highest quali-
ties of musical style, the very same,
we think, that are needed to do justice
to the tender simplicity of some of the
noblest works of Handel and Mozart.
1839.]
Legendary Lore. No. V.
17
LEGENDARY LORE. BY ARCH^EUS.
No. V.
THE ONYX RING.
PART III. CHAPTER I.
EARLY on the Sunday morning
•which succeeded to the night marked
by the burning of the old church
spire, Mrs Nugent sent her carriage
for Maria and Walsingham, who ac-
cordingly departed from the cottage.
Walsingham and Collins separated on
terms of civility, and he took leave of
Maria with cordial, and for him, un-
common courtesy. She had won upon
him, in previous meetings, by her sim-
plicity and earnestness, which came in
aid of earlier ties between him and her
family, and there were few persons
whom he seemed to have so much
pleasure in conversing with. He said,
as he shook hands with her, that he
hoped to see her soon again. It was
still early in the morning, but he had
already spent an hour in his garden,
to which he now returned. The plot
of ground was large for that of a cot-
tage, and was neatly kept, entirely by
Collins's own care. He had in it a
great number of bee-hives, and there
he now busied himself in examining,
with a curious eye, the labours of the
insects, and then by surveying the
several beds of vegetables and flowers.
To a passer by, had any stranger ever
travelled on that retired road, he would
have presented a singular object; for
his face was sufficiently noticeable,
and he was dressed, very unlike the
peasantry of the neighbourhood, in a
complete suit of dark grey, with thick
high shoes, and a straw hat. His
garden had in it several apple and
pear trees, and two considerable elms.
At the extremity furthest from the
small road ran a brook, which made
maKr1 windings through the valley.
There were a few scattered, and for
the most part distant cottages in sight.
The heathy hills rose all around, and
the general aspect of the scene was
that of lonely quiet. But the hum of
the bees, the murmur of the little
stream, and the voice of the faint
•wind among the leaves, unbroken by
the clamour of suffering or of heedless
human existence, were sounds to which
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX,
the thoughts of Collins moved, for the
most part, in accordance. His appear-
ance, nevertheless, bore deep traces of
former sorrow and inward convulsion,
over the remembrance of which tran-
quillity seemed now to be maintained
by the vigilant compulsion of a strong
will.
When he had completed his work
out of doors, he re-entered his house ;
and, while the old woman prepared
his dinner below, he mounted to the
upper room, and seated himself beside
the small open window to read his
favourite Thucydides. This author,
Homer, Plutarch, Shakspeare, Lu-
ther's Table Talk, the Scriptures, and
a few volumes of biography and as
many of science, formed the bulk of
his library. His work in the garden,
his solitary walks among the hills, o'r
sometimes to the sea- shore, a number
of little mechanical employments re-
quired by his situation, and the perusal
of these books, filled up all his time.
It was only by the rarest accident that
he received a visit from any one. But
a day or two after Maria and Wal-
singham had shared his hospitality,
his usual mode of life was again in-
terrupted by the arrival of a stranger
on horseback at the cottage gate.
Sending away the peasant who had
conducted him, he tied his horse to a
tree, and entered the garden. He
was evidently a member of the more
luxurious classes, dressed with care,
but pale and somewhat worn in coun-
tenance. He had the look of a man
of some intelligence, of rather dissi-
pated habits, and, beyond all question,
an acknowledged member of polite
society. Collins was digging at the
lower part of his garden, near the
hives, when he was found by the
stranger, who had first sought him at
the cottage. There was some embar-
rassment in his manner as he drew
near to the recluse; but it was not
till he had come quite close that Col-
lins looked up, leaning on his spade,
and, while a deep flush passed over his
Legendary Lore. No. V.
18
face, said, coldly, after a moment's
pause, " Well, Everard, what brings
you here ? I thought my world had
lain quite beyond and away from
yours."
He did not offer the stranger his
hand, who replied, with a hesitating
voice, " Will you not be satisfied, for
a reason, with my wish to see so old
a friend as you :"
Collins smiled sarcastically, but said
nothing.
" Well, then, if you must have a
better cause for my visit, may we not
go into the house that I may tell my
story at our leisure ? "
" I don't see why you should not
tell it here, but I have no objection to
go into the house. This earth which
I am digging will not spoil by five
minutes' delay, as it has kept since
the creation."
So saying, he led the way to the
cottage, sent his servant to her own
peculiar premises, desired his guest to
sit down, and seated himself with an
air of resigned unwillingness.
" It is pleasant, Collins," said Ever-
ard, " to find you settled in a way that
suits your humour and character.
You had always a good deal of the
hermit in you, and now you have
found out a quiet and secure hermi-
tage, where, 1 am sure, you must be
happy."
" Pray, may I ask on what business
you are come to it? I don't remem-
ber that you ever showed any taste
for hermitages before."
<( No, perhaps not. Such a life
would not suit me ; but every one has
his own way of existence. Mine at
present is politics. But, unwilling as
you are to let me claim the privilege
of an old friend — and I am most sin-
cerely yours — I must say a word of
your former kindness to me, and of
rny subsequent history. Little as you
may believe it, I can never cease to be
grateful for the generosity with which
you shared your fortune between us,
at the time when my father's unex-
pected death left me so destitute.
The income you then made over to
me, saved me from sinking into dis-
graceful poverty. But with the con-
nexions I had formed in life, and the
hopes I had been brought up in, I
could not, you know, live as a gentle-
man on that. I am going over old
ground, for I fancy you are aware
that I soon found I must sell my in-
[Jan.
terest in your annuity. With the
little capital this gave me, I could
make a decent appearance, and I soon
after managed to get into Parliament.
I think about this time you left Lon-
don."
" Yes. The merchants who had
all my remaining money failed, and
left me penniless. I was obliged to
go and work for my bread, which I
earned as a corrector of the press in
the North."
" O ! true — aye — I remember. —
Now, I always felt that it was my
business to repay you what you had
supplied me with as soon as possible.
But, in fact, my position in life was
above my means, and I had not a
penny to spare. Some little legacies,
and so forth, came in now and then
and helped me on, but I always found
it hard to make both ends meet ; and
the attempt to divert money to any ob-
ject but the wants of the day, would
have been quite inconsistent with my
ambition to serve my country in pub-
lic life. The clubs and parliament
cost more than is generally supposed,
and my seat had always to be paid
for, more or less. So you see, my
dear fellow, how it is that I really
never have had the means of repaying
you, and at this hour I am as poor as
a rat. You who live in this sort of
way, keep no establishment, and all
that sort of thing, can have no notion
of the claims upon a man in society in
London."
" I once lived in London."
" Yes, no doubt. But that was
when we were both young, quite un-
known ; nothing was expected from
us then. But the fact is, it is only
now that I begin to have a prospect
of obtaining a situation which would
enable me to do whatever is right as
to you and every body ; and it is for
this I want your help."
" My help, Mr Everard ? I really
do not understand you."
*' Well, now, this is the case. I
have always hitherto been member for
quite a small borough ; and the little
place I hold is, perhaps, all I could
fairly expect under existing circum-
stances. But in consequence of my
patriotic principles, and of any other
claims I may happen to possess, I have
the hope of becoming member for a
much more important constituency,
which would give me decidedly greater
weight with the Government, and help
1839.]
The Onyx Ring.
19
me to official promotion. Now it so
happens, my dear Collins, that you
can essentially assist me. I find that
you lived at one time among my future
constituents, when, as you say, you
were correcting the press ; and you
would undoubtedly have a good deal
of influence, if you chose to exert it,
among the artisans, especially the
printers, who lead many of the others.
They talk of you as a sure friend of
the working men, and your opinion
would have great power over them.
Indeed, so much is this the case, that
one of their number is coming as a
deputy to consult you on the subject.
It so happens that the decision you
may lead them to is of great impor-
tance, for parties are otherwise so
nearly balanced, that the votes of
these men would completely turn the
scale in my favour. The kindness I
have to as-k of you is, that you would
advise them to vote for me. I hope
so old a friend as I am may make this
request without taking too great a
liberty."
" 1 really cannot now say what ad-
vice I shall give this poor man. When
he comes and tells his story I shall
probably know what to answer. But
p ray, if the working men help you, what
are you prepared to do for them ?"
" As to that, you must see, between
ourselves, I can say nothing. I must
go with my party. But you may tell
them, as I have not scrupled to say
publicly over and over again, even at
the risk of committing myself, my
warmest feelings and most earnest
endeavours shall be devoted to their
service."
" I did not ask what I may say.
Of course I may tell what lies I please,
and should wish to do so without
prompting, as I hold that every man
ought to be his own liar. But I want
to know, as you ask the help of these
men, what service you propose to ren-
der them in return. Printers espe-
cially know too well how easily, and
with how few little metal letters, the
finest words are put together, to care
much for mere compliments."
" But surely a man of your expe-
rience and sagacity, Collins, cannot
expect me to commit my party to any
specific measure ? "
" Then how can you expect these
men to commit themselves in support-
ing you?"
" That's quite a different thing.
They compromise nobody. They are
not public men. They may do as they
please."
" They compromise themselves and
their wives and children and their own
consciences, and all to get my dear
old friend, Everard, a better place."
The tone with which this was said,
though quiet enough, carried the edge
of a scalping-knife. But Everard, who
had a soul very hard to be scalped,
soon resumed — " Well, 1 will tell you
what I will pledge myself to, and yoti
who have known me so long may gua-
rantee my promise. If these men will
frame any plan for their own benefit,
it shall have my very best considera-
tion."
" Oh, if they bring you into Parlia-
ment you will think benignly of their
suggestion ? Perhaps, if I offer your
friend the deputy your best considera-
tion for his proposals, he may offer his
best consideration for yours."
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! You are as droll
and dry as ever. But may I hope that
you will help me in this matter ? You
may rely on my eternal gratitude, and
I may add in that also of my political
friends."
" I can say nothing on the subject
till I see the person who you say will
ask my advice. I shall give him the
best in my power. You have not
asked for any, and in your case, of
course, I do not presume to volunteer
it."
" But, my dear friend ! surely be-
tween us there need be no such cere-
moniousness. Your advice would be
of the highest value, and would always
meet my very best consideration."
" Will you really promise me that ?
For if so I should think it a duty to
offer an opinion."
" Pray do so without hesitation. I
am all impatience. What is it you
recommend to me ? "
" To turn old clothesman as soon as
possible. I do not know any trade
you are so fit for, and I am convinced
you would make a distinguished figure
in it, especially if you gave it your
best consideration. Now I must go
back to my work, for I too am a work-
ing man — so good morning to you."
20
Legendai~y Lore. No. V.
[Jan.
CHAPTER II.
On the following day, Andrews, the
artisan from the north, appeared at
the cottage. He was a young, quiet,
alert man, with a shrewd and bold
countenance. As he drew near to the
bench on which Collins sat in the
garden, his face and manner had an
expression of much respect for the
recluse. He stated who he was, and
Collins begged he would sit down by
him on the bench under the old elm,
from which there was an extensive
view down the valley to the sea, now
glistening under the warm evening
light. Andrews told his story clearly
and earnestly, though at rather unne-
cessary length, and ended by asking
Collins's opinion whether he and his
friends ought to support Everard.
" What political object is it," said
Collins, " that you and your friends
want to gain ?"
" We want to take away all unjust
distinctions, to have every man paid
according to the worth of his labour,
and not to see the rich made and kept
rich by robbery, and the poor made
and kept poor by being robbed."
" Do you want, then, a new distri-
bution of all property ? For, if so, I
see no result certain, but, in the first
place, that the country will be thrown
into confusion, all trade stopped, and
millions starved ; and, secondly, that
the distributors would provide very
well for themselves and their friends,
whatever might become of others."
" No, we do not want that. But
we want all the privileges of the rich
done away, so that every man may
have a fair chance."
" There is no privilege of theirs
half so important as that which gives
a man's property to his own children,
instead of throwing it into a common
stock. Would you do that away ?"
" No. I would only deprive a man's
family of property which he had ob-
tained unjustly."
" In that case the courts of law are
meant to set the thing right. They
do not perform their work very well,
to be sure. Perhaps you want them
mended. But if they were improved,
do you think there are many of you
who could make out a claim to houses
and estates ?"
" Perhaps not. But could there not
be taxes taken off?"
" Oh, no doubt there could. A rich
country is sure to spend a deal of
money foolishly, much as a rich man
is. But suppose every thing of that
kind were done, and that you, each of
you, had twenty per cent a-year more
than you now have, do you believe
you would be satisfied ? Think a little
before you answer."
" No ; I do not believe we should.
We are on the watch and stirring, and
feeling forward for some great change.
I do not suppose we should be con-
tented so long as we saw things going
on in the main as they are now, even
if we had a little more money. It is
the notion of being treated unjustly
and kept down that galls us. We
want more equality. We see that we
work hard and have little pleasure,
while others do not work at all, and
have a great deal. I cannot make the
thing clear. But I am sure there is
something wrong somewhere."
" So am I. 1 never can believe it
right that a farthing of money should
be wasted in folly and nonsense with
which any real good could be done.
But how could you change the thing ?
That is the question. If we took half
the property of the rich away to-mor-
row, and gave it to the poor, then, — to
say nothing of the general confusion,
the scrambling and fighting, and the
lasting insecurity for all, — half of that
sum would be spent within a week
again ; and the country would, I
believe in my conscience, be worse off
in every way than it is now."
" Why, you are talking just like
the people we consider our worst ene-
mies. Yet I suppose you are not
pleased with things as they are, and I
should like to know what do you want
done ?"
" Men never have been satisfied, and
never will be. But one goes on trying
to mend a little here and a little there,
till the hour of ruin comes, and the
building falls, and buries at once mason
and scaffolding. Such is the story of
the world. There is a black element
of evil in and about us all, and the ut-
most we can do is to thrust it down,
and cover it over for a while. It ine-
vitably breaks out at last, and perhaps
there most violently where it has been
most vigorously and longest suppress-
ed. We may smooth over the mis-
1839.]
The Onyx Ring.
21
chief, paint it, gild it, bedizen it for a
time ; but it burns through again at
last, and looks the ghastlier for all our
gaudy attempts at hiding it. Talk,
fancy, hug ourselves as we will, evil is
not good, nor can be. He who sees
most clearly is most assured of this,
and suffers the most from his know-
ledge that it is so. Any man, there-
fore, who looks forward to a state of
things in which he shall be contented,
is walking about in search of a child's
swaddling-clothes that will fit his full-
grown frame. The fact of his walk-
ing about is the best evidence that the
thing is impossible. To seek content-
ment, in fact, is as hopeless as to try
to recover a lost limb. Those only
have it who never have thought about
it. The moment we feel that we wish
for it, we may be certain that it is gone
for ever. Do not talk to me of aiming
at happiness. Children, too, desire
the stars. Leave such prate to those
who have no more serious knowledge
or objects. Men who have grappled
with the hard and sharp realities of
life should be wiser and graver."
Andrews felt cowed by his energy,
and said, timidly, — " Do not all men
seek happiness? Is it possible for us
to desire any thing else ?"
" That is one of the absurd phrases
we find in books. No man could have
said it who had looked into himself.
All men sometimes seek for happi-
ness, as they sometimes crave for food,
that is, when they are hungry. But
most of our wishes are directed to
some end with which happiness has
no more to do than quenching the
thirst has to do with the drunkard's lust
of gin. What he thirsts for is liquid
drunkenness. Excitement is the ob-
ject of three- fourths of most men's
wishes, and of the other fourth, re-
pose. Excitement, though it should
rend our flesh, and fill our brains with
fire. Repose, though it should weigh
on, and besiege us with nightmare.
And so the world goes on by laws
that unfailingly work out good and
evil in their due and unalterable pro-
portion."
" What, then, do we strive for at all?"
" Oh, the evil is only kept down from
mastering all, and trampling out the
last spark of good, by human effort —
unceasing, wearing, agonizing effort,
which, after all, realizes little, though
it prevents much, and inevitably des-
troys the drudging champions. We
thrust our limbs, our wives, our child-
ren, into the midst of the grinding ma-
chinery of destiny which is crushing
the universe to powder, and so we a
little clog and retard the movement
by the hindrance of our own flesh and
blood. This may seem a small thing
to do. But it is all man can do, and
that for us is much. If this is all we
must look to, I doubt if it be worth
while to care for any thing but eating
and drinking."
" What! not worth while to bind
oppressors in their own chains, and
fill up with their own names the blank
warrants which they keep signed, as
if forejudging all mankind ; not worth
while to be ministers, even if bleeding
and groaning ones, of retribution ; to
become serpents under the feet that
would trample us as worms ; to call
out energies and knowledge, painful
inmates of every breast, but which are
accompanied by the feeling of added
dignity and power ? We cannot, in-
deed, strive successfully with fate, or
teach others to do so, but we can tear
off our and their bandages, and unbind
millions of arms, and prevent men
from perishing fettered and with closed
eyes. We can meet our inevitable
doom with the aspect, at least, of free-
dom and heroism. Is this not worth
while ?"
" If so, it can only be because
life itself is nothing. But to beings
such as we nothings are mighty.
Knowledge, imagination, freedom,
courage, power, — these may be awa-
kened and spread among mankind,
and to do this is the only task worth
living for. These cannot be diffused
equally, for men are not equally ca-
pable of them. Sparrows will still be
sparrows ; and hawks, hawks. But
the sparrows need no more be caged
and blinded, than the hawks hooded
and subjugated and starved. It is lit-
tle that the best can at last attain to,
but the only feeling worth possessing
is that of having done our utmost, and
confronted the iron gaze of necessity
with as bold and calm an eye as caa
belong to man."
" But for the present what should
our course be?"
" Meddle with no political parties.
Their maxims and enterprises are all
utterly worthless. Those who flatter
you do it only to cheat you ; except
those who begin by cheating them-
selves, and fancy that somehow or
other they will at each next trial throw
seven with a die which has but six
22
faces. Mankind have been hoping the
same thing for at least four thousand
years. But when you find a brave,
quiet, heroic man — who tells you of
your faults not of your virtues, and
makes no promises of doing good,
but has already fought with reso-
lute despair against powerful evil,
cling to him, help him, redden his
flag with your heart's blood, if it be
necessary, for if he renders you no
other service, he has at least given
you the costliest of boons, truth, which
his future failures cannot deprive you
of. But when you see bullies, syco-
phants, flatterers, liars, spaniels, apes,
peacocks, jewel-snouted swine, — men
who gorge themselves with garbage,
and bribe you with the remains of it,
—do not ask what party they are of;
be sure that they are of the devil's
family, and so certain of his help as to
stand in little need of yours. Then
as to this Mr Everard. Let him eat
his mess as he can out of a gilded,
perhaps one day a coronetted trough,
but do you neither wreath the vessel
with flowers, nor throw in your child-
ren's food to swell the swinish meal.
I will tell you something of him. He
is well-spoken, civil, lively, or at least
was so before he became a great man.
There was then a thin plating of sym-
pathy on the surface of the mass of lead
and copper, which the world has, I sup-
pose, by this time worn away. A man
whom I know, knew him in the youth
of both, and became intimate with him.
Everard's father possessed a large in-
come, and brought up his son expen-
sively, but died and left him without
a farthing. His friend had about
£400 a year of his own, and, with the
careless profusion of his age, at once
settled half of this on Everard, who
sold the annuity, and began to push
his fortune with the capital thus ob-
tained. Soon afterwards his benefac-
tor was ruined by the failure of a com-
mercial house, and left penniless.
Everard was certainly not bound to
refund the money, which, indeed, he
could not ; but his friend might have
expected kindness and consolation
from him, and met instead with cold-
ness'and neglect, and at last was com-
pelled to turn his back, and vow he
never again would seek an interview
with a spirit so akin to the dirtiest of
kennels. Now I do not say that such
a man may not be useful to a political
party ; on the contrary, I think him
likely to be specially serviceable for
Legendary Lore. No. V.
[Jan.
many purposes, and I am sure he will
rise, as there is no service "for which
he will not exact full payment. He
will coin his inmost heart to mud
where mud is the required currency.
But what can those who think of man
not of parties, of truth not of speeches,
in short, of hard rude realities, not of
fluent liquid dirt, what can such per-
sons have to do with a thing like him?
Oh, my friend, whatever else you are,
lord or bishop, artist or slave, do not
give up being a man. Do not let your
manhood slip through your fingers
while you are plotting, voting, speech-
making1, working. A stage hero,
who pretends to be what he is not, is
but like the snuff of a candle compared
with the stage candle-snuffer, who
wears no tinsel armour, and mouths
no blank verse, but honestly earns the
bread he eats by making the tallow-
candles burn. A mere scheming
statesman is but a white paper, full of
mire, tied up with a red tape, and
sealed with the king's seal. And so
with all other trades and pretensions.
Have nothing to do with them. Stand
up openly for truth, and all true men ;
and let this, and this only, be your
creed and your party. Though you
will often be trampled on, and will be
ground at last, as we must all be, to
that dust which the strong wind of
time blows away before it, you will
at least not be the dupe of others,
and, best of all, you will not dupe
yourself."
" But is there no party which ho-
nestly seeks what is right ?"
" I do not know. But I shall believe
there is, I shall believe there is some
conscience and heart under all the
trash and parade of laws and govern-
ment, when I see any body of men
not slightly and occasionally, but with
their whole souls and sinews, standing
up for the necessity of educating the
people. If any one of these men
found a son who had been stolen away
in infancy, and had grown up among
beggars and thieves, knowing and
caring for nothing but gluttony and
drunkenness, the first thing he would
do would be to put him in the hands
of some one who would cultivate the
man, which lurks, however closely,
within the human beast, and so, in the
phrase of society, to fit him for his
station in the world. That is what I
want — to have every man fitted as
well as art, and pains, and money, and
energy, and conscience can do it, for
1830.]
his station in the world. But what is
the station ? It is that of a being at
the very summit of nature, and look-
ing up from thence, however dimly,
to some God who embodies, though
perhaps vaguely and weakly, all of
highest conception man can know.
This is the station not of Reginald
and Marmaduke, not of Jack and Tom,
not of the prince and the baron, or
the ploughman, the blacksmith, and
the parish-foundling, but of every hu-
man creature ; and it is for this station
that he ought to be trained. To train
him for this is in truth the only busi-
ness, and not merely the chief one, of
all laws, and all society, and yet it is
the one which is the least earnestly
thought of. Fleets, armies, tribunals,
parliaments, sovereignties, palaces,
and gaols, are but the rude frame-
work round the space in which this
work is to be carried on. But it is
not to be done by drilling, and com-
pressing, and carving, and stamping
words upon the living, fervent, sensi-
tive— oh, how keenly sensitive ! — spi-
rit, as if it were a plate of metal on a
death-coffin, and not the subtle blazing
life, likest of all things in this vast
universe to the God whom these vile
tinkers of the soul profess to worship.
There are three things requisite in every
The Onyx Ring.
man who is to carry on this work—love,
intelligence, energetic will — and, be-
side these, practical skill and expe-
rience. When I sec men possessed
of these qualities sought for by a go-
vernment more earnestly than men
seek for diamonds, wooed more fondly
than boys woo their sweethearts, re-
warded more munificently than rich
men pay the physician who prolongs
their lives, and keeps them from Satan
for another week ; when I see such
men found, for found they will be if
they are sought, and appointed as the
friends, and guides, and wiser parents
of every poor man's child in the coun-
try,— 1 shall think a new age is begun
for England, and that new hopes have
dawned upon us. Make earnestness
on this point your test of every politi-
cian who falls in your way, and you
will not go far wrong. It is mere
cowardly falsehood to pretend that
doubt of the amount of good thus at-
tainable is a reason against trying, for
it is the only way to do any good at
all. A man's whole business on earth
as to his own existence is to cultivate
himself, and his whole business as to
others is to cultivate them."
" I fear," said Andrews, with a smile,
" Mr Everard is not our man."
CHAPTER III.
A day had passed after the depar-
ture of Andrews, when Collins went
on one of his long walking expedi-
tions about the hills, and on his re-
turn, towards evening, found himself
near the Mount, which was the name
of the house occupied by Mr and Mrs
Nugent. As he passed under the
pailing of a small wood, which lay at
the back of the gardens, Maria was
entering a little gate into the enclo-
sure, and, after their first greetings,
she asked Collins to accompany her.
He complied, and they walked side
by side on the path which wound
among the trees. For a long time
he looked about him with rather an
eager and anxious expression of coun-
tenance, and at last he said — " How
strange it seems to me that I am in
this place ! Your mother used to
speak to me of it as furnishing some
of the pleasantest recollections of her
childhood. And now, after many
years, I am walking in it with you,
her daughter. When I first thought
of fixing myself in some solitude in
the country, I believe I was led to
choose these heathy hills and retired
valleys from the remembrance of the
way in which your mother used to
describe them to me. Such seemingly
slender links bind indissolubly to-
gether the past and the future — and I
do not regret that I have come here,
If it were only that I so keep fresh my
image of her, I should be much the
gainer. No one can again be to me
what she was, for the benefits she ren-
dered me can no more be repeated
than the restoration to sight of a blind
man, which is done once and for ever.
I was young, ignorant of all but a few
books and a few men, and nay own pas-
sions and conceits, and bad no oppor-
tunity of familiarizing myself with
human existence in any wide field. I
well recall the arrogant reliance on
my own infallibility, which was min-
gled in me with the weakest bashful-
ness, and secret dread of every one
knowing more of the world, and hav-
24
Leyendury Lore. No. V.
[Jan.
ing more of its manner?, than I. But
I became acquainted with yonr mo-
ther, and I shall never forget the im-
pression made on me by her composed
self-possessed benignity. At her house
I saw not, perhaps, much of society,
but far more than I have ever seen
elsewhere ; and little by little I learned
to suppress something of my self-con-
ceit, and at the same time to take an
easy footing among others. I found,
indeed, little that I could fully and
deeply reverence, and the more I
lived the more strongly I felt that she
was a really noble, generous, true
spirit, cramped and dimmed in an un-
genial sphere. But yet she kept her
heart alive, and wakened and warmed
the hearts of others, so far as they had
any relics or germs in them suscep-
tible of the process. I remember as
if it were but this morning, that nearly
the last time I saw her, and when she
was very weak and ill, but with an
expression of divine calm and clear-
ness, she questioned me about an ac-
quaintance of her's and mine — a wo-
man. This was a person of great
talents and brilliant eloquence, and a
kind of large and glowing Italian
beauty, with whom I had become in-
timate. She had restless feelings,
always craving more and more excite-
ment, insatiable vanity, ready and
warm sympathy, and an imaginative
delight in nature, the fine arts, and
all the more graceful and the bolder
forms of human character. Her pre-
sence and conversation wrought on
me like a sweet intoxicating odour —
much as I can conceive the influence
of Walsingham might on a woman —
young and susceptible as I then was.
Your mother saw through all this,
warned me, said — ' That way lies
guilt, shame, weakness, remorse, self-
contempt. At the very best,' she con-
tinued, ' go live and grow in that
luscious hot-house air, and although
your leaves may spread for a time
more richly, and your fruit appear to
ripen faster, how will you be fit to
meet the storms, the cold, the changes
of hardy and austere nature ? Draw
back in time. Perhaps she does not
mean to dupe you ; but if so, yet as-
suredly, with your help, she will dupe
both herself and you. Your fresh
high heart, and daring will, and pic-
torial fancy, are too new and shining
realities not to win and command her.
But do not waste yourself in adding
another chapter to her overstrained
romance of life.' Partly circumstan-
ces, but partly, I hope, also this ad-
vice, saved me from the danger. And
it was at the hour when I heard of
my adviser's death that I vowed never
again to meet my siren, at least till
years and events should have altered
our relative positions. I kept my
vow. It was but one of many services
that your mother rendered me at a
time when most of my acquaintances
were only staring at me, or shrinking
from me. They had, in general, no
more, feeling for me as a living suffer-
ing human heart, suffering from its
own confusions, more bitterly than
any of those whom I annoyed, — no
more, I say, than if I had been a thing
painted on canvass only to be gazed
at. And a very unattractive sign it
would have been in the eyes of most
people for any tavern in London,
though not quite so obnoxious as I
should be now where I am known.
But if you consider how I must feel
as to your mother, you will not won-
der that I have been speaking in this
way to you, her daughter, as if I had
a right to receive your confidence, or
at least to give you mine."
Maria listened with deep interest to
this remarkable discourse, and only
started and coloured a little at the
mention of Walsingham, the allusion
to whom she could not misunderstand.
Indeed, she even fancied that Collins's
whole object had perhaps been to
suggest to her his view of the poet's
character, and of the danger to be
apprehended from him. But she for-
gave him the more readily because she
felt herself secure. At the same time,
as Collins went on to speak of her
mother, her eyes filled slowly with
silent tears, one of which, as she turn-
ed and looked earnestly at him, fell
upon his hand. He, too, looked at
her, and his voice softened and fal-
tered before he made an end of speak-
ing.
Maria said, after some moments, —
" I am very much obliged to you for
speaking to me as you have done. My
— my dear mother, I am sure, loved
you, and it would be a great happi-
ness to me to believe that you give me
any portion of the regard which you
felt for her."
" You cannot be to me what your
mother was. I cannot feel as I did
then. If I told you otherwise I should
be lying, for compliments are only
lies in court-clothes. I would as lief
1839.]
see the patients of an hospital, with all
their haggardness, tricked out in gala
dresses from Monmouth Street. But
if you will look on me as a true friend,
believe me I am one — and shall be so
•while I live."
" Thank you!" And she gave him
her hand, which he received cordi-
ally. " Now," she said, " I will ven-
ture to ask you a question which has
very often occurred to me, but I never
could venture on it before. You have
spoken almost as often as I have seen
you with bitter contempt of indolence
and self-indulgence. I know how
deeply and writhingly you feel the
existence of so much misery in the
world, and that you believe much may
be done to remedy it. What I want
you to tell me is this — Why, with such
views, you spend your life as you now
do, with no apparent occupation be-
yond the skill of a peasant. Often
when I have heard you speak, I have
fancied that, if you would only try,
you would make others hear, under-
stand, feel, and act."
" I told you that you would find me
your sincere friend, and so you shall,
for I will tell you something of my
story, which, perhaps, will diminish
your surprise. But to no one have I
ever spoken of the matter before, and
when you hear it, you will not won-
der at my reserve. I have had two
male friends in my life, or those whom
the world would call so. One of them,
the early friend, united to me by youth
and circumstances, has turned out alto-
gether worthless. Where I thought
1 had a diamond dew-drop, I found a
stain of the commonest ditch-water.
The other was the friend of my
commencing manhood, ardent, sym-
pathetic, graceful, expansive, clear
of head, and vigorous of heart. He
had fortune and appearance in his
favour, as well as useful family con-
nexions ; and, while ' I was in the
eyes of men an uncouth contentious
reprobate, he was regarded with gene-
ral favour and applause. He took
many of his opinions from me, and my
influence modified all his pursuits and
aims. His taste led him strongly
towards literature. He was ambitious
of fame, and, as a thinker and creative
artist, would perhaps have obtained it.
But 1 felt harshly and fiercely the ex-
tent of wrong and grief on earth, and
would have cheerfully spent my life
blood, and that of my friend, to re-
Tfie Onyx Ring. 25
dress a portion of the evil. I had
been left penniless, and was obliged to
work for bread. He offered me half
his income, as I had done to another ;
but that experiment had been too un-
fortunate, and I would not accept his
bounty. Our friendship, however, still
continued. I urged him into practical
political life, for which he had many
qualifications and some outward helps,
although but little inclination. There
was a large town for which I was
anxious that he should be representa-
tive, and I persuaded him to plunge
into the schemes and confusions of its
parties. On his first electioneering
attempt he failed. But, at another, I
furnished him with proofs of the utter
public and private baseness of his chief
opponent. These he published, and
chased the culprit "from the field. But
the exasperation of this man's partisans
impelled one of them, a gentleman by
station, to seek a quarrel with him,
and challenge him. I was a hundred
miles away at the time, but hastened
to the place, and found him a corpse.
He had been shot by the pistol of a
bullying sycophant, which I felt as if
I had loaded and pointed at his heart.
But the ball pierced mine too, and I
was an utterly miserable man. You
cannot conceive what I then felt — at
least I trust you cannot — and it would
be useless to describe it. This was
three years ago. The shock turned
my hair grey, and drove me from
among mankind. The time which
has since passed has not been more
than enough to restore me to a spe-
cious outward tranquillity ; — inward
peace, even of the hollow fretful kind
which I before enjoyed, it has not
brought me. Nor will a thousand
years do that. You do not know-
may you never learn ! — the continual
subdued horror of remembering how
the whole existence of another, and
him one who relied on you, was. over-
thrown and irreparably crushed under
a weight first loosened by your hand ;
I once thought it resembled a perpetual
burning alive on the unquenchable
funeral pile of another's corpse. The
pain, however, of this mortal ulcer in
my heart has grown comparatively
dull and chronic, and I am regaining
the command of my faculties. How,
hereafter, I shall exert them, I know
not, but probably by speech and wri-
ting for humane and moral purposes,
rather than by any interference in
26
what is called politics. I see too many
sticking up to their necks in that
slough and calling for help, to believe
that it would yield me stable footing.
But I have never heard of any at-
tempts at good, undertaken iudepen-
Legendary Lore. No. V.
[Jan.
dently of-party, in purity of heart, and
with quiet consideration of the case
and circumstances, which have not
more than fulfilled the hopes of the
man."
CHAPTER IV.
" It comes on me," said Maria,
" like a heavy blow, when I hear any
one despair of full and tranquil hap-
piness. I am sure it is to be found by
those who seek it ; and although there
is something grandly heroic in the
struggle that is carried on under the
certainty of never attaining this good,
I cannot but believe that the possession
of it would add. to all our efforts a
'sober strength which they must other-
wise want."
Collins smiled, half sadly, half scorn-
fully, and shook his head. " It is Des-
tiny, not I, that will deprive you one
day of that faith."
" I do not know what Destiny
means ; but I trust in God."
" Take what name you will for the
ruling Power of all things. God can-
not perform impossibilities."
" Yes ; but for Him no good is
impossible."
" It may be — nay, I feel it is so —
that for a reasonable voluntary being,
learning as only he can learn by ex-
perience, there will always be errors
behind to mourn over, and a vista of
unattainable good before, which inevi-
tably lengthens as we advance. It
only remains for us to grieve without
affectation or imbecility, aud to jour-
ney on without turning aside or stop-
ping."
" For all the ills you speak of there
is, I am sure, a remedy, if I could but
make you understand me. I have
learned to call it Faith, but I know that
it is Blessedness. Now, it would seem,
of course, that you must know better
than I ; but, at least, I have, for the
present, the advantage of you, in my
more hopeful creed and happier mind.
By the way, have you ever seen a
poor man who lives in this neighbour-
hood, of the name of Fowler ? I have
several times visited him, and he seems
to me a beautiful example of peace
and joy in circumstances which would
naturally produce despair, and might
almost seem to justify it. He is a
crippled basketmaker, without family
or friends, or settled means of subsist-
ence, and yet, by dint of reliance on a
good Power protecting and guiding
him, he is full of cheerfulness and
hope. I wish you would go and see
him, and make acquaintance with
him."
" I will. But both for you and him
the day will inevitably come of awa-
kening to a higher and larger self-
consciousness, and a sadder know-
ledge of our destination."
" God forbid ! — And, my dear Mr
Collins, you must not forget that I
have been, in former times, when I
was about sixteen, as perfectly wretch-
ed as I can imagine any one ; so that
mine is not the mere unreflecting con-
tentment of a child. I was then be-
ginning to think a little for myself,
and I found my own heart and life so
far from what I saw they ought to be,
that I was almost in despair. Had I
been a Romanist, I might then have
been tempted to turn nun."
" What changed your views ?"
" I will tell you. I was taken, for
the first time, to a great party in Lon-
don, and was thoroughly dazzled and
confused by all I saw, and by the ex-
citement of the music and dancing
round me. I remember that it seemed
to me as if every thing in the world
was successively rolling out of its stead-
fastness, and wheeling away in tangled
curves to the sound of necromantic
music. I said to myself, ' Where am
I ? What am I ? Is every thing a
dream ?' — In the midst of this amaze-
ment of mine, a famous singer came
forward ; silence was obtained, and
she sang with such impassioned ra-
vishing melody, that I thought my
soul would have flown away upon her
aerial warbling. The applause as she
ended called off my attention ; but
then I saw a crowd of faces turned
towards her in enthusiastic delight,
and deep homage expressed in the
eyes and manner of some of the men
and women whom I had always heard
of as the most to be admired and re-
1830.]
The Onyx Ring.
27
verenced. She sat evidently weary,
but -with a slight smile of exquisite
enjoyment; and it burst upon me more
strongly even than before, that her in-
spiration must arise from some full
and rich source of ecstacy far beyond
all that skill or physical endowment
could supply. ' O ! ' I thought, ' that
I could sing like her ! that I could
experience her inward spring of rap-
ture and harmony ! ' The next mo-
ment I blamed my own folly, and felt
that this was mean and jealous envy.
It flashed across me as something hor-
rible, that, after such abundant and
pure delight, I could so soon sink into
this wretchedness, and a sharp pang
of self-reproach shot through me. I
remember that I pressed my hand
strongly against my heart, for I com-
pletely crushed the little nosegay of
lovely flowers which I was wearing.
The music and the dancing now again
began, and looking up for a moment
in sad perplexity, I saw before me a
spectacle which altered the whole cur-
rent of my thoughts. It was a pic-
ture of the Saviour by one of the great
Italian masters, I think of the Lom-
bard school, and probably Luini. By
whomsoever painted, it was so grave,
so loving, so awful — but I cannot de-
scribe it. For some minutes I had no
notion where I was, and sat with my
face turned up towards the canvass,
as if I expected to hear it speak. And
speak to me indeed it did, though not
with audible sounds ; for there whis-
pered in my heart words which I had
heard and read a hundred times, and
learned by rote, without ever reflect-
ing on them . Indeed, perhaps, this me-
chanical familiarity had deadened their
meaning for me. The words were —
' Be of good cheer ! I have overcome
the world.' — I remember nothing more
that evening, but that in the carriage,
on my way home with my aunt, my
eyes filled with tears, and my maid re-
marked the next morning that the
front of my dress was stained as if I
had been weeping profusely. Thus
began a new period of my life, which
I do not believe vul\ ever end, not
even with earthly life itself."
Collins answered nothing ; but when
he said he must take leave of her, and
go, there was an expression of strong
feeling in his face, which could not be
mistaken. They had been walking up
and down the wood during their whole
conversation. It was now the depth
of evening. Maria accompanied him
to the gate of the enclosure, and they
parted as friends for whom an hour
had been in place of years of mutual
sympathy.
CHAPTER V.
The next day Collins went, in pur-
suance of his promise, to see the poor
basketmaker of whom Maria had spo-
ken, and who was commonly known
in the neighbourhood by the name of
Jack Fowler. His dwelling was a
small hut rather than cottage, close to
the road-side. Before his new visitor
reached it he heard a rough and crack-
ed voice singing vigorously —
" Merry be we from morn till night,
Merry be we, merry be we.
We old fellows, in dark or light,
But ask the young to let us be."
Then, when Collins was already close
at hand, the tune was changed, and he
caught the words —
" The boy he never stops
• In the whipping of his tops,
And the men whip each his neighbour ;
But in wiser age we lay
Our idle whips away,
And sleep like the tops without labour."
The structure from which these
sounds came appeared about ten feet
square, and through the open door
and window was seen the room which
filled this space, and which was partly
occupied by a ladder-stair leading to
the floor above. Facing the door a
man was seated on a bench, and en-
gaged in weaving a basket. He look-
ed up cheerfully as Collins stood be-
fore him, and said — " Good morning !
good morning ! Ah ! Mr Collins come
to see poor Jack Fowler! Well, you
are kindly welcome. They do say
you know more about bees than any
man in these parts. Take a seat,
sir, here on the bench — here's room
enough."
Collins sat down and looked more
closely at him. Jack Fowler pro-
bably considered himself past the
middle age, being apparently about
seventy-five. He also seemed to be
in somewhat reduced circumstances,
Legendary Lore. No. V.
28
for his principal garment, perhaps in
some forgotten period a waggoner's
frock, exhibited several holes, some of
them repaired by patches, and some
still unsophisticated and gaping. His
person bore the traces of similar and
probably more ancient injury, for it
had been shorn of a leg, and had re-
ceived as a substitute only a wooden
member, resembling the original in
little else than length, as to which the
modern supporter had perhaps the ad-
vantage over the preceding one. The
right hand had apparently lost the use
of two of its fingers, for which it had
found no remedy but in the dexterity
of the others. The bust which crown-
ed this antique trunk was of higher
interest, for under the trenched and
expansive forehead appeared a face of
arch shrewdness and irresistible good-
humour. The fine blue eyes were
still bright, the cheek healthily ruddy,
and the sunken mouth wore a most
gladdening smile. The old man had
beside and behind him the osiers which
were the materials of his trade, and
two or three baskets. The one he
was at work on lay before him, and
on a three-legged stool, close to his
knee, sat, with professorial gravity, a
black cat. While he spoke to his vi-
sitor he continued to ply his work,
and broke out every now and then
with some light-hearted stanza.
" How do you get on ?" said Col-
lins.
" Oh, very well, sir, thank you. I
make it a rule to get on well. Never
got on ill in my life, except when the
waggon went over my leg, and before
the doctor came to cut it off, and set
me all to rights again. I have never
wanted a stocking for that leg since ;
and only think what a saving that is.
Aye, aye, Mr Collins — all for the
best.
" Bald is my head, so it wears no lock
For age or care to take hold of,
And my forehead's a door where grief
may knock.
But as well might he rap on the front of
a rock,
For I am not the man he was told of."
" Basket-making," said Collins,
seems a merry sort of trade, to judge
from you."
" Aye, sir, it is a merry trade
enough, like most others I know of,
for those that have merry hearts. And
mine has never been heavy, since I
first found I was not going to have
[Jan.
the trouble of being a gentleman, with
all the wearisomeness of a fortune to
spend. Great blessing that. Don't
you think so, sir?"
" Why, it seems to have been so to
you. But every man has not your
basketfull of heartiness, and if one
wants that, I think a purse full of gold
no bad help."
" So many think. I fancied so my-
self for five minutes once, and then be-
fore one could twist an ozier, I saw
what a big fool I was. Perhaps, too,
you think I had better be young than
old. But if you do, I can tell you it
is a thumping mistake, for I should
have all the work to do over again.
I'd as soon have the waggon go over
my leg again, just for fun.
" O ! for the days when I was young !
When I thought that I should ne'er be
old,
When the songs came a-bubbling off my
tongue,
And the girl that heard the ballad I sung,
Never thought if my pocket held copper
or gold ;
O ! for the days when I was young !
" And yet in the days when I was young,
In the days that now I remember well,
Hot words like sparks around I flung,
And snatching at honey I often was stung,
And what I have lost its hard to tell ;
So I had rather be old than young."
" All the old men I know," said
Collins, " but you, would be young
if they could, and none of the young
would be old. So you see most men
are not of your way of thinking."
" So much the worse for them. I
have tried both ends of life, and I like
the last best. And what's more, I am
sure so would every body who made
the most of what he has. I was a
fool when I was young, and I did not
know it, so I thought myself ill-treat-
ed. I am a fool now, but I do know
it, and so I am content."
" It is a queer thing to be content-
ed with."
" Not so queer maybe as you think.
Burn those oziers ! they're as brittle
as glass. All the wise men I have ever
seen, and half a dozen have fallen in
my way, one how or other, who were
thought special wise in their own pa-
rishes ; all of them who fancied them-
selves wise, have fancied too, that the
world was not good enough for them,
and have despised the greater num-
ber of men ; those, you know, with
the rough dirt upon them, but right
1839.]
good ones many of them, nevertheless.
These wise men, I say, have always
supposed every thing, and everybody
too coarse for them. I never saw one
of them look right out, straight up,
happy and merry. Now, it all seems
too good for me, and so I should be a
beast if I were not contented ; just as
the donkey that got into the hot-house
the other day, and ate up all those fine
flowers and plants, and things, would
have been a wonderful big jackass if
it had not been satisfied, and had
wanted a thistle."
" Your receipt for happiness must
be a curious and precious one ; I should
much like to know it."
" Bless you, I have no receipt, no
more than our old women have a
receipt for making flour-dumpling 1
They do it quite naturally. And, the
same way, I am as happy as can be,
except when I have the rheumatism in
my leg ; and then I'm thankful that
I'm not like to have it in the wooden
one, and that, by death or some way,
most likely, it won't last for ever."
" Have you no fear of death ?"
"Fear! No. I'm afraid of nothing
I know of, but a lady who once came
to see me, and sat on that stool where
Pussy is, and talked for five hours
without stopping, all about her sym-
pathy— whatever that is — with the
poor, and something that she called the
poetry of basket-making, and a deal
more. I'm told she is gone out of the
country, so I suppose too much tongui-
ness is made transportation now — it
used to be only ducking. But even
when she was here I kept on making
a basket, and sung a song or two
while she talked. No fear of inter-
rupting her, you know ; you might as
well think to stop a windmill by
whistling to it. So I could sing on
quite comfortable, and not cut my
manners too short either.
" Those with too much cash to think of,
May the cares of life lament ;
Give me hut a spring to drink of,
Bread and breath, and I'm content.
" While I feel that I am living.
Death's a fool to look so grim ;
All who wish me dead forgiving,
When he comes I'll sing to him."
" Have you really no fear," asked
Collins, " of what may happen to you
hereafter?"
" No ; I cannot honestly say that I
have, and I'm too old to speak bash-
The Onyx Ring. 29
ful when I don't feel it. To be sure
I once took an osier, and said to my-
self, ' Now, I'll cut a notch on this
for every sin I can remember in all
my life.' I began going through the
job from the time I was a baby, and a
pretty lot of notches I soon had, and
some of them terrible deep ones, too,
that very nigh cut the twig right
through. When I had done with it
I took another, and another, till at
last I had five osiers, and nigh five
hundred notches, — for I told them off
quite regular, a hundred on each. And
when I got the five all in my hands,
so — nice likely switches they were,
too, before I had hacked them in that
cruel sort of way — I said to myself, —
' Well, here are the rods to give my
conscience a drubbing, at all events.'
Then I fell a-thinking and a-ponder-
ing what would come of it all, and at
last I settled it all off as neat as a lady's
work-basket. So I took and shoved
the osiers into the fire ; and though
they were too green to burn well, I
got them all burned to ashes at last,
and then I was a deal easier."
" An ingenious way of burning
up your offences, at all events," said
Collins.
" Not at all — by no means. You're
on a wrong scent there.
" The greyhound, for all he looks so fine,
Has no more nose than this .donkey of
mine.
That wasn't it at all. But I began
to see it in this way. Said I to my-
self,— « Here's a pretty baddish lot of
things against me, to be sure. But
then I don't know what kind of tally
other folk might have to show if they
worked as many hours as I did, and
cut as clean notches.' Nay, I have a
pretty good guess that there are some
sullen, hard sort of men, I have seen
in my time, that would be a deal worse
off than I ; for my notion is, that
I'm no worse than most, and better
than some. That's no help, you'll
say. Right — very true — none in the
world. For I must be judged not
by this man or t'other man, but by
what I knew and might have done
myself, if I had been so minded. And
I don't believe, in my own mind,
there's one that would have much to
boast of, no, not Miss Maria Lascelles,
that's as like what they say of angels
as any one I know. If so be, then,
that we are all of us what we are, that
Legendary Lore. No. V.
30
we have none of us any right to boast,
and must all be brought to nothing if
we were served right, then, I want to
know, is the whole world to be swept
clean away and destroyed ? and, if so,
why was it made at all ? Thinks I,
that's not ray way of doing with my
baskets. It is a bad workman that
finds his work good for nothing when
all's done, and must break it all up
again. So I'm pretty certain there
must be some help somewhere, if one
could only find it out. Then, all of a
sudden, like a flash of lightning, there
came into my head all the stories I
had ever heard about Jesus Christ.
That silenced and steadied me all that
day. I got a little boy from the school
to come and read me a bit of the Bible
in the evening ; and then I woke up
once or twice in the night and thought
about it, and then I saw the whole
thing as clear as daylight. I have
known ever since, as sure as possible,
that God never meant me to be en-
tirely done away with because of my
sins, or he would not have sent any
one into the world to save me. And
ever since that time, which is a good
while ago, I dare say a matter of thirty
years or more, I have never set 'to
work upon the tallies again or troubled
my head about them, though I know
well enough that I should not make
any more such deep notches if I be-
gan to cut again now. But osiers,
you see, are dear, and I want them for
my baskets, so I don't try. Ever since
I've "been as gay as a lark. Many a
time, when I have seen people pulling
long faces about death, I have said to
[Jan.
myself — ' Well, I'm not clear that I
would give an osier-chip to save my-
self dying any night of the year, only
I should like to finish a basket when
once I begin it.' Often and often I
think I would give a trifle to wake up
some morning in another world, and
see what we shall look like there — and
whether I shall have my old leg again,
or must make wings do instead."
Collins soon took leave of him. He
afterwards discovered from others that
the old man had experienced a life of
misfortune ; had lost wife and child-
ren and his little property in compa-
ratively early life, and that he had
now for many years worked at his
trade withont obtaining from it enough
to supply the scantiest wants, the de-
ficiency being made up chiefly by the
charity of some neighbouring families.
He was said to have preserved through
life the same kindly cheerfulness which
rendered him in Collins's eyes the very
archetype of a happy temperament.
" Well," said the recluse to him-
self, with a deep sigh, " I do not envy
him. His poverty-stricken content-
ment in such circumstances is mean
and slavish ; and it is sad to see a ra-
tional being so satisfied with such a
state of ignorance. Ignorance, indeed,
is what the wisest must put up with.
Let us prize, however, what largeness
of existence and fulness of knowledge
we can attain to — and, comparing this
lot with that of others, of such as the
basketmaker, therein rejoice."
But while he thus reflected, his look
and bearing were far from indicating
perfect comfort and serenity.
CHAPTER VI.
On the following morning a packet
was brought to Collins, which, as he
very seldom received any communica-
tion, seemed to him an important oc-
currence. He looked for some time
at the outside with surprise, but could
guess nothing from this. On opening
it, even before he had read a word, he
was much moved. The handwriting
of the first letter he came to was that
of a woman of whom he had seen no-
thing and heard little for ten years.
She was the siren of whom he had
spoken to Maria, from whose charms
he had escaped with the help of the
advice of Mrs Lascelles. The hand-
writing was> in general, of the same
beautiful and bold character which he
so well remembered, but had become
rather weaker and less steady. The
contents were to this effect : —
ft You will be much surprised at
hearing from me, but not more than I
should have been till lately, had any
one proposed to me to write to you.
I have never, indeed, ceased to feel
for you warmly ; but I knew that you
had deliberately avoided me. Nay, I
owned to myself that you were right
in doing so. I need not bid you en-
deavour to recall the days when we
saw each other frequently. I have
no doubt that you remember them
1839.]
well. Although we never came to an
avowed understanding of each other's
hearts, it was a shining glowing
time for both when we exchanged
passion for passion ; when your ear-
nestness and my fancy encountered
timidly yet most fondly ; and we said
to ourselves that this in truth was
love, while we dared not say it to one
another. That all this was guilt and
disgrace to me, that my affection for
you was crime against him to whom
my fidelity was vowed, I well know.
I will not add to my offence by now al-
leging the excuses which his charac-
ter, and conduct, and utter indifference
towards me, then seemed to furnish ;
and to which in living apart from me,
as entirely for his own gratification
he did, he appeared to give almost a
public sanction. True as all this was,
I nevertheless knew the right and
chose the wrong, and the dwelling on
these things as justifications was but
a new breach of duty. I may, how-
ever, say, that I trust you have never
known what it is, in the full strength
of emotion and imagination to have no
one to love, to see that all the trea-
sures of the soul have been bestowed
in vain on one who has no value for
them, nay, no conception that they
could have a worth, and who finds in
the vulgarest pleasures more than a
compensation for the devoted faith
which he throws away as a cast gar-
ment. Such was my state when I
knew you. I can still, after so many
years — and such years ! — recall the
deep rapture, mingled with trembling
self-reproach, and I have sometimes
fancied, heightened by it, which filled
my breast, when I learned to read in
you all I had so vainly hoped for in
another. I had no design of capti-
vating you, but your sympathy was
dearer to me than the admiration and
homage of all the world, and 1 may
now say that I am persuaded I should
have given up all to possess it fully.
You acted wisely, rightly, heroically,
when you left me ; and I can more
than forgive you, I can thank you,
for all the tears and groans you cost
me. I then went to the seaside for
my health, and lived in a lonely farm-
house away from all my acquaintan-
ces. I used to spend hours sitting on
the shore thinking of you, and so
strong was the impression this period
of my life made on me that I have
never since been able to hear the
The Onyx Ring. 31
sound of waves without seeing your
imago before me as you then were
— young, buoyant, and enthusiastic,
with your kindled cheeks and raven
hair falling wildly round your fore-
head. Your strange but stirring and
heartfelt words have always seemed to
me mingled inseparably with the mur-
mur of the waters. In happy dreams
which renewed my musing youth, for
when I knew you 1 was little more than
twenty, I have sometimes believed
that we are twin spirits of the ocean,
floating with visionary forms beneath
the stars, and with airy feet skimming
over the white foam.
" But I did not propose to write to
you on this subject. My love for you
— I now dare call it by its name —
what should I not now dare ? has been
to me a source of countless, pleasant,
and painful thoughts. But the events
which have led me now to write to
you are of a very different charac-
ter, and the recollection of them per-
petually corrodes me with grief and
shame. For some years after we
parted I lived in a state of dreary
indifference, occupying myself as I
could with society, literature, and all
the beautiful arts. I had become ac-
quainted with an illustrious musical
composer, whose music had a charac-
ter of strong feeling and sublime ima-
gination, to me peculiarly elevating
and delightful. Sometimes I visited
the infirm old man, who was almost
blind, and could not rise from his
chair, yet under the inspiration of his
art awoke into divine energy. I sang
to him the favourite airs of his own
composition, while he touched the
piano, and now and then gave me a
suggestion or a criticism of memorable
felicity . There was a poet also fa-
miliar with him, for whose words
some of his most perfect melodies had
been created. He, too, was in the
habit of visiting this harmonious en-
chanter, who sometimes laid before
me a song newlyproduced by both, and
asked me to sing it for him. I willingly
did so, and some of these strains were
so exquisite, and gave me such high
enjoyment, that I probably sang with
more force and expression in the dark
and narrow room of the old man, with
none but him near me, than I ever
gave to the most admired of my
performances, such as they were, in
the midst of crowded and applauding
circles. In the musician's study, near
Legendary Lore. No. V.
32
the instrument before which he sat,
•while I stood beside him, a door- way
led into another room, which I knew
to be a small cabinet of books, and this
opening, was closed not by a door,
but a green curtain. On one occasion
on which I had been singing with
much pleasure to myself, and to the
satisfaction of my friend and master,
I had ended the song, a new one of
the poet before mentioned, of which
the air closed in a long pathetic flow
of deepest emotion ; such, that the
poet afterwards compared it to the
last bright soft sunset before the com-
mencing deluge. At the instant when
my voice sank into silence, I heard a
slight rustling near me, and looking
round, I saw the curtain drawn aside,
and held in one hand by a man whose
other hand, as well as his counten-
ance, expressed the highest degree of
attention and sympathy. As my eyes
caught his, he did not retire, but came
forward, and apologized for his intru-
sion, by saying, that he had been en-
gaged in arranging some verses in the
cabinet for our common friend. I
found that it was the poet. I after-
wards learned from him that he had
several times already been the unseen
auditor of my singing. His fame was
such, and such my own estimation of
him, and his manners, and language,
were now so winning, that I could not
be displeased. And thus began our
intimacy. A fairy sky indeed before
a black deluge.
" Thus began my knowledge of a
man from whom has been derived the
strongest interest of my subsequent
life. He was — he doubtless still is —
a person whose appearance and man-
ners are admirably in accordance with
the nobler gifts of genius and know-
ledge. He is distinguished by a tran-
quil and unfailing dignity, graceful
beyond all that I have seen in man,
and produced, doubtless, allowing for
his bodily advantages, in a great de-
gree by his lively and predominant
sense of the beautiful and the appro-
priate, in all things. In him, elo-
quence is a various and finished art,
embodying and harmonizing a most
abundant natural faculty ; and I should
have thought it altogether unrivalled
had I not once known a far more fer-
vid, generous, and lofty spirit, pour-
ing itself forth in somewhat ruder ac-
cents. But he also possesses a pliancy
and panoramic largeness of mind, pe-
[Jan.
culiarly his own, so that he perpetual-
ly dazzles and attracts by his swift
and direct comprehension of all shapes
and sides of human character, which
shows itself as well in the common
intercourse of life, as in the poetic
creations to which he devotes his se-
rious efforts. Being such as he is,
you cannot wonder that in the dull and
shapeless mass of ordinary society
this man blazed like a fiery gem.
"At the time when I became familiar
with him, I was inclined to take a sad
but resigned view of all things, fan-
cying that as to our ultimate destina-
tion, we can know nothing ; all the
distance round being but cloud and
darkness, and nothing remaining for
us but to light and adorn as much as
possible, the narrow circle in which,
for the moment, we are moving. In
him I did not meet with any opposi-
tion to my own views. But I found
that gradually, while I learned to know
him better, my daily and immediate
sphere seemed to grow wider and
more beautiful. The dark and solid
horizon melted into clear air. He
covered the soil with fairer herbage
and flowers, and shaded it with en-
chanted groves, and peopled it with
gayer and more stately figures. From
all the real incidents and persons we
met with, he drew out new meanings,
and wroughtthem together into round-
ed and dramatic groups. In his hands
every material object seemed to be-
come plastic, and yielded to his shap-
ing touch, while he expanded and har-
monized it into an intelligible repre-
sentative of some grand idea or deli-
cate sentiment. Every one also around
us grew happier and less barren under
the spell of his wise and creative sym-
pathy. Thus I found the two pro-
cesses going on together; the revival
of my own spirit, and that of the
whole world I lived in. My feelings
in this new state of being were not,
indeed, those of my first early and de-
voted love, nearest of all earthly af-
fections to religion — unhesitating, fond,
ecstatic, with a ceaseless, thrilling,
sense of new-found life, and with an
awful apprehension of a blessed mys-
tery, encompassing both me and him
I loved. I then seemed the companion
of the one high kindred spirit in a vast
delusive temple, blazing with incense,
and deriving its choicest fragrance
from our bosoms. After this, the first
wondrous enchantment of the youth-
1839.]
The Onyx Ring.
ful heart was rudely broken, and I
found myself alone, and mourning in
a dead wilderness, with the dark sha-
dow of him I once delighted in, mock-
ing at me, as it fled on the far hori-
zon. Then in fear, and shame, and
eager passion, I thought that I had
found realized in you all I once dreamt
of, wanting only my own irrecoverable
rapture, and fancied that the one great
woe of nature and destiny was the
folly which led me to lavish my life
upon another, instead of treasuring it
for you. There was a fearful mad
joy in this kindling of a love which I
had believed extinct for ever. In gain-
ing your affection, I seized this good
even on the brink of misery, an'd while
I knew that a still blacker misery than
the first, would needs, one day, per-
haps the very morrow, arise from it.
Lastly, came my relation to my new
friend, which rather tended to brighten
and enlarge the common and the
cheap, and to enable me to make the
best of the inevitable, and to smooth
and embellish my road over the earth,
though it gave me no wings for mount-
ing into air. At first, I had dwelt in
a heavenly paradise with one whom I
now will not name. Then in a ro-
mantic home with you, amid a lonely
and sublime land. But now with him
in a light.and fanciful pavilion, pitch-
ed for ease and refreshment in a spot
retired, but not far from ordinary hu-
man life, and yielding a fair prospect
of its fields, and streams, and towns.
" Thus I thought of him when first
we became intimate with each other.
But gradually I better understood and
was more strongly interested in the
inexhaustible resources of his talents,
and his power, not of assuming as a
disguise, but of shaping himself into
every diversity of brilliant and strik-
ing life. I learned, also, to love him
more, and to value more highly his
apparent admiration. So all this
comparison, which I had often drawn
for myself, changed its outline, and
still more its colouring. I began to
ask myself whether this calmer but
more complete mutual intelligence,
this clear and friendly view over the
•world around us, this freedom from
exaggerating illusion, and this enjoy-
ment of the whole genius of a man
than whom none, probably, is more
entirely and profusely cultivated, was
not well worth all that I had ever
known of headlong passion, of flaming
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX.
imagination, and dizzy self-abandon-
ment. I often shrank from saying,
yes, to the question. But, at least, I
thought, what I now possess is the
best substitute for earlier delight which
time and calamity have left me.
" I saw this man in the midst of
London society, where he was neces-
sarily the central figure of many
circles. Those who did not at all
appreciate his powers, and to whom
his poems appeared tame, trifling, and
obscure, yet felt the necessity of his
presence, and were fascinated by the
clear and graceful word which solved
whatever riddle came to hand, and
was always spoken at the right time.
More than others I enjoyed his supe-
riority, for" I understood him better
than all but a few, and received more
attention from him than any. To
this hour I cannot remember, without
some surprise, how much I learned
from him even in the course of a few
months. He taught me to see in art
a world akin to, but distinct from, the
natural one, and representing all its
rude vast wilderness of facts in sunny
and transparent imagery. The Beau-
tiful became for me the highest ob-
ject of existence — to see it and repro-
duce it the noblest aim of human
effort. Not at all that I or my friend
supposed all things to exist only for
the purpose of being purified and re-
combined into beautiful symbols. But
he taught me that there is an element
of beauty in whatever is most evil,
and that the highest of our many fa-
culties and tasks is that of discovering
this, and employing it in such shapes
as shall make it manifest to the appre-
hension of men. But I will not now
review the many sides on which this
idea was presented to me, and how
much iii history and literature was
called up by the necromancy of his
intellect to strengthen me in these
opinions and sympathies. It is useless
to linger over the tale. I found, in
short, that the more I grew to know
and admire him, the more divided I
insensibly became from all my other
acquaintances and friends. Some, of
course, were jealous of my influence
over him — some affected a moral dis-
approbation, which some, doubtless,
felt. The tide of opinion had set
against me, and many were determin-
ed to go with it wherever it might
lead or mislead them. He continued
to woo me as a minstrel-lover, and to
34
Legendary Lore. No. V.
[Jan-
instruct me as a sage teacher, but also
to laugh at many scruples of those
around us, and say that it was idle to
listen to moral saws and maxims, very
right for those who need them, but
inapplicable to persons more highly
cultivated than the crowd. ' Our life,'
he would say, ' may be a complete,
passionate, graceful, earnest poem, in
spite of those who censure without
appreciating us.' I found myself, also,
less bound by the opinion of society,
for while more strongly drawn to him
I was more and more separated from
every one else. In fact, he had form-
ed a border of delicate plants around
me, and led me to tend them carefully,
unheeding, till too late, when I found
myself imprisoned in a hedge of thorns
and poison flowers. Still I fancied my-
self contented so long as he was with
me. He, too, appeared to feel as I, nay,
became more and more devoted. Some
of the loveliest poems with which he
bewitched the world, were suggested
by his passion for me ; nay, a few of
his songs were but versifications of
passages in my letters to him. In a
word — for I have loitered too weakly
already — I became wholly his, but not
before I fancied that he was no less
entirely my own. It is idle in me to
talk of shame, guilt, remorse. I talked
of these once as others do, and as
people hear them talked of in sermons.
Now I know them, and oh, how
sharply has the knowledge been forced
upon me !
" In the mean-time he never aban-
doned his position in that society from
which, for his sake, I had excluded
myself. He mingled in it as much as
before, and was no less wondered at
and observed, while he laboured in
private at my side in the creation of
works which gained daily more appro-
bation, and that of a more valuable
kind. But I was not happy. My
sorrow, however, was only one ingre-
dient in a potion which contained much
of passion, enthusiasm, romance, in
a word, of deep, delightful, and,
strange as it may seem, I will add, of
unselfish love. Such was my state
when, on the morrow of a day, most
of which he had passed with me, I
received a note from him, saying that
he found it absolutely necessary, in
order to complete a work he had un-
dertaken on the different periods of
art, that he should again visit Italy.
He was about to set out in two or
three days. « You know/ he said, 'how
much I dislike all painful scenes tha
excite and exhaust the feelings, bu
leave behind no profitable result. I
will be happier for us both that we
should not meet again. I trust that,
in my absence, you may form some tie
which will at least replace all that you
must lose in me. Agreeable and in-
structive occupations you cannot want.
In particular, I would recommend to
you the art of lithographic drawing,
in which I think you likely to excel,
and which seems capable of much im-
provement.1
" Such was the farewell of a man for
whom I had sacrificed all that a wo-
man can give or lose. I was too com-
pletely crushed by the blow to make
him any answer. My health gave
way along with so much else. He
wrote to me two or three times during
the year he was in Italy, and affected
to believe my answers must have mis-
carried. They had never been written.
It is now two years since his return. I
refused to see him on his making the
proposal. -I am now dying, without
a friend near me, and with no conso-
lation but that which I derive from
the certainty of my own repentance
for the much of evil in my life, and
that I now long and groan towards
good in every form of it I know, not
from the hope of any selfish gain, but
for its own excellence, and from the
deep conviction that the sense of beauty
is but the thin dream of which pure
sanctity is the waking life. I have
but one request to make to any one on
earth, which is, that you will convey
the accompanying papers to Walsing-
ham. They are the letters and poems
which he addressed to me. I have
written inside the cover, only the
words, — ' I forgive, as I pray to be for-
given.' You, therefore, need not fear
that you will be the messenger of any
weak reproaches. If your voice can
add aught likely to move his heart,
and awaken in him some conscious-
ness of the amazing reality of those
feelings which have been to him
through life only most refined and
elaborate play-things, I pray you to
do it. To yourself I would only say
— hope in all that is good. Believe
in it — love it not with the love of pas-
sion, but with that of your whole
being, — mind, heart, and conscience.
Do this, and you will in time find peace,
perhaps, where you now least expect
it. Think of me as now, in dying, the
true sister of your spirit, SELINA."
1839.]
The Onyx Ring.
35
CHAPTEB VII.
Accompanying this letter was one
from a medical man, unknown to
Collins, announcing that the packet
of papers had been given him by his
patient on her death bed, with an ear-
nest request that it might be sent
immediately after her decease. Her
death had been calm and Christian ;
and she had desired that a stone should
be placed upon her grave, bearing only
this inscription, — " Here lies a Wo-
man, a Sinner, a Victim, and a Peni-
tent."
When Collins had indulged for an
hour the feelings caused by this com-
munication, he walked to the Mount
in search of Walsingham. He did not
at all change his common grey dress ;
and he arrived at the house with his
Stan0 in his hand, weary, travel- stained,
and excited. He might not have easily
gained access at the moment to the
man he sought, but Maria happened to
see him, and, observing from his look
and tone that he was in a disturbed
mood, and full of serious care, she
asked him no question, but opened a
door into the library, and said, ' I
believe you will find him there.'
Through an arch, at the opposite end
of the room, he now saw Walsing-
ham, seated in a smaller study, at a
table, and with a book before him.
The stained glass window threw a
crimson glory on his noble face. As
Collins approached with a strong and
hasty step, the poet rose, and met him
with a gentle smile, expressed his plea-
sure at seeing him, and begged him
to sit down. The recluse had the
packet of papers in his hand, which
he held out, and said —
" I am sorry the pleasure is not mu-
tual. I am come on a painful errand,
which these papers will explain. Per-
haps the nature of it will occur to you,
when I recall the name of Selina, and
tell you that she is now dead."
" Dead !" said Walsingham, with
a tone of sincere surprise and grief ;
and, as he took the packet, he sank
back into his seat, and leaned his head
upon his hand, with which he hid his
eyes. He remained thus for some mi-
nutes, when Collins said — " Dead!
and by whom slain, you probably can
best divine."
Walsingham looked up with grave
wonder and some scorn ; and after a
pause, replied, —
" Oh, I see. You mean to ac-
cuse me of her death. A fancy,
doubtless, founded on her own state-
ments. Poor Selina ! She had an
infinite depth of love, but as little
wisdom as the shallowest of female
natures."
" The greater the crime, of prac-
tising on her folly."
" So be it. There are few graves
of those whom we have known at all
intimately on which error of some kind
does not sit, and accuse and revile us
as we pass along. We have, however,
something better to do than to reply.
As well might one turn back to answer
the scoffings of the voices which beset
the traveller up the mountain in the
Arabian Tale."
" Is this, then, all — a wretched fila-
gree comparison, half a jest, and all a
falsehood — which you can give as la-
mentation for her whose heart you
broke ? "
" My calmness is perhaps more suit-
able under the eye of death than your
mad, boyish anger. But we gain no-
thing by this inappropriate dispute.
If you have discharged your commis-
sion I thank you for your pains ; if not,
pray do so without delay. I would fain
be at leisure to recall the pictures of the
past, with which these letters, if they be
what I suppose, are closely connected."
" The letters are your own. I have
not read them, as 1 had no spurious
ambition of writing a romance, and
finding matter to garnish it in every
forgotten heap of rubbish. I know
well with what a pretence of passionate
feeling they must be filled, or they
could never have obtained any sympa-
thy from a heart like hers."
" I daresay some of them are love-
letters ; but, assuredly, they contain no
binding pledges that my life was to be
wasted in playing with the tangles of
Selina's hair. But, Mr Collins, I
know how she once felt towards you,
and I can understand and forgive your
present emotion. Your judgment of
me is, perhaps, from your point of
view, very natural ; but, if you have
fulfilled the purpose of this visit, I
again beg of you to leave me to my
own reflections."
36
" I would gladly do so, if I had any
expectation they would prove as pain-
ful as they ought. I have, however,
little hope of changing a settled iciness
of heart, so long accustomed to be
played over by the northern lights of
fancy, and therewith to be content.
Could you only learn what a base and
gaudy reptile you seemed at the last
to her, — you now seem to me, — you
would at least shrink from a contempt
far sterner than any you can pretend
to feel. With all your fame, and selfish
lie-begetting genius, I have known
many a poor handicraftsman worthier
than you to have been loved by her,
and whose name I would rather be able
now to join with hers on her untimely
but most welcome tomb."
Walsingham started up, trembling
as he rose, while Collins, before he
spoke, turned his back upon him, and
strode out of the room.
In a few minutes the poet began to
read deliberately through the letters and
papers ; and he soon embodied the re-
sults of his reflection on them in some
hasty stanzas. He afterwards recurred
to the scene between himself and Col-
lins, and came to the conclusion that it
resembled one which might be worth
painting between Luther and Leo X.
Collins, he thought, would probably
be as well pleased with the part of the
reformer which I assign him, as I with
that of the cultivated and genial man,
no true head, perhaps, of Christendom,
but a worthy Pope of the Fine Arts.
After all, St Peter's is like to stand as
long as the Reformation. The verses
were these :— .
1.
" There was a maid who held a lute,
And sat beside a fountain's brim,
And while she sang the woods were mute,
And heard through all their arches dim.
2.
" She sang, ' O ! life, thou weary boon,
'Tis Love that makes thee sad to me,
Legendary Lore. f?o. V. [Jan.
And thou, O Love ! wilt leave me soon,
For Grief's cold kiss has poisoned thee.
3.
" ' O life ! O love ! O woeful heart!
I sing for one who cannot hear ;
Thou, water, can'st not ease my smart
Ye summer leaves, my wreath is sere.
4.
" ' Thou lute, how oft thy strains were
sweet
To him who cannot hear thee now !
My heart and fingers idly beat —
Two useless toys are I and thou.'
5.
" I saw the maid, I heard the song,
Amid the heedless foliage sigh ;
I turned away, and wandered long,
Or sat and dreamt beneath the sky.
" I mused amid a lonely glen,
Where trees, and winds, and streams were
all,
And thought, how shrieks from sorrow's
den,
Re-echo every madrigal.
7.
" From each delight of human hearts,
That finds within those caves a tomb,
A ghost inevitable starts,
And haunts, as rightful prince, the gloom.
" But not supreme the spectres reign,
And oft a younger joyous crew
Will scare away the goblin train,
And bless the radiant halls anew.
9.
" I turned and sought the fountain's glade,
And Grief and Bliss, a sister pair,
Two nymphs, came glimmering through
the shade,
And seemed to speed me smoothly there.
10.
" Again I saw the fountain flow,
I heard the trees around it wave,
But caught no lute's melodious woe :
I only found a grassy grave."
CHAPTER VIII.
On that evening Collins returned,
weary, sad, and scornful, to his cot-
tage, and sat solitary in the room
where he had received Walsingham
and Maria. The old servant, who was
accustomed to observe his humour,
saw that he was disturbed and melan-
choly, and kept out of his way. Thus
he remained, alone in his old elm-wood
arm-chair, with his eyes fixed upon the
floor, while darkness closed around
him. The ticking of the ancient clock,
1839.]
The Onyx Ring.
37
in its tall brown case, the scarcely
audible murmur of the rivulet at the
bottom of the garden, and the rise
and fall of the light wind among the
trees about the cottage, were the only
sounds the recluse heard. Even these
he was hardly sensible of, for his
thoughts were intent on the matters
that lay nearest and most inward to
him — his passion for Selina — his hate
of Walsingham — his tender reverence
for Maria — his grateful devotion to her
mother's memory — and, as lying in
the same range of feeling, and akin in
depth, although not outwardly con-
nected with these, the vague raw
strivings of his political partisanship,
ending in a bloody woe. These were
the closest and most personal themes
of emotion which his life supplied, and
therefore — such is the frame of man's
spirit — those which extended furthest,
and seemed to him fullest of the infinite
and imperishable. Life, Death, Des-
tiny, Mischance, Error, Remorse,
Despair, contempt of All and of Him-
self— these, none of them exclusivply
possessing him, were all by turns with
him.
That, however, which chiefly oc-
cupied him, was the image of Selina,
as he had formerly seen her — the large
and blooming form, with its sunny
colouring and glow of life, which, in
his youthful season of fancy and eager-
ness, had been to him the descending
apparition of all Olympian beauty. —
" How fondly," he thought, — " how
deliriously did I love her. What
islands of Atlantis and Utopia did I
not people with our imagined loves.
And all this I left at the command of
severe wisdom, — rather for her sake
even than my own. And all this was
enjoyed to satiety by another ; and then
the believing, credulous, misguided,
devoted heart, was given up to its own
lonely despair, and left to find, in the
bitter sense of its own weakness, a ra-
tification of the world's contempt."
Hardly had the reflection occurred
to him before he was ashamed and
sorrow-stricken at having mingled any
base jealousy, on his own account, with
his pure grief for Selina's fate, and
his righteous indignation against Wal-
singham. " So," he thought, "it is with
man, ever giving to the petty and in-
dividual the mark and trappings of the
absolute and infinite. Yet even thus
he shows his indomitable tendency to
strive towards the higher than what he
is. So appearance is never a mere
and gratuitous falsehood, but the ready
and immediate substitute for being, of
which, during a time, it assumes the
name and attributes. It is the ser-
vant, who, wearing his master's clothes
and title, goes before him to prepare
the way, and prefigures his postponed
arrival. But with me, at least, this
servile and heraldic ministration of
falsehood to truth is, I trust, for ever at
an end ; and I can no longer bear to
exchange greetings or keep terms of
alliance with that which is not what it
seems. Jealousy ! — Revenge ! — down,
down ! and wear no more the austere
and divine aspect of Truth and Right.
Yet even with this rigid separation of
myself and my own feelings from the
whole matter, still it remains a dark
puzzle. I cannot execute vengeance
on Walsingham. The blade with
which I sought to stab him would
start back from the airy shade of Se-
lina interposed between. Nay, at all
events, it were better to leave him
fluttering idly over the slime in which
at last, when his wings fail, he will
assuredly be caught and sink. She
sleeps calmly, or, at least, the tomb
conceals and locks beyond our reach
her present stage of suffering. It is
I who remain here, the object of my
own hideous thoughts, and find myself
again, after years of enforced calm,
distracted and tortured with the same
pangs and remembrances from which
I have already given so much of my
life-blood to buy an uneasy and inse-
cure escape. It is unmanly, weak,
pitiable to give way. It were nobler,
more Titanic, to struggle on. Yet
struggle leading only to fresh strug-
gle, without a hope of final peace,
wastes and grinds down the spirit, if it
does not issue in immediate defeat and
death. Oh, that some signal were
given from the loftier circles of this
frame of things, and that, by it em-
powered, I could sink into sea- deep
oblivion ! "
One — two — three — theclocksound-
ed as he muttered to himself, and so
on to twelve.
The sound broke up the dream of
his existence, and many minds awoke
within a single breast. Edmonstone —
Harcourt — Wilson — Hastings — Mus-
grave — Walsingham — Collins — all
were there. With the feelings of these
38
Legendary Lore. No. V.
[Jan.
several lives came the recollection of
the history of each, seen in long per-
spective through its own particular
doorway, and all meeting in the cen-
tral chamber of the one consciousness.
In due relation to each were seen the
several figures connected with it, —
Maria — Ann — the old man of the
Araxes — the Caffre girl — the Arme-
nian merchant — Henry and his wife
Elizabeth, and the poor of Musgrave's
parish — Selina, and the poet's troop
of phantoms — Everard — Andrews —
and the slain victim of Collins's poli-
tics. Amid these living and dead
ones, and many more of both, encir-
cling each of the central shadows, the
eye found no fixed point of vision, and
the bewildered heart no peace. The
gazer hovered uncertain as a bird that
has wandered from its master, floats in
air above a host of men, and seeks in
vain the one to whom alone it would
return. He, perhaps, in the mean-
while pines in a prison, or moulders
in the grave.
But to the seeking, weary spirit, one
form presented itself amid all these ;
older, feebler, poorer, more ignorant,
more helpless, more bereft, more
scorned than all, — the crippled basket-
maker. " Knowledge, talents, wealth,
love, youth, zeal — all these I have in
vain experienced. But one trial more
remains for me, — to sink to the low-
est of conditions, as I have attempt-
ed fruitlessly so many higher ones."
He spoke sharply and abruptly the
name of the poor solitary old man.
The world of spectres, vaguer than
life, and of too intense realities, dis-
appeared from the chamber of the
Recluse, and left him to repose.
CHAPTER IX.
Maria was walking in the wood
where she had conversed with Col-
lins, and as she passed the gate, she
was surprised to see peering above it
the head of the old basket-maker,
whom she had never before known to
come so far from home. She walked
lightly up to him, with a smiling face,
and asked him whom he wanted to
see?
" You, miss."
" Well, what can I do for you ? Is
it money you wish for ?"
" No ; all the money Mr Nugent
has would now be of little use to me.
I have few wants, miss, and now I
feel I have not long to live. But if
you would do me a kindness, you must
let me have my own way for this
once."
He saw assent in her face, and,
opening the gate, entered the wood.
Then looking round him, he said,
" It is near twenty years since I was
here last. The trees have grown
well. Miss, please to follow me."
So saying, in spite of his lameness,
he walked on vigorously before her,
and led the way to the most retired
corner of the plantation. The path
was nearly overgrown with weeds,
and led to a diminutive streamlet,
hardly beyond the size of a ditch,
crossed by a single plank by way of
bridge. Beyond this lay a thicket
composed chiefly of evergreens, which
looked peculiarly gloomy in the midst
of the full and glittering summer
foliage of the deciduous trees around
them. The ground under their dark
boughs was ragged and neglected,
and the old seat, which stood in the
centre of a small clear space, was also
overgrown with moss.
" Here," said Fowler, " it was.
Now, will you sit down there while I
lean against this tree."
So saying, he leant his back against
the stem of a yew-tree, which grew
close to the end of the bench. On
this Maria seated herself, for it was
plain, from the manner of the old
man, that he was perfectly in earnest,
and had in view some serious purpose.
He was under the dark canopy 'of
branches, but a ray of light fell full
on her, and in her white dress she
might have seemed a figure of snow,
or of polished silver, in the midst of
a scene and images of bronze. She
looked at Fowler from under her
straw-bonnet with some wonder and
anxiety, but with unalterable kindness,
and waited till he should speak. He
turned down his bright blue eyes for
some time, leaning both hands upon
his staff, and then looked at her.
" It is now," he said, " nineteen
years since I was last in this spot.
At that time Mr Nugent was away in
1839.]
The Onyx Ring.
the army up at London or somewhere,
and he let Mr Lascelles live in the
manor-house. Mrs Lascelles, who
was one of the best women I ever saw,
had just brought him a girl, and they
had lost two or three children before.
I lived then at a cottage down by the
mill, a mile and a half from this, and
had my daughter with me. My wife
and all my other children were gone,
and my daughter Mary was a widow,
with one little boy. He and his mo-
ther too have been taken since. She
had buried her husband away on the
sea-coast, and was come back to me
to lie-in. A few days after this, late
in the evening, I heard a tap at my
door, and I remember my little grand-
son woke up, and said, ' Grandfather,
there's a noise ; do you think it is a
ghost ? ' Poor child ! he went soon
after to a better place. I opened the
door, and saw Mr Lascelles. He
looked very pale and distressed, and
he said to me, * Fowler, I cannot stay
now to speak to you, for I should be
missed at home. But come up to the
furthest gate of the wood behind the
house' — that's where I came in just
now — ' to-morrow morning at six
o'clock, and I will meet you there.'
He slipped a guinea into my hand,
and hurried away. I was much puz-
zled and surprised, and after I went
to bed I lay awake for half an hour
thinking what it could mean. How-
ever, the guinea served to buy some
gruel that night for my daughter, and
something too for little Thomas. The
next morning I went up at six o'clock,
and found Mr Lascelles waiting at the
gate. He told me to follow him, and
walked before me to this place ; and
when we got here he turned sharp
round upon me, and said, * Fowler,
will you save my wife's life?' At
first I thought that he was mad, and
I could not answer any thing ; but I
looked at him where he stood — there
where your foot now is. Then his
face seemed to shiver, and grew pale,
and then red again, and he said,
' Fowler, do you want to kill Mrs
Lascelles, or will you save her life ? '
and he stepped close to me, and caught
my arm, and looked hard into my face
with the strangest, sharp, sorrowful
look I ever saw. I could hardly
speak, but I said, ' To be sure, sir,
I'll do whatever I can, unless it is
something wrong. If you want that,
I'll see and pay you back your guinea
(somehow before long.' At this he
looked quieter, and said, ' My guinea!
Pooh ! what signifies that ? Listen,
and I'll tell you what I want. You
know I have lost all the children I
have had except this one ; and Mrs
Lascelles was almost heart-broken
before this was born, thinking she
should lose it too in a few months.
The child is a girl, and since its birth,
a week ago, it has been growing every
day punier and punier ; and the mo-
ther, what between her weak state
from her confinement, and her grief
for the poor baby, has grown quite ill.
She is in a high fever and delirious,
and is always asking for the child, and
crying. Even if she should grow a
little better, and find it dead, the doc-
tor says that very likely she might go
too. It would be a hard thing, Fowler,
to lose a wife one loves.' Then I
looked at him too, and said, ' You
may say that, sir ; it's a deal worse
than to lose a leg.' So he went on
this way — ' Now I want to know, will
you prevent this with no loss to your-
self ?' — * I prevent it, sir ! What can
I do ? I am not a doctor, much less
God, to save the poor child's life or
Mrs Lascelles's.' — 'Oh,' he answered,
' you can do every thing. You have
a daughter who has been just confined
too, and her baby is a girl, is it not ? ' —
There he stopped, and it all came
across me like a blaze of fire, and I
thought I should have fallen down.
But then again he took my hand, and
pressed it very hard, and looked into
my face that odd way. His eyes were
filling with tears, and he said — ' Will
you persuade your daughter to give
me that baby ? She has another child,
I know, and you and she will be able
to do better for it. Besides, the one
she parts with will be brought up as
Mrs Laseelles's own, so you may be
sure it will want for nothing, and I
shall always be grateful to you and
yours for the best service any one
could render me.' — This all came on
me together* and I could only say —
' Well, sir, but my little grandchild —
poor baby, it is but ill off now,' I said,
' and likely to be worse — my grand-
child will not be the same thing to Mrs
Lascelles as her own. Had not you
better wait till she gets stronger, and
if so be that God pleases to take her
girl, why then she may choose an-
other for herself?' — 'Fowler,' he said,
' she'll never grow stronger if she
Legendary Lore. No. V.
40
loses this child. She must never know
of the exchange. Before the baby
dies, and it has not many hours to live,
the other must be put in its place while
she sleeps, or is too confused in her
head to know what we are doing.
Then when she comes round a little,
and sees the child strong and well, no
doubt she'll recover too. She must
never know it ; ' — and he said the word
never as if he wanted to nail the notion
into my head. I felt quite puzzled and
unsteady, and did not know what to
say. There was the thought of the
poor lady's death, and Mr Lascelles's
grief, and perhaps his death too, for
to be sure no one ever loved his wife
more than he ; and then I thought
how ill I could do for my daughter
and her children, how often they would
be likely to want food and clothes and
fire, and what worse would become of
them if I died ; and, after pondering
a minute or two, I said — ' Sir, you
shall have the child, if I can manage
it.'"
The whole story had gradually
been unfolding itself in Maria's mind,
though, in her amazement, she had
much difficulty to comprehend it per-
fectly. At last she exclaimed — "Do
you mean that I am your grand-
daughter, and not the child of Mrs
Lascelles ?"
Startled at her tone of voice, he an-
swered, hurriedly — " That and no-
thing else is what I mean."
Then rose an agony of grief in her.
She covered her face with both her
hands, and her head sank down upon
her lap. Her limbs, too, failed, and
she slid off the bench until she knelt
upon the ground. Fowler was bewil-
dered between habitual respect for her
station and fond affection for herself,
and he thought that he had best let
her weep on for some minutes. Then
he went to her and touched her arm.
She shrank from him hastily, but the
next instant seized the great brown
furrowed hand, and pressed it to her
lips. She rose from her knees and
sat down again upon the bench, and
desired him to sit beside her. — " Tell
me," she said, " what became of my
mother?"
" She lost her little boy by hooping-
cough, and then she too pined away
and died. They are both buried with
my wife and our other children in the
churchyard of the old church that was
burned the other night. It was still
[Jan.
used now and then for burying in
those days."
This brought back to Maria her
presence there, and all the scene with
Walsingham, and suggested to her
more vividly than any thing before
the change of her position in the world.
She tried, however, to fix her thoughts
upon the obscure grave and history of
her mother, and to find her own real-
ity in these new circumstances. Of
Mrs Lascelles she did not dare to think.
But at last she asked again, — " Who
was my father?"
" He was a fisherman twenty miles
from this, and a very good young man.
But he was drowned, and his wife was
obliged to return to me. His name
was Williams."
She mused for a few moments, and,
gathering strength and courage, said
to Fowler — " My name, then, is Wil-
liams, too ? But there are other things
that I must know in order to do what
is right." — Then, by several distinct
questions, she drew from him the ac-
count of which the following facts are
a summary : —
Mr Lascelles had himself gone for
the child at night, together with the
medical man, taking the corpse of his
own baby to Fowler's cottage. This
was buried, a day or two afterwards, as
the child of Mrs William-. Her liv-
ing infant was, in the mean-time, con-
veyed to the Mount ; and, as Mrs Las-
celles was far too ill to observe accu-
rately, and the room was kept darken-
ed, there was no difficulty in deceiving
her. She then gradually recovered
her health, and soon became perfectly
well. Mr Lascelles had said to Fowler
that he should immediately make a
will, bequeathing all his property to
Maria after his wife's death, with an
annuity to Fowler and his daughter.
He premised, however, that this had
not been done, as he had not since re-
ceived any payment, and the omission
was easily explained, for Mr Lascelles
was killed a very few months after-
wards by a fall from his horse. Mrs
Lascelles then removed to London, in
order to be near her mother and other
friends. The nurse, who alone among
the servants knew of the exchange,
had been long dead. The medical
man had gone to reside in the metro-
polis, and of his further history Fowler
knew nothing. But he produced from
an old tin snuff-box a certificate of the
principal fact written" by Mr Lascelles
1839.]
The Onyx Ring.
41
himself, and signed both by him and
the surgeon.
The sight of this paper again agi-
tated Maria violently, for although
she had before no doubt of the truth
of the narrative, this seemed at once
to bring it into the class of admitted
and commonplace facts. Every thing
•which seemed to separate her from
Mrs Lascelles was to her excruciat-
ing. But she felt the necessity of
decision and external calmness, and
would think only of what was to be
done. ^
" Why," she said, " did you not
tell me this sooner ?"
" Why should I ? You were happy,
and so was I. And I did not know
what change it might make for you if
I spoke of matters that had happened
twenty years ago. But now I think
I shall not live much longer, and I
could not die quietly without telling
you the truth. But I shall never
speak a word of it to any one else.
So you must settle for yourself whe-
ther you choose any thing to be done
about it."
" I shall at once tell Mr and Mrs
Nugent the whole story. What they
may wish I do not know. But I will
send to inform you as soon as possible.
In the meantime, take this," giving
him the contents of her purse, " I
must not have money and you be in
want of it."
The old man looked at her with
glistening and delighted eyes, and
exclaimed, " Well, when I have seen
you, I have often thought you are a
deal prettier than ever your poor mo-
ther was, though she was the prettiest
girl in the parish ; but I never knew
you look half so beautiful before.
Perhaps when I see you again, if that
ever happens, it may be settled that
you shall be nothing more to me than
a fine young lady, and, I daresay, that
would be best for us both. But I
should like that you would give your
old grandfather one kiss before he
dies." She threw her arms about his
neck, and kissed him repeatedly, while
the tears ran down his face. " Now,"
he said, " dear Miss Maria, you had
best go to the house, and leave me to
get home at my own pace. You will
have plenty to think of, no doubt.
But, at all events, you may believe
that you are dearer to poor old Jack
Fowler than to any of the great folks
you have been living among. I never
saw the tail of your gown go by with-
out praying God to bless you ; and
when you used to come down here
from London, I always fancied He had
sent an angel into the country to do
every body good. God bless you, my
darling ! God bless you, and make
you as happy as I wish you, and as
good as the Virgin Mary ! "
CHAPTER X.
When Maria had reached her own
room she threw herself upon her
knee?, and prayed for strength to do
what was right in all tilings, and to
bear meekly and cheerfully whatever
might occur to her.
She then sat down and began to
reflect upon the steps requisite to be
taken. Her heart was full of the me-
mory of Mrs Lascelles, who had been
to her far more than a common mo-
ther, and who had died in the belief
that Maria was her child. But she
knew that now was not the time for
these feelings, and turned away from
them in order to act decidedly. The
question as to Mr Nugent's determi-
nation was far from clear. He was a
haughty self-indulgent man, full of
concentrated family pride, and believ-
ing that there was a specific virtue in
the blood of his ancestors to render
their descendants a race altogether
apart, in merit and dignity, from the
rest of mankind. The notion that
any one not thus distinguished should
appear as a sharer of the Nugent pri-
vileges, even on the mother's side, was
very likely 'to strike him as an un-
heard-of profanation. It might, pos-
sibly, seem to him an imposture violat-
ing the most sacred principles of hu-
man existence, and entailing nothing
less than infamy on any one who
should connive at it. As to the ques-
tion of money, Maria knew that her
supposed father had possessed a con-
siderable fortune ; but this, she believ-
ed, arose entirely from the produce of
a Cornish mine, which, she understood,
had now ceased to be profitable. She
had, moreover, little doubt that he had
not left a will, and that she, therefore,
would, at all events, possess no claim.
42
Her supposed mother's small fortune,
she also believed, had corne to her by
inheritance, not bequest ; as, indeed,
Mrs Lascelles could have had no rea-
son for making a testamentary dispo-
sition in favour of an only child, who
would naturally succeed to her posses-
sions. Any provision from this source
she would, therefore, also be deprived
of; and, at all events, she would have
had at least much hesitation in taking
advantage of a bequest made under an
erroneous belief as to her birth. Thus
she saw clearly that she was now alto-
gether dependent on Mr Nugeut, who
had always professed the intention of
making her his heir, but who would
now assuredly abandon any such de-
sign, and might very possibly even
dismiss her from his regard and pro-
tection. Mrs Nugent abounded in
good-will of a very ordinary and un-
discerning stamp, but, as to all more
serious matters, was a mere instrument
of her husband's decrees. She bought
some latitude of indulgence by an
idolatrous veneration for his wisdom
in every thing on which he condes-
cended to exert it.
Having thus reviewed for herself
the chief circumstances of her situa-
tion, she wrote a full account of all
she had heard from Fowler, which she
addressed to Mr Nugent, and begged
to know what he might decide. She
sent the letter to him by a servant
within two hours of her return to the
house. Having done this, her heart,
though still deeply agitated, felt much
lighter than before ; and she leant her
head upon her hand, and retraced all
her life with Mrs Lascelles, even in
the most minute detail, as if on occa-
sion of a second death-bed, again
taking leave for ever of the only being
whom she had known as a mother.
She took out, and looked at all the
little outward tokens in her possession
of warm and pure maternal affection,
a miniature which she had always
worn, a bracelet of her hair, a paper
of practical directions for her conduct
in life, and some fragments of written
prayer for her welfare. Long and
sadly did she contemplate these things,
and revolved the mystery of that re-
lation, so far higher and holier than
the outward and natural one, which
had constituted, and would for ever
maintain the guide and guardian of
her childhood as the true and imperish-
able mother of her spirit.
Legendary Lore. -ZV0. V.
[Jan.
She was left alone to the indulgence
of these reflections till nearly evening,
when her maid knocked at the door
and delivered to her a letter, which,
she said, had been given to her by Mr
Nugent's man. Maria dismissed her,
and with a firm hand opened the paper,
which had no direction, but the con-
tents of which ran thus :—
" DEAR Miss WILLIAMS, — I address
you by the name which I learn from
your communication you must hence-
forth bear, because it can never be too
soon to act upon a sense of duty. You
will not expect me to write very co-
herently while indignant, as I now
must be, at the unprincipled deception
so long practised upon me. Not that
I mean at all severely to blame you.
I have no doubt, from all I have seen
of you, that you would have shrunk
with just horror from assuming any
claim to the blood of my family. Even
if, as I cannot but suspect, you have
sometimes had instinctive suspicions —
providential intimations, as it were —
that your birth did not entitle you to
the position you were placed in, yet
I cannot wonder that these were speed-
ily suppressed by the consideration of
the distinction you thus attained, to
say nothing of the ease and elegance
of your life, which I candidly confess
that I esteem of less importance.
Neither do I unconditionally condemn
my late sister, who, doubtless, had de-
rived front her ancestors a sense of
honour that must have prevented her
from intruding any one of obscure de-
scent into our family. I cannot, how-
ever, but suppose that in earlier life,
and when nearer to the plebeian source
of your existence, your disposition and
appearance must have betrayed to a
near observer some traces of vulgarity,
of course, exquisitely painful to your
supposed mother. I can, therefore,
only presume that a due regard to her
husband's memory withheld her from
indulging any doubt on the subject,
especially as, without even fancying
any such substitution as had unhap-
pily taken place, it might have been
believed that the signs of rusticity and
meanness had arisen naturally from
him, as I have heard that one of his
grandmothers was little better than a
farmer's daughter. For him, indeed,
I reserve my whole moral disapproba-
tion, contempt, and disgust. If forging
the name of a commercial house to a
1839.]
piece of paper, which can only lead to
the loss of money — so deservedly un-
dervalued by all moral writers — be
justly thought worthy of painful, dis-
graceful, nay, even of capital punish-
ment, how can we rate sufficiently high
the guilt of a culprit who has delibe-
rately forged the name of an honour-
able family — for the Lascelles's are
decidedly gentlemen — to a child, to a
living progeny of beggars, fishermen,
peasants, and I know not whom — nay,
has involved in this disgrace an an-
cestry beyond comparison more dis-
tinguished, whom, through his wife,
he has thus attempted to stain with in-
delible contamination ? Far, far better
had my sister perished honourably,
rather than be saved by such .an arti-
fice, and live in some degree to aid in
so basely deluding me. It is doubtless
an ordinance of the Divine mercy
which left him without a son who
might possibly have inherited his lax-
ity of principle. But I restrain my
outraged feelings from regard to you,
who would, perhaps, be pained by the
expression of them in their full force.
" As to ' yourself, my dear Miss
Williams, it will be obvious to your
good sense, which, for a person of
your birth, certainly does you credit,
that you have lived in my family only
as my niece, and, the error being
cleared up, I owe it to myself to take
care, however reluctantly, that you
should no longer occupy the same si-
The Onyx Ring. 43
tuation. Indeed, your continuance in
this house, even as an humble com-
panion of Mrs Nugent, would be so
distressing to me as reminding me of
the deception I have suffered from, as
well, doubtless, as to Mrs Nugent, who
always governs hers views by mine,
that I could not think myself justified
in so lacerating all our most sacred
sentiments and principles. You de-
rive no property from Mr Lascelles,
and that of Mrs Lascelles, my late
sister, now reverts to me as her bro-
ther. I am far, however, from desir-
ing that you should be left without
the means of subsistence in the rank
of life which you must now belong
to, and to which your origin so natu-
rally consigns you. I therefore pro-
pose to settle on you the sum of fifty
pounds per annum, both as an act of
charity, and as marking my general
approbation of your couduct. I also
wish you to remain in this house for
a day or two, until you can make ar-
rangements for quitting it. You will
always find in me a sincere friend, and
it must be a relief to your mind to
know that I do not consider you as
in any serious degree guilty of the
foul and profligate treachery which
has been exercised towards me. Be-
lieve me, my dear Miss Williams, very
sincerely yours,
" WALTER ALGERNON SIDNEY
" NUGENT."
CHAPTER XI.
Well as Maria thought she knew
the writer of this letter, she was hard-
ly prepared for all its contents, and
she could not suppress her disgust at
many expressions in it. She took,
however, a few hours to consider what
she should do, and sent to beg that she
might be excused from appearing at
dinner. The most pressing object
was to communicate with her grand-
father ; but for this purpose the only
person she could apply to at the mo-
ment was the old housekeeper. The
good woman heard the story of her
birth with amazement and bitter grief,
and readily undertook to go to Fowler
that evening, and say that Maria was
soon to leave the Mount, but could
not yet decide precisely what she
should do. This being arranged, she
wrote to Arthur a full statement of
the whole matter, distinctly released
him from his engagement, which, she
said, she feared had been already
irksome to him, and stated that she
designed to seek at once for a situa-
tion as governess. She added, that
she did not wish him to misunderstand
her views, and would explain them to
him, although to no one else. She felt
sure that any plan of residing with her
grandfather would, from their dif-
ferent habits, be extremely unpleasant
and disadvantageous to them both.
She referred, however, with earnest
admiration to the noble qualities of
the old man, and said that ho was one
from whom a queen might be proud
to have descended.
She had hardly finished this letter
before Mrs Nugent came to her in a
foolish flurry of sorrow, wonder, and
44
Legendary Lore. No. V.
[Jan.
good-nature. She had adopted all
her husband's opinions on this as on
every other subject, but her heart was
too much for her head, and, in bidding
Maria good-night, she showed real
feeling. The housekeeper did not pre-
sent herself till later, and then she
came in with a face of paleness and
anxiety, and said, " Ma'am, you need
not think any more of doing him good.
He is gone to a better place, and has
left you his blessing."
This new shock for a time com-
pletely overpowered Maria, and a long
flood of tears gave her a melancholy
relief. When she could again collect
herself — so vanishes the thought, the
last tie of human kindred that belong-
ed to me on earth — the image of the
cheerful, generous, unconquerable old
man rose strongly before her as she
had seen him that very morning. She
could hardly conceive the possibility
of his so sudden death, although he
had himself foreseen it. The house-
keeper said, in answer to her ques-
tions, that a woman, the wife of a la-
bourer, had come to attend on him.
By her account, he had returned from
the Mount much exhausted, and had
lain down on his pallet, hardly able to
speak. The woman, whom he had
called on in his way home, and begged
to accompany him, had given him
drink, and after a time he had regain-
ed strength enough to explain himself,
but was evidently fast declining. He
was hardly alive when the housekeeper
reached him, yet he seemed pleased
when she mentioned who it was that
had sent her. With closed eyes and
joined hands he articulated very feebly,
— " Tell Miss Maria that I pray God
to bless her — God Almighty bless
her!" — A few miuutes afterwards he
again opened his bright blue eyes,
fixed them on the face of his visitor,
with a slight smile — closed them again
— and expired.
Maria, strange as it may seem, slept
during the night, and dreamed that she
was a child gathering daisies, which
she put into a basket that Jack Fowler
held for her, and which he afterwards
helped her to carry and present to
Mrs Lascelles. When she woke, all
the occurrences of the previous day
also appeared a dream. But swiftly
they broke upon her; and although
at first she trembled, she soon regained
her strength and calmness, and felt in
the very gravity and sadness of the
events a claim on her for the energy
required by them. Having made up
her mind as to the future, she deter-
mined to see Mr Nugent, for she knew
that her presence had an ascendency
over him which she would be far from
equally certain of maintaining by let-
ter.
She went down to his study, knock-
ed at the door, entered, and found him
sitting woe-begone over a parchment
pedigree, examining to whom he ought
to bequeath his property. He rose at
her approach, coloured, and stammer-
ed out — " Well, dear Maria — Miss
Lascelles — Williams, I mean — I trust
you are satisfied with the communi-
cation you received from me." — She
looked at him steadily and courteous-
ly, and said — " I have no complaint
to make." — Then she took a chair and
sat down ; on which he grew more
confused and more civil, and, also sit-
ting down, said—" Can I do any thing
for you ? I shall be most happy if
you will let me know how I can serve
you."
" Pray, have you heard of the death
of my grandfather ?"
" Yes ; Mrs Simpson told me of it.
Allow me to condole with you on the
subject. I assure you I have always
entertained a favourable opinion of
him, and do not blame him — that is, I
do not so very much blame him — for
his concealment of the truth."
" Of course nobody dares imagine
that any blame attaches to him. He
only complied with the eager wishes
of Mr Lascelles, and could not sup-
pose himself in any way responsible
for the result of his private arrange-
ments.— But I now wish to say, that,
as I have so long lived in your family,
and have not, I trust, at all disgraced
it, I cannot conceive myself asking
any extravagant favour if I desire to
be allowed to remain here until I can
make all the necessary preparations
for quitting the house with propriety.
During that interval I trust I shall not
be pained by any superfluous remarks,
either on my own parentage or on the
conduct of Mr and Mrs Lascelles.
These are points which cannot, I
think, be very decently commented on
before me, in the tone of your letter.
If, as I presume will be the case, you
agree to my wishes in these respects,
it will give me pleasure to remain with
you and Mrs Nugent for some days ;
and I hope to show by my conduct
1839.]
and demeanour that I am very sen-
sible of the favour with which I have
been so long treated both by you and
her."
" It will give me great satisfaction
that you should stay here as long as
is convenient to you."
" I design, as soon as I can procure
a suitable situation, to place myself as
a governess."
" A very proper and judicious plan,
and such as I should have expected
from you. Is there any thing else I
can do for you ?"
" Yes. Be good enough to give
orders for the burial of my grand-
father in the most respectable manner
?ractised among persons of his class,
f," — she added, with a slight Ipok of
scorn — " you are so disposed, I shall
be happy to have the expense deduct-
ed from the first payment of the an-
nuity of fifty pounds which you pro-
mised me ; and I beg leave to say,
that it is not my intention ever to
trouble you for the payment of any
further portion of it."
Here Mr Nugent endeavoured to
escape from his sense of humiliation
by adopting a more cordial tone.
" Oh my dear Maria, why need there
be any question of money between you
and me. You must be aware that
it would give me much gratification
to supply you to the utmost. I only
spoke of a trifling annuity as think-
ing it might be pleasanter to your
feelings than any larger income."
Baseness, thought Maria, has still
one deep lower than another. She
said aloud — " We shall be able to
speak of this hereafter. In the mean-
time I rely on you for doing whatever
is most right and respectful towards
the remains of my grandfather. I
wish them to be buried, if possible,
where those of his family rest, in the
burial-ground of the ruin which was
the scene of the late fire. I will now
go to Mrs Nugent, to whom I wish to
announce that I have your permission
for remaining here till I may find it
convenient to remove to some other
—home."
She hesitated at the last word, for
she felt in pronouncing it that she
had now no home on earth, and that
it might, probably, be the happiest lot
for her to be carried on the same road
as her grandfather, to be laid beside
him. She preserved, however, her
self-possession, and, with an involun-
The Onyx Ring. 45
tary air of indulgent condescension,
shook hands with Mr Nugent before
she left the room.
He immediately gave directions for
having the funeral of the old basket-
maker conducted with the utmost de-
corum, and sent a confidential person
to the cottage to take charge of the
arrangements, and see his orders exe-
cuted. Women were employed to
remain with the body, who relieved
each other, and at nightfall the two
sat together in the little room below,
in the midst of the few implements
and articles of furniture, the bench,
the osiers, the tools, and the baskets.
Among these was one which he had
finished on the previous morning be-
fore setting out to see Maria. The
women were nodding on opposite
sides of a solitary candle, when they
were startled by a knock at the door,
and on opening it two figures were
dimly seen, one of whom, a tall fe-
male, entered, wrapped in a dark
cloak. She said in a low voice a few
words, which, half asleep as they were,
they did not understand. She then
walked up the frail and narrow stair,
down which a faint light shone from
the chamber above where lay the
body. The woman disappeared noise-
lessly from the eyes of the astonished
watchers, and some minutes passed
before they regained courage to follow
her. They did so with some trem-
bling and treading on tip- toe, and
when they.had gained the top of the
stair they saw her kneeling beside the
mean pallet-bed, bent over one hand
of the corpse which she held in hers.
They observed that the'old man's fa-
vourite black cat had seated itself on
the small table, which sustained a can-
die, and, while they gazed into the
room, fixed steadily its pale green
eyes upon them. The woman, they
thought, sobbed faintly, and, looking
at each other, they turned and re-
treated to the lower room. In the
meantime the mourner looked at the
tranquil face of the corpse, and then,
again drawing her veil over her wet
eyes, walked down the stair and pass-
ed through the room. The door was
closed, but one of the women came
forward and opened it, and saw the
second figure in the darkness without,
waiting for the one within. The visi-
tor to the corpse glided silently away,
and the two shadows were lost in the
deep night.
46
Legendary Lore. No. V. The Onyx Ring.
[Jan.
CHAPTER XII.
Maria spent many of the following
hours in reading and in prayer, in me-
ditating on the character and history
of the old man whose corpse she had
visited, and endeavouring to retrace
the probable condition of his family,
and to divine what sort of person she
would have become, had she been
brought up as what she really was.
On the following morning, after a dis-
turbed sleep, she awoke with even
more anxiety for the future than at any
time since the discovery of her origin.
It was possible that she might have an
answer from Arthur, with whom she
had never before permitted herself to
correspond. She resolved, however,
not to indulge her own reflections, but
to act decidedly, and she employed
herself, except while at breakfast with
Mr and Mrs Nugent, in writing to
several of her friends to announce the
change in her position, and to state the
measure she had resolved on, in which
she begged their assistance ; indicat-
ing, at the same time, very clearly, her
determination not to become depend-
ent on any one, but to obtain her
subsistence by her own efforts.
By this time the rumour of strange
events and discoveries at the Mount had
spread far and wide. Members of differ-
ent neighbouring families presented
themselves as visitors in the course of
the morning, or sent to make civil en-
quiries. From some of these persons
Maria felt confident of real friendli-
ness. Nevertheless she declined to
appear, and sat intent upon her task
till her maid brought her, not a mes-
sage, but a letter from Arthur. It
had no post-mark, or direction, and
contained only these words ;—
" DEAREST MARIA,
" Can you see me now ? If not —
when ?
«« Yours,
« A. E."
The maid observed that her mistress
coloured all over her neck and temples,
and trembled, but with eagerness, not
fear. She spoke in a voice of forced
tranquillity ; desired Mrs Nugent might
be asked to lend her the uninterrupted
use of her boudoir for a short time,
and that Mr Edmonstone might be
shown in there, where she would im-
mediately join him. In a few moments
more the door was closed upon them
in the same room, and they had sprung,
for the first time, into each other's
arms. His arrival had dispersed all
doubts and fears. She knew, without
the help of words, that she was still
loved ; and his manner soon made her
feel that she had never been dearer to
him, or their engagement in his eyes
more precious and sacred.
" Thank Heaven!" he said, after
some minutes of silent emotion and
overpowering joy, " Thanks be to
Heaven ! you are now free and can be
mine, and I can work for both of us,
and feel that it is I for whom you live,
and not for cold and proud relations."
" No," she whispered, " less free
than ever, for I must now begin to re-
gard myself as wholly yours, however
long it may be before our union is
realized."
" Why long ? Not, I trust, at the
utmost more than a few weeks. My
position in the world is changed, and
my mind, I trust, even more so. But
as to outward circumstances, I have
been lying for many weeks seriously ill
in body, and suffering, also, from the
strangest series of phantasms and hal-
lucinations. During all this time I
have been attended with sedulous
watchfulness by an old grand-uncle,
who has returned from India, after a
life spent in the tropics. He, I know,
will assist me with the means of set-
tling myself, and my profession will do
the rest, when I have hope and love
to cheer me on. You will be contented
without magnificence ; and, with clear
consciences, we shall both be happy."
" Why did you not sooner let me
know of your amended prospects ?"
" It was not till Tuesday evening that
I was able to rise from bed, or knew any
thing of my true position. Your let-
ter reached me on the following morn-
ing, and I am here sooner than my
physician would have recommended.
But he knew nothing of the cordial re-
medy which awaited me at my jour-
ney's end."
" I wish I could have been there to
nurse you. You look thin, dear Ar-
thur, but not ill. Did you suffer
much ?"
" No ; I lay, I believe, for the most
part in a kind of stupor. To myself
I seemed surrounded by many figures,
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
some of whom I had known before and
some not, but you were the principal
personage among them all. There
were Sir Charles Harcourt and Has-
tings the traveller, the poet Walsing-
hain, the wife of poor Henry Richards,
the white-haired and rather short man
whom I have heard you talk of as Col-
lins, and old Fowler, your grandfather,
whom 1 knew when I first knew you,
and lived as a boy in this neighbour-
hood with my mother. There were
also several others, and the movements
and changes of the whole history turn-
ed upon a Ring."
She held up her hand before his
face, which his first impulse was to
kiss, but he saw that on one of the
fingers was an Onyx Ring.
" How on earth did you come by
that ? Jfrhas haunted me as if a magic
Ariel were fused amid the gold, or
imprisoned in the stone."
" I will tell you. My grandfather
died on Tuesday evening, the time you
say of your recovery. My good friend
Mrs Simpson was with him at the last
— brought me an old tin snuff-box
which I had before seen, and which
had been found grasped in the hand
of the corpse. It contained a certifi-
cate signed by Mr Lascelles and the
medical man then in attendance upon
his wife, that the child of Mrs Wil-
47
liams had been received by them from.
Fowler, and substituted for the dead
infant. In the same box, wrapped in
a separate paper, was the Onyx Ring.
I presume it had been given to the old
man by Mr Lascelles as a token which,
to him who could not read, would be
more expressive than any written do-
cument, and would substantiate to his
fancy the fact that the supposed Ma-
ria Lascelles owed only to accident
the beirig other than Mary Williams."
" A curious coincidence, at least,
with my visions. But as to the change
of your name it is of little importance,
for I hope a third will soon obliterate
both the former ones. My trance, how
unsubstantial soever may have been
the forms I conversed with, has at least
left on my mind intellectual and spi-
ritual impressions too many, perhaps,
and complex, ever to be fully describ-
ed, but of which you, I trust, as well
as I, may reap the benefit through all
my life. Now that you keep your
hand quiet and let me look at the ring
close, I see the old man's head upon it
is as beautifully executed as if it were
one of Weigall's finest works. It bears,
moreover, a curious resemblance to
my uncle who has watched me so
tenderly in my illness, and I could
almost have supposed it a portrait of
him."
SOME ACCOUNT OP HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER.
FASCICULUS THE FIRST.
" Duplex libelli dos est ; quod movet risum,
EC quod prudenti vitam consilio mouet." — Phaedrus.
" He would eat ortolans if he could get them, and though this oysters never tasted «o «weet as
whtn he had them upon tick. " — Citixen of the World.
Scene — C? Harris Divan, French Street. Time — Midnight, or thereabouts.
Beverages — Whisky toddy, rum punch, gin heist, cold brandy and water,
ditto ditto hot, with sugar. Smokeables — Cubas, Havannahs, Woodvilles
yellows, Silva's ditto, cheroots, meerchaums, hookahs, yards of clay, Dutch,
glazed English and Knochcroghery, shortcut, mild canaster, Virginia, pigtail,
and returns.
Parties extant — THE SQUIREEN, DOCTOR SNOAKER, MR GREEN STREET, the
Old Bailey Barrister, AN INSPECTOR OF NATIONAL SCHOOLS, several half-
mounted Gentlemen, and the OYSTER-EATER.
Squireen (loquitur). Pat, bring
another " go" of brandy for the Oys-
ter-Eater ; and, Pat, you may bring
another for myself, by the powers.
Doctor Snooker. Patricius, " repe-
tatur," as we say, ex cyatho magno—
Capiat.
Pat. Another go of rum, sir ? yes,
sir.
Inspector. Pat, I will take " one of
whisky." Christians, as the apostle
Paul
Lawyer Green Street. Pat, call a
new case.
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster- Eater. [Jan,
48
Pat. Gin, I think for you, Coun-
seral ?
The Oyster-Eater. And, Pat, let me
have brandy, as the Squireen wishes
to treat me, and, d'ye see, mix it stiffer
than you did the last.
Pat. The last was stiffish, sir.
The Oyster-Eater. Well ! the last
but one then.
The Half-mounted. Whiskies all
round for us — Pat — whiskies!
Pat. Immediately, gentlemen, in
a wink.
Squireen. I think, gentlemen, by
the powers, somebody was knocked
down by myself for a song — it couldn't
be me, for I'm so dry that I couldn't
turn a tune, by the powers — was it
yourself, Doctor Snoaker ?
Dr Snoaker. Me, sir, — paulo ma-
jora — you asked the Inspector for a
gong — cuculus canorus.
Inspector. Beg pardon, but the
Counsellor was the man — live in har-
mony with one another — excuse me
— it's a rule of the board.
Green Street. Rule made absolute
—I never sing — that is to say, sel-
dom or ever, not often — I mean some-
times— not just now — after the Oyster-
Eater.
Oyster-Eater. By no means, sir, I
couldn't think of
Inspector. Do oblige us — it's a rule
of the board — all denominations of
Christians.
Dr Snoaker. Aye, Turks, Jews
and Arians — fiat mistura.
Inspector. Arians, did you say,
Doctor ? Excuse me, it's a rule of the
board — but the Arians, Socinians, and
so forth
Dr Snoaker. Keep you in your
places — and very natural for them —
Did you not compile a series of Scrip-
ture lessons on the principle of the
family Shakspeare, in which all pas-
sages that " can possibly offend"
Turk, Jew, Arian, or Atheist, are
" purposely omitted ?" I use the words
of your preface.
Inspector. We publish, but nobody
reads them — they will keep.
Dr Snoaker. And do you not as-
sure us in your preface that these se-
lections, as you call them, are some-
times in the words of the " authorized,''
and sometimes of the " Douay " ver-
sion, and sometimes " neither the one
nor the other? "
Inspector, Ambo is good Latin —
we must conciliate ; it's a rule of the
board.
Dr Snoaker. And further, does not
your preface state that this new trans-
lation of the Scriptures " for the use
of Schools,'* has been compiled by a
Protestant clergyman, " under no pe-
culiar views of Christianity doctrinal
or practica.lt"
Inspector, True, but nobody reads
them — there's no harm done — it's a
rule of the board.
Green Street. Hem ! Ahem !
The Half-Mounted. Order, order
—hear, hear — the Counseral's song.
Dr Snoaker. Are you not repu-
diated by " Power Tuam," who won't
take your money, and by " John
Tuam," who can't get it — by Pro-
testant, Presbyterian, and Papist —
you teach no religion, and you have
only those without religion to teach —
tene simul — Koran or Catechism, all's
one — altera quaque hora.
Squireen. Order, order, Counseral,
by the powers — a song !
Green Street. Ahem ! A — hem !
Really 'tis too bad to force a man — If
I must — tol lol de rol — tol lol de rol
— that's the way it goes — you know
the tune, gentlemen, and just chime
in altogether, will ye ? A song without
chorus is like
Dr Snoaker. Have you not totally
failed to amalgamate different creeds
— have you not failed in all your
shuffling, equivocating, double-faced
attempts to introduce a system of po-
litical Christianity " for the use of
schools" — have you not built up the
public money irrecoverably in secta-
rian houses, and is not every school
where your rules are attempted to be
enforced, more like a cock-pit than a
place for the education of youth ?
The Oyster-Eater. Gentlemen, I
was going to give an account of my
birth, parentage, and
Green Street. Pooh! stuff— Ahem !
ahem ! I know the law — and a cho-
rus without a song is — I mean a song
•without a chorus
Dr Snoaker. Did you not come
into office under a solemn declaration
from Lord Stanley, that your commis-
sion was gratuitous, and did not one
of your body consent to become the
stipendiary of his fellow commission-
ers, and does he not flourish about the
streets of Dublin in an eleemosynary
equipage, provided or maintained for
1839.] Some Account of Himself .
him, in addition to a princely mansion
out of the funds voted by Parliament
for the " Education of the poor of Ire-
land"*—Faugh !
Green Street sings —
" As I was a walking,
One fine summer's morning,
I met a poor man"
Dr Snooker. What is your multi-
tudinous establishment of stipendiaries
of high and low degree, but a manu-
factory of sycophants ? What your
model schools and training schools
but a monument, in cut stone, of Go-
vernment extravagance ? What your
system but a contrivance to serve the
political uses of your party ? What
the whole scheme of your commis-
sion but the working out of the de-
signs of your despicable faction, that
is to say, making Government arbi-
trary, under pretence of making it
popular ?
Inspector. Excuse me — it's a rule
of the board — Christians of all
Dr Snoaker. In short, do the an-
nals of political profligacy furnish any
thing like the spectacle of the crea-
tures of a faction being tolerated to
withhold the means of enlightenment
from any body of tax-payers, who may
refuse to submit their course of reli-
gious instruction to the surveillance
of Commissioners like yours ; who bow
so low in the worship of faction as
unanimously to recommend books to
a Christian people, which have been
compiled, as they coolly assure us,
under no " peculiar views of Chris-
tianity, doctrinal or practical?"
The Oyster-Eater. Autobiography,
gentlemen, now-a-days is
Green Street. If I must sing, I
really wish, Dr Snoaker, you would
stojp to draw breath, and let me edge
in a note — I'm in possession of the
Court. (Sings.}
" As I was a walking one"
Squireen. By the powers, gentle-
men, here's news 1 The Liberator's
By the IrisJi Oyster- Eater. 49
come to town ! I see by the Dublin
Evening Hack, gentlemen, that — by
the powers
The Half-Mounted. A round of
" rums," Pat — Pat, a round of rums !
The Oyster-Eater. I'll join you,
gentlemen, for the honour of Antigua.
Pat, you know my guage. The lives
of men eminent for their virtues have
ever
Dr Snoaker. Patricius, iterumque
repetatur — Capiat hora somni haus-
tus.
Pat. Another of the same, sir ?
Yes, sir.
Inspector. " One of raspberry" for
me, Pat — particular denomination of
Christians
Squireen. Don't leave me out, Pat.
I can't see to read, by the powers, I'm
so dry.
Dr Snoaker (reading from the Dub-
lin Evening Hack). " We publish this
evening the fifth letter of his Excel-
lency the Lord- Lieutenant, in the case
of Chief- Constable Gruff, the facts of
which we are at the pains to repeat,
fearing they may have escaped the
memories of our numerous readers.
Chief- Constable Gruff, stationed with
his party of police in the village of
Bullyraggin, encountered upon the
Queen's highway a certain Widow
Hoolaghan's pig. This aforesaid por-
ker, being at large without a ring af-
fixed to the cartilage of his nose, as
directed by proclamation, was con-
strued and taken by the captain to be
a public nuisance, and was accordingly
summarily abated by being perforated
through the thorax with the sabre of
the captain, impelled by the captain's
own hand. Now, her majesty's mail,
passing that way about twelve o'clock
at night, five minutes past twelve being
her regular time at Bullyraggin, hap-
pened to be overturned by actual con-
tact of the off hind- wheel with the car-
cass of the abated porker, which re-
mained upon the road, the Widow
Hoolaghan declining to prejudice her
claim to 'Justice for Ireland' by tak-
* Why is not the stipendiary equipage of this stipendiary Commissioner marked and
numbered like other hackney carriages ? It is certainly a new item in the public ex-
penditure ; but of these Commissioners " for the education of the poor of Ireland,'*
as of the rest, matchless effrontery seems the least of their good qualities See Report
of Committee of the House of Commons on the Irish Education Enquiry for 1837,
wherein will be found an account of the equipage set up for the Stipendiary Commis-
sioner, by his fellow Commissioners out of the funds for promoting " the education of
the poor of Ireland."
VOL. XLY. NO. CCLXXIX. D
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
50
ing any steps to remove ' the ba-
con,' contenting herself with declaring
through the village of Bullyraggin ,
and suburbs that ' that cowardly spal-
peen had made the sun shine through
her dumb baste,' — adding several in-
timations of the deep interest she took
in the spiritual welfare of the captain,
which we can very well spare the re-
ligious reader. The overturn of the
royal mail was attended with rather
serious consequences, — one of the out-
side passengers, no less a personage
than a bagman in the general tea-tray
and fancy snuff-box line, having his
thigh-bone broken, as thigh-bones in-
variably are broken, if you believe the
sufferers, in three places ! Soon after
this the Widow Hoolaghan proceeded
by * civil bill,' at the Quarter Sessions
of Bullyraggin, against Captain Gruff,
for the value of the abated porker,
when the case was very fully gone into
by counsel on both sides, the Captain
producing a bundle of testimonials to
the sweetness of his temper, humanity,
and general efficiency : but it would
not do ; the jury, unintimidated by a
threat. of the stipendiary to the effect
that the Government would make them
' smoke," impudently returned a verdict
for the plaintiff, and the Court had the
effrontery to award immediate execu-
tion for the full amount against the
body or goods of the defendant — .
About this time, too,the bagman filed
a declaration of an action of trespass
in the Court of Common Pleas against
the mail-coach contractors, who wrote
to complain of the police — the police
to complain of the Widow Hoolaghan
— the barrister to complain of the sti-
pendiary— the stipendiary to complain
of the verdict — and Chief- Constable
Gruff to demand reimbursement and
to complain of every body. We state
upon undoubted authority that nothing
has been done at the Castle these six
months, save in Graff's case, and no-
thing to be heard there but clerk
calling to clerk for copies of the cor-
respondence in the case of Hoolaghan
and Gruff. The law points having
been, as usual, submitted to Counsel-
lor Bosthroon, who fills the high office
of Attorney- General's devil — per syn-
cope ' the divel, ' — that infernal
functionary delivered the subjoined
opinion^ which, we are credibly in-
formed, is the admiration of the whole
profession, not less for its lucidity of
style, than for its soundness, legal acu-
men, and research :—
[Jan.
" ' OPINION.
" « It is my opinion that pigs on the
roads are not necessarily nuisances at
common law. But it is not so clear
that they are not so rendered by Stat.
33 and 34 Geo. III., c. 109, amended
by 34 and 35 Geo. III., c. 112, par-
tially repealed, as far as regards rings
in noses only, by 35 and 36 Geo. III.,
C. 119, which, as Irish Acts, still re-
main in full force and effect, except as
hereinbefore excepted, unless, indeed,
the General Turnpike Act, 9 and 10
Geo. IV., c. 53, may be supposed to
have rendered these provisions, as far
as regards rings in noses only, void and
of none effect. This, however, may
be doubted — See Laystall on Public
Nuisances.
" ' As to the summary abatement of
this nuisance, I am clear that pigs
on the roads may be abated, but I ap-
prehend, not to the effusion of their
blood ; the 9 and 10 Will. IV., pre-
scribing exactly the legal course, to wit,
the impoinding of the offending pork-
er, and citation of the owner to the
nearest Court of Petit Sessions, there
to be dealt with as the law directs.
"' Whether the Chief- Constable is to
be reimbursed at all, and whether by
presentment on the county at large, or
by a Treasury minute, must turn, I ap-
prehend, principally upon the proceed-
ings of the Chief- Constable himself —
a very doubtful point ; for, by the late
Constabulary Act, 8 and 9 Will. IV.,
c. 96, it may reasonably be doubted
whether the Chief- Constable is alto-
gether, or at all, of the civil force, or
posse comitatus, or rather a military
servant of the Crown 'functusqfficio.'
Now, the riot act not having, as I con-
ceive, been read, nor the porker re-
quired in due form of law, reasonable
grace being allowed for that purpose,
to disperse, it is a mooted point whether
the perforation of said porker was not
wholly illegal, no magistrate being pre-
sent ! With regard to the removal of
the ' bacon,' and with whom such re-
moval ought to have rested, the books
are obscure ; but I think it will hold,
that, by the act of killing, an inchoate
right to the carcass resulted to the killer
— a contingent remainder resultant —
the act is clearly trammelled with its
consequences ; or, as the sound maxim
of the law hath it, ' quifacit ille capit.'—
Vide Russell on Crimes. Itis clear that
if the widow Hoolaghau ' had viciously
intromitted) to borrow a term of Scot-
tish law ( in the premises? another
1839. J Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 51
view might be taken of this intricate
case ; as it is, I think it rests with the
Chief- Constable to shew that the dis-
charge of his duty, quasi duty, was ef-
fectively directed to the abatement of
the nuisance, quasi nuisance. But it
was clearly not so directed, for the
nuisance might have been abated by
Hoolaghan, or it might have abated
itself; but this power of self-abatement
110 longer rested with the nuisance, the
same being, as it appears, perforated
through the thorax, and being cer-
tainly dead in fact, and probably in
law.
" ' Under all the circumstances,
therefore, I'am clearly of opinion that
the result of an appeal against the ver-
dict of the Quarter Sessions, in favour
of the widow Hoolaghan, may be
doubtful, though I am also clearly of
opinion that it may not.'
(Signed) " ' P. BOSTHROON.'
" Such is a concise statement of the
case as it stood at the commencement
of the paper war in which His Excel-
lency has thought it due to the digni-
ty of his high office to engage with
Chief- Constable Gruff, and which is
still continued with various success, to
the great entertainment of the news-
papers, the vast majority of whom, we
are proud to say, prefer the florid co-
piousness of His Excellency's style, to
the less ornate but more intelligible
diction of Captain Gruff.
" Whether the correspondence will
ever terminate, and whether the re-
sult will be the dismissal of his Excel-
lency, or of Chief- Constable Gruff, it
is not for us, but for the legislature,
to determine ; already his Excellency
has consumed four letters in an at-
tempt to prove that the perforation of
the porker by Chief- Constable Gruff
was premature, and exhibited wint of
self-command and discretion, Cap-
tain Gruff, on the contrary, has con-
cluded with the third epistle, his iro-
nical tirade of compliments to His
Excellency upon his discretion and
sound sense.
" Whatever may be the conclusion,
the correspondence must do good —
the spectacle of a Chief Governor en-
gaged in bandying recriminatory let-
ters with his own stipendiary offspring,
through the medium of the newspa-
pers, must impress the nation at large
with a deep sense of the blessings they
enjoy under a rule, at once so respect-
able and so capable of making itself
respected. For our own parts, we
throw ourselves upon the benevolence
of our readers — our patience is quite
exhausted — and although our position
as editor of the Dublin Evening Hack,
compels us to an insertion of His Ex-
cellency's long-winded rigmaroles in
our independent columns, we at once
confess ourselves heartily sick of the
porker, His Excellency, and Chief-
Constable Gruff.*"
Green Street. Sick of the por-
ker— well we may. For my part, I
think if somebody would favour us
with a song
Oyster-Eater. As I was going to
say, I was born, gentlemen, in the
year
Dr Snooker. The hankering after
newspaper notoriety, exhibited in this
correspondence, is of no sort of conse-
quence, as it affects only the individual;
but it is quite a different thing when
employed in writing at the nobility
and gentry of a great country, who
may request protection for their pro-
perties and lives from the attacks of
the midnight marauder, and mid-day
assassin. These —
Inspector. Keep perpetually bring-
ing up hot water, Pat — it's a rule of
the board.
Dr Snooker. These unfortunate
persons, even though they may not
choose to be identified politically or
socially with the Irish Executive, nave
some claim to sympathy, if not to pro-
tection— and their supplications for
succour need not be refused in a hec-
toring, lecturing rodomantade, but
be
Squireen. Pat, don't put too much
lemon — by the powers ! — I can't hear
a word, by the powers, I'm so dry.
Dr Snooker. Be- declined, if de-
clined they must be, with a show, at
least, of courtesy and decorum.
Green Street. Dr Snoaker, you are
intolerable I really wish there
was a perforation of your thorax, by
which your breath might escape, un-
* Chief-Constable Gruff, we perceive, has been dismissed at last, and we hope shortly
to congratulate the readers of the Dublin Evening Hack on the dismissal of the other
party to this very creditable and dignified correspondence.
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster- Eater. [Jan.
52
inundated with that torrent of sounds
you use, to delude your hearers into a
belief that you are making a speech.
Dr Snooker. I say nothing of the
social degradation of the Castle
a puppet-show may be a very good
puppet-show, but people may not
choose to go to see it necessity
is the mother of invention and
ballad- singers, for all I know, may be
very good company. That is a mat-
ter of taste. Scribbling at the gentry
of the country, however, is
Inspector. Don't speak so plain,
Doctor it's a rule of the board.
An allegory, now, or a fable, is the
delicate way of conveying instruction
to high official personages — in this
way the Grand Vizier Atalniuc was
rebuked by his faithful secretary,
Zeangir we publish fables
it's a rule of the board. I'll give
you a specimen : —
THE FABLE OF THE LAPWING
PREFERRED.
Upon a general invitation to the
eagle's wedding, there were several
birds of quality among the rest, that
took it in heavy dudgeon to see a
lapwing placed at the upper end of
the table. ' Tis true, they cried, he
has a kind of a coxcomb upon the
crown of him, and a few tawdry fea-
thers, but, alas, he never eat a good
meal's meat in his life till he came to
this preferment.
MORAL.
' Tis a scandal to Government, and
there goes envy along with it, when
honours are conferred upon men for
other causes than for their good quali-
ties and virtues.
REFLECTION.
'Tis a necessary caution in all pre-
ferments that they be placed on Jit
men, for the right motives and for the
right ends. The advancing of a fan-
tastical fool or lapwing, reflects upon
the raiser of him, for 'tis an ill sign,
the very liking of a frivolous man,
and implies at least a tacit approba-
tion of the officer's defects. The pre-
ferring of people, indeed, to honour-
able charges and commissions, with-
out either brains, fortune, or merit,
may be so far reputed a great work,
as the making of something out of
nothing seems to be next door to a
creation ; but the character, at least,
will not secure the person so dignified
from secret envy and open contempt.
An ill reason in fine, for an ill choice
is worse than no reason at all : will
and pleasure is the only true plea this
case will bear, for the authority of
the eagle herself, we see, was not suf-
ficient to vindicate a worthless minion
from reproach and scorn
Squireen. That's a dry fable, by
the powers. By the powers, I'm dry
myself Pat !
Dr Snooker. The fable is not a bad
one, although quaint. I would ven-
ture to recommend it to His Excel-
lency's notice the next time he steps
out of his office to inform the nobility
and gentry of Ireland, among other
sublime discoveries, " that property
has its duties as well as its rights."*
Oyster-Eater. A truism which it is
not His Excellency's good fortune to
be able to confirm, to any extent, from
his own experience.
FASCICULUS THE SECOND.
" I was taken before the next justice of the peace, and desired to give an account of myself. Ac-
cordingly, I commenced to state as well as I could recollect the whole history of my birth, parentage,
and education, when the magistrate interrupted me, saying that my account was no account at all,
and that he had made up his mind to grant my mittimus. Accordingly, I was committed to jail,
tried as a vagrant, found guilty of being poor, and shipped off to the plantations.' ' — GOLDSMITH.
Autobiography, gentlemen, is, next ficient consequence, that is to say, in
to books of travels, the regular thing short, every man who can write his
now-a-days. Nothing else will serve own name," but to exhibit his ''say-
any man who " thinks himself of suf- ings and doings," in two volumes,
* See His Excellency's last rigmarole but one, to the Lord Lieutenant and Magis-
trates of the County Tipperary, which was followed, as a natural consequence, by
the bloody commentary of the assassination in open day, of the unfortunate Mr
O'Keefe, who doubtless would have been alive and well, if the memorial of the Lord
Lieutenant and gentry of the cpunty had. been complied with.
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
large octavo, with a preliminary dis-
sertation upon the times in which he
lived, also, his washerwoman's bills
(unpaid), for several years, and an ap-
pendix of original letters, " now first
collected, and never before published."
The native brass of the autobiographer
is transferred in the line manner unto
the copper of the engraver, and is ex-
hibited in volume first, " to face the
title." — Volume second is sure to be
decorated with a map of his travels, or
a perspective view of the house in
which his grandmother sold tobacco
and groceries. There is no doubt of
plenty of "filling up stuff," in the
shape of dedication, preface, index,
and annotations, each successive anno-
tator giving his predecessor the lie
direct, as usual, if you observe, in the
performances of these learned eluci-
dators. Now, I scorn this beaten
track of autobiography ; and therefore
thank your stars, gentlemen, that I
inflict upon you neither plate nor
map, washerwomen's bills, nor letters
hitherto unpublished, but a plain
honest, straightforward account of my
adventures, which, if ever you have
the luck to see in print, there is no
occasion to call at the trunkmakers —
Not a bit of it— you shall see me, sir,
not dressed up in the vain, transitory
typographical fashion of the day, but
ushered into the literary republic in
manner and form prescribed by im-
memorial usage of the incomparable
MAG A, from whose columns, more im-
perishable than basalt, these my lu-
cubrations will be transferred into the
tablets of the brains of residents in
Iceland, and residents in Timbuctoo,
by the light of fish-oil lamps, and tro-
pical suns, aye, and be thundered with
extasy by the British Consul at Moga-
dore, and the Company's Superintend-
ent in Japan.
I am a gentleman born. — In Ire-
land, I need not tell you, gentlemen,
we are all gentlemen born — the epic
poem attributed erroneously to Tur-
glesius, and which Counsellor O'Rub-
bishy declares was translated by Te-
gernach — but I defy him to prove it —
the opening stanza descants upon the
pedigree of Saint Patrick, whose very
existence has been denied by Leland —
but no matter for that — nay, the open-
ing line — the " arma virumque ca-
no," — is devoted to transmitting to
countless ages the information that
" Saint Patrick was a gintleman"
Lest it might be supposed, however,
that the word " gentleman," or, as
many poets write, " jintleman," was to
be construed to imply aristocratic
birth merely, not gentleman-like con-
duct— the poet describes epithetically
the class of society from which the
Saint derives his origin, thus —
" And come of dacent people,"
the adjective denoting a large and most
respectable class of small proprietors,
with unimpeachable characters, in-
cluding, among others, publicans,
tanners, struggling farmers, butter-
buyers, and pig-jobbers. — But the
poet's anxiety to vindicate the genea-
logy of his hero does not end here,
for, after a couplet devoted to the
Saint's performances,
" He built a church in Dublin town,
And on it stuck a steeple " —
the pedigree is given with that faith-
ful minuteness, peculiarly the char-
acteristic of the ancient bards or sea-
nachies —
" His father was a Hooligan,
His mother was a Brady,
His aunt was one O'Brallighan,
And his wet-nurse Widow Grady."
In the celebrated performance at-
tributed to Mogh-Nuad, the court
bard of the Royal Irish House of Con-
ary, but which Counsellor O'Rub-
bishy has, with success, fastened up-
on a monk of the eighth century,
named Cataldus Tiraboschi, who, my
life for yours, will never deny the
fact, we have the following passage : —
" MacCluskey too,
Good manners knew ;
For though he was'nt rich —
He called himself a jintleman,
And still behaved as sick."
Thus, to the truth of the assertion,
that in Ireland every man is a "jin-
tleman," or a " gentleman," which-
ever orthography you prefer, antiqui-
ty lends her sanction, nor does the con •
temporary age refuse its authority.
If you detect a juvenile pickpocket
in the act of " prigging " your pocket-
book, and seize him by the collar, he
indignantly repels your grasp, and in-
forms you that he is ready to walk as
far as the police-office, but expects to
be treated " like a gentleman " — the
porter who is employed to carry your
luggage, is very sorry that he is be-
spoke, but in less than no time at all
will send your honour another gentle-
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
54
man — thehackney-coachman.to whose
demand of thrice his lawful fare you
are inclined to demur, winds up his
tornado of imprecations, with a thun-
dering crack of his whip, and a polite
intimation to the by-standers, that
"you are a scaly blackguard," and
"no gentleman."
Miss Edgeworth divides Irish gen-
tlemen into three great classes — "the
half-mounted gentleman," "the gen-
tleman every inch of him ;" and third-
ly and lastly, the " gentleman to the
back-bone." The only defect of this
classification is, that the examination
of these several grand classes is not
followed up by a sufficient detail of
the sub-genera or species. For exam-
ple, as regards birth merely, the "ould
s£oc£"have indisputable pretensions
to pre-eminence ; next to them the
" real bloods" are in highest estima-
tion ; in politics, we have the " true
blues," and not less in public regard,
" the right sort," while equivocal pre-
tenders to gentility are stigmatized by
the derogatory epithets of " ginger-
bread gents," "dunghill cocks,"
" mushrooms," and " fagots." I
was born, then, a gentleman — but I
must needs confess I am the first of
our family whose pretensions to gen-
tle blood were unquestioned, my fa-
ther's progenitor being unable to trace
his pedigree in the ascending, de-
scending, collateral, or indeed, in any
other line.
In short, gentlemen, my grandfa-
ther never had any father — nor for
that matter, any mother either, for
he was discovered on a cobbler's bulk,
in a state of primitive innocence and
nudity, and was spoon-fed into a hap-
py maturity, an out-pensioner of the
Hopital des Enfans JTrouv6s, or in
the vernacular of the lawfully-wedded
gossips of the neighbourhood, " the
brat-house." This was often heard
to fall indirectly from his own Jips,
which were seldom opened without a
pious ejaculation of thanksgiving that
he " had never refused to assist his
kinsmen in distress ;" a piece of self-
gratulation he might have sworn to
with a clear conscience.
If the discipline of the Foundling
Hospital, and the subsequent expe-
rience of a charity school, produced in
my grandfather a premature ossifica-
tion of the heart, in all that related to
any other numeral than that express-
ed by the integral quantity or unit —
[Jan.
number one, he used to say invariably,
was the first law of nature — it no less
gave a fine edge to an intellect natur-
ally dull and obtuse, and quickened a
little leaden eye into all the liveliness
of precocious avarice. He wrote a good
hand, ciphered tolerably, and his holi-
days, when he had them, were spent at
an auction room, the weighhouse, or,
w hat he liked better than both, a sheriff's
sale. His earliest occupation was as
"inventory-man," and when a decease
or a distress was in the wind, Little Joey,
for Joey, gentlemen, was my grand-
father's name, flitted here and there,
with the animation of a grasshopper,
an ink-horn pendant from his button-
hole, and a quill projecting behind his
right ear, the impersonification to the
life of an embryo pettifogger. He was
faithful to an excess, in all instances
wherein there was no safe opportunity
to cheat on his own account, and had a
good word for everybody, except where
he knew a bad one would serve his
turn. Subservient and sycophantic, but
withal as vindictive as a tiger, he never
showed his teeth but when he knew
he could bite, nor ever bit without
being sure of bringing away the piece
— at the same time he could take cold
potatoes, buttons, half- pence, or kicks,
of which last he had in his youth an
abundant variety, without any osten-
sible emotion, reserving for himself
his right to settle the account with
mankind, when he should be in a con-
dition to strike a balance in his own
favour.
Strange enough that one who stood
with his fellowmen in such a position,
that it is difficult to say whether they
feared or hated him most, should be-
come a rising and a prosperous man j
but so it was with Joey, who was em-
ployed indiscriminately by all the
rogues who were anxious to cheat, and
by the honest poor devils who were
afraid of being cheated. Nothing
presented itself amiss to my grand-
father that smacked of money-mak-
ing : rebellion itself became palatable
to him ; for, although he declined the
honour of fighting the royal forces
in the capacity of general of the
United Irishmen, he jumped at the
offer of being cashier and treasurer of
a district, and on the eve of the out-
break ran away to Dublin with his
military chest, to which he contrived
to unite a very handsome sum in the
nature of blood-money, by giving in-
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
formation to the Government of the
whereabouts of his old colleagues in
the insurrection, by which timely as-
sistance, several of the " generals,"
who, to do them justice, were as
cowardly in the field as their treasurer
was faithless in the cabinet, were, after
leading their unhappy followers to de-
feat and death, conducted to the gal-
lows, being pulled out by the tail from
the pig-sties in which they had con-
cealed themselves, or extracted with
pitchforks from beneath greater dung-
hills than themselves.
When the rebellion was extinguish-
ed, and all hostile operations, as well
as the greater number of the " gene-
rals," suspended, my grandfather made
his appearance once more in the
country, in the novel character of
captain of a yeomanry corps, in which
distinguished arm of the service, it is
incredible the number of sides of salt
beef and flitches of bacon he succeeded
in capturing, and the multitudes of
turkey-cocks, geese, ducks, and fine
peasantry he put to the sword. Per-
haps no other country in the world can
match Ireland in the concentration,
(which, begging your pardon, Mistress
Martineau, is the antagonist expres-
sion to division of labour) in one and
the same individual : my grandfather,
in addition to his military avocations
in the yeomanry, as aforesaid, united
in his own proper person the various
and apparently incompatible functions
of sub-agent to an absentee proprietor,
collector of county cess for the barony,
lay impropriator, hotel-keeper, grain
merchant, miller, master extraordinary
in Chancery, and " land-shark." The
last occupation he pursued with extra-
ordinary energy and success — he would
bid for any quantity of arable, town-
park pasture, or turbary, over the head
of the occupying tenant, without re-
morse, and, as he was known to be
solvent, usually commanded a prefe-
rence. If, however, the landlord
happened to .be a humane man, or
demurred at turning out an old occu-
pier, my grandfather would tempt his
avarice by the offer to take it as yearly
tenant, at fifty per cent above the pre-
sent rent, and at the year's end would
threaten to throw it up if he did not
get an abatement to something less
than any other solvent tenant would
give ; so that at last he became lessee
of a whole country side, and by the ex-
55
pulsion of poor tenantry, contributed
more to emigration in his time, than
the Canada Land Company, or the
Australian Commissioners. To "cap
the climax," my grandfather united
his fortunes to those of a lady in the
next county town, who had acquired
a reputation for amiability, beauty,
virtue, and, what weighed not a little
in my grandfather's estimation, fortune,
without any real pretensions to these
very desirable qualifications, by the
simple operation of keeping her car-
riage. Nature had been by no means
bountiful to her — fortune had gone
rather against her — but with a stroke
of genius peculiar to her sex, and a
deep knowledge of the people among
whom she lived, she boldly attempted,
and attempted with success, to retrieve
her ground by the daring stroke of set-
ting up a carriage. A few paternal
acres afforded her the means of feed-
ing a couple of half-bred cattle, for
the purpose of propelling a genteel
yellow post-chaise, which was driven
by an active postilion, in a frieze
jacket and buckskins, the only male
attendant she possessed — a little girl
who served for her food and clothes,
being her sole household domestic.
In all that related to appearances, my
grandmother that was to be, was scru-
pulous to an excess — her hall door
was painted once every year, and
every year of a new colour — her
window- curtains were of the best
flowered moreen, and her neat mus-
lin blinds were taken down and re-
newed every Monday morning. She
dined on half a salt herring and pota-
toes, or a sausage made with her- own
hands, and laid out every penny at her
disposal on her carriage, her carriage
horses, and her carriage dress — no
living soul ever darkened her door as a
visitant. But what of that ? not an as-
piring young maiden in the place who
was not ambitious of riding, even by in-
vitation, in a carriage, until the happy
opportunity might arrive when she
would ride in a carriage of her own.
The mothers were delighted to have
a carriage drawn up at their doors,
and the fathers fatigued their wives
and daughters with injunctions to con-
ciliate such a very fine woman, unex-
ceptionable acquaintance, good family,
" who kept her carriage."
Nobody hated her but the poor, and
nobody cares who the poor hatej she
Account oj tiimseij. tiy me man uysiei
must be a charitable woman no doubt,
for " she kept her carriage " — rich,
for " she kept her carriage" — virtu-
ous, for she came to church every fine
Sunday, and drove away in "her car-
riage."
In short, the bait was well chosen
and dexterously played. The car-
riage, set up in a fit of poverty and
vanity, became in time to be looked
upon as an undubitable proof of riches
and respectability, and the meanness
that enabled the owner to maintain it
was not known, because, unlike the
carriage, it was not seen ; so that
when my grandfather swallowed the
hook and proposed for the lady, the
wonder of the whole country town
and the whole country side was, not
that my grandfather took her, but
that she took him !
The last act of my grandmother's
maiden existence was worthy of her
character and talents. She had taken
in the old hunks, but was determined
that nobody but himself should know
it ; accordingly, having dressed for
church in a bridal costume of great
splendour, she went out to the rear of
her premises, and set fire with her own
hand to a pile of matrasses, old chairs,
tables, and the whole irremoveable
trumpery of her establishment, — her
flowered moreen curtains and muslin
blinds were packed up with two band-
boxes and an imperial, containing the
whole of her personal paraphernalia,
and placed behind her carriage, into
which she inserted herself, having the
street-door key in her pocket, and in
this order proceeded to be married.
When the ceremony was completed, my
new grandmother drove home with Joey
for the last time of driving " in her
carriage," the vehicle, horses, and har-
ness, having been disposed of a fort-
night before, the proceeds being con-
verted into the bridal costume afore-
said, which, together with the two
band-boxes, the imperial, the flowered
moreen window-curtains, and muslin
blinds, comprised, as Joey too soon dis-
covered, the whole amount of my
grandmother's real and personal pro-
perty, goods, chattels, and assets ; or,
as a modern Joey of no mean celebrity,
" him of Kilkenny," would elegantly
term it, " her tottle"
However deeply my grandfather
felt his pecuniary deficit, he was wise
enough to keep his vexation to him-
self, and became not a little recon-
ciled, after the first burst of disappoint-
ment, to find that his helpmate was
as mean, hypocritical, stingy, tricky,
and as contemptible as himself. —
They worked together like lock and
key, and were in the fair way to
amass a very considerable fortune,
being, in process of time, congratula-
ted by each other, — for they had nei-
ther neighbours, friends, nor acquaint-
ances to wish them joy, — in the pos-
session of two fine boys to inherit the
fruits of their joint stinginess and ra-
pacity. This, probably, the young
gentlemen might, in the fulness of
years, have arrived at, but for a slight
accident which happened to one of
them, whereby the prosperous cur-
rent of our family was totally chan-
ged, and their fair prospect of arriving
at worldly distinction clouded for
ever. To say that my grandfather was
disliked, would be to say nothing ; he
was hated, gentlemen, with a hate sur-
passing the hate of woman. But per-
haps you may form a better idea of
the estimation in which he was held,
by a billet-doux found under his hall-
door, and which to this day is inde-
libly impressed on my memory. The
superscription ran thus — " To Bloody
old Joe," and the contents as follow:
" Take NOTIS, your grave is dig, an'
get cofen for yersELF — JOEY YOU are
DEAD an' berrid this nite week. So
NO more at prisent.
CAPTEN ROCK."
This polite intimation was accom-
panied with sundry hieroglyphics, in
which Champollion would probably
discover some lines indicative of the
coffin which my grandfather was in-
vited to prepare, as well as certain
characters emblematic of a death's
head and cross-bones, to which condi-
tion it was the evident intention of the
writer to reduce the cranium and fe-
mora of the poor unfortunate " land-
shark." Any doubt that might have
remained of the sincerity of Captain
Rock's intentions was dispelled by an
apparition visible before the door next
morning, in the shape of a newly dug
grave, wherein reposed a dead dog, as
" locum tenens" of the intended per-
manent tenant, the devoted Joey afore-
said. Now, all these manifestations
of Captain Rock, Joey treated with
some degree of contempt which was
by no means justified in the issue ; but
1839.] Some Account of Himself . BtJ the L-ish Oyster- Eater. 57
as my grandfather was in the habit of
receiving a notification to prepare his
coffin at least once every quarter, or
four times per annum, which prepar-
ation would have put him to great
unnecessary expense, besides leaving
the second-hand coffins on his hands,
Joey, wisely considering that he could
die like other gentlemen but once in
his life, postponed indefinitely the
manufacture of his wooden surtout,
and, in the full confidence of finding no
immediate occasion for it, confined his
defensive operations to the purchase of
a large quantity of hand-grenades for
house use, and a brace of double-bar-
relled pistols, which he carried con-
tinually about his person. My grand-
father, as I told you, gentlemen, had
two sons, the eldest an humbly pious,
and sincere young man, who rather
chose to spend his time idly than to
follow at his father's heels in the
career of desperate rapacity that cha-
racterized the old gentleman ; he was
good to the poor, humane and gene-
rous, which I only mention to show
that if he had lived he would have been
poor himself — his only extravagance
was the indulgence of a pony to carry
him to the neighbouring hills on an
occasional snipe-shooting excursion.
You may judge, then, of the surprise
and horror of his parents, who loved
him, to do them justice, next to their
strong-box, on having the intelligence
conveyed to them about nine o'clock
at night, that their brave son lay but-
chered among the hills, having been
fairly hunted to death by a band of
hired assassins, who had lain in am-
buscade for his father a whole week,
and, failing to destroy him, had pur-
sued his innocent son to the mountains,
and slaked their murderous thirsti-
ness in his blood. I recollect, as it
were yesterday, the thrill that ran to
the tip of every hair upon my boyish
head, and the jangling of every nerve
within my frame, when my father re-
lated the minutiae of this worse than
cannibal atrocity, — how the youth was
pursuing his innocent sport upon the
hills, how that he had called at a cabin
with a bottle of wine which he had
purloiutcl fi-cm his father's cellar
(pious theft !), for a poor woman near
her down-lying ; how that a group of
fellows fired several shots at him, how
that he pushed his little pony to its
utmost speed, how the assassins winded
and doubled him through the mosses
and swamps like a hunted leveret, and
how at last, when his little horse had
spent all its force and came down
upon its knees, he awaited his pur-
suers manfully, and demanded to
know " what injury he had ever done
them ?" how, after loudly recommend-
ing several times his soul to God, he
stood before his prostrate favourite
and fought hardly for his life, and
how at last (for all this came out upon
the trial of his assassins) his skull was
dashed into a thousand pieces, and his
murderers returned to refresh them-
selves at the cabin whose inmates a
few hours before had tasted, and pray-
ed the blessings of Heaven upon, his
benevolence.
The unfortunate old man, returning
home the following day with the man-
gled remains of his hapless son, thus
vicariously butchered for his father's
sins, found his house, his stack-yard,
and his offices, in flames — all that he
had amassed for a series of years from
out the subsistence of the widow and
the orphan — all that he had grubbed
together under the pressure of popular
hatred and amid the muttered curses
of his fellow-men — his dearJy-loved
strong-box, with its treasures of gold
and silver, its sheaves of bank-notes,
its title-deeds, mortgages, bonds* judg-
ments, promissory-notes, acknowledg-
ments, I O U's — all, all involved in
one hopeless and unpitied conflagra-
tion!
The whole country side gathered
round about the flames, and, although
they refrained from openly insulting
the man upon whose grey head such
an avalanche of sorrow had descend-
ed, it was but too plain, from their re-
fusal to lend a hand, and from their
listless complacency, that they regard-
ed the fire and the murder as judg-
ments from Heaven upon a man who
had spared no pains to call them down
upon his devoted head.
From this day to the day of his
death, which was not long deferred,
the old man never raised his head ; —
he looked upon himself as the mur-
derer of his child, and knew but too
well that to his cruel rapacity was
solely to be ascribed the horrible re-
venge which prompted the murder of
an innocent youth, from no other mo-
tive, as the approver swore, while a
thrill of horror and a deep groan of
lamentation over human nature per-
vaded the crowded court, than because
58 Some Account of Himself.
they had waited a week and couldn't
catch the ould one.* Alas! alas! for
the nation wherein such innocent
blood is thus savagely shed ! Alas !
for the accursed thirst of gold that
provokes a horror of horrors like this !
And when we see the bones of the
hired assassins (for this task the re-
ward was one quart of whisky each)
creaking and rattling in the chill De-
cember blast, let us never forget that
the greedy wretch on whose kindred
this murder was committed was no
better than an assassin of another
sort. Little did he think, when he
hounded out the helpless victims of
By the Irish Oyster -Eater. [Jan.
his sordid avarice from their cabin and
their patch of land, reckless whether
death might not overtake their hun-
gry, houseless heads — ah ! little did
he know that the murky night gather-
ed men together to bind themselves
with an oath, and to cement it with
their blood, that his blood should make
all even. Surely, surely the whirligig
of time brings about its revenges.
" And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
That can resist, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong."
FASCICULUS THE THIRD.
" Honours like these have all my toils repaid,
My liege— and Fusbos— here's success to trade"
Boinbaites Furioso.
Of all the learned professions, re-
commend me to that of a Cabinet-
maker— the very name has something
of the grandiloquent about it — Cabi-
net Cabinet Cabinet-maker ; as
Cabinets go now-a-days, to be sure,
the trade must be very much on the
decline, for such an article as we see
for sale in the shops, God knows — a
poor, vamped-up, unseasoned, veneer-
ed concern, not fit for but never
mind, any thing will sell if you only
pay " the duffers. " Well, gentlemen,
to this learned profession was my im-
mediate progenitor indentured, after
the decline and fall of the Joey em-
pire, of which I defy Gibbon himself
to give you a better account, and, ac-
cordingly, served his seven years after
the usual approved fashion of appren-
ticeships, which condemns a poor devil
to no less a servitude, for the purpose
of learning the art and mystery of lay-
ing a trowel-full of mortar on a wall
and sticking a brick in it ! Your doc-
toi and your lawyer get " finished "
as they term it, in four years — but
your brick-layer dares not flourish an
independent trowel short of seven I
Such is the value of human life, gen-
tlemen, which it is the prevailing cant
to deplore as if it were an auction by
inch of candle, whereas you see plainly
that a man must have as many lives
as a singed cat to learn merely his
rudiments.
Take another learned profession — .
the lawyer, for instance — what does
my friend, Tom Smith, the insolvent
court attorney, say about them ? " You
see me here," says Tom, " I never
give a guinea to none of your young
snobs ; no, sir, a lawyer, take my word
for't, never has any thing inside his
head till the outside s as smooth as the
palm of my hand — they're always
green till they're grey — under sixty I
look upon them as infants in law, their
up-hill work ceases only at the decline
of life, and they attain to their grand
climacteric and grand practice to-
gether ; in short, sir, no man is a sound
lawyer if not quite battered out, like
a medlar — never ripe till rotten ! " My
father then, let me tell you, served his
apprenticeship and married the day af-
ter he got his indentures, the very next
day, and took no little credit to him-
self for having waited a day, for he was
in love with my mother, and thought
he could never be soon enough soused
into matrimony — just as a country fel-
low in the dog days plumps over head
and ears into a fish-pond, and thinks
of nothing but floundering about, till
he finds himself stuck in the mud !
My mother, gentlemen, was of a highly
respectable family — of course, -that's
* The traveller in the county of Limerick may still behold, on the hill-side near the
village of Newcastle, the smouldering walls of the burned mansion, with which the
incidents above related — too true, alas for humanity !— are inseparably connected.
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
neither here nor elsewhere, but she was
of a tip-top family — not that I mind
family a snuff — the Snakes of Galway,
she was a Snake of Galway — you can't
but have heard of the Snakes of Gal-
way— of course, blood is blood — not
that it matters, but the man who sets
up a family above the Snakes of Gal-
way— not that it is a thing to quarrel
about — let him settle his affairs, that's
all I Of course, my mother had no
money — nobody ever heard of the
Snakes of Galway demeaning them-
selves with money — she had her pride
and her blood, and nobody ever heard
of a Snake of Galway who did not
possess a sickening dose of both ! —
Well, my poor father was a dashing
young fellow, proud of his wife, proud
of his family, though, for my part, I
never think about family myself —
proud of his skill in the ornamental
part of his profession — for you are not
to suppose my father a sofa-cush-
ioner or chair -bottomer — no such
thing, my father was versed in the
poetry of cabinet-making, he was
neither more nor less than Grinling
Gibbons in mahogany, and would
carve you out a " Diana and Actseon,"
or the " Centaurs and Lapithae," in a
style that but you have only to go
to Powerscourt, Shane's Castle, or
Shelton Abbey, and believe your own
eyes. Well, sirs, my mother was ex-
travagant to an excess — did I men-
tion that she was a Snake ? — I believe I
did, a Snake of Galway — my father
worked early and late to supply her
extravagance, and was getting on in
the world in the teeth of all his wife's
endeavours to the contrary, just as the
nation, gentlemen, keeps its nose above
water in spite of the exertions of our
inestimable government to sink it to
the bottom — when, as the devil would
have it, my father, by some sinister
accident, was made a common council-
man, and from that hour to this, his
wife and family got no good of him.
Nothing now went down with the poor
fellow but guilds, and boards, and
sub- committees — freeman by birth,
and freeman by grace especial, he was
so much absorbed in his public voca-
tion, that he altogether forgot himself
as a private individual ; he must turn
political economist, too, and in a little
time arrived at the sources of national
wealth, and at the bottom of his privy
purse, by one and the same conclusion.
Scarcely had he mastered the true
theory of rent, when our landlord put
in a distress, and just as he had com-
pleted a new sophism against the Corn
Laws, his wife and children found
themselves without a bit of bread. In
this dilemma, my father adopted a
very magnanimous course of conduct,
which cannot be too highly recom-
mended to cabinet-makers and other
great men in similar circumstances —
instead of working double tides, sav-
ing his money, and declining politics,
by which means he would have been all
right in a very little time, he adopt-
ed the prudent resolution of taking
himself out of this sublunary sphere
by the simple operation of poison.
Well, Doctor Snoaker, my father poi-
soned himself — and I give you leave
to guess whether the toxicological
agent he employed for the purpose was
a mineral, a vegetable, or an animal
poison — liquid, solid, or gaseous —
received into the general circula-
tion by the cutaneous absorbents, a
la Cleopatra, or introduced into the
stomach through the resophagus, &
la every body else ; — perhaps you
think he died convulsively from the
operation of prussic acid, or expired
comatose from the narcotic agency
of opium, hemlock, or belladonna —
you can't guess. Well, I daresay
Orflla or Christison, who know more
of the subject than yourself, (no of-
fence, doctor,) wouldn't think of it,
if they hammered at nothing else
through a winter course of lectures.
The short and the long of it is then,
the poison my father employed to
'carry him to the other world — a poi-
son, let me tell you, the most fashion-
able of its day — was simply an admix-
ture of alcohol, twenty-five degrees
overproof, by Syke's hydrometer,
(commonly called Cork malt), with
an equal weight of water at a tempe-
rature of 212° Fahrenheit, to which
was added two drachms of the crys-
taline ingredient of the sugar-cane
in powder, and the whole composition,
under the familiar appellation of whis-
ky-punch, imbibed ad libitum, in a ra-
pid succession of brimming goblets,
screeching hot !
The diagnosis or table of symptoms
resulting from the operation of this
poison, observes the following order :
— vermilion nose, ferret eyes, leuco-
phlegmatic face, dirty shirt, shock-
ing bad hat, pinch-faced wife, ragged
brats, pawnbroker, bailiff, jail, des-
pondency, delirium trcmens, and —
death ! I beg you to correct me if
Some Account of Himself . By the IrisJi Oyster-Eater. [Jan.
60
you think'me wrong, Doctor Snoaker,
but this was exactly the course the
poison took in my father's constitu-
tion ; and, by these successive grada-
tions, conducted him to his grave at
the early age of thirty-three, leaving
his troubles, a wife and four small
children, behind him. The funeral
was strictly private, for three rea-
sons— first, because my mother wished
it ; secondly, because we had no
friends; and, thirdly and lastly, be-
cause we had no money. In the whole
range of the shady side of human ex-
istence, which I delight to study, be-
cause I live on the shady side of life
myself, there is no spectacle so touch-
ing as that of the remains of a poor
man on the way to their last resting-
place. It is not alone that my eye is
arrested by the miserable cavalcade,
it is the picture of domestic bereave-
ment that presses upon, and fills the
imagination. I mourn not for the
dead thus rudely huddled to the grave,
for " they rest from their labours,
and their works do follow them : " I
lament with the survivor drooping
beside the desolate hearth — the be-
reaved wife — the fond husband — the
good parent — the dutiful child, in
whose heart of hearts the memory of
that perishable clay is for ever en-
shrined. It is not that there I see
conveyed away to kindred dust the
staff of the father's age, or the joy of a
mother's hope — the provider of the
widow and the orphan — the fond par-
taker of domestic sorrow — the gentle
solace of a poor man's toil — no — no —
there is more gone with the dead, for
ever gone ! — the tender recollection
of divided joys, the sweet remem-
brance of sympathy in sorrow, affec-
tions never to blossom again on this
side the grave !
These losses I mourn, for that they
are human — for that they are mine
own. I lament over the dead with
the living. He is gone — my friend—
my brother !
Flow, generous drops, flow on ! nor
let a blush mantle upon the cheek
whereon they fall, or, if bitterness
mingle with thy tears, may it never
be the bitterness of mine that the
barren wish, and the vain compas-
sionate tear, make all the bounty it is
thine to bestow ! An impoverished
country exhibits this sad finale in the
greatest variety ; and accordingly if
you had happened any of you, to be
standing at the gate of Bully's acre
near Kilmainham, on a Sunday after-
noon in May, thirty years ago, you
might have observed, among other
exhibitions of the sort, four drunken
scoundrels in rags that had once be-
longed to suits of black, huddling
along a coffin of rough elm, naked,
upon their shoulders. You are not
to suppose that they walked soberly
and with decency as is usual in such
cases. On the contrary, they floun-
dered along, carrying their burden, en
echellon, and giving it a couple of
bumps against the gate-posts as they
entered the burial-ground. Behind
tottered an old gentleman with a spade
and shovel, and a weeping boy hold-
ing a little girl by the hand, closed the
procession. Arrived at the ground,
the old gentleman proceeded to scrape
a hole, for as to digging a grave that
piece of extravagance is never thought
of at Bully's acre, while the drunken
bearers produced from their rags a
bottle of whisky each, the sole remu-
neration they had received or expect-
ed for their services. When the hole
had been scraped, just deep enough
to hold the coffin, two of the drunken
bearers seized upon it by pieces of
pack cord which protruded through
perforations at either extremity, and
with many bumps and kicks succeed-
ed in getting it into the hole : a little
earth was then scattered over by the
old gentleman, one end being pur-
posely left uncovered, in order that
the public might see there was a cof-
fin, and that they might not disturb
it for a fortnight at least. This cere-
mony being concluded, there remained
nothing further than to recompense
the old gentleman, which I did by
untying the corner of my pocket
handkerchief, and producing a shil-
ling secured therein for this last me-
lancholy service. Thus ended the
funeral of a cabinet-maker and com-
mon councilman, who understood the
sources of national wealth, had mas-
tered the true theory of rent, and
could argue Peyronnet Thompson him-
self upon the Corn Laws.
Not to keep you longer engaged
with my ancestors, — I was born on
the 19th day of August (old style),
in the year . I perceive you
are glad I am coming to myself at
last, and I dare say you wish, un-
grateful dogs that ye are, that I had
been born before my father and
grandfather, by which inversion of
the order of natuap you would have
1839.] Some Account of Himself .
had me married by this time, to my
second wife at least. This is all the
thanks I get for leaving out the his-
sory of my aunt Bridget, who eloped
with Teague Duffy, the French dan-
cing-master : her adventures would
furnish materials for three fashionable
novels — as fashionable novels go —
plot, dialogue, and catastrophe, and
which any autobiographer alive, ex-
cept myself, would make a right good
living of! I omit Bridget with the
less regret, as she disgraced the family
by demeaning herself with Teague
Duffy, — and so I was going to say,
I was ushered into public life on
the nineteenth day of August (old
style), at twenty-two minutes past
eight in the morning, in the year
. I perceive you are somewhat
impatient, gentlemen, but what would
you have me to do — take precedence
of my lawful father and grandfather,
and break through the settled prece-
dents of a thousand autobiographies —
excuse me, gentlemen, if you please—
" after your ladyship," as Prince Pos-
terity said to my grandmother ! Well,
the devil a syllable more of my auto-
biography will you get from my lips
this blessed night — for I see it is be-
tween three and four in the morning.
Pat ! no sugar for me, I never take
sugar with my " night-cap." While
Pat is mixing our grog, gentlemen,
we can't do better than indulge the
Counseral by allowing him to sing a
song : —
THE COUNSERAL'S SONG.
I.
Och ! love it is murder,
I wish it was furder ;
On my oath I've a mind to get rid of my
life—
I'm out of my s/nses,
Besides my expanses,
And only becase I'm in want of a wife !
The widow, Mahoney,
She was my cro-ney,
Only her heart was so hard and so sto-
ney.
CHORUS.
Arrah ! widdy, says I, stop my bachelor's
trade,
Or, as sure as you live, I will die an ould
maid.
By the Irish Oyster- er 61
II.
This widow so ston-ey,
Was stout, tall, and bon-ey,
Her husband he left her to plough the
salt ,v/f/.v,
He plumped to the bottom,
His shiners she got "em,
So, without botheration, she lived at her
aize.
Och 1 a beautiful cratur,
As any in natur,
And just like myself, too, in every future.
CHORUS.
Arrah, widdy, says I, stop my bachelor's
trade,
Or, as sure as you live, I will die an ould
maid!
III.
/ scorn to be scaly,
So trated her daily,
As sure as the night came, with whisky
and tea ;
And then, in a noddy,
Her beautiful body
Was stuck, cheek by jowl, in the front Le-
hind me I
To finish the matter,
Mick Rooney was fatter, ,
And for that very ruson he set his cap at
her.
CHORUS.
Arrah, widdy, says Mick, stop my bache-
lor's trade,
Or, as sure as you live, I will die an ould
maid !
IV.
No longer they tarried,
But off to be married,
As thick as two sweeps, to the church they
were sped ;
When, who should be stalking,
To stop their church- walking,
But the widdy's live husband — the boy that
was dead ! ! !
Poor Mike was confounded,
The widdy she swounded,
The men picked her up, and the women
surrounded —
FINALE.
So here I am left to my bachelor's (rade,
And if none ofyeet, take me, I die an ould
maid.
G2
Italy as it was.
[Jan.
ITALY AS IT WAS.
You tell me, my dear Eusebius,
that you wish to deter a young friend
from going to Italy ; and therefore
desire me to put on paper some of
those disagreeable incidents, that when
I told them to you some years ago,
you thought, if published, would
keep many a tourist of our comfort-
loving age, within the more decent
bounds of our own counties, or the
three kingdoms ; though I know not,
but that if decency be the measure, one
of the three may be omitted. In the first
place, Eusebius, I greatly admire your
simplicity in imagining that incidents
of difficulties, annoyances, or even
danger, will deter a young friend from
his proposed travel. For, suppose
him to be of that extremely indiscreet
age at which the law of the land
thinks fit to make him his own master,
the prospect of encountering them
will naturally so excite his youthful
spirits, his courageous energies, that
he will but bid you good-bye the
sooner. Try the contrary method,
and tell him of all the pleasures he will
have to enjoy, and the chances are
that none will be to his taste, and he
will grow cool. There is always a
disposition in youth to kick manfully
at every obstacle put in its way ; how-
ever pleasant a toy that which you put
in their way may have appeared, be-
fore they find it out to be an obstacle,
then fire and fury is in them, and the
very moon looks pale lest that ob-
stacle be -kicked in her very face, so
high does the spirit of indignation
mount ; and if you repeat this, you
will surely beget in them pertinacity,
which, nolens nolens, will make a fool
of you, excuse, (dear Eusebius, the per-
sonality,) and of themselves too. You
had better let them expend their ill-
timed and megrim-bred desires by giv-
ing them the full scope of talk, and
they will subside of themselves. Her-
cules would never have made the
choice, if Virtue had not put the diffi-
culties before him, and you know
Pleasure was sent packing. But there
is proof in matter of fact, and, there-
fore, I give you an example. I was
requested to remonstrate with a youth
who had unaccountably, so his friends
said, taken a whim, a fancy to enter
the army, to which profession his
friends had an aversion, and the youth
an unfitness. It arose from their lay-
ing before him a scheme of life, it be-
ing then about the time he should
finish his course at the university.
They dwelt upon the country Elysium
of a quiet parsonage, how easy would
be his progress through the university ;
but unfortunately they did not stop
there, but dwelt in much detail upon
the dangers, disgusts, horrors, and
turmoils of the several other profes-
sions, and particularly of the army.
Would you believe it, the gentle
youth, the amiable youth, who never
had a hand to grasp a sword, a heart
to shed blood, or a head for " plots
and stratagems" whom nature had
gifted like the cat with domesticity,
and to purr out his days of quiet happi-
ness at a parsonage hearth, with his
infant cherub faces about him, copies
of his own and their mother's ten-
derness,— this lamb of men decides
upon acting the tiger, and nothing
will go down with him but the army.
Letters of remonstrance passed in
quick succession : this only made the
matter worse, or rather made it what
it was, a temporary fever ; and in this
state I was requested to remonstrate
with him. But I took care to do no
such thing. I talked it over with him,
and, assuming that he had chosen that
profession, I spoke of the glory of it,
and thence gently let down the talk
into the requisites for it, and question-
ed him, as I remembered reading that
Socrates did a youth of a somewhat
similar ambition.
Of course, I made him prove himself
consummately ignorant in all that re-
lated to war. I questioned him upon
statistics and politics, and all the mys-
teries of strategy generally, and in parti-
cular what I could muster up or invent. I
saw some considerable shame at his own
ignorance, and the first interview end-
ed, after he had shown up himself
as unfit for the regular army, with a
determination to join General Evans
in Spain. I reported the matter to
his friends — advised them to let a little
while pass, and then to authorize me
to let him take his choice. They did
so, and my next interview with him
showed that his fever was of the ague
kind, and had its hot and its cold fits.
1839.] Italy as it was.
I began by lamenting, on his account,
that General Evans (for so it was),
would return, and receive no more vo-
lunteers— but that I had great satis-
faction in assuring him, that his
friends had fully acquiesced in his
wishes, and that they would procure
him a commission in our own army,
and without doubt he would soon see
military service. This was an unex-
pected blow to his pertinacity, for it
took him in the very place where he
had prepared no defence. He looked
the cold fit, when he should have as-
sumed the hot, and stammered out
thanks to his friends ; but that, in fact,
he had made up his mind to join Ge-
neral Evans in his glorious career,
and of course he could not exactly yet
make up his mind to fight on the other
side. But he would think of it, and
in a short time acquaint me with hia
decision. I laughed in his face, ex-
posed to him the humbug he had been
practising, perhaps upon himself, and
certainly upon others, and showed him
so clearly that I knew all the turnings
of his own mind, that in the end he
laughed too, and said, with a little re-
maining air of humbug, that perhaps
it would be better, or at least more ho-
nourable in him now, as the case stood,
in his turn to acquiesce in the wishes
of his friends, and that he therefore
would make a sacrifice of his own de-
sires to theirs. The rest is easily
told. " Cedunt arma togse."
I will furnish you, Eusebius,with an-
other example. You know my excellent
friend B. He was in life a practical
philosopher, and many a delightful
proof of it will I, one of these days,
give you, for he loved to be open in
all his thoughts and actions to his
friends. Well, then, he had a son in
London, in employment that brought
him in a moderate income, even for
a single man, but he was young, and
there were hopes of progressive im-
provement. The youth fell in love
with the daughter of the woman w ith
whom he lodged — this was a very hot
fit — and of this there is almost always
sure to be a cold fit, but it comes fre-
quently too late, when the remedy
taken has proved worse than the dis-
ease. The good father had ever en-
couraged candour, and his children
were as open-hearted and minded as
he was himself, so that the affair was
soon communicated. And what, think
you, the father did ? — oppose his son's
63
love ! — not he ; he took a wiser course,
entered into his schemes, made calcu-
lations for him, in the most friendly
manner, of expenses, in detail the
youth never thought of, by the day,
by the week, by the month, by the
year. And all this was done during
a walk they took together, when the
father said they might as well go and
look for a house for him and his wife
to live in. " Of course, said he, you
must choose one according to our cal-
culations ; and you will not think of
entertaining, or even visiting your
friends A, B, C, D, &c., and I dare-
say you'll be very happy. Love, my
dear boy, is every thing, though it be
not handsomely lodged," — and just
then, in a narrow passage, that could
neither be called street, lane, or ave-
nue, the father suddenly stopped (not
arrested by the perfumed air of Cu-
pid's roses), in front of a low house,
not remarkable for neatness, nor even
cleanliness, but that the operation
of the latter was going on. For there,
at the door, was a laborious mother
washing her two dirty children, pad-
dling at her feet, and the end of a cra-
dle just peeped in at the back-ground.
" There, now, my dear boy," said he,
" the rent of just such a house would ex-
actly suit your means." " Don't say
another word about the matter," said
the shamed youth, " I see it won't do."
And so they went homewards, and
in the way took another lodging, the
cold fit being pretty strong upon him
— and he told me since that for a year
or two, whilst he lived in really
" single blessedness," he never saw a
pretty face, that would otherwise have
fascinated him, but he saw in the
back ground of the picture, the very
scene his father had pointed out to
him, and then involuntarily set him-
self running through the catalogue of
items of daily, weekly, monthly, and
yearly expenses, and at such times
the two following lines of the modern
poet were constantly ringing in his
ears —
" Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is — Love, forgive us! — cinders, ashes,
dust.''
Now, my dear, Eusebius, you will
endeavour to deter your friend, the
Tourist Youth, in what manner you
please ; but I will comply with your
request as well as I can ; for many
years have passed since my travels,
64 Italy as it was.
and I was robbed of my notes — and
all my travel now is by the fire-side,
and all my speculation into it — and so
was I employed when this letter of
yours, with so strange a demand,
reached me — and had far other
thoughts and imaginations than of
sitting down to write an account of
matters of fact, and they of times so
long since gone. You, in your con-
fabulations with me, fly off into all
vagaries, and so will I, after your own
fashion, tell you what waking dreams
I was indulging, and what visions I
saw in the hot coals, when you start-
led me by your pen and ink questions ;
and in faith I think they may not be
unapt to the subject of your requests.
I had looked till imagination center-
ing sight, had subtracted all that could
measure space. Fairer scenes than
poets' " Fairy Land" opened to the
view ; illumined palaces, gardens, ter-
races, and glistening rocks, and my-
riads of star-like happy beings wan-
dering over regions brighter, infinitely
brighter, than any this world's sun
ever shone upon. Then the whole
shook, and as with the sudden move-
ment of a magic glass, there was a
change, but it was perfect. I beheld
the enchanted land of Ariosto, figures
of larger size — knights and ladies,
the cliff and tower of polished steel,
and the great magician issuing from
the gates, his shield uncovered. The
coals again subside ; they shake — in-
stant is the change. I am inclosed in
a theatre of caverns, receding into im-
mense distances, and all illuminated
as with ten thousand lamps. I was
the happy Aladdin — suddenly there is
a slight noise — it is the " Open Sesa-
me ! " the caverns grow darker, and in
rush the " Forty Thieves." Is there
no escape? The coals again shake —
there is another and an awful change
— there is a black incrustation around
a horrid gulph, all red, with caverns
and abysses, from whose depth shook
forked flames, visions such as Dante
saw, and drew in his Inferno ; and
over this fiery abyss was one, a huge
figure foreshortened, falling headlong
into the oven of perdition, and with-
out, dimly seen, and partly in blue
light, were fiends or angels that had
accompanied the condemned to the
very verge, either to hurl him deeper,
or to save . Another movement, an d the
gulf is closed, and over it were dark
arches, in which were a few burning
[Jan.
sticks, mere dots, and as it seemed
over them the dim beings that could
not enter the regions of fiery puni.-h-
ment ; and I thought of a deluded
people, vain prayers to saints, aiv!
priests and purgatory, — the double,
scarlet kingdoms of Pope and Popery,
above and below — then, by easy tran-
sition, of Italy — and as if all the vision
had been a preparation, and an omen,
your letter, Eusebius, was put into my
hands. And is not the vision in many
respects descriptive of Italy '; It is a
land of a golden age, of fabled deities
that walked the groves, and lingered
about the fountains. The land of
Poetry, the brightest, ancient, and
revered of noble souls, high action,
and romance. But it has been sadly
shaken— evil have been the changes,
and worse they are. There are falsi-
fying " Eustaces," and many more
than " Forty Thieves ;" a populati.ni
of robbers or cheats, and, to wind up
all, it is the fountain-head of supersti-
tion, where crimes multiply, for pardon
is bought for money — of blasphemy
and impiety, for Popery reigns there.
How like you the phillipic ? I have
heard more vehement from yourself,
Eusebius, on the same subject. Yours
has been the flash of indignant genius
— mine is but a sketch from nature.
" Experto crede Roberto." It is a
strange time, after the lapse of so
many years, to call upon me for my
adventures ; and I am almost tempted
to answer in the words of the cele-
brated Knife-grinder, —
" Story, God bless you, I have none to
tell, sir.'*
But I will tell you, as well as I
can remember, what I found Italy
in the year 18 — ; and since you
more particularly wish me to give an
account of my falling in with the
banditti in Calabria, I will begin with
that adventure. In Italy it would be
common-place — here it may have some
interest. At whatever inn you stop
in Italy, you are sure to find a number
of persons about it, wrapped up in
brown cloaks, and half their faces hid,
apparently mere idlers. These are, in
in general, either robbers or emissa-
ries of robbers, who find out all it may
be requisite for the fraternity to know
about travellers, particularly their
time of leaving and the road they are
going. It must be here observed, and
the observation is to be remembered in
all places during this narrative, that I
1839.]
Italy as it u)as.
(55
speak of Italy many years ago. Things
may be now on a better footing1. It
is to be hoped so. My friend and my-
self had arrived at Salerno, on our way
to Psestum, to visit the beautiful re-
mains of ancient temples there. We
had letters from a French gentleman
•with whom we happened to travel
from Capua to Naples, to a friend re-
sident near Salerno. We found him
and another French gentleman, and his
beautiful and agreeable daughter, and
an Italian nobleman and his family,
all resident together. I believe they
•were, for to us it was afterwards pretty
clearly made out, under the surveil-
lance of the police. They seemed
under much restraint, perhaps fear
would not be an improper term, and I
have since thought they must at that
time have been cognizant of, if not
parties in some of the Carbonari
plots, even then hatching. They
were remarkably attentive to us, and
did all they could to dissuade us from
the attempt — recommending, if deter-
mined to go, that we should go by
water. However, we still persisted,
and left Salerno before dawn in a
caleche, which held myself and friend,
and the driver, as is customary with
those carriages, was behind. We had
proceeded some five or six miles, ere
we came to that part of the road where
most of the robberies take place, the
very spot, I imagine, where Mr and Mrs
Hunt were shot ; and where a friend
of mine, a year or two after, passing,
saw a man lying across the roa4 with
his throat cut ; on which occasion the
driver whipped on, and could not be
induced to stop. It was not light
enough to allow me to give a descrip-
tion of the spot; and as it became
lighter, I had little leisure or inclina-
tion for a survey. I perfectly recol-
lect being in deep thought, with my
eyes half closed, and my head upon my
breast, shunning the cold, grey, com-
fortless look of the dawn, always dis-
agreeable when the earth looks black ;
and, if inhabited, you could imagine
the human race had retired to holes,
for habitations were not distinguish-
able. It was after a sudden look at
this discomfort, that I had again bent
down my head, and in fancy was call-
ing up the brighter vision of home far
away, and anticipating the pleasure
of showing my portfolio of sketches to
my eager friends, — it was just at this
moment the carriage stopped. I look-
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX.
ed up, and at the same instant, there
was a cry of many voices, the word I
know not, but it sounded like " sdruc-
ciate," and was quickly repeated— and
at the same time I saw seven dark
figures, one in front, and three on
each side, and seven carbines all
levelled at us in the caleche. It is
very strange, but certain it is, that I
felt no fear, and perfectly recollect
the disagreeable sensation of rising,
after long sitting in the cold, and did
not make so much haste to move as
the occasion required. My friend
seemed equally insensible to danger,
for as he alighted, in allusion to the
banditti descending from the moun-
tains, cried out to me with a facetious
air, " Tantsene animis caelestibus ira?."
When we were out of the carriage
they crowded about us, and I think
more very soon joined them. They
instantly bade us strip ; and as we did
not show much alacrity in the opera-
tion, they hastened it, sometimes by
pulling roughly at our clothes, and then
making a terrific noise, and threaten-
ing us with their carbines. I had a seal
attached to my watch which I greatly
valued, not for its intrinsic worth, but
as a family relic. This I endeavour-
ed to conceal, and put it as quietly
as I could into the carriage, but in so
doing, the noise of the chain and seals
was heard by one of the banditti. He
came up to me, first took the watch,
and then very deliberately levelled his
carbine close to my head. I was just
going to rush in upon him, when the
captain of the gang struck down the
carbine, and forbade him to do the
deed. The man at once remonstrated
with the captain, that I ought to be
shot for the attempt at concealment,
and again levelled his piece at me ;
the other promptly again struck down
the carbine, and dragged the man away
with him. This was a narrow escape.
My coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons,
were taken off and removed — a pair of
laced boots were not so easily undone,
and this delay seemed likely to pro-
duce some rough usage, but it was not
so. My very shirt was taken from
me, and in fact I had nothing what-
ever of my dress but a pair of half
stockings and my hat. In this state
I could not but be amused at the cool-
ness of my friend, who, thinking my
Italian, though not very good, more
likely to be understood by them than
his own, requested me to ask the ban-
Italy as it was.
[Jan.
ditti for a little key of his, that belonged
to a Bramah lock, and could be of no
use to them. In my simplicity I did
so, and was near getting rough usage
for my request — one of the fellows
roared at me as if he had been a beast,
and handled his carbine in a manner
I did not like. Perhaps my bad Ita-
lian sounded very like impudence.
After this, however, I took courage,
and as I felt it very cold, in as much
facetiousness as might be, and very
politely, I told one of them that as the
weather was cold I should be extremely
obliged if he would be so kind as to
give me my shirt. He did so, and I
was putting it on when another, pro-
bably the one who owed me a spite for
not being suffered to shoot me, tore it
out of my hands with the greatest vio-
lence, and I never saw it more. At
this time there was a great outcry of
lamentations not far from me, and I
found that two carriages full of Italians
had been stopped, and if there was not
much wool there was a great cry.
These were robbed, but not stripped as
we were, and some of them were
beaten with the butt- end of the car-
bines and dragged about. They were
all ordered " faccia a. terra," the usual
proceeding of the banditti. It is thus :
all immediately prostrate themselves
with their faces to the ground, pretty
much as I have heard of fowls being
sewed with their beaks to a chalked
line. I was standing among the rob-
bers, wondering what would come
next, and, having nothing that could
be taken from me, not very much con-
cerned, pretty much like the penniless
viator, who whistled " coram latrone
viator" — when turning round I saw a
long row of Italians " faccia a terra,"
as if pinned by their noses to the earth,
and my friend, the last of the row, in
a less degrading position, and modestly
bending more in the attitude of the
Venus de Medici, only a little more
bending ; and if less graceful, in some-
what better comfort, for he had con-
trived to put on his great- coat, which
he in turn had purloined from the rob-
bers, as he found it hanging over the
wheel of the carraige. In spite of
the possible, nay probable danger, I
could not but fancy there was some-
thing very whimsical in my position.
It did not verify the old saying,
" show me your company and I will
tell you what you are ;" for nothing
can be more opposite than the robber
and the robbee. I could now well dis-
tinguish the dress of my seeming com-
rades ; their brown cloaks and orna-
mented vests, well beset with murder-
ous arms, and their peaked hats j and
could distinguish and speculate upon
their features, and, not seeing any
strong marks of fraternity between us,
and being in my undress, before such
great company, I thought it best not
to be too familiar, and declined the
honour of their further acquaintance,
and very quietly attached myself to the
row by my friend's side, without being
very particular about falling grace-
fully ; but I must say that I did not
shamefully put my face to the ground,
and perhaps, Eusebius, did little more
than many of my betters, who do not
know how to stand quite upright in the
presence of a great man, and I had
many very great men to notice my be-
haviour. The operation of robbing
all, and packing up their plunder, took
up a very considerable time, perhaps
an hour and twenty minutes, or per-
haps the time appeared longer than it
really was ; for, independent of the
disagreeable circumstance itself, the
morning was cold, and an additional,
or rather, a blanket was much desired.
I have often wondered how it was that
in a situation of such peril, when it
was by no means certain any minute
that I might not have a shot through
me, — I say, Eusebius, that I have often
wondered at the absence of what may
be called fear. I reasoned upon the
thing at the time, but could not make
much of it. As I was stooping during
the occupation of the banditti, not
knowing indeed if we should be taken
to the mountains, or dismissed, I may
safely say that the greater part of the
time was taken up by speculations as
to the manner in which I should treat
many of the subjects with which I had
furnished my portfolio, and which, by
the by, were left behind at Salerno.
I studied, over and over again, all
sorts of effects, and had to my own
mind composed and manufactured pic-
tures on a large scale. I have since
then, on more occasions than one, been
in situations of some danger, and have
invariably found the same absence of
what may be called fear. You know,
my dear Eusebius, though I am a
great discerner of things in the fire,
that I am no "fire-eater," nor do I
pretend to have more courage than is
the common and fair proportion ; I do
1839.]
Italy as it icas.
not, therefore, ascribe it to that cause,
for when danger has been over, I have
found myself on one occasion trembling
like a leaf, but not till then ; and it
was owing to my not trembling till it
was over that I was enabled, under
God's mercy, to save my life. I now
think this is a wise intention of nature
that diverts the thoughts from the too
olose contemplation of danger through
the imagination, if there is nothing to
do ; and, if there be need of action, by
concentrating the whole mind upon the
act of self-protection, which it views
even in the minutest circumstances of
the act to be done, and with great ra-
pidity of thought, which is thus hur-
ried away as it were from the hideous-
ness of the peril. But I think, Euse-
bius, we have in all conscience been
long enough in this state of humility
and uncertainty ; it is time, therefore,
that I should dismiss the scene. .The
banditti moved off — and seeing their
backs about thirty or forty yards from
us, we thought it time to re-assume
our dignity,
" Caelumque tueri,
Et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus."
We left our Italian copartners in
robbery to scramble off after their own
fashion, without offering or receiving
consolation. We had not been robbed
to any great amount, only a few pounds,
and our watches, &c. They took a
camera lucida, thinking it was gold,
I suppose, for they left the case in
the carriage ; and I make no doubt
that they took our clothes under the
impression that English travellers con-
ceal their money in them. It was said
at that time that they were very shy
of ill-using Englishmen, and that the
robbers on this coast had received much
English money, and had styled them-
selves King Ferdinand's men. How
that may have been I know not, and
only report the common talk of the
time. We again mounted our caleche ;
our driver had a cloak which he lent
me, and my friend his own great coat,
so we returned to Salerno without
the desire of having the windows of
the town closed, as at the entry of
Coventry by the Lady Godiva. Safe-
ly lodged in our inn, we had nothing,
to do but to go to bed and send for
a tailor ; and here I cannot but cha-
racterise the low tradesmen of that
country, — when we came to pay, and,
indeed, had paid for our clothes,
the man fairly acknowledged he had
charged us more than he should have
done, but he did so because we must
have them. But, to the very great credit
of Salerno, I must not omit to say that
several persons came to us offering any
money we might want. We were at
a large inn, I forget its name ; but, like
all of the country, it was very dirty.
I recollect having been shown into a
large room : we ordered dinner and
went out; on our return we were shown
into the same — at one end of which
was our table and dinner on it ; but on
entering the room, to our surprise we
saw some eight or ten beds on the floor
on each side the room, and night-cap-
ped heads popping up to look at us as
we passed up the room : it was their si-
esta. This did not increase our appe-
tite, but when we reached our table
we found the chairs occupied by fowls,
who were perched upon the backs and
in the seats, and bars of the legs ; and
fowls they might well be termed, for
they were very offensive, and defensive
too, for they were at their siesta, and
would not very easily be disturbed,
for, knocked off one perch, they soon
found another equally inconvenient for
us. It made very little difference, for
to eat was impossible ; but it was a
strange and ominous instinct in the
poor creatures to crowd about a table
upon which ere long they would all
be served up, and their heads under
their wings ; with them 'tis but the
change of a letter, an a for an o, from
the roost to the roast. But I have
graver matters than puns to tell of,
Eusebius ; and now I must tell you I
would not for the world have had you
with us ; you would have tossed about
your indignant ire after a pretty fa-
shion, at the next scene I must tell you
of. You would have done your best
to take the very Head of the Police
by the throat, and have tossed him,
strangled first, out of his window —
and we should have been all murdered
for the act of justice. It was neces-
sary that we should make a report of
our robbery to the Police — so to the
Police we went. Imagine us now in
a tolerably large and light room, with
a chair or two for furniture, and desks
railed off from the other part of the
room. Imagine an ill-tempered, sour-
looking big rascal, about fifty years of
age, scowling, when not at us, at the
walls, at his clerk, at his own fingers,
at every thing. There were this
man, his clerk, and ourselves, Our
08
Italy as it was.
[Jan.
reception was not courteous. The
absurdity of the whole proceedings
might scarcely be credited, but I will
tell them fairly. I, as spokesman,
began to give an account of our rob-
bery ; he stopped me ere I had ad-
vanced many words, and himself be-
gan to question — I was only to answer.
" What are your names?" I told
them — stopped again.
« No — first your Christian names ? "
Given.
" The Christian name of your father?"
Well, that is done.
" The Christian name of your mo-
ther?"
Here was a grand hitch, for I gave
it, and he declared there was no such
name ; I persisted, and told him it was
in Goldoni's Comedies. This made
him angry — he looked at me as if I
wished to pass off myself and all my
family under aliases. He then pre-
tended he did not understand me, and
must have an interpreter. He under-
stood me very well, and the name too,
but what the Christain name of a
man's mother has to do with throwing
light on the fact of his having been
robbed an hour or two before, who
can tell ? I can, Eusebius. The
scoundrel knew we had acquaintance
with Mr B. the Frenchman, and was
determined to have him there ; firstly,
out of tyranny, to insult and get some-
thing from him ; secondly, it would
make a great delay, and thus, before
he should make his report to other
authorities, the banditti would be safe
from pursuit ; and I have no doubt
whatever that the fellow received their
pay, and helped them on all occasions.
Now, you may charge me with slan-
der, ascribing false motives to what
might have been mere stupidity and
official form. Stay a moment, and
you will not say so. Read on. The
Frenchman was sent for, the distance
there and back, perhaps, from two to
three miles, but I do not recollect ex-
actly ; however it took some conside-
rable time before he came, and whilst
waiting for his arrival (for nothing
was done with us in the interim, nor
were we asked to sit down), in stag-
gered a countryman, deadly pale, all
bloody, and the blood was streaming
down from his head. He threw him-
self for support against the wall, and
then slid down upon a chair, for some
time unable to speak. The man had
been dreadfully beaten, and, fur aught
we knew to the contrary, might
be in a dying state. But what did
this Head of the Police ? He bellowed
out to him most brutally, and asked
him how he dared sit in a chair ; then
went up to him, and, I think, kicked
him. The poor fellow had been very
ill-treated by some of the banditti,
and in his own house. Our friend
arrived, and, of course, could give m>
other account of my mother's Chris-
tian name than I had ; but, after much
demur, it was allowed to pass ; and
long indeed was the deposition in tak-
ing, after every few sentences that he
had dictated to his clerk, making him
read out the whole that was written,
cursing him pretty handsomely for his
diction, and directing amendments.
At length the business is finished, but
not without our excellent friend the
Frenchman finding- it to his interest to
fee the Head of the Police. I saw
him give him money. All this while
the poor country fellow was obliged
to stand, lean, or lie bleeding as he
could. To finish the tale of the ban-
dits, it may be as well here to add,
that the day following they blockaded
the little town of Eboli, where was a
Government telegraph. Why, I did
not hear, but I learned that a band of
soldiers was sent after them, that an
action took place, the captain of the
banditti killed, and their plunder re-
taken. Some time afterwards we made
application to the British consul at
Naples, as I was anxious to recover
my watch and seals. But he plainly
told us we had not the slightest chance
of ever seeing them again, that they
were in the hands of the Police, and
had only changed hands of robbers.
He took an account of the matter, for
the use of our own Government, and
it is, I dare say, in one of the public
offices. The British consul remarked,
that in England to see a countryman
at work in a field is a protection ; but if
you see one in that country at work,
keep your eye on him, for 'tis ten to
one but he takes up a gun, and, if he
hits you, knows what to do — if he
misses, goes on with his work. In
fact, we found that no man could go
half-a-mile from the town of Salerno
to visit his garden or his vineyard,
without being well armed, and even
then it would be imprudent without
taking others with him. Our object
had been to see Prestum, and in this
we did not like to be baffled. We
1839.]
Italy as it was.
spent a most agreeable day with our
friends the Italian nobleman and the
French family, and arranged our plan
of going by water, and received let-
ters to a gentleman who resided not
far from Pscstum, and there we were
to go first. We procured a boat, and
some pains were taken to secure us
honest boatmen. We crossed the
bay, but missed the house to which we
had been directed. We saw but one
house, and made direct for that, and a
curious scene it was — a most lonely
region of barren and not very high
mountains, nor was there any sign of
a habitation to be seen but this one
rather large and uncouth- looking
house. On entering the court we
found the walk up to the door on each
side well protected by men all lying
down, completely armed, not less than
from twenty to thirty — more banditti-
looking fellows could not well be seen.
Now it happened strangely enough,
that the person to whom our letters
were directed bore the same name as
the owner of this cut-throat-looking
mansion ; we were, therefore, told to
walk forward on showing the letter.
We perceived a room full of persons
all armed, and the owner was pointed
out to us. We delivered our letter —
he opened it — it was not for him, he
said surlily — and then turned to his own
concerns, leaving us to ours. This
was not very promising, so we made
the best of our way off, and proceeded
direct to Paestum, and did not arrive
there till sunset, and had but a very
scant view of the beautiful temples.
They looked, in the dim light, very
grand and solitary, for not a habita-
tion nor sign of one did we see, though
an old man wanted us to sleep at his
house — where it was, unless under
ground, we could not conceive. We
had heard that these were honest
people. But it was too lonely and
unpromising, and we determined to
return to Salerno in the boat. It was
then calm, but we had not proceeded
far when the sky lowered, and soon
the sea rose, and roared, and there
was a perfect storm. It was very
frightful — the night dark, and the
thunder and lightning terrific. I
know not how our little boat con-
trived to live in it ; perhaps there was
no real danger, yet it was a most
awful night. We did, however, arrive
safe, and were glad to get the shelter
of even an Italian inn, and thus
ended our adventure to see Psestum,
once famed for roses, but now a most
desolate place. Not far from it we
were much struck with the little town
Agropoli, perched upon the rock, still
bearing its Grecian name, and indicat-
ing the people who had built those
vast temples. I am not going, Euse-
bius, to moralize on the vanity of
grandeur, and instability of human
affairs, or I might bore you with a
long quotation of Sulpicius' letter to
Cicero, who, after all, might have
replied, " what are all these places to
me? — I have lost my child." So will I
say, " what is it to me what Pa^stum
was or is ? — I have lost my watch, and
my purse, my coat, and waistcoat, and
pantaloons." Nor wonder at this cold
and unromantic view ; remember we
have been drenched with rain, in a
terrific thunder-storm, in peril of being
drowned, and not very much the wiser
for our sight-seeing. Now, if you tell
my adventures by the fire-side, and
any one snug in his own conceit and
happiness should chance to be merry
at my expense, and treat with con-
tempt our imagined pusillanimity in
suffering ourselves to be stript, let him
know, Eusebius, that I should not
think it a very unbecoming position
to be hatching turkeys (an employment
that has been celebrated), thereby to
save life.
After all, it is but submission, and
that to necessity ; and, to suffer is
not to do a mean action. " Omnis
Aristippum debuit color;" and though
I mean not to have my portrait taken
in statu quo, I know not why we
should be ashamed of our complex-
ions. Besides, Mr Placidity, with
ten stout fellows pulling at your arms
and legs, I should like you to tell me
how long your buttons would hold, to
say nothing of the risk of having-
your arms pulled out of their sockets.
However, like it or not, so the fact
was, and I love to tell the naked truth,
and there is one virtue against the
one vice, if it be one. They say no
man is a hero to his valet- de-chambre,
and we had the honour of many who
very handsomely helped us off with
our clothes ; and that's all that need
be said about it. But the villanous
Italians are habitually pusillanimous,
and so, instead of extirpating the evil,
try to laugh it off, when only their
neighbours suffer. 1 saw on the stage
a month or two afterwards an exact
representation of such a robbery, ex-
act to the very dress, and when the
70
Italy as it was.
[Jan.
unfortunates were ordered " faccia
a terra," the whole house was in laugh-
ter. It is now so long since, that I
cannot tell the names of places, per-
haps at the time scarcely known. But
I remember, long before this last rob-
bery, travelling by veturino, I walk-
ed on half a mile before the carriage.
It was a mountainous region ; on a
sudden I perceived on a rocky ground
a little above the road, and not fifty
yards from me, two men lying, well
armed, and to all appearance a part
of banditti. On seeing me they
looked along the road I had come,
and saw the carriage. One of them
rose and went over the brow of the
rising ground, and returned with three
or four more, all similarly armed.
They were in consultation. I did not
much like their position, but assuming
a carelessness, I whistled, and very
leisurely walked back to the carriage,
rather expecting a messenger, in a shot,
after me. When I reached the car-
riage, I mounted and took my seat by
the veturino, who looked very much
frightened when I told him what I
had seen. Straight forward we went,
and I could not help being amused, in
spite of the danger, when we came op-
posite the armed mountaineers, to see
the veturino duck down his head,
and put himself into as small compass
as he could, (with his wide mouth
open, and a look expressive of terror,)
that I should cover him and receive
the first shot. We were then near a
turn of the road, so that the position
of these bandits, if they were such,
commanded two directions ; we saw
them perplexed, and soon divined the
cause ; for with great rapidity at that
moment a travelling carriage and four
turned the corner of the road and
passed us, by which we were allowed
to pass on and escaped. On another
occasion, myself and friend very nar-
rowly missed falling into the hands
of a band that went out purposely to
lie in wait for us. We had arrived
at Palestrina, the ancient Praneste,
where Horace read Homer. There
was no inn in the place, we had walk-
ed across the mountains with a guide
from Vico-varo, but we found a house
that would receive us ; — they appeared
rather a poor family. It being un-
derstood that we should want a guide
to proceed across the country next
morning1, one appeared and offered
his services. While we were talking
with him, an old woman of the family
gave me such significant looks that I
could not mistake her meaning ; ac-
cordingly I broke off the conference,
and under some pretence, dismissed
the man. When he had left the room,
the old woman told me it was very
fortunate we had not agreed with him,
for he was one of the bad people ; and
as we liked her looks, and she pro-
mised to procure us an honest guide,
we trusted her, and were not disap-
pointed. Our new guide told us there
was danger, but bade us take no no-
tice, and give out that we should leave
at one hour and for one direction, but
set off an hour earlier, and a different
way. We did so ; and, taking a low-
er road, we observed, as our guide"
pointed them out to us, a band of them
that had left the town by a higher
road, and were gone to lie in wait for
us. If you think that escape not worth
relating, it has not occupied you long.
And now, for change of scene, I will
take you to a convent. We had gone
to see the site of Horace's farm, the
Mons Lucretilis, and the " gelidus
Digentia rivus," both celebrated by
the poet, the one from the wolf flying
from him —
" Namque me sylva lupus in Sabina ;''
the other as his bathing river
" Me quoties reficit gelidus Digentia
rivus ;"
and cold the waters are, for I bathed
in them, though an old countryman
forewarned me, "fa morire." And
now shall I make a digression upon
bathing, only to remark, that the mo-
dern are unlike the old inhabitants in
this also, they never bathe, they have
a dread of water ; and some that I
questioned confessed that they never
washed hands or face. All this region
among the hills is very picturesque ;
but the " sweetly smiling and sweetly
speaking" Lalages are no more. Lik-
ing the scenery, we took up our abode
at a large convent, not far from a mi-
serable, old, but picturesque, small
town, Vico-varo, the convent of St
Corimo, overhanging a ravine with a
mountain torrent at its base, and in
the rocky descent are many excavated
cells. Ere the progress of the French
Revolution had dispersed monkery,
it is said to have held an hundred or
more. At the time we entered its
gates there were but ten monks, and a
murderer who had taken refuge there,
1839.]
Italy as it was.
while, they said, the relatives of the
man slain had been waiting a year at
Vico-varo, to catch him outside the
convent, and take their revenge. Here
we were joined by another English
gentleman and his servant. One day,
taking the course of the river up-
wards, we were much struck with the
appearance of a small town among
the hills, and I wished to sketch it
from the opposite bank. I determi-
ned, therefore, to go there the follow-
ing day ; they told me at the convent
it was not safe, and besides, that the
path through the underwood was in-
fested by small snakes, whose bite was
dangerous. But I wanted to bag the
town, and ventured. As they told me,
the path was infested with a great
number of copper-coloured snakes,
but they hurt me not, and I arrived
opposite the place I wanted, to sketch.
There was a large convent there,
which on paper occupied as much
space as the town ; and if the citadel
and garrison, thought I, make a war-
like town, as there is here an Episco-
pal palace and a large convent, which
seems to command the town, the in-
habitants ought to be peaceful ; so,
in spite of evil report, when I had
finished my sketch, and it was now-
evening, I crossed a bridge and en-
tered the town — and what a place ! !
I saw no inhabitant till I entered a
small square, and here, to my asto-
nishment, the beds laid at the doors,
and the people all in bed, in the open
air. They would have served for a
plague scene in the hands of a Nicolo
Poussin ; and their bedding looked
infested. I made the best of my way
out (my friend was not with me on
this excursion), and a few steps led me
into a street, and here I encountered
a finely-dressed livery servant, who
appeared but ill to accord with the
place. He started when he saw me,
looked about him, and hastily made a
motion with his hand, looking very
earnestly and significantly that I
should go straight forward and with
speed, and make my way out of the
place. I did so, passed a gate very
soon, and found a path that led me
down to the river, and thence made
the best of my way back, a distance of
some miles. On my return, the gen-
tleman's servant, an Englishman, met
me, and said he wanted to speak to
me ; that he knew I was up late, and
kept my door open ; that he had
some reason to think the murderer,
who, as I told you, had taken refuge
there, was most nights in my room,
and he desired me to lock my door.
My room lay at the end of a long gal-
lery— the whole was in the form of a
cross. I sat up late, and very distinct-
ly hearing groans, I took my lamp to
trace from whence they came ; I found
them, near the end of another long
gallery, to proceed from a poor devil
who was flogging himself, and pray-
ing and groaning between. Return-
ing, at the end of this gallery I had
to pass a tomb-like recess, very dark
and hollow, in which lay a recumbent
statue of a dead Christ. It looked
very sombre, and as I held up my
lamp to look at it, I saw something
move behind the figure. I went clo-
ser and held my lamp higher, and
then saw something glisten — it was
an eye. I then discovered two boys,
who had accompanied us as attend-
ants to carry our things about. They
had chosen this position, I suppose,
to sleep in, or for other purposes.
Whether they or the murderer entered
my room that night or not, I do not
know, but it was entered, my port-
manteau opened, and my purse taken.
These monks were very ignorant ; if
they could read, it was very badly, as
one of them brought me a paper to
make out for him.
I forgot to tell you, when speaking
of the French gentlemen with whom
we travelled from Capua to Naples,
and who treated us with so much real
civility, that on our return to Naples,
from our disastrous excursion to Paes-
tum, we met one of them. He ap-
peared much depressed ; upon our
asking the cause, he told us that he
had been most wofully plundered.
It appears he had a well-furnished
house at Mola di Gaeta — robbers had
broken a way through the walls,
brought cars, and had taken away all
the house contained. So you see, my
dear Eusebius, not only strangers and
travellers on the high- way are robbed,
but residents, and that by whole-
sale. I believe in many parts of this
over-praised country it is thought
quite a thing to boast of if a few days
pass without a robbery. A landlord
of an inn between Naples and Rome
told me with great glee there had
been none for a long time ; I asked
him how long, he said not these
ten days. I was then travelling by
72
Italy as it was.
[Jan.
veturino, and as we were setting off,
told the man that it was a dangerous
country, and he had better make
speed. Instead of urging on his horses,
he turned round to me and offered me
a paper to look at, saying, " pensa
niente, pensa niente." I found it to
be a printed paper, with a receipt of
a money payment to a convent at
Naples, as a charm against every ill.
There were pictures of all sorts of
dangers, and rescues from them, and
a statement that, though the payer
might be under the knife of the
assassin, the souls he had by his pay-
ments for masses released from pur-
gatory would intercede for him, and
he would be perfectly safe. But alas,
Eusebius, I was not insured, and I
had no faith ; and he might be con-
sidered by the saints, as in carrying
heretics, to have contraband goods ;
so I had nothing to do but to pay him
instanter the whole amount for my
journey, that I might have the less to
lose. This made my fellow travel-
lers laugh ; but whether at my faith-
less folly or my wisdom, I do not
know. I have no doubt the vetu-
rino had faith — some of these fellows
believe the saints can do any thing.
I recollect one of them, not being able
to manage his horses to his satisfac-
tion, flew into a violent rage ; but how
did he show it? not with a volley of
vulgar oaths, as an Englishman might
perhaps have done, nor with a tremen-
dous whack, and "up, my darlings ! " as
I have known an Irish driver do ; but
he deliberately left his seat and got be-
fore his horses, and knelt down in the
middle of the road, and held up his
hands, and lifted up his eyes, and
prayed fervently and eloquently to all
the saints, — " Tutti Santi," — that they
would instantly kill his master's horses.
The miracle did not come, which, I
dare say, he attributed to his own
particular sins, and determined to do
penance. Perhaps the beasts had
often been on their knees before a
" Tutti Santi," and of the three beasts
they determined to disappoint the
human. Now, as setting the Italians
to put an end to these disgraceful
robberies, would be very much like
" setting a thief to catch a thief," the
thing is not, or was not attempted ;
but Austrian soldiers had done and
were doing something that way. And
many of the soft and beautiful land-
scapes of Italy are adorned by a fore-
ground of a pole with a brown maho-
gany-looking leg or arm of some rob-
ber on the very spot of his villainy,
so that the " Knight of the Post,"
post mortem, still "shoulders his arms
and shows how fields were won."
To sketch, with a friend standing by
you with a cocked pistol, as once I
was obliged to do, must greatly en-
hance the soft enchantment of the
scenery, especially with these lopt
members of the Inhumane Society
festering in front. I am sure, Euse-
bius, you have had enough of bandits,
and the more dignified and romantic
robberies ; shall we descend to the
minor cheateries and cheats, the
"pickers up of unconsidered trifles ?"
Alas ! there would be no loss — three
thick octavo volumes at least could I
give you — but leave me this for the
labours of the Statistic Societies, who
poke their noses every where (un-
happy be their noses, indeed, when
they do so in Italy !) And I will here
just hint, or rather state the fact with-
out entering into detail — and to one of
your fine sense that way it will be
quite enough — that in every quarter of
Italy you can always smell a town a
mile or two off at least ; and it must
have been in this country that the
saying or direction was first made,
to " follow your nose." The filth
and indecencies of the country are
really far beyond an untravelled
Englishman's conception. Verb urn
sat. I do not wonder that foreigners
take snuff and smoke tobacco — there
is much to disguise ; and thus have
I thrown light upon this question of
the why, — obiter, not of design, so
have I been lucky " ex fumo dare lu-
cem." I told you I would not enter into
the detail of these matters. But as I
know, Eusebius, this paper will not
reach you at a time to spoil your
appetite, I will just mention what
may be met with by telling you the
following dietary anecdote. I lodged
at a large hotel in Rome, kept by a
German. We sat down, about forty
persons every day, to dinner, — hus-
sar officers, gentlemen travellers, na-
tives, &c. &c. I have seen the latter
sit at table without their coats — shirt
sleeves looked very cool — I have seen
waiters wait in their night-caps, and
thought it not advisable to request
them to take them off. But to the
matter. One day in earnest conver-
sation with my right-hand neighbour,
1839.]
just after dinner, as I was waiting
rather impatiently to reply, I did
what foolish people sometimes foolish-
ly do, with my finger picked up the
crumbs off the table ; in doing this,
and with my eye fixed at the same
time upon the spot, I saw, how shall
I tell it, the crumbs running away
from me. What became of the argu-
ment I know not. My antagonists in
it had it all to themselves.
" Licito tandem sermone fruentur."
There was very little " Comfort"
in these " Crumbs." The next day I
went off to Naples ; but as I left my
trunks and many things at Rome, and
intended not to stay long in' it again,
and flattering myself that such an ac-
cidental licence would not befal me a
second time, on my return I was con-
strained to go to the same hotel. I
could not sit down at the same side^of
the table I had sat before, and with
a misgiving mind took a more distant
place. Before I began to touch any
thing I examined the cloth, —
" Infandum, Regina, jubes i-enovare
dolorem ! "
Down dropt my knife and fork. It was
the nature of the place and people.
" Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque
recurret ;" that is, you may throw
down your fork, if you please, but you
shall have the same dish for dinner to-
morrow. The company at this hotel
was sometimes very amusing. There
was one timid gentleman, who appear-
ed to have retired early from the busi-
ness of the world, or to have escaped
from it for the wisdom and polish to
be acquired by travel, to have some-
Italy as it was. &
I bantered him not a little, and by
contradicting occasionally, or discre-
diting the accounts of robberies and
assassinations given him, really en-
larged the sphere of his terrors. There
was always, therefore, between us a
sort of combat upon these matters.
One day I observed him listening with
a very woful face, one quite of des-
pair, as if the ever getting back to
Islington were hopeless, — listening, I
say, to a dragoon officer, who, all tags
and stars, sat beside him at dinner, and
was, whether quizzingly or not, I do
not know, giving an account of being
attacked in the very town of Fpndi,
and that one of the banditti, with a
slash, cut off his servant's (coach-
man's) foot. After a moment's pause,
the Islington forsaken assumed en-
ergy, and pointing one hand to me,
the other to the officer, and look-
ing at each alternately, he cried out,
" There, sir, what do you think of
that, sir ? Here, sir, is a gentleman
of veracity — no false account this, sir
had his servant's foot cut off, sir,
going through Fondi. Oh, I wish I
had never come to Italy, but was safe
home at Islington ! But how to get
there, sir?" This poor frightened
gentleman had brought a nephew with
him, as travelling companion, probably
to give him some notion of the classi-
cal allusions to be met with in tour
books. He was the most forlorn look-
ing youth I ever saw. I thought his
uncle had bored him into the dismals
with his fears ; and, therefore, to turn
the conversation, and endeavour to
make him lively, I asked him how he
liked Italy. He answered, with a very
hollow voice, " I have had a bowel
thing of travelled knowledge to impart complaint ever since I havebeen in it."
at his parties at Islington — for there
was he, according to his own free
communication, most comfortably do-
miciled, with a maiden sister who kept
house for him. Quite delicious were
the descriptions of his home happiness.
Oh, if his sister did but know the dan-
gers he was in ! did he often say. No-
thing frightened this poor gentleman
so much as accounts of robbers ; and I
make no doubt his courier, for he had
one, played upon his fears upon all
occasions. He looked upon himself
in Rome as in a robber's trap, and
which way to get out of it he did not
know. He had no conversation but
about banditti, and Islington comforts
— and they were in fearful contrast.
Tot hominum, tot mentes. " O Italia,
Italia ! " said Felicaia. The deuce take
Italy ! thought these comfortless com-
fortables. This was before my friend
and I fell in with the banditti. It must
have been a curious struggle between
triumph for the argument and increase
of fear, when the Islingtonian received
an account of our disaster. I most
sincerely hope he has escaped all perils,
and amuses Islington's snug parties
with the account of his travels, and
that the nephew has not died of the
cholera.
All this by way of episode. Now
to return. You are not to imagine,
Eusebius, that the Italians resort to
these great systems of robberies, be-
74
Italy as it was.
[Jan.
cause they have no genius for the little.
There cannot be a greater mistake.
They have astonishing acumen for the
minutiae minutissimce of the art. Be
you ever so acute yourself (I mean not
in the art predatory), you will find
that it is a contest of heads, from the
time you enter to the time you quit
Italy. I say not much about the inns,
for I think there we beat them, or we
used to do. I have not been of late a
traveller, and I hope reform has reach-
ed our own inns ; and that no longer,
if you remark upon a bill, and that
there must be a mistake, the waiter
shall say, " Yes, sir, we have omitted
to charge the vegetables : " or, that
he shall tell you, with the coolest air
in the world, when you say " Why," in
a tone of remonstrance, " why, this
is dearer than the • at Oxford;"
" Yes, sir, we are reckoned a trifle
higher." But there is this difference
in the two countries ; in the one you
are cheated out of your money, but
into comforts ; in the other out of both,
but certainly less money. I will, there-
fore, give up inns, and in every sense,
for, in Italy, I never mean to enter
another. But the cafes are very cheap
and abominably dirty. When I was
there, there were two things which
rendered them odious — the number of
beggars and the number of flies. At
every sip of coffee you took, multitudes
of beggars' hands were close to your
mouth, and multitudes of flies in it.
There could be no conversation for the
reiterated cry of " Datemi qualche
cosa." But vermin of all kinds
abound ; and, what is curious, places
long unlet, humanly untenanted, the
fleas take possession of. I left Italy
with a most imperfect notion of
Michael Angelo's great work, " The
Day of Judgment." I wore white pan-
taloons when I entered the chapel, and,
in an instant they were like pepper and
salt worsted, covered with thousands
of fleas —
" Qui color albus erat mine est contrarius
albo."
They are, I doubt not, the Pope's
body-guard, whose business it is to
keep your hands employed that you
take away nothing of his. I suppose
they do good and keep down the fever
of the blood, and so you need no other
phlebotomy. I will not attempt to
frighten your young friend with ac-
counts of scorpions, &c., though I
once put my head within half an inch
of one, in closing a shutter, going to
bed at Subiaco ; nor of tarantulas and
" such small deer," because I have
been reading an account of spiders in
Persia, that, as I perfectly detest the
genus, make me quite shudder to think
of ; and, in comparison, all these mat-
ters in Italy, excepting the fleas — I
cannot give up them, for they never
gave up me — are nothing. Nothing
more astonished me than the universal
cheating of shopkeepers, and even
bankers. I have received a small cop-
per coin — undera farthing, nicely pack-
ed in the middle of a rouleau of Na-
poleons, from the bank ; and have been
cheated out of a few pounds, in the
transfer from a bank in one place to
a bank in another, because the banker
chose to omit moneta fina. But, at a
shop, if you offered often a third, or
even a quarter, you would pay too
much. I travelled some days in com-
pany with the wife of a manufacturer,
who cautioned me on this point. I
could not believe it ; and, when I ar-
rived at Rome, she desired me to go
out and try the experiment. I bought
a common article to ascertain the
point. I forget what I gave, but it was
about a third of what I was asked, and
I felt ashamed to offer it, but I did so
for the experiment's sake, and found I
had given a little too much. But the
following account as to this matter will
surprise you : — I went to a booksel-
ler's— a publisher's library. He had no
shop, not to external appearance. He
was a most urbane, aged, gentlemanly,
white-headed man, the author of anti-
quities, &c. &c. &c. There, I sup-
pose, were the literati and the dilet-
tanti, for the room, in respect of com-
pany, reminded me of Mr Murray's
in Albemarle Street, where you may
breathe an atmosphere of learning,
wisdom, and most urbane sociality ;
there was I introduced, and, when
there, turned over some portfolios of
prints. I had been collecting prints
from the works of a favourite master ;
and, in one of the portfolios, I found
an injured, soiled print of one of his
subjects, which I had not before seen.
The man looked so like an author, and
so far above all matters extra the love
of the antique and antiquities, that I
scarcely knew how to make my wishes
known. I did it, therefore, by a cir-
cumlocation, first admiring the print ;
and then, as it was a modern one, ask-
1839.]
Italy as it was.
ing if it was published in Rome, then
if sold in Rome. He caught eagerly
at the word sold, and, without much
ado, told me the price — five scudi ; that
is, about twenty-five shillings. I saw
at once it was enormous, and thought
of the caution ; and, remarking that it
was a little soiled, said I ought to have
it for three. He took three, and off I
went with my print. Within an hour
I passed a Stamperia, where I saw at
the window a clean impression of the
very print, and a printed list of the
prices, and, would you believe it,
Eusebius, it was under one scudo ; and,
for a damaged copy, I had been asked
by this white-haired piece of antiquity,
and inquitous antiquity, five, and had
actually given three ! Oh, Eusebius,
you would not have been contented
with blowing him up, you would have
taken fire throughout, and giwipow-
dered the whole edifice, regardless of
the literati and dilettanti, all the while
gravely discussing the probabilities of
the tombs of the Horatii and Curiatii ;
but, as you were not there, those dis-
cussions are still going on, and still will
go on. But what did I do ? I quietly
walked back to the grand library,
and as quietly told the old gentleman
that he was a thief, a rascal, and that
I would expose him to all the English.
The last words did the business ; he look-
ed dreadfully alarmed, and looked be-
hind him to see who might be within
hearing; and, making significant nods,
and putting one hand to my mouth,
to prevent my doing mischief, in great
haste put the other hand into his pocket
and handed me back all my money.
This was pretty well, for I came off
with "flying colours," that is with the
colour of my money, which was sure to
fly upon some other occasion ; for the
Italians were too much for me. And
so it happened ; for in my love of the
antique I forgot my prudence ; and,
being desirous of having some plaster
casts, was recommended to an honest
tradesman, who was to take them for
me from some sculpture at the Vati-
can, the subjects of which much
pleased me. They were a pastoral
figure, and a freize, the search of Ceres.
I made my bargain, and like a fool
paid my money, and paid for the pack-
ing and the shipping. But the un-
plastered shepherd is still piping ; and
all I can hope is that Ceres has sent
the plaster-cast maker to Hades in-
stead of going there herself, and that,
having some interest with Proserpine,
he will be flogged daily, for my money
has been cast upon the worthless. I
bequeath the debt a legacy to the
Pope.
1 have written enough, though I
have matter more, and abundant, but
there is a time for all things. What-
ever effect this account may have upon
your young friend, 1 am sure you, who
know me, will be satisfied that I un-
derstate things. You know I have
no talent at exaggeration. Probably
your friend will read Eustace, and, if
he be very young, believe him. Per-
haps he will read Rogers' " Italy,"
and tell you that it is not mine, and
you will add that I have not Rogers's
" Pleasures of Memory."
Vive valeque. Z.
76
De Larnartinc.
[Jan.
DE LAMARTINE.
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE is a de-
scendant of one of the ancient noble
provincial families of France, whose
members were always actively employ-
ed in the service of their country. In
the 15th century one of his ancestors
is mentioned as " Capitaine de la Ville
de Cluny," and his female ancestors
continued to receive a "redevance"
from the monastery of Cluny, until
the first French Revolution, which
abolished all such dues. In the Me-
morial des Etats de Bourgogne the
family is registered. Several seign-
ories belonged to it, such as those of
D'Hurigny, D'Urcy, De Monceaux,
&c., &c., and the chateau and estate
of Monceaux still in his possession, by
inheritance, have been for centuries in
the family.
ALPHONSE MARIA Louis DE LAMAR-
TINE was born on 21st October, 1791.
His father was Captain of Cavalry in
the Dauphiny regiment, and Chevalier
of St Louis. He was one of those who
remained faithful to the unfortunate
and forsaken Louis XVI. ; and, to-
gether with his grandfather, uncles,
aunts, &c., was imprisoned for his po-
litical opinions at Macon. The mother
of Alphonse took a house looking on
the prison gate, that she might show
her infant daily to his father through
the bars of the jail. Had it not been
for the timely death of Robespierre
they would all have ascended the scaf-
fold ; but, in consequence of that
event, they escaped, and retired to a
small residence on a wine estate called
Milly, which he has since celebrated
in one of his Harmonies, entitled " La
TerreNatale." Is it not extraordinary
that he, who was in his infancy the
son of a political prisoner at Macon,
should now be the political representa-
tive of that town, his birth-place, in
parliament ? At Milly he passed his
infancy in rustic liberty, and his fond-
est affections gratefully attach him
to this spot. There he first acquired
his taste for nature. Birds, butter-
flies, flowers, and vineyards, were his
companions, and the scenes of his
early wanderings ; and there the sun-
sets and sunrises, storms and tem-
pests of the year, made an indelible
impression on his young mind. At the
college of Bellay, in the Department
of Ain, seated near the Rhone, he re-
ceived his education, and early showed
a great aptitude for learning, bearing
away all the prizes and crowns yearly
distributed. A French provincial edu-
cation is at best, however, a sorry
affair ; and, when De Lamartine re-
ceived his, there was certainly not
more, but less attention paid than at
present, to the formation of the mind
of the student. This was, however,
partially compensated for by the su-
perior moral and religious education
he then obtained. But De Lamartine
was a genius and a poet. He had, in
his earliest years, a passion for all that
was beautiful, harmonious, and taste-
ful. He loved the quiet landscape,
the domestic and family hearth, the
grouping of virtue and cheerfulness,
the melody of the birds, the humming1
of the bee, the active perseverance of
the ant, the gay wings of the butter-
fly, the variegated foliage of the forest,
the murmuring of the rill — the home-
stead, the barn, the thatched roof — the
knell of the curfew, the ivy of the
church, the village cemetery, the vi-
gorous peasant, the harmony of
nature, and the works of God. As he
grew up, he found the moral world
replete also with good. Noble and ge-
nerous sentiments, a disinterested love
of his fellow-creatures, and an ele-
vated piety towards the Father of hea-
ven and earth, took possession of his
nature ; and, as Aime Martin says,
in his Education des Mceurs de Fa-
mille, " Voila pourquoi les grands
ecrivains nous ravissent ; voila pour-
quoi les grands poetes nous cnlevent !
voila pourquoi, d'un trait de leur ge-
nie, ils soufflent stir la foule vulgaire le
denouement des Grecques pour la pa-
trie, ou les transports de Socrate pour
lavertu."
On leaving college De Lamartine
returned to his family, and often re-
tired alone to the Chateau de St Point,
which belonged to his father, but which
was then uninhabited, and nearly in
ruins. This solitary and romantic
scene was admirably adapted to the
character of his mind, and suited his .
imaginative and poetic tendencies. He
continually studied nature whilst he
read history, and examined, with the
eye of Christian philosophy, the natu-
183D.J
ral, as well as the moral world which
he inhabited.
As, during the reign of Napoleon,
his family would not allow him to ac-
cept any public employment, remaining,
as it did, faithful to the eldest branch
of the House of Bourbon, the young
De Lamartine resolved on foreign
travel, and made a journey to Italy,
and a long residence there, for the pur-
pose of supplying his mind with those
classical recollections which should
improve his natural taste, and prepare
him for his future career as a French
poet. Want of occupation, to the
young De Lamartine, neither suited
his principles nor his tastes. He had
no notion of a young man of talent,
fortune, and family, having the right
to eat, and drink, and laugh, and dance,
and sleep, without makingany attempt
to mitigate the sorrows, improve the
character, increase the knowledge, or
ameliorate the taste of his fellow-mor-
tals. As, then, he was interdicted by
his family from accepting any civil or
military employment under Napoleon,
he determined on so actively occupy-
ing his time as to render himself, at
least, prepared for future usefulness,
when any change should take place in
the destinies of France. Though not
a soldier by profession, he yet received
military preparation ; and, when the
Restoration arrived, he was permitted
to become a member of the body-
guard of Louis XVIII.
The mother of De Lamartine was
Mademoiselle Des Roys, a young lady
of distinguished merit and beauty. Her
mother was governess to the royal
princes, and she was herself brought
up with the present Kingof the French,
Louis Philippe, and with Madame
Adelaide, his sister. She lived to an
advanced age, and died in 1828. The
father of De Lamartine is still living,
in his 87th year, in full possession of
all his faculties, and not less venerable
for his noble and consistent character,
than for the number of years during
which he has lived, beloved by his
family, his friends, and his princes.
De Lamartine had five sisters, and
on occasion of the marriage of one of
them to the Count de Viguet, at Cham-
berry in Savoy, the poet became ac-
quainted with his amiable and accom-
plished lady, the daughter of W. H.
Birch, Esq., who was then travelling
on the Continent with her mother.
At the Marquise de la Pierre's, at
De Lamartine. 77
Chamberry, they first saw each other,
and a deep-settled attachment was
formed, which was, however, opposed
by both the mother and family of Miss
Birch. At length the consent of the
former was obtained, on condition that
De Lamartine should quit the military
career, should enter on that of diplo-
macy, and should obtain the appoint-
ment of secretary to the French em-
bassy in London. The father of Miss
Birch was an officer of merit in the
British army, and spent half his for-
tune in equipping a volunteer corps
and battery to resist a threatened
French descent on the coast of Eng-
land. Little did he think at that time
that his then infant child would become
the wife of the greatest French poet
of the age in which he lived. The
maternal great-grandfather of Madame
de Lamartine was the Governor Hoi-
well, who survived the catastrophe of
the Black Hole in Calcutta, and lived
to the advanced age of 99. Her father
and brothers all served in India in the
civil department, and held very high
situations. Thus the families of DC
Lamartine and Birch, with all their
branches, have belonged to the aristo-
cracy of the two countries.
Immediately after the marriage of
De Lamartine with Miss Birch, they
set off to Naples, he having been ap •
pointed secretary to the embassy there.
They then proceeded to Rome, to an-
other diplomatic nomination ; thence,
for a -short time, to London ; and fin-
ally, to Florence, where he acted in
the capacity of charge d'affaires.
In 1829 he left Florence to be ap-
pointed Minister in Greece, and then
arrived those events of 1830, which
once more changed the whole tenor of
his life, since, from principle, he gave
in his resignation, and has never since
accepted any post under Government.
Apprehensive of a long and sangui-
nary revolution — disapproving, on the
one hand, the ordinances of Charles
X., and, on the other hand, the exclu-
sion of the Duke de Bourdeaux from
the throne of France — resolved on se-
parating himself from political party
agitation — convinced that his country
had need of order and repose, and not
of agitation and discussion — and above
and before all things, anxious to visit
the Holy Land, and to impregnate his
very soul on the spot with those emo-
tions which he wished to feel, and
which he desired to cultivate — De
73
De Lamartine.
[Jan.
Lamartine determined on carrying
into effect his long-devised plan, and
on quitting the shores of his country
for several years. To that voyage we
shall hereafter more specially refer.
It was one of the great events of his
life — but the loss of his darling and
beloved daughter there has thrown a
melancholy over his spirit, which it
is not very probable will ever wholly
forsake it.
Whilst absent on this poetical and
religious journey to the Holy Land,
the electors of a small electoral college
named Bergues, a fortified town in
France, in the Department of the
North, a few miles from Dunkirk,
thought .fit to appoint him their de-
puty. On first receiving the news of
this wholly unexpected honour, De
Lamartine hesitated as to its accept-
ance, but he finally determined on re-
turning to France to fulfil the new
duties imposed upon him. At the
ensuing general elections he was re-
named at Bergues, and, at the same
time, appointed deputy by his native
town, Macon ; but, as he had promised
the electors of the former place to
remain their deputy in case they should
again appoint him, he declined becom-
ing the representative of his birth-
place. At the last general election,
however, having been returned by the
electors of both the college Intra
Muros, and that of Extra Muros at
Macon, he felt it his duty to accept
one of these nominations, to the great
regret of the electors of Bergues, who
had returned him without a dissentient
voice. This rapid sketch of the out-
line of De Lamartine's life will mate-
rially assist in the consideration of his
character and labours as a poet and as
a politician. We have much to add,
and much to fill up — but the sketch is
before our readers.
DE LAMARTINE is at once a poet, a
moralist, and a politician. It is not
our intention to depict him in only one
of these characters, but to present the
whole man. His poetry is the charm
of his life, his morals the ornament of
his life, his social political system the
end of his life. There was a time
when it was truly said of him,
" Aimer, prier, et chanter — voila toute sa
vie 1 "
This can be said no longer ? There
is another verb which must now be
added, and that verb is " agir." He
is now the active man, the daily bene-
factor of his species, the suppressor of
gaming houses, the abolisher of lot-
teries, the protector of foundlings, the
gradual emancipator of slaves, the
Christian instructor of the people, the
visitor of the prisons and lunatic
asylums, and the CHIEF of that SOCIAL
PARTY in France whose efforts are little
known in England, and whose exer-
tions it is our design to communicate,
as we feel it our duty to applaud.
This happy combination of grace
and imagination with moral and Chris-
tian principle — of blandness of manner
and gentleness of character with deci-
sion of mind and practical philan-
thropy, is not often to be met with in
this world of ours ; and when it is so,
it is to be hailed with delight, and held
up to imitation and praise. A Chris-
tian poet, a Christian gentleman, a
Christian man of education and genius,
and a Christian politician, who will
not allow his political system to be
based on any thing but morals and
religion, is a man as rare as he is va-
luable ; it is therefore that we have
determined on presenting a sketch of
his character.
De Lamartine is now the poet, the
moralist, and the politician, and we
wjll examine what he has done, and what
he is doing, in these three capacities.
If there be not a vast deal of method
in our summary, — and if sometimes
we appear not to be sufficiently atten-
tive to the chronological order of our
history, let it be remembered that
after all, we are writing a sketch of a
poet, and that to methodize too much,
would infringe on our prerogatives of
following him in his flights, and of
attempting, at least, to give an idea of
his fancy, as well as of his intellectual
attainments. The 19th century in
France has hitherto produced but two
great poets and distinguished writers
— CHATEAUBRIAND and DE LAMAR-
TINE. They are both royalists. They
have both remained inflexibly attach-
ed to the fallen dynasty. They are both
essentially monarchical. They have
never hesitated to declare this, nor
shrunk from rendering it apparent.
What can the democratic school in
France produce to compare with them ?
Notwithstanding all the vauntings, the
proud and idle boastings of that school,
what has it done — where are its names
— what are its productions? Victor
Hugo, though most unsettled in his
1839.]
De Lamartine.
79
politics since his invitation by Louis-
Philippe to the fetes at Versailles, is yet
far, very far from belonging to the
George Sand and Alexander Dumas'
class of writers. Chateaubriand and
De Lamartine are in France at this
day unrivalled.
The favourite writers of De Lamar-
tine, when he was young, were Ma-
dame de Stael and Chateaubriand.
But more tender than this his literary
mother, and more philosophical than
M. de Chateaubriand, his literary fa-
ther, retaining the royalist instincts of
his birth and education, at the same
time feeling a profound love of rational
liberty, he has at once sympathized
with the past and looked forward to
the future. His ideas are calmly pro-
gressive. He is noble and great in
his enthusiasm — and never having rea-
son to doubt the sincerity of his own
heart, he places much confidence in
the assurances and declarations of
others. When young, he was so en-
thusiastic in favour of Madame de
Stael, that he passed a whole day by
the road-side merely to see her pass in
her caleche. It was the only time he
beheld her. For Chateaubriand, also,
he had a profound affection ; — and on
one occasion, in order to see him, he
climbed a wall, and remained there no
inconsiderable period — and then, hav-
ing satisfied his longing eyes, he de-
scended and inscribed on the outer
gate some verses to the genius he ad-
mired. This was the enthusiasm of
youth. It is now moderated by years,
and calmed by reflection.
That the young De Lamartine
should search for great men, and great
minds — for religion allied to literature,
and poetry to morals, — can excite no
surprise in those who remember, that,
though born of Christian parents, and
educated in the Christian faith, he
lived in the epoch of the triumph of
Bonaparte and Delille — and could no
where find, though already a poet and
philosoper himself — either poetry or
philosophy.
The education of De Lamartine
being one of a strictly private and re-
tired character, he had few opportu-
nities afforded him of knowing the
men of the day, or the writers of the
age. He had a secret partiality for
Jean Jacques Rousseau, not as the
reasoner and the false philosopher of
the " Social Contract," — but as the
poet of Heloise. With the works of
Ossian, Homer, Virgil, Tasso, Milton,
Bernardin St Pierre, he became inti-
mately acquainted ; and many stan-
zas— nay, thousands of lines — have
been written by him, which he after-
wards destroyed, but which his friends
and admirers now, indeed, wish had
been preserved. At last he was pre-
vailed on to read to a select party of
friends, his " LAC ;" — and the history
of this first communication of his ta-
lent to the public is worth relating.
It was in a large saloon that a nu-
merous audience was collected by the
kindness and affection of a friend. He
dreaded the moment. Timid and mo-
dest, he would gladly have adjourned
the day when the hour drew near. He
felt that he was a mere young country
squire, a mere poet from Macon, the
son of a faithful royalist and of a
brave soldier — but that was all ; and
those who were collected to hear him
were — CRITICS ! When his harmonious
poesy reached the at first inattentive
ears of this Areopagus, he was ready
to sink into the earth with apprehen-
sion ; but soon he perceived that they
became attentive — then that their eyes
glistened with delight — then that they
gave expression to their admiration
and astonishment — and at last, when
he concluded, he raised his eyes, and
found that he was dignified with the
title of POET. At that moment his
auditory perceived that he was hand-
some as well as poetical, and that his
black hair, fine ardent eyes, and noble
open forehead, denoted him to be a
youth of no ordinary nature. But
though he was successful in a saloon,
why should he be in the press ? Cha-
teaubriand had been denounced as a
pitiful writer — and so what chance had
he ? But necessity — yes, necessity —
at last compelled him to publish his
first volume, " MEDITATIONS ;" for he
had spent all his money at Paris, had
lived in the capital as a poet, was too
good a son to apply to his mother for
aid, and was obliged to address him-
self to M. De Genoude, now the chief
proprietor of the Gazette de France,
for advice and assistance. That gen-
tleman placed in the hands of the poet
a few hundred francs, bade him take
courage, kindly disposed of his work
for him, and thus brought before the
public, ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. —
The success of the Meditations was
prodigious, — not greater than tKey
deserved, but still prodigious; after
80
DC Lamartine.
[Jan.
the sallies of the empire, after the
tame and almost insipid, but amiable
literature of De Jouey and Abbe De
Lille, and after the correct M. De
Fontanes, it was prodigious to see a
serious poet — indeed, a religious poet —
read with enthusiasm, and raised to
honour and fame. It was a sort of
poetry which only addressed itself to
highly cultivated minds. Sister of
the poetry of Manzoni and of Pellico,
sister of the poetry of Tasso, as of
that of the Hebrews, it showed it-
self calm and suave, greatly simple,
and surrounded with all the charms of
Christian beauty and truth. Some-
times his Meditations resembled the
poor sick daughter of love, and were
elegiac in the style of Sappho. Some-
times the voice was of a different tone ;
and the cry of grief was heard, and the
hymn of expiation was chanted, and
his sacred lyre riveted all attentions
and gained all hearts.
The Meditations at once placed him
in the rank of poets. At the French
Academy his post was soon marked ;
and when he published his Harmonies,
he only added to his former reputa-
tion. His first two volumes were the
first epo of his life ; they are coloured
as was his mind — they are the im-
pressions of his nature ; — the sun of
Naples inflaming the horizon — the
banks of the silver sea — the perfumes
of Greece and of Italy — the dark blue
lake — and then the tumultuous waves.
Ask him why he sings ? and he re-
plies to you by the lines of the " Dy-
ing Poet," —
" Mais pourquoi chantcs-tu ? — Demande
a Philomela
Pourquoi durant les nuits sa douce voix
se mele
Au doux bruit des ruisseaux sous 1'om-
brage roulant ?
Je chantais, mes amis, comnie 1'homme
respire,
Comme 1'oiseau gemit, comme le vent
soupire,
Comme 1'eau murmure en coulant."
As a specimen of another sort, and
as proving the power, as well as the
flexibility of the mind of De Lamar-
tine, we cite a passage from the very
same poem on the death of Napoleon,
to which we elsewhere refer. Whilst
Byron, Goethe, Uhland, Manzoni,
Beranger, and Casimir De la Vigne,
were all surrounding the shade of
Bonaparte with a cortege of their fu-
nereal_airs, like the harps of Scotland
around the shade of the mighty Fingal,
De Lamartine, on the contrary, dared
to be true, and ascending to the sources
of the glory of the departed, he sig-
nalised by one strophe, as terrible as it
was just, the sanguinary character of
the hero. The following lines arc
sublime, not less for their poetry than
for their sentiments : —
" Les dieux etaient tombes, les troncs
etaient vides ;
La victoire te prit sur ses ailes rapides ;
D'un peuple de Brutus la gloire te fit roi.
Ce siecle dont 1'ecume entrainait dans sa
course
Les mceurs, les rois, les dieux, refoule
vers sa source,
Recula d'un pas devant toi ! "
The poetry of De Lamartine lias
become the true social poetry of
France, for it always proceeds from
the heart, and is addressed to the heart.
Besides this, it is the source of really
pious and devotional sentiments, it
is singular that the poetry of De La-
martine has few enemies in France.
Charles Nodier, indeed, has published
a saucy and uncivil satire ; but he is
the only exception. In general, his
contemporaries have approved his la-
bours, and rejoiced even in his suc-
cess. All seem to recognise, that, in
all his efforts, all his works, all his
speeches, all his poetry — in all that he
thinks and says — he has ever at heart
the sacred cause of humanity and re-
ligion.
Between the Meditations and the
Harmonies of De Lamartine there is
a vast difference, but it is that re-
sulting from the lapse of time and
from mental suffering. The Harmo-
nies, like the Meditations, are the
production of an enthusiastic mind
and a believing and pious soul. But
sorrow had his young days shaded—
suffering had left its impress upon his
heart ; and there is all the difference
between the two works that there is
between tears and joy, or the poetical
forebodings of evil, and evil actually
realized. He who was tender as Tas-
so and sensitive as Schiller in his
Meditations, is in his Harmonies sub-
lime as Klopstock in his Messiah,
and religious as Fenelon. There are
four elements in the poetry of the
Harmonies : — the recollections of his
childhood — the life of an orderly,
pious, and happy family — the political
transformation of his mind from a se-
cluded provincial royalist to that of
I83y.
Lamartine.
81
one who even then dreamt of forming
a "social party" — and, finally, real,
genuine, heartfelt piety.
The mother of De Lamartine was
his early idol. She was a model of
charity and of maternal perfection.
She was the Dorcas of Milly — the
Martha and Mary united of Burgundy.
Her dwelling was one of peace, har-
mony, love. There was no turbulent
joy — there were no restless desires.
Herself, her daughters, and her son,
lived for others and for God ; and it
was thus that his heart received all its
earliest and best impressions.
The humble residence of Milly was
ever, and is still, the object of De La-
martine's grateful love.
" 11 est sur la colline
Une blanche unison,
tin rocher la domine,
Un buisson d'aubepine
Est tout son horizon."
The death of the mother of De La-
martine was the first great trouble of
his life — that of Alphonse, his darling
boy, who was separated from him by
death when two years of age, his se-
cond— and that of the loss of Julia,
his lovely and beloved girl, the third.
The day he was named member of the
French Academy his mother expired,
after the most dreadfully acute suffer-
ings. Feeble and aged, she took a
warm bath in a laundry far removed
from her room. She was unable to
turn off the supply of hot water — her
strength failed her — she was literally
scalded to death — and two days after-
wards expired. Oh, who has not wept
with the poet when perusing his poem
entitled Ma Mere? At the age of
eighteen, De Lamartine received his
first impressions of love for woman ;
but it was the love "that boys feel
and poets feign," for the object of his
heart's truest affection was, and still
is, Eliza, his beloved and tenderly
cherished wife. It was not, as Ernest
Falconnet supposes in his L'Art en
Province, to Elvira, or to any ima-
ginary being, that the Tombeau de
Sorrente, the Crucifix, Ischia, and
Chant <? Amour, &c. &c., were ad-
dressed, but to Eliza, his now faith-
ful and devoted wife. His dedication
of Childe Harold is to her, as also Jo-
celyn, and, indeed, he has associated
her with all that he has written and
loved.
VOL. XLV. NO, CCLXXIX,
Le Tombeau de Sorrente was writ-
ten, at the early age of eighteen, on
occasion of his first visit to Italy.
In 1819 he became acquainted with
Eliza, now Madame De Lamartine,
and before he knew her had never
published a line of poetry.
In 1826, when he made his journey
to Italy with Madame De Lamartine,
he was called on to fight a duel with
a Liberal Italian officer. Some lines
in the last canto of Childe Harold
having depicted, under sombre co-
lours, the prospects of Italy, an Ita-
lian general affected to regard them
as insulting, and a rencontre took
place. The duel was fought with
swords, and M. De Lamartine was
wounded in his arm. This was a de-
plorable acquiescence on the part of
a Christian poet with the barbarous
usages of half- civilized society. De
Lamartine was even then such a man
as ought not to have been overcome
by the age in which he lived. He
should have refused, with indignation,
to accept such a challenge. He had
written a description of Italy, and had
so written as a poet. It was monstrous
for one man to set himself up as the
champion, forsooth, of a different opi-
nion, and require his adversary to
fight him with swords. If De La-
martine had been killed, this " patriot
general" would have been a murderer.
But we will say, with De Lamartine
himself, in his Episode, de Sorrente —
" Mais pourquoi revenir sur ces scenes
passees,
Laissez le vent gemir et le flot murmurer,
Revenez, revenez, 6 mes tristes pensees,
Je veux rever et non pleurer."
In his Harmonies, De Lamartine
foretold the future social influence of
poetry. They contained the germs of
the life of a man who is at once politi-
cal and popular. His poetry is to
produce results — not to please the ear.
It is useful as well as melodious ; he
who wrote the Death of Socrates,
and the celebrated lines on Revolu-
tions, is the Christian who wrote the
Hymns to Jehovah, — and to the Holy
Spirit. In all that he has done, he
has sought to be " social," and to leave
the world improved by his poetry as
well as by his philosophy and his politi-
cal morals.
M. de Lamartine was somewhat sur-
prised by the Revolution of 1830. His
belief and his sympathies were both
82
De Lamartine.
[Jan.
wounded ; he could not approve of the
ordinances — he could not ratify the Re-
volution, so he resolved to leave France
for the East — remained at Marseilles
for some time — freighted a vessel at
his own expense — and there addressed
his celebrated Adieux to Sir Walter
Scott, and to the " romanciers" of
Europe.
The history of this, to him, deplora-
ble pilgrimage, was written by him
daily ; and on his return to France he
published his " Souvenirs, impressions,
pensees, et passages, pendant son voy-
age en Orient." This work has had
a success almost unparalleled, and yet
it has been attacked with vigour by the
critics of his own, as well as of other
countries. Those criticisms were in
some cases moderate and correct, but
in others absurd and grotesque. He
has been accused of exaggeration — but
the Arabs and the Maronites have since
attested to the accuracyofhis statements.
He has been accused of being an aris-
tocrat, because he travelled like a gen-
tleman, and was generous and compas-
sionate. He was accused of being so
" universally benevolent" as to dimin-
ish the force and effect of his praises,
and this was because he described vir-
tue as well as vice, and goodness and
beauty, as mere moral beauty, wbere-
ever he met it. And then, lastly, he
was accused of purchasing, by his gifts
and courteousness, the praises of the
Maronite sheiks, of the Arab hordes, of
Abougosh, and of Lady H. Stanhope,
the niece of Pitt and the queen of the
desert ; and this because he was re-
ceived by them with respect, or treated
by them with kindness. Thus wrote
Charles Nodier, who ought to have
known and written better. But the
book of De Lamartine is a beautiful
book, an ornament to the literature of
the country, a title to glory and fame
for its illustrious author, and proof
that all that is most lovely and inviting
may be most virtuous and true.
In examining the " Souvenirs, £fc."
of De Lamartine in the East, it must
also be remembered, that they were not
written for publication — that they were
the thoughts and feelings of each day,
and that the mournfulness which hangs
over many and many a page, was at
once natural and tender. He left for
the East full of the pious traditions of
his youth, impressed with the still glow-
ing recollection of the plates in that
old Bible which he read on the knees
of his sainted mother, and he took with
him his young and admirable wife, and
his lovely Julia, who was snatched
from him by a premature and unantici-
pated death. He brought back with
him to France the pale and lifeless
ashes of his child — and this volume of
his, which criticism has attacked for its
want of method and of philosophy, was
the last sigh uttered by a father at the
tomb of his darling. If the book be thus
read, criticism will be silent — and the
heart will alone speak to testify its sym-
pathy as well as its admiration. As
we follow the poet from Malta to the
coasts of Greece, to the ruins of Athens,
to Syria, and to Palestine, we are pre-
sent with him in all his joys, his hap-
piness, his domestic life, his affections,
and his bright and glowing prospects.
His magnificent excursion made with
his daughter in the plains of Syria,
causes the soul to vibrate, and the
heart to be glad ; and it is only when
that daughter is torn from his arms,
that he thus describes his desolation
and his woe There is nothing supe-
rior to the following lines, (in his poem
called " Gethsemene," where he lost
his Julia), in any poem in any lan-
guage.
" Maintenant tout est mort dans ma maison aride :
Deux yeux toujours pleurant sont toujours devant moi ;
Je vais sans savoir ou, j 'attends sans savoir quoi,
Mes bras s'ouvrent a rien et se ferment a vide.
Tous mes jours et mes nuits sont de meme couleur.
La priere en mon sein avec 1'espoir est morte,
Mais c'est Dieu qui t'ecrase, 6 mon ame soil forte,
Baise sa main sous la douleur ! "
We cannot consent, then, to subject
the " Souvenirs, fyc. of the East" of
M. De Lamartine to the ordinary
tests of criticism. The work must be
j udged of by the heart, as well as by
the reason, and the more it is known
and studied by both, the more it will
be cherished.
For a long period of time De La-
martine has been preparing and com-
1839.] De Lamartine.
posing, by degrees, an immense poem
— a poem of nature, of life, of the
history of man, " Bahylone Inconnue
et Mysterieuse ;" and to this he devotes
a portion of his leisure hours at Saint
Point in Burgundy. He has detached
from this poem, and published sepa-
rately, Jocelyn, and La Chute dun
Ange. The object of the poet, in
his great poem, of which these are
but fragments, is to paint the deve-
lopement of the human race ; societies
first formed by God ; their existence ;
the reign of vice, and the triumph of
matter over spirit ; the vengeance of
God at the deluge ; the patriarchal
era ; the recomposed family of man ;
the history of the Jews ; the history of
the Bible ; the change of the written
for the unwritten law of God ; the
new world as opposed to the old ; and
the CROSS, the standard of a new civi-
lization. Then the conflicts of Chris-
tianity and her triumphs. Then the
establishment of Paganism as the reli-
gion of ruins. Then the fall of the
Roman empire — the conquering Si-
cambrian, the Hun, the curse of God—-
the Latin slave — the Greek sophist —
and then new societies based on ideas,
not on facts, on opinions and experi-
ments, and not on the laws of God.
Then the history of the Romish Church
(of course to be written with a friendly
haml) —and then the present state of
human societies, with the combats of
philosophy and infidelity. Twelve
fragments will constitute the poem.
We, as yet, have but two — Jocelyn,
and La Chute dun Ange.
With various defects of rhyme,
measure^ and even of language, the
last of the two is a splendid poem ;
and the loves of Adam and Eve in
Paradise Lost, have, unquestionably,
their rival in those of Daidha and of
Ctdar.
It is a very singular fact, that as on
the day when De Lamartine lost
his mother, he was named member of
the French Academy — so on that on
which he was deprived of his Julia, he
was named deputy.
And here we must bid adieu to the
schoolboy of Bellay, to the student of
Italy, to the ardent lover in Savoy,
to the father of Alphonse and of Julia,
bereft of both his children ; to the
wanderer in Syria, the poet of the
mountains, the painter of life, and
rural and domestic scenery, to the
author of the Meditations and the
83
Harmonies, the Souvenirs of his be-
loved mother and of his dear "natal
Milly" — with all the rich and varied
colourings which belong to all his poe-
tical compositions, and must follow
De Lamartine into the busy arena of
public and political life. And yet,
though we part from him with regret,
thus associated and thus endeared to
the lovers of humanity and of rational
and virtuous progress, we, at the same
time, know we shall have no reason
to be ashamed of him as we follow him
into such different scenes as the Cham-
ber of Deputies and the general coun-
cils of his department. There we
shall find him good and useful, true
and tasteful, faithful to his heart, but
yet never forgetful of the great truth,
that the law of progress is the law of
nature. At the same time, we know
beforehand that we shall find him pa-
tient, laborious, willing to wait for
time, for prejudice, for education, for
vested rights and interests, gnd for the
workings, gradual and sometimes im-
perceptible as they are, of nature and of
God. This feature of his character is
so well delineated in the following ex-
tract from his first speech on the Abo-
lition of the Penalty of Death.- that we
extract it with double pleasure.
" Long temps avant qu'une legislation
puisse forrnuler en loi une conviction so-
ciale, il est permis aux philosophes de la
discuter. Le legislateur est patient parce»
qu'il ne doit pas se tromper : son erreur
retomhe sur la societe tout entiere. On
peut tuer une societe a coups de principes
et de ve'rites comme on la sape avec 1'er.
reur et le crime. Ne 1'oublions jamais,
ne nous irritons pas centre les timides
lenteurs de 1'application. Tenons compte
au temps de ses mceurs, de sea habitudes,
de ses prejuges meme : songeons que la
society est une ceuvre traditionnelle ou
tout se tient ; qu'il n'y faut porter la main
qu'avec scruple et tremblement, que dea
millions de vies, de proprietes, de droits,
reposent a 1'ombre de ce vaste et secu-
laire edifice, et qu'une pierre detachee
avant 1'heure, peut ecraser des generations
dans sa chute. Notre devoir est d'eclairer
la societc, non de la maudire. Celui qui
la maudit ne la comprend pas. La plus
sublime theorie sociale que enseignerait
a mepriser la loi et a se revolter contie
elle, serait moins profitable au moude que
le respect et 1'obeissance, que le citoyen
doit meme a ce que le philosophe con-
damne."
This is indeed true conservatism—
84 De Lamurtiitc.
this is indeed true philosophy — and
let those who admire De Laraartine as
a poet and a writer, now accompany
us in our examination of him as a
politician and a statesman.
DE LAMARTINE the politician, is a
royalist ; attached to tiie old dynasty
of the Bourbons ; averse to the influ-
ence of the Jesuits, or ultra-priest
party, in the attairs of the state ; a
friend to rational liberty ; an admirer
of the old English constitution as a
wise political union of power and
freedom, of submission and rule ; and
a lover of gradual progress, and wise
and well- digested reforms. We do
not think, however, that we can better
introduce his political opinions to our
readers than by his able and eloquent
Profession of Faith. It was address-
ed to the electors of Bergues, on occa-
sion of his re-election inthatarrondisse-
ment.
" I am not," said De Lamartine, " a
party man— neither out and out Ministe-
rial on the one hand, nor a, systematic
member of the Opposition on the other.
Parties die — Ministers commit faults —
systematic oppositions become useless, or
petrified. I endeavour to act on higher
principles — I seek to rise to the elevation
of religion, of truth, of impartiality, of
political morality. I do all I can to be a
social man.
" But men of violent party feelings and
passions will say to you, ' What is a social
man ? What matters it to us that he be
a social man ? What help will such a man
afford to this or to that party in the Cham-
ber ? Will he vote with the left or with
the right 9 with the tiers-parti or with the
centre ? Is he popular with such and such
a coterie, and has he the patronage of this
or of that journal ? Is he devoted to one
of the three or four Parliamentary men,
whose names serve as symbols of doctrines,
or as the rallying words for intrigues, and
who make France look small and con-
temptible by their sterile and merely
personal rivalry ? '
" No : — a man of the social party— a
social man in politics, has nothing to do
with any thing of this sort. He appre-
ciates parties too well to serve them. He
will not degrade either his mind or his
country to a level with their contemptible
trivialities. He leaves to ambitious men
this arena. He will not consent to be a
man of the mere day — but he will be a
man of his epoch.
" A social man, or man of the social
party, is he who takes for the basis of his
policy, not the moveable and uncertain
soil of prejudicjs, passions, hatreds, or
[Jan.
dynastic affections, but justice, truth, and
the permanent interests of the country.
He is a man who does not attach more /
importance to forms of government than
they really merit, who believes that the
human race is progressing by various roads,
and under divers banners, towards that
improvement and moralization to which
the hand of God is leading it. A man of
the social party is one who believes that li-
herty can be enjoyed under monarchies, and
order under republics ; that no one should
devote himself exclusively to any govern-
ment, because all governments may fail ;
and who considers governments as instru-
ments of civilisation, of which it is neces-
sary to make use, in order to advance the
happiness of society. He thinks that it is
better to bend governments than to break
them ; he loves liberty because it is the
moral dignity of man ; he loves equality,
because it is justice ; he loves and respects
social power, because social power is the
most powerful lever that God has given to
human societies to act on themselves, and
to raise them to him.
" Such a man, when the suffrages of
his fellow-citizens send him to be a mem-
ber of the legislative corps, does not exa-
mine by what hand a projected law is pre-
sented to him, but he examines the pro-
jected law itself, and if he regards it as
good, he does not call it bad ; and if he
finds it just, he does not say it is iniqui-
tous,— he votes for it.
" Such a man does not accept power
or place, because he is, on the contrary,
the judge of those who do. He keeps
himself separated from factions — because
he combats them.
x' Such a man does not aspire to play
a part in the fugitive drama of those who
renounce all to gratify their ambition of
the palace or of the tribune. In public
life he acts on the conscientious principles
which guide him in his private career.
He approves or he condemns in the name
of his constituents.
" When a man thus acts alone, he is
the only independent man ; for he is not
only independent of governments, but he
is also independent of the opposition it-
self. Thus it is that governments suspect
him, and that all men of the opposition
calumniate him. This might be expected.
" And, nevertheless, such a man, what-
ever may be his impatience to see govern-
ments abandon the prejudices and old
beaten route of centuries — to quit their
egotism and devote themselves more
frankly to the regeneration of public af-
fairs, to political chanty towards the peo-
ple, to a rational reform of real oppres-
sion, and to the repression of social
iniquities — still never does he encourage
1839.]
De Lamartine.
85
the overthrow of governments, for no man
of sense, much more a good man, will do
that which tends to anarchy. He knows
that governments are to people- what disci-
pline is to armies. Without discipline it
is possible to vanquish, but quite impossible
to organize. Such a man, then, is at once
sincerely progressive, whilst he is energeti-
cally cunservative."
This is very beautiful, philosophi-
cal, statesmanlike, and conservative,
•whilst it is truly liberal and largely
generous. De Lamartine has well
understood the moral and political
situation of his own country ; and the
decision he has come to as to the line
of conduct he shall pursue, demon-
strates that he has felt that conserva-
tism in France is not priestcraft.
Of the "social party" in France,
of which De Lamartine is the elegant
and accomplished chief, it is now ne-
cessary for us to speak. We are far
from adopting all their opinions, far
from approving all their measures,
and far from enlisting with all who
belong to that party, as we think that
some of them are too prominent in
what they term "liberalism," heartily
to associate with such men as De La-
martine. But still it must be admitted
that there are great and powerful
men in the party, and above all, that
they have effected real good.
How far, indeed, it he possible for
a public man, and, above all, for a
French deputy, to abstain from voting
and acting, on many occasions, with a
party as a party, and yet to preserve
his influence — and yet to secure the
triumph of right — and yet to act on
the one hand independently, and on
the other hand influentially, so that
his vote may not be sterile, and his
voice may not be lost, we confess we
doubt ; unless, indeed, the social party
shall become numerous enough to
form a party by itself, or at least a
section in the Chambers. In that case,
the social party might, if it thought n't,
examine all questions brought before
it, solely with reference to certain
established rules and principles laid
down by itself, with which, as a sort
of test, it would try whether such and
such a measure ought or ought not to
be supported, because it had or had
not a civilizing or social tendency.
But whatever might be done in such a
case, it is undoubtedly a fact now, that
the social party in France belongs to
various political parties in the Cham-
ber, whilst its able and accomplished
chief is a member of the Legitimist
circles. If M. De Lamartine should
ultimately succeed in forming a power-
ful party in the Chamber of Deputies,
composed of men belonging to all fac-
tions in the House, of course being
men all loving order as well as liber-
ty, and moderation and peace as well
as improvement — we think that party
would, in time, necessarily become a
political party too — and must, in order
to help forward as much as possible
their own social theories and systems,
declare themselves a political body, and
aspire to power, not for the love of
office, but expressly to lend the addi-
tional weight and authority they would
thereby obtain to the extension of that
which they believe to be right. Isola-
tion is rarely ever beneficial — and
though party has been defined to be
" the madness of many, for the gain of
a few" — yet all truly great measures
under constitutional governments, must
necessarily be carried by parties.
The social party in France (for
after all, it is a party) is composed of
men of education and of unquestion-
able talent. Some of them belong to
the old families of France — others date
their ancestry no further back than to
the period of the First Revolution.
Most of them are men of fortune and
leisure, and who have the disposition,
as well as the time, to attend to the
moral improvement of their species.
Most of them belong to a society which
has now existed several years, and
which bears the honoured title of " La
Sociele de la Morale Chr^tienne." The
avowed object of this institution is, if
not to regenerate, at learst to amelio-
rate, by the influence of Christian mo-
rals, the human race ; and to repair or
diminish the evils which result from
the constitution of modern society.
This institution is organized into com-
mittees, the titles of which will alone
show the character of the association,
and the objects proposed to be accom-
plished. Indigence, deserted children,
prisons, capital punishments, slavery
— these are some of the sad subjects
of their consideration and study — and
there are permanent committees who
regularly attend to these most import-
ant matters. After having contributed,
by its multiplied solicitations, to the
suppression of gambling- houses and
lotteries, the society is to-day engaged
in attacking that spirit of " Agiotage"
86
De Lamartine.
[Jan.
or gambling in commercial shares,
stocks, and Government securities,
which is, in France, extending itself to
evert/ specits of commercial operation,
and threatens to render that country
one vast gaming-house. It has offer-
ed a prize of 600 francs to the author
of the best treatise on this subject, es-
pecially as to the most efficacious
means to be adopted for the supres-
sion of this spirit ; and it has made an
appeal to all heads of families, and to
the chiefs of all greatestablishments, to
aid it in this praiseworthy effort. This
society also maintains eighty-three or-
phans, who are taught useful trades,
and receive an education suited to their
probable future situations in life. De
Lamartine is an active member of this
society, and has frequently aided, by
his manly and persuasive eloquence,
in the attainment of those objects
which the institution has most at heart.
The abolition of the penalty of death,
except in cases of murder, is one of the
favourite subjects of this society. So
is the gradual abolition of slavery in
the French colonies. The questions
of duelling, suicide, infanticide, child
desertion, and the increase of illegiti-
mate children in France, also, one after
the other, receive the attention of the
conductors of this admirable society ;
and, although it must be admitted that
hitherto their efforts to diminish these
crimes have not been attended with all
the success which might have been de-
sired, yet, the very fact that an en-
lightened body of French gentlemen
occupy their time and attention with
these subjects, is of itself a source of
consolation and hope.
The question of " FOUNDLINGS " is
one of immense importance to France
— especially to Paris, and to other
large cities and towns in that country.
Although in our own country the
crime of child desertion is not rare,
in France it is ten times, at least,
more frequent. There the mother
of an illegitimate child has no legal
. claim whatever on its father ; and,
as in twenty- nine out of thirty cases,
as soon as she becomes enceinte, her
seducer deserts her, she is tempted to
relieve herself from the charge on her
future means of subsistence, by caus-
ing the new-born infant to be taken to
the door, or to the box, of those found-
ling institutions which exist in the cities
and large towns of France. The in-
crease, the alarming increase, of found-
lings, however, has compelled the Go-
vernment to look to the question of
" what is to be done to diminish this
growing charge on the resources of the
state?" it hasaccordingly been decided
thatin order to induce in the mothers of
illegitimate children a greater degree
of anxiety as to the fate of their off-
spring— and, in order thus to lead
them not to expose their new-bora
babes to premature death, by leaving
them, for hour after hour, at the doors
of the foundling institutions before they
can be taken in, that the chiefs of those
institutions shall much less frequently
than before, examine the boxes into
which new-born children are deposited,
thus rendering it possible that they
should there perish for want of care
and attention. This experiment was
intended as a moral appeal to mater-
nal affections and maternal solicitude.
Has it succeeded ? No ! It has pro-
duced but two results ; 1st, That
infanticide has increased ; and, 2d,
That the infants, when received into
the foundling asylum, have died in
the proportion of 70 and 80 out of
100, including those found dead
in the boxes of the asylums, at the
doors, and who perished from cold or
from hunger. De Lamartine foresaw
this. He protested against expecting
that this sort of moral appeal to the
mothers of illegitimate children iu
France would have any effect upon
them. He maintained that in but a very
few cases would the mothers of ille-
gitimate children, at any rate, be deter-
red from carrying their infants to'the
gates of these asylums, from the cir-
cumstance of their not being opened so
frequently as before. He said " No —
the only consequences will be that the
children will be left in solitary streets,
to the mercy of the casual passer-by
— or that the mothers will commit in-
fanticide— or, dually, that they will
not seek to hide their shame and dis-
grace, and will become flagrant and
public prostitutes." The experiment
which has been made, has confirmed
fully the opinion of De Lamartine.
Not only illegitimate, but legitimate
children also, abandoned as foundlings,
have increased, instead of diminishing
— and, though fewer infants have lived
than before, when received into the
Hospice, yet is it not a sort of le^al as
well as practical infanticide, on the
part of the Government as well as of
the mother, thus to allow helpless and
1889.]
De Lamartinc.
innocent infants of a span long to die
at the very gates of the institutions ?
• But what is to be done ? asks the
man whose moral impatience does him
credit, and who cannot believe but that
there is some remedy for all the evils
which afflict humanity. We answer,
that the one great remedy for all such
evils is moral and religious educution.
This remedy does not exist in France,
and until it shall do so, all other plans
will be of a temporizing and ineffi-
cacious character. The abolition of
Foundling Hospitals altogether, has
sometimes been suggested in France ;
but then what would be the conse-
quence ? Why, that infanticide would
increase to a most awful extent. Others
have proposed that the mothers of ille-
gitimate children should have a legal
claim on the fathers cf those children
for the support of their offspring. This
would lead to an extent of perjury on
the part of the mothers, who would
take false oaths against individuals of
fortune and family, merely for the pur-
pose of obtaining ample means of living,
or of satisfying their vengeance or
animosity, which cannot be contempla-
ted without apprehension and horror.
Others have gone further than this, and
have proposed to make the abandon-
ment of children a crime, and as great
a crime as infantieide ; but uo French
legislature could now be found to pass
such a law. And, finally, others have
insisted, that the mothers and fathers
of illegitimate children should be treat-
ed as offenders against society, and be
punished by fine and imprisonment.
This would not, however, have any
other effect, even could such a law re-
ceive the sanction of a French legis-
lature, than that of increasing infanti-
cide, as the effectual means of getting
rid of the only physical evil which the
state would have to apprehend from
promiscuous intercourse, viz. the hav-
ing to support the offspring of those il-
legitimate unions. None of these, nor
all of these plans together, would then
suffice.
And, besides this, it must not be lost
sight of, that although, undoubtedly, a
great proportion of French foundlings
are illegitimate children, a vast num-
ber are not so, but are the offspring of
legal marriages. A mother of a large
family in France will not only think it
no crime, but will scarcely conceal the
fact, of sending her new-born infant to
the doors of the Foundling Hospital.
Its signs are noted and copied down :
a name is affixed to it : its clothes are
even marked with its initials — and once
a month, or oftener, the mother will go
to the " Hospice" and see her publicly
fed and nourished offspring. At length,
however, it is removed into the De-
partments, and placed with one of the
country nurses of the Foundling Hos-
pital. But what does its mother do ?
She corresponds occasionally with the
nurse — sees thechild when it is brought
up periodically to Paris, and remuner-
ates in some degree, the hospital nurse,
if she has been particularly attentive
to the health and wants of that child.
This state of things has led to another
evil. Parents of poor but large fami-
lies, (and sometimes of small ones too)>
aware that they could thus get rid of
supporting their offspring, without dif-
ficulty, and even without much anxi-
ety or reproach, now make it a com-
mon practice in large cities and towns
of thus disposing, for some years, of, at
any rate, some of their children, and
the state is thus burdened with the sup-
port of a vast number of human beings,
the support of whom ought really not
to fall upon it. Independent of this
crying evil, parental feelings become
less acute, filial affection less lively,
domestic attachments more rare, and the
heads of poor families, instead of find-
ing their greatest earthly sources of
consolation and happiness in their off-
spring, only view them as the unfortu-
nate results of marriage and of legal
cohabitation. Thus, the kindest and
tenderest feelings and ties of life are
blunted; thus, the institution of mar-
riage is degraded, instead of being rais-
ed ; and thus the social bonds of so-
ciety are torn asunder, and the purest
and best alliances of our nature de-
prived of a large portion of their charm
and their interest.
To meet this state of things, it has
been said, " Let us remove the chil-
dren from their nurses, and place them
in other hands more frequently. Let
no notice be taken of the signs and
names, initials and marks, affixed to
the infant's clothes, &c., when left at
the door of the Foundling Hospital.
Let no facilities be afforded to the pa-
rents to see their children. Let it be
rendered next to impossible for the
nurse to take any interest in the child,
or the child to begin to love the nurse,
from those frequent changes. Let the
child be one year in the department of
88
1'Ain, another year in that of the Mo-
selle, a third in another province, and
so on — and thus, let an attempt at
least be made, to isolate the children
from their real parents, and to prevent
it from being thought and felt by the
mothers and fathers of those legitimate,
but deserted children, that they have
found in the nurses of the hospital nur-
sing-mothers, anxious about their fate,
and even attached to their persons."
But there is too much of cold-hearted-
ness, too much of refinement of tor-
ture, in this system, to be adopted or
approved by any society, even merely
calling itself Christian. And, after all,
though it would tend to render an-
xious the really poor, really helpless,
really unfortunate, and really miser-
able parents of legitimate children,
whose wants compelled them, rather
than whose want of feeling led them,
to resort to an act of desertion ; and
though it would cause many a pang
to the poor helpless widow, whose hus-
band, perhaps dying prematurely, had
left her without the means of support ;
— yet, nearly all the evils resulting
from such a state of things would fall
on the unconscious and deserted child*
Change of food, of air, of habitation,
would pain and weary its little body,
and its restless eye would be agitated
instead of relieved, when it beheld new
faces, new forms, and to it new sources
of irritation and misery — and sought
in vain for the face of its former nurse
to which it had become habituated.
We say, then, without hesitation,
that there is no effectual, permanent
cure for this increasing and frightful
evil of foundlings and deserted chil-
dren— with infanticide on the one
hand, or death, by too long exposure
to cold and starvation at the doors of
the asylums, on the other hand, — but
the moral and religious education of
the lower orders. And we say this
with the more confidence, because
the statistics of the^e subjects have
shown us, 1st, That the most ignorant
and vicious portion of the French po-
pulation desert their children most fre-
quently ; 2d, That it is not always
poverty, but more frequently vice, and
want of natural affection, and of a
sense of moral duty, which lead to
the desertion of these children ; and,
3d, That in the cases of deserted legi-
timate children, there are more desert-
ed who are the offspring of bad than
of needy parents. We then repeat,
De Lcuttarttue. [Jan.
that the only radical cure for this ad-
mitted and growing evil, is the moral
and religious education of the lower
orders.
The voyage of De Lamartine in the
East, has rendered him in France a sort
of authority on all questions of a poli-
tical character relating to that portiui
of the globe. Whenever the affairs
of Turkey and Egypt are, therefore,
brought under discussion, his voice is
heard ; and the following eloquent de-
scription of the present state of what
is called 'the Turkish Empire, we ex-
tract from a speech delivered by him,
on 8th January, 1834. De Lamartine
is of opinion that the epoch is not far
distant when that empire will perish —
and when its once united and power-
ful, but now enfeebled and divided
territory must be appropriated by
Europe, either pacifically, or as the
result of war, among the other various
nations of the continent. Still, he ex-
claimed—
" Let me explain myself, gentlemen. I
do not desire that Turkey should perish —
that a vast empire 'should be reduced to
nothingness, or be driven back to the de-
serts of Asia. I do not desire that a new
crusade, that a civilizing fanaticism should
give place to civilisation by the sword.
God forbid that we should so act ! We
should indeed then be barbarians. I es-
teem and I love the Turks. This senti-
ment is felt by all those who have lived
amongst that generous and hospitable
people. But if I owe it to truth and to
gratitude to render justice to this race of
men as individuals, as members of the hu-
man family, I also owe it to mankind to
declare, that, as a government, and above
all as an administration, it is tlie most ab-
solute negation of all possible sociability —
it is barbarism in all its brutal sincerity —
it is the permanent and organized suicide
of the human race.
" And here, gentlemen, as we are dis-
cussing situations and reporting facts, per-
mit me to state some of importance for your
consideration. When you hear me speak
of a nation, of an empire, of an immense
state, which covers, by its name at least,
the two finest portions of Europe and of
Asia, and which embraces more than half
of the coast of the Mediterranean, these
words nation and empire give you naturally
the idea of something analogous to that
which we define by these words when we
make xise of them among ourselves. You
at once imagine to yourselves a country,
families, property, land cultivated and em-
bellished by the hand of man : you at once
1839.]
DC Lawartiitc.
89
think of permanent habitations, where fa-
milies multiply and succeed the one to the
other — a sort of consanguinity, if I may
be allowed the expression, between man
arid the earth — a sentiment of possessing
property, the second nature of social man,
and from which arises that other sentiment
of collective property which we call pn-
triotisw. No, gentlemen — nothing of this
sort exists. Some hordes wandering over
the earth, and never taking root there, as
our western populations do in this part of
the world ; — ' peuplades ' of various names,
origin, religion, and manners, thrown,
some into the deserts of Arabia or of
Egypt, others on the inaccessible summits
of Lebanon or of Taurus ; those founding
in the solitudes of the interior of Syria,
in Aleppo, or Damascus, the two grand
caravanseras, at the limits of the desert of
Bagdad, for the caravans of India — these
in the fertile valleys of Macedonia and
of Thrace ; — Greeks, Arabs, Armenians,
Bulgarians, Jews, Maronites, Druses, Ser-
vians, living here and there where the
wind of fortune may have driven them —
without thought, without affection, without
manners, without laws, without religion,
without a common country — now submis-
sive and obedient, to-morrow in revolt; —
pachas sent from Constantinople, one after
the other, to suffer or inflict death, with
no other mission than to tear from these
populations the precarious resources which
their labour has been able to procure, and
then to cause once more all to be desert
around them ; — undisciplined bands, tra-
versing, under the name of an army, pro-
vinces which fly at their approach ; —
wandering tribes, here to-day, to-morrow
there, that tyranny may not know where
to take them ; — plains without ploughs,
seas without ships, rivers without bridges,
lands without possessors — villages built of
mud and of clay — a capital of wood, ruins
and desolation on all sides; — behold the
Ottoman empire ! In the midst of this
ruin, of this desolation which they have
made and which they re-make without
ceasing, some thousands of Turks, by pro-
vinces, all concentrated in towns, wea-
ried, discouraged, never labouring, living
wretchedly, by means of legal spoliations,
on the labour of Christian and laborious
races ; — behold the inhabitants, behold the
masters of this empire ! And yet, gentle-
men, this empire — yes, this empire — is
worth to him alone the whole of Europe !
Its sky is m'ir:-> beautiful — its land is more
fertile — its ports are more vast and more
sure — its productions more precious and
more varied ; — it contains 60,000 square
leagues.
" Shall I now describe to you, gentle-
men, the present military and political
situation of this Ottoman empire? Wal-
lac/tia and Moldavia only recognise tlio
nominnl sovereignty of the Porte, and
are really nearly independent, except of
Russia. Servia, which itself forms at
least one-third of Turkey in Europe, also
has often revolted, and is entirely Chris
tian ; has definitively consecrated its
separation and its independence under the
government of Prince Miloch, the able
and courageous patriot, worthy of render-
ing free and civilising a people. The
Bulgarians, who cover the two sides of
the Balkan by their vast and numerous
villages, and who extend themselves to
the environs of Adrianople ; a numerous,
upright, laborious nation, which admits
but few Turks into its bosom, and even
aims at repelling them altogether. The
mountains of Macedonia are peopled by
Greek races, Albanians, Arnouts, who for
the most part are also Christians, and who
rise on every favourable occasion to con-
quer and obtain that stormy, that tem-
pestuous state of liberty, of which the
world offers them an example. The
Morea and Negrepont are also completely
free, under the protection of European
powers. The plains from Adrianople to
Constantinople are entirely depopulated.
You only encounter, at the distance of a
day's march, some deserted khans, or some
bourgades in ruins, inhabited by Turks
and Greeks, the Greeks only cultivating
some fields which are conceded to them
around these ruins or wrecks of houses.
" As to the Isles of the Archipelago,
the English possess the seven Ionian isles,
and the Greeks have taken to themselves
all those which they consider as belong-
ing to their side. The two finest, Candia
and Cyprus-Candia, belong to the Pacha
of Egypt. Cyprus still belongs to the
Turks ; but this possession of eighty
leagues long, and from twenty to twenty-
five broad, all capable of cultivation, all
fertile in tropical productions, only sup-
ports from twenty-five to thirty thousand
Cyprus Greeks, governed by some hun-
dreds of Turks. Insurrections frequently
break out, and nothing prevents Cyprus
from proclaiming its independence but the
want of a guarantee, that if it be once so
proclaimed, it would be suffered to pre-
serve its liberty. Rhodes is in the same
situation, — St Andro or Cos, Mitelene,
Chio ; all peopled by Greeks, entirely
Christian ; have returned, indeed, but
only conditionally and tremblingly, to the
domination of the Porte. Sauros still
resists the fleets of the Great Signior.
" The principal portion of Asia Minor,
whose shores alone are inhabited ; this
immense Caramania, which formerly con-
tained within it many kingdoms, now only
90
De Lamartine.
[Jan.
is composed of deserts ! Yet it is there
that the Mahometan population is still to
be found in the greate.»t masses. But if
Broussa, Smyrna, Koniah. and Kutaya be
excepted, the four great cities where the
Turkish population predominates, the rest
is in the power of the Turkomans, a savage
and wandering race, which covers the
sides of Mount Taurus, there shelters it-
self against the tyranny of the pachas, and
descends to conduct its troops into fhe
plains, or to ravage those plains if they
should be opposed. You will be able to
form an idea, gentlemen, of the degree of
force of the nation il bond which attaches
these countries and these cities to the ca-
pital, when you know that, in the last war,
two officers sent from fifty leagues off to
Smyrna by Ibrahim Pacha, caused this city
of one hundred thousand souls to recognise
his authority, and that all the people of
Caramania would not supply one soldier
to march against him.
" Syria, this garden of the world, is
still the finest and the most fertile country
of the east The wandering Arabs — the
agricultural Arabs — the Druses — the Ma-
ronites — and the Mussulmen — and the
Syrian Greeks, divided amongst them-
selves, compose its population. The
Turks are scarcely the twentieth portion.
The towns and cities on the coast — Alex-
andretta, Latakia, Tripoli, Beyruth, Jaffa,
and Gaza — contain a great number of
Christians.
" Nearly the whole of Lebanon is in the
power of the Maronites, an Arab and a
Catholic nation of two millions of men,
which has conquered, by its courage and
its virtues, a bonajide independence, which
possesses land and property, which cul-
tivates it, which loves commerce and
civilization, and which, I believe, will
form the germ of a race of men who will
dominate in that portion of the world. - It
recognises the authority of the Grand
Emir of the Druses, the Emir Beschir,
a politic and warlike old man, whom
both the Turks and Egyptians have
equally feared ; who can, by an order,
at once raise 40,000 fighting men ; who
causes Aleppo, Damascus, Jerusalem, and
their coasts, turn by turn, to tremble ; and
who then returns to his palace of Ptedin
or Dahel-el-Kamar, seated in the very
heart of his dominions — an inaccessible
fortress of a hundred leagues of circum-
ference ! He only obeys the Turks, as
the all-powerful vassals of the middle
ages obeyed their Suzerain. Damascus
rises, vast and isolated, in the midst of a
desert. Its population is Turkish, hut it
contains within its walls 30,000 Arme-
nians, Christians, and many Jews. The
remainder of the territory is rather a prey
to, than possessed by, the Arab tribes, in-
dependent families in the midst of the
great Mussulman family, who pass over,
according to their rapacity or caprice,
from one dominion to another.
" Jerusalem rises on the confines of
Syria, between Arabia Petrea and the
deseits of E.u-ypt — a city which is neutral,
poor, helpless, accustomed to all yokes,
the common centre of all religious beliefs,
and the Holy City not only of the Chris-
tian, but even of the Mussulmeu, who have
placed the Mosque of Osman on the foun-
dations of the Temple of Solomon. Then
comes Egypt. There is being performed
at this moment one of the most marvellous
scenes of these fugitive dramas of the
East. You know the revolt of Mehemet
Ali, and the glory of his son Ibrahim both
great men, the father for his political
knowledge, the son for his sword. I was
present at his triumphs. I saw him over-
throw the walls of Jaffa, which Napoleon
himself was unable to shake — traversing
as a conqueror Damascus and Aleppo —
twice disperse, by dint of his audacity, the
two last armies of the Sultan. I saw him
take the Grand Vizier, and only stop
within a few marches from Constantinople
before the letter of an European ambas-
sador ! He would have entered, gentle-
men, without obstacle — he would even
have triumphed iu the capital of the em-
pire— he would have founded a new dy-
nasty, though reprobated by the laws and
manners of the people ; all the East was
silent before him, as it was before Alex-
ander the Great — but a word from the
West stopped him — he drew back — he left
his work of power and of glory incomplete.
" This trait alone, gentlemen, shows
you the empire of civilisation over bar-
barism. B irbarism, when even triumph-
ant, has the consciousness of its weakness.
This will show you what Europe can do,
if she has the intelligence to comprehend
and the sentiment to feel the importance
of her mission. Ibrahim does not civilize
— he conquers — he gains victories — he
submits to his genius, and before his au-
dacity, the trembling population, who are
wholly indifferent as to the name of their
oppressor. He only occupies soldiers —
he only administrates for his army ; all the
rest, in Egypt and in Syria, is in the same
situation as before he rose into import-
ance. He is a meteor which burns bright-
ly, but which passes away. He ravages,
but he does not found ; and at his death
he will leave nothing behind him but the
parting noise and glittering glare of a me-
teor. These conquests of his, will explain
to you those of Alexander the Great. In
those countries where there is neither na-
tionality, property, nor country, the con-
1839.]
De Lamartine.
91
queror only finds slaves, and victory is
always hailed with rapture.
" You see, gentlemen, hy this rapid
picture, that what is called the Ottoman
Empire, is not an empire, Imt it is a con-
glomeration of various races without co-
hesion, without common interest, without
language, without laws, without religion,
without uniform manners, and without
either unity or fixedness of power. You
see nothing but the vastest constituted
anarchy of which political phenomena have
ever presented the model. You see that
the breath of life which animated it — re-
ligious fanaticism — is extinct. You see
that his sad and blind administration has
devoured even the race of conquerors, and
that Turkey perishes for want of Turks.
" In the centre of this vast anarchy the
capital of Islamism rises — a foot on Europe
— and a foot on Asia. The Sultan Mah-
mourl — a prince raised by misfortune — a
prince who feels that the empire is crumb-
ling beneath him, but who cannot pre-
vent it — appears at last to have despaired
of his throne and of his people, and now
only asks of that Russian power, which he
vainly attempted to combat, to allow him
to reif-n to the end of his life. Russia,
alone, gentlemen has prevented the fall
of this throne — the final dismemberment
of this shade of sovereignty. A few days
more, and the Sultan would have existed
no longer — the Arabs would have entered
Constantinople. Let Russia withdraw her
interested, but yet protecting, hand, and
the empire would again fall. And yet,
beneath this humiliating protection of his
enemy, tha Porte trembles, and the Sul-
tan cannot sleep in tranquillity. He was
a great man one day — the day when he
destroyed, by means of dissimulation, of
personal courage, and of audacity of mind,
the hereditary empire of the Janissaries.
But there are states, the vital principle of
whose existence consists even in their vices
— and who would be slain by reform, in-
stead of being regenerated. Such was the
Ottoman empire ! The military spirit of
the people, which was only popular fana-
ticism, disappeared with the Janissaries.
There is no longer an army. National
manners have refused to bend themselves
to reforms, which were sustained with
blindness and want of energy. There is
no longer an Ottoman spirit!"
And right joyously would we go on
with the pleasurable work of translat-
ing from this charming and enticing
oration of our author, did we not feel
that we would be thus extending the
sketch we have proposed to a large and
very detailed picture.
In the works of De Lamartine, whe-
ther poetical or prose, we find the re-
flection of his own mind and character.
There \$ justice in all lie says, in all
he pleads for, in all lie wishes to feel
himself, or to make others feel with
him. If, then, he pleads for Poland,
he pleads for outraged treaties — for
violated European arrangements, and
for a people who have the right to be
esteemed and protected. If he pleads
for Greece, he does not nauseate you
with the cant of the descendants of the
heroes of Thermopylae, nor does he
represent them as the models of vir-
tue and patriotism ; but he advocates
their cause as a weak, helpless, and op-
pressed people, seeking to live inde-
pendent, and yet scarcely able to un-
derstand or feel the value of the inde-
dendence for which they sigh. If he
pleads for the non-conversion of the
French five per cents, it is because
he thinks that such conversion would
be an unjust violation of the original
fundamental pact between the state
and the public creditor. If he pleads
against the laws of September, it is
because he considers that there is not
in them that principle of justice, with-
out which laws may be binding on men,
but are not acquiesced in by the ma-
jority. If he pleads for the abolition
of slavery, it is for gradual abolition,
just abolition, for an abolition which
shall be compensated for to those who
would necessarily suffer from it. If
he pleads for the abolition of capital
punishments, it is because he thinks,
that in all cases except that of murder,
it is not just that a man should die for
an offence which is not equal in its
enormity to the amount of the punish-
ment. If he pleads for political as-
sociations, or rather, we should say,
for less of rigour against them, it is be-
cause he thinks it only an act of jus-
tice to recognise, that in free states and
under constitutional monarchies, such
associations are necessary to the liber-
ties and happiness of the people, and
have on various important occasions
been productive of immense good. If
he pleads for the liberty of the press,
it is because, whilst he admits that
its licentiousness is a vast evil, yet
its power and influence are of incalcu-
lable value ; and that, even the press
itself, notwithstanding all its defects,
corrects the errors of the press. If
he pleads, with such captivating elo.
quence the cause of the poor found-
lings, it is because he thinks it just to
92
De Lamarline.
[Jan.
be humane, and that humanity and
justice require that the state should
protect those \vlio are wholly unable
to protect themselves. ' If he pleads
for the growers of home sugar, it is be-
cause he thinks it unjust to have en-
couraged French agriculturists to cul-
tivate the beet-root for that purpose,
and then to leave them without pro-
tection. If he pleads against mili-
tary tribunals being applied to civil of-
fenders, even though the latter should
conspire in concert with soldiers, it is
because he thinks it unjust that a man
should not be tried by his equals, and
his equals, his fellows, are not military
judges, but a jury of civilians. If he
pleads for an amnesty, for its extensive
application, and for its freedom from
all restraints, it is because he thinks it
just, that after a great political revolu-
tion, in which all deserve blame, at
least that portion of the people should
• be pardoned for their errors who are
the least instructed, and the most under
the influence of their passions. We
might continue our examples to a much
greater length — but these are sufficient
to establish the accuracy of our obser-
vation.
The same principles of justness, and
love of justice, which is in him the
source or foundation of his actions, is
also the cause of his moderation of
language, purity of diction, and of that
proportion which exists between that
which he means to say or to write ;
that which he ought to say and to
•write, and that which he does say and
write. So the thoughts of his poetry
are symmetrical. There is nothing
bombastic in his mind — and, therefore,
his writings, whilst eloquent, some-
times impassioned, and often didactic,
are always Just. Even his descriptions
of nature — and even the creations of
his fancy — are all so just, whilst they
are so brilliant, that it is the romance
of real life which he makes you inter-
ested in, and feel about, and you are
never ashamed of your emotions. We
certainly think this great praise — but
it is deserved on the part of De Lamar-
tine, and why then should we hesitate
to accord it ?
But we must close. The life of De
Lamartine is a double one. He is a
poet and a politician — a Christian mo-
ralist and an enlightened statesman.
His mind is large — his activity great —
his exertions indefatigable. His labours
are political, philosophical, and liter-
ary. His existence is, however, calm
and dignified. It is spent at Paris,
or at Saint Point, the old family resi-
dence ofhU^father. During winter he
is at the Tribune. He takes a deep
and lively interest in all the passing
events, examines them, and prepares
to act as one should do, who believes
himself capable of operating on the
minds and convictions of large masses
of beings. His poetry is then forgot-
ten— and his prose alone remains. At
Paris, he never writes poetry : it is at
Saint Point that he gives himself up
to the muse and the lyre. In Paris,
he receives his friends .at his residence
at the Rue de 1' Universite twice a-
week, and there he .listens to all the
plans which are brought before him
for the amelioration of the condition of
our poor humanity.
When the month of June arrives,
the Chambers break up — the political
life of De Lamartine is at an end —
and another existence commences. He
quits the capital for Macon— reaches
his old chateau of Saint Point, with its
old elms, its Arab coursers, its devot-
ed farmers, its repose, and its sanctity,
sacred as it is to him for its holy in-
spirations and its souvenirs of the
dead; and there, some miles from Ma-
con, he passes his days, till summoned
by his parliamentary duties to a Pari-
sian life. At the chateau of Saint
Point, in a small stud}', facing a cha-
pel, behind which repose, in the ceme-
try, the ashes of his mother and his
children, De Lamartine writes his
beautiful poems. It will one day be
the object of a literary and political,
social and moral pilgrimage. May that
day be far distant !
De Lamartine is yet in the prime ot
life — possessing true patriotism, and
true genius, being at once a Christian
Conservative, and a magnificent poet ;
having a heart large as the world he
loves, and a judgment matured by ex-
perience, and regulated by observation
and reading — with a fancy and imagina-
tion unsurpassed by any living being —
and all brought under subjection to re-
ligious influences and religious objects
— he may render great service to his
country, to his age, and to the world.
That he will do so, we cannot doubt,
and with him we have but one regret —
that he is not a Protestant.
83tf.J
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
PERSIA, AFGHANISTAN, AND INDIA.
FROM the day when the Emperor
Paul uttered his insane threat of march-
ing an army of Cossacks from Oren-
burg to India, the designs entertained
by Russia on our eastern possessions,
atid the dangers to be apprehended m
that quarter in the event of a war, have
furnished a fertile topic of gloomy ra-
tiocination to that class of alarmists, the
constant tendency of whose speeches
and writings has been to exalt the
power and resources of the Muscovite
empire as contrasted with our own ;
and, while loudly proclaiming the un-
bounded ambition and encroaching po-
licy of that power, to deprecate any
attempt at an opposition, which could
only draw down on our heads the ir-
resistible vengeance of the northern
colossus. Sir Robert Wilson in 1817,
and Colonel De Lacy Evans in 1829,
stood pre-eminent above the rest for
the confidence with which they pre-
dicted an expedition of the Russians
against India, and the ruinous conse-
quences which must inevitably result
to our Oriental rule ; while the oppo-
site side of the question was sustained
by the Quarterly Review, which con-
tended in ably argued articles, that
(even if the limited finances and
cautious policy of Russia were not
sufficient guarantees against her em-
barking in so Quixotic an expedition),
the march of 2000 miles from Oren-
burg to Delhi, the impossibility of
transporting guns and stores across
the deserts of Turkistan, the want of
provisions and water, and the unceas-
ing hostility of the Turkoman tribes,
would be a sufficient security that the
invading army, if it ever reached our
Indian frontier at all, could arrive
there in no other condition than that
of a diminished and exhausted rem-
nant, destitute of supplies or artillery,
and ready to fall an instant and easy
prey to the numerous and effective
Anglo- Indian forces which would en-
counter it. The total failure of the
missions of Mouravief to Khiva in
1819, and of Negri to Bokhara in
1820, by means of which the Cabinet
of Petersburg attempted to open more
intimate and friendly relations with
these Tartar or Turkoman sovereign-
ties, showed that the opposition to be
expected iu that quarter, at least, hud
not been overrated ; while the equally
rooted hostility and superior power of
Persia appeared to interpose a still
more effectual barrier to the route by
the west of the Caspian : the friendly
relations of Russia with Great Britain,
and the improbability of her severing
them for the doubtful chance of a re-
mote and precarious conquest, were
severally set forth and insisted on : and
the result of all these arguments was,
that most of our domestic politicians,
after verifying the geographical posi-
tions laid down in the Quarterly, by a
glance at tbe map of Asia, remained
in a comfortable conviction that there
was little fear of East India stock being
frightened from its propriety, during-
the lives of the present generation, by
the apparition of the Russian eagle on
the Indus.
But these reasonings, however well
founded they may have been fifteen
years ago, have, in the present day,
ceased to be applicable ; for, by an un-
fortunate perversity, while the warn-
ings of the alarmist writers above al-
luded to, and the solid facts which they
adduced in support of them, fell almost
unheeded on the public ear, the incon-
sistent policy of forbearance and con-
cession to Russia, which was advoca-
ted as the only means of diverting the
storm, has been scrupulously acted
upon by each successive Ministry, and
has been rewarded by a series of in-
sults and indignities, increasing in due
proportion to the tameness with which
they were acquiesced in. When the
Russian Emperor, in 1828, on finding
that the obstinate valour of the Otto-
mans was not so easily overborne as he
had expected, instituted a naval block-
ade of the Dardanelles (alter having
solemnly waived the rights of a belli-
gerent in the Mediterranean, and re-
ceived all due applause for his magna-
nimity), the indifference with which
our Government viewed the detention
of British vessels, and the maltreat-
ment of British seamen, gave Russia
an assurance of impunity of which she
was not slow to avail herself ; and the
secret encouragement given to the
Pasha of Egypt, the consequent treaty
of Unkiar-Skelessi, the capture of
the Vixen, and the late authoritative
attempt to place a veto ou the con-
Persia, Afghanistan) and India.
[Jan.
elusion of the commercial treaty be-
tween England and the Porte, demon-
strated in rapid succession to Europe
the moderation of Russia, and the
weakness or long-suffering of our fo-
reign policy. In distant Persia, after
her military power had been broken
by the war which was terminated by the
peace of Turkmanschai in 1828, the
game of intervention was played even
more openly ; and no means were left
untried to undermine and destroy the
influence which a long alliance and con-
stant diplomatic intercourse had pro-
cured for England at the Court of Te-
heran. During the life of Futteh AH
Sliah, however, the Russian counsels
never openly gained the ascendency.
The wily old Kajar appreciated the sin-
cerity of Russian treaties and promises
too well to be cajoled by them ; and
his often quoted answer to a proposi-
tion for improving the internal com-
munications of his dominions, shows
his clear insight into the motives wnieh
dictated it: — " Thehorsesof the Iranis
can go where the horses of their an-
cestors went ; but if we make wide
roads, the wheels of the Infidels will
be speedily seen traversing them."
But, with the death of the old sove-
reign, and the accession of his inex-
perienced grandson, a change came
over the spirit of Persian politics, and
the flimsy veil which had covered the
designs of Russia was instantly thrown
aside. Scarcely four years have
elapsed since this young monarch, as-
sailed on all sides by the pretensions
and revolts of his innumerable uncles
and cousins, was placed in secure pos-
session of the throne by the vigorous
exertion of British arms and influence
under Sir Henry Bethune ; * and he
has repaid these services, which might
have secured the gratitude of even an
Asiatic despot, by insulting the British
Minister, admitting Russian emissaries
into his divan, and Russian troops into
his capital, and lending himself as a
willing tool to Russian intrigues which,
undar the pretext of assisting Persia in
the recovery of her ancient possessions
in Korassan, have for their real and
scarcely veiled object the opening of a
road through the Affghan and Seik
tribes to the British frontier in India. In
furtherance of these views, Herat has
been besieged by the forces of Persia,
with the aid of Russian troops and artil-
lery, under the direction of a Russian
general ; and, had it fallen, would, of
course, have been re-fortified and oc-
cupied, nominally for the Shah, by a
Russian garrison, as an advanced
stronghold and place d'armes from
which, whenever the favourable op-
portunity should present itself, a Rus-
so- Persian army might have advan-
ced to the Indus, by the route which
has been followed by every invader of
India on the Asiatic side, from Alex-
ander to Nadir Shah. In the intoxi-
cation of anticipated triumph, even
the common forms of diplomatic cour-
tesy towards England were violated :
and Mr Maeniel found it necessary
to break off all communication with
the Persian court, and to quit the
camp before Herat ; while Mahom-
med Shah publicly declared that the
capture of Herat would be only pre-
liminary to a career of conquest which
should rival the past achievements of
Nadir, and carry the Persian arms
once more in triumph to Delhi. In
Europe, the language held by Russia
and her agents was equally explicit ;
the Augsburgh Gazette, after plainly
avowing that the aim of the Russian
operations in Persia, was " the open-
ing a road to the most vulnerable of
the English possessions," gave the fol-
lowing lucid commentary on that text :
" England does not conceal from her-
self her weakness in the East Indies;
she knows that on the day when the
natives, better informed concerning
their own interests, shall unite together
in resistance, British dominion in
Southern Asia will end. On the other
hand, Russia also knows her task ; she
is aware, that to her is reserved to take
the initiative in the regeneration of
Asia ; and it is this which explains
the jealousy at present existing be-
tween the two powers." Surely this
candid acknowledgment must be suf-
ficient to convince the most determin-
ed believer in the infallibility of the
Quarterly, that whatever might have
been the case some years back, our
Indian empire requires at the present
day some more effectual bulwark than
* This distinguished officer was subsequently ordered out of Russia at a moment's
notice, his offence being that he had been overheard, at one of the great reviews, to
address one of the Mussulman soldiers in the Persian language !
1839.]
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
either the hollow friendship still sub-
sisting between the two powers, or the
extent of desert interposed between the
Siberian outposts and the Indus.
Let us, in the first place, examine
of what real value are those geogra-
phical obstacles which have been so of-
ten referred to as placing insurmount-
able barriers in the way of a Russian
march to India. The route by the
east of the Caspian, by Khiva and Bok-
hara, requires little notice, since it is
not likely that it will ever be attempt-
ed when a more commodious and easy
road lies open ; but even here we may
remark, that the desert of Kharism,
intervening between Khiva and Kho-
rassan, and often represented as im-
passable by an army, was crossed in
1740 by Nadir Shah, with all his
troops, stores, and artillery, when
marching against Khiva, which he
took, and put its Khan to death ; and
in the opposite direction, to the north
of this oasis, it is currently reported
in India, that the Kirghis desert has
recently been traversed by a Russian
corps, moving in the track of the car-
avans, and that to this unexpected di-
version is attributable the non- arrival
of the auxiliary troops of Khiva and
Bokhara to the relief of Herat. But
the Russian troops may be wafted on
the long course of the Volga, from the
heart of European Russia to A^tera-
bad, the southernmost harbour of the
Caspian ; the exclusive navigation of
which sea with armed vessels was
ceded, by the way, to Russia, by the
peace of 1828 with Persia ; and from
Asterabad to Herat, ff the Persian
territory be open to their passage, is a
direct road of 450 miles, interrupted
by no natural obstacle after the moun-
tains of Mazanderan are crossed at the
commencement of the march.
Asterabad, indeed, was once at-
tacked by Ahmed Shah Doorauni, the
founder of the Afghan monarchy ; and
if he had succeeded in annexing it to
his empire, the whole distance froiu t!:e
Caspian to Sirhind, within the present
British frontier at Loodiana, would
have been included within the limits
of his single kingdom. From Herat,
the emporium of Central Asia, and the
depot of the commerce between Cabul,
India, Cashmere, Persia, Bagdad, &c.
the road to India, by whatever route,
is more beaten and accessible than the
internal communication between many
parts of the Russian empire ; and if
Nicholas could once display his en-
signs on its ramparts, he might in-
scribe over its gates, " the road to
Hindostan," as confidently as his
grandmother, Catherine II.,pkcedthe
vaunting inscription, " This is the way
from Moscow to Byzantium," over the
southern portal of Kherson. A mili-
tary map of the route, " constructed
topographically with great care, by
Herat, Candahar, Ghizni, and Cabul,
to Attock," was even shown to Bur-
nes at Lahore, by M. Court, a French
officer in the service of Runjeet Singh ;
he " pointed out the best routes for
infantry and cavalry," and stated, that
" though he had encountered jealousy
from the Raja, he had still managed
to complete a broad belt of survey from
Attock to our own frontier 1" This
route, though not quite direct, is the
one which would most probably be
taken by an invading army ; and the
whole distance to be traversed from
Asterabad to Delhi, would thus be
about 1500 miles, or somewhat less
than the distance from Paris to Mos-
cow ; the halting places are respect-
ively distant from each other as fol-
low : — from Asterabad to Herat, 450
miles — from Herat to Candahar, 290,
through a country unencumbered with
mountains, and principally along the
valleys of the Furrahrood and Hel-
imuui rivers — from Candahar by Ghiz-
ni to Cabul, about 230, the most moun-
tainous parl of the road — from Cabul
to Attock on the Indus, 180 — and
thence through the Punjab, crossing
three of its rivers, 180 miles more to
Lahore or Amritsir — thence to Delhi,
270, crossing the two remaining ri-
vers of the Punjab between Lahore
and Loodiani. By turning from Can-
dahar southwards towards Mooltan,
three of the rivers of the Punjab might
be avoided, but the distance would be
rather greater — from Candahar to
Mooltan, through the passes of the
Suliman-Kok mountains, and over the
Indus and Chenab, is 330 miles, and
from Mooltan to Delhi 350. There
is yet another route from Candahar,
still farther to the south, by the con-
fines of Seistan and Beloochistan,
through a level country, and unob-
structed by either mountains or rivers
(except, of course, the Indus, which
would be crossed near Shikarpoor) ;
but the whole extent of this line passes
through arid and uncultivated district^,
destitute of provisions or water, being,
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
[Jan.
in fact, a continuation of the great
sandy desert of Kerman, where Alex-
ander and his army suffered such hard-
ships on their return from India — it
has, however, been more than once
traversed by Asiatic armies. This
detailed itinerary may, perhaps, seem
tedious to our readers, but it is only
by such dry matter-of-fact statements
that we can dispel the vague idea of
trackless steppes and immeasurable dis-
tances, which is popularly associated
with the regions of the East, and
which has led many to consider our
Indian frontier as secure as if, like
some of the kingdoms in the Ara-
bians nights, a hundred years' journey
intervened between it and the nearest
neighbouring state.
The tidings of the siege of Herat
were at first received with apathy by
the mass of lire-side politicians in
England, who, finding from their ga-
zetteers that Herat was a city of Kho-
rassan, and Khorassan a province of
Persia, inferred nothing more than the
Shah was intent on chastising a rebel-
lious portion of his own dominions ;
and it was by slow degrees that the
public mind was forced to compre-
hend the fact, that our faithful allies
the Russians, were actively endea-
vouring, with every prospect of suc-
cess, to subvert one of the bulwarks
of India. The unceasing denuncia-
tions of the press have succeeded to a
certain extent in undeceiving those,
who, as long as we remained nomin-
ally at peace with Russia, and no Rus-
sian army of the Indus commenced its
march with displayed banners across
the desert, could not be persuaded that
any real danger was to be apprehend-
ed from Russian machination : but
open violence has never been the fa-
vourite game of Russia : she never
advances to the assault of the citadel,
till she has sapped and undermined the
exterior defences : and it is before the
walls of Herat that she has first emer-
ged from the covered approaches which
she has been for years silently con-
structing, even in the heart of the dis-
tant Birman empire, for the attack of
Hindostan. Herat, in fact, is the
Shumla, as the mountains of Afgha-
nistan are the Balkan, of the exterior
defences of India ; and if we do not
anticipate the Russians in the posses-
sion of them, they may, at no very
distant period, complete the analogy
by 'descending thence to the plains of
Hindostan, and dictating, from within
the walls of Delhi, as formerly at
Adrianople, a treaty by which the
power and territory to be possessed by
the Lords of Calcutta shall be regu-
lated by the i^ood will and pleasure of
the White Khan (as his Asiatic sub-
jects call him) of Petersburg.
It is true that the gallant and suc-
cessful resistance which the Heratecs
have unexpectedly made, has post-
poned, for the present, the further
prosecution of these schemes of con-
quest : want of provisions, and thu
false alarm of the approach of the forces
of Bokhara to the relief of the besieg-
ed city, have compelled the Persian
monarch to withdraw his troops, and
retreat in disorder towards his capital,
after a desperate but fruitless attempt
to carry the place by storm, in which
the assailants are said to have lost
more than 2000 of their best men ;
several Russian officers fell on this oc-
casion, and their heads were fixed on
the ramparts of the city. The retreat
of the Shah was probably hastened by
the news of a revolt rumoured to have
broken out in Shiraz and Western
Persia, in favour of one of the princes
who visited England in 1836, and who
are now resident at Bagdad. Their
partizans in those provinces, of which
their father for many years held the
vice-royalty, are known to be numer-
ous, and disaffected to the rule of
Mohammed Shah, whose unnatural
alliance with the hereditary foes of
the Persian faith and nation has alien-
ated from him the bulk of the popula-
tion ; and their hopes have been rais-
ed by the occupation, by an Anglo-
Indian force, of the island of Karrack,
which commands the harbour of Bu-
shire, the principal port possessed by
Persia on the Gulf. No detailed ac-
counts, however, appear to have been
hitherto received of the progress of
the Persian revolters, or of the opera-
tions of the British troops subsequent
to their establishment on Karrack ;
but it is obvious that an unpopular
monarch, returning from an unsuc-
cessful expedition with a broken and
dispirited army, and an empty trea-
sury, could oppose little effectual re-
sistance to the insurrection of a war-
like population, headed by a for-
mer claimant to the throne, if the
powerful aid of British discipline were
thrown into the scale against him. It
was perhaps the anticipation of such a
1839.]
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
97
crisis which led to the concentration
of 50,000 Russian troops at Eriwan
and along the frontier ; and if a re-
quest for aid in reducing his rebellious
subjects, on the part of the reigning
monarch, had once given a pretext for
pouring them into Persia, Moham-
med Shah, with his throne surrounded,
and his people awed into allegiance by
foreign bayonets, must necessarily
have sunk thenceforward into as sub-
servient a vassal of Russia as Stanis-
laus Poniatowski was in Poland. The
events of the campaign in Khorassan,
however, appear to have shaken his
faith in Russian promises ; and his
wavering counsels have been deter-
mined by the news that an armament
had been set on foot in India for the
purpose of restoring the dethroned
monarch of Cabul and Candahar, in
place of the present chiefs of those
provinces, who have lately become al-
lies of Persia j and the effect of this
alteration of policy has been the re-
opening of a friendly correspondence
with Colonel Stoddart and Mr Mac-
neil ; while, for the final adjustment
of all differences, a Persian Ambas-
sador has been dispatched to London,
and is said to have already reached
Constantinople. If the cession of Bu-
shire,or some other naval station on the
Persian Gulf, should be made the price
of the renewal of the ancient alliance
on the part of Great Britain, the ac-
quisition would be doubly valuable, as
affording a position in the flank of the
Persian monarchy in the event of a
future rupture, and as a present means
of facilitating our direct communica-
tion with India. The demand of some
such compensation for the insults of-
fered to the British name in the per-
son of our minister, and the violation
of treaties, could not be considered
either unreasonable or exorbitant ;
and the fickle and headstrong tempera-
ment of Mohammed Shah does not
hold out much hope of the perma-
nence of any arrangement which does
not include an adequate security
against future aggression.
The originally avowed object of
the late campaign against Herat, was
simply the re-union of that city, and
the part of Khorassan dependent on
it, to the Persian monarchy, from
which it had been separated at the rise
of the Doorauni dynasty in Afghanis-
tan, about the middle of the last cen-
tury • but during the progress of the
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXX1X.
siege, ulterior schemes developed
themselves, of such a nature and ex-
tent, as to justify the Government of
India in dispatching a powerful expe-
dition, as we have already stated,
against Cabul, in order to subvert the
power of the Barukzye chiefs, and re-
instate the ex-king, Shah Shooja, un-
der British protection. The particu-
lars of these schemes of partition con-
cluded in the Persian camp, as far as
they have transpired in Europe, were
to the^ effect that Dost Mohammed
Khan of Cabul, the most powerful of
the Barukzye chiefs, should have the
title of King of Cabul, and be placed
in possession of great part of the ter-
ritories formerly comprised in the
Doorauni monarchy, as far as Balkh
and Cashmere, on the north, and should
be assisted in conquering the latter
territory from Runjet Singh ; in con-
sideration of which, Dost Mohammed
pledged himself to interpose no oppo-
sition to the subjugation by Persia
of Herat, Beloochistan, and Sinde;
which extension of territory, if effect-
ed, would have carried the Persian
frontier up to the Indus, and rendered
it easy for any power in alliance with
Persia to invade the Company's terri-
tories by the southernmost route ;
while the territories of Dost Moham-
med would either have afforded a pas-
sage by the northern route, or have
covered the flank of an army moving
by the other. The intrigues of Rus-
sia were sufficiently evident in these
arrangements ; and it yet remains to
be proved how far the restoration of
the exiled king in Afghanistan, even
if successful, will operate as a barrier
to similar attempts in future ; but if
the adhesion of this warlike people to
the British interest is effected, and
their various tribes again united under
a single monarch, they may be made,
if properly supported, an almost im-
pregnable barrier to any future inva-
sion of India on the N. W. A sketch
of the previous history and present
political situation of these countries,
whose names and positions on the map
were almost unknown, previous to the
late occurrences, to the majority of
general readers in England, may be
useful in elucidating their importance,
both as an outlying defence to our
frontier, and as a connecting link be-
tween the politics of Persia, Central
Asia, and India.
The mountain country between Per-
98
Persia, Afghanistan > and India.
[Jan.
sla and India, marked in our maps as
Cabul and Candahar, has been inha-
bited, from time immemorial, by the
Afghans, a rude and warlike race,
claiming1, in their own traditions, to
be descended from Saul, king of Is-
rael, and considered by some Euro-
pean writers to have probably sprung
from the ten tribes of Israel. From
these mountains descended the succes-
sive swarms of fanatical warriors, who,
in the eleventh and twelfth centuries of
our era, gradually reduced India under
Moslem domination ; and the throne
of Delhi was filled for three hundred
years by princes of Afghan race, till
their ascendency was subverted by the
house of Timur in the early part of
the sixteenth century. For 200 years
from this period, the Afghans of Cabul
and Candahar were subject alternately
to the courts of Delhi and Ispahan,
occasionally availing themselves of
their position between the two empires
to re-assert a brief independence dur-
ing a period of war and confusion ;
till in the reign of the last Soofavi king
of Persia, Shah Hassein, an insult
offered to the family of one of their
chiefs by the Persian governor, led to
the murder of the offender, and the
revolt of all the Afghan tribes ; and
the spectacle of weakness and decay
presented by the Persian monarchy
encouraged them to assume the offen-
sive. The capture of Ispahan, and
the conquest of Persia by the Shilji
Afghans, and the scenes of carnage
and desolation which followed, till
their expulsion and subjugation by
Nadir Shah, have been made familiar,
by the pages of Han way and Malcolm,
to every reader of Oriental history.
The Abdallis, another Afghan tribe,
who had possessed themselves of Herat
and its territory, also yielded to the
Persian conqueror, who retook Herat
in 1731, but retained most of the Ab-
dallis chiefs in his service — his predi-
lection for the Sooni sect leading him
to surround himself principally with
officers of that persuasion. On the
assassination of Nadir in 1747 (an
event to which Persian jealousy of the
favour shown to the Afghans is said
to have greatly contributed), Ahmed
Khan Dooeauni, one of the Abdallio
chiefs, and head of the sacred clan of
the Suddozyes, seized the opportunity
of the panic and confusion to withdraw
his troops from the Persian camp, and
marching to Candahar, proclaimed
himself king of Afghanistan, to which,
two years afterwards, he re-united
Herat and great part of Khorassan ;
the anarchy in which Persia was
plunged preventing his encountering
any effectual opposition. During a
victorious reign of twenty-six years,
the Afghan king five times invaded
India, inflicted on Delhi a second sack,
even more severe than that it had ex-
perienced from Nadir, and routed the
Mahrattas at Paniput with such fear-
ful slaughter, that scarcely a fourth
of their host of 80,000 men escaped
from the battle and pursuit. At the
death of Ahmed Shah, in 1773, his
dominions comprehended, in addition
to the territories already enumerated,
Balkh, Cashmere, Sind, and the Pun-
jab : but with his life the power and
prosperity of the Afghan monarchy may
be considered to have terminated ; and
the usual course of degeneracy, dis-
cord, and decay, which seems insepa-
rable from the history of an Asiatic
dynasty, was run with more than
usual rapidity. His indolent and
luxurious son, Timur, was deficient in
the energy and ability necessary for
the preservation of union in his dis-
jointed kingdom j in the course of his
reign of twenty years, he lost Sind and
others of the frontier provinces ; and
after his death in 1793, the discords of
his numerous sons precipitated the fall
of the Doorauni dynasty. The short
reign of his successor, Shah Zemaun,
a weak and cruel prince, was rendered
memorable by the wild scheme which
he formed for invading India, subdu-
ing the Mahrattas and English, and
recovering the ascendency in that
country, which had been held by his
grandfather ; but this enterprise was
frustrated in the outset by the attacks
which the Persians (now settled under
the Kajar dynasty) began to make on
his western frontier, and by the conti-
nual revolts of his half-brother, Mah-
mood, by whom he was at length de-
throned and blinded in 1800. The
rule of Mahmood was, however, un-
popular, and, in little more than two
years, he was expelled by a revolt of
the populace of the capital against his
Persian guards. Shooja-al-mulk, an
uterine brother of Shah Zemaun, was
now placed on the throne. The ad-
ministration of this prince (the present
ex-king) was marked by some ability
and success ; but the royal preroga-
tive was greatly circumscribed by the
1839.]
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
power of the chieftains of the different
clans, who had availed themselves of
these fraternal contentions to regain
the feudal authority of which the in-
troduction of royalty had deprived
them ; civil wars also arose from the
efforts of the Ghilji tribes to throw off
the yoke of the Abdallis ; and the rapid
rise of the power of the Seiks under
the Rajah Runjeet Singh at length
compelled the Afghans to evacuate the
Punjab, and confine themselves to the
right bank of the Indus. The state of
the Cabul monarchy at this period is
described in detail in Elphinstone's
interesting narrative of his mission in
1808-9 to the court of Shooja ; but
scarcely had the embassy repassed the
Indus, when the sovereign who had
received it was driven from his throne
by one of the revolutions common in
Asia, headed by Futtah Khan, the
chief of the powerful clan of Barukzye,
who restored Mahmood as nominal
king, retaining the administration,
under the title of vizier, entirely in his
own hands. After nine years' pre-
carious reign, Mahmood, with the co-
operation of his son Kamran, rid him-
self of his powerful minister by mur-
dering him under circumstances of
great cruelty ; but, finding himself
unable to withstand the instantaneous
revolt of the unfortunate vizier's nu-
merous brothers and clansmen, pusil-
lanimously abandoned his kingdom,
and fled, with his treasures and crown
jewels, to Herat, of which he had been
governor in the lifetime of his father
Timur. By acknowledging himself a
vassal of Persia, he remained in undis-
turbed possession of this city and its
territory till his death in 1829, when
his son Shah Kamran, the late antago-
nist of the Persians, succeeded him.
The abdication of Mahmood left the
throne at the absolute disposal of Azem
Khan, who had succeeded his brother
Futteh as chief of the Barukzye. He
offered it, in the first instance, to Shah
Shooja, and this prince, accordingly,
left Loodiana, where he had for some
time resided, in order to resume his
crown ; but having imprudently given
offence to the nobles by some ill-timed
acts of arrogance, he was compelled
to return into exile before he had
reached the camp ; and Ayub, another
prince of the Doorauni family, was
invested with the empty title of king,
having been previously in such a state
of destitution, that the robe of honour,
which he conferred on Azim Khan on
installing him in the office of vizier,
had been privately sent by the destined
minister to the royal tents. The sha-
dow of a kingdom, torn to pieces by
civil war, and dismembered by the
attacks of the sheiks, continued, from
this time, little more than four years,
when it received a final blow from the
decisive victory gained at Nushrow in
1823 by Runjeet Singh, who led on his
guards in person to the capture of the
Afghan artillery. Azem Khan, who,
from the opposite bank of the river of
Cabul, had beheld the defeat of the
Moslem army, without being able to
cross with his division to their assist-
ance, died shortly after, broken-hearted
at the triumph of the infidels ; and
with his death the dissolution of the
kingdom was complete. The puppet
king Ayub disappeared from the scene,
and became a pensioner at the court
of Lahore ; Dost Mohammed Khan,
the most influential of the brothers of
Azim, established himself at Cabul,
while two less powerful branches of
the family ruled at Candahar and
Peshawur ; Balk, &c., fell to the
Ozbegs ; Cashmere and Moultan had
been subdued by Runjeet Sing, who
did not extend his conquests to the
west of the Indus ; the Balooch and
Sind chiefs relapsed into the state of
petty independence in which the in-
valuable work of Sir Alexander Burnes
describes them ; and of all the widely,
extended dominions acquired by Ah-
med Shah Doorauni, only the single
fortress of Herat remained in the pos-
session of any of his descendants.
Thus fell the Doorauni kingdom in
Afghanistan, the re-establishment of
which as an outwork to our Indian
dominions is at present the predomi-
nant object of our policy in that quar-
ter ; but it appears very questionable
whether that desirable object might
not have been more easily and securely
attained a few years since, by strength-
ening the interests of the present ruler
of Cabul, Dost Mahommed, who was
then anxious to secure our alliance,
than by attempting, at the present
juncture, to restore a weak monarch,
whose fanflly has no remaining parti-
sans in the country, to a throne from
which he has been twenty-nine years
an exile.
The sacred clan of the Suddozyes, of
•which the late royal family is a branch,
is insignificant in point of numbers :
100
the power of the monarch was there-
fore entirely dependent on popular
opinion, and on the allegiance of the
chiefs of the more influential races,
among whom the Barukzyes have
long been pre-eminent. Hadji Jumal,
one of their former chiefs, was the prin-
cipal supporter of Ahmed Shah in his
assumption of the regal title : and in
the present day the different branches
are said to be able on an emergency
to bring 30,000 horse into the field :
a force which, in the conflicts among
the sons of Timur Shah, gave them
virtually the disposal of the throne. *
To this powerful tribe both the exist-
ing branches of the dethroned family
are odious : Kamran is more especi-
ally detested as the murderer of their
renowned chief, the Vizier Futteh
Khan : and they have every thing to
dread from the restoration to power of
Shah Shooja, who owes to them both
the loss of his throne in the first in-
stance, and the frustration of his hopes
of again regaining it on the abdica-
tion of Mahmood. The sons of Shah
Zemaun, who, according to European
notions, would have a claim to the suc-
cession prior to either Kamran or
Shooja, have been apparently passed
over by all parties, though the eldest
of them, Mirza Kyser, bore a distin-
guished part in the transactions of the
reign of Shooja, and would at least
have the negative merit of not being
personally obnoxious to the Afghans.
The concluding remarks of Burnes on
the political aspect of Afghanistan, de-
rive additional value from having been
written in 1834, at a period when
little anticipation was entertained of
the importance which that country
would speedily assume in oriental re-
lations : — after a summary of the pre-
sent position of the different chiefs, he
continues — " it is evident, therefore,
that the restoration of either Shooja
or Kamran is an event of the most
improbable nature. The dynasty of
the Suddozyes has passed away, unless
it be propped up by foreign aid ; and
it would be impossible to reclaim the
lost provinces of the empire, without a
continuation of the same assistance.
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
[Jan.
It is more difficult to revive than to
raise a dynasty : and in the common
chain of events, if the country is to
be ruled by another king, we must
look for another family to establish its
power in Cabul, and this in all proba-
bility will be the Barukzyes." The
temper of the Afghan people, more-
over, has been in all ages essentially
republican ; and though the genius of
Ahmed Shah succeeded in uniting for
a time all the clans under one su-
preme head, the impatience with which
the nobles bore the rule of his weak
successors, proves that the original
establishment of monarchical govern-
ment was successful, solely through
the personal qualifications of the
founder, and the favourable opportu-
nity for asserting the national inde-
pendence, which was presented by the
death of Nadir Shah. The patriarchal
sway, too, of the Barukzye chiefs,
particularly of Dost Mohammed Khan,
has endeared them to the people : —
the character of the last-named ruler
is painted in the following colours, by
Burnes, who had good opportunities
of observing him : — " His justice af-
fords a constant theme of praise to all
classes: the peasant rejoices in the
absence of tyranny, the citizen at the
safety of his home, and the strict mu-
nicipal regulations regarding weights
and measures ; the merchant at the
equity of his decisions and the pro-
tection of his property, and the soldier
at the regular manner in which his ar-
rears are discharged. * * * *
The merchant may travel, without
guard or protection, from one frontier
to another — an unheard-of circum-
stance in the times of the kings." —
It can hardly be supposed, on consi-
deration of all these circumstances,
that a warlike and spirited people will
tamely submit to receive, at the hands
and for the purposes of a foreign power,
a monarch whom they have already
twice declared unworthy to reign, and
whose only claim consists in such a
degree of hereditary right as an ele-
vation to the throne, of very recent
date, may be supposed to have impart-
ed to his family.
The want of a tribe particularly attached to the royal family, was so sensibly felt
by the earlier kings of the Soofavi dynasty in Persia, that Shah Abbas the Great at-
tempted to remedy the defect, by instituting a new tribe, called Shah-sevund, or king's
friends .- it at one time comprised nearly 100,000 families, and was a principal bulwark
of the throne.
1839.]
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
101
The situation of Dost Mohammed
and his brothers, pending the late oc-
currences inKhorassan,was sufficient-
ly embarrassing. If Herat had sub-
mitted, or fallen after a short resist-
ance, as was expected, its surrender
would have been immediately followed
by the irruption of Persian forces into
Afghanistan, in pursuance of the ob-
ject openly declared by the Shah —
the re-conquest of all the provinces
which had been subject to the Persian
monarchy under the Soofavi kings.
At the same time, the blood-feud of
the Barukzye family with Kamran
forbade the affording him aid against
the common enemy : and in the event
of Kamran repulsing the attack, it
was probable that he might avail him-
self of the reputation for prowess thus
acquired to collect to his standard the
Western Afghans, and perhaps the
GhiJjies (a race of Afghans distinct
from, and often at variance with the
Abdallis), and attempt the recovery
of his father's kingdom — an intention
which he is said by Lietenant Conolly,
and other travellers, to have announced
on more than one occasion. In this
perplexing dilemma, and frustrated in
the various attempts which he had
made to gain our effective alliance,
Dost Mohammed followed the only
course which remained open to him,
in breaking off his relations with us,
and concluding a treaty, by the media-
tion of the Russian envoy, with the
Shah, then encamped before Herat : —
his brother, the chief of Candahar
(whose territory lay nearer the scene
of action, and who had been engaged
in hostilities with Kamran, previous to
the appearance of the Persians), had
anticipated him in this movement,
having, as some reports state, joined
the Persians with a convoy of a thou-
sand camel-loads of provisions. As
British influence is again in the as-
cendant at Teheran, we presume that
the Shah will be required, as one of
the preliminaries of reconciliation, to
sacrifice this new ally, to whom, in-
deed, he is no longer in a condition to
afford any effectual assistance : — and
thus the chief of Cabul (between whom
and his brothers of Candahar and
Peshawar there exists much jealousy),
will be left to resist single-handed the
invasion of the English and Seiks on
his eastern and southern frontier, and
probably an attack from Kamran on
the west. There can be little doubt but
that the first-named expedition (the
English portion alone of which, exclu-
sive of the Seik contingent, amounts
to nearly 30,000 men, English and
sepoys), will succeed in occupying, at
least temporarily, Cabul and Candahar,
and replacing Shah Shooja on the
throne : but his rule can have but
little chance of permanence, unless
secured by the continued presence of
a large subsidiary force ; a measure to
which Runjeet Singh, whose territory
would then be nearly surrounded by
British cantonments, will not be likely
to assent : — and when once the invad-
ing troops are withdrawn, nothing but
extensive support from the other Af-
ghan chiefs, whom Shah Shooja is not
likely to succeed in conciliating, can
prevent Dost Mohammed, popular as
he is described to be, from resuming
his authority : and in this undertaking
he would doubtless be supported by
Russia, as it is confidently stated in
the Supplement to the Asiatic Journal
for December, that " a letter has been
intercepted from the Emperor Nicholas
to Dost Mohammed, offering him
ample assistance of men and money
on the part of the Russians, to sustain
him in his conflict with the English."
In this case, our occupation of Cabul
will involve us in greater difficulties
than the capture of Herat would have
done, as it may bring the Russians,
foiled in attempting to establish them-
selves, by force of arms, in Western
Afghanistan, in immediate contact with
the Punjab and our frontier.
It must also be remembered that in
this proposed, settlement of the coun-
try, the claims of Kamran, whose pre-
tensions to the crown are at least
equal to those of Shooja, have been
altogether overlooked ; his interests, in
opposing the tide of Russo-Persian
arms and intrigue, have hitherto been
identical with our own ; and he has
done us good service in bearing the
first brunt with a degree of gallantry
and resolution of which his previous
life had given no promise. Still the
restoration of Shooja will be ineffec-
tual for any purpose of our policy, un-
less Herat, which has been justly cha-
racterised as the gate of the road to
Hindostan, he included in the limits
of his kingdom ; and this re-union, it
is evident, can only be effected by
wresting it forcibly from Kamran ; an
enterprise, the success of which, from
the strength and distant situation of
102
the city, can only be ensured by a dis-
proportionate expenditure of blood and
treasure ; and •which, whether success-
ful or not, must attach to the British
name such an ineffaceable stain of in-
gratitude and violence, as will be
eagerly blazoned forth and dissemina-
ted throughout Asia by the emissaries
of Russia. In every point of view,
our future position in Afghanistan
affords grounds for doubt and anxiety ;
our edifice of policy, if left to itself,
will, in all probability, speedily fall to
pieces ; and, if we are to support it by
quartering subsidiary troops in the
country, such an extension of our
vastly overgrown territory (for to this
it will, in fact, amount), will be an
evil scarcely less to be deprecated than
the other alternative. Had the autho-
rities in India inclined a favourable
ear a very few years, or even months
back, to the overtures of the different
chiefs who were then well disposed to
us, the necessity for our present arbi-
trary and precipitate measures would
not have occurred ; and a tenth of the
Sums which we have fruitlessly lavish-
ed on a faithless and tickle monarch in
Persia, would have secured us honest
and able allies in the immediate vici-
nity of our frontier. The whole story
of our recent transactions in Afghani-
stan, indeed, cannot be more justly and
concisely summed up than in the fol-
lowing pithy sentences of the United
Service Journal: — "* * * Russia and
Persia each sent an envoy to this ruler
of Cabul. He implored our friendship,
and a little money — we refused, and
threatened him. Russia and Persia
promised aid and money. He, of
course, accepted their offers. Here
was a gross political blunder, which,
as usual, must be repaired at the point
of the sword. A little aid would have
relieved Herat, which was making so
firm a resistance. The Afghan rulers
were most desirous of our friendship,
and the people, to a man, are invete-
rately opposed to their ' infidel' neigh-
bours, as they style the Persians"
(the Afghans being of the Sooni, or
orthodox sect of Islam, — the Persians
Sheahs, or heretics). " The disposi-
tions both of prince and people were
thus in our favour, while their country
lines our entire frontier, intervening
between us and our foes. £20,000
and fair words might have secured
their co-operation and averted this
crisis."
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
[Jan.
Our advance into Cabul will place
us in a new position with reference to
the Seik kingdom in the Punjab. It
is well known that the Afghans regard
their expulsion from that country, and
the proscription of the Moslem faith
in the territory where it was first plant-
ed in India by the swords of their
ancestors, as both a national and reli-
gious disgrace : and the promise of
support in attacking Runjeet Singh,
was one of the principal incentives to
the alliance which, unfortunately for
himself, Dost Mohammed lately con-
cluded with Persia. It might be an-
ticipated that the security from aggres-
sion in this quarter, which our acquir-
ing a paramount influence in Afgha-
nistan would afford him, would insure
the hearty co-operation of the old
" Lion of the Punjab" in our favour;
but recent accounts from India state,
that he has shown symptoms of pique
and dissatisfaction at being assigned
what he considers a secondary part in
the campaign, and has iu consequence
broken off an interview which had
been arranged between him and the
Governor-general. His interest, how-
ever, coincides too nearly with our own
in the present case, to admit of any
serious misunderstanding arising : and
the alliance will probably remain in-
tact during his life-time : but his death,
which, from his age and the ravages
made in his constitution by excessive
indulgence in spirits, cannot be far
distant, will be the signal for a scene
of anarchy and confusion of which our
close neighbourhood will not permit
us to remain indifferent spectators.
Like Ahmed Shah Doorauni, Runjeet
Singh has established an absolute mo-
narchy on the ruins of a republic : but
the revolution has extended to the re-
ligious as well as the civil admini-
stration : he has abolished the convo-
cations, or national diets, at the holy
city of Amritsir, thirty miles from La-
hore, at which the affairs of the Seik
nation were formerly discussed and
settled, and destroyed every vestige of
that liberty and equality on which the
followers of Gooroo Govind used in
former days to pride themselves. He
has established a disciplined force of
25,000 infantry " fully equal," in the
opinion of Burnes, " to the troops of
the Indian army," with a due propor-
tion of regular cavalry, and a formid-
able train of one hundred and fifty
pieces of artillery : but this system
1839.]
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
is unpopular in the country, and the
Frenchmen, by whom the regular
troops are officered, are viewed with
a jealous eye by the Seik Sirdars,
whom they have supplanted in posts of
military authority. The whole of the
improvements in the administration,
both military and civil, are, in fine,
hitherto regarded by the great body
of the Seiks as at best but hazardous
innovations : and it would require the
hand and head of a vigorous and ta-
lented successor to carry out to the
full extent the system which Runjeet
Singh has introduced. But his only
legitimate son, Kurruck Singh, so
far from possessing the qualifica-
tions which would enable him to
grasp the sceptre of his father, is
" almost imbecile, illiterate, and in-
animate," " takes no share in po-
litics, and conciliates no party."
There is, however, an adopted son,
Shere Singh, now governor of Cash-
mere, whose frank and martial charac-
ter, and unbounded generosity, have
given him great popularity among the
soldiery, of which he will doubtless en-
deavour to avail himself on the death
of the Raja, in order to set aside the
legitimate son, and seize the kingdom
for himself. But this will scarcely be
effected without a civil war ; and in
the confusion thus produced, it may
naturally be expected that the numer-
ous partizans of the ancien regime will
make an effort to oust both the aspir-
ants to monarchy, and restore the old
constitution in Church and State.
What the result of the struggle may
be, cannot of course be foreseen ; but
it is the opinion of Burnes, the latest
and most accurate traveller who has
visited these regions, that, " If Shere
Singh does not secure a supremacy,
this kingdom will probably relapse in-
to its former state of anarchy and
small republics," or " be subjected by
some neighbouring power." The ac-
cession of the Punjab to our own ter-
ritories, in which all past experience
demonstrates that such a state of
things must inevitably terminate,
•would be an acquisition in every point
of view most invaluable to the securi-
ty of British power. Its numerous
rivers, and the unrivalled fecundity of
the soil fertilized by their waters, have
caused the Punjab to be frequently
denominated the Netherlands of In-
dia ; and the pertinacity with which
the successive lines of defence, afford-
103
ed by these rivers, were defended by
the natives, in early ages against
Alexander, and in later times against
the incursions of the early Moslem
conquerors, has given the country an
additional feature of resemblance to
that battle-field of Europe. The ex-
tension of the British frontier to the
Indus, would give our territory a well
defined and defensible boundary, with
a series of positions in its rear, which,
even if the Indus were crossed by an
invading army, would require to be
forced in detail ; at present, there is
not a single fortress, not a river or a
mountain, between Delhi and our
frontier-station of Loodiana, which
could check an invader's progress af-
ter crossing the Suttege. Besides the
natural advantages to be derived from
the possession of the country, the
Seiks, naturally martial, and unencum-
bered by the privileges of caste, &c.,
which fetter the Hindoo population,
would furnish an inexhaustible supply
of hardy soldiers to fill the ranks of
our native armies ; the abundant and
regular pay, and the care with which
the comforts of the soldiery are pro-
vided for, would render our service
more popular than that of the discip-
lined troops of the present Raja, where
the pay is often in arrear, and the dis-
cipline does not extend beyond the
parade ground. Runjeet himself, in-
deed, once shrewdly remarked to an
English visitant at Lahore, that a re-
gular army did not suit the habits of
an Eastern prince, as it could not be
regularly paid ; and some of the Seik
officers, at the interview between the
Raja and Lord William Bentinck,
expressed great astonishment at being
told, in answer to an inquiry whether
the English troops often clamoured
for their pay, that such conduct would
be considered mutinous, and visited
with severe punishment.
But whatever may be the future
destinies of the Punjab, it is fortunate
that the shock of the impending war
must fall on its soil, in case of a tem-
porary reverse, rather than on any of
the districts under the sway of the
British. In removing the seat of the
conflict to a distance from our terri-
tories, the authorities have, beyond all
controversy, acted wisely. It is a fa-
vourite notion in England, that our
equitable institutions and impartial
administration of justice, with the
security of life and property thereby
IU4
afforded, as contrasted with the alter-
nate anarchy and despotic tyranny
previously prevailing1, have made our
rule so popular with the bulk of our
Indian subjects, as to ensure their ad-
herence in the event of a foreign in-
vasion ; but this is well known to be
a mere delusion by those who are prac-
tically acquainted with the country.
It may be true that the native mer-
chants of Calcutta, and the cultivators
of Hindostan Proper, feel some degree
of gratitude and attachment to a go-
vernment underwhich theyare exempt
from the various forms of oppression
and extortion still exercised in Oude
and other semi-independent states ;
but even among these classes consi-
derable distrust and discontent has
lately been excited by the vexatious
inquiries instituted as to the tenure of
their lands ; and at any time, or un-
der any ruler, any thing like Euro-
pean feelings of patriotism and loyalty
are utterly out of the question. But
in the northern and north-western
provinces, on which the storm of inva-
vasion would first burst, the case is
widely different.
The warlike and turbulent tribes of
Rajpootana, forming the military caste
of the Hindoo nation, foiled all the
efforts of the Emperors of Delhi to
complete their subjugation. Even now
their principal sovereignties acknow-
ledge only a slight and reluctant de-
pendence on the British power, and
would rise against it on the first ap-
pearance of a foreign standard on the
Indus. During the siege of Herat they
openly expressed their satisfaction at
the prospect of a change of masters j
and it is even strongly suspected that
secret agents from several Rajpoot
states communicated with the Russian
envoy in the camp of Mohammed
Shah. The Patans, or descendants
of the Moslem conquerors, of whom
thousands are scattered over the coun-
try, having no profession but arms,
and prevented by pride and prejudices
from entering our military service,
loathe us both as strangers and infidels,
whose presence and dominion, in the
land where they so long reigned su-
preme, is a perpetual stigma both on
their religion and their prowess. The
Mahrattas would eagerly seize the
opportunity to avenge their humilia-
tion ; and the numerous predatory
tribes of central India would soon
swell the array of a native insurrec-
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
[Jan.
tion against that power whose rigid
surveillance and omnipresent arms
have supplanted
"the good old rule, the simple plan,
That those should take who have the
power,
And those should keep who can."
In short, the first footing gained by a
Russian or foreign army in India
would be the signal for the instant
realization of the state of things pre-
dicted thirteen years ago, in the event
of Lord Combermere's failing before
Bhurtpore, by a great and good man,
whose published fragments, notwith-
standing a few inaccuracies, afford
almost the only clear and practical
view extant of our Indian possessions,
the late Bishop Reginald Heber: —
" Should he fail, it is unhappily but
too true that all northern and western
India, every man who owns a sword,
and can buy or steal a horse, from the
Suttege to the Nerbudda, will be up
against us, less from disliking us than
in the hope of booty." At the moment
when this was written, the mob were
shouting in the streets of Delhi, and
before the Residency, " the rule of
Company is over ! " and plunderings
on a small scale had already com-
menced, in anticipation of a second
victory to be gained by the defenders
of the Jut capital, already triumphant
over Lord Lake. The annals of the
Pindarry war show how easily a ma-
rauding force, held together solely by
the hope of spoil, is collected in India.
The famous freebooting leader, Ameer
Khan (lately dead), on being asked
how he contrived to keep together
the various tribes and religions found
in the ranks of his motley followers,
said that he always found the talis-
manic gathering- word Loot (plunder),
a sufficient bond of union in any part
of India ; and in those devastating
hordes of cavalry, the Cossacks and
Bashkirs would find a similarity not
only in habits and pursuits, but even
in name, the term Cosak being in com-
mon use throughout the north of In-
dia to indicate a predatory horseman.
An outbreak of all the independent
tribes, and of the turbulent spirits
within the British territories, would be
the immediate consequence of the ap-
pearance of an invader ; and even if
not a single foreign soldier survived to
recross the Suttege, a second Pindarry
war, with years of bloodshed and suf-
1839.]
Persia, Afghanistan, and India.
fering, would be requisite for the coer-
cion of the revolters and the restora-
tion of tranquillity. But the transfer-
ence of the seat of war to the right
bank of the Indus, and the interposi-
tion of the Punjab between it and our
own possessions, will avert the possi-
bility, as far as the present aspect of
affairs enables us to judge, of this
train of calamities.
On the success of the Cabul expe-
dition will probably depend the main-
tenance of peace on the other frontier ;
for, whether from secret leagues and
a concerted plan of operations, or from
an accidental concurrence, it is certain
that we are threatened on all sides.
The Ghoorkhas of Nepaul, who gave
us so much trouble in the last war,
are said to be already in motion along
the north-eastern frontier ; and the
language held by the new usurper in
Birmah is said to be so equivocal as to
have rendered the concentration of a
strong force in Arracan, ill as the
troops can at present be spared, a
matter of imperative necessity. Thus,
in every direction, the war-clouds are
gathering, and it is only by assuming
a firm and determined attitude that
we can hope to repel or divert them :
a temporizing or purely defensive line
of policy is now too late, and would be
considered only as an indication of
weakness and irresolution. The want
of a comprehensive and commanding
genius at the helm of Indian affairs
will, however, be severely felt ; and
the warmest friends of Lord Auckland
must admit that the present Governor-
general is lamentably deficient in the
105
powers which should enable him to
grapple with so momentous a crisis.
It is currently reported that, at the
present juncture, when every thing
depends upon promptitude and deci-
sion, both in the cabinet and the field,
he has addressed despatches to the
Government at home, demanding in-
structions how to act ! Would Hast-
ings or Cornwallis have hesitated
thus?
Since the above was written, intel-
ligence has been received that Kam-
ran has actually moved westward since
the raising of the siege of Herat, for
the purpose of asserting his claims to
the throne of Cabul ; and it is added
that Dost Mohammed, thus pressed
on all sides, has preferred reconcilia-
tion with his hereditary enemy to sub-
mission to the English and Seiks. If
this report prove correct,- we shall find
the whole Afghan population united
in arms to repel the intrusive King
Shooja; and if Kamran has recourse
to Russian aid, as will doubtless be
the case, in order to maintain his king-
dom, the gates of Herat will be thrown
open to Russia by our blundering po-
licy, after having repelled the tide of
invasion without our assistance. The
political and belligerent interests on
the west of the Indus, already suffi-
ciently entangled, will thus be compli-
cated beyond the possibility of unravel-
ment ; and it remains to be seen how
far the sword will succeed in effectually
severing the worse than Gordian knot
thus tied by our own vacillation and
mismanagement.
Old Roger. [lail
OLD ROGER.
OLD ROGER died : but how old Roger lived,
His wishes satisfied, his wealth derived,
Sing, Muse, disdaining not the oaten reed,
Whence humble notes of village song proceed.
Sly rural Muse, you did not fear to sing
Of frogs and mice, when Homer touched the string ;
Nor with your Virgil on the grassy plat,
To hum of bees, and to adorn a gnat.
Then doom not Roger to a silent ban,
The verse you gave to insects spare to man.
Got by a Herd, who kept a leash of cows,
Young Roger herited melodious lows j
Hence all the music of his after days
Were lows remodulate in various ways.
From garments long, from sock to pinching shoe,
He crawled and walked as other children do.
At last, despised within the chimney-nook,
Roger beheld that curious thing — a book.
With eye distended, and with mouth agape,
Amazed he pondered o'er the lettered shape.
For purpose what ? — from region where obtain'd
Those leaves, those scrawls ? — were mysteries unexplaiu'd.
Hence in the boy begot the thirst to know,
Chance showed the fountain ere he sought the flow.
A rustic Dame received a pupil new,
In Roger added to her clownish few.
She had the elements at her command,
The elements of grammar, not on land.
With pointed cap, and most dumbfounding rod,
That wrought more terror than the Jovial nod,
She ruled. But need I picture to a line
The art and magic of her discipline ?
One witty bard such mistress deigned to trace,
And, in describing one, display'd the race.
Now Roger studied at a task well set,
His mind was bent upon her alphabet ;
His body too, long stooping o'er the leaves,
That rope to fabricate which wisdom weaves.
Twelve years found Roger satisfied with lore,
He knew his letters, and he sought no more.
That mystery known, he cared not to pursue
Deep wisdom's labyrinth with lengthen'd clew.
Words he could spell, pronounce, and read aloud ;
He wrote his sirname, and it made him proud.
Nor was the conquering worlds to heroes grim,
A victory more illustrious to him.
Grown an adept, he sought his father's shed,
To share with cows the knowledge in his head.
Now when the crocus raised her golden glow,
To dream of spring upon a sheet of snow ;
Or, when the summer kissed the breeze to hush,
And, shocked by sun, the cherries learned to blush ;
Or, when the breezes sent the leaves afar,
And through the trees you saw the shivering star ;
1839.] Old Roger. 107
Still wander'd Roger, dapper lad and slim,
Minding his cows, his cows ne'er minding him.
The watery drop now drawn into the air,
The pregnant atmosphere shall onward bear,
There to descend in the ambrosial rain,
By shrubs absorb'd upon the growing plain.
Bright in a blossom shall the drop appear,
The new-born glory of the future year ;
Or, taking seed, and gendering with the oak,
Hewn into order by the shipwright's stroke,
As a proud ship, careering o'er the wave,
Bear the strong Briton, and the tempest brave.
Nature's so prone to make the small advance,
That half our greatness seems the work of chance.
Oh happy eve, one stilly eve in June,
When the day-flowers declined the inviting moon,
Young Roger, distant from his village strayed,
Where clustering grass a grateful pasture made j
There trees tall rising, form'd the dusky rook
A nestling covert in a leafy nook :
There, crouching low, a gypsy band out-spread—
The sky a counterpane, the turf a bed —
Their brawny limbs, luxurious to the blaze
Of stick-fire crackling, mixed with stubble maze j
While one, arm moving, upward, to and fro,
Struck merry music out at every blow.
Why pondered Roger? why withheld his feet?
His eyes to widen, and his heart to beat?
Why pause to move, yet feel his timid heels
Anxious to leap, confessing what he feels ?
'Twas music, music never heard till now,
Made his steps startle, and his spirit flow.
Thus at Dodona, where the oaks sublime
Bowed their eternal heads at passing time,
The truth-desirer, eager to be made
The slave of knowledge, was at first betrayed:
Music, soft witch, with her allaying tone,
His senses wrought, and willed him for her own.
Time fled, but Roger fled not from the spot :
The night came on, but Roger knew it not.
The cows came home without their usual guide,
The father wonder'd, and the mother cried,
" Where is my Roger? where my darling care?"
" Where is my Roger ?" — Echo answered, " Where?'
The father's bass, the mother's treble wail,
With Roger ! Roger ! terrified the vale.
Not since her name possessed the realms of air,
The raped Eurydice, the poet's fair,
Had nature been so voluble of song,
To weep a loss, or to proclaim a wrong.
Forth went the father, by a lanthorn's aid,
To mark the passages where cows had strayed ;
A weary task, but not a task mispent,
For mirth and music made his ears attent,
As through a hedge he saw, with angry eyes,
His dancing Roger attitudinize,
While up and down, in clumsy shoes, he leapt,
To the swarth fiddler who in motion kept.
Hoarse as a raven, and as loud he spoke —
A raven snared, whom rage and wonder choke—.
108 Old Roger. [Jan.
" Ho ! truant idler ! doomed to be undone,
Thy mother asks thee, and bewails her son."
But the caught youth the witching fiddle eyed,
And nearer drew him to the gipsy's side.
The fiddle ceased, and Roger's spirit fell ,•
More had it struck, his mind was to rebel ;
Had not the gipsy cautiously retired,
Awed by the light the Senior's anger fired.
The son and sire stood steadfast arm to arm,
The one with dancing, one with anger warm.
The sturdy parent, with relentless hand,
Collared the lout, a bailiff-like command,
No sooner touched than instantly obeyed,
As the King's fiat had the seizure made.
Sullen and slow the twain returned to home,
Forward stept one, whose ears did backward roam,
Roam to the covert and the gipsies' cot,
Bound by the music absent, not forgot :
The mind will wander to past scenes enjoyed,
As Judah weeping o'er her fane destroyed ;
The bygone dreams the present overcast,
Though sighs be memory's music of the past.
Sad sat .the mother, silent as the mouse,
That deep considers hath a cat the house.
Now for the son her inward heart was torn.
The cows were meek, and bloodless of the horn !
Where had he strayed ? What mischief overta'en —
What water drowned him — or, what peril slain ?
The ways he knew, — the secret winding wood,
The days of danger, and the time of flood !
Then where withholden ? or by what affair ?
Her best conclusions only came to — " where ?"
Fear fled ; red anger kindled to a glow ;
Then anger drowned him in a tearful flow.
Warmed from the heart, yet chilly looked the tears,
As the iced fire in shining glass appears.
What hope forego, what prospect to uphold,
Till speech found virtue in " I'll scold ! I'll scold ! "
Her mind revolved, as with a tinkling sound
The ventilating pane went round and round.
God gave us mothers — I have one to own !
She knew my wants ere I could make them known ;
She felt for me ere I could say I feel,
She taught my infant knees at prayer to kneel ;
I owe her much, and if I did her wrong,
May God forgive me, and deny me song.
No sooner echo brought the footsteps near,
Music well known to her accustomed ear,
No sooner had the door, e'er either knocked,
Received the shadows, 'twas unbarred, unlocked ;
The wife, the mother, with extended arms,
Hugged her two treasures, and forgot alarms.
The frown prepared expressed a ready joy,
A mother's kiss reproved the truant boy,
While Roger shrinking, to his meal betook,
Fagged in his body, thoughtful in his look.
Of why, to wherefore, and for what delay ?
The silent boy had no excuse to say.
Shame, and self-will, or inward glowing joy,
For the past scene made questioning annoy.
1839.] Old Roger. 109
Silence his safeguard, silence made him strong
As coated armour, 'gainst the shafts of •wrong.
But much the father to the matron spoke
Of that adventure, ere the morn awoke —
Praying the Lord, at many an interval,
An idle son might not his age befall.
As on sharp faculties a sudden fear,
While working mischief, hath attuned the ear,
Till the grand organ feels the beaten drum,
Stopp'd to one music, but to others dumb ;
So Roger's mind, still tortured and awake,
Discord discover'd for sweet music's sake,
As links half chain'd, perplexities increase,
His sought-for harmony denied him peace.
His quickened pulse a mighty madness feels,
A trembling palsy had possess'd bis heels,
His step now totters, now half upward rears,
And aye the fiddle tingled in his ears.
So when the muse, in the impassioned play,
Flooded Abdera with Andromeda,
The waking peasant, red with sleepless eyes,
Asked of his love, Andromeda replies, —
The busy merchant, ere his nightly sleep,
Forgot his gains with Perseus' wife to weep.
Fictitious wo man's real to believe,
The actor taught, so skilful to deceive,
Andromeda produced the doctor's pay,
The nation's fever was — Andromeda.
The father saw the cows were lean and spare,
The starving teat produced the watery fare ;
The feeder, leaner than the cows, as one
Vile spirit, moped his cattle and his son.
The watchful father, with enquiring eye,
Follow'd, unseen, in mental scrutiny, —
What could offend the cattle, what the child,
What food unhealthy, or what temper spoil'd ?
One day beheld them in the covert space,
The next day found them in the self-same place.
The cows drawn up to that peculiar spot,
Where shade was grateful, but the grass was not.
That spot so darling to his darling son,
For music cherished, but for cows undone j
Still daily here his magnet fancy veer'd
To touch the point where happiness appeared.
So love-sick girls, whose soldiers, at the war,
Knee- deep in blood are gaining fields afar,
Oft downcast, musing, seek the silent grove,
That first was conscious of their plighted love,
There vows recalled, and promises to pay,
Drawn on the heart of one so far away,
Oaths, smiles, and tears revive the bygone scene,
Love keeps the spot when summer leaves it, green.
" Why wander here ?" the hoary father said —
Anger, not age, beshook the offended head —
" Why here ? why ever where the barren ground
With grass uncarpeted the hoofs rebound ?
Are there no plains — no moistened banks of green ?
Is the world dotted to this border'd scene ?
Why, Roger, why these starving hides, and why
Thy laboured day return thine infamy ?"
110 Old Roger. [Jan.
" Reprove not, father ! if the printed hoof
Hath marked the cattle's hunger. Spare reproof.
This sheltered spot, my fancy and my home,
I care not hence, here lingering love to roam.
"Tis haunted, father, by enticing sound
In trees, in flowers, in rocks that ring around.
Here merry music first begot my sense,
All former joys were joy's impertinence.
Nought is substantial but the mirth I miss ;
Would the cows substance, then, restore my bliss ?
Find me the tones once merry o'er the plat,
I shall be happy, and your cows be fat."
" O son ! I've mourned thee since the luckless hour
The wizard people spelled thy native power,
Turned active limbs to infantine and weak,
Cropt the fresh rose, and left the sallow cheek.
Why mourn to follow the despised and bad ?
The bird, snare broken, sings for freedom glad.
My son, become not of the idle men,
To prowl for food, to rest you know not when ;
O'er hill, down dale, in summer sun or snow,
Marked on the brow the Cain-like wanderers go.
'Tis true they fiddle, but, accursed lot,
The soul lacks music, so it cheers them not."
" Father, I've read within the holy page,
How heavenly songs angelic hosts engage.
Were it but mine to draw such strain to earth,
I'd die contented as my heaven had birth."
" Boy, it will lead thee to the house for ale,
Where jests and air, and men and maids are stale.
'Twill damn thine innocence, and thou be taught
Te feel the mischief of thy knowledge sought.
Mothers will curse, and children will bemoan
A father like, and yet not like their own,
As beer bewilders, or as shame returns,
As now he kisses what he drunken spurns.
These, Roger, these, with imprecating rage,
Shall say thy fiddle lost the weekly wage,
Put madness in the heels, and made athirst
A throat for blasphemy and noise accurst.
Heavy thine arm will raise the tuneful bow,
That drew its profit by another's wo."
" Profit, my father 1 Shall the heavenly strains,
For lucre vile be sacrificed to gains ?
No, father, no, such money would I spurn ;
Mirth be mine errand, not my bread to earn.
These cows my care, my sustenance, my all,
To tend the pasture, and to keep the stall,
Hence other toil ! Sweet music in my heart,
All labour's anguish shall in song depart.
O joyful art ! at my returning home,
To bid the merry notes of wonder come,
Till the old cot, and all within it doat,
As magic Roger chose the witching note."
" Vows are well made when no temptation nigh."
" Warned of temptation, father, let me try?"
" The trial made, the longing then extends.
Where without crowds shall find the fiddler friends?"
" Father, I vow." The doubting father heard.
« I swear!" said Roger ; and he kept his word.
1839.] Old Roger. \\\
The fiddle came. The Parson undertook
. To solve the crotchets of the lesson-book.
Of moody aspect, yet of manners bland,
Men loved the Parson they could understand.
Plain truth his teaching saw hot tears pursue,
Himself oft weeping at the scenes he drew.
He loved glad faces ; saying, honest mirth
Was Christian doctrine, showing inward worth.
He liked good sayings, that were not ill timed ;
He loved sweet music — and they say he rhymed.
Here had I sung, invoked the violin,
The end it answers, and the origin ;
The men illustrious by the viol made,
The viol which illustrious fingers play'd,
But that I trembled, when my bow was drawn,
At critic grinders, and the audient yawn.
What was the sky to Roger ? what the world ?
What heroes peaceful, or what flag unfurl'd ?
War, peace, creation bended to his bow,
To conquer which his only aim to know.
He conquer'd, too, and as the horse hair laid
Across the cat, Mirth felt it, and obeyed.
Ah ! Roger old, methinks I see thee now,
Scarce had the Priest more reverend a brow,
When, full of zeal, thy hearty voice outpour' d,
" Sing we the praise and glory of the Lord."
A white smock-frock, neat plaited at the breast,
Pearl-button'd, heav'd upon his manly chest.
Around his neck, loose flowing with a swing,
A kerchief blacker than the raven's wing ;
In shorts as yellow as the yolky egg,
In snow-white stockings that adorn'd his leg ;
The senseless ground, impressive of his tread,
Confess'd his boots were adequate to lead j
As in low hat, with bag beneath his arm,
That hid at once, and yet display'd his charm —
His charm that made life harmony and gay,
To lead at church he led the miry way.
Four vicars did unto the desk succeed,
Since Roger first acquired power to lead.
Of habits various, as of various mind,
Yet all to Roger were respectful kind.
His fiddle had the comprehensive ease,
The mild to tickle, and the stern to please.
Four vicars died, yet Roger fiddled on,
True as old patrons had been never gone ;
Nor be it blasphemy, at church, to say,
Sunday no Sabbath had be been away.
Still with three cows he kept away distress,
The mystic number, neither more or less j
Of three possess'd he enter'd upon life,
Possess'd of three he quitted mortal strife.
Nor wife had Roger, or a child to show —
These luxuries lost, consoled for by his bow.
Dull time rejoiced to hear the ancient sing
• Of Abbot Cantuar and John the king ;
Of Robin Gray, and Hood's illustrious men,
Made famous by an unrecorded pen :
Of William's ghost, at every pointed pause,
Twinkling his eye with inward bought applause.
112 Old Roger. [Jan.
Grief knew no neighbourhood where Roger play'd,
His heart was harmless as the mirth he made;
His habits happy, as the well-set chime,
Which each hour tuning, smooths the course of time.
Thus milking cows, and music his employ,
Roger turned ninety might be called a boy, —
A boy, in all his innocent delight,
His day was healthy, undisturbed his night,
When, one sad hour, I heard the tolling bell
Shock the still vale with Death's recording knell.
" Enquire who's dead ?" — The news return to hand, —
" Old Roger, sir, has sought the better land."
" Is Roger dead? — sure Roger could not die!"
" Dead in his chair, his fiddle laying by."
His end was sudden, and his will was short ;
For will was rummaged, writ in rustic sport, —
" My cot and cows I give to neighbour John,
God grant he prosper like bis master gone.
In oaken coffin let me take mine ease.
Let John's bequest be subject to the fees.
And in the coffin let my fiddle rest,
-Strung, tuned, the bow reclining on my breast.
This be John's care : to this his heirship bound.
Signed by me, Roger, all in health and sound."
Smiling above, but sorrowful beneath,
The day that Roger sought the house of death.
Sad was the sexton, still the village girls,
The lads uncapp'd, and aired their carrot curls.
Each heart was heavy, though it knew not why,
Tears, too, were ready, yet refrain'd the eye.
For Roger's loss, though tearless not unwept,
All felt the village and its music slept.
Kin had he none, yet mourners were supplied,
Whose grief spoke inward what the tongue denied.
So awful death appear'd in Roger dead,
The very tones to call it awful fled.
E'en the vile dog, that used to bay aloud,
At tolling bells, look'd tongue-tied at the crowd,
With tail curled round, he wonder'd at the mass,
As now he moped upon the human grass.
0 ! cheerful news to my desponding heart,
A flower may one day be my fleshly part ;
1 on a grave a little daisy blown,
Be cull'd, be kiss'd, admired, though now unknown ;
Then rest my muse, rest Roger, rest my tear,
Let the world scorn us, and the critic sneer.
P. S.
Temple Ewell, Kent.
1839.]
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
113
MITCHELL'S SECOND AND THIRD EXPEDITIONS.
IN all new countries, the discovery
of the course of rivers is most import-
ant for many reasons. It is along
their borders that the most fertile land
is to be found, and in consequence the
chief settlements are to be formed. It is
by proceeding1 along their course, that
the chief facilities for exploring the
country are to be obtained, by boating,
&c. The volume of their waters,
also, gives strong indication of the
country in which their source lies. If
it is large, it probably comes from a
mountainous region. If its current is
slow and placid, that region is probably
distant ; if rapid, it is probably near.
Even the nature of its mud deter-
mines the country from which it comes ;
and finally, if it reaches the sea, or
communicates with some other river,
it supplies an opening into the land,
or leads to the discovery of another
stream ; and in either case, it offers an
advantage to the land, nearly of the
same kind as a new artery in the
human frame. In 1833 it was sug-
gested to the local authorities at Syd-
ney by the Colonial Office, that the
river Darling, which runs to the north-
west of the British settlement, might
be beneficially explored. Major Mit-
chell, as Surveyor- General, took upon
himself the command and arrange-
ment of the expedition. Two light
whale-boats were constructed at the
dock-yard of Sydney, and placed in a
boat-carriage, or large waggon, made
on the ingenious model suggested by
Mr Dunlop, the King's Astronomer
at Paramatta. - The expedition con-
sisted of twenty-one men, besides Mr
Cunningham the botanist, Mr Lori-
mer, a surveyor, and the Major him-
self. The time will come when those
details, apparently trifling as they are,
will have a weighty interest ; when
some great empire, or vast range of
powerful communities, will cover the
desolate spots traversed by such expe-
ditions, and posterity will look to their
solitary wanderings, their indistinct
objects, and even their imperfect suc-
cesses, as we now look to the early
history of Greece, or trace the foot-
steps of the original invaders of Italy.
But another circumstance of imme-
diate interest is, the conduct of the
men composing this little troop of dis-
coverers. They seem, on both occa-
sions, to have been chiefly, if not whol-
ly, convicts ; yet the Surveyor- General
appears never to have had any ground
of complaint against them, under cir-
cumstances of serious difficulty, severe
privations in point of food, water, and
rest ; trying at all times, but certain to
have brought out symptoms of vio-
lence and bitterness, if those feelings
were in their nature, and incurable by
discipline. On his second expedition
he even took nine of those who had
attended him before; and their con-
duct deserved the same panegyric
which had been given to their former
comrades.
We feel a strong [interest m direct-
ing the public consideration to those;
facts, coming from so respectable an
authority. We point to them, as offer-
ing the strongest possible argument
against the penitentiary system, which
to enormous expense adds enormous
cruelty, and in ninety-nine instances
out of a hundred finishes by enormous
failure. To take a single instance,
the Penitentiary at Millbank on the
Thames cost, we believe, upwards of
a million sterling ; what it has cost
since in repairs, in its establishment of
governor, officers, and attendants, and
what it costs daily iu the support of
the prisoners, notoriously amounts to
a sum that would purchase the fee-
simple of a province. As to the hu-
manity of the scheme, what cruelty
can be greater than shutting up u
foolish maid-servant, who has pur-
loined a pocket-handkerchief of her
mistress, or been tempted by the
glitter of a ring, or a brooch worth a
few shillings, and condemning this
giddy and ignorant creature to an in-
carceration where she might nearly as
well be in her grave, or perhaps bet-
ter? since no discipline, short of solitary
confinement, can prevent her receiving
many a lesson of vice ; and against
solitary confinement the common sense
and common feeling of the country
protest ; for solitary confinement often
Three Expeditions, &c., into the Interior of Eastern Australia. By Major Mitchell.
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX. H
114
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
[Jan.
inflicts insanity, a suffering which the
law certainly never contemplated in
the sentence. This woman, if sent
into the world again, comes without a
character, and probably falls into
still worse habits. But if sent to Syd-
ney in the beginning of her punish-
ment, she might have been a wife and
a mother before the regular term of
her penitentiary punishment had half
expired ; and be leading a life of health,
decency, and industry, instead of being
turned into a career which can only in-
crease her own suffering, and the shame
of society. As to the nonsense talked
about gradations of punishment, expa-
triation, &c. &c.,they may figure in the
speeches of itinerants, the cheap-cha-
rity and wordy-humanity people ; but
what comparison can be made between
the wretchedness of being buried alive
in the impure air, and more impure
association of a huge prison, and being
sent to a country abounding with
every advantage for mankind, singu-
larly healthy, unlimited in its extent,
offering the hope of competence, and
even of wealth, and offering what is
perhaps a more powerful and conso-
ling stimulant to the human mind, the
consciousness that their past shame
may be blotted out, and their course
be begun anew ?
It is for 'the last reason among
others, that we deprecate the attempts,
which we see making, to restrict the
colonization of Australia henceforth
to settlers of a better order ; or even
to offer peculiar encouragement to
settlers of this description in Sydney,
and the original convict provinces.
The land is wide enough for general
emigration, and the new settlements
on the South and West are capable
of containing all the superfluous po-
pulation not only of England but of
Europe. But the great point is, to
preserve a place in which the convict,
shaking off the depression which hangs
on every man's face publicly humili-
ated, shall be put to shame no more,
but shall be able to recommence life
with the hope of attaining character ;
an object to which all others in the
colony ought to give way — a great
moral renovation, which is a thousand-
fold worth all the commercial or ter-
ritorial advantages of this mighty set-
tlement ; and which alone can entitle
it to its highest name, that of an illus-
trious experiment in the restoration
of our fallen fellowmen to the qualities
and merits which fit them for their
social duties here, and for the infinite
hopes and purposes of their existence,
when they shall have passed away
from the world.
On the 9th of March, 1835, the party
left Paramatta for the journey. The
boats were in the carriage, which was
followed by seven carts, and as many
packhorses, carrying provisions for
five months. Two mountain baro-
meters were borne by two men, the
only service required of them during
their travel. As the point where the
operations were to commence was at
Buree, 170 miles from Sydney, and the
way was over a mountainous country,
the Major sent the expedition on be-
fore him, and, attending to the business
of his department in the meantime,
followed them on the 31st of March.
On his way to the point of rendez-
vous, the Major gives us details of
the country, which in that direction is
chiefly mountainous, and at present
barren, but which may yet form an
Australian Switzerland, and be the
resource of the fashionable invalidism
of the South against the heats of
summer. But the heights at last ter-
minate, and Bathurst plains stretch
before the eye. Here we have
some striking evidences of the pro-
gress of civilisation, and some of
those observations on settlement,
which, from a man of sense and expe-
rience, are always so well worth re-
cording. The houses of the people
are scattered over the extensive open
country, which give a cheerful ap-
pearance to what was so lately a vast
solitude — " Those open downs, only a
few years before, must have been as
desolate as those of a similar charac-
ter are still on the banks of the Nam-
moy and Karaula. Peace and plenty
now smile on the banks of Wam-
bool (the native name for the Mac-
quarrie) ; and British enterprise and
industry may produce in time a simi-
lar change on the banks of the Nam-
moy, Gwydic, and Karaula, and
throughout the extensive regions be-
hind the coast range further north-
ward, all still unpeopled, save by
the wandering Aborigines, who may
then, as at Bathurstown, enjoy that
security and protection to which they
have so just a claim."
Some important remarks are made
upon the precipitancy of building be-
fore a general plan has been formed ; a
1830.]
MitclieUs Second and Third Expeditions.
precipitancy which has deranged the
appearance of some of our own cities,
and which cannot be too soon reme-
died, if we would have them any thing
better than a confused mass, scarcely
better than a huge suburb. The
Major tells us — " The inconvenience
of a want of plan for roads and streets
is strikingly obvious at Bathurst. A
vast tract had, indeed, been reserved as
a township, but then, no streets hav-
ing been laid out, allotments for
building could be obtained neither by
grant nor purchase. The site for the
town was therefore distinguished only
by a Government house, jail, court-
house, post-office, and barracks ; while
the population had collected in sixty
or eighty houses built in an irregular
manner on the Sydney side of the
river, at the distance of a mile from
the site of the intended town. The
consequence of a want of arrange-
ment became equally apparent in the
line of approach to the township; for
the only one, passing through a muddy
hollow called the * Bay of Biscay,'
could not be altered, because the adja-
cent land had been granted to indivi-
duals. Thus, when the good people
of Bathurst prayed in petitions for
delivery from their Bay of Biscay,
and a dry and more direct line for the
road had been easily found and mark-
ed out, the irregular buildings and
private property stood in the way of
the improvement."
However, something has been done.
The streets are now laid out, a church
and many houses are erecting, and a
new road leading over firm ground to
the site of the intended bridge has been
opened with the consent of the owner
of the land. Part of the reserved land
of the township has been given to
small farmers, a class very essential
to the increase of population, but by
no means numerous in New South
Wales. If this was written three years
ago, we have not a doubt that by this
time it is a flourishing community.
The whole settlement is described in
simple, yet very inviting terms — " The
country beyond the Macquarrie affords
excellent sheep-pasturage, the hills con-
sisting chiefly of granite. A number of
respectable colonists are domiciled on
the surrounding plains, and the socie-
ty of their hospitable circle presents a
very pleasing picture of pastoral hap-
piness and independence." All this
is very interesting to those who are
115
naturally anxious to ascertain the re-
sult of this noblest of all experiments
in the great cause of human ameliora-
tion. The Major had remained for a
day or two at the house of Mr Rankin,
one of the settlers ; and from this
point he took his departure into the
wilderness. After concluding his
business with the people appointed to
construct the roads, he says, " I re-
turned to join a very agreeable party
assembled by my friend to partake of
an early dinner, and witness my de-
parture. Nothing could have been
more exciting to an adventurous mind,
than the waving of handkerchiefs by
the ladies, and the cheers of the gen-
tlemen, which greeted me when I at
length mounted to pursue my journey
into the unknown regions to the West-
ward." His friend Rankin accompa-
nied him for the afternoon. It appears
to have been difficult to leave the Ma-
jor, and we can well understand the
gratification of enjoying as much of
such a man as they could. At a late
hour they arrived at the house of a
settler, Charles Booth : there was an-
other instance of the general pro-
gress. Some years had elapsed since
the narrator had first slept a night at
Booth's hut, or cattle station, then an
inn for the occasional passer-by. " It
was then inhabited by some grim-
looking stockmen (cattle-keepers), of
whom Charley, as my friend called
him, was one. Now the march of
improvement had told wonderfully on
the place. The hut was converted
into a house, in which the curtained
neatness and good arrangement were
remarkable in such an out-station.
Mr Booth himself looked younger by
some years ; and we at length disco-
vered the source of the increased com-
forts of his house, in a wife, whom he
had wisely selected from among the
recently- arrived emigrants."
All this is highly curious and highly
important. Gay dinners and social
parties, ladies and gentlemen meeting
in numbers sufficient to make society ;
pleasantries and pleasures going on
among the better order ; curtained
rooms and domestic neatness among
the lower ; and peace and plenty, to a
considerable and to an increasing ex-
tent, among all ; and those in the wild-
est of all wild countries, where, till
within these few years, no civilized
step had ever trod, and where the sa-
vage and the kangaroo were the only
Mitchells Second and Third Expeditions.
[Jan.
wanderers over the soil ; and all this
new existence of man and new hope
of empire is at the antipodes !
The Major at length, on the 5th of
April, took leave of his friend, and
commenced his march into the soli-
tude. The mountain pass of the Ca-
nabolas lay before him, and, on cross-
ing the lofty range which here divides
the counties of Bathurst and Welling-
ton, the summit was distant only four
miles. The country in the neighbour-
hood of that mass consists of trap and
limestone, and is, on the whole, very
favourable for sheep-farming. That
to the westward of the Canabolas was
still unsurveyed. " Before sunset,"
the Major says, " I joined my ' merry
men in the green wode ;" and in my
tent, which I found already pitched
on the sweet-scented turf, I could at
length indulge in exploratory schemes,
free from all the cares of office."
The country which opened on him
from this height was of a noble cha-
racter. Ascending the mountain of
the Canabolas, he stood on an eleva-
tion which rises to 4461 feet. From
this point a vast extent of country lay
below. A chain of primitive rock ex-
tended into the interior, commanding
the chief rivers of the horizon — the
Lachlan and Murrimbidgee on one
side, and the Macquarrie, Bogan, and
Darling on the other. On this high
chain he determined to shape his
course, as affording the safest line of
route in the winter to the low interior
country, while the heights would en-
able him to extend his survey west-
ward with the more accuracy. To
the southward he saw Mr Oxley's va-
rious hills, rising like so many islands
from the level country on the Lachlan,
for in the north-west the level country
exactly resembled an open sea, while
westward it was broken by the summits
of Croker's and Harvey's Ranges. Af-
ter examining this wide and wild ex-
panse, he determined to move in a di-
rection bearing west of north. His
route in that quarter continued for
some days over a fine country, " along
beautiful levels and easy slopes," while
bold granite peaks, clothed with pine,
rose on both sides. On this route they
were joined by Charles King, we pre-
sume a convict, but a man whose ser-
vices the narrator had taken some
trouble to obtain, and who gave very
sufficient proof of his personal qualities,
at least for travel, by coming from
Emu plains, a distance of 145 miles, in
two days ! The Major rewarded this
exploit in a characteristic manner, by
giving his name to a watercourse on
which they had encamped. Thus
Charles King is canonized in Austra-
lian history.
But the usual difficulty of exploratory
travel in this country soon began to
be severely felt ; water was not to be
found except at long intervals. Still,
we are to remember that this was in
the plain of the desert, and that a win-
ter movement might have exhibited
even a superfluity of water. We are
to take into consideration, also, the
want of all the expedients which civi-
lisation so readily brings along with
it for treasuring and conveying that
great necessary of life. We shall yet
see the reservoir, the aqueduct, the
fountain, the dam, and the other simple
but effectual means for irrigating the
land. Every country in Europe would
have a drought every year but for
human industry. The party now ad-
vanced. They had passed, during the
earlier hours of a sultry day, through
valleys, where the oat grass, waving
yellow, deluded them with the resem-
blance of a crop of grain. But this
only made the real desolation more
apparent, abandoned as the scene was
by man, beast, and bird. No living
thing took refuge in them, for water
was wanting there — a want obvious
from the dismal silence, for not an in-
sect hummed. On this occasion the
Major, who evidently acted not only
as the head but the heart of the expe-
dition, gallopped forward alone to look
for water. He followed a long valley,
and there by degrees found the ground
grow moister. At some miles further
he found water in the crevices of a
rock, and, a little lower down, abun-
dance for the cattle in a large pond.
After watering his thirsty horse, he
gallopped back with the encouraging
news, and brought up the whole party
to the spot of luxury. They had now
emerged from those parched spots,
come to a fine open country, and had
before them enough of water. Simple
as this last adjunct seems, it in reality
was the prime enjoyment of all. The
narrator strikingly and truly observes
— " It is on occasions such as these
that the adventurer has intervals of
enjoyment which amply reward him
for his days of hardship and privation.
His sense of gratification and repose
Mitchctts Second and Third Expeditions.
1889.]
must be quite unknown to the man
whose life is counted out in a monoto-
nous succession of hours of eating and
sleeping within a house ; whose food is
adulterated by salts, spices, and sauces,
intolerable to real hunger ; and whose
drink, instead of the sweet refreshing
distillation from the heavens, consists
of artificial extracts, loathed by the
really thirsty man, with whom the pure
element resumes its true value, and
establishes its true superiority over
every artificial kind of drink."
All this is well told, and all this is
partly true. The dulness of the ap-
petite is the origin and the punishment
of epicurism ; and no luxury that epi-
curism ever made a beast of itself to
enjoy, is worth the tenth part of the
pleasure of the simplest food to real
hunger, or the simplest drink to real
thirst.
Yet the extraordinary varieties of
food, supplied by nature, indicate an
allowance for variety of appetite and
fulness of enjoyment. It is impossible
to doubt that the grape, for instance,
was intended for human indulgence in
the most peculiar force of the word,
for it is fitted for nothing else ; it is not
sufficiently substantial for food, and
we can discover no other use for it
than the one to which it has been ap-
plied, by almost a human instinct, from
the beginning. Perhaps, the more exact
view of the case would be, that though
Providence, in its unwearied care for
the enjoyments as well as for the high-
er objects of human life, offers a vast
variety of gratification, chiefly restrict-
ed to those who, by the result of their
own intellectual or physical efforts, or
those of their fathers, have been en-
abled to purchase them ; yet it rewards
self-denial, vigour, and industry even in
the humblest ranks of man, by giving
them a gratification even of the senses,
fully equivalent to the luxury of the
rich who make a proper use of their
capacities of enjoyment, and much
more than equivalent to the luxury of
that portion of the rich who gorge and
grossly indulge. Still, we are by no
means aware of the advantage of living
without houses, or of drinking even
the purest water at all seasons and all
hours. This fantasy may be forgiven
to the enthusiasm of a traveller, but
we have no doubt that the Major felt
other sentiments rise within him as
he returned within view of the smoke
even of Sydney.
117
The party proceeded through ver-
dant vales, increasing in width as they
followed the channel of the stream
from the mountain, and which, even
at this season, contained abundant
pools of water. Here- the sound of the
native's hatchet was heard ; and they
met some of the people. The coun-
tenance of the first native who came
up to them was a fine specimen of
man in a state of nature. He had no-
thing artificial about him but a white
band round his brow, in token of
mourning for the dead. His manner
was grave, his eye keen and intelligent,
and as the party were encamping and
were about making a fire, he took a
burning stick, which one of his tribe
had brought, and presented it in a
manner expressive of welcome. At a
distance their women sat at fires, and
the voices of children were heard.
" The scene," says the Major, " as-
sumed a more romantic character,
when —
' Like a queen, came forth the lovely
moon
From the slow-opening curtains of the
clouds,
Walking in beauty to her midnight throne.
The soft notes of the flute of one of
the men fell pleasantly on the ear,
while the eye was equally gratified by
the moonbeams as they shot through
the trees, or fell amid the curling
smoke of the encampment. The cat-
tle were refreshing in green pastures.
It was Saturday night, and next day
the party were to rest. We had thus
reached, in one month from Sydney,
the plains leading to the Darling, hav-
ing placed all the mountain ranges
behind us ; and those reflections height-
ened our enjoyment of the scene round
us, and sweetened our repose."
The reader who shall follow our
sketch on the map, will perceive the
advance which had been already made,
and feel a double interest in what is
to come. The expedition, on the 18th
of April, turned towards the river Goo-
bang in the N. W. direction. The
country was still level. They crossed
over two eminences, but their carts
met with no impediment in a traverse
of fifteen miles ; there they were in a
" land flowing with honey ;" the na-
tives extracting it from the trees with
their tomahawks, and exhibiting no
slight ingenuity in discovering the
combs. They would catch one of the
bees, and attach to it, with some resin
Mitchells Second and Third Expeditions.
116
or gum, the down of the swan or owl.
The bee thus became marked in its
movements, and was watched going
into its hive. The spot thus discover-
ed was soon searched, and the honey
decided to be good prize.
On the 14th of May, the expedi-
tion had one of those encounters with
the natives, which, to do them jus-
tice, every effort had been made to
avoid, but which, in the ignorance and
suspicious nature of those wild peo-
ple, it was extremely difficult to avoid.
They had moved some miles along
the Bogan; and as the party were
pitching their tents, Major Mitchell
went, as was his custom, into the bed
of the river with his barometer ; when
he heard from one of the ponds down
its channel some hideous yells, then a
shot, and then the voice of the over-
seer shouting " hold him ! " On hur-
rying up, he saw a native running, bleed-
ing, and screaming mostpiteously. The
overseer came up, limping, and said,
that on approaching the pond with his
gun, looking for ducks, this native
was there alone, sitting with his dog
at a small fire ; that, as soon as the
native saw him, he yelled, and, running
in a furious manner up the bank, im-
mediately threw a fire-stick, and one
of his bommerangs, the latter of which
struck the overseer on the leg, the
other going over his shoulder. The
native still coming forward with his
weapon, the man discharged his gun
at him in his own defence, alarmed as
any man might have been under such
circumstances. Major Mitchell's con-
duct on this vexatious affair was manly
and humane. Notwithstanding the
entreaties of the man that he should
not trust the savage, he went up to
him with a green branch in his hand.
The savage evidently understood the
sign, for he ceased calling out, threw
down his weapon, and sat on the
ground. He was found to have re-
ceived the shofm various parts of his
body, but chiefly in his left hand and
wrist, which were covered with blood.
He was finally prevailed on to go to
the tents to have his wounds dressed,
which was done, one of the men, whom
they called the doctor, applying lint
and friar's balsam to them. During
this operation, he stared wildly round
him at the sheep and bullocks, horses
and tents. It was evident that they
were all new to him.
" One circumstance," says the Ma-
[Jan.
jor, " may serve, however trifling, to
give an idea of the characteristic quick-
ness of those people. The savage had
asked for a bit of fire to be placed be-
side him (the constant habit of the
naked aborigines), and on seeing a
few sparks of burning grass running
towards my feet, he called out to me,
' we, we (tire, fire), that I mi^ht avoid
having my clothes burnt. This, in a
savage, amid so many strange objects,
and suffering from so many wounds,
received from one of us, was at least
an instance of that natural civility
which sometimes distinguishes the ab-
origines of Australia. The man of the
woods at last asked my permission to
depart, and that he might take a fire-
stick ; and in going away he said
much, which, from his looks and ges-
tures, I understood as expressive of
goodwill, or thanks, in his way. He
further asked me to accompany him
till clear of the bullocks, and so he left
us."
It seems probable to the Major, that
this unlucky event arose solely from
their approaching too suddenly the
pools where the natives usually resort.
Whether this arises from jealousy of a
possession so valuable in the hot sea-
son, or from some share of that super-
stition by which the celebrated Cap-
tain Cook lost his life, if the ponds
were "tabood," the fury of the natives
at the approach of a stranger might be
accounted for.
Having at length reached the Dar-
ling, they proposed to use the boats,
which, by the judicious manner in
which they had been slung, had thus
come across five hundred miles of dif-
ficult country, without the slightest in-
jury. Having first erected a stout
stockade and blockhouse, for the pro-
tection of those whom the exploring
party were to leave behind, they
launched the boats, which they
named the Discovery and Resolution,
after Cook's ships, and took three
months' provision on board, leaving
the same quantity for the little gar-
rison, and a month's provision for
the movement of both parties home-
ward.
The voyage soon came to a conclu-
sion. Leaving seven men behind, the
Major and fifteen had embarked in the
boats. But the river, though broad,
was soon found to be obstructed by
rocks and shallows. In the evening
they were forced to give up the at-
1839.J
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
tempt in that quarter, and returned to
the fort. But they had acquired some
knowledge of the river, which being
remarkably transparent, they had seen
the nature of its bed, masses of ferru-
ginous clay ; they had also seen large
lishcs in shoals, suspended " like birds
in the air." On their return they came
in sight of two of the natives fishing in
two canoes. On observing the boats,
they took to their paddles and fled to
the bank, leaving their canoes behind
them. These vessels were models of
the most primitive construction ;
simply a sheet of bark with a little
clay at each end. Yet in each of them
there was a fire, as the weather was
then very cold. In these canoes the
native stands erect, and propels them
•with his fishing spear. He moves very
rapidly. Proceeding once more on
horseback, the exploring party came
again in view of the Darling, on the
4th of June. On their way they
passed what seemed to them an ex-
panse of clover, but with a yellow
flower. " The verdure and perfume
were new to my delighted senses,"
poetically observes the Major, " and
my passion for discovering something
rich and strange was fully gratified ;
while my horse, defying the rein,
seemed no less pleased in the midst of
so delicious a feast as this verdure
must have appeared to him." But his
next gratification, that of finding the
river again, with its channel broader
and deeper than ever, was rather al-
layed by his coming into the presence
of the blacks. Judging from their
fires, he had arrived in the quarters of
a large tribe. Their roads appeared
in all directions, and their women were
fishing in the river. The buzz of po-
pulation gave the banks the cheerful
character of a village in a populous
country." The blacks exhibited but
little of either surprise or alarm. A
sturdy man hailed him from a distance,
and came boldly up, followed by seven
others, with an old woman. The
Major alighted and met them, first
sending, at' their request, the horses
out of sight. The old woman " was
a loquacious personage, scarcely al-
lowing the elder of the men to say a
word." She was probably his wife,
and asserted her sex's privilege ; hu-
man nature is the same every where.
But all were not content with this
strife of tongues. As the party fol-
lowed the downward course of the
119
river, the natives became more nume-
rous and more hostile. One of the
men, who had been tending the
sheep, came in one morning reporting
that one of the blacks had pointed a
spear at him, and had prevented the
sheep from being driven home. On
Major Mitchell's hastening to the spot,
with three men, he found the black
still there, and receiving their pacific
approaches and their green branch
with manifest contempt. He, and a
Doy who was with him, threw dust at
them with their toes, a singular co-
incidence with the Oriental style of
scorn. The savage, in the meanwhile,
talked loud and long. However, the
affair ended, for the time, without mis-
chief, the savage retiring, but with
his spear stiil pointed, and evidently
retiring only to summon his tribe.
Late in the afternoon the result of
the morning's meeting was found, in
the arrival of a party of the savages,
exhibiting the most violent gestures,
refusing to sit down as usual with [the
people, tossing the branches angrily,
and spitting. One of them attempt-
ing to take the pistols from the Major's
belt, he fired it at a tree, to try the
effect upon them. The effect was un-
expected and extraordinary. " As if
they had previously suspected that we
were demons, and had at length a clear
proof of it, they, with tenfold fury,
with hideous snouts and demoniac
looks, crouching and jumping to their
war-song, repeated all their gestures
of defiance, spitting, springing with
the spear, and throwing dust at us, as
they slowly retired. In short, their
hideous crouching, measured gestures,
and low jumps, all to the tune of a
wild song, and the fiendish glare of
their black countenances, now all eyes
and teeth, seemed a fitter spectacle for
Pandemonium, than for the light of
the sun. Thus these savages slowly
retired along the river's bank, all the
while dancing in a circle, like the
witches in Macbeth, and leaving us in
expectation of their return, and per-
haps an attack in the morning."
There are few things more remark-
able than that the idea of enchant-
ments and superstitious influences
should be discoverable in every part
of the globe, however fierce, ignorant,
and savage. The idea itself would
seem to imply some degree of refine-
ment, as it is scarcely natural, and as
it evidently requires some thought,
120
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
[Jan.
and that thought of a different kind
from any thing connected with the ne-
cessities of daily life. The natives ad-
vanced on the next day, but with more
formality. They came " with a kind
of processional chant, slowly moving
their green boughs." The appearance
of one of the savages was striking.
" There was evidently some supersti-
tion in the ceremony, the man being
probably a coruje, or priest. He was
an old man, with a large beard, and
bushy hair. None but himself, and
some other old men, wore any kind of
dress, and this consisted only of a
small cloak of skins fastened over his
left shoulder. While this man of the
woods waved his bough aloft, and
chanted that monotonous hymn, the
idea of the Druids arose in my mind.
It was obvious that the ceremony be-
longed to some strange superstition."
He occasionally turned his back to-
wards them, touched his eyebrows,
nose, and breast, as if crossing him-
self, then pointed his arm to the sky,
then laid his hand on his breast, all the
while chanting, with an air of remark-
able solemnity, and as if quite ab-
stracted. This, however, was not
followed by any immediate attack,
as it was probably a previous devote-
ment of the strangers to their infernal
gods.
On the 1 2th of July, the expedition
turned its steps homewards. The
course of the river had been traced
for upwards of three hundred miles,
through a country which did not sup-
ply a single stream, and in which there
grew but little grass or trees. The
hostility of the natives, too, doubtless
rendered the advance of so small a
party likely to be wholly frustrated.
The identity of the Darling with the
river seen entering the Murray, seem-
ed nearly ascertained, and the continu-
ation of the survey to that point was
not an object worth the peril likely to
attend it.
There are few men who feel no
gratification in the approach to home ;
and the sight of the blockhouse, which
they had named Fort Bourke, and
which they reached on the 10th of
August, raised the spirits of the whole
party. From the fort they had tra-
velled 600 miles in direct distance. It
is true, that they were still 300 miles
from the frontier of the colony, which
was 170 miles from Sydney. Still
they were on their way home. The
Darling was found to have run through
a desert, yet the time will come when
the use of such a stream to the desert
itself will be felt. It had been traced
660 miles without receiving any tri-
butary ; its water sparklingly trans-
parent, and its stream undiminished ;
the bed of the river being at an aver-
age depth of 60 feet below the general
surface of the country.
Thus ended the expedition of 1835.
A vast extent of country had been ex-
plored, which, though not exhibiting
much fertility, yet in no instance seems
to have been incapable of supporting
tillage. Immense tracts of it are evi-
dently open to irrigation, and large
levels on the river's banks are annually
overflowed. This, of itself, gives good
promise. But if the soil were more
inauspicious than it has ever been
found, it will yield — for what has not
yielded? — to the intelligence, activity,
and patient vigour of British enter-
prize. From the strong interest which
the public take in Australian dis-
covery, we shall now advert to the
subject of Major Mitchell's third and
most important journey.
Towards the close of the year 1835,
Major Mitchell was appointed to con-
duct a new expedition, for the pur-
pose of ascertaining the course of the
Darling. On the 17th of March, he
took the field, at the head of an army
of two-and-twenty men, prepared to
conquer all the resistance which na-
ture could offer, in the shape of the
wilderness, and march over territo-
ries free and fearless, where in after
times, probably, every step would be
contested by horse, foot, and artillery,
or by some of those still more formi-
dable instruments of warfare, which
the ingenuity of man seems to take
such delight in inventing. The re-
collections of a soldier during the last
five-and-twenty years, lie amongst
stirring scenes. The Major says, " I
put the party in movement. We
found the earth parched and bad, but
a fine cool breeze whispered through
the open forest, as we bounded over
hill and dale, and this felt most re-
freshing, after the hot winds of Syd-
ney. Dr Johns9n's Abidah was not
more free from care on the morning
of his journey, than I was on this the
first morning of mine, which was al-
so St Patrick's day, and, in riding
through the bush, I had again leisure
to recall past scenes, connected with
1839.]
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
this anniversary. I remembered that
exactly on that morning, twenty- four
years before, I had marched down the
Glacis of Elvas to the tune of " St
Patrick's day in the morning," as the
sun rose over the beleaguered towers
of Badajos."
At Buree, the expedition was en-
tertained with a dance by the natives.
This they call the Corrobery, and is
a very curious and fantastic specimen
of Australian saltation. It always
takes place at night, and by the light
of blazing boughs. They danced to
beaten time, accompanied by a song.
To supply this measure, they stretch
a skin very tight over the knees as a
drum, which Major Mitchell very na-
turally regards as the tympanum in
its rudest form. The dancers paint
themselves white, but with such va-
riety, that no two indivividuals are
like. The sound in darkness seems
necessary to the effect of the whole ;
all those dances being more or less
dramatic, — the painted figures com-
ing forward in mystic order from the
obscurity of the back ground, while
the singers and beaters of time are in-
visible. Each dance seems progres-
sive. The movementbeing at first slow,
and introduced by two persons, others
one by one drop in, until it warms
into the truly savage attitude of the
Corrobery jump ; the legs striding to
the utmost, the head turned over one
shoulder, the eyes glaring, and fixed
with savage energy in one direction,
the arms raised towards the head, the
hands usually grasping warlike wea-
pons. The jump now keeps time with
each beat, and at each leap, the dan-
cer takes six inches to one side, all
being a connected line, led by the first
dancer. The line is doubled or tre-
bled, according to space or numbers,
and this gives great effect ; for when
the first line jumps to the left, the se-
cond jumps to the right, and the third
to the left again, and so on until the
action acquires due intensity, when
they all simultaneously and suddenly
stop. The excitement which this
dance produces in the savage is very
remarkable. However listless, lying
half asleep perhaps, as they usually
are, when not intent on game, set
him to this dance, and he is fired with
sudden energy. Every nerve is strung
to such a degree, that he is no longer
to be recognized as the same indivi-
dual.
121
On the 13th of April, they fell in
with a large party of the natives.
The singular alternations of heat and
moisture in Australia, render it diffi-
cult to ascertain the exact condition of
the country from any previous de-
scription. Thus, what Mr Oxley,
who had traversed this tract some
years before, described, as a " noble
lake," was now seen a luxuriant
plain, with some water, 'tis true, lodg-
ed in one corner of its surface, but
not more than a foot deep. But
even this was full of life, and must
have exhibited a striking and inter-
esting contrast to the vast, lifeless
regions over which the party had
come. " Innumerable ducks took
refuge there, and also a great num-
ber of black swans and pelicans, all
standing high upon their legs above
the shallow water." Another attrac-
tion to these birds, as well as to the
natives, was an abundance of fresh
water mussels, which lay in the bed
of what was once the lake. But sub-
sistence in those wild countries is ge-
nerally an object of jealousy, and
wherever any thing was to be found
for food, the savages showed ill-will to
the expedition ; this deepened as they
advanced into the interior, but in the
beginning was exhibited chiefly in
watching their movements. The ex-
pedition at length reached the Mur-
ray, the principle river of Eastern
Australia, into which the Darling
flows, and which conveys the chief
waters of that great province to the
sea by a southerly course. The river
here was a fine stream, 165 yards
broad, with a bank twenty-five feet
high. After passing through a wood,
and finding that it encircled " a beau-
tiful lake, full sixteen miles in cir-
cumference," they also found that
its beach and surface swarmed with
natives. As the party continued
their march, the natives followed.
" Among them were several old men,
who took the most active part,
and who were very remarkable from
that bushy fulness and whiteness of
their beards and hair. The latter
growing thickly on their backs and
shoulders gave them a very singular
appearance, and accorded well with
that patriarchal authority which the
old men seem to maintain to an asto-
nishing degree among those savage
tribes. Those aged chiefs from time
to time beckoned to us, repeating,
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions,
[Jan.
very often and fast, " gowky, gowky,
gowky," which means, " come."
Notwithstanding this invitation, it may
be presumed, as Major Mitchell, states,
that they accepted it with peculiar
caution, when they discovered that
those were the actual tribe with whom
they had the skirmish on the Darling.
The major had " certainly heard,
when still far up the Lachlan, that
those people were coming down to
fight him ;" but he by no means ex-
pected that they were to be the first
natives whom he was to meet on the
Murray, nearly two hundred miles
from the scene of their former en-
counter. " There was something so
false in a forced loud laugh, which
the more plausible among them would
frequently set up, that I was quite at
a loss to conceive what they meant by
this uncommon civility." In the course
of the evening they got together all
their women and children in groups
before the camp. Among those were
two daughters of a woman who had
been unfortunately killed in the for-
mer rencounter. The younger was
the handsomest female that they had
yet seen among- the natives. " She
was so far from black, that the red
was very apparent in her cheeks. She
sat before us, in a corner of the group,
nearly in the attitude of Baily's fine
statute of Eve at the Fountain, and ap-
parently equally unconscious that she
was naked." But a true touch of bar-
barism follows. " As my eye," says
Major Mitchell, ''lingered upon her
for a moment, while deeply regretting
the fate of her mother, the brother of
the dead chief, whose hand had more
than once been laid upon my cap, as
if to feel if it were proof against the
blow of a waddy (club), begged of me
to accept her in exchange for a toma-
hawk."
Of course, the party in the presence
of those savages was kept in continual
expectation of an attack, and the state
of men so many hundred miles ad-
vanced in the desert, and with every
chance of general hostility rising
against them, must have been extreme-
ly anxious. It seems evident that
none of those expeditions were made
in sufficient force. Why was there
but one man of science attached to
each ? Why but one botanist ? Why
but a handful of men as the escort ?
The expedition should have consisted
of a hundred men at least, and would
have been only the more effective if it
had had twice the number. But, by the
starved nature of those experiments in
the desert, we find every thing conti-
nually on the point of ruin at every
change of temper in the savages ; the
smalluess of the escort actually invit-
ing hostility, and the fate of the intel-
ligent officer at their head, and of the
brave and faithful men, constantly
hazarded, until the return amounted to
scarcely more than an escape.
Night had closed in, and the groups
hung still about them, having lighted
up large fires, which formed a cordon
round the camp. Piper (the native
interpreter) was desired to be particu-
larly on the alert. At length infor-
mation was brought in that the sa-
vages had sent away all their women,
that there was no keeping them from
the carts, and that they seemed bent
on mischief. Piper also took the
alarm, and came to the major, inquir-
ing, apparently with a sense of re-
ponsibility, what the governor had
said about "shooting black fellows."
"These," he continued, "are Myalls"
— (wild natives). His wife had over-
heard them arranging that three should
seize and strip him, while others at-
tacked the tents. The major told him
that the governor had said positively,
that they were not to shoot black fel-
lows, unless their own lives were in
danger. He then drew up the men in
line, and they were ordered to give
three cheers on the sending up a
rocket. This proof of their being on
the alert, put the blacks to flight.
They, however, were not without their
savage cunning. For, on escaping
out of the immediate contact of those
masters of fire, they hailed them from
the wood, to come and see their
(lancing. This artifice not succeeding,
which was probably intended for the
massacre of them all, the dance soon
died away, and the party were left in
anxious expectation of an attack.
During the night all was still ; but
soon after day-break, the tribe were
seen to be in motion. Their first ma-
noeuvre was to set the fallen branches
on fire. Those in the rear were soon
seen busy in setting the thickets on
flame, and the party, as the wind blew
towards them, were likely to be envelop-
ed in smoke. The major on this order-
ed his rifle to be brought from the hut,
and the men to stand to their arms.
Two old savages, who had been kind-
1830.]
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
ling the branches, saw this, with the
sagacity of foxes, and instantly got
out of the way. Eight men were then
ordered to advance towards them, and
hold up their fire-arms, but not to fire
unless they were attacked, and to re-
turn at the sound of the bugle. The sa-
vages took to their heels, and the party,
thus relieved from their presence, re-
turned to the business of the day, and
moved forward on their journey. But
they were not so easily to get rid of
these troublesome guests. On ap-
proaching the bank of the Murray,
after a march of three miles, they saw
the savages in their rear, still keeping
at a considerable distance,, but with
evident hostility — their leader carry-
ing a heavy bundle of spears.
" It was most painful and alarming
to me," says the Major, " now to dis-
cover that the knowledge which they
had acquired of the nature of our arms,
by the loss of lives last year, did not
deter them from following us with the
most hostile intentions, for this was
now past all doubt. We had endea-
voured to prevent them by the demon-
stration of the men advancing with
fire-arms, yet they still persisted ;
and Piper had gathered from them
that a portion of their tribe was still
before us. Our route lay along the
bank of a river peopled by other
powerful tribes, and at the end of two
hundred miles we would only hope to
reach the spot where the tribe already
following in our rear had commenced
the most unprovoked hostilities last
season. To attempt to conciliate
these people had, last year, proved
hopeless. Our gifts had only excited
their cupidity, and our forbearance
had only inspired them with a poor
opinion of our courage, while their
meeting us in this place was a proof
that the effect of our arms had not been
sufficient to convince them of our su-
perior strength. A drawn battle was
out of the question, but I was assured
by Piper and the other young natives,
that we should soon lose some of the
men in charge of the cattle."
The river had here taken a wide
bend to the south, by which means the
route was perplexed for a time, and
the day's journey was again through
desolation. " No signs of the river
were visible, unless it might be a few
trees which there resembled the masts
of ships in a dark and troubled sea,
and equally hazardous was this land
123
navigation, from our uncertainty as to
the situation of the river, on which our
finding water depended, and the ec r-
tainty that, wherever it was, there were
our foes before us." This was a suffi-
ciently painful situation. They had
travelled from morning till dusk — a
storm was gathering overhead. " On all
sides the flat and barren waste blended
imperceptibly with a sky as dismal and
ominous as ever closed in darkness.
One bleak and sterile spot hardly af-
forded room for our camp, but the
cattle had neither water nor grass that
night.'' At length the storm came
on, and there was no want of water
thus poured upon them. On the next
day they again found themselves on
the bank of the river. At five miles
from their resting-place, the broad
expanse of the river Murray, with the
luxuriant verdure of its margins, came
suddenly in view, without any signs
of its proximity appearing in the bar-
ren track over which they had travel-
led twenty- three miles. On the next
day, as they recommenced their jour-
ney, they heard the voices of a vast
body of blacks following, with prodi-
gious shouting and war-cries. " I was
at length convinced," says Major Mit-
chell, " that unless I could check their
progress in our rear by some attack,
which might prevent them from fol-
lowing us so closely, the party would
be in danger of being compelled to
fight its way back against the whole
population who would assemble in our
rear, for in that season of drought
those people could live only on the
banks of these large rivers." He sent
half the party to post themselves along
the bank, while, with the other half,
he proceeded. The multitude, seeing
the party thus posted, began to poise
their spears ; this being considered as
the signal of attack, the firing began,
which, being perceived by the party
in advance, the general fire, though
without orders, commenced, and the
blacks, suddenly dispersing, rushed
into the river, some crossing it, and
some swimming down the stream.
From the information afterwards ob-
tained by Piper, it was said that seven
were shot, among whom was the chief.
Much as the Major regretted this col-
lision, it seems to have been unavoid-
able, and it certainly had the advan-
tage of dispersing the tribe.
In a work of this order, the topo-
graphical details must be compara-
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
l.H
tively dry, but the writer has the
happy art of giving them a new inte-
rest by interspersing them with strik-
ing descriptions of scenery and native
manners. He is evidently disposed to
think the best that lie can of the wild
men, but he is justly awake to their
dangerous qualities. On the banks of
the Murray, as he was reconnoitering
the ground for a camp, " I observed,"
says he, " a native on the opposite
bank, and without being seen by him,
I stood awhile to watch the habits of
a savage man at home. His hands
were ready to seize, his teeth to eat
any living thing ; his step, light and
soundless as that of a shadow, gave no
intimation of his approach ; his walk
suggested the idea of the prowling of
a beast of prey ; every little track or
impression left on the earth by the
lower animals, caught his keen eye,
but the trees overhead chiefly engaged
his attention. Deep in the hollow
heart of some of the upper branches
was still hidden, as it seemed, the
opossum on which he was to dine.
The wind blew cold and keenly
through the lofty trees on the river
margin, yet that brawny savage
was entirely naked. Had I been
unarmed, I had much rather have met
a lion than that sinewy biped ; but I
was on horseback, with pistols in my
holsters, and the broad river was flow-
ing between us. I overlooked him from
a high bank, and I ventured to disturb
his meditations with a halloo. He
then stood still, looked at me for about
a minute, and then retired, with that
easy bounding kind of step which may
be termed a running walk, exhibiting
an unrestrained facility of movement,
apparently incompatible with dress of
any kind. It is in bounding lightly at
such a pace, that, with the additional
aid of the wammerah, (a short notch-
ed stick), the native can throw his
spear with sufficient force and velocity
to kill the emu or kangaroo, even when
at their speed."
In some instances, however, they
wore short cloaks of kangaroo skins,
but their being able to endure the cli-
mate in such a state of nudity is alto-
gether surprising. It was frequently
raining — the winter is stormy — a large
portion of at least the eastern terri-
tory is swampy — and the winter, in
general, seems to be damp and cold.
The natives, too, are fully sensible of
the gratification of fire, for they carry
[Jan.
it with them whenever they can, sit
round it wherever they settle for the
night, and clearly regard it as a neces-
sary of life. Yet those people, in a
state of complete nakedness, endure,
through the winter, cold and wet that
would kill a robust European in twenty-
four hours.
In another instance Major Mitchell
says, " At this camp, where we lay
shivering for want of fire," (it was in
June, about the middle of the Austra-
lian winter), " the different habits of
the aborigines and us strangers from
the north were strongly contrasted.
On that freezing night the natives
stript off their clothes, their usual cus-
tom, previously to lying down to sleep
in the open air, their bodies being
doubled round a few burning reeds.
We could not understand how they
bore the cold thus naked, when the
earth was white with frost ; and they
were equally at a loss to know how
we could sleep in our tents without a
bit of fire beside us to keep our bodies
warm. For the support of animal
heat, fire and smoke are almost as ne-
cessary as clothes are to us, and the
naked savage is not without some rea-
son on his side ; for, with fire to warm
his body, he has all the comfort that
he ever knows, whereas we require
both fire and clothing, and can there-
fore have no conception of the inten-
sity of enjoyment imparted to the na-
ked body of a savage by the glowing
embrace of a cloud of smoke in winter,
or, in summer, the luxury of a bath
which he may enjoy in any pool,
when not content with the refreshing
breeze which fans him during the in-
tense heat. In the midst of all this ex-
posure the skin of the Australian na-
tive remains as soft and as smooth as
velvet, and it is not improbable that
the obstructions of drapery would con-
stitute the greatest of his objections to
the permanent adoption of civilized
life."
The expedition now wound its
weary way towards the south ; and,
after toiling through a succession of
swamps, approached a country which
put them all ingoodspirits. One of the
most pleasing features of the whole
narrative is the almost youthful buoy-
ancy with which this man of science
and travel evidently enjoys the beau-
ties of nature. The difficulty of drag-
ging their waggons through the sink-
ing soil had exhausted every one, — ,
1839.]
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
32;
(August 9) — and it was not until sun-
set that they were enabled to rest from
their severe labour. Next morning,
however, they were on their route, and
they had their recompense. " At a
mile and a half from the camp which
they had left behind, a scene opened
which gladdened every heart. An
open grassy country, extending as far
as we could see, the hills round and
smooth as a carpet, the meadows
broad, and either green as an emerald,
or of a rich golden colour, from the
abundance, as we found, of a little ra-
nunculus-like flower. Down into
that delightful vale our vehicles
trundled, over a gentle slope, the earth
being covered with a thick matted
turf. That extensive valley was wa-
tered by a winding stream, which glit-
tered through trees fringing each
bank. As we went on our way re-
joicing, I perceived, at length, two
figures in the distance. They proved
to be a woman with a little boy ; and,
as soon as she saw us, she began to
run. I presently overtook her ; and,
with the few words I knew, prevailed
on her to stop, until the two women of
our party should come up, for I had
long^been at a loss for the names of
localities. She was not so much
alarmed as might have been expected,
and I was glad to find that she and the
women perfectly understood each
other. Suoh was the solitary inhabitant
of this splendid valley, resembling a
nobleman's park on a gigantic scale.
They had at length come in sight of
the river which they were to add to
British discoveries, and which is hence-
forth to remain the only trophy of the
somnolent Secretary for the Colonies.
We presume that with all his official
considerations, the remarkable placidi-
ty, combined with the remarkable shal-
lowness of this new discovery, may have
involuntarily influenced the gallant
Major in his giving it the name of the
Glenelg. On the 18th of August the
boats were launched on the bosom of
the stream, and provisions laid in for
ten days. Leaving Mr Stapleton, with
the remainder of the party, to occupy
the point of a hill, which he named
Fort Hare, in memory of his com-
manding officer, who fell at Badajos,
in leading the forlorn hope of the light
division to the storm, he embarked
with sixteen men in two boats. The
river soon widened, the scenery on the
banks was pleasant and various; at
some points picturesque limestone
cliffs overhung the rivers, and cas-
cades were flowing out of caverns
hung with stalactities ; at others the
shores were festooned with green
creeping shrubs and creepers, or ter-
minated in a smooth grassy bank,
sloping to the water's edge. The
river soon opened to an uniform width
of sixty yards, its waters being every-
where smooth and unruffled, the cur-
rent having at length become scarce-
ly perceptible. After rowing about
sixteen miles they landed and encamp-
ed for the night. The sun set in a
cloudless sky, but from the highest
clitfs nothing was visible but an undu-
lating woody country. Their position
and prospects were now so interesting
that through the night they longed for
the day. The next day was equally
fine, still they continued to descend
the stream, the breadth of which was
101 yards, and the mean depth five
fathoms. On the whole, considering
its permanent fulness, the character
of its banks, and the uniformity of
its width and depth, it was the finest
body of fresh water which they had
seen in Australia, and the party were
in strong hope that they should find it
making its way to the ocean by some
noble outlet.
It was long since remarked, that
every thing in Australia seemed form-
ed on a plan the reverse of every thing
in other parts of the world ; that the
swans were black, the rivers flowed
from the sea- shore into the interior ;
that the mountains were the most fer-
tile, while the plains were the most
sterile parts of the soil ; that even the
animals were as singular as the coun-
try ; and the Ornithorynchus paradox -
us, and the kangaroo, were adduced
in proof of the sport of nature. The
Glenelg certainly in some degree cor-
roborated this system of contraries ;
its breadth and beauty were all in the
interior. As it approached the sea,
with a bend to the south-east, the
height of the banks diminished rapidly,
and, soon after passing a small bushy
island, the stream became shallow ;
a few low sand-hills appearing before
them, they rounded a low rocky point,
and through an opening straight in
front, saw the "green rolling breakers
of the sea." In the two basins at this
entrance there was scarcely water suf-
ficient to float the boats, and thus
" their hopes of finding a port at the
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
126
mouth of this fine river were at an
end." The latitude was 32° 2' 58" S.
On re-entering the river to encamp
for the night, the Major, by the help
of a bottle of whisky given to the
men, named the river after the colo-
nial Secretary ; thus the name of that
functionary has at least one chance of
surviving himself in Australia.
Our readers now may easily follow
the route of the expedition along the
shore. Proceeding round the Bay of
Portland, they were struck with " the
resemblance to houses afforded by what
they conceived to Be cliffs. The re-
semblance was certainly to be consi-
dered strong, for they were houses.
While the Major was investigating
them with his telescope, one of the men
said that he had seen a brig at anchor ;
soon after a shot was heard as they
were ascending the cliffs. The nature
of the neighbourhood seems to have
now been a consideration of some im-
portance, and, becoming apprehensive
that the parties might either be, or
suppose the Major and his men to be,
bush-rangers (fugitive convicts), he
ordered them to tire a gun and sound
the bugle. But, on reaching the
higher ground, he discovered not
only a beaten path but the tracks of
carts." The mystery, however, was
to be soon developed. A man made
his appearance, who informed them
that the vessel at anchor was the Eli-
zabeth of Launceston (in Van Die-
man's Land), and that just round the
point they would come upon the large
farming establishment of the Messrs
Henty. The Major accordingly made
his way to the house, where he was
hospitably received, and where he
learned that the Messrs Henty had
been established two years. They seem
to have made good use of their time.
It was obvious from the magnitude
and extent of the buildings, and the
substantial fencing, that both time and
labour had been expended in their con-
struction. " A good garden, stocked
with abundance of vegetables, already
smiled on Portland Bay ; the soil was
very rich on the overhanging cliffs,
and the potatoes and turnips produced
here surpassed |in magnitude and qua-
lity any I had ever seen elsewhere.
I learned that the Bay was much re-
sorted to by vessels engaged in the
whale fishery, and that upwards of
seven hundred tons of oil had been
shipped there that season." But the
[Jan.
business of the Bay seemed to be of
importance in other points. " I was
informed, that only a few days before
my arrival, five vessels lay at anchor
together there, and that the commu-
nication was regularly kept up with
Van Diemen's Laud by vessels from
Launceston. Messrs Henty were im-
porting sheep and cattle as fast as ves-
sels could bring them over, and the
numerous whalers touching or fishing
there were found to be good custom-
ers for farm produce and whatever else
could be spared from the establish-
ment." This is curious ; but not the
least curious of it is, that the whole
affair seems to have been quite un-
known to the government of the co-
lony ; it was evidently so to the sur-
veyor-general, the chief officer of all
settlements in the territory. A flour-
ishing trade, a large establishment, a
constant intercourse with the neigh-
bouring island, itself a British colony,
and a great fishing station for whalers,
all seem to have come upon his know-
ledge as matters of absolute novelty.
Yet these are not things that could be
easily concealed, nor was there the
least attempt to conceal them. It is
true that they may have been out of
the immediate jurisdiction of Sydney,
but there seems no very adequate rea-
son why they should have been so
totally out of its knowledge.
Wild as the natives were, and
treacherous as the perils of savage life
make them, the feelings of human na-
ture were there, and the feelings, too,
of a sense of bettering their condition.
This was given in a simple but strik-
ing example by one of the women.
When Major Mitchell was about to
move homewards with a part of the
expedition, he observed that " the wi-
dow Turandusey, who was to remain
with Mr Stapleton's party and the
carts, was marked with white round
the eyes (the native fashion of mourn-
ing), and that the face of her child,
Ballandella, was whitened also. This
poor woman, who had cheerfully car-
ried the child on her back when we
had offered to carry both in the carts,
and who was as careful and affectionate
as any mother could be, had at length
determined to entrust to me the care
of her infant. I was gratified with
such a proof of the mother's confidence
in us ; but I should have been less will-
ing to take charge of her child had I
not been aware of the wretched state
1839.]
MitclidYs Second and Third Expeditions.
12"
of slavery to which the native females
are doomed. The widow had been
long enough with us to be sensible how
much more her sex was respected by
civilized men than savages, and, as I
conceived, it was with such sentiments
that she committed her child to my
charge, under the immediate care,
however, of Piper's gin (wife)."
It is impossible to read these inte-
resting volumes without a glowing an-
ticipation of the future greatness of
this more than imperial colony. Its
wastes and mountain ranges undoubt-
edly at present appear desolate, but
their condition is not to be decided
until it shall have been fairly tried by
the energies of a population with Bri-
tish blood in their veins. They may
be intended, too, for barriers and de-
fences of future nations. But the land
contains vast districts full of the pro-
mise of boundless fertility, full of pic-
turesque beauty, and already, by the
bounty of nature, prepared for the
best prosperity of man. The latter
portions of the Journal are crowded
with brief but expressive sketches of
this fine diversity of soil and land-
scape.
" Sept. 25 — One bold range of fo-
rest land appeared before us, and, after
crossing it, we passed over several
rivulets falling northward, then over
a ridge, and then descended into a
valley of the finest description. Grassy
hills, clear of timber, appeared beyond
a stream also flowing northward."
This noble country continues, yet
with new aspects of luxuriance, and
even of grandeur.
" Sept. 26 — By diverging a little
to the right, we entered upon an open
tract of country of the finest descrip-
tion, stretching away to the south-west
among similar hills, until they were
lost in the extreme distance. The
whole surface was green as an eme-
rald." They now meet with some
streams watering this tract, and ap-
proach two lofty smooth round l.ills,
" green to the sky," the united streams
flowing through an open dell, through
which the carts passed without meeting
any impediment. The Major ascended
one of those hills, and "enjoyed such
a charming view eastward from this
summit, as can but seldom fall to the lot
of the explorers of new countries. The
surface presented the forms of virgin
beauty clothed in the hues of spring,
and the shining verdure of the earth
was relieved by the darker hues of the
wood with which they were inter-
laced. . . . The hills seemed entirely
of lava, and I named the whole forma-
tion, which seemed so peculiar, the
Mameloid Hills, and the station Mount
Greenock. In travelling through this
Eden no road was necessary, nor any
ingenuity in conducting wheel-car-
riages wherever we chose. When
we had completed fourteen miles, we
encamped on the edge of an open
plain near a small rivulet, the oppo-
site bank consisting of grassy forest
land."
The same country continues.—
" Sept. 27. We this day crossed seve-
ral fine running streams, and forests of
box and blue-gum growing on ridges
of trapean conglomerate. At length
we entered on a very level and exten-
sive flat, exceedingly green, and re-
sembling an English park." This
language may occasionally seem too
much resembling the usual enthusiasm
of discoverers, an enthusiasm which,
in the instance of our naval officers,
manly and intelligent a class as they
are, has often produced disappoint-
ment. But, in the present instance,
the circumstances are different. A
sailor's raptures at seeing any thing
that looks like verdure, after having
been long wearied by sky and sea,
ought to be largely allowed for. But
Major Mitchell was fully accustomed
to the sight, and he has no hesitation
in describing the wilderness in the lan-
guage of desolation. His sketches
vary with the change of scene ; and
after this description, glowing as it is,
we have details of the country which
he subsequently passed through in his
way north-east, by no means too cap-
tivating. That he has a strong sense
of natural loveliness is clear, but we
altogether doubt that he has coloured
a single feature of his first impressions.
Our only fault with him, and that a
trivial one, is his selection of names
for his hills and valleys. A discoverer
may certainly be granted some allow-
ance in distributing his new-found
realm among his friends ; but we wish
that the custom were altogether laid
aside of giving the names of insigni-
ficant officials, however high their sta-
tion, and in some instances, of officials
equally insignificant in station and
person. We do not make the remark
especially with reference to this able
man, but to all ; and the future mas-
128
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
[Jan.
ters of these great provinces of British
discovery will have either to reform
their maps, or to bear the stigma of
suffering their countries to be burden-
ed with the names of individuals wholly
trifling in their own generation, and
forgotten by every other. The later
voyagers to the north of America have
exhibited themselves peculiarly expert
in this bastard canonization, and there
are maps from which we might almost
compile a list of the clerks of the
Admiralty. If the discoverer requires
names to mark the leading points of
his discovery, let him take those great
names of his country — the statesmen,
orators, warriors, divines, and men
of science — the Raleighs and Pitts,
the Burkes and Erskines, the Latimers
and Cranmers, the Newtons, Watts,
Arkwrights, &c., and our Nelsons,
Marlboroughs, Wolfes, and Welling-
tons— names already established in
honour, and whose renown can never
decay. When those are exhausted,
let him take the names of the great
incidents of our history — the Charter,
the Reformation, the Revolution, &c.
Then let him commemorate our vic-
tories— our La Hogues, St Vincent's,
Aboukirs, Trafalgars ; our Salaman-
cas, Victorias, Waterloos, &c. If his
empire demands still more, let him,
then, turn to foreign countries, or to
ancient times. But let his last and
most reluctant resource be either the
Admiralty or the War Office. Again
we say, that those remarks are with
reference solely to the general pro-
priety of the subject. In giving such
names we may accomplish the natural
and right purpose of keeping illustri-
ous examples and national memories
in the mind of those who are to follow
us. We have no authority to afflict
them with the mere record of our in-
significance.
Still advancing (October 23,) they
unexpectedly saw a noble cataract.
When they had crossed a deep stream
which flowed to the northward, and
fixed their camp for the night, Major
Mitchell, hearing the sound of falling
water, rode up along the bank and
came to a very fine fall of sixty feet.
The river fell more than double that
height, but in the lower part the wa-
ter escaped unseen, flowing among
large blocks of granite. " I had visi-
ted," he observes, " several waterfalls,
including those on the Clyde, and in
Devon, but this certainly was the most
picturesque scene of the kind that I
had ever witnessed. Yet this effect
was not so much in the body of water
falling, as the bold character of the
rocks among which it fell. Their co-
lour and shape were harmonised into
a more perfect picture than nature
usually presents. The prevailing hues
were light red and purple gray, the
rocks being finely interlaced, with a
small-leaved creeper of the brightest
green.
"Dark-coloured moss, which presents
a warm green in the sun, covered the
lower rocks, and relieved the brighter
hues, while a brilliant iris shone
steadily in the spray, and blended in-
to perfect harmony the lighter hues
of the rocks, and the whiteness of the
torrent rushing over them. The banks
of this stream were of so bold a cha-
racter, that, in all probability, other
picturesque scenery, perhaps finer
than this, may be found upon it." Oct.
7th, they again met some of the na-
tives, who now seemed never to ap-
proach them but with hostile inten-
tions. Presents evidently only shar-
pened their cupidity, and conciliation
was as evidently attributed to fear. A
group of seven of them came up to the
tents ; two tomahawks were given to
them to go away, but as usual with-
out effect. They were lingering there
to kill the party in their sleep. On this
occasion, a contrivance was adopted
to drive them away, at once effectual
and harmless, and which we recom-
mend to the use of other discoverers.
At a signal, one of the party sud-
denly rushed forth wearing a gilt
mask, and holding in his hand a blue
light, with which he fired a rocket.
The use of the mask, which had been
tried several times with success, was
suggested to the Major by Sir John
Jamieson. Two men concealed be-
hind the boat carriage, bellowed
hideously through speaking trumpets
at the same time, while all the others
shouted and discharged their carbines
in the air. The man in the mask
marched solemnly towards the aston-
ished natives, who were seen through
the gloom but for an instant, as they
made their escape and disappeared,
hut leaving behind them rough-shaped
heavy clubs, which they had made
there in the dark with the new toma-
hawks we had given them ; and which
clubs were, doubtless, made for the sole
purpose of beating out their brains.
1839.]
Mitchell's Second and Third Expeditions.
Thus the scene ended in hearty laugh-
ing1. The Major observes, " That
he was at length convinced, that no
kindness had the slightest effect in
altering the savage desire of the na-
tives to kill white men, on their first
coming among them. That Austr*£
lia can never be explored with safety,
except by very powerful parties, will
probably be proved by the treacherous
murder of many brave white men."
On October the I7th, they reached
the Murray. No one could have mis-
taken the access ; for the vast extent
of verdant margin, with its lofty trees
and still lakes, could have belonged to
no other Australian river which they
had met. After reaching this power-
ful stream, they began to look for the
marks of cattle, having heard that the
herds of the settlers had already ex-
tended themselves even in this remote
direction. They at last found tracks
of the wheels of a gig drawn by one
horse, and accompanied by others, but
they were some months old. Such are
the minute remarks and trivial objects
which excite the interest of men in
those solitudes. The full and flow-
ing river, always a source of anima-
tion, gave an unusual appearance of
life and motion to the desert, where
all around was so still. Serpents
seem to have been the only tenants of
the wilderness, and some were seen of
a species apparently peculiar to the
river. They invariably take to it,
and one beautiful reptile in particular,
of a gold colour, with red streaks,
sprung from under the Major's horse's
feet, and " rode upon the strong cur-
rent of the boiling stream, keeping
abreast of us, and holding his head
erect, as if in defiance, and without
once attempting to make his escape,
until he died in his glory by a shot."
As their route turned homewards,
they appear to have been in some fear
of the failure of their provisions, and
it became a matter of primary impor-
tance to fall in with some of the cattle
of the out stations. At length they
found the tracks not only of cattle but
of well-shod horses ! The Major now
hastened back with the good tidings to
the party, brought the carts into the
valley, and pushed onward, cheered
by finding additional marks, even the
print of young calves' feet. " And at
length," as he pleasantly tells, " the
welcome sight of the cattle themselves
delighted our longing eyes, not to
mention our stomachs, which were
then in the best possible state to assist
our perceptions of the beauty of a
foreground of fat cattle." But the
view was destined to end in disappoint-
ment. " We were soon surrounded
by a staring herd of at least 800 wild
animals, and I took a shot at one : but
my ball only made him jump ; upon
which the whole body, apparently very
wild, made off to the mountains.
Symptoms of famine began now to show
themselves in the sullenness of some of
the men ; and I most reluctantly con-
sented to kill one of our poor working-
animals, which was accordingly shot,
as soon as we encamped, and divided
among the party."
Still advancing, they at length came
in sight of the Murrumbidgee, and in
sight of a landscape uniting the wild
beauty of nature with some of the as-
pects of civilisation. Before them
spread the " dark umbrageous trees,
overshadowing that noble river, and
the rich open flats, with tame cattle
browzing on them, or reclining in lux-
urious ease, very unlike the wild herd.
Now, we could trace the marks of
horsemen on the plain ; and as we
travelled up the river, horses and cattle
appeared on both banks. At length
they came to the first fact of civiliza-
tion. They discovered a small house
and a stack-yard. An old settler there
came out to meet them, named Bill
Buckley, with the characteristic wel-
come of a huge loaf in his hand. All
was now couleur de rose ; some drays
just then arrived, coming on the road
from Sydney, and containing provi-
sions. Piper, too, had his share of
exultation. His joy was great on
emerging from the land of savages,
and coming among blacks, who no
longer threatened to kill him : ' Civil
black fellows,' as he called them, « not
Myalls.' He fully exhibited the su-
periority of a traveller, and enjoyed
his lionship prodigiously. Little
Ballandella, too, the widow's infant,
had been taken good care of by Mrs
Piper, and was now feasted with milk,
and seemed quite happy."
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX.
130
0«r Pocket Companions.
[Jan.
OUR POCKET COMPANIONS.
No weather more pleasant than
that of a mild winter day. So gra-
cious the season, that Hyems is like
Ver — Januarius like Christopher
North. Art thou the Sun of whom
Milton said,
" Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams,"
an image of disconsolate obscuration ?
Bright art thou as at meridian on a
June Sabbath ; but effusing a more tem-
perate lustre not unfelt by the sleeping,
not insensate earth. She stirs in her
sleep and murmurs — the mighty mo-
ther ; and quiet as herself, though
broad awake, her old ally the ship-
bearing sea. What though the woods
be leafless — they look as alive as when
laden with umbrage ; and who can
tell what is going on now within the
hearts of that calm oak grove ? The
fields laugh not now — but here and
there they smile ! If we see no
flowers we think of them — and less of
the perished than of the unborn ; for
regret is vain, and hope is blest; in
peace there is the promise of joy — and
therefore in the silent pastures a per-
fect beauty how restorative to man's
troubled heart !
The Shortest Day in all the year, yet
lovelier than the Longest. Can that
be the voice of birds ? With the lave-
rock's lyric our fancy filled the sky —
with the throstle's roundelay it awoke
the wood. In the air life is audible —
circling unseen. Such serenity must
be inhabited by happiness. Ha ! there
thou art, our Familiar — the self-same
Robin red-breast that pecked at our
nursery window, and used to warble
from the gable of the school-house his
sweet winter song !
In company we are silent — in soli-
tude we soliloquize. So dearly do we
love our own voice that we cannot bear
to hear it mixed with that of others —
perhaps, drowned ; and then our bash-
fulness tongue-ties us in the hush, ex-
pectant of our " golden opinions,"
when all eyes are turned to the speech-
less " old man eloquent," and you
might hear a tangle dishevelling itself
in Neaera's hair. But all alone, by
ourselves, in the country, among trees,
standing still among untrodden leaves
—as now — how we do speak! All
thoughts — all feelings — desire utter-
ance ; left to themselves they are not
happy till they have evolved into
words — winged words — that sometimes
settle on the ground, like moths on
flowers — sometimes seek the sky, like
eagles above the clouds.
No such soliloquies in written poetry
as these of ours — the act of composition
is fatal as frost to their flow ; yet com-
position there is at such solitary times
going on among the moods of the mind,
as among the clouds on a still but not
airless sky, perpetual but impercepti-
ble transformations of the beautiful,
obedient to the bidding of the spirit of
beauty ;
" But those are heavenly, these an empty
dream.1'
Who but Him who made it know-
eth aught of the Laws of Spirit ? All
of us may know much of what is
" wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,"
in obedience to them ; but leaving the
open day we enter at once into thick-
est night. Why at this moment do
we see a spot — once only visited by
us, and unremembered for ever so
many flights of black or bright winged
years— see it in fancy as it then w;,s
in nature, with the same dew-drops
on that wondrous myrtle beheld but on
that morning — such a myrtle as no
other eyes beheltl ever on this earth,
but ours, and the eyes of one now in
heaven ?
Another year is about to die — and
how wags the world ? "What great
events are on the gale ?" Go ask our
statesmen. But their rule — their
guidance is but over the outer world,
and almost powerless their folly or
their wisdom over the inner region in
which we mortals live, and move, and
have our being, where the fall of a
throne makes no more noise than that
of a leaf!
And what tiny volume is this we
have in our hand ? Collins, Gray, and
Beattie ! Were they among the num-
ber of those of whom Wordsworth
thought, when he spoke
" Of mighty poets in their misery dead !
We poets in our youth begin in gladness,
But thereof comes in the end despon-
dency and madness ?"
1839.]
Our Pocket
Mighty they may not be called by
the side of tho godlike — but mighty
they are, compared with "us poor sons
of a day," and on earth their might
endureth for ever.
Assuredly there is something not
dreamt of in our philosophy in the
character of crows. What can be the
meaning of that congregating multi-
tude, on, in, and around that one huge
single oak, himself a grove ? It is
mid-day — and the creatures are not
going to set up their roost. Now, all
again is mute — save an occasional
caw — buried in profound meditation.
Reason! Instinct! Man! Bird! Beast!
Time ! Eternity ! Creation ! God !
Pray, who may be " THE PROPRIE-
TORS OF THE ENGLISH CLASSICS ? "
This volume is one of the many pub-
lications of that mysterious firm, and
we are afraid even to whisper a word
of blame to the woods. But why will
they persist in prefacing poetry all the
world delights in, with libels on the
genius that produced it? Here we
have all Dr Johnson's stupid slanders
on Gray, by way of introduction, that
boys and virgins may step across the
threshold into the house of his fame,
with contempt and scorn of all his
poems except the Elegy. His estima-
tion of the genius of Collins the poet
is not much nearer the truth, though
he writes tenderly and admiringly of
the character of Collins the man.
" He had employed his mind chiefly
on works of fiction and subjects of
fancy, and by indulging some peculiar
habits of thought, was eminently de-
lighted with those flights of imagina-
tion which pass the bounds of nature,
and to which the mind is reconciled
only by passive acquiescence in po-
pular tradition. He loved fairies and
genii, giants and monsters ; he de-
lighted to rove through the meanders
of enchantment, to gaze on the mag-
nificence of golden palaces, to repose
by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens.
This was, however, the character ra-
ther of his inclination than his genius j
the grandeur of wildness, and the
novelty of extravagance, were always
desired by him, but were not always
attained. Yet, as diligence is never
wholly lost, if his efforts sometimes
caused harshness and obscurity, they
likewise produced, in happier moments,
sublimity and splendour. This idea
which he had formed of excellence led
him to oriental fictions and allegorical
Companions. 131
imagery ; and, perhaps, while he was
intent on description, he did not suf-
ficiently cultivate sentiment. His
poems are the description of a mind
not deficient in fire, nor unfurnished
with knowledge either of books or
life, but somewhat obstructed in its
progress by deviations in quest of
mistaken beauties. * * * To what I
have formerly said of his writings may
be added, that his diction was often
harsh, unskilfully laboured, and inju-
diciously selected. He affected the
obsolete, when it was not worthy of
revival, and he puts his words out of
the common order, seeming to think,
with some late candidates for fame»
that not to write prose is certainly to
write poetry. His lines commonly
are of slow motion, clogged and im-
peded with clusters of consonants. As
men are often esteemed who can-
not be loved, so the poetry of Collins
may sometimes extort praise, where
it gives little pleasure."
There is, we believe, some uncon-
scious confusion here of Collins* read-
ing and writing, his studies and his
compositions; Johnson havinghuddled
together all he had got to say about
both, so that he was speaking all the
while, without knowing it, in one
breath, indiscriminately, of the scholar
and of the poet — of his table-talk and
of the productions of his genius. His
noble verses — mis-named an Ode —
" On the Superstitions of the High-
lands," do indeed treat of " popular
traditions," — but not of such as "the
mind is reconciled to only by a pas-
sive acquiescence," for the imagina-
tion all the world over, in all time,
creates and clings to such beliefs.
" Of giants and monsters" theie is not
a syllable in the poetry of Collins —
" genii" do, indeed, sometimes glide
along the glimmer or the gloom, and
as lovely as ever fancy feigned — nor
can the delicacy of his touch be ex-
ceeded when he sings of the Fairies.
" The meanders of enchantment,'*
are words without meaning — pretty
as they are — " to gaze on the mag-
nificence of golden palaces," you
must go to the works of some other
architect — nor is there in all Col-
lins one " waterfall in an Elysian
garden," by which the doctor could
have sought repose. The " character
of his inclination and his genius,"
was one and the same, and no poet
ever delivered himself up more de-
Our Pocket Companions,
132
lightedly to their united inspiration.
His only." oriental fictions" are his Ori-
ental Eclogues, which were written in
early youth, and called by himself his
" Irish Eclogues," because so little
oriental; though beautiful, they are the
least imaginative of his writings, and
hardly deserve the name of " fiction."
His poetry is throughout embued with
" sentiment, " and conversant with
the passions — impersonated for the
most part, but with wonderful feli-
city, and to nature true. " Not defi-
cient in fire " — nor " unfurnished with
knowledge !" Read the " Ode to
Liberty" — lustrous in its learning —
and you will almost be disposed to
think the doctor a dolt — which Hea-
ven forbid — for he was " The Sage."
The diction and the versification of
Collins are exquisite — a more musical
ear and soul were never given to any
one of the Muses' sons ; and the dic-
tion of this poet hath Samuel, with
curious infelicity, characterized by
harshness — unskilful elaboration — in-
judicious selection of words — and mo-
tion-impeding clusters of consonants !
— COLLINS being one of " those can-
didates for fame," who fondly ima-
gined that " not to write prose is cer-
tainly to write poetry " — and his poe-
try such as sometimes " to extort praise
when it gives little pleasure " — such
praise as the doctor's.
Here, transcribed with a crow-quill,
on " the fly-leaf," are a few exquisite
sentences of Campbell's on Collins —
and we know not which of the two be the
more delightful poet. " Collins pub-
lished his Oriental Eclogues while at
college, and his lyrical poetry at the
age of twenty- six. Those works will
abide comparison with whatever Mil-
ton wrote under the age of thirty. If
they have rather less exuberant wealth
of genius, they exhibit more exquisite
touches of pathos. Like Milton, he
leads us into the haunted ground of
imagination ; like him, he has the
rich economy of expression haloed with
thought, which by single or few words
often hints entire pictures to the ima-
gination. In what short and simple
terms, for instance, does he open a wide
and majestic landscape to the mind,
such as we might view from Ben-
lomond or Snowdon, when he speaks
of the hut,
" That from some mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods ! "
[Jan.
And in the line,
" Where faint and sickly winds for ever
howl around,"
he does not merely seem to describe
the sultry desert, but brings it home
to the senses. A cloud of obscurity
sometimes rests on his highest concep-
tions, arising from the fineness of his as-
sociations, and the daring sweep of his
allusions ; but the shadow is transitory,
and interferes very little with the light
of his imagery, or the warmth of his
feelings. * * * In his Ode to Fear he
hints at his dramatic ambition, and he
planned several tragedies. Had he
lived to enjoy and adorn existence, it
is not easy to conceive his sensitive
spirit and harmonious ear descending to
mediocrity in any path of poetry ; yet
it may be doubted if his mind had not
a passion for the visionary and remote
forms of imagination too strong and
exclusive for the general purposes of
the drama. His genius loved to
breathe rather in the preternatural
and ideal element of poetry, than in
the atmosphere of imitation, which lies
closest to real life ; and his notions of
poetical excellence, whatever vows he
might address to the Manners, were still
tending to the vast, the undefinable,
and the abstract. Certainly, however,
he carried sensibility and tenderness
into the highest regions of abstracted
thought — his enthusiasm spreads a
glow even among " the shadowy tribes
of mind," and his allegory is as sensi-
ble to the heart as it is visible to the
fancy.
Thomas Campbell loves the Ec-
logues. " Nothing," he says, " is
commonplace in Collins. The pas-
toral eclogue, which is insipid in all
other English hands, assumes in his a
touching interest, and a picturesque air
of novelty. It seems that he himself
ultimately undervalued these eclogues,
as deficient in characteristic man-
ners ; but surely no just reader of them
cares anymore about this circumstance
than about the authenticity of the
< Tale of Troy.' " This is, perhaps,
rather too bold — yet the " want of
characteristic manners" may be com-
pensated by truth of nature — all over
the world the same in its chief senti-
ments and passions — and the poetry
that gives us these, without any vio-
lation of " characteristic manners,"
will not fail to please, wherever the
scene may be laid, provided only the
1839.] Our Pocket Companions. 133
imagery be coloured by the clime, and is a true Oriental Eclogue — we feel
•we are made to feel that its inhabi- that the time is mid-day — and the scene
tants do not speak like aliens. There- the desert,
fore, "Hassan, or the Camel -Driver,"
" In silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The driver Hassan with his camels pass'd :
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store :
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry Sun had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh ;
The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view !
With desperate sorrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice sigh'd, thrice struck his breast, and thus began :
" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way !
" Ah ! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst, or pinching hunger, that I find !
Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,
When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage ?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign ;
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine ?
" Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal share !
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow :
Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around. —
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Sehiraz' walls I bent my way ! "
True, they are mere boyish productions — but the boyhood of genius is
haunted by images of beauty, and there are many such in these ecologues.
" Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear,
To lead the train, sweet Modesty appear :
Here make thy court amidst the rural scene,
And shepherd girls shall own thee for the Queen.
With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,
Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid ;
But man the most : not more the mountain doe
Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.
Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew ;
A silken veil conceals her from the view.
No wild desires amidst thy train be known,
But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone ;
Desponding Weakness, with her downcast eyes,
And friendly pity, full of tender sighs :
And Love, the last : by these your hearts approve,
These are the virtues that must lead to love.''
Collins, in riper age, would not have written these lines — but is it not well
that they are written ? And are they not redolent of the virtue and happiness
of a golden age ? And where is a lovelier line than
" Their eyes blue languish and their golden hair ? "
A more picturesque line than
" No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear ?"
A more appalling image than
" What if the lion in his rage I meet :
Oft in the dust I view his printed feet ?''
134 Our Pocket Companions. [Jan.
A more poetical picture of fatigue and despair than
" Oh ! stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart ! oh ! turn thee and survey,
Trace our long flight through all its length of way !
And first review that long-extended plain
And yon wide groves, already past with pain !
Yon rugged cliff, whose dangerous path we tried !
And last, this lofty mountain's weary side ! "
Samuel saith that the poet's " lines arises from this circumstance than is
are commonly of slow motion, clogged commonly imagined." The great
and impeded with clusters of conso- Moral Philosopher was a beautiful
nants." — Sometimes they are of slow reader of poetry— especially of what
motion, and then may be applied to was rich, solemn, or stately ; but there
them Dugald Stewart's fine remark are far deeper reasons for all the va-
on one of the finest passages in Gray, rieties of versification, in the fitness
" I cannot help remarking further, and adaptation of sound to sense, and
the effect of the solemn flow of the of the measures of words to the moods
verse in this exquisite stanza, in re- of passion. Samuel likewise saith,
tarding the pronunciation of the that Collins " puts his words out of
reader, so as to arrest his attention to the common order, seeming to think
every successive picture, till it has that not to write prose is to write poe-
time to produce its proper impression, try." Never.
More of the charm of poetical rythm
" But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
"What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail !
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all the song ;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had she sung — but with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat ;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
" Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state,
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'ti on Hate.
" With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd.
And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul :
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
1839.] Our Pocket Companions.
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away."
135
What music !
Take any single verse or sentence
of exquisite construction, where the
place of every word doubles its beauty.
There is no explanation can be ima-
gined of the effect of such construc-
tion on the Mind, except that in the
moment in which it passes upon every
successive word, it has the recollection
present to it of every word it has pass-
ed, with some doubtful yet vigilant ex-
pectation of that which is to follow.
It bears along with it,in short, through-
out, the complex impression of all
which it has passed over, till it reaches
the close 5 and in that beautiful, ex-
pressive, and perfect close, feels the
instantaneous completion of that com-
plex impression, which it had borne
with it incomplete till that moment.
It is difficult to us, indeed, to watch
these processes, but there are abun-
dant cases in which it is not difficult
to demonstrate that they must have
taken place.
When such a passage is learnt by
heart, it is evident to ourselves that
it is not the mere sequence of sounds
that fixes itself by reiterated impres-
sion in the memory ; but the Mind,
hovering, as it were, at once over the
whole line, and over the succession of
lines, imprints that as one in the me-
mory which it has conceived as one,
though beard in many successive im-
pressions of sense ; and even the mis-
placing of a word, or the substitution
of a wrong one, where the verse would
bear it, is often detected, not by the
derangement or falsification of the se-
quences of sound, but by the impaired
beauty of the whole. This may be
observed most easily by every one in
respect of the more beautiful and af-
fecting poetry of his own language.
Indeed, it may be said that the
chief effect of versification depends
upon this power of the mind to re-
member minutely and to expect ex-
actly as it passes on. Every one who
is at all sensible to this kind of har-
mony will be aware how his ear expects
the close of the verse. He will be
aware how in any majestic strain he
feels that it bears him on, he feels that
it draws to its close. Many of the
remarkable effects of unusual versifica-
tion, in poets who are greatest masters
of their art, may be explained by the
interruption that is given to the ordi-
nary expectation of the mind listening
to the stream of sound ; many by the
exceeding of that expectation with the
riches of an inexhaustible harmony.
And as an observation of a minuter
kind, we may remark, that in this
harmony in the sound of verse, the
mind evidently notes the minutest
transitions of sound as it goes on ; the
richness and numerousness of the har-
mony depending entirely on the con-
stant instantaneous comparison of each
successive syllable of sound, with those
which have preceded it — showing de-
monstrably that the mind bears along
with it, in the midst of present impres-
sion, a constant conception of impres-
sions immediately past.
Who but Collins would have writ-
ten the
ODE TO SIMPLICITY >
" O thou, by Nature taught,
To breathe her genuine thought,
In numbers warmly pure, and tweedy
strong :
. Who first on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thy babe and Pleasure's, nurs'd the powers
of song (
" Thou, who with hermit heart,
Disdain'st the wealth of art,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trail.
ing pall ;
But com'st a decent maid,
In attic robe arrayed,
O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I
call!
" By all the honied store
On Hybla's thymy shore,
By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs
dear,
By her whose love-lorn woe,
In evening musings slow,
Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear ;
" By old Cephistw deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep,
In warbled wanderings round thy green
retreat,
On whose enamelled side,
When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt aHnred thy ftitur* fe«t.
136
Our Pvchet Companions.
[Jan.
" O sibtor meek of Tn:tl:,
To my admiring youth
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse !
The flowers that sweatest breathe,
Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
Still ask thy hand to range their order'd
hues.
" While Rome could none esteem,
But virtue's patriot theme,
You loved her hills, and led her laureate
band ;
But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish'd throne,
And turned thy face, and fled her altered
land.
" No more, in hall or bower,
The passions own thy power,
Love, only Love, her forceless numbers
mean :
For thou hast left her shrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile
scene.
" Though Taste, though Genius bless
To some divine excess,
Faint 's the cold work till thou inspire the
whole ;
What each, what all supply,
May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting
soul!
" Of these let others ask, ..
To aid some mighty task,
I only seek to find thy temperate vale :
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O nature, learn my tale."
O Winter — Spring — Autumn —
Summer — ye Seasons all— weep for
your Druid — now and ever for your
Druid weep I
ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR THOMSON.
In yonder grave a Druid lies
Where slowly winds the stealing wave :
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan grave.
" In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing
shade.
" Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
" Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreathes is
drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest !
" And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
" But thou who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah ! what will every dirge avail ?
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail !
" Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering
near ?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.
" But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen
tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf Chides the buried friend !
" And see, the fairy valleys fade,
Dun night has veil'd the solemn view !
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu !
" The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom !
Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.
" Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes,
' O vales, and wild woods,' shall he say,
' In yonder grave your Druid lies ! ' '"
Thomas Brown was not so good a
critic as Dug-aid Stewart. He says —
" The different degrees of plea-
sure received from comparisons, as
they appear to harmonize more or less
with the natural influence of the prin-
cipal suggestion in spontaneous trains
of thought, is finely shown in what has
always appeared to me a very striking
imperfection in one of the most popu-
lar stanzas of Gray's very popular
Elegy. I quote, also, the two preced
ing stanzas : —
' Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial
fire:
Hands that the rod of empire might have
swayed,
Or waked to extacy the living lyre.
1839.]
()•:>• P<icr; 't Co,
137
' But kiiowkclge to their eyes hvr a:rvL>
pa.^e,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er
unroll ;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
' Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :
Full many a flower is born to blush un-
seen,
And waste its sweetness on the desart air. '
The two similies in this stanza cer-
tainly produce very different degrees
of poetical delight. That which is
borrowed from the rose blooming in
solitude pleases in a very high degree,
both as it contains a just, beautiful
similitude ; and still more, as the simi-
litude is one of the most likely to have
arisen to a poetic mind in such a situa-
tion. But the simile in the two first
lines of the stanza, though it may, per-
haps, philosophically, be as just, has
no other charm, and strikes us imme-
diately as not the natural suggestion
of such a moment and such a scene.
To a person moralizing amid the simple
tombs of a village churchyard, there
is, perhaps, no object that would not
sooner have occurred than this piece
of minute jewellery — a gem of purest
ray serene, in the unfathomed caves of
ocean."
In the first place, we object decidedly
to the expression "this piece of minute
jewellery : "
" Full many a gem of purest ray serene,"
is a line which, whether aptly introdu-
ced or not into this description, is unex-
ceptionable in itself— there is nothing
minute in it — but, on the contrary, it
is a line conveying a very splendid and
gorgeous image. But, passing from
that, why does this image strike us in
a moment as one not belonging to the
moment and the scene? If it were
taken by itself, perhaps it might so strike
us ; though we see no reason why a
churchyard, however rural or simple,
being a place of graves, might not sug-
gest any idea whatever, let its wild-
ness, depth, or vastness be what it may.
But we opine that if the whole pervading
and progressive spirit of the stanzas be
considered, they will be felt to contain
no imperfection, but finely to exemp-
lify how emotions and passions of the
mind connect ideas much more power-
fully than mere conceptions or ideas
c\vi- fan — as is ehowlicre properly re-
marked by Dr Brown. The mind of the
poet is here possessed with one great
and sublime, though melancholy and
mournful thought — the earthly extinc-
tion of virtue, power, and genius which
fate had hindered from acquiring their
glory on earth. Now, this is a thought
which is worthy and capable of filling
the whole mind. Nor can there be
imagined any image or conception,
however great, which would be uncon-
genial with it. The humble character
of the village churchyard is for awhile
forgotten, or remembered only so
faintly as to be a kind of dim accom-
paniment to the scene of the poet's
excited imagination ; and no image
from the external world could be out
of place, however splendid or august.
The critics of the day accused Gray
of borrowing the idea of his Elegy
from Collins's Evening ! Oh dear !
And they found fault with Collins's
Evening for being in blank verse.
Alas ! — So perfect is its music that the
ear never misses the rhyme — the soul
forgets that there is such an artifice as
rhyme ; and the imagination is so gra-
dually filled to overflowing, that it feels
but thinks not of the beauty of the me-
dium through which its visions arise —
the lucid and transparent veil of in-
spired words.
ODE TO EVENING.
" If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, te soothe thy mo-
dest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ;
" O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-
hair'd Sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy
skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed :
" Now air is hush'd, save where the
weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill skriek flits by on leathern
wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
" As oft he rises "midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless
hum :
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Our Pocket Companions.
138
" "Whose numbers, stealing through thy
dark'ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return !
" For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,
" And many a nymph who wreathes her
brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and love-
lier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy
scene,
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
" Or if chill blustering winds, or driving
rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
" And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd
spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks
o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
" While Spring shall pour his showers, as
oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest
Eve !
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light :
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with
leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous
air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes..
" So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling
Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name !
Gray stple from this the idea of his
Elegy I
"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary
way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to
[Jan.
" Now fades the glimmering landscape on
the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning
flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
" Save that from yonder ivy-mantled
tower
The moping owl does to the moon com-
plain
Of such as, wandering near her secret
bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign."
Lord Brougham — that universal
genius — does not approve of these
stanzas — and criticises them in his
Inaugural Discourse. He has been
wisely commending the great Greek
orators for their " abstinent use of their
prodigious faculties of expression. A
single phrase — sometimes a word — and
the work is done — the desired impres-
sion is made, as it were, with one
stroke, there being nothing superflu-
ous interposed to weaken the blow, or
break its fall." And after some strik-
ing illustrations, he goes on to praise
" the great poet of Modern Italy,
Dante, for having approached in this
quality nearest to the ancients. In
his finest passages you rarely find an
epithet ; hardly ever more than one,
and never two efforts to embody one
idea. « A guisa di leon quando si
posa,' is the single trait by which he
compares the dignified air of a stern
personage to the expression of the lion
slowly laying him down. It is re-
markable that Tasso copies the verse
entire, but he destroys its whole effect
by filling up the majestic idea, adding
this line, ' Girando gli occhi e non
movendo il passo.' A better illustra-
tion could not easily be found of the
difference between the ancient and
medern style. Another is furnished
by a later imitator of the same great
master. I know no passage of the
Divina Comedia more excursive than
the description of evening in the Pur-
gatorio ; yet the poet is content with
somewhat enlarging on a single thought
— the tender recollections which that
hour of meditation gives the traveller
at the fall of the first night he is to
pass away from home — when he hears
the distant knell of the expiring day.
Gray adopts the idea of the knell in
nearly the words of the original, and
adds eight other circumstances to it,
presenting a kind of ground-plan, or,
1839.]
Our Pocket Companions.
139
at least, a catalogue, an accurate enu-
meration (like a natural historian's) of
every one particular belonging to
nightfall, so as wholly to exhaust the
subject, and leave nothing to the ima-
gination of the reader. Dante's six
verses, too, have but one epithet, dolci,
applied to amid. Gray has thirteen
or fourteen, some of them mere repe-
titions of the same idea which the verb
or the substantive conveys, as drowsy
tinkling lulls — the moping owl com-
plains— the ploughman plodslils weary
way. Surely, when we contrast the
simple and commanding majesty of
the ancient writers with the super-
abundance and diffusion of the exhaus-
tive method, we may be tempted to
feel that there lurks some alloy of bit-
terness in the excess of sweets."
Dante's image of the lion is worthy
of all Brougham's admiration. But
we beg to tell his Lordship that he
" destroys its whole effect," more in-
excusably than Tasso. Dante says
nothing of " the expression of the lien
slowly laying him down." " Expres-
sion " is verily a pauper version of
" a guisa ;" and " slowly laying him
down," is a pompous paraphrase of
" si posa." It is as bad, in another
way, as Tasso's " non movendo il
passo." But how could his Lordship
have blinded himself to the essential
difference between Dante's and Gray's
condition, aim, object, and feeling,
when composing each his celebrated
and immortal lines? A few words
did the business, and Dante had other
fish to fry. Gray had his time at his
own disposal — he hurried no man's
cattle — and the evening being calm he
enjoyed it. 'Twas a pity he mentioned
the curfew at all — for there was none
and had there been, it would not have
tolled till honest people had supped
and undressed for bed. But he could
not resist the temptation of borrowing
an image from the great Florentine
whom he reverenced ; and, after all,
faulty as it is, that opening line has an
imposing effect on the imagination,
which, when taken by surprise, be-
lieves any thing that is solemn, un-
questioning of the truth. Let that
pass, and all that follows is as good as
can be— both in sentiment and ex-
pression. So far from natural, in his
placid mood, would it have been to de-
scribe the coming on of the evening
by some single stroke or touch, that
the beauty of the picture is felt to lie
in the completeness gradually effected
by the natural succession of images —
each with its characteristic epithet —
which were you to delete, the charm
would be broken and the vision gone.
It is not true that-some of the epithets
— which his Lordship has counted
and found to be fourteen — are mere
" repetitions of the same idea which
the verb or substantive conveys ; "
they all intensify the feelings accom-
panying the ideas ; they all deepen
the repose, not excepting the moping
owl, whose complaint to the new-
risen moon — for we add an epithet to
the long dozen — surely disturbs it not
— her fine ear open to every footfall —
even the poet's — though he enters the
churchyard almost as noiselessly as a
ghost.
Here is the famous opening of the
Eighth Canto of the Purgatorio, with
three translations : —
" Era gia 1' ora che volge '1 disio
A'naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore
Lo cli eh' ban detto a dolci amici a Dio ;
E che lo nuovo peregrin d'amore
Punge, se ode squilla di lontano,
Che paia '1 giorno pianger che si muore."
" It was the haur that wakes regret anew
In men at sea, and melts the heart to tears,
The day whereon they bade sweet friends adieu ;-
And thrills the youthful pilgrim on his way
With thoughts of love, if from afar he hears
The vesper bell, that mourns the dying day."
BYRON.
So.ft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
140 Our Pocket Companions,
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to wee p the dying day's return."
MERIVALE.
" 'Twas now the hour when fond desire renews
To him who wanders o'er the pathless main,
Raising unbidden tears, the last adieus
Of tender friends, whom fancy shapes again ;
When the late-parted pilgrim thrills with thought
Of his loved home, if o'er the distant plain
Perchance his ears the village chimes have caught,
Seeming to mourn the close of dying day.'*
[Jan.
Here is the noblest Ode in our language.
ODE TO LIBERTY.
STROPHE.
" Who shall awake the Spartan fife,
And call in solemn sounds to life,
The youths, whose locks divinely spread-
ing,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue
shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to
view?
What new Alceus, fancy-blest,
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,
At Wisdom's shrine a while its flame con-
cealing,
(What place so fit to seal a deed re-
no wn'd?)
Till she her brightest lightnings round
revealing,
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her
prompted wound !
O goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy
ears,
Let not my shell's misguided power
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy face,
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,
Push'd by a wild and artless race,
From off its wide ambitious base,
When Time his northern sons of spoil
awoke,
And all the blended work of strength
and grace
With many a rude repeated stroke,
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand
fragments broke.
EPODE.
" Yet, e'en where'er the least appear 'd
Th" admiring world thy hand rever'd ;
Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her strength were
found ;
They saw, by what escap'd the storm,
How wondrous rose her perfect form ;
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty master pour'd his soul ;
For sunny Florence, seat of Art,
Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,
Till they, whom Science lov'd to name,
(Oh, who could fear it !) quench'd her
flame.
And, lo, an humbler relic laid
In jealous Pisa's olive shade !
See small Marino joins the theme,
Though least, not last in thy esteem ;
Strike, louder strike th" ennobling strings
To those, whose merchants' sons were
kings;
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride :
Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure :
Nor e'er her former pride relate
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no ! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek,
On wild Helvetia's mountain bleak :
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice ;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled.)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those to whom thy stork is dear :
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whose crown a British queen refus'd !
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
The holier name alone remains ;
One perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail, nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail !
ANTISTROPHE.
" Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works, the wizard Time has wrought !
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse
strand,
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and
hoary,
He pass'd with unwet feet through all our
land.
To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way,
1839.]
Our Pocket Companions.
141
Where Orcas howl, his wolfish mountains
rounding ;
Till all the banded west at once 'gan
rise,
A wide wild slorm e'en Nature's self con-
founding,
Withering her giant sons with strange un-
couth surprise.
This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,
By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was push'd aside,
And down the shouldering billows
borne.
And see, like gems, her laughing train,
The little isles on every side,
Mona, once hid from those who search the
main,
Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
And Wight, who checks the westering
tide,
For thee consenting Heaven has each
bestow'd,
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride :
To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,
For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd,
thy last abode !
SECOND EPODE.
" Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul enforcing goddess, stood !
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet :
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place ;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self-o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet, still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light embroider'd sky ;
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains,
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
" How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told ?
How learn delighted,, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
E'en now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise 1
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic, through the mix'd design ;
The secret builder knew to chuse,
Each sphere found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er Heaven's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins ;
There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, 'grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
" Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand !
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain :
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en Anger's blood-shoot eyes in sleep !
Before whose breathing bosom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow
calm ;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around,
' O, how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the West ! ' "
Let no man presume to soliloquize
a comment on that Ode. But it sets
us to dissert a little on poetical lan-
guage.
That the mind in a state of emotion
is liable to suggestions of analogy, is
well stated by Dr Thomas Brown in
one of his Lectures ; and indeed the
language of poetry, which either is,
or ought to be that of passion, is full
of all such analogies, and so is the
language of ordinary life when the
mind is under emotion. But what is
the reason of this fact ? It is this :
The mind under the influence of pas-
sion or emotion, is wholly and vividly
possessed by one feeling. It lives in
one warm, bright, entire state. Its
whole discernment, therefore — power
and wish of discernment — is confined
to one emotion. Whatever thoughts
or conceptions, therefore, do natural-
ly belong to that emotion, crowd in
upon it — and " possess it merely."
In this overcharged and heightened
condition of emotion, it must hap-
pen, that when the mind looks
abroad over external nature, or for a
moment glances inwardly on other
conceptions not exactly the same as
those or that^one which rule predomi-
nantly over it, that it will behold these
in the light of its chief emotion, and
diffuse over them the qualities, as it
were, of that emotion. It will thus
bestow on external nature qualities
which exist only in itself — and where
certain acknowledged analogies do
absolutely exist, it will earnestly seize
upon these, and then burst forth vehe-
142
mently and ardently in figurative and
metaphorical language. Now we
know that by such natural tendency
of tlje mind, all languages are full of
figures and metaphors, expressive of
analogies between qualities or states
of mind and mere appearances of ex-
ternal nature. Accordingly, when
language has been so formed, the mind
under the influence of emotion has no
longer these analogies to seek or find
— but has them ready prepared for it
in language. But we know that lan-
guage itself is full of those causes of as-
sociation or suggestion, which the mind
obeys. Accordingly when the mind,
under the influence of emotion, begins
to clothe its emotion in words, its
first analogical expressions do of them-
selves continue to suggest others, and
thus to feed the emotion, whatever it
may be, and to lead the mind on in a
continued strain of what may be called
poetical language. The first tendency
of the mind under emotion is to trans-
fuse itself into whatever it beholds
or conceives, and when it does so
not only in thought but in expression,
then the very language which it em-
ploys for that purpose, having been
originally formed by minds similarly
situated or affected, begins to act as a
new power upon its associations — and
carries it on, even perhaps after the
strength of the original emotion has
ceased, into the wide field of analogy.
If, agreeably to those views, the mind
under emotion were to remain hushed
and silent, and to confine itself to the
one single emotion or passion that
possessed it, then one of two effects
would follow : either the passion would
die away altogether, or it would be-
come a sort of blind, brooding dis-
ease, in which all the other emotions
and faculties of the soul were lost and
swallowed up. For either the emo-
tion would languish and die, being
denied that food which, in other cases,
the mind supplies to it from its excur-
sive thoughts, or it would grow to such
excess from being agitated entirely, and
at all times, by a few deep, black, and
gloomy thoughts, repelling from them
every suggested thought which did
not closely and grimly coalesce with
it, that the mind woufd be kept in a
condition approaching to that of insa-
nity. Now this happens in nature.
When, for example, grief is so in-
tense as to prostrate the heart — as
Our Pocket Companiums.
[Jan.
when a widow mother loses her only
child — that grief, silent, and almost
thoughtless, eats away like a cancer into
her heart, and she dies — as many have
died — of grief. Or quite an opposite
effect may follow. After a while this
silent, quiet, and deep grief sinks into
resignation — religion tells her that it
is impious — and accordingly all those
trains of thought, which otherwise the
mind would have suggested, being
stopt, arrested, or at least modified,
the heart is restored to itself. But
if an intermediate state of mind
exists— one neither perfectly calmed
by resignation, nor yet utterly aban-
doned to despair, then the passion of
grief finds food for itself in every thing
submitted to the eyes of the mourner ;
and mournful resemblances and analo-
gies are found in all living things to
the dead ; a coffin, a procession, and
a funeral are alike seen in the embers
on the hearth and in the clouds of
heaven.
It should be added, that the mind,
when under the strong power of pas-
sion of various kinds, is also under
the power of high Imagination. In
such excited and elevated moods, it
is impossible to set any bounds to the
analogies which it will discern between
its own feelings and all created na-
ture. It then feels itself, as it were,
the ruling spiritual essence of this
scene of existence ; and sees in the
sky, the earth, and the ocean — its
clouds, storms, mountains, and waves,
only the reflection of its own power
and greatness. Indeed, it is the
theory of Mr Alison, that all beauty
and sublimity in external nature are
but the reflections of mental qualities,
and that the pleasures of the imagina-
tion consist of those emotions which
arise in us during our association of
mental qualities with lifeless things.
This theory, so beautifully illustrated
by Mr Alison, is certainly, in a great
measure, true ; and therefore almost
every word we use and every feeling
which we express is a proof of the dis-
cernment by the mind, in a state of
imagination, of analogies subsisting be-
tween the objects of the external world
and the attributes of our moral and
intellectual being.
We said that Mr Alison's theory is
in a great measure true. The prin-
ciple is true — but we suspect that there
is something fallacious in its applica-
1839.]
Our Pocket Companions.
143
tion. There is a popular opinion, or
rather anunconsidered impression, that
lights and sounds are beautiful and
sublime in themselves, but this dis-
appears before examination. A sound
is or is not sublime, as it is, or is not
apprehended to be thunder. That is
association. But thunder itself would
not be sublime, if there were no more
than the intellectual knowledge of its
physical cause — if there were not ideas
of power, wrath, death, included in it.
The union of these ideas with thunder
is association. Those ideas by associa-
tion, carry their own ideas with them.
All fixed conjunction, therefore, of
ideas with ideas, and of feelings with
ideas, is the work of association — nor
is it possible to dispute it. But when the
advocates of this theory assert that
trains of thought, or distinct personal
recollections, are absolutely necessary
to make up the emotion, then they
assert what appears to us to be con-
tradicted by the experience of every
man. The impression is collective
and immediate. We know that all
our acquired perceptions are at first
gained by long processes of associa-
tion— that the eye does not of it-
self see form or figure. When, there-
fore, we see a rose to be a rose, it
may as well be said that we do so
by a process of association, as that we
see it to be beautiful by a process of
association. In both cases — the per-
ception of the rose, and the emotion of
its beauty is equally instantaneous —
and independent of any process of
association — though we know that
both our perception of it, and our
emotion could only have been formed
originally by such a process. As,
therefore, we cannot be said, by our
instructed senses to perform any men-
tal operation when we see an object to
be round — so neither can we be said
to perform any, when we feel an ob^
ject to be beautiful. Voluntary as-
sociations may, doubtless, be added to
our unreasoned and unwilled percep-
tion of beauty, as of a rose, or a hu-
man countenance — and these trains of
thought, of which Mr Alison so finely
speaks, will add to the emotion. But
the emotion arises independently of
them. We admire the beauty of a
rose just as thoughtlessly as we see it
to have a slender stalk, circular flower,
and serrated leaves. While, there-
fore, we admit the truth, of the prin-
ciple of Mr Alison's theory, we seek
to limit the application of it.
It is farther remarked by Dr Brown,
in his Lecture on Resemblance, as a
law of association, that, " though
in a state of emotion, images are
readily suggested, according to that
principle of shadowy resemblance, it
must be remembered as a rule which
is to guide us in the use of figures, that
in this case the mind seizes the analogy
with almost unconscious comparison —
and pours it forth in its vigorous ex-
pression with the rapidity of inspira-
tion. It does not dwell on the analogy
beyond the moment — but is hurried on
to new analogies, which its seizes and
deserts in like manner." Now this ob-
servation is too general. In the first
transport of any passion— at its acme
— during its unsubsiding turbulence —
when the mind is scarcely in possession
of itself, 'and obeys rather than com-
mands, is led rather than leads — it
does grasp and quit analogies thus
suddenly: but though passion, blind
and headlong at first, speaks in bro-
ken, disjointed, and prerupt discourse,
starting from one image to another —
yet, when the mind has begun to
understand and to enjoy its passion,
it is then exceedingly apt to in-
dulge in the steady, and, perhaps, tri-
umphant contemplation of some one
analogy which seems suited to it, to
sustain and exalt it. The mind, then,
acts under the combined power of pas-
sion and imagination — and, contem-
plating its own workings with a proud
delight, will not dismiss hastily any
image round which it can collect its
feeling, and thereby give it a more per-
manent and vivid existence. A pas-
sion sometimes calms itself by this very
means. The mind partakes of the
dignity of the image which it con-
templates— and thus the transport of
emotion is subdued into what can
now be called only an elevated and ex-
cited state of the imagination. This
being the case, rvo ought to be cautious
how we condemn any delineation of
passion, on the grounds of its seem-
ing to dwell too long, or with too
much self-possession on one compari-
son, or image, or metaphor, or simile,
— for, in many cases, the mind does
consciously, and with pleasure, dwell
on images which, in its first burst of
passion, it grasped unconsciously, or
pain — and from which it then
144 Our Pocket Companions » [Jan.
flew off in restlessness and agitation. We are resolved next summer to
In Shakspeare this occurs constantly visit lona again — and for the first time
— and no greater metaphysician than St Kilda. Collins was a Scotsman —
Stjakspeareeverexhibited by examples so was Home,
the laws of passion and of thought.
" Unbounded is thy range ; with varied skill
Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring
From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,
To that hoar pile which still its ruins shows :
In whose small vaults a Pigmy-folk is found,
Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,
And culls them, wondering, from the hallow'd ground !
Or thither, where beneath the show'ry west
The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid :
Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,
No slaves revere them, and no wars invade :
Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour,
The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,
And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,
In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold,
And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.
" But, oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,
On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,
Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides.
Go ! just, as they, their blameless manners trace !
Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,
Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,
Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,
And all their prospect but the wintery main.
With sparing temperance at the needful time
They drain the scented spring ; or, hunger-prest,
Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,
And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest,
Thus blest in primal innocence they live,
Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare
Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.
Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare ;
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there !
In strains, beautiful as thine own, " Vain thought ! yet be as now thou art,
•wort thou lamented, O Bard of Pity, That in thy waters may be seen
of Fancy, and of Grief ! many years The image of a poet's heart,
after all thy troubles had found rest, How bright, how solemn, how serene !
by the youthful Wordsworth. Such as did once the poet bless,
Who, murmuring here a later ditty,
REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. C°uld find n° refuS6 frOm distress
But in the milder grief of pity.
COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES, NEAR
RICHMOND.
" Now let us, as we float along,
" Glide gently, thus for ever glide, For him suspend the dashing oar ;
O Thames ! that other bards may see And pray that never child of song
As lovely visions by thy side, May know that poet's sorrow more.
As now, fair river, come to me. How calm ! how still ! the only sound
O glide, fair stream, for ever so, The dripping of the oar suspended !
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, The evening darkness gathers round,
Till all our minds for ever flow By virtue's holiest powers attended."
As thy deep waters now are flowing. 1789 !
Edinburgh : Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes, Paul's Work.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,
No. CCLXXX. FEBRUARY, 1839.
VOL. XLV.
NEW EDITION OF BEN JONSON.
BEN JONSON by Barry Cornwall !
This is really too much. The most
masculine of intellects edited by the
most effeminate — one of the greatest
of England's poets patronized by one
of her smallest poetasters.
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE by Thomas
Campbell.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER by Ro-
bert Southey.
These are felt to be fitting conjunc-
tions of names and natures, and we
rejoice to hail the advent of auspicious
times, when the most illustrious of
the living perform pious service to
the most illustrious of the dead ; when
star is seen joining star, never to set,
in the Great Constellation, Genius,
from age to age in widening splendour
that wanes not glorifying the Hea-
vens.
But mercy on us ! BEN JONSON, by
Barry Cornwall? an eagle heralded by
a wren ; or is it absolutely a torn-tit ?
What a MEMOIR !
(f The life of Ben Joiison," — quoth
he, — " has been repeatedly written ;
sometimes carelessly, and not unfre-
quently in a hostile spirit." Always
carelessly, and always in a hostile
spirit, till Gifford took it in hand, and
then it had justice done it — not " ex-
treme justice," as this " feckless body"
says — for these are words without
meaning — but the character of the
man and the genius of the poet were
brought forward in the broad day-
light of truth.
" Hereafter, the Memoirs of Mr Gif-
ford must constitute the foundation for all
arguments touching the poet's moral charac-
VOL. XLV, NO, CCLXXX.
ter. In regard to his literary pretension*!
(a question depending on opinion, rather
than facts), something must be deducted,
we think, from the amount of Jonson s
merits, as summed up by Mr Giffoid. The
critic's indignation at the many calumnies
propagated, during so many years, against
his favourite author, led to his rendering
him (so to speak) extreme justice.
" Mr Gilford's work commences with a
motto, extracted from the eulogy of Cleve-
land. And this, although not strictly a
sample of the biography itself, announces to
the reader the spirit in which it is written.
Ben Jonson lived at the same ' time' with
almost all our eminent dramatists who pre-
ceded the Commonwealth (including Shak-
speare himself) ; and yet we find him
characterised, in the eulogy above referred
to, as
' The Muses' fairest light in no dark time ;
The wonder of a learned age ; the line
Which none can pass ; the mo?t proportioned
wit ;
To Nature, the best judge of what was fit ;
The deepest, plainest, UIGIIEST, clearest pen,
&c.
phrases which, however sincerely bestowed,
are, to say the least, injudicious in them-
selves ; and, moreover, do not seem well
adapted to herald a critical narrative, in
which strict testimony and ' the rigour of
the game" are very fiercely insisted upon, at
the hands of every opponent.
" We think that Mr Gifford has esti-
mated Jonson too highly. But we shall
venture an opinion on the old poet, before
we conclude the present memoir ; and, in
speaking of his qualities as a writer, we may
perhaps advert to those points in his moral
character which his last biographer has so
anxiously defended. In the mean time
(and lest want of space or other circum-
stance should prevent this), we, acknQW-
I
New Edition of Ben Jons on.
146
ledge, with pleasure, that Mr Gifford has
successfully vindicated him from many
charges of baseness and ingratitude, and has
presented his hero to the public in a new
and pleasing light. It is a pity that all
this was not accomplished with less acerbity
towards other critics, and accompanied with
more moderate pretension on behalf of the
poet himself."
True " that hereafter the memoirs
of Mr Gifford must constitute the
foundation for all arguments touching
the poet's moral character." More
than that — they furnish all the argu-
ments necessary for its vindication,
and to those arguments Barry Corn-
wall could not add one efficient word.
Yet he ought to have shown how Gif-
ford scattered, in his ire, all the accu-
mulated calumnies of ages, like chaff
before the wind. " We may perhaps
advert to those points in his moral
character which his last biographer
has anxiously defended. In the mean
time (and lest want of space or other
circumstances should prevent this),"
&c. &c. Who ever heard before of a
biographer prefacing his memoirs of
a great man, with an avowal of the
uncertainty of his finding room to ad-
vert to any disputed points in his
moral character !
Mr Barry Cornwall is pleased to
object to the motto of Mr Gifford's
book — which " announces to the
reader the spirit in which it is written."
He wisely says, the motto "is not
strictly a sample of the biography it-
self;" and then pretending to quote
it, leaves out the lines which GhTord
printed in capitals, to show that they
were, in his opinion, the most charac-
teristic of the poet's powers.
" The voice most echoed by consenting
man,
THE SOUL WHICH ANSWERED BEST xo ALL
WELL SAID
BY OTHERS, AND WHICH MOST REQUITAL
MADE."
There is something very mean in the
omission.
But he knows not what he would
be at — and after all agrees with Gifford
in his, « to say the least of it, injudi-
cious," estimate of Jonson. It was
absurd in Gifford to take Cleveland's
lines for a motto, because " Ben Jon-
son lived at the same time with almost
all our eminent dramatists who pre-
ceded the Commonwealth, &c." Well
— what then? Barry bravely says,
forgetting his fault-finding with Gif-
[Feb.
ford's injudicious, excessive and undue
eulogium, " it is small disparagement
to Jonson to say that he stands second
only to so wonderful a man (Shak-
speare), and we think, on the whole,
he must be held, in the drama, to oc-
cupy the second place. The palm
should always be assigned to origi-
nality, and among the contemporaries
of Shakspeare, Jonson was the most
original." This is no slight praise ! I
considering that amongst these were
Marlowe, Beaumont and Fletcher,
Marston, Decker, Middleton, Mas-
singer, Tourneur, Ford, and others.
Yet he says, " We think Mr Gifford
has estimated Jonson too highly."
Has that critic placed him, then, on the
same level with Shakspeare? No —
he has said over and over again, that
he stands far below Shakspeare — and
scarified all the malignant fools who
falsely accused Ben^of enviously aim-
ing at rivalry with the Unreachable.
" We shall now enter upon our
brief Memoir, premising that we are
quite aware of the difficulties attend-
ing a task of this nature, and begging
the reader to understand, that all the
merit which we claim for ourselves,
is the having spoken with sincerity on
a subject, upon which it has already
been the lot of many men to differ."
No man should undertake a difficult
task, without a well-founded assurance
that he can accomplish it. It is not
enough to " speak with sincerity ;"
he must speak with knowledge and
power. Why should he be insincere?
And what avails sincerity, if you show
yourself to be a sumph ? But there
are no difficulties of any moment at-
tending the " task " of writing now
a brief memoir of the Life and Wri-
tings of Ben Jonson. The materials,
and far more than the materials, are
in Gifford. Is the subject, on which
" it has been the lot of many men to
differ," the character of the man ?
Of that he declares, " with pleasure,"
that Gifford's vindication has been com-
plete. Is it the genius of the poet ?
Upon that " it has not been the lot of
many men to differ" — they have been
unanimous in declaring it of the
highest order. But Mr Cornwall has
no rightful claim to the merit of since-
rity— that virtue cannot exist along
with prejudice and ignorance — and he
has shewn himself very ignorant — and
very prejudiced — equally regarding
Ben Jonson's writings and his life.
1839.]
New Edition of Ben Jonson,
147
" Ben Jonson was born in the City
of Westminster, in the year 1574.
His father, a Scottish gentleman from
Annandale, was imprisoned, and de-
prived of his estate in the reign of
Queen Mary (on account of his reli-
gious opinions, as is supposed), and
died about a month before our author
came into existence ! " — that is " before
Ben was born." Gifford says, " His
grandfather was a man of some family
and fortune, originally settled at An-
nandale, in Scotland, from which place
he removed to Carlisle, and was sub-
sequently taken into the service of
Henry VIII. His father, who was
probably about the Court, suffered a
long imprisonment under Queen Mary,
and was finally deprived of his estate.v
If religion was the cause, as is uni-
versally supposed, persecution only
served to increase his zeal ; for he
entered, some time afterwards, into
holy orders, and became, as Anthony
Wood informs us, ' a grave minister
of the gospel."' What does Barry
Cornwall mean, then, by saying that
Ben 3 onson's father was a gentleman
from Annandale ? Why does he sink
the grandfather ? And why omit to tell
that " the Scottish gentleman from
Annandale," after his imprisonment
became a clergyman? All this is
wilful blundering with his eyes open,
for Gifford's Memoir was lying on his
table, and he had no other means of
information with regard to these or
any other facts.
Gifford's statement — taken from the
" Heads of a Conversation" — of which
. more anon — is meagre and unsatisfac-
tory enough — but 'tis stupid thus to
"misrepresent it. Gifford had no au-
thority for saying that Jonson's
grandfather " was a man of some fa-
mily and fortune," though he may
have been so ; and there is no such
" place" as Annandale " at" which
the family of the poet's progenitors is
said to have been " settled." Annan-
dale, Nithsdale, Tweeddale, Clydes-
dale, are districts — bordering each on
its own beautiful river. Neither do
we understand how Queen Mary of
England could deprive a " Scottish
gentleman" of his estate in Scotland.
All that Ben Jonson said to Drum-
mond was, that " his grandfather
came from Carlisle, and, he thought,
from Annandale to it ; he served King
Henry VIII., and was a gentleman.
His father Zosed all his estate under
Queen Mary, having been cast in
prison and for-faitted ; at last turn-
ed minister, so he was a minister's
son." tf All his estate" must mean
merely " property ; " and here we
cannot help quoting a significant note
of Sir Walter Scott's :— " By the way,
if Jonson's grandfather actually came
from Annandale, his name must have
been Anglicized on his expatriation.
There are no Jonsons, or Johnsons,
in that district, but Johnstones full
many." Was Ben, after all, an Eng-
lishman ?
Heaven forbid I We believe that,
like most great poets, he was of Scot-
tish extraction ; but we have a very
doubtful account of his lineage.
Barry then takes Ben to Westmin-
ster, and removes him thence " either
into St John's or Trinity College ; "
but he says that " the records of the
University do not enable us to deter-
mine precisely where, nor how long he
was a resident at Cambridge." They
do not ; for his name is not to be
found in its records ; and we agree
with Mr David Laing, that " there is
no evidence that he ever had the be-
nefit of an academical education."
Gifford gives plausible reasons for be-
lieving that he had been at Cambridge
for many months — probably not less
than a year. Barry Cornwall, who
of himself knows nothing about the
matter, sets them aside, or it is more
likely never attended to them, and
says that Jonson " was compelled,
after a short stay of a few weelis or
months, to quit the University." Had
he been a Cantab, we think, he would
have gloried in declaring it in the
magnificent dedication of his Volpone,
" To the most noble and most equal
sisters, the two famous Universities."
Ben's mother, as all the world
knows, having married a master brick-
maker — no unequal match — Ben —
Cantab or no Cantab — " could not
endure the occupation" — and in his
18th year joined the army in Flanders
as a volunteer. Gifford says that
having, «' both from birth and educa-
tion, probably been encouraged to
look to the Church for an establish-
ment, he was exceedingly mortified at
this new destination"-that of a brick-
maker. Therefore he gave both up,
and became a soldier and then a
player. Barry says —
" After a. campaign or two, he returned
home, having signalized himself, in the
148
New Edition of Ben Jvnson.
[Feb.
interim, by vanquishing an eiietny in single
combat, and killing him and bearing off his
spoils, in the presence of both armies. It
does not appear that he obtained any rank
or advantage, or indeed any especial repu-
tation, either for this gallant action or for
his general services in the field. Yet, there
can be little doubt but tbat the combat took
place, as stated by Jonson to Drummond ;
for Ben was a fellow of a fine masculine
character, and however he may have possess-
ed the ' Roman infirmity' of boasting, as
Howell relates, he would not willingly mis-
state a fact."
Here it is said that Ben " signalized
himself," but that it does not appear
ff he gained any especial reputation,
either for this gallant exploit, or for
his general service in the field." It
is rather too much to expect of a pri-
vate soldier, that he shall be distin-
guished " for his general services in
the field ;" and rather too much to say,
that a private soldier " signalizes him-
self," without gaming any especial re-
putation— the act by which he signa-
lizes himself, having been the " killing
an enemy in single combat, and bear-
ing off his spoils in presence of both
armies." That valorous gentleman,
Mr A. Chalmers, observes, that " one
man's killing and stripping another, is
a degree of military prowess of no
very extraordinary kind." Old Gif-
ford, who was steel to the back bone,
thinks that in days when great battles
were rarely fought, and armies lay for
half a campaign in sight of each other,
and when it was not unusual for cham-
pions to advance into the midst and
challenge their adversaries, we may
venture to admit the gallantry of the
youthful volunteer. Barry Cornwall
goes a step farther than Alexander
the Small, and says, " there can be
little doubt but that the combat took
place, as stated by Jonson to Drum-
mond"— for, " that Ben would not
willingly mistate a fact" — that is,
tell a vain-glorious lie. Is there any
doubt ? What does the man mean ?
" He returned once more, as we have
said, to his mother's house. Whether he
ever resumed the bricklayer's trade, or
sought for any employment in which his
learning could help him, is uncertain. If
the former were the case, it was during a
short interval of time only ; for he soon
afterwards, according to the general account,
took refuge on the stage. At this time, he
was about nineteen years of age.
" The commencement of Jonson's dra-
matic career is hid in obscurity. It is pro-
bable that he acted at the theatre called
' The Green Curtain' in Shoreditch, and it
is tolerably certain that he made additions
to existing plays, and wrote others, in con-
junction with contemporary poets. These,
in fact, were his sole or principal means of
support. Whether he acted badly, as is
asserted by some, or wrote unsuccessfully,
as is alleged by others, remains uncertain ;
and, in effect, these matters are not very
important. There is no entire play, trace-
able to his pen, anterior to Every Man in
his Humour, which was not produced till
November, 1596. Previously to that time,
however, he seems to have established a
footing at the theatres. Amongst other
things, he was employed to make additions
to a play, by Kyd, called The Spanish
'Tragedy, or Hieronymo is mad again. It
has been stated by some authors, that he
took Mad Jeronymo's part. This is denied
by Mr Gifford, who quotes several passages
to show that the personator of Jeronymo
must necessarily have been of small stature.
Now, to show how careful critics should be
who deal hard measure to their brethren of
the craft, the passages quoted by Mr Gifford
are taken from another play, entitled (when
it was subsequently printed in 1605) The
first part of Jeronymo, — a production
which has not been established to be the
work of Kyd, — to which Jonson did not
make additions, — and in which certainly
Jeronymo is not mad at all. In the other
play — a continuation, indeed, of the history
contained in the ' First Part'— there is no
mention of any stature peculiar to Jerony-
mo, and therefore the character might have
been played, without any inconsistency
obvious to the audience, by an actor of any
bulk or height.''
This is wretched writing. " He '
took refuge on the stage ! " From
what ? " It is tolerably certain that he
made additions to existing plays, and
wrote others, in conjunction with con-
temporary poets." " These, in fact ',
were his sole or principal means of sup-
port." " Whether he acted badly, as
is asserted by some, or wrote unsuc-
cessfully, as is alleged by others, re-
mains uncertain, and in effect THESE
MATTERS are not very important."
" He seems, however, to have esta-
blished a footing at the theatres."
What ? By acting badly and writing
unsuccessfully ? — And supposing he
had done both, " were these matters
not very important" to a pennyless
youth, who " had taken refuge on the
stage ? "
It seems at first sight incredible,
1839.]
New Edition of Ben Jonson.
that Barry Cornwall should correct
William Gifford. Yet in the above
passage he does so — not of himself —
but through Mr J. Payne Collier. That
gentleman, in his excellent Annals of
the Stage, says, "that the First Part of
Jeronimo is the first play upon record
that bears evidence of having1 been
written for a particular performer — a
man of unusually small stature — and
in many places this circumstance is
brought forward. Now, it is evident,
that if there be any truth in Dekker's
assertion (controverted by Gifford),
that Ben Jonson originally performed
the part of Jeronimo, he must allude
not to the tragedy now under consi-
deration, but to the Spanish tragedy,
where nothing is said regarding the
personal appearance of the hero or his
representative."
Still it is not quite certain that
Gifford committed any mistake. Mr
Collier says rightly, that the Spanish
Tragedy " may be fitly termed the
second part of Jeronimo." What,
then, would an audience have thought
of Big Ben personating in the second
part of a tragedy, the character which,
in the first part, had been acted by and
written for a dwarf?
Barry Cornwall is pleased to say in
the above pompous passage — exulting
in his victory over Gifford — that " the
First Part of Jeronimo " is aproduc-
tion which " has not been established to
be the work of Kyd." He knows no-
thing about the matter — but Mr Col-
lier knows every thing about it that
can be known — and he says " it is
undoubtedly the work of Kyd."
Of the " Spanish Tragedy," Mr
Collier says truly, that " it is a very
powerful performance. The story
has many incongruities and absurdi-
ties, and various passages and situa-
tions were made the laughingstocks
of subsequent dramatists ; but parts
of it are in the highest degree pathetic
and interesting." It went through
more editions than perhaps any play
of the time. It is shown in Malone's
Shakspeare by Boswell, that on the
25th September, 1601, Ben Jonson
was paid 40s. for " writing his addi-
tions " to it ; and Mr Collier says,
" that the precise amount of the addi-
tions is ascertained by comparing the
older printed copy of 1599 with that
of 1602, which professes to be ' newly
corrected, amended, and enlarged,
with the new addition of the Painter's
149
part, and others.' The Painter's part
was consequently the last improve-
ment made by Ben Jonson. "
Hawkins, in his Origin of the Eng-
lish Stage, not knowing that those ad-
ditions were by Jonson, contemptuous-
ly says, " that they were foisted in by
the players," and degrades them to a
note. Gifford passes them over almost
without notice. Barry Cornwall, taught
by Charles Lamb, who calls them the
" very salt of the Play," and conjec-
tures they might have been written
by Webster, says, that " neither Jon-
son nor any of his contemporaries —
always omitting Shakspeare — need
have scrupled to confess himself the
author." He says, at the same time,
with his usual ignorance, " that Jon-
son is supposed to hava made addi-
tions to the Spanish Tragedy" — and,
with his usual imbecility, that " it
contains a passage or two that de-
serve to be remembered;" which "pas-
sage or two " are, in his opinion,
worthy of any man save Shakspeare.
Mr Collier says well, that " these
very striking and characteristic addi-
tions represent Ben Jonson in rather
a new light, for certainly there is no-
thing in his own entire plays equal-
ling in pathetic beauty some of his
contributions to the Spanish Tra-
gedy.*' That the passages added in
the edition of 1602 are by Jonsou we
believe — the proof seems positive —
that it is so with regard to " the
Painter's part" is indisputable — and
that part is in the same strain with
what immediately precedes it.
And here it is only worth while
farther to observe, that Mr Cornwall,
who will blunder, if blundering be
within human reach, tells us in the
above passage, on which we have
written, we perceive, without in-
tending it, an unmerciful critique,
that Ben Jonson had been employed
to make additions to the Spanish Tra-
gedy, before he wrote Every Man in
his Humour, which was brought out
in 1596 — whereas, we have seen that
he was not employed to do so till
1601 and 1602. Barry is the facile
princeps of Chronologers.
He then, with his usual waut of
judgment, quotes some twenty lines
or so — without saying a single syllable
to enable readers who see them, for
the first time, to know what they are
about, or what has happened to the
two persons appearing before them,
150
New Edition of Sen Jonson.
to make the one so miserable and the
other so mad. The passage being a
pet one with him, and his masters, he
opines it must be familiar, and every
thing else, too, before and after it in
the play, to all the rest of mankind.
Let us give it nearly entire : A father
has gone mad on finding his murdered
son hanging on a tree in his own or-
chard.
" Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of
those
Insatiate humours : he loved his loving pa-
rents :
He was my comfort, and his mother's joy,
The very arm that did hold up our house —
Our hopes were stored up in him,
None but a damned murderer could hate him.
He had not seen the back of nineteen years,
When his strong arm unhors'd the proud
Prince Balthazar ;
And his great mind, too full of honour, took
To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portu-
guese.
Well, heaven is heaven still !
And there is Nemesis, and furies,
And things called whips,
And they sometimes do meet with murderers :
They do not always 'scape, that's some com-
fort
Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and
steals, and steals,
Till violence leaps forth, like thunder
Wrapt in a ball of fire,
And so doth bring confusion to them all.
[Exit.
" JAQUES and PEDRO, servants.
" Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our mas-
ter thus
At midnight sends us with our torches lit,
When man and bird and beast are all at rest,
Save those that watch for rape and bloody
murder.
" Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our
master's mind
Is much distract since his Horatio died :
And, now his aged years should sleep in rest,
His heart in quiet, like a desperate man
Grows lunatic and childish for his son :
Sometimes as he doth at his table sit,
He speaks as if Horatio stood by him,
Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth,
Cries out, Horatio, where is my Horatio ?
So that with extreme grief, and cutting sor-
row,
There is not left in him one inch of man :
See here he comes.
" HIERONYMO enters.
" Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each
wall,
Look at each tree, and search thro' every
brake,
Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame
earth,
[Feb.
Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven :
Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio.
How now, who's there, sprights, sprights ?
" Ped. We are your servants that attend
you, sir.
" Hier. What make you with your
torches in the dark ?
" Ped. You bid us light them, and at-
tend you here.
'•' Hier. No, no, you are deceived, not I,
you are deceived ;
Was I so mad to bid you light your torches
now ?
Light me your torches at the mid of noon,
When as the sun-god rides in all his glory ;
Light me your torches then.
" Ped. Then we burn daylight.
" Hier. Let it be burnt ; night is a mur-
d'rous slut,
That would not have her treasons to be seen ;
And yonder pale fac'd Hecate there, the
moon,
Doth give consent to that is done in dark-
ness.
And all those stars that gaze upon her
face,
Are aglets on her sleeve, pins on her train :
And those that should be powerful and di-
vine,
Do sleep in darkness when they most should
shine.
" Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with
tempting words,
The heavens are gracious ; and your miseries
And sorrow make you speak you know not
what.
" Hier. Villain, thou liest, and thou
doest nought
But tell me I am mad : thou liest, I am not
mad:
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques.
I'll preve it to thee ; and were I mad, how
could I ?
Where was she the same night, when my
Horatio was murder'd ?
She should have shone : search thou the
book :
Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there
was a kind of grace,
That I know, nay, I do know, had the mur-
d'rer seen him,
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the
earth,
Had he been fram'd of nought but blood and
death ;
Alack, when mischief doth it knows not
what,
What shall we say to mischief?
ISABELLA, his Wife, enters.
" Isa. Dear Hieronymo, come in a doors,
0 seek not means to increase thy sorrow.
" Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing
here;
1 do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques :
Not I ,indeed, we are very merry, very merry.
1839.] New Edition of Ben Jonson.
<< ha. How ? be merry here, be merry
here ?
Is not this the place, and this the very tree,
Where my Horatio died, where he was
murder 'd ?
" Hier. Was, do not say what : let her
•weep it out.
This was the tree, I set it of a kernel ;
And when our hot Spain could not let it
grow,
But that the infant and the human sap
Began to wither, duly twice a morning
Would I be sprinkling it with fountain
water :
At last it grew and grew, and bore and
bore :
Till at length it grew a gallows, and did
bear our son.
It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked,
wicked plant.
See who knocks there.
( One knocks within at the door.)
tf Ped. It is a painter, sir.
" Uier. Bid him come in, and paint some
comfort,
For surely there's none lives but painted
comfort.
Let him come in, one knows not what may
chance.
God's will that I should set this tree ! but
even so
Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought,
And then they hate them that did bring
them up.
The Painter enters.
" Pain. God bless you, sir,
" Hier. Wherefore ? why, thou scorn-
ful villain ?
How, where, or by what means should I
be blest ?
" Isa. What wouldst thou have, good
fellow ?
" Pain. Justice, madam.
" Hier. O, ambitious beggar, wouldst
thou have that
That lives not in the world ?
Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy
An ounce of Justice, 'tis a jewel so ines-
timable.
I tell thee, God hath engross'd all justice
in his hands,
And there is none but what comes from
him.
" Pain. O then I see that God must
right me for my murder'd son.
" Hier. How, was thy son murder'd?
" Pain. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son
so dear.
" Hier. What, not as thine ? that's a
lie,
As massy as the earth : I had a son,
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh
A thousand of thy sons, and he was mur-
der'd.
" Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he.
" Hier. Nor I, nor I ; but this same
one of mine
Was worth a legion. But all is one.
Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors, Isabella, go,
And this good fellow here, and I,
Will range this hideous orchard up and
down,
Like two she lions reaved of their young.
Go in a doors I say. [Exeunt*
[ The Painter anS he sit down.
Come, let's talk wisely now.
Was thy son murder'd ?
" Pain. Ay, sir.
" Hier. So was mine.
How dost thou take it ? art thou not some-
times mad?
Is there no tricks that come before thine
eyes?
" Pain. O lord, yes, sir.
" Hier. Art a painter ? canst paint me
a tear, a wound ?
A groan or a sigh ? canst paint me such a
tree as this ?
" Pain. Sir, I am sure you have heard
of my painting :
My name's Bazardo.
" Hier. Bazardo ? 'fore God an excel-
lent fellow. Look you, sir.
Do you see ? I'd have you paint me in my
gallery, in your oil colours matted, and
draw me five years younger than I am : do
you see, sir ? let five years go, let them
go, — my wife Isabella standing by me,
with a speaking look to my son Horatio,
which should intend to this, or some such
like purpose ; God bless thee, my sweet
son ; and my hand leaning upon his head
thus, sir, do you see ? may it be done ?
" Pain. Very well, sir.
" Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, sir :
Then, sir, would I have you paint me this
tree, this very tree :
Canst paint a doleful cry ?
" Pain. Seemingly, sir.
" Hier. Nay, it should cry ; but all is
one.
Well, sir, paint me a youth run thro" and
thro' with villains' swords hanging
upon this tree.
Canst thou draw a murd'rer ?
" Pain. I'll warrant you, sir ; I have
the pattern of the most notorious villain*,
that ever lived in all Spain.
" Hier. O, let them be worse, worse :
stretch thine art,
And let their beards be of Judas's own
colour,
And let their eye-brows jut over : in any
case observe that ;
Then, sir, after some violent noise,
Bring me forth in my shirt, and my gown
under my arm; with my torch in my
hand, and my sword rear'd up thus,—
And with these words ; What noise it
this ? who calls Hieronymo ?
May it be done ?
New Edition of Ben Jonson.
152
" Pain. Yea, sir.
' ' Hier. Well, sir, then bring me forth,
bring me thro' alley and alley, still with a
distracted countenance going along, and
let my hair heave up my night-cap.
" Let the clouds scowl, make the moon
dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing,
the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the
toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and
the clock striking twelve.
" And then at last, sir, starting, behold a
man hanging, and tott'ring, and tott'ring,
as you know the wind will wave a man,
and I with a trice to cut him down.
" And looking upon him by the advan-
tage of my torch, find it to be my son
Horatio.
" There you may show a passion, there
you may show a passion.
" Draw me like old Priam of Troy, cry-
ing, the house is a fire, a fire, the house
is a fire ; and the torch over my head ;
make me curse, make me rave, make me
cry, make me mad, make me well again,
make me curse hell, invocate, and in the
end leave me in a trance, and so forth.
" Pain. And is this the end ?
" Hier. O no, there is no end : the end
is death and madness ;
And I am never better than when I am
mad ;
Then methinks I am a brave fellow ;
Then I do wonders ; but reason abuseth
me ;
And there's the torment, there's the hell.
At last, sir, bring me to one of the mur-
derers ;
Were he as strong as Hector,
Thus would I tear and dr.ig him up and
down.
(He beats the painter in)."
True, as Mr Collier says, there is
nothing in Jonson's entire plays equal-
ling the best parts of this " in pathetic
beauty ;" but in Sejanus and Catiline,
his only surviving tragedies, there could
not be ; and what forbids us to believe
that his genius was equal to the pro-
duction of this — the wonderful, the
woful, and the wild — inspired by its
imaginations of misery and madness ?
Nothing.
We return to the Memoir.
" What Jonson's success was at this pe-
riod, as an author or an actor, is doubtful.
It is clear, however, that his progress was
interrupted by a melancholy event, arising
out of a quarrel with a player. This person
(whose name is not known) sent him a
challenge, and the consequence was that a
duel took place, in which Jonson slew his
antagonist, receiving at the same time a
severe wound in his own arm. In recounting
the transaction to Drummond, he says, that
his opponent brought into the field a sword
[Feb.
ten inches longer than his own. Be that as
it may, he himself, in consequence of the
man s death, was thrown into prison, under
an accusation of murder.
" It was during this incarceration that he
was induced to renounce the Protestant for
the Romish Church. In his prison, he was
visited by a Roman Catholic priest, under
the influence of whose arguments or per-
suasions, and the melancholy induced by his
own precarious situation, he became a tem-
porary convert to the Church of Rome. He
appears to have been beset by dangers, or
else full of apprehensions, at this period.
Spies were set to catch him, according to
his own account ; but he was warned against
these emissaries by his jailer and saved.
How far this was a matter of fact, or ima-
gination, we have no means of ascertaining.
But it seems singular that Jonson, who was
then liable to be tried for his life for mur-
der, and who was beyond a doubt a Pro-
testant on his entering prison, should excite
such serious and sudden suspicion of being
connected with any Popish conspiracy, as to
induce the government to surround him
with spies. And had even that been the
case, one does not well see, first, how his
jailer should learn that the persons alluded
to were spies ; or, secondly, why he should
communicate the matter to Jonson, to whom
he was a stranger, and thus compromise
himself with the persons above him. We
are inclined to treat the matter as altogether
very doubtful ; the more especially as the
attempt never was repeated after Jonson was
delivered from his imprisonment. It was
never known to what circumstances our
author was indebted for his deliverance ;
unless, as has been thought, it was that he
was the party challenged, a circumstance
that must have operated in his favour before
a jury, but which would scarcely have saved
him from a trial."
Here, again, we have some more of
Mr Barry Cornwall's impertinence to
Ben Jonson. " In recounting the
transaction to Drummond, he says that
his opponent brought into the field a
sword ten inches longer than his own.
Be that as it may," &c. Was it not
true ? Was Ben bouncing ? What
does he know " of the melancholy
induced by Ben's precarious situa-
tion?'' Ben does not say he was
melancholy — but that he took the
priest " at his word." What does he
mean by a "temporary convert?"
Ben continued in his adopted creed for
twelve years. The prisoner himself
said he was beset with spies — " they
placed two damned villains to catch
advantage of him, with him, but he
was advertised by his keeper ; of the
J839.]
New Edition of Ben Jonson.
153
spies he hath an epigrame." " How
far this was matter of fact or imagina-
tion," quoth Barry, " we have no
means of ascertaining." That is very
true — two hundred and forty years,
and upwards, have elapsed since then,
and Barry Cornwall the sceptic, is
left without any means of ascertaining
the fact. But let him not be hurried
away by the force of his own reason-
ing powers. That Ben " was, beyond
doubt, a Protestant on his entering
prison," may be true — though Barry
might be puzzled to tell how he came
to know it ; but the more suspicious,
for that very reason, to a suspicious
Government might seem the visits of a
seminary priest. " The years 1693-4,"
says Gifford, " were years of singular
disquietude and alarm. The Catho-
lics, who despaired of effecting any
thing against the Queen by open force,
engaged in petty conspiracies to take
her off by sudden violence. The na-
tion was agitated by those plots, which
were multiplied by fear ; and several
seminaries, as the Popish priests edu-
cated abroad were then called, were
actually convicted of attempts to poi-
son the Queen, and executed." " One
does not well see," quoth Barry,
" first, how this jailer should learn
that the persons alluded to were spies ;
or secondly, why he should communi-
cate the matter to Jonsou, to whom
he was a stranger, and thus compro-
mise himself with the persons above
him." Why, we humbly venture to
suggest, that jailers are "'cute fellers
enough in their way," and have a
sharp eye for spies, informers, and
peachers : and if " the persons alluded
to " were not spies, pray, may we ask
who they were, and how the devil
they came there ? Secondly, why the
jailer " should communicate the mat-
ter to Jonson, to whom he was a
stranger," does not seem so unaccount-
able to Christopher North as to Barry
Cornwall — seeing that the prisoner,
who had got into an awkward hobble,
and might be hanged, was a youth in
his twentieth year, a brave youth and
a bright — a learned youth and an elo-
quent— such a " broth of a boy " as it
had never been the lot of the said
jailer to converse withal, since he first
mounted a bunch of keys at his girdle.
" Thus to compromise himself with the
persons above him," was rash ; but his
wife would not, on that offence, read
her husband a curtain lecture, for the
sex is pitiful ; and then we trust the
jailer, in his humanity, was prudent,
and warned Ben simply by putting his
finger to his nose, or cocking his eye
at each ugly customer, thereby ex-
pressing more forcibly than by words
— " Hie niger est — hunc, tu Romane,
caveto." Such worthy jailers there
have been in this wicked world — fear-
less of " compromising themselves
with persons above them "—incredible
as such folly may seem to Barry
Cornwall.
" Two will I mention dearer than the
rest,"
That Egyptian, who was kind ex-
ceedingly to Joseph, the son of Jacob ;
and that Saxon, in whose eyes John
found favour, even John Bunyan,
the tinker, and the son of a tinker,
who, being a prisoner, was yet free,
and, without bail, walked to and fro
even as a man whose legs were unac-
quainted with bonds.
" That he escaped, however, is very cer-
tain, and returned to his old occupation of
providing matter for the theatres. He mar-
ried, moreover, at this time, a young woman
who was a Catholic, and who brought him
a female child in 1 595, and a son in the
following year. Both these children died
young."
" That he escaped, however, is very
certain" — hanged he was not — and in
his twentieth year " he returned to his
old occupation." Pray, wherein lies
the charm of calling a daughter " a
female child ? " Is not a son " a male
child ? " Then, why not say so ? We
hate all such invidious distinctions.
In 1596, was produced " Every Man
in his Humour" — which, in 1598, was
recast — the scene having been wisely
transferred from Italy to England.
Hear Barry on this matchless Comedy.
" lu regard to ' Every Man in his Hu-
mour,' it is a fair sample of the author's
style, and betrays the peculiar character of
his genius. It is the only one of his dra-
mas, except ' The Alchemist " (the latter,
however, reduced to a farce), which has
kept possession of the stage. Once in a
season, perhaps, some actor, desirous of
exhibiting the diversity of his powers, un-
dertakes the character of Kitely, and
extracts from a patient audience a mode •
rate portion of applause. But the play is
rarely repeated, until after the lapse of
one or two succeeding years. In truth,
amongst a good deal of sound sensible wri-
ting, and with little to object to, there is
nothing to stimulate curiosity or excite
154
New Edition of Sen Jonson.
[Feb.
any rapturous admiration. There is a
deficiency of passion, and not much deli-
cacy of character ; and there is no heroism
or strong feeling of any sort. With the
exception of Bobadil, who is a brave bit
of humour, the characters are of a level
order ; never rising much beyond the line
in which they set out, but nevertheless
uttering, in their course, a good many
shrewd, and even some witty things. The
persons of the drama speak partly in blank
verse, and should therefore be occasional-
ly poetical; yet they seem for the most
part to be of the opinion of the elder
Knowell, who thus declares himself at the
outset of the play : —
' Myself was once a student, and, indeed,
Fed with the self->ame humour he is now.
Dreaming on nought but idle poetry ;
That fruitless and unprofitable art.
Good unto none, but least to its professors,
Which then I thought the mistress of all know*
ledge ;
But since, Time and the truth havewak'd my
judgment,
And Reason taught me better to distinguish
The vain from th" useful learnings.'
He appears from all this not to have
the slightest conception of the charac-
ter of this inimitable comedy — and does
what he can to underrate it — and at the
same time the Alchemist — by telling us
that it now produces no effect on the
stage. We know not, and care not how
thatmaybe — noryetwhohas "reduced
the Alchemist to a farce." " There is
deficiency of passion," he says — what!
in Kitely ? Bah ! « There is no he-
roism." And why should there be
any heroism ? There is no heroism
in Hudibras. Bobadil is " a brave
bit of humour." And he afterwards
admits he is " a braggart of the first
water," worthy to " march in the same
regiment with Bessus and Pistol, and
Parolles and the Copper Captain."
Now hear Gifford.
" Bobadil has never been well un-
derstood, and therefore is always too
highly estimated ; because he is a
boaster and a coward, he is scurvily
dismissed as a mere copy of the an-
cient bully, or what is infinitely more
ridiculous, of Pistol ; but Bobadil is
a creature sui generis, and perfectly
original. . . . Bobadil is stained
with no inordinate vice, and is besides
so frugal that * a bunch of radishes
and a pipe to close the orifices of his
stomach," satisfy all his wants. Add
to this, that the vanity of the ancient
soldier (in the Greek Comedy} is ac-
companied with such deplorable stu-
pidity, that all temptation to mirth is
taken away ; whereas Bobadil is
really amusing. His gravity, which
is of the most inflexible nature, con-
trasts admirably with the situations in
which he is thrown ; and, though
beaten, baffled, and disgraced, he ne-
ver so far forgets himself as to aid in
his own discomfiture. He has no so-
liloquies like Bessus and Parolles, to
betray his real character, and expose
himself to unnecessary contempt ; nor
does he break through the decorum
of the scene in a single instance. He
is also an admirer of poetry, and
seems to have a pretty taste for criti-
cism, though his reading does not
appear very extensive, and his deci-
sions are usually made with some-
thing of too much promptitude. In a
word, Bobadil has many distinguish-
ing traits ; and till a preceding1
braggart shall be discovered with
something more than big words and
bearing to characterize him, it may
not be amiss to allow Jonson the cre-
dit of having depended entirely on his
own resources."
Gifford is equally just and discrimi-
nating on Kitely. " Jealousy is the
humour of Kitely ; but it is no more
the jealousy of Ford than of Othello :
original it neither is nor can be, for it
is a passion as common as the air, and
has been the property of the stage
from the earliest times ; yet what but
a jaundiced eye can discover any ser-
vile marks of imitation ? Kitely's
alarms are natural, for his house is
made the resort of young and riotous
gallants ; yet he drew his suspicions
with great delicacy ; and when cir-
cumstances * light as air ' confirm
them, he does not bribe a stranger to
complete his dishonour, but places a
confidential spy over his wife, to give
notice of the first approach to famili-
arity. In a word, the feelings, the
language, and the whole conduct of
Kitely, are totally distinct from those
of Ford, or any preceding stage cha-
racter whatever. The author drew
from nature ; and, as her varieties are
infinite, a man of Jonson's keen and
attentive observation was under no
necessity of borrowing from her at
second hand." Sound, manly criti-
cism— how different from the cockney
conceit that disgusts equally in Bar-
ry's praise and his censure.
" The persons in the drama," quoth
Barry, " speak partly in blank verse,
and should, therefore, be occasionally
poetical." And are they not?— -
Knowell is a " scholar and a gentle-
1939.] New Edition of Ben Jonson,
man," and adapts his language to his
subject, and to his hearers ; yet even
in his advice — and admirable advice it
is to all men — to Master Stephen, a
country gull, he warms into poetry—
as, for example, when he says finely,
" Nor stand so much on your gentility,
Which is an airy and mere borrowed thing
From dead men's dust and bones, and none
of yours,
Except you make or hold it.
Then, what can be better than this —
and is it not sufficiently poetical for
blank verse in a comedy ?
•' I will not stop his journey,
Nor practise any violent means to stay
Th' unbridled course of youth on him ;
for that
Restrained proves more impatient; and
in kind
Like to the eager, but the generous grey-
hound,
Who ne'er BO little from his game withheld,
Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's
throat."
Or again,
" My presence shall be as an iron bar
'Twixt the conspiring motives of desire :
Yea, any look or glance mine eye ejects ^
Shall check occasion, as one doth his
slave,
When he forgets the limits of proscrip-
tion.'*
Take a longer passage.
« Dame K. Pray Heaven it do.
" Kit. A new disease! I know not,
new or old,
But it may well be call'd poor mortals' plague ;
For, like a pestilence, it doth infect
The houses of the brain. First it begins
Solely to work upon the phantasy,
Filling her seat with such pestiferous air,
As soon corrupts the judgment ; and from
thence,
Sends like contagion to the memory :
Still each to other giving the infection,
Which as a subtle vapour spreads itself
Confusedly through every sensive part,
Till not a thought or motion in the mind
Be free from the black poison of suspect.
Ah ! but what misery is it to know this ?
Or, knowing it, to want the mind's erection
In such extremes ? Well, I will once more
strive,
In spite of this black cloud, myself to be,
And shake the fever off that thus shakes
me.'' [Exit.
And again —
" Kit. O, that is well ; fetch me my
cloak, my cloak !—
Stay, let me see, an hour to go and come ;
155
Ay, that will be the least ; and then 'twill be
An hour before I can dispatch with him,
Or very near ; well, I will say two hours.
Two hours ! ha ! things never dreamt of yet,
May be contrived, ay, and effected too,
In two hours' absence ; well, I will not go.
Two hours ! No, fleeting Opportunity,
I will not give your subtilty that scope.
Who will not judge him worthy to be robb'd,
That sets his doors wide open to a thief,
And shews the felon where his treasure lies ?
Again, what earthy spirit but will attempt
To taste the fruit of beauty's golden tree,
When leaden sleep seals up the dragon's
eyes?
I will not go. Business, go by for once.
No, beauty, no ; you are of too good caract,
To be left so, without a guard, or open.
Your lustre, too, '11 inflame at any distance,
Draw courtship to you, as a jet doth straws ;
Put motion in a stone, strike fire from ice,
Nay, make a porter leap you with his bur-
den.
You must be then kept up, close, and well
watch'd,
For, give you opportunity, no quicksand
Devours or swallows swifter !"
And so in a hundred other instances
where the thought, feeling, and ex-
pression are full of force and fire.
Perhaps Barry Cornwall does not
know that in the quarto there is a pas-
sage— afterwards omitted — probably
because too poetical — of which Gif-
ford truly says, "it would be unjust
to Jonson, as well as to the reader, to
suppress the passage, which is full of
noble feeling, at once rational, fervid,
and sublime. It breathes the very
spirit of high antiquity, and forms one
of those numerous sources from which
Milton (the unwearied though unno-
ticed follower of this great poet) de-
rived inspiration and vigour."
" I can refell opinion; and approve
The state of poesy, such as it is,
Blessed, eternal, and most true divine :
Indeed, if you will look on poesy,
As she appears in many, poor and lame,
Patch'd up in remnants and old worn out
rags,
Half starv'd for want of her peculiar
food,
Sacred invention ; then, I must confirm
Both your conceit and censure of her
merit :
But view her in her glorious ornaments,
Attired in the majesty of art,
Set high in spirit with the precious taste
Of sweet philosophy ; and, which is most,
Crown'd with the rich traditions of a
soul,
That hates to have her dignity prophaned
156 New Edition of Ben Jonson
With any relish of an earthly thought,
Oh, then, how proud a presence doth
she bear.
Then she is like herself, fit to be seen
Of none but grave and consecrated eyes.
Nor is it any blemish to her fame,
That such lean, ignorant, and blasted
wits,
Such brainless gulls, should utter their
stolen wares
With such applauses in our vulgar ears ;
Or that their slubber'd lines have current
pass,
From the fat judgments of the multitude ;
But that this barren and infected age,
Should set no difference 'twixt these emp-
ty spirits,
And a true poet: than which reverend
name
Nothing can more adorn humanity."
'* The persons of the drama speak
partly in blank verse, and there-
fore should occasionally be poetical."
Oh! Barry Cornwall! Barry Corn-
wall, oh !
Let us now hear him on the Silent
Woman, The Fox, and The Alche-
mist.
" In 1605, appeared Volpone, or the
Fox; in 1609, Epiccene, or the Silent
Woman; in 1610, The Alchemists and
in 1611, Catiline. In regard to Epi-
ccene, we think that, with considerable
humour and some diversity of character,
the entire drama is a fatiguing and impro-
bable work. The first scene contains
those delightful lines, which everybody
knows : —
' Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free ;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th* adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but notjmy heart.' |
There is something like Moliere in the
character of Morose ; and the quarrel be-
tween Otter (the land and sea captain)
and his wife, is a curious leaf stolen out of
the mysterious book of married life. This
is the captain's account, in private, of Mrs
Otter : — ' She takes herself asunder still
when she goes to bed, into some twenty
boxes ; and about next day at noon is
put together again, like a German clock ;
and so comes forth, and rings a tedious
'larum to the whole house, and then is
quiet again for an hour, but for her quar-
ters.'
" Volpone and The Alchemist pass,
by general assent, as the two best dramas
of Jonson. They are full of sharp,
weighty, vigorous writing, and may justly
be placed, — together, we think, with ' Se-
janus' and ' Every Man in his Humour"
(the latter on account its stage qualifica-
[Feb.
tions), at the head of his dramatic compo-
sitions. We do not [recollect to have
seen it remarked, that The Alchemist and
Volpone are essentially alike in their con-
stitution ; the whole material and burthen
of each play consisting of a tissue of cheats,
effected by two confederate sharpers, upon
various gulls gaping for money, who come
successively before them, in order to enable
the author to exhibit the wit and roguery
of his two principal characters, and the
simplicity or greediness of the victims.
This is done in a series of scenes, ' long
drawn out.' Of the two plays, notwith-
standing some powerful writing in the early
part of Volpone, we prefer, we confess, The
Alchemist. It has more probability — it is
fuller of character — it is better constructed
—and it comprises poetry of a higher
order. The learning of Jonson unfolds
itself very happily in the gorgeous visions
of Sir Epicure Mammon— which are as
magnificent and oriental as an Arabian
dream."
Without wasting a word on this
disparaging and derogatory drivel,
let us quote a screed from The Fox.
The argument of this glorious drama
is given in an acrostic.
" V olpone, childless, rich, feigns sick,
despairs,
O ffers his estate to hopes of general
heirs,
L ies languishing : his Parasite receives
P resents of all, assures, deludes ; then
weaves
O ther cross plots, which ope themselves,
are told.
N ew tricks for safety are so bought I
they thrive ; when bold,
E ach tempts the other again, and all are
sold."
The Play opens thus : —
" SCENE I — A Room in VOLPOXRS'
House.
" Enter VOLPONE and MOSCA.
" Volp. Good morning to the day ; and
next, my gold I—-
Open the shrine, that I may see my saint.
[MoscA withdraws the curtain, and
discovers piles of gold, plate, jewels,
Hail the world's soul, and mine ! more glad
than is
The teeming earth to see the long'd-for sun
Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram,
Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his ;
That lying here, amongst my other hoards,
Shew'st like a flame by night, or like the day
Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled
Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol,
But brighter than thy father, let me kiss,
With adoration, thee, and every relick
New Edition of Ben Jonson*
IS'
Of sacred treasure in this blessed room.
Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name,
Title that age which they would have the
best;
Thou being the best of things, and far tran-
scending
All style of joy, in children, parents, friends,
Or any other waking dream on earth :
Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe,
They should have given her twenty thou.
sand Cupids ;
Such are thy beauties and our lores ! Dear
sain t,
Riches, the dumb god, that giv'st all men
tongues,
Thou canst do nought, and yet mak'st men
do all things ;
The price of souls ; even hell, with thee to
boot,
Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue,
fame,
Honour, and all things else. Who can get
thee,
He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise
" Mos. And what he will, sir. Riches
are in fortune
A greater good than wisdom is in nature.
" Volp. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet
I glory
More in the cunning purchase of my wealth,
Than in the glad possession, since I gain
No common way ; I use no trade, no ven-
ture ;
I wound no earth with ploughshares, fat no
beasts,
To feed the shambles ; have no mills for
iron,
Oil, corn, or men, .to grind them into
powder :
I blow no subtle glass, expose no ships
To threat'nings of the furrow- faced sea ;
I turn no monies in the public bank,
Nor usure private.
" Mos. No, sir, nor devour
Soft prodigals. You shall have some will
swallow
A melting heir as glibly as your Dutch
Will pills of butter, and ne'er purge for it ;
Tear forth the fathers of poor families
Out of their beds, and coffin them alive
In come kind clasping prison, where their
bones
May be forthcoming, when the flesh is
rotten :
But your sweet nature doth abhor these
courses ;
You loathe that widow's or the orphan's tears
Should wash your pavements, or their pite-
ous cries
Ring in your roofs, and beat the air for ven-
geance.
Volp. Right, Mosca; I do loathe it.
" Mos. And besides, sir,
You are not like the thresher that doth
stand
With a huge flail, watching a heap of coro,
And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest
grain,
But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs;
Nor like the merchant, who hath fill'd his
vaults
With Romagnia, and rich Candiau wines,
Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar :
You will lie not in straw, whilst moths and
worms
Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft
beds ;
You know the use of riches, and dare give
now
From that bright heap, to me, your poor
observer,
Or to your dwarf, or your hermaphrodite,
Your eunuch, or what other household trifle
Your pleasure allows maintenance
" Volp. Hold thee, Mosca,
[ Gives him money.
Take of my hand ; thou strik'st on truth in
all,
And they are envious term thee parasite.
Call forth my dwarf, my eunuch, and my
fool,
And let them make me sport. [JExitMos.]
What should I do,
But cocker up my genius, and live free
To all delights my fortune calls me to?
I have no wife, no parent, child, ally,
To give my substance to ; but whom I make
Must be my heir : and this makes men ob-
serve me :
This draws new clients daily to my house,
Women and men of every sex and age,
That bring me presents, send me plate, coin,
jewels,
With hope that when I die (which they
expect
Each greedy minute) it shall then return
Ten-fold upon them ; whilst some, covetous
Above the rest, seek to engross me whole,
And counter-work the one unto the other,
Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love :
All which I suffer, playing with their hopes,
And am content to coin them into profit,
And look upon their kindness, and take more
And look on that ; still bearing them in hand,
Letting the cherry knock against their lips,
And draw it by their mouths, and back
again. —
How now !"
Corvino, a greedy merchant, be-
lieving Volpone to be, as he appears,
a sick, decrepit, and impotent volup-
tuary, to gain favour with the Fox
brings him his own beautiful and
chaste wife, Celia, and offers to submit
her to his embraces.
" Cel. O God, and his good angels,
whither, whither,
Js shame fled human breasts ? that with such
ease,
158
Men dare put off your honours and their
own?
Is that, which ever was a cause of life,
Now placed within the basest circumstance,
And modesty an exile made for money ?
" Volp. Ay, in Corvino, and such earth-
fed minds, [Leaping from his couch,
That never tasted the true heaven of love.
Assure thee, Celia, he that would sell thee,
Only for hope of gain, and that uncertain,
He would have sold his part of Paradise
For ready money, had he met a copeman.
Why art thou mazed to see me thus revived?
Rather applaud thy beauty's miracle ;
'Tis thy great work ; that hath, not now
alone,
But sundry times raised me, in several
shapes,
And, but this morning, like a mountebank,
To see thee at my window : ay, before
I would have left my practice, for my love
In varying figures, I would have contended
"With the blue Protaeus, or the horned flood.
Now art thou welcome.
" Cel. Sir!
" Volp. Nay, fly me not.
Nor let thy false imagination
That I was bed-rid, make thee think I am
so :
Thou shalt not find it. I am, now, as fresh,
As hot, as high, and in as jovial plight,
As when, in that so celebrated scene,
At recitation of our comedy,
For entertainment of the great Valois,
I acted young Antinous ; and attracted
The eyes and ears of all the ladies present,
To admire each graceful gesture, not*, and
footing. [Sings.
Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love,
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever ;
Spend not then his gifts in vain ;
Suns, that set, may rise again ;
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys ?
Fame and rumour are but toys,
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies ?
Or his easier ears beguile,
Thus removed by our wile?—
'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal :
But the sweet thefts to reveal ;
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.
" Cel. Some serene blast me, or dire light-
ning strike
This my offending face !
" Volp. Why droops my Celia ?
Thou hast, in place of a base husband, found
A worthy lover : use thy fortune well,
With secrecy and pleasure. See, behold,
What thou art queen of; not in expectation,
As I feed others : but possess'd and crown'd.
New Edition of Ben Jonson. [Feb«
See, here, a rope of pearl : and each more
orient
Than that the brave ^Egyptian queen ca-
roused :
Dissolve and drink them. See a carbuncle,
May put out both the eyes of our St Mark ;
A diamond, would have bought Lollia Pau-
lina,
When she came in like starlight, hid with
jewels,
That were the spoils of provinces ; take
these,
And wear, and lose them : yet remains an
ear-ring
To purchase them again, and this whole
state.
A gem but worth a private patrimony,
Is nothing : we will eat such at a meal.
The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales,
The brains of peacocks, and of ostriches,
Shall be our food : and could we get the
phoenix,
Though nature lost her kind, she were our
dish."
" Cel. Good sir, these things might move
a mind affected
With such delights ; but I whose innocence
Is all I can think wealthy, or worth th'
enjoying,
And which, once lost, I have nought to lose
beyond it,
Cannot be taken with these sensual baits :
If you have conscience
" Volp. 'Tis the beggar's virtue ;
If thou hast wisdom, hear me, Celia.
Thy bath shall be the juice of July- flowers,
Spirit of roses, and of violets,
The milk of unicorns, and panthers' breath
Gather'd in bags, and mixt with Cretan wines.
Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber ;
Which we will take, until my roof whirl
round
With the vertigo ; and my dwarf shall
dance,
My eunuch sing, my fool make up the antic,
Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovid's
tales,
Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove,
Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine :
So, of the rest, till we have quite run
through,
And wearied all the fables of the gods.
Then will I have thee in more modern forms,
Attired like some sprightly dame of France,
Brave Tuscan lady, or proud Spanish beauty;
Sometimes, unto the Persian sophy's wife ;
Or the grand signior's mistress ; and, for
change,
To one of our most artful courtezans,
Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian ;
And I will meet thee in as many shapes :
Where we may so transfuse our wandering
souls
Out at our lips, and score up sums of
pleasures, [Sings,
1839.]
That the curious shall not know
How to tell them as they flow ;
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pined.
" CeL If you have ears that will be pierced
— or eyes
That can be open'd — a heart that may be
touch'd —
Or any part that yet sounds man about
you —
If you have touch of holy saints — or heaven-
Do me the grace to let me 'scape — if not,
Be bountiful and kill me. You do know,
I am a creature, hither ill betray 'd,
By one, whose shame I would forget It were :
If you will deign me neither of these graces,
Yet feed your wrath, sir, rather than your
lust,
(It is a voice comes nearer manliness),
And punish that unhappy crime of nature,
Which you miscal my beauty : flay my face,
Or poison it with ointments, for seducing
Your blood to this rebellion. Rub these
hands,
With what may cause an eating leprosy,
E'en to my bones and marrow : any thing,
That may disfavour me, save in my honour —
And I will kneel to you, pray for you, pay
down
A thousand hourly vows, sir, for your health ;
Report, and think you virtuous
" VTolp. Think me cold,
Frozen and impotent, and so report me ?
That I had Nestor's hernia, thou wouldst
think.
I do degenerate, and abuse my nation,
To play with opportunity thus long ;
I should have done the act, and then have
- parley 'd.
Yield, or I'll force thee. [Seizes her.
" Cel. O, just God !
" Volp. In vain
" Son. (rushing in.) Forbear, foul ravish -
er, libidinous swine 1
Free the forced lady, or thou diest, impostor.
But that I'm loth to snatch thy punishment
Out of the band of justice, thou shouldst, yet,
Be made the timely sacrifice of vengeance
Before this altar, and this dross, thy idol.
Lady, let's quit the place, it is the den
New Edition of Ben Jonson. 159
Of villany ; fear nought, you have a guard ;
And he, ere long, shall meet his just reward.
[Exeunt BON. and CEL.
" Volp. Fall on me, roof, and bury me in
ruin !
Become my grave, that wert my shelter ! O !
I am unmask'd, unspirited, undone,
Betray' d to beggary, to infamy"
O RARE BEN JONSON !
We must go back a few years — .
having omitted to mention, at the
right time and place, " a brave
bit" of Barry's impertinence. " The
next drama produced (1599), was
Every Man out of his Humour,
which appears to have succeeded, and
to have attracted Queen Elizabeth to
the theatre. To please ' his Sove-
reign ' (Davies says) * he altered the
conclusion of his play into an elegant
panegyric.' To our thinking, the
panegyric is the very worst part of
the play." Bravo! Now when Barry
indited this impudent "dictum," he
had the following words by Davies
before his eyes : — " Mr Collins the
poet first pointed out to me the pecu-
liar beauty of this address." But
what cares Barry for Mr Collins
the poet ? We daresay he thinks
the Ode to the Passions, but a
poor affair — not sufficiently intense.
The Address is a fine one — and pos-
sesses " the peculiar beauty" pointed
out to good Master Davies by Mr
" Collins the poet." It is in fact an
epilogue spoken by Macilente, " a
man well-parted, a sufficient scholar,
and travelled; who, wanting that
place in the world's account which he
thinks his merit capable of, falls into
such an envious apoplexy, with which
his judgment is dazzled and distasted,
that he grows violently impatient of
any opposite happiness in another."
But subdued by the gracious presence
of the virgin Queen, he exclaims, —
" Never till now did object greet mine eyes
With any light content : but in her graces
All my malicious powers have lost their stings.
Envy is fled my soul at sight of her,
And she hath chased all black thoughts from my bosom,
Like as the sun doth darkness from the world.
My stream of humour is run out of me,
And as our city's torrent, bent t' infect
The hallow'd bowels of the silver Thames,
Is check'd by strength and clearness of the river,
Till it hath spent itself even at the shore ;
So in the ample and unmeasured flood
Of her perfections, are my passions drown'd ;
And I have now a spirit as sweet and clear
160 New Edition of Ben jonson,
As the more rarefied and subtle air :—
With which, and with a heart as pure as fire,
Yet humble as the earth, do I implore,
O heaven, that she, whose presence hath effected
This change in me, may suffer most late change
In her admired and happy government :
May still this Island be call'd Fortunate,
And rugged Treason tremble at the sound,
When Fame shall speak it with an emphasis ;
Let foreign polity be dull as lead,
And pale Invasion come with half a heart,
When he but looks upon her blessed soil.
The throat of War be stopt within her land,
And turtle-footed Peace dance fairy rings
About her court ; where never may there come
Suspect or danger, but all trust and safety.
Let Flattery be dumb, and Envy blind
In her dread presence ; Death himself admire her :
And may her virtues make him to forget
The use of his inevitable hand.
Fly from her, Age ; sleep, Time, before her throne ;
Our strongest wall falls down, when she is gone."
[Feb.
[Kneels*
Long live VICTORIA, our Gracious
Queen !
And here we must pause for a mi-
nute or two on our progress, a little
before (tluX time (1598) when Every
Man in his Humour was brought
out — recast — at the Blackfriars —
Shakspeare's name standing at the
head of the principal performers in it.
" In the year 1598, Jonson became
acquainted with Shakspeare ; and it was
through his medium that ' Every Man in
his Humour ' was brought out. This arose^
as some 'authors assert, from generosity
on Shakspeare's part ; whilst Mr Gifford
asserts that his ' merits must be confined
to procuring for his own theatre an im-
proved copy of a popular performance.'
This is not a very liberal interpretation of
the great poet's motives ; but Shakspeare
does not appear to be a favourite with Mr
Gifford. In either case, however, the
event was productive of advantage to
Jonson, for it seems to have led to his
acquaintance with persons of rank and
merit. His old associates, indeed, or some
of them, ranged themselves in opposition
to him ; but whether this is owing to envy
on their parts, or to unreasonable preten-
sions on his, we will for the present forbear
to inquire.1'
Barry should have let Gifford alone.
The old gentleman found that a fool-
ish fable, with variations, had long
been afloat — too foolish to be here re-
ported— in which Shakspeare the illus-
trious was represented as extending a
helping hand to Jonson the obscure.
He soon demolished the fable, and with
it fell Shakspeare's generosity, on this
occasion, to poor Ben. In saying of
Gilford's account of the matter, " this
is not a very liberal interpretation of
the great poet's motives," Barry
speaks nonsense — Gifford states a fact
implying neither praise nor blame.
Would Barry Cornwall still childishly
cling to the old wife's tale ?
And here we must again pause on
our progress, only a little farther on,
to point out another oversight, for
which it does not seem possible to
account otherwise than by the suppo-
sition of a latent ill-will to Jonson in
his magnanimous biographer.
" It was in the interval, between these
two events — the reconciliation and the new
outbreak — that Jonson, Chapman, and
Marston, produced their joint comedy of
' Eastward Hoe!' for which, because it
happened to contain a few words reflecting
upon Scotsmen, Ben and his two coadju-
tors were sentenced to imprisonment, or
rather they were at once sent to prison,
without the tedious preliminary of a judi-
cial inquiry. The three culprits were,
however, speedily pardoned ; although it
was, at first, reported that their ears and
noses were to be slit — an indignity which
so excited Jonson's mother, that she de-
signed, had the threat been carried into
execution, to have mixed some ' strong
and lusty poison' with her son's drink.
The play which gave rise to this hubbub
(by the way, it was the foundation of
Hogarth's Industry and Idleness), was a
very harmless performance, comprehend-
ing little that could offend the sorest
vanity. It has a scene or two of consider-
able humour, which Jonson may possibly
have supplied or revised."
1839.]
New Edition of Ben Jonson.
161
" Jonson, Chapman, and Marston
produced their joint comedy of East-
ward Hoe." Jonson had little or no-
thing to do with it ; and Barry must
know that he told Drummond he
had no hand in the offensive passages,
whatever they may have been ; that
they were entirely Chapman's and
Marston's. Barry must likewise have
known that Jonson was not sentenced
to imprisonment (indeed, neither were
Chapman and Marston — only com-
mitted), but that he voluntarily ac-
companied his friends, because he
considered himself to be " an acces-
sory before the act." That noble
trait of a kind and generous spirit
Barry omits to mention. " This is
not a very liberal interpretation of
the motives of onr great poet."
Barry says, as if he knew all about
it, that the three were imprisoned be-
cause Eastward Hoe contained " a
few words reflecting on Scotsmen."
The only passage now in the play
about Scotsmen is so harmless, that
we do not believe, " slavish as was
the subjection of the stage in those
times," that it could have been the
cause of their imprisonment. It is
not probable that the most offensive
words would be printed — for it had
been thought likely to prove a nose-
slitting concern.
And here we must pause for a mo-
ment longer, on our progress, to
say that Barry does not think it
worth his while, so far as we can
see, to tell that not long after Ben's
liberation, he was again imprisoned
with Chapman for reflecting on some
one in a play — and wrote to the Earl
of Salisbury, " I am here, my most
honoured Lord, unexamined and un-
heard, committed to a vile prison, and
with me a gentleman (whose name
may perhaps have come to your Lord-
ship), one Mr George Chapman, a
learned and honest man." The let-
ter concludes with this characteris-
tic sentence, — " if in your wisdoms
(the Earl's and the Lord Chamber-
lain's), it shall be thought necessary
that your Lordship will be the ho-
noured cause of our liberty, when free-
ing us from one prison you will re-
move us to another ; which is eter-
nally to bind us and our names to the
thankful honouring of you and yours
to posterity, as your own virtues have
by many descents of ancestors en-
nobled you to time."
VOL, XIV. NO. CCLXXX.
Of Jonson's two noble tragedies
Sejanus and Catiline, it was not to be
supposed that such a critic could feel
aught of the true Roman grandeur.
But he makes an effort to do his
worst— we mean his best'.
" Sejanus is a lofty production, and
built up of strong materials. It has its
foundation in the Annals of Tacitus, and
the historical characters are carved out
with great care and labour. The author
has, in this play, brought his learning to
good account, and has told his story ' after
the high Roman fashion.' The mistress
of the world never, indeed, produced a
great tragic writer ; but the present drama
might have been the work of one of the
rhetoricians of old Rome, for any thing
that we see to the contrary, either in its
sentiments or general construction. It is,
beyond comparison, better than Catiline.
At the same time it is too laboured : it
wants vitality, activity, ease, and that in-
definable air of reality and truth, which
gives such charm to the wonderful dramas
of Shakspeare. In effect, it is too like
a translation. Each single sentence might
perhaps have been uttered by the person
to whom it is ascribed in the play ; but not
one of the characters would have uttered
all that is written down for him. The
entire dialogue wants fluctuation and relief.
The great master-spirit of Imagination,
which fuses and moulds every thing to its
purpose, and which produces force and
character, consistency and harmony, from
meagre facts and shapeless materials, is
not there."
" It has its foundation in the an-
nals of Tacitus." Indeed ! All that
is here said about " the great master-
spirit of Imagination" is, we daresay,
very fine ; but we have seen it scores
of times within these dozen years in all
the Journals of Little Britain — and we
turn from it, fine as it is, to some sen-
tences of Thomas Campbell's philoso-
phy— " musical as is Apollo's lute."
" The reception of Sejanus was at
first unfavourable, but it was remo-
delled, and again presented with bet-
ter success, and kept possession of the
theatre for a considerable time. What-
ever this tragedy may want in the
agitating power of poetry, it has a
strength and dramatic skill that might
have secured it, at least, from the
petulant contempt with which it has
been too often spoken of. Though
collected from the dead languages, it
is not a lifeless mass of antiquity, but
the work of a severe and strong ima-
gination, compelling shapes of truth
162
New Edition of Ben Jonson.
[Feb.
and consistency to rise in dramatic
order from the fragments of Roman
eloquence, and history ; and an air
not only of life but of grandeur is
given to those curiously adjusted ma-
terials. The arraignment of Caius
Silius before Tiberius, is a great and
poetical cartoon of Roman charac-
ters; and if Jonson has translated from
Tacitus, who would not thank him for
embodying the pathos of history in
such lines as these, descriptive of Ger-
manicus ? —
" O that man 1
If there were deeds of the old virtue left,
They lived in him. . .
What his generals lacked
In images and pomp, they had supplied
With honourable sorrow — soldiers' sad-
ness,
A kind of silent mourning, such as meu
Who know no tears, but from their cap-
tives, use
To show in such great losses."
" The tragedy of Catiline,1' says Mr
Campbell, "appeared in 1611, prefaced
by an address to the ordinary reader, as
remarkable for the strength of its style,
as for the contempt of popular judg-
ments which it breathes. Such an ap-
peal from ordinary to extraordinary
readers ought, at least, to have been
made without insolence ; as the differ-
ence between the few and the many, in
matters of criticism, lies more in the
power of explaining their sources of
pleasure than in enjoying them. Cati-
line, it is true, from its classical sources,
has chiefly to be judged by classical
readers ; but its author should have
still remembered that popular feeling
is the great basis of dramatic fame.
The haughty preface, however, dis-
appeared from later editions of the
play, while its better apology remain-
ed in the high delineation of Cicero's
character, and in passages of Roman
eloquence which it contains ; above
all, in the concluding speech of Pe-
treius. It is said, on Lord Dorset's
authority, to have been Jonson's fa-
vourite production."
The concluding speech of Petreius
is indeed most magnificent.
" Pet. The straits and needs of Catiline
being such,
As he must fight with one of the two
armies,
That then had near inclosed him } it
pleased fate
To make us the desperate object of his
choice,
Wherein the danger almost poised the
honour :
And, as he rose, the day grew black with
him,
And Fate descended nearer to the earth,
As if she meant to hide the name of things
Under her wings, and make the world her
quarry.
At this we roused, lest one small minute's
stay
Had left it to be inquired, what Rome was ;
And, as we ought, arm'd in the confidence
Of our great cause, in form of battle
stood ;
Whilst Catiline came on, not with the
face
Of any man, but of a public ruin.
His countenance was a civil war itself,
And all his host had standing in their looks
The paleness of the death that was to
come ;
Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged
on,
As if they would precipitate our fates.
ISTor stay'd we longer for them : but him-
self
Struck the first stroke ; and with it fled a
life,
Which cut, it seem'd a narrow neck of
land
Had broke between two mighty seas, and
either
Flow'd into other ; for so did the slaugh-
ter;
And whirl'd about, as when two violent
tides
Meet, and not yield. The Furies stood
on hills,
Circling the place, and trembling to see
men
Do more than they ; whilst Piety left the
field,
Grieved for that side, that in so bad a
cause
They knew not what a crime their valour
was.
The sun stood still, and was, behind the
cloud
The battle made, seen sweating, to drive
up
His frighted horse, whom still the noise
drove backward.
And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame,
Consumed all it could reach, and then it-
self,
Had not the fortune of the common-
wealth
Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman
thought :
Which Catiline seeing, and that now his
troops
Cover 'd that earth they had fought on,
with their trunks,
1839.]
New Edition of Ben Jonson.
Ambitious of great fame to crown his
ill,
Collected all his fury, and ran in,
Arm'd with a glory high as his despair,
Into our battle, like a Libyan lion
Upon his hunters, scornful of our wea-
pons,
Careless of wounds, plucking down lives
about him,
Till he had circled in himself with death ;
Then fell he too, t'embrace it where it
lay.
And as in that rebellion 'gainst the gods,
Minerva holding forth Medusa's head,
One of the giant-brethren felt himself
Grow marble at the killing sight, and
now
Almost made stone, began to inquire,
what flint,
What rock it was, that crept through all
his limbs,
And ere he could think more, was that
he fear'd ;
So Catiline, at the sight of Rome in us,
Became his tomb: yet did his look re-
tain
Some of his fierceness, and his hands still
moved,
As if he labour'd yet to grasp the state
With those rebellious parts."
We shall take another opportunity
to speak of Jonson's " Masques,"
which, in this Memoir, are in some
respects highly commended, but so
poorly, that it is evident our critic cares
not for them; indeed he confesses, "the
dialogue in the Masques generally
strikes us as being tedious and some-
what too pedantic, even for the classic
subjects represented." This is harm-
less want of perception ; but what
follows demands severe reproof.
" On referring, after an interval o^ ,
many years, to these old masques, we find
ourselves somewhat staggered at the cha-
racter of the jests, and the homely (not to
say vulgar) allusions in which they abound.
The taste of the times was, indeed, rude
enough ; and we can easily understand,
that jests of this nature were tolerated or
even relished by common audiences. But
when we hear that the pieces which con-
tain them were exhibited repeatedly, with
applause, before the nobles and court
ladies of the time (some of them young
unmarried women), we are driven to the
conclusion, that civilisation must have failed
in some respects, and to fear that the re-
fined and graceful compliments which our
author so frequently lavished upon the
high • damas ' of King James's court, was
a pure waste of his poetical bounty. It is
scarcely possible that the ladies who could
sit and hear jokes, far coarser than Smol-
163
let's, uttered night after night, could ever
have fully relished the delicate and spark-
ling verses which flowed from Jonson'a
pen."
This is neither more nor less than
downright nonsense and senseless
slander. The " Masques" are perfect-
ly pure. A small shock, indeed, must
suffice to " stagger" Missy Cornwall.
An occasional coarse or indelicate allu-
sion occurs, not thought to be such, or
not distasteful in those days, and 'tis
easy to overlook them now ; they are
• exceedingly rare j and the prevalent
expression, as well as spirit of those
exquisite productions is that of con-
summate grace, elegance, and beauty.
With the omission of, perhaps, not
more than half a dozen audacious or
licentious phrases, in which no harm
was meant, there is not one of them
that might not be represented nozv,
before and by the most delicate-
minded of women ; and the greater
number of them are throughout as
chaste in their glowing language, as
the Arcades or. Comus of Milton.
Some pages back we quoted, with-
out comment, a remark of Mr Corn-
wall's, which he thinks is new — " We
do not recollect to have seen it re-
marked that The Alchemist and Vol-
pone are essentially alike in their con-
stitution ; the whole material and bur-
then of each play consisting of a tissue
of cheats, effected by two confederate
sharpers, upon various gulls gaping for
money," &c. The remark was not
worth making, it is so obvious and
trivial ; they are " alike, but oh how
different!" Between Volpone the
Fox, and Subtle the Alchemist, though
both sharpers, how wide the distance !
And what gull, in the other play, may
be compared with Sir Epicure Mam-
mon? The forms of the two plays
are cast in a somewhat similar mould
— but that is all ; and we are lost in
astonishment at the genius that, from
beginning to end of both, in the proud
consciousness of power, keeps cease-
lessly pouring forth its inexhaustible
riches.
" SCENE I.— An Outer Boom in LOVE-
WIT'S House.
Enter SIR EPICURE MAMMOK and SURIT.
Mam. Come on, sir. Now YOU set your
foot on shore
In Nova Orbe ; here's the rich Peru :
And there within, sir, are the golden mine*,
Great Solomon's Ophir ! he was sailing to't,
2?eio Edition of Ben Jonson.
164
Three years, but we have reach'd it in ten
months.
This is the day, wherein, to all my friends,
I will pronounce the happy word, BE RICH ;
Tills DAY YOU SHALL BE SPECTATISSIMI.
You shall no more deal with the hollow dye,
Or the frail cird. No more be at charge of
keeping
The livery-punk for the young heir, that
must
Seal, at all hours, in his shirt : no more
It he deny, have him beaten to't, as he is
That brings him the commodity. No more
Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger
Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloke,
To be display 'd at madam Augusta's, make
The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before
The golden calf, and on their knees, whole
nights,
Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets :
Or go a feasting after drum and ensign.
No more of this. You shall start up young
viceroys,
And have your punk«, and punketees, my
Surly.
And unto thee I speak it first, BE RICH.
Where is my Subtle, there ? Within, ho !
Face. ( With**.") Sir, he'll come to you
by and by.
Mam. That is his fire-drake,
His lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs bis
coal*,
Till he firk nature up, in her own centre.
You are not faithful, sir. This night, I'll
change
All that is metal, in my house, to gold :
And, early in the morning, will I send
To all the plumbers and the pewterers,
And buy their tin and lead up ; and to Loth-
bury
For all the copper.
Sur. What, and turn that too ?
Mam. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire
and Cornwall,
And make them perfect Indies ! you admire
now ?
Sur. No, faith.
Mam. But when you see th' effects of
the Great Medicine,
Of which one part projected on a hundred
Of Mercury, or Venus, or the moon,
Shall turn it to as many of the sun ;
Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum :
You will believe me.
Sur. Yes, when I see't, I will.
But if my eyes do cozen me so, and I
Giving them no occasion, sure I'll have
A whore, shall piss them out next day.
Mam. Ha ! why ?
Do you think I fable with you ? I assure
you,
He that has once the flower of the sun,
The perfect ruby, which we call elixir,
Not only can do that, but, by its virtue,
Can confer honour, love, respect, long life ;
[Feb.
Give safety, valour, yea, and victory,
To whom he will. In eight-and-twenty
days,
I'll make an old man of fourscore, a child.
Sur. No doubt ; he's that already.
Mam. Nay, I mean,
Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle,
To the fifth age ; make him get sons and
daughters.
Young giants ; as our philosophers have
done,
The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood,
But taking, once a-week, on a knife's point,
The quantity of a grain of mustard of it ;
Become stout Marses, and beget young
Cupids.
Sur. The decay 'd vestals of Pict-hateh
would thank you.
That keep the fire alive, there.
Mam. 'Tis the secret
Of nature naturiz'd against all infections,
Cures all diseases coming of all causes ;
A month's grief in a day, a year's in twelve ;
And, of what age soever, in a month :
Past all the doses of your drugging doctors.
I'll undertake, withal, to fright the plague,
Out of the kingdom in three months.
Sur. And I'll
Be bound, the players shall sing your praises,
then,
Without their poets.
Mam. Sir, I'll do't. Mean-time,
I'll give away so much unto my man,
Shall serve the whole city, with preservative,
Weekly ; each house his dose, and at the
rate —
Sur. As he that built the Water-work,
does with water ?
Mam. You are incredulous.
Sur. Faith I have a humour,
I would not willingly be gull'd. Your stone
Cannot transmute me.
Mum. Pertinax [my] Surly,
Will you believe antiquity ? records ?
I'll shew you a book where Moses and his
sister,
And Solomon have written of the art ;
Ay, and a treatise penn'd by Adam —
Sur. How !
Mam. Of the philosopher's stone, and in
High Dutch.
Svr. Did Adam write, Sir, in High
Dutch ?
Mam. He did ;
Which proves it was the primitive tongue.
Sur. What paper ?
Man. On cedar board.
Sur. O that, indeed, they say,
Will last 'gainst worms.
Mam. 'Tis like your Irish wood,
'Gainst cob-webs. I have a piece of Jason's
fleece, too,
Which, was no other than a book of alchemy,
Writ in large sheep-skin, a good fat ram-
vellum.
1839.]
Edition of Sett Junson.
Such was Pythagoras' thigh, Pamlora's tub,
And, all that fable of Medea's charms,
The manner of our work ; the bulls, our
furnace,
Still breathing fire ; our argent- vive, the
dragon :
The dragon's teeth, mercury sublimate,
That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the
biting ;
And they are g.ither'd into Jason's helm,
The alembic, and then sow'd in Mars his
field,
And thence sublimed so often, till they're
fix'd.
Both this, the Hesperian garden, Cadmus'
t
Jove's shower, the boon of Midas, Argus'
eyes,
Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,
All abstract riddles of our stone."—
But hear Barry.
" In enforcing a proposition, however, he
Hircumulates sentence after sentence, thought
after thought, till the original idea is lost
or looks impoverished, amidst the wealth
with which it is surrounded. This not only
injures the idea, but mars the truth of his
characters. It is the fault even of Sir
Epicure Mammon's splendid visions. There
is nothing savouring of luxury which the
Roman writers have put upon record, that
he does not treat us with. A true epicure
would have had a more select taste, we think,
and have contented himself with fewer deli-
cacies. At all events, he would not have
placed all things upon a level ; for that
bhows that he had a true relish for none.
He who appreciates wines, likes the best
wines, which are few. He who really loves
" the sex," loves but one woman — at a
time."
That is rich. An original idea,
looking impoverished amidst the
wealth with which it is surrounded !
or lost — and — only think — injured by
being lost ! Sir Epicure Mammon is
not, it seems, a true epicure after all
— perhaps neither is he a true Mam-
mon. A true epicure would have
" had a more select taste " — " con-
tented himself with fewer delicacies"
— some recherches entremets. Sir
Epicure Mammon " placed all things
upon a level" — therefore he had a
true relish for none. " O rare
Ben Jonson !" what a dunce wert
thou ! as ignorant of meats as of
wines. " He who appreciates wines,
likes the best wines, which are few !"
So says the sage of the East — Sir
Epicure Barry Cornwall — nay, shade
of Benjamin the Ruler t with a
165
thin shrill voice, ho cries, " He who
really loves ' the sex,' loves but one
woman at a time." O Ben ! heard ye
ever of such a ninny ! And this is
the identical philosopher who was
prating a few pages ago of the great
master- spirit of Imagination . Sir Epi-
cure Mammou contented "with "one
woman — at a time" — and two or three
entremets. Poor dear Charles Lamb !
thou wert spared the hearing of
this. " What a towering bravery" —
such were thy words, speaking of Sir
Epicure — " there is in his sensuality !
He affects no pleasure under a sultaun!"
Behold, O shade of Elia! your much-
admired imaginative lord of a harem
of houris, bound by Barry to one wo-
man— at a time — and weep. Well
didst thou once say in thy " Speci-
mens" " the judgment is perfectly
over whelmed by the torrent of images,
words, and book-knowledge with which
Mammon confounds and stuns his in-
credulous hearer. They come pour-
ing out like the successive strokes of
Nilus. They 'doubly redouble strokes
upon the foe.' Description outstrides
proof. We are made to believe ef-
fects before we have testimony for
their causes : a lively description of
the joys of heaven sometimes passes
for an argument to prove the existence
of such a place. If there be no one
image which rises to the height of the
sublime, yet the confluence and as-
semblage of them all produces an ef-
fect equal to the grandest poetry."
" He affects no pleasure under a
sultaun." Barry Cornwall says there
is no true epicurism in such sensuality
— and, certes, there is much virtue in
the word true. He who loves but one
woman has much the best of it in taste,
morals, reason, and religion. But that
is not the question — and here there are
loud cries of "Question!" "At a
time I" — aha! who could have sus-
pected such lax — such licentious ethics
from so innocent a creature? He
more than insinuates that the true epi-
cure may change his mistress as often
as he pleases — and live in perpetual
fruition of honeymoons.
But he does not seem to be aware
that SirEpicure Mammonathad first no
mistress at all — not even " one woman
— at a time." It was'his imagination
he was feeding with those voluptuous
dreams ; and we know"such tricks hath
strong imagination." Neither had he
a dinner to sit down to — deserving
New Edition, of Ben Jonson.
166
the name — merely cold mutton, cr a
greasy chop — for he was out at the
elbows ; and butcher, baker, and poul-
terer, were all inexorable ; but he
gloried in the prospect of the PHILO-
SOPHER'S STONE — " far off its coming
shone" — now he is as a son of the
morning — and he riots and revels in
all conceivable extremes and varieties
of all sensual passion and sensual
bliss. That is the poetry — the philo-
sophy of the play. Barry, a little
while ago knew it was, for he spoke
*' of the gorgeous visions of Sir Epi-
cure Mammon, which are as magnifi-
cent and oriental as an Arabian,
dream." Oriental as an Arabian
dream ! What's that ?
Hear Mammon — again — pouring
himself out to Face.
" Face. Yes, sir.
Afom. For I do mean
To have a list of wives and concubines,
Equal with Solomon, who had the stone
Alike with me ; and I will make me a back
With the elixir, that shall be as tough
As Hercule, to encounter fifty a night. —
Thou art sure thou saw'st it blood ?
Face. Both blood and spirit, sir.
Mam. I will have all my beds blown up,
not stuft :
Down is too hard : and then, mine oval
room
Fill'd with such pictures as Tiberius took
From Elepbantis, and dull Aretine
But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses
Cut in more subtle angles to disperse
And multiply the figures, as I walk
Naked between my succubje. My mists
I'll have of perfume, vapour'd 'bout the
room,
To lose ourselves in ; and my baths, like
pits
To fall into ; from whence we will come
forth,
And roll us dry in gossamer and roses.—
Is it arrived at ruby ? Where I spy
A wealthy citizen, or [a] rich lawyer,
Have a sublimed pure wife, unto that
fellow
I'll send a thousand pound to be my
cuckold.
Face. And I shall carry it ?
Mam. No. I'll have no bawds,
But fathers and mothers ; they will do it
best,
Best of all others. And my flatterers
Shall be the pure and gravest of divines,
That I can get for money. My mere
fools,
Eloquent burgesses, and then my poets
The same that writ so subtly of the fart,
Whom I will entertain still for that
subject.
[Feb.
The few that would give out themselves
to be
Court and town-stallion, and, each-where,
bely
Ladies who are known most innocent for
them ;
Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of :
And they shall fan me with ten ostrich
tails
A-piece, made in a plume to gather wind.
We will be brave, Puffe, now we have the
med'cine.
My meat shall all come in, in Indian
shells,
Dishes of agat set in gold, and studded
With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and
rubies.
The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels'
heels,
Boil'd in the spirit of sol, and dissolv'd
pearl,
Apicius' diet, 'gainst the epilepsy :
And I will eat these broths with spoons
of amber,
Headed with diamond and carbuncle.
My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, calver'd
salmons,
Knots, godwits, lampreys : I myself will
have
The beards of barbels served, instead of
sallads ;
Oil'd mushrooms ; and the swelling unc-
tuous paps
Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off,
Drest with an exquisite, and poignant
sauce ;
For which, I'll say unto my cook, There's
gold,
Go forth, and be a knight.
Face. Sir, I'll go look
A little, how it heightens. [Exit.
Mam. Do — My shirts
I'll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light
As cobwebs ; and for all my other raiment,
It shall be such as might provoke the
Persian,
Were he to teach the world, riot anew.
My gloves of fishes and birds' skins,
perfumed
With gums of paradise, and eastern
air"
We must have an article on these
two plays — mean- while a parting page
or two with Mr Barry Cornwall about
his treatment of the Poet of Hawthorn-
den.
" He set out, on foot, it seems, for that
country in the summer of 1618; passed
some months with Mr Stuart and other
friends in the north ; and finally arrived at
the house of Mr William Drummond, the
poet of Hawthornden, in April, 1619.
Jonson spent the greater part of this
month with Drummond ; and, intheconfi-
1330.]
Edition of Be n Jonson.
icr
dence of familiar intercourse, entrusted
him with various particulars of his life,
and with many of his opinions on men
and books. All this social fireside talk
Drummond privately set down in writing,
and afterwards published in his notorious
Conversation. Now, considering that parts
of this communication consisted of Jonson's
free strictures upon his brother poets and
contemporaries, and that the whole was
given to the world without explanation or
softening of any sort ; and that it was, in
fact, set down from Drummond's memory
(in which case, all the censure would na-
turally be divested of the ordinary quali-
fying phrases which probably accompanied
it), we think that the publication was as
complete a piece of treachery as can be
found in the history of literary men.
Drummond of Hawthornden has written
poems of much merit ; but we trust that,
whoever may read them hereafter, will
never forget that he was a traitor to his
friend and guest, and that he has discre-
dited the name of poet, and tarnished the
hospitality of his hospitable country."
" All this fireside talk, Drummond
privately set down in writing, and af-
terwards published in his notorious
Conversation." Why, he could not
well have set it down publicly ; so
there was no offence in the mere priva-
cy, had there been none in the thing it-
self. Neither do we see the enormous
wickedness of " setting it down from
memory" — for how else can you set
down any thing you hear? Barry
Cornwall, it appears, "sets down"
much of what he reads, from imagi-
nation. He does not even know the
title of the unlucky leaves which pro-
bably he never perused. However,
considering this, and that, and
t'other thing, Barry eomes to the con-
clusion, that " the publication was as
complete a piece of treachery as can
be found in the history of literary
men." And how is the sinner to be
punished? Whoever may read his
verses, must keep in his mind one pre-
dominant feeling of reprobation and
scorn of the unhallowed traitor.
This it is more especially the bounden
duty of all Scotsmen to do, as the
Poet of Hawthornden has " tarnished
the hospitality of their hospitable
country." What ! Is there to be no
forgiveness? Scotland is not only a
hospitable, but she is a Christian
country ; and must she never forget
the offence of a favourite son ?
What would Barry Cornwall think
of us were we to call on Christendom
never to forget that he is an ignorant
calumniator of the distinguished dead?
He too " has written poems of much
merit" — though his genius is not for a
moment to be compared with that of
Drummond of Hawthornden — a me-
morable name in our poetical litera-
ture. He too is a worthy private
character — so was Drummond. " His
memory," says Sir Walter Scott,
" has been uniformly handed down to
us as that of an amiable and retired
scholar, loved by his friends, and re-
spected by the literary men of his
time." Why seek, then, to affix an
indelible stain on a name of which
his country has reason to be proud ?
And why, in particular, all this boil-
ing indignation in the breast of
Barry Cornwall ? Gifford was a bitter
creature ; and then he was entitled to
resent any injustice done to Jonson,
for he was likewise a good creature,
had studied Ben, knew and loved him
well, and was his triumphant cham-
pion against a host of calumniators
whom he slew and trod into the mire.
Conceiving Drummond, in the pecu-
liar circumstances of the case, to have
been the most culpable of them all, he
waxed so exceeding wroth, that, with
red eyes, he saw in him an absolute
fiend. In short, he fell into mono-
mania. You had only to utter the
word " Drummond," hi order to see
him " into such vagaries fall as he
would dance,." But the gentle Barry !
Why should he be transformed into
such a virago? " What is Hawthorn-
den to him, or he to Hawthorndeu ?"
At this moment he knows little — and
seems to care less about Ben Jonson,
— and it is laughable, and something
more, to see him sporting the indig-
nant, to hear his yelp after the growl
of Gifford— to behold the lap-dog af-
fecting the lion.
By the bye with what indignation
and horror must not the high-souled
Barry Cornwall gaze at the vignette
which insults the shade of Ben Jon-
son, on the very title-page of this edi-
tion of his works ! Mr Moxon having
" hired a poetaster" to traduce Drum-
mond, and to excommunicate the
gentle bard for ever from the sympa-
thies of his kind, at the'same time en-
gages a painter and an engraver to
exhibit, to the eyes of all posterity,
the abode of this traitor to friendship
and violator of all the most sacred ob-
servances of domestic life! There
New Edition of Ben Jonson.
168
'lands Hawthornden — engraved by
Finden from Harding — that the " tribe
of Ben" may feast their eyes on a
sight of the place where their father
was decoyed, cozened, and betrayed.
It is but a sorry affair — without either
beauty or grandeur. But, in nature,
the place is fair, and seems a fit habi-
tation for gentle spirits delighting in
peace.
But Barry must not be let off with
this mild rebuke — for his offence has
not yet been mentioned — and he must
strip to receive the knout. His main
accusation against Drummond is
FALSE. This " Notorious Conversa-
tion"— (the " Heads'' of it) was set
down in the year 1619 — and first given
to the world in 1711, upwards of
sixty years after Drummond had been
laid in his grave !
Where can Barry Cornwall have
been living, during the last twenty
years, not to have heard a whisper of
all the many discussions respecting
Ben's visit to Hawthornden, that ever
and anon kept rising and falling before
the eyes and ears of the literary pub-
lic, since the appearance of Gifford's
edition in 1816? In the Second Vol-
ume of Maga, the question was for a
•while set at rest ; and Drummond's
character released from the grava-
men of the charge so incessantly in-
sisted on by that truculent critic.
Thomas Campbell, in an article in
Brewsters Encyclopaedia, showed its
foolish injustice ; Sir Walter Scott
followed in the Border Antiquities,
and his vindication is reprinted in
the 7th volume of his Prose Works ;
David Laing, with his usual accuracy
and acumen, set the affair over again
in its true light, in a paper printed in
the Transactions of the Society of Anti-
quaries of Scotland ; and in almost
every literary journal in Britain has it
been stated that the Heads of a Con-
versation did not see the light till
more than half a century after Drum-
mond had been gathered to his fathers.
" Where ha'e you been a' day, my
boy Barry ?"
But perhaps hewas led wrong by Gif-
ford. Not at all ; he shut his eyes, and
blindfold stumbled into the exploded
blunder. Gifford knew that the Heads
•were first published in the folio of
1711 ; but such was his inveterate
hatred, that he would not plainly say
so, and at times he writes as if he de-
sired to avert his eyes from the fact.
[Feb.
" Such," says he, " are the remarks
of Jonson on his contemporaries —
set down in malice, abridged with-
out judgment, and published without
shame ;" and Barry supposes that to
mean, " published without shame" by
Drummond. Did this blindest of
biographers never see these words of
Gifford, — " At any rate, he seems to
think that there is nothing unusual or
improper in framing a libellous attack
on the character and reputation of a
friend, keeping it carefully in store for
thirty years, and finally bequeatliintj
it, fairly engrossed, to the caprice or
cupidity of an executor.1' It never was
fairly engrossed — nor bequeathed ;
nor was it published from cupidity —
that is a childish charge ; and now iu
the year 1838, "with vis age all in-
flamed," steps forth, crow-quill in
hand, Mr Forcible Feeble, and lets
dribble from it snib, in wishy-washy,
an anathema couched in the fcrrn of
a sickly falsehood.
It used to be said, and believed, that
Ben Jonson made a journey on foot
to Scotland, solely to visit Drummond
in his own house at Hawthornden.
The notion is too absurd, and has long
been discarded by the most credulous.
There is no positive evidence of his
having been at Hawthornden at all —
though nobody doubts he was — and
tradition has consecrated the scene —
" When Jonson sat in Drummond's classic
shade.''
According to Gifford (and, of course,
B. c.), Ben passed the chief part of
April, 1619, at Hawthornden. Barry
says, with infantile simplicity, " he set
out on foot, it seems, for that country,
in the summer of 1618 ; passed some
months with Mr Stuart and other
friends in the north, and finally arrived
at the house of Mr William Drum-
mond, the poet of Hawthornden, in
April, 1619." " In the north" does
not here mean the north of Scotland,
but merely " that country ; " for to-
wards the end of September, Taylor
the Water Poet, saw Jonson, who was
then living, he says, with a Mr Stu-
art in Leith. So seven months after-
wards " he finally arrived at -Haw-
thornden," distant about two hours'
smart walk from that ancient port !
Jonson left Leith on his return to
London, on the 25th of January, 169
— as we are informed in a transcript, by
Sir Robert Sibbald, of Drummond's
own MS. notes of his conversations
183U.]
Edition ufJBen
with Ben, discovered by the indefatiga-
ble David Laing, and inserted by him
(1831) in the Transactions of the So-
ciety of Antiquaries of Scotland. The
story of the Poet's three weeks' stay
at Hawthornden in April falls to the
ground. Gifford, so far as we can see,
had no other reason for fixing on
April, but this — Ben writes to Drum-
mond from London on the lOt/i of May,
1619, mentioning his safe arrival,
and his having had a gracious inter-
view with the King — and Gilford, al-
lowing him between a fortnight and
three weeks for a walk of four hun-
dred miles (not bad work for a man
nearly fifty years of age, and twenty
stone weight), confidently affirms that
he passed the greater part of April at
Hawthornden. But no where have we
been able to find any ground for the
mistaken assertion that he went there in
the beginning, and left it towards the
end of April. We have seen from Sib-
bald's Transcript, that he left Leith on
the loth of January — in the same
shoes in which he had arrived there
probably in September, 1618 — that
he had purchased the said shoes on
his way down, at Darnton — which we
believe is near Berwick->-that they
had excoriated his feet sadly — and
that he purposed to drop them at
Darnton — on his way up — and provide
himself there with a new pair. They
had probably seen some service on
his many tramps over Scotland. Loch
Lomond, we know, he visited ; and
can there be any doubt that he walked
into the heart of the Highlands ?
What a book his " Discoveries"
would have been! That fatal fire
destroyed a glorious wreath about to
be woven round the head of Scot-
land.
Taylor, the Water Poet, left Lon-
don, on his penniless pilgrimage, on the
14th July, 1618, and, it was said by
some witty rogues, in imitation and
ridicule of Ben Jonson, who, therefore,
must have left London before that date
— say about the end of June — and we
find him again in London early in
May of the following year. His ex-
cursion to and fro, and through Scot-
land, occupied about ten months; and
as it appears he was three months on
his journey from Leith to London — .
probably he was three months on his
journey from London to Leith. In
what town of any size in Britain would
he, the most eminent man of genius
of his age, not have been welcomed ?
In what house or hall would he not
have been an honoured guest ? In
the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, we
know from himself, as well as from
the grateful Taylor, that he was in
the midst of the best society ; and
many a jovial night must his presence
have illumined in the city or suburban
dwellings of our nobility and gentry,
besides the "low- roofed house" of
Hawthornden. No doubt he and
Drummond met many a time and
oft ; for who more fit to converse with
the illustrious English poet than his
brother bard — a man who had seen
something of the world too, an ac-
complished scholar, and a devoted
loyalist ? There is no reason for be-
lieving that Drummond's notes were
all notes of conversations at Hawthorn-
den.
170
Dilemmas on the Corn Law Question.
[Feb.
DILEMMAS ON THE CORN LAW QUESTION.
SINCE the Manchester demonstra-
tion, it is apparent to every body that
this great question is rapidly drawing
to a crisis. In this most practical of
countries, when any question is once
transferred from the arena of books,
pamphlets, — controversy, in short,
conducted by the press, — to the official
arena of public institutions, " cham-
bers of commerce," authentic commit-
tees of any denomination, sanctioned
by the presence of great leading trades-
men, we all know that such a question
must very soon agitate the great coun~
cil of the nation ; agitate the landed
aristocracy ; agitate the thinking class-
es universally ; and (in a sense pecu-
liar to this corn question) agitate that
class to frenzy, amongst whom " Give
us this day our daily bread" is the li-
tany ascending for ever to heaven.
Well it will be for us, and no thanks
to some sections of the press, if this
latter class do not pursue the discus-
sion sword in band. For they have
been instructed, nay provoked to do
so, in express words. And they are
indirectly provoked to such a course
by two separate artifices of journals
far too discreet to commit themselves
by any open exhortations to violence.
But in what other result can popular
fury find a natural out-break, when
abused daily by the representation,
that upon this question depends the
comfort of their lives — that the Corn
Laws are the gates which shut them
out from plenty — and abused equally
by the representations, that one large
class of their superiors is naturally, by
position, and by malignity of feeling,
their deadly enemy ? We, of this Bri-
tish land, are familiar with the violence
of partisanship ; we are familiar with
its excesses ; and it is one sign of the
health and soundness belonging to
those ancient institutions, which some
are so bent upon overthrowing, that
the public safety can bear such party
violences without a tremor reaching
its deep foundation. But there are
limits to all things ; or, if it were other-
wise, and the vis vitce were too pro-
foundly lodged in our frame of polity
to be affected by local storms and by
transitory frenzies, even in that case
it is shocking to witness a journal of
ancient authority amongst ourselves— •
a journal to which, not Whigs only,
but, from old remembrances of half a
century, we Tories acknowledge a
sentiment of brotherly kindness — the
old familiar Morning Chronicle of
London — no longer attacking things,
and parties, and doctrines, but persons
essential to the composition of our
community : not persons only, buc an
entire order of persons : and this order
not in the usual tone of party violence,
which recognises a worth in the man
while it assaults him in some public
capacity ; but flying at the throats, as
it were, of the country gentlemen in
a body, and solemnly assuring its
readers, that one and all are so possess-
ed by selfishness, and even by malig-
nity to the lower classes, that they
would rather witness the extinction of
the British manufacturing superiority,
or (if it must be) of the British
manufactures, than abate any thing of
their own pretensions. As a matter
of common sense, putting candour out
of the question, why should the landed
aristocracy be more selfish than other
orders? Or how is it possible that
any one order in a state should essen-
tially differ from the rest, among which
they grow up, are educated, marry,
and associate ? Or, in mere consis-
tency, what coherency is there between
the assurances that our own landed in-
terest will not suffer by the extinction
of the Corn Laws, and these imputa-
tions of a merely selfish resistance to
that extinction ? This dilemma is ob-
vious. Either the landlords see or
they do not see the necessity of the
changes which are demanded? If
they do not, what becomes of their
selfishness? Not being convinced of
the benefits to result, they must be do-
ing their bounden duty in resisting
them. On the other hand, if they do
— besides that in such a case they have
credit granted to them for a clear-
sightedness which elsewhere their ene-
mies are denying them — the conclusion
must be, not that they are selfish, but
insane. The prosperity of manufac-
turing industry is, upon any theory,
the conditio sine qua non of prosperity
to the agricultural body. In the case,
therefore, supposed, that the landlords
are aware of a peremptory necessity
in the manufacturing interest for a
1839.]
Dilemmas on the Corn Law Question.
171
change in the Corn Laws, it is not
selfishness, it is not " malignity"
(comprehensible or incomprehensible)
in that class towards the lowest class
which could stand between them and
their own inalienable interest. So that
upon either horn of the dilemma — see-
ing or not seeing the soundness of the
revolution demanded — the landlords
could find no principle of action, one
way or other, in selfishness. Selfish-
ness, in fact, could operate only upon
the case of a divided interest : where-
as all parties have sense enough to
admit, that the interest of land and
manufactures are bound up together.
Or, if they were not, it would be the
clear right of the landlords, and no
selfishness at all, to prefer their own
order. But the case is imaginary.
One other monstrous paralogism, let
me notice, in this Manchester Cham-
ber of Commerce, subsequent to the
public meeting : they have hired a
public room, and are making other ar-
rangements for an exposure to the
public eye of continental wares cor-
responding to our own staple manu-
factures, labelled with the prices here
and on the Continent. Well, what is
the inference which the spectator is to
draw ? This — that our empire, our
supremacy as manufacturers is shaken.
Be it so. I enter not upon the ques-
tion of fact or of degree ; let the point
be conceded. What then ? The main
question, the total question, remains
untouched, viz. Under the operation
of what CAUSE has this change been
accomplished ? The Chamber will
answer, That the cause lies in the dif-
ferent prices of bread ; — but that is the
very question at issue. Did ever man
hear of such apetitioprincipii? Wages
are but one element of price — bread
is but one element of wages.
On this subject I shall remark brief-
ly, that it is not true, as the ordinary
calculation runs, that one-half, or near-
ly one-half of the working-man's ex-
penditure goes in bread ; potatoes,
more and more in each successive year,
are usurping upon bread : as an ave-
rage, one-fifth part would be nearer
to the truth. Then, again, bread
could not, on an average of years, be
had 50 per cent cheaper, as is assumed ;
but 20 per cent, or 25 per cent at most,
all expenses allowed for. Thirdly and
finally, wages cannot be assumed as,
on an average, making more than 1 -4th
of price. The result of which three
considerations is, that the difference on
manufactured goods generally might,
perhaps, at most turn out l-5th of
l-5th of l-4th on the present price ;
total about 1-1 00th part of the exist-
ing price : and this, observe, on the
supposition, that the total difference
went to the benefit of the consumer,
and not, as in fact it would, to the be-
nefit of profits. However, allow even
his own extravagant calculations to
the enemy. Then, because bread, ac-
cording to him, will sink one-half, and
because bread he affirms to be one-
half the outlay of the workman, and
because wages constitute (suppose him
to say) one-third of the price general-
ly, this would amount to one- half of
one-half of one-third, or — but remem-
ber, by a most extravagant assump-
tion as the basis — to l-12th discount
upon the present prices.
Hence — that is to say, by this last
argument — it appears, that, conceding
the very largest postulates, the enemy
has made 1-1 2th — or a fraction more
than 8 per cent is the total amount of
difference which this enormous change
in the policy of the country can effect
in our manufactures.
Suppose, for example, upon 100
shillings, a sum of 33 goes on wages,
15 on profits, and 52 on raw material,
(including the wear and tear of ma-
chinery). The loaf sinks from a shil-
ling to sixpence (though the most im-
pudent of the enemy hardly goes so
far). The workman, he affirms, has
hitherto spent 16s. 6d. on bread, he
now spends 8s. 3d. ; so far the 100
shillings sink to 91s. 9d. Upon this
sum 15 per cent will amount to about
eighteenpence less than before, that
is, to 13s. 6d. Total discount upon
100 shillings, 9s. 9d.
Yet, again, consider that this pre-
sumes the total saving to be allowed to
the purchaser. But, if that be so, how
is tlie workman benefited"? Or, if that
be not so, and the total saving (which,
for many reasons, is impossible) should
go to the workman, then fiow is the ma-
nufacturer benefited?
In the first case, what motive has
the working class — now under such
excitement — to stir in the matter ? In
the second case, what motive has the
Chamber of Commerce to stir ? If the
whole 9s. 9d. be given to the workman,
how would the manufacturing interest
be aided? The Continent cares no-
thing about the particular distribution
172
Dilemmas on the Corn Laic Question.
[Feb.
of the 100 shillings. The Continent
must have the 9s. 9d. for its own con-
tinental benefit, or else farewell to
the supposed improvement of English
commerce.
This, we fancy, will prove an ugly
dilemma to answer ; and thus far the
argument applies to the immediate re-
sults of the change proposed.
But now for the principal argument
contemplated, which applies to the
final results of the change.
This argument requires apreliminary
explanation for the majority of readers,
in order to show its nerve and pres-
sure, how you stand affected to the
doctrine of Rent. Many persons think
the doctrine of Rent baseless, some
upon one plea, some upon another.
For the present purpose, it is imma-
terial whether that doctrine be true
or false, notwithstanding our argu-
ment is built upon it. For we offer
it as an argumentum ad hominem — as
an argument irresistible by a particu-
lar class of men, viz. the class who
maintain the modern doctrine of Rent;
and that class it is to a man, (the
Colonel excepted) and, generally
speaking, no other, who lead the agi-
tation against the Corn Laws. Now
if these men are answered, so much
at least is gained, and practically all
that is wanted, " the engineers hoist
upon their own petard."
Let us say, then — with the modern
economists — that the law of Rent is a
fine illustration of that providential ar-
rangement so well illustrated by Paley,
under which compensations are applied
to excesses in any direction, so as ulti-
mately to restore the equilibrium. The
expenditure of man's daily life lies in
two great divisions — in manufactured
articles and in raw products. Corn,
coals, wood, for example, are entirely
raw products ; — other articles equally
raw in their earliest form, as grapes,
sugar, cotton, flax, hides, undergo
processes of art so complex, that very
often these -processes utterly obscure
the original cost of the material.
These two orders of products, into
•which human expenditure divides it-
self, are pursuing constantly an oppo-
site and counteracting course, as to
cost. Manufactures are always grow-
ing cheaper — and why ? Because,
these, depending upon human agencies,
in which the lights of experience and
of discovery are for ever at work to
improve, it is impossible that the mo-
tion should be retrograde. Who has
ever heard of a progress from good
machinery to worse ? On the other
hand, as to all raw products, the op-
posite course prevails ; these are al-
ways growing deader — and why?
Partly, because land and mines, &c.,
are limited ; partly, because, from tho
very beginning (unless where extreme
remoteness from towns, &c., disturbs
this order) men select for cultivation
the best lands, &c., first. Here, there-
fore, the natural movement is from
good to worse.
Suppose, then, the best land taken
up, and that this produces a quantity
of wheat [X] for one shilling. The po-
pulation expanding, it becomes neces-
sary to fall back upon a lower quality
of land [No. 2], which, to produce
X, must go to the expence of fifteen-
pence. Another expansion of popu-
lation calls into action No. 3, which
produces the same X for eighteeu-
pence. And so on.
This basis is sufficient to reason
upon. It will strike every man, as
one result from this scale of descents,
that the worst quality of land (No. 8)
must give the price for the whole. X
is the same quantity and the same qua-
lity of grain iu every case ; only it
costs an increasing sum to produce it
as the quality of land decreases. Now,
in a market, the Same quantity and
quality, at the same time, must always
command the same price. It is quite
impossible for No. 3 to plead that No. 2
grows at a less cost ; X, however
produced, will obtain the same price ;
and the price of eighteenpence, as the
cost of the worst land, will be the
price for the whole. By the suppo-
sition, fifteenpence was sufficient to
reimburse No. 2 ; and twelvepence
•was sufficient to reimburse No. 1.
What then becomes of the extra three-
pence on No. 2 ? What becomes of
the extra sixpence on No. 1 ? Answer,
that is rent.
Now, it is evident that this scale of
degradations could not take place in
manufacturing industry ; because here,
beginning from the worst, the scale
travels upwards ; and, when No. 2 is
discovered, No. 3 is laid aside ; and
so on. In land, or in mines, or fisheries,
this course is impossible, for the simple
reason that land and mines are limited
in quantity, while machinery may be
multiplied ad infinitum.
The next consequence which a
1839.J
thoughtful man will detect, perhaps,
for himself, is — that always the lowest
quality in cultivation (No. 3, in this
case,) will pay no rent. This has
furnished the main stumbling-block to
the reception of the doctrine ; " there
is no such land," say multitudes ; "all
land pays rent." Not so. One con-
sideration may convince any man that
there is alwaysjand which pays no
rent. For it cannot be disputed that
it will be a sufficient inducement to
any man who combines the characters
of proprietor and farmer (that is, who
cultivates his own ground), to raise
grain. He has the same inducement
as any body else ; that is, he obtains
Profits and Wages ; and who obtains
more ?
It is clear, therefore, that, however
low the quality of land may be upon
which population forces culture, let it
be No. 25 suppose, eternally there
will be a lower than the lowest of the
rent-paying lands [No. 28] which will
be capable of culture under the single
condition of paying no rent.
However, at this moment, and for
the present purpose, no matter whe-
ther there be non-rent paying land
tinder culture or not: it is quite enough
if it be granted that the worst quality
of land, and not any average quality,
or superior quality, determines the
price for the whole : common sense
will extort fhis concession from every
body. The price, in other words,
must always be such as to cover the
worst and least advantageous circum-
stances of culture, not the best and
most advantageous.
What follows ? Why, that, as the
differences of land increase by de-
scending lower and lower, regularly
these differences swell the price. The
doctrine is familiar to many : for those
to whom it is not, a short illustration
to the eye will suffice.
The diagram below represents the
total price of corn, and it is divided
into two sections, in order to repre-
sent to the eye the two elements of its
price — wages and profits ; which two
sire all that exist, or can exist, so long
as only one quality of land is used.
At any risk of tediousness, I repeat
the reason : it is because, so long as
a capitalist will always find a sufficient
motive for employing his funds on
what produces him the usual rate of
profit, a moral impossibility exists that
rent can be paid. The man who farms
Dilemmas on the Corn Law Question.
173
his own land has no rent to pay, and
can always undersell and drive out of
the market him who charges rent also
in the price of his corn. And if it is
not charged in the price, if the grower
takes his outlay in rent out of his pro-
fits, then it is not rent in any but a
verbal sense.
No. 1.
Soon comes the time when No. 1 is
found insufficient foragrowing society;
No. 2 is then resorted to of necessity ;
that is, an inferior soil ; and now the
case, as to price, stands thus : No 2
pays no rent now, for the same reason
as No 1 paid none, when that had no
inferior competitor. But because No. 2
costs, by its very definition, more to
produce the same result (else how is
it No. 2 ?) — that more becomes, on
No. 1, rent, which is represented in
the diagram by the darker space, cor-
No. 1. |
1 1 1 1 1 I
2-1
1 1
. responding exactly in amount to the
excess of costs on No. 2. No. 2 di-
vides into wages and profits only ; but
the wages (in which is included all
other expenses) are more than the cor-
responding section in No. 1 ; and pre-
cisely that " more," that excess, be-
comes rent upon No. 1 .
One farther stage we will take, and
have done. Population increasing,
calls at length for No. 3, and then the
diagram will stand thus :—
N°- i- r ~r 1 1 1 1 1 1
2. I I I I I I
3. i i i
That is, just as No. 2 exceeded No. 1
in cost, so does No. 3 exceed No. 2 ;
and the excess becomes rent upon
No. 2, and two rents upon No 1.
Were No. 4 called for, that would
create rent upon No. 3, two rents
upon No. 2, three upon No. 1, and so
on for ever ; the rent always express-
ing the exact difference in cost between
any one number and that immediately
below it.
ARGUMENT ON THE CORN QUESTION,
FOUNDED ON THE PRECEDING EX-
PLANATION.
Let us, apply all this to the corn
question, after first pausing to notice,
that even the followers of Ricardo
174
Dilemmas on the Corn Law Question.
[Feb.
have often failed to perceive in public
questions of great moment — the ex-
tensive application of this very doc-
trine.
For example, twenty years ago,
when the China question was at times
under discussion, some eminent econo-
mists said, by way of meeting a par-
ticular argument, " Of what conse-
quence to this mighty Chinese nation,
of perhaps three hundred millions, is
the little'demand of Great Britain ?"
That demand is not little ; neither in
an absolute sense little, nor in relation
to the domestic consumption of China.
But suppose it were little — suppose
that (instead of forty millions pounds'
weight annually) it were but one mil-
lion, still if this small addition to the
native demand should happen so to
operate as to push back the culture
upon but one degree lower of soil,
and that this were to make a difference
of but one dollar an acre in the rent,
then let it be remembered now, look-
ing to the way in which rent acts, how
vast might even that slight addition
prove in its results ? — and vast, for the
very reason alleged in proof that it
would be trivial ; viz., in proportion
to the vast population of China, and
its consequent vast consumption of
tea (even admitting that the majority
of the people are not rich enough to
taste it). For such as is the consump-
tion of tea, such will be the scale of
soils employed. The dollar addi-
tional, by the supposition, on the pen-
ultimate quality of land, would be two
dollars an acre on the ante-penulti-
mate, three on the land next above,
four on the next, and so on. If the vast
extent of the tea-drinking population
should force the culture upon seventy
grades of soil, as it might, how tre-
mendous might be the result, even
from a single additional grade being
called into action ! And the reason
why nations are only by degrees made
sensible of such changes, is, that
leases or other contracts (which as to
land must always be of some dura-
tion) do not suffer the total effects to
appear at once : a certain proportion
of the subsisting contracts falls in
every year ; and until then, until rents
are revised and suited to the new price,
the advantage flows, of necessity, into
the channel of profits.
Now, apply all this to the great
question before us. Multitudes of
men, like Mr Jacobs; building upon.
accurate statistics, will dismiss the
dispute in this summary way : — " It is
idle to ask what were best — corn laws
01- none — to import freely or to ex-
clude— for the whole project is a chi-
mera : it is out of our power to import
in the extent proposed : so we need not
lose time and temper in discussing the
policy. America never was able to fur-
nish flour for more tha*h three days' con-
sumption of Britain ; the Baltic and
all other resources never yet furnished
grain for six weeks' consumption."
This answer, however, or evasion,
will serve us no longer. The Phi-
listines now meet us with this reply : —
" True ; but whose fault was that ?
Our own. Nobody will grow what
he has no prospect of selling. But
let England make it fully understood
in the Baltic, that she will take all
the foreign grain which can support a
fair market competition with her own,
neither party drawing artificial helps
from duties, bounties, or any fiscal im-
posts whatever, in that case we shall
see a different scene."
Well ; how different ? To what ex-
tent? Here comes the pinch of the
inquiry. Some imagine that foreign
grain, unrestricted, would drive out
the English as completely as the Nor-
way rat has driven out or extermin-
ated the old aboriginal rat : our
sheaves, as in the Scriptural dream,
would bow to the Polish. Upon this
basis it is that some argue this ques-
tion : they contemplate the result of
English agriculture being literally an-
nihilated. And if you ask, what then
becomes of that part of our rural po-
pulation ? — they answer, " Oh ! the
cheapness of bread will leave money
disposable for butcher's meat: there
will be more extensive grazing and
fattening. In that way we dispose of
part : the other part will go into towns
and make the cotton or iron goods,
by which we shall pay the Poles for
manufacturing our bread."
But this result would not take place
in this extent, even if the restrictions
on foreign corn were totally removed.
Imagine two equal vats — one full, one
empty ; let off the water of the one
into the other, the level of subsidence
will be found when each becomes half
full. Invert the operation of rent,
as just explained ; imagine it retro-
grading through the very same steps
by which it advanced, and it will be
seen that English corn itself, after a
1859.]
Dilemmas on the Corn Laic Quest tun.
175
very few steps, will have declined
much nearer to continental prices.
The common price at which wheat
has settled of late years, is 60s. Now,
a very few of the lower qualities of
soil withdrawn, even on that sole
change, English corn would fall to
45s. and 40s.
But now comes the ugly fact to
meet the Philistines, — that, just as
rent unthreaded its steps in England,
so and inevitably would rent on the
Continent travel on through those very
stages which, in England, have raised
our corn to a higher level than else-
where. It is no matter where the corn
is grown, so far as regards this inevi-
table effect, that, in Poland, as every
where else, land presents us with a
scale of large varieties. This mon-
strous deception is practised upon us
at present : we see little grain (little
wheat, at any rate) which has not
come from the higher qualities of soil ;
and naturally enough, because in Po-
land the population, as a whole, is
scanty (relatively to the extent of
ground), and the population, as a
wheat-consuming population, is quite
trivial. Hence it is that the devclope-
ment of rent has but commenced.
But let England transfer her agricul-
ture to Poland, instantaneously the
very same cycle of effects will be tra-
versed which in England has been
traversed since 1775 ; soils of every
quality will be called into action ;
rent will arise in its graduated series
upon every separated quality ; a race
of wealthy farmers, stout yeomen,
happy labourers, aristocratic landlords,
will again arise ; — but unhappily, how-
ever, it cannot be added — and no mis-
take, for there will be the capital mis-
take that, instead of our own natural
brothers, this race will be all owsMs
and wiskis. That, however, is a col-
lateral theme ; what I now wish to
notice is — simply the effect upon price.
Were the plan realized which is sanc-
tioned by the present revolutionists,
the grossest delusion would be un-
masked which has ever duped a people.
This delusion consists in reasoning
upon the basis of Baltic prices as they
are or have been, though they them-
selves admit (by making it our crime)
that never yet has a forty days' con-
sumption been grown on our account.
Are these men maniacs ? Do they
suppose that the three hundred and
sixty-five days' consumption of a race
like the British can be produced by
the Poles without a far worse deve-
lopement of rent and costs than with
us ? Laud has been often, and most
conveniently for purposes of argu-
ment, treated as a corn-manufacturing
machine, subject only to the condition
that these machines are of various
powers. Now at present, merely the
best machines are used. But a per-
manent demand from England, eight
times and a-half greater than the great-
est and most memorable ever heard of,
would at once create a run upon these
machines, which in one revolving year
would far more than reproduce the
highest prices known amongst our-
selves.
But this is not all : the pressure of
rent advances slowly, and only in cor-
respondence with the population, and,
at any rate, this pressure is met and,
relieved by the opposite process in
manufactures. But, besides this com-
pensation, in England, where agricul-
tural skill is great and capital over-
flowing, we have other compensations,
sujfflamina, or drags, which retard the
motion of price upwards, in the con-
tinual application of improved ma-
chinery or improved processes to our
agriculture. The full weight of de-
clension in the soil has never been
suffered with us to make itself felt ;
it has been checked, thwarted, k.ept
down in every stage by growing
knowledge and growing wealth. In
Poland none of these sufflamina will be
available. I need not say that every
thing will have to be created ; that
without our laws and institutions and
national energy it cannot be created,
any more than an academy of belles
lettres in Caffraria. And thus the
full weight, unbroken, unimpeded, will
descend upon prices from the de-
creasing qualities of the soil ranging
through all the gamut, and from the
absolute defect of the vast apparatus
in roads, fences, canals, &c., as well
as the more intellectual parts of that
apparatus, which in Scotland and
eastern England has travelled through
centuries to a point of perfection.
This upon the unconditional adop-
tion of the new proposals. But it will
be urged in reply, — Suppose it con-
ditional, and the importation to go on
until the two prices, ours and the Bal-
tic, meet in one level. I have already
said, that in that case much fewer addi-
tions will need to be made in Poland,
176
Dilemmas on the Corn Law Question.
[Feb.
much fewer to be laid aside in Eng-
land than is commonly supposed. A
very moderate change in each coun-
try, a few of the worst qualities aban-
doned in England, a few of the upper
qualities taken up in Poland, would
bring the two countries to a level. But
then the evil here will be (an evil as
regards the absurd expectations of the
poor), that exactly in proportion as
the level will be easily accomplished,
and without much convulsion to exist-
ing rights, exactly in that case will the
relief be small. If two or three qua-
lities of soil cashiered in England, and
two or three added in Poland, bring
the two vats to a level (and possibly
no greater change would be required),
in such a case 50s. or 48s. might be
the permanent price in both countries.
Now take the difference between that
and 60s. (for as to our present prices,
they are mere anomalies), and consi-
der it in the way I have suggested at
page 171 ; then one-fifth of the price
being saved in bread,* and one-fifth
of the poor man's expenditure being
on bread, he might receive one-fifth
of a fifth, or a twenty-fifth part more
on his daily expenditure. And sup-
pose wages to enter even to the extent
of a half into the elements of price (as
upon some rare articles they may), the
result would be the half of a twenty-
fifth, that is, a fiftieth part in the price
of goods.
But that calculation is of less im-
portance. The main argument upon
which we take our stand, is this dilemma
built on the doctrine of Rent : the
cycle of changes to be run through in
transferring our agriculture in whole
or in part to the Baltic provinces, is
either wide or it is narrow, either
great or small. Suppose it great,
suppose, in fact, our corn manufac-
tory absolutely transferred as a whole
to Poland, and a cotton, iron, &c., ma-
nufactory substituted at home, — in
that case the whole ladder of descent
upon inferior soils must be run down
in Poland, which has caused our
own prices at home ; and the whole
series of increments in rent be tra-
versed, which is the very ground of
our domestic murmurs, but — for this
must never be overlooked — with ag-
gravations of this evil as much less
mitigated than ours as Poland is less
civilised, less enlightened, less wealthy,
than Great Britain. On the other
form of the dilemma, the case is not
so bad, simply because it is not so
thoroughly carried out : but, however,
though a better result, it will be one
of pure disappointment. For if there
should be a long series of changes be-
fore the prices of England and Poland
met at the same level, then there would
be an approximation made to the enor-
mous evil j ust stated ; and if the series
should turn out small, that would be
because the level of coincidence would
soon be effected ; and then the alter-
ation of price would be proportionately
trifling.
Such is our argument from political
economy, against the proposed change;
but, were the change in itself better,
every body wishing well to England,
must thoroughly disapprove the in-
temperate (in some quarters the incen-
diary) mode of pursuing it. That,
however, is a different theme. The
upshot is this : it would cause a dread-
ful convulsion, if we could transfer our
corn manufacture to a really cheaper
country ; but, by the argument here
applied from Rent, it appears that there
is no known country which in that case
would be cheaper : we add, or nearly as
cheap.
* But observe, a declension of one-fifth on wheat would not give a declension of
three-tenths on bread.
1830.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyi>ttr-Eater.
177
SOME ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER.
FASCICULUS THE FOURTH.
" By tlia contemplation of antiquity, the mind itself becomes antique "
Edmund Burke.
I NEVUR could, for the life of me, dis-
cover why inquisitive ruin-hunters and
rubbish-excavators must be at the
trouble of crossing1 the sea, and rat-
tling along stony-hearted roads to Her-
ctilaneum and Pompeii, while there is
so much interesting rubbish and ne-
glected ruination at home. You have
been to Herculaneum, of course — and
Vesuvius, of course — and Pompeii, of
course. You have seen the skeletons
with gold bracelets, and the real Ro-
man penny rolls (( all hot." — You
have been to the Royal Museum at
Naples, of course, and have seen the
gigantic cameo cut out of an oyster
shell, as broad as the brim of Mr
Fyssche Palmer's white hat, and near-
ly as thick as the Right Honourable
Mr Forcible Feeble's skull — you have
seen a papyrus unrolled, and, although
you look at it very gravely for half an
hour, with your head on one side, you
can make neither head nor tail of it.
Your Guide-book informs you, that
No. 1019 is a bill of fare from the
CatoV Head Tavern and Chop-house,
Pompeii — it may be — and for all you
know to the contrary, it may with
equal probability be the story of John
Gilpin turned upside down. Go home,
sir, I advise you as a friend, mind
your business, if you have any, and
don't stay here, to make a fool of your-
self.
The Irish Pompeii, which, of course,
you have not seen, for no other rea-
son than because it lies under your
nose, is situate, lying, and being in
that part of the United Kingdom
called Ireland, and is occasion-
ally called and known the Earl of
Meath's Liberty, or, simply, The Li-
berty. It is bounded to the north by
Thomas Street, the scene of the Re.
bellion of Emmett, in 1803 ; to the
south, by Harold's Cross, and the
Royal Canal ; to the east, by St Pa-
trick's Cathedral ; and, to the west,
by the New Market and the Circular
Road, and contains, upon a moderate
computation, the ruins of not less than
ten thousand houses, and a pauper po-
pulation of probably sixty thousand
VOL. XLV. NO, CCLXXX,
souls. It is termed, with great pro-
priety, The Liberty — I presume, from
the free and easy style of the tene-
ments and their inhabitants. The
most unbounded hospitality would pre-
vail, if there happened to be any thing
to give, for every body literally keeps
open house all the year round, the
doors having long since been removed
to facilitate the practice of their pecu-
liarly Irish virtue of hospitality ; and
the window-frames have in like man-
ner disappeared, in search of another
situation. Street after street of these
tenements present themselves to the
eye of the curious stranger, naked of
window as of door ; and save that they
are densly iuhabitated, and still retain
staircases and floors, more like a city
sacked by fire than the result of any
ordinary process of gradual desolation
and decay. The sewers are long since
impervious, and a mantle of chick-
weed verdantly luxuriates over the
stagnant puddle that fills the various
avenues from side to side — it is no
stroke of imagination to say, that you
breathe an atmosphere of typhus —
contagion is palpable — you may cut
the malaria with a knife.
If I were to tell you of the solitary
rambles I have had in this metropolis
of utter desolation — of the sights Ihave
seen — of the sermons I have drank in
with my eyes, that with mute elo-
quence would melt the very stones un-
der our feet — half-grownboys literally
naked, in their buff, about the streets —
and grown girls hiding their naked-
ness under dirty straw, within doors —
exanimate wretches, dragging their
carcases along, holding on by the wall,
attenuated by no disease, sick of the
want of food alone ; — if I were to par-
ticularize an instance from this mass
of misery, and concentrate its hideous-
ness before you, I dare say you would
conclude me deranged or drunk.
Gracious God ! is it not enough to
drive a man mad, to hear the frantic
buffoonery of liberators, agitators, de-
magogues, and paid patriots, whose
lives pass away in the contrivance to
give variety to extortion— who aban-
M
Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [Feb.
178
don their own trades, to seize upon
the trades of the brewer, the banker,
and the beggar, whose gluttonous
thirst of gold would drink up all the
land and the produce thereof — the echo
of whose mendicancy never dies !
Shade of Andrew Marvel — the poor,
the unpurchasable — the patriot ! Can
your pure spirit behold the vulgar
herd of mercenary profligates that
polute, in our degenerate days, that
sacred name! Behold them in the
commencement of their career, pro-
voking the senseless yells of poor mis-
guided men, exciting them to an un-
equal contest with power, intelligence,
and wealth, and leaving them to the
not uncertain issue. See them wing-
ing their meridian flight between the
Treasury bench and Downing Street,
like a flock of wild-geese ; and, finally,
in the evening of their agitation, be-
hold them settling down into content-
ed hirelings, polluting, it may be,
•with their presence, the asylums of
"warriors out-worn in their country's
battles ; or, perched behind a west-end
omnibus, agitating the peripatetic po-
pulation with outstretched index, and
a parrot-like repetition ojf " Charing
Cross, Charing Cross," " Padding-
ton," or " Bank!"
Tripoli, lies between Pimlico and
the Poddle, being three distinct and
separate denominations of streets with-
in the Irish Pompeii aforesaid ; and
in Tripoli our reduced family had lo-
cated themselves, after the death of
my father, and the departure of my
mother, who, finding that the heredi-
tary glories of the Snakes of Galway
•were somewhat slightingly regarded
in the Liberty of Dublin, had accepted
the situation of housekeeper, being a
bouncing young widow, and very well
qualified for that kind of thing-, to her
sixteenth cousin, Mr Snake Bodkin, a
gentleman horse-jockey of nearly two
hundred a-year, and hereditary Prince
of Ballinamuck — a title which had
come down to the present Mr Bodkin
through successive generations of Bod-
kins, in unbroken succession, from the
venerable old King Cole, the last in-
dependent king of Connaught, and
Lord of Connemara. Mr Snake Bod-
kin and the Snakes of Galway agreed
marvellously — they were both old fa-
milies—so very old, indeed, that it was
considered altogether hopeless to at-
tempt keeping them in repair — not one
of them had ever been known to de-
mean himself with any sort of exer-
tion more profitable than that of run-
ning after a fox, or clearing stone
walls atthe risk of their precious necks,
for a sweepstakes, or a rump and
dozen. There are two undoubted tests
of comparative excellence in use among
great Connaught families, and, in par-
ticular, the great family of the Bod-
kins— the first is, how high can you
jump ? and the second, how deep can
you drink ?
If your hunter can clear a six foot
stone-and-lime wall, you are a pro-
mising youth ; if he tops six feet and
a half, the whole country side unani-
mously determines that you'll do ;
but if, by miraculous elasticity of
sinew, he scrambles over seven feet,
your reputation extends as far as Bal-
linasloe, while in your own immediate
vicinity you are booked as neither
more nor less than " the Devil him-
self." In drinking, claret was for-
merly the standard liquor for the de-
termination of the tippler's specific
gravity, but, alas ! you might as well
expect poteen at the royal table as
claret beyond the Shannon, now-a-
days, whiskey-punch being the me-
dium universally substituted. The
same rule, however, holds in drinking
as in jumping, imperial being adopted
instead of superficial measure, or, in
other words, tumblers for feet — half-
a-dozen being considered the regular
thing, which, if you cannot put be-
neath your belt as a matter of course,
you are fit for nothing but to go un-
der a cow. Eight tumblers are ex-
pected of every gentleman who is
ambitious of being pulled up to " half-
cock," while he that can « do the
dozen" is " a top sawyer" — a " real
blood;" and if he get the loan of a
qualification, or what is all the same
thing, can manufacture one out of his
own head, and sets up for the county,
his potatory prowess puts him at the
head of the poll, and you may behold
him any day during the session in a
sixpenny chop-house near Westmin-
ster, " a knight of the shire girt with
sword."
Whatever might have been the ex-
act amount of the remuneration al-
lowed by Mr Snake Bodkin to his
housekeeper, it was not understood, I
presume, as being payable in the cur-
rent coin of this realm, as no money
was ever received by my aunt for our
support, that is to say, the support of
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
179
my brother and myself — the female
progeny having been taken out of Tri-
poli by another aunt, -who resided in
the county Tipperary, and upon whose
shoulders devolved the pleasing and
profitable duty of supporting this
moiety of the family of her beggarly
relations, in addition to her own, as
usual and customary all over Ireland.
In other countries poor and honest
people are sometimes seen enriched in
their old age by the successful exertion
of their relatives who have struggled
into independence, and, it may be,
perished in the struggle, in some far
distant and pestilential clime ; in other
countries, you see the wealth accumu-
lated by daring adventurers, who left
their native land without a rag to
their backs, returning to enrich, in
schools, hospitals, and colleges, the
land that knows no other preference
with them than it was the land of their
birth. In other countries, you see the
successful adventurer himself, whom
God has blessed with life and the for-
tune of war crowned with wealth,
coming home to diffuse happiness
every where within his sphere — to
look about him for young men to as-
sist and send forth upon the sea of
life — to solace the aged and the un-
fortunate ; or, it may be — tender and
delightful hope — to renew the loves
of his purer and happier days with the
betrothed partner of his heart — to
wander with her through scenes con-
secrated by their early loves — to la-
ment together the bitter lot that sepa-
rated them so long and joined them
so late — to press lip to lip and heart
to heart, in the proud consciousness
that they have held sacred their plight-
ed faith, and enjoying the little that
of life remains, look beyond this poor
earthly habitation, in the anticipated
enjoyment of a prospect that knows
no horizon — a spring that tastes not
of change.
In Scotland now — perhaps you have
shot grouse on the Scottish moors —
I don't accuse you, mark ye, of hav-
ing really shot any, but only of firing
with intent to kill — but you have pur-
chased a few brace from the village
poachers, and sent them off like Jack
in the box, which does quite as well.
When you are at breakfast next morn-
ing you are sure to hear from the
chambermaid, if you have had the
brains to insinuate yourself into her
good graces, the entire village gossip ;
but first and chiefly that " there is a
double letter in the post for Mistress
Mackintosh frae her son the Major."
Mind I have presumed in this case
that you are one of those acute grouse-
shooters who can look over the bridge
of their own noses, otherwise you
would never think of following with
your eyes that venerable lady in wi-
dow's weeds who keeps the crown of
the causeway, holding up her dress a
very little with her left hand, while a
reticule embarrasses her right, and
from the fold of her bosom peers some-
thing white, like the corner of a des-
patch.
There she comes — Mrs Mackintosh
herself, straight from the post-office
— and there she goes, without stop or
stay, straight into the little shop with
three watch dials hanging by bits of
string in the window. Heaven help
you, Saunders Maclntyre, if the good
lady's specs are not " busked " and
ready in the case ! What a time she
stays with Saunders to be sure. Here
she comes at last, spectacles on nose,
steering right for our hotel. Yes —
no — she is gone into the county bank,
and there she is again coming out.
She fumbles with her bosom — her
spectacles are dim — she takes them
off, wipes her eyes stealthily, and puts
them on again. Off again ! Ah 1
poor old lady, I see how it is. Here,
Carlo, Carlo — Grouse — down, you
old beast — whew ! come in to heel ! —
Poor body ! her heart is at the other
side of this world, and her little rem-
nant of worldly hope and pride is with
the Major in Hindostan — he is grate-
ful, and she is happy. You are friends
with that Major, I'll lay you half-a-
dozen of champagne, although you
never heard of him before, and if you
don't devote your second caulker —
the first is for a little blue-eyed minx
—to the Major's health, and prosperi-
ty to him, all I can say is you
are not the sportsman I took you for 1
In poor unfortunate Ireland, on the
contrary, if you were to shoot snipe
and cocks — there are no grouse worth
looking at — from this date until [the
ensuing illustration is private proper-
ty, and all poets, play-wrights, or
penny-a-liners, found trespassing, will
be prosecuted with the utmost rigour
of the law] I say, until you blue-
mould,your eyes would never be bless-
ed with the sight of a double letter
worth the postage ; in fact, if you only
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [Feb.
180
look about, you cannot fail to observe
that in three out of the four provinces,
every man who is getting his head in
the least above water, is instanta-
neously submerged by a crew of drown-
ing relations and "people in law"
who will neither work nor want — a herd
of squandering, coshering, wandering
blackguards, without industry, push,
or behaviour — neither useful nor or-
namental— a drug in the market of
society.
And what astonishes me more than
any thing else is this, that industrious
and well-doing men, who have strug-
gled to a competence, in the face of
difficulties unknown in prosperous
countries, seem not at all aware of the
mortal sin against society they com-
mit in giving aid, countenance, or
protection to these traitors against the
commonwealth. What is national
wealth ? The surplus of every man's
accumulation after the satisfaction of
his wants — and it is a crime not mere-
ly against a man's own family, but
against the national credit of his coun-
try, to suffer himself to be drawn into
beggary by an apparently humane
toleration of mendicants by marriage
or by blood. There is now no excuse
on the ground of necessity. Pack
them all off to the workhouse. And
when they are gone, buy a fierce mas-
tiff of the neighbouring butcher, and
chain him over against your gate. You
will then be enabled to get wealth,
and to be of use to your country in
gpite of herself. Nor do I fear to as-
sert that the man who accumulates
wealth, be it little or much, by honest
industry and saving in Ireland, is a
truer patriot and a better man than all
the demagogues that ever brayed a
mob into riot and confusion. If the
opportunity does not present itself at
home, the world is young and wide,
and you have hands. There is Aus-
tralia for men with some money, Ca-
nada for men who have a little, and
Texas for those who have none. I
can tell you three little words that
command success at home or abroad —
firstly, push — secondly, push — thirdly,
—you know the rest.
My excellent aunt, then, upon whose
broad shoulders devolved the burden
of the masculine moiety of our unfor-
tunate family, contrived to keep soul
and body as nearly as possible toge-
ther by letting very respectable se-
cond-rate lodgings in a very respect-
able third-rate street. Occupying to
her own use the back parlour and
back kitchen, the other rooms of her
house formed the poor woman's entire
stock in trade, being let to various
grades of occupants, at weekly rents, in
the in verse ratio — excuse me, Professor
de Morgan, for a moment — I say, in
the inverse ratio of their proportionate
distances from the attic, and directly
as the squares of their capacities —
Ahem ! The front parlour was usually
occupied by the .Chinese Jugglers,
the Great Magician, or the Wandering
Piper ; and when these diverting vaga-
bonds did not arrive in perpetual suc-
cession, one down and the other come
on, which, indeed, was seldom the
case, my aunt was accustomed to sit
there and receive company. In the
first floor lived a gentleman who had
half-pay from some regiment of mili-
tia, and whose present occupation
was, as my aunt used to express her-
self, " dandering about the corners,
and living upon his money," to which
he added, in the afternoons, the more
ingenious and equally lucrative em-
ployment of blowing the German
flute.
The two-pair front was held by a
couple of juvenile medical gentlemen
from the north of Ireland, as tenants
in common, who were in attendance
upon the hospitals and classes in Dub-
lin, and were nurtured in a primitive
style of sustentation from a large bar-
rel of pickled pork and a firkin of salt
butter, which their humble parents
had transmitted with them to town —
oatmeal they purchased fresh and fresh
as they needed it, for breakfast and
supper, while at Christmas, New
Year's-day, and Easter, parcels of fat
geese from the country diversified a
little their somewhat unvaried fare.
I never recollect my aunt to have had
so much pleasure with any of her
inmates as with these pursuers of
" knowledge under difficulties," but
she could hardly abide them, under
an impression that they were heretics
and scoffers at religion. Of their
heretical tendencies she was convin-
ced by the fact of hearing them pray
somewhat tediously over the pickled
pork and porridge ; but the charge of
scoffing at religion never had any
more solid ground that I know of,
than the incaution of one of the young
gentlemen in rashly emptying my
aunt's holy water bottle, for the pur-
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
pose of supplying the place of that
beatified liquor with a halfpenny-
worth of ink. Nor, when I think of
it again, was the indignation of my
aunt altogether without cause, for
there are no two fluids in nature more
thoroughly incompatible than your
holy water and your ink ; — wherever
the popularity of ink is established the
holy water dynasty falls rapidly to
decay ; — the two grand antagonising
powers in spiritual matters, whose
conflict for the possessions of immortal
souls began with Beelzebub and Saint
Dunstan, and which has continued
without intermission to this blessed
day, appear to me to be no other than
His Holiness the Pope, and His High
Mightiness the (printer's) Devil !
The press groans, and well it may,
under the temporal oppression of the
one ; and wherever throughout the
world you find ignorance, beggary,
desolation, and strife, you have an
opportunity of doing homage to the
spiritual tyranny of the other.
To which of these potentates the
ultimate triumph must belong, is a
speculation upon which posterity may
employ itself with more advantage than
our cotemporarics. In a world of cant,
hypocrisy, and humbug, his Holiness
the Pope must long play an important
part — wherever intelligence is flooded
over the vast expanse of the popular
mind, and man rejoices in the glorious
fertilization that waits upon its over-
flow, the Printer's Devil must be re-
garded with the profoundest venera-
tion. The ignorant, the imbecile, the
aged, and the unfortunate, seek con-
solation from the one ; the intelligent,
the vigorous-minded, the young, and
the hopeful, enlist their energies and
their prayers in the success of the
other. For myself, I take no part in
the struggle on either side. Your
Holiness must excuse me. To hold
your triple gossamer merely ? — with
the greatest pleasure ; fair play's a
jewel, and civility costs nothing —
make a ring, there, gentlemen, make
a ring — now, stand clear — all ready
— pull away, Pope ; pull away, Devil !
My aunt had demised, set, and to
farm let her two-pair back to a morn-
ing or daily governess of a certain
age, very popular in the families of
several licensed victuallers, and a
pawn-broker of long standing, whose
young ladies she was employed to in-
struct in the lady- like accomplish-
181
ments of vulgar-fractions, thorough
bass, and the use of the globes, at the
rate of one shilling sterling per head
per week, finding her own I nxlia- rub-
ber and slate-pencil.
Miss Cobbe, for that was the name
of the governess, had a sad antipathy
to washing her face, and no less a
strong propensity to moisten her clay
— perhaps the one was a set-off against
the other, and before you get too vir-
tuously indignant upon the subject,
let me do Miss Cobbe the justice to
say that she never drank in the morn-
ing, that she never was drunk in the
evening, but merely " comfortable,"
and that nobody ever saw her drink,
because she bought her own liquor,
broke her own sugar, put on her own
kettle, and then — turned the key in
her two-pair back, and made herself
" comfortable" at her leisure. Poor,
desolate thing ! friendless, homeless,
husbandless, at the corner of life,
turning into Old Street, who can be
surprised if she came home from her
hopeless task, to accomplish the fe-
male bumpkins of punch-sellers and
pawnbrokers, and sought in her bot-
tle for a few moments of ideal happi-
ness, of which ftie cold and heartless
world denied her the reality ! Who
can tell with what bright hopes and
cheery prospects the poor thing may
have set out in life — who knows by
what successions of heart-blights those
hopes and prospects have, one by one,
like the tints of the rainbow, faded in
a shower of tears — who has heard (for
the poor girl is proud and will not
complain) the story of her love and
lost affections, or the tissue of unde-
served misfortunes that have made
her that she is ? In regarding' fallen
man, or, saving your ladyship's virtu-
ous indignation, fallen woman, let me
implore your reverences of both sexes,
over your claret and ratafia, to keep
this little bit of dogmatic morality up-
permost in your head?, so that it may
have a chance to fall down by its own
weight and mollify your hearts —
where one individual walks voluntarily
into vice, one thousand arc deceived
into it by unsuspected villany, or forced
into it by the pressure of irresistible
misfortune.
So much for the lodgers ; now as to
the landlady. My aunt was one of
that tribe of helpless animated beings
who get through life like a vegetable
or a zoophyte, without forethought,
182
Some Account of Himself. By tJie IrisJi Oyster-Eater. [Feb.
intelligence, hope, fear, or exertion.
My aunt was as poor as a rat, and this
circumstance, so far from quickening1
her apprehension or awakening her
industry, was used by her as an instru-
ment of sottish devotion, and as a thing
not to remedy, if possible, but to squat
down on her hams and thank God for.
God loved the poor, she delighted to
say, and nobody is poor but him that
God hates ; accordingly she held it
equally as a point of honour and of
conscience to do nothing whatever that
would expose her to the danger of fall-
ing under the Divine displeasure by
any profitable exertion of the faculties
of mind or body. She was a voteen,
and remarkable for her constant at-
tendance to the duties of religion —
very pious and very dirty.
She went to confession once every
week, and washed herself occasionally
once a fortnight — her house was never
washed by any chance, and seldom or
ever swept down, as my aunt nor none
of her family had ever been used to
scrubbing, she was accustomed to ob-
serve. Her lodgers, if they made any
' complaints, were civilly told to try the
next shop ; and long experience had
taught them, that in a nation of dirty
people nothing was to be gained by
change. Her house presented the
same attractions as to externals as nine
out of every ten houses in Dublin-—
the area was filthy, and the kitchen
windows broken, or patched with
brown paper — the pannels of the hall
door stuck full of cobwebs and dust —
all the upper windows opaque with
want of cleaning — all the blinds torn,
dirty, and awry — a fintereure general
filthiness universally prevailed, a blind
man might smell his way from cellar
to attic — and as to fleas, nothing but
the want of resolute leaders, and a suf-
ficient organization, precluded them
from pulling my aunt's lodgers out of
bed by the heels.
FASCICULUS THE FIFTH.
" Paddy Byrne was a man
Of a very great big knowledge,
And behind a quickset hedge
In a bi>g he kept his college ;
He could tell the moon's age.
Cut corns, and could bleed, Sir,
And could teach a pig to whistle
Just as much as it could read, Sir."
Irish Minstrelsy.
Education becomes a topic of intense
interest when in connection with the
life of a man so justly eminent as— •
ahem — as myself ; the most trivial
topics attending the school-boy days
of a genius are devoured with the in-
tensest curiosity ; the old woman who
taught him his A, B, C, from a pictured
book, participates in the glories of her
breechless pupil's immortality, and to
this day it is a matter of fierce and
learned disquisition among contempo-
rary editors and biographers whether
the earliest production the embryo
genius got by rote, was " Little Jack
Horner," or that equally sublime con-
ception of the poet, " Hi diddle diddle,
the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped
over the moon." The interest that
will attach to the records of my edu-
cation, however, is not of this limited
and individual character — my educa-
tion is identified with the national edu-
cation of my country, such as it is ; and
such as it is, such am I. It is to the
elevating and moralizing tendency of
the systems of education which have
successively followed each other, one
down and another come on, in my un-
fortunate country, that I owe my
happy and respectable position in so-
ciety— the great genius of a porter and
punch house — the oracle of an oyster
tavern, and the monarch of pot com-
panions.
It is no less due to those excellent,
wise, and beneficent institutions for
the diffusion of useful knowledge than
to myself, to take a short and cursory
view of the rise and progress of public
instruction in Ireland, to which we
may safely and solely attribute the
present high position of that country
in the empire of thought and in the
republic of letters.
It is the poor prerogative of an un-
fortunate people to be solaced by the
glorious recollections of the past, and
to find relief from the contemplation
of their contemporary degradation in
the exulting remembrances of remote
antiquity. As there are few indivi-
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 183
duals who cannot look back from sur-
rounding desolation upon some bright
moment in the retrospect of the past,
so there are not many nations in whose
sad histories do not occur glorious
passages upon which posterity delights
to dwell with the tenderness of filial
affection. To this, or to some such
amiable passion, are we most reason-
ably to attribute the prevalent dispo-
sition to exult over the faded glories
of Irish literature, sanctity, and poesy ;
and to dwell vaguely upon those illus-
trious times, and no less illustrious
men, of whose works, lives, or times,
we in reality know nothing, whose
reputation depends solely upon the re-
moteness of the age in which they
lived, if, indeed, many of them lived
at all, and who are judged by a par-
tial posterity solely on the principle,
" omne ignotum pro magnifico." The
poet, antiquarian, and writer of ro-
mance may, and the patriot ought,
perhaps, to foster and encourage this
disposition to exaggerate the works
which our fathers have done in the
past times, and in the old days before
them ; but it is the privilege of the
citizen of the world to demand upon
what existing monuments, of what
value, and to what amount, Ireland
.pretends to claim an intellectual ele-
vation among the nations in times
when her inhabitants were, to all ap-
pearance, ignorant of the more ordi-
nary and necessary arts of life, when
her peasantry lived in holes in the
rocks, and her palaces, of which we
hear such bombastic eulogies — her
Emania and her Tara were royal re-
sidences of wattles plastered with cow-
dung — and of which, at this day, not
the most trivial trace can, by the most
energetic enthusiast, be detected.
The learned Romans left evidences
of their learning, records of their
glory, and monuments of their power
— the learned Greeks did the same —
the learned Egyptians perpetuated the
memory of their amazing folly and
superstition — the learned Irish, "in-
sula doctorum atque sanctorum," the
isle of the erudite and the holy, have
left nothing, or, which is the same
thing, nothing worth any thing, un-
less it is determined to affix a reputa-
tion to the unread and incompatible
trumpery of O'Flaherty and O'Con-
nor, or to the long-winded hypothetical
argumentations of a Leland or a Val-
lancey.
In fact the learned old Irish had no
learning at all — we ask for evidence,
and we get nothing but eulogy ; and
the publication of their minstrelsy by
Mr Hardiman, proves to a demonstra-
tion how very little poetry will make
a big book — there is not, in the whole
collection, one stanza worth a two-
penny tack, for vigour of thought,
terseness of expression, or harmony
of versification. If there be, let us
have it published, and give in an ac-
count of the sale ; the public are the
best possible judges of national poetry.
How the religion of the learned old
Irish was exhibited, remains to be
proved. We presume they could have
no religion whatever, until the capti-
vity of Saint Patrick, by Nial of the
Nine hostages ; from which time, until
the adventure of the English under
Strongbow, cow -stealing and man-
slaying are the only good works upon
record. The testimony of a partial
and national historian, Mr Moore, to
the learning, poetry, and devotion of
the ancient Irish, might have set the
question at rest. He has left it, how-
ever, as he found it, giving nothing
more than a confused jumble of ob-
scure names, arbitrary dates, and un-
proved traditions. Yet, for the eluci-
dation of this negative quantity, has
public jnoney been voted, Royal Aca-
demies chartered, and learned societies
embodied, where papers upon the pro-
bable uses of the round towers are to
be found, longer and more nonsensi-
cal than the round towers themselves,
from the erudite pens of the Counsel-
lor O'Rubbishies of their day — than
whom the merest cotton-factory boy,
at three and sixpence per week, does
more for his species and for himself.
The antiquarian, it is true, triumph-
arilly refers the sceptic to monkish
manuscripts which he has never read,
but which may, he conceives, be valu-
able because they are voluminous.
But the best proof of the utter worth-
lessness of these spoiled sheepskins is,
that they have never been thought
worthy any other notice from the pub-
lic at large, than that ignorant curio-
sity which is expressed on seeing them
by casual visitants to the libraries of
antiquaries. There is, no doubt, a
considerable number of these useless
documents scattered about Ireland,
but they are all, without exception,
mere dry chronicles of long- forgotten
family pedigrees, of no sort of value
whatever, not even to the owners.
The earliest, and, indeed, the only
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
184
early encouragement of education in
Ireland, is contained in a statute of
HENRY VIII., wherein it is expressly
declared and provided, " That each
and every incumbent shall contribute,
at the least, forty shillings per annum
towards erecting and maintaining a
school in each and every vicarage,
parish, or incumbency." One has
only to contrast the terms of this
enactment with that of the Scottish
Estates, wherein it was enacted " that
a good and sufficient school shall be
erected and maintained in every pa-
rish," and wherein it was declared that
a certain sufficient contribution for the
teacher should be a fixed charge upon
the heritor, or owner of the first estate
of inheritance, to be convinced that
some curse has hung over Ireland, in
matters of legislation, as in every
thing else. To these five little words,
• ' a good and sufficient school," intro-
duced into an Act of Parliament, not
longer than my thumb, is Scotland in-
debted at this day for nearly every
solid glory she possesses.
In these few words, the pride of
her statute-book, must she confess
the source of that proud pre-eminence
which her sons are enabled to struggle
for and to attain in every land under
heaven, while the poor Irish are seen
hewers of wood and drawers of water.
While the very name of an Irish-
man raises prejudice and disgust, and
is considered synonymous with drunk-
enness, riot and confusion, — the Scot,
by the discipline of his good and suf-
ficient school, is raised above the la-
bour of the hands, receives the superior
remuneration and respect due to the
nobler labour of the head, and glori-
ously repays his careful country for
the pains she bestowed upon his in-
struction, by carrying her credit and
her honour to whatever station and
whatever land his natural and national
enterprise directs his steps. In the
same spirit that inflicted upon Ireland
the " forty shilling" enactment, drawn
up, in all probability, by some un-
fledged owlet of a secretary of state,
has every subsequent act relating to
education in Ireland been concocted ;
with this difference, that whereas the
" forty shilling" statute did incalcul-
able harm in two or three words,
later acts of Parliament have had
their mischievous tendencies so enve-
loped in an ocean of verbiage, that it
is difficult to say which was the great-
est oppression — to read or to obey.
[Feb.
Of late, too, they are equally perni-
cious and extravagant, — if the " forty
shilling" statute did no good, it wast-
ed no money, — whereas, in our own
day, we have seen, and indeed may
see every day, fifty thousand a-year
voted away by the servile adherents
of a blackguard faction, which it is
the courtesy to call a Government, for
the purpose of being melted by a herd
of stipendiary sycophants and swind-
lers, and of setting the various sects
of Christians more bitterly together
by the ears, than ever.
Of course nothing could be done
for the establishment of schools in
consequence of that accursed " forty
shilling" enactment, and nothing was
done : the people beheld the spectacle
of a richly endowed establishment for
spiritual instruction, in which two
pounds a-year was the fixed and un-
alterable stipend for the temporal in-
struction of an entire parish, and in
this very circumstance began that
hostility to the Church Establishment
which has pursued her steps unremit-
tingly ever since.
The next brilliant adventure of the
Educational Legislators of Ireland —
generally half-grown whelps, who go
over there like medical students, for
the purpose of getting a diploma, by
virtue of which they may set up shop
on their own account and do as much
legislative mischief as possible else-
where,— was the conversion of the
public money to the wholesale manu-
facture of Protestants, under circum-
stances that could not possibly have
failed to render a manufactory of che-
rubim and seraphim equally odious
and unsuccessful.
This was the establishment of the
Protestant Foundling Hospitals and
the Protestant Charter Schools, which
together, have hopelessly and utterly
consumed more money than would
have well and truly established in
every parish in Ireland a good and
sufficient school for each of the sepa-
rate denominationsof Protestant, Pres-
byterian, and Roman Catholic, where
necessary. And this, too> with the
additional misfortune of demoralizing
the people they were intended to con-
vert, and of making bastardy an in-
ducement to the prosperity of Protest-
antism. But it would not do ; that
which begins by becoming odious, will
surely end by becoming contemptible ;
and contributing to render Protestant-
ism odious and contemptible, was all
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
that the charter schools and foundling
hospitals were ever able to accom-
plish.
How, indeed, could it be otherwise?
If one glimmer of common sense,
that most uncommon quality in legis-
lators, had ever visited the perpetra-
tor of these abominable "brat-houses"
and kidnapping schools, he must have
been convinced that any attempt to
force a trade in Protestantism by the
encouragement of bastardy, by the
tyranny of landlords, or by the kidnap-
ping of children, must have fallen to
the ground. Why ? — For no other
reason than because it ought to fall to
the ground. I often wonder that
zealous people, who can be very angry
people, too, if you tell them they are
as blind as moles, will not see, that
by uniting Protestant Christian in-
terests with Protestant legal interests
and Protestant political interests, they
have precluded every possible chance
of advancing the reformed religion
upon its own merits, and have render-
ed its ministrations not merely unprofit-
able, but positively detestable. There
is, by a great deal, too much zeal, tem-
pered with by much too little discre-
tion and want of consideration for
the feelings of the people whose
eternal enlightenment is the end in
view. Popular prejudices in religion
are as much a point of honour as a
matter of conscience — probably more
of the former than the latter ; nor can
they with success be opposed abruptly,
but rather retiringly, as the obstinate
waves of ocean are repelled, not by a
perpendicular wall, but by a receding
resistance.
After the smash of the charter
schools and the foundling hospitals,
nothing was done for educating the
poor of Ireland until the establish-
ment of the Kildare Place Society,
upon the amalgamating or hocus-pocus
theory of education. The hocus-pocus
philosophy of national education was
conceived in the brain of some ignorant
old woman, who took it in her wrinkled
old noddle that it would be abenevolent
thing if little Popish brats and little
Protestant brats could misspell the
same words out of the same Universal
Spelling Book, in the same school —
could have an opportunity of spitting
in each others' dear little Protestant
and Popish eyes, when the master's
back was turned, and also of quarrel-
ling and boxing about their respective
185
religions as they went to their respec-
tive homes. The most odious, dis-
gusting, and idiotic cant was set
a-going by this benighted old she- owl,
whom some people will have it was
no other than my Lord Fingal, while
others contend hard for the claims of
Doctor Troy — about the vast advan-
tages, in a distracted country, of little
pauper vagabonds, of different creeds,
being permitted to spit reciprocally
down each other's gullets, which they
facetiously called the United System of
Education . Well, the hocus-pocus pro-
mised public plunder, and that was
enough. The vermin that creep in and
out of that loathsome nest of human
debasement, Dublin Castle, began to
be on the qui vive — rival churchmen
laid down their arms, and came to a
temporary and hollow-hearted truce,
for the purpose of testing the hocus-
Socus — and, it must honestly be con-
jssed, with every secret disposition
on both sides to a~ contraband pro-
selytism. An army of offioials, a mo-
del school most excellent of its kind,
and a staff of inspectors were orga-
nized instanter — schools every where
built — teachers of both sexes instruct-
ed at the Central Model School in
Dublin, and dispatched to the pro-
vinces— an annual hocus-pocus report
read and adopted — and, to all appear-
ance, the Kildare Place Society was
going on swimmingly ; when, alas
for the hocus-pocus theory of educa-
tion ! a bull got loose at Rome, clear-
ed his way to the Kildare Place So-
ciety House, broke into the Model
School, gored the masters and mis-
tresses, put the little brats of all deno-
minations to flight, and demolished
the scenery, machinery, dresses, and
decorations.
The next and last grand hocus-po-
cus, was the Board of National Hocus-
pocus, composed of a parcel of tract-
able adherents of the Whig faction,
whose common interest in politics
might counteract, it was hoped, the
centrifugal tendency of their various
creeds, and that party might join
whom theology put asunder.
This hocus-pocus did all that was or
could be expected of its heterogeneous
constitution — set the whole country in
an uproar, and added one more bone
of contention to the many already con-
tended for in Ireland. Protestant and
Presbyterian utterly repudiated all con-
nexion with it, on the high and holy
186
Some Accoitnt of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [Feb.
ground of its impudent interference
with the unrestricted use and integrity
of Holy W rit. The Roman Catholics
gave it a Jesuitical reception, as a
thing to be used so far as taking the
money, and violated so far as regarded
the rules of united hocus-pocus laid
down, but have never, either by mani-
festo of their bishops, or by their
accredited theological organs, recog-
nised the principle or given a hearty
assent to its practical development.
The Arians and Socinians, who took
the money and conformed to' the rules
of the Kildare Place Society, now
take the money and conform to the
rules of the National hocus-pocus.
It is not impossible that if the public
money was distributed by Turks, they
would do the government the favour
still to accept the public money. Men
who believe little, will ever find coun-
tenance and support from men who
believe less.
As far as the immediate interests of
Whiggery are involved, the National
hocus-pocushas succeeded to amiracle.
The whole island has been converted
into one vast arena for jobbing in
school business. Every appointment
connected with the department, and
their name is Legion, is a subject-
matter of private canvassing, favourit-
ism, and adoption. In short, a job
Je suis jobber,
Tu es jobber,
II est jobber,
Nous sommes jobbers,
Vous etes jobbers,
Tout le monde sont jobbers.
This is the only result of the Na-
tional hocus-pocus — the multiplication
of jobs, jobbers, hacks, sycophants,
and subordinates. Let our inestima-
ble government only drag on a pre-
carious existence for a few years
longer, and happy man be his dole
who can skim his pot without a govern-
ment mercenary eyeing him down the
chimney !
FASCICULUS THE SIXTH.
As bends the young sprig,
So the tree grows when big—
do you twig ?—
I think — to resume my personal
narrative, which, like a true patriot, I
have postponed to the preceding short
dissertation concerning the origin and
abuses of National Education in Ire-
land, because it cost me nothing —
I say, I think it was about the seventh
year of my age that my aunt was com-
pelled, by a majority of the House of
Commons, that is, of the lodgers in
our house, to send me, very much
against her will, to learn my alpha-
bet at Lady Harberton's school, in
Summer Hill. Lady Harberton was
an excellent lady, and maintained
at her own costs and charges an ex-
cellent school — her object was, to
educate, not to convert. She knew
better than to try to cram her religion,
whatever it was, down other people's
children's throats, and the consequence
was, other people sent their children
to Lady Harberton's school with much
gratitude, and "no questions asked."
What with blackguarding about the
streets, as customary with young
gentlemen of my rank and station in
Dublin, and sitting all day long upon
O-E.
the ' quay wall, with a crab tied to a
string, bobbing for eels, I imbibed a
natural and instinctive abhorrence of
all sorts and sizes of book learning,
which has continued to this very day.
I mention this to propitiate critical
readers, who may cavil at the loose-
ness of my style, and want of rotun-
dity of my periods. I hope for their
indulgent consideration, when I assure
them, upon my honour and conscience,
that I never learned my English
Grammar, that I am an untaught
oyster-eater, and that my whole
literary career has been the pursuit of
oysters under difficulties. — To school
I went, however, with great reluc-
tance, and had got as far, I think, as
round O in the Pictorial Spelling
Book, when one unlucky day, com-
ing home from Lady Harberton's, I
stumbled and fell, cutting my juvenile
proboscis upon the pavement. My
aunt insisted that I had been whipped,
in spite of all my asseverations to the
contrary, and straightway went off to
the police magistrates to get a war-
rant against Lady Harberton for
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By tlie Irish Oyster-Eater.
187
<f murdering " her darling sister's
son, a full cousin, thirty-three times
removed, of Sir Orson Snake, Baronet,
of Corkscrew Lodge, head and chief
of the real, ould, ancient, good-for-
drinking-and-nothing-else Snakes of
Galway. The warrant being, of course,
refused, my aunt declared she would
" skiver the heart" of Lady Harber-
ton, for allowing her darling boy to be
" thumped ; " whereupon she was
very properly bound over to keep the
peace towards his Majesty's subjects,
and to her ladyship in particular, and I
was graciously permitted to return to
my primitive education of blackguard-
ing about the streets and bobbing for
eels.
At these pursuits I might have con-
tinued long enough, had not a chari-
table neighbour of ours promised me
threepence a-week while I went regu-
larly to the Model School of the Kil-
dare Place Society. Here I actually
learned to read, and to perform a series
of eccentric evolutions with the tip of
my fore-finger, in a platter of sand,
which I was led to imagine nothing
less than signing my own name. I
also came to understand that the world
had two halves, and four quarters, and
indeed, to this very day, I cannot well
imagine how the world could, by any
possibility, have more or less.
All this, and very little more, I was
bribed to attain by the stimulus of
threepence per week ; for, although I
hated learning as a National school-
master hates the gospel, I had sense
enough to know that threepence a-
week was an income not to be sneezed
at. Of course I kept the threepence
a-week a profound secret from my aunt,
but that did not save me from the mis-
chievous exercise of the unhappy crea-
ture's folly and absurdity. Some good-
natured friend had told her that pauper
children were received at the Kildare
Place Model School, and educated in
the same classes as her sister's son, a
scion of the noble Snakes of Galway.
My aunt's blood was up in a twinkling.
She wondered who had dared to in-
duce her sister's son to " demean him-
self in a school with ragamuffins," and
informed me that if I put my foot over
the threshold of a school where " beg-
gars' brats" were permitted to enter
I need never darken her door. There
was nothing for it but to give up my
aunt, or give up the threepence a-week
and the Model School. The latter
I did not care so materially about,
but the loss of my little independence
was a thing not to be thought of, — so
sensibly does self-interest touch us at
the earliest age, — threepence a-week
was a halfpenny a-day, for every
working-day. My aunt, to be sure,
was — my aunt, and that was all ; so,
with small deliberation, to the devil I
pitched jny aunt, her second-rate lodg-
ings in a third-rate street, her devo-
tion, her dirt, her insufferable pride,
and the Snakes of Galway !
With tears in my eyes, I lamented
my hard fate to my benefactor — tears,
which the good easy man attributed
to the laudable emotion of a love of
learning, acting upon an ingenuous
and sensitive mind, — never dreaming
that the probable loss of the six half-
pence per week had opened the foun-
tains of mine eyes on this occasion.
Instead, however, of withdrawing
his bounty, he advised me to try some
profitable line of life, towards which
he munificently presented me with a
capital, in ready cash, of half-a-crown.
After some time spent in considera-
tion of the various avenues to fortune
which might be opened by the magic
of two and sixpence, I determined in
favour of literature ; — I had thoughts
of stay-tape, needles, pins, buttons,
and buckram ; but all gave way to
my attachment to literature, not from
any love for letters, but because letters
were associated in my mind with the
celestial music of six weekly "browns"
harmoniously chiming in the left-hand
pocket (for I am left-handed, like Col-
kitto) of my corduroy " smalls." Ac-
cordingly I embraced literature, the
trade of great men, and began profes-
sional life as a newsman. If you have
never been in Dublin you are not pro-
bably aware that the regular trade of
a news- vender is there unknown,—
subscribers to the various newspapers
are furnished with their copies direct
from the newspaper office, while casual
readers depend upon peripatetic news-
mongers who go about shouting the
names of newspapers at the top of their,
lungs, from one end of the city to the
other. These people are also accus-
tomed to lend the various papers to
those who require them for a short
time, at the rate of one penny or two-
pence per paper, as may be agreed
on, and in this way make a profit of
from twopence to eighteenpence per
diem. I was obliged to be up by peep
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [Feb.
188
of day to await the opening of the
newspaper offices, for our hope of sale
depended much on being early in the
market; thejmorning coaches were next
to be attended to, and canvassed for
purchasers ; then, if I had luck, I was
accustomed to indulge in a " penny
dog," a " crubeen," and a " cropper,"
which, it may be proper to apprise the
uninitiated, are terms translatable, re-
spectively, by — a penny roll, a boiled
pig's trotter with the skin on, and a
glass of raw whisky. When sales
were dull, I contented myself with
the " cropper" only, and thus you see
how it is that poverty and drunken-
ness come to be so constantly asso-
ciated.
If I had the good fortune to take
breakfast, which always depended
upon the humour of the passengers by
the early morning coaches — it was now
nine o'clock, at which hour I was ex-
pected to deliver the morning papers
with my respective customers — running
from house to house to receive and
re-deliver my papers, standing a little
while at the hall doors until the lazy
servants tumbled up, in which interval,
I improved my political information
by a cursory glance at the leading
article, occupied me until dinner time,
when a bowl of beef broth with cab-
bage in it, and another " dog," served
me for dinner, and then I was off1 like
a shot to be first for the evening
papers. When these were issued, my
rounds recommenced, broken in upon
only by attendance on the exit of the
evening mails, and occasional abberra-
tions into the punch-houses in search
of " a cropper ;" until midnight, when
I received my last Evening Post, or
Evening Mail, as the case might be,
from the hands of the sleepy footman
or worn-out waiting-maid, and slunk
home, very often wet through and
through with a long winter day rain,
to balance my account on my ten
fingers with the publishers of the
Dublin newspapers, and strike a ba-
lance in my own favour, after a hard
day's work, of — fivepence halfpenny.
I spare you a description of my
three-pair back in Golden Lane,
where I was accustomed to repose on
" half a bed" (for a bed, read straw-
matrass with a counterpane flung over
it), at ninepence sterling per week,
because there was really nothing to
describe. I have seen in print, to be
sure, very picturesque and elaborate
descriptions of the habitations of un-
shaven highwaymen and juvenile pick-
pockets, but I have lived in places of
this kind myself, and never saw any
thing describable, although I can enu-
merate very many things that are
not. The places were poor and not
very clean, to be sure, but at nine-
pence a-week I saw no opportunity
of doing better.
I hope I will not be construed into
having any intention to disparage the
Cockney school of prose by these
observations. The Newgate Calen-
dar, and the Lives of Eminent
Housebreakers and Highwaymen, I
take to be historical works of a very
high order, of an undoubted accuracy
and research in matters of fact,
great probability and truth in the
deduction of inferences, manly vigour
of sentiment, and elegant terseness
of expression. Even as to minor li-
terary graces, I think it impossible
for any refined and feeling mind to
peruse the account of " Dorothy
Hastie" in the Newgate Calendar,
who smoked three pipes of tobac-
co, and imbibed two pots of half-and-
half, sitting up in her coffin, having
been an hour before turned off at Ty-
burn, without confessing that in pa-
thetic passages, that spirit-stirring
work is no less great than in simple
narrative and unexaggerated descrip-
tion.
But I am no less bound in candour
(sitting for a moment in the critical
chair) to confess, that when I see
murdering pedagogues, who taught
Hebrew and astronomy, and cut their
neighbour's throats — hunted highway-
men, whose chief recommendation to
the public seems to be their great
capabilities for running away — senti-
mental house-breakers, talking plato-
nics, and keeping mistresses, degraded
from their natural and legitimate im-
mortality in the Newgate Calendar,
and got up, for the trade, in all the
trumpery namby-pamby ism of fashion-
able novels, -faded dialogue, stale
jokes, and melo-dramatic tricks, bor-
rowed from the penny theatres and
inserted by way of plot, I am not a
little inclined to turn to the last few
pages of the last volume in the hope
of finding the sentimental author and
his sentimental felon " turned off" in
eternal enjoyment of each other's very
delectable society. Of course, as I said
before, I would not by any means
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the IrisJi Oyster-Eater.
be understood as putting the era of
Addison, Swift, and Steele, Smollet,
Richardson, or Goldsmith, in compe-
tition with the exalted Cockney lite-
rature of our day, -which, together
•with the Cockney school of architec-
ture, inspires the awe-struck specta-
tor, or reader, as the case may be,
•with mingled sentiments of exalted
reverence and rapture —
" With my sentimentalibus pickpocket-
orum,
And pathos and bathos delightful to see —
With my stucco and paint, a-la-mode
Cockney-orum.
Sing hi-diddle, ho»diddle, pop diddle
dee."
I went on in the literary line of life
for about three years and three quar-
ters with fluctuating success. In the
Parliamentary season, when trade was
brisk, I eat always one, and occa-
sionally two meals a-day, and kept my
toes within their appropriate leathers.
About Christmas and in the long va-
cation, I assure you solemnly, I was
obliged occasionally to take to ballad-
singing, to raise a penny. I daresay
you think this cursed low — and I
agree with your worship-*— but business
was slack, and times dull, and if it
were not for the dreadful murders in
Tipperary, which averaged in my time
about five per week, and went off brisk-
ly at a halfpenny a-piece, may I never
taste a drop of any thing stronger than
my aunt's congo if I could have made
the two ends meet.
During all this period I made great
progress in the study of leading ar-
ticles and the whole mechanism of
newspaper manufacture, which it will
be my duty to detail to you at more
length in connexion with my distin-
guished career as sub-editor, foreign
correspondent, and city intelligencer
of the " Flare-up" Metropolitan Sun-
day paper, of which more in its pro-
per place.
My old patron, to whose munifi-
cence I was indebted for the half-
crown with which I established myself
as a " diffuser of useful knowledge,"
continued to be very kind to me on
all occasions, and indeed I must have
gone for a soldier many times if he
had not now and then" volunteered the
loan of a sixpence.
On Christmas day, New-year's day,
Easter Sunday, and Whit Monday,
as sure as those long-expected festi-
180
vals came round, my generous Mc-
camas gave me a dinner — not a dirty
plateful of trimmings and potato
skins, as if I had been co-equal with
the pigs in a sty (the coin in which a
great many pious alms-givers lend to
the Lord), but the joint on which his
own good-hearted family had regaled
themselves, brought to a little back
parlour by one of his rosy-cheeked
daughters — may I never prosper in
love if I have seen so fine a girl before
or since — with a black jack of sound
beer, potatoes,Jand bread — as the beg-
garly Mounseers say, "a discretion."
When I had tucked in a week's
victuals, at the very least, the rosy-
cheeked darling entered, bearing a
full, hearty, honest tumbler of punch,
with her father's compliments, hoping
I had made a good dinner ; where-
upon it was my custom to drink
healths a piece to you, miss, to your
good father and mother, and all be-
longing to them, prefaced with what
I observed the newspapers to call a
" neat and appropriate speech."
To see what honours and dignities
a man may arrive at in this free coun-
try! here you see me, the little news-
paper boy — now a big boy — record-
ing his various efforts in search of
bread in a production as widely dif-
fused as civilisation itself — admitted
to the participation of MAG A, bound
up in the same reverend wrapper (let
me speak it exulting humbly), with
the critic, the orator, philosopher, na-
turalist, statesman, philanthropist,
POET — with, in two imperishable
words, CHRISTOPHER NORTH himself!
Let us have none of your Radical
trash about aristocratic exclusion —
'the fashionable world, it is true, is ex-
clusively aristocratic, and it ought —
three thorough-bred generations, at
the least, are indispensable to the
constitution of a visitor at Almack's ;
and sooner than let "faggot peers"
or mushroom baronets quiver a meta-
tarsal bone within those crimson cords
that limit the gay confusion of the
dance — strike me hideous — or, it is all
the same — amputate my whiskers !
Political, legal, magisterial honours
— employments, civil and military —
every man that can, even an oyster-
eater, aye, or an oyster- seller, if he
chooses to try, may win. Come on,
then, my generous rivals in the pur-
suit of honourable fame — the contest
is noble, and does equal honour to the
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
190
vanquished and the victor. Forward,
charge — pick up the pieces, and the
devil take the hindmost !
You have been thinking, no douht,
of Edmund Burke, who rescued, to
his eternal glory be it trumpeted,
Barry from obscurity and Crabbe
from famine — perhaps it is your good
fortune to be able to look back, in all
the luxury of complacent reflection,
upon the success of some friendless
youth to whom you have been a friend
— at any rate, you are ready to jump
out of your skin, with a natural and
laudable curiosity to become acquaint-
ed with my Maecenas, and to join
with me in perpetuating his name.
Who could he be? Perhaps the dis-
pensary doctor, a class of men who do
mo re unostentatious good than bishops,
[Feb.
and are worse treated than hand-loom
weavers — perhaps it might be the Ho-
nourable Tom, the — devil, or Sir Booby
Buckskin ? None of these ! The rec-
tor of the parish, it may be, or the
church-warden, or some kind gentle-
man of the press ? No, indeed, he was
none of these — neither dispensary doc-
tor, Honourable Tom, nor Sir Booby
Buckskin, rector, church-warden, or
gentleman of the press, but simply and
only head billiard-maker in Cramp-
ton Court, with nine children and a
wife, on a salary of one guinea per
week — and his name — his name, gentle
reader, was not, as I stated, by mis-
take, Maecenas, but Rafferty !
" Blush, grandeur blush, ye peers with-
draw your blaze ;
Ye little nobs, hide your diminished rays.
INFLECTIONS ON PUNCH—MORALS AND MANNERS,
THE gravest man, if his gravity
arise not from villany, must yield up
the muscles of his face to the will of
merry Punch. I have been amused
for an hour with one of these street
exhibitions of vulgar humour. I
watched his regular followers and the
spectators. His regulars are boys,
and mostly those sent on errands, as
is plain to observe, by the parcels
closely pressed, a matter of prepara-
tory caution, under their arms, and a
necessary precaution too, for, when
the full influence of the show is upon
them, the hand would surely relax its
hold in wonder, and nothing would be
safe. This body-guard of boys is
every moment increased, from every
neighbouring street and lane ; for,
like soldiers off duty, they have a great
alacrity and readiness to hear and
obey the sound of punch's trumpet.
The spectators are men of all grades ;
and of women, but few. And why is
this ? Do they think it best to set their
faces against the practices of Punch,
or, have they an instinctive dislike of
this rehearsal of their domestic play ?
I could not help thinking, as I walked
away when the show was over, that if
I were a woman of the lower grade,
in which alone men are privileged to
beat their wives, I would raise a fe-
male mob, and draw the merry ruf-
fian from the streets. There must
have been many a one present, who*
when the mirth was out of him, and ill-
humour in him, would see, in the gen-
eral applause, an excuse for beating
his wife. And if they are, thought I,
brought up from boyhood to look upon
this brutality as a good joke, and all
the abominable doings of the licentious
rascal Punch as pardonable means
of exhibiting his vulgar graces, what
is to be expected of them when men ?
What vices are not covered, coun-
tenanced, and engrafted into the hearts
of the young, by this accustomed
levity ! Punch is a scoundrel, a vil-
lain, and can have no kinship to any
of human society. There is not one
of woman born to do his deeds, and
be humorous. If so, then it may be
said, what harm can the example of
the fictitious personage do? Much,
because it may possibly bring, or help
to bring men into a condition to do his
deeds, and not to laugh, like him.
Consider what he is — at best, an un-
feeling wretch ; in his extremes, a thief
— a murdeier. And yet, whether it be
to the credit of a more virtuous neigh-
bourhood, in which the exhibition may
take place, or to the proprietor of the
show, may be .doubtful, he is not al-
ways represented in his worst colours.
But, at best, he is bad enough. Now,
the question arises, does he represent
the standard of our age's vulgar mo-
1839.]
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
rals, or are they so far above his, that
they can afford to laugh and be un-
contaminated ? I really fear we can
afford to do no such thing with impu-
nity. Good-humour and joviality are
the masks the devil wears every day,
and in which he is most successful, up
to a certain point. There is a degree
of villany, where the power of assum-
ing those characters is impossible ;
and that is an awful state. But here
the resources of the devil do not fail
him — he makes in fiction what cannot
be in reality, sets up his wooden idol,
unites the incompatibilities, mirth and
utmost villany, and deteriorates hu-
man nature by an example beyond
human nature. Such had been my
reflections when I reached home ; I
threw myself into a chair, hoping that
things were not quite so bad, and was
willing to give up all my conclusion,
when, without troubling my head fur-
ther about the matter, I took up the
newspaper of the day. I was first led
to notice the Police Reports. I was
struck with the coincidence in certain
respects between them and the exhibi-
tion I had seen. The reporters had
been each severally acting the pecu-
liar parts of their proprietorship, and
dressed up and pulled the strings of
their puppets as they pleased, and put
what .words they liked into their
mouths ; or, verily, the manners of
Punch and his proprietors had infect-
ed the whole community, and set off
justices and culprits to enact buffoon-
eries, before the scarcely sober world.
I came to this case — and such are to
be seen in every day's report : After
many had been fined and punished for
drunkenness and general disorderly
conduct — some first offences, dull dogs
who had nothing to say for themselves
— a notorious offender is brought up ;
he has the gift, and in his peculiar
way uses it ; by a few quaint answers,
gets the laugh on his side, and is let
off, and with a burlesque virtuous ad-
monition, that reads as if it were
shortened to save magistracy from the
downright indecency of a horse-laugh.
We shall have HB. caricaturing
Virtue " holding both her sides," and
Justice dropping the scales, no longer
able to stand upright, from indulging
in risibility at seeing the broad farce
of Humour enacted by Vice. Quit the
reports, turn to the politics — there too
is the stage set up, the puppets work-
ed, their trickeries exhibited, and with
buffoonery for argument, sober truth
191
is hissed off the stage ; mumping
mummery and braggadocio impu-
dence are the favourite characters,
allowed to do any thing, or do nothing,
as long as they can amuse the people
by pocketing their money with a jerk
and a trick. I have been gravely told,
that a good, lying, filthy, successful
newspaper joke against the Tories, is
as good to an editor as a treasury war-
rant for a thousand pounds. " What
serious is we turn to farce." We are
become the most humorous people,
excepting in our caricatures — there
our humour is very small, indeed, and
our wit may run in a curricle with
our humour, well matched ponies.
Punch had a language of his own — it
is said to be partly obsolete, and that
some of our most ingenious and clever
writers have been employed in enrich-
ing his vocabulary. For this, they
have sought expressions suited to his
practices ; they have therefore dived
into those dens of iniquity where they
would be most likely to meet with
them, and, it must be confessed, they
have brought back an ample store :
They have entered, too, into the very
mystery and power of the jovial vil-
lain, and as they have learnt from him
the value of covering ill deeds with odd
gestures and funny names, it is very
hard to know things by what they are
called ; and slang words, and, if the
expression may be allowed, slang ap-
parel, so pass off meretricious morali-
ty, that half the world take her for real
virtue. Some, in other respects ele-
gant writers, seeing the thing become
a sort of fashion, have been bolder
still, and not only brought back the
language from those dens of iniquity,
but have actually brought the cha-
racters themselves, and made them
speak and act pretty much as they do,
perhaps, in real life, occasionally for
the purpose of making them more in-
teresting, engrafting upon them the
manners of what is called a higher so-
ciety, and, that there may be a fair re-
ciprocity, occasionally engrafting upon
more polished characters the manners,
the slang included, of scoundrels and
pickpockets. Punch himself, there-
fore, to keep pace with the fashionable
world who have taken to his walk, is
obliged to undergo changes. It is to
be hoped they will be for the better,
but, it is to be feared, the examples
set him lead to the worse. From this
adoption in our modern novels and
fashionable writings of eyery descrip-
Reflections on Punch— Morals and Manners.
192
tion of this lowest London slang, as it
may be called in their own style " the
London particular," we may be con-
sidered at present in a transition state
from one great class of ideas to an-
other, of which the bounds and limits
are yet undefined. Real morality is a
sort of neutral ground, for the present
tacitly abandoned, until the new sets
of names shall be properly located by
our new high commissioners. Until
then, there is great confusion of things
and of words. It cannot be expected,
therefore, that we should be so shocked
as we used to be at either. Our good-
nature is sadly suffering from our
good-humour. We prefer laughing
with the facetious rogue, and fall into
his view of cases that ought to excite
our better sympathies. And thus we
adopt a sort of scorn of virtue; we
excuse our lack of charities, by turn-
ing into ridicule those that should be
the objects of them. You will see one
scrutinize with his glass his father's
friend, now old and poor, and not see-
ing under the shabby coat the heart
of worth and perhaps of extreme suf-
fering, shall coldly pronounce, as he
thinks wittily, the slang, that the old
gentleman is a little " seedy." It
would be better for him if he could
construe the lines of the Roman Sa-
tirist.
" Nil habet infelix paupertas durius
in se.
Quam quod ridicules homines facit"
There is an assumption of heartless-
ness in this " humour" that, it is to be
hoped, for the honour of human na-
ture, has not a corresponding reality
within. But kind feelings grow kinder
by cultivation, and cold feelings be-
come quite benumbed, and benumb-
ing all that comes in contact with
them, by being ever kept in this bril-
liant ice. Brilliant, indeed ! — it is pay-
ing it a compliment it little deserves.
Those who, early in life, are ashamed
to show feelings, are soon ashamed to
have them, take the lesson they are
taught, and first talk themselves and
soon act themselves out of them. I
have been quite astonished at the tone
and language in which I have of late
years heard young persons speak of
their parents. Reverence is gone.
The spendthrift son, and the cheated
old father of the Roman stage, are
coming up again, emerging stronger
than ever into real life. Brothers
and sisters are " bores." A gentle-
man not long since told me that he
[Feb.
had to entertain a youth just returned
from Eton. He asked him if he had
any brothers or sisters. What wasv
his reply ? He " believed there was a
chap at home." Now, is it possible
that this affectation, even if for the
present it be affectation only, should
not engender cold-blooded selfish-
ness ? A youth, such as I have describ-
ed, has been evidently under a deteri-
orating system of artificial education—
I speak of education as not of books
only — every thing is education that is
said or done by or before the young.
He will read slang, and think himself
sufficiently learned; he will talk slang,
and think himself a wit ; he will gri-
mace it, and pronounce himself a gen-
tleman ; he will look it, and fancy
himself independent. He will put it
on him with his very clothes, will eat
it, drink and smoke it, sleep upon it,
and wake upon it, till he is little bet-
ter than an ape, with worse feelings
than an ape — and an ape will he be
to the end of his life, for even his
walking upright is artificial, and not
as nature intended he should.
I said, that were I a woman in the
lower ranks of life I would make a
mob, and drive Punch out of the
streets — were I a woman at all I would
move my whole sex against the heart-
less gay, the jovial profligate. Their
existence in society is a dishonour to
their own sex, and an insult to the
other. The age of chivalry was the
golden age of virtuous sentiment, in
comparison with the cold calculating
age that is coming, or well-nigh come
upon us. Time was when our youth
at least were generous, and by an in-
nate virtue, the remains of a better
instinct, felt respect for woman as
woman, and acknowledged without
shame the chain that bound them to
do her service. They owed allegiance
to the sex as champions of virtue ;
and the more tender were their senti-
ments, they were the more manly.
The general casts of their minds was,
as happily the poet of a romantic age
describes his own : —
" Naught is there under Heaven's wide
hollowness
That moves more dear compassion of
mind,
Than Beauty brought t'unworthy wretch-
edness
By Envy's frowns, or Fortune's freaks
unkind —
I, whether lately through her beauty
Wind,
1839.]
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
Or through allegiance, and fast fealty,
Which I do owe unto all womankind,
Feel my heart pierced with so great
agony,
When such I see, that all for pity I could
die !" c
spenser.
These are beautiful lines — but who
•will now-a-days read and ackowledge
them ? Nine young men out of every
ten one meets with would not for a
trine read them, and own their virtue
before each other. Our modern poets
of " the fashion" have not dared to
treat of love, as love should be treated
of, and felt, but have given its name,
to cover the deceit, to a silly fancy,
and have sought out beauty in an Eas-
tern harem, as if they were incapable
of conceiving the real, the noble, and
ennobling passion, that ever brings
with it into the mind it enters, ten-
derness, generosity, courage — lifting,
raising human character, and illumi-
nating it with almost angelic bright-
ness. We see little indeed of this
now. And what do we see in its
stead ? Take the following dialogue
which took place a short time since
in my presence — A and B, two youths,
ages about twenty-one. Oxford term
over.
A. " Well, B, glad to see you.
Stay long in town ?"
B. " No, I'm off to-morrow. Go-
ing to hunt in shire. Then go
for pheasant-shooting to Hall —
Sir P. P.'s — good fellow — gives capi-
tal feeds."
A. " I only stay here a week just
to see the fun, and am off for Brighton . "
B. " For Brighton are you ? why,
George Sighaway is gone there-
quiz him out of his love. The fool
of a fellow is deucedly taken with
some girl there."
A. " What — is he going to be mar-
ried first and japanned after, or japan-
ned first and married next, or take
the two black jobs at once ?"
Here both laughed heartily.
B. " No, no ! not so bad as that—
I don't think he's going to marry the
girl. He isn't quite such a fool as
that."
A. " Well, perhaps we shall see
you taken in one of these odd days."
B. " No objection, if you can but
tell me of a good spec — not less than
twenty thousand."
A. "I suppose you'll take a
' Byron Beauty' with fifteen ?"
VOL, XLV. NO. CCLXXX.
B. " I think I should go too cheap,
and one mustn't underrate one's- self'."
And so away they walked — and
away I walked ; they in their conceit,
I in disgust. Are these men ? thought
I — were they of " woman born."
Have they sisters ? Sisters, oh no —
that must be impossible. They might
have slandered their mothers — but
the words " taken in" could not have
come from one who had sisters to
love and to protect. They could not
have been quietly and uublushingly
heard by one who had a sister whose
pure character was dear to him. In-
dignation at the suspicion implied,
that a sister could " take in" any one,
would have roused in a brother the
little remnant of the dormant man
within him. And if the being blessed
with a sister only, lovely as the title
is, and as the bond is, that name
confers, shall it be asked if either
of them love even one dearer than
sister ? It is impossible ! The thought
is a profanation. If half of our mo-
dern young men were choked in some
of their " deuced good feeds," and
the world left to be peopled by the
other half, the ensuing generation
would not inherit too much goodness.
Our modern young gentlemen are
but ill plants, grow like cucumbers,
more to belly than head, and have
but little pips for hearts. It was quite
different in my younger days. Who
would believe it now? but we were
certainly in some way gifted then.
We saw angels — and now one scarcely
even hears of them. It was an angel-
seeing age ; I have myself seen many.
I first began to see them about seven-
teen years of age, and that was in the
year — but no, there is no occasion to
mention the year, the angels might
not like again to visit me, if I did —
and I still live in hope. I cannot
exactly say how many I saw before I
was twenty, but they all struck me as
having very beautiful hair — their eyes
were heavenly ; but if the first sight
was enchanting, the first touch of the
little finger of one, thrilled me all
over, and then I knew and felt it was
an angel. What is extraordinary is,
that 1 have seen them of all ages, and
up to a certain point, they seemed to
advance in age as I did, and after
that, to grow somewhat younger. I
have seen them in cities, and towns,
in villages, in the country, in theatres,
at concerts, in churches, and chapels ;
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
194
and some few, some very few at balls,
private and public ; yet at balls I
have seen many that at the first glance
had an angel look, particularly those
in cerulean blue, as they stood up in
those days in the long country-dance,
but their mothers mostly sat behind
them, and seemed to disenchant them
by resemblance, and you could then
see right through the seeming angels
to the mothers in perspective. Those
•were happy days — sorry am I to say
I have not seen one for some, years ;
sorry, and ashamed too, for were I
worthy, they would perhaps some-
times give a glimpse of their persons.
Their persons — it was then not the
least extraordinary thing that we
angel-seers could read their minds —
and it was the very first conception
we ever had of the wonderful power
of all the virtues united — united in
one angelic form — not one left out.
The sight did infinite good to the
youth of that generation ; that angels
of the very same kind still walk the
earth cannot be doubted, but the gift
of discerning them is removed.
Philosophers tell us that vision re-
mains active after the removal of the
object — that is, we fancy we see what
we do not see. It cannot be denied
that this occasionally took place in
the gifted. The last angel left a
something upon the vision which was
imparted to a new object, and the
seers even fancied those angels that
were none. I remember well an in-
cident of this kind that happened to
myself — being then under twenty-one
years of age, I had been conversant
long enough with one of those won-
derful creatures to excite the suspi-
cions of my parents, who wished for
no angels in their family, and had no
notion of their son's building castles
in the air. I was therefore consigned
to a relative at a great distance, with
whom I resided some months. I was
under a promise not to correspond
with my beloved, and they were un-
der promise that if, at the end of a
twelvemonth, I was in the same mind,
they would no longer oppose my
wishes. Away I went with a heavy
heart, and the angelic vision ever pre-
sent. After I had been with my re-
lations a few week, in a delightful
country of hills and plains, rivers and
woods, some visitors arrived at the
house, and I must confess that the
vision daily became rather faint, and
seemed to require some substance
[Feb.
upon which it might throw its air of
reality. Such substance was not long
wanting. As Adelaide was
stepping out of the carriage, the vague
image upon my mind was caught in
her person ; and ere a week had pass-
ed, she was the established idol of my
heart. All the cerulean virtues of
my former love were still there, em-
bodied anew — the charm was transfer-
red. The image that before possessed
me did not become faint, but was ab-
solutely absorbed in the other. Never
was 1 under stronger enchantment :
by degrees even the little differences
between her manners and Julia's
(which had at first occasionally
shocked me) became additional beau-
ties and merits. Julia was all softness,
the gentlest of creatures, and as she
turned her blue eyes upwards, I could
fancy that she was communing with
her native skies. Adelaide was rather
brusque ; I thought her, therefore,
more free, and of a superior order.
In all respects I took her for an angel
of the first quality. But I was de-
ceived. It was the radiance of my
first love which would no longer be
expended on the desert air, and had
illumined an earthly object. And
how did I discover this ? Was she less
beautiful ': Quite the reverse ; more
lovely features were seldom to be
seen, such brilliant eyes, such ringlets,
whose very tangles were love-nets,
and whiter or more even teeth I never
beheld ! Yet I did discover my error,
and as follows. We were much
thrown together — one day we were
to ride to view a mined castle at
some distance — Adelaide likedspirited
horses — I, therefore, put her upon my
bay mare. The creature had no vice,
and was just what she described as
most to her liking. We proceeded
leisurely at first ; Adelaide became de-
sirous to have a canter ; I did not
think her seat remarkably good ; but
had never questioned inability for any
thing in such a being. The bay mare
was hot, the canter became a gallop,
I tried to keep near, fearing an acci-
dent. This made the matter worse.
I saw her become unsteady in her
seat ; she caught hold of the mane and
leaned forward ; the mare threw up
her head, and I heard a cry for help.
I forced my horse on, and was at the
moment of seizing the mare by the
bridle when — what did I see ? What
horrible mischief, what irreparable
damage had I, as I rapidly thought,
1839.]
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
195
caused ? I was Beauty's murderer. I
saw the beautiful ringlets torn from her
head, and, oh, the horror of the sight !
Her teeth and the whole jaw hanging
out of her mouth. It was terrible. In
despair I threw myself before the
mare and stopped her, when Adelaide
slid down from the saddle. I stood
aghast, looking at her face, when sud-
denly, with a jerk and a snap, in went
jaw and teeth, and all was right again ;
and, giving me a cuff on the ear, she
exclaimed in rather a shrill voice,
" What the divil are you staring at,
you fool ? " I was suddenly disen-
chanted. The lost vision of Julia re-
turned to me. We rode home some-
what silently. I gained my Julia,
and Adelaide '\,ot me and two fine
ringlets, which she probably thought
would as soon take root in the ground
as upon her head, and did not deign
to pick up. I had seen ruin enough
without proceeding to that of the
castle.
It is said we are progressing daily
towards perfection. Our speed may
be too great to allow us to stop and
look ; or for any thing besides " deuced
good feeds," " shares," and " good
specs." The age takes that turn —
and so words change their meaning.
The " golden age" in one sense is not
the " golden age" in another. Our
most romantic writers, that would fain
follow " the course of true love," as
far as they find it navigable, would as
soon think of endeavouring to discover
the source of the Niger, as to sail their
little frail-boats a mile beyond Matri-
mony Point — as if it there terminated in
a huge swam p. Where is the true loyal
historian of the sweet passion, who shall
faithfully delineate all the home ten-
dernesses, and show the sunlit play of
the perennial fountain in the ever-
blooming garden of wedded love, whose
infants are endearing cupids, such as
Bartolozzi drew and painted in a fleshy
red, as patterns for connubial bliss?
He never told their parentage. They
were so innocent they must have been
the progeny of the angels ; or, more
probably, of some of Angelica Kauff-
man's pairs. Modern historians of the
passion stop short at the most interest-
ing point, when examples would be
really servicable ; and there we are,
obliged to embark upon a perilous sea,
without star, unless they be evil stars,
and with no compass at all. Great as
the state of wedded happiness must, in
most cases, be, whea not only hands
and arms, heraldic and otherwise, are
united, but souls too are united, we
have not a dozen pages in literature,
after Homer, that give us any notion
of it. Meagre, indeed, are the accounts
of our Portias and Arrias, with their
Paetuses and Brutuses, of whom our Sir
John Brutes are no descendants. I
say, since Homer, for he does all things
well, and tells us the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth ; and
we have lovely portraits of Andro-
mache with her Hector and Astyanax
— and of the ever-loving and chaste
Penelope, whose suitors, by the bye,
may very much resemble our modern
young men, for they did not care three
farthings about Penelope for Pene-
lope's sake, but had " deuced good
feeds," and intrigued with the maid-
servants. And Helen — there is a his-
tory beyond courtship ! It was a per-
petual courtship by her devoted good-
man Menelaus, who never ceased run-
ning after her, when Paris had run
away with her, and against her con-
sent, by the bye — all the wickedness of
the thing was Venus's doing. We do
not lose our interest for Helen, though
she had been married, and run away
with after. She is still the very ani-
mating soul and beauty of the " Tale
of Troy divine." So wonderful was
she, that ^Eschylus, who takes us into
Menelaus's palace, shows us the be-
wildered husband walking his deserted
halls, feeding his love only by a look at
her many statues. That, too, must
have been the age of angel- seeing; or
Priam and his old counsellors would
never have paid her the worship they
did. And no one speaks ill of her but
herself — xvu* »S' tlpl — which, translat-
ed, is nothing more than calling herself
afemaledog — what every body nowjcalls
everybody from unsweet lips. Still
there must be in life some evil examples
— and, accordingly, we find them in
Homer. Clytemnestra had a strong
arm — no more need be said. His very
gods had their differences of opinion,
but still Jupiter was Jupiter, and Juno,
Juno — andthey made up their miffs, and
had undoubtedly a very fine family.
The Greeks had magnificent and ten-
der women — and how they loved
them ! Yet was their love nothing to
the love the women bore them. Look
at Medea ; her history, too, is post-con-
nubial— she murdered her own chil-
dren rather than see them under a step-
mother. And dear Alccstis — and the
beautiful tale — the loveliest, the roost
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
196
perfect of her sex, dying that her hus-
band might live. Thrice happy, thrice
loved, living dead, and living again.
I know of no more delicate compli-
ment than that of our philosopher, Sir
Kenelm Dig-by, who well knew sym-
pathies. Behind a portrait of Lady
Venetia, his wife, he had written —
" Uxorem vivam amare, voluptas, de-
functam religio." I do not wonder
that men of sense have ever (and men
of sense are alone worthy of their re-
gard), almost adored the sex. Consider
for a moment what wonderful endow-
ments they must necessarily have —
what gifts of nature to conduct them-
selves as they do. They must have,
as the wise Medea says, a sort of
witchcraft about them — and yet a
strange witchcraft, for they cannot
divine, she asserts, into whose house
and home they shall walk, nor whether
they shall meet with bad or good hus-
bands— and yet they must, and they
do, adapt themselves to all the ways,
whims, and vagaries of their husbands,
and, oftentimes, of all their husbands'
relations. They are called upon to act
in a thousand capacities which they
never dreamed of ; they have too often
to unlearn courtship, and to learn hard
duties. To serve, literally, in every
grade of life, and in every situation —
the treasury, the nursery, and even
the pantry —
" The Queen of Hearts put by those tarts,"
and the kitchen, for she made them.
They are required to have at ready
command real smiles for home, and
artificial good-humour for company ;
tears are their own, and almost all they
can call their own — their power and
their privilege. In higher life they
must be content with a thousand
friends at home, instead of one hus-
band, who is at his club ; in low life,
•with a sorry cinder and lonely fire, and
a sickly infant, for the sot of a husband
is at the pot-house. All these capa-
bilities and superhuman powers are
expected of women ; and, happy as the
state of wedded life must be in gene-
ral, or must at times have been, though
now deteriorating, who can doubt that
•women have had, and have, all these
duties to perform, and that they do
perform them with patience, with every
virtue — in one name, with love ! Take
the best man the world ever saw, and,
"were it possible, convert him into a wo-
man, and let him retain his own inward
character, and he would be nothing-
worse than nothing. Then how would,
[Feb.
the feminine virtues and graces shine,
as seen by the side of this defective
creature ! The man-woman couldn't
go through a day with patience, nor
without discomfiture and disgrace.
As to nursing his sick children, he
would whip them, and forget to put
them to bed. No — the sex must bear
all our pains, and we inflict upon them
all the penalties too. They bear all
— the least we can give them is our
love. Our love, if I speak to a dege-
nerate race, let me say your love — our
love, that is the love of us who have
been angel-seers, is quite a different
thing. Women do not always know
this, but there really is no other love
worth their having. They do not
know it. Many a time have I seen
them turn away from one of us, who
would have even died for them if neces-
sary, and have bound ourselves to do
so in unalterable verse. Yes, I have
seen them turn from one of us, under
the fascinations of a pert, prating,
empty-headed coxcomb, with no more
feeling than his buttons — a grinning,
teeth -showing coxcomb, incapable,
utterly, of loving any but himself —
who could twist, and turn, and waltz,
and look impudent, which the sweet
innocents could not perceive nor
understand. And then the cox-
comb would turn away, and say to
another coxcomb, " Devilish fine girl
that ; I've been making an impression,
I conceive, but don't intend to go too
far, and be trapped — not to be trapped,
hey ! " Oh, this insufferable state of
things! When the one who would
have been the real true and good lover,
suitor, husband, and father, for lack of
grace in these minor accomplishments,
either dies a bachelor, or, in romantic
despair of any better angel, marries
late in life " Mary, the Maid of the
Inn." Let me give this one friendly
hint to the dearest sex : — Do let the
scholar, the gentleman, the man of
sense, if he be not irreconcilably ugly,
have a fair hearing. You will find
such your best and truest worshipper.
He will not saunter listlessly up to
you, nor run, nor jump, nor skip up
to you, grinning, and roaring his loud
inanities of thought ; he will not be
voluble in slang to you, for that is the
language in which he has not been
a candidate for honours ; he will not
send you presents of jewellery for
which he does not pay, because he
is a man of principle ; he will not
deceive you in any way, much less
1839.]
Reflections on PuncJi — Morals and Manners.
107
in flatteries, because Nature moulded
his lips for truth ; they are, therefore,
rather of a manly shape, which you
will quite love when you know their
character, than of that versatile and
changeable grimace, which, when you
do understand, you will no more like
than you do the unnatural evolutions
of tumblers — both alike the effects of
early distortions from the original
stamp of truth. And, when such a one
does utter sweet things to you — how
sweet— ! they will not come from a mouth
tainted with cigar. His soft and pure
breathings will need no fumigation —
they will have a natural enchantment.
You will be spared the incense of to-
bacco— the odious intense of a lying
breath — the insult of tobacco. Were
I a woman, I had rather be a widow
and wear weeds, such as might become
a widow, than admit a filthy fellow to
blow his weed into my nostrils. But
oh ! I am raving like an impatient, ill-
conditioned man, and showing how
unfit we are for con version into women.
They have patience — can endure that
and a great deal more. Do 1 forget
Griselda — patient Griselda! Every
woman is a " patient Griselda" who
has a smoking husband. It must be
the poison of that noxious weed that
has pinched in, and deteriorated to
such a degree as we see them, the
bodies of the young men of the pre-
sent day. Half of them are dwindling
fast into shadows, nipt, cast off, smok-
ing away their own epitaphs — "Fumus
et umbra sumus" — we are but smoke
and shadow.
Who shows disrespect to woman-
kind insults his own mother ; who
shows disrespect to age, offers his own
person for scorn to shoot at, at twenty
paces. For to that age is he progress-
ing, and some twenty paces will bring
him to the point. Yet, is such disre-
spect too common. It is a mark of
a selfish heart and a mean mind.
Whence comes it, and to what degra-
dation is it to lead ? We never shall
go on as we ought to do, until there
be in our manners and feelings an
infusion of the spirit of chivalric days.
Men were then brave and gentle that
could neither write nor read. And
now we read and write ourselves out
of all that is good. There never can
be a better time to commence a change.
Have we not a young Queen ? A
more " Glorious Gloriana/' So even
in our homes let the empire of woman-
kind be restored — fully restored. That
elegant and amiable dominion will
demand our delicate attentions which
will grace us like reflected beauty,
even perhaps the best beauty. The
habit of pleasing is ever rewarded by
the habit of being pleased. Where
there is a due deference to the sex,
and a romantic caution not to offend,
of how little consequence will be a few
discrepancies of taste and temper.
Things that are not quite pleasant in
themselves, will be gilded over with
agreeability. I have seen the happy
effects of pursuing the deferential
system. I knew a gentleman much
given to study and reflection — there
was a charm to him in silence. But
he was wedded to one who knew it
not. He was the most polite listener,
even when what he heard was not to
his own praise. He neither could nor
would see a fault in the wife of his
bosom, and though her incessant speech
was a sad interruption to him for
years, and perhaps deprive~d the world
of valuable inventions, so far from,
complaining of or to her, he rather
called himself to task for feeling it an
annoyance. Now, one of the brute-
school would have plainly said, " My
dear madam, your talk is a great bore,"
and perhaps used still coarser lan-
guage. Not he. He bore it smilingly
for years, rather than endure the
cruelty of making her aware of it ;
and at last, most happily invented an
instrument which secured enjoyment
to both. It was made of wire, and
passed over the head, reaching on
either side to each ear, where the
wire was ingeniously turned inwards,
and formed at the same time a coil,
which was thickly padded, and press-
ed in upon the ears ; they were,
in fact, ear-dampers. The wire was
so slight as not to be visible under
the hair, and so likewise by a little
arrangement were the dampers them-
selves concealed. He told me he had
worn them for years, that he could think
and reflect with perfect security, with-
out interruption, merely occasionally
bowing his head politely as in assent
to what in reality he did not hear;
and his dear talkative wife spoke in
raptures of his sweetness of temper,
for he never contradicted her. I have
described the instrument that it might
be useful in cases of domestic discord.
Oh! M. Gisquet! M. Gisquet ! did
you really kick and cuff your chere
amie ? Did you really propose to a
virtuous woman, with whom you could
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
198
not boast of any familiarity, to defame
her own character, in order to enable
you, with a double falsehood, to make
your mistress jealous ? And did you
do this affecting sentimentality, for
the indulgence of which you had in-
sulted, and ruined the peace and wel-
fare of your "amiable" wife and fa-
mily ? In England, if it were possible
that such a letter as M. Gisquet's to
Mad. Focaud could be written, the
writer would be in a lunatic asylum.
But in France — France, once the po-
lite, now under the new regime of
" Young France" — persons in their
sober senses enact monstrosities against
morals and mariners; and, what is
worse, their sanity is not doubted.
Brutality, that in the first French Re-
volution sent out boat-loads of accom-
plished and beautiful women, guilty
only of aristocratic manners, to be
sunk, has grown to a very refined
monster ; and has learnt to cover with
a gauzy sentimentality the innate de-
pravities of a base and cowardly heart.
Happy is the nation that cherishes
female influence ! Chivalric, heroic,
romantic, are epithets of one great
virtue arising from devotion to woman,
and faith in her purity and exceeding
loveliness. The possessor of this vir-
tue will be happy in the thoughts it
engenders — he will deeply love one
woman, and will deem all, as partak-
ing of her nature, to be endowed with
a portion of her goodness ; and for her
sake will think himself bound to pro-
tect all. It pains, it angers me, to
hear people speak as they do con-
temptuously of old maids and old
women. It surely ought to be enough
that men virtually reject all, to whom
they might make offers of themselves,
and do not, need not add unnecessary
insult. For my own part, I see in
every elderly maiden an object of ad-
miration or of sympathy — one who
has been bereaved by death or evil
circumstances of all she loved ; or one
who in saintly blessedness has devoted
her life to a gentle and extensive be-
nevolence. If there were not some
few such, richly endowed, to perform
this assigned task, how cheerless would
be many a secluded and miserable
home and corner of human life, where
man will not, perhapscannot enter;
and the married could only do so in-
effectually. As to an aged, or, as she
is in mockery called, " an old woman,"
I would view her with the eye of an
antiquary, who pays the more devoted
[Feb.
attention to the ruin, and loves it a
it is, while he feels within him the
charm of imagining its former per-
fection. Oh, if women were but more
scarce, we should fight for them as
the greatest, the best riches — but we
are thankless, and abuse the prodigal-
ity of nature. There are in England,
Wales, and Scotland, four hundred
and ninety thousand two hundred and
seventy more women than men ! So
that because every man may have at
least one, many will perversely have
none — and how many ill-use those they
have ! We shall never, as I before
said, go on well till feminine dominion
be restored. There is love and gen-
tleness even in its most severe enact-
ments. The submission it exacts en~
nobles. I will venture to offer two
examples, the one from high, the other
from low life. They will show the
tenderness and reasonableness of the
sex, how fit they are to direct, and
how much the happiness of mankind
is maintained by concessions to them.
That of low life will be given in a
dialogue which actually took place,
and, that it may not lose an iota of
truth, it shall be given in the proper
dialect, and verbatim. The scene is
in that part of Devonshire which bor-
ders on the county of Somerset. A
gentleman who had not seen his nurse
for some years, happening to be in
the village where she lived, called on
her, when this conversation ensued : —
Nurse, " Lor a massy, sir ! is it
you ? Well, sure, I be cruel glad to
zee ye! How is mistres — and the
young ladies — and maister ? "
Master. " All well, nurse, and de-
sire to be kindly remembered to you.
You are quite stout, I am glad to see
— and how is your husband ?"
Nurse. " My husband ! Ou, may-
hap, sir, you ha'nt a heared the
news ?"
Master. " The news ! No. I hope
he is not dead ?"
Nurse. " Oh no, sir, but he's dark."
Master. " Dark? what, blind! —
How did that happen ?"
Nurse. " Why, there now, sir, I'll
tell ye all about it. One morning —
'tis so long ago as last apple-picking
— I was a gitting up, and I waked
Jahn, and told un 'twas time vor he
to be upping too. But he was always
lazy of a morning : zo a muttered
some'at and snoozed round agin.
Zo, arter a bit, I spoked to un agin.
( Jahn,' says I, * what be snoozing
1839.]
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
199
there vor ? — git up.' ' Zo,' says he,
* what's the use of gitting up bevore
'tis light?' 'Oh,' zays I, < tisn't
light, is it? Thee'st know what's
behind the door. I'll zoon tell thee
whether 'tis light or no, you lazy vel-
ler.' ' Then,' zays he, turning his
head, ' why, 'tis zo dark as pitch.'
Now that did pervoke me — I'll tell
your honour the truth — and I begin-
ned to wallop un a bit. But — Lor a
massy — God forgive me ! in a minute
the blid gushed to my heart — and
gi'd me zitch a turn, that I was vit to
drap ! Vor, instead of putting up his
arms to keep off the stick, as a used
to do, there was he, drowing 'em all
all abrodd ! — and a said ' Don't ye —
don't ye — I can't zee ! If 'tis light I
be dark I ' ' Oh,' zays I, ' my dear,
you ben't, to be zure.' ' Ees,' says
he, ' I be, zure enough.' Well, I
was a-gushed — zo I put down the
stick, and looked to his eyes, but I
couldn't zee nort in 'em. ' Zo,' zays
I, ' why, there's nort in your eyes,
Jahn, you'll be better by'm bye.' Zo
I got un up, and dressed un, and tookt
un to the winder. ' There,' zaid I,
Jahn, can't ye zje now ?' But no,
a zaid, a couldn't. f Then,' zays I,
' I know what 'tis. 'Tis your zight's
a-turned inward.' Zo I took't a pair
of zizzers, not sharp-tapped ones,
your honour, and poked to his eyes
to turn the zight outward agin — but
I couldn't. Well, then I brought
un down-stairs into this here room,
your honour. ' Zo,' zays I, Jahn, 'can't
ye zee in this room, neither?' and a' zaid
no, a couldn't. Well, then I thought
of the picturs — he was always cruel
vond of picturs — thinks a, pr'aps a
may zee they ; zo I tookt 'um up to
thin. ' There,' zays I, ' Jahn, don't ye
zee the pictur ? — 'tis Taffy riding upon
his goat.' But a zaid no, a couldn't.
Zo then a' tookt un up to t'other pic-
tur. 'There' — sir, he was always very
vond of thin — and I pushed his nose
close to un ; ' there,' says I, ' to be sure
you zee this pictur, can't ye ? ' But
a zaid no. ' Why,' zaid I, ' 'tis Joseph
and his brethren ; there they be —
there be twelve of 'em — can't ye zee
ne'er a one of 'em ?' But a zaid no,
a couldn't zee none of 'em. ' Then,'
says I, ' 'tis a bad job — your zight's
a turned inward.' Zo we pomsterred
with un a bit, and then tried some
doctor's trade, but it didn't do un no
good ; and, at last, we was told there
was a vine man at Exeter vor zitch
things — zo we zent un up to he.
Well — there — the Exeter doctor zeed
un, and tookt his box of tools, and
zarched about his eyes a bit ; and then
a zent un home with this word, that
he couldn't do un no good, and no-
body else couldn't do un no good, vor
a'd got a gustavus.* Zo he's dark
ever since, your honour, but he's very
well to health."
I take the next example from the,
Bibliotheca Topographica Sritannica,
and by it will be seen how sadly the
power of women has been reduced.
Sir John Spencer was Lord Mayor
of London in 1594, commonly called,
from his great wealth, rich Spencer.
He had by his lady (Alice Brom field;
one sole daughter and heiress, Eliza-
beth, of whom there is a tradition,
that she was carried off from Canon-
bury house in a baker's basket, by the
contrivance of William, the second
Lord Compton, Lord President of
Wales, to whom, in the year 1594,
she was married. The following let-
ter from her to her lord, without date,
but written probably in or about the
year 1617, shows the extravagant ex-
pectations of women of the seventeenth
century : —
" MY SWEET LIFE, — Now I have
declared to you my mind for the set-
tling of your state, I supposed that it
were best for me to bethink or consi-
der with myself what allowance were
meetest for me. In considering what
care I have had of your estate, and
how respectfully I dealt with those,
which, both by the laws of God, of
nature, and of civil polity, wit, reli-
gion, government, and honesty, you,
my dear, are bound to, I pray and be-
seech you to grant me L.I 600 per an-
num, quarterly to be paid. Also I
would (besides that allowance for my
apparel) have L.600 added yearly
(quarterly to be paid), for the per-
formance of charitable works ; and
those things I would not, neither will
be accountable for.
" Also I will have three horses, for
my own saddle, that none shall dare
to lend or borrow ; none lend but I,
none borrow but you.
" Also I would have two gentle-
women, lest one should be sick, or
* Gutta Serena.
Reflections on Punch — Morals and Manners.
200
have some other lett ; also believe that
it is an undecent thing for a gentle-
woman to stand mumping alone, when
God hath blessed this lord and lady
with a good estate.
" Also, when I ride a-htmting or
hawking, or travel from one house to
another, I will have them attending ;
so, for either of these said women, I
must and will have a horse for either
of them.
" Also I will have six or eight gen-
tlemen ; and I will have my two
coaches — one lined with velvet for
myself, with four very fair horses, and
a coach for my women, lined with
sheet cloth — one laced with gold, the
other with scarlet, and laced with
watered lace and silver, with four
good horses.
" Also I will have two coachmen-
one for my own coach, the other for
my women.
" Also, at any time when I travel,
I will be allowed not only carroches
and spare horses for me and my wo-
men, but I will have such carriages as
shall be fitting for all, orderly; not
pestering my things with my women's
— nor theirs with chambermaids' —
nor theirs with washerwomen's.
" Also for laundresses, when J tra-
vel, I will have them sent away before
•with the carriages, to see all safe ; and
the chamber-maids, I will have go
before with the greens, that the cham-
bers may be ready, sweet and clean.
Also, for that it is indecent to crowd
up myself with my gentleman-usher
in my coach, I will have him to have
a convenient horse, to attend me either
in city or in country. And I must
have two footmen, and my desire is, that
you defray all the charges for me.
And for myself, besides my yearly
allowance, I would have twenty gowns
of apparel ; six of them excellent good
ones, eight of them for the country,
and six other of them very excellent
good ones. Also, I would have to put
in my purse L.2000 and L.200, and
so for you to pay my debts. Also, I
would have L.6000 to buy me jewels,
and L.4000 to buy me a pearl chain.
Now, seeing I am so reasonable unto
you, I pray you to find my children
apparel and their schooling ; and also
my servants (men and women) their
wages. Also, I will have my houses
[Feb.
furnished, and all my lodging cham-
bers to be suited with all such furni-
ture as is fit, as beds, stools, chairs,
suitable cushions, carpets, silverwarm-
ing-pans, cupboards of plate, fair
hangings, and such like ; so for my
drawing-chambers in all nouses, I will
have them delicately furnished, both
with hangings, couch canopy, glass,
carpet, chair cushions, and all things
thereunto belonging. Also, my de-
sire is, that you would pay all my
debts, build Ashby house, and pur-
chase lands, and lend no money (as
you love God) to the Lord Chamber-
lain, (Thomas Earl of Suffolk) who
would have all, perhaps your life from
you. Remember his son, my Lord
Walden, what entertainment he gave
me when you was at Tilt Yard — if
you were dead, he said, he would be
a husband, a father, a brother, and he
said he would marry me. I protest I
grieve to see the poor man have so
little wit and honesty, to use his friend
so vilely. Also, he fed me with un-
truths concerning the Charter-house,
but that is the least ; he wished me
much harm ; you know him. God
keep you and me from such as he is !
So now that I have declared to you
what I would have, and what that is
I would not have, I pray that, when
you be an earl, to allow me L.1000
more than I now desire, and double
attendance.
" Your loving wife,
ELIZA COMPTON."
I will not add more than to remark
with what tender delicacy she would
provoke her husband to just so much
jealousy as should make him proud
and happy in her virtues ; and that she
shows the virtue of a prudent woman,
in requiring quarterly payments, well
aware that " short accounts make
long friendships." This circumstance,
too, reminds me of the strict prudence
of an elderly maiden lady, who, with
a pride above being dependent upon
wealthier relatives, retired daily to
her chamber to pray for a " comfort-
able competency," which she always
explained in these words, and with a
more elevated voice. " And lest, O
Lord, thou shouldst not understand
what I mean, I mean Four Hundred
a-year paid quarterly."
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
201
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILOSOPHY OF CONSCIOUSNESS.
PART VI.— CHAP. I.
PHILOSOPHY has long ceased to be con-
sidered a valid and practical discipline
of life. And why ? Simply because
she commences by assuming that man,
like other natural things, is a passive
creature, ready-made to her hand ; and
thus she catches from her object the
same inertness which she attributes to
him. But why does philosophy found
on the assumption that man is a being
who comes before her ready-shaped —
hewn out of the quarries of nature; —
fashioned into form, and with all his
lineaments made distinct, by other
hands than his own ? She does so in
imitation of the physical sciences : and
thus the inert and lifeless character of
modern philosophy, is ultimately at-
tributable to her having degenerated
into the status of a physical science.
But is there no method by which
vigour may yet be propelled into the
moribund limbs of philosophy : and
by which, from being a dead system
of theory, she may be renovated into
a living discipline of practice ? There
is, — if we will but reflect and under-
stand that the course of procedure
proper to the physical sciences, name-
ly, the assumption that their objects
and the facts appertaining to these ob-
jects, lie before them ready-made — is
utterly inadmissible in true Philoso-
phy— is totally at variance with the
scope and spirit of a science which
professes to deal fairly with the phe-
nomena of Man. Let us endeavour to
point out and illustrate the deep-seated
contra- distinctiorobet ween philosophi-
cal and physical science ; for the pur-
pose, more particularly, of getting
light thrown upon the moral charac-
ter of our species.
When an enquirer is engaged in the
scientific study of any natural object,
let us say, for instance, of water and
its phenomena, his contemplation of
this object does not add any new
phenomenon to the facts and qualities
already belonging to it. These phe-
nomena remain the same, without
addition or diminution, whether he
studies them or not. Water flows
downwards, rushes into a vacuum
under the atmospheric pressure, and
evolves all its other phenomena, whe-
ther man be attending to them or not.
His looking on makes no difference as
far as the nature of the water is con-
cerned. In short, the number and
character of its facts continue alto-
gether uninfluenced by his study of
them. His science merely enables
him to classify them, and to bring
them more clearly and steadily before
him.
But when man is occupied in the
study of the phenomena of his own
natural being, or, in other words, is
philosophising, the case is very mate-
rially altered. Here his contempla-
tion of these phenomena does add a
new phenomenon to the list already
under his inspection: it adds, name-
ly, the new and anomalous phenome-
non that he is contemplating these
phenomena. To the old phenomena
presented to him in his given or
ready-made being — for instance, his
sensations, passions, rational and other
states — which he is regarding, there is
added the supervision of these states ;
and this is itself a new phenomenon
belonging to him. The very fact that
man contemplates or makes a study
of the facts of his being, is itself a fact
which must be taken into account ; for
it is one of his phenomena just as much
as any other fact connected with him
is. In carrying forth the physical
sciences, man very properly takes no
note of his contemplation of their
objects ; because this contemplation
does not add, as we have said, any
new fact to the complement of pheno-
mena connected with these objects.
Therefore, in sinking this fact, he does
not suppress any fact to which they
can lay claim. But in philosophising,
that is, in constructing a science of
himself, man cannot suppress this fact
without obliterating one of his own
phenomena ; because man's contem-
plation of his own phenomena is it-
self a new and separate phenomenon
added to the given phenomena which
he is contemplating,
Here, then, we have a most radical
distinction laid down between physics
and philosophy. In ourselves, as well
as in nature, a certain given series of
phenomena is presented to our obser-
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness. [Feb.
202
vation, but in studying the objects
of nature, we add no new phenome-
non to the phenomena already there;
whereas, on the contrary, in studying
ourselves we do add a new phenome-
non to the other phenomena of our
being, — we add, to wit, the fact that
we are thus studying ourselves. Be
this new phenomenon important or
unimportant, it is, at any rate, evident
that in it is violated the analogy be-
tween physics and philosophy — be-
tween the study of man and the study
of nature. For what can be a greater
or more vital distinction between two
sciences or disciplines than this ; that
while the one contributes nothing to
the making of its own facts, but finds
them all (to use a very familar collo-
quism) cut and dried beneath its
hand — the other creates, in part at
least, its own facts — supplies to a cer-
tain extent, and by its own free efforts,
as we shall see, the very materials out
of which it is constructed.
But the parallel between physics
and philosophy, although radically
violated by this new fact, is not to-
tally subverted ; and our popular phi-
losophy has preferred to follow out
the track where the parallel partially
holds good. It is obvious that two
courses of procedure are open to her
choice. Either following the analogy
of the natural sciences, which of them-
selves add no new fact to their ob-
jects, she may attend exclusively to
the phenomena which she finds in
man, but which she has no hand in
contributing — or else, breaking loose
from that analogy, she may direct
her attention to the novel and unparal-
leled phenomenon which she, of her-
self, has added to her object, and which
we have already described. Of these
two courses philosophy has chosen to
adopt the former : and what has been
the result ? Surely all the ready-made
phenomena of man have been, by this
time, sufficiently explored. Philoso-
phers, undisturbed, have pondered
over his passions, — unmoved they
have watched and weighed his emo-
tions. His affections, his rational
states, his sensations, and all the .
other ingredients and modifications
of his natural frame- work have been
rigidly scrutinised and classified by
them ; and, after all, what have they
made of it — what sort of a picture
have their researches presented to our
observation? Not the picture of a
man ; but the representation of an au-
tomaton, that is what it cannot help
being, — a phantom dreaming what it
cannot but dream — an engine perform-
ing what it must perform — an incar-
nate reverie — a weathercock, shifting
helplessly in the winds of sensibility
— a wretched association - machine,
through which ideas pass linked to-
gether by laws over which the ma-
chine itself has no control — any thing,
in short, except that free and self-sus-
tained centre of underived, and there-
fore responsible activity, which we call
Man.
If such, therefore, be the false re-
presentation of man which philosophy
invariably and inevitably pictures
forth, whenever she makes common
cause with the natural sciences,
we have plainly no other course left
than to turn philosophy aside from
following their analogy, and to guide
her footsteps upon a new line and dif-
ferent method of enquiry. Let us
then, turn away the attention of phi-
losophy from the facts which she does
not contribute to her object (viz. the
ready-made phenomena of man) ; and
let us direct it upon the new fact which
she does contribute thereto — and let us
see whether greater truth and a more
practical satisfaction will not now at-
tend her investigations.
The great and only fact which phi-
losophy, of herself, adds to the other
phenomena of man, and which no-
thing but philosophy can add, is, as
we have said, the fact that man does
philosophize. The fact that man phi-
losophizes, is (so often as it takes
place) as much a human phenomenon
as the phenomenon, for instance, of
passion is, and therefore cannot legi-
timately be overlooked by an impar-
tial and true philosophy. At the
same time, it is plain that philosophy
creates and brings along with her this
this fact of man ; in other words, does
not find it in him ready-made to her
hand : — because, if man did not philo-
sophize, the fact that he philosophizes
would, it is evident, have no manner
of existence whatsoever. What, then,
does this fact which philosophy her-
self contributes to philosophy and to
man, contain, embody, and set forth,
and what are the consequences result-
ing from it ?
The act of philosophising is the act
of systematically contemplating our
own natural or given phenomena.
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
203
But the act of contemplating our own
phenomena unsystematically, is no
other than our old friend, the act of
consciousness : therefore the only dis-
tinction between philosophy and con-
sciousness is, that the former is with
system, and the latter without it.
Thus, in attending to the fact which
philosophy brings along with her, we
find that consciousness and philoso-
phy become identified, — that philoso-
phy is a systematic or studied con-
sciousness, and that consciousness is
an unsystematic or unstudied philo-
sophy. But what do we here mean
by the words systematic and unsystem-
atic ? These words signify only a
greater and a less degree of clearness,
expansion, strength, and exaltation.
Philosophy possesses these in the
higher degree, our ordinary conscious-
ness in the lower degree. Thus phi-
losophy is but a clear, an expanded, a
strong, and an exalted consciousness ;
while, on the other hand, conscious-
ness is an obscurer, a narrower, a
weaker, and a less exalted philosophy.
Consciousness is philosophy nascent ;
philosophy is consciousness in full
bloom and blow. The difference be-
tween them is only one of degree, and
not one of kind ; and thus all conscious
men are to a certain extent philoso-
phers, although they may not know it.
But what comes of this ? Whither
do these observations tend? With what
purport do we point out, thus par-
ticularly, the identity in kind be-
tween philosophy and the act of con-
sciousness ? Reader ! if thou hast
eyes to see, thou canst not fail to per-
ceive (and we pray thee mark it well)
that it is precisely in this identity of
philosophy and consciousness that the
merely theoretical character of phi-
losophy disappears, while, at this very
point, her ever-living character, as a
practical disciplinarian of life, bursts
forth into the strongest light. For
consciousness is no dream — no theory ;
it is no lesson taught in the schools,
and confined within their walls ; it is
not a system remote from the practi-
cal pursuits and interests of humanity ;
but it has its proper place of abode
upon the working theatre of living
men. It is a real, and often a bitter
struggle on the part of each of us
against the fatalistic forces of our na-
ture, which are at all times seeking to
enslave us. The causality of nature,
both without us, and especially within
us, strikes deep roots, and works with
a deep intent. The whole scheme and
intention of nature, as evolved in the
causal nexus of creation, tend to pre-
vent one and all of us from becoming
conscious, or, in other words, from
realising our own personality. First
come our sensations, and these mono-
polise the infant man ; that is to say,
they so fill him that there is no room
left for his personality to stand beside
them ; and if it does attempt to rise,
they tend to overbear it, and certainly
for a time they succeed. Next come
the passions, a train of even more
overwhelming sway, and of still more
flattering aspect ; and now there is
even less chance than before of our ever
becoming personal beings. The causal,
or enslaving powers of nature, are mul-
tiplying upon us. These passions, like
our sensations, monopolise the man,
and cannot endure that any thing
should infringe their dominion. So
far from helping to realise our per-
sonality, they do every thing in their
power to keep it aloof or in abeyance,
and to lull man into oblivion — of him-
self. So far from coming into life,
our personality tends to disappear,
and, like water torn and beaten into
invisible mist by the force of a whirl-
wind, it often entirely vanishes beneath
the tread of the passions. Then comes
reason ; and perhaps you imagine that
reason elevates us to the rank of per-
sonal beings. But looking at reason
in itself, — that is, considering it as a
straight, and not as a reflex act,*
what has reason done, or what can
reason do for man (we speak of kind,
and not of degree, for man may have
a higher degree of it than animals),
which she has not also done for beavers
and for bees, creatures which, though
rational, are yet not personal beings ?
Without some other power to act as
supervisor of reason, this faculty would
have worked in man just as it works
in animals, — that is to say, it would
have operated within him merely as a
power of adapting means to ends,
without lending him any assistance
towards the realisation of his own per-
sonality. Indeed, being, like our other
natural modifications, a state of mo-
* Vol. xliii., p. 791.
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness, [Feb.
204
nopoly of the man, it would, like them,
have tended to keep down the estab-
lishment of his personal being.
Such are the chief powers that enter
into league to enslave us, and to bind
us down under the causal nexus, the
moment we are born. By imposing
their agency upon us, they prevent us
from exercising our own. By filling
us with them, they prevent us from be-
coming ourselves. They do all they
can to withhold each of us from be-
coming tf I." They throw every ob-
stacle they can in the way of our
becoming conscious beings ; they
strive, by every possible contrivance,
to keep down our personality. They
would fain have each of us to take all
our activity from them, instead of be-
coming, each man for himself, a new
centre of free and independent action.
But, strong as these powers are, and
actively as they exert themselves to
fulfil their tendencies with respect to
man, they do not succeed for ever in
rendering human personality a non-
existent thing. After a time man
proves too strong for them ; he rises
up against them, and shakes their
shackles from his hands and feet. He
puts forth (obscurely and unsytemati-
cally, no doubt), but still he puts
forth a particular kind of act, which
thwarts and sets at nought the whole
causal domination of nature. Out of
the working of this act is evolved man
in his character of a free, personal, and
moral being. This act is itself man ;
it is man acting, and man in act pre-
cedes, as we have seen, man in being, —
that is, in true and proper being. Na-
ture and her powers have now no con-
straining hold over him ; he stands
out of her jurisdiction. In this act he
has taken himself out of her hands
into his own ; he has made himself
his own master. In this act he has
displaced his sensations, and his sen-
sations no longer monopolise him ;
they have no longer the complete
mastery over him. In this act he has
thrust his passions from their place,
and his passions have lost their su-
preme ascendency. And now what
is this particular kind of act ? What
is it but the act of consciousness — the
act of becoming " I" — the act of
placing ourselves in the room which
sensation and passion have been made
to vacate ? This act may be obscure
in the extreme, but still it is an act of
the most practical kind, both in itself
and in its results ; and this is what we
are here particularly desirous of having
noted. For what act can be more
vitally practical than the act by which
we realise our existence as free per-
sonal beings ? and what act can be
attended by a more practical result
than the act by which we look our
passions in the face, and, in the very
act of looking at them, look them
down ?
Now, if consciousness be an act of
such mighty and practical efficiency
in real life, what must not the practi-
cal might and authority of philosophy
be ? Philosophy is consciousness su-
blimed. If, therefore, the lower and
obscurer form of this act can work such
real wonders and such great results,
what may we not expect from it in its
highest and clearest potence ? If our
unsystematic and undisciplined con-
sciousness be thus practical in its re-
sults (and practical to a most momen-
tous extent it is), how much more
vitally and effectively practical must
not our systematic and tutored con-
sciouness, namely philosophy, be? —
Consciousness when enlightened and
expanded is identical with philosophy.
And what is consciousness enlightened
and expanded? It is, as we have
already seen, an act of practical anta-
gonism put forth against the modifica-
tions of the whole natural man : and
what then is philosophy but an act of
practical antagonism put forth against
the modifications of the whole natural
man ? But further, what is this act of
antagonism, when it, too, is enlight-
ened and explained ? What is it but
an act of freedom — an act of resistance,
by which we free ouselves from the
causal bondage of nature — from all the
natural laws and conditions under
which we were born : and what then
is philosophy but an act of the highest,
the most essential, and the most prac-
tical freedom ? But further, what is
this act of freedom when it also is
cleared up and explained? It turns
out to be Human Will — for the refusal
to submit to the modifications of the
whole natural man must be grounded
on a law opposed to the law under
which these modifications develope
themselves — namely, the causal law —
and this opposing law is the law called
human will : and what then is philo-
sophy but pure and indomitable will ?
or, in other words, the most practical
of all conceivable acts, inasmuch as
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
will is the absolute source and foun-
tainhead of all real activity. And,
finally, let us ask again — what is this
act of antagonism against the natural
states of humanity, — what is this act
in which we sacrifice our sensations,
passions, and desires, that is our false
selves, upon the shrine of our true selves
— what is this act in which Freedom
and Will are embodied to defeat all
the enslaving powers of darkness that
are incessantly beleaguering us — what
isitbutmoralityofthehighest,noblest,
and most active kind ? and, therefore,
what is human philosophy, ultimately,
but another name for human virtue of
the most practical and exalted cha-
racter ?
Such are the steps by which we vin-
dicate the title of philosophy to the
rank of a real and practical discipline
of humanity. To sum up : — we com-
menced by noticing, what cannot fail
to present itself to the observation of
every one, the inert and unreal cha-
racter of our modern philosophy —
metaphysical philosophy as it is called
— and we suspected, indeed we felt as-
sured, that this character arose from
our adopting, in philosophy, the method
of the physical sciences. We, there-
fore, tore philosophy away from the
analogy of physics, and in direct viola-
tion of their procedure we made her
contemplate a fact which she herself
created, and contributed to her object,
a fact which she did not find there —
the fact namely, that an act of philo-
sophising was taking place. But the
consideration of this factor actbrought
us to perceive the identity between
consciousness and philosophy, and then
the perception of this identity led us at
once to note the truly practical cha-
racter of philosophy. For conscious-
ness is an act of the most vitally real
and practical character (we have yet
to see more fully how it makes us
moral beings). It is *«*•' i£e%nt the
great practical act of humanity — the
act by which man becomes man in the
first instance, and by the incessant
performance of which he preserves his
moral status, and prevents himself from
falling back into the causal bondage
of nature, which is at all times too
ready to reclaim him ; and, therefore,
philosophy, which is but a higher
phase of consciousness, is seen to be
an act of a still higher practical cha-
racter. Now, the whole of this vin-
dication of the practical character of
philosophy is evidently based upon her
abandonment of the physical method,
upon her turning away from the given
facts of man to the contemplation of a
fact which is not given in his natural
being, but which philosophy herself
contributes to her own construction
and to man, namely, the act itself of
philosophising, or, in simple language,
the act of consciousness. This fact
cannot possibly be given : for we have
seen that all the given facts of man's
being necessarily tend to suppress it ;
and therefore (as we have also seen)
it is, and must be a free and unde-
rived, and not in any conceivable
sense, a ready-made fact of humanity.
Thus, then, we see that philosophy,
when she gets her due — when she deals
fairly by man, and when man deals
fairly by her — in short, when she is
rightly represented and understood,
loses her merely theoretical complexion
and becomes identified with all the best
practical interests of our living selves.
She no longer stands aloof from hu-
manity, but, descending into this
world's arena, she takes an active part
in the ongoings of busy life. Her dead
symbols burst forth into living realities
— the dry rustling twigs of science be-
come clothed with all the verdure of
the spring. Her inert tutorage is
transformed into an actual life. Her
dead lessons grow into man's active
wisdom and practical virtue. Her
sleeping waters become the bursting
fountain-head from whence flows all
the activity which sets in motion the
currents of human practice and of
human progression. Truly, ywSi
ffiavrov was the subliraest, the most
comprehensive, and the most practical
oracle of ancient wisdom. Know thy-
self, and, in knowing thyself, thou
shall see that this self is not thy true
self; but, in the very act of knowing
this, thou shalt at once displace this
false self, and establish thy true self in
its room.
CHAPTER II.
Philosophy, then, has a practical as
well as a theoretical side ; besides being
a system of speculative truth, it is a
real and effective discipline of huma-
nity. It is the point of conciliation in
which life, knowledge, and virtue-meet,
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness, [Feb.
206
In it, fact and duty,* or, that which
is, and that which ought to be, are
blended into one identity. But the
practical character of philosophy, —
the active part which it plays through-
out human concerns has yet to be more
fully and distinctly elucidated.
The great principle which we have
all along been labouring to bring out
— namely, that human consciousness
is, in every instance, an act, of anta-
gonism against some one or other of
the given modifications of our natural
existence — finds its strongest confir-
mation when we turn to the contem-
plation of the moral character of man.
We have hitherto been considering con-
sciousness chiefly in its relation to those
modifications of our nature which are
impressed upon us from icithout. We
here found, that consciousness, when
deeply scrutinised, is an act of opposi-
tion put forth against our sensations ;
that our sensations are invaded and
impaired by an act of resistance which
breaks up their monopolising domin-
ion, and in the room of the sensation
thus partially displaced, realises man's
personality — a new centre of activity
known to each individual by the name
" I," a word which, when rightly con-
strued, stands as the exponent of our
violation of the causal nexus of nature,
and of our consequent emancipation
therefrom. The complex antithetical
phenomenon in which this opposition
manifests itself, we found to be the fact
of perception. We have now to con-
sider consciousness in its relation to
those modifications of our nature
which assail nsfrom within ; and here
it will be found, that just as all per-
ception originates in the antagonism
between consciousness and our sensa-
tions, so all morality originates in the
antagonism between consciousness,
and the passions, desires, or inclina-
tions of the natural man.
We shall see that, precisely as we
become percipient beings, in conse-
quence of the strife between consci-
ousness and sensation, so do we be-
come moral beings in consequence of
the same act of consciousness exer-
cised against our passions, and the
other imperious wishes or tendencies
of our nature. There is no difference
in the mode of antagonism, as it ope-
rates in these two cases ; only, in the
one case, it is directed against what
we may call our external, and, in the
other, against what we may call our
internal, modifications. In virtue of
the displacement or sacrifice of our
sensations by consciousness, each of
us becomes " I" — the ego is to a cer-
tain extent evolved — and even here,
something of a nascent morality is dis-
played— for every counteraction of the
causality of nature is more or less the
developement of a free and moral force.
In virtue of the sacrifice of our pas-
sions by the same act, morality is more
fully unfolded — this " I," that is, our
personality, is more clearly and power-
fully realised, is advanced to a higher
potence, — is exhibited in a brighter
phase and more expanded condition.
Thus we shall follow out a clue
which has been too often, if not
* Sir James Mackintosh, and others, have attempted to establish a distinction between
" mental" and " moral" science, founded on an alleged difference between fact and
duty. They state, that it is the office of the former science to teach us what is (quid
est), and that it is the office of the latter to teach us what ought to be (quid oportet).
But this discrimination vanishes into nought upon the slightest reflection ; it either
incessantly confounds and obliterates itself, or else it renders moral science an unreal
and nugatory pursuit. For, let us ask, does the quid oportet ever become the quid
est 9 does what ought to be ever pass into what is — or, in other words, is duty ever
realised as fact ? If it is, then the distinction is at an end. The oportet has taken
upon itself the character of the est. Duty, in becoming practical, has become a fact.
It no longer merely points out something which ought to be, it also embodies something
which is. And thus it is transformed into the very other member of the discrimina-
tion from which it was originally contradistinguished ; and thus the distinction is ren-
dered utterly void ; while "mental" and "moral" science — if we must affix these
epithets to philosophy — lapse into one. On the other hand, does the quid oportet
never, in any degree, become the quid est — does duty never pass into fact ? Then is
the science of morals a visionary, a baseless, and an aimless science — a mere queru-
lous hankering after what can never be. In this case, there is plainly no roal or sub-
stantial science, except the science of facts — the science which teaches us the quid est.
To talk now of a science of the quid oportet, would be to make use of unmeaning
worde.
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
20?
always, lost hold of in the labyrinths
of philosophy — a clue, the loss of
•which has made enquirers represent
man as if he lived in distinct* sec-
tions, and were an inorganic aggluti-
nation of several natures, — the perci-
pient, the intellectual, and the moral
— with separate principles regulating
each. This clue consists in our tra-
cing the principle of our moral agency
back into the very principle in virtue
of which we become percipient beings
— and in showing that in both cases
it is the same act which is exerted —
an act, namely, of freedom or anta-
gonism against the caused or deri-
vative modifications of our nature.
Thus, to use the language of a foreign
writer, we shall at least make the at-
tempt to cut our scientific system out
of one piece, and to marshal the frit-
tered divisions of philosophy into that
organic wholeness which belongs to
the great original of which they pro-
fess, and of which they ought to be
the faithful copy — we mean man him-
self. In particular, we trust that the
discovery (if such it may be called)
of the principle we have just mention-
ed, may lead the reflective reader to
perceive the inseparable connexion
between psychology and moral philo-
sophy (we should rather say their
essential sameness), together with the
futility of all those mistaken attempts
which have have been often made to
break down their organic unity into
the two distinct departments of " in-
tellectual" and " moral" science.
Another consideration connected
with this principle is, that, instead of
being led by it to do what many phi-
losophers, in order to preserve their
consistency, have done — instead of
being led by it to observe in morality
nothing but the features of a higher
self-love, and a more refined sensuali-
ty, together with the absence of free-
will : we are, on the contrary, led by
it to note, even in the simplest act of
perception, an incipient self-sacrifice,
the presence of a dawning will strug-
gling to break forth, and the aspect of
an infant morality beginning to de-
velope itself. This consideration we
can only indicate thus briefly ; for
we must now hurry on to our point.
We are aware of the attempts which
have been made to invest our emo-
tions with the stamp and attribute of
morality : but, in addition to the tes-
timony of our own experience, we
have the highest authority for holding
that none of the natural feelings or
modifications of the human heart par-
take in any degree of a moral charac-
ter. We are told by revelation, and
the eye of reason recognises the truth
of the averment, that love itself, that
is, natural love — a feeling which cer-
tainly must bear the impress of mo-
rality if any of our emotions do so ;— -
we are told by revelation, in emphatic
terms, that such love has no moral
value or significance whatsoever. "If
ye love them," says oar Saviour,
" which love you, what reward have
ye ? do not even the publicans the
same ?" To love those who love us,
is natural love: and can any words
quash and confound the claim of such
love to rank as a moral excellence or
as a moral developement more effec-
tually than these ?
" But," continues the same Divine
Teacher, " I say unto you, Love your
enemies ;" obviously meaning, that in
this kind of love, as contradistinguish-
ed from the other, a new and higher
element is to be found — the element of
morality — and that this kind of love
is a state worthy of approbation and
reward : which the other is not. Here
then we find a discrimination laid
down between two kinds of love :—
love of friends, and love of enemies :
and the hinge upon which this discri-
mination turns is, that the character of
morality is denied to the former of
these, while it is acceded to the latter.
But now comes the question : why is
the one of these kinds of love said to
be a moral state or act, and why is
the other not admitted to be so ? To
answer this question we must look
into the respective characters and in-
gredients of these two kinds of love.
Natural love, that is, our love of
our friends, is a mere affair of tempe-
rament, and in entertaining it, we are
just as passive as our bodies are when
exposed to the warmth of a cheerful
fire. It lies completely under the
causal law ; and precisely as any other
* " You may understand," says S. T. Coleridge, "by insect, life in sections." By
this he means that each insect has several centres of vitality, and not merely one ; or
that it has no organic unity, or at least no such decided organic unity as that which
man possesses.
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
208
natural effect is produced by its cause,
it is generated and entailed upon us
by the love which our friends bear to-
wards us. It comes upon us unsought.
It costs us nothing. No thanks to us
for entertaining it. It is, in every
sense of the word, a passion ; that is
to say, nothing of an active character
mingles with the modification into
which we have been moulded. And
hence, in harbouring such love, we
make no approach towards rising into
the dignity of free and moral beings.
But the character and groundwork
of the other species of love — of our
love, namely, of our enemies, is widely
different from this. Let us ask what
is the exact meaning of the precept :
" Love your enemies ? " Does it
mean, love them with a natural love
—love them as you love your friends ?
Does it mean, make your love spring
up towards those that hate you, just
in the same way, and by the same
natural process as it springs up to-
wards those that love you ? If it
means this, then, we are bold enough
to say, that it plainly and palpably
inculcates an impracticability ; for we
are sure that no man can love his ene-
mies with the same direct natural
love as he loves his friends withal ; if
he ever does love them, it can only be
after he has passed himself through
some intermediate act which is not to
be found in the natural emotion of
love. Besides, in. reducing this kind
of love to the level of a natural feel-
ing, it would be left as completely
stripped of its character of morality
as the other species is. But Christi-
anity does not degrade this kind of
love to the level of a passion, neither
does it in this, or in any other case,
inculcate an impracticable act or con-
dition of humanity. What, then, is the
meaning of the precept — Love your
enemies ? What sort of practice or
discipline does this text, in the first
instance, at least, enforce ? What but
this ? act against your natural hatred
of them — resist the anger you natu-
rally entertain towards them — quell
and subjugate the boiling indignation
of your heart. Whatever subsequent
progress a man may make, under the
assistance of divine grace, towards
entertaining a positive love of his ene-
mies, this negative step must unques-
tionably take the precedence : and
most assuredly such assistance will not
be vouchsafed to him, unless he first
of all take the initiative by putting
[Feb.
forth this act of resistance against
that derivative modification of his
heart, which, in the shape of hatred,
springs up within him under the breath
of injury and injustice, just as natu-
rally as noxious reptiles are generated
amid the foul air of a charnel-house.
The groundwork, then, of our love
of our enemies, the feature which
principally characterises it, and the
condition which renders it practicable,
is an act of resistance exerted against
our natural hatred of them ; and this
it is which gives to that kind of love
its moral complexion. Thus, we see
that this kind of love, so far from
arising out of the cherishing or enter-
taining of a natural passion, does, on
the contrary, owe its being to the sa-
crifice of one of the strongest passive
modifications of our nature : and we
will venture to affirm, that without
this sacrificial act, the love of our ene-
mies is neither practicable nor con-
ceivable: and if this act does not
embody the whole of such love, it at
any rate forms a very important ele-
ment in its composition. In virtue of
the tone and active character given to
it by this element, the love of our
enemies may be called moral love, in
contradistinction to the love of our
friends, which, on account of its
purely passive character, we have
called natural love.
And let it not be thought that this
act is one of inconsiderable moment.
It is, indeed, a mighty act, in the put-
ting forth of which man is in nowise
passive. In this act, he directly
thwarts, mortifies, and sacrifices, one
of the strongest susceptibilities of his
nature. He transacts it in the free-
dom of an original activity, and, most
assuredly, nature lends him no help-
ing hand towards its performance. On
the contrary, she endeavours to ob-
struct it by every means in her power.
The voice of human nature cries —
" By all means, trample your enemies
beneath your feet," " No," says the
Gospel of Christ, " rather tread down
into the dust that hatred which impels
you to crush them."
But now comes another question :
What is it that, in this instance, gives
a supreme and irreversible sanction
to the voice of the Gospel, rendering
this resistance of our natural hatred of
our enemies right, and our non-resist-
ance of that hatred wrong ?
We have but to admit that free-
dom, or, iii other words, emancipation
1839.] AH Introduction to the Philosophy of C
from the thraldom of a foreign causali-
ty—a causality which, ever since the
Fall of Man, must be admitted to un-
fold itself in each individual's case,
in a dark tissue of unqualified evil —
we have but to admit that the work-
ing out of this freedom is the great
end of man, and constitutes his true
self; and we have also but to admit,
that whatever conduces to the accom-
plishment of this end is right ; and the
question just broached easily resolves
itself. For, supposing man not to be
originally free, let us ask how is the
end of human liberty to be attained ?
Is it to be attained by passively im-
bibing the various impressions forced
upon us from without ? Is it to be at-
tained by yielding ourselves up in
pliant obedience to the manifold mo-
difications which stamp their moulds
upon us from within ? Unquestion-
ably not. All these impressions and
modifications constitute the very badges
of our slavery. They are the very
trophies of the causal conquests of
nature, planted by her on the ground
where the true man ought to have
stood, but where he fell. Now, since
human freedom, the great end of man,
is thus contravened by these passive
conditions and susceptibilities of his
nature, therefore it is that they are
wrong. And, by the same rule, an
act of resistance put forth against them
is right, inasmuch as an act of this
kind contributes, every time it is ex-
erted, to the accomplishment of that
great end.
Now, looking to our hatred of our
enemies, we see that this is a natural
passion which is most strongly forced
upon us by the tyranny of the cau-
sal law ; therefore it tends to obli-
terate and counteract our freedom.
But our freedom constitutes our true
and moral selves — it is the very essence
of our proper personality : therefore, to
entertain, to yield to this passion, is
wrong, is moral death, is the extinc-
tion of our freedom, of our moral
being, however much it may give life
to the natural man. And, by the
same consequence, to resist this pas-
sion, to act against it, to sacrifice it,
is right, is free and moral life, how-
ever much this act may give the
death-stroke to our natural feelings
and desires.
But how shall we, or how do we,
or how can we, act against our hatred
of our enemies ? We answer, simply
VOL. XT,V. NO. CCLXXX.
by becoming conscious of it. 15y
turning upon it a reflective eye (a pro-
cess by no means agreeable to our
natural heart), we force it to faint and
fade away before our glance. In this
act we turn the tables (so to speak)
upon the passion, whatever it may be,
that is possessing us. Instead of its
possessing us, we now possess it. In-
stead of our being in its hands, it is
now in our hands. Instead of its being
our master, we have now become its ;
and thus is the first step of our moral
advancement taken ; thus is enacted
the first act of that great drama in
which demons are transformed into
men. In this act of consciousness,
founded, as we have elsewhere seen,
upon will, and by which man becomes
transmuted from a natural into a moral
being, we perceive theprelude or dawn-
ing of that still higher regeneration
which Christianity imparts, and which
advances man onwards from the pre-
cincts of morality into the purer
and loftier regions of religion. We
will venture to affirm that this con-
ciousness, or act of antagonism, is the
ground or condition, in virtue of which
that still higher dispensation is enabled
to take effect upon us, and this we
shall endeavour to make out in its pro-
per place. In the mean- time to return
to our point:—
In the absence of consciousness, th'e
passion — (of hatred, for instance) —
reigns and rages unalloyed, and goes
forth to the fulfilment of its natural
issues, unbridled and supreme. But
the moment consciousness comes into
play against it, the colours of the pas-
sion become less vivid, and its sway
less despotic. It is to a certain ex-
tent dethroned and sacrificed even
upon the first appearance of conscious-
ness ; and if this antagonist act man-
fully maintain its place, the sceptre of
passion is at length completely wrested
from her hands : and thus conscious-
ness is a moral act — is the foundation-
stone of our moral character and
existence.
If the reader should be doubtful
of the truth and soundness of this
doctrine — namely, that consciousness,
(whether viewed in its own unsyste-
matic form, or in the systematic shape
which it assumes when it becomes
philosophy,) is an act which of itself
tends to put down the passions — these
great, if not sole, sources of human
wickedness; perhaps he will be willing
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
[Feb.
to embrace it when he finds it en-
forced by the powerful authority of
Dr Chalmers.
" Let there be an attempt," says he,
" on the part of the mind to study the
phenomena of anger, and its attention
is thereby transferred from the cause
of the affection to the affection itself j
and, so soon as its thoughts are with-
drawn from the cause, the affection, as
if deprived of its needful aliment, dies
away from the field of observation.
There might be heat and indignancy
enough in the spirit, so long as it
broods over the affront by which they
they have originated. But whenever
it proposes, instead of looking out-
wardly at the injustice, to look in-
wardly at the consequent irritation, it
instantly becomes cool."*
We have marked certain of these
words in italics, because in them Dr
Chalmers appears to account for the
disappearance of anger before the eye
of consciousness in a way somewhat
different from ours. He seems to say
that it dies away because " deprived of
its needful aliment," whereas we hold
that it dies away in consequence of the
antagonist act of consciousness which
comes against it, displacing and sacri-
ficing it. But, whatever our respect-
ive theories may be, and whichever of
us may be in the right, we agree in
the main point, namely, as to the fact
that anger does vanish away in the
presence of consciousness ; and, there-
fore, this act acquires (whatever
theory we may hold respecting it), a
moral character and significance, and
the exercise of it becomes an impera-
tive duty; for what passion presides
over a wider field of human evil, and
of human wickedness, than the passion
of human wrath ? and, therefore, what
act can be of greater importance than
the act which overthrows, and puts an
end to its domineering tyranny ?
The process by which man becomes
metamorphosed from a natural into a
moral being, is precisely the same
in every other case: it is invariably
founded on a sacrifice or mortification
of some one or other of his natural
desires, — a sacrifice which is involved
in his very consciousness of them
whenever that consciousness is real
and clear. We have seen that moral
love is based on the sacrifice of natu-
ral hatred. In the same way, gene-
rosity, if it would embody any mo-
rality at all, must be founded on the
mortification of avarice or some other
selfish passion. Frugality, likewise,
to deserve the name of a virtue, must
be founded on the sacrifice of our
natural passion of extravagance or
ostentatious profusion. Temperance,
too, if it would claim for itself a mo-
ral title, must found on the restraint
imposed upon our gross and glutton-
ous sensualities. In short, before any
condition of humanity can be admitted
to rank as a moral state, it must be
based on the suppression, in whole or
in part, of its opposite. And, finally,
courage, if it would come before us in-
vested with a moral grandeur, must
have its origin in the unremitting and
watchful suppression of fear. Let us
speak more particularly of Courage
and Fear.
What is natural courage ? It is a
passion or endowment possessed in
common by men and by animals. It
is a mere quality of temperament. It
urges men and animals into the teeth
of danger. But the bravest animals,
and the bravest men (we mean such
as are emboldened by mere natural
courage), are still liable to panic.
The game-cock, when he has once
turned tail, cannot be induced to renew
the fight : and the hearts of men,
inspired by mere animal courage, have
at times quailed and sunk within them,
and, in the hour of need, this kind of
courage has been found to be a trea-
cherous passion.
But what is moral courage ? What
is it but the consciousness of Fear?
Here it is that the struggle and the
triumph of humanity are to be found.
Natural courage faces danger, and
perhaps carries itself triumphantly
through it — perhaps not. But moral
courage faces fear — and in the very
act of facing it puts it down : and this
is the kind of courage in which we
would have men put their trust ; for
if fear be vanquished, what becomes
of danger? It dwindles into the very
shadow of a shade. It is a historical
fact (to mention which will not be out
of place here), that nothing but the
intense consciousness of his own na-
tural cowardice made the great Duke
of Marlborough the irresistible hero
* Moral Philosophy, pp. 62, 63.
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
that he was. This morally brave man
was always greatly agitated upon
going into action, and used to say,
" This little body trembles at what
this great soul is about to perform."
About this great soul we know no-
thing ; and, therefore, pass it over as a
mere figure of speech. But the
trembling of " this little body," that
is, the cowardice of the natural man,
or, in other words, his want of courage,
in so far as courage is a mere affair of
nerves, was a fact conspicuous to all.
Equally conspicuous and undeniable
was the antagonism put forth against
this nervous bodily trepidation. And
what was this antagonism ? What but
the struggle between consciousness and
cowardice ? — a struggle by and through
which the latter was dragged into
light and vanquished — and then the
hero went forth into the thickest
ranks of danger, strong in the con-
sciousness of his own weakness, and
as if out of very spite of the natural
coward that wished to hold him back,
and who rode shaking in his saddle as
he drove into the hottest of the fight.
Natural courage, depending upon tem-
perament, will quail at times, and prove
faithless to its trust ; the strongest
nerves will often shake, in the hour
of danger, like an aspen in the gale ;
but what conceivable terrors can daunt
that fortitude (though merely of a ne-
gative character), that indomitable dis-
cipline, wherewith a man, by a stern
and deliberate consciousness of his
own heart's frailty, meets, crushes, and
subjugates, at every turn, and in its re-
motest hold, the entire passion of fear?
211
Human strength, then, has no posi-
tive character of its own ; it is no-
thing but the clear consciousness of
human weakness. Neither has human
morality any positive character of its
own ; it is nothing but the clear con-
sciousness of human wickedness. The
whole rudiments of morality are laid
before us, if we will but admit the fact
(for which we have Scripture war-
rant), that all the given modifications
of humanity are dark and evil ; and
that consciousness (which is not a
given phenomenon but a free act) is
itself, in every instance, an acting
against these states. Out of this
strife morality is breathed up like a
rainbow between the sun and storm.
Moreover, by adopting these views,
we get rid of the necessity of postu-
lating a moral sense, and of all the
other hypothetical subsidies to which
an erroneous philosophy has recourse
in explaining the phenomena of man.
Our limits at present prevent us
from illustrating this subject more
fully ; but in our next Number we
shall show how closely our views are
connected with the approved doctrine
of man's natural depravity. In order
to penetrate still deeper into the secrets
of consciousness, we shall discuss the
history of the Fall of Man, and shall
show what mighty and essential parts
are respectively played by the ele-
ments of good and evil in the realisa-
tion of human liberty ; and we shall
conclude our whole discussion by
showing how consonant our specula-
tions are with the great scheme of
Christian Revelation.
212
Ireland wider the Triple Alliance.
[Feb.
IRELAND UNDER THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE— THE POPULAR PARTY, THE
ROMAN CATHOLIC PRIESTS, AND THE QUEEN'S MINISTERS.
HISTORY affords us no example of
rebellion conducted to a successful
issue on the principles which are now
in action in Ireland. Hence, perhaps,
it is that so many of our " practical"
politicians have been influenced to
regard the troubles and outrages, by
which that country is afflicted, as local
and accidental in their origin, and,
in their tendency and character, " de-
sultory and driftless." Hence, too,
in the prevailing indisposition to re-
ceive with favour, or even with ordi-
nary attention, speculations or state-
ments on matters connected with Irish
politics. If there were " precedents on
the file," by which the object of such
politics could be easily inferred, and
their issue historically prognosticated,
every reflecting man in the British Em-
pire would become sensible of their pa-
ramount importance ; but, seen as they
are without the aid of lights derived
from " old experience," they appear
" formless and void," having no co-
herent plan or adequate purpose — the
processes of crime, by which their
petty and seemingly conflicting ends
are wrought out, not affording indica-
tions of design and government
plainer or more certain than may be
discerned in " skirmishes of kites and
crows," and repulsing curiosity by
those spectacles of violence and bar-
barism and cruelty, which seem to as-
sign to them their most distinguishing
characteristics.
Of the aversion to Irish politics, thus
induced, we have good reason to be
aware. It creates an opposition be-
tween the duties, for which the con-
ductors of a periodical like ours have
made themselves answerable, and the
projects in which they might be tempt-
ed to engage, in order to the attain-
ment of literary or commercial success,
or the maintenance of a laboriouslyearn-
ed reputation. Many a time we have
occupied pages with statements and
strictures, which, faithful and well- de-
signed as they were, the subject had
rendered distasteful, which we knew
well might have been devoted to mat-
ter more generally acceptable, and
•which some of our readers would have
received with greater favour if we had
left them " a blank." Still we per-
severe in these unpopular labours, fully
confident that a day will come, when
the most fastidious will acknowledge
their propriety and importance ; and
encouraged in the mean-time by occa-
sional and most welcome assurances
that they are not, even now, altogether
fruitless.
It is to one of these cheering testi-
monies the reader is indebted, with
whatever feelings he may regard it,
for the article which now solicits his
attention. The truth is, we had not
designed to encumber ourselves with
(f Irish" in our present adventure.
The Canadas, we felt, would be
likely to engross the whole political
market. Principles, we have been
long aware, have far less power to ex-
cite interest than personalities. And
while Lord Brougham could, in all
probability, be seen, in the joy of-
an armed and offensive neutrality,
launching well- merited and most im-
partial sarcasms alternately at the fu-
gitive governor of the Canadas, and
at the friends who sent him to do their
business, and who, to use an idiom
which has more force than elegance,
strove to do Ins business in return ;
and, while Lord Durham could be
heard, with that stridulous voice, which,
even were it musical, would be of
"sweet and threatening harmony,"
rousing the ready though short-breath-
ed vehemence of the Premier, tortur-
ing Lord Glenelg into the moody and
mystic eloquence of a rare somnam-
bulism, we felt that the common-
place, though tragic, interest of the
affairs of Ireland must have even less
than their ordinary attraction. Ac-
cordingly, we had made up our minds
to let them rest for a more convenient
season. A communication, altogether
unexpected, and of the value of which
the reader shall be enabled to judge,
has induced us to change our purpose.
Some years since, we knew, by re-
. putation well — slightly by acquainance
— a gentleman connected with Ireland
by birth and fortune, withdrawn by
his tastes and the habits of his life
from Irish party contention ; but, so
far as fashion can tolerate political en-
thusiasm, an enthusiast in the sect of
that movement party who were then
1839.]
called Liberal, but who -were not then
known to have exemplified the term
by liberating themselves from the ob-
ligations within which, in politics as
well as in morals, honest men feel re-
stricted. Circumstances caused us to
remember the principles of this gentle-
man, and the heat with which, not-
withstanding his Sybarite refinement,
he sometimes asserted them; and, when
we were informed that he had taken
up his residence in Ireland andj ad-
dressed himself to the duties of a
landed proprietor, we felt some desire
to know whether arguments, which
we had vainly addressed to him in
gayer times, would be remembered
when he had ampler opportunities to
test them. In former years our argu-
ments were met by the vehement con-
tradictions of adversaries. Now, the
contending statements could both be
tried by the standard of actual fact.
We recently learned the result. The
fashionable Liberal of the Clubs has
matured into the rational Liberal — a
Conservative country gentleman ; and,
in testimony of the approbation with
which he regards our once unaccept-
able truths, he has forwarded to us a
collection of valuable documents (per-
mitfing us to use them freely), through
which we have no difficulty in tracing
the processes and stages by which he
was reclaimed to sane views of justice
and policy, from the delusions of over
liberal and too confiding youth.
One of these documents, that with
•which we propose to make the reader
acquainted, is a comparative view of
the activities of that terrible personi-
fication which is called the Irish peo-
ple, and of the abstraction which,
before it had become " identified with
the popular party," was visible, and
invested with something of authority,
in what is styled the Irish government.
The selections of our correspondent
are taken from the public prints, but
they are taken cautiously, and are
authenticated by convincing evidence.
They are also taken fairly, without
partiality or exaggeration. We lay,
in substance, the history of a single
year, or rather part of a year, before
the reader. It shall be that of the
year past, or of eleven months of it.
So much may serve as a specimen.
Within that space of time, or, to be
more exact, within ten months and
twenty-four days (up to November
24), our correspondent has observed
If eland under the Triple Alliance. 218
in the newspapers' reports, which he
has found to be current, and which he
has forwarded to us, of
Attempts to murder,
Acts of incendiarism,
242
17
Threatening notices, arsons, cases
of sacrilege, riots, brutal assaults, &c.
&c., almost innumerable.
Attempts to murder, ascertained
to have been successful, . .102
Attempts not known to have oc-
casioned the death of the object, 142
The Irish government appears to
have offered rewards in seventy-seven
instances.
Murder,
Attempts to murder,
Arson, .
Sacrilege,
44
26
6
I
The reader is not to suppose that
these statements contain returns- from
which the number of offences in Ire-
land can be learned- A single county
could, perhaps, present a larger and
more appalling catalogue of crime
than that which our correspondent has
furnished. He has, indeed, guarded
us effectually against the idea, that we
are to look upon his notices as con-
taining an enumeration of offences, by
accompanying them with a return
from Tipperary. In that one county,
it appears, that, at the spring and the
summer assizes for 1838,
The number of Coroner's Inquests re-
turned, (for which the county paid),
was, .... 224
The number of presentments for
malicious injuries to property,
also paid, ... 59
Such a return would, of itself, teach
us to infer, that the statements of our
correspondent, gathered from reports
of crime in every part of Ireland, con-
tain not an enumeration of capital of-
fences, but a selection from them. It
is a fearful thing to be thus reminded,
that the details of 242 attempts (of
which 102, at least, were successful)
to murder, occurring within a space of
less than eleven months, are to be re-
garded as no more than specimens of
the offences perpetrated in Ireland.
Yet so it is. Enormous as this amount
of crime ought to be considered, it is
perhaps not a tenth, we believe cer-
tainly not a fifth part of the offences
of which it is a selected specimen.
214
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
[Feb.
The principle of selection adopted
by our correspondent, appears to us,
if we have rightly divined it, eminent-
ly sound and good. It has assisted us
much in ascertaining the acts which
are held as capital offences, by what
has been termed the " de facto govern-
ment of Ireland." The details with
which we have been favoured, are of
cases in which the cause of the mur-
derous assault had been discovered, or
was surmised. They rarely have re-
ference to crimes of which private
malice or revenge was the instigating
cause. The murderous assaults of
which our correspondent has given us
the details were punishments, it would
seem, visite4 by a community for a
breach of its laws. These laws are
not plainly and authoritatively pro-
mulgated, put, although failing in this
important requisite, and, in conse-
quence, appearing often somewhat ca-
pricious in their operation, they are,
nevertheless, vigilantly administered,
and may be learned by all who take
pains to study them, as the laws of
nature herself are studied, in their
effects, in the dreadful execution of
their penal sentences. In this neces-
sary study, our valued correspondent
is evidently a proficient. His papers
establish the truth, that the following,
as well as other seemingly innocent
acts, are held to be capital offences in
Ireland, by a body powerful enough
to punish for them.
1. Enforcement, or being instru-
mental in the enforcement, of rights
of property.
2. Unpopular exercise of the elec-
tive franchise.
3. Prosecuting or giving evidence
against one accused of what is termed
an insurrectionary offence.
4. Delivering, as a juror, an ob-
noxious verdict on a capital charge.
5. Protestantism — with or without
the aggravation of having embraced
the heresy as a convert.
6. Refusal to enter into certain se-
cret societies, or even ignorance of
their signs and pass-words.
We shall, painful as the task must
be to writer and reader, select and
arrange under each of these heads,
some details illustrative of the prin-
ciple expressed in it.
1. ENFORCEMENT, &c., OF RIGHTS OF
PROPERTY.
The evidences of the existence
and authority of this law are so nu-
merous, that our difficulty would be
to select from them ; and they are so
notorious, that, were it not indispen-
sable to other parts of our subject, we
should not have thought it necessary
even to make selections. It appears
that every individual at all concerned
in the enforcement of the obnoxious
rights is a party in the crime, and
liable to the severest penalty. The
tenant who enters into possession of
the farm from which a predecessor has
been evicted — the bailiff who has served
notice of ejectment, or who has given
the intruder possession — the agent
who has superintended the processes
— the landlord who has directed or
authorised them — all have rendered
themselves liable to the penalties of
insurrectionary law ; — nay, the indi-
vidual who may be so bold as to con-
tinue a friendly intercourse with a
delinquent placed under ban, must be
upon his guard — the excommunication
is strict.
LANDLORDS.
County Waterford. — Mr Keeffe
of Mountain Castle, in the county of
Waterford, had committed a breach of
the agrarian laws, and was condemned
for the offence. His age (he was
eighty-two years old) could not move
compassion; and an attempt, which
proved abortive, was made to assas-
sinate him.
" Our informant states," we give the
report as extracted from the Waterford
Mail, " that, a short time since, Mr Keeffe
purchased a large estate in the county, and
that, on the leases falling into his hands,
the occupying tenants would not pay more
for the land than what they had previously
paid, which, we have been informed, was
only 5s. per acre. Mr Keeffe, who was a
wealthy man, and of course purchased the
property as any other man might, expected
an advanced rent. The tenants objected
to any advance, and some were ejected.
On Sunday last, on Mr Keeffe 's way to
chapel, about five miles from Dungarvan,
as he was riding, he was accosted in the
middle of the road by a person in a blue
coat, who had a blunderbuss concealed,
with, ' What do you mean to do with the
man in jail ? '• — alluding to the former
assassin — on which Mr Keeffe attempted
to dismount, saying, at the time, ' spare
my life and his shall be spared.' The
fellow instantly levelled his blunderbuss,
which he discharged, killing the horse,
and lodging part of the contents in Mr
1839.]
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
215
Keeffe's body, who, we understand, died
the same night. This occurred on the
main road, in the sight of several persons
within the distance of one hundred and
fifty yards, and the fellow was allowed
to depart, without the smallest inter-
ference to arrest him, into a neighbour-
ing wood."
County Tipperary. — The follow-
ing extracts, from a provincial paper
and the Gazette, will tell their own
story : —
" The Excellent Population again. — On
Sunday last, as Mr John Scully was riding
in from his place at Dualla, to attend mass
at the chapel, he was attacked by some
men in arms, with their faces blackened,
who handed him a written document, to
the contents of which they ordered him to
swear. Mr Scully courageously refused.
They then told him to dismount, and go
upon his knees, till they would shoot him ;
whereon he replied he would not, but
would die as he was, adding, that if they
spared him, he would acquit himself ho-
nourably with regard to the business in
question. They replied they would give
him a trial, and departed. Mr Scully is
a Roman Catholic, and one of the ma-
gistrates recently appointed by Lord Mul-
grave, notwithstanding which, he was thus
treated by the noble pisantry."
(.From the Dublin Gazette.}
" Dublin Castle, June 19, 1838 John
Scully, Esq., of Dualla, in the county of
Tipperary, was stopped within a mile and
a half of Cashel, at eleven o'clock A.M.,
on the 17th instant, by two men, having
their faces partly blackened, and one of
them armed with a pistol, which he placed
to Mr Scully's breast, and threatened him
if he would turn a Widow Cody from her
land. — One hundred pounds."
Queen's County.* — It is enough to
name the late lamented Earl of Nor-
bury, a nobleman and a landlord
whose high and benevolent qualities
even bigotry and political opposition
confess. Generosity and forbearance,
and the great benefits flowing from
the residence of a wealthy and munifi-
cent proprietor, could not avail to
protect him. Within his own de-
mesne, in open day, the generous and
unsuspecting nobleman was assassina-
ted. This, we believe, is the first in-
stance, since the butchery of Lord
Kilwarden in 1803, when rebellion
was openly avowed, in which a noble-
man has been murdered.
The agrarian system has been well
directed. Its ministers have walked
warily. Their first punishments were
visited upon the poor and helpless —
on those whom necessity forced to
break their laws — on tenants who
must perish if they gave up the re-
sidence which the " people" re-
quired them to surrender — and on
bailiffs, and those other humbler ser-
vants of a landed proprietor, whose
only means of living were derived
from employments by which they were
sometimes transgressors against the
"agrarian" law. This was a species
of tactique in which the gentry could
•not imitate them. They would not
punish tenantry, or servants, or de-
pendants who kept the secrets of the
conspiracy, or who contributed to the
funds by which agitators were hired
and insurrection was extended. They
used to say, " We cannot visit, on
these poor defenceless creatures, penal
consequences of misdeeds to which
they are comqelled." The cruelty of
the insurgents was, for its purpose,
wiser. It gradually weakened the de-
pendence of the poor upon the rich —
loosened the attachment which should
subsist between them — sowed the seeds
of mutual distrust — embarrassed the
operations of law — and, in time,
brought the whole rural population
under the authority of the system to
which it ministered.
As the power of the confederacy
increased, its victims were selected
from higher stations. Within the last
year the number of gentlemen who
have been murdered, or assaulted, or
threatened, is so considerable, as to
indicate a very alarming degree of
confidence in the directors of the move-
ment. The Dublin Evening Mail
gives publicity to a report that Lord
Carew, a well-known Liberal, received
threatening notices, in consequence of
which he left the country. The Go-
vernment offered a reward for the
writer of a threatening notice, or, as
the document might be interpreted, a
friendly warning to Lord Bloomfield.
Other noblemen and gentlemen have
been similarly admonished ; and, as a
* In this one instance we depart from the lists furnished by our correspondent,
all others we limit ourselves within the events of last year.
In
'-'Iti Ireland under the Triple Alliance. [Feb.
comment upon these dreadful mis- liberality, and every one here must feel
sives, and a notice that the power and and mourn his loss, as he would that of
purposes of the confederacy of assas- his father, benefactor, protector, and best.
sination have reached their height, friend. No one act of his life was calcu-
murder commences its operations upon lated to giv» offence, and in managing his
the most exalted class of society, by estate every act of his was necessary and
the execution of Lord Norbury, for Just5 nay> he would not say one unkind
the "crime," or, rather, false suspi- wor(3, much less do any unkind act towards
cion of the "crime" of landlordism.
We extract from the Dublin Even-
one>
We extract the
palliation—
ing Mail a representation given of indeed :t amounts to * justification— of the
this enormity by an organ of the po- '™!\der of Lord N°£ur{ from the Filot of
pular party, and will have a word of Friday evemDg- We shall not ofler-a single
comment to offer upon it. We add, ^If™ "P? th.c- l'tl?e> Jut leave "• 1°
•i , f ,•,*• f, meet that late to which the honest portion
also, a note from the correspondent of of Mic inion mugt d .
the Dublin Evening Mail :- % The ^ notice was (M our readerjj
will recollect) headed ' Lord NOKBURY
wounded,' and ended with ascribing ' jea-
" The public are yet ignorant of the
peculiar features of daring and audacity
•which characterised this dreadful murder.
lousy ' as the cause of the attack. The
The high road was within sixty yards of second notice is under the head —
the spot on which the assassin stood. It
was an open space — at least there was no
thick plantation, or a particle of under-
cover. The trees are fir — without lower
branches, and growing far apart from each
other ; so that any one passing the road,
necessarily commanded a view of the po-
sition of all the parties, before and after
the shot was fired. It should be borne in
mind that the day was a holiday, and that
therefore it was to be calculated that many
might be going to and fro on the road.
But there was a second road, at the other
side of the field in which Lord Norbury
was shot, called the Abbey Road. There
was on this road a funeral passing at the
MURDER OF LORD NORBURY Un-
fortunately, murder we must now call it-
Lord Norbury is dead. He died at twelve
o'clock yesterday, wounded by five swan
drops, one of which touched the lungs and
proved fatal. The circumstances, the mo-
tives, are still involved in considerable mys-
tery. Various reports were in circulation
on Wednesday ; we gave them as reports,
attaching to each just the proportion of weight
they received from the public, and no one
that day knew any thing else. Little more
than reports, except as to 'the manner of the
murder, is known as yet. It is known that
his Lordship was walking with his Scotch
steward through a shrubbery, when a man
very moment that the fatal deed was being just raised his head and shoulder above a
perpetrated. It appears that at this fune-
ral from forty to fifty persons were in
attendance, every one of whom must have
heard the shot, and most probably seen
the assassin escape ; for it is physically
impossible that he could have gotten up
out of the dyke and against the hedge to-
wards the other road. Indeed, the trace
proves distinctly that he went along the
field, and in view of every person attend-
ing this funeral ; and yet ignorance of the
whole transaction is affected, and an ap-
pearance of innocence as to the cause,
and regret at the event assumed, to an
extent calculated to mislead the most acute
and diligent.''
" When the body had been laid in the
vault, the Rev. Mr Rafferty, parish priest
bush, and fired the fatal shot. This fact
ascertained.
" ' The rest is rumour ; but one rumour
gradually displaces all others : it is, that the
murder arose out of the landlord crime of
extermination. It is said that Lord Nor-
bury had got infected with the horrible ex-
terminating mania, and had got 250 notices
to quit served on his tenants. We do not
vouch for the statement ; but, if true, hea-
vens ! what a scene of crime, cruelly, cala-
mity, and human suffering is presented by
the ejection — houseless, homeless, and food-
less — of 250 families to starvation and death.
We shall not dwell on it. We do not notice
it to excuse, but to account, for such a
horrid crime. It is not that we abhor the
tingle murder less, but that, if possible, we
of Tullamoore, addressed the assembled deprecate the system of wholesale murder
meeting at considerable length, and with more.' "
much propriety. I understand he delivered
a similar address at his chapel on Sunday
last. Amongst other observations, in re-
ference to Lord Norbury, he said —
" ' I have known this illustrious noble-
The allegations against Lord Nor-
j, in this execrable passage, the
correspondent of the Evening Mail
pronounces utterly false. When the
man in private and in public— his life has lamented nobleman, some years since,
been spent in acts of charity, kindness, and came into possession of his property,
1839.]
he found it absolutely necessary for
the peace of the country to disposses
some persons of notoriously bad cha-
racter. From that time, on an es-
tate of a rental of from L. 12,000 to
L. 14,000 per annum, more than one
or two removals have not taken place
in any year, and at present there is
not more than one, or at the most two,
ejectment cases pending. So much
for a negative of the expressed false-
hoods in the Pilot — now for the not
less abominable suppression of truth.
Every individual in the neighbour-
hood willing to labour had employ-
ment in the works on Lord Norbury's
house and demesne, the disbursements
to the workmen and labourers amount-
ing to the sum of two hundred pounds
per week. This expenditure, as was
naturally to be anticipated, now ceases.
A thousand human beings are proba-
bly deprived, at this inclement season,
of their ordinary means of subsistence
— means supplied to them from the
resources of the noble victim. Yet,
at such a price, the power of bringing
destitution upon so great numbers, is
the conspiracy willing to execute sen-
tence of death ; and its minister of
vengeance is free to effect his purpose
within hearing, and probably in the
sight, of many, whom his crime de-
prives of the means of life, and who
dare not, or will not, defeat his at-
tempt, or deliver him up to justice.
On the intention with which the
extract from the "popular journal"
was written we offer no remark. We
do not accuse the writer of recom-
mending the assassination of every
gentleman whom rumour accuses of
purposing to exercise the right of re-
moving a bad tenant, but we have no
hesitation in affirming that the manner
in which he speaks of Lord Norbury's
murder is calculated to have a most
injurious effect upon the minds of the
people. If the editor of the Pilot, or
Mr O'Connell, his intimate friend
and adviser, for whose offences he is
said to have vicariously suffered the
penalty of a long imprisonment, knew
any thing of the proceedings of trea-
son in 1797> it would not, perhaps,
have failed to suggest itself to them,
that the mandates to assassinate, in
the rebellion of those years, were
expressed in a form not very unlike
that which they have inadvertently
adopted for the manifestoes of modern
agrarianism. Neither the Union Star
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
217
nor the papers likely to be read by
the Precursors of the present day (we
mean, of course, the stamped news-
papers), directly affirm that assassin-
ation is in itself a good. It is described
as only the lesser of two evils. The
modern papers will not, in all proba-
bility, proscribe by name the nuisances
to be abated, at least they will not do
so in every instance ; but if they teach
the people that what they term "the
landlord's crime" is a worse evil and
a fouler sin than the retaliation which
they represent as the tenant's natural
though sinful remedy and revenge*
they offer all the encouragement to
crime which is compatible with a care
to exempt themselves from being con-
victed of conspiracy to murder, and
more mischief is done by leaving sus-
picion upon all the landlords of Ire-
land, and permitting circumstances to
mark out, from time to time, the re-
quisite victims — than if, by naming
certain individuals who were to be
taken off, they were to abridge their
own occupation, and cause a per-
suasion to spread abroad that the land-
lords, not named in the lists of Pre-
cursionary proscription, were to be
regarded popular and unattainted.
In the old time matters were ma-
naged thus —
Appendix (2V0. 27), Secret Committee
of Ireland, — Union Star.
The Union Star appeared at irre-
gular periods, was printed on one side
of the paper, to fit it for being pasted
on walls, and frequently second edi-
tions were published of the same num-
bers. It chiefly consisted of names
and abusive characters of persons sup-
posed to have been informers against
united Irishman, or active opposers
of their designs : and to such lists
were generally added the most furious
exhortations to the populace to rise
and take vengeance on their oppres-
sors. Each number commences with
the following words : — " As the Union
Star is an official paper, the managers
promise the public that no characters
shall be hazarded but such as are de-
nounced by authority, as being the
partners and creatures of Pitt, and his
sanguinaryjourneyman, Luttrel. The
Star offers to public justice the follow-
ing detestable traitors, as spies and
perjured informers. Perhaps some
arm more lucky than the rest may
reach his heart and free the world
218
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
[Feb.
from bondage." Then followed the
lists of proscription, of which, from
the wanton cruelty with which indivi-
duals are brought forward, as objects
of popular odium, it is impossible to
give an example. The exhortations
with which each number concluded,
may be judged of from the following
extracts. From these extracts, which
are numerous and pertinent, we can
find space but for one. " We certain'
ly do not advise, though we do not
decry assassination, as we conceive
it is the only mode at present, within
the reach of Irishmen to bring to jus-
tice the royal agents, who are con-
stantly exercising rapes, murders, and
burnings, through our devoted coun-
try. We appeal to thy noble and
venerated name, O Brutus!"
We, without offering any comment
on this document, return to our sub-
ject. Indeed it was not a departure
from it to cast a passing glance upon
an Irish newspaper.
From a mass of instances in which
landlords, for enforcing or for being
suspected of a design to enforce their
rights, have suffered in person, pro-
perty, or peace of mind, we have
chosen three. These cases we have
selected, not merely because of the
station and respectability of the seve-
ral actual or meditated victims, but
because there was, with some diver-
sities, one principle of agreement in
all, which tends to exhibit, in a very
striking point of view, the inflexible
determination and impartiality of
Irish agrarian justice. MrKeeffeand
Mr Scully were Roman Catholics
actually on their way to their places
of worship when the one was mur-
dered and the other threatened. Lord
Norbury was not a Roman Catholic,
but at his own expense (if we are to
credit a statement in the Dublin Even-
ing Mail), " he had built a Roman
Catholic chapel. To " love their na-
tion," however, and to " have builded
them a synagogue," was not to win
favour or mercy from them. This is
not the time nor the place in which
we could feel at ease in commenting
on the indulgence of the lamented
nobleman towards an unscriptural and
demoralising religion. Whatever the
act may have been in itself, it should
have been in the sight of Roman Ca-
tholics meritorious. They did not
regard it. They did not regard the
religion of Mr Keeffe. In granting
Mr Scully a reprieve, they gave him
the benefit, most probably, of his po-
litical services rather than of his
religious belief. This is a peculiarity
which should not be overlooked or
forgotten ; the agrarian confederacy
in Ireland, which has not admitted,
since perhaps 1803, a single Protes-
tant into its ranks, consisting exclu-
sively of Roman Catholics, is not to
be propitiated by the building of a
chapel to spare a Protestant landlord,
and will not have mercy on a con-
demned Roman Catholic, although he
is upon his way " to mass."
AGENTS.
County Tipperary. — Austin Cooper
and O'Keefe, Esqrs. — Mr
Cooper, the victim of this foul murder,
indeed one of the two, for Mr Wey-
land, a gentleman of irreproachable
character, also died, appears to have
been one of those rarely-gifted men
who win upon the affections of per-
sons of all classes and dispositions.
He was an extensive land-agent, and
sustained with unblemished reputation
a high place in society ; but, although
personally of the most intrepid cha-
racter, he was so sensible of the diffi-
culties and perils he must encounter
in the discharge of his duties, that he
had resolved to give up his agencies,
with their emoluments, rather than
retain them amidst the dangers to
which they must expose him in so
perturbed and vicious a state of society.
All accounts concur in representing
him as one to whom an uncharitable,
or even a harsh action, was scarcely
possible, one in whom the poor were
ever sure to find a faithful friend and
protector. And it is said that they
most freely availed themselves of his
liberal bounties even to the very day
and hour in which it was arranged
that they should take his life.* We
* It is said that, at the moment when the lamented gentleman was about to enter
his carriage on the morning of his death, he was arrested by a female, who came with
a story of a sick person in want of nourishment and medicine. Mr Cooper, though
in haste, delayed to converse with and supply her. The woman was a stranger, and
had come as a spy to learn his intended road, and to betray him.
Ireland under tJie Triple Alliance.
1839.]
shall have occasion to refer to the
case of Mr O' Keefe elsewhere, and will
therefore spare the reader an un-
necessary repetition.
" County Tipperary. — The Barbarous
Murder of Austin Cooper, Esq., and at-
tempt to Murder two others The follow-
ing" are additional particulars of this atro-
cious transaction : — As Austin and Samuel
Cooper, Esqrs. (brothers), of Kilmore, in
the county of Tipperary, were proceeding
together in a gig from Kilmore to Tipperary,
at about seven o'clock yesterday morning,
accompanied by Francis Weyland, Esq., on
horseback, they were fired at by four fellows
whose faces were blackened, and who had
previously concealed themselves inside a
ditch on the left side of the road. Each of
those fellows levelled and discharged his
piece almost at the same instant. Three of
the shots took effect. One of them struck
Mr Weyland's horse in the eye, another
struck Mr Weyland in the small of .the
back, which tumbled him off his horse, and
the third — melancholy to relate — shot Mr
Austin Cooper dead. It appears the ball
perforated his head a little above the ear.
Oit the discharge of the shots, Mr Samuel
Cooper leaped out of the gig, and fired two
shots at the fellows from a short double-
barrelled gun he had in his possession, one
of which took effect, and wounded one of
the ruffians in the face and breast, on which
he dropped his piece and reeled to the
ground. He, however, afterwards took up
the gun and decamped. Mr Weyland, when
down, also fired a pistol he fortunately car-
ried in his coat pocket at one of the ruffians,
by which, in all probability, he saved his
own life ; for, at the time, the fellow he
fired at was taking deliberate aim at him,
but ran off with the rest the moment Mr
Weyland was in the act of firing off his pis-
tol. There were seven shots fired altoge-
ther, and there can be no doubt that had
not Mr S. Cooper and Mr Weyand fired so
promptly on the assassins, they would all
three have been murdered. So deliberately
had the fellows planned the business, that
they cut port holes in the ditch, and allowed
the gentlemen to pass a few yards beyond
the place where they were tying in ambush,
before they fired. Mr Wejland was sub-
sequently removed to Golden, but, we regret
to say, that serious apprehensions are en-
tertained for his recovery, as the ball had
not been extracted when our informant
wrote, and as it was feared, from the direc-
tion in which it lay, it had entered the spine.
—Limerick Standard.
' The Tipperary Murder. — Fifteen
hundred pounds (in addition to the three
hundred by Government) have been offered
by the magistrates and gentry of the county
219
of Tipperary, for the discovery and convic-
tion of the murderers of Mr Cooper. What
a contrast to this is presented in the conduct
of the ' excellent population ' on the same
occasion : — ' A curious circumstance (says
the Tipperary Constitution) connected
with this dreadful and long- concocted mur-
der is, that immediately after the several
shots had been fired, Mr Cooper distinctly
heard shots fired in the direction of Ballin-
temple road, also several shots ''evidently
proceeding from another party of six persons,
who had undoubtedly been placed on that
line in case Mr Cooper should have gone
that load. There were also scouts placed
in different directions, and on Mr Cupper's
return with the dead and wounded gentle-
men, he met two of those. Mr Weyland
said to them, ' Boys, this a bad business ;
won't you bring on the hats, and catch the
horse for us ?' To which they returned a
moit impertinent and brutal answer, and
said, ' Bad luck to them if they'd have
any thing to say to them 1 !' When the
police and magistrates went to search for
the ruffians they were mocked by the women,
who used to call to them, and, in a jeering
manner, say, ' Why don't you come in here,
may be you'd find them here. Some said
— ' One of the nobs was shot and there
would soon be more of them.' In fact, the
entire conduct of the farmers and peasantry,
before and subsequent to this tragical cir-
cumstance, fully demonstrates the league
which exists for the persecution of those
concerned with rents or otherwise.''
BAILIFPS.
County Dublin. — " Outrageous attack
upon Bailiffs. — On monday last, a warrant
was entrusted to a bailiff named Day, with
two assistants, to seize for rent due by
Daniel O'Connor, for lands at Ticknock,
county Dublin, the property of Mr H.
Bentley. The bailiffs made their capture
good, and were in possession : but, on
Wednesday, the tenant replevined. In the
course of that day, several persons came
to the place, and threatened to beat the
bailiffs unmercifully. In the evening, be-
tween nine and ten o'clock, the writ of
replevin was handed to the bailiffs, and
they gave up the seizure, and left for
Dublin. They had not proceeded one
hundred yards from the house, when they
were waylaid by nine or ten ruffians, armed
with bludgeons ; one of them had an iron
bar, and carried their threats into execu-
tion. Two of the unfortunate men were
left for dead on the road, the third escaped
by running away. The bailiffs were taken
into a cabin on the road side for the night,
and this morning were conveyed in a very
dangerous state to the County Dublin
Hospital."
•J-20
County Longford — " Drumlish, \1th
Oct., 1838, Newtonforbes. — On yesterday
evening, in the village of Drumlish, Wil-
liam Morrison, a bailiff to Lord Lorton,
was barbarously murdered at the hour of
seven o'clock, by a number of armed per-
sons, who entered the house in which he
had been taking some refreshment, put
out the candles, and proceeded to the
room in which he was. They actually
beat his brains out with the ends of their
muskets, one of which was broken, as
appeared by the piece of it found. And
from the fact of balls having been found
on the floor of the room, we can form
some idea of the ferocity of those savages,
who were thus doubly prepared for the
destruction of their victim.
" After the principal actors in this bar-
barous murder had satisfied themselves
that they had done their worst, they were
about to leave the house, but were ordered
back by a person at the door. They re-
entered the room, and left the fate of
their unfortunate victim beyond all man-
ner of doubt, by breaking his skull into
atoms, and scattering his brains over the
bed in which he lay."
These instances we have taken from
incidents in the province of Leinster.
We return to give one from Munster,
from Tipperarjr, which we lay before
the reader as much to exhibit the ef-
frontery with which law is defied, as
the ferocity with which it is resisted.
This is a case in which we find the
landlord acting as his own bailiff; a
case describing a state of things in
which the persons on whom he could
have previously relied, would not dare
to act without the encouragement of
his presence.
" Outrageous Assault upon a Landlord.
On Friday last, Palliser Wayland, Esq.
of Knockerville, near Cashel, accompanied
by his son and two bailiffs, proceeded to
the lands of Moyne, in the neighbourhood
of Killenaule, for the purposes of collect-
ing rents and serving a man named John
Cahill with an ejectment. Immediately
after effecting the service, they were at-
tacked by a number of men armed with
reaping-hooks, who commenced assailing
the Messrs Wayland, and made the bailiffs
eat the ejectment which had just been
served. One ruffian put his reaping hook
around the neck of the elder Mr Wayland,
and was in the act of drawing it, when Mr
Wayland, presented a pistol at him, order-
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
[Feb.
ing him to desist, or he would shoot him .
this had the effect of making the savage
forego his deadly purpose. Messrs Way-
land and their assistants were, however,
outnumbered, and their assailants grappled
them, and dragged them across the coun-
try, through hedges, and over ditches,
though their vehicle was awaiting them ou
the road side. The elder Mr Wayland,
by the time they had come near Killen-
aule, sank exhausted, from the fatigue he
had been subjected to by his heartless,
persecutors, and was unable to proceed
further. One of the fellows immediately
went to the Ballyhonty petit sessions, where
the magistrates were sitting, and was about
to lodge informations against Mr Wayland,
sen., for presenting a pistol at him, but Mr
Wayland, jun., had gained the court-house
as soon ; and, on stating the real circum-
stances of the case, his informations were
taken against the principals in the outrage,
who were committed for trial at the next
quarter sessions.''
TENANTS.
County Armagh. — A tenant was
dispossessed for non-payment of rent
from the lands of William Armstrong,
Esq., County. Armagh, refusing to
accept fair and reasonable terms of ac-
commodation, on the plea that,* " if
right were to take place, the property
ivas his, and not Mr Armstrong's."
This farm was taken by a highly re-
spectable man, who had served eleven
years as a mounted policeman, with
the best character, and who, in the
beginning of the year 1835, with his
wife, her father, George M'Farland
(an old man aged seventy- seven years),
and three children, came to reside
upon it. During a space of nearly
three years, Johnson was not molest-
ed, except that, from time to time,
some persons expressed a fear of
working for or with him, and told him
that he had done wrong in taking the
farm. On the evening of December
27, 1837, Johnson had left his home
to settle some business with a neigh-
bour, and while engaged with him,
saw a number of persons pass, who
called out to the proprietor of the
house to close his door. There was
a " month's mind" (a commemora-
tion and prayer for the dead) held in
Johnson's immediate neighbourhood,
indeed, in the next house but one to
* The idea of a right to the forfeited lands, and th» hope of recovering them, are
frequently found influencing the peasantry in Ireland.
1839.]
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
his own (distant about forty perches),
and he supposed that the party he saw
were going to join the assemblage.
After about twenty minutes they re-
turned. When they passed the door,
a shot was fired, and a shout of fero-
cious exultation was raised.
During this short interval the party
had gone to Johnson's house, and, find-
ing the door open, walked into the
kitchen, where they found his wife,
with an infant on her lap, three other
children, and her aged father. One
of the party addressed Mrs Johnson,
and said that the night was fair. She
said, " Yes — come forward and warm
yourselves." There was no answer ;
and, for a space of one or two minutes,
armed men continued to enter the
house in a strange and alarming si-
lence. When all had entered, one
rushed forward with a bludgeon, and,
uttering an execration, struck Mrs
Johnson a heavy blow; a second, while
she was crying for mercy, felled her
to the earth. While down, she saw
that her father was struck, and heard
him say, " May God have mercy on
me ! " One of the daughters, a girl
of thirteen years of age, held a spin-
ning-wheel over the feeble old man.
This drew the attack upon herself, and
the poor child was knocked down,
dreadfully mangled, and beaten almost
to death. M'Farland, however, was
the only actual victim of the night.
The first blow he received was from a
hatchet. After receiving it, he strug-
gled towards his bed, where he was
pursued, the blows from the same
deadly weapon repeated ; and his skull,
as the surgeon said, cloven into a
hundred pieces. A man held a candle
for the murderer while he perpetrated
the butchery ; and he said to him,
when it was done, " Ha! ha! — he's
"over!"
In the mean-time others were not
less cruelly engaged ; some beating
Mrs Johnson — two striking at the
child who had endeavoured to defend
her grandfather, while one held her to
Erevent her from falling, calling upon
er to say where the arms were ; and,
when incommoded by the blood which
streamed from her, or alarmed by its
221
staining his clothes, crying out, " Keep
your blood from me, you ."
But we must pause. The details
are, indeed, too full of horror. Those
which we have given, we have taken,
scarcely altered, except by a slight
abridgment, from the thrilling, and,
we are assured, not more than simply
true narrative, in a highly respectable
provincial paper, the Newry Telegraph .
In the end Mrs Johnson's life was
spared, on condition of swearing that
she would leave the farm. The paper
from which we have extracted our
narrative, conducts its recital through
subsequent horrors of the night. It
mentions, also, the promptitude with
which the Irish government acted on
the occasion, and praises its offer of a
liberal reward. But what is a reward
for information, if accompanied by
contrivances like those, which enable
a culprit in Ireland to pack his jury.
No criminal has suffered for the crime
of M' Farland's murder ; and, it is said
that the wretched and broken-hearted
Johnsons are making preparations to
leave, not only their residence, but
their country, in which they feel that
they cannot hope to be protected.
The instance of punishment which
we shall next lay before the reader
we select from the proceedings of a
southern district. We give it as the
Dublin Evening Mail has extracted
the report from a provincial journal.
The locality of the incident will not
be doubted. It will be at once recog-
nised that " Tipperary loquitur."*
" Incendiarism.— An Attempt to Burn
a Man and his Family to Death. — On
the night of Tuesday, between the
hours of eleven and twelve o'clock, a
dwelling-house on the lands blood-stained
Curraghneddy was set in flames. Michael
Quintan, the occupier, and family being in
bed and asleep at the time, they would in
all probability have been burned alive,
had not a portion of the thatch fallen in a
fiery flake on Quinlan's face. On starting
up and looking about him, all around was
one red glare of light, and there was an
intense heat like that of a red-hot furnace,
which rendered breathing difficult. He
was stupified and almost suffocated. What
was he to do ? Beside him lay his wife
* And yet a doubt is possible. Similar cruelties are ascribed to other counties.
An attempt was made in Mayo to burn a loidow, and, we believe, seven children, to death ;
and, as jn the Tipperary outrage, the dopr was fastened from without.
222
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
[Feb.
and children, still in profound sleep. There
was a crackling of timber, a tumbling in
of the rafters in one corner, a dense smoke,
and a swarm of fiery and scorching par-
ticles. Quinlan leaped out of bed, and
dragged his sleeping wife and children to
the middle of the floor, all naked as they
lay. He then rushed to the door, unbar-
red it, and thought to open it ; but it was
fastened on the outside. He dragged and
tugged — but in vain. At last, with that
superhuman strength which despair alone
can give, he tore the door off its hinges,
and rushed out, almost enveloped in white
wreathing smoke and eddying sparkles.
On the outside every thing was rendered
distinct by the crimson glare of light from
the flaming roof. Three men, armed to
the throat, were opposite the door, one of
whom levelled him to the ground with the
but-end of a carabine. He was struck
senseless for some minutes by the blow,
but, when he recovered, the armed incen-
diaries were gone. He arose confused by
the red light, and half blinded by the blood
which was streaming from the wound he
got. He again rushed into the flames, and
succeeded in rescuing his wife and chil-
dren from the devouring element. One
moment later and all would be lost, for he
was scarcely outside the threshold, when
crash, crash went the roof, and a volume
of dense smoke, mingled with flame, shot
up to Heaven, and made the night luminous.
Quinlan retreated to the police barrack
which is about a quarter of a mile from
the scene of conflagration. The house was
consumed to ashes ; and a calf, twelve
geese, and a number of poultry shared the
same fate. Quinlan we have seen — he is
all over in one blister. He reminded us
of some unfortunate white man who had
fallen a victim to the cannibals of Malacca,
but who had been rescued from the fiery
stake when about half roasted. Quinlan 's
only crime was that he had assisted at the
levelling of a house by his landlord's direc-
tions, from which a fellow named Gleeson
has been ejected."
We have been somewhat diffuse in
examples of punishment for this, the
first class of offences created by the
agrarian law, because we hold it to be
that which is accounted, permanently,
of most moment, and because it serves
our purpose equally well with any
other, as an occasion of exhibiting the
manner in which the provisional, or
insurrectionary government in Ire-
land, will have its laws carried into
execution. Henceforth we shall be
more sparing in our selections.
2. UNPOPULAR EXERCISE OF ELECT-
IVE FRANCHISE.
" County &ligo. — Attrocious Murders—'
Ribbottism.— Edward Coughlin had been at
Sligo on the first instant, and returning
about ten o'clock, he was attacked by some
person or persons as yet unknown, who
struck him several blows of stones on the
head, and on the other parts of his body ;
his hat was knocked off, but being so near
Ballymote he hoped to have reached it be-
fore he should become exhausted ; he rode
furiously almost a mile and a half after being
assaulted, and then, from weakness and loss
of blood, fell off his horse dead. I attended
the inquest, and saw that the wound he re-
ceived, which caused his death, was a blow
from a weighty stone in the back of the
head, causing a large fracture of the skull.
The verdict is, ' wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown.' It is needless
to inform you that this is the respectable
Roman Catholic, who, with his brother, were
denounced by a certain priest in the follow-
ing pathetic anathema, — ' Let the Neddys
and Johnnys go to hell and damnation their
own way.' And it is the same individual
who was held up by a Popish priest to the
ridicule and contempt of his parishioners on
a Sunday, as ' the man having the hare-lip,
whom he would have painted on the chapel
walls, so that all his. flock might point the
finger of scorn at him, for voting for the
Orange Perceval." The very day poor
Coughlin was murdered, he complained to
several respectable Protestants, friends of
his, of the dread of assassination in which
he was continually kept by the denuncia-
tions of the Popish clergy. Our readers
will recollect (says the Sligo Journal), that
shortly after the election, when Government
influence was so shamefully and mischiev-
ously applied to prop up Radicalism and
Popish hopes, the peasantry were forced by
their task-masters not to work for Coughlin
during the harvest. This persecution being
hinted to Colonel Perceval, the gallant and
much honoured member promptly proceeded,
with fifty or sixty attached supporters, to
reap and save the man's grain."
EVIDENCE.
The agrarian system directs that
not only the crime of giving evidence,
but suspicion of an intention so to do,
nay, even the expression of a feeling
which, if indulged, might lead to such
a crime, shall be visited with condign
punishment.
" County of Limerick.'- — Barbaroui
Murder. — A man who had given some evi-
dence at the petty sessions of Hospital, was
1839.] Ireland under the Triple Alliance. 223
barbarously murdered on his way home little direct evidence, simply, it would
therefrom on Monday night last. Six of appear, because the authority and ter-
ror of the agrarian system is such that
the murderers were brought into this city
last evening, and lodged in the county jail,
for trial at the approaching assizes."—
Limerick Standard.
" Shocking Murder. — On the night of
Friday, the 9th inst., Patrick Feeney, of
Ballinamore, in the county of Galway, was
brutally murdered near his own door. The
unfortunate man was heard to express his
regret fur liichard Martin, his neighbour.
obnoxious verdicts are scarcely ever
returned. There are numerous com-
plaints that juries have not done their
duty that they were intimidated —
that accomplices of the prisoner in his
crime were on the jury which was sit-
ting to try him — that even intelligible
signals passed between the prisoner
and the juror ; but there is no account
who had met with most savage treatment on Qf . jf murdered for his verdict, or
the previous evening, from persons named „ • ,. . , . , _• u
Loughan. On the evening above named, the
deceased had only walked out a short distance
when he was waylaid by two men, who
sprang from behind a stone wall, and one
held him while the other fractured his skull
with a tongs. The inhuman ruffians, think-
ing they had dispatched their victim, then
made off. The poor man got on his limbs,
but fell dead before he could gain his own
of a verdict having been given such
as was likely to provoke the chastise-
ment of murder. We shall select but
one case under this department, with
a view to illustrate the state of society
in which " such things can be."
" Nothing in the history of the most
feudal states of barbarism could find a pa-
rallel to the savage scene exhibited at
door. An inquest was held on the follow- place called the Lough, two miles from the
ing day, before William Kenny, Esq., co-
roner, and a respectable jury, when the facts
above stated were fully proved, and the
tongs with which the deadly wound was in-
flicted was produced. Surgeon Heisse
having examined the body, pronounced it as
his opinion that death was caused by com-
pression of the brain. A verdict of wilful
murder was returned against John and
Patrick Loughan, who have absconded.
The coroner has issued his warrant for their
apprehension. This is the third murder
that has been perpetrated in this neighbour-
hood since Christmas- day."
" Murder again — On the 1 7th of March
last, a man, named Connors, was murdered
near Ashlypark, about half-way between
Burrisokane and Nenagh. His wife identi-
fied some of the murderers, had them appre-
hended, and they were to be tried at the last
assizes. However, a few days before the
assizes, two men came to the deceased's
wife, with a false token, and told her that
her sister wanted her on particular business ;
she, thinking their story was correct, went
with them, and has not been since heard of."
— Tipperary Constitution.
" A notice, of which the following is a
literal copy, was sent to us for publication,
by a correspondent who took it down off a
gate where it had been posted : — ' Take
notice that all persons given ividince agen
they brav fellys who went to pettygo to de-
find there religion from they bludy orange
herryticks on the twelft July will be kild
as ded as ould bill the third — their saint of
an orange king — by order of Capt. Star-
light.' " — Ballyshannon Herald,
4. JURY — OBNOXIOUS VERDICT.
town of Templemore, on Monday last. On
this spot, Mr Cormack, one of the coroners
of this county, summoned a jury to hold an
inquest on the body of a man of the name
of Ryan, who became accessary to his own
death, by intoxication, and resisting by bru-
tal force six policemen in the discharge of
their duty, conveying him as a prisoner to
the bridewell of Templemore. It is strange
that whenever the police are concerned, no
matter how forbearing, how mild and exem-
plary their conduct may heretofore have
been, the moment that the death of a civilian
(however remote the cause) is associated with
their name, the savage cry of ruffianism and
barbavianism is yelled and shouted out against
them, and they are pronounced convicted
murderers, even before trial. Such was
the feeling at this memorable place of the
Lough, where the coroner, notwithstanding
the mil'l repeated remonstrances of inagis •
trates to the contrary, insisted on holding
his court I Here it was that several respect-
able jurymen, from the town of Templemore,
were summoned, who, the moment they made
their appearance, were threatened with as-
sassination, and obliged to return home
without the appearance of a single policeman
or soldier to protect them. On the arrival
of Mr Smith, the solicitor for the police, a
general buzz spread through the whole field,
and he was met at what is called the bairn
gap, by about fifteen hundred persons, who
demanded his business there ? Having an-
swered, in the mildest manner possible, that
he came as the agent for the police, as he
might in their own cases, he was ordered to
retire immediately, or to abide the conse-
sequences. At this moment Mr Trant, a
chief of police, came to his protection, &c.
In this department, the cases sup- Mr Smith at length reached the room, or
plied by Our correspondent furnish kitchen, where the coroner held his court,
Ireland wider the Triple Alliance*
224
and which baffles the power of human de-
scription. It was crammed to suffocation.
There were a half dozen of attorneys' clerks
assisting the friends of the deceased in striking
the jury, yelling, bellowing, arguing, fight-
ing, shouting, &c. &c. Messrs Tabiteau
and Wellington, magistrates, having quitted
the room in disgust, afforded an opportunity
to Mr Smith to leave it also under their
protection. After getting out he was again
surrounded by a deuser mob than on the
former occasion, and threatened, in presence
of the magistrates, that if he dared to go
back again to assist the police murderers he
would not come off as before. Mr Tabiteau
endeavoured, by reason, to convince them
of their folly ; but the more he said, the
more their determination seemed fixed, and
Mr Smith had but the choice of alternatives
left, to abandon his clients to their fate, or
suffer a glorious martyrdom on the plains of
the Lough." — Nenagh Guardian.
PROTESTANTISM.
Our selections, although very few
in comparison with the multitude of
notices from which they are taken,
must be numerous. In return, we
shall spare the reader all comment
from ourselves.
" County Sligo.— Ribbon Outrages.—
James Reynolds and Edward Lloyd, both
Protestant farmers, residing in the neigh-
bourhood of Collooney, were returning
from the fair of Tubberscanavan, on the
night of Tuesday, the 18th instant, when
they were assailed by a mob of ' Precur-
sors,' who commenced to hoot and call
them turncoats, and every opprobrious
epithet which their attention to the ser-
mons at the different mass-houses made
familiar. The mob increasing, surround-
ed their intended victims, who were both
knocked down and dreadfully injured with
stones, when their pistols, for which they
had license, and which their forbearance
prevented them from using in self-defence,
were forcibly taken from them. These
men were guilty of being Protestants.
Lloyd is a reformed Papist, hence the cry
of ' turncoat ;' and Reynolds, who holds
a situation under Mr Cooper, came for-
ward at the late registries to oppose the
fictitious claims of the Popish party. By
the exertions of some of the Collooney
Protestants, friends to Mr Reynolds, two
of his assailants were arrested and given
in charge to the police. — On the night of
Saturday last, two men named Phillips and
Banks were returning from the market of
Sligo, and on passing through Collooney
(that ' peaceable neighbourhood') they
called in to take some refreshment at the
house of Mr Robert Anderson, a respect-
jible innkeeper. After remaining for about
[Feb.
a quarter of au hour, they proceeded
homewards, but did not go far till they
were attacked by a number of persons,
one of whom was armed with a large
tongs. After inflicting several wounds on
the heads of their victims while prostrate
on the road, the inhuman wretches went
away, one of them exclaiming — ' Take
that for going to leave your money with
Orange Anderson.' Two of the police
hearing of the- occurrence, proceeded to
the place, and succeeded in arresting one
of the party ; but they were met by a
large mob, who rescued the prisoner, and
knocked down the police with stones ; one
of them, sub-constable Vaugh, was se-
riously injured."
{From the Gazette of Friday).
" Dublin Castle, June 6th, 1838.—
"Whereas it has been represented to the
Lords Justices, that James Anderson,
parish clerk of the Rev. Joseph Wright,
of Killencoole, in the county of Louth,
was barbarously murdered between the
hours of ten and eleven o'clock on the
night of the 4th instant, outside the garden
wall of Mr Travers Wright, near to which
the body was discovered on the following
morning, about half-past five o'clock. —
Two Hundred Pounds and a Free Pardon.
— By their Excellencies' command,
" T. DKU.MMOXD."
" The Rev. Richard Wright, of Killin-
cool, county of Louth, upon the decease
of his late parish clerk, who was mur-
dered near his door, took under his care
one of deceased's sons, William, with
a view to plant him in his father's situa-
tion, and for that purpose sent him to a
Protestant school near Glyde-farm. On
Friday last, while on his way from school,
the lad, about fifteen years of age, was
followed by five men, who overtook him
near Corballis, and compelled him to
swear he would never go again to any but
the national school, and that he should
never again be seen at church. This is a
specimen of the working of the system for
the extirpation of Protestantism. The
dominion of Popery in Louth is nearly
complete." — Packet Correspondent.
" County Carlow. — Another Attack on
Carlow Church — Romish Toleration On
Wednesday evening last, while the congrega-
tion were assembled during the performance
of divine worship, some ruffians created the
greatest alarm among those assembled, by
smashing the window over the communion
table with a large stone, which fell near one
of the pews. Several persons rushed out of
the church to secure the offenders, but we
regret to say, they escaped. This is the third
time similar outrages have been committed
ou the paroebjal church, during the hours of
1839.]
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
225
divine service, within the past year, and-the
cowardly villains who have perpetrated those
outrages through a sheer spirit of wanton-
ness, if not brutal bigotry, are in the habit of
insulting respectable females approaching the
church during divine service ; and to such an
extent have they dared to carry their violent
proceedings, that several respectable females
are prevented from attending the house of
worship, apprehensive of being attacked by
these ruffians. If the Protestants of the
parish would adopt our advice, they would
meet, with as little delay as possible, and
would lead to the detection of the perpetra-
tors of this sacrilegious outrage." — Carlow
Sentinel.
" County Meath — Brutal Outrage
We have been informed that on Wednesday
last, two persons, usually denominated Scrip-
ture Readers, were, on'their way from this
town to Navan, assaulted by some ruffians,
and beaten in a shocking manner. One of
them, after sustaining a great deal of abuse,
succeeded in making his escape, and is now
lying in the Navan Infirmary. His compa-
nion has not since been heard of, and all that
is yet known of him is from the statement of
the former, who says, the last time he saw
him, be was lying on the road senseless,
whilst the savages were beating him. We
trust every exertion will be made to bring
the actors in this foul deed- to condign
punishment."— -Drogheda Journal.
" PROTESTANTISM AND POPERY IN THE
ISLAND ACHILL.
" To the Editor of the Standard.
" Missionary Settlement,
" Achill Island, Nov. 3.
" SIR — Having sent you a copy of my
letter to Lord Morpeth, complaining of a
murderous attack which was made upon
John Connor, a schoolmaster in my employ-
ment, I now forward his lordship's reply,
lest an impression should be made on the
public mind that my complaint was unheed-
ed. I also send you a second letter to Lord
Morpeth, describing another outrage which
has since been committed on one of our
people, and connecting the resident priest of
this island with the persecution to which
Connor is now subjected. It may interest
your readers to know that the Roman Ca-
tholic curate of the island was convicted the
other day at the petit sessions of Newport
of an assault upon Connor, and that this is
the same person who is noticed in Dr
M'Hale's recent letter to Lord John Russell,
as the national schoolmaster of Baffin Island,
who became a Protestant. With many
thanks for the service which you have ren-
dered to the Protestant cause in this district,
by directing public opinion to the injuries
sought to be inflicted on those who are
VOL. XLV. NO, CCLXXX.
engaged in forwarding it. — I am, Sir, your
faithful servant in Christ,
" ED\VARD NANGLE."
" Dublin Castle, Oct. 25.
" SIR — I am directed by the Lord- Lieu-
tenant to acknowledge the receipt of your
letter of the 18th instant, calling attention
to an attempt which was made to injure a
schoolmaster in your employment, on Mon-
day, the 15th of this month. And I am to
inform you that immediate inquiry will ba
made into the circumstances to which you
advert. — I am, sir, your most obedient,
humble servant,
(Signed) " MORPETH."
" The Rev. Edward Nangle, Achill,
Newport, Mayo."
" To the Right Hon. Lord Morpeth.
" Missionary Settlement,
" Achill Island, Oct. 28, 1838.
" MY LORD — I beg leave to acknowledge
the receipt of your lordship's letter of the
25th instant, in reply to a communication
from me, informing your lordship of an
attempt which was made to injure a school-
master, John Connor, employed by me in
this island. I have to regret that another
outrage has occurred, which obliges me
again to address your lordship. As the
postman of this colony, Alexander Lendrum,
was returning from Newport this day, he
was assaulted near the village of Cashel, in
this island, and so severely wounded in the
head, that our physician, Dr Adams, declares
that he could not for a few days pronounce
him out of danger. In my former letter I
alluded to a report of discourses delivered
by Dr M'Hale and the Rev. Mr Hughes of
Newport, in which the people were incited
to violence against us. I stated that I was
ready to prove that such language was used ;
and, as the islanders manifested no peculiar
hostility up to that period, I must naturally
connect the outrages and the incessant insult
to which we have since been subjected, with
the inflammatory addresses of Messrs M'Hale
and Hughes. Tangible proof of the con-
nexion of the Roman Catholic priest of this
island, with the persecution to which my
schoolmaster, Connor, is exposed, has since
come to light, as Lieutenant Nugent,
inspecting commander of coast-guard, and a
magistrate of this county, has discovered
that the country people were forbidden by
the priest, the Rev. Mr Harley, to sell any
provisions to John Thomas, chief boatman
of Bullsmouth station, because he was
reported to him (the priest) as having shared
some of the provisions which he purchased
in his own name with Connor. I beseech,
your lordship to present these matters to
bis Excellency the Lord- Lieutenant, and to
226
Ireland under t7iC
request his Excellency's interference for the
protection of an industtious, peaceable, and
most oppressed people, who are chargeable
with no offence but that of having abandoned
the communion of the Church of Rome.
Their patienee is severely tried by the inces-
sant insult and violence to which they are
subjected. So far they have manifested a
forbearance highly creditable to their Chris-
tian profession, and I can assure your lord-
ship that no exhortation shall be wanting on
niy part to persuade them to persevere in
the same course of patient endurance ; but I'
do fear that if their adversaries are permitted
to go on unchecked, they may, at last, in
self-defence, be compelled to retaliate ; if
so, the consequences must be disastrous. I
would humbly suggest to your lordship, as a
means of allaying the present ferment, that
petit sessions should be held in this island.
This might be easily accomplished, as Lieu-
tenant Nugent, who is a magistrate of this
county, is obliged tu visit Bullsmouth once
a month, in discharge of his duty as
inspecting commander of coast-guard. The
stipendiary magistrates residing at Belmullet
might accompany him in these periodical
visits, when the court might be held. At
present we are almost excluded from the
benefit of legal protection ; the nearest
sessions are held at Newport, twenty-five
miles distant ; and, besides the expense of
bringing witnesses to such a distance, we
cannot travel that lonely road without per-
sonal danger. — I have the honour to remain,
your lordship's obedient humble servant,
" EDWARD NANGLE."
" To the Right Hon. Lord Morpeth, &c."
" I hereby offer a reward of Twenty
Pounds for such information as will lead to
the conviction (within six months) of the
person or persons who, on the night of the
28th of April last, broke a window of the
Church of Ilathconraih, in the county of
Westmeath, and put therein an illegal no-
tice threatening the Bcv. 13. G. Grant
with death, andinjury to his property, if he
did not quit the parish*
*' By order of Inspector-General of Con-
stabulary,
" H. W. THOMPSON, Sub-Inspector.%
From the Cork Constitution.
" County Cork — Attempted Assassina-
tion of a Clergyman. — About half-past
seven o'clock, on Monday evening, a shot
was fired through the window of the dining
parlour of the Rev. Doctor Campion, of the
parish of Knockmourne, in the barony of
Kinnataloon. Dr Campion was, at the
moment, with his lady and family, seated
round the fire, and the shot was aimed
directly at the spot in which they were sit-
ting. They, in all probability, owe their
safety to the thickness of the window-shutter,
Triple Alliance. [Feb.
for, in that, no fewer than four-and-twenty
large slugs were lodged, and from the range
which they took, hai they penetrated the
shutter, there is reason to fear not one of
the family would have escaped."
" As the Rev. Marcus Bcresford was
proceeding to officiate in his parish church
of Larah, on Sunday last, he was waylaid
by two villains, who, lurking behind a hedge,
nearly opposite to the house of the Roman
Catholic priest, fired at him as he was
passing. Whether both the miscreants dis-
charged their fire-arms at him (for both
were armed), is uncertain — only one report
having been heard ; but, by the mercy of
Gofl, the shot was without effect — though
the assassins were not more than ten yards
distant from their expected victim. Imme-
diately after the discharge, Mr Beresford
and his servant — though both unarmed —
pursued, with great intrepidity, the cowardly
yet blood-thirsty assailants, who instantly
fled with their carbines in their hands : and
although some police, who happened to be
near, and some of the Protestant parishion-
ers who were on the way to church, joined
in the pursuit, we are sorry to say, that the
miscreants effected their escape by mingling
with the Popish congregation, which was
just at that moment leaving early mass—
and many of whom seemed anxious to screen
the murderers from justice."
" Sorrisokane, April 5, 1838 — On
Sunday last, as the inhabitants of Borriso-
kane were assembled in church at evening
service, and the officiating clergyman, the
Rev. William Molloy, in the pulpit, the
congregation were suddenly alarmed by the
tremendous crash of a stone, hurled with
unerring aim at the central enstern window,
immediately near which the pulpit is situ-
ated. The eastern window of the church is
within a few feet of the public road, from
whence the stone was thrown ; and, from
the relative position of the preacher, with
his back to the window, and the number of
lights in front, the evil-minded person must
have been able to distinguish clearly the
outline of the reverend gentleman's figure,
and would, to a certainty, have accomplished
his purpose, were in not that an angle of the
sash in a line with the preacher's head,
providentially arrested the further progress
of the destructive missile."
" County Limerick — Conspiracy to
Mvrder. — Sunday last, four sanguinary ruf-
fians, armed, and their features disguised by
bog mould, followed the Rev. Mr Coote's
car, from his residence towards Doom church ;
but, not finding that persecuted clergyman
on the vehicle, they searched several cabins
by the road, thinking Mr Coote had slipped
off the car to avoid them. Had they found
the rev. gentleman, their object was to mur-
lt-39.]
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
2-27
der him in the noon-day. In those places
they visited, they distinctly avowed their
determination, with an expression of rcgiet
that he had escaped them. Fortunately for
JMr Coote, wtio is suffering from illness,
another minister had on that day officiated
for him at the parish church, and thus was
his life providentially saved from assassins,
who have attempted it more than once in
that neighbourhood."
" On Sunday morning last, between the
hours of three and four o'clock, the house of
the Rev. J. Crampton, at Malahide, was for
the third time within this year set on fire
by incendiaries. A match, composed of hay
and oakum, or tarred rope, had been intro-
duced through two broken panes, one in the
drawing-room, and the other in the pantry
window. The entire sash, shutters, &c. of
the drawing-room were consumed before the
fire was discovered, and a quantity of fur-
niture destroyed. One of the matches was
introduced into the room immediately under
Mr Crampton's bed-room."
" Leitrim Murder— Mohill, Oct. 26.
—A barbarous murder was perpetrated near
this town yesterday evening. A Protestant,
named John Stretton, was returning from
market to his residence near Cloone, when
he was fired at and wounded. His barba-
rous assailants, not content with this, fell
upon him with scythes and other sharp
weapons, and mutilated the corpse in a most
frightful manner. The deceased was, about
four mouths since, denounced ly a priest
from the altar, and the people were forbid-
den to ipeak to him. The stipendiary ma-
gistrate held an investigation into the cir-
cumstance at -the time, but nothing more was
thought of it until the unfortunate deceased
•met his fate in this savage manner. Within
ten days, Morrow, Lord Lnrton's steward,
and Stretton have been both murdered —
two Protestants, named Cullom and Redfern,
have had their houses attacked in the open
day by armed men — Cullom's gun was carried
off, his wife severely beaten; Redfern 's
windows were broken, his wife and family
abused ; both occurring within a quarter of
a mile of the town. Both men wereabsent
at the time of the attacks, or it is hard to
conjecture what fate would have awaited
them. — Correspondent of Saunders."
" Another Barbarous Murder. — On
Tuesday morning last, about four o'clock,
three Protestants, while on their way to
the county Wicklow with lime, were at-
tacked near Tullow by several persons,
and biutally beaten with stones and blud-
geons ; one of them, John Pollard, was
inhumanly murdered on the spot, his
brains being literally scattered on the
road. One of his comrades was inhu-
manly mangled, and is despaired of ; the
third providentially escaped. A man
named Byrne was committed to jail on
Wednesday, fully identified as a principal
in this inhuman murder. No reason can
be assigned for the perpetration of the
foul deed, but that the unfortunate men
were Protestants."
We shall add but one proof more
of the persecution to which Protest-
ants have been given up, — the inci-
dental manner in which the circum-
stance of gentlemen going armed to
church is noticed, in describing- an
outrage on a place of worship.
6. REFUSAL TO ENTER SECRET
SOCIETIES.
E vidences of the existence of a secret
society extending itself through all
parts of Ireland, are abundant and
conclusive in the communications of
our correspondent. His proofs, also,
are decisive that the principle of a
division of labour is adopted by them,
and an army of observation, as it
were, called the " Polishers," formed,
which is to act a part the opposite
of that assigned to the sentinels of the
bees — not to keep off the " ignavum
pecus" from the hive, but to compel
them to enter it. Our extracts, how-
ever, must necessarily be few.
" County SliffO. — Another Attempt to
Hum to Death a Father, Mother, and
Seven Children — We have just heard from
unquestionable authority, that a few nights
since, the house of a poor man named
Patrick Healy, on the lands of Killaney,
was maliciously set fire to and destroyed,
together with a portion of the poor man's
furniture. The time chosen by the bru-
talized " Precursors," for the destruction
of this unfortunate family, was the calm
hour of midnight, when, the ruffians well
knew, the unconscious inmates were slum-
bering in fancied security ; coals of fire
had been placed in different parts of the
thatch at the same moment ; but provi-
dentially (as in the case of Burns) their
faithful watch-dog, alarmed by the crack-
ling of the roof, set up a piteous howl,
which awoke Healy and his family, and
revealed to them the danger of their pe-
rilous situation. The poor creatures for-
tunately escaped a few minutes before the
blazing roof fell in, and procured shelter
in a neighbouring village. Thus we have
lived to see a second attempt made to burn,
to death an entire family in this unfortu-
nate county, within the short space of
a few weeks. The only reason assigned.
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
[Feb.
for this diabolical attempt to take away
human life is, that Healy (who is an in-
dustrious Roman Catholic) refused to be-
come a member of the Ribbon Associa-
tion.'
Such is the agrarian calendar of
crime, or, to speak more correctly, a
specimen of it. For offences such as
we have classified, and by such punish-
ments as we have described, many
hundreds, to whom the law owes pro-
tection, are every year overtaken by a
violent death in Ireland. Many hun-
dreds are sufferers in property and per-
son ; and thousands, in incessant ap-
prehension of violence, waste away, an
unseen death, at home, or betake them-
selves to distant lands, where, if there
are no fond associations to attach them
to their new homes, and no comforts
to enhance the zest of life, they are, at
least, secure against persecutions and
menaces which made the land of their
nativity a desolation to them. The
reader has had a selected specimen of the
manner in which punishments are exe-
cuted, and of the spirit in which they
are conceived, which have had so ter-
rific an influence upon the condition
and advancement of Ireland. If we
have selected with tolerable skill, he
will, we are willing to hope, be already
prepared to admit that it is a very er-
roneous judgment upon such punish-
ments, and one very much calculated
to mislead, which pronounces them
crimes, and classes them among the
ordinary offences for which men are
to be held amenable. They ought not
to be thus regarded. Perhaps there
never yet was a people, among whom
so much cruelty, treachery, and vio-
lence, has been manifested — so fearful
outrages perpetrated — so many lives
taken by shocking murder — and so few
offenders punished : in whom, also, it
will not be found, that the terrible ex-
cesses, committed by them with im-
punity, have not been reconciled to
their notions of right and duty, by
some process with which those who
judge them hastily are unacquainted.
The butcheries, burnings, perjuries,
which we impute as crimes to the Irish
people, in their judgment are not
crimes. They are acts of severe
duty ; acts for which, if the law of the
land prevailed against them, they must
die — but which a law, inserted in their
abused conscience, taught them they
must execute ; acts for which, however
they might be made to suffer, they
could experience no remorse. This
was the incident, belonging to the
character of what has been called
Irish crime, which demanded most the
attention of magistrates and legislators
— and this is the incident which they
have especially disregarded. " The
knowledge of men," said Coleridge,
" may be very evil if not corrected by
a knowledge of man."
1839.]
Mathews the Comedian.
229
MATHEWS THE COMEDIAN.*
Ir biography were honest, it would be
among the most valuable of all writ-
ings. But is it ever honest ? Can the
auto-biographer be trusted with the
truth ? Can his friend, or his enemy,
or the somebody, who, being neither,
attempts only to make a book that
somebody else will read, be trusted
more ? Are there not vanity, fear, ig-
norance, forgetfulness, all standing iu
the way of the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth ? and what
spirit of sincerity can survive those
things ? From the first man who ever
put his pen to paper, in record of his
own acts and deeds, to the last, we
shall never expect to find the reality
which we want ; but we may find the
amusement which various adventure
can supply, the lesson which can be
taught by the experience of others,
and the interest which can be raised
by the eccentricities, struggles, and
collisions of character. There is much
even in this ; if the portraiture of the
" inner man" is hidden from us, and
it is often hidden from himself; at least
we may know his external, the man as
he moved before society, — the bold
figure of the defyer of chance and dif-
ficulty, the wild whim and strange
animation of the humorist, or the
ardent physiognomy and lofty atti-
tudes of the man of genius.
The biography of the late well-
known Charles Mathews ought to
furnish some resemblance to them all ;
f<5r he had something of the faculties,
the feelings, and the labours of
all. If his heart had not been among
the most buoyant of human kind, he
must have sunk under the first anxie-
ties of his trying profession ; if he had
not possessed the half-mad whim of
an original, he must have flattened and
fallen away into common-place, — and
if there had not been that touch of still
finer faculty within him, which makes
obscure talent anticipate the time of
fame and fortune, he must have long
before stooped to the wretchedness of
his condition, perished, and been for-
gotten. If all this denunciation
of the miseries of a theatrical life
should seem too darkly coloured to the
crowd, who see the actor only on the
stage, flourishing in silk and gold,
smiling among rival princesses, and
settling the fates of nations, for five
acts together ; let them turn to the ear-
lier pages of this narrative, and be
comforted that they have never tried
to climb to renown on the shoulders
of either Thalia or Melpomene.
Charles Mathews was born in Lon-
don, iu June 1776, the son of a
bookseller in the Strand. He plea-
santly remarks, that the family name,
being Matthew, was changed to its
present spelling in consequence of the
legacy of an estate, and the bequest
being thrown into Chancery, and lost.
" His father lost at once a T and a
suit." He, however, consoles himself.
" The estate was worth £200 a-year,
and it cost about £210 annually, in
law and repairs, so that its loss be-
came a gain."
His life began under circumstances
which predicted but little of his cha-
racter or his career. His father was
what was then termed a " serious"
bookseller, and was so conspicuous
among his sect as to be chosen a
preacher in one of Lady Hunting-
don's chapels, by the lady herself.
But the preacher had a counteracting
principle in his household, which ge-
nerally contrives to carry the day at
last. His wife was a Church of Eng-
land woman ; and as she happened to
possess excellent sense, also, in other
matters, she ruled the preacher, evi-
dently much to his own advantage.
Those were the high days of sectarian-
ism. Wesley and Whitfield, both
very able, and both very indefatiga-
ble men, had roused the popular feel-
ings of religion ; and, as in all great
religious excitement, there was a sad
mixture of chaff with the wheat, indi-
viduals who had tried many another
pursuit, mingled with the sincere ; and
men little qualified to feed the flocks
in any Church, discovered that the
new opinions offered a peculiarly con-
venient way of feeding themselves.
Mathews speaks with measureless
truth of the crowd who constantly
preyed upon his simple-minded father.
Memoirs of Charles Mathews, Comedian. By Mrs Mathews. 2 vols.
230
Mathews the Comedian.
[Feb.
" He, the most guileless, the most
intrinsically honest and moral man, I
balieve now, in my heart, who ever
passed sixty-four summers in this sub-
lunary globe, remained a liberal Chris-
tian among wretched fanatics, — mode-
rate in acrowdofravingenthusiasts, —
the mildest of preachers, the kindest
of advisers, himself an example to the
wholesale dealers in brimstone, — the
pawnbrokers, hosiers, butchers, snoe-
makers — no matter how low, how ig-
norant, to whose tender mercies I was
constantly subject. Such were those
by whom my father was surrounded.
Had he not been bitten by one of
these rabid animals very early in life,
his naturally cheerful mind and bene-
volent disposition would have admi-
rably qualified him for a quiet and
happy member of the real and true
mode of worship, as I think, and trust
ever shall think."
Notwithstanding those propensities
of the parent, the child thinks that na-
ture had intended Charles Mathews for
a comedian. On the faith of his old
nurse, he describes himself as " a long
thin skewer of a child, of a restless,
fidgetty temperament, and by no means
of regular features — quite the con-
trary ; and as if Nature herself sus-
pected that she had not formed me in
one of her happiest moments, the Fates,
finding that there was not the least
chance of making me a beauty, deter-
mined to make me comical."
A circumstance, which, in the spirit
of an old Roman, he evidently regard-
ed as an omen, occurred at this period.
This was nothing less than an intro-
duction to Garrick ; and, to crown the
singularity of the case, this event took
place in the shop of the "serious"
bookseller, and through the agency
of Hannah More! It is a curious
trait in the life of this popularly pious
lady, that though she abhorred play-
houses, she evidently had no objection
to the houses of players ; and that,
though her sect must have denounced
Garrick as the chief of sinners, he be-
ing the chief of players, yet she could
so delicately draw the line between
her convictions and her convenience,
that she associated on the most familiar
terms with him and his family for
very nearly twenty years. The clear
case was, that this deplorable culprit
gave excellent dinners, and saw very
pleasant company ; and that the de-
vout Hannah saw the greatest possi-
ble difference between the criminality
of an offender spending L.4000 a
year, with a remarkably pleasant
dwelling in town, only exchanged at
suitable seasons for a delightful villa
on the banks of the Thames, and the
incurable guilt of a theatrical wretch
spouting for twenty shillings a-week,
and starving by his salary, Peace be
to her memory, and that of the tender
disciples whom she reared to follow
her calling, — the race of professional
pietists, the soft Pharisees whose
horror of ostentation, somehow or
other, always threw them into the
very path of publicity, — whose right
hand was so far from any degree of
ignorance as to the virtuous achieve-
ments of its left, that if each had been
occupied by a trumpet, it could not
have made a more vigorous appeal to
the public attention ; and who, as in
the case of Garrick and his playhouse
convivialities, exhibited all the original
skill of swallowing the camel, while
the straining at the gnat exercised
their pious delicacy through the whole
scale of saintly contortion.
On this occasion, Garrick, with ha-
bitual good-humour, took the infant in
his arms, — he burst into a tit of
laughter at its little visage, and said,
" Why, his face laughs all over, but
certainly on the wrong side of his
mouth." The mouth had a slight
contortion from a spasm soon after he
was born, which gave a peculiar turn,
to his countenance through life.
At length he experienced the mi-
series of this troublesome existence,
by being sent to school, where he had
the misfortune to meet with a flogging
pedagogue. " Had flogging given
knowledge," says he, " I might have
been a dangerous rival to the seven
Greek sages." He then humorously
remarks: " Often have I cast an eye
on the little cherubs that clung to the
school-room organ, and wished that I
had been shaped like them — only head
and wings."
The imitative passion early dis-
closed itself; and the sentiment of dis-
gust for the gross vulgarity of the
lower classes of the Huntingdonian
preachers exhibited itself in almost
instinctive caricature. His chief
butt was an old haranguer and
haunter of the bookseller's hospi-
talities, known as Daddy Berridge.
Some of this man's exhibitions must
have bern absolutely intolerable. He
preached at the building called the
Tabernacle, in Tottenham Court
1839.]
Mathcws the Comedian.
231
Road. The increase of the sect since
Whitfield's time, had required an in-
crease of room, and a part of the hear-
ers were thrust into a dismal place
under the gallery, called, not inap-
propriately, the Oven. It was scarcely
possible for those persons to hear any
part of the oration, unless expressly
directed to themselves. When Daddy
Berridge exploded a sentence of pecu-
liar ferocity on the general audience,
he stooped his head down, and shot
the point of his harangue into the
Oven. Mathews gives an instance.
" 'If, with these examples before you ;
if, when these truths are made manifest ;
if, with these rules laid down for your
conduct, you do not repent, you will
all be d d.' He would then ele-
vate his guttural voice, peep down to
the half-stifled wretches underneath,
and cry, ' you will all be d d,—
do you hear below ?' This being all
they heard of the sentence, they might
have naturally asked for what. An-
other of his appeals was, after citing
a string of truisms on the uncertainty
of life, — ' since last I sojourned among
you, my brethren, the fell destroyer
has been busy. I can see before me
the outward symbols of grieving spi-
rits within.' He would then begin to
reckon, 1—2— 4— 7— 8— 10— 11— 13
—18 — 22 people in mourning; then
.wheeling to the right-about, 25, —
then, left-face, 27 — 29, then stooping
to the Oven, he would bellow out,
' how many are there, there ? ' "
The future man's habits were all
imbibed in early life ; his father had
a chapel at Whetstone, at some dis-
tance from London, to which village,
on every Saturday, through the greater
part of the year, he went and remain-
ed till Monday morning.
He describes his delight in natural
and pleasing language. " This escape
from all descriptions of fagging and
confinement — this freedom of bodyand
soul from the fetters of scholastic dis-
cipline— the contrast between the nar-
row dirty lane where the school was
situated, and the pure air I breathed in
my beloved little village, was such a
joyous emancipation, that the impres-
sion has dwelt on my memory to the
present hour, and I feel the same im-
pulse to escape from London with all
its attractions, and revel in country
pleasures that I did when I was a
school-boy. Indeed, every feeling,
every propensity or peculiarity, I can
trace to impressions formed in my
school days. During my first engage-
ment in Drury Lane theatre, 1 lived
at Colney Hatch ; and in all weathers
returned home ai'ter the play about
eight miles, and over Finchley Com-
mon, in an open carriage. This was
from pure love of the country. Four
years I lived at Fulliam, and paid the
same midnight visits, frequently on
horseback, to my house ; and fourteen,
years at Kentish Town (commonly
called Highgate by my visitors, and
not unfrequently Hampstead) ; and I
can truly say, that the same feelings
pervade me at this moment. With-
out enumerating my list of objections
to all large cities, and more particu-
larly to London, I can only assert that
I always turn my back upon it, with
pleasure, when I have any thing like
rural enjoyment in prospect."
As the period is undoubtedly con-
templated by the Papists and Sectaries,
when they shall have all matters ex-
actly according to their own hearts, —
when the Establishment is to be dust
and ashes, and the Tabernacle is to
uplift its front above the Church, and
with due homage to his Holiness the
Pope, " high mass is to be said in St
Pauls ;" it may be not unsatisfactory
to see the specimens of sectarian piety
with which the Tabernacle has teemed,
even in the eighteenth century, and
will unquestionably teem again, the
moment the Church shall have ceased
to keep down its antics. Since the
days of the " Revival," so called, in
the middle of the century, the conven-
ticle has not furnished a more popular
saint than William Huntingdon, who
regularly affixed to his name, S. S. or
" Sinner Saved :" This fellow has
left a specimen of his style, and of his
school, in a volume, which he called
the " Bank of Faith." Our readers
must have a fragment, excluding as
much as we can the absolute profane-
ness.
" During the space of three years,
I secretly -wished in my soul that God
would favour me with a chapel of my
own." He despaired of such a favour ;
but at length it was given, — by an
interposition, which this impudent
fanatic ascribes to the Deity in per-
son. A stranger " was sent to look
at a certain spot," by another interpo-
sition. A wise man was stirred up
to offer to build it. " God drew the
pattern in. his imagination, while he
232
Mathews the Comedian,
[Feb.
was hearing me preach a sermon. I
then took the ground, and the chapel
sprung up like a mushroom ! " This
fortunate facility of obtaining what-
ever he asked for, was of course not
suffered to remain without fruits. He
next applied for clothes. " My sur-
tout was got very thin and bad, and
the weather was at that time very cold ;
I felt it as I was going to preach, and
I prayed secretly for a coat." The
prayer was, of course, responded to
by an immediate miracle. " As soon
as I had delivered my discourse, I
desired a young man to fetch my old
greatcoat, in order to put it on before
I went out of the warm meeting-house.
When he came back, lo ! he brought
me a new one ! I told him, this was
not mine — he said that it was. I put
it on, and it fitted very well. In one
of the pockets there was a letter which
informed me, my blessed Lord and
Master had sent it to me, to wrap my
worthless carcass in during the very
severe winter." Regretting his reluc-
tance on the subject, he candidly says,
" My mock-modesty had nearly de-
prived me of this new greatcoat."
Huntingdon still worked the mine
which he had found so profitable.
He soon discovered that he might as
well consult his comfort in other mat-
ters. His preaching round the skirts
of London fatigued him ; so, he ".went
to prayer, and asked for more strength,
less work, or a horse." " I used my
prayers," says he, " as gunners do
swivels, turning them every way, as
the cases required." The result was,
that a horse was subscribed for and
given to him. But the horse was
without the necessary equipments.
Those, however, were not long want-
ing. " Soon after I got the horse,
one gave me a guinea to buy a bridle,
another gave me two whips, another
trusted me for a saddle ; and here was
a full answer to my prayer. But
his horse made other wants soon per-
ceptible. " Having now had my horse
several weeks, and going a great way
regularly every Sunday ; as might
naturally be inferred, my breeches
began to wear out. At last I was de-
termined to go to one of my flock in
Kingston, who was in the breeches
line, and. to get him to trust me, till
my Master sent me money to pay him."
Of course, the miracle was wrought
without delay. I was going to London
that day, and called on Mr Croucher,
a shoemaker ; he told me a parcel was
left there for me. I opened it, and
behold there was a pair of leather
breeches !" A letter accompanied this
preternatural gift, mentioning that if
any alteration was required, it would
be made by the giver. To this,
Huntingdon answered, — " Sir, I re-
ceived your present, and thank you
for it. I was going to order a pair of
leather breeches, because I did not
know till now that my Master had
ordered them from you. They fit very
well ; which convinces me, that the
same God who moved thy heart to
give, guided thy hand to cut ; because
he perfectly knew my size ; having
clothed me in a miraculous manner for
nearly five years!" Now, if we are
astonished, and indeed alarmed at such
intolerable grossness, what must we
think of the frenzy, the prostration of
all common sense, and the desperate
insolence that belong to fanaticism?
This fellow attracted vast crowds,
zealous devotees, eager contributors.
He possessed the reputation of " a
chosen vessel," while he lived, and has
left behind him the odour of sanctity.
And what must have been the minds,
the passions, and the abject love of ab-
surdity, that could endure this man and
his profane nonsense? Let sectarianism
" have its fling" among us, and we
shall have Huntingdon out-Hunting-
doned, profaneness fouler and more
daring, absurdity more contemptible
and more vicious, until, between dis-
gust and detestation, between corrup-
tion and fatuity, the name of religion
is buried in the land.
The taste for stage performances,
perhaps not unnaturally,followed those
extravagant displays ; and the boy
imagined himself born the undoubted
successor of that great hero of the
theatre who had once dandled him in
his arms. His opinion of his own
powers was amusingly exhibited by
the following application to the ma-
nager of Covent Garden, proposing
himself to fill up the enormous chasm
occasioned by the death of Edwin, one
of the most popular of all comedians !
The letter is characteristic and capital,
— we offer it as a model to all rising
geniuses.
" Sir, the lamented death of Mr
Edwin making an opening in your
establishment, inspires me to offer
myself as a candidate to supply the
vacancy. I have never performed in
1839.]
Matthews
any public theatrical representation,
having been much engaged in busi-
ness ; but I trust this will not operate
against me. I am already perfect in
Lingo and Bowkit, and know mure
than half of Old Doiley. Salary is
no object, as I only wish to bring my
powers into a proper sphere of action.
I do not wish to blaze out awhile, and
then evaporate ! Being at present
bound to my father, and under inden-
tures, of course his consent will be
necessary ; but this is the only impe-
diment that I am aware of. Your
immediate answer, if convenient, will
be of great consequence to, sir, your
obedient servant, C.M." This was
in the year 1700; and, as he was born
in 1776, the proposed first comic actor
of the metropolitan theatre was just
fourteen ! The manager simply re-
turned him a line of refusal. But
the young ambition of the future
man of
" Quips, and cranks, and wreathed
smiles, "'
was not to be thus extinguished.
Excluded from the " properties" of
the stage, he bought aj pot of rouge,
burned corks to give effect to hie
nascent beard and brows, and crown-
ed all with a wig, copied from Edwin's
portraits. The performances took
place before his father's servants and
apprentices ; and, while the serious
bookseller was probably calculating
on his son's renown in the shoes of
Toplady and Romaine, that son was
wickedly raising a rebellion -of laugh-
ter in the paternal kitchen, and fling-
ing about jests and burlesques in the
shape of the living Fawcett, Bannis-
ter, and Munden.
He records a mot of old Macklin,
perhaps the last of this extraordinary
survivor of his generation, for at this
period he was above a hundred years
old. Mathews was sitting next to
him, when an actress of more matter
than spirit was playing the part of a
hoyden on the stage, Macklin watch-
ed her frolics for some time with a
critical gaze ; at length,' on a peculiar
display of agility, he turned round
and said, in a voice that seemed to
issue from a cavern, " Sir, that lady
jumps very high, but she comes down
veiy heavy."
Determined to be seen on a " real
stage," Mathews, and his friend
233
Litchfield, like himself a stage enthu-
siast, purchased the honour of a
night's display on the Richmond
boards for fifteen guineas ; the good-
natured and moderate manager hav-
ing asked only twenty, for the op-
portunity thus given to two boys to
make fools of themselves. The play
was to be Richard the Third. Mu-
thews, who had a passion for fencing,
took the minor part of Richmond,
that he might flourish his rapier in
the last scene ; and he flourished it to
his heart's content. Litchfield, the
crook-backed hero, after a few thrusts,
would have evidently been satisfied to
forfeit his crown and life. But his
antagonist " had no idea of paying
seven guineas and a half" for nothing.
In vain did the tyrant try to die, after
a decent defence, — in vain did he show
symptoms of exhaustion. " I drove
him," says Mathews, palpably enjoy-
ing his prowess, even after the lapse
of so many years, " I drove him
from any position convenient for his
last dying speech. The audience
laughed, I heeded them not ; they
shouted, I was deaf. Had they hoot-
ed, I should have lounged on uncon-
scious of their interruption. 1 was
resolved to show them all my accom-
plishments. Litchfield frequently
whispered " enough," but I thought
with Macbeth. I kept him at it, and,
I believe, we fought almost literally a
long hour by Shrewsbury clock. To
add to the oddity of the scene, a
bumpkin in the gallery, probably
thinking the tyrant invulnerable by
cold steel, and wrapt in the scene,
eagerly bellowed out, ' Why don't
you shoot him ?' " Many years after,
as Mathews was relating one evening
in the green room this droll incident,
Mrs Jordan almost shook him from
his feet, by starting up, clasping her
hand?, and in her warm-hearted fer-
vent tones exclaiming, " Was that
you? I was there," and she screamed
with laughter, at the recollection of
his acting in Richmond, and the
length of the combat.
At length, in 1794, having made up
his mind to adopt the stage as his pro-
fession, chance threw in his way one
Hitchcock, acting manager of the
Dublin Theatre. The young Roscius
of course betrayed himself, and made
a bad bargain with this theatrical
Sergeant Kite. In short, says Ma-
234
Malhews the Comedian.
[Feb.
thews, I enlisted ; he did not give me
a shilling, and I believe never would
if he could have avoided it. I stipu-
lated, as far as possible, for what is
called low comedy, for I had no pre-
tensions to any thing above that.
Why he engaged me at all was a
puzzle to me, when I had leisure for
repentance, in Dublin. My salary
was to depend upon my success.
Could I doubt that it would be liberal?
After some discussion with his father,
who finished by saying ( that little va-
gabond Garrick bit you when he took
you in his arms,' he set off for Dub-
lin. It was a dark and dreary morning
when he landed, and a melancholy
foreboding stole over him. He felt
that he had embarked on a dangerous
sea of adventure, without rudder,
compass, or pilot, and all seemed
comfortless. " A thinner and more
consumptive specimen of an English-
man," says he, " never set foot on the
Emerald Isle." But this depression
was unnatural to his lively and spor-
tive spirit. The sun broke forth, and
cheered him, — the novelty of the scene
excited him, — the odd sayings of the
populace who gathered round the
custom-house charmed him, — and he
asserts that the powerful contrast that
exhibits itself on first landing in
France, is not more powerful than
that experienced by a close observer
on his first crossing the Irish Channel,
and clearing his luggage in Dublin.
His first appearance was in Jacob and
Lingo, in which some of his songs
were enchored, and his comic talent
acknowledged by the laughter of the
galleries. He soon received a not
less expressive evidence of his success,
a message from Daly the manager.
That high personage summoned him
to his closet, and offered him the
munificent salary of one guinea a
week !
But the heroes of the stage are as
liable to mishaps as the heroes of ro-
mance. The young actor's hopes of
gain and glory were soon to be de-
plorably damped. The part of Beau-
fort, in the Citizen, was fastened upon
him. Mathews tells his melancholy
destiny with humorous sorrow ; — he
was to act with Miss Farren, after-
wards Lady Derby, who was then
playing in Dublin for a few nights.
The part was notoriously that of a
" walking gentleman," the proverbial
bore of actor and audience. Accus-
tomed as the lady must have been to
mediocre performance in a part made
for mediocrity, she probably never
saw it before in such grotesque inca-
pacity. With dismay, she observ-
ed the new exhibitor appear in the
green-room in a scai-let coat (the only
one provided by the theatre for the
occasion), and that coat made" obvi-
ously for a figure a head shorter than
the wearer, and the sleeves reaching
only within an inch of his wrists ; a
yellow embroidered waistcoat ; a pair
of black satin breeches, scarcely cover-
ing the knee ; his hair liberally powder-
ed and tied in a queue, according to
the mode, and a chapeau-bras, which
he scarcely knew how to dispose of.
Imagine Mathews in such a dress,
and at the age of seventeen, playing
a sentimental drawl of a lover to a
woman of elegant and accomplished
manners ! His reception was propor-
tionate. The moment he set his foot
on the stage, he was met by a general
shout from the galleries, as if a clown
in a pantomime had made his appear-
ance. This was followed by shrieks,
equally sympathetic, and, the first
storm once over, the wits of the house
plied him with their pellets. Thus he
enjoyed the following delicate inuen-
does ; " Pat, dont breathe hard, or
you'll puff him off the stage." — " Oh,
it's the only puff I'll give him anyhow."
His thinness was not forgotten.—
" Oh, what a slice of a man ? Arrah,
where's your other half? Why did
you not bring it with you ?" Those
specimens of rabble sport were death
to the unfortunate actor, who was
compelled, through no fault of his own,
to incur and endure them. The vexa-
tion was even heightened by the per-
formances of the charming actress,
who was equally compelled by her
part to turn this moping lover into
burlesque. Her imitation was, of
course, received by the galleries with
savage rapture, — " Thereon followed
from on high a dreadful noise, that
might be supposed the war-whoop of
the American Indians." Beaufort's
exit was commemorated by another
dreadful roar, and, at its close, one of
his tormentors stood up and proposed
" a groan for the long lobster,'" a pro-
posal which was accorded with the
honours. It may be conceived with
what misery of mind a man of Ma-
thews' excessive irritability felt all
this torture. Miss Farren apologised
1839.]
Muthews the
to him when they had returned be-
hind the scenes, for her unwilling bur-
lesque. All was in vain. He begged
of the manager, " almost in tears,"
that he would relieve him of this abo-
minable part ; but managers, like fa-
thers, have flinty hearts ! and Daly
could find no other actor to bear the
shame of Beaufort, unless " by paying
a long arrear of salary," a matter
•which Daly seems never to have con-
templated but as the most formidable
of all experiments ; and as to Mathews,
his biographer supposes that Daly had
probably conceived some notion of his
being a stage-struck enthusiast, who
had money enough to support himself,
and, in consequence, the man'ager in-
tended to pay him nothing at all.
Let the unlucky being who deter-
mines to throw up a regular provision
for the life of an actor, read this nar-
rative and be wise. We have here
an instance of a true theatrical genius,
suffering under privations which
might, and must, have broken any
heart less intrepidly vivid than his
own. What, then, must be the condi-
tion of the man who, without any fa-
culty whatever for the stage, with
this knowledge painfully forced upon
him night after night, with the inevit-
able consciousness of sinking lower
and lower in the scale, suffers this
most bitter trial ! The solemn, in their
generation, may frown over what they
term the frivolities of books like this,
but a single memoir of such a man, so
deserving, and yet so suffering, is a
lesson worth all their commonplaces.
But the moral extends to farther ob-
jects. The ambition of adopting "pro-
fessional life" of all kinds at the pre-
sent day, is the source of countless in-
stances of misery ; a misery, if more
secret than that of the theatrical no-
vice, not less pungent. Every pro-
fession in England is overstocked ;
not merely the prizes are beyond the
general reach, but the merest sub-
sistence becomes difficult. " The three
black Graces, Law, Physic, and Di-
vinity," are weary of their innumer-
able worshippers, and yearly sentence
crowds of them to perish of the aching
sense of failure. A few glittering
successes allure the multitude ; Chan-
collorships, Bishoprics, and Regi-
ments, figure before the public eye ;
and every aspirant from the cottage,
and the more foolish parents of every
aspirant, set down the bauble as gain-
'an. £33
ed, when they have once plunged
their unlucky offspring into this sea of
troubles, which men call the world.
But thousands have died of broken
hearts in these pursuits, — thousands
who would have been happy behind
the plough, or opulent behind the
counter, — thousands, in the desperate
struggles of thankless professions, look
upon the simplicity of a life of manual
labour with perpetual envy ; and
thousands, by a worse fate still, are
driven to necessities which degrade
the principle of honour within them,
accustom them to humiliating modes
of obtaining subsistence, and make up,
by administering to the vices of society,
the livelihood which is refused to their
legitimate exertions. Among all the
pursuits of life, there is but one which
is not overstocked, and which, from its
nature, seems capable of endless expan-
sion— and that one is Commerce. To
this the world is the field ; every newly
discovered region- every increase of
mankind, every new progress of civi-
lisation, opens a new career for this
great principle of human employment;
and reckoning, as we always feel in-
clined to reckon, Britain among
those nations which have been most
especially favoured by the Great Dis-
poser of all, we almost go the length
of seeing a direct and peculiar bounty
of Providence in the fact that com-
merce has been appointed the peculiar
province of British energy. There
the rising generation may find employ-
ment, not merely unobstructed by
numbers, but actually distending by
numbers — not merely unexhausted by
variety of effort, but deriving new re-
sources from every new application of
the dexterity, diligence, or sagacity of
man. The force of circumstances is,
even more directly than ever, turning
the powers of the country into this
vast and overflowing channel of na-
tional production. We shall speedily
see the younger branches of our proud-
est aristocracy occupying themselves
in commerce, from the simple fact that
their habitual professions have no
longer room for them. The army is
reduced to nothing ; the navy offers no
hope of promotion, or of service; di-
plomacy cannot find space for the hun-
dredth part of the candidates for office.
The Government clerkships can afford
little more than bread, and that bread
only to a few ; and how long will the
contrast between this narrow and de-
236
Aiatheics the
pendent condition, and the ease, in-
terest, and opulence, of commerce on
the grand scale, suffer men to prefer
official pride, made ridiculous by offi-
cial poverty, to the boundless prospects
of wealth, and, with it, of power, grow-
ing out of the mighty traffic of Eng-
land with all nations? Where her
merchants are princes, princes will be
glad to become the merchants, and the
connexion will render infinite benefit to
both, and to their country. Education,
high-mindedness, the manly spirit of
the noble, and the honour of men who
have to sustain a hereditary name,
will give new dignity to the vigour,
acuteness, and indefatigable industry
of the commercial spirit ; and this com-
bination may effect results at present
beyond the farthest vista of national
pre-eminence. Let none call these
views Utopian ; the progress of the
•world may be but begun ; there are
evidences of new and fervid impulses
surrounding us ; and, unless war or
civil convulsion come to break up that
progress, we may see noble and power-
ful results in the path of national ad-
vancement, even before this generation
shall pass away.
The privations which Mathews suf-
fered in his double engagement were
more than pangs of hurt vanity. He
was often on the point of being starved.
" I often heard him say," observes his
biographer, " that he has gone to the
theatre at night without having tasted
any thing since a meagre breakfast, deter-
mined to refuse to go op the stage unless
some portion of his arrears were first
paid." However, this wise resolution
he seldom was able to keep, the gaiety
of the green-room, and his passionate
love of acting, chained him to the stage,
and, after another tight of perform-
ance, he went home happy and hungry.
It might be fairly presumed that those
lessons would not be lost on a mind of
his intelligence; and that, when wealth
in process of time flowed in upon him,
he would have known its value. But
there seem, to be men whose fate it is
to be always involved in a struggle ;
and the later passages of his life show
that he still contrived to be in distress,
in the midst of what ought to have
been, to one like him, not merely com-
petence, but affluence.
He was singularly apt to meet with
accidents ; and, in the theatrical tour
of the West of Ireland, very narrowly
escaped drowning. He describes his
i. [Feb.
sensations as a dreadful complication
of all kinds of suffering. He rose twice
sufficiently to see the friend who had
accompanied him seated on the grass,
intent upon his book. He attempted
to scream, but his voice had probably
failed, for he remained unheard. His
delusion now was a curious one ;
his brain was probably disordered.
" Again I sank," says he, " and can
comprehend th« ' catching at a straw,'
for my sensations, which are now vi-
vidly before me, were those of perish-
ing in an unfinished building, where
the beams of the floor were above my
head. Drowning has been variously
described, and is generally supposed
to be a very easy death. I have not
experienced any other manner of dving,
certainly, but I cannot conceive any
mode more painful. The tremen-
dous noise of the rushing waters
in the ears ; the frightful flashing of
light, as if surrounded by sparks from
fire- works ; the sense of suffocation ;
and, oh, who can describe the sensa-
tions I briefly felt upon my second
bound from the bed of the river to the
surface ! Again I attempted a feeble
cry ! Again I saw my studious com-
panion, and again I had the conviction
that I was unseen ! Every hope now
fled, and I gradually lost all sensation,
except that of struggling to reach the
beams that floated in my imagination.
To the last 1 was under the impression
that by desperate efforts I might grasp
this apparent substance, and so save
myself. This is all I am capable of
relating from my own knowledge ; for
I was near death, most decidedly, be-
fore I was providentially rescued.
" It appeared, from the evidence
of my friend, that the ' beam in
my, eye' was my latest vision, for he
had jumped into the river with his
clothes on to save me. He was an
expert swimmer, and made for the
spot where he had last seen me rise ;
when, in almost despair of rescuing,
or even finding me, he felt his leg sud-
denly seized with violence, and he was
dragged by my dying struggles, feeble
as they were, to the bottom. He was
a most accomplished swimmer and
diver, or I should never have related
the tale. He contrived to get me on
shore ! I have no recollection of any
thing that occurred from my third
sinking, until I saw a heterogeneous
collection of human figures and hu-
morous countenances about me, and
1839.]
Matliews the Comedian.
237
was almost suffocated afresh -with the
aroma of ' mountain dew.' I was car-
ried, much in the state in which I am
to believe I came into the world, by
two soldiers, under the command of
my preserver, Seymour, to the first
public house that presented itself ; and
there they rubbed me down, and rub-
bed me in all directions ; and I was re-
covered by the means prescribed by the
humane society — of whisky dealers."
More lessons for the stage-struck.
In the midst of his round of stage rap-
tures, his misery went on with regular
progression. He describes his suffer-
ings from stage exertion, and even
from the more palpable privation of
bread, as extreme, though he rallied
against them both with a spirit which
could probably be found in few. He
has subsequently declared to his wife,
" that he sometimes fasted two days,
wandering about the streets for amuse-
ment, when weary of practising his
flute and violin at home, and of study-
ing characters which he never ex-
pected to be allowed to act." To the
world he still strove to keep up an
uncomplaining countenance, but to
the under-manager, Hitchcock, who
had duped him into his engagement,
he had no hesitation in declaring that
he was on the point of being starved
to death. Hitchcock, however, was
too old in the life of the stage to allow
himself to be wrought up to the dire
extremity of paying any body. No
effect could be produced on a mind
callous by office. • The failure of sa-
lary for weeks together had been too
often pleaded by the Romeos, and
Hitchcock's imperturbable smoothness
gave only additional provocation to
the famishing genius. Mathews cle-
verly described him as one of those
disagreeable people who are never in
a passion. In the midst of all this
poverty, Kemble came, filled the city
with admiration, the house with crowds,
and Mathews with renewed delight ;
and his letter, beginning with "the
theatre has been closed for three
weeks, during which time, of course,
I received no money, which was rather
a bore. However, I managed ex-
tremely well, as I had a great many
invitations during the time, which gave
me assistance," — proceeds to say that
Kemble commenced his career of
triumph. At his Hamlet — "if twen-
ty guineas had been given for a place
in the boxes, it could not have been
purchased ; in all my life I never saw
people so anxious to get into a theatre.
Every avenue was crowded at an early
hour ; and after the theatre was filled,
I can safely assert, many hundreds
went away. To see this, you may
judge, gave me no small pleasure."
John Kemble has been often charged
with hauteur to the performers. But
if this sometimes may have been the
case, it was not so with respect to
Mathews even at this period. " No-
thing could be more agreeable than
Kemble's conduct in the theatre, and
no one more agreeable or easier to be
pleased at rehearsals ; ever willing to
give instructions without the smallest
ostentation ; every one was sorry when
he went away. He took leave of us
all after Richard ; and, taking me by
the hand, said, ' Mathews, can I do
any thing for you in London ? But,
for Heaven's sake, get out of this
place as soon as you can ; it is no place
for you to get up in.' " He then re-
lates an incident in the life of Cooke,
perfectly characteristic of the man.
" I am extremely sorry to inform you
that Cooke has enlisted. The regi-
ment went to the Isle of Man about a
week past. Daly would have been
glad to re-engage him, but such was
his pride that he would rather turn
soldier from real want than come to
terms. Many of the performers saw
him in his military garb as he was
going off, but he seemed rather to wish
to avoid speaking to them, appearing
quite melancholy. He was drunk
when he enlisted." This was while
Cooke had just been playing to ap-
plauding audiences, was rising to the
first rank of popularity, and was on
the eve of that London engagement
which put fortune into his hand, which
fortune his drunkennessinstantly threw
away.
All who have been acquainted with
theatrical history during the last fifty
years, know the name of Tate Wii-
kinson. In process of time Mathews
obtained an engagement in the com-
pany of the York manager. Tate
Wilkinson was a humourist by nature,
and a great deal more of the humourist
by art. Possessing some natural fa-
culty for imitation, his manners were
a perpetual burlesque, yet with all this
affected eccentricity, he had a perfect
sense of his own interest, had a subtle
knowledge of mankind, managed his
theatre with remarkable dexterity, and
238
Mathews the Comedian.
[Feb.
contrived to live handsomely on the
profits of a pursuit which has probably
produced more broken fortunes than
any employment on record. In 1798,
Mathews liad married, and soon after
reached Pontefract, where the York
company were playing ; with all his
worldly possessions, consisting of a
trunk containing his eight or ten co-
mical wigs ; a wife, and a stock of un-
subdued animal spirits ; his expecta-
tion being to flourish before mankind
on the inexhaustible salary of twenty
shillings a-week.
His first view of Tate] Wilkinson was
perfectly in the farcical style of the
eccentric manager. Tapping at the
door, he heard the words " Come in,"
and entered. Tate was shuffling about
the room, with a small brush in one
hand, and a silver buckle in the other,
in pretended industry, whistling dur-
ing his occupation in the style of a
groom rubbing down a horse. It
seems to have been this whimsical
man's custom daily to polish these
shoe-buckles, especial favourites, from
their having been the gift of Garriek,
which he wore constantly in his dress
shoes, and never trusted out of his own
hands. It was 'a minute at least be-
fore the manager took the least notice
of the new comer, who in the interval
took full cognizance of his oddities.
Tate was still in his morning disha-
bille, but this differed little from his
dress of the day. But he " wore his
rue with a difference," that is, at this
period his coat-collar was thrown back
upon his shoulders, and his brown
George (a wig so called from George
III., who had set the fashion) exposing
the ear on the other, and cocked up
behind so as to expose the nape of the
neck. His hat was put on side fore-
most, and as forward and awry as his
wig, and both " perked on his head
very insecurely, as it should seem to
the observer." The dialogue was suf-
ficiently disheartening. After linger-
ing for a while unattended to, Mathews
made his first essay, by " Good morn-
ing, sir." " Oh, good morning, Mr
Meadows," was the reply, very dog-
gedly. (He indulged in an affectation,
somewhat impudent, of constantly
mistaking names.) " My name is
Mrithews, sir, was the rejoinder."
" Ay, I know," said Tate, turning
and looking at him for the first time,
with scrutinizing earnestness from
head to foot. Winking his eyes, and
moving his brows rapidly up and down,
a habit with him when not pleased,
he uttered a long drawn " Ugh ! what
a maypole! Sir, you are too tali for
low comedy." " I'm sorry, sir"
Mathews attempted to say, but Tate
did not seem to hear him, for, drop-
ping his eyes, and resuming the brush-
ing of his buckles, he continued as in
soliloquy, " But I don't know why a
tall man shouldn't be a very comical
fellow." After some observations on
his thinness, to which their unlucky
object could only say " Very sorry ! "
Tate snappishly replied, " What's the
use of being sorry ? I never saw any
thing so thin to be alive. Why, sir,
one hiss would drive you off the
stage." This remark sounding more
like good-humour than any thing that
he had before uttered, Mathews said,
with a faint smile, " He hoped he
should not get that one." Tate, in
real or affected anger, replied, " You'll
get a great many, sir. Why, sir, 1
have been hissed ; the great Mr Gar-
rick has been hissed. It is not very
modest in you to expect to escape, Mr
Mountain." " Mathews, sir," inter-
rupted the miscalled. " Well, Mat-
thew Mountain." " No, sir.'' " Have
you a quick study, Mr Maddox?"
Tate then enquired if he was a single
man ? The fact was stated. " I'm
sorry for it, Mr Montague," was the
new miscalling ; " a wife's a dead
weight without a salary ; and I don't
choose my actors to run in debt." All
this is curious enough as to the display
of managerial oddity, but was so much
mixed vfith impertinence as to be in-
tolerable to any man of decent feel-
ings. The unfortunate actor must
have writhed under it. But such is
the dependence of this "dazzling pro-
fession," that he was forced to swal-
low, in the alternative of swallowing
nothing else. The question lay clearly
between bearing the insolence of this
low-mannered old man or starving.
The conference ended with the moral
of Tales' recommending him to go
home to his father, and adopt some
" honest trade." He was, however,
engaged, but his performances were
neglected ; and the stage was never
nearer losing one of its ornaments.
He grew feeble, symptoms of con-
sumption, the fatal malady of his fa-
mily, which had already swept off the
melancholy number of twelve brothers
and sisters, seemed to show themselves,
1839.]
MatJiews the Comedian.
239
as the biographer say?, " decidedly."
" His chest was confined, his lungs were
precarious ; in the morning he felt all
exertion of them painful, often impos-
sible, and seldom found himself able
to sing at rehearsals. He would even
spit blood on the slightest exertion."
We have no liking for these painful
details, but we have quoted them for
the purpose of remarking that, not-
withstanding them all, Mathews re-
covered, lived through many years of
a most active, and even a most agitated
life, and was vigorous, active, and
lively to the last. Undoubtedly such
evidence ought to cheer and instruct
the many who, on the first symptoms
of what is termed a consumptive habit,
are so prematurely cast down by un-
lucky prediction, are so often treated,
even by the physicians, as under sen-
tence of death, and are so uniformly
regarded by their friends as already
beyond the help of medicine or man.
In addition to all these signs of early
decay, Mathews was liable to that
strange disorder called Fits, one so
generally pronounced constitutional,
and incurable. Yet this disorder sud-
denly ceased in the year 1802, and
never returned. It is probable that, if
he had led the life of the generality of
those who dread disease, he would
have perished like the rest. If he had
led the lingering, self-watching, self-
indulgent life of the opulent and hypo-
chondriac, that life would have been
speedily shortened. But the efforts
required by his anxious career pre-
cluded those unhappy facilities, and
saved him. The stage forced him to
keep his mind in constant employment,
he had no days for the gratification of
his ease, no mornings to waste in heavy
slumber, even no time to think of his
disease ; he made rapid journeys ; he
read, recited, and acted ; his mind was
kept perpetually in exercise ; his frame
was not suffered to find leisure to re-
lax, and, by those necessities, he un-
consciously overcame the progress of
a malady which is supposed to exert
the most irresistible influence on the
frame, which had already laid his whole
family in the grave, and which daily
desohtesthehouseholdsof England. Of
course, we do not insist on the stage as
the essential regimen ; but wisdom will
dictate the importance of some decided,
active, and engrossing pursuit ; of the
habits of self-denial, which every such
pursuit involve, and of the worth of
that steady and systematic employment
of body and mind which, if they were
to give nothing more than the cheerful
feeling that we are not spending an
altogether useless life, would, in that,
give an invaluable aid to the restora-
tive powers of our nature.
There was to be no end to the troubles
of poor Mathews at this York Theatre.
In the opinion of that very silly cox-
comb, Tate Wilkinson, the unfortu-
nate young man was marked for total
failure ; and a low comedian of the
name of Hatton was sent for to take
all his parts. Hatton's vulgarity pleased
this accomplished audience and their
judging manager for a time, and the
true comedian, with his more deli-
cate conceptions, was wholly thrown
into the shade. At length, Hatton,
playing Harlequin for his own benefit,
Mathews was ordered to play the clown!
This brought the grievances to a head,
and produced a letter of remonstrance
to the manager, whose reply Mathews
vigilantly preserved ever after, with
contemptuous triumph.
" To Mr Mathews. I am danger-
ously ill, and therefore unable to
attend to theatrical grievances. After
a second and a third time seeing
your performance, I averred, and do
aver, this misfortune has placed an
insurmountable bar to the possibilty of
your ever being capable of sustaining
the first line of comic business. Mr
Emery I requested to inform you of
the same at Wakeficld, who was en-
tirely of my opinion; for the para-
lytic stroke (Wilkinson would 'always
disregard Mathews's protestations that
he had never suffered anything of this
kind) renders your performance seri-
ously disagreeable. I told Mr. Hill
(a proprietor of a magazine entitled
the Monthly Mirror} that not all the
mirrors in the kingdom, whether in
print or glass, can ever establish you
as a first comedian. If heaven wills,
you may be so, but no other order or
interest can effect such a miracle."
After some other peevish remarks, he
still more peevishly advises him to
" try, by degrees, to be useful." " I
recommend the shop as suited to you
and Mrs M. But Emery said, ' You
•were so stage bitten, it would only
vex you.' 1 can only say stay and
be happy, or go and be happy, and
even unhappy, and wishing myself
better, am yours, in great pain."
How his excitable heart and con-
240
Mathews the Comedian.
[Feb.
sciousness of merit — for every man of
abilities feels them — must have been
•wrung by this self-sufficient and pup-
py ish epistle, we can only conceive.
But Necessity, the mother of wisdom
to all mankind, here made Mathews
wise. In defiance of the manager's
foolish opinion he stayed, and before
the end of the year saw his rival dis-
missed for negligence, himself rapidly
rising in popularity, and even the past
eccentricities of Wilkinson softening
down into a common-sense admission
that he was good for something ; in
fact, it was felt ." that he had become
one of the most popular actors that
ever appeared at the York theatre."
Still, however, his salary seems to have
been only twenty shillings a- week !
London now began to glitter in, his
dreams. Mathews writes to his friend
Litch field,— " Ah, Jack, if ever I
should be invited to London by either
of those gentlemen (the managers),
and could only obtain a tolerable foot-
ing in either of the theatres, I should
indeed be happy. If I cou1 •' ^e but
once established in London, '^1 *n
ducement on earth could possibb
me ever wish to quit the profess. „.
I am fonder of it than ever. I begin
to consider it more of a science than
I have ever done before. Since I
came to Yorkshire, I have been con-
vinced of the necessity of great study,
even in low comedy, which many
actors think unnecessary, and that
study endears me to the profession.
But ' London, dear London,' as Archer
says in the play, I look forward to it
as the reward of all the struggles and
labours which I have experienced."
He then, in his overflowing good-
humour, gives a tribute even to Wil-
kinson's generosity, and returns t*
the topic nearest his heart. " Every
actor hopes to go to London who hoj/r
any love of fame. I think, my dear,
Jack, that I have now some rational
hopes that I may one day pay a visit
there, but this is entre nous, for I would
not be accused of vanity."
He then adverts to his stature,
•which seems to have always thwarted
his stage glories, though he was ac-
tually not above five feet ten. " If I
could but take three or four inches
from my height, I should fear nothing ;
but it is useless to lament. If Suett
would but tipple harder, and tip off
in three or four years, I should like to
hazard an appearance. Heaven de-
fend me from getting fat, that's all. If
that should be the case, there would be
an end of every thing ; all my hopes
in Suett would be destroyed. Though
I should be a scarecrow in my old
age, I hope I may still continue to be
able to count my ribs with my fingers."
An odd incident occurred in Mrs
Siddons's performance at Leeds. On
one excessively hot evening, this great
actress, while behind the scenes, ex-
hausted by thirst, desired to have some
porter. Her dresser dispatched a boy
in great haste " to bring some beer for
Mrs Siddons," at the same time charg-
ing him to be quick, as sho..was about
to go on the stage. In the mean-time,
the play of course proceeded ; the
boy, on his return, looked in vain for
Mrs Siddons. She had gone on with
her part; and the scene-shifter, to
whom he applied, pointed to her where
she was treading the boards in death-
like solemnity as Lady Macbeth, in
the sleep-walking scene. To the sur-
prise and horror of all the performers,
the boy, with the frothing porter- pot
"i his hand,- promptly walked up to
- and offered it. Her distress may
u^ aiagined. She attempted to waive
him away, in her grand manner, with-
out effect ; but the absurdity had now
caught the general eye. The people
behind the scenes, by dint o*1 beckon-
ing, stamping, and call ilf-
audible whispers, at length succeeded
in getting him away, spilling, how-
ever, part of the beer in his exit. But
the audience were in roars of laughter,
which nothing could quell for some
minutes.
All provincial towns have their pro-
verbial oddities, and York had its full
share. Among one of the most ec-
centric, at least externally, was Miss
Topham, sister of the well-known
Major. This lady used to walk about
.the streets in all the exaggerated pomp
of Tilburiria, and, like her, had a
" confidante, in white linen," treading
dutifully in her steps. Miss Topham's
figure was tall and gaunt. Some-
times she dressed like an Arcadian
shepherdess, as we see them in Dres-
den china on mantel-pieces ; her hair
profusely pomatumed and powdered,
and dressed wide in large curls and
bows, surmounted by a little flat-
crowned hat, stuck up on end (the
edge of its brim resting upon her fore-
head), and decorated with a wreath of
artificial flowers, not remarkable for
1839.]
Mathews the Comedian.
241
their freshness of tint, with long rib-
bons of various colours appended.
Festoons of faded flowers, of the same
material and date as those upon her
hat, were fancifully hung' round about
her lank, withered form ; and high-
heeled white satin shoes, and diamond
buckles, graced her feet. Her sack
and petticoat of fine flowered brocade
would one day assert its independ-
ence ; on another, you would behold
her attired in light, gauzy, unstiffened
drapery, which clung tenaciously to
her limbs, forming a sudden and strik-
ing contrast to the previous fussiness
of her silk dri4ss. Sometimes she car-
ried a very tall cane, somewhat re-
sembling a crook ; on another day, a
parasol, held high above her head with
studied care, so as not to touch or hide
her head-dress from admiring gazers,
her smiling countenance invariably
bearing evidence of self- approval and
satisfaction. Her "confidante" had
a short plump person, and, I sus-
pect, like Sheridan's " gentle Nora,"
shrewdly accommodated her pursuits
and behaviour most gravely to all the
varieties of her mistress's moods. Sb
also " wore her rue with a difference,-
and varied her dress as her superior
did. Whether she lent herself as an
artful accessary for her own private
ends, or ••"-"'prudently placed by her
friem Miss Tophara, for her
security/ no one seemed to know.
These two equally extraordinary be-
ings walked, as -I have said, about
York and its vicinity with little or no
notice from the natives, mostly " to
the manner born. " They were per-
fectly harmless ; and from the station
Miss Topham held, who was a woman
of family and fortune, they were never
molested or inconvenienced by any
one. Miss Topham was supposed to
have been " crossed in love," the un-
varying mode of accounting for the
lost wits of unmarried ladies'. Her
home eccentricities were very amusing,
but cannot be related.
Major Topham, in his own way, was
as great an eddity-as his sister. He
had been well educated, was a clever
classical scholar, and mixed in the
highest society of his day, including
the Carlton House circle. Early in life
lie had entered into the Life Guards ;
was named in the regiment the tip-top
adjutant, from his dexterity in manceu-
vering the regiment, and he state of
perfection to which he brought it ; and
VOL. XLV. NO. COLXXX.
probably would have become a first-
rate officer, and obtained a high name
amongst the soldiers of England, if
he had continued his military career ;
but some whim withdrew him from
the army, and he devoted himself to
performing the childish part of a man
of fashion. Here again he took the
lead, adopted all the extravagancies,
and was the most consummate cox-
comb perhaps in Europe. He then
turned litterateur, and weary of lead-
ing fashion, took to libelling it ; set up
a paper named the World, and made
his paper as remarkable as himself by
all kinds of showy absurdities. When
Mathews saw him at York, those
whims had passed away, and, as he
was now rather in the vale of years,
his taste was to appear in the dress of
childhood. He was now seen walking
through the streets of York during
the public weeks, races, and assizes, an
elderly gentleman, whose body seemed
to have increased without allowing his
limbs to share in its growth, for his
legs and '*«s retained the slimness of
-AV "He was tall and very upright.
'& a suit of grass-green cloth,
:UUMC precisely in the fashion of a
schoolboy's dress of that day — namely,
a' short-tailed jacket with outside
pockets, trousers short enough to show
his slender ancle in a white silk stock-
ing, and a short-waisted vest with
yellow sugar-loaf metal buttons. Al-
together his appearance suggested the
idea of a Brobdignag lad of ten or
twelve years old.
One of Mathews's achievements was
the very rare one of escaping the in-
come tax. Its grasp was certainly
very close, when it sought for money
among the country actors. Mathews,
(1 -iimning to avoid, if he could, hit
uubh the droll expedient of drawing
' 'out -a list of the drawbacks on his very
narrow income. This he gave in the
shape of an inventory of all the con-
ceivable requisites for an actor's ap-
pearance upon the stage ; first wigs, of
which he enumerated every possible
shape and colour — black wigs, white
wigs, brown wigs, red wigs, &c. ; then
stockings of every colour and mate-
rial ; then shoes ; then buckles ; then
the innumerable miscellaneous articles
of the wardrobe and toilette — rouge,
Indian ink, burnt corks, cold cream,
&c., and all those given with a mi-
nuteness of detail, which covered
many sheets of paper. The statement
242
Mathews the Comedian.
[Feb.
•was read aloud to the commissioners,
and listened to by them with astonished
gravity for a few minutes ; but the
burlesque was at length perceived, and
all present burst into laughter. The
effect was perfectly successful, for
whatever might have happened to the
other performers, the man of the wigs
was never called upon to pay the in-
come tax in York again.
The York assizes afforded this inde-
fatigable student of comedy frequent
instances of the ludicrous. An action
was brought against the owner of a
waggon, which, by the carelessness of
the driver, had crushed an unlucky
donkey against a wall and killed it.
Sergeant Cockle, well known for his
roughness of examination, was per-
plexing one of the witnesses, who
found no other means of extricating1
himself than by giving a graphic de-
scription of the matter in question.
" Weel, my Lord Joadge," said the
hesitating clown, " I'll tell ye how it
happened as weel as I can. My lord,
suppose I am the waggon, here I was.
Now, my Lord Joadge, there you
are, you are the wall." The describer
now paused, as if trying to recollect
his third position. " Come, fellow,"
exclaimed Cockle, " out with your
story at once. You have not told us
where was the ass?" " My Lord
Joadge," said the witness, with a
sudden sparkle in his eye, " His
honour the Coonsel is the ass!" Of
course the court was in a roar.*
At length Mathews realized his
hope of a London engagement. George
Colman offered him L. 10 a- week for
the Haymarket season of four months,
and he was happy, if any one con-
nected with theatres is ever to be
happy. Wilkinson had long since
changed his first opinion of his abili-
ties, and they parted with feelings of
kindness creditable to both. The
old manager's farewell was a curious
instance of the " ruling passion."
Mathews had, by this time, lost his
first wife, and married a second, a
Miss Jackson, a singer in the York
company. The actor and his young
bride waited ou Wilkinson, who was
then a confirmed invalid, and ex-
pressing some wishes for his restora-
tion. Old Tate said, « Do not hope
it j it is unkind to wish me to live in
pain, unable to feel enjoyment. No,
my children, I do not wish to live. I
should like to stay over the August
race- week, to see my old friend Fawcett,
and hear how the audience receive
their former favourite, and then I shall
be content to die."
Mathews's first appearance in Lon-
don, when he was received with re-
markable favour, supplied a charac-
teristic anecdote, of that most irritable,
yet complimentary of all gentlemen,
Cumberland. The play was his Jew ;
he had come to town, for the novelty
of seeing it performed at the Hay-
market, by a corps of new actors. Af-
ter the fall of the curtain, he went
round to the green-room ; then he
lavished praises on Elliston's Sheva ;
and next coming up to Mathews, who
had performed Jabel, began in his
affected strain of compliment — " The
part had never been better played, in
figure, dress, and acting ; it was his
declared opinion, that all was perfect.
I wrote the part, said he, and ought
to know; I assure you, sir, I never was
more gratified." But the truth sud-
denly broke out, and he added, with
irrepressible irritation — " You spoke
so low, sir, that I could not hear a
word you said !"
Liston was chosen partly to supply
the vacancy left by Mathews in the
York company. But he, being soon
presumed to have no talent for come-
dy, either high or low, and this being
the general verdict of manager and
company, Liston performed old men
in tragedy, and seems to have been
designed to figure by Tate, in the Ca-
pulets. Such is the penetration of
theatrical criticism.
Sterne says that the sentimental
traveller is always sure of meeting
with food for sentiment. Mathews
seems to have constantly met mate-
rials for his study of human excentri-
city. He was one day invited to dine
at the house of a friend at Chiswick,
where Moody, once a celebrated ac-
tor, was to be of the party. Moody
had long left the stage, 'and was then
a very old, but very fine remnant of
what he had been. During dinner he
talked with great animation, brought
back his theatrical reminiscences, —
and, in short, exhibited no sign what-
ever of mental decay. Mathews ex-
* The biograplier tells the story differently, and loses the point.
Mathews the Comedian.
243
erted himself to amuse this Nestor of
the boards — and was honoured by the
declaration, " that Garrick himself
•was not greater in what he did." At
length Moody was asked for a song ;
he complied, singing in strong, though
uneven tones, the old Scottish, " Were
a' Noddin," which, however, he gave
with a strong Irish accent. When he
had reached nearly the end of the
second verse, he suddenly stopped.
All waited a while, thinking that he
was endeavouring to revive his me-
mory. At length, his host gently said,
Mr Moody, " I am afraid the words
have escaped you." " Words, sir !
what words ?" asked the old man, with
a look of great surprise. " The words
of your song." — " Song ! what song,
sir ?" — " The rest of the song, you
have been so kind as to favour us
with ; ' We're a' Noddin',' of which
you have sung one verse." " Heaven
bless you, sir," said Moody hastily, "I
have not sung a song these ten years,
and shall never sing again ; I am too
old to sing, sir." " Well, but you
have been singing, and very well too."
To this Moody, with agitation and
earnestness, replied, " No, no, sir ; I
have not sung for years. Singing is
out of the question, at my time of
life." All looked at each other, and
then at the old man, who exhibited,
in his face and manner, such an evi-
dent unconsciousness ; that it was felt
unfit to advert any further to the sub-
ject. This was an affecting evidence
of partial decay.
It has been often observed, that,
where an individual has a peculiar
source of irritability, occasions of ex-
asperating it appear to be perpetually
thrown in his way. Mathews had a
nervous abhorrence of being recog-
nised off the stage. He wished to see
the " Blind Boy," then performing
with great eclat at Covent Garden ;
and to be safe from recognition,
squeezed himself into the crowd of the
pit. All were occupied with the pro-
gress of this pretty drama, and he
sat for a while secure. At length
his ear was caught by the questions of
some one, enquiring of his neighbour
the names of the performers. The
neighbour was evidently one of those
who prefer any thing to acknowledg-
ing their ignorance, and he confidently
gave a name to every actor that ap-
peared, always giving the wrong one.
Mathews thus listened to him calling,
for instance, Miss Decamp, Charles
Kemble, Fawcett, Emery ; Listen,
Dignun, &c. Those who know any
thing of Mathews's temperament, may
conceive how impatiently he listened
to this Solomon. At length, some
deplorable underling of the scene ap-
peared, and he heard the cicerone say,
" that is Mathews." He could restrain
himself no longer, but sharply said,
" No sir, no sir, that is not Mathews."
The man turned round suddenly, and
looked at him, as with the intent of
out-facing his assertion. But, in a
moment, his pertinacity vanished, his
compressed lips distended with a
laugh, and he cried out, " Why you
are Mathews;" adding, " I kncwedyou
the moment you spoke, — by your
wry mouth 1"
Matthews always scorned to be
called a mimic, and, in fact, the name
was below him. He was a mimetic
genius, an imitative original. In this
spirit he was constantly alive to all
strange opportunities of character, and
took an active delight in the exercise of
his powers of burlesque. The noble
rising of the Spanish nation in 1808,
had excited universal enthusiasm in
England ; and it was suggested by a
party of his friends, who were in the
habit of making little country excur-
sions, that he should, on one occasion,
travel as the Spanish ambassador !
The idea was joyously put in practice.
His Excellency and suite set out in two
carriages for Woolwich, where they
were to dine. On their arrival, a Mr
Hill, a well-known and pleasant per-
sonage, who, to the gratification of
his many friends, still survives,
undertook the office of interpre-
ter ; and he speedily whispered to
the landlord the rank of the person
whom he had the honour to enter-
tain. The intelligence acted like a
spark of electricity, setting the whole
of the establishment in motion. In
the mean-time, his Excellency sallied
forth on foot, with his suite, in order
to behold the wonders of the place.
His appearance in itself was sufficient
to produce a public effect, without the
quick spreading knowledge of his
rank. He was dressed in a green frock
coat, buttoned up to the neck, his bo-
som ornamented with a prolusion of
orders of «very sort ; and on his head
a large cocked hat, with viva Fer-
nanda, in gold characters, on a purple
ribbon. His Excellency also wore a
pair of green spectacles. In the
streets of Woolwich he was followed
244
Mathews the Comedian.
[Feb.
and cheered by all little boys, to -whom
the ambassador bowed -with amiable
humility. We went into shops and
bought various things, speaking volu-
bly the jargon, which his enterpreter
rendered into good English. At
length, almost to his excellency's con-
sternation, a message was sent from
the higher powers of the place, that
•whatever the Spanish Ambassador
deigned to notice, would be open to
his excellency's inspection for the rest
of the day, for which purpose the
workmen had received orders not to
quit the spot at their customary hours of
refreshment, but await his commands.
This was alarming. It was more than
his Excellency reckoned upon, and
fearful was the thought of detection un-
der such a distinguished mark of atten-
tion. However, the ambassador gra-
ciously accepted the proffered exhibi-
tion, and viewed all that was to be seen,
with due show of surprise and com-
mendation, faithfully interpreted to
the comptrollers of the works. When
at last this ludicrous scene ended, the
ambassador and his suite returned to
take their " ease at their inn," where
the preparations were indeed appalling.
Every bit of plate that could be got
together, not only belonging to the
house, but, as they afterwards learned,
from the neighbourhood, was displayed
in gorgeous array to grace the visit of
so distinguished a guest. The landlord
and his family, and his servants, were
tricked out in all their best attire, to
•wait upon the great man, whom they
•were all drawn out to greet upon his
return, courtesying to him, all of which
this high bred man, and illustrious
foreigner, acknowledged with a grace
and condescension that won all hearts.
He talked unceasingly, but they could
only dwell upon what his interpreter
was kind enough to render intelligible.
Now and then, indeed, a word of Eng-
lish would gratify their tortured ears.
t( Goode English pepel," — " fine
house," — " tanks," and such compli-
ments sweetened their laborious at-
tendance.
This strange frolic, which would
have figured in a Spanish farce, was
still carried on with equal extrava-
gance. Among other things, the in-
terpreter informed the landlord that
his Excellency required every article
of use in vast quantities, hundreds
of napkins, spoons, forks, plates,—
those, of course, being the customs
of high life jn Spain, The injunction
was complied with, to the full extent of
the anxious landlord's means. The
first view of his Excellency's bed- room,
for instance, exhibited to him about
twelve dozens of towels, piled up be-
side his dressing table, for one night's
use. The attention of the whole
household was occupied by the odd
variety of this accomplished diploma-
tist's commands, and the Woolwich
boniface was completly mystified.
They at length took boat for a river
excursion. The ambassador, a little
tired of his dignity, and hungering
for the solid advantages of humbler
life, resolved to resign his honours,
resume his mother tongue, and leave
his title behind him. Doffing his
spectacles and medals, and exchanging
his green coat for a blue, he came to
the boat as a " stranger" who desired
to be taken to Woolwich. This was
another division of the frolic. The
master being informed that his noble
patron, " the Spanish ambassador,"
would not return, asked leave of the
party to take " the gentleman " on
board. On their way back, the con-
versation turned wholly on the superb
diplomatist, and the master's descrip-
tion of him was so happy a mixture of
prodigies and prejudices of astonish-
ment and repulsion, that the laugh
was universal till they reached Wool-
wich, there got into the carriages, and
is escaped under cover of the dark. But
in Woolwich the topic was long talked
of, and though circumstances gradu-
ally were recollected, which gave the
oracles of the place some awkward
suspicion that they had been hoaxed
with equal pleasantry and effrontery,
yet the name of the stately represen-
tative of Ferdinand the Seventh, was
not discovered.
Among the visitants at Mathews's
cottage were some of the most remark-
able theatrical persons of the time ;
but one was frequently there, who was
destined to be in after days one of the
memorable favourites of fortune ; the
late Duchess of St Alban's ; " Har-
riet Mellon, then a youthful, slight,
and beautiful creature. She would
come, all joy and simplicity, for a
day's recreation. How merry and
happy she was ! perhaps happier than
when splendour hedged her in from
the enjoyment of simple pleasures, the
love of which I believe to have been
inherent in her nature. I see her now,
returning from a tumble into a neigh-
bouring pond, of which her horse had
1839]
Mathews the Comedian.
245
unexpectedly chosen to drink. How
unaffectedly she protested, when
dragged out, that she did not care for
the accident. How we laughed, while
we dragged off the wet clothes from
her fine form, half apprehensive for
the consequences of her plunge. Then
again, what peals of merriment at-
tended her re-appearance in the bor-
rowed ill-fitting dress that had been
cast upon her, and the uncouth turban
that bound her straightened hair, and
which she was compelled to wear for
the rest of the day. What amusement
her figure created, — how many other
drolleries have I seen her enact at va-
rious periods in the same place, my
husband the leader of the revels. We
ceased our intimacy with Miss Mellon,
just as she became a rich woman ; but,
in after years, we never glanced at
each other in public for a moment,
that I did not fancy that the Duchess
of St Albans looked as if she remem-
bered those scenes, and that they were
very happy." The cottage, in short,
was a place not to be forgotten by
its visitors. Alas ! how few now
remain to dwell upon the recollec-
tions this mention of it is calculated
to renew.
All the living " eccentricities" of the
day, whether embodied in actors at
five shillings a-week, or noble lords at
ten times the number of thousands,
were alike familiar to Mathews.
Among those, was the late Lord Eard-
ley. Mathews used to tell a curious
story of this fantastic original. One
of Lord Eardley's especial antipathies
was to having attendants about him ;
and his still more especial antipathy
was to having them of the class called
fine gentlemen.
During breakfast, one day, Lord
Eardley was informed that a person
had applied for a footman's place then
vacant. He was ordered into the room,
and a double-refined specimen of the
genut so detested by his lordship made
his appearance. The manner of the
man was extremely affected and con-
sequential, and it was evident that my
lord understood him at a glance ;
moreover, it was as evident he deter-
mined to lower him a little.
" Well, my good fellow," said he,
" what, you want a lackey's place, do
you ?"
" I came about an upper footman's
situation, my lord," said the gentle-
man, bridling up his head.
« Oh, do ye, do ye ?" replied Lord
Eardley ; " I keep no upper servants ;
all alike, all alike here."
" Indeed, my lord !" exclaimed this
upper footman, with an air of shocked
dignity, " What department then am
I to consider myself expected to till ?"
" Department ! department ! " quoth
my lord, in a tone like enquiry.
" In what capacity, my lord ?''
My lord repeated the word capaci*
ty, as if not understanding its appli-
cation to the present subject.
" I mean, my lord," explained the
man, " what shall I be expected to do,
if I take the situation 9"
" Oh, you mean if you take the place.
I understand you now," rejoined my
lord ; " why, you're to do every thing
but sweep the chimneys and clean the
pig-sties, and those I do mi/self."
The gentleman stared, scarcely
knowing what to make of this, and
seemed to wish himself out of the room ;
he, however, grinned a ghastly smile>
and after a short pause, enquired what
salary his lordship gave?"
" Salary, salary ?" reiterated his in-
corrigible lordship, " don't know the
word, don't know the word, my good
man."
Again the gentleman explained, " I
mean what wages ?"
" Oh, wages," echoed my lord;
"what d'ye ask, — what d'ye ask?"
Trip regained his self-possession at
this question, which looked like busi-
ness, and, considering for a few mo-
ments, answered — firststipulatingtobe
found in hair-powder, and (on state
occasions) silk stockings, gloves,
bags, and bouquets — that he should
expect thirty pounds a-year.
" How much, how much ?" de-
manded my lord, rapidly.
" Thirty pounds, my lord."
" Thirty pounds!" exclaimed Lord
Eardley, in affected amazement, —
" make it guineas, and I'll live with
YOU;" then ringing the bell, said to
the servant who answered it, " Let
out this gentleman, he's too good for
me;" and then turning to Mathews,
who was much amused, said, as the
man made his exit, " Conceited, im-
pudent scoundrel ; soon sent him off,
soon sent him off — Master Mathews !"
All this was characteristic of the
old, and well-known humorist ; but if
his lordship had lived till our day, he
would have found the " gentleman"
in all probability giving him a higher
246
rate of astonishment, at least in the
shape of wages. Thirty pounds in
our impoverished day would have
scarcely supplied a personage of those
pretensions, with money for his menus
plaisirs. The nobleman is but lately
dead, who was reported to give five
hundred pounds a-year to his cook !
True, that nobleman's reputation was
founded solely upon his dinners ; and
the five hundred was the purchaser of
all his fame.
But there were other humorists in
existence ; and one piece of dexterity
enacted by Incledon, a singer, whose
marvellous sweetness of voice, and
forcible simplicity of style can never
be forgotten by those who once heard
him, in general formed a striking
contrast to his manners. However,
on this occasion, he showed more di-
plomacy than we have given him
credit for. One night when Mathews
and he joined the Leicester company
on passing through, they agreed to
perform in the musical piece of the
" Quaker," Incledon to play " Steady."
It was not until after his name was in
the play-bills, that he discovered the
bareness of the wardrobe. It did not
contain a fragment of the Quaker
costume. Incledon, always excitable,
was now wretched ; an attempt to
patch up a dress made him more
miserable still. At last, as he and
Mathews were lounging up the prin-
cipal street, Incledon caught sight of
a portly Quaker standing at the door
of a chemist's shop. " Charles, my
dear boy," said Incledon, winking his
eyes, (his habit when peculiarly plea-
«ed), " Do you see that Quaker there ?
What a dress he has got on ! just my
size. I've a good mind, Charles, to
ask him to lend it to me to-night."
" Absurd ! " said Mathews, " you
could not think of such a thing."
" My dear boy," replied Incledon,
" only consider what a comfort it
would be to me, instead of that trum-
pery suit from the wardrobe. I'll go
in and ask him ; he looks like a good-
natured creature."
Accordingly, in he walked, inquir-
ing of Obadiah for some quack medi-
cines, and after some small purchases,
began in his blandest manner and
voice to address the Quaker upon the
real object which he had in view.
" My dear and respected sir," — the
man stared — " allow me to explain to
you how I am situated, and grant me
Mathews the Comedian. [Febt
a patient hearing." The Quaker look-
ed patience itself; and Mathews,
curious to hear the result, took his
seat in the shop. " My dear sir," con-
tinued Incledon, " I am one of a class of
men, of whom, of course, your peculiar
tenets cannot allow you to know much.
In fact, I am of the theatrical profes-
sion— Charles Incledon, of the Theatre
Royal, Covent Garden, first ballad-
singer in England." This was uttered
with great emphasis and volubility, in
his peculiar dialect, that of Cornwall.
The Quaker started back, and looked
at Mathews, as if doubting the sanity
of the person addressing him. Incle-
don resumed, " Pray, sir, I am an
actor. I am this night advertised
at your — no, not your theatre — at
the theatre in Leicester, for Steady
the Quaker, and it so happens that
there is no proper dress for the cha-
racter, which is highly complimentary
to your people. Independently of the
want of effect, from a bad dress, I am
truly mortified to do discredit to so re-
spectable a body as yours. In fact,
part of my own family were originally
of your persuasion, my dear sir ; and
this is an additional reason why I am
anxious to do all possible honour to
the revered Society of Friends. In
short, my worthy sir, without your
humane assistance, I shall come before
all the gentry of Leicester in a dress
very degrading to the proverbial neat-
ness of your sect. Will you lend me
one of your suits ? You and I are of
a size. And, in so doing, you will at
once show the liberality of your cha-
racter, and keep up the respectability
of the admirable body of people, so
deservedly esteemed by all the world,
and by none more than Charles Incle-
don."
Sam Slick himself, with his " soft
sawder" and " human natur" could not
have done it better, and the effect was
proportionate. The chemist, to the
surprise of Mathews, melted by this
eloquent appeal to the- honour of his
sect, not only lent a suit of clothes, but
yielded to the persuasions of the singer,
to be put into a private corner ! to be
an unseen witness of the manner in
which the stage upheld his persuasion.
That he was charmed with Steady,
there was no doubt, for he readily con-
fessed this to Incledon, on his return-
ing the suit of clothes ; but he was
gravely silent about the merits of Solo-
mon, which we presume to have been
1839.]
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
247
played by Mathews, and in which the
knowledge of Obadiah's presence
would inevitably stimulate that keen
observer to frisk with peculiar and
merciless pleasantry.
The biography is, on the whole, a
clever book, containing many amusing
anecdotes, and well calculated to re-
vive and retain the memory of a re-
markably gifted performer. As the
present two volumes bring the narra-
tive only to the beginning of those po-
pular performances, the " At Homes,"
or recitations, in which Mathews was
the sole exhibitor, there must be much
remaining to tell, and well worthy of
being told. The actor's intercourse
with individuals of rank, as well as of
public name, his long and various mix-
ture with human character under all
circumstances, and the quick sensibi-
lity to the ludicrous, the forcible, and
the original, in human nature, gave
him boundless opportunities of sus-
taining the office of a mental Lavater.
Certainly no man better understood
the physiognomy of the mind ; and,
professional as his remarks naturally
must be, they often had a value beyond
the theatre. To this native sagacity
he added the merit of estimable per-
sonal conduct. Mathews sought none
of the infamous celebrity which men,
who presume themselves geniuses,
are so fond of acquiring. He did not
find it essential to his fame either to
separate from his wife, or cast off his
sou ; and he died, as he had lived,
without a stain on his name.
A DISCOURSE ON GOETHE AND THE GERMANS.
How glad I am, my dear Mr North,
to have found you at home! — charming
snuggery ! — f'amousfire! — and Ideclare
there's a second tumbler on the table,
as if you expected me. Your health,
my dear friend ! — good heavens, what
intense Glenlivat! — I must add a little
water ; and now, that at last we are
cozy and comfortable — feet on fender,
glass in hand — I beg to say a few
words to you on the subject of German
morals and German literature.
Sir, unaccustomed as I am to public
speaking, I must crave your indul-
gence — more sugar, did you say ? —
while I dilate a little upon the many
trumpet-blowings and drum-beatings
we have heard on these two subjects
for the last fifteen or twenty years.
Morals ! — oh the good, hopest, simple,
primitive, Germans ! Literature ! — oh
the deep-thinking, learned, grand,
original- minded Germans ! Now, the
fact is, sir, that the Germans have
neither morals nor literature. But,
as 1 intend, with your permission —
your bland countenance shows your
acquiescence — to demonstrate by the
thing they call literature, the no-
tion they entertain of the thing they
call morals, I need not trouble you
with a double disquisition on these two
points, as in fact they are, like the
French Republic, one and indivisible.
Fifty years ago, they themselves con-
fess, they had no literature. The
capabilities of their noble language
were yet undiscovered ; their scholars
wrote in Latin ; their wits wrote in
French. Poetry was defunct, or rather
uncreated ; for, on the top of the Ger-
man Parnassus, such as it was, sat in
smoke and grandeur the weakest of
mortals, the poorest of versifiers, the
most miserable of pedants, John
Christoph Gottshed. Was he kicked
down from his proud eminence by the
indignation of his countrymen ? —
hooted to death by their derision ? —
and finally hung in chains as a terror
to evil doers ? My dear sir, the man
was almost worshipped — yes — he, this
awful example of human fatuity
— a decoction of Hayley and Na-
than Drake — was looked up to by the
whole German nation, as an honour
to the human race. It will not do for
them to deny the soft impeachment
now, and tell us that they look down
upon that worthy. I dare say they
do ; but whom do they look up to be-
tween the days of Gottshed, and the
first appearances of a better order of
things in the persons of Wieland,
Klopstock, and Gesner ? To the other
members of the Leipsic school,
Gellert, Rabener, and Zacharia ! —
pretty men for a nation to be proud
of! — No sir, you need not shake your
head. I am not in a passion, I assure
248
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
[Feb.
you, but only a little nettled ; for can
any thing be more provoking than to
have one's ears tormented incessantly
•with praises of every thing German,
by a set of blockheads, male and fe-
male, who know nothing of the sub-
ject, and take all that the Germans
themselves advance for gospel ? De-
pend upon it, sir, hundreds of young
ladies can repeat stanzas of Gleim and
Utss, who never read a line of Spen-
cer in their lives. So let us go back
to Gottshed. Did you ever meet with
his collection of plays called the Ger-
man Theatre ? A lucky man if you
haven't, for such a load of trash was
never before brought together in one
heap since the days of Augeus.
Translation, or more properly, as they
themselves call it, " oversetting," is
the loftiest of their flights. And such
translations! Corneille, Racine, Ger-
manized, and by the hand of John
Christoph himself; hand more fit to
stuff sausages than translate the Cid
or Iphiginie. And even in this cab-
baging and pilfering how limited was
their range ! The Danish and French
seem to be the only tongues they had
the command of. English was a foun-
tain sealed, and a well shut up from
them, till some French depredator
had first melted the wax and picked
the padlock. But, gracious heaven,
Mr North, how they dirtied the water !
And who was it, after all, whom
they translated or imitated ? Not John-
son— not Shakspeare — nor even glo-
rious John. Who then ? Addison !
— The Drummer, which even in Eng-
lish is a wonderfully stupid perfor-
mance for the creator of Sir Roger de
Coverly, is tortured into more Teutonic
dulness in a close translation ; and
Gottshed founds his claim to supre-
macy as an original author on his
tragedy of Cato. Stars and Garters !
bob- wigs and shoe-buckles ! what a
Cato ! Addison' s is poor enough, and
spouts like a village schoolmaster in
his fifth tumbler ; and virtuous Mar-
cia towers above her sex like a ma-
tron of the Penitentiary ; but Gotts-
hed's Cato is a cut above all this.
Shall I give you the Dramatis Per.
sonce ? Here they are in my note-book.
" CATO.
ARSENE or PORCIA.
PORCIUS, Cato's Son.
PEUENICE, Arsene's Confidante.
PHOCUS, Cuto's Attendant. ->.
PHARNACES, King out of Pontu..
FELIX, his Attendant.
CJJSAR.
DOMITIUS, his Attendant.
ARTABAXUS, a Parthian.
Cato's suite.
Caesars suite.
" The scene is in a hall of a strong
castle in Utica, a considerable city in
Africa. The story or incident of the whole
tragedy extends from mid-day till towards
sunset."
What do you think of that, sir?
And what do you think of Arscne
who has been brought up by Arsaces,
and by him been made Queen of the
Parthians, turning out in the third act
to be Cato's daughter, and shockingly
in love with Caesar ? Think of all this,
sir, and of the prodigious orations
between the two heroes in rhyming
Alexandrines, and you will rejoice as
I did that the long-winded old patriot
put himself to death. It is the only
consolation one has all through the
play to know that in the fifth act
justice will be executed on all and
sundry ; for Gottshed does not spare
an inch of the cold steel.
But why do I lay such stress on
poor old buried and forgotten John
Christoph? — I'll trouble you for the
kettle The reason is very plain ; I
want to find out some excuse for the
Germans having formed such an ex-
aggerated estimate of their present
school — and I think I have found it in
the profundity of the abyss they were
sunk in before it made its appearance.
People in a coal-pit see the smaller
stars at mid day as plain as if each of
them were of the first magnitude. The
deeper they go down, the brighter
shines the twinkler ; so that when the
Leipsic public had fallen into the
depths of Gottshedism, no wonder that,
on the first rising of WTieland, they
considered him the sun in heaven.
Then shone Klopstock, Lessing, Schil-
ler, Goethe forming — as seen from that
subterranean level — a whole planetary
system. But for us English, sir, to
look up to such lights — to talk of them
in the same century with our own — or to
think they are fitted to be classed with
those glorious constellations that illu-
mine the British sky, and shed their
glory over alllands— thethingisbeyond
joke — 'tis monstrous. Contrast them, —
Klopstock — Milton ; Schiller — Shak-
speare ; Lessing — Dryden ; Goethe —
Walter Scott; and as to their small
fry, Sara Johnson would have swal-
1839.]
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
249
lowed them all. — Let me turn'the cock,
sir ; I admire your hospitable plan of
the cask and spigot, it saves so much
trouble in drawing corks — is the water
boiling ? — So let us hear no more talk
of the vast treasures of German litera-
ture. There are not six of them authors
worth reading, in what is properly
called literature. Learning and anti-
quities I leave out of the question —
they are industrious moles, and grub
excellently well — and yet it will take
many millions of moles to make a
Bentley. In history they have but
one name worth mentioning — John
Von Miiller — and he is one of the sons
of Anak, and will sit in the opposite
scale to Gibbon, and move not an inch
towards the beam — their tribe of gen-
tlemen who write with ease — their
story-tellers, romancers, parlour poets,
and so forth, are utterly below con-
tempt. Our annual bards and authors
are worth them all put together ; and
as to our novelists, properly so called,
taking them as painters of life and
manners, who would think of comparing
our second, third, or even our fourth-
rates with the miserable Tromlitsses
and Van der Veldes, or Haufts and
Spindlers, who rule the roast in their
own country, and tempt good-natured
young lords to introduce them here ?
Did any human being ever succeed in
getting to the end of a German novel
of ordinary life, without a weariness
of the flesh that suggested indistinct
thoughts of suicide ? Not one : I have
tried it a hundred times — and this is
what I have been aiming at — their
books, my dear sir, are not only stupid
but disgusting — 1 have met with very
few that were not positively shocking
from the insight they gave me into
the depravity of a whole people. The
French, heaven knows, are bad enough';
but with them it is a paroxysm, a
fever of impropriety* that is limited to
a certain set and will pass. Besides,
the French abominations are intended
to be abominable ; an unnatural state
of manners is chosen as the subject of
representation, and accordingly it is
treated in as unnatural a way as possi-
ble. For the horrors and iniquities,
of a kind that shock and disgust us so
much in their performances, are li-
mited to the romantic school — the in-
sane men of perverted genius, like
Victor Hugo, who, instead of exhaust-
ing old worlds and then imagining new,
begin the process by imagining a new
world, and peopling it with the crea-
tions of their distempered fancies. But
nobody meets such things in the novels
purporting to be stories of real life.
Paul de Kock himself is a humorist,
gross, coarse, and " improper," but
he sets out with the intention of de-
cribing gross, coarse, and improper
people. There are thieves, drunkards,
dissolute men, and naughty women,
in all countries ; we may wonder at
people's taste in painting such manners
and modes of thinking, but we are not
to blame any one but the individual
who chooses to bedaub his pallet with
such colours. The Germans, on the
other hand, are more revolting in their
novels of common life than in their
more ambitious imaginings. The
light is let in upon us through chinks
and crannies of the story, enabling us
to see the horrible state of manners into
which the whole nation is sunk ; for
observe, my dear sir, I don't allude to
the scenes brought forward in their
books to be looked at, shuddered at,
and admired as pieces of sublime
painting ; what I mean is the uncon-
scious air with which such revelations
are made, — the author seeing nothing
strange in the incidentheisdescribing;
and talking of it as a matter perhaps
of daily occurrence. And these are
the people that have written and roared
about themselves, till they have per-
suaded all Europe, or, at least, the
rising generation in England, that they
are an honest, and pure, and innocent
people ; simple in all their habits ; and,
in fact, only a better specimen of what
was once the character of our Saxon
ancestors. German integrity, Ger-
man truth, are the constant parrot
song of every national author. They
have even made a substantive out of
the word German ; and with them
Germanism or Deutscheit, means
every virtue under heaven — modesty,
I have no doubt, included. You nod,
my dear sir, as if you approved of that
— and in itself any thing that gives a
strong national feeling, a pride in one's
own country, a zeal to maintain its
honour — is an admirable thing. I
.have not forgotten the thunders of
applause that followed the clap-traps at
our theatres about British courage
— British power — hearts of oak, and
things of that kind : admirable clap-
traps they were — but they had their
effert sir. There wasn't a god in the
gallery that wouldn't have licked three
25Q
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
[Feb.
Frenchmen the moment he had done
clapping the aforesaid magnanimous
declaration ; for who would have cared
a halfpenny for a million of Bona-
partes after shouting in chorus, till
their throats were dry, " Britons never,
never, never will be slaves ?" But the
records of the last war will let us see
the patriotism of the Germans. Every
little principality and power seemed
to run a race who should first truckle
to the invader. The Confederation of
the Rhine is a death-blow to their
boasts ; and, to go back to their litera-
ture, is their a single man among all
their authors, except poor young
Korner, that showed a spark of Tyr-
tsean fire ? What said Goethe ? He
made the campaign against France in
1792, and wrote an account of it — are
there any spirit-stirring appeals in it
against oppression ? Not a word —
but a great deal about the comfort of
a blanket with which he kept himself
warm on the march ; and throughout
the whole reign of Napoleon his muse
was mute, or admitted to a place at
court. And yet Thomas Carlyle, —
let me propose his health, sir, hip, hip,
hurra ! — almost worships that cold-
blooded, selfish, sensual old man ; and
this idolatry before such a shrine, the
reputation of the Laird of Craigenput-
toek goes a great way to perpetuate.
Such clouds of word praises, in
•which, I feel sure, the heart has no
place, have been spread around this
idol, that it positively needs a man to
have very good eyes to see the paste
and pasteboard it is composed of.
Faust! Faust! — every human being,
from about eighteen up to five-and-
twenty, and some, even, who have
come to years of discretion, have got
into a perpetual sing-song of wonder
and awe about the depth, grandeur, su-
blimity, and all the rest of it, of this
inimitable performance. Did they
ever think of extending their enume-
ration of its merits, so as to include
its profanity, coarseness, vulgarity,
and unintelligibleness ? What are we
to think of a work, sir, that, in the
life-time of the author, needed com-
mentaries on almost every passage, —
on its general scope and tendency, —
on its occult significations, — while, all
the time, the author himself seemed
to gape with as total an unconscious-
ness of its secret meanings as any one
else. I will answer for it, at all
events, he would have found as much
difficulty as either Carus, or Enk, or
Duentzor, in explaining its " einheit
and ganzheit," its oneness and allness.
Read his own continuation of it —
never was proof so complete of a man's
ignorance of what he had meant in the
former part of the work ; — that is to
say, if you give him credit for having
hadanymeaninginitatall. Recollect I
don't deny that the man was clever. He
was as clever a fellow as the world will
often see ; for, do you know, Mr North,
I have a prodigious respect for the abi-
lities of successful quacks. Success,
itself, is the only proof I require.
The less a priori grounds there were
for expecting their triumphs, the
greater credit they are entitled to.
Therefore a bumper once more, if you
please, sir, to the immortal Goethe.
With no one element of the poetic
character in his whole composition ;
without enthusiasm, without high sen-
timent,— with no great power of
imagination, the man has persuaded
his countrymen, and they have per-
suaded all Europe, that he was one
of nature's denizens — the God-inspired
— in short, a Poet. Then, again,
with no knowledge of life, abstracted
from German life, without even the
power of entering into a pure or lofty
feeling, much less of giving birth to
one, he has persuaded his country-
men that he was an imaginative life-
describer, bareing the human soul, and
tracing every thought to its parent
source. Oh ! paltry, foul, and most
unnoble thoughts which Goethe had
the power of tracing- Oh ! fallen and
sinful human soul which Goethe had
the power to lay bare ! No, no, my
dear Mr North, there is but one light
in which that old man purulant can
be seen — in the colours his country-
men have bedaubed him with. As a
shrewd note-taker of their habits, as a
relater of their every-day modes of
thought, he is entitled to all the praise
they give him, — but, oh German
innocence ! — oh pittas ! — oh prisca
fides I — what habits of life are these —
what modes of thought !
With the help of a first-rate style,
full, clear, and satisfying, both to ear
and understanding ; and with a perfect
mastery over the most flexible and
graphic of all modern languages, it
will be strange if, amidst all the unen-
cumbered writings of this most labo-
rious of the paper-stainers of his la-
borious and paper-staining country,
1839.]
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
251
some one or other may not be worthy
of a sensible man's approbation. But,
by heavens, sir ! there is not one that
has not something or other so revolt-
ing to all good taste as to destroy the
pleasure you might otherwise have in
the performance. And over all is
epread such a dung-heap of vile sen-
sualism and immorality, that you fear
for the health of the surrounding in-
habitants ; for such nauseous exhala-
tions must bear "pestilence in every
breath. There, sir, is a novel of his
from which I intend to substantiate
every one of these assertions, — and,
by way of keeping my assertions more
easily in mind, I will reduce them to
these : — Goethe is a coarse-minded
sensualist, and the laxity of German
manners is most revolting. The
Wahlverwandtschaften, or, as it may
be translated, the affinities of choice
(as opposed to the affinities of blood),
is a novel of common life. A certain
baron, who is presented to us by no
other name than Edward, in the prime
of life (w hich other circumstances make
us fix at about forty-three), rich, po-
lished, and happy, is the hero of the
tale. Married within a year toacertain
Charlotte, and retired to his estate, no
two people apparently can be happier.
Building bowers, laying out planta-
tions, and getting up duets on the flute
'and harpsichord, with books and other
appliances, make time glide pleasantly
enough ; but, in an evil hour, Edward
determines to have a spectator of his
happiness, and launches out on the
comfort they would derive from the
society of an anonymous gentleman,
who flourishes all through the book
under the convenient designation of
" The Captain." Charlotte, like a
sensible woman, objects a little at first ;
probably as she is aware that all cap-
tains are dangerous inmates ; and she
has also some little regard for the
morals of a young girl of the name of
. Ottilie, who is at present at school,
but whom she intends to send for and
make a sort of assistant housekeeper.
You will observe, sir, both our friends
. — Baron Edward and the sensible
Charlotte — were no chickens, and had
had considerable experience of the
married life before. Like certain
communicative personages on the
stage, who generally relate the whole
story of their lives, either to them-
selves or to some person who knows
.every incident as well as they do, Char-
lotte takes an early opportunity of in-
forming her husband of various events
which it is highly probable he was
not altogether ignorant of. « We
loved each other" — she says to him
" when we were young, with all our
hearts. We were separated ; — you
from me, because your father, out of
an insatiable love of riches, married
you to a wealthy old woman ; I from
you, because I had to give my hand,
without any particular view, to a very
respectable old man that I never loved.
We were again free — you sooner
than I was, your old lady leaving you
a very handsome estate. I a little
later, just when you returned from
abroad. We met again — our recollec-
tions were delightful — we loved them —
there was no impediment to our living
together. You urged me to marry.
I hesitated at first, because, though we
are about the same age, I am older as
a woman than you as a man. At last
I could not refuse you what you con-
sidered your greatest happiness. You
wished to refresh yourself at my side
after all the troubles you had gone
through in the court, the camp, and
on your travels ; — to recall your re-
collections— to enjoy life — butall, with
me alone. I sent my only daughter
to a boarding-school, where, indeed,
she learns more than she could in the
country ; and not only her, but Ottilie
also, my favourite niece, who would,
perhaps, have been better as my assis-
tant in household concerns under my
own eye. All this was done with
your perfect approval, solely that we
might live to ourselves, and enjoy our
long- wished and late-gained happiness
undisturbed."
Isn't this a charming mother, sir,
and careful aunt? — Why, Mr North,
you've filled up my tumbler without
my seeing it ! — you see how affection-
ate she is to her only daughter ; how
tenderly she talks of the respectable
old man she could never love, — and
what purity of mind there is in the
whole description of the double wed-
ding and double widowhood. But a
bit of private history comes to light,
a little after, viz., that the Captain and
she had intended to hook Edward, the
rich widower, into a marriage with the
aforesaid Ottilie, Charlotte modestly
supposing that she was now too old to
attract his observation. Now, suppose
Edward was two-and-twenty when he
St Albansed himself; Charlotte mar-
252
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
[Feb.
ried her " respectable old man "
"without any particular view," say
in a year after she was deserted ; her
daughter is now seventeen, so that we
can guess pretty nearly how old is our
inflammable friend Edward. He
ought to be ashamed of himself! But
I am hurrying on too fast ; I haven't
told you what a middle-aged Don
Giovanni the rascal turns out.
The Captain came ; the Captain did
this, the Captain did that — was so
deep, so learned, so witty, so genteel,
he might have passed for Captain
O'Doherty. Ottilie also comes, " fair
as the first that fell of womankind,"
that is, according to Goethe's notions
of fairness ; full and round as a Hebe,
very young, very innocent, and a little
stupid — planting, building, digging
lakes, and creating scenery, go on
more charmingly than ever, and in
the course of a very short time, the
Captain and the sensible Charlotte are
burning like a couple of phcenixes,
and Edward and Ottilie are over
head and ears in love. To trace the
windings and effects of those two pas-
sions is the task the delicate-minded
author has chosen — his readers' sym-
pathies are enlisted as strongly as pos-
sible on the side of Ottilie and Edward
— their walks, their conversations,
mingled with much crying and kiss-
ing, according to the German recipe
for love-making, occupy the greater
part of the book. But not the whole
of it. — Bless you, my dear sir ! there
are very few subjects that do not
receive a moderate share of notice in
the course of the story, particularly
the proper mode of educating young
ladies ; with hints to mistresses of
boarding-schools, and the masters en-
gaged for the various accomplish-
ments. But you seem to look incre-
dulous. True as gospel, I assure you ;
for I beg you to observe — and that
was the thing I started with, two
tumblers ago — that the monster has
not the remotest idea that the person-
ages of his story are vicious or im-
mortal. They are all four held up to
us as paragons of perfection. Their
modes of going on are spoken of as
nothing out of the common way, in-
deed they are rather pointed out to us
as miracles of chastity and decorum ;
for Ottilie and Edward, resolving to be
united according to law, confess their
attachment to Charlotte, and beg her
to separate from her husband, and by
so doing make the Captain and Ed-
ward happy at the same time ! With
an effort of virtue almost super-human
—at all events super- German — she
refuses — and Edward, not to be out-
done, determines to exile himself from
his own house, on condition that Ot-
tilie and Charlotte remain in it as
friends. There's a sacrifice, sir! —
What have the Romans to show
that can compare to this ? His
domus et placens uxor, and his chil-
dren— for the hero is a father as well
as a husband — are all left behind.
But, though we hear of his children,
we are only made acquainted with one
of them ; and a history more full of
horror and debauchery never dis-
graced any of the French novels that
the world has united in condemning.
As near as I can tell you the details,
without making your venerable cheeks
purple with shame, I will trace out
the fate of the poor child.
The four lovers — the Captain and
Charlotte : Edward and Ottilie — are
interrupted in their quiet enjoyments,
by the visit of a certain Graf or Count,
and a certain Baroness. On the arrival
of the letter announcing their approach,
the Captain enquires who they are ?
Listen to the answer, and then talk of
Goethe's prolific imagination. 'Tis
Edward's story over again.
" They had for some time, both of
them being married, been passionately
in love. A double marriage was not
to be broken without trouble ; a se-
paration was thought of. The Baro-
ness succeeded in obtaining one, the
Count failed. They were therefore
forced to appear to live apart, but their
connexion still continued; and, though
they could not live together in the
capital in the winter, they made up for it
in summer at the baths, and in pleasure
excursions. They were both a little
older than Edward and Charlotte,
who had never cooled towards them
in affection, though they did not quite
approve of their proceedings. It was
only now that their visit was disagree-
able ; and if Charlotte had examined
into the cause of her dissatisfaction, she
would have found that it was on Ot-
tilie's account. The innocent darling
child should not so early have such an
example set before her."
Not so early ? — quaere, at what age
are such examples thought useful ? —
But you will find, sir, that the " inno-
cent darling child" was very forward
1839.]
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
253
of her age, and derived as much bene-
fit from the pattern as if she had been
ten years older. So this then, is a pic-
ture of German manners. I fit is not,
where is Goethe's fame as a painter of
life ? If it is, what is the meaning of
the word Deutscheit ? What the
devil are you grunting at, Mr North ?
Do you think I don't know that what
are called our own fashionable novels
depict a state of manners not much
more pure ? In the first place, the
novels so called are lies and libels —
in the next place, where do you find
adultery held up even in them as any
thing but ruinous to reputation and
entailing banishment from society,? —
In Germany, sir — if we are to believe
this book — written, you will remember,
not by some footman out of place, or
discarded waiting-maid, as our tales of
high life generally are, but by the first
author of his country, the great arbiter
in arts and literature, himself a courtier
and mixing in the highest circles — if,
I say, we are to believe this book, the
marriage tie is of much easier solution
than the gordian knot, and acts, even
while people condescend to submit to
it, as no restraint on the wildest pas-
sions, but rather as an argument for
falling in love with other men. No loss
of station attends detection — ladies and
their paramours are received as ho-
noured guests ; and our friend Ed-
ward, who is the beau-ideal of a
German hero, thinks it no degradation
toenactthepartofSirPandarusofTroy!
You start, my dear sir — I hope you
are not turning sick ? The facts, 1 as-
sure you, are as I have stated. Let me
read you a part of the eleventh chap-
ter.
" Edward accompanied the Count
to his chamber, and was easily tempted
to spend some time with him in con-
versation. The Count lost himself in
the memory of former times, and raved
of Charlotte's beauty, which he dwelt
on with the eloquence of a connoisseur.
' A handsome foot is among nature's
best gifts — years leave it untouched.
I observed her to-day in walking.
One might even yet kiss her shoe, and
renew the barbarous but deep-feeling
mode of doing honour among the Sar-
matims, who used to drink out of the
shoe of any one they loved or ho-
noured.'"
But their observations did not con-
tinue limited to the foot. They pass-
ed on to old adventures, and recalled
the difficulties that had long ago hin-
dered the meetings between Edward
and Charlotte. The Count reminded
him how he had assisted him in finding
out Charlotte's bed-room, when they
had all accompanied their royal mas-
ter on a visit he paid to his uncle ;
and how they had nearly ruined all
by stumbling over some of the body-
guard who lay in the ante-chamber.
But while they are deep in this highly
edifying recollection, the clock strikes
twelve. " ' 'Tis midnight,' said the
Count, smiling, 'and just the proper
time. I must beg a favour of you,
my dear Baron, — guide me now as I
guided you then ; I have promised
the Baroness to visit her to-night.
We have not spoken together all day,
and 'tis so long since we have seen
each other ! Nothing is more natural
than to sigh for a confidential hour or
two."
'"I will be hospitable enough to
show you this favour with much plea-
sure,' answered Edward ; ' only the
three women are together in that
wing — who knows but what we may
find them with each other ?'
" ' Never fear,' replied the Count,
' the Baroness expects me. By this
time she is in her chamber and
alone.'
" ' Then 'tis easily managed,' said
Edward, and, taking a light, conduct-
ed his friend down some secret steps
which led to a long passage. They
mounted a winding stair. Edward
pointed to a door on the right of the
landing-place, and gave the Count
the light. At the slightest touch the
door opened, and received the Count.
Edward was left in the dark."
And a more pitiful scoundrel than
this hero of the great Goethe, I'll bet
a trifle, never was left in the dark be-
fore, whether by putting out the can-
dle or being hanged on a gallows-
tree. Don't grasp your crutch so
convulsively, my dear sir. The phi-
losopher of Weimar would have had
his skull cracked on an infinite num-
ber of occasions if he had been within
your reach. But there are no Chris-
topher Norths in Germany. If there
were, would the scene that succeeds
this have been suffered to exist ? Yet,
shocking as it is, I must give you
some idea of it, to support my main
assertion, that the author was the
coarsest-minded of men, and the na-
tion the most flagitious of nations,
254
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
[Feb.
" Another door on the left led into
Charlotte's bedroom. He heard voices
within, and listened. Charlotte spoke
to her waiting-maid. ' Is Ottilie gone
to bed yet?'
" ' No,' replied the other, ( she is
down-stairs writing.'
« ' Light the night lamp, then,' said
Charlotte, ' and retire. 'Tis late — I
will put out the candle myself and go
to bed.'
" Edward was transported with joy
to find that Ottilie was still writing.
She is busy on my account, he thought,
triumphantly. He thought of going
to her, to gaze on her, to see how she
would turn round to him. He felt an
invincible desire to be near her once
more. But, alas ! there was no way
of getting from where he was to the
quarter she lived in. He found him-
self close to his wife's door. An ex-
traordinary change took place in his
soul ; he tried to pijsh open the door ;
he found it bolted, and tapped lightly.
Charlotte did not hear.
" She walked quickly to and fro in
the large adjoining room. She thought
again and again over the unexpected
offer of a situation that the Count had
made to the Captain. The Captain
seemed to stand before her ! Now he
seemed to fill the house — to enliven
the whole scene — and to think that he
must go ! — how empty would all things
be ! She said all to herself that is
usually said on such occasions. Yes,
she anticipated, as people generally
do, the miserable consolation that time
would mitigate her sorrows. She
cursed the time that it needs to miti-
gate them — she cursed the deathful
time when they would be mitigated.
She wept at last, and, throwing herself
on the sofa, gave way to her grief.
" Edward, on his side, could not tear
himself from the door. He knocked
again and again. Charlotte heard at
last, and stood up alarmed. Her first
thought was, it must be the Captain.
Her second, that that was impossible.
She went into the bedroom and slipt
noiselessly to the bolted door.
" ' Is any one there ?' she asked.
" A low voice answered, ' 'Tis I.'
" ( Who ?' she enquired, for she had
not recognised the tone. She fancied
she saw the Captain's figure at the door.
" The voice added in a louder key,
« 'Tis I, Edward.'
" She opened the door and her hus-
band stood before her."
I can't go on, sir — one other tum-
bler, but this must be the last — for the
horrors related by the pure-souled
Goethe, and published for the edifica-
tion of boys and virgins, must be left
in the fitting incognito of a German
dress. I must just give you to under-
stand as delicately as I can, that by a
certain process of ratiocination known
only to the thinking nation, each of
these unhappy persons is persuaded
that the object of their passion is be-
fore them ; Charlotte sees nothing but
the Captain, and Edward clasps Ottilie
in his arms ; and the effect of this
strong effort^ of the imagination will
be best shown by going on in the
story till Charlotte is again a mother.
Recollect, my dear sir, that the whole
house has, in the mean-time, been
turned topsy-turvy; Edward has gone
off to the wars, the Captain has taken
possession of his new office, and Char-
lotte and Ottilie — each being con-
scious of the other's inclinations — have
remained alone. The ceremony of
the baptism was therefore shorn a
little of its proportions, but still it was
got up in a style worthy of the rank
of the parents. " The party was col-
lected, the old clergyman, supported
by the clerk, stept slowly forward, the
prayer was uttered, and the child
placed in Ottilie's arms. When she
stooped down to kiss it, she started no
little at sight of its open eyes, for she
thought she was looking into her own !
the resemblance was so perfectly
amazing. Mittler, the godfather, who
took the infant next, started equally
on perceiving in its features an extra-
ordinary likeness to the Captain ! Such
a resemblance he had never seen be-
fore."
This, sir, is one of the touches of
a supernatural sagacity for which
Goethe has credit among his coun-
trymen, and will, no doubt, be quo-
ted in medical books as an instance
of the power of imagination, as if it
were a real event. But, seriously
speaking, can you recollect any scene
in a French novel or opera so utterly
revolting as this ? If you can, your
acquaintance with unnatural literature
is more extensive than mine ; but I
am ready to bet you a pipe of Bell
and Rannie, you never met with any
thing to equal the denouement of this
poor infant's story. What do you
think of a man trying to gain his
reader's sympathy to Ottilie's love-
1839.]
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
255
distresses, by painting1 her kindness to
Charlotte's child, and by describing a
meeting between Edward and Ottilie,
filled with all manner of erabracings
and declarations, with that child sleep-
ing on the grass beside her. But
worse remains behind. Edward has
persuaded the Captain to make another
effort to obtain Charlotte's consent to
a divorce. That highly honourable
specimen of the military profession
has gone on to the castle, leaving Ed-
ward lurking about his own domain,
waiting impatiently for his answer.
On that particular occasion, Ottilie
has carried out the child to the side of
a lake, and is engaged in reading-.
And, as we are told it is " one of those
works from which gentle natures find
it impossible to tear themselves away,"
I conclude it was some book of a moral
and religious tendency, like this one —
probably the Sorrows of Werther.
Edward, prowling about, sees her ;
she sees him. He seizes her in his
arms — she points to his child ; — he
gazes at it, and sees the aforesaid like-
nesses, and makes sundry remarks on
the occasion, worthy of his refinement
and honourable feelings.
" Hark ! " at last cries Edward,
springing up, " I heard a gun, which
was the signal agreed on with the
Captain 'twas nothing but a game-
keeper." So the conversation is re-
newed. It begins to grow dark. Ot-
tilie springs up, alarmed, but the
" hope (of a divorce) shines out of
heaven upon their heads. She clasps
him in the tenderest manner to her
breast. They fancied — they believed
that they belonged to each other;
they exchanged, for the first time, de-
cided— free kisses, and separated with
agonies of grief."
For the first time, the old goat ? —
why, there is not a page of his book
where they are notkissing and hugging
—but, perhaps, he has some peculiar
meaning in the epithets — decided and
free. What is a decided kiss, Mr
North ? — what is a free kiss ? — Per-
haps he intends to state, that her con-
duct was on this occasion decidedly
free, and, there can be no doubt, it
was a good deal freer than would have
been allowable in the vestal_.¥irgins»
But whether free or not, Edward has
retired without casting another look
on his own child, and Ottilie hurries
off, as she is afraid of alarming Char-
lotte by being absent at such an hour.
The way round the lake is long she
is a perfect Ellen Douglas in her
management of a boat, and steps into
a skiff to cross the water " She
grasps the oar and pushes off. She
uses all her force and repeats the push ;
the boat reels a little, and moves from
shore. The child is in her left arm,
the book in her left hand, the oar in
her right, she reels also, and falls in
the boat. The oar leaves her hand on
one side ; and, in spite of all her ef-
forts, the child and book fall from her
hand on the other — and all into the
water ! She siezes the child's frock ;
but in her position she finds it impos-
sible to rise. Her unoccupied right
hand is insufficient to turn her round
and raise her up. At last, she suc-
ceeds in drawing the child from the
water ; but its eyes are closed — it has
ceased to breathe !"
Yes, Mr North, this, I assure you,
is considered a highly affecting inci-
dent, and the death of the innocent
little creature is approved of by cer-
tain judges, as raising a new obstacle
to the course of Edward's true love,
and therefore exciting the reader's
sympathy to a still tenderer point
with the love-lorn Ottilie. In this
country, I am happy to say, the
" Shirra" would have held a precog-
nition, which would not very materi-
ally have enhanced the reputation of
that delicate- minded young lady. —
An English coroner would have levied
a deodand on the boat, presenting a
bill, at the same time, against Ottilie
for manslaughter at least. But in
Germany things are much more com-
fortably managed. The Captain ar-
rives at this very time on his embassy
from Edward. This embassy, you re-
collect, was to persuade Charlotte to
consent to a separation from her hus-
band, and thus open the way for a
marriage with Ottilie ; the Captain at
the same time succeeding Edward, and
the " respectable old gentleman she
had never loved," in the possession of
Charlotte. He is shown to a room
where he finds a single waxlight burn-
ing. In the gloom he perceives Otti-
lie senseless, or asleep, resting on
Charlotte's lap, and the poor little
dead child in grave-clothes, on a sofa
at her side. It is in this state of affairs
that he pleads his cause. And he
succeeds ! ! ! Charlotte consents to
the separation, on the rather anti- Mal-
thusian plea that she is called upon to
25G
A Discourse on Goethe and the Germans.
[Feb.
do so to afford Ottilie an opportunity
of supplying the place of the child she
has been the means of losing, with
another of whom Edward may be fond.
And with this answer the Captain be-
takes himself to his principal.
Ottilie, however, has some con-
science left, and objects to marry Ed-
ward, though her love to him is great
as ever. Many pages, and much fine
writing are bestowed on the heroism
of her behaviour. She has a meeting
with Edward at an inn, where she
stops, on her way back to the board-
ing-school, where she had resolved to de-
vote herself to the education of young
ladies — on what principles it is need-
less to enquire. The consequence of
this interview, which consisted of vows
and protestations on one side, and of
absolute silence on the other, is, that
she gets into the carriage in which she
came, and returns to the castle, Ed-
ward following her on horseback ; and
so, after an absence of more than a
year, the dramatis persona are re-
united in the scene of their first ap-
pearance.
And now comes the death scene ; a
subject which seems peculiarly agree-
able to Goethe, and which he there-
fore describes with all his heart.
Think, Mr North, of the eloquence of
Charlotte and the Captain conjoined
to the prayers and entreaties of Ed-
ward himself, being of no avail against
the inflexible resolution of the pure
and innocent Ottilie ! She persists, in
spite of all they can say, in maintain-
ing a profound silence ; and in eating
in her own room ; the mention of
which peculiarity suggests dim images
of coming evil to the attentive reader.
In fact, she starves herself to death,
except that the finishing blow is struck
by a meddling old gentleman deliver-
ing in her presence a very inopportune
lecture on the sanctity of the seventh
commandment. The whole neigh-
bourhood is struck dumb with grief
at the death of the youthful saint, and
great care is required to hinder the
common people from worshipping her
relics. A dark cloud of sorrow and
regret settles heavily over the castle ;
and at last Edward is found dead.
To the very last, sir, the diseased
moral sense of Goethe and his admir-
ers sees no impropriety in the whole
transaction. The lovers are lamented
as if their attachment had been as
innocent as that of Paul and Virginia,
and the strange eventful history con-
cludes, after describing the burial of
Edward, next to his beloved in these
words : " So the lovers rest near each
other ! Peace hovers over the scene
of their repose. Bright-clothed angel
forms look down on them from the
vault, and oh ! what a blessed moment
will that be when they shall awaken
together ! "
What do you think now, of what I
began with, Mr North? But, before
you decide, remember, my dear sir,
that the state of manners described
here is the same exactly as we trace
in all the works of the same author.
His Willielm Meister — his Young Wer-
ther — all agree in representing the
most appalling laxity of morals as uni-
versal in the land. In heaven's name,
is the m!>na';beller of his father- land as
well ,-upter of youth? But no,
sir, wwv'junversal popularity of his no-
vels, tiiO'.^rd of imitators he has given
rise to, the silence of his own country-,
men on the subject of his false repre-
sentations of life and manners, are too
convincing proofs that he holds the
mirror up to nature.
On this occasion- I h?" ! said no-
thing of the absurdly exaggerated
claims which are made every day on
behalf of German originality. What
I have limited myself to, has been the
character of the people, as seen in their
every-day literature. — And, what a
view we have had ! — Phaugh ! — I
must have an " eke" just to put the
taste out of my mouth. Sugar, if
you please ; — hold — hold — and now,
Mr North, I will favour you with a
song Hear, hear, hear !
1839.]
On Michael Anrjdo's Last Judgment.
257
OK THE PECULIARITIES OF THOUGHT AND STYLE, IN THE PICTURE OF THE
LAST JUDGMENT, BY MICHAEL ANGELO.
ANY one unacquainted with the pe-
culiarities of ancient art, and not ac-
customed to take those particular
trains of thought and sentiment into
consideration which gave birth to
them, placing himself before the
picture of the Last Judgment by
Michael Angelo, in all probability
finds many of his preconceptions
rudely shocked, and the impression of
its power enforced amidst the confu-
sion of his scattered notions. But he
expects a representation of the " Judg-
ment of the Great Day," produced
according to modes, and embracing
purposes, which were altogether fo-
reign to the general intention and to
the individual character of its great
author, to the age in which his stu-
pendous work was executed, and
hence, to the method pursued in the
enunciation aud expression of its sub-
ject.
Change must be recognised to be
the fate of the arts. It has been^eld
by some that their progre,
rather must, be unlimited — b-.y r w _ *>s,
that they can now only expertises' de-
cay ; but their sensuous character,
and dependence upon emotion, pre-
vent either of these results from tak-
ing place ; on the one hand, by limit-
ing their progression ; on the other, by
preventing {^possibility of their ex-
tinction.* Tiie passions and senti-
ments of man, although continually
up-furrowed by moral and physical
changes, which so alter the appear-
ance of society,, that its product pre-
sents widely different characteristics
at different times, in their grand
features they remain as immutable as
the senses themselves. A discovery
in science, or the recognition of a po-
litical principle, may give variety to
the exertions of man ; but the continual
renewal of his race, is the continual
renewal of the same desires, hopes,
and fears, — love, grief, and joy are
constantly re-born ; and it is only a
truism to assert, that in the passions
are the foundations of art laid. Based
on these, at once may be recognised
the cause of the permanency, and of
the fluctuations of art, — permanency,
as related to the constitution of man,
which produces its constant renova-
tion at different epochs, — fluctuations,
that result from the direction which
is given to the operations of that con-
stitution, amid those great changes
which sweep, in continual revolution,
the mind and condition of the human
race ; — with such recurring tides, that
it would almost appear, that the limits
of the atmosphere of our globe, not
only bound a circumscribed portion of
visible and of tangible being, but also
of intellectual, and moral being.
Of those changes which pass like
the cloud or the sunshine over the
field of human speculation, the history
of art exhibits much, and in their pe-
culiar phases, the particular charac-
ter of its productions must be looked
for. It is now recognised, that in In-
dia and in Egypt, the ultimate aim of
art, was placed in very different ob-
jects from those which were influen-
tial in Greece and in more modern
times ; and wonder must have ceased,
at what had been considered to be un-
accountable in its history in those
countries — that continued practice for
hundreds, or, if their chronologies
are admitted, for thousands of years,
should not have exhibited a similar
result to Grecian art, or to that of the
revival in the fourteenth century :
each of which present widely different
features throughout the various pe-
riods of their cultivation,— features
which forcibly exemplify the closely
interwoven connexion of art with the
general state of society ; which, in
many instances, it may be said to ren-
der positive and visible, and to the
operations of which it is the principal
means of giving perpetuity.
Of this connexion, the great fresco
of the Last Judgment is a distinct ex-
ample,— it is eminently a portion of
the time in which it was produced
the commencement of the sixteenth
* The dread of the extinction of art (to use the term in its widest sense, embracing
poetry, music, &c.) is a hypochondriac interpretation of the effects of a utilitarianism;
not even a true corollary of its tendency,
VOL, JiLY, NQ, CCLXXX, ft
258
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment,
[Feb.
century. The arts and sciences had
arisen in Europe, amidst a junction of
the influence exerted by the cultivated
remains of Grecian refinement — by
that of the wild energy and warlike
habits of the northern nations — and of
the more gentle and elevated spirit of
Christianity. The awful mythologies
of the north had altogether fled ; but
their severe forms had left a sombre
impress on its character. The strug-
gle of civilization with barbarism and
feudal ignorance, which had been
maintained throughout centuries, like
the throes of one awakening from
temporary stupefaction, begot a depth
of emotion, and a triumph of moral
power, altogether distinct from what
had influenced previous seras of civi-
lization— by which the literature
and fine arts of modern Europe are
strikingly distinguished — more parti-
cularly from those of Greece, and
(in this respect) its imitator, ancient
Rome. With the sentiment of the
Easterns, they have more in common;
but the warmth of oriental imagination,
carried into the north by the different
tides of population, was to be rendered
more intense and vigorous — less luxu-
rious by being brought from under the
influence of a more genial sun (to bask
beneath the rays of which seems to
induce that satisfaction in mere animal
life, which may, in some measure, ac-
count for the permanency of the insti-
tutions of some Asiatic and southern
nations, and also for certain charac-
teristics of their art), into a more
troubled and darker atmosphere ;
whence it was again precipitated upon
the spreading influence of that system
which had already overcome and ab-
sorbed both the philosophy and exote-
ric mythologies of Greece and Rome,
and under which was to be brought
forth that combination of intellectual
power, passion, and imagination, which
is displayed in thepainting, and poetry,
and other arts of Europe. Grecian
invention feigned Orpheus to have
tamed savage animals with the music
of his lyre ; that of the north made
Odin, by his harp, draw the ghosts of
departed warriors around him ; the
Christian legend tells that Saint Ce-
cilia, more powerful than either,
" Drew an angel down,"
to listen : inventions in which may be
recognised the modes of thought pre-
dominating during the times with which
they are connected, and which direct-
ed their conception. Grecian genius
had elucidated the combination of the
imaginative and the reasoning powers ;
the Gothic, or northern genius, had
raised mystery and superstition to
their highest. Homer envelopes his
heroes in a cloud, when it is necessary
that they should disappear ; the north-
erns gift theirs with an invisible cap,
which produces effects, that, in the le-
gend of the saint, would have been at-
tributed to faith, or the belief of powers
directly conferred by God upon man.
Man had become associated with supe-
rior existences. A new element had
been universally recognised in his
being. The experience of former
efforts was to be brought to his aid,
and a renewed life imparted to his
exertions by novelty, and the great
revolutions that had passed over his
stage. From the moral tumulus thus
heaped up was the resurrection of art
to take place.
But, distinct from these causes, that
were wide and general in their in.
fluence, the particular state of Euro-
pean society, and the forms and go-
vernment of the Church of Rome,
immediately connected with the period
at which the revival of art took place,
strikingly modified its character.
Religion and war had, for a number
of centuries, almost entirely occupied
Europe. In so far as the cultivation
of the mind extended, it was directly
connected with the Church. Religious
ceremonies, bearing a doctrinal signi-
fication, were blended even with the ho-
liday sports of the people, in a manner
that frequently has the appearance of
absurdity. Their gests, chronicons,
and mysteries, were filled with reli-
gious allusions, and were most fre-
quently founded on scripture histories.
But these made a scanty addition to
the limited literature of those ages,
which consisted principally of the
theological disquisitions of the scho-
lastic doctors — that mixture of the
logic and metaphysical speculations of
the ancients with the doctrines of the
Christian Church, the subtle character
of which Abelard must have tested,
when he used the scholo- Aristotelian
philosophy of the sesophic doctors : at
one time as an offensive weapon against
Christianity, and, at another, found it
equally powerful when applied to its
1839.]
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
support ; and which, after the esta-
blishment of universities throughout
Europe, mingled with and overwhelm-
ed the simpler character of the earlier
literature, which, in its first dawn, had
been more varied and impassioned.
In strong contrast, however, to the
sophisticated polemics of these periods
was their military spirit ; and, between
the cross and the sword, there was
small vantage ground for the growth
of whatwas not more or less connected
with either. The mass of the lay po-
pulation, divided betwixt agricultural
labour and war, wholly under the con-
trol of their ecclesiastical and feudal
superiors, and at the command of both,
handling either the spear .or the ox-
goad, as their schemes or their neces-
sities directed, were in the condition
and ignorance of slaves. Nor were
their baronial lords much in advance
in knowledge and intelligence ; to
whom Plutarch's character of the
Boeotians — that they were of gross wit
and coarse, quite the constitution of
heroes — would well apply. Might
was the law of right. The discrimi-
nations of reason were left to questions
wherein the immediate and personal
feelings and interests of men were not
involved ; and force was the arbiter of
every difficulty that assumed the nature
of a dispute, unless overawed by the
mysteries of religion, which hung over
this perturbed spirit with a command-
ing power ; and its dogmas, wielded
amid the subtleties with which they
were surrounded by the schoolmen,
probably became the more impressive
the less that they were really under-
stood.
The contrast of the ecclesiastical
and the military spirit of these times
presents reason united to forms of the
utmost tenuity of thought, opposed
to the gross animal nature that found
its most refined pursuits in the attack
of the pel, or the wolf, or boar hunt.
" The humanities " were left to the
cultivation of those belonging to the
religious orders ; and the method of
explaining and illustrating the doc-
trines of the Church — subtle, allegori-
cal, and figurative — became almost en-
tirely the only form in which thought
was expressed. Even the most mate-
rial of the sciences — chemistry, in
the hands of the alchymists became
transmuted into allegories of the Holy
Virgin and her Son. It may be said
that a beaten road of expression, be*
259
came formed over the surface of
thought. An abstract, typical, and
allegoric peculiarity of style was
generally diffused ; which, addressing
itself to the limited understanding and
narrow comprehension of the par-
tially civilized and untutored portion
of the population, necessarily became
not unfrequently allied to a very con-
tradictory want of refinement, or of
delicacy, and not seldom to igno-
rance.
Of this mixture, which predomi-
nated for centuries, — art strongly
partook : and thus there isMnuch in
the productions of these times (inde-
pendently of those peculiarities of
mode and of intention which will
afterwards come to be noticed) that
now appears, on a partial considera-
tion, to be anomalous. And what,
in the instance of painting, caused this
in a very marked degree, was its
having been made a medium through
which the people might be addressed
by the Church ; of which, in its re-
birth, it was strictly the servant . It
was immediately brought into connec-
tion with the most mystical and ab-
stract subjects ; and its embodiments
in the greater number of instances,
were little else than pictured repeti-
tions of ceremonies, and representa-
tions of characters, which bore an
ulterior, or typical signification. Its
efforts were devoted to the illustra-
tion and enforcement of the doc-
trines, history, and services of the
Church : the latter of which, at an
early period, had gradually become
expressive of the two former, and
had assumed an absorbing importance,
in the form of a vast congregation of
dramatic ceremonies, of which Rome
was the grand theatre, and which, in
their consecutive round of obser-
vance, may be said still annually to
present a mighty drama, of the life,
death, and resurrection of Christ. A
variation of the same form — the dra-
matic— which had been employed in
Greece to vindicate the rule of Jove
or Fate (in relation with which pur-
pose, it had held a somewhat similar
connexion with ancient art), had be-
come subservient to the exposition of
Christian faith and doctrine. This
may probably have arisen from obser-
vations having been originally graft-
ed, as it has been supposed many
were, on the ancient festivals, during
the early stages of Christianity. But,
260
in both instances, the desire itself
of actual repetition ; and impersona-
tion, being felt to be an obvious and
effective means of elucidating senti-
ment and opinion, readily accounts
for the extensive adoption of the dra-
matic form, which was invariably
regulated by a mode of expression
afterwards to be noticed, as having all
along obtained, both in the art of the
ancients and in that of more modern
times — in poetry and in religious
ceremony.*
But more than a century before
the time of Michael Angelo, art and
literature, from being bound in the
Egyptian-like swaddlings, which had
restrained the one under the ferula
of the schools, and the other to an
almost purely symbolic form, had
arisen into vigorous life and freedom.
Dante, Petrarcha, and Boccaccio, with
others in literature, and, somewhat
later, numerous eminent names in
painting and sculpture, had appeared :
in their works evolving a mixture
of power, beauty, and imperfection,
mingled with classical forms and
Gothic irregularity. Of these works
the greatest — the Divina Commedia
of Dante Alighieri — exhibits a confu-
sion of religious opinion and political
rancour with immense poetic genius,
displayed in the creation of a heaven
and of a hell, partaking of the spirit
and materials of ancient mythology,
Gothic .superstition, and Christian
belief; imagined for the reward or
the punishment of kings, popes, petty
princes, and their partisans, to whom
bliss or misery are distributed with
the violence of passion rather than
the solemn might of justice. But,
contrasted with the severity and
strength of Dante, were the beauty
and tender delicacy of Petrarcha, and
the mixed pathos and facetiousness of
Boccaccio ; while, in the arts of paint-
ing and sculpture, a corresponding,
though, from the slow growth of faci-
lity and correctness in the exercise
of their medium, not an equally well
expressed -variety of sentiment, had
been attempted. Andrea Orcagna
and Luca Signorelli, had made the
final reward and punishment of man
the subject of various works that
reiterate the sentiments of the Divina
On. Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
[Feb.
Commedia. Masaccio had improved
dramatic expression and style, which
Ghiberti and Donatello in sculpture,
and in painting Ghirlandajo and the
greater Frate Bartolomeo had im-
mensely advanced. Andrea Mantegna
had exhibited an irritable vitality of
genius, and had profited by the study
of the antique, and attempted sub-
jects of a classical character ; whiie
Pietro Perugino, the Bellini, and
others, without much seeming con-
nexion, had, each in his own sphere,
prepared the way for those who were
to consummate the particular depart-
ments to which they devoted their
labours. The materials of the fabric
of art were accumulated and partially
upreared ; but, like the completion of
the mighty dome of St Peters (one of
the greatest of his works), yet remain-
ed to be raised to the highest eleva-
tion, in this period of its history, by
the powerful genius of Michael An-
gelo.
The relative connexion of painting
with those causes which operated to-
wards the general state of society and
of mental culture, which have been
thus rapidly glanced at — the only
mode of bringing works in art under
consideration, that can lead to their
being satisfactorily understood, must,
in some measure, have anticipated the
character, and peculiar features of the
picture of Michael Angelo, which
they have been brought forward to il-
lustrate. The Last Judgment is in
many respects, in painting, the most
eminent exemplification of the opera-
tion of various of these causes, and
also of various of the most important
principles of art. In it, an abstract
greatness, conventional modes of ex-
pression, a typical style, and the influ-
ence of classical example, are brought
together and united to the intense
passion, elevated sentiment, and power
over the materials of art, with rigid
harmony in their connexion, which
constitute the individual genius of its
author ; and it is before this combina-
tion, some of the eomponent parts of
which, if not regarded in connexion
with the purposes of the work, the
audience to whom it was addressed,
and the period in which it was pro-
duced, appear so inexplicable, that
* Ceremony of every kind is a species of imitation or art ; being a representation
pf sentiment by particular signs,
1839.]
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
those who have not thus considered
the work (or works of art in general),
feel mistaken and bewildered. And,
not being able to perceive wherein the
true strength of this mighty produc-
tion lies, but fully sensible of the total
discrepancy betwixt their notions and
the mode of treatment which the pic-
ture exhibits ; and, at the same time,
not allowing themselves to be guided
by its impression, but endeavouring
to oppose preconceived and partial
rules of judgment to its influence, re-
main unable to unravel the confusion
in which they find they are involved.
Hence they probably come to the con-
clusion, that the work is altogether a
failure ; because it is not in accord-
ance with associations and modes of
thought, which are shortly to become
more obsolete (inasmuch as they are
not in their nature capable of being
united with, or are supported by, the
like great works) than those, the ef-
fects and nature of which they are
unable to understand. Or, they pro-
bably arrive at a still more unsatisfac-
tory conclusion, that opinion in regard
to the productions of art is altogether
arbitrary and unfounded ; and they
are swept into a whirl of scepticism,
that doubts the foundation of all criti-
cal preference. But they were al-
most as absurd as the mathematician
who expected a poem to be the proof
of a theorem. They had not recog-
nised the fact, that the signification
or display of sentiment, most particu-
larly in its impassioned expression,
renders literal truth in what does not
tend towards that purpose subservient.
The mixture of that which is essential
or generic in its nature, with the very
opposite characteristic — conventional
modes, had been totally unapprehend-
eil. Even the recollection that art
had ever been employed as the means
of effecting any great moral aim, was
to them become faint and indistinct.
Art had been partially, not wholly
looked upon. The surrounding influ-
ences of the present time had been
261
made the ultimate standard of judg-
ment ; which failing to coincide with
those which operated towards the pro-
duction of the picture, and from their
being totally unfit to be brought to
coalesce with or embrace its extensive
and general purposes and significa-
tion, the result is misunderstanding
and false criticism.
The picture of Michael Angelo is
not a representation produced with
the intention to exhibit the Last Judg-
ment with scenic effect, and embra-
cing those accessaries which such a
purpose would have demanded; but
consists in the expression of that tre-
mendous subject, by exemplified in-
stances of those sentiments usually as-
sociated with it — which display man
in suffering and in beatitude — in the
anticipation of bliss or the dread of
misery — in fruition or in endurance.
Its different groups must be regarded
to be, to a certain extent, symbolic,
not representative, of the innumerable
multitudes assembled to " the Judg-
ment of the Great Day." Each part
must be considered to have, by means
of its particular impression, an ex-
tended signification. In the plan of
the picture (in accordance with prin-
ciples which will afterwards be no-
ticed), a severe parallelism is adopted.
The whole is divided into equally
balanced parts. In the lunettes, at
the highest angles, are introduced, by
one of those peculiarities of treatment
which will also come to be observed,
figures bearing aloft the Cross, the
pillar of the flagellation, the crown of
thorns, and the sponge. Below these,
in the centre, is the judge, surrounded
by saints and martyrs, and those meet-
ing for judgment ; behind whom, are
brought together those groups which
express the multitudes of the blessed,
and which recede to the distance of the
upper part of the picture. Underneath
this line, of the most important agents
in the picture, and which is its fore-
ground,* are at the right side, groups
of the worthy borne upwards ; and at
* Michael Angelo has been accused of having violated perspective in this work, by
having made the figures which occupy the third division of groups from the bottom of
the picture, and which are nearer the upper than the under edge of its area, the lar-
gest. But, in answer to this objection, which has originated in the misconception of
those by whom it is made, it may be observed, that .Michael Angelo supposed the
spectator to view the work from the elevation of the Judge, and those by whom he is
surrounded, which is the true foreground of the picture ; and hence the figures here
are largest : — not contrary to perspective, but in obedience to it, and to the most ef-
262
the left are the seven deadly sins driven
downwards and seized by demons ;
while betwixt these, in the centre, are
the seven angels of the Revelations
sounding their trumpets ; * and those
•with the book of life in their hands.
Towards the under line of the picture,
the resurrection of the dead, who are
breaking from their graves, occupies
the right angle ; and the left is filled
by the boat of Charon and the damned.
In this arrangement, the relative
positions of the Heavens, the Earth,
the Sea, and Hell receiving its ten-
ants, are only partially indicated ; be-
ing subjected to the balanced compo-
sition of the whole : and every part
of the picture is brought as near to
the eye as possible. This is in obe-
dience to the dependence that is placed
upon expression, which is the predo-
minating feature of its plan ; and also
in compliance with those principles
of imitation which may be said to
have dictated this mode of treatment :
some of which are essentially inherent
in the nature of pictorial art, while
others arose from the state of society
and the purposes of works connected
•with religion.
Of these modes of representation,
the most remarkable and extensive in
its influence, and which has often stood
a stumbling-block in the way of cri-
ticism on art, but which arms art with
its greatest power, and is connected
with its very existence as a means of
affecting the mind, is universally ex-
hibited, either directly or in its various
modifications, throughout ancient poe-
try, painting, and sculpture — Indian
and Egyptian as well as Greek : and
in more modern times alike subjected
the ceremonies of the church, the li-
terature, the painting, the sculpture,
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
[Feb.
and the music of Europe, to Us laws.
It must be considered to be the ori-
ginal and primitive form of all com-
bination in art. Its origin may be
found to exist in the simplest act of
transition or change of attention, from
which it became the source of the
most powerful and elevated combina-
tions. It has frequently been con-
founded with the poetic element, and
in a vague sense has been denomina-
ted poetical treatment. It may be
designated the lyrical form of imita-
tion. It is sustained by enthusiasm
and emotion ; and from its exhibition
in an ode or hymn to Jove or the uni-
versal Pan, the glance of whose eye
it might be said in such an instance to
attempt to follow, passing without re-
straint, and with a power of the most
rapid combination over the face of
visible existence, to its remote modi-
fication in a bouquet of flowers, may
be recognised throughout whatever is
connected with the expression of sen-
timent, in any degree impassioned.
It modifies the epic and dramatic forms
of composition, and, although totally
distinct from what their essential cha-
racter consists in, in some degree
frequently even affects that.f The
chorus of the Greek drama was a di-
rect derivation from the ode, which
was founded in this mode of represen-
tation, and from which the whole dra-
matic form of the ancients may be
said to have been gradually evolved.
This manner of imitation may be
considered to be the attempt of man,
in- his productions, to pursue the laws
of thought. It brings time and space
under its control : they are travelled
over, hinted at, or omitted, as suits
the train of ideas to be pursued, or the
general sentiment which is to be en-
fective treatment of the subject. The perspective recedes both from below, and above,
these large foreground figures, — an instance of the invention of the painter, that from
its boldness has left the perceptions of those who object to it at fault. The various
groups diverge from this elevation, which is somewhat above the centre of the immense
surface of the picture.
* So says Vasari ; — " Sono sotto i piedi di Cristo i sette angeli scritti da S. Gio-
vanni evangelista, con le sette trombe." But there are more than that number in the
picture.
t Fuseli's definitions of the epic and dramatic sentiments are most discriminative
and just. " The aim of the epic painter is to impress one general idea, one great
quality of nature or mode of society, some great maxim, without descending to those
subdivisions which the detail of character prescribes For as in the epic, act and
agent are subordinate to the maxim, and in pure history are the organs of the fact ;
so the drama subordinates both fact and maxim to the agent, his character, and pas-
sion. What in them was end is but the medium here."— Lectures.
1839.] On Michael Angela's Last Judgment 263
forced. It frequently consists in the rit, which has been styled the mystic,
subjection of detail to the more im- in the art of the revival. It is this
portant features of a subject, by sacri- which encircled the figure of the
ficing unessential particulars or inci- Holy Virgin with a quire of angels in
dent to expression.* By its union the tablets of Rico, Cimabue, or Taffl,
with the dramatic in poetry and paint- and which gave birth to those arrange-
ing, they assume the rapidity of allu- ments which bring together Divinity,
sion possessed by the ode. This is angels, and saints, so often repeated
exemplified in the olden painters (who from the times of these early names,
were guided by this mode of combi- down to those of Michael Angelo and
nation, not probably from any defined Raphael. Among the many instances
understanding of its principle, but by of the exemplification of this method
a sense of its power, and from the in such arrangements — indeed all art
freedom with which it was generally of these times was a continual exhi-
employed in these times), by the in- bition of it — the picture of the Madon-
troduction of the various scenes of a na da Foligno (so called from its hav-
transaction into the same composition ing been painted for the town of that
— an instance of which occurs on the name) is a beautiful example ; the
roof of the Cappella Sistina, in the most exquisite feature of which is, the
picture of the expulsion from the gar- introduction of a cherub stationed on
den, where also, Eve is seen offering the ground below, addressing the Vir-
the fruit to Adam. It is the predo- gin and the Infant who are above, and
minance of this with the religious spi- which might almost be considered to
* M. Quatremere De Quincy, in his very able work on " the Nature, the End, and
the Means of Imitation in the Fine Arts,"* has treated of a particular phase of this mode
of imitative representation, under the name of generalization ; and he seems at times
almost to recognise it in its full extent ; but, in his observations upon Shakspeare, he
appears to have diverged altogether from an extended view of the subject, and finally
to resolve his opinion in regard to it, into a certain limited standard, into a somewhat
with which his use of the word ideal is synonymous. This he finds accords with the
forms of the classic drama ; but that it will not do so with the works of Shakspeare ;
hence the latter are considered defective. But Shakspeare 's dramas are not the ideal
of any particular features of nature, but embodiments of the idea (in its original and
Platonic sense) of whatever the fiery light of his mind passed over, towards evolving
the great purpose of his works — the expression of the dramatic ; not merely in the
mode or form of his productions, but as their peculiar end — their ultimate object.
His dramas are much more essentially dramatic than those of the ancients ; which were
more the harmonious exposition of an incident or act, or of a sentiment, to which the
expression of character was necessary, but to which it was always more or less subjected.
Shakspeare is different from this. The distinctive essence of his dramatic works con-
sists in the display of character perfectly unsubordinated. The incident only serves to
evolve this, and is merely a field for its display ; and, in accordance with this purpose,
is brought into that total subjection, or regarded with that indifference, which has given
rise to criticism in respect to the freedom with which scenes and characters are alter-
nated. But such,is only in obedience to his law. Caliban, Prospero, Miranda, Trin-
culo, and Stephano, appear in the same great work, brutish, powerful, loving, jesting,
and drunken ; each brought forward powerfully to display character, and each of whom
must be regarded to be specific features of such, placed in contact with the purpose that
should be recognised to be the law of the author — not the conformation to regularity
in the production of a plot or story, nor the elucidation of any general sentiment — but
force and truth in tracing the windings of the most varied source of imitation that art
pursues, the dramatic, of which his works are the greatest and most complete expo-
nents. Of this they exhibit the idea, and, by occasionally sacrificing other purposes,
which are in many instances necessarily connected (it is seldom endeavoured to blend
them with this ultimate intention), to use the word in the signification of M. De Quin-
cy— in this they are ideal. Objections — general or theoretical— such as originated
the discussions betwixt the Classicists and the Romanticists, can only be made to the
works of Shakspeare, by the application of rules of judgment, that his intention can
not be subjected to.
• Translated by J. C. Kent, 1837.
264
On Michael Angela s Last Judgment.
[Feb.
be a visible impersonation of lyric
rapture, illustrating at once the senti-
ment and the mode, of both of -which
the greater number of votive pictures
are examples. Raphael followed this
mode -when he brought the mountain
of the Transfiguration, and the strictly
dramatic scene of the maniac toge-
ther, which has been attempted to be
accounted for in various unsatisfactory
•ways, but which, had it occurred in
less distinct connexion with a subject
that is otherwise treated in a manner
so purely dramatic, would never have
attracted notice, or have been referred
generally to, what have often been con-
sidered, unaccountable anomalies con-
nected with art, that it was impossible
to understand.
In Greek art, also, this manner of
imitation was no less predominant. It
is exemplified in the group of the
Laocoon, which is epic in sentiment j
but the figures of which, in obedience
to a modification of this method, are
represented naked. The sculptures
of the Parthenon strikingly exhibit
it : their whole arrangement and ex-
pression are dictated by it. Those
labours of Phidias (setting aside mi-
nute distinctions which may be made,
in regard to the interpretation of par-
ticulars connected with their significa-
tion, which are now impossible to be
recovered) must be considered to be
a grand announcement, after the lyri-
cal form, of the glory and power of
Minerva — of her city and its hero.
They conform to this, as has been
already observed, in respect to the
votive pictures of Roman Catholic
art, both in their sentiment and in
their form, and probably were the most
extended, harmonious, and complete
example of such that has existed.
Nor is the operation of this method of
representation less observable in the
ceremonies of the Christian church. It
had obtained in the sacrificial observan-
ces and mysteries of the ancients. At
one sweep it brought the representative
period of the life of Christ within the
yearly service of the Church of Rome,
and frequently merges, within the space
of a few hours, dramatic, ceremonies
which allude to or signify lengthened
transactions. Its most distinctive ex-
emplification in modern literature,
and which does not recognise any an-
cient prototype, is exhibited in the
metrical ballad, which it endows with
much of its power and vivid effect.
In painting, unlimited Scope was
given to this lyric, or inspired, or en-
thusiastic mode of imitation, partly
from its having been the form in which
art was revived (in some measure the
effect of ancient example, but more
directly from the dependence that must
be placed upon this, in what everin art
endeavours to express sentiment or
passion with warmth or power), and
partly from the place which painting
held in the general appreciation, and
the objects towards which it was di-
rected. Pictures were visible offer-
ings up of the devotional spirit — of
prayer or of praise — or enunciations
of the doctrines of the Church. They
were put forth not to be questioned or
to be criticised, but to be believed in.
They may be said to have been a por-
tion of the apostolic exertions of the
Church. Their dictates were not to
be in any respect doubted, and the
form in which they were delivered was
always that which most directly and
readily embraced the end desired.
They were the manifestation of the
mind of the painter operating out-
wardly, not to meet the dictates of
others, but to dictate to them — they
were met by implicit faith.
. In the picture of the Last Judg-
ment this mode influences its whole
plan. It at once, from an extended
scene, concentrates the whole into the
expression of human sentiment and
passion. It brings together, without
the smallest attempt at particular or
identical representation, those parts
which picture heaven, earth, and
hell ; and opens the way throughout
the whole work, for the operation of
other modes adopted in the treatment
of its subject, which depend upon
causes less general and more imme-
diately connected with the particular
purposes to which it was devoted.
These, however, in various instances,
may almost be said to be merely mo-
difications of this, the most extended
and radical of those means by which
the arts are endowed with powers
similar to nature, in the production
of forcible signification, and expres-
sion. .;
Tjhje most important of these more
subordinate means, and the next pe-
culiarity, or more properly law, in the
method pursued in the picture which
comes to be observed ; will likewise
be found to be common to Greek,
and to Roman Catholic art. It may
1839.]
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
265
be considered to result from the oper-
ation of the more extended mode just
noticed, the general principle of which
is to remove interruption, and cut the
way direct to unobstructed and essen-
tial expression ; and of which this, in
particular instances, is only a modifi-
cation ; but in others, from the dis-
tinct character which it assumes, it
must be considered to be an ultimate
or original form of imitation. It was
generally adopted, and is constantly
exemplified in the ceremonies of the
Church, and this probably in some
measure became the cause of its being
very widely received as a mode of
painting in its connexion with reli-
gion, at the time of the revival of the
arts. It consists in the substitution
of a part to signify a whole : it places
dependence upon a portion of a sub-
ject as a means of expressing the
whole to its full extent ; either by the
intensity which may be thus arrived
at, or by the power of association.
Or, as in other instances, it consists
in an almost arbitrary substitution of
one object to express another. Thus
music, in many of the Church cere-
monies, was frequently the medium by
which lengthened acts of its great
drama were expressed. As instancing
both these forms of this method :
during the Easter festival, the Cruci-
fixion is signified by darkening the
lights of the Cappella Sistina, and
by the sublime Miserere ; and, after
the Entombment has been expressed
during another day of ceremony, by
the host having been deposited in the
Pauline chapel as the tomb (all ex-
emplifying this mode of representa-
tion, in distinction from that of the
purely dramatic, of which the scene
of the Pope washing the feet of the
pilgrims is an instance connected with
the same festival), a peal of the bells
of Rome, which before had been kept
silent, on the morning of the third
day, announces the Resurrection. The
difference of this species of imitation
from the purely allegoric is, that it
is usually connected with parts which
are literally representative of the sub-
ject, and that a sentiment is always
expressed by means of the subsl'fution
which is made. It does not consist
in the adoption of a mere symbol,
sign, or letter ; a thing which is akin
to hieroglyphic writing, and which
produces of itself no impression, and
becomes, if much dependence is placed
upon it, subversive of the distinctive
character and object of art ; but the
mind is operated upon in a manner
that is analogous, or at least some-
what equivalent, by association or
direct impression, to the sentiment or
the object from which the change has
been made.
In conformity with this mode, the
various groups of the picture must be
held to signify the numberless " mul-
titudes of all tongues and kindreds"
assembled to judgment. They must
be regarded (and every part of the
picture) as having to a certain extent,
an ulterior reference. To exemplify
this : the descent of the seven deadly
sins into hell, in one sense, must be
considered to typify all transgression.
But this is not to be obtrusively taken
into consideration ; nor in this in-
stance can it : their dreadful expres-
sion is sufficient to fill the mind.
They are the only groups expressive
of the fall of the damned. They are
all brought together in figures of the
same size, — and dreadful is the toil of
those representatives of the condemn-
ed, driven, falling, and dragged down-
wards, in the anticipation of eternal
misery. Their concentrated horror,
anguish, and despair, leave the mind
no retreat. It is wound into the sense
of their agonized suffering with a
mighty strength, from which remorse
must shrink in confused identity. The
separate groups of the blessed ascend-
ing, or helped up to the presence of
the Judge — the dead rising from out
the earth — and hell with the damned —
must all be considered to be brought
under this method of treatment.
These modes of signification or re-
presentation which have been noticed,
and which may be considered peculi-
arities, in distinction from what is
generally exemplified in modern art ;
are the most important in their effects
on the picture, and are most promi-
nently observable. Others less ex-
tended in their nature, but which were
very prevalent in the painting of that
time, and of which the exemplification
in the picture is limited to particular
instances ; present different conven-
tional forms or processes of augment-
ing or of illustrating a subject, which
the principles of the more universal
methods which have been considered,
tended in some instances to originate
and to render general.
By a species of episode, the cross,
266
and the pillar of the flagellation, with
the sponge, &c., in allusion to the suf-
ferings and death of Christ, from
which result his deputed power as
Judge of the world, are introduced ;
borne by numerous figures. The
Holy Virgin being brought into the
scene, is also, by a somewhat similar
process dictated by the religious cha-
racter of the work, in obedience to the
high rank which she holds in the hie-
rarchy of the Church of Rome. The
martyrs presenting their claims to
heaven, by producing the instruments
of their torture (which certainly serve
a more useful purpose to the specta-
tor than they possibly can to an om-
niscient Judge), is in compliance with
a mode of characterising — a pictorial
adjective, general to painting ; but
which, after this obtrusive manner,
was one of the arbitrary features of
the art of this period.
The introduction of the boat of Cha-
ron is a direct imitation of Dante
(which various of the punishments of
the damned also are), authorized and
supported, as also in the instance of
the poet, by the influence which was
exerted by the works of the ancients.
Michael Angelo had before associated
heathen mythos with Christian belief,
by the introduction of the sibyls of the
ancient oracles, along with the Jewish
prophets, on the vault of the Cappella
Sistina, from the supposition that they
had predicted the coming of Christ ;
and, to his imagination, the step was
easy, and characteristic of the intel-
lectual processes of the times, to the
introduction of any other feature of
Greek fable. Or, possibly, it might
be the result of a direct intention to
connect Christianity with the fate of
man in general, — to embrace the an-
cients in the general Judgment. If
such was the intention, it may how-
ever be hoped, that hell is not the only
place where such an allusion might
have been introduced.
The blessed dragged to heaven by
the physical might of angels, who con-
tend with demons for their possession
—the passion and coarseness of the
character of Christ, and the expression
of the Madonna at his side — Charon
battering the damned spirits with his
oar* — Saint Bartholomew with his
own skin in his hand — the human
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
[Feb.
character of the angels, and the gro-
tesque animal demons ; are among
instances of a literal obviousness of
thought and expression that were
common to the time, and which ex-
tend to a considerable degree through-
out the work ; the causes of which
may be found in the general state of
intellectual culture already adverted
to. But these features are connected
with the expression of the work, rather
than with its plan.
Such are the modes or forms adopt-
ed in the construction of the picture.
They obviously and necessarily de-
clare the treatment of the whole to be
poetic ; of which the sentiments that
are pursued, discriminate the class.
Having thus so far taken into con-
sideration, what may be deemed to
have been the general causes that ope-
rated towards the formation of the
particular character of the genius of
Michael Angelo ; and what must be
regarded as being the manner after
which it is made visible in the picture
of the Last Judgment : the question
is now arrived at — wherein consists
the individual and characterising ex-
hibition of his genius, as developed in
that work ?
Distinct from the mere enunciation
Jthe subject, and from particular
modes of imitation, and objects im-
mediately intended to be embraced ;
the grand features of the work, in
which its stability is based, and which
must bear it above whatever may be
the conventional atmosphere of any
age, are the nature and strength of
its expression, and the character of its
style.
In expression, the sentiments that
it enforces, are founded in the common
nature of man. The sublime — and, in
its highest sense, the beautiful — the
merely human — the demoniac — the
mental and the physical, — expressed
in the powerful exhibition of those
universal movers of the human breast,
hope and fear, are made visible. It is
the great epic of expectation and
dread — picturing their birth and their
consummation in bliss or in misery.
To the enforcement of " this high ar-
gument," is the fresco of the Sistine
Chapel devoted. In this it endures,
and of this it must, in many respects,
remain the greatest example in art.
* " Batte col remo qualunque si adagia." — DANTE.
1839.]
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
Time must sweep away its lines and
its colours ; but he alone can be its
destroyer. Succeeding ages have pro-
duced, and will continue to produce,
different characteristics, and to furnish
new subjects for art, but the grandeur
and strength of Michael Angelo can-
not be impaired — it is founded in the
expression of the generic nature of
man. Of this, the picture of the Judg-
ment, absorbed and centred what had
already been advanced towards, or
expressed in art ; and, in this respect,
remains the great monument of moral
painting in distinction from that which
originates, and has its end in the pur-
suit of local peculiarities, and in the
gratification of individual or tempo-
rary taste. In both, there may be
exerted that power in which genius
consists , but, in the one instance, it
is isolated from any great or general
purpose, and becomes dependent upon
partial intentions and upon antiqua-
rian study, and may be buried amidst
obsolete, and particular facts ; in the
other, it is wide and extended, and as
endurable as the human race.
In style, the picture of the Cappella
Sistina, presents a most marked and
distinct character. All excellence in
art — that varied and disputed point,
which appears (but only appears) to
vary with the view which is taken of
it, may be found to centre in the per-
ception or apprehension, and power of
impressing the idea of whatever is its
subject. In this virtually consists the
truly great in art ; and, by an extended
application of the principle, may pro-
bably be found to embrace excellence
or power in whatever human exertion
endeavours after. In this ability ex-
ists, and from this imperfection diver-
ges. In the wide and varied field of
art, which in painting alone, extends
267
from the transcription of the meanest
inanimate object to the visible em-
bodiment of Deity ; it is this which
endows its labours with vitality.*
On this ground may be said to
meet, though in each instance varied
in their ultimate worth — the maternal
holiness of the Madonnas of Raphael
— the substance of the human body,
and its coverings by Titian — its tear
and wear by Caravaggio — the odour,
laughter, and grossness of Dutch
dwellings, by Teniers and Ostade — the
stare of an ox by Paul Potter, or a
Flemish sky by Cuyp. It is the pos-
session of this power, which consti-
tutes the wide distinction betwixt the
productive, and the passive or simply
recognitive, mind. Its exemplifica-
tions possess an effect akin to that of
natural objects — it does not present a
transcript or reiteration of its subject,
but operates with a new and distinct
impression ; — its efforts present addi-
tions to experience.!
Of this power, the style of Michael
Angelo is an eminent example. In
those instances of such that the works
of most others present, their labours
are referable to a material or visible
type ; but of this, there was no such
standard for the painter of Deity, Pro-
phetic or oracular inspiration, and of
mystic indistinctness ; of man face to
face with his Judge, endowed with or
doomed to an eternal existence, either
in happiness or in misery. His type
was mental, and to such must his la-
bours conform ; and, from their con-
formation to this, they are, in many
respects, placed at a remote distance
from the humble sympathies of those
whose ideas are regulated by an imme-
diate reference to sense. By such a
species of apprehension their signifi-
cance can never be perceived. To
* It is necessary here to keep in view the distinction which has been referred to in a
former note, as existing between the signification of the term ideal, and that of the idea.
The idea is ultimate ; the ideal is the result of comparison : it is a term that has been
used to express qualities which are the result of a process of abstraction carried forward,
I should say, in a particular direction, with the view of, to a certain extent, subjecting the
idea of one thing to that of another : — the mistaken application and misunderstanding of
which principle, has given rise to, at times, absurd discussion regarding it. The term also
has been most licentiously used ; the mere abuse of which, may, in some instances, have
given rise to a species of mental desert, which has misled practice in art.
f The colour, for example, of the Crucifixion by Tintoretto, or the expression of a Span-
ish face by Velasques, display what has never been met, and what is not the result of any
process of generalization. The one is an invention — the other an individuality ; but in both
that is perceived which appears to be thoroughly co-relative with its subject — that, in
short, which the mind seems to be fitted to recognise as part of its constituted relations.
268
refer them to a human standard as es-
sential and generic is not enough, al-
though this is the nearest approach
which has been made towards charac-
terising them. The form, light and
shade, and colour, of Buonarotti, are
frequently the exponents of modes of
being which have no objective exist-
ence : he was called to treat of things
which were unseen — of superhuman
relations which had been established
— to express the influence that the be-
lief iu the existence of such exercised
upon man — and to connect him with
the invisible. Mysteriousness and
greatness must be thrown over the
generic nature of man, and this is
the idea rendered by the works of
Michael Angelo. They are sacred to
veneration, to awe, and to wonder.
To clothe and impress those sentiments
was the aim of his style. Compared
with the expression and essential form
of Grecian art, and with the generic
light and shade and colour of Titian,
those of the Cappella Sistina present
a remarkable distinction. They are
expressive of the fleshly and material —
those of Michael Angelo of the mental
and immaterial. Greek art had, it may
almost be said, perfected bodily sym-
metry — it had embodied physical
strength and intellectual character — it
had carried a material system to its
highest elevation ; but, in the figures
of Michael Angelo, the impression is
conveyed of a predominating power
or will, which makes the body its ma-
chine— a vital energy, which seems
expressive of the idea of soul in man,
distinct, and self- existent. This en-
dows them with immense power on the
mind ; and (laying aside abstract con-
siderations in regard to the tendency
of Grecian theology and philosophy as
compared to those of later times), must,
in many instances, be considered to
raise them above Greek art ; or, if they
cannot be placed higher than the per-
fection which Grecian sculpture reach-
ed (possibly the most beautiful ex-
ample of the attainment of such in the
history of man), fixes them on an
On Michael Angela's Last Judyment.
[Feb.
equally elevated line. Both are widely
different. It may be said that the
Italian expressed, or showed, the mind
in the body — that the Greek expressed
it by the body. The discrimination of
class and character must be regarded
to have been the aim of Greek art —
the workings of mind and passion that
of modern art. In Greece, character-
istic distinction had traced a gradual
ascent of physiognomic peculiarity,
from the centaur up to the Olympian
Jove. The classification of form was
minutely entered into ; which, by the
masters of the revival of art was com-
paratively little attended to.
Comparisons have been frequently
made betwixt the degree of perfection
exhibited in the works of Michael Ange-
lo and ancient sculpture, without tak-
ing the particular style or character of
either into consideration, and each has
been made the rule of judging the other,
certainly under a very imperfect percep-
tion of the true nature of either the one
or the other. In those characteristics,
which constitute the difference of senti-
ment, and necessarily of style, be-
tween them, consists much of the parti-
cular excellence of each. The charac-
ter— even the perfection, it may be
said, of Greek works, would have mi-
litated, in many respects, against those
intentions which the works of Michael
Angelo fulfil. Nor would his works
have effected the purposes of the
Greeks. The pantheism of Greece
pre-supposed the universal materiality
or the universal immateriality, of all
things. There were no conflicting
elements — no distinct process of so-
paration of mind and matter entered
into. All was recognised to be of One,
differing only in grade. Their gods
were rendered in godlike shapes, by a
minute definition of character, which
could not be too much regulated by
physical analogy, or laws.* The idea
of the superhuman, or the ideal, in-
deed existed, and was perfected in
every rank of the theogony, but less
under the influence of a sentiment than
as a type, its original germ ; and from
* The sentiment of the supernatural appears to have been comparatively feeble in
Greece, from the natural being blended into it by gradual steps, distinct and regular
as those to the porticoes of their temples. But, in modern Europe, it was much more
a part of the general mind, and even still is so ; was mixed and interwoven with all
mental operation, continually starting into view, in a manner that may be likened to
the strange forms produced under its influence, which are scattered amidst the fret-
work, and grin from every corner of a Gothic cathedral.
1839.]
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
which the history, both of ancient and
of modern art, exhibits a process of
refinement, or completion, in the first
place, and afterwards of annihilation.
But it was necessary that the style of
Michael Angelo (whether from senti-
ment, or the result of ratiocination, it
is not intended at present to inquire)
should express the union and con-
nexion of power and imperfection — of
greatness and of frailty. Man must
not, however, be represented in weak-
ness ; such would have destroyed one
great purpose of the work — to elevate
humanity : but the struggle of man,
declared to be abject, and, at the same
time, the inheritor of immortality — "a
worm, a god," — must be express-
ed. He has been removed from the
calm perfectability of the Academy,
or of the Stoa, which, in (f reason's
deepest depths," sought to base his
dignity, and to found the persuasion
that he might not merely be mortal.
He has been made to expect eternal
consciousness. He has been brought
into conflict with his passions, imme-
diately overawed by hope and fear.
Contesting sentiments have become
centred in his nature, and contend for
predominance over his character and
fate ; and to be the medium of con-
veying these, and of conducting
him through regions of mystery
with power and intellectual gran-
deur, was the aim of the style of
Michael Angelo.
His forms display moral and phy-
sical strength, independently of their
general significance. The movements
of the machine of the human body are
condensed and rendered energetic,
not by celerity of action so much as
by the impression of powerful will and
desire, with which his actors seem to
be endowed. There is in them a con-
stant reference to the particular and
imperfect, in connexion with expres-
sion ; but this is rendered with a speci-
fic greatness which raises them alto-
gether above individual humanity.*
Not to enter into any lengthened
comparison or to contrast the style
of the works of Raphael with those
of Michael Angelo, it may be ob-
served, with a view to render more
evident what has been noticed in
regard to the latter, that, in distinc-
tion from Raphael, he endeavoured
to elevate man to the supernatural ;
while Raphael, in his works which
have relation to such subjects, brought
the supernatural down to man. No-
thing can be more distinct than the
impression produced by the Sybils and
Isaiah of Raphael, which are said to
have been done iu imitation of, and to
rival Michael Angelo, from those of
the Sistine Chapel. The Isaiah is much
after the fashion, but altogether with-
out participation of the spirit of Mi-
chael Angelo. It may have greatness,
wisdom, and sagacity, but it has no
inspiration. Raphael stood on a dif-
ferent ground. His characters illus-
trate and explain a creed, and give a
mundane relation to its dogmas by
exciting sympathy and love. In this
view, while the efforts of both were
directed to the one great purpose of
calling attention to religion, it may
be said that he was opposed to Michael
Angelo. f The style of Raphael, also,
was much more a derivation from
Greek sculpture than that of Michael
Angelo, but operated upon by a differ-
ent sentiment, — the dramatic, instead
of the lyric and the epic, which, in
* Minute criticism may find enough to cavil at in various respects in the picture of the
Last Judgment ; but such things are not connected with the true end or merit of the work.
They may on some occasions be alluded to with profit, in guarding practice against particu-
lar errors ; but the want of perception of the true nature and greatness of this mighty work,
can alone lead to their being brought forward in connexion with its general character.
There is, without doubt, what in many instances, if only considered in reference to a standard
of mere correctness, which rejects expression as any part of its element ; much that may be
considered incorrect and exaggerated ; but in most cases, this should rather be held to be
connected with the peculiar character and intentions of the woik. On some occasions the
Anatomical expression may be regarded to be monotonous ; on others disconnected and vio-
lent ; but its author is scarcely ever lost, through dread of either the one or the other, in
poverty of imitation.
j" An objection may be made to those works of Michael Angelo which do not involve
sentiments of greatness or of mystery, that they either partake strongly of them, or when
they are avoided fall beneath their subject. He did not enter into passionless humanity—
he could not characterise without expressing the struggle <jf w.i'1, power, or suffering. Hia
270
On Michael Angela's Last Judgment.
[Feb.
Grecian art, throughout all its refined
distinctions of character, were strongly
influential.
The colour, and light and shade of
the picture, are analogous to its form ;
they are strictly accordant in senti-
ment with its intention, and conform
to and aid its expression. Local or
minute distinctions in the one, and ac-
cidental effects in the other, are almost
entirely denied. They are wholly at
the will of the painter, in conformity
to his idea. Shade, instead of being
made a means of powerful contrast, is
merely used as a material, that indi-
cates rather than expresses the nega-
tion of light. It may be regarded as
an imperfection in nature, that only a
partial dependence was placed upon
in connexion with the abstract ex-
pression and reference of the painting
of Michael Angelo. On some occa-
sions the effect produced is almost alto-
gether independent of it, the contrast
and hues of colour being the medium
adopted ; while, on others, colour is re-
duced nearly to simple chiaro-oscuro,
and a dark obscurity is the solemn at-
mosphere of various parts of the scene
of the Judgment. In the remains of
ancient Roman painting, from which,
and from the notices that have de-
scended to us, the style of the Greeks
may, to a considerable extent, be de-
duced, a somewhat similar recogni-
tion of the imitation of light and colour
appears to have been made by them.
They were wholly regarded, along
•with form, as part of the means of art,
not followed as an ultimate intention,
and, thus considered, were in many
instances even rendered as negative
as possible ; while, in others, they
were mutually sacrificed, — the one to
the sentiment that the other was more
particularly adapted to convey.
Considered as the means of affecting
sense, in the works of Michael Augelo
they are most harmonious, simple,
and severe — they possess impressive
breadth and distinct firmness, with a
transparent delicacy of tone, which
altogether removes their expression
from the material character, of which
colour is powerfully expressive. They
must not be judged by a standard
which demands their strong and im-
mediate effect, as displayed in most of
the pictures of the Venetian school,
and of Rubens (whose works must
be considered to be a mighty school
of themselves) ; or which makes
the representation of individual and
accidental peculiarity its rule. The
first of these methods was rejected by
the subjection, in which the expression
of colour, and light and shade, were
held, to the slower mental process that
is involved in the perception of form ;
upon which the chief dependence was
placed in this work, in obedience to
the powerful and definite expression
that was necessary, — and the other
was denied by its elevated and abstract
character.
It is not intended here to enter into
any refutation of mistaken criticisms,
which have been made on the picture
of the Last Judgment, — nor into any
detailed consideration of the work.
The methods pursued in its production,
which have been attempted to be ex-
plained, and which, it is hoped that
it will now be apparent, were adopt-
ed by Michael Angelo, or presented
by circumstances for him to pursue,
being correctly recognised, must suf-
ficiently enable every one to reply to
the former themselves ; while, by a just
application of those principles, which
have been considered to have operated
towards the formation, and to have led
to the adoption, of the peculiarities of
thought and expression displayed in
the picture, a correct appreciation of
its various parts may be formed.
But, although the work is addressed
to all, in connexion with sentiments
which all, more or less, endeavour to
enter into, it were almost needless to
say that it is impossible that all can be
alive to its signification, or under-
stand it. Mental variety may be
compared to that of physical capacity
in the animal creation. It is not
possible that different individuals-
should perceive and feel with the
same convictions, sentiments which
demand, in their perception, conditions
which are widely dissimilar in each.
statue of the youthful David is not successful — a subject that Raphael would have excelled
in ; but had it been the Prophet and King, it would have again been the proper field for
Michael Angelo. But it was executed from a block of marble which had been partly sculp-
tured and rendered useless bv " a Master Simone of Fiesole," who, according to Vasari,
had commenced it as a giant. Its style, however, is widely different from that of the Moses.
1839.]
The Iron Gate — A Legend of Alderley.
271
Those differences, however, which
render general participation in this, as
in every other instance, impossible,
and which are barriers to the appre-
hension of the import of the picture,
exist less in regard to that import
itself, than in respect to the manner in
which it is manifested, or the path
•which is pursued to arrive at it. It
must be contended that every one, in
some measure, endeavours to partici-
pate in the sentiments which it enun-
ciates. It may not be understood,
but it must be felt ; and every work
which rests on the same basis. Its
whole bearing and treatment are, even
in minute respects, to a certain extent
abstract — it relates to the morally
great in human effort — it is connected
with the intellectual. In this is the
grandeur of the work sustained on
this broad foundation its sentiments,
and the manner of their elucidation
rest. To attempt, however imper-
fectly, to find or approach this, is cha-
racteristic of humanity. United in
this object, the refined excursiveness
of the European, and the African
savage's worship of his little broad-
lipped gilt image : the roads are many
which have been pursued in order to
reach its attainment. Towards this,
the picture of the Judgment, taking it
in its widest scope, bears — in this, it
originated, and from this it was
evolved.
THE IRON GATE— A LEGEND OP ALfcERLEY.
I LOVE those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true,
That bring things back from fairy-
land,
In all their glittering hue.
I love to hear of stalwart knights ;
Of squires, and dwarfs, and fays ;
Whose gambols in the pale moonlight
Fill rustics with amaze.
Those things are, to a musing wight,
Substantial things to view ! —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
I love those tales my grandame
told,
When I sat on her knee,
And look'd into her aged face,
With wonder fill'd and glee :
Those tales that made me quake with
fear,
Though trembling with delight ;
As some huge giant fell to earth
When vanquish'd in the fight :— .
Or some magician gave his aid
To whom that aid was due. — ,
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
And she, my grandame, lov'd to tell
To me, her listening child,
Old tales of witch, and charm, and
spell,
With many a legend wild.
And I had faith in all she said,
And held for truth each tale ;
And wept for grief, or scream'd for
joy,
Did ill or good prevail.
And this the way my grandame did
Her wonders bring to view —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" Once on a time there was a man,
A miller he by trade ;
Down by yon brook he had his mill,
Where now the bridge is made.
An honest man that miller was,
An honest name did own ;
His word would pass for forty pounds
Where'er that name was known ;
And no one doubted what he said,
For credence was his due."— i
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" The miller had a noble horse,
It was an iron-grey ;
It had a flowing mane and tail,
And pranced in spirit gay.
It look'd like to a warrior's steed,
Its bearing was so good ;
And much the miller prized his
horse,
And boasted of its blood.
He rode it hard, but fed it well,
And it was sleek to view." —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true!
272
The Iron Gate — A Legend of Alderley.
[Feb.
" The miller to the market went
Upon one market day,
And, as his custom always was,
He rode his noble grey.
He bought and sold, and profit made,
And added to his store ;
Then homeward went, along the road
He oft had gone before.
But his good steed and he must part,
Though grievous the adieu" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" His way lay o'er a barren heath,
Where now are farms and fields ;
For land where nought but thistles
grew,
Now wheat and barley yields.
The time was tow'rds the gloaming
hour,
When things are dimly seen ;
No house or man was in his sight,
It was a lonely scene.
His horse has made a sudden start,
The thing is something new" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
"The grey horse made a sudden
start ;
The miller, in amaze,
Look'd out, .and in the twilight gloom
An ancient met his gaze !
An aged man there stood to view,
Where a moment past was none !
His horse stood still, and he himself
Felt rooted like a stone.
That aged man the silence broke —
The horse did start anew" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" The man was clad like to a monk,
A rev'rend air had he ;
A white beard hung from 'iieath his
chin —
From his belt a rosary.
He stretched his hand, ere yet he
spoke,
A hand of skin and bone ; —
The goodly grey seem'd 'reft of pow'r,
And stood still as a stone ;
He mildly on the miller look'd —
The miller was pow'rless too" —
I love those tales of -ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
( ' ' I want thy horse — sell me thy
horse,
'Tis a good and gallant steed j' —
I'll give thee gold shall fill thy purse.
For much tby hprse I need.'
So said that old mysterious monk,
But the miller said him nay ;
f I would be loth to sell my horse,
My good, my gallant grey —
For, if I should my grey horse sell,
I should the bargain rue' " —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" « I want thy horse — sell me thy
horse' —
Again that old monk said ;
' Name thou thy price — whate'er it
be,
It shall be quickly paid !
But certes 'tis thy horse and thee
Must part within one hour ; —
Take gold, then, while thou may'st
receive,
And while to give I've power.'
The miller heav'd a bitter sigh,
The grey horse trembled too" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" ' I want thy horse — sell me thy
horse,' —
A third time spoke the man ; —
' Again, I say, I'll give thy price,
Then yield him whilst thou can.
For I have power to make him mine,
Despite what thou may'st say ;
But good King Arthur bade me
first
To ask thy price, and pay, —
It is for him I want thy horse,
And gold I bid in lieu' " —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" ( For good King Arthur did not die,
As idle tales have said ;
And years and years will pass away,
Ere he ranks with the dead !
But Merlin from the battle bore
His friend and king away :
That he might lead his chivalry,
In England's needful day :
It is for him I want thy steed,
Then yield thy king his due.' "
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" There was a magic in his voice,
That charmed and filled with fear ;
And made his words fall like com-
mands
Upon the listener's ear.
An impulse by that voice was given
Which no man might gainsay ;
The miller said he'd sell hjs horse ;
He heard bu.t to obey.
1839.]
The Iron Gate — A Legend of A IderUy.
273
« Then follow me,' the old monk said,
« And I will pay thy clue ' " —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true!
" The monk then strode across the
heath —
The miller followed too ;
Till they came to a green hill-side,
With an iron gate in view.
The miller knew the country well,
And knew each brake and dell,
But could not in his memory trace
The portal of that hill !
The monk bade ope that iron gate,
And wide it open flew" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" The monk passed through that
iron gate —
The miller passed likewise ;
They scarce were through when closed
it was,
With a loud and fearful noise ;
And they were there within that hill,
And a strange mysterious light
Shone all about, and still revealed
Each wonder to their sight :
And much the miller was amazed
At things that met his view" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" And first the monk the miller
took
To a cavern large and wide.
In which lay twice ten thousand men
All sleeping side by side : —
And they were cas'd in armour all,
Of purest steel so bright ;
And each man's faulchion near him
lay,
Quite ready for the fight.
A shield and lance, too, each man had;
Ten thousand twice in view" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" And as the monk pass'd slowly on
Each warrior turn'd him o'er,
As though from sleep awakening";
But sank down as before I
' It is not time ! — it is not time ! '
The old monk calmly said,
' And till the time is perfected,
This cave must be your bed.
For ye are for a noble work,
And are a noble crew'" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXX.
" Then to the miller, turning round,
He said, with accents bland,
* These are King Arthur's chivalry,
The noblest in the land ! '
And each man stretch'd before theo
now,
Has been well tried in fight ;
And proved him in a foeman's face
To be a valiant knight.
By Merlin's power they here are laid,
But will go forth anew' "—
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" * When England's troubles painful
grow,
And foemen cause her grief,
Then Arthur and these noble knighfs
Will haste to her relief:
And then with deeds of chivalry
All England will resound ;
And none so worthy as these knights
Will in the land be found !
For they are England's Paladins,
Men great and gallant too !'" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true.
" Then onwards to another cave
The old monk led the way ;
Where twice ten thousand noble steeds
Were slumb'ring time away !
And by each horse a serving man ;—
It was a noble sight
To see that band of gallant steeds,
All harness' d fit for fight !
And when the miller's horse came
there,
He fell and slumber'd too"^-
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
« 'That horse is mine!' the old man
said,
« A noble price I'll pay :
Thou see'st he's mine, for now thou
canst
Not move him hence away !
He'll good King Arthur's war-steed
be,
And bear him bravely forth,
When thy head — honest miller ! —
Has forgot the things of earth !
By Merlin he preserv'd will be
As now he is to view' " —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" Then forth that old monk led the
way
To a cave of smaller size ;
274
The Iron GMe,—A Legend ofAlderley. [Feb.
And oft to see the iron gate
He wander'd tow'rds the hill :
But never more that gate he saw ;
For aye it shunn'd his view" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
But who Can tell the sight that met
The miller's wond'ring eyes !
A glowing light that cave contain'd,
Which fell on stone and gem ;
And they threw back that glowing
light,
As though too mean for them !
And lustrous was that glitt'ring cave
With stones of every hue" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" And there the miller saw huge
heaps
Of gold in coin and ore :
The monk he bade the miller take,
His horse's worth, and more !
* Take what thou wilt — take what thou
canst,
I stint thee not,' said he :
The miller thought of his tolling dish,
And help'd himself right free ;
He took such store of gems and gold
To walk he'd much ado" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" The monk then led him forth the
hill,
To the open heath again ;
And said, ' thou art a favour'd man,
Within that hill t'have been :
'Tis but to some few mortals given
To see that iron door ;
And once thy back is tow'rds it
turn'd,
Thou'lt see it there no more 1
In peace pass on — thy way lies there —
I bid thee, friend, adieu !' " —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" The miller look'd — the monk was
gone !
And he stood there alone !
And turning tow'rds the iron gate,
Saw but the hill of stone !
The miller lived a prosp'rous man,
And long dwelt at the mill ;
" And it was said that ancient monk
Had told him wondrous things ;
Of all that would to England hap,
Through a long line of kings :
Had made him wise beyond all men ;
And, certes, he look'd grave,
When ask'd what things the monk
reveal'd,
Or what reward he gave.
But years, long years, have pass'd and
gone,
Since he gave death his due " —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
" And since his day full many a
man
Has sought that iron gate ;
And wander'd near that grey hill-side
At early morn and late :
But still the gate is kept from view,
By Merlin watch'd each hour ;
And will be till King Arthur rides,
With all his knightly power :
But no man knows when that will be —
My tale is told — adieu !" —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
Such was a tale my grandame told,
When I sat on her knee ;
And look'd into her aged face
With wonder fill'd and glee :
And such a tale I lov'd to hear,
And listen yet I can :
For oft what has beguiled the child
Will still beguile the man.
Those things are, to a musing wight,
Substantial things to view ! —
I love those tales of ancientry,
Those tales to fancy true !
1839.]
Secular and Rc'iyious Education.
275
SECULAR AND RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
WE understand that it is the inten-
tion of Government, in the ensuing
session of Parliament, to introduce a
general system of education detached
from religious instruction. Such a
project, in the estimation of the Liberal
party, has many circumstances to re-
commend it. It professes to effect a
great reformation in the social state
of the people, without allying itself to
any political party ; to promote the
best interests of the poor, by raising
their moral character and improving
their intellectual powers ; and to lay
the only true foundation for the secu-
rity and the advancement of society,
by elevating at once, and in the same
proportion, all the classes in the state.
These views have long been entertain-
ed by the majority of the philanthro-
pic and highly-educated classes in the
empire ; and this is perhaps the only
subject on which Whigs and Tories
have for long been unanimous in their
opinions. It is hard to say whether
the schools in connexion with the
Church, which are supported by the
Conservatives, have been most the ob-
jects of enthusiastic and philanthropic
exertion, or the mechanics' institutes,
and Lancasterian schools, and other
establishments, which profess to give
the means of instruction only, without
inculcating the doctrines of any
church whatever.
While we rejoice to know that there
is much benevolence on all sides in this
great experiment, and that the great
bulk of the supporters of both the se-
cular and religious systems of educa-
tion have been actuated by pure and
philanthropic motives, yet it has now
become apparent that a sinister object
has been in view throughout, with
many of the leaders of the " Agita-
tion," and that it is not so much as
an instrument of social amelioration,
than as an engine of political power,
that intellectual education has been
so earnestly pressed upon all classes of
the people. It was early foreseen by
them that a people educated on their
principles would be much more difficult
to manage than an uneducated one ;
and that, when once the " masses"
were devoted to newspapers and po-
litical discussions, a very large share
would soon be imperiously demanded
by them in the direct control of the
legislature.*
On the other hand, the Conserva-
tive party have discovered, that, in
lending their support to this outcry
for intellectual education and univer-
sal instruction, apart from moral dis-
cipline or religious tuition, they have
put a dangerous weapon into the hands
of the Destructives. While the wide
extension of the power of reading has
opened the doors of superficial infor-
mation to all, the physical impossi-
bility, on the part of the great majo-
rity of the working classes, of making
themselves masters of any subject ex-
cept that in which they are actually
engaged, has increased an unparal-
leled amount of prejudice and misin-
formation. What the effects of such
a state of things must be upon a peo-
ple undergoing the crisis of a social
change, and recently exposed to the
whole consequences of a great poli-
tical revolution, might easily have
been anticipated. It at once opened
the door to every species of deception
— called a new world of social empirics
and political quacks into existence
—and exposed the masses to sources
of error, greater even than can ever
spring from mere ignorance itself. So
the societies in which the principles of
the mere communication of the power
of reading, without a sedulous atten-
tion to the habits acquired, the prin-
ciples formed, and the tastes indulged,
by those in whose hands the intellectual
lever is placed, expose the community
to the most imminent dangers. Ex-
perience has proved that the human
mind, if left to itself, without religious
tuition, speedily runs riot ; and all the
efforts of pride to emancipate itself
from the restraints of religion, are
evidently and palpably inducing an
awful confirmation of the truths un-
folded in Revelation.
The Liberal party are not insen-
sible to these dangers, although they
* JVo one saw this more clearly than Lord Brougham ; and he accordingly said, ten
years ago, that " the Schoolmaster was abroad, and it would soon be found that he
was more than a match for the Marshal's baton."
276
Secular and ReUyious Education.
[Feb.
are reluctant to admit them in their
full extent, and are willing to run their
hazard for the sake of the immediate
advantages which the power of- rous-
ing an educated, but superficial and
prejudiced, people must always give
to popular agitators. They rely, as
an antidote to all such evils, on the
influence of intellectual cultivation.
They profess to think, that mechanics'
institutes, labourers' societies, and
weekly reading-rooms, will come to
supersede entirely the ale-house and
the gin-vault ; that cotton-spinners,
after twelve hours incessant toil in
heated rooms, will no longer think of
•whisky or porter, but of Euclid or
astronomy ; that colliers, emerging
from the scene of their subterraneous
toil, instead of repairing to the ale-
house or spirit- shop, would hasten to
the reading-rooms and begin " to read
Bacon ;" and that the mechanic, worn
out with the attention which his skilled
labour requires, will find a delightful
recreation in the study of the works
of the " lights of the world and demi-
gods of yore."
Intellectual pursuits are no antidote,
with the great mass of the people,
either to dangerous political associa-
tion or sensual and degrading indi-
vidual habits. Read the evidence
given before the Combination Com-
mittee of the House of Commons last
session of Parliament, where it is
proved, by the agent for the Glas-
gow Cotton-spinners' Association, that
SIXTY of that body who were engaged
in the wicked conspiracy which form-
ed the subject of the celebrated trial
at Edinburgh last year, were members
of mechanics' institutes at Glasgow,
and that two of the committee who
were convicted, and are now suffering
the punishment of transportation, had
received or given prizes in that insti-
tution.
Rightly judging that the only power
•which was capable of contending with
the antagonist forces of sin was reli-
gious faith, and that no good, but great
evil, would follow the multiplication
of schools without churches, wiser
philanthropists have made the most
strenuous exertions to multiply places
of worship in all parts of the island.
The important truth has now been
generally perceivedthat, during twenty
years' excitement of war, and twenty
more of delusive security of peace, the
population of the empire had so far
outgrown the means of religious in-
struction, as to have nursed up in the
bosom of the state a race of men,
strangers to the religion, the princi-
ples, and the practices of their fathers.
It is upon them that the forces of
Christian philanthropy are now assi-
duously directed.
M. Coussins, to whom the cause of
education owes so much, has said,
" that instruction, if not based on re-
ligious tuition, is worse than useless ;"
and every day's experience is adding
additional confirmation to the eternal
truth. The Almighty has decreed
that man shall not, with impunity,
forget his Maker, and that no amount
of intellectual cultivation — no degree
of skill in the mechanical arts — not
all the splendours of riches or the
triumphs of civilisation, shall compen-
sate for the want or neglect of this
fundamental condition of human hap-
piness. The proofs of this great truth
are overwhelming, universal ; they
crowd in from all quarters, and the
only difficulty is to select from the
mass of important evidence that which
bears most materially upon the ques-
tion at issue.
Is is to no purpose to refer to the
case of despotic states in which a great
degree of general instruction prevails,
and no social or political evils have
yet been found to arise from its ex-
tension. It may be perfectly true
that in Prussia, one in ten, and in
Austria, one in twelve, are at tho
schools of primary instruction, and,
nevertheless, that neither of these
countries has been disturbed by poli-
tical convulsions, or exhibited any
alarming increase of social depravity.
The real difficulty emerges for the
first time, when an uncontrolled press,
liberal institutions, and a redundant
population co-exist with a generally
educated people. It is then that the
antagonist powers of good and evil,
which are ever at work in humanity,
are really brought into collision, and
the experiment is made whether the
human mind, gifted with the power
of knowledge and left to itself, would
take the right or the wrong direction.
From the earliest times, the expe-
riment had been made upon the widest
scale, of the influence of education
upon a certain portion of society,
without its ever having been found
capable either of arresting the pro-
gress of national degradation or stop-
ping the corruptions of the very classes
among whom it prevailed. The higher
1839.]
Secular and Rdiywus Education.
277
classes among the Greeks and Romans
were not only well, but highly edu-
cated ; the higher orders corrupted
the lower ; and long before the igno-
rant masses were contaminated, cor-
ruption, sensuality, and every species
of profligacy had utterly poisoned all
the sources of public welfare in the
higher classes of society. The same
fact is exemplified in every page of
European history.
With whom did the corruptions,
which brought about the French Re-
volution, originate ? Was it among
the millions of ignorant, laborious
men who toiled in humble life, not
one in fifty of whom could read ; or
among the thousands of the privileged
class, who were all highly educated,
refined, and cultivated'? No person
will say that their education was
based upon religion ; for they were,
probably, the most infidel generation
that ever existed upon the face of the
earth, and we have seen to what their
intellectual cultivation led. If any
person would wish to know to what,
in a highly civilized and opulent com-
munity, the general extension of sim-
ply intellectual cultivation will lead,
he has only to look at the books found
at Pompeii, ninety-nine hundreds of
which relate exclusively to subjects of
gastronomy or obscenity ; or to the
present novels and dramatic literature
of France, in which all the efforts of
genius and all the powers of fancy
are employed only to heighten the de-
sires, prolong the excitement, and
throw a romantic cover over the gra-
tification of the senses.
But these, say the advocates of se-
cular education, are its effects among
the great and the affluent — among
those whom ambition has misled, opu-
lence enervated, and idleness corrupt-
ed. No such result need be appre-
hended, say they, from the extension
of knowledge to the masses of man-
kind, who are doomed by necessity to
a life of labour, and equally removed
from the dangers of idleness, the daz-
zling of ambition, or the seduction of
wealth. Experience, however, the
great test of truth, here again steps
in, and tells us in language which can-
not be misunderstood, that human
nature in all ranks is the same ; that
knowledge is power to all, but wisdom
only to those who use it rightly ; and
that, so far from mere secular educa-
tion being an antidote to evil, or a pre-
servative against the progress of social
corruption, it has tlio greatest possible
tendency to increase both, if not re-
strained by the force of moral precept,
and sanctified by the simultaneous
spread of religious instruction.
Scotland is the great example to
which the advocates of secular edu-
cation constantly pointed, as illus-
trating the effect of intellectual culti-
vation upon the character of mankind ;
and boundless have been the eulogiums
pronounced upon the moral virtues,
steady character, and provident habits
of that most intellectual portion of the
European population. Doubtless, as
long as Scotland was an agricultural
pastoral country, and education was
based upon religion — when the school-
house stood beside the church, and
both trained up the same population
who afterwards were to repose in the
neighbouring churchyard, Scotland
icas a virtuous country, and its popu-
lation deservedly stood high in the
scale of European morality. But since
manufactures have overspread its great
towns, and a population has grown up
in certain places — educated, indeed,
but without the means of religious in-
struction, and almost totally destitute
of religious principle — the character
of the nation, in this respect, has en-
tirely changed ; and it is a melancholy
fact, that the progress of crime has
been more rapid in that part of the
British dominions , during the last thirty
years, than in any other state in Europe.
It appears from the evidence laid be-
fore the Combination Committee, last
Session of Parliament, that the pro-
gress of felonies and serious crimes in
Glasgow, during the last sixteen years,
has been, beyond all precedent, alarm-
ing, the population having, during
that period, advanced about seventy
per cent, while serious crime has in-
creased six HUNDRED per cent. Crime
over the whole country is advancing
at a very rapid rate, and far beyond
the increase of the population. In
England, the committals which, in
1813, were 7164, had risen in 1836 to
20,984, and, in 1837, to 23,612— that
is to say, they had tripled in twenty-
four years. This advance will pro-
bably be considered by most persons
as sufficiently alarming in the neigh-
bouring kingdom, but it is small com-
pared to the progress made by Scot-
land during the same period, where
serious crimes have advanced from
89, in 1813, to 2,922 ; in 1836, and
in 1837, 3126 ; being an increase, in
278
Secular and Religious Education.
[Feb.
four-and-twenty years, of more than
THIRTY-FOLD.*
The celebrated statistical writer,
Moreau, thus sums up the progress of
crime in the United Kingdom for the
last thirty years : — " The number of
individuals brought before the Crimi-
nal Courts in England has increased
five- fold in the last thirty years ; in
Ireland, five and a half ; and, in Scot-
land, TWENTY-NINE FOLD. It Would
appear that Scotland, by becoming a
manufacturing country and acquiring
riches, has seen crime advance with
the most frightful rapidity among its
inhabitants."!
Further, the following Table, com-
piled from the Parliamentary Returns,
of crimes tried in Scotland in 1836,
will show how extremely ill founded
is the opinion that the majority of
criminals are uneducated persons: —
OFFENDERS.
Males...
Females
No.
Could neither
read nor write.
Could read
or write im-
perfectly.
Could read and
write well.
Received a
Superior Edu-
cation.
Education not
ascertained.
2391
735
445
248
1345
427
479
41
65
3
57
16
3126
693
1772
520
68
73
Total Uneducated,
Total Educated,
693
2360
A result nearly of the same description, appears from the Criminal Returns
for all England, in 1836. The following are the proportions in which the
offenders are classed in the Parliamentary Returns, according to the different
degrees of instruction which they have received :—
Centesimal Proportion.
7,033 33-52
10,983 52-33
2,215 10-56
191 0-91
562 2-68
Unable to read and write, . .
Able to read and write imperfectly, .
Able to read and write well,
Instruction superior to reading and writing,
Instruction could not be ascertained,
Total uneducated,
Do. educated,
20,984
7033
13,951
The same results are obtained from some very interesting moral statistics
lately published in the Journal of the Statistical Society of London ; from the
commitments of the police within the metropolitan districts of that city.
From these it appears that in the C division of the metropolitan police for the
year 1837, comprehending the Parishes of St James, St Anne, Soho, the per-
sons taken into custody, with their, several degrees of instruction, stood as
follows : —
Total Committed,.
Could neither read nor write,
Could read and write imperfectly
Could read and write well,
Superior instruction,
Total uneducated,
Total educated,
2383
3647
1360
187
2383
5194
7577
7577
So that the educated criminals are considerably more than double the un-
educated.
Parliamentary Returns.
f Moresu's Statis. de la Grand Brcfajne, i. 297.
1839.]
Ocular and Religious Education.
270
In tho St James' division the proportion is still more extraordinary, being
as follows :—
ALL KINDS OF OFFENCES.
per cent.
Can neither read nor write, ....... 8'4
Can read only, or read and write imperfectly, . . . . 12-9
Can read and write well, ....... 20'2
Have received a superior education, ...... 17'6
Such a state of matters is not peculiar to London. The following Return
from Cold Bathfields House of Correction, and the Glasgow Bridewell, taken
at random from a multitude of similar documents lying before us, proves that
secular education is doing just as little for the repression of crime, in these
quarters of the United Kingdom, as in the metropolis.
Cold BatJtfields House of Correction, 1835.
Prisoners, ........
Those uneducated — first imprisonment, 56 )
Those educated — first imprisonment, . 646 )
Uneducated — imprisoned before, . . 48 )
Educated — imprisoned before, • . 217 S
702
265
967
967
Average of Prisoners in Glasgow Bridewell, June 1834 to June 1835.
Males. Females. Total.
Can read and write 98 33 131
Can read only, 66 ' 77 143
Cau neither read nor write, ... 24 28 52
188
138
326
It is unnecessary to multiply further
examples of a fact so perfectly appa-
rent, of the total inadequacy of educa-
cation to check the progress of crime
in the British islands. But a very
singular and most interesting con-
firmation of the same principles has
been afforded by the criminal returns
of France, in the whole eighty-six de-
partments of which, it has been found
that, with hardly one single exception,
the amount of crime isjitst in propor-
tion to the degree of instruction ivhich
prevails ; and that it is no where so
prevalent as in those towns and de-
partments where education has been
carried to the highest pitch. This
extraordinary fact, which, as Mr Bul-
wer very candidly admits, has fairly
bound down our highly pre-conceived
ideas on the subject, has been more
than once already alluded to in this
Miscellany, and its authenticity called
in question only by that numerous
class who will believe no facts which
do not fall in with their own precon-
ceived ideas.
Returns of exactly the same cha-
racter have been obtained from the
statistics of America, and are to be
found in M. Beaumont and Tocque-
ville's able work on the penitentiary
system of that country ; but we have
not room to insert these details, and
shall content ourselves, therefore, with
the following quotation from that
work : — " It may seem that a state
having every vent for its industry and
agriculture, will commit less crime
than another which, equally enjoying
these advantages, does not equally en-
joy the advantages of intelligence and
enlightenment. Nevertheless, we do
not think that you can attribute the
diminution of crime in the North to
instruction, because in Connecticut,
where there is far more instruction titan
in New York, crime increases with a
terrible rapidity ; and if one cannot
accuse knowledge as the cause of this,
one is obliged to acknowledge that it
is not a preventive."*
There are, however, Toequeville
tells us, some institutions in America
in which instruction does produce the
effect of reforming even the most
abandoned criminals. But mark the
kind of education which, according to
his high authority, has this effect.
" The education in these houses is a
moral education ; its object is not
merely to load the memory but to
Bulwer's France, Vol. I. 156 (Note).
Secular and Religious Education.
230
elevate the soul. Do not lie, and do
as well as you can, are the simple
words with which children are admit-
ted into these institutions. Their dis-
cipline is entirely founded on morality,
and reposes on the principles of true
philosophy. Every thing is there
calculated to elevate the minds of the
persons in confinement — to render
them jealous of their own esteem and
that of their equals. To obtain this
object, they, make a feint of treating
them from the beginning like men,
and as already the members of a free
society."
These facts, which are to the Whigs
a stumbling-block and to the Libe-
rals foolishness, can easily be explained
by those who are practically acquaint-
ed with the character of human nature,
both as it appears in its actual work-
ing around us, and as it has been un-
folded by the greatest and best of
men in every age. The capital error
of the secular education party in this
matter, is the opinion that the main
end of education should be to commu-
nicate or give the means of acquiring
knowledge ; whereas its real and most
important object is, to form the habits
and elevate the character. This is
the vital point of distinction between
the two parties, and it runs not mere-
ly through their opinions in regard to
education as a political or social im-
provement, but as a means of domes-
tic reform and cultivation. The in-
tellectual educationists uniformly think
that they have done enough, if they
have given to mankind the means of
reading, and communicated to them a
great variety of facts in physical or
political knowledge — not considering
that this power of reading may bo
given, and these facts instilled into
the mind, without either producing
any beneficial effect, or preventing the
formation of the most depraved and
detestable character. They uniformly
suppose that the taste for science and
the love of philosophy is to combat
and counteract in the minds of the
masses the tendency to vicious habits,
and the attractions of sensual indul-
gence ; forgetting that it is to few only
of the human race, in any rank, that
nature has given the power of feeling
an interest in scientific inquiry or
literary enjoyment, while to all, she
has, for very obvious reasons, instilled
a ready thirst for the gratification of
the senses. The remedy, therefore,
[Feb.
which the secular educationists pro-
pose for the progress of evil, can, by
the laws of nature, affect only a few,
while the masses are swayed entirely
by objects of present desire, or imme-
diatephysical gratification. And hence
its total and universal failure to arrest
the progress either of actual crime or
of general depravity.
In arguing thus, we are far»from
supposing either any intellectual infe-
riority in the working classes, as com-
pared with those more elevated in
rank or riches, or any greater ten-
dency to depravity in them, than
exists in any other class of society.
We suppose them to be, both in point
of intellectual capacity and moral dis-
position, just the same, so far as origi-
nal disposition is concerned, as those
born to more elevated fortunes. But
can it be seriously affirmed that in any
rank of life, education has been found
capable of enabling men to combat
the impulses of the moment, or the
attractions of sense by distant consi-
derations or the pleasures of know-
ledge? Can it be affirmed that any
class of men in the state, the Peers,
the Commons, the Church, the bar,
the medical profession, the mercan-
tile community, have generally found
in the attractions of science or the
study of philosophy any effectual anti-
dote to the stimulus of the senses ? A
certain proportion, no doubt, of all
these bodies do find such a counter-
poise, and, by the habits of reading
and the pleasures of literature and
philosophy, are gradually weaned,
especially in middle or declining life,
from the more impetuous suggestions
or immediate gratification of pleasure
or excitement. But can it be affirmed
that this is generally the case ? Does
it obtain with the majority? Are
such habits ever to be found except in
a small minority? No man, in any
rank of life, ever yet found a fifth part
of his acquaintance, in whom intellec-
tual cultivation or studious habits
formed any counterpoise whatever to
irregular or vicious habits.
The mere acquisition of knowledge,
without the simultaneous formation of
habits, is very often not only of no
use, but absolutely pernicious ; be-
cause it accustoms the mind of the
young to intellectual gratification and
mental excitement, without the indus-
try and labour by which it should be
acquired, and of which it is the appro-
1839.]
Secular and Religious Education.
priate reward ; it habituates them to
look for the harvest without having
sown the seed or laboured the ground,
and consequently disqualifies them
for the actual business of life. The
whole efforts now made to make science
easy, and strip the acquisition of
knowledge of all the difficulties with
which it has been invested by nature,,
are founded upon an erroneous prin-
ciple, and tend to divest science of its
best and noblest effects.
It is this which renders the general
instruction, to a certain extent, of the
great bulk of mankind a most perilous
experiment. They can easily acquire-
thu craving for excitement and super-
ficial information, but can they acquire
with equal facility the patient habits,
the distrust of self, the respect for
others, which constitute essential ele-
ments in a well-informed and rightly
constituted mind ? It is evident that
they cannot. Necessity chains them
to physical labour, long before the
period has arrived when scientific
knowledge or philosophical informa-
tion can be acquired to any useful
purpose. Hence the bulk of this class
never acquire philosophical or politi-
cal knowledge to any useful purpose
at all ; and the power of reading
which they have acquired does them
little but mischief, because it imme-
diately throws open to them excite-
ment, and the means of obtaining
every gratification from immoral pub-
lications, whether sensual, romantic, or
political, which can be acquired with-
out study ; while they are precluded
by physical circumstances from acquir-
ing the habits requisite to enjoy use-
ful information, or judge with pro-
priety on the matters, which, either as
individuals or as members of society,
are brought under their consideration.
" General ignorance," says Plato, "is
neither the greatest evil, nor the most
to be dreaded." A mass of ill-di-
gested information is much more pe-
rilous.
There can be no mistake so great
as to imagine that, if a human being
is taught to read, and then turned into
the world with every book, good, bad,
or indifferent, equally within his reach,
he will naturally betake himself to the
good works and shun the bad.
Many years of painful study, and no
small amount of compulsion, is neces-
sary to impress upon all, except a few
gifted spirits, the previous ideas re-
281
quisite to any appreciation whatever
of the pleasure derivable from the
higher branches of literature and know-
ledge. By the working classes these
years of laborious study cannot be
spared. Necessity impels them to
physical labour for their own mainte-
nance, before the intellectual labour
can have been undergone requisite to
acquire the information or the ideas
indispensable to deriving pleasure from
the higher or useful branches of litera-
ture or philosophy. Generally speak-
ing, therefore, they can never be any
thing but superficial readers, and pro-
moters of superficial literature. We
speak of mankind as a whole. Doubt-
less there are numerous and brilliant
instances of persons whose powerful
talents have at once surmounted all
these obstacles ; but they are the ex-
ception, not the rule.
The theory of the intellectual edu-
cationists is, that the moment the
operatives are taught to read, instant-
ly, and as if by instinct, they will
acquire a taste for the best branches of
literature, — that they are at once to
plunge into Bacon, and Newton, and
Milton, and that the attractions of the
works of these great men are to form
a complete counterpoise to the plea-
sures of intoxication or the seductions
of sense. We have seen what an
enormous circulation despicable works
have had, and how completely, for a
time at least, they have interrupted
the sale of works of sterling merit and
utility. Why have they done so ?
Simply because they appeal to topics
obvious to the meanest capacity, and
conjure up, in a diverting form, im-
ages with which everybody is familiar.
Doubtless their run will at length
come to an end, and their reputation
will be as short-lived as their sale has
been extensive. But what then? Other
works of the same character will suc-
ceed, and others, and others. A super-
ficial and ephemeral generation will
never want superficial and ephemeral
works to divert the passing hour.
As a practical commentary on the
theory of the working classes going
straight to the study of Bacon, and
Euclid, and Milton, we here subjoin
a statement of the number of books
found in ten small circulating libraries
in the parishes of St George, St James,
St Anne, Soho, London, which we
strongly recommend to the considera-
tion of our readers.
282
Secular and Religious Education.
[Feb.
Works of a good character, Dr Johnson, Goldsmith, &c.,
Novels by Theodore Hook, Lytton Bulwer, &c., . .
Novels by Miss Edgeworth, and moral and religious novels,
Romances, Castle of Otranto, &c., .
Lord Byron's works, Smollett's, Fielding's, Gil Bias, &c.,
Novels by Walter Scott, and novels in imitation of him,
Novels by Captain Marryat, Cooper, Washington Ir-
ving, &c., ........
Voyages, travels, history, and biography,
Fashionable novels, well known, .....
Novels of the lowest character, being chiefly imitations of
fashionable novels, containing no good, although, pro-
bably, nothing decidedly bad, ..... 1008
Miscellaneous old books, Newgate Calendar, &c., . . 86
Number.
Per centage
perused.
27
1-23
41
1-87
49
2-27
76
3-46
30
1-78
166
7-57
115
5-24
136
6-21
439
20-
Books decidedly bad,*
It is added in the StatisticalJournal,
that the shelves of the other fifteen
circulating libraries were examined,
aud found to contain books in a trifling
degree better.
Here, then, is the practical working
of the system of secular education,
without moral discipline or religious
training of the mind. The whole
books from which any benefit could
be derived, including all Sir Walter
Scott's,Bulwer's, and MissEdgeworth's
novels, are not above TWO HUNDRED,
while the fashionable and libertine
novels are nearly TWO THOUSAND.
This may be taken as an example of
the way in which the human mind,
when left to itself, fastens immediately
upon exciting or useless publications,
to the entire neglect of all those which
go to elevate the understanding or im-
prove the heart. What antidote to
evil would the readers in these circu-
lating libraries find in the perusal of
the 1 500 fashionable or quasi- licentious
novels with which their shelves are
stored ? Would they discover in them
precepts or examples calculated to
allay their passions or to chasten their
hearts ? Would they be inspired with
contentment at their condition, or im-
proved in habits of temperance, in-
dustry, and frugality ': Would they
not rather find their imaginations in-
flamed, and their ideas elevated to a
standard inconsistent with their station
in life ?
Every person who has observed the
condition of the middling and working
classes of society of late years, must
have noticed in them, and more parti-
cularly in the most intelligent and in-
tellectual of their number, a dissatis-
10
46-
3-92
•45
faction with their condition — a feverish
restlessness, and desire for change —
an anxiety to get out of the sphere of
physical and into that of intellectual
labour — and an incessant craving after
immediate enjoyment, either of the fan-
cy or the senses. This is the natural
consequence of the extension of the
means of reading to the mass of the peo-
ple, without any attention to their moral
discipline or religious improvement.
They are accustomed, by the books
they read, to alluring, and very often
exaggerated, descriptions of the en-
joyments arising from wealth, rank,
and power. They become, in conse-
quence, discontented with their own
situation, and desirous, by any means,
to elevate themselves into that magic
circle of which they have read so
much. In the sober paths of honest
industry they see no prospect of speed-
ily obtaining the object of their de-
sires. They are prompted, therefore,
to change their line of life, in hopes
of ameliorating their condition, and
more rapidly elevating themselves to
the rank of their superiors. Disap-
pointment awaits them equally in the
new line as the old ; they become
bankrupt and desperate, and termi-
nate their career by penal transporta-
tion, voluntary exile, or swelling the
ranks of the seditious and disaffected.
We complain that we have fallen
upon an ephemeral and superficial
generation; that standard literature
is neglected, and a succession of useless
novelties alone form the object of
general perusal; that every thing is
brought down to the test of utility,
or debased by the intermixture of ex-
citement and pleasure; that classi-
* Statistical Journal, No. VIII. , p. 485.
1839.]
Secular and Religious Education.
283
cal literature, the noblest foundation
for education which the wit of man
has ever devised, is the object of in-
cessant attacks by the Liberal party,
and is gradually disappearing from
the elementary instruction of the mid-
dle classes of society ; that the great
authors of our own language — the
lights of Europe, the glories of the
world — are left unopened upon the
shelves, while an insatiable public are
only desirous to hear or see something
new; that science has degenerated
into the handmaid of art, and the
teacher of nations into the assistant of
machinery ; that history is looked over
only to cull its exciting episodes from
its dreary volumes, and poetry to de-
tach its stimulating pictures from its
elevated thoughts ; that every thing,
in short, is essentially vulgarized, and
the noble spirit of the last age seems
to be expiring with the last remants
of its heroic greatness. All this, we
fear, is true ; and great part of it is
to be ascribed to the coincidence of a
generally instructed people, with the
corruptions incident to manufacturing
wealth and long-established civilisa-
tion. In literature and philosphy, as
in other things, the supply in the long
run will be regulated by the demand ;
and if the schoolmaster has called a
new world into existence — if the march
of intellect has advanced into classes
who heretofore studied only their
Bible or prayer-book — if the craving
for excitement and amusement has
become almost as general as the de-
mand for tea and sugar — we need not
be surprised if an inferior set of
literary caterers has arisen. The ob-
vious tendency of such a state of
things — of the general spread of the
taste for imaginative or exciting plea-
sure communicated through the press,
without any elevation of the moral
standard, or improvement of the in-
tellectual powers — clearly must be to
weaken and debase the national cha-
racter— to render the understanding
the slave of the fancy or the passions,
and disable the nation from under-
going the sacrifices, or discharging the
duties, requisite to maintain its cha-
racter or sustain its independence.
In a political point of view, the
effects of the spread of mere intel-
lectual knowledge to the middle and
working classes, must obviously be
attended with the very greatest dan-
ger. When every body is taught to
read, and one in fifty only can possibly
acquire the education requisite to en-
able him to form a sound judgment
upon political subjects, what result can
possibly be expected in a country
where power is substantially vested in
the middle classes, and it is their voice
which, in the end, constitutes public
opinion, but that the government of
the state is to fall into the hands of a
set of puppets, who have no will of
their own, but merely move accord-
ing to the impulse communicated by
some of the leading quacks, who have
obtained the temporary ascendency
over the masses of mankind ? We
complain of the weakness of the pre-
sent Government of the country — of
their tergiversation in principle — va-
cillation in policy — of their contempti-
ble yielding to the pressure from with-
out, and degrading alliance with the
most dangerous demagogues in the
state. Are we quite sure, however,
that all this is not the fault, not of men,
but of the institutions which make
men ? If we first open the gates of
knowledge to all mankind, without the
slightest attention to moral discipline
or religious instruction ; next put into
their hands the wildest effusions of an
unbridled and licentious press, and
then confer upon the masses, thus ex-
cited and deluded, a preponderating
voice in government and legislation,
can we be surprised if the most wild
and extravagant theories are adopted
and pressed upon Government, and
every thing like steadiness, wisdom,
or foresight, are abandoned by those
in possession of the helm ? They
speedily find, that, when a stiff gale
sets in, the vessel will no longer obey
the rudder ; and to avoid such a
catastrophe, their whole object is, so
to trim their sails as to run as long as
may be before the wind, and avoid
exposing the broadside to the fury of
the waves. Most of our recent ex-
periments in legislation have been
successively forced upon Government,
not by the weight of argument or the
examples of history, but by the mere
clamour of interested parties, who have
contrived, by condescending to the
arts of demagogues and the clamour
of the press, to move the masses in
their favour. Of such a legislation
and government it is not going too
far to say, that it is the most effectual
that human invention ever devised to
tear an empire to atoms.
It is no answer to all this to say, that
all is the result not of the people being
Seculctr and Religious Education*
284
educated, but of their being imperfectly
educated ; that a little knowledge is a
dangerous thing, but real knowledge
is salvation ; and that all these evils
will disappear when the people, by
more complete and thorough instruc-
tion, are qualified to direct themselves
properly in private life, and take their
due share in the administration of
public affairs. All that is perfectly
true, and we agree with the Liberals
in thinking that, if the masses could
once be brought to obtain the infor-
mation requisite for a just discrimina-
tion of public affairs, there would be no
danger whatever in entrusting them
•with the entire government of the
state. It is precisely because this we
maintain to be utterly impossible, that
there is danger. It is by the labour
of man's hands, and the sweat of his
brow, that he must ever earn his sub-
sistence. The power of directing
either thought or nations, therefore,
was given to few only, because few
are called to such direction. The
instinct to follow, the disposition to
obey, the faculty to labour, were given
to all ; because by that means alone
could society be maintained or im-
proved. Let us not blame nature,
therefore, for having scattered so une-
qually the gifts of intellectual and
physical strength, but rather admire
the wisdom with which she has adapted
the varied capacities of different classes
of mankind to their respective desti-
nies and necessary duties. The fault
lies in the perverseness of men, who
overlook these eternal distinctions,
and, in the vain attempt to elevate all
to the same intellectual functions, take
the government of mankind from the
direction of intellect and give it to
that of force*
As Jittle is it any objection to say,
that a large proportion of the educated
classes, who make so prominent a figure
in the criminal calendars of the king-
dom, belong to the class of those who
are imperfectly educated, and that a
different result may be anticipated, if
a greater proportion get into the class
of superior instruction. Undoubtedly
this result might be anticipated, if
such a change were practicable. But
is it practicable ? That is the point.
We apprehend nothing can be clearer
than that it is not. It is utterly im-
possible to suppose that the majority
of men, either in the manufacturing or
agricultural departments, can ever
possess the leisure requisite to attain
[Feb.
a chastened or rational taste in lite-
rature, or acquire the means of forming
a sound judgment in politics. These
are unpalatable truths, but experience
proves them to be of universal appli-
cation, and whatever individuals or
societies shall take upon themselves
to act upon opposite principles, will
speedily find that they have shattered
themselves against a wall of adamant.
This is the fundamental principle
which ever has rendered, and ever will
render, democratic societies short-
lived and miserable. The working
classes never can enjoy the leisure
requisite to obtain the information
that is to qualify them for the dis-
charge of the duties to which they
aspire. The information of the
great bulk of them must always ne-
cessarily be superficial, and conse-
quently they always will be led by
demagogues, who, presuming upon
their ignorance, will flatter their va-
nity. Some among them, doubtless,
are gifted by nature with higher
powers, and they will deservedly rise
into a more elevated station, and take
their place among the directors of
thought and the rulers of the state.
That such characters from the humbler
ranks of life should have the means of
rising to the highest stations, is at onco
the glory and the strength of free
states. The dangers and miseries of
the democratic governments consist in
the overthrow of the influence of such
intellects, by the passions or perverted
desires of the incapable multitude.
One curious and interesting fact has
been brought to light, by the French
statistical inquiries on this subject.
It appears, as M. Guerry has pointed
out, that the great majority of the
" unfortunate females" of Paris come
from the northern and the most highly
educated provinces of France. De-
plorable as this result is, it will hardly
be suprising to any person practically
acquainted with women in the condi-
tion of the middle and lower classes of
society. Over-education is the rock
on which they generally split ; it is the
desire for immediate enjoyment — a
thirst for the pleasures and luxuries of
the affluent — the love of dress, orna-
ment, and gayety, which are the pre-
vailing motives that lead almost all
young women astray. How much
must the sway of such impulses be in-
creased by the superficial and exciting
reading which the usual trash to be
found ia circulating libraries affords in
1839.]
Secular and Religious Education.
so overwhelming a proportion ? The
statistical details above given of ten
circulating libraries in London, from
•which it appears that there are only
twenty-seven volumes on morality and
religion in them, and above fifteen
hundred fashionable, indifferent, or
libertine novels, evidently shows what
an overwhelming proportion of in-
flammable matter is poured into the
minds of the young of both sexes,
by this unrestrained and undirected
system of reading. Philanthrophy
pictures to itself the studious mecha-
nic, consuming his midnight oil over
the labours of the mighty dead, — or
the weary labourer delighting his fa-
mily by reading, after the hours of his
toil are over ; but experience draws
aside the veil from the flattering dream,
and exhibits to us the operative, sitting
in an ale-house with dissolute compan-
ions, enlivening drink with the effu-
sions of the Radical Press — pale fac-
tory girls devouring the most licen-
tious publications of the day — or deli-
cate sempstresses, working fourteen
hours continuously, in close confine-
ment, and listening all the time to
one of their number who reads eternal
descriptions of the intrigues and dissi-
pation of high life. It may easily be
conceived to what the ideas induced
by such studies must lead, in either
sex ; and we need not be surprised
that, after a few years of such tuition,
a hundred thousand of unfortunate
females nightly walk the streets of
London. It is not to be imagined,
from any thing that has now been
advanced, that we are the enemies of
education in the abstract, or have the
slightest idea, that, whether as it
stands it is a blessing or a curse to
humanity, it can by possibility be ar-
rested. None can know better than
we do that this is impossible, and that
general instruction, be it for good or
be it for evil, is established beyond
the reach at least of prevention. But
admitting this to be the case — assum-
ing that we must take general educa-
tion as a fact of general application
upon which all our reasonings must be
founded, does it follow from that,
that we are to admit this vast power
into human affairs without any attempt
to regulate or direct it ? Every body
knows that steam power both at land
and sea is irrevocably introduced into
the communication of mankind ; but
does it follow from that, that we must
necessarily allow that new force to be
283
ur.controlled in its operation, and per-
mit the lives of the people to be wan-
tonly sacrificed by high- pressure en-
gines at sea, and excessive rapid
travelling at land, without any restric-
tion ? Is it not rather the part of a
good government, when a new power
has thus been introduced into human
affairs, to take it under their especial
direction, and, deducing all the good
from it of which it is susceptible, to
restrain its evil consequences within
as narrow limits as possible ?
That education, if based upon reli-
gion, may'Jbe expected to produce very
different results from education left to
run riot for itself, or left only under
the flimsy guidance of intellectual cul-
tivation, is self-evident. The great
cause of the total inefficiency of the lat-
ter for preservation, viz., the extremely
small portion of mankind over whom
it ever can exercise any sensible in-
fluence, compared with the multitude
with whom pleasure and excitement
are the ruling principles, is no ways
applicable to religious feeling. Every
man has not an understanding ca-
pable of cultivation, but every man
has a soul to be saved. Universal as
is the stimulus of the senses and pas-
sions ; as universal, if early awakened,
are the reproaches of conscience and
the terrors of judgment to come. The
Gospel was, in an especial manner,
preached to the poor ; not only are
its leading principles obvious to every
understanding, but its principal inci-
dents find their way to every heart.
Doubtless there are great numbers in
every age, and especially in every opu-
lent age, to whom all its exhortations
will be addressed in vain, and in whom
the seductions of present interest or
pleasure will completely extinguish
all the effect of the most pointed de-
nunciations of future dangers either in
this world or the next. But, still, the
number of those whom religion can
prevent from sinning, or reclaim from
vice, is incomparably greater than
those whom science or philosophy can
affect. The proof of this is decisive.
Every age of the world has shown
numerous examples of nations con-
vulsed, sometimes to the last degree,
by religious fervour and sectarian en-
thusiasm, but nobody ever heard of
the masses being moved by science or
philosophy. Chemistry and mechanics
are very good things, but they will
never set the world on fire.
It is self- evident; therefore, that, as
286
Secular and Religious Education.
[Feb.
the dangers of unregulated education
consist in this, that works which are
to do the people good, appear, like the
paths of virtue, dull and uninviting in
the outset, and are felt to be benefi-
cial only in the end, while deleterious
and exciting productions, like the
temptations of vice, are exciting and
agreeable in the outset, and to every
capacity, and are perceived only to
lead to sackcloth and ashes, when it is
too late for any effectual amendment
of life or manners, we must look for
an antidote to this general and enor-
mous evil, in some counteracting
principle of equally universal applica-
tion and equally powerful efficacy.
The experience of ages, not less than
the feelings of our own hearts, tell us,
that the only antidote to this evil is
to be found in the intimate blending
of education with religious instruction.
It is by this union alone, that the an-
tagonist powers of good and evil can
be equally developed by the powers of
education ; that the attractions of sin
can be counteracted by opposite prin-
ciples of equal force and general effi-
cacy ; that we can give its true de-
velopement to the principles of Chris-
tianity, and screen public instruction
from the obvious reproach of adding
force to the dissolving powers in the
many, and imparting strength to the
counteracting forces only in the few.
These, accordingly, are the principles
of M. Coussin on this subject. " Re-
ligion is, in my eyes, the best, perhaps
the only basis of popular instruction.
I know a little of Europe, and have
never witnessed any good popular
schools where Christianity was awant-
inrj. The more I reflect on the sub-
ject, the more I am convinced with
the directors of the Ecoles Normalts,
and the ministerial counsellers, that we
must go hand in hand with the clergy,
in order to instruct the people, and
make religious education & special and
large part of instruction in our pri-
mary schools. I am not ignorant that
these suggestions will sound ill in the
ears of some, and that in Paris I shall
be looked upon as excessively devout ;
but it is from Berlin, nevertheless, not
Rome, that I write. He who speaks
to you is a philosopher, one looked on
with an evil eye, and even persecuted,
by the priesthood, but who knows
human nature and history too well
not to regard religion as an inde-
structible power, and Christianity,
when rightly inculcated, as an essen-
tial instrument for civilising mankind,
and a necessary support to those on
whom society imposes hard and hum-
ble duties, uncheered by the hope of
future fortune or the consolations of
self-love."
Even if this blessed union could be
accomplished, although every school
in the kingdom was blended with the
fundamental principles of Christianity,
and every seven hundred persons in
the empire had, according to Dr Chal-
mers's favourite scheme, a pastor al-
lotted to them, still much would re-
main to be done to prevent the spread
of mere knowledge from being an
addition to the lever by which vice
undermines the fabric of society. Still
there would remain to sin, the advan-
tage, always great, and in the later
stages of society of peculiar efficacy,
that it proposes immediate gratification
to its votaries, and invites them to a
course of reading from which instan-
taneous excitement or pleasure is
to be obtained. The exciting and
dangerous part of the press, in short,
is in possession of precisely the same al-
lurement by which vice so generally suc-
ceeds in overwhelming the suggestions
of virtue ; and the question betwixt
secular and religious education just
comes back to the old combat between
the antagonist principles of virtue and
vice. Firmly believing, as we do, that
the main reliance of the friends of
humanity, in such a conflict, must be
laid in the forces and co-operation of
religion, we are by no means so san-
guine as to imagine, that, in the greatest
possible cegree of church extension
and religious education there is to bs
found any thing like an effectual an-
tidote to the poison which lurks in the
fruit of the tree of knowledge. It is
to no purpose, to refer to instances of
rural pastoral districts where virtue
exists almost undisturbed by vice for
centuries together, in the simplicity of
religious belief, and generation after
generation pass through their innocent
span of life almost unstained by crime.
True, they do so ; but how long would
these same persons, innocent when not
led into temptation,withstand the allure-
ments of general education or a licen-
tious press, ancient opulence, and cor.,
rupted cities? Not one week.
Edinburgh ; Printed by Ballantyne and Huy?us, Pa id's Work,
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXXI. MARCH, 1839. VOL. XLV.
PERU AS IT IS.
WHEN we survey the actual state in the law of compensation, so the
of our colonial possessions, almost the great and sudden ruin with which
only source of trade which our foreign our colonial trade is threatened may,
policy has left us, we are filled with by some happy arrangemement of the
shame, discomfort, and alarm. The same kind, be mitigated, if not re-
revolutionary principles of our pre- paired. Unless we are greatly mis-
sent Government, and the injustice taken, Spanish America is destined
and spoliation, which are the off- to be our restorative ; and, indeed, it
spring of those principles, have filled owes us that retribution, for its inde-
all the corners of our vast colonial pendence was mainly achieved by
empire with brooding discontent. In British capital and British valour,
this ominous state of things, we turn There is no climate which those fa-
our eyes with eager solicitude to every voured regions do not embrace, no
source from whence our declining fruit which they do not yield, no mi-
commerce may be refreshed ; and we neral production in which they do not
fain would persuade ourselves, that, abound. Their waters are the inheri-
as Providence has furnished the phy- tance of the great leviathan,* and
aical world with a grand restorative every island and desert rock and jut-
Peru as it is : a Residence in Lima, &c. By Archibald Smith, M.D. Two Volumes.
London : Bentley.
* If these countries should become settled, a large capital might be very profitably
employed in fishing establishments, both in Chile and Peru. The length of a whaling
voyage, and the expense in the same proportion, would then be reduced from three, four,
and even five years, to one ; for a very few weeks would carry the vessels to the scene of
action and bring them back again. The oil, in greater or smaller quantities, as it happen-
ed to be ready, would be an acceptable freight for homeward-bound ships ; and there would
be no occasion to keep large expensive vessels for years at sea, in the hope, often frustra-
ted, of completing their cargoes. This it is, we believe, that makes the whale fishery of
these distant seas a hazardous enterprise ; but this should seem to be in a great measure
remedied by the plan we propose. We have not room to show the other advantages which
it embraces. There is one, however, which we cannot but advert to, for in our apprehen-
sion, it is of the first importance, namely, the comparative healthiness, both moral and
physical, which it would ensure to the seaman. Instead of being estranged and cut off,
as it were, from the benignant influences of civilised life, he would have his home and family
near at hand, and it would be the duty as well as the interest of his employer to watch over
its welfare. The advantage, in point of bodily health, of a short voyage over a long one
is too obvious to be insisted on. Our brethren of the United States, to our shame, seem
almost to have monopolized this trade ; and, what is still more observable, they carry it
011 principally with British capital. In the Washington Army and Navy Chronicle, for
VOL. XLV, NO, gCLXXXI. T
288 Pent as it is. [March,
ting promontory is the haunt of the Out of the various indefinite mass of
furry seal.* South American productions, let us
With what astonishing rapidity has take an instance or two from each iu-
our commerce with the United States, dividual of that majestic triplet which
especially since their independence, supplies all the wants and luxuries of
increased in magnitude and import- human life — the vegetable, animal, and
ance ! And yet our commerce with mineral kingdoms : from the first we
Spanish America, if duly fostered, take cotton and sugar — from the se-
would, in the course of time, be still cond, wool — from the third, the pre-
more important — not only because its cious metals. When we consider that,
productions are intrinsically of greater of 330 millions of pounds of cotton
value, but because we should be the which are annually importedintoGreat
carriers of them ; a condition of t ran- Britain, 270 come from the United
scendent consideration to England, States, we cannot fail to perceive how
whose greatness, nay, whose vital much we are concerned in cultivating
principle, lies wholly in her ma- the friendship of a cotton-growing
rine. people. Peru alone,f if capital and
1837, the number of vessels at sea, on the 1st January of that year, employed in the South
Atlantic and Pacific fisheries, is stated at 256.
Of which sailed in 1833 .. . 34
J834 66
1835 75
1836 . 81
256
The number of seamen employed 10,000 — and the amount of capital invested 7,000,000
of dollars. See the appendix to Dr Smith's work, vol. ii. p. 288, where the North Ame-
rican whale fishery in the Pacific alone is estimated at 12,500,000 dollars.
* We have here stated rather what was and what should be, than what is ; for the North
American sealers have nearly exterminated the whole race of fur seals. It is greatly to be
desired that Englishmen should form establishments in the Pacific for the prosecution of this
trade. Under their fostering care, with the aid of good laws, enforced by the proper naval
authorities, by which unseasonable and indiscriminate butchery would be prevented, it would
soon become a fruitful and perennial source of gain. The Russians have so protected the
Fox islands in the North Pacific, that their fur company collects annually upwards of half
a million of ths best skins, and might probably collect many more without injury to the
fishery.
The fish (commonly called the squid), which is the food of these valuable animals,
abounds in the seas that wash the Falkland Islands — South Shetland, South Orkney, and
South Georgia — the island of Tierra del Fuego, of Juan Fernandez, Masafuero, S. Feliz,
and S. Ambrosio, off the coast of Chile — all the islands and rocks off the coast of Peru from
TVlexilones to Payta, and certain uninhabited parts of the coast itself. Also the islands of
Guadaloupe, off the coast of California, and the Fox Islands to the north of Japan. Upon
all these islands and coasts, with the exception of the Fox Islands, the fur seals, as we have
already observed, have been nearly exterminated ; which is the more to be regretted, to
speak merely in a commercial sense, since their fur has become peculiarly valuable as a
substitute for beaver in the manufacture of hats, muffs, &c. So much so, that a good
skin, as we have been informed, will now sell in the United States for a Spanish
doubloon.
To give an instance of the rigorous industry of the North American sealers, we have
heard it stated, on very good authority, that, between the years 1794 and 1804, they killed
in the small island of Masafuero alone three millions of fur seals, which they sold in China
for ten millions of dollars.
f The British trade with Peru may be considered as equal to the trade of all other
nations with that country : the total value of imports being eight millions, and the British
something more than four millions of dollars. This amount, it may be presumed, will soon
be increased by the China and Manilla trade, which is now thrown open to British subjects,
and which has hitherto been monopolized by the Americans, and upon the same agreeable
terms as the whale fishery — that is, principally on British capital. The annual amount of
this trade with Peru alone, and for her consumption, is 500,000 ; with the whole Pacific
it falls little short of two millions of dollars, which may be computed as an increase of 40
per cent on the capital invested in China and Manilla.
1839.]
Peru as it is.
289
skill commensurate to its powers of
production were employed, would be
sufficient to counterbalance this fear-
ful preponderance. The cotton plant
is indigenous to its climate, and, what
is worthy of remark, it continues for
years ; whereas, in the United States,
if we mistake not, it is an annual.
What a vast difference this must make
in the expense of cultivation ! The
same do we say of sugar : if justice
were done tt> the Peruvian cane, its
rich exuberance would leave us no-
thing to regret in the loss of our East-
ern and Western possessions but the
shame of losing them.
Of wool, to instance still in the
same favoured country, the mountain
pastures of Peru are capable of sup-
plying any imaginable quantity : and
we understand that, from its similarity
to the wool of England, it has a pecu-
liar merit in our market. It is likely,
moreover, to be improved ; for Merino
rams have been lately introduced from
New South Wales, and as the absurd
prejudices which have hitherto check-
ed its exportation are giving way be-
fore the influence of a more enlight-
ened policy, there is no saying to what
extent this interesting commerce may
be pursued.
Of the precious metals it were
surely unnecessary to point out the
transcendent importance, both to this
and every other country. After the
late convulsion which shook England
and the United States to their centre,
and was felt more or less throughout
the civilised globe, no paper will be
tolerated any where that is not con-
vertible into gold and silver ; and
bankers must consequently hold in
hand a much larger supply thereof
than heretofore. The demand for gold
and silver, therefore, must daily in-
crease, and in the same proportion
must that country rise in importance,
from whence only it can be supplied,
namely, Spanish America.
But Spanish America, ever since
the inauspicious declaration of its in-
dependence, has been vibrating be-
tween profligate misrule and the wild-
est anarchy — between intestine com-
motion and foreign war ; nor does
there seem to be any probability of its
settling on its centre. Consequently,
all its rich treasures are locked up —
they are little better than sealed foun-
tains, and the streams which should
have irrigated and fertilised the world,
have either ceased to flow, or arc
wasted at their source. Shame to Eng-
land — the only country that could have
staid the plague, and yet has witness-
ed its desolating course with indiffer-
ence, although thousands of her own
children are numbered among its vic-
tims ! England, we repeat, is the only
country that can stay the plague ; be-
cause the enormous mortgage debt due
by Spanish America to British sub-
jects gives her an exclusive right to in-
terfere. Let her rise, then, for a while,
from her crouching ambiguous policy,
and, assuming the generous dignity of
better days, let her step forth, in the
exercise of her undoubted right, and
bid these struggling nations cease from
their strife, and compel them to dis-
band their armies, and lay aside their
tinsel and their swaggery, until they
have paid their debts. Under this
wholesome and necessary restraint
their feverish throes would soon sub-
side — the arts and the virtues of peace
would diffuse their purifying and in-
vigorating energies through all the
veins of the social body — the profligate
military, those irritamenta malorum,
would be absorbed by productive la-
bour, and Spanish America would be
in a condition to perform the part al-
lotted to it by the Creator, in his uni-
versal scheme of beneficence.
We were led into this vein of
thought by the perusal of Dr Smith's
very interesting and instructive work,
entitled Peru as it is ; and we were
about to dismiss it with the commen-
dation which it deserves, when an old
and privileged friend of ours, who was
for many years resident in Lima, walk-
ed into our laboratory. Like most of
our countrymen who have become ha-
bituated to the seducing climate and
gentle ethics of that singular place, he
is what he calls a lotophagist —
Aaro-
Qctyotn
«$**.
fttr
Odys. 9. v. 96.
Or, to use the Limenian figure, which
is precisely to the same purport as
Homer's, " Na tornado el agua de la
Pila" — he has tasted the waters of the
fountain, and can never be happy but
290
in Lima.* Our mutual salutations be-
ing concluded, we drew our ample
morocco to the fire-side, and lowering
our lotophagist softly down into it —
" softly down, softly down' ' — we placed
Peru as it is before him, and waited
the result. That chair, like the Py-
thian tripod, as all the world can tell,
is full of inspiration, and we had a
mind to try its influence upon our
friend. But notwithstanding he had
the advantage of a subject which of
all others was the most agreeable to
him, he was pretty considerably dull,
as our friends on the other side the
•water would say, and we knew that
his idiosyncracy was not adapted to
the meridian of our morocco. How-
ever, we took down his commentary
as he delivered it, such is the privi-
lege of that chair, with all the autho-
rity of the plural number — and thus it
runs : —
The work opens with a description
of the peculiarities of the Lima cli-
mate— its influence on man and beast
— and the atmospheric phenomena as
indicated by the barometer, hygrome-
ter, and thermometer. In the inha-
bited parts of the coast of Peru, the
equability and mildness of the climate
are remarkable, and we admire the
beautiful arrangements whereby a
country so near to the equator is con-
stantly refreshed from above and from
below, from the mountains and from
the sea, so that the summer heat of the
Talleys of the coast rarely exceeds 82
deg. of Fahrenheit. " On one occa-
sion," says Dr Smith, " when we ob-
served the barometer fall from 29
9-10ths to 29i inches, there had been
a smart earthquake, which, though it
happened in the usually dry month of
Peru as it is. [March,
January, was preceded by a gentle
shower of rain." — V. i. p. 7. This
is a fact worthy of observation. It is
not unusual for earthquakes, even in
Lima, to be succeeded by the fall of a
few rain-drops, and some of the severer
shocks by heavy showers. This hap-
pened in 1746, when the city was
ruined, and Callao buried in the sea ;
and it was considered, as no doubt it
really was, as great a calamity as the
earthquake itself. We always fancied
that electricity was the agent that
precipitated the water on these occa-
sions, against the opinion of some emi-
nent philosophers, and, among others,
if we are not mistaken, the celebrated
M. Humboldt himself, who maintain
that earthquakes are not accompanied
by any perceptible increase or dimi-
nution of electricity in the atmos-
phere. But, as water might be pre-
cipitated by the simple concussion of
the superincumbent air, as it some-
times happens during discharges of
artillery, we never ventured beyond
a mere conjecture. The fact, how-
ever, here recorded, of an earthquake
being preceded by rain, and that in
the driest season of the year, and in
a region where rain is almost un-
known, seems to confirm our hypo-
thesis— if not, how was the rain pro-
duced ? While on the subject of
atmospherical phenomena, it may
not be impertinent to mention, that
gales of wind never reach the shores
of Peru, or, to use the nautical
expression, they do not " blow home."
O, it is beautiful to stand upon a pro-
montory, and look out upon the su-
blime Pacific rolling its awful surges
in thunder on the beach, while all
beyond those stormy ridges is smooth
* " Na tornado el agua de la pila." — This is an expression which the Limeniaus were
wont to use with great complacency, and with no little reason, to denote the enchantments
of their city, which made all who had once known it unwilling to leave it. But the spell
is broken now. It is no longer the city where no one was suffered, in a worldly sense, to
be either poor or sorrowful — it is no longer, in short, the City of the Kings. In our
travels we have frequently met with individuals who had resided in Lima during its palmy
days, and we have always been struck with the affection they retain towards it — they speak
likeT>anished men. The " pila," referred to, is a magnificent bronze fountain in the centre of
the principal square, whose dimensions we cannot state ; but it is very large, of exquisite
symmetry and workmanship, and worthy of particular mention. In the time of the Vice-
roys it was guarded by a sentry day and night, but now its merit seems no longer to be
understood. To give an instance of the vulgarizing character of the revolution, we re-
member to have seen this beautiful fountain painted by order of the Government, on some
patriotic occasion, with stripes of red and white, like a groom's waistcoat, from top to
bottom.
1830.]
Peru as it is.
291
and blue, and birds are basking on its
surface, and there's not a wave to wake
them from their slumbers !
The instances of lunar influences in
Peru, p. 14-16, are very remarkable.
This effect of the moon is by many
persons thought to be a vulgar error,
but, for our own part, we .find it to be
a very painful verity at every full and
change. And what is there surpri-
sing1 in it ? The moon affects the sea ;
if it affect the larger mass of fluids,
why not the less — for it is through
the fluids which they contain that it
acts upon vegetable and animal bo-
dies— in the former through the cir-
culating sap, in the latter through the
circulating blood ?
" To enumerate no more particu-
lars," says the Doctor, speaking of the
temperature of the Peruvian coast,
" we think it will be found true,
as a general proposition, that, from
the desert of Atacama to the land-
ing-place of Pizarro, on the banks
of the Tumbez — from the southern
tropic to close upon the line — there is
a progressive diminution of atmosphe-
rical humidity." — Vol. ii. p. 206.
This phenomenon may be explained,
we think, by the fact that the breeze
which prevails along the whole of this
coast passes, with the exception of a
few and comparatively narrow valleys,
over nothing but hot sandy deserts,
and, of course, is continually losing
more and more of its moisture, until,
as it draws near to Tumbez, it begins
to be saturated with the damps which
for ever hang upon the equator. If
the prevailing wind were from the
north instead of the south, the whole
coast of Peru would be a continuous
forest.
The general effect of the Lima cli-
mate, we are told at p. 17, is to ener-
vate and degrade j this is the effect in
a greater or less degree of all uniform
climates ; " the equability of the tem-
perature of the air," says Arbuthnot,
" rendered the Asiatics lazy ;" but we
believe, with our author, that it is no-
where so remarkable as in Lima.
Indeed, the inhabitants seem to pride
themselves upon it, as a pedagogue is
wont to pride himself upon his
" emollit mores nee sinit esse feros"
— a line which we have hated, by the
by, and not without reason, from our
earliest youth. They seem to look
upon this domesticating quality of
their atmosphere as a discipline of
their own. When an European ar-
rives among- them, in what is vulgarly
called rude health — and rude it does
certainly appear to the effeminate
Limeno — they survey him with a
smile and a " dejale, luego caera" —
which may be Englished in the words
of the old song —
'' Never mind him, let him be-
By and by he'll follow thee."
When that ferocious and truculent old
Viceroy Amat arrived in Lima, the
following pasquinade was put up in
the great square — " aqui se amansan
leones" — " lions tamed here ;" and it
is said that they one day brought the
matter to the test, by throwing a line
across the street, where his carriage
was waiting at the palace gates, so as
to stop his way. But how tame and
how patient was the lion become !
He merely ordered his coachman to
turn round and take the opposite
direction. Stories such as these the
Limenos delight to tell, accounting
the achievements of their climate as
triumphs of their own.* From the
* At vol. i, p. 198, our author very truly observes, that the Limenos find a compensa-
tion for all the ills which the Revolution has brought upon them in their delicious climate,
to which he applies with singular felicity old Homer's description of the Elysian fields. But
we should have been better pleased if he had given us a translation of his own, instead of
Pope's, which, however melodious, and in that respect it is inimitable, does nevertheless
omit the very points wfcefein the similitude chiefly consists. His modesty has bequeathed
us the task of supplying the deficiency.
Oil itQirs, XT «g %ttp.ui
' akl Zttpvgoio
, an ircr
No child of labour there, with feverish head,
Bends o'er his task and scarcely gains his bread ;
292
Peru as it is.
[March,
generally enervating effects of the
climate, we are naturally led to en-
quire what is the general mortality ;
and this information is given to us
(c. 2) with a carefulness and diligent
accuracy which challenges our confi-
dence, and constrains us to admit the
melancholy fact, that more than one-
twentieth of the inhabitants of Lima
perishes annually. The average mor-
tality of a people so remarkable for
their mode of living, and under such
peculiar circumstances of time and
place — in a climate to which there is,
perhaps, no exact parallel in all the
world, and at the period of a great
social revolution — is a valuable addi-
tion to the volume of statistics, and
powerfully exemplifies the most useful
of all its conclusions, showing us, on
the one hand, how mind is affected by
matter, and, on the other, how moral
causes are productive of physical
effects. We are indebted to Dr
Smith exclusively for this valuable
information, and for a correct esti-
mate of the population of Lima, which
seems never to have reached 60,000
souls, whereas it has been stated by
several writers at 70 and even 80,000.
The table, p. 30, of the different
castes, which exhibits our species stain-
ed with every variation of colour be-
twixt black and white, is very inter-
esting. Of all these varieties, it
should be observed, the Chino is mo-
rally the worst. The mercuriality of
the black mingling with the saturnine
temperament of the Indian, produces
a character at once gloomy and fero-
cious. On the contrary, the offspring
of the white and the Indian is gentle
and inoffensive ; and it may be as-
serted, in general terms, that the white
race produces an amelioration of all
the others Avith which it mingles. The
mulatto, for instance, is a highly in-
tellectual and social being, abounding
in good qualities : and some of the
most erudite and talented men in Spa-
nish America belong to this race.
C. 3 and 4, on the food and dietetic
habits of Lima, cannot fail of interest-
ing the philosopher, whose object it is
to make himself acquainted with his
own species under every variety of
circumstance, and survey human cha-
racter in all its phases. These two
artless unpretending chapters have all
the charm of a Dutch picture : they
let us quite into the interior of the
Eimeuians, and make us better ac-
quainted with them than we could pos-
sibly have been by a more serious and
formal introduction. The quantity of
provisions cooked and sold in the
streets is enormous, and this is a fact,
as the Doctor well observe?, which
gives us an insight into the dietetic
habits of the vulgar and the needy.
(P. 35.) But it does more — it gives
us a key to their moralities also, and
we easily gather from it that idleness
and improvidence must be the com-
But the glad earth, through all the smiling hours,
Unwrought by man, its genial tribute pours :
Stern winter frowns not there, nor snow, nor rain
Deforms the sky or desolates the plain ;
But sea-born zephyrs, ever on the wing,
Round the blest bowers eternal freshness fling.
But there is still another advantage which this favoured country possesses — an advantage
beyond the privileges even of the 'HXiV/ev vrsSlav — these are the pillars of everlasting snow,
which send forth their coolness into the night, while the zephyrs are reposing.
(Our friend, W. Meleager Hay, has this moment keelavined an off-hand version — better
than either — because more literal, and equally elegant. — C. N.)
There, without toil, man spends his blissful hours :
No snow — no rain — and winter scarcely lowers :
But ever Zephyr's gently- breathed air
Ocean sends forth, to cool the dwellers there.
Here is Pope's paraphrase — a poor falsetto.
" Stern winter smiles on that auspicious clime :
The fields are florid with unfading prime ;
From the bleak pole no winds inclement blow,
Mould the round hail, or flake the fleecy snow ;
But from the breezy deep the blest inhale
The fragrant murmurs of the western gale,"
1839.]
Peru as it is.
293
mou defects of Lima. There is great
moral discipline in a kitchen fire. The
section on cold and hot qualities, p.
64, according to which the good or
bad effects of food and medicine are
prognosticated, is very amusing. The
Doctor is excited to more than his
usual eloquence when he remembers
the drilling he received at the hands
of the " wise women " of Lima on this
subject. But he will forgive them
when he considers that there was a
time when the moral character was
estimated in the same manner : " re-
fert," says one of the wisest among
the ancients, «' refert quantum quisque
humidi in se calidique coutineat. Cujus
in illo element! portio praevalebit, inde
mores erunt." — Sen. de ira. I. 2,
c. 19.
The condition of slaves under the
Spanish dynasty was so happy, says
our author, that they "forgot that they
were not free." — P. 108. We have
seen them glad to remember that they
were slaves: we have seen soldiers,
who had been emancipated by military
service, return and deliver themselves
up to their former bondage. They
found the protection of a master better
than that of the laws, and knew from
experience that, as slaves, they were
fed and clothed on easier terms than
when they were free. But from the
mildness of the servitude, continues
the Doctor, " nothing can be argued
in favour of slavery as such, which can
never be otherwise than unjust and
unchristian." Without arguing any
thing in favour of slavery, but giving,
on the contrary, due praise to all who
have endeavoured to abolish it, we
cannot be blind to the fact, that all that
has been done hitherto has only con-
tributed to exacerbate the evil it was
intended to remove. The slave trade,
if it be diminished in quantity, which is
by no means certain, is undoubtedly
aggravated in kind. As it is illegiti-
mate, it has fallen into desperate hands,
and is carried on in a manner which it
is horrible to think of. We are inclin-
ed to believe that if the energy which
has been employed in the hopeless
task of extinguishing slavery, had been
devoted to the amelioration of the
slave's condition, it would have achiev-
ed more solid good. Hopeless, we
say, because we consider that the race
to which the African negro belongs, is
included in the prophecy which doomed
Canaan to be "a servant of servants
unto his brethren" (Gen. c. ix. v. 25),
in whom were included all the rest of
mankind. All the legislation of man
is vain against the word of God: a
servant of servants that race will be as
long as the present dispensation of Pro-
vidence continues. Like the Jews and
the Arabs, they are fulfilling a prophecy
in the sight of all men : like them they
are bearing continual witness to the
truth of God's word and the unchange-
ableness of his decrees : and on that
very account are they entitled not only
to our compassion but to our respect
and gratitude, since their sufferings are
our edification. But seeing how the
case stands, it were better that we ma-
nifested our kindness towards them,
not in vain efforts to achieve their li-
berty, which, because they are vain, do
only make their condition worse, but
in mitigating and sweetening their sla-
very, and making it, as far as possible,
conducive to their temporal and eter-
nal welfare.
" There is among these gifted wo-
men," says the Doctor, speaking of
the Limenas, " a great esprit de corps,
so that the greatest sinner among
them is never left without a gentle
voice to plead her cause, and palliate,
when she cannot exculpate, a sister's
errors : — no one ventures to throw the
first stone at the unfortunate ; and
there insensibly arises a gradation of
vices and virtues, dove-tailing into
each other so as to constitute a social
whole, wherein the different degrees
of moral deviation are all shaded by
an overflowing charity." — Vol. i. p.
131. This is, indeed, a fearful com-
bination, and it is the chef-dcsuvre of
the enemy to have enlisted charity on
the side of vice. Better, on the whole,
how much soever we may condemn it
in the individual, is that rigorous un-
sparing surveillance which, in other
countries, women exercise over each
other, showing mercy
" To every failing but their own,
And every wo a tear can claim
Except an erring sister's shame."
L. Byron s Giaour.
Still, wherever there is charity there
is hope. Let good example once be
installed in high places, and charity
will be won over to virtue. Example,
in mere human morality, is omnipo-
tent— " inter causas malorum nostro-
rum est, quod vivimus ad exempla,"
said Seneca : and certainly the conta-
294
gion of had example is deplorable ;
but, on the other hand, we are per-
suaded that there is more than a com-
pensating- attractiveness in the exhi-
bition of moral beauty. But this, the
most important of all reformation, is
not practicable until revolution ceases,
till society is restored to a state of
quiescence, and the dregs have settled
to the bottom. But to turn away
from a subject afflicting' yet not hope-
less, we are amused at the innocent
simplicity of the following passage : — .
" The ladies, when young, and long
before they become marriageable, are
taught to anticipate their own omni-
potence at fifteen." — P. 130. At
what epocha does the worthy Doctor
suppose that the fair ones of our own
dear country begin to dream of con-
quest ! Alas ! alas ! " de tenero me-
ditantur ungui," — we, for our own
part, cannot remember the time when
we were not their captive.
" If we consider all things in the
circumstances of the Peruvians, their
story, from first to last, must awa-
ken an interest in the mind of eve-
ry enquirer into their past and pre-
sent state, rather than dispose him
to censure them indiscriminately for
their error. We may, indeed, wonder
not to find fewer good qualities among
them ; and, on the other hand, not to
see the fiercer passions that utterly
brutalize human nature, and agitate
every corner of society, more called
into action among a medley of igno-
rant and discordant castes, passing
without adequate preparation, from
one extreme of government to another,
and from one civil broil into another
of greater confusion and misrule."—
Vol. i. p. 158.
This is a sound and charitable con-
clusion. There is every reason to
believe that these interesting people
would soon flourish in all the beauties
of social life, if they were cultivated
with the fostering hand of a steady
paternal government, and were more
subjected than they are to the curb of
moral and religious discipline — "those
reins," to use the beautiful expression
of the eloquent Solis, " without whose
restraint man is left all alone with his
nature."* They have the two chief
Peru as it is. [March,
requisites, gentleness and docility.
But those qualities, as they are pas-
sive, may be used for good or for evil.
Since the Revolution, they have been
lamentably abused ; and we are sorry
to say, that licentiousness and infide-
lity, imported from France, have made
a host of proselytes, or rather victims,
among them : a bad exchange for the
honest bigotry of their Spanish ances-
tors, who laid hold on the mysteries
of God, a puno cerrado, with a close
determined grasp, and walked blind-
fold to heaven. Let us hope that they
will not be all corrupted, and that the
hour of regeneration is at hand.
The superstition which is so hu-
morously described, p. 168, as search-
ing for the Englishman's dollars in his
grave, is not a whit more barbarous
than the opinion which pervades all
classes of society in Peru, and, until
very lately, has regulated its commer-
cial policy, namely, that the silver
which our countrymen export is little
better than stolen, and that they are
preying on the life-blood of the coun-
try. All exportation, in short, is
looked upon with jealousy.
The " state of the medical schools
andpractice of medicine," p. 179-192,
is very well described. But what a
pity it is that the botanical region of
this science has been so little cultivat-
ed in a country where nature seems to
have concentrated all her climates and
temperatures, and brought all her
treasures within a small compass, on
purpose, as it were, to provoke our
curiosity ; and where the native inha-
bitants are skilful herbalists, and could
reveal to us, if we would condescend
to enquire of them, so many important
secrets. Cinchona was a part of their
materia medica before a Viceroy gave
it his name, or the Jesuits usurped the
honour of its discovery. Botanists,
and some of them of deserved celebri-
ty, have travelled through extensive
tracts of the country. But what have
they done ? They have given us skilful
genealogies of the plants, but of their
virtues they say little or nothing. It
is as though one should write a history
of human beings and make no men-
tion of their souls. Our author, vol. ii.
p. 61, has given a list of twelve plants,
Biendar sin cuyo freno el hombre se queda a solas con su naturaleza."
Solis. Conq. de Mexico.
1839.] Peru as it is.
with some notice of their medicinal
virtues. But what are twelve plants
out of myriads?*
The state of education in the pre-
sent day, which is sketched with faith-
fulness, forms a sad contrast to the
solid system of better times, which,
like a ruined temple, is still venerable
in its fragments. Antiquated, though
it was, that could not have been a bad
system which collected those precious
and now neglected folios — which pro-
duced in that remote and secluded
country the writers of the Mercurio
Peruano — which produced an Olavide,
the author of the Evangelio en Tri-
unfo, and a Villaran, who still lingers
among the broken columns of the
Forum, the profoundest jurist of Span-
ish America. We shall be glad if
" the new school for law and philoso-
phy," p. 195, be as fruitful as the old
one. At present, however, it is evi-
dently premature ; for the floorings of
the Ark have been broken, and must
be repaired. Every thing else is idle
until that rudimental work is com-
pleted.
In his description of the Peruvian
Highlands, which contains some very
spirited sketches of mountain scenery,
our author introduces us to a very sin-
gular personage, whom he denomi-
nates the priestly distiller, under whose
auspices we are made acquainted with
the whole machinery of the Sierra
trade, and consequently with the pro-
duction of the soil, and the habits and
character of its inhabitants. As the
pensive Indian surveys the monuments
of the wisdom and beneficence of his
Incas — the aqueducts — the tambos —
the roads — the terraced gardens —
gardens now no more — the faded foot-
steps of fertility long passed away —
how his heart sickens ! When he re-
members— and he has not forgotten,
the paternal care of the father of his
295
people — the superintending authority
which pervaded the whole of society
from top to bottom, tempering and as-
similating itself, as it descended to all
the various gradations through which
it passed, till it reached the poorest
Indian in his cabin — like the knotted
cord (the quipu) which descended
from the highest point of general his-
tory to the last trivial occurrence of
the day, — when he sees and remembers
these things, his heart sinks within
him to find himself a ruined abject
slave ! If for all that he has lost, he
had gained the gospel, he might in-
deed rejoice in the exchange. But,
generally speaking, the religion he has
learned is little better than the gen-
tility of his forefathers ; while, on the
other hand, he has greatly fallen off
in morality, and in all that elevates
the mind or enlarges the heart. In
short, they have the defects which
naturally spring from their degraded
condition, — and who is it that taunts
them? Their oppressors! " Of such
persons," says our author, " we may
be allowed to ask, have they ever af-
forded the Indian any rational en-
couragement to honesty and industry ?
Have they ever, by fair dealing, per-
severed in the experiment of deser-
ving the confidence, of conciliating the
affections, or of calling forth the
kindly sympathies of these humbler
sons of the soil ? What virtue, except
patience, were they permitted to dis-
close under Spanish oppression — •
(would it were mitigated under the
patriot system !) — when their masters
supplied them with the necessaries of
life, just on what terms they pleased,
and when the Indians could realize no
property, however much they re-
doubled their toil, for, in general, the
fruit of their labour was not their
own." — Vol. ii. p. 147. These are
home questions, and they embrace the
* Vol. ii. p. 238, in a note to the Appendix, mention is made of the Guaco, the fa-
mous antidote against poison. It has been said, that in the northern parts of Mexico,
In the gulf of California, where the country is overrun by immense troops of wild dogs,
and, consequently, where hydrophobia is prevalent, this dreadful disease is cured with
Guaco. We have travelled in those regions, and remember that it was commonly as-
serted that the Indians had a specific for hydrophobia — but it was not Guaco, neither
do we think that Guaco would grow in that climate. It was a most nauseous bever-
age, whose ingredients we never could ascertain, and was administered at intervals to
the patient, until profuse perspiration was produced. If we remember well, Captain
Owen, R. N., tells us, that on the coast of Africa the locked-jaw is cured on the same
principle — that is, by means of perspiration, which is produced by a nauseous electuary
of cockroaches.
293
Peru as it is.
[ March,
whole cause of the Indian. Can we,
then, be surprised to hear, that " the
curates who reside in the mountain
glens and deep corries, feel assured,
from the well known feelings cherish-
ed by their flocks, that when the day
arrives when these uneducated men
of the hills shall understand what are
their own political rights and physical
strength, and shall be commanded by
bold and sagacious leaders of their
own blood and kind, they will fear-
fully and cruelly avenge their wrongs
on all advenedizos, all exotics — on
their white oppressors and sable in-
terlopers?"— Vol. ii. p. 167. Yes!
subdued revenge may be called the
prominent characteristic of the Indian,
and it accounts in a great measure for
that melancholy mein which the Doc-
tor attributes to the effect of moun-
tain scenery. Yes ! it is a dark eco-
nomy of vengeance — it is the " odium
in longumjaciens" — it is the eye bent
on remote but certain retribution.
"As we approach still nearer the
capital, where Glen-Rimac unfolds its
wide and fertile acres of deep alluvial
soil, we see that this goodly land, when
denied water, puts on a look of desert
sterility."
The obvious and more immediate
cause of this sterility is undoubtedly
want of irrigation, owing to the ruin-
ous condition of the aqueducts. But
there is another cause, which is opera-
ting slowly, but with unremitting
energy, and threatens ultimate deso-
lation. We mean the sea sand which
is marching incessantly before the
trade wind. Already it has sur-
mounted the lofty hills which form
the southern boundary of the beau-
tiful valley of Lurin, and is com-
ing down in large waves upon the
cultivated ground. The same is ob-
servable on the elevated plain which
is Tablada, where the tops of the hills
show like Egyptian oases, and from
whence the sand is pouring down in
enormous masses on the sugar planta-
tions of San Juan and Villa, in the val-
ley of Rimac. We have often pointed
out this important phenomenon, but,
strange to say, we have never met
with any one who had either heeded
or understood it. Most persons sup-
posing that the sand had always been
there, and others, who had observed
that it contained marine shells, look-
ing upon it as a vestige of the deluge.
The description of the Cerro Pasco,
Vol.ii. c. 1. is very interesting, and the
best account that has hitherto been pub-
lished of that famous mining ground.
As it might have been expected in a
country where political economy is
only beginning to be known, the re-
venue iaws of Peru have operated,
hitherto, as a premium on smuggling-,
and particularly in the precious metals,
from their comparative easiness of
transportation. This, accordingly,
appears to be a great evil in Pasco,
and it was proposed to remove it by
the establishment of a mint there — a
measure which, in our mind, will fail of
its object. The true and only wjiy
of putting down smuggling is to lower
the export duty, so that smuggling
will not pay. If this were done, the
revenue arising from the mines would
be very considerably increased. The
protector, Santa- Cruz, has permitted
the exportation of silver, copper, and
other ores, duty free, subject merely
to the payment of one dollar, or four
shillings, as a registry fee, on every
five thousand pounds of metal. That
this will be really beneficial to com-
merce we are inclined to doubt, when
we consider the expense of conveying
the ores to the coast ; but the fact is
otherwise important, as manifesting a
liberal spirit, which, we are glad to
observe, is the honourable character-
istic of the commercial code lately
promulgated by His Excellency.
" The real rental of the state," we
are told, Vol. ii. p. 104, "can hardly
at any time be clearly ascertained."
This is true : the amount of multifa-
rious embezzlement, which is enor-
mous, being an unknown quantity, it
would be impossible to come to a cer-
tain conclusion on this subject. But
from the best data that can be ob-
tained, the revenue of North Peru,
which embraces the departments of
Lima, Libertad, Junin, Huaylas, and
Amazonas, may be estimated at some-
thing more than two millions of dol-
lars, of which nearly three- fourths are
produced by the department of Lima.*
* "We shall perhaps not be far wrong in estimating the revenue of South Peru at as
much more ; and thus the revenue of what was Peru proper, up to the date of the
Peru-Bolivian Confederacy, would be something more than four millions of dollars.
1839.]
Pern as it is.
297
At present, by reason of a large mili-
tary establishment by sea and land,
•which foreign invasion has rendered
necessary, the revenue falls short of
the expenses. But as these expenses
are nearly two- thirds greater than
they would be in time of peace, a
very considerable surplus would re-
main if this incubus were removed,
without reckoning the increase that
would daily take place in every branch
of the revenue, if tranquillity and se-
curity were established throughout
the country, and all its resources
nourished and augmented by the fos-
tering hand of an enlightened and
beneficent government. Here, then,
in this section alone, we have a large
income, out of which provision might
be made for the British creditor, all
squandered away in military expenses.
And for this, as we said before, Eng-
land is responsible, not only to her
own subjects, but to the whole civilized
world — to the common family of man-
kind ! Having the power and the
right to interfere, her supineness is un-
just, inhuman, and, what is scarcely
less to be deplored, it is most despi-
cable !
From the weather-beaten plains of
Pasco, at the enormous height of
14,000 feet, the Doctor leads us down
the Quebreda, pointing out to us all
that is worthy of notice on the road,
till, at the distance of twenty -two
leagues, and the mediate elevation
of 7000 feet, he lands us in his hap-
py valley — the valley of Huanaco —
where he resided for three years. He
describes it with evident tenderness,
yet, with the same candour that marks
all his work, he clearly shows us that
Providence has done every thing there
and man nothing, and that it is only
another exemplification of the melan-
choly truth, that where the Maker
has been most profuse, the creature
is most indifferent. From Huanaco
our attention is naturally directed to
the fertile regions which confine upon
it — to the Pampa del Sacramento and
the river Amazons — the richest plain
and noblest river in all the world.
What would we have given to have
•walked the timid unconfiding Malthus
over this ground ! But, alas ! no body
walks there but the painted savage;
and, up to this day, the fairest portion
of the earth is useless to man, and
hath never fulfilled the intention of its
beneficent Creator ! Notwithstanding
the fine periods of Don Jose Lagos y
Lemus, it is very certain that there
has hitherto existed a great prejudice
against the admission of foreigners to
these regions, and that the navigation
of the Amazons has not been desired
by the people of Peru. Lieutenant
Smyth and Mr Lowe experienced
this ; and it was the true reason why
those praise-worthy individuals failed
of the -principal object of their enter-
prize.
" It is the ordinary practice," says
our author, in his chapter on the Inea
Indians, " for the whole body of men
to co-operate in any great work, such
as constructing bridges for their com-
mon good, or building houses for the
convenience of individuals, on which
occasions one party conducts stones
and turf, another builds the walls, a
third conveys timber from the distant
woods, and a fourth cuts and lays on
the thatch," &c.
This is an interesting relic of Inca
discipline. By this division of labour
and unity of purpose, which they
learned from the bees better than from
treatises on political economy, they
constructed those stupendous works
whose ruins we survey with amaze-
ment— in Cuzco — in Tia- Huanaco —
in the aqueducts, which are still the
best in the country, after three cen-
turies of civilisation — in the royal
roads, those Giant's Causeys, which
traverse the whole empire, and which
Humboldt, if we remember right, pre-
fers before the Roman ! That enlight-
ened traveller might have added that
they are also monuments of a refined
policy worthy of the conquerors of the
world ; for the Incas, like the Caesars,
considered no country subjected to
their dominion until they had made a
high road through it for their legions.
" The Indians are said to indulge
in the hope of yet seeing a prince
of their own race on the throne ; and
such has been their well-founded and
now habitual mistrust of the whites,
that they have never revealed where
all their own treasures and those of the
Incas, which were buried after the
death of Atahualpa, are to be found."
—(Note, vol. ii., p. 168.) There is
no doubt that treasures to an incal-
culable amount are concealed under
ground, the secret of which passes
down from father to son, among these
enduring, self-denying people. Many
of them are living in great apparent
298
Peru as it is.
[March,
poverty and discomfort, who are mas-
ters of wealth. It is said that a father's
and a nation's curse pursues the wretch
who reveals the secret inheritance to
the white man. However that may
be, there is a common superstition
among them, that some great calamity
is sure to follow the disclosure, and,
truth to say, the presentiment has but
too frequently been verified. Too fre-
quently, when any of these poor crea-
tures, through gratitude or affection
to their masters or their compadres —
for they love intensely when they love
at all — have imparted the fatal secret,
they have fallen victims to the avarice
of those whom they desired to bless,
and been murdered lest they should
be equally generous to others. Alas !
what a heart-rending volume might be
composed of anecdotes in illustration
of this fact ! Surely, avarice is the
worst, the most corrupting, the most
fiendish of all the vices which deform
humanity; and He who only knew
the heart of man, would seem to sig-
nify as much, when He placed Mam-
mon in direct opposition to God —
" Ye cannot serve God and Mammon."
A very considerable treasure was dis-
covered some years before the Revo-
lution, amidst the ruins of an ancient
Indian city in the neighbourhood of
Truxillo j it amounted to^five millions
of dollars, and the Indians of that dis-
trict were for ever exempted by the
King of Spain from the payment of
tribute, as an acknowledgement of this
involuntary bequest of their ancestors.
The entry in the archives of the Trea-
sury, which records the fact, is still to
be seen, and is one of the Lions of
Truxillo. This treasure was denomi-
nated by the Indians the peje chico—
" the little fish ; " — the peje grande —
"the large fish" — remains hidden,
though many attempts have been made,
and companies formed for the purpose
of discovering it.
Nothing, we are told, vol. ii. p. 175,
but the wildest disorder pervades
" every department of the social and
political system of Peru." What else
could be expected, seeing they have
endeavoured to make of the country
that which it is not fit for — nor indeed
any other — a republic — the insolent
achievement of mere human reason ?
But of all countries, there is none so
unfit for a republic as Peru. Is it not,
to use the French proverb, " h bois
dont on en fait." Our author's friend,
whom he introduces as a mourner of
his country's woes, proposes a despe-
rate remedy — " Enlighten the mass of
our people," says he : alas ! knowledge
is a fearful gift — he knows not what a
demon he invokes ; — " your eyes shall
be opened, and ye shall be as gods,"
was the treacherous suggestion of the
great enemy of man ! No ! establish
a government which shall have a na-
tural and lasting interest in the pre-
servation of the country — let industry
and domestic habits be cherished — let
every man feel himself secure under
his vine and fig-tree — let piety be in-
culcated and vice discountenanced—-
and leave the enlightening of the mass
to Him who alone can enlighten with-
out inflaming ! But, unhappily, know-
ledge is power ; maxims have found
their way into this benighted land,
and the darkness is fearfully illumi-
nated by the unhallowed lights of
Materialism, Utilitarianism, &c. —
Enlighten the masses ! how little of
philosophy, after all, do we find in
this ! What is it but to excite the
substratum of society, which ought to
be in a state of wholesome repose as
the foundation of the whole edifice ?
Put it in motion, and what becomes
of the superstructure ? The effect of
agitation is as ruinous as the spirit is
diabolical. If things be left as God
has placed them, the natural brood-
ing warmth, and benignant action of
the upper class, will always sublime,
and rarify, and draw up into itself a
certain portion of the class below, so
that, by an exquisite adaptation — a
nicely balanced action and re- action
which is beyond the wisdom of man,
the surface of society will draw a con-
stant supply of life and vigour from
its base, without depriving it of its
essential solidity. But if this arrange-
ment be interfered with, if any change
be made in the relative position, in
the weight and measure, of the parts,
the whole scheme is broken up, and
" chaos is come again !" Consider
those awful volumes of electric fire
which are for ever sweeping over the
surface of our atmosphere, nourish-
ing, we may suppose, and tempering
its higher parts — if they were to come
down to our region below, or our sub-
ordinate elements were to ascend into
theirs, what would be the conse-
quence? The conflagration of the
world !
In his concluding chapter, our au-
1839.]
Peru as it is.
299
thor has given us an excellent manual
of prophylactic rules, which every one
who visits the regions to which they
apply will do well to observe. We
particularly approve of the following
caution — " All excess in the cuticular
secretion should be avoided by every
proper means, such as suitable clothing,
temperate living, aud moderate bodily
exertion, &c. The contrary practice
of encouraging sweats by heating
drinks has a bad tendency, both moral
and physical ; physically, it produces
sooner or later gastric and hepatic
diseases ; morally, it furnishes a pre-
text and excuse for deep potations ;
and the end of all is, a broken-down
constitution, and a mind impaired in
its noblest powers." — Vol. 2, p. 201.
How many victims are annually sacri-
ficed to that devilish suggestion, which
appears to sanction indulgence with
the authority of wisdom, that where
perspiration is profuse, drinking should
be more so !
The necessity in all changes of cli-
mate of attending to the cuticular
economy is very powerfully exempli-
fied in the following interesting fact
related in the Appendix. " The black
cattle of the Sierra do not endure the
climate of the coast ; immediately
that they descend from their native
mountains, to use the vulgar expres-
sion, they become touched: that is,
they become stupified, and die with
amazing rapidity. On examining the
entrails of cattle thus cut off, the liver,
which has a broiled appearance, is
observed to be indurated. I conceive
that these animals are affected by
transition of climate in the same man-
ner as the human species ; for as soon
as the bullocks from the high and cold
regions of the Andes arrive on the
warm coast, the circulation of their
blood is unusually accelerated and
directed to the surface ; but, as the
skin which covers them is too thick
and unyielding to allow of proper
transpiration, the consequence is, that
there arises an ardent fever which
destroys them. In beeves, this fever
is more violent and burning than it is
in the paco or alco, because the skin
of the latter, being of thinner texture
than that of the oxen, offers less resist-
ance to the outlet of the humours : so
that, in the animals of finer skin, there
comes out a salutary eruption which
saves them, while in the black cattle
nothing of this sort occurs, and there-
fore they perish with incredible cele-
rity."—Vol. 2, p. 246.
The two divisions of the Appendix
which treat of the zoology of Western
Peru, and the geology of the country
in the neighbourhood of Arequipa are
interesting, not only for the informa-
tion which they contain, but as em-
bracing all that has been written on
natural history by native Peruvians.
We are amused with the quaint forma-
lity with which the author of the
former of these divisions quotes the
Trojan war, as an instance of epide-
mics beginning with animals. It is a
proof, however, of the old bard's
accurate observation of nature — aa
essential quality of all poets, by the
bye. If we remember rightly, Thucy-
dides, in his admirable description of
the plague of Athens, mentions that
it began with dogs. In Peru, towards
the end of 1825, a frightful and very
fatal epidemic broke out among horses,
and was communicated to human
beings, as we can answer from our
own painful experience, having taken
it from a favourite horse. It resem-
bled the glanders ; for there was a
virulent defluxion from the nose, and,
in some cases, the bronchial glands
inflamed and suppurated . The remedy
which was most successful among
horses was fumigation with sulphur.
It is certain that epidemics do often
begin with the lower animals ; whe-
ther or not they be more particularly
fatal to our species when they thus
ascend to us from below, we cannot
say, but the matter is worth enquiring
into.
Speaking of the desert which is tra-
versed in ascending from the coast to
Arequipa, our author says : — " Tra-
vellers have remarked, that along this
arid plain, which extends about twenty
leagues inland, there are numerous
moveable sand-hills, of regular figure
like a half-moon, with the convex side '
always looking to the sea." — Vol. ii.
p. 273.
We have often journeyed among
these half- moons. They are com-
posed of the lighter particles of the
sand, which is generally of a greyish
colour and mixed with pumice-stone,
indicating a volcanic origin. That
these crescents move we are inclined
to doubt. That they have been form-
ed by the trade-wind, is evident from
their convex sides being invariably
turned to the direction from whence
300 Peru as it is. [March,
it blows, about S.S.E. Some ob- pany, and the general question of
struction, a skeleton perhaps, may shortening the distance which sepa-
have arrested the sand in its flight, rates us from the Western coast of
and served as a nucleus round which Spanish America (see Appendix, p.
it has been accumulated. We cannot 286 — 290), not because the subject is
remember ever to have seen a bird in unimportant, but because we deem it
this desert, or, indeed, any other liv- premature. Considering the value
ing thing than the lizard : and that it of our trade with the Pacific, which,
is not visited by birds of prey, may in spite of the most untoward circura-
be inferred, we think, from the fact, stances, already amounts to upwards
that the animals which have perished of 17 millions of dollars annually, no
there are dried up with their skin and doubt it is highly important to bring
muscle. those regions as near to us as possi-
On the ecclesiastical jubilee, with ble ; and it does seem to be disgrace-
which the Appendix concludes, we will ful,in thislocomotive era, that a voyage
only observe that we have read it which might be performed in little
with mingled indignation, contempt, more than one month should scarcely
and compassion. The flagitious ex- be accomplished in four; but still, we
cesses of Papacy are supposed by repeat it, the consideration of the
many charitable Christians, to be subject is premature ; for neither this
over-painted. Dr. Smith has done nor any. other project for the benefit
his duty to society in publishing this of Spanish America, and the countries
appalling document, as a fresh and connected with it, can have any chance
palpable proof of its blasphemous in- of success, or be prudently adopted,
science and pride. until those restless, reckless republics
We have refrained from speaking are compelled to abstain from mutual
of the Pacific Steam Navigation Com- and wanton hostilities.
SONNETS,
WRITTEN IN LIVERPOOL, JULY 1838.
CALM worshipper of Nature, seek the wood,
There think alone — I love to pace this street,
Where as in one, all nations seem to meet,
Linked by the sea in common brotherhood :
A vein is this of brisk commercial blood ;
Here strongly doth the pulse of traffic beat.
Large portion of the world's wealth at my feet
Lies here — rich harvest of the ocean-flood.
A graceful spirit of voluptuous ease
Is visible in column and in dome :
Full opulence, just taste the stranger sees :
The spirit which once in Venice had its home.
That now no fable seems it, seeing these,
Of beauty rising from the ocean-foam.
IN BURNS* MAUSOLEUM, DUMFRIES.
BREATHE I above his dust, who now has long
Ceased with his musical breath to charm this air ;
Sleeps Burns within this mausoleum fair,
The peasant-minstrel of the heaven-taught tongue !
It must be so, for fancy here grows strong,
So strong we feel him present every where, —
, The sod his recent impress seems to bear ;
And we yet hear him in yon skylark's song.
Methinks I hear him whistling at the plough ;
And from the Nith I catch his manly voice,
Where unto song he breathed the eternal vow :
Oh Nith ! where oft to wander was his choice,
The very light seems beaming from his brow
In which these scenes must evermore rejoice.
1830.] Sonnet*. 301
IN THE SAME.
AT.OM; in intellect — oft he withdrew
From his blithe fellows, and afar would stray,
On by the Nitli, in the dim close of day :
And there would murmur, midst the falling dew,
Strains that all mirth could sadden and subdue.
Whilst marvelled much his comrades, lightly gay,
He should be sad whose wit woke mirth alway, —
lie who could find not " audience fit though few."
The tide subsides, the tumult, and the stir :
The stream flows on, and slumbers in its bed .
We look around us still, for things that were:
The clouds are rosy, though the sun is fled :
For they with whom we think, and would confer,
Prove oftentimes the distant, or the dead.
ON VISITING HYDAL MOUNT.
LONG-SOUGHT, and late-discovered, rapt is he
Who stands where spring^ the Niger or the Nile ;
And I, like- wearily, who many a mile
Have voyaged and have travelled, proudly see,
Of this famed Mount the living Castalie :
Cheered by the Poet's hospitable smile,
I breathe the air of the song-hallowed pile,—
With but half faith what is can really be.
Flow on, O, holiest river ! even like Time,
Till both your waters in one ocean end :
Flow on, and with refreshment many a clime
Copiously visit, mountain stream sublime 1
Thankful, these moments at your source I spend-
Not without awe, as though it were a crime.
WASHINGTON BROWNE, New York.
KATE.
FROM LAKE WALLENSTADT, SWITZERLAND.
1. 3.
LONELY, as a place enchanted, Black upon the slopes so greefl,
Lies the lake, in silence deep ; Swarm the arrow-headed pines ;
Round, as warrior chiefs undaunted Here, like troops with steady mien,
Watch some throneless queen asleep, Who in ordered squares and lines,
Stand the cliffs in stern array ! — Wait attack, with vantage good ;
Fissured piles of strata grey, There, like foragers pursued
By the water worn away. By a peasant multitude,
Your large eyes would larger grow In close flight they seem to press
At their monstrous forms, I know, Up the hill, till we could guess
With a solemn joy elate, WhichtheSrstronghold,whattheirfate,
Were you here, my bonnie Kate ! Were you here, my winsome Kate !
2. 4.
Far above, their bine tops soar, Balanced on the mountain side,
Spire and tower in outline bold, High in dizzy loneliness,
All beseamed with snow-streaks hoar, Oft a daring pine is spied,
Solemn, lonely, bright and cold ! Like a cragsman in distress,
There the soft clouds, as they rove, Where all footing seems to end,
Pause— and stooping from above Doubtful, which way next to wend,
Kiss the crests they seem to love ! If to mount or to descend 1
You would deem them spirits fair, Empty air around, beneath,
Playiug each one with the hair It would take away your breath
Of its giant warrior mate, That sheer depth to calculate,
Were you here, my lively Kate ! Were you here, my gentle Kate !
VOL. XI.V, NO. CCLXXXI. U
302
Kate.
[Mar A,
9.
Now the gliding vessel passes,
Cascades all around us dashing ;
Some in downward-pointed masses,
Densely smoking, fiercely flashing !
Some upon the slopes recline
Like fixed veins of silver fine,
As the net- work spiders twine ;
Others hang like new-combed fleeces,
Ribb'd across in wavy creases !
You could ne'er your gazing sate,
Were you here, my fine-nerved Kate !
Overhead the clouds float by—
But can scarce their way pursue}
For the tall cliffs touch the sky ;
Look ! from its intensest blue
Comes a snowy cascade slipping,
O'er successive ledges tripping —
'Tis a white-winged angel stepping
Down from heaven ! Oh, you would
prize
Those serenely glowing eyes,
That sweet smile compassionate,
Were you here, my deep-souled Kate !
7.
Faintly sing the thrushes, hark !
Far in yonder air-hung grove ;
Pouring bolder notes the lark
Dots the azure up above !
Lavishly his lays he flings
All around, and as he sings
Spreads and folds his trembling wings
With uneasy motion, quite •
Thrilled, convulsed, Ttith his delight!
You would sing with joy as great,
Were you here, mv sweet-voiced
KateJ
8.
By the ashy rocks below,
Mark, a hermit-fisher grey,
How the heron, to and fro
Slowly flaps his stealthy way !
Though alit, his long wings see
Still are flapping, as though he
Poised himself unsteadily ;
Then unmoving as the rocks
Which in hue so well he mocks,
Where he is, you scarce could state,
Were you here, my bright-eyed
Kate!
Oft the beetling ramparts ape
Gothic gables quaintly plann'd ;
Oft seem faced with many a shape
Carved by ancient Coptic hand ! —
Watchful, 'mid the trees aloof
Dark-red chalets, weatherproof
With projecting shadowy roof,
Seem to hint, how well you may
In this tranquil Eden stay : —
What desire would they create,
Were you here, my pensive Kate :
10.
Some depress'd to see all kindness
Sunk in ruthless rage for gold,
Sick of party's cherish'd blindness,
Thus their wishes might unfold:
Here, with joys unknown to riot,
Sound repose and simple diet,
Books, and love, and thoughtful
quiet,
One might dream a life away,
Always cheerful, often gay !
You would wish for no such fate,
Were you here, my wiser Kate !
II.
Well you know, though Nature waste
Wonders here no words can frame,
Custom dulls the keenest taste,
Use makes even wonders tame !
Leisure has a leaden wing,
Happiness, where'er it spring,
Always is an active thing ;
And whatever it profess,
Solitude is selfishness, —
Homely truths would have their
weight,
Were you here, my thoughtful Kate!
12.
Then our dear and noble land
Would present to memory's eye,
If no hills, no rocks so grand,
Hearts as firm and minds as high !
Nature never has designed
Aught so wondrous as the mind
Of mysterious humankind !
You would know where jnindisflashing
Rapid as the cascade dashing !
You would bless your home, your
state,
Were you here, my ENGLISH Kate !
ALFKED DOMETT.
1839.]
Earlier English Moral Songs and Poems.
303
EARLIER ENGLISH MORAL SONGS AND POEMS.
THE entrance of Spenser and Shak-
speare on the scene of English litera-
ture immeasurably elevated the stand-
ard by which its performances were
to be judged; and in now reviewing
one department of that literature, we
feel that a very different allowance is
to be made for the writers who pre-
ceded and for those who followed them.
In the earlier class, we may admit
the plea that the poetry of this coun-
try was yet in her nonage — that her
attempts were more deserving of praise
than her failures of condemnation—-
and that her irregular and tentative
efforts afforded the best hope of at-
taining a perfect knowledge and com-
mand of noble thoughts and appro-
priate language. But no excuses of
this kind can be received after the
period when the mighty masters we
have mentioned displayed their per-
fections. It was not to be tolerated
that, from their strains of heavtmly
harmony, the ear should be distracted
by the empty jingle or grating discords
of those who could offer for its delight
neither power of sentiment nor ele-
gance of execution. An example had
now been afforded in which the most
exquisite poetry was made the vehicle
of the purest virtue and the profound-
est wisdom. A proof had been given
that, in our native language, we pos-
sessed an instrument whose compass
and diversity of tone could give ex-
pression to every variety of feeling,
whether lofty or refined, tender or
terrible. Those, then, who had not
something to say, that was worth
saying, and who could not present it
in a shape that was calculated to please,
were bound to remain silent, and leave
the national taste to satisfy itself in
that inexhaustible supply of delight
and instruction which the works of
true genius had placed at its com-
mand.
Yet the production of such sublime
compositions, though calculated to
raise the standard of ideal perfection,
and in a particular manner to purify
the taste, was by no means incom-
patible with the encouragement of
minor effusions, if possessing rela-
tively and after their own kind an ap-
propmte merit in matter and in man-
ner. In the human heart, us in a nobler
domain, there are many mansions-
many varieties of susceptibility — many
degrees of delight. A sound and en-
lightened judgment may see in the
works of man, as in those of nature,
an unlimited variety of beauty and
goodness, extending from the most
immense to the most minute. In pro-
ductions of the most opposite charac-
ters as to dignity or magnitude, an
analogous if not an equal degree of
excellence may be recognised, if there
be symmetry of proportion and pro-
priety of purpose. In the pursuits
whether of science or of taste, the
presence of truth or loveliness is alike
perceptible through every link and at
either extremity of the chain of ex-
istence. An admiration for the um-
brageous majesty of the giants of the
forest does not wean our affections
from the little wild-flowers that lie at
our feet : the contemplation of the
orbs and systems of the heavens them-
selves does not teach us to look with
scorn or indifference on the crystal
spherelets that linger in the morning
grass. We even find an additional plea-
sure in tracing the same laws and the
same relations in objects that appear in
some respects to be so different. In like
manner the sincere sentiments of an
humble heart, when fittingly express-
ed, will be equally sure to please,
though they will not please in an
equal degree, with the most sublime
emotions or the most exquisite con-
ceptions of genius. The great cause
of disgust or contempt in literature is
not simplicity, but affectation — not
the lowliness of the sentiment, but
the absence of any sentiment what-
ever— not the poverty of the subject,
but the disparity between the subject
and the execution — between the at-
tempt and the success. The works of
Shakspeare and Spenser, therefore,
still left ample room for the exertions
of very inferior powers, if judiciously
employed ; and they who have the
highest admiration for these master-
pieces of art, will probably be the
most easily pleased with humbler ef-
forts which present, however feebly,
a faithful reflection of nature and
virtue.
\Ve do not find among the works of
Sppu'.er any minor piece's that fall
Early English Moral Songs and Forms.
304
•within the range of our present aim.
But we may borrow from his great
contemporary two exquisite jewels for
our cabinet : two fragments in which,
in a less degree, we may see the power
of that mighty mirror which was held
up to nature by her favourite son and
servant. The beauty of the song
which we are to quote, were we not
all familiar with it, would be some-
what impaired by its separation from
the drama with whose sylvan scenery
and romantic sentiment it so fitly har-
monizes ; yet it tells its own story
with a force and clearness that need
no comment, and which condense in-
to a few lines whole volumes of mis-
anthropic declamation. The verse
that follows, and which we have sepa-
rated from a companion of inferior
merit with which it is united in the
Passionate Pilgrim, seems to us to run
over the topics of beauty's fragility
with a most melancholy sweet-
[ March,
ness : —
L
" Blow, blow thou winter wind :
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou are not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
2,
" Freeze, freeze, thou biltersky
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friends remembered not.
" Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good ;
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly ;
A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass, that's broken presently ;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour."
We have now to offer some extracts
from the poetry of Thomas Lodge,
which we believe, however, should
have been introduced at an earlier
stage of this essay, as the work from
which they are taken seems to have
been first published in 1589. The
admirers of Lodge have, in their
eulogiums upon him, indulged in a
good deal of that exaggeration which
generally results from the unexpected
discovery even of moderate merit. It
cannot be denied that his versification
is generally smooth, and his diction
often shining. But all is not gold
that glisters. His verses have more
of the form of poetry than of the
power, and his deficiencies in taste,
correctness, and judgment, are not
redeemed by either strong feeling or
solid thought. We select some stan-
zas of a moral tone, which afford, as
we think, rather a favourable speci-
men of his productions. The struc-
ture of the verse in the first example
is peculiar, but not unpleasing as a
vehicle of sober or elegiac sentiment.
IN PRAISE OF THE COUNTRY LIFE.
" Most happy, blest the man that midst his country bowers,
"Without suspect of hate or dread of envious tongue,
May dwell among his own, not dreading fortune's low'rs,
Far from those public plagues that mighty men hath stung ;
Whose liberty and peace is never sold for gain,
"Whose words do never sooth a wanton prince's vein.
" His will, restrained by wit, is never forced awry ;
Vain hopes and fatal fears, the courtier's common foes,
Afraid by his foresight, do shun his piercing eye,
• And nought but true delight acquaints him where he goes ;
No high attempts to win, but humble thoughts and deeds,
The very fruits and flowers that spring from virtue's seeds.
" O ! Deities divine, your godheads I adore,
That haunt the hills, the fields, the forests, and the springs :
That make my quiet thoughts contented with my store,
And fix my thoughts on heaven, and not on earthly things
That drive me from desires, in view of courtly strife,
And draw me to commend the ftVUU and country life.
1839.]
Earlier English Moral Songs and Poems.
305
" Although my biding home be not irnbost with gold,
And that with cunning skill my chambers are not dress'd,
Whereas the curious eye may sundry sights behold,
Yet feeds my quiet looks on thousand flowers at least,
The treasures of the plain, the beauties of the spring,
Made rich with roses sweet and every pleasant thing.
" I like and make some love, but yet in such a sort
That nought but true delight my certain suit pursues;
My liberty remains, and yet 1 reap the sport,
Nor can the snares of love my heedful thoughts abuse ,
But when I would forego I have the power to fly,
And stand aloof and laugh, while others starve and die.
" My sweet and tender flocks, my faithful field compeers,
You forests, holts, and groves, you meads and mountains high,
Be you the witnesses of my contented years,
And you, O ! sacred powers, vouchsafe my humble cry :
And during all my days do not these joys estrange,
But let them still remain and grant no other change."
IN COMMENDATION OF A SOLITARY LIFE.
" See where the babes of memory are
laid,
Under the shadow of Apollo's tree,
That plait their garlands fresh, and well
apaid,
And breathe forth lines of dainty poesy.
Ah ! world, farewell ! the sight hereof
doth tell
That true content doth in the desert
dwell.
" See where a cave presents itself to eye,
By nature's hand enforced in marble
veins ;
Where climbing cedars with their shades
deny
The eye of day to see what there re-
mains ;
A couch of moss, a brook of silver clear,
And more, for food a flock of savage deer.
" Then here, kind Muse, vouchsafe to
dwell with me,
My velvet robe shall be a weed of
grey ;
And lest my heart by tongue betrayed be,
For idle talk I will go fast and -pray :
No sooner said and thought, but that my
heart
His true suppos'd content 'gan thus im-
part :
" Sweet solitary life, thou true repose,
Wherein the wise contemplate heaven
aright,
In thee no dread of war or worldly foes,
In thee no pomp seduceth mortal sight,
In thee no wanton ears to win with words,
Nor lurking toys, which city life affords.
" At peep of day, when, in her crimson
pride,
The morn bespreads with roses all the
way,
Where Phoebus' coach with radiant course
must glide,
The hermit bends his humble knees to
pray;
Blessing that God whose bounty did be-
stow
Such beauties on the earthly things below.
" Whether with solace tripping through
the trees
He sees the citizens of forest sport,
Or 'midst the wither'd oak beholds the
bees
Intend their labour with a kind consort ;
Down drop his tears to think how they
agree
Where men alone with hate inflamed be.
" Taste he the fruits that spring from
• Tellus' womb,
Or drink* he of the crystal spring that
flows,
He thanks his God, and sighs their cursed
doom
That fondly wealth in surfeiting bestows;
And with Saint Jerome saith, the desert is
A paradise of solace, joy, and bliss.
" Father of light, thou maker of the
heaven,
From whom my being, and well-being
springs,
Bring to effect this my desired steaven,
That I may leave the thoughts of worldly
things :
Then in my troubles will I bless the time
My Muse vouchsafed me such a lucky
rhyme."
306 Earlier EnglisJi Moral Songs and Poems. [March,
We shall conclude our quotations the powerful alchemy of genius more
from Lodge with " The Contents of conspicuous in transmuting a piece
the Schedule which Sir John of Bour- of very indifferent metal into fine
deaux gave to his Sons," extracted gold. The play of Shakspeare, while
from his pastoral romance of Rosalind, it exquisitely represents the true
from which Shakspeare seems to have charm and uses of sylvan solitude, as
taken the hint of his As you like a contrast and cure to the opposite
it. Literature certainly owes more tendencies of a life of painted pomp,
to Lodge for that suggestion than for affords no sanction either to the sickly
any direct obligation that his own sentiment or the presumptuous mis-
poetry has imposed. But here, as in anthropy which form the exclusive
other instances, the suggestion is al- theme of inferior writers on similar
most the whole merit that belongs to subjects,
the original author, and nowhere is
THE CONTENTS OF THE SCHEDULE WHICH SIB JOHN OF BOURDEAUX GAVE TO
HIS SONS.
•" My sons, behold what portion I do give,
I leave you goods, but they are quickly lost ;
I leave advice to school you how to live ;
I leave you wit, but won with little cost :
But keep it well, for counsel still is won
When father, friends, and worldly good are gone.
" In choice of thrift, let honour be your game ;
Win it by virtue, and by manly might :
In doing good, esteem thy toil no pain ;
Protect the fatherless and widow's right :
Fight for thy faith, thy country, and thy king—-
For why ? this thrift will prove a blessed thing.
" In choice of wife, prefer the modest, chaste,
Lilies are fair in show, but foul in smell t
The sweetest looks by age are soon defaced,
Then choose thy wife by wit and living well :
Who brings thee wealth and many faults withal,
Presents thee honey mixed with bitter gall.
" In choice of friends, beware of light belief;
A painted tongue may shroud a subtle heart :
The siren's tears do threaten meikle grief!
Foresee, my sons, for fear of sudden smart ;
Choose in your wants, and he that friends you then,
When richer grown, befriend you him again.
" Learn, with the ant, in summer to provide,
Drive, with the bee, the drone from out the hive;
Build, like the swallow, in the summer tide ;
Spare not too much, my sons, but sparing thrive :
Be poor in folly, rich in all but sin,
So by your death your glory shall begin. "
The next moral author on our list cessful in recommending religious and
is Robert Southwell, a Roman Catholic moral thoughts by neat language and
and a Jesuit, but (if it is not illiberal simple illustration. The principle ou
to contrast things that are not incom- which he writes is thus explained in
patible) a pious man and a blameless an address prefixed to his collected
writer. He was executed in 1595, in pieces in the edition of 1636 : —
ths thirty- sixth year of his age, a vie- " Poets, by abusing their talents,
tim to Protestant retaliation for Papal and making the follies and feignings
cruelty. His poetry, though not of of love the customary subjects of their
a high order, deserves the praise of base endeavours, have so discredited
the purest intentions, and is often sue- this faculty, that a poet, a lover, and
1839.] Earlier English Moral Songs and Poems. 307
a liar, are by many reckoned but same, or to begin some finer piece,
three words of one signification. But -wherein it may be seen how well
the vanity of man cannot counter- verse and virtue suit together."
poise the authority of God, who, de- The more ambitions attempts of
livering many parts of Scripture in Southwell are not well sustained, and
verse, and, by his apostle, willing us to are disfigured by forced conceits and
to exercise our devotion in hymns and excess of alliterations ; and, in truth,
spiritual songs, warrantcth the art to his most creditable performances are
be good and the use allowable. But those shorter verses by which his re-
the devil," he continues, " as he affect- putation was first revived in Mr Head-
eth deity, and seeketh to have all the ley's Selections. These little poems
compliments of divine honour applied are formed on the plan of working out
to his service, so hath he, among the a simple idea by a variety of analogies
rest, possessed also most poets with or comparisons, shortly developed, and
his idle fancies. For, in lieu of solemn strung together by no thread of con-
and devout matter, to which in duty nexion but the similarity of principle
they owe their abilities, they now busy which pervades them. Yet the vein
themselves in expressing such passions of thought is so pure afld gentle, and
as only serve for testimonies to how the illustrations are often so apposite,
unworthy affections they have wedded agreeable, and pointedly expressed,
their wills. And because the best that the effect is, on the whole, ex-
course to let them see the error of tremely pleasing. As the works of
their works is to weave a new web in Southwell are rare, we shall here bring
their own loom, I have here laid a few together what we consider to be the
coarse threads together to invite some best pieces or passages falling within
skilfuller wits to go forward in the our plan.
TIMES GO BY TURNS.
" The lopped tree in time may grow again,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower :
The sorriest wight may find relief from pain,
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower.
Times go by turns, and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
" The sea of fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb ;
Her tides have equal times to come and go,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web.
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
" Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
No endless night, nor yet eternal day :
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
" A chance may win that by mischance was lost ;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish :
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd,
Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befal,
Who least hath some, who most hath never all."
SCORN NOT THE LKAST.
" Where wards are weak and foes encountering strong,
Where mightier do assault than do defend,
The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,
And silent sees that speech could not amend ;
Yet higher powers must think, though they repine— ,
When sun is set, the littlu stars will ?hin».
308 Earfier English Moral Songs and Poems. [March,
" While pike doth range the silly tench doth fly,
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish ;
Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by,
These fleet afloat, while those do fill the dish :
There is a time even for the worms to creep
And suck the dew, while all their foes do sleep.
" The merlin cannot ever soar on high,
Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase ;
The tender lark will find a time to fly,
And fearful hare to run a quiet race —
He that high growth on cedars did bestow
Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.
" In Hainan's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe :
The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives' go —
We trample grass and prize the flowers of May,
Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away."
CONTENT AND RICH. . " And when in fro ward mood
^ ^ She proved an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,
« Srth sails of largest srze Leg3 loss tQ kt her „
The storm doth soonest tear,
I bear so low and small a sail The collection of poems entitled
As freeth me from fear. England's Helicon, was first printed
" I wrestle not with rage in I600' and was followed by David-
While fury's flame doth burn ; son s Poetical Rhapsody, in 1602.
It is in vain to stop the stream These two miscellanies, the latest, we
Until the tide doth turn. may say, which combine the attraction
of antiquity with that of intrinsic in-
•' But when the ^^ terest, Supply very few contributions
And ebbrng wrath doth end, our present object. England's
I turn a late enraged foe TT .. . J»\
Into a quiet friend. Hehcon consists almost entirely of
Pastoral Jroems, and, in these, with
" And taught with often proof, scarcely an exception, the pleasures,
A tempered calm I find, an(j mucia more freqUently the pangs
To be most solace to itself, of jOV6) afe the onjy feelings in the
Best cure for angry mrnd. shepherd's heart that are deemed wor-
" Spare diet is my fare, thy to prompt the song. We select
My clothes more fit than fine : one verse of a moral composition,
I know, I feed and clothe a foe which, although of no great merit,
That pampered would repine. may be thought curious, as an early
m m 4 , „ example of those common-places of
" No change of fortune's calms comparison by which the shortness
Can cast my comforts down : and vanity of life and its enjoyments
When fortune smiles, I smile to think have been so often shadowed forth.
How quickly she will frown.
"As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains,
As vanisheth the light blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains :
So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers
The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy (which short life gathers),
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy !
The withered primrose by the morning river,
The faded summer's sun, from weeping fountains,
The light blown bubble, vanished for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,
Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,
Soon wither, vanish, fade, and melt away."
1839.]
Earlier English Moral Sonijs ami Poems.
The Rhapsody is somewhat more
multifarious in its contents ; but here,
too, though arrayed in a more court-
ly costume, Cupid is still the leading
character of the Drama. We confess
•we have but little sympathy or admi-
ration for the effusions of our amatory
poets in geueral, who appear to have
felt the passion more in their head than
in their heart, or to have chosen this
theme as a schoolboy might do, that
they might exercise their ingenuity or
309
display their learning-. " He jests at
scars that never felt a wound ;" is the
remark of the enamoured Romeo on
the merry and mocking Mercutio. But
the persons to whom we have referred
seem to have reversed the proverb, and
to have affected the most acute agonies,
and the most desperate extremities of
suffering, without having ever receiv-
ed a scratch. We find the following
moral verses in the Rhapsody without
the name of any author : —
RHAPSODY 07-
" The virtuous man is free, tLo' bound in chains ;
Tho' poor, content ; tho' banished, yet no stranger •
Tho' sick, in health of mind ; secure in danger ;
And o'er himself, the world, and fortune reigns.
" Nor good haps, proud — nor bad, dejected make him ;
To God's, not to man's will, he frames each action :
He seeks no fame, but inward satisfaction ;
And firmer stands, the more bad fortunes shake him."
We believe that the two collections
we have just mentioned, are the ear-
liest publications which contain any
number of the poetical compositions
of Raleigh. That this remarkable
person wrote several poems of merit,
is unquestionable ; but it seems diffi-
cult to determine either what are his
genuine productions, or at what period
of his life they were written. A late
elegant, but somewhat fanciful critic
and antiquary, has been pleased to
invest him with somewhat like mano-
rial privileges over the outskirts of
Parnassus, and to have appropriated
to him all the waifs and strays that
were worth seizing. The collection
of Raleigh's Poems first printed at the
Lee Priory Press, has enlarged a very
Finall nucleus to a very respectable
bulk, by ascribing to him a variety of
pieces, as to which there is no evi-
dence whatever that he was the writer.
The Lie, or the Soul's Errand, is there
given as his, not upon any satisfactory
authority, but on the very question-
able footing, " that, though the^date
ascribed to this poem is demonstrably
wrong," the editor knows "no author
so capable of writing it as Raleigh."
Another poem is assigned to him with
an equal absence of proof, and simply,
because it is " not unbecoming the vi-
gorous mind, the worldly experience,
and the severe disappointments of Ra-
leigh." A considerable class of these
poems is attributed to him, on no
other authority than this supposition,
that the signature of IGNOTO affixed to
them belongs exclusively to Raleigh,
which indisputably it does not, having
been attached to pieces supposed to be
written by Shakespeare and other con-
tributors to the Helicon, and having
probably no meaning, except simply
that of Unknown.' The inference as
to identity of authorship arising from
this subscription, seems, indeed, to be
not much more correct than that of
the old lady who was struck with the
number of works that were written by
FINIS. Without, however, examining
very <yitically into this question, we
shall here notice such real or reputed
poems of Raleigh as fall within our
present province. These, it is sin-
gular to observe, are to be found not
in the contemporaneous compilations
of the Helicon or Rhapsody, but in a
work which had no existence for thirty
years after Raleigh's death — we mean
the Rdiguice Wottoniana, published
by Isaac Walton, in 1651. The pieces
we refer to, bear the signature of Ig-
noto, and are printed along with Sir
Henry Wotton's own compositions,
among other poems said by Walton
to have been found among Sir Henry's
papers. We are certainly not author-
ized to conclude that they are Wot-
ton's, but there is still less ground for
ascribing them to any one else ; and it
seems to be probable, that if Ignoto
was known as the exclusive signature
of Raleigh, Walton would have men-
tioned him as the author, as he has
done in other instances, both in his
Angler and in the Reliquiee. The first
that we shall select, appears to us to
be extremely beautiful.
310 Earlier English Moral Songs and Poems. [March,
A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS.
" Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldling's sports,
Where strained Sardonic smiles are glowing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will ;
Where mirth's but mummery,
And sorrows only real be.
" Fly from our country pastimes, fly,
Sad troops of-human misery.
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,
Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see
The rich attendance on our poverty ;
Peace and a secure mind,
Which all men seek, we only find.
" Abused mortals, did you know,
Where joy, hearts' ease, and comforts grow,
You'd scorn proud towers,
And seek them in these bowers,
Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,
But blustering care could never tempest make,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,
Saving of fountains that glide by us.
" Here's no fantastic mask nor dance,
But of our kids that frisk and prance ;
Nor wars are seen,
Unless upon the green
Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,
Which done, both bleating run each to his mother
And wounds are never found,
Save what the" ploughshare gives the ground.
" Here are no entrapping baits
To hasten too too hasty fates,
Unless it be
The fond credulity
Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook :
Nor envy, unless among
The birds, for prize of their sweet song.
" Go let the diving negro seek
For gems hid in some forlorn creek :
We all pearls scorn,
Save what the dewy morn
Congeals upon each little spire of grass,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass :
And gold ne'er here appears,
Save what the yellow Ceres bears.
" Blest silent groves, oh may you be
For ever mirth's best nursery !
May pure contents
For ever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains,
And peace still slumber by these purling fountains :
Which we may every year
Meet when we come a-fishing here."
1839.]
Earlier English Moral Songs and Poems.
311
It may be thought that some of the
points here brought out are of the
nature of conceits, in which fanciful,
and sometimes merely verbal con-
trasts, are exhibited between the de-
lights of the country and the troubles
or vanities of the world. Yet surely
the images and ideas introduced are
beautiful and pleasing, and are neither
forced nor far fetched. There are,
we conceive, moods of feeling in which
trains of thought of this precise cha-
racter are naturally suggested to the
mind ; and no occasion is more fa-
vourable for such contemplations than
when the comparison here drawn is
instituted by those who, dissatisfied
with their experience of artificial life,
are enjoying, in all its freshness, the
pleasures of a change to nature and
simplicity. No strong passions are
at work, in such a situation, to fix the
feelings and imagination on some
great and engrossing object. The
heart is light and at ease, and the
fancy is at liberty to sport with the
successive images that attract its at~
tention, and to exert even some in-
genuity in moulding them to suit its
favourite inclination. Such, though
more fantastic and querulous, was the
spirit in which the melancholy Jacques
moralised, by the river's side, the
spectacle of the sobbing deer into a
thousand similies, and found in it mat-
ter for invective against all the modes
of human life.
Let us add, from Wotton, another
of Raleigh's or Ignoto's moralities,
which is more in Jacques's vein, though,
if it was written posterior to As You
Like it, we may think that it might as
well have been let alone.
DE MOBTE.
" Man's life's a tragedy : his mother's womb
(From which he enters) is the tiring room;
This spacious earth the theatre ; and the stage
That country which he lives in : Passions, Rage,
Folly, and Vice are actors. The first cry
The prologue to the ensuing tragedy.
The former act consisteth of dumb shows ;
The second, he to more perfection grows ;
I* th' third, he is a Man, and doth begin
To nurture vice, and act the deeds of sin :
I' th fourth, declines ; i' th' fifth, diseases clog
And trouble him ; then Death's his epilogue."
Another speaker follows on the
same side, whose voice, if it were
genuine, would be worth listening to.
The verses now to be quoted bear, in
the Reliquiae, the signature of Francis
Lord Bacon, though we do not re-
member that any poetry has ever
found admission into his collected
works, except some translations of
psalms. What we are here to give is
not very poetical, and would scarcely
turn the balance against the prose wis-
dom of one of the immortal Essays,
Civil and Moral. Perhaps, however,
these lines have some touches charac-
teristic of their nominal author, and
would, at least, hold a respectable
place in any anthology gathered from
the effusions of lawyers or lord chan-
cellors. They are obviously copied
from some of the Greek epigrams on
the same subject.
THE WOULD.
" The world's a bubble : and the life of man
Less than a span.
In his conception wretched ; from the womb,
So to the tomb.
Nurst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes on dust.
" Yet, whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best ?
Courts are but only superficial schools,
To dandle fools :
312 Earlier English Moral Songs and Poems.
The rural part is turned into a den
Of savage men :
And where's a city from foul vice so free,
But may be termed the worst of all the three ?
" Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
Or pain his head :
Those who live single take it for a curse,
Or do things worse :
These would have children, those that have them, none,
Or wish them gone :
What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife ?
" Our own affections still at home to please
Is a disease.
To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
Peril and toil.
Wars with their noise affright us : when they cease
We're worse in peace.
What then remains, but that we still should cry
For being born, and being born to die ? "
Francis Lord Bacon.
[March,
These extracts from the Reliqidce
naturally lead us to the undoubted
compositions of the eminent man who
has given a name to the whole collec-
tion. Who can speak of Sir Henry
Wotton without love and admiration ?
— of him whose life has, in the hands
of his amiable and attached biographer,
been rendered as interesting as a ro-
mance and as instructive as a sermon ;
— an accomplished and liberal travel-
ler, yet a firm favourer of his own
country — a man of the world, yet a
lover of letters and retirement — a prac-
tised diplomatist, yet retaining among
protocols and politics a gallantry and
enthusiasm that would have become
an old chevalier, and a purity and piety
that would have done honour to a di-
vine. Were there nothing else to com-
mend him, it ought to be enough to
perpetuate the memory of Wotton that
he was among the earliest, and was
probably the most authoritative, of
those friends who encouraged the ris-
ing genius of Milton — to whom, in 1 638,
when sending him abroad with the
memorable advice, " I pcnsieri stretti
e il viso sciolto," he wrote, expressing
the singular delight he had received
from that " dainty piece of entertain-
ment," theMaskofComus, "wherein,"
he says, " I should much commend the
tragical part, if the lyrical did not ra-
vish me with a certain Dorique deli-
cacy in your songs and odes ; where-
unto I must plainly confess to have
seen yet nothing parallel in our lan-
guage ; ipsa mollifies." May we be
allowed to conjecture whether Milton,
on the other hand, had not, in the final
passage of his Penseroso, meant some-
what to shadow out that venerable re-
tirement of Wotton as provost of Eton
College, by which he exchanged the
task of rolling the restless stone of state
employment for the sweet contempla-
tion and holy thoughts of a calm and
cloister- like seclusion ?
" And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit, and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew,
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain."
Be this as it may, the interchange of
courtesies and kindnesses which at
this time passed between these great,
though not equally great, men, was
worthy both of the young poet and
the old ambassador.
All of us know the exquisite song
beginning, " Ye meaner beauties of
the night," written by Wotton, upon
his admired and unfortunate mistress,
the Princess Elizabeth, and which some
senseless clippers and coiners of
poetry, in our own country, have re-
cast into a eulogium upon the Scottish
Queen Mary. The other little poem
with which Wotton's name is most
frequently connected, has certainly
not so much poetical beauty ; but it
has also considerable merit, and is
altogether, bating a little want of
method and connexion, a very favour-
able specimen of the species of com-
1639.]
Earlier Enylish Moral Sonys and Poems.
313
position which we are now consider,
ing.
THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
" How happy is he born and tau^Lt,
That serveth not another's will ;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.
" Whose passions, not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death ;
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath.
" Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood ;
How deepest wounds are given by praise ;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
" Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor rum, make oppressors great.
" Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.
" This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall,
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all."
To Wotton, also, has been attri-
buted, on the authority of a doubtful
opinion expressed in Walton's Angler,
a " Farewell to the vanities of the
world," which is not to be found in
the Reliquice. Mr Ellis assigns it to
Sir Kenelm Digby, who is said to be
given as the author in the Wit's In-
terpreter, in 1671. But, as it was be-
fore published in the complete Angler,
less authority seems due to this se-
condary opinion. The lines, however,
appear too diffuse and careless in their
composition to be the production of
Wotton ; and it is not unlikely that
they were Walton's own, as he seems
to have carried into literary life some
of the innocent " treachery " which he
so successfully practised on the silly
tenants of the brook. The name of
John Chalkhill, " an acquaintance and
friend of Edmund Spenser," under
which Walton presented to the public
the pastoral History of Thealma and
Clearchus, is now generally under-
stood to have been employed by him
as a harmless bait to attract attention
and disguise his own handiwork. As
to the lines we are now to quote, we
shall not quarrel with Walton's criti-
cism on them, that, " let them be writ
by whom they will, he that writ them
had a brave soul, and must needs be
possesse'd with happy thoughts at the
time of their composure." They are
certainly very unequal, but some of
them are excellent.
" Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing trou-
bles ;
Farewell, ye honoured raga, ye glorious
bubbles !
Fame's but a hollow echo ; gold, pure
clay ;
Honour the darling but of one short
day ;
Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd
skin ;
State but a golden prison to live in,
And torture free-born minds ; embroid-
ered trains
Merely but pageants for proud swelling
veins ;
And blood allied to greatness, is alone
Inherited, not purchased, nor our own :
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train,
blood and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
'' I would be great, but that the sun doth
still
Level his rays against the rising Mil :
I would be high, but see the proudest
oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-
stroke :
I would he rich, but see men, too un-
kind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind (?) :
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, whilst the goose goes
free :
I would be fair, but see the fair and
proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud :
I would be poor, but know the humble
grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass :
Rich, hated ; wise, suspected ; scorned,
if poor ;
Great, fear'd ; fair, tempted ; high, still
envied more.
I have wished all, but now I wish for
neither
Great, high, rich, wise nor fair ; poor
I'll be rather.
" Would the world now adopt me for her
heir,
Would beauty's queen entitle me the fair,
Fame speak me fortune's minion ; could I
vie
Angels with India ; with a speaking eye
314
Earlier English Moral Songs and Poems.
[March,
Command bare heads, bowed knees,
strike justice dumb,
As well as blind and lame, or give a
tongue
To stones by epitaphs ; be called great
master
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster :
Could I be, more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives :
Yet I more freely would these gifts re-
sign,
Than ever fortune would have made them
mine ;
And hold one minute of this holy
leisure
Beyond the richea of this empty plea-
" Welcome, pure thoughts; welcome, ye
silent groves ;
These guests, these courts, my soul most
dearly loves.
Now the winged people of the sky shall
sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome
spring :
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-
glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace
cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-
faced fears :
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my lost love's
folly,
And learn to affect an holy melancholy ;
And if contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it, but in heaven
again."
The name of Raleigh, and the con-
nexion of his supposed signature with
the Reliquia, has led us somewhat out
of our chronology ; but, indeed, it is
not easy to follow a strict order in
this respect, where there is a close
succession of poets whose lives over-
lap each other, and whose literary eras
do not always correspond in the rela-
tive periods of their natural existence.
Retracing our steps, we shall make a
quotation from Daniel, who died in
1619, a writer who is always sensible
and sound, often pathetic, and some-
times poetical. His well-known dia-
logue between Ulysses and the Siren,
which seems nearest to our purpose,
is smoothly versified, and contains,
under the disguise of fable, a good
deal of wholesome philosophy • yet
it holds but an inferior place in his
compositions, compared with his Mu-
sophilus, the best passages of his Civil
Wars, or the happiest of his Sor.net?.
" Come, worthy Greek, Ulysses, come;
Possess these shores with me :
The winds and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.
Here may we sit and view their toil
That travail in the deep,
Enjoy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep."
" Fair nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attained with ease,
Then would I come and rest me there,
And leave such toils as these ;
But here it dwells, and here must I,
With danger seek it forth :
To spend the time luxuriously,
Becomes not men of worth."
" Ulysses, O be not deceived
With that unreal name :
This honour is a thing conceived,
And rests on other's fame :
Begotten only to molest
Our peace, and to beguile,
The best thing of our life, our rest,
And give us up to toil."
" Delicious nymph, suppose there were
Nor honour nor report,
Yet manliness would scorn to wear
The. time in idle sport :
For toil doth give a better touch
To make us feel our joy ;
And ease finds tediousness as much
As labour yields annoy."
" Then pleasure likewise seems the shore
Whereto tends all your toil ;
Which you forego to make it more,
And perish oft the while.
Who may disport them diversely
Find never tedious day ;
And ease may have variety
As well as action may."
" But natures of the noblest frame
These toils and dangers please ;
And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in ease ;
And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still :
When pleasure leaves a touch at last,
To show that it was ill."
1839.]
Earlier English Moral /Songs and Poems.
315
" Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here :
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be won that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not won :
For beauty hath created been
To undo or be undone."
We know not if we are quite justi-
fied in embracing within our plan the
elegant song from the Nice Valour of
Beaumont and Fletcher, which must
have afforded the germ to Milton's
Penseroso. If we are exceeding our
limits, let the liquid numbers, tender
images, and apt expressions of this
little composition plead our apology.
" Hence all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly ;
There's nought in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,
Oh, sweetest melancholy.
" Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes;
A sigh that, piercing, mortifies ;
A look that's fastened to the ground ;
A tongue chained up without a sound.
" Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves ;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls.
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon.
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy
valley ;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melan»
choly."
An attempt of the present kind
•would be very incomplete, if we omit-
ted from our selection those two noble
lyrics of Shirley's which preserved
his memory at a time when the merits
of his excellent dramas were forgotten.
They have much dignity, and some
delicacy of thought ; the versification
is pleasing and suitable, and the dic-
tion generally good and sometimes
elegant.
FRO M " CCPID AND DEATH."
A MASQUE.
" Victorious men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are ;
Though you bind in every shore,
And your triumphs reach as far
As night or day ;
Yet you, proud monarcha, must obey
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common
men.
" Devouring famine, plague and war,
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are :
Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill ;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a
heart."
FROM THE " CONTENTION OF AJAX AND
ULYSSES."
" The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things :
There is no armour against fate :
Death lays his icy hands on kings :
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
" Some men with swords may reap the
field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
" The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds :
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor- victim bleeds !
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb.
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust."
Some verses from a little poem of
the same writer entitled the Garden,
seem also to deserve a place among
our extracts. They are melodious and
pathetic.
" Give me a little plot of ground,
Where, might I with the sun agree,
Though every day he walk the round,
My garden he should seldom see.
" Those tulips, that such wealth display
To court my eye, shall lose their name,
Though now they listen, as if they
Expected I should praise their flame.
" But I would see myself appear
Within the violet's drooping head,
On which a melancholy tear
The discontented morn hath shed.
316 Earlier English Mural Songs and Poems.
" Within their buds let roses sleep,
[March*
And virgin lilies on their stem,
Fill sighs from lovers glide, and creep
Into their leaves to open them.
" I' th' centre of my ground, compose
Of bays and yew my summer room,
Which may, so oft as I repose,
Present my arbour, and my tomb.
" No birds shall live within my pale
To charm me with their shames of art,
Unless some wandering nighiingale
Come here to sing and break her heart ;
" Upon whose death I'll try to write
An epitaph in some funeral stone,
So sad and true, it may invite
Myself to die, and prove mine own."
Among the poems of Francis Beau-
mont, are to be found some pleasing
and well known lines on the Life,
of Man, which are also attributed to
Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, a
poet of some merit, but with a strong
tendency to conceits, such as would
•well entitle him to the paternity of
one of the ideas in these verses, repre-
senting the light of man's life as a
loan of money called in and paid up
on a very short notice.
THE LIFE OF MAN.
" Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,.
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood —
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lieSi
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, — and man forgot."
These lines seem to have suggested
another and more expanded form of
the same idea, which has also con-
. siderable sweetness. The piece we
now refer to is attributed by Mr
Ellis to Simon Wastell, and is stated
to be extracted from an edition of
his Microbiblion, published in 1629.
They are commonly, however, as-
signed to Quarles, and are printed in
some editions of his Argalus and Par-
thenia, with the Virgilian vindication
of his right to them : " Hos ego vsr-
siculos feci." We should be sorry to
think that the pious author of the
Emblems and Divine Fancies had in
this respect preferred a dishonest
claim.
OX MAXS MORTALITY.
" Like as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had —
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, — and man he dies,
" Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan —
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long.
The swan's near death, — man's life is
done ! "
The other and more authentic pieces
of Quarles, and of writers who great-
ly surpass him in his own department,
would lead us into another field which
we have all along purposely avoided,
and which deserves to be considered
separately, and in a more solemn and
reverent tone than is due to mere mo-
rality.
Having brought down our review of
miscellaneous moral poetry to the
reign of Charles I., we shall not pur-
sue the subject further, or enter on a
period when so great a change was
brought about, in taste as well as in man-
ners and opinions, and which belongs
in its character more nearly to the
modern than to the early age of our
literature. In what we have done we
are conscious that we must have made
many omissions, and we may have
bestowed undue importance on some
compositions or topics of inferior in-
terest. Yet, altogether, we feel that
we have brought into a condensed
form a great deal of true English
poetry of a peculiar and valuable class,
closely allied, as we believe, with the
best virtues of the national character,
and which, in various ways, has help-
ed to cultivate a style of native
thought and expression, capable of
becoming the vehicle of wisdom and
virtue among the less learned classes
to a extent even greater perhaps than
we have vet witnessed.
1839.]
The. Picture Gallenj. No. TY.
319
THE PICTURE GALLERY.
No. VI.
I HAVE a great respect for old fa-
mily servants — a sentiment to which
I adhere the more strongly from the
circumstance of the character being
somewhat a rare one in these days of
incessant change and upstart assump-
tion, when the " March of Mind," not
content with playing all sorts of odd
pranks in the squire's drawing-room,
has revolutionized even his kitchen,
implanting ambitious ideas there,
fatal to those humble, kindly, and
contented feelings which made up the
idiosyncrasy of the veteran family do-
mestic. Throughout the various
grades of the community, all now is
pretension and a struggle for superi-
ority ; and the High Life below
Stairs, which, in Garrick's time, was
considered such a capital extrava-
ganza, is no longer a broad farce, but
a familar matter of fact, of daily—
nay, of hourly — occurrence.
Occasionally, however, one meets
with a servant of the consistent, un-
sophisticated old school, who was
born before society had put itself un-
der the doubtful tuition of the School-
master ; and such a one is my friend's
butler, to whom I have already once
or twice cursorily alluded. This pri-
mitive veteran is a fine specimen of a
class of domestics, who, if innovation
proceeds many years longer at its
present startling rate, will soon be
found only in the pages of Shakspeare,
Sterne, Scott, Clery, and Irving. He
has lived in my friend's family for the
best part of half a century ; and talks
of the different members of it, and
their various marriages and inter-
marriages, with as much affectionate
earnestness as if they were all his own
blood-relations. He dates, in fact,
from a christening, a wedding, or a
death, which serve him as guide-posts,
by whose aid memory is enabled to
travel back through a long course
of years. In his appearance, he re-
minds me of Shakspeare's " Old
Adam," for he has a ruddy, open
countenance, beaming with cheerful-
ness and good- nature ; milk-white
hairs scattered thinly about his tem-
ples ; and a stout, well-knit frame,
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXI,
which is but just beginning to exhibit
the wintry impress of decided age.
Next to his master and mistress, he is
the individual of the greatest import-
ance in the establishment. His word
is law with the rest of his fellow ser-
vants, who, while they respect his
manly, straightforward simplicity of
character, stand not a little in awe of
him, knowing well that he is not one
of their sort ; the tie that binds him to
his master being less one of self-inte-
rest, than of esteem and gratitude.
With this kindly-natured old fellow,
I indulged in many an agreeable gos-
sip, which greatly contributed to en-
liven the solitude in which I lived.
He soon became used to my habits,
and whenever he heard me pacing up
and down the Picture Gallery, or
rambling about the lawn behind the
house, would take for granted he
might approach without fear of intru-
sion. What I chiefly admired in him
was, his unobtrusive independence of
spirit. His manner was deferential
without being servile, and he had the
rare tact to time his garrulity, and
know exactly when he had said
enough.
When tired of chatting with this
old man who, in addition to his other
acceptable qualifications, was a living
chronicle of all the " few and far be-
tween" memorabilia of the district, and
told me divers curious anecdotes re-
specting the family portraits in the
Picture Gallery, it was my frequent cus-
tom to retire into the library, a nar-
row, bow-windowed, oak-pannclled
room, which ran the whole length of
the building, where I spent many a
pleasant hour ; for I am exceedingly
fond of reading (though, alas ! my
studies have ever been of a most de-
sultory, unprofitable kind), and feel
the full force of the panegyrics which
Cicero, and Milton, and Wordsworth
—the two former in emphatic prose,
and the latter in as emphatic verse —
have pronounced upon books. My
friend's library was abundantly stored
with the choicest ancient and modern
works ; and it was here that I first
made acquaintance with Buchanan's
320
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
[March,
Latin Poems, whose ode on May
Day struck me as being nearly, if
not quite, equal to Horace's Blan-
dusian Fount ; and his drama of
Jtptha as superior to any of Sene-
ca's tragedies, not excepting even his
Medea. Here, too, I met with
Jortin's Elegy on a young lady, to
whom he was attached, from which I
am tempted to quote two lines as ex-
hibiting, in my opinion, a truly Ovi-
dian fancy,* and graceful freedom of
versification : —
" Te sequar, obscurum per iter dux Hit
eunti,
Fidus Amor, tenebras lampade discutiens.*'
In this library, too, I picked up a
volume of old Latimer's quaint ser-
mons, which contain some of the most
humorous and entertaining passages
in the language ; and got through
heaven knows how many tragedies
and comedies of the Elizabethan age,
which, despite the numerous violations
of probability in their characters and
incidents, rivet attention by the fresh-
ness and vigour of the teeming fancy
that pervades them. To the hours
thus spent in still communion with
these intelligent spirits, I shall ever
look back with satisfaction. What an
illustrious assembly they were ! Even
the court of the Imperial Augustus
never boasted such a host of mighty
geniuses as stood round me on the
shelves of this library. There were
royalist and republican — Protestant
and Catholic — poet and critic — histo-
rian and novelist — ranged peaceably
side by side. The pride, the jealousy,
the party heats and religious differ-
ences, that had kept many of them
apart when living, were here at an
end. All dwelt in good fellowship to-
gether ; and each — after his own pe-
culiar fashion — did his best to en-
lighten and amuse. The grave has
but one voice ; but a spirit of many
tones speaks from the haunted walls
of the library, in accents which, whe-
ther mirthful and familiar, or solemn
and impassioned, are, if rightly inter-
preted, alike fraught with benefit to
the head and heart.
One evening, after a late tea, while
lounging over an odd volume of the
Elizabethan dramatists, I chanced to
light upon some extracts from the
tragedy of Thyestes, written, if I
remember rightly, by Crowne, to-
wards the close of the seventeenth
century ; and was so much struck by
the rude energy of some of the scenes,
especially that tremendous one where-
in Atreus invites his brother Thyestes
to a banquet, and places before his
unconscious guest the mangled limbs
of his son, that — despite the character
of the incident, which militates against
every principle of good taste — I could
not dismiss it from my thoughts, but
remained under the influence of " the
enchanter's wand," long after I had
closed the volume. At last I heard
the clock strike midnight, and rising
from my chair, I took a few hurried
turns up and down the library, with
a view to restore my mind to its usual
composure ; but finding that my ef-
forts were unavailing, and that the
scene with all its ghastly horrors still
haunted my imagination, I unbarred
the door at the extremity of the apart-
ment, which opened upon the lawn,
and the night being serene and starry,
strolled about for nearly an hour ; af-
ter which, feeling rather chilly, and
in far too excited a mood for sleep, I
retired to my accustomed haunt, the
Picture Gallery, where — by way of
giving a more cheerful turn to my
thoughts — I had recourse to my old
amusement of illustration. The paint-
ing which I selected for this purpose,
was a view of Margate from the sea,
which hung directly opposite the Gal-
lery door. The old butler had already
drawn my attention to it, as being a
great favourite with his master ; and
well it deserved his good opinion, for
it evinced much of the truth and spi-
rit of Ruysdael, of whose manner, it ..
struck me as being a most felicitous
* In the last number of the Encyclopedia Sritannlca, Mr Moir, in a masterly
article on " Poetry," speaks with something like contempt of the " extravagant con-
ceits" of Ovid. No writer of the present day has shown himself more qualified to
discriminate between the true and the false in fancy than this gentleman, who is him-
self a poet ; it is, therefore, with some hesitation that I venture to differ with him in
his estimate of Ovid, whom, so far as his powers of fancy are concerned, I conceive
to be the most highly gifted of the Latin poets.
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure.
imitation. On the hint furnished by
this clever picture, I engrafted the
321
boats, who told it with exceeding
unction, just as it had been related to
following tale, which I had heard the him by one of the parties concerned
previous summer from the lips of one — a respectable tradesman of Houns-
of the captains of the Margate steam- ditch.
THE WEEK OF PLEASURE.
CHAPTER I.
St Paul's was on the stroke of nine,
and the Margate steam-boat was just
about to start from London bridge
wharf, which presented — as it usually
does on summer and autumn morn-
ings— a bustling and motley spectacle.
Slouching, broad-shouldered porters,
with their badges of office tied about
their necks, kept momently rolling on
towards the vessel, bearing down all
before them, like huge ships of the
line, and followed close by the passen-
gers whose luggage they were carry-
ing ; policemen stood about the quay,
looking as sharp as razors and inexo-
rable as destiny, while two of their
fraternity added considerably to the
picturesque of the scene by collaring
a pickpocket, who had been pursuing
his vocation under the pretence of
selling the morning papers. Here, a
splenetic cabman or two were busy in
altercation with their respective fares ;
and there, a group of dilapidated non-
descripts stood in every one's way on
the steps of the landing-place, whistling
flash tunes, and making quaint com-
ments on the vessel and her crew. At
last the church clock struck nine, and
the eyes of all the loungers on the
wharf were directed towards the cap-
tain of the steamer, who, having
ascended the paddle-box, and taken a
few brisk turns along the elevated
railed plank which stretched across
the boat, and served him for a quarter-
deck, was just about to issue the order
to " let go the stern- rope," when,
suddenly, a smart, fair-faced young
man, of about five-and- twenty or thirty
years of age, dressed in white trowsers,
tightly strapped down over boots po-
lished to a miracle, blue coat, beaming
in all the beauty of brass buttons, bran
new silk hat, and light fancy waist-
coat, from which depended a massive
bunch of seals, rushed in an awful
state of perspiration down the steps,
bearing a well filled carpet-bag in his
hand. An instant longer, and he had
been too late ; but luck was in his fa-
vour, for, by some singular oversight,
the plank connecting the vessel with
the shore had not yet been withdrawn ;
seeing which, the young man elbowed
his way desperately through the crowd
of idlers that thronged the water's
edge, and managed to scramble on
board just at the very moment when
the boat, having slipped her moorings,
moved off into the stream, raising a
swell in her wake that set a grim,
sulky-looking coal-barge, capering as
if she had got the St Vitus's dance.
The deck of a Margate steamer ex-
hibits a scene of infinite bustle and con-
fusion at the commencement of her v oy-
age, for the passengers are all on the qui
vive, some settling the position of their
luggage, others hurrying down to
breakfast, and others, who have chil-
dren consigned to their care, keeping
a sharp watch on their every move-
ment, it not being safe to give them
unrestricted liberty in the first impulse
of their delight and wonderment. The
last comer whom I have just described
—Mr Giles Puddicombe, a respectable
oilman in the Minories — was one of
the most bustling of the crew j but
after he had twice seen to the safety
of his carpet-bag, which he had stowed
away by itself in one of the nooks near
the paddle-box, popped his head into
every cabin, made a hurried tour of
the deck, and taken his last fond look
at the gilt top of the monument, he
quietly dropped into a seat in the cen-
tre of the vessel, alongside a family
circle, consisting of a hale, fresh-co-
loured, elderly man, his wife, two
children, and a maid-servant, with the
first of whom he speedily got into con-
versation. After some preliminary
commonplaces about the fineness of the
day, the stranger said, " Astonishing
deal of shipping in this pool, sir."
" Wonderful ! " replied Mr Giles
Puddicombe, with earnestness.
" Ever down the river before, sir ? "
" Never ; it is my first voyage."
" Indeed I Me and Mrs H., and
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
322
the young 'uns, regularly go once a
year when business is"
" You're in trade, then, I pre-
sume ?" observed Puddicombe.
The stranger answered in the affir-
mative ; adding, with much self-com-
placency, that all the world knew old
Tom Hicks of Hounsditch, for he had
carried on business there as a grocer
" a matter of five-and-twenty year,"
and his father, before him, nearly as
many.
"Hounsditch!" exclaimed Giles;
" why then, you are a neighbour of
mine, as one may say." And invited
to confidence by his companion's frank
and off-hand manner, he forthwith
proceeded to mention his own name,
address, calling, and so forth, and also
how he had come out to enjoy a week
of pleasure at Margate, having -heard
a good deal of the attractions of that
select watering-place, and being anxi-
ous to see a little more of the world
than could be seen behind a counter
in the Minories, or in the course of a
Sunday trip to Richmond or Green-
wich.
" A week's pleasuring is no bad
thing," said Mr Hicks, who had lis-
tened attentively to this prolix com-
munication, " provided, always, it
don't interfere with business."
" Oh, in course ; I take good care of
that," rejoined Giles, with' emphatic
earnestness ; " never neglect business
for pleasure, is my maxim."
" And a very excellent maxim it is,
and one that does you credit, Mr Pud-
dicombe, sir. The Minories is not
far off Hounsditch ; I hope we shall
be acquaintances as well as neigh-
bours."
" It won't^e my fault if we ain't,"
exclaimed Giles, gratified by this un-
expected compliment.
*< You must call and see us at Mar-
gate, sir ; you'll find us plain, old-
fashioned folks, but always glad to
ah, there's the Dreadnought ! A noble
vessel, that," added the grocer, di-
recting his companion's attention to
the old hospital ship, which they were
just then passing ; " served under the
immortal Nelson at Trafalgar. I never
see her but I feel proud, as GeoTge
the Third said in his first speech from
the throne, that I was born and eddi-
cated a Briton. By the bye, I'll tell
you a good anecdote about the Dread-
nought, which was told me by Captain
Tough of the R^d Rover."
[March,
" Ay, do, my love," interposed Mrs
Hicks ; I'm sure the gentleman will
like to hear it, you tell it with such
uncommon "
Her husband was just about to com-
mence his anecdote, when he was in-
terrupted on the very threshold by a
sort of choking sound near him ; and
turning hastily round, he saw one of
his children striving desperately to
swallow a huge lump of seedcake,
which had stuck half-way in his throat,
and the maid-servant slapping him
energetically on the back, in order to
assist his efforts.
" Drat that boy," said his father,
when the cause of danger was re-
moved, " he's always stuffing and
cramming. Do, pray, Mrs H., take
the cake away from him ; it's now ten
o'clock, and he's been eating ever since
seven."
The vessel had by this time reached
Blackwall, when Mr Hicks, who had
completely forgotten the old Dread-
nought, after looking about him for
some minutes, grasped Giles by the
arm, and pointing to a bull-necked,
Dutch-built personage, who was stand-
ing alone near the steersman, eyeing,
with great apparent interest, a spa-
cious isolated building which stood
close to the river's edge, said, " Do
you see that gentleman ?"
" Yes ; who is he ?"
The grocer paused an instant, as if
to give greater effect to his reply ;
and then, putting on an air of grave
dignity proportioned to the importance
of his communication, ejaculated, in a
thrilling under- tone, " That — that is
Alderman Maggs!"
It was indeed that illustrious city
magnate, who, with spectacles on
nose, and arms folded across his chest,
was gazing at Lovegrove's hotel, so
celebrated for its white-bait dinners !
From the pensive and abstracted ex-
pression of his fine countenance, it was
evident that his thoughts were wan-
dering back to the past; that he was
feasting again, in imagination, on the
many delicious viands which he had
embowelled beneath that classic roof —
in a word, cultivating the " pleasures
of memory ! " Giles, as was natural,
regarded him with respect bordering
on veneration ; whereupon his com-
panion, whose hobby it was to know-
something of every thing and every
body, entered into various biographi-
cal particulars respecting the alder-
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure.
man, to which Puddicombe listened
with such pleased attention, as quite
won the old grocer's heart.
When they came to Gravesend, Mr
Hicks was loud in his praises of Til-
bury Fort. — " Celebrated place that,
sir, in its day ; — monstrous strong,
too ; would batter down Gravesend
before you could say Jack Robinson."
" It does not look so very strong,"
observed Giles.
" Look! what matters looks ? Why,
I'm past fifty, and all my friends say
I don't look forty. I never trust looks
— suffered too much by 'em. A woman
came into my shop one day, and did
me out of a pound's worth of groceries,
solely on the strength of her looks."
" Bless me, you don't say so ! "
*' Fact; .so, ever since', I've made it
a matter of business never to mind
looks. Handsome is as handsome
does. — But we were speaking of Til-
bury Fort. I can tell you a capital
anecdote about that fort, which I re-
member reading when I was a boy not
bigger than Tom," pointing to his son.
" Queen Elizabeth was dining there
one day off a goose and trimmings,
when suddenly news was brought that
the Spanish Armada had just been de-
feated at sea. ' What, already ! ' ex-
claimed her Majesty, laying1 down her
knife and fork, and looking at the
messenger as if she thought he was
hoaxing her. — ' Yes,' replies my gen-
tleman, ' there's no more doubt of the
wictory than that you're sitting in
that arm- chair.' — ' Well, I'm damned,'
said Queen Elizabeth — for she had a
devil of a spirit, and didn't mind an
oath now and then ; indeed, all the
quality swore in those days, 'special-
ly on great state occasions ; — ' I'm
damned,' said she, slapping down her
fist on the table, ' if this ain't the best
news — and no mistake — I've heard
since I've been Queen of England!
What's the day of the month ? ' — ' The
twenty-ninth of September,' said one
of the lords who was standing behind
her chair. — * Very good,' replied her
Majesty ; * then write off instantly to
the Lord Mayor and all the official
authorities, and tell 'em it's my royal
will and pleasure that this twenty-
ninth of September be henceforth and
for ever held as a grand feast day
throughout the kingdom' — which was
done accordingly ; and that's the ori-
gin of the present custom of eating
roast goose and apple sauce on Mi-
323
chaelmas day. — Very extraordinary
anecdote, isn't it?"
" Very," replied Giles, "supposing
it to be true."
" True ! It must be true, else why
do we eat goose more on that particu-
lar day in the year than any other? —
But I hear the dinner-belJ. Come
along, Mrs H, — come along, children.
Mr Puddicombe, you'll join us, I sup-
pose?"— and so saying, the old fellow-
made his way into the cabin, and took
up a position opposite a gigantic sir-
loin, worthy to have been served up
at the table of the King of Brobdignag.
When the meal was over, the children
were sent up stairs with the maid-ser-
vant, and the seniors busied themselves
in the discussion of some cold brandy
and water, in which Giles assisted ;
but, feeling the heat of the cabin be-
come somewhat oppressive, he soon
quitted them, and returned to the deck,
where he occupied himself for some
minutes with watching the movements
of the waiters, who were hurrying
about in all directions, — some with
sandwiches piled, four deep, on large
blue plates, others with biscuits and
bottled porter, and others with cold
fowls, tongues, hams, and all the pa-
raphernalia of lunch, for the use of
those among the passengers whose in-
nate sense of gentility induced them to
prefer a late dinner to an early one.
Near Gilesstood a slim, sallow young
man, with jet-black hair hanging pic-
turesquely about his temples and down
his neck, who had been taken up, to-
gether with his carpet-bag, at Graves-
end. He was leaning, apart from the
rest of the crew, against one of the
paddle-boxes, with his arms dangling
listlessly by his side, and his eyes bent
upon the sea. Something there was
in his appearance that attracted Pud-
dicombe's notice, who, after a few mo-
ments' hesitation, went up and entered
into conversation with him.
" We're fortunate in our day, sir,"
he began.
" Singularly so," exclaimed the Un-
known, starting abruptly from his re-
verie, and fixing a keen roving black
eye on the speaker.
" The sea's a pretty sight," conti-
nued Giles, " leastways when it's as
smooth as it is now."
" True," rejoined the stranger; "but
I, sir, prefer seeing it convulsed by
storm and tempest, when the billows
run mountain high, and the winds
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
324
shriek like — like — a man having a
double tooth out. Then, sir, is the
time to behold old Ocean in his glory ;"
and the speaker looked at Puddicombe
with an expression of countenance that
seemed to imply, There's a description
for you I
" But the sea's rather dangerous
then, I should conceive," observed my
hero.
" Danger ! Who thinks of danger
•when contemplating such a sublime
spectacle ?"
" Those are just my sentiments,"
pursued Giles, with a laudable anxiety
to be thought a man of taste and gen-
tlemanlike ideas ; " I was always fond
of sight-seeing."
" I am proud to find we agree on
this point," rejoined the Unknown j
and then launched into a variety of
other topics, on which he conversed
with much emphasis and volubility,
occasionally seasoning his talk with
quaint scraps from Shakspeare and
other dramatists, to his hearer's ex-
ceeding delight and edification, who,
having but a limited knowledge of the
world beyond the Minories, began to
fancy that his companion was a person
of superior breeding and scholarship.
" There seem to be lots of respect-
able people on board," he observed.
" Probably so," replied the stranger;
" but I never trouble my head about
such things. I always make it a point,
in travelling, to keep myself to my-
self."
The air of dignified hauteur with
which this was said confirmed Puddi-
combe in his opinion of the Unknown's
gentility ; and he replied, with modest
deference, " You are in the right to
be cautious, sir, for one never knows
who one's talking to ; " — and as he
spoke he cast a keen rapid glance to-
wards the spot where his carpet-bag
was deposited.
" And yet, sometimes," continued
the stranger, whose quick eye follow-
ed the direction of Puddicombe's —
" sometimes I take a fancy at first
sight;" — and he bowed significantly
to Giles, with all the impressive grace
of a prince in a Coburg melodrama. —
" Do you make any stay at Margate ?"
he added.
" No," said Giles ; " I am merely
going there for a week's pleasuring,
and expect to spend a very delightful
time, especially as it is quite a novelty
to me."
[March,
" Then take my advice, sir, and be
cautious with whom you associate : for
Margate, at this period of the year,
is always full of sharpers, who make
a point of preying on the unwary ; "—
and, with these words, the stranger
adjusted his side-curls, whistled a few
notes of a flash air, and strolled off to
the head of the steam-boat.
Immediately afterwards, Giles was
rejoined by Mr and Mrs Hicks, the
former of whom exhibited a red nose
quite pleasant and becoming to look
at, and which showed how well the
brandy and water had agreed with
him " Whereabouts are we now?"
said he, thrusting his hands into his
waistcoat-pockets ; " long past the
Nore, I take it."
" Oh, yes!" exclaimed his wife;
" we're close to the Reculvers ; see,
there they are;" — and she pointed
her dumpy fore-finger towards them.
" Then we shall be at Margate in
less than no time. — Mrs H., where's
the children?"
The question was superfluous, as
was proved by an indignant exclama-
tion of the maidrservant, of " Fie, for
shame, Master Tom! As sure as you're
born, I'll tell your pa," — which was
called forth by the conduct of one of
the engaging striplings, who was as-
sisting his brother to pelt the man in
the engine-room with marbles.
" Confound that lad," said his father,
" he's always in mischief; it was but
the other day that he blew his self up
with gunpowder ; and now, damme,
if he isn't making a cock-shy of the
stoker!"
" My God, if he havn't pitched
head-foremost into the engine-room!"
exclaimed the affrighted mother, and,
accompanied by her husband and
Giles, rushed off to the spot, whence
the youngest of her sons had just dis-
appeared. Luckily, no damage was
sustained, for the man below caught
the boy in his arms before he had fully
accomplished his descent, and restored
him to his agitated parents, one of
whom sobbed over him for full five
minutes, and the other promised him
a " precious larruping" the instant
he reached Margate.
When the alarm occasioned by this
little incident had subsided, a choleric
dialogue took place between the old
folks and the maid-servant, on the
subject of the latter's " scandalous
negligence," which, after divers saucy
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure.
repartees by the girl, was at length
terminated by Mr Hicks suddenly ex-
claiming, " There's Margate ! I see
the windmills." Giles gazed at the
opening splendours of this celebrated
Cockney watering-place with those
feelings of profound interest which
the sight was so well calculated to
awaken in a romantic and susceptible
nature. First appeared the white
cliffs, topped with Wellington cres-
cents and terraces ; then the spruce
new church, with the dingy lodging-
houses on either side of it ; then
the two-story-high pier, along which
325
crowds were hastening in yellow
shoes, and smock-frocked porters
wheeling their trucks ; and lastly, the
broad Marine Parade, on whose cen-
tral building was inscribed " Wright's
Hotel," in large brass letters about
the size of Tom Moore, the poet. In
a few minutes the boat ran alongside
the pier-head, and Giles in an ecstasy
of delight snatched up his carpet-bag,
and without waiting to bid adieu to
the Hickses, who were busily engaged
in looking after their luggage, hurried
with it ashore amid a throng of admir-
ing spectators.
CHAPTER II.
On leaving the pier, Giles trudged
up the High Street towards a quiet,
cheap inn, the direction of which Mr
Hicks had written down for him on
the back of one of his cards of busi-
ness, and where he had recommended
him to pass the night, as it was doubt-
ful whether he would have sufficient
time before dark to hunt out a suitable
lodging, which — the town being very
full — was a matter of no slight diffi-
culty. The inn in question was soon
found, and Puddicombe proceeded
into the coffee-room, where he dis-
cussed a pint of the landlord's prima
port — a rational and gentlemanlike
occupation, which afforded him a world
of solid satisfaction. An hour having
been thus agreeably disposed of, he
sallied out for the purpose of survey-
ing the wonders of the place, and in-
haling those brisk north-east winds
for which Margate is so deservedly
famous, and whose only fault is that
they are rather too apt to beget rheu-
matisms and toothachs.
The first place he visited was the
East Cliff Parade, which he had no
sooner ascended, than he had a smart
chace after his hat ; for, accustomed
hitherto to the imperfectly developed
zephyrs of the Minories, he had no
notion of the vivacity with which the
wind plays upon a Kentish cliff, and
the naive liberties it takes with pedes-
trians ; now borrowing bonnets, hats,
and wigs ; now trying experiments on
umbrellas and parasols ; and anon
fluttering round some elderly maiden's
ancle, and making an exhibition awful
to think of; — Giles, I say, had no
notion of the rude, eccentric vigour of
these Margate winds, so he was taken
completely by surprise, and did not
secure his hat till after a race of some
hundred yards, in the course of which
he was very near throwing a summer-
set from the top of the cliff to the bot-
tom. His next visit was to the Jetty,
and, it being low water, he was both
surprised and gratified to find himself
walking out a considerable distance to
sea on thick planks of wood. On
reaching the extremity of this amphi-
bious promenade, where a lamp is
fixed which is generally lit and blown
out a dozen times a night, Giles took
his seat on a cool, moist bench, and
occupied himself by speculating on
what his confidential apprentice, whom
he had left in charge of the business,
was doing at that hour ; but, feeling
his teeth begin to chatter with cold,
he hastened back to the upper pier,
which was crowded with the elite of
the place, among whom he fancied he
recognised — and the recognition filled
him with awe — the alderman of his
own ward !
From the pier, the delighted young
man made his way to the bazaars,
where also there was a host of people,
dressed out in the very height of
fashion, who were making eager pur-
chases of trinkets, work-boxes, and
such like nick-nacks. Here, seduced
by the smiles and intreaties of a young
Jewess, who stood in an attitude of
irresistible supplication behind a coun-
ter, Giles gallantly lost five shillings
at a raffle over which she presided ;
and then betook himself to the bath-
ing-rooms, pleased at the opportunity
of hearing gratis various Scotch and
Irish melodies sung by a lean warbler
with one eye, whose incessant, scien-
32G
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
[March,
tific shakes, elicited thunders of ap-
plause, and so electrified the refined
soul of Puddicombe, that he stayed
upwards of an hour at the rooms ; after
•which, he set out on his return to the
inn, halting, as he passed the harbour,
to contemplate the striking landscape
about him. The shadows of night
rested on the broad bosom of the sea,
giving the appearance of some gigan-
tic cyclops to the dim-seen lighthouse
at the far end of the pier ; lights
twinkled by hundreds from the lodg-
ing-houses along the cliffs ; and in the
centre of the harbour, fragrant with
the accumulated mud of centuries, lay
one or two delicate-looking colliers on
their sides, just as if they had been
blown down by a hurricane, and were
too seriously injured to get up again.
Having gazed his fill at this roman-
tic prospect, Giles continued his course
to his inn, on entering which, he rang
the bell for the chamber-maid, and re-
quested to be shown to his dormitory.
" Betty," said he, as the girl preceded
him into the room, with a flat candle-
stick in her hand, " are you sure my
sheets are well aired ?"
" Certain of it, sir ; they have been
sleptineverynightfor the last month ;"
saying which, she was about to leave
the room, when Puddicombe stopped
her with, "just wait a moment ; I
•want you to take down my night-
things to air, for they may be damp."
" If you please, sir," replied Betty ;
and setting down the candlestick on
the dressing-table, she retreated to-
wards the door, the handle of which
she discreetly held fast in her hand.
" Why, bless my heart and soul ! "
exclaimed Giles, as he deposited his
carpet-bag on a chair, " its open !
How can that be ? I'm sure I locked
it."
" No one's touched it, sir, since
you've been away — that I'll swear to ;
for I brought it up out of the coffee-
room myself."
" Very odd ; it can't have unlocked
itself."
" That's true, as you say, sir."
" Then how comes it open ?"
" 'Taint me, sir, as unlocked it;
and what's more, nobody belonging to
this, establishment unlocked it; and
that's all I know about the matter."
" Oh, of course not," replied Giles
pettishly in an under-tone, " Nobody
did it, that's certain. Nobody's al-
ways in fault in these cases."
This was a shrewd remark, involving
a sound practical truth, for every
one's experience must have convinced
him that there is no such arrant rascal
in existence as Nobody ! The fellow
is never easy but when in mischief.
Is a street-door left on the jar at mid-
night— a plate-chest ransacked — a
jewel-box stolen or mislaid — a window
broken — an orchard robbed — or a
slander spread abroad ; — ten to one,
Nobody is the guilty party ! Of all the
offences that are daily committed
against society, one half at least are
committed by this incorrigible scamp.
After casting a brief, searching
glance at the chamber-maid, which she
bore without the slightest visible em-
barrassment, Puddicombe proceeded
to inspect the contents of his bag ; but
what words can express his astonish-
ment and dismay, when he drew forth
— not the articles of apparel which he
had packed up with such care on leav-
ing home, but — a vast quantity of hay
and straw, together with a few small
bricks neatly folded up in a bit of sail-
cloth !
For an instant he stood as if planet-
struck ; then suddenly rousing him-
self, he lifted up the bag, and after
examining attentively every part of it,
he dashed it to the ground, and raising
Jhis right leg, and slapping his thigh
vehemently as he did so, he exclaimed,
" I see it all ; this is not my carpet-
bag, though it's of the same size and
pattern. No, no, that black-looking
rascal, who pretended to be so shy of
strangers, has substituted his for mine !
How could I have been so blind as not
to see the difference between them ?
Curse the villain, I saw him closely
watching me, whenever I looked to-
wards the place where my own carpet-
bag was ; and now I remember, he
took his stand there while Mr Hicks
was pointing out Margate to me ! The
scoundrel ! He's bolted with — let me
see" — and here Giles recapitulated the
inventory of his travelling wardrobe,
rising in indignation at the mention of
each successive item, till at length he
seemed ready to burst with rage and
vexation.
All this time the chamber-maid
kept her eyes fixed on Puddicombe
with provoking pertinacity. It was
plain that weighty thoughts were pass-
ing through her brain. This possi-
bly might be the famous Man with
.the Carpet-bag, of whose ingenious
1839.]
The Wecli of Pleasure.
327
rogueries she had heard and read such
marvels. He looked sincere and ho-
nest ; but there was no knowing ; it
was best, therefore, to be on the safe
side. All this passed through Betty's
mind while she stood with her eyes
ri vetted on the excited young man be-
fore her. It was a trying moment —
but she was equal to the emergency.
Accordingly she took her resolution
on the spot.
" If you please, sir," she said, " I'll
just step down stairs, and enquire
about this strange" — laying great em-
phasis on the word strange — " busi-
ness." And away she went, leaving
Giles behind her, surveying the bricks
and straw that lay scattered about the
floor, with an expression of counte-
nance as sour as a vinegar cruet.
In a short time she returned ; but
not alone, for the waiter was with her.
He had a grave and composed look,
as of one who knows his line of duty,
and is not to be led astray by his sen-
sibilities.
" Beg your pardon, sir," he began,
coolly advancing to Puddicombe with
a slip of paper in his hand, " but I
forgot to tell you that our customers
always pays every night before they
goes to bed. No offence, sir, but it's
master's way, and we're responsible, in
course. Here's your bill, sir."
Under any other circumstances
Giles would have found his self-conse-
quence seriously wounded by this la-
conic and premature application ; but
now, anguished, crest-fallen, and over-
whelmed by a humiliating conviction
of the depravity of human nature, he
had no heart to resent the affront ;
and, accordingly, after running his
eye hastily over the account, he drew
forth a well- filled purse, and discharged
it without a word.
Satisfied by this of his respectability,
the waiter, in bland tones, began to
condole with him on his mishap, —
" Werry distressing case, sir ; but its
what all on us are liable to. Swind-
lers is so very common now-a-days,
and they look and talk so like gentle-
folks, there' 8 no telling vich is vich."
" That's true," chimed in Betty,
" and they're in season just now at
Margate, as thick as three in a bed."
" Always come in with the oysters,"
added the waiter.
" What ever shall I do for a change
of linen?" said Puddicombe, who had
been absorbed in rejerie during this
brief dialogue.
" I'm sure I can't adwise, sir!" ex-
claimed the waiter, smothering a
laugh.
" He hasn't left me even a clean
shirt," continued Giles; "nothing but
this rubbish," pulling out a dog's-ear-
ed volume of plays, and flinging it
with huge contempt to the other end
of the room.
" The oudacious willain ! " exclaim-
ed Betty, " hanging's too good for
him ;" and, having given vent to this
virtuous anathema, she and her fellow-
servant wished Puddicombe good-
night, and quitted the room.
No sooner were they gone, than
Giles, whose rage had now subsided
into a sort of sullen gloom, sat down
by the bed-side, and soliloquized on
the untoward posture of his affairs.
" A pretty beginning this," he said,
" of my week of pleasure — of that
week which I had looked forward to
with such eagerness ! Cleaned out the
very first day ! Confound the scoun-
drel ; I little thought, when he was pay-
ing me such fine compliments, that he
had an eye to my carpet-bag. And
such shirts as they were ! Cost a mat-
ter of ten shillings every mother's son
of 'em. And then the collars ! I shall
never be able to get their like at Mar-
gate, that's certain. But it is not the
money part of the business I care
about — spending a few pounds, more
or less, is neither here nor there-
thank God, I can afford that ; but to
be duped — imposed upon — made a fool
of with my eyes open, as it were, —
this it is that annoys me the most.
Well, I shall be wiser another time,
that's some comfort ;" and, so saying,
Giles undressed himself, plunged into
bed, and in an instant was fast asleep.
CHAPTER III.
Giles was seated next day at break-
fast in the coffee-room, with a large
entered, followed by his eldest son.
The old gentleman was in high spirits,
plate of shrimps before him, when his and, shaking him warmly by the hand,
steam-boat acquaintance, Mr Hicks, said, " How are you, myboy ? Only
328
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
just beginning breakfast, hey ! Mrs
H. and us breakfasted long ago. Egad,
those shrimps look fresh — I'll just give
Tom a few, they'll keep him out of
mischief. Here, Tom, catch hold ; "
and, as the urchin extended his hands,
his father, without the slightest cere-
mony, emptied half the contents of the
plate into them, observing, " You see
I make myself quite at home. It's my
way, as Dicky Slugs would say."
" And who is Dicky Slugs ? " en-
quired Puddicombe, " I never heard
that name before."
" You astonish me ! I thought every
one knew Dick Slugs, the builder at
Hoxton. He and I have known each
other ever since we were boys. By the
bye, I can tell you a good story about
Dick : — We were sitting together one
evening in the parlour of the Red-
Lion at Hounsditch, when, all of a
sudden, I see him fall into what is call-
ed a brown study. I knew by this that
something was the matter with him,
for in general he had uncommon
spirits ; so says I, ' Dick, my boy, what
ails you?' — ' Why, to tell you the
truth, Tom,' he says, ' I'm sadly
puzzled to know what name to give
that new street I'm building near the
church. I'm sick of Waterloo Ter-
races and Wellington Rows ; they
don't take as they used to do ; besides,
Hoxton's got quite enough of 'em al-
ready.'— ' Well,' says I, jokingly, f if
you're really hard pressed for a name,
I think I can help you to one. What
do you say to calling it Hicks Street ?
You can't have a shorter or a genteeler
name.' — ' Hicks street — Hicks street !'
says he, repeating the words as if he
liked the sound of 'em ; * well, I don't
much care if I do, if only for old ac-
quaintance' sake'" —
" So, then, Hicks Street is really
named after you," said Giles, inter-
rupting his companion's narrative.
" Yes," replied the grocer ; " Dick
gave orders to that effect the very day
after we had the talk together."
" Dear me, how odd ! I know the
street well ! a friend of mine's got ex-
cellent lodgings there. I hope I may
get as good in Margate."
" Oh ! true," exclaimed Mr Hicks,
" I forgot you were going lodging-
hunting. Well, I don't think you can
do better than try the West Cliff.
We've got comfortable apartments
there, which a friend engaged for us
a week ago ; and, what's very remark-
able, they're the same we had last
year. And this reminds me that I've
a message for you from Mrs H. ; we're
all going out to the Reculvers this
morning, and Mrs H. says you must
make one of the party."
" I should be glad enough to do so ;
but — but — I am rather awkwardly
situated just at present."
" How so ? If you mean as regards
lodgings, the boat won't sail 'till one
o'clock, so you'll have lots of time to
look out for them."
" Oh yes, I'm perfectly easy on
that score," replied Giles ; " but the
truth is, I've met with an unexpected
loss since I saw you yesterday." He
then acquainted Mr Hicks with the
catastrophe of the carpet-bag, where-
upon that gentleman — who, when his
own interests were not concerned, was,
like the majority of us, a philosopher
—after indulging in a hearty laugh,
and cracking divers small jokes at Pud-
dicombe's expense, proceeded to ad-
vise with him on his mishap, and
shortly after took his departure, ac-
companied by Tom, with his mouth
full of shrimps ; but not before he had
exacted a promise from Giles, that,
when he had replaced his wardrobe
and secured his lodgings, he would
join the sailing party to the Reculvers.
Pursuant to his friend's advice, Pud-
dicombe commenced his search for
apartments on the West Cliff; but,
there being none vacant there, he de-
scended into the more homely old-fa-
shioned part of the town, keeping a
sharp look-out about him, in the hope
of encountering the fellow who had
made so free with his carpet-bag. In
this he was unsuccessful ; but he was
more fortunate with respect to lodg-
ings, for, after a brief search, he se-
cured two small, cheap rooms, in a
back street, leading out of the market-
place. He next set about renewing
his stock of wearing apparel ; and, ha-
ving accomplished this as well as could
be expected underthe circumstances, he
took his course to the jetty, where he
found the whole existing dynasty of the
Hickses standing close by a large plea-
sure-boat that lay alongside the land-
ing-place. The instant they caught
sight of him they went on board,
whither he followed ; and in a few mi-
nutes the vessel stood out to sea, with
a merry crew of not less than twenty,
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure.
attracted by the breezy freshness of
the day, -which gave promise of a de-
lightful sail.
For the first half-hour or so, nothing
could exceed the gratification of the
whole party. Giles, in particular,
was in ecstasies, and watched the re-
ceding town through a four-shilling
telescope which he had purchased on
his way to the jetty, with the liveliest
emotion ; while Mr Hicks busied him-
self with distributing a bag full of
gingerbread nuts among his children,
greatly to the amusement of the helms-
man, a grave, quiet, old sailor, whose
ironical expression of countenance
conveyed a world of meaning.
Next to Giles sat a portly, good-
humoured dame, with a face like a full
moon ; and right opposite to him, two
slim young ladies, dressed out in all
sorts of fine colours, and manifestly
inoculated with a notion that they
were both pretty and genteel. They
were attended by their brother, a raw
dandy in a rough pilot coat, who kept
smoking cigars, and jesting between
whiles with a smart negro boy, for
which unbecoming familiarity his sis-
ters reproved him every now and then,
with a significant nudge with their
parasols. This interesting group
maintained an icy reserve towards the
rest of the party, whence it was clear
that they were East-end exclusives of
the first water, who had no notion of
mixing themselves up with low trades-
men and" sich-like;" and,indeed,their
black footboy sufficiently betokened
their quality, for he had a gold- lace
band round his hat, at least twice as
broad as the order of the Garter.
When the vessel had got about six
miles from Margate, she began to
plunge and roll under the influence of
a freshening wind ; which had the ef-
fect of putting a gradual stop to the
talking and laughing that up to this
period had been prodigious. The
young ladies ceased their lisping prat-
tle about " the last new novel ;" their
brother threw away his cigar with an
air half-swaggering, half-sheepish ; Mrs
Hicks stopped her remonstrances with
her husband, for allowing the children
to eat till " they were fit to burst ;"
Giles looked like Othello, " perplexed
in the extreme ;" — in short, a subdued
gravity, betokening an apprehension
of some impending calamity, to which
however no one as yet ventured to al-
lude, took place of the former spor-
329
tive demeanour of this predestined
party ; and many a wistful glance was
cast towards the distant coast.
Matters were in this state, when
suddenly a yellow tint, succeeded by a
faint bluish one, was observed to creep
across the cheeks, and finally to settle
in the nose, of one of the fair exclu-
sives, who, taking out a vinaigrette,
and turning her face to the wind, said
to her sister, with a sigh, " very de-
lightful, love ; isn't it ?"
" Very, indeed !" was the reply, fol-
lowed, however, by a wan, pensive
smile, that indicated far less of plea-
sure than embarrassment.
"Damn that cigar," exclaimed their
brother, " I shouldn't wonder if I
were" — —
" Don't mention it, George ; there's
a dear," said both his sister sin a breath,
at the same time yawning so profound-
ly, as to set a dozen others yawning
from very sympathy.
Giles watched these symptoms with
much uneasiness, which were still fur-
ther increased, when, on glancing a
hasty look at the plump dame at his
elbow, he observed that her nose was
tipped with a bleak, blue tint, and
pinched in at the bridge, as though it
had been just subjected to the gentle
compression of a pair of tongs.
" I hope, Marm," he said, in alow,
compassionate tone, " I hope you don't
find the rocking of the ship too much
for you ?"
" Oh dear, no," rejoined the lady
with unexpected vivacity, " I don't
mind being a little sickish ; indeed, I
came out for that purpose, for my
medical man in Lunnun says as it's
good for"
" Bless my heart, Marm ! What,
come out in order to be" for the
life of him, Puddicombe could not com-
plete the sentence.
When he had somewhat recovered
from his bewilderment, he looked anx-
iously about him with a view to secure
a more eligible situation, for the lady's
frank confession had filled him with
alarm ; but vain was his scrutiny ;
every seat in the boat was occupied ;
so he bad nothing left for it but to re-
main where he was. Scarcely had he
made up his mind to this cruel alter-
native, .when a pathetic, " Oh God,
what shall 1 do ? " issued from beneath
a bonnet next him. He turned, and
lo, his fair neighbour succumbing with
evident reluctance to that fiendish visi-
330
tation, which but an instant before
she had so ardently desired ! The ma-
jority of the crew were not slow to
follow her example. Mrs Hicks —
pale, drooping floweret! hungher affec-
tionate head on her husband's shoul-
der ; the children lay stretched about,
like logs, in all quarters ; the young
ladies evinced symptoms of going off
in hysterics : and their brother mutter-
ed " curses, not loud, but deep,"
on the cigar, which, he observed, was
the sole cause of his indisposition. But
decidedly the worst of the lot was the
negro foot-boy, who, in the intervals
of every paroxysm, kept faintly crying
out, te Oh my Gorr'omighty, me just
dead ! Me bring my heart up out of
my mouth. Cus dis sickness ! Nebber
me feel any ting like it !"
The sight of all this suffering was
too much for the Christian spirit of
Puddicombe. The cold sweat stood
on his forehead ; and swinging himself
round, he shot his head over the ship's
side, with a force and suddenness that
seemed the result of a galvanic shock.
When his first attack was over, he
ventured to look about him, and saw
old Hicks laughing heartily at his mis-
hap. " Come, cheer up, man," ex-
claimed that worthy ; " don't give way,
but take example by me. I'm a capi-
tal sailor ; and all because I wont give
in. Mrs Hicks, for God's sake, don't
lean so heavily — depend on it, them
that make up their minds not to be
sick, ain't sick ; that's my maxim. I
remember once— Oh, the devil, I'm
booked at last !"
It was too true. Just as the " ca-
pital sailor" was beginning his anec-
dote, the vessel gave a sudden, heavy
roll, and compelled him, despite his
boast, to follow the fashion set by the
fat dame. Poor Giles, however, was
in no mood to exult over the abashed
grocer, for he felt, as he afterwards
said, as if he had no life left in him.
" Oh Lord, have mercy upon me !"
he fully ejaculated, every time he lift-
ed up his head, " I wish I had never
come out. They call this a party of
pleasure ! Deuce take all such parties.
Would to God I had staid at home
and stuck to the shop, instead of —
Ah, there I go again !" and no longer
able to hold up, he flung himself along
the floor in the midst of the little
Hickses, where he lay gathered up,
like a hedgehog, and did not once stir
'till the vessel reached the Reculvers.
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
[March,
No sooner, however, had he landed,
than, as if by magic, he recovered all
his energies ; and after lunching with
his party at the inn, accompanied them
on a ramble about the neighbourhood,
'till it was time to return to Margate.
Luckily, the sail back was far differ-
ent to what it had been in the morn-
ing ; for, the wind having abated, the
sea was comparatively smooth, and the
crew once again in the highest spirits,
with the exception of the young ladies,
who seemed to think it incumbent on
them to look as much as possible like
delicate and interesting invalids.
As it was late when the vessel reach-
ed Margate, Mr Hicks insisted on
Giles going home to take pot-luck with
him, to which the latter acceded ; and,
in the evening, they all went out for a
stroll in the bazaars, where Puddi-
combe's good- nature was put to a sore
trial by the importunities of the young
Hickses, who dragged him about the
rooms, intreating him to buy them
whatever toys struck their fancy, and
kept bawling out his name in a way
that made him the object of general
attraction, and covered him with
blushes. In vain their mother remon-
strated, and their father threatened
them with " a licking ;" the darlings
were neither to be coaxed nor bullied ;
so the irritated Puddicombe was fain
to give them the slip, and make a pre-
cipitate retreat from the Bazaar, under
the pretence that the heat of the rooms
gave him a headach.
On reaching his lodgings, the land-
lord— a tall, gaunt, melancholy-look-
ing old tailor, with a slouching gait
and a stoop in the shoulders — entered
the room with lights ; and, in reply to
a question from Giles, as to whether
Margate was not fuller than usual,
replied with a sigh, " Full ? Ay,
pretty well, considering ; but nothing
like what it used to be. Them steam-
ers have been the ruin of Margate."
" How so ? Don't they bring down
lots of company?"
" Yes, but what sort of company ?
People as go and take what they call
fashionable apartments in those gim-
crack new houses on the cliffs, instead
of coming and lodging with me in
these nice, tidy rooms, as they used to
do thirty years ago. Those were the
times for Margate! My lodgings
never stood empty then for weeks to-
gether, as they do now ; if I put up a
bill one day, it was sure to be down
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure.
the next ; but tlieni steamers have put
an end to all this. They've been the
ruin of Margate."
Having thus given vent to his
spleen, the querulous churl withdrew ;
and Puddicombe occupied himself till
bedtime in penning a letter of busi-
331
ness to his apprentice, and another to
a friend at Holloway — a retired dry-
salter — in "which last, he expressed
himself respecting his week of pleasure
in terms which showed that, as yet, it
had not quite answered his expecta-
tions.
CHAPTER IV.
The lodgings of Margate have, it
is well known, many desirable points ;
but as nothing on earth is perfect,
they have one material drawback—-
they are apt to be infested with fleas,
who, during the summer and autumn
months, when it is vulgar to be seen
in London, leave their town-houses,
and come down by thousands to the
seaside, in the carpet-bags, portman-
teaus, &c. of the unconscious cockneys.
Quitting the metropolis in a delicate
state of health, it is astonishing how
soon these interesting insects begin to
pick up strength — a painful fact, of
which my unlucky hero was but too
soon made aware, for he woke shortly
after daybreak, in a state of indescrib-
able irritation produced by their glut-
tonous assaults. They allowed him,
indeed, not the slightest respite, but
stuck to him so perseveringly that he
was compelled in self-defence to quit
his pillow, and dress himself, as well as
he could, by the faint light that came
struggling in at the window. Having
huddled on his clothes, he descended
to his sitting-room, where he threw
himself on a sofa, in the hope of being
enabled to have his sleep out; but, find-
ing this impossible, he just waited till
the day had fully broke, and then left
the house, and bent his steps towards
the sands, by way of wiling away the
time till breakfast.
It was a bright, serene, autumn
morning ; but, being too early yet for
the Margate folks to be stirring, not a
living object was to be seen, with the
exception of a reaper or two, who, on
their way out to the corn-fields that
lie along the highlands between Broad-
stairs and Ramsgate, took the direc-
tion of the shore, as enabling them to
indulge in the luxury of a cheap bath.
As Puddicombe pursued his course
along the sands, which are here only
accessible when the tide is fully out,
he soon forgot the night's annoyances ;
for the air, which had that sharp,
healthy, bracing feel that sends the
blood spinning like quicksilver through
the veins, blew freshly against him,
breathing of heaven, and inducing the
most cheerful thoughts. A more enli-
vening morning, indeed, was never
seen . The long range of cliffs looked of
dazzling whiteness ; the distant wave
broke with the softest murmur, spill-
ing itself, like creamy champagne,
along the beach ; the sun, from behind
the transparent, gold-edged clouds, that
just tempered without obscuring his
radiance, threw down long lines of
light upon the smiling waters ; and the
only sounds that came to the ear, were
the sudden, exultant leap of some
heavy fish, the crowing of the cock
from the small farms that are scattered
along the heights, or the clang of the
gull as he shot abruptly out from his
nest among the rocks.
Delighted — how could he be other-
wise ? — .with his walk, Giles strolled
briskly on, humming all sorts of lively
tunes, while the tawny sea- weed crack-
led under his vigorous tread, and the
sidelong crab shot from his path into
the crystal pools left by the receding
tide. On rounding a projecting point
of the coast, he came upon a small
sheltered bay, where there was a fine
expanse of smooth sand, and where the
cliff was scooped out into holes and
caverns, some of which ran inland for
many yards.
Puddicombe halted when he reach-
ed this spot — it was so secluded — the
sand looked so soft and grateful to the
naked foot, and the dry caves formed
such a convenient hiding-place for his
clothes, that he resolved — being rather
heated by exercise — to cool and re-
fresh himself by a " swim out" into
the sea. Accordingly, after looking-
carefully about him, and ascertaining
that no one was in sight, but a soli-
tary individual who seemed to bo
catching crabs, and was a great way
off, he leisurely proceeded to undms
— and, having deposited his clothes in
one of the caves, scampered, across the
332
sands, -which are here nearly a quarter
of a mile broad, and flung himself
headlong into the water. How deli-
cious was his first plunge — bracing all
his muscles, stimulating his nerves
into the healthiest action, and diffus-
sing a generous glow throughout his
frame ! So pleased was he with his
bath, that he remained upwards of
half an hour in the water, frolicking
about with all the rampant vivacity of
a young grampus ; when, feeling a
chill begin to creep over him, he cut
half a- dozen energetic capers on the
sands, like Don Quixotte among the
Brown Mountains, and then darted
into the recess where he had hid his
clothes.
What a spectacle here met his gaze!
The only dress visible was a reaper's!
" Oh," he exclaimed, " there is some
mistake here ; I have come to the
wrong place ; " and off he went, exa-
mining successively each nook and
crevice in the cliff ; but, alas ! no
clothes were to be seen in any one of
them, and not a soul was near ; though,
at about the distance of half a mile,
the dim outline of a man might have
been observed, rattling along with
great rapidity — no doubt for the sake
of the exercise.
With feelings of inconceivable dis-
may, Giles returned into the cave, and,
sitting down upon a bit of rock, cast a
bewildered glance at the shapeless
heap at his feet. What to do he knew
not. He was two miles from Margate,
and the people, attracted by the beauty
of the morning, were already begin-
ning to collect on the sands and along
the cliff. After much painful rumina-
tion, in the course of which he impre-
cated a thousand impassioned curses
on the rascal who had eloped with his
best Sunday suit, he came to the con-
clusion that he must adopt one of two
alternatives — either put on the reaper's
dress, or else walk back to Margate
like unfigleaved Adam, in a state of
unsophisticated nature ! This last
scheme was, of course, not to be
thought of, so he decided on making
a virtue of necessity ; and, with an ex-
pression of face that might have drawn
tears from Democritus, he prepared to
put on the detested garb. As, with
this view, he examined each separate
article of apparel, he was well-nigh
going mad with rage. There were no
stockings ; the shirt, which was shorn
of its tail, was as yellow as a canary ;
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
[March,
the shoes had each a big hole at the
toe ; the hat was without a crown, the
coat without a collar ; and as for the
trowsers, it seemed a moot point, so
rotten was the cloth, whether they
would hold together till Giles reached
Margate.
Hark ! footsteps are approaching ;
and, peeping like a sly bag-fox out of
his hole, Puddicombe beheld three or
four people rounding the projecting
point of the cliff, not a hundred yards
off him ! Further delay was now out
of the question, so he commenced his
inglorious toilette. Fortunately, the
length of the trowsers precluded the
necessity of stockings ; but, there
being no braces, he was forced, like
Sir Charles Wetherell, to give them
a hitch up every now and then.
Having completed his picturesque
equipment, he quitted the cave, and,
with his eyes bent on the ground, as if
absorbed in admiration of his toes,
which kept perversely protruding from
his shoes, he sneaked back towards
Margate, while more than one person
who passed him, felt strongly disposed
to hand him over to the constabulary
authorities on the mere strength of his
looks and his dress.
" I say, Thompson," observed a
middle-aged gentlemen, to a friend
who was walking with him on the
sands, " do you see that fellow there,
skulking along close under the cliff?
Mark, my words, if ever there was a
thief, he's one !" and he pointed with
his cane towards Giles.
" He does, indeed, look a thorough
rogue," replied the other, with a
sc«wl of virtuous abhorrence ; " and
what a bloody-thirsty expression of
countenance the fellow has !"
Flattering epithets these ; but no
wonder. Puddicombe was in rags,
and looked sorrow- stricken ; and po-
verty and suffering have always some-
thing criminal in their aspect !
The forlorn young man was now
within sight of Margate, when, on
lifting up his eyes, for the first time
since his exit from the cave, whom
should he see, bearing directly down
upon him, but all the family of the
Hickses !
The children were the first to re-
cognize him, and pointed him out to
their father, who, stopping short at
the distance of a dozen yards, and
staring at him, as if he had been a
ghost, said, " My stars, Mrs H., who
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure,
have we got here ? Surely that can't
be Puddicombe 1"
" Yes, but it is though," replied the
eldest boy.
" Gracious goodness, and so it is !"
rejoined his mother, as Giles, his
cheeks red-hot with blushes, slowly
shuffled towards them, " what can he
have been a-doing to his self!"
" Never seen the like in all my born
days!" observed Mr Hicks: " I
wouldn't give a brass farden for all
theclothes onhis back." Then address-
ing Giles, who was by this time close
to him, " Mr Puddicombe," he added
with grave dignity, " how is this,
sir ?"
" How is this I " exclaimed Giles,
testily repeating the words, for his
spleen had got the better of his shame-
facedness, " why, I've been robbed,
that's how it is — robbed, sir, as I
may say, before my face, and in
broad day light too ;" and with these
words, he detailed the whole particu-
lars of the " foul transaction."
" Upon my life !" said Mr Hicks,
when he had heard his story to an
end, you're in high luck, Puddicombe.
First you lose your carpet-bag, and
then you lose the very clothes off your
back ; I suppose you'll lose your head
next. Hah ! hah ! hah ! Egad, it's
the best joke I ever heard. Isn't it
Mrs H. ?"
" Joke !" replied Giles, " a pretty
joke to have to buy a new suit when
my last was as good as new ; and
what's worse, to be obliged to walk
to Margate in these vile, filthy, swind-
ling rags," and he gave a ferocious
hitch up to his unsettled small-clothes.
333
" Ob, Ma, do look at his toes !"
exclaimed the eldest boy to his mo-
ther, whose face was in a perfect blaze
with suppressed laughter ; "pray, look
at his toes ; if they ain't peeping right
through his shoes !"
This was too much for Giles, who,
casting a withering look at the boy,
rushed away from the party, holding
up his inexpressibles with both hands,
while Mr Hicks shot after him tre-
mendous volleys of hah ! hahs ! which
rung in his startled ears like a sum-
mons to execution.
At last, after having been the ob-
ject of many an admiring gaze, as he
scuttled along the sands and through
the streets of Margate, he arrived safe
at his lodgings, and, without a mo-
ment's delay, summoned the landlord
into his presence, to whom he explain-
ed— as he had previously done to the
Hickses — the cause of his rueful
plight. Instead of laughing at him,
as he had anticipated, the cynical old
fellow, who had not a chuckle in his
nature, merely shook his head, and
observed, " it all comes of them
steamers ! If there hadn't been no
steamers, there wouldn't have been
so many rogues brought down to Mar-
gate, and in course you wouldn't have
lost your togs. I always said them
wessels would be the ruin of our re-
spectability, and so they are, damn
'em!" and thus grumbling, he went
off at Giles's desire to the nearest
ready- made tailor's, by whose aid that
ill-starred young man, was, in a brief
space, rigged out in a new suit of the
latest fashion and the choicest fit.
CHAPTER V.
The remainder of the day Puddi-
combe confined himself to his apart-
ments, for he was in no mood to stir
abroad, the more especially as it turn-
ed out rainy at noon, contrary to the
appearances of the morning, which
had seemed to indicate settled weather.
His reflections, as might be imagined,
were far from enviable. He had been
put to unforeseen expense ; had been
disappointed in his hopes of an entire
week of unalloyed pleasure ; had been
duped and ridiculed; and had but
one solitary reflection to console him
—namely, that though he had lost his
Sunday suit, his watch and purse
were safe, for, by a fortunate accident,
he had left them on his dressing-table,
when he went out for his stroll along
the beach.
Few but must have experienced, at
one time or other, the horrors of a
rainy day at a watering place. Giles
now felt them in their most unmiti-
gated form ; and, for lack of some
worthier occupation, as also to dispel
the clammy damp that clung to him
like a Scotch mist, he kept pacing up
and down his small, dingy room, re-
ferring constantly to his watch, which
lay among some shells on the mantel-
piece ; but the minute-band seemed
334
palsied, and but for its clear tick, tick,
he would have supposed that the ma-
chine had stopped, so heavily crawled
on the hours. Tired, at length, of
this monotonous exercise, he threw
himself listlessly along the sofa,
where he lay with his mouth half-
open ; now counting the faded patterns
on the carpet ; now listening to the
frequent tumbling of the soot down
the chimney, or the small squeak of
the mice behind the wainscoat ; and
now watching the movements of a
bouncing black spider, who was
swinging from the ceiling, about a
yard above his nose. He, then, by
way of variety, got up and went to
the window ; but there was nothing
there to cheer him, for the few people
who were abroad, wore as disconso-
late an aspect as himself — particularly
the females, who, as they flitted along
the shiny pavement from the libraries
or the bathing-rooms, and occasion-
ally in their haste sounded the depths
of a gutter, seemed overwhelmed with
an agonizing conviction that their
muslin flounces were " done for," be-
yond hope of redemption.
In this enlivening and intellectual
manner, Giles wore away the time
till dinner, when, having made — j ust by
way of something to do — a heartier
meal than was his wont, he proceeded
to manufacture a respectable jug of
rum punch, which gave a pleasing
fillip to his spirits, and when he re-
tired, at an early hour to bed, threw
him into such a profound sleep, that
not even the fleas had power to rouse
him.
Next day, while seated at his break-
fast-table, the postman brought him a
letter from his apprentice, in whose
uniform steadiness and honesty he had
unbounded confidence. This missive,
which was of a most satisfactory im-
port, acquainting him that "business"
was going on astonishingly well, con-
sidering the period of the year, and
that, consequently, there was not the
slightest necessity for him to hasten
his return to London, put Giles into
such spirits, that, when the Hickses
called on him in the course of the
morning, they found him nearly, if
not quite, restored* to his usual equa-
nimity.
" Well, Puddicombe," said Mr
Hicks, " I'm glad to see you've got
over yesterday's troubles. Ecod, I
thought I should have died of Jaugh-
Thv Picture Gallery. No. VI.
[March,
ing when I saw you cut away from us
at such a rate, catching fast hold of
your breeches by both hands, as if you
were afraid of leaving them behind
you. And such a queer fit as they
were! Quite a picter! Hah. hah,
hah!"
" Oh fie, Hicks," replied his wife;
" Mr Puddicombe will be quite offend-
ed if you go on so."
" Why, I must say, Mr Hicks,
you're rather too hard upon me — upon
my soul, you are," exclaimed Giles,
wincing under his friend's lash.
" Can't help it, P — it's my way ; so
you must take me in the rough as you
find me. I'm a plain, blunt John Bull
— one that loves his joke, pays his
way, and don't care a damn for no-
body;" — and so saying, he tapped his
pockets with one hand and snapped
his fingers with the other.
Having thus vindicated his right to
be rude, on the score of his being an
Englishman, Mr Hicks came " to bu-
siness," as he professionally phrased
it, and proposed to Puddicombe to
join them in a trip to Boulogne. He
was desirous, he observed, to see fo-
reign parts, taste French wines, and
form his opinion on French cookery ;
and Mrs H. was not less anxious to
acquaint herself with the newest French
fashions. Giles was much excited by
this proposition. A trip to Boulogne !
It was a grand — a romantic idea ! But,
then, the expense ! " Oh, that," re-
plied his friend, "would be a mere
trifle — not worth speaking of." — Then
the sea-sickness ! On this point Giles's
scruples were not quite so easily over-
come ; but, Mr Hicks having assured
him that it was a " moral impossible"
he should be ill, inasmuch as there
was little or no wind stirring, and the
sea was as smooth as glass, he at length
agreed to join the party.
About an hour afterwards, Mr and
Mrs Hicks — the children were left be-
hind—accompanied by Puddicombe,
who was attired with singular ele-
gance, considering the disadvantages
under which he laboured of an ex-
tempore wardrobe, were on their road
to Ramsgate, whence the Boulogne
steamer was to set sail. The horse
that drew their fly was quite a curio-
sity in his way, and called forth many
a joke from old Hicks. He was lean,
wiry, and unhappy looking : and no
wonder ; for, during the previous sea-
son, he had done duty in a bathing-
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure..
335
machine — had something of a fishy
smell about him — and might, on a su-
perficial glance, have been mistaken
for the grandson of a walrus. As this
remarkable quadruped, despite the me-
naces and assaults of his driver, took
his time on the road, the party did not
reacli Ramsgate till the very moment
when the steamer was about to start,
which would have sailed without them,
had not Mr Hicks hurried, in advance
of his companions, along the pier, and
telegraphed with his unfurled pocket-
handkerchief to the captain, who re-
plied to the signal by requesting him
to "look sharp."
No sooner were the party safe on
board than the steam-boat cleared out
from the harbour ; and, as the sea was
perfectly unruffled, they had a plea-
sant and a quick passage. On land-
ing at Boulogne, they set off instanter
to an hotel which the steward had re-
commended to them, and where they
arrived just in time for the table d'hote.
Giles and Mrs Hicks were in high glee ;
but not so the old gentleman : he
thought it incumbent on him, as a
blunt, plain-spoken John Bull, to
grumble at every thing ; and was spe-
cially severe on the French cookery,
which he pronounced to be only fit
for hogs, though he made one of the
heartiest dinners recorded in the gas-
tronomical annals of the Hotel du Nord.
Not less caustic was he on the French
wines: they wanted body, he said; and,
in order to testify his opinion of them,
he called out for a stiff glass of brandy
and water, " cold without ; " and, dur.
ing the process of drinking it, cracked
an infinity of dull jokes about frogs.
In the course of the evening, having
been, with difficulty, torn from his fa-
vourite spirit, which was the only
French article he condescended to
praise, he went out with his wife and
Puddicombe for a stroll on the heights,
in order to examine the great lion of
Boulogne — Napoleon's famous pillar,
erected in commemoration of his pro-
jected invasion of England.
When they arrived at the summit
of this celebrated column, and caught
a glimpse of the distant English coast,
old Hicks was full of his martial and
patriotic reminiscences. Ho felt a
Briton, "every inch of him," he ob-
served; and addressing Giles, who
•was leaning over the rails at his el-
bow, staring at Beachey Head through
his telescope, said, with marked ani-
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXI.
mation, while his face glowed like a
copper saucepan, — " How well I re-
member when all that talk about the
invasion was ! I was but a lad at the
time, but I recollect it as if it wero
only yesterday. Such valour — such
devotion, as all classes showed ! Never
was any thing equal to it ! There was
the City light horse and the wollun-
teers ready for action at a minute's
notice ; and I myself heard the Lord
Mayor declare publicly, at a review
in the artillery ground, that he would
die in the last ditch in defence of his
king and country ; — and so he would,
for he was a man of amazing spirit,
and, when his blood was up, looked as
wicious as an old ram. Ah, if you
had seen what I saw in those days,
you'd never have forgotten it. The
aldermen were all turned into cavalry
officers, with big jack-boots, helmets,
and swords by their side as long as a
kitchen spit; and a fine ferocious body
of soldiers they made too, for every
man of 'em was panting for vengeance
on the enemy ; not to mention the
common council, who looked just as
savage, and flourished their broad-
swords about on review days as natu-
rally as- if they had been carving-
knives. Egad, the French would have
stood a poor chance against them, I
take it, for it was enough to frighten
a man even to look at 'em ; and when
they charged, as I saw them do one
day on Wimbledon Common — Lord
have mercy on us, what a hawful
sight that was! Well, those days are
past and gone now, and he who caused
all the uproar, poor Boney, he's gone
too — 'stonishing how time flies ; one
day or other it will be our turn, for
there's no denying the fact that death
is common to all of us."
" That's very true ! " interposed
Mrs Hicks, emphatically, as if struck
with the weighty truth, not less than
the daring originality, of her husband's
last remark.
In this manner Mr Hicks ran on,
while Giles listened to his various
anecdotal reminiscences with all the
attention which their paramount im-
portance deserved. When he had
fairly exhausted his budget, which
was as long, and not much brighter
than a chancellor of the Exchequer's,
the party descended from the column
and returned into the town, where
they visited the theatre, the perfor-
mances at which, as they did not uiii
Y
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
336
derstand one word of French, may
reasonably be presumed to have af-
forded them unbounded entertain-
ment.
The next morning they devoted to
rambling about the streets, and making
a variety of purchases, merely because
they were cheap. Mr Hicks bought
what he called " a third leg" — that is
to say, a stout walkingstick ; his wife,
a. shawl radiant with all the colours of
the rainbow ; and Giles, who was a
bit of a dandy when away from busi-
ness, a fine cosmetic for the hair,
which a shrewd, simpering perruquier,
at whose shop he went to have his hair
cut after the newest French fashion,
assured him would impart a most be-
cdming glossy softness to his tresses —
a point with him of some importance,
inasmuch as the outside of his head
was by no means so soft as the inside,
but course and rough as a shoe-brush.
Thus the hours were trifled away,
till it was time to return to the steam-
boat, when the party again set sail,
much to the old gentleman's satisfac-
tion, who talked big about the plea-
sure of again setting foot in one's na-
tive country ; and after as brief and
agreeable a voyage as they had en-
joyed on the preceding day, they land-
ed at Ramsgate, whence they were
wafted, on the wings of a stage-coach,
to its twin sister, Margate.
Now, it happened that a public sub-
scription ball was announced at the
Assembly Rooms for that night ; and
as the Hickses and Puddicombe were
too much excited by their trip to
Boulogne to be able to settle down
all at once, they came to the determi-
nation of honouring the ball in ques-
tion with their presence ; for Mrs
Hicks was naturally anxious to create
a sensation with her splendid new
shawl, and Giles — and who can won-
der at it ? — was not less eager to make
trial of the virtues of his French cos-
metic. He left them, therefore, shortly
after dinner, in order to dress himself
in suitable style ; and as their lodgings
lay in an opposite direction to, and
some distance from the Assembly
Rooms, it was agreed that he should
rejoin them in the ball-room.
Of course the first thing he did was
to apply the ornamental unguent to
his hair, which he rubbed in, right to
the roots, -with considerable vivacity
of friction, and in lavish quantities ;
for, on an occasion like the present,
he thought it incumbent on him to do
the thing handsomely. Having waited
an hour or so for the cosmetic to dry
in thoroughly, he next proceeded to
embellish the other portions of his
outer Adam. He selected his best
ready-made shirt, which really did cre-
dit to Margate manufacture ; brushed
away at his coat and inexpressibles,
till his cheeks were in a glow with the
exercise ; tightened the strings of his
fancy silk waistcoat, so as to set off
his shape to the best advantage ; put
on a pair of highly-finished gloves
and pumps, which he had purchased
at Boulogne ; and thus bewitchingly
accoutred, sallied forth to the Assem-
bly Rooms, picking his way cautiously
along the streets, but, at the same
time, with an air tbat seemed to chal-
lenge admiration, and to say, " see
what a spruce, handsome young buck
I am ! "
He soon reached the ball-room, and
took up his post for a few minutes
near the door, while a quadrille was
going forward ; but, when it was finish-
ed, feeling annoyed at the idea of
hiding his light under a bushel, he
sauntered, with an air of impressive
majesty, up and down the room.
Fortunate young man ! He was pre-
pared to be the object of much admi-
ration, but certainly not of so much
as he excited. His most sanguine
anticipations were surpassed. " Plow
very odd ! " said one young lady to
her partner, as he passed. " Do pray,
look at him ! " exclaimed another.
" Did you ever ?" added a third, eye-
ing him through a spyglass. Giles
overheard these remarks, and inter-
preting them in the most flattering
spirit, continued strutting and simper-
ing away, under an evident conviction
that he was irresistible.
After promenading the ball-room for
nearly a quarter of an hour, and draw-
ing all eyes on him, he suddenly
dropped into a chair next to a lady
who appeared to have just done dan-
cing. He was not usually remarkable
for brass, but, on this particular even-
ing, he was so excited by the visible
sensation he had created, that he ad-
dressed his fair neighbour with as
cool assurance as if he had known her
for years.
" A fine evening, miss."
The lady thus addressed cast one
arch, provoking glance at the speaker,
and then abruptly rose from her seat,
1839.]
T/ie Week of Pleasure,
337
as if fearful, otherwise, of compro-
mising her gentility by an outrageous
burst of laughter.
" Very extraordinary conduct ! "
thought Giles ; " but I suppose it's
fashionable not to answer a civil
question ; " and, with these words, he
moved towards the door, in moment-
ary expectation of the arrival of the
Hickses.
While standing here, he was sub-
jected to a still greater surprise by
hearing a raw, giggling school-girl,
who had been regarding him for some
time with fixed attention, say to her
mother, " Oh, ma, do look at that gen-
tleman— what a funny little man!"
" Funny ! " said Puddicombe to
himself ; " what can the girl mean ?
Funny ! There's nothing funny about
me that I know of."
" My eyes, what a Guy 1 " exclaim-
ed a little boy, who had just entered
the room with his father.
This unsophisticated expression of
astonishment occasioned a general
laugh among those who were standing
near Giles, and threw him into a most
grotesque state of perplexity. He
could now no longer doubt that there
was something supremely ridiculous
about him, and was considering what
it could possibly be, when, at that very
moment, Mr and Mrs Hicks entered
the room.
" My God ! " exclaimed the former,
as Puddicombe advanced to greet him ;
" if this isn't the most extraordina-
ry »»
" Extraordinary, my dear sir ! How
so ? I don't understand you ! "
« Ha, ha ! He, he, he ! Ho, ho, ho I "
This was the only answer that Mr
Hicks could make to Giles's question ;
who thereupon turned to Mrs Hicks for
an unravelling of the mystery.
But she, equally overpowered, could
do no more than just mutter, in bro-
ken sentences, " Very singular young
man — always a-getting his self into
some unaccountable scrape or other 1 "
" Mr Puddicombe," said Hicks, en-
deavouring to look serious, "let me
advise you to go home, sir ; you're
far better at home, than making an
exhibition of yourself here."
" What, in heaven's name, do you
mean ?" enquired the agitated Giles.
" Mean ! Why, is it possible that
you do not know" — _
" Know what ?"
" Why, that you've dyed your hair
a bright blue! !"
"A bright blue! Oh Lord— oh
Lord, I see it all now ! That cursed
cosmetic !" and he darted like a ma-
niac from the ball-room, nor once
slackened in his pace till he reached
his lodgings.
On entering his sitting-room, he
rung the bell fiercely for the landlord ;
and when, that amiable personage ap-
peared, " make me out my bill ! " ex-
claimed Giles, " I shall leave this vile
hole to-morrow."
" Halloo !" said the splenetic tailor,
" what's in the wind now ?" then, ob-
serving Puddicombe's metamorphosed
love-locks, he added, in a quiet, sar-
castic tone, " I see it all ; he's been
beautifying his self by mistake. Well,
it all comes of them steamers ; they've
turned every one's head, and that's the
plain truth — is it your own natural
hair, sir, or a vig ? I like the colour,
it's captiwating to a degree; but a pea
green would have been prettier."
" Make me out my bill, sir ! " thun-
dered Giles ; " I won't stay here an-
other day. Isn't it enough to be eaten
up by fleas — but I must also be sub-
jected to"
" You needn't fear the fleas ; only
sleep with your night-cap off, and I'll
answer for it not one will come nigh
you. The very sight of your hair
will throw 'em into convulsions !" And
before the enraged Giles could reply
to these ironical remarks, the speaker
vanished from his presence.
True to his word, Puddicombe, the
very next day, without calling to pay
a farewell visit to the Hickses, whom
he had not the slightest wish ever to
see again, quitted Margate by the ten
o'clock steam-boat, glad to turn his
back upon a place where all his hopes
of pleasure had been so completely
blighted. During the voyage, his
spirits were oppressed with sadness,
from which he did not recover till he
again beheld the gilded top of the mo-
nument, when he posted off in a cab
to the Minories ; and, what is remark-
able, considering the distance, was
upset only once on the road.
He reached his home just as the
church clock was striking seven, yet,
even at that early hour, found the shop
shut up — a circumstance which re-
newed all his anxieties, for he was not
usually in the habit of closing till
339
The Picture Gallery. _Y«.». IT.
nine. " Good heavens, what can have
happened ! " he exclaimed, trembling
all over -with agitation ; and applying
his hand to the bell, he rung a peal
that might have roused the dead. But,
e to say, neither his apprentice
nor his maid-servant answered the
summons ; whereupon he banged away
at the shutters with an euergy that
threatened to bring them down on his
head ; but finding this, too, ineffectual,
he was compelled to have recourse to
his next-door neighbour for an expla-
nation of the startling enigma.
.h, Puddicombe, is that you?"
enquired his neighbour, looking up
from his desk behind the counter ;
** you may go on knocking and ring-
ing till midnight, for they wont be
back till then. They've gone to Co-
vent Garden."
" Gone to Covent-Garden ! What,
my apprentice?"
••' Yes, and taken the girl along with
him. Never see such a frisky couple
in all my days ! They've been keeping
it up in style ever since you've been
gone. T'other night they had a sup-
per party ; last night they went out to
a dance ; and to-night they
see the new play."
'; Gracious heavens ! is it possible?'*
exclaimed the astounded Puddicombe.
'•" When ..way the
will y'. bour, smil-
ing BJ .stonishment.
li Damn 'cm, I'll pack 'em both off
to-morrow — 1 will, by God !'' and so
saying, he rushed off into the streets,
scarcely knowing whither he
going, till he found himself far
from the Minories, in the neighbour-
hood of Battle-bridge, when he instant-
ly determined on shaping his course
towards Hollo way, there to spei.
night with his friend the drysalter,
and deposit in his faithful bosom the
lengthy, heart-rending catalogue of
his afflictions.
CHAPTER VI.
About half-way between Battle-
bridge and Holloway, quitting the
former by the road that runs beside
the old hospital at King's- cross, there
stands on a ruing ground a sort of
suburban village, consisting of a small
row of moderately sized houses, and
two or three straggling cottages, with
gardens in front, bounded by wooden
palings. Though this Tillage — I call
it so for want of a more appropriate
name — is situated in the immediate
vicinity of some brick-kilns, which are
surrounded by squalid huts, tenanted,
to all appearance, by labourers in the
most abject state of wretchedness ; yet,
in every other respect, its site is a most
eligible one. Westward, it commands
a view of the whole Regent's Park,
and that Cockney Parnassus, Primrose
Hill, below which a long line of smoke
marks out the track of the Birmingham
Railway ; northward, of the richly-
wooded districts of Hampstead and
Highgate, and the lawny uplands that
lie between ; and southward, of the
mighty Babylon, with its myriad spires
and steeples — St Pauls towering high
above all — which, dimly seen through
the hanging vapours that envelope it
in an eternal shroud, stretches away,
right and left, apparently without end
or limit. Yet, despite such local ad-
vantages, which, one would suppose,
would cause it to be respectably in-
habited, an air of singular des
hangs over thb village — or at least did
so, at the period to which my tale re-
fers. The houses are all running fast
to decay, and their tenants, if they
ever had any, have run off too ; brown,
thick, dusty cobwebs, filled with the
skeletons of innumerable flies, usurp
the place of glass in the shattered
window-frames ; the doors, which are
half off their hinges, stand wide open ;
and the gardens in front are overrun
with weeds, the growth of many a long
month. Were highwaymen now in
fashion, this is the spot, of all others,
where one would expect to make their
acquaintance ; were even hobgoblins
in the habit of taking the night air, as
they used to do in the good old times,
here might they be supposed to con-
gregate, popping their heads out, and
groaning dismally from every window,
in chorus to the four winds of h-
for which each house serves as a place
of call. Centuries ago — supposing
this village to have been then :
istence — the passing stranger w^
once have accounted for its con
by taking- for granted that all th
'. war had been let loose upon
it; but in these pacific *.
1839.]
The Week of Pleasure.
mischief is wrought in a more quiet,
methodical fashion, he merely con-
cludes that it is the hapless victim of
the law — in a word, that it has died
by the visitation of Chancery !
The sun had just dropped behind
Primrose Hill — on whose classic sum-
mit a solitary individual, looking1 un-
commonly like a poet, was standing —
when Puddicombe entered upon the
road that leads directly up to this dila-
pidated village. Though he walked
fast, being anxious to dissipate uneasy
reflections, yet it was nearly dark when
he got to the ruins, which in the thick
grey haze of evening wore quite a
Balclutha-like forlornness of aspect.
He was regarding them, as he hurried
by, with no little curiosity, wondering
who could be their owner, and why he
allowed his property to remain in such
a state, when suddenly his attention
was diverted by the sound of whispers
near him, and looking back, he fancied
he could discern through the gloom a
man's head peering above the garden
wall of one of the houses he had just
passed. At this moment not a soul
was in sight along the road, either be-
fore or behind him. Though he could
distinctly hear the cheerful ringing of
St Pancras' evening chimes, and see
the bright rows of lamps glittering on
the terraces in the Regent's Park, yet
all was silent and gloomy about him.
Fear-stricken by a sense of his defence-
less condition, in case of an assault,
Giles just halted to tuck his chain and
seals into his fob, and then started off
into a brisk run, thinking what an awful
wind-up it would be to his week of
pleasure, if he were first to be robbed
— then murdered and buried — and
a fortnight afterwards have his body
dug up in a state of perplexing
decomposition, and deliberately sat
upon by twelve fat jurymen aud a
coroner ! Recollections of all the
" shocking murders" he had devoured
in the Sunday papers for the last ten
years flashed across his brain. He
called vividly to mind the story of the
old woman whose head, wrapped up in
a towel, was carried in an omnibus to
Stepney, while her legs were left be-
hind in a brick-field near Camber-
well ; and of that still more revolting
case of the poor Scottish idiot who was
burked — pickled — taken in a hamper
to a surgeon's — and sold for twelve
shillings !— and goaded to his utmost
speed by these harrowing reminiscen-
339
ces, he shot along his road with the
impetus of a steam-engine on a rail-
way.
Hardly had he lost sight of the last
house, when he heard footsteps coming
quick after him, and voices exclaiming,
" That's him ! I know him by his
run."
Poor fellow ! All his past suffer-
ings were nothing to what he endured
on hearing these words. His heart
beat like a sledge-hammer, and he
flew rather than ran ; but, being some-
what short of wind, his pursuers gained
momently on him, and he could even
hear them panting but a few yards
behind him. Still he toiled on, but at
last his knees shook under him to such
a degree, that he could no longer
maintain the vigour of his course ;
and stumbling against some bricks
that lay in the middle of the road, he
dropped — a dull, lumpish weight — to
earth, like Virgil's ox, or Corporal
Trim's hat.
At this instant his pursuers — three
men dressed as journeyman bakers —
came up, and, despite his screams
which he gave forth at the very top
of his voice, and the astonishingly
energetic kicks and cuffs to which he
resorted in his desperation, seized hold
of him, and dragging him across a
field in the rear of the village I have
just described, and in the centre of
which was a small, gravelly pond
from two to three feet deep, baptized
him therein with a heartiness that left
him not a dry rag on his body, re-
minding him the while, in half- laugh-
ing tones, of the promise they had
made, to " sarve him out" the first
opportunity.
Having performed this operation to
their full and entire satisfaction, they
quitted their hold of him, and were
preparing for a retreat, when Giles,
who was by this time satisfied that,
whatever else they might be, the fel-
lows were neither robbers nor murder-
ers, summoned up all the physical and
moral courage that had not already,
like Bob Acres's valour, oozed out at
his fingers' ends, and exclaimed, in his
sternest and most emphatic manner,
" you rascals, you shall all swing for
this, as sure as my name's Puddi-
combe !"
" Puddicombe ! Why, that ain't
he, Jam," said one of the fellows with
a strong Irish accent ; " by the powers,
we've ducked the wrong man !"
340
" Never mind," replied another,
•with all the calmness of a philosopher ;
"it's just as well as it is;" and straight-
way indulged in a sly titter.
The third man, who seemed to be
of a more considerate nature than his
companions, was no sooner aware of
his mistake, than he went up to Giles,
who stood about a yard off, dripping
like a river-god and shivering with
cold and rage ; and, after pouring forth
a profusion of rough apologies for the
unlucky blunder, explained how it
had arisen. From his statement it
appeared that the party were journey-
men bakers of Holloway, who, on the
preceding day, had struck for higher
wages — it was the famous year of the
strikes — and one of their fellow-work-
men having refused to join in their
illegal combination, they had deter-
mined to have their revenge on him
as he returned to his house at Hollo-
way, the exact hour of which they had
taken care to ascertain beforehand ;
but unfortunately, in the gloom of the
evening they had mistaken their man,
and ducked an oilman instead of a
baker. These matters having been
duly explained, the fellows offered to
make Giles amends by treating him
to a " drop" at the nearest public-
house ; but finding him too sullen and
refractory to enter into a compromise,
and fearful that he might get them
into trouble, which he hinted at in
very significant terms, they scampered
off across the field in the direction of
the village, while Puddicombe pursued
his way to his friend's house at Hol-
loway.
Bitter were his reflections as he re-
sumed his solitary walk. What a
week had been his last ! He had
confidently anticipated it would have
been a week of pleasure — it had been
the most harassing one he had ever
spent. Hardly a day but had been
marked by some unforeseen calamity.
First, he had lost his carpet-bag ;
secondly, he had been robbed of the
very clothes off his back ; thirdly, he
had writ himself down an ass at a
public ball-room ; fourthly, he had
been deceived by his confidential ap-
prentice ; and, finally, to crown all, he
had been mistaken for a journeyman
The Picture Gallery. No. VI.
[March,
baker, and subjected, as such, to a
process of ablution that had entailed
on him the perilous necessity of swal-
lowing at least half-a-pint of gravel
water !
With these thoughts sweeping
drearily across his brain, he reached
his friend's house, who, having heard
his story of the ducking, which afford-
ed him abundant diversion, hastened
to get Giles a change of clothes, after
which he set him down to a substan-
tial supper ; and when this, together
with a hot tumbler of brandy punch,
had toned down my hero's excitement,
his host, who was a man of good com-
mon sense, bade him recount his week's
adventures ; and, when the recital was
concluded, addressed him as follows : —
" It is plain, Puddicombe, from your
account of matters, that you have
been looking for pleasure in the wrong
quarter. You should have sought after
it — not in the dissipation of a water-
ing-place, but — behind your counter,
when you would have been sure to have
found it ; for it is always to be had
cheap, and good, and lasting, if we
apply to the right merchant for it.
Had I, like you, allowed my thoughts
to be divertedfrom their proper object,
by running riot for months before-
hand in the anticipation of a week's
pleasure at Margate, I should not now
have been receiving you as my guest
in this snug bachelor's dwelling. But
I laboured hard in my youth, and, in
consequence, I enjoy in my age, not
weeks only, but months of happiness.
Go you home and do the same, leaving
dandyism to those who are better
qualified to play the fool ; and the
time is not far distant when you will
acknowledge that the week you now
dwell on with such abhorrence, has
been of inestimable service, by teach-
ing you to be slow in giving your
confidence to those who have an inte-
rest in keeping up appearances before
you."
So ends the WEEK OF PLEASURE !
Gentle reader, who has not, like Giles
Puddicombe, looked forward with
eagerness to such a week, and, like
him, been bitterly disappointed in his
anticipations ?
1839.]
Triple A
341
IRELAND UNDER THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE — THE POPULAR PARTY, THE
ROMAN CATHOLIC PRIESTS, AND THE QUEEN'S MINISTERS.
LET us continue and conclude, for
the present, our proofs of the pacifi-
cation of Ireland under a Whig Go-
vernment.
At the Spring Assizes in Castlebar,
Baron Richards, a Whig-Radical, ad-
vanced to the bench by the present
Ministry, in passing sentence on a fe-
male convict, spoke to the following
effect :— *
" It grieves me to say, after you had
left the place of prayer, and on your road
from the house of God, where you had
been a few minutes before invoking the
blessing and forgiveness of your Maker,
and on your way from the house dedicated
to Him, and alter you had appealed on
your bended knees to His mercy, you em-
brued your hands, under circumstances of
much atrocity, in the blood of your fellow
creature," &c. &c. " I am certain that
the people could be Miumanized ; and,
without any thing like reproach, I do say
that a heavy responsibility rests on those
who met those people in the house of God :
I mean the spiritual instructors of the
people," &c. &c. " Many of the reverend
gentlemen I allude to are excellent men,
and for them I have a high respect ; but,
in the discharge of my duty, I must say,
that I conceive the people of this country
as susceptible of receiving benefits from
the instruction their pastors should bestow,
as the people of any other. It is by the
efforts of their clergymen, more than by
law, the people can be humanized and
rendered amenable to the voice of justice
and peace. Feeling that such is the case,
it strikes me with amazement that the
people should still exhibit such savage
conduct. Very many cases of murder that
have come before me were committed on the
return, of those concerned from the house of
God, and that murderous habit I cannot
reconcile with the moral and religious in-
struction that ought to be unceasingly im-
pressed upon the people. I hope, if there
are not any of the pastors of the peasantry
listening to me, that they will hear what I
have said, and devote themselves zealous-
ly to reform the conduct of those who dis- '
grace the name of Christians."
The learned judge, in undertaking
to lecture Roman Catholic priests
upon their duty, and in hoping that
his exhortations may have a good effect
upon them, shows that he has been be-
trayed into the ordinary mistake which
has led every honest Liberal astray.
He dwells upon the surprise with
which he has heard of crimes com-
mitted by persons coming from what
he assumes to be a house of God,
— viz. a Roman Catholic chapel ; and
he earnestly exhorts the priests to edu-
cate their people in principles which
may make them, what he is sure they
can be made, good men and good
Christians. We cannot understand
the surprise expressed by the learned
baron at the post-missal enormities.
Surely he must have heard of such
offices of zeal as denunciations from
the altar, and he must have heard,
also, of their consequences. Even in
the specimens which we have given,
the reader may see how frequently the
chapel curses have taken effect. We
venture upon one more instance. It
occurred in Longford, and is vouched
on our correspondent's authority. We
have no language to describe the shud-
dering sense of horror with which we
read it. Let us, however, not be mis-
understood. We are far from think*
ing that, among the Roman Catholic
priests in Ireland, there are none
peaceful and well disposed. On the
contrary, we think there are many
who detest, as we do, the mischievous
practices of their (,as well as the
people's) spiritual tyrants. But those
whom the times favour and set on high
are too much of the class described in
our extract : — .
" A certain incendiary priest, of this
county, some few weeks past, denounced
from his altar on Sunday several respect-
able Protestant gentlemen, living in the
parish, together with a Roman Catholic
servant, who happened to be at mass. The
unfortunate man was so terrified at the
denunciations of the minister of peace,
that, in a fit of despondency, he attempted
to put a period to his existence by blowing
out his brains. Fortunately he only par-
tially succeeded, and now lies in a danger-
Ryan's Ditclosure, &c. &c., p. 108.
342
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
[March,
ous state. After committing the deed he
confessed the cause. The priest, hearing
of the occurrence, called at his master's
house to administer the last rites of the
Church to the poor man. The gentleman
happened to be at home at the time, and
told him he was the author of the mis-
fortune. The following Sunday this same
priest again denounced the gentleman from
the altar, and, in furious language demand-
ed of his flock, ' would they allow their
priest to be insulted by a heretic,' men-
tioning the gentleman's name.
" Since then, the most frightful perse-
cution, accompanied with threats of assassi-
nation, has been in execution ; so much so
that the gentleman is afraid to go out of
doors, lest he should meet the fate of Mr
Ellis or Mr Cooper, and is consequently
resolved to quit the country. The above
facts are true, and illustrate the state to
which the Protestants of Ireland, residing
in Roman Catholic districts, are now re-
duced."
Is it from the teaching1 of priests like
this the learned baron expects blessed
consequences ? Who can say how
many such there are ? Who can say
that, with the exception of those who
are Protestants at heart, all are not
such ? It is too much to expect that
a Roman Catholic priest shall allow
Baron Richards to be his spiritual di-
rector, and shall receive from him the
commands by which his sacerdotal
activities shall be directed. Does the
learned baron know what are the ob-
ligations of a Romish priest ? or the
rules and authorities by which he is
determined iu his doctrine as to " hu-
man sins and virtues?" We believe
not. We wish he and his would
strive to make themselves acquainted
with such things before they speak of
them, and that they would not take it
for granted that the morals which Ro-
manism teaches are the morals of
Scripture, and that the laws they en-
force are those of the British Consti-
tution. Still, were the learned Judge
" twenty times" a Radical, he spoke a
great truth. Religion is stronger than
law. Legislators, therefore, in con-
triving how their laws shall be carried
into execution, are bound to see how
the priests stand affected. What is
the case iu Ireland ? It might be
thought enough to answer, that the
conscience of a Roman Catholic does
not seem engaged in the obedience he
renders to the laws of a Protestant
state. He has sworn, and broken his
oath — he has violated a law, and felt
no compunction for the transgression
— he has walked forth from the ser-
vices of his Church to commit murder
— he has mingled with the congrega-
tion which witnessed his act of blood,
to be screened by their sure and cor-
dial protection — he has murdered the
executioners of the law — he has har-
boured the murderers of the merciful
and pure of life, and he has conspired
to destroy whole generations, because
there was among them some one who
had discharged the most painful duty
of a citizen and subject. Is not this
enough to prove that his priests must
have sympathized with him in hostility
to the civil law ?
The answer, in our judgment, is
obvious. We shall, however, deter-
mine by acts — not inferences ; and,
accordingly, will proceed to show that,
in all those principles which we have
shown to be in authority with the
Roman Catholic people of Ireland, the
priests have a common faith with
them. To prove this, we shall follow
the same order as we observed in our
classification of the principles of law
and ethics received by the " popular
party," without entering, however,
so minutely into details. And —
1st, For the " Landlord's crime " — ,
enforcement of the rights of proper-
ty— the judgment of priest coincides
with that of people ; and more, the
priests are their "precursors" in the
matter. A plain tale will prove this.
For example, —
The county of Tipperary has long
had an undisputed and an unenviable
supremacy in crime, above all other
parts of Ireland. The note we have
already made of two hundred and
twenty-four coroners' inquests, and
fifty-nine presentments for malicious
injuries to property, fiated by the
Grand Jury within the last year, will
sufficiently prove that it has not de-
generated. The county has, however,
found an advocate in the person of a
dignitary of the Romish Church, the
venerable Archdeacon Laffan. At a
meeting of the Precursor Society, held
at the Corn Exchange, Dublin, in the
course (we believe on the 1 1th) of last
December, the venerable, gentleman
is reported to have handed in 1063
names, and £53, 3s. from the Unions
of Fethard and Killenski, Tipperary,
and to have spoken to the following
effect : —
" He said it was quite the fashion to
1839.]
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
say that the people of Tipperary were
savages. It was the habit of Lord Do-
noughmore, and his associate Lord Glcngal,
down to the lowest scrivener writing for
the Orange press of that county, to state that
crimes were committed without a cause.
He said that the cause lay in deep and foul
oppression. If he went through almost
every parish of Tipperary, he would find
there the footsteps of tyrant landlords, and
their presence might be traced by the
landmarks of desolation that every where
presented themselves- There was not a
parish in Ireland in which the visible
proofs of oppression were not to be dis-
covered. In some parishes, whole villages
were swept away, and the villagers cast,
without a house, a shelter, or a potato, on
the world ; and let him ask any man pos-
sessing the feelings of human nature —
whose heart was not made of marble — was
it a wonderful thing to hear of crime in
Tipperary ? No ; a brave people were
rendered ferocious by the deeds of cruelty
perpetrated upon them," &c. &c.
"As sure as the lightning came from
the thunder-cloud,' so sure effects would
follow from their causes. Let the landlords
of Tipperary cease their oppressions — let
them be only one-half as kind to their
poor tenantry as they were to their horses
or dogs, and the finger of the assassin
would be paralysed upon the trigger. He
•was sure he had no hopes of softening the
hard hearts of the landlords of the county
by his observations, but he wished to
rescue from calumny and oppression as
fine a county as any in her Majesty's do-
minions— ay, and as brave, as generous,
and, he would add, as RELIGIOUS a people."
This, no doubt, was very consoling
to the pious felons of Tipperary, per-
secuted, as they were, into the com-
mission of crime, and into the neces-
sity of hiring and harbouring assassins.
Whole days have passed over on which
they have abstained from indulgence
in a single murder — instances of re-
straint and self-denial which abun-
dantly vindicate their title to the
eulogy in which their pastor describes
them as pre-eminently religious. They
will, we can well imagine, listen to the
exhortations of this faithful preacher.
The refractory landlords, he affirms,
will not ; they are incorrigible. If
they would only " cease their oppres-
sions," the devout assassins would not
shoot them ; but as the landlords will
343
be hard-hearted still, notwithstanding
the winning expostulation of the cha-
ritable divine, it only remains for him
to preserve the peace and comfort of
a good conscience, by discharging the
duty he owes to himself and his pa-
rishioners in his edifying explanation
of the Tipperary principle of murder.
The archdeacon was communicative
at the Precursor meeting, and made
statements respecting landlords which
created, the report says, " a great sen-
sation ; " but, inasmuch as they wanted
the notes of time, or place, or person,
by which their accuracy could be
tested, they did not produce, in us,
any " sensation '' creditable to the
narrator, or any wish to copy them
into our pages. We do not, however,
mean to be equally rigid towards other
performances of this venerable divine.
He told one story (it was perhaps after
dinner) in a more daring style than
he had adopted among the Precursors,
with a fulness of detail, indeed, which
enabled parties interested to make
enquiries respecting its truth. We
shall venture upon a brief history of
this instructive transaction.
During the month of November
last, very shortly after the murder
of Mr O'Kecfe in the streets of
Thurles, a dinner was given in that
town to Mr O'Connell. Several of
the Roman Catholic gentry, in con-
sequence of the too recent enormi-
ty, declined attending, but there was
an abundant muster of the Roman
Catholic clergy, eighty, out of two
hundred persons who sat down to din-
ner, being priests, one of them the
Archdeacon Laffan. It was on this
occasion, we apprehend, he made the
speech from which an extract, pur-
porting to be taken from Mr O'Con-
nell's favourite paper, the Pilot, has
been forwarded to us. The Arch-
deacon had, it appears, at one time
been guilty of the sin of moderation ;
at least he once thought it necessary
to do penance for such a crime ; and
when proposing Mr Shiel as a candi-
date for the county Tipperary, in the
month of February last, thus excused
himself: — *
" When last I addressed you in this
court, I was charged with being too mode-
* Ryan it Disclosure of the Principles, Designs, &c. &c. London: Edwards. Dublin:
Bleakly. Page 165. This is a valuable work, containing much and important docu-
mentary evidence. It ought to be in general use. If the industrious and able author
continue his " collectanea," we would recommend the adoption of an arrangement of
testimonies under distinct heads, — classification is always serviceable.
Ireland undo- the Triple Alliance.
344
rate in my views and expressions. This
was the great cause, — my dread of exciting
any unpleasant feelings, and a wish that
all political animosities should for ever
cease. Hut we live now in a new era,"
&c. &c. — " We are now too strong for the
tyrants."
The season of moderation to which
the venerable agitator alluded, was
that period in which the great success
of a Conservative reaction in England
made it probable that Sir R. Peel
might again resume his proper place
in the national councils. In that day,
the priests " feared to excite unplea-
sant feelings, and wished that political
animosities should for ever cease.
Such was the effect of a Conservative
government, even in dim and dubious
apprehension, upon the thoughts and
temper of this apt representative of
his order. It affected him with a
paroxysm of Conservative feeling,
which appears to have lasted until the
coalition of Litchfield house had been
confirmed in its ascendency, and
Romanism, as the venerable orator
intimated, had converted Tories into
" tyrants" by the ordinary process of
becoming " too strong for them."
With Lord Melbourne at Pimlico,
and Lord Mulgrave at Dublin or
Windsor Castle, and a sure though
small majority in the House of Com-
mons, moderate language was no
longer in keeping, and the archdeacon
could accordingly release himself from
a rigorous self-restraint, and relieve
his hearers from the spectacle of a
somewhat too irritating moderation
and propriety.
With the remainder of the February
speech we have nothing to do. The
portion we have selected will serve to
explain the extract from the November
speech, and the incident with which it
is connected. The venerable divine
appears to be excusing or explaining
the murder which had caused some of
the expected guests to absent them-
selves from the Precursors' funeral,
feast, and is reported to have spoken
thus.
" I will tell you what I knew to be the
fact. I saw the mother turned almost
naked from her door. I saw her perish in
the throes of child-birth, exposed to the
inclemency of the weather; and let me
ask you, was not the husband of that
woman and the father of that child a man ?
Was not she as dear to him as the apple
of his eye ? And might it not happen that
that infant would one day be the support
[March,
of his declining years ? And was it then
to be wondered at, if the sufferings he had
endured he desired to revenge, and that
the cause of them fell beneath his avenging
arm ?"
Such a statement, avouched by the
venerable gentleman, on his own
authority, was calculated to produce
a strong feeling against the agent who
had used his power so unmercifully.
It was followed elsewhere, by state-
ments of a similar character, and one of
them having appeared in the Morning
Chronicle, called forth from Mr Maher
a defence of himself, as landlord, and
of the memory of Mr O'Keefe, his
murdered agent. All the charges
preferred against that gentleman or
himself, Mr Maher declared, were
utterly false. No tenant had ever
been ejected from his lands who did
not owe two years and a half or three
years' rent ; and none had been dis-
possessed without receiving sums of
money which reconciled them to re-
moval. As to the story of the woman,
it was an utter calumny. A woman,
not a tenant, had entered into a house
from which a tenant was to be re-
moved, forty- eight hours before the
moment of dispossession, and even she
received two pounds to purchase her
departure in peace. She was far
advanced in pregnancy at the time,
and was shortly after delivered of a
child, which, as well as the mother,
was living and in good health. In
fine, Mr Maher added, that the clergy-
man who had given currency to a
malicious rumour respecting the deaths
of both, having found out his error,
wrote to him acknowledging the mis-
take, and stating that the woman was
alive. Such was the substance of Mr
Maher's letter, which, as soon as it
appeared, the archdeacon met by a
contradiction to this effect —
" I mentioned in my speech, that a poor
woman was put out of her house on the
eve of child-birth ; that she was delivered
of a child in the open air, and that the
child died. This fact, sir, I never re-
tracted ; so far from it, that, in an interview
which took place between Mr Maher and
myself on the 30th November last, I re-
ferred him to the clergyman of the parish
where the woman still lives," &c. &c.
" Quite satisfied with having thus contra-
dicted the statement in Mr Maher's letter,
so far as I am concerned, I remain, &c. &c,
" MICHAEL LAFFAN."
Mr Maher is a Roman Catholic,
and, had not his veracity been thus
1839.]
doubly impeached, he would have, per-
haps, rather endured wrong from the
priest than exposed him. Feeling:,
however, that, as a gentleman, only
one resource was left him, he pub-
lished his correspondence with the
archdeacon, and we extract from it
what appears to us most material.
In letter No. 1, Mr Maher refers
to the statement of the archdeacon,
that a woman and her child had both
died, and requests to know the name,
&c. of the woman.
No. 2. — The archdeacon, in reply,
declines mentioning name or particu-
lars : he says, " I also added that the
woman and child both died, and I am
prepared to produce the clergyman
who officiated on the melancholy oc-
casion."
No. 8. — Mr Maher — " I asked you
a plain and simple question, and must
again beg a plain and simple answer.
Did the turning out of the woman
occur on my land ? What was her
name — with the name of the clergy-
man who, you say, officiated on the
melancholy occasion ? "
No. 4. — The archdeacon corrects
his letter, No. 2, and still declines to
answer Mr Maher.
" SIR, In looking over the copy of
my letter of the 20th to you, I find a
mistake made by me * currents ca-
lamo' [query, does this mean ' the
pen of a precursor? '] I am anxious to
correct. For the ' woman and child
both died,' read ' the woman sur-
vived, and the child died.' — M. L."
This is a curious correspondence,
and merits a brief analysis. We shall
begin with the speech.
Archdeacon, speaking, " 1 saw the
woman perish," — writing, " 1 didnot
see the woman perish, but I saw the
clergyman who officiated when both
mother andchild were dead."
Archdeacon, in correction — " the
woman survived." " I have referred
Mr Maher to the clergyman of the
parish where she lives."
Such is the course, like that of true
love, not running smooth, of the
priest's " personal narrative," re-
minding us of Lord Plunkett's witty
application of the legal distinction be-
tween " personals" and " reals." At
the meeting, he spoke what he had
seen. In his study, the pen reminds
him that he had not seen the melan-
choly event, but that he kneiv, and
that somebody nameless had seen, an
incident still more afflicting. Present-
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
345
ly he becomes admonished that the
pen had run too fast, and misled him
(there is precedent for such an error
in the school-boy's excuse for his ex-
ercise— that " nobody could spell well
with such a bad pen)." On second
thought, he contradicts the death it
had hastily fabricated; and, finally,
in order to prove the accuracy of vi-
sion with which he saw a woman die,
and the veracity of the report of that
officiating clergyman whom he would
produce to prove that she icas dead,
he is now ready to bring upon the
table another ecclesiastical witness —
namely, the clergyman of the parish
in which the anonymous revenant may
be found at this day, alive ! ! ! But—-
the venerable necromancer belongs to
a Church which retains the power to
work wonders.
And now for the moral of our story.
Archdeacon Laffan has not been in
the least more forward — nor have his
representations been more evidently
untrue, than his brethren and their
stimulating exhortations. Is Arch-
deacon Laffan with the people, or
against them, in his judgment upon
the " Landlord crime?" Does he
strive to moderate, or to exasperate
their fury ? Does he understate their
sufferings, and speak with just severi-
ty of their misdeeds, when uttering
harangues which he knows they will
read or have read ? Does he strive to
divest charges made against their land-
lords of such extraneous matter as
might render them injurious — does he
reduce them to their natural magni-
tude, and speak of them with sobriety?
Or, does he pander to the passions of
the people, by investing their atroci-
ties with attributes of justice ? Does
he aggravate the bad feeling which
wicked men have excited between
them and the landed proprietors, by
retailing, if not inventing groundless
and most detestable calumnies? — We
leave the reader to determine.
2. THE ELECTIVE FRANCHISE.
The Bribery and Intimidation Com-
mittee have given the answer in the
evidence they have reported. Tip-
perary, Carlow, Limerick, Waterford,
Cork, &c. &c., can attest, on the part
of the priests, that they have not taught
another doctrine than the people have
embodied in their practice.
3. EVIDENCE IN A COURT or LAW.
Why is the character of a hireling
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
340
murderer less odious than that of an
informer, however disinterested and
conscientious ? How comes it that
priests, favoured with all facilities for
good, have in so numerous instances
enforced upon the " petty-larceny vil-
lains," stealers of five shillings or of
five pounds, the necessity of making
restitution, and that during the pe-
riod (nearly a century) in which they
have been allowed to attend upon con-
demned criminals of their Church, to
the last moment of their forfeited lives,
they have so seldom procured that sa-
tisfaction to the laws of the land — the
discovery of crime, meditated or com-
mitted, which a true penitent should
be ready to communicate ? If the Ro-
man Catholic priests think, and teach
their flocks, that it is an imperative
duty to give information whereby
crime can be punished or prevented —
it is not possible to believe that the
people should hold the informer infa-
mous, and yet reverence the instruc-
tions which boast that he is to be ho-
noured for the discharge of astern duty.
' We hold, that the law of opinion on
this subject, as well as the former, co-
incides with the law which the priests
teach as of the essence of religion. We
oifer but a single instance of the man-
ner in which priests think proper to
exercise their power over witnesses.
It occurred, according to our reports,
at the Assizes in Longford.
" An occurrence took place during the
trial, unhappily of late but too frequent in
courts of justice, exhibiting the disgusting
and illegal interference of the Roman Ca-
tholic priests, in endeavouring to defeat
the ends of justice. A witness of the
name of Farrell, sentenced to transporta-
tion for life, at the previous assizes, and
brought back specially by the government,
was produced on the table to give evi-
dence. When about to be sworn, he cast
his eyes about, as if looking for some ac-
quaintance, and immediately on his catch-
ing the eye of a Roman Catholic priest of
his own name, the governor of the gaol,
who stood behind the witness, and facing
the priest, stated boldly to the judge,
' that the priest opposite to him had twice
nodded in a significant manner to the wit-
ness,' who instantly declined being sworn
as an evidence. The judge ordered the
priest to be put forward, and expressed in
the strongest manner his indignation at
such conduct, and stated he would permit
[March,
the person accused to make an affidavit, as
to whether he did so or not ; but that if
lie declined doing so, he would order in-
formations to be sworn to the fact, by the
governor of the jail ; and he would know
how to deal with him. — The priest, by
way of a defence, in a Jesuitical manner,
offered to swear that he did not look at the
witness more particularly than any other
person. But the anxiety on the part of
the crown counsel to hush up the matter,
was so apparent to every person in court,
that the good intentions of the learned
judge were not followed up. The jury
retired at three o'clock, p. M., to consider
their verdict, and were discharged the
following day, at half-past twelve o'clock,
having been locked up the entire time,
without either meat or drink, and having
passed the night in a small comfortless
room. The prisoner remains iu custody,
and will again abide his trial at the ensu-
ing assizes."
3. OBLIGATIONS OF A JUROR.
We are common-place enough to
look for information on this subject to
the doctrines of the Roman Church.
" The substance of papal doctrine, as
regards judges and jurors, may be un-
derstood from the following passage, a
note in the Rhemish Testament in St
Matthew, c. 24, v. 27. ' Though Pilate
was much more innocent than the Jews,
and would have been free from the mur-
der of our Saviour, seeking all the means
that he could (without offending the peo-
ple and the emperor's laws) to dismiss
him, yet he is damned for being the minis-
ter of the people's wicked will against his
own conscience. Even us all officers are,
and especially all judges and juries, who
execute laws for temporal princes against
Calliolic men, fur all i>uch are guilty of in-
nocent blood, and are notldng excused by
that they execute oilier men's will, accord-
ing to laws which are unjust,' Sfc. Such is
the doctrine of the Church of Rome, as
taught in a book which one of her Bishops
pretended to disclaim, which is now proved
to be one of her standard authorities.
In the winter of 1830, priests, in confer-
ence, to prepare themselves for their duty
as leaders, discussed the question, ' What
are the duties of judges and jurors ?' The
following year afforded an illustration of
the conclusion to which they came."
* " Fourteen individuals in the year
1831, were murdered in the County Kil-
kenny, under circumstances which were
calculated to enlist every sympathy against
their assassins. Trials were to be had at
* Doctrines of Church of Rome, Sfc. Mortimer, London. Page 31.
1839.]
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
the Assizes of Kilkenny for these murders
(the massacre of Cruickshank, as it was
called), and the attorney- general for the
Crown was forced to move an adjourn-
ment,— not because popular feeling -was
so excited against the murderers, that the
culprits could not hope for a merciful
consideration, but because juries could
not be hoped to return true verdicts."
5. THE CRIME OF PROTESTANTISM, OR
CONVERSION FROM ROME.
Dr M'Hale and the Ackill Mission
have rendeied it unnecessary for us
to prove that the priests not only
sympathise with their " subjects" in
hatred of Protestants, but lend them-
selves to exasperate the feelings of
hostility and estrangement.
G. SECRET SOCIETIES, NOBLEMEN, &c.
We dare not say that the Roman
Catholic priests belong to these so-
cieties, because we have no direct
proofs of their having joined them,
but we know thus much, —
1. The societies consist exclusive-
ly of Roman Catholics.
2. The societies contemplate the
extermination of heretics.
3. The societies have not been ex-
communicated by Romish bishops ;
4. And would not be excommuni-
cated, to use the well-remembered
words of Dr Doyle, though "rebellion
were raging from Carrickfergus to
Cape Clear."
Thus, it seems clear, that the pre-
judices and false principles which
alienate " the people" from justice
and law, have the priests also for
their patrons and promoters. Legis-
lators and magistrates should, there-
fore, remember that they are to go-
vern without the aid by which,
ordinarily, law is strengthened. But
if they were wise and honest, the cir-
cumstances in which they learn this
truth, would not daunt them. The
priests and the agitators, and the
more hidden traitors, have a harder
task to keep their posts even now,
than a well-principled government
would have to dislodge them. Latent,
but not extinct, in the hearts of the
Irish people, there are principles
which consistency and justice would
bring out, and which, once brought
out, the empire of iniquity in Ireland
is at an end- Organised, and armed,
and remorseless bands, villains in
whom the instincts of cruelty and de-
structiveness have been pampered, un-
347
til men have been metamorphosed into
beasts of blood — many youthful spi-
rits, fired with the love of adventure, a
species of poetry in action which ex-
alts and allures them into enterprises
which they court for the difficulty and
danger — are certainly at the disposal
of most unrighteous authorities. But
the great mass of the Irish people are
weary of the life they lead — of the ter-
ror that cometh by night — of the ar-
row that fleeth in the noonday ; and
whenever there is a hope held out of
A GOVERNMENT — of an administration
which acknowledges other duties to
the country than the duty of retaining
place and power to harm it, which is
resolved to do justice and to protect
those who will aid in their endeavour —
a new sight will be seen in Ireland-
such a change as will recompense
those who live to witness it for many a
day of trouble. But it is not a change
upon which agitators or traitors de-
sire to look. It is not a change
which Romish priests desire to anti-
cipate. In identifying themselves
with the "popular party," they know
the real strength of the people is but
seemingly with them. In resigning'
themselves to political, atrocities,
they have, as they know well,- lost
that apparent sanctity of demeanour
which had previously covered many
sins. Their power has had its death-
blow, and the only matter in doubt
is, whether they can, by stimulants,
prolong a kind of galvanic life, until
they have given a fatal shock to Eng-
land—or if we are, beyond our deserts,
preserved to witness the subsidence of
their power into a state in which it
shall cease from troubling. Never,
certainly, was terror more significant
and instructive than that which smote
Priest Laffan with Conservatism, and
the confidence in encreased and supe-
rior strength, by which he was re-
covered from a transitory moderation.
But whatever may be done by other
than our present rulers, or by our pre-
sent rulers with altered views, it is
clear that the priests have nothing to
apprehend from the system under
which the British empire is now go-
verned. So far from resisting, the
Irish Government promote their
views, as if, indeed, they had been
contracting parties to a league for
bringing law into disrepute, and for
the introduction of anarchy. Our
limits are almost reached, or, to speak
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
348
more correctly, we have passed them,
and cannot pay • this part of our
subject the attention its importance
merits ; but we must attempt a hur-
ried proof that the principles of priests
and precursors are those also which
the Irish Court seems disposed to
bring into fashion. Indeed, after the
boast of the noble Viceroy, in the
House of Lords, that, for the first
time in the annals of history, the
British Government WAS IDENTIFIED
WITH THE POPULAR PARTY IN IRE-
LAND, it cannot be matter of surprise
that the acts of the Irish part of the
Government should be those of sym-
pathisers (the word is American, but
it shall stand) with the " popular
cause." We will, however, enume-
rate in the detail, those principles of
political ethics in which we have al-
ready seen the agreement of priests
and precursors.
1 . THE LANDLORD CRIME.
" For the first time," the Govern-
ment has denounced* the landed pro-
prietary of the country, in terms upon
which Father Laffan could hardly
improve, and with about as much rea-
son, and decency, and truth, as the
great necromancer himself.
2. ELECTIVE FRANCHISE.
It is enough to say that the admini-
stration depended upon a majority, to
be obtained in Ireland. Barristers
shifted about, according as their opi-
nions or their pliability adapted them
to the necessities of the various regis-
trations— returning officers judicious-
ly selected, in open defiance of the
judges' lists, — a cunning distribution
of the constabulary force, &c., may
explain how, " for the first time,"
since the Revolution, the British Go-
vernment rejoiced in a- majority, even
by practices which tended to perpetu-
ate anarchy in Ireland. We have not
space to speak of the methods to
which success was owing at the Car-
low election, and to the consistent ini-
quity with which it was afterwards
followed out to the extreme. These
circumstances have not been exposed,
as they ought to have been, before
Parliament. We will not give up a
hope, that even yet, that duty may
be discharged.
[March,
EVIDENCE.
The magistrates of Carlow address-
ed a memorial to the Government,
praying an investigation into the con-
duct of a constable, and undertaking
to prove charges of gross delinquency
against him. Government denied
their prayer, accepting the word of
the accused party as a sufficient reply
to their accusation. The magistrates
remonstrated in a wise and temperate
memorial, to which twenty-seven sig-
natures were appended. f This was
forwarded in the summer of 1837. It
did not shake the resolutions of Go-
vernment ; but, in the following spring,
six of the subscribing magistrates ivere
put out of the commission of the peace.
Bad encouragement for volunteer pro-
secutors !
The Irish Government have, cer-
tainly, issued proclamations and offer-
ed rewards ; but the rewards have, ge-
nerally, been so insignificant, as rather
to seem intended for the purpose of
warning a culprit off (or, as the case
may be, setting him at his ease at
home), than with a hope of inviting a
prosecutor. Perhaps, however, the
best scarecrow to keep off witnesses
and prosecutors has been set up by
Lord Normanby's "humanity." The
constancy with which the laws of Vice-
regal clemency have acted, so as that,
when conviction has overtaken offence,
the royal pardon has hastened to take
away the sting of conviction, must
have had a most pernicious effect.
No man will be easily induced to let
the culprit he is prosecuting " take
his picture" from the dock, when he
has good grounds to apprehend that
the man he has prosecuted to convic-
tion will afterwards meet him, not in
ghostly shadow or in dreams, but in
bodily presence, armed, exasperated,
and, by the grace of Lord Normanby's
mercy, free to wreck merciless ven-
geance on the informer. " You shall
have your share" (perhaps a tenth) "of
forty pounds," cries out the proclama-
tion to the witness, if you prosecute to
conviction. " The man you convict
will be liberated, to work his will
against you," cry out the thousands
whom the Viceroy has commanded
the prisons and the hulks to disgorge,
and those of whom he has robbed the
* Lord Normanby, in the House of Lords— Mr Drummond, from Dublin Castle, &c,
f See Ryan's Disclosure) &c. &c.
1839.] Ireland under the
scaftbld. Which of tfce two notices is
most likely to prevail ? The returns
to Parliament on Mr Jackson's mo-
tion have already answered. The
offered rewards and proclamation sys-
tem appears to have been a mere
mockery — "spent thunderbolts" all.
JURY.
" For the first time," the Govern-
ment in Ireland, by an abandonment
of its necessary prerogative, declared
that culprits should be enabled to pack
their juries, and be tried, it may be,
by their accomplices. This protec-
tion to crime would seem to be a con-
cession wrung from Ministers in the
Litchfield House negotiations. During
the administration of Earl Grey, Mr
O' Council's partisans wished to have
the principle of the ballot adopted in
the casting of juries. The Govern-
ment resisted, and the Liberal solici-
tor-general of the day for Ireland de-
clared that from juries so formed true
verdicts could not be expected. Fail-
ing in the more moderate purpose —
convinced that Parliament would never
sanction any thing so wicked and ab-
surd, Mr O'Connell obtains, through
the law-officers whom he was able to
raise into power, a concession infinite-
ly more pernicious to equity and law
than, in his most extravagant antici-
pations, he could dare to hope from
Parliament, — the relinquishment, on
the part of the prown, of their right
to object — at least, the discontinuance
of the exercise of such a right — while
the culprit retained and exercised his.
Taking into account the classes from
which petit juries are now selected,
this was giving the prisoner power to
pack them. Mr O* Connell announced
the triumph in a letter to his consti-
tuents and the people of Ireland in
general, April 28, 1835 :— " Perrin
and O'Loghlin fill the highest minis-
terial offices of the law. None but a
maniac can now apprehend that a jury
will be packed, or that partisans will
be selected to try him ;" — that is to
say, he can now select his own parti-
sans ; and, having made an arrange-
ment with one or two friends, perhaps
accomplices, he may look on, as many
a culprit has looked, with impudent
composure, while the strongest evi-
dence is given against him. In con-
sequence, crime has increased enor-
mously. We subjoin one passage, to
show how painfully upright men feel
the mockery of justice in trials con-
Triple Allianct-. 340
ducted on the present fashion. Other
extracts inform us of the amazement
and dismay expressed by even Whig
or Liberal judges ; and one, of a pro-
cession of priests, to congratulate aad
convey in triumph from the gaol a
culprit who had good friends on the
jury.
" The murderers of those unfortunate
victims now enjoy impunity, and are pro-
ceeding in their career of crime, in defi-
ance of the law, which, secure of an ac-
quittal, they hold in utter contempt. In
vain does the blood of our slaughtered
Protestants cry to heaven for vengeance
— in vain are remonstrances and entreaties
from the loyal and good in the country
made to our wicked and imbecile rulera
on their fatal policy in permitting the pri-
soner to nominate his own jury in cases of
murder, thereby rendering that great pal-
ladium of British justice, ' trial by jury ' in
Ireland (as now in Canada), not alone a
mere mockery, but also a protection of
crime.
" It may not be here amiss to detail
again for the public the particulars of the
trial of Michael Kenney, at the last Sum-
mer Assizes of this town, for the murder
of Hugh Moorehead, to whose situation,
as bailiff to Lord Lorton, ill-fated William
Morrisson succeeded. On this trial being
brought on, and the jury about to be sworn,
the prisoner, Michael Kenney (as was his
right), set aside the first twenty names,
composed of as respectable persons as this
or any other county could produce ; but
not one challenge (as was their right) was
made on the part of the crown, on behalf
of the prosecution, for this barbarous mur-
der, notwithstanding the fatal consequences
of such policy, as demonstrated in succes-
sive acquittals of the murderers of Mr
Brock, in the same neighbourhood. The
result turned out as every loyal and peace*
able subject anticipated. The prisoner
selected his own jury, and amongst them
an individual against whom bills were
found by the grand jury of this county for
perjury. What has been the consequence ?
No verdict — which almost amounts to an
acquittal, notwithstanding the most clear
and undeniable evidence that perhaps ever
went before a jury, given not only by the
widow of the victim, but by the dying de-
claration of Moorehead, taken down in
writing by a magistrate, in addition to his
original identification of the prisoner, Mi-
chael Kenney, when brought to his bed-
side, the day after he was mortally wound-
ed. For the defence, the usual resort of
an aliM was got up, and rested on the tes-
timony of three fellows, associates of tl;o
prisoner, whose evidence was by no means
satisfactory, and at total variance with a
330
statement of the prisoner on the day he
was identified by the deceased Moore-
head."
PROTESTANTISM.
" For the first time," the Govern-
ment has proclaimed that, as a condi-
tion of its place, it must strike a heavy
blow at Protestantism.
The spirit in which the Government
regard Protestants, we will not infer
from that odious abuse of patronage,
which has disgusted every man ac-
quainted with the reputation of those
who have been promoted and those
who have been passed by. This may
be party tactique carried out to an ex-
treme. We shall offer two instances,
selected from a very great number,
which, we imagine, no party feeling
can palliate. The first we shall state
in the words of a clergyman of the
Church of England, and wish much
that some member of Parliament would
enquire whether the legal functionary
who so grossly misbehaved has been
dismissed from office, and at what time
the dismissal took place ; or if the
Irish Government has contented itself
with a friendly rebuke, of that kind
which is understood to be precursory
of promotion.
Extract from a Memorial to the Lord- Lieu-
tenant,from Rev. J. Galbraith, Vicar of
Tuam, August 12, 1838.
" These facts were taken in evidence
by two stipendiary magistrates, who at-
tended at Tuam, by your Excellency's or-
der ; they daily forwarded to your Excel-
lency the evidence as it was taken down ;
and it is stated that you were so satisfied
of the unprovoked attack on the minister
of the Established Church, that the crown
solicitor was ordered to attend at Tuam,
and take informations against the offend-
ers. This he did, AND THE CROWN UN-
DERTOOK THE PROSECUTION. And now,
my Lord, it might be fairly expected that
the law would be vindicated, and that
Protestants would at length find that the
free exercise of their religion was their
right, not exclusively, but equally with fa-
voured neighbours. Mark, my Lord, the
offence, and the mode of proceeding against
it. First, three Roman Catholic priests
place themselves at the head of a large
number of persons attending the funeral of
a Protestant gentleman, they read a Latin
service through the streets, in defiance of the
statute. And how is this noticed by the
crown ? In no way — no penalty, no reproof.
Secondly, a riotous mob, who followed
these priests, interrupt the Protestant cu-
rate in the discharge of his duty. Are they
indicted for this interruption contrary to
Ireland under t/ie Triple Alliance. [March,
a statute ? No ! Both those tangible
offences are overlooked, and bills are sent
before a grand jury of the county of Gal-
way against one of the priests and others,
" for a riot;" observe, my Lord, " for a
riot" — not for causing a riot. And what
follows? The grand jury necessarily
cannot find against the priest /or a riot ;
he said, but did not. They find true bills
against those alone who had actually
rioted ; and here your Excellency might
suppose, if you did not know it to lie
otherwise, that some light punishment
would mark the crime ; but no, the counsel
for the crown think differently ; with their
approbation" the rioters, upon pleading
guilty, are discharged, and when a remon-
strance was made by me to the leading
counsel, his reply was this, " I think it not
advisable to bring before the public sec-
tarian differences."
Our second instance we take from
the " proclamations." It is unneces-
sary to remind the reader that value
is altogether comparative, and that a
sagacious people, as the Irish unde-
niably are, will judge of the real de-
sire and intention of their govern-
ments as to discovery of crime, by the
price at which they are willing to pur-
chase it. We feel it well to premise,
that, in the outrage in the first procla-
mation— the " turf burning" — a high-
ly respectable Roman Catholic was a
sufferer — in the house burning, no less
respectable Protestants only were in-
jured.
" FEB. 19. — On thet morning of the
13th instant, about the hour of two o'clock,
a very large stack of turf, the property of
Mr James Grey, residing near Coal Island,
and Mr John Hughes, residing at Dungan-
non, parish of Clonoe, in the county of
Tyrone, tile and brick manufacturers, was
maliciously set on fire by some person or
persons unknown, and totallv consumed —
Fifty Pounds.
" By his Excellency's command,
" T. DlU'MMOND."
" AUGUST 3 — Between the hours of
two and three o'clock on the morning of
the 22d ult, the house of Mr Zachariah
Ledger, of Killbreedy, parish of Bruree,
and county of Limerick, was attacked by
seven or eight armed men, who set fire to
it and burned it to the ground, together
with property to a considerable amount,
for which outrage two men have been
apprehended and fully identified. — Fifty
pounds, &c.
" T. DRUMMOND."
Fifty pounds to discover " the per-
son or persons unknown" who burned
a stack of turf; and "fifty pounds"
for the discovery of "armed men"
1839.]
Ireland under the Triple Alliance.
Sol
•who " attacked" and " burned a
house to the ground!!" The stack
of turf, to be sure, it is said, was " a
very large one." The dimensions of
the house are not specified. Another
thing is not specific, which, though
not directly noticed, may have had a
serious influence upon the proclama-
tion : — It is not mentioned (as is re-
lated in the well-known story of the
culprit who implored a royal pardon
for having thrown a man's hat into
the river, but omitted to state the su-
perfluous fact that the wearer's head
was in it) that, at the time when Mr
Ledger's house was set on fire, be-
tween two and three o'clock in the
morning, its owner, a brave Protest-
ant gentleman, with two stout sons
and two good friends, were sleeping
in it. The Geraldine's well-known
apology for burning a church, — " I
thought the bishop was there," di-
verted from him the anger of an Eng-
lish monarch. Why may not the
good intentions of the house-burners
have had a similar effect in propitia-
ting the favour of the Irish executive ?
" Burn every thing English except the
coals," was an aphorism of Swift.
The conclave in Dublin Castle seem
to have embodied the spirit of it in
their proclamation. The crime for
which they offer a reward is that of
attacking and destroying "a house,"
a crime which, however it is consi-
dered, was of far greater magnitude
than that of burning even a Roman
Catholic's turf stack j BUT THEY WHO
BURNED THE HOUSE MEANT TO TAKE
THE LIVES OF THREE PROTESTANTS,
Englishmen, perhaps; and this, though
not "put in the bill," may have had
its influence in diminishing the charges,
of causing their offence to be seen
through the proper medium, and dis-
tanced into an equality with that to
which "the very large turf stack"
fell a victim.
From a very able speech delivered
by Mr Dartnell of Limerick, at a
meeting to revive the Orange institu-
tion, we learn that this proclamation
was the second notice given by the
Irish Government of the price at
which they estimated Protestant life.
Mr Ledger had been attacked on a
former occasion, in the course of last
year, when his house was entered by
an armed party. He and his two
sons made a most gallant resistance ;
and, although dreadfully wounded,
they repulsed their assailants, and suc-
VOL, XLV, NO. CCLXXXI.
ceeded even in making prisoners. Mr
Leger must have been a person of
very conciliatory habits, for he was
assisted by some of his Roman Catho-
lic neighbours, who came to his relief,
and were mainly instrumental in mak-
ing the prisoners, whom he, at the
Spring Assizes, prosecuted to convic-
tion. Believing his Roman Catholic
friends entitled to the reward for their
apprehension, he applied for it ; and
with much difficulty, and after long
delays, procured for two, out of the
eight, a bounty of fifty shillings each,
which, on his remonstrating, he was
informed— but it is better to cite the
words read by Mr Dartnell from the
Under- Secretary of the Irish Govern-
ment,—
" I am directed to observe that the sum
already paid as a reward to the persona
who seemed instrumental in saving your
lives, cannot be augmented."
" Five pounds for the head of a
Protestant!" has sometimes been a
cry in Irish party fights ; — the Castle
sets another value on them, " five
pounds for three."
Mr Dartnell has explained this most
flagitious transaction, if his informa-
tion, which we have no reason to
doubt, is correct. The repeated at-
tacks on Mr Leger were owing to his
having been denounced from the altar
by a priest. How could the Govern-
ment dare to protect one thus banned ?
It is, perhaps, unnecessary to observe
that, in the second attack, when he
was roused from deep sleep to defend
his life, by flakes of fire from his
burning roof falling on his face, he
had no Roman Catholic friends to
succour him, — the significant shabbi-
ness of the fifty-shilling affair had ef-
fectually warned them off. Mr Leger
may thank God, who gave him a stout
heart and brave sons ; and, as the
following extract will show, he may
be thankful that the registration of his
good muskets was not informal : —
" A Paternal Government, — It is but a
few days since we recorded the particulars
of an attack on the house of Mr Holmes
in the Glen of Aherlow, county of Tippe-
rary, and the gallant defence made by his
son, a young lad. In consequence of the
outrage, a chief constable of police from
a neighbouring station was, last week,
directed to repair to the spot — to investi-
gate the circumstances ? no ; — to obtain
some clue to the apprehension of the per-
petrators of the outrage ? no ; — to ofllr a
reward for their apprehension ?— no ; but
a
352
for what purpose ? — — to ascertain if
Holmes had any certificate of having re-
gistered his arms ! ! ! Yes — this is the
course which a paternal government
adopted to a gentleman who gallantly
repelled au armed party, who, in the noon
day, attacked his premises, and if they
had effected an entrance would, in all
probability, have sacrificed the lives of
every member of his family." — Limerick
Standard.
RlBBONISM.
" For the first time/' the Govern-
ment has as its non- official, but ab-
solute dictator and counsellor, the in-
dividual who was also consulted as
counsel by the Ribbon Society, and
•who is bound by the most solemn en-
gagements, and, we add, by motives
of personal interest, to effect, if in his
power, a repeal of the union.
It is, we own, a very unlikely thing,
that any government would, knowing-
ly, favour a treasonable society ; but,
with whatever views, the Irish govern-
ment has certainly served the interests
of the Ribbon Society. Promotion
has been given to constabulary officers,
who made either their ignorance or
their duplicity manifest, by expressing
doubts of the existence of such a con-
federation. We are informed, that
individuals connected with the Irish
Government have uttered wilful un-
truths for the purpose of preventing
Parliamentary enquiry ; and while
they thus leave treason free to mature
its plans, they diminish the available
force for the defence of the country and
support of law, by disarming the yeo-
maury ; and they inform loyal subjects
of the crown, that if they are in dan-
ger, and require the protection of the
police, it is not to be granted to them
unless they can pay for it.* Want of
protection caused many to join the
treasonable societies of the last cen-
tury, until the Orange institution was
formed, to give a security which the
laws without its aid had not been able
to afford. Our Government now con-
strain the Orangemen to dissolve their
societies, and then say, that whoever
Ireland wider the Triple Alliance.
[March,
is in danger must pay for protection,
if he require it. Government mea-
sures are often more mischievous in
their supposed significancy than in
their direct tendency or intention.
The amount in " shillings" which
came into the Police Treasury since
the order was made, cannot be a very
material item in the receipts of that
establishment, and has not to any con-
siderable extent diminished the burden
of taxation; but the "order" may have
had its effect in another direction — it
was issued in the autumn of 1837, and,
before the summer of 1838, as the
evidence of Mr Atkinson has proved,
tlie Ribbon Society had detachments
told off from its militia, organised under
the name of Polishers, and placed under
orders to bring all whom terror and
injury would overcome, within the lines
of the conspiracy.
We are done. Our task is not end-
ed, although our limits are overrun.
To the wise we think we have spoken
sufficiently plain. The outrages in
Ireland are not " desultory and drift-
less." Injuries to person and property
are visitations of war. Threats, as-,
sassinations, are warnings of judicial
vengeance or acts of military execution .
In short, the " Agrarian system," as
the conspiracy is daintily styled, is a
rebellion which is, at little other ex-
pense than the destruction of its ad-
versaries, and the utter debasement
and demoralization of its instruments,
safely and surely working out its ends.
It has the aid and counsel of Roman
Catholic priests. It has the advan-
tage, great though indirect, of Go-
vernment connivance, if not co-opera-
tion. It has not yet the cordial sup-
port of the Irish people. It retains
multitudes in its service by no other
influence than of brute force and ter-
ror. It may in its present, the " pre-
cursory" stage, be arrested and de-
feated. If the day of grace is suffered
to pass away, the " new aera" for Ire-
land, of which Priest Laffan spoke,
will expand itself into a new and most
disastrous aera for the British empire.
* " Circular. — His Excellency has established the rule, that it is only in cases of
urgent necessity that protection is to be afforded to individuals, by placing men of the
force in their premises. "When individuals receive such protection, they will, in
future, be obliged to provide the men with lodging, bedding, and fuel ; and to pay
for each man a sum not exceeding one shilling per night," &c. &c.
" Coautabulary Office, September 7, 1837,"
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
353
SOME ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER.
FASCICULUS THE SEVENTH.
" I never uses a Aanimal so,
Cos that I thinks below me ;
But if I had a donkey what wouldn't go,
If I didn't wallop him— blow me 1 "
Coitermonger't Song.
EQUESTRIAN reader, have you ever
done any thing in horse flesh ? We
do not desire to be construed to en-
quire whether you may possibly be
engaged in the cat's-meat line, or to
insinuate that you are a costermonger,
but simply, in the ordinary accepta-
tion, of the bargain and sale of that
noble animal, the horse. Are you on
the turf? Then I need not explain,
to your erudite comprehension, the
art and mystery to give and take the
long odds knowingly, to make a
" book," to " handicap," and to
"hedge" You know a thing — or, it
may be, two ; you can stick the best
friend you have in the world in the
sale of a charger, or of a thoroughbred
mare "to carry a lady;" you are
aware of the trivial distinction be-
tween sweepstakes and beefsteaks — in
short, you are "up to ginger." Enough;
I know you, as the pickpocket said to
the dealer in handkerchiefs !
" I say, Tim, what's the name of
the day of the week ? "
"Auction day," replied Timothy,
whose conceptions of the Roman heb-
domadal nomenclature were less vivid
than those arising immediately out of
his learned profession. " Auction
day," repeated Timothy, with em-
phasis, rubbing, as he said it, a couple
of curbs in the hollow of his left
hand, with the palm of his right.
" Busy day, d'ye think ? "
Timothy redoubled the friction of
his palms, as if to intimate, by that
particular hieroglyphic, what a very
busy day auction day was likely to be.
It was in the sporting coff'eeroom
of the Connaught Rangers' Imperial
Hotel, in St Stephen's Green, that
this remarkable conversation took
place, on the — I love to be particular
about dates — on the fourteenth day of
— — ; and this reminds me that 1 am
bound, in courtesy, to indulge the ig-
norant reader in a digression of and
concerning St Stephen's Green.
St Stephen's Green is the most
spacious square in Europe— or, for all
I know of to the contrary, any where
else — having in the middle a large
green meadow, cut as artificially as
possible into disagreeable promenades,
and surrounded on all sides with a
visible horizon of bricks and mortar.
In the centre of the green meadow is
a pedestal — on the top of the pedestal
the image of a horse — and on the top
of the horse, a likeness of a kingly
crown rides on the whole apparatus,
bearing the same relation to the
space wherein it is enclosed, as a
midge might be supposed to bear to
an elephant. This the Dublin archi-
tects do for effect. By the same rule,
a colossal monument to the undying
Nelson is hemmed in by a long-winded
double row of brick and mortar ; and
•when the great pyramid comes to
Dublin, it is to be deposited, by the
same rule, in the canal docks — all for
effect ! There is no great uniformity
in the structures that circumscribe the
amplitude of St Stephen's Green ;
on the contrary, they possess, in an
eminent degree, all that picturesque-
ness of effect which is ever the result
of variety. You build your house
four stories high, a friend to the right
pushes his edifice up to six, while your
neighbour to the left sits down mo-
destly contented with three. Here,
you see a neat Magdalene Asylum,
with, under its left wing, a battered
old house of too good reputation ;
there, a gorgeous palace rises from a
terrace of steps as long and as lofty as
Jacob's ladder ; next door to it, the
original cabbage shop. This is the
town mansion of his Grace the Arch-
bishop of Dublin ; that, of Flanagan
the tripe-scourer. Here domiciles the
gripe-gut Chancellor Hannibal, whose
jolter-headed progeny have at last, we
congratulate tax-payers, attained to
all the public plunder which it is in-
tended to bestow upon them, for the
sake of the man who " never had nor
made a friend ; " and there — which is
Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [March,
354
of much more importance to the pro-
gress of my personal narrative — is lo-
cated the vast emporium of Mr Spicer
of the Auction Mart, and Universal
National Horse Repository.
It was, as I have said, in the sport-
ing coffeeroom of the Counaught
Rangers* Imperial Hotel, that the
above- recorded conversation was held
between Mr Bodkin of Bodkin Bog,
in the county of Galway, who has
been already introduced to the curious
reader as the gentleman horse-jockey
for whom my respected mother kept
house, and a very near relative of that
illustriously ruinous family, the Snakes
of Galway. Mr Snake Bodkin was
standing, with the ends of his coat
tail in his fists, the latter being, for
greater convenience, crammed into
the depths of his splashed " excusa-
bles," with his back to the fire, airing
something — no matter what. The
knees of his " excusables " had the
usual number of button-holes, but a
lamentable lack of buttons, the defi-
ciency whereof was supplied by un-
tanned thongs, which encircled the
leg, retaining, with difficulty, a pair
of mahogany-coloured " tops," that
had never tasted oxalic acid.
The neck of this gentleman was en-
veloped by a striped silk " bandany,"
the ends much worn and tagged, and,
at the particular crisis of which I
speak, considerably irrigated by occa-
sional submersion, together with the
wearer's empimpled proboscis, in a
magnanimous tumbler of " something
short." A double-breasted seal-skin
vest, retained by pea-green glass but-
tons set in brass, over a coarse but
not clean shirt, whose plaits, hardly
held together by an old-fashioned cor-
nelian brooch, partially exposed a
hirsute thorax of brawny latitude.
The coat was a cut-away, that had
once been bottle-green, and the castor,
a broad-brim of provincial manufac-
ture.
Mr Timothy Crick, the hero of the
curbs, and second person of the dia-
logue, was born at that memorable
emporium of horse-flesh, Ashby-de-la-
Zouch in Leicestershire, whence he
thought proper to emigrate, in com-
pany of a Bow Street officer, who had
come down to Ashby on a visit, in
consequence of some ill-natured re-
ports touching a halter accidentally
found in a pasture-field by Timothy,
•who had been passing, quite promis-
cuous, as a body may say ; but who
unconsciously took the halter to a
neighbouring fair, " and then, and
there," as the snuffling' clerk of the
arraigns proceeded officially to ob-
serve, " not having before his eyes the
fear of our Sovereign Lord the King,
did, feloniously, wittingly, knowingly,
and with malice aforethought, dispose
of, alienate, and sell, for good and
valuable consideration, all that, and
those the halter, cord, yarn, rope,
twine, pack-thread, hawser, cable,
and so forth, as aforesaid, value five
farthings, be the same more or less,
of good and lawful moneys of our So-
vereign Lord the King, defender of
the faith, et cetera, as aforesaid."
Did you ever hear a more scien-
tific libel on the character of an inno-
cent man ?
The weak point in Timothy's case,
as he often assured me himself, was
the unforseen accident of a horse be-
coming somehow entangled with the
end of the three-halfpenny rope which
cuts such a figure in the indictment, a
circumstance exciting such strong
suspicion in the minds of the jury,
that they hinted through their fore-
man their unanimous opinion that
Timothy, who stood behind the spikes
of the dock a picture of injured inno-
cence, had stolen a horse, whereupon
the judge earnestly recommended Mr
Crick to turn his attention to Botany —
assuring him, at the same time, that
the climate was delightful, and that
His Majesty, out of regard to his
scientific attainments, had been gra-
ciously pleased to provide him with
apartments in the neighbourhood of
Woolwich, until a frigate could be
prepared for his adequate accommoda-
tion to Australia.
Upon this, Mr Crick, seeing himself
fairly logged, made a rejoinder as po-
lite as the invitation of the learned
judge, " assuring his lordship, that
he (Mr Crick) was very fond of na- '
tural science, and Botany in particu-
lar, and would certainly take the ear-
liest opportunity of sending his lord-
ship a live rhinoceros." The Court
acknowledged this civility by bursts
of uncontrollable laughter, which the
crier, as soon as his lordship had
laughed it out, sought to repress by
erecting his little, round, polished nob,
and crying " silence" with a loud
voice ; while the clerk of the arraigns
proceeded to read through his nose,
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
from three sheep- skins tacked tail to
tail, a rigmarole purporting to be the
indictment against Miss Cypriana
Max, a desolate orphan of eleven
years of age, for embezzling a bit of
pickled pork, value threepence.
How Mr Crick conducted himself
in Australia, and in what manner he
returned therefrom, I would in this
place fully inform the reader, if a
forthcoming fashionable novel had not
been announced by a very eminent
person, wherein will be introduced, in
conjunction with Mr Crick, divers
famous highwaymen and journeymen
pickpockets, under the attractive title
of " THE HULKS ; or the Leicester-
shire Horse- Stealer."
" Breathes there a man with soul
so dead" who can perambulate a race-
course, riding- school, horse fair, or
repository of whatever denomination,
without an exulting glow of gratified
admiration at the favourable aspect of
human nature which such scenes pre-
sent? Here the philanthropist may
wear his heart upon his sleeve — there
is no selfishness, trickery, or falsehood,
to wound him here — all is candour,
truth, and honour. Regard that friend-
ly group of country dealers standing
up to their knees in the litter — amiable
men ! — devoting the energies of their
lives with more than Arabian fidelity
to the interests of that noble animal
the horse — when he grows old, they
renew the days of his youth — when he
gets " groggy," they blister and fire
him over and over again — when he is
past sale, they hire him out by the
job — and when he is past a job, they
hand him over to the tender mercies
of the knackers — generous souls ! As
they pass from lip to lip that pot of
" Combe's Entire," a bland expression
of mistrustless affection towards each
other plays over their expanded fea-
tures ; one by one, as they slowly
withdraw the generous fluid from their
lips, a sigh of sympathy escapes them
for the misfortunes of humanity ; and
when the tankard is once more re-
plenished, from ear to ear expands a
grin of universal philanthropy from
pole to pole ! If any be sceptical, I
recommend him to visit Smithfield
market on a Friday, between the hours
of two and four in the afternoon — then
is Smithfield in its glory, and all alive
with donkey- dealers, costermongers,
c ruelty - to - animals - men, dog - cart
drivers, cats-meat speculators, and
355
knackers. Pause awhile, and attend
to the unshaven blackguard in the
greasy smock-frock, who is chaffering
with that enterprising knacker — what
emphasis in every blow he lays on the
blind old animal, patiently awaiting,
with drooping head and downcast
ears, the issue of the argument — with
what sincerity he invokes eternal
damnation if he can take less than
" fifteen bob," and hopes he may be
struck dead on the spot if the skin
alone is not worth the money ! — ob-
serve three generous youths belabour-
ing with all their united force the
head of that aged donkey, as if he
were a mere Frenchman, and shut
your unwilling ears, if you can, to the
unnatural imprecations that issue from
their lips ; — now, sir, if your curiosity
is satisfied, return home through
Cock Lane with a better opinion of
human nature — exulting that you live
in moral England, and have the hap-
piness to be a true-born Briton.
" Horses look well, Timothy ?" en-
quired Mr Bodkin of Bodkin Bog.
" Unkimmon well — never seed 'em
look so well," was the gratifying re-
ply.
" Bay mare don't bark?"
" Only sneezes a little," said the
compliant Tim.
" You have entered her all sound,
of course ?" enquired the master.
" As a trout," replied the man. '
"You'll stick to that?"
" Swear to it," rejoined the uncom-
promising Timothy, " for a tanner."
" What's the time at Spicer's ? "
" Sharp one, and no mistake."
" Will you take any thing ? " said
Mr Bodkin, insinuatingly.
" I don't mind if I do have half a
pint," assented Mr Crick, with the
native modesty peculiar to that gen-
tleman.
Leaving Mr Crick to imbibe the
half pint at his leisure, the sporting
reader will take his gloves and whip,
and accompany me across the Green
to the emporium of Mr Spicer.
Mr Spicer was a great man — moral-
ly, physically, and socially, a very great
man. Morally, as the supreme judge
of appeal in all matters controverted
among rival horse-choppers; physi-
cally, as measuring four feet six, in
the clear, from shoulder- blade to shoul-
der-blade, and one foot nine round the
small of the leg ; socially, as a house-
holder, bachelor, man of fortune, vice-
35G Some Account of Himself . By tlie Irish Oyster-Eater. [ March i
president of the Cork- Screw Club, and
patron of the Jolly Tipplers' Benevo-
lent Drunken Association.
That Mr Spicer was not elected to
the vice- presidency of the Cork- Screw
Club without adequate qualification
for that high office, might be inferred
from one single glance at the vast ex-
panse of his leuco-phlegmatic counte-
nance, rounded superiorly into a knob
of a head, over which was flattened a
thin stratum of coal-black hair, com-
ing down very low on the forehead,
and cut square just over the eyebrows.
Below, the visage of Mr Spicer ex-
panded into concentric circles, radiat-
ing from a central dimple, and form-
ing a series of independent chins, the
inferior chin of all settling down like
a dewlap, without the intervention of
that often inconvenient appendage — a
neck, upon shoulders of which I have
heretofore described the measured la-
titude.
The privation of a neck economized
to Mr Spicer considerable sums in the
article of neckcloths, — a fancy article
with gentlemen of his learned profes-
sion, but which he was enabled alto-
gether to dispense with, wearing his
shirt collar Byronically tied in front
with a slip of black ribbon, which gave
to the countenance and chins of Mr
Spicer a highly romantic and Werter-
like appearance. His coat was pep-
per and-salt, with waistcoat to match ;
pocket-holes that you might easily dive
into, well begrimmed round the ori-
fices with snuff; black bone buttons,
as big as a crown piece, mounted the
coat, and half-crown buttons of the
same answered to the waistcoat. On
ordinary occasions,, Mr Spicer sported
a pair of Isabella- coloured moleskin
"shorts," with mahogany "tops;"
but on auction days his nether toggery
consisted of white-ribbed cords, and
tops of the same innocent colour, with
massive chain spurs of solid silver,
and boot leathers of bran-new chamois.
I can safely say there was nothing of
the Quaker about Mr Spicer, save the
style of his hat and cut of his coat,
both which articles Mrs Fry herself
must have confessed to be orthodox.
His dexter mauley, not much un-
like a brown quartern loaf, sported a
silver-mounted waggoner's whip, with
a lash as long as to-day and to-mor-
row. Many a playful cut of it I have
got, when loitering about the " ride"
with my newspapers ; and, when used
con amore, that whip I have seen take
a bit out of a horse's buttock as cle-
verly as a butter- taster scoops a sample
from a suspicious firkin.
When I looked on the shoulders and
calf of Mr Spicer, I admired him as a
man ; when I heard that he could im-
bibe sixteen tumblers of whisky punch,
without any other external indication
than a slight inspissation of speech, I
reverenced him as a hero ; but when
I came to be informed that he " bank-
ed" a thousand a-month, clear of all
expenses, I was ready to fall down be-
fore him in the litter, and worship the
moneyed divinity.
The emporium of this Maecenas of
horse-jockeys was as wonderful a con-
cern as the Maecenas himself. As we
say of the Cove of Cork, that it can
harbour the whole navy of Britain, so
we might observe of Mr Spicer's estab-
lishment, that it could stable the entire
cavalry of the line. Here stood the
riding -school — there blew the everlast-
ing bellows of the busy forge. Every
where gallery opened into gallery;
extending to such a vast expanse of
tenanted stalls, that you would have
sworn, like the Irishman and the chain
cable, that somebody had cut the
other end off the stabling ! But the
" ride," as the space whereon the ani-
mals for sale display their points and
action is technically styled, was the
centre of attraction. Here were as-
sembled Lord Miltown, Lord Howth,
Colonel Westenra, Mr Maher, and the
other magnates of the Irish turf; —
here was the grand resort of the pro-
vincial dealers of the sister island —
while the dashing embroidery of the
Light Dragoons, the massive tog-
gery and double-hilted sabres of the
" Heavies," the braided undress frocks
and light-blue trowsers of the Horse
Artillery Brigade, and the aristocratic
yet unobtrusive undress of the Guards-
men, gave to the varied scene the
gaiety and animation of a ball-room.
The conversation I have recorded
between Mr Bodkin and his faithful fa-
miliar Mr Crick, and which came to my
ears while waiting upon the former
gentleman with a copy of that excellent
and independent paper, the Morning
Register, induced me to attend at the
emporium of Mr Spicer, at the hour
prescribed for the commencement of
the auction, where I arrived just as a
very natty gentleman was settling
himself in the pulpit, hammer in hand.
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
357
The natty gentleman was of a florid,
well-fed, strong-ale complexion, with
regular features and well brushed
whiskers to match — exceeding nice in
his dress, and unexceptionable in the
tie of his birds-eye fogle — a gold chain
peeped out of the right pocket of his
cut velvet waistcoat, and disappeared
suddenly under the waistband of his
drab cassimeres.
The gentleman was no other than
Mr Gingersall, a relative of the gentle-
man of the same name, not altogether
unknown at the west end of the town,
who had recently arrived from Lon-
don— like a bottle of genuine Cogniac
— " neat as imported."
Mr Gingersall was at last fairly
settled in his pulpit, and had given the
leaves of his sermon— we beg pardon,
his catalogue — a preliminary flourish;
the registrar of sales sat in the read-
er's desk, with a pen stuck over his
dexter auditory organ, impatient to
catch the first fall of Mr Gingersall's
hammer, and to take the deposit ac-
cordingly.
Mr Gingersall stroked his whiskers
with great complacency — gave a sud-
den glance behind his pulpit — then ad-
dressed himself to the audience. But,
before we explain what he said to the
audience, it is necessary, for the pro-
per developement of this true picture
of life, to expound wherefore Mr Gin-
gersall did look behind him.
Immediately in the rear of Mr Gin-
gersall's pulpit was the stable, whence
horses intended for that day's sale
were led out to " the ride." For the
convenience of the owners of such
horses whose excessive modesty might
preclude their appearance among the
congregated bidders, a casement com-
municating with the pulpit of the
auctioneer was built into the stable
wall, where confidential communica-
tions, not intended for the vulgar ear,
might pass unheard between the coun-
sel and his client in the progress of
the cause.
It was to this casement that Mr
Gingersall turned for information re-
specting the first lot — having received
a preliminary poke in the short rib
from a whip handle, which I had ob-
served to be guided by no meaner
hand than that of Mr Snake Bodkin
of Bodkin Bog\
" Very well," said Mr Gingersall,
impatiently, in answer to the poke in
the short rib, " I understand."
" Gentlemen," said Mr Gingersall,
turning to the attentive audience, " lot
number one is a bay mare, four years
off1, fifteen hands and a half high, quiet
to ride "
" And drive," whispered Mr Bod-
kin, through the casement, with ano-
ther poke at the auctioneer's short rib.
" Quiet to ride and to drive," con-
tinued Mr Gingersall, wincing under
the application of Mr Bodkin's whip-
handle, " got by Phosphorus, dam by
Phenomenon, out of a Fillio-da-puta
mare, grandam by the Sligo Waxy,
out of Comet, by Eclipse."
" Run her down," said Mr Spicer,
cracking his whip.
The bay mare was run down ac-
cordingly, but before she got the se-
cond run, a gentleman stopped her to
make a more particular examination ;
and, to my great astonishment, dis-
closed the examining party as no other,
although totally metamorphosed in
dress, than the hero of the curb-chains,
-the identical Mr Timothy Crick.
" What shall we say to begin with,
Mr Horseman," observed the natty
auctioneer, addressing Mr Crick, who,
I perceived, had left off his patrony-
mic with his stable dress.
" Fifty, to begin with," replied Mr
Horseman, alias Crick, with unblush-
ing effrontery.
" Gentlemen," continued Mr Gin-
gersall, in a high unvaried key, fifty
pounds is bid, to begin with, for this
celebrated bay mare, four years off,
fifteen hands and a half high, quiet to
ride and to drive, got by Phosphorus,
dam by Phenomenon, out of a Filho-
da-puta mare, grandam by the Sligo
Waxy, out of Comet, by Eclipse1."
" Warranted sound," said Mr Bod-
kin, sotto voce, with another dig at the
ribs of the auctioneer.
" Warranted sound in every parti-
cular," echoed Mr Gingersall, with a
loud voice ; whereupon the bay mare
gave an ominous cough, as much as to
say that Mr Gingersall lied in his
teeth.
" Gentlemen," continued- Mr Gin-
gersall, rather disconcerted, for it wag
his first appearance, as George Robins
would have said, before an Irish audi-
ence ; " I need not, gentlemen, dwell
' upon the qualities of that excellent bay
mare, which I am about to sacrifice, if
there is no advance, for the paltry con-
sideration of a poor fifty pounds — look
at her action, gentlemen."
358 Some Account of Himself.
" Run her down once more," ob-
served Mr Spicer.
The bay mare had another run ac-
cordingly, and the veriest old apple-
woman on the " ride" must have ob-
served, as the bay mare came up, that
she was dead lame on the off fore
leg.
" Look at her action, gentlemen,"
repeated Mr Gingersall.
A rather satirical laugh was the re-
ply of the auditory to this polite invi-
tation, which completely threw the
auctioneer off his balance. He stroked
his whiskers as usual, but could not
get out another word.
" To be sold without reserve," whis-
pered Mr Bodkin, digging with his
whip at the discomfited auctioneer, as
he stood crest-fallen in the pulpit.
" Confound your blood !" exploded
Mr Gingersall, losing temper and
patience together, " what do you
mean ?"
" Never mind," said Mr Bodkin,
with great nonchalance ; " go on with
your auction, my Cockney !"
" Eternal flames /" ejaculated the
Cockney, taking deadly aim at Mr
Bodkin's head with his hammer, with
which he would doubtless have anni-
hilated the owner of Bodkin Bog, had
not that gentleman, with great pre-
sence of mind, shifted his devoted per-
son to one side, and thus created a
vacancy for Mr Gingersall, who, losing
his centre of gravity in the vehemence
of his passion, precipitated himself
head foremost out of the pulpit, through
the open casement, into the stable be-
low, exactly as harlequin in the pan-
tomime disappears through the Post-
office letter-box.
Screams of laughter followed this
evolution of Mr Gingersall, nor was
it until the last laugher had laughed
his last, that some of the officers pre-
sent thought of sending their compli-
ments to know whether the auctioneer
had broken his neck — to which friend-
ly interrogatory the squashed Mr
Gingersall replied, in terms which I
cannot bring myself to recapitulate to
ears polite. Another auctioneer was
speedily procured, and the business of
that day's sale proceeded without fur-
ther interruption.
On the same evening, the bay mare,
Mr Timothy Crick, your very obedi-
ent and most humble servant, and the
unfortunate Mr Gingersall, embarked
for Parkgate, the former with a view
By the IrisJi Oyster-Eater. [March,
of exhibiting the points and action of
that invaluable daughter of Phospho-
rus, by Phenomenon, at the ensuing
Chester fair — and the latter, with a no
less laudable ambition of exhibiting
his own points and action about the
west end of the town. Mr Bodkin
invited me to accompany Mr Crick in
a fancy dress — in short, I was to ap-
pear in a fictitious character, Mr Bod-
kin kindly promising to pay my ex-
penses, which, I need hardly tell the
reader, have not been paid to this
day.
As I was naturally desirous of seeing
foreign parts, I consented, and forth-
with alienated my newspaper property
to an old Waterloo pensioner, with an
introduction to all my customers, for
the good and valuable consideration
of four-and-sixpence, the odd sixpence
having been drnnk in the progress of
the negotiation — then, having taken a
respectful leave of the kind-hearted
billiard-marker and his affectionate fa-
mily, I stepped on board the vessel,
and saw the far-famed attractions of
Dublin bay fade gradually upon the
sight, without any very tender emo-
tion, satisfied that I was quit of an
impoverished and distracted country,
and that wherever fortune might kick
me, I might possibly do better, but
could by no human possibility do
worse.
I shall ever remember, as one of the
most pleasing sensations of my life,
the first spring I made from the side
of the vessel upon English ground.
It was like taking possession of some
newly discovered territory, whence I
was ultimately to reap employments,
honours, and rewards. I planted my
foot firmly on the sod, as if taking a
hold, and screamed out, " Rule Bri-
tannia," with such pulmonary intensi-
ty, that our skipper ordered the cabin
steward to let me have a biscuit and
glass of grog, protesting with a mis-
cellany of imprecations, that he con-
sidered me equal to a trump !
Heavens ! if the mere touch of Bri-
tish ground can thus thrill a stranger
from the sole of the foot to the crown
of his head — a poor friendless black-
guard, in a stable dress — what must
be the sensations of a Percy, a Talbot,
a Cecil, or a Paget, as they spring
upon the bosom of that time-honour-
ed and reverend soil, whose history is
made up of the deeds of their noble
sires, and whose glory has been over
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 359
and over again attested by their ene-
mies' blood.
With what emotions must they not
behold the grey cliffs of Albion rise
from the lap of her ocean mother, and
her subject — with what subdued yet
intense exultation do they not regard
the " guardian giants that prowl
around her coast" — with what rapture
do they not behold returning from afar
the long- remembered faces of country-
men and friends !
On our way to Chester fair, Mr
Crick, who had dropped the patrony-
mic of Horseman, the daughter of
Phosphorus, and myself, had occasion
to bait, gin and water, and bread and
cheese, at the small, but not unroman-
tic village of Guttlebelly West, where
the daughter of Phosphorus excited, in
the stable-yard of the Fighting Cocks,
no little attention from several gen-
tlemen in the coaching line, who were
then and there assembled to assist at
an auction of " fast machiners" adver-
tised for that very day.
The fast machiners having been
auctioned off, as high as the moon, to
my thinking, the anxiety to see the
daughter of Phosphorus was so loudly
and generally expressed, that Mr
Crick, like Lord John Russell, did not
feel himself at liberty to refuse his
assent to the unequivocal expression
of the wishes of the House, and the
daughter of Phosphorus was uncloth-
ed and led out into the stable-yard
accordingly.
Loud and general was the expres-
sion of approbation among the assem-
bled coach proprietors of the points of
the bay mare, — such bone, sinew, and
shape — so much strength combined
with so much symmetry, — nothing
now remained but to form an accurate
conception of her action, and for this
purpose, the assembled coach-owners
requested Mr Crick, as a favour, to
run her up a little. This that gentle-
man peremptorily declined, — the
mare had been shown to the gentle-
men, and praised by the gentlemen£
which he (Mr Crick) was grateful to
behold ; he would do any thing to
oblige so many gentlemen what was
there assembled, but the thing was
unpossible, Lord Jersey's second head
groom being, no doubt, by this time
in waiting at Chester, with the " tin"
to pay for the daughter of Phospho-
rus ; — run her up, therefore, he would
not, and run her up, therefore, he could
not. Upon this, one or two of the
coach-owners, nettled at the prefer-
ence which Timothy appeared inclin-
ed to bestow upon the noble Lord,
hazarded a not altogether unrea-
sonable assertion, that their " money
might be as good as my Lord's ; " at
which Mr Crick incontinently pricked
up his ears, declaring, for his part,
that if he could get his price at Gut-
tlebelly West, he would save himself
a journey to Chester ; and he dared to
say that his master, the Earl of Clan-
gallaher, did not care a damn whether
the daughter of Phosphorus was dis-
posed of to the Pope, the devil, or the
pretender. This manly declaration
of Mr Crick, tickled the assembled
coach-owners mightily, who there-
upon repeated their wish to have an
opportunity of seeing how the daugh-
ter of Phosphorus could go. The
faithful Timothy having discovered a
lane well strewed with litter, leading
from the stable-yard to the farm, as-
sented to the wishes of the assembled
coach-owners, and ran the daughter
of Phosphorus cautiously up and
down, where he well knew the slight
" thrush," under which that noble
animal had the misfortune to labour,
could in no wise be perceptible. When
the bay mare poked down her head,
the usual preliminary to the emission
of her constitutional cough, I observ-
ed an agony of perspiration breaking
over Timothy's brow; — when she
raised her head without coughing, he
wiped off the sweat with the cuff
of his stable-jacket, like a man re-
prieved.
" Will she take a five-foot gate?"
enquired one of the assembled coach-
owners ?
" Will a duck swim ?" — replied the
unblushing Timothy.
" Is she sound ?" — was the enquiry
of another of the assembled coach-
owners.
" Sound in every respect — wind and
limb," was the prompt rejoinder.
" Gentle?" demanded a third assem-
bled coach-owner.
" Gentle!" ejaculated Mr Crick, in
that undefinable, but very characte-
ristic tone of voice, in which one
gentleman may be supposed to ex-
press his opinion of the absurd ques-
tion put by another.
"Gentle! — ainfantatthebreastmay
ride her — gentle !" for the third and
last time, ejaculated Crick, dismount-
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [March,
36d
ing and caressing, -with the tenderest
affection, before the assembled coach-
owners, the invaluable daughter of
Phosphorus, beginning at her head,
and ending, to show his unsuspecting
confidence in her temper, by stooping
directly behind the heels of the infer-
nal beast, who, lifting her accursed
hoof, which Crick was gently strok-
ing, struck the poor unfortunate fel-
low right in the umbilical region with
such vindictive emphasis, that he went
spinning, heels over head, against the
kitchen door of the Fighting Cocks,
where he lay doubled up like a wet
sack. Recovering somewhat, he rais-
ed himself with difficulty, on his feet,
and holding one hand on his injured
abdomen, he walked in the attitude
of a man suffering under a wind colic,
over to the perfidious daughter of
Phosphorus, when, gently stroking
her neck before the assembled coach-
owners, as if nothing unpleasant had
ever passed between them, he faintly
articulated, oh t you playful rogue !
The assembled coach-owners turn-
ed away, heartily sick of the daugh-
ter of Phosphorus, and taking no
pains to conceal their indignation ;
while the faithful Timothy sneaked
to the hay-loft, where I soon after at-
tended upon him.
" Pat, I'm a dead dog ! " piteously
ejaculated the poor fellow.
" Don't say so, Timothy," said I ;
for I was rather green at the time,
and could not behold the death even
of a horse-jockey without emotion.
" I'm cat's meat," added the dying
man, pathetically.
" I'll go for a doctor, Timothy
dear ! " said I, wringing the hands of
the expiring horse-jockey.
" I won't be hurried," said Tim,
with an attempt at a wink, which
plainly indicated his words as a cut at
the faculty.
" Pat," said my poor friend, faintly.
" What is it, my poor fellow ?" said
I, squeezing his hand, as the tears
hailed off my face.
" Promise me this one thing."
" I will," replied I ; "so help
me"
" Tell Bodkin I did my best."
ff I — will — Tim," sobbing, I replied.
" And, Pat," continued Timothy,
in a whisper, " don't — let — them — try
the — mare "
Here I raised him in my arms, for
the death-rattle began to gurgle in his
throat
" She's a roarer! " he faintly ejacu-
lated, and expired.
FASCICULUS THE EIGHTH.
" Oh London, oh London t
How many are undone
In thy miscellaneous shop?
Hotv curious— how various
Thy bipeds gregarious-
High up, low down, sides, bottom, and top I "
O.-E.
The funeral obsequies of the late
lamented Mr Timothy Crick were not
finally completed without much intes-
tine agitation among the constituted
authorities of Guttlebelly West, re-
gretting, as they must, the loss of so
amiable a man, and consigning to ten
thousand devils, as they unsparingly
did, the impudent horse-jockey who
died at their door, when, as one of the
overseers pitifully remarked, the blast-
ed beggar might just as well have
kicked the bucket ten thousand miles
off!
It was seriously proposed, among
these parochial worthies, to pickle the
deceased Mr Crick, and to return him
to the place from whence he came, as
the justices say, for interment. This
course, most probably, would have
been adopted, but for a suggestion of
the parish surgeon, that the pickle
and carriage would be more costly
than the usual interment " in forma
pauperis." Secondly, it was gravely
suggested that the parish should im-
pound the bay mare, to the credit of
all costs to be incurred respecting the
fatal blow she had cruelly and wan-
tonly inflicted upon the horse-jockey ;
and this suggestion might have been
acted on as well, had not the landlord
of the Fighting Cocks been earlier in
the field, and impounded the bay mare
upon his own account. I would have
disputed this matter with the landlord,
looking at the bay mare in the light
of a ward in Chancery, of whom, in
the absence of Mr Bodkin, I consider-
ed myself the next friend and lawful
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
guardian, but desisted, -when I re-
flected that the landlord was acting on
his own responsibility, and that, be-
fore I could have replevincd the bay
mare, she would have committed sui-
cide— in the only way in which that
noble animal, the horse, has been
known to terminate so ingloriously
his earthly calamities ; that is to say,
by eating his own head off !
It was next proposed that I should
be sent to the House of Correction as
a vagrant, or rather as security for the
funeral costs and charges of Mr Crick,
which I had been invited to disburse ;
to which invitation (for I was piqued at
the parochial brutality of these cheese-
munchers) I replied, with as much con-
fidence as if I had had the money in
my pocket — that I would see them all
condemned first ! Dame Nature at last,
however, kindly stepped in to settle the
argument, by instituting the putrefac-
tive process, which, appealing directly
to the noses of the parish officers of
Guttlebelly West, convinced their
worships that it would be safer for the
public health to lay the mortal remains
of the late Timothy Crick in his mo-
ther earth, cost what it might, without
any further exhibition of their ale-in-
spired rhetoric ; and, accordingly,
poor Timothy was " earthed," as he
would have said himself, with a haste
as indecent as the indecency of the
precedent delay.
For my own part, judging of the
tone and manner of the humane autho-
rities of Guttlebelly West, I entertain
not a doubt but that, if Timothy had
not begun to stink, he would have lain
nnburied, without note or comment,
until the carrion crows had picked the
bones of his carcase as clean as a whistle.
It was a few days before Christmas
that I shook the inhospitable dust of
Guttlebelly West from my shoes, and
set out on my long-wished-for journey
towards that London, whose vaunted
magnificence it was then my utmost
ambition to behold, but which bitter
experience has long since taught me
to look upon as I look upon literature
itself — as a capital staff, but a con-
founded crutch. My wardrobe, lug-
gage, and incumbrances generally,
consisted of one cotton chemise, fine
Irish front, for dress ; one sailor's
striped ditto for night wear ; one and
a half pairs of mixed cotton socks, one
ditto, of lambs- wool stockings pre-
sented me by Mrs Rafferty, the bil-
361
liard-marker's kind-hearted wife, one
tooth brush, one nail ditto, and Crick's
favourite curry-comb, all tied up pro-
miscuously in a blue and white ban-
dana, and suspended over my left
shoulder — I hope the precise critic
recollects that I am left-handed — from
the bone handle of Timothy's hunting
whip, the lash whereof I had carefully
coiled up in my breeches' pocket for
future occasions.
It was a genial and a cheerful sea-
son— vegetation took her winter napf
and the glebe fattened under the in-
fluences of a kindly frost — the air was
of that keen and bracing sort that gave
tone to every nerve, and elasticity to
every step — the calm sky reposed in
cerulean cloudlessness ; and, what was
of more importance to a gentleman of
fortune [youth and health] like myself,
privileged to strut unscathed through
every turnpike in the kingdom, the
roads were in prime pedestrian order.
Nor did animated nature present a
spectacle less pleasing to the mind
than the amenity of the wintry land-
scape exhibited to the eye. The little
birds, it is true, had ceased their indi-
vidual song, but they had collected
into a commonwealth among the
bushes at the rise of the hill, and chir-
ruped an irregular ode in praise of so-
ciety ; that impudent, delightful, fa-
miliar, little monster in the olive-brown
uniform with red facings, Captain
Cock Robin, accompanied me on my
route, scrutinizing me intently with
his large round black eye, and almost
— not quite — accepting the sweepings
of my pocket, as I usually eat my
oysters, when I can get them, out of
hand.
I have said it was the advent of that
high and holy season, when the mes-
sage of God's pardon and love came
to the children of sin, from the first
feeble cry of the God made Man —
when a morality began to be preached
to the nations, which the vaunted
scribes of Hebrew theology answered
with revilings and blows — a morality
that reposes confidently upon the
mercy of God and the free-offering of
4iis Son, that stifles within our miser-
rable bosoms the blind fury of unli-
censed passion, and deposits in the
all- reaching hand of God's providence
our avenges and our wrongs. It was
verging towards that gracious day,
whose bare commemoration opens the
fountains of every heart, and sheds
362 Some Account of Himself .
balm over every soul— draws together
from the ends of the earth the long-
sundered family, and lets fall upon the
paternal hearth the tender, the mingled
tear of brotherly and sisterly affec-
tion!
Groups of happy and innocent
children carolled the glad tidings of
our Saviour's coming on his errand
of fallen man's redemption. Oh ! it
was delicious music, for the voice was
from the heart, and the heart was
pure. —
" All in a stable He was born
When He to save us came :
Hallowed be that holy morn,
Hallowed be His name.''
I lifted up my voice, and would have
carolled with the children, but the
song died away upon my tongue — the
heart was out of tune — I paused and
wept — wept that I was no longer in-
nocent, no longer happy !
Oh, days of childhood ! — dear de-
parted days ! When to be vacant was
to know enough — when to be careless,
was perfect joy — when the unsuspect-
ing heart lives upon the laughing lip,
and love, pity, and devotion, commin-
gle in the pure unmeditating eye.
Knowledge! Fame! Ambition! Fa-
shion ! London ! — what can you offer
to efface the memory of days like
these ?
As I journeyed from town to town,
scenes of joyous preparation obtruded
themselves every where upon my view.
I lingered in the fat market, where the
poor widow, basket in hand, was
making thrifty entertainment for the
fatherless babes that toddled at her
knee. I followed, with longing, lin-
gering eyes, the truck that conveyed
away a plain yet plentiful dinner to
the work- house, and wished myself, for
that day only, a pauper.
The alehouses along the road were
verdantly tricked out in festoonings of
ivy, with his pimple-nosed jolly com-
panion, the famous old holly — and
peeping into the kitchens, I had more
than one opportunity of observing the
maids busUy engaged in the clandes-
tine putting up of the formidable mis-
letoe bough.
The road was alive with cheerful
faces — stagecoaches stopping every
five minutes to gin and water ; guards
perpetually jerking down parcels, and
even the coachman himself relaxing to
something like a grin at the uncommon
By the Irish Oyster- Eater. [March,
funniness of the outsides. How I do
love a stagecoach ! Let me live on
the box, die beside the guard, and be
buried in the front boot ! How I do
love spanking along at ten miles an
hour, including stoppages, in a clear
cold winter day, or under the glorious
light of a harvest moon ! Then comes
a long hill, and at the top, quite pro-
miscuous, as a body may say, is the
Red Lion standing on his hind legs,
inviting us all in to gin and water.
I help the young woman in the cotton
wrapper down with the most sedulous
attention — " Care of your petticoats
on the lamp iron" — " lend me your
foot, Miss" — " my eye, what an ankle"
— " this is the step" — " now, turn
round and jump into my arms" — " all
right" — " there you are" — " fie, for
shame" — " don't mention it !" " Take
a drop of any thing" — " don't say no,
if you'd rather not." " Now, gentle-
men, if you please," — " give me your
hand" — " care of the wheel" — " I see
your garter" — " Oh ! you wretch" —
" there you are," — " all right behind"
—and away we go again !
A fig for your cheap and nasty rail-
way, smelling like a cookshop — a fig
for the great kettle of hot water that
pulls it along — a fig for the filthy po-
licemen prowling about in green frocks
and glazed hats, taking people into
custody, as if they were Mounseers or
Frenchmen — and a fig for the prison
vans, in which poor devils of passen-
gers are hurried from town to town,
without as much as a drop of any
thing short to take the director's dirt
out of their whistles !
Railways ! — to the devil I pitch you
with sixpence, and hope you'll enjoy
the money and company !
Thank God ! there were no cheap
and nasty railways when I made my
first journey towards London — there,
clattered away a yellow post-chaise
packed with children, their noses flat-
tened up against the windows — and
there spanked along — Lord, how beau-
tiful!— a dashing barouche and four —
a lady and gentleman inside enveloped
in sables, with the tips of their noses
peeping out. What a tidy farmer's
cart, and such a devilish nice girl
going to spend her Christmas — and
talk of the devil, here he comes — poh !
only a provincial sweep careering
along upon his donkey.
As evening comes on, I enter a
town, and pass alehouse after ale-
1639.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster- Eaier.
house, where the blazing tap- room
fire streams through the well- cleaned
window, and exhibits within a serai-
circle of elderly gentlemen with pipes
and pots, engaged in settling the
affairs of the nation — groups of rosy
laughing girls gather for mutual pro-
tection at the corner, and wo betide
the hapless bumpkin who draws
down upon his numbskull the con-
centrated artillery of their tongues.
You see a knot of young artizans flit-
ting about the opposite corner, but,
Lord bless you ! sooner than attack
that bevy of virgins, as they stand,
the poor fellows would jump into a
lime-kiln ! The markets are sump-
tuous to behold, and every thing is
promised feasting and anticipated
revelry.
" Do you suppose, because I trudg-
ed along, poor, hungry and friend-
less, that I observed all these indica-
tions of
" How good the God of seasons was to
them,"
with emotions correspondent to the
bitterness of my lot ? if so, you sup»
pose ignorantly. I thank my God,
my heart warmed, glowed, expanded,
under the influence of the hospitable
atmosphere around me. I forgot for
the moment, my individual desolation
in the contemplation of surrounding
plenty, and feasted in imagination
upon the prospective feastings of my
fellow-creatures ! You, born and
nursed in the lap of luxury, whose
associations of this holy season are
made up of the recollections of hospi-
table interchanges of social courtesies
— who wander abroad with your rela-
tives hanging upon your arm, and
return home loaded with presents for
your little brothers and sisters — to
whom, at this time of year, the old and
faithful servant of your house is as a
father, and your great dog Neptune
a familiar friend — you, fallen from
your better fortunes, arid trudging
along without a dinner, or money to
buy one, might, in the bitterness of
your heart, be tempted to curse the
hospitality which you alone were not
to be permitted to share. But the
case was altogether different with
me — desolate from my birth — flung
friendless upon the wide world, days
as bad as a man could see and live,
had already gone over my head ; it
was a luxury to me to see poor people
happy, and the mere aspect of com-
fort and unostentatious plenty was a
feast, stranger though I was, and
penniless in the land !
It was on a Christmas eve that I
entered a small town in one of the
midland counties, weary, hungry, and
without a penny in my pocket. I had
tried some ballads along the road, in
my very best style, such as I used to
turn to very good account in the mari-
time purlieus of Dublin ; — and here let
me pause to observe, that I have ever
found sailors just landed from a trip
the very best judges of lyrical poetry
— their criticism is contributed in
copper, a coin very superior indeed to
the reviewers' brass — in short, there
is no comparison. I sung over and
over again, till my larynx felt as rough
as a file —
" Come, listen awhile, and you soon shall
hear —
By the rolling sea lived a maiden fair,
Her father he followed the smuggling
trade,
Like a warlike hero —
Like a warlike hero that never was afraid.
" In seaman's clothes young Jane did go,
Dressed like a sailor from top to toe ;
Her father he was become old and poor,
Like a warlike hero —
Like a warlike hero, as I told you before."
And so on, but sing as I might, I got
never a penny. This led me to reflect
a little ; if I had had money in my
pocket, no doubt I would have gone
through Swillingham, for that was the
name of the place, with sovereign
contempt for their " cruel taste in
music," as the cow facetiously ob-
served after she had eaten the bag-
pipes ; but money I had none, and
therefore I began to consider whether
a village in the midland counties was
just the sphere in which a nautical
ballad, like the Female Smuggler, was
likely to be properly appreciated.
After hearing arguments pro and
con, I concluded it was not ; and this
literary failure I put on record for the
benefit of all those scribblers who may
not be aware of the importance of
attending to the time and manner of
bringing out a work ; from the inge-
nuous hidalgo who pumped The
. Great Metropolis upon the town,
down, down, down to — let me see how
low I can go — down to Lord Mul-
grave, the unreadable novel-twister,
or his equally great camarado, Lord
Morpeth, the Keepsake poet I
364 Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oi/ster-JBafef, [March,
In considering what lyrical produc-
tion I should substitute for the Fe-
male Smuggler — for it was with me
a clear case of " No Song, no Sup-
per,"— the sound of a shrill voice,
chanting carols, struck upon my ear.
I followed the sound, and arrived at
the corner of a lane whence the sa-
cred melody was pouring forth — I ap-
proached, and found the musician a
youth of some eleven years of age,
rolling his eyes on diverging axes,
and straining his throat as if his heart
would break — as well it might, for
the poor youth was singing to empty
benches, — he cried out like Wisdom in
the streets, but no man paid the
slightest attention to him ! Now, I
sing a remarkable second— remark-
ablerinasmuch as it is not the result of
a knowledge of music, scientifically or
practically — but an instinctive blend-
ing of a second in strict harmony with
any tuneable voice — I cannot help it,
and I cannot go wrong — hum an
opera air, I will chime in a second to
the fraction of a semitone — sing a
second, I will come in mathemati-
cally with a bass — descend into bass,
I harmonize with a tolerable falsetto.
I never could account for this ; but,
if I ever have the honour of an intro-
duction to Mr Hogarth, who has made
himself master of the subject, I intend
to ask him all about it.
I chimed in, however, with the
youth, and very soon attracted a not
inconsiderable auditory, who, I could
easily perceive, were true judges of
correct taste and harmonious execu-
tion. A few coppers fell into the
hands of the straining youth, who
took occasion to observe, at the close
of one of our carols, that, if I con-
tinued to assist him, he had no objec-
tion to let me go " snacks." To this
I very readily assented, and the
straining youth and myself having
expended a halfpenny each in small
beer to keep us in voice, carolled
through the town of Swillingham
with such great and unprecedented
success, that, when we found our-
selves unable to get out another note,
"we were in the joint possession of the
gross sum of fifteen-pence halfpenny,
•with which we proposed immediately
to adjourn to our hotel.
The reader is not to suppose that
we entered beneath one of those
houses of extortion, which suspend a
lie over their doors in the shape of
some green dragon, blue lion, golden
griffin, or such like fabulous monster,
never to be seen, except at Green-
wich fair, in " rerum natura," — we
entered a house in the lane where I
first discovered the straining youth,
and which displayed, in a window of
two feet square, an assortment of red
herrings, pipes, ballads, penny rolls,
rush-lights, bacon, matches, and ge-
neral merchandise. We entered, as I
have said ; when the straining youth
demanded, authoritatively, to know
what he could have for supper ; to
which the matron of the mansion re-
plied by another interrogatory, " what
he had got to pay it with."
The reply to this business-like re-
quest, was a display of the fifteen-
pence halfpenny upon the table, which
completely satisfied the lady of the
house, who set about preparing our
supper con amore, while the youth
and myself amused our innocent minds
by arranging in the Macedonian pha-
lanx the fifteenpence halfpenny, un-
til the banquet was announced as
quite ready.
We began, I recollect, with a salt
herring — removed by a quarter of a
pound of streaky bacon — seven
pounds of potatoes, a penny roll each,
and a quart of small beer.
The bill, which I also well remem-
ber, was as follows : — Fish, a penny
— bacon, twopence — vegetables, two-
pence halfpenny — bread, twopence —
beer, one-penny, — the sum total of
the joint repast, eightpence half-
penny, fire, cooking, and candles in-
cluded. This I submit to the con-
sideration of gentlemen frequenting
the Clarendon ; and I ought to add,
that our lodging was twopence each,
waiters, chambermaids, and boots in-
clusive.
My belly was full, and my spirits,
as is always the case, buoyant in pro-
portion— I drank to the health of the
factory boy — for such was the profes-
sion of the straining youth — with
many expressions of the pleasure I
felt in making his acquaintance —
which the factory boy — with a pull
at the small beer, returned by wishing
me a merry Christmas and plenty of
'em ; to which I replied across the
table in a " neat and appropriate
speech."
We then proposed " the King, and
the rest of the royal family," which
was responded to with enthusiasm —
Soms Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater' 3G5
1839.]
whereupon the matron said we were
good boys, and might have another
mug of beer, if we chose to pay for it,
which hospitable offer the factory
boy, with a wink at me, declined.
As the factory boy was the only
gentleman of a literary turn of mind
I had encountered since my arrival in
England, I thought I might as well,
for I was always insufferably vain,
have his opinion of certain poetical
trifles, in the composition of which I
had amused myself while in the news-
paper line, but which my late lament-
ed friend Crick considered, one and
all, as very low, and every way infe-
rior to the Kilriddery Hunt, as, in
truth, was the case.
The factory boy, I thought, might
be of a different opinion ; and, whe-
ther he was or not, I proposed to my-
self the gratification of spouting my
own doggrel, which is luxury enough
to a manufacturer of epics any day.
Accordingly, having intimated to
the factory boy that I intended to
astonish his weak mind, — an intima-
tion which he replied to by a copious
libation of small beer, as if to gather
strength to undergo the operation, — I
took out of my bosom a little manu-
script book, which, for greater safety,
I had tied round my neck with a
string; and, after the usual number
of preliminary hems, proceeded to
astonish the factory boy as follows: —
THE RAINBOW.
I.
" In jocund boyhood's gay career,
Nor care, nor blight, nor sorrow near,
Oft, in wild hope, I've followed on,
Upland and vale, woodland and lawn,
In eager chase,
To gain the apace
Where heaven's gay arch found resting,
place.
Breathless, I toiled from hill to hill ;
From hill to hill the vision flow,
Lingering on earth, yet lingering still
Without my reach, within my view.
" In manhood thus — a graver child,
Hope, like that arch celestial, smiled,
Apparrelling in colours gay
The toy, the wish of every day —
Allures the view,
And we pursue,
Fond fools ! to find our day-dream true.
Still, far as ever from our eyes,
The expected blessing mocks the sight,
And, like the rainbow of the skies,
Dissolves in tears or fades in night.
" Love 1 Glory ! Fame 1 Ambition I — all
Hues of the brightest — fastest fly ;
Dark days of twilight round us fall,
As one by one we see them die.
Thrice happy they
To die away —
As to that fading bow 'tis given-
Rising in death from earth to heaven ! "
" What do you think of that ?" said
I, after a decent pause, to the atten-
tive factory boy.
" I was thinking," answered the ju-
venile manufacturer, with an air of
grave deliberation — " I was thinking,"
replied him of the factory, " that we
might sing it to-morrow — if it would
pay."
" PAY !— if it would PAY I " From
the heights of Parnassus I came tum-
bling with the emphasis of a squashed
apple-dumpling. I could have eaten
the factory boy without salt ; but, hav-
ing already supped, I contented myself
with putting The Rainbow into my
breeches' pocket, and draining to the
dregs, out of pure malice, what little
there remained of the small beer.
366
Egypt — The Trojan War — Home?',
EGYPT — THE TROJAN WAR — HOMER.
I. IN our last Egyptian article, of
which Mr Cory's Ancient Fragments
formed the text (see No. 273, July
1838), we discussed the origin and
progress of phonetic discovery until
it became a profitable appendage to
history, by means of those chronolo-
gical tablets which it has rescued
from the night of ages ; and which
have supplied us with a contemporary
outline of the most remarkable, and
heretofore the most questioned por-
tion of the heathen annals of antiqui-
ty, and placed at our disposal records
of the mythic ages of Greek and Ro-
man writers.
We pointed out to our readers the
classification which must be observed
with reference to the Egyptian re-
cords, to investigate them with effect
— namely, that portion, belonging to
the declining period of the monarchy,
which is obnoxious to the test of con-
temporary history, although less fully
elucidated by recent discovery than
the great age of art and empire — and
that portion referring to the latter,
which, from the absence of connected
contemporary criteria, had hitherto
bid defiance to theory, but which in-
volves the foundation of all the great
existing monuments, and the lists of
their constructors, now so effectually
vindicated.
In our examination of the chrono-
logy of the twenty-first and following
dynasties, the claims of the principal
annalist Manetho were shown to be
indisputable; the restoration of the
chronological outline of his text from
among the conflicting versions which
appear in Mr Cory's collection, prac-
ticable ; and the scientific principles
of his history to be the same with
those more recently adopted by the
Grseco-Egyptian astronomers, and
which are on all hands agreed to be
incontrovertible.
The more full elucidation of these
principles we reserved for our inves-
tigation of the early dynasties which
are in a great degree beyond the pale
of contemporary history, but of many
of which we now possess the original
counterparts — anticipating that we
should, by this course, be equally con-
ducted to a true outline of the ante-
cedent text ; and hence, to criteria for
testing the system of the historian, and
the various theories which have been
founded on it in ancient and modern
times.
We now, therefore, return to that
more interesting part of the history
to which the recovered monumental
records, and the great remains of art
belong. This has been preserved in
various forms, more or less original,
by Herodotus, the author of the Old
Egyptian Chronicle, Manetho, Era-
tosthenes, Diodorus Siculus, and Jo-
sephus (whose respective outlines
will be found in " Ancient Frag-
ments") ; and has re-appeared in con-
nexion with the chronological theories
of the fathers of the church — more
particularly in the writings of Euse-
bius and Syncellus — followed by many
learned moderns, as Scaliger, Ussher,
Marsham, Perizonius, Newton, and
Pritchard — up to the period of the
present hieroglyphic discoveries.
With Dr Pritchard1 s learned analy-
sis of Egyptian mythology and chro-
nology, which appeared in the year
1819, the old school of this branch of
criticism may be said to have closed :
while in the same year the new was
originated by the hieroglyphic disser-
tations and chronological tables pub-
lished by Dr Young. Champollion,
Felix, Rosellini, Seyffarth, Wilkin-
son, Sharpe, Cory, and others, have
followed ; and all have endeavoured
to combine the new discoveries with
the old systems.
None of these are right, nor could
it he expected, while so much differ-
ence of opinion prevails regardingeven
the sacred chronology of the ages in
question ; but it is singular that, while
the present continental critics advo-
cate a long system of time, in corres-
pondence with the Samaritan and
Greek versions of Scripture, the Eng-
lish, with scarcely an exception, con-
sider the era of the deluge given by
Moses in the Hebrew Numbers, B.C.
2348, as exceeding the limit to which
the chronology of the Egyptian dy-
nasties extends — an opinion which we
also decidedly adhere to, viewing all
the lengthened periods as reducible
without force to the limits of Ussher's
Biblical chronology.
Under such circumstances, we be-
1830.]
Egypt— The Trojan War— Home?.
lieve we can do no better service to
the cause of enquiry, than to collect
and examine the results of ancient and
modern opinion regarding the early
dynasties. This we propose to do in
the order of the respective ages of the
writers — omitting, or passing briefly
over, those moderns who preceded the
hieroglj'phic era, and noticing several
points of importance to history, which
have been heretofore overlooked. We
hope by this process to arrive at the
true sense of the original authorities,
which will, as already intimated, help
us to test the results of modern opin-
ion ; and we propose to conclude by
a tabular view of the several systems,
with our own inferences from the
whole. Indeed, our proposed course
is the more necessary, because it will
appear that several of the ancient sys-
tems, as those of Herodotus, Manetho,
and Diodorus, have never hitherto
been clearly submitted to modern
readers ; while some of the leading
theories of the present time, as those
of llosellini and Wilkinson, have not
hitherto been criticised by our tena-
cious reviewers, who content them-
selves with echoing the dogmas of the
hierologists.
But, there is one writer not hitherto
admitted into the canon of historians,
who preceded all these whom we have
enumerated, and whose notices, con-
nected with Egypt, are probably syn-
chronous with the close of the con-
tinued hieroglyphic records, and of
the nineteenth Dynasty of Diospoli-
tans, when the great cycle of Egyptian
art terminates. We mean the poet
Homer (the probable contemporary
of his own Polybus or Thuoris),
whose knowledge of history, geo-
graphy, art, mythology, and every
subject he has handled, astonishes us,
only because clothed in the poetical
garb of the age in which he flourish-
ed ; and whose Egyptian notices and
allusions we hope to see incorpo-
rated in their due place, in the third
edition of Mr Cory's excellent com-
pilation.
Justice to history, to Homer, and
to polite literature, demands this ;
and, in the mean time, we shall intro-
duce this venerable chronicler, like
one of his own episodes, between the
first and second portions of our en-
quiry, so as not to offend the preju-
dices of unprepared readers, by dis-
turbing the chain of recognised wri-
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXI.
ters on history. We hope to demon-
strate that the scientific principles of
the systems of Manetho and the
Grseco- Egyptian astronomers were
not unknown to Homer, and that by
developing his chronological calendar,
we shall the better prepare our read-
ers for the chronological calendar of
Herodotus which is to follow. In
fine, our hope is to restore Homer to
his place, as the true father of profane
history, and thereby render, we trust,
an acceptable and interesting ser-
vice to the cause of both Greek and
Egyptian history and literature, and
add one more link to the chain which
binds them together. Having thus
far introduced the subject, we shall,
without further preface, proceed with
our Homeric episode.
II. Nothing can be more delightful
to the cultivated mind than the juxta-
position in which the sisters, Art and
Poetry, appear in the earliest known
ages of both. That the military
sculptures of the Pharaohs are repre-
sented to the life in the Homeric
battle-scenes, and that the descrip-
tions of the poet are equally repre-
sented to the life in the efforts of
Egyptian art, are observations which
have occurred to every traveller and
admirer of ancient genius.
While Homer's knowledge of Greece
and its dependencies is that of a na-
tive, his knowledge of Egypt is that
of a traveller, with little more of ex-
aggeration and embellishment than
are to be found in travellers, from
Herodotus or Marco Polo ; and the
ancients have, with almost one con-
sent, assigned Egypt either as the
country of his birth, or that from
whence he derived the varied mate-
rials embodied in works which every
succeeding age has been content to
imitate. The uncertainty regarding
the country and history of the poet
has left room for many an hypothesis
to account for his extraordinary de-
gree of knowledge ; and one writer —
Heliodorus — goes so far as to make
him a son of the Egyptian god
Hermes, by a priestess of Thebes.
Be this as it may, it is by no means
an untenable hypothesis that the voy-
ages of
" The man for wisdom's various arts re-
nowned,"
are either wholly or in part, those of
the poet himself, who,
368
" Wandering from clime to clime, observ-
ant stray 'd,
Their manners noted, and their states sur-
veyed ;"
and,
(l When his muse had sung the destined
fall
Of sacred Troy,"
and enriched the Iliad from his stores
of accumulated knowledge, embodied
these wanderings in the history of one
of his principal heroes.
It is at least certain that the age of
the* wanderings of Ulysses is that of
the poet ; and this will explain many
seeming difficulties and anachronisms
which occur in the Odyssey, but not
in the Iliad. It will account for the
events of different ages being mingled
together. It will explain why the
three hundred years are annihilated,
which separated the Egyptian King
Memnon, the contemporary of Priam,
from Poly bus and Proteus, the contem-
poraries of Homer ; and the idea only
requires to be carried out to explain the
two ages to which the events of the
Trojan war have been assigned, and
to account for the congress of ^Eneas
and the foundress of Carthage.
The Egyptian origin of the Homeric
calendar of divinities was asserted by
Herodotus ; and this is confirmed by
the whole tenor of subsequent history
and mythology ; but it has not hitherto
been suspected that the frame-work of
the Iliad and Odyssey is itself derived
from the Egyptian calendar, and that
the Trojan era, and the Homeric, or
second Trojan era, are discoverable
with mathematical accuracy in the
cycle of the erratic Egyptian year.
— The Trrjun War — Home)'.
[ March,
The taking of Troy was, as we learn
from Diodorus, the •xa.^nwypa., or re-
gulating epoch of early Grecian his-
tory and chronology (like that of the
Olympiads in subsequent times) ; and
that it was an astronomical one ap-
pears from Dionysius of Halicarnas-
sus, who, in the first book of his
Chronicle, acquaints us that Troy
" was taken on the approach of sum-
mer, seventeen days before the sol-
stice, on the eighth day,* before the end
(i.e. on the 24th) of the (1 1th) Athe-
nian month Thargelion, — twenty days
remaining to complete the current
year, which thus ended thirty-seven
days after the capture of the city."
This he had from the historians Epho-
rus, Callisthenes, and other very an-
cient authorities, who affirmed that
the month Thargelion was for this
reason, always accounted unfortunate
among the barbarian or foreign na-
tions.
The most ancient Attic year con-
sisted, like the Egyptian, from whence
it was derived, of twelve months of
thirty days each, which were kept to
their places in the solar year, by modes
of intercalation not now understood ;f
for, the explanation attributed to So-
lon (Herod. I. 32), and repeated by
Geminus, Censorinus, and others ; ac-
cording to which a month of thirty
days was added every alternate year
to that of 360 days, will aid us but
little.
The most ancient writer who pro-
fesses accurately to fix the year of
the taking of Troy, is Timaeus Sicu-
lus (B.C. 265— 1), who dated it 417
years before the Olympian era, B.C.
776. This ascends to the year B.C.
* The Parian Chronicle has " the seventh day," which evidently means seven days be-
fore the expiration of the month, as determined by the express statement of Dionysius,
which proves its own exactness.
f Since these pages were written, we have ascertained that the ancient Attic months
were kept in their places by an intercalary solar cycle of nine years, which is alluded toby
Homer, Odyss. xix. 1 78, and represents the difference of time between the calendars of
the Iliad and Odyssey. By the returns of this cycle, which has been most erroneously
confounded with the lunar octaeteris, or cycle of eight years, the recurrence of the ancient
Grecian festivals and games — the Panatheuaea, the Isthmia, the Pythia, the Olympica,
&c — was regulated in the ages preceding the Olympian era, at which time the period of
nine years was replaced by that of four. The events of history were also conventionally
adjusted by the former ; as, the nine years' interval of the tribute imposed on the Athenians
by Minos ; the nine years from the rape of Helen till the siege of Troy ; the nine years of
the siege ; the nine years interposed between the taking of Troy and the return of Ulysses,
&c. But we cannot do more than allude to a question so comprehensive, and so important
to history, in the compass of a note, and shall probably recur to it on another occasion,
more especially because it has been wholly overlooked by the A nakims of ancient and modern
criticism.
1839.]
Egypt — The Trojan War — Homer.
369
1193, and is nearly the date given by
Paterculus, 415 years before the first
Olympiad, and by Aretes, 414 years
before that era. It is further con-
firmed by the accurate chronologist,
Castor Rhodius, in whose Assyrian
Canon (cited in Ancient Frag. p.
75, 76) the taking of Troy is referred
to the thirty-second year of King Tau-
tanes, 418 years before the first
Olympiad. The date assigned by the
Parian Marbles, a record of the age of
Timseus (as corrected by Selden and
Marsham), by Eratosthenes, Apollo-
dorus, Dionysiusof Halicarnassus, and
Porphyry, is 407 years before the
Olympiads, which is raised by Diodo-
rus, Solinus, and Lactantius, to 408,
and diminished by Eusebius to 406 —
the difference between this series and
the former probably resulting from
the ten years of the siege.*
In the early part of the twelfth cen-
tury B.C., the solstice occurred on
July 4th in the Julian year ; and
seventeen days before this, or June
1 7th, Troy was taken, according to
the authorities of Dionysius. This
day has been altered to June 1 1th in
the year B.C. 1184, by Petavius; to
June 10th B.C. 1183, by Dodwell; to
June22d B.C. 1183, by Scaliger; and
to June 21st B.C. 1182, by Bunting,
who respectively conjecture that the
statement of the ancients refers to the
Metonic or Calippic lunar yearf — an
hypothesis which, independently of
the blundering calculations of these
chronologists, the fact that Ephorus
and Callisthenes lived a century before
Timaeus,of itself confutes ; and proves,
as will immediately appear, that the
characters of the date were derived
from ancient observation or invention.
But, invention would in this case imply
a refinement in calculation which only
belongs to modern times, unless the fol-
lowing coincidence be a mere acci-
dent.
June 17th was, in fact, the Thoth
or first day of the erratic Egyptian
year, at the date assigned by Timseus '
and his followers— the Thoth, which
receded a day in each quadriennium,
answering to that day from B.C. 1 193
to 1 189, as the elements preserved by
Claudius Ptolemy, Censorinus, and
Theon, and quoted in Mr Cory's work,
determine with mathematical cer-
tainty.
This is of itself a remarkable coin-
cidence, but not more than might be
expected if the history and its era
were derived from the priests of
Egypt, who connected every historical
era (and doubtless the information
derived from the visit of Menelaus,
one of the principal actors in the
scene) with their erratic calendar,
and thus left a method of determining
the truth of such eras, which descend-
ed to the astronomers of the Grseco-
Egyptian school ; and, in the records of
Hipparchus and Ptolemy, has proved
more useful than any other system of
ancient chronology. The Thoth of
the taking of Troy was, in fact, that
of Priam's death, and would have been
that of the reign of his successor — the
system referring every accession to
the first day of the erratic year in
which it occurred (as demonstrated
by the chronological canon of Hip-
parchus and Ptolemy, in which the
reigns of less than a year are invari-
ably included in the next, in order
* There is another series of rough dates, also at the interval of ten years from the latter,
viz., B.C. 1176 or 400 years before the first Olympiad, according to Varro, B.C. 1173,
according to Syncellus, and B.C. 1171, or 395 years before the first Olympiad, according
to Sosibius. Besides these, we have B.C. 1269, or 770 years before the descent of Xerxes
on Greece, in the life of Homer attributed to Herodotus (a date resulting from a palpable
error of 200 years, in early transcription, as will appear farther on), and B.C. 1209, as it
stands in the uncorrected Parian Marbles. And, if we add the depressed epochs of Hero-
dotus, B.C. 972—939 (the reign of Proteus), of Virgil, about the time of the foundation
of Carthage, B.C. 887, and of Constantinus Manasses, who makes Priam send an embassy
for auxiliaries to King David, we believe we shall have before us all the dates to which
the Trojan war has been referred by the ancients.
f " Proinde non pro historicorum coaevorum testimonio, sed pro juniorum qui sub
Metonico Cyclo vixerint, ratiociniis." — (Dodwell,Diss. Ldt Vet. Or. Romanorumq. Cyc.)
The elements stated by this critic belong to the year B.C. 1184, and not 1183, to' which he
refers them ; nor do any of the above quoted dates agree with the premises assumed, which
are principally founded on the Metonic Solstice, June 27th, and belong to the 8th year,
ending, of the Metonic Cycle of 19, ascending from B.C. 432, -the date of Meton's obser-
vations.
370
Egypt — The Trojan War — Homer.
[March,
that each reign might take its date
from the antecedent Egyptian Thoth) ;
and, in the present case, it could not
\)& far removed from the event, which
Virgil (.<Eneid III.) and the ancients
refer to summer, in conformity with
the general sense of Homer.
It is difficult to suppose that such a
coincidence could be accidental ; while
it gives us a consistent reason for the
astronomical characters stated by Di-
onysius ; and, if valid, a mathemati-
cally correct date for the siege of
Troy, with reference to the year. It
is, besides, consistent with the known
Egyptian origin of the Attic year,
and with the reputed and most con-
sistent and probable origin of the Ho-
meric materia. We need hardly add,
that none of the other dates, to which
the taking of Troy has been referred,
can offer the required characters.
Again, by ascending with the erratic
Egyptian year till the Thoth corres-
ponded with the first day of the Attic
year, i. e. thirty-eight days after Thar-
gelion 23, and June 17, or 38 X 4 =
152 years + B.C. 1193, we shall find
B.C. 1345—1341 for the date of co-
incidence, and of the derivation of
the Athenian year from the Egyp-
tian ;* and the year B.C. 1349, accord-
ing to Eusebius, marks the arrival of
Pelops in Peloponnesus, with whose
Olympic games, celebrated at Elis,
B.C. 1321 (the epoch of the Egyptian
Canicular Cycle, as explained in our
former articles), we have the first in-
dication of that year in Greece.
Let us next descend from the Tro-
jan era to the age of Homer, and we
shall be directed to equally consistent
results.
The best supported age of the poet
is that of Lycurgus, the Lacedaemo-
nian legislator, about the time of the
first Olympiad instituted by Iphitus,
B.C. 884 — 108 years before the date of
the continued series of Olympiads, ac-
cording to Eratosthenes and Phlegon
— and Homer flourished 302 years
after the taking of Troy, according to
the marble chronicle of Paros, the
majority as well as the most authentic
and judicious of the ancient historians
differing little from this (although we
find Homer raised to B.C. 1109, and
depressed to B.C. 684, as will appear
in the sequel). Herodotus, the most
ancient of them, dates the age of
Homer (II. 53) 400 years before his
own time ; and, as Herodotus was
born in the year B.C. 484 (or fifty-
three years before the Peloponnesian
war), according to Aulus Gellius, we
thus obtain the Homeric date B.C. 884,
as above.
An Egyptian astronomical date oc-
curs at this time — the coincidence ot
the Thoth with the vernal equinox,
April 2, to which it had receded B.C.
889 — 885 ; the recession, from the
* The following table will show the relation of the Attic and Egyptian months for this
epoch, together with their places in the Julian year.
1345.
Attic.
Egyptian. 1
Days
July
25.
I.
Hecatomboeon,
I.
Thoth,
30
Aug.
24.
II.
Metagitnion,
II.
Paophi,
30
Sept.
23.
III.
Boedromion,
III.
Athyr,
30
Oct.
23.
IV.
Pyanepsion,
IV.
Choiac,
30
Nov.
22.
V.
Mzemacterion,
V.
Tybi,
30
Dec.
22.
VI.
Posideon (the redupl
i-
cated month in the in-
tercalary year),
VI.
Mechir,
30
134'
Jan.
1.
21.
VII.
Gamelion,
VII.
Phamenoth,
SO
Feb.
20.
VIII.
Anthesterion, VIII.
Pharmuthi,
30
Mar.
22.
IX.
Elaphebolion,
IX.
Pachon,
30
April
21.
X.
Munychion,
X.
Payni,
30
May
21.
XI.
Thargelion,
XI.
Epiphi,
80
June
20.
XII.
Seirrophorion,
XII.
Mesori,
30
July
20.
Epagomense or inter-
calary days,
5
365
1839.]
Egypt — The Trojan War — Homer.
371
former astronomical date, June 17,
B.C. 1193 — 1189, being seventy-six
days X 4 = 304 years.
Such was the state of the erratic Egyp-
tian calendar when Homer wrote — the
commencement of the year correspond-
ing with the opening of the Iliad, as
well as of the Odyssey, as will present-
ly appear ; and the 23d of Thargelion,
on which Tory was taken, answering
to the 17th of the third Egyptian
month Athyr, the day of the Apha-
nism or disappearance of Osiris, and
of the mournful rites of the Egyptian
calendar ; * in correspondence with
the unlucky character of Thargelion
among the barbarians, as above.
We thus discover a difference of
time strictly Egyptian, which, we can-
not doubt, would be marked by the
priests, admitting Homer's informa-
tion to have been derived from them.
They would, like every one else, use
the current calendar of the period. It
is literally the difference between the
calendars of the Memnon of the Iliad
and the Polybus of the Odyssey—-
namely, the Ramses Miamon, or
Ramses II. (the author of the Mem-
nonium, and of the finest military
sculptures), and the Thuoris or Poly-
bus of Manetho's dynasties — the pe-
riod from the accession of the for-
mer to the death of the latter being
303 years, according to the fragments
in Josephus ; and varying from 295 to
315 years, according to the other
copies of the dynasties.
We have remarked that the com-
mencement of the Egyptian year at
the equinox, in Homer's time, corre-
sponded with the opening of the Iliad
and Odyssey. Now, it is quite certain
that if Troy was taken near the time
of the summer solstice, the action of
the former poem belongs to the ver-
nal quarter of the year — the most pro-
bable time for the campaign ; and,
the whole action of the Iliad being
limited to about fifty-six days, it will
fall within this period.
The time of action of this poem is
thus unequally distributed: —
Book I. The Contention, and Plague in the )
Grecian camp, /
The Council of the Kings, . . 1
The Festival, and Voyage of Jupi- )
9 days
ter and the gods to Ethiopia,
II XXII. The Battles, &c
XXIII. The Funeral of Patroclus,
XXIV. The Truce, and Funeral of Hector,
12
7
3
24
Day.
1st.
10th.
llth.
23d.
30th.
33d.
56 days 57th.
Pope, who has in most respects correctly stated the times of action, has
through an oversight made the interval of the battles eight days instead of
seven, in consequence of calling the twenty-eighth day the 29th, at the com-
mencement of Book XVIII.
The synchronous (with reference to the annual calendar) action of the
Odyssey is thus distributed by Pope.
Book I — IV.
V.
VI.— XIII.
XIV.— XXIV.
Minerva's descent to Ithaca, on the"]
return of the gods from Ethiopia 1 g
— the voyage of Telemachus to {
Pylos and Sparta, . . . J
Mercury's descent to Ogygia, on }
the same occasion — the voyage > 25
of Ulysses to Pheanicia, &c. )
Voyage to Ithaca, &c., . . 3
The return and restoration of) -
Ulysses, &c., J '
Day.
1st.
7th.
32d.
85th.
42d.
* Plutarch, de Isid. et. Osirid.
372
Egypt — The Trojan War — Homer.
[March,
But, it is evident that the time of
Books I. to IV. is synchronous with
the lirst six days of Book V., the events
equally originating with the council
at Olympus on the return of the gods
from their Ethiopian feast ; and the
first series — the voyage of Telemachus,
&c., being subsidiary to the second —
the return of Ulysses. To the same
annual council of the gods equally ori-
ginates the main action of the Iliad,
in connexion with the wrath of Achil-
les ; so that the twenty-third day of
the incident of that poem answers, in
the annual calendar, to the first of the
main action of the Odyssey, while the
interval thence, to the conclusion of
both poems, is the same, or, at most,
does not differ more than one day.
The annual (aquatic — see the Pillar
.of Rosetta) festival or procession of
Jupiter and the gods at Diospolis or
Thebes, is mentioned by Herodotus
and Diodorus, and its duration fixed at
twelve days by Eustathius. From this,
Pope anticipated ultimate elucidation
of the time of the year when the action
of the Iliad commences. This question
is greatly illustrated by an hieroglyphic
calendar on the wall of the palace of
Ramses III., or Sesostris at Medinet
Abou, in which the images of Amon
Ra, or Jupiter Ammon, and the rest of
the gods, are carried out in procession
on the Thoth, or first day of the year ;
and likewise on the nineteenth of the
second month, Paophi (Champollion,
Lettres de 1'Egypte, xviii. p. 361),
forty-eight days after the first proces-
sion, which (sc. the first) must "be
viewed as the great annual festival of
Jupiter Ammon, independently of the
relation between his symbol of the
ram and the coinciding sign Aries,
in the time of Homer. In fact, the
difference of time between the two
festivals, just involves the forty-six
days of the Iliad which follow the first
of them. The action of the poem is
suspended during the first twelve days
of this interval, in compliment to the
gods, and it concludes in thirty-four
days more, or immediately before the
commencement of the second divine
feast.
In like manner, the action of the
Odyssey, which begins as above,
from the council of the gods on their
return from Ethiopia, extends thirty-
four days from that point in the calen-
dar : so that both poems (although
the events are supposed to be sepa-
rated by an interval of eight or ten
years) are adjusted on the same fixed
principles of mythological chronology,
and are reciprocally demonstrative of
those principles which can alone be
derived from the calendar of the an-
nual festivals.
Thus, then, the anticipations of
Pope, who never contemplated such a
parallelism in the times of action
which he so laboriously elicited, are
realized ; and the calendar of Homer
effectually illustrated from those
sculptures which appear to have fur-
nished the prototypes of his finest
descriptions. The commencement of
the twelve days' festival is identified
with (he equinoctial Thoth of the age
of Homer — being the eleventh day of
the action of the Iliad, which will
thus extend forty-six days from the
vernal equinox, as above, and leave
exactly a month of thirty days, of the
seventy- six which preceded the fall
of Troy, for the events following
Hector's funeral, — that is, according
to the conventional calendarian prin-
ciples of the poem, which would sup-
pose a second suspension of action
during the twelve days of the second
divine festival, and thus leave six-
teen days only for the subsequent
events of the war (as decided by the
gods in council, on their second return
to Olympus). Nor should it be for-
gotten that the hieroglyphic calendar
mentioned, belongs to the period
which separated Homer from the
Trojan war.
The erratic Egyptian calendar may
be stated as in the following table, in
relation to the Attic year, for the
Trojan and Homeric eras ; by which
it will appear that the events of the
year B.C. 1193—1189, are stated in
the calendar of the year 889 — 5, being
that which, as above, was current and
best understood when Homer visited
Egypt, and whose accurate acquain-
tance with the annual calendar of that
country can no more be doubted than
his knowledge of its canonized divi-
nities.
The times and action of the twenty-
four Books of the Odyssey, are briefly
incorporated with those of the twenty-
four books of the Iliad, in the annex-
ed tabular statement ; * because the
* See end of this article.
1839.] Eifwt—The Trojnn War—Ilmur. .173
calendar of the former i> noc^s^iriiy the astronomical date of the Trojan
the same as that of the latter, — name- war as preserved by Timanis, Diony-
ly, the Egyptian calendar of the age sius, &c., and the second with the
of Homer, — and because, as above, lower epoch to which that war has
the time of the main action of both been assigned, and with the frame-
poems, is not only identical, with re- work of the Homeric records. They
fercnce to the months and days of the are explicable only on the supposition
year, in its commencement — the as- that the original era, and the ground-
sembly of the gods in council at work of Homer's history were pre-
Olympus, on their return from Ethio- served and transmitted by the priests
pia — but in its duration of thirty-four of Egypt, in agreement with the gener-
days following the twelve of the voy- al tradition of antiquity, and with the
age to Ethiopia, and ending imme- voyage of Menelaus to Egypt after the
diately before the next divine fes- taking of Troy, which is attested alike
tival.* by Homer and Herodotus — the latter
We have here two eras of the referring to the authority of the
Egyptian annual calendar in exact Egyptian priests ; while, admitting
correspondence with the required cha- the truth of statements which we have
racters, and with the two eras to not the slightest grounds to question,
which the war of Troy has been as- the chronological coincidences are, as
signed, and precisely at the required already intimated, no more than might
interval of three centuries ; all which reasonably be expected to exist ; apart
it is incumbent on the critic who ob- from the relationship between the
jects to the present inferences, to ac- royal lines of Diospolis and Troy, as-
count for. serted by the Greeks, who make Titho-
The first of -these eras agrees with nus the father of the Egyptian Mem-
" " The will of Jove" (Iliad I. 5) is the primary argument of the Iliad, as an eminent
scholar, Mr Penn has demonstrated, in agreement with the present chronological results,
•which equally demonstrate that it is the primary argument of the Odyssey. This is deter-
mined at the first divine councils in both. On the return of the gods from the twelve days'
Ethiopian feast, the events connected with the wrath of Achilles are decreed ; and on the
same occasion, with reference to the annual calendar, the return of Ulysses from the island
of Ogygia to Ithaca — the fundamental event of the Odyssey — is equally determined.
The incidents often days in the Grecian camps, and the twelve days of the voyage to
Ethiopia, precede the time of the main action in the Iliad ; while the incidents of six days only
precede the time of the main action in the narrative of the Odyssey — that being, however,
necessarily identical with the first six days of the main action dated as above, from the Coun-
cil of the gods who decreed the return of Ulysses on their regaining Olympus — Neptune re-
maining behind in Ethiopia to oppose the return of the hero by storms (the equinoctial
gales ?), as appears in Books I. and V.
The gods assemble at Olympus, as in the Iliad, on their return from the Ethiopian feast,
on the first and seventh days of the incident of the Odyssey, as stated by Pope. On the
first occasion Minerva is despatched to Telemachus in Ithaca, and on the second, Mercury
to Calypso in Ogygia. With reference to the calendar we must, as already mentioned, date
the divine council on the day from which the leading action — the deliverance of Ulysses-
commences, and view its first introduction as a poetical anachronism in connexion with the
introductory incident of the poem, which- Pope clearly distinguishes from the action. (Note
to Book V.)
It follows that the twelve days of the feast, and, consequently, the commencement of the
year, anticipate the narrative of the Odyssey by six days, and the leading action by twelve ;
and this accordingly forms the chronological parapegma of our table ; independently of
which, the council and decree of the gods on the twenty-third day of the incident of the
Iliad, and on the seventh of that ot the Odyssey, forms the rallying point of both poems.
The years B.C. 1 1 92 and 887 are giveji as the critical dates of the coincidences of the Thoth
with the seventeenth day before the solstice, and with the equinox — these marking the
calendars of the respective ages, and answering within a year or two to the dates of history.
It should be observed that, besidest he great councils at Olympus on the return of the
gods from their annual voyages and festivals, at which the grand events of fate were de-
creed, there were frequent intermediate councils to regulate the subordinate actions of man-
kind, as appears from many parts of the Iliad and Odyssey, These occur often, but the
grand council of fate once only, at the commencement of the main action of both poems.
374
Egypt — the Trojan War — Homer.
[March,
non, brother to Laomedon the father
of Priam.
According to this, Troy would be an
Egyptian colony, and its line of kings
a branch of the great Egyptian family,
ascending to Tros the founder of
Troy,* and the father of IIus the
father of Tithonus and Laomedon; and
it is not unworthy of remark that
Ramses II., who answers, as already
observed, to Homer's Memnon, ap-
pears occasionally designated as son of
the god Atmou, Tmou, or Tethmou,
who answers to Heron, the father of
the same Ramses in Hermapion's
translation of his obelisk, and we may
suppose, represents the Greek Titho-
nus.
Another curious circumstance in
connexion with the subject is, that
Pelops who brought the Egyptian
year to Attica, is said to have been
expelled from Phrygia with his father
Tantalus, by Ilus the father of Titho-
nus. But, if the connexion between
the Egyptians and Trojans was as
close as above mentioned, every diffi-
culty is removed regarding the deri-
vation of the Egyptian t year from
Phrygia to Greece ; while the alleged
expulsion of the house of Pelops by
the Trojans, may furnish a better
reason than the rape of Helen, for the
invasion and destruction of the Trojan
kingdom by the Pelopidan dynasties
of Greece.
Let us now compare the lowest of
our eras — that of the calendar of
Homer — with thelower Trojan Epoch,
which is principally founded on the
congress of ^Eneas and Dido supposed
in the JSneid.
According to the Tyrian historian
Menander, cited by Josephus (Anc.
Frag. p. 186-8), Dido migrated and
founded Carthage in the seventh year
of her brother Pygmalion King of
Tyre— being the 126th from the 12th
of King Hiram, when the temple of
Solomon was founded. The esta-
blished era of the temple is B.C. 1012,
and the 126th year from this is B.C.
887, which is the date of the Egyptian
calendar of Homer. The record of
Menander, it should be observed, is
beautifully confirmed by sacred his-
tory. Jthobal reigns in Phoenicia
from B.C. 939 to 907 ; and, Ahab
King of Israel, who married Jezebel,
the daughter of Ethbaal King of the
Zidonians, (1st Kings, xvi. 31), reign-
ed from B.C. 920 to 900.
Again, Carthage was destroyed by
the Romans A.TJ.C. 608, or B.C.
146, after it had stood 737 years, as
we learn from Solinus. This refers
The chronology of the Trojan line, which remounts to Dardanus, the grandfather of
Tros, is computed at 296 years, ending with Priam's death, (viz. : — Dardanus 65 years,
Enethonius 46, Tros 49, Ilus 40, Laomedon 44, Priam 52) ; and this period added to B.C.
1193, will point to B.C. 1489 for the era of the line — being that of the cycle of the fixed
Egyptian year, which was renewed at the Augustan era, B.C. 29, as we learn from Syncel-
lus, p. 312. And the year B.C. 1489, was likewise tho epoch of the great XVIII. dy-
nasty of Diospolitans, as will appear in the sequel. These are coincidences which are
worthy of being investigated. It was the invariable habit of ancient colonies to adopt the
antecedent chronology of the parent states.
f The Egyptian canicular era of Menophres, which is likewise the Olympian era of Pe-
lops as already mentioned, B.C. 1321, occurred in the reign of Ilus, whose accession belongs
to the year B.C. 1329, according to the particulars mentioned in the preceding note.
It is also of much importance to this question to note, that the date of the foundation of
Troy, as stated by Eusebius (Chron. Num. 698), B.C. 1319, is almost identical with the
last mentioned era of Pelops and Menophres, B.C. 1321 ; while the foundation of Troy, as
stated by the ancient and accurate chronographer Thrasyllus, quoted by Clemens of Alex-
andria, ascends 25 years higher, or to B.C. 1344, i. e. 152 years before the destruction of
that city (or 1 33 years preceding the date of the carrying off of Helen by Paris, which
Homer refers to the twentieth year before the destruction of Troy).
But the Trojan epoch of Thrasyllus is the actual date of the coincidence between the
Attic and Egyptian years. It seems to follow from hence, that the Egyptian year, which
Pelops brought from Phrygia to Greece, was first brought into Phrygia when Troy was
founded ; and hence that the Trojans were really a colony from Egypt, as the alleged con-
sanguinity of the Egyptian and Trojan lines of kings would lead us to infer. It is worthy
of remark, that the name Troio, or Troia, is clearly read in the Phonetic list of countries,
west of the Tigris, invaded by the father of Ramses II. — Homer's Tithonus — as appears
from Mr Cullimore's Geographia Hieroglyphica, published in vol. ii. part 2 of the
Transactions of the Royal Society of Literature.
1839.]
Eyypt — the Trojan War — Homer.
375
the foundation to B.C. 883, four years
after the era of Menander, and one
year after the Olympian era of Iplii-
tus, which fixes the age of Lycurgus
the contemporary of Homer, accord-
ing to Tinrueus, and all the best and
most ancient authorities, and is, more-
over, the date to which the poet has
been referred by Herodotus.
Can we any longer question that
the congress of /Eneas and Dido is
another result of the receding Egyp-
tian year, which brought the events of
the time of Memnon, Ulysses, and
^Eneas, to that of Polybus, Proteus,
and Dido, and thus made the taking
of Troy to coincide with the mournful
rites of Osiris, Adonis, or Thammuz,
(Ezek. viii. 14), on the seventeenth
day of Athyr ?
We do not find the Memphite King
Proteus, or Cetna of Homer, Herodo-
tus, and Diodorus, mentioned by name
in the dynasties of Manetho ; but
Thuoris the last King of the 19th
dynasty of Diospolites or Thebans, is
stated, as already mentioned, to be the
same with Homer's Theban Polybus.
The Epoch of Proteus is, according
to the system preserved by Herodo-
tus, nine generations of three to a
century, before the death of Sethon,
and accession of Psammetichus B.C.
<J72 ; i. e. B.C. 972—939 ; while, ac-
cording to the outline received by
Diodorus from the priests of Thebes,
Cetna, or Proteus, was the first king
of the XXII. dynasty,* called Bubas-
tites by Manetho, and Tanitcs in the
Old Egyptian Chronicle. The first
king of this dynasty is Sesonchis, the
Shishak of the bible, and his Epoch,
B.C. 985 — 964, with which the mean
dates of Herodotus sufficiently agree.
We can, however, trace no likeness
between Proteus and Sesonchis, and
must, therefore, rather suppose the for-
mer to be one of the omitted kings of
the twenty- second dynasty, of which
the names of three only out of nine
(the first, second, and sixth,) are pre-
served by Manetho. Hieroglyphic
discovery has augmented this number
to five or six, but the dynasty is still
incomplete. This dynasty ended B. c.
865 — twenty years after the date re-
sulting from the receding calendar of
the Egyptians ; so that Proteus is
more likely to have been the last than
the first king of the twenty-second dy-
nasty ; and this seems confirmed by
the age of his contemporary Polybus,
King of Thebes. For,if Polybus be the
Thuoris of the nineteenth dynasty, as
affirmed by Manetho, his death is fixed
to the year B. c. 867, or 135 years
(the period of the twentieth and last
dynasty of Theban kings), before the
Ethiopian conquest of Actisanes or
Sabacon, which put an end to that
line in its last prince, the Amasis of
Diodorus and Anysis of Herodotus,
B. c. 732. f
All this is in strict agreement
* This is evident, because, in the record of Diodorus, Proteus is immediately pre-
ceded by six generations, beginning with Mendes, the only name given — these ans-
wering to the six descents of the twenty-first dynasty, as stated in the old chronicle,
of whom Smendes or Amendes is the first in Manetho's list of that dynasty. (Collata
Anc. Frag. pp. 90, 122, 123, 143, 152.)
f According to Diodorus, Actisaues the Ethiopian conquers Amasis, the last of the
line of Sesoosis, or Sesostris, and consequently the last of the Diospolitan line of the
twentieth dynasty — the next king in the order of the narrative being Mendes, the
founder of the twenty-first dynasty, as shown in the preceding note. Again, Sabacon,
the founder of the twenty-fifth, or Ethiopian dynasty, slays Bocchoris, the last of the
line commencing with Mendes, and whose reign (scil. Bocchoris) constitutes the twenty-
fourth dynasty of Manetho. (Anc. Frag. pp. 126—7, 152-3.) But, according to
Herodotus, it was Anysis, the eighth successor of Sesostris, who was conquered by
Sabacon (Anc. Frag. p. 156) : and, as Diodorus is the only writer who speaks of the
first mentioned of these Ethiopian conquests (while Actisanes does not appear as the
founder of a dynasty, but simply as an Ethiopian, reigning between the Egyptian kings
Amasis and Mendes), it follows that Actisanes and Sabacon are the same Ethiopian,
and Amasis and Anysis the same Egyptian king, as Marsham and Newton long ago
insisted.
It thus appears that the line of Sesoosis ending with Amasis or Anysis, the last of
the twentieth Diospolitan dynasty, and the line of Mendes ending with Bocchoris of the
twenty-fourth dynasty, both descended to the Ethiopian conquest by Actisanes or
Sabacon ; and hence that these lines were contemporary, in agreement with Homer's
contemporary Theban king Polybus, and Memphite King Proteus ; and in further
370
Egypt — The Trojan War — Homer.
[March,
with the history, and with the date
of the receding Calendar of Homer ;
while the accession of his Memnon
the Ramses Miamoun of Manetho's
XVIHth's dynasty, and the Ramses
II. of the monuments, ascends to
B.C., 1181 — twelve years after the
first astronomical Trojan era: but two
years after the taking of Troy, if that
era refers to the beginning of the war.
And .Memnon, let it be noted, led his
Ethiopian auxiliaries to Troy in the
reign of his father Tithonus, who may
be represented by the Egyptian King
Thonis of Homer and Herodotus.
The monumental Ramses II., it
should be repeated, is the founder of
the Memnonia of Thebes and Abydos,
mandyas ; so that no doubt remains on
the identity of these personages : while
the astronomical ceiling of the Mem-
nonium of Thebes, refers the month
Thoth to the sign Gemini,* with
which it corresponded in the erratic
calendar, B.C., 1138, being the forty-
fourth year of Ramises II., who reign-
ed sixty-six according to Manetho, and
of whose sixty-second year the British
Museum contains a tablet.
We cannot dismiss our subject with-
out further alluding to Homer's battle-
scenes in connexion with the sculp-
tures and temples of his Hecatompylos
or hundred-gated city of Thebes, men-
tioned in the speech of Achilles in
the ninth Iliad — thus rendered by
Pope : —
which are ascribed by Strabo and Dio
dorus to Memnon, Ismendes, or Osy-
" Not all proud Thebes' unrivalled walls contain,
The world's great empress on th' Egyptian plain,
That sends her conquests o'er a thousand states,
And pours her heroes through a hundred gates, —
Two hundred horsemen and two hundred cars
Through each wide portal issuing to the wars," &c.
The hundred gates, Diodorus ex-
plains to refer to the propyla or
porches to the temples in Thebes,
rather than to the gates of that city —
an opinion which recent discovery de-
monstrates to be the truth, because
no foundations of city walls are to be
traced among the gigantic Theban
ruins, as fully proved by the topo-
graphy of Mr Wilkinson.
In further confirmation of this, the
intelligent traveller and antiquary Mr
Bonomi, who has passed a great part
of his life in Egypt, acquaints us that
it is a very general impression among
observant travellers, that the Theban
temples were also fortresses, from
whose massive walls and propyla the
forces mentioned by Homer may have
issued, and which were probably ori-
ginally numerous, as they were cer-
tainly capacious enough to answer the
description. Diodorus mentions four
of these temples as remaining in his
time, the most ancient of which was
thirteen stadia in circuit, and forty-
five cubits high, with a wall twenty-
four feet thick. This is evidently the
great temple of Karnak, and the other
three, the temples of Luxor, the
Memnonium, and Medinet Abou.
The military sculptures of Thebes
having reference to foreign expedi-
tions, we do not meet any representa-
tions of Egyptian fortresses to compare
with the temples, unless Mr Burton's
Excerpta Hieroglyphica, plate xxxvi,
from Karnak, representing a military
scene of the father of Ramses II — the
Tithonus of Homer — in which appears
a fortress, resembling the propylon of
an Egyptian temple, offers an excep-
tion. We, however, learn from Mr
Bonomi, that a wall attached to the
agreement with " the kings of the Egyptians," who are mentioned in 2d Kings vii. 6,
as among the allies of Jehoram King of Israel, when Samaria was besieged by Ben-
hadad King of Syria, about the year B. c. 891 — which was equally the age of the
greatest of the prophets, Elijah, and of the greatest of profane poets or prophets ( Vates)
Homer, and of the Egyptian kings, who were probably reigning when the poet visited
Egypt. Thus does the contemporary evidence of sacred history confirm the contem-
porary evidence of Homer, while both fall in with the conquest of two distinct lines of
princes by the Ethiopians, as affirmed by Herodotus and Diodorus.
* As proved by Mr Cullimore in the proceedings of the Royal Society of Literature
for 1837 — and confirmed by Mr Sharpe, who, in his Hieroglyphic Vocabulary, No. 173,
reads the names of the stars of Gemini, at the commencement of the month Thoth,
on the ceiling of the Memnonium.
1839.]
temple or palace of Ramises III. or
Sesostris, at Medinet Abou, has semi-
circular battlements precisely similar
to those of the fortresses in the mili-
tary scenes ; and, as we believe that all
the sculptured fortifications are of the
same kind, though referring to diffe-
rent countries invaded by the Pha-
raohs, they are probably derived, like
the rest of the system of art, from the
conventional Egyptian type.
Again, it is in the temples in ques-
tion that the principal military sculp-
tures are found, and this fact seems
immediately to connect the former
with the purposes of war as well as of
religion ; and it is not a little remark-
able, that it is the temple of Medinet
Abou, having the above-mentioned
fortified wall, which has also, between
the propyla on the south side, the
calendar of the annual festivals of the
gods, on which the times of action of
both the Iliad and Odyssey appear to
be founded ; while the same temple
offers the magnificent campaigns of
Ramses III., which maj well have
furnished the prototypes of some of
Homer's descriptions.*
We shall conclude with a statement
of the several dates to which Homer
has been referred by ancient writers,
attaching to each the days of the Ju-
lian year answering to the first and
forty-ninth days of the erratic Egyp-
tian year — being those of the two great
Ethiopian or Theban festivals of the
gods, according to the calendar of
Medinet Abou ; and which, as already
shown, mark the interval of the main
action of both Iliad and Odyssey. f By
this it will be evident, that, admitting
the Egyptian foundation of these
poems, the calendar of Homer, whose
age, as already mentioned, has been
raised to the year B. c. 1109, and de-
— The Trajan War — Homer.
377
pressed to B.I:. G84, could only be-
long to about the middle of this inter-
val, or the beginning of the ninth cen-
tury B. c., to which the most judicious
and authentic writers have referred
him.
For, it will appear that the higher
dates would make the burial of Hec-
tor, with which the Iliad concludes,
altogether irreconcilable with the con-
ventional date of the taking of Troy,
agreed to by the ancients — seventeen
days before the solstice. This an-
swered as above, to Juno 17th at the
time of that event, B.C. 1193-1189;
but the solstice had receded four Ju-
lian days at the latest age to which
Homer has been assigned. It will be
manifest, that every date before B.C.
1000 would bring Hector's burial be-
yond the capture of the city, while
the dates from thence to B.C. 950,
would not leave time for the subse-
quent events, which, as already sug-
gested, probably imply a suspension
of action during the twelve days of
the second visit of the gods to Ethio-
pia (following the action of the poems,
as in the case of the first festival), on
their return from which we may sup-
pose the fall of Troy would have been
finally decreed.
It will appear that the lower dates
would, on the other hand, remove the
beginning of the campaign of the
Iliad, nearer to winter than is at all
consistent with probability. Had Ho-
mer flourished in the seventh century
B. c. his times of action would have
been more advanced in the year. We
thus obtain a criterion of the age to
which the calendar on which the Iliad
is founded, must necessarily belong —
being that of Lycurgus and Iphitus,
the contemporaries of Homer, at the
beginning of the ninth century B. c.
* Let us add, that the Batrachomyomachia, or War of the Frogs and Mice, attributed
to Homer, has likewise its literal prototypes in the caricature papyri and sculptures of
Egypt, in which fortresses appear attacked ind defended by cats, rats, and monkeys, while
jackasses are seen officiating as priests at the altars of the gods. In a word, every thing
points to Egypt as the grand source of Homer's information ; and we even find a contem-
porary example of exquisite satire against the divinities of heathenism, in the words of the
prophet Elijah, 1 Kings, xxviii. 27-
f It affords us much satisfaction to acquaint our readers, both Egyptians and Greeks,
that we have a prospect of shortly possessing a copy of the important calendar of Medinet
Abou, which has hitherto been only alluded to by Egyptian travellers.
This boon to literature we expect through the favour of the Rev. Mr Tattam, who, we
are happy to announce, has departed on his literary mission to Egypt, spoken of in a note
at page 109 of our July number.
378
Egypt — The Trojan War — Homer.
[March,
B.C.
The aces to which Homer has been referred by ancient writers, with
the limits of the times of the main action in the Iliad and Odyssey,
according to the receding Egyptian Calendar, for each date.
Kirst Voy
ig'1 of the
Gods.
Second
Voyage of
,he Gods.
Thoth 1.
Paophi 19.
1109
Eusebius,
Chronicon. Num. 908,
May 27
July 14
1104?
Crates,
Before return of Heraclid:i\
80 yrs. after Trojan war,
May 26
July 13
1101
Life of Homer, .
ii22 years before Expedition
of Xerxes,
May 25
July 12
1083
Eratosthenes,
100 years after Trojan war,
May 21
July 8
1050?
Syncellus, .
Chronog. A.M. 4452
May 13
June 30
1043?
Aristarchus,
140 years after Trojan war,
May 11
,1um-2S
1023
Cassins Hemina,
lo'O years after Trojan war,
May G
June 23
1020
Eusebius, . .
Chronicon. Num. 9^7
May 5
.lane 22
1003?'
Philochorus,
180 years after Trojan war,
May 1
June 18
983
Euthymenes,
200 years after Trojan Avar,
April 26
June 13
943 r-f
933
> or Apollodorus,
240 or \ .. „, . (
O).Q > after Trojan war, <
April Hi
April 13
June 3
May 31
923
Pliny,
1 000 yrs. before A.U. C. 830,
April 1 1
Ma'v 2!>
920
V. Paterculus,
950 yrs. before A.U.C. 783,
April 10
May 28
913
Cor. Nepos, »
160 years before foundation
of Rome,
April 8
May 26
907
Parian Marbles,
302 years after Trojan war,
April 7
May 25
903
Juvenal,
1000 yrs. bef. A.U.C. 850,
April 6
May 24
887
Egyptian Calendar of
Homer,
305 years after Trojan war,
April 2
May 20
884
Herodotus, .
400 yrs. before Herodotus, April 1
May 19
884
Tinueus, Apollodorus,
Time of Iphitus and Lycur-
gus, 108 years before 1st,
Olympiad, . . April 1
May 19
866
Sosibius, . .
90 years before 1st Olymp., Mar. 28
May 15
784 {
Others (Tatian, Euseb.)
400 years after Trojan war, Mar. 7
April 24
684
Theopompus, Eupho-
rion, Archilochus,
500 years after Trojan war,
23d Olympiad,
Fob. 10
Mar. 30
With reference to this Table, let
us further remark, that the 622 years
which the life of Homer, attributed to
Herodotus, places between the birth
of the poet and the expedition of
Xerxes to Greece, B. c. 479, is a ma-
nifest error in early transcription, for
422, as proved by the 400 years which
Herodotus tells us, separated Homer
from himself, who was born in the
year B. c. 484, or five years after the
passage of Xerxes ; and by his limit-
ing the Trojan war to the. assumed
age of Proteus, in the tenth century
B. C. ||
In concluding our episode on Ho-
* The destruction of Troy would precede Hector's burial and the close of the Iliad,
had that poem been composed at this or any of the antecedent dates.
f The gods would not have returned from their second Ethiopian voyage (which
supposes a twelve days' suspension of action) when Troy was taken, had the Iliad been
composed at this or the preceding date.
J This and the following date would suppose the plague caused by Apollo, or the
Sun, with which the Iliad opens, to occur at a time of the year when the Sun w;is
comparatively powerless, and would also refer the opening of the campaign to an im-
probable season. The plague would raise that poem to as early a date as its chronolo-
gical elements will admit.
It follows that the Homeric Calendar and compositions belong to an epoch between
(t) and (t).
|| This correction will, as intimated in a preceding note, depress the Trojan era,
which the author of the life of Homer places 168 years before the poet's birth, from
1839.] Egypt— The Trujan War—11,,,,,,;. 379
mer himself an episode between poe- common calendarian source of compu-
try and history, on the confines of the tation ; and the consistency of the
monumental and written annals of man- whole with the character of these
kind we would again suggest to any poems, and with their asserted and
reader who may hesitate assent to most probable origin,
inferences which add the dry charac- We are, however, far from insisting
ter of an arithmetician and chronolo- that our reasoning may not be impro-
gist to the more delightful one of the ved upon, as the subject is a novel and
poet, the necessity he is under of untried one. To any who would as-
otherwise accounting for the extraor- sume the coincidences whjch we have
dinary coincidences of the receding adduced to be mere accidents, we have
Egyptian calendar of the year with no reply to make : while we flatter our-
the Trojan and Homeric epochs, as selves there are few impartial readers,
fixed by history ; the corresponding whether Egyptians or Grecians, who
agreement of the times of action of the will not agree that we have, in this
Iliad and Odyssey, which point to a outline, done something towards fix-
B. c. 1269, to 1069. On the same error the date of Crates, and the higher date of
Eusebius would appear to be grounded. The former states, that Homer wrote be-
fore the return of the Heraclidae to Greece — an event which, with Thucydides and the
best authorities, he dates eighty years after the taking of Troy. This opinion de-
mands some attention in connexion with a modern hypothesis. Mitford conceives,
that as Homer does uot allude to so important an event as that which expelled the
Pelopidan dynasties, whose exploits he celebrates, he probably wrote before its occur-
rence ; and he (Mitford) thence takes occasion to lower the Trojan era to within
eighty years of the time of Homer, as fixed by Herodotus, or to the commencement
of the ninth century B. c., in agreement with the hypothesis of Newton.
But, had the poet alluded to so recent an occurrence in Grecian history, it would
have destroyed the consistency of statements intended for the edification of his coun-
trymen. It would be as if a modern English writer mixed up the accession of the
house of Stewart or of Brunswick with the heroic age of King Arthur. Homer might
make a poetical use of the distant history of Egypt ; but he could not do so with the
reigning dynasties of Greece, without making his history ridiculous.
Mitford also infers with Newton (Chronology, p. 61), principally because the father
of Oxylus the first Heraclid king of Elis, and the father or grandfather of Iphitus, the
restorer of the Olympiads, had the same name — Hsemon, — that Iphitus was probably
the grandson of Oxylus ; and on such grounds reduces the interval between the return
of the Heraclidee and the first Olympiad, B. c. 776, from nearly three centuries and a
half, to half a century. But there are several errors in this statement. Iphitus was
not the founder of the established Olympian era, but celebrated discontinued Olympiads
108 years earlier, as already shown from Eratosthenes and Phlegon ; and the collateral
genealogies of the Heraclid kings of Lace daemon, Corinth, Macedon, &c., are well
preserved. Caraunus, the first king of Macedon, who reigned B. c. 812, is agreed to
have been the seventh from Temenus, the first Heraclid king of Argos.
We believe we should not have thought Mitford's objections to the established age
of the Trojan war worth noticing, had they not been advocated by an acute and able
Egyptologist. Mr Sharpe, in his " Early History of Egypt," in support of Mitford,
prefers the incomplete genealogy of Pythagoras as stated by Pausanias, to the estab-
lished descents of the Heraclid kings of Greece, preserved by the same writer, and
rendered indispensable by the Parian chronicle, — supporting his views by the age of
Thuoris and Proteus, nearly as we have stated it, and that of the foundation of Car-
thage— points which we have shown to be alone explicable, and reconcilable with
ancient testimony, by the receding Egyptian calendar of Homer. Were the hypothesis
of Mitford valid, its effect would be, with Crates, to raise the age of Homer to the end
of the twelfth century B. c , but not to alter the well established era of the Heraclid
dynasties, nor that of the Trojan war which preceded it. Had the ancients left us no
express statements on these questions, speculation would be justifiable : but, as it is,
our business should be to reconcile, and not to replace the profuse evidence of anti-
quity ; and that this may be effected in a manner equally simple and convincing, we
trust we have fully proved. Let it also be remarked, that, admitting the same Haemon
to have been the father of Oxylus and Iphitus, or even the grandfather of the latter —
the utmost latitude the hypothesis admits, — the effect would be to bring the return of
the Heraclidte to the sera of the Olympiads, and thus to make history ridiculous.
Egypt — The Trojan War — Homer.
[March,
ing the authorities, principles, and age
of the Homeric writings; and towards
restoring their author to that place
which is due to him, as the father of
profane history as well as of poetry ;
as the oldest historian of the series
which we hope to display in full relief
in another Egyptian article ; and, as
a chronologist who acquired his infor-
mation in the same school from which
Manetho and Hipparchus drew theirs,
and who consequently raises the most
complete scientific system of time that
has ever been propounded, six and se-
ven centuries earlier than the ages to
which it has hitherto been traced.
Such are the results of our attempt,
which more immediately address them-
selves to the antiquarian and historical
reader ; while the poetical and classi-
cal reader will, we trust, be equally
struck with the bearing of our numer-
ical arguments on the questions of
the unity of Homer and his writings,
and the completeness of the latter as
they have descended to us in the Iliad
and Odyssey. For, it will be agreed
that the coincidences in the times
of action, and the elements which
connect them with the annual calen-
dar, are altogether irreconcilable with
the hypothesis which supposes these
productions to be collections of rhap-
sodies by different individuals of the
mythic age, which were afterwards
put together and arranged in their
present form : and equally irreconci-
lable with the rejection of any material
portion of them, on the grounds of
what is termed " the primary argu-
ment," or for any other reason.
Thus, if with the German critic
Wolf, we reject the last six books of the
Iliad, as an excrescence unconnected
with "the wrath of Achilles," because,
coming after his reconciliation with
Agamemnon, we reject not only the
heroic actions of Achilles, but the gene-
ral action of twenty-eight days, or of
exactly half the time into which the
events of that poem are distributed, and
destroy the coincidence with the action
of the Odyssey ; while, if with other
critics we only throw overboard the
twenty-fourth Iliad, as unnecessary to
the main object of that poem, the action
of twenty-four days* is relinquished,
and the effects are nearly the same.
But, although the whole may be unne-
cessary to " the wrath of Achilles," f it
is strictly so to " the will of Jupiter
and the gods," which is chronologi-
cally measured by the coinciding times
of the Iliad and Odyssey, and the ca-
lendarian festivals on which these times
are founded, and thus numerically de-
monstrated to be the true primary ar-
gument of both poems.
It follows, that, whatever interpola-
tions or extraneous matter the critic
may detect in these wonderful produc-
tions as they have descended to us, we
possess them complete, and as they
were originally written and arranged,
so far as regards the general plan and
substance ; while we have numerical
proofs of unity in the composer, not
only as regards each, but both of them,
in accordance with the unity of pur-
pose flowing from the true primary
argument which it was the poet's ob-
ject to develope.
It is almost needless to add that the
Egyptian source of Homer's materials,
and his alleged and necessary visit to
that country, supplies a very efficient
answer to those who would object to
the Homeric compositions being by a
single individual, on the grounds of
the impossibility of committing such
lengthened and complicated produc-
tions to memory, in an age when wri-
ting materials were unknown in Greece.
The papyrus of the Egyptians long
anticipated the parchment of the
Greeks, and we have written examples
of the reign of Ramses II. the poets'
Memnon.
* This disproportionately long interval (which includes twelve days, during which the
body of Hector remained in the tent of Achilles, and twelve more for the truce allowed for
interment), compared with that of three days assigned to the burial of Patroclus, 1. xxiii.,
would appear added by the poet to fill up the prescribed calendarian time of action.
f Or, more properly, " the sulkiness of Achilles," of whom we know little as a hero till
after the 18th book. Can we suppose that Homer ever intended that the hero of the Iliad
should be outshone in valour -by Hector, Diomedes, and many others of his dramatis per-
sona?
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382 New Discovery — Engraving, and Burners Cartoons.
[March,
NEW DISCOVERY — ENGRAVING, AND BURNET'S CARTOONS.
WE WELL recollect many years ago
hearing a letter read before the So-
ciety at the Adelphi, from a tailor in
St Martin's Lane, in which he boast-
ed of an invention to make pictures by
patches of cloth. The importance he
attached to his scheme was amusing,
but more so from the manner in which
he insinuated the inconvenience of all
other processes of picture making, for
his invention was " to supersede the
necessity of painting in oil" The
Royal Academy has still persevered
in oil, and to show their contempt of
the tailor and " Rag Fair," have as-
sumed an extraordinary finery ; and
the purple patch has been adopted
without extraneous aid, and so effect-
ually daubed on, as to " supersede the
necessity" of being stitched on by the
Knight Templar. —
" Purpureus late qui splendeat unus et
alter
Assuitur pannus."
Since the tailor's failure to " super-
sede," many have been the inventions
to promote arts. A lady has disco-
vered that the old masters did not,
after all, paint in oil, but saturated
their works with it afterwards, though
some of them, before that theory was
born, had painted themselves at their
easels, and exhibited their cups and
brushes, of which, according to her
account, there was not the slightest
necessity. Still the Royal Academy
are obstinate, and artists will persever-
ingly entitle themselves " painters in
oil and water colours." The art has
a little coquetted with encaustic paint-
ing, and there have been serious pro-
posals of reviving fresco : while all
these great revolutions of art in
" posse" are in contemplation, innu-
merable are the contrivances in '-'esse,"
to render colouring so brilliant, that,
if much further progress be made this
way, the sun himself will not be able
to look at them, and the dilettanti
will labour under universal ophthalmia.
The " modesty of nature" has been
discovered to be a cheat, a coinage of
the brain. Varnish predominates —
painters crack of their pictures, and
their pictures will, in a few years,
crack of themselves. But let inven-
tion go on, and when it shall happily
drive varnishes out of the field, and
with it some absurdities and monstro-
sities, British artists may acquire a
lasting fame. While genius is at one
time playing the capriccio with disco-
veries, and at another time goes to
sleep, hoping to awake to new and
more perfect ones ; invention is still
busy, and despairing of the perma-
nency of the works themselves, takes
pains to make the transcripts of them
as multiplied as possible. Great have
been the " improvements" in the art
of engraving, and in imitation of en-
graving. First came Lowry's dia-
mond points — then the sky rulers,
shade rulers, and substitution of machi-
nery for the hand. Much more has
consequently been done in all that
concerns effects and tones ; but it must
be confessed that this has been attain-
ed not without great sacrifice — a sacri-
fice of that which is, after all, the chief
beauty, that free and inexplicable
execution, which is, as it were, the
sign manual of genius. The handling
of the etcher, such as is visible in the
works of Wood, Mason, Vivares, men
whose merits have been strangely
overlooked, is now never seen. For
our own part, we would forego all the
advantages gained, for the recovery
of the old " needle work" which
showed so well the mind of the
painter; it gave a transcript of the
spirit, more than of the tones. But
these " improvements" have reflected
themselves, as it were, back upon
painting ; for now artists, seeing the
power of the graver's tools, have be-
come themselves mechanical, and fleece
and smoke, velvet and tin, represent
or misrepresent, flesh, drapery, air,
land, water, and trees. The city-
bred and city-inhabiting population,
who take their ideas of external na-
ture from our annuals, where white
satin buildings, variously shaded, as it
were, with cigar smoke, stand for
towns, and masses of soot for woods
and forests, sent off into proper dis-
tance by the most approved jet black-
ing, must be truly astonished, if they
have not already lost their eyes and
capability of taste, when they go out
to look at nature herself. It is true
the steam-boilers by sea and rail-road,
may for a while deceive them into a
1839.] New Discovery — Engraving, and Burnet's Cartoons.
belief that all is right, but they must be
unfortunate indeed, if they do not leave
the low levels of the " sooty Acheron."
The substitution of steel for copper,
the power of multiplying plates as
before we did impressions, was an-
other wonderful stride ; and with it
came a fear that the public would die
of a plethora of taste, when good en-
gravings might be sold for little more
than the cost of paper, and plates be
renewed, ad libitum, for ever. — " Ex-
egi monumentum cere perennius" veri-
fied to the letter. We know not how
it is, but just as we are going to have
something good in this world, up starts
a mischief to mar it or to vilify it.
There is not a real panacea, but has
its rival. Engraving, set upon so firm
a basis, one would have thought might
have been supreme. No such thing—-
her illegitimate sister, Lithography,
sets up her claim, and by means of
cheap publications, calls in the masses,
who naturally prefer the inferior ar-
ticle ; and here commences the demo-
cracy of art. Print shops have in-
creased out of number — print auctions
are every where ; so that, if all the
world do not become judges of art, it
cannot be for lack of means to make
them acquainted with it. It is some-
what, perhaps, to be feared, that art
itself will be held cheap, when all its
productions are so ; and that the bad
•will outsell tbe good. Great, certainly,
are the powers of lithography, but it
affords a fearful facility of setting forth
abundant mediocrity, and engendering
bad taste, and ultimately disgust. Few
better specimens of lithography are to
be seen than those of the Dresden
Gallery, yet, in comparison with steel
and copper plates, how unsatisfactory
are they !
We have omitted to speak of Mezzo-
tinto, which has been likewise greatly
improved — the cheap " gems of art"
supplied the public with some very
beautiful things ; in these, the fault of
mezzotinto, the opaque blackness, was
much remedied, and a transparency
given to the shades and reflected
lights very gratifying to the eye. It
is, however, better adapted to subjects
of deep tones than of light ; and in
those extraordinary illumination fails.
It is a pity this method was adopted
for the engraving the beautiful subject
of Salvator Rosa's Jacob's Dream.
The picture is too light for it, — the
bold clouds that require outline (more
VOL. XLV. NO, CCLXXXI.
383
particularly as suitable to the free
execution of Salvator), inundated as
they are with preternatural, with hea-
venly 'light, bearing their radiation
from the very seat of Divine intelli-
gence, look in mezzotint as if emitted
from a manufactory furnace, and the
angels appear as if they came out with
the smoky volumes. In the picture,
thewholegTound, not dark,isevidently
high and under a clear atmosphere,
and, besides, seems in some degree
itself pierced by the heavenly vision.
But the print is altogether too dark,
and yet the contrast with the high
lights does not give brilliancy. We are
sorry to say this in the teeth of a most
able engraver ; and who, after all, if
he has failed in giving the full beauty
of the original, has yet added to the
public stock a good and valuable print.
We wish to see that picture and its com-
panion, as they were exhibited at the
British Gallery, Pall Mall, well etched
and engraved — to see the needle and
the graver throw out the bold execu-
tion of Salvator Rosa's hand. The
character he has thus given to the
clouds is very important ; they com-
municate with the angels ascending
and descending ; they allure them and
accompany them in their heavenly
and earthly mission. Here ends our
digression on this particular specimen
of mezzotint. There is no breathing
space — all is one great movement.
Where are we going ? Who can tell ?
The phantasmagoria of inventions
parses rapidly before us — are we to
see them no more ? — are they to be
obliterated ? Is the hand of man to
be altogether stayed in his work ?
—the wit active — the fingers idle ?
Wonderful wonder of wonders ! ! Va-
nish aqua-tints and mezzotints — as
chimneys that consume their own
smoke, devour yourselves. Steel en-
gravers, copper engravers, and etch-
ers, drink up your aquafortis and die !
There is an end of your black art —
" Othello's occupation is no more."
The real black art of true magic arises
and cries avaunt. All nature shall
paint herself — fields, rivers, trees,
houses, plains, mountains, cities, shall
all paint themselves at a bidding, and
at a few moments' notice. Towns will
no longer have any representatives
but themselves. Invention says it. It
has found out the one thing new under
the sun ; that, by virtue of the sun's
patent, all nature, animate and inani«
2B
New Discovery — Engraving, and Burnt? s Cartoons. [March,
384
mate, shall be henceforth its own
painter, engraver, printer, and pub-
lisher. Here is a revolution in art ;
and, that we may not be behindhand
in revolutions, for which we have so
imitative a taste, no sooner does one
start up in Paris, but we must have
one in. London too. And so Mr Da-
guerre's invention is instantly rivalled
by Mr Fox Talbot's. The Dagueros-
cope and the Photogenic revolutions
are to keep you all down, ye painters,
engravers, and, alas ! the harmless race,
the sketchers. All ye, by whom the
" Flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius discu-
bitur areas," before whose unsteady
hands towers have toppled down upon
the paper, and the pagodas of the East
have bowed, hide your heads in holes
and corners, and wait there till you are
called for. The " mountain in labour"
will no more produce a mouse ; it will
reproduce itself, with all that isupon it.
Ye artists of all denominations that
have so vilified nature as her journey-
men, see how she rises up against you,
and takes the staff into her own hands.
Your mistress now, with a vengeance,
she will show you what she really is,
and that the cloud is not " very like a
whale." You must positively abscond.
Now, as to you, locality painters, with
your towns and castles on the Rhine,
you will not get the " ready rhino" for
them now — and we have no pity for you.
Bridges are far too arch now to put
up with your false perspective. They
will no longer be abridged of their due
proportions by you ; they will mea-
sure themselves and take their own
toll. You will no longer be tolerated.
You drawers of churches, Britton, Pu-
gin, Mackenzie, beware lest.you your-
selves be drawn in. Every church will
show itself to the world without your
help. It will make its wants visible
and known on paper ; and, though
vestry and churchwarden quash the
church rates, every steeple will lift up
its head and demand proper repair.
" Mox reficit rates
Quassas, indocilis paruperiem pati."
Ye animal painters, go no more
to the Zoologicals to stare the lions
out of countenance — they do not want
your countenance any more. The
day is come for every beast to be his
own portrait- painter. " None but
himself shall be his parallel." Every
garden will publish its own Botanical
Magazine. The true « Forget me not"
will banish all others from the earth.
Talk no more of " holding the mir-
ror up to nature " — she will hold it up
to herself, and present you with a copy
of her countenance for a penny. What
would you say to looking in a mirror
and having the image fastened ! ! As
one looks sometimes, it is really quite
frightful to think of it ; but such a
thing is possible — nay, it is probable
— no, it is certain . What will become
of the poor thieves, when they shall
see handed in as evidence against them
their own portraits, taken by the room
in which they stole, and in the very
act of stealing ! What wonderful dis-
coveries is this wonderful discovery
destined to discover ! The telescope
is rather an unfair tell-tale ; but now •
every thing and every body may have
to encounter his double every where,
most inconveniently, and thus every
one become his own caricaturist. Any
one may walk about with his patent
sketch-book — set it to work — and see
in a few moments what is doing behind
his back! Poor Murphy outdone! —
the weather must be its own almanac
— the waters keep their own tide-tables.
What confusion will there be in auto-
graph signs manual ! How difficult
to prove the representation a forgery,
if nobody has a hand in it ! !
Mr Babbage in his (miscalled ninth
Bridgewater) Treatise announces the
astounding fact, as a very sublime
truth, that every word uttered from
the creation of the world has regis-
tered itself, and is still speaking, and
will speak for ever in vibrations. In
fact, there is a great album of Babel.
But what too, if the great business of
the sun be to act registrar likewise,
and to give out impressions of our
looks, and pictures of our actions ; and
so, if with Bishop Berkeley's theory,
there be no such thing as anything,
quoad matter, for aught we know to
the contrary, other worlds of the
system may be peopled and conducted
with the images of persons and trans-
actions thrown off from this and from
each other ; the whole universal nature
being nothing more than phonetic and
photogenic structures. As all readers
may not have read the accounts of this
singular invention, upon which we have
made these comments, we subjoin the
letter of Mr Talbot to the editor of
the Literary Gazette) in which valuable
periodical we first saw the announce-
ment of the discovery in France, to
1839.] New Discovery — Engraving, and Burnefs Cartoons.
ss:
which we will add, from the same source,
the French account of M. Daguerre's
invention. The extreme modesty of
Mr Fox Talbot's will be very striking.
Specimens have been exhibited at the
Royal Institution and before the Royal
Society.
" To the Editor of the Literary
Gazette.
" DEAR SIR,
" I have great pleasure in com-
plying with the wish you have ex-
pressed to me, that I would go into
some details respecting the invention
wjiich I have communicated to the
Royal Society, viz., the art of photo-
genic drawing, or of forming pictures
and images of natural objects by means
of solar light. I do this the more
readily, on account of the interest with
which the scientific public have read
the accounts which have recently ap-
peared respecting the discoveries of
M. Daguerre, of Paris, in some re-
spects identical with mine ; in others,
I think, materially different. Although
I am very far indeed from being of
the opinion, that
' Chance rules supreme in the affairs of
men ;'
yet, I cannot help thinking that a
very singular chance (or mischance)
has happened to myself, viz. that,
after having devoted much labour
and attention to the perfecting of this
invention, and having now brought
it, as I thiqjc, to a point in which
it deserves the notice of the scien-
tific world — that exactly at the mo-
ment when I was engaged in draw-
ing up an account of it to be presented
to the Royal Society, the same inven-
tion should be announced in France.
Under these circumstances, by the
advice of my scientific friends, I imme-
diately collected together such speci-
mens of my process as I had with me
in town, and exhibited them to public
view at a meeting of the Royal Insti-
tution. My written communication
to the Royal Society was, from its
length, necessarily deferred to the
week following. These steps I took,
not with the intention of rivalizing with
M. Daguerre in the perfection of his
processes (of which I know nothing,
'but am ready to believe all that Biot
and Arago have stated in their praise),
but to preclude the possibility of its
being said that I had borrowed the
idea from him, or was indebted to him,
1
or any one, for the means of overcom-
ing the principal difficulties. As the
process of M. Daguerre is at present a
profound secret, even at Paris, it is
evident that no one could imitate him
here, or exhibit pictures formed in the
same way, or depending on the same
optical principles, who was not already
fully acquainted with a secret, not
indeed the same, but similar or tanta-
mount to his. That M. Daguerre's
pictures will stand the effect of time,
is, I suppose, the fact, though I dt> not
find it expressly mentioned in the re-
port of M. Arago, ( Comptes Rendus,
7th January). My own have stood
between three and four years ; I
therefore consider that the principles
of the art are firmly laid. Many instru-
ments have been devised, at various
times, for abridging the labour of the
artist in copying natural objects, and
for insuring greater accuracy in the
design than can be readily attained
without such assistance. Among these
may be more particularly mentioned
the camera obscura and the camera
lucida, which are familiar to most
persons ; certainly very ingenious and
beautiful instruments, and in many
circumstances eminently useful, espe-
cially the latter. Yet are there many
persons who do not succeed in using
them, and, I believe, few are able to do
so with great success, except those
who, in other respects, are skilled in
drawing. Up to a certain point, these
inventions are excellent ; beyond that
point they do not go. They assist
the artist in his work, they do not
work for him. They do not dispense
with his time, nor with his skill, nor
with his attention. All they can do
is to guide his eye and correct his
judgment ; but the actual performance
of the drawing must be his own. From
all these prior ones, the present inven-
tion differs totally in this respect
(which may be explained in a single
sentence), viz. that, by means of this
contrivance, it is not the artist who
makes the picture, but the picture
which makes itself. All that the artist
does is to dispose the apparatus before
the object whose image he requires ;
he then leaves it for a certain time,
greater or less, according to circum-
stances. At the end of the time, he
returns, takes out his picture, and finds
it finished. The agent in this opera-
tion is solar light, which being thrown
by a lens upon a sheet of prepared
386
New Discovery — Engraving , and Burnefs Cartoons. [March,
paper, stamps upon it the image of
the object, whatever that may chance
to be, which is placed before it. The
very foundation of the art, therefore,
consists in this — eminently curious —
natural fact, viz. that there exists a
substance so sensitive of light, as to
he capable of receiving even its faint
impressions. The whole possibility
of the process depends upon this ; for,
if no such substance existed in rerum
natura, the notion of thus copying
objects would be nothing more than
a scientific dream. Moreover, it is
not sufficient that the paper should be
so sensitive as to receive the impres-
sions of external objects ; it is requisite
also, that, having received them, it
should retain them ; and, moreover,
that it should be insensible with regard
to other objects to which it may be
subsequently exposed. The necessity
of this is obvious, for otherwise, new
impressions would be received, which
would confuse and efface the former
ones. But it is easier to perceive the
necessity of the thing required than to
attain to its realization. And this has
hitherto proved a most serious obstacle
to those who have experimented with
this object in view. This was one of
the few scientific enquiries in which
Sir Humphry Davy engaged, upon
which fortune did not smile. Either
his enquiries took a wrong direction,
or else, perhaps, the property sought
for was of so singular a nature, that
there was nothing to guide the search ;
or, perhaps, he despaired of it too
soon. However this may be, the
result undoubtedly was, that the
attempt proved unsuccessful, and it
was abandoned. As Sir Humphry
Davy himself informs us, " no at-
tempts have as yet been successful."
These words are quoted from his own
account, in the Journal of the Royal
Institution, 1802. The subject then
dropped, and appears to have been no
more spoken of for upwards of thirty
years ; when, in 1834, unaware of
Davy's researches, I undertook a
course of experiments with the same
object in view. I know not what good
star seconded my efforts. After various
trials, I succeeded in hitting upon a
method of obtaining this desideratum.
By this process it is possible to destroy
the sensibility of the paper, and to
render it quite insensible. After this
change it may be exposed with safety
to the light of day ; it may even be
placed in the sunshine ; indeed I have
specimens which have been left an hour
in the sun without having received any
apparent deterioration. A fact, there-
fore, is thus established, which is not
without its importance in a theoretical
point of view, besides its more imme-
diate application to purposes of utility.
With this kind of paper, eminently sus-
ceptible of being acted upon by light,
and yet capable of losing that property
when required, a great number of cu-
rious performances may readily be ac-
complished. The most remarkable of
these is undoubtedly the copying the
portrait of a distant object, as the fu-
fadeof abuilding, by fixing itsimagein
the camera obscura ; but one, perhaps,
more calculated for universal use, is
the power of depicting exact fac-simi-
les of smaller objects, which are in
the vicinity of the operator, such as
flowers, leaves, engravings, &c., which
may be accomplished with great faci-
lity, and often with a degree of rapid-
ity that is almost marvellous. The spe-
cimens of this art, which I exhibited
at the Royal Institution, though con-
sisting only of what I happened to have
with me in town, are yet sufficient to
give a general idea of it, and to show
the wide range of its applicability.
Among them were pictures of flowers
and leaves ; a pattern of lace ; figures
taken from painted glass ; a view of
Venice, copied from an engraving ;
some images formed by the solar mi-
croscope, viz. a slice of wood very
highly magnified, exhibiting the pores
of two kinds, one set much smaller
than the other, and more numerous.
Another microscopic sketch, exhibit-
ing the reticulations on the wing of
an insect. Finally, various pictures,
representing the architecture of my
house in the country ; all these made
with the camera obscura, in the sum-
mer of 1835. And this I believe to
be the first instance on record of a
house having painted its own portrait.
A person unacquainted with the pro-
cess, if told that nothing of all this
was executed by the hand, must ima-
gine that one has at one's call the ge-
nius of Aladdin's lamp. And, indeed,
it may almost be said that this is some-
thing of the same kind. It is a little
bit of magic realized — of natural ma-
gic. You make the powers of nature
work for you, and no wonder that
your work is well and quickly done.
No matter whether the subject be large
New Discovery — Enyravitiy, and Buniet's Cartoons. 387
1839. J
or small, simple or complicated ; whe-
ther the flower branch which you wish
to copy contains one blossom or one
thousand ; you set the instrument in
action, the allotted time elapses, and
you find the picture finished, in every
part and in every minute particular.
There is something in this rapidity
and perfection of execution which is
very wonderful. But, after all, what
is Nature but one great field of won-
ders past our comprehension ? Those,
indeed, which are of every-day occur-
rence do not habitually strike us, on
account of their familiarity ; but they
are not the less, on that account, es-
sential portions of the same wonderful
whole. I hope it will be borne in
mind by those who take an interest in
this subject, that, in what I have hi-
therto done, I do not profess to have
perfected an art, but to have com-
menced one, the limits of which it is
not possible at present exactly to as-
certain. I only claim to have based
this new art upon a secure foundation :
it will be for more skilful hands than
mine to rear the superstructure. — I
remain, dear sir, yours," &c.
" H. Fox TALBOT."
Now for some account of the French
discovery.
" French Discovery — Pencil of Na-
ture Who has not admired the splen-
did and wonderful representations in
the camera obscura? — images so clear,
so full of life, so perfectly representing
every object in nature. These living
pictures, by traversing lens and mir-
rors, are thrown down with double
beauty on the table of the camera ob-
scura by the radiant finger of light.
The new art has been discovered to
fix these wonderful images, which
have hitherto passed away volatile —
evanescent as a dream — to stop them,
at our will, on a substance finely sen-
sible to the immediate action of light,
and render them permanent before our
eyes, in traces represented by tints in
perfect harmony on each point with
different degrees of intensity. We
must not, however, believe, as has
been erroneously reported to the pub-
lic with respect to these [Parisian]
experiments, that the proper colours
of objects are represented in these
images by colours : they are only re-
presented, with extreme truth, by light,
and in every gradation of shade ; as
an oil painting is given by a perfect
engraving, consisting of black lines ;
or, perhaps, more akin to a design
made with mathematical accuracy, and
in aqua-tinta ; for there are no cross-
ings of lines in the designs by the
pencil of nature: red, blue, yellow,
green, &c., are rendered by combina-
tions of light and shade — by demi-
tints, more or less clear or obscure,
according to the quantity of light in
each colour. But, in these copies, the
delicacy of the design — the purity of
the forms — the truth and harmony of
tone — the aerial perspective — the high
finish of the details, are all expressed
with the highest perfection.
The formidable lens, which often
betrays monstrosities in the most de-
licate and aerial of our masterpieces,
may here search for defects in vain.
The creations of nature triumph. Far
from betraying any defect, the highest
magnifier only tends to show more
clearly its vast superiority. At each
step we find new objects to admire,
revealing to us the existence of exqui-
site details, which escape the naked
eye, even in reality. Nor can this
astonish us when the radiant light,
which can only act according to the
immutable laws of nature, substitutes
its rays for the hesitating pencil of the
artist. M. Daguerre has represented,
from the Pont des Arts, and in a very
small space, the whole bank of the
Seine, including that part of the Louvre
containing the grand gallery of pic-
tures. Each line, each .point, is ren-
dered with a perfection quite unattain-
able by all means hitherto used ; he
has also reproduced the darkness of
Notre Dame, with its immense dra-
peries and Gothic sculpture. He has
also taken the view of a building in
the morning at eight o'clock, at mid-
day, and at four o'clock in the after-
noon, during rain and in sunshine.
Eight or ten minutes at most, in the
climate of Paris, is sufficient ; but un-
der a more ardent sun, such as that of
Egypt, one minute will suffice. To
artists and savans, who travel, and who
often find it impossible to prolong
their stay at interesting place?, this
process must be most welcome. The
French journals, and reports of pro-
ceedings, however, admit that these
admirable representations still leave
something to be desired as to efl'ect,
when regarded as works of art. It is
singular, they observe, that the power
which created them seems to have
New Discovery— Engraving, and Burnefs Cartoons, [March
388
abandoned them, and that these works
of light want light. Even in those
parts the most lighted, there is an ab-
sence of vivacity and effect ; and it is
to be allowed that, amidst all the har-
mony of their forms, these views ap-
pear subjected to the sober and heavy
tone of colour imparted by a dull
northern sky. It would appear that,
by passing through the glasses of
the optical arrangements of M. Da-
guerre, all the views are uniformly
clothed with a melancholy aspect, like
that given to the horizon by the ap-
proach of evening. Motion, it is ob-
vious, can never be copied ; and the
attempt to represent animals and shoe-
blacks in action, consequently failed.
Statuary is said to have been well de-
fined, but, hitherto, M. Daguerre has
not succeeded in copying the living
physiognomy in a satisfactory manner,
though he does not despair of success.
It could not have escaped chemists
that various chemical products are
sensibly affected by light. Some gases
may remain together in the dark
without any effect, but a ray of light
will cause instant explosion. Other
bodies, such as the chloruret of silver,
are modified in colour. It at first
takes a violet tint, afterwards becomes
black. Tim property would doubtless
have suggested the idea of applying
it to the art of design. But, by this
method, the most brilliant parts of the
object become discoloured, and the
darker parts remain white. This pro-
duces an effect contrary to fact ; and,
again, the con tinued action of light tends
to render the whole dark. Mr Talbot's
method would seem to be based on
the use of the salts of silver, with the
addition of some substance or covering
to prevent the further action of light
after the design was complete. This
discovery will doubtless make a great
revolution in the arts of design, and,
in a multitude of cases, will supersede
old methods altogether inferior. The
temporary interest of many may at first
be affected ; but whatever has the true
character of good, cannot essentially
do mischief. The invention of print-
ing soon gave employment to many
more than were employed as copyists.
Even in our own time, the substitution
of steel plates for engraving, instead
of copper, although fifty times as many
copies may be taken from them, has,
by the substitution of good engravings
for indifferent ones, so extended the
demand, that more steel plates are
now required than were formerly used
of copper.
We must add a few words with re-
ference to science. This newly dis-
covered substance, so easily acted
upon by the rays of light, opens a
wide field for photometric experiments
which hitherto have been hopeless,
more particularly on the light of the
moon. M. Arago recalls to our at-
tention some experiments made by
himself, jointly with other philoso-
phers, by which the light of the moon
(300,000 times less than that of the
sun) concentrated by the most power-
ful glasses, gave no indication of che-
mical action on the chloruret of silver,
nor any sign of heat on the most deli-
cate thermometer. We should be
glad to know if any experiments have
yet been made with the concentrated
light of the moon on thermo-electrical
apparatus, which may be constructed
of extreme delicacy. The substance
used by M. Daguerre is evidently
sensible to the action of lunar light,
since, in twenty minutes, he can repre-
sent, under the form of a white spot,
the exact image of this luminary.
M. Biot, who, from the nature of
his labours in the fields of science, takes
a lively interest in the discovery in
question, anticipates much from the
means afforded by it to carry out
the analysis of some of the most deli-
cate phenomena of nature. M. Da-
guerre has, it is asserted, already dis-
covered some new properties of light,
and is still carrying on the investiga-
tion."
Here, in truth, is a discovery launch-
ed upon the world, that must make a
revolution in art. It is impossible, at
first view, not to be amused at the
sundry whimsical views the coming
changes present. But, to speak more
seriously, in what way, in what degree,
will art be affected by it ? Art is of
two kinds, or more properly speaking,
has two walks, the imaginative and
the imitative : the latter may, indeed,
greatly assist the former, but, in the
strictly imitative, imagination may not
enter but to do mischief. They may
be considered therefore, as the two
only proper walks. It must be evident
that the higher, the imaginative, can-
not immediately be affected by the
new discovery — it is not tangible to
its power— the poetry of the mind can-
not be submitted to this material pro-
1839.]
New Discovery — Engraving, and Bur net's Cartoons.
cess ; but there is a point of view in
•which it may be highly detrimental to
genius, which, being but a power over
materials, must collect with pains and
labour, and acquire & facility of draw-
ing. Now, it is manifest that, if the
artist can lay up a store of objects
without the (at first very tedious) pro-
cess of correct drawing, both his mind
and his hand will fail him ; the mind
will not readily supply what it does
not know practically and familiarly,
and the hand must be crippled when
brought to execute what it has not
previously supplied as a sketch. Who
will make elaborate drawings from
Statues or from life, if he can be sup-
plied in a more perfect, a more true
manner, and in the space of a few
minutes, either with the most simple
or the most complicated forms ? How
very few will apply themselves to a
drudgery, the benefits of which are to
be so remote, as an ultimate improve-
ment, and will forego for that hope,
which genius may be most inclined to
doubt, immediate possession ? But if
genius could really be schooled to
severe discipline, the new discovery,
by new and most accurate forms, might
greatly aid conception. If this view
be correct, we may have fewer artists ;
but those few, who will " spurn de-
lights and live laborious days," will
arrive at an eminence which no mo.
dern, and possibly no ancient master
has reached.
But, in the merely imitative walk,
and that chiefly for scientific purposes,
draughts of machinery and objects of
natural history, the practice of art, as
it now exists, will be nearly annihilated
—it will be chiefly confined to the co-
louring representations made by the
new instruments — for it is not pre-
sumed that colour will be produced by
the new process. Our mere painters
of views will be superseded, for our
artists have strangely dropped the
wings of their genius, and perched
themselves, as if without permission
to enter, before the walls of every
town and city in Christendom, and of
some out of it ; so much so, that after-
generations, judging of us from our
views in annuals and other produc-
tions, may pronounce us to have been
a proscribed race, not allowed to enter
within gates ; pictorial lepers, com-
mitted to perform quarantine without,
and in the face of the broad sun, if
possible, to purify us. These mere
view-makers will be superseded j for
who, that really values views, will not
prefer the real representation to the
less to be depended upon ? We have so
little taste for these things, that we
shall say so much the better, if it does
not throw many worthy and indus-
trious men out of employment. Yet
who is allowed to think of that in these
days, when the great, the universal
game of " beggar my neighbour" is
played and encouraged with such avi-
dity? Then it remains to be consi-
dered,— will taste be enlarged by this
invention ? Do we not despise what
is too easily attained ? Is not the ad-
miration of the world at once the in-
citement and the reward ? Has it not
greatly, mainly, a reference to our-
selves ? It is what man can do by his
extraordinary manual dexterity that
we are so prone to admire.
People prefer a poor representation
of an object made by a human hand to
the beauty of the thing itself. They
will throw away a leaf, a flower, of
exquisite beauty, and treasure up the
veriest daub, that shall have the slight-
est resemblance to it. We suspect our
love — our admiration of art arises, in
the first place, because it is art, and of
man's hand. This is a natural preju-
dice, 'and one designed, probably, to
bring the hands nature has given
us to their utmost power. There are
things so exquisitely beautiful, and
at first sight acknowledged to be so by
all/that it is surprising they are not in,
common use. For instance, the camera
obscura — how perfectly fascinating it
is ! Yet, how unsatisfied are people
with it, because it is not of a human
hand, and how seldom do people,, even
of taste, return, as it might have been
expected they would, to the exhibition
of it? We are afraid something of this
indifference will arise from the new
invention. However beautiful may be
the work produced, there will be no
friend to be magnified, no great artist
for the amateurs to worship with
all the idolatry of their taste, or of
their lack of it. The love of imita-
tion, innate though it be, and so de-
terminate in infant genius as it has
ever shown itself, will undoubtedly be
checked as mere idleness ; and, in lieu
of improvement by practice, the young
genius will be surfeited with amuse-
ments which he has had no share in
creating, and for whose excellence he
has had no praise. If this view be
Discovery — Engraving, and Bur net's Cartoons. [March,
390
correct, it may be presumed that the
number of artists will be greatly les-
sened, and that a few will attain great-
er excellence.
Another question arises, will painters
and engravers be equally affected ? In
the present view of the matter, for we
have not seen any announcement of a
power of making impressions ad infi-
nitum, though in certain cases of fixed
objects, and with fixed light and shade
something of this kind may be looked
to ; yet, for practical purposes, it is
probable that the engraver will even
more than ever be in demand. We hope
it may be so, for it is in this way prac-
tice in drawing will still be required ;
and without practice in drawing, we
can have no painters. Yet, when one
thinks of the possible power of copying
pictures — in having fac-similes, in all
but colour, of Raphael and Correggio,
one cannot but dread, in the midst of
hope of the rich possession, the diminu-
tion of so admirable an art. We should
not have written this paper at all, had
we not been led to it by the contempla-
tion of the effects of this new discovery
on engraving, though we have not come
very direct to our object. We had been
disgusted beyond measure, with the
vile, trashy, flashy, and presuming
things, so impudently staring out of
our printsellers' windows, and had
retired home to refresh our eyes and
taste with a recent purchase, Burnet's
cartoons. We began to speculate on
what would be the difference between
these and transcripts from the new
invention. If we are to have the true
handling of Raphael, we must be satis-
fied— but it is difficult to persuade our-
selves that we have it not in these prints
of Burnet. Their freedom is delightful
— no further finish is wanted ; we could
not look at the elaborate hair-splitting
engravings of these cartoons, after
these bold expressive plates ; and here,
the world may have before them for a
few shillings excellent representations
of the finest things by the best of mas-
ters— so cheap, and, at the same time,
so very good, that to be without them,
having seen them, will argue a lack
of feeling of the best art. Now, that
no one may think this a puff for the
benefit of Mr Burnet, we positively
declare it is not, that we know not, and
never saw that eminent engraver in our
lives ; but we have long known his
works, and valued his knowledge of art,
which he hasindefatigably endeavour-
ed to engraft upon the public; we have
often purposed to review his works,
and probably to question some of his
theories, rather as imperfect, however,
than wrong. But that is little to the
purpose ; we thank him for these fine
specimens of his art, and think the
public greatly indebted to him. The
four plates are now before us :
Christ's Charge to Peter, Elymas '.he
Sorcerer struck Blind, Paul Preach-
ing at Athens, and the Miraculous
Draught of Fishes.
The Cartoons are too well known to
require description or criticism at any
length. There is nothing more re-
markable about them than their sim-
plicity. They are so perfectly unas-
suming in themselves, so destitute of
all pretension of art, and yet so full of
all its reality, that you look at them
long, without thinking anything can
be said concerning them. They have
the most matter-of-fact air — yet is
their arrangement, notwithstanding,
of wondrously artful accomplishment.
The perfect union of part with part,
and preservation of the whole as one
subject (we speak of each separate pic-
ture), shows the highest skill ; but were
this visible at first, the naturalness
would have been injured. Here is
Christ's Charge to Peter. It is one
subject ; the charge to Peter, and the
other disciples are included in the
group as in the injunction. There
are two parties in this command, Christ
and his sheep— Peter and his brother
disciples. They are accordingly so
grouped, that there can be no mistak-
ing their separateness, and yet the
oneness of the subject is preserved.
On one extremity are the sheep, the
heavenly charge ; on the other extre-
mity, the boat and water, the worldly
and present occupation of the disciples.
There is a peculiar sanctity in Christ
standing apart ; the pointing of one
hand to the sheep connects them with
him ; the other hand and extended
arm, nearly touching the key in St
Peter's hand, connects our Lord with
the disciples. The arrangement, even
in minutiae, is more nice and artificial
than one could at first suppose; for
instance, if (omitting even the con-
sideration of the subject) the hand of
Christ, in dark shade, was not so dis-
tinctly extended over the sheep, the
whole figure would be isolated, and
the whole passage from the figure to
the end, including the sheep, super-
1839.] New Discover;/ — Engraving, and Burnefs Cartoons.
fluous ; and so at the other extremity of
the picture, were there a too marked
and abrupt outline of the terminating
figure, the picture would, somewhat
hardly, end there ; but the group must
be connected with their employment,
and that is artificially done by the dra-
pery of that figure breaking the line
which would otherwise terminate it,
and carried beyond and immediately
over the projection of the boat. And
this not only answers the purpose in
either case, but by the very sameness,
almost repetition of the manner of
doing it, even when the art is discover,
ed, impresses the mind with the sim-
plicity of the whole. Another very
striking thing in the arrangement is,
the distance from Christ to St Peter,
being as if measured from Christ to
the end of the picture, which includes
the sheep ; so that (if we may so
speak) the two parts in the covenant
are clearly, at first view, set forth ; and
then, that the whole of the disciples
may be one group, and equally con-
nected with Peter, their head in this
instance, and Christ, the larger mass,
those pressing forward, are admirably
united with the rest, by the upright
central figure, and one of that part of
the group mentioned, with the head
turned towards him. Even in the very
back-ground, the parts are not without
object; the tall building over the heads
of the last-mentioned figures directs
the eye to them, and from them to
either side, and so to them jointly as
a whole. Du Bos has been censured,
for too easily, in this picture, distin-
guishing the character of Judas, who
had hanged himself and could not have
been present, and there are certainly
but eleven disciples, — yet the charac-
ter of the figure, evidently alluded to,
must, we think, strike every one as of a
sinister cast, and it is remarkable that
the figure is grasping a bag.
The same clear arrangement is made
in that of Paul Preaching at Athens.
St Paul perfectly stands alone, al-
though the figures are all about him, —
and so his audience, though of several
parts, are one group. The figure stand-
ing up, facing St Paul, is the key of
that whole group ; and the figure be-
hind him, and those in the opposite
corner, bring the whole subject, as it
were, round in a circle, and make it
one, by connecting all its parts. We
could dwell at great length on these
sort of arrangements, which are infinite,
to show that, though they appear so
391
simple, there is in them the most con-
summate skill. Here, again, is Elymas
the Sorcerer. Nothing can be more
distinct than the two parts — even as
in a court of justice : on the one side
Paul, on the other Elymas, — you sec
nothing at first but these two — the one
to utter the awful punishment from
God, the other at the same instant to
feel it. The accessaries are but ac-
cessaries, and attest it. And mark
how they are connected with the
principal figures. The effect upon
Sergius Paulus was to be told ; how
open, then, is the space between him
and Saul and Elymas — and how very
remarkably are all the hands in this
picture connected, and all finally tend
to the denunciation, or rather the
marking the instant effect of the
denunciation, on the sorcerer. The
hand of Saul uttering the curse is in
strong light, it reaches, not in perspec-
tive but in fact, to the right hand of
Sergius Paulus, whose left is towards
Elymas, and thence all the hands are
directed to the sorcerer but one, that
of a woman, whose finger points to
Saul — and thus, here again, one extre-
mity of the picture communicates with
the other : nor are the hands of the
sorcerer himself to be forgotten., which
connect the proconsul with the apostle.
There is precisely the same compli-
cated arrangement and apparent sim-
plicity in the Miraculous Draught of
Fishes. Christ is still apart — the worker
of the miracle. The group, though in
separate boats, is still one group, they
are connected by one figure, which, in
the arrangement belongs to both ,- the
very light and shade is made subservi-
ent to this object, and hence the great
simplicity. We know these remarks
may be considered technical, and do not
reach the greater merits of these won-
derful pictures — they are intended to
be so, because, if they are technically
true, they are of value to those who may
not have made similar observations ;
and may lead them to make others
of the kind, by which we are quite
sure their admiration will be increased.
And we cannot but add, that, in the
prints of the day, beautifully executed
and very costly, you will scarcely ever
see this art of arrangement practised.
It is often hard to say what is the sub-
ject— what the principal figure, where
there are many claimants — what is the
character of beauty designed, where
the stern and the meretricious are
blended in confusion.
393
Bannister the Comedian,
[March,
BANNISTER THE COMEDIAN.
THE lives of actors are entitled to
all the natural value that can belong to
variety and vivacity of adventure, to
pleasantry adopted as a profession,
and to an habitual intercourse with all
that is strange, showy, and original
in society. They sometimes have
another and a higher use. If they, in
their darker instances, exhibit fine
faculties abused and brilliant oppor-
tunities sacrificed to personal vices,
they also, and not seldom, exhibit
manliness and self-control, steady per-
severance under severe difficulties, and
the comforts, and even the honours of
old age, achieved through impedi-
ments which might have broken down
the integrity, or wearied the fortitude
of many a prouder name.
Within these few years, " Lives "
of the principal performers of the last
half century have appeared. It is not
to be doubted that they have made a
very pleasing addition to our biogra-
phical stores. They have recalled the
shapes and voices of a race of men,
whose memory is proverbially fleet-
ing ; they have largely added to the
gay and harmless anecdotes of private
life ; and they have unquestionably
supplied many a picture of the past,
which could have been preserved in no
other keeping, and which will be receiv-
ed with interest and use by the future.
JOHN BANNISTER was born at Dept-
ford, May 12, 1760. He was singu-
larly fortunate in his whole career.
Thrown on the stage in boyhood, he
continued the especial favourite of
that very fickle mistress, the English
public, for five-and-thirty years — grew
in reputation from year to year — saw
no rival in his own delightful style-
suffered no reverse of personal suc-
cess, and no personal casualty — retain-
ed his fine perceptions, and acquired
skill until the time, and long after the
time, when the stage required them
no more — retired in the midst of pub-
lic regret — in his retirement lived in
competence, quiet, and respectability —
and at the age of seventy-six, in full
possession of his faculties, his good-
humour, and the respect of all who
had ever known him, died without a
pang. Old wisdom will say that there
was a reason for all this. His grand-
mother, immediately on his birth, had
snatched a silver spoon from the side-
board, and put it to the infant's mouth.
The old proverb has seldom been more
strictly verified,
Fate seems to have marked him for
the theatre. His father Charles was
an actor, and, like himself, an especial
favourite. Charles was the son of an
officer in the victualling department at
Deptford. A company of strollers
tempted his young ambition to try the
stage. His fine figure, handsome face,
and buoyant spirits, were strong qua-
lifications. He offered himself to
Drury Lane — was rejected by the ma-
nager— again made the circuit of the
country — and attracting the notice of
Trote, by that eccentric yet remark-
able wit, was brought back to Lon-
don. The life of the stage is memo-
rable for the mistakes made by clever
men relative to their own powers, and
the circumstances which finally point
out where their talents lie. Charles
had conceived himself to be born for
tragedy ; and, during some time, he
played tragic heroes of all ranks, from
the Richards and Romeos, down to
those humbler victims of love and
ambition, who die without having the
honour of breaking hearts or sub-
verting dynasties. Accident disco-
vered to the tragedian that he could
sing, and that he had a remarkably
sonorous yet sweet voice. Singing
was then the delight of the day in
private life ; mimicry has always been
the enjoyment of the people in public.
Charles had a fine voice, a fine taste,
and a copious recollection of traits
and tones. His song became an imi-
tation, sometimes serious, oftener bur-
lesque, of the principal singers of the
period. In both he was excellent.
Garrick once took Giordini, the fa-
mous violinist, to hear his imitations
of Tenducci and Champneyo. The
violinist declared the imitation per-
fect ; sarcastically remarking, however,
that " it had one fault, — the voice of
Memoirs of John Bannister, Comedian,
volumes. 1839,
By John Adolphus, Esq. In two
1839.]
the mimic was better than
either of the originals."
It was once the habit of all actors,
with, perhaps, the single exception of
the greatest among them — Garrick,
to be in debt. They habitually lived
like butterflies, or any other glittering
creation which was made for a sum-
mer, and never thought of any thing
beyond the day of sunshine. This has
passed away with other fashions of the
last century, and some of our contem-
poraries have even exhibited the miser
as faithfully off the stage as on. But
we have never heard of a wit, ancient
or modern, whether in the days of
our fathers or our own, who had not
" his distresses like a lord." Whether
it is that wit is the antipodes to pru-
dence— that the expenditure of the fan-
cy runs away with all of the brain that
belongs to calculation — that the organ
of pleasantry withers the organ of
pounds, shillings, and pence ; or that
nature, in giving this most brilliant of
all qualities, balances her bounty by
subtracting common sense, the fact
is certain, that no wit ever escaped
being embarrassed in his circumstan-
ces. Charles Bannister gave his share
of evidence to the maxim. He was a
capital wit, and he was always in diffi-
culties. A pleasantry of his told both.
At the time when all the world were
talking of the death of Sir Theodosius
Boughton, in 1781, who was poisoned
by laurel water — "Poh," said Charles,
" don't tell me of your laurel leaves ;
I fear none but a bay-leaf! " (bailiff.)
His wit was so redundant, that he
could afford to throw it away even
upon his son. John, when a mere lad,
had exhibited a singular fondness for
drawing, and used to sketch heads
cleverly, for each of which Charles
gave him a shilling. On some occasions
the young artist wanted the shilling
without having the head to produce.
He would make some alteration in an
old performance, and present it for the
customary reward. Charles, rather
dunned in one of those instances, and
surprised, perhaps, to find that he had
created the dun in his own family,
exclaimed, " Why, hang it, Jack, you
are just like an ordinary ; come when
you will, it is always a shilling A
HEAD."
But Jack was a seedling of the same
stock, and knew how to throw back
the pleasantry fresh pointed. Once,
when he had caused his father some
Bannister the Comedian. 393
that of slight irritation, the offence was mark-
ed by " Jack, I'll cut you off with a
shilling." " I wish, father," said Jack,
" you would give it to me now." His
father, delighted at the kindred spirit,
gave him much more than he had
asked.
The ruling passion sometimes deve-
lopes itself slowly, but sometimes
bursts through all circumstances.
Young Bannister had been intended for
a painter, and sent to study at the Royal
Academy, but there he made himself
remarkable by practical jokes. As
Nollekens afterwards observed, he
used to frighten old John Moscr ter-
ribly with his tragedy tricks. Moser
was the keeper of the Academy. The
more regular artists were said to be
glad when he left them. His face-
tiousness put them out of their way,
but he was probably a favourite ; and,
when he had fully abandoned the pro-
fession, old Moser himself took a whole
box to patronize his first appearance
on the stage. The theatre, of course,
was to Bannister not what it is to so
many others, a new world. He had
constantly followed his father to the
green-room, where his handsome face
and lively manners had already ob-
tained for him the soubriquet of Cu-
pid. Even managerial majesty had
for him but few alarms. From his
boyish days he had been a carrier of
messages from his father to Garrick,
and had been accustomed to see that
singular person in all his variety of
moods. Garrick seems to have been
the actor in a more entire sense than
any man within the memory of the
stage. He was acting in every thought
and gesture, in every hour and occa-
sion of life. When the boy brought
the letter, the manager would some-,
times put on a frowning countenance,
and affect anger ; at others affect deaf-
ness ; at others lose his articulation and
hesitate, or suddenly throw every fea-
ture into grotesque convulsion ; and
then, when he found his young spec-
tator on the point of laughing in his
face, he would finish the farce by a
burst of unrestrained merriment. Ban-
nister was but eighteen when he com-
menced his theatrical life. Nature
had been liberal in her gifts : he was
of good height, well formed, with a
remarkably brilliant though small eye,
and a voice, which, though not musi-
cally effective, was at once clear, and
sweet, and speaking. Dancing was
394
Bannister the Comedian.
I March,
then, as now, the universal accom-
plishment, and fencing essential to the
gentleman. Bannister possessed both,
and frequently exhibited them with
grace and dexterity.
To have seen Garrick, to have
known him — and, above all, to have
enjoyedhis personal notice — was a dis-
tinction which seems to have made an
extraordinary impression on all his
contemporaries. Bannister, in some
of the recitations which he delivered
in his tours, described his first inter-
view with this genius, so astounding
to novices. Bannister's imitation of
manner was always remarkable, and
he was said to give Garrick to the
life. His story was in this style : —
" I was a student of painting in the
Royal Academy, when I was intro-
duced to Mr Garrick, under whose su-
perior genius the British stage bloom-
ed and flourished beyond all former
example. In my first interview with
him I expressed my desire of quitting
the study I then pursued for the stage.
After frequent visits to him, he was
pleased to say that he perceived a — a
—a something in me which conveyed
a — a promise, a — an indication of thea-
trical talent : and here I am led into
an imitation — I begpardon — I mean an
humble attempt at imitation of his
manner in private. He had a sort of
a — a — a kind of a — a hesitation in his
speech, — a habit of indecision which
never marked his public exertions.
" One morning I was shown into
his dressing-room, where he was be-
fore the glass, preparing to shave ; a
white nightcap covered his forehead,
his chin and cheeks were enveloped
in soap-suds, a razor-cloth was placed
upon his left shoulder, and he turned
and smoothed his shining blade upon
the strop with as much dexterity as if
he had been a barber at the Horse
Guards, and shaved for a penny ; and
I longed for a beard, that I might imi-
tate his incomparable method of hand-
ling the razor.
" * Eh ! well — what — young man —
so — eh ? — (this was to me) — so you are
still for the stage ? Well, now — what
character do you — should you like to —
eh?'
" ' I should like to attempt Hamlet,
sir.'
" ' Eh ! what ? Hamlet the Dane !
Zounds — that's a bold — have you
studied the part ? '
'•' * I have, sir.'
" ' Well, don't mind my shaving —
speak the speech — the speech to the
ghost — I can hear you, — never mind
my shaving.'
" After a few hums and haws, and
a disposing of my hair so that it might
stand on end,
' Like quills upon the fretful porcupine,'
I supposed my father's ghost before
me, armed cap-a-pie, and off I started :
' Angels and ministers of grace defend
us! '
he wiped the razor —
' Be thou a spirit of health or goblin
damned,'
he strapped the razor —
« Bring with thee airs from heaven or
blasts from hell,
he shaved on —
4 Thou com'st in such a questionable
shape,
That I will speak to thee !'
he took himself by the nose —
' I'll call thee Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane. O answer me !
Let me not burst in ignorance.*
He lathered on. I concluded, but
still continued my attitude, expecting
prodigious praise ; when, to my eter-
nal mortification, he turned quick upon
me, brandishing the razor, and thrust-
ing his half-shaved face close to mine,
he made such horrible mouths at me,
that I thought he was seized with in-
sanity, and I was more frightened at
him than at my father's ghost. He
exclaimed in a tone of ridicule,
4 Angels and ministers of grace defend
us !
Yaw, waw, waw, waw.' — The abash-
ed Prince Hamlet became sheep-
ish, and looked more like a clown
than the grave-digger. He finished
shaving, put on his wig, and, with a
smile of good nature, took me by the
hand, and said, ' Come, young — eh!
let's now see what ice can do.' He
spoke the speech ; and how he spoke
it those who have heard him can never
forget."
Bannister's imitations were always
excellent. His handsome counte-
nance, his graceful figure, and his
natural bonhommie gave admirable
effect to his skill in this species of
1839.]
portraiture. He had all the vivacity
without the sting. Garrick was a
great imitator. His propensity was
so strong, that he was perpetually
imitating some one or other, as if
unconsciously. In private life, he
gave the happiest resemblances of all
his friends; in public, he gave por-
traits of the living actors, touching
every peculiarity, yet without offence.
Foote was dexterous, but unsparing ;
he touched not foibles, but deformities;
and accordingly contrived to make
himself dreaded by one half of his
acquaintance, and hated by the other.
On this mimic, Churchill, who hated
and yet resembled him, laid the lash,
in those vigorous lines : —
" Doth a man stutter, look asquint, or halt,
Mimics draw humour out of nature's fault,
With personal defects their mirth adorn,
And hang misfortune out to public scorn.
Even I, whom nature cast in hideous
mould,
And having made, she trembled to behold,
Beneath a load of mimicry may groan,
And find that nature's errors are my own."
Bannister's good-nature was once
exercised strongly on this -subject.
Nothing is more difficult than for an
actor to give up any thing by which
he makes what is technically called
" ahitj" or, if there be a superior dif-
ficulty, it is to prevail on himself to
give up a successful caricature. Bens-
ley, the actor, was a public favourite
in the higher parts of tragedy, but his
pompous manner, lofty stride, and the
general and unnatural stateliness,
which once were deemed ^essential to
the kings and heroes of the stage, of-
fered attractive food to Bannister. Of
course, Bensley frequently figured on
the stage, when the true man was ab-
sent. Vexed at this species of cele-
brity, he begged to have the " cha-
racter withdrawn," on the ground of
its actual injury to him in his profes-
sion, and Bannister gave it up without
delay. After this, what becomes of
the continence of Scipio ?
But the singular versatility of his
features entitled him to work other
wonders, scarcely intelligible by men
of more stubborn visages. Once he
thus copied in the life all the heads of
a volume of Lavater. Simply placing
himself in a position which enabled
him to have a view of his own coun-
tenance, he gave a succession of living
likenesses of the passions through all
Bannister the Comedian,
395
their varieties, from hatred to love,
and of all the degrees of intellect from
idiocy up to genius.
The course of theatres, like the
course of true love, seldom has run
smooth ; and the expedients to restore
the smoothness of the current have
been as numberless as they have been
generally unsuccessful. We have seen
balloons and bull-fights come to the
aid of Shakspeare ; stag-hunts and
horse-races summoned to revive the
jaded appetites of the lovers of comedy,
farce and melodrama ; and, at this
moment, two theatres crowded, to see
the feats of two menageries ; while
Melpomene and Thalia are no where
to be seen on earth, except fixed out-
side the walls of Covent Garden
Theatre. For this we attach not the
slightest blame to the managers. It
is the public taste. The public taste
dictates to the public servants, and,
instead of lauding them as heroes, we
should think them simpletons, for sa-
crificing themselves and their houses
to the imaginary honour of the drama.
Let the people choose better, and au-
thors write better ; and the managers
will be as willing as either. Let it be
the public command that nothing but
French farces shall be suffered on the
stage. Let the nobility desert the
stage, and spend their patronage on
the unnatural absurdities and exhaust-
ing longueurs of the Italian Opera,
and the process must go on, till the
drama is made up as .much of frivolity
as the Queen's Theatre is of paint and
pasteboard.
One of the novel contrivances of
Bannister's early time, was the coali-
tion (abhorred name) of the two great
theatres. By this ridiculous and vexa-
tious arrangement, the actors were to
be transferred from house to house,
as the exigencies of the night, or, as
it seems, even of the house, might
demand . Thus the actor was alternately
flung from the heights of tragedy into
the depths of burlesque ; and the same
performer might be dancing in all the
antics of" My Grandmother" at Drury
Lane, within the hour in which he
had stalked before Hamlet, bringing
with him " airs from heaven or blasts
from hell," and making the Crown
Prince's hair stand on end. But this
childish plan soon wearied the actors,
next wearied the town ; and, finally,
before the end of the season, effectually
wearied the managers,
396
Bannister the Comedian.
[March,
In 1778, Bannister made his first
appearance in London, and in tragedy.
Nothing could be more favourable
than his introduction, except his asso-
ciation, for Garrick -was his tutor in
the part of Zaphna, which he had
resigned to the debutant, and his
Palmira was the well known, then
superlatively lovely, and perhaps then
innocent, Mrs Robinson. Davies de-
scribes this performance, " as con-
ceived justly, and with accuracy, and
sometimes executed boldly and vigor-
ously." Poor Davies seldom ventured
on any thing so distinct as this, yet
two of his epithets are expletive. It
is, however, evident, that he had not
penetration to discover the future man
in the boy, however bold, or find out
the first comedian of the coming age,
in the trembling representative of
Zaphna. But Zaphna had other dis-
tinctions : it was the last part which
Garrick ever played (he died January
15, 1779), and it was the finale of old
Sheridan's Dublin theatre ; his ma-
nagement and his fortunes all being
ruined by a riot, in which he had the
absurdity to resist a whole audience, —
and to resist them, if possible, for the
greater absurdity of refusing to recite
a few foolish lines out of a vapid
play.
But this season (1799) presented the
public with a dramatic chef cTceuvre,
The Critic; a farce which has no
title to the name, only because it de-
serves a better. ' It has been long es-
tablished so completely above rivalry,
in its keenness of perception and
happiness of satire, as to be almost
wholly without even an imitator.
Whether Sheridan constructed his
piece as an instrument of torture for
Cumberland, or, finding him fit it
when it was made, screwed him in
while the English language 'endures,
is a question which Sheridan could
never be persuaded to solve. But
neither in France nor Spain is there
any thing so witty, so pungent, and
so characteristic as the first act of The
Critic. Cumberland certainly deserved
to be taught that he could feel. He
was a perpetual thorn in the side of
every theatrical writer ; a sneer and
a scoff waited upon every man's suc-
cess. It is true that the sneer was ac-
companied by a bow, and the scoff by
a compliment, and both equally po-
lished and contemptuous. But excel-
lence was not to be forgiven, and Cum-
berland was the Apollo who equally
dispensed physic and fame. His an-
tipathy to the young author of The
Rivals, The Duenna, and the School
for Scandal, must have been incurable ;
and Sheridan, to show him the awk-
wardness of indulging it, flung The
Critic on him, like a swarm of hornets,
to cling and sting till his authorship
was tormented out of the_theatre and
out of the world.
But what is the value of theatrical
criticism, especially from theatrical
men, when Garrick, confessedly the
prince of actors and the most experi-
enced of all men in the public taste,
actually cut up Hamlet, and presented
it in this mutilated form to the stage ?
Boaden, the biographer of the late
John Kemble, found the copy of this
extraordinary work in his library, it
having been given as a present from
Mrs Garrick. He thus describes the
massacre : — " Garrick cut out the
voyage to England, arid the execution
of Rosincrantz and Guildenstern, who
had made love to the employment,
and marshalled his way to knavery."
This, perhaps, might be forgiven.
But the adroit manager " cut out the
funeral of Ophelia, with all the wis-
dom of the prince and the jocularity
of the grave-diggers." For the pur-
pose of condensing the action, " Ham-
let is made to burst in upon the king
and court, when Laertes reproaches
him with his father's and sister's
deaths. The exasperation of both is
at its height ; when the king inter-
poses, and declares that his wrath at
Hamlet's rebellious spirit, in not de-
parting for England, shall fall heavy.
Then feel you mine, says Hamlet, and
stabs him." The rest is huddled up
with the rapidity of a scene-shifter.
And all this was told, not in Shak-
speare's language, but in that of some
adventurous genius in the manager's
closet. The attempt to mend Shak-
speare's phraseology, however, was
laughed at ; and the play, thus im-
proved, naturally returned to the dark-
ness from which it came. Yet Gar-
rick was rather vain of his alteration ;
and in a letter to Sir William Young,
in 1773, he writes, that "his producing
Hamlet with alterations was the most
imprudent thing he ever did ; but he
had sworn that he would not leave the
stage until he had rescued that noble
play from all the rubbish of the fifth
act : " adding, " the alteration was
1839.J
Bannister the Comedian.
397
received with general approbation,
beyond my most vain expectations."
But this stigma was not to be left on
the great bard. After Garrick's death
the play was restored ; and it was
among the laurels of young Bannister
that he was appointed to perform the
principal part. Still, the adherents of
Garrick looked upon the restoration
as an offence to his fame ; and even
twenty-four years after, as Bannister,
one night in the green-room, happened
to say to Waldron, " Do you know
who first restored the scene of the
grave-diggers, and played Hamlet on
the occasion? It was I." — Waldron
replied, " Yes, and you ought to have
known better ; had Garrick been alive
he would have been angry with you j"
oddly adding, that if he should meet
Garrick in a better place, his first ex-
pression would be, I am glad to see
you, Jack ; and his second, Why did
you restore the grave-diggers?
Yet, to the best of players, the life
of the stage is what is termed " up-
hill work," and Bannister had, for many
years, his share of the drudgery. The
chief torture of a clever actor must be
to play a dull part ; and Bannister's
cleverness often actually fixed him in
parts which no man could play with
effect, because few but himself could
play them at all. One of those un-
happy characters, Lord Falbridge, in
The English Merchant, a comedy
by the elder Colman, was thus fas-
tened on him, and he seems to have
inherited a kind of uniform of dulness
for this and similar parts. " There
was," says one of his chroniclers, " a
very persevering sky-coloured suit of
laced clothes lugged put of the Hay-
market wardrobe on such occasions ;
and Jack Bannister, in his light-blue
and silver, with a sword by his side,
was, to all play-goers at this time, as
infallible a token of a clever young
actor in a bad part, as deep mourning
is a sign of death in a family."
In 1783, Bannister did, perhaps, the
wisest of the many wise things of his
life — he married. The lady was a
Miss Harper, a singer at the Haymar-
ket, with a sweet voice, a pretty face,
and an honest fame. The general
prognostics of the world were rather
against the lady's wisdom on the occa-
sion. " That poor girl," said they,
" has saved some money, and that
thoughtless fellow will squander it all.
Her fortune will afford a short period
of pleasure, and then her talents must
be taxed to support his dissipation."
The prognostics were untrue. Ban-
nister's thoughtlessness of manner
never corrupted his heart. His life
was domestic, and public feeling was
never outraged by any deviation from
the conduct of a husband.
But the great luminary of the theatre
in our generation was now to arise.
In 1782, Sarah Siddons appeared in
Drury Lane. She had, some years
before, made an attempt ; and so pre-
carious is even the highest order o.
ability when first exposed to the trials
of the stage, that even Siddons had
failed, had retired in discouragement,
and seems to have thought of wholly
abandoning the profession. But she
now felt her genius, and at her first
step on the boards (October 10, 1782),
seized on all the celebrity that the
the boards can give. In this season
of triumph, the circle of her perform-
ances was remarkably limited, — Isa-
bella, in which she had made her first
appearance, Euphrasia, Jane Shore,
Calista, Belvidera, and Zara.
The enthusiasm with which she was
received was boundless and universal.
The theatre was railed off, a part of
the pit being converted into boxes.
, The fronts of the galleries were
secured at an early hour for ladies,
and crowds, every night, were obliged
to retire from the doors. When the
tragedy was ended, the great majority
of the audience went away, unable to
sit out the afterpiece, or disdaining to
mingle their high-raised recollections
with any thing that could follow. The
old playgoers attempted to make faint
battle for the fame of the Gibbers,
Crawfords, and Yateses : but it was
hopeless ; the extraordinary woman
before them combined all past excel-
lencies, and the critics forgot their
own recollections in applause. All
this, in the present state of the stage,
must seem extravagant. Yet even
this does injustice only by its inade-
quacy. The power of Siddons is in-
conceivable but by those who have
seen her. Uniting singular beauty
with grace in her early life, she won
the heart before she spoke. When she
spoke, she penetrated it. Her voice
was at. once incomparably sweet and
powerful, her conception instinctively
true ; and the result of the whole com-
bined was a tragic faculty which ex-
ercised the most singular and unlimited
398
Bannister the Comedian.
[March,
force over every feeling. No other
actress perhaps ever possessed such a
spell for dissolving her whole audience
into a passion of tears — for creating
such mingled pain and delight — and,
•without the slightest exaggeration on
her part, throwing hundreds and thou-
sands of hearts, by a single gesture or
even a single look, into something lit-
tle short of convulsion. Of course,
all the favours that success brings
in its train poured in upon this pre-
eminent performer. Her salary was
instantly raised — she had two benefits
in the season — and, as one of the most
gratifying marks of public honour
that could be offered, the bar raised a
subscription, presented with an address,
of his accustomed eloquence, by the
celebrated Erskine.
The fame of the actress brought
forward her brothers, Stephen and
John Kemble. Both took high ground
at their first step ; both had acquired
a name in the provincial theatres ; but,
unluckily, there was one name which
preceded both, yet was appropriated
to neither. " The great Mr Kemble
is engaged — is coming — is come," was
the phrase : all was perplexity. But
a London season settles every thing.
Stephen Kemble played Shakspeare's
characters with the greatest rotundity
of stomach ever seen before on the me-
tropolitan stage. John played them
majestically, if coldly, and with force,
if not with nerve. The distinction
was thenceforth clear, between the
" great " Mr Kemble and the " big"
Mr Kemble. John's first appearance
in London was at Covent Garden, in
Hamlet (30th October, 1783).
The novelty of the season was
General Burgoyne's Comedy, The
Heiress, the fashionable product of
a man of fashion ; neither inelegant
nor unnatural, yet too commonplace
for character, and too feeble for inter-
est. Like other new fashions, it
lived its season, and then was inca-
pable of return. It is^mentioned here,
chiefly for the sake of Mrs Inchbald's
remark. The subject seems to have
given pungency to a pen seldom
guilty of either point or precision.
" Burgoyne was complete in medio-
crity. He sent the most pathetic
accounts from America of the surren-
der of his whole army. The style
charmed every body, but he had better
have beaten the enemy and misspelt
every word of his despatch; for so,
probably, the great Duke of Marl-
borough would have done both the
one and the other."
There are few anecdotes told in fa-
vour of Foote's magnanimity ; yet one
deserves to be told. The epilogue to
his farce of The Minor contained a
burlesque of the style and manner of the
well-known Whitfield, under the title
of Dr Squintem. During the run of
the farce, it happened that Whitfield
died. The epilogue was withdrawn.
On its being loudly called for by the
audience, Foote came forward, and
said, that he was incapable of holding
up the dead to ridicule.
The claims of the patent theatres
have always been a source of jealousy.
At this period, Palmer, an actor of
some reputation, attempted to try their
strength by setting up a theatre in
the Tower district, which he called
the Royalty Theatre ; his pretension
being founded on the idea that the
district called the Tower Hamlets
was Royalty, that the lieutenant-
governor of the Tower had there the
rights of the King at Westminster,
and that this officer had been unwise
enough to grant him a license. No-
thing could be more unquestionable
than that this license was in the teeth
of the law, and the vagrant act (17th
George II.) gave a summary power
of imprisonment to the justice of the
peace, before whom any performers
should be brought, as an offender
against the law. At this theatre,
Braham made his first appearance.
Palmer, in the first instance, evaded
prosecution by giving up the regular
drama ; but the appearance of oppres-
sion always produces popularity in
England. The people crowded Pal-
mer's theatre, and he took good care
not to leave them ignorant of his sense
of injury. He was continually intro-
ducing hits at what he called the seve-
rity of the law. He lamented in a
prologue, his restricted condition : —
" Should I from Shakspeare but a scene
retail,
A moral sentence drags me to a gaol."
And, in a scene representing a vocal
club, Bannister bore a conspicuous
part in a glee to this effect :
" Come, come, my boys, lets sing a catch,
Other voices,
*' A match, a match !
One voice.
" Beware of catchpoles,
Bannister the Comedian.
1839.J
Warrants, and darkholes.
You're a vagrant ; — 'tis a fact !
Bannister.
" Stop ! — stop ! let me look at the act.
( Having examined the book).
I'm a gentleman !—
The one.
" I ask your pardon,
You're only such in Covent Garden.
Bannister.
" Curse your odious explanation.
Let us sing
God save the King,
And be loyal in spite of information."
Still the performances were not so
guarded, but that an information was
laid against Charles Bannister and
some others for playing in entertain-
ments of the stage, contrary to the
statute; and the justice, whose name
was Staple, convicted and committed
them; but another magistrate, most
illegally and irregularly, superseded
the warrant. This incident occasioned
one of Bannister's usual happy puns,
which was related with great humour
and effect by Lee Lewis, while exhi-
biting a drunken man, in the Lecture
on Heads, at the Royalty. " I said
a remarkably good thing," exclaimed
the drunkard, " better than Charles
Bannister said to the justice ; per-
haps you don't know what that was?
' Why,' says his worship, says he,
' Charles, you are a vagabond, and I'll
put my padlock upon you.' ' Will
you ? ' said Charles ; ' why, then, I'll
knock out the Staple.' "
It may be presumed that the mana-
gers of the regular theatres did not
look calmly upon this attempt to evade
their right. They issued a well-rea-
soned protest against it ; in which they
contended, and with truth, as the
public have very fully found, that
this was but the beginning, not mere-
ly of encroachments on the rights of
the patentees, but of injuries to all
established theatrical property, degra-
dation to the public taste, and im-
poverishment to the regular drama :
that we should have similar houses
starting up in all the outskirts, whose
numbers would preclude their success ;
and that the ruin of all would be the
natural consequence. This argument
luckily prevailed at the time»^ and
London saw her two great theatres
flourish, until our modern era of uni-
versal change came to enlighten the
world. The clamour rose against
right, which was pronounced tyranny,
VOt, XLV, NO. CCLXXXI,
and order which was stigmatized as
the repression of genius. A crowd
of mushroom theatres were suffered to
exist, which have shown little else in
their performances than alternations
of dulness and ribaldry ; in their per-
formers the humblest specimens of the
profession ; and in the fortunes of their
managers the successive grades of
bankruptcy. As the general result,
the stage was never so depressed as at
this moment ; all authorship seems to
have shrunk away from its contact,
and a new actor is next in rarity to a
new planet. Of course, if this con-
dition of things is ever to be cured, it
must be by returning to the old spirit
of the dramatic laws. The license of
those pitiful, dreary, and mendicant
receptacles for pauperism, calling it-
self a company, must be revoked ; the
wretched imitations of the drama,
which disgrace even the suburbs, must
be forbidden ; and, if the Lord Cham-
berlain can find time from carrying
the Queen's knife and fork or stand-
ing with a white rod behind her chair,
for enquiring into the nature of the
performances at those equally dull
and profligate places of exhibition, the
dramas themselves must be thrown
back to their Parisian authors, and
left to the congenial hotbed of the
Continent. But nothing of those will
be done, and the drama is doomed.
About this time John Kemble's mar-
riage amused the public with a little
romance. One of the daughters of a
noble lord, formerly holding high of-
fice, but then living in retirement, had
fallen in love with the graceful and
showy actor, merely from seeing him
on the stage. Kemble was sent for
by the father, and, to his astonishment,
acquainted with the circumstance.
The noble lord told him further, that
it was in his power to do him either a
great evil or a great favour ; and that,
if he would do the latter, by relieving
him from all apprehension of the lady's
indulging her fantasy, and relieve him
effectually, by marrying any one else
for whom he might have an attach-
ment, his wife should receive a dower
of L.5000. Kemble immediately pro-
posed for Mrs Brereton, a pretty ac-
tress in the company, and the marriage
took place without delay. But the
amusing part of the tale is, that the
afflicted and magnanimous father in-
stantly recovered his spirits, and lost
his memory— on being applied to for
2c
Bannister the Comedian.
his thousands, declared that he had no
recollection whatever of the compact,
nor, indeed, any of the idea, further
than some general conversation on
such matters with the " very intelli-
gent person in question;" adding-,
"that if he was to pay L.5000 for
every whim of his daughters, he must
soon be a much poorer man than he
ever intended to be." It is certainly
believed that Kemble never got a shil-
ling from this very sensitive nobleman,
and that, for the rest of his life, he at-
tached a new value to the vulgar eti-
quette of signing and sealing before-
hand, even with the most plausible of
mankind.
The little theatre in the Haymarket
had now devolved into George Col-
man's hands, by the death of his fa-
ther. George's history, like that of
his father, is a beacon to all aspirants
after dramatic rule. The father, a
natural son of Lord Bath, highly edu-
cated by him for official and public
life, and with competence or even
with distinction before him, chose to
abandon his career, for the produc-
tion of plays and the management of
theatres. After a life of struggle, he
died a beggar. His son George, a
man of excellent parts, followed the
same course, and would have come to
the same end, but for the patronage of
George the Fourth, who gave him the
licensership of plays, worth about
L.400 a-year. He lived the greater
part of his years in the Rules of the
King's Bench ; and, with powers
which, even in their idle application,
made him the amusement of a large
circle, and which, in their rational and
manly exercise, might have raised him
to opulence and honour, continued
poor, harassed, and in debt, almost
till the jail delivered him to the grave.
But his theatre, as it certainly exhi-
bited the happiest specimens of plea-
santry before the curtain, is acknow-
ledged to have been remarkable for the
harmony of its performers. " I have
often thought," said Bannister, long
after, " that I was very fortunate in
making one of this pleasant and ami-
cable professional coterie. I think
there was as little mixture of envy,
jealousy, or malevolence prevailing
among us as ever could exist among
so many competitors for the same
prize, — the applause of the public."
The outbreak of the French Revo-
[ March,
lution, in July 1789, by the capture of
the Bastile, changed the current of all
public opinion in Europe, and, among
the rest, turned the tastes of the stage.
The greater theatres, awed by the
sceptre of the licenser, were more
tardy ; but the lesser seized upon the
subject at once, and the suburbs blazed
with patriotic melodrama. Astley's,
then in high popularity, exhibited a
Capture of the Bastile, which had full
as much smoke and shouting, and was
probably little less hazardous to the
house and the performers than the
operation in the Faubourg St Antoine.
At length Drury Lane came into the
field. The Hon. Mr St John produced
a performance, which he named The
Isle of St Marguerite, as a cover for
the rather too glaring politics involved
in the event of the hour. The " Man
in the Iron Mask," who had become
so well known by Voltaire's romantic
description, and who had been actually
incarcerated in the isle, was brought
forward as the hero of the Bastile,
though dead long before the assault ;
and all the rest was a similar incon-
gruity. But it was the passion of the
time ; and the final display of the
Temple of Liberty rising over the
ruins of the Bastile was applauded as
a prodigious theatrical invention, and,
perhaps, as an equally prodigious na-
tional omen. Among the other oddi-
ties of the piece was the exhibition of
a French lawyer moving to issue a
habeas corpus (!) for the liberation of
the " Man in the Mask." Kelly was
the hero, and is described as having
sung well and been " decently dismal"
in his acting, so far as poor Kelly ever
attempted to act. The rest was made
up of farce and fun, a great deal of
lively singing, a great many clap-traps
about France, congratulations to Eng-
land, and promises for the immediate
renovation of mankind. The scaffold
would have been a truer emblem than
the temple ; but it soon forced itself
upon the eye, and stood till it was suc-
ceeded only by the chain.
The death of Edwin the comedian,
in this year, gave another opening to
Bannister's talents. Edwin was one
of the most extraordinary actors of
low comedy that the stage had ever
possessed. Henderson, at least, a com-
petent evidence, declared, that in dumb
action, a very difficult art of the drama,
he had never seen him equalled. In
1839.]
JBannisier the Comedian
401
Sir Hugh Evans, -when preparing for
the duel, he had seen him keep the
house in an ecstasy of merriment for
many minutes together, without speak-
ing a single word. Bannister's brief
but characteristic epitaph, on hearing
of his death, was — " Alas, poor Ed-
win ! I knew him intimately. He
was a choice actor, and a pleasant club
companion. His career was short and
brilliant ; it was a firework — a sort of
squib — bright, dazzling, sputtering,
and off with a pop." — Edwin was an-
other of the theatrical examples which,
with competence and enjoyment with-
in their grasp, prefer living in discom-
fort and dying in beggary. He en-
feebled his powers by excess of brandy,
until he died degraded, and worn out
with disease. Yet his powers were
originally so strong, that even his ex-
cesses could scarcely impair his popu-
larity. To the last, he was an uni-
versal favourite ; and, when he died,
men looked round the stage, in doubt
where they were to find a succes-
sor. It is a sign of the general im-
provement of manners, that an intoxi-
cated actor is now not to be seen on
the stage ; that no favouritism could
withstand this evidence of personal
brutality ; and that even the manager
who could suffer the repetition of this
offensive spectacle would be regarded
as offering an insult to the audience.
Bold things were sometimes said in
those days. Parsons, the actor, per-
formed the part of a carpenter in the
Siege of Calais, where a gallows for
the execution of the captives was to be
raised, the whole, however, being a too
palpable imitation of the grave-digger's
scene in Hamlet. On one occasion,
George the Third had commanded
the play. It was in the carpenter's
part to say, " So, the King is coming ;
an the King like not my scaffold, I
am no true man." But, on this night,
the favourite went further. Advancing
near the royal box, he said, " An the
King were here, and did not admire
my scaffold, I would say, I'd be hanged
but he has no taste." This, perhaps,
first astonished his auditors ; but Par-
sons' grimace soon threw the house
into a roar of laughter, in which the
monarch, the best-natured of men,
heartily joined, laughing as loudly as
any of the rest, and applauding to the
last.
A creditable act of Bannister's
ought not to be forgotten. On the re-
appearance of the celebrated singer and
beauty, Mrs Billington, all other female
singers, of course, gave way at once j
and Bannister, as he would not suffer
his wife's feelings to be hurt by sinking
into an inferior level where she had so
long taken the lead, withdrew her
from the stage. At the time of his
marriage, he had settled upon her all
the money which she had previously
realized, and had entered into a cove-
nant that the produce of her perfor-
mance should be laid by until a certain
sum had been accumulated. When
she was about to retire, Bannister
acquainted her trustee with his inten-
tions, and paid, from his own means,
the sum that was still deficient. This
was his answer, and none could be
better, to the suspicions entertained
of his character at the time of their
union. The character of actors has
been greatly improved ever since that
day ; but no man, at any period, could
deserve or desire a happier testi-
mony than that given to Bannister by
Boaden, the theatrical writer, in the
following words : —
" Men, when made up of whims,
like Bannister, commonly fly out of
the course ; and, however diverting in
their humour, secure every thing but
respect from the world whom they
cheer. But, from my first knowledge
of Bannister to the present hour, he
made his prudence a guard over his
festivity ; and though no man was
ever more solicited in social life, his
amuseme'nt neither disturbed his busi-
ness nor deranged his circumstances.
He could always dispense the liberal
aid which he did not need, and he
never drew on himself, in a single in-
stance that I remember, the displea-
sure of the public." But his anima-
tion was not confined to the stage. An
intelligent witness said, and said truly,
that " Bannister could make even that
trying time, the half hour before din-
ner, more than bearable. I have
seen my old friend Jack arrive when
the ladies and gentlemen were all
looking at each other j but, on his ap-
pearance, every cloud was dispelled —
some frolic — some humorous disserta-
tion— some playful dialogue, put an
end to all impatience, and even made
the company wish that the dinner-hour
should still be postponed." This we
regard as the very acme of social
402
itter the Camedtan.
[March,
panegyri^ ?.u achievement of the
highest mark, a conversational im-
possibility, but that we are told that it
was one of the exploits of this very
pleasant and happy tempered man.
His early knowledge of painting gave
him so much gratification throughout
life, that it affords an additional argu-
ment for the cultivation of every grace-
ful taste which exhibits itself in boy-
hood. He always declared that it was
a source of some of his best pleasures ;
and, further, that the time which he
had given to its study under De Lou-
therbourg, had frequently made his
advice of importance to managers, in
the scenery, costume, and general
*' getting up " of their plays. This
knowledge, too, brought him into the
society of intelligent artists, and, in
both London and Bath, he spent a large
portion of his leisure in the studio of
the celebrated Gainsborough. Ban-
nister's restless gaiety was notorious.
" Jack," said Gainsborough, on one
of those days of frolic, " if I die first,
you shall certainly have a legacy."
The actor looked expectant. " My
cap and bells," — said the artist, " for
yours will, ere long, be clean worn
out." Gainsborough had been long
charged with eccentricity. " That
nature intended us both for monkeys,
is certain," said he ; " but pray, who
taught you to play the fool so well ?
Was it your old tutor, Davy Gar-
rick?" "No," said Bannister; "it
was my old mother Nature — she who
put the pencil into your hand, and
made you a painter."
Some instances of his invention in
the art are stilt preserved. Two very
popular satirical prints appeared about
half a century ago, named the French
and English firesides. In the latter, a
group of gentlemen were displayed
crowding the hearth, turning their
backs to the blaze, and elevating their
coat tails to gain the full influence of
the warmth, while the ladies were
shivering and shuddering in a distant
part of the room. In the French, the
ladies, not quite so attentive to de-
corum in their dresses, monopolised
the fire ; while the poor beaux, with
their tongues and teeth chattering, and
keeping up a brisk circulation by the
aid of muffs, appeared to be uttering
gallantries and dispensing small talk,
without a chance of gaining the least
•warmth from the fire, which blazed
cheerfully only to tantalize them.
Those prints, which were remarkably
popular, originated in two pen and
ink sketches by Bannister.
It is worth remembering that the
Boydell Shakspeare owed its birth to
a club of artists and actors, among
whom Bannister mingled. One night,
the idea was started of an united ef-
fort of the principal painters to form
a tribute to the great national poet.
The project, after various discussions,
was brought into shape, and commu-
nicated to the late Alderman Boydell.
Bannister took not merely a strong,
but an active interest in the design ;
and he certainly deserved the honour
due to the promoter of a national un-
dertaking.
Theatrical life is distinguished for
the most momentous sources of quar-
rel before the curtain, and the most
trivial ones behind it. Kemble, as
manager, and Mrs Jordan contrived to
get into keen dissension. It had been
customary in the play-bills to place the
names of the principal male performer,
and the principal female at the bottom
of the list, in a line by itself, and pre-
ceded by the word and. Kemble re-
formed this practice. Mrs Jordan
was indignant at what she probably
thought a degradation from her soli-
tary dignity. The quarrel, of course,
got into the newspapers. They amused
themselves with burlesques on the con-
junctive nature of the word in dispute ;
and in occasional sketches of the angry
actress's history ; and asked the pro-
voking question — " Who was, or ever
had been, the husband of Mrs Jor-
dan?" Her widowhood was a pecu-
liar source of sport, and she was con-
doled with for the loss of '•' an excellent
spouse, killed in the battle of Nubi*
bus."
The new Drury Lane theatre, a
great event, opened in March, 1794.
The building was beautiful, but too
costly, too large, and too expensive in
its scale of performance. The era of
small houses and large audiences had
gone by. That of large houses and
small audiences had come. Bank-
ruptcy was the natural prospect, and
no manager was fitter than Sheridan
to make that prospect sure. His care-
less expenses, his intolerable disregard
of the common forms of business, his
habitual contempt of order, all stimu-
lated by his political connexion with a
party, combining at once the highest of
the peerage and the lowest of the rabble,
1839.]
Bannister the Comedian.
403
— the arrogance of the one with the
looseness of the other — the wastefulness
of patrician vice with the indolence of
pauper profligacy — rendered all his un-
dertakings abortive. Sheridan only
adds another unhappy example to the
long list of theatrical ruin. Born with
abilities to renovate an empire, he
died of a broken heart, in beggary and
desertion — and deserved so to die.
Personal regret must be felt for the
gay companionship, the brilliant wit,
and the exquisite knowledge of cha-
racter buried in his tomb ; but patriot-
ism will leave few sorrows there, dig-
nity of mind fewer still, and honesty
none.
Of course the industry of the critics
was not slow in publishing the defects
of the new theatre. An imitator of
Martial sent forth these lines from the
epigram
" Non silice duro, structilive cemcnto :''
" Not like Blackfriar's bridge, frail, crumb-
ling stone,
Xor plaster, like the mansion of Calonne,*
Did Hollandf choose (of brain perversely
thick)
For Drury's walls ; but deal encased with
brick !
Ah ! who shall count what slaughter'd
forests fell,
For this huge rat-trap in a brickwork
shell !
So Britain boasts her wooden walls at sea,
So fir-framed dykes keep Holland water-
free;
Here, too, we view, where props of limber
groan
Beneath the cumbrous front of useless
stone,
While rock-hewn shafts in vain parade de-
ride
The flimsy patchwork tott'ring at their
side.
Our builders' genius needs no further
proof,
Save lath foundations and a leaden roof.*'
But, notwithstandingcriticism, whe-
ther profound or peevish, the theatre
was a beautiful work, and did honour
to the arts of England. It appro-
priately opened with Macbeth — the
Thane and his wife performed by
Kemble and Mrs Siddons— the noblest
tragedy of human genius, sustained by
the noblest performance that the stage
had ever seen, or probably will ever
see again.
In this play, Kemble, who was too
fond of rash innovations, performed
the banquet scene ivithout the appari-
tion of Banquo. The actor evidently
confounded the effect of a vision
raised by the workings of a diseased
mind, with that of an inhabitant of
another world sent to denounce ven-
geance. He also evidently confound-
ed Shakspeare's object, which was to
exhibit the influence of Macbeth 's ap-
parent frenzy upon the assemblage,
with the desire to exhibit his own dis-
traction. The public altogether dif-
fered from Kemble's conception, and
the ghost soon resumed the chair in
which Shakspeare had placed him.
Unluckily, as if to make up for the
spiritual deficiency in this scene,
Kemble introduced a coterie of little
imps in the incantation, jumping about
the cavern in smock-frocks of various
colours. Those were the
" Black spirits, and white,
Red spirits and grey."
But the public did not suffer them to
mingle long, and the evolutions of the
little host of darkness were speedily
extinguished.
But this very able man soon had a
more vexatious antagonist to contend
with than the newspapers. George
Colman had written a drama on the
story of Godwin's Caleb Williams.
The novel, wholly improbable in its
story, and unnatural in its cha-
racters, was hurried into popularity
by the passions of the time. Caleb
was, like his author, a Jacobin,
and he had a Jacobin's fate, uni-
versal success for the day, finishing
by being flung into contemptuous and
returnless oblivion. Colman made a
dull play out of his untractable mate-
rials. Probably no man could have
done more, certainly few works could
have deserved less. The two princi-
pal parts in the Iron Chest were given
to Kemble and Bannister. It was
coldly received, and after four nights,
withdrawn. Colman subsequently
performed it on his own stage, and it
is played at remote intervals still.
But George Colman's was a ready
pen, and he flew instantly at the
manager. A long recrimination fol-
lowed. Colman charged Kemble with
neglecting the rehearsal, and being
unfit to play on the night of the per-
Near Hyde Park corner.
t The architect.
404
Bannister the Comedian.
[March,
formance. Kemble retorted, that
however indisposed, which he ac-
knowledged he might have been on
the first night, the indisposition was
much more in the piece than in the
actors ; that a week was expended in
trying to make it palatable ; that
nothing would do ; that its best suc-
cess was only sufferance, and that the
only course was its withdrawal. This
produced the publication of the ob-
noxious play, with a more obnoxious
preface. The angry poet here throws
out all his vengeance. In allusion to
Kemble's peculiar stateliness of man-
ner, as fitting him for characters of
Sir Edward Mortimer's description,
he says—
" The arrogant fault of being more
refined than refinement — more pro-
per than propriety — more sensible
than sense, — which nine times in ten
will disgust the spectator, — becomes
frequently an advantage to him in
characters of this description. In
short, Mr Kemble is a paragon re-
presentative of the Lusus Naturae ;
and were Mr Kemble sewed up in a
skin to act a hog in a pantomime, he
would act a hog with six legs better
than a hog with four."
Of Ms playing this part, Colman
says, " Frogs in a marsh — flies in a
bottle — wind in a crevice — a preacher
in a field — the drone of a bagpipe,
all — all yielded to the inimitable and
soporific monotony of Mr Kemble."
All this amused the town prodigious-
ly. It was calculated to amuse every
body but its object. Kemble was
violently angry for a while, and this,
of course, amused the town still
more ; but he was a man of sense,
and he soon felt his way. Colman
in jail, in oppression, and in the
wrong, was a desperate antagonist.
The affair was brought to an amica-
ble conclusion. Peachum and Lockit
supplied the established form in the
reconciliation : — " Brother, brother,
we are both in the wrong ;" and the
rival managers became friends once
more.
Bannister's pleasantry, always alive,
once saved him from a lawsuit. He
had taken a house in Gower Street,
from whose drawing-room windows
he threw out a balcony. This ebulli-
tion of his taste for the picturesque,
being unusual at the time, and un-
authorized by his lease, the church-
warden called to remonstrate against
the proceeding, alledging that it was
contrary to the act of Parliament.
" Sir," said Bannister, " I have studied
acts of plays, but I never meddled
with acts of Parliament." The fact
struck the churchwarden on whatever
part of his brain was the most suscep-
tible of conviction, for he retired. The
Duke of Bedford and his agent, the
proper authorities, stirred no further
in the affair, and the facetious actor
kept his bowpots and his balcony.
In this season, he, for the first time,
gave up his Haymarket engagement.
His salary had been £12 a-week.
He asked an advance. Colman wrote
him a rather managerial note :—
" Where can you do so well ? " —
" Well or ill, I shall leave you, at all
hazards," was the firm answer. In
this instance his usual good fortune
attended him. He made a tour of
some of the country theatres, and in
three months returned to town with a
clear balance of L.1400, more than a
satisfactory reply to Colman's predic-
tions.
During his engagement at Liver-
pool in 1798, happened that affecting
and singular event, the death of John
Palmer, on the stage. He was acting
the Stranger, in Kotzebue's play ; and
in one of the most interesting por-
tions of the play, and, as it is said, im-
mediately after uttering the words,
" There is another and a better world,"
he tottered back a few paces, fell, and
expired. The audience had the good
feeling instantly to leave the house.
Palmer's circumstances had been em-
barrassed for some time, and this was
supposed to have enfeebled his health.
But he had many friends, and the me-
lancholy nature of his death produced
a strong effect upon the public libe-
rality. A benefit night was imme-
diately given for his orphans, which
produced L .400 ! Another benefit was
given by Colman, which, as the Hay-
market theatre was too small for the
occasion, was given in the Opera
House. A third benefit was given at
Drury Lane, of which the produce
was reckoned at little less than L.900.
Painful as was Palmer's death to the
feelings of his family, it was probably
fortunate for their resources.
In this world, nine-tenths of all
success depend upon the time. She-
ridan's Pizarro came out, in prodi-
gious triumph, at the close of 1799.
Ten years before, it would have been
1839.]
Bannister the Comedian.
405
forgotten among the fiery politics of
the Revolution ; ten years after, it
would have been laughed at among
the past alarms of invasion. But, in
1799j it found the nation at once in-
dignant at the atrocities of French
republicanism, and startled at the
repeated threats of invasion. Rollo,
the hero, is the defender of his native
soil against an unprincipled invader.
Pizarro is a villain prompted by the
love of blood and plunder. The pub-
lic saw Rollo only as the English pa-
triot and volunteer, and Pizarro, as
the French cut-throat and military
slave. A tide of popularity poured
in upon the drama. Charming mu-
sic, showy scenery, the fine figure
of Kemble, and the finer acting of
Siddons, gave their attractions to the
piece. It has been long since found
to be but a string of clap-traps, feeble
in plot, extravagant in character, and
commonplace in language. But the
time was all in all. The King com-
manded its performance. The people
rushed to see it. It was loyalty,
courage, and national pride personi-
fied. How Sheridan apologized to his
brother Whigs, or managed to make
his peace with the frenzied republi-
canism of Fox, or the acrid animosity
of Grey, is yet to be discovered. For
his own part, Sheridan never was a
Whig but in name. Idle and unfor-
tunate as he was, he had a heart not
altogether contemptible ; giddy as he
was, he had judgment enough to be
disgusted with the inveteracy of his
associates ; and out of sorts as he was
with fortune, he had conscience
enough to disdain the hope of place
when it was to be realized only at the
expense of honour. He learned at last
to hate the Whigs, whom he had so
long scorned, utterly abandoned them,
and was followed by their impotent
revenge to his grave. But Pizarro,
in spite of Whiggism, triumphed.
Between the 24th of May and the 5th
of July, it was represented, one-and-
thirty times, to houses always crowd-
ed. Thirty thousand copies of the
melodrame were sold, and fifteen
thousand thrown into the treasury.
At the close of this year, public at-
tention was strongly and anxiously
interested by an attempt on the life of
the King. His Majesty had com-
manded the performance of " She
would, and she would not" On his
entrance, as he was advancing to the
front of the box, a man in the pit,
next the orchestra, stood up on the
bench, and fired a pistol directly at
him. The whole audience were in
an uproar. The King, on hearing
the report of the pistol, retired a pace
or two, stopt for an instant, then came
for ward to the front, and looked round
the house without the smallest appear-
ance of alarm. The late Marquis of
Salisbury was behind the King in
attendance, and fearing that some
further attack might follow, he sug-
gested that his Majesty might retire
into an adjoining room. The King's
sensible and firm reply was, " Sir,
you discompose me as well as your-
self. I shall not retire one step."
Hatfield, the man who had fired,
was seized and examined. On his
trial, lunacy was pleaded. He was,
of course, acquitted of the capital
offence, but was sent to Bedlam for
life. He could assign no reason for
this atrocious act, except his inclina-
tion to kill a king. Regicide hap-
pened to be the fashionable topic of
the time. The attempt was formi-
dably near effecting its purpose. The
pistol was loaded .with slugs ; they
scattered a good deal, and some of
them were found in the front of the
King's box, and some in that of the
'box above.
The popularity of Caleb Williams
had induced its author to try his
strength in the drama. The expe-
riment gave another attestation to
the superior difficulty of the stage.
Godwin produced a tragedy named
Antonio. To avoid the hazard of
political hostility, it was brought for-
ward as the work of a Mr Tobin. It
was furnished with a prologue by
Lamb, and was supposed to be usher-
ed in full security on the boards. But
Antonio utterly failed. The powers
of Kemble and Siddons were in vain :
the performance never reached the
epilogue. Its only description now is,
that it was too regularly dull, even to
be hissed. An act of absurd atrocity
awoke the audience at last from a three
hours' slumber ; but awoke them only
to hoot the frigid philosopher's folly
from the stage. The Epilogue was
printed — it was as witless as the play,
and evidently escaped being con-
demned along with it, only by being
unheard. So much easier is it to be
a critic than a writer.
In 1803, Jack Johnstone, afterwards
406
Bannister the Comedian.
[March,
so well known as Irish Johnstone,
added to the attractions of the Drury
Lane Company. Twenty years be-
fore, when a very young man, he had
appeared on the stage in London, and
having a fine voice, was a promising
performer of opera. The talent by
which he was to be distinguished,
seems to have been utterly concealed
from himself. How it came to be
discovered, he used thus to tell, " He
was one morning in the green-room
when Macklin came in: the actors
crowded round him. Fixing his eyes on
Johnstone, he bid him come to break-
fast next morning. On going, he
found the old man with the manu-
script of Love a la Mode in his hand.
" Read that, sir," says he, marking
out the part of Sir Callaghan O'Bral-
laghan. When the reader expressed
his admiration. " You shall play it
sir," said the author. Johnstone made
many excuses, but was forced to give
way. His Irish talent was developed
by his success, and in it he was un-
rivalled to the end of his days.
But the brilliant theatre of all those
displays was to be as vanishing as any
of its own melodrames. On the
night after the performance of a new
opera, The Circassian Bride (25th
February), an alarm of fire was given.
It was so early (eleven o'clock) that
assistance was poured in from all
quarters ; but when was fire ever
mastered in a theatre ? Scenery, ma-
chinery and structure were all instant-
ly in an uncontrollable blaze ; and in
two hours the roof fell in. Apollo,
standing like a hero, to the last, on
the top of his own citadel, gave up the
battle, tumbled into a deluge of fire,
and Drury Lane was a pile of ashes.
It was supposed, that some wadding
from the muskets discharged in the
opera, which was a desperately war-
like affair, had fixed in the scenery,
and had gradually burned its way un-
til the conflagration became general.
The opera was the only fortunate
thing in the whole affair. It escaped
the stigma of the last sentence that
can fall on operas, or any thing else.
No performance had ever advanced
nearer to that fatal verge, than The
Circassian Bride, on its first night.
At the end of the first act its sentence
had appeared inevitable ; at the end
of the second, Bishop, the composer,
whose very clever music was utterly
sacrificed by the dialogue, had jump-
ed from his seat in the orchestra, and
fled in despair ; and at the end of the
third, when Bannister approached to
implore another trial, even he had
been overwhelmed with a roar, in
which nothing was to be heard but
ruin. Yet it was intended to make a
second attempt, after curtailments and
corrections ; which, however, could
not have given any thing but a more
immediate extinction to the piece.
The burning of the theatre averted
this catastrophe, and, like the man
who fired the temple of Ephesus, the
name of the opera has slipped into
memory, on the strength of the de-
vastation. It was justly remarked,
as singularly fortunate, that the fire
happened on a Friday night in Lent,
when there was no performance. If
there had been, the loss of life would
probably have been tremendous ; the
conflagration must have occasioned
great alarm from its rapidity, and the
scarcely less than actual frenzy by
which audiences seem to be actuated,
where fire is apprehended. This
event produced extreme misery among
all the lower ranks of the theatre ;
and effectually ruined Sheridan. The
affairs of that extraordinary but most
improvident man, had been long in
disorder ; but the fire brought them
to a crisis ; and from that hour his
struggles assumed a darker hue — the
improvidence of years gathered upon
him in a heap — he lost the little energy
that he had left — and finished by dy-
ing in distress which every one must
lament, and in a despair which proved
how easily party abandons those who
can serve it no longer.
The liberality of the public was
largely exerted on this occasion. Be-
nefits, subscriptions, and private gra-
tuities were active ; and those players
whose salaries did not exceed three
pounds a-week received the amount
of their losses and their incomes in
full. At this time Bannister received
the following note from Rundell, the
opulent goldsmith, who was a relative
of his wife: —
" Dear Sir, — I have great pleasure
in enclosing you a bank-note, L.500,
which I hope you will do me the fa-
vour to accept, in consideration of the
loss you may sustain from the late se-
rious change in your concerns. — I
1839.]
Bannister the Comedian.
remain, dear sir, with the greatest re-
gard for your welfare, your friend and
xhumble servant,
PHILIP RUNDELL."
This was certainly well timed ; but
the goldsmith was one of the richest
men in England, and out of his trea-
sury the draft was comparatively no-
thing.
The interval of rebuildingthe theatre
was filled up by Bannister in making
tours with an entertainment which he
called his Budget, and of which the
materiel, compiled from many sources,
was arranged by Colman. George
himself gave this characteristic ac-
count of its parturition : —
" In 1807, after having slaved at some
dramatic compositions, I forget what,
I had resolved to pass one entire week
in luxurious sloth. I was then so dis-
gusted with pen, ink, and paper, that,
had I been an absolute monarch, I
should have made it felony in any
subject to present to me a petition
written with or upon any stationers'
ware whatever. At this crisis, just as
I was beginning the first morning's
sacrifice at the altar of my darling
goddess, Indolence, enter Jack Ban-
nister, with a huge manuscript under
his arm. This, he told me, consisted
of loose materials for an entertainment,
with which he meant to ' skirr the
country,' under the title ot Bannister's
Budget, but which, unless I reduced
the chaos into some order for him,
and that instantly, he should lose the
tide, and with it his emoluments for
the season. In such a case, there was
no balancing between the alternatives;
so I deserted my darling goddess, to
drudge through the week for my old
companion. To correct the crudities
he brought me, by polishing, expung-
ing, adding — in short, almost rewrit-
ing them — was, it must be confessed,
labouring under the ' horrors of indi-
gestion.' But the toil was completed
at the week's end ; and away went
Jack Bannister into the country with
his Budget."
The adventure turned out prosper-
ously, and the player was grateful.
On his return to town he cancelled a
bond for no less a sum than L. 700, due
to him by the author. The bond would,
perhaps, never have been paid, for Col-
man's affairs were in the deepest em-
barrassment ; but Bannister, at least,
deprived himself of the chance, and in
this he certainly only acted with the
habitual kindness of his nature.
When men become candid in their
opinion of themselves, they often in-
dulge the world with curious disco-
veries. Dimond, the son of the Bath
manager, who had written a consider-
able quantity of melodramas, publish-
ed a play, The Doubtful Son, in which
Bannister had a part. The author
sent it into the hands of the reading
world with this certificate, which it
would be cruel to doubt : —
" Sincerely speaking, I believe this
to be a good play. But the declara-
tion springs from my wish to be in-
genuous, and not from any vanity."
The public, of course, required the
intimation, and the author exhibited
only the natural love of a parent for
his offspring.
Colman now called Bannister back.
His letter was pithy and charactei'-
istic : —
" My dear Jack,
" Say Tuesday at two o'clock. I
should appoint an earlier day, but my
engagements do not permit me, for
reasons which I shall explain when I
have the pleasure of seeing you. Do
you never mean to stay a week again
in a place ? Jack Bannister should not
become Jack-a-lantern. — Your very
true and too stationary friend,
" G. COLMAN."
George's position, which was so hos-
tile to his locomotive propensities at
this time, was the King's Bench !
In 1812, Drury Lane theatre again
rose from the ground, opened its doors,
and recommenced its career of adding
to what Johnson pronounced " the
public stock of harmless pleasure."
A minor transaction accompanied this
event, which placed the committee
in a ridiculous position, remarkably
amused the town, and ended in the
happier circumstance of giving birth
to a very pleasant volume. The Com-
mittee for superintending the affairs
of the theatre,'oddly advertised for an
address to be spoken on its opening.
This awkward procedure was followed
by others still more awkward. Three-
and-forty poems were sent in anony-
mously. The committee, perplexed
with the attempt to decide among the
various claims, where all was medio-
crity ; took the resolution of throwing
them all aside, and applying to Lord
403
Bannister the Comedian.
[March,
Byron. Lord Byron desired that they
should be sent to him ; and, whether
he made use of them or not to assist
his own conceptions, every author of
the forty-three, of course, imagined
that he could discover some plunder
filched from his poem. The Noble
Lord's product, too, whether original
or borrowed, was, by public consent,
the worst that ever came from his pen.
The clamour against the Noble Bard
and the Committee rang through all
ranks.
One of the candidates, a Dr Busby,
was so indignant at what he termed
the injustice of the whole aft'air, that
he resolved to recite his own address
on the stage. This he actually ac-
complished, amid the angry resist-
ance of the managers, the infinite
laughter of the audience, and the
struggles of the Bow Street officers,
who chased him from corner to corner
of the house, and only after a fierce
manual conflict succeeded in excluding
the irritated little poet. Byron's was
a calamitous labour, of which, as it
has been observed, the first twelve
Hues afford a sufficient specimen. And
they who can relish Apollo sinking,
Shakspeare deposed, radiance which
mocks and adorns ruin, and Israel's
pillar chasing night from heaven, may
admire the rest.
" In one dread night our city saw, and
sighed,
Bowed to the dust the drama's tower of
pride ;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to
reign !
Ye, who beheld, O ! sight admired, and
mourn'd —
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it
adorned —
Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments
riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from
heaven."
The pleasant little volume was
The Rejected Addresses ; a burlesque
of the styles of the more popular
writers of the day, by the Smiths.
At length Bannister retired from
the stage, his last night was the 1st of
June, It315. The same year saw the
retirement of Mrs Jordan and Miss
Mellon, from the latter of whom, then
Mrs Coutts, he received on his final
appearance this good-humoured note :
" Dear Bannister. — Twenty years
we have been fellow servants together
in Drury-Lane Theatre. May your
retirement from labour be as happy as
I wish. I feel assured none rejoiced
more sincerely than yourself at the
happy and honourable exit that I have
made from my professional service.
Yours truly, AUDREY (the last part
I acted with you).
" HARRIET COUTTS."
In 1835, he began to feel decline
press more sensibly on him. He had
been long a sufferer from gout, his
limbs now rapidly failed ; and on the
7th of November, he placidly died.
The narrative by Mr Adolphus, is as
gracefully and spiritedly written as
we should expect from his accom-
plished pen.
1839,]
Ben-na- Groich.
400
REN-NA-GROICH.
A PLAIN dark-coloured chariot,
whose dusty wheels gave evidence of
a journey, stopped to change horses
at Fushie Bridge, on the 7th of
August, 1838. The travellers seemed
listless and weary, and remained, each
ensconced in a corner of the carriage.
The elder was a lady of from forty to
fifty years of age — thin, and some-
what prim in her expression, which
was perhaps occasioned by a long
upper lip, rigidly stretched over a
chasm in her upper gum, caused by
the want of a front tooth. Her com-
panion had taken off her bonnet, and
hung it to the cross strings of the roof.
The heat and fatigue of the journey
seemed to have almost overcome her,
and she had placed her head against
the side, and was either asleep or very
nearly so. It is impossible to say
what her appearance might be when
her eyes were open ; all that we can
say under present circumstances is,
that the rest of her features were beau-
tifully regular — that what appeared
of her form was unimpeachable — that
her hair was disengaged from combs
and other entanglement, and floated at
its own sweet will over cheek, and
neck, and shoulders. In the rumble
were seated two servants, who seemed
to have a much better idea of the art
of enjoying a journey than the party
within. A blue cloak, thrown loosely
over the gentleman's shoulders, suc-
ceeded (as was evidently his object)
in concealing a certain ornamental
strip of scarlet cloth that formed the
collar of his coat ; but revealed, at the
same time, in spite of all the efforts he
could make to draw up the apron, the
upper portion of a pair of velvet inte-
guments, which, according to Lord
Byron's description of them, were
" deeply, darkly, beautifully blue."
The lady, reclining on his arm, which
was gallantly extended, so as to save
her from bumping against the iron,
requires no particular description.
She was dressed in very gay coloured
clothes, — had a vast quantity of dif-
ferent hued ribbons floating like me-
teors on the troubled air, — from the
top and both sides of her bonnet ;
while a glistening pink silk cloak was
iu correct keeping with a pair of ex-
pansive cheeks, where the roses had
very much the upperhand of the lil-
lies. While Mistress Wilson, the
respectable landlady of the posting-
house, was busy giving orders about
the horses, a carriage was heard co-
ming down the hill at a prodigious
rate, and, with a sort of prophetic spi-
rit, the old woman knew in an instant
that four horses more would be re-
quired ; and then she recollected as
instantaneously that there would only
be one pair in the stable. Under these
circumstances, she went directly to
the door of the plain chariot, whose
inmates still showed no signs of ani-
mation, and tried to set their minds
at rest as to the further prosecution
of their journey, — though, as they had
no knowledge of the possibility of any
difficulty arising, they had never en-
tertained any anxiety on the sub-
ject.
" Dinna be fleyed, my bonny bur-
dy," she said, addressing the unbon-
netted young lady, who was still ap-
parently dozing in the corner. " Ye
sal hae the twa best greys in Fussie
stables ; they'll trot ye in in little
mair than an hour ; an' the ither folk
maun just be doin* wi' a pair, as their
betters hae dune afore them."
The young lady started up in sur-
prise, and looked on the shrewd intel-
ligent features of the well known Meg
Dods, without understanding a syl-
lable of her address.
" Haena ye got a tongue i' yer
head, for a' ye're sae bonny ? " conti-
nued the rather uncomplimentary
landlady — " maybe the auld wife i'
the corner '11 hae mair sense. Here
ye what I said ? ye sal hae the twa
greys, — and Jock Brown to drive
them ; steady brutes a' the three, an'
very quick on the road."
The elder lady gazed with lack-
lustre eyes upon the announcer of
these glad tidings.
" Greys, did you say?" she asked,
catching at the only words she had
understood in the address.
" Yes, did I. An' ye dinna seem
over thankful for the same. I tell ye,
if ye hadna a woman o' her word to
deal wi', ye wad likely hae nae horses
ava' ; — for here comes ane o' the
things thae English idewots ca's a
dug-cart that they come doon wi',
410
BenJia-Qroich.
[March,
filled inside an' out wi' men, and dugs,
an' guns — a' hurry in" aff to the rauirs,
an' neither to baud nor bind if they
haena four horses the minute they
clap their hands. They'll mak' a
grand fecht, ye'll see, to get your twa
greys ; but bide a wee — the twa greys
ye sal hae, if it was the laird o' Dal-
housie himsel."
And in fact in a very few seconds
after the venerable hostess had uttered
these sybilline vaticinations, they re-
ceived an exact fulfilment —
" Four horses, on ! " exclaimed a
voice from the last arrived vehicle,
which sorely puzzled the knowing
ones of Fushie Brig to determine to
what genus or species it belonged. It
was a long high carriage, fitted for
the conveyance both of men and lug-
gage ; and its capabilities in both
these respects were, on this occasion,
very severely tried. On the high
driving seat were perched two gentle-
men, counterbalanced on the dicky
seat behind by two sporting-looking
servants. Inside, four other gentle-
men found ample room ; while a sort
of second body swinging below, seem-
ed to carry as many packages, trunks,
and portmanteaus, as the hold of a
Leith smack. " Four horses, on ! "
repeated the voice, which proceeded
from one of the sporting-looking ser-
vants on the seat behind.
" Blaw awa', my man," murmured
Mrs Wilson ; " it'll be a gay while
or the second pair comes out, for a'
yer blawin'. Did ye want ony thing,
sirs ?" she enquired, going up to the
equipage.
" To be sure," answered one of the
gentlemen ; " four horses immediate-
ly— we're pushed for time."
" Hech, sirs, so are we a', but
time'll hae the besto't," replied thehos-
tess. " Ye maun just hae patience, sirs,
for ye canna get on this three hours."
" Three hours ! " exclaimed the gen-
tleman ; " why, what's the matter ?
Why the deuce don't they get out the
horses ?"
" Just for the same raison the Hie-
lanman couldna' get out the bawbee,"
replied the imperturbable Meg Dods ;
" the diel a plack was in his pouch,
puir body — an' sae, ye see, ye maun
just stay still."
" My lord," interposed one of the
servants, touching his hat, " there's a
pair of very natty greys just coming
out of the stable, and a pair of bays
with the harness on. I have seen
them in stall" —
" Then let us have them, Charles,
by all means," replied his lordship.
" Yes, my lord."
In a very short time high words
were heard, from which it was evident
that by no means a complimentary
opinion was entertained of the gen-
tlemanly conduct of the nobleman's
dependant by the guard and ornament
of the plain chariot.
" I say, my fine chap, you leave
them there grey 'osses alone, will ye ?
they ain't none o' yourn."
" Quite a mistake, Johnny," replied
the noble retainer, with a supercilious
glance at our friend, who was still
perched high in air.
" Oh ! if ye come to go to be a-
leaving off of names, old Timothy,
you'll find I've a way of writing my
card with my five fingers here in a
text hand as no gentleman can mis-
take."
While boasting of his literary ac-
quirements, our Hector in livery slewed
himself down from the side of the red-
cheeked Andromache, and presented
an appearance which apparently in-
duced the gentleman in the cockade
to believe that the mistake might pos-
sibly be on his own side.
' My lord is in a great hurry."
' So is my ladies."
' He must have four horses."
' They must have two."
' Lauds !" exclaimed the voice of the
hostess, addressing three or four stable-
men who had been gaping spectators
of this altercation, " bring yer grapes
and pitchin' forks here, an' lift this
birkie wi' the cockaud in his head
back till his seat again. Tell Jock
Brown to get his boots on wi' a' his
micht, and drive thirr ladies to Dou-
glass's Hotel. An', am sayn', if ony
o' thae English bit craturs, wi' their
clippy tongues, lays hand on bit or
bridle o' ony o' my horses, dinna spare
the pitchin' fork — pit it through them
as ye wad a lock strae ; — I'll hae nae
rubbery in my stable-yaird — I'm braw
freens wi' the Justice- Clerk."
As affairs now appeared to grow
serious, the Noah's Ark disembogued
the whole of its living contents, and a
minute inspection of the stables was
commenced by the whole party. The
ladies, in the mean time, who had some
confused idea that all was not right,
were looking anxiously from the win-
1639* ] Ben-na- Grolch .
dows, and if the elder lady had been
an attentive observer of her compan-
ion's looks, she would have seen a
flush of surprise suffuse her whole
countenance as her eyes for an instant
rested on one of the gentlemen who
stood apparently an uninterested spec-
tator of the proceedings of his friends.
A similar feeling of amazement seemed
to take possession of the champion of
the ladies, as he recognised the same
individual. He left his antagonist in
the very middle of a philippic that
ought to have sunk that gentleman in
his own estimation forever, and walk-
ing hurriedly up to the gentleman who
was still in what is called a reverie,
said, —
" Mr Harry ! — hope ye're quite
well, sir ':"
" What ?— Copus ? " replied the
gentleman, " I'm delighted to see you
again. Who are you with just now ?"
" Family, sir — great family — equal
to a duke, master says ; — lady's-maid
uncommon pleasant, and all things
quite agreeable."
"Do you mean you are with a duke,
Copus ?"
"Bless ye ! no sir, only equal to it.
Master has bought a Scotch chiefship,
and we're all a-going down to take
possession. Master made all the tar-
tans himself afore we left off trade."
" I don't understand you — what is
he?"
" Smith, Hobbins, and Huxtable,
they called us at Manchester, — great
way of business — but master, old Smith,
has retired, and bought this here
Scotch estate, and makes us all call
him Ben-na-Groich."
" And his family, Copus ?"
" Only his old sister, and our young
lady."
" Well, — her name ?"
" Miss Jane. She's a niece, they
411
say, of old Smith — Ben-na-Groich, I
means j but I don't b'lieve it. She's
a real lady, and no mistake ; and, they
say, will have a prodigious fortin. By
dad, our old 'ooman takes prodigious
care of her, and is always a snubbing."
" My dear Copus, say not a word
of having seen me ; you can be the
greatest friend I ever had in my life —
you'll help me ?"
" Won't I ?— that's all ;— 'elect all
about Oriel, Mr Harry, and Brussels ?
Ah ! them was glorious days !"
" We shall have better days yet,
Copus, never fear."
After a few minutes' conversation,
the face of affairs entirely changed.
An apology was made by his lordship
in person for the mistake of his ser-
vant ; that individual was severely re-
primanded, greatly to the satisfaction
of Mr Copus ; the two greys were
peaceably yoked to the plain chariot,
and Jock Brown cracked his whip and
trotted off at a pace that set loose the
tongues of all the dogs in the village.
" What a barbarous set of people
these Lowlanders are," exclaimed the
senior lady — " so different from the
brave and noble mountaineers. My
brother, the chieftain, is lucky in hav-
ing such a splendid set of retainers,
and the tartan he invented is very be-
coming."
" Veil, only to think of picking
up my old master in a inn-yard!" mur-
mured Mr Copus, resuming his old
position, and fixing his guarding arm
once more inside of the rumble-rail ;
" after all the rum goes we had to-
gether at Oxford and Brussels. No-
thing couldn't be luckier than meeting
a old friend among them Scotch sa-
vages. Do ye know, Mariar, they
haven't no breeches ?"
" For shame, Mr Copus !"
CHAPTER II.
It must be evident to the most
unpractised eye, that the young gen-
tleman recognised by his old servant,
and the pretty young lady in the
plain chariot, are the hero and heroine
of this true story. And a very fitting
hero and heroine they would have
been for a tale of far higher preten-
sions than the plain, unvarnished one
which it is now our duty to deliver.
At present, all we can afford to tell
the reader is the fact of their being
consumedly in love, — that their love
proved its truth by not running very
smoothly, — and that, at the moment
at which we have brought them on
the stage, they had had no communi-
cation for several months before. The
delight, therefore, of Henry Raymond
on recognising Jane Somers at Meg
Dods's door was equalled by his sur-
prise. He formed one of a party going
412
Ben-na-Groich.
[March,
down for the twelfth of August to the
moors of his friend, Lord Teysham ;
but the interview he had had with his
former domestic, Bill Copus, who had
attended him through his career at
Oxford, and afterwards for a short
time to the Continent, some what cooled
his zeal as a sportsman, by adding to
his hopes as a lover. The forced em-
bargo laid on them by the hostess of
Fushie Bridge, for she was resolute
in refusing to take them on with a
pair, and the cattle of the last stage
were miserably tired, gave him time
to lay so much of his plans before his
friends as he saw fit ; and, long before
the second pair, which had been with
a party to Leith, had been refreshed,
and were ready to start, his compan-
ions had unanimously passed a reso-
lution, " that it was incumbent on the
members of this excursion, collectively
and individually, to give all possible
aid and assistance to Henry Raymond
in overthrowing the plans of all per-
sons of the name of Smith, or of any
other name or denomination whatever,
and marrying a certain young lady of
the name of Jane Somers."
But Lord Teysham, who united a
great deal of good plain sense with his
buoyancy of spirits, took him quietly
aside, and asked him —
'* Why, in heaven's name, if he
liked the girl, he didn't propose for
her in form ? "
" I have, my dear fellow," replied
Harry, " and been refused."
" By whom ?"
" The uncle. He wrote me a let-
ter, saying my favour of 3d ult. had
come duly to hand, and he declined
the offer as expressed therein, — and
he remains, sir, for self and niece, my
obedient servant, Thomas Smith."
" But had he a right to send you
this letter ?"
" As guardian and uncle, I suppose
he has ; but as empowered by Jane
herself, none whatever."
" But what's his objection ?"
" I've an elder brother."
" Well, but your governor is a
close old boy. He has metal enough
for a frigate besides his First-rate.'
" Yes ; but he has told me a hun-
dred times that tit for tat is the only
game he plays at — whatever fortune
I bring he will pay me over the same ;
if I marry for love, I must live on it.
I could give you a score or two more
of his wise sayings/'
" Oh ! thank ye — I've a good stock
of my own ; but why, in the name of
wonder, is he so distrustful ? Can't
he give you credit for being able to
choose, without bribing you, as it
were, to look out for a fortune ?"
" My father won't give credit to
any one, especialy to me ; besides,
he has some little cause to be suspi-
cious, for I've cleaned him out of a
trifle once or twice, in a way that makes
him slow to bite now. I have been
on the point of marriage twice — once
to old Croeky, and once to Stulz."
« How ?"
" Why, you see, last year I was
dipt a little to the fishmonger, and
wrote a matrimonial letter home, hint-
ing at troussaus and other expenses,
but mentioning no names. Nothing
could please the old gentleman so
much, and it was on that occasion he
sent me up the paper properly signed
and attested, binding himself to give
me guinea for guinea whatever for-
tune I might get with my wife. A
thousand he sent me to do the needful
in the way of jewels and other pre-
sents, set me square with all the
world."
" And your progenitor was indig-
nant at the disappointment ?"
" Oh ! horribly ; and unless it had
been for a four-year bill of Stulz, I
shouldn't have troubled him so soon.
But, as I was aware that Walter knew
of the obligation about my future for-
tune, I gave him to understand that I
was devoted to Miss Coutts, and that
I had no reason to despair. The very
thought of such a thing was death both
to the old Jack Daw and the young. The
squire and his eldest hope would have
been both in the poor-house if I had
succeeded in carrying off the heiress,
and had kept them to their bond. So,
after a week or two, I let them off for
their alarm, and a moderate tip. But
all these things, my dear Teysham,
are over now. I am resolved to marry
Jane Somers, and cut both Stulz and
Crocky."
" If you can get her ; but this old
monster, with the uncommon name,
has her in his power. We must con-
cert measures calmly, and we need
not despair. Will she herself help
us ?"
" To be sure she will. Her new
home must be misery to her. She is
the daughter of a sister of this old
Smith, who, by some chance or other,
Ben-na-Groich.
She had a large here knows
1839.]
married a gentleman
fortune, which now belongs to this
only child. Colonel Somers has long
been dead ; the widow died a few
years ago. Jane was then educated
in the house of another guardian, a
cousin of Colonel Somers, who lived
near Bath ; and, on his lately being
sent to India on a high command, she
was claimed by this Manchester hob-
goblin, and torn from all her old
friends."
" Yourself among the rest ?"
" Just so — and now you know the
whole story."
In which respect, as we conclude,
the reader is by this time on a par
with Lord Teysham, we quit the con-
clave at Fushie Bridge, and proceed
to the more splendid apartments in
Douglas's Hotel.
In the little drawing-room that
looks to St Andrew's Square, the even-
ing seemed to have passed stupidly
enough. Aunt Alice, after yawn-
ing till tea time and scolding the
greater part of that excellent time-
killer, had at last, at about nine
o'clock, betaken herself to her bed-
room, to bring down the Scottish
Chiefs — a book of manners and statis-
tics from which all her notions of the
Scottish nation of an early period
were derived. Waverley, and the
other northern stories of the enchan-
ter, supplied her with all her modern
information ; and not very bad sour-
ces they would have been, if Miss
Alice had been able to understand the
language in which they were written.
But our noble vernacular was to her
a more impenetrable mystery than
any revealed at Eleusis, and it was,
perhaps, on this account that she en-
tertained so decided a preference for
the performance of Miss Porter.
Jane Somers, whom we have hither-
to represented as eitherlistless orsleep-
ing, was sitting busily engaged in the
somewhat unusual occupation of think-
ing. And, as her thoughts were wan-
dering about Lansdowne, and a vast
apartment, nobly lighted and filled
with the sounds of revelry by night,
we need not be surprised if they occa-
sionally made a detour to the stables
of Fushie Bridge, and the sight that
met her there. While musing deeply
on these very interesting subjects, our
friend Copus entered the room and
said —
" Please raum, one of the vaitcrs
413
all about them there
places as master talks so much on ;
p'raps Miss Alice would like to hear
about 'em ?"
" I will tell my aunt, William,"
said the young lady, and returned to
her former musings.
Copus retired and shut the door.
A low voice at her ear as she again
rested her head upon the arm of the
sofa, whispered " Jane ! "
On looking up she saw a tall mail
dressed in the usual waiter's costume,
with a large white cloth spread over
his left arm.
" Harry Raymond ! " she said, but by
some unaccountable instinct speaking,
even in the extremity of her surprise,
in a tone of voice that scarcely reach-
ed beyond the person she addressed,
— " In Heaven's name, what do you
here ? — ill this disguise ? Aunt Alice
will detect you, and then my situation
will be made doubly miserable."
" Then it is miserable, Jane? —
Why do you submit to it ? Ah, Jane,
you have forgotten, surely, the pro-
mises you gave me."
" Forgetfulness seems to have exist-
ed on more sides than one. I have
been four months in Lancashire, and
am indebted, at last, to a chance meet-
ing in Scotland for being recalled to
your recollection."
" Recollection !" echoed the young
man, in the liveliness of his emotion,
flinging the white cloth upon the floor.
" Good heavens 1 what can have put
such a notion into your head ? I have
written letter upon letter, both to you
and your guardian — that is, after I
found out where you had gone to—
my letters to you have not been an-
swered ; my letter to him was an-
swered by a refusal."
" Harry, Harry, he never consulted
me — I never" but here she check-
ed herself, as perhaps she considered
that the vehemence of her denial might
be construed into something very like
an anxiety to retract it, — and whether
this was the construction put on it, or
not, all we have to say is, that on Miss
Alice Smith slipping quietly into the
room, with a volume of the Scottish
Chiefs in her hand, she almost scream-
ed, as she saw a stranger seated on
the sofa beside her niece, and holding
her very earnestly by the hand.
" How ! — what's all this ?" ex-
claimed Miss Alice. " Them Scotch
is the oddest people !"
.414
Ben~na-Groicht
[March,
"Young lady nearly fainted, ma'am,
at some accounts I was giving her of
the Highlands, ma'am. I'm waiter
here, ma'am ; and it's part of my busi-
ness, ma'am, to give all sorts of in-
formation to the English families as
they pass through the city, ma'am."
" And what were you a telling of
to this young lady ?"
" Only a few incidents that occa-
sionally happen in such wild scenes
as Fash-na-Cairn or Ben na-Groich.
They say the new Ben- na-Groich is
an English nobleman, with a very
handsome sister; — I was merely telling
this young lady here what would pro-
bably be the fate of the beautiful
E nglish woman . ' '
" Gracious me !" exclaimed Miss
Alice : " no wonder she fainted, poor
thing. What was it ? — for mercy's
sake — what will they do to her ?"
"Fash-na-Cairn and all his clan
have been at war for hundreds of
years with Ben-na-Groich. He will
probably lead a foray upon the new
chief, and carry off his sister."
" Gracious ! — how old is this Fash-
na-Cairn?"
" About five-and-twenty. He has
buried his fifteenth wife. They sel-
dom live more than three months."
" Oh, Jane ! Jane ! we're lost — ruin-
ed— murdered ! Waiter, I'm the sister
of Ben-na-Groich, the wictim of Fash-
na- Cairn ! "
" Sorry, ma'am, I've alarmed you ;
but perhaps the friends of the clan
may gather round Ben-na-Groich,
and succeed in capturing Fash-na-
Cairn."
" And what then ? " enquired Miss
Alice, with a glimpse of hope.
" Oh, then it is the universal custom
for the next in blood of the chieftain,
if she be unmarried, to cut off a finger
of the prisoner every day with an old
hereditary hatchet kept for that pur-
pose, till he relents, and offers to make
her his bride. If he does so before he
has lost the fingers of both hands, the
feud is at an end."
Miss Alice shuddered at the thoughts
of cutting off a young man's fingers.
" Oh, waiter, this is dreadful news !
I'm certain my poor brother knew no-
thing of this when he purchased that
horrible property — And what will
they do to him if the furry succeeds ?"
" Tie him up in a wolf's skin, and
hunt him to death with bloodhounds."
" My poor brother, my poor bro-
ther! And he so fat, and subject to
the gout ! — But it's quite true — it's
exactly what they did to the Bohemian
in Quentin Durward."
" The present Fash-na-Cairn is a
descendant of Le Balafre."
" Oh, the monster ! — Have they no
police at Ben-na-Groich, nor even spe-
cial constables ? — no justice of peace?"
" The only justice there is the dirk
and claymore. — But the young lady
seems revived now. Do you take sup-
per ? — I'll send the chambermaid di-
rectly, ma'am." ,
When the historical and veracious
waiter left the room, the long and
stately figure of Miss Alice sank slowly
down upon the sofa. Jane Somers's
face was buried in her hands, and, by
the tremors that ran through her whole
frame, and the redness of what was vi-
sible of her cheeks and neck, it was
evident that she was nearly in convul-
sions with some powerfully suppressed
feeling. The aunt, of course, consi-
dered it to be the result of terror,
whatever sager guess the reader may
make upon the subject, and gave way
to a fit of dolorous lamentation, that
did not much contribute to her niece's
recovery.
" This comes of pride, and being one
of the Scottish chiefs ! To be eaten
up by bloodhounds, and have his sister
carried off by Fash-na-Cairn ! Blue-
Beard was a joke to him — fifteen wives,
and only five-and-twenty ! — more than
three per annum since he came of age !
I will put my brother on his guard the
moment we arrive. — This is truly a
barbarous country, and inhabited by
nobody but murderers and cannibals.
Hobbins and Huxtable will be amazed
to hear of their partner's fate — and my
brother never was partial to dogs ! "
CHAPTER III.
The castle of Ben-na-Groich was an
old square building, situated in a wild
ravine of the North Highlands. It
consisted of little more than a high
tower of the rough stone of the coun-
try, at one corner of a low mass of
building, in many parts fallen into
decay, and presenting an appearance
lg39.J Ben-nd-Groich.
of strength and massivenelss, on "which
any attempt at beauty would have
been thrown away. One side of the
square had something more of a habit-
able look than the remaining portions,
from the circumstance of its chimneys
being newly rebuilt and tastefully
whitewashed ; the roof also was re-
paired, and the windows fitted with
glass, — a luxury which was considered
useless by the inhabitants of the re-
maining three sides, the said inhabit-
ants consisting of two or three cows,
half a score of dogs, and one or two
old representatives of Fingal, who
clung to their ancient habitation with
a local attachment that would have
done honour to a cat.
On the evening of the 10th of Au-
gust, the parlour (for it was nothing
more, though bearing the nobler desig-
nation of the hall) was occupied by a
solitary gentleman of somewhat solid
dimensions, who cheered his loneli-
ness by an occasional stir of the fire,
and a frequent sip at a tumbler of
whisky toddy. From time to time he
went to the window and listened. The
cataract that rushed down the ravine
would have drowned any other ex-
ternal sound, even if such had existed ;
and with an expression of increased
ill humour after every visit to the
window, the gentleman renewed his
former occupation of sipping the
toddy and stirring the fire.
" Some folly or other of sister
Alice," at last he grunted, " putting
off her time in Edinburgh. They
ought to have been here by two
o'clock, and here it is eight, and not a
sound of their wheels. That cursed
rivulet, to be sure, drowns every thing
else ; 'tis worse than our hundred
horse engine. I wish they were here,
for being a Highland chieftain is lone-
ly work after all — no coffee-house —
no club — no newspaper. Hobbins
was right enough in saying, * I should
soon tire ;' but tire or not, I am too
proud to go back — no 1 Young
Charles Hobbins shall marry Jane
Somers. I will settle them here for
three or four months in the summer,
and we can all go back to his house
for the rest of the year. A real
chieftain will be something to look at
there, though, in this cursed country,
it does not seem to create much admi-
ration. What can be keeping sister
Alice ?"
The gentleman walked to the win-
dow once more, and opening it a little
VOL. XLV. NO, CCLSXXI,
415
way, shouted " Angus Molir! Angus
Mohr!" A feeble voice in a short
time answered from the dilapidated
end of the building.
" Her's comin' — fat ta tiel does
ta fat havril want ?'' Uncertain steps
not long after sounded along the.
creaking passage ; the door was open-
ed, and presented to the impatient
glance of the new proprietor the vi-
sage of the grumbling Gael. He was
an old decrepit man, with bright
ferocious eyes gleaming through his
elf-locks. If he had succeeded in
making a " swap" of his habiliments
with any scare- crow south of the Tay,
he would have had by far the best of
the bargain, for his whole toilet con-
sisted in a coarse blue kilt or petti-
coat (for it had none of the checkers
that give a showy appearance to the
kilt;) his stocking — for he only re-
joiced in one — was wrinkled down
almost over his shoe ; his coat was
tattered and torn in every variety of
raggedness ; and the filth, which was
almost thick enough to cover the
glaring redness of his fortnight's
beard, showed that Angus Mohr took
very little interest in the great ques-
tion about the soap duties. " Fat d'ye
want, auld man ?" enquired the visi-
tor— " bringin' a poddy a' this way to
hear ye'r havers."
" I merely wish to know, Angus,
if there is any lad here you can send
to the side of the hill to see if a car-
riage is coming this way."
" Tere's a laud oot in the byre,"
replied Angus ; " but he's four score
year auld, an' has been teaf and blind
since they took him to Inferness jail
for dirking the packman — tiel tak
their sowls for pittin an honest man in
ony such places — ye can pid him gang,
if ye like."
" Why, if he's deaf and blind, An-
gus, he will be no great help."
" Ten gang yersel' ; petter that
than sitting filling yer pig wame wi*
whisky."
" You shall have a glass, Angus,
when I have tea brought in."
" An' little thanks for it too. It's a
small reward for comin' a' this way
through the cauld."
" You may go now," said our fat
friend, who was now more anxious to
get quit of his visitor, than he had
been for his appearance.
" Tiel a pit, tiel a pit ; no without
the glass ye promised."
« Be off, sir— be more respectful to
416
jJen-na- Groic/i.
[Marclij
your superiors. I am chief of this
clan."
" He's ta chief!" cried old Angus,
•with a laugh that shot a chill into the
gallant chieftain's heart — " he's ta
chief is, he? Hu!hu!hu!"
« For goodness' sake, old man, go
back to your own room. You shall
have a whole bottle ; I'll send it to
you directly."
" Mak it a gallon, an' I'll gang.
Mak it a gallon — it will do for twa
days."
" Well, -well, you shall have a gal-
lon— only go," urged the now alarm-
ed proprietor ; for Angus, perceiving
his advantage, went on increasing in
his demands, and the self-elected chief
began to perceive that his subjects
•were not so obedient as he had ex-
pected ; and vague ideas of dirks and
drownings occurred hurriedly to his
mind.
Angus, however, seemed for this
time satisfied with his prize, and re-
sumed his way to the lower regions,
muttering and growling as he went,
as if he had been a highly injured in-
dividual, and leaving the fat gentle-
man in a very uncomfortable frame of
mind.
• " Savages 1 " he murmured to him-
self; " by dad, we shall all be murdered
to a certainty. However, when all
my own servants arrive, we shall turn
Angus and the blind old man out of
the castle, and have things a little bet-
ter managed than this. But it cer-
tainly is very strange my sister does
not come ! Our new man, Copus, is
a stout fellow, and would keep this
old rascal Angus in order."
" Fat, in the tiel's name, are ye
Bkirlin' there for?" said the sharp
voice of that uncourteous seneschal,
as he put his shaggy head out of the
glassless orifice that served as a win-
dow ; " are we a' teaf, think ye ?"
" Hallo, old feller ! " shouted the
voice of Copus. in reply, "leave off
your hinfernal jabber, and open the
door, will ye ?"
" Open't yersel', and be t — d till
ye," screamed the old man — " her's
no servant o' your's, I'm thinking."
" William, isn't there never a bell?"
enquired Miss Alice.
" Bell ! " re-echoed Mr Copus ; "no,
nor nothing else that a gentleman is
acquainted with ; so here I thinks,
ma'am, we must stay all night, for
that 'ere waterfall wont let nobody
hear, and the old lunatic, as peeps out
of the hole in the wall, don't seem in-
clined to be civil."
" Oh, for heaven's sake, William,
try again — shout as loud as you are
able."
"Hillo! hillo! hillo!"
" What's the matter?" exclaimed
the voice of the new proprietor him-
self, at the same moment that his head
appeared at the window.
" Here we are, sir," replied Copus,
" half dead with fear and hunger, and
yet can't get in to our own house for
love or money."
" I'll open the door myself," said
the chieftain, and putting for the
nonce his newly acquired dignity into
his pocket, he waddled through the
blustering passages, and turned the
key with his own hand.
" And this, then, is Ben-na-Groich
Castle," sighed Miss Alice, as at
length she entered the parlour, lean-
ing on the arm of her niece, and look-
ing round with a dolorous expression
that would have furnished a study for
a picture of despair.
" Even so," replied her brother,
with an attempt at a joyous chuckle
that died off into a groan.
" Oh, brother Ben — since Ben-na-
Groich you insist on being called —
oh, brother Ben, what tempted you
to buy such a place as this ? — in such
a country? — among such hideous
people ?"
" Partly a bad debt that the late
owner was on our books, — partly a
desire to be a regular chief, and
astonish the Huxtables ; but cheer
up, sister, things will be better in a
day or two. We shall all put on our
tartans — cheer up you too, niece
Jane, Charles Bobbins will be here
ere long — I've got some clothes ready
for him too, and intend to give him a
black feather, and make him as good
'a downy-whistle as you can desire."
"Ah, brother!" interposed Miss
Alice, " that would have been all very
well a short time ago, and it would
have been delightful to see you with
your henchman and jellies and downy-
whistles — but 'tis too late now. Oh,
brother ! we are doomed to destruc-
tion. Copus will tell you what he
has seen this very clay."
" Why, what has he seen ? — a ghost?
— they are wery superstitious, and
believe in the second sight."
" Oh first sight is quite enough for
1839.]
Ben-na-Groich.
417
us. I saw them myself, though they
were at such a distance, I confess, I
took them for a flock of sheep."
" Who ? — what was it you saw ?
— speak, Copus." Thus adjured, our
travelled friend, with a face from
which the expression of alarm had
not yet entirely subsided, commenced
his narrative,
" This morning, sir, when we first
changed 'osses, I gets off the rumble,
sir, and leaves Mariar by herself. I
goes into the small house while the
cattle was a coming, — a lonely place
sir, in the midst of a moor, sir, — and
says I to the landlady, says I, ' here's
a fine day, says I.'
" * Make the most of it,' says she—
* you bid fair never to see another.'
" ' You're wery purlite,' says I — ' I
don't think I'm in a dying condition.'
" ' You carry your death sentence at
your breast,' says she, in a hollow
voice, like a drum with a hoarseness.
" « What do you elude to,' says I ? —
and looking at my breast, sir, I seed
nothing in life but this here watch-
ribbon as you gived me, of your own
tartan, you know sir.
" * Why wear ye the badge of the
doomed Ben-na-Groich ?' says she—
' Know you not that his web is spun ?'
" ' There you're misinformed,' says
I, ma'am — ' they're all done by ma-
chinery.'
" ' Fool, says she, quite in a passion,
you've put yourself under a ruined
wall, and will be crushed to the dust
by the tumble.'
" ' Wrong again,' says I, ' for master
has had the whole building repaired.'
" ' Blind mole, you will take no warn-
ing ; perhaps because you don't be-
lieve— see there ! ' And when I look-
ed in to where she pointed, sure
enough I sees ten or a dozen stout
chaps all a- sharping of their swords
upon great grinding- stones, at the other
end of the house.
'" What's all them fellows arter?'
says I.
" ( Blood,' says she.
" ' Blood and wounds !' says I, ' I
never beared such a woman. 'Clect,
at Oxford, hearing of an old Roman
Catholic lady they called the Civil, as
spoke in that 'ere fashion, and was a
dealer in books and stationary, but,
cuss me, if you doesn't beat her hol-
low. Whose blood do you mean,
ma'am ?'
« ' His who calls himself Ben-na-
Groich.' "
" Oh, brother Thomas, did you
ever hear of the like?" shuddeVed
Miss Alice.
" A witch," said the gentleman thus
appealed to, with a very unsuccessful
effort to appear disdainful. " What
more, Copus ? — did she say any thing
else?"
" Lots more, but I've nearly forgot-
ten it."
" How long did this detain you ?"
" Oh, he kept us waiting three or
four hours," interposed Miss Alice ;
" and when he came out, he couldn't
have been more unsteady if he had
been a- drinking."
" Yes, indeed, sir," added Maria,
" his manners has been wery extraor-
dinary ever since ; he has been either
singing songs or sleeping, the whole
way here."
" The interview was a very strange
one. Did any one else see the ten or
twelve men ? " enquired the chief.
*' I seed one of them, sir," replied
Maria — " a tall, handsome gentleman,
in a green frock coat. He went to-
wards a horse that was tied near a
stack of fuel, just at the moment Go-
pus came out."
« Indeed? Did you see him Co-
pus?"
" Oh yes. I saw a figure something
as she describes it. He is the surest
sign, the wild woman said, of some-
thing awful ; they calls him Kickan-
drubb."
" How strange ! " repeated the
chieftain, for the hundredth time — " a
regular conspiracy, and nobody here
to defend us. The old tiger down
stairs, Angus Mohr, would be the first
to kill us if he could, and what is to
become of us Heaven only knows."
" Better let the horses stay at the
door, sir ; the carriage may be useful,"
suggested Copus.
" There's no time to be lost, in-
deed," replied the master; " but yet
what would be the use of flying ? We
are safer here than on the road."
" No, no ; let us go, brother Ben —
brother Thomas, I mean — for do you
know that Fash-na- Cairn has vowed
he'll have your life ?"
" Who the devil is Fash-na- Cairn ?
— I never did him any harm."
" But his clan has been opposed to
Ben-na-Groich for hundreds of years.
He'll murder you ;iml met Oh dear !
oh dear ! he'll force me to be Mrs
Fash-na- Cairn !" Here Miss Alice,
overcome by her horrible imaginings,
covered her face •with her hands ; but
whether she wept or not history does
not record.
" Will ye no let a poddy sleep, and
be d — d till ye?" again screamed the
shrill voice of Angus Mohr; " hoo
mony mair o' ye southron prutes is
coming yammering to the door?"
No answer, apparently, was given
to this enquiry, for it was renewed with
bitterer tones than before.
" Fat's a' this o't ? — wi' swords and
targets, an1 the Stuart stripe in yer
plaids. Are ye come to harry ta auld
fat man ? huigh ! hurra ! Cot, an
Angus had a dirk himsel', he'd pit it
up to the handle in ta fat cairl's
wame."
While these words of encourage-
ment or enquiry were issuing from
the wrathful native, a hurry of steps
was heard upon the stairs — the clank
of steel, as if of the crossing of swords,
sounded in the passage, and with a
shout, Fash-na- Cairn ! Fash-na- Cairn !
the parlour door was burst open, and
six wild figures in the full Highland
costume rushed in upon the delibera-
tions of the new chieftain and his
household. One of the party seized
the arm of aunt Alice ; another, with
a flat-sided blow of his claymore, laid
our heroic friend Copus quietly on
the floor ; a third took Jane Somers
by the hand as she sat retired in a
corner of the room, and kept guard
over her during the whole of the
scene ; while the others placed them-
selves opposite the astonished Ben-na-
Groich himself, and pointed their
weapons at his throat without saying
a word.
" What do you want, gentlemen ?"
said that individual, with a tremor in
his voice that revealed the conflict
within. " I'll give you a cheque for
as much as you require — ,fix your own
price ! What shall it be ? "
" Revenge ! " said a hollow voice,
proceeding from the chief of the party.
" I have you now in my power — the
first time after a search of -eight hun-
dred years."
" What have I done ? I never did
you a mischief; if I did, I'm willing
to pay damages, assessed by your own
surveyor,"
[March,
" Your ancestor; Fin of the crooked
finger, stabbed my ancestor Kenneth
of the flat nose, as he dined with him
in this hall in the reign of Fergus the
First — give me back his blood."
" Can't, indeed — haven't a drop of
it, or any one else's blood — but I will
pay the worth of it — only spare my
life."
" Fash-na- Cairn may spare, but on
one condition — you have a sister."
" Oh no, indeed, he hasn't, sir,"
said Miss Alice, " she died when she
was quite a baby."
" Speak, dog," said the ruthless
Fash-na- Cairn, kicking Copus as he
lay on the carpet ; " who is the sister
of Ben-na-Groieh ? "
" That 'ere middle-aged lady with
the red nose. That's our Miss
Alice."
" She must be Fash-na- Cairn's
bride, or the Wolfskin must cover
Ben-na-Groich."
" Oh dear, oh dear," sighed the
disconsolate lady ; " will nothing do
but that?"
" Even that won't save him — I see
another maiden."
" Oh, I'm sure you are quite wel-
come to Jane Somers,'" said Miss
Alice, " my brother will give his con-
sent directly — won't you Thomas ?"
" Say the word, and I give you the
hand of friendship."
" What word," asked tlie sorely
puzzled Ben-na-Groich ; " I will say
whatever is needful."
" Does the maiden herself consent?
— Bring hither the fair one of the
hill."
Jane Somers was brought forward
by her guard.
" Now, Jane," began the Chieftain,
"this here gentleman, Mr Fash-na-
Cairn, is anxious to marry some one of
my family — are you disposed to save
me from murder and robbery by giv-
ing him your hand ?"
" To save you, my dear uncle, from
any thing unpleasant, there is no sa-
crifice I would not make."
" There's a dear good girl," cried
the Chieftain, delighted . " Take her ;
you are very welcome ; and when I
get home, which will be in three days
from this time, I will send you some
marriage presents. If you have any
fancy for this estate, you shall have it
a bargain ; — in the mean time let the
rest of us get into the carriage, and be
1839.] An Introduction to the PMIosopli;/ of Consciousness.
off as fast as we can. Come, Copus,
get up, you lazy hound — we must be
off."
" Off or not off, sir, I doesn't budge
a foot. I stays with my young missus."
" Very well, only 'let us out of the
house." While preparations were
making- for a rapid retreat, one of the
brigands went up to Jane Somcrs and
whispered, " my carriage is waiting
on the bridge. Lady Tcysham and
the other ladies at my shooting-box
expert us every moment ; so be under
no alarm."
Jane bowed her head and yielded
to her destiny, and since that time
has been as happy a specimen of the
married life as is often to be met with.
Bcn-na-Groich, on finding out the
hoax, was too much afraid of the
410
ridicule of his friends to make it pub-
lic ; and to this hour, Aunt Alice tells
the most wondrous tales of the law-
lessness of the Highlands, and tho
blood-thirstiness and revenge cha-
racteristic of a Scottish Chieftain.
" Only to think of people cherishing
a resentment for nearly a thousand
years, and only satisfying it at last by
marriage or murder. Oh, Mrs Hob-
bins, never believe what people says
when they talk to you about the
foodie system — the starvation system
would be a much better name for it,
for the whole country is made of no-
thing but heath, and the gentlemen's
clothes is no covering from the cold ;
and besides all that, they are indelicate
to a degree!"
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILOSOPHY OF CONSCIOUSNESS.
PART VII.
THE CONCLUSION.
CHAP. I.
THE argument, in the foregoing
part of our discussion (in which we
showed that morality is grounded in
an antagonism carried on between our
nature and our consciousness), is ob-
viously founded on the assumption
that man is born in weakness and de-
pravity. We need hardly, now-a-
days, insist on the natural sinfulness
of the human heart, which we are told
by our own, ar,d by all recorded ex-
perience, as well as by a higher
authority than that of man, is despe-
rately wicked, and runneth to evil
continually. Deplorable as this fact
is, deplorably also and profusely has
it been lamented. We are not now,
therefore, going to swell this deluge
of lamentations. Instead of doing so,
let us rather endeavour to review dis-
passionately the fact of our naturally
depraved condition, in order to ascer-
tain, if possible, the precise bearing
which it has on the developemeut and
destiny of our species, and at the same
time to carry ourselves still deeper
into the philosophy of human con-
sciousness.
To do good and sin not, is the great
end of man ; and, accordingly, we
find him at his first creation stored
with every provision for well-doing.
But that this is his great end can only
be admitted with the qualification that
it is to do good freely ; for every being
which is forced to perform its allotted
task is a mere tool or machine, whe-
ther the work it performs be a work of
good or a work of evil. If, there-
fore, man does good by the compul-
sion of others, or under the constrain-
ing force of his own natural biases,
he is but an automaton, and deserves
no more credit for his actings than a
machine of, this kind does ; just as he
is also an automaton if he be driven
into courses of evil by outward forces
which he cannot resist, or by the un-
controllable springs of his own natu-
ral frame- work. But man will be
admitted, by all right thinkers, to be
not a mere automaton. But then,
according to tho same thinkers,
man is a created being ; and, there-
fore, tho question comes to be, how
can a created being be other than an
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness. [March,
420
automaton ? Creation implies prede-
termination, and predetermination im-
plies that all the springs and biases of
the created being tend one way (the
way predetermined), and that it has
no power of its own to turn them into
any other than this one channel, what-
ever it may be. How, then, is it pos-
sible for such a being to do either good
or evil freely, or to act otherwise than
it was born and predetermined to act ?
In other words, the great problem to
be worked out is, How is man to come
to accomplish voluntarily the great
end (of doing good — of well-doing)
which he originally accomplished un-
der compulsion, or in obedience to the
springs of his natural constitution ?
We undertake to show that the liv-
ing demonstration of this great problem
is to be found in the actual history of
our race ; — that the whole circuit of
humanity, from the creation of the
world until the day when man's final
account shall be closed, revolves for
no other purpose than to bring human
nature to do freely the very same work
which it originally performed without
freedom; — and that this problem could
not possibly have been worked out by
any other steps than those actually
taken to resolve it. This shall be
made apparent, by our showing, that
in the actual developement of the con-
sciousness of our species, two distinct
practical stages or articulations are to
be noted: — the first being an act of
antagonism put forth by man against
his paradisiacal or perfect nature,
bringing along with it the Fall — (this
is consciousness in its antagonism
against good) ; the second being an
act of antagonism put forth by man
against his present or fallen nature,
issuing in the Redemption of the world
through our Lord and Saviour Jesus
Christ, and the restoration of man to
the primitive condition of perfection
which he had abjured — (this is con-
sciousness in its antagonism against
evil). The practical solution of the
problem of Human Liberty, will be
seen to be given, in the developement
of these two grand epochs of conscious-
ness.
In the first place, then, let us con-
template man in his paradisiacal state.
Here we find him created perfect by
an all-perfect God, and living in the
garden of Eden, surrounded by every
thing that can minister to his comfort
and delight. Truly the lines are fallen
to him in pleasant places ; and, follow-
ing his natural biases, his whole being
runs along these lines in channels of
pure happiness and unalloyed good —
good nameless, indeed, and inconceiv-
able, because as yet uncontrasted with
evil, but therefore, on that very ac-
count, all the more perfect and com-
plete. He lies absorbed and entranced
in his own happiness and perfection ;
and no consciousness, be it observed,
interferes to break up their blessed
monopoly of him. He lives, indeed,,
under the strictest command that this
jarring act be kept aloof. He has no
personality: the personality of the
paradisiacal man is in the bosom of
his Creator.
Now, however enviable this state of
things may have been, it is obvious
that, so long as it continued, no con-
ceivable advance could be made to-
wards the realization of human liberty.
Without a personality — without a self,
to which his conduct might be referred,
it is plain that man could not possess
any real or intelligible freedom. All
his doings must, in this case, fall to be
refunded back out of him into the great
Being who created him, and out of
whom they really proceeded : and
thus man must be left a mere machine,
inspired and actuated throughout by
the divine energies.
But, upon the slightest reflection, it
is equally obvious that man could not
possibly realize his own personality
without being guilty of an evil act —
an act not referable unto God, a Being
out of whom no evil thing can come —
an act in which the injunctions of the
Creator must be disobeyed and set at
nought : — He could not, we say, re-
alize his own personality without sin-
ning ; because his personality is re-
alized through the act of conscious-
ness ; and the act of consciousness is,
as we have all along seen, an act of
antagonism put forth against whatso-
ever state or modification of humanity
it comes in contact with. Man's para-
disiacal condition, therefore, being one
of supreme goodness and perfection,
could not but be deteriorated by the
presence of consciousness. Conscious-
ness, if it is to come into play here,
must be an act of antagonism against
this state of perfect holiness — an act
displacing it, and breaking up its mo-
nopoly, in order to make room for the
independent and rebellious " I." In
other words, it must be an act curtail-
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
421
ing and subverting good, and there-
fore, of necessity, an evil act. Let us
say, then, that this act was really per-
formed— that man thereby realized his
own personality : and what do we re-
cord in such a statement but the fact
of man's " first disobedience" and his
Fall ?
The realization of the first man's
personality being thus identical with
his fall, and his fall being brought
about by a free act, — an act not out of,
but against, God ; let us now ask how
man stands in relation to the great
problem, the working out of which we
are superintending — Human Liberty.
Has the Fall brought along with it
the complete realization of his free-
dom ? By no means. He has cer-
tainly realized his own personality by
becoming conscious of good. He has
thus opposed himself to good, and per-
formed an act which he was not forced
or predetermined by his Maker to
perform. He has thus taken one step
towards the attainment of Liberty :
one step, and that is all. The para-
disiacal man has evolved one epoch
in the developement of human con-
sciousness ; and has thus carried us on
one stage in the practical solution of
the problem we are speaking of. Be-
ing born good and perfect, he has de-
veloped the antagonism of conscious-
ness against goodness and perfection ;
and thus he has emancipated the hu-
man race from the causality of good-
ness and perfection.
But this antagonism against good,
though it freed the human race from
the causality of holiness, laid it at the
same time under the subjection of a
new and far bitterer causality — the
causality of sin. For the consciousness
of good, or, in other words, an act of
antagonism against good, is itself but
another name for sin or evil : and thus
evil is evolved out of the very act in
which man becomes conscious of good.
And this is the causality under which
we, the children of Adam, find our-
selves placed. As he was born the
child of goodness and of God,soarewe,
through his act, born children of sin
and of the devil.
Therefore the evolution of the se-
cond epoch in the practical develope-
ment of consciousness devolves upon
us — the fallen children of Humanity.
Just as the paradisiacal man advanced
us one stage towards liberty, by deve-
loping in a free act the antagonism
of consciousness against the good un-
der which he was born ; so is it in-
cumbent upon us to complete the pro-
cess by developing the practical anta-
gonism of consciousness against the
evil of our natural condition. As
Adam, in the first epoch of conscious-
ness, worked himself out of good into
evil by a free act, so have we, who
live in the second epoch of conscious-
ness, to work ourselves back out of
evil into good by another act of the
same kind; repeating precisely the
same process which he went through,
only repeating it in an inverted order.
He, being born under the causality
of good, transferred himself over by
a free act (the antagonism of con-
sciousness against good) to the cau-
sality of evil, and thus proved that he
was not forced to the performance of
good. We, on the other hand, who are
born under the causality of evil, have
to transfer ourselves back by another
free act (the antagonism of conscious-
ness against evil), into the old causa-
lity of good ; and thus prove that we
are not forced to the commission of
evil. Adam broke up the first causa-
lity— the causality of good ; and eman-
cipated our humanity therefrom, in
making it thus violate the natural
laws and conditions of its birth. But
in doing so he laid it under a second
and dire causality — the causality of
sin ; and this is the causality under
which we are born. Whenever, there-
fore, we too have trampled on the laws
and conditions of our natural selves ;
have striven, by an act of resistance
against evil, to return into the bosom
of good, to replace ourselves under
the old causality of holiness, to take
up such a position that the influences
of Christianity may be enabled to tell
upon our hearts ; in short, have vio-
lated our causality just as Adam vio-
lated his; then may the problem of
human liberty be said to be practically
resolved, for there are no conceivable
kinds of causality except those of evil
and of good — and both of these shall
have then been broken through in the
historical developement of our species.
And here, let it be observed, that
although, in putting forth this act of
resistance against evil, we return un-
der the old causality of good, and thus
make ourselves obedient to its influ-
ences, yet the relation in which we
stand towards that causality is very
different from the relation in which
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness, [March,
422
the first man stood towards it. He
had good forced upon him : we have
forced ourselves upon it hy a voluntary
submission ; and in this kind of sub-
mission true freedom consists ; because,
in making it, the initiative movement
originates in our own wills, in an act
of resistance put forth against the evil .
that encounters us in our natural
selves, whichever way we turn ; and
thus, instead of this kind of causality
exercising a strictly causal force upon
us, we, properly speaking, are the
cause by which it is induced to visit
and operate upon us at all. " From
the days of John the Baptist until
now, the kingdom of Heaven suffereth
violence, and the violent take it by
force : " that is to say, it does not take
them by force — it does not force itself
causally upon us. On the contrary,
we must force ourselves upon it by
our own efforts, and, as it were, wring
from an All-merciful God that grace
which even He cannot and will not
grant, except to our own most earnest
importunities.
Would we now look back into the
history of our kind, in order to gather
instances of that real operation of con-
sciousness which we have been speak-
ing of? Then what was the whole
of the enlightened jurisprudence, and
all the high philosophy of antiquity,
but so many indications of conscious-
ness in its practical antagonism against
human depravity ? What is justice,
that source and concentration of all
law ? Is it a natural growth or en-
dowment of humanity ? Has it, in its
first origin, & positive character of its
own ? No ; there is no such thing as
natural or born justice among men.
Justice is nothing but the conscious-
ness of our own natural injustice, this
consciousness being, in its very es-
sence, an act of resistance against the
same. Do the promptings of nature
teach us to give every man his due ?
No, the promptings of nature teach
us to keep to ourselves all that we
can lay our hands upon ; therefore it
is only by acting against the prompt-
ings of nature that we can deal justly
towards our fellow-men. But we can-
not act against these promptings with-
out being conscious of them, neither
can we be conscious of them without
acting against them to a greater or a
less extent ; and thus consciousness,
or an act of antagonism put forth
against our natural selfishness, lies at
the root of the great principle upon
which all justice depends — the princi-
ple suum cuique tribuendi. Therefore,
in every nation of antiquity in which
wise and righteous laws prevailed,
they prevailed not in consequence of
any natural sense or principle of jus-
tice among men, but solely in conse-
quence of the act of consciousness,
which exposed to them the injustice
and selfish passions of their own hearts,
and, in the very exposure, got the bet-
ter of them.
If we look, too, to the highest sects
of ancient philosophy, what do we be-
hold but the developement of conscious-
ness in its antagonism against evil, and
an earnest- striving after something
better than any thing that is born with-
in us ? What was the whole theoreti-
cal and practical stoicism of antiquity ?
Was it apathy, in the modern sense of
that word, that this high philoshopy
inculcated ? Great philosophers have
told us that it was so. But oh ! doc-
trine lamentably inverted, traduced,
and misunderstood ! The " apathy"
of ancient stoicism was no apathy in
our sense of the word — it was no
inertness — no sluggish insensibility-
no avoidance of passion — and no fold-
ing of the hands to sleep. But it was
the direct reverse of all this. It was,
and it inculcated, an eternal war to be
waged by the sleepless consciousness
of every man against the indestructible
demon-passions of his own heart. The
u.'&a.Hua. of stoicism was an energetic
acting against passion ; and, if our
word apathy means this, let us make
use of it in characterising that philo-
sophy. But we apprehend that our
word apathy signifies an indifference,
a passiveness, a listless torpidity of
character, which either avoids the pre-
sence of the passions, or feels it not ;
in short, an unconsciousness of passion,
a state diametrically opposed to the
apathy of stoicism, which consists in
the most vital consciousness of the
passions, and their consequent subju-
gation thereby. It has been thought,
too, that stoicism aimed at the anni-
hilation of the passions ; but it is much
truer to say, that it took the strife
between them and consciousness, as
the focus of its philosophy ; it found
true manhood concentrated in this
strife, and it merely placed true man-
hood where it found it — for it saw
1839.] An Introduction to Hie Philosophy r>f Consciousness.
clearly that the only real moral life of
humanity is breathed up out of that
seething and tempestuous struggle.
The passions are sure to be ever
with us. Do what we will,
" They pitch their tents before us as we
move,
Our hourly neighbours ;"
Therefore, the only question comes to
be — are we to yield to them, or are we
to give them battle and resist them ?
And Stoicism is of opinion that we
should give them battle. Her voice is
all for war; because, in yielding to
them, our consciousness, or the act
which constitutes^ our peculiar attri-
bute, and brings along with it our pro-
per and personal existence, is obliter-
ated or curtailed.
The Epicureans sailed upon an-
other tack. The Stoics sought to
reproduce good, by first overthrowing
evil ; the only method, certainly, by
which such a reproduction is practi-
cable. They sought to build the
Virtues upon the suppression of the
Vices, the only foundation which ex-
perience tells us is not liable to be
swept away. But their opponents in
philosophy went more directly to
work. They aimed at the same end,
the reproduction of good, without,
however, adopting the same means of
securing it : that is to say, without
ever troubling themselves about evil
at all. They sought to give birth to
Love without having, first, laid strong
bonds upon Hatred. They strove to
establish Justice on her throne, with-
out having, first, deposed and over-
thrown Injustice. They sought to
call forth Charity and Generosity
without having, first of all, beaten
down the hydra-heads of Selfishness.
In short, they endeavoured to bring
forward, in a direct manner, all the
amiable qualities (as they were sup-
posed to be) of the human heart, with-
out having gone through the inter-
mediate process of displacing and
vanquishing their opposites through
the act of consciousness. And the
consequence was just what might have
been expected. These amiable chil-
tlren of nature, so long as all things
went as they wished, were angels ;
but, in the hour of trial, they became
the worst of fiends. Long as the sun
shone, their love basked beautiful
423
beneath it, and wore smiles of eternal
constancy ; but when the storm arose,
then Hatred, which had been over-
looked by Consciousness, arose also,
and the place of Love knew it no
more.. Justice worked well so long
as every one got what he himself
wanted. But no sooner were the de-
sires of any man thwarted, than Injus-
tice, which Consciousness had laid no
restraint upon, stretched out her hand
and snatched the gratification of them ;
while Justice (to employ Lord Ba-
con's * metaphor) went back into the
wilderness, and put forth nothing but
the blood-red blossoms of Revenge.
Generosity and Charity, so long as
they were imcrossed and put to no
real sacrifice, played their parts to
perfection ; but so soon as any un-
pleasant occasion for their exercise
arose, then the selfish passions, of
which Consciousness had taken no
note, broke loose, and Charity and
Generosity were swept away by an
avalanche of demons.
Such has invariably been the fate
of all those epicurean attempts to
bring forward and cultivate Good as
a natural growth of the human heart,
instead of first of all endeavouring to
realize it as the mere extirpation of
evil ; and hence we see the necessity
of adopting the latter method of pro-
cedure. Every attempt to establish
or lay hold of good by leaving evil
out of our account, by avoiding it, by
remaining unconscious of it, by not
bringing it home to ourselves, must
necessarily he a failure ; and, sooner
or later, a day of fearful retribution
is sure to come — for the passions arc
real madmen, and consciousness is
their only keeper ; but man's born
amiabilities are but painted masks,
which (if consciousness has never oc-
cupied its post) are liable to be torn
away from the face of his natural
corruption, in any dark hour in which
the passions may choose to break up
from the dungeons of the heart.
The true philosopher is well aware,
that the gates of paradise are closed
against him for ever upon earth. He
does not, therefore, expend himself
in a vain endeavour to force them, or
to cultivate into a false Eden the fic-
titious flowers of his own deceitful
heart ; but he seeks to compensate for
this loss, and to restore to himself in
Lord Bacon calls revenge a species of wild justice.
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness. [March,
424
some degree the perfected image of
his Creator, by sternly laying waste,
through consciousness, the •wilderness
of his own natural desires, for he well
knows, that wherever he has extirpa-
ted a weed, there, and only there, will
God plant a flower, or suffer it to
grow. But the epicurean, or false
philosopher, makes a direct assault
upon the gates of paradise itself. He
seeks to return straight into the arms
of good, without fighting his way
through the strong and innumerable
forces of evil. He would reproduce
the golden age, without directly con-
fronting and resisting the ages of iron
and of brass. By following the foot-
steps of nature, he imagines that he
may be carried back into the paradise
from which his forefather was cast
forth. But, alas ! it is not thus that
the happy garden is to be won ; for,
" at the east of the garden of Eden "
hath not God placed " cherubims, and
a flaming sword which turns every
way,' to keep the way of the tree of
life ?" and, therefore, the epicurean is
compelled, at last, to sink down, out-
side the trenches of paradise, into an
inert and dreaming sensualist.
CHAPTER II.
Neither overrating nor underrating
the pretensions of philosophy, let us
now, as our final task, demonstrate
the entire harmony between her and the
scheme of Christian revelation. Phi-
losophy has done much for man, but
she cannot do every thing for him ;
she cannot convert a struggling act
(consciousness in its antagonism
against evil) ; she cannot convert this
act into a permanent and glorified
substance. She can give the strife ;
but she cannot give the repose. This
Christianity alone can give. But nei-
ther can Christianity do every thing
for man. She, too, demands her pre-
requisites ; she demands a true con-
sciousness on the part of man of the
condition in which he stands. In other
•words, she demands, on man's own
part, a perception of his own want or
need of her divine support. This
support she can give him, but she
cannot give him a sense of his own
need of it. This philosophy must
supply. Here, therefore, Christianity
accepts the assistance of philosophy ;
true though it be, that the latter, even
in her highest and most exhaustive
flight, only brings man up to the
point at which religion spreads her
wings, and carries him on to a higher
and more transcendent elevation. Her
apex is the basis of Christianity. The
highest round in the ladder of philo-
sophy is the lowest in the scale of
Christian grace. All that true philo-
sophy can do, or professes to do, is
merely to pass man through the pre-
paratory discipline of rendering him
conscious of evil, that is, of the only
thing of which he can be really con-
scious on this earth j and thus to place
him in such a position as may enable
the influences of loftier truth, and of
more substantial good, to take due
effect upon his heart. The discipline
of philosophy is essentially destruc-
tive— that of Christianity is essentially
constructive. The latter busies her-
self in the positive reproduction of
good ; but only after philosophy has,
to a certain extent, prepared the
ground for her, by putting forth the
act of consciousness, and by thus exe-
cuting her own negative task, which
consists in the resistance of evil.
Christianity re-impresses us with the
positive image of God which we had
lost through the fall ; but philosophy,
in the act of consciousness, must first,
to a greater or a less extent, have
commenced a defacement of the fea-
tures of the devil stamped upon our
natural hearts, before we can take on,
in the least degree, the impress of that
divine signature.
Such, we do not fear to say, is the
preliminary discipline of man, which
Christianity demands at the hands of
philosophy. But there are people
who imagine that the foundation-stone
of the whole Christian scheme con-
sists in this ; that man can, and must
do, nothing for himself. Therefore,
let us speak a few words in refutation
of this paralyzing doctrine.
Do not the Scriptures themselves
say, " ask and it shall be given unto
you." Here, then, we find asking
made the condition of our receiving :
and hence it is plain that we are not
to receive this asking ; for supposing
that we do receive it, then this can only
be because we have complied with the
condition annexed to our receiving it;
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
or, in other words, it can only be be-
cause we have practised an anterior
asking in order to obtain the asking
which has been vouchsafed to us.
Therefore this asking must ultimately,
according to the very first requisitions
of Christianity, fall to be considered
as our own act ; and now, then, we
put the question to those who main-
tain the doctrine just stated — must we
not " ask," must not this " asking" be
our own deed — and do you call this
doing nothing for ourselves ? In the
same way does not the Gospel say,
" seek and ye shall find, knock and it
shall be opened unto you," evidently
holding forth seeking as the condition
of our finding, and knocking as the
condition upon which "it shall be
opened." And, now, must not this
"seeking" and this "knocking" be
done by ourselves ; and if they must,
what becomes of the doctrine that man
can do nothing, and must attempt to
do nothing, for himself?
This doctrine that we can do no-
thing for ourselves is based upon an
evident oversight and confusion of
thought in the minds of the espousers
of it. " Attempt no toil of your own,"
say these inert disciplinarians of hu-
manity, " but seek ye the kingdom of
heaven in the revealed word of God,
and there ye shall find it with all its
blessings." True ; but these teachers
overlook the fact that there are two
distinct questions, and two distinct tasks
involved in this precept of " seeking
the kingdom of heaven." To some
people, the injunction, " seek for it
faithfully, and ye shall find it in the
Scriptures," may be sufficient. But
others, again, (and we believe the gen-
erality of men are in this predica-
ment) may require, first of all, to be
informed about a very different mat-
ter, and may be unable to rest satisfied
until they have obtained this informa-
tion : they may demand, namely, an
answer to a new question — but where
shall we find the seeking of the king-
dom of heaven ? Before finding it-
self, we must know how, and where,
and in what way, we are to find the
seeking of it ; for that is the great se-
cret which eludes and baffles our re-
searches.
The only answer that can be given
to these querists is, you must find the
seeking of it in yourselves. The Bible
reveals to us the kingdom of heaven
itself; but philosophy it is that leads
us to the discovery of our own search
4-26
after it. To this discovery philosophy
leads us, by teaching us to know ourselves
— by teaching us what we really are.
And what does philosophy teach us
respecting ourselves ? Does she teach
us that we stand in an harmonious re-
lation towards the universe around us
— towards the universe within us— to-
wards the world of our own passions and
desires — towards the strength or the
weaknesses (be they which they may)
of our own flesh and blood ? And
does she thus show us that the life of
man here below is a life of blessedness
and repose ? No ! — on the contrary,
she shows us that our very act of con-
sciousness, on the one hand ; and, on
the other hand, all the natural laws
and conditions under which we are
born, stand in a relation of diametri-
cal discord towards each other : that we
are made up of passions and suscepti-
bilities, every one of which is thwarted
and condemned in our very conscious-
ness of it : that " there is a law in our
members" (the causal law) " warring
against the law in our minds" (the law
of will, of freedom, of consciousness) ;
and that the war between these two
laws is one which no truce, brought
about by human diplomacy, can ever
still. For though consciousness may
act against evil, yet it can never change
the mere resistance of evil into a po-
sitive body of good. Consciousness
may resist wrath, but it cannot con-
vert this resistance of wrath into a
positive peaceful-mindedness. Con-
sciousness may resist hatred, but this
act cannot transmute the resistance
of hatred into positive and substan-
tial love. Consciousness may re-
sist selfishness, but it cannot convert
this resistance of selfishness into a de-
cided and abiding spirit of charity.
This conversion cannot be effected
by consciousness or by philosophy, it
must be effected by the intervention
of a higher power — building, how-
ever, on the ground-work which con-
sciousness lays in its antagonism
against evil ; and this is what philo-
sophy herself teaches unto man. She
shows him, that so long as our con-
sciousness and our passions merely,
are in the field, although it is true
that our regeneration must commence
in their strife, yet that these elements
meet together only in a bitter and in-
terminable struggle, and do not em-
body of themselves any positive issues
of good. Thus is he led by the very
strife which philosophy reveals to
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness, [Marcb^
426
him, tearing his being asunder, to
feel the necessity under which he lies
of obtaining strength, support, and
repose, from a higher source : — thus
is he led by philosophy to discover, in
the bitter strife between consciousness
and his passions, his own importunate
seeking of the kingdom of heaven, as
the only means through whose in-
tervention his struggling and toil-
some acts may be embodied and per-
petuated in glorious and triumphant
substances — his resistance of hatred
changed by Divine grace into Chris-
tian love— rand all his other resistances
of evil (mere negative qualities) trans-
muted by the power of a celestial
alchemy into positive and substantial
virtues.
Thus philosophy brings man up to
the points which Christianity postu-
lates, as the conditions on which her
blessings are to be bestowed. In re-
vealing to man the strife, which, in the
very act of consciousness, exists be-
tween himself and his whole natural
man, philosophy, of course, brings
him to entertain the desire that this
strife should be composed. But the
desire that this strife should be com-
posed, is itself nothing but a seeking
of the kingdom of heaven. It is no
desire on man's part to give up the
fight, to abandon the resistance of
evil, but it is a determination to carry
this resistance to its uttermost issues,
and then, through Divine assistance,
to get this resistance embodied in posi-
tive and enduring good. Thus phi-
losophy having brought man up to
the points so forcibly insisted on by
Christianity — having taught him to
"knock," to "ask," and to "seek" —
having explained the grounds of these
pre-requisites (which Scripture postu-
lates, but does not explain), she then
leaves him in the hands of that more
effective discipline, to be carried for-
ward in the career of a brighter and
constantly increasing perfectibility.
CHAPTER III.
We will now conclude, by recapitu-
lating very shortly the chief points of
our whole discussion.
I. Our first enquiry regarded the
method to be adopted, and the proper
position to be occupied when contem-
plating the phenomena of man, and,
out of that contemplation, endeavour-
ing to construct a science of ourselves.
'1 he method hitherto employed in
psychological research we found to be
in the highest degree objectionable.
It is this : the fact, or act of conscious-
ness, was regarded as the mere me-
dium through which the phenomena,
or " states of mind " — the proper facts
of psychology, as they were thought
to be — were observed. Thus con-
sciousness "was the point which was
looked from, and not the point which
WHS looked at. The phenomena looked
at v.-cre our sensations, passions, emo-
tions, intellectual states, &c., which
inigl.it certainly have existed without
consciousness, although, indeed, they
could not have been known except
through that act. The phenomenon
looked from, although tacitly recog-
nised, was in reality passed over with-
out observation ; and thus conscious-
ness, the great fact of humanity, to-
gether with all its grounds and conse-
quences, has been altogether over-
looked in the study of man, while, in
consequence of this oversight, his
freedom, will, morality — in short, all
his peculiar attributes, have invariably
crumbled into pieces whenever he has
attempted to handle them scientifi-
cally.
We trace this erroneous method,
this false position, this neglect of the
fact of consciousness, entirely to the
attempts of our scientific men to esta-
blish a complete analogy between
psychological and physical research ;
and, to follow the error to its foun-
tain-head, we boldly trace it up to a
latitude of interpretation given to the
fundamental canon of the Baconian
philosophy : " Homo, naturae minister
et interpres, de naturae ordine tantum
scit et potest, quantum observnccrit,
nee amplius scit aut potest."
As far as this great rule is held ap-
plicable to the study and science of
nature, we admit it to be unexception-
able ; but when we find it so extended
in its application as to include man
indiscriminately with nature, we must
pause ; and although this extension of
its meaning should be shown to be in
perfect accordance with the whole spi-
rit of Bacon's writings, we must ven-
ture, in the name of philosophy, and
backed by a more rigorous observation
1839.] An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness.
427
than that which he or any of his fol-
lowers contend for, to challenge its
validity, venerable and authoritative
though it be.
We do not, indeed, assort that this
maxim, even when taken in its utmost
latitude, contains any thing which is
absolutely false ; but we hope to show,
that, in its application to the science
of man, and as a fundamental rule of
psychology, it falls very far short of
the whole truth, and is of a very mis-
leading tendency. If it has acted like
fanners upon the physical sciences, it
has certainly fallen like an extin-
guisher upon philosophy.
The method laid down in this canon
as the only true foundation of science,
is the method of observation. The
question then comes to be : can this
method be properly applied to the
phenomena of man, in exactly the same
sense as it is applied to the phenomena
of nature ? The disciples of Lord
Bacon tell us that it can, and must, if
we would construct a true science of
ourselves ; but, in opposition to their
opinion, we undertake to show, that, in
the case of man, circumstances are
evolved, which render his observation
of his own phenomena of a totally dif-
ferent character from his observation
of the phenomena of nature. Let us,
then, illustrate the method of observa-
tion,— first, in its application to nature ;
and secondly, in its application to man.
We will call nature and her pheno-
mena B, and we will call the observer
A. Now, it is first to be remarked,
that in A there is developed the fact
of A's observation of B : but the pro-
per and sole business of A being to
observe the phenomena of B, and A's
observation of the phenomena of B not
being a fact belonging to B, it, of
course, does not call for any notice
whatsoever from A. It would be al-
together irrelevant for A, when ob-
serving the phenomena of B,to observe
the fact of his own observation of these
phenomena. Therefore, in the natu-
ral sciences, the fact of A's observa-
tion of B is the point looked from, and
cannot become the point looked at,
without a departure being made from
the proper procedure of physics. These
sciences, then, are founded entirely on
the method of simple observation. Ob-
servatio simplex is all that is here
practised, and is all that is here neces-
sary ; and, whenever it shall have been
put forth in its fullest extent, the
science of B, or nature, may be consi-
dered complete.
Let us now try how the same me-
thod of simple or physical observation
works in its application to psychology.
We will call man and his phenomena
A ; and, as man is here the observer,
as well as the observed, we must call
the observer A too. Now, it is ob-
vious that in A (man observed) there
are plenty of phenomena present — his
sensations, " states of mind," &c.,
and that A (man observing) may con-
struct a sort of science out of these by
simply observing them, just as he con-
structed the natural sciences by observ-
ing the phenomena of B. And this is
precisely what our ordinary psycholo-
gists have done, adhering to the Bacon-
ian canon. But the slightest reflection
will show us that such a science of man
must necessarily be a false one, inas-
much as it leaves out of view one of
his most important phenomena. For,
as in the preceding case of A and B,
so now in the case of A and A, there
is developed the fact of A's observa-
tion of A. But this fact, which, in the
case of A and B was very properly
overlooked, and was merely considered
as the point to be looked from, cannot
here be legitimately overlooked, but
insists most peremptorily upon being
made the point to be looked at ; for
the two A's are not really two, but
one and the same ; and, therefore, A's
observation of the phenomena of A is
itself a new phenomenon of A, calling
for a new observation. Thus, while
physical observation is simple, philo-
sophical, or psychological observation
is double. It is observatio duplex :
the observation of observation, obser-
vatio observations .
Now, we maintain, that the dis-
ciples of the Baconian school have
never recognised this distinction ; or
rather have never employed any other
than the method of single observation,
in studying the phenomena of man.
They have been too eager to observe
every thing, ever to have thought of
duly observing the fact of observation
itself. This phenomenon, by which
every thing else was brought under
observation, was itself allowed an im-
munity from observation ; and entire-
ly to this laxness or neglect, are, in
our opinion, to be attributed all the
errors that have vitiated, and all the
obstructions that have retarded the
science of ourselves.
428
An introduction to the flmosoplnj oj Consciousness,
[March,
The distinction which we have just
pointed out between these two kinds
of observation, the single and the
double, the physical and the psycho-
logical, is radical and profound. The
method to be pursued in studying na-
ture, and the method to be pursued in
studying man, can now no longer be
regarded as the same. The physical
method observes — but the psychologi-
cal method swings itself higher than
this, and observes observation. Thus
psychology, or philosophy properly so
called, commences precisely at the
point where physical science ends.
When the phenomena of nature have
been observed and classified, the
science of nature is ended. But when
the phenomena of man, his feelings,
intellectual and other states, have been
observed and classified, true psycholo-
gy has yet to begin : — we have yet to
observe our observation of these phe-
nomena,— this fact constituting, in our
opinion, the only true and all-compre-
hensive fact which the science of man
has to deal with — and only after it has
been taken up and faithfully observed,
can philosophy be said to have com-
menced.
Further, the divergence which, in
consequence of this distinction, takes
place at their very first step, between
psychological and physical science is
prodigious. In constructing the phy-
sical sciences, man occupies the posi-
tion of a mere observer. It is true
that his observation of the phenomena
of nature is an act — and that so far he
is an agent as well as an observer, —
but as this act belongs to himself, and
as he has here no business with any
phenomena except those belonging to
nature, he cannot legitimately take
any notice of this agency. But in
constructing a science of himself man
occupies more than the position of a
mere observer — for his observation of
his own phenomena is an act — and as
this act belongs to. himself whom he is
studying, he is bound to notice it ;
and, moreover, as this act of observa-
tion must be performed before it can
be observed, man is thus compelled to
be an agent before he is an observer ;
or, in other words, must himself act
or create the great phenomenon which
he is to observe. This is what he
never does in the case of the physical
sciences — the phenomena here observ-
ed are entirely attributable to nature.
Man has nothing to do with their
creation. In physics, therefore, man
is, as we have said, a mere observer.
But in philosophy he has, first of all,
to observe his own phenomena (this
he does in the free act of his ordinary
consciousness) : he thus creates, by
his own agency, a new fact — the fact,
namely, of his observation of these
phenomena ; and then he has to subject
this new fact to a new and systematic
observation, which may be called the
reflective or philosophic conscious-
ness.
The observation of our own natural
phenomena (pbservatio simplex'),'^ the
act of consciousness : the observation
of the observation of our own pheno-
mena (pbservatio duplex}, or, in other
words, the observation of conscious-
ness is philosophy. Such are our
leading views on the subject of the
method of psychology, as contradis-
tinguished from the method of physical
science.
II. The act of consciousness, or the
fact of our observation of our own
natural modifications having been thus
pointed out as the great phenomena to
be observed in psychology, we next
turned our attention to the contents
and origin of this act, subdividing our
enquiry into three distinct questions :
When does consciousness come into
manifestation : How does it come into
manifestation ; and what are the con-
sequences of its coming into manifesta-
tion.
^III. In discussing the question,
when does consciousness come into
manifestation ? We found that man is
not born conscious ; and that there-
fore consciousness is not a given or
ready-made fact of humanity. In
looking for some sign of its manifesta-
tion, we found that it has come into
operation whenever the human being
has pronounced the word " I," know-
ing what this expression means. This
word is a highly curious one, and quite
an anomaly, inasmuch as its true
meaning is utterly incommunicable by
one being to another — endow the latter
with as high a degree of intelligence
as you please. Its origin cannot be
explained by imitation or association.
Its meaning cannot be taught by any
conceivable process ; but must be ori-
ginated absolutely by the being using
it. This is not the case with any other
form of speech. For instance, if it bo
asked what is a table ? a person may
point to one. and say, "that is a table."
183U.J
A.n introduction to me ftMosopny oj Consciousness.
But, if it be asked: what does " I"
mean ; and if the same person were to
point to himself and say — " this is
'I,'" — this would convey quite a
wrong meaning, unless the enquirer,
before putting the question, had ori-
ginated within himself the notion " I,"
for it would lead him to suppose, and
to call that other person " I." — This
is a strange paradox, but a true one ;
that a person would be considered mad,
unless he applied to himself a particu-
lar name, which, if any other person
were to apply to him, he would be
considered mad.
Neither are we to suppose that this
word " I" is a generic word, equally
applicable to us all, like the word
" man;" for, if it were, then we
should all be able to call each other
" I," just as we can all call each
other with propriety, " man."
Further, the consideration of this
question, by conducting us to inquiries
of a higher interest, and of a real sig-
nificance, enables. us to get rid of
most or all of the absurd and unsatis-
factory speculations connected with
that unreal substance which nobody
knows any thing about — called
" mind." If mind exists at all, it ex-
ists as much when man is born, as it
ever does afterwards, — therefore, in
the developement of mind, no new
form of humanity is evolved. But no
man is born " I " ; yet, after a time,
every man becomes " I." Here, then,
is a new form of humanity displayed
— and, therefore, the great question,
is, — what is the genesis of this new
form of man ? — What are the facts of
its origin ? How does it come into
manifestation ? Leave " mind" alone
ye metaphysicians ! and answer us
that.
IV. It is obvious that the new form
of humanity, called " I," is evolved
out of the act of consciousness, and
this brings us to the second problem
of our inquiry : how is the act itself
of consciousness evolved ? A severe
scrutiny of the act of consciousness
showed us, that this act, or in other
words, that our observation of our
own phenomena, is to a certain ex-
tent, a displacement or suspension of
them ; that these phenomena (our
sensations, passions, and other modi-
fications) are naturally of a monopo-
lising tendency — that is to say, they
tend to keep us wwconscious — to en-
gross us with themselves, — while, on
the contrary, consciousness or our
observation of them, is of a contrary
tendency, and operates to render us
wwsentient, wwpassionate, &c. We
found, from considering facts, that
consciousness, on the one hand, and
all our natural modifications on the
other, existed in an inverse ratio to
one another — that wherever the natu-
ral modification is plus, the conscious-
ness of it is minus, and vice versa. We
thus found that the great law regu-
lating the relationship between the
conscious man (the " I ") and the na-
tural man was the law of* antagonism
— and thus consciousness was found
to be an act of antagonism ; or (in
order to render our deduction more
distinct") we shall rather say was found
to be evolved out of an act of anta-
gonism put forth against the modifi-
cations of the natural man.
But out of what is this act of
antagonism evolved? What are its
grounds ? Let us consider what it is
put forth against ? All man's natu-
ral modifications are derivative — and
this act is put forth against all these
natural modifications — there is not
one of them which is not more or less
impaired by its presence. It cannot,
therefore, be itself derivative, for if
it were, it would be an acting against
itself, which is absurd. Being, there-
fore, an act which opposes all that is
derivative in man, it cannot be itself
derivative, but must be underived —
that is, must be an absolutely origi-
nal, primary, and free act. This act
of antagonism, therefore, is an act of
* Our leading tenet may be thus contrasted with those of some other systems in a
very few words. The sensual or Lockeian School teaches, that man becomes con-
scious ; or "I" in consequence of his sensations, passions, and other modifications;
the Platonic and Kantian Schools, teach that man becomes " I," not in consequence,
but by occasion of his sensations, passions, &c. ; and this is true, but not the whole
truth. According to our doctrine, man becomes " I" or a conscious Being, in spite
of his sensations, passions, &c. Sensation, &c. exist for the purpose of keeping down
consciousness— and consciousness exists for the purpose of keeping down sensation,
&c. &c.
freedom, — or, we shall rather say, is
evolved out of freedom. Its ground
and origin is freedom.
But what are the explanatory
grounds of freedom ? We have but to
ascertain what is the great law of
bondage throughout the universe, and,
in its opposite, we shall find the law
or grounds of freedom. The law of
bondage throughout the universe, is
the law of cause and effect. In the
violation, then, of this law, true free-
dom must consist. In virtue of what,
then, do we violate this law of bond-
age or causality ? In virtue of our
human will, which refuses to submit to
the modifications which it would im-
pose upon us. Human will thus forms
the ground of freedom, and deeper
than this we cannot sink. We sum
up our deduction thus : The " I " is
evolved out of the act of conscious-
ness— the act of consciousness is
evolved out of an act of antagonism
put forth against all the derivative
modifications of our being: This act
of antagonism is evolved out of free-
dom ; and freedom is evolved out of
will ; and thus we make will the low-
est foundation-stone of humanity.
Thus have we resolved, though we
fear very imperfectly, the great pro-
blem— How does Consciousness come
into operation ? the law of antago-
nism, established by facts, between
the natural and the conscious man,
being the principle upon which the
whole solution rests.
V. In discussing the consequences
of the act of consciousness, we endea-
voured to show how this act at once
displaces our sensations, and, in the
vacant room, places the reality called
" I," which, but for this active displace-
ment of the sensations, would have
had no sort of existence. We showed
that the complex phenomenon in which
this displacing and* placing is embo-
died, is perception. The " I," there-
fore, is a consequence of the act of
consciousness ; and a brighter phase
of it is presented when the state which
the act of consciousness encounters
and displaces is a passion instead of
being a sensation. We showed that
morality originates in the antagonism
here put forth. But we have already
expressed ourselves as succinctly and
clearly as we are able on these points ;
and, therefore, we now desist from
adding any more touches to this very
imperfect Outline of the Philosophy
of Human Consciousness.
Edinburgh ; Printed by Balhnti/ne and Hughes, Paul's Worfi.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXXII.
APRIL, 1839.
VOL. XLV.
FRANCE AND HER ELECTIONS.
FRANCE has arrived at another crisis.
It is one of no ordinary importance ;
and the results which will spring from
it involve nothing short of the peace
or war of the whole world. When
we make use of this language, we do
so advisedly. It is not for the purpose
of rounding a period, or of exciting at-
tention. If the Conservative cause in
France shall uow be defeated, and if
Louis Philippe shall be reduced to
accept for ministers men imposed
upon him by a majority of the Cham-
ber of Deputies, who will then be not
his ministers, but the ministers of a
faction : — from that moment there is
not only an end to the Charta and
to the Royalty of France, and not only
will that country then practically be-
come a republic — but from that hour all
the friends of propagandism, war, revo-
lution, anarchy, and mob government,
will be let loose — and Europe must be
up and defend herself, from the ag-
gressions, insults, bad faith, encroach-
ments, and violence of modern French
democrats. We propose, in this
article, to establish by indisputable
facts the truth of these assertions —
facts which we have selected from a
mass of materials, and to which we
could add at pleasure ; and facts which
will open the eyes of the most uncon-
cerned to the present dangerous and
alarming condition not only of France,
but of the whole of Europe. The
geographical position of France, the
character of her people, the general
adoption of her language on the
Continent, the diffusion of her modern
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXII.
vile literature, the nature of her poli-
tical institutions, and of the profitless
experiments she ha* been making in
the science of government for the last
half century, as well as the influence she
exerts over the leaders of the democratic
parties of all countries, give an import-
ance to her movements, and a weight to
her decisions, which cannot be too con-
stantly felt or too frequently referred
to. We invite, then, the best attention
of our thinking readers to the follow-
ing view of the state of France with
reference "to her elections — such
elections having been resorted to by
the King of the French as the only and
last means for preserving the remains
of at monarchy which can date its
origin from Pharamond and Clodion,
Childerie and Clovis. The defeat of
Lquis Philippe is the defeat of the
French monarchy, and its defeat is
nothing short of war to the hilt against
all the monarchical institutions of
Europe. We approach, then, this sub-
ject with natural anxiety and just
alarm ; we shall exaggerate nothing
.—but we shall not conceal any facts
which are calculated to present, in its
true light, the present situation of the
country whose decisions and destinies
must have so powerful an operation
over the futurity of the whole of Eu-
rope.
For the right understanding of this
momentous question, it is necessary to
take a rapid review of the events of
the last nine years. We shall be as
brief as these events will admit — but
it is essential to present a resume.
2 K
432 France and her Elections.
We shall begin with the overthrow of
the Martignac Ministry, and with the
appointment of the Polignac Cabinet.
In 1829, the French Chamber of
Deputies began that struggle which
is still going on against the prero-
gatives of the monarch. The present
ambassador to the court of St James's,
General Sebastiani, was one of the fore-
most in the opposition then raised
against the right conferred by the
Chartaof Louis XVIII. on the govern-
ment, of being exclusively entitled to
propose laws to the Chambers. Besides
this, the communal and departmental
laws presented in that session by the
Viscount de Martignac, were so wholly
changed by the commission appointed
to examine them, that, had they passed
in their altered form, there would have
been some thousands of little republics
established in the very heart, and over
the whole surface, of the kingdom of
France. " We march in the midst
of anarchy 1" cried the eloquent and
admirable Martignac — but he could
not go on. The Chamber of Deputies
required the monarchy to yield. The
monarchy refused. The bill was with-
drawn. A new ministry was named.
Prince Polignac and his friends were
called on to raise the standard of
resistance to the encroachments of
democracy, and to the threats of the
Extreme Gauche that they would
ride their horses rough-shod through
the palaces of kings." The selection
of the Polignac administration was
intended to demonstrate, not that
Charles X. preferred the priests or the
Jesuits, as some writers have absurdly
imagined, but simply that the crown
was well informed as to the character
of the opposition which had been got
up, as to the objects proposed by the
men of the Gauche, and that, being so
informed, it had come deliberately
and firmly to the resolution to resist.
The Polignac Cabinet was not in-
tended by the King, the royal family,
or the court, as a cabinet of attack,
but simply as one of resistance. None
had the least notion of making the
Ordinances of July 1830, when that
cabinet was named, — nor, indeed, till
long after those associations were
formed for refusing the payment of
taxes, which were nothing short of
open, proclaimed rebellion against
the Crown, the Chambers, and the
Charta. The demands made by the
Chamber of Deputies, in 1829, were
[April,
unjust, inasmuch as they were anti-
monarchical ; and that at the very
time when the Charta, so often ap-
pealed to by all parties, established a
monarchical form of government in
tlie country. Such laws as they re-
quired would have vested one hun-
dred thousand small communal repub-
lics in the French monarchy, by
erecting communal assemblies, in
which the affairs of the state were to
be brought constantly under the dis-
cussion of the mobocracy. These
demands originated in a jealousy, if
not in a hatred, of the rights and pre-
rogatives of the Throne, as guaran-
teed by the Charta ; and it is only
necessary to refer to the journals and
pamphlets of that period to be con-
vinced, that the deputies, journalists,
and public teachers of the Opposition,
levelled all their attacks against the
Throne, the King, the monarchy.
When the National was prosecu-
ted, on the 10th March, 1830, for its
celebrated article, written by TAiers,
" Le Roi regne, et ne gouverne pas,"
it was so prosecuted because the
article was anti-monarchical. It is
not true that Prince Polignac either
hated or feared the press. It is not
true that Prince Polignac prosecuted
the French journals either for attacks
on himself or on his coadjutors ; — the
prosecutions instituted were only
against journals, and journalists who
put forth all the energy of their
talent and eloquence to excite the
people to hate and to oppose the rights
and prerogatives of the Crown. Thus,
then, the character of the resistance
of Prince Polignac, up to the period
of the signing the fatal Ordinances,
which led to the rising of the Pari-
sians and the events of July, — was a
resistance to the anti-monarchical dis-
positions, tendencies, and acts of the
Chamber of Deputies, press, and poli-
tical associations. We will not admit,
for it is not true, that either Charles
X. " or the Prince de Polignac had
any idea of curtailing or attacking
the liberties enjoyed by the French
people, under the Charta of 1814,
when the Polignac Cabinet was
formed. To resist encroachment — .
to defend the monarchy — to erect
barriers against the assaults of demo-
cracy— were the only objects pro-
posed ; — and these objects were not
only praiseworthy but indispensable,
if merely the semblance of a French
1839.]
France and her Elections.
433
monarchy was to be preserved in that
country.
It is a favourite opinion with some
writers, that the opposition to the
monarchy of Charles X. was founded,
not on any dislike on the part of the
Chambers, the press, or the associa-
tions, to monarchical institutions, but
to the alleged "foreign origin" of
the government of 1814. As this
error has been widely spread, and as
its belief by any of our readers would
prevent them from rightly understand-
ing the real character of the continu-
ous opposition of the Gauche to the
monarchy, from 1829 to the very hour
in which these observations are writ-
ten ; we propose to show the fallacy
of this statement. It is said that the
origin of all the opposition to Louis
XVI II. and Charles X., is to *be
found in the fact, that they were
brought back to France by "foreign
bayonets." Now, if this were the
case, the anniversary of such an event
would necessarily be a day of sadness
or of silence. No voice would be
heard to rejoice in its return, — and it
would be allowed to pass over with-
out notice, even if expressions of re-
gret should not escape from both
magistrates and people. But was this
really the case ? Quite the contrary.
Let us look at the facts of history —
and turn to the official record of
France — the Mordteur. And, in order
that we may escape from the charge
of selecting a period of public history
when the people were most favour-
ably disposed towards the Crown and
the government, we will turn to the
accounts of the proceedings which
took place on the 12th April, 1830,
the sixteenth anniversary of the return
of the Count d'Artois (Charles X.)
into the capital. Let it be remem-
bered that, on 12th April, 1830, the
country was in a state of unparalleled
agitation — that the address of the 221
had veen voted — that the King had
prorogued the session to 1st Septem-
ber, preparatory to a dissolution, —
and that from one end of the kingdom
to the other the Gauche was plotting
against the governmenl and the mon-
archy. Yet, on this sixteenth anni-
versary of the return of the Count
d'Artois (Charles X.) to Paris, we
read the following account of the
proceedings of the representatives of
the various civil and military orders
in the state and the country, all con-
gratulating the King and the nation
on that very return.
The first president of the Court of
Cassation, Count Portalis, accompa-
nied by all the judges and officers of
the highest tribunal of the country,
said, —
" Sixteen years ago, this very day,
your Majesty appeared in the midst of
us. Weary of pursuing, from revolution
to revolution, after vain phantoms of li-
berty, France, after having been obliged
to submit to the yoke of despotism in or-
der to crush the efforts and disorders of
anarchy, was reduced to the necessity of
fighting for her invaded territory. . . .
May you, sire, it is the wish of our love,
during a long series of years, receive the
tribute of the gratitude of the country
for the great benefits secured to it by your
return." •
Baron Seguier, the president of the
Royal Court (and the president still),
accompanied by the judges, the bar,
and the officers, approached the foot
of the throne, in April 1830 1 ! and
said to Charles X., —
" Le lien resserre entre votre majeste
et la patrie est indestructible ; il garantit
la grandeur de vos enfans, et la fidelite des
notres.
" Sire, vous aimez a etre aime ; ce
fut le meilleur moyen du vaiaqueur de la
Ligue. Votre royal penchant de famille
sera comble outre mcsure par nos cceui s
reconnaissaiis et devoues."
And lest it should be said that this
was only the language of courtiers ;
turn to the speech of Count de Chal-
val, now so popular with even the
Gauche, and hear what he said, as
prefect of the department of the Seine,
representing, on this 16th anniversary
of the return of the Bourbons, the
whole population of Paris.
" As organ of the faithful inhabitants
of your good city of Paris, we come, on
the return of this joyous day, to pray you
-to accept the homage of the love, respect,
and devotedness of all its population."
And finally, " The Society for the
Protection of Agriculture" came with
its offering of grateful recollection on
the 16th anniversary of the entry of the
Bourbons " with foreign bayonets ;"
and no language could be more loyal
or respectful. The King replied,
" The souvenirs which you recall to
my mind produce, I assure you, the live-
lie*t satisfaction ; rendered, as they are,
434
France and her Elections.
[April,
more lively by the fact, that I see the
country tranquil and happy, and agri-
culture flourishing in all my kingdom. A
king — a father — how can he desire any
thing else than the happiness of hi» chil-
dren ?"
Had the Chamber of Deputies been
sitting at the period of the anniversary
in question, its members likewise
would have appeared at the Tuileries
to express their gratitude and love.
All classes and ranks were represented
on the return of the 12th April of
every year — and all vied with each
other in declaring that such anniver-
saries were to them the source of un-
feigned delight. It is not true, that
only official representatives, paid func-
tionaries, or persons attached to the
court made these declarations : no, all
classes sent their deputations to the
palace, to assure the King that the re-
membrance of the day on which the
Bourbons returned to the capital gave
them unqualified satisfaction. It can-
not be, then, that the " foreign
origin" of the events of 1814, and the
return of the Bourbons to France
with foreign bayonets, were the rea-
sons why, in 1830, the majority of the
Chamber of Deputies, the press, and
the associations, sought to destroy the
prerogatives and rights of the Throne,
and to reduce it to a state of depend-
ence on 100,000 communal republics.
We contend, then, 1st, That the
Government of France, as established
by the Charta of 1814, was that' of a
limited monarchy ; 2d, That the mass
of the people not merely adopted, but
preferred that form of government ;
3d, That the people had no aversion
to the Bourbons, from the fact that,
in 1814, they were replaced on the
throne of their ancestors by foreign
bayonets ; 4th, That a faction in the
country, and a majority of forty in the
Chamber of Deputies, began, in 1829,
its attacks on the rights and preroga- car il n'y a pas la de merite personnel, la
Chamber ; the day that it shall be Estab-
lished as a fact, that the Chamber may
repulse the ministers of the King, and
impose on him others who shall be the
ministers of the Chamber, and not the
ministers of the King ; — the day that this
shall arrive, there will not only be an end
of the Charta, but of our royalty— of that
independent royalty which protected our
fathers, and from which alone France h.is
received all that she ever possessed of li-
berty and of happiness. ... On that da)-,
France will be a republic ; and yet the
Charta wills that we remain a monarchy."
Yet this very M. Roger Collard
took up to Charles X., and read to
him an address, which attacked, in the
name of the " majority of the Cham-
ber," this very prerogative of the;
King, which, only a few months pre-
viously, he had defended with so much
of truth and eloquence ! This address
— this attack — led to the ordinances
of July and to the Revolution ; and
now, nine years afterwards, the very
same attacks are renewed against
Louis Philippe, although some of the
most valuable rights and prerogatives
of the crown, as enjoyed under the
Charta of 1814, were repealed by the
Charta of 1830.
The language an d conduct of Charles
X. did not justify the aversion felt by
the majority in the Chamber of Depu-
ties to the influence of the crown.
Though that amiable prince insisted
on the importance of the great prin-
ciple of legitimacy to the stability of
the political institutions of France, yet
his language was always mild, pater-
nal, and benignant. Does he reply
to the president of the Court of Cas-
sation? he says, —
" L'amour que les Fra^ais ont con-
serve pour la race cle leurs rois est, j'ose
le dire, ce qui constitue leur force et ce
qui consolidera a jamais leur bonheur. La
legitimite, et je puis en parler moi-meme,
tives of the crown ; and, 5th, That
now, in 1839, this same faction, joined
by others, after having stripped the
throne of some of the most valuable
of its prerogatives, as possessed by the
eldest branch of the House of Bour-
bon, is now engaged in bringing about
the state of things years ago described
by M. Roger Collard, in one of his
admirable speeches.
" The day that the Government shall
only exist by the will of the majority of the
legitimite a ce caractere distinctif, que
1'interet meme des peuples en fait la force
et assure le succes de ses efforts : je 1'ai
bien eprouve lors de mon entree dans
Does he speak to the Court of Ac-
compts ? he says, —
" Uniquement occupe du bonheur de
mon peuple, j'espere parvenir a le con-
solider ; mon vceu le plus cher c'est que
la posterite puisse beiiir mon nom."
Does he address the citizens of
1839.]
Paris, through their organ the Count
de Chalval ? he says, —
" Tons mes efforts tendront comme ils
ont lenclu jusqu* ici a consolider d'une
imniere indestructible le bonheur des
Francais."
Does he publish a proclamation to
all France, and call on the electors to
do their duty,; — hear the mild and
moderate language he makes use of,
'in June 1830, on the eve of the gene-
ral elections : —
" La derniere Chambre des Deputes a
mdconnu mes intentions. J'avais droit de
compter sur son concours pour faire le
bien que je meditais : elle me 1'a refuse !
Comme pere de mon peuple, mon coeur
s'en est afflige ; comme roi, j'en ai ete
offense: j'ai prononce la dissolution de
cette Chambre.
" Maintenir la Charte constitutionelle
etles institutions qu' elle a fondees, a et£,
et sera toujours, le but de mes efforts.
" Mais pour atteindre ce but, je dois
exercer librement, et faire respecter, les
droits sacres qui sont 1'apanage de ma
couronne.
." C'est en eux qu'est la garantie du
repos public, et de vos libertes. La nature
du gouvernement serait alteree si de cou-
pables atteintes affaiblissaient mes prero-
gatives ; et je trahirais mes sermens, si je
le souffrais.
" C'est votre Roi qui vous le demande ;
c'est un pere que vous appelle. Remplissez
vos devoirs ; je saurai remplir les miens."
Does the King open the Session on
the 2d March, 1830, — what does he
say ? Why, he points out, in mea-
sured and constitutional, though firm
and decided language, the attacks
which are made against the Crown,
the royal prerogatives, the rights of
the throne, — the monarchy itself.
" Messieurs — Le premier besoin de mon
co3ur est de voir la France heureus'e et
respectee, developper toutes les richesses
de son sol et de son. Industrie, et jouir en
paix des institutions dont j'ai la ferme
volonte de consolider le bienfait. La
Chaite a place les libertes publiques sous
la sauve-gurde des droits de ma couronne :
ces droits sont sacres : mon devoir envers
mon peuple est de les transmettre intacts
a mes successeurs."
In all this there is nothing that is
not constitutional, liberal, and wise,
at the same time that it is monarchical
and paternal. But yet this language
did not satisfy the faction— did not
content the majority of the Chamber
of Deputies — did not appease the irri-
France and Jier Elections.
435
tation arid excitement of the revolu-
tionary party, but, on the contrary,
appeared to act as a stimulant to them
to cry, with even more fervour and
zeal, — " France has the right to govern
herself;" and it is precisely the same
cry, in precisely the same words,
which is uttered to-day. After nine
years of agitation, civil war, regicide,
insurrections, prevotal courts, states
of siege, and then amnesty, order,
prosperity, and peace, the National
still exclaims, as it did when Thiers
was one of its editors, — " The first
and great idea of the first French Re-
volution was, the right of France to
govern herself. This same idea has
been constantly kept in view ; and
now, in 1839, France again returns to
it, and asks why she is not competent
to govern herself?"
As Charles X. was attacked, in 1829
and 1830, for naming an administra-
tion in which he had confidence, so is
Louis Philippe for the same proceeding
attacked now. As Charles X., in 1830,
was accused of having the intention
of establishing an absolute monarchy,
and of getting rid of the Charta, so is
Louis Philippe now. As Charles X.,in
1830, was supported by the property,
character, and aristocracy of the coun-
try, so is Louis Philippe now ; with the
melancholy exception, indeed, that the
peerage is no longer hereditary, and
that some of the oldest families of
France have refused to identify them-
selves with the Crown. As the jour-
nals and factions in 1830, with the
Agier defection, and the Chateau-
briand defection too, insisted that
the attacks then made on the royal
authority and prerogatives were not
against the monarchy, but only
against the ministers : — so now, in
1839, the Guizot and De Bro-
glie, the Soult and the Persil defec-
tions, make use of the same language
—and vow that all they do " is for the
good of the Crown, and out of pure
love to the reigning dynasty." As the
Chamber of Deputies, in 1-830, voted
that address of the 221, to which we
shall hereafter have occasion to refer
— so the Chamber of Deputies, in 1839,
voted, within four or five votes, para-
graphs quite as strong, and sentiments
quite as anti-monarchical. As the
Chamber of 1830 discussed the right
of Charles X. to name and maintain
his own ministers — so the Chamber of
1839 accused one of the three powers
436
France and her Elections.
[April,
of the state (always so alluding to it
as to make it quite clear which of the
three was intended), of attempts to
overthrow the other two powers, and
to destroy the constitutional character
of the existing monarchy. As the
Lafayettes and Corcelles, Audry de
Puiraveans, and Dupont de L'Eures
of 1830 joined with the Sebastianis,
Gautiers, Schonens, and Charles Du-
pins of that period, in forming a COA-
LITION against the court and the
Crown — so in the present day, the
Gamier Pages, Lafittes, Aragos, and
Cormenins of the Chamber, are joined
by the Periers, the Guizots, the Per-
sils, the Duchatels, and the Thiers's
—and another COALITION is forming
against the French monarchy. It is
not a coalition against Count Mole, as
•we shall prove hereafter, but against
Louis Philippe as King, and because
he is King ; which coalition would be
formed against any other king, what-
ever might be his name or character,
simply because he was king.
There is no reliance to be placed on
French assurances, and no confidence
to be reposed in even French con-
duct. Look at the language, as pub-
lished in the official and other records,
which was made use of to Charles X.
and to the royal family, even up to the
period of the Revolution. Did the
King appear at the Chamber ? He
was received with shouts of " Vive le
Roi ! " Did his majesty receive con-
gratulatory addresses on occasion of
the capture of Algiers ? They were
full of protestations of devotedness to
the monarchy. Did the Duke d'An-
gouleme journey to Marseilles, Tou-
lon, and the south of France, to super-
intend the departure of the Algiers
expedition ? Every where the air re-
sounded with the cries of " Vive le
Dauphin ! Vive le Roi ! Vivent les
Bourbons ! " At Aix, the co-citizens
of the republican Thiers, who was at
that very moment labouring in the
National of 1830 to overthrow the mo-
narchy, were so loud in their demon-
strations of affected loyalty, that there
seemed exaggeration in their zeal,
whilst the procureur-general said —
" Ce jourest beau pour nous, monseig-
neur ; et les acclamations d'une po-
pulation fidele montrent toujours a
votre altesse royale comment les pro-
ven9aux savent aimer leur roi." At
Marseilles, the prefect, in the midst
of the citizens, exclaimed—" Monseig-
neur, la France est bien heureuse ;
son Dauphin, comme son Roi, ont un
coeur d'or et un corps de fer." When
the fleet sailed for Algiers, the cries,
Vive le Roi! and Vive le Dauphin !
were so often repeated, and so loud,
that a correspondent of that period
wrote word, though himself a royalist,
" that the enthusiasm was almost ex-
cessive," and the crews of the vessel
sailed from the port with yet " seven"
and " seven times seven more cheers."
When the Duke d'Angouleme ap-
peared at Lyons, the Academy of
Sciences, Belles Lettres, and the Fine
Arts, undertook to address him ; and
the following is a specimen of the lan-
guage they adopted towards a family,
whom three months afterwards they
tranquilly beheld expelled from France
by 93 deputies out of a Chamber
of 450 : — " Oui, Monseigneur, nous
croyons que la liberte ne peut exister
qu'avec Tordre — que 1'ordre n'a
d'autre guarantie qu'un pouvoir fort
etprotecteur — que le pouvoir n'est fort
qu'autant qu'il est stable, et que la
stabilite est inseparable de la legiti-
rnite. C'est a la royaute, Monseig-
neur, que les communes durent leurs
franchises ; c'est a la royaute legi-
time que nous devons la Charte ; c'r st
elle qui la main tiendra ; e'est elle
seule que peut la maintenir ; et
ce n'est qu'a 1'abri des droits sacres et
imprescriptibles du trone que fleurir-
ont les Iibert6s publiques." Did the
Duchess d' Angouleme proceed, eveuin
July 1 830, to the baths of Vichy for her
health ? Every where she was received
with shouts of " Vivent Its Bour-
bons ! " Whenever she appeared in
public, the people were in transports
of joy — and even up to the 13th July,
the inhabitants of Lyons professed
their ardent loyalty at the inaugura-
tion of the portrait of the King. As
to the addresses presented to Charles
X. by all classes, on occasion of the
conquest of Algiers, they were so com-
plimentary as to be fulsome : and could
the French have been believed, no
people could be more loyal, or more
monarchical. And yet, this very
Count Portalis, this very Baron Se-
guier, these very same public func-
tionaries who stimulated the King,
by their speeches and addresses, to
arm himself with the power vested in
him by the Charta, and to " save the
monarchy," but a few weeks after-
wards reproached him for complying
1839.]
France and her Elections,
437
with their insidious counsels, and were
the first and foremost to hail the new-
King of the French. It has often
been asked, who would have thought,
that those who on the 18th of July,
crowded the Tuileries, and almost the
Carrousel, to congratulate the monarch
that the white flag of the Bourbons
floated on the palace of the Cassauba,
would, on the 28th of the same month,
aid in tearing it down, from one end
of the French dominions to another,
and place in its stead the tricoloured
banner of the Revolution ? Why, those
only would have believed it to be pos-
sible, who knew the French character,
and who were aware that no reliance
could be placed in them. When they
professed loyalty, they were not loyal.
When they vowed an eternal grati-
tude to their princes, they did not feel
what they professed. When they
shouted at the opera, Vive le Roi !
on occasion of the news from Africa,
they uttered a lying cry ; and when
the 221 deputies assured the King of
their devotion to his family, his person,
and his prerogatives, they pronounced,
in the face of Heaven and of the
world, one of the most audacious
falsehoods which the pages of sacred
or profane history have ever recorded.
It is not true that the Ordinances of
Charles X. were the occasion of this
change. It is not true that it was his
fault that their loyalty, or professed
loyalty, at the commencement of the
month, was changed into animosity
and rebellion at its close. It is not
true that these Ordinances were the
occasion of their defection. If Prince
Polignac had taken the necessary mea-
sures for maintaining the peace of the
capital, and had maintained it j if, inr
stead of the Ordinances being abolish-
ed, they had been rendered availing
by military measures ; if rebellion had
been put down, and the cause of resist-
ance had been successful, this Count
Portalis, this Baron Seguier, these
public functionaries, would have talk-
ed of the " wisdom of the Crown," and
of the " inherent rights of the mon-
archy ;" and they would have remain-
ed the most faithful and devoted ser-
vants of the reigning dynasty. When
the Ordinances first appeared — what
said these very men, both in private
and in public ? " The King can do
no wrong! " When the next day there
was some display of resistance, but
very feeble and partial — they said,
"rebellion is never lawful ! " When,
on the Wednesday, the resistance in-
creased in proportion to the feebleness
of the government, they said " nous
verrons ! " On the Thursday, they
hid themselves ; and on the Friday,
when the conflict was over, and their
places were in danger, they exclaim-
ed, " The ordinances were a flagrant
violation of the Charta — and the Re-
volution was just and legal." Nor
was the conduct of the mass of the peo-
ple one whit more honest. Out of the
thirty-three millions of people, most
assuredly thirty-two millions waited
till all was over, and till Louis Phi-
lippe had actually taken the oath to
the new Charta, before they pronoun-
ced an opinion. If Charles X., instead
of signing the act of abdication at
Rambouitlet, had retired with his body
guard and troops to the west of France
— had divided the country into two
great camps, and had expressed his de-
termination to maintain his ground ;
out of thirty-three millions of people,
more than thirty-one would have been
as silent as the grave. They would
have waited the result. The winner
would have been their idol — the con-
queror their god.
And what is the reason of all this
fickleness, this uncertainty, this evi-
dent want of principle ? The reasons
are twofold. First, moral 5 and se-
cond, political. First, moral. The
French are destitute of fixed moral
principles. We speak of the mass
when we say this, and not of the splen-
did exceptions, which we should be the
first to acknowledge and to record.
But we speak of the mass ; and of the
mass we affirm that they are not mo-
ral. They have not high moral prin-
ciples— they do not set up great moral
standards — they have no belief in
themselves or in others — they are, for
the most part, wholly irreligious, not
only not being Protestants, but also
not being Papists. They do not be-
lieve in Providence. They have in-
distinct notions of a hereafter. They
have not a hatred to falsehood. They
adopt the doctrine of " expediency "
as a rule of conduct. They applaud
the successful, no matter by what
means he has obtained success. They
cultivate adroitness, tact, cleverness,
in their children, rather than virtue
and religion. They have, therefore,
no confidence in the duration of any
thing — neither of their government,
438
France and her Elections.
nor of the throne, nor of the laws or
institutions of the country. As all is
chance, luck, hazard, with them — so
they are prepared for any change, and
are surprised at none. The second is
a political reason. The French of the
present day have seen so many
changes, and been used to so many
forms of government, that they are not
attached to any. They have seen the
Old Monarchy, the Republic, the Em-
pire, the Restoration, the Revolution,
the Restoration re-restored: and they
have talked, gone to the cafes, stalk-
ed on the Boulevards, lounged in the
Tuileries,read the journals, wondered,
gaped, stared, and been amused at all.
They have seen so much of every
thing, that they are prepared for all
changes, and are resolved on amus-
ing and enjoying themselves, happen
what will. They are not attached to
any but one idea — and that is, the ori-
ginal idea of the First Revolution, hand-
ed down from year to year — which is
this — THAT FRANCE SHOULD GOVERN
HERSELF. How ? subject to what re-
strictions? by what laws ? — they know
not— and care not ; but somehow or
other, '• France is to govern herself."
This is the only one of their principles
which can be called hereditary.
It is a singular and a striking fact,
but a fact about which there can be
no dispute, that the French always oc-
cupy themselves most about politics,
and prepare to introduce changes and
effect revolutions, in the days of their
prosperity. When trade is bad and
commerce low, when manufactures
are in a state of stagnation and pub-
lic credit has greatly fallen, when the
working-classes are starving, when the
looms are unemployed, when the
shops are deserted, and misery and
want are staring the population in their
faces — then "the French rouse them-
selves, cry for " Order," support the
government, put down anarchy, and
rally round those who are the Con-
servatives of the day. Soon, trade im-
proves, because confidence returns —
soon, public credit rises, because pri-
vate individuals feel assured — and, in a
very little time, the poverty and wretch-
edness of the past are forgotten in
the affluence and comfort of the hour.
That moment is precisely the one
when the French turn to politics !
When the shopkeeper can close his
shop at ten o'clock at night, because
his receipts have been abundant ; when
[April,
on a Sunday he no longer keeps his
place of business open all day, as he
did formerly, because trade was bad,
and he strained every nerve to scrape
together all he could from the pub-
lic, but, on the contrary, shuts up
his establishment, and rushes with his
wife and children to Versailles, or St
Germains, or to the environs of the
great towns and cities he inhabits ;
when he has leisure to read the jour-
nals— play at billiards in the morn-
ing, go to the theatre in the evening
and yet find his receipts sufficient, and
more than enough to satisfy all his
desires ; then he will talk of politics,
of the treaties of Vienna, of the neces-
sity for extending the frontiers of
France, of the progress of absolutist
principles, of the necessity for war, of
the past glory of his country, and will
aid the first man, or the first club
which may invite him, to get up some
anti-monarchical movement, having for
its avowed object, to " keep the Crown
within its just and constitutional li-
mits " — but having for its real object,
the destruction of monarchical influ-
ence, and the overthrow of monarchical
rights and monarchical prerogatives.
As confirmatory of the truth of these
observations, let us look back to the
state of the country in question in
1830, prior to the Revolution ; and let
us also examine its late condition pre-
vious to the deplorable coalition which
has been formed against Louis Phi-
lippe.
The Count de Chalval, who is now
one of the idols of the liberal party,
though then he belonged to the Centre
Droit, and was Minister of Finance,
thus described, at the end of his long
and magnificent report as to the state of
the finances of France, in March 1830,
the general situation of the treasury
and the country : —
" Le tableau que je viens de mettre
sous les yeux de votre Majeste, pour lui
exposer dans toutes ses partes la situation
des finances de 1'etat, ne presente que des
resultats satisfaisans sur le passe, et plus
favorables encore pour 1'avenir. Jamais
aueun peuple n'a recuelli des avantages
plus precieux et plus prompts que ceux
dont la France a commence a jouir depuis
le retour de ses souverains legitimes ;
jamais aucune nation n'a £te appelee a de
plus belles destinees que celles que pre-
pare encore la sollicitude royale a la re-
connaissance publique. Tous les efforts
se reuniront desormais a ceux du souve-
1839.]
rain |>our conserver les bienfaits d'un gou-
vernement qui a ibude la prosperite de la
France, et qui doit salisfaire chaque jour
davantage a ses nouveaux besoins et a
ses plus cheres esperances. "
There was nothing excessive or ex-
aggerated in this language, for France
in 1829 and 1830 was in a state of
almost unparalleled prosperity. The
funds were high — the three per cents
were at 84 — money was abundant —
the taxes were paid with the utmost
regularity — the indirect taxes for the
three first months of 1830 presented
an augmentation of 1,846,000 francs
over those received for the first three
months of 1829, notwithstanding a
considerable reduction in the duties
on all sorts of " boissons" — the ma-
nufactories of France were all in full
employ — the workmen of Lyons, St
Etienne, Weelhausen, Lisle, &c. &e.,
were all well occupied, and abundant-
ly provided for — the shopkeepers and
tradesmen of the towns and cities were
increasing in riches every month — and
the agricultural and rural districts had
no reason to do otherwise than rejoice.
Indeed, the agricultural societies ad-
dressed the King on more than one
occasion, and acknowledged, with ap-
parent gratitude at least, the advan-
tages they had derived from peace
and from a paternal government. But
better than all this is the testimony
of the 22 1 deputies themselves. Even
these men, with all their factious ten-
dencies, and anti-monarchical disposi-
tions, were obliged to render the fol-
lowing testimony to the then material
happiness of the country :
" Sire, le peuple cherit et respecte
votre autoriti;. Quinze ans de paix et de
Hberte qu'il doit a votre auguste frere et
a vous, ont profondement enracine dans
son coeur sa reconnaisance qui 1'attache a
votre royale famille ; sa raison murie par
1'experience et par la Hberte des discus-
sions, lui dit que c'est surtout en mat! ere
d'autorite que 1'antiquite de la possession
est le plus saint de tous les titres, et que
c'est pour son bonheur autant que pour
votre glorie, que les si£eles ont place votre
tronc dans une region inaccessible aux
orages."
And yet the very men who penned
these lines, in which they admitted on
the one hand the immense advantages
conferred on France by fifteen years
of Bourbon government ; and who,
France, and her Elections.
439
on the other hand, protested their con-
viction, that an hereditary monarchy,
with all its rights and prerogatives,
was essential to the happiness and
repose of France, had formed a COA-
LITION to destroy the power of the
Crown, and to reduce it to that state
of helplessness and dependence de-
scribed by Roger Collard in the ex-
tract we have already given.
That which was true of 1830 is
true likewise now. For several years
after the Revolution of Paris, and the
silent acquiescence of France in those
events, the country was reduced to a
state of misery and wo, little short of
bankruptcy on the one hand, and of
anarchy on the other. There was lit-
tle or no commerce. There was only
a trade in articles of necessity. For
articles of luxury there was no de-
mand. Shops were shut up by thou-
sands, for want of business. Failures
were of daily occurrence. The funds
fell with rapidity. Landed property
declined at the same time. Multi-
tudes of the best families emigrated.
The army became insubordinate. The
press was licentious. The stage was
grossly immoral. All religion was
persecuted. The priests were drown-
ed, or driven from their cures. Pro-
pagandism triumphed at noon- day.
Republicanism stalked abroad in the
presence of royalty. The throne was
insulted. The juries refused to con-
demn. Civil war raged in many pro-
vinces. A patriotic loan was proposed
to meet the exigencies of the state.
The Chambers had no longer any in-
fluence over the public mind. And
anarchy and ruin stared all men in the
face. At length the country became
weary of misery, of concessions, and
of crime — and the laws of September
1835, were passed in spite of all the
threats, menaces, and curses of the
democratic party. From September
1835, to September 1838, the 'country
has been rapidly, most rapidly impro-
ving. The capital is embellished —
the cities and towns are beautified —
the roads are ameliorated — new canals
have been formed — every branch of
trade, manufacture, and commerce,
has been decupled in amount and im-
provement— the regicide has been si-
lenced— the factious has been reduced
to order — the provinces are silent and
submissive — and general prosperity is
so evident and great, that even the
440
Ffftnce and her Elections.
Coalition was compelled to acknow-
ledge, in the address which it prepared
to be presented to Louis Philippe, that
the prosperity of the nation was indis-
putable. The amnesty which was grant-
ed by the advice of Count Mole has
succeeded— Louis Philippe can leave
his palace and appear in public with-
out risk to his life — and emeutes and
insurrections are now only matters of
history. This was the state of things
when, in the autumn of last year, the
Coalition was formed by the chiefs
of the four leading opposition parties,
by their journals, and by their agents,
to oppose what was called the exi-
gencies of the Crown — to restrain
what was called the dominating power
of Louis Philippe — but, in truth, to de-
prive the King of the rights and pre-
rogatives which belong to him — which
were conferred on him by the Charta
he swore to defend — and which he has
invariably adopted as the rule of his
conduct. That Charta is too monar-
chical for the Coalition : and still
the cry is heard of " France is able
to govern herself ! ! "
But we have said that the Coalition
is now, as was the Coalition in 1829,
averse to the force, restraint, and order
of a monarchy. How do we prove it ?
First of all, let us look at the address
of the 221 in 1830 ; second, at the al-
terations made in the Charta of 1814
by the Coalition of 1830; third, at
some of the leading restraints imposed
on the new royalty at, and since 1830 ;
and, fourth, at the complaints now
made against Louis Philippe by the
Coalition of 1839, based, as they all
are, on the aversion of the Coalition to
a monarchy.
First, Let us look at the address of
the 22 1 in 1 830. Who prepared it ?
M. Etienne, the then and present con-
ductor of the Constitutionnel, who was
also charged, in 1839, to prepare the
late projected address to Louis Phi-
lippe ; M. Dupin, then one of the
leaders of the Coalition, and now the
same ; M. Keratry, of precisely the
same opinions as the two first named ;
M. Dupontde 1'Eure, one of the leaders
of the Revolution of July, the first
Minister of Justice appointed by the
provisional government of the barri-
cades, and a republican ; Count Se-
bastiani, whose report on the Depart-
mental Bill had led to the final over-
throw of the Martignac cabinet ; M.
[April,
Gautier, of the same category as Count
Sebastiani ; and Count de Sade, Count
de Preissac, and the Baron Lepelletier
d'Aubray. Two to one were anti-
monarchical — and the parts they after-
wards played, at and since the Revo-
lution of July, fully justify us in this
assertion. And what was the charge
made against the King or his minis-
ters ? Against the King, that he had
named such a ministry as he thought
necessary to resist the encroachments
of democracy: against the ministers,
that they did not belong to the Re-
volution ! In spite of all the ambiguity
of the address of the 221, this was the
sum total of its charges. But had not
the King the rigid, under the Charta
of 1834, to name his own ministers?
Undoubtedly. And had the ministers
resorted to acts, or proposed measures,
in 1830, when the address of the 221
was voted, which the Chamber had
disapproved ? Just the reverse — as
the following resume and extracts from
that address will prove : —
The affairs of the East had taken a
favourable turn, and. peace had been
assured in Turkey. The address of
the 221 congratulated the King on this
result.
Greece had just been erected into au
independent state by the joint measures
of France, England, and Russia, and
the address felicitated the Throne at
such a result.
The affairs of Portugal the King
had undertaken to endeavour to ar-
range, and the address approved his
decision.
Algiers had been taken by the troops
under Marshal Bourmont, and the ad-
dress said — " Sire, toutes les fois qu'il
s'agira de defendre la dignite de votre
couronne et de proteger le commerce
Frano,ais, vous pourrez compter sur 1*
appui de votre peuple autant que sur
son courage."
The speech announced laws to im-
prove the condition of half-pay officers
— to ameliorate the administration of
justice — to put on a new footing the
sinking fund and the public debt — and
the address declared that, for all these
measures, his majesty entitled himself
to the gratitude of his people.
What, then, was the meaning, the
real secret meaning, of the following
termination to that address ? The an-
swer will present itself to the mind of
every honourable man, and every in-
1839.]
telligent reader — it was tViis, " France
is able to govern herself; and, there-
fore, does not allow her King to chooso
any other ministers than those whom
we shall nominate or approve.
" Cependant, sire, au milieu des sontt-
raens unanimes de respect et d'affection
dont votre peuple vous entoure, il se
manifesto dans les esprits une vive in-
quietude, qui trouble la securite dont la
France avait commence a. jouir — altere les
sources de sa prosperite — et pourrait, si
elle se prolongeait, devenir funeste a son
repos — notre conscience, noire honneur,
nous imposent le devoir de vous en-de-
voiler la cause. Siro, la Charte que nous
devons a la sagesse de votre auguste pre-
decesseur, et dont votre Majeste A la
ferme volonte de consolider le bienfait,
consacra, eomme un droit, L 'INTERVENTION
DU PAYS DANS LA DELIBERATION DES 1NTE-
RETS PUBLICS. Cette intervention devait
etre, elle est en effet, indirecte, sagement
raesuree circonscrite dans des'iimites ex- .
actement tracees, et que nous ne suffrirons
jamais que 1'on ose tenter de franchir ;
mais elle est positive dans son resultat, car
elle fait du concours permanent des vues
politiques de votre gouvernment avec les
voeux de votre peuple la condition indis-
pensable de la niarehe reguliere des affaires
publiques. Sire, notre loyaute, notre
devouement, nous condamnent a vous dire
QUE CE CONCOURS SEXISTS PAS. Une de-
flance injuste des sentimens et de la raison
de la France, est aujourd'hui la pensee
fundamentale de I'administration. Votre
peuple s'en afflige, parce qu'elle est mena-
yante pour ses libertes.
" Entre ceux qui meconnaissant une
nation si calme, si fidele, et nous qui, avec
une conviction profonde, venons deposer
dans vutre sein les douleurs de tout un
peuple jaloux de I'estime etde la confiance
de son Roi, que la haute sagesse de votre
Majeste prononce ! Les royales preroga-
tives ont place dans ses mains les moyens
d'assurer entre les pouvoirs de 1'elat cette
harmonic constitutionnelle, premiere et
necessaire condition de la force du Trone
et de la grandeur de la France."
In spite of all the ambiguity of these
phrases, the meaning was obvious to all
—and was clear to the penetrating eye
of the monarch. He saw that his pre-
rogatives were now openly attacked,
and that he must assert their import-
ance and integrity, or virtually abdi-
cate the throne. The rest is known to
our readers.
As the preparations for the Revolu-
tion of 1830 were anti- monarchical, so
France and her Elections.
441
were the measures which it adopted
and the changes which it made.
Let us compare, second, the Chartas
of 1814 and 1830, and it will be ob-
vious that the alterations made were
all anti-monarchical. The fourteenth
article of the Charta of 1814 declared
— " The King is to be the chief su-
preme of the state, to command the
forces by sea and by land, to declare
war, to make treaties of peace and al-
liances of commerce, to name all those
who are employed in the public admi-
nistration, and to make all regulations
and ordinances necessary for the exe-
cution of the laws and the security of
the state." This clause was struck out
of the Charta of 1830, as too mo-
narchical, and another substituted in
its place.
The preamble to the Charta of
1814 was monarchical. It was ef-
faced from the Charta of 1830; and
the triumph of democracy recorded
in its stead.
The nomination of the peers by the
King to their hereditary titles, and the
existence of an hereditary peerage,
were monarchical facts and institutions
—but the Charta of 1830 altered their
character, and they exist no longer.
The King of the French to-day can-
not name even a peer for life, unless
he shall belong to certain categories
established by an act of parliament.
The Charta of 1830 annulled the
creation of peers made during the reign
of Charles X. This was the most anti-
monarchical of all the acts of the Re-
volution, for those peers had been
legally and constitutionally named,
and possessed all the required qualifi-
cations.
The Charta of 1814 placed in the
hands of the King, as the chief of the
state, the management, direction, and
interests of the army and navy. The
Charta of 1830 provided that a mili-
tary code should in future usurp the
rights and prerogatives of the throne.
The Charta of 1814 established that
connexion of the church with the
state which exists in all monarchies ;
the Charta of 1830 abolished this
connexion. The Charta of 1814 con-
ferred on the King alone the right of
proposing new laws. The Charta of
1830 extended this power to King,
peers, and deputies.
The Charta of 1814 consecrated the
secresy of the sittings of the Upper
House, as essential sometimes to the
442
France and her Elections.
stability of the throne and to its de-
fence in time of danger. The Charta
of 1830 threw open the doors of the
peers as well as of the deputies.
The Charta of 1814, and the laws
which it gave rise to, authorized the
Crown to grant pensions to poor peers
who had been deprived of their estates
by the first French Revolution, and
had no other adequate means of exis-
tence. The Revolution of 1830 ab-
rogated this power, and stripped the
descendants of some of the best and
bravest of men of the pensions granted
by the Crown under the restoration.
The Charta of 1814 allowed the
deputies to present to the King three
candidates for the post of president,
from which he could select one. The
Charta of 1830 proclaimed the Cham-
ber of Deputies omnipotent, and con-
ferred on it the right of naming its own
president, without the royal sanction.
But, above all, the preambles of the'
two Chartas mark distinctly the dif-
ference between the two epochs, and
[April,
Are we not right, then, when we say,
that the Revolution of 1830, and the
Charta of that period, were anti-
monarchical?
Third, let us look at some of the
leading restraints imposed on the new
royalty at and since 1 830.
1st, The principle of election, on the
part of the people, is introduced into
nearly all the established institutions
of the country.
2d, The institution of the national
guards is one of a democratical, and
not of a monarchical character. They
name likewise their own officers, and
form an opposing army to the army of
the state.
3d, The King is compelled, by the
laws regulating the land and s-ea
forces, to select such and such men for
promotion. And at this very moment
Louis Philippe is unable to promote
the naval officers who distinguished
themselves at Vera Cruz, because
there are not certain vacancies, requir-
ed by the provisions of the anti-mo-
the two documents. The preamble of narchical laws, which have been passed
the Charta of 1814 was the recogni- since 1830, on the subject.
tion that the King granted to his sub-
jects a royal charter. The preamble of
the Charta of 1830 was the announce-
ment that France granted herself a
charter, and imposed its conditions on
the new monarchy. The former re-
cognised the hereditary rights of the
Bourbons ; the latter only acknow-
ledged the " rights of the nation."
The Charta of 1814 was intrusted
to the King to execute, and to cause it
to be enforced. " The charter of 1830,
and all the rights which it consecrates"
(Article 66), " are entrusted to the
patriotism and courage of the national
guards, and of all French citizens."
The Charta of 1814 adopted the
white unsullied flag of the Bourbons.
The charter of 1830 (Article 67), de-
clared, " France resumes her colours.
In future no other cockade shall be
worn than the tricoloured cockade."
Under the Charta of 1814, the
Chambers were convoked at the Lou-
vre, in the palace of the monarch.
Under that of 1830, the King and the
peers are compelled to proceed to the
Chamber of Deputies.
The Charta of 1814 was made by
the King. The Charta of 1830 was
made by the Deputies, adhered to
by the peers, without even a protest,
and sworn to by the King without an
observation.
4th, The departmental and munici-
pal institutions of the country, which,
before the Revolution of 1830, were
monarchical, have all since been found-
ed on an elective system. All the ar-
rondissements of France, all her com-
munes and her cantons, have now
become the spheres of anti-monarchi-
cal elections, and of republican discus-
sions.
5th, The civil list has been restrain-
ed to scanty limits — the royal appan-
ages granted to princes of the blood
have been refused — the King cannot
even advance his own sons in the army
or navy, unless subject to certain re-
strictions— and the public instruction,
colleges, schools of the land, once
granted by royal ordinances and royal
favour, are now taken out of the hands
of the Crown, and placed* under the
special protection of commissions.
Well may M. de Cormenin ex-
claim, when comparing the two epochs
and the two charters, " La souve-
rainete du peuple Franqais est le prin-
cipe foudamental de la Charte de
1830."
And it is because the dogma of " the
sovereignty of the people," is the basis
of the Charta of 1830, that M. de
Cormenin is right when he says that
the Charta, and the laws made in vir-
tue of that Charta, have all tended to
1839.J
France and her Elections.
443
bring the monarchy down from its
former sphere of elevation and here-
ditary power, to one of a more elective
and democratic character. When this
republican writer represents, then> the
monarchy of 1830 as weak, enchained,
and comparatively helpless, he writes
plain truth, though his object is an-
archical and revolutionary. He says,
" The Charta has decided that the
King cannot take a step SLSO./UHI/, make
a jest as a king, do an act as a king,
•without a minister, his inseparable
guardian, being at his side, always
ready to protect the royalty, and al-
ways ready to reply to the nation for
his acts." The King can, " indeed,
choose his ministers — but he must not
choose them either from the minority
of rig/it, or from the minority of the
left, in the Chamber of Deputies. He
must choose them from the majority —
and their doctrines, yes, and their ap-
pearance too, must please the majority
— and that majority must say, * Yes,
we approve of them for ministers ' —
or they cannot remain so."
" Where, then," asks this able but
subtle writer, " where is the power,
the constitutional power, placed in
France? In the Chamber of Deputies.
And why ? Because the Chamber of
Deputies is elective and independent.
It is because it is elective that it pos-
sesses all its force. It is independent
and sovereign."
The Chamber of Peers in 1839 is
powerless. The royalty in 1839 is
helpless. The Chamber of Deputies
is omnipotent. And why? M. de
Cormenin shall answer, because
France is anti-monarchical — and be-
cause France is under the influence of
the doctrine of the " sovereignty of
the people."
Fourth, let us now examine the
complaints made against Louis Phi-
lippe by the Coalition in 1839 — and
let us see whether these complaints be
not all based on the aversion of that
Coalition to a monarchy.
Is Louis Philippe accused of being
a disagreeable, unpleasant, violent,
ungentlemanly prince ; with rough
manners, uncourteous conduct, and
bad or low tastes and pursuits ? Just
the reverse.
Is Louis Philippe open to the ob-
jection of being placed on the throne
of France by foreign bayonets ? Just
the reverse.
Is Louis Philippe objected to be-
cause he was placed on the throne on
account of his being a Bourbon ? M.
Dupin has set this question at rest by
his celebrated declaration that Louis
Philippe is King, not because he is a
Bourbon, but in spite of being a Bour-
bon. Though this is not our opinion,
it is at least that of the Coalition.
Is Louis Philippe accused of ingra-
titude to those who have served him,
of rejecting those who have counselled
him, and of betraying those who have
confided in him ? Certainly not. No
prince has more richly rewarded with
wealth, titles, office, power, and rank,
those who have devoted themselves to
his cause and to his service.
Is Louis Philippe accused of keep-
ing up a correspondence with the old
dynasty, of having a secret intention
of abdicating in favour of the young
Dukeof Bourdeaux, or of bequeathing
the throne to the eldest branch of the
house of Bourbon ? Such a charge
has never seriously been made against
him.
What, then, are the complaints
made against the Citizen King ? We
will look at them briefly, and in their
order.
First, He is accused of wishing to
form part of the European family of
sovereigns, and of desiring to be re-
garded as one of their number.
Now, what does this amount to ? It
amounts to this, that Louis Philippe,
as a king,wishesto live, act, be looked
on, as a king ; whereas, the Coalition
would reduce him to the level of the
president of some small republic.
Second, Louis Philippe is accused
of a resolution to maintain peace with
Europe in order that his throne may
be established firmly — and that France
may not be exposed to war, in conse-
quence of the changes which have
taken place in the dynasty, and the
Charta of the country.
But Louis Philippe announced these
intentions from the beginning. In his
•very first speech he said, " Yes, gen-
tlemen, this France which is so dear
to me shall be happy and free ; she
shall show to Europe that, exclusively
occupied with her interior prosperity,
she cherishes peace as well as liberty,
and desires the happiness and repose
of her neighbours." The same lan-
guage he made use of as lieutenant-
general of the kingdom, as well as
•when elected king — and he announced
this to be his policy to Lamarque,
444
France and her Elections.
[April,
Lafayette, and Lafitte — as well as to
Guizot, Thiers, Perier, and Duchatel.
Why do the Coalition complain of
this conduct ? Has it led to the inva-
sion of France ? No. Has it led to
the degradation of France ? No. Has
it led to France losing her place among
European powers? No. Why, then,
do the Coalition complain ? Has, or
has not France greatly prospered un-
der the pacific policy of Louis Phi-
lippe? Was not France, at the close
of 1838, in very nearly as prosperous
a state as at the close of the year 1829?
Undoubtedly. Then why do the Coa-
lition complain? Because it is anti-
monarchical — because it hates to see
the gradual establishment of a regular,
powerful, and recognised monarchy —
and because it has returned again to
the ruinous dogma of the very First
Revolution, " that France is resolved
on governing herself."
Third, Louis Philippe is accused
of wishing to establish in France an
absolute, instead of a constitutional
monarchy.
What are the proofs in support of
this charge ? Let us look at them for
a moment, in their order.
1st, He is accused of governing as
well as reigning.
This is the capital offence — this the
leading charge of all ; — he governs
as well as reigns. This, M. de Cor-
menin tells us, is " arbitrary, despotic,
impolitic, incomprehensible, irration-
al, degrading, impious, monstrous,
stupid." We have quoted, literally,
his adjectives, and have not added one
to his vocabulary. But why is it all
this? When Charles X. left too
much the management of the affairs
of the state to his ministers, he was
accused of being " a mere puppet in
the hands of his cabinet." Then
the ministers were monarchical, and
the Coalition of 1830 feared them.
Now the Ministers are never mon-
archical ; but Louis Philippe governs
as well as reigns, and declares that he
would sooner abdicate than sign,
blindfold, the ordinances of a mini-
stry governed by a fluctuating majo-
rity in one of the Chambers, — and
now the Coalition of 1839 fear him.
But why? In both cases the cause
is the same, — the anti- monarchical
character of the two coalitions.
2d, Louis Philippe is accused of
always presiding: over the counsels
of ministers. He will know all that
is passing. He will not take for
granted any thing that is merely
affirmed by his ministers. He will
read despatches — see letters — dictate
replies — confer with ambassadors and
envoys — and attend to the details, as
well as to the broad and large out-
lines of political events and business.
M. Thiers calls this " epouvantable ;"
M. Guizot says that it is not " Con-
stitutional ;" M. Duchatel pronoun-
ces it to be "unparliamentary." But
the King has declared he will not
willingly abandon his right, con-
vinced, as he is, that his presence at
all the debates of his ministers is the
best contre-poids against the perpetual
tendency of all political men in France
towards anti- monarchical measures
and principles.
3d, Louis Philippe is accused of
reducing his ministers to the mere
office of registrars of his royal de-
crees ; and of not allowing his coun-
cillors to advise him, persisting always
in the same line of policy.
That Louis Philippe is obliged to
hold, with great firmness, the reins of
the government, must be admitted,—
but that he does not consult his mini-
sters is an allegation which will not
support the light of examination.
We have the full conviction that
Louis Philippe prevented the fruitless
expenditure of French blood and
treasure in 1831, in behalf of fallen
Poland ; — but Casimir Perier coun-
selled his majesty to this policy.
We are certain that Louis Philippe
sent, with extreme reluctance, a
French army to Antwerp in 1833 ; —
but Marshal Soult counselled the
measure.
We are sure that Louis Philippe
was averse to the clauses and condi-
tions of the Quadruple Treaty; — but
Talleyrand prevailed on the mini-
sters of the King to obtain its sig-
nature.
Sometimes, indeed, Louis Philippe
has not been governed by his council-
lors, but has acted on his own deci-
sions. This was the case when he
refused to intervene in Spanish
affairs, and allowed M. Thiers to
retire to Italy and the study of his fa-
vourite Livy ! But what then ? A
new Ministry was formed, opposed,
as the King, to an intervention.
The expedition of the French to
Ancona was not, however, a measure
of the King, but one of Casimir
1839.]
France and her Elections.
443
Perier, and Louis Philippe acquiesced
with reluctance.
The measure of the General
Amnesty was the act of Count Mole ;
approved, indeed, by the King, but
peculiarly the measure of that mini-
ster.
We could go through all the im-
portant acts of the last nine years, and
are prepared to show, that though
Louis Philippe is entitled to a large
portion of the praise which is due to
the pacific and conservative policy of
that period, yet that, at divers epochs,
various public men, as minister?, have
taken a marked and decisive part in
the decisions of the Crown.
4th, Louis Philippe is accused of
wishing to perpetuate a line of policy
now which is no longer necessary,
and which may be fatal to the honour
and "liberties of the country.
What does this mean ? That, as
Louis Philippe proclaimed the neces-
sity for order and peace in 1830, so he
sees the same necessity now. The
policy which he felt to be wise when
Lieutenant- General, and a new-made
King in 1830, he feels to be wise now.
It means — that treaties are to be re-
spected— that their conditions are to be
fulfilled- — that Spain is not to be in-
vaded by a French army — that Bel-
gium is not to be encouraged in a re-
sistance to the twenty-four articles,
when to them she has given in her ad-
hesion— that the cry for electoral re-
form in France is to be discouraged —
that the dishonest conversion of 5 per
cents into lower stock, contrary to the
letter and spirit of the original con-
tract, is not to be allowed — that the
laws of September 1835, which have
secured to France at least external
order and physical prosperity, are not
to be repealed — and that the progress
of democracy is to be resisted, at the
same time that the conquests of demo-
cracy already made are to be recog-
nised and to remain untouched. In
one word, that the Chartaof 1830, and
the Revolution of 1830, are to be look-
ed on as final measures.
To this policy the Coalition is op-
posed. It admits the existence of
prosperity, order, and peace ; — but it
insists that every system has its day— •
that the system of resistance has now
arrived at its end — that concessions
must be made — andthat Louis Philippe
must be compelled to change his po-
licy, and to take to his councils those
who made the Revolution of 1830 !
The perseverance of Louis Philippe
in a conservative and pacific policy is,
then, the great charge against him.
How unstatesmanlike and unphiloso-
phical is such an opposition to the
prince as that to which we are now
referring ! It is the very character, the
essential, indispensable, character of
monarchy to resist. The democratical
institutions of a country are always
for advancing — the monarchical, on
the contrary, ought to tend, and must
tend to countei balance the evils of
such constant changes. '
But Louis Philippe is accused of
being opposed to the liberties of the
country. What proof has he given of
it 1 Those who now form the Coalition
counselled, when in office, some of the
strongest of his measures ; and, since
the granting of the amnesty restored
France to peace and to order, what
measures has Louis Philippe resorted
to which are opposed to the liberties
guaranteed by the Charta? None
whatever. He promised the Charta
— and nothing more — and he has kept
his word.
But,asoneof themeasnres nowloud-
ly called for by the Coalition of 1839
is the repeal of the laws of September
1835, and as those laws are said to be
opposed to the liberties guaranteed to
the French by the Charta of 1830,
let us pass for a moment those laws in
review. And, whilst we do this, let us
remember, that Messieurs Persil, Gui-
zot, and Thiers, as well as M. Du-
chatel, four of the most determined
chiefs of the Coalition, were among
the most zealous promoters of the laws
in question. It is not then Louis
Philippe who has changed as to these
laws, but the Coalition.
1\\e first was a law as to the crimes,
offences, and contraventions of the pe-
riodical press, and other means of pub-
lication. It was passed to protect the
new royalty from insult, the monarch
from assassins, and the government of
the country from plots and conspira-
cies. The 4th, 5th, and 7th Articles,
are to the following effect — and these
are the spirit of the law.
Article 4. Whosoever shall blame
the King personally for the acts of his
government, and represent him as
personally responsible, instead of his
ministers, shall be punished by ira-
446
France and her Elections.
[April,
prisonvnent from a month to a-year,
and by a fine of from £20 to £200.
Article 5. All attacks on the prin-
ciple or the form of government es-
tablished by the Charta of 1830, as
defined by the law of 29th November,
1830, shall be considered as attacks
made on the state and its surety,
when their object is to excite the peo-
ple to destroy or to change the go-
vernment.
Article 7. The penalties imposed
by Article 6th, shall be incurred by
those "who publicly profess their adhe-
sion to another form of government,
either by declaring that the persons
for ever banished from the throne by
the law of 10th April, 1832, are en-
titled to reign ; or by calling them-
selves republicans ; or taking any
other public title incompatible with the
Charta of 1830; or by expressing the
desire, hope, or threat, for the de-
struction of the order of constitutional
monarchy, or for the restoration of the
late dynasty.
These clauses are monarchical — too
monarchical for the Coalition — and
they call for their repeal.
By other clauses of the law in ques-
tion, no subscriptions are allowed to
be instituted to pay any fines imposed
by judges on journals found guilty of
the offences or crimes before mention-
ed ; no drawing, engraving, lithogra-
phic print, or other emblem of any na-
ture, can be published, exposed, or
sold, without the permission of the
Minister of Justice at Paris, or of the
prefects in the departments ; — and,
finally, no theatrical representations
can take place, without a similar re-
presentation.
This law has had the effect of pre-
venting the King from being per-
sonally insulted ; the throne from
being burlesqued by the press, the
caricatures, and the theatrical per-
formances of the capital and the pro-
vinces ; and, furthermore, has tended
to calm the state of the public mind,
and especially of the youths of France,
before then daily excited by these
three means to hatred of Louis Phi-
lippe, opposition to the monarchy, and
regicide.
The second law of September was
one which was passed to enable the
judges of assizes to try summarily,
but still before juries, all offences
against the state, and to provide for
the trial of prisoners in their absence,
who should refuse to listen to the pro-
ceedings in the court, and who should,
a,s did the rioters of 1834, combine to
prevent the administration of justice.
The third law of September was
the Jury Law. It was passed to
prevent juries from being intimidated
by the press ; and, in order to prevent
their decisions from being known, it
provided for the juries voting by bal-
lot on the question of culpability or
non-culpability left to them by the
judges. It also provided that seven
should form a majority of votes, and
that the names of the jury deciding on
the questions submitted to them should
not be made public. This law has
secured the punishment of real offen-
ders by protecting the jury in the exe-
cution of their duties.
The fourth law was the Association
Law, which prevented, by its severe
decisions, all political associations not
recognised by the law, and the objects
of which were always hostility to the
Throne and the Charta.
And, fifth, the Hawkers' Law, which
prohibited all persons from hawking
about books, journals, prints, pam-
phlets, engravings, &c., without the
permission of the local police. This
law has led to the extinction of all
incendiary journals, which only exist-
ed, and only could exist, by the ap-
peals they constantly made to the pas-
sions and hates of the lower orders.
They made war against virtue, wis-
dom, property, and true patriotism ;
and as now they cannot be cried
about the streets, or hawked on the
highway, they have no purchasers,
and have all ceased to appear.
These laws were voted by more
than one-half of the present Coalition,
as well as by nearly all the Govern-
ment members in the Chamber of
Deputies ; were passed nearly unani-
mously by the Chamber of Peers ;
were assented to by the King ; and
have produced an amount of good, in
the form of peace, order, and respect
to the authorities and institutions of
the country, which even their most
vehement opponents do not dare 1o
deny. Yet these laws are to be re-
pealed ! And why ? Because they
are too monarchical.
Now, is it fair to Louis Philippe,
to accuse him of being the author of
these laws ? Did he propose them ?
1830.]
France and her Elections.
447
No. Did he plead for them ? No.
Did he do more than give his royal
assent to their passing ? No. Yet,
because they are not as yet repealed,
he is accused of being hostile to the
liberties of the people.
There is one more topic to which we
must refer, before we turn the rest of
our attention to the results which have
led to the recent events in France, and
to the results of the late elections : —
that topic is Electoral Reform.
The Coalition of 1839 has adopted
all the cant phrases of our English
Radicals of 1830. The moment a
Government deputy, a Conservative,
is returned, the place electing him is
called a " bourg pouri ; " Conser-
vatives are called French Tories;
Destructives are called " Patriots."
Though every man of twenty-fi veyears
of age, who pays the small sum of L.8
per annum for taxes, is an elector ;
and though every one being 30 years
of age, and paying L.20 per annum
for taxes, may be a deputy ; yet this
state of things is called " aristocrati-
cal ;" the Chamber of Deputies is said
to be a " packed assembly of merely
rich men ;" and the cry is every where
heard of " Reform of Parliament ! "
The Gazette de France, as an organ
of the Romanist party, demands " re-
form," because it hopes that, if the
amount of the qualification for an elec-
tor should be reduced, the priests -in
the rural departments would secure
by their influence the return of Papist
candidates ; whilst the National, the
organ of the Republican party, is not
less vehement in its support of the
measure, because it hopes that all the
canaille would join in returning the
best mob orator, and in sending into
the Chamber " all the capacities."
The cry of the Gazette and the Pa-
pists is against rational and constitu-
tional liberty ; the cry of the National
and the Republicans is against pro-
perty, and the qualification of the
payment of taxes for electors and de-
puties. But the secret of all the
opposition of all parties may be re-
sumed in two words — the electoral
law is too monarchical to please the
Coalition ; and one is required by
them, which shall be far more " popu-
lar," i. e. democratical, in itscharacter.
It is now time to turn to the elec-
tions of 1839, to the Mole Cabinet,
and to the prospects of the French
Monarchy.
VOL. X.LV. NO, CCLXXXIJ.
" Louis Philippe is the King of the
Barricades," say the Legitimists. We
admit it. " Louis Philippe is an
elected, and not a hereditary prince,"
say the Republicans. We admit it.
" Louis Philippe does not owe his crown
to his birth, his descent, to the grace
of God, or to any thing but the grace of
the people." We deny it. If Louis
Philippe had not been a Bourbon, he
would not have been King of the French
— and if he had not been indispensa-
ble at the moment of the Revolution
of 1830, to save France from anarchy,
civil war, and foreign invasion, he
would not have been selected. Louis
Philippe owes no thanks to the Revolu-
tion, or to the fraction of the deputies
and the shadow of the peers which
placed him on the throne. He was a
state, or rather a national necessity.
Lafitte, Lafayette, Gerard, Benjamin,
Constant, Perier, all in fact who had
any thing to do, as chiefs, with that
revolution, felt this ; and we, who
watched on the spot all the movements
of all parties in the hour of peril and
at the moment of action, can attest,
as eye witnesses, that the French at
that period were too happy to find a
prince who would consent to ascend
the vacant throne. That those who
placed him there, never intended that
he should be really a king, enjoying
the rights, prerogatives, power, for-
tune, and honours of a king, we free-
ly admit ; but the name of a king was
so essential at that period to protect
the Revolution from foreign invasion,
that although those who made Louis
Philippe King of the French secretly
expressed their design of " surround-
ing him with Republican institutions"
(for these were the very words of La-
fayette uttered in our presence), still a
king they were obliged to take, on con-
dition of reducing his power and pre-
rogatives to a mere nullity at a future
period. That period has now arrived,
and the attempt is now making.
But Louis Philippe is King ; and
the question now under discussion in
France is nothing less than this, " Is
fie to remain so — and subject to what
conditions ?"
The gravest and the most conscien-
tious man of " the Opposition of the
Restoration" now living, is Roger
Collard. His life has been morally
pure, though intellectually faulty —
and he has at least the merit of pre-
dicting, on all occasions of import-
2 F
448
France and her Election?.
ance, coming dangers and coming
events. This very celebrated and
justly eminent man, who, whilst he dis-
approved of the Ordinances of July,
1830, yet recognised the Duke of
Bourdeaux as the legitimate heir to the
throne, has delivered the following
memorable speech to the electors who
have returned him in the Department
of the Marne. Such a speech is a
prophecy — an event — and one of the
most fearful magnitude.
" MESSIEURS, — Vous continue/, vous
confirmez votre derniere election inter-
rompue ; ces suffrages repetes ont encore
plus de prix, parce qu'ils sont accordes
dans des circonstances nouvelles et bien
plus graves : je vous rends |;race de ce
que vous n'avez pas desespere de moi.
Nous assistons, messieurs, a une grande
manifestation de 1'etat critique de notre
pays, qui laisse loin derriere elle le bruit
des debats parlementaires.
" L'agitation produite par la Revolution
de Juillet, chassee des rues ou elle a ete
reprimee, s'est refugiee, s'est retranchee
au coeur de 1'etat : la, comme dans un lieu
de siirete, elle trouble le gouvernemeut,
elle 1'avilit, elle le frappe d'impuissance,
et en quelque sorte d'impossibilite. Sous
les voiles trompeurs dont elle se couvre,
c'est 1'esprit revolutionnaire ; je le recon-
nais a 1'hypocrisie de ses paroles, a la
folie de son orgueil, a sa profonde immo-
ralitc.
" Au dehors, la foi donnee ne 1'oblige
pas ; au dedans, pourquoi la charte juree
1'obligerait-elle d'avantage ? Cependant
les institutions fatiguees, trahies par les
mcetirs, resistent mal ; la societe appauvrie
n'a plus pour sa defense ni positions fortes
ni places reputees imprenables. Croirons-
nous qu'il snffira des honneurs ephemeres
du rninistere et d'une part subordonnee du
pouvoir, pour assouvir des passions insa-
tiables ? Non ; elles seront attirees a
travers le ravage et la conquete vers une'
plus riche proie.
" Nous en Irons, Messieurs, dans une
ere nouvelle : de grands maux nous mena-
cent ; il faut le savoir pour les conjurer.
Voila que notre foi est decriee devant
1'Europe, qui pourra nous demander des
otages comme a un peuple barbare, quand
nous aurons a traitep avec elle. Voila que
le Trone de Juillet est attaque, je voudraig
ne pas dire ebrante, ce trone que mes mains
n'ont point eleve, mais qui reste aujourd'hui,
je le reconnais, notre seule barriere contre
d'odieuses entreprises.
" Qu'avons-nous a faire dans ces ex-
tremites, nous, gardiens de 1'ordre, ob-
scrvatotjrs des !ois ct des trail es, conscrva-
teurs de tous lesbicns peniblement acijuis,
[April,
si ce n*est de nous replier sur nous-memes,
de nous rallier etroitement," et de resister
courageusement, comme nous 1'avons fait
dans d'autres temps, a cettc nouvelle
anarchic ? J'embrasse ce devoir, je m'y
devouerai selon mes forces, heureux et
glorieux d'achever dans ce devoumentune
vie consacree sans partage, vous le savez,
a la cause du droit et de la veritable
liberte qui en est inseparable."
Roger Collard has thus stated
frankly and fully the question at issue.
" The Throne of July is attacked" —
more than that, it is trembling ; — it is
attacked by those, all those who
founded it — and yet it is but a shadow
of a throne after all, and still, shadow
though it be, it is the only barrier re-
maining against triumphant radical-
ism and avowed republican demo-
cracy.
M. Guizot, M. Thiers, and M.
Odillon Barrot, have each published
their proclamations, their declarations,
and their creeds. They are all anti-
monarchical. They all individually im-
pute to Louis Philippe, the intention
of destroying the liberties of the
people. They all proclaim parlia-
mentary sovereignty. They all require
the Crown to submit, on all occasions,
to the votes of the fluctuating majo-
rity. They all attack the conservative
power of the Crown, that only power
which can keep together and in order
the jarring elements of a life peerage,
and a quinquennial Chamber of De-
puties. They all affect to believe that
the " representative government is in
danger." In danger from whom ?
From the King ! and yet what did that
King do, when the late Chamber car-
ried, by & doubtful majority, an address
opposed to the Coalition, but appeal
to the country, legally, and constitu-
tionally, for another majority, more
monarchical, more compact, more con-
servative ? Was this the conduct of a
prince desirous of overthrowing the
guaranteed liberties of the people, or
was it the conduct of one who believes
now, as he did in 1830, that the Charta
of that period contained all the liberties
for which France was prepared, and
none of which it would be prudent or
just to deny ? We answer in the lan-
guage of Louis Philippe himself — first
in that of his oath — and next in that
of his speech on accepting the modi-
fied Charta.
His oath was this " In the presence
of God I swear, that I will faithfully
1839.]
France and her Elections.
449
observe the constitutional Charta,
•with the modifications contained in the
declaration of the Chamher of De-
puties, to govern only by the laws,
and according to the laws ; to render
good and even justice to every one ac-
cording to his right, and to act, in all
things, with the sole view to the in-
terest, happiness, and glory of the
French people."
" The laws"—" the laws"—" the
Charta" — " the Charta," were the
words always in the mouth, the con-
stant rule of conduct of Louis Philippe.
He never promised more. And if we
look at his speech as King — his first
speech — what did it state or promise
more ?
" I should have, indeed, been most
happy never to have occupied the throne
to which the national will has called me ;
but France, attacked in her liberties, saw
public order in peril : the violation of the
Charta had deranged every thing. It was
necessary to re-establish the action of the
laws, and it was the duty of the Chambers
to take the necessary steps for this pur.
pose. You have done this, gentlemen.
The sage modifications you have made in
the Charta, guarantee the security of the
future ; and I hope that France will be
happy within, respected abroad, and that
the peace of Europe will be rendered more
and more permanent. "
" Order — peace — the laws — the
Charta :" Louis Philippe never pro-
mised more than this. He has kept
his word, and therefore the Coalition
now join against him. He never pro-
mised to violate existing treaties, but
to maintain them ; he never promised
more extensive frontiers to France,
but on the contrary to be satisfied with
those which she possessed ; he never
promised war, but proclaimed peace ;
he never encouraged propagandism,
but said, " We will show to Europe,
that, exclusively occupied with our in-
ternal concerns, we cherish peace as
well as liberty, and that we only de-
sire the happiness and repose of our
neighbours."
But all this Js to be changed. The
Coalition is tired of order, weary of
peace, fatigued with commercial and
agricultural prosperity, sighs once
more for the glory of the battle field,
the roar of cannon, and the din of
arms. The system which has been
tried and succeeded, is now to be dis-
carded. The laws which have re-
orod order and peace to the country,
are now to be repealed. The alliances
which France has contracted with so
much difficulty are now to be dcrang--
ed. And what is the pretext for all
this — the flimsy, shabby pretext — for
it is nothing more ? Why, that Louis
Philippe is too much master, too much
King ; that he rules the council, and
directs all the affairs of the state :
that his system prevails, and not that of
his ministers ; that he is irresponsible
for acts which belong to him, and that
the ministers are responsible for acts
which are not their own. But this is
only special pleading. Has Louis
Philippe ministers ? Are they members
of one or the other House of Parlia-
ment ? Have they declined on any
one occasion the responsibility which
belongs to them ? Do they counter-
sign all the royal ordinances ? Did
they defend the foreign and domestic
policy of their cabinet in the last ses-
sion, foot by foot, inch by inch, and
day by day, though they had arrayed
against them the eloquence of Berryer,
the philosophy of Guizot, the captiva-
ting causerie of little Thiers, the
grave and solemn protestations of
Barrot, and the wit or malice of
Gamier Pages, Martin of Strasbourg,
or Midul of Bourges ? To be sure
they did ; and piece by piece the mini-
sters destroyed the projected address
of the Coalition, substituting in its
place their own ; and all this after
twelve days of anxious and continuous
discussion. Have the ministers go-
verned the country ? Yes ; and go-
verned it well.
" But," says M. de Cormenin (and
he is the most formidable of all the
enemies of the throne of Louis Phi-
lippe), " as he who countersigns, and
not he who signs, is he who really
governs, it is the minister who is the
government and not the King." Grant-
ed. But then he adds, " the truth of
their responsibility renders it neces-
sary that, in order to express the wish
of the parliamentary majority, they
should belong to it." Granted ;—
but what parliamentary majority ? M.
de Cormenin and the Coalition see no
other majority than that of the Cham-
ber of Deputies. The King and Count
Mole are, on the contrary, of opinion,
that a Chamber of Peers, composed of
peers for life, must also be taken into
the calculation of the majority ; and
if, as we learn, half the Chamber of
Deputies, and nine-tenths of the Cham-
450
France and her Elections*
[April,
ber of Peers, are in favour of the con-
tinuance of the system of peace and
order pursued from 1831 to 1839,
the real majority, both parliamentary
and of the three powers, is in favour
of that system.
M. de Cormenin insists : —
1st, That Louis Philippe makes his
ministers responsible lor a system
•which is not their own.
This is absurd. If they disapprov-
ed the system, they would resign ;
what matters it who was its author,
if all are agreed to adopt it ?
2d, That Louis Philippe treats di-
rectly with the chancellors of foreign
cabinets ; and has telegraphs, cou-
riers, and autographic notes, and se-
cret despatches at his disposal.
All kings receive ambassador?.
No one did so more frequently than
Charles X — and he acted wisely.
But when treaties are to be signed —
acts are to be decided — and arrange-
ments are to be made — is not Louis
Philippe always assisted by the pre-
sence and counsels of the president of
the Council, or the Minister of Fo-
reign affairs ? Always.
3d, That the ministers are only
secretaries to copy orders, and not
councillors of the Crown ; and that,
instead of having a system of their
own, they are only the very humble
and very obedient servants of the King.
This is reasoning in the vicious
circle. The King, when he found
out M. Thiers making use of the tele-
graph to organize a " co-operation"
in Spain with Christina, notwithstand-
ing the avowed policy of the Cabinet
was that of " non-intervention," got
rid of his ungrateful minister, and ap-
pointed Count Mole as his successor.
When the Mole Cabinet, however,
was formed, upon what conditions was
it constituted ? Peace abroad — order
at home — non-intervention abroad —
and an amnesty at home. These con-
ditions were approved by the members
of the Mole administration — and they
have honourably carried the whole of
them into operatien. The Coalition,
during the change of this system, say
that the King is its author, and that
the ministers are only his secretaries !
But if this be the case, at least the
leaders of the Coalition, when them-
selves ministers from 1831 to 1837,
were only secretaries too — for the
same system which was pursued by
Louis Philippe in that period, is pur-
sued now. The truth is, that it is
neither the system of Louis Philippe
nor of Cassimir Perier, nor even of
Prince Talleyrand ; but it is the sys-
tem indicated to all the Conservatives
of the new order of things in France,
by the good sense of each one, as the
only system which could possibly
maintain intact the Throne and the
Char ta of 1 830. M. Thiers has taken
a great deal of pains to prove, but he
has failed. in his attempt, that the sys-
tem which was good from 1832 to
1837 is good no longer. No — it is
good no longer, if the rights and pre-
rogatives of the Throne are to be dis-
carded— if the Chamber of Deputies
is to govern France instead of a con-
stitutional monarchy — and if the threat
of Lafayette is to be carried into exe-
cution, that " the throne of the Citizen
King is to be surrounded by republican
institutions." But if factions are to
be kept down, if a monarchy is to be
supported, if peace is to preserved,
if propagandism is to be discou-
raged, if alliances and treaties are to
be maintained and enforced — then the
system once so energetically defend-
ed by Persil, Guizot, Thiers, and Du-
chatel, must be persevered in, and that
which was good from 1831 to 1838
must be continued by those who shall
direct the helm of the state vessel.
M. Thiers has taken a vast deal of
pains to show that " every dog has
its day ;" that every system has its
period of decline and fall, as well as
of rise and power ; and that states and
governmentslose themselves when they
persevere with a system which is no
longer adapted to the state of the pub-
lic mind, and to the exigencies of the
state. But then there is a preliminary
question which M. Thiers has not
solved, has not replied to, to our satis-
faction, — " Is the period arrived when
the system adapted to from 1831 to
1839 can, or ought to be changed?"
With all submission to the e.r-editor
of the National — the ex-president of
the council — and the present editor-in-
chief of the Constitutional, no such case
is made out ; and we agree with Roger
Collard that the change required by
the Coalition, is the demand of the re-
volutionary spirit, " which may be
known by the hypocrisy of its words,
the folly of its pride, and by its pro-
found immorality."
Now we maintain, with a profound
conviction of the correctness of our
1839.]
statement, that were the laws of Sep-
tember to be repealed, all the excesses
of 1831 to 1835 would be repeated;
and should, in addition to the repeal of
those laws, the electoral franchise be
extended to what are quaintly called
" the capacities," all the horrors of
1793 might be reperpetrated. The
French are not changed in heart.
Why should they be ? Is the stand-
ard of morals higher ? Has the liter-
ature of the country exercised a soft-
ening and ameliorating influence over
the habits and feelings of the popula-
tion ? And, above all, has religion
gained her lawful and lovely sway over
the hearts and consciences of the
people? M. Thiers knows that the
answers to these enquiries must be in
the negative. And then, to descend a
step lower — is it not true that the Le-
gitimists, Republicans, and Napoleon-
i«ts, retain all their hate, more or less
well-founded, to the Revolution of July,
and to the new dynasty ? Has the
amnesty of Louis Philippe, that wise
and generous measure, recommended
by Count Mole, converted the enemies
of the Throne into its friends ? Have
the haters of Louis Philippe forgotten
their hates ? Have the regicides for
ever renounced their projects ? Why,
if M. Thiers knows what is daily said
in the lower and middling classes of
society in Paris, and in the great cities,
where the revolutionary press has pro-
duced the most permanent effects on
the population, he must know that the
language made use of, with reference
to the King and the monarchy, is just
the reverse of being satisfactory and
pacific. Have the Napoleonists aban-
doned their hopes of seeing one of the
nephews of the ex- usurper on the
throne ? If the laws of September
were repealed, would they not, twenty-
four hours afterwards, establish their
long-projected journals, " L'Aigle,"
" L'Empereur," and " Napoleon ?"
Have the republicans been convinced
by their oft-repeated failures that
France will not submit to the form of
government they espouse ? By no
means ; — and if the necessary restric-
tions at present placed on the press of
France were to-morrow repealed, we
should, within a week afterwards, again
hear of the daily " Bon Sens" — the
" Tribune" — the *' Journal du Peu-
ple" and all the other revolutionary
offspring of the barricades of 1830.
Now, France is either to have a fixed
and established government or none.
France and her Elections.
451
She must either retain that which she
possesses, notwithstanding its deplo-
rable origin and its unjust foundation,
or she must be perpetually exposed to
the anarchy and ruin of never-ending
changes. To secure that which exists,
the laws and institutions now in force
are indispensable. These cannot be
touched without overthrowing the
whole fabric.
The Coalition which has been
formed in the Chamber of Deputies,
is anti- monarchical and monstrous.
It is ANTI-MONARCHICAL, not merely
because it is specially formed against
Louis Philippe, but because, should
it succeed, it renders the Crown re-
sponsible for the exercise of its rights
and prerogatives to a majority in one
of the two Chambers, thus destroying
the power of the Throne, and disturb-
ing the equilibrium of the three powers
in the state. And it is MONSTROUS,
because those who now unite against
Louis Philippe do so on actually differ-
ent principles, and to obtain actually
different results. And we hope M.
Guizot will forgive us our frankness
if we now address a few questions to
him. We ask M. Guizot, does he not
know that Berryer has joined the
Coalition, not for. the purpose of ob-
taining the establishment of what he,
M. Guizot, calls a parliamentary go-
vernment, but solely with the view of
bringing into hatred and contempt the
present occupant of the throne, whom
he regards merely as an usurper ? We
ask M. Guizot, does he not know that
Gamier Pages and his republican
friends, in joining the Coalition, have
done so for the purpose of bringing
into hatred and contempt, not only the
person and dynasty of Louis Philippe,
but also of causing to he humbled and
disgraced, the monarchical power and
government in that country ? And
we ask M. Guizot, in the third place,
does he not know that even Odillon
Barrot and the " Gauche dynastique"
in joining the Coalition, have very
different objects in view to himself,
M. Guizot? Is M. Guizot prepared
to demand the repeal of the laws of
September, as M. Barrot and his
friends are ready to do, if the King
shall be defeated ? Is M. Guizot pre-
pared to exclude Louis Philippe from
presiding over his councils of mini-
sters, as Odillon Barrot and the Gauche
would desire should be the case ?
No — and even M. Guizot's address to
the Mayor at Lisieux proves that he
452
France and her Elections.
is not. Then -what means this mon-
strous Coalition of Legitimists, Repub-
licans, and Radical Whigs, vitii M.
Guizot, M. Persil, and a fraction of
the French Conservatives ? We have
called it monstrous, because it is so.
It is monstrous to see faction thus
conspiring against the only bulwark
•which remains not only for the mon-
archy, but for the peace and order,
happiness and prosperity, of a great
nation. M. Guizot, in order to be
constitutional in his opposition, has
•wisely and prudently resorted to the
fiction of blaming the ministers of the
Crown ; but he knows, as well as we
do, that this is only a fiction, and that
the real warfare now carrying on is
against the Throne.
The elections of 1839 are the most
memorable which have occurred since
those of 1830. Louis Philippe, per-
ceiving that the war, conducted by
the Coalition in the last Chamber, was
one against himself and the monarchy,
and feeling that it was his duty, a
duty which he owed to the Charta of
1830, to himself, his dynasty, and his
country, to make a last and desperate
effort in favour of monarchical insti-
tutions in France, dissolved the
Chamber which had been elected in
1837, and made an appeal to the
electoral body. In taking this step
he proved his appreciation of the state
of parties, his knowledge of the real
nature of the conflict in the Chamber
of Deputies, and his determination to
act legally and constitutionally, but,
at the same time, to brave all unpo-
pularity and odium, for the purpose of
maintaining the equilibrium of the
three powers of the state. That
appeal has been unsuccessful! The
majority of the voting electors have
decided against him : and the Gauche
and Centre Gauche, aided by the
Legitimists and Republicans, and by
a fraction of the Right of the Chamber,
to which M. Guizot and M. Persil
belong, have obtained 250 out of 459
votes, of which the " Chamber of
Deputies is composed. Count Mole
has been blamed for counselling the
King to adopt the measure of a dis-
solution, without being sure of a ma-
jority. This blame is, however, un-
deserved. It was impossible for the
noble Count to ascertain, with any
thing like accuracy, what would be
the effect of a coalition of Legitimists,
Republicans, Doctrinaires, and of
Centre Gauche, and Gauche electors,
[April,
at the electoral colleges. He could
not possibly ascertain how many of
the electors would consent to this
coalition — how many would vote for
a candidate who professed opinions
precisely opposite to their own, simply
for the sake of assuring the triumph
of the Coalition, and the defeat of the
monarchy. He had the right to
believe that tens of thousands of
electors would not consent to be thus
mystified, and that multitudes would
say " no — we have peace, order, obe-
dience to the laws, commercial pro-
sperity, and a gradual amelioration of
our social and political situation ; M.
Mole has assured to us these advan-
tages ; the King has confidence in his
ministers ; the Chamber of Peers has
confidence, too ; more than one-half
of the last Chamber entertained the
same feeling ; and we will not lend
ourselves to a cabal against the last
rampart of our liberties and our sta-
bility." But Count Mole has been
mistaken. The majority of the voting
electors have not so felt, and have not
so decided. The elections of 1839
are anti-monarchical, and the throne
of Louis Philippe is in real danger.
The debates which took place in the
Chamber of Deputies, on occasion of
the address to the King, in reply to
his speech on the opening of the last
session of Parliament, are unparalleled
in the history of France for their in-
sincerity and falsehood. The chiefs
of the Coalition affected to find fault
with the foreign and domestic policy
of the ministers, and to believe and
feel that the question at issue was
purely one of a ministerial character.
And yet the basis of the Coalition, the
declared and agreed basis among the
chiefs and leaders was, that Louis
Philip should be attacked, that " his"
system should be grappled with, that
" he " should be defeated, and that, as
all were agreed to oppose " him" all
might vote for each other's candidates
at the elections, and for the overthrow
of his system in the Chamber. We
have already seen what that system
is ; — that of the triumphant Coalition
will be developed in a few weeks ; —
its principles are known beforehand.
During the debates in the Chamber of
Deputies, in January last, most of the
leaders of the Coalition professed their
attachment to the King, their respect
for his person, their veneration for his
talents, and their conviction of the
necessity for preserving his rights
1839.]
and prerogatives.
duct was false and unprincipled.
They voted against their own speeches.
They placed their black bails in the
balloting urns df/ainst the monarchy,
whilst they professed by their false
asseverations to love and support it.
They so acted in order not to alarm
the electoral body. Tliey wished to
gain over the timid to their side.
They sought to secure a majority in
the event of a dissolution. The trick
has succeeded. The timid electors
believed their declarations — and a
stupid, a senseless majority lias de-
cided that the best way to support the
Throne is to bring it into contempt — -
and that the true method to be em-
ployed for securing its just force and
influence is to diminish its preroga-
tives and deny its rights!!
The elections of 1839 have, how-
ever, had this effect, they have proved
that the men of the Revolution of 1830
were NOT monarchical — that the ar-
rangements made by them with Louis
Philip, in the midst of the barricades,
were NOT intended by them to be so —
that they have secret republican or
democratical views — and, in one word,
that the government of France is NOT
intended to be, like that of England,
a hereditary monarchy, with a power-
ful aristocracy, and a limited and re-
strained democracy.
The elections of 1839 have attacked
the Throne, overthrown the Conserva-
tive Cabinet of Count Mole, opened
up the road to power and office to the
war party, sanctioned and encouraged
the men of the movement, invited the
propagandists of all countries once
more to unfurl their drapeaux and
raise their standards, and taught Eu-
rope to open her eyes, and prepare for
coming dangers and for inevitable
changes. The elections of 1839 have
shown to other governments in alli-
France and Jier Elections.
This line of con- Conservative party
453
The son of a
regicide, Carnot, has been preferred
by the National Guards of one district
to the respectable and enlightened
president of the Tribunal of Com-
merce of the capital. With the ex-
ception of General Jacqueminot, the
Conservative candidate in the FIRST
arrondissement ; even the four who
have been returned, have been elected
by small majorities — and the triumph
of the Conservative cause in the first
arrondissement is hardly a triumph,
since the inhabitants of that district
are principally wealthy men, whose
opinions could not be doubtful, and
whose votes might therefore be relied
on with certainty.
In the departments, though the suc-
cess of the Coalition has been less sur-
prising, it has still been signal and
decided. Of the 213 deputies who
voted in favour of the opposition ad-
dress to Louis Philippe, in January
last, but who were defeated by the
then Conservative majority of 221 —
192 have been re-returned, and M.
Michel de Bourges, the republican
deputy, is the only man of any conse-
quence they have lost. On the other
hand, out of the 221 Conservative de-
puties who rejected the insolent address
of the minority, 44 have not been re-
elected, and amongst those not return-
ed are Conte, the able and enlightened
Director of the Post- Office — Blanc,
the Secretary of State for the Home
Department — Locquet, the Secretary
of the Conservative club of the last
Chamber — General Schramin — Jol-
livet, the advocate of the Treasury
— Baude, and many others, who had
taken an active part in the defence of
the Throne against the encroachments
of the democratic party.
By the combined manoeuvres of the
electoral committees at Paris and in
the departments, whenever the ma-
ance with France, that the dogma of jority of the Coalition elections, in ail
popular sovereignty is not only adopted
by the populace but by the people ;
and that, although for a time the
cause of order has triumphed, and the
cause of peace has prevailed, these re-
sults are not to be ascribed to the
adoption of orderly and pacific prin-
ciples by France, but only to adven-
titious circumstances and to momen-
tary interests and biases.
At Paris the elections of 1839 have
been deplorable. Out of fourteen
electoral colleges, each returning a
member, only four belong to the truly
arrondissement were Centre Gauche,
the Napoleonists, Republicans, Legiti-
mists, and Gauche, as well as the
Doctrinaires, were bound, by the terms
of the Coalition, to vote for him. Only
21 cases have occurred out of 213 iu
which this condition has not been ful-
filled. And so, whenever the majori-
ty of the Coalition electors were Re-
publican, the Legitimists, and Doc-
trinaires, Gauche, and Centre Gauche,
voted for him ; and why ? Because
they approved his principles ? No.
Because they hoped to see the same
454
France and her Elections.
[April,
men in office ? No. Because they all
had the same object in view ? Yes ;
but what was that object ? The de-
gradation, humiliation, and defeat of
the monarchy.
The support which has been given
by the majority of the voting electors
to this attack on the throne of Louis
Philippe and on monarchical institu-
tions in France, is the gravest feature
of this fearful picture. The electors
of France are the middling and upper
classes. That a large portion of the
electors of the upper classes have not
voted, is certain ; but three-fourths of
the middling class electors have done
so ; and the majority have supported
this monstrous coalition. What does
this support mean ? First, that the
Legitimist electors prefer anarchy to
seeingLouis Philippe firmly established
on the throne. Second, that the Re-
publican electors prefer anarchy to a
monarchy. Third, that the Napo-
leonist electors prefer confusion and
war, to peace and order. Fourth,
that the Doctrinaire electors prefer
the defeat of the Throne to the estab-
lishment of a firm and powerful
monarchy. Fifth, that the Centre
Gauche electors are jealous of the
Throne, and wish to establish not a
monarchical, but merely a parliamen-
tary government in the country ; and,
Sixth, that the Gauche and Extreme
Gauche electors are resolved on car-
rying their original plan into effect,
conceived as it was by them at the pe-
riod of the Revolution of 1830, viz., —
to surround the throne of Louis
Philippe with republican institu-
tions ! All these conflicting opinions
agreed, however, on one question
which constituted at once the force
and the danger of the Coalition ; and
that was, to attack and degrade the
French monarchy.
The Coalition accuse the Govern-
ment of Count Mole of having en-
deavoured, by bribes, intimidation,
and rewards, to secure a majority at
the elections. Such accusations a
man like Count Mole may venture to
despise. Descended from an illus-
trious race of great and noble men, he
has a mind and a conscience inferior
to none of his ancestors. Convinced
that the Throne was in danger, and
not the liberties of the people, he has
risked his fair name and reputation in
its defence. Possessed of a large for-
tune, fine estates, cultivated mind,
domestic enjoyments, and public re-
spect, he has nothing to ask from the
monarch, or to envy of the people.
Manly, disinterested, and honourable,
he would not condescend to the paltry
tricks of a begging and unprincipled
democracy ; and we can venture to
affirm, that he was no party to any
manoeuvres for the purpose of securing
votes, even though he believed the
maintenance of the cause he es-
poused to be essential to the happi-
ness of France and to the durability
of her monarchy. When Count
Mole' ascertained that the majority
of the voting electors had decided
against the monarchy, he would
adopt no other course than to retire.
The result of the elections was not
known in Paris till the 7th March ;
on the 8th the ministry resigned.
That was a solemn moment for Louis
Philippe. Deserted by his quondam
friends, by the men of the barricades
— denied by the Republicans — forsa-
ken by the Doctrinaires — reproached
by the Legitimists — mocked by the
De Cormenins of the press, and by
the Martins and Gamier Pages of
the Chamber — and reduced to capi-
tulate with the Coalition, and to ap-
peal to those who united to beard, to
attack, and to defeat him. " We
have defeated the King!" was the
exulting cry of the factions ; and the
King owned that he was indeed de-
feated. By the success of the Coalition
it has been decided that France, *. e.
the governing, voting, portion of
France, is not monarchical : That
the government of the country is to be
intrusted to such men as are approved
by a majority of one of the powers of
the state : That Louis Philippe is to
reign, and not to govern : That the
government of the country is to be
based on the dogma of popular sove-
reignty : That the throne is to be re-
strained in the exercise of its just
rights and prerogatives : That the
system of peace and order of the last
seven years is gradually, if not sud-
denly, to give place to one of war,
aggression, conquest, propagandism,
and revolution ; and, to adopt the lan-
guage of one of the journals of the
Coalition, " That once more the revo~
lution is to march.*'
1839.]
The
455
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.
FRENCH and English literature,
which have now heen in a high state
of activity for two entire centuries,
and perhaps as nearly as possible have
been subject to the same allowance
for lulls arising out of civil agitations,
cannot reasonably be supposed to
have left any nook or shy recess in
the broad field of national interest at
this day unvisited. Long after the
main highway of waters has felt the
full power of the tide, channels run-
ning far inland, with thousands of
little collateral creeks, may be still
under the very process of filling ; for
two powers are required to those final
effects of the tide; the general hydro-
static power for maintaining the equili-
brium, and also hydraulic power for
searching narrow conduits. On the
same analogy many human interests,
less obvious or less general, may long
linger unnoticed, and survive for a
time the widest expansion of intellec-
tual activity. Possibly the aspects of
society must shift materially before
even the human consciousness, far less
a human interest of curiosity, settles
upon them with steadiness enough to
light up and vivify their relations.
For example, odd as it may seem to
us, it is certain — that in the Elizabe-
than age, Political Economy was not
yet viewed by any mind, no, not by
Lord Bacon's, as even a possible mode
of speculation. The whole accidents
of value and its functions were not as
yet separated into a distinct conscious
object ; nor, if they had been, would
it have been supposed possible to trace
laws and fixed relations amongst forms
apparently so impalpable, and combi-
nations so fleeting. With the growth
of society, gradually the same pheno-
mena revolved more and more fre-
quently ; something like order and
connexion was dimly descried ; philo-
sophic suspicion began to stir ; obser-
vation was steadily applied ; reasoning
and disputation ran their circle ; and
at last a science was matured — definite
as mechanics, though (like that} nar-
row in its elementary laws.
Thus it is with all topics of general
interest. Through several genera-
tions they may escape notice ; for
there must be an interest of social
necessity visibly connected with them,
before a mere vagrant curiosity will
attract culture to their laws. And
this interest may fail to arise until
society has been made to move through
various changes, and human needs
have assumed attitudes too command-
ing and too permanent to be neglect-
ed. The laws of the drama, that is,
of the dramatic fable, how subtle are
they ! How imperceptible — how ab-
solutely non-existences — in any rude
state of society ! But let a national
theatre arise, let the mighty artist
come forward to shake men's hearts
with scenic agitations, how inevitably
are these laws brightened to the ap-
prehension, searched, probed, ana-
lysed. Sint Macenates, it has been
said, non dcerunt (Flacce) Marones.
That may be doubted ; and nearer to
the probabilities it would be to invert
the order of succession. But, how-
ever this may be, it is certain from
manifold experience, that invariably
there will follow on the very traces
and fresh footing of the mighty agent
(mighty, but possibly blind) — the sa-
gacious theorist of his functions — in
the very wake and visible path of the
awful CEschylus, or the tear-compel-
ling Euripides, producing their colos-
sal effects in alliance with dark forces
slumbering in human nature, will
step forth the torch-bearing Aristotle,
that pure starry intelligence,* hent
upon searching into those effects, and
measuring (when possible) those forces.
The same age accordingly beheld the
first pompous exhibitions of dramatic
power, which beheld also the great
speculator arise to trace its limits,
proportions, and the parts of its sha-
dowy empire. " I came, I saw, I
conquered" — such might have been
* That pure starry intelligence. Aristotle was sometimes called a teZs, tfie intellect;
and elsewhere, as Suidas records, he was said to dip his pen into the very intellect and
its fountains.
The English Language.
456
Aristotle's vaunt in reviewing his own
analysis of the Athenian drama ; one
generation or nearly so, having wit-
nessed the creation of the Grecian
theatre as a fact, and the finest con-
templative survey which has yet been
taken of the same fact viewed as a
problem ; of the dramatic laws, func-
tions, powers, and limits.
No great number of generations,
therefore, is requisite for the exhaus-
tion of all capital interests in their
capital aspects. And it may be pre-
sumed, with tolerable certainty, that
by this time the plough has turned up
every angle of soil, properly national,
alike in England or in France. Not
that many parts will not need to be
tilled over again, and often absolutely
de novo. Much of what has been done,
has been done so ill, that it is as if it
had not been done at all. For in-
stance, the history of neither kingdom
has yet been written in a way to last,
or in a way worthy of the subject.
Either it has been slightly written as
to research, witness Hume and Meze-
rai, Smollet and Pere Daniel (not
but some of these writers lay claim to
antiquarian merits) ; or written inarti-
ficially and feebly as regards effect ; or
written without knowledge as regards
the political forces which moved under-
ground at the great seras of our na-
tional developement.
Still, after one fashion or another,
almost every great theme has received
its treatment in both English litera-
ture and French ; though many are
those on which, in the words of the
German adage upon psychology, we
may truly affirm that " the first sen-
sible word is yet to be spoken." The
soil is not absolutely a virgin soil ;
the mine is not absolutely unworked ;
although the main body of the pre-
cious ore is yet to be extracted.
Mean-time, one capital subject there
is, and a domestic subject besides, on
which, strange to say, neither nation
has thought fit to raise any monument
of learning and patriotism. Rich, at
several eras, in all kinds of learning,
neither England nor France has any
great work to show upon her own
vernacular language. Res est in in-
tegro : no Hickes in England, no
Malesherbes or Menage in France, has
chosen to connect his own glory with
the investigation and history of his
native tongue. And yet each lan-
[ April,
guage has brilliant merits of a very
different order ; and we speak thought-
fully when we say, that, confining
ourselves to our own, the most learned
work which the circumstances of any
known or obvious case allow, the
work which presupposes the amplest
accomplishments of judgment and
enormous erudition, would be a His-
tory of the English Language from its
earliest rudiments, through all the
periods of its growth, to its stationary
condition. Great rivers, as they
advance and receive vast tributary
influxes, change their direction, their
character, their very name ; and the
pompous inland sea bearing navies on
its bosom, has had leisure through a
thousand leagues of meandering ut-
terly to forget and disown the rocky
mountain bed and the violent rapids
which made its infant state unfitted to
bear even the light canoe. The ana-
logy is striking between this case and
that of the English language. In its
elementary period, it takes a different
name — the name of Anglo-Saxon;
and so rude was it and barren at one
stage of this rudimental form, that in
the Saxon Chronicle we find not more
than a few hundred words, perhaps
from six to eight hundred words, per-
petually revolving, and most of which
express some idea in close relation to
the state of war. The narrow pur-
poses of the Chronicler may, in part,
it is true, have determined the narrow
choice of words ; but it is certain, on
the other hand, that the scanty voca-
bulary which then existed, mainly de-
termined the limited range of his pur-
poses. It is remarkable, also, that the
idiomatic forms and phrases are as
scanty in this ancient Chronicle, as the
ideas, the images, and the logical
forms of connexion or transition. Such
is the shallow brook or rivulet of our
language in its infant stage. Thence
it devolves a stream continually en-
larging, down to the Norman aera ;
through five centuries (commencing
with the century of Bede), used as the
vernacular idiom for the intercourse
of life by a nation expanding gra-
dually under the ripening influence of
a pure religion and a wise jurispru-
dence ; benefiting, besides, by the cul-
ture it received from a large succes-
sion of learned ecclesiastics, who too
often adopted the Latin for the vehicle
of their literary commerce with the
1839.]
The English Language.
457
Continent, but also in cases past all
numbering* wrote (like the great
patriot Alfred) for popular purposes
in Saxon, — even this rude dialect grew
and widened its foundations, until it
became adequate to general intellec-
tual purposes. Still, even in this im-
proved state, it would have been found
incommensurate to its great destiny.
It could not have been an organ cor-
responding to the grandeur of those
intellects, which, in the fulness of
time, were to communicate with man-
kind in oracles of truth or of power.
It could not have offered moulds ample
enough for receiving that vast litera-
ture, which, in less than another five
hundred years, was beginning to well
forth from the national genius.
Hence, at the very first entrance
upon this interesting theme, we
stumble upon what we may now un-
derstand to have been the blindest of
human follies — the peculiar, and,
without exaggeration, we may say the
providential felicity of the English
language has been made its capital
reproach — that, whilst yet ductile and
capable of new impressions, it received
a fresh and large infusion of alien
wealth. It is, say the imbecile,
a "bastard" language — a "hybrid"
language, and so forth. And thus,
for a metaphor, for a name, for a
sound, they overlook, as far as de-
pends on their will, they sign away
the main prerogative and dowry of
their mother tongue. It is time to have
done with these follies. Let us open
our eyes to our own advantages. Let
us recognise with thankfulness that
fortunate inheritance of collateral
wealth, which, by inoculating our
Anglo-Saxon stem with the mixed
dialect of Neustria, laid open an ave-
nue mediately through which the
whole opulence of Roman, and, ulti-
mately, of Grecian thought, play free-
ly through the pulses of our native
English. Most fortunately the Sax-
on language was yet plastic and un-
frozen at the era of the Norman in-
vasion. The language was thrown
again into the crucible, and new ele-
ments were intermingled -with its own
when brought into a state of fusion. f
And this final process it was, making
the language at once rich in matter
and malleable in form, which created
that composite and multiform speech
— fitted, like a mirror, to reflect the
thoughts of the myriad-minded Shak-
speare [o M^ /Bup«o»wj], and yet at the
same time with enough remaining of
its old forest stamina for imparting a
masculine depth to the sublimities of
Milton, or the Hebrew prophets, and
a patriarchal simplicity to the Historic
Scriptures.
Such being the value, such the slow
developement of our noble language,
through a period of more than twice
six hundred years, how strange it must
be thought, that not only we possess
at this day no history, no circumstan-
tial annals, of its growth and condition
at different eras, a defect which even
the German literature of our language
has partially supplied ; but that, with
one solitary exception, no eminent
scholar has applied himself even to a
single function of this elaborate ser-
vice. The solitary exception, we need
scarcely say, points to Dr Johnson —
whose merits and whose demerits,
whose qualifications and disqualifica-
tions, for a task of this nature, are now
too notorious to require any illustra-
tion from us. The slenderness of Dr
Johnson's philological attainments, and
his blank ignorance of that particular
philology which the case particularly
required — the philology of the north-
ern languages, are as much matters of
record, and as undeniable as, in the
opposite scale, are his logical skill, his
curious felicity of distinction, and his
masculine vigour of definition. Work-
ing under, or over, a commission of
men more learned than himself, he
would have been the ablest of agents
for digesting and organising their ma-
* In cases past all numbering. To go no further than the one branch of religious
literature, vast masses of sacred poetry in the Saxon language are yet slumbering un-
used, unstudied, almost unknown to the student, amongst our manuscript treasures.
f When brought into a state of fusion. Let not the reader look upon this image,
when applied to an unsettled language, as pure fanciful metaphor : were there nothing
more due to a superinduction of one language upon another, merely the confusion of
inflexional forms between the two orders of declensions, conjugations, &c. , would tend
to recast a language, an dvirtually to throw it anewi nto a furnace of secondary for-
mation, by unsettling the old familiar forms.
458
The English Language,
[April,
terials. To inform, or invest with form,
in the sense of logicians — in other
words, to impress the sense and trace
the presence of principles — that was
Dr Johnson's peculiar province ; but
to assign, the matter, whether that con-
sisted in originating the elements of
thought, or ia gathering the affinities
of languages, was suited neither to his
nature nor to his habits of study. And,
of necessity, therefore, his famous dic-
tionary is a monument of powers un-
equally yoked together in one task-
skill in one function of his duty " full
ten times as much as there needs;"
skill in others — sometimes feeble,
sometimes none at all.
Of inferior attempts to illustrate the
language, we have Ben J onsen's Gram-
mar, early in the seventeenth century ;
Wallis, the mathematician's, Gram-
mar (written in Latin, and patrioti-
cally designed as a polemic grammar
against the errors of foreigners), to-
wards the end of the same century ;
Bishop Lowth's little School- Grammar
in the eighteenth century ; Archdea-
con Nares's Orthoepy ; Dr Crombie's
Etymology and Syntax ; Noah Web-
ster's various essays on the same sub-
ject, followed by his elaborate Dic-
tionary, all written and first published
in America. We have also, and we
mention it on account of its great but
most unmerited popularity, the gram-
mar of Lindley Murray — an Ameri-
can, by the way, as well as the eccen-
tric Noah. This book, full of atro-
cious blunders (some of which, but
with little systematic learning, were
exposed in a work of the late Mr Haz-
litt's), reigns despotically through the
young ladies' schools, from the Ork-
neys to the Cornish Scillys. And of
the other critical grammars, such as
the huge 4to of Green, the smaller one
of Dr Priestley, many little abstracts
prefixed to portable dictionaries, &c.,
there may be gathered, since the year
1680, from 250 to 300; not one of
which is absolutely * without value —
some raising new and curious ques-
tions, others showing their talent in
solving old ones. Add to these the
occasional notices of grammatical
niceties in the critical editions of our
old poets, and there we have the total
amount of what has hitherto been con-
tributed towards the investigation of
our English language in its gramma-
tical theory. As to the investigation
of its history, of its gradual rise and
progress, and its relations to neigh-
bouring languages, that is a total
blank ; a title pointing to a duty ab-
solutely in arrear, rather than to any
performance ever undertaken as yet,
even by way of tentative essay. At
least, any fractional attempt in that
direction is such as would barely form
a single section, or sub-section, in a
general history. For instance, we
have critical essays of some value on
the successive translations, into Eng-
lish, of the Bible. But these rather
express, in modulo parvo, the burden
of laborious research which awaits
such a task pursued comprehensively,
than materially diminish it. Even the
history of Slang, whether of domestic
or foreign growth, and the record of
the capricious influxes, at particular
epochs, from the Spanish, the French, f
&c., would furnish materials for a se-
parate work. But we forbear to enter
upon the long list of parts, chapters,
* So little is the absolute value and learning of such books to be measured by the
critical pretensions of the class in which they rank themselves, or by the promises of
their title-pages, that we remember to have seen some very acute remarks on pro-
nunciation, .on the value of letters, &c., in a little Edinburgh book of rudiments, meant
only for children of four or five years old. It was called, we think, The Child's, Ladder.
f By the way, it has long been customary (and partly in compliance with foreign
criticism, unlearned in our elder literature, and quite incompetent to understand it),
to style the period of Queen Anne, and the succeeding decade of years, our Augustan
age. The graver errors of thought in such a doctrine are no present concern of ours.
But, as respects the purity of our language, and its dignity, never did either suffer so long
and gloomy an eclipse as in that period of our annals. The German language, as written
at that time in books, is positively so disfigured by French and Latin embroideries —
that it becomes difficult at times to say which language is meant for the ground, and
which for the decoration. Our English is never so bad as that ; but the ludicrous in-
troduction of foreign forms such, for example, as " his Intimados" " his Privados,"
goes far to denationalize the tone of the diction. Even the familiar allusions and ab-
breviations of that age, some of which became indispensable to the evasion of what
was deemed pedantry, such as 'tit and 'twas, are rank with meanness. In SUakspeare's
1839.]
The English Language.
and sections, •which must compose
the architectural system of so elabo-
rate a work, seeing that the whole edi-
fice itself is hitherto a great idea, in
nubibus, as regards our own language.
The French, as we have observed,
have little more to boast of. And, in
fact, the Germans and the Italians, of
all nations the two who most cordially
hate and despise each other, in this
point agree — that they only have con-
structed many preparatory works, have
reared something more than mere
scaffolding towards such a systematic
and national monument.
1 . It is painful and humiliating to
an Englishman, that, whilst all other
nations show their patriotism severally
in connexion with their own separate
mother tongues, claiming for them
often merits which they have not, and
overlooking none of those which they
have, his own countrymen show them-
selves ever ready, with a dishonourable
levity, to undervalue the English Ian-
guage, and always upon no fixed prin-
ciples. Nothing to ourselves seems
so remarkable — as that men should
dogmatise upon the pretensions of this
and that language in particular, with-
out having any general notions pre-
viously of what it is that constitutes
the value of a language universally.
Without some preliminary notice, ab-
stractedly, of the precise qualities to be
sought for in a language, how are we
to know whether the main object of
our question is found, or not found, in
any given language offered for exami-
nation ? The Castilian is pronounced
line, the Italian effeminate, the Eng-
lish harsh, by many a man who has
no shadow of a reason for his opinions
beyond some vague association of chi-
459
valaresque qualities with the personal
bearing1 of Spaniards ; or, again, of
special adaptation to operatic music in
the Italian ; or (as regards the Eng-
lish), because he has heard, perhaps,
that the letter s, and crowded clusters
of consonants and monosyllabic words
prevail in it.
Such random and fantastic notions
would be entitled to little attention ;
but, unfortunately, we find that men of
distinguished genius — men who have
contributed to sustain and extend the
glory of this very English language,
are sometimes amongst its notorious
depreciators. Addison, in a well-
known passage of his critical essays,
calls the English, in competition with
the Greek language, brick against
marble. Now, that there is a vocal*
beauty in the Greek, which raises it
in that particular point above all mo-
dern languages, and not exclusively
above the English, cannot be denied ;
but this is the lowest merit of a lan-
guage — being merely its sensuous
merit (to borrow a word of Milton's) ;
and, beyond all doubt, as respects the
higher or intellectual qualities of a
language, the English greatly excels
the Greek, and especially in that very
case which provoked the remark of
Addison ; for it happens, that some
leading ideas in the Paradise Lost —
ideas essential to the very integrity of
the fable, cannot be expressed in
Greek ; or not so expressed as to con-
vey the same thought impregnated
with the same weight of passion. But
let not our reverence for the exquisite
humour of Addison, and his admir-
able delicacy of pencil in delineating
the traits of character, hide from us
the fact that he was a very thought-
age the diction of books was far more pure, more compatible with simplicity, and
more dignified. Amongst our many national blessings, never let us forgot to be
thankful that in that age was made our final translation of the Bible, under the State
authority. How ignoble, how unscriptural, would have been a translation made in the
age of Pope !
* A vocal beauty in the Greek language. This arises partly from the musical effect
of the mere inflexions of the verbs and participles, in which so many dactylic succes-
sions of accent are interchanged with spondaic arrangements, and partly also from the
remarkable variety of the vowel sounds which run through the whole gamut of possi-
ble varieties in that point, and give more luxury of sound to the ear than in any other
known language ; for the fact is, that these varieties of vowel or diphthong sounds,
succeed to each other more immediately and more constantly than in any other South-
ern dialect of Europe, which universally have a distinction in mere vocal or audible
beauty, not approached by any Northern language, unless (as some people allege) by
the Russian ; and this, with the other dialects of the Sclavonian family, is to be classed
as belonging to Eastern, rather than to Northern Europe.
460
less and irreflective critic ; that his
criticisms, when just, rested not upon
principles, but upon mere fineness of
tiiL't ; that he was an absolute ignora-
mus as regarded the literature of his
own country ; and that he was a mere
bigot as regarded the antique, litera-
ture of Pagan Greece or Rome. In
fact, the eternal and inevitable schism
between the Romanticists and the Clas-
sicists, though not in name, had al-
ready commenced in substance ; and
where Milton was not free from grie-
vous error and consequent injustice,
both to the writers of his country and
to the language, how could it be expect-
ed that the far feebler mind of Addi-
son, should work itself clear of a bi-
gotry and a narrowness of sympathy
as regards the antique, which the dis-
cipline and training of his whole life
had established ? Even the merit of
Addison is not sufficient to waive his
liability to one plain retort from an
offended Englishman — viz. that, be-
fore he sighed away with such flag-
rant levity the pretensions of his
native language, at all events, it was
incumbent upon him to show that he
had fathomed the powers of that lan-
guage, had exhausted its capacity,
and had wielded it with commanding
effect. Whereas, we all know that
Addison was a master of the humble
and unpretending English, demanded,
or indeed suffered by his themes ; but
for that very reason little familiar
•with its higher or impassioned move-
ments.
2. But Addison, like most other
critics on languages, overlooked one
great truth, which should have made
such sweeping undervaluations impos-
sible as applied to any language ; this
truth is — that every language, every
language at least in a state of culture
and developement, has its own sepa-
rate and incommunicable qualities of
superiority. The French itself, which,
in some weighty respects, is amongst
the poorest of languages, had yet its
own peculiar merits — not attainable
or approachable by any other. For
the whole purposes of what the French
understand by the word causer, for all
the delicacies of social intercourse, and
the nuances of manners, no language
but the French possesses the requisite
vocabulary. The word causer itself
is an illustration. Marivaux and other
novelists, tedious enough otherwise,
are mere repertories of phrases un-
The English Language.
[April,
translatable — irrepresentable by equi-
valents in any European language.
And some of our own fashionable
English novels, which have been
fiercely arraigned for their French
embroidery as well as for other sup-
posed faults, are thus far j ustiflable —
that, in a majority of instances, the
English could not have furnished a
corresponding phrase with equal point
or piquancy — sometimes not at all.
3. If even the French has its func-
tion of superiority, so, and in a higher
sense, have the English and other lan-
guages more decidedly northern. But
the English, in particular, has a spe-
cial dowry of power in its double-
headed origin. The Saxon part of the
language fulfils one set of functions,
the Latin another. Mean-time, it is
a great error on the part of Lord
Brougham (and we remember the same
error in others) to direct the student
in his choice of words towards the
Saxon part of the language by pre-
ference. Nothing can be more un-
philosophic, or built on more thorough
misconception of the case. Neither
part of the language is good or bad
absolutely, but in its relation to the sub-
ject, and according to the treatment
which the subject is meant to receive.
It is an error even to say that the
Saxon part is more advantageously
used for cases of passion. Even that
requires further limitation. Simple
narration, and a pathos resting upon
artless circumstances, — elementary
feelings, — homely and household af-
fections, — these are most suitably
managed by the old indigenous Saxon
vocabulary. But a passion which rises
into grandeur, which is complex, ela-
borate, and interveined with high me-
ditative feelings, would languish or
absolutely halt, without aid from the
Latin moiety of our language. Mr
Coleridge remarks — that the writings
of all reflective or highly subjective
poets, overflow with Latin and Greek
polysyllables, or what the uneducated
term " dictionary words."
4. Again, if there is no such thing
in rerum natura as a language radi-
cally and universally without specific
powers ; if every language, in short,
is and must be, according to the cir-
cumstances under which it is mould-
ed, an organ sui generis, and fitted to
sustain with effect some function or
other of the human intellect, — so, on
the other hand, the very advantages of
1839.]
The English Language.
461
n language, those which arc most
vaunted, become defects under oppo-
site relations. The power of running-
easily into composition, for instance,
on which the Germans show so much
fierte, when stating the pretensions of
their own mother tongue, is in itself
injurious to the simplicity and natural
power of their poetry, besides being a
snare, in many cases, to the ordinary
narrator or describer, and tempting
him aside into efforts of display which
mar the effect of his composition. In
the early stages of every literature,
not simplicity (as it is thought) but
elaboration and complexity, and tu-
mid artifice in the structure of the
diction, are the besetting vices of the
poet : witness the Roman fragments
of poetry anterior to Ennius. Now
the fusile capacity of a language for
running into ready coalitions of poly-
syllables aids this tendency, and al-
most of itself creates such a tendency.
5. The process by which languages
grow is worthy of deep attention.
So profound is the error of some men
on this subject, that they talk fami-
liarly of language as of a thing deli-
berately and consciously " invented"
by the people who use it. A language
never was invented* by any people ;
that part which is hot borrowed from
adjacent nations arises under instincts
.of necessity and convenience. We
will illustrate the matter by mention-
ing three such modes of instinct in
which has lain the parentage of at
least three words out of four in every
language. First, the instinct of ab-
breviation, prompted continually by
hurry or by impatience. Secondly,
the instinct of onomatopoeia, or more
generally, the instinct of imitation ap-
plied directly to sounds, indirectly to
motion, and by the aid of analogies
more or less obvious applied to many
other classes of objects. Thirdly, the
instinct of distinction — sometimes for
purposes of necessity, sometimes of
convenience. This process claims by
far the largest application of words in
every language. Tims, from pro-
priety (or the abstract idea of annexa-
tion between two things by means of
fitness or adaptation), was struck off
by a more rapid pronunciation and a
throwing back of the accent, the mo-
dern w or 'd, property, in which the same
general idea is limited to appropria-
tions of pecuniary value ; which, how-
ever, was long expressed by the ori-
ginal vfOTdproprie.ty, under a modified
enunciation. So again, major as a
military designation, and mayor as a
civil one, have split off from the very
same original word by varied pronun-
ciations. And these divergencies into
multiplied derivatives from some sin-
gle radix, are, in fact, the great source
of opulence to one language by pre-
ference to another. And it is clear
that the difference in this respect be-
tween nation and nation will be in a
•compound ratio of the complexity and
variety of situations into which men
are thrown (whence the necessity of
a complex condition of society to the
growth of a truly fine language) — in
the ratio, we say, of this complexity
on the one hand ; and, on the other, of
the intellectual activity put forth to
seize and apprehend these fleeting re-
lations of things and persons. Whence,
according to the vast inequalities of
national minds, the vast disparity of
languages.
6. Hence we see the monstrosity of
claiming a fine or copious language,
for any rude or uncultivated, much
more for any savage people, or even
for a people of mountaineers, or for a
nation subsisting chiefly by hunting,
or by agriculture and rural life exclu-
* Mean -time, a few insulated words have been continually nourished by authors ;
that is, transferred to other uses, or formed by thoughtful composition and decompo-
sition, x>r by skilful alterations of form and inflexion. Thus Mr Coleridge introduced
the fine word ancestral, in lieu of the lumbering word ancestorial, about the year 1798.
Milton introduced the indispensable word sensuous. Daniel, the truly philosophic
poet and historian, introduced the splendid class of words with the affix of inter, to
denote reciprocation, e. g. interpenetrate, to express mutual or interchangeable pene-
tration ; a form of composition which is deeply beneficial to the language, and has
been extensively adopted by Coleridge. We ourselves may boast to have introduced
the word orchestric, which we regard with parental pride, as a word expressive of that
artificial and pompous music which attends, for instance, the elaborate hexameter verse
of Rome and Greece, in comparison with the simpler rhyme of the more exclusively ac-
centual metres in modern languages ; or expressive of any organised music, iu opposi-
tion to the natural warbling of the woods.
462
sively, or in any way sequestered and
monotonous in their habits. It is
philosophically impossible that the
Gaelic, or the Hebrew, or the Welsh,
or the Manx, or the Armoric, could,
at any stage, have been languages of
compass or general poetic power. In
relation to a few objects peculiar to
their own climates, or habits, or super-
stitions, any of these languages may
have been occasionally gifted with a
peculiar power of expression ; what
language is not with regard to some
class of objects ? But a language of
power and compass cannot arise ex-
cept amongst cities and the habits of
luxurious people. " They talked,"
says John Paul, speaking of two rustic
characters, in one of his sketches, —
" they talked, as country people are apt
to talk, concerning — nothing." And
the fact is, universally, that rural oc-
cupations and habits, unless counter-
acted determinately by intellectual
pursuits, tend violently to torpor.
Social gatherings, social activity, so-
cial pleasure — these are the parents of
language. And there is but the one
following exception to the rule — That
such as is the activity of the national
intellect in arresting fugitive relations,
such will be the language resulting ;
and this exception lies in the mechani-
cal advantages offered by some inflex-
ions compared with others for gene-
rating and educing the possible modi-
fications of each primitive idea. Some
modes of inflexions easily lend them-
selves, by their very mechanism, to
the adjuncts expressing degrees, ex-
pressing the relations of time, past,
present, and future ; expressing the
modes of will, desire, intention, &c.
For instance, the Italians have termi-
nal forms, ino, ello, acchio, &c., ex-
pressing all gradations of size above or
below the ordinary standard. The
Romans, again, had frequentative
forms, inceptive forms, forms express-
ing futurition and desire, &c. These
short-hand expressions performed the
office of natural symbols, or hierogly-
phics, which custom had made univer-
sally intelligible. Now, in some cases
this machinery is large, and therefore
extensively auxiliary to the popular
intellect in building up the towering
pile of a language ; in others it is
The English Language.
[April,
meagre, and so far it is possible that,
from want of concurrency in the me-
chanic aids, the language may, in some
respects, not be strictly commensurate
to the fineness of the national genius.
7. Another question, which arises
upon all languages, respects their de-
grees of fitness for poetic and imagi-
native purposes. The mere question
of fact is interesting ; and the question
as to the causal agency which has led
to such a result is still more so. In
this place we shall content ourselves
with drawing the reader's attention to
a general phenomenon which comes
forward in all non-poetic languages —
viz. that the separation of the two
great fields, prose and poetry, or of
the mind, impassioned or unimpassion-
ed, is never perfectly accomplished.
This phenomenon is most striking in
the Oriental languages, where the com-
mon edicts of government or provin-
cial regulations of police assume a ri-
diculous masquerade dress of rhetori-
cal or even of poetic animation. But
amongst European languages this ca-
pital defect is most noticeable in the
French, which has no resources for
elevating its diction when applied to
cases and situations the most lofty or
the most affecting. The single misfor-
tune of having no neuter gender, by
compelling the mind to distribute the
colouring of life universally ; and by
sexualisiug in all cases, neutralises the
effect, as a special effect, for any case.
To this one capital deformity, which
presents itself in every line, many
others have concurred. And it might
be shown convincingly, that the very
power of the French language, as a
language for social intercourse, is built
on its impotence for purposes of pas-
sion, grandeur, and native simplicity.
The English, on the other hand, be-
sides its double fountains of words,
which furnishes at once two separate
keys of feeling, and the ready means
of obtaining distinct movements for
the same general passion, enjoys the
great advantage above southern lan-
guages of having a neuter gender,
which, from the very first establishing
a mode of shade, establishes, by a
natural consequence, the means of
creating light, and a more potent vi-
tality.
Hi >me Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
463
SOME ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER.
FASCICULUS THE NINTH.
" And labour, if it wire not necessary to the existence, would be indispensable to the happincgi of
tnan."i-DB JOHNSON.
" THERE is nothing like travelling,"
as Mick Montague said, when he went
from Dublin to Dunleary and back
again.
No more there is not. Mick Mon-
tague was right.
Now had the rosy-fingered Aurora
escaped at length from the sooty em-
braces of the dusky night, who lazily
got up and hid himself in the coal-hole,
while she, Aurora, all blushing at her
youthful indiscretion, produced a box
of lucifers (a halfpenny a box), and,
having lighted therewith the lamp of
day, took it iu her right hand, and,
with the slop-pail in her left, and the
kitchen broom under her arm, in this
order ascended as high as the two-pair
back, when the factory boy awoke,
and having restored himself to con-
sciousness, administered a pungent
tweak to my olfactory organ, which
dispelled in a twinkling my lingering
repose, and started me in less time
than a cry of" Fire ! fire!" arouses a
sleeping tradesman, whose policy of
insurance has unlwckily run out.
It was on the morning of Christmas-
day — the sun glanced, and flutteringly
illuminated the little apartment where-
in we had passed the night, with that
flickering light that characterises the
sun on that day, and that day alone —
as I and other superstitious people
firmly believe — a small ignorance, and
un- astronomical prejudice in which I
have al way sbeen accustomed to indulge,
and in which, with the gracious per-
mission of our drunken schoolmaster,
who has latterly been all abroad — that
inexplicable compound of fidget, spite,
and spleen — I intend all the days of my
life to continue.
I looked out into our landlady's cab-
bage garden — and there stood the
sprouts and curly greens, all glistening
with diamonds, like a parcel of anti-
quated spinsters dressed for a love
party — the frost stuck to old mother
earth like wax, and of a fat church-
yard there were no reasonable appre-
hensions, as Christmas — that particu-
lar old cock, at least — was by no
means green.
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXH.
The Macedonian phalanx, which
the factory boy and myself had mar-
shalled with such exultation, had been
sadly cut to pieces by the evening's
feast and the night's lodging, and was
totally routed and annihilated, indeed,
by the morning's repast —
" We numbered them at close of day,.
And the next morning, where were they ?"
they were all spent — that's a fact.
The fifteenpence-halfpenny was gone,
which is tantamount to saying we were
also gone — for in moral England you
are graciously received and hospitably
entertained as long as there remains a
copper in your pocket ; when you no
longer have one, you are hunted
through the country like a wild beast,
particularly if, as was the case with
me, your stunted nose, bushy whiskers,
broad shoulders, knee breeches, and
enormous calves, proclaim you indi-
genous to the land of the West.
If you happen to be a swindling
Pole, a cut-throat orange-tawny Ma-
lay, or a discarded drunken nigger,
you may stuff, swill, and fill your
pockets from Truro to Berwick-upon-
Tweed — for the English patronise all
sorts of foreign rebels, while they hang-
their own, and the tide of cant has set
in strong in favour of niggers this last
half century — whereas, if I ventured
to solicit a draught of cold water, it
was the signal for letting the dogs
loose upon me j or, if I enquired
of two or three wayside bumpkins
which was the road to London,
the reply generally was couched in
something like " Hirrooh ! Pat, which
•way does the bull run?" However
this insolence might perplex, it had no
power to wound me. I always con-
soled myself on these occasions by re-
flecting that I starved gloriously, like
a British subject ; and, although I had
no vote, and paid a tax in every
mouthful of beer, I was fully and fairly
represented in the Imperial Parlia-
ment.
I also, when I was hungry, remem-
bered that I enjoyed the blessings of the
Bill of Rights, the Habeas Corpus, and
2a
Some Account oj Himself. JJy me irtsn uyster-Jbater.
464
the Magna Charta ; and, like the
Scotchman who ate six " kittiwakes"
by way of whet, I found myself, after
feasting upon this glorious reminis-
cence, every whit as hungry as be-
fore.
The factory boy and myself found
it necessary to imitate Lord Welling-
ton, and do as he did before the forest
of Soignes — take up a new position.
The landlady treated us to amoral les-
son upon the exceeding sinfulness of
travelling upon that sacred day, to
which we agreed, but observed that
our money was done; whereupon the
landlady suggested that we might
spend the sacred day in singing ballads,
of the sinfulness whereof she seemed
to have no sort of comprehension. I
demurred to this proposal, and, in re-
ply, was requested to toddle, and to
keep my ugly Irish nose out of her
(the landlady's) village, or she would
have me set in the stocks for a vagrant
—which hospitable intimation put me
immediately to flight. The factory
boy was not long behind, and we cleared
out of Swillingham at the rate of four
miles and upwards an hour.
" Fine day — fine Christmas day,"
observed the factory boy.
" Fine day — the Lord be praised,"
eaid I, " for all his mercies."
" Capital walking weather," re-
marked the juvenile manufacturer.
" Thank God," said I.
" Blow me tight, if it isn't," echoed
the embryo cotton-twister.
The factory boy was a stunted youth,
of a robust make, florid, cheerful vis-
age, and a very decided strabismus,
obliquity of vision, or squint — not
a sinister squint — the squint of the fac-
tory boy gave an expression to his
physiognomy rather favourable than
the reverse, which might be partly
owing, indeed, to a constitutional
smile that involuntarily played over
his face, and interested you in his fa-
vour before he had opened his lips.
The outward man of the factory boy
was embellished with a coarse, well-
worn corduroy jacket, cut short be-
hind, for the purpose, apparently, of
exhibiting to public gaze the waist-
band of his corduroy breeches, the
ends of his suspenders, and the ties of
his waistcoat — all which were exhibit-
ed accordingly.
The waistcoat was a natural curio-
sity, as Mick Montague observed c>f
the puppet-show, and had, duv.
[April-
figured at many a levee and drawing-
room in the days of its youth —
" When George the Third was King."
It was, or, I should rather say, had
been, a full-dress satin vest, sprinkled
all over with tarnished spangles, em-
broidered round the edges with a faded
nondescript Flora, unknown to Lin-
nseus, Jussieu, or De Candolle, and de-
corated with long lappels, containing
large flap pockets, reaching all the
way down to the knees of the invested
factory-boy, who, from time to time,
took up one of the flaps and perused
the indescribable Flora of that part of
his waistcoat with great complacency.
He wore a little cap, stuck know-
ingly on one side of his head, and clat-
tered along the road in wooden clogs,
of an inch and half in the sole, with a
slight twig in his fist, and sported al-
together a devil-may-care, free-and-
easy, and precocious appearance, ut-
terly unattainable by young gentlemen
who may have been ushered into the
world with silver spoons in their
mouths.
" What age are you, my old cock?"
enquired I of young flowery waist-
coat.
" Round about the dozen, I thinks,"
remarked the gentleman of the court
dress ; " I may be eleven, or I may
be thirteen — there or thereabouts,"
concluded the factory boy.
" Might I take the liberty of re-
questing your name?"
" Why shouldn't you? — no liberty in
life" — said the juvenile ; then poking
both fists into both pockets of the
flowery waistcoat, as if in search of
something — a stray halfpenny per-
haps— and turning to me with an air
of ludicrous embarrassment — " haven't
got a card ; but nevermind — Marten's
my name — Jack Marten — not a bad
name that — at least I don't see no rea-
son to be ashamed on it."
" No reason in life, Mr Jack Mar-
ten," replied I, assentingly.
" I should hope not," repeated Mr
Marten — " I should think not — I am
sure on it." This climax completed,
the factory boy, as if athirst with vin-
dicating the honour of the patronymic
of Marten, dropped his voice to a mat-
ter-of-fact key, and with another un-
successful dive into the abysses of his
illuminated waistcoat, observed, that
he should like to have a drop of some-
thing
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 465
" Beer?" — ejaculated I, hopefully.
"Beer!" echoed the factory boy,
scratching his head, as if enquiring of
his fertile brain by what miraculous
interposition boys without money
could luxuriate in that bland and re-
freshing fluid.
Necessity, thou nurse of many vir-
tues, let me here invoke thee ! Thou
best of stimulants — parent of economy
— pioneer of industry — herald of suc-
cess ! — but what need of invocations or
incantations ? — the first thou requirest
not, since to me thou art always pre-
sent— and as for the latter, not all
their magic honours will ever, I fear
me, drive thee from my side. All
hail, then, and welcome, Necessity, to
my garret! I would solicit you to take
a chair if I was not using it myself;
however, you are welcome to make
yourself at home on the end of that tat-
tered old portmanteau, or, until I want
it to put my potatoes in, you may bring
yourself to an anchor on the bottom of
that inverted saucepan.
The factory boy's necessity of hav-
ing some beer, suggested to his fertile
brain the possibility of obtaining the
means of quenching his thirst by the
energies of his lungs, and the factory
boy and myself put a high pressure
upon our pulmonary organs according-
ly, and being now near the town of
Warrington, in Lancashire, commen-
ced carolling as lustily as yesterday.
We had not the like success, however,
for having roared ourselves hoarse, we
had only obtained threepence-half-
penny, a bad halfpenny," and a brass
button ; which, in default of current
coin, had been presented us by a little
girl, who appeared to take an interest
in our success. This was discourag-
ing, particularly as the factory boy
sneered at the mere mention of that
poor creature, small beer, and inti-
mated his firm determination to have
a glass of ale — a proposal which made
my blood run cold, knowing, as I did,
that twopence of our threepence half-
penny would be absorbed in the glass
of ale ; and as it was now an hour past
noon, it appeared more than probable
that our Christmas festivities, dinner
inclusive, must be unavoidably post-
poned until the next annual revolution
of the sun round his ecliptic. I as-
sured the factory boy that, whatever
he might think of small beer, that be-
verage was champagne rose to me —
and was explaining, very learnedly,
the difference between Irish white
wine and butter-milk, when the near
approach of a stage coach, and a very
naty team, obliged us to break off
the argument, and take to our scrap-
ers, for the stage came flaring up the
street as if it knew the coachman's
Christmas dinner had just left the
bakehouse. And so it had ; and what
was more, the coachman's wife was
waiting at the door of the Talbot, where
the coach put up, and proceeded to
pour into her husband's ear a deluge
of communication, in which the words
" dinner," "pudding," and " half-and-
half," were most frequently introdu-
ced ; the coachmanjat every such intro-
duction, giving an affirmative nod of
the head, and an under growl, evident-
ly indicative of his unqualified appro-
bation. There was no guard, the
coachman having intimated, in reply
to an enquiry of the landlord of the
Talbot, touching the absence of that
functionary, that Kitty and the children
had " catched hold of Bill at the toll-
bar, and wouldn't part with him on no
terms whatsomedever." There were
no passengers — how could there be,
oq Christmas-day ? — the whole world
was at dinner — streets as silent as
death, and not a soul visible, save the
housemaids of the neighbours running
over to the Talbot for an extra pot of
beer — on Christmas-day folks will, be
so very dry ; — by-the-bye, there was,
now that I bethink me, one outside —
a gentleman in black, with spectacles,
and a large old-fashioned seal dang-
ling at his watch chain ; — he was evi-
dently a gentleman of consequence, he
came so slowly and steadily down the
steps, that the landlord, for the host-
lers were at their Christmas dinner —
held for him ; when he got down, me-
thought the gentleman looked as if
something had happened him, — he was
quite dejected, and taking off his spec-
tacles, wiped them carefully, and turn-
ing to the landlord, in reply to an en-
quiry whether he would choose din-
ner— " I have no appetite, my friend,"
observed the dejected gentleman.
" But it's Christmas-day, sir," said the
landlord, as if it were impossible that
any good Christian could refuse to
stuff until he was like to burst on that
high festival.
" Ah ! there it is, my friend," said
the dejected gentleman, taking out
his gold watch, and looking- at it pa-
thetically, as if his heart would break.
Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster^Eatert [April*
466
" It wants a quarter to two," said
the dejected gentleman, " and at two
my family expect me to dinner — my
little ones are watching for me at the
gate — they are looking out on the
road — they are prattling of their ex-
pected papa."
" Is there much between you and
home, sir?"
" Sixty long miles," replied the
dejected gentleman, putting up his
•watch, " and I have travelled six
thousand, in the hope to reach my own
fireside this dear domestic day."
With this the dejected gentleman
paused, took off his spectacles, wiped
them, and without putting them on,
or putting them up, but holding them
carelessly between his finger and
thumb, leaned his head pensively on
one side, as if the joyous prattle of his
children had that moment struck upon
his expectant ear — small marvel if it
did, for in that moment the voices of
his children had been music of the
spheres to him.
I pitied the dejected gentleman — I
protest I did — so much so, that if it
could have done him any good, I
•would have lent him my appetite,
with all my heart.
" I beg your pardon, sir," said the
landlord of the Talbot, " but our
dinner is quite ready — my wife and
daughters beg of you to do us the fa-
vour to "
" I have no appetite," repeated the
dejected gentleman, more dejected
than before.
" Merely to sit down with us, sir,"
observed the landlord, with a bow,
and a rub of his hands, one upon the
other.
" You say well, my friend," ob-
served the dejected gentleman, putting
on his spectacles once more — " I will
sit with you, although I cannot eat,
for it is" - here the dejected gentle-
man heaved a ponderous sigh — " it is
a dear domestic day."
The dejected gentleman, upon this,
slowly followed mine host of the Tal-
bot within the glass enclosure that
cut off from the passage the cozy bar
parlour — in another moment savoury
odours heralded the advent of an enor-
mous goose into the charming little
snuggery — a rib of beef came next,
garnished with flakes of snowy horse-
radish, and in its train numberless
tureens of vegetables. I could see
from the door of the inn, where the
factory boy and myself loitered about,
one of the young ladies lay a napkin,
while another prepared to wait upon
the dejected gentleman, who I could
observe drank very largely of the beer
— sorrow, I have understood, is dry.
*' Ah ! my venerable friend," I ex-
claimed, in an under tone, apostro-
phizing the dejected gentleman —
" would that I had asked you for a
sixpence — but I should not have got
it, 1 dare say — sentimental rigmarolery
and practical benevolence seldom go
together — however, I wish from my
heart you had my appetite, and I your
invitation."
Proceeding in my rhapsody, I could
observe that the dejected gentleman,
with a napkin stuck under his chin,
and his nose in his plate, was eating
like a Frenchman at a table d'hote, or
the immortal Dando at an oyster
tavern — while the host of the Talbot
seemed to have enough to do in re-
plenishing the dejected gentleman's
plate, without having time to help his
family or himself, whence I took occa-
sion to observe that sorrow is hungry
as well as dry !
The hero of the botanical waistcoat
having again and again insulted the
memory of small beer, and protesting
he would be blowed (such was the so-
lemnity of his adjuration) if he did not
have a glass of ale, I yielded to the
torrent of his will, which I found it in
vain to resist, and followed the factory
boy into the taproom, which was ut-
terly deserted, and the huge fire blaz-
ing alone in its glory — the habitual
soakers, and stanch frequenters of the
place, having for that day only be-
taken themselves to the unwonted
society of their deserted wives and ne-
glected children.
You have seen, I dare say, when
you go on a visit to Belvoir Castle, or
any where else — or on a tour of visits,
like the Duke of Sussex, by which
means you contrive to knock a sum-
mer's board, lodging, and washing,
out of the rural nobility — you have
seen a small farmer, village school-
master, or ensign of the yeomanry
cavalry, enter the library by appoint-
ment, to acquaint his lordship whose
pig is next to come in to be shaved, or
some other equally important matter
of village politics ; — look at the bump-
kin, scraping in the open doorway for
half an hour, to the imminent danger
pf superinducing a fresh attack of his
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 467
lordship's rheumatism. Having1 at
last pushed the door to, with the hob-
nailed sole of his shoe, to the great
advantage of the mahogany pannel,
the bumpkin advances, sideways, like
a crab, to the nearest chair, and
perches himself on the extremest verge
thereof, as if he thought it would be
trespassing too much on his lordship's
condescension to sit comfortably, and
holds his hat between his knees, in the
attitude of a blind beggar at the
town's end.
Just so did we enter the taproom,
in just such attitudes did we perch our-
selves on the extremest verge of the
taproom chairs, and just so did we
hold in the taproom our respective
hats — perhaps you think the free-and-
easy deportment of the factory boy,
and the Hibernian assurance of your
very obedient and most humble ser-
vant, proof against such rustic sensi-
bilities ? Put threepence-halfpenny in
your pocket next Christmas-day, and
taking a friend under your arm, walk
into the London Tavern, the Old
Hummum's, or Long's, with a view
to claret and tripes, or any other
edible and potatory delicacies you may
choose for your Christmas dinner —
and I'll never eat oysters more if you
don't find yourself, on the presentation
of the bill, affected with some such
nervous excitabilities, as the factory
boy and -my self on the occasion allud-
ed to.
" Trouble you to touch the tinkler,"
observed the drouthy factory boy.
" Make it porter," said I, appealing-
ly, as I rung the bell.
" Ale " — exclaimed the manufac-
turer with desperate energy.
" .Only three halfpence left," said I,
persisting.
" Damn the expense," remarked
flowery waistcoat.
" Now, then, young gentlemen,"
said the landlord of the Talbot, enter-
ing with a face like a copper sauce-
pan, and a breath redolent of brandy
and water, hot. with sugar — " Now,
then."
" Glass of ale, please, sir," demand-
ed the factory boy.
" And a crust of bread, sir, if you
please," interposed I, diffidently.
" Loaf? " enquired mine host of the
Talbot.
" No, thank you, sir," replied I,
producing all my worldly wealth in
the palm of my hand— ."when we pay
for the ale, we shall only have three
halfpence"
" And a button "—observed the ac-
curate factory boy ,
" Left," said I, concluding my ob-
servation.
The landlord looked at the factory
boy, then at me, then at the factory
boy again, and giving vent to the emo-
tions of his mind in one concentrated
and emphatic " Bah," walked slowly
out of the taproom, and closed the
door with a clam.
" He's gone for the terrier" — ex-
claimed I, starting up in a desperate
fright. I spoke from previous ex-
perience of terriers.
"Terrier bo blowed" — said Mr
Marten, putting his twig in a defen-
sive posture — " let him come if he
durst !"
" He'll hunt us like ducks" — said I,
running to the window and throwing
it up, to make sure of a reasonable
" law."
" Him be d — d !" exploded Mr Mar-
ten, standing up to his fight like a
guardsman at Waterloo. " Come on,"
shrieked Mr Marten, throwing away
his twig, and putting himself in the
attitude of Bendigo the boxer, thus
gallantly awaiting the invasion of the
terrier, while I sat stride legs on the
window sill, ready for a start, on the
laying on of the dogs.
In this position we appeared on the
opening of the tap- room door, and
entrance of the landlord without the
terrier, but accompanied by another
animal, of whose existence we had pre-
viously been advised, by the impres-
sion its entrance into the bar parlour
had made upon our olfactory organs,
but which we little expected to have
ever afforded us the opportunity of
favourably impressing our organs of
taste.
"There, my coves" — said the be-
nevolent host of the Talbot, laying
down the enormous goose, which bore
evident marks of the havoc made upon
its upper and lower extremities by
the dejected gentleman without an ap-
petite (who, by the way, had eaten
every morsel of the gizzard and stuff-
ing), but which still had goose enough
upon its bones fora quartett of plough-
boy s.
" There,"continued Boniface, "tuck
in that there Boston cock, and blow
y erselfs out — no crusts of bread, d n
me, shall go down for dinner in the
Some Account of Himself, By the Irish Oyster-Eater, [April,
468.
Talbot this here blessed day — dash my
licence !"
Having achieved this peroration,
the landlord flung down with a clash
the necessary number of knives, forks,
and spoons, while one of the young
ladies of the bar parlour handed in at
the door a great jug of fourpenny ale,
and bread in abundance, leaving the
factory boy and myself lost in amaze-
ment, so deep, that three and a-half
seconds at the least must have elap-
sed before we recovered sufficiently
from our surprise, to lay knife to
goose ; when we did, however, it re-
quired no Solomon to see that steel
had the best of it. It was all over
with the Boston cock ; we worked
away until we bad him picked as clean
as the fossil elephant ; the landlord's
wife, daughters, and the dejected gen-
tleman, who appeared to have miracu-
lously recovered his spirits, standing
by, lost in amazement at the gastrono-
mic capacities displayed ; we held a
regular levee at our Christmas din-
ner, like the King of France and the
Dauphin.
" Never did I see — well, they do
eat, bless e'm !" remarked Mrs Boni-
face.
" Wonderful appetite — for boys" —
observed the dejected gentleman, lick-
ing his lips.
"How voracious, to be sure," de-
clared the elder Miss Boniface, as if
butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.
" Bring the boys some pudding,
Mary, my dear, just to taste it," com-
manded Mrs Boniface ; and away ran
little Mary, her hair streaming down
her shoulders, screaming with delight.
" Did you ever taste plum pudding,
boys?" — interposed the dejected gen-
tleman.
The dejected gentleman received no
reply, for our hearts — as also our
mouths — were at that moment too full
for speech.
Two enormous platters of plum-
pudding — just to taste — were produ-
ced by little Mary, who stood by us,
looking curiously up into our faces,
to observe what physiognomical dis-
play the unwonted sensation of plum-
pudding acting on an ignorant pa-
late would be likely to produce.
The dejected gentleman being in-
formed that a fresh " go " of brandy
was in process of mixing for him, de-
liberately withdrew, and Miss Boni-
face, remarking that we devoured po-
sitively like beasts, followed the de-
jected gentleman's example, leaving
only little Mary, who ran hither and
thither about the tap-room, in ectacies
of delight.
" Hem!" said I, laying down the
platter, after cleaning off the last par-
ticle of plum-pudding ; and discover-
ing, from my utterance of that ejacu-
lation, that my voice was not altoge-
ther buried beneath a mountain of
plum-pudding and goose, contrived to
get out, in the midst of a plethoric sus-
piration, an audible " thank God."
" Not a bad blow out, neither,"
coolly observed the factory boy : with
such irreverent familiarity did he speak
of our devout commemoration of the
only feast day in the calendar I had
ever been enabled worthily to com-
memorate before.
" Ha ! ha! ha!" I cacchinated invo-
luntarily, overcome by repletion and
its attendant pleasurable emotions.
" Ha! ha! ha!" roared the factory
boy.
" He ! he! he!" shrieked little Mary,
clapping her hands in an agony of in-
expressible frolic.
Mirth, like misfortune, only wants
a start to make it run down hill — the
laughter of the tap-room was re-echo-
ed by the laughter of the bar parlour,
in which the voice of the dejected gen-
tleman was the most uproarious of all
— and the mirthful example of the bar
parlour was speedily followed by the
inn kitchen, where all the loiterers of
the stable-yard, and a knot of the
neighbouring maids, were assembled
round the fat she-cook, as the centre
of attraction.
In short, the Talbot was thence-
forward, until the chimes of midnight,
abandoned to laughter, fun and frolic,
in all which the factory boy and my-
self were not merely permitted to par-
ticipate, but bore principal parts in the
whole festivity, as lions of the night,
which, if judged of by our masticatory
prowess, we most certainly were. All
sorts of freedoms were allowable and
allowed, and all sorts of games play-
able and played ; there was a mistle-
toe bough in every room in the house,
except the coal-hole, and the privi-
leges conferred by that Druidical ve-
getable were allowed to remain no
sinecure ; the excess of the dejected
gentleman's grief, made him lose his
senses as well as his appetite, and
fully qualified him for the office of
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By tlie Irish Oyster-Eater.
Lord of Misrule, which he discharged
with the same excess of folly and ab-
surdity, as if he had been a Whig Fo-
reign or Colonial Secretary.
I grew in great favour with the
whole house, in consequence of a fero-
cious attack I made on the prudery of
Miss Boniface, who clawed and cater-
wauled, and suffered herself, neverthe-
less, to pay the penalties of the mistle-
toe bough with as much more affected,
and much less real, reluctance than is
usual with damsels of her disposition.
We were all, the dejected gentleman
inclusive, very gay and very merry.
Indeed I much question whether, even
at Chatsworth, where the magnificent
Duke of Devonshire kept open house,
as every man who has a house to keep
ought, on Christmas-day, whether he
be magnificent or not, to do — I say I
very much doubt, whether there, or
any where else, the company assembled
were more gay or happy than the
party assembled to blind-man's-buff in
the great room of the Talbot at War-
rington.
About an hour past midnight the
factory boy and myself retired to rest,
little Mary acting as chambermaid and
ushering us up, prattling all the way,
to the shake- down that had been hos-
pitably prepared for our especial ac-
commodation upon the attic.
But neither the factory boy nor my-
selfcould compose ourselves to sleep, so,
after the usual experiments of persons
in that condition had been resorted to
in vain, we ceased tumbling and twist-
ing, and the factory boy, to beguile the
tedious moments, proceeded to give an
account of himself, an account which,
I shall only observe, is as much supe-
rior to the account Mrs Trollope's
factory boy gives of himself, as cheese
is to chalk, — honest industry to book-
making factory-phobia — as experience
is to theory — nature to fiction — or be-
nevolence to cant.
" My name," observed the factory
boy, " is Jack Marten. Father was a
barber's boy. Father and mother are
dead. Father died when I was nine,
mother died when I was eight years old.
Father ran away from his master and list-
ed for a soldier — keen shaver he was,
and made many a penny by shaving the
soldiers as, I suppose, couldn't shave
themselves. Shaved to keep his hand
in, he did, for he had au eye to. the
business when his time would be out
a-soldiering — at least I suppose he had
469
— besides he got a good many pennies
by it, so he always was well off in the
soldiering line — never made no com-
plaints of the army — used to say it was
a- good place for good men, and the
best place for bad 'uns. I would fol-
low soldiering myself, only for the cast
i n my ey e. 1 likes the horse soldiers best
— them as has got spurs on, what makes
music as they marches along. Father
was twenty- one years a soldier, and
came to live at Bolton when he had
served out his time — took a shop, he
did — shaved away, and got a good bit
of money — had a very snug business—
barbering's not a bad perfession, if you
can get plenty of customers. Every
pension day father brought home to
mother a good bit of money — never
knowed how much — knowed it was a
good lot — saw it was silver. While
mother lived father never drinked none
on it — threw it all into mother's lap.
' Mary, my dear,' says father, ' it's all
there — just as I had it.' Mother was
a good mother — she was. Saved
money unknownst to father — she did.
Hid it behind the wainscot, and when
she was a-dyingtold him where it was.
Kept a clean house — mother did — and
made father, and sister, and me com-
fortable— taught us our prayers and
hymns, and them carols what I was a-
singing when you came up. Never
knowed mother blow up nobody-
father blowed her up. When she was
in a dying state, sister and me came up
to her bedside to take her last breath.
Father was there a- cry ing, and hold-
ing of her head. ' Mary,' says father,
' can you forgive me ? ' ' Yes I can,'
says mother. ' Can you forgive all
the world ? ' says father. ' Yes, I do,'
says she. I went down on my knees,
and says I, ' Can you forgive me, mo-
ther dear?' ' I can, Jacky,' says
she, and she put out her hand upon my
head. ' Can you forgive all the world,
mother dear ? ' says 1. ' I do, my child,'
says she. Sister went down on her
bended knees — ' Can you forgive me,
mother dear ?' says sister. ' I do, my
love,' says mother to her again. ' Can
you forgive all the world, mother dear ? '
says sister. ' I do, my girl,' says she.
Mother turned her eyes up to father :
'Will you follow my dying words?'
says she. « I will, Mary,' says father.
' Be kind to them two poor little chil-
dren,' says mother, ' when I am gone.'
' I will, if I live,' says he. When I
was a-bcd, father comes into the bed,
470
Some Account of Himaelf. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [April,
and lies down beside me and kisses me.
• Jacky,' gays he, ' you have nobody
but me to look to now.' ' Why ?' says
I to him again. ' Mother's dead,' says
he. With that I fell a-crying, but fa-
ther stopped my breath. ' You mustn't
cry, Jacky, my man,' says he. ' W hy,
father:' says I. ' Because,' says fa-
ther, ' you'll send the dogs after her.'
What dogs did he mean, do you think ?
The dogs of hell, I suppose. But mo-
ther's in heaven — I dreamed of her
many times — she came and kissed me
— all in white light, like — and spoke to
me in a song. What could father mean,
do you know ? Pdon't — I never asked.
After mother died, father took to drink-
ing. One night came home drunk, and
thumped sister — sister got her things
packed up and ran away — never saw
her since — never heard what became
of her — have got nobody but she be-
longing to me in the wide world. —
God knows where she is — I do not—
wish I did — fret myself about her sadly
— she would need to want for nothing
if I could find her — poor sister ! Fa-
ther soon followed mother. I have
been at work since I was ten years old
—never was at school — mother taught
me to read and spell. I can write a
little. Am not a very learned chap —
wish I was. You know Bolton, I sup-
pose : Worked there ever since I have
had a mind. Worked in a factory —
Didn't get no wages the first week —
got eighteenpence the second week —
worked a fortnight at eighteenpence
—got np then to half-a-crown. Was
a scavenger there — a scavengersweeps
all clear under the jennies and that.
In six weeks time 1 learned to piece
coarse. Some mills pieces coarse, and
tome pieces coarse and fine — ours
pieced only coarse — I got three and
fourpence a-week then — I worked for
two months at three and fourpence, and
then I went to work to a mill where
they piece coarse and fine — work at
any thing — no, not yet — I must have
eight shillings and sixpence a-week
now, and sometimes a sixpence to
myself — I shall be worth more soon,
I reckon.. When I am fit to work in
the card- room, or the blow-room, I
shall do — I expect to learn soon to be
a good blower — I shall then have a
guinea, or five- and- twenty shillings a-
week — I am not very rich — I lay by,
sometimes one, and sometimes two
shillings a-week out of my wages — I
puts it in the savings' bank at Bolton —
you know Bolton, I suppose ? — I have
a book, and they chalk it up every Sa-
turday night. Our mill at Bolton is
stopped, and I am a-going to Liver-
pool to work at a new mill that opens
on New-year's-day — I walked to Li-
verpool three weeks ago, and had my
name put down for work. 1 would not
have gone to Liverpool if our mill had
not stopped work — 1 never complain —
I work hard, but I gets well paid, and
good pay makes hard work light"
I regret falling asleep at this inte-
resting point of the factory boy's na-
tural and unsophisticated account of
himself, but fall asleep I did, and
slept like a top till nine of the clock
next morning, when the factory boy
awoke — and so did I.
I have given the factory boy's ac-
count of himself the more fully, be-
cause I perceive, that since the eman-
cipation of the black nigger
Mawonns are at a dead lock, not
knowing which way to turn them-
selves, and having no manner of
choice, save between the New Zea-
landers and the factory boys and girls,
— which last, if yoa take it upon the
credit of these hypocritical scamps,
are the most unfortunate wretches on
the face of the globe, in being enabled
to earn from seven and sixpence to
seventeen and sixpence a week, under
cover, well cared for and tended, with
not the tenth part of the labour or
exposure a poor Highland or Irish
girl endures in preparing turf, or
weeding potatoes, for about one-fourth
part of the remuneration a factory girl
receives. What would these scamps
be at ? Do they want to put the fac-
tory girls on music stools, »».*
with semi-grand pianos, or to set them
down to a lecture from the drunken
schoolmaster upon natural theology ?
The fact is, they don't know what they
would be at. Some method they must
needs invent to draw tears from hu-
man eyes, and to extract money from
charitable pockets ; and factory chil-
dren will answer that end as well as
New Zealanders or Pitcairn's Island-
ers— better, for there are more of
them.
Pity 'tis to see an authoress, who
successfully operated upon transatlan-
tic hypocrisy and humbug, leading the
forlorn hope of cant in a crusade
against the factory children.
Ob, Mrs Trollope! Mrs Trol-
lope, oh !
1839.] Some Account of Himself , By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 471
I.US THE TENTH.
" For here forlorn and lo«t I tread,
With fainting steps, and slow,
Wheie drickr, immeasurably spread.
Seem lengthening as I go."
It was setting in towards the begin-
ning1 of a January evening, a few days
after I had parted, with much regret,
from the spirited factory boy — and the
beginning of a January evening on
Finchley common, which I was then
crossing, is much less agreeable than
the close of an autumnal day. The
sky was a dull leaden-grey, of a uni-
form hue, such as you see in a sea-
storm of Van de Velde, indicating
wind, sleet, and all sorts of indifferent
weather ; the breeze swept mourn-
fully across the waste, taking up the
dust of the road in fitful gusts, and
whirling it round and round in little
atmospheric vortices ; the public
houses had the outer doors closed, fires
blazing in every room, and streaming
through the windows, into the inhos-
pitable atmosphere without.
Stage coaches whirled by me in al-
most uninterrupted succession — the
passengers on the roof, immersed, nose
deep, in their travelling shawls, their
caps pulled over their brows, and ab-
sorbed in that sulky silent selfishness-
which dull weather, and the near ap-
proach to our journey's end, inevitably
create. The coachman plied his rib-
bons, and looked straight before him
— the gentleman on the box kept bob-
bing his head at intervals, as if delud-
ing himself into a belief that he was
asleep — while the insides were lolling
back in their night- caps, and, if they
were not fast as watchmen, the fault
was more in the stage coach than in
them. Few passengers were afoot,
and the few that passed rapidly by
seemed as if they feared being belated
on the road, and either returned no
reply to my " God save you kindly," or
requited the salutation by an indistinct
growl, as they hurried on their way.
A deserted donkey stood in a gap on
the road side, drooping his ears, and
looking as if even a good sound wal-
loping would be better than standing
there in the cold, and several spectral
horses, admirably adapted to display
the horsemanship of King Death, liit-
ted dismally over the bleak common,
picking up mouthfuls of withered
grass, by instalments of a blade at a
time.
In short, if I had had any money
about me, I would have gone into the
" Green Man," and got as drunk as a
lord — the evening required no less —
for it was a hang-dog, suicidal after-
noon, such as married men choose to
cut their throats in, because of their
wives, and bachelors go drown them-
selves, because of their single blessed-
ness. Somehow or other, I had no
money — somehow or other, I never
have any money — so, after feeling in
the corners of all my pockets for a
modest sixpenny piece, and not finding
one, I came to the convenient conclu-
sion that it was a shame to make a
beast of myself, and voted the " Green
Man" intolerably low !
I walked on, meditating on the sen-
sation that would be created by my
first public appearance in this great
metropolis, and had got as far as the
brow of a steep hill, over whose de-
clivity Highgate archway has since
been thrown, when the noise of .the
knapping of stones attracted my atten-
tion. I followed the direction whence
the noise appeared to proceed, and by-
and- by came upon a little recess off the
road, where an old greyheaded man,
and three little boys, his grandchil-
dren, in all probability, sat on a pile
of " metal," knapping away like
devils, by the dim religious light of a
mutton " dip," which flickered in the
periphery of a silk-paper lanlhorn.
I was, I own, surprised to see human
beings engaged in such an humble
occupation, at such a time of night, in
the immediate vicinity of magnificent
London, where the streets were paved
with gold, and the conduits ran over
with Hodgson's pale ale, and Barclay
and Perkins' porter. Perhaps, thought
I, these gentlemen are knapping stones
for amusement, or haply they may be
mineralogists run mad ! Approaching
the group, however, I ventured to ask
the old gentleman how far it might be
to London ?
472 Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [April,.
" Not far — too near, mayhap," said
the old man, pausing from his work,
and scrutinizing me severely — " see
ye yonder lights glimmering faintly —
see ye them, boy ? "
" Yes sir," replied I — " I see lights
like stars through a fog."
" That is the place you seek," said
the old man, sinking down on the
stone, overspread with a little straw,
that served him for a seat, and resum-
ing his work — then, after a short pause,
seeing I still gazed on him, leaning his
white head on the head of one of the
boys, he further enquired — " And
what dost want at London, my lad?"
" Work, sir," said I, — " employ-
ment— bread."
" Hast got a trade ? "
" No, sir," said I, " but I have
learning."
This announcement the old gentle-
man received with a scornful laugh,
that haunted me many a long day after,
when knowledge of the fate of others,
and sad experience of my own, taught
me the worthlessness of mere learning
in the wilderness of London.
" Canst break stones — canst do this
with thy learning ?" said the old man,
knapping, as he said it, a " lump of a
two-year-old" — " canst do this ? "
" I'll tell you what, my old cynic,"
said I, rather tartly, " I hope I am
not above knapping stones, or any
other honest way of turning a penny ;
but, as I see by your reverend example
that a man can break stones as well at
seventy as at seventeen, I intend, with
your permission, to try to get a spell
of lighter work first, if possible."
" Foolish, headstrong youth," said
the hoary-headed stone-cracker; "and
what dainty work dost intend to try
for ? "
" Any thing that turns uppermost,"
said I, " from pitch and toss to man-
slaughter."
" Go on, in God's name — go to vice
and folly — you are prepared for them
— go," said the old man, solemnly
pointing, with his thin hand, my down-
ward path, and looking, as I thought,
like an evil omen embodied — " Go —
London was made for such as thou !"
An impudent answer jumped to the
tip of my tongue, but one glance at the
hoary hairs of the toil-worn old man,
and the furrows that time, and poverty,
and care, had ploughed into his face,
repulsed it from my lip — I turned
silently away — for I hoped to be spared
to be old myself.
" I will soon see the mighty Baby-
lon," said I, in a tone of exultation that
put to the rout a host of dim anticipa-
tions of evil hap conjured up by the
tone and manner of the old man — " I
will shortly enter that emporium of
the world's wealth — that entrepot of
commerce — that seat of elegant refine-
ment and polite learning — that nur-
sery of the arts — that mart of talent,
whose sphere is too wide for the ope-
ration of petty malignity, and where
merit is sure to meet with friends,
whenever it becomes reputable to be-
friend it." When I had rounded off
my own apostrophe with the above-
quoted scrap of magniloquent sophis-
try from Dr Johnson, I thought I
began to feel peckish.
" In London," said I, as I strutted
through the toll-bar and passed with
an air by the Peacock at Islington —
" In London," I continued to soli-
loquize, " benevolence opens all her
arms, and human nature riots in the
luxury of doing good — in London
industry will ever meet employment,
and labour still command a fit reward
— in London all the social virtues
love to dwell, and hospitality, in the
less favoured country rude and unre-
fined, is here as delicate as it is unre-
served— here are the strangers of all
nations (I should have excepted my
own) received with open arms and no
less open purses, and protected alike
from the oppression of foreign tyrants
and the treachery of domestic rene-
gades!" At this splendid passage of
my soliloquy I paused, and looked
around me expecting to be asked to
dinner by some hospitable citizen who
might be anxious to have the honour
of entertaining me earlier than his
fellows — as certain Orientalists are
said to lie in wait at the gates of their
cities, and contend one with another
for the honour of carrying the wearied
traveller to their hospitable homes.
None such, however, appeared, nor
was I accosted by any one, if I ex-
cept a large man with a badge upon
his collar, who desired me, in an au-
thoritative tone of voice, to move on,
which, supposing it to be a custom of
the city, I accordingly did. At this
moment I felt so ravenous with hun-
ger, that I could have eaten an empty
sugar hogshead, and licked my lips
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater, 473
after it. Resuming my ambuktion
and my soliloquy together, I went on.
" Here, at least," said I, " if any where
in the habitable globe, must misery
and want, the parents, oftentimes, of
vice and crime, be unknown — or, if they
exist at all, must be the natural con-
sequences of incurable depravity, and
therefore unpitiably punished — for
surely in this splendid capital of the
world, the fountain of its wealth and
source of its civilisation, there can be
none so base as to prefer vice to in-
dustry, and abandon the dignity of
labour to pursue the uncertain wages
of crime." This last period was, I
thought, so amazingly like Johnson,
that I walked on, drawing an imagin-
ary comparison between that great
man and myself, without ever observ-
ing that the bundle containing all my
worldly effects, and which I held dang-
ling over my left shoulder from the han-
dle of poor Crick's bone-hilted hunting
•whip — had been abstracted by some
expert thief — whose dexterity thus de-
prived me of the sole means I pos-
sessed of gaining a morsel of food, or
a night's lodging, without stripping
myself of the few tattered clothes on
my back. This staggered me — if
indeed any loss could stagger a man
who was at that moment faint with
absolute inanition — sick of the want
of food alone — a horrible sensation,
compounded of the extremest agonies
of sea-sickness and thirst, which may
God of His infinite mercy defend me
from ever experiencing again.
" Surely" said I, "where there ap-
pears so much wealth there cannot but
be benevolence ;" and, taking this view
of the case, I proceeded to inform
several of the most bland and benevo-
lent-looking old gentlemen, who were
passing, that I was perishing with hun-
ger, and implored, for the love of God,
the means of getting a morsel of bread
—a request that, in every instance, had
the effect of giving to the progression
of the bland and benevolent- looking
old gentlemen an increased alacrity —
in short, when I used the expression
" for the love of God," they invari-
ably bolted off as if the devil was after
them, buttoning up their breeches
pockets, and muttering indistinct me-
naces of " police," and " taking me
into custody." My heart and my legs
both failed me — it was beneath the
portico of Saint Martin's church — I
recalled with shuddering horror the
voice of the old man, and felt as if I
was to fulfil a fatal prediction — I reeled
and fell — tears poured abundantly
from my eyes, and the prospect of
death, in its most revolting form,
stared me, I thought, in the face."
" Gracious eternal God!' I ex-
claimed, in an ecstasy of grief, am I
fated to perish of hunger in the midst
of plenty — to die unpitied and unre-
lieved among millions of my fellow
Christians !"
Talk of solitude, indeed ! Tell me,
forsooth, of Zimmerman, of Robinson
Crusoe, of Alexander Selkirk! Her-
mits of the dale, solitaries, self tor-
mentors, anchorites, Capuchins, fol-
lowers of Johannes Stylus, Fakirs,
Brahmins, backwoodsmen — what is
your solitude of hills, and rocks, and
streams — your sweet society of nature
wild and great — to the deep, the dis-
mal, dense, desolate solitude of Lon-
don streets?
More deep than the solitude of arid
plains of driving sand — more desolate
than uninhabited islands — more dis-
mal than a starless night, is the soli-
tude that exists in that chaotic mass of
human existence. There I lay, the
human tide rushing by, and every now
and then greeted with a hearty curse
from some heedless passenger, who
floundered over me as I lay — the din
of carriages sounded in my ears like
receding thunder, and the frequent
footfall of the pedestrians seemed to
me like the pattering of heavy rain.
I looked up, and there stood before me
in thegutter a faded half-naked woman,
three or four matches tipped with
brimstone in her hand, the very pic-
ture of want, but I observed no one
look at, much less relieve her. A pal-
lid, sickly-looking Savoyard, with an
anxious and haggard face, kept grind-
ing and grinding waltzes upon a hand
o~gan ; now he stopped and changed
his measure, anon he went on again
as before ; but nobody lingered to listen
to his music, nor paused to reward him
with a trifle for his exertions to please ;
the music he played sounded so piti-
fully, that every note of it went to my
heart, and I could not help thinking
that the musician was starving like my-
self. " And this," said 1 to myself, as I
lay on the cold ground, " is splendid —
this is charitable London ! This the
emporium of Oh ! fool, fool — why
474
Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [April,
•was I not content to be a stone-breaker
— why was I not born to be a factory
boy ?"
My eyes swam, my brain reeled,
and for a few moments I fainted away.
Recovering a little, I raised myself
•with difficulty against the wall of the
church ; strange faces peered at me
as they passed ; but if they had been
summoned to earth from the silent
repose of the grave to gaze upon me,
their expression had been the same,
for all of sympathy or friendliness that
beamed from them on the perishing
youth that lay helplessly there.
I gazed wistfully at a pile of oranges
which was being studiously packed
into a pyramidical shape by an old
woman, in whose quadrangular figure,
truncated nose, and hooded gray cloak,
I thought I recognised one of the
finest peasantry in the universe ; I was
convinced of her being a compatriot
by the rich and mellow tones of the
Cork brogue (all the Irish in London
are, strange to tell, natives of Cork),
in which she replied to the chaffering
of three well-dressed little boys — little
noblemen, I thought, from the comfort
of every thing about them, they must
be.
There was a brazier of lighted
charcoal upon the old woman's stall,
whereon simmered or broiled away
what I took to be some small and de-
licate description of potatoe ; and
whose smell reached me as I lay, and
made my stomach, I thought, deadly
sick. It was to this delicacy, whatever
it was, that the attention of the young
noblemen — who had been previously
discussing what they had respectively
enjoyed at home for dinner — appeared
to be chiefly directed, and the first
distinct remark that fell upon my ear
was a reply of the proprietor of this
to me forbidden fruit, to an enquiry
from the most prominent of the young
noblemen.
" Eight a penny — I tould yees be-
fore— ye small plagues of A-gypt,"
said the descendant of Milesius, in
answer to the spokesman of the house
of peers — " eight a penny — four a
hap-penny — but yees don't want to
buy," concluded Oonach, testily.
" How many for a fardcn ?" de-
manded the young nobleman, briskly
producing his coin, as if to convince
the Irishwoman her last remark was
personally offensive.
" Two for a farden, my sweet little
gentleman," said the Milesian, tipping
a little blarney with her Cork — " two,
my little leprechaun."
" I shall pick and choose, I s'pose?"
said his little lordship, enquiringly.
" Ye may, and welkim, sir," re-
sponded the Emerald ; " but don't
burn yer dear little fingers — ye shall
have the biggest."
" But there's three on us," observed
the juvenile aristocrat, pointing to his
compeers, and replacing the invaluable
farthing in his breeches pocket, as if
determined to make his own terms be-
fore he took it out again.
" Sorrow take yees three," rejoined
the poor Irishwoman, " ye would skin
the mother that bore yees for the hide
and tallow ! "
" Ve vont have none on your nuts,
if you don't give us three" — said the
speaker.
" Ve'll try a more accommodatin'
shop" — said the second peer.
" Werry right," added the junior
Lord Cockney.
" And this," — said I, with a deep
groan — "this is munificent — this is,
oh God ! — this is splendid London ! "
Whether it was that I groaned
louder than before, I know not ; but
this I do know, that the poor orange-
woman turned round, and seeing a
youth lie against the pilaster of the
church, exactly in the rear of her
stall, came over, and putting down her
head to my lips, asked me, in that tone
of softened sympathy that none so
well as a poor Irishwoman can throw
into her voice,
" What is it that's a throubling
you, my poor man ?"
I would have spoken, but my
parched lips refused their office. I
opened my mouth, and pointing to it
with my finger, fainted away once
more.
When I came to my senses a se-
cond time, I found the poor Irishwo-
man pressing an orange to my lips,
while her little daughter held in one
hand a slice of bread and cheese, and
half- a pint of porter in the other,
brought from the next public-house ;
and five shillings, the donation of a
drunken sailor, who was passing, the
old woman told me, with two girls of
the town, lay on the ground beside me.
A curious crowd had gathered round,
and all (for benevolence is contagious),
1839»] Some Account of Himself. By the Irith Oyster- Enter. 47-j
sceined anxious to afford the starving
lad— such the poor Irishwoman had in-
formed them was my state— their sym-
pathies at least. One pressed me to
ale — another soaked in it a bit of
biead — a third recommended me to
try the cheese — and a fourth, more ac-
tive in his benevolence, ran to the pub-
lic house, and returned with a brimming
tumbler of hot brandy and water,
which, he assured me, would set me
up again. But my stomach rejected
all these proffered hospitalities ; a
crumb would not lie upon it for a mo-
ment. The people— or, as vulgar -well-
dressed ruffians, who know no more
of them than they do of the man in the
moon, choose to style them, the mob
— carried me out of the thoroughfare
into an alley close by, where they laid
me down upon a cushion, which a be-
nevolent waterman had borrowed for
that purpose, from one of the coaches
on his stand. The poor Irishwoman
stood by me all the while, and kept
her orange to my lips, and when busi-
ness called her away to her stall, the
little girl took her mother's place,
and wiped my brow, and tended me
•with the affection of a sister.
" You shall come with us — home
with my mother," said the little girl.
" Where, my love," enquired I.
«' To our home," said the little girl
— " I will nurse you, and mother will
make you some nice broth — you will
soon be well."
" And where is your home, my dear
little maid ? " enquired I.
" Not far," replied the little girl — .
" not very far — at our village.1'
Our village! — I thought ofthe charm-
ing —the adorable Mary Russel Mit-
ford. Our village ! — there was nature,
kindliness, and simple-hearted tender-
ness in the very sound.
"Alas!" said I, " and is this my fate ?
— is hunger, misery, and distress my
lot in munificent London ? and is it in
a village, and from villagers, that I am
to receive hospitality and shelter ?"
" Let us go then, my love," said I,
rising up — " let us hasten to leave this
terrible place — this mighty tomb of all
that is soft and meek, tender and com-
passionate, lowly and God-like in man
—let us leave its splendours, its dissipa-
tions, its vice, and seek happiness aud
tranquillity in * our village 1 ' "
DESULTORY DOTTINGS DOWN UPON DOGS.
WE love a horse — we love an
elephant — we love a mouse — -we love
—pshaw ! you will save both, yourself
and us an immensity of trouble, gen-
tle reader, by just walking into your
library, taking down your Bewick, or
your Goldsmith, or your Buffon, and
reading over the table of contents
from the beginning to the end ; — and,
if you have but half the average
supply of penetration, you will make
up your mind, before you have got
half way through the first page there-
of, that we are a personage of a most
catholic affection — that we love every
animal under the sun. Like an espe-
cial favourite of ours, the quaint old
author of the Religio Medici, we
cannot even " start at the presence of
a serpent, scorpion, lizard, or sala-
mander— at the sight of a toad or a
viper we find in us no desire to take
up a stone to destroy them." But,
above all the denizens of earth, and
air, and ocean, do we esteem a dog-
young or old, great or small, it mat-
ters nothing to us — be he
"-Mastiff, Greyhound, Mongrel grim,
Hound, or Spaniel, Brach, or Lym,
Or bobtail tyke, or trundle-tail'' —
•we make no invidious distinction, —
we embrace in our affections the
little dogs, and all,
" Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart ;"
ay, even though we be constrained
with that heart-broken old man,
" more sinned against than sinning,"
to cry " See ! they bark at me ! "
If we were but a legislator, and had
a " tail," there should forthwith be a
millennium for dogs ! — much weeping
and wailing should there be among
the oppressors. Woe to the West-
minster pit, and the owner of the fa-
mous dog Billy ! Woe to the pro-
prietors of dog trucks ! and especial
woe to them that ride therein ! Woe
unto Bell's Life in London, and
its column on. "Canine Faiv-y!"
470
uesuitory jJomngs down upon Dogs.
[April,
Woe to the exhibitors of dancing
dogs ! Woe ! abundant woe to
Punch 1 that chuckling demon, that
mechanical monster, who, in every
street and at every corner, instilleth
cruelty to animals into the hearts of
the rising generation, — who bangeth
his dog as unhesitatingly as he bang-
eth his wife!
We thank our God that our lot was
not cast in the days of the old Forest
laws ! We should infallibly have
proved a premature Wat Tyler to the
first miscreant Jack- in- office that ven-
tured to lay hands upon the hound of
our bosom, — and we should have been
hanged, drawn, and quartered for our
pains. The Fates that deferred the
spinning of our thread to these latter
days have been kind to us. We have
often wished that we could consci-
entiously adopt the creed of the "poor
Indian" who
" Thinks, admitted to an equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him com-
pany ;"
but, alas ! he is of " the brutes that
perish," and the wish is an idle, it
may be, a murmuring one. But that
a dog has nothing more than mere
instinct — that a dog doesn't think, we
defy the most " learned" Theban that
ever wrote or lectured to convince us.
We do not mean to say that he is a
philosopher, or a moralist, or a poet ;
but he feels and he reasons for all that,
—and he shames, or ought to shame,
not a few of his very rational lords
and masters. When we threw down
our newspaper this morning after
breakfast, and sauntered to the par-
lour window for the mere purpose, as
an ordinary observer would have con-
jectured, of standing there with our
hands in our breeches' pockets, — our
children didn't know ik — the wife of
our bosom didn't know it — we scarce-
ly, even, knew it ourselves — but
Rover, our dog, knew it ; and he
came frisking and bounding from his
prescriptive corner of the hearth rug,
and looking up in our face, and bow-
wow-ing (for which we first thrashed
him bodily, and then ourselves men-
tally, though, in truth, the cuff we
gave him would hardly have sufficed
to disturb the most superannuated
flea of the tribe which made in him
their dwelling), and running to the
door, and scampering back again, and
then jumping bolt upright as high as
he could jump, and looking as if he
would give his ears to say bow-wow
once more — only he durst not — and so,
as it was there ready at his tongue's
end, easing it off gently through
his teeth in the shape of a sort of
pleasurable growl ; and then lying
down, yet peering up ever into our
face with a kind of half-supplicating,
half - reproachful expression, which
said, as plainly as looks can say,
" Well, I'm almost afraid it's of no
use, but I won't give it up yet for all
that," — and then, " Bless my soul !
are we to be kept a whole month
learning what this brute of yours did
know ?"
Now, thank your gods, O reader 1
that we are of a placid and gentle
disposition, — for, by that intemperate
interruption of yours, you have qut
short one of the faithfulest touches of
description that we have penned Cor
this many a day ; and had we been
"sudden and quick in quarrel," it
might have cost you more than the
loss of the picture you have so uncere-
moniously marred. But, alas ! you
feel it not, — we say to you, as Sir
Isaac said to his spaniel, "Ah! Dia-
mond! Diamond! thou little knowest
the mischief thou hast done !" Had
we been in the knight's place on that
most trying occasion, and had our
footman, or our housemaid, or any man
or maid on the face of the earth, de-
stroyed at one fell swoop the labour of
years, we verily believe the readers of
next morning's Times would have
been horrified by three entire columns
of "awful murder and felo-de-se."
But had it been thou, O Rover, our
little, harmless, playful doggie, thou
who didst never yet provoke one
frown of anger upon our brow but
one wag of thy tail dispelled it in a
moment — had it been thou, we say,
who hadst done the wrong, we should,
with all the meekness of the immortal
philosopher, have — " Zounds, sir ! — ,
what did your dog know all this
while ?" — Why, sir, he knew we were
going out for a walk.
We hereby enter our protest against
the degradation of the word puppy, as
applied to certain irrational specimens
of that genus which arrogates to itself
the exclusive possession and enjoyment
of reason. Your natural puppy is an
especial favourite of ours. We have
one before us at this moment — a little,
ungainly, unwieldy cub, with a head
1839.]
Desultory Dottings down upon Dogs.
477
as big as all the rest of him put to-
gether, and a most deplorable abbre-
viation of a tail ; short thick legs
and flapping ears — Heaven forbid
that they should be submitted to the
barbarity of cropping ! — with a rolling
gait, and a wonderful difficulty in pre-
serving his equilibrium ; yet the ho-
nestest, sauciest, playfulest, clumsiest,
impudentest, sweetest-tempered little
rogue withal that ever was created
— obstinately determined on satiat-
ing his depraved appetite with the
toe of our last new boot — turning
to flee from our uplifted hand and
threatening eye — rolling head over
heels in the super-catuline effort, —
lying sprawling and struggling on the
broad of his back, in momentary expec-
tation of being swallowed up alive, or
of some equally appalling doom-
yet released by our forgiving aid from
his inconvenient position only to com-
mence anew, in the very next instant,
the very same series of aggressions.
But for a metaphorical puppy — pah I—
" give us an ounce of civet, good apo-
thecary !" — he stinketh in our nos-
trils!— he is "most tolerable and not
to be endured." Much as we love to
look upon fair forms and pretty faces,
we have not, for these ten years past,
sauntered up Regent Street between
the hours of two and six in the after-
noon— we beg pardon, morning — it
was indeed called afternoon, " mais
nous avons change toute cela" — be-
tween the hours of two and six in the
morning ; we should be too strongly
tempted to " feed fat our ancient
grudge on him," by kicking him from
the Duke of York's statue to the
church in Langham Place, and we
have no mind now for the interior of
a police office, though " calida juven-
ta," " in our hot youth when George
the Third was King," we have ru-
minated in some few of them, and
thought it rather honourable than
otherwise — graceless dogs that we
were !
Why Sterne should have written
that beautiful chapter of his on a don-
key rather than a dog, or how the
same man who, when the said donkey
"upon the pivot of his skull turned
round his long left ear" discovered in
the action such a world of meaning,
could venture to assert that a dog
" does not possess the talents for con-
versation," we confess we have ever
been most utterly at a loss to make out.
We have no objection to a donkey
there is not a single tenant of the Zoo-
logical Gardens that we have the slight-
est possible objection to— at a reason-
able distance ; we haveeven something
of a sneaking kindness for " the poor
little foal of an oppressed race," — yes I
we hear you muttering about " a
fellow feeling," and so forth ; but we
don't mind avowing it for all that, —
we really do like a jackass ; but, when
we find him exalted above a dog, we
can hardly persuade ourselves that our
eyes are not deceiving us : we can
hardly — we wonder what Sterne
thought of him when he wound up his
confabulations by reading his black
silk " oh-no-we-never-mention'ems."
Reader ! do you ever go to Ascot
Heath ? Of course you do : — you go
as a curious subject to see your Queen,
and as a loyal one to welcome her
with the loudest and longest shout the
state of your lungs will allow you to
give forth. Of course you do all this
— but this is not exactly what we are
driving at at present. Did you ever
happen to stand next the ropes when
the course has been cleared, and ob-
serve an unhappy dog who has lost
his master in the crowd, and is left
alone in the middle, unknowing where
to seek him ! Mark him, as he
stands for a second or two in hurried
deliberation. He is evidently fully
aware that he is in a scrape, and me-
ditating how he may best get out of
it. He looks anxiously around, and
sees no means of egress through the
dense wall of humanity on either side.
Stay ! — there is a kindly-looking old
gentleman on the right seems disposed
to let him through — but, alas ! the
British public, in their anxiety to see
the Favourite come in, are squeezing
the kindly-looking old gentleman to
such a degree, that for the life of him
he can stir neither hand nor foot.
How the deuce do you write letters
expressive of hisses and groans ? —
Hisses a chimney-sweep on his left
hand — groans an itinerant vender of
mutton-pies — " Shu-u-u!" bellows a
ditto in the ginger-pop and soda-water
line — " whew-w-w 1" whistles a butch-
er's boy, with two fingers in his
mouth — thank God ! he hasn't got
room to stoop for a stone ! — away bolts
the terrified animal — see there he has
stopped short a little further on — he is
looking up in yonder woman's face,
with a slightly tremulous motion of
478
JJestiltory JJouings
the tail, expressive half of doubt and
fear, half of entreaty, that says " wont
you let me through ? — I would wag it
so gratefully, if you would 1" Quick !
quick ! — alas, too late ! — he hears the
course-keeper's rapidly approaching
gallop — away ! he is speeding for the
dear life, but the pursuer is too fleet
for him — he has overtaken him —
crack ! crack ! did you hear that howl?
—poor devil ! — did we understand you
rightly, sir ? — did you say he was your
dog ? — then would to God that lash
had fallen on your own shoulders for
bringing him to such a place as this !
We lay it down as our unalterable
dictum, that he who possesses a dog
never need want a friend. Byron,
indeed, once went so far as to say he
" never knew but one," and that one
his dog Boatswain. But we incline
to think there was a considerable
sacrifice of truth to effect in the asser-
tion, for he had many and true ones,
though he loved to say, perhaps to
think, he had none. He was, or af-
fected to be, a misanthrope. Far be
from us either the being or the affec-
tation, though we may now and then
unintentionally leave a peg for the
censorious to hang an accusation upon.
We sympathize most cordially witu
that jolly dog-loving old soul, who
first trolled forth the time-honoured
chorus of
" Under the ale-tap let me lie,
Cheek by jowl, my dog and I ! "
We would give something to have
had an opportunity of " rousing the
night with a catch" in the company
of the malt and hops loving minstrel !
Tell us not that his wish savours of
the misanthropy we have condemned.
His horror was only of " detn'd cold,
moist, unpleasant bodies," and wormy
charnel-houses; his " potations, pottle-
deep," were never discussed in solitary
mopishness ; he was wont to troul
" the bonny brown bowl" to many a
boon companion like himself ; to "set
the table in a roar" with many a mer-
ry jest, as it slowly voyaged round,
minishing as it went, to welcome its
first glass with a toast, to cheer its last
with a song. Peace to his manes !
Our philocyny developed itself at
the earliest possible period. We
were even in a manner predestined
to it. Our great-grandfather kept
hounds and was half ruined by them,
and our grandfather went to the dogs
down upon Uog&. [April,
through continuing the practice. Our
family crest was a talbot's head — our
supporters a couple of bloodhounds —
our motto " Love me, love my dog."
How, then, could we help being what
we are ? The first intelligible syllable
we uttered was "bow!" The only
toy we really loved was a little white
woolly ninepenny effigy of a spaniel,
the gift of a kind-hearted housemaid,
unconscious auxiliary to the dark de-
signs of destiny. The story of Mo-
ther Hubbard and her dog was the
favourite study of ourchildhood. Even
now, as we call it to mind, do we feel
once more the pang of disappointment
we then endured at the discovery of
the hopeless emptiness of the cup-
board— the consternation at the death
— the thrill of ecstasy at the resusci-
tation of the quadruped hero of that
ancient romaunt. We never had our
nativity cast, but it needs not ; we
can do without the assistance of a
Sidrophel — we are as convinced as we
are of the fact of our own existence that
our natal star was Sirius. We were
born in the dogdays ! The scoldings
we endured for our propensity to be-
come sworn friends with every strange
dog we met, were endless — the pence
that we expended in dogsmeat in-
numerable. " Beware of the Dog!"
was to us but as a dead letter. Though,
like most children, we gradually grew
older, we did not, however, like them,
" put away childish things." The
first time we ever opened the Apocry-
pha, we fastened, as if by instinct, upon
the story of Tobit and his Dog ; the
first drama we ever saw enacted was
" The Dog of Montargis ! " In the
first classic that was put into our hands
we could find nothing so interesting
as the legend of the descent of Theseus
to Hades, — and, oh ! how we envied
him his interview with Cerberus !
We read of the terrible Mauthe Doog
— the Spectral Hound of the Isle of
Man — but we read with curiosity, not
with terror ; and we vowed, in our
yet superstitious soul, that we would
some day take our journey thither for
the express purpose of cultivating his
acquaintance. Had we lived in the
days of the ancient philosophy, we
verily believe that, despite of our
kindlier nature, we should have
snapped and snarled with the bitterest
cynic of the sect — the name alone
would have been sufficient to enlist us
ia the ranks,
1839.] Desultory Dotting
" The child," as Wordsworth says,
" is father of the man !" and the ruling
passion will be strong in us till death.
But we have been doomed in our time
to meet with " heavy blows and great
discouragements." Disappointment
hath been hard upon us. We heard
of the fireman's dog, — and to hear of
him was sufficient to set us at unrest.
We have not knowingly missed a
simple fire in the metropolis for some
years past : we have squeezed into every
crowd, and narrowly escaped being
run over at different times by every
engine of every insurance company.
We have had our pockets picked —
our toes crushed — our eyes devoted
to perdition, times out of number —
and in vain ! We never saw him ;
and now, unhappy that we are, they
tell us he is dead ! We read in a
French paper, but a few months ago,
of a dog who supported his owner —
a humble polisher of boots and shoes —
by rolling himself in the most pro-
mising mud-heap he could pick out,
and then rubbing himself, as if by ac-
cident, against the pedal integuments
of the exquisiteswho happened tocross
the bridge whereon his master took
his stand every morning, duly fur-
nished with bottle and brush. We
were in Paris last season, and our first
visit was of course to the bridge in
question. Alas! the boot-cleaner had
cleaned his last, and the dog — there
•was a sausage shop close by his wonted
stand, and it was more than hinted
that—" shall I go on?" as Tristram
Shandy says — " no ! " The Chinese,
the beasts ! eat dogs, but they eat them
knowingly. To the French " igno-
rance is bliss."
Oh ! rare, most rare Edwin Land-
seer! We recollect to have read of
one Gottfried Mind, a painter of the
Flemish School, who excelled in feline
portraiture. His pussies did all but
purr. Not a rat or a mouse dared
show the tip of his tail in any house
•which boasted a grimalkin from his
hand. He earned for himself the ho-
nourable title of " the cat-Raphael."
But what meet name shall we find for
thee, oh ! thou ^aygeityav u^nrrt of
dogs ? — thou Apelles of aged hounds —
thou Zeuxis of vigorous doghood —
thou Parrhasius of puppies ! How
we do long to pat thy pictures !
" Sad dog!" "idle dog! " "wicked
dog !" We tolerate these names, as
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXIl.
<s down upon Dogs.
479
applied to sundry of our biped acquain-
tance, only because we know that
even the most censorious of them are
ever used more in love than in
anger. Par exemple, we called our-
selves " Graceless dogs" a little while
ago — and you might have seen with
half an eye that we looked back with
considerable complacency, if not with
positive approbation, even upon the
follies we stigmatized. There are
many sad Dogs among real Dogs, but
we do not like them one whit the less ;
— shall we introduce you to one ?
Reach down your Shakspeare — oh !
you have it on your table already—
'tis a good sign, and you have risen
in our estimation. Now then, open
the Two Gentlemen of Verona — Fourth
Act — Fourth Scene — Enter Launce
and his Dog. There — the ladies are
gone out for their morning ramble, so
you may venture to read it aloud.
Now that same Crab is the saddest
dog it has ever been our hap to meet
with " in tale or history." But there
is, nevertheless, much to be said for
him. He was never intended for a
delicate " messan- doggie" — he was
born to move in the middle ranks of
canine society, and was spoilt, like
many other very good sort of people
in their way, by being elevated above
his proper station . It was a gross error
to introduce him among the " three
or four gentlemanlike dogs under the
Duke's table." — the result might have
been anticipated. We should as soon
have thought of taking him through
the green-grocers' shops in Covent
Garden Market. Yethowfeelingly does
his master lament his irrepressible cur-
rishness ! What a catalogue of mis-
fortunes has he patiently undergone
to shield his misdeserving pupil I
And what an ungrateful, dry-eyed
stoical beast of a dog is he — what a
" cruel-hearted cur" not to " shed
one tear" — not to " speak one word"
—when " even a Jew would have wept
to have seen the parting" of Launce
and his kindred ! And yet, you see,
the dear, good, kind, forgiving soul
loves him ! and were it all to do again,
he would bear it without a murmur !
Were Launce, Sancho Panza, and
Corporal Trim, those three unparallel-
led dependants, to come in a body to
apply for our vacant footman's place,
our whole kennel would plead irresis-
tibly in favour of the first : — " Fallow
480
us, friend, thou shalt serve us. If
we like thee no worse after dinner, we
will not part from thee yet."
Pray sir, do you read Greek ? — We
are delighted to hear it, for we are
about to quote some, and it will save
us the trouble and the inadequacy of
a translation. We are going to pre-
sent to your notice a " gentlemanlike
do"1" in reduced circumstances. Nay,
do not smile, for the picture is, to our
thinking, as beautiful and as touching
a one as ever was painted by that
" blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,"
whom there are so many found to
praise, and, alas ! so few to read.
Ulysses, the disguised Ulysses, and
Eumseus, that trustiest of swineherds,
have been conversing together before
the palace, in whose polluted halls are
revelling the licentious suitors, uncared
for, unheeded, unheard by all save
one, and that one — but let the Poet
speak for himself.
, a* pee
t)esultory Dottings down upon Dogs. [April,
spoke of him — he knew by the kindly
tone and the affectionate gaze that he
was not forgotten, — and it was enough.
TTOT atvrtf
Qgtyt ftlv, eiiF
Yes ! though he lay " uncared for,
in much filth, and (alack the day !)
swarming with dogticks "—though
the limb was powerless with age and
the frame wasted with hunger — the
life, and the love, and the memory
were strong in the old dog yet — the
eye might have doubted, but the ear
was sure : — " the trick of that voice
he did well remember" — the servant
knew his Lord!
a-xro 6io tvette.-
r' ctv-ra.%
'filet A«<lft
We doubt if that much-enduring
man ever met in all his wanderings
with a much harder trial than this,
when he dared not, lest he should too
soon disclose his real character, give
way to the strong yearning of his soul,
and tell his loved and faithful hound
that he too was remembered. What
mattered it ? — he heard them as they
6sttCtT6lO,
Now turn to the episode in the origi-
nal— and forgive us, if you can, that
we have not quoted every line and
every syllable that it contains.
One more dog-passage, gentle
reader ! — one more. The description
does not come up to the inimitable
simplicity of the old Greeks— as in-
deed how should it? — but it is very,
very beautiful, — and quote it we must
— for our own pleasure, if not for
yours. He is the dog of Roderick,
that " guilty Goth," whose fortunes
have been so well and nobly sung in
the lay which bears his name. He,
too, like Argus, had a disguised mas-
ter— he, too, listened doubtfully to a
voice which fell upon his ear with a
familiar, though long unwonted, tone :
—he, as he lay,
-" eyeing him long
And wistfully, had recognised at length,
Changed as he was, and in those sordid
weeds,
His Royal Master.
And he rose and licked
His withered hand, and earnestly looked
«P
With eyes whose human meaning did not
need
The aid of speech ; and moan'd as if at
once
To court and chide the long withheld ca-
ress.''
Follow the exile as he retires from
" that most painful interview" — unre-
cognised alike by the mother who bore
him — by the maid who trusted :— •
known only to, followed only by — a
dog ! Mark him at last, " yielding
way to his overburthened nature" —
flinging his arms around his mute com-
panion— and bursting forth into that
touching cry of blended agony and
affection —
" Thou, Theron, thou hast known
Thy poor lost master ! — Theron ! none
but thou !"
We will not add one syllable more to
mar the effect of those two most beau-
tiful passages.
K.
1839.]
A. Week at Manchester,
481
A WEEK AT MANCHESTER.
I HATE railroads. Any one can love
railroads, or like railroads, or praise
railroads — but I hate railroads. I
hate to be obliged to arrive at a rail-
road office a quarter of an hour before
starting. I hate to be obliged to go
and stand between certain pieces of
wood nailed across and along to ask
for a place. I hate to be made to go
in at one end, and out at the other,
just as if I had already commenced
my imprisonment, and as though the
turnkey had fastened down upon me
all his iron, steam, and coals. I hate
to see all my luggage and baggage
taken from me, and placed, " malgre
moi" on a stone pavement, quite na-
ked and unprotected — boxes, trunks,
shawls, ruffs, books, umbrellas, maps,
sandwich boxes, all in one hurly-
burly — and then to be told that I may
go and claim my luggage, and arrange
my luggage, just as I like. I hate to
have to do with porters who never
touch their hats, and who cannot be
civil, because you are forbidden to
give them a silver sixpence. I be-
lieve the poor fellows have not even
pockets in their breeches, lest a stray
shilling should by chance find its way
into them. I hate to be made to wait
for a steam-engine, and for a steam-
engine never to wait for me. Horses
will wait, and men will wait — and
even sometimes, when you are young
and handsome, or old and wealthy —
or neither, and very agreeable (pre-
cisely my case) women or ladies will
wait for you (ay, and the Lanca-
shire witches too) ; but a steam-engine
will not wait, for all its enjoyment
appears*to consist in rattling away, as
hard as its lungs will admit, from
Dan to Beersheba, and from London
to Jerichp, without so much as kissing
its hand to the nymphs and maidens on
the road. Then I hate to be " num-
bered." I had rather be named than
numbered — and both are very disa-
greeable. To think that I was No.
71, and my daughter No. 73, though
I am only 40, and my daughter only
18. It is a monstrously unpleasant
thing when the " guard" asks No. 71
if he will give his ticket, and if No.
74 wishes to get out tit " Tring."
Then sometimes No. 74 " takes the
liberty of observing to No. 70 that it
is a very fine day"— and " begs par-
don of No. 72, and would be glad to
know if he would have any objection
to change places ? " This ticketing
system looks so much like the inci-
pient portion of prison discipline—
like the preparatory steps of a police
surveillance — and so much resembles
the system adopted at Paris, where a
poor old apple-woman is numbered
13,194, and her apple stall 17,643 —
her dog, who is blind, and asks for
alms, with a leather saucer in his
mouth, 33,275 ; so that the police
agent, if he has to make a charge
against the aforesaid dog, begins his
complaint as follows : — " Monsieur
le Commissaire, As I was proceeding
down the Rue St. Honore, in the sec-
tion 36 of the district D» I saw 33,275
seated near 17,643, which was pre-
sided over by 13,194." And then
follows the charge of the dog begging,
and of the policeman reproving, and
of the old woman getting angry, and of
the dog barking, and of the table fall-
ing, and of all being taken into cus-
tody ; the result of which is, that
33,275 is ordered to beg no more,
17,643 to fall no more, and 13,194 to
scold no more a policeman such as 263,
belonging to section Y of the arron-
dissement, No. IX. Well now, for my
part, I hate this numbering and ticket-
ing system — just on the very principle
that I always did hate algebra. " Fi-
gures are figures, and letters are let-
ters," said my dear maiden aunt
Betsey ; and she meant by that a great
deal more than the ignorant would at
first imagine. In fact, she meant,
" down with algebra," and " long live
the four rules of arithmetic." She
would have had a horror of numbering
a man, for she used to repeat the por-
trait of man by Buffon, and say,
" everything pronounces him the so-
vereign of the earth." Then I hate
to be boxed in the rail coach, or rail
waggon, with a projecting impedi-
ment against all love and affection
between myself and my next-door
neighbour. Why, some of the plea-
santest hours of my life have been,
when some soft, gentle creature, in
the form of a female stage-coach com-
482 A Week at Manchester.
panion, overcome by sleep, or wearied
out with laughing, has at last placed
her soft head on my soft shoulder, and
gently slept for some two hours, un-
conscious of all that was passing
around her, and absorbed in visions of
bliss, or in dreams of nothingness. But
none of these shoulderings, none of
these. tender and delicate attentions,
can be practised or enjoyed in a steam-
carriage. Oh, no I on the monster
goes, sometimes at 20, then at 30, and
often at 40 miles per hour, hissing,
foaming, firing, snorting, groaning,
and even bellowing, dragging behind
him so many isolated beings, all divided
by bits of lined and padded wood, called
" head cushions," from each other,
unable to speak to a neighbour, much
less to make love to one. The man
who invented such contrivances as
these was some fierce Malthusian,
some unregenerated Godwin, some
deplorable, cross, fusty, wretched, dis-
appointed, ugly old bachelor, who,
after having made as many offers of
marriage as he was years old, took to
hating the softer sex, and condemning
the rest of his species to travel with
some No. 75 or 77, in a coach from
London to Manchester, with out scarce-
ly being able even to see her features.
Then I hate to be fastened in a coach,
from which I cannot escape, except
•with the certainty of immediate death,
•without the permission of a steam-
engine. I have seen horses for forty
years. I have seen them on a theatre,
and on a field of battle ; in a camp, a
stable, a carriage, a palace, a draw-
ing-room ; and every where I have
found them obedient, tractable, kind-
hearted, gentle, timid, noble. When
I say " whoh," or " whoa," to a horse,
why, he whoh's at once — or, in plain
English, he stops. But you may say,
or shout, " whoh," or " whoa," to a
steam-engine, till your very heart
shall break, and your very lungs shall
burst, and he will pay no sort of at-
tention to you whatever. There you
are, six of you, isolated, each so many
inches of coach, great or small, Da-
niel Lambert or good Mr Beardsall,
the anti-intemperance Baptist minister
of Manchester, as thin as a shaving,
and quite as dry — you must all have
the same number of inches, and no in-
trusion on the territory of your neigh-
bour. Yes, there you are, fastened
in, boxed in, so well secured, that if
you had to make O'Rourke's journey
[April,
to the moon and back again, you need
not be afraid of being jolted out. How
infinitely preferable is the dear, old-
fashioned system ! When there is a
long hill and a fine prospect, the horses
stop, the guard gets down, opens the
door, invites you to alight — you offer
your arm to a lady — or, what is still
more agreeable, the rest of your fel-
low-travellers descend, but the lady
" prefers your pleasant society," and
remains tete-a-tete with you, whilst
thoughts breathe and words burn.
But nothing of this " sentimental'
travelling ever takes place in a rail-
way coach. Poor Sterne would have
been sadly put to it, if he had thus
been compelled to journey in the
French provinces ! Then I hate never
to be jolted, never to be rumbled
about, to be whirled along iron bars,
just like bales of goods, without a road,
and only with rails. Then I hate not
to alight when the horses ought to
change ; and when coals are taken in,
instead of a fresh team, and cold water,
instead of oats and beans. I hate not
to hear the horses shake themselves,
after having run their stage, not to see
the fresh and bright blood four-in-hand,
harnessed so brightly, and looking so
pretty and prancing, reading for start-
ing, waiting our arrival ; not to receive
the visit of the agile bar-maid, or
buxom landlady, arranging their lips
so invitingly, and asking you, " If
you would like to take something ? "
Why are we to be deprived of their
soft and sweet invitation, only to have
in exchange the groanings of a huge
iron tea-kettle, bursting with rage, or
with steam ? I do protest most hear-
tily against this substitution of ugli-
ness for beauty, hot steam for sweet
breath, and angry roaring for smil-
ing looks. Then I hate it " to be
expected" that I am to eat Ban-
bury cakes, and drink bottled ale
at a precise distance from London,
and so to eat and so to drink, wet or
dry, light or dark, cold or warm, in
the open air. No soup — no glass of
hot brandy and water— no ham sand-
wich— no quiet mutton chop just done
to a turn, and all ready for eating in
a quarter of an hour — no dinner — no
breakfast— no supper; but Banbury
cakes and cold ale, from January to
July, and from July to January. " If
this monopoly shall be submitted to,"
said I, " we shall soon be prohibited
from eating and drinking any thing
1839.] A Week at Manchester.
else ; and besides this, wo shall be
compelled each man to eat so many
cakes and drink so much beer." Then
I hate to go every where at the same
rate. Over the moor — through (not
up) the hill — along the valley — across
the river — every where, though the
country be dull and uninteresting,
verdant and laughing, or bold and
romantic — every where, along we rat-
tle and along we roar at the rate of
forty miles per hour, excluding stop-
pages. I once saw an Englishman
(but then he had a cork leg), stump
through the Louvre in sixteen minutes.
He boasted of his feats of rapidity,
though he had but one foot, and I
believe he undertook to see Europe in
a month. Just so acts that steam-en-
gine fellow, who drags you along up
lull and down dale, without giving you
permission or time even to exclaim,
" How beautiful ! "
Then I hate the horrible shriek of
the wheels and carriages some three
minutes before they stop, so horrible
that your very teeth chatter, and your
very head and ears ache or burn. I
hope Dr Lardner will have the po-
liteness to examine this crying evil,
and invent some remedy for this awful
system of setting our " teeth on edge."
Should he not succeed in this matter,
iron railways will soon be deserted.
Then I hate not to be allowed a mo-
ment's time to tell a fellow-traveller,
" Do look at Stafford Castle," for
before I have finished my sentence,
we are a mile off. And I hate not to
have a minute even to look at the
Cheshire hills, or at the Welsh moun-
tains, but to be hurried by them all as
if it were a sin to look at a hill, and
an offence against nature to admire a
mountain. Then I hate the insolent
notice to passengers, couched in the
following terms, as though the steam
directors were government inspectors
of their passengers' health and sto-
machs :— •
483
" No smoking is allowed in the station
houses. A substantial (hang their impu-
dence !) breakfast may be had at the sta-
tion house at Birmingham, by parties
going by the early train ; but no person
is allowed to sell liquors or eatables of
any kind upon the line."
Now, really this way of treating
" their patrons the public," I do hate
most cordially. Why should not kite
breakfasts be allowed, as well as early
ones? and why should not "light"
breakfasts be allowed, as well as sub-
stantial ones? and why should not
smoking be allowed in the station
houses ? Surely we do not travel by
gunpowder, as well as by steam. It
we did, there might be some dange.
in a cigar, but there can be none pos-
sibly from smoking in a station house.
" It's the old system of straining at
gnats, and swallowing camels," said
friend Lloyd, the Quaker banker at
Birmingham ; " the smoke of 10,000
cigars would never equal that of one
steam-engine. Yet the coal smoke is
healthy, I suppose, and the cigar smoke
otherwise." Bravo ! Friend Lloyd.
I think thy criticism well merited.
Then I hate to be left alone without
the engine at all, as I was lately be-
tween Wolverhampton and Stafford,
because the engine would not work
well, and on it ran alone, leaving all
the carriages forsaken, whilst the en-
gine, being first unyoked, worked its
course to Pankridge, and there got
mended. Some three quarters of an
hour afterwards the passengers heard
it roaring back again, and then again
we were dragged, nothing loath, the
rest of our way. The guard gave no
explanation. Horses there were none ;
coachmen none. The engineer had
bratted off with the engine. And the
" bozed-up," well imprisoned passen-
gers, were obliged to remain in quiet-
ness and sulkiness, till it pleased the
master to return. Then I hate to
have a leg torn off my poor body if I
get out of a carriage before it is lock-
ed, or an arm quietly born away in
triumph by another train, if I happen
to put it for a moment out of the win-
dow ; or both eyes put out with dust
and scalding steam, if I only forgot to
close the windows as we pass through
a tunnel. Then I hate not to be able
to stop in less than five minutes, and
then at some three miles distant, in
case I desire to change my route, or
alight, or should illness suddenly as-
sail either myself or a fellow-passen-
ger. Then I hate, when I arrive at
the end of the journey, to have to
watch for my luggage as a cat does
for a mouse, and pounce upon it and
drag it away (in spite of the furies),
or else have it carried off in triumph
by some one more nimble than myself.
Then I hate to have to travel some
484
A Week at Manchester.
[April,
two miles from the station house to
the town or city to which I am about
to proceed, though the night be dark
and gloomy, and though the train be
some hours " en retard." All this I
hate — yes, hate most cordially; and
so, really and truly, I hate railroads !
More celerity is the only advantage
secured by these inventions ; and as
I am no Manchester warehouseman,
Liverpool merchant, or Birmingham
manufacturer, I cannot appreciate (as
perhaps I ought to do) this steaming
through England.
But as people will make railways,
why, others will go and see them ; and
thus, more from pity for the poor
shareholders, than from a wish to tra-
vel quickly, I consented to be shot
through the air from Paddington to
Harrow, Watford, Tring, Towaster,
Daventry, Rugby, and Coventry, to
Birmingham ; and thence through
Wolverhampton, Stafford, Whitmore,
Hartford, and Warrington, to Man-
chester. I shall not describe the pe-
rils of the journey. If I had been a
young man, a young Quakeress might
have stolen my heart. If I had been
a timid man, the various awkward
signs and movements of the " roarer"
might have shaken my nerves. If I
had been a hungry man, the Banbury
cakes and ale would have been but a
poor substitute for a rump steak and
a boiled potato. And if I had been a
crusty man, the cross eyes of my op-
posite neighbour might have made me
ill-tempered. But I provided against
youth and falling in love, by having
a daughter of eighteen by my side —
against timidity, by fearing only God
and my own conscience — against hun-
ger, by eating a good luncheon before
starting, — and against ill humour, by
remembering that cross eyes are to
be set down as an infirmity, and not
as an offence. So, in spite of all mis-
fortunes and annoyances, we got safe-
ly to Birmingham — supped and slept
pleasantly at " The Stork" — and learn-
ed with pleasure that the Radical par-
ty had been for some time past rather
on the wane, and that the Conserva-
tives had waxed stronger and bolder,
and had begun to speak out.
Few places have been worse ma-
naged by the Conservative party than
Birmingham. Timothy East, the Ra-
dical Dissenter, educated at a place
called Hackney College, has long
preached to his gaping auditory the
" Voluntary principle." Addicted to
much smoking, and to even more tat-
tling, this reverend expounder of the
" Voluntary principle" has taken of
late to field preaching, and, during last
summer, edified his auditory by scraps
of Radical Methodism and illiterate
Dissenterism. His contemporary, but
not his coadjutor, Angell James, is a
man of another calibre. Wealthy,
fat, and saucy, he " lords it over his
heritage " in Cave's Lane, and preaches
to some four thousand persons against
the laws and government of his coun-
try, which, according to him, are the
sole causes of emigration. The lower
orders flock by thousands to these mi-
nistrations, and laud the " Voluntary
principle" to the skies, which supplies
them with such prophets and with
such teachers. But why are not the
working classes taken out of the hands
of these men ? Why do not the Pro-
testant Conservative clergy and laity
of Birmingham establish a Conserva-
tive Association — offer Conservative
prizes to the young — give Conserva-
tive lectures to the old — and teach
heads of families to feel and to know
that their best, their truest friends, are
Conservatives ? It is not true that the
manufacturing poor of England are
essentially Radicals. It is not true that
they are averse to the clergy, to the
aristocracy, to the Cburch, or to the
State. But they are an enquiring, an
examining, and an audacious popula-
tion ; but, let truth be presented to
them, and they would be bold in its
defence. The project now on foot, of
building several additional churches at
Birmingham, has been well received :
it is a measure as necessary as it is
wise. This is the beginning of good.
The Wesleyans are separated from
the Dissenters. This is another sub-
ject for gratitude and joy. Let the
Church and the Wesleyans unite
against the common enemy, and Bir-
mingham may yet be saved from the
Radicalism which threatens its de-
struction. Nothing would be easier
in Birmingham than to make a mighty
movement among the working classes
in favour of true Protestant Conserva-
tive principles, if the Church and the
Wesleyans would unite for this sacred
purpose. We know the Wesleyans
well. We know their loyalty, their
talent, their union, their numbers,
1839.]
their attachment to the
England, their conviction of the ne-
cessity for a state religion, their re-
spect, nay reverence, for our clergy,
their conviction " that it is the duty of
a government to provide a religion
for the lower orders," their abstinence
from all attempts to diminish or out-
vote church rates, their disapproval of
the conduct of political dissenters, and
their desire to see all that is truly Pro-
testant in our institutions maintained
and secured. We say, then, of Bir-
mingham, as we shall say of Manches-
ter— Let the Church and the Wesley-
ans unite, as far as union is possible,
and let some sacrifices be made on both
sides for securing a union, the advan-
tages of which would be universal to
the whole of this powerful empire.
The early train to Manchester con-
ducted us to this manufacturing me-
tropolis of the north ; and, as the
clock struck one, I found myself in
Market Street. Oh what a scramble !
What running! What galloping!
How William Allen rushed to one
omnibus, and James Carlton to ano-
ther ! There were the Hudsons and
the Gardners, the Brooks and the
Woods, the Westheads and the Wink-
worths, some short and some tall,
some corpulent and some small, all
rushing headlong down the street, one
to his Medlock Castle, and another to
his Pendleton Chateau, and a third to
his villa in the Oxford Road, and a
fourth to his mansion on Ardwick
Green — whilst a fifth drove off in
a " fly " to his fortified residence,
actually defended by some half-dozen
cannon, at the top of a hill in the envi-
rons of this vast northern capital. The
rush was truly terrific. Henry Hunt
and h'is Peterloo lads, did not fly with
more precipitation before the Man-
chester yeomanry, than did all these
merchants, bankers, and shopkeepers,
warehousemen, and clerks, precipitate
themselves from their mercantile esta-
blishments at this moment. The rush
of the clans from the mountains — of
the cataracts from the Alps into the val-
leys beneath — of three thousand pent-
up school-boys, all detained for bad
conduct, and then let out at once, only
just in time to reach home before dark
— of soldiers in a revolt — of Irish pea-
sants in arow — or of the Paris students
at an emeule — might be compared to
the scenes which may be daily wit-
nessed in the " city " portion of Man-
A Week at Manchester. 485
Church of Chester when the clock strikes one.
No other comparison could be institut-
ed which could express this mighty
movement as the moment of
draws near! Now, I am willing to
confess that I was ignorant, wholly
ignorant, till I beheld the scene, that
MANCHESTER dines at ONE ! ! ! Rich,
poor, ignorant, learned, Destructive,
Conservative, Dissenter, Churchman
the mass — yes, the mass, all dine at
one!! This would be a deplorable
state of things for any people ; but,
for Manchester warehousemen, with
their clerks, porters, servants, friends,
visitors, all to rush at ONE o'clock to
dinner, leaving the bank, the manu-
factory, the office — all — all — to take
care of themselves — is that which no
man in his senses would be justified in
believing, unless ocular demonstration
prevented him from doubting the ac-
curacy of the fact. In a vast many
houses of business, not even one soli-
tary clerk is to be found at the count-
ing-office from one to two — and, not in
one outof fifty is the principal to be
seen from one to three, and often
from one to four! Thus, the very
heart of the day — the very best portion
for mercantile operations, when the
light is best, when the head is clearest,
and when, in almost all countries
professing to be civilized, men devote
their time to their most important avo-
cations, is consumed at Manchester by
the DINNER!
" What are your hours of breakfast
and dinner?" I asked my amiable and
pretty landlady, who resides in Lever
Street. " At eight, sir, we breakfast ;
some take a little luncheon at eleven ;
we dine at one ; drink tea at five — and
sup at nine!"
" Mercy on us!" I replied, and I
felt, as it werer crushed beneath the
weight of such threatened provisions.
Now, only think of breakfasting
at eight off tea and coffee — muffins
and toast — eggs and broiled ham —
and sometimes beef steaks and cold
meat ! There was a gentleman present
named Thompson, who was no ene-
my to the conjunctive. He had always
tea and coffee, muffins and toast, eggs
and ham — whilst the host and hostess
could scarcely find a moment of repose
486
A Week at Manchester.
from their multifarious occupations.
And then, just think of that same Mr
Thompson,taking luncheon at eleven —
only a slice of bread and butter, a, little
cheese, a glass of sherry, and a thimble-
i fill of brandy ; and then imagine that
same Mr Thompson, at five minutes past
one, dispatching, in double quick time,
fish for two, boiled mutton for two,
pigeon-pie for one, roast beef for two,
•with ale upon ale, aud potatoe upon
potatoe, and then pudding, and tart,
and cheese — and yet at five o'clock
being hale, fresh, and hearty for tea
and coffee, muffins and toast — ay, and
cakes and tarts too (if they should fall
in his way) ; — and at nine o'clock eat-
ing veal cutlets, or rump steaks, roast
fowl, or cold roast beef, as if his last
meal had been that day fortnight.
" You have a good appetite, Mr
Thompson," I ventured to remark.
" Not so good as I had, seven years
ago," was the reply. I raised my eyes
more in sorrow than in anger — more
from pity than wrath. " Well, sir,
you still have a good appetite," I re-
joined. " Yes, sir, but I drink, ac-
cordingly," he retorted ; and there
closed our conversation . These habits
of frequent, early, and large eatings
and drinkings in Manchester are very
deplorable. I mean what I say — they
are very deplorable. Food, cakes,
meat, sandwiches, biscuits, wines,
meet you in every direction. It is
called hospitality. I wish less of that
virtue, or at least less of it in this
form, existed in Manchester. There
are some as " real good men and true,"
as " ever broke bread," in that weal-
thy old city, in spite of its early din-
ners aud four meals per diem ; but I
do pray the aristocracy, at least, of
that northern capital, to set a bet-
ter example to the democracy than
they do in this respect, and to begin
•with dinner at five, suppress luncheons
altogether, abolish suppers, and let
not each day be consumed in the de-
vouring of four meals, at the horrible
hours of eight, one, five, and nine.
There is another very disagreeable
practice in Manchester, which some
would call touting, but which there
rejoices in the name of hooking. A
strange face in High Street is the
signal for the hooks to begin, and
blessed is the man who can escape
being hooked some scores of times in
the course of half an hour's walk. In
order that I might make no possible
mistake about hooks and hooking, I
[April,
consulted a work of vast celebrity,
published in Manchester, entitled " A
Code of Common Sense, or Patent
Pocket Dictionary, by Geoffrey Gim-
crack, Gentleman :" and in this reper-
tory of Lancashire wit, fun, and frolic,
I found it thus written —
" HOOKEII-IN (See Catchflaf). A
gudgeon angler. A legion of honour
to certain public companies. An out-
door bailiff. A button-holder. A lob-
by-waiter at an inn. This word is
not national, and is only provincial ;
it is best understood and in most fre-
quent use at Manchester."
I then turned to the word Catchjlat,
and found as follows : —
" CATCHFLAT AND COMPANY. A
large tolerated trading community in
Manchester. (See Hooker.)"
And that " HOOKER or HOOK, a gud-
geon angler."
The hooks are the men who hook.
Sometimes they are called hookers.
Hooking is the art they practise. To
be hooked is to be pounced upon, laid
hold of, taken by the arm, patted upon
the shoulder, stroked down the back,
interrupted in your quiet stroll, begged
in, drawn in, persuaded in, by the
hooks aforesaid, who are men in the
employment of certain Manchester
warehousemen in High Street, Mar-
ket Street, &c. &c., paid to persuade
the strange faces in Manchester that
their merchandise is the very best, that
their prices are the very lowest, and
that, to adopt their own peculiar phra-
seology, " they have a lot of galloons
and doubles they can put you in for
next to nothing." If the bait take?,
you are hooked. In you are shown
to the warehouse. The inside hooks
receive you from the hands of the out-
side ones : and you are bandied and
boxed about from hook to hook, and
from floor to floor, till either you have
purchased for half your fortune, or
have driven the young men wild, by
your obstinate refusal to buy.
" , my lad," said
to his favourite hook, " look about
to-day ! As I went to Lever Street
to dinner, I saw a shoal of 'em arrive.
They have gone to the White Bear,
and will be out soon." The 'em
meant the gudgeons, i. e. the persons
to be hooked — i. e. new and strange
faces, who, on reaching Manchester by
the railway, put up at the commercial
house the White Bear. Now, as
is a radical hook of the first
celebrity, a word from >.- ..... was suf-
1839.] -4 Week at Manchester. 487
ficient ; and at half-past three he paced — , Market Street, and distributed in
up and down before the celebrated No. profusion the following inviting card:
" HOSIERY (unparalleled). GLOVES (unequalled). LACE (unrivalled). RIB-
BONS (of endless variety). SILKS (superior to those of Lyons). VELVETS (the
best in Europe). SATINS (sought for from all quarters of the globe). GROS
DE NAPLES (from Naples). SARSNETS (from Dresden). PERSIANS (from Per-
sia). CHAPES (the ne plus ultra of perfection). BOMBAZINES (better than those
of Norwich). BANDANAS (from India). ROMALS (from Rome). SILK STOCKS
(from Paris). GAUZE (light as a feather). ZEPHYR, &c. (fresh imported from
the Sun). COTTON HANDKERCHIEFS and SCARFS (from China). PLAIN, SPUN,
and PRINTED HANDKERCHIEFS (dirt cheap). GALLOONS and DOUBLES (given
away for nothing). SEWING SILKS (which never break). TWIST (which is
never untwisted). BUTTONS (whose shanks never break). BRACES (warranted
to last forty years, and be as good as new afterwards). TAPES and BED LACES
(the like of which never was seen before). WHALEBONE (that never breaks).
WIRES and PINS (of 300 sorts and sizes). PASTEBOARDS (white, black, and
grey — turn round three times and choose which you may). UMBRELLAS (war-
ranted never to wear out). SEWING COTTON (which never breaks). BALL'S
and REELS (without music). KNITTING COTTON (as strong as love). BONNET
COTTON (rather too good). COTTON CORD (strong enough to hang with), and
WORSTED, WOOLLEN, and VIGONIA YARNS (to see which alone is enough to re-
store sight to the blind)."
" Come," said I, as inveigled
his arm into mine, without the slight-
est movement on my part of intention
to purchase, " come, sir, what do you
take me for ? " "A wealthy pur-
chaser," replied . " You are mis-
taken, my friend ; I am only a traveller
for amusement, and have come to en-
joy a week's recreation at Manches-
ter." F'jr a moment the radical hook
looked abashed, but it was only for a
moment. " Never mind, sir — never
mind — travellers wear stockings, sir ;
gloves, sir ; give lace to their daugh-
ters, sir ; ribbons to their sweethearts,
sir ; silks to their mothers, sir ; velvets
to their wives, sir ; satins, Gros de
Naples, sarcenets and Persians, to all
their female friends, sir. I think you
are in mourning, sir ? Excellent
crapes and bombazines, sir ; will put
them in for nothing-, and pay you for
buying them, sir ; bandanas and rom-
als for yourself, sir ; must take a little
care of oneself, sir ; silk stocks for No.
l,sir ; gauze and zephyrs for your pic-
ture-frames and looking-glasses, sir;
dare say you've a fine collection, sir ;
Canton handkerchiefs and scarfs for
your nephews and nieces, sir ; plain
spun and printed handkerchiefs for
your servants, sir ; galloons and dou-
bles for domestic purposes, sir ; sew-
ing silks, twist, and buttons, for your
v/it'c's work-box, sir; braces for your-
self, sir ; tapes, bed laces, whalebone,
wire, and pins, for your daughters,
sir ; pasteboards for your ladies, sir,
who doubtless draw, sir ; umbrellas,
the most necessary article of all at
Manchester, sir, for out of 366 days
in a year, sir, it rains 365, sir ; sew-
ing cottons, balls, and reels, for good
housewife, sir ; no doubt your lady an
excellent housewife, sir ; knitting cot-
ton, bonnet cotton, cotton cord, all for
the fair sex, sir ; and as to our worsted,
woollen, and Vigonia yarns, pray, walk
in, sir — walk in, sir " — and in I was
walked, quite perplexed, embarrassed,
and stunned by this hurricane of words.
What transpired during the first few
moments of this my most unexpected
hooking, I will not attempt to describe.
If I did not lose my senses, I at least
lost my presence of mind ; but I was
soon roused from a sort of bewilder-
ing reverie by the importunities of a
young man, who asked me " What
article he should show me ? " Now, as
I had no notion of purchasing any ar-
ticle at all, my reply was "Gold."
This was sadly embarrassing to the
youth in question, and he told me to
walk up stairs. Determined to see the
frolic fairly out, I pursued my course
— ascended floor after floor, encoun-
tering clerk after clerk — and always
assailed by the same question, " What
article shall I show you, sir?" My
reply was uniformly the same, "Gold;"
till at last I arrived at himself.
To him I explained how I had been
hooked, how I had protested, and how
I had replied ; but he could not see
the wit of answering "gold" instead
488
A Week at Manchester.
[April,
of " galloons," and did not appear at
all convinced, notwithstanding all my
remonstrances, of the impropriety of
" hooking." is, after all, a very
good-natured man.
Though is the most notorious
hook in all Birmingham, he is by
no means the only one of acknow-
ledged merit. , , and
have long distinguished themselves
by their audacity ; and I was cre-
dibly informed that the six most
noted hooks bear the awful titles of
' Plague," " Pestilence," and " Fa-
mine," " Battle," " Murder," and
" Sudden Death." I believe that
is honoured with the title of
Plague ; and really he well deserves
it. I wish the merchants and ware-
housemen of Manchester would call a
meeting, the special object of which
should be, to discountenance and put
down all hooks and hooking. Let
only the resolution be passed, that
any merchant or warehouseman em-
ploying a hook shall be sent to Co-
ventry, and that no commercial or
friendly relations shall be maintained
with him, and, in less than two days,
the system would be knocked on the
head. It is really disgraceful to
houses of opulence and respectability,
in a place like Manchester, to employ
servants and clerks to hustle and maul
about every new-comer, with a view
of getting him to enter their depots of
merchandise. There is no parallel to
it but in Rag Fair or Broker Row.
But the birth-place of " Old John of
Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster" —
" Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my
lord,
Suddenly taken ; and hath sent post haste
To intreat your majesty to visit him ''
deserves some other notice than com-
plaints against its early dinners and
its annoying " hooks." It was in
Manchester that Hugh Oldham was
born, a worthy predecessor, by two
hundred years, of the present Bishop
of Exeter. He founded the Grammar
School of Manchester, to this day an
institution worthy of the capital which
contains it. It was in this same old-
fashioned town that John Bradford, the
Protestant Reformer, first drew his
breath ; and, in the early part of his
career, the people not being ready in
embracing the Word of God, he de-
precated, in the warmth of his energy,
the indifference they displayed, and
prophesied that, as a punishment for
their lukewarmness, the mass should
be again said in the collegiate church,
and the profane mummeries of the
past age of superstition again be
enacted within its walls. And when,
on the death of Edward, Mary ascend-
ed the throne, and Popery again be-
came the state religion, mass was
celebrated in that church, and the pa-
geantry of Robin Hood and Maid
Marian was enacted, as of yore, with-
in its chancel, men looked upon Brad-
ford as a prophet, and many hundreds
became secretly converts to his creed.
His last words, as the flames began
to consume his mortal frame, were
these, — " O England, England, re-
pent thee of thy sins! Beware of
idolatry ; beware of antichrists, lest
they deceive thee."
In Manchester, too, it was that the
celebrated Doctor John Dee was born,
who became so celebrated, in the
reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King
James, for his " communion with spi-
rits," and his powers of " enchant-
ment." The pages of biography pre-
sent us with few lives so full of thril-
ling interest as those of Dee, whose
power " to cast out evil spirits " was
believed at every court in Europe,
most of which he visited, and, after
the strangest vicissitudes of fortune,
died at the advanced age of eighty-
one, with a broken heart and ruined
fortunes, in his old dilapidated man-
sion at Mortlake.
Here, too, John Booker, the astro-
loger and impostor, whose Bloody
Irish Almanac is as scarce as it is
curious, was born ; and John Byrone,
the inventor of short-hand, and the
tool of the Stuarts, whose powers of
satire were of the highest order, and
whose muse, at that time, was second
to few. The name of Dr Thomas
Percival is also associated with Man-
chester, and of whom the late Arch-
bishop of Dublin has written, — " He
was an author without vanity, a phi-
losopher without pride, a scholar with-
out pedantry, and a Christian without
guile." Thomas Barritt, the devoted
disciple of antiquarianism, was also a
native of the town of Manchester;
and Thomas Henry, whose chemical
discoveries have placed him high on
the list of the benefactors of science,
and the improvers of the human race.
The honoured name of Doctor Dalton
likewise belongs to Manchester. His
1839.]
A Week at Manchester,
489
meteorological kno wledge was the most
perfect ever yet attained ; and his
New System of Chemical Philosophy
will survive many a rolling year, as a
memorial of his vast research and deep
powers of thought and combination.
And why should not Sir Robert Peel,
the father of the present statesman,
though not born in Manchester, yet be
connected with it? It would be unjust
to deprive the town of that honour.
He was one of the most active, intel-
ligent, and successful of the merchants
who frequented her markets ; and,
when a banker in that place, added to
his former reputation by his honour-
able and consistent conduct. Few men
have contributed more than the father
of the present Sir Robert Peel to the
commercial prosperity of Manchester.
Good Mrs Fletcher, whose Lays of
Leisure Hours have enabled us all, in
our turn* to pass a leisure hour most
pleasantly ; and Henry Liverseege, the
painter ; and Charles Swain, the poet,
of whom, and of whose writings,
Southey has said, " Swain's poetry is
made of the right materials : if ever
man were born to be a poet, he was ;
and if Manchester is not proud of him
yet, the time will certainly come when
it will be so," — were all natives of that
place. And, finally, Ainsworth, the
author of Winter Tales, Sir John
Chiverton, Rookwood, and Crichton ;
and De Quincey, whose Confessions
of an English Opium-Eater are part
and parcel of the literature of the
country.
With such a phalanx of recom-
mendations and associations, it would
indeed be extraordinary if I had no-
thing worthy of recording of this
northern capital, but its faults or its
follies. Its early dinners, its four
meals per diem, and its commercial
hooks, are there only the spots in the
sun ; and I am much mistaken, if, be--
fore I terminate my week's journal, it
will not be understood and felt, that
really many more than seven days
may be passed most agreeably in
this manufacturing metropolis of the
north.
Good Mr Wheeler has written a
most capital book, entitled, Man-
chester ; its political, social, and com-
mercial history, ancient and modern.
He begins at the beginning, and goes
on to the end, conducting his delight-
ed readers from the time of the abo-
rigines, when Manchester " was ori-
ginally a dense forest, the domain of
birds and beasts," to the period when,
in May 1836, there were employed
in the cotton-mills of Manchester,
24,447 males, and 29,210 females. As,
however, his book can be purchased of
my friends Love and Barton, in Market
Street, for the small sum of twelve shil-
llings, I shall not do him the injustice
to cite page after page from its admir-
able contents, but intreat all lovers of
topographical history to procure, with-
out delay, this most valuable addition
to any library ; besides which, after
the following appeal to the critics,
which we extract verbatim from his
Introduction, we should really be in-
curring a fearful responsibility were
we to utter a single word but in its
favour : — " Ready means of acquiring
information on these topics have long
been needed ; and surely he who has
striven to supply them, albeit prompted
to the task in part by the pardonable
ambition of having his name associated
with that of his native town, may fairly
claim that, if he be summoned at all
before the securifera cater va of critics,
their dreadful hatchets may be veiled,
as of old, in the peace-proclaiming
fasces, and his work be spared from
actual annihilation."
But, who is this, with smiling face
and benignant mien, approaching us,
in front of the Infirmary — a true
specimen of an English gentleman,
who has made his fortune in Manches-
ter— " owes all he has of respect and
happiness, wealth and rank, to Man-
chester ;" and who is "resolved, by
the blessing of God, to do all he can
to promote its welfare and improve-
ment ?" This is THOMAS TOWNEND,
of the Polygon, the treasurer of the
godlike institution, before which we
are placed, and the liberal supporter
of every society which has for its ob-
ject either the moral or physical ame-
lioration of the population of his native
town. Possessed of an immense for-
tune, a well-improved mind, a noble
and generous heart, of easy and gen-
tlemanly manners, and of true Protes-
tant Conservative principles, Thomas
Townend is just the sort of man who
should be returned to Parliament, if
his modesty did not make him shrink
from so conspicuous a position, and
cause him to tremble lest he should
not perform, to his own satisfac-
tion, the important duties of a Bri-
tish legislator. But such a man as
490
A Week at Manchester.
[April,
Thomas Townend is of the sort, the
class of men, whom we should wish
to see elected in our manufacturing
districts, taking with them all the
weight and influence which wealth,
intelligence, enlightened patriotism,
and moral character must confer. His
daughter, the image of his mind, is
worthy of such a father ; and we pass-
ed many happy hours in their elevat-
ed and agreeable society.
Let us into the Infirmary. It is
situated in Piccadilly, in the heart of
Manchester. In the course of the
year, about 20,000 patients profit from
its establishment, and from the Dis-
pensary which is connected with it.
But whom have we here ? It is Wilson,
one of the surgeons of the establish-
ment. He invites us to accompany
him round the wards, to see the cases
under his management — and it is too
good an occasion for a careful exami-
nation of this admirable institution,
not to avail ourselves of his offer.
Wilson is a fine-hearted, noble, gene-
rous creature, an excellent surgeon, a
perfect anatomist, with a steady hand,
piercing eye, gentle heart, but manly
and vigorous mind. He is most assi-
duous in his attentions to the poor
creatures who come under his inspec-
tion ; and they received his visits with
evident gratitude and affection. What
a deplorable complication of calami-
ties did we witness, principally the re-
sult of accidents at the various mills
and manufactories in the town ! Not-
withstanding all thejjerfection of the
machinery in Manchester, the mere
coming in contact with so many
wheels, perpetually in motion, and
with such large and weighty bodies —
and the constant working of steam-
engines, with all their dependencies,
must entail many physical evils, and
bring about many a case of cruel suf-
fering and loss of limb. So we saw
feet torn off from legs, and arms se-
vered from bodies, and hands literally
crushed, and heads laid open to the
brain. But all was cleanliness, order,
attention, neatness, and with the soli-
tary exception of a poor fellow, with
an approaching lock -jaw, all appeared
to be progressive. The large "salles"
in which the patients are placed, are
light, airy, and well lighted. The
walls are cleanly, the bedsteads are
iron, the temperature of the rooms is
well maintained ; there is a perfect
freedom from unpleasant odours ; and
the students appeared to be quiet and
delicate in their attention to their pa-
tients. The food of the Infirmary was
good — the bread of a most excellent
character — the beer very palateable ;
and we learnt with pleasure, that pa-
tients in a state of convalescence are
allowed to choose their own viands, be
they ever so expensive. There, how-
ever, as every where else in England,
baths form too little of the regular and
accustomed regime of the sick. In
France, the baths are every moment
at hand, in which to place the suffer-
ers, and they are used as well to pro-
mote cleanliness, as to diminish pain,
and subdue disease. In Manchester,
the bath is a state affair ; and the patient
has to be carried into an adjoining
room, and across a stone gallery, to
the bath-room. We thought, also,
that the fact of the wards being on the
first and second floors, was ' rather a
drawback— and we prefer, as much as
possible, that patients shall be on the
ground, or first floors. On the whole,
however, we were gratified with our
visit to the Infirmary ; and, above all,
to learn that the most assiduous and
proselyting visits of the Papist priests
to the poor patients, and that at late
hours of the night, were to be in fu-
ture discontinued, and spiritual advice
and consolation administered by an
established and permanent chaplain.
Not, indeed, that any Papist is to be
debarred the visits of his priest, if he
desire it ; but, on the other hand, that
poor Protestants are not to be assailed
anddisturbedin their hours of weakness,
sorrow, and suffering, by these minis-
ters of a religion to which they did not
adhere in their days of health and
of gladness, and who avail themselves
of the then state of the sufferers, to ob-
tain from them their assent to a faith
which, inadvertently, they may then
adopt. Let the real bona fide Papist
be allowed to receive the visits of his
priest : but let his visits be to the bona
fide Papist only, and not to the Pro-
testant poor in the Infirmary.
Besides his attention to the sufferers
at the hospital, Wilson has a large and
highly respectable practice in the
town, where he appears to be honour-
ed with the esteem and confidence of
the wealthy and the wise. To Man-
chester belongs the honour of having
established \hefirst provincial school
of medicine and surgery, and the ex-
ample thus set, has been followed by
1839.]
A Week at Manchester.
491
Birmingham, Sheffield, Bristol, Hull,
Nottingham, and other towns. In
the Infirmary, in one year, 4058
cases of accidents were admitted — and
135 capital operations performed in it.
The fever ward contains 100 beds, and
the Lying-in Hospital, Lunatic Asy-
lum, Charlton-on-Medlock Lying-in
Charity, Eye Institution, Lock Hos-
pital, and the six dispensaries, also
offer the most abundant supplies, both
of medical and surgical information.
The medical schools in Manchester are
now in a flourishing and satisfactory
state — and the day cannot be far distant,
when the restriction placed upon the
pupils 'attendance on the surgical prac-
tice at the Royal Infirmary, by the
Council of the College of Surgeons in
London, — inasmuch, as this large insti-
tution does not enjoy equal privileges
respecting certificates of attendance
on the surgical practice, with some of
the hospitals in London, containing
scarcely fifty beds, — will no longer be
necessary, and must, therefore, be
done away. There was a time, and
that not remote, when the question of
provincial medical schools was at best
a doubtful one, and when there was
reason to apprehend that the courses
of public instruction pursued in the
metropolis, would be superseded or in-
terfered with by these 'local establish-
ments. But experience has shown
that these apprehensions were ill
founded ; and it is now demonstrated,
that the general interest of the profes-
sion has been promoted by the spirit
of emulation, and increased activity
and zeal, excited amongst the metro-
politan lecturers, by the generous ri-
valry of provincial teachers.
The institutions of Manchester par-
take of the character of the people,
and the nature of their occupations
and pleasures. This is always the
case ; and the character of a city or
town may be tested by its public build-
ings. In Paris, you behold the churches
of former days, and the theatres of
present times. In London, there are
shipping, bridges, banks, custom-
houses, and every thing denoting the
existence of a vast commercial people.
In Manchester, there are factories,
schools, churches, chapels, hospitals,
the Royal Institution, the Natural
History Society, the Mechanics' Insti-
tution, the Exchange Room, the Cham-
ber of Commerce, but two theatres, a
savings' bank, medical schools, Hu-
mane Society, Provident Society, Deaf
and Dumb Institution, and the Jubi-
lee, or Ladies' Female Chanty School.
It was a jubilee to us, to witness so
much of moral and physical good be-
ing communicated to so many thou-
sands of our fellow-creatures by these
public establishments.
The CHURCH OF ENGLAND SUNDAY
SCHOOL in Burnet Street, Manchester,
is worth travelling from Constanti-
nople and back again in the dead of
the winter, merely to see for a few
hours. Imagine a large building —
an immense building, of five stories
high, well lighted, well warmed, clean,
healthy, and ventilated, filled on a
Sunday with six separate schools of
500 each, all trained up in the doc-
trine and discipline of our blessed and
glorious Church of England. Ima-
gine 500 of these children (bless their
pretty tongues !) all singing at the tip-
top of their voices the delicious hymn
of Heber, the mere perusal of which
causes the heart to gladden and re-
vive!
" From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strands,
Where Afric's sunny fountain?
Roll down their golden sands ;
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain."
And then imagine six of these schools,
all forming part of one great school
of 3000 children, all singing one after
the other this appeal to British bene-
volence and to British piety ! I know
of nothing in the wide world so lovely
as children, and nothing so harmo-
nious as children's voices — and I would
rather have a game of play with a
child than talk politics or literature,
science or poetry, with the wisest man
on earth — and would rather listen to
the music of these 3000 children sing-
ing on a Sunday the praises of their
God, than to any music or melody out
of heaven. Upon my word I would.
Our companion in this visit was a man
of whom all Manchester has a kind
word to say, Mr William Townend
of High Street. He is the brother of
Thomas Townend, of the Polygon, of
whom we have already spoken. How
the dear children's eyes brightened
up, as they saw this excellent man
enter their respective school-rooms !
They appeared to feel towards him as
492
to a father. It was really delightful
to witness so much gratitude and love.
The schools are held during the great-
est portion of the day on Sunday, and
sermons are prached, prayers read,
and instruction given in these various
rooms. The system of teaching is
partly that of Doctor Bell. The
teachers are numerous and attentive,
and appear to take a deep interest in
their work. The scholars are so ad-
mirably classed, and so efficiently di-
rected, that we never saw in any scho-
lastic establishment such perfect order
and discipline.
I have observed, during the last
few years, with deep regret, the in-
creased attention which is paid by the
members of the Church of England,
to that portion of the services of
the church, which is peculiarly hu-
man in its character — I mean the ser-
vices of the clergy ; and how much
less attention is paid to the Liturgy,
prayers, and praises of public wor-
ship. This is an importation from the
dissenting school. In most dissenting
chapels, where the service lasts from
one hour and forty minutes to tw o hours,
not more than ten minutes are devoted
to the reading the word of God, not
more than a quarter of an hour to
prayer ; and, with the exception of two
short hymns, or selections from them,
the rest of the time is occupied by the
sermon. This lamentable inattention
to the most important parts of divine
worship is gaining ground in the
Church of England ; not, indeed, that
its sublime prayers are not read, but
the responses are too often left to the
parish-clerk alone to make, and the
prayers are " got over" with too great
precipitation. Hence, also, arises the
fact, that many Episcopalians now
reach church when the prayers are
half over, and sometimes during the
communion service, " just in time for
the sermon" — as though to praise
God, to pray to Him, to confess our
belief in Him, and to hear His most
holy revelation read to the great con-
gregation, were inconsiderable por-
tions of public worship. At some
churches in Manchester, I observed
that this most deplorably bad habit of
attending late at divine service was
gaining ground. But there, as else-
where, this was often the fault of the
incumbent or his substitute. Where
the prayers are well read, loudly, dis-
tinctly, with due emphasis, and evi-
A Week at Manchester.
[April,
dent conviction of their importance,
the congregation is sure to do its duty,
and to be regular and early in atten-
dance. I was much pleased, more
than I can tell, with the reading of
prayers at St. George's, Hulme, by
the incumbent, the Rev. Mr Lingard,
who, though inclined to Pusseyism in
his opinions, is a zealous and faithful,
active and able clergyman. Mr Lin-
gard has lately taken for his curate
the Rev. Charles Baldwin, one of the
sons of Mr Baldwin, the proprietor of
the Standard, and the Conservative
candidate for the borough of Lambeth.
I had the satisfaction of hearing Mr
Baldwin preach an admirable and ef-
fective sermon, on the necessity of
leaving to the authorized, duly edu-
cated, and Episcopally ordained clergy,
the task of explaining to the people
the word of G-od. Hook's Sermon
before the Queen, had made a pro-
found impression in Manchester. That
impression had extended to Mr Lingard
and Mr Baldwin, and they felt the ne-
cessity of rendering more pre-eminent
than ever the fact, that there is such a
thing as schism, and that schism is not
a failing, but a sin. Mr Baldwin bids
fair to become a bold, manly, and en-
lightened defender of the Church of
England, himself a living proof of the
influence it exercises on the character
and usefulness of its ministers. Mr Lin-
gard is a man of considerable acquire-
ments, and of agreeable and social
talents, and whose pastoral exertions
are not unknown to, or unappreciated
by the Pastoral Aid Society.
There are few places in the world
where so much money is given as at
Manchester, and, therefore, charity
sermons, or public meetings for cha-
rities, are almost daily. I was pre-
sent at one of these meetings, in the
Corn Exchange. It was presided over
by the Rev. Hugh Stowell. The object
was a Protestant Irish charity, and
the delegates were Irish clergymen.
Acting on their new tactics, the Pa-
pists sent to the meeting one of their
agents, who insisted on the right of
speaking, and who created a scene of
such noise and confusion, that the
religious festival resembled a bear-
garden riot. Although, on most oc-
casions, public meetings, held to
discuss Romanist doctrines, I deplore,
rather than applaud, yet there are
moments when such assemblies are
desirable, and there are .events which
1839.]
A Week at Manchester.
493
fully justify them. But this was a
meeting of a different character, and
Mr Stowell was quite right in re-
fusing, as chairman, " to submit to
the dictation of Papist emissaries."
This Was a Protestant meeting, con-
voked to support a Protestant ob-
ject ; and as those only were invited
who were favourable to the mea-
sure, the Papists, if they attended,
owed it to the rules of order, peace,
and good - breeding, to be quiet.
When Protestants do all attend at
Papist meetings and interrupt their
deliberations, the Romanists will have
the right of retaliation ; but until such
a deplorable line of conduct shall be
adopted by them (and which I hope
never will be the case), the presidents
of public meetings will do well to
imitate the bold and manly conduct of
Mr Stowell, and refuse to allow Pa-
pist advocates to interrupt the har-
mony of Protestant associations.
Although, however, there are few
places in the world where " the art of
giving" is so well understood as at
Manchester, there are a vast many
persons who resort to the old estab-
lished custom of inventing excuses for
their avarice or meanness. The grand
arcanum of their art is to get out of
all giving, by setting one charitable
institution in competition with another :
so that when their subscription is ask-
ed to forward the one, they descant
warmly in behalf of the other. Thus,
suppose their assistance is required to
form a fund to relieve married women
at their own houses during their lying-
in ; this being a particular and limited
object, the Manchester non-giver will
declare himself in some such terms as
the following, in favour of the general
one : — " Do you all you can, sir, with
your lying-in-at-home-plan, you can
but make them comfortable by halves ;
for you never can render their accom-
modations at home such as persons in
their situation require : a general hos-
pital would answer the purpose so
much better, that I wonder the com-
mittee did not think of that. No, sir,
you must excuse me, I never support
half measures."
But, suppose, on the other hand this
plan to have been the one adopted,
and that the application is in favour
of a lying-in hospital : against these
institutions the non-giver will inveigh
as encouraging vice by indiscriminate
admission ; or, if indiscriminate ad-
mission be not allowed, against the
cruelty of excluding any female in
such a situation ; adding, " that he is
surprised such and such things did not
occur to the committee."
The friends of the Bible Society are
numerous and active ; should one of
them apply to these sytematic non-
givers, he has always " the Bartlett's
Buildings Society" to call to his aid ;
or, in Ireland the association for dis-
countenancing vice, &c. ; and he will
declare, with a broad and saucy face,
" that he cannot conceive how the
common people are to derive any ad-
vantage from reading the Prophecies
of Ezekiel, or the Epistles of St Paul ;
that he sees no advantage likely to
result from distributing Bibles among
an uneducated peasantry, and that he
wishes the attention of the nation
were turned to a system of general
education."
Where any society proposes to
merge every petty difference, and to
unite all parties in furthering some
benevolent object, the non-giver will
refuse his subscription, by alleging,
" For my part, I don't pretend to that
false liberality which professes to
know no distinction among the poor
or the unhappy ; and I think all reli-
gions ought to take care of their own
poor." Should any society deem it
expedient to adopt a different line of
conduct, and to limit its constitution
and its operations to one particular
religious denomination, and on this
principle apply to the non-giver for
support ; his answer at Manchester is,
" I cannot support this society, sir,
for it has fallen into the hands of a
party. I abhor the idea of making
any distinction among the objects of
charity."
When applied to, to support a mis-
sionary society, they answer, *' What
can a black fellow know about reli-
gion ? How can you make a Green-
lander understand Christianity ? Lay
a substratum of civilisation, and begin
by teaching them to take care of their
bodies, before you say any thing of
their souls." To enable these non-
givers to act on this principle to the
fullest extent, they inform themselves
of the fundamental regulations of each
society, and then, in order to get rid
of some importunate and pressing ap-
plicant, they ask, with an apparently
most candid and innocent air, why some
rule (which would have been directly
494
A Week at Manchester.
subversive of the principles of the
society), was not adopted : and often
add, that if such and such a regulation
were passed (which they know never
could be), they would at once sub-
scribe. Thus, these men " would
willingly subscribe to the British and
Foreign Bible Society, if prayer-books
were distributed as well as Bibles ;"
or to the Hibernian Bible Society, " if
they would consent to circulate the
Douay Testament ;" or to Dr Bell's
schools, " if they would consent sim-
ply to make selections from the Holy
Scriptures, instead of placing the whole
Bible in the hands of infants."
In spite of all these non -givers, so
numerous and so formidable in Man-
chester, there are, it must be avowed,
a powerful body of givers ; many of
them party ones, ostentatious ones,
and reluctant ones ; but take the mass
together, very large, wealthy, and
important givers. Of course, the
Church of England stands, as usual,
at the head of the list ; next the Wes-
leyans ; and then at an almost im-
measurable distance, the Independents
and other branches of Dissenters.
But, though Protestants and Pro-
testantism occupied a large portion,
it did not consume all my time at
Manchester: and it is now time to
turn to some of the public institutions
and private circles of that wealthy and
powerful place.
What a splendid collection of pic-
tures there is to be seen in Market
Street, the property of Mr William
Townend. There is a Minerva, by
Rubens, protecting the genius of
Charity, Plenty, &c. from the rapine
of war ; a landscape by Aubel Co-
maci ; the Virgin with the infant
Saviour appearing to St Anthony,
who is bending on his knees before
them in adoration, by Vandyke ; the
Rich Man and Lazarus, by old Francks;
a Glen, with Warriors reposing, by
Salvator Rosa ; and a Battle-piece, a
representation of the Crusades, by the
same master ; • Angels administering
to the penitent Magdalen, by Guido ;
a Spanish larder, by Velasquez ; an
Italian sea-port, by Claude ; a sketch
by Gainsborough ; a young Spanish
lady reading in a book, by Morrello ;
a small head of Christ, by Carlo Dol-
ci ; a landscape, representing twilight,
by Rembrandt; a Virgin and Child,
by Raphael ; and such an Ecce Homo,
by Carlo Dolci, as I would travel from
[April,
Manchester to Land's- End barefoot
and bareheaded in the burning days
of July but to gaze on for a quarter of
an hour. Then there are three saints
by Raphael ; the adoration, by Rem-
brandt ; a Virgin and Child, by Sir
Joshua Reynolds ; a small fishing-
piece, by Veruet ; a portrait of an
old Woman, by Rembrandt ; a por-
trait of a Fiddler, by Ostade ; a por-
trait of a Lady, by Vandyke ; a Gen-
tleman drinking, by Rubens ; the
Murder of the Innocents, by Poussin ;
and two Frescos, by Paul Veronese.
Teniers' Dutch Boors at Bowls, is
delicious ; Guide's Angels adminis-
tering to the penitent Magdalen, is
perfect ; and the Misers, by Quintin
Matsys, is the ne plus uli.rn of life and
genius — it is perfectly magical. These
are, however, but a few of the beauties
of this matchless collection. This
gallery is to be sold. What a disgrace
to the town of Manchester that it does
not purchase it ! The proprietor has
had its value estimated by a jury of
the most competent judges, and the
price is L. 19,000. It is worth double
that sum, if it be worth a farthing.
But take it at L.19,000, the official
estimate, how lamentable and hovv dis-
graceful it is, that Manchester, with
its millions of wealth, and of float-
ing unemployed capital, should allow
such a collection as this to be disposed
of by a sort of lottery or raffle. Yet
this is the case ; and tickets of five
pounds each to the number necessary
to make up the L.19,000, are being
privately placed by the proprietor. I
call this a disgrace to such a town as
Manchester, wher^ the Wesleyan
Methodists alone, in four days,
raised L. 28,000 towards their cen-
tenary fund. For my part, I fear
that the French Civil List may run
away with some of the most valuable
of these pictures to adorn their gallery
at Versailles, already so richly stored
with every work of art. Why should
not Manchester have its gallery as
well as Versailles ? It is not a want
of taste, or of manly patriotism, that
kept back the good men of Manches-
ter from this, or from any other gene-
rous and noble act ; but " business —
business," absorbs all their time — and
men who will dine at two o'clock can-
not be expected to assemble together
to form a truly national gallery of
painting and sculpture. And, really,
the Royal Manchester Institution, in
1839.]
spite of all its unquestionable merits,
is sadly in want of such a collection.
This institution claims a rank, if not
the first, at least the second place in
the literary and scientific associations
of the town. The " Manchester In-
stitution, for the Promotion of Litera-
ture, Science, and the Arts," was found-
ed in 1823, and one of its first objects
was the establishment of a collection
of the best models that can be obtained
in painting and sculpture, the opening
of a channel through which the works
of meritorious artists may be brought
before the public, and the encourage-
ment of literary and scientific pursuits
by facilitating the delivery of popular
courses of public lectures. The annual
income of this society is, unhappily,
too small to admit of its being as useful
as otherwise it would be, for its re-
ceipts are only £480 — and its expen-
diture, in chief rents, taxes, insurances,
porters' wages, &c., &c., £450, leav-
ing only an insignificant balance of
£30, applicable to lectures, &c. The
building1, in Mosley Street, has absorb-
ed about £23,000, and that which was
originally designed to be expended in
enriching the interior of the edifice
with works of art, has been devoted to
the exterior construction. How sad it
is that a vast effort is not made in Man-
chester to raise a large permanent fund,
the income of which shall be for ever
appropriated to the gradual, but cer-
tain improvement of this important
society.
The " Natural History Society of
Manchester" is justly celebrated for
its beautiful ornithological collection.
The geological and mineralogical
collections are less striking ; and the
foreign fish, foreign Crustacea, and
foreign shells, present but little of mo-
ment. The collection of quadrupeds is
inconsiderable ; that of South Ameri-
can fruits attracts much notice ; but
all are unimportant when compared
to the collection of birds. Cuvier's
classification is followed in the arrange-
ment, -though a great number of spe-
cimens will be found, not named by
that great philosopher and naturalist.
On the whole, this society is entitled to
great praise, and cannot fail of being
admired by all who visit it.
Of course, I visited the Exchange
»Room, the Portico, the Chamber of
Commerce, the Manchester Subscrip-
tion Library, and the Concert Hall,
the latter of which is respectably sup-
ported by six hundred animal subscrib-
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXII.
A. Week at Manchester.
465
ers of five pounds. Of the Savings'
Bank and Mechanics' Institution I
only know this — that they are both
thriving.
But, above and before all things,
Manchester is the town for business.
All attempts to Radicalise it must
therefore fail. The working classes
are not on the whole democratic. Par-
son Stephens may preach Radicalism
and levelling to a few hundred vaga-
bonds— as Henry Hunt once did the
same thing, on the now almost forgot-
ten field of Peterloo. But take the
people in mass in Manchester — they
are essentially men of business. Every
thing is subservient to their ware-
houses, their customers, and their cor-
respondence. This is undoubtedly the
great cause of their wealth and pro-
sperity— and is one reason why they
are pacific and loyal. Occasional
ebullitions are but of little real import-
ance. In a few weeks the traitor and
the treason are forgotten — and the men
return to the power-looms, or the self-
acting mule, with all their wonted
energy and accustomed delight. But
then, as Manchester is, above and be-
fore all things, a place of business, it
is by no means one of relaxation or
pleasure.
All the wealth, talent, character,
and influence of Manchester, are Con-
servative. The Dissenters are by
far less "political" in that town than
in Birmingham. Though many arc-
fanatics against church-rates, and fu-
rious for the " Voluntary Principle,"
they are, on the whole, a very dif-
ferent race of men to the Non-con-
formists of Birmingham. Let us hope
that the six hours' transit between th.ese
two commercial marts, will not be un-
favourable to the character of the Dis-
senters of Manchester. They have
nothing to gain from their contact
with them — but may lose much of their
piety, sobriety, and usefulness. Let
ur rather hope that the vulgar aspe-
rities of the Dissenting character in
Birmingham may be softened down
and improved, by coming more fre-
quently in contact with the Crewd-
sons, the Winkworths, the Joules,
and other respectable and well-con-
ducted Dissenters of Manchester.
The pleasures and amusements
of Manchester are but few — fewer
than would be expected in such a
town, with such a varied population.
Amongst the higher classes, dinner
parties appear to be particularly in
2 i
460
A Week at Manchester.
[April,
vogue ; and the splendour of some of
the tables may vie with London, or
any capital in Europe. I wish, how-
ever, they would vary their viands a
little more than they do, and not for
ever present us with boiled fowls and
white sauce, cod's head and shoulders,
and roast beef. Twice a-week this
could be borne with patience — but
really, when the twice is transformed
into six, it becomes unsupportable.
The fate of the side dishes at Man-
chester, is most amusing. No one
thinks of partaking of them. The top
and bottom dishes are alone honoured
with notice — and the mutton patties,
veal olives, and curry and rice, remain
as useless ornaments upon the table.
If some London or Paris visitor ven-
tures to ask for a portion of these mere
adornings of the table, he is instantly
assailed with the enquiry, " What, will
you not take some bdil'd fowl ?" " Do
you not like roast beef?" as though it
were a sin of the deepest die not to
prefer the top and bottom monsters,
to the little knick-knacks of the side
dishes. The Manchester tables are
admirably supplied with " entremets,"
and Very himself could not present
so inviting a list in the Palais Royal.
But, then, why is all the champagne,
sillery, at Manchester ? Oh, how I do
hate still champagne ! The noise of
the cork is worth half-a glass, and the
foam, bright and sparkling, the other
half. I would rather hear that " bang,"
and laugh at that foam, than drink a
bucket of your insipid and twaddling
sillery. But who shall describe the
dessert, the mahogany tables, brighter
than ten thousand mirrors, and " the"
port of Manchester ? Thomas Town-
end's port wine, mahogany tables, and
giant filberts, will indeed long hold a
large and comprehensive space in the
best apartments of any memory. At
Manchester, as every where else, the
ladies will retire, the gentlemen will
regret it ; and politics and business
absorb the conversation of the even-
ing. After all, however, dinner par-
ties are pleasant sort of things, but not
when the dinneriiour is five, and when
you have to drive at least three miles
from your hotel or house, to partake
of the repast. Almost all of the weal-
thy men live too far off their places of
business, and the centre of the town —
so that, it is by no means an unimpor-
tant matter to decide how you are to
return in the evening. But yet, to
such a point of perfection in business
have the Manchester merchants ar-
rived, that omnibuses fetch you from
dinner parties, and whirl you up hill
and down dale, from villa to villa, arid
house to house, where it is known that
the proprietors are regaling their
friends. The Polygon and Ardwick
Green are convenient distances from
the bustle and business of Manchester
— but Chatham Hill, Charlton, and
Oxford Road, are an immense way
off — and where the natives dine at
four, even on state occasions, the day
is lost in preparations, arrivals, stay,
and return. Yet dinner parties at
Manchester are by no means disagree-
able.
On the whole, " Manchester for
ever ! " — not her " hooks," and not
her Radicals — not her Papist schools,
nor her four meals per diem — not her
early hours, nor her still champagne
— not her two o'clock dinners, nor
her boiled fowls and white sauce —
but Manchester for ever, still ! Yes !
long live that energy of character —
that loyalty of conduct — that indus-
try, talent, and perseverance, which
in so eminent a degree distinguish
the men of Manchester. Long live
their powers of invention, their
constant habit of searching for im-
provement, their love of all that is
practically scientific and useful to man
in his intercourse with his fellow
beings. Long live the charities of
Manchester, great and glorious as they
are, and that spirit of benevolence
which (with but comparatively few
exceptions) is ever ready to assist a
good cause, and urge it forward. Long
live the generous hospitality of Man-
chester, which opens wide the door to
the foreigner as well as to the friend,
and spreads before both the best pro-
ductions of the garden, the orchard,
and the field. Long live the active
habits of business and punctuality of
Manchester, and that good faith which
presides over at least a large portion
of all their transactions. And long
live — nay, it is sure to live for ever,
for it has God for its Author, and
heaven for its reward — that true unaf-
fected piety which exists in Manches-
ter in so pre-eminent a degree, which
illustrates its possessors by every vir-
tue, and sheds its bright and glorious
influence over the whole population.
It is virtue alone that exalteth a na-
tion, as sin is a reproach to any people.
Yes ! MANCHESTER FOR EVER !
1839.]
My After- Dinner Adventures ivith Peter Schlemihl.
467
MY AFTER-DINNER ADVENTURES WITH PETER SCHLEMIHL.
I HAD for some days felt myself a
little out of sorts, and had suffered from
a peculiar acidity of the stomach, and
flying pains about my ancles and toes,
which I considered to be rheumatic ;
and as I have always found in any
ailment that ever afflicted me, that a
few days relaxation and residence by
the sea-side was an infallible restora-
tive, I laid a formal statement of my
case before my wife, and with her
permission determined to make a holi-
day, and fairly run away from busi-
ness ; and to domicile myself, and my
acidities, and my aches, in her com-
pany, in one of the comfortable rooms
of Mr Parry's Hotel at Seacombe, on
the banks of the Mersey, opposite to
Liverpool.
This is not, perhaps, a very usual
or a very agreeable time of the year
to visit the sea-side, but to me the sea
never comes amiss ; and, as I have long
had experience of the comforts of the
hotel where we had concluded to
sojourn, my determination to go there
was not suspended for one moment,
by any impertinent reflection, that it
was much nearer to the winter than to
the summer solstice.
When people are in earnest in their
determination to travel, short prepara-
tion suffices ; and, in a very few hours
after I had obtained my wife's consent
to migrate, we were seated in an easy
gig, rolling along a smooth macada-
mized road, at the top speed of a good
horse, making the best of our way
to the nearest railway station.
Once on the railway, a journey
from that part of the country to Liver-
pool is an affair of almost a few min-
utes; and, barring an accident, — such
as blowing up a civil engineer or two,
or running against a contra train, and
smashing two or three carriages, and
pounding and compounding the pas-
sengers, no time is afforded for ad-
venture.
It will, therefore, not be matter for
surprise that I and my wife arrived at
Liverpool without the occurrence of
any thing extraordinary ; and, as we
are both well acquainted with that
place, we made no stay there,but, put-
ting ourselves on the deck of a steam-
packet, were shortly afterwards landed
on the stage at Seacombe, where the
portly Mr Smith receives, with such
peculiar grace, threepence from each
passenger, for the particular benefit and
behoof of the no less portly Mr Parry.
We were soon seated in a comfort-
able room in the hotel, with a fine
glowing fire, and in a condition to or-
der and enjoy a good dinner ; with
which, at this house, even a gourmand
may be provided to his satisfaction at
any time on short notice.
But Mr Parry is celebrated for the
preparation of that savory article,
turtle soup ; and, as I entertain for it
a respect amounting almost to vene-
ration, I introduced my dinner with
the usual modicum of it, following it
with a glass of punch — for, according
to my creed, the man is a noodle that
swallows not punch with his turtle !
Other substantial matters followed,
all good in their way, consisting of
fish, flesh, vegetables, and pastry ; and
my wife and I, after dining sump-
tuously, cracked a few walnuts, and
drank a little of the excellent wine
that was placed before us, and felt
more disposed to fall into a doze than
to remove from our quarters.
I arose the next morning, better in
my own estimation for even my single
night's sojourn by the sea ; and I walk-
ed on the noble river bank, and enjoyed,
with a glowing feeling of delight, the
beautiful scenery of this beautiful
place.
Immediately in front of our sitting-
room window is the extensive and im-
portant town of Liverpool, with her
long line of warehouses, her spires,
and domes, and towers, and, more
than all, her docks and quays, and her
forest of masts, bespeaking an extend-
ed intercourse with all the nations of
the earth, and exhibiting in herself no
ignoble epitome of the immense trade
of England !
Looking towards the left is a view,
extending seawards, varied every mo-
ment by the transit of vessels, of all
sorts and sizes, struggling to enter into,
or to go forth from, the port, with
here and there a little boat and its
crew, apparently wrestling with the
waves for a very existence ; whilst on
the right is a milder scene — the river
appearing to form a smooth lake, sur-
rounded with smiling scenery, and
bearing on its bosom a rude inland
craft, apparently constructed for the
-My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter Schkmihl. [April,
468
purpose of conveying the produce of
the peaceful and quiet country to the
bustling and important place where
commerce has erected her ever busy
throne ; and immediately before our
hotel flows the majestic stream which
causes the bustle, and animation, and
prosperity of all around.
It is a scene I believe scarcely to be
paralleled elsewhere ; that happy mix-
ture of rurality and business — of coun-
try ami of town — that realization of
simply looking on and almost acting in
the scene — that all persons who have
once enjoyed it must remember it with
satisfaction and delight.
There is no such thing to be seen
on the Thames ; and, if there was, the
mob of London would, in one week,
destroy one half of its charms by taking
away all its privacy. Even here, every
year is lessening the beauty of the
scene, by the addition of huge masses
of brick and mortar in the shape of
houses ; and, in a very few years, Sea-
combe will not have to boast the beau-
tiful scenery that at present is its cha-
racteristic, and one of its greatest
attractions.
I rambled about the whole of that
day, inhaling the breeze from the sea,
but by no means getting rid either of
the acidity of my stomach, or the rheu-
matic sensations in my feet ; and I
•went into the hotel at five o'clock, pre-
pared again to partake of the good
cheer provided by Mr Parry in the
shape of a dinner.
1 again encountered the steam of
his turtle soup, and luxuriated on the
green fat, and washed down the last lus-
cious spoonfulwithaglass of punch, and
again there followed those good things
which are always to be found in the
cuixine of the Seacombe hotel.
I had, in the course of my rambling,
met with a friend who had accompa-
nied me to dinner, and he spent the
evening with me over some excellent
port and a cigar, and telling old tales
of bygone times, until, in our very
thoughtlessness I believe, the third
bottle had disappeared ere either of us
were aware.
The following morning found me
again on the river bank, encountering
the breeze in pursuit of health ; but, by
some means or other, I felt more out
of order that morning than previously,
and I had a considerable increase of
pain in my feet.
I hobbled about during the day and
retired to the hotel at night, in the
hope that a basin of turtle, followed
by such other agreeables as the atten-
tion of my wife was certain to provide,
would have the effect of restoring me
to my usual state.
I had the turtle, and it was, if pos-
sible, more delicious that day than
previously ; and I followed it, accord-
ing to my custom, with a glass of
punch. My wife had ordered a small
turbot and lobster sauce, with a roasted
pig ; of both of which I ate well, and
afterwards some pastry. I mention
these matters so minutely, on account
of a difference of opinion that exists
betwixt my medical attendant and
myself.
The cloth was withdrawn, and I
was in a state of perfect satisfaction
and repose, and felt myself completely
free from all the maladies of life!
My wife drank her usual glass, and I
drank two or three from the bottle of
excellent old port that stood on the
table ; and, after a vain effort at con-
versation, my wife put on her specta-
cles, and took up the newspapers.
1 philosophised awhile, occasionally
sipping my wine, and at length ob-
served the newspaper gradually low-
ering from my wife's hands, whilst
her head also declined ; and her spec-
tacles dropped from her face to her
lap, and her cap very soon followed —
she was asleep !
I took another glass of wine, and
my thoughts having been previously
engaged in a speculation on the re-
sults of steam, I resumed the train of
my musing.
I mentally compared the rate of
travelling before and since the adap-
tation of steam to travelling purposes.
I contemplated the future speed at
which we might arrive, and saw time
and distance perfectly annihilated —
traversed the distance from England
to China betwixt breakfast and dinner
— and slept one night at Mexico, and
the next at Moscow. 1 considered the
advantages that would result to man-
kind from a more rapid transit of the
products of the earth ; and saw turtles
one day floating off the Island of As-
cension, and the next served up to
lunch in the shape of soup at Parry's
Hotel. I then discussed, learnedly,
the various preparations of that deli-
cate- animal, and the imitations that
have in vain been made of it, and se-
riously doubted whether or not its
1839.]
My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter ScJihmi/iL
municipal use was known to the an-
cients. I had a strong notion that the
savory meat made by Esau for his fa-
ther was in fact no other than mock
turtle ; and was engaged in consider-
ing what sort of mock turtle could be
manufactured of venison or kid — when
I was aware of the door of our sitting
room gently opening, and a tall gen-
tlemanly looking man entered, dressed
in black !
_ He advanced to the table, and, nod-
ding familiarly, helped himself to a
glass of wine.
" Do you know me?" said he.
" No," said I.
" I thought as much," he replied.
" I am Peter Schleinihl — do you know
me now ?"
" Peter Schlemihl?" I answered.
" Oh yes — I have heard of you;" but
I could not at the moment recollect
whether he was the man without a
shadow or the man with a cork leg.
A reflection passed through my
mind, that there Avas rather an ab-
sence of ceremony in his introduction,
but I asked him to be seated and in-
quired his business with me.
" I am come," said he, " to take a
walk with you — do you know Liver-
pool ? "
I was not at that moment disposed
to take a walk, and a certain rheuma-
tic twinge in my feet gave me to un-
derstand that a walk would, at that
time, be particularly disagreeable, for
which reason, and because I was con-
scious of something like a repulsive
feeling against the man, I resolved,
although I am intimately acquainted
with almost every nook and corner in
Liverpool, to deny my knowledge of
the place, and to tell Mr Schlemihl a
plain lie.
" Mr Schlemihl," said 1
" Don't mister me," he replied ;
" my name is Peter — Peter Schlemihl.
But do you know Liverpool?"
" No," said I, bolting out the lie at
once.
" I thought so, and for that reason I
have called upon you to takeyouashort
walk there. I have an hour to spare,
and I believe you like turtle, and there
an; several houses in Liverpool where
turtle is dressed to a perfection that
would raise a chuckle in the gullet of
an expiring alderman. So come
along."
I pointed to my wife. " Pooh ! "
469
said he, " we shall be back before she
awakens ; — so, come along."
The bell, announcing the departure
of the packet, at that moment rang,
and Peter Schlemihl reaching my hat
and gloves, put the former on my head,
and gave it a whack, by way of settling
it firmly down, and taking me by tho
arm, 1 felt no power to resist ; but
almost instantly found myself on board
the steam-packet, sailing on my way
to Liverpool in company v.ith Peter
Schlemihl.
In a few seconds we were across the
river and landed on the parade ; but,
in ascending the steps, some villain
with an iron heel to his boot, gave my
toes such a squeeze that 1 almost
screamed with agony. Peter saw my
distress, and putting an arm through
one of mine, " Never mind," said he,
" I'll provide you with consolation ;"
and almost before I had time to ask
whither we were going, I found my-
self seated with him in a room in the
Mersey Hotel.
Mr Home was the very pink of
civility, and the waiters appeared to
know Peter Schlemihl well, and seem-
ed to understand his very looks ; for,
although I did not hear him give any
order, and although I certainly gave
none, two plates of rich turtle were
almost instantly before us, accompa-
nied with lemon, cayenne, punch,
&c.
" I have dined," said I, as I almost
mechanically took a spoonful ; but that
spoonful sufficed to drive away all
remembrance of my pain, and all re-
collection of my dinner. It was de-
lectable ; and we ladled away with tho
gusto of men tasting turtle for the last
time.
" How do you like it ?" said Peter,
when I had finished.
" It is admirable," I replied ; " who
could help liking it ?"
" Well," said he, " if you are satis-
•fied, put the spoon in your pocket, and
let us march."
" The spoon in my pocket !" I an-
swered ; " do you wish me to be taken
up as a thief?"
" Quite a matter of taste," said
Peter Schlemihl ; " suppose you had
swallowed it by accident — and you
opened a mouth wide enough to have
admitted a soup-ladle, putting a simple
spoon out of the question — suppose
you had swallowed it by accident,
My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter Schlemihl. [April,
470
could you have been successfully ac-
cused of theft? And where is the
difference to Mr Home, the landlord,
betwixt your putting his spoon in your
stomach by accident, and putting it in
your pocket by design ? In either
case, 1 take it, the loss to him would be
pretty much the same ; so the differ-
ence, you see, is but in words ; — but
come along."
So saying, he again put my hat on
my head, giving it a thump as before,
and putting my gloves in my hand, I
was presently walking in his company,
at a quick rate, towards the Ex-
change, without having any clear idea
of the way in which we left the turtle
room in the Mersey Hotel.
To my surprise, the daylight still
continued — people were passing back-
wards and forwards, and appeared to
be in all the hurry and bustle of mid-
day business ; though, from the hour,
I expected to see the gas in full blaze,
and the streets deserted of their mer-
cantile, population.
" Is it not a handsome pile of build-
ing ?" said Peter Schlemihl, after he
had walked me round the Town Hall,
and pointed out its beauties — its por-
tico— its frieze — its dome — and after^
he had led me round the area of the*
Exchange buildings, and pointed out
each and every part worth notice.
" Is it not a handsome pile of build-
ing ?" said he.
" It is undoubtedly very hand-
Borne," I replied, " and does great cre-
dit to the place, but as a piece of ar-
chitec ture, it is by no means perfect ;
and"—
" For mercy's sake," said Peter,
" don't turn critical ! If you do, I will
desert you. I have known many cri-
tics in my time, but I never knew but
one sensible man of the craft ; and he
lived to regret his taste as a misfor-
tune. No, no ! rules are very neces-
sary in every art, and every science;
but never do you imbibe the notion,
that nothing can be pleasing or beau-
tiful that is not strictly according to
rule. Now, there is a monument to
Nelson — the glorious Nelson — before
you ; but, handsome as it is, and suit-
able as it is to a naval hero, in an im-
portant sea-port town, and standing
on the high mart of foreign commerce,
yet I will not allow you to look at
it, for it is not strictly correct accord-
ing to the code critical. By the by,
did you ever see that funny affair that
the Birmingham gentlemen put up in
memory of the same great man? Living
so far inland, they did not perfectly
understand what a sailor was like, but
they made a little gentleman in black,
and having heard of the green sea,
they set him up in business in their
market-place, as a green-grocer, being
the nearest approach to the green sea
that their imagination could suggest —
what the devil business had Nelson in
a market-place ? — they might as well
have made him a button-maker ! — but
come along."
Peter's motions were so rapid, that,
without perfectly understanding the
course of our progress, I found that
we were almost instantly walking up
and down the news-room, bustling
through the dense throng of mer-
chants, brokers, dealers, captains,
Christians, Jews, Turks, and men of
all occupations — all nations — all creeds
— and all colours.
Things bore an appearance of im-
portance, for foreign news had arrived
of great and overwhelming interest.
Grave-looking men, with sage and
anxious faces, were poring upon the
newspapers at the various tables, in •
tent to know the news of the day ;
whilst those who could not obtain ac-
cess to a table, were greedily swallow-
ing the intelligence that could be col-
lected from some loquacious friend.
To my consternation I saw Schle-
mihl— my companion, Peter Schle-
mihl ! — take the newspapers from the
different stands, and put them in his
pocket ; and, to my equal consterna-
tion, I saw .him take from another
pocket other papers, which he laid
before the readers with such adroit-
ness, that the exchange was not per-
ceived ; but a man who had an in-
stant before been reading of some
disastrous event, now smiled and
chuckled as he read that even his best
hopes were more than realized. I trem-
bled lest my companion should be de-
tected, for some in th,e room knew me !
At length the natural result arrived.
Men met, and gave different versions
of news from the same papers ; for
Peter's papers did not appear to have
been all printed at one press. Con-
tradiction begot argument, to which
warm words succeeded, -and, in a very
few minutes, almost every man in the
room was engaged in dispute ; and as
1839.]
After-Dinner Adventures with Ptkr
471
they were all talkers and no hearers,
Peter Schlemihl took me by the arm,
and walked me off to the Town Hall,
saying, as we went, " The money-
changers, and the dealers in gums
and in spices, and in oils and in hides,
and in cotton and in fine wool, have
forgotten their commissions and their
per centagcs for to-day."
We went into the beautiful and ca-
pacious rooms, and admired Chan-
trey's delicate statue of Canning — the
intellectual Canning! — and did not
admire a fat, heavy, old Roman look-
ing person, whose bust was appro-
priately placed in the dining-room.
We walked out upon the gallery ;
and, after looking for some time at
the panoramic scene presented to our
view, Peter Schlemihl excited my
surprise, and, in some measure, my
alarm, by climbing, by some means or
other — but which means I do not to
the present hour perfectly compre-
hend— outside the dome to where Brit-
tannia sits alone in her glory.
Some seconds elapsed before I durst
look at him, for I expected him to
drop at my feet a dead and unsightly
mass!
I heard a chuckle and a laugh, and,
looking up, I saw Peter Schlemihl
quietly seated on the lap of Britan-
nia, with one arm round her waist,
and looking up into her face with a
good-humoured smile, as if .he had
been saying something arch and amu-
sing ; and she — that deceitful woman,
that I always looked upon as a cold
stony composition — was laughing out-
right at Peter's fun ! She even leered
at him ! But my indignation knew no
bounds when I saw Peter Schlemihl
take from his pocket a meerschaum,
and very calmly fill it and light it,
and after taking a few whiff's to see
that it was thoroughly ignited, put it
in the mouth of Bi itannia, who began
to smoke with all the force and energy
of an old fishwife, gently saying, as
she began, " Thank you, Peter ! "
"Peter Schlemihl !" I called out—
" Peter Schlemihl ! come down this
instant, and do not take such liberties
with that lady. If you do not come
down directly I will inform the Mayor
and Corporation, and they will punish
you well for your impudence ! They
will take you before Mr Hall, the
magistrate, and he is not a man to
allow ladies to be trifled with."
Before I had well concluded the
sentence, Peter Schlemihl came sliding
down the dome, and dropped directly
upon my toes, so that 1 was put to
more pain than even when ascending
the steps from the steam-packet.
" Tt was an accident," said Peter,
" quite an accident ! and cannot be
helped ; but a little exercise will take
away the pain."
To try the experiment, he put his
arm within mine, and away we travel-
led, at a furious rate, towards the Zoo-
loogical Gardens.
" Step into that cellar," said he, as
we were posting along, " and buy me a
penn'orth of nuts — that's a good fel-
low— and then go into that shop,"
pointing to one, " and buy me six
penn'orth of bird-lime — and if you
like it, you may put it in your breeches
pocket."
" Nuts and bird-lime 1 " I an-
swered, " and put it in my breeches
pocket ! — indeed, I shall do no such
thing — these are the only pair of
trousers I have with me ! — but what
are you going to do with bird-lime ?
surely we are not going a bird-catch-
ing ! "
" Never you mind !" said he ; " will
you fetch the articles, or not ?"
" No," I answered, " I will not."
" A word of that sort's enough,"
said Schlemihl — 1'< don't trouble your-
self to say any thing more" — and
slipping into the cellar, he presently
emerged, with his hat half- full of nuts,
and afterwards going into the shop
he had pointed out, he returned from
it, rolling betwixt his hands a large
ball of something like shoemaker's
wax.
" Here they are," said Peter — " and
now for the gardens !"
On arriving there, Peter Schlemihl
picked up a bit of printed paper,
which he palmed upon the porter for
an order, and by some legerdemain of
his, we were presently inside, cheek
by jowl with a blue-faced baboon.
On going round, he stopped where a
lot of monkeys were confined in a large
cage, and Peter smiled at the sight.
" Ah, Jacko ! Jacko ! " said he,
pitching two or three nuts amongst
the solemn-looking assembly. In-
stantly the whole body was in confu-
sion, leaping, squealing, and snatch-
ing after the nuts. He threw another
nut, which was caught by a young-
ster, from whom it was snatched by
an older and more experienced thief,
My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter Schlemihl. [April,
Another and another nut followed,
and the same scene was repeated ;
and the sagacious brutes, seeing that
Peter was the only man in the nut
market, watched his every motion with
intense interest.
If he went a foot more to one side
than another, away went the whole
monkey population in the same direc-
tion. If he raised or moved his arm,
every monkey was on the qui vive,
prepared to spring to the land of
promise, to where the looked- for trea-
sure was expected to fall ; but if he
threw a nut in the cage, then for the
scuffle and the noise, the squealing,
the growling, the scratching, and
snatching, and clawing L
He continued to coquette with the
monkeys for some time, and succeeded
in establishing a very free and very '
friendly intercourse betwixt himself
and them. At length, I saw him roll-
ing a nut about betwixt his hands — he
showed it to the monkeys, who all
sprang upon their haunches, ready to
seize the prize, their eyes glistening
like glow-worms with eagerness. He
affected to throw it ! — they all jumped
against each other to the quarter
where they expected it to come. Again
he showed the nut, and then, after
exciting their attention to the utmost,
he threw it amongst them.
There was the deuce of a scuffle in
the cage, and the prize was seized by
a veteran old monkey, who ran into a
corner of the cage to secure it : but,
alas ! he had no bargain ; for, after
giving it a squeeze or two, he found
his jaws almost fastened together, and
gave a fearful squeal. Another mon-
key seized the nut, and pulled away,
until he got something in his mouth,
which united him by a string to. the
first monkey.
Peter Schlemihl threw another nut,
and after that another, and another,
and the monkeys became like so many
infuriated demons, scratching, biting,
tearing, and squealing, in their vain
endeavours to extricate themselves
from Peter's nuts, which, instead of be-
ing pure Barcelonas, were nothing
more orlessthan the veritable bird-lime.
They tugged and tore to get it out
of their mouths, and as all hands were
engaged in snatching and tearing
from each other, and, in doing so,
• skipped and jumped about in all direc-
tions, the whole chattering fraternity
became completely enveloped in a
netting of bird-lime, and made a noise
and a riot, such as never before was
heard, even in a garden devoted to
zoology.
The clamour and confusion of those
brutes collected together all the keep-
ers and all the company in the gar-
dens ; and great indeed was the indig-
nation and distress of the former on
finding the dirty and adhesive dilem-
ma in which the unfortunate monkeys
were placed. A week's holiday they
said, would be necessary in the mon-
key department, in order to rid them
of their netting of bird-lime.
They began to institute enquiries
as to the author of the mischief ; and
Peter Schlemihl, hearing those enqui-
ries take rather a personal turn to-
wards himself, again took my arm,
and before I was aware whither we
were going, Peter and I were tele-
a-tete with the lion.
" He is a noble animal ! " said I.
" He's up to snuff," said Peter.
He then insinuated his box of Lundy
Foot, without the lid, cautiously into
the. lion's cage, gently obtruding it
upon the lion's notice with the end of
his stick.
The lion, on seeing it, went leisure-
ly to it, and took a hearty snuff, as if
he had been a snuff-taker from his in-
fancy— the cage echoed with a tre-
mendous sneeze, and presently with
another, and a third ; and he then
shook his head, and his eyes watered,
and he looked very like an old gentle-
man maudlin drunk. Again he sneez-
ed, and being impatient at the pun-
gency and inconvenience, he gave
vent to his anger in a fearful roar,
which attracted the attention of the
keepers and visitors, and induced them
to come towards us.
Peter Schlemihl observed their
movement, and, again taking me by
the arm, said — " It is time to be go-
ing ;" and instantly we were by the
side of the ostrich.
" This," said he, " is a gentleman
of good appetite and strong digestion,
so I will give him something to exer-
cise both," taking from his pocket the
head of an axe, and pitching it into
the cage as we passed it.
We then came to the elephant, and
as he held out his huge trunk, moving
it about, expecting a cake or some
other thing edible, Peter Schlemihl
pricked him severely with the point of
his penknife.
1833.]
My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter Schlemi?il.
473
Suddenly I heard a fearful crash,
and perceived that the elephant had
broken down his inclosure, and was
rushing towards us in the wildest fury
imaginable.
I turned and ran, endeavouring to
make my escape, but such was my
fear and trepidation, that my knees
failed me, and I could not get for-
ward. I seemed to be rooted to the
spot !
I saw Peter Schlemihl — the wicked
Peter Schlemihl ! — pass me ! He look-
ed like an overgrown kangaroo, and
appeared to bound away from the
spring of his tail, with the speed of a
Congreve rocket. I heard the ele-
phant coming after me, bearing down
every thing in his course. I heard
Mr Atkins, and all his keepers, and
all his visitors, in full chase. I felt
the elephant breathe upon me, and,
falling down with absolute terror, I
felt him pass over me in pursuit of his
tormentor, Peter Schlemihl, and, as
one of his feet pressed with agonizing
weight upon mine, I fainted and be-
came insensible to all that was
passing.
Some good persons, I believe, took
me out of the gardens, and placed me
in safety ; and I gradually recovered
and proceeded to make the best of my
way to Seacombe.
I was going along in a very melan-
choly mood, when I felt a slap on my
shoulder, and Peter Schlemihl was
walking by my side, apparently as
indifferent as if nothing 'had occurred.
" That old savage got vexed!" said
he.
" Indeed," I replied, " he might
well — I hope he caught you, and re-
warded you for your folly."
" Thanks for your good wishes,"
said Peter, drily, " but you see I have
escaped. I made a sudden turn and
got amongst the crowd of pursuers,
and by that means I blinked him ;.—
but where do you think you are going
to?"
" I am going to Seacombe," I an-
swered.
" Indeed, my good fellow, you are
not at present," said Peter ; " I wish
to take a turn in the market, and you
nm<t go with me."
In vain I remonstrated — he had
hold of my arm, and I felt myself
irresistibly compelled to accompany
him.
We strolled towards that capacious
and convenient market, St John's.
We entered and found it crowded ;
and in lounging round, Peter asked
the price of every thing from every
body, and gave an order to every
trader in the place. He bought of all
things, from a cocoa-nut to a round of
beef, and pressed into the service every
carrier about the market.
As we proceeded, he nodded to one,
winked at another, and spoke to a
third, and used such familiarities to
all, that I quite expected to see him
handed out of the market by the po-
lice ; but he was suffered to proceed
without interruption, appearing to
possess a license for doing impertinent
things that would not be tolerated in
any other person.
At length we stopped opposite to
the establishment of Miss Hetty Tay-
lor, the good-looking green-grocer,
that once on a time received a Tory
aristocratic kiss from Lord Sandon in
the face of the whole market.
To that place he was followed by
all the tradespeople from whom he
had made purchases, all desirous to be
paid for their goods ; and by all the
bearers of the articles he had pur-
chased, desirous to know to what
place they were to convey their bur-
dens.
On reaching Miss Hetty Taylor's
establishment, Peter Schlemihl, after
politely bowing to that lady, picked
out a quantity of turnips, took out a
knife, and in an incredibly short space
of time, hollowed them out — cutting
features in the sides of them with sur-
prising celerity — and converted them
into genuine, orthodox turnip lanterns.
How he managed to put lights in
them, I don't know, but lighted they
all were ; and then Peter Schlemihl
began to throw them about like the
balls of the Indian jugglers ; and away
they whirled, in incredible numbers
and with astonishing velocity !
The crowd was for a time delighted
with the gyrations of the turnip lan-
terns ; but, in the course of their
whirling about, first one gaping spec-
tator, and then another, received a
violent blow on the face, which ter-
minated his satisfaction.
From being anxious spectators, they
became violent assailants, and seizing
any thing they could lay their hands
on, they began to pelt Peter Schle-
474
My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter Schlemihl,
[April,
mihl. He actively avoided their
missiles, and seemed, by his surpris-
ing agility, to multiply himself into a
dozen men ; and seizing the different
articles in the carriers' baskets, he set
them all in motion in like manner to
his turnip lanterns; and so rapid was
he in catching and throwing the differ-
ent articles of flying artillery, that
they appeared to possess a perpetual
motion, after being once projected
from his hands.
All parties now joined in the melee,
and threw things about with frightful
activity ; and turnips, carrots, pota-
toes, geese, ducks, poultry, legs and
ribs of beef, cow-heels, pig's heads
and feet, eggs, red herrings, and dried
bacon, glided through the air with the
speed of the wind, crossing and twist-
ing about in all directions, and now
and then coming in no pleasant con-
tact with the heads of innocent spec-
tators.
In the midst of these proceedings, I
observed Peter Schlemihl rolling his
hands together, and then he threw
walnuts amongst the crowd with great
rapidity. They were caught ; and
attempts were made to throw them
back again, but in vain, for they stuck
to whatever they touched ; and the
people, in their endeavours to rid
themselves of such a nuisance, and to
impose it on their neighbours, wound
themselves about in a skein of bird-
lime, from which they were wholly
unable to extricate themselves ; and
they exhibited as much anger and
violence as the more serious-looking
monkeys, when in a similar predica-
ment.
In the mean-time, so deeply and
earnestly were all parties engaged,
that the commencement of the scuffle
was forgotten, as well as all remem-
brance of its originator, and Peter
Schlemihl, pinching my arm, smiled,
and said, — " Come, I think the poor
people are all got into employment !
let us begone :" and so saying, we
were forthwith in the street.
We made our exit at the side next
to the fish-market, which we entered,
and walked round, admiring the beau-
tiful fish that was spread so temptingly
on the white marble stalls.
" What do you think of that ?" said
Peter Schlemihl, pointing with his
walking-stick to a large turbot that
lay quietly before us.
" He is a fine fellow," I answered,
" and the sight of him would be
enough to transfix a gourmand with
delight."
Peter gave it a rap with the end of
his stick, upon which it flappered, and
sprang up nearly to the ceiling, throw-
ing somersets in its progress ; and,
whilst I was watching its extraordi-
nary motions in perfect amazement,
Peter Schlemihl was running round
the market striking the fish with his
stick, and making them all leap and
spring, so that the place appeared
more like a piscatory ball-room than
a well-ordered market.
The fishwomen and their assistants
were all in alarm for their property ;
and whilst they ran about securing
what they could, they treated Peter
Schlemihl with such a sample of Bil-
lingsgate as I had never before heard ;
and, fearing that I should come in for
some portion of their favours, I ran out
of the market with all my might, in-
wardly, but very heartily and sincerely,
bestowing Peter Schlemihl upon the
devil, or any other personage that
would accept so troublesome a gift.
I was going along at a hasty pace,
grumbling and muttering curses on
myself for having been so great a fool
as to trust my unfortunate person with
so mercurial a companion, when I felt
an arm thrust within mine, and, turn-
ing my head, I saw Peter Schlemihl !
" Those were lively dogs," said he,
" were they not ? They gave very
animated proofs of being fresh ! "
" Oh, Peter Schlemihl ! Peter Schle-
mihl !" said I, " how can you behave
so ? How can you think of bringing
me — an innocent as I am — into these
troublesome rows and scrapes ? My
feet are so painful that I can scarcely
put one before the other j and yet, not
satisfied with wheedling me here to
take a walk, as you pretended, you
have kept me in continued crowds, and
dangers, and difficulties ; and if you
proceed, even if I should escape with
my life, which is hardly probable, it is
more than I can possibly expect, to
escape being locked up by the police
as being drunk and disorderly, and
taken before Mr Justice Hall to-mor-
row morning, to answer for your at-
trocious delinquencies. — Oh, Peter
Schlemihl, I wish I had never seen
you
We walked along very moodily,
1839.]
My After- Dinner Adventures with Peter Schlemihl.
475
without exchanging another word,
and without the way we were taking
being observed by me, until we found
ourselves opposite to that magnificent
hotel, the Adelphi.
" Do you know that person ?" said
Peter Schlemihl, nodding towards Mr
Radley, the jolly looking landlord, who
was standing there gazing at his house
— " do you know that person ?"
I knew him well enough, but I was
determined to preserve my consisten-
cy, so I bluntly answered, " No."
" It is Radley, the landlord of that
big house," said he, " a fine fellow.
Well, Radley," addressing that gen-
tleman, " how do ? Trying to find
out a spot where you can hang a bit
more iron on your house ? Eli! Master
Radley ? Devilish fond of iron, Radley !"
Radley smiled, and gave a knowing
look, which said, as plainly as look
could say, " Ah, Master Peter Schle-
mihl ! no amendment on your manners
since I saw you last."
We entered the house, and Peter
Schlemihl appeared to be as well
known, and as well attended to by the
waiters there, as he had before been
at the Mersey Hotel. I heard no
order given, and gave none myself;
but I suppose some sign or token must
have passed from Peter, for presently
I snuffed the fumes of savory turtle,
and a couple of plates, with the usual
appendages, were smoking on the
table before us.
The turtle was exquisite, and there
can be no wonder that, after the trou-
bles and fatigues that I had undergone
in company with Peter Schlemihl, I
enjoyed my plate, and drained off my
glass of punch, with almost more than
nay usual gratification.
" Come," said Peter Schlemihl,
when we had finished our turtle, with
an air of command, that, on two or
three occasions, I had observed him to
assume towards me, but the repetition
of which was not a bit more agreeable
because I had previously observed it,
. — " Come," said he, " time for us to
trudge."
" I have trudged enough," I re-
plied, " and am not disposed to trudge
any more."
" You are not ?" said he.
I looked a positive confirmation of
the statement.
" Waiter!" he called out, "fetch
me in a policeman — this fellow's about
to turn stupid on my hands."
" What the deuce do you mean by
a policeman ?" I said, or rather shout-
ed, with some alarm ; for, although I
stated that I could expect no other
than to be locked up by the police,
yet 1 felt any thing but a wish to ac-
celerate the attentions of that assiduous
fraternity towards myself.
" Mean ?" replied Peter Schlemihl,
" you left Seacombe under my pro-
tection, and I mean to return you safe
back if I can ; and as you refuse to go
with me, I mean to place you in the
custody of the police, on the charge
of breeding a riot in the market, so
that I may have you fast against the
time when you may be wanted ; and,
when I have seen you safely disposed
of, I mean to inform your wife where
she may find you ; and I mean to re-
commend that respectable dozer, to
bring you some changes of linen, and
other things, to make you tolerably
comfortable during the five or six
•weeks you will have to remain in cus-
tody."
" Custody !" cried I, rising on my
legs — " what have I done to merit
being placed in custody, beyond being
seen in company with such an arrant
scamp as yourself?"
" Hush! hush," said Peter, " no
names — gentlemen never use such lan-
guage— all should be peace, and quiet-
ness, and repose, and no excitement —
such ebullitions of warmth are decid-
edly vulgar. Here's your hat" —
putting it on my head, and settling
it, as before, with the weight of his
fist. " Now you are better, you'll
not require a keeper yet; — so come
along!"
Taking my arm, we were once more
on the pave, and strolling up Bold
Street, on our way, as Peter said, to
Saint James's Cemetery !
" Rather a solemn place for a
lounge ! " said I. •
" That's all you know of the mat-
ter ! " replied Peter — " really you men
that live in the country and eat vege-
tables, have extraordinary notions ! —
Why, some people consider it a very in-
teresting and agreeable scene. By the
by, I met a friend one day last summer,
who excused himself for not taking
a walk, by saying that his brother-in-
law was come to Liverpool in the last
stage of consumption, and he was
going to take him a ride by way of
amusing him. ' And where are you
going to take the poor gentleman ?' I
My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter Schlemihl. [April,
476
enquired. * To the cemetery,' answer-
ed he — it is as agreeable a place as
any I know. I was amused at the
idea of taking a dying man to the ce-
metery by way of amusing him, and
•was at the trouble to go there myself
to see if the fact would be as stated,
and sure enough my friend and his
brother-in-law made their appearance,
the latter more dead than alive. He,
however, said he was much amused,
and he seemed to take such a fancy to
the place, that, in a fortnight after-
wards, he was provided with perma-
nent lodgings there. So you see,"
added Peter, " every body is not ex-
actly of your opinion."
We reached the cemetery, and first
went into the little temple and heard
part of the service for the dead, deli-
vered in a way that gave Peter Schle-
mihl, as he said, a very lively idea of
what people mean when they talk of
that service being performed. He
hurried me out, and along the Dead
Man's Path, into the cemetery.
We walked round, and, in the course
of the lounge, met thirteen incipient
Byron's, aged from fifteen to nineteen,
each with a broad shirt-collar turned
down, and open at the front, to show
the throttle, with a black bandana tied
sailor- wise.
Four were smoking cigars — real
lighted cigars — the puppies ! — five
held between their teeth imitation ci-
gars, coloured brown, and painted red
at the end, to appear like fire, and
white, to appear like ashes — the great-
. er puppies ! The remainder were in-
nocent of cigar, either real or imitative.
They all looked melancholy, bilious,
and saffron-coloured, and appeared to
have been picking out their respective
situations in the cemetery.
Peter Schlemihl seemed to think
them too contemptible for a joke, for
he passed them in silence, except mut-
tering between his teeth, as we ap-
proached the last, " This makes a
baker's dozen."
Peter stopped near the monument
erected to the memory of Mr Huskis-
son — " There," said he, " you may
look, but don't be critical."
" It is a very beautiful statue," I
observed ; " but, in the name of com-
mon sense, why did the people of Li-
verpool enclose it in that pepper-box ?"
" Upon the same principle," replied
Peter, " that governs a man who, when
he tn.kes a lighted candle out of doois,
encloses it in a lantern. He does it to
answer his own purposes, and cares no-
thing for the public. But I told you
not to be critical."
" This beautiful cemetery," said I,
" is an admirable adaptation of the old
stone quarry, and some of the inscrip-
tions on the stones are very affecting."
*' No doubt they are," replied Peter
Schlemihl, " to such a spoon as you ;
but have you yet to learn that in a
churchyard no person is allowed to
have any other than a good character.
Death connects the most contemptible
animals that ever blood warmed into
tender fathers — affectionate husbands
— faithful wives — dutiful children, and
such like. The church and the church-
yard is the only place to acquire a good
character graven in stone. Try your
hand at giving some scoundrel his due
in his epitaph — venture to write upon
a gravestone that on such a day such a
person died, well known to all his
friends and acquaintances as the great-
est rascal that his parish contained j
excelling all men in his several voca-
tions of swindler, perjurer, and thief.
Try your hand at that, and see how
the Church will step forward to pre-
vent your telling the truth. If you
persist in your experiment, you will
very soon find yourself doing penance
in a white sheet, my gentleman ! for
saying 'any thing but good of the
dead."
Peter's morality appeared to eva-
porate with the last sentence ; and,
slipping his arm in mine, we left the
cemetery, and went the shortest way
to the docks.
" This is a noble business-like line
of docks, all things considered," said
Peter Schlemihl — " their extent from
north to south, and their convenient
position to the town ! But, confound
'em, they are burning tobacco by
wholesale in that cursed warehouse,
and the stench is sufficient to poison
any thing human."
So saying, he hurried me from one
dock to another, stopping every now
and then to look at some peculiar craft,
until we found ourselves near the Cus-
tom-house.
He took me round that fine build-
ing, and after examining and admir-
ing it outside, he led the way into
the interior, and from one room to
another, mixing and taking part in all
the mysteries attending the receipt of
custom, and the entering and clearing
1839.]
My After-Dinner Adventures ivith Peter Schlemihl.
477
out of ships, with as much noncha-
lance as if he had been an inmate of
the long-room from his birth.
Business was in its heyday, and the
rooms were consequently crowded ;
and I was horrified almost to fainting
when I heard Peter Schlemihl, very
calmly and deliberately, and with great
distinctness of voice, ask me to reach
a great spring clock which was sus-
pended against a wall, and put it in
his pocket !
I looked at him to see if I could dis-
cover whether he really was in earnest,
but he repeated his request in a tone
that seemed to say that he would be
obeyed, and muttered something about
a policeman, and I felt that 1 had no
alternative but to comply. I got upon
a desk, and reached down the abomin-
able clock, and to my surprise it slipped
easily into his pocket, and to my
greater surprise, no one in the room
took notice of the transaction !
I hastened out of the place, de-
termined to get away and return to
Seacombe ; and was running along the
Canning Dock from the Custom-house,
making the best of my way to the
Prince's Parade, when I felt a person
running alongside of me ; and turning
my head, I found, to my grief and
amazement, that I was accompanied
by Peter Schlemihl !
He gave me a knowing look ; and
as we trudged on, shoulder to shoulder,
" This is a nice clock we've got,"
said he.
I was ready to drop with vexation,
but it was of no use — it did not in the
least disturb the equanimity of Peter
Schlemihl.
" Stop ! " said he, at length, seizing
me by the shoulder — " it is worse than
useless to waste our wind in this way.
I am going to smoke a cigar — will
you have one ? — it is a real good one."
I was grown desperate, and was
glad of any thing for a change ; so I
took a cigar and began to smoke fu-
riously.
In this mood we went on together,
both smoking ; but, in my confusion of
mind, I was led by Peter Schlemihl
past the proper place of embarkation
for Seacombe, and as we were pro-
ceeding along Bath Street, he put the
finish to my distress and rage, by
sticking his lighted cigar into a cart-
load of hemp that was being discharg-
ed at a warehouse.
Instantly the whole was in a blaze
— the warehouse took fire — the fire-
engines were called for — a crowd col-
lected— a body of police appeared —
search commenced for the incen-
diary— and, to escape from the conse-
quences of this diabolical act of my
companion, I made the best of my way
to the river side, and jumped into the
first thing I came to in the shape of a
boat, trembling from head to foot, and
seeing nothing but the gallows before
me.
" Cut the painter," said Peter Schle-
mihl— for to my utter horror and dis-
may he was in the boat likewise — "cut
the painter, and let her drift with the
tide." There appeared nothing better
to be done, and I cut the painter, and
shoved the boat off; and, as it was ebb
tide, I very soon saw myself floating
past the Seacombe Hotel, with a fair
prospect of going out to sea in an open
boat, in the company of that most atro-
cious of all villains, Peter Schlemihl !
There was but a single oar in the
boat ; and with it Peter Schlemihl did
his best to get her from the shore, and
I devoutly hoped that somebody on the
Cheshire side of the river, seeing our
distress, would come to our relief; but
no such thing took place. We neared
the Rock Lighthouse — swept past it
with the apparent speed of a race-
horse ; and were very soon at sea,
having, during our progress, seen the
flames of the warehouse spread and
extend themselves into a tremendous
fire.
I was cold and shivery, and the
rolling motion of the boat occasioned
a swimming in my head, and any
thing but an agreeable sensation in
my stomach, and, by the advice of
Peter Schlemihl, I lay down at the
bottom of the boat, and fell into a
doze.
On awakening, I found we were in
• perfectly smooth water, upon the bo-
som of which the boat floated like a
gull, quite free from progress or mo-
tion ; whilst on one hand was the open
sea, and on the other a mountainous
country, but no house or inhabitant
in view.
" Where are we ?" I enquired from
Peter Schlemihl, though I scarcely
expected a satisfactory answer.
" We are off the Isle of Man," an-
swered Peter, " and in a capital place
for fishing — did you ever fish offhere?"
I answered in the negative.
" You had better begin," said he.
«' Begin to fish !" I replied, " and
how am I to accomplish that feat, I
My After-Dinner Adventures with. Peter Schlemihl. [April,
478
should like to know, seeing that the
only implements on board the boat are
you and I and a wooden oar ?"
" I'll show you," said Peter ; upon
which he came to me, and, gently
lifting off my hat, he seized me by the
hair of my head, and at a jerk threw
me over the side of the boat, where
he held me with my chin just above,
and my body and legs dangling under-
neath the water !
In a few instants I felt a nibbling
at the toes of my right foot, and pre-
sently afterwards a similar nibbling at
the toes of my left. The nibbling be-
came more urgent and fierce, and at
length hurting me considerably, I gave
a bit of a plunge with my feet.
" Is there a bite ?" said Peter Schle-
mihl.
" I don't know what you mean by
a bite," I replied, " but something is
taking liberties that are particularly
disagreeable with my toes."
Peter Schlemihl jerked me into
the boat with as much ease as he had
jerked me out, and to one of my feet
hung a big ugly gurnard, whilst some
thing slipped into the water from the
other, as he canted me over the gunwale
into the boat.
A very short time elapsed before
Peter Schlemihl again seized me by
the hair, and swung me into the sea,
holding me as before, and I again felt
similar nibblings at my toes, and was
drawn up as before with a goodly tur-
bot at one foot, and a couple of lobsters
at the other !
He continued his occupation for a
length of time, with various success ;
but my toes, by the repetition of nib-
bling and biting, had become so ex-
ceedingly sensitive and sore, that I
scarcely could endure the pain.
At length a nibble came, harder than
the previous ones — another and another
followed, still more severe — it was no
longer a nibble, but a downright severe
bite — a bite from something that had
powerful mandibles to bite with — the
pain was excessive, and too severe to
be endured with any thing like patience ;
and, casting my eyes downwards, I
beheld, through the clear green water,
a shoal of huge black lobsters and
crabs, gnawing away at my toes with
all their might and main ; whilst other
monsters were struggling through the
black and ugly mass, endeavouring to
force their w;iy that they might have
a bite.
Another nip came, so savage that I
screamed out, and Peter Schlemihl
once more jerked me into the boat.
But his amusement, if amusement
he derived from the exercise, was now
at an end ; for just at that moment the
Commodore, Glasgow Packet, steamed
up, and taking us in tow, we were
landed at Seacombe in an incredible
short time ; and, dui-ing our passage,
my well- saturated clothes became
thoroughly dry.
Peter Schlemihl, with affected pity
for the soreness of my feet, assisted
me up to the hotel, and into the room,
and placed me in the very chair in
which I had been sitting when he first
obtruded his unwelcome presence upon
me, and, to my surprise, and somewhat
to my relief, I perceived that my wife
still remained in the doze in which I
left her.
Peter Schlemihl also took a chair
and helped himself to a glass of wine,
and me to another, and, after sitting
some time in silence, " Well!" said he,
" are you almost recruited ?"
" I am much better, certainly," I
answered.
" Are you ready to start again ?"
said Peter.
" Start again ! where ?" I replied.
" On our walk," said Peter, "surely
it is not over yet?"
" Not over yet ?" I answered : " If
ever any man catches me again walk-
ing with you, Peter Schlemihl, I'll
give him leave to call me the wander-
ing Jew !"
" Oh ! that is your determination, is
it ?" said he ; " very well, be it so, my
fine fellow. In that case, I will take
my departure, leaving you this token
of remembrance," — saying which he
got up and jumped full five feet high,
alighting with his two heavy heels im-
mediately upon my toes, and then deli-
berately walked out of the room, im-
pudently winking his eye at me as he
went through the door-way.
The cruel agony of that jump made
me roar out, and roll off my chair
upon the ground, from very pain ; and
my wife, awaking at the noise, raised
me up, and enquired what was the
matter.
" That Peter Schlemihl ! " said I—
" that infernal Peter Schlemihl ! he
has lamed me for life ! "
" Peter Schlemihl!" exclaimed my
wife — " you are dreaming ! "
I, however, knew better, and rang
1839.] My After-Dinner Adventures with Peter Schkmiht.
479
the bell, and enquired for Peter Schle-
mihl ; but whether the waiter was in
his confidence, or whether Peter Schle-
mihl had managed to make his en-
trance and his exit without being per-
ceived, I do not know, but the waiter
certainly denied all knowledge of Peter
Schlemihl !
I then detailed the whole of my ad-
ventures to my wife, commencing
with the first obtrusion of Peter Schle-
mihl into the room, and ending with
his jumping upon my toes when he
took his final departure.
Still she said it was but a dream !
I took off my stockings, and showed
her my toes, red and angry, and evi-
dently glazed and sore from the stamp-
ing and trampling, and nibbling and
biting, to which they had been sub-
jected ; and I asked her whether, with
such proof as that before her eyes,
she could entertain any doubt of my
having been abused and ill-treated,
through the instrumentality of Peter
Schlemihl.
Still she persisted that it was but a
dream !
I then rang the bell, and requested
the attendance of Mr Parry, and every
man and woman-servant in the house.
I described Peter Schlemihl — a tall,
thin, gentlemanly-looking man, aged
about thirty, dressed in a black
surtout, black stock, and dark trou-
sers— a long nose, sharpish features,
dark eyes, and black hair — wore his
hat aside, a walking-stick in his hands,
and a pair of boots on his feet, with
plaguy thick heels.
One and all declared they had seen
no such man !
I begged of Mr Parry that he would
search about the premises for him,
and desire that stout gentleman, Mr
Smith, to prevent his going away by
any of the packets. " You will be sure
to find him," said I, " and he has got
the Custom-house clock in his pocket."
But stout Mr Smith avers that he has
not yet received threepence from
him, and to this hour he remains un-
discovered, which is to me very re-
markable.
I suffered such torment in my feet,
that I soon afterwards went to bed,
but not to sleep ; for the infamous
treatment to which my toes had been
exposed occasioned such achings and
twinges, that I could not close my
eyes ; and, to make matters worse, .
when I attempted to rise in the morn-
ing, I was unable to put a foot to the
floor.
A surgeon (a medical gentleman,
the cant phrases for one of those
bundles of cruelty) was immediately
called in, and, in looking at my toes,
he significantly said, " It is the
gout ! "
Wishing to undeceive him, I gave
him a minute narrative of all I had
endured — told him the various stamp-
ings and squeezings to which I had
been a martyr — the nibblings and bit-
ings that I had undergone, when Peter
Schlemihl compelled me to do duty
for a fish-line off the Isle of Man, and
the savage jump with which the brute
treated me when he took himself
away!
" It is all a dream !" said my wife.
" It is dispepsia and night-mare,"
said the doctor, " and the result is the
gout ! "
It drove me nearly mad to see such
obstinacy, but I had no remedy but
patience. The doctor ordered flannel,
and my lower extremities were forth-
with folded up in yard upon yard of
that material. It is now a fortnight
since I stood upon my feet, and the
doctor is such a heathen as to tell me,
without allowing the information for
a moment to disturb the gravity of his
countenance, that possibly, after a
month or six weeks' further suffering,
such as that I now endure, I may be
enabled to get out on crutches. He
evidently thinks that I am possessed
of the stoical endurance of a North
American Indian, or of one of those
ancient martyrs who expiated their
sins by calmly submiting to be roasted
to death at the stake — alas ! I do not
possess the unflinching courage of the
one nor the pious resolution of the
other ; but, like an ordinary mortal,*
look upon pain as by no means a con-
temptible evil, and as a thing which
every right-minded man will carefully
eschew, especially when it takes up
its abode in the ancles or the toes.
In the mean- time I am suffering
seriously from his treatment. He is
giving me medicine, as he says, to
strengthen and restore the tone of my
stomach, and that I may not wear the
stomach out, he scarcely allows me
to put any thing into it ; whilst each
time my room door is opened there
rushes in a perfume of turtle-soup that
almost brings tears to my eyes !
Five times every day since I have
480
Music and Friends.
been under this wicked man's care, as
he calls it, I have endeavoured to con-
vince him of his error, by narrating
fully and minutely the particulars of
my unfortunate ramble with Peter
Schlemihl, but he is one of those
thoroughly obstinate men upon whom
reason and argument are thrown
away ; and my wife, I am sorry to
say, is equally hard to be convinced.
[April,
She still says, " It was all a dream !"
The doctor still says, " It was dis-
pepsia and nightmare, and the result
is the gout !"
Whilst I contend, with all the con-
fidence of truth, that my ramble with
Peter Schlemihl was a real and bona,
fide ramble !
Which do you think is right ?
MUSIC AXD FRIENDS.
Muchos van por lana y vuelvcn trasquilados.
Many go for wool and return shorn.
THAT Mr William Gardiner, of the
house of Gardiner and Son, of Lei-
cester, hosiers and stocking-makers,
is a most respectable tradesman and
a pleasant member of society, is a
proposition which we are willing
to assume, and which few of our
readers may be able to deny. But
why Mr William Gardiner, of Gardi-
ner and Son, should publish two stout
octavo volumes, containing his per-
sonal recollections, is a riddle, which,
even after a careful perusal of the pub-
lication, we are unable to solve. We
do not discover that this gentleman
has either encountered any adventures
which it can interest mankind to learn,
or that he is in possession of any views
or information, which might not have
descended with him to the grave,
without the world being a loser. We
cannot admit that the circumstances
of Mr Gardiner having previously
put some stupid words of his own to
the music of others, of his having
added fantastical notes to apocryphal
lives of Haydn and Mozart, or of his
having written a stupid and drivelling
book on the music of Nature, can af-
ford either justification or apology for
the course now pursued. Many a man
may be allowed to join in conversation
who has no right to make himself the
theme. Many a man may offer his
humble contribution to the stock of
literature, in whom an attempt at
autobiography can only be regarded
as downright impudence. But having
paid our four-and-twenty shillings for
the volumes, we are determined to have
our value out of Mr Wm. Gardiner :
as, if we cannot get instruction from
the book, we shall endeavour to ex-
tract amusement ; and as we have
found it impossible to laugh with Mr
Gardiner, let us even try to laugh a
little at him.
Not content with introducing him-
self to our notice, Mr Gardiner is de-
termined to make us hand and glove
with his relations. We are, accord-
ingly, presented to old Thomas and
young Thomas, the grandfather and
father of our hero. The family, it
appears, were members of the Pres-
byterian congregation, or Great Meet-
ting, of Leicester ; but, alas for evil
communication, there is strong reason
to suspect that the autobiographer
came soon to look with contempt on
puritanical opinions, and ultimately to
view with indulgent toleration the
heresies of Sociiiianism itself. We
greatly question, at least, whether Mr
Gardiner's book will elicit much sym-
pathy from his fellow Presbyterians
on this side of the Tweed. The prin-
cipal topic in his account of Leicester
Presbyter ianism, is the great progress
which was made by the congregation
in psalmody. " Our forefathers," he
tells us, " were so rigid in avoiding
every ceremony of the Church, that
they would not allow the use of a
musical instrument to set the tune,
and it was not uncommon for the clerk
to give a flourish upon his voice before
he commenced. The clerk in the
Great Meeting, however, was a person
of more discreet manners ; and, by way
of pitching the key gently, sounded
the bottom of a brass candlestick, in
the shape of a bell." Gradually, " as
some of the most intelligent and
* Music and Friends, or Pleasant Recollections of a Dilettanti. By William Gardiner.
2 vols. Longman. •
1639.]
Music and Friends*
481
wealthy families attended this place,
and the taste for music improved, the
direction of the psalmody was taken
from the clerk, and given to a few
qualified persons. A choir was thus
formed, of which my father took the
lead. At this time he had just pur-
chased Dr Croft's work, entitled Mu~
sica Sacra, a collection of anthems,
which could not be performed without
an instrumental bass, and the society
consented that a bass viol should be
procured of Baruch Norman, for this
purpose."
Mr Gardiner made his appearance
on the scene, about ten years after the
baas fiddle, or on the 15th of March,
1 770. While thus particular as to the
period of his birth, however, he is
shamefully negligent as to some other
dates. For instance, the time of the
following anecdote is left in consider-
able obscurity, though the uncertainty
is calculated to affect in a very delicate
point, the reputation of a lady who
once enj oyed some celebrity . " Having
been put into a suit of nankeen, which
had a smart appearance, Dr Arnold,
our near neighbour, requested to have
my clothes tried on his son, who was
of the same age. For this purpose I
was carried in the morning to the Doc-
tor's house, stripped and put into bed to
the historian Mrs Macauley." Oddly
enough, Mr Gardiner ascribes to this
event the origin of his taste for melo-
dious sounds, having been greatly de-
lighted on the occasion, with " the
chimes of a musical clock which stood
by the bedside." We should, our-
selves, however, have been inclined to
ascribe to this bedding a musical pro-
pensity of another kind, of which the
most ordinary variety is erroneously
supposed to be indigenous to Scotland,
but of which we can easily discover
a modified form in our author's pru-
rient attachment to liberal opinions in
politics. Whiggery, it is well known,
like the other impurities in the blood
to which we have referred, is readily
communicated by the skin, and we
know of few persons (not excepting
Miss Martineau herself) from whose
vicinity the infection would be likely to
be caught in a worse shape than from
that democratical blue-stocking, Kate
Macauley.
^ We pass over many interesting in-
cidents in our hero's early life, and can
only notice, in a cursory manner, his
composition of a psalm tune under the
name of Paxton ; an effusion which, he
VOL, XLV. NO, CCLXXXI1,
tells us, was prompted by an affair cf
love rather than ambition. "It became
a favourite, and I had the supreme
gratification to know that it was ad-
mired by the object of my adoration 1 "
It is unnecessary to point out the good
taste of this statement, or the high de-
votional feelings under which this
coup d'essai of the author of the Sa-
cred Melodies must thus have been
composed. We must pass over with
still slighter notice the history of his
early acquaintance with Sir Richard
Phillips and Mr Daniel Lambert, two
of the greatest and heaviest men in.
their respective departments that
England has produced. It would bo
injustice, however, to Mr Gardiner,
to omit the following philosophical
observations on the superior import-
ance of infancy, as compared with the
remainder of our existence. " Lord
Brougham has asserted that we learn
more in the first six years of our life
than afterwards, though we live to a
hundred. Probably this is true ; we
learn to speak our own language, and
that more perfectly than foreigners
could do in a life. We learn the qua-
lity of things, whether they are large
or small, rough or smooth, their shape
and colour ; whether they are near
to us or distant ; their lightness or
weight ; their smell and taste, and the
sounds they utter ; and we learn to
call every thing by its right name."
Mr Gardiner might have added that
the accomplishment which he has
last mentioned is but too frequently
lost in after life. In the same ori-
ginal strain we are apprised that " the
bent of our minds greatly depends
upon example and early associations ;"
in proof of which it is stated that
Mr Gardiner's musical taste is to be
ascribed to the habits of his father,
who sang and played upon the violon-
cello ; while his other accomplish-
ments are traced to his associating with
" a gentleman I much esteemed, Mr
Coltman, senior, my father's partner
in trade. I was ten years of age when
this connexion took place ; and, from
the first moment I fell into the com-
pany of this gentleman, I was struck
with the great superiority of his con-
versational powers." " The brilliancy
of his imagination," he adds, " re-
minded me of Burke." Mr Gardiner
must have been a remarkable boy to
have acquired so early an appreciation
of conversational powers, and must,
we presume, have been acquainted
2 K
482 Music and Friends.
with Burke in a previous state of ex-
istence, so as to be thus platonically
reminded of him by his father's part-
ner. One of Mr Coltman's great
friends was Dr Priestley, who, we are
gravely told by our autobiographer,
" was the greatest philosopher, New-
ton excepted, that this country or
any other has produced!" This is
pretty strong : Pythagoras, Aristotle,
Archimedes, Copernicus, Galileo,
Napier, Boyle, Black, and Franklin,
not to mention the greatest names
in ethical or metaphysical science,
which Mr Gardiner would exclude,
perhaps, from the appellation of phi-
losophy, must all hide their diminished
heads before Dr Priestley. For this
honour, we suspect, Dr Priestley is less
indebted to his scientific discoveries,
than to the circumstances that he was
a dissenting parson, an apostle of the
French Revolution, and a .friend of
Mr Coltman, senior, " my father's
partner in trade."
The whole complexion of Mr Gar-
diner's book points him out as one of
those unhappy persons who, with weak
stomachs and weaker understandings,
are easily made proselytes to the va-
rious forms of folly and fanaticism in
which squeamishness exhibits itself—-
such as, abstinence from animal food,
advocacy of the abolition of capital pu-
nishments, tee-totalism, free trade, the
voluntary principle, and laxity, under
the name of liberty, of conscience.
Mr Gardiner, at an early period, em-
braced the first-mentioned of these
absurdities, of which, however, he
was somewhat roughly cured by one
" Master Brooke."
" I was in the constant habit of visiting
Mr Brooke, and had great pleasure in his
company. Having read Dr Lardner's
reasons for not eating animal food, I be-
came a convert, and for three years lived
entirely upon milk and vegetable diet.
One evening, when I was supping with
him, a beef-steak was placed upon the
table ; and, on being helped, I said,
" You know, sir, I don't eat meat ;" but
he sternly insisted upon my partaking of
it, and immediately, from underneath the
cushion of the sofa, drew out a brace
of horse -pistols, and declared he would
shoot me through the head, if I did not
comply. Knowing him to be an eccen-
tric man, with the muzzle at my forehead,
I thought it wise to begin ; and after the
first mouthful, he exclaimed, " There,
sir, I have saved your life ! I took the
same foolish resolution into my head, and
you 3ee what a lath I have made of my.
[April,
self." After this adventure, 1 gave up my
abstemious plan, and resumed my former
mode of living. I felt no diminution of
my spirits or bodily health in any part of
my three years of abstinence, and my in-
tellects, perhaps, were rather brighter."
It would be strange indeed, if, under
any regimen, they were more dull
than they now are. But the observ-
ance of a Brahminical diet is not the
only symptom of a disordered system
that Mr Gardiner has exhibited. Li-
beralism in politics and religion is far
more deplorable ; and it would have
been well for Mr Gardiner if, in early
life, he had come in contact with our
friend Christopher's crutch, which
might have cured him of his propen-
sity to sympathize with Paipes and
Priestleys, to whine over a French
war, and to calumniate George the
Third, as effectually as Mr Brooke's pis-
tol con verted him from eatingno meat.
We presume that Mr Gardiner's
pretensions to be an autobiographer
are founded chiefly on his musical
attainments. Let us enquire a little,
therefore, of what order these are.
Mr Gardiner, for aught we know, is
possessed of a tolerable ear, in the
ordinary sense of the word, and having
now dabbled in music for about half-
a-century, partly as an amateur, and
partly as a professional bookmaker, he
has acquired enough of familiarity with
the subject to enable him to dog-
matise upon it, and enough of know-
ledge to help him to blunder. His
main peculiarity seems to consist in a
silly and insatiable appetite for jing-
ling and jumping melodies, such as
would best befit a barrel organ, or set
in motion the feet and sticks of a pro-
vincial pit on a Saturday night. This
taste has led him to swell the bulk, at
the same time that he increases the
price, of his volumes, by engravings
of numerous airs, of which the follow-
ing or similar tunes form a considera-
ble proportion : " C'est 1'amour,"
" Cherry-ripe," " Come, cheer up,
my lads," " I've been roaming,"
" The White Cockade," &c. To the
higher qualities of musical expression
we take Mr Gardiner to be wholly in-
different, and we desire no better proof
of our opinion than his account of the
Festival in Westminster Abbey, in
1791, at which this harmonious hosier
was present, but of which his descrip-
tion is destitute of every trace either
of sense or of sensibility. Only infe-
rior iu interest to the Commemoration
1839.]
of Handel itself, a nobler or more
stirring scene than that which West-
minster Abbey then presented, for
lovers of music of the highest class,
can scarcely be conceived, and we
should have expected that the com-
piler of Judah, and the editor of the
Sacred Melodies, would have assumed
a virtue if he had it not, and have made
some attempt, if not to inspire his rea-
ders with an impressive feeling of this
noble occasion, at least to show that
his own state of mind had not been
unworthy of it. Compare, reader,
with your lowest idea of what it ought
to have been, the following account
of these divine performances, which
prompted and inspired Haydn to pro-
duce his Creation, but which failed to
elevate the soul of Mr William Gardi-
ner above the dust and the drivel in
which he delights to dwell. It is some
fifty degrees more vulgar and destitute
of feeling than the worst part of Pepys*
Theatrical Criticisms, while it must
be recollected that Pepys had the mo-
desty to consign to the obscurity of
Cyphea and the concealment of a hole
Music and Friends.
483
but no one dared to hint at the offender.
The next day, these lawless gentlemen put
twenty penny-worth of halfpence into the
inside of his fiddle, the rattling of which
at first enraged him, but he contentedly
sat down and pocketed the affront. The
orchestra was so very steep, that it was
dangerous to come down, and some acci-
dents took place; one was of a ludicrous
nature. A person falling upon a double
bass, as it lay on its side, immediately dig-
appeared; nothing was seen of him but
his legs protruding out of the instrument.
For some time, no one could assist him
for laughing. Haydn was present at this
performance ; and by the aid of a teles-
cope, planted on a stand near the kettle-
drums, I saw the composer near the King's
box. The performance attracted persons
from all parts of Europe ; and such was
the demand for tickets, that, in some in-
stances, a single one was sold for L.20.
The female fashions of the day were found
highly inconvenient, particularly the head-
dresses ; and it was ordered that no caps
should be admitted of a larger size than
the pattern exhibited at the Lord Cham-
berlain's office. As everyone wore powder,
notwithstanding a vast influx of hairdress-
in the wall what Mr Gardiner pub- ere f™ni the country, such was the demand
i» i >.i i/> i for these artistes, that manv lartiea utihmit.
lishes with self-complacency.
" On entering the Abbey, the magnitude
of the orchestra filled me with surprise ;
it rose nearly to the top of the west win-
dow, and above the arches of the main
aisle. There was, on each side, a tier of
projecting galleries, in one of which I was
placed. Above us were the trumpeters,
who had appended to their instruments
richly embossed banners worked in silver
for these artistes, that many ladies submit-
ted to have their hair dressed the previous
evening, and sat up all night to be ready
for the early admission in the morning."
The music of Westminster Abbey,
indeed, seems to have made no im-
pression on our author compared with
what he derived at the same period
from Hummel's performance of the po-
pular air of the " Ploughboy," which
and gold, and we had flags of the same de- he introduced into a sonata,and played
scription, which gave the whole a gorgeous " with inimitahlA variations 1 "
and magnificent appearance. The arrange-
ment of the performers was admirable, par»
ticularly that of the soprani. The young
ladies were placed upon a frame-work in
the centre of the band, in the form of a
pyramid, as you see flower-pots set up for
show. This greatly improved the musical
effect. The band was a thousand strong,
ably conducted by Josiah Bates, upon the
organ. It was directed, that during the
choruses, no one should desist from play..
ing, or sit down. An Italian, of the name of
Turin (?), having disobeyed this command,
one of those precious youths, the Ashleys,
in a loud chorus nailed down his coat to
the seat, and on his getting up, he tore
off the lap. Pachirotti was singing at the
time, when the Italian, in a great rage,
called out, Got dem ! Got dem I so loud,
that it rang through the Abbey, and at-
tracted the attention of the King, who
dispatched Lord Sandwich into the orches-
tra to learn the cause of this disturbance ;
with inimitable variations \ '
The fact is, that Mr Gardiner has
no perception or appreciation what-
ever of great music — of music in its
highest meaning, as the exponent of
the loftiest emotions of the mind : as
the food of the purest and sublimest
longings of the heart and imagination.
Sensual or mechanical ideas are all that
it conveys to him — it tickles his ear to
listen to its tones — it flatters his vanity
that he can perceive its structure ; but
of its moral power, of its intellectual
influence, of its spirit, of its poetry,
he is as ignorant as the raggedest
donkey that ever chewed a thistle.
Accordingly, we find him constantly
sneering at the ancient school of mu-
sic, and setting up the modern in
opposition to it. Thus in speaking
of " The flocks shall leave the moun-
tains," perhaps the most tender and
touching strain that ever rung in a
484
Music and Friends.
[April,
human ear, or penetrated to a human
heart, and which Mr Gardiner himself
is afraid to disparage, he praises it
by the appropriate observation, that it
has " the dramatic force of a modern
composition! "
We strongly suspect, indeed, that
Mr Gardiner greatly prefers Home to
Handel, and chiefly admires Haydn's
chorus of the " Heavens are telling,"
because it resembles the " Lass of
Richmond Hill ;" of which, by the
by, he has given us a set so accen-
tuated that we defy the most perfect
master of the syncope to sing it. Of
his correct estimate of Mozart, an
opinion may be formed from the cir-
cumstance that, in drawing a parallel
between music, poetry, and painting,
he assigns as Mozart's companions,
in the one Barrett, and in the other
Cowper. To assimilate Mozart to a
mere landscape painter, however truth-
ful and pleasing, and particularly to
one whose peculiar department is that
of mere grace and of beauty, without
any attempt at grandeur — in short, an
English imitator of Claude in water
colours, is as absurd as if he had
compared Niel Gow to Michael An-
gelo. But really the other branch
of the analogy is still more ridiculous.
Cowper and Mozart ! what a com-
parison ' what a contrast ! Heaven
forbid that we should name the name
of Cowper without a just tribute to
the merits of a good and a great poet.
His admirable sense, his thorough
knowledge of the heart, in its common
domestic and social relations, his love
of virtue, his love of nature — make
him one of the wisest and best teachers
that have ever enlightened his fellow-
creatures ; and he had imagination and
diction more than enough to suit his
wants and wishes, and a real origina-
lity, amidst an age of imitation, which
entitle him to the name of a true poet
as well as of a moralist and a Christian.
But in what did he resemble Mozart? In
sublimity? in passion ? in polish ? — we
apprehend not. No person that knew
them both could compare them to-
gether ; but Mr Gardiner, we suspect,
knows neither. The Task is no more
like Don Giovanni or the Nozze,
than John GiTpin is like the Zauber-
jftote. In no one point do Mozart and
Cowper agree, except in this, that
they were both men of genius and
intellect, who, if their good-nature
had suffered them, would have kicked
Mr Gardiner out of their company for
prating either of poetry or of music,
or aspiring to do more than to bring
them a sight of his best worsted stock-
ings for the winter, " men's size."
Let it not be supposed, from what
we have said, that we presume to place
the name of Mozart, or any other
name in music, however high, in com-
petition with that of any faithful and
genuine poet. One moral saying in
articulate speech, one heaven-de-
scended precept (let it be r*u9i a-tawm*
for Mr Gardiner's sake), whether in
prose or rhyme, is worth, in sterling
value, all that either music, painting,
or sculpture, has ever contributed to
the advantage of mankind. Poetry,
which is Wisdom in her most lovely
and alluring shape, is the mistress of
all the arts, and is so immeasurably
their superior, that no standard of
commensuration between them can be
discovered. Truth must ever take
precedence of beauty : truth and
beauty combined, must be preferred to
beauty by herself, or beauty in such a
form as can convey instruction in but
faint and inarticulate language. It is
not we, but Mr Gardiner, who has
instituted the comparison ; and we
criticise it merely upon the principle,
not of comparing Mozart with Cow-
per, but of determining whether their
relative places in their several de-
partments are similar and correspond-
ing. We humbly conceive that they are
altogether different, and at variance.
The genius of Mozart, it will now
be generally admitted, is the greatest,
save one, that has appeared in the his-
tory of musical composition. Handel
alone is his equal, his superior. These
two divine orbs of harmony are, in
power and splendour, as far above all
competitors, as the sun and moon ex-
ceed the lesser lights of heaven. Haydn
and Beethoven, noble as they are, are
yet but as brilliant stars, that disap-
pear, or grow pale, before their pre-
sence. No adequate comparison of
these pre-eminent masters has yet, we
think, been attempted, and the task
would be one of no ordinary difficulty.
To estimate judiciously their relative
merits in originality and in power,
their several characteristics, the effect
which each had on the progress of
musical taste, the effect which the
earlier had upon the later composer,
would be a pleasing as well as a pro-
fitable employment for any one who
could bring to the subject both literary
and scientific talent. The theme, in
1839.]
its full developement, is beyond our
own powers as much, probably, as it
•would be beyond Mr Gardiner's. We
shall venture, however, to notice a
few more obvious points of compari-
son. Each of these great masters was
admirable as much for science as for
genius, for melody as for harmony,
for sublimity as for sweetness. Han-
del had less variety of expression than
Mozart, but the style in which he ex-
celled was the highest of all. Mozart
was alike at home in depicting all the
more earthly passions of our nature —
love, fear, joy, despair. Handel chief-
ly excelled in expressing those pure
and solemn emotions which elevate
our nature above itself. Mozart is,
at least to modern ears, more full and
flowing ; but the stream of his com-
Music and Friends.
485
Handel down as the Milton of music j
but, perhaps, with less luxuriance of
imagination, and a still more severe
simplicity of style. Nothing can be
conceived more characteristically Mil-
tonic than the whole oratorio of
Sampson, and more especially that
noble air, Total Eclipse, which Han-
del, in the blindness of his latter years,
must have reviewed with feelings near
akin to those that crowded upon Mil-
ton's mind when brooding over his
own bereavement. Mozart, we would
venture to designate as the Virgil of
melody — tender, graceful, majestic,
sublime — now leading us through
green and gladsome pastures — now
through the dark and dreamy shadows
of an unearthly world : here awing
us by the terrors of supernatural
position has somewhat too much of agency, or the tortures of guilty de-
an instrumental character. Handel
is pre-eminently vocal: his music is
not merely expressive but articulate :
it does not breathe but speak. Mozart,
we cannot help thinking, was unfortu-
nate in his chief subjects. His soul was
fitted for better things than to drama-
tise the silly or libertine intrigues of
Spanish barbers or grandees. Yet
he has risen infinitely beyond his mat-
ter, and has produced the highest pu-
rity and sublimity out of folly and
dulness. Handel had little dramatic
power, and by an involuntary impulse
originally wrote some of his finest sa-
cred pieces to stage compositions, for
which they were comparatively inap-
propriate. He found at last, however,
in the sound feeling and generous pa-
tronage of an English public, an op-
portunity to exert his peculiar and
unrivalled talents, more favourable
than any that his successor ever en-
joyed. From any comparison between
them we would wholly exclude the
choruses of Handel, as these stand by
themselves, without any thing that ex-
ists, aut simile ant secundum. And it
is the greatest proof of Handel's ge-
nius, that even without these, his supe-
riority must be conceded. It is emi-
nently to Mozart's credit that he ac-
knowledged Handel for his master ;
and while we comment on the differ-
ence between them, we should ever
remember that Handel lived to the
mature age of 75, while Mozart died
at 36.
If we are to assimilate these illus-
trious composers to any of the far
greater lights of the world in the de-
partment of poetry, we should set
spar : there melting us to pity, by
the sorrows of bereaved affection, or
the pangs of deserted love.
If any thing that we have said is
fanciful or fallacious, we are, at least,
certain, that if we know little of the
matter, Mr Gardiner knows less.
If Mozart's writings are not like the
Eclogues or the ^Eneid, they are, at
least, like truth, or the Tirocinium.
Revenons done a nos moutons. Let us
return to our " fleecy care," and have
another pull at the Hosier.
Thank you, Mr Gardiner, for some
part of your theory. If our melodies,
like our kilts, are Roman, we can
boast of the oldest music, as well as
costume, in modern Europe. We
wonder whether Mr Gardiner has read
Mr Dauney's book, and with what
feelings he has found his own views of
Scottish musical history confirmed by
the formidable facts there estab-
lished.
We have neither time nor temper
to follow Mr Gardiner through all his
blunders and absurdities ; but shall
content ourselves with making a few
further extracts, with as little com-
mentary as possible.
" THE CHASE ;" OR, GARDINER
versus GILPIN.
" Our time passed pleasantly, and, from
the description my friend gave of the delights
of the chase in Leicestershire, they deter-
mined to pay a visit to our green fields the
following season. In November the cham-
pions arrived, with horses, grooms, and lac-
queys. Finding that I was no hunter, they
expressed great surprise at my want of taste,
and insisted upon mounting me on one of
their stetds, and that I should see, for the
486
Music and Friends.
[April,
first time in my life, something of the sports
of the field. I so far consented as to
accompany them to cover, to witness the
sight of throwing off. I was mounted on a
delightful creature, who, with an elevated
crest, was gazing round the country like a
giraffe, as we gently rode to Carlton Clump.
On arriving there, the high-mettled steeds
•were walked about by spruce and cunning
grooms, waiting their masters' arrival. Soon
as mounted, the phalanx of scarlet began to
canter from cover to cover, surmounting the
hedge- rows by easy leaps. This mightily
pleased me. The cry of the dogs, and the
agreeable motion, made me forget the com-
pany I was in ; and, just as I was about
to return, up started a fox, when my resolu-
tion availed me nothing ; for my horse,
which had playfully scampered over the
green turf just before, shot like an arrow
Irom a bow, and headlong we went—
' O'er hill and dale,"
O'er paik and pale,'
till we came to Hallaton Wood. Here sly
reynard concealed himself, and we were at
fault. During this interval every eye was
upon the covert. I was asked by Sir Tho-
mas Clarges, on which side the wood I
thought the fox would break ? I replied —
' My dear sir, it is the first day 1 ever saw
a pack of hounds,' upon which the cele-
brated Mr Mellish exclaimed, ' Where the
hell, sir, were you born ? ' However, just
as my reason had returned, and I was about
to quit the field, up sprang another fox, and
•we were off again like the wind. Near Up-
pingham we hurried down a declivity at full
gallop, which I have since considered the
maddest action of my life. Helter-skelter
we then rushed forward to Laund, when
reynard met his death. The impetuous
creature upon which I was, mad with heat
and sport, by way of a finish, plunged over
head and ears with me into a gravel pit filled
with water. We swam out on the other side,
and by the time I had ridden the eighteen
miles back to Leicester, my ardour fofr fox-
hunting was completely cooled."
THE HOSIER IN FRANCE : OR, How TO
ASK FOR A WARMING-PAN.
" At the peace of Amiens, I determine**
to visit the French capital, and arrived at
Dover on my way thither, July the 1st,
1802. Such was the crowd of emigrants
returning to France, that we could not
procure a berth in any of the packets.
After waiting a couple of days, we were
fortunate enough to be taken on board a
cutter, by Mr Silvester, a king's messen-
ger. It blew a gale of wind when we set
off; the vessel was small, and I suffered
horribly from sickness. Providentially,
we arrived safe at Calais, after having
been drenched by the sea, which constant-
ly broke over us. The moment we enter-.
ed the inn, I desired to go to bed, as I
was dying with cold, but could not recollect
the French for a warming-pan. Address-
ing myself to the fille de chambre, I said,
' Apportez moi votre instrument pour le
lit," which drew from the girls in the kit-
chen a burst of laughter ; but I was not in
the mood to join them."
GARDINER AND THE ARCHBISHOP OF
CANTERBURY.
" Previous to the publication of the Sa-
cred Melodies, I waited upon Dean Words-
worth, in Lambeth palace, then chaplain to
the Archbishop of Canterbury, to state that
I had prepared a work of National Psalmody,
and was. anxious to have the sanction a::d
approval of the words from the Archbishop
before I published them, so that they might
be introduced without scruple into the church.
I was kindly received by the Dean, who
promised to lay my work before his Grace.
Soon after 1 received an intimation thut the
Archbishop would see me the following
morning at twelve o'clock; and, presenting
myself to the porter at the great gate, he
rung a deep-toned bell that resounded
through the spacious court, which imme-
diately roused a fry of smaller bells, to an-
nounce that some one was coming. A ser-
vant received me at the entrance of the
great hall, and by him I was directed to pass
to another station, where I should be di-
rected which way to proceed. Having
passed half a dozen men in livery, I came
to the antechamber of the Bishop's lib-
rary, where I was received by a sort of
gentleman, who told me that his Grace,
in less than a minute, would ring a bell,
when he should usher me into his presence.
On my entry I .found him sitting in a stately
chair, and in his robes. As soon as I had
acknowledged the kindness of his Grace in
granting me the interview, he said, ' Mr
Gardiner, I have received your book, and
am much pleased with it ; my daughters, the
Misses Sutton, have played over the music,
and think it very beautiful. As regards the
words, I directed my chaplain, Dr Words-
worth, to look them through, and he, as well
as myself, thinks them unexceptionable, and
an excellent selection ; but I notice there is
an observation in your Preface, wherein you
state that the attention which the Dissenters
pay to the improvement of their psalmody
is one cause of persons deserting the Esta-
blished Church. Do you think that is the
case ? ' ' Yes, my Lord. Good poetry,
such as that of Dr Watts and Mr Steele,
when combined with agreeable melodies, not
the old-fashioned drawling tunes of the
Puritans, will at all times prove an in-
centive to devotion.' ' 1 rather thought,
sir,' he replied, ' that the chief cause of the
lower orders not attending the church was
1839.]
the want of seats,* though, I dare say, there
may be some truth in what you state.' I
then said, ' I have to crave your Grace's
permission to put on the title-page of my
book what Sternhold has done, ' Allowed to
be snuff in churches.' '
We have before been told, by good
authority, that
" Some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there,"
but we little expected to have the
conduct of Dissenters thus explained,
by one who knows the secrets of their
prison-house.
GARDINER AND THE REV. ROBERT HALL.
" In dedicating ' The Sacred Melodies '
to the Prince Regent, I was desirous of
wording my address so as not only to ex-
press the honr.ur conferred upon me, but to
pay a due compliment to the Prince's _ taste
and knowledge in music ; and I waited upon
my neighbour, the Rev. Robert Hall, to
request his approval before I printed it. This
was my first interview with that extraordinary
man, who had left Cambridge to reside in
his native county. He received me kindly,
and talked much about music, of which he
was passionately fond, but said he had no
Music and Friends.
487
greatest writer that ever appeared ? ' Ha
replied, ' Voltaire was the most powerful of
any author he had read.' He afterwards
named Bossuet. I asked him if Cicero was
not very great. ' Yes, sir,' he replied,
1 Cicero did not write for a paltry island ;
he wrote for the whole earth.' The next
visit I piid him was to request his opinion
upon the words / had selected for the orato-
rio of JuHah. I had previously sent them to
him ; he had read them with great attention,
and made the following remarks ; — ' Pray,
sir, where did you get this passage ? ' 'I
think from Nahum, sir.' ' Ah! he was a
great prophet, sir, and a great poet, sir. Isaiah
was greatly indebted to him.' On enquiry,
he told me Nahum preceded him five hun-
dred years."
We hope Mr Hall's friends mean
to prosecute our autobiographer for a
libel in this passage. Voltaire, the
most powerful writer of Mr Hall's
acquaintance ! Cicero writing for the
whole world ! Shakspeare and Milton
for a paltry island, to which, of course,
the dialect and dominion of Britain
are exclusively confined! Isaiah
greatly indebted to Nahum ! " A great
ear. This I could scarcely believe, as the prophet, sir, and a great poet, sir!"
melody of his language, I remarked, was
strikingly beautiful. ' But, sir,' he replied,
' I can't sing a note.' — ' Though you neither
sing nor play, had you paid as much atten-
tion to musical sounds as you have done to
music of words, you would have been as re-
fined in music as you are in language.' —
' Why, sir, I can always tell what pleases
me,' and referred to a psalm-tune in ' The
Sacred Melodies' (page 14), as being one
that gave him great delight. ' As you seem
sir, to have an ear for language,' he said, ' I
should like to ask your opinion of the word-
ing of an epitaph which a reverend gentleman
brought me yesterday ; it is intended for Mr
Robinson's tomb, in St Mary's Church. I
will read it to you as it was first shown me ;
then, as I have altered it.' ' Well, sir,' I
replied, ' if I don't tell which is yours, I will
give you leave to crop off one of my ears.'
He laughed, and said, ' Will you dare me to
it, sir?' I said, 'Yes; get your shears,
Mr Hall, I am ready.' He read them, and
I laughed heartily at the ridiculous contrast.
The boldness of my challenge pleased him ;
and after I had decided rightly, he said, ' Is
it not a mere ' clatter of unmeaning words?'
I asked him, ' Who, in his opinion, was the
We wonder he did not add — and a
mighty pretty fellow in his day !
THE HOSIER'S GIFT TO HAYDN.
" In this place I beg leave to record a cir-
cumstance in which Mr Salomon rendered me
a service before I had the pleasure of knowing
him. I had a small present that I wished to
be conveyed to the great Haydn, the nature
of which the following letter will explain. I
sent it to Mr Salomon, with a request that
he would forward it to his friend : —
" ' To Joseph Haydn, Esq., Vienna,
" ' Sir, — For the many hours of delight
which your musical compositions have af-
forded me, I am emboldened (although a
stranger) to beg your acceptance of the en-
closed small present, wrought in my manu-
factory at Leicester. It is no more than six
pairs of cotton stockings, in which is worked
that immortal air, ' God preserve the Em-
peror Francis,' with a few other quotations
from your great and original productions. f
Let not the sense I have of your genius be
measured by the insignificance of the gift ;
but please to consider it as a mark of the great
esteem I bear to him who has imparted so
" I have no doubt that the scheme of building free churches was then in the Archbishop's
mind, for which he brought in an act some years afterwards."
f " The subjects quoted, and wrought upon the fabric of the stockings, were the following •
' My mother bids me bind my hair ;' the bass solo of the Leviathan ; the andante in the
Surprise Sinfonia ; his sonata,, ' Consummatum est ;' and 'God preserve the Em-
peror.' "
488
Music and Friends.
[April,
much pleasure and dalight to the musical
world.
" ' I am, dear sir, with profound respect,
your most humble servant,
" WILLIAM GARDINER,
" ' Leicester, August 10, 1804.'
" The war was raging at the time, and as
Mr Salomon had no answer, we concluded it
never arrived at its place of destination."
A further confirmation of Mr Gar-
diner's very defective ideas on the only
subject, ultra crepidam, which he can
pretend to know, may be found, if it
were wanted, in his announcement,
that with him " instrumental music
forms the basis of the art ; vocal mu-
sic being only a branch :" and in his
remarks on Catalani, who, in her least
and latest performances, had more soul
and sublimity than ever entered into
the heart or conception of all the Gar-
diners that ever either wove or wore
hose.
With these distinguished qualifica-
tions, however, Mr Gardiner has no
difficulty in dealing with every musi-
cal question that arises, and seems to
us to handle them all with the same
degree of knowledge or of ignorance.
The subject of national music he clears
up in a single sentence — " Mountain-
ous countries are the birth-place of
song. Man likes to hear the tone of
his own voice, and it is only among
the hills that he can listen to its sound."
Mr Gardiner, however, does not con-
fine himself to speculation on this
point. He satisfies himself of the fact
by visiting the mountains of our nor-
thern regions, and, as might have
been expected, seems perfectly de-
lighted at the tone of his own voice
when heard among them. The fact
is not very well spoken out, but it
seems quite clear that Mr Gardiner's
peregrinations were not exclusively
made with a musical view. He ap-
pears, for some time, to have travelled
for the house of Gardiner and Son,
and probably thought that a moun-
tainous country, besides being musi-
cal, might afford a good market for
the commodity in which he more pro-
fessionally dealt. With what success
this purpose of his visit was followed
we are not informed; but, altogether,
our traveller does not seem to have
been very well pleased with his re-
ception among us. And apparently
this is not to be wondered at. Gar-
diner, we can easily see, though he
mentions Mrs Tomkins as one of his
eleves, is but a dull edition of Tom-
kins himself — with all his impudence,
perhaps, and something of his tongue,
but certainly with none of his talents.
Take his account of our native city as
a sample, which may perhaps disin-
cline you to order much of the stock.
" In 1805 I visited Edinburgh. It was
midnight when we arrived, and I called a
caddy * to show me the way to Mr Patter-
son's. I hurried through the streets, having
a horror of the avalanches which occur about
this hour. Entering the porch of an old-
fashioned house, and, ringing the bell, a slide
was withdrawn in the door, and showed the
ghastly countenance of a man in a nightcap-
I enquired if this was Mr Patterson's?
' Weel,' said he, ' and can ye doot this is the
muckle hotel?' The door was reluctantly
opened, and I entered the traveller's room,
where empty bottles, glasses, and broken
pipes, the relics of a party gone to bed,
garnished a long table. I was presently shown
into a dormitory, where half a dozen beds
stood in a row, occupied by as many snorers.
Fatigue, however, settled the disagreeable;
and I soon made one of the concert. In
the morning I joined a young gentleman at
breakfast, just landed in a Leith vessel from
Italy, for the purpose of visiting the Scot-
tish capital. I had letters to Mr Creech and
Mr Jeffrey, but unfortunately (for them ?)
they were both out of town, and I lost the
pleasure of seeing some of the learned Scotch-
men. Emerging from this filthy inn, the mind
is suddenly elevated by the grandeur of the
surrounding scenery. The city is built upon
three long-backed hills, stretching from west
to east, between which lie two deep ravines,
probably once arms of the sea, now com-
pletely cultivated. The New Town, upon
the most northern hill, is connected with
the Old by a bridge ; and at the bottom of
the ravine runs a street of houses, four or
five stories high, the tops of which are level
with the street above, so that the houses
that form this street are set upon the tops
of those below. Within a mile of the city
stands the mountain called Arthur's Seat;
and as my friend had been up Vesuvius, he
taught me the best mode of climbing, (tre-
mendous task !) which is by turning the
toes out, and setting the feet sideways. From
this eminence, it is said, you may see as
far as Aberdeen, a distance of nearly one
hundred miles. [_ No doubt of it ; indeed,
on clear days, we believe Inverness is
also distinctly visible !] At dinner we
incurred the displeasure of the waiter, by
making our remarks upon the dishes set
before us. We had the haggis, and a
A porter with a lantern, there being then no lamps."
18:39.]
sheep's head
Music and Friends.
489
with the wool on, and, as a
side dish, the trotters of the same ani-
mal unsinged : however, we made up with
a magnum of claret, which was cheap and
excellent."
GARDINER ON SCOTTISH Music.
" The Scotch talk much about their
music, and consider themselves a musical
people. If they assume this on the ground
of their national airs being composed by
Scotchmen, they will have more to prove
than can be demonstrated. I have re-
peatedly asked, Who are their composers ?
When did they live ? I never had a satis-
factory reply. As a people they have no
pretensions to rank as musicians. Their
puritanical religion forbids the introduction
of instruments into their places of worship,
and their sacred music, or psalm singing,
is of the lowest order.* On my first visit
to the Scottish capital, I attended the
High Church, where Lord Moira was in
his regal pew, representing the King.
The psalm was given out line by line, and
the coarse manner in which the tune was
bawled by every one, to me was highly
offensive, not having the least resemblance
to any thing that can be called music. In
return for my scepticism, I have been
asked — Then who are the authors of our
music ? Probably your invaders : some
of your airs are as old as the Romans,
and still retain the features of their imper-
fect scale. J The ancient dress of the kilt,
or skirted frock, is derived from the same
people ; and the bagpipe Burney traces in
the Grecian sculpture in Rome. These
tunes unquestionably have been improved,
through subsequent ages ; and during the
reign of Mary received the polish of her
chief musician Rizzio and his companions.
As instances we merely refer to pages
117, 337, 497, and 558, for those who
have received this polish. Independent
of these circumstances, the Highlands of
Scotland, like all other mountainous coun-
tries, as Ireland and Wales, retain their
natural germs of melody, which the shep-
herd throws out from his voice. This has
no more claim to be called music, than
the spontaneous voices of animals or notes
of birds. From these hints, a composer
will form an elaborate music ; he derives a
melody from nature, which by his imagin-
ation and science, he renders perfect.
Music of this description Scotland has not ;
she has not a written scrap in the whole
country."
But enough of such nonsense. We
are fully confirmed by this book of
Mr Gardiner's, in the opinion which
we have entertained, that there is no-
thing so silly in the world as a silly
musical amateur — unless it be a silly
connoisseur in painting. These crea-
tures disfigure and degrade the arts to
which they attach themselves, by the
senseless slang which is always on their
lips, while to them the noblest and most
intellectual music is but a tinkling cym-
bal, and the most divine painting but a
tissue of tints and trickery.
We must observe, further, that we
have always had a favourable opinion
of the commercial character. Many
happy hours have we passed in the com-
mercial room of most of the great inns
on the road, and Tomkins and his fel-
lows have gratefully acknowledged the
justice we have ever done them. We
cannot, however, shut our eyes to
their defects. Immoderate pretension
is the badge of all their tribe, as much
as the bag they carry. Whether it
appear in boasting of conquests over
chambermaids' hearts, which were
never achieved, or in assuming fami-
liarity with persons or pursuits entirely
innocent of the impeachment, the bag-
man is always less to be trusted in his
account of himself than in his eulogiQm
on his goods. This family feature is
particularly conspicuous in Mr Gardi-
ner's Recollections. He talks of every
thing, of which he knows nothing ; and,
so far as music is concerned, has all
his life been vending an article of the
most flimsy and fallacious fabric. We
must dismiss him, by observing that,
hosier as he is, we have never, in our
experience, met with any individual
with so much cry and so little wool,
as the author of Music and Friends.
" * My friend, James Taylor, Esq. Philadelphia, says — " When my father resided at
Perth, 1750, the stock of psalm tunes sung in the Established Churches was only seven,
all common metre. These were regularly sung every Sunday, and in the same order, with-
out regard to the sentiment or character of the psalm, i. e. whether joyful or plaintive, for
that was a matter not even thought of, and indeed, under existing circumstances, .often re-
mediless. The introduction of a new tune was a memorable event; and those in quick or
treble time were regarded as profane, ' as ill as sang-singing in the kirk.' A certain worthy,
who only snore profanely six days in the week, but who, on Sunday, was regularly sancti-
monious, was so much shocked when St Matthew's was sung, that he used to run out of
the (h irch, lest he should incur sin, by appearing to countenance — the deil's tune.' "
" J Their 6rdcr of notes was a succession, nearly the same as that of the black keyg
of the piano forte."
490
Emily von Rosenthal — how she icas spirited away.
[April,
EMILY VON ROSENTHAL — HOW SHE WAS SPIRITED AWAY.
CHAPTER I.
" ADVENTURES, sir ?" said my oppo-
site neighbour, in the Rocket light
coach — " take my word for it they are
as plentiful as ever. We have be-
come wise, thoughtful, ingenious,
money-making, utilitarial, and poli-
tical— our eyes have become blind to
the romance that still lies every where
around us — our hearts seared with the
red-hot iron of a detestable philosophy,
which interdicts fancy and imagina-
tion as subversive of truth — good
heavens ! as if man were already con-
verted into Babbage's machine, and
had no higher occupation than the
evolution of arithmetical results. ' Mil-
lions of spiritual creatures walk the
air," but they are of too re6ned and
etherial a nature for our gross percep-
tions ; millions of fine adventures — •
wild, chivalrous, romantic — are within
our reach, but of too high and purified
a kind for our dull and every-day
faculties. What do you mean by an
adventure, sir ?"
The person who poured out this
torrent of words had got in at the
White Horse Cellar, — a thin, intelli-
gent looking man, of from forty to
fifty years of age, and his address had
been excited by some casual observa-
tion I had made about the lack of
adventure in a journey to Portsmouth
at the present time, compared to the
stirring days of Smollett and Field-
ing.
" An adventure ?" I answered —
" why, an attack by highwaymen —
being benighted on our way — or even
upset in a ditch."
" The days of highwaymen," an-
swered my neighbour, " are indeed
past — they went out at the same
time, perhaps, with those of chivalry ;
good lamps and macadamized roads
preserve us from being benighted on
our journey ; and the carefulness and
skill of my friend Falconer save us
from any danger of a ditch ; but, after
all, these are but external adventures—-
the husk, as it were, in which adven-
tures are contained, not the adven-
tures themselves — there must be some-
thing more to constitute an adventure
than mere robbery, or darkness, or
sprawling in a ditch— there must be
character, individuality, perhaps ro-
mance. What sort of an adventure
would a robbery be without a Captain
Weasle ?"
" Well, sir," I said ; " but you will
grant that the incidents I mentioned
are more likely to call forth those
peculiarities than merely sweeping
along behind four fine horses on a
road as smooth as a bowling-green."
" There's the very thing," replied
the stranger ; " it is this sweeping
along, and these fine roads, that have
centupled the materials for adventure
— under the word adventure, com-
prising not merely accidents and as-
saults, but any thing that calls forth
one's surprise by its oddness — and
that, I take it, is the widest sense ad-
venture can be taken in. What do
you think, sir, of tipping the son of a
marquis with a half-crown at the end
of a stage, or blowing up a duke for
not attending to your luggage ? Such
things never happened in the slow-
waggon days of Roderick Random."
" No, but merely being a spectator
of such an event as one of the nobility
in the driving-box, does not constitute
an adventure — you are but an indif-
ferent party."
" That's what I complain of. Peo-
ple, I have said before, are so taken
up with * this world's cold realities,'
that they remain indifferent parties to
any thing that does not actually touch
themselves. But, if you gave a little
play to your fancy, you would soon
find that you are actually performing
an adventure when you are driven by
a right honourable whip. You woncler
what circumstances led to such a fall ;
what train of mishaps and miseries
ended at last in ruffianizing the mind
and manners of an English noble.
You talk of it when you get home,
you boast of it once or twice a-week
after dinner for the rest of your life-
time, and by that simple coming in
contact with the patrician Jehu, you
feel as if you had a share in his his-
tory ; nay, you almost become en-
nobled yourself in contemplating his
degradation ; you begin to have a sort
of distant relationship to his distin-
guished ancestors ; when you read of
1839.]
Emily von Rosentkal — lime she was spirited away.
the achievements of any of those wor-
thies, you say, ' ah, yes, very great
man — I recollect his grandson drove
me to Brighton, and a very good
driver he was.' "
" But these things are reflections,"
I said, " not adventures."
" Not at all — the adventure consists
in your having met with an incident
which would have set the hairs of your
grandfather's wig on end with horror
and disgust, and the relation of which
will have, I sincerely hope, the same
effect on your grandson's natural locks.
I appeal to the gentleman on my left,
if, indeed, we have not set him to sleep.
Will you decide between us, sir ?"
The person thus addressed lifted
aside the silk handkerchief he had hi-
therto kept over his face, and present-
ed a visage of such preternatural ugli-
ness, that I started at the sudden dis-
closure. A lady at my side shrieked,
and clung to my arm. The hideous
apparition smiled in a manner which,
of course, added to his grimness, and
showed a row of teeth, of extraordinary
length, which had evidently been shar-
pened to a point by a file or some other
instrument. Deep lines were cut in
every variety of square and circle, on
every portion of his face ; in short,
he was the most complete specimen of
the art of tatooing I had ever seen.
" I can scarcely decide," he said, in
very good English, " as in fact I have
not been attending to the conversation.
I am an Englishman, born in Derby-
shire ; I bore a lieutenant's commission
at the battle of Waterloo ; I am now
king of six brave and powerful nations,
and have been paying a visit to your
sovereign Victoria. If she would give
me leave to settle the French Cana-
dians, I and my brave people would
eat them up in a week."
The lady again screamed. « The
fentleman's a hannibal," she said — " I
nowed it from the shape of his teeth."
The Indian King laughed.
My friend looked at me triumphant-
ly. " Smooth -roads and pleasant
coaches, you see, are not so barren of
adventure as you supposed. You
don't deny, I hope, that this is equal
to an upset?"
" I don't know, sir," I replied.
" George Psalmanazor lived in the
days of the heavy flies."
" He was a quack and a humbug,
and besides, you never would have
met him travelling in one of those
491
conveyances. It would not in the
least degree increase the strangenesr
of this discovery though Falconer
was to tumble us all into a ditch."
" It might increase it very painfully
to him" said the tatooed monarch,
with a demoniacal opening of his
jaws, and an audible grinding of his
pin-pointed teeth, " for I would have
his scalp at my belt in the turn of a
wrist."
" They would hang you," said my
friend.
" I am sacred, not only as a king
but as an ambassador. Grotius and
Puffendorf are precise upon that
point."
" But you forfeit such sacredness
by outraging the laws."
" Not at all," replied the King : " I
was in an attorney's-office before I
got my commission, and know some-
thing of law. I give up the ambassa-
dor, but in my character of king I
maintain I am inviolable."
" What ! if you commit a mur-
der ?"
" Yes — my sister Christina put
Monaldeschi to death at Fontainbleau,
and no notice was taken."
" He was her own servant, and not
a subject of France — and, according
to Christina's account, was tried for a
state crime by a court which would
have been considered legal in Sweden,
found guilty, and executed according
to law."
" It was merely as a crowned head
that the French lawyers passed it sub
silentio, as we used to say in old
Sweatem's office. A sovereign reg-
nant carries his OWN laws with him
wherever he goes. I may scalp any
man in my own dominions, without
assigning any reason (and that, by a
regularly published law, and not
merely from the absence of any law) ;
and, therefore, I conclude under that
law I should be able to plead a justifi-
cation."
" I hope you won't try it," replied
my friend, " for Falconer is a great
friend of mine. But we have left the
subject we started with ; and now I
think you will confess that there are
more adventures within our reach at
the present time, if we only choose to
look for them, than when roads were
bad and robbers plentiful. Can you
imagine a stranger incident than
meeting a king of the American In-
dians, quoting Grotius and Puffendorf,
Emily von Rosenthal—how she was spirited away. [April,
492
and recalling the experiences of an
attorney's office ?"
" But you forget," I rejoined, " one
great source of adventure possessed
by our ancestors, which our modern
enquiries have dried up : I mean su-
perstition. We have no haunted
chambers in way-side inns — nor
clanking of chains ; nor spectres look-
ing in upon us from high gallows-
trees upon * the blasted heath.' "
" My dear sir, you are wofully
mistaken in taking for granted the
death of superstition, merely because
she is buried. If -we had courage to
confess it, we should find that her
subjects were as numerous as ever,
and her power as great. Even at St
John's, my own college, sir — we per-
fectly well know the library is haunt-
ed. I myself, sir, when I was an un-
der-graduate, had roomsjust below it,
and have heard most distinctly the roll
of some hard substance from one end
of the long gallery to the other — and
after a pause the substance, whatever
it was, has been trundled back again,
and the game has gone on ; and as a
proof to you of the liveliness of super-
stition at that period, which is not a
very remote one, I may tell you that
those rooms are often unoccupied from
their haunted reputation, — and that
there is not a scout — I may almost say
not a member of the college, who has
not some vague fear of entering the
library, or who is altogether sure that
the popular account of the legend is
not the correct one, namely, that
the rolling sound — bump — bump —
along the floor, is caused by the devil
playing at bowls with the head of
Archbishop Laud."
" I never heard the like in my born
days," said the lady at my right hand,
with a sort of tremor in her voice,
that showed she was not of one of the
unbelievers : — " I wouldn't go into
that room for to be made Queen of
England."
" There, sir ! " cried my friend in
triumph — " this sensible lady bears
witness to the truth of what I say.
Depend upon it, we are not one of us
deprived of the happy power of think-
ing each strange tale devoutly true, if
we could only tear off for a while the
mummy- folds of interest, pride, ration-
ality, and scepticism, in which we
have wrapt ourselves . For my own part,
I make it a rule to believe every thing.
The experimental is as real to me as a
tree or a stone — but, indeed, what
right have we to call any thing supcr-
natural, 'till we have found how far
the natural extends ? The combina-
tions of chemistry are more superna-
tural than a ghost — yet we believe
them."
" But we know their causes."
" No, sir ; we only see the effects
of certain mixtures, and from the uni-
formity of the effect, we argue to a
cause — but the cause itself is inexpli-
cable. So perhaps is the cause of a
ghost ; but its existence may be as
real, notwithstanding, as the stream
we are crossing at this moment. Two
gases in composition produce water —
why may not two other gases produce
a spectre ?"
" Seeing is believing," I said.
" I have seen, sir," replied my
friend —
" A ghost, sir ?" enquired the lady,
with her eyes distended with expecta-
tion.
" A spectre, madam," he repliedj
with a good-humoured smile; " but
here we are at Guildford, and I will
tell you the story when we have
changed horses."
CHAPTER II.
" SHORTLY after leaving college, I
travelled for some years, and when I
had grown tired of chasing my own
shadow from Rome to Naples, from
Paris to Vienna, I betook me, in a fit
of repentance for time lost and money
wasted, to the calm and sedate Uni-
versity of Heidelberg. It is certain-
ly not very easy to find what is called
gentlemanly society in those abodes of
learning, where beer and tobacco dis-
pute the pre-eminence with verbal
scholarship and cloudy metaphysics ;
but, in finding one person about my
own age, who had a soul above brown
stout and meerschaums, I considered
myself very fortunate. He was a fine,
high-spirited youth, of noble family,
and of what in that country passes for
a large fortune. His name was
Charles, or Karl von Hontheim ; and
before I had been a month matricu-
lated, we both felt as if we had known
each other all our lives. There is
1839.] Emily von Rosenthal— how she was spirited away.
nothing so surprising among the
Germans as the way in which they go
through that^jroce* monstre, which we
call falling in love. Instead of a quiet,
pleasant sort of feeling, such as we
experience it here, going on from sim-
ple flirtation through a season or two's
quadrilles, to a positive predilection,
and finally to an offer of marriage-
love in the heart of a German is a
smouldering volcano or embryo earth-
quake. It seems to be his point of
honour to feel as miserable as possible ;
and my friend Karl was, according
to his own showing, the most wretched
of men. The account of his woes was
this : — A certain Emily von Rosen-
thai — one-half of whose attraction I
firmly believe consisted in the pretti-
ness of her name — was the daughter
of an old baron who lived in complete
seclusion in one of the most out-of-the-
way districts of the Odenwald. Karl
had become acquainted with her du-
ring her stay with an old relation —
one of the Empress' maids of honour
at Schonbrunn — and seemed to have
made so good use of his time and op-
portunities, that nothing was wanting
but the consent of the old baron ;
Emily herself being nearly as roman-
tic as my friend. But many things
told against his chance with the seclu-
ded proprietor of Rosenthal. In the
first place, he had a prejudice against
the locality where the acquaintance
had commenced ; in the next place, he
was sometimes in his own mind deter-
mined on marrying his daughter to a
gentleman whose principal recom-
mendation was that he was his neigh-
bour, and would, therefore, not carry
her far out of his reach ; and, in the
last place, he was not by any means
anxious to marry her at all, as, besides
losing her society, he foresaw there
might be sundry inconveniences at-
tending the event in the shape of set-
tlements and portions ; and, therefore,
on the whole, balancing between mar-
rying her to the Baron von Erbach
and not marrying her at all, — the lat-
ter alternative was decidedly the fa-
vourite. But Emily, on parting with
Karl, had given him to understand
that she was very miserable at the
thoughts of immurement in the old
chateau of Rosenthal ; and, accord-
ingly, out of mere sympathy, he felt
inconsolably wretched in his suite of
rooms at Heidelberg. No wonder,
indeed, that Emily was in doleful
49;!
dumps at the expectation of all that
awaited her at home. You were none
of you perhaps ever inside of an old
German castle ; but you will have a
very good idea of it if you will trans-
plant the jail of your nearest county
town into a wild region among hills
and woods — convert its court-yard
and cells into long corridors, place
some few articles of furniture, of a
coarse and strong kind, in one or two
of the rooms, and imagine the whole
building very much in want of a
county rate to keep it in habitable
repair. This, at least, is a very close
description of the residence of the
beautiful Emily. Then, instead of
the pleasing society of an enterprising
housebreaker, or gentlemanly turn-
key, think of being doomed to see no
visage, from one year's end to another,
except that of her father, or the mo-
dest and undecided Baron von Er-
bach. Solitary confinement would
have been a milder sentence. And
then, if she moved into the village, as
by courtesy a few straggling huts
were called, her situation was not
much improved. The schoolmaster
had not visited the Odenwald, and I
should imagine has scarcely yet open-
ed his primer among that benighted
and simple peasantry. Not the worse,
perhaps, for them ; but still to a young
lady who had spent half a-year at
Vienna — been presented at court, and
had danced with all the whiskered
pandours and the fierce hussars that
shine forth in the refulgence of pearl
jackets and diamond pantaloons, the
change was " very tolerable," as Dog-
berry says, " and not to be endured."
The unsophisticated natives of the
village had no higher idea of a grandee
than was offered them in the person
of the baron himself; and they had
a far higher reverence for the Wild
Huntsman of their own forest, than
tor the Kaisar and all his court. But
you ask who was the Wild Huntsman ?
— Thereby hangs a tale ; and I give
you my word of honour it is impossi-
ble for any incident to be better au-
thenticated by the evidence both of
eye-witnesses and ear-witnesses, than
the repeated appearance of a certain
form or shape, which, among the
country people, bore the name of the
Wilde Yager, or Wild Huntsman. I
have conversed with many — hundreds
I was going to say — but many dozens
of people certainly, who have assured
Emily von Rosenthal — hou- she was spirited away. [April,
494
me they have seen him ' and heard
him,' — who have described the long
white cloak in which he is enveloped,
and the high-trotting black horse he
rides on. Why should we disbe-
lieve it? for observe, I pray you,
his appearance is not a mere use-
less display — but has an object of a
much loftier kind than merely to
frighten old women and children.
No reasoning could dissipate the be-
lief universal in that district, that the
appearance of the Wild Huntsman was
the precursor of hostilities. In the
profoundest peace there has been
heard, in the sequestered valley of the
Rosenthal, the tramp of a barbed
horse and the clang of knightly steel,
— so sure as this sound has been re-
peated three times, has war broken out
within the month ; and if you had
heard, as I have, the proofs of this
coincidence, to call it nothing more,
you would pause a little before you
altogether rejected it, or attributed it to
the liveliness (or ghastliness rather) of
the German imagination. But every
spectre must have his legend, — and the
legend of the Wild Huntsman of the
Odenwald is this : — Long, long ago,
a certain graf, or earl, was lord of the
whole forest and half the neighbouring
lands. A jolly old boy he seems to
have been, as manners then were.
When he drank Rhine wine, which
was a feat he performed by the hogs-
head, he was tolerably happy, — hap-
pier when he fell in with a company of
rich churchmen returning with the
rents of their abbey-lands, or of mer-
chants with their pack-saddles stuffed
with gold, — but happiest of all when
his foot was in stirrup and lance in
rest, for hard knocks were both meat
and drink to the graf of the Oden-
wald. Fierce, cruel, and tyrannical
— even beyond the habits of chivalry
— people were amazed to find that,
from one of his marauding excursions,
he brought home with him a lady from
a far countrie, beautiful exceedingly,
and still more surprised when they
discovered that he made her his lawful
wife, and paid her such deference and
devotion as if she had been a saint,
and he had turned her worshipper.
But tigers can never be permanently
tamed, however quiet they may appear
for a season, so let Van Amburgh look
to it. The graf seemed all of a sudden
to recover his bloodthirsty disposition.
Though an heir to his name and ho-
nours was now daily to be expected,
he ordered his retainers to mount-
brought out his splendid black charger,
and, when his fair young wife came to
him, and begged him, by all the love
she bore him, to delay his expedition
for only a few days, he cursed her as
she knelt, and repelled her with his
iron-bound hand so rudely, that blood
gushed out of her snow-white shoul-
der, and she fell senseless on the
ground. The graf sprang into his
saddle, and rode off. After a march
of three days, he laid siege to the
castle of a rival chief, and was repuls-
ed with great slaughter. As he lay
under an oak-tree that night, a vision
appeared to him of his wife. She
bore a poor dead baby in her arms,
and said, " See, graf, what your
cruelty has done. Oh ! man of blood,
our blood is upon your soul. To-
morrow's fight will be your last ; but
the grave will refuse you rest. Go
forth, and as war has been your de-
light, be the herald and harbinger of
war." In the next day's assault he
died, and from that time, which is
now many centuries ago, his spectre
has been seen in his habit as he lived,
mounted on the fiery black horse, and
announcing the near approach of strife
and danger. — But here we have got to
Godalming, and I must refresh my
memory with a tumbler of sherry and
water."
CHAPTER III.
" It is time to go back in my story to
my friend Karl and his disconsolate
enchantress, the fair Emily von Rosen-
thai. ' Though boaties rowed and ri-
vers flowed, with many a hill between,'
they managed to keep up an animated
correspondence by means of the post-
office, the slit in whose wall gave, no
doubt, the original idea of the inter-
parietal communications of Pyramus
and Thisbe. It is impossible to say
what mischief might have happened if
the frequent epistles had not opened a
safety valve to the fiery passion that
devoured poor Karl. " Sure, heaven
sent letters for some wretch's aid,"
which is another argument in favour
of Mr Hill's penny postage — for ab-
1839.] Emily von Rosenthal — how she was spirited away.
sent love is a great enough evil of it-
self without the additional misery of
paying a double letter. Pages, vo-
lumes, reams, were mutually written
and received, and love had at last
reached the point when it becomes
sublime, when my inspection of it was
for a while interrupted by my friend
getting a lieutenant's commission in
the dragoons, and leaving the classic
shades of the Heidelburghen, where I
had made his acquaintance, to join his
regiment. I pursued my studies for
another month or two, and then re-
ceived an invitation from Karl to visit
him at his castle in the west of Ger-
many, and afterwards to accompany
him to the station where the detach-
ment of the regiment he belonged to
was at that time quartered. Nothing
could be more agreeable. I set off at
the end of March, just when the wea-
ther begins to be fittest for travelling
and sight- seeing; and, after a delight-
ful journey on horseback, for I took
two or three of my horses abroad with
me, I arrived at the hospitable castle
of Hontheim.
" ( Don't you think I am the luckiest
dog in Europe ?' were the first words
he said to me. * The troop I belong
to is stationed at Waldback, only
fourteen miles from Rosenthal. Emily
knows of our good fortune. Did you
ever hear of anything so fortunate.'
" There was no gainsaying the fact,
that this was a very agreeable incident
in the life of a man condemned to
country quarters, and I congratulated
him accordingly. I rejoiced in it also
on my own account, as I confess I had
become so far interested in his love as
to have a great anxiety to see the in-
spirer of it. It was also a part of the
country with which I was unacquaint-
ed, and as I knew it was the land of
mysteries and hobgpblins, I was de-
termined to judge for myself whether
indeed there are things in this dull
prosaic earth of ours which are not
dreamt of in our philosophy. I went
— and saw — but I will not anticipate.
" As to my friend Karl's sisters, it
would make the story more romantic,
perhaps, if I told you about their ele-
gance, beauty, and all the other qua-
lities that travelling Englishmen are so
clever at discovering in foreign ladies
— for my own part, I never saw a girl
who had not been brought up at the
feet of an English mother, with whom
I would trust my happiness ; but this
49,3
by the way. Karl's sisters were very
tolerable to look at, and accomplished
after the manner of accomplishments
in their country ; but as it was no
difficult matter to perceive that Wer-
ther was an especial favourite with
them — and that Goethe's other prose
writings were their chief literary
studies, I soon came to the conclusion
that such poison would not be long in
producing the baneful effects which, I
verily believe, it was that prurient
old satyr's intention to create on the
mind and manners of his countrymen.
And this prophecy is now completely
fulfilled, as both of them are separated
from their husbands, without, at the
same time, losing a single particle of
their status and reputation. Well,
a fortnight or so passed pleasantly
enough — Karl making Rosenthal,
and the inhabitants of Rosenthal, so
constantly the theme of his discourse,
that I really think I knew every
cranny of the old castle, and all the
individuals connected with it, as inti-
mately as if they had been my own
home and my own relations. The
old Baron was described as a fine relic
of a man once acquainted with the
world, but now fallen into old age and
the hands of his confessor, — which,
between them, seemed to have stripped
him of all the experience he had ac-
quired, and left his mind a tabula rasa
on which the persons nearest him
could make almost whatever impres-
sion they chose. His friend and
neighbour, the Baron Von Erbach,
seemed a younger edition of the
Baron Von Rosenthal, with the addi-
tional disadvantage of never having
seen the world at all : but to compen-
sate for this lack of experience, he had
what very few people in his condition
have — a salutary distrust in his own
wisdom, and even in the evidence of
his own senses. He would rather
take another person's word for it that
the sun was shining, than state such a
fact on his own authority. Emily was,
of course, an angel ; and the confessor
a fit individual to make up a trio with
the two barons, as he seemed to be as
simple as ignorance and his legendary
studies could make him.
" When in this way I had acquired a
competent knowledge, at second hand,
from Karl, who himself was indebted
for all his information to his fair cor-
respondent, we set off for the secluded
station to which Karl was appointed.
JEmily von Rosenthal — how she was spirited away. [April,
A venerable captain was the only
other officer, and as he was a very
good specimen of his country, we soon
were on the best of terms with the
silent and smoking philosopher, who
rarely interfered with us, and never
objected to take whatever duty Karl
was too much occupied to perform.
In fact, it was quite a holiday ; and, of
course, our first business was to recon-
noitre the position of Rosenthal Castle,
preparatory to taking any steps to effect
a lodgement. Recollect my similitude
of the county jail — a similitude appli-
cable in more ways than one, — as I
will venture to s^ay there are few male-
factors have longed more ardently for
their release than did the imprisoned
Emily. At last we determined be-
tween us that I should effect an en-
trance ; and, accordingly, at the close
of an April day, I found myself be-
nighted in the neighbourhood of the
castle, and thundered at the door —
intending to crave admission and shel-
ter for the night. Long, long did I
sit at the portal gate, knocking with
all my might. At last, a voice, trem-
bling with agitation, cried from the
inside — " In the name of St Hubert
and St James, what want you here ?"
" ' Food and shelter. I have lost my
way in the forest ; and my horse is
tired.'
" ' He trotted too fast over the draw-
bridge. We adjure you in the name
all the saints to retire."
ti t why ? what are you afraid of?
Tell your master, whoever he is, that
I am an Englishman, who craves his
hospitality only for the night.'
" ' An Englishman?' said the voice ;
and then, after a little whispering, the
key was turned, and the creaking old
gate revolved upon its hinges, and
presented to my astonished eyes three
individuals ; one of them bearing a
little tin box, and dressed in full cano-
nicals, the other two close behind him,
and looking over his shoulders, as if
expecting to see some wonderful ap-
pearance. The little tin box contain-
ed one of the thigh-bones and three
ribs of St Hubert, and was borne by
the worthy father confessor of the
other two gentlemen, who were no
less distinguished personages than the
barons of Erbach and Rosenthal. The
box and surplice were rapidly hustled
out of sight — a retainer was summoned
to take my horse, and with some little
appearance of knightly hospitality, I
was uhered into a large room, where
some bottles and glasses, on a huge
table before the fire, showed that the
ghostly father did not altogether inter-
dict the creature comforts from his
faithful flock.
" ' You will pardon me, stranger,'
said the old Baron, « for having kept
you waiting outside the gate so long ;
for — 'tis a wild country this — some of
the peasantry, they say, are disaffected,
— and — so you see'
f< ' I beg you'll make no apologies,'
I said ; ' I am too grateful that you
have let me in at last, to find any fault
with the delay. My poor black, also.'
"'Is your horse black, sir?' enquired
the younger baron ; * Father Joannes
was just saying so.'
" And, in short, it very soon came
out that the three wise men of Rosen-
thai had been startled from their wine-
cups by the fear of a visit from the
Wild Huntsman. Now, though I have
described them as somewhat simple, I
must say, that from all I heard on that
occasion, their belief in the occasional
apparition of the figure I have de-
scribed to you, was perfectly sincere ;
and, what is more, supported by many
clearer and more convincing proofs
than one-half of the things that their
religion calls upon them to credit.
And such were the tales they told,
and so authenticated, that on going to
my couch that night, I was half in-
clined to fancy that they were per-
fectly justified in what had at first
struck me as an instance of childish
credulity. Before many days had
passed, I was in a condition to speak
from my own experience, — but here
we are at Liphork, where the coach
stops for lunch ; and, if you wish to
have a very bad lunch, and to pay
for it very highly, I advise you to avail
yourself of this opportunity. The
beer, however, is good.
CHAPTER IV.
"Emily von Rosenthal was certainly mance I saw in her disposition added
a beautiful girl ; and, as I was not to to her attraction. With her, and, m-
be her husband, I confess the wild ro- deed, with the old people also, I man-
1839.J Emily von Rosenthal — how she was spirited away. 497-527
aged to make myself such a favourite,
that I was invited to prolong my visit,
—which, you will perceive, was the
very thing- I wished ; — and, besides
the duty of being useful to my friend,
there is no denying that such an insight
into the secret recesses of an old baro-
nial family was very agreeable to my-
self. The brace of barons and their
worthy confessor were indeed well de-
serving of a study, for three such ori-
ginals are not often to be encountered.
The lover was as queer a specimen of
the tender passion as one can well
imagine ; seeming to consider the
whole art and mystery of love-making
to consist in adopting the opinion of
his enslaver, though she altered it as
often as Hamlet in the play. Polonius
was a type of him. The two other
worthies seemed to make it quite as
much a point to retain their own opi-
nions, however absurd ; and, between
them all, what with philandering with
the young lady, and drinking with the
old men, my time passed very agree-
ably. A meeting at last was effected,
through my means, between the lovers
— daggers and flashes of lightning,
what vows they swore ! Commend
me to a German for thundering pro-
testations,— what tears they wept ! for
Karl was not above the lachrymatory
weaknesses of his country men, — and all
the time I could not imagine what
possible obstacle there could be to his
marrying her on the spot ; but, alas !
alas ! the meeting had been perceived
by some prying eyes, — cold looks were
cast on me ; the young lady ordered
into close confinement within the castle
walls — visited three times a-day by
the confessor — and once at least by the
Baron von Erbach — and affairs in all
respects wore as gloomy an aspect as
could well be desired. She prayed
and besought me not to leave her, — so
the cold looks of the trio were thrown
away upon me, — their hints disre-
garded— and their viands and wines
consumed as unconcernedly as ever.
Who or what the stranger might be
who had been seen in company with
the fair Emily and the English stranger,
nobody had discovered. We, of course,
with the licence allowable in love and
war, flatly denied the whole accusa-
tion,— and we were not without some
remote hopes that better days would
shine on us when the present tyranny
should be overpast. But now comes
the main incident of my story, One
VOL, XLV, NO, CCLXXXII,
evening — it was on the 13th of April
— when we were all gathered together
as usual round the wood fire in the
hall, low growls of thunder were
heard at a distance among the hills —
long shrill gusts of wind sounded
every now and then along the deserted
corridors — and, by fitful plashes, a
pattering of rain sounded dismally
against the window.
" ' Here is a wild night,' said Father
Joannes, stirring up one of the im-
mense logs upon the fire — ' may the
saints have pity upon travellers.'
" * And send them a cup of comfort
like this,' added the old baron, filling
up his glass.
" * Ah ! very true,' said the younger
baron, and followed his senior's ex-
ample.
" ' None but the wicked would go
abroad in such weather,' observed the
reverend gentleman, who never was
altogether pleased unless he received
a little contradiction to his remarks ;
' and therefore I withdraw my request
that the saints would have pity on
them.'
« ( Very true,' said the Baron von
Erbach, « I did not think of that.'
" ' But are the wicked peculiarly
fond of bad weather for their jour-
neys ?' I enquired.
" * They are the cause of it, my good
friend,' explained the confessor ; ' na-
ture is so disgusted at the sight of
them that she falls into convulsions —
the elements themselves are affected —
the wind howls for fear — the rain falls
in sorrow, as is fully explained in a
learned book by a brother of our
order on the causes of storms and
earthquakes.' So you perceive that
Colonel Reid and the ingenious Ame-
rican are not the first who have stu-
died those matters. But to go on with
the conversation in the great hall at
Rosenthal : — When about an hour had
been spent in listening to various
sage opinions upon a multitude of sub-
jects, the storm every now and then
getting the better of our eloquence,
and sounding indeed very appalling
in that dilapidated old mansion, we
were startled from our seats in the
very middle of a tremendous gust, by
repeated knocks at the principal gate,
and the sound of many voices demand-
ing admission. When we recovered
a little from our surprise at such an
unusual event, we went in a body
across the main quadrangle to the
2L
Emily von Rosenthal — how she was spirited away.
528
gate, and on opening it, seven or eight
of the villagers — men, women, and
children, all huddled together in the
extremity of terror, rushed into the
yard imploring us to save them. Be-
fore we had time to enquire into the
cause of their alarm, we were joined
by the beautiful Emily herself, care-
fully wrapped up in her cloak, who
clung to my arm, and looked on with-
out saying a word. The confessor
hurried off as fast as possible for the
little tin box which he had displayed
so piously on my first appearance ;
and the two barons, making out from
the confused report of the villagers
that they had seen the Wild Huntsman
in full trot, skirting the wood, and
coming directly towards the hamlet,
fell into such an agony of fear that
they could do nothing but cross them-
selves with amazing activity, and re-
peat the creed and the commandments
as fast as they were able. Father
Joannes appeared at last with his
talisman of bones, and rattled them
with the most exemplary devotion. A
fresh batch of terrified peasants now
rushed distractedly into the court-
yard; and while the rain continued to'
pour, and the now almost dark even-
ing was fitfully illumined by vivid
streaks of lightning, there certainly
did come into that quadrangle a form
enveloped in a long white mantle,
mounted on a splendid black charger.
It was a stately animal, and trotted
proudly up to the very spot where I
was standing with Emily clinging to
my arm. There could be no mistake ;
I saw it with my own eyes. The fi-
gure stooped solemnly down when he
reached the spot ; and the next minute
I missed my fair companion from my
side ; and amid, repeated flashes of
[April,
lightning, while the thunder rolled
in long eddying volleys, that nearly
shook the turrrets to the ground, I
thought I saw her seated in front of
the mysterious shape, whatever it
might be, and disappearing through
the portal."
" Lodd massy !" exclaimed the
lady, whom 1 had fancied asleep, so
silent had she been while the gentle-
man was telling this story, " and was
the poor crittur never heard of again ?
She was not married to the ghost
sure ?"
" Madam," replied the gentleman,
" all that I can say is, that I my self saw
the incident I have related. What
happened in that mysterious journey I
have no means of finding out. It is
sufficient to say, that the two barons
were exceedingly grateful to my friend
Karl von Hontheim, who was fortu-
nate enough to deliver the heiress of
Rosenthal from the clutches of the
Wild Huntsman — the youngerof those
noblemen being farther induced to
forfeit all claim to the lady's hand
from being afflicted with a severe
rheumatic affection in the knee, which
he attributed to kneeling for upwards
of two hours on the wet court-yard,
for it was a very long time before any
of the party recovered courage enough
to rise from their prostration. I can
add nothing more, except that my
friend Karl and his bride are still
alive ; and that last year, when I was
there, they showed me a magnificent
black horse, now very much failed
from age, but still healthy, and by the
aid of boiled oats likely to live some
time. But this, I see, is Peterfield,
where I unfortunately leave you — a
good day, gentlemen, and a pleasant
journey to Portsmouth.
1839.]
What is Poetical Description f
529
WHAT IS POETICAL DESCRIPTION ?
THE ancient sentence of Simonides,
" that a picture is a silent poem, and
a poem, a speaking picture," though
it contains a seminary of truths, has
been accessory to much delusion. An-
titheses and epigrams are seldom true
to the letter. Like metaphors and
similes, they must not be made re-
sponsible for their consequences. They
are signal rockets, which do their ap-
pointed office if they blaze and expire.
It was only the lying spirits that could
be hermetically sealed up in phials of
crystal. Thus, in the present in-
stance, it is true that painting, where-
over it rises above mere mechanism,
when it selects and combines accord-
ing to a principle of grandeur or of
beauty — or makes unmoving, insen-
sate lines and colours, expressive of
motion, action, passion, thought, or
when in the representation of the sim-
plest inanimate objects, it conveys to
the soul of the beholder, the feeling,
the unction of the artist's own, is es-
sentially poetic. As far as the com-
binations of form and colour are con-
cerned, painting, without words, does
all that words could do, and a great
deal more. But the poetry of lan-
guage is not necessarily pictorial nor
picturesque. Many of the finest pas-
sages suggest no distinct images to
the inward eye, and scarce supply a
hint to the painter. The man who
affirmed that the sole use of poetry
was to furnish subjects for pictures,
spoke as wisely and professionally as
Brindsley did, when he declared that
God Almighty made rivers to sup-
ply canals with water. Yet a race of
poets have existed, re-appearing from
time to time in the decay or syncope
of natural genius, who seem to have
taken the pathetic bard of Cos at his
word, and have neglected the pecu-
liar functions of their own high art, to
strain with elaborate idleness after the
unattainable perfections of another.
These word-painters have, by an old
Italian writer, been quaintly called
amatorial poets — seemingly under the
false and calumnious impression that
love regards the outside only — that
fancy " is begotten in the eyes." Few
of these cockneys aspire to history —
the florists are innumerable — many
attempt portrait, but they excel chiefly
in draperies. Some are architects, ge-
nerally in the Gothic or Arabesquu
styles — many were upholsterers, house,
furniture, and heraldry painters ; but
in modern times, by far the most re-
spectable have devoted themselves to
landscape. It may be remarked, how-
ever, that their performances, in what-
ever line they may be, seldom attempt
to emulate any but the lower and spu-
rious branches of the silent art ; their
works are not " speaking pictures,"
but prating pieces of needlework,
lisping intaglios ; their sculpture is
coloured wax-work, and their archi-
tecture a confectionary pagoda. But
thus must it ever be, when men desert
the thing they should be, to enact the
thing which they are not. The poet
embroiderers, assuming that poetry is
addressed to the inward, as painting
to the bodily eye, labour to make
every line convey an image — the
colour of an eye, or the turn of a
neck, or
" Delicate shadow of an auburn curl,
Upon the vermeil cheek."
Or, if the eye is ever to be relieved
from duty, the nose is called in to sup-
ply its place — and we have
" The fragrant breath of sylphs, unseen
that lie
In the low, lurking violet's pale blue eye,
The rose's sigh, what time she harks the
tale
Of her true love, the darkling nightingale,
That hath within his little breast a choir
Of spirits musical."
Thus, the pretty creatures go it too
and fro between the curiosity shop
and the perfumery, with a musical
snufif-box in their hands, in imitation
of a lyre, and think themselves de-
scriptive poets.
But, to be serious, it never can be
the scope, the province, the final
cause, and summum bonum of poetry,
to do that indifferently which her
mute sister does so much better, and
more quietly. Judging from the
soundest principles of philosophic cri-
ticism, exemplified in the works of the
greatest and truest poetry, we main-
tain, that the highest poetry has no
analogy whatever with painting— that
imagery is not poetic in proportion as
530
What is Poetical Description ?
C April,
it flashes vividly on the fancy, but as it
lays hold of the higher affections, or
becomes the exponent of action or
thought.
It may be objected, that we have
alluded to an obscure and frivolous
swarm of poetasters, whose imbecili-
ties could form no just exception to
any theory or definition. But, in fact,
if to paint with words, to make lan-
guage picturesque, were the poet's
characteristic occupation, the triflers
we speak of must be the greatest and
best of poets.
But in the strictness of speech,
words cannot paint, neither singly nor
in combination. They appeal to the
imagination solely through the me-
mory ; or if they have any direct in-
fluence on the fancy or the feelings, it
is, and can be, only by their sound,
and the tone and time of their utter-
ance. Not singly ; for surely the word
horse is not a picture of a horse ; and
though it recall the form of that animal
to any one who had seen him, it would
afford not a hint of his lineaments to
one who had not. Not in combina-
tion ; because the combination of
words necessarily implies what paint-
ing as necessarily excludes — a pro-
gression or succession of time. No
description, therefore, however accu-
rate, can be literally graphic, for an
accurate description is successive enu-
meration of the co-existent parts of a
given whole. The parts, therefore,
appear before the imagination disjoint-
edly ; and, instead of the full, coin-
staneous intuition, in which painting
vies with nature, you have a tedious
toil of memory to re-articulate the
severed members, some or other of
which are almost sure to be lost by
the way.
Is it not possible, then, for the poet
to flash a perfect image on the mind ?
Undoubtedly, and more ; he can pre-
sent the totality of many contempo-
raneous images, but not by the minute
pencilling of the pictorialists, — not by
mimicking the mastery of the limner,
but by a magic all his own, — a power
mighty as that by which the true artist
makes a single moment to express
a whole action — a single glance to
constitute a character and symbolize a
life. It is probable, indeed, that of
fifty hearers every one will connect a
different set of images with the same
words j but if the words be instinct
•with true poesy, they will evoke in
each a vivid, delightful, and harmoni-
ous intuition, in unison with the pur-
pose, passion, moral of the strain.
How is this to be effected ? In
various ways. Sometimes by a single
word — a single epithet — often by a me-
taphor— a well-selected circumstance
— occasionally by the very sound and
movement of the measure. Sometimes
a recounting of particulars, each seem-
ingly insignificant, or mutually impli-
ed, but all, as it were, belonging to
the same set, affect the imagination in
a surprising manner. Crabbe is a
great master in this kind, and so is
Scherherazade. It is not that in read-
ing them we go on casting up the
items, and constructing a circle out of
the segments. Any arc of the rain-
bow gives as full an idea of the rain-
bow as the whole ; but the detail of
splendour in one, of squalidness in the
other, has the effect of refraction.
The topaz enhances the glitter of the
diamond. The one broken chair
makes the three-legged table doubly
desolate.
But our meaning would be much
elucidated by examples. Let us, then,
examine how the mighty masters of
the lyre have managed the matter.
And first of the ancients.
Of the Greek writers, from Homer
to Theocritus, it may be observed in
general, that their descriptions of natu-
ral scenery are for the most part
vague, and rather impart the feeling
of the scene than its visible aspect.
If ever the distinctive marks of a lo-
cality are specified, it is to please the
sense of beauty, as to authenticate the
narrative. Places are often merely
designated by their staple production
— as corn, wine, olives, cattle, or pi-
geons. Some commentators insist
strongly on the graphic power of
these epithets. When, say they,
Phthia is characterised as cloddy, —
(EP/?»X«?) — or of a deep clay soil, do
not all the stirring associations of ver-
nal labour rush upon the soul ? We
see the long furrow, the slow team
with stubborn necks depressed — the
whistling ploughboy with the flashing
goad — and the strong rustic with his
sinewy arms incumbent on the shaft
— the earth blackens as he urges on
his profitable course — the plough-
shares glitter on the distant slopes —
while the sower, girt with apron white,
scatters the hopeful seed ; " the har-
row follows harsh, and shuts the
1839.]
What is Poetical Description ?
531
scene ;" and "crows innuraerous rise
reluctant from their stolen feasts — the
morning sunbeams silvering their
sable wings. Or suppose the com-
pound adjective to be TaX^Ae; , the
Homeric praenomen for a sheep-gra-
zing country. What a pastoral in
that little word ! Dyer's fleece com-
pressed into four syllables. The
woolly bleaters whiten all the plain.
But sheep in flat countries, Leicester-
shire, for instance, become the most
uninteresting creatures in the world.
Instead, therefore, of whitening the
plain, let them crop the fragrant moun-
tain-turf, which is perfectly pic-
turesque. Tims might each particu-
lar epithet be dilated, and Homer
proved the first of landscape painters.
But we cannot believe that in these
adjuncts Homer meant quite so much
as some have fancied, or that he meant
to address the eye at all — the epithets
are compliments to the wealth and
industry of the several districts. There
is no verb or noun that may not, if
you please, suggest a perfect picture.
But for once that Homer or Hesiod
designate a ''natural object" by any
visual circumstance, in twenty cases
they allude to its civil use, or its reli-
gious association. Even so is the
Holy Land described in Scripture as
the land flowing with milk and honey.
In descriptions of men and of animals
the ancient writers are sometimes dif-
fuse ; and in those of artificial objects,
as chariots, goblets, spears, helmets,
£c., occasionally rather tedious. But
in Homer, above all poets, the descrip-
tions are truly poetical, and as it were
musical, because they are, as much as
possible, progressive. Nothing sits
still to have its portrait taken. His
heroes do not stand, like lay figures,
in attitude, till he has sketched them
off. The battle does not pause in an
interesting situation, till the poet Ci-
cerone has pointed out its sublime
effects to some gaping admirer. His
lions, bulls, and bears, are not copied
from stuffed skins. But all is in action
— every thing is doing — nothing re-
flected upon as done. It will be found,
that in the choice of characteristic cir-
cumstances, he generally selects those
which imply motion rather than rest ;
thus «:vocn'<pux>.<iv, trembling all with
leaves — *.tfvt*{a^ef) clad in bickering
mail, the word B"»XO; is not to be
rendered variegated or party- coloured,
but expresses that vibratory inter-
change of hues which takes place
when any polished substance moves
quickly in a strong light ; thus, the
neck of the peacock is ar«x«,-, his tail is
*rci'*</.«f • sraAixriSaxat "ions — Ida of many
springs. So, too, he seldom tells us
how a goddess or a warrior looks
when dressed, but often introduces you
to the toilet and shows them dressing.
This, whether the effect of art or
chance, prevents the action from stand-
ing still, and indicates the rapidity
— the indefatigable fire of Homer's
mind.
The Iliad contains only one pro-
tracted piece of mere description the
far-famed shield. Had the shield been
the work of any thing less than a god,
or of Homer, we should have thought
it rather too long. But it affords a
curious instance of that irresistible
propensity to keep moving, which
made the first of martial poets the
best. Forgetting or disdaining the
limits of the sculptor's prerogative,
and not over observant of the unity of
time, he puts the chased figures into
action, and makes them not seem to
do, but go on doing the business they
are supposed to represent. Instead,
therefore, of describing Vulcan's work-
manship, he, in fact, suggests subjects
for the lame artificer to work upon,
and that without any consideration of
what, on earth at least, pictorial skill
can, or cannot, express in metal.
It was once the fashion for poets to
give directions to painters, and very
unreasonable orders they sometimes
gave. Thus Walter: —
" Paint an east wind, and let it blow away
The excuse of Holland for her navy's
stay."
Blackmore, by his directions to Van-
derbank, a tapestry weaver, probably
shamed the rhymers out of their pre-
sumption in taking upon them to give
directions to gentlemen whose occu-
pation they did not understand. Of
late, as in the sere days of the Roman
empire, the poets rather take their cue
from the painters ; their descriptions
are descriptions of pictures, not of
reality. Pindar has been called a great
master of the picturesque, and there
is some ground for the designation.
Perhaps, however, statuesque would
be the fitter term, for his images are
fixed, single, stately, admirable in con-
tour and proportion, grand and dis-
tinct in outline, and placed to the ut-
532
What is Poetical Description ?
[April,
most advantage, but little modified by
each other, and destitute of the finer
shades of the pencil. Nothing, how-
ever, can be more beautiful than the
living apparition of Jason with his
single sandal, his mantle of the leo-
pard's hide, his manly beauty and right
courteous bearing, contrasted with the
shrinking terror of the guilty usurper,
who beholds the fulfilment of the ora-
cle, when the one-sandaledyouth should
appear. Pindar is, however, much less
a poet than Homer, for he is afar great-
er egotist. This probably arises from
his having no proper interest in his
subjects. Being the appointed lau-
reate of the prize-fighters, he was
obliged to make odes in celebration of
their victories ; but, though gifted with
much fancy, he was not one of the
fancy, and evidently never attended
the games he had to commemorate.
That the exploits of the Athlete were
not deemed too low for poetry, every
ancient epic bears abundant testimony;
the chances of the race, the struggles
of the wrestlers, the resounding blows
of the pugilists, might have been de-
scribed with perfect propriety in the
songs that hailed their success. Yet
Pindar scarcely ever alludes to these
things ; he moralizes, and reflects, and
talks of the gods, and the ancestral
heroes of oracles, and sad and solemn
judgments, of kingly virtues, and of
himself. Wherever an opportunity
occurs of enforcing a maxim, or telling
a story, he siezes it with avidity, like
a man who, being necessitated to en-
tertain a dull company, wishes to stave
otf a disagreeable topic which must be
mentioned after all. Having no im-
pulse to hurry onward, he tarries
wherever the prospect is pleasing — if
a grand image present itself, he dig-
plays it in all its dimensions, pauses to
look at it, and dilates on its sublimity.
But the ancient fame of the Theban
should not be measured by his surviving
remnants. The great toe of Hercules
was a far fairer sample of the entire
statue than those boxing and horse-
racing ditties can be of the solemn, de-
vout, intense genius of Pindar. Had his
sacred hymns been extant, we might
have known something of the religion
of Greece. As it is, we are only ac-
quainted with her mythology. The
gods of Homer could only be the
authors of selfish hopes or selfish fears.
Pindar conceived that the immortal
guardians of nations must command a
conscientious awe and duty. He
would have been a good Protestant if
he had had it in his option. Alas!
that the ungenial job-work to which,
as he plainly enough here insinuates,
his poverty but not his will consented,
should be the sole abiding witness to
his name! Blessed be the inventor of
moveable types, whether he were John
Faust or Louis Coster ! May the
black fingers of the printer's devil
shine like the glorified hand of St
Oswald ! It is now impossible that
Spenser should be only remembered by
his Pastorals ; that the Comedy of
Errors should be the solitary relic of
Shakspeare, or that Joan of Arc, and
Thaluba, and Roderick, should perish,
and Southey descend to posterity as
the successor of Ensden, Gibber, and
Pie.
Could we believe that the Anacre-
ontic verses were genuine products o
the age of the Pisistratidae, they would
furnish a curious specimen of antici-
pation of style, and the earliest in-
stance of what may be called descrip-
tive analysis. He dissects his mis-
tress, and seems to fall in love with
each divisible part, as if she had been a
polypus, and a new life began even in
cutting. She could have ravished
him " with one of her eyes." Yet a
tender playfulness, a sportive melan-
choly, like a soft diffusive light, that
blends the multitude of fanciful shapes
in unity. Anacreon has had many imi-
tators, most of whom have only imitat-
ed what is amiss in him. But in that
which constitutes his prevailing charm
he has no copartner but Horace. This
charm is not in the descriptive powers
of either, though Horace had as fine a
perception of the humaner beauties of
nature, and made as exquisite cabinet
pictures as any poet that ever lived.
But that wherein the Teian and the
Roman lyrist are alike excellent, is the
gentle sadness that tempers and puri-
fies their voluptuousness. Mortality
is ever on their thoughts — and though
they use it but as an argument to ga-
ther the rose-buds ere they wither, it
never goads them to the impious
fierceness of reckless sensuality. In
their mirth they mingle sighs not
curses ; their songs of love and wine
blend not unmeetly with the far-off
passing bell. The praise of priority
we are disposed to award to Horace r
for, independent of those philological
considerations which have induced the
1839.]
Wfiat is Poetical Description ?
533
soundest scholars of modern times to
refer the extant Anacreon to a com-
paratively recent period, the melody,
the marked, palpable, accentual rytlnn,
the minute, gem-like imagery, the
polite and artificial gallantry, above
all, the modern cast of the mythology,
savour not of a generation before
/Esehylus. Venus, and Cupid, and
Bacchus, in our Anacreon, are mere
personifications, playthings of fond
fancy, pretty pictures drawn upon the
air. In Sappho and Euripides, Aph-
rodite is a terrible demon, that works
mightily in wrath and mysterious wil-
fulness — a being whose personal agony
was the faith of young and old. Now,
though mankind have sometimes bur-
lesqued the supernatural powers in
which devoutly they believed — as the
Athenians murdered Socrates for deny-
ing die same gods which they permit-
ted Aristophanes to exhibit as buffoons
and parasites — yet it will hardly be
found that they trifle with them till
the established creed is grown dim.
Very good Catholics made game of
the devil, but we never hear of their
making a pet of him, or pitying him.
In dramatic compositions, according
to modern acceptation, pure descrip-
tion is scarcely admissible. To intro-
duce a character, telling you the co-
lour of his own hair, the height of his
own stature, or the interpretation of
his own physiognomy, were a palpable
absurdity. Besides, in the full current
of dramatic business, people cannot be
supposed to be leisurely describing
either themselves, or their neighbours,
or the objects around them. All the
necessary descriptions of an epic poem,
in the drama, belong to the spectacle
— the getting up of which ia not the
province of the poet, but of the scene-
painter, costumier, and property- man.
But the truth is, no drama was ever
entirely made up of dramatic poetry ;
and in the Greek tragedy, over and
above the large intermixture of lyrics
which was essential to its constitution,
the law of unity, the limited number
of actors, the standing order against
overt homicide, and, more than all, the
close relationship between the player
and the rhapsodist, the lineal descent
of ^Eschylus from Homer, authorized
and recommended a strong infusion of
the epic. On the Greek stage but
little could be done ; much, therefore,
was to be related. The attention was
not so much rivetted to the present
scene, as suspended in a vacuum be-
tween an obscure and threatening past,
and a future that was to the past as
the substance to its precursive shadow.
A Greek tragedy may be compared to
a battle-piece, painted by a skilful ar-
tist, who throws the strife and multi-
tudinous rout into ttie obscurity of the
back-ground, and, in the point of sight,
disposes a few conspicuous figures — a
wounded chieftain, a band of aged cap-
tains counselling, a herald big with
tidings of the fight —
" A weeping widow seated on the ground^
That stays her sobs to listen to the tale,
And looks as if she long'd the tale were
ended,
That she might ease her swelling heart
again."
The first division, or prologos, com-
prises a statement of the case — an ex-
planation of what has gone before —
and how things stand at present j and
all that is necessary to " incense the
pit into the plot." We know not any
dramatist, not even Shakspeare, who
had the privilege of commencing at the
beginning of his story, who has always
avoided the impropriety of making his
dramatis persona relate a number of
things, of which nobody but the audi-
ence could well be ignorant. Sophocles
manages the matter with great skill^
and contrives to interweave the expla-
nations with the action — to unfold the
previous occurrences in the course of
the play — or to elicit the needful in-
formation piecemeal, by apt and ap-
parently undesigning questions. Eu-
ripides, on the other hand, troubles
himself little about the concern — he
generally begins with a long speech,
which, like the prologue of the atten-
dant spirit in Comus, may be taken
either for a soliloquy or an address to
the audience — similar to the Parabasis
of the Greek comedy, when the chorus
spoke to the theatre in the name
and in behalf of the author. In one
instance at least (the Hecuba}, the ex-
planatory personage is a ghost — au
expedient imitated by Ben Jonson in
his Catiline, where the prolocutor is
the ghost of Sylla — and by that most
tenebrose of all poets, Futhe Greville,
Lord Brooke, one of whose tragic my-
steries opens with " Enter a Ghost,
one of the old kings of Urmus."
The method of Euripides is inartifi-
cial, and did not escape censure and
ridicule from his caugtic contempo-
What is Poetical Description ?
334
rary Aristophanes ; but it has this ad-
vantage over the gradual and artfully
conducted disclosures of Sophocles —
that it gets a dull job quickly over,
and leaves an undivided attention for
the progressive interest. /Eschylus
probably felt the difficulty less, inas-
much as his dramas are raised by dark
magnificence, colossal state, and pomp
of poetry, too far above the medium
altitude of reality, to challenge any
comparison with the likelihoods of
actual conversation. His personages
profess not to talk like people of this
world, and it would ba an incon-
gruity if they did. They belong to
the old times, when there were giants
in the land. Certainly, in the pic-
turesque grandeur of his openings, he
not only exceeds his two great com-
petitor?, but is unrivalled even to this
day. He leaves no room for verbal
description, no need so much as for a
stage direction. I never saw Flax-
man's ^Eschylus. I wish I had. I
. do not even know what situations he
has selected to illustrate ; but assured-
ly the opening spectacles of the Pro-
metheus, Agamemnon, Choephoroe,
and Eumenides, are not neglected.
It will be sufficient to sketch the two
latter. In the Choephoroe (literally
pot-girls — so much for rendering au
pied de lettre — somewhat more ele-
gantly, the Propitiatory Offering of the
Virgins), Orestes is discovered on
the Tumulus of his father's grave,
plucking the knotty ringlets from his
unshorn head, for sacred tokens to the
local deities.
[April,
8 rovdt
This lock to Inachus for nurture,
But second this for mourning, to my sire.
Pylades stands afar off, silent and reso-
lute ; the mournful maiden train ad-
vance with the hallowed vessels, mov-
ing to music. The Eumenides dis-
plays the Temple of Delphi, the
Pythia on the Tripod before her. On
the one hand, Orestes restored to
sanity, but pale, wo-begone, and
deep-marked with the traces of past
agony : on the other, the awful agents
of violated nature — the Fifty Furies,
all asleep. Did ^Eschylus mean that
the terrors of superstitious remorse
are appeased in the presence of the
God of Light and Intellect ? But
what a picture, and what a shame for
the Bishop of London to reduce the
Furies from fifty to three, and so
spoil the story of the Athenian ladies
going into fits, and frustrating the
hopes of their lords. The more learned
and irrefragable his lordship's argu-
ments, the less we can forgive him for
their triumph.
We do not recollect any Greek tra-
gedy which countenances the ever-
describing Mason in commencing his
poetical dialogues with a long des-
cription of the surrounding scenery,
though there is certainly something
like it in the CEdipus Coloneus of
Sophocles : but mark with what ex-
quisite propriety. The blind OZdipus,
conducted by his daughter, arrives at
the spot, where, according to oracular
prediction, he is to end his sorrows
and bequeath his blessing. Addressed
to one under such conditions, the mi-
nute local delineations become not only
proper but deeply pathetic. A like
apology may be applied to the usque
ad nauseam quoted description of
Dover Cliffs in King Lear, which has
been accused, moreover, of gross exag-
geration, just as if the speaker were
supposed to be standing on the brink
of the precipice, and giving a true
and particular account of what was
under his nose, whereas, in fact, the
Cliffs are several miles distant, and
Edgar is so far from intending to give
a just graphic account of them, that he
is not even uttering his own emotions
at the imaginaton of a possible pro-
found, such as we often dream of in
childhood. The speech is artfully
contrived to work on the terrors of the
blind Gloucester, and to scare him
from purposed suicide. Its exaggera-
tion and extravagance are its merit
and itsjustification.
We have been insensibly diverging
from our purpose — which was to ex-
amine after what manner, and in what
measure the Greeks admitted the
purely descriptive into the poetry of
Action and Passion, whether conduct-
ed by narrative or by dialogue. We
repeat, however, that the lyric and
epic admixtures appropriate to the an-
cient drama, admit and require much
more dilated description than would
be tolerable upon the modern stage.
Yet the narrations and descriptions
are always introduced with due regard
to verisimilitude, being either disposed
1839.]
What is Poetical Description ?
in the prologues before the business
grows warm and the feelings are ex-
cited, or allotted to the chorus. As
the beautiful presentation of Iphigenia,
muffled and bound for sacrifice — voice-
less as a picture of herself in the act
of speaking — or else delivered by the
Nuntias or Herald — who seems to
have been a very important personage
— a sort of speaking newspaper, who
got up eloquent relations of battles,
murders, and suicides, for the enter-
tainment of the public in general, and
surviving friends in particular. The
necessity of acquainting the audience
•with what passes out of sight, and
the apparent absurdity of making suf-
ferers fluent on their own calamities,
probably suggested the expedient of
putting these historical harangues into
the mouth of uninterested characters.
The language of the Nuntias is ela-
borately pompous and figurative, and
there is a manifest endeavour to make
the incidents and catastrophe as glar-
ing as possible to the imagination. It
is only necessary to refer to the battle
of Salamis in the Persians, or the
splendid portraits of the seven chiefs
in their armorial accoutrements, taking
their stations against the seven gates
of Thebes, either in the ^Eschylus'
or Euripides' tragedy. Up to this
period, we find no trace of poetry
purely or predominantly descriptive.
If the ancients described vividly, or
minutely, it was always with an ulte-
rior view to aid the poetic illusion, or
move the affections, by imparting to
fictions a sensuous palpability, which
the mind is easily persuaded to accept
in lieu of substantial reality. The
descriptive portions, in the master-
works of Greek genius, were, like the
dresses, scenes, decorations, and pro-
cessions in a regular acted drama, de-
signed to explain and realize the plot.
The more beautiful, exact, natural,
and proper these may be, the better
the play will be. But these are poems,
in which the descriptive is as pre-emi-
nent as the scenery and decorations in
an acted melodrama, where whatever
of plot there is is only a contri-
vance to arrange the spectacle to the
best effect, and give it the semblance
of a purpose. The Sicilian or Alex-
andrian school — Theocritus, Bion,
Moschus, Callimachus, and Apollo-
niusRhodius,exhibitthefirst symptoms
of the melodramatic taste — a propen-
sity to describe, for the mere sake of
535
describing — to display the careful idle-
ness of microscopic observation — to
amuse the fancy with gay colours and
pretty complexities of form — and to
exercise a trifling ingenuily, in culling
or inventing words and phrases ap-
propriate to all varieties and combina-
tions of shape and hue. Homer leads
you through a wide and diversified
country, and entertains you with per-
petual changes of prospect ; but still
he keeps his face towards the bourne
ofhispilgrimage — rather lookingback
— and never standing still. But the
Sicilian poets were loitering tourisls,
who had time enough on their hands,
who travelled for the benefit of loco-
motion, and just to see what was to be
seen. They generally did set out
with a design to reach some prede-
termined point — because some plan,
some definite object is required to
make any motion appear rational to
commonplace people. But the end
of their journey was the last thing in
their minds. If the road was dry and
dusty, they got over it as quick as they
could. If a mossy bank, " O'er-ca-
nopied with luscious woodbine," in-
vited them to sit and play with the
loose tangles of Neoesas' hair, they
•were in no hurry to be off. To drop
the metaphor and come to the truth at
once, the latter writers differ from the
former, primarily, because they areless
in earnest — they were not possessed
by their genius, but simply possessed
it, and used it at their leisure.
Though the natural bias of the men
was much, the influences of time and
circumstance, were great also. The
martial age of Greece had been suc-
ceeded by the political — the epic style
had given way to the rhetorical — and
now a state of society succeeded, in-
capable of poetic representation in
any style — unless we allow satire to
be poetry. Yet the military despo-
tism, which inevitably arises out of a
military republic, or confederacy of
military republics/when war has ceas-
ed to be the occupation of every citi-
zen, and the army becomes a distinct
and privileged order, did not at once
extinguish the poetic spirit — it only
made a wider gulf between the domain
of poetry and prose. The poetry of
the free Greeks was at once national
and religious. With the destruction
of free institutions the localities of re-
ligion lost their dignity, and while the
philosophers, unenlightened by reve-
536
What i.i Poetical Description
[April,
lation, went abroad throughout the
universe in search of a universal cause,
or dived into the abysses of thought
for an universal reason, the poets took
to themselves the deserted realm of
symbols, and began to gather shells,
•without caring what fish may heroto-
fore have tabernacled therein. Poets
became courtiers ; and, as the increase
of cities had rendered the dwellers in
towns comparatively ignorant of the
aspects of nature, and unacquainted
•with the manners of the rustics, a
new class of describers arose, who,
sallying from the town, surveyed the
country with that curiosity which un-
usual things alone excite, and betrayed
their real ignorance by the ostenta-
tious accuracy of their knowledge.
Rural or pastoral poetry is in fact the
youngest of all the Grecian muses — a
sort of posthumous child, born out of
time, and nurtured, not in " Sicilian
plains or vales of Arcady," but in the
court of the Ptolemies.
It has often been asserted that rural
customs are permanent as the hills and
and streams, while city fashions vary
with the mutable works of man. To
this assumption Theocritus would seem
to form a strong objection. No cor-
ner of the earth now hides a peasantry
in ought akin to the swains of Theo-
critus, while his sight-seeing city gos-
sips, in the feast of Adonis, are as
much creatures of to-day as if King
William's coronation had set them a-
gadding, instead of " The love to be
of Thamnouz yearly wounded." But,
in all probability, he accommodated
his scale of imitation to the measure
of intelligence in his audience. He
wrote for the town, for people who
were willing to believe that shepherds
and shepherdesses talked poetry ex-
tempore for kids and maple bowls,
and sat piping at noon beneath the
silvery poplar shade — by the way, the
poplar is the last tree we should choose
to make love under in a hot day, since,
of all others, the reviled and calum-
niated larch not excepted, it yields
the least shade and concealment — but,
perhaps, it was otherwise in corn-
bearing Sicily, when goatherds hid
therpselves for fear of Pan, what time
harsh choler smarted in his godship's
nose. But it would never have an-
swered to pastoralize the prattle which
was heard in the streets and forums of
Syracuse and Alexandria. Yet, though
the shepherds of Theocritus do not
talk or act like keepers of real live
sheep, and used to be considered ra-
ther as figures introduced into a land-
scape, than as characters composing an
historical picture, yet is he as instruc-
tive as delightful. The whole exter-
nal aspect of ancient country life, with
its memorial rites, superstitions, garb,
and gesture — all that a watchful eye
would have seen — the outward and
visible signs to which poetry should
supply the inward grace and spirit,
are depicted in his page. His genius
was in the highest degree graphic and
pictorial— his knowledge was " the
harvest of a quiet eye," not, like that
of Burns, the fruit of a feeling experi-
ence. It would be difficult to find a
more striking image than that of giant
Polyphemus, seated on a rock, and view-
ing his huge reflection in the calm sea
— fit looking-glass for a man-moun-
tain : as exquisite in its way, and as
true a picture, is the infant Hercules,
rocked to sleep in the hollow of a shield.
Yet, though the scenery of Theo-
critus is finely drawn and vividly
coloured, it is for the most part made
up of the commonplaces of nature.
You seldom meet with those discrimi-
native touches which refer a descrip-
tion to its original source. He is a
generic, not a specific — far less an in-
dividualizing describer. A fountain
with him is any fountain — a shady
bank is what all shady banks are or
should be. He was content to cha-
racterise the country by marks which
all would recognise. He does not
lead you into his own favourite nooks,
and make you observe the peculiar
turns and indentations of the rivulet —
the unique intertexture of the branches
— the happy compositions of trunks,
and how the grey shining hazles form
a middle tint between the dark-rinded
oak and the silvery birch. Seldom
does he appear to have written with
any particular locality before his men-
tal vision — in this respect being far
more vague than Homer, who alludes
to places with the unconscious accu-
racy of habitual acquaintance. And
this reflection brings us back to our
starting post, and suggests the question
— What mode of description is to be
regarded as most truly poetical ? We
answer, not that which endeavours,
by repeated touches, to paint upon
the surface of fancy, but that which,
impregnating and blending with the
imagination, causes it to conceive ap-
propriate images of itself. For in-
stance : — Most persons have read, the
1839.]
What is Poetical Description ?
catalogue of trees in the Forest of
Error, where the Red-Cross Knight
and Una lose themselves, for it happens
to occur within the first two or three
pages, which (proh pudor) are all
that the public know of the Faery
Queen. The passage is copied almost
verbatim from Chaucer's Assembly of
Fowls. Every one must perceive that
it gives no idea of a forest whatever.
The oak, the ash, the maple, the
laurel, and the rest of the umbrageous
brotherhood, sail by you, one by one,
like hedge- row pollards when you are
galloping along a road. Contrast it
with a single expression of Cowper, —
" Oil, for a cave in some vast wilderness,
Some bound/ess contiguity of shade."
Here you have the perfect feeling of
a forest ; and, when the feeling is ex-
cited, the associated images arise of
their own accord — as in a dream —
where a slight constriction of the
wind- pipe calls up in visible array —
distinct in part and circumstance —
the grim procession, the gallows, the
platform, Jack Ketch, and the parson,
and the hideous multitude of upturned
faces, every one uglier than other.
Or suppose the sensation to be a creep.
537
ing of the skin — no need of an Ossian
to describe the spotted snakes (yet he
has described them most beautifully)
— you have them upon you, winding
the slow, slimy circlets round and
round you, staring at you with their
infernal eyes, perhaps burgeoning
into innumerable leg-like tubercles —
faugh — faugh !
In fine, the imitative quality of
poetry differs altogether from that of
painting, and bears a strong analogy
to that of music, her consorted sister
in days of old. Painting represents
co-existence in space. Music is sym-
bolical of succession in time. Poetry
is subject to the same law of progres-
sion. Painting acts immediately upon
the eye, and only mediately upon the
intellect. Music and poetry pay
their first addresses to the ear, and
both are capable of suggesting in-
finitely more than words can say.
Painting provides ready-made images.
Poetry, like music, disposes the soul
to bo imaginative, by exciting sym-
pathy. Painting can show a fac-simile
of the beautiful that is seen. Music,
wedded to poetry, can fill the heart
with the joy and power of beauty.
CANTILENA.
Cur tener pallcs amator ?
Fare, cur palles?
Quod rubenti denegatur,
Tune pallens id feres ?
Fare, cur palles ?
Cur puer taces amator ?
Fare, cur taces ?
Eloquent! quod negatur,
lane tu tacens feres ?
Fare, cur taces ?
Abstine, abstine, proh pudorem !
Istud hand movet :
Sponte alat nisi ipsa amorem,
Nil earn flectet.
Orcus occupet !
F. R. S.
SONG.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Pr'ythee, why so pale ?
Will, when looking well can't move
her,
Looking ill prevail ?
Pr'ythee, why so pale ?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner ?
Pr'ythee, why so mute ?
Will, when speaking well can't win
her,
Saying nothing do't ?
Pr'ythee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame; this will not
move ;
This cannot take her :
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!
SUCKLING.
538
Christopher in his Alcove.
[April,
CHRISTOPHER IN HIS ALCOVE.
HAVE you ever entered, all alone, the
shadows of some dilapidated old burial-
place, and in a nook made beautiful
by wild briars and a flowering thorn,
beheld the stone image of some long-
forgotten worthy lying on his grave?
— some knight who perhaps had fought
in Palestine — or some holy man, who,
in the Abbey — now almost gone — had
led a long, still life of prayer ? The
moment you knew that you were
standing among the dwellings of the
dead, how impressive became the
ruins ! Did not that stone image wax
more and more life-like in its repose ?
and, as you kept your eyes fixed on the
features Time had not had the heart
to obliterate, seemed not your soul
to hear the echoes of the Miserere
sung by the brethren ?
So looks Christopher — on his couch
— in his ALCOVE. He is taking his
siesta — and the faint shadows you see
coming and going across his face are
dreams. 'Tis a pensive dormitory,
and hangs undisturbed in its spiritual
region as a sabbath cloud on the sky
of the Longest Day.
What think you of OUR FATHER,
alongside of the Pedlar in the Excur-
sion ?
" Amid the gloom,
Spread by a brotherhood of loftv elms,
Appeared a roofless hut ; four naked walls
That stared upon each other ! I looked
round,
And to my wish and to my hope espied
Him whom I sought ; a man of reverend age,
But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired.
There was he seen upon the cottage bench,
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ;
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side."
Alas ! " stout and hale," are words
that could not be applied, without
cruel mocking, to that figure. " Re-
cumbent in the shade," unquestion-
ably he is — yet "recumbent" is a
clumsy word for such quietude — and,
recurring to our former image, we
say —
" Still is he as a frame of stone
That in its stillness lies alone,
With silence breathing from its face,
Forever in some holy place,
Chapel or aisle — on marble laid,
With pale hands on its pale breast spread,
An image humble, meek, and low,
Of one forgotten long ago ! "
No " iron-pointed staff lies at his
side" — but "Satan's dread," THE
CRUTCH ! Wordsworth tells us over
again that the pedlar —
" With no appendage but a staff,
The prized memorial of relinquished toils,
Upon the cottage-bench reposed his limbs,
Screened from the suii."
On his couch, in his Alcove, Chris-
topher is reposing — not his limbs
alone — but his very soul. THE
CRUTCH is, indeed, both de jure and
de facto, the prized memorial of toils
— but, thank Heaven, not relinquished
toils — and then how characteristic of
this dear merciless old man — hardly
distinguishable among the fringed
draperies of his canopy, the dependent
and independent KNOUT.
Was the Pedlar absolutely asleep ?
We shrewdly suspect not — 'twas but
a doze. " Recumbent in the shade, as
if asleep " — " Upon that cottage-
bench reposed his limbs " — induce us
to lean to the opinion that he was but
on the border of the Land of Nod.
Nay, the poet gets more explicit, and
with that minute particularity so
charming in poetical description,
finally informs us that
" Supine the wanderer lay,
His eyes, as if in drowsiness, half shut,
The shadows of the breezy elms above,
Dappling his face."
It would appear, then, on an im-
partial consideration of all the cir-
cumstances of the case, that the " man
of reverend age," though "recumbent"
and " supine" upon the " cottage
bench," " as if asleep," and " his eyes,
as if in drowsiness, half shut," was in
a mood between sleeping and waking ;
and this creed is corroborated by the
following assertion :
" He had not heard the sound
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes'
space.
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat
Was moist with water-drops, as if the
brim
Had newly scooped a running stream."
He rose ; and so do We, for probably
by this time you may have discovered
that we have been describing Ourselves
in our siesta or mid- day snooze — as
we have seen and venerated our mys«
terious double in a dream.
We are in the blandest of all pos-
1839.]
Christopher in his Alcove.
539
siblo humours, and would not kill a
kleg. What could have provoked us
to worry Barry Cornwall as we wor-
ried him some two Cheshire cheeses
ago ? His edition of Ben Jonson is an
honour to the literature of Great and
Little Britain. Oh ! that we should
have suffered jealousy so to contract
and embitter our magnanimous and
sweet-blooded breast ! — will he let us
kneel, and kiss his lily hand ? Will he
admit a deputation from Scotland into
his august presence — headed by
Christopher North — with the freedom
of the kingdom in this mull — this
ram's horn ? — And will he accompany
us back to the Highlands, mount the
kilt, and in the Forest of Glenetive
chase with us the flying deer?
Oh ! he is a great-hearted creature,
after all. Ben Jonson died in 1637 —
and Barry, the biographer, says finely,
" The Plays, the Masques, the Poems,
are all ended ! The buzy spirit, the
bold, masculine intellect, the brain full
of learning, "that showered their beau-
ties on us, like the Hours," are still, and
can give utterance no more ! The jea-
lousies and heart-burnings — the trou-
bles of poverty and pain — are all at
rest ! The treasurer has made his last
payment. Nothing is wanted now for the
old poet save a little earth for his body
— a little charity for his name ! " A
few years before his death, Ben had
fallen into great poverty — the year
after the royal grant of an increased
pension (increased from a hundred
merks to a hundred pounds), in conse-
quence of a quarrel with Inigo Jones,
he fell into disgrace at Court. It is
probable the pension was not paid — a
poor creature, called our Aurelian
Townsend, was employed in his stead
to design and conduct the Masque — and
the Court of Aldermen withdrew their
pension of a hundred nobles, or some
tive-and-thirty pounds. Ben, in a let-
ter to his noble patron, Lord New-
castle, said that the people of the city
had taken away their " Chanderly
pension." Barry, " with a hand open
as day," is ready " with a little charity
for his name." " We regret," says
he, " that he should have used this
term, inasmuch as it sounds something
like ingratitude ; but it was written,
we have no doubt, in a mere burst of
indignation, and was repented of at
leisure. Ben was a warm hearted
man, and would not, in his cooler mo-
ments, we think, have requited his
friends after this unseemly fashion."
His friends !
Deserted at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
for he was prodigal of the glorious
gifts nature had lavished upon him,
and his genius had glorified the city,
Father Ben behaved like himself, we
think, in giving vent to his scorn.
The Court of Aldermen were a cruel
crew to leave him — in palsied old age
— without a crust. " Chanderly"
means beggarly — and something more
— and 'twas the right epithet. It does
not " sound something like ingrati-
tude;" and Ben knew his own worth
too well ever to repent having spoken
a blasting truth. Did the Court of Al-
dermen repent of leaving the first man
of his time to drink the cup of penury
to the dregs? — of "requiting their
friend after that unseemly fashion ?"
They had no right to withdraw their
pension — by doing so, under such cir-
cumstances, to such a man, they not
only cancelled all obligation to grati-
tude, but made it a duty to himself to
brand their conduct as the vilest of the
vile.
But Barry makes immortal amends
for this accusation of ingratitude, by
the noble sentence which concludes
his Memoir of the Life and Writ-
ings of Ben Jonson. " There are some
authors whose renown we are more in-
clined to covet, perhaps ; but there is
not one whose manliness and sincerity
of purpose we more respect, OR WHOM
WE WOULD HAVE ADMITTED ! ! ! TO OUR
HOUSE ! ! ! as a. friend and fireside com-
panion, in preference to BEN JONSON."
Imagination figures the boy in green
livery showing him into the room illu-
minated by the argand lamp celebrated
by Hazlitt.
We must fulfill our promise — some
month or other soon — of an article on
the Masques. But let us now cheer
OUR ALCOVE by reciting the cordial
lines to Penshurst — then belonging to
Robert Sidney, father of Sir Philip,
who was knighted for his gallantry at
the battle of Zutphen, advanced to the
dignity of Baron Sidney of Penshurst
by James, created Viscount Lisle in
1605, and finally, in 1618, promoted
to the earldom of Leicester. " He
is not flattered," says Gifford, " in
these pleasing lines, for his character
was truly excellent." The same judi-
cious critic remarks that some of the
540
topics for praise may appear strange to
those who are unacquainted with the
practice of those times — but that, in
fact, the liberal mode of hospitality
recorded, was almost peculiar to this
noble person. In England, the old
system of " sitting below the salt"
was breaking up when Jonson wrote —
and it is to the honour of Penshurst that
the observation was made there. Sir
Philip Sidney was born 29th Novem-
ber, 1554 — and that " taller tree" pro-
duced from an acorn on his birthday
is no longer standing. It is said to
have been felled by mistake in 1768.
" A wretched apology," says Gifford,
" if true, and in a case of such no-
toriety, scarcely possible."
PENSHURST.
" Thou are not, Penhurst, built to envious
show
Of touch or marble ; nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold ;
Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are
told ;
Or stair or courts ; but stand'st an ancient
pile,
And these grudg'd at, art reverenced the
while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water ; therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as
sport :
Thy mount, to which thy Dryads do resort,
Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts
have made,
Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut
shade ;
That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the muses met.
There, in the writhed bark, are cut the
names
Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames ;
And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke
The lighter fauns, to reach thy lady's oak.
Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou
hast there,
That never fails to serve thee season'd deer,
When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy
friends. \
The lower land, that to the river bends,
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves
do feed ;
The middle grounds thy mares and horses
breed.
Each bank doth yield thee conies ; and the
tops
Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydney's copse,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled pheasant, with the speckled
side ;
The painted partridge lies in ev'ry field,
And for thy mess is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high-swain Aledway fail thy dish,
Christopher in his Alcove.
[April,
Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute
fish,
Fat aged crabs that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,
As loth the second draught or cast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray.
Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on
land,
Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden
flowers,
Fresh as the air, and new as are the houra.
The early cherry, with the later plum,
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time
doth come ;
The blushing apricot, and wooly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may
reach.
And though thy walls be of the country
stone,
They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's
groan;
There's none that dwell about them wish
them down ;
But all come in, the farmer and the clown ;
And no one empty-handed to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no
suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,
Some nuts, some apples ; some that think
they make
The better cheeses, bring them ; or else
send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would
commend
This way to husbands ; and whose baskets
bear
An emblem of themselves in plum, or pear.
But what can this (more than express their
love)
Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such ? whose liberal board
doth flow,
With all that hospitality doth know !
Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to
eat,
Without his fear, and of thy lord's own
meat :
Where the same beer and bread, and self-
same wine,
That is his lordship's, shall be also mine.
And I not fain to sit (as some this day,
At great men's tables) and yet dine away.
Here no man tells my cups ; nor standing
by,
A waiter, doth my gluttony envy :
But gives me what I call, and lets me eat,
He knows, below, he shall find plenty of
meat ;
Thy tables hoard not up for the next day,
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray
For fire, or lights, or livery ; all is there ;
As if thou then wert mine, or I reign'd
here :
There's nothing I can wish,for which I stay.
1839.]
Christopher in ?tis Alcove.
541
That found King JAMES, when hunting
late, this way,
With his brave son, the prince ; they saw
thy fires
Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires
Of thy Penates had been set on flame
To entertain them ; or the country came,
With all their zeal, to warm their welcome
here.
What (great, I will not say, but) sudden
cheer
Did'st thou then make 'em ! and what
praise was heap'd
On thy good lady, then ! who therein reap'd
The just reward of her high huswifry ;
To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was far: and not a room but drest,
As if it had expected such a guest !
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet
not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste, withal.
His childrea thy great lord may call his
own ;
A fortune, in this age, but rarely known.
They are, and have been taught religion ;
thence
Their gentler spirits have auck'd innocence.
Each morn, and even, they are taught to
pray
With the whole household, and may,
every day,
Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion
thee
With other edifices, when they see
Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing
else,
May say their lords have built, but thy
lord dwells."
What have we been musing on this
last half-hour? On old noble houses.
And what have we got to say ? No-
thing. Will you, then, our dear sir,
be so good as to say a few fine things
about those strong natural feelings
which, at every link in the succes-
sion, carry affection down the chain of
descent? Will you show how, after
a few steps of such descent, is found
rooted in the hearts of all, a deep and
ineradicable sense of ancient reve-
rence investing a house, of which old
memory can but half record the un-
interrupted greatness ? There is reve-
rence, more than belongs to deeds
done or worth proved, which gathers
of itself wherever the feet of time have
trod, and which surrounds a venerable
name in the line of men, as it does
grey towers and aged trees. The
heart of man turns not in vain to
that which is of other years. The
present is all too narrow and too real
for its passionate admiration. It goes
back, therefore, into former days, and
expands in the past. There the concep-
tions of the spirit are not fettered by
reality. Memory is taught by ima-
gination, and tradition brightens
what it records. And, beyond this
play or dream of fancy, there is yet a
deeper emotion. For the soul itself
loves enduring power. It is painful
to it to behold that which is short-
lived and perishing. It is unsatisfy-
ing 1.0 look upon a greatness which is
of too late a date. It would fain
mount up in time to find that great of
old which is so now, that in the sta-
bility it has ascertained, it may have
belief of endurance to come. It de-
sires to look on that which surpasses
itself — to find, even in the midst of
mortality, something which it is ex-
alted by beholding. By feelings and
dispositions of mind such as these, men
have in all ages been led to attribute
to houses of ancient nobility, a degree
of rightful dignity and honour, de-
rived not simply from their power,
but from the continuance of that
power through successive genera-
tions. Which opinion blends itself
with another very deeply inherent in
our minds, and which attributes the
greatness and power long held by one
house, to the race itself, as if the line-
age and the very blood became enno-
bled by long flowing through the veins
of those who have held only high and
honourable rank in their country.
Why, you are really getting on
very well — and we- wonder how people
opine that you are a Radical. But a
truce to all such high and far-flown
fancies — ennobling as they are — and
let us hear the precious words of one
about to forsake this noisy world.
We daresay you never heard the words
before — and we tell you they were
indited by Ben Jonson.
" TO THE WORLD,
" A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN
" VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE."
" False world, good night 1 since thou hast
brought
That hour upon my morn of age,
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
" Do not once hope that thou canst tempt
A spirit so resolved to tread
Upon thy throat, and I've exempt
From all the nets that thou canst spread.
" I know thy forms are studied arts,
Thy subtle ways be narrow straits ;
Thy courtesy but sudden starts,
And what thou call'it thy gifts are baits,
542
" I know, too, though thou strut and paint,
Yet art thou both, shrunk up, and old ;
That only fools make thee a saint,
And all thy good is to be sold.
Christopher in his Alcove. [April,
" Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam ;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home."
" I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toys and trifles, traps and snares,
To take the weak, or make them stop :
Yet art thou falser than thy wares.
" And knowing this should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their lives,
And never will redeem a day,
Enamour'd of their golden gyves ?
" Or having 'scaped shall I return,
And thrust my neck into the noose,
From whence, so lately, I did burn,
, With all my powers, myself to loose ?
" What bird or beast is known so dull,
That fled his cage, or broke his chain,
And tasting air and freedom, wull
Render his head in there again ?
" If these who have but sense, can shun
The engines, that have them aunoy'd,
Little for me had reason done,
If 1 could not thy gins avoid.
" Yes, threaten, do. Alas, T fear
As little, as I hope from thee :
I know thou canst not show, nor bear
More hatred, than thou hast to me.
'' My tender, first, and simple years
Thou didst abuse, and then betray ;
Since stirr'dst up jealousies and fears,
When all the causes were away.
" Then in a soil hast planted me,
Where breathe the basest of thy fools ;
Where envious arts professed be,
And pride and ignorance the schools :
" Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,
But as 'tis rumour'd, so belie v'd ;
Where every freedom is betray'd,
And every goodness tax'd or grieved.
" But what we're born for, we must bear,
Our frail condition it is such,
That what to all may happen here,
If't chance to me, I must not grutch.
" Else I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind ; that for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.
" No, I do know that I was born
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:
But I will bear these with that scorn,
As shall not need, thy false relief.
You will be the better of meditating1
on these religious lines, even though
you love the world with all your soul,
and be resolved to stick to it till you
die. Are you a rich man, and have
you sworn to be richer far, and never
to rest till you are a millionare ? You
have — sit down, then, by our side — ix
OUR ALCOVE — and let us whisper in-
to your ear the secret of this pas-
sion of yours— for you are a man of
metal, and we regard your chara-
cter with respect. Tell us if we be
right.
The desire of advancing one's self
in the world, our wealthy sir, is a
natural, and even an honourable desire.
But he who acts upon it, having his
mind still intent in desire upon the ac-
quisition of money, and therefore feel-
ing gratefully all the acquisitions he
makes, is soon led to look upon the
growing amount of his property as
something excellent in itself, even be-
yond, and independently of, the service
to which he can apply it. He has
exerted, for this end, the whole power
of his mind — his talents, his genius
have been devoted to bring together
this amount — to win it from the strife
of the world. He looks, therefore, with
self-complacency on the amount he has
gained, because it bears witness to him
of his talents, his genius ; it is the
trophy which signalizes his success.
In this way, Mercator, the man is
identified with his property ; he sees in
it all his exertions, perils, watchings —
his sleepless nights, his anxieties, his
struggles, are all embodied to him in
that amount of property ; and in this,
which is the fruit of his whole past life,
he still possesses that past life in the
present. Is it not even so ?
Analagous to this is the passion with
which he looks onward to the future.
He carries into it his own desire of en-
terprise and achievement. He con-
ceives projects by which far greater
wealth may be realized. He asks these
accessions, not from fortune, but from
his own genius and skill, commanding
fortune. He imagines and weighs va-
rious projects which suggest them-
selves to his imagination. He seizes
upon some one more bold than the
rest, and in which his sanguine thought,
and his trust io, his own judgment
1839.]
Christopher in his Alcore.
and skill, promise him magnificent re-
sults. He engages in it, and while
time slowly brings forth the birth of
enterprise, his whole passion of hope
and fear is intent upon the issue. It
is thus that, in such undertakings, the
passion engaged is not simply mea-
sured to the fruit which is to be reaped
from it ; but the man gives himself
whole to his enterprise, and feels, in
the issue, not merely property at stake,
but his own energy and power. Is it
not even so ?
Were some simpleton to ask us to
explain how any man should give him-
self up so eagerly and passionately to
a state of mind which is full of anxi-
ety, fear, and pain, we would say-
oracularly — the explanation is to be
sought in a law of our nature, which
makes passionate desire of all kinds
agreeable to the mind. Languor only,
and the want of interest, are painful
and insupportable ; but the most eager
and anxious passions, however they
may be mixed with fear or pain, are
grateful, by the excited state of hope,
desire, and power, which they bring
into the mind. It is by such passions
that he is drawn on, who engages in
intent speculations for the augmenta-
tion of property. When they succeed,
the amount which he adds to his for-
mer amount is to him of the nature of
a triumph ; when they fail, the loss
he incurs is to him of the nature of
defeat. And thus, his whole amount
of property continually varying, and
being to a certain extent in continual
hazard, his mind constantly revolves
it, viewing it under all aspects, as it
actually is, as it may be greater or less.
It is as an image continually before
him — with which he is constantly con-
necting intenser passion and feeling,
not only in failure and success, but in
every variation of hope and fear. He
sees in it that to which he has lived,
and for which he is to live. His other
desires have ceased ; his other passions
are extinct. He has transfused his
whole being into one object ; and with
that he seems to live and die.
Why, you are not Mercator ! These
thoughtful and earnest eyes reveal
that you are not a man who would
" forsake the student's bower for
gold." They tell us that your ruling
passion is not for wealth but know-
ledge— and that you desire to see the
people put in possession of their just
inheritance. So do we — and we seem
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXII,
543
to see the coming— not afar off— of a
new era.
By the constitution of our minds
there is pleasure annexed to the action
of intelligence, and pain to its ob-
structed actions ; therefore the plea-
sure and desire of knowledge are uni-
versal in human nature. . And, accord-
ingly, we have no reason to doubt
that this is so. In every mind this
pleasure in the use of its intelligence,
this gratification in the acquisition tf
knowledge, appears to be implanted
and exerted; nor without it are we
able to conceive any motive that should
impel the human mind to the acqui-
sition of that vast stock of various
knowledge, adapted to mere ordinary
use, of which it becomes possessed,
under even the most unfavourable cir-
cumstances.
Two causes, indeed, may deceive
us, in endeavouring to ascertain in
actual observation the actual existence
of this capacity of pleasure in the
exertion of intelligence, when we look
for it in individual minds, and may
lead us to believe that it does not uni-
versally subsist. The first, that we are
very apt to try the minds of others
by an unfit standard or test, for we try
them by knowledge for which they
are unapt, or to which they are not
yet, by their progress, competent :
which can be no true test of the native
dispositions of any mind. For all the
while it may be pursuing, unobserved
by us, its own observations of know-
ledge and combinations of thought,
and feeling within itself at every step
the fresh pleasure of intelligence. We
may thus, through our own imperfect
method of observation, very easily de-
ceive ourselves, when we endeavour to
judge whether this pleasure of .intelli-
gence and desire of knowledge sub~
sists in such or such a particular in-
stance ; and may be led by such de-
fective observation falsely to doubt the
universality of this principle, which
is indeed necessarily universal.
Another cause of like error of judg-
ment on this point may be our obser-
vation of those minds in which this
natural disposition is greatly repressed
and subdued by the circumstances
of life, which have not only greatly
withheld from it the means of gratifi-
cation, but which have turned the
mind with a painful force to rest in its
feelings and desires of a lower kind,
casting it down into that stupor of in-
Christopher in his Alcove.
544
telligenee which want and continued
ignorance are able to create. Even
here, it is not destroyed, and our erro-
neous conclusion is deduced in part
from our inexact and untrue observa-
tion : but, if it be destroyed, if there
be contented ignorance produced, and
an indolent aversion to the act of in-
telligence, still it is no less true that
in the original constitution of the mind
there was pleasure annexed to every
act of the understanding : and that in
our constitution they are inseparable.
Here, then, we have occasion to ob-
serve the operation of a peculiar and
delicate affection of the mind. It is
known that whatever affords pleasure
to our minds becomes to it the sub-
ject, in a certain degree, of a grate-
ful love ; and that this feeling is as
certainly, though not so vividly, directed
towards inanimate objects, as to those
that have feeling and will. This gen-
eral law is applicable to those inani-
mate objects on which intelligence is
employed. The mind, made conscious
by these objects of the pleasure of in-
telligence, the gratification of know-
ledge, associates with them the remem-
brance of its pleasure, and bestows on
them a portion of its unconscious love.
And, if this feeling should be slight
and undetermined at first, it becomes
afterwards vivid, fixed, and strong.
Thus the botanist loves the plants on
which the whole intent desire of his
intellectual mind has been directed,
the scholar his books, the astronomer
his stars.
Nor let it be thought that this is
some passing emotion from mere as-
sociated remembrance. It is a feeling
of a very different kind. The objects
which have thus been pursued, have a
power of commanding at all times a
passionate interest. The discovery of
a plant is to the botanist the finding of
a treasure — the opening of a volume
sets the scholar at once in a state of
happiness — the astronomer will watch,
with intense solicitude, the moment in
which one luminary moves before an •
other, and follow, night after night,
with all the passion of his soul, the
progress of a comet, when that stran-
ger to our system comes on his visit
from other worlds. It is not enough
to say that the reasoning intelligence
finds the gratification of knowledge :
the whole heart of the man is wedded to
the subject in which his mind for years
has found its happiness. Hear him
[April,
speak of it, and you will know if his
affections be involved in his studies or
not. Now, it is this capacity, as it
should seem, of carrying affection over
upon the subjects themselves of study,
that serves as the first cause to explain
the different strength in which this
desire is found in different minds — a
difference not dependent merely on
original force of the intellectual capa-
city. This feeling of affection for the
subjects of its habitual studies, a spe-
cies of love of them for their own
sakes, will be found in every mind that
is passionately fond of knowledge. It
is one of the great feelings which sup-
ports and carries forward the desire.
When minds of great intellectual ca-
pacity are found, as they sometimes
are, cold and indifferent to knowledge,
or possessed with little ardour in its
pursuit, it will also be found of them
that they are defective in this capacity
of carrying over a grateful affection
upon the subjects themselves which
have afforded them pleasure ; and that
the explanation of their coldness will
be, not that they are indifferent to the
act of their intellectual faculties, which
is never the case, but that they are
indifferent to the objects themselves
on which intelligence should act : and
therefore are without the desire of
knowledge. On the other hand, this
feeling of affection to the subject, su-
peradded to the pleasure of the mere
act of intelligence, explains the con-
trary phenomenon : when those who
have passionately engaged themselves
to any species of enquiry hang with
the most intense interest over the
minutest object of their researches, as
if the whole sum of their whole science
were collected in a single point — a
sort of transport not explicable, upon
any simple action of mere intelligence,
and which appears necessarily to im-
ply, that there is great affection and
desire turned by the mind upon that
particular class of objects in virtue of
the capacity it has of truly loving
what has once afforded it delight.
But here prmes pretty Helen, with
a silver salver besprent with letters
— and perhaps some of them may
contain verses for our Two Vases.
We think we know this hand — and
seal. It is — a couple of Sonnets from
Mr Trench. His SABBATION is pervaded
by a profound piety — and assuredly
he is among the foremost of our young
poets.
1839.] Christopher in his Alcove.
I.
Ulysses sailing by the Sirens' isle,
Sealed fast his comrade's ears, then bade them fast
Bind him with many fetters to the mast,
Lest those sweet voices should their souls beguile,
And to their ruin flatter them ; the while
Their home-bound bark was sailing swiftly past ;
And then the peril they behind them cast,"
Though chased by those weird voices many a mile.
But yet a nobler cunning Orpheus used :
No fetter he put on, nor stopped his ear;
But ever as he passed, sang high and clear
The blesses of the gods, their holy joys,
And with diviner melody confused
And marred earth's sweetest music to a noise.
II.
In the mid garden doth a fountain stand —
From font to font its waters fall alway,
Freshening the plants by their continual play :
Such often have I watched in southern land,
While every leaf, as though by light winds fanned,
Has quiver' d underneath the dazzling spray,
Keeping its greenness all the sultry day,
While others pine remote, a parched band.
And, in the mystic garden of the soul,
A fountain, nourished from the upper springs,
Sends ever its clear waters up on high :
While this around a dewy freshness flings,
All plants which there acknowledge its control
Show fair and green — else, drooping, pale and dry.
545
A most amiable letter from a Can-
tab. He reminds us of having en-
couraged him by a few words of praise
to send something to Maga — and here
are his offerings at her shrine — worthy
of all acceptance. But, oh ! that he
would improve his penmanship — for
there is one line in his MSS. illegible
— and the compositor must make of it
what he can. Our poetical contribu-
tors occasionally complain of errata
— let such of them learn to write as
now only scrawl.
THE FATHER.
My son, thou askest of the past,
And of thy father's sire,
If noble were his form, and his,
As mine, a soul of fire ;
To thee those days are as a waste,
But unto me they bring
The pleasures of my boyhood back,
The freshness of my spring.
Wilt thou remember me, my boy,
When I have pass'd away ?
Wilt thou remember all the scenes,
O'er which I loved to stray ?
I know thou wilt not me forget
When resting in the grave,
Ev'n as I now, made young again.
My father's blessing crave.
Then, too, were rich and sunny skies,
And then the gentle breeze
Could melt the soul to tenderness,
And give the mourner ease :
Then, too, beneath the silent moon
Were whisper'd words of love,
While for each other's happiness
They pray'd to one above.
But I have reach'd my life's decline,
And bend beneath my years,
Cold are my feelings oft — and dry
The fountains of my tears : —
If thou should'st live till hoary locks
Displace tby raven hair,
Thou'lt love to think of this— of me—
And of my latest prayer.
THE TOMB OF CYRUf.
Great Alexander to the tomb
Of Persian Cyrus came,
For he would honour show to him
Who left so bright a name ;
546
Christopher in his Alcove.
[April,
No monument was there to say
Where slept the mighty dead,
But lowly was his resting-place
Within his narrow bed.
The King of Macedon had heard
Of gold and silver there —
But these were dreams of humbler men ;
Not such his treasures were :
Beside him lay two Scythian bows,
A scimetar, a shield ; —
With these he bore the nations down,
And won the tested field.
The youthful monarch grasp'd his
spear,
His kindred soul on fire ;
A thousand thoughts around him
throng,
Awaking high desire :
May I but live as he hath lived,
And die as he hath died, —
Then let this in some simple grave
Slow moulder by my side.
All our young poets are fine, unaf-
fected fellows, full of force and fire ;
'and they would all, every mother's
son of them, disdain themselves, did
their consciences convict them of the
sin of a single stanza, indited pur-
posely to mystify some worthless
truism, through the embroidered veil
of its envelopement of gorgeous and
gaudy words. The SUMPHS are
all now of the Shelley, or of the
Tennyson school — and, hear, O
heavens ! and give ear, O earth !
disciples of WORDSWORTH ! Surely
the soles of the feet of at least half a
score of them must now be tingling,
prescient of the bastinado. They are
all classical scholars, too, and keep
chirping about Chapman's Homer.
Now here are stanzas — by one of
our young poets — conceived in the
true classical spirit. The heart-strings
of Ovid would thrill to hear such a
lament from his own OEnone.
CENONE.
On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow,
Sate a young and lovely maiden,
Weeping ever, weeping low.
Drearily throughout the forest
Did the winds of autumn blow,
And the clouds above were flying,
And Scamander rolled below.
" Faithless Paris! cruel Paris !"
' Thus the poor deserted spake —
" Wherefore thus so strangely leave
me ?
Why thy loving bride forsake ?
Why no tender word at parting —
Why no kiss, no farewell take ?
Would that I could but forget thee —
Would this throbbing heart might
break !
" Is my face no longer blooming ?
Are my eyes no longer bright ?
Ah ! my tears have made them dimmer,
And my cheeks are pale and white.
I have wept since early morning,
I will weep the livelong night j
Now I long for sullen darkness,
As I once have longed for light.
" Paris ! art thou then so cruel ?
Fair, andyoung, andkind thou art-
Can it be that in thy bosom
Lies so cold, so hard a heart ?
Children were we bred together —
She who bore me suckled thee ;
I have been thine old companion,
When thou hadst no more but me.
" I have watched thee in thy slumbers,
When the shadow of a dream
Passed across thy smiling features,
Like the ripple of a stream ;
And so sweetly were the visions
Pictured there with lively grace,
That I half could read their import
By the changes on thy face.
tc When I sang of Ariadne,
Sang the old and mournful tale,
How her faithless lover, Theseus
Left her to lament and wail ;
Then thine eyes would fill and glisten,
Her complaint could soften thee —
Thou hast wept for Ariadne —
Theseus' self might weep for me !
" Thou may'st find another maiden
With a fairer face than mine—
With a gayer voice, and sweeter,
And a spirit liker thine :
For if e'er my beauty bound thee,
Lost and broken is the spell ;
But thou canst not find another
That will love thee half so well.
" O thou hollow ship that bearest
Paris o'er the faithless deep !
Wouldst thou leave him on some island
Where alone the waters weep ;
Where no human foot is moulded
In the wet and yellow sand —
Leave him there, thou hollow vessel !
Leave him on that lonely land !
" Then his heart will surely soften,
When his foolish hopes decay,
And his older love rekindle,
As the new one dies away.
Christopher in his Alcove.
547
Visionary hills will haunt him,
Rising from the glassy sea,
And his thoughts will wander home-
wards
Unto Ida and to me !
" O ! that like a little swallow
I could reach that lonely spot !
All his errors would be pardoned,
All the weary past forgot.
Never should he wander from me —
Never should he more depart ;
For these arms would be his prison,
And his home would be my heart !"
Thus lamented fair (Enone,
Weeping ever — weeping low —
On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow.
In the self-same hour, Cassandra
Shrieked her prophecy of woe,
And into the Spartan dwelling
Did the faithless Paris go.
But what volume is this you are
handling, Master Neophyte ? Oh !
Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments.
Read aloud the passage at your right-
hand thumb.
" We sympathize even with the dead,
and overlooking what is of real im-
portance in their situation, that awful
futurity which awaits them, we are
chiefly affected by those circumstances
which strike our senses, but can have
no influence upon their happiness. It
is miserable, we think, to be deprived
of the light of the sun ; to be shut out
from life ariU conversation ; to be laid
in the cold grave, a prey to corrup-
tion and the reptiles of the earth ; to
be no more thought of in this world,
but to be obliterated, in a little time,
from the affections,- and almost from
the memory, of their dearest friends
and relations. Surely, we imagine,
we can never feel too much for those
who have suffered so dreadful a cala-
mity. The tribute of our fellow-feel-
ing seems doubly due to them now,
•when they are in danger of being for-
got by every body ; and, by the vain
honours which we pay to their me-
mory, we endeavour, for our own mi-
sery, artificially to keep alive our me-
lancholy remembrance of their misfor-
tune. That our sympathy can afford
them no consolation seems to be an
addition to their calamity ; and to
think that all we cun do is unavailing,
and that, what alleviates all other dis-
tress, the regret, the love, and the la-
mentations of their friends, can yield
no comfort to them, serves only to ex-
asperate our sense of their misery.
The happiness of the dead, however,
most assuredly, is affected by none of
these circumstances ; nor is it the
thought of these things which can ever
disturb the profound security of their
repose. The idea of that dreary and
endless melancholy, which the fancy
naturally ascribes to their condition,
arises altogether from our joining to
the change which has been produced
upon them our own consciousness of
that change, from our putting our-
selves in their situation, and from our
lodging, if I may be allowed to say so,
our own living souls in their inanimat-
ed bodies, and thence conceiving -what
would be our emotions in this case. It
is from this very illusion of the imagi-
nation that the foresight of our own
dissolution is so terrible to us, and that
the idea of those circumstances, which
undoubtedly can give us no pain when
we are dead, makes us miserable while
we are alive. And from thence arises
one of the most important principles
in human nature, the dread of death,
the great poison to the happiness, but
the great restraint upon the injustice
of mankind, which, while it afflicts and
mortifies the individual, guards and
protects the society."
Ay, there are not many now alive
who could write so — yet the book has
fallen into the sere and yellow leaf—-
and 'tis now with few a familiar name.
Let us hear what he says of Sym-
pathy.
" Pity and compassion are words
appropriated to signify our fellow
feeling with the sorrow of others.
Sympathy, though its meaning was,
perhaps, originally the same, may now,
however, without much impropriety,
be made use of to denote our fellow
feeling with any passion whatever."
This is the use of the term in its larg-
est and its philosophic sense. But as it
is at variance with what used to be its
popular meaning, in which it was re-
stricted to the participation in others'
joy and grief, what are the circum-
stances which may have given occasion
to this limitation, in language, of so
comprehensive apassion? Because sor-
row and joy, are the most marked and
frequent states of feeling which occasion
our sympathy, and, therefore the most
noticed in common apprehension :— .
further, they are the result of passions,
and when we see the state produced,
Christopher in his Alcove.
548
we are touched with the absolute con-
dition in which we see the human
being. Joy, we admit, as in itself a
good, and sorrow, as in itself an evil.
Besides joy and grief, being the com-
mon condition of all passions, are, of
course, as frequent as the sum of all
other passions ; and hence, our sym-
pathy with these is so much more
marked to common apprehension, that
it is no wonder the tendency of lan-
guage should be to confine the word
to an acceptation peculiar to the most
frequent appearance of the affection.
These are the beautiful forms of
sympathy ; in which she appears as
a gracious angel treading the sorrow-
ful earth, with feet of healing and
eyes of light. Joy and sorrow make
up the lot of our mortal estate, and by
our sympathy with these, we seem to
acknowledge our brotherhood with
our species. But we do more. For
by the force of this principle, those on
whom the happier lot of humanity has
fallen, communicate the bounty that
has been showered on their head, and
the wretched is not left alone with the
burthen of his misery. The strength
that is untasked, lends itself to divide
the load under which another is bowed ;
and the calamity that lies on the heads
of men is lightened, while those who
are not called to bear, are yet willing
to involve themselves in the sorrows of
a brother.
There are, indeed, states of mind in
which we dare not look eve a on its
smiling countenance — that glad light
affording so strong a contrast to the
darkness of our own spirits. When we
leave the chamber in which lie the cold
remains of one in life tenderly beloved,
we start back in anguish from the cheer-
ful sunshine and the sky so serenely
and happily beautiful. And so it often
is, in the common intercourse of life,
when, without such deep cause of sor-
row, perhaps, we are sometimes assail-
ed with the expression of a joy which
has no place in our hearts. But this
proves how dear is happiness to the hu-
man heart. And it is wonderful even to
the sufferer himself, to feel how his
soul, that at first sullenly repelled the
light of gladness, soon admits it un-
consciously into all its depths, and is
beguiled into a blessed forgetfulness
of trouble. There are a thousand
other cures which nature graciously
provides for grief ; but we speak now
of that contagion of happiness that is
[April
breathed from the gentle voice, iue
sparkling eye, and the kindling smile
— and which so touches the breast with
a cheerful sympathy, that the wretch
almost upbraids himself for his inward
gladness, as if false to the sorrow
which he thinks he ought to have
cherished more sacredly within his
miserable heart.
It has been too positively stated by
Smith that, in order to sympathize
with others, it is necessary we should
place ourselves, in idea, in their situ-
ation. He sets out with endeavouring
to establish this point, and takes, in
particular, the case of the utmost ex-
hibition of agony which we can wit-
ness — a fellow creature upon the
rack.
" As we havenoimmediate experience
of what other men feel, we can form
no idea of the manner in which they
are affected, but by conceiving what
we ourselves should feel in the like
situation. Though our brother is
upon the rack, as long as we ourselves
are at our ease, our senses will never
inform us of what he suffers. They
never did, and never can, carry us be-
yond our own person, and it is by the
imagination only that we can form any
conception of what are his sensations.
Neither can that faculty help us to
this any other way, than by represent-
ing to us what would be our own, if
we were in his case. It is the impres-
sions of our own senses only, not those
of his, which our imaginations copy.
By the imagination we place ourselves
in his situation, we conceive ourselves
enduring all the same torments, we
enter as it were into his body, and
become in some measure the same per-
son with him, and thence form some
idea of his sensations, and even feel
something which, though weaker in
degree, is not altogether unlike them.
His agonies, when they are thus
brought home to ourselves, when we
have thus adopted and made them our
own, begin at last to affect us, and we
then trembleand shudderatthethought
of what he feels. For as to be in pain
or distress of any kind excites the most
excessive sorrow, so to conceive or to
imagine that we are in it, excites some
degree of the same emotion, in pro-
portion to the vivacity or dullness of
the conception."
It does not appear to us that such a
process as this is necessary to produce
the agony of mind, with which we
1839.]
Christopher in his Alcove.
might look on such a dreadful spec-
tacle, although it is true that, in cases
of such excessive suffering of physical
nature, there is even a physical affec-
tion of our own bodies, of which the
nerves themselves are shaken with
what we behold. But we believe that
the sight of such suffering as that
here described directly awakens sym-
pathy with the sufferer, without any
such laborious and dilatory process
as that described — it being suffi-
cient for us to know that he is a sen-
tient being like ourselves. No doubt,
if we are driven on by the ex-
tremity of our physical sympathy to
conceive what may be the kind of
agonies which the poor wretch en-
dures, then an immediate and direct
reference is made to ourselves — our
own limbs — our own bones — our own
heart. But surely no two things can
be more distinct than our general
sympathy with the supposed pain,
which we know must be dreadful, and
that definite conception of the nature
of that pain which we may be excited
to endeavour to form.
The illustrious author soon after
uses another illustration of his doc-
trine, which seems even less conclu-
sive.
" Of all the calamities to which the
condition of mortality exposes man-
kind, the loss of reason appears to
those who have the least spark of hu-
manity by far the most dreadful } and
they behold that last stage of human
wretchedness with deeper commisera-
tion than any other. But the poor
wretch who is in it, laughs and sings
perhaps, and is altogether insensible
of his own misery. The anguish
•which humanity feels, therefore, at
the sight of such an object cannot be
the reflection of any sentiment of the
sufferer. The compassion of the spec-
tator must arise altogether from the
consideration of what he himself would
feel, if he was reduced to the same
unhappy situation ; and what perhaps
is impossible, was at the same time
able to regard it with his present rea-
son and judgment."
Nothing can be more beautiful than
this — but is it true to nature ? Is the
emotion, on witnessing so sad a spec-
tacle, really awakened by the consi-
deration of what we should feel, were
we so miserably reduced ? We do not
fear to answer, No. Indeed there is
something not very comprehensible in
549
the idea of a man feeling compassion
for another in affliction, the very na-
ture of which affliction is seen to ren-
der the sufferer insensible of it — and
yet at the same time to maintain that
he feels the compassion on account of
what he himself would suffer, if re-
duced to a state insensible of suffer-
ing. Smith is therefore obliged to
suppose that the spectator not only
imagines himself for the moment af-
flicted with insanity, like that of the
object whom he commiserates, but
that in that state he retains his present
sense of its miseries. It seems to us
that, in such a case as this, all that
can with truth be said is, that we feel
the possession of reason — and are
therefore sensible of the magnitude of
the loss— and secondly — which is the
thought that chiefly fills our souls—-
that we are awed at the humiliation
or destruction of that great distinc-
tive attribute of our kind, reason —
and feel, in the sad sight before our
eyes, human nature reduced beneath
its own level to that of the -mere
sentient creation. The reference is
not made directly to ourselves — at
least, if there is any such reference, it
is only an accessory and subordinate
feeling — we think on man, capable of
exaltation to an almost angelic in-
telligence— of humiliation low as that
of the beasts that perish.
To understand the character of our
sympathy, then, it is necessary for us
to remember what has been this our
human life. From the faint dawn of
intelligence and love, we have known
and felt ourselves as part of one great
nature. All our thoughts, feelings,
passions, joys, and sorrows, have been
the same as those of our brethren
of mankind. We recognise all these,
not merely as our own — though it
is by self-experience that we know
their workings — but as belonging to
humanity. We are not so sepa-
rated by our own individual exis-
tence, by our own peculiar character,
by our own joints, thews, and limbs—-
from other sentient and intelligent be-
ings, as to require a constant reference
toourself, inordertofeel for their selves.
There is no need for any operation
or process of transferring thought for
this purpose. We are all one Being
— in different forms and modifications
— and our souls, minds, hearts, and
bodies are all possessed with the same
common spirit. Thus, when we see
Christopher in his Alcove.
550
joy, or grief, or any passion, we know
and feel it to be human, and as much
a part of our nature as if it were felt
at the time by ourselves. We grow
from infancy to manhood in love as
well as thought — and we can no more
cut off our loving self than our think-
ing self from the great common spirit-
ual frame of humanity. When we
lend our own passions, as we so often
do to the inanimate creation — and
borrow from it into our souls its seem-
ing gloom or gladness, we go beyond
ourselves there, by the power of ima-
gination widening the range of love.
But all that we feel for that humanity
in which we live, is felt because we do
necessarily possess one common soul,
and must obey those yearning and pas-
sionate emotions which are excited by
the universal and immutabl e law of kind .
Such is that feeling which we ex-
press when we speak of men as our
fellow-creatures. The mere fact that
"we are all partakers of the same na-
ture, and of the same condition, is felt
and acknowledged by us all as a bond
of affection and union. That we have
the same moral soul, the same intelli-
gence, the same affections, even the
same living frame, constitutes the
bond of fellowship among human
kind. He who feels his heart revolt at
some crime perpetrated here, knows
that there is the same revolting at
the same time among all the race.
He who honours his parents, or
speaks blessings on his child, knows
that the same honour is felt among
nations whose name he knows not,
and the same blessings spoken in
tongues he does not comprehend.
What is this but the most comprehen-
sive sympathy, obscurely felt only
because it is not made known to us
partially, and in moments, but is felt
in all moments, and pervades our
whole being. — Yet we may be aware
what the nature of this sympathy is,
and what is its power in uniting all
men as brethren, when the conscious-
ness of it is brought home to our
minds by some slight incident ; when
we are touched with the intimations of
the same nature with our own, brought
unexpectedly to our apprehension ; as
•when we are told of a tribe in the
heart of Africa, that he who has
sworn by the soul of his mother, is
sure to keep his oath ; and among the
same people, of a mother, who, when
the dead body of her son was brought
[April,
into the village, who had been killed
in a fight, in her passionate exclama-
tions over him, had this still upper-
most in her cries, that he had never
told her a lie. Or when we hear
from Ledyard that in all his wander-
ing over the earth, among unknown
and savage nations, the wildest and
fiercest tribes, he never asked kind-
ness or succour, in the language of
courtesy, from woman, and was re-
fused. In these little instances, when
they occur, we feel at once, that those
are our kind ; that their spirits are
framed like ours, and when we feel
this, we feel love rise towards them at
the same moment. To pursue this
consideration further, even into its
exceptions, we may observe, that when
we read of those nations who, by their
cruel and ferocious manners, are totally
divided from us, and calmly or gladly
act deeds which we abhor, we feel at
the moment abhorrence towards them-
selves— this sympathy or fellow-feel ing
of nature is broken off — weregard them
as monsters, not as men — we hate
them because they have not hearts
and spirits like ourselves — we almost
question at the moment, whether they
are of the same kind : and hence it is
probable, notwithstanding our general
acknowledgement of a general sym-
pathy with the human race, that every
one who has much acquainted himself
with the character of different nations,
finds towards some of them in parti-
cular, a fixed aversion and abhorrence,
remaining from such strong impres-
sions. Nor can that natural impres-
sion be removed, till we come at last,
by different reflections upon human
kind, to bring back our sympathy
with them, which we are led to do at
last, when we come to meditate seri-
ously upon human nature, and to sub-
stitute the result of our calm and seri-
ous meditation for those passionate
impressions which at first possess our
minds. We then deliberately reflect
that, however human nature may be
divided from our affection by the de-
formity it sometimes puts on, yet that
the soul was the same, and there thus
arises what may be called even an
awful sympathy of our spirits which
have been more favoured in their un-
folding, and have remained truer to
their nature, with the original constitu-
tion of those, which having been less
favoured, are fallen from their proper
estate. Out of such a sympathy, and
1839.]
Christopher in his Alcove.
551
the affection which inevitably attends
it, arise those strong yearnings which
are felt by some minds towards the
condition of those who are most lost
and abject, among our species, and
the passionate desire to cb some-
thing, if possible, for their restoration.
They sympathize with that nature
which they feel, however low it may
be fallen, to be their own, and in that
sympathy they feel the claim of
brotherhood upon them, to help the
fallen from their degradation. In that
sympathy, which assures them in the
fallen and lost of a nature like their
own, they feel the only ground of con-
fidence that their endeavours may not
be in vain, that the zeal of love will
not fall inefficaciously upon hearts
which, whatever change they may
have endured, were moulded at least
like their own.
Our most comprehensive sympathy,
therefore, with mankind, and that
which most widely and deeply unites
us in one fellowship, as members of
one great society, is that which is
founded simply and directly on a
known community of nature. The
sympathy arising from this com-
munity of nature is so determinate
and strong, that it is not limited to
our spiritual part ; but that we are
made the same, as living men, is
of itself a strong bond of mysterious
sympathy — that our life flows in the
same blood — that we walk in the same
stature — that we act with the same
organs. • Hence is the force of that
appeal, which the great delineator of
our nature, Shakspeare, puts into the
mouth of one of a persecuted race.
He challenges his community of nature
with those by whom he is scorned and
oppressed. He claims fellowship with
them, indeed, by his affections, but the
energy of his pleading is drawn from
this joint participation in one phy-
sical nature. " Hath not a Jew eyeo ?
Hath not a Jew hands, — organs, — di-
mensions,— senses, — affections, — pas-
sions ? — fed with the same food — hurt
with the same weapons — subject to the
same diseases — healed by the same
means — warmed and cooled by the
same winter and summer as a Chris-
tian is ? If you prick us, do we not
bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not
laugh ? If you poison us, do we not
die ?" So far he speaks in the lan-
guage of general human nature. What
he adds is from his own passion — " and
if youwrongus, shall we not revenge ?"
If we are like you in the rest, we will
resemble you in that too. The sum of
his argument is this — " Your exclu-
sion of us from your sympathy is un-
natural, while we are not excluded
from participation in the same common
nature." And the argument is per-
fectly just, for this is the ground of a
necessary sympathy in nature, till it is
overpowered, as in this case, by some
strong interfering feelings of division
and enmity.
In thus considering the bonds of fel-
lowship which thus subsist, binding
together the human race, how can we
refrain from speaking of that sym-
pathy of which we are conscious,
not as participators merely of the
same nature, but as inheritors of
the same lot ! Let us look on this
merely in a natural light, and consider
that all men are tillers of the same
earth, subject to the bounty or the
rigours of the same skies. Does not
even this unite us ? And are we not
concerned and interested to know of
the wildest tribe that ever trode the
earth, in what way they kill their
game, or clothe their bodies, or frame
their dwellings? But if we are in-
heritors of a common lot of far other
severity, if there lies upon us in the
depth of our nature a common burden
of sorrow through sin — do we not feel
that in this community of our condi-
tion there is a far deeper bond of syra-
• pathy ? Have not those felt it who,
bearing in their own hands the only
means of recovery from this common
calamity, could not rest till they went
forth to the uttermost ends of the earth,
to impart to those who sat in darkness
and in the shadow of death, the light
which had delivered their own spirits
from captivity.
Why have Wordsworth, and Sou-
they, and Coleridge, had all along so
unkindly a feeling towards Adam
Smith ? Perhaps because they never
read him — perhaps because — but poo,
poo — men like them are privileged to
have their prejudices ; and we could
forgive Wordsworth any injustice to
Scotland or Scotsmen — (in his heart
we know he loves and honours us and
our country) for the sake — had he writ-
ten no other — of the strain now rising
— obedient to what law of association
we know not — in our memory — pure
and pathetic as the saving light of the
planet that inspired it.
552 Christopher in his Alcove. [April,
TO THE MOON.
Wanderer! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near
To human life's unsettled atmosphere ;
Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake,
So might it seem, the cares of them that wake ;
And, through the cottage lattice softly peeping,
Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping ;
What pleasure once encompass'd those sweet names,
Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims,
An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! —
I slight them all ; and, on the sea-beat shore
Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend
That bid me hail thee as the SAILOR'S FRIEND !
So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made known,
By confidence supplied and mercy shown,
When not a twinkling star or beacon's light
Abates the perils of a stormy night ;
And for less obvious benefits, that find
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind ;
Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime,
And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, *
Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins,
And wounds and weakness oft his sole remains.
The aspiring mountains and the winding streams,
Empress of Night ! are gladdened by thy beams ;
A look of thine the wilderness pervades,
And penetrates the forest's inmost shades ;
Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom,
Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb j
Can'st reach the Prisoner — to his grated cell
Welcome though silent and intangible ! —
And lives there one, of all that come and go
On the great waters toiling to and fro,
One who has watched you, at some quiet hour,
Enthroned aloft in undisputed power,
Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move,
Catching the lustre they in part reprove —
Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway
To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day,
And make the serious happier than the gay ?
Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly bright
Dost rouse, yet surely in thine own despite,
To fiercer mood the frenzy-stricken brain,
Let me a compensating faith maintain ;
That there's a sensitive, a tender part
Which thou can'st touch in every human heart,
For healing and composure. But, as least
And mightiest billows ever have confessed
Thy domination ; so the whole vast sea
Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty j
So shines that countenance with especial grace
On them who urge the keel her plains to trace,
Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude,
Cut off from home and country, may have stood —
Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye,
Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh —
Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer,
With some internal lights to memory dear,
Or fancies stealing forth to sooth the breast,
Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest —
1839.J Christopher in his Alcove.
Gentle awakenings, visitations meek —
A kindly influence whereof few -will speak,
Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.
And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave
Is hidden, buried i,n its monthly grave !
Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea
Swept by a favouring wind, that leaves thoughts free,
Paces the deck — no star perhaps in sight
To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night —
Oft with his musings does thy image blend,
In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend,
And thou art still, O Moon, that SAILOR'S FBIEND !
553
'Tis a noble destiny, no doubt, to be
a great Poet, or a great Philosopher,
or a great Writer of any kind — and
folks have said that to think is nobler
than to act — that those men whose
greatness was in their thoughtful
genius must be of a higher order of
mind than those who won their re-
nown by achievements in the strife
of the world, ruling or warring — yet
the voice of mankind has not thus
witnessed, nor perhaps our own feel-
ings. Indeed, our imagination seems
almost to fall from an eagle-flight,
when it passes from the renown of
those who have been mightiest in
action, to those who have been mighty
only in the speculative or creative
mind. Their glory seems of a differ-
ent order. Akenside says, in conso-
nance, as we think, with the common
sentiments of men —
" Nor far beneath the warrior's feet,
Nor from the legislator's seat,
Stands far remote the bard."
We think that this common feeling
may be explained and justified. The
philosopher, whatever and how high
soever his knowledge, may not be a
great man. He may know the heights
of the human mind, yet he may not be
high himself. His intellect may be
mighty, and yet his soul may be low. It
is the same with all those whose genius
is their title to glory. We seem in
all of them to see certain faculties of
the mind exalted into great power. But
the human being himself, may or may
not be exalted along with these facul-
ties. These are but powers belonging
to him ; these are not himself. If we
ask, then, what itis thatto theordinary
apprehension, constitutes the man
himself— it is his will. If the will is
high, the man is high ; if the will is
degraded, the man is degraded. But
by the will is not here meant affection,
passion, and desire — not at least as
simple feelings however strong ; but
it means the will in action — proved
and tried with contention and dif-
ficulty, with the burdens and the
terrors which bow down or appal.
He who has genius, in this view, is
nothing ; but he whose genius is un-
troubled and clear on the thundering
deck, is exalted in his whole being, by
that perfect power of his will of which
his genius gives the evidence. So
affection and desire do not in them-
selves exalt the man by any vehe-
mence with which they may be felt,
or any nobleness they may include ;
but the moment they are put to severe
proof and tried, and they are found to
endure the proof — as soon as generous
loyalty has thrown its breast in the
way of death — as soon as wealth is
sacrificed to honour, so soon the pas-
sion ennobles the man ; because it is
found to be more than emotion and
desire, it is found to have the strength
of will. It is in the will, exalted in-
deed by affection and desire, exalted
by thought and genius, that we find
the elevation of the human being. In
fewer and simpler words, it is the per-
sonal character that we regard first,
in the estimate of personal greatness ;
and the intellectual character is only
a secondary consideration. This is
the account of the causes which, in
men's judgment of the characters of
others, determine the comparison they
make between those who have been
great in great action and those who
have stood at the height of mental
achievement. If we place ourselves
within the minds of those whom we
judge, and consider what in each case
their self-esteem might be, we shall
find in this respect a corresponding
difference. He who feels himself to be
354
Christopher in his Alcove.
[April,
great, and he who only feels his genius
to be great, are two men as widely
distinguished from each other, in the
influence of their self-esteem over their
moral being or their passions, as they
are different in the eyes of the world.
And thus we may see how the passion
of glory in the mind of the orator,
or the poet, or the philosopher, ap-
pears to us as something very infe-
rior to the same passion in the breast
of the young patriot warrior. We
conceive it to have been an inferior
passion even as they felt it ; because
they carried into the passion nothing
but the conscious elevation of their
genius, and he carries into his passion
the conscious nobleness of his whole
being, ready to devote itself to the
cause of liberty or his country.
Lay down that book, sirrah, and
listen to Us. No — take it up again — 'tis
Paley, we perceive — read aloud the
sentence nearest the thumb of your
left hand — whatever it be, we under-
take to say something on the same
subject, as good or better, off hand.
" The Law of Honour is a system of
rules constructed by people of fashion,
and calculated to facilitate their inter-
course with one another ; and for no
other purpose. Consequently, nothing
is adverted to by the Law of Honour,
but what tends to incommode this in-
tercourse. Hence the law only pre-
scribes and regulates the duties be-
twixt equals ; omitting such as relate
to the Supreme Being, as well as
those which we owe to our inferiors.
For which reason, profaneness, ne-
glect of public worship, cruelty to ser-
vants, rigorous treatment of tenants
or other dependants, want of charity
to the poor, injuries done to trades-
men by insolvency or delay of pay-
ment, :with numberless examples of
the same kind, are no breaches of
honour ; because a man is not a less
agreeable companion for these vices,
nor the worse to deal with, in those
concerns which are usually transacted
between one gentleman and another."
Shut your mouth, now, ingenuous
youth — we have had enough of it.
Paley treats — does he not? — in suc-
cession of the -Law of Honour, the
Law of the Land, the Scriptures, the
Moral Sense, Human Happiness —
Virtue ? He does. Hear, then, Chris-
topher North.
Honour, then, must be considered
as subsisting independently, in the
spirit itself; but it has two great ac-
cessaries— the esteem of others, and
the exterior demonstration of their
esteem. It is not degraded, or al-
tered in its nature by the support it
derives from these two accessaries ;
not even though, to a certain ex-
tent, it relies on them for support.
As long as it is itself the superior
principle, and these are accessaries
only, the purposes of nature are
fulfilled. If these feelings, which
were given merely as subsidiary and
subordinate, should become of more
moment to the mind, as they some-
times do, than its own self-regard,
then the purpose of nature is subvert-
ed, and the principle of honour itself
is degraded.
It may be said to be the highest
principle of our mind which is neither
religious nor properly moral. The
highest law of our spirit and acts, is
that which immediately and con-
sciously regards Him to whom we owe
all ; the next is that which is pre-
scribed to us by conscience, by which
each man knows himself subject to
obligation, which must not be bro-
ken ; next to these is that principle
entirely distinct from them, by which
the human being feels himself con-
strained to act, that he may not be
self- dishonoured.
When these two first and greatest
laws are removed, or have 'compara-
tively little force in the mind, this
other principle — which may be consi-
dered as the highest of those which
are merely human, including no higher
regard than of the human being to
himself — this other principle, accord-
ing to Christopher North, then be-
comes, in an imperfect degree, as a
director merely of human actions a
substitute for them. In this light we
may understand why this sentiment
has been esteemed so highly among
men, since it becomes to them, under
certain circumstances, the chief law of
their lives, and though not virtue, yet
to a certain extent a substitute for it.
We may also understand on what
ground it has been reprobated by re-
ligious and moral writers. They have
regarded it as a law set up among
men, in independence of religious and
moral obligation. It has been so set
up. But it might have been considered
that this was the error and misfortune
1839,]
Christopher in his Alcove.
of the men themselves, and not the
fault of the principle to which they
resorted, in their destitution, to what-
ever cause that might be owing, of a
higher guidance.
Now, it does not, we think,! require
much argument to show that there is
nothing in this sentiment, justly consi-
dered, which is at variance with those
higher laws to which we are subject-
ed. The man who fulfils his duty to
God is thereby necessarily obedient
to his conscience : but surely there is
nothing that forbids the same mind
which acknowledges, and has submit-
ted itself to this highest obedience, to
be sensible to its own esteem of its
own desert, to be sensible to shame,
when it has forfeited its self esteem.
The same mind may be religious,
moral, and yet retain its sensibility to
honour. It is altogether a different
question to ask, whether the laws of
honour which prevail in any particular
nation of men are throughout con-
sistent with morality and religion. It
is probable they are not ; for they
are framed by human beings in their
pride, and in their forgetfulness of
their highest subjection. But such
laws are merely to be ranked among
the manners and customs of that par-
ticular nation. They are not to be
cited as proofs of the necessary dic-
tates of this feeling of our" nature.
They show that men, in their weak-
ness and blindness, have erred in the
application of a just and noble princi-
ple. The customs and the rules of
opinion which men, instigated by this
feeling, have instituted for themselves,
may be in some respects greatly
amiss ; yet not the natural feeling,
but their error, is chargeable with
those transgressions. Among many
nations, the feeling of honour has led
to frequent suicide — it has given repu-
tation to that crime ; yet we do not
think of laying that crime to the
charge of this principle of our nature,
for we see plainly that this is a per-
version of the feeling, since there are
honourable nations among whom it
does not suggest that action, but pre-
serves from it. In the same way,
among ourselves, in judging our own
laws of honour, we are to make the
like discrimination : and to take care
that we do not attribute to^ the essen-
tial feeling accidental customs or ca-
nons of judgment, without which the
natural sentiment might subsist in its
553
full force, and hold its just dominion,
over the human spirit and over hu-
man life. It is our duty to take care
to keep this sentiment, which, by its
alliance with pride — which, by the re-
spect it pays to the human self, is in
danger to estrange us from higher
laws, — to keep it, we say, in due sub-
jection to them. It is a feeling which,
like all our natural feelings, may be
carried to excess ; and therefore it
calls upon us for vigilance to guard
and to restrain it within its due bounds;
to suspect it even ; but on no account
to disparage it in our estimation, or to
endeavour wholly to suppress it in our
hearts.
As far as its laws have been defined
by the manners of these nations, it is
the guardian of courage and faith in
the character of men. The world re-
quire these in action ; the sense of
honour watches over them in the heart.
These, then, are important virtues to
society, which are in safe keeping un-
der the vigilance of honour. But it
is not to be imagined that its influence
ends here. It may be first aroused in
the mind with respect to these two
virtues. On these it may stand.
But the principle once existing in the
mind, has a far, more extensive opera-
tion. For, as soon as the mind is
awakened to watch over itself — to feel
that it has an inward nobility, known
to itself, and which, attainted in its
own consciousness, though no other
human being should know it, is for-
feited and lost — there is a principle
raised up into strength, which will be
jealous over the whole mind, and will
preserve it, according to the extent of
its understanding, from every self- de-
grading act. The honourable mind
does not in any degree measure its
own worth by the opinion of others j
it measures by its own estimate ; and
the quick and vivid sensibility which
it cherishes to its own approbation,
and yet more to its own blame, is a
spirit that will watch over all its vir-
tues, and animate its aversion to every
vice. It may justly be described,
therefore, as a principle so friendly to
virtue, that, as long as it subsists, it
requires and enforces some virtues in
the mind otherwise most corrupted
and perverted ; which, maintaining
as it does some virtues in the midst
of vice, is then only happily placed,
in the full exercise of its power and
enjoyment of its nature, when it is
Christopher in his Alcove.
556
placed in the midst of virtues, to all
of which it can ally itself, and will
strengthen all with which it is allied.
How gracious is the influence it
exerts, even by the exterior demon-
strations of respect which- it enforces.
To him who honours himself, it is
natural to mark to others the re-
spect he bears them ; for he has
the instinct which warns him that
the want of that respect must be felt
by them as an injury. Besides, it
is grateful to him that those who are
esteemed should know themselves to
be so. It is painful to him to think
that any human being should live self-
degraded, and therefore he is unwil-
lingly the cause to any one of self-
humiliation. Hence is this feeling the
natural inspirer of courtesy. It is not
to be believed that it is disappointed
in its generous aim. The mainte-
nance of exterior respect in the manners
of society, is a perpetual encourage-
ment to every one to believe that he is
respected, and therefore a constant
exhortation to him to respect himself.
Our Alcove Library is not large-
it is select — but neither is it exclusive
— and here is a volume (published by
the excellent Seeley and Burnside)
from which please, pray, to read aloud,
but not loud, the first set of stanzas
you see with our private approval-
mark — " THE SOLACE OF SONG —
short Poems suggested by scenes visit-
ed on a Continental Tour, chiefly in
Italy." — Give us the volume for a mo-
ment. The writer is not a mere classi-
cal, he is a Christian tourist — and
avers that " of the associations that
throng the Christian mind on an Ita-
lian tour, none are so imposing as those
derived from scenes connected with
Scripture history. Though but few,
and upon the very verge of the field
of sacred narrative, yet to an inhabi-
tant of a country whose very name
has no existence in Holy Writ but
as " the uttermost part of the earth,"
they present the distant glories of a
light, hitherto only apprehended by
the imagination. If, however, they
are but gleams, they are welcomed
with the greater delight ; and the au-
thor wishes it were in his power to
convey to the reader the tenth part
of that enthusiasm with which he
surrendered himself and the objects
around him to the enchantment of
such associations ;" and he says, " It
may surely be forgiven, if all classic
[April,
interest evaporated, when, under the
Arch of Titus, the gorgeous proces-
sion, that bore captive Judea in tri-
umph, seemed to move towards the
Capitol ; or, on the arena of the now
desolate Coliseum, the mind recalled
Ignatius patiently tarrying the mo-
ment when his life must be sacrificed
to gratify the assembled myriads of
Pagan Rome." He says that little
art was exercised in their composition ;
as they merely formed a recreative
amusement when the spirits sought
refreshment from the crowd of sur-
rounding objects of secular interest, in
the meditation of subjects of eternal
moment ; and if some of them should
appear to have a melancholy tinge, he
can easily plead that it is chiefly in
times of sorrow that the mind turns to
such reminiscences.
The ruins of Rome ! The over-
throw or decay of mighty human
power is, of all thoughts that can
enter the mind, the most affecting.
The whole imagination is at once
stirred by the prostration of that, round
which so many high associations have
been collected for so many ages.
Beauty seems born but to perish, and
its fragility is seen and felt to be
inherent in it by a law of its being.
But power gives stability, as it were,
to human thought, and we forget our
own perishable nature in the spectacle
of some abiding and enduring great-
ness. Our own little span of years —
our own confined region of space, are
lost in the endurance and far-spread
dominion of some mighty state — and
we feel as if we partook of its deep set
and most triumphant strength. When,
therefore, a great and ancient empire
falls into pieces, or when fragments of
its power are heard, in the sad con-
viction of our souls, rent asunder like
column after column disparting from
some noble edifice, we feel as if all
the cities of men were built on
foundations beneath which the earth-
quake slept. The same doom seems
to be imminent over all the other
kingdoms that still stand ; and in
the midst of such changes, and de-
cays, and overthrows — or as we read
of them of old — we look, under such
emotions, on all power as founda-
tionless, and in our wide imagination
embrace empires covered only with the
ruins of their desolation. Yet such
is the pride of the human spirit, that it
often unconsciously, under the influence
1839.] Christopher in Ms Alcove. 55?
of such imagination, strives to hide clothed with terrific attributes, and the
from itself the utter nothingness of its sweep of his scythe has, in imagina-
mightiest works. And when all its tion, shorn the towery diadem of cities,
glories are visibly crumbling into dust, Thus the mere sigh in which we
it creates some imaginary power to expire, has been changed into active
overthrow the fabrics of human great- power — and all the nations have with
ness — and thus attempts to derive a one voice called out "Death!" And
kind of mournful triumph even in while mankind have sunk, and fallen,
its very fall. Thus, when nations have and disappeared in the helplessness
faded away in their sins and vices, of their own mortal being, we have
rotten at the heart and palsied in all still spoken of powers arrayed against
their limbs, we strive not to think them — powers that are in good truth
of that sad internal decay, but ima- only another name for their own weak-
gine some mighty power smiting em- nesses. Thus imagination is for ever
pires and cutting short the records of fighting against truth — and even when
mortal magnificence. Thus, Fate and humbled, her visions are sublime —
Destiny are said in ourimagination to conscious even among saddest ruin of
lay our glories low. Thus, even the her own immortality,
calm and silent air of oblivion, has Now, my son, read on — with a few
been thoughtof as an unsparing power, minutes' pause between each sacred
Time, too, though in moral sadness, poem — till we motion you to return
wisely called a shadow, has been the volume to its place.
BASILICA OF S. PETER.
" Who sits, a sceptered monarch in his hall,
Upheld by time, that makes all others bow,
Himself unmoved, though nations rise and fall ;
No snow-storm shed by ages on his brow ?
High lot is his 1 nor change of rule to know,
Nor touch of hoary years, as centuries come and go.
" What would ambition more ? Eternal Rome
Seals with his name the emblems of her pride —
High in the chamber of her proudest dome,
In Godhead throned his image dare abide ;
While pilgrims hasten with the offered vow,
And at his feet in low obeisance bow.
" What would he more ? The world his sceptre owns —
Aloft from column, cupola, and tower,
He views ten kingdoms prostrating their thrones,
Submissive to his delegated power,
The vassal- subjects of his magic name —
What would he more to seal a deathless fame ?
" And yet to reign as king he held as nought,
When from his eye coursed down the bitter tear-
No longer Earth's magnificence he sought,
Or feared man's face — sin, sin his only fear —
To latest times he shunned not to proclaim
Jehovah's glory in his own deep shame.
" He braved a vow his Master's head to shield,
Or lay his own in willing service down —
He braved a vow the vengeful blade to wield,
And steel his heart against a people's frown —
Yet on his eye when gleamed the Judge's sword,
He would not own the Saviour for his Lord I
" Yea, he denied with curses — thrice the word
Passed unrebuked his lip, with brazen brow ;
' The Lord of Hosts,' he said, ' was not his Lord,
Nor cared he the Nazarene to know '—
How in an hour are all his vows entombed 1
Sifted as corn— but not as chaff consumed ;
558 Christopher in his Alcove.
" For Io ! the Sufferer turns His woe-worn face,
And on His servant bends His gentle eye —
Pity ond Love blend in. that look of grace,
And to the sinner tell his Saviour nigh —
He heeded not the deadly fight he fought,
Or his heart's pangs — his wandering sheep he sought :
" He sought and found — the arrow Peter smote,
And forth he stepped from out the evil hall,
Bitter the things, that 'gainst himself he wrote,
Deadly his sin, and desperate his fall —
He wept, to tell how grossly Satan lied —
Man hath no power to stay his heart of pride.
' ' O then ! why drag him forth who thus did mourn,
And wish all self deep buried in his grave !
Why bid the crowd besotted t'ward him turn,
Their souls to save, his own who could not save !
O sight more galling than the lictor's rod,
The humbled saint upreared a brazen god !
" Bitter the tears ! and let them freely flow,
For evil was the hand that placed him there !
How would he weep to serve the nation's woe,
By claiming homage in God's House of Prayer !
How weep to see his form, from realms above,
Stand 'twixt his fellow-man, and Jesus' look of love !"
[April*
S. MARIA SOPRA MINERVA.
" Why that appalling frown,
Beneath the thorny crown,
That eye of wrath, and stern, averted brow ?
Is not the covenant made ?
Is not the altar laid ?
Say, is that covenant pledge forgotten
now ?
" O doth he bend below
An universe of woe :
From His dread sacrifice impatient shrink ?
The deadly brimming bowl,
Mixed for my hell-doomed soul,
Doth He refuse, in this his hour, to drink ?
" Is it his people's hate,
Which knows not to abate,
That kindles flames and hot rebukes of
fire?
Do heathen words of scorn,
Cast on the man forlorn,
Quenchless, unmitigated wrath inspire ?
" Here in this world of woe,
Will he indeed forego
His fore-doomed work, my soul to seek
and save,
Hurl back the assumed tree-r-
In act of victory,
Forbear to thread the mazes of the grave ?
" O think not, Lord, on us,
Whilst thou dost suffer thus ;
Heed not the word of a poor, powerless
worm!
If Thou but wave thine hand,
Waste is the peopled land,
Like chaff dispersed before the fitful storm.
" Look on thy covenant-seal,
And on thy children deal,
Tho' wayward, by the greatness of thy
name !
The Gentile and the Jew,
' They know not what they do,
Work out Thy work ! let not thine anger
flame !
" Yet hush the hasty thought,
Which hath unjustly wrought
'Gainst Him, who is my own, my loving
Lord ;
O no ! — how can it be,
That he from pain should flee,
And o'er his chosen wave the vengeful
sword !
" Vain fear ! that wrathful eye
Proclaims the Tempter nigh,
That brow is bent upon the hateful
power —
The lip of stern reproof
Bids Satan stand aloof,
Nor heap temptation on the o'erladen
hour,
" 'Neaththat dread frown I view,
Love to His chosen few,
And purpose firm their rescue to ensure :
His pallid cheek proclaims,
How precious are their names,
For whom his writhing nerves such pain
endure.
1839.]
Christopher in his Alcove*
559
" See, to his cross lie clings,
Whence endless virtue springs,
Life, health, and comfort to the sinner's
soul :
What tho' the attack be rude,
As rush of mountain-flood,
He will not shrink to drain the hell-
wrought bowl.
" Warrior, he takes his stand.
Not to upraise his hand,
To crush the trembling souls He came to
save —
But meek His crown to wear,
And meek his cross to bear,
Till Satan falls, and he who rules the
grave!
" Then hail that fearful gaze !
It strikes with dread amaze,
And chills his foes, all motionless as
stone —
That frown is love to me ;
It speaks the captive free,
And plants a worm on an archangel's
throne ! "
" Go ! bear Him softly to His rest, '
Since past the battle shock ;
The pallid brow, and pulseless breast,
Lay in the virgin rock.
Tho' darkly yawns the rending tomb,
The light of heaven gilds the gloom —
Fear not ! seal firm the closed door —
'Tis but the gate of Death — and Death is
king no more !
•" Leave Him therein — the first to dare
The mazes of that path,
Which track'd the regions of despair,
Lit by Almighty wrath —
Leave Him therein — His arm alone
Hurled Satan from his traitor throne —
His arm alone — omnipotent to save—
His erring sheep redeems, and bursts the
portals of the grave !
" Travelling in greatness of His might,
He treads the shades of Death ;
Hell flics the glory of His light —
The blasting of His breath.
The dead from chamber'd couches spring,
And hail of their dread king the King ;
Amazed who thus, in robes from Bozrah
died,
Tramples angelic powers in their own
realm of pride !
" ' P) g>'rd thy sandall'd foot, my soul!
Salute the Victor's sign !
From thce His mutter'd thunders roll —
'1 lie foes He spurns are thine !
VD 1.. XI.V. NO. tTLXXXII.
" But ah ! how may I dare to claim,
Who shunned his toils, the Conqueror's
fame,
Or tread with ready step the narrow
way,
Clear 'd by His single arm— on to the
Fount of Day 1
" Up, tarry not, tho' stain'd with sin,—-
With a traitor's low'ring brow !
Press on ! the crown of glory win !
Salvation's offered now !
Not for Himself the fight He fought —
Thou art the man ! — thy weal He sought ;
For thee — for thee He smote the Dragon
foe —
See, how He smiles thee on I go, track
His footsteps, go !
" What tho', ingrate ! thou didst not share
The woes He could not hide ;
Slept — when He bade thee watch to prayer,
And when confess — denied !
Doubt not there's pardon yet for thee ;
His loving smile thy welcome be !
Drink in the light of life that beams
around —
What is death's dreary vale ?— with Christ
'tis holy ground !
<fLo, where He comes, Night folds his
wing
And shuns the blaze of Day ;
While flowers beneath His footsteps spring,
To cheer Him on his way.
Before Him desolation lies—
Behind, a fresh-blown Paradise ;
And sounds of seraph-harps beguile the
road,
Erst filled with shrieks of woe, that told
an absent God !
" Come — muse a little moment here,
Faith watches at the grave ;
Bid hence all doubt, distrust, or fear,
He can, and He will save !
We tune our harps, and wait awhile ;
Joy in the radiance of His smile ;
Listening with holy longing till He come,
Knock at our chamber-door, and call us
to our home !"
A SABBATH AMONG THE AJTENINES.
' It is his own. His Sabbath-day,
His voice is busy in my heart —
I must from earthly thoughts away,
And go to muse with him apart !
Tho' in my soul the weight of woe,
And on my brow the lines of care,
He would not now His grace bestow,
Did He design to spurn my prayer.
" The hills that hem this little dell,
And rear their wooded ftrmson high,
2N
560 Christopher in his Alcove. [April,
" They know each want, they know each
grief,
They throng with me His mercy's throne,
With me they kneel to urge relief,
My nearest woes they claim their own :
They cheer my soul with many a sign,
Each doubt repress, and hush each fear ;
Sweet smile in every smile of mine,
And weep in every gushing tear.
" My roving soul He bids me bound
Within this scene of sky and grove,
Here own the marks of holy ground,
Here meet the objects of his love :
Alike the summer beams repel,
And bid afar the wintry sky —
Where Solitude hath framed a bower,
And Shade hath spread her noon- tide
night,
He comes, to fill the lonely hour,
He shines, and where He shines, 'tis light.
Tho' hushed the chimes of Sabbath praise,
And not a track of man appear —
The Lord himself a shrine shall raise,
Nor lack a Sabbath service here.
" These clustering trunks of stately trees,
Like columns of some Gothic aisle,
Rise, undisturb'd by summer breeze,
A God-framed, God-accepted pile !
Here may I bend th' uncover'd head,
Fresh homage to my Master swear,
Since here a chequer'd couch is spread,
For foot of praise, or knee of prayer.
" Nor lonely is my duty paid,
Though to the eye of man alone ;
For many a hand is stretch'd to aid,
And bear my offerings to the throne.
Around the lowly altar stand,
With ear attent, and heav'nward eye,
A thronging, bright angelic band,
To waft my incense to the sky.
" For Faith is here, though weak and
frail,
And tottering with infantine feet,
Her voice is strong her Lord to hail,
And firm she grasps the mercy- seat :
And Love, that like a sister clings,
With eye as clear as beam of day,
And ardent Hope, with fluttering wings,
All restless in her cage of clay.
" And who is she, that shrinks behind
With so serene and sweet a smile,
And finger raised, lest some rude wind
Should murmur through the leafy aisle,
Leading yon sylph in silken band,
Who hides her face beneath her wings ?
'Tis Peace, with her own olive wand,
And Joy, who shades the bliss she brings.
" And nearer to my station crowd,
In vesture stained with many a tear,
Pale sorrow, 'neath her burden bow'd;
Patience, that soothes her sister Fear :
And many more to memory known,
Heart linked to heart, and hand to hand :
How can I deem myself alone,
So blest, 'mid such a goodly bond !
" One is our object — one our aim,
Whene'er a sacred rite I pay ;
They own with me the Saviour's name,
They own with me the Saviour's day !
While they my feeble service share,
Here it is good for me to be ;
Each spot becomes a house of pray'r,
Each day a Sabbath-day to me."
Religion in the human mind is apt
to decline in two different ways. It de-
generates into fanatic superstition
or into a cold speculative philosophy.
Both these are averse from its proper
nature ; but, perhaps, the last most
so ; for the first is but excess, and the
last is defect. The excesses of the
first startle men, and warn them back ;
but the cold speculative faith seems
almost to recommend itself to an in-
tellectual age. It looks like reason
purifying religious belief, while she
takes no more than what she can com-
prehend. Yet it is an inclination of
the mind to atheism, for it is a loosen-
ing of it from the bond of its full re-
ligious obligation. How shall we pre-
tend to say that we will bring to this
service our intellectual and not our
moral being ? That we will know what
is to be known, and believe as far as
undoubted evidence constrains our
conviction? But that our heart, our
whole spirit of passion and feeling
shall remain exempt from the same
influence. If our minds owe any
thing to God, they owe all. Their
rational intelligence is required to the
highest use of its intelligent powers,
when it is called upon to know the
truths which religion teaches, and on
which it rests. The greatest object
of thought is presented to the under-
standing. But, at the same moment,
the greatest object of affection is of-
fered to the soul. And it is as absurd
and self-contradictory to our nature,
not to feel, as it is, when truth is un-
folded clearly before us, not to under-
stand.
The mere consideration of the con-
1839.]
Christopher in his Alcove.
stitution of the human mind is suffi-
cient to show what is ih'e relation that
religion bears to the whole. It is the
vital principle of the whole being. It
is like the soul of the soul. Ey it all
the other powers and feelings are re-
duced to their right place and subor-
dination. Without it the whole mind
is disturbed and thrown into disorder.
Hence only are derived true magna-
nimity and wisdom. Hence only the
affections are purified and sublimed.
Hence only the passions receive their
law.
What religion is to the individual
mind, that it is to the mind of a whole
people. This alone preserves it lofty
and strong. Without this it sinks
into weakness and degradation. Its
intellectual powers, its courage, its
liberty, are no sufficient security.
These cannot preserve its elevation.
These, though noble in themselves,
are not of sufficient power to maintain
the whole rational mind ennobled. It
is necessary that men should have be-
fore their minds some object of regard
and desire, of which they fall infinitely
short ; that so they may be admo-
nished to arouse themselves, and ad-
vance their nature. Their spirit is
beset with many insidious foes ; and
it is not possible for them, by any vigi-
lance of their own, to guard and pro-
tect themselves from their wily assault.
But while they exalt themselves in the
highest strength, they become secure j
for those betraying weaknesses cease
to have any power over them.
The character" of nations seems
borne down by a fatal power. The
great principles of opinion and passion
•which have sustained them for a
period sink away, and none succeed
in their place. The very progress of
their maturer intelligence advances
them beyond the noble errors of their
uninstructed youth. There is then no
principle which can gave them from
decay coming on, but religion. In
their highest state of intelligence,
here is an object which commands the
adoration of reason. In their decay
and fall of spirit, here is a passion
which can enter the sunk and lan-
guishing heart, and rekindle and re-
novate its strength. In the flow of
overwhelming luxury, here is a prin-
ciple of power to contend against the
enchantments of sense, and to cast out
the madness of the grosser passions.
561
Here is a spirit which can enter every
house, can tell pleasure of its folly
and wealth of its vanity, which can
address itself to every heart, and chas-
tise in each single breast the univcrsa
depravity.
How utterly have those nations fall-
en who have been without religion !
How have those declined and suffered
who have corrupted their religion !
We feel that we have yet some strength
with which to contend against the
threatening decays that creep in upon
the further periods of a nation's exist-
ence. But of that strength how much
do we owe to the vigour in which our
religion has been maintained amongst
us ? How much of it would be left,
if we should ever suffer that religion
unhappily to decay ?
In the laws, the manners, the philo-
sophy, the literature of a people, the
influence of high religious feelings will
be traced, unobtrusively but power-
fully diffusing itself through every
part of their welfare. How much of
the happiness of a people, of the pu-
rity and dignity of its manners, arises
from that domestic virtue which reli-
gion alone can guard. Their public
institutions must be actuated by the
same spirit. Their literature will take
a character,indirectly,from this source.
If the thoughts of the people be high
and pure, their whole literature will
maintain the same tenor. Their phi-
losophy especially, which continually
draws near to religion — which weds
itself to their morality — which is con-
stantly derived anew from the highest
faculties of their intelligence — their
philosophy will be lofty or low, a sci-
ence of truth or of falsehood, as their
whole mind is more or less influenced
and governed by these high doctrines
and feelings. In truth, what philo-
sophy of morals can there be which
does not derive its character direct
from this source ? Nothing but abase-
ment and degradation of the whole mo-
ral nature of man can follow the mo-
ment morality is made independent of
this connexion. It were better to
leave man without speculation at all
upon this subject, than to exhibit to
him himself bereft of his highest capa-
city, and to persuade him that this is
the faithful picture of that being which
he was created. Even that science
which seems less immediately con-
nected with this part of our nature,
562
Christopher in his Alcove.
[April,
physical science, is in a thousand ways
linked to it, and owes to it its noblest
character. For it is not the subject-
matter itself that constrains the mind
to an inevitable course, but the mind,
according to its own character, selects
the matter of its knowledge. The
highest researches of this science are
those which are connected with the
great principles that govern the natu-
ral world ; and to these the mind
seems called full as much by that se-
cret moral feeling which accompanies
the sublimer contemplations of nature,
as by its own intellectual tendency.
Nor is it possible to conceive of the
mind of Newton investigating the laws
of the universe, without believing that
his great studies had to himself their
highest commendation, while he be-
lieved himself permitted, in pursuing
them, to become, in some part, an in-
terpreter of that divine wisdom which
has framed and governs the world.
In these enquiries we are accustom-
ed to speak of the light of nature in
comparison with the light of revela-
tion, and to speak of the theological
doctrines of which our human reason
gives us assurance. Such expressions
as these may easily lead to important
error, and do, indeed, seem often to
have been misconceived and misem-
ployed. What those truths are which
human reason, unassisted, would dis-
cover to us on these subjects, it is im-
possible for us to know, for we have
never seen it left absolutely to itself.
Instruction, more or less, in wandering
tradition, or in express, full, and re-
corded revelation, has always accom-
panied it ; and we have never had
other experience of the human mind
than as exerting its powers under the
light of imparted knowledge. In these
circumstances, all that can be properly
meant by those expressions which re-
gard the power of the human mind to
guide, to enlighten, or to satisfy itself
in these great enquiries is, not that it
can be the discoverer of truth, but that,
with the doctrines of truth set before
it, it is able to deduce arguments from
its own independent sources which
confirm it in their belief; or that, with
truth and error proposed to its choice,
it has means, to a certain extent, in
its own power, of distinguishing one
from the other For ourselves, we
may understand easily that it would
be impossible for us so to shut out
from our minds the knowledge which
has been poured in upon them from
our earliest years, in order to ascer-
tain what self-left reason could find
out. Yet this much we are able to
do in the speculations of our philoso-
phy. We can enquire, in this light,
•what are the grounds of evidence
which nature and reason themselves
offer for belief in the same truths. A
like remark must be extended to the
morality which we seem now to incul-
cate from the authority of human rea-
son. We no longer possess any such
independent morality. The spirit of
a higher, purer, moral law than man
could discover has been breathed over
the world, and we have grown up in
the air and the light of a system so
congenial to the highest feelings of
our human nature, that the wisest spi-
rits amongst us have sometimes been
tempted to forget that its origin is
divine.
One other strain from the " SOLACE
OF SONG." ' Tis a volume well worthy
a place in every Christian Family
Library. The embellishments in wood
by Harvey are very beautiful.
LOIANO.
A VILLAGE ON THE SUMMIT OF AN APFENINE, NEAR THE BATHS OF LUCCA.
" High on the mountain's crown,-
While all around is swathed in deepest brown,
Say, whence yon silvery gleam,
Reflecting bright the sun's departing beam ?
There man hath sought his rest,
Within the eagle's nest,
Sick of the city's noise, and pomp, and power —
Content, with daily toil,
To court the barren soil,
And bid afar the world's supremest dower.
How, from the etherial height,
Dwindle the mightiest works of human might !
1839.] Christopher in his Alcove. 563
" And as his glance surveys, >
Yon lines of trodden ways,
He, fain, unmindful of the law of love,
Forgets, as pass the pigmy crowd before his face,
That he himself is nought above
A brother of 'ihe race !
Far as the eye can see,
Beneath him stretch the lordly Appenines,
Belted, with cypress, garlanded with vines,
Rearing their backs in wooded majesty.
There may he raise his shrine — his God adore,
Conning his works of might down to the mid-sea's shore.
if
" But little thought hath man
Of Nature's glories, while his cheek is wan
With pinching want and care —
His eye to heaven upturn* d in bootless prayer !
The nightly dews that lie
So rich around, his thirst may not supply,
Nor earth reveal her founts to glad his clouded eye.
For many and many an age,
The maidens sped their weary pilgrimage,
With toilsome steps and slow —
Their brazen vessels on their shoulders slung —
Down to the vale below,
O'er whose rich crops the wooded mountain hung.
" There, in a mossy cave,
'Mid groves of chesnut on the hill's broad side,
Their burning brows they lave,
Where gushed a fount, whose waters never died.
So sweet the lowly spot — so hid from day —
Like a swallow's nest it lay 1
With unremitting toil
They bear the stream, more choice than wine or oil,
Till, having won the height, they pour around
And cool the thirsty tongue, and glad the parched ground.
" Lo ! from the covert green,
With weary steps they came, the groves between,
Thro' narrow paths, that wound
To ease the toil of the precipitous ground.
Gladly their footsteps clung
To the gnarled roots, that o'er their pathway sprung.
Cedars and chesnuts gazed,
As up they wrought — at their hard lot amazed,
While they their stores await,
Drawing their moisture fresh from heaven's gate ;
Then pour'd it forth in tears,
To see poor man thus slaving all his years ;
And to the toilsome band their shadows lent,
And stretch'd their brawny arms to smooth the steep ascent.
" No more the rugged way
Compels the strength and burden of the day.
From the extremes! isle,
Where yon bright sun now rests his parting smile,
Two strangers hither sought
The health those wooded hills have ever brought ;
They marked the toilsome steep — .
They marked the maidens wend their way, and weep ;
Then strove to raise,
The gushing stream, and the responsive praise.
They pierced the mountain's crown,
A fount besought — then poured the blessing down,
And bade the thirsty hail, their hearths beside,
The never-ceasing spring surcharge its golden tide.
564 Christopher in his Alcove. [April,
" Joy lights the clouded eye,
As now, beneath the hot and sweltering sky,
The maidens trip to draw the cooling stream —
And as the sun-rays gleam
On the full current, rushing from its cave —
Their brazen vessels bubbling with the wave —
They scarce can deem their hands the prize attain
Without a moment's pain.
And as adown the steep, steep side they gaze,
And mark the toilsome ways,
That ope'd the mossy well-head on the sight,
Whence toiled they up the height,
To scatter life and light,
They raise the hand, and bless the flowing tide,
And those, their stranger guests who thus their want supplied.
" Blest were the hands that bade the waters flow,
Life to preserve and jocund health bestow !
Yet dead yon living wave,
It hath no power to save !
The lip may quaff — man's sense awhile immerst
In the full flow, and still the soul be curst
With an undying thirst,
That will not yield, tho* o'er the mountain's side,
Founts of the depths beneath burst forth — a boundless tide :
Who of this drinks must thirst again, and die ;
For what of earth can the soul's wants supply ?
Then far more blest, to whom the work is given
To ope the wells of heaven,
And point the eye to the immortal Fount
In Zion's hallow'd mount —
Water of life — free gift of Christ to all,
Who simply on Him call !
O seek then for the living wave,
This — this alone hath power the life to save 1
Hardly you toiled to gain the mountain's side,
Seeking a day's supply,
Then, with the wave to die —
Ask, and the boon is your's — an everlasting tide !"
These are delightful stanzas — and by so many scribblers. But this Chris-
will win their way into every bosom. tian poet journeyed religiously among
We have long been sick of the Sim- the magnificencies of nature — " wor-
plon — and many a time and oft have shipped at the temple's inner shrine"—
we deplored the cutting of this road and drew thence a holier inspiration,
by Napoleon — travelled as it has been
THE'SIMPLON.
" Why hide thy head beneath the tempest's wing,
Gigantic Alp ? since man demands thine aid,
To rear a Sabbath- Temple to his King.
Whose arm of old thy deep foundations laid 1
He looks to thee, as up his footstep* wend,
Scaling thy heights, his vows with thine to blend;
For thou a tale may'st tell of sovereign sway —
Unveil thy clowdy brow, and hail the Subbath-day !
" A Temple wert thou framed, where God might stand,
To mark the movements of His creature man ;
Search where, to work his will, a willing hand,
Or willing eye, that righteous will to si'an.
But O ! how changed the scene ! since far and near,
Vile earth and viler men, once good, appear ;
1839.] Christopher in his Alcove. 565
His kingdom spurn'd who gives all being breath,
And holds with even hand the scales of Life and Death !
" A Temple wert thou still of life and light,
When rose the sun upon a drowned world-
There, on the brow of Ararat's rocky height,
He stood, and back the foaming billows hurl'd —
How shrank the greedy waves beneath his feet,
As on he came His ark- bound flock to meet!
Girdling their kingdom by the sandy shore,
He bade them yield their prey — and vex the world no mor«.
" But lo ! rebellion rules the stubborn land —
Again the mountain owns its Maker's tread !
He conies, He comes with thunder in His hand,
Darkness and tempest garlanding His head :
How start the myriads from their earth-born dream,
Up-gazing, where the crests of Sinai gleam,
While trumpet-blasts their rightful Lord proclaim,
Who will not gaze on sin — since Jealous is His name !
" What shakes the spirits of the smitten crowd ?
Not the far tokens of a coming God,
Shrouding his glory in the deep'ning cloud—
'Tis sense of guilt, that points his lightning's rod 1
In peace they saw Him not — they see Him now;
And haste to frame the long- forgotten vow;
' All that He saith, we do!' they trembling cry—
' We fear not man, but God ! — O shield us, or we die !'
" But who dares climb, with fearless foot, the mount,
Thus blazing 'neath unmitigated wrath,
With eye of Faith beholding Mercy's fount,
Through the dense clouds, that gather o'er his path ?
'Tis he, the friend of God, who marks on high
Love's rays of glory gild the frowning sky 1
O how should He, who guides their desert- way,
His erring flock forsake ? How should he save, to slay ?
" Since, then, oft glimpses of sabbatic rest
Hath he reveal'd upon the mountain's crown—
Oft bade the southern breeze wave Leban's crest,
And o'er his Zion shake the incense down —
Oft hath He fed, 'mid Carmel's groves, his flock-
Oft called the wave from Horeb's flinty rock —
While hills and dales with sabbath-blessings rang,
To still rude Ebal's curse, or Sinai's trumpet-clang.
" On P'sgah's brow he bade his prophet stand,
And toward the setting sun- beam bend his eye;
There, far and wide beneath, the promised land
Waved its full harvests "neath a summer sky-
Hard seem'd his lot to see, and yet not share,
The guerdon of his toil and fondest prayer ;
Yet to his desert woes an end how blest —
Heaven's .heritage of bliss, the Canaan of his rest !
*' And O ! more favour'd yet, where purest air,
And hallo w'd loneliness delight to dwell :
There raised the Prince of Peace his house of prayer,
There met the Father, whom he loved so well ;
High communings were there for man's lost race,
While Tabor's glories lit the Saviour's face —
And oft he fainted 'neath the noon-tide might—-
And oft his locks were gemm'd with dew-drops of the night.
566 Christopher in his Alcove.
" On mountain-lops he loved to pluck the fruit
Of life — to stay him in his course below,
While rajs, which from the heav'nly presence shoot,
Beani'd smiles of love to cheer his hour of woe !
There fought he his last fight with Sin and Death,
And Calvary received his parting breath ;
Well might the mountains chant his hymn of rest,
And shake their leafy brows, and rend their rocky breast !
" Thus, as they crowd around, we joyful hail
Their giant masses girt in robes of storm —
Tho' thro' the gathering gloom no sunbeam pale
Gleams, where dense clouds the sabbath dawn deform ;
And hoarse the torrents roar, while lauwifles high,
O'erhanging, glimmer in the driving sky —
We have a staff to tread the mountain side,
Smooth is each pass of dread with an Almighty guide.
" Then let us weave a sabbath- song e'en here,
'.Mid elements of unrest — for they shall be
The ministers of His fane, since He is near
The organ tubes of heavenly harmony !
We ask a song from each, for nought can raise
A voice in nature, but that voice is praise :
Shall man alone withhold his tribute lay ?
Come, let us join our strains, and hail the Sabbath day ! "
[April,
On the first reading, we confess
that our classical associations sustained
a somewhat rude shock from the fol-
lowing stern stanzas — but in another,
and we believe a higher mood, we
sympathised with the poet ;
" Soul-inflamed,
And strong in hatred of idolatry. "
VILLA. KEAI.E.
AT THE BASE OF THE STATUE OF MINERVA.
" Stern statue of an elder time !
When Wisdom flourished in her prime,
Without one Christian grace !
Here at thy foot I rest awhile ;
Not to bestow a votary's smile,
Or shade the adoring face.
",l may not bow me at thy shrine,
Or pay thee dues of corn and wine,
Though but a child of earth :
If 1 am dust — thou art but stone,
And while man raised thee on thy throne,
God gave my being birth.
" Thy brows, which laurels long have
worn,
Are clouded now, as though in scorn,
Since offering I have none ;
Yet care I nothing for thy frown,
But, weary, sit me patient down,
While shielded from the sun ;
" Nor grudge the service of thy shade ;
Better as now to lend thine aid,
Than stand a queen confess'd —
Full many hast thou made to toil, »
In search of evanescent spoil-
Now give the weary rest.
" Here men have raised a sylvan bower,
Where spreading tree, and glowing flower,
Perfume the stilly air—
Poets would style thee yet divine,
And haste to offer at thy shrine,
The sentimental prayer.
" But I, in sooth, have nought to pay j
For though a creature of the day,
I have a higher claim
To this small plot of wooded ground,
My Father's hand hath scattered round,
Than thou of mystic name !
True ! as thy lineaments I trace,
I could admire each nameless grace,
And weave thee many a lay :
But when I count the souls that now,
Erst bowed to thee, in hell must bow —
Black is thy brightest ray !
" I note within thy fixed eye,
A glance of flame that cannot die,
Though sealed in carved stone,
Since thou hast dared the god-head claim ;
For CHEAT and GLORIOUS is His name,
Who will no rival own !
" The sun shines bright, and tells each
day,
As on he speeds his jocund way,
The goodness of his God ;
1830.]
Christopher in his Afcove.
567
Hut when thine image meets his view,
He hurls thee, blacken'd in thy hue,
Prone on the dewy sod.
'• The trees, with arms entwining*, stand,
And open wide each leafy hand,
To shield thee from the stoim ;
Yet when the autumn winds are high,
On thy pure breast the dead leaves lie,
And stain thy pearl-white form.
" The breezes of the ambient air,
That now in Nature's gladness share,
Embalming thee with sweets,
When stirred by angry winds, awake,
O'er thy proud head their mantles shake,
And down the tempest beats.
." All things dishonour thee — in vain
Thou glancest round with stern disdain,
And bid'st the winds obey ;
When loosen'd on their wings of wrath
They joy to smite thee in their path,
And laugh at thine array.
" All things dishonour thee — save man,
Who, framed his Maker's works to scan,
And hear his Maker's word,
Bows "fore the shadow of a shade,
The image vain his hands have made,
And saith— Thou art my Lord !
" But I from this debasement flee,
Nor bend to stocks th' adoring knee,
Nor raise the votive lay :
I love to mark a beauteous stone—
But when it climbs its Maker's throne,
I loathe, and turn away 1"
THE GONG ! But as we are to have
no company to dinner but the Neo-
phyte, there is no need to dress ; so
let us regale ourselves for half.an-hour
on Stoddart's Angling Songs — some
of which are among the best of the
kind in our language. We must have
an article on the volume — but mean-
while merely incline our ear to listen
to the amiable enthusiast, while
" He murmurs near the hidden brooks,
A music sweeter than their own."
A I.OCH SCENE.
That calm clear water seldom wakes —
Calm when the forest pine-tree quakes —
Calm 'mid the very thunder.
'•' A ruin on its islet stands,
The walls with ivy pendent ;
Its grey stones crumbling underneath
Peer through the arbitrary wreath
Of that untrain'd ascendant.
" But glancing from the record rude
Of the remoter ages,
Behold the image of a stag
Timorous of the water-flag
Its eager thirst assuages !
" The stately antlers branching free
Above its forehead tragic —
The form of animated grace,
Are kindred to the quiet place,
A portion of its magic !
" And there the wild-duck, like a skiff,
Shoots from the reeds horrescent ;
Its yellow paddles in their wake
Leave on the solitary lake
The traces of a crescent.
" The peerly water-heron, too,
Where the faint sun-ray trembles,
Drooping its ever graceful head
Above the floating lily-bed,
A poet-bird resembles.
" And yonder, on the distant marge,
Behold an angler eager,
With taper wand and arm of skill
Under the shadow of a hill —
A solitary figure.
" But falling from the quiet air
The mist and shades together,
Glideth away the sad sweet show,
The mountain and the lake below —
The forest and the heather !
" A mountain shadow lieth on
Its mirror dark and massy ;
The red late sun-ray streams across
O er solemn wood and quiet moss,
O'er sward and hillock grassy.
" And night with dewy forehead bent
Holdeth her vigil solemn,
Till the red architect of morn
Upon a cloud-car slowly borne
Erects his amber column."
It tinges with a crimson light
The water sleeping under ;
Is that or this the more poetical and
picturesque composition ? —
568
Christopher in his Alcove.
[April,
I'VE ANGLED FAR, &C.
" I've angled far and angled wide,
On Fannu-h drear, by Luichart's side,
Across dark Conan's current;
Have haunted Beauly's silver stream,
Where, glimmering thro' the forest, Dream
Hangs its eternal torrent ;
Among the rocks of wild Maree,
O'er whose blue billow ever free
The daring eagles hover,
And where, at Glomach's ruffian steep,
The dark stream holds its anger'd leap,
Many a fathom over ;
U,
" Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing
Have you met the honey bee,
Circling upon rapid wing
Round the angler's trysting-tree ?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see ;
Are there bees at our willow tree ?
Birds and bees at the trysting tree ?
" Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing
Are the fountains gushing free ?
Is the south wind wandering
Through the angler's trysting tree ?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Is the wind at our willow tree ?
Wind or calm at the trysting tree ?
" By Lochy sad, and Laggan lake,
Where Spey uncoils his glittering snake
Among the hills of thunder ;
And I have swept my fatal fly,
Where swarthy Findhorn hurries by
The olden forest under :
" On Tummel's solitary bed,
And where wild Tilt and Garry wed
In Atholl's heathery valleys,
On Earn by green Duneira's bower,
Below Breadalbane s Tay-washed tower,
And Scone's once regal palace.
" There have I swept the slender line,
And where the broad Awe braves the brine,
Have watched the grey grilse gambol,
By nameless stream and tarn remote,
With light flies in the breeze afloat,
Holding my careless ramble.
VI.
" But dearer than all these to me
Is sylvan Tweed ; each tower and tree
That in its vale rejoices !
Dearer the streamlets one and all,
That blend with its Eolian brawl
Their own enamouring voices ! "
But all Mr Stoddart's angling
songs are genuine — which is more than
can be said for those called by him
Nautical and Patriotic.
THE ANGLER'S TRYSTIKG TREE.
" Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !
Meet the morn upon the lea ;
Are the emeralds of spring
On the angler's trysting-tree ?
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Are there buds on our willow tree ?
Buds and birds on the trysting tree ?
" Sing, sweet thrushes, up and sing
Wile us with a merry glee,
To the flowery haunts of spring —
To the angler's trysting tree.
Tell sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Are there flowers "neath our willow tree ?
Spring and flowers at the trysting tree ?"
O WAKEN, WINDS, WAKEN !
I.
"O waken, winds, waken! the waters are
still,
And silence and sunlight recline on the
hill;
The angler is watching beside the green
springs
For the low welcome sound of your wan-
dering wings !
" His rod is unwielded, his tackle unfreed,
And the withe- woven pannier lies flung on
the mead ;
He looks to the lake, through its fane of
green trees,
And sighs for the curl of the cool summer
breeze.
in.
" Calm-bound is the form of the water-
bird fair,
And the spear of the rush stands erect in
the air,
And the dragon- fly roams o'er the lily-bed
gay,
Where basks the bold pike in a sun-smitten
bay.
IV.
" O waken, winds, waken I wherever
asleep,
On cloud or dark mountain, or down in
the deep ;
The angler is watching, beside the greeu
springs,
For the low welcome sound of your wan-
dering wings!"
1839.]
Christopher in his Alcove.
569
THE ANGLER S GRAVE.
" Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green !
True tears make the grass to grow
And the grief of the good, I ween,
Is grateful to him that sleeps below.
Strew sweet flowers, free of blight —
Blossoms gathered in the dew :
Should they wither before night,
Flowers and blossoms bring anew.
" Sorrow, sorrow, speed away,
To our angler's quiet mound,
"With the old pilgrim, twilight grey,
Enter thou on the holy ground ;
There he sleeps, whose heart was twined
With wild stream and wandering burn,
Wooer of the western wind !
- Watcher of the April morn !
" Sorrow at the poor man's hearth !
Sorro w in the hall of pride !
Honour waits at the grave of worth,
And high and low stand side by side.
Brother angler ! slumber on :
Haply thou shall wave the wand,
When the tide of time is gone,
In some far and happy land."
Mr Stoddart— like all the rest of
our young poets — must needs try his
hand, too, at the sonnet — and here are
five — which, bating his departure from
the legitimate verse, are excellent—-
finely felt, and on the whole felicitously
composed.
" Through Luichart's lone expanse, daik
Conan flows,
Of moorland nature, as its tawny blood
Betokens, and insensibly the flood
Glides onward, while continuous hilts
enclose
The quiet lake ; at length, this soft repose —
The Syren bosom of the pastoral deeps
.It rudely spurns, and with terrific leaps
Descends into the valley. Oft I chose
In days by-gone the wild and wizard place,
Wherein to roam, and from the eddy's rout,
Lured with bewitching fly, the wary trout ;
This scene hath Time's hand shifted, and
its face
Reft of the life ; yet, picture-like, to me
It hangs within the Mind's dark gallery."
SONNET.
The fellow-anglers of my youthful days,
(Of past realities we form our dream),
1 watch them re-assembling by the stream,
And on the group with solemn musings
gaze;
For some are lost in life's bewildering
haze,
And some have left their sport and tak'n
to toil,
And some have faced the Ocean's wild
turmoil,
And some — a very few — their olden ways
By shining lake and river still pursue ;
Ah ! one 1 gaze on 'mid the fancied band,
Unlike the rest in years, in gait, in hue —
Uprisen from a dim and shadowy land-
Ask what loved phantom fixes my regard !
Yarrow's late pride, the Angler, Shepherd,
Bard 1 "
" Thomson ! this quiet stream the song
of thought
Oft In thy bosom reared, and as I steal
Along its banks, they to my gaze reveal
The pictures by thy truthful pencil
wrought ;
No rash intruder on the rural spot
I seem, but in that glowing fervour share,
Which on their page thy far-fam'd Seasons
bear;
Nor honour'd less is Nature, nor less
sought
Her still retreats, while with my wand I
fling
O'er Eden's pools the well-dissembling fly,
Creating in the Mind's fantastic eye
Castles of Indolence. The sudden spring
Of a huge trout assails their air-built
walls,
And to the untrench'd earth each hollow
fabric falls."
" Of all sweet waters and soul-stirring spots,
Remote from the contentions of mankind,
Oftest repictured by my musing thoughts,
Lies a bright lake among fair trees enshrined,
Yclept Loch Achilty. A heath-grown crest
Surnamed the Tor its eastern guardian seems,
While wild Craig Darroch rears its hill of
dreams
Emprisoning the clear wave on the west.
Bright mimic bays with weeping birches
fringed—
An islet ruin — solitary deer—-
And distant mountains by the sun-ray tinged
At the Mind's animating beck appear,
Nor unremembered in the wizard scene,
Against a moss-grown stone, entranc'd two
anglers lean."
SONNET.
" A meteor-bearing bark before me made
For Tweed's wide current from a wooded
bay,
And under midnight's cover, on its way
Cautiously glided. In its moving shade,
On either side the oar's infrequent blade
570
Christopher in his Alcove.
[April, 1839.
Dipped flagging, like the heron's wing-
pursued
At every touch by fiery snakes, that play'd
Around the vessel's track. A figure stood
Upon the prow with tall and threat'ning
spear,
Which suddenly into the stream he smote,
Methought of Charon and his gloomy boat —
Of the torch'd Furies and of Pluto drear
Burning the Stygian tide for lamprey vile,
That on his bride's dimm'd face, Hell might
behold a smile."
" To the monastic mind thy quiet shade
Kindly accords, bewild'ring Darnaway !
Here, those retiring Powers, whose her-
mit sway
The hordes of gross emotions hold obey'd
Reign indolent, on bank or flowr'y glade.
A deep unusual murmur meets my ear,
As if the oak's Briarean arms were sway'd
Far off in the weird wind. Like timorous
deer
Caught as he browses by the hunter's horn,
I stop perplex'd, half dreading the career
Of coming whirlwind. Then with con-
quer'd fear
Advancing softly through a screen of thorn,
From edge of horrid rock, abruptly bold,
Rushing through conduit vast, swart Find-
horn I behold."
CHRISTOPHER IN HIS CAVE — that
was among the mountains — the mag-
nificent mountains of our Highlands ;
CHRISTOPHER IN HIS ALCOVE — this is
amid the Fields — the beautiful fields
of our Lowlands — within the policy
of Buchanan Lodge — in the distance
" stately E dinburgh throned on Crags,' '
" In soft aerial perspective displayed ; "
nor is it easy, in the gloaming hour,
to distinguish the city from the clouds.
Here have we been a lifetime-like
day — aud shall another sun rise on the
Ephemeral ! The Neophyte has eva-
nished— and can it be that he was
with us but in the spirit ? Have we
been communing all the while with
a creation of our own fancy and our
own heart ? Yet the voice was fami-
liar to our ear, and had its own tones
appropriate to the character of the
visitant of our waking dreams.
May we say, in all humility, that
we have not " lost a day ? " Our word-
less thoughts were innumerable — and
not one of all the multitude without
its own feeling — that made it un-
wordable ; how few — in comparison—
those that might have been recorded.
Of them, alas ! some slipped away like
sand — some melted like dew-drops —
some danced off like sunbeams — some
stalked by like shadows. Yet may
we say, in all humility, that we have
not " lost a day." " O, mortal man,
that livest here by toil," — we join
with thee in a Hymn written for us
by Wordsworth.
THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMX.
Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim.
Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide :
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.
What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn till night ;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature's power.
Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of
rest,
Are with a ready heart bestow1 d
Upon the service of our God !
Why should we crave a hallo w'd
spot ?
An altar is in each man's cot,
A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.
Look up to Heaven ! — the industrious
sun
Already half his race hath run ;
He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal spirits may.
Lord ! since his rising in the east,
If we have faltered or transgress'd,
Guide, from thy love's abundant
source,
What yet remains of this day's course :
Help with thy grace, through life's
short day,
Our upward and our downward way ;
And glorify for us the west,
When we shall sink to final rest.
Edinburgh ; Printed by Ballantyne and Hityhes, l'<turs
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXXIII. MAY, 1839. VOL. XLV.
OUR DESCRIPTIVE POETRY.
No. I.
«• BARD of THE FLEECE, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright ; *
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of sunshine ' deep embayed
"With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled ;'
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced ;
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flocks shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste ;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill."
Gray, somewhere in his letters, the bookseller, was one day mention-
places Dyer at the head of the poets ing it to a critical visitor, with more
of his day ; and though the list enu- expectation of success than the other
merated contains no name above me- could easily admit. In the conversa-
diocrity, declares him to be a man of. tion the author's age was asked ; and
genius. Akenside, who Dr Johnson being reported as advanced in life,
allows, "on a poetical question, had a ' He will,' said the critic, 'be buried
right to be heard," said, " that he in woollen.' " " This witticism,"
would regulate his opinion of the saith Thomas Campbell, "has proba-
reigning taste by the fate of Dyer's bly been oftener repeated than any
Fleece ; for if that were ill-received, passage in the poem." Many a
he should not think it any longer rea- wretched witticism has had wide cur-
sonable to expect fame from excel- rency — and this is the most wretched
lence." The pleasant sonnet you have of the wretched — the little meaning
now read expresses the sentiments of it had at the time having been, some-
Wordsworth, how or other, we believe, dependent
" In 1757," quoth Dr Johnson, on the repeal of a tax affecting grave-
" Dyer published The Fleece, his chief clothes. The " critical visitor," like
poetical work ; of which I will not most of his tribe— must have been an
suppress a ludicrous story. Dodsley, ignorant fellow — for Grongar Hill had
VOL. XLV. NO, CCLXXXIII. 2 0
574
Our Descriptive Poetry.
[May,
been popular for thirty — and The
Ruins of Rome well known for twenty
years.
" Of The Fleece," saith Samuel,
" which never became popular, and is
now universally neglected, I can say
little that is likely to recall it to atten-
tion. The woolcomber and the poet
appear to me such discordant natures,
that an attempt to bring them together,
is to couple the serpent with the fowl.
When Dyer, whose mind was not
unpoetical, has done his utmost, by
interesting his reader in our native
commodity, by interposing rural ima-
gery, and incidental digressions, by
clothing small images in great words,
and by all the writer's art of delusion,
the meanness naturally adhering, and
the irreverence habitually annexed to
trade and manufacture, sink him un-
der insuperable oppression ; and the
disgust which blank verse, incumber-
ing and incumbered, superadds to an
unpleasing subject, soon repels the
reader, however willing to be pleased."
True that the poem has fallen into
oblivion, and, we fear, by its own
weight, for it is heavy, and frequently
liable to some of the objections here
urged ; but it is worthy of revival. As
to the miserable stuff about "the mean-
ness naturally adhering, and the irre-
verence habitually annexed to trade and
manufacture," it would be shameful
even to seek to refute it. A powerful
and original genius has done that by
blows on an anvil, heard far up Par-
nassus— aye, Ebenezer Elliot has illu-
minated the town of Sheffield with a
light that will outlive the blazing of
all her forges.
Grongar Hill is a very pleasing ef-
fusion, and we have half a mind to
recite some remembered passages —
though you might, perhaps, be tempted
to cry " pshaw !" We once heard a
poet say that the opening of the Plea-
sures of Hope was borrowed — we
fear he said stolen from it. That is
not true — begging his pardon. Dyer
writes :
" See on the mountain's northern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
"Where the evening gilds the tide ;
How close and small the hedges lie !
"What streaks of meadow cross the eye 1
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem.
So we mistake the future's face
Eyed through Hope's delusive glass ;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear ;
Still we tread the saa;e coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day."
The images here are natural and
impressive, but the expression is poor,
with the exception of
" As yon summits sofc and fair,
Clad in colours of the air ;''
and the contrast between the present
and the future is feebly and obscurely
set forth. How serenely beautiful the
opening of Campbell's immortal poem :
" At summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills
below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunlit summit mingles with the
sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling
near?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the
view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured
way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered
scene,
More pleasing seems than all the past has
been,
And every form that fancy can repair,
From dark oblivion glows divinely there."
Let poets be just to one another ;
but alas ! we fear it is among the
greatest that jealousy or some unan-
alysable feeling towards their living
compeers has ever prevailed.
Yes — we shall recite a bit of Gron--
gar :
Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below !
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of nature show,
In all the lines of heaven's bow :
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
" Old casiles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies !
Busking from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires !
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain heads !
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters in the broken rocks 1
" Below the trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful, in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ;
1839.]
Our Descriptive Poeiry.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love !
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies along and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye !
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,
His sides are clothed with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below ;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps :
So both a safety from the wind,
In mutual dependence find.
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad ;
And there the fox securely feeds ;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds ;
While ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow, —
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state ;
But transient is the smile of fate !
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave."
The Country Walk is almost
Grongar Hill over again, with varia-
tions— but it has some pictures more
touching to the heart.. It opens glad-
somely —
" I am resolved this charming day,
In the open field to stray ;
And have no roof above my head,
But that whereon the gods do tread.''
These lines are followed somewhat
unexpectedly by
" Before the yellow barn I see
A beautiful variety,
Of stiutting cocks, advancing stout,
And flirting empty chaff" about ;
Hens, ducks, and geese, and all their
brood,
And turkeys gabbling for their food,
While rustics thresh the wealthy floor,
And tempt them all to crowd the door."
As he saunters through the fields,
" Here finding pleasure after pain,
Sleeping I see a wearied swain,
While his full scrip lies open by
That does his healthy food supply."
We wonder what has wearied the
swain — the hour appears to be ante-
meridian— and were we to find any
swain on our farm asleep, with a full
scrip lying open by, we should infal-
libly fling it over the hedge, and rouse
him from his dream of " Dorothy
Draggle- Tail," with an antidote to
the rod of Morpheus.
By and by the poet seeks the shade,
and seems disposed to imitate the
swain :
" A little onward and I go
Into the shade that groves bestow ;
And on green moss I lay me down,
That o'er the root of oak has grown.
There all is silent, but some flood
That sweetly murmurs in the wood ;
And birds that warble in the sprays,
And charm even silence with their lays.''
We are easily pleased — but we call
that pretty poetry — and so does
Wordsworth. John Dyer does not
fall asleep — but, on the contrary, ad-
dresses silence with much animation.
" Oh powerful silence ! how you reigu
In the poet's busy brain !
His numerous thoughts obey the calls
Of the tuneful waterfalls ;
Like moles, whene'er the coast is clear,
They rise before thee without fear,
And range in parties here and there."
We have such love for moles that no
man can mention them amiss, and the
image is good ; but we are sorry to
find that we are not so well acquainted
with their habits as we had fondly
imagined ; for never has it been our
good fortune to meet with parties of
moles ranging here and there, not
even on the hills or holms of Yarrow,
where the dear, sweet, soft, sleek civil
engineers have, from time immemorial,
loved to pitch their pastoral tents, dis-
tinguishable but by finest eyes from
those of the fairies.
We love thee, " excellent and ami-
able Dyer" — as thou art rightly called
in a note to The Excursion — for this
picture : —
" I rouse me up, and on I rove,
'Tis more than time to leave the grove,
The sun descends, the evening breeze
Begins to whisper through the trees :
And as I leave the sylvan gloom,
As to the glare of day I come,
An old man's smoky nest I see,
Leaning on an aged tree ;
Whose willow walls and furzy brow,
A little garden sways below.
Through spreading beds of blooming green,
Matted with herbage sweet and chan,
A vein of water limps along,
And makes them ever green and young.
Here he puffs upon his spade,
And digs up cabbage in the shade ;
His tattered rngs aro sable brown,
His beard and hair are hoary grown ;
The dying sap descends apace,
And leaves a withered hand and face."
576
Oar Descriptive Potlrij.
[May,
The Rams of Rome ! " Enough
of Grongar and the shady dales of
winding Towy," exclaims the bard,
ambitions of a higher flight. And can
he soar? Why, if not like on eagle,
yet like one of the long-wings. He
sweeps, not unmajestically, round the
Seven Hills.
" Fallen, fallen, a silent heap ; her heroes
all
Sunk in their urns : behold the pride of
pomp,
The throne of nations fallen ; obscured in
dust,
Even yet majestical ; the solemn scene
Elates the soul, while now the rising sun
Flames on the ruins in the purer air
Towering aloft, upon the glittering plain,
Like broken rocks, a vast circumference ;
Rent palaces, crushed columns, rifled
moles,
Fanes roll'd on fanes, and tombs on buried
tombs."
Association of Ideas — by CON-
TRAST ! ! How is this ? A poet looks
round on the circuit of that ground,
•within which the Queen of the Earth
once drew the nations together to gaze
upon her majesty, and his spirit flies
back afar into the past, to remember
that which has disappeared. It is the
CONTRAST that determines the course
of his thoughts. It is the humiliation
and the dust of that which was the
diadem of the earth, that brings to
mind the sovereignty which is no
more. Yet, in this instance, as in
every other — mark ye — it is no utter
reversal of thought that takes place
in the mind — no total and utter sub-
stitution of that which before was
in it in no degree, for that which
fills it ; but in all, the mind treads the
course she has known. That which
now is seen, has links with that which
is conceived ; and it is by those links
already fixed, that the mind passes
from the object of present sense to the
object of conception. It is this link
of thought, which, if nothing were left
of Rome but the earth on which she
stood, would suffice to bring again the
vanished city before our wide imagi-
nation.
In respect of all analysis of the
instances of association by CONTRAST,
two things are to be had in view.
In the first place, there will be
found in all of them, as there is
reason to think, established links of
connexion in the thought, enabling the
mind to pass from one object to the
other : and by these the apparent mys-
tery of the principle of contrast is
done away. But, secondly, there will
still remain to be ascertained the cause
of the power of contrast. For those
links, though they make the transition
possible, do not make it necessary.
The power of Contrast, that which
impels the mind to the transition, is
a power of feeling: and the law by
which it acts, is a law of feeling alto-
gether. When we look upon the ruins
of Rome, the mere fact that this site,
and these broken walls and reft pil-
lars, are part of the city vainly
called eternal, would not necessarily
drive back our imagination with
vehemence to the conception of the
fallen greatness. But our mind came to
the spot full of a thousand mighty re-
collections of that ancient majesty :
We brought to the place where Rome
stood, the memory of Rome. There-
fore it was, that when we saw the
place, and the yet surviving relics, we
missed that which should have been
there. It was our exulting and tri-
umphant sympathy with that imperial
state that made us feel disappointed
when we came to look upon the spot,
as if Cicero or Scipio could have been
there, to see what was not of Rome.
It was this high and lofty feeling
quickened by the yet surviving relics
of majesty, that was wounded by the
sight of decay, dishonour, and desola-
tion. And We need seek no other law
to account for our grief, than that
which would fill with sorrow and
dismay the heart of a holy priest,
who, entering the temple of his God,
should find the altar sullied with pro-
fanation.
" Temples and towers, whose giant forms
unfold
The massive grandeur of the world of old !
Say, shall the pilgrim glance his heedless
eye,
O'er your huge wreck, and silently pass
by?
Nor 'mid the waste of ages pause to scan
The mighty relics of forgotten man ?
— No, for those walls, that crown the brow
of time,
Shall wake to musings mournfully sublime ;
And antique sculptures crumbling 'mid the
pile,
Delay his steps to linger for a while.
" In Egypt's dreary land, where dark-
ness spread,
Mysterious gloom, around Religion's head;
The land was sad beneath her awful wings,
And woful was her voice as Memnon's
mystic strings !
1839.]
Our Descriptive Poetry.
577
But Silence now and Desolation reign ;
O'er her fall'n altar and her desert fane,
Unseen she sits — no charmed voice she
hears,
But columns falling in the waste of years !
And the gaunt chacal from his l charnel-
home
Howl to the blast that shakes the tremb-
ling dome I
—Yet 'mid those temples desolate and
wild,
Where Solitude reigns round with Fear
her child,
The pale priest raised his voice when
bursting day
Shot tremblingly, from heaven, his earliest
ray ;
His earliest ray, that on the Harp- strings
shone,
And roused to life their vibratory tone !
Hark 1 the rapt strain, the choral virgins
raise,
While sounds mysterious hymn their Mem-
non's praise,
The sev'n bright colours wake the sev'n
Harp strings,
'Till thro' its thousand aisles the temple
rings !
" But haste thy step to plains where
Ruin's hand
Has pour'd on nature's green the billowy
sand :
Before thee lies th' interminable waste,
Fire in each gale and death in every
blast.
Ah ! who could think that even here a
trace
Remains of some exterminated race,
On whom the spirit of the desert came,
And swept alike the mansion and the
name ?
Yes, even here the camel's foot reveals
The mould'ring column that the sand con-
ceals ;
And the poor Arab, as he toils along,
Gazes in wonder, mindless of his song ;
Thinks of the fallen towers that lie be-
neath,
Unconscious of the Simoom's vengeful
breath.
" Oh ! blind to science, and to genius
lost,
Whose grovelling soul no kindling warmth
could boast ;
When she who sway'd the sons of earth
before,
Bursts on his sight by yellow Tiber's shore;
Within whose walls repose the illustrious
dead,
The bard who chaunted, and the chief
who bled.
Long is the grass that rustles o'er their
tomb !
— Yet shall thy ruins awe, immortal Rome,
Though the keen raven from the stormy
north,
Thy eagle crush'd, in wrath careering
forth;
And he the fierce-eyed Hun — the scourge
of God!
Broke with his sinewy arm thine iron rod,
That, o'er the nations held with giant sway,
Had swept their honours and their kings
away.—
" Still dome on dome the stranger oyo
beguiles,
Towers, battlements, a wilderness of piles.
And still the capitol its crested form
Sublimely rears — a giant in the storm—-
The look is steadfast, for the mental eye
Sees the firm band that made ambition die ;
Sees Caesar fall, and, where the tyrant
stood,
The sword of Brutus crimson'd with his
blood !
Still 'mid the forum Cicero seems to roll
The flood of eloquence that whelms the
soul,
While veterans round lean silent on the
sword —
The lords of earth can tremble at a word !
" What tho' thro' every breach that
time has made,
The blast moans hollow, and the collonade
Scarce shelters ev'n the weeds that flourish
in its shade !
What tho' the wolf has howl'd, the tem-
pest roar'd,
In halls and courts where gods have been
adored !
Yet memory's touch each faded pile
renews ;
Again they bloom in renovated hues,
And Poggio traces 'mid the mass of dust,
The temple, portico, and trophied bust.
' How fallen ! how changed ! the world's
delight and shame,
The vin.e luxuriates in the path of fame 1
The bat flies fitful thro' her god's abode,
And reptiles nestle where the hero trode !
Drear are her tow'rs that shone amid tho
skips !
And prone on earth the mighty giantlies.'''
That poetry is not Dyer's — it is
JOHN FINLAY'S, who, many years ago,
died in youth.
Dyer ascends the Palatine Hill, and
shows himself a poet.
" Now the brow
We gain enraptured ; beauteously distinct
The numerous porticos and domes upswell,
With obelisks and columns interposed,
And pine, and fir, and oak ; so fair a scone
Sees not the dervise from the spiral tomb
Of ancient Chammos, while his eye beholds
Proud Memphis' reliques o'er th' Egyp-
tian plain :
578
Our Descriptive Poetry.
[May,
Nor hoary hermit from Hymettus' brow,
Though graceful Athens in the vale be-
neath
Along the windings of the Muse's stream,
Lucid Ilvssus', weeps her silent schools,
And groves, unvisited by bard or sage.
Amid the towery ruins, huge, supreme,
Th' enormous amphitheatre behold —
Mountainous pile ! o'er whose capacious
womb
Pours the broad firmament its varied
light ;
While from the central floor the seats
ascend,
Round above round, slow-widening to the
verge,
A circuit vast and high ; nor less had
held
Imperial Rome, and her attendant realms,
When drunk with rule she will'd the fierce
delight,
And op'd the gloomy caverns, whence out-
rush'd,
Before the innumerable shouting crowd,
The fiery, madded, tyrants of the wilds,
Lions and tigers, wolves and elephants,
And desperate men, more fell. Abhorr'd
intent !
By frequent converse with familiar death,
To kindle brutal daring apt for war ;
To lock the breast, and steel th' obdurate
heart
Amid the piercing cries of sore distress
Impenetrable. — But away thine eye ;
Behold you steepy cliff; the modern pile
Perchance may now delight, while that,
revered
In ancient days, the page alone declares,
Or narrow coin through dim cerulean
rust.
The fane was Jove's, its spacious golden
roof
O'er thick surrounding temples beaming
wide,
Appear'd, as when above the morning hills
Half the round Sun ascends ; and tower'd
aloft,
Sustain'd by columns huge, innumerous
As cedars proud on Canaan's verdant
heights
Darkening their idols, when Astarte lured
Too-prosperous Israel from his living
strength."
We are getting hoarse — so take
you up the volume— thirteenth of
Chalmers — and give us sonorously
the fine lines about the ancient roads :
" And see from every gate those ancient
roads
With tombs high verged, the solemn paths
of Fame ;
Deserve they not regard? O'er whose
broad flints
"Such crowds have roll'd, so many storms
of war
So many pomps ; so many wondering
realms :
Yet still through mountains pierced, o'er
valleys raised,
They stretch their pavements. Lo, the
fane of Peace,
Built by that prince who to the trust of
power
Was honest, the delight of human-kind:
Three nodding aisles remaining ; the rest
a heap
Of band and weeds ; her shrines, her ra-
diant roofs,
And columns proud, that from her spa-
cious floor,
As from 9, shining sea, majestic rose
A hundred foot aloft, like stately beech
Around the brim of Dion's glassy lake,
Charming the mimic painter : on the walls
Hung Salem's sacred spoils : the golden
board,
And golden trumpets, now conceal'd, en-
tomb'd
By the sunk roof. — O'er which in distant
view
Th' Etruscan mountains swell, with ruins
crown'd
Of ancient towns ; and blue Soracte spires,
Wrapping his sides in tempests. East-
ward hence,
Nigh where the Cestian pyramid divides
The mouldering wall, beyond yon fabiic
huge,
Whose dust the solemn antiquarian turns,
And thence, in broken sculptures cast
abroad,
Like Sibyl's leaves, collects the builder's
name,
Rejoiced: and the green medals frequent
found,
Doom Caracalla to perpetual fame.
The stately pines, that spread their bran-
ches wide
In the dun ruins of its ample halls,
Appear but tufts."
Good. Give us the volume — for
a concluding skreed from the Ruins
of Rome — a noble address to li-
berty :—
" Inestimable good ! who giv'st us Truth,
Whose hand upleads to light — divinest
Truth,
Array'd in every charm : whose hand
benign
Teaches unwearied Toil to clothe the
fields,
And on his various fruits inscribes the
name
Of Property : O nobly hail'd of old
By thy majestic daughters, Judah fair,
And Tyrus and Sidonia, lovely nymphs,
And Libya bright, and all-enchanting
Greece,
Whose numerous (owns and isles, and
peopled seas,
Our Descriptive Poetry.
579
Rejoiced around her lyre ; th' heroic note
(Smit with sublime delight) Ausonia
caught,
And plann'd imperial Rome. Thy hand
benign
Rear'd up her towery battlerAsnts in
strength ;
Bent her wide bridges o'er the swelling
stream
Of Tuscan Tiber ; thine those solemn
domes
Devoted to the voice of humble prayer !
And thine those piles undeck'd, capacious,
vast,
In days of dearth where tender Charity
Dispensed her timely succours to the poor.
Thine too those musically falling founts,
To slake the clammy lip ; adown the fall,
Musical ever ; while from yon blue hills,
Dim in the clouds, the radiant aqueducts
Turn their innumerable arches o'er
The spacious desert, brightening in the
sun,
Proud and more proud in their august
approach :
High o'er irriguous vales and woods and
towns,
Glide the soft whispering waters in the
wind,
And here united pour their silver streams
Among the fissured rocks, in murmuring
falls,
Musical ever. These thy beauteous works :
And what beside felicity could tell
Of human benefit: more late the rest ;
At various times their turrets chanced to
rise,
When impious Tyranny vouchsafed to
smile."
Probably not one in a hundred of
our readers ever saw a line of Dyer's
— except bis Grongar Hill— and thou-
sands will thank us for our specimens
— preferring them, we hope, to our
own effusions, of which enough is as
good as a feast. It was so with our
article on Warton and Young, and
even Collins ; and we have treasures
inexhaustible to draw from — open
indeed to all, but familiar, compara-
tively, to how few, in this age of in-
tellect ! We care not for originality
in our articles. We desire but to
delight and to instruct all our fellow-
"" creatures, who have the happiness of
dwelling within our sphere.
And now you are wishful to hear
more about Dyer's chief poem — The
Fleece. But we perceive that we
could not give you any thing like a
complete idea of it, under twenty
pages, at least, of extract and com-
ment ; and therefore you must wait
till midsummer, which, in Scotland, is
not likely to arrive for a good many
months. But that you may know what
a pleasant repast is awaiting you, we
present you from it with a " SHEPP-
SHEARING FEAST AND MERRIMENTS
ON THE BANKS OF THE SEVERN,"
which, we think you will say, ranks
Dyer among the best of the pastoral
poets of any age or country, and would
have gladdened the heart of our own
Thomson — he died ten years before
its publication — and of ourown Burns,
who, as far as we remember, makes
no mention of The Fleece.
" At shearing-time, along the lively vales,
Rural festivities are often heard :
Beneath each blooming arbour all is joy
And lusty merriment : while on the grass
The mingled youth in gaudy circles sport,
We think the golden age again return'd,
And all the fabled Dryades in dance.
Leering, they boupd along , with laughing
air,
To the shrill pipe and deep remurmuring
chords
Of th' ancient harp, or tabor's hollow
sound.
" While th' old apart, upon a bank re-
clined,
Attend the tuneful carol, softly mixt
With every murmur of the sliding wave,
And every warble of the feather'd choir
Music of paradise ! which still is heard
When the heart listens ; still the views
appear
Of the first happy garden, when content •
To Nature's flowery scenes directs the
sight.
Yet we abandon those Elysian walRs,
Then idly for the lost delight repine :
As greedy mariners, whose desperate sails
Skim o'er the billows of the foaming flood,
Fancy they see the lessening shores retire,
And sigh a farewell to the sinking hills.
" Could I recall these notes, which once
the Muse
Heard at a shearing, near the woody
sides
Of blue-topp'd Wreakin ! Yet the carols
sweet,
Through the deep maze of the memorial
cell,
Faintly remurmur. First arose in song
Hoar-headed Damon, venerable swain,
The soothest shepherd of the flowery vale :
" ' This is no vulgar scene : no palace
roof
Was e'er so lofty, nor so nobly rise
Their polish 'd pillars, as these aged oaks,
Which o'er our fleecy wealth and harmless
sports,
Thus have expanded wide their sheltering
580
Thrice told an hundred summers. Sweet
content,
Ye gentle shepherds, pillow us at night.'
" ' Yes, tuneful Damon, for our cares are
short,
Rising and falling with the cheerful day,'
Colin replied ; ' and pleasing weariness
Soon our unaching heads to sleep inclines.
Is it in cities so ? where, poets tell,
The cries of sorrow sadden all the streets,
And the diseases of intemperate wealth.
Alas, that any ills from wealth should rise !'
" ' May the sweet nightingale on yonder
spray ;
May this clear stream, these lawns, these
snow-white lambs
Which, with a pretty innocence of look,
Skip on the green, and race in little troops ;
May that great lamp, which sinks behind
the hills,
And streams around variety of lights,
Recall them erring ; this is Damon's wish.'
" ' Huge Breadens' stony summit once I
climb* d —
After a kidling : Damon, what a scene !
What various views unnumber'd spread
beneath !—
Woods, towers, vales, caves, dells, cliffs,
and torrent floods ;
And here and there, between the spiry
rocks,
The broad flat sea. Far nobler prospects
these,
Than gardens black with smoke in dusty
towns.
Where stenchy vapours often blot the sun ;
Yet, flying from his quiet, thither crowds
Each greedy wretch, for tardy-rising wealth,
Which comes too late ; that courts the
taste in vain,
Or nauseates with distempers. Yes, ye
rich,
Still, still be rich, if thus ye fashion life ;
And piping, careless, silly shepherds we,
We silly shepherds, all intent to feed
Our snowy flocks, and wind the sleeky
fleece.'
" ' Deem not, howe'er, our occupation
mean,'
Damon replied, ' while the Supreme ac-
counts
Well of the faithful shepherd, rank'd alike
With king and priest ; they also shep-
herds are ;
For so th' All- seeing styles them, to re-
mind
Elated man, forgetful of his charge.'
" ' But haste, begin the rites ; see purple
eve
Stretches her shadows ; all ye nymphs and
swains,
Our Descriptive Poetry.
[May,
Hither assemble. Pleased with honours
due,
Sabrina, guardian of the crystal flood,
Shall bless our cares, when she, by moon-
light clear,
Skims o'er the dales, and eyes our sleep-
ing folds ;
Or in hoar caves around Plynlymmon's
brow,
Where precious minerals dart their purple
gleams,
Among her sisters she reclines ; the loved
Vaga, profuse of graces, Ryddol, rough,
Blithe Ystwith, and Clevedoc, swift of foot;
And mingles various seeds of flowers and
herbs,
In the divided torrents, ere they burst
Through the dark clouds, and down the
mountain roll.
Nor taint-worm shall infest the yeaning
herds,
Nor penny- grass,nor spearwoi t's poisonous
leaf.'
" He said : with light fantastic toe the
nymphs
Thither assembled, thither every swain ;
And o'er the dimpled stream a thousand
flowers,
Pale lilies, roses, violets, and pinks,
Mix'd with the greens of burnet, mint, and
thyme,
And trefoil, sprinkled with their sportive
" Such custom holds along th' irriguous
vales,
From Wreakin's brow to rocky Dolvoryn,
Sabrina's early haunt, ere yet she fled
The search of Guendolen, her step-dame
proud,
With envious hate enraged. The jolly
cheer
Spread on a mossy bank, unt'ouch'd
abides,
Till cease the rites : and now the mossy
bank
Is gaily circled, and the jolly cheer
Dispersed in copious measure ; early fruits,
And those of frugal store, in husk or
rhind ;
Steep'd grain, and curdled milk, with
dulcet cream
Soft temper'd, in full merriment they quaff
And cast about their gibes : and some
apace
Whistle to roundelays; their little ones
Look on delighted ; while the mountain-
woods,
And winding valleys, with the various notes
Of pipe, sheep, kine, and birds, and
liquid brooks,
Unite their echoes ; near at hand, the wide
Majestic wave of Severn slowly rolls
Along the deep-divided glebe ; the flood
And trading bark with low-contracted sail,
1839.]
Our Descriptive Poetry.
Linger among the roeds and copsy banks
To listen, and to view the joyous scene."
The judicious will see that Dyer's
blank verse is excellent; and indeed
we have sometimes thought tlut it
has been studied by Wordsworth.
Only eight o'clock — so 'tis an hour
till breakfast. We rose at five, my
lad, and have earned our eggs.
Our friends say we wield the wand
of a magician, but no such wand have
we j — Imagination and genius belong
to us by our birthright, as to our
brethren ; for we all walk — poets,
though we know it not — in the midst
of our own creations, more wondrous
far when our souls are broad awake,
than when struggling with dreams in
the world of sleep. Therefore, let those
whom the world calls poets beware of
pride. " Blessings be with them and
eternal praise !" but let them remem-
ber that passions and affections, com-
mon to us all, have illuminated before
their eyes the mysterious book of life.
No magician's wand have we, nor are
we a magician. So let us stroll toge-
ther — you and we — through this
happy garden, and we shall see and
hear poetry brightening and breathing
around, yet all the while emanation
and whisper of our own hearts. It
matters not who speaks, if there be
intercommunion of spirits ; but youth
is reverent, and age is garrulous, and
never yet didst thou interrupt mono-
logue of ours, pleased still to let the
old man know he had all the while
been listened to, by a pleasant voice
making music between the pauses, and
feeding his flow of thought, as now
and then a spring shower dropping
through the sunshineenlivens a stream.
" But who can paint
Like Nature ? Can imagination boast, .
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ?
Or can it mix them with that matchless
skill,
And lose them in each other, as appears
In every bud that blows ?"
It can — for it mirrors all that God
was pleased to call into being ; and
lovelier is Nature's self in the reflec-
tion— there all spiritualized !
Who is the greatest of descriptive
poets? Let us say, THE AUTHOR OF
THE " SEASONS." Well, then, if not
the greatest, surely the most delight-
ful ; for what other poet's heart doth
so perpetually overflow with love
of our mighty mother, the Earth ?
No need of that poem among " Our
Pocket Companions" — we have it all
581
by heart. And often, when our soul
loses for a time its own creative ener-
gy— and nature, unobedient to our
lamenting voice, lies far away in dark-
ness, even as if she were not, and all
her very images, too, were dead — in
this poem she rises again into life, and
again we feel that we are her son.
" From the moist meadow to the wither'd
hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And swells and deepens ; and the juicy
groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands display 'd
In full luxuriance to the sighing gales ;
Where the deer rustle through the twining
brake,
And the birds sing conceal'd.'1
Few symptoms yet of Spring. One
could almost fear that she had for-
gotten our garden, or worse, had
looked in upon it, and then passed by,
leaving these feeble blossoms to wither.
But the poet's promise assures us of
her return. Heaven bless her ! — She
is here—
" At once array 'd
In all the colours of the flushing year,
By Nature's swift and secret-working hand,
THE GARDEN GLOWS, and fills the liberal air
With lavish fragrance, while the promised
fruit
Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived,
Within its crimson folds."
Just so, as in thine infant eyes —
son of our soul's brother — we saw the
promise of the genius now known by
its immortal fruits.
There are many beautiful passages
in the poets about rain ; but who ever
sang its advent so passionately as in
these strains : —
" The effusive south
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of
heavei.
Breathes the big clouds, with vernal
showers distent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether ; but by swift degrees,
In heaps on heaps, the darkling vapour
sails
Along the loaded sky, and mingled deep,
Sits on the horizon round a settled
gloom :
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy,
The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the
breeze
Into a perfect calm, that not a breath
Is heard to quiver through the closing
woods,
Our Descriptive Poetry.
582
Or rustling, turn the many trembling
leaves
Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, dif-
fused
In glassy breadth, run through delusive
[May,
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and
flocks
Dro \> the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye
The falling verdure !"
All that follows is, you know, as
good — better it cannot be — till we
come to the close, the perfection of
poetry, and then sally out into the
shower, and join the hymn of earth to
heaven.
The stealing shower is scarce to patter
heard,
By such as wander through the forest
walks,
Beneath the umbrageous multitude of
leaves.
But who can hold the shade while heaven
descends
In universal bounty, shedding herbs,
And fruits, and flowers, on nature's ample
lap?
Swift fancy fired anticipates their growth ;
And while the milky nutriment distils,
Beholds the kindling country colour round."
Thomson, they say, was too fond
of epithets. Not he indeed. Strike
out one of the many there — and your
sconce will feel the crutch. A poet less
conversant with nature would have
feared to say, "sits on the horizon
round a settled gloom," or rather, he
•would not have seen or thought it was
a settled gloom; and there fore, he could
not have said —
" but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy,
The wish of nature,''
Leigh Hunt — most cordial of poet
critics— somewhere finely speaks of
that ghastly line in a poem of Keates* :
" Riding to Florence with the murder'd
man ;"
that is, the man about to be murdered
— imagination conceiving as one, doom
and death. Equally' great are the
words —
" Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploiing,
eye
The falling verdure."
The verdure is seen in the shower
—to be the very shower — by the poet
at least — perhaps by the cattle, in their
thirsty hunger, forgetful of the brown
ground, and swallowing the dropping
herbage. The birds had not been so
sorely distressed by the drought as the
beasts, and therefore the poet speaks
of them, not as relieved from misery,
but as visited with gladness —
" Hush'd in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with
oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off,
And wait the approaching sign, to strike
at once
Into the general choir.'
Then, and not till then, the humane
poet bethinks him of the insensate
earth — insensate not — for beast and
bird being satisfied, and lowing and
singing in their gratitude, so do the
plades of their habitation yearn for the
blessing —
" Even mountains, vales, •
And forests, seem impatient to demand
The promised sweetness."
The religious Poet then speaks for
his kind — and says gloriously —
" Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude."
In that mood he is justified to feast
his fancy with images of the beauty
as well as the bounty of nature — and
genius in one line, has concentrated
them all —
" Behold the kindling country colour
round."
'Tis "an a' day's rain" — and "the
well showered earth is deep-enriched
•with vegetable life." And what kind
of an evening ? We have seen many
such — and every succeeding one more
beautiful — more glorious — more bless-
ed than another — because of these
words in -which the beauty and the
glory of one and all are enshrined,
" Full in the western sky, the downward sun
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes
Th' illumined mountain, through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a golden mist
Far smoking o'er th' interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright and green, the landscape laughs around,
1839.] Our Descriptive Poetry. 583
Full swell the woods ; their very music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks
Increased, the distant bleating of the hills,
And hollow lows responsive from the vales,
Whence, blending all, the sweeten'd zephyr springs.
Mean-time, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
Shoots up immense, and every hue unfolds
In fair proportion, running through the red
To where the violet fades into the sky."
You say we recite poetry like a florid — but we must not criticize single
poet. We think so too — and not like and separate passages — we ought
a player. Curse elocution. Every never to forget the character of the
shade of feeling should have its shade poet's genius and his inspirations. He
of sound — every pause its silence, luxuriates — he revels — he wantons, at
But these must all come and go, un- once with an imaginative and a sehsu-
taught, unbidden, from the heart and ous delight in nature,
from the soul. Then, indeed, and At times his style is as simple as
not till then, can words be said to be one could wish ; and we defy you to
set to music — to a celestial sing song . improve the expression of the many
It may be true that sometimes the deep and delightful feelings in these
style of The Seasons is somewhat too exquisite lines.
" Thus pass the temperate hours ; but when the Sun
Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds,
Ev'n shooting listless languor through the deeps ;
Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the shade :
Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash.
Hung o'er the steep ; whence, borne on liquid wing,
The sounding culver shoots ; or where the hawk,
High, in the beetling cliff, his aery builds.
There let the classic page the fancy lead
Through rural scenes ! such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of song.
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye :
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,
Confused, of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wandering images of things,
Soothe every gust of passion into peace ;
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind."
Shame on you if you have not — as we have — these lines by heart.
" Still let me pierce into the midnight depth
Of yonder grove, of wildest, largest growth :
That, forming high in air a woodland quire,
Nods o'er the mount beneath. At every step,
Solemn and slow, the shadows blacker fall,
And all is awful listening gloom around.
" These are the haunts of Meditation, these
The scenes where ancient bards th" inspiring breath,
Ecstatic, felt ; and, from this world retired,
Conversed with angels and immortal forms,
On gracious errands bent : to save the fall
Of Virtue struggling on the brink of Vice ;
In waking whispers, and repeated dreams,
To hint pure thought, and warn the favour'd soul
For future trials fated to prepare :
To prompt the poet, who devoted gives
584 Our Descriptive Poetry. [May,
Hi3 Muse to better themes ; to soothe the pangs
Of dying worth, and from the patriot's breast
(Backward to mingle in detested war,
But foremost when engaged) to turn the death ;
And numberless such offices of love
Daily, and nightly, zealous to perform.
" Shook sudden from the bosom of the sky,
A thousand shapes, or glide athwart the dusk,
Or stalk majestic on. Deep-roused, I feel
A sacred terror, a severe delight,
Creep through my mortal frame ; and thus, methinks,
A voice, than human more, th" abstracted ear
Of fancy strikes. ' Be not of us afraid,
Poor kindred man ! thy fellow creatures, we
From the same Parent- Power our beings drew,
The same our Lord, and laws, and great pursuit,
Once some of us, like thee, through stormy life,
Toil'd, tempest-beaten, ere we could attain
This holy calm, this harmony of mind,
Where purity and peace immingle charms,
Then fear not us ; but with responsive song,
Amid these dim recesses, undisturb'd,
By noisy folly and discordant vice,
Of Nature sing with us, and Nature's God
Here frequent, at the visionary hour,
When musing midnight reigns, or silent noon,
Angelic harps are in full concert heard ;
And voices chanting from the wood-crown'd hill,
The deepening dale, or inmost sylvan glade ;
A privilege bestow'd by us, alone,
On Contemplation, or the hallow'd ear
Of poet, swelling to seraphic strain.' "
We said to thee an hour ago — them, in their perfection, will sad-
that youth is reverent, and age gar- den thy heart. In their perfection !
rulous — but for garrulous read elo- Ay — verily, even so — for the tender-
quent — else how couldst thou and ness of spring will then be blending
thy like often come to listen — more with the boldness of summer, — while
than willingly — to our continuous something will still be wanting to the
discourse ? To-morrow thou art to strength of the year. And the joy of
leave town for a month — and thou the soul is brightest in the fulness of
dost well ; for Scotland is the most hope, when the future is almost in-
beautiful land in all the world in the stant as the present, and the present
Season of Spring. Why ? Because tinged with a gentle rainbow-like re-
here Spring pays her earliest visits semblance of the past,
stealthily, and as if in fear of her surly Would we were to be thy guide !
sire, whom yet she loves, and takes There — let us lean our left shoulder
care to show him that she means not on thine — our right on THE CRUTCH.
by her primroses to hint it is time for The time will come when thou wilt
him to die. For well she knows that — be ! O Son of the Morning ! even like
though like a kind but stern father, unto the shadow by thy side — Chris-
confident in her affections — sometimes topher North. No chamois hunter
he frowns almost with the same feeling fleeter than once was he — Mont Blanc,
usually expressed by smiles ; yet when speaks he not the truth ? If he be a
the world, wearied of him at last as he vain-glorious boaster, give him the lie
is of the world, shall wish he were Ben-y-Glow and thy Brotherhood —
dead, and his grey head laid in the who heard our shouts — mixed with the
mould, his last thoughts will be of her red deer's belling — tossed back in ex-
and of her happiness, rising by the ultation by Echo, the omnipresent Au-
law of nature from his dust. ditress on youth's golden hills.
Art thou going to the Highlands ? The world is all before thee — the
If so, 'tis well, — for in another week world is all behind us ; hope is thy
they will be beginning to be beautiful angel — memory is ours ; but both are
*-and by the end of May to leave considerate spirits— and they bid the
1831).]
Our Descriptive Poetry.
585
young and the old, the joyful and the
sorrowful — -as thus we lean on one
another — think that time is but the
threshold of eternity — and that the
shadow may survive the light, on "this
dim spot men call earth ! "
The central sun art thou of thine
own bright world! Ours is broken
into fragments — and we are on the
edge of an abyss. But once we were
like thee, a victorious EGO— and il-
lumined nature all round her farthest
horizon with the bliss of our own soul.
Fear, awe, and superstition, were
ministers to our imagination among the
midnight mountains — in the dreadful
blank we worshipped the thunder and
adored the cataract — but joy was then
our element — as now, tis thine — and
spite of such visitations that made us
quake and tremble, fresh was our
spirit as a rising star, and strong as a
flowing sea.
Now mind — you must write a Poem
— THE HIGHLANDS. Not for a good
many years to come — but we hope to
see some of it before we die — for such
a Poem as it will be, must compose
itself of fragments, — and finally settle
down, beneath the united spirit of
beauty and grandeur, into a whole,
magnificent as its subject — and thou
shalt be one of the Immortals.
Could such a Poem — think ye — be
written in Prose ? You cannot bring
yourself to say so — thinking perhaps
of Macpherson's Ossian. Is it not
poetry ? Wordsworth says it is not —
but Christopher North says it is —
•with all reverence for the King. Let
its antiquity be given up — let such a
state of society as is therein described
be declared impossible — let all the
inconsistencies and violations of nature
ever charged against it be acknow-
ledged— let all its glaring plagiarisms
from poetry of modern date inspire
what derision they may — and far worse
the perpetual repetition of its own
imbecilities and inanities, wearyingone
down even to disgust and anger j — yet,
in spite of all, are we not made to feel,
not only that we are among the moun-
tains, but to forget that there is any
other world in existence, save that
which glooms and glimmers, and wails
and raves around us in mists and clouds,
and storms, and snows — full of lakes
and rivers, sea-intersected and sea-sur-
rounded, with a sky as troublous as
the earth— yet both at times visited
with a mournful beauty that sinks
strangely into the soul— while the sha-
dowy life depictured there eludes not
our human sympathies ; nor yet, aerial
though they be — so sweet and sad are
their voices — do there float by as un-
beloved, unpitied, or unhonoured —
single, or in bands — the ghosts of the
brave and beautiful ; when the few
stars are dim, and the moon is felt,
not seen, to be yielding what faint light
there may be in the skies.
The Blockheads, meaning to be se-
vere, used to say that our style was
Ossianic — but getting none to listen
to their nonsense, they grew ashamed
of themselves, and have for years been
gazing at us in mute astonishment,
with their mouths wide open like so
many barn-doors. Nay, an occasional
sumph is seen assuming, what he sup-
poses to be our Ossianic ; and in the
Tims Tartan absolutely exposing his
hurdles to the derision of the elements,
during some piteous Holiday — among
the Mountains — a spectacle more than
sufficient, one would think, had it a
single particle of feeling in its whole
composition, to soften the heart of a
rock — to melt Aberdeen granite into
tears.
Never in all our blessed lives got
we such a fright as on coming sud-
denly, one day last summer, near the
Fall of Foyers, upon such an Appear-
ance of Ourselves. We happened to
have in our hand Sir David's delight-
ful volume, " Natural Magic ;" and,
after the first flurry, taking a philoso-
phical view of the Phenomenon, we
came to the conclusion that it was our
SIMULACRUM reflected and refracted —
heaven only knew how— from some
sympathetic and admiring Cloud who
had caught a glimpse of Us as he hung
on the distant horizon. At that mo-
ment his Evil Genius whispered to him
—"handle the Crutch I" and we saw he
was an impostor. Not, by a score, the
first fellow he, that has had the infatua-
tion to personate Christopher North !
But he was the first we had caught in
the fact— -face to face— and, on the
spur of the moment, assuredly we had
tarred and feathered him, had the ma-
terials been at hand. While we were
pondering on what might be a fitting
punishment for the Scotch Cockney —
a horrid cross — up came " the boy icith
his carpet-bag" — a sight unendurable
by our idiosyncracy — and -\ve " re-
coiled into
" To-morrow for severer thought, but now
For breakfast — and keep holiday to-day.
588
Fareicell to England.
[May,
FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.
BY LOUIS LE CHEMINANT.
SIR, Dover,
TEN years have passed since I last
wrote and complained to you about
all the boxes that annoyed me so much
when I had first commenced to learn
your language. Since that time I
have studied it grammatically, and
read a very great number of your
best authors at my house near Tours,
where I also made some acquaintance
with your countryfolks, who did not
do me much good in improving my
conversation, as they are all so foud
of pretension to speak French, which
is ridiculous. Also experience taught
menot to be too careless to form inti-
macy, for too many of your compa-
triots that come to stop long in one
place, are not of your best sort, but
have got a something generally wrong
about their conduct or affairs. So I
have not practised so much conversa-
tion as I desired, which I confess to
you, in case there may be some little
error of prosody in the lines I send to
say " Farewell ! " now I am leaving
your country, after an agreeable tour
of a few months. You are so gener-
ous, and so much au fait in poetry,
that if I have made a mistake or two
in quantity, you will, I am sure, cor-
rect them. Yours is an agreeable
tongue to write poetry in, as you
have such an abundance of similar
terminations to your different words,
and you will perceive that I have been
very careful to use none but legitimate
rhymes.
I could have said something about
the coronation, and your mobs huzza-
ing old Soult, but others have talked
enough about that, and I don't like
what you call " humbug ;" and as for
a mob, I respect it not a bit, for rea-
sons enough in our revolutions ; and
so I conceive yours would have been
as much pleased if it had been a green
bear or a scarlet pig, or any other
rara avis, as an old moustache. What
is it to them ? Bah ! Something to
roar at, to make themselves thirsty
for more beer and gin. Don't think
me too condemning of yours, as I
have seen and heard our mobs ap-
plaud and huzza Napoleon, LouisZ>?;r-
huit, Napoleon again, Louis again,
Charles Dix, and Louis Philippe, and
also howl and groan and hiss at all iu
their turn, and many others I could
name. But this is near political, so
I shall not proceed, and only say so
much as I do not consider the mob to
be the people to whom of your coun-
try I mean no disrespect, as I saw
them industrious and proper. I pray
you to pardon this long introduction
to my bagatelle, and accept my thanks
for your attention to my neophytic
complaint in " auld lang syne ;'' and
believe me,
SIR,
Your very obedient servant,
Louis LE CHEMINANT.
Christopher North) Esq.
Edinburgh.
FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.
Dover.
Farewell ! I go across the main,
And leave thy shores, oh, Great Bri-
tain !
And bid my friends good by.
I've found thy land all very nice,
And conquer'd many a prejudice
Bred in my own country.
'Tis true we once were enemies,
And both believed the monstrous lies
That we did daily read,
Made up for party purposes,
And always under our noses —
We now know truth instead.
No more in future by the hour
We'll listen to the false rumour
That would our friendship mar.
I really think I never shall
Forgive the papers that did call
Hard names during the war.
Henceforth I never more can bear
Such scandal- mongers' stuff to hear,
Because I know my erring ;
It now will only do for some
Poor ignorants who stop at home,
And ne'er crossed pond of herring.*
* I was informed that you colloquially call the sea " the herring pond.'' If it is
wrong, it is not my fault, as I am misled by your compatriots.
183&.]
farewell to England.
I've travelled now, and the result
Was, that though first I difficult
Found it to catch each word,
Yet gradually my ear improved,
Till, listening to your tongue, I loved,
Were speaker clown or lord. '
Then through your land I took a trip,
And agreeably made friendship
With manufacturers,
Who showed me all their great ma-
chines.
I saw your churches with divines j
And then saw fish-curers.
I saw great rollers roll upon
Great masses of red-hot iron,
And squeeze them all abroad,
Till they became quite thin and flat,
To cut into I don't know what,
To go by the rail- road.
Then curiosity did lead
Me on, to see them making thread,
Pins, needles, knives, and forks,
Lace, muslin, calico, and cloth,
In England and in Scotland both,
And other wond'rous works.
Indeed, 'tis strange your small island
Should such variety command
Of fabrics, and of fish ;
And also such superb coal mines,
All worked by mighty steam-engines,
In almost each parish.
And then, to make myself quite sure
About your mode of land culture,
I spent a week rural ;
And saw the farmers round the bowl,
Talking of cattle, sheep, and fowl,
All agricultural.
I also liked to see the cows,
Promenade about your green mea-
dows,
Almost as fine as ours ;
Particularly near Richmond,
And other prairies beyond,
Where " Thames his tribute pours."
'Tis true you want our charming
vines,
But then your country's intestines
Yield much precious metal ;
Which makes it not such great disgrace
Not to be rich on the surface,
When work'd with capital.
Your commerce, too, is very great :
To see your ships is quite a treat,
Voyaging in the Thames ;
Each having a full cargo got,
Making London an entrepot
Of goods of all the names.
And I must say that, next to France,
You have the greatest abundance
Of beautiful women j
For though they're not so nicely drest,
They have a manner quite modest,
Though polite and open.
To send them from the dinner-table
Appears to me most lamentable ;
That custom should be changed.
A charming dame agreed thereto,
As we to dinner down did go,
And on my arm she hang'd.
You're right, in this more polish' d age,
To make them learn the French lan-
guage,
Which must be spoke by all
The nations that compose Europe ;
Which you yourselves can never hope
The English language shall.
Of politics I will not speak,
But hope our friendship will not
break —
Of strive we've had enough ;
'Tis better far than making wars,
To keep your soldiers and your tars
Minding the loom and plough.
And now I've seen your country
through,
Although the sea is very rough
I do not mind a groat,
But quick, as by magician's hand,
Shall be borne off from your island,
Upon a fine steam-boat.
And, when I at my home arrive,
I will, as surely as I live,
A bumper fill with wine ;
And, for his literary worth,
Drink " Success to Christopher North
And BlackwoocTs Magazine"
Louis LE C'HEMINANT.
VOL, XLV. XO. CCLXXXIII.
The Picture Gallery — No. VII.
[May,
No. VII.
THE next picture which attracted
my notice in the gallery, was one of a
homely, overy-day cast, such as John
Bull — who has no great taste for the
abstract and imaginative in art — loves
to look upon. It represented a young
man seated on a sofa close by a
cheerful fire, in all the easy luxury of
dressing-gown and slippers ; on a
black-leather reading- table near him
stood a bronze lamp, and right oppo-
site were a set of plain book-shelves,
indifferently stored with volumes,
which, from their neat, unsullied,
white calf-skin backs, I took for grant-
ed were law-books, and also that they
were seldom or never consulted by
their owner, but slumbered uninter-
rupted on his shelves, like a placeman
on his sinecure. The details of this
picture were worked up with consi-
derable care, and with a skill worthy
of Knight or Leslie. The face and
figure of the young man, in particu-
lar, were full of character. The artist
had drawn him leaning back on the
sofa, with one arm carelessly flung
over the side, in an attitude of reverie,
but not of the calm and philosophical
order, as the hectic glow on his cheek,
and his sparkling, dilated eye plainly
betokened. Who was he ? and what
was the nature of his reflections ? It
was no very difficult matter to answer
these queries, so clear and distinct was
the painter's conception, and so adroit
his execution. The gentleman in
question was a barrister— most likely
a briefless one ; the formal, old-
fashioned look of his apartments, with
their dingy oak-pannels and faded
red curtains, showed that he was in
chambers ; and it was equally evident,
from the animated expression of his
flushed countenance, that he was an en-
thusiastic castle-builder, who, in fancy,
had just achieved the one grand object
of his ambition for the time being. '
As I sate looking up at this expres-
sive work of art, a pang of regret came
across me, when I reflected how often
I too had wasted hour after hour in
the seducing but idle occupation of
castle-building. How often, in the
course of a stroll across a South Devon
moor; or when resting among the
crumbling walls of Reading Abbey,
after a day's trolling in the Thames ;
or when lazily paddling in a coracle
over the Talley Lakes, with the most
suggestive of monastic ruins staring
me full in the face ; or when taking
" mine ease at mine inn" at Llan-
gollen or Baddgalart, I had indulged
in the most fantastic day-dreams, in-
stead of devising rational schemes to
promote my success in life : at one
time conquering Europe at the head
of vast armies ; at another dimming
the lustre of even a Chatham in the
senate ; now delighting audiences with
my powers as a tragedian ; and now a
nation with the magic of my rhymes !
Alas ! it is not on easy terms like
these that fame is won. She exacts
far severer sacrifices from those who
court her smiles. She will have no
idlers in her train, who abandon them-
selves to the delusions of fancy, and
put off action to the Greek Kalends.
She is as inexorable as the overseer of
a cotton-mill. All must be up and at
work betimes in her factory. There
must be no dropping in at the eleventh
hour. For this sort of task- work, your
genuine castle-builder is seldom or
never prepared. His constant habit
of dreaming away the golden moments
of life, disqualifies him for strenuous
action. Continuous labour is a com-
monplace from which his high-flying
intellect turns with disdain. The
slightest difficulty scares him like a
spectre. He is at home in Utopia,
but elsewhere he is as much abroad as
a stranger in a foreign land, who can-
not speak a word of the language.
Hence, he has the mortification of see-
ing those who started with him in the
race of ambition, pass him, one after
the other, on the road. While he is
content to achieve success in idea, as
Ixion embraced a cloud for a Juno,
the man of stern and practical energy
is laying its foundations in reality, by
turning each hour as it flies to strict
and profitable account. To succeed,
is to propose to one's self the accom-
plishment of one particular object ; to
stick doggedly to that one ; to make
fancy, judgment, and feeling alike
subservient to it ; and, above all, to be
1839.]
The Picture Gallery — No. VII.
589
prepared for, though not to anticipate,
obstacles. This, as I observed just
now, the castle-builder cannot do. His
mind is volatile, capricious, erratic —
conceives a thousand projects, but
holds fast by none.
Surely life was given us for other
and nobler purposes than to wear
away in day-dreams I To encourage
a healthy and enlarged system of ac-
tion ; to help on the great cause of
social and moral improvement } in a
word, to do our best, in the station
assigned us, to benefit our fellow-
creatures, so that when our sun sets,
it may leave awhile a trail of light
behind it ; — it was for this we were
sent into the world, and not, day by
day, hour by hour, to foster the growth
of indolence, self-conceit, and egotism.
These are harsh terms ; nevertheless,
they are strictly applicable to the
habit of castle-building, which — how-
ever we may strive to disguise the
fact — is the mask under which vanity
and selfishness lurk, inasmuch as we
never erect these airy structures for
the pleasure or benefit of others, but
solely for our own gratification. We
paint no groups on the canvass of our
imagination, but take especial care that
we ourselves shall stand the only visi-
ble figure — a flattering full-length — in
the foreground. Moreover, while ab-
sorbed in this sort of luxurious reverie,
we have every thing our own way, and
gratify our proudest aspirations with-
out the slightest expenditure of toil or
time. We travel, at more than rail-
way speed, along a road smooth as a
bowling-green, where there is not so
much as a pebble to check our pro-
gress. If we win renown as conquer-
ors, we win it without peril j if as
scholars, without study ; if as states-
men, without incurring tho hostility
of faction. Is beauty the object of
our ambition ? Lo, the loveliest girl
that ever " witched a world," stands
like an Houri before us, waiting but
the word to fling herself into our fond
arms ! Do we desire to become pre-
eminent as poets? We become so
without a struggle. No impertinent
critic breaks the charm of our reverie,
by telling us that our rhymes are
*•' clotted nonsense." Fancy, in her
exceeding complaisance, suggests no-
thing but what ministers to our self-
love and indolence. How painful —
how disheartening — to turn from these
seductive day-dreams, to the dull, la-
borious duties of real life! To be
compelled to achieve success by the
sweat of our brow, instead of by a
mere act of volition ; and to plod
wearily, step by step, up that steep
hill where "Fame's proud temple
shines afar," instead of gaining the
summit at one elastic bound — in idea!
A man may be mentally, as well as
physically, intoxicated, and this is the
case with your confirmed castle-builder,
who — it is no exaggeration to say so—-
is never sober for a week together.
There are, however, some splendid
exceptions to this rule. Napoleon,
according to Bourrienne, was in early
life an inveterate castle-builder, so
also was Scott ; nevertheless, both
these great men had the full and un-
clouded possession of all their facul-
ties, and were not less remarkable for
a salient teeming fancy, than for that
undeviating steadiness and energy of
purpose which derives fresh stimulus
from difficulty, and bears down all
opposition. Scott, in particular, never
allowed his habits of romantic abstrac-
tion to enfeeble his judgment, or in-
terfere with the every-day duties of
life. Thought, in him, did not over-
do action. He was the master, not
the slave, of his imagination — the
magicianwhocommanded thetempter,
not the witch who served him. This
is one of the many reasons why I re-
verence his memory. When I think
of the sustained mental energy he ex-
hibited throughout life ; more espe-
cially when I call to mind his herculean
exertions made in old age, at a season
of unaccustomed gloom, to retrieve
his fallen fortunes, when the chances
were a hundred to one against him j
of his stern, gladiatorial wrestling
with despair ; of the heroic sacrifice
of his griefs as a husband to his sense
of duty as a man and a citizen ; of the
prompt, unhesitating abandonment of
his all&t the call of justice, and this from
no feverish impulse, but from steady,
deep-rooted principle ; of his perse-
verance, that nothing could divert from
its object; of his courage, that nothing
could daunt, not even the awful hand-
writing on the wall which had already
come forth to warn him that his hour
drew nigh j of the indomitable power
of will that, like the setting sun on
some majestic ruin, blazed out even
amid the stupor of disease, and grap-
pled with destiny to the last moment;
..when I think of these things , I re
T?ie Picture Gallery. No. VII.
590
cognise in Scott's character all the
noblest elements of manhood ; he up-
lifts my sense of the dignity of human
nature to the highest point of eleva-
tion ; and I exclaim, with Shakspeare,
" Take him for all in all, we ne'er
shall look upon his like again ! "
But enough on this painful theme.
[May,
To return to the picture of the castle-
builder. The tale, which follows, is
in illustration of that painting ; and
the leading idea, I need hardly add,
is derived from the well-known anec-
dote of Alnaschar in the Arabian
Nights' Entertainments :—
CASTLE-BUILDING ; OR, THE MODERN ALNASCHAR.
In that quarter of Clement's Inn,
whose dingy chamhers look out upon
a court-yard where stands the well-
known statue of a blackamoor,*
lodged Charles Meredith, a young
man, about twenty-three years of
age, who had just been called to the
bar, and was as much encumbered
with briefs as such raw, inexperienced
barristers usually are. Possessed of
considerable literary attainments,
•which, both at school and at college,
had gained him the reputation of a
" promising youth," and endowed
with a quick, versatile, and even bril-
liant fancy, Charles was still more
fortunate in being blessed with a
sanguine temperament, which always
inclined him to look on the sunny side
of things. On quitting the univer-
sity, where study and dissipation en-
grossed his mind by turns, he had
hurried over to Paris, and there con-
trived, in one short year, to run
through the best part of a small for-
tune, which had been left him by his
father ; and now, with but a few hun-
dred pounds remaining in his exche-
quer, he was, for the first time in his
life, awakened to the wholesome but
unpalatable conviction, that, if he did
not abandon pleasure, and apply him-
self with earnestness to the stern
duties of existence, he must erelong
sink into abject poverty. Accord-
ingly, after duly reflecting on his po-
sition, young Meredith decided on
becoming a lawyer, as being a voca-
tion more congenial to his tastes than
any other he could think of. But,
unluckily, this did not supply him
with an immediate competence, but
only put him in the way of acquiring
a remote one ; so, in order to furnish
himself with the means of subsistence
until he should have gained sufficient
practice as a barrister, he determined,
like many a clever young lawyer be-
fore him, on turning his literary abili-
ties to account ; in other words, on
trying his luck as an author.
Having once resolved on a parti-
cular line of action, Charles Meredith
was not the man to halt or fall asleep.
" En avant," was his motto, as it is
of all the ambitious and the enterpri-
sing. After casting about for a sub-
ject calculated to call forth his utmost
energies, he at length decided on the
composition of a historical romance —
a species of fiction which the Waver-
ley Novels, then in the zenith of their
celebrity, had rendered unusually po-
pular. Being well acquainted with
the period which he proposed to illus-
trate— the stirring times of Louis
XIV., when the war-minister Louvois
was in the height of his power-
Charles, whose fancy was kindled by
his theme, wrought it out in a spirited
and graphic style. Half-a-y ear's zeal-
ous application sufficed to bring his
con amore task to a conclusion, when,
without a moment's delay, he dis-
patched the precious manuscript to an
eminent publisher at the West End,
offering him the copyright for — what
the sanguine author, no doubt, thought
was a most moderate price — three
hundred pounds ! As a matter of
course, he calculated on a favourable
reply within a week, or a fortnight at
furthest ; but two months had since
elapsed, and he had received no com-
munication, though he had called
twice at the bibliopole's house of
This statue was once, if we may credit tradition, an actual living blackamoor,
who was in the daily habit, for upwards of thirty years, of sweeping the court-yard of
the inn, and running errands for its legal tenants. Having, in consequence, managed
to get an insight into the character of their professional mal-practices, he was, natu-
rally enough, shocked into a petrifaction ; and now sits — sedet aternumque sedebit in-
felix Theseus — a lasting monumental record of the effects produced on a susceptible
mind by the inevitable roguery of lawyers.
1809.]
The Picture Gallery. No. VII.
5ft t
business, and each time left a card,
by way of refresher to his memory.
At last, when he had almost de-
spaired of success, and had come to the
determination of peremptorily demand-
ing back his manuscript, his fondest
hopes were realized. One afternoon,
on his return home from the law courts,
just as he had entered his chambers,
the postman's brisk rat-tat was heard
at his outer door ; and presently his
clerk made his appearance with a let-
ter, dated Street, in his hand.
Eternal powers ! what were the young
man's transports on perusing the con-
tents of this note ! The communication
was from the publisher to whom he
had transmitted his romance ; and,
though penned in a dry, terse, and
business-like style, yet, in Charles's
estimation, it teemed with the elo-
quence of a Burke ; for it was to the
effect that his tale had been read and
approved ; that the writer acceded to
his terms ; and that, if he would favour
him with a visit at his earliest conve-
nience, he would give him a cheque for
the three hundred pounds, and, at the
same time, venture to suggest a few
trifling alterations in the manuscript,
which he thought would tend to in-
crease its chances of popularity.
Charles read this touching billet at
least twice over, to convince himself
that he had not misapprehended its
import ; and then, hurrying out into
the street, threw himself into the first
cab he met, and — as might have been
anticipated — was thrown out just ten
minutes afterwards, though fortunately
his fall was attended with no worse
consequences than developing 02 the
back of his head that particular bump
— namely, conscientiousness — which,
as phrenologists have justly observed,
is so invariably found wanting in the
skulls of politicians.
On getting on his legs again, young
Meredith, made cautious by expe-
rience, continued his journey on foot.,
and on reaching the publisher's shop,
and sending in his name, was at once
ushered into the august presence. The
interview, though short, was highly
satisfactory. Charles received the
bibliopole's compliments with becom-
ing modesty, and his cheque with very
visible delight; and, having listened
to his suggestions, ana promised to give
them all due consideration, he took
his leave, and posted off to a neigh-
bouring banker's, where he presented
his cheque, and received in return a
handsome pile of Bank of England
notes.
Just as he turned again into the
street, he unexpectedly encountered
an old college chum, to whom he im-
parted his good fortune in terms of
such extravagant rapture, that his
friend, a sedate mathematician, looked
at him, not without a suspicion that his
intellects were impaired. And let no
one blame his transports, for an
author's first work — especially if it be
of an imaginative character, and he
who penned it a green enthusiast —
is always an affair of prodigious mo-
ment in his estimation ! The lover
who hears his mistress falter out "yes,"
when he feared she was going to say
" no ;" the father, who sees in his dar-
ling first-born the reflection of himself,
even to the snub-nose and unquestion-
able squint ; the hungry leader of op-
position, who finds himself suddenly
transported from the comfortless re-
gion on the wrong side of the speaker,
to the Canaan of the Treasury Bench,
flowing with milk and honey ; the
turtle-shaped alderman, who, on the
glorious day of his metamorphosis into
a lord-mayor, hears his health drunk
and his virtues lauded at his own table
by a real first minister of the crown ;
these, even in the height of their ex-
tasy, feel no more intense gratifica-
tion than does the young unsophisti-
cated author on the success of his first
literary enterprise. But how changed
the scene, when, the gloss of novelty
worn off, he takes to writing as a task !
The instant composition becomes a
matter of necessity, it ceases to be a
pleasure. Fancy flags, and must be
goaded onwards like an unwilling
steed j invention, that once answered
readily to one's bidding, stands coldly
aloof ; the fine edge of feeling grows
dull ; thought refuses longer to soar,
but creeps tamely, instead, along the
dead flats of commonplace ; and the
mere act of stringing sentences to-
gether comes to be the most thankless
and irksome drudgery. Charles, how-
ever, had not yet reached this pass. At
present he was in the honeymoon of
authorship.
After strolling about some time with
his Cambridge friend, Charles went
back to his chambers, where he occu-
pied himself till the dinner hour in pe-
rusing Scott's splendid romance of Old
Mortality ; and in the evening, which
set in wet and stormy, he drew forth
from its modest hiding-place his last
592
Tfie Picture Gallery. No VIL
[May,
remaining bottle of wine, closed his
shutters, wheeled his sofa round to the
fire, which he coaxed and fed till it
blazed like a furnace, and then, in the
true spirit of that "luxurious idlesse"
which Thomson has so well described,
allowed his skittish fancy to run riot,
and, rapt in delicious reverie, began
building castle after castle in the air,
whose imposing splendour increased in
exact proportions to his potations.
" Lucky fellow that I am," men-
tally exclaimed this sanguine day-
dreamer, as his eye fell on the heap of
bank-notes which lay close beside him
on the table, " here are the fruitful
seeds from which I am destined soon
to reap a rich harvest of wealth and
fame I The sum now in my posses-
sion will afford me a moderate compe-
tence till I have brought my next
literary production to a close, when,
of course, my means will be ex-
tended ; for if I get three hundred
pounds for my first work, it is a* clear
as the sun at noon-day that, for my
second, which will be twice as good,
and therefore twice as popular, I shall
get twice, or perhaps thrice, the sum.
Then, who so fairly on the road to
fame as I ? My second flight of fancy
being successful, my third will still
further increase my renown, when
public curiosity will be strongly ex-
cited to know who and what I am.
Mysterious surmises will be set afloat
respecting my identity. The press
will teem with ' authentic particulars'
of my birth, parentage, and educa-
tion ; this journal asserting, « on au-
thority,' that I am Sir Morgan O'Do-
herty ; another, that I am a young
Irishman who withhold my name for
the present, in consequence of having
killed my uncle in a duel ; and a third,
that I am no less a personage than the
President of the Noctes ! At last the
whole mighty truth will be revealed,
and an agitated world be calmed by
the appearance of my name in the
title-page of my fourth historical ro-
mance. From that eventful period I
shall become the leading lion of the
day. My best witticisms will be re-
peated at every table, and, under the
head of * Meredith's last,' circulated
in every journal ; my likeness, taken
by an eminent artist, will be exhibited
in my publisher's shop-window ; great
booksellers will contend for the ho-
nour of my patronage ; invitations to
dinners, balls, and conversaziones, will
pour in hour by hour throughout the
season ; when I enter a drawing-room,
a whisper will go round, especially
among the ladies, of ( There he is I—-
What a dear creature! — How interest-
ing he looks !' — and at length the ge-
neral enthusiasm will reach such a
height, that, one night, as I am in
the act of quitting a crowded conver-
sazione, one of the most ardent of my
male admirers, anxious to possess some
memorial of me, will walk off with my
best hat and eloak, just as a similar li-
terary enthusiast absconded last au-
tumn with Christopher North's cele-
brated sporting jacket.
" And what will be the result of all
this enviable notoriety ? Can I doubt ?
— No. The sunny future lies spread
out before me like a map. A beauti-
ful young girl of rank and fortune,
fair as a water-lily, with a pale Gre-
cian face, slender figure, remarkable
for its symmetry, and foot so exqui-
sitely and aristocratically small, as to
be hardly visible, except through a
microscope ; — this refined, graceful,
and sylph-like creature, attracted by
the blaze of my reputation, will seize
the favourable opportunity of my being
invited to a ball at her father's house,
to transfer her affections, from the au-
thor to the man ! The consequences
may be anticipated. I shall recipro-
cate her feelings ; sigh whenever she
approaches, throwing a fine distraction
into my eloquent dark eye ; and,
finally, one fine day, when there is no
one in the drawing-room but herself,
make a direct avowal of my love.
Grateful creature! She just clasps
her fairy 'hands — utters tremulously
'Oh goodness gracious!' — and then
sinks into a consenting swoon on my
bosom. But, alas ! the course of true
love never did run smooth. The lady's
stony-hearted parents insist on her
marrying a squat viscount of sixty.
She refuses : whereupon I press my
suit, and, driven to desperation, pro-
pose an instantaneous elopement. An
elopement! Delicious sound in the
ears of romantic youth and beauty !
Can Leonora resist its magic ? No !
" Accordingly, one morning in the
appropriate month of May, when the
streets are still and solitary, and the
venerable parents of my idolized Leo-
nora are comfortably snoring back to
back in bed, I meet her by appointment
at the corner of the square where she
resides — pop her into a hackney-coach,
rattle away to Highgate, and there
transfer her to a post-chaise and four,
1839.]
The Picture Gallery. No, VII.
593
which is in waiting to receive us on the
great north road. Away, away we
go, swift as the wind — sixteen knots
an hour to begin with. Scarcely is
one mile-stone passed ere another pops
in sight. Trees flit by us as if they
were running for a wager. Towns
appear and disappear like phantoms.
A county is scampered across in an
hour or so. Ah, there is another
post-chariot dashing madly along in
our rear ! Go it, ye rascals, go it — .
or I'll transport ye both for aiding and
abetting in abduction ! Don't be nice
about trifles. If you run over an old
woman, fling her a shilling. If you
find a turnpike-gate shut, charge
like a Wellington, and break through
it!. If the fresh horses are sulky at
starting, clap a lighted wisp of straw
to their refractory tails ! Bravo !
Now we fly again ! ' Don't be alarm-
ed, Leonora ; the little boy was not
hurt; the hind-wheels just scrunched
in one of his finger-nails — that's all,
my life 1 What, still agitated ?' ' Oh,
Charles, we shall break both our
necks — I'm sure we shall!' ' And if
we're caught, my sweetest, we shall
break both our hearts — a far more
agonizing catastrophe.' Behold us
now approaching the Border! another
hour, and we are in Scotland. I know
it by the farm-yard cocks who are one
and all crowing in the Scotch accent.
What village is that right ahead of
us ? Gretna, as I live ! And yonder's
the Blacksmith's 1 Then Heaven be
praised, Leonora is mine ! Hip, hip,
hurrah ! Nine times nine, and one
cheer more! !
" The scene changes. Love's first
delirious transports have subsided, and
ambition resumes the ascendency. A
little love is sweet and palateable
enough ; too much makes one sick.
It is like living on lump-sugar and
treacle. Tired of my honey- suckle
cottage, even though it be situated in
a valley where the ' bulbul' sings alJ
night, I bring my equally wearied bride
with me to the metropolis. The news
of the lion's return spreads far and
wide. My late elopement has, if
possible, increased my popularity, —
especially as, during my rustication,
the main incidents have been drama-
tized, and played with astounding effect
at the Adelphi. Melted by such in-
disputable evidences of my sterling
celebrity, my old father-in-law, who
has been sulking ever since I evapo-
rated with his pet child, sends for me
with a view to reconciliation, and
flinging his aged arms about my neck,
formally acknowledges me as his heir ;
and, after introducing me to all his
titled and influential acquaintance,
dies, as if on purpose to give me an-
other shove up ambition's ladder, and
leaves me a tin-mine in Cornwall,
shares in half-a-dozen London com-
panies, and upwards of thirty thou-
sand pounds in the three per cents.
Excellent-hearted old gentleman !
Here's his health !
" Adieu now to literature. My hopes
expand with my circumstances. Who
would creep when he could soar ? or
content himself with the idle flatteries
of the drawing-room, when he could
electrify a senate, and help on the re-
generation of an empire ? My destiny
henceforth is fixed. The spirit of a
Demosthenes swells within me — I must
become a member of the imperial
legislature. But how ? There are no
rotten boroughs now-a-days. True,
but there are plenty quite fly-blown
enough for my purpose — so hurrah
for St Stephen's! Armed with a
weighty purse, and backed by a host
of potential friends whom my literary
renown and handsome fortune have
procured me, I announce myself as
candidate for the borough of A ;
make my appearance there in a style
of befitting splendour, with ten pounds'
worth or so of mob huzzaing at my
heels ; thunder forth patriotic clap-
traps on the hustings, with my hand
pressed against my heart 5 shake
hands with the electors, kiss all their
wives and daughters — and, as a ne-
cessary consequence, am returned by
a glorious majority to Parliament.
" Now comes my crowning triumph.
On the occasion of some discussion of
all-absorbing interest, I enter the
crowded house, and catching the
Speaker's eye, just as I am in the act
of getting up on my ' eloquent legs'—-
as Counsellor Phillips would say— I
prepare for a display that shall at once
place me in the front rank of states-
men and orators. A prodigious sen-
sation is caused by my assumption of
the perpendicular. A buzz goes round
the House that it is the celebrated
author, Charles Meredith, who is about
to speak. Peel rubs his eyes, which
have been closed for the last half-hour
by the irresistible rhetoric of Hume —
Sheill trembles for his tropes — and
each separate joint of O'Connell's
Tail rattles with visible uneasiness.
594
The Picture Gallery. No. VII.
[May,
Mean- while, I commence my oration.
' Unaccustomed, as I am, to public
speaking,' is the modest and ingenious
language in which I supplicate the
forbearance of honourable members,
who, with that generosity so charac-
teristic of free-born Britons, reply
to my novel appeal with reiterated
cheers. Having thus secured their
favourable opinion, I plunge unhe-
sitatingly in medias res. 1 put the
question in its broadest and clearest
light ; I philosophise upon it ; am
jocular upon it ; embellish it by some
apt Greek quotations, infinitely to the
delight of Mr Baines, who expresses
his satisfaction at my being such a
ready Latin scholar; and conclude
with an impassioned and electrifying
apostrophe to the genius of British
freedom. Next day the papers are
all full of my praises. Those which
approve the principles of my speech,
extol it as a miracle of reasoning ; and
even those which are adverse, yet
frankly confess that, as a mere matter
of eloquence, it has never been sur-
passed within the walls of St Stephens.
A few nights afterwards I create a
similar sensation, which is rendered
still more memorable from the circum-
stance that a lady of rank and fashion
who happens to be listening to the
debate in the small recess over the
roof of the House, overbalances her-
self in the ardour of her feelings, and
tumbles, head-foremost, through the
sky-light into the Speaker's lap !
" So passes the Session. During
the recess, the clubs are all busy in
speculation as to my future course of
proceeding. Not a gossip at the
Athenaeum, the Carlton, or the Reform
Clubs, but has an anecdote to relate
about Charles Meredith. The fo-
reign secretary was seen walking
arm-in-arm wijh me one Sunday after-
noon in Hyde Park ; and the next day
it was remarked that the chancellor
of the exchequer kept me fast by the
button-hole for a whole hour in Pa-
lace Yard. Hence it is inferred that
I shall ere long form one of the go-
vernment. Even a peerage is talked
of ; but that I am doubtful whether
to accept or not. Brougham's fate
holds out an impressive warning.
Weeks, months, thus roll on, and
about the period of the meeting of
Parliament, ministers, who are sadly
in want of a ready, fluent speaker,
begin to throw out hints of an inten-
tion to angle for me. These hints
daily become more significant, and as
I take not the slightest notice of them,
it is concluded that silence gives con-
sent, and that I have my price. Acting
on this conviction, the ministerial whip-
per-in sounds me on the subject, and
lured on by my seeming acquiescence,
proceeds to open his battery upon me
through the medium of divers epistles
marked * private and confidential,' in
which, in the event of my supporting
government, I am promised a snug
berth in Downing Street, and at the
end of the session, when certain
troublesome questions are disposed of,
a foreign embassy, with an earldom,
and a pension. Ye, who are honest
men — and here, thank God, I feel that
I am appealing to a vast majority of
Englishmen, and the entire popula-
tion of Ireland — imagine the blush
that paints my patriotic physiognomy
on receiving these affronting pro-
posals ! 1 am bewildered — horror-
struck — ' teetocaciously exflunctified'
— (to use Jonathan's phrase) j and
when the whipper-in meets me by
appointment to receive my final an-
swer, I snatch up his insulting letters,
which happen to be lying beside me on
the table, and glaring on him, like a
Numidian lion, while he, hypocrite as
he is, puts his hands into his base
breeches-pockets, like Lord Castle-
reagh's crocodile, by way of showing
his indifference, I exclaim, in the most
withering tones of scorn, ' Sir, were I
bound to ministers by as strong ties of
affection as even those which bind a
Burdett to an O' Connell, still I would
disdain to join their party on terms
such as you propose. If you have no
conscience, sir, I have ; know, there-
fore, that nothing under a dukedom
and a pension for three lives will suit
my disinterested views of the case ! '
So saying, I tear the letters into a
thousand fragments, and fling them
into the fire thus ! — thus ! — thus, —
" Heavens and earth, what — what
have I done ? " continued the excited
castle-builder, his enthusiasm falling
below zero in an instant. ' Why, I have
actually, in the order of reverie, mis-
taken a pile of bank notes for minis-
terial communications, and consigned
to the flames the entire sum I re-
ceived but this morning from my
publisher!" It was too true. Of the
three hundred pounds, not one single
vestige remained. The * devouring
element' had destroyed all.
So much for castle-building ! "
1839,] Halloiced Ground. J95
HALLOWED GROUND.
BY GEORGE PAULIN, PARISH SCHOOLMASTER, NEWLANDS.
PART I.
ASK yon pale mother what is hallow'd ground —
And she will tell you, by the falling tear,
And gaze of silent misery — 'tis here,
Where mute she bendeth o'er a grassy mound.
Here, in the place of tombs, a lonely spot
Lies fresh and green, where churchyard verdure waves ;
Here she hath nursed a lone " forget me not,"
With which to hold communion — not of graves.
It breathes fond whispers of a beauteous boy,
To whom in days for ever past she clung,
And drank heart-gladness from his looks of joy,
And the low music of his prattling tongue,
Who smiled her own sweet smile, and look'd her love,
And fill'd her eyes with tenderness profound ;
He was her light, her lion, and her dove —
Then, deem you, can one spot of earth be found
So hallow'd to her heart as that low little mound ?
Ask the stern patriot — and he lifts his eye
To the rude cairn upon the mountain's breast,
Hid by the heather and the mantling mist
That blends it with the cloud-sea roll'd on high ;
And loftily he answers, " There — below,
His gallant heart is laid who flung the tone
Of brave defiance to the invading foe,
And made those bright blue hills and streams our own.
Houseless he wandered with his little band
' Mong yon white cliffs that stem the rolling sea,
And knew no home until his father-land
Could boast its sons and glorious mountains free.
His last red field was on that heathery height ;
Near yon grey cairn his heart's best blood was shed ;
There burns for aye our memory's beacon-light,
And we have sworn no foeman's foot shall tread
Upon that hallow'd spot — our chieftain-father's bed."
Ask the lone exile, musing by the shore
Of his bleak isle of friendless banishment :—
He deems the roll of ocean's music blent
With sounds that mate not with the br'low's roar —
With sounds that waft his spirit by their spell
To a far isle amid the western seas,
To old familiar scenes wheie loved ones dwell ;
The well-known cottage, flowers, and streams, and trees,
The root-worn ash, where whilome he had hid,
In gleeful joy, from prying laughing eyes ;
The hill up which his eager steps had sped
To reach the bending glory of the skies ;
The burn to its own music dancing forth,
That imaged oft the happy bosom's truth
Beam'd from young eyes in boyhood's hour of mirth ; —
All blend to fill that tear of tender ruth ;
He weeps while gazing on the hallow'd ground of youth.
596 Halloived Ground. [May,
Ask the fond lover, and he haply tells
Of some old minster's vast religious gloom,
Or the dim abbey's dust-wreath'd vaulted tomb,
Or cave where hermit contemplation dwells ;
But the fair image of a holier spot
Is shrined within his soul — such sacred fane
As one sweet arbour in a garden grot,
Earth bosoms not within its green domain.
For there were breath'd the vows of plighted love,
There, in the evening hour, eye pour'd on eye
Its wondrous spell, while sanctioning stars above
Shed holier lights to bless the mystic tie.
Mar not with footfall of ungentle sound
The spell-wrought quietude of evening's hour,
For more than magic guards that hallow'd ground,
Spirits of beauty haunt that garden's bower,
And watch love's mystic rites from every chaliced flower.
Ask the enthusiast boy, whose burning soul
Is rapt in visions at the wondrous story —
Of kings whose war-tones on the ear of glory
Age after age undying echoes roll ;
Of men whose death redeem'd a nation's fame,
Whose graves were water'd by a nation's tears ;
Of men who lighted Truth's etherial flame
Amid the darkness of benighted years ;
Of heroes who unveil'd to wondering eyes,
A beauteous world far smiling in the West ;
Or braved the fiery might of Ethiop skies
In quest of fountains in the desart's breast ;
And he will name the Granic's golden sands,
Farino bright in endless summer's smile,
The grove where walked old Plato's listening bands,
The greenwood glades of Guanahani's isle,
Or solitudes whence gush the streams of infant Nile.
Ask the old saint — when, paling death's dark shroud,
Life's twilight trembles o'er the verge of Time,
And Memory wings her backward flight to climb
Youth's Pisgah heights unshadow'd by a cloud —
One brief fond hour to track the varied past,
A world of oceans, continents, and isles,
Flower-lands all blighted by the withering blast,
Bleak desarts fancy-robed in flowers and smiles j •
And he will tell you as it pauseth o'er
A humble but a sweet and solemn spot,
Where in the calm of eventide he'd pour
Prayer to his God to bless his lowly lot,
That that lone place is hallow'd in its calm
By the felt presence of the Holy One,
Felt in the thoughtful hush — the breathing balm
Of evening's solemn hour, what time the sun
And weary human toil a sweet repose have won.
Weird dweller in the past ! thy wand hath power,
Enchantress Memory ! to wake the tones
Of other years, to clothe the mouldering bones
With beauty, and renew the faded flower ;
To crown with auburn locks the hoary head,
To fill the silent chamber with the faces
Of buried love, and call affection's dead
From earth's deep cells and ocean's secret places.
1839.] Hallowed Ground. 597
Say, whence the witchery that charms thy wand
To linger o'er the ruin and the grave,
O'er the grey rocks along life's perilous strand,
And the dark heaving of its wint'ry wave ?
Why lures it from the dream-land of the past,
Some bygone scene in strong reality,
While others, like the phantoms of the blast,
Unheeded, float in shadowy dimness by,
Nor wake one passion's gleam in mind's entranced eye ?
A stronger charm subdues the sorcerer's spell —
A mightier magic guides that mighty hand ;
The soul's deep feeling wins it to the land
Of bliss or pain where joys or sorrows dwell.
There, fond Affection claims a myrtle glade,
Or wild Revenge a darkly crimson'd sod,
Or Piety, a calm sequestered shade,
Where warm Devotion breathes itself to God ;
Or Cheerfulness, a bower in beauty's bloom,
Or Grief, a lonely spot beneath the yew,
Or veiled Despair, the dungeon's living tomb,
Where fancy dyes the wall with murder's hue.
For Mind can hallow with its deep emotion
Earth's gloom and glory, splendour and decay,
While wizard Memory tracks the land and ocean,
Fit homage to its master-power to pay,
And o'er its sacred scenes her subject wand to sway.
And thou, weird Memory's siren sister, Hope !
Hast in thy cloudland many a haliow'd fane :
Wild Passion's hosts are priests in thy domain,
And to the bright young eye thy temples ope.
And they have rear'd the altars which they guard,
And round them breathe a beauty not of earth ;
Aud roofed them with a sky of brightness, starr'd
And sunn'd with lights — Creation's future birth.
Fairer than aught in Memory's colder clime
Is that flower-arbour claim'd by young Desire j
With holier music peals Devotion's chime,
And mounts, with loftier glow, Fame's altar fire ;
Enthusiasm there stands before his fane,
His rapt eye gleaming with intcnscr joy ;
While Patriotism there scans with proud disdain
The hallowed scenes that churinM the ardent boy,
And guards a noble pile no tyrant can destroy.
Another clime my raptured vision charms ;
The poet's home in thought's ecstatic mood—
When sweetest sounds of earth were far too rude,
And far too tame its most bewitching forms.
No other clime hath aught so rich and fair,
Nor aught so dread, magnificent, and wild.
Imagination holds her empire there,
Her mountain-throne beyond the white clouds piled ;
A land where shapes of hideous horror dwell,
And wond'rous beauty ne'er to mortals given ;
All that affrights the soul in dreams of hell,
And all it longs to clasp in dreams of heaven ;
A land of valley, mountain, tower, and town,
Of forest, ocean, river, solitude,
Bathed in the sunbeam's smile, or shadow's frown—
598 Hallowed Ground. [May,
Where music floats by stream and haunted wood,
And meets the poet's ear in fancy's frenzied mood.
The storm may rage — he lists no sound of earth,
While wandering in its forest wilds afar ;
He communes with a lone and quiet star, ,
That owns in other skies its beauteous birth :
He claims a kindred with the glorious things
That fill the air with life and loveliness ;
A faery band with music-moving wings,
Trancing his soul in dreams of deeper bliss ;
The spell may break, and coldness, sorrow, shame,
May blast each hope that bloom'd within his heart,
But, lingering there amid the blight of fame,
With those loved visions memory cannot part.
Still on his ear falls faery music's tone,
By pauses heard, 'mid strife and sorrow round,
And in his eye the tear of grief that shone
Is sunn'd with rapture. Grudge him not that bound
Of wild delight — he hath a glimpse of hallo w'd ground.
PART II.
Virtue, fair daughter of Eternal Truth !
Cold, pure, and beautiful, beloved with awe,
Winning wild passion back to duty's law,
Hatred to meekness, and revenge to ruth ! —
All nature worships thee, thou mighty one ;
Ocean and earth obey thee ; at thy shrine
Kneels the dark savage 'neath the tropic sun,
And the pale wanderer of the frozen line.
Where is thy temple ? whither flock the lands
The homage of their tribes and tongues to pay ?
A glorious temple's thine — not built with hands,
Owning no kindred with the world's decay ;
A glorious temple, roof 'd by cloud and star,
Whose arch bends o'er the pillars of the sky.
Kneels there the Ocean-empress, and afar
Bends the proud knee of desart Araby,
And India worships there, with awed and reverent eye.
Full many a shrine that boundless dome contains,
Where patriot ardour, piety and faith,
And holy friendship, strong as conquering death,
And love that alters not in bowers or chains,
Crowd with their priceless offerings — noble thought,
And sigh, and tear, and triumph-beaming look,
And honourable stain of blood unbought,
And calm, stern glance that tyrant cannot brook—
The treasures of the soul — more bright than gems
That burn along the bosom of the deep,
Or wreath with light barbaric diadems,
Or gleam in torrents down the Afric steep.
Ye hallow'd Fanes ! may I, with pilgrim feet,
With pilgrim reverence, and with holy zeal,
Awhile, by fancy led, your altars greet,
And mingle solemn vows with those who feel
In virtue's sacred cause — the cause of human weal !
They rise before me, robed in many hues,
Distant and dim with years, or brightly near —
1839.] Hallowed Ground. 599
The mouldering records of a bygone year,
When Greece own'd heroes, Helicon a muse —
The high blue hills that cleft the Grecian heaven,
When sunn'd with glory's beam, and cleave it still ;
The Eternal City, with its splendours riven
By conquering Time from its own palace-lull.
And later hallow'd, not less true to fame,
Helvetia's mountain-land of liberty ;
The island heights that despots quake to name,
Guarded by valour and the rolling sea ;
And, holier far, the plains by angels trod,
What time a lowly wanderer, faint and poor,
Walk'd o'er the Syrian sands the incarnate God
Who paved with burning suns heaven's palace floor,
And toil'd with humble men by Galilee's lone shore !
They rise before me, bursting through the veil
Of bygone years ; and many a scene beside,
Of its own land the glory and the pride,
Hallow'd for ages by the poet's tale.
I see a million swords flash back the sun
From high Oe'ta's base, and Malia's shore j
I hear the Persian shout, " The pass is won !"
I see their glittering myriads downward pour :
Thermopylae ! thy own Three Hundred stand
Before me as they stood when round their lord
They vowed to die, or save their fatherland
With Freedom's keen and consecrated sword.
There stood — there fell Leonidas, and round,
With twice ten thousand foes, his little band ;
Their fall hath sanctified that gory ground,
Their fall hath hallow'd all that wondrous land,
And still the Egean hymns their dirge by Malia's strand.
Gray Marathon ! the pilgrim turns to thee,
Flashes Athena's banner on his sight,
And all the glittering splendour of the fight—-
The plume, the shield, the sword, the prostrate tree.
Rolls on the Mede's interminable host,
Stand firm and stern and mute the patriot few :
See yonder hero, Athens' proudest boast,
With joyous look the moving myriads view :
The war-peal bursts — the dawning light of heaven
Blends the wild strife of freeman and of slave ;
And see, before the avenging banner driven,
To shun the sword the Persian seeks the wave.
To fetter freedom in her loved retreat,
In pride of power the despot left his throne,
He chain'd the floods that lash'd his worshipp'd feet,
But found Miltiades and Marathon,
And bent his haughty crest a present God to owu.
Clime of the ancient but undying glory !
Birth-place of freedom, valour, love, and song !
Fain would the pilgrim lingering, dwell among
Your haunted heights and vision' d vales of story ;
Fain would he linger by Cithaeron's steep,
And kneel upon the shores of Salamis,
Wander a while where Leuctra's heroes sleep,
And muse o'er Sparta's tomb where adders hiss,
Stand mournfully where old Athense stood,
And fair Ilyssus rolled its flower-kissed stream,
And Plato walked in triumph's noblest mood,
600 Hallowed Ground. [May,
Amid the youthful blooms of Academe ;
For time that steals from beauty, power, and fame,
Adds to the charm that wins the poet's eye —
To each loved scene whose old familiar name
Linked with the soul's bright youth, can only die
With poesy divine and high philosophy.
On fancy's bark the pilgrim quits the land
Of freedom's birth, and skims the Ionian tide j
Before him, in its old heroic pride,
He sees the city of the Caesars stand j
And there the stern dictator, on his brow
The majesty of empire and its care j
Content and poor, he guides his humble plough,
And toils for bread his little ones may share.
There sits the stern tyrannicide, whose doom,
His country's laws from tyrant scorn to save,
Consign'd his valorous offspring to the tomb,
Himself with blighted heart to wish the grave.
There Cato stands, and flings his honest frown
On Rome's degenerate wealth, and shakes the soul
That quails before the splendours of a crown ;
While Tully points to Greece and glory's goal,
And o'er the tyrant's head bids Roman thunders roll.
Ages have crumbled Caesar's marble hall,
And mock'd imperial pomp, and still'd the tone
Of flattering millions round the imperial throne,
And mantled Roman pride in ruin's pall.
But there are lights amid the ruins playing,
Known to the pilgrim ; he can there behold
The ancient Lares with their torches straying
Where high their altars burned in days of old.
They light a few dim spots of nameless earth,
But pass the pillar'd tomb in darkness by ;
At these low shrines the pilgrim kneels to worth,
For there the early Roman's ashes lie.
The Coliseum with the dust may blend,
Column and tower may moulder where they stand,
Where empire fell the triple crown may bend ;
But while the sunlight warms that lovely land,
These hallow'd graves shall guard the fame of Tiber's strand !
Another clime ! the pilgrim knows it well—
Oft has his soul with Alpine thunders been, »
And oft the bursting avalanches seen
Roll stormy music o'er the land of Tell.
See where the keen-eyed archer stands amid
His bold compatriots on the mountain's brow ;
His eye pursues the eagle's flight, till hid
Beyond the clouded peaks of Alpine snow }
Then with his little band he bends his knee,
And vows to heaven, upon that hoary height,
That the wild hills that nursed its plume should be
Unchain'd and tameless as the eagle's flight.
And how he kept his vow, the Switzer-boy
Sings to his comrade's pipe upon the fell,
Tending their flock in freedom and in joy ;
And to the stranger points, with bosom's swell,
Where stood the humble cot of glorious William T ell !
The rush of waves — the voice of many floods-
Old ocean's music, meets the pilgrim's ear ;
1839.] Hallowed Ground, 601
Grim frowning rocks their giant heights uprear
Around Britannia's hills, and streams, and woods :
Bewilder'd is his eye ; for who can count
Those fanes in sunshine and in shade that lie,
Studding each down, and dell, and hoary mount.
Beneath the blue of Albion's cloudy sky !
The dim cathedral's high and solemn pile,
Whence float to heaven old England's songs of praise,
Whence peal'd the ancestral worship of our isle,
Tuned to the organ's swell of other days ;
The ivied church, where England's noble poor
Mingle their prayers on day of holy rest,
That he who bade their mountains stand secure,
And fix'd their isle a gem on ocean's breast,
Should bid their fathers' fanes and fatherland be blest.
And Scotia ! gleaming o'er thy lowland sod,
And up thy highland heights amid the heather,
Fanes where thy Sabbath- lion curing children gather
To pay their vows to Scotia's covenant God.
They pour the reverence of the simple heart
In solemn melody and humble prayer ;
And with their dearest blood would sooner part,
Than see the altar-spoiler enter there !
And Scotia's emigrant, when far away
Amid the forest stillness of the West,
Oft from the banks of Tweed or Highland Tay,
Lists the loved tones steal o'er the ocean's breast !
They lead him back to childhood's happy home,
The village church beside the old yew-tree,
The silent Sabbath, when he loved to roam
In fields, to hear the hum of heather bee
Float in the hallow'd air from brake and flowery lea :
They lead him back to where, in days of yore,
The austere sires of Scotland's freedom stood
Banded to save the Bibles which they bore,
Their heritage of hope, from men of blood.
The trembling boy — the parent grey with years
And bent with toil — the widow poor and old,
Driven houseless forth by persecuting spears,
To shiver on the bleak and wintry wold.
Their blood hath nursed a tree that will not die, —
That braved the blast, and still the blast shall brave ;
And Scotland will not own the ungenerous eye,
That beams not proudly o'er her martyr's grave.
And haply, too, they lead him back to where
The Southern plume lay low on Bannockburn ;
He sees the Bruce his Carrick falchion bare ;
And patriot chiefs, where'er his eye may turn,
Start from their hallow'd bed — the thistle-tufted urn.
Forgive the Pilgrim, Fatherland ! if o'er
Thy hallow'd scenes he lingers not again ;
His feet may wander in the Highland glen,
And up the cairn-crown'd hill renown'd of yore :
For dress'd in flowers, or chain'd in winter's thrall,
In earth's fair realm no lovelier land is found ;
Thee virtue claims her cherish'd home, and all
Thy peaceful cottage hearths are holy ground.
But, led by fancy at her own wild will,
He shapes a wizard course from clime to clime ;
C02 Hallowed Ground. [May,
Now wandering by some old and rooted hill —
Now by the trophies of subduing time
Tracking her wayward steps — before him rise
The hoary solemn pomps of Egypt's pride,
That frown defiance to the burning skies.
Millennial piles to empire's birth allied —
They stand the giant wrecks of Time's devouring tide.
A sense of power — a feeling of the vast —
Of hoar antiquity and dim decay —
Of might misnamed eternal, swept away —
Hallow those tombstones of the buried past.
But virtue owns them not her sacred shrines,
Nor lingers there the pilgrim — brightly o'er him
Now bends the holy blue of Palestine,
And Jordan rolls his silver flood before him.
An herbless desert and a naked rock—
An humble stream — a city's ruin'd wall,
Slaves crouching 'neath the proud oppressor's stroke ;
And this is Palestine ! — but is this all ?
Is this the whole for which Crusaders flung
The fiery cross upon the Syrian breeze ?
Is this the whole that haughty monarchs strung
To scorn for Palestine luxurious ease,
And brave the Arab lance, the desert, and the seas ?
High thoughts are blended with that river's flow,
And solemn thoughts are clinging round that hill ;
Mysterious thoughts that awe the pilgrim's will,
Brood o'er that lakelet, murmuring faint and low.
This is no land of laughter and of joy ;
Sadness hath claimed Judea for her own ;
Stern desolation works her wild annoy,
And ruin's dflst hath mantled Salem's throne.
The sceptre's gone — the temple's fretted gold
No longer beams on Zion. David's tomb
Hath mix'd with David's ashes— o'er their mould
Sweep the wild Arab and the dread simoom :
But mystery is here. These skies have seen
A Mighty One on those blue waters stand ;
The footsteps of Omnipotence have been
On Carmel's steep and Jordan's golden sand,
And left the impress of a God on Judah's holy land !
The God<k>*s I tH.v.< in the Middle Ages.
603
THE GODDESS VEN'US IN THE MIDDLE AGES.
BY R. M. MlLNES.
FEW and faint are the historic lights
by which we can trace the victory of
Christianity over Heathenism. The
battle was fought on many fields, with
every variety of weapon and ma-
nreuvre, and was protracted by many
an obstinate resistance long after the
main issue of the combat was decided.
It was in the sixth century that St
Benedict extinguished the fire on
the altar of Apollo, on Monte Casino ;
and in many provinces of the em-
pire, Pagan worship was celebrated
down to a mueh later date. The
temples of Diana at Treves, and of
Venus at Magdeburg (Parthenopolis),
have been recorded as of the last to be
deserted. Charlemagne destroyed the
latter, which had been erected by Ger-
manicus, and built a church to St
Stephen in its place. But far deeper
into the middle ages than this, winds
the thread of Pagan tradition ; and
even in this our time, the peasants on
the coast of old Etruria are seen an-
nually to attach a gilded bunch of
grapes to a plough, which is drawn by
oxen down a long slope to the sea, a
propitiation to the elemental powers
in favour of the harvest and the vin-
tage.* It was, however, by a simple
and natural process that the sympa-
thies of the people were frequently de-
tached from the old faith, and asso-
ciated to the history or tradition of
the new. The temple of Jupiter the
Preserver was readily re- consecrated
to the Redeemer of mankind ; and
even the play upon sounds had its
meaning when the prophet Elias ap-
propriated the reverence long paid to .
Apollo as the sun. In Sicily, eight
celebrated temples of Venus were*
within a short period, dedicated to the
Virgin ; and the same substitution is
said to have taken place, at the com-
mand of the Empress Helena, in the
church of the Holy Sepulchre. The
deduction of Christian rites from Pa-
gan ceremonies has unfortunately not
been confined to the detection of Po-
pish corruption, but has been extend-
ed by infidel writers to some of the
vital principles of our religion. But
though this principle of adaptation
might be unscrupulously acted upon,
it was accompanied by a belief which
gave the greatest distinctness and
energy to the work of conversion from
Heathenism. This was the plain con-
viction of the demoniac personality of
each of the Pagan deities. The mo-
notheism of the Jews does not seem to
have prevented that people from re-
garding the gods of the Gentiles as
substantial spirits of evil ; and there
appeared, perhaps, to be doctrines in
Christianity, which rather encouraged
than forbade a similar conclusion. The
Christian who was liable to be thrown
to the beasts for refusing to sacrifice
to Jupiter, or to be rent asunder by
the mob for scorning a bacchana-
lian rite, was not likely to consider
the one as a symbol of power, or the
other as a device of the fancy. Poli-
tical considerations might enter into
the question of Christian persecution,
as, in after times, heresy often became
treason ; and the people might be in-
dignant at the violation of their ances-
tral customs, or the invasion of their
festal repose, but the Christian under-
stood not this ; " their gods were
" An English gentleman and scholar of the 1 9th century professing Heathenism might
be considered a burlesque, but there is every reason to believe that the religious profession
of Mr Thomas Taylor was much rather a conceit worked up into a belief, than an affecta-
tion of singularity. Some friends of ours found him one day at his orisons, uttering his
Evoes and classical exclamations before some small silver statues ; and in a note to Julian's
oration, he writes thus, " The construction of the statues of the gods was the result of the
most consummate theological science, and from their apt resemblance to divine natures,
they became participants of divine illumination. Statues resemble life, and on this account
they are similar to animals. Statues, through their habitude or fitness, conjoin the souls
of those who pray to them with the gods themselves. Let not the reader, however, con-
fouud this scientific worship of the ancients with the^/W/iy piety of the Catholics, as Pro*
clus justly calls it."
VOL. XtV. NO. CCLXXXIII, 2 Q
604
The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages.
[May,
devils, and he could not -worship
them." For while some of them were
powers claiming divine honour, which
in his system could be only blasphemy,
many others were such, that, from his
own high moral ground, he could only
look upon them as impersonated sins.
Thus, in the early Christian imagina-
tion, the goddess Venus stood out as
the very queen of devildom. Chas-
tity being once proclaimed, not a high
and peculiar virtue, but an essential,
indispensable requisite of the Christ-
ian character, the antagonist appetite
became a terrible evil, and the patro-
ness and representative of it in the
popular mind the worst of demons.
The gods of Power would soon find
themselves overcome : One had come
into the world greater than they, and
they must bend and pass away before
him ; but unconverted man owned,
and would ever own, the reign of
Venus ; and she was there even at-
tempting to seduce the very holiest.
She might be subdued and driven from
the world at last, but not as long as
vice was in the breast of man, open
to her voice and ready for her rule.
No wonder, then, that Venus is the
great bond between Pagan and Chris-
tian tradition j no wonder that Au-
gustin leaves it as a matter not for
him to decide, " whether Venus could
have become the mother of /Eneas by
the embraces of Anchises" (-De Civitat.
Dei. 3, sec. 5) ; or that Kornman, a
learned lawyer of the 17th century,
should write a laborious book of the
history, adventures, and devices of this
subtle devil.
Venus was not dead. When the
vow of betrothal recorded before
her altar was violated by the Chris-
tian mother of the Corinthian maid,
she could raise from the grave
the broken - hearted victim of the
new religion, and send her as a vam-
pire to drink the life-blood of her
destiaed bridegroom.* She could,
too, waylay the passionate youth
in a form of surpassing beauty, and
seduce him into marriage; some-
times, indeed, to be foiled by superior
necromantic powers, and forced back
into a hideous serpent shape, as was
the Lamia of Greece ; but at others to
retain her influence even after her
deformity was revealed, as did, in
comparatively later days, Melnsina,
the wife of Count Raymund of Poic-
tiers, who was the fairest of mermaids.
When, again, a Christian girl in Car-
thage was struck by the beauty of an
image of Venus, and fancied herself
like it, she was instantly seized by the
goddess round her throat, and could
take no food for seventy days and
nights. She said, " a bird came to
her every midnight and touched her
mouth ;" and she was only relieved at
last by the solemn functions of the
Church and participation in its sacra-
ments, f Even when her open worship
was utterly driven from the face of
the earth, the magic art knew where
and how to find her. She still had
her favourites in the vegetable crea-
tion, plants, many of whose names tes-
tified to whom they were dedicated ;
— Venus's comb (Scandix), Venus's
fly - trap (Dioncea muscipula), Ve-
nus's looking - glass ( Campanula),
maiden-hair (Adianthuni), and the
mastic shrub, which covers with its
thicket so many relics of hers and
other fanes on the old Hellenic hills.
Over the sixth day of the week she
Still held an important authority,
making it in general belief most un-
propitious to mankind, although cer-
tain theologians have maintained the
contrary, resting on the facts that the
Virgin ascended to heaven, and Gra-
nada was taken, on a Friday. Astro-
logy determined that under the influ-
ence of Venus it was fortunate to make
love, marry, take medicine, and ar-
range your will. The formula by
which Venus is conjured, after a ge-
neral preface, thus continues : — " Un-
de benedictum est nomen Creatoris in
loco suo, et per nomina Angelorum
servientium in tertio exercitu, et per
nomen stellae quse est Venus, et per
sigillum ejus quod quidem est sanc-
tum ; et per nomina praedicta, conjure,"
&e., &e. The spirits of Friday, or
impersonations of Venus, appeared
generally in the following forms : —
a king with a sceptre riding on a ca-
mel ; a maiden, naked or gloriously
attired ; a goat, a camel, a dove, and
a green or white vestment. Still the
agents of this unholy commerce fre-
quented the haunts of ancient idolatry,
* Read (but who has not read ?) Goethe s Brant ZH Corinth.
t Prosper Aquitanius, — Lib, 6.
183D.]
The Goddess Venus in t/ie Middle Ages.
G05
such as the 116 steps at Lyons, tho
remains of her temple there, up and
down -which sorcerers and witches
were known to dance and gambol in
their infernal yearly revelling.
But her principal method of seduc-
tion was to establish herself in some
hilly region, and there, having con-
structed in the heart of the earth a
palace of sensual delights, and having
surrounded herself by subordinate spi-
rits in loveliest shapes, by supernatu-
ral music, heard far and wide, and
similar means, to entice into it brave
and noble souls, and keep them there
till they became debased and brutal-
ized, and altogether lost. The diffi-
culty of knowing much about these
wondrous places of pleasure and sin
arose from the fewness of those who
have ever again returned te the world
of men after a sojourn, or even en-
trance, there. William of Newbury
records that, in the reign of King
Henry I. of England, a peasant walk-
ing by a tumulus, about three stadia
from the town of Burlington, heard
songs and convivial sounds issuing
from within it. He looked about for
an entrance, astonished that that si-
lent region and midnight hour should
be so disturbed, and, finding a door
open, went in. He saw an ample and
brilliant chamber, and men and women
engaged in high festivity and mighty
mirth. One of the attendants, seeing
him standing at the door, handed him
a cup, which he grasped, flung Ihe
contents on the floor, and rushed out
into the night, amid tremendous tumult
and persevering pursuit. On, how-
ever, he ran, until at last the cries and
sounds died away, and he brought his
booty safe into the town. This cup
was given to the king, who presented
it to the queen of David, king of
Scotland, and it was returned by his
descendant King William to King
Henry II. of England. In the Swiss
Chronicle of Stumpflius we are told
that a tailor of Basle, in the year 1COO,
had a similar adventure. He passed
through an iron door, and a succession
of halls and gardens, guarded by
frightful dogs, who barred his retreat.
The goddess appeared with long flow-
ing hair, but her lower body as a ser-
pent's. She said she should be freed
from this enchantment by three kisses
of a chaste mortal, on whom she would
bestow infinite treasure. He kissed
her once,and she grew more monstrous
still. He kissed her again, and she
became so terrible and violent, he
thought she would tear him in pieces,
so turned round in desperation and got
safely out: a fellow-townsman of his
went into the cave again some time
after, and, having found it full of hu-
man bones, died in a few days. The
story of Tannhauser shall be given in
verse : there seem to be several old
ballads of the same burthen. The one
generally known is that inserted in the
collection of the Wanderhorn. The
following may be regarded as a free
paraphrase of it: —
VENUS AND THE CHRISTIAN KNIUH'l.
<e Why are thine eyes so red, Sir Knight,
And why thy cheek so pale ?
Thou tossest to and fro all night,
Like a ship without a sail."
The Knight rose up, and answered quick
" Too long in lust I lie,
And now my heart is pleasure- sick j
I must go hence, or die.
" I must go hence, and strive to win,
By penitential tears,
God's pardon for the shame and sin
Of these luxurious years.
" No man his life can rightly keep
Apart from toil and pain ;
I would give all these joys, to weep
My youth's sweet tears again 1"
606 The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ayes. [May,
" I will not let thee go, Sir Knight ;
But I will make thee new
Untold devices of delight,
That shall thy soul imbue ;
" And thbu, these sickly thoughts defy,
Undo these vain alarms ;
What god can give thee more than I —
More heaven than in mine arms ?"
•' Venus ! I fear thy wanton heart,
I fear thy glittering eyes ;
I shrink and tremble, lest thou art
A demon in disguise."
With high disdain the Ladie strove,
Then uttered, sad and low,
" Oh ! hard return for so much love !
Ungrateful mortal ! — go."
The Knight, with none to check or meet,
Thus left the marble dome ;
And soon his weary, wounded feet
Were near the gates of Rome.
There, where imperial Tiber flows,
Pope Urban rode along ;
And «' Kyrie Eleison," rose
From all the thick'ning throng.
" Thou that hast power to stay God's wrath,
And darkest souls to shrive,
Stop, holy Father, on thy path,
And save a soul alive !
" For I, a noble Christian Knight,
Have served, for many a year,
In dalliance of impure delight,
A demon, as I fear.
" If Venus sooth a demon be,
As thou hast skill to tell,
God's face how shall I ever see,
How shun the deep of hell ?"
" Too well that fiend, and all her power,
Most hapless man ! I know ;
If thou hast been her paramour,
No grace can I bestow.
" I could the demon's self assoil,
As well as pardon thee ;
Thy body hath been her willing spoil,
Thy soul must be her fee !
" For sooner shall this peeled staff
Put out both leaf and bloom,
Than God shall strike thy sentence off
His dreadful book of doom !''
The Knight his feeble knee upraised,
Pass'd weeping through the crowd ;
And some in silent pity gazed,
And some with horror loud.
1839.] The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages.
" Then shall I never, never see
Thy countenance divine,
Jesus ! that died in vain for me, —
Sweet Mary, mother ! thine ?"
Now forth this child of woe had gone
Full fourteen days, when, lo !
The staff the Pope laid hand upon,
Began to bud and blow :
Green leaves, and flowers of perfect white,
The very growth of heaven ; —
Sure witness to that wretched Knight,
Of all his sin forgiven !
Oh ! far and wide, o'er earth and tide,
Swift messengers are sped,
To hail the sinner justified,
The late devoted head.
In vain— in vain ! Straight back again
He bent his hopeless way, —
And Venus shall her Knight retain
Until God's judgment-day.
Mysterious end of good remorse !
Strong lesson to beware,
Ye priests of mercy ! how ye force
Poor sinners to despair. t
607
This book of Kornman's, to which
allusion has been made, may deserve
some further notice. The title is,
" Mons Veneris ; a Wonderful and
Especial Description of the Notions
of old Heathen and Modern Writers
•with regard to the Goddess Venus;
her Origin, Worship, and Queenly
Abode ; and the company she enter-
tains there, &c. &c." Frankfort, 1614.
A strange work, indeed, for the world
to see, after Bacon had written. But
our good jurisconsult sets about his
investigation in the true old legendary
spirit. His great object is to expose
" that cursed, wicked ape of God, the
merry, malicious devil." He is, in-
deed, rather perplexed than pleased
at the progress of knowledge and en-
terprise. " Mankind," he says in his
preface, " is always yearning after
something new ; but now there is no-
thing under the sun which they have
not thrust their heads into ; the very
stars are not safe from them : they
send unheard- of immense Noah's arks
to India, to see what the antipodes
in the under world are about. Like
gnomes, they climb and claw into the
holes of the lulls, and get out gold,
and silver, and adamant, and sapphire,
and a hundred other fine names. Some
penetrate into the very palace of the
Gnome King himself, to find hidden
treasure, or into the mountain-cham-
bers of the Lady Venus, to enjoy
luxurious delights. In fact, there is
nothing left for them but to go to hell,
and see what is going on there."
But, anxious as he is " to give some
book to the students and lovers of
nature, to amuse their minds, and re-
veal some secret phenomena," he also
protests, that " God is his witness,
that, if there are things in his book
which all reasonable men cannot
believe, he has fabricated no lies
and fables, but has taken them all
on the authority of men trust-wor-
thy, and of acknowledged learning."
And we are bound to believe him.
For, after a most delightful farrago
of classical and mediaeval fancies,
he boldly grapples with the main
question, " Num fuerit unquam Dea
Venus?" — whether there ever was
such a person as Venus at all? and
handles it magnificently. " Venus
has been seen among men, been wor-
shipped by them, has married some of
them, has been born and has died with
them, &c. — are not these all good
proofs of her reality ? It is very true
that these spectacles are not of very
608
The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages.
frequent occurrence ; but they are not
more rare than the appearances of the
devil, and the Holy Ghost, and angels,
all of which nobody doubts to have
from time to time been permitted by
God, that we might know that he has
created all kinds of creatures, and
wills us to be aware of their reality :
so Venus is not always showing her-
self, nor does she take up any regular
abode amongst us, but she comes
quite often enough for us to believe in
her existence, and in the power of God
to people the four elements with won-
derful beings such as she is." He
then goes into the theory of elemental
s spirits at large, explains that they have
a subtle, not Adamite, flesh, and that
each order has its own chaos or at-
mosphere, which is gross in proportion
to their subtlety ; thus the gnomes
live in earth, as we men in air. After-
wards follows much dissertation as to
the class which Venus belongs to, and
it is at last concluded, from the phe-
nomena of her nature and the facts of
her history, that she is a nymph, a
water- spirit, an Undina. She seems
to have reigned a long time, and may
probably be dead, as she has not been
seen for many years, though it is like-
ly enough she may live till the day of
judgment : or perhaps she may have
passed away and left others of her
race, other Venuses, behind her, simi-
lar in form and disposition : all these
matters a wise man will be content to
doubt.* There is plenty more of such
disquisition, but such things, being not
" in our philosophy," may be thought
tedious by many. But were this
Kornman and Paracelsus, and they
{May,
who followed like investigations, phi-
losophers ? Surely, as much as, or
more so than, the philosophers who, a
century and a half after them, " made
of God a farce, of heaven a gas, and
of the second world a grave." The
one at least loved all the wisdom they
could attain to, — the others loved no-
thing but themselves. As children
covet or enjoy the possession of a large
learned book, and lay it out on their
little knees, and fix their eyes on the
unintelligible words, and trace them
with their fingers, and seem to find
meanings of their own, and an earnest
joy in the occupation which we cannot
understand, so was it with these old
writers and the great volume of na-
ture. Superstition, being an excess,
is ever better than a void ; it cannot
co-exist with a disrespectful, disre-
garding, state of mind. It is, too, a
hope when there is no better —
" Et des esprits impures 1'alegresse est ex-
treme,
Quand un espoir s'abjure et se dit ana-
theme."
In the following poem the idea of
the essential contrast between the Nor-
thern and the Southern mind, between
Beauty as the exponent of the one, and
Duty the manifestation of the other
(the germ of which is sufficiently dis-
tinct in the legendary foundation), is
attempted to be developed. The facts,
or rather images, of the story, are very
much the same as may be found in the
graceful version of it by Heine in the
third volume of the Salons — here
they are, but disposed and illustrated
anew.
THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY.
This is the record, true as his own word,
Of the adventures of a Christian knight,
Who, when beneath the foul Karasmian swordf
God's rescued city sunk to hopeless night,
Desired, before he gain'd his northern home,
To soothe his wounded heart at holy Rome.
And having found, in that reflected heaven,
More than Caesarean splendours and delights,
So that it seemed to his young sense was given
* la the same charming style writes William of Newbury, at the end of his chapter on
Mermaids : — " The further question of those green boys, who are said to have risen out
of the earth, is more abstruse than our senses, slender as they are, can examine and re-
solve."
f At the conclusion of the last Crusade.
1839.] The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages.
An uniraagined world of sounds and sights ;_.
Yet, half regretful of the long delay,
He joined some comrades on their common way.
The Spring was mantling that Italian land,
The Spring ! the passion-season of our earth,
The joy, whose wings will never all expand,—
The gladsome travail of continuous birth,—
The force that leaves no creature unimbued
With amorous nature's bland inquietude.
Though those hard sons of tumult and bold life,
Little as might be, own'd the tender power,
And only show'd their words and gestures rife
With the benign excitement of the hour-
Yet one, the one of whom this tale is told,
In his deep soul was utterly controll'd.
New thoughts sprung up within him — new desires
Opened their panting bosoms to the sun ;
Imagination scattered lights and fires
O'er realms before impenetrably dun ;
His senses, energized with wondrous might,
Mingled in lusty contest of delight.
The once inspiring talk of steel and steeds,
And famous captains, lost its ancient zest ;
The free recital of chivalrous deeds
Came to him vapid as a thrice- told jest ;
His fancy was of angels penance-bound
To convoy sprites of ill through heavenly ground.
The first-love vision of those azure eyes,
Twin stars that blest and kept his spirit cool,
Down beaming from the brazen Syrian skies,
Now seem'd the spectral doting of a fool, —
Unwelcome visitants that stood between
Him and the livelier glories of the scene.
What wanted he with such cold monitors ?
What business had he with the past at all ?
Well, in the pauses of those clamorous wars,
Such dull endearment might his heart enthral,
But, in this universe of blissful calm,
He had no pain to need that homely balm.
Occasion, therefore, in itself though slight
He made of moment to demand his stay,
Where some rare houses, in the clear white light,
Like flakes of snow among the verdure lay j
And bade the company give little heed —
He would o'ertake them by redoubled speed.
But now at length resolved to satisfy
The appetite of beauty, and repair
Those torpid years which he had let glide by,
Unconscious of the powers of earth and air»
He rested, roved, and rested while he quaff" d
The deepest richness of the sunny draught.
Eve after eve he told his trusty band
They should advance straight northward on th« morrow,
610 , The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages. [May,
Yet when he rose, and to that living land
Address'd his farewell benison of sorrow,
With loveliest aspect nature answer'd so,
It seem'd almost impiety to go.
Thus days were gather1 d into months, and there
He linger'd saunt'ring without aim or end.
Not unaccompanied ; for wheresoe'er
His steps, through wood, or glen, or field, might tend —
A bird-like voice was ever in his ear,
Divinely sweet and rapturously clear.*
From the pinaster's solemn- tented crown —
From the fine olive spray that cuts the sky —
From bare or flowering summit, floated down
That music unembodied to the eye.
Sometimes beside his feet it seemed to run,
Or fainted, lark-like, in the radiant sun.
Soon as this mystic sound attained his ear,
Barriers arose, impermeable, between
Him and the two wide worlds of hope and fear, —
His life entire was in the present scene ;
The passage of each day he only knew
By the broad shadows and the deep'ning blue.
His senses by such ecstasy possess'd,
He chanced to climb a torrent's slippery side,
And, on the utmost ridge refusing rest,
Took the first path his eager look descried ;
And paused, as one outstartled from a trance,
Within a place of strange significance.
A ruin'd temple of the Pagan world,
Pillars and pedestals with rocks confused, —
Are back into the lap of nature hurl'd,
And still most beautiful, when most abused ;
A paradise of pity, that might move
Most careless hearts, unknowingly, to love.
A very garden of luxurious weeds,
Hemlock in trees, acanthine leaves outspread,
Flowers here and there, the growth of wind-cast seeds,
With vine and ivy draperies overhead ;
And by the access, two nigh-sapless shells,
Old trunks of myrtle, haggard sentinels !
Amid this strife of vigour and decay
An idol stood, complete, without a stain,
Hid by a broad projection from the sway
Of winter gusts and daily rotting rain.
Time and his agents seem'd alike to spare
A thing so unimaginably fair.
* A bird is by no means an uncommon actor in a drama of this kind. It is recorded
that at the Council of Basle, three pious doctors were wont to walk out daily and discuss
points of deep theology, but that, as soon as the song of a certain nightingale reached their
ears, their argument was inevitably confused ; they contradicted themselves, drew false
conclusions, and were occasionally very near tumbling into heresy. The thought struck
one of them to exorcise the nightingale, and the devil flew visibly out of a bush and left
the disputants at peace. See also the beautiful etory of " The Monk and Bird,'1 in Mr
Trench/8 first volume.
1839.] The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages. 611
By what deep memory or what subtler mean
Was it, that at the moment of this sight,
The actual past — the statue and the scene,
Stood out before him in historic light ?
He knew the glorious image by its name —
Venus ! the Goddess of unholy fame.
He heard the tread of distant generations
Slowly defiling to their place of doom ;
And thought how men, and families, and nations
Had trusted in the endless bliss and bloom
Of her who stood in desolation there,
Unwoo'd by love and unrevered by prayer.
Beauty without an eye to gaze on it,
Passion without a breast to lean upon,
Feelings unjust, unseemly, and unfit,
Troubled his spirit's high and happy tone ;
So back with vague imaginative pain
He turn'd the steps that soon return'd again.
For there henceforth he every noon reposed
In languor self-sufficient for the day,
Feeling the light within his eyelids closed j
Or peeping, where the locust, like a ray,
Shot through its crevice, and without a sound,
The insect host enjoyed their airy round.
Day-dreams give sleep, and sleep brings dreams anew ;
Thus oft a face of untold tenderness,
A cloud of woe, with beauty glist'ning through,
Brooded above him in divine distress, —
And sometimes bowed so low, as it would try
His ready lips, then vanish'd with a sigh.
And round him flow'd, through that intense sunshine,
Music, whose notes at once were words and tears ;
" Paphos was mine, and Amathus was mine,
Mine were the Idalian groves of ancient years, —
The happy heart of man was all mine own,
Now I am homeless and alone — alone ! "
At other times, to his long-resting gaze,
Instinct with life, the solid sculpture grew,
And rose transfigured, 'mid a golden haze,
Till lost within the impermeable blue ;
Yet ever, though with liveliest hues composed,
Sad swooning sounds the apparition closed.
As the strong waters fill the leaky boat
And suck it downwards, by unseen degrees ;— *
So sunk his soul, the while it seemed to float
On that serene security of ease,
Into a torpid meditative void,
By the same fancies that before upbuoy'd.
His train, though wond'ring at their changeful lord,
Had no distaste that season to beguile
With mimic contests and well-furnish'd board, —
And even he would sometimes join awhile
Their sports, then turn, as if in scorn, away
From such rude commerce and ignoble play.
612 The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages. [May,
One closing eve, thus issuing1 forth, he cried,
" Land of my love! in thee J east ray lot ; —
Till death thy faithful subject I abide, —
Home, kindred, country, knighthood, all forgot-*.
Names that I heed no more, while I possess
Thy heartfelt luxury of loneliness ! "
That summer night had all the healthy cool
That nerves the spirit of the youthful year ;
Yet, as to eyes long fix'd on a deep pool,
The waters dark and bright at once appear,
So, through the freshness, on his senses soon
Came the warm memories of the lusty noon.
That active pleasure tingling through his veins,
Quickened his pace beneath the colonnade,
Chesnut, and ilex — to the mooned plains
A bronze relief and garniture of shade —
When, just before him, flittingly, he heard
The tender voice of that familiar bird.
Holding his own, to catch that sweeter breath,
And listening, so that each particular sound
Was merged in that attention's depth, his path
Into the secret of the forest wound ;
The clear-drawn landscape, and the orb's full gaze,
Gave place to dimness and the wild- wood's maze.
That thrilling sense, which to the weak is fear,
Becomes the joy and guerdon of the brave ;
So, trusting his harmonious pioneer,
His heart he freely to the venture gave,
And through close brake and under pleached aisle,
Walk'd without sign of outlet many a mile.
When turning round a thicket weariedly,
A building of such mould as well might pass
From graceful Greece to conquering Italy,
Rose, in soft outline from the silvered grass,
Whose doors thrown back and inner lustre show'd
It was no lone and tenantless abode.
Children of all varieties of fair,
And gaily -vested, clustered round the portal,
Until one boy, who had not mein and air
Of future manhood, but of youth immortal,
Within an arch of light, came clear to view,
Descending that angelic avenue.
" Stranger ! the mistress of this happy bower,"
Thus the bright messenger the knight address' d —
" Bids us assert her hospitable power,
And lead thee in a captive or a guest ;
Rest is the mate of night — let opening day
Speed thee rejoicing on thy work and way."
Such gentle bidding might kind answer earn ;
The full-moon's glare put out each guiding star;
He summ'd the dangers of enforced return,
And now first marvell'd he had roved so far :
Then murmur'd glad acceptance, tinged with fear,
Lest there unmeet his presence should appear.
1839.] The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages. 613
Led by that troop of youthful innocence,
A hall he traversed, up whose heaven-topp'd dome
Thick vapours of delightful influence
From gold and alabaster altars clomb,
And through a range of pillar'd chambers pass'd,
Each one more full of faerie than the last.
To his vague gaze those peopled walls disclosed
Graces and grandeurs more to feel than see —
Celestial and heroic forms composed
In many a frame of antique poesy ;
But wheresoe'er the scene or tale might fall,
Still Venus was the theme and crown of all.
There young Adonis scorn'd to yield to her,
Soon by a sterner nature overcome ;
There Paris, happy hapless arbiter,
For beauty barter* d kingdom, race, and home ;
Save what /Eneas rescued by her aid,
As the Didqniau wood-nymph there portrayed.
But ere he scanned them long, a lady enter' d>
In long white robes majestical array 'd,
Though on her face alone his eyes were center'd,
Which weird suspicion to his mind convey'd,
For every feature he could there divine
Of the old marble in the sylvan shrine.
On his bewilderment she gently smiled,
To his confusion she benignly spoke ;
And all the fears that started up so wild
Lay down submissive to her beauty's yoke :
It was with him as if he saw through tears
A countenance long-loved and lost for years.
She ask'd, " if so he willed," the stranger's name,
And, when she heard it, said, " the gallant sound
Had often reach' d her on the wing of fame,
Though long recluse from fortune's noisy round J
Her lot was cast in loneliness, and yet
On noble worth her woman-heart was set."
Rare is the fish that is not mesh'd amain,
When Beauty tends the silken net of praise ;
Thus little marvel that in vaunting strain,
He spoke of distant deeds and brave affrays,
Till each self-glorious thought became a charm
For her to work against him to his harm.
Such converse of melodious looks and words
Paused at the call of other symphonies,
Invisible agencies, that draw the cords
Of massive curtains, rising as they rise,
So that the music's closing swell reveal'd
The paradise of pleasure there conceal'd.
It was a wide alcove, thick wall'd with flowers,
Gigantic blooms, of aspect that appear'd
Beyond the range of vegetative powers,
A flush of splendour almost to be fear'd,
A strange affinity of life between
Those glorious creatures and that garden's Queen.
614 The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages. [May,
Luminous gems were weaving from aloft
Fantastic rainbows on the fountain spray, —
Cushions of broider'd purple, silken-soft,
Profusely heap'd beside a table lay,
Whereon all show of form and hue increas'd
The rich temptation of the coming feast.
There on one couch, and served by cherub hands,
The knight and lady banqueted in joy :
With freshest fruits from scarce discover' d lands,
Such as he saw in pictures when a boy,
And cates of flavours excellent and new,
That to the unpalled taste still dearer grew. ,
Once, and but once, a spasm of very fear
Went through him, when a breeze of sudden cold
Sigh'd, like a dying brother, in his ear,
And made the royal flowers around upfold
Their gorgeous faces in the leafy band,
Like the mimosa touch'd by mortal hand.
Then almost ghastly seem'd the tinted sheen,
Saltless and savourless those luscious meats,
Till quick the Lady rose, with smile serene,
As one who could command but still entreats,
And, filling a gold goblet, kiss'd the brim,
And pass'd it bubbling from her lips to him.
At once absorbing that nectareous draught,
And the delicious radiance of those eyes,
At doubt and terror-fit he inly laugh'd,
And grasp'd her hand as 'twere a tourney's prize ;
And heard this murmur, as she nearer drew,
" Yes, I am Love, and Love was made for you !"
They were alone : th' attendants, one by one,
Had vanish 'd : faint and fainter rose the air
Oppress'd with odours : through the twilight shone
The glory of white limbs and lustrous hair,
Confusing sight and spirit, till he fell,
The will-less, mindless creature of the spell. 1
In the dull deep of satisfied desire
Not long a prisoner lay that knightly soul,
But on his blood, as on a wave of fire,
Uneasy fancies rode without control,
Voices and phantoms that did scarcely seem
To take the substance of an order'd dream.
At first he stood beside a public road,
Hedged in by myrtle and embower' d by plane,
While figures, vested in old Grecian mode,
Drew through the pearly dawn a winding train,
So strangely character'd, he could not know
Were it of triumph or funereal woe. __
For crowns of bay enwreath'd each beauteous head,
Beauty of perfect maid and perfect man ;
1839.] The Goddess Vtnus in the Middle A<ja.
Slow paced the milk-white oxen, garlanded ;
Torch- bearing children mingled as they ran .
Gleaming amid the elder that uphold
Tripods and cups, and plates of chased gold.
But then he marked the flowers were colourless,
Crisp-wither'd hung the honourable leaves,
And on the faces sat the high distress
Of those whom Self sustains when Fate bereaves :
So gazed he, wondering how that pomp would close,
When the dream changed, but not to his repose.
For now he was within his father's hall,
No tittle changed of form or furniture,
But all and each a grave memorial
Of youthful days, too careless to endure,—
There was his mother's housewife-work, and there,
Beside the fire, his grandame's crimson chair :
Where, cowering low, that ancient woman sat,
Her bony fingers twitching on her knee,
Her dry lips mutt' ring fast he knew not what,
Only the sharp convulsion could he see ;
But, as he look'd, he felt a conscience dim
That she was urging God in prayer for him.
Away in trembling wretchedness he turned,
And he was in his leman's arms once more ;
Yet all the jewell'd cressets were out-burned ;
And all the pictured walls, so gay before,
Show'd, in the glimmer of one choking lamp,
Blotch'd with green mould and torn by filthy damp.
Enormous bats their insolent long wings
Whirl'd o'er his head, and swung against his brow,
And shriek'd — " We cozen'd with our minist'rings
The foolish knight, and have our revel now :"
And worms bestrew'd the weeds that overspread
The floor with silken flowers late carpeted.
His sick astonish'd looks he straight address'd
To her whose tresses hjy around his arm,
And fervent breath was playing on his breast,
To seek the meaning of this frightful charm ;
But she was there no longer, and instead
He was the partner of a demon's bed,
That, slowly rising, brought the lurid glare
Of its fix'd eyes close opposite to his ;
One scaly hand laced in his forehead hair,
Threat'ning his lips with pestilential kiss,
And somewise in the fiendish face it wore,
He traced the features he did erst adore.
With one instinctive agony he drew
His sword, that Palestine remember'd well,
And, quick recoiling, dealt a blow so true,
That down the devilish head in thunder fell : —
The effort seem'd against a jutting stone
To strike his hand, and then he woke — alone !
616 The Goddess Venus in the Middle Ages, [May,
Alone he stood amid those ruins old,
His treasury of sweet care and pleasant pain •
The hemlock crush'd defined the body's mould
Of one who long and restless there had lain ;
His vest was beaded with the dew of dawn,
His hand fresh blooded, and his sword fresh drawn !
The eastern star, a crystal eye of gold,
Full on the statued form of beauty shone,
Now prostrate, powerless, featureless and cold,
A simple trunk of deftly carven stone :
Deep in the grasses that dismembered head
Lay like the relics of the ignoble dead.
But Beauty's namesake and sidereal shrine,
Now glided slowly down that pallid sky,
Near and more near the thin horizon line,
In the first gust of morning, there to die, —
While the poor knight, with wilder'd steps and brain,
Hasten' d the glimmering village to regain.
With few uncertain words and little heed
His followers' anxious questions he put by,
Bidding each one prepare his arms and steed,
For «' they must march before the sun was high,
And neither Apennine nor Alp should stay,
Though for a single night, his homeward way."
On, on, with scanty food and rest he rode,
Like one whom unseen enemies pursue,
Urging his favourite horse with cruel goad,
So that the lagging servants hardly knew
Their master of frank heart and ready cheer,"
In that lone man who would not speak or hear.
Till when at last he fairly saw behind
The Alpine barrier of perennial snow,
He seem'd to heave a burthen off his mind, —
His blood in calmer current seemed to flow,
And like himself he smiled once more, but cast
No light or colour on that cloudy past.
From the old Teuton forests, echoing far,
Came a stern welcome, hailing him, restored
To the true health of life in peace or war,
Fresh morning toil, that earns the generous board ;
And waters, in the clear unbroken voice
Of childhood, spoke—" Be thankful and rejoice !"
Glad as the dove returning to his ark,
Over the waste of universal sea,
He heard the huge house-dog's familiar bark,
He traced the figure of each friendly tree,
And felt that he could never part from this,
His home of daily love and even bliss.
And in the quiet closure of that place,
He soon his first affection link'd anew,
In that most honest passion finding grace,
His soul with primal vigour to endue,
And crush the memories that at times arose,
To stain pure joy and trouble high repose.
1839.] The Goddess Venus in the Middle Age*. 617
Never again that dear and dangerous land,
So fresh with all her weight of time and story,
Its winterless delights and slumbers bland,
On thrones of shade, amid a world of glory,
Did he behold : the flashing cup could please
No longer him who knew the poison lees.
So lived he, pious, innocent, and brave,
The best of friends I ever saw on earth :
And now the uncommunicable grave
Has closed on him, and left us but his worth ;
I have revealed this strange and secret tale,
Of human fancy and the powers of bale.
He told it me, one autumn evening mild,
Sitting, greyhair'd, beneath an old oak tree,
His dear true wife beside him, and a child,
Youngest of many, dancing round his knee, —
And bade me, if I would, in fragrant rhymes
Embalm it, to be known in after-times.
Of a similar character to the above him, which, at midnight, in a meeting
is the tale of the young knight, who, of cross roads, he forces upon Venus,
unconsciously or daringly, placed who passes by with a solemn but
his ring on the finger of a statue of hurrying train of attendants, and when
Venus, and returning to repossess she receives it, cries — " Cruel Priest
himself of it, found the finger bent, Palumnus ! art thou never content
and the hand closed. In the old ver- with the harm thou hast done? but
sion of this, which is to be seen in the end of thy persecutions cometh,
Book iii. sect. 8, of the Jesuit del cruel Priest Palumnus." The knight
Rio's Magical Disquisitions (Venetiis, recovers his ring, and is freed from
1616), the phantom goddess ever the enchantment ; but the priest dies
comes between him and the bride he in dreadful agony the third day after-
takes soon after this adventure, and is ward. Eichendorf in German, and
only banished through the mediation Lord Nugent in English, have built
of a priest, named Palumnus, himself stories on this foundation, and the plot
most skilled in necromancy. The of the familiar Opera of Zampa, by
knight receives a parchment from Herold, is slightly varied from it.
SONNET.
ENGLAND has felt of old a tyrant's sway.
The rightful blood of long- descended kings
Has trodden underfoot as abject things
A people's liberties. Through dark dismay
Where chaos brooded, Cromwell won his way
To power supreme, uplifted on the wings
Of a bold spirit ; nor dishonour brings
His rule, who taught the factious to obey
And foes to fear us. But O ! when till now
Was England mastered by a low-born slave
False and faint-hearted ; on whose sordid brow
Shame sits enamoured ; who would dig a grave
For all she venerates, and has breathed a vow
To hate her sons as cowards hate the brave ?
618 Sume Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. . M>»y,
SOME ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY. THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER.
FASCICULUS THE ELEVENTH.
" By my troth I care not— a man can die but once— we owe God a death ; I'll ne'er bear a base
mind : au't be my destiny, so, an't be not, so. No man's too good to serve his prince, and let it go
which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next."— SHAKSPBARE.
" WONDERFUL are the works of na-
ture," as Mick Montague observed to
me, on emerging from the puppet-
show.
So they are, to be sure — and so is
the far-famed city of Westminster.
The far-famed city of Westminster,
as every fool knows, has a famous
abbey. Now this famous abbey, in
days of yore, was a sanctuary for
thieves, robbers, murderers, and other
pious reprobates, who took to their
heels as soon as pursued by the myr-
midons of the law ; and, once they
laid violent hands upon the hem of
some old monk's garment, or got into
the sanctuary, as this sink of perdition
was called, they were forthwith as
safe as the church, and snapped fingers
at the constable — provided always
they had money wherewith to fee the
monks, in default of which they were
incontinently pushed out of the sanc-
tuary, and delivered over to the officers
of justice. This refuge of atrocious
criminals tended, no doubt, greatly to
the honour and glory of God, and ma-
terially enhanced, in those days, the
respectability of Westminster.
There was another class of semi-
clerical scamps, who flourished in these
days, and in this neighbourhood, call-
ed Palmerins, or Palmers, most re-
verend rascals, who, with a scrip on
their shoulders, a scallop in their hats,
and peas (boiled) in their shoes, went
blackguarding round the country,
under pretence of selling Saracen's
heads, cut off in the Holy Land, and
other relics — begging, moreover, what
they could beg, borrowing what they
could borrow, and stealing what they
could steal ; and this they did, as all
scamps of their persuasion do, for the
love of God.
The sanctuary has been abolished —
the monks have been sent to the tread-
mill— the most dreadful punishment
that could possibly be inflicted upon
their reverences — and the palmerins
have gone to a tropical climate, which
I only indicate as the antipodes of the
Holy Land ; nor would any body be
a whit the wiser concerning the pal-
mers, or palmerins, were not the ham-
let, or collection of houses appro-
priated peculiarly to them, called and
known as Palmerin's or Palmer's
Village to this very day.
Of all the human burrows in and
about London, there is not one com-
parable, in its way, to Palmer's Vil-
lage, into which I followed my fair
little guide, under an archway not
much more than four feet high, close
to the mouth of which stood a steam-
engine of peculiar, and to me incom-
prehensible, construction — the en-
gineer uttering at intervals a short
and rapid guttural sound, which I
then conceived to be a warning to
passengers to avoid the engine, but
which more matured experience has
informed me is simply an announce-
ment to the nobility, gentry, his
friends, and the public, that his steam-
ing apparatus contains " baked taters,
a halfpenny a piece — all hot — all hot!"
For the information of the curious
in such matters, who may be induced
by my description to essay the won-
ders of Palmer's Village, I take the
liberty to observe, that, at the further
end of the tunnel, or archway, afore-
said, is a step, over which new comers
are apt to break either their shins
or noses, which accident is facetiously
called by the villagers paying your
footing. When your footing is
thus paid, by your footing being lost,
you emerge into an alley or avenue,
fifteen inches wide, or thereabouts,
affording room for one person, and no
more, to pass along, and fenced on
either side with old barrel staves, bro-
ken iron hoops, and rotten paling of
every variety of scantling. Within
the fence, on either side this path —
which, I should have observed, is
neither paved, nor flagged, nor bitu-
minized, but simply one aboriginal
puddle from end to end — are arranged
the gardens of the respective tene-
ments, two or three palings being
I839i] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
619
omitted from the line of palisade for
the convenience of pigs and tenantry.
No gardens, I am sure, from the hang-
ing gardens of Babylon, to the gin-
drinking gardens of White Conduit
House, can exhibit in the same space
(two yards square each) the variety of
ingenious devices that ornament the
gardens of Palmer's Village. A bit
of any thing green is the only deficiency
observable, but this is supplied by a cu-
rious artistical arrangement of puddle-
holes, dung -heaps, cabbage stalks,
brick-bats, and broken bottles. The te-
nements attached are like nothing on
the face of this world but themselves —
a sort of half-breed between hovel and
wigwam, with the least trace of cot-
tage running in the blood. There are
two stories, with two windows to each,
in the face of these extraordinary vil-
lage edifices — the window containing,
on an average, three old hats, one
flannel petticoat, and two patched
panes of glass — each ; there was also
to each house a doorway, and some
had an apology for a door.
You are not to suppose that there
exists only one avenue through Pal-
mer's Village, or one only straggling
street of the tenements above men-
tioned. There are as many avenues,
lanes, holes and bores, as there used to
be in the catacombs — houses huddled
upon houses, without regard to dis-
cipline or good order ; in short, were
I a magistrate, I should feel inclined
to read the riot act, Palmer's Village
being strictly -within the spirit and
meaning of that enactment — a neigh-
bourhood tumultuously assembled !
The houses, individually, look as if
they deserved to be fined five shillings
every man jack of them, for being
drunk. They had evidently been up
all night, and wore an intoxicated and
disorderly look, which no well-regu-
lated and respectable tenement would
disgrace himself by being seen in.
Stooping under the rotten paling, I
was at length received into one of the
most taterdemalionized mansions, and,
having picked my way up a worn-out
stair to the two-pair back — a miserable
place, wherein a counterpane of patch-
work, spread over a little straw upon
the ground, a broken chair, a stool,
three bars of nail rod stuck in the
chimney by way of grate, with a bit
of the same material to serve for poker,
a frying-pan, a salt herring and a half,
perforated through the optics, upon a
VOt. XLV. NO. CCI.XXXIII.
nail, a tea-kettle, and a smoothing-
iron, made up the ostensible furniture
of the apartment. I sat down, while
the little girl proceeded to get a light,
upon the patch-work quilt, which
served admirably as an ottoman, and
began to meditate in what particular
line of life I should proceed to make
my fortune in splendid London. That
I should make my fortune, and that in
less than no time, I never doubted — as
who ever did, who has read, with the
attention it deserves, the interesting
history of Whittington and his Cat ?
The lady of the house, having packed
up her China oranges, and other fo-
reign fruits, and also having disposed
of the last of her stock of roasted ches-
nuts, at a dreadful sacrifice, " to close
sales," came home at last, bringing our
intended supper, consisting of a pound
and a half of live eels — in her pocket,
and dispatched little Bridget upon
an errand, for a ha'p'orth of loose
sticks and a quarter of a hundred of
coals. Loose sticks, I may as well
apprise the ignorant reader, are nei-
ther more nor less than the ligneous
relics of the woodcutter, after making
up his tidy bundles for sale. This re-
fuse is offered to the poor at the close
of the day's work, and sold, as every
earthly good gift is in London, from
principalities and territories, down to
the sediment of their cisterns and the
dirt of their streets — from turtle and
turbot, to stale sprats and stinking
mackerel — from pine- apples and truf-
fles, at half a- guinea an ounce, to
chickenweed and turnip tops, at a far-
thing the fistful.
The coals and loose sticks having
been procured without much difficulty
— there being, in truth, no difficulty
whatever, in this metropolis, in pro-
curing any thing you may want, if you
have money ready in your hand to pay
for it, civility only excepted — the fry-
ing-pan was put in requisition, the
live eels, seeing that their variegated
contortions procured them no respite,
submitted quietly to be fried out of
existence. A quart of small beer
was sent for, and the little party, the
live eels alone excepted, began to show
that animated twinkle of the eye, and
gratified expansion of countenance, that
not unusually is expressed upon the
physiognomy of a hungry customer,
who expects something good, and
knows where to put it. The eatables
being at length discussed, first being
2 R
Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster- Enter. [May,
620
fairly and jealously apportioned, by
our hospitable entertainer, in four
nearly equal portions, or " halves,"
•which were consumed in much less time
than I take to tell it. Bridget— little
Bridget, I should say, that young lady's
admirable mother being known in
Palmer's Village as " the Bridget" —
having begun to put away, and the
couple of plates and brace of saucers,
which had stood us instead of a service
of plate, having been washed, the
elder Bridget, gazing at me with an
expression of countenance, such as one
puts on when regarding some rare and
curious animal new caught, broke out
in full flood with —
" Arrah ! now, Lord have mercy
upon us, what brought you here at all,
alannah?"
" I came here to get something to
do," said I — lf to better myself."
" To better yerself? An' is it fallin'
down dead in the could streets wid the
hunger ye call betterin' o' yerself?
Have ye ever a trade, honey ?"
" The devil a trade," said I, with
as much carelessness as I could as-
sume.
" Nor no money?"
" Not a cross," replied I, diving
into my penniless pockets, after the
manner of the factory-boy. »
" Nor any body to look to yees?"
enquired the lady of Seville.
" Nobody but myself."
" Oh ! wirra — oh ! wirra — oh ! wir-
rasthrtie — my poor boy — my poor
boy!" began the Cork woman, wring-
ing her hands, poking down her head
between her knees, moving her person
backwards and forwards with a motion
not at all unlike a bumboat rolling at
anchor, and commencing one of those
unearthly and barbarous yells, which
the learned and cultivated old Irish
let out at times of distress and lamen-
tation ; a practice which, in this poor
woman's case, was really indicative of
concern, and therefore less abhorrent
to my feelings than the hired yells of
the mercenary s.ava|jes who follow
funerals, proclaiming to the ears of
the whole country round that they are
neither more nor less than wild beasts
howling in the wilderness.
My landlady kept undulating, howl-
ing, and wirraslruing, for at least an
hour by Westminster clock — a most
satisfactory expression, no doubt, of
her desire for the success of a young
Irish adventurer, but not quite so gra-
tifying to my feelings, howled over in
this manner, as if I had been no better
than a lost mutton.
When her lungs were quite gone,
and she had arrived at that state of
pulmonary exhaustion which the fa-
culty are in the habit of expressing
scientifically by the strictly profes-
sional periphrasis of " bellows to
mend," the orange-woman expressed
a decided opinion, that a little drop of
cream of the valley would do her all
the good in the world, enquiring of
your humble servantinthesaiuebreath,
whether 1 had ever, in my life, tasted
cream of the valley. I revolved in my
own mind all the lacteous modifica-
tions that had ever traversed my oeso-
phagus, as, for instance, curds and
whey, strawberries and cream, ped-
lar's cream, iced cream, cream cheese,
milk punch, Glasgow ditto, sack pos-
set — all other milks and cream?,
moreover, whereof thedairyman knows
less than the perfumer, such as cold
cream, milk of roses, and the like —
Irish white wine I thought of, and
buttermilk — but was at last fairly
driven to confess that I was innocent
of the flavour of cream of the valley.
" Arrah, do ye know, at all at all,
what it is, ye gommaugh ?" enquired
the orange- woman, indignantly.
" No, indeed, ma'am," replied I,
abashed at the limited extent of my
lacteous information.
(( Why thin," said my hostess, rap-
turously— " 'tis nothing at all but the
sweetest of mountain dew, wid roses
and lilies in it!"
" Good heavens!" exclaimed I,
licking my lips ; " then it must be
nectar, indeed."
Little Bridget was quickly dis-
patched for a quartern of this precious
fluid, and returned in less than five
seconds — live where you will in Lon-
don, the public-house is always next
door but two — ushering in a rather
elderly lady, with a compressed lip
and severe eye — a lady formally intro-
duced to me as Mrs Spikins, what
lived in the two-pair front, and took
in washing. Little Bridget set about
scouring the chair for the accommo-
dation of this lady, who amused her-
self, in the interval, in discussing the
cream of the valley with our hostess,
that very discussion being, to say the
truth, the sole purpose she had in view
— for I cou-.d not help wondering that
the preliminary screaming and howl-
1839.] SOMC Account of Himself . By tie Irish Oyster- Eat<>r.
ing of her noiglibour had by no means
acted so attractively as the magnet of
a quartern of gin.
Gin ! cheap luxury of the labourer
in London— sweet solace of the la-
bourer's wife — mother's milk of the
labourer's child! Gin! to procure
thee, what will not mechanics do, and
what will not their wives consign fo
the disinterested keeping of " my
uncle!" Gin! thou pallid demon, re-
flecting thy hideousness in every face
we meet — slow poison thou, but sure
. — how many thousands of hapless
wretches hast thou consigned to an
early and unpitied grave !
Mrs Spikins seemed to consider the
pallid demon a very choice spirit, and
Dipped and gossippcd, and gossipped
and sipped, until more than two quart-
erns, or three cither, of the mountain
dew, with roses in it, had evaporated
from the face of the earth. My unfor-
tunate condition, and hardly less fortu-
nate prospects, formed a not inconsi-
derable topic of discourse between Mrs
Spikins and my landlady— a thousand
modes of livelihood' being proposed to
me, and abandoned, from their impos-
sibility, as soon as mooted. At last,
Mrs Spikins, slapping both legs with
both hands, and expanding her lipless
mouth, grinned a declaration of dis-
covery, and protested that she knew a
wrinkle that would make my fortune.
This being the very object most at
heart, I implored the lady what took
in washing to keep me no longer in
suspense ; whereupon the lady in-
formed me, that somebody had told
some other body as told her, that at
{til the daily newspaper offices through-
out the metropolis, the advertisements
were exhibited gratis, and that, if I
got up betimes, and went round from
one to the other, I should surely see
something to suit me to a nicety.
It was now long past midnight, and
the cream of the valley being all gene,
the lady what took in washing ha'viHg1
also gone the moment that the cream
of the valley aforesaid was fully dis-
cussed, there seemed nothing for it but
to goto bed, which wo accordingly1 did,
in manner and form following : — Lit-
tle Bridget having disrobed behind Me
chair, slipped under the counterpane.
Bridget the great then unloosed her
dresses and decorations, as far as de-
cency would permit, put out the rush-
light, and turned in with her daughter ;
the only arrangement practicable for
me being to repose "heads and points"
on the outside of the patchwork quilf,
whereon I laid myself down to rest
accordingly, regretting much that ti;e
Londoners would be unable to avail
themselves of my transcendent talents
until the following day, and fully dr.
termincd to have nothing to do wiih
any employer who would not eon.c
down with a handsome salary, treat,
me as one of the family, and' give me
a share in the business.
The grey dawn of morning was be-
ginning to appear, when I started f'i om
my dreams of lofd mayors and gold
chains, bags of money, ribs of roast-
beef, and 1 know not what other i'eli-
cacies, and prepared to make a tour of
the newspaper offices, preliminary to
fixing on some light and profitable
business — light, because I had a natu-
ral and instinctive anlipathy to work
— and profitable, because I had a
natural and instinctive fondness for
money. In short, a sinecure, I con-
cluded, would be just the thing for my
money, and came to the conclusion
that, if there was a sinccurist adver-
tised for in any of the morning papers,
I would start off, and offer my ser-
vices on the spur of the moment. As
I walked through the streets on my way
towards the Strand — (which I expected
fo find a Smooth pebbly beach, with
bathing-boxes and fishing-boats lying
all about, enlivened by groups of little
bare-legged urchins wading in search
of shrimps) — the sons of labour were
hastening in all directions to the com-
mencement of their daily toil — tlio
milk-man sent forth his peculiar cry
—and the little half-naked chimney-
sweepers, bare-legged and black, emit-
ted " sw — e — e — p," with a melan-
choly that struck me to the heart. I
will not fatigue the reader with the
difficulties I encountered in finding
my way to the newspaper offices — his
experience of a fir.>t visit to London
will supply him amply with tender re-
collections of his owii exploratory an-
noyances—let it be enough that the
newspaper office- was opened at last,
and a copy of the paper, reeking from
the press, having been pasted, by a
dirty devil, upon a sheet of brown
paper in the outer office" or counting--
house, for the convenience of persons
advertising, I was permitted gratui-
tously to consult the same. I gazed
for some minutes, in speechless as-
tonishment, at the vast number and
Soms Account uf Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eat^. [May,
622
extraordinary diversity of the an-
nouncements, from the first ship for
Madras and Calcutta, which formed
the advanced guard, down to the plain
cook, who could have a twelvemonth's
character from her last place ; or the
valet, who could dress hair, air lap-
dogs, and had no objection to town or
country. I was there informed, that
if the relatives of Muggins, who was
born in the year 1701, and was not
unreasonably supposed to be defunct,
would apply to Figgins, attorney-at-
law,they (the Mugginses, to wit) would
hear of something to their advantage ;
and that if Higgins, who ran away from
home, having first broken the till, and
carried off his father's loose change,
would return to his disconsolate pa-
rents, all would be forgiven, and he
would be afforded an early opportu-
nity of breaking the till a second time,
and running away as before. Next
came awful announcements of sales,
under decrees of the High Court of
Chancery — lodgings to let in different
parts of the town, every lodging of
them being, curiously enough, exactly
within five minutes' walk of all the pub-
lic offices — boarding-houses, musical
and select, in the immediate vicinity
of Russell Square ; every boarding-
house out of the United States being
in this vicinity, and no other, where
one lady or one gentleman, or a gen-
tleman and his wife, or a wife and her
gentleman, or two sisters, or two bro-
thers, or three or more twins, or a
limited or unlimited number of select
ladies or gentlemen, might be received
into a corresponding number of va-
cancies, at all prices, from fifteen shil-
lings a-week to fifty, extras not inclu-
sive. Sir John Brute, I observed,
informed tradesmen and the public,
that " he would be accountable for no
debts that might be contracted by his
wife, Lady Brute, she having left his
house without any provocation what-
ever." Her ladyship, in the adver-
tisement immediately following, " re-
quests the public to suspend their
judgment upon the circumstances,
until she is sufficiently recovered from
the dreadful beating received from her
drunken spouse, to lay the particulars
of her connubial felicity before them."
Thelandlordof the Catand Compasses,
Little Cow Cross Street, Smithfield,
informs Mr Erasmus Twig, that if he
(Twig) does not, within three calen-
dar days, pay his bill at the Cat and
Compasses, his portmanteau, with the
contents, will be sold to defray expenses
— which announcement, when Twig
beholds, he is ready to burst with
laughing, well knowing that the de-
voted portmanteau contains nothing
more saleable than brick-bats and saw-
dust. Next came announcements for
sale of heroic horses, who will rather
die than run — all and singular being
the genuine property of a gentleman
— horse-chopper, understood.
There was an announcement from
Morison, the pill-monger, informing
a discerning public how many of his
agents had been convicted of man-
slaughter, and how much his poison
was to be had for per bushel — there
were also numerous puffing rhodo-
montades from other unhanged quacks.
I observed, that " a surgeon was re-
quired for a free pauper (!) emigrant
ship, bound for Botany Bay — he would
be accommodated with a passage out,
but not home — would not be required
to go aloft, but expected to take his
turn at the pumps — no wages — a fel-
low of the college of physicians pre-
ferred." Application was directed to
be made, by the applicants for this
highly paid office, to " Judas Iscariot
Crimp, government transportation
agent, Birchen Lane, Cornhill."
How I lamented my hard fate in not
being a fellow of the college of phy-
sicians !
I read with much attention a requi-
sition for " a classical assistant, who
would be expected to take, in addi-
tion, the highest mathematical and
junior copy-book classes — French, the
language of the school — would have
the charge of the boys during play-
hours, and sleep in the dormitory—
salary £20 per annum, tea and wash-
ing not included. N.B — Must be a
graduate, in honours, of Oxford or
Cambridge."
" Curse on my stingy old aunt," I
exclaimed, in a fury, " for not send-
ing toe to Oxford or Cambridge, where
I might have graduated in honours,
and so made sure of this splendid si-
tuation for life ! What care I for tea
— and as for washing, I thank my
stars that I have always been accus-
tomed to wash for myself."
Thus I repined — but where was the
use of repining?— I was not, alas! a
graduate in honours of Cambridge or
Oxford.
An advertisement from a young
1839.] So>ne Account of Himself . By the Irish Oysltr-Euttr.
man, offering " to lend, on good secu-
rity, two or three thousand pounds to
any firm who would procure the ad-
vertiser the place of light warehouse-
man, or any other decent employ-
ment." Here, thought I to myself,
now, is a man who, if he were unfor-
tunately born in Ireland, would have
horse?, guns, and dogs, go to gam-
bling-houses, and race- courses, ride
steeple-chaces, and, conducting him-
self to all outward appearance like a
blackguard, would shoot through the
head, without ceremony, any body
who denied that he was a gentleman
— God help them — God mend them!
I was forcibly struck with the case
of a master tailor at the west end of
the town, who announced himself in
want of a first-rate cutter, — salary,
with constant employment, five guineas
per week.
Heavens ! what do the graduates in
honours of Oxford and Cambridge,
and the Fellows of the College of Phy-
sicians, say to that "i — look on this
picture and on this — the remuneration
that attends a life of study, and the
prospects held out to a first-rate cut-
ter!
And now — for I see no reason that
a man who has done no good for him-
self, ought not, nevertheless, to do
good for others — if I have nothing else
to bestow, I can be munificent in ad-
vice ; and the experience which has
cost me the prime of my life, and all
my money, under my hand and seal, I
here present to your worship for no-
thing. I say, if there be in all Eng-
land one elderly gentleman — in Ire-
land they are as plenty as blackberries
— one man to whom years have not
brought experience, nor grey hairs
wisdom — who, to gratify a senile va-
nity, spends his little all upon giving
to his sons lofty professions, towards
success in which they have neither
capital, patrons, nor connexions, and
then turns them out upon a heartless
world, with their pride and profession
to sustain, in genteel poverty and re-
luctant idleness, the burden of a break-
ing heart — if there be one father of a
family about to sacrifice his son at the
shrine of his own fantastic vanity, let
me assure him, in sober sadness, that
a good trade is a good thing — that
professions are a drug in the market
of society — that the fruit of his loins
will never turn out Lord High Chan-
cellor or Archbishop of Canterbury,
623
whatever he may think to the con-
trary— that his goslings will never
grow up into swans— and that he him-
self, with reverence be it spoken, is
neither more nor less than an old
fool !
Finding nothing in the leading morn-
ing journals to suit me — every one
there advertising for employment
being prepared to give douceurs to any
amount, and persons who had employ-
ments to bestow putting them up for
sale — I turned my weary steps towards
an office in which I was informed good
livelihoods were advertised ; a liveli-
hood was a living, and, as Goldsmith
said of himself in circumstances hard-
ly dissimilar, " all my ambition was
how to live." But I found it here as
elsewhere — every thing at its full va-
lue, and nothing for nothing. An
active lad, who could command fifty
pounds to put into the business, might,
I observed, be permanently employed
as pot-boy ; and a gentleman's ser-
vant, or man and his wife, with eight
or nine hundred pounds, might be in-
troduced (well they might !) into a
right good living. There were a few
advertisements for light-porters and
bar-men, with a to me highly grati-
fying postscript, to the effect that no
emerald need apply ! There was also
a requisition from the vestry-clerk of
the parish of Mary-le-bone, for a num-
ber of labourers to scour out a sewer
that polluted the neighbourhood ; to
this there was no sentence of exclusion
against Irishmen attached, for obvious
reasons.
But why fatigue the reader with the
minutiae of my unsuccessful exertions ?
Suffice it to say that for ten days —
during which time the benevolent
fruiteress, with that overflowing kind-
liness of heart which is the distinguish-
ing characteristic of the poorest class
of Irish towards one another, gave me
share of what she idiomatically termed
" her bite and her sup" — I tried for em-
ployment everywhere, and was every-
where repulsed. One informed me,
that he wouldn't take an Irishman if
he was paid for keeping him ; another
demanded to know if I had a two years'
character ; a third wished me to un-
derstand, before entering into parti-
culars, that I would be expected to
" come down" with a fifty-pound
" flimsey," as security for the trust
reposed ; while a Hebrew in Hounds-
ditch, who wanted a buyer in his rag-
Some Account of Himstlf. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [May,
624
store, peremptorily declared, " dat
he couldn't give no monish, by Gosh,
to no buyer fat hadn't a 'spectable
connexion in deragsh bishness !" In
short, nobody would take me for no-
thing now, because nobody had en-
joyed my services previously at the
same price ; and it appeared that I was
fit for nothing in time to come, be-
cause I had, unfortunately, been un-
able to get anything in times gone by.
The five shillings given me as I lay on
the ground, by the drunken sailor, had
long been exhausted ; hope was oozing
out of my broken-hearted carcase, like
Bob Acres's courage at the tips of his
fingers, and despondency and despair
looked out at either eye, like a couple
of jail-birds peeping from their respec-
tive cells in Cold-bath-fields prison.
It was as plain as the nose on Lord
Morpeth's face — a figure intelligible
to the meanest capacity — that I had
nothing for it but to embrace the mi-
litary profession, to escape experienc-
ing for the second, and probably last
time, the agonies of hunger ; to save
my life by perilling it iu the service
of his Majesty ; to sell myself, body
and soul, to my country, for an un-
limited term of service, for a glass of
grog and a shilling !
I think I told the reader that West-
minster, in the olden time, was a hor-
rid nest of monks and other profli-
gates. The monks are gone, but all
the other vagabonds remain in full
force and effect, as the law-makers
call it, to this very day. Westminster
is the emporium of crimps, recruiting
sharks, Sergeant Kites, and the haunt
of their desperate and hopeless vic-
tims— the last refuge of the destitute
in London. Every neighbourhood in
the metropolis has its character — an
individuality about it ; all are, to be
sure, composed alike of bricks, mor-
tar, blue-moulded stucco, and bad
taste. Yet each locality is as different
in nature, and as far removed in the
b.jcial scale from its fellows, as if, in-
stead of being part and parcel of one
enormous whole, it was removed half
the earth's diameter from its neigh-
bour. Thus, for example, Arlington
Street is aristocratic ; Park Lane, par-
ticular ; Stafford Plauc, suspicious ;
and the Albany, rakish. Russell
Square, again, as every body knows,
is very middling indeed ; while the
New Road is out of all question.
Mnry-lc-bone is mixed ; Peutonvillc,
low cockney ; and Clerkenwell, abo-
minable. Spitalfields is starved ;
Southwark, stupid ; Somerstown, re-
fugee; Bayswater, genteel; Kensing-
ton Gore, ditto ; Wandsworth and
Vauxhall, shabby ditto ; Kingsland and
Hoxton, beastly ; but Westminster —
let me see — yes, Westminster is — I
have hit upon the very word — West-
minster is rascally ! A man has no
right to libel a neighbourhood, any
more than a neighbour ; and, there-
fore, when I say Westminster is ras-
cally, I beg to be understood to limit
my reprobation to that part of it which
lies between the Broad Sanctuary and
Pimlico, thence extending south and
west, and not to extend, or be con-
strued to extend, to Belgrave Square,
Eaton Square, and parts thereunto
adjacent.
If you happen to be passing along
Tothill Street late at night— a pro-
ceeding I would recommend you to
avoid as you value an integral skull—-
you find numbers of hulking fellows
in smock-frocks, and every possible
variety of costume, loitering about ;
every second house is a gin-palace,
filled choke-full with low prostitutes
and their pals ; while, from the pre-
mises in the rear, there issue obscure
sounds of clandestine music and sur-
reptitious dancing. There are some
fenr eating-houses in this neighbour-
hood, too ; but they are usually empty
— Westminster generally dining from
home, and the eating there bearing
about the same proportion to the drink-
ing, as Falstaff's halfpennyworth of
bread to his two gallons of sack. It
was to this classic region, then, that
I betook myself, when hunger had in-
spired me with the martial fire of the
God of war himself; and, pausing op-
posite one of the most densely popu-
lated spirituous pandemoniums, I was
attracted by two tawdry prints in the
window, the one representing six or
seven gallant warriors in red coats,
spatch-cocking, with their united
bayonets, a half-naked native of Hin-
dostan ; the other depicting, with
equally graphic effect, the scarlet war-
riors distributing the spoils of the na-
tive aforesaid, deceased. Underneath,
in large letters, was the following at-
tractive announcement : —
" Bringers of good men, five feet
seven, twelve shillings — five feet six,
six shillings, cash down, on passing
the doctor." Now, I happen to be
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 625
five feet eleven, or thereabouts, and
calculating myself, bones and offal in-
cluded, at six shillings an inch — that
being the rate of human flesh in these
days for military purposes, I deter-
mined that, if a man five feet seven
gave a bounty to the crimps of twelve
shillings, a fellow five feet eleven was
ffiirly entitled to just four times six
shillings more ; whereupon I strutted
into the gin palace, determined to have
value for every extra inch, and to be
my own bringer. The place was
crammed so full of crimps, briugers,
recruiting sergeants, watchmen, raw
recruits, and gentlemen like myself,
intending to embrace the heroic line,
that I had leisure to retreat into the
back premises where the votaries of
Terpsichore were engaged, in what
some classic author, with equal tender-
ness and taste, calls " sweating the
boards." An old man, blind, rolling
about his sightless orbs, as if in search
of light, his head thrown back on his
shoulders, and his mouth habitually
open, to receive the drink of all kinds
which the customers poured liberally
down his throat, thundered away, upon
a cracked grand piano, something like
a strathspey or jig, to which time was
beat by a couple of ladies in black
eyes, and a corresponding number of
gentlemen, with sticking plaster upon
the bridges of their respective noses —
the apartment reeking with tobacdo,
beer, foul breath, onions, and garlic.
I sate down on a bench in the farthest
corner of this choice assembly-room,
and scanned curiously the extraordi-
nary groups of human life that filled
every table. Here, a parcel of guards-
men, having succeeded in making an
old watchman beastly drunk, were en-
gaged in dissecting his rattle— there,
a lady lay against the wall, rather
" overcome," insensible, apparently,
to the delicate attentions of a couple of
raw recruits, who were engaged, with
the assistance of soot mixed with beer,
in converting her visage to the com-
plexion of Othello — close to a wall,
whereto was attached a machine like
a magnified shoe- maker's rule, but
which was, in fact, a standard of mea-
surement for recruiting purposes, stood
a pale young man, of rather gentle-
manly appearance, dressed in a suit of
hungry black, and looking every whit
as hungry as his dress. A recruiting
sergeant, in full uniform, his cap over-
shadowed with ribbons of every con-
ceivable colour, stooped down to ex-
amine the calves of the gentlemanlike
young man's legs, who stood under
the standard craning his neck, and
elevating himself on tip toe, as if by
taking thought he could add a cubit
to his stature.
" Do you think I'll do ?" said the
gentlemanlike young man, with a face
as long as if his life depended (which
it probably did) on his receiving a fa-
vourable answer.
" Do I think you'll do ? — not I, by
my soul, unless you pull out like a
pocket spy-glass," was the unsatisfac-
tory reply.
" Let me have a look at him," said
another of the recruiting sergeants,
pressing forwards, seizing upon the
gentlemanlike young man, turning
him round and round, feeling his arms,
legs, and ribs, like a South Carolina
slave-buyer at a Yankee " free and
independent" Nigger-market.
" I'm not as fat as I was," said the
gentlemanlike young man — " I've
been three years usher at a select
school for young gentlemen."
" Usher !" said one of the recruit-
ing sergeants, with a scornful laugh —
" blast you, if you had served the king
three years like a gentleman, your ribs
wouldn't be sticking through your
pelt, blast me ! You might have been
a lance corporal by this time, blast
me!"
" Could you get me passed ?" en-
quired the usher, despondingly.
" Me! The doctor will pass you, if
you're all sound, and no corns on your
toes : hold out your hand, blast you!"
said serjeant Kite, exhibiting, as he
said it, a shilling between his finger
and thumb.
" You consent to serve his Majesty,
take notice, for an unlimited period,
by land and sea, in peace and war^— to
be subject to the mutiny act and the
articles of "war — and to behave in all
things as become* an honourable man
and a good soldier ?" said Sergeant
Kite, grasping the extended palm of
the usher, and suspending in air the
shilling. " I do," was the reply.
The music stopped — the dancers
gave over, joining the rest of the room
in crowding round the young man, who
stood under the standard leaning
against t!;e wall, one hand grasped in
the hand of Sergeant Kite, while the
other tremulously sustained a glass of
wine to be quaffed off, the moment he
626 Svrne Account of Himself,
was enlisted, to his Majesty's health.
One of the ladies in black eyes pinned
a flash cockade to the young gentle-
man's hat, and replaced it sideways
on his head — pipes were taken out of
mouths, and pots and glasses raised,
in eager expectation of the coming
toast — the shilling went slap into the
By the Irish Oyster- Eater. [May,
hat one after the other. 1 could see
him refer continually to a scrap of
dirty paper before him, which was
covered with blots and scratches of the
pen, to me altogether unintelligible,
but which seemed to serve the haggard
man as the storehouse of his ideas,
upon whatever topic he was at that
youn<* man's palm, with a sound like a moment scribbling with such railroad
musket-shot. " The King !" exclaim- rapidity.
ed Sergeant Kite, enthusiastically —
" hurra, hurra, hurra!" responded the
whole room — the lady of the Othello
visage started from her snooze, and
the watchman essayed in vain to
spring his dissected rattle — the wine
was gulped, the shilling pocketed, and
the usher from that moment convert-
ed into a hero !
" How happy the soldier who lives on his
Pa7»
And spends half-a-crown out of sixpence a
day !"
said, or rather sung, a tallow-faced
man as he entered the room, advanc-
ing to a table where a haggard look-
ing mm was scribbling away in a
black leather note-book, and invited the
haggard gentleman to drink of his
(the tallow-faced man's) pot of beer to
his Majesty's health.
The haggard man was below the
middle size, and apparently about
forty-five years of age — he might be
no more than thirty, for his face was
one of those faces where toil has anti-
cipated time — his mouth and chin were
enveloped in a shabby cotton shawl —
his dress was poor and slovenly ; but
his forehead was large and intellectual ;
thin flakes of hair negligently strayed
over it, and looking as if they had
been parched by the continual work-
ing of the brain beneath. I saw at a
glance that he was a man habitually
engaged in mental labour of some
sort, and looked at him with reverence ;
for knowing that in London literary
persons were abjectly poor, and, of
course, held by every body, from the
baron to the bag- man, in great and
deserved contempt, I concluded he
might be an author.
In his left hand he grasped a small
portable ink-bottle, a quiver of arrows
in the shape of pens lay before him, a
pot of beer at his elbow, and a pen in
his fingers, with which he rattled over
the paper with the rapidity of light-
ning, tearing out the leaves as he com-
pleted each, and flinging them into his
The noise, tumult, oaths,
dancing, piano-playing, and black-
guardism going on, appeared to give
this gentleman no manner of uneasi-
ness : he scribbled and scribbled away,
without so much as looking about
him, his sole relaxation being the fre-
quent entombment of his face in the
recesses of the pot before him, and a
silent gesture to the dirty pot-boy, to
intimate his desire of having the empty
pot refilled.
After vain attempts to induce the
haggard man to leave off his penman-
ship, for the purpose of drinking to
his Majesty's health, the crimp (for
such was the tallow-faced man) hon-
oured me with a similar invitation, the
which, being ready to drop down dead
with thirst, 1 readily accepted.
" Perhaps," said the crimp, " you
might be inclined to serve his Majesty
as well as drink to him ?"
" Perhaps I might," said I, " if tile
bounty be good."
" You're a likely young chap," re-
marked the crimp, approvingly.
" My mother always thought so,"
replied I.
" You're the full standard height?"
enquired the tallow-faced man.
" More than that by four inches,"
I replied.
" Take another pull," said the crimp,
handing me the half-empty pot.
" Here's luck, then," said I, " and
more of the best of it."
To make a long story short, I was
put under the standard, and discovered
to be tall enough for any thing in the
army — the Household Brigade only
excepted ; so that, if I did not get a
good regiment, it was not for want of
plenty of them among which to pick
and choose. My ribs, and calves, and
arms, were fingered all over; my shoes
were pulled oft', to see if I had bunions
or corns to interfere with a march ;
and my stockings were pulled down to
see if I had varicose veins in my legs,
or scars on my shins. My head was
carefully looked over for the marks of
blows or cuts, and I was desired by
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
6-27
Sergeant Kite to cough several times,
in order to ascertain whether I might
not be iu the condition of " bellows to
mend." I was put by the tallow-faced
man into all sorts of attitudes, for the
purpose of ascertaining the state of
uiy muscular conformation ; and, after
some demurring to the roundnessof my
shoulders, and my being cursed small
over the hips (which I always consi-
dered rather a beauty than a blemish
in a man), it was determined that I
should be enlisted, subject to the ap-
probation of the doctor, and be per-
mitted to stand to be shot at iu battles
wherein I had no earthly concern, for
uiy allowances, prize-money, and six-
pence a-day. I was put under the
standard, theglass of wine was brought,
the ladies and gentlemen gathered
round as before — a lady in a black
eye was preparing my cockade — Ser-
geant Kite stood like an auctioneer
ready to knock me down to his Ma-
jesty for a shilling — the heroic usher,
by this time nine parts drunk, stand-
ing by to welcome a new companion
in arms.
" 'Tis no use starving," I exclaim-
ed in a loud voice, as I held out my
hand, looking round the room wist-
fully, as if to make my own use of my
optics for the last time — " 'Tis no use
starving."
" Not a bit of it — hiccup — I don't
like that school— hiccup— the army
for ever — hiccup — and confusion —
hiccup — to select — hiccup — semina-
ries," hiccuped the heroic instructor of
young gentlemen.
" You consent to serve his Majesty,
take notice," said Kite, commencing
I, is professional harangue, " for an un-
limited period in"
" I was a gentleman once," said I,
with true Hibernian assumption of
gentility — a thing, by the way, com-
pounded of beggarly poverty and
more beggarly pride — " I was a gen-
tleman once."
" So you are now," said the tallow-
faced man ; " every soldier is a gen-
tleman."
" You are a gentle — hiccup — man
--give me your — hiccup — I'm glad to
— hiccup — your acquaintance," said
the heroic usher, proffering his hand
and pot.
" Yes," I repeated, " I was a gen-
llcman."
" Don't interrupt," observed Ser-
geant Kite " in peace and war, by
land and sea, to be subject to the mu-
tiny act and the articles of war, and
to behave in all things as becomes"
" Yes," said I, " as I said before, I
was a gentleman — a gentleman of the
press."
The haggard man started up. I
looked at him, and observed sticking
in one eye a half-crown piece, while
he transmitted to me a volley of most
significant winks with the other. I
thought I saw meaning in his wink,
and my martial ardour dropped down
to zero in a moment.
" Cut it short, sergeant," said I,
withdrawing my hand, and stuffing it
into my breeches pocket for greater
security — " Cut it short — I shan't
enlist this turn."
Sergeant Kite, the tallow-faced
crimp, and the heroic usher, fell back
two paces, each in speechless asto-
nishment at this unlooked-for an-
nouncement.
" You're too late, my buck," said
the crimp — " you can't back out now."
" You're enlisted already, by ,''
said the sergeant.
" You're enlisted, by — hiccup" —
echoed the heroic usher.
" Excuse me, gentlemen," said I;
" but I haven't taken the shilling."
Sergeant Kite threw the shilling
dexterously at my bosom, in the hope
it might stick ; but I was too quick
for him, and the coin fell on the floor.
" You drank his Majesty's beer,"
said the crimp, black in the face with
fury.
" You have his Majesty's wine in
your cowardly fist," said Sergeant
Kite.
" You drank my — hiccup"— echoed
the heroic usher.
" His Majesty," said I, " is too
much of a gentlemen to grudge a loyal
subject a drop of his beer, or wine
either ; so here's health and happiness to
him, and confusion to all his enemies."
Sergeant Kite stumped and roared
with rage ; the tallow-faced crimp's
face was like to burst ; and the heroic
usher staggered speechlessly about the
room.
The haggard man, I observed, had
put up all his traps, titted his hat
tightly on his head, and turned up the
cuffs of his coat rather ominously — I
presume he saw how matters would
end.
'* You're enlisted, I tell you," said
Kite, " and blast me if you stir!"
628 Some Account of Himself .
t( You don't mean to say you'll keep
me here against my will ?" I enquired.
" I mean to say you're a soldier,
and under my command — so halt!"
" Ay, halt ! you cowardly, white-
livered, rascally sponge," said the crimp,
setting his teeth at me in a position so
favourable for being sent down his
throat, that I could not help, though
I had died for it the next moment,
drawing my left fist — rather an ugly
customer — and planting a smashing
facer immediately on his expanded
mug, which improved the crimp's phy-
siognomy by the instantaneous addi-
tion of a hare-lip, and sent all his in-
cisors and canines smack down his
throat " on particular service."
" Bolt for your life," said the hag-
gard man, starting to his feet — " run,
or you're a dead man — fly for your
life, sir" — repeated the haggard man,
clearing his way towards the door, and
bestowing on Sergeant Kite, who had
By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [May,
half withdrawn his sabre from its
sheath, a blow under the hilt of the
ear, which sent that functionary whirl-
ing round on his axis, and finally in-
volved him and the heroic usher in one
tremendous fall; whereupon we leaped
over the prostrate pair, and laying
about us hot and heavy, cleared our
passage to the street door, when the
haggard man, taking the lead, wound
and doubled in and out of the lanes
and alleys at the rise of Tothill Street,
emerged into the Broad Sanctuary,
ran like fury through St Margaret's
Churchyard, skirted Westminster
Hall, over the bridge, and never drew
bridle — breath I should say — until,
opening by means of a latch key the
door of a small house in an obscure
part of the neighbourhood of the Wa-
terloo Road, my preserver began to
clamber up the stairs in the dark,
dragging me after !
FASCICULUS THE TWELFTH.
" Ah ! q'une belle demoiselle c'est une etrange affaire.'' — MOLIERE.
I came, through the instrumentality
of the haggard man, who was a native
of Cork, by name Teague O' Desmond
O' Swizzle, to be employed in very re-
spectable business as a suck mug. A
suck- mug, I would respectfully give
your ladyship to understand, is a galley-
slave chained to a newspaper press, and
working himself to an oil for whatever
he can possibly get — which amounts to
as little as his employers choose to give
him, that being the usual remuneration
of literary persons, of whatever de-
scription. If you happen to be crossing
Hyde Park, or any other park or place,
and get knocked down by a shabby-
genteel pallid-faced man, who is run-
ning for his bare life, with a bundle of
quill pens (steel does not write fast
enough) sticking out of one pocket,
and a quire of foolscap out of the other,
that man is a suck-mug. He has been
attending a coroner's inquest at Bays-
water, and is now running to attend
another at the Pig and Whistle, near
Vauxhall. If you are in Whitechapel
in the evening, you see the same man
returning from the East India Docks,
whither he went to enquire about an
extensive robbery of gold dust, and to
write a long paragraph about it, which
his employers cut down to four lines,
value twopence ! You see the same
man, two hours after, going out of one
river-side public house into another,
in search of " Lives lost on the river ;"
"when, if he b« lucky enough to hear
that three young men, named Sprig-
gins, Huggins, and Jiggins, residing
in Long Lane, Bermondsey, were
drowned that evening, returning from
Blackwall, he rubs his hands with
delight, runs off to the newspaper
office, puts in the deaths of Spriggins,
Huggins, and Jiggins, and returns joy-
ously to his family — who live in a gar-
ret over Westminster Bridge — with as
much as will buy a polony a-piece,
and a pot of beer for supper ! In the
morning he is off by daylight, to see
whether the bodies of Spriggins, Hug-
gins, and Jiggins have been found ;
if so, he gets his breakfast by that ;
and the report of the coroner's inquest,
the day after, brings him in food for
that day. He drinks at all times, and
in all places, like afish or coal- whipper;
and if you put him into a hogshead of
double X, he sucks it all up, at every
pore of his skin. He is an Irishman,
this hodman of literature ; and came
over here twenty years ago with a
view to the Woolsack, but dare not
show his nose in the Temple, where
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
he entered his name as a law student,
on account of a long arrear of unpaid
fees. His heart and spirit have been
broken long ago — the hopes upon
which he fed for years have died with-
in him, and their epitaphs may he read
legibly on his brow ! Such, madam,
is a penny-a-liner — an inferior gentle-
man of the press — a member of the
" fourth estate" — a newspaper drudge
. — in short, a suck- mug !
I was ever ambitious of moving in
genteel society ; like the menagerie-
man's favourite bear, I could never be
brought to dance to any but the very
genteelest of tunes, such as " Water
Parted," or the " Minuet in Ariadne!"
It is not wonderful, therefore, that,
seeing in the Times newspaper an
announcement to the effect that, in a
genteel — I do love that word — " in a
genteel and pianoforte performing far
mily — harp and guitar also, if required
— a widow lady" — what a chance for
a young Irishman with whiskers of
best curled hair ! — " and her two
daughters" — think of that, a whisker
a- piece ! — "would be happy to receive
into the circle of their society a philo-
musical gentleman of gentility. — N.B.
If a flute and backgammon player,
will be prefered. Terms according
to room. Apply to Raggins, tripe-
scourer, Judd Street, corner of Caro-
line Street, New Road." Now, it so
happened that I was philo-musical and
a flute player ; back-gammon I did not,
unfortunately, comprehend, but trust-
ed that difficulty might be got over.
Being a gentleman of the press, I was
a fortiori a gentleman ; and being
an Irish gentleman, I concluded ray-
self — as every Irish gentleman, from
Colonel Connolly down to a cow-boy,
concludes himself — a gentleman of
gentility !
Accordingly, I posted away, in a
tremendous flurry,- to the domicile of
llaggins the tripe scourer.
That gentleman handed me a card,
whereupon was written, evidently by
one of the daughters, in an angular
style, the address, " Mrs Skinaflint,
Terrace Place, Bloody Bridge, Pen-
ton ville ;" and to that classic and gin-
drinkiug locality, I directed my impa-
tient footsteps accordingly. After re-
connoitring the premises — I always
look at the physiognomy of an intended
lodging, as well as at that of an in-
tended landlady — I gave a thundering
double-knock at the door, such as bs-
629
came a gentleman of gentility ; and,
after the USUH! preliminary enquiry,
was ushered into a little front parlour,
where one of the young ladies Skina-
fliut was performing a fantasia of
Hertz, with interminable variations,
the other young lady Skinaflint hold-
ing the leaf of the music-book, ready
for a quick turn over at "void subi-
to."
The interminable variations were
stopped in full cry, by the entrance of
the lady of the boarding-house herself,
who, motioning the musical young
ladies out of the room with one hand,
motioned me to a chair with the other ;
and giving her soiled net cap with
faded blue ribbons a lateral twitch or
two, the better to conceal a few locks
which straggled from beneath her well-
oiled front, Mrs Skinaflint set herself
down, grinning expectancy, and look-
ing as if she was glad she put the ad-
vertisement in the paper.
'* Beg pardon, ma'am," I began.
" By no means, sir — don't say so,"
observed Mrs Skinaflint condescend-
ingly.
" I have taken the liberty of troub-
ling you, madam," I went on, " in
consequence of an advertisement" —
" In the Times of this morning,"
interrupted Mrs Skinaflint, who, it was
plain to be seen, could not keep her
tongue within her teeth for two se-
conds consecutively.
" Exactly so, madam," said I — "mu-
sical, I believe ? "
" And select," said Mrs Skinaflint,
with a toss of the head.
" Quite so, of course — your appear-
ance, madam, is more than sufficient
to guarantee that — I wish I had all
the brandy in that brass nose of yours"
— this latter observation was made
sotto voce.
".Oh ! dear, sir," exclaimed the lady,
hiding her brass nose in a last week's
pocket handkerchief.
" I had the pleasure to receive your
address, madam," continued I, " from
Mr Raggins, the" — I would have said
tripe-scourer ; hut the tripe stuck in
my throat. Mrs Skinafliut, however,
relieved me in a moment.
" Cats'-meat man — -our cats'- meat
man," exclaimed Mrs Skinafliut.
" The same, madam, I believe."
" Backgammon, madam, I perceive
is a" — : —
" We are all^o fond of a hit," said
the lady.
630 Some Account of Himself.
" I am ashamed to say I hardly
know the game."
" My daughters will be so happy to
instruct you."
I bowed low in reply to this liberal
offer, and thought, though I didn't
exactly look it, that that cock wouldn't
fight.
" Will you look at the rooms?" said
Mrs Skinaflint, promptly reverting to
business.
" With pleasure. Do me the fa-
vour to take my arm."
" You are so very kind."
I took the liberty of requesting from
Mrs Skinaflint the very lowest terms
for her state bed-room for a perma-
nency, and having screwed her down
pretty tight, as the undertakers say, I
ascended me up into the attic, where
I affected marvellously to admire the
view, and to inhale the smoke-dried
atmosphere, as if it were champagne
mousseux. After much fencing off
and on as we walked down stairs, Mrs
Skinaflint and myself came to terms,
or rather, I brought the lady to terms,
having, before I set foot over the
threshold, made up my mind to give
fifteen shillings a- week, and not a sous
more for a permanency, consisting of
one week certain, and a week's notice
if the lid didn't fit the box. What
need of more words ? The very same
afternoon found me in a cab with my
establishment, consisting of a tattered
portmanteau, a patched travelling-bag,
and a band-box, with my new hat in
it, and my new hat-brush in my new
hat, on the high road to my new ' fix1
in Terrace Place, Bloody Bridge,
Pentonville.
At six the bell was rung for dinner
by the servant of all work, who, the
moment she had rung the bell, clat-
tered away down stairs to hook out
the crimped skate, while Mrs Skina-
flint and myself, followed by the rest
of the company, descended into the
dining-room with as much conse-
quence as if we had been descending
to join the Queen's dinner party. The
crimped skate, of which there was
about as much as would have served
a dyspeptic for luncheon, was distri-
buted in mouthfuls on cold plates, with
a table- spoonful of a fluid, by courtesy
called melted butter, and to save skate
and trouble, the dish was unskated
before it had gone round the table.
Mrs Skinaflint and the two Misses
Skinaflint not taking fish, probably
By the Irish Oyster- Eater. [Majr,
because they didn't choose to take fish,
perhaps because fish didn't agree with
them, or, it may be, because there was
no fish to take ; and this last reason,
to save logic, I request the printer to
put first. The skate was not re-
moved— for skate there was none to
be removed — but the dish was re-
moved, and a leg of mutton took its
place. As the skate was a little too
stale, so was the mutton a great deal
too fresh ; but there being nothing
else, the live mutton was tugged at by
the company — for necessity is the
mother of mastication !
Half-inches of cheese were next
served out by Mrs Skinaflint, and exe-
crable small beer handed round by the
servant of all work. The ceremony
of dinner being thus complete — the
company — I had almost forgotten the
company, consisted — we give the sex
the pas — of Miss Negrohead, a lady
of no colour — black, in short — who had
emigrated from Antigua for the edu-
cation of certain lesser Negroheads as
black as herself — then came the widow
of three husbands, who would not have
had the least objection to try a fourth,
Mrs Major Tramp — Miss Smuggles,
the daily occasional governess, a sort
of intellectual charwoman, who let
herself out by the job, sat next — the
two Misses Skinaflint, with their ex-
cellent mother, and one fat lady, who
could not be identified as either maid,
wife, or widow, made up the musical
and select female society of our man-
sion in Terrace Place, Bloody Bridge,
Pentonville. The musical part of the
entertainment was ably sustained by
the two Misses Skinaflint — Mrs Major
Tramp, being a decidedly proper
woman, or what is all the same, keep-
ing her improprieties to herself, taking
the lead in doing the select.
The masculine gender was repre-
sented in our domicile by — I proceed
according to the table of precedence —
Prince Snarlbach, a German poten-
tate, who beguiled the tediousness of
exile,likethat stock-jobbing Jew, King
Louis Philippe, in teaching the young
idea how to speak French and German
with the fluency of a native. Prince
Snarlbach hated every man, every wo-
man, every child, every climate, coun-
try, and religion — everything at table,
every thing not at table, and every
thing everywhere else ; his colloquial
phraseology consisted only of the in-
terjection pooh ! and the interjection
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
pshaw ! — his brow was contracted into
a habitual scowl, and his lip upcurled
in a perpetual sneer. A very agree-
able person was the Prince Snarlbach,
you may be sure ! Next came the
Count Diddlerini, passing himself off
as a Neapolitan nobleman — justly ad-
mired by all the women as an accom-
plished gentleman, and justly avoided
by all the men as an accomplished
swindler.
Mr Huckabuck came next, partner,
as we understood, in a great Manches-
ter warehouse, and I have no reason
to doubt the truth of this assertion, as,
passing one day along Tottenham
Court Road, I saw Mr Huckabuck
busily engaged at the door of a draper's
shop in holding up a roll of flannel to
the inspection of an elderly lady — this
shop, I suppose, must have been the
Manchester warehouse in question.
Mr Fleetditch, a gentleman of the law,
came last — attorney's clerk, in short —
very assuming, very pert, and very
vulgar, as becomes gentlemen of his
fraternity, for which reason I put him
at the foot of our table, giving prece-
dence to Mr Huckabuck, who, though
very vulgar and very fond of " spar-
row-grass," as he chose to call aspa-
ragus, was nevertheless an honest poor
man and a good Christian. This was
the list of inmates when I arrived at
Terrace Place — they came and went,
and went and came, to be sure ; but,
although there was a vast variety in
the individuals, the tone of society
ever remained the same — that is to
say, fifty degrees below zero. Deso-
late spinsters, grass widows, equivocal
mothers, and desperate daughters, ar-
rived and departed in perpetual suc-
cession. Clerks, tutors out of place,
Irish fortune-hunters, and runaway
refugees, formed the never-varied male
population. Every soul, male and fe-
male, seemed to have received sentence
of social excommunication — some, like
myself, found guilty of being poor,
and transported to a boarding-house
accordingly — some knavish, some
guilty, some indiscreet ; but all, with-
out exception, unfortunate, soured, and
selfish ! The only object of female
ambition in the house was the virgin
cup of tea, and the best buttered bit
of toast — the highest stretch of intel-
lect among the men cheating one an-
other in wagers, or sponging upon the
last new comer's bottle of wine. I
ventured once to remonstrate with Mrs
Skinaflinr, I recollect, upon the pro-
priety of having six turnips instead of
three, for a dozen people, being half-
a-turnip to each, assuring her that, as
it was, I must decline to carve the
vegetables. Mrs Skinaflint, with a
curl of her brass nose, retorted that if
I didn't choose to carve the vegetables,
another would, and that people that
paid next to nothing should feed next
to nothing ! I hate meanness — for-
giveness I have in abundance for every
other vice, but meanness with me is
past redemption. I could spit on a
mean man, and if it were not that the
law — more shame for her — protects
him, I would spit on every mean man
I meet. Meanness, of all things, dis-
gusts me, whether it be meanness in a
boarding-house keeper, or meanness
in — and in the scale of animated
beings it would be impossible to go
lower — meanness in that mirror of
meanness — the Right Honourable An-
thony Lumpkin Snake!
I cut, without ceremony, the whole
beggarly boarding-house congregation ;
and, having eaten my daily ration at
the dinner table, ascended into my attic,
which opened out upon a flat roof pro-
tected by a parapet wall. Here, with
a couple of chairs, a bottle of old
Cork whisky, imported by O' Swizzle,
a cigar, a classic, and a lemon, I passed
the long summer evenings in undis-
turbed repose ; and here I acquired
much of that Attic salt, which, if you
are not as dull as a great thaw, you
must have perceived sprinkled pro-
fusely over this autobiography.
" But, sweeter far than this, than these,
than all,"
here it was, on this very roof, protect-
ed by this very parapet wall, while
enjoying, as was my custom of an
afternoon, my chair, cigar, Cork
whisky, lemon, and classic, that I met
for the first time, and fell in love with
for the first time and the last — my
heart's treasure — the adorable — the
angelic Sophia Jemima Cox ! The fact
was, the houses of Terrace Place
had, every house of them, flat roofs,
and, for the convenience of escapes in
cases of fire, there was ah accessible
stair to each roof, opening out by a
companion way upon the roof, and an
easy transit from one roof to another
— a style of architecture highly calcu-
lated to facilitate escapes from fire, as
well as to promote caterwauling and
intrigue.
632 Some Account of Himself . Jig the Irish Oi/sfcr-Eafer.
I was leaning back in my chair
•with my legs upon another, see-saw-
ing rather sleepily — curious that the
fourth tumbler always makes me dozy
— the evening was sultry, the bit of
green belonging to the Small- Pox Hos-
pital looked olive-brown, and the mil-
lion and a half of chimney pots in
sight looked fed hot, the sun was go-
ing down right into Marrowbone
Workhouse, and the pregnant moon
was ascending out of Spitalfields, two
or three stars twinkled coyly behind
the Small- Pox Hospital, and three
hurdy-gurdies, with a wandering piper,
in the street below, imitated the music
of the spheres.
" 'Twas the close of the day, when the city
was still,
And Cockneys the sweets of forgetfulness
prove."
I heard light footsteps behind me,
and, looking over my left shoulder,
I saw that my tumbler was all right ;
looking over my right shoulder, I first
beheld the darling girl, fated to en-
chain my yet UBravished heart, look-
ing over the parapet, her head bonnet-
less, and her long ringlets, yet uncon-
taminated by a back comb, hanging
in sweet confusion over her alabaster
shoulders.
I took a chair, and, stepping noise-
lessly, placed it for her convenience,
returned, took my book, and, pretend-
ing to read, saw only Sophia Jemima
Cox. Sophia Jemima turned round
— saw the chair — started — looked at
me — trembled — smiled — blushed —
bowed her thanks — sat down for an
instant, as if to accept my courtesy —
then starting up hurriedly, was making
off at railway pace, when I stopped
her, and, begging pardon for the in-
trusion, hoped she would permit me
to retire, that she might enjoy herself
the more freely. This produced more
bows, smiles, and blushes. Sophia
stammered out that she understood a
procession was to have passed that
•way which she wished to see, and I
assured her most solemnly that from
our roof alone could the procession be
seen to advantage. Sophia lamented
the want of a head-dress ; this difficulty
I got over by supplying her fair
head with a travelling' shawl from my
attic —she trembled for the evening air,
but my cloak removed all her atmos-
pheric apprehensions. Sophia Jemi-
ma sat down, muffled up, to watch the
[May,
procession, and the procession, as
good luck would have it, went another
way. As we chatted and sat, the
bright eyes of the charming Sophia
grew brighter and brighter, the tones
of her silver voice sounded sweeter
and sweeter ; we talked of the even-
ing, how lovely it was — of the coun-
try, how lovely it was— of the moon,
how lovely she- was ; and I thought, as
I gazed on Sophia, her open intel-
ligent face bent on the expanded orb
above, how lovely — how surpassing
lovely she was. We talked of town
and its pleasures — of society — of
friendship. I drew nearer to Sophia
— I pressed almost imperceptibly her
little hand — and our topic was exalted
from friendship to love !
She said she had neither brother nor
sister — I almost loved her. She was
an orphan — I loved her from my heart.
She was penniless — 1 adored her !
I presume, to look at, you would
not suspect me of a generous emotion.
The cold world, and the buffets and
kicks it has given a man, who, of his
natural temperament, would lift, as he
went on his morning's walk, the heed-
less worm away from the passenger's
path, has left on my care-worn face
no trace save of the contempt in which
I hold the human vermin that rot
above the surface of the earth. The
expression of my face is degraded to
the level of the selfishness of world-
lings around me ; and the heart that
once swelled, and the eyes that once
filled, at every song of sorrow, at every
tale of woe — the wide wish, that would
grasp in its expansive benevolence the
whole family of man, and diffuse hap-
piness from pole to pole — that heart,
immoveable and cold, now swells only
in bitterness and sorrow, and that ex-
pansive wish expires in a hearty male-
diction upon rascality rampant and
sycophancy successful !
Oh love ! — first and passionate
love ! How delicious to fallen, selfish,
and cold-blooded mortals the recollec-
tion of that tender emotion of generous
youth — that unworldly feeling, the
riper man affects to despise, and
blushes to confess — that sentiment not
of the earth earthy — that precious
emanation of the Divine Creator him-
self. How sweet the remembrance
that we enjoyed thec once — how sad
to think that we descend from the cold
world into the silent grave, enjoying
thee no more ! Let us exult over our
1839.] Some Account of Himself .
first love — let us revert to it with ten-
der emotions — and, no longer virtuous,
let us for a moment become better in
the delicious remembrance of virtue !
Sophia was a trump. You might
boil down — let me see — sixteen select
seminaries for young ladies, and sell
the contents for kitchen stuff, before
you would hook out such a tit-bit as
my Sophy. Sophy, to be sure, was
her name — but she was no Sophy.
Sophy is a lack-a-daisical, die-a-way
devil — fat and sleepy — with large bust,
larger waist, and ancles larger than
both put together ; as soft as bullock's
liver, and as dead as a drop of stale
small beer. My Sophy had a fine-
drawn head, fine-drawn waist, and
fine-drawn ancles ; none of your starve-
lings neither, but plump as pudding,
and frisky as a four-year old. I used
to call her Kate — and Kate, with de-
ference to her godfathers and godmo-
thers, ought to have been her name.
She had eyes in her head — and teeth —
and hair ; a smile so sweet — and a
laugh — a laugh so hearty and joyous,
that I sighed when I heard it, for I
knew that care would come, and with
his icy hand freeze it into silence ! A
coxcomb or a libertine seeing Sophy,
would have concluded she had a kick
in her gallop ; but never was libertine
or coxcomb further out in the whole
course of his life. With you she was
lively, gay, and free ; with me the in-
different gaiety she bore in her car-
riage towards others, was mellowed
into a tenderness irresistibly touching,
as if already the ardour of a passionate
mistress was tempered with the quiet
cares of an affectionate wife. I loved
Sophia above all for this, that she never1
sneered — a sneering woman is a beast
—much less did she ever throw up her
nose like a pig in the wind, and talk
fit/ the It ish Oyster-Eater.
633
of " improper women," and " women
that were not received ;" as much as
to say, in every toss of the head, " see
what a proper woman I am !" Quite
the contrary. My dear Sophia made
no difficulty of expressing, even to tears,
her sympathy for the fallen and de-
graded of her own sex ; but she took
especial good care, all the while, to
run no risk of being fallen and degrad-
ed herself. She was my mistress, con-
fidante, friend, play-fellow — anything1,
everything but — won ; " for with wo-
man, you know," she used to say,
looking up in my face with a sad, sup-
plicating smile, that said, as plain as
smile could say, Could you harm me ?
— " with woman, you know, to be won
is to be lost !"
Luckily for our loves, my dear So-
phia had no money. I say luckily,
for I never knew a woman with three
halfpence in her own right, who was
not either pert, presumptuous, or dull,
upon the strength of her triumverate
of coppers. I am, and always was,
the sort of fellow to let this class of
ladies down by the run, and would as
soon think of paying more than the
coolest courtesy to a female million-
aire, merely as such, as I would of
taking off my hat to a blind old apple-
woman !
Sophia was friendless — so was I; she
was warm-hearted — so was I ; she was
without a penny — so was I. We were
so far equals. Sophia was a depen-
dant on the charity of a cold-blooded
usurer of an uncle — so was not I ; yet
for her I felt that I could toil my heart
out. We had our quarrels, too — for
what is true love without its quarrels ?
she returned my flowers in a fit of
pique — for what is woman without her
fits of pique ? and the following duel
was fought through the medium of the
twopenny post upon that occasion : —
SOPHIA TO HER LOVER.
I wish, Horatio, to discover
Whether the sweet spring flowers you send
Bespeak the homage of a lover,
Or offering meet from friend to friend.
Say whether, in this wreath — your love
Those rose-buds blushingly disclose,
Your constancy these lilies prove,
And truth among these violets blows ?
To-morrow — and the violets spoil,
To-morrow — and the rose-buds fade,
To-morrow — and the lilies soil, —
Truth, love, and constancy — decay'd!
634 Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Enter. [May,
Frail emblems ! never to be worn
Near hearts, that know not how to rang-e,
Back to the giver, I return :
Ere they are faded — thou wilt change !
HER LOVER TO SOPHIA.
When forth I went these flowers to cull,
Thinking, not of myself, but thee,
I gather'd the most beautiful,
And this was my soliloquy :—
Spotless the lily, as her mind,
This bud, like her, lovely in youth,
These modest violets, design'd,
Fit emblems of her faith and truth,
I twined the wreath for thee. — Return'd,
The flowers lie near me in decay,
Wither'd and drooping, as they mourn'd,'
All harshly to be chid away.
New wreaths will other springs restore —
New suns bring fresher flowers to view —
But love, frail flower, despoil'd — no more
Will springs restore — will suns renew !
We met — and our reconciliation was celebrated with a feast of ambrosial
kisses, and a mingled libation of nectareous tears !
THE TWENTY-SECOND BOOK OF THE ILIAD.
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH TROCHAICS.
BY WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.
THUS, like deer, all terror-stricken, through the city streets they spread,
Cool'd themselves from sweat and labour, and their burning thirst allay 'd,
Safe behind the massy bulwarks ; whilst the Greeks across the field,
March'd, beneath the very ramparts, each protected by his shield.
Hector stay'd, for fate compell'd him, like a fetter'd slave, to wait
Still before his father's city, and without the Scoean gate.
Meanwhile thus to bold Achilles spoke the radiant God Apollo, —
" Wherefore thus, with eager footsteps, son of Peleus, dost thou follow,
Mortal thou, a God immortal, recognising not my strain ?
For a God thou didst not know me, now thy wrath is spent in vain ;
Fruitless must thy toil and trouble 'gainst the Trojan army be,
They are safe within their city, thou hast turned aside with me,
And thou canst not hope to slay me — death may never reach my frame."
Him thus answered swift Achilles, burning red with rage and shame, —
" Thou hast wrong'd me, O thou Archer ! most destructive God of any ;
Thou hast led me from my conquest, else, ere this, be sure, had many
Bit the earth in dying anguish, ere they could have reached the town.
Thou hast ta'en my glory from me — thou hast lightly kept thine own ;
For thou didst not dread my vengeance : yet, tho' heavenly power be thine,
Know I surely would chastise thee, Phoebus, if the strength were mine."
Thus he spake ; and to the city once again he turned his face,
Rushing like a courser, often victor in the chariot race,
Who, against the others straining, clears the ground with furious stride :
Thus Achilles rushed to combat, thus his foot and knee he plied.
Then old Priam first beheld him, glittering like that evil star
Which against the autumn riseth, and outshines in lustre far
1839.] The Twenty- Second Book of th& Iliad. ti.lj
All the other heavenly watchers, gleaming thro' the unwholesome night,
And Orion's dog they call it : yet, though brilliant be its light,
'Tis a woeful sign, and fatal, earthwards heat and fever glancing.
Thus the armour of Achilles glitter'd on his breast advancing —
Priam saw, and groan'd in anguish, threw his reverend hands on high,
Beat his forehead, and, distracted, utter'd loud a warning cry
To his son, the dearly cherished, who, remaining at the gates,
Earnestly desires the combat, and for stern Achilles waits.
And the almost madden'd father, to adjure him thus began ;—
" Do not wait, my darling Hector ! — Hector, do not meet this man
Thus alone, nor backed by comrades, lest thy fate be now fulfilled—-
Overcome by stronger weapons, by this fell Pelides killed.
Ruthless ! did the Gods regard him with such feelings as I bear,
Vultures should deface his carcase, dogs his prostrate body tear:
Then my anguish would be lighten'd ; for how many sons and brave
Hath he taken from me, sending some to an untimely grave —
Selling some to distant islands. Even now, when all is over,
All the Trojans in the city, nowhere can my eyes discover
Either of my boys, Lycaon, or the youthful Polydore,
Whom to me Laothoe, fairest of all women, bore ;
Yet, if they are ta'en and living, surely it shall be my care
Both to ransom, with the treasures which within the palace are ;
For old Altes, known in story, gave abundance to his daughter.
But, if they be dead already, and beside the Stygian water —
Tho' their mother will lament them, and tho' I will deeply feel —
Others will lament less sorely, so thou 'scap'st Achilles' steel.
Therefore enter thou the city — come, my son, within the wall,
Save the Trojan men and maidens — thou the bulwark of us all ;
Give not glory to Pelides, neither tarry to be slain.
On me, too, my son, have pity, while my senses yet remain —
Me, whom Jove, Saturnian father, at the limits of my being,
Will destroy with evil fortune, such dark sights of horror seeing :
All my sons— my brave ones — slaughter' d, and my daughters captive bound,
And their bridal chambers rifled ; and against the flinty ground
Children dash'd, in butcher carnage, ere their lips have learn 'd to speak ;
And your tender spouses handled by the rude and boist'rous Greek; —
I too, haply, when some foeman shall transfix me with his spear,
And shall leave me dead and bleeding at the palace entrance here,
May by ravenous hounds be mangled — hounds that once I call'd my own,
Who, all drunken from their banquet, furious, fierce, and savage grown,
In these princely halls will kennel. When a young man dies in glory,
Slain in battle, 'tis some honour, with a bosom gash'd and gory
On the field to lie extended ; for whate'er is seen is fair.
But when dogs dtface the features of an old man, and his hair,
Gray as winter, is dishonour' d, and his limbs are mouth'd and torn —
Oh, can any sight be fouler to a man of woman born ! "
Thus the aged sire entreated, and his locks by handfuls whole
From his head he tore and scatter'd ; but he moved not Hector's soul.
Next his mother call'd unto him, shedding bitter tears and praying ;
And she bared her aged bosom, and her wither'd breasts displaying,
With a voice half-choked with sorrow, these beseeching words address'd : —
" Hector ! take thou pity on me, O my son, respect my breast ;
If it ever hath sustain'd thee — if it still'd thy infant cry —
Think on that, my best beloved, and behind the ramparts fly —
Thence keep off this hated foeman, be not first to brave him here.
Oh, hard-hearted ! if he slay thee, neither I, thy mother dear,
Nor thy wife so rich and beauteous, shall lament thee on thy bier ;
But apart from all thy kindred, near the vessels by the sea,
Cruel dogs will tear thee piecemeal, far away from her and me!"
VOL. XLV. xo. cci.xxxm. 2 s
C36 The Twenty. Second Book of the Iliad. [May,
Thus, iu anguish, both the parents called ur.to their son beloved ;
But their earnest prayer avail'd not, nor the soul of Hector moved.
Calm collected, still he tarried for Achilles, first of men —
Even as an angry dragon, at the entrance of his den,
Having fed on poisonous pasture, waits the coming of his foe,
Glares terrific, and behind him wreathes his body to and fro.
Even thus did valiant Hector still determine not to yield,
But against a turret leaning, eased him of his gHtt'rin* shield,
And, indignant at their counsel, communed with his own brave mind.
" If the city I should enter — if the walls 1 flee behind,
First, Polydamas will blame me, that I took not his advice,
Neither led the Trojan army (and therein his words Avere wise),
To the city back retreating, on this most disastrous night
When Achilles rose to combat. But I would not yield my right,
Though it had been better for me. Now, since by my over- daring,
Many of our men have perish'd, fain would I escape from bearing
Angry looks and sad reproaches from the men and maids of Troy j
Lest some lower chief should tell them, ' Hector did your sons destroy,
Rashly in his strength confiding.' This the baser sort will say;
And 'twere better for me surely, either to return this day,
Having slain the dire Achilles, fiercely fighting hand to hand,
Or before the walls to perish, battling for my native land.
What if I should change my purpose, and should leave my armour here,
Throw aside my heavy helmet, rest against the wall my spear ;
And the strong Achilles meeting, freely offer to restore
Helen to the sons of Atreus, with the treasures Paris bore
In his hollow ships from Sparta — she for whom the war began —
And, moreover, to distribute to the Argives, man by man,
All the treasures, rich and costly, which within the city are ;
And to give them more assurance, should I make the ciders swear
Nothing of the city riches to conceal or lay aside,
But the whole, in equal portions, well and fairly to divide ?
Yet, why doth my soul within me such an idle thought maintain,
Never let me go a suppliant, for my prayer were all in vain.
Small respect would 1 encounter — straightway would he strike me down,
Rashly coming like a woman, and aside my armour thrown.
This is not the time or season to discourse with such as he,
As a youth might greet a maiden, from a rock or from a tree.
No, 'tis better far, engaging in the deadly strife, to know
Whether Jove will give the glory unto Hector or his foe."
Thus remaining fast, he communed, and Achilles now drew near,
Like to Mars, the helmet-shaker, brandishing the Pelian spear
On his shoulder, and around him all his brazen armour shone,
Either like a blazing furnace, or more like the rising sun.
Then a panic seized on Hector, neither durst he longer wait ;
But, all terror-struck, departed, and behind him left the gate,
Fleeing onwards, and Pelides followed, trusting to his pace.
As amongst the hills a goss-hawk, fleetest of the falcon race,
Pouncing on a frighted pigeon, who by shifting shuns the blow,
Still with screams renews the onset, and together still they go,
Thus right onward bore Achilles — thus did Hector turn away,
Underneath the city ramparts, overmaster' d by dismay.
Thus he changed his course and shifted. First they pass'd the lofty mound,
And the wind-saluted fig-trees, which they say do most abound
Near the shelter of the rampart, by the public pathway growing.
Then they reached the double fountain, whence the waters crystal-flowing,
Of the deep Scamander, issue. One of these pellucid springs
Rises hot, sr.d round its basin ever gusty vapour flings ;
Whilst the other sister fountain flow?, the livelong ?nmrr,CT through,
Cold as hail, or ice, or water trickling from a bed of snow.
1839.] The Twenty- Second Book of the Iliad. 637
Close beside them stand the cisterns, fairly built of massive stone,
Where the Trojan wives and daughters, in the" days that now were gone,
Came to wash their costly garments, in the happier times of peace,
Ere the tempest settled round them — ere they saw the sons of Greece.
Thitherward they ran and passed them, chase and chaser swift of limb ;
Brave was he who fled, but braver far was he who followed him.
And right swiftly did he follow — for they strove not for the meed,
Hide of bull or votive victim, which reward the racer's speed :
Hector's life's the prize and forfeit — Hector tamer of the steed.
As when games are held in honour of some mighty hero slain*
Fast the oft- victorious coursers round the ample circle strain
For some prize — a slave or tripod : so the hasty warriors wound ;
And the lofty town of Priam three times did they circle round,
Never of their speed relaxing ; and the Gods beheld nor spoke,
Till the Universal Father thus the solemn silence broke : —
" There I see an hxmour'd chieftain — is it not a piteous sight ?
Round his native city hunted ; I am sad for Hector's plight.
Often have I felt the savour of his plenteous sacrifice
From the tops of vallied Ida, or the city turrets, rise
In my honour ; now I see him — and my soul is fill'd with pity —
Follow'd by the strong Achilles round and round his father's city.
Quickly then, ye gods, to counsel I — shall we interpose to save,
Or the son of Peleus suffer to subdue the good and brave ?"
Out then spoke blue-eyed Minerva. — " Father, whom the Gods revere,
Thunder-hurler— Cloud-compeller — Father, what is this we hear ?
Wouldst thou save a mortal being long ago to fate consign 'd ?
Thou jnayst do it, but remember j others are not of thy mind/'
Answer'd Jove, the Cloud-compeller. — " Calm thyself, my daughter dear,
That was not my thought, Tritonia, therefore be of better cheer.
I would fain be gentle with thee ; work thy will and do not fear."
Thus he spoke, and stirr'd Minerva, who no further urging needed,
Up she sprang, then shooting downwards, from Olympus top she speeded.
All this while the swift Achilles press'd ori Hector, rushing on.
Asa dog within the mountains follows fast a startled fawn
Through the glens and through the thickets, having roused it from its lair ;
Even though it reach a cover, and should seek for shelter there,
Still he follows on its footsteps, hunting over hill and hollow, —
Thus did Hector try to double, thus did swift Achilles follow.
When the Trojan strove to bend him in towards the gates of Troy,
Underneath the Dardan rampart, that the townsmen might employ
Dart and sling to gall his foeman, did Achilles turn him wide
To the open plain and country, keeping still the city side.
As in sleep the dreamer cannot follow one who flies before,
Neither can that one escape him, nor the dreamer hasten more,
So 'twas now; — Achilles could not on the flying Trojan gain,
Nor could he outstrip Achilles, though he strove with might and main.
Then had Hector surely perish'd, had not, for the latest time,
God Apollo come to help him, strengthening him in soul and limb ;
And Achilles, as he pass'd them, beckon'd to the gazing Greek
Nor with lance, nor dart, nor arrow, Hector's forfeit life to seek,
Lest another's hand should wound him, and should take away his fame.
When, the fourth time, widely circling, to the fountain's marge they came,
Jove his golden scales uplifted, and two lots of death he wcigh'd, —
One Achilles' lot, the other Hector's, tamer of the steed :
By the centre then he raised them — Hector's fatal day decllft'd,
Sinking down to gloomy Orcus — then Apollo left his friend ;
And the blue-eyed queen, Minerva, to her favour'd chief drew near,
And, his headlong course arresting, whisper'd lightly in his ear : —
C38 The Twenty- Second Book of the Iliad. [May,
" Now, I trust, renown'd Achilles, honour1 d of the highest King,
Fame and glory to the vessels of the Argives shall we bring,
Having slain this valiant Hector, strong in battle though he be ;
For he cannot longer 'scape us, and he may not further flee,
Though the Archer god, Apollo, e'er so earnestly entreat,
Begging respite for his minion, at the ^Egis-bearer's feet.
Meanwhile, stand thou still and breathe thee ; I will urge him to remain,
And to fight the battle with thee singly on this pitched plain."
Thus Minerva. He obey'd her, and a joyful man was he,
Leaning on his spear so deadly, shapen of the ashen tree.
So the Goddess parted from him, and to Hector near she drew,
Like Deiphobus in person, and she spoke his accents too ;
Thus disguised, she hasten'd onwards, and accosted thus the other : —
" Sorely by the swift Achilles art thou press'd, beloved brother ;
I have seen him swiftly chase thee our ancestral city round ;
Now, then, let us stand and face him — bravely shall we keep our ground."
Out then answer'd helmed Hector : — " Welcome thou, my trusty frere,
Over all the sons of Priam, ever held I thee most dear ;
But this day thy bold endeavour far exceeds thy first renown,
Since thou comest forth to help me, whilst the others keep the town."
Answer'd back the blue-eyed Goddess : — " True it is, my valiant brother,
Long our father did implore me, long our venerable mother,
Each by turns my knees embracing, and our old companions pray'd
That I would not leave the city — he hath made them so afraid ;
But my soul was heavy-laden, and I could not stay within.
Now, then, while our hearts are ardent, let the battle straight begin :
We have spears, and we can use them — let us try this Grecian's power ;
Whether two of us shall perish, brothers, in the self-same hour,
Whether he shall bear our armour bloody-dripping to the fleet,
Or, o'er-master'd by thy prowess, fall a corpse before thy feet."
Thus she spoke, the guileful Goddess, and she led the hero on.
Now, when they were near each other, pausing ere the fight begun,
Hector of the crested helmet thus accosted Peleus' son : —
" I have shunned thee, thou Pelides ! now I shall no longer shun :
Thrice round Priam's spacious city have I fled, nor dared to wait
For thy coming ; now 1 face thee, for my heart again is great,
And it urges me against thee, to be slain, or else to slay !
Take we then the Gods to witness, none so excellent as they,
If my vows to Jove shall prosper — if thou fallest — hear me swear,
Basely will I not entreat thee, no dishonour shalt thou bear ;
I will take thine armour only, but thy body will bestow
On the Greeks ; and thou, Achilles, also swear to use me so."
Then the swift Achilles answer'd, and a furious man was he : —
" Hector ! miscreant ! do not look for covenant 'twixt thee and me.
Men will never treat with lions, wolves will never league with sheep,
For their hostile kind forbids them — each their adverse nature keep ;
So, apart from all alliance, thou and I must ever stand,
Until one shall fall a victim unto Mars, the bloody-hand.
Now be mindful of thy valour — thou hast cause for it indeed !
Show thyself a skilful spearman, and a sworder good at need :
Flying shall not longer serve thee — Pallas smites thee by my spear :
Thou shalt render rich atonement for my many comrades dear,
Whom thy wrath and deadly anger to the gloomy shades have sent !"
Speaking thus, his lance he brandish' d, launching it with fell intent ;
But the wary Hector watch'd it coming, with a practised eye —
1839.] The Twenty-Second Book of the Iliad. 639
Down he stoop'd before it reach'd him, and the brazen death pass'd by ;
Deep in earth it stuck, and quiver'd : but Minerva came behind,
All unseen by princely Hector, and restored it to her friend.
Then the Trojan chief exulting, thus to stern Pelides cried : —
" Thou hast miss'd thy mark, Achilles ! lo, thy lance hath turn'd aside !
And thou saidst that Jove deliver'd thus his counsel to thy view ?
Man ! I hold thee for a prater, and a vain dissembler too !
Think not that thy words shall scare me — neither them nor thee I fear !
Not into my back inglorious shalt thou ever thrust thy spear ;
Through my bosom, onwards rushing — if, indeed, the powers divine
So have destin'd — must thou strike it : now, do thou take heed of mine !
Would 'twere buried in thy body ! for, of all the plagues of war
That have scourged the hapless Trojans, thou hast been the fellest far !"
Speaking thus, his lance he brandish'd ; fast the enormous weapon came,
Struck the target of Pelides in the midst, so true the aim ;
Yet it pierced not, but rebounded. Then was Hector sore cast down,
That so uselessly and rashly was his trusty weapon thrown.
Sore dejected stood the hero — keenly glanced he round the field ;
For Deiphobus he shouted, warrior of the stainless shield,
His long lance in haste demanding : no Deiphobus replied.
Then he knew himself forsaken, knew the cruel fraud, and cried, —
" Woe is me ! my death is surely by the hostile Gods decreed,
For I thought the warrior by me was Deiphobus indeed.
He, alas ! is in the city. Thou, Minerva, didst deceive me.
Evil death no longer tarries, but is ready to receive me;
Neither can I flee before it. Long must this have been foreknown
Unto Jupiter, and destined by himself, and by his son
Phoebus, launcher of the arrows — he whom once I thought my friend —
He who shelter'd me in battle. Well ! at last I know my end —
Now for what remains ! Ignobly Hector will not yield his breath,
But my name shall live in glory, honour'd even after death !"
Thus he spoke, and from its scabbard drew the falchion by his side.
Rushing onwards — as an eagle stooping from its place of pride,
Downward darting on the meadow, cleaves the hot and heavy air,
Aiming at a tender lambkin, or, perchance, a timorous hare, —
So brave Hector onwards bounded, brandishing his sword on high ;
And Achilles rush'd to meet him — wrath was in his soul and eye :
That strange shield, so fairly fashion' d, spread before his ample breast,
And his four-coned helmet nodded, and the wavy golden crest,
Which Hephaistus' hand had moulded, quiver'd as he rush'd to war.
As when all is hush'd and darkling, Hesperus, the fairest star
Shines among the other planets, so the point of that sharp spear
In the right hand of Achilles, seem'd to flash, as, drawing near,
Hector's frame his eyes ran over, seeking where he best might wound him :
But the polish'd brazen armour of the dead Patroclus bound him,
All except one little rivet, where the neck and throat were bare ;
Any wound on that is fatal — and Achilles smote him there.
Through the neck the weapon glided, for the deadly aim was true,
Yet the brazen spear so heavy did not cut the windpipe through,
And the power of speech was left him, while he yet survived the blow ;
Prone he fell, and thus Achilles triumph'd o'er his fallen foe : —
" So thou thoughtest, haughty Hector, when thou didst Patroclus slay,
That no vengeance should o'ertake thee, and that I was far away !
Fool ! a stronger far was lying at the hollow ships that day —
An avenger — who hath made thee his dear blood with thine repay ;
I was left, and I have smote thee. To the ravenous hounds and kites
Art thou destined, whilst thy victim shall receive the funeral rites !"
640 The Twenty- Second Book of the Iliad. • [May,
Him thus answer'd helmed Hector, and his words were faint and slow,—
" By thy soul, thy knees, thy parents— let them not entreat me so !
Suffer not the dojs to rend me by the vessels on the shore,
But accept the gold and treasure sent to thee in ample store
By my father and my mother. O, give back my body, then,
That the funeral rites may grace it, offered by my countrymen !"
Then the swift Achilles, sternly glancing-, answer' d him again :
" Speak not of my knees or parents, — dog ! thou dost implore in vain ;
For I would my rage and hatred could so far transport mo on,
That I might myself devour thee, for the murders thou hast done :
Therefore know that from thy carcase none shall drive the dogs away —
Not although thy wretched parents ten and twenty ransoms pay,
And should promise others also — not though Dardan Priam brought
Gold enough to weigh thee over, shall thy worthless corpse be bought :
Never shall thy aged mother, of her eldest hope bereft,
Mourn above thee — to the mercies of the dog and vulture left !"
Then the helmed Hector, dying, once again essay 'd to speak : —
" 'Tis but what my heart foretold me of thy nature, ruthless Greek !
Vain, indeed, is my entreaty, for thou hast an iron heart.
Yet, bethink thee for a moment, lest the Gods should take my part,
When Apollo and my brother Paris shall avenge my fate,
Stretching thee, thou mighty warrior, dead before the Screangate!"
Scarcely had the hero spoken, ere his eyes were fix'd in death,
And his soul, the body leaving, glided to the shades beneath ;
Its hard fate lamenting sorely, from so fair a mansion fled :
And the noble chief,' Achilles, spoke again above the dead.
" Meanwhile, die thou ! I am ready, when 'tis Jove's eternal will,
And the other heavenly deities, their appointment to fulfil."
This he said, and tore the weapon from the body where it lay,
Flung it down, and stooping o'er him, rent the bloody spoils away :
And the other Grecian warriors crowded round the fatal place,
Hector's noble form admiring, and his bold and manly face ;
Yet so bitter was their hatred, that they gash'd the senseless dead ;
And each soldier that beheld him, turning to his neighbour, said,
" By the Gods ! 'tis easier matter now to handle Hector's frame,
Than when we beheld him flinging on the ships devouring flame."
So the standers-by exulted, and again did each one wound him ;
Then Achilles, having spoil'd him, spoke unto his friends around him :—
" Friends and princes of the Argives ! since the Gods have, by my arm,
Slain this man, who, most of any, drove its back, and work'd us harm,
Let us hasten, — round the city let our arm'd battalions move,
So we'll try the Trojans' mettle, and their further purpose prove —
Whether they will leave the city, or their lofty towers retain ;
Broken-hearted are they surely, since their chief defence is slain.
Out, alas ! 1 blame my folly that such words should pass my lips,
Unlamented and unburied lies Patroclus near the ships ;
He whom I have loved so dearly, and whom I shall ever love
Whilst I dwell amongst the living, whilst my limbs have power to move.
Even in Orcus, though the spirits, ere they enter, leave behind
All the memories of their being, shall I recognise my friend.
Come, then, children of the Argives ! raise on high the triumph song ;
To our vessels let us hasten, bearing this dead corpse along.
Mighty glory have we gotten, — Hector's self hath bit the sod,
Whom the Trojans, through the city, honour'd even as a god !"
Thus he spoke, and took a vengeance most unworthy of his kind —
Both the feet of Hector piercing, where the tendons meet behind
1839.] The Twenty-Second Book of the Iliad. 04 1
From the heel into tho iustep, leathern thongs therein he thrust,
Bound them to the chariot, leaving the brave head to trail in dust.
Then within the chariot vaulting, lifted up tho arms to V'^Y,
Lash'd his horses to the g.illop, au 1 right eagerly they flew ;
And the dust arose from Hector, and his hair was shaken round,
And his head, so fair and graceful, smote the earth at every bound :
For that hour was granted to them, by almighty Jove's command,
That his enemies might triumph o'er him in Ins fatherland.
Thus his head with dust was loaded. Then his mother rent herjiair,
And she threw her veil far from her, and she shrieked to see him there :
And his well-beloved father — O, to hear him groan was pity !
And the cry of lamentation rose throughout the peopled city.
'Twas. most like — that dismal wailing — as if Ilion's ancient wall
Were from its foundation blazing, and the flames were circling all.
Scarcely could the sorrowing people in the town their king detain,
For he strove, with frantic passion, forth to rush and cross tho plain ;
Like a suppliant he implored them — he, their honour'd king and sire—
And each man by name entreated, grov'lling in the filthy mire : —
" O, my friends ! stand back I pray you, and permit me all alone
From the city gates to issue, and towards the vessels run,
That I may entreat this warrior to forego his dreadful rage :
Haply he my years may honour, and have reverence for my age —
Such as I am is his father, who hath brought him up to be
Such a ruin to the Trojans, and a cruel scourge to me.
His death- dealing sword hath robbed me ere to-day of many a son
Whom I mourn'd, but not so deeply as I mourn this latest one.
Sorrow shortly will consume me, — I shall die for Hector's death !
Had he perish' d on my bosom, had I felt his latest breathj
Then his most unhappy mother might have ta'en her fill of weeping,
And our tears together mingled, watch beside his body keeping."
Thus he cried, and all the people groan'd to hear the wretched man ;
And, amidst the Trojan women, Hecuba her wail began : —
" O, my son ! why live I longer, when thy precious life is lost ?
Dead art thou that, through the city, wert my glory and my boast,
And the darling of the Trojans, who revered thee as their own !
Hadst thou been a god, their reverence could not have been greater shown ;
And they well might joy to see thee, for thou wert their very breath, —
Lifeless now thou liest, my Hector, in the leaden hands of death."
Thus old Hecuba lamented ; but the wife of Hector knew
Nothing of this great disaster — none had brought her tidings true
How her spouse had rashly tarried all without the city gate.
Weaving of a costly garment, in an inner room she sate,
With a varied wreath of blossoms broidering the double border ;
And unto the fair-hair 'd maidens of her household gave she order
On the fire to place a tripod, and to make the fuel burn,
For a welcome bath for Hector, when from fight he should return.
Hapless woman ! and she knew not that from all these comforts far,
Blue-eyed Pallas had subdued him, by Achilles, first in war ;
But she heard the voice of weeping from the turrets, and the wail
And the cry of lamentation ; then her limbs began to fail,
And she shook with dread all over, dropp'd the shuttle on the ground,
And bespoke her fair-hair'd maidens, as they stood in order round : —
" Two of ye make haste and follow — what may all this tumult mean ?
Sure that cry of bitter anguish came from Hecuba the queen.
Wildly leaps my heart within me, and my limbs are faint and bending-,
Much I fear some dire misfortune over Priam's sons impending :
Would to heaven my words were folly ; yet my terror 1 must own,
Lest Achilles, having hasted 'twixt my Hector and the town,
042 The Twenty- Second Book of the Iliad. [May,
O'er the open plain hath chased him, all alone and sore distress'd —
Lest his hot and fiery valour should at last be laid to rest ;
For, amidst the throng of warriors, never yet made Hector one,
Onwards still he rushed before them, yielding in his pride to none."
Thus she spoke, and, like a Moenad, frantic through the halls she flew,
Wildly beat her heart within her ; and her maidens follow'd too.
Oh ! but when she reach'd the turret, and the crowd were forced aside,
How she gazed ! and, oh ! how dreadful was the sight she there espied! —
Hector dragg'd before the city ; and the steeds, with hasty tramp,
Hurling him, in foul dishonour, to the sea-beat Grecian camp.
Darkness fell upon her vision — darkness like the mist of death —
Nerveless sank her limbs beneath her, and her bosom ceased to breathe.
All the ornamental tissue dropped from her wild streaming hair,
Both the garland, and the fillet, and the veil so wondrous fair,
Which the golden Venus gave her on that well-remember'd day,
When the battle -hasting Hector led her as his bride away
From the palace of Action, — noble marriage-gifts were they !
Thronging round her came her sisters, and her kindred held her fast,
For she call'd on death to free her, ere that frantic fit was past.
When the agony was over, and her mind again had found her,
Thus she falter'd, deeply sobbing, to the Trojan matrons round her : —
" O, my Hector ! me unhappy ! equal destinies were ours ;
Born, alas ! to equal fortunes, — thou in Priam's ancient towers,
I in Thebes, Action's dwelling in the woody Poplacus.
Hapless father ! hapless daughter ! better had it been for us
That he never had begot me, — doomed to evil from my birth.
Thou art gone to Hades, husband, far below the caves of earth,
And thou leavest me a widow, in thy empty halls to mourn,
And thy son an orphan infant, — better had he ne'er been born !
Thou wilt never help him, Hector — thou canst never cheer thy boy ;
Nor can he unto his father be a comfort and a joy !
Even though this war that wastes us pass away and harm him not,
Toil and sorrow, never ending, still must be his future lot.
Others will remove his land-marks, and will take his fields away,
Neither friend nor comrade left him, by this orphan-making day ;
And he looks so sad already, and his cheeks are wet with tears I
Then the boy in want shall wander to his father's old compeers,
Grasping by the cloak one warrior, and another by the vest ; —
Then, perhaps, some one amongst them, less forgetful than the rest,
Shall bestow a cup upon him — yet that cup shall be so small,
That his lips will scarce be moisten'd, nor his thirst assuaged at all :
Then shall some one, bless'd with parents, thrust him rudely from the hall,
Loading him with blows and scorning, which perforce the boy must bear —
Saying, ' Get thee gone, thou beggar ! lo, thy father feasts not here ! '
Weeping at this harsh denial, back shall he return to me —
He, Astyanax, the infant, who, upon his father's knee,
Feasted on the richest marrow, and the daintiest meats that be ;
Who, when slumber fell upon him, and his childish crying ceased,
Went to sleep in ease and plenty, cradled on his nurse's breast.
Now, Astyanax — the Trojans by that name the infant call ;
Since 'twas thou, my Hector, only that didst keep the gates and wall —
Many a wrong shall feel and suffer, since his father is no more.
Now the creeping worm shall waste thee — lying naked on the shore,
Neither friend nor parent near thee — when the dogs have ta'en their fill.
Naked! — and thy graceful garments lie within thy palace still ;
These, the skilful work of women, all to ashes I will burn,
For thou never more shah wear them, and thou never canst return ;
Yet the Trojans will revere them, relics of their chief so true!" —
Thus she spoke in tears, and round her all the women sorrowed too.
1839.]
Letter on Scotch Nationality.
643
LETTEIl ON SCOTCH NATIONALITY.
TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR, — The kind reception
which you gave me on my arrival in
Scotland, with but a slender claim on
your acquaintance, and the high opi-
nion which 1 formed of your liberality
of sentiment in the course of much de-
lightful communication with you, both
in Buchanan House and elsewhere,
encourage me to address you on a sub-
ject, from which I should otherwise
have studiously abstained, as involving
many delicate and perhaps disputable
questions. Our mutual friend H
had partially prepared me for finding,
in the Christopher North of private
life, a still more enlightened and en-
• gaging old man than the pages of his
published writings present to us ; but,
independently of other qualities, my
anticipations were far short of that
courteous hospitality, that wide-spread
fellow-feeling, and that mild toleration
for honest differences of opinion, which
I soon found him to possess. I am
aware, that, in sending you this packet,
I am trespassing on your time, and
perhaps trying your temper ; but the
extent of your indulgence to me on
former occasions must plead my ex-
cuse, however imperfectly, if I seem
to overtax it now.
You are aware that, though speak-
ing the language of Britain, and bear-
ing British blood in my veins, I can-
not boast of having been born in this
country. Yet no man, I believe, en-
tertains towards her soil a more fond
or filial affection. My father was a
native of England ; my mother of
Scotland. I feel an interest and a
pride in all that concerns either part
of the United Kingdom ; and per-
haps, as earliest impressions are the
strongest, my predilections are rather
i:i favour of the northern than of the
southern division. I well remember,
when yet a child, and when the first
pulsations of taste and feeling were
awakening within me, the sad but
pleasing sympathy with which I listen-
ed to my mother, while, with tears in
her eyes, and her sweet voice falter-
ing with emotion, she sung to her
children, the nurslings of a distant and
destructive climate, those soft and
simple strains which had delighted her
own childhood in the cool glens, and
by the prattling streamlets of her na-
tive land. Her favourite melodies
were the pastoral songs of Scotland,
of which the peculiar imagery never
failed to affect her with the tenderest
longings of attachment, and produced
in the expanding minds of her little
nursery an involuntary desire to know
and to see the objects that could ex-
cite so strong a devotion in one whom
we so much loved and venerated. In
advancing years, I retained for Scot-
land, and all that was connected with
it, much of that instinctive affection
which had thus been implanted in me.
But various circumstances attending
the course of life on which 1 entered,
prevented me from visiting my mater-
nal country until a recent period, when,
among other advantages, I enjoyed
the pleasure and profit of making your
acquaintance, and I hope I may add,
of acquiring your friendship.
In most respects, my visit to Scot-
land has not disappointed me. Her
mountains and valleys were all.or more
than all, that I had fancied or desired.
I found her institutionswisely framed,
and ably administered. Her people
gener ally impres?edme with a high con-
viction of their virtues and good sense;
and those with whom I have had a
more familiar intercourse, have laid
me, by their civilities and cordialities,
under obligations that I can never
either forget or repay. But allow
me, my dear sir, to say, that in one
particular, the conduct or manners of
your countrymen gave me consider-
able pain, and seemed to me to leave
room for considerable amendment.
The fault that I have to find with
them lies in an excessive, and I think
superfluous display of national feeling,
particularly in matters of learning and
literature. Since I came among you,
I have been present at a good many
meetings and entertainments, more or
less of a literary or public nature ; and
while there has been no lack of lauda-
tion bestowed on merit of home growth,
I have been struck with the almost
entire absence of any allusion, and cer-
tainly of any adequate tribute, to the
literary excellence even of your nearest
Letter on Scotch Nationality
644
neighbours. I was for some time de-
lighted to have the privilege of sharing
in the just enthusiasm excited by the
names of those great men, whether
living or dead, who have raised the
honour of Scotland so high. Burns,
Scott, Campbell, Wilson, North, Jef- "
frey, Chalmers, — seemed to me, in
their several spheres, most proper and
pleasing objects of admiration, and
sources of honest pride. I read with
delight in every countenance the feel-
ings of self-gratulation which filled
my companions at the sound of those
distinguished names. I set my features
by the same glass, and cheered and clap-
ped with the loudest and lustiest among
them. I began more than ever to claim
a part in your national treasures, and
said, after Correggio, " Anch' io son
Scozzese." But after several repeti-
tions of the same diet, it began to pall.
I longed for variety — I longed for
truth : for though what I heard, for
the most part, was the truth, and no-
thing but the truth, it was not the
whole truth. It was not the sug-
gestio falsi, but it was the suppres-
sio veri. I asked myself the question,
but without receiving an answer fa-
vourable to the practice of my excel-
lent friends here, whether genius now,
and in time past, was really confined
to Scotland, or whether only the optics
of those about me were too short-
sighted to discover it beyond the Scot-
tish border. I speculated whether
this so very limited enthusiasm was
prompted by a love of literature, or
proceeded merely from a love of self,
amiable indeed, and intelligible, yet
erroneous in fact, and indefensible in'
principle. Burns, thought I, is indis-
putably an admirable poet, who will
Jive as long as his language can be
understood ; yet " it may be dooted,"
as M'Leod said in other cases, though
he probably would not have said it of a
countryman, whether his poetry is of
a very ethereal or elevated kind, and
whether its reputation has not some-
times been endangered, not by faint
but by injudicious praise. Scott we
all love and delight in : but is it quite
clear that he is as great as Shakspeare ;
that his prose fictions can, in wisdom,
beauty, and sublimity, be matched
with the poetry of the chief of poets ?
[May,
Campbell is sweet and touching, and
something more ; but is it true that
he has surpassed the excellencies of
those English worthies, whom his own
criticisms have so justly exalted ? Wil-
son is a true and delightful poet, whe-
ther in prose or rhyme ; but, to say the
least, he has a formidable rival in
Wordsworth : yet Wilson's narae is
ever in your mouths, and Words-
worth's ye never utter. Jeffrey in his
day was pretty and pleasant ; but can
we safely affirm that he was a greater
than Johnson ? Chalmers is eloquent,
earnest, and energetic ; but even on
his disc there are a few spots discern-
ible by the telescope of truth ; and
there are luminaries in the sister
church that could make him pale his
beams when at the brightest. North,
I admit, is unapproached and unap-
proachable,* .... but one
swallow does not make a summer ;
and you have no right to claim pre--
eminence in every thing, because in
some single department, those who are
otherwise your equals or superiors,
have hitherto failed to surpass you.
Why, then, do such excellent and pe-
netrating persons as you are, thus ex-
clusively dwell on the glories of Scot-
tish writers, and either wholly with-
hold, or but rarely and reluctantly
allow, to the men and the memories ia
which England abounds, that share of
sympathy and admiration which is so
justly their due ?
Such, my dear North, were my in-
ternal expostulations with those whom
yet I ardently love and respect, and
by whom I earnestly desire to be es-
teemed, not only as a friend but as a
countryman. Now, tell me whether,
in the idea that I thus adopted, I was
or was not mistaken. Perhaps I have
been hasty in admitting the impression
that was thus formed. I may, by mere
accident, have been thrown among
persons, or have been present on occa-
sions, that do not exhibit a fair sample
of the national feeling in Scotland on
this subject. If so, 1 am sincerely
sorry for my mistake, and shall be
most happy to see it corrected. But
if I am not here in error, nay, if there
is any foundation whatever for my
opinion, even though it be less than
I suppose, I must humbly submit that
* Some sentences here occur which our modesty precludes us from permitting to be
printed. — C. N.
1839.]
Ltller on Scvic/i NaliunuLty.
G45
this state of things ought not to be,
and that every true friend of Scotland
is interested in its reformation.
It' the extreme and exclusive parr
tiality for Scottish merit which is thus
exhibited in our countrymen (permit
mo so to speak of them in the rest of
this letter), were called for by any
unwillingness in our southern neigh-
bours to do us justice, I should be the
last to find fault with even an exag-
gerated assertion of our claims. Let
the honour or the fame of Scotland be
attacked, and I will allow you to bris-
tle up your spines, like the armed
plant that forms the emblem of your
nation, and to prove that aggression
shall never escape punishment. Nay,
in such a case, I would wag my tongue
or my claymore in her defence, with
the best of you ! But why at present
these laboured and one- sided pane-
gyrics ? What has made it necessary
now, for years past, to dwell specially
and solely on the literary praises of
Scotland ? Quis vitttperavit ? Her
merits, in all departments, have long
been fully acknowledged by the world,
and by England among the rest. We
need not, therefore, display that
Yankee-like itch for praise, that
springs from a morbid soreness within ;
we need not resort to this perpetual
bolstering up of our pretensions, of
which the natural explanation is, that
it indicates insecurity of position.
The course that I thus take the
liberty of lamenting, appears to me
to be objectionable on these several
grounds : 1 . It is unjust ; 2. It is un-
grateful j 3. It is foolish ; 4. It is in-
jurious.
1. It is unjust. Scotland has, in-
deed, done much for literature. But
what she has done, cannot, without
violence to truth and reason, be held
as paramount or equal to the contri-
butions of the rest of the empire.
Count up the names which she has
added to the list of literary classics,
and compare them with those of Eng-
land,— and either we must confess our
great inferiority, or we must allow
our principles of criticism or veracity
to be perverted by our patriotism.
Let us take a hasty review of the
poetry which has been produced in
each country, leaving out, necessari-
ly, the inferior names on both sides
of the question. One eminent poet
of early (!ute Scotland can boast of —
Dunbar j one to whose merit you have
yourself done no more than justice by a
noble criticism. Admirable, indeed,
he is, alike for fancy, tenderness, and
humour ; yet he is surely a paler and
a lesser light than the morning-star of
English song. Chaucer, too, we must
remember, had the precedence in point
of time by fully a century ; and Dun-
bar, doubtless, drew much from his
example, both in language and in
thought. From Dunbar to Ramsay
how wide a space in our history — more
than two centuries — yet how few
names of any consideration can we
number to fill it up ! How much of our
sky is dark and vacant, while that of
England is a glittering galaxy ! Three
glorious orbs of song may be there
discovered at no great interval from
each other — Spencer, Shakspeare,
Milton ; each, indeed, not a star but
a sun, dazzlingly bright, and not more
bright than beneficent ; not coldly
shining with beams of idle beauty, but
diffusing to all the world the light of
truth and the warmth of virtue. With
these must be associated many lumi-
naries of secondary dignity, that else-
where would appear conspicuously
brilliant, but here are made dim, partly
by the surpassing lustre of those greater
lights, and partly by the very frequency
with which they are themselves clus-
tered together. In later times, indeed,
Scotland has more to show. Let
the author of the Gentle Shepherd
receive his due meed of praise for that
native simplicity and genuine tender-
ness which his English rivals failed
either to seek or to attain ; — let
Thomson be reverenced as a great
and worthy high-priest of Nature,
and a glorious restorer of her true
worship, when it had been either for-
gotten or corrupted ; — let Beattie re-
tain a,ll the praise that he has ever re-
ceived— he well deserves it, as a gen-
uine poet, who knew and taught that
the love of beauty and of goodness
must go hand in hand ; — and let Burns
conclude the century, a noble product
of his country's character and institu-
tions, unrivalled in all the qualities of
lyric tenderness, of manly force, or
of homely humour, that his genius or
position were calculated to inspire.
But let us not forget that, during this
later period, our neighbours, too, have
a list to show, which we must not
boast of surpassing. Pope, Young,
Goldsmith, Gray, Collins, and Cow-
per, arc name? never to be uttered
646
Letter on Scotch Nationality.
[May,
without love and gratitude, as hav-
ing inestimably contributed to the
delight and instruction of mankind.
The poetry of Cowper in one re-
spect resembles that of Burns, as it is
a fruit of -which the form and flavour
are eminently characteristic of the soil
that gave it birth. English scenery,
English habits, the calm and cheer-
ful pleasures of English homes, the
independence, philanthropy, and de-
votion of English hearts, are deline-
ated in Cowper's verses with a truth
and beauty that ennoble at once the
poet and the theme, and present a
social picture of sober wisdom and
solid happiness that cannot elsewhere
be equalled.
If we come down to our own day,
I suspect that all the poetry we can
muster in Scotland, and it is not in-
considerable, will not turn the balance
against the opposing weight of Crabbe
and Wordsworth.
If I were to take a similar survey
of miscellaneous literature, I believe
that I should reach nearly the same
result, at least until that period of
our annals which records the auspici-
ous birth of Maga. The name of
Samuel Johnson would alone be suf-
ficient to immortalize the nation that
produced him. Why, sir, have you
never, in all your lucubrations, done
justice to the genius and virtues of
that great and good man ? You carp
sometimes at his criticisms on poetry,
and I allow that his poetical, like his
physical vision, had some natural de-
fects. Yet even in criticism he was
often sound and just, able and admir-
able : and in some departments of no
trifling value, he was not only a good
judge, but a true poet. To those hap-
pily constituted minds in which thelove
and worship of nature are both a part of
their frame and an article of their reli-
gion, it is difficult to think of Johnson's
purblind perceptions with sympathy
or toleration. But the regions of
moral loveliness were to him in the
place of rocks and valleys, flowers
and forests ; and his reverence for
piety and justice, truth and fortitude,
may be allowed to compensate for the
coldness and almost sullenness against
nature with which he regarded the
forms of physical beauty. Who can
remember his struggles with po-
verty and disease — his ever-increasing
aspirations after knowledge and wis-
dom— his scrupulous pur&uit of duty,
whether real or supposed — his rigid
self-examination — his heartfelt humi-
lity— his enduring affection — his sin-
cere devotion ;— who can remember
these virtues, and reflect that they
were combined with one of the most
powerful intellects that ever animated
a human frame, without willingly pay-
ing to him the tribute so justly due to
those who nobly use the noble gifts of
their Maker ? We shall never, my
dear sir, have another book of equal
wisdom and delight with the bio-
graphy of Johnson till Gurney pub-
lishes his full notes of the Private
Conversations of Christopher North.
Of Addison, I presume it would be
unfashionable now-a-days to speak in
terms in praise ! But ought it to be
so ? Will any impartial examiner of
literary history refuse to that excel-
lent and eminent writer the tribute
that belongs to the man who makes
wit and gaiety subservient to wisdom
and goodness — elegance of style to
purity of life ? Addison contributed,
perhaps more than we can tell, to dif-
fuse through general society the taste
and knowledge that had been locked
up in cloisters and libraries ; and his
simple and unostentatious communica-
tion of his stores of thought and scho-
larship might be well imitated at the
present time by many who, with much
less to exhibit, make an infinitely
greater flourish in the display. Scot-
land, I fear, has as yet no names to
show that can match with the two I
have here mentioned.
In the department of history, our
countrymen have done well : better
perhaps, comparatively, than in any
other. Our leading historians have
gained a high place in a very difficult
and honourable contest ; but we must
not say that we have yet thrown Cla-
rendon and Gibbon into the shade.
In philosophy, we have done some-
thing, but not so much as is sometimes
alleged. We have produced two dis-
tinguished men, Hume and Reid — the
one to set us wrong, and the other to
set us right again. Beyond these, I
suspect we have few whom we can
boast very highly of, or whom we
could place in competition with Bacon,
Hobbes, Cudworth, Locke, or Berke-
ley. The Scotch have sometimes been
praised for their metaphysical talent,
but I own I am not of opinion that we
are in this respect superior or equal
either in subtlety or soundness to our
Letter on Scotch Nationality.
Southern neighbours, among whom
very high examples of this power
of analysis may be traced in many
writers even of inferior note. The
country that produced Shakspeare,and
that still holds him in reverence as
her worthiest son, cannot be deficient
either in genius or in taste for mental
philosophy ; and her ability in this
branch of science can only be over-
looked from her general pre-eminence
in other and nobler acquirements.
In divinity, what shall I say? The
Church of Scotland deserves a warmer
eulogium than 1 am able to pronounce
upon her, as the trusty guardian of
sound doctrine, and the diligent in-
structress of her people in piety and
virtue. We cannot feel too much
either of gratitude or pride towards
her early re formers, whose efforts set us
free from papal tyranny, from error,
ignorance, and vice ; and we cannot
now reflect on the number of devout
and laborious men, scattered among
her secluded valleys or fertile fields, over
her barren wastes, or in the worse
wildernesses of her crowded cities,
without rejoicing that so many fit and
faithful teachers are thus provided to
proclaim the truth, both from their
lips and in their lives. But as a liter-
ary church, in the best sense of the
term — as the able and accomplished
champion of Christian and Protestant
doctrines in the arena of public dis-
cussion, I fear that she must be ranked
in a lower class than her friends would
desire. Some eminent theologians she
has produced ; but her catalogue must
be short and slender compared with
that which contains the names of
Hooker, Taylor, Chillingworth, Bar-
row, South, Tillotson, Clarke, Butler,
Warburton, and Paley. In the vo-
lumes of these great men, and of
others resembling them, though dif-
fering from each other in dignity,
and some of them not exempt from
error, there is to be found, as in
a ready and well-arranged armoury,
a store of sharp and shining weapons,
with which in all time the adherents
of truth may be supplied to secure the
victory over her opponents. It has
never been explained to my satisfac-
tion why the Church of Scotland has
not sent to the field at least a fair con-
tingent of combatants in the same
sacred cause. I cannot allow that the
poverty of her livings can alone ac-
count for it. The poorest of our
clergy arc not worse off than Hooker
was, when he was visited at Draitou
by his old pupils, Sandys and Cran-
mer ; where, we are told, '< they found
him with a book in his hand (it was
the Odes of Horace), he being then
tending his small allotment of sheep
in a common field, which he told his
pupils he was forced to do, for that
his servant was then gone forth to
dine, and assist his wife to do some
necessary household business." Again,
" when his servant relieved him, his
two pupils attended him into his
house, where their best entertainment
was his quiet company, which was
presently denied them, for Richard
was called to rock the cradle ; and the
rest of their welcome was so like this,
that they staid but till next morning,
which was time enough to discover
and pity their tutor's condition." It
was amidst these privations, however,
and with the additional trial of a ter-
magant wife, that Hooker matured
those profound opinions and lofty ^
meditations which have made his*
name immortal in the Ecclesiastical
Polity. I cannot think that many of
our Scotch ministers are worse pro-
vided for, and I trust that most of
them are better married ; yet no work
comparable to Hooker's has yet been
produced in the Scottish Church.
Perhaps the fault is to be found in
the absence of dignities or sinecures
— perhaps in the want of discipline and
endowments in our schools and col-
leges. Whatever may be the cause
of our inferiority, I trust it may be
one day removed, and that the Scot-
tish Church may approach in learning
and in written wisdom more nearly to
that fair level with her Anglican
sister, which she may boast of having
attained in orthodox belief and in
practical piety.
In general learning, I doubt if we
have any very great name, except
that of him whose effigy adorns the
tiile-page of Maga, to oppose to the
countless swarms of scholars who
have issued from the seminaries of
English erudition, and who, taking
wing to every quarter of the heavens,
have gathered treasures from the whole
region of literature to enrich the plea-
sant hives which they have made their
homes, and from which the sweet and
sustaining food of sound 5 nstruction m ay
be again dispensed to all who hunger to
obtain it. Compared with these happy
643
children of light and industry, our own
scholars, I suspect, must be set down
as mere humble bees or downright
drones. We have had no names,
whether in classical literature or in
other departments, which can, with-
out presumption, be pronounced in
the same summer's day with Bcntlcy
or Person, Hickes or Pccock. This
deficiency of itself is of most formi-
dable consequence. Where there is
no profound learning, there can be no
thorough instruction. The minds of
youth will not be trained to habits
either of right thinking or of deep
enquiry ; and the standard of excel-
lence will, in all departments, be low-
ered or lost. To borrow a figure
from Pericles, the best part of the
spring -will be blotted from the year,
and our empty garners and vapid
wine-presses will proclaim the extent
of the calamity.
What, then, is the result ? That
Scotland, a poorer and a smaller coun-
try than England, has borne a noble
share in the literary eminence of Bri-
tain,— but not a share that authorizes
any undue pride or elation on the part
of her children, much less any forget-
fulness of the far greater names that
England can exhibit, and which place
her, as a literary country, not merely
above ourselves, but above the whole
•world. While we exult, then, in much
that our country has done, both in a
historical and literary sense, let truth
temper the enthusiasm of our praise ;
and let us remember that an exclusive
appropriation of merit to ourselves is
unjust to our nearest neighbours, with
whom we are united into one mighty
kingdom, and to whom we owe the
obligation of candid sincerity, as well
as of brotherly kindness.
2. It is ungrateful thus to dwell ex-
clusively on our own claims. We can
with difficulty say that the character
or exertions of Scotland have had a
very great influence upon those of
the sister country. They may have
produced a considerable effect chiefly
by indirect means. But there can be
no doubt that the character and lite-
rature of England have exercised the
most powerful and beneficial influ-
ence upon us. The English per-
sonal character, we may boldly say,
and it penetrates deeply both into her
institutions and her literature, is the
noblest and purest that the world has
ever witnessed. The elements of dif-
Letter on Scotch Nationality.
[May,
ferent excellencies are mixed up in it
with the most admirable felicity of
combination. No where do we see so
successfully united the spirit of specu-
lation and of action, of study and of
judgment, of enthusiasm and compo-
sure> of cheerfulness and of earnest-
ness, of intellect and of piety. No-
where else do we behold an example
of honour so high and so unstained,
of morals so pure and yet so kindly,
of courage so gallant and so gene-
rous. We have ourselves much of the
same good qualities, yet modified,
partly by the impetuosity of temper
arising from inferior refinement, and
partly by the too great caution and cal-
culation natural to a people numeri-
cally weak, and placed originally in a
less favourable position. We needed,
therefore, and have largely received, the
support of that more fearless, and, at
the same time, more firm and collected
spirit, which belongs to a nation that
had enjoyed the civilisation of a long-
series of centuries, and that was born
to the sovereignty of the world whe-
ther in arts or in arms. The effect
upon us of English literature may be
estimated by the single reflection that
no one can have read Shakspeare or
Milton without a revolution being pro-
duced in his whole mind, from the
introduction of a new creation of
thoughts, images, and feelings, the
most glorious and divine. These mas-
ter poets have influenced not us,
merely, but mankind at large, by sup-
plying new sources of delight, new re-
velations of wisdom, and new motives
to goodness of the most powerful and
ameliorating kind ; but they must
surely have still more forcibly and
beneficially operated on the minds and
character of ourselves, who stand to-
wards them, if we would but claim it,
in so near and dear a relation.
It seems, then, to be inconsistent
with proper gratitude that we should
ever name the name of literature with-
out paying a just tribute to that glo-
rious country, to which we every way
owe so much, and which has produced
such unrivalled models of excellence,
fitted alike to train and inspire men
to the production, and to the admira-
tion of poetry and wisdom.
3. It is foolish. In dwelling with
such exclusive preference on the
ovations of our countrymen, we are
foregoing our lawful share of more
numerous and illustrious triumphs.
1889.]
Letter on Scotch Nationality.
Why should we not be eager on all
occasions to identify ourselves with
English excellence ? In remembering
that we are north of the Tweed, do
we forget that we are in Britain ? In
rejoicing that we are Scotchmen, do
•we count it nothing that most of us
are Saxons ? Few among us that
excel in literature profess even to be
Celtic : fewer still exhibit their lite-
rature in a Celtic form. Our ver-
nacular speech admits, or has re-
ceived but a limited range of culti-
vation, though in some hands it has
become what it was fitted to be, a most
exquisite pipe of Doric minstrelsy.
We write now, as our poets have done
for centuries, in the " Inglis" lan-
guage, but even our common speech
is of Saxon character. Shall such
of us, then, as are Saxon by blood
and birth, Saxon both in our native
and our adopted language, claim ex-
clusive kindred with the unintelli-
gible Ossians and Ullins of the
north, whether real or fictitious,
and disown as aliens the poets and
sages of England, whose language and
sympathies are the same with our
own? Shall we wilfully blot out from
our scutcheon the noble quarterings
which we can show from that side of
our house, whether by ancient des-
cent or modern alliance, and disclaim
any part in that just and glorious
boast which has been put forth by a
divine poet, divided from our land by
only a little stream and a few miles of
hill and valley ; but in whose words
even the dwellers beyond the Atlantic,
who reject our monarch and our
government, exultingly participate ?
Shall we refuse to say with Words-
worth—
" In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible knights of old :
We must be free or die, who speak the
tongue
That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and
morals hold
Which Milton held. In every thing we are
sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold !"
4. It is injurious. Enough of causes
are already at work to depress and de-
teriorate literature without having this
other influence to boot. The indul-
gence even of a just estimate of what
our countrymen have done, may lead
us rather to repose on the laurels they
have left us, than to gather a fresh
04 0
wreath for ourselves. But an over-
estimate of what we have thus to boast
of, is doubly pernicious. It lulls us into
a false security. It debases our stand-
ards of truth and taste. We ought
to be far less occupied in contemplat-
ing what Scotland has done, than in
helping her still to do what may make
her a fitter companion for the great
country with which her destinies are
for ever united. Let us raise our ideas
by looking beyond ourselves at the
highest models of excellence that we
can find, whether among our illustri-
ous neighbours, or, if there be any
higher reality of beauty and wisdom,
among those ancient classics that
have been as models to them. At pre-
sent, I fear, but little is going on
amongst us. The crop that is to form
a future harvest shows at best but a
feeble and scattered braird. It is, at
least, not so vigorous and abundant as
one could wish. Young Scotland may
and does abound in energy and genius,
but, so far I can perceive, it has as yet
given but few overt or tangible proofs
of its powers — fewer certainly than a
true patriot would desire and struggle
to produce. The old are falling off
around us, and who is rising to suc-
ceed them ? I asked for the illustri-
ous names of literary men resident
among you, and received for answer,
" Christopher North in prose, and
John Wilson in poetry." I asked
again— "John Wilson in poetry, and
Christopher North in prose." Some
minor names were murmured in a
lower tone ; but they dwelt not in my
ear or my memory. I could make
no more of it. Scott, then, is in his
grave. Jeffrey is on his shelf. The
pen of the Professor sleeps in the
inkstand of his own indolence. Chris-
topher alone remains. Excepting him,
" No one now
Dwells in the halls of Ivor.
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ;
HE is the sole survivor."
It is a happiness, my good sir, that
you do survive, as well as that the re-
mainder of Wordsworth's description
of Simon Lee does not apply to you.
But is such a monopoly desirable,
either looking to the present or the
future ? The time may come when
even you must bow your hoary head to
the sickle ; and another crop should
be ready to take your place. You
should even now have many assist-
ants and successors in your important
050
Letter on Scotch Nationality.
[May,
office of Master Wizard, ready to
support-, and, if possible, extend the
reputation of your country, and to join
in bestowing on mankind at large some
of those imperishable gifts of genius
•which will make the givers known,
and loved, and conversed with, through-
out all time. Do not you, then, sir,
be aiding and abetting here to any
deviation of duty. Do not play the
part of Sir Pandarus of Troy, to
a silly self-love. Tell your country-
men what they are, and tell them what,
as yet, they are not, and what they
should strive to be. Let not the youth
of Scotland sit like Narcissus on the
margin of the lake, enamoured of their
own features, and regardless of the
other forms of actual and abstract
beauty that demand and would re-
ward their admiration. Let them be
up and doing. Let them " think no-
thing done, while aught remains to
do." Lead them, even more than
you have ever done, to the foun-
tains of poetry and truth flowing in
other lands as much as in their own,
and teach them to drink genius, and
•wisdom, and immortality, from the
living stream. The causes which, for
a time, suspended our literary exer-
tions are, I. hope, rapidly passing
away. It was proper that, while our
institutions and privileges were in
jeopardy, we should think their preser-
vation paramount to all other duties.
It was excusable that, while the very
existence of knowledge and piety
was threatened, we should be en-
grossed with the task of protecting
them ; that, while a new invasion
of Vandalic barbarity was preparing
to overrun the territory of learn-
ing and civilisation, we should be
rather occupied in defending the fron-
tiers than in cultivating the soil.
But, if I mistake not much, the
crisis is past ; liberty and reli-
gion are safe, and we may resume
the arts and the accomplishments of
peace. Our labourers should now
change their occupations, and turn
their swords into ploughshares. While
the sky lowered, and the storm was
howling round us, no wonder that
our woodland minstrelsy was mute.
But the clouds are dispersed, if not
wholly, yet in a great degree ; the
radiant sun of peace and security
shines forth again, not, I trust, with
only a " farewell sweet," but with a
long course of brightness yet to run.
Why then are the groves still silent ?
— why do not our sweetest voices pour
forth their most joyous notes, at once
to attest our safety and give thanks
for our deliverance ?
We should not lay the flattering
unction to our souls, that England
is at this moment doing compara-
tively little in the better depart-
ments of literature. I acknowledge
that a false taste has, for the present,
made greater progress in that country
than her institutions and established
models ought to have permitted. It
is one of the symptoms of that mis-
leading spirit of the age, which, I
hope, is already beginning to lose its
influence. You are aware I am no
admirer either of the Bulwers or of
the Bowrings of the day, either of the
flashy fictionists or of the dull utilita-
rians, that liberalism in all things has,
in our time, tended to produce. I look
on them all as the foam or froth that
agitation has raised on the current of
literature : differing somewhat, indeed,
in character and aspect among them-
selves, but not much in origin or
destiny, — the one appearing like a
net - work of variegated bubbles,
that will soon break and be seen
no longer ; the other like a foul and
dusky scum that will speedily sink
to the mud from which it rose.
But while these passing levities and
impurities are conspicuous enough,
the whole stream of literature is not
disturbed or polluted. The pure
and tranquil flow of Wordsworth's
genius, still holds on its way in a re-
tired channel, bringing health and
joy with it in its course ; now clear
and cheerful, but without empty im-
petuosity— now still and dark, but
only from the depths over which it
flows. While Wordsworth remains
to England, she has still to boast one
of the few whose powerful and yet
regulated genius has attained to the
highest rank in imaginative literature.
But more, perhaps, is doing in Eng-
land in solid and salutary learning
than is at first sight apparent. The
evil spirit of the times has roused an
antagonist principle of good, which
will ere long obtain the mastery. The
popular demand for novelty and
change, for superficial talent, and for
voluptuous reading, has revolted the
minds of many, and has revived on
the other side the reverence for severe
reasoning, for simple nature, and for
1839.] Letter on Scotch Nationality. 05 i
ancient authority. To notice only a tortoise has a chance of overtaking her.
few of these correctives, it is of the We have a long interval of ground
utmost importance that the study of to get over in the race. Let us use
strict logic is again sedulously culti- the opportunity if it has arisen. Let
vated ; that the unaffected plainness us strain every nerve to diminish at
of Anglo-Saxon literature has been least the distance at which we have
rescued from the obscurity in which been left behind. Let political agita-
itlay; and that the patristical writings tion and frivolous literature be alike
have been restored to that honour restrained within narrow bounds. Let
which all humble and devout Chris- sound learning and taste, poetry and
tians would acknowledge to be their philosophy, be instated in their law-
due. Errors may easily arise from ful sway ; and, in order to accelerate
some, at least, of these tendencies, the result, let us neither overrate what
The rod may be bent for a while be- we have already done, nor refuse to
yond the right line on this side, as it others the praise that belongs to that
once deviated from it on the other, excellence to which we are aspiring
But a just mean will ultimately be ourselves.
attained, and the English nation will Excuse, my dear sir, this hasty
still preserve that happy mixture of effusion ; and forgive me if, in any
virtues and tastes which, though dis- way, it does injustice either to the
turbed by occasional variations, has cause or the country whose interests
so long constituted its permanent cha- I have so earnestly at heart. I leave
racter. to-morrow, and write in a hurry.
But, supposing that the literature When we shall again meet, who can
of England were now in a state of conjecture ? Mean-time, believe me,
inactivity, this is no reason why ever your obliged and faithful servant,
Scotland also should become torpid. A. MURRAY MILDMAY.
It is when the hare is asleep that the BARRY'S, 25th April, 1839.
SONNETS.
BY THE SKETCHER.
" KNOW THYSELF."
" KNOW thyself" — wandering, on this text I mused,
And, in the mock of vain philosophy,
I ask'd the babbling brook, that pass'd me by,
Lend me his glass — I look'd ; but all confused
The image was — and Fancy's self abused,
With dream-like music ; and I turn'd mine eye,
And of the awful cataract ask'd reply
From its oracular flood. — It roar'd — refused :
Then sped I on — o'er mountain, moor, and fell,
Until I came unto a dismal lake,
All ink, th' unfathomable blot of hell,
And from its depth did vapours rise, and take
The form of fiends, as from the womb of sin ;
" Look ! " said a voice — I look'd, and saw myself therein.
WOMAN.
Of manly wisdom if there lacketh aught
In the fair structure of dear woman's mind,
It is Heaven's benison, of so sweet kind,
That she may walk this earth with evil fraught,
And know it not. For purity untaught,
And unassailable in her enshrined,
Shines like the ray in precious stone confined,
Through the clear adamant of holy thought :
But man, that makes and combats evil, needs
The serpent's wisdom, and the serpent's lure
Comes with it, and his feet too often leads
Astray : Woman, with light, and instinct sure,
Walks virtue-charm'd 'mid the world's blackest deeds,
Unharm'd — " For to the pure all things are pure."
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXIII, 2 T
(352 Sonnets. [May,
REALITY AND FANCY.
To reach a seeming gem, one tax'd his speed,
On the wet shore — the disenchanted cheat
Vanish' d, as down he stoop'd — but at his feet
Stood cold Reality. " How poor thy need,"
Quoth she : " thus Fancy's fools take fruitless heed,
Wasting the precious life in feverish heat
To follow glittering things — joys incomplete —
A little sunshine gilding worthless weed.
I too can offer treasures, but not here, —
I lay not up for time. Th' Eternal Hand
Hath sown the world with virtues. Pray, with fear,
For grace to reap them : then that promised land
Is thine, where all things are what they appear,
And Fancy cheats no more with glittering sand.
NIGHT.
How shall I name thee, Night, Great Secresy ?
For thou dost hide in darkness many a deed,
The world's and all thine own — and thou dost breed
Things of all unknown shapes, and mystery,
In every element — th' unfathomed sea,
Cavernous earth — and storms, that in their speed
Crush luminous towns, yet spare thy shelter'd weed
That frights mankind, inhaling death from thee :
Some feign thee evil thus — more thankful I
View thee, kind Mother, when thou lay'st to rest
All creatures underneath thy gracious eye,
Soothing with dreams instill'd the aching breast j
And settest up thy watchers in the sky,
That all thy children's sleep be safe and blest 1
THE BIRD.
It was a sunny eve — and in a bower
There was a bird sent forth his carols sweet
To the soft air — and glistening leaves did meet
And bend around him to the magic power.
And there were Two, that hand in hand that hour,
That happy hour, pass'd by with lingering feet ;
And listen-ing look'd into that green retreat.
O Change ! why art thou true love's only dower ?
Dead is the bird — the leaves that interposed
Their golden light lie o'er him — they too dead !
And of the Two— the eyes of one are closed ;
And her dear feet, that did in sunshine tread,
Upraised, and cold and bare, in darkness lie —
O, that the lonely wanderer, too, could die !
BLESSING.
Oblivion ! but the darkness of the blind !
It is not real ; deed, word, vision, past,
Are known to God 5 and if so kno.wn, are cast
In mould imperishable as His mind.
Or be they spiritual, and unconfmed,
Still are they in that knowledge self-amass' d—
Knowledge that is Creation ; and must last
With all things that have ever been, combined.
Nor would I deem the Divine Consciousness
All from this earth removed, o'er which the Dove
Brooded : for rocks and wooded wilderness
Are but reflections of things known above }
And I would trust that every scene we bless
With" one sweet thought will live, for ever, with our love.
1839.] Sonnets. 653
THE MIND.
The human mind is like a working-shop,
Where Self- Will rears the anvil — and strong Passions
Forge for Philosophy, and eke for Fashions —
High thoughts for heroes, fancies for the fop.
Big resolutions glow, and cool, and drop
In Idless' stagnant pool : here sparks of wit
Fly upward and around, and nothing hit.
Noise and confusion to the very top. —
So round the ^Etnean fires a grisly band,
Brontes and Steropes, their metal clot,
Urg'd with their brawny sinews at command .
Of limping Vulcan, and now hissing hot
Plunged into troughs, and now turn'd out of hand
Jove's thunderbolts — and now — an iron pot.
AFFECTION.
O lead thy children in Affection's way —
With every living thing to sympathize—
'Tis better to be kind than to be wise.
" Our boy's from school," the mother cries, "to-day.
How many will rejoice /" " Puss, pur and play ;
And Rover, leap," the little sister cries.
" How many will rejoice /" — Now home he hies —
Indulgence gives. He takes his swing and sway ;
Th' ungenerous Boy becomes the general dread ;
Stick, stone, and gun, the weak and ag'd molest —
The red-breast that came daily to be fed
Is blown away, the muzzle at his breast :
" How many will rejoice I " — say rather, weep—
Who sow in joy unwise, in sorrow reap.
THE WARNING.
The storm-cloud came, o'er heaven's large pathway strode,
The billows roll'd around with awful roar —
Two Brothers parted on the sea-lash'd shore.
" I go," said one — " nor heed what ye forebode,
My bark shall ride where she hath proudly rode."
He went — was wrecked ; he went — return'd no more.
The other, calm and thankful, bow'd before
The mercy-sign — and sought his safe abode.
O, fear ye Him, whose hand, as with a rod
Scourgeth the seas, and measures with a span —
Through whom, a passage once was safely trod,
When upwards all the refluent waters ran :
The warning winds are but the voice of God,
Of disobedience is the voice of man.
EQUINOCTIAL GALES.
Howl on, ye winds, and fill the world with fears,
Ye now have license — yet a little while —
A voice shall call you from your far exile :
The heaven-commission'd spirits that touch the spheres
With holiest fingers, and angelic ears
Charm with celestial song, shall reconcile,
With various stop, you and your wild compeers,
To waft soft airs o'er many a summer isle.
O, ye harmonic spirits, your skill transfer
To rebel passions, till their tumult cease
Or even they subdued shall minister
To virtue in her glorified increase ;
And every thought like sainted chorister
Breathe in its sunlit sanctuary — peace I
The House on the Hills.
[May,
THE HOUSE ON THE HILLS.
STILL white, as with the constant fear
Of Doomsday crack at hand,
Though crumbling fast from year to
year,
The FOLKESTONE Hills their summits
rear,
Like giants on the land.
There straggling, lone, companion-
less,
Where cattle sparely browse,
From fav'ring gales which sailors
bless,
That chill'd nay cheek with cold ca-
ress,
I sought a sheltering House.
" House !" — But there came no an-
swering sound —
Echo refused the word,
That, what was falling to the ground,
Fast as the autumn leaves around,
Should hear itself preferred.
Upward I raised the rusty latch,
Half eager, half in fear,
To know, beneath that rotten thatch,
Where birds had long disdain'd to
hatch,
What object would appear.
The creaking hinge aloud replies,
When, from a crazy chair,
Uprose a man, whose hollow eyes,
Two oracles of miseries,
Yet question'd by a stare.
" Master, for warmth I'll give thee
worth,
I'm cold !" — He yell'd a cry ;
" Cold ? — Look at yonder empty
hearth,
Where fire ne'er lent a cheerful
mirth —
Cold ! — Are you cold as I ?
" Cold !" — And within the inner vest
He clasp'd the heaving fold,
As if he vainly crush'd to rest
A sorrow beating in his breast,
That echo'd cold — cold — cold !
" What brings you where the wretched
dwell ?—
I've nought but life to give,—
I dream'd a dream that peopled hell
With blazing souls — you woke the
spell,
In which I love to live.
" You shrink I Why, what have you
to fear ?
I faced the stormy seas ;
When Ocean's torrents, hissing drear,
Whirl'd in the lightning's shaken
sphere,
I thought my life was ease.
" You came along the mountain's
brow?
The sea upheaves beneath,
There did my infant body grow
To manhood, strong with healthy
glow.
Would it had borne me death !
" I went to sea, and left at home
One, motherless, a child ;
And, as I cut the watery foam,
Pray'd for Joy's kingdom yet to
come,
In him for whom I toil'd.
" Years, many years upon me grew,
I stoop'd beneath the past,
Till, hoar of lock, I homeward flew,
To think my exiled troubles few,
Since home appeared at last.
" Ha, ha, methinks I hear them
now !
They howl along the shore —
A savage tribe, of scowling brow,
Whose passions rise where terrors
flow,
And winds their wreck deplore.
" A wreck ! a wreck ! O, happy
news!
See how they crowd the strand !
O, that a fellow-mortal's thews
The rights of mercy should abuse,
And grave us where we land !
" Dear native shore ! such welcome
kind
Your sons' return to cheer ?
Are foes and howling blasts of wind
The only friendly guests you find,
As homeward lights appear ?
183'J.
The. House on the Hilk. .
655
" Gold, the hard gain of labouring
years,
My little wealth, I bore ;
And, as the wave above me rears,
To Heaven I gave my hasty prayers,
And sought to swim ashore.
" Up, up and down the sea I strove,
Oft dash'd beneath the foam ;
The threat'ning seas against me move,
Seas that I used, a child, to love,
They wash'd my native home.
" A last convulsive effort gave
My limbs a deaden'd weight,
When the fierce sea, I thought iny
grave,
Heaved up a strong and friendly
wave,
And earth received my freight.
" Above my exhausted body stood
A youth of evil eye,
Who watch'd me cleave the briny
flood,
And, thirsting for a deed of blood,
Had doom'd a wretch to die.
" I mark'd his ill-intention'd aim,
> Though grief my utterance bound,
Yet, as the nearing mischief came,
My sinews felt their wonted flame,
I smote him to the ground.
" Yea, seized the knife himself had
raised
Against his victor's throat ;
Bright the malicious lightnings blazed
Upon the blade, as if they praised
My courage as I smote.
" Say, bloody night, why I survive
The gold which care compiled ?
Why for myself no blow to give ?
Yes, I've the wound. I live ! I live !
I struck against MY CHILD.
" My child ! my child ! my fallen
boy ! —
A wretch that robbed the wretch —
I brought thee dust for which men
sigh,
But gave thee to the vile and dry,
Where lazy maggots stretch !
" Months I was mad, while fiery
thought
That dismal night renew'd :
I with the whispering breezes fought,
Often to smite my shadow sought,
As if a foe pursued.
" Mean- while, they placed my wicked
son
Beneath the churchyard stone ;
But, when my reason's dawn begun,
I stole him — 'twas by moon-light
done,—
I stole his precious bone."
The man his shrivell'd features turn'd
To the small corner's cleft,
There crumbling bones mine eyes
discern'd,
O'er which this human monster
mourn'd,
All which the worms had left.
" Now far from man, unbless'd, un-
known,
I wait mine hour to die,
Or murmuring o'er yon withering
bone
Curses for prayers, that lend their
tone,
To breezes listening nigh.
" Oh, then a merry time is mine !
Grief echoes far and near,
I hear the frighten'd cattle whine,
Nature becomes a funeral shrine
Where I create a sphere.
"A shrinking fear in those, whom
chance
May hither bend, I see.
They rush in terror from my glance,
I curse in silence their advance,
I bless them when they flee."
Small coins I from my pocket drew,
Such as poor priest might spare ;
He to his bony treasure flew,
I, as my homeward steps pursue,
Offered a silent prayer.
P. S.
Temple Ewell, Kent.
656
Assassins and Hull Fights.
[May,
ASSASSINS AND BULL FIGHTS.
THE following- narrative is by the
Baron von Auffenberg, one of the
most spirited and glowing of the Ger-
man dramatic poets. It is extracted
from his account of a Pilgrimage to
Granada and Cordova, and gives
perhaps a better view of the state
of Spanish misrule than a more la-
boured disquisition could furnish. His
pilgrimage was performed in company
with a Swiss gentleman, whom he in-
troduces only as " Carlos," and who
plays a prominent, though not a very
heroic part in the following adven-
ture. He calls it " A Night of Ter-
ror at Valencia," and it certainly
seems to have been deserving of the
name ; though we cannot help think-
ing that if Carlos had been William
Tell, or the Baron Guy of Warwick,
the issue might have been different.
There might have been worse odds
than three to two — but to the tale.
A dismal day of clouds succeeded
the bright sunshine of the Easter fes-
tival. I visited several more of the
innumerable convents and churches of
this city, which give a convincing
proof of the inexhaustible wealth of
the Spanish priesthood. The wea-
ther grew worse and worse; — dull and
depressed, as if I had encountered the
simoom, I betook myself to the table
d'hote of the Fun da, where the first
object that presented itself was a
French merchant, who had just ar-
rived from Barcelona. He was a tall
haggard-looking man, dressed in dark-
coloured clothes, with a vast profusion
of beard, and a most melancholy ex-
pression on his pallid face. Such an
object was by no means qualified to
raise my spirits ; he reminded me of
Peter Schlemihl of shadowless me-
mory, and his conversation was in ad-
mirable keeping with his outward man.
He spoke of nothing but wars, earth-
quakes, cholera, and suicide. He
smelt strong of camphor ; and, as no
one seemed inclined to listen to the
lamentations of this second Jeremiah,
he addressed his conversation to me.
When he had asked me what lions I
had seen — " What !" he cried, "have
you not been to the Hospital yet ?- —
my dear sir, 'tis the prettiest sight in
Valencia." This was in character;
and when I had put down his recom-
mendation in my note-book, and de-
termined on visiting the hospital next
morning, he seemed encouraged to
pour forth his grumblings more freely
than before. He growled about the
weather, the dinner — the meats were
bad, the dishes ill dressed — and at la? t
it was quite a relief to me when he
falsified his own judgments on the
cookery, by eating so copiously of
every dish that came in his way, that
he found it impossible to talk any more.
During dessert, he rose and walked
to the window. After he had looked
for some time at the sky, he camo
back, and muttered (almost as if he
were pleased at the prospect) " Any
one that wishes to see a good stiff
storm may go down this afternoon to
the seaside. A bad look-out for the
shipping — lives lost — bankruptcies —
bodies washed ashore," et cetera, et
cetera, and da capo. When at last
this bird of bad omen left the room,
many a hearty " Valgate Satanas !"
hurled after him, showed that the
Spanish part of his auditory were by
no means prepossessed in his favour.
Carlos and I, however, were glad to
avail ourselves of his information, as
neither of us had yet seen a sea-
storm ; and we accordingly walked
along a beautiful road, ornamented
with splendid trees, to the Villa Nueva
de Santa Maria, as the little seaport,
about a mile and a half from the city,
is called. It is also sometimes called
El Grao. It was about six o'clock in
the evening when we reached it. The
bay of Valencia is always rough, being1
exposed to almost every wind ; and on
the present occasion a regular bor-
rasca was raging. The sea was
earth-coloured ; from time to time the
waves, white- crested, and higher than
the house-tops, came rolling in, while
the east wind howled every moment
more fiercely, as if it enjoyed the hide-
ous sound itself had made. All the
thunder-voices of the mighty deep
seemed let loose. A frigate in the
distance struggled like some ocean-
spirit with the increasing tempest.
No wonder that this magnificent scene
made us forgetful of every thing else.
I declaimed and spouted all the poetry
I could remember suitable for the oc-
casion, and was not very unlike De-
mosthenes, with the exception of hav-
1839.]
Assassins and Bull Fiyhts.
657
ing no pebbles in my mouth ; and
Carlos, I have no doubt, would have
also sung hymns to Neptune, if he
had not been busy collecting mussels
and other shells that were cast on shore
by the violence of the storm— for
Carlos is a conchologist, and thought
of his cockles and periwinkles almost
as much as of his Homer and Byron.
The rage of the elements grew with
the darkness ; the foam of the waves
gleamed as if with lightning. The
hollow sounds of the abyss seemed to
sound upwards from the depths of the
lower world, and it was only when
night had fairly set in that we could
tear ourselves away from the grand
and exciting spectacle. El Grao was
already quite deserted ; scattered lights
along the coast glimmered dimly
through the darkness, and along the
roads belated travellers were hurrying
towards the city, some on horseback,
and some in their light tartauas. It
was about nine o'clock when we came
to the sea gate, and we found it
closed. When we begged permission
to enter, a low voice advised us " to
pass on to the left (a la iz guierda)
where we might perhaps still get in,
for here it was impossible : the strong-
est orders had been given to admit no
one after the doors were shut ; no, not
if it were St Vincente himself." This
took us a little aback ; but we obeyed
the recommendation, and walked to-
wards the Puerta Real.
"After all, Carlos," said I, "'tis
no great matter ; we only lose the
fandango for to-night, and sleep in the
open air." Scarcely had I said this,
when I heard something creeping
softly ; and in a moment, as if fallen
down from heaven, or sprung up from
the other place, a broad-shouldered,
thick-set man stood before us, dressed
in the wild, romantic costume .of the
labradors, or labourers of that dis-
trict. With a very submissive voice,
and many bows and cringes, " The
caballeros," he said, " are belated.
O, Madre de Dios, so am I — so am I !
But, chi ! chi ! I know the guard at the
door ; I will speak to them ; they are
sure to let us in. Chi ! chi ! vamos
juntos."
Carlos muttered curses on the sea,
on the mussels and periwinkles, and
the longface of the melancholy French-
man.
As yet I had no suspicion, and I
knew it was not usual in Spain for
one man to attack ttuo. We reached
the Puerta Real. In the middle of it
is a long slit, about two inches wide,
perhaps an inlet for smuggled cigars.
Through this opening, our companion,
the labrador, carried on a conversa-
tion with the sentinel. " Two ca-
balleros are out here — great gentle-
men— Chi! chi, centinela! — open the
gate — the caballeros are strangers —
they will be grateful, you may be
sure."
" I will give you two duros if you
get us in," whispered Carlos to our
advocate; and I immediately perceived
an involuntary movement of surprise
in that gentleman, and an alteration
in his voice ; after this he pleaded our
cause as if he were not in earnest. He
now advised me to give myself out as
harbour-captain, and then they would
be sure to open. But I perceived the
trick and its object, namely — to seize
me as an impostor, and squeeze as
much money out of me as he could.
Before I had time to answer, I
heard Carlos cursing our evil stars
more than ever ; and with some cause,
for immediately a voice said, quite
close to us, " Buenos tardes, cabal-
leros," and two other fellows in the
same dress approached us — one of
them very tall, and the other a short
stout man, who carried a full bottle
of wine.
" We are lost men," whispered Car-
los—" Oh! that infernal sea !"
My suspicions now rose at once to
the highest pitch. " We must leave
this at all hazards," I said, "or this
night will probably be our last." Of
this I was well convinced ; for the
three men began a low muttered con-
versation among themselves, but al-
ways, when they thought we were
observing them, mixed with bursts o/
laughter, as if they were talking of
some merry adventures. " They are
laying their plans at this moment
against our lives," said Carlos; "there
if no hope for us — alas ! alas ! "
Just as he said this, the short man
let fall his wine bottle on a stone slab
near the door, and as he stooped down,
cursing his ill luck, I saw him gather
up a good many stones, and wrap them
up in his red-coloured mantle. The
tall fellow, in the mean time, posted
himself on the other side of us, as if
they suspected we might try to make
our escape. Our first acquaintance
spoke again to the sentinel, whose only
answer was, " Noda ! noda!" It was
now half-past nine — we heard it sound-
Assassins and Bull 1-i/jhts
658
ing from the church toners. The
man seemed to breathe more freely,
and stretching himself joyfully up, he
said, in a tone that evidently showed
, his happiness, " 'Tis of no use, ca-
balleros ; at this hour the keys are
always given up into the comman-
dant's hands ; but at four o'clock the
relief-guard comes, and the gates are
opened. You had better come, and
spend the time with us till then."
" Tengo una buena casa" (I have a
good house), said the little man, in
an ominous whisper ; and I now felt
persuaded they would try to get us
into the suburb, to be able to attack
us the more securely.
Our situation was deplorable enough,
and particularly mine. We were quite
defenceless — even my leaden-headed
stick I had left behind, and I had no-
thing but a small pocket-knife, with a
blade of about two inches long. I had
with me eighty Napoleons in gold,
and in a bag tty e money for our jour-
ney to Madrid, amounting to two
hundred guldens, also in gold ; for, in
the funda, there was no place I could
safely stow it away, not even a cup-
board that would lock. I had also a
gold watch with me, the chain of
which had attracted the marked atten-
tion of the party. The sentinel now
hallooed to us — " OS with you, in the
devil's name — back from the gatel"
" Vamos juntos," said the three
men, and stuck to us closer than ever.
I cannot comprehend what inde-
scribable fatality it was, that led us to
go with them, and not rather to re-
main near the gate, in spite of the
notice of the sentinel. We were partly
ashamed to show such an appearance
of alarm, and partly we laid our plans
as we went along, to save ourselves, if
possible, by the window of whatever
house they took us into. I determined
to try our fortune at the first gate
again ; and as the sentinel warned us
off with more anger than ever, we re-
tired. I cannot describe the presen-
timent of some overhanging evil that
now took possession of me. The sky
above looked black and lowering, and
over all sounded the dull hollow roll
of the tempestuous sea. I felt more
depressed and agitated at that moment
than during all that followed. I was
walking in front with the man who
had spoken to us first ; the tall man
followed in the middle ; while the little
one had joined himself to Carlos, re-
peating his exclamation of " Vamos !
[May,
vamos ! " I soon became aware that
the fellows had led us away from the
gate, and towards the great bridge.
Peacefully shone the lights of a clois-
ter of the Trinitarians on the other
side, which I had observed during the
day ; and a new hope of deliverance
gave me fresh strength. I resolved
to rush to the door of the cloister, and
shout for assistance — " Ayudaal Rey !"
— the usual cry in distress. But at
this moment Carlos positively refused
to go further over the bridge. The
first man altered his tone, and spoke
bullyingly, — " Whom do you take us
for, seiiors ? We are good men and
true (hombres de bien) ; to h— 11 with
any one that doubts us!" I made
signs to Carlos, pointing to the clois-
ter, and pretended to be in high spirits,
to deceive the trio.
" Let us go with these good fel-
lows ; they are honest Valencians, we
will have a jolly night in their houses.
They are brave Spaniards ; and to-
morrow they can come with us to the
funda, and we will pay them the
double of the reckoning, for we have
no money with us now. Vamos ! We
will have dancing and singing, and
all sorts of merry-making, in the house
of a gallant Spaniard. We are no
Frenchmen ; a German and a Swiss
will get on right well with the noble
caballeros. Vamos ! vamos ! "
With consternation I observed that
the first man only answered me in
monosyllables — a cold short "si, si" —
and increased his pace. Under us
rolled the waters of the Guadalavier,
and we rapidly reached the other side.
I now drew my knife in preparation
for my desperate venture, and sidled
constantly towards the cloister. I
sang with all my might — " Amis, la
matinee est belle." Immediately I
heard three separate clicks ! and I
knew that the springs of their navajas
were touched ; the first man at the
same time saying to me, sternly —
" Aura pezetas paur la pobreza" (now
money for the poor). The long knife
glittered in his hand — the cloister lay
scarcely fifty yards from us, and, mad-
dened by rage and despair, I made
the attempt. I sprang like a baited
tiger on the labrador, in hopes of
reaching his eyes with my short knife;
but I sank, as if thunderstruck, to the
ground, from a crashing blow on the
head with a stone, thrown by the man
who followed in the middle. I was
half senseless, but soon recovered ; for
1839.]
Assassins and Bull Fiyhts.
659
already I felt the cold knife as again
and again it dug into my flesh. Stab
followed stab. This deliberate mur-
der made me mad -with indignation
and despair. I howled and bit all
round like a wild beast — all three had
attacked me ; and Carlos had saved
himself, as he was a little way behind.
He could not have helped me, even if
he had staid, as he had not even a
knife with him. While I live I shall
never forget those dreadful figures, as
they stood above me, darkly relieved
upon the cloudy sky. The courteous-
ness of the little man was the most re-
volting thing of all. In a quiet mild
voice he kept saying to me, " Callese
ud," (be silent). «• Mire ud la santa
pobreza" (behold the holy poverty).
" Be silent, my dear sir — the money,
dear sir — I beg you will be silent ;"
and at every word followed a stab.
Instinctively I had thrown myself
on my left side to guard, as long as
possible, the region of the heart. With
my right arm and foot I managed to
parry a good many thrusts, which were
principally aimed at the breast and
body. It was evident they wished to
finish me as quick as possible, as they
were afraid my friend, who had es-
caped, would make an alarm at the"
gate. The first villain stood before
me with his drawn dagger, and called
hurriedly, " Las unzas, demonio !
Las unzas, ladron! El dinero paur
la pobreza." The tall one, in the
mean time, tore away my watch. A
thought at that moment struck me,
which proved my salvation. I threw
the rascals my purse, and exclaimed,
" Aqui, aqui, — mi todo ! — (there,
there — my all 1) O Santa Virgen ! "
Whether it was the sight of the gold,
or my exclamation to the Virgin, they
left off for a moment, and looked
greedily into the purse. The little
one then observed a ring upon the
little finger of my right hand, and as
it did not come off quite easily, he
drew a large gardener's knife from his
pocket, and tried to cut off the finger.
1 guarded myself as well as I was
able, but at last he got off the ring,
and a piece of flesh at the same time.
The last rage of a dying man now
got hold of me. " Maldito seas," I
exclaimed, "con padre, madre, y hyos
— puunatero !" (Curses on you, your
father, mother, and children !) Pun-
nattro is a national term of reproach,
impossible to be translated ; but this
is the greatest imprecation that can
be uttered in Spain, as it is believed
some diabolical influence resides in it.
A deeper stab, however, was the only
answer, and it entirely took away my
senses. I felt my muscles straining
in agony ; and, with " maldito ! " on
my lips, I sank backward, resigning
myself to death, and fainted. I must
have lain there full ten minutes ere
my senses returned. For the first mo-
ment I was unconscious of what had
befallen me. There was a rushing in
my head, as if the Turia had been
flowing through my brain. I could
not move a limb ; and, if I may speak
poetically, my soul stood on tiptoe on
my body, and prepared for her last
flight. I can by no means account
for what befell me then ; for, at the
moment when I scarcely knew my own
name, when Death's scythe, as it were,
had almost cut off the ego from my
existence, I, as clearly as I ever saw
any thing in my life, saw the room
where I was born, and where I had
passed my childhood. It seemed as
if I were in it, and some little time
elapsed before my consciousness was
completely restored. Gradually, all
the circumstances of my unhappy po-
sition recurred to me. The cloister
"that was so near me showed its lights
—so peaceable, so clear — but its gates
were closed! There I lay beneath
cypresses, roses, and plane-trees — a
paradise — where fiends had sacrificed
me ; and the deaf insensate church
stood near, listening to my groans !
and my murderers, I thought, might
enter it to-morrow to hear mass, and
confess that they had stumbled on a
dead body, and so escape suspicion,
and be innocent men as ever. But I
cannot venture to describe the thou-
sand thoughts that passed through me
at that moment — thoughts so rapid
and various that they were above all
ordinary exertions of the mind — but
the thoughts icere there.
" For we're o'ermastered by the hours of
might " —
and by the great and true God ! that
was an hour of might !
I committed my soul to heaven, and
praying that hell might be the portion
of my murderers, stretched myself
painfully out on the cold ground, and
calmly expected death.
In a short time I heard a rustling
noise, about thirty or forty yards off,
and, with renewed consternation, per-
ceived that those Christian Catholic
660
Assassins and Butt Fights.
[May,
savages were coming back again.
Perhaps they had hidden themselves
to observe that all was quiet, and were
now returning to bury the corpse. It
was fortunate for me that Espina had
been my Catalonian teacher, for I
heard the little hyena muttering,
" L'echarmos nel aigue" — (we'll cast
it in the water).
With supernatural strength, from
the instinct of self-preservation, I re-
called all my forces. To walk was
impossible, but I thought I could ma-
nage to creep, and I accordingly crept
slowly and painfully towards the
bridge. The murderers looked all
round for me, and I heard them as
they followed in search. The horrible
thought now seized me that they
would overtake me, 'and, after com-
pletely plundering, throw me from
that vast height into the deep Gua-
dalavier, in which I should have been
engulfed, without leaving any trace
of my destruction. The villains were
not more than twenty paces behind
me. I could move no further forward,
and leant myself, groaning in agony,
against the high parapet of the bridge.
I do not wish to make myself out
wiser than I am ; — where the learning
of the professor, the policy of the
statesman, the faith, ay, even of the
Christian, is of no avail — there self-
preservation sometimes saves us — a
flash of instinct illumines the dark-
ness of the soul ; and it was this, and
nothing more, that inspired me, in the
risk I was in of so horrible a death, to
cry out, " Here! — sentinel! — here
they are ! — come on, my friends —
quick, Carlos, quick ; there are the mur-
derers !— Ayuda al Rey ! Ayuda !"
In spite of all my pain, a grim sort
of scorn took possession of me, when
the assassins, like cowardly hounds as
they were, ran off, fancying that jus-
tice was at last awake. But that, un-
fortunately, was not the case; she
slept as sound as ever ; and I was de-
livered from death only by the same
mysterious instinct that teaches the
hunted deer to double on the dogs —
the fox to bite off the leg that the trap
has caught — that says to the wounded
whale, dive down — to the threatened
eagle, soar aloft !
I now crept over the bridge, sup-
porting myself on the breastwork, and
stumbling onward from statue to statue
of the numerous stone saints which
adorned the niches. On the other
side, two immense dogs, attracted by
my noise, came up to mo ; but they
were a great deal more compassionate
than my fellow-men, and contented
themselves with licking the blood
from off my boots. At this moment,
Carlos came towards me with many
grievous exclamations, pale as death,
and disordered. Even now I think I
hear his " Oh, povero Giuseppe!"
He had knocked in vain at both gates ;
and now, with the utmost difficulty, I
managed, with his assistance, to crawl
once more to the Puerta Real. He
besought them, by the pitifulness of
God, to open to a dying man. He
placed me on a stone at the gate. I
felt no pain from my wounds, only an
increasing weakness, and nearly in-
tolerable thirst. He passed my letter-
case, with the certificate of my resi-
dence (which itself is an extract from
my passport) through the slit — it was
returned — but the door remained fast.
Within we heard a serenade, which
was given in front of a palace. He
cried out for them to send to the com-
mandant. " He is asleep," was the
comforting answer. " Then I will
shame you, by dying at your door,"
I groaned out. Carlos now hurried
me away ; for, at the other side of the
bridge, he had seen lights in one of the
houses. Towards it he helped me,
and craved admittance for a person in
a dying condition. At the word
" moribundo," the light was instantly
extinguished, and not a sound was to
be heard! Again, he took me near
the gate, and called for them to admit
us — in vain ! in vain ! I should cer-
tainly have died upon the gate-stone,
had it not been that Carlos saw two
men coming over the bridge. " Stay
here," he cried ; " they are coming
again!" He went up to them, and
found they were two armed watchmen
(hombres de armos) who enquired
into the cause of the disturbance.
They came to me with Carlos, and
helped to convey me into the suburb
Ruzzaffoh, where we found admission
in a mill. The woman of the house,
when she saw my blood-stained visage,
nearly fainted. A council was now
held as to what should be done with
me ; and it was resolved to carry me
to the house of the surgeon of the
suburb. Meanwhile, I had remarked
in a corner a flask full of wine. Im-
pelled by my horrible thirst, I slipt
towards it unperceived, and drank
greedily. The frightful mixture of
delight and agony that I experienced
1839.]
Assassins and Bull Fights.
from the draught, it is impossible to
describe. When the watchmen per-
ceived it, they blamed me severely ;
but I doggedly answered, " Quiero
morir!" — (I wish to die) . In spite of
my weakness, a fiery glow ran through
me ; they gave me up for lost, and
carried me softly and gently further
on to the surgeon's house, and laid me
in a great wooden arm-chair. The
surgeon came. It did me good to be
once more in friendly hands. I was
undressed and examined ; they count-
ed the wounds, and the surgeon num-
bered them with a sigh — vtinti-tres —
twenty-three ; such had been the num-
ber of stabs ; and even now I retain
the scars of twenty. Three were
slight picadures, as they are called in
Spain. The strength of the wine ex-
cited me to a sort of half-insane irony,
and I exclaimed, " Here sits the mur-
dered Csesar !" and fell into hysterical
fits of laughter, which renewed the in-
tolerable pains I had experienced at
first. I threw over my letter-case and
money-girdle to Carlos. Whilst the
surgeon wrapped some temporary
bandages round me, several people of
the suburbs came in. The eighty
Napoleons I had preserved, were
counted in their presence ; and the
people cast many looks of suspicion
upon Carlos. He was now, therefore,
in as bad a condition as I was. A
speedy death might deliver me ; but if
I died, he would be held for my mur-
derer, and would have great difficulty,
though he sacrificed half his fortune,
in seeing his fatherland or his bride
again. He has often told me since,
that at that moment he envied me,
suffering as I was. The cannibals
had apparently struck the girdle, which
in so far saved me, by not being easily
penetrable. I had a deep breast-
wound near the heart, two stabs close
together in the lower part of the body,
thirteen in the right arm, two in the
foot, two behind the right ear, and
three lighter wounds or picadures in
the neck and the right side— -facit,
twenty-three.
Towards midnight, my agonies be-
gan. When they tried to lay me on
a mattress, I screamed so as to waken
the whole suburb. It was the utmost
extent of torture ; and it was only on
the chair, and bent nearly double, that
it was endurable at all. The wine had
naturally inflamed the wounds; my
breath grew shorter, and at every in-
halation I felt the pain. I could have
661
taken poison with pleasure. Carlos
prayed the whole night through ; and
I exerted the last remains of my
strength to establish his innocence.
The surgeon, resolving to let me die
as easily as possible, gave me strong
cordials, mixed with opium ; the alle-
viation was only momentary ; and in
this way, in the expectation of death
every instant, I spent a miserable
night in the arm-chair. In the morn-
ing, at four o'clock, Carlos hastened
into the city, accompanied by four
men. A splendid spring morning
succeeded the storm. The sun shone
clearly on my blood-stained counte-
nance ; and for the first time a settled
melancholy possessed me. But the
horror of despair soon vanished before
the clear light of heaven ; and, as it
was now all that my bodily sufferings
allowed me, I thought, with many a
pang, on my distant fatherland, and
the friends who made it dear to me.
At six o'clock, the Alcaide Mayor
made his appearance, with four clerks
and two surgeons. They all despaired
of me. One of them, who thought I
did not understand him, allowed me
to drink the cordial ; and as it imme-
diately awoke my sufferings, and I
screamed with the anguish, he said,
" Es un sennol de la muerta" ('tis a
sign of death.) The magistrates had
already taken Carlos's deposition, and
they now took down my declaration,
as it is called, and I gave it, interrupt-
ed by many pauses.
My countryman, Heinrich Elch,
with several more Germans and
Frenchmen, now arrived. My good
compatriot, who had indeed only once
met me before, had taken means to
secure my admission to the great hos-
pital ; but I was no longer in a state
to be removed. I would sooner have
died than have placed myself in a
tartana with all those wounds. They
covered me up in my sleeping cloak,
which Carlos had brought with him,
bound my head round with yellow hos-
pital cloths, and six labradores car-
ried me in the arm-chair, accompanied
by half the population of the suburb,
into Valencia. The magistrate and my
new friends followed in tartanas. I
thought now it was for the last time I
saw the glorious blue sky, or inhaled
the balmy breezes of spring ; and full
of sadness, I saw the red crucifix at
the high- walled Puerta del Cid, close
to the gate through which I was car-
ried. The multitude that crowded
6G2
Assassins and Bull Fiyhts. '
[May,
after us were sent back ; and I was
carried by side- ways to the hospital,
which is also called Casa de la Mise-
ricordia, and was deposited in the
great Sala de los heridos (hall of the
wounded).
A cloister of nuns is attached to this
magniiicent establishment, in whose
praise I can never say enough ; and
their duty is to attend upon the sick.
The nuns are called Hyas de la Cari-
dad (Daughters of Charity), and do
honour to this noble appellation.
Amidst excruciating pains, and in the
presence of four physicians and all the
surgeons of the hospital, my wounds
were carefully sounded, and bound up
with the utmost attention. " We
have never had so bad a case," said
one of the elder surgeons. One of
the younger ones, to whom I took a
great fancy, Don Bernardo by name,
exclaimed, on every new wound he
discovered, " Ah, los picaros ! " (ah,
the villains). The binding up lasted
more than an hour, and at the end of
that time the physicians retired, giv-
ing further directions as to what was
to be done ; but I read in the expres-
sion of their faces, that my case was
desperate.
Two Jesuits now visited me, and
enquired if I wished to confess and
communicate. I answered in the
affirmative. Henry and my other
friends were then asked to retire.
The Lady Superior of the convent
now came to me — an honourable dame,
called Sor Paula Figuero, of an An-
dalusian family — attended by two
nuns. They comforted me, recom-
mending me to the favour of God,
and with their own hands hanging
round me, with many prayers, the
" Virgen del carmen," — whose image
is called the last comfort of the dying,
(" el oltimo consuelo de los agoni-
zantes.") This made an indescribable
impression on me. Soon after this a
confessor appeared, who, far from
terrifying me on the brink of the grave
with the thunders of God's wrath,
spoke mildly and impressively a few
words of consolation, gave me abso-
lution, and prepared me for the ex-
treme unction.
Now came the sad procession with
the host, preceded by sacristans bear-
ing lighted torches. I received the
sacrament and extreme unction, and
solemnly the choir of priests uttered
over me the Requiescat in pace. No-
thing ever affected me so much as
this. My pain diminished by degrees ;
and, motionless, I gazed on a splendid
crucifix that hung at the end of the
hall, where formerly a chapel had
been. I longed to have my bed re-
moved to where it was, and my wish
was gratified, evidently much to the
satisfaction of the nuns. Many wound-
ed people were lying in the hall ; I
attended not to their groanings, but
gazed ever — ever — on the sun-illu-
mined image of the Redeemer.
The reader need not be under any
apprehension that I am going to dis-
gust him with the repulsive experiences
of an hospital. I will pass over, as
quickly as possible, the seven weeks
I spent in the Casa de la Misericor-
dia ; yet I cannot altogether omit
some account of them, for that noble
and benevolent establishment still lives
in my grateful remembrance ; and,
besides, it is not the fate of every tra-
veller to see Spain in this point of
view, and to get an insight into her
hospitalar and conventual institu-
tions.
The arrangements in this beautiful
hospital — which consists of a number
of spacious halls, many laboratories,
an enormous and truly royal kitchen,
a contiguous cloister with its church,
besides a mad-house and a receptacle
for foundlings — are truly exemplary.
At five every morning, I saw the first
cura arrive ; this is the name of the
rounds which the physicians and sur-
geons make three times a- day. First
came two surgeons to my bed, with
two assistants and an hospital atten-
dant. The elder of them, whose name
was Don Jose (Joseph), examined
the wounds very carefully, and spoke
in a low tone of voice to the others,
because he observed that I exerted
myself to understand him. It was
then their duty to arrange the band-
ages, and do whatever else was ne-
cessary. The younger one, whom I
have already mentioned, Don Ber-
nardo, was the only one who did not
give me up. After the chirurga-
nos came the medico, accompanied
by six assistants, of whom two took
down the particulars of my case in
writing. The exhibition of the me-
dicines prescribed, and of the cooling
draughts (refrescos), was a part of the
duty of the nuns, who kept constantly
coming and going. The lady su-
perior visited the sick wards some-
times ten times in a day, and several
times also during the night. As the
1839.]
nuns, besides all this, had their reli-
gious duties to go through, it may be
easily imagined what efforts and self-
sacrifices these labours of charity must
give rise to.
On the second day, the wounds on
the lower part of my body showed
symptoms of inflammation, and it was
thought impossible that I could live
more than twelve hours. Notwith-
standing the immense quantity of blood
I had lost, the physician ordered me
to be copiously blooded ; and I heard
him say, as he went out of the hall,
" elso es el oltimo remedio." On the
first insertion, no blood made its ap-
pearance ; and the hospital attendants
shook their heads, and said they
thought it was of no use giving any
more trouble to a man already half
dead. After much preparation, and
many endeavours, Don Bernardo suc-
ceeded at last in obtaining a flow, and
said, in a tone of deep feeling, in an-
swer to their opinion, " Don't despair
of him till I give up all hope." This
uncertainty between death and the
hope of life, is almost more painful
than the certainty of the worst.
Every evening, a nun prayed be-
side the sick ; and the doors of the
adjoining wards were thrown open, so
that from all sides the solemn Ora
pro nobis, sounded like a chorus of
spirits. A Jesuit chaplain with four
brethren had the night watch ; there
are always eight present in the day-
time. From time to time, I heard
the tinkle of the little bell that is borne
before the sacrament, and the deep-
voiced chaunt of the officiating priests.
When they sang the Miserere on
their homeward way, the sick person
was in extremities. Those who died
were always laid out with their faces
uncovered at the mass for souls.
On the third day, as my wound fever
had somewhat abated, the Alcaide,
with a great number of officials, visit-
ed me. He was a quiet, contemplative
looking man, and was accompanied on
this occasion by Carlos, Heinrich, eight
or nine Germans, principally artizans,
several Frenchmen, and among them
the noble and humane French Consul,
Gauthier D ' Arc — an honourable man,
and worthy to bear his heroic desig-
nation. I was asked if I felt myself
strong enough to see some people who
had been arrested on suspicion. Not-
withstanding my miserable state of
debility, the excitement of having a
L-C of vengeance took possession
Assassins and Ball Fiyhts. GG3
of me. This, however, was observed
by my friends, who cautioned me pri-
vately not to point out the murderer,
if I wished to save my life. If a sin-
gle Valencian were on my account
sent to the galleysor condemned to the
garrotte (a punishment they have in-
troduced instead of hanging), I might
count with perfect certainty, in case
I recovered from my wounds, on hav-
ing the whole tribe of the labradors,
with their drawn knives ready, and
bound by an oath to revenge their
companion. But as revenge was
equally dear to me, I beckoned to Don
Bernardo, and implored him by the
head of the Saviour, pointing to the
crucifix, to inform me if there was
indeed any hope of my recovery, and
I would die contentedly if he would
tell me the truth. " Hay todavia es-
peranza" (there is still hope), he whis-
pered in reply, with a solemn asseve-
ration ; and I expressed my readiness
to see the prisoners. They were
brought into the hall — about six-and-
thirty labradors, and gardeners from
the Alameda, all dressed alike. The
crooked cut in my finger had made
the police officers suppose it not un-
likely that some of the labourers who
were employed in pruning trees in the
Alameda had a hand in the business.
Hideous, double-distilled gallows faces
appeared at my bedside — rascals whose
only days unstained by crimes had
been spent in the galleys. The police
had raked together the off-scourings
of Valencia, on the supposition that
at all events one out of the three as-
sassins would be among them. The
innocent I had no difficulty in dis-
covering at a glance ; for they looked
me boldly in the face, grinning with
rage and hatred, looking daggers at
me, stroking their long beards, and
stamping with their half-naked feet.
It was certainly by no means compli-
mentary for them to be arrested on
such a suspicion, and brought before
the bed of a person about to die. The
sun illumined those brown Salvator
Rosa countenances, while perfect si-
lence was preserved throughout the
hall. All eyes were fixed on me, and
the clerks stood by with pen in hand,
like spirits of wrath, ready to insert
three names in the book of condemna-
tion. Burning with hatred and re-
venge, I gazed fixedly first on one,
then on another, till at last I disco-
vered a little man, of four or five-and-
twenty, who snorted like u boar, while
Assassins and Bull Fights.
G64
his face was covered with perspiration.
He kept constantly changing1 his po-
sition, and could not look at me with
composure.
That is the man !
The thought rushed through my
brain like fire. My friends motioned
me to be quiet. The Alcaide and the
attendants gazed at the man with their
dark, searching Valencian eyes, and
turned again, full of expectation, to-
wards me. I begged they would ask
that senor to speak. The magistrate
addressed him, and I heard in reply a
sweet, courteous voice, that trembled
out from a breast in agony ; and I
recognised in a moment the " callese
ud," " caro senor," &c. &c. For a
moment I determined to risk all, and
accuse him on the spot. The other
two were certainly not there. Twice
the whole party exchanged their hats
and mantas, and presented themselves
before me — and every time I disco-
vered the little man, who could not
bear to look at me. God only knows
whether he was really one of the rob-
bers ; if he was not, the extraordinary
resemblance I have spoken of among
the countenances of the Valencians,
might have been the cause of great
injustice. I also called to mind, that
my fixing my eyes on him in such a
way might destroy his self-possession ;
and, besides all this, Carlos eould not
recall any particulars of his appear-
ance. I considered all these thiugs
carefully, as well as the advice of my
friends. I had a great struggle with
myself, and kept the suspected people
in their disagreeable situation full five
minutes. At last I said, " No, sir,
I can recognise no one." The little
man breathed more freely, and looked
round him evidently relieved. They
were told they were at liberty ; and,
exhausted with my efforts, and the
agitation of my expected revenge, I
sank back upon the bed, and was left
alone with the physicians.
The Baron Von Auffenberg, whose
desire of vengeance does not seem to
have affected his father confessor or
the nuns with any scruple as to his
Christian frame of mind, recovers his
strength and, it is to be hoped, his
philanthropy at the same time. He
resolves to make up for the dulness of
his hospital residence, and enters into
all the gaieties of the city of Valencia.
The reader may have remarked, in
the previous narrative, a certain pain-
[May,
fill fishing for sympathy, and a labo-
rious dwelling on his mere physical
sufferings, at all times the most un-
heroic of subjects, and may have felt
no great respect for the courage or
fortitude of the noble author ; but
plain description is not his forte. He
flags sadly in unadorned narrative ;
and is only really good and entertain-
ing when he gives way to his dra-
maticfuror, and presents us with dia-
logue and stage effects. We have,
all of us, read accounts of bull fights
till we have been sick of the very
names of matadors, picadors, and
all other sorts of doors connected with
the amphitheatre j yet we think there
is so much life and novelty in the fol-
lowing scenes, that they will be plea-
sant reading this fine weather, even
after the graphic accounts of Southey
and Blanco White. The conversa-
tion and sentiments of a Spanish mob
we have no where seen so well repre-
sented ; and, in fact, the whole ap-
pearance of the arena, the audience,
and every thing belonging to the
sport, are brought more vividly before
us than it would be possible for any
other style of description to do. We
begin our second extract without more
preface, and call it —
THE BULL FIGHT OF VALENCIA.
These strictly national and highly
popular shows are here undertaken
by the Hospital. It buys the bulls,
collects the fighters (quadrillas), and,
generally, combines the exhibition
with the other festivities of the feast
of Corpus Christi. Six weeks before-
hand, nothing else is spoken of ; and
the night when the bulls are driven
into the city from Rincon de Los
Marlises, a district on the Turia, is
an occasion of unlimited rejoicing.
Each bull has a name given him, and
careful enquiries are made as to what
breeding-ground they come from.
Little cards are prepared for the be-
nefit of the afficimados, as those are
called who are enthusiasts in the
amusement, on which they mark with
a pen the wounds a bull receives, the
number of picadures and banderillos,
and if he stands the first or second
stab of the matador. My readers
have read, of course, many accounts
of those spectacles ; but I wish to in-
vite them to be present themselves at
the scene, and, therefore, I choose the
dramatic form — Vamos !
1839.]
Assassms ana Mull &g/its.
G05
THE CURTAIN RISES.
The bright sun of the twentieth
July illumines a large and tastefully
built wooden amphitheatre. On ben-
ches, chairs, and in boxes (tertullias)
sit ten thousand people. Time — a
quarter to two o'clock. Exposed to
the heat of the sun are the work-
people, fishermen, sailors, and per-
haps two thousand labradores, for
every village of the Huerto has pour-
ed out its population, and many have
come even from Marviedro and S.
Felipe. The more respectable spec-
tators sit under shelter. The female
rank and beauty of Valencia, richly
dressed in their national costume, fill
the boxes. Cortejos move about in
all directions with refreshments. The
heat intolerable, the ampitheatre full
as it can hold, for a detachment of
hulans have just cleared the circus.
An old woman makes a rush to the
door. Universal uproar, hissing, and
whistling.
" Ah la viejah ! (out ! out !)— Chi I
chi 1 vaga! vagal"
" Silencio ! silencio I chi !"
(Hideous noises and stamping with
the feet).
" Silencio ! chi!"
Great barrels are brought in on
cars, and, by means of long leather
tubes, the circus is well watered. The
corregidor appears in his box.
Many voices. " Viva ! viva ! viva !"
Others. " Chi ! chi 1 — he's always
too late."
« Viva I chi ! chi !"
" Es un afrancesado ! silencio ! ca-
rai!"
" Chi ! chi I silencio 1"
The sellers of refreshments clamber
every where } one stands on my shoul-
der.
Voices. " Orgiata quien ? Quiere
orgiata ? (Who'll buy ?) — Agua !
agua ! fria la agua ! — Quien quiere
aqua ?"
Many voices. " No hay plaza !"
(no room here) .
" Agua fria ! Fria la agua ! — a — gu
—a!"
A sudden uproar, mingled with
whistling and hissing. One of the
directors of the fight, dressed in
flaming red, enters, followed by eight
servitors in uniform, with daggers and
bonnets. He proceeds to the box of
the corregidor, and is about to read
the laws of the fight.
All the labradors. " Fuera! (out!)
— Fuera con el cangrejo I" (Out with
the lobster 1 out I out I)
The nobility in the tertullias. " Si-
lencio, caballeros !"
Great rattles are sounded from all
quarters.
" Fuera ! fuera ! vaga I vaga 1 chi !
chi! yaempezon! (they're beginning !)
Agua fria ! orgi — a — a — ta ! fuera !
silencio ! chi ! chi !"
Several thousand magnificent fans
are constantly in motion.
.Chorus of ladies. " O ! que calor !"
(how hot it is !)
" Orgia — ta! fuera! — chi I chi!" —
(Three thousand whistles — fifteen hun-
dred rattles.)—" Off! off!"
The unhappy official against whom
all these noises are directed walks
quietly off with his attendants.
All the snobs. " Bien ! bien! va-
gan ustedes ! bien !"
One with stentorian voice. " Ah los
cuervos!" (the crows).
Chorus of snobs. " Los cuervos !
malditos scan los cuervos I"
The nobles. " Silencio, caballeros !"
The ladies. " Oh Dios ! que gente!"
(what people !)
The cathedral clock strikes two.
" Silencio — o — o — o I"
Immediate stillness — expectation.
The corregidor throws a key to
another of the directors, who lets it
fall.
Snobs. " Chi ! chi ! — hiss — s — s — s
— mal hecho I" (ill done).
Many voices. " He can't get the
key !"
Thousands. " Reventete, grulla !"
(burst, crane !)
The nobles. " Silencio, senors !
silencio !"
The ladies. " O que gente ! que
gente ! — que calor ! — O Dios !"
The director stands at the door that
leads to the place where the bulls are
kept.
A voice. " Stand up, grulla ! Si-
lencio I
A trumpet sounds. Deep silence.
The opposite door is thrown open,
and, amid innumerable vivas, enter
the quadrilla de toreros (quadrille of
the bull-fighters).
All. " Chi !_ viva ! viva 1 Viva
Montes el divino" (the godlike Mon-
tes.)
The nobles. lf Viva la estrella de
Sevilla !" (the star of Seville.)
All. " Viva ! viva ! viva 1"
The matadors, otherwise called es-
padas, or swordsmen, pass in front of
the quadrilla. The four banderilleros
follow ; then six capistos and chulos,
with cloths and red flags ; then the
Assassins find Bull Fights.
666
picadors, on horses covered with yel-
low leather and iron, with long thick
lances, ending in a sharp iron point about
three inches long, and clothed in blue
jackets, bedizened with gold, and hats
ornamented with dark brown ribbons
and flowers. The whole quadrilla, in
the national Andalusian costume, glit-
tering with gold and silver, presenting
a chivalrous appearance.
(Innumerable vivas).
The reserve picador rides off. The
two others start forward in full career
to the wooden fence at the left hand,
near the bull entrance door. The ban -
derilleros stand behind them ; then
the capistos ; and, still further back,
the matadors. The assistants all re-
tire into the space between the circus
and the spectators.
Deep silence. The hearts of those
who are unused to such scenes beating
audibly.
In the box belonging to the Hospital
enter a priest with the sacrament, to be
administered to any of the wounded ;
beside him several surgeons, bearers,
and servants.
Three notes of a trumpet. The
bull door thrown open.
The bull Tormento, black as night,
and bearing prodigious horns, rushes
madly in, and dashes at the picador
Se villa. He wheels his horse to one
side, saves it from the horn, and
pierces the bull's neck, without moving
in his saddle. The bull stands for a
moment on his hind legs, beat back by
the force of Sevilla's thrust, and hur-
ries forward to the middle of the ring
where it looks round, bleeding and
amazed.
(Prodigious thunders of applause.)
All. " Bien ! bien ! — bravo Sevilla !
Bien ! viva!"
The picadors change places. The
capistos irritate the bull with their
flags, which he attacks, foaming with
rage. He rushes on the men. They
leap over the fence,
(Great laughter).
A Voice. " Bien, golondrinos ! "
(good, swallows 1)
All the ladies scream.
Tormento has upset Rodriguez and
his horse. The horse dies. Rodri-
guez lies pale as death, half supported
against the paling. The bull rushes
towards him. A capisto succeeds in
attracting its attack to himself.
(Hooting and hisses).
'•' Mai hecho, Rodriguez !. — (ill
done)— cln! chi J"
[May,
Othervoices, " Silencio, esmuerto!"
(He is dead).
Snobs. " Dead ! "
Ladies. " Ai ! ai ! seuor ! "
(Screams again).
Tormento has caught a capisto on
his horn, and tosses him high in air.
All. " Mire ! mire ! mire ! " (see !
see ! see !)
The ladies. " Ai ! senor I Ai !
Dios ! "
Labradors. " Muerto, carajo ! —
bueno el toro ! — (well done, bull) —
Bien ! bien ! ''
Rodriguez and the capisto are car-
ried out. The bull rushes at Sevilla,
who pierces him again, and parries
him beautifully.
• (Tremendous applause).
All. " Bravo, picador ! Bien, Se-
villa!"
The labradors (stamping and
growling). " El picador de la reser-
va! — (the picador in reserve). " El
picador de la reserva!"
Rodriguez, who had been thought
killed, rides into the ring on another
horse. He is still pale.
All. " Bravo, Rodriguez ! Bien ! "
Others. " Where is the capisto ?"
An attendant. " Muerto."
The ladies and strangers scream
again.
Tormento has the horse of Rodri-
guez on his horns. Rodriguez keeps the
saddle. The horse falls over — he saves
himself. The bull runs at him fiercely —
the capistos get in its way — Rodriguez
pulls the horse up again, its entrails
"hanging out nearly a yard — he spurs
it as it limps on, the blood falling in
streams.
The labradors (with diabolical up-
roar}. "Ahai! Heaqui! los tripos!"
(the entrails).
(Universal exclamations). " Los tri-
pos! los tripos!"
The ladies hold their fans before
them.
Some voices. " Dismount, Rodri-
guez ! "
Others. " Stay on! Stay on!"
The horse sinks down and dies.
(Great uproar and delight).
The bull attacks the horse he had
first killed, and tosses it on his horns.
Rodriguez staggers off.
Voices. " Bien toro ! es bucno
el torito ! Bien, toro, bien 1"
A trumpet sounds.
The banderilleros spring forward
against the bull, crying tf Hup! hup!"
When be runs at them they jump
Assassins ana Mull right*.
aside, letting him pass under their
arms, and planting their gaudily orna-
mented banderillos in his neck.
The bull is maddened. He springs
all fours from the ground. Clouds of
dust mingled with the smoke of blood.
(Great triumph.)
«' Bien hecho ! Hup ! hup ! — bravo !
viva ! viva ! — hup ! hup ! "
The bull has now eight darts stick-
ing in his neck. He is furious, rushes
after a capisto, and leaps over the six-
foot-high paling in pursuit.
Voices. " Save yourself."
Other voices. " Stay where you
are."
The ladies. " Ai I Dies ! ai ! "
All the assistants jump into the
ring. The bull rushes forward through
one of the numerous doors. The as-
sistants fly in all directions.
(Great laughter).
They escape to their seats.
(Sudden excitement. Tremendous
shouting).
" Viva Monies ! eh, viva ! "
Montes has performed a master-
piece. Armed with a long pole, he
has attacked the bull and sprung clean
over him when he made his rush.
(Tempestuous acclamations).
A trumpet sounds.
The bull is busy with the dead
horse. Montes appears again as a
matador, and approaches the corregi«
dor's box.
Voices. " Silencio ! silencio !"
(Stillness.)
Montes. " Now will I, with God's
help, and the protection of Our Lady,
put this bull to death. God save the
King and the Royal Family."
He throws his montera (or cap) into
the air.
AIL " Viva el Rey ! Miestro Senor
Fernando Setteno.
(Perfect stillness).
Montes, followed by the foot- quad -
rilla, stands in front of the bull, which
stares at him, roaring. Tormento
attacks the red cloth of the matador.
Montes slips nimbly aside — this is re-
peated amidst cries of hup ! hup ! six
times.
(A sudden earthquake of approba-
tion).
At one blow, without blood, Montes
kills the bull, and sticks the espada
up to the hilt in his neck. Tormento
falls on his knees struggling to the
last, a dying hero.
(Acclamations). " Muerto ! Muer-
to!"
VOL. XLV, NO. CCtXXXIII.
Garlands, flowers, and copies of
verses, shower down on the illustrious
matador, whilst the dead bull is
dragged at full gallop from the ring
by four mules hung round with bells.
The quadrilla resumes its former po-
sition. The dead horses are dragged
out by the empleados. Trumpets are
sounded. The door flies open, and
the second bull appears. With some
few differences, six bulls are thus in-
troduced, one after the other. No
other accident occurs, and few horses
are wounded. The first and last bull
are generally the best ; and I now lift
the curtain once more at the closing
scene.
EVENING.
The seventh bull is dragged out, and
the quadrilla is stationed ready for
action.
Voices. " Who comes now ?"
Others. " El Sarco," (the name
of the eighth bull).
Several voices. "Is he a good
one?"
Some sailors. " We saw him driven
in. He'll do wonders."
Voices. " Orgeata! — agua!"
Avoice. "Tormento was their best."
Another. " Es buona el Sarco.
You shall see ; but 'twill soon be dark.
Many citizens and women. " Mala
hora" (too late).
Trumpet sounds three times.
El Sarco, a splendid black and
white Andalusian, rushes in, looks
round, and walks solemnly into the
middle.
(Howlings). " O, O, Vaga la ca-
bra !— (Off ! she-goat !)— O, Vaga !
chi ! chi ! si !"
(Whistling and hissing).
(Uproarious cries). "„(), O, la ca-
bra! O, la vaca ! — la vaca de la bo-
da !—( Wedding cow) ! — Silencio ! "
The picadors change places. The
bull trots towards them ; and turns
tail.
(Hootings). " Maldita sea la vaca !
O O, lacabra!"
El Sarco remains in the middle.
Sevilla rides at him.
Many voices. " Bravo, Sevilla ! "
Others, f* Mos adelante ! — (more
forward !) — mos adelante, carajo."
Voices. " What sort of Sevilla is
this?"
Others. " Not the old one — mos
adelante!" — (N.B. The furtherapica-
dor follows a bull into the ring, the
more dangerous).
" Mos adelante, Sevilla !"
2 u
Sevilla thinks he has done all re-
quired of him by the laws of the amphi-
theatre, and rides back, retiring his
lance. The former favourite is now
in great disgrace. Hissing, rattling,
whistling, and all manner of insulting
noises.
(Huge disturbance).
Voices. " Que es esto Sevilla ?
Vaga ! Va»a, fantastico ! O el embus-
tero ! — (the deceiver!) — O el maulon!
(the fa4so rascal!) — Adelante, pun-
natero— O! O !" (Rattles, catcalls,
stamping, whistling.) " Adelante, de-
monio ! Asi no se gano el dinero !
(deserves no money). Oelpejepolo —
(the stockfish !)— Vaga, vaga ! Pun-
natero de Sevilla !" This lasts some
time. Sevilla's Andalusian pride is
roused fearfully. He shakes his head,
and swings the lance in a rage ; and
casts scornful glances even up to the
ladies, who pity him. He rides again
against El Sarco, who is still quiet.
Many voices. " Bien, Sevilla — mos
adelante ! Hombre ! bien, hombre !"
He rides further forward. The
bull retreats, shakes itself, and stamps.
Sevilla drives him from the middle of
the place, and holds the lance-point
under his nose— (the most daring
thing that can be done).
(Immense applause).
" Bien, Sevilla ! viva ! viva ! Bien,
hombre ! viva ! "
(The ladies scream).
The labradors. " Look 1 look !
carajo!"
El Sarco gets under the horse in a
moment, and tosses it and its rider in
the air, dashing them down, so that
the horse falls dead upon Sevilla. The
capistos try to attract the bull, but it
remains quietly walking beside the
fence, and looking at the spectators.
(Confused exclamations).
Some cry, " Viva Sevilla!" others
blame the phlegmatic El Sarco.
Labradors. " Fuego ! fuego ! fire !
fire!" — (to rouse El Sarco).
(Confusion for some time).
A man is passed from bench to
bench, and kicked down stairs. Up-
roar. The bull stands unmoved. The
banderilleros set crackers and squibs
round his neck. Amidst the explosion
he stands inveloped in smoke and
dust — from being calm and phlegma-
tic, he becomes wild, and dashes at
Rodriguez, springing so high, that the
horn wounds the horseman's side.
The picador falls.
(Shouts).
Voices. " Ah, ah, mire! Heaqui!"
The loose horse gallops round. El
Sarco tosses him, ripping open his
bowels, so that they trail on the
ground.
Snobs. " Ah ! ah ! Buena el toro !
Ah ! ah ! "
It gets rapidly dark. The danger
of the quadrilla increases. Smoke and
dust invelope the ring.
Labradors. " El picador de la
reserva ! Ah, ah ! "
Rodriguez is carried off with great
difficulty. Sevilla lies under his horse,
protected with all their powers by the
capistos. The picador de la re-
serva, Jose Fabre, rides in.
Voices. " Buenos tardes, senor" —
(good evening, sir).
The bull rushes at him, and over-
throws man and horse.
(Immeasurable acclamations).
" Bien ! bien ! — bravo Sarco — bien !
bien ! "
Three horses are now lying dead.
Fabre is stunned, and is led off. Se-
villa is there alone ; and the bull has
not yet received a scratch. It rushes
madly at the dead horses. An ama-
teur from among the labradors
volunteers to attack the bull, amidst
universal applause — a strong coarse
fellow, that has been for some time
with difficulty kept back. Sevilla
plants a stab at enormous risk.
(Vivas).
The amateur appears on horseback,
dressed in Fabre's jacket and cap.
El Sarco runs at him, and tosses man
and horse.
(Vivas and laughter).
With his pride very much lowered,
the champion sneaks off. Sevilla's
horse falls, after another rush.
(Unbounded applause).
It is now nearly dark. The ma-
tador Monies attacks the indomitable
Sarco, who has now slaughtered five
horses, and disabled two picadores.
After five minutes admirable play, he
succeeds in planting the death-stroke,
and, amidst tumultuous applauses,
exeunt ownes.
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
PROSPECTUS OF A HISTOEY OF OUR FAMILY.
" The proper study of mjrnjund— is man."
IT is an interesting fact, and one
which belongs exclusively to this a"ge,
that there is an universal taste for
Biography — " Secret Memoirs " —
" Private Correspondence" — " Remi-
niscences"— " Recollections," and all
other devices by which it is possible
to peep into the lives or characters of
departed greatness or littleness. No
wonder, then, that when an usurper
dies, who has raised himself to a
throne, and deluged a continent in
gore, a thousand pens should be dip-
ped in ink, to unfold the designs, and
trace the rise and progress, the decline
and fall, of such a man. But a con-
queror is not the only th«me on which
a goose- quill deigns to perform its part :
fiddlers and singers, actorsanddaneers,
demagogues and pickpockets, in short,
any body who will but be kind enough
to die, is sure to be immortalized, if —
a Homer can be found to portray his
Achilles. This is the day for people
to talk, and vapour, and fight, and
strut, and puff themselves into notice,
for each will find his admirers. Mr
Owen of Lanark, M. Papineau of Ca-
nada, Mr Morison and his pills — all
become celebrated when alive — how
doubly valuable when dead 1 As they
each leave the world, some panegyrist
will be found to laud their merits —
their rebellion, their physic — in large
quarto volumes, embellished accord-
ing to the best principles of their art.
How improving is the study of bio-
graphy for the formation of rising ta-
lent, which may there see, as in a
glass, the ways and means by which
to steer its course through this
strange world. But notwithstanding
the " LJ.VCS " which are always pour-
ing from the press, none have the di-
rect object in view with which we pur-
pose to enlighten the universe ; we,
having the privilege of being amongst
the iuitiated, can discover under all
the dross the real gem, therefore we
understand how Napoleon arose to
greatness, Mahomet to be a prophet,
the popes of Rome infallible. His-
tories have been, and will again be,
written of those extraordinary indivi-
duals, but not on the plan we propose.
We have thought it high time the ho-
nour of our family should be made ma-
nifest, and, in consequence of this re-
solve, have for many years been dili-
gently employed in the composi-
tion of a standard work — namely, a
comprehensive Universal History of
the splendid, ancient, and illustrious
House tor which we have the honour
to belong. 1?he more we study and
write upon the subject, the more we
find left unwritten. Since the period
of the French Revolution our task has
become that of hourly toil, for the plot
has thickened, and the actors have be-
come more numerous than in any other
given epoch of time ; but as our theme
begins with the Creation, and goes
through every empire and nation, it
will not astonish the gentle reader to
learn, that the proposed work cannot
be contained in less than a thousand
volumes ; and even then, how small a
part will have been told !
But, when we announce that the old,
potent, magnificent family of Humbug
is that to which our talents have been
devoted, surprise will cease, as all
must allow that a wiser, richer, or
greater house never existed upon the
earth. In this prefatory sketch of
our plan, we can out briefly allude to
even the most imposing names amongst
our kindred, who are numerous as the
stars of heaven ; and many individuals
who (had we time and space) would
have'been noticed in our pages, can
now only be mentioned in the list of
worthies in our last volume, which
will be a sort of index as to the col-
lateral branches of a genealogical tree
which overshadows the known world.
In taking a bird'g-eye view of our
subject, the difficulty seems to be com-
pression ; and, as we omit all who
have not figured pre-eminently in their
own sphere of uction, our accounts
are more interesting than may be ima-
gined.
As our design is to trace the rise,
progress, and dominion of the Hum-
bugs, it becomes us to follow the ex-
ample of ajl biographers, and com-
mence with the first individual on
record of whom we have any positive
information. What took place be-
fore the time which we call the Crea-
Prospectus of a History of our family.
670
tion, we do not profess to know, as
not even the oldest Welsh MS S. have
any higher data, nor any Chinese do-
cuments which we have consulted
have any thing satisfactory as regards
talking, thinking, writing1 creatures.
•We are often gratified by the disco-
veries of geologists respecting the
earliest eras of this globe, and more
especially of the earth's existence for
millions of ages ; and if they do not
all quite agree, and the theory ad-
vanced in one year is overturned by
that of the next, yet by and bye we
expect they will arrange something
amongst themselves, and in the mean-
while we shake hands with most of
them, as part and parcel of our family
circle, although we believe many of
them are not at all aware of our affinity.
In an antique volume, which gives
intimation of circumstances which
happened in the year one, we find
authentic testimony of the first ap-
pearance of our great ancestor on
this scene of things, together with
oblique hints as to his unrivalled ta-
lents. The book to which we refer is
in the Hebrew tongue ; but as its
contents are not in unison with the
principles or practice of our great and
regal house, we merely notice it, as
an early register of events from which
we may gather our facts. It is there
stated, that soon after Adam and Eve
were placed in Paradise, a sublime
personage introduced himself to the
latter, and, by his guile and flattery,
induced her to transgress a law which
had been given. All this may be
found elsewhere, as we allude to the
occurrence purely for the purpose of
showing from what source is derived
that principle which has pervaded
every member of the family since that
time. The august individual of whom
we. now speak, is, in the first instance,
known by the appellation of "the
devil." In the original, this is a term
of high distinction, but from some
change in the meaning of words, it
has since become one of reproach;
nevertheless he has been deified and
worshipped by many titles and names
equally honourable, ; and although in
Europe he is not treated with the
outward esteem, which he has a
right to expect from the devoted chil-
dren who flourish under his own im-
mediate auspices in those flourishing
states, yet few dare deny their parent,
and much credit they do him I
[May,
The pictures by which he is repre-
sented are too gross and frightful to
be more than mentioned by the grave
historian, and may be considered as
the rude efforts of unenlightened ages.
It is as cruel as it is unjust to repre-
sent him with hoofs and tail, as if he
were Mr O'Connell himself, or the
model of Lord Monboddo's theory
upon that long subject ; but for those
who wish " the devil to have his due,"
we would request them to look into
Lavater's works, where they will find
all that could be desired, in a splendid
head, in which is set forth to the best
advantage every distinguishing./awzz'/y
feature, such as envy, malice, hatred,
subltety, &c., &c. ; all these words we
know have strangely different mean-
ings in an English dictionary, to those
in which we of this exalted race apply
them ; but were we to have gone on, in
what many well-intentioned but stupid
people call the ways of truth, upright-
ness, integrity, and so forth, we should
not have made the figure in the world
we ever have — absolutely we should
not have had even a beginning.
In the first volumes of the work will
be found a lengthy philological es-
say upon the derivation of the ancient
cognomen Humbug, which will be
traced through the Saxon, Teutonic,
Syriac, Sanscrit, &c., to the Hebrew
language, which is proved by the best
Cambrian authorities to be that spoken
in Eden.
The Diversions of Purley will be
thought a dull book when compared
with our learned disquisition. There
is no other noble name which has been
transmuted into so many useful parts
of speech, or which has become idio-
matic in the English tongue. A Duke
of Wellington has given his name to a
pair of boots, an Earl of Sandwich to
a Vauxhall slice of beef or ham placed
between two similar portions of bread
and butter ; a Lord Stanhope has had
the honour to name a gig ; a Mr Mac-
intosh has the profit of selling every
body an upper-coat designated by his
appellative — but these are poor dis-
tinctions. Look at the word humbug
—there is at once the noun ; to hum-
bug is become a perfect verb, regular,
irregular, and compound ; humbugging
an excellent participle ; humbug ! a
positive interjection. Moreover, there
is a " sweet confectionary plum," which,
in our youthful days, we remember by
the melting name of humbug.
1839.]
Prospectus of a History of our Family.
671
In this short prospectus of our de-
sign we are obliged to pass over in
haste the Egyptians, who had the ad-
vantage of possessing a priesthood,
every member of which was a sworn
brother of our house. Much new in-
formation will be presented to the
public upon the Greeks, their elegant
mythology having a strong claim upon
our notice ; and singularly interesting
matter will be unfolded to the scholar
and divine in those pages which relate
more particularly to the virtuous
mothers of the gods worshipped in the
Morea, — the amiable characters of Ju-
piter and Juno, — the power of Cupid
— the deeds of Bacchus.
The modern Greeks may have
changed their faith in some points,
and, instead of the images of Apollo
and Minerva, may have those of St
George and St Agatha ; but we are
pleased to know they hold the prin-
ciples of our family as firmly as their
more celebrated progenitors ; and, if
not quite so distinguished now as in
the olden time, we really think they
are just as worthy.
The Romans began, according to
the precepts of our universal code, by
propagating the pleasant story of Ro-
mulus and Remus ; this answered so
well, that Numa and Egeria soon be-
came a circulating marvel to exact
obedience to strong rulers and new
laws, and the rude people, being ga-
thered into a nation, subdued all
around them. Their conquests went
on for ages, until they triumphed over
the world. This was no easy matter,
and cost much loss of life and limb ;
but one set of hardy warriors arose as
the other fell until at last Rome ap-
peared in all her pomp and pride.
" They who possess the highway to
the East have the treasures of the
globe," and such the Romans found it
to be. Palaces and temples, columns
and arches, graced the imperial city
on every side, and never were men or
statues lodged in grander -abodes.
That was the moment for our illus-
trious family to arise and enjoy the
wealth and power which others had so
dearly earned. We do not deny to
Julius Caesar the glory of fighting and
conquering, and passing the Rubicon ;
yet, if his genius had not been warmly
tincturedby the privilege of our alliance,
he could not have been the greatest of
the Roman name. Alas! that such
a man should have fallen by the dag-
ger of a conspirator, who was too en-
vious of our increasing influence to
endure the presence of the laurelled
chief. We consider the scene of Nero
fiddling when Rome was burning, and
afterwards throwing the blame of his
own bonfire upon his Christian sub-
jects, as a beautiful specimen of the
power of our principles to overcome
all vulgar ideas of justice or pity.
When the Romans were fast losing
their name, and their empire was
daily vanishing, there arose in the East
a mighty man, of whom we are justly
proud, as he carried out the theory and
practice of our family to the highest
pitch of renown. Need we say this
was Mahomet ? His station and birth
obscure — his inheritance nothing— his
name unknown ; yet, by following
the intuitive instincts of a true-born
Humbug, he advanced himself to the
possession of kingdoms, he overthrew
the idolatrous worship of many na-
tions, and instituted a religion which
is chiefly that of devotion to himself.
If born in obscurity, he died the most
distinguished individual of his time,
and is, in consequence, ever to be es-
teemed as second to none but the great
head from whence we sprung. His
memory is held in profound veneration
by Egyptians and Persians, Arabs and
Turks ; the last of these possess an in-
valuable relic, preserved as a sacred
remembrance of the inspired prophet,
and exhibited only on the most solemn
and important occasions. As the Eng-
lish language has no fit term by
which we can exactly translate the
name of this palladium of the Ottoman
empire, we must leave it amongst the
" inexpressibles," and endeavour to
make our readers better understand
our meaning by using a Scotticism,
and declaring the holy standard to be
Mahomet's " green breeks."
We hasten on, taking little notice
of the Crusades, which were carried on
chiefly by the fostering care, and under
the influence of our kindred. About
that time arose a great accession to the
dignity and grandeur of our house in
the established dominion of the papacy
over the souls, and, therefore, over
the bodies of men. No potentates have
ever been such firm allies and brethren
of our social compact as their holi-
nesses the popes of Rome. All honour
and glory be to them, for they have
ever been the firm defenders and sup-
porters of the line and lineage of Hum-
672
Prospectus of a History of our Family.
bug1. Alas ! when all was going on
happily — when they held in their even
grasp the balance of power — when they
could, by an excommunication, take a
king from his throne, and place on it
a minion of their own — when, by the
simple expedient of a papal bull, they
could dissolve the allegiance of a whole
nation to their lawful sovereign — when
they could persuade counts andknights
to ravage many a fair province, for
the kind purpose of exterminating, by
the summary process offire and sword,
heretics, who were too dull to believe
impossibilities — when, we repeat, all
these delightful schemes for the advan-
tage of thepopedom, and, doubtless, of
all Europe, were daily gathering more
strength and daring, a fierce-minded
German began to discover what he
was pleased to call " imposition,"
"fraud," "scandalous abuses," in the
sale of indulgences, and caused a tre-
mendous convulsion in the peaceful
Catholic Church, which made a fear-
ful breach in her bulwarks, and awoke
her from her sweet slumber and re-
pose. This Luther was not contented
with interrupting the proceedings of
Tetzel, and other tender-hearted ven-
ders of these invaluable privileges to
sin, but had the presumption to go on
further, and rage against other ancient
modes of faith and practice which had
been adopted in what are erroneously
called thedark ages, until heclamoured
and wrote down many pleasing ways
of obtaining heaven, such as purgatory,
prayers for the dead, merits of saints,
redeeming the soul by the payment of
money to the priests, who transacted
the important business for them, and
who would in these mercantile days be
called spiritual brokers. But " theun-
kindest cut of all" was unfolding the
" mystery of iniquity," known by the
term " Transubstantiation." Now,
if all these ingenious inventions are not
actually available for the end proposed
in another world, they are remarkably
agreeable and profitable in lhis,io each
party concerned, and, therefore, why
not let good alone? The novel falla-
cies of this singular monk obtained
largely in England and Scotland ; and
it must be stated, as a singular fact,
that wherever these opinions gain
ground, our kith and kin are obliged
to leave the soil and emigrate. How-
ever, we are thankful to say that to
this time the true old popish creeds
and ways hold fast their gripe in Ire-
land, Italy, Spain and Portugal, &c.,
&c., where their edifying ceremonies
are performed with all pomp and cir-
cumstance, to their enlightened, learn-
ed, sensible, thoughtful, followers.
It is gratifying to the observant
mind to perceive how adroitly the
Church of Rome can escape by her sub-
tlety through every difficulty. When
Luther and his stupid disciples de-
nounced image worship, as not only
savouring of paganism, but as forbid-
den by what he called the second com-
mandment, the Church, dear, kind
mother of \hefloch, and likewise of the
fleece, not only denied she worshipped
wood and stone, but turned the com-
mandment out more determinately
than ever from her continental creed,
with her usual affability and know-
ledge of the world she has permitted i t to
be resumed in the Decalogue amongst
her British subjects. Surely such a
Church has a right to know what she
really does believe in, but arrogant Pro-
testants; notwithstanding all the Scar-
let Lady's asseverations as to these
images and cr osses, on altars and shrine s
and highways, being merely emblems
or signs of faith, deny, impiously deny,
the truth of her statements, and ask,
with their wonted effrontery, how it
happens that an old image of the
Virgin at Loretto is still, and has been
visited for ages, by pilgrims, as being a
gracious and pitiful lady, when, with-
out moving a hundred yards from
home, these devotees might have pre-
sented their supplications to a fine
fashionably dressed Madonna in their
own parish church ? They go on to say,
" If you don't worship the image, why
Wont the sign or emblem do as well in
one place as another ; and why wont
' your lady' at Seville or Madrid,
raise your mind to high-pressure de-
votion equal to that old fright at Lo-
retto ?*' The Church, " wise as a
serpent," never replies to such imper-
tinent questions. She declines argu-
ment, but insists upon obedience to
her doctrines ; and where she has the
LAW, the Gospel is not much regard-
ed. This sagacious method is always
adopted by her as shortest and best ;
and as the use of reason or truth is
generally against her interest, our
family always agree with the Pontiff
in enforcing blind faith in her children.
In proof of this, we would adduce the
case of what we may call the Parallel
Popes, each elected by a conclave,
1839.]
Prospectus of a History of our Family.
673
each infallible, each anathematizing
the other with wondrous power of
cursing-. Now, the people who are
for common sense, and all such weari-
some stuff, wish to know, " if both
were incapable of doing or heing
wrong, how it could possibly happen
two similarly inspired, gifted person-
ages, should always disagree, and al-
ways embrace opposite factions ?"
The faith of the Papist must see
no difficulty, and settles it (we for-
get how, as we never could discover
the mystery) according to its prompt
and decisive manner j and, if there
should be the power of the " se-
cular arm" on its side, they will put
" the question" to you, and cavillers
will find themselves racked through
and through, till they are satisfied to
give themselves no further trouble
upon things which are beyond the
comprehension of God or man.*
Notwithstandingthe grievous schism
caused by the Lutheran party, much
of the real leaven of the spirit of Po-
pery has been disseminated by a sin-
gularly acute body of men known as
Jesuits. Loyala, the founder of the
order, was a master-mind ; and the
brotherhood have not disgraced the
institution . Holy Ignatius ! thou wert
prompted by St Nicholas himself
in the concoction of thy noble pro-
ject. The doctrine of mental reser-
vation is one worthy of the " old gen-
tleman" in person, and has met with
all the encouragement so useful a dis-
covery merited from its own fostering
church, and our honourable family.
When we see the influence of Le Tel-
licr producing the revocation of the
edict of Nantz, we are lost in .admira-
tion at the depth of the Jesuit, who,
to advance the interests of his brethren
(and therefore doubly ours), could
give thousands of his fellow-creatures
to sword and banishment. We pro-
nounce it a noble sacrifice of love of
country to party spleen.
As England will detain us rather
long, we shall place our grievances
there, as much as possible, in one
mass, and must retrograde as to time
in our narration.
During a period of profound repose
to the souls of all Europe, when they
who had the upper hand kept their
place by the iron mace, and allowed
no one to think but themselves, a king,
named Alfred, ruled over that paltry
spot called Albion. The people there
were always turbulent ; and whoever
reigned in that island, had to subdue,
in the best way they could, the fac-
tious men, who were ever talking of
their rights and privileges, and such
nonsense ; but this Alfred the Great
instituted a strange thing — a trial by
jury 1 where each criminal or accused
person is brought before twelve of his
own grade in society, and cannot be
condemned nor punished until they
are satisfied by evidence of his guilt.
Now, this was undermining kingly
power and feudal rights with a ven-
geance : and after a time in that coun-
try, a monarch could neither behead
nor imprison a disgraced favourite,
nor a lordly baron get rid of a neigh-
bouring landholder, without being
called to severe account for his con-
duct; until at length, in that contempt-
ible kingdom, there is as much ado
made about hanging a man, or shoot-
ing an inconvenient friend, as would
have sufficed, in "good old times," to
raise an insurrection. Thanks to the
intricacy and number of the laws,
many of our dear family contrive to
raise themselves to wealth and great-
ness, otherwise this branch of our
house must have been completely
humbled by the straightforward pro-
ceedings of juries and evidence.
We believe that in every nation
there are members of our mighty
race, yet, like the Jews, we prosper
in some more than others — perhaps
England has fewer of the legitimate
line of Humbug than any other civi-
lized country : but we never despair ;
and since Stoneyhurst and several
Jesuit colleges are flourishing, and a
via media has been discovered, which
may lead, by a safe and speedy route,
to Rome, we expect by and bye the
family may rise, even in this common-
sense community, to hold the sway it
has obtained elsewhere. Not that
Britain does not afford some celebrat-
ed names to our genealogical table.
St Dunstan was a host in himself! —
but we cannot mention a truer heart
than Thomas-a-Becket. We worship
in spirit at his shrine, and view with
ecstasy the otherwise dauntless Henry
crouching before the lordly priest.
Sad was the day which saw the pre-
late fall a martyr to the interests of
that pure church, and our noble house,
- of which he will ever shine a resplen-
dent ornament. As worthy of a place
next such a saint comes Wolsey. His
674
Prospectus of a History of our Family.
[May,
character is doubly interesting as
statesman and cardinal, all his care in
the first department merging in the
last ; for he who wears a red hat may
perchance unheaver himself into a
triple crown. How happy was Eng-
land in having as her prime minister
one whose heart was always fixed on
raising himself by any means from
being a subject of the amiable Harry,
to setting himself first in the chair of
St Peter, and then his foot on the
necks of kings. By all the transac-
tions which are recorded of the history
of Europe at that precise period, we
can pronounce with pride, and with
no fear of denial, that Charles V.,
Francis I., the two or three popes,
Henry VIII., and every other crown-
ed head, were each scions of the regal
house of Humbug. If you doubt our
poor pen, read over every chronicle of
the time, and then parse our name
through every mood and tense. As a
fit successor to the mild virtues of
Henry VIII., came his daughter, vul-
garly called " bloody Mary." Mr
Waterton, in his late mee'i " Auto-
biography," designates her " the
good." It is the first time we ever
had the pleasure of seeing that adjec-
tive applied to her, save in connexion
with other words, which together com-
posed the very uncivil epithet of
" good-for-nothing." But new read-
ings of history are coming into fashion,
under the patronage of the Humbugs.
The ingenious Earl of Oxford restored
to Richard, surnamed " Crookback," a
fine shape and mien. Dr Lingard has
favoured the public with so many
"historic doubts" and embellishments
in his History of England, that he has
made it a new study. A writer in the
French language has lately gratified
the modesty of La belle France, by
proving the battle of Toulouse was
gained by Soult. We are in daily ex-
pectation of meeting with a similar state-
ment as to Waterloo and Wellington.
In speaking of the revered Mary,
we must not be so unjust as to pass
over in silence her affectionate hus-
band Philip, who can never be men-
tioned without feelings of deepest re-
spect for his fine and tender disposi-
tion. Had his consort lived, they
probably might have done the English
the favour to introduce into the land
the inquisition, which had been pre-
viously established by the priestly
power of our family in Spain, Portu-
gal, &c., with so much real benefit to
the inhabitants. We breathe in si-
lent awe when we look back upon the
palmy days of an institution, so well
calculated to repress the cant known
by the name of " free enquiry" and
" private judgment." No such things
were ever permitted where the power
of the holy office was paramount ; and
how happily did our family flourish
by the care of our familiar friends !
Did time or space allow, we could tell
of gifts laid on the shrines of smiling
Madonnas — of offerings to the broken
head of St lago — of visions by nuns
of our sacred kindred, which brought
much gain to her convent. Had it
not been for the art of our skilful
party, would there ever have been an
Escurial, an Alhambra, and other
sacred fanes, where the most pious
frauds were carried on upon our most
approved principles ? Oh, for that
celestial quill which reposes in plumed
sanctity in the quiet crypt of a con-
vent in the Peninsula ! Had we that
feather, which dropped from the wing
of the angel Gabriel (when and where
the legends state not, for they do " not
love to be precise"), how would we
expatiate upon the treasures of the
Romish Church ! how would we tell
of the legs and wings, the noses and
eyes of saints — often miraculously
multiplied for the good of the faith-
ful ! Oh, the silver images, bedecked
with jewels and French fashions ! Oh,
the plate and cloth of gold ! Oh, the
revenues, the houses, and the land
we possess! Oh, the merits of the
saints, which can be turned into
ready cash ! and by the mass — there
is no end of their power. All,
all, is the reward of the talents and
industry of our wonderful family.
Without our aid, the Latin and Greek
Churches would have been as poor,
and therefore as humble, as the Scotch
and Moravian — both of which are be-
neath our notice, as we value only
wealth, power, and grandeur. These
interesting topics are perpetually al-
luring us from the main course of our
details, and weagain return toEngland.
Much has been said of Oliver Crom-
well, but no one can fathom him, and
to this day he is not distinctly made
out. Yet it is believed he was " one
of us j" but as he was " Protector" of
the realm, and a great man for the
time being, we place his name on the
roll of our pedigree.
Prospectus of a History of our Fami/y.
1839.]
We hold in high regard his merry
successor, Charles II., who did him-
self and his country the honour to
receive a yearly pension from Louis
XIV., and who, when dying, pro-
fessed the Popery he had not dared to
own when living ; probably he had
travelled abroad more than enough,
and did not wish again to leave his
kingdom and crown. Be that as it
may, his conduct was very impos-
ing, and the recollection of him-
self, the beauties of his court, and
the long-eared spaniels, are embalm-
ed in our memories as all worthy
of each other. Since that pleasant
time, none of our family have sat on
the British throne — alas, for the sad
fact!
If there be one person in these mo-
dern times whom we have reason to
abhor even more than Luther, it is
Francis Lord Bacon. Before he wrote,
every man published theories and va-
garies according to his own taste or
fancy, and his opinion was as good
as another's, when neither could prove
their positions ; everybody wrote and
said what they chose without gain-
saying— which was a very agreeable
plan. But since Bacon presumed to
send forth his Novum Organum,
the English expect from all who ad-
vance new opinions, or exhibit novel
doctrines, the truth of their state-
ments to be deduced from facts. Now,
these are " stubborn things," and can-
not always be had. Indeed, there may
be no evidence whatever for a plausi-
ble conjecture, or a vivid imagination ;
and yet these obstinate people disbe-
lieve all who cannot show each point
to be true — little considering that such
has never been the practice of our old
family, and they cannot now begin to
learn. We do not profess to prove
any thing ; we prefer the established
custom of saying what is likely to
promote our advancement, and leaving
it to work its subtle way. The Ba-
conian method is abominable, and
must not be tolerated. Unless some
stop be put to " induction, examina-
tion, and proof," the Humbugs may
consider themselves as overthrown,
root and branch. Yet, happily, this
will take time to effect ; and so long
as human nature is human nature, and
so long as money, power, and fame
can be acquired by the devices we
have ^adopted, we shall not quite
despair ; but, in the meanwhile, would
G7a
put all on their guard against op-
posite faction.
In France we have an immense
circle of kindred. Our family have
flourished in that kingdom, in every
department, since the reign of Louis
XI., with undisputed sway ; but in
this Prospectus we cannot even al-
lude to the very greatest amongst
them, they are so numerous, and can-
not even give their names, much less
their merits.' We therefore, with the
utmost reluctance, pass over a cen-
tury or two, and stop at the splendid
epoch of Louis the XIV., to admire
for a moment the monarch who does
our system so much credit. Would
that we might descant at length upon
the men of his camp, the women of
his court — our star was then in the
ascendant ! And whilst we glance at
the gorgeous scene, we sigh to think
such a king, such beauties, such wits
should ever die! How charming is
the example they have left us of liv-
ing for years in a round of dissipation,
and then taking a week's prayers in a
convent, by way of settling old sin
accounts, and at once recommencing
with ardour their former pursuits ! We
like that receipt for clearing the con-
science from remorse for crime, or
levity of conduct, and would recom-
mend the pious practice be resumed.
Peace to the ashes of the lovely Mon-
tespan, and the dissimulating Mainte-
non! The letters of the latter are
edifying specimens of what Johnson
called the "vanity of human wishes."
In this brief notice of the general
plan of our labours, necessity compels
us to leap over large divisions of time,
and, leaving the intermediate reigns,
we must rest awhile upon the French
Revolution. This was a very differ-
ent affair to that which the English
are pleased to call their "glorious
Revolution," not only in the mode by
which it was carried on, but also in
its results. As our power was much
diminished by that change of men and
measures, we leave the British people
in their own fancied felicity, with
much scorn and contempt for their
conduct towards us. Not such is our
feeling as to the French Revolution.
How many Humbugs arose to wealth,
power, and fame at that interesting
period, which was cleverly brought
about by the talented pens of Voltaire,
Rousseau, and others at the head of
our literary institutions ; and, in con-
676
Prospectus of a History of our Family.
sequence, their memories are held in
high esteem by all who value the truths
they unfolded, as being the moving
cause of the convulsions which de-
luged Europe with war and bloodshed
for forty years.
These savans were so honourable
in their public characters, so virtuous
in their domestic circles, so free from
vanity and envy, so fully imbued with
the spirit of infidelity, that they must
ever keep their place in the best affec-
tions of those who, like ourselves, un-
derstand our own interests, without
much regard to that of others.
Thus, we look upon their most il-
lustrious disciple, the late Emperor
Napoleon, as one who pursued their
plans, practised their morality, and
understood their principles so tho-
roughly, as to have, by his steady ad-
herence to their doctrines, reached
the highest step on the pinnacle of
fame. None in these days can be
compared to the man who, by the
force of his genius, aided by some
millions of French soldiers, and per-
haps other adventitious circumstances,
raised upon the shattered empire of
France his throne of immortal glory.
" Peace to the soul of the hero !" for
he was scarcely inferior to the founder
and head of the mighty house of Hum-
bug. Our pen lingers whilst we re-
member the proclamations of this se-
cond Attila, his style of writing being
sublime as well as beautiful. Whatcould
be more imposing than the phrases,
" My destiny," " The Sun of Aus-
terlitz," " Charlemagne," " The Great
Nation," " France," " Those Leo-
pards," and every other term by which
he flattered himself, and the willing
subjects of his power ? We have ever
admired the benign care he was pleased
to take of the King and Queen of
Spain, as a lovely illustration of the
principles by which his government
was distinguished, and as also showing
in their true light the kind feelings of
his heart towards those old regalities,
and their sapient son, Ferdinand, by
keeping them out of harm's way dur-
ing the terrible war which devastated
the Peninsula for years, owing to
English interference with his affairs.
All unprejudiced minds will allow it
was quite right for Buonaparte to
wish the subjection of Britain. So long
as that nation was intermeddling with
the Emperor's plan of aggrandise-
ment, there was no repose for the
consolidation of his schemes, and,
Avhilst with their gold they were as-
sisting all his foes, or fighting on sea
and land against him, it was merely
lawful self-defence in him to war
against them in every practicable man-
ner. The Turks have a saying, that
such and such a person is a " misfor-
tune,"— in sad truth, Wellington may
be designated by that very term — he
had low ideas of the superiority of our
family, and cared nothing for our
mighty chief — he therefore went on
in his own stupid way, helped by the
riches of England, and the dogged
courage of his troops, until he most
unceremoniously, and, we must add,
uncourteously, dispossessed Napoleon
of the Peninsula, and ungenerously
despoiled many marshals and generals
of laurels, which have never bloomed
since. Doubtless, the British public
think this very fine, but they have not
entered into the feelings of our family,
or they would conclude very dif-
ferently.
Wellington is a man whom every
humbug detests ; for he goes straight-
forward— sword in hand — without any
deference for finesse or scheming, and
therefore we shy him, as one out of
the pale of our communion. Just
such another was Nelson — perhaps
the worst of the two — he did not seem
to have any idea of the value of a
palaver, or a few fine words, but sailed
about the ocean as if it were Brit-
tannia's own property. Here, storm-
ing a city which had not the advan-
tage of being situated in the kingdom
of Bohemia — there, taking a score of
islands at a blow — then, shifting his
sails, intercepting a French fleet, and
hauling down their colours with as
little regard to the naval interests of
that state, as if he had been seizing so
many fishing,-boats. In our view, we
consider these proceedings as very
ungentlemanly, and we have no sym-
pathy with such a set of men as British
sailors. We cannot recall to our ex-
cellent memory, from the days of
Drake and Frebisher to those of Nel-
son and Exmouth, including admirals,
captains, lieutenants, mids, and crews,
one, in the whole number, who can
boast or claim the slightest affinity to
the illustrious House of Humbug.
This, we fondly believe, is the reason
why the officers in that service are so
slow in rising in their profession, and
why, upon the whole, they are ne-
1839.]
Prospectus of a History of our Family.
677
glected, notwithstanding the absurd
tact, that John Bull always pretends
the utmost love for every body and
every thing connected with the wooden
walls of Old England.
We would state a fact which is ge-
nerally believed, and which we record
as a warning to these our enemies who
aspire to follow the example of Nel-
son, that although he be dead, and his
body be interred in St Paul's — yet he
rests not in peace ; — it is affirmed, by
those who know the case to be beyond
a doubt, that his spirit is ever in the
midst of the British navy — that it is
never at rest — neither commander nor
subaltern ever forget that pale face
and that last signal. We would
humbly suggest to the Emperor of
Russia and the President of the United
States, the propriety of adopting the
old and beneficial method of exorcising
the English men-of-war; for, whilst
they are haunted by such a vision
of departed greatness, there is little
chance for other nations enjoying more
than an idea of maritime power.
We would therefore recommend
that his Lordship's soul should be laid
in that ancient burial-place, the Red
Sea — if it did no other good, it might
serve to perplex the Pacha of Egypt ;
and we know of none who would less
complain of a watery grave than Nel-
son.
Our trusty and well-beloved breth-
ren, the Yankees, have a very pleasant
mode of winning a name for their
infant navy. They send out a seventy-
gun ship and call her a frigate ; she
meets with a little vessel similarly
named, with probably but forty guns ;
as a British flag is flying at her mast-
head, they attack her most man-
fully, and by weight of metal and su-
perior numbers of men, the Union Jack
is lowered to the Stars and Stripes.
Then the whole of the United States
sing laud and glory to themselves for
their prowess, in having taken such ?,
ship in such a contest. The real case
is wisely kept back — it is trumpetted
over the whole world that an Ameri-
can frigate has taken an English fri-
gate— the immaterial circumstances of
difference in size, weight, men, &c.,
are forgotten in the bulletin, and
all who are not in the secret, believe
the British power is declining on her
own element. How charming is tho
"sight to sair e'en," to witness a young
republic thus early understanding
and cleverly acting up to our princi-
ples !
We embrace this opportunity to
compliment them upon their superior
knowledge in an ART, which apparently
they possess by intuition. We believe
the flrst settlers in those colonies (such
as Penn, &c.) held none of our views,
but their descendants actually out-
rival the old countries in many de-
partments. Money-making may be
considered their chief elegant accom-
plishment— love of liberty, their pro-
fessed characteristic — by which must
be understood the freedom each citizen
may enjoy in his own precious person,
whilst at the same time he may keep
a hundred black men in the vilest
bondage — have a pet farm for raising
Niggers, and turn the penny in his
own family circle as he best can. The
fine example of the late President Jef-
ferson should not be overlooked, when
touching upon the virtues of this trans-
atlantic people, as he understood busi-
ness so well, as to actually sell his
OWN coloured children for slaves !
How proud a nation must be of such a
governor, and how such an amiable
nation must laugh at the English, who
have paid twenty millions of pounds
sterling torecteem a set of blackamoors
from slavery, just for the sake of fol-
lowing out some strange notions they
hold respecting " brotherly kindness
and Christian feeling," and such folly.
The United Staters understand the
value of money too well, to be lured
by such reasons into giving liberty to
their helots. Whilst we are writing
upon this distinguished country, may
we be permitted to congratulate " the
powers that be" upon the exact dis-
cipline and order in which their pro-
vinces are kept, as we gather from
official reports, that when a civil war
is raging on the Canadian frontier, the
neutral ally on the opposite bank of
the dividing river, aid the rebels by
sending ammunition, stores, and sup-
plies of riff- raff, and, when reproached
by the British Government, give, as
an apology for their breach of faith,
the creditable fact, "that they can-
not repress the inhabitants," " the
authority of Congress is notregarded,"
and so forth ; all of which we believe
to be true, and affords a fine proof of
the light weight of the executive
amongst such a very free people. The
treaties of the Yankees with the In-
dians may serve as models for other
678
Prospectus of a History of our Family.
nations, as regards the integrity of
their intentions, and the fidelity of
their observance.
But we must return from our dis-
cursive wanderings to the plain path
of our Prospectus, hoping that the
warnings and the praise we have be-
stowed en passant may be duly ap-
preciated.
We can scarcely forego the plea-
sure of writing page after page upon
the subject of our family affairs in
France, and our love for that country
has perpetual cause for increased
affection. We remember with rap-
ture " the hundred days." How we
regard with ecstasy the spectacle of
the great men in Paris changing their
oaths of fealty three times in about
three months ! — it is a noble specimen
of the power of the mind to adapt
itself to our circumstances. With
satisfaction do we ever return to the
study of that virtuous man's character,
who was long known and felt in the
cabinets of Europe as " Talleyrand."
" We ne'er can see his like again."
We consider his talents of first-rate
order, particularly the versatility of
his genius in applying every public
movement to his own peculiar advan-
tage— witness his aptitude *to change
with every wind of popular opinion —
his ability to perceive which spoke
in the wheel of fortune would be up-
permost when it came to a stand-still —
and to comprehend at a glance, which
was " the beginning of the end."
There is not a brighter light on re-
cord, as a guide to point out the pre-
cise mode to obtain power, wealth,
and fame, and his example is a valuable
legacy to statesmen. May we be par-
doned for changing a few words in a
well-known epitaph, and appropriat-
ing the lines to the Prince Bishop
— that, for aught we know to the con-
trary, " he is now gone to the place
where, only, his deeds can be equalled
on,excelled."
We had purposed dedicating that
part of our work which relates to
state craft, to Talleyrand, but, as his
lamented death has occurred ere it
was ready for the press, we have been
necessitated to change our patron, and
intend paying the compliment to
Pozzo di Borgo, inferior to our dear
departed cousin perhaps in execution,
but certainly not in intention.
Ambassadors are by profession, as
well as birthright, of our parentage.
This privileged order includes all the
corpes diplomatique, from a minister
plenipotentiary to an attache. We
believe the Russian Court occasionally
sends twenty of these young Humbugs
in the suite of an embassy.
It is impossible, in a mere prospec-
tus of an important and universal his-
tory such as ours, to give more than
an outline of subjects which will be
amplified in the progress of the work,
which is meant, not only to treat of
the affairs of Europe, but of the known
world.
Much information will be given as
to the polity of the Chinese govern-
ment in church and state — of the
golden foot of Burma ; but more espe-
cially of the sublety of the Brahmins,
who have wisely involved Hindostan
in the chains of caste, and by this
apparently light, simple expedient have
bound the inbabitants, body, soul, and
spirit, in the deepest abasement. In
that land we have numerous relations,
particularly a class of men called Fa-
keers, who are one and all decided Hum-
bugs. They perambulate the whole of
India at their leisure, and travel in a
style which would gratify those who
admire mankind in " a state of na-
ture;" and although we have not heard
that, even in that gorgeous clime, " a
pomp of winning graces on them
wait,'' yet, from the best authority, we
learn they live and die in the full
" odour of sanctity," reminding us,
by this and other circumstances, of
their brethren and our devoted friends,
the mendicant friars of Europe.
We have had most careful investi-
gations into the mysteries of ancient
oracles, and have been gratified to
find every priestess of these shrines
were faithful daughters of our mys-
terious house. True copies we give
of the Sybilline Books and Pastorinfs
Prophecies, all of which are known to
be composed, with the best intentions,
by our writers.
The volumes upon literature and
literary characters will be of a most
interesting and startling nature. The
English, as is their usual wont, put
forth their claim to superiority in an
intellectual and moral point of view,
even more than in arts and sciences,
ships and colonies. In our splendid
history we shall show them in their
true light, and then leave mankind to
judge between us. For instance, these
1839.]
Prospectus oj a History of our Family.
679
people always hold up Newton as the
connecting link between men and
angels, as to intellect, humility, and
temper. They say more than enough
upon the first and second qualities,
and as a proof of the latter, worry
us with a dog. Ah ! Diamond, Dia-
mond ! we shall portray many a phi-
losophe who displayed a very different
temper to thy master !
As to Shakspeare — there is no end
of their presumption respecting him —
an absolute A — 1 in their list. If he
were not a humbug, he understood
our merits, and has given a striking
instance of the family influence, even
in the bosom of Richard the Third,
in a scene with the Lady Anne, which
is unrivalled as setting forth the ele-
gant insinuating power of our style.
Milton is placed by his countrymen
as one of the three poets of the world :
be that as it may, neither he nor the
former mentioned persons will have
any notice in our memoirs. They
were none of us, as they do not seem
to have any understanding beyond
nature and truth.
However, we claim as legitimate
offspring in the true line, all writers
of epitaphs, advertisements, and de-
dications, likewise poet-laureates (ex-
cepting Southey). What is called
pastoral poetry is peculiarly our own,
although we occasionally launch out
into blank verse. Most poets have a
family likeness to the Humbugs, either
in youth or old age. Our volumes
upon this elegant subject, together
with the lives of the poets, written in
a manner totally unlike that of John-
son, will be dedicated, by permission,
to the Rev. Robert Montgomery.
Novels having become of late years
a considerable branch of literature,
we shall oblige our readers with many
octavos upon the early French writers
in that line, who stand quite alone in
the inimitable precision of their de-
tails. Richardson in England bears
away the palm for similarly happy
prosing. In these days, one Sir
Walter Scott has carried all before
him in this field, and that he should
be approved and read, is an evidence
of the change of taste which has now
obtained universally.
We always considered the old ro-
mances were all that could be wished,
and our family does not profit by the
alteration ; indeed, this Scott was ac-
customed to treat every Humbug with
such extraordinary disrespect, that we
shall not suffer his name to appear in
any biographical sketches which we
may prepare upon the writers of the
nineteenth century.
We have been kindly permitted by
Edward Lytton Bulwer to grace this
part of our work with the fine Cicero-
like-looking portrait of himself, which
appears in the Pilgrims of the Rhine.
Of the writers of " Memoirs," we
can scarcely say sufficient ; happily
they are so obliging as to speak for
themselves at full length. Many of
them take a high position in our an-
nals ; and, with all courtesy and gal-
lantry, we kiss the fair hands, and sub-
scribe ourselves the devoted admirers
of Madame de Genlis, and the Duchess
d'Abrantes, and Lady Morgan.
There are now so many travellers
by land and water, air and steam, that
it is next to impossible to keep up with
them. We have a fifty horse power
engine daily at work, which keeps
a-going ten thousand pens (after the
manner of Mr Babbage's calculating
machine), and yet we seem to be as
far off the end as ever. As we meet
with many heavy writers, we purpose
selling this part of our history by
weight.
To suit the prevailing taste, we not
only give the birth, parentage, and
education, of every " monkey who
has seen the world," but an epitome
of their travels ; all will allow this is a
tedious composition. As we generally
find a tour is composed first of a little
sea-sickness, then a bill of fare of the
dinner which was afterwards discussed,
the kind informant forthwith notes
down every place at which he ate,
drank, or slept, and oft-times what
sort of weather he enjoyed during a
week here, or a day there ; occasionally
the whole is enlivened by the descrip-
tion of a sunset, or the shadows on the
mountains ; sometimes a fog envelopes
the unwary wanderer, and he is lost,
--and so are we. All this inter-
spersed with remembrances of home
or friends, which, being of much im-
portance to the writer, is supposed to
be of equal value to others. We as-
sure our readers it is no small diffi-
culty to concentrate the essence of
such publications, and we are perpe-
petually reminded, in the course of our
labours, of Tom Moor's cousin, ovr
dear but too modest/riend, Mr Fudge,
who, having a supply of pens, ink,
and paper, found he had all the requi-
sites for making a book save " the
ideas." In early days, Marco Polo
stood alone as a traveller ; no one at
that time thinking of setting out pure-
ly for the sake of sight-seeing. Now,
ship-loads and coach-loads are always
on the move. The heat of the tro-
pics, or the cold of the poles, is of no
importance to a locomotive individual.
Some years since, our lively relative,
Baron Munchausen, gave to Europe
a pleasant narrative of his travels,
which is now looked upon as a stan-
dard work, and his style and manner
have become a model for others. Mr
Waterton may be considered as the
nearest approach to his witty details
and veracious adventures ; but it is
invidious to name any, where there
are so many equal candidates for
fame. Yet he must wear the meed
who deserves it best, and we there-
fore inscribe, with pleasure, these
bulky tomes to our most faithful ser-
vant and ally, the Prince Puckler
Muskau.
Considerable progress is made in
the history of distinguished lawyers,
this honoured body having, from time
immemorial, been the devoted kindred
and allies of our house. This part of
our labours is under the immediate
patronage of Lord Brougham.
Of the medical profession, we can
boast of numbers, " neither few nor
small." All quack doctors are our
own, beyond any gainsaying.
The volumes which describe the
merits of a large class of practitioners,
we beg to lay at the feet of those
gentlemen in France who first brought
the subject of animal magnetism into
fashion, and pray them to share the
honour with those M.D.'s in London
who have lately taken so much pains to
substantiate the truth of experiments
played off in the hospital by the Ma-
demoiselle Humbugs.
The science of homcepathy we re-
gard with unbounded respect.
The politics of modern Europe
will alone fill a hundred folios, and
will contain important information,
collected from facts and documents
in our possession. We are proud to
say there is rarely a statesman to be
met with who is not descended from
our great parent, and brought up in
our schools. In England, we are oc-
casionally turned out of office. Lord
Chatham and Mr Pitt would hold no
communication with us, and used the
family very ill ; therefore, in the time
of the former, the United States were
lost, and, by the latter, a large na-
tional debt was accumulated. In our
poor view of the case, had Pitt been
" one of us," he would have coalesced
with Buonaparte, and, by playing their
game of war together, they might
have ended it by dividing the world
between the two nations. But this is
a bygone and lost chance, upon which
it is fruitless to speculate. We turn
from it to what we consider a dawn
of hope for ourselves, and beg to fra-
ternize with the select-learned-refined-
sensible patriotic " gentlemen " called
RADICALS. This party have such en-
larged views of government, drawn
from the best days of the French
Revolution, that, if we mistake not,
these, our dear brethren, purpose, by
and bye, to have " the people " sove-
reign, and, by their means, rule over
the King (or Queen, as may happen),
Lords, and monied interest, at their
pleasure, and ive humbly trust to their
profit. We have, in previous volumes,
given a lengthy statement of the hap-
piness which the French enjoyed for
upwards of forty years by trying a
similar experiment as to universal
suffrage, equal rights, &c., which be-
gan by the guilotine, and ended in a
conscription, by way of clearing off a
redundant population. We recom-
mend the good folks to commence the
scheme without delay. The " de-
monstrations" of the Radicals are very
interesting to the juvenile members of
the community, causing holidays from
work or school, besides the privilege
of shouting and bawling ad libitum.
(In the most delicate way imaginable,
we would advise that the cap of liberty
should not be carried in these popular
processions, as it is generally believed
to be a fool's cap^ intended for the
especial use of the chairman on the
occasion). We attend all these meet-
ings, for the gratification of seeing so
many Humbugs on the hustings hum-
bugging the victims around them.
We cannot here give the praise we
would to Feargus O'Connor, Rev.
Mr Stephens, Mr Roebuck, Mr Fiel-
den, Sir William Mole$worth, and
other valuable members of our order
(each and all of them equal in elo-
quence, and purity of expression, to
Cicero) ; but we trust they will some-
time meet the public justice they de-
serve, and " leave their country for
their country's good." Last, though
not least, in this galaxy of talent and
patriotism, we pronounce to be the
greatest most thorough-going Hum-
bug of the whole — Daniel O'Connell,
Esq., M.P.
Alas ! it is vain for us to even pre-
tend to allude to the different ranks
and conditions of our kindred in every
part of the globe. We hasten to a
close ; and merely notice our intention
of giving a compendious history of
free-masonry, from the time of Adam
to the last festival of the order — also
elaborate disquisitions upon the South
Sea Bubble — Law's French Scheme
— valuable information upon foreign
loans and joint- stock companies — the
Cock-lane Ghost — and the Quack
Bottle-conjuror.
Volume 666—" The number of the
Beast" — in the courtly and elegant
language of a celebrated divine (not
the judicious Hooker) — this mysteri-
ous symbol is at length pronounced
to be ft a pig with its face unwashed."
It is strange this subject should have
been in doubt so long ; as, now the fact
is announced, we perceive much col-
lateral evidence to prove its truth, and
it at once accounts for the circum-
stance, that, in every emergency, the
Papal see contrives, if possible, to
" save its bacon." By a closer in-
spection of Dens, there may probably
be discovered much respecting the
purity and habits of the animal. Until
now, we could never understand the
ancient romaunt of " The Ladye and
Swine," which, we believe, is an old
" mysterie." " Hear the Church," as
she sings —
" And thou shall have a silver shrine,
Honey, if thou'lt be love of mine ;
Hunk, quoth he !"
From the sweet word in the second
line of the distich, we are led to ima-
gine the " relique " is one of Irish
composition, and may serve to show
that the national custom of keeping a
pig in each pisant's dwelling is a
purely religious observance.
The whole history will be adorned
with the finest engravings, chiefly
from pictures painted expressly for this
work.
Splendid likenesses of Semiramis,
Cleopatra, Christina of Sweden ;
numerous portraits of emperors and
kings ; also of all the popes, omitting
only such as can be proved to be
either Pius or Innocent.
There will be many beautifully
grouped pairs of individuals, who,
though divided in lifef are joined in
our pages — such as Talleyrand and
the Vicar of Bray — the Grand Lama
of Thibet and Johanna Southcote —
Tom Paine and Rousseau — St Dun-
stan and Ignatius Loyala — also Vol-
taire receiving the Holy Communion
— Prince Leopold abjuring the Pro-
testant Faith — a praying windmill —
a walking dervish — Catherine viewing
Potemkin's cities in the distance, £c.
&c.
The whole to conclude with the
finely emblazoned coat-of-arms of the
House of Humbug, with an account
of the achievements for which every
device was granted.
The shield is painted invisible
green, studded with gold and silver
coins — a belt of twisted snakes— a
masked battery — a dove with the
tongue of an asp — a monk's hood — a
net — a snare — a gudgeon— a shark.
The supporters are a laughing hy-
aena and a wolf in sheep's clothing.
The crest, a fox holding a fire-
brand, and a friar's cowl on its head.
Suspended from the shield is a cro-
codile with a pocket handkerchief in
its claws.
The family motto is —
Ilka ane for hiuisel, and the deil for a'.
C82
Leaving London.
[May,
LEAVING LONDON.
ST MARTIN'S is striking ten ; and,
while the last stroke yet vibrates
through Trafalgar Square, the crack
equipage that is to carry us off winds
round Adelaide Street and pulls up.
In an instant the attendant porter
jerks up the carpet-bags to the guard,
who stands in front of the boot (the
lion's mouth for all light baggage), pre-
cipitating these, and half of himself,
down its o .•- . oesophagus. " Now,
sr?~.'.". -^jii, if you please," already
rounds painfully in your ear ; yes ! the
moment for the last good-bye, the
last wring of the hand, and the first
wring of the heart, is come ; the mo-
ment when stifled emotion has hard
work of it, when a sigh will find a
voice, and the unmanly tear an exit j
when friendship is expected to be he-
roism, arid love to compress itself into
self-denying calmness! Oh! Paley,
is it so happy a world " after all ? "
The friend that would come with us
is gone, or lies perdu within the
gateway, or is reading with unusual
interest the names of the proprietors
on the coach panel, or " sit hard,
gentlemen, all right," — would we could
say, "amen!" — but the coach is already
half down Parliament Street, and the
curious have set their watches (a very
ancient absurdity, with which no true
Cockney is ever known to dispense)
by the Horse Guards ; presently the
summit of Westminster Bridge affords
its unequalled view up and down the
river, and then down we go at the
rate of twelve miles an hour to the
Marsh Gate. Good bye, Astley's
(dearer to our youthful recollection
than can ever be the theatre of He-
rodes Atticus) ; and heaven protect
you, Mr Van Amburgh, in your den
of lions ! — may we not, after your re-
markable conquest of ferocious na-
tures, have to read of a melancholy
inquest, some month or two hence, on
all that the tiger has left ! Wide swings
the open toll-bar ; coachee bows pro-
tectively to the man of tickets and
white apron ; awe-struck cart-folk, as
they approach the gate, take special
care to keep clear of the attraction of
the Dover " Magnet! " Now, then,
for Bethlehem Hospital and its unre-
claimed territory of stagnant puddle,
withered herbage, dust heaps, and
half sunk brick-bats, recalling its
former site in Moorfields, and afford-
ing a neutral ground for cat-killing
and carpet-beating ; and next the
lamp-post which we call obelisk ; and
then, dashing on amidst Greenwich,
Blackheath, and Deptford coaches, and
gigs, and " busses," and rattling -tax-
carts, and hotley boys in blue frocks,
bearing huge baskets, and carried
away at speed on large lean horses,
and sundry urchins nearly rode over,
and catching the lash for their en-
couragement, that well-known hos-
telry, the Elephant and Castle, the
last place of open penknives and the
morning paper, compels us to pull
up. " Any body for Dover ?" — four
minutes more and the Bricklayers'
Arms, " that last goal of short stages
and divaricating roads — that Ultima
Thule" of coach stands, is also left
behind. And now the coachman
slackens his speed, and the team
treading the ground with a more uni-
form rhythm, as if conscious of impe-
diments surmounted, gives time for
more discriminative valedictions to
well-known objects on the road. Ye
paragons and crescents, rejoicing in
unambitious patronymics — ye Arabella
Rows andClevelandTerraces, farewell !
Ye <f seminaries" sown by the way-
side— commercial, or classical, or both,
or neither, and for whatever sex pro-
vided— if you only flourish like your
sign-boards, into what a palmy state
will you have grown, ere we return to
place little girls and boys yet unborn
under your fostering care ! Statuaries
(so I read your title) — carpenters in
stone — lithographists of epitaphs to
suit everybody — whose yards are full
of the most engaging ready-made
churchyard furniture, sprawling sculp-
ture, and rhymes of which the efficacy
is undeniable — in sixteen seconds the
screech of your stone saw will be all
your own ! As for the proprietor of
that one solitary gem, that green-glass
globe over his hall door, which illu-
minates the else dark Row, like a
single glow-worm in a hedge — (him
of the threefold epithet) — I suppose to
wish him many labours with few pains
will be the most appropriate of vows.
Et vos valete, prohibitors of subur-
ban riot, black-belted, grey-coated,
1839.]
Notes of a Traveller.
683
hat-glazed, slow-walking policemen —
Peel's terriers — this is your proper
region — you are revolting imperti-
nences in Pall- Pall ! Here comes
a better man ! — that jolly brewer,
trudging along the road by the side of
his team, or carolling as he sits on the
shaft, with a pair of immense gastro-
cnemii cased in white stockings, and
a two-inch bit of pipe-clay in his
mouth — him whom sundry turnpike
tickets adorn as to the band of his
slouched hat. — Oh ! when shall I taste
porter again, or see a bright pewter
mug of anybody's " entire ?" Second-
hand book-stalls — which have so often
afforded me a motive for a walk on
the Surrey side — ye are already far
behind ! Bird shops, whose slender
wires are all alive with twitter and
chirrup, are seen no more ; and as
we approach the fields, where money
is not wanted, or where there is less
improvidence and fewer artificial
wants, the last pawnbroker — ihepri-
mum vivens and ultimum moriens of
all traffickers beyond the Bridges— no
longer suspends the temptation of his
three balls to the thirsty and the
thoughtless ! " Arms" of departed
warriors, with your " long rooms,"
that hold out no delusive promises of
a hundred table-spoons and napkins
(cent converts}, I see you still ; and
strangers though ye be to " nosces
et festius," may no sour Dissenter
abridge your number, or disappoint
your well-conducted visitors of their
London Sunday ! And, ye still more
multiplied Victoria tea-gardens, al-
though your shadeless bowers have
been untried by me, they are meant
for most harmless enjoyment, and so
may your cockle-shell and periwinkle
grottos continue to overflow, in scecula
scBculorum, with sober-minded young
linen-drapers sipping bohea, with
pretty sempstresses to put in the sugar
for them ! But we are now, I see,
ascending Greenwich Hill, and are at
last fairly out of London, and in for
ten hours' fatigue, and no want of ten
grains of Dover's powder to make us
sleep to-night.
DOVER. — THE REVEILLEE.
No pleasant thing, I ween, after
dreaming Clarence's -dream with va-
riations all night, to hear the ap-
proaching tramp of thick-soled shoes,
which suddenly cease before your par-
ticular cell, followed anon by three
premonitory thumps, duly delivered
on the sounding pannels — to perceive
the first coruscation of ante-matinal
lanthorn, and be certified that the
yawning commissioner is bodily be-
side you — to see him light your sput-
tering and ill- smelling candle at five
on a November morning — to hear
the sea-gulls screaming in their
flight, with a basso accompaniment of
baggage-carts, proceeding in all the
mystery of darkness from their differ-
ent hotels to the place of departure—
but to endure all this, and all that is
to follow, for not/iing ! — Well, it was
your own fault. You must have heard
the angry gust getting wilder and
wilder as the night waxed on, and
rising to a climax as the hour for being
called drew near. Shrill pipings of
the winds were also heard along the
corridor, of which suitable portions
were blown through your key-hole,
like so many hisses from the head of
Megsera. And were such intimations
VOL. XLV. NO. CXLXXXIH.
to be disregarded ? Had not the con-
vulsed window-frame been agitated in
all its loose compages ? Had not the
external shutter slapped against the
casement, and banged back again
upon the crumbling brick-work, fifty
times before the London mail came
in ? Did not out-of-door bells, hung
in the yard below, ring unbidden ?
And was not your chimney full of
^Eolian music, sent to warn you that
there could be no leaving the pier on
that inauspicious morning ? What a
fool, then, you were to expose your-
self to the condolence of the fellow
that called you, and be obliged to
hear, into the bargain, of the fine
passages of all the last week ! Nay,
in the very act of routing you out, the
caitiff muttered a something about
wind, as he placed the greasy brass
candlestick, with its two inches of
tallow, on your dingy toilet, and went
along the passage croaking the same
raven-like notes at each of the con-
demned cells. Ah, the smell of
morning candle ! Out upon the
fringe and festooning of the white
dimity hearse of your English bed !
Ha ! what ghastly vision is that in
the glass, with a razor in its hand?
2x
684
Notes of a Traveller.
[May,
j your very wife would be
afraid of you! What accident may
not befall the shaver who contends
with beard ia such a penury of
light as the blustering morning with-
out, and the unsnutfed dip within,
contribute to afford ? Shaving at
Dover, at best, is only trying to
shave, for futile is the attempt to coax
hard white soap by help of harder
water into a proper crasis. And now,
dressed in Guy Faux fashion, and
gone forth to explore, behold all your
misgivings of the weather confirmed !
Two incorruptible weathercocks give
you your doom, SW. or SSW. to
the letter. Think not, O, Cockney !
to sap the judgment of some veteran
pilot (who laughs at your ignorance),
into the faintest expectation of better
things ; • nor set yourself to bawl,
holding your hat with both hands, to
the imperturbable skipper on board,
whose reply, if he vouchsafe any to
such a pale-looking miserable devil,
cannot possibly reach you, but is borne
away to Deal and the Downs. No,
no ; you are in for it for at least twenty-
four hours, during nine or ten of
which you may stare through the hazy
horizon along the denuded country,
or make a desperate sortie in the in-
terval of squalls to yonder cliffs, to
the west, and listen to the noisy sea-
bird working up against the gale, or
pore upon the uplifted and prone de-
scending mass of turbid waters ; but
it is too early for these out-of-door
pleasures. The first meal of the day
and the newspapers (which, however,
you read yesterday in London), would
at present be more acceptable, and
help to cheat you of at least one of
the hours before you ; in obedience to
which instinctive feeling you make
the best of your way back to your
inn, and find — a clean fire and a hiss-
ing kettle ? No, an empty, fireless
coffee-room, every element of discom-
fort and incentive to ill-humour. To
the still silent street?, therefore, you
must necessarily. betake yourself, and
there, amidst the sadness of unclosing
shops, abide the resuscitation of hotel
life. Yonder (let me be your cice-
rone) is the gaunt figure of Mr Mum-
mery, at the door of his slop-shop, in
Snargate Street ; those sly harbingers
of the day (like the Hours in Guido's
Rospiglion), are Messrs Levi and
Moses, of whom the one is arranging
his " museum," and the other getting
his " temple of fancy " ready for the
stray visitor of Cocaigne. Still more
certain signals of commencing day
are soon afforded in the mopping and
slopping of door-steps, the friction of
brass -plates and knockers, and the
war of the scrubbing brush and sand
upon much-enduring door-steps. I
think that we may now venture back
to the hotel, and call at least for
breakfast — not that it will come, for
the water does not boil, the rolls are
not arrived, the bread lias to be
toasted, and the milk-pail is late. The
coffee - room, however, which was
empty, is now occupied, and the oc-
cupants are of a claes of individuals
whom the waiters and chambermaids
designate by the name of " gents." *
With these companions, then— fel-
low-creatures, no doubt, but not inte-
resting, natural, or informed ones —
we are to pass this blessed 10th of
November, amidst fresh arrivals of
wet umbrellas and drenched coats
from mud-bespattered coaches. But
the heaviest day wends on ! The
waiter's proposal of one of three eter-
* A gent is an individual of that genus for whose particular eyes cheap stocks
and flash garments, at alarmingly low prices, are ticketed all round Charing Cross —
as shooting-jackets for parties who don't know one end of a gun from the other, pilot-
coats for street-going swells, who would, indeed, be pleasant people in a gale of wind,
&c. A gent is he to whom the assiduous Boots proffers a pair of dirty slippers, and
in which, nothing revolted, the party sits at ease at his tea, or brandy and water, ex-
changing facetiousness with, or extracting conversation from the waiter. A gent is
the person whom the coachman does not even turn to look at, as he says, " Chuck
down that gent's carpet-bag, Bill! — Come now, be alive !" — imparting an added dose
of the principle of vitality to the galvanized William in a very surprising manner — the
person, whose offered cigar the discerning conductor of the four bag probably declinet,
while he accepts the pinch from a gentleman's civility. There is a tournure about a
gent which there is no mistaking — the superior ease of a gentleman is not the criterion,
for a gent is consummately at his eaee in all positions, though some of them are iiot
happily chosen.
1839.] Notes of a
nal and loathed alternatives, veal
cutlets, beef steaks, or mutton chops,
with relays of bad potatoes between
them, is to be listened to ; and then
for the brass candlestick once more,
amidst the hopes and fears of the mor-
row, and a last attempt to extort com-
fortable assurances from the snbordi-
Travelltr. 685
nates, who know and eare nothing
about it. Mean- while, the mate of the
Britannia, it is certain, does not make
his entree, to beat up for passengers,
nor is he seen lounging about the
door— and this looks ill. O, Dover!
Dover I
UOVKR. — THE DETENU.
Eight o'clock, A.M — And here, ac-
cordingly, we are for a second day, the
weather fine enough to go out, but
not fine enough to go over. Let us
cut the coffee-room, walk till we can
walk no longer, and think a little
where we are, and why.
What unnumbered thousands, their
hearts overcharged with various for-
tune and emotion, have, since the
peace, approached that inconsiderable
jetty, or seen that shingly beach dis-
appear beneath the lofty cliff and the
batteries on high ! To what innu-
merable feet, and sped on what a va-
riety of errands, have those sea-washed
pebbles yielded a noisy pathway I
Under what strangely altered views
and unanticipated changes do many
of our countrymen gaze once more on
those "marine terraces" — those many-
windowed rows I Surely no spot on
earth has drunk so many tears, or
heard so many sighs commingling
with the sea-spray, and whirled on in
the passing gust. Verily, if but a few
specimens of the last twenty years'
suffering enacted on this small arena
oeuld be in evidence, soon would the
gay fancies of youth, and the smiling
uncertainties of a first trip, be quelled !
Figure to yourself whole thousands of
already hectic forms (never so dear
as when that cruel cast of expatria-
tion befell them) sent from this tiny
port to occupy some far-off tomb, or
received into it the shadows of the
shades they were, and to die in the
arms of friends and kinsfolk ; — the only
son of his mother, and she a widow
— the cherished daughter, and the
last! — the lately blooming wife, the
lustre of whose bridal garment is^
scarcely tarnished, — or, sadder yet, if
sadder can be, she that but for this
parting was to have become such.
These are familiar things to the hotels
of Dover, both great and small. All,
however, who hurry down to the
packet do not die consumptive ; ner
is health the only object for which men
go abroad. Science and curiosity,
listlessness and debt, a reputation that
requires nursing and will be the better
for repose, economy and education,
politics and pleasure, urge their re-
spective votaries. The Bourse, the
Boulevard, the Institute, the Ballet—-
are not all these at Paris ?
" Please, sir, are you for Boulogne ?"
" Why ?" " Because the captain says
he intends to try it, as the wind is fall*
ing." Will he ? — then I'm at his
service ;" — back in a twinkling — port*
manteau in the passage — bill called
for — waiter assiduous — the last Eng-
lish shillings disbursed, — in an hour we
were on our bachs in sight of Shak-
speate's Cliff, with an assurance that
the passage would be tedious, and a
painful experience that its quality was
to be of a piece with its duration.
CONCERNING PARROTS — AND OCR PARROT.
" Quls expedivit psittaco suum %e(?pt ?"— Pass.
Although, on some extraordinary oc-
casions, genius, whether in man or
psittacus, will make its way even in
the sorriest coat; and though the
bird of humbler plumage sometimes
rises from the ranks by merit alone,
yet you may take it as a general rule
that a handsome Amazon swears,
sings, and whistles more cleverly, and
with more variety of emphasis than
any bird of her inches, and conse-
quently brings the highest price in the
parrot market. Your grey parrot
comes next; "ornatur lauro collega
secundo" — and don't despise him — he
always attends to his lesson, and a
686
Xotes of a Traveller.
really good oath is seldom thrown
away upon him.
The real Amazon is rather smaller
than the full-sized grey parrot, and
brings, on an average, when yet under
tuition, about 90 francs ; but when
her voice has attained its full volume,
and she is understood to be well-
grounded in the use of her tongue,
she asks 200 francs for a permanent
engagement, and won't go out for less.
The grey parrot, if you buy him in
his childhood, fetches 70 francs ; but
you should always take counsel of
phrenology, or, which is better, take
a connoisseur in parrots with you,
who, amidst the discordant din of a
hundred cages (and nothing out of
bedlam can equal it) will put his
finger on the right bird — the bird of
promise for companionship — for of
course there is, as in matrimony, a
lottery in these affairs. In the Lorry
or false Amazon, you have a bird of 60
francs, who rounds her periods cleverly
enough — but she screams so on the ap-
proach of rain. Then there is the
common green parrot, who, though
the subject of the " Vert, Vert," as if
unconscious of all the pretty things
of Cresset in that charming little
poem, is content with an humble posi-
tion in the tradesman's shop, and is
constituted the playmate of the chil-
dren and the garyon cordonnier in
every sunless back street of many-par-
rotted Havre. There are, besides these,
two kinds of the light-green perruche,
one of which comes from Senegal, and
whistles, as parrots whistle, now and
then j the other does not whistle, far
less talk, at all, but screeches perpe-
tually. These are the kinds chiefly
found in the shops, and the object of
purchase to the parrot- fancier. Now,
all parrots, be it known, are in-
structed on the Bell and Lancas-
ter system ; in these ecoles primaires
the same word is proposed to the whole
community, who repeat it much as
•we used to do the names of places in
our geographical lessons at Yverdun ;
only rewards and punishments, which
are against our system, are meted out
to the birds, and an emulation excited
which is completely anti-Pestalozzian.
A short treatise on the art of instruct-
ing parrots faithfully (though the great
hint is hi our motto from Persius),
must be considered as still wanting to
our literature ; their education, poor
things, i§ deplorably defective, and no
[May,
wonder if they sometimes turn out
mauvais sujels ! They begin Euro-
pean life in bad society, among sailors,
who demoralize and teach them bad
language, and are then put to a French
school on their arrival, without any
reference to their various talents or
capabities. Suppose you ask the in-
structor (who is the dealer) what this
or that of his eleves can do ? He will
tell you, perhaps, that as yet he only
whistles " Qu'il commence a siffler ;"
buy him, and the whistle turns out a
portentous scream. " There is no-
thing but roguery in villainous man."
Of that very silent bird he will tell
you that great things may be expect-
ed, but he is but just beginning his or-
thoepy ; the next cage to him, how-
ever, can already say, " Toutes sortes
de choses." Now, as you cannot
want a parrot who can say " all sorts
of things," I recommend you to bar-
gain for his neighbour there, who has
merely learnt " Son petit dejeuner ; "
hear him — " As-tu dej'eune, man petit
Cocot? Rot — rot — rot — rot de mou-
lon ? " and, accordingly, " Petit Cocot,
rot de mouton," responds the bird.
" Chantez done, quand je fyois du vin
claire — tout tourne, tout tourne au ca-
baret;" and " Tout tourne, tout tourne,
au cabaret, " says the accomplished
Cocot. " N'ayez pas peur, Monsieur,
ilparle a volontecdui la ;" — hisvolonte
at present plainly being to mew like a
cat while you are speaking about his
price.
The parrot is, generally speaking,
(for a prisoner) a happy bird, though
mine has eloped twice — I'll tell you
about that afterwards — he has reason
to be happy, for he is fed, cleansed,
caressed, and much made of, and
scolds and swears, ad libitum, not only
with impunity, but even with applause.
Let gram be scarce, what is Mark-
Lane to him? He is hung in the
sunny window, and sits before a well-
replenished drawer and a cistern of
pure water: not that he is always hap-
py— watch him for a week, and you
will soon discover that he has his cares
— (le Doge a ses chagrins ; les gondo-
liers ont les leurs} — as if he were an
eagle. Moments of heaviness, of sulki-
ness, and ennui like your own, has he.
Bad weather he detests. Glasgow
would be to him a penal settlement ;
even at Paris, on a rainy day, he will
mope for hours, one leg tucked up
under his belly, dreamily opening, and
1839.]
of a Traveller.
687
for a moment only, the eye next the
light, the membrane nictitans lying
collapsed over the other, now and then
lolling out his black tongue, or snatch-
ing a side sip from his fountain, or,
haply, giving himself a good secousse
to put his feathers to rights, or in re-
sistance to some physiological torpor
not yet investigated ; but, be his spirits
good or bad, he never fails to return
your " bonjotir" whenever you salute
him, and often assumes, like larger
people, an air of easy indifference, at
the very time that he is jealous of
your divided attention, and would
gladly keep one all day long at his
side. Like some specimens of the
genus homo, he will scratch his head
after long abstraction, perhaps to inti-
mate that he has been thinking to little
purpose ; and, surely, that unprovoked
and unpremeditated scream should
show that there are fitful and uneasy
fancies in his encephalon that we wot not
of. Whole mornings there are when
he sulks, decidedly sulks ; others when
he not only refuses his provender, but
scatters and kicks it about like a
naughty child quarrelling with his
bread arift butter ; and, though you
must allow him a polyglot vocabu-
lary, alas ! when he takes to scold in
imitation of human infirmity, he is
also very apt to do it in imitation of
human organization, and in all the ca-
cophony of Billingsgate. What vitu-
perative shrillness ! What determina-
tion to have the last word! Now,
Cocot, if I should part with thee, who
wouldst thou get to understand thee
half so well, or talk to thee half so
long, or appreciate thy little coaxing
ways, or let thy horny bill approach
his lips with such entire security ? —
Bite ? Thou hast not the least idea of
the outrage. I would trust my baby's
finger, if I had one, to thy discretion.
Sugar? There it is. Where didst
thou learn to bend thy neck in that
winning sidelong fashion, or throw up
thy head, and exhibit the eider down
of thy breast, all purring and tremu-
lous with satisfaction ? Shall I let
thee out ? There — but don't tear my
gloves, or throw about my papers.
Yet blameless, Cocot, art thou not.
Hadst thou been born in those Bas-
tile days of 1798, at the other end of
the Boulevard, thy prison-breaking
propensities might have been en regie ;
but, to take leave of thy confiding
master, and, blind to the advantages
of thine own window by the Madeleine,
fall in love with liberty tinder Louis
Philippe, and, after the most ambitious
style of scissar-clipt Psittacus, exhibit
thyself to the whole Rue de la Paix,
far above the Place Vendome and its
matchless columns ; to give me, who
am short of breath, a run of a mile or
two in the month of May ; and make
me, who am short of money, a perfect
contemner of coin — for well thou
knowest that I threw away half a pock-
et full of francs to quicken and mul-
tiply auxiliaries for thy recovery — was
neither virtuous nor wise. Nor may I
quite spare thee the reproachful remini-
scence of that second escapade, when
in revenge, I suppose, for not being
taken with us to Baden, thou didst take
thyself to Passy ; and, having found
agreeable quarters within a certain
bower, in a bachelor's garden, didst
wail like an exposed baby for two
whole summer nights, to the unspeak-
able scandal of his household, espe-
cially of his handmaiden, who obtest-
ed loudly, and would not have been be-
lieved innocent but for thy seasonable
detection. All this, Cocot, requires a
long period of penitence and good be-
haviour. We are all friends now, but
beware lest a third act of infidelity
tempt me seriously to look out for
something in petticoats, and take re-
fuge in a wife. Oh ! tunes and tym-
panums, what a screech ! — for music's
sake let us make it up, and without a
moment's delay — " nee tecum possu-
mus vivere1' when in the screaming
vein ; " nee sine te" when in the ca-
ressing.
CHEAP FRENCH DINNERS.
Ungrateful that we are, and un-
informed too, when we take upon us
to abuse English, and celebrate French
repasts indiscriminately ; to convey
tacit reproach at the tables of kind
and hospitable friends at home, by even
naming unknown dishes, in which,
after all, our own science is no great
matter ; for we never master even the
syntax, let alone the prosody and the
ulterior refinements of French cookery.
Let those who still think a dinner
cooked in France is therefore excel-
lent, unfold their serviette, and sit
down with me in imagination to three
francs a-head worth of all that is abo-
688 Notes of a
minable ! That which I intend is not
the repast a la carle (a navigation on
which no Englishman should venture
— such are its hazards — without taking
a French pilot on board), but a table
d'hote, one rather of pretension, meant
to seduce you and me, and the rest of
us, who know no better, or will pay
no more, into the idea that we have
dined. The guests seated, the signal
issued, off fly the covers of two por-
tentous elliptical vessels of earthen-
ware, and the baling out of a turbid
bilge water called potage forthwith
commences. Now, there are things
that one does not venture even to taste;
and a little of the stained warm water
in question had accordingly to travel
a great way before it found customers.
It was succeeded by a huge dish of
fried whiting, with many gashes to
represent crimping, an operation which
had humanely been delayed for several
days (the French being a very tender-
hearted people) after they were caught.
The ramollissement of the fibre had,
however, been to a certain degree
counteracted by chlorine, with which,
or some of its combinations, no fish-
monger's stall in Paris is unprovided.
To make all sure, the dish was (like
Pyrrha's sweetheart) liquidis perfusus
odoribus, provided with an antisctptic
sauce of a very complex character. Now,
that some of the science- association -
gentlemen taste mummy I know, and
dare say hisrelishing; but hot mummy— •
mummy a la maitre d hotel — could only
be properly appreciated at Canopus.
When these refections had been dis-
cussed, these foundations for the resto-
ration of nature duly laid, three lean
and nearly incinerated ducks, plumped
out by chewed or otherwise commi-
nuted chesnuts (a post-mortem stuffing1,
•which might have contributed consi-
derably to their eiftfication had they
been administered to the living fowl),
were opposed to three of their web-
footed and wilder cousins, called wid-
geon— bad affairs at best, and present-
ing irresistibly the similitude ot exactly
the same number of Day and Martin's
blacking bottles rescued from the dust-
hole, with their necks knocked off.
Four stale and sapless sweetbreads,
cushioned in greasy spinach, might
haply have escaped discovery, but for
the angular projection of some obtru-
sive hard substances, well known to
the anatomist, which plainly told where
they came from. Of no pancreatic
origin, assuredly, were these spoils of
Traveller. [May,
deceased quadrupeds ! We had eaten
frog at Tivoli and Brussels, and had
tasted cat (en patis serie') at Antibcs ;
but the cricoid and thycoid cartilages
of horse or donkey, till this blessed
day, did we never meet with as an
hors d'auvre. Next came their beans,
those detestable white haricots (on
a " charger'" as big as that of the
daughter of Herodias in the pictures of
all the schools). We never set our
eyes on these enormities without con-
curring with the Samian, " qui ventri
indulsit non omne legumen" Feves
de marais ! why, it is mere fodder—
a thing to be neighed for ! — and poor
Marius at Minturnge, supported on this
authentic diet of the prodigal son,
seems more than ever to be pitied !
So that's what you call a may-
onnaise! Away with it ! — its milk and
its mustard ; its capers and its chopped
anchovies ; its white of egg, and its
yolk of egg — away with it ! "A bit
of that roast bulloek, if you please,
that pater armehti, and add to it one
jf those yellow potatoes which have
been waxing cold this half hour" — (I
was weary of sitting either stricto
pane or eating bread at discretion) —
alas ! a ration of the sevenfold shidd
ofAjax would have answered the same
purpose, blunting the knife and not
the appetite ; in short, it would have
been clear gain to have retired, in
place of waiting three quarters of an
hour longer for six apples fried on fat
toast ! Some cream, manufactured in
the apothecary's mortar, out of snails
and blanched almonds, redolent of
prussic acid, and confined in a sponge-
cake embankment ; a plate of chewed
slices of doe- skin sprinkled with
sugar (of which, I forgot the techni-
cal name) ; a sixpenny omelette ; some
baked pears, all brown sugar and
cloves, at which a Spanish muleteer
would have turned up his aquiline
nose ; a flabby salad, foetid gruyere,
and some pennyworth's of " ladies'
fingers," stale macaroons and corru-
gated apples, with here and there a
halfpennyworth of barley sugar drops,
each wrapped in its paper with a
stupid couplet.
Pleasant society, too, in Tiberim
defluxit Orontes. The Thames is
emptying itself into the Seine. How
cleverly that "gent" (vide stepra),
balances his plate upon the point of
his little finger without spilling a drop
of the gravy ! Yes, the feat is accom-
plished ! and his familiar (whose sen-
1839.J
sibility to debts of honour is apparent),
is producing the ready shilling from
his flowered silk waistcoat. That
other gent near him, involved in much
complicity of gilt chain, will surely
find some difficulty in getting to his
pocket to pay the reckoning — he looks
as embarrassed and incatenated, as a
galley slave escaped from the bagne of
Toulon, with his ri vetted darbies about
him ; — but " enough's as good as a
feast."
Happy the man whose gastric care
Plain roast and boil'd discreetly bound :
Let Durham's mustard flank the fare,
And bring the round!
Broil 'd ham renounces sugar'd pease !
No nightmares haunt the modest ration
Of tender steak, that yields with ease
To mastication.
Notes of a Traveller.
He dines unscathed, who dines alone,
Or shuns abroad those corner dishes,
No Roman garlics make him groan,
Or matelotte fishes !
Let not Vcfour's pernicious skill,
Or Very's try thy peptic forces ; —
One comes to swallow many a pill,
Where many a course is !
Prom stoves and steams that round
them play,
How many a tempting dish -would
floor us,
Had Nature made no toll to pay,
At the Pylorus.
With scollopp d poisons cease to strivel
Nor for that truffled crime enquire
Which nails the hapless goose* alive
By Strasburg's fire !
'Tis now that season when the vanquish'd year
Speaks loud of winter ; all looks sad and sear !
Decaying leaves breathe unseen mischief round,
Toads, newts, and slugs, and cold, wet things abound.
Last night has fairly kill'd the dahlia's bloom,
Those fresh fallen petals deck their sister's tomb.
Siberia's ruddy crab from sapless stalk
Divorced, lies rotting on the sloppy walk.
Issuing at leisure from his slimy lair,
The lengthy lobworm crawled abroad for air,
Soon gives his carcase fo small birds of prey —
The foot-pad robin, or audacious jay.
Hark ! from yon shed resounds the swinging Hail ;
Your unsunn'd peach hangs scentless, cold, and pale ;
The stringy pod its latest pea hath shed ;
The dabbled sparrow chirps, and hops for bread ;
The hissing faggot sputters on the hearth ;
LoM the lust apple, snail-nipp'd, falls to earth :
Yon unleaf'd branch by night wind dispossess'd,
Reveals on high the rook's defenceless nest ;
Fresh spatter'd mould bemires the boxwood row,
Street puddles spread, and rain tubs overflow ;
The well-trod gravel can absorb no more,
But streams like sponge surcharg'd at every pore.
WET WEATHER IN PARIS.
In wet weather, Paris seems to have
caught the ague ; the circulation
through her larger vessels has almost
ceased ; and in those narrow passages,
the capillaries of her aortic system, is
terribly congested, pressed, and toe-
trodden on the passage (which no
longer can afford standing-room).
The lounger escapes into a shop for
mere temporary relief, and illustrates
the ancient doctrine of an error loci.
The coffee-houses are too close to be
respired, and a stasis (not, however,
in the sense of revolt) is effected at
every spot where shelter may be had,
and the shoulders be saved a wetting j
* The pale dffoie gras, 13 Uie diseased angerine liver stuffed with truffles, and the
moibid state of the organ is said to be produced by confining the victim near a great
fire, and cramming him every hour or two.
690
£fotes of a Traveller.
for when it rains here, it rains in ear-
nest ; the Boulevard, mean-while, which
is synonymous with Paris itself, is
lifeless and deserted, and but for those
weather-beaten coach-stands, and that
epichorial industry which works in
seasons like the present, all day long1,
and every day at daybreak, with bell
and bucket, to prepare the nymph
Lutetia for her toilette, there would
be little to arrest a stranger's atten-
tion, or offer material for description ;
but who can fail to notice that long
double line of colossal mud carts, har-
nessed as if with the ghosts of horses
slain during the week by the knackers
of Montfauqon ! carts in the lowest
state of decrepitude, of which the
owners have solved the problem of the
smallest number of spokes which may
constitute a wheel. There they move,
under the conduct of the official as-
signed to each, brandishing aloft his
mud ladle of gigantic mould, or mak-
ing you tremble at the chance of as-
persion from his rampant besom ! Yet
all this line of Rosinante wretched-
ness has undeniably known better
days. The sorriest jade amongst
them, whose raw back is now bleed-
ing under its plaister of mud, bearing
the sting of the never-idle thong,
was once the frolicsome colt that
knew a dam's protection, and would
shake the hills of Montmorency with
his joyous neigh ! Even when he was
taken from her care, his extreme youth
would protect him from hard labour ;
an husbandman's drudge when he had
ceased to exhibit himself and his mas-
ter in the Bois de Boulogne, he was
still happy. If he brought greens to
the Barriere, he had a whole cabbage
to himself on prosperous market-days;
bound subsequently apprentice to a
light citadine (which is not above the
moiety of a hackney-coach), though
it was a great fall from his primitive,
and no improvement of his secondary
fortune ; and though occasionally
flogged in cold weather to give his
master salutary exercise, yet in com-
mon circumstances, and when the fare
was by time, he was allowed to have
it very much his own way. It was
not till the red-eyed omnibus (whose
fiery cornea had marked his promising
figure as she shot by him up or down
the Boulevard) had determined to
make him her own, that the measure
of his woes was full ! From the first
hour that he was harnessed to the ac-
cursed dragon, his sufferings were
[Majr
appalling and without remedy ; he
groaned, poor fellow ! but the groans
were profitless, as he was tied for the
first time to the long-bodied monster
behind him: perhaps he kicked — if
so, so much the worse for him. Find-
ing all efforts at liberation unavailing,
he bore up against his cruel fate for a
few summer months ; at length, when
his vital principle had been half-
whipped out of his body, winter and
the scavenger's cart offered him a com-
parative euthanasia, and there he is !
How many hundreds of such poor
beasts, of long shaggy fetlock, may be
seen to-day champing a mouthful of
half-and-half (lialfhay and half straw),
or a bit of loose harness leather taken
on the sly, by which to keep alive a
little longer, and but a little — for their
hazy eyes and dropping jaws too surely
indicate that those pinched nostrils
have already snuffed within a very few
cubic inches of their full allotment of
oxygen ! Verily, the poor horse would
have more right than our landlady to
say, if he could speak, " Oh les hom-
mes, les homines!" I have just set
my eye on another of these poor brutes
attached to such a cart — the planks
so nearly on the point of sending forth
the avalanche of mud, that a sporting
Englishman might bet whether the
organised or the ivooden carcase would
drop first ! and there's another, the
the third specimen of the spectral row!
an articulated skeleton of sixteen hands
and a half, whom you would call a
picture of misery ! What do you say
to misery herself embodied in horse-
skin ? Mark how his straggling
members, which he vainly endeavours
to collect securely under him, sprawl
like the divaricating legs of some old
ricketty table, seeking a more extend-
ed base for the huge carcase ! To
what a scraggy powerless lever of a
neck it is still committed to crane up
that hollow and nearly dissected head !
With what distressing effort does he
contrive to raise it a little above the
level of that blue collar against which
he must pull till he drops ; and this
he would have done long ago, but for
an ally — that young donkey — whose
undeveloped vigour has been yoked to
his decrepitude, and who, at this mo-
ment, in order to escape the rain, has
taken the opportunity of a short halt
to seek shelter under his trunk, and
carry him a little on his back ! As to
his neighbour, whose slit ears pro-
claim his military career, well may he
1839.]
Notes of a Traveller.
691
regret, in common with many other
heroes, that he did not fall in the last
charge at Waterloo ! Every horse
yonder, like every man every -where,
has had " his inch of mirth for ell of
moan." But other objects, elicited by
the rainy day, challenge our attention.
Behold those long files of distressing
mendicity in the mid-road ; an inter-
minable vista, spattering and bespat-
tered, but moving in admirable rhythm,
save when aheadstrong omnibus, orvo-
latile cab, insist on breaking the line,
which as instantly closes upon the in-
truder. What a group of animated
scarecrows is reflected on the surface
of that black, half- consolidated mirror,
age or sex alike problematical and un-
certain, wild and marvellous in ges-
ture, like creatures of another world ;
they take no notice of any thing —
mud, mud, mud ! They have no or-
gan for any thing else ; how do they
put their clothes on ? or do they ever
take them off? — of course they sleep
on mud mattresses, and prop their
weary heads on pillows of the same
cheap material. I do assure you they
have no resemblance to the func-
tionaries of street- cleaning elsewhere.
With what faultless accuracy does the
long train of lustral besom fall on the
rippling wave ! What a black sea of
clouted confectionary advances slowly
at every stroke, till, reaching the rise
of the Boulevard, and acquiring mo-
mentum, it facilitates the work of its
own progression, and, spreading forth
a pacific ocean of mud in front of that
lofty arch, where vanquished Rhine,
with a hundred cities, does homage to
the Grand Monarque!
A DOG-DAY IN A DILIGENCE.
' To Strasbourg 67 postes."
Livre da Po»tes.
The sun that was to fire us all day
rose cloudless, and already the close
stillness of that breathless morning,
the unspecked blue of that whole fir-
mament, too clearly indicated the fu-
ture prospects of the road. There was
that perfect and fixed inertia in the
air, that rain, wind, or hail to disturb
it seemed incompatible with the nature
of things. The sun's chariot, antici-
pating our own, was just clearing the
chimney, as we ran down the Rue
Neuvedes Petits Champs to the bxireau
of the Nancy diligence, and found our
equipage on the start— the horses in
close conversation on the future suffer-
ings of the road which they knew
awaited them. The rose-fingered
daughter of the dawn surely burnt
her fingers with the key of the coach-
house, as she proceeded with her
duties for the day ; and, though the
colours of their pelisses are, of course,
warranted to stand, the skins of those
fair ladies, the hours, were in more
than common jeopardy of freckles.
But hark to the horn ! and behold
the inexorable man, who, with register
of live stock in hand, invites us to
tumble in among the blouses and cas-
quettes of six-insides ! He runs his eye
along our ranks, he pronounces us
" complets ! " The clock strikes, up
clambers the conducteur to his lofty
post — crack goes the wbip— the horses
fling up their heads— jingle, jingle, go
the bells, and the heavy Juggernaut
is in motion ! The first moments after
starting, even in one of these un-
wieldy machines, are inspiring and
gay enough:
" When first the rough-shod feet
Of neighing steeds strike clattering down
the street,
Dragging with tightened cord, and un-
checked force,
The mighty waggon on its venturous
course."
We have now come to our second
change, and with handkerchief already
between head and hat. The heat is
becoming more and more intolerable.
We alight for a tantalising moment ;
and, under the cover of a friendly
gateway, survey the coach fore and
aft, and find a change of position for
the better hopeless. The victims under
the hot leather awning of the banquette
lie feebly writhing at their length like
caterpillars. He that kissed the pretty
girl, and swaggered in the yard be-
fore we started, leans with pallid, va-
cant countenance, on his two hands
(like the old sailor on the raft, in Jeri-
cault's terrific shipwreck). A third,
more enfeebled still, opens his mouth
for air, like a sick chub in a water-
bucket. Even the Coupe, to-day, will
enjoy no privilege. The two ladies,
their gentlemen, and the Italian grey-
hound, who occupy it, all seem equally
&)2 Notes of a
suffering and centralised. The gentle-
man may be a man of gallantry on the
Boulevard, for the lady next him is
pretty ; but who can afford small talk,
Or any talk to-day ? As for the Ho-
tonde — how eloquent the silence there !
Five females packed in together, and not
a whisper through the open window !
Heat, heat alone the full confession wrings,
That mortals travelling, are bwt selfish
things I
Stuffed once more into the blue woollen
furnace, and scarcely adjusted to our
place of torment— a sudden pull up !
One of our horses has dropped dead.
What must a poor brute suffer before
he drops in harness ! and how many
men are obliged to die in harness !
The next incident is a petty one — it is
occasioned by a wasp, which, after
buzzing about, stings the object of his
preference, the unstung being far too
much distressed with the heat to be at
the fatigue of expressing much sym-
pathy with the sufferer. Every one
has soon fallen back into his place,
when all of a sudden a single puff or
gust of wind, like the simoom of the
desart, has filled our nostrils with life
(and our eyes, of course, with dust)
alas ! it returns no more. We look
out, and at what a scene ! An open
landscape, terrified, embrowned, lies
smoking under this fiery sun, and dis-
mally is it picturesque after its kind !
Leagues of straight unrun road before,
and leagues of road as inexorably
straight behind, and neither hedge, ave-
nue, or casual tree to afford a moment's
relief, as you toil on in the white burn-
ing dust! Think of thisbefore you take
out your passport ! The rivulets have
run dry — you may just make out
where they ought to be, and are not
—brown earthy stripes of land, near
or distant, and a few stone dykes to
confine the road, constitute the whole.
You seem to be looking rather at an
ebauche on nature's canvass (sketched
in bistre or umber, or what not) than
a completed picture intended for exhi-
bition. But the very desart will afford
matter for observation to the student
of nature ; numerous tribes of wild-
flowers to the right and to the left,
with petals as thin as gauze paper,
and stalks not bigger than a crow
quill, are not in the least incommoded
by this xKvp.ax-vfKpt.i'yvs! — they lift their
heads exultingly, and rejoice in the
sun's rays ! those rays which have
utterly dried up and split the solid
Traveller. [May,
earth in which they grow, and out of
which they still contrive to draw tbeir
miraculous supplies. Though every
drop of moisture is gone from every
ditch, the progress of the fluids,
through their delicate organism, is
going on, and not one molecule of sap
is diverted from its destiny ! Is this
the whole of my reflection on what I
see j1 Far from it, I look around me
again, and I see another class of created
things, which equally defies these ca-
lorific rays under which we are half
expiring, and all the brute creation is
palpably distressed. The insects, like
the plants, are unmolested — are in
joyous activity^ ! So1 now, ye that de-
monstrate their nervous system in mi-
croscopes, and constitute them sentient
and intelligent, by the exposition of
what you call their anatomy, allow us
merely to express surprise, that being
what you say they are, modelled with
a capacity of feeling (which all expe-
rience shows, at the least of it, you
most enormously over-rate), that when
the grove is silent, the plain abandon-
ed for cover, and the veryjlsh motion-
less in the stream, they alone are busy
on the wing !
Let me lead you to yonder pool ;
that predatory ruffian the pike, will
not, on such a day as this, move from
his black water for the finest roach
ever spawned ! The said roach turns
away his nose from the minnow, and
remains lock-jawed to all temptation ;
all other creatures are either silent, or
reduced to a few notes which complain
rather than rejoice. Dogs bark not —
women scold not — the grunter in the
stye is voiceless — if the sheep bleat,
it is but to invite her progeny to the
shelter which it has not mother wit to
find. The lowing herd will not low
till sun-set, and the hysterical bray of
yonder half-baked donkey whom we
have nearly run over, kicking in the
dust, is scarcely an exception ; for
really he seems to express impatience
rather than enjoyment. Yet the
grasshopper chirrups blythely, the
bee buzzes away, the wasp, the hornet,
the common flies are quite unmolested
(though far from unmolesting) ; in
short, on this 12th day of July, the
insects and the plants plainly have it
all to themselves ! You say, from
some analogies of structure with
higher beings, that insects do and
suffer this, that and the other ; I, from
observation of their habits, arrive at
very different conclusions, and cannot
1889.] Notes of a Traveller. 693
but deem them far more like plants in ed to take, and to which I mean again
their mode of being, and in the eco- and again to return till the heresy is
nomy of their vital principle — a posl- destroyed,
tion which I have elsewhere * attempt-
SOUVENIRS OF BADEN.
The room was all lightness and
brightness, and filled with the well-
limbed aristocracy of Europe. Having
breasted our way through the billows
of well-dressed flirts and their cava-
liers, we get at length a glimpse of
the " Grande Duchesse," — thinking
of those Napoleon times in which she
made no inconsiderable figure — and
truly a more remarkable or interest-
ing looking lady, we have seldom
seen. She has all the fascinations
possible to a very fine woman no longer
young, but determined to please to
the last. There sat she, with a smile
for every body, (who had a claim to it)
and a different one for each, assuming
by turns every possible attitude of
grace, and so happy in each, that they
might have been taken as studies for
the artist — a more beautifully finished
and highly-wrought piece of mecha-
nism than that countenance, was never
worked by a soul and intelligence
•within ! I see her even now before
me! sitting so lightly, and with so
little apparent pressure on the Otto-
man at the head of that unequalled
room, that you might fancy it away,
without depriving the fine form of its
artificial support. None could more
look the goddess, or move the queen
than she ! Fixing the young men who
had the privilege to address her, with
SL Dido look, half queenly, half woman-
ly, now animated and conversational ;
now dispensing the well-measured
smile in silence, anon exercising -a
practised archness upon some timid
maiden, whose day of conquests was
beginning ; surrendering herself with
bewitching benignity to some tedious
old countess, or turning half closed
eyes in hazy complacency (with suffi-
cient attention not to offend him) on
some curiosity of the ancien regime,
who, for sixty years, had traded in
court compliments, and still claimed
the privilege " Dicere blanditias cano
capite." For readiness at repartee, few
of the fair sex can compete with her.
" I have something to confide to your
private ear," said a forward young
coxcomb, pushing himself forward
while she was engaged in conversa-
tion. " Something for my private
ear ! what can he mean ? " " Oh I je
le tiens maintenant I c'est ses panta-
lonsblancs, qu'il veut me confier"—
(he had taken the liberty of coming to
her party in morning trowsers .')
But hark ! the first bars of the high
orchestra are struck, and the dancers
are all on the start— already they
swing by us with a velocity, which,
when one is not an element of the
vortex* is really alarming. Waltz is
the railroad of dancing — the despair
of turnpike. Let no awkward fellow
attempt this fascinating poetry of
motion — it is not till the two perform-
ers in the dance have got the perfect
intelligence of each other's capabilities,
that the gentleman ventures to plant
his hand fairly on the lady's corset ;
from that moment of more intimate
contact, they appear to have but one
end and aim, one heart and one re-
spiration ! Every advantage of space
is for a time conceded ; the lookers oh
contract it by degrees ; the centripetal
force, however, soon overcomes the
obstacle, and a fair stage for their
evolutions is once more secured.
Gods ! what a milky-way of fair necks
and bared shoulders is before us ! and
how knowingly provided are the dan-
senses for the perils of the evening's
whirl. You shall not see a single
loose scarf; the rigging is all taut
from- the mast-head downwards, and
the petticoats shotted, to prevent the
result of that inevitable law of forces,
which sagacious ladies, or their mam-
mas, know to await them. But who are
these ? The Prince and the
beautiful Madame . Vain as
he is, he seems now unconscious of
spectators, and to think only of his
partner ; the sardonic curl of his
moustache softens down into a less
contemptuous expression for his fellow-
creatures; the full smile of undisguised
satisfaction is breaking down all aris-
* See Blackwood's Magazine, April, 1838.
Notes of a Traveller.
694
tocratic barriers, and dissipating apace
whatever was repelling in those su-
perior features. It is Rinaldo still,
but Rinaldo in the garden of Armida,
forgetful of triumphs — all but this !
That bold tender look — what mortal
woman can withstand it ? — nor does
she affect to do so ; for not less im-
pressive or effective is that air of aban-
donment with which she resigns her
Torso into his arms ! But the affair
is becoming too conspicuous, too
warm — the modest young ladies toss
their chins, and the old ladies' fans
are going like so many windmills !
But what is that gawky ,growing youth
(too surely a compatriot) about ? Look
at his vacant face ! He has but to turn
her, and his partner is ready enough
to be turned, and looks up to encour-
age him to do the deed, but all in vain.
He cannot catch the time — his heavy
eyes exhibit no soul ! — his ear is sealed
to every thing of music, but the sound
— his feet are under the guidance of a
will, but that will is plainly not under
the guidance of harmony ; as sure as
he makes a start, it is a false one ! See
how he throws her out, just as she is
beginning to spin off — again ! a third
time, and now they are at a dead stand
still ! She begins to flounce — well she
may ! she has not answered his last
question, and looks at him in a man-
ner which her prayer-book would not
justify. One more trial ! one, two,
three! — one, two ! and off is he thrown
at a tangent from the circle he would
vainly enter. Besides, he has trodden
on her corn — a smothered cry of pain
escapes her ; and here she comes,
whilst her awkward beau follows, to
proffer unwelcome assistance, and be
scared away by the sotto voce condo-
lence of her friend — " Was ever any-
thing so cruel or preposterous, as for
a young man to stand up to waltz, who
does not even know what it means ?
Why, you have literally had to hold
him up as if he were a stumbling pony !
It is indeed provoking, but why did
you stand up with such a " He
hears no more, but we do. " Don't
talk any more about \ba.i fright /" says
Emily, rising gaily to a new partner,
who has already acquired, by dint of
moustache, her good opinion — and
she was right One of those indefati-
gable dancers was he, who give spirit
to a ball-room, who can keep the
heaviest party afloat by the legerete
of their own movements, and prevent
[May,
the whole " equipage" from being
swamped, by the assiduity with which
(a leak detected) they can work their
pumps ! Five times has he triumph-
antly carried his partner round the
magic circle formerly interdicted to
her tread. Through all the entangled
and perplexing perils of the thickly
sown floor, does he bring her without
shock or collision. Whether in a
scarcely progressing step, or taking
advantage of some break, they launch
out more boldly, or thread the increas-
ing labyrinth, his vigilant eye and
ductile joints are equal to the diffi-
culty. All is as it should be — and
speedily shall he obtain, as the reward
of his pilotage, the full and unreserv-
ed guidance of that advantageous
taille.
But yonder is a young lady evi-
dently as much a novice as was our
Anglo-Saxon in the twirling art. She
seems — as they all do when first they
begin — she seems to feel a waltz very
much as if it were a sin ; she looks—-
as if she were doing wrong — to her
mother's eye for countenance and sup-
port ; but the old lady is at cards, and
too intent on the game to notice her.
Her partner obviously observes her
confusion, and smiles encouragement.
She trembles, thinks persons begin to
look at her ; he extends his hand — she
falters ; he touches her person — her
neck is suffused. The initiation almost
overpowers her ; but " ce n'est que
le premier pas qui coute" — out she
steps, and they are off! In a few
minutes he has danced away all her
scruples, and has nothing more to do
than receive her adroitly into his arms,
hope that she is not fatigued, and
wonder what possible objections some
people can have to waltzing ! To
which opinion she is now a proselyte.
Of our own partner we would willing-
ly say something, but she is too fond
of sheer dancing to give us much time
to collect materials. Everybody de-
clared her pretty — pretty she was in
an eminent degree. On her, suette
person all epithet-adjectives of grace,
harmony, and good-humour, would
sit without reproach or mistake. But
she has taken our arm to waltz, and
so here goes ! and glibly and smooth-
ly do we sail along. Oh ! lassie, if
you are always thus easy to turn, I
would stipulate for longer partnership
than the brief one we have contract-
ed !
1839.] The Eumenides.
THE EUMENIDES OF JESCHYLUS.
TRANSLATED BY MR CHAPMAN.
PERSONS.
THE PYTHONESS.
APOLLO.
HERMES — a mute Person.
ATHENA.
Chorus of Furies.
Ghost of Clytemnestra.
ORESTES.
Escort of Female Attendant*.
Areopagites, Sfc.
The opening scene is laid at Delphi, in the Front Court of the
Pythian Temple.
PROLOGUE.
The Pythoness. Earth, the first prophetess, I honour first
In these my prayers, and Themis next, who next,
Succeeding to her mother as by right,
Sat on the oracular seat, as rumour runs ;
By whose good- will unbiassed and unforced,
Another child of Earth sat here, the third,
Titaiiian Phosbe, who to Phoebus gave
This throne a birth-gift, and his name from hers.
He left behind the lake and Delian rock,
And at the naval shores of Pallas touched ;
Thence to this land and seats Parnassian came.
With reverential pomp Hephaestus' sons
Escorted him, way-cutting pioneers,
That let daylight into the salvage gloom.
The people aijd the ruler of the land,
King Delphus, on his coming worshipped him.
Zeus filled him with the power of prophecy,
And placed him, fourth, on this prophetic throne,
And Phosbus is the prophet of the Sire.
These gods I first invoke ; with reverence due
Pronsean Pallas next is named by me ;
And I adore the Nymphs, who dwell within
The vaulted womb of the Corycian rock,
The haunt of demons, and the home of birds.
But Bromius has the district — nor thereof
Am I unmindful — ever since he led
His troop of Maenads, scheming deadly doom
For Pentheus, as the huntsman for the hare.
The founts of Pleistus and Poseidon's might
Invoking, and the All-accomplisher,
The highest Zeus, I now resume my seat,
A prophetess — and may they grant me now
Better success than all my good before I
[She enters the temple, but presently returns, supporting
herself by her hands against objects on either side
of her.
Horrors to tell, and horrors to behold,
Have from the temple sent me forth again.
No strength is left me, nor can I support
My feeble steps ; with hands and not with feet,
Grasping at every stay, I hurry out.
6&6 The Eumenides,
A grayhead woman frightened from her wits
Is nothing — yea ! a very child again.
I step towards the fillet-crowned recess,
And see a blood-stained suppliant sitting there,
Ay ! at the very navel of the fane,
Abomination to the sacred place.
His hands with gore are dripping, and he holds
A sword drawn newly, and an olive-branch,
Chastely enwrapt with wool of whitest fleece.
Thus far I plainly can express myself — .
Seated before him sleeps a wondrous troop
Of women — gorgons, I should rather say —
Nor yet to gorgons will I liken them.
Once on a time I saw the winged ones,
Drawn to the life, in act of snatching off
The meal of Phineus — tut no wings have thes.e,
That I can see at least ; hideously grim
And black, they snore with snortings audible,
And from their eyes a deadly dew distil,
No due libation to a god of light ;
Their garb, too, is unseemly, and unfit
To bring before the images of Gods,
Or under roofs of men. A sisterhood
Like this, I have not seen, nor any land
That boasts to rear such and not groan for It.
But to the master of the temple be
This a concernment — to great Loxias.
He is a healing prophet and a seer,
And for all else the cleanser of their homes.
[Exit PYTHONESS. The Interior of the Temple is exhi-
bited. ORESTES is seen surrounded by the sleeping
FURIES, APOLLO standing beside him, find HEHMES
in the background.
Apollo. I never will forsake thee ; to the end
Thy present guardian, to thine enemies
I never will be mild, though far away.
Thou seest these frantic ones o'erta'en with sleep ;
And heavily they sleep, foul grayhead crones,
Hags, antique maids ! with whom nor god nor man
Nor beast o' the field hath ever intercourse.
For very mischief were they born — so dwell
In darkness, subterranean Tartarus,
Abhorred of men, and of the Olympian Gods,
Fly, notwithstanding, and be not devoid
Of energy ; for they will chase thee o'er
A weary continuity of land,
Over much-trodden earth, beyond the sea,
And countries that the surge doth flow around.
Faint not before the time, nor think to soothe
Thy toil with rest ; the city of Pallas seek ;
There take thy seat, and cast thy arms around
Her ancient image : there will we provide
Appeasing words and judges for the nonce,
And find out means for thy deliverance—
For I persuaded thee to slay thy mother.
Orestes. Thou knowest, King Apollo, not to do
Injustice ; knowing this, neglect it not :
Thy might is able to redeem its pledge.
Apollo. Remember, let not fear subdue thy mind.
Thou, my own brother by the father's side,
My Hermes, guard him ; Guider rightly named,
Conduct him as a shepherd doth his flock.
1839.] The Eumenides, G&7
For Zeus respects thy rightful privilege,
That guides with prosperous issues mortal men.
{Exit ORKSTES, conducted by HERMES. Ci.YTEMNgSTRA'8
Ghost appears behind APOLLO.
CJytemnestra's Ghost. Will ye then sleep ? What need have I of sleepers ?
By you neglected, and amidst the dead
Reproached unceasingly because I slew him,
In worst disgrace I wander to and fro j
I tell you plainly that I have from them
The greatest blame. And I that was go used,
E'en by my nearest, dearest — for my sake
None of the Gods, not one, is moved to wrath
For me struck down by matricidal hands.
Thy conscious heart within thee sees these wounds ;
For the mind's eye looks clearly out from sleep,
But mortals have no foresight in the day.
Ye many a time have tasted offerings
I made to soothe you, brewed with honey pure,
Wineless libations ; night- feasts at the hearth
I offered too, solemnized at an hour
When no God else receiveth sacrifice.
All this I see is trodden under foot. * ,
But like a fawn he hath escaped away,
And lightly from the net hath bounded off,
With infinite derision mocking you.
Hear me, as ye would one that pleads for life.
E'en for his soul — for so I plead : oh hear,
And heed, ye subterranean goddesses.
I, Clytemnestra, call you in a dream.
[The Furies mutter inth&r sleep,
Ay ! mutter ! for your man is fled afar t
My foes have found help from their patron-gods.
' [ They mutter agnm,
Deep is thy sleep : thou hast no ruth for me :
And now the matricide Orestes flees.
[ They cry out " oh I "
Dost cry out "oh ?" dost sleep ? wilt thou not up ?
What else but mischief hast thou ever done ?
[ They cry out again,
Sleep and fatigue, well- yoked conspirators,
Have spoiled the strength of this fell dragoness.
[They mutter more loudly. The following exclamations
are uttered by the Conductress of the Chorus, and
seven other voices in rapid succession,
Chor. Give heed ! seize him ! seize him 1 seize him !
Seize him 1 seize him ! seize him ! seize him !
Ghost. The prey thou art pursuing in a dream,
And criest as a hound, that never quits
Thought of the chase and its anxiety.
What art about ? arise ! let not fatigue
O'ercome thee, nor, by sleep's soft influence
Subdued, remain unconscious of thy loss.
Thy liver with my just reproaches fret ;
To the right-minded they are quickening goads.
Away ! pursue him with a second chase j
Breathe after him a hot blast from thy lungs,
And with the bloody reek, the fiery steam,
Hang on his trail, o'ertake, waste, wither him.
[The Ghost vanishes. The ConductretS qftfa
starts tip from her seat.
698 The Eumenides. [May,
Leader of t fie Chorus .
Awake ! and wake thou her, as I wake thee.
Dost sleep ? Arise ! shake sleep off] let us see
If of this prelude any part is vain.
{The FURIES start up one after another from their seats, and range
themselves upon the stage, right and kft of their Leader.
CHORUS.
Ah, ah, ye gods ! we have endured— (sir. «'.)
Toil and trouble all in vain — ,
A mischief hardly to be cured,
Hard, my sisters, to sustain.
The game has burst the net and fled away :
Subdued by sleep, I lost the prey.
Ah, son of Zeus! thou art a thief: (ant. *'.)
Youngling ! thou hast trampled on
Gray goddesses, and given relief
To a mother-slaying son.
Him thou, a God, hast stolen from our sight j
And who will say that this is right ?
A stern Reproach, in dreams drew near, (str. /3'.)
And smote me like a charioteer,
With a goad that made me shiver.
Under both my heart and liver
I feel the chill the wretch deplores,
Whose back the public beadle scores.
Such things our young Gods do, by might (ant. /3'.)
Prevailing ever over right :
One the tripod now may see
Dripping with gore entirely j
Earth's navel-stone presents to view
Murder's abominable hue.
Thyself, a prophet too, the guilt incurring, (str. y'.)
Pollution to thy hearth hast brought,
Human respects to law of God's preferring,
Setting the ancient Fates at nought.
Apollo, stern to me, shall never save him, (ant. y'.}
Nor under earth shall he be free :
Another blood-avenger there shall have him,
And cling unto him after me.
Apollo. Out of my temple ! instantly be gone ;
Away ! quit the prophetical recess,
Lest thou receive a serpent winged and white,
Whizzing in fury from my golden string,
And from the pain thereof disgorge the foam
And clots of gore which thou hast sucked from men.
It is not fit thou shouldst approach this fane j
But go, where eyes are gouged and throats are cut,
And heads chopt off ; increase cut off in man
By blotting out its fountains ; where they die
By stoning and piecemeal dismemberment,
And where are heard the lamentable sounds,
Half sobs, half screams, that burst from men impaled.
Hear why, enamoured of what festival,
Ye are abomination to the Gods.
But all the fashion of your visage shows
Your nature. It beseemeth such as you
1839.] The EumenuleS. G99
To make your habitation in the cave
Of the blood-lapping lion, not to haunt
This court of oracles, pollution foul
To all those near you. Hence ! ye wandering goats,
That have no keeper ; for of such a flock
No God can entertain a friendly thought.
CJior. Now hear me, King Apollo, in my turn.
Thou art not an accomplice in these deeds,
But art the head and front, sole cause of them.
Apollo. How, pray ? Speak so far as to answer this.
Chor. Thy oracle commanded him to take —
Apollo. The retribution due his sire. Why not ?
Chor. And pledged thee to receive the murderer.
Apollo. I charged him hither to betake himself.
Chor. And dost thou blame us, who escorted him ?
Apollo. This holy temple is no place for you.
Chor. But this same charge has been imposed on us.
Apollo. What is this duty ? make thy boast of it.
Chor. We hunt the mother-slayers from their homes.
Apollo. What's that? Shall not the husband-slayer come
Under the ban of shedding kindred blood ?
The sanctions, then, of Hera, who presides
O'er marriage, and of Zeus are derogate,
Henceforth of none account : thy argument
Doth gentle Cytherea no less wrong,
From whom accrue to men their best delights.
The marriage-bed, the band of natural law
'Twixt man and wife, is greater than an oath,
When justice guards it. If, on some of those
Who slay their kin, thou dost not look in wrath,
Nor dost exact the pains and penalties,
I do deny that thou dost justly hunt
Orestes. For I see thee fierce with him,
But very quiet in the other case.
But Pallas shall take cognizance of this.
Chor. That man, however, I will never leave.
Apollo. Pursue him then, and add more toil to toil.
Chor. Disparage not my province in thy speech.
Apollo. I would not take thy province as a gift.
Chor. For thou art altogether great, they say,
Before the throne of Zeus : his mother's blood
Doth set me on, and justice cries out " aim!"
kTo my pursuit, and I will hunt him down.
Apollo. And I will aid him, and deliver him.
Among both gods and men the wrath is dread
For a neglected suppliant's injury,
If I should willingly abandon him.
[The scene is shifted from Delphi to At/tens, and the
temple of Apollo transformed into the temple of
ATHENA POLIAS. A considerable interval must be
supposed to have elapsed.
Ores. By the command of Loxias am I come,
Royal Athena ! piteously receive
One hunted by the avengers, it is true ;
But no petitioner for cleansing rites
With unclean hands : the edge is taken off
Of my pollution, and its trace worn out
By travels among men and at their homes.
Obedient to the voice of oracles,
By PhcBbus given, I've passed o'er land and sea,
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXm. 2 V
700 The Eumenides. [May,
And to thy house and image, goddess, come,
And for a final sentence here attend.
{Enter the Conductress of the Chorus, followed by the
Furies in double file : as they advance, they spread
themselves out towards both sides of the Orchestra.
Leader of the Chorus.
Well, here the trail is plain : but follow thou
The dumb Informer — 'tis a certain guide.
For, as the hound doth track the wounded fawn,
We trace him by the blood and drops of gore.
But my flank pants with very weariness ;
For I have ranged o'er every spot of earth,
And, without wings, have flown across the sea,
No slower than a ship, pursuing him :
And now the wretch is cowering hereabout.
CHORUS.
The smell of human blood doth cheer me, (Preluded
Assurance that my game is near me.
Look ye here, and look ye there,
Here and there and every where,
Lest the mother-slayer flee,
And a while unpunished be.
Here he finds help again, and twining round (sir.')
Athena's Image, wishes to submit
To trial for the murder done.
No ! no ! his mother's blood is on the ground, (ant,')
When that is shed, who can recover it ?
The red dew on the ground is gone.
But thou must give thy living limbs to me, (Epode^\
To suck the marrow out — may I from thee
The odious draught as food receive.
Thee, while alive, I will bereave
Of all thy pith, and take thee downward hence ;
This the retributory recompense
Thou art in thy person paying
For thy impious mother-slaying.
And thou shalt see if any other,
To god or stranger, sire or mother,
Hath done despiteous wrong, how he
Must pay the penalty, like thee :
For Hades, underneath the ground,
A strict examiner is found ;
And all the deeds of mortal kind
He sees, and writes them in his mind.
Ores. Instructed in misfortunes, I have learned
Many lustrations, and I also know
Both where to speak and where to hold my tongue :
But in this matter I was taught to speak
By a wise teacher ; for the blood now sleeps,
My mother's blood, that was upon my hand —
'Tis there no more — the stain, washed out, is gone.
While fresh, it was removed, at Phoebus' hearth,
By purifying blood of slaughtered swine.
'IVerc long for me to tell from first to last
How many I have approached with intercourse
That harmed them not. Time, that grows old with them,
Wears all things out. Now with clean lips I call
1839.] The Eumenides. 701
Athena, of this land Queen paramount,
To come my helper ; so shall she obtain,
And without war, as firm allies for ever,
Myself, my country, and the Argive race.
Whether in Libya by her natal stream —
The stream of Triton — combating on foot,
Or in the battle car, she aids her friends,
Or else, like a field-marshal, she surveys
The old Phlegrsean plain — though far away,
By virtue of her godship, she doth hear-
On ! may she come to free me from these plagues !
Leader of the Chorus. Neither Apollo nor Athena's might
Shall set thee free — they must abandon thee
To perish, knowing not one thought of joy,
Our food till thou hast no blood left — a shade.
Thou dost not answer, but dost scorn our words,
Thou victim reared and set apart for me I
While living thou shalt feed me, nor be slain
On any altar. Hear this binding hymn : —
CHORUS.
Come, let us join, and hand in hand
Now chant the weird and mournful song !
Recounting how our awful band
Reforms what doth to us belong
In our just dealings with mankind —
Judges whom none can bend or bind.
No wrath to him whose hands are clean
From us proceeds — without a ban
He goes through life ; but who has been
A great offender, like this man,
Yet strives his bloody hands to hide,
Shall find us clinging to his side,
True witnesses unto the dead,
And for the blood that he hath shed
Exactors, to the slayer's cost,
Of vengeance to the uttermost.
Night 1 mother Night ! from whom I had my being, (str. *'.)
Pain to the dead and those the daylight seeing,
Hear me ! Latona's imp hath ta'en away,
With foul despite, from me my cowering prey,
The victim vowed, who with his own
Should for his mother's blood atone.
O'er the victim chant the strain,
Distraction, frenzy's feverous fire —
Hymn that ne'er is sung in vain,
And never sung to dainty lyre—-
With power to shrivel and to bind
The spirit of the blasted mind.
For Fate, the all-pervading, spun of old (ant. *'.)
This very lot for us to have and hold,
That whosoever shall his hands imbrue
In kindred blood, we must the wretch pursue
Till he go down — dead though he be,
He shall not find himself too free.
O'er the victim chant the strain,
Distraction, frenzy's feverous fire —
Hymn that ne'er is sung in vain,
And never sung to dainty lyre—
702 Tile menides. [May$
With power to shrivel and to bind
The spirit of the blasted mind.
This lot to us at birth was ratified, (str. 0'.)
But to forbear Immortals. Side by side
No fellow-feaster sits with me ;
For I was framed that mine should be
To have no part in garments white.
For I made choice to be pursuing
Houses to their complete undoing ;
When Mars, grown tame to touch and sight
In social life, shall slay a friend,
Then we pursue him to the end,
And hunt him down, thought he be stout,
Nor leave him till we blot him out.
All others we from these our cares exclude, (aw*. £'•)
Nor on our rights would have the gods intrude,
Nor question our accusing plea ;
For Zeus doth keep aloof, we see,
From this abominable race,
Continually down-dropping gore.
While I, in fact, leap evermore
Down on the wretches from my place,
And with a heavy-falling heel
I dash on them— to those who reel,
And drag their tripping limbs and slow,
Woe 1 woe \ intolerable woe !
The high renown of men, in life august, (str. <y'.~)
Melts under ground, decaying in the dust,
And drops away as we advance,
In solemn black, with hostile dance.
He falls unconscious, from infatuation, (ant. 7'.).
Such mist flits over him — abomination !
And through the house, with many groans,
A sad and misty Rumour moans.
For we are skilful to devise, (*&"• •'O
And can effect whate'er we plan ;
Of ill deeds awful Memories,
And hard to be appeased by man ;
Our office, heaped with scorn and slight,
From gods apart, by sunless light
We minister j and rough we be
Alike to those who have their sight
And unto those who cannot see.
Is there a man that hears from me (ant. t .)
This ordinance, by fate assigned
And by the gods, immutably,
That doth not in his inmost mind
My office and commission fear ?
To me my ancient lot is dear,
And certain honours mine I call,
Though in a sunless horror drear,
And under ground, my station fall.
[ATHENA appears in a chariot, and alights,
Ath. Thy invocation I have heard from far,
E'en from Scamauder, where I was engaged
1839.] The Eumenides. 709
Taking possession of the promised land,
(And so forestalled usurping foreigners), —
A choice part of the spoil which the prime men
Of the Achaeans did assign to me,
A fief for ever for the sons of Theseus.
Whence, with unwearied speed, and without wings,
Making my aegis rustle, I have come,
This chariot having yoked to vigorous steeds.
But seeing in this place these visitants,
I fear not, but I wonder at the sight.
Who in the world are ye ? I speak to all,
And to the stranger who has placed himself
Here at my statue ; you I now address,
Wild forms ! resembling no begotten kind,
Nor goddesses as they are seen by gods,
Nor mortal shapes. But causelessly to find
Fault with one's neighbours, is from justice far —
The spirit of Themis doth revolt from it.
Char. Daughter of Zeus ! all shalt thou hear in brief :
We are the daughters of the gloomy Night,
Call'd Arcs, in our underground abodes.
Ath. I know your race, and name-shown attributes.
Chor. Thou soon shalt hear my office and its dues.
Ath. I'd learn, if one would give a plain account.
Chor. We from their homes hunt forth the murderers.
Ath. Where is the limit of their banishment ?
Chor. Where joy is altogether thing unknown.
Ath. In such wise dost thou set thy hounds on him ?
Chor. Yes ! he thought right to shed his mother's blood.
Ath. Fearing no power that urged the deed on him ?
Chor. Where is there such a goad to such a deed ?
Ath. Two parties here— I've heard but one as yet.
Chor. He will not name, nor let us name, an oath.
Ath. Ye would be called just, not be truly so.
Chor. How, pray ? Instruct us — wise thou surely art.
Ath. Injustice should not win by oaths, I say.
Chor. Then question him, and judge at once between us.
Ath. To my decision will ye leave the case ?
Chor. Why not ? we worship what is worshipful.
Ath. What wilt thou say in answer for thyself?
Speak, stranger ; country, lineage, fortunes tell ;
And then rebate this charge, if confident
In thy own cause as just, thou here dost sit,
Watching this statue, near my sacred hearth,
Ixion-like, a suppliant purified :
Answer distinctly to these several points.
Ores. First, Queen Athena, to the last I speak,
And all concern on that point will remove.
The blood-stain is no longer on my hands,
Nor is thy statue by their touch defiled—
Of this I'll give to thee sufficient proof:
Those under ban of their blood-guiltiness,
The law says must not speak 'till, sprinkled with
The blood of cleansing, they are purified.
Long since, near other temples, was I washed
In blood of victims, and in running streams.
This point is answered. With regard tonkin,
I am an Argive, son — thou knowest my sire —
Of Agamemnon, glorious emperor
Of the great host, with whom thou didst expunge,
Destroying Troy, the city of Ilion.
Returning from the war, in his own house
704 The Eumenides. [May,
He perished foully : in a fraudful net
My dark-souled mother snared, and murdered him ;
The bathing- room was witness to the deed.
And I, returning home from banishment,
An exile all the intermediate time,
Slew her who bore me — I deny it not-
Exacting blood for blood, her's for my sire's.
And Loxias was the mover of my act,
Fore-warning me of woes, heart-piercing stings,
Should I sit still, and leave the guilty free.
The deed was done ; judge whether well or ill ;
To thy decision I submit myself.
Ath, The matter is too great, if any man
Thinks to adjudge it ; nor can I decide ;
Themis forbids me in a case of blood.
But I receive thee, both as one to whom
I would, on other grounds, my favour show,
And more especially, because thou hast
Duly performed all expiatory rites,
And art a blameless suppliant, cleansed from stain,
And on my city bringing no reproach.
These also may not lightly be dismissed j
And should they not obtain the victory,
The venom dropping from them will become
A plague intolerable to the land.
Such ills may follow if they stay ;
And to dismiss them is impossible :
And thus my will is puzzled either way.
But since this matter here has forced itself,
Sworn judges will I choose to sit and try
Cases of blood, and institute the Court
An ordinance for all hereafter time.
Summon your witnesses, collect your proofs,
The means of coming to a just conclusion.
But I will choose my worthiest citizens,
And come with them, who shall decide this cause
Truly on oath, whose awful sanctity
They will not violate in thought or word.
[ATHENA departs the opposite way to that she entered by.
CHORUS.
Now for the overthrow of ancient laws, /^r> aA
Should victory attend the scathe and cause
Of this unhallowed matricide :
By the facility with which 'tis done,
This bloody deed shall spirit on the son —
Ye, hapless parents ! must abide
Hereafter many a bitter woe,
And from your children feel the fatal blow.
For from the Maenad Watchers there shall be (ant. «'.)
No wrath for such outbreakings. I will free,
And let loose death of ev ery kind :
Then shall be bruited round the savage woes,
Whose heap from day to day prodigious grows,
Wave upon wave ; and none shall find
A remedy for pang or pain,
But know the hope he fondly fostered vain.
Let none that reels to fortune's adverse stroke, (str. /3'.)
With many a broken wail our power invoke :
" Oh Justice ! oh throned Furies ! where are ye ?"
Some mother thus, in her new agony,
1839.] The Eumenides. 705
Or father will, perchance, be calling •
They may — the house of Justice now is falling.
A watcher of the thought — an awful fear — (ant. P.)
Will sometimes check it in its foul career :
'Tis good when wisdom comes from sorrow's dart.
But who that feeds the fatness of his heart,
Checked by no fear from ill begun,
Or state, or man, will worship justice ? None 1
The life that owns no wholesome check, (sir. y1.
Or that which to a master's beck
Looks evermore, thou shalt not praise.
By God's decree the mean is best.
And different things in different ways
He still inspects : to truth confest
My word agrees — for Insolence
Is own child to Irreverence ;
And from the sound mind springs no less
All-loved, all-wished-for happiness.
By all means, furthermore I say, (ant. /.)
Due reverence to justice pay ;
Nor trample with a godles's foot
Her altar, with an eye to gain ;
For punishment shall come to boot—
The appointed end doth still remain.
Therefore let every man respect
The awe of parents, nor neglect
The sacred claims that draw their birth
From intercourse at friendly hearth.
The man without compulsion just, (sir. S'.)
Who by these rules preserves his trust,
Unprosperous shall never be,
At least ne'er ruined utterly.
But the bold trafficker, that only cares
To stow his contraband promiscuous wares,
Shall lose himself and cargo, when the gales,
Fraught with his doom, shall overtake his sails.
But in the whirlpool, in his need, (ant. ?'.)
He calls on those who do not heed :
For God laughs at the insolent,
Who thought not such predicament
Awaited him — fate's doomed and harnessed slave,
Unable to surmount the seething wave :
Dashed on the rock of Justice, ho goes down
With all his full-blown pride, unwept, unknown.
[ATHENA makes her appearance at tJie head of the twelve
Areopaqites, who take their seats in tJte orchestra.
f *7 »
Aih. Make proclamation, herald ; keep in bounds
The people ; let the Tyrrhene trumpet speak,
Filled with man's breath, its air-pervading tones,
A blast to hush the assembled multitude :
For, while this solemn consistory sits,
Silence is needful, that the folk at large
May learn my Institution, and the cause
Be with attention tried, and rightly judged.
[APOLLO appears on the stage.
70S The Eurnenides. [May,
Chor.. Deal, King Apollo, with thy own affairs ;
Pray tell me what hast thou to do with this ?
Apol. To give my testimony for my guest
And suppliant have I come ; for when he fled
An outcast, I washed out his stain of blood :
And I myself will be his advocate,
Since it was I that urged him to the deed.
But introduce the suit as president,
Athena, with the sanction of thy voice.
Ath. I introduce the suit : begin ye first :
The plaintiff, speaking first, shall put the court
Correctly in possession of the facts.
Chor. Though we are many, we will speak in brief :
Now answer in thy turn, and word for word :
Didst thou not take away thy mother's life ?
Ores. I did — I mean not to deny the fact.
Chor. Of the three falls here is already one.
Ores. Thou boastest over one not yet hurled down.
Chor. But thou must tell the manner of the deed.
Ores. I drew my sword, and pierced her in the neck.
Chor. By whom persuaded ? who suggested it ?
Ores. My witness here, this god, by oracles.
Chor. What ! did the prophet bid thee slay thy mother ?
Ores. Yes ! nor have I repented of the deed.
Chor. If thou art cast, thou soon wilt change thy tone.
Ores. I have no fear, for my dead father aids me.
Chor. Ay ! from the dead hope succour, matricide !
Ores. She was polluted with a double stain.
Chor. How, pray ? inform the judges how this was.
Ores. Slaying her husband she my father slew.
Chor. Thou livest : she atoned for blood by blood.
Ores. Why didst not hunt her, while she lived, from home ?
Chor. The man she slew was of no kin to her.
Ores. Am I, then, of her blood, akin to her ?
Chor. How else within her girdle fed she thee ?
Assassin ! dost renounce that dearest blood ?
Ores. Apollo ! be my witness, and explain
If what I did was justly done or not —
For I confess the fact — and give me reasons,
Which I may plead to justify myself.
Apollo. Athena's council, I will speak to you,
And being a prophet, truly : at no time,
Whether of man or woman, or a state,
Have I e'er uttered any oracle,
Which Zeus, the Olympian Sire, did not command.
Consider first his justice, and then bow
To the prerogative of Sovran Power :
An oath can ne'er transcend his influence.
Chor. Zeus, as tbou sayest, gave this oracle,
To bid Orestes for his father's blood
Exact full vengeance, and in doing so
To disallow his mother's claims on him?
Apollo. 'Tis not the same thing for a princely man,
One honoured with the staff of royalty,
Conferred by Zeus, to have his life cut short,
To die, and that too by a woman's hand ;
Not by a shaft from bow of Amazon,
But in the way that I shall tell you now.
When from his expedition he return'd,
With greater gains of honour and of spoil
Than his most loyal friends had ever hoped,
183&.] The Eumenides. 707
She welcomed him, and in the bathing-room
Attended him, and over him she threw,
As from the bath he stept, a broidered robe,
A tent that had no doorway of escape,
Wherein she fettered, smote, and murdered him.
So fell the famous leader of the fleet 5
Of her I so have spoken — such she was—
To stir the indignation of the Court.
Chor. Zeus, as thy speech implies, the father's fate
Doth make account of; yet he put in bonds
His own old father. Mark, ye judges, this ;
Are not thy words at variance with his act ?
Apollo. Abominable monsters ! hate of gods !
Bonds may be loosed — there is a remedy,
And many a way of curing such a grief.
But when the dust has once drunk up man's blood,
There is not for the dead a second life.
My father has devised no counter-charm
For this necessity ; but all things else
Disposes of, and turns them up and down,
This way and that, unwearied in his might.
Chor. How thou dost stretch the point for his acquittal !
Shall he, when he has spilled his mother's blood,
In Argos, in his father's palace dwell ?
What public altars shall he worship at ?
The lustral water of what guild approach ?
Apollo. Mark how correctly I will speak to this.
A mother is not generating cause,
But the receiver of the child call'd hers.
She, as a stranger, for a stranger keeps
The germ as a deposit, and in time,
When no blight falls on it, she brings it forth.
In proof of this, a father there may be
Without a mother ; we've a witness here :
Athena, daughter of Olympian Zeus,
Though such a shoot as never goddess bore,
Nor shall hereafter bear, was never shut
Nor nurtured in the darkness of the womb.
Thy people, Pallas, in all other things
I will make great, according as I can ;
And I this suppliant to thy temple sent,
That he and his posterity may be
Faithful allies for ever, and may hold
This contract with thy people, thro' all time,
Religiously and no less lovingly.
Ath. According to your conscience give your votes, •
Ye judges— for enough has now been said.
Chor. My shafts have all been shot : but I remain
To hear what is the judgment in this case.
Ath. What can I do, what disposition make,
So as to be without blame at your hands ?
Chor. Ye've heard what ye have heard ; but truly fear
Your oath, ye strangers, and so give your votes.
Ath. People of Athens, and ye judges sworn
In the first cause of blood that has been tried,
Hear what I say about this ordinance.
This solemn council for all after time
Unto the sons of ^Egeus shall remain,
And ever hold their sessions on Mars' hill,
The station once of the bold Amazons,
When they from enmity to Theseus came
In dread array of war, and pitched their tents,
708 The Eumenides. [May,
And built a tower against his citadel,
And sacrificed to Mars, from whence this hill
Is called Mars' hill. A due respect, henceforth,
For this my institution, and a fear
Allied to reverence, shall ever keep
My citizens from wrong, if they abstain
From making innovations on their laws.
If one pollutes clear water with the filth
Of mud, or any influx of foul stream,
He shall not find therein what he can drink.
Nor rule of despot, nor wild anarchy
I recommend, but a sound government
At a just distance from these bad extremes,
And not to cast away a wholesome fear.
What man, who nothing fears, is ever just ?
And if ye will but hold in fitting awe
The majesty of Justice here enthroned,
Ye shall possess a safeguard of the state,
A bulwark of the country — such the realm
Of Pelops owns not, nor the Scythian race,
Nor any tribe of men. This Court august,
Quick to just wrath and incorruptible,
I institute a guardian of the land,
To keep watch in behalf of those that sleep.
Touching the future I've advised you all j
But rise, ye judges, and decide the cause,
Fearing the oath ye sware by. I have done.
[ The first Areopagite rises, taltes a ballot from the altar, and
drops it into the urn : similarly the rest in succession.
Afterthe twelfth hasdroplhis ballot into the urn, ATHENA
takes one from the altar, and holds it in her hand.
Chor. And I advise you by no means to slight
These visitants, lest they be bitter ones.
Apollo. I bid you to respect my oracles,
Which are from Zeus, and not to make them vain.
Chor. Cases of blood belong not to thy lot ;
Here staying, thou wilt be no prophet pure.
Apotto. Erred Zeus, when he his suppliant purified,
Ixion, from first stain of kindred blood ?
Char. Thou sayest : should I fail of justice here.,
I'll haunt this land in very bitterness.
Apollo. Unhonoured thou among the younger Gods,
And elder : but I surely shall prevail.
Chor. Thus in the house of Pheres didst thou gull
The Fates, and yet mere mortals made immortal.
*Apollo. Is it not just to aid a worshipper,
And most when in his need he prays for aid ?
Chor. But thou didst trick those ancient goddesses,
Deceive with wine, then laugh at them in scorn.
Apollo. Thou shalt, non-suited, presently pour forth
Thy venom, uninjurious to thy foes.
Chor. Since thou, a youngling, dost insult me so,
Me that am old, I wait to hear the sentence,
As one in doubt, till that is fully known,
If I shall pour my fury on the city.
Ath. It falls on me the judgment to pronounce:
In favour of Orestes I reserve
My vote — for from no mother had I birth.
Wholly my father's, on the father's side
I wholly am, and do most heartily
Prefer the male, save that I marry not.
Nor of the woman will I take the part,
1839.] The Eumenides. 709
Who slew her husband, overseer of home.
Should he have equal votes, it follows then,
Orestes is absolved. What wait we for ?
Tellers, to whom this task has been assigned,
Turn out at once the ballots from the urns.
Ores. Phrebus Apollo ! What is the result ?
Chor. Oh Night ! dark mother I dost thou see these doings ?
Ores. Now ! now ! for me to perish by the noos'e,
Or else to look upon the blessed light I
Chor. Now ! now ! for me to suffer worst eclipse,
Or henceforth hold my office unabridged.
[ The ballots are turned out and counted.
Apollo. Correctly, strangers, number out the votes,
And with impartial justice ; for great harm
Doth often from the loss of one accrue ;
One doth o'erthrow, or raise a family.
Ath. He is acquitted — for the votes are equal.
[She gives her ballot in favour of ORESTES.
Ores. Oh Pallas ! thou that hast preserved my house,
And me, sad outcast from my father-land,
Hast to my home restored. Some Greek will say,
He is again an Argive, and he dwells
Secure in his hereditary state,
By means of Pallas and of Loxias,
And the third Saviour, who doth sway all things —
He that respects the father's privilege,
And doth preserve me now, beholding these,
Appellants fell ! my mother's advocates.
But to this country and thy citizens
I bind myself and my posterity,
By solemn oath, for all hereafter time,
That never chief, with well-appointed troops
Shall, from my land, with hostile aim, come here.
For I, myself, then being in the tomb,
Will bring repentance for their bootless toils
On those that violate my present oath,
Discouraging their inauspicious paths
With misadventures, and with omens dire
Their passage over streams. But if they act
With righteousness, and honour evermore
The city of Pallas, and are allies true,
I will regard them more benignantly.
Farewell, thou and thy prople ; may they bruise
Their foes with an inevitable fall,
And for themselves obtain deliverance,
And wished-for, honourable victory !
[Exit ORESTES.
CHORTTS.
Ye younger gods have trampled down
Old laws, and wrested them from me ;
Amerced of office and renown,
I will, for this indignity,
Drop from my heart's wrath-bleeding wound
A blight — a plague-drop on the ground.
A lichen, fatal to the trees,
To children, shall invade the soil,
(Hear, Justice !) and inflict disease
On men — the blotch and deadly boil.
Ah ! shall I groan ? what shall I do ?
What will become of me ?
These citizens have made me rue
The worst indignity.
710 The Eumenides, [May,
Daughters of Night! deep-injured, deep-resenting,
And for your degradation, deep-lamenting.
Ath. Let me prevail on you — take not this grief
Too much to heart ; ye suffered not defeat.
The votes were equal, and the judgment fair,
Nor was to thy dishonour. E'en from Zeus
A clear convincing testimony came ;
Who gave the oracle was witness too—
That this Orestes should incur no scathe
For what he did. Hurl not your bolts of wrath
Against this land, nor cause unfruitfulness,
By letting fall the drops of deities,
To blast the seed, a blight of rottenness.
For I do promise you most faithfully,
That ye at altars, having splendid seats,
Shall sit, and own in perpetuity
The secret places of this goodly land,
And be much honoured by these citizens.
CHORCS.
Ye younger gods have trampled down
Old laws, and wrested them from me ;
Amerced of office and renown,
I will, for this indignity,
Drop from my heart's wrath-bleeding wound
A blight — a plague-drop on the ground.
A lichen, fatal to the trees,
To children, shall invade the soil,
(Hear, Justice !) and inflict disease
On men — the blotch and deadly boil.
Ah, shall I groan ? what shall I do ?
What will become of me ?
These citizens have made me rue
The worst indignity.
Daughters of night! deep-injured, deep-resenting,
And, for your degradation, deep-lamenting.
Ath. Ye are not dishonour'd ; with excess of wrath
Mar not man's earth with wounds incurable.
I too rely on Zeus, and of the Gods —
What need to say it ? none but only I
Have knowledge of the keys of that dread vault,
Wherein sealed up he keeps his thunderbolt —
But there's no need of it. Be well advised,
Nor cast forth on the ground the rash tongue's fruit,
That, where it falls, is mildew of all good.
Lull the sharp gust of thy tempestuous wrath,
And be my honoured fellow resident ;
Having the first-fruits of this spacious land,
And offerings for hopes of progeny,
And consummation of the marriage rites.
Thou shalt for ever praise this good advice.
CHORUS.
That I should suffer this ! in age
Dishonoured, unavenged ! oh rage —
I breathe it forth.
Oh earth ! oh earth !
What pain is this that pricks my side ?
Hear my sharp passion, mother Night !
From me, with many a guileful sleight,
These gods, who rob me and deride,
]83i?.] The Enmenides. 7U
As though 'twere nothing, at their ease,
Have ta'en my public offices.
Ath. I put up with thy wrath ; thou wiser art
As older, than I am — yet unto me
Not scantily Zeus the boon of wisdom gave.
At other land, of other tribes arrived,
When 'tis too late, ye will be fond of this ;
Thereof I give you warning : time, that flows
Still onward, in his flowing stream, shall bring
Increase of honour for these citizens.
And near the palace of Erectheus, thou
Shalt here obtain an honourable seat,
And shalt such acceptable worship find
From troops of women, and from bands of men,
As no where else in all the world beside.
But cast not on this country bane of blood,
Exciting into rage youth's fiery mood,
Frantic with furious heats not raised by wine :
Nor vexing, as it were, the heart of cocks,
Stir 'mid my citizens intestine War,
That is against his neighbour over-bold.
•Let there be foreign war. Ay ! let it come, .
And welcome — that wherein a passionate love
Of glory shall be shown ; but for the fight
Of the domestic bird — I'll none of it.
Such choice is thine to make and to obtain,
Good doing, good receiving, to possess
A lot and part in this land loved of Gods.
CHORUS.
That I should suffer this ! in age,
Dishonoured, unavenged ! oh rage —
I breathe it forth.
Oh earth ! oh earth !
What pain is this that pricks my side ?
Hear my sharp passion, mother Night !
From me, with many a guileful sleight,
These gods, who rob me and deride,
As though 'twere nothing, at their ease,
Have ta'en my public offices.
Ath. I will not yet be weary of my tale
Of thy advantages — if thou wilt stay.
Thou shalt not say that thou, a goddess old,
By me, a younger, and these citizens
Wert driven from hence — inhospitably driven.
If holy to thy apprehension seems
Persuasion, speaking softly by my voice,
Thou wilt remain ; if thou wilt not remain,
'Twill be unjust to bring upon this people
Thy wrathful fury, indignation, scathe.
'Tis in thy power, an honoured settler here,
To have due worship paid thee evermore.
Chor. What seat, pray, queen Athena, shall I have ?
Ath. One free from all affliction — take it thou.
Chor. Suppose I do, what honour shall be mine ?
Ath. That without thee not any house shall thrive.
Chor. Wilt thou effect that I shall have this power ?
Ath. I'll make all right for him who does thee right.
Chor. And wilt thou pledge thyself for all time hence ?
Ath. What I have promised, that I must perform.
Chor. I am nigh soothed, and stand apart from wrath.
Ath. Friends upon earth thou likewise shalt obtain.
712 The Eumenides. [May,
Chor. What blessing shall I call upon thy people ?
Ath. Whatever has respect to victory,
That is not mischievous ; and this from earth,
And from the sea-dew, and the heavens above,
That the mild breathings of the winds may come,
While the bright sun shines clearly, o'er the land ;
That earth's fruit and increase of animals
May ever for my citizens abound
In due succession ; also that there be
No blight of the unborn of human kind.
But with all evil-doers be as fierce
As the case needs. For, like a husbandman,
My sole affection I reserve for those
That bear good fruit, so that the just may be
Exempt from sorrow. Let this be thy part.
It shall be mine to give them high renown —
I could not bear to have it otherwise —
In bold achievements and exploits of war.
CHORUS.
I will accept a dwelling-place
With Pallas, nor will I disgrace
With aught of ill a city, where
The mightiest Zeus and Mars appear,
As in a sacred bulwark dwelling,
The bulwark of the Grecian gods :
But I with power all spells excelling
A blessing call on these abodes.
Let the sun's clear-shining light
Make to spring from out the earth,
Bloom of gladness to the sight,
Every sort of happy birth.
Ath. With good will for my people, settling here
These mighty goddesses, of mood severe,
I soothed and reconciled them : theirs the charge
To exercise control o'er men at large.
Happy who feels them not, he nothing knows
Of life's worst bitterness and sharpest woes.
But from the sires, who grievously offend,
The curse of sin doth to their sons descend ;
When life and life's delights the fond man calls
His own, and boasts — the silent ruin falls.
CHORUS.
Let there be no blight of trees,
For the buds no scorching blast ;
Never by the black disease
Be the landmarks overpast.
Let the flocks increase in season,
And with twin-births ever go ;
And the people, as is reason,
Praise the gods who bless them so.
Ath. Hear ye what gifts she doth in fact dispen
For mighty is the mystic influence
Of dread Erinnys, both within the portals
Of Hades, and among the blest Immortals.
She doth discharge her ministry assigned
With most effectual power among mankind }
Some with a life of joyful song she cheers ;
To some she gives a life bedimmed with tears.
1839,] The Eumenides. 713
CHORUS.
I forbid untimely doom —
Let the virgins in their bloom
Be to fitting partners wed :
Look to this* my sisters dread,
Fates ! whom my own mother bore,
Ye, who claim the lordship o'er
Men's affairs in all their course,
And from whom, as from their source,
All their blessings ever flow,
All the good the righteous know.
Atli. Hearing these friendly blessings I rejoice,
And love Persuasion's eyes, who tuned my voice,
Enabling me to turn their wrath aside,
When they had fiercely my request denied.
But Zeus prevails : the power of Mercy still
Predominates — good doth o'ermaster ill.
CHORUS.
Here let Faction never roar,
Which no mischiefs e'er can sate ;
Let the dust not drink the gore
Shed by fierce intestine hate :
Let them love as brethren should, .
And one hatred only know ;
Let them love the common good,
Let them hate the common foe.
Ath. Has she not now the way of blessing found-?
Much good shall to my people hence redound.
Pay ye these awful goddesses the meed
Of honour due, and through your lives succeed :
So shall they ever keep the just in sight,
And crown with blessing those who do the right.
CHORUS.
Rejoice ye in your wealth profuse,
And in the sheltering power of Zeus,
All ye that sit his shadow near,
Beloved of his Daughter dear ;
For those she shelters with her wing,
Find favour with the awful King.
Q ATHENA stations herself at the Jiead of the Chorus in t
orchestra, where they are joined by the Escort of fe-
males with torches.
Ath. Rejoice ye likewise : I your way must show :
Now by the light of these attendants go j
And while the victims bleed, descend, descend !
Bless ye my people, and from ill defend.
Lead ye, my friends, these settlers to their seat ?
And yours, my citizens, be good complete !
CHORUS.
All ye that in the city of Pallas dwell,
Ye gods and mortals, once again, farewell 1
If with well-doing ye my place respect,
I your well-being never will neglect.
714 TheEumenides, [May, 1839.
At/i. Your blessings I approve ; and I will send
These, who my altars faithfully attend,
With light of blazing torches as your guides
To those dark clefts where only gloom resides,
And subterranean darkness. A bright band,
The ornament and glory of the land,
Old men and young, the matron and the maid,
Shall issue forth in purple robes arrayed.
Come forth, thou band of honour ! let the light
Of torches gladly beam with flashes bright,
In order that these visitants be known
Hereafter for good-will to mortals shown.
ESCORT.
Daughters of Night, on whom we wait, (str. «'.)
Depart ye home in solemn state ;
August, and highly honoured, go
Under the caves of earth below.
And while they mildly pass from hence,
Be there the hush of reverence.
Under earth's deep and ancient rifts, (ant. «'.)
Honoured with sacrificial gifts,
And worship which the people pay,
Benignant virgins ! take your way.
And let the people silent be
During the whole solemnity.
Mild and benignant, go, . (str. A'.)
Pleased with the fervid glow
Of torches giving light,
And as ye pass from sight
Your downward path along,
Break into joyful song.
Let torches brightly glow, (ant. /3'.)
Libations freely flow
At all your several homes.
For Zeus, all- seeing, comes,
And, Fate, to bless this throng.
Break into joyful song.
Edinburgh ; Printed by Ballanlytie and Hughes, Paul's Work.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCLXXXIV. JUNE, 1839.
VOL. XLV.
THE LATE POLITICAL EVENTS.
A SPACE of time of less than a
week's duration, has recently presented
us ifl this country with a succession of
public events of absorbing interest and
momentous importance. They have
been said to involve, in a material
point, the power and position of royalty
itself: they unquestionably concern,
in no ordinary degree, the government
of the country, and the progress and
prospects of the contending political
parties or principles into which na-
tional opinion is divided ; and they af-
fect, in the nearest manner, the ho-
nour and character of the political
men who have on either side been en-
gaged in them. This last considera-
tion may, indeed, be of less weight
-than the rest; but it is yet a matter
of the utmost moment to us all, not on
personal but on public grounds, that
we should thoroughly know whether
the men who are to carry on the great
business of government on the one
hand, or of the control over govern-
ment on the other, are animated by
principles of patriotism and inte-
grity, or are prompted to action only
by reckless ambition or sordid interest.
The singular and important events
to which we refer, have passed before
us with such rapidity, that, as a preli-
minary to any remarks on the late
changes of administration, it may be
well to prefix a short outline of the
facts in the order of their occurrence,
confining ourselves to matters which
cannot be disputed.
On the 7th of May, the Adminis-
tration of Lord Melbourne, which had
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXIV.
plainly been maintaining, for some time
past, but a lingering existence, volun-
tarily resigned, placing their resigna-
tion on the ground that the result of
the division upon the Jamaica Bill
showed that they did not possess the
confidence of the House of Commons,
and consequently could not continue
the management of public affairs with
advantage to the country. In the
Upper House, Lord Melbourne admit-
ted that the vote of the previous even-
ing was " not only necessarily fatal
to the ultimate success of that great
measure, but that it also does, with
sufficient clearness and distinctness,
indicate such a want of confidence on
the part of a great proportion of that
House of Parliament, as to render it
impossible tJiat we should continue to
administer the affairs of her Majesty's
Government in a manner that can be
beneficial to the country." In the
House of Commons, Lord John Rus-
sell's statement, to the same effect, was
made in these terms : — " In continuing
in the administration of affairs, not
having, as we think we have not, a
sufficient degree of confidence and sup-
port to carry on those affairs efficiently
in this House, we should be exposing
to jeopardy the colonial empire of this
country, many of whose colonies are,
I will not say in a state of hazard, but
in which questions of considerable im-
portance are pending. Hitherto her
Majesty's Ministers have thought
themselves justified in continuing in
the administration of affairs, supported
as we were by the confidence of the
3 A
716
The Late Political Events.
Crown, and by the confidence of the
House of Commons. But, sir, after
the vote of last night, J do not think
ice are entitled to say, that upon very
great and important affairs, upon which
Government was obliged to come to a
decision, we have had such support
and such confidence in this House as
would enable us sufficiently to carry on
the public affairs."
On this admitted want of confidence
and inability to conduct public affairs,
the Ministry resigned.
The Queen having sent for Lord
Melbourne, that nobleman, "on Wed-
nesday morning last, tendered to her
Majesty advice as to whom she ought to
apply to, and the course which her Ma-
jesty ought to take." In other words,
feeling that the formation of a Conser-
vative administration was the only
advisable or practicable step in the
existing state of the country, he ad-
vised her to apply to the Duke of
Wellington, who again suggested to
the Queen that Sir Robert Peel was
the person best qualified to undertake
the task of forming an administration,
the main difficulties of which would
lie in the House of Commons. At that
interview, we have the assurance of
the Duke of Wellington that nothing
passed inconsistent with the principle,
that the person intrusted with the
formation of a new administration
should be untrammelled in all points,
either in regard to the conduct to be
pursued in the formation of an admi-
nistration, or in respect to the princi-
ples which ought to be adhered to as
to the mode in which the royal house-
hold ought to be managed.
At the interview which took place
between her Majesty and Sir Robert
Peel on Wednesday morning, when
he undertook the task of forming a
new administration, the Queen, while
she expressed her regret at parting
•with the. Administration which had
quitted office, interposed no obstacle
of any kind to the execution of the
task thus committed to Sir Robert
Peel. This important commission was
intrusted to him on the usual " con-
stitutional principles," without any
limitation being then proposed as to
the appointments connected with the
household.
In the communications which took
place in the course of Wednesday
between Sir Robert Peel and some of
those confidential friends whom he
[June,
proposed to select as members of his
Administration, the subject of the
household arrangements at the palace
naturally came under discussion. The
appointments to the offices of the
Queen's household had taken place
under the late administration, and the
chief places were held by ladies con-
nected more closely than usual with the
administration that appointed them.
One lady, for instance, was the wife
of the late Colonial Secretary and
former Viceroy of Ireland ; two others
were sisters of another Cabinet minis-
ter ; others were nearly connected
by relationship with different indivi-
duals of the Ministry which Sir Ro-
bert Peel was about to succeed. That
delicacy and a sense of propriety
would have dictated the retirement of
those ladies, thus closely connected
with the former Government, was so
obvious, that it did not occur to Sir
Robert Peel that any question as to
their dismissal would arise. It is"im-
portant, however, to observe that, be-
fore introducing the subject to the
Queen's notice, he announced to his
friends on Wednesday night, at his
own house, the exact course which he
meant to propose for her Majesty's
approbation : —
" I said to those who were intended
to be my future colleagues, with respect
to all the subordinate appointments —
meaning every appointment below the
rank of a lady of the bedchamber — I
said to them I should submit to her
Majesty no change whatever with re-
spect to those. With respect to the
superior class, I stated to them that
those ladies who held such offices, and
who were in immediate connexion with
our political opponents, would proba-
bly relieve us from any difficulty by
relinquishing their offices. But I stated
at the same time that I did think it
of great importance, as conveying
an indication of her Majesty's entire
support and confidence, that certain
offices in the household of the higher
rank should be subject to some change.
I did expressly, with respect to the
higher offices, namely, the ladies of
the bedchamber j state, that there were
some instances in which, from the
absence of any strong party or political
connexion, 1 thought it would be wholly
unnecessary to propose such a change."
In the correctness of this statement,
Sir Robert Peel appealed to the re-
collections of Sir James Graham, Mr
J839.]
The Late Political Event it.
717
Goulburn, Lord Stanley, and Sir
Henry Hardinge, in whose presence
lie thus re-announced his intentions.
When Sir Robert Peel proceeded
on Thursday to submit to her Majesty
the names of certain persons who were
to form part of his proposed Adminis-
tration, an obstacle unexpectedly oc-
curred on the very point as to which,
from his erroneously attributing to
others his own delicacy of feeling, he
had not anticipated that any difficulty
could arise. The impressions of Sir
Robert Peel as to the nature of the
proposal made by him to the Queen,
with regard to the formation of the
household, are conveyed in his letter
of 10th May, addressed to her Majes-
ty, resigning into her hands the com-
mission to form a government, in
which he recapitulates his view of
what had taken place on Thursday.
The substance of that letter will be
afterwards quoted. In the mean time,
it may be noticed merely, that Sir
Robert Peel disclaims having pro-
posed, or thought of proposing, the
removal from any offices under the
rank of ladies of the bedchamber;
while even as to these, following out
the view which he had already an-
nounced, that it was only in the case
of those ladies who were closely re-
lated to his political opponents that
any change would be necessary, he
did not propose a general removal,
but only that " some changes " should
be made in that department.
The impression on the mind of her
Majesty is stated to have been differ-
ent from that of Sir Robert Peel.
From the explanation of Lord John
Russell, it is not easy to gather what
her Majesty understood to be the na-
ture of Sir Robert's proposal ; whe-
ther it embraced a total or only a
partial change in the appointments
of the ladies of the bedchamber.
From the later explanations, however,
of Lord Melbourne, which were evi-
dently intended as supplementary to
those of Lord John Russell, and as
filling up any deficiencies in the state-
ment of his colleague in the House of
Commons, we are informed that,
being summoned by the Queen on
Thursday, he was given to under-
stand by her Majesty, that, at the
close of the audience of that day,
" the Right Honourable Baronet made
a proposal that he should have the
power of dismissing the ladies of her
Majesty's household, not stating to
what extent he would exercise that
power — not stating how many, or
whom, it was his intention to propose
to remove — but asking the power of
dismissing the ladies of the household,
and leaving unquestionably upon her
Majesty's mind a very sttong impres-
sion that it was intended to employ
that power to a very great extent — to
such an extent, certainly, as to remove
ail the ladies of the bedchamber, as
well as some of those jilting an inferior
situation in the household.'1 That the
impression thus formed by her Ma-
jesty was an erroneous one, and that
Sir Robert Peel never did propose, or
mean to propose, the dismissal of all
the ladies of the bedchamber, and far
less of any of those filling inferior
offices, which is otherwise plain from
the announcement of his intentions on
Wednesday night to his intended col-
leagues, is distinctly admitted by Lord
Melbourne; forheproceeds: — " Such,
my Lords, was the impression on her
Majesty's mind — an impression which,
from what has since transpired, is evi-
dently erroneous. No doubt such an
impression was a mistaken one. The
Right Honourable Baronet has dis-
tinctly stated that he had no such in-
tention, and there cannot be the slight-
est doubt upon the point." Upon this
impression, however, thus communi-
cated by her Majesty, and now admit-
ted to be erroneous, Lord Melbourne
proceeded to act. Conceiving, as he
says, the question to be one too im-
portant for himself alone to decide, he
immediately summoned his colleagues ;
and the result of their consultation
was, that they 4f advised her Majesty
to return to the Right Honourable
Baronet the following letter:" —
" Buckingham Palace, May 10, 1839.
" The Queen having considered the pro-
posal made to her yesterday by Sir Robert
Peel, to remove the ladies of her bedcham-
ber, cannot consent to adopt a course which
she conceives to be contrary to usage, and
which is repugnant to her feelings."
In answer to this communication,
Sir Robert Peel respectfully resigned
into her Majesty's hands the authority
to form a ministry. In his letter he
thus explains what he had meant to
propose, and what he conceived he
had proposed to her Majesty the day
before : —
" lu the interview with which your Ma-
718
The Late Political Events.
jesty honoured Sir Robert Peel yesterday
morning, after he had submitted to your Ma-
jesty the names of those whom he proposed to
recommend to your Majesty for the princi-
pal executive appointments, he mentioned to
your Majesty his earnest wish to be enabled,
with your Majesty's sanction, so to constitute
your Majesty's household, thatyour Majesty's
confiduntial servants might have the advantage
of a public demonstration of your Majesty's
full support and confidence ; and that at the
same time, as far as possible consistently with
that demonstration, each individual appoint-
ment in the household should be entirely ac-
ceptable to your Majesty's personal feelings.
" On your Majesty's expressing a desire
that the Earl of Liverpool should hold an
office in the household, Sir Robert Peel
requested your Majesty's permission at once
to offer to Lord Liverpool the office of Lord
Steward, or any other which he might prefer.
" Sir Robert Peel then observed, that
he should have every wish to apply a simi-
lar principle to the chief appointments
which are filled by the ladies of your Ma-
jesty's household; upon which your Majesty
was pleased to remark, that you must
reserve the whole of these appointments,
and that it was your Majesty's pleasure
that the whole should continue as at pre-
sent, without any change.
" The Duke of Wellington, in the inter-
view to which your Majesty subsequently
admitted him, understood also that this was
your Majesty's determination, and con-
curred with Sir Robert Peel in opinion
that, considering the great difficulties of
the present crisis, and the expediency of
making every effort in the first instance to
conduct the public business of the country
with the aid of the present Parliament, it
was essential to the success of the com-
mission with which your Majesty had
honoured Sir Robert Peel, that he should
have'that public proof of your Majesty's
entire support and confidence, which
would be afforded by the permission to
make some changes in that part of your
Majesty's household, which your Majesty
resolved on maintaining without any
change"
Thus, on Friday, all doubt as to the
extent of the demand made by Sir
Robert Peel was at an end. It could
no longer be pretended that he stipu-
lated for a general removal of all the
ladies of the bedchamber. His mean-
ing, as explained by himself, was evi-
dent : He asked only the removal of
those, who, from their close connec-
tion with the displaced Ministry, he
had expected voluntarily to resign
their offices. This was, accordingly,
the meaning put upon his letter by the
[June,
present Ministry ; for the position now
taken by them, and the advice tender-
ed by them to her Majesty, was, that
even as thus limited, her Majesty
ought not to concede the point, and
that no change of any kind in the
female appointments connected with
the household, could reasonably have
been demanded by Sir Robert Peel.
Her Majesty's confidential servants,
among whom, be it observed, were
Lord Normanby and Lord Morpeth —
the wife of the one and the sisters of
the other being the three ladies
against whosecontinuance in thehouse-
hold the proposition of Sir R. Peel
was probably directed — after consult-
ing Sir Robert Peel's letter of the
10th at a meeting of the Cabinet,
came to the conclusion which they have
recorded in a minute, that while the
great offices of court and situations of
the household should be included in
the political arrangements consequent
upon a change of administration,
" they are not of opinion that a simi-
lar principle should be applied or ex-
tended to the offices held by ladies in
her Majesty's household." And that
this principle was held broadly, and
in reference equally to the slightest
change as to a total one, appears still
more distinctly from the observations
of Lord Melbourne : " We so entirely
agree with her Majesty that it is in-
expedient to apply the principle that
the ladies of her Majesty's household
should be removed, that all or any part
of them should be removed, in conse-
quence of changes in the administra-
tion, that we have come to the deter-
mination to support her Majesty on
the present occasion."
Such then is the footing on which
the administration have resumed of-
fice ; the approbation of the principle,
that no change of any kind among the
ladies of her Majesty's household,
however closely connected with the
members of the former Administra-
tion, was to be permitted. They have
made this principle their own, and
have taken on themselves, as Lord
John Russell expresses it, the consti-
tutional responsibility of advising the
Queen to act upon it. They resume
office admittedly on no ground of a
restoration of public confidence, but
on the ground that an unusual and im-
proper demand was made by Sir Ro-
bert Peel, with which they, the parties
who were to benefit by that resistance,
1839.]
The Late Political Events.
advised her Majesty not to comply.
For this resolution to resume the con-
duct of affairs, which they have ad-
mitted they were incapable of con-
ducting with advantage to the coun-
try, they claim the credit of the
highest gallantry. It is represented
by the noble Premier almost as an act
of heroic devotion on the part of him-
self and his colleagues : —
" I will not use the harsh expression
that I resigned my office because I was
abandoned by my supporters ; but be-
cause there had, as I conceived, arisen
amongst my supporters that amount
of difference in opinion which led me
to suppose that I could no longer with
honour to myself, or advantage to the
country, conduct the affairs of govern-
ment; and I now, my Lords, frankly
declare that I resume office unequivo-
cally and solely for this reason — that
I will not abandon my Sovereign in a
situation of difficulty and distress, and
especially when a demand is made
upon her Majesty with which I think
she ought not to comply."
But while the Melbourne Ministry
profess to support the Queen's resolu-
tion, or rather to justify their own
advice, that no change whatever
should be permitted to be made in the
offices held by ladies in the household,
it deserves observation, that even after
the letter of Sir Robert Peel of Fri-
day, explaining the limited nature of
his own expectations, the followers of
the Melbourne Ministry throughout
the country raised a universal cry that
Sir Robert Peel had demanded an en-
tire removal of the whole ladies con-
nected with the Court, without refer-
ence to their political position, and
without regard to the personal predi-
lections and early friendships of her
Majesty. The utmost violence of the
public press, or of private agitators,
has been directed against Sir Robert
Peel, on the footing that he had so
acted — a supposition which must have
been countenanced by the Ministry,
or at least was never contradicted by
them ; although, whatever might have
been their original impressions, as to
which we are extremely sceptical, they
must have been perfectly aware, from
the letter of Friday, that no such pro-
position had been made, and that the
question at issue must be debated on
very different and much more dispu-
table ground.
Before offering any comments of
our own upon these transactions, or
on the constitutional principle in-
volved in them, let us listen for a few
minutes to the footing on which Sir
Robert Peel, in his explanation to the
House of Commons, has rested the
vindication of his conduct in declining,
in such circumstances, to proceed with
the commission intrusted to him. Let
any man divest himself ever so little
of political prejudice, and ask his own
understanding, whether the appeal
thus made to it can possibly be re-
sisted : —
" Sir, I did decline to undertake
the duty of forming an administra-
tion on the understanding that the
whole of these appointments should,
without exception, be continued. But
I did so on public principles, and from
a sincere belief that it was impossible
for me to encounter the difficulties by
which I was encompassed in attempt-
ing to conduct public affairs, unless I
had the fullest and most unequivocal
proof that I possessed the confidence
of her Majesty. It appeared to me
that there never was a period when
the demonstration of that entire con-
fidence was more absolutely necessary
for a minister. The duties of the
office of a prime minister are^I con-
ceive, the most arduous and the most
important that any human being can
be called on to discharge. It is the
greatest trust, almost without excep-
tion, in the civilized world, which can
be devolved upon any individual. Sir,
I was ready to undertake the perform-
ance of those duties ; but could I look
around me at the present condition of
public affairs — could I look around
me, and not see that it was my abso-
lute duty to this country, and above all
to her Majesty, to require that every
aid that could be given me should be
given ? What were the questions
which would immediately press for
my consideration ? The state of
India — the state of Jamaica — the
state of Canada — wo'dd all require my
immediate consideration ; and with
respect to some of them, perhaps, the
proposal of legislative measures. Sir,
I considered the internal state of this
country — I saw insurrection in the
provinces — I saw the letter of the
noble lord opposite (Lord John Rus-
sell) inviting the respectable part of
the population of this country to form
themselves into armed societies for
resisting outrage. In addition to the
720
The Late Political Events.
[June,
ordinary duties devolving upon a prime
minister, tlicre are therefore circum-
stances which render that position at
the present moment peculiarly onerous
and Arduous. Sir, I had a strong im-
pression that it was my duty to make
every effort to conduct public affairs
through the intervention of the pre-
sent Parliament. I did not think it
was desirable to follow the course taken
in 1834, and commence the government
by a dissolution. After the frequent
dissolutions that have taken place,
and the balanced state of parties, it
was my deep conviction that it was
my duty to make every effort in the
first instance to conduct public affairs
through the intervention of the present
Parliament. But what is my condi-
tion in the present Parliament? I
should begin the government in a mi-
nority. I did not shrink from the con-
sciousness of such a state of things.
But, if I were insensible to the im-
portance of the crisis — to the difficul-
ties that I or any minister must have
to contend with — could I overlook
this important fact, that in the House
of Commons I should not commence
commanding a majority ? Sir, if then
I began the administration of public
affairs without the confidence of the
House of Commons, could I ask for
less than that I should have the de-
monstration of the entire and unquali-
fied confidence of my sovereign ? Her
Majesty's ministers retired on the
question of Jamaica, being in a majo-
rity of five. I should have had to un-
dertake the settlement of the Jamaica
question being in a minority of five,
and that minority consisting of ten
/• entlemen on whose support I could
nut calculate probably on any other
question which I should have occasion
to bring before the House. The first
conflict I should have to fight would
have been on the election of a Speaker.
On the very first day that I took my
seat as minister of this great country
and member of the House of Com-
mons, I should have to risk, perhaps,
the fate of government, or the ques-
tion of dissolution, upon the choice of.
a Speaker. Sir, I say that all these
considerations impressed me with the
clearest conviction that it would be
a public duty on my part — an indispen-
sable public duty which I owe to the
Queen — to seek for every possible de-
monstration that I possessed her Ma-
jesty's entire confidence. And I do
confess to you, without reserve and
v.ithout hesitation, that it appeared
to me that if the chief offices of the
Queen's household were to by held by
the immediate relatives of those mi-
nisters whom I displaced — the rela-
tives of my rivals for political power
— it did appear to me that I never
could impress the country with the
conviction that I, as a minister, was
possessed of the entire confidence
of my Sovereign. Sir, let me
take that particular question on which
my chief difficulty would arise. Who
can conceal from himself that my
difficulties were not Canada — that
my difficulties were not Jamaica —
that my difficulties were Ireland?
I admit it, sir, fully. But what were
the facts ? I, undertaking to be a
minister of the crown, and wishing to
carry on public affairs through the
intervention of the present House of
Commons, in order that I might ex-
empt t!ie country from the agitation
and possibly the peril of a dissolution
— I, upon that very question of Ire-
land, should have begun in a minority
of upwards of twenty. A majority of
twenty-two had decided in favour of
the policy of the Irish government.
The chief members of the Irish go-
vernment, whose policy was so ap-
proved of, were the Marquis of Nor-
manby, and the noble lord opposite,
the member for Yorkshire. The two
chief offices in the household are held
by the sister of the noble lord, and by
the wife of the noble marquis. Let
me not for a moment be supposed to
say a word not fraught with respect
towards those two ladies, who cast a
lustre on the society in which they
move, less by their rank than by their
virtues ; but still they stand in the
situation of the nearest relatives of two
members of the government whoso
policy was approved by this House.
Now, I ask any man in the House
whether it is possible that I could
safely undertake the conduct of an
administration and the management
of the Irish affairs in this house, con-
senting previously that the whole of
the ladies now forming the household
of her Majesty should continue in
those situations ? Sir, the policy of
these things depends not upon prece-
dent— not upon what has been done in
former times ; it mainly depends upon
a consideration of the present crisis.
The household has noiv assumed a
1830.]
The Late Political Events.
721
political character, and that on account
of the nature of the appointments
which have been maile by her Ma-
jesty's present Government. I do not
complain of it : it may have been a
•wise policy to place in the chief offices
of the household, ladies closely con-
nected with the members of tho Ad-
ministration ; but observe that this
change does seriously tend to the
public embarrassment of the succes-
sors of Ministers, if these ladies con-
tinue in their present situations. I do
not say that there would be the slight-
est use made of unfair moans ; I might
ho confident that these ladies would
confine themselves to tho duties of
their proper situations ; but observe,
that is not the question. That remark
will apply equally to the lords of the
bedchamber ; for the presumption is,
that they do not interfere with public
duties. But the question is, would it be
considered by the public that a minister
had the confidence of the crown when
the relatives of his immediate political
opponents heldthe highest offices about
the person of the sovereign ? My im-
pression decidedly was, that I should
not appear in that situation to the
country, and upon that impression I
acted. Who were my political oppo-
nents ? Why, of the two I have named,
one, the Marquis of Normanby, was
publicly stated to be a candidate for
the very same office which it was pro-
posed I should fill. The noble lord
has been designated as the leader of
the House of Peers ; I know not why
his talents might not justify his ap-
pointment in case of the retirement of
his predecessor. But this was the
fact ; and I ask yqu to go back to
other times — take Pitt, or Fox, or any
other minister — and answer for your-
selves this question : shall you, enter-
ing on so grave a contest — shall you
be minister — but shall the wife of
your political opponent hold an office
which will place her in immediate
connexion with the sovereign ? I felt
it was impossible that I could contend
successfully with the difficulties that
encircled me, unless I had that proof
of the entire confidence of her Majesty.
As I stated before, I began without
the certainty of commanding a majo-
rity of the House of Commons. I be-
gan, having only to rely upon an
appeal to their good sense, upon
an appeal to their forbearance — to
their political forbearance — for the
hope of support in the present House
of Commons j being perfectly pre-
pared, on the failure of my attempt in
the present House of Commons to go-
vern, to advise her Majesty to resort
to the only alternative which might
present itself to enable me to main-
tiiin my post. But if the agreement,
if the understanding, upon which I was
to enter upon office was, that I should
encounter all those difficulties — that
the ladies of those who preceded me,
of those with whom I Avas to be in
daily conflict, were to be in immediate
contact with the Queen; and, consider-
ing the political character given to the
household, that I was to acquiesce in
that selection — there was something
stronger than personal considerations
which urged me to decline the honour
thus tendered to me. Though tho
public would lose nothing by my aban-
donment— though the public would,
perhaps, lose nothing by my eternal
seclusion from power — yet the public
would lose, and I should be abandon-
ing my duty to myself, to the country,
and, above all, to the Queen, if I con-
sented to hold power, permitting, as
an understanding on my acceptance of
office, that the ladies connected with
my warmest political opponents should
continue to retain household offices.
There was something that told me that
I must not undertake tho office of mi-
nister of this great country on such a
condition. Sir, I have attempted to
give this explanation in as fair and un-
exceptionable a manner as I can ; and
I owe it to truth to state, that inter-
vening reflection has only confirmed
my previous impression."
No man, we are convinced, whatever
may be his political creed, can read tho
address which we have now quoted,
without the highest admiration and
sympathy for the honourable and
high-minded principles of conduct
which it expresses — no man, at least,
in whose breast the poison of envy
does not convert his rising admiration
into rancorous hatred.
The speech of Sir Robert Peel is
all that it ought to be : it contains a
plain statement of facts, and a clear
exposition of his feelings, leaving it
to the minds of his audience to form
their own judgment on his conduct. It
was not for him, in the position in
which he stood, to enter on an argu-
mentative controversy, or to lay down
dogmas of government, or to admi-
The Lute Political Events.
[June,
Bister to his opponents the rebuke
•which they might be thought to de-
serve, for the advice they had given
and the course they had pursued. But
there was a man whose position in
these transactions made it a matter^of
less delicacy to speak his mind with
freedom, and whose age, experience,
and estimation with the country, de-
manded that his opinions should be
fully declared. The Duke of Wel-
lington, the greatest man of his time
and nation, and one of the greatest men
of any time or nation, had been a wit-
ness and a party to these events in their
progress, but so that no suspicion
could exist of the slightest bias in his
noble, and candid, and disinterested
mind, to warp his feelings or throw a
doubt upon his statements. The
speech of that great man on this im-
portant subject, is so full of that wis-
dom and dignity which spring from
high moral principle, that we shall not
impair its effect by mutilation, but
shall embody it entire at the close of
this article, as a lesson of political
truth which cannot be too carefully
preserved, or too frequently consulted
by those to whom national interests
are a subject of concern. A reference
to that valuable document might al-
most enable us to dispense with any ob-
servations of our own on the question
to which it relates. But we are anxious
to discuss that question in all its bear-
ings, convinced that the more it is
examined, the more manifeet will be
the conclusions to which it inevitably
leads.
It is impossible to contemplate the
events which we have above detailed,
without feeling that they are fraught
with the most important consequences,
for good or for evil, to the future des-
tinies of the nation. We shall endea-
vour, with as much calmness and can-
dour as we can command, to follow out
the reflections which they naturally
suggest.
In the outset, it is most satisfactory
to think that in no degree are we even
tempted in this case to deviate from
that devotion and respect towards the
Sovereign, which, in the most trying
circumstances, it is the bounden duty
of all loyal subjects, and more pre-
eminently of the Conservative party,
to maintain undiminished. It is true
that the Queen's voice has been the
immediate instrument which has for a
time prevented the accomplishment of
an object, deeply interesting to our
own hearts, and, as we firmly believe,
essentially interwoven with the pros-
perity of our country. But not only
theoretically are we enabled to transfer
to others the legal responsibility for
that result ; the actual and admitted
facts of the case demonstrate that, in
plain and practical truth, the Mel-
bourne Cabinet are the parties by
whose direct advice and influence the
views adopted by her Majesty were
either originally raised, or, at least,
ultimately insisted in. We have no
reason to believe that, but for their in-
terference, the feelings of the Sove-
reign would have formed any obstacle
to the formation of a new ministry.
Having thus dismissed a question
on which we should with grief and
reluctance have seen any inducement
to adopt a different opinion, we pro-
ceed to consider the question at i^suo
in its relation, 1st, To the conduct
of Sir Robert Peel ; 2d, To the con -
duct of the Melbourne Cabinet ; 3d,
To the prospects of the country and
the Conservative cause.
I. Of the conduct of Sir Robert
Peel we most firmly believe, that in
every mind capable of understanding
the simplest statement of facts, of
weighing the clearest case of evidence,
or of feeling the plainest principles of
honesty or honour, only one opinion
can by possibility be entertained. The
office of Prime Minister of England
has not been sought by that eminent
man through any factious course of
public policy, or any insidious arts of
private intrigue. Cn a great consti-
tutional question he asserted, in the
House of Commons, the privilege of
maintaining against ministers his own
conscientious opinion, and heprevailed
onallbut abare majority of the national
representatives to adopt his views.
The ministry thought proper to con-
sider the result of that discussion as a
decisive proof that they were not pos-
sessed of the confidence of the House
of Commons. They did more — they
acknowledged it as a proof that they
were not possessed of the confidence
of the country. They avoided a re-
sort to the proper and only means
by which the nation might be ap-
pealed to against the determination of
its representatives. They resigned,
and their resignations were accepted :
a proceeding which unequivocally in-
dicated that they were unable longer
18-3'J.]
The Late Political Event*.
723
to conduct the government with ad-
vantage, either to the country or the
crown. It is needless to say that
every such resignation must be assum-
ed to be a necessary step ; and that no
ministry can, without folly or guilt,
resign without necessity the trust
which they have undertaken, more
particularly on a sudden notice, and
in a critical condition of public affairs.
The demise of the Melbourne Cabinet
became in this manner necessary, and
in this manner took place ; when, of
course, it lay with her Majesty to en-
trust the formation of a new cabinet
to such person as she might think
deserving of the confidence due to a
first minister. For whom did she
send — for whom was she advised to
send by Lord Melbourne himself?
For the Duke of Wellington, the
leader of the Conservative party in
the House of Lords. By that illus-
trious person she was advised to send
for Sir Robert Peel, the leader of the
same party in the House of Com-
mons ; and the advice so given was
accepted. Sir Robert Peel was sent
for and intrusted with the task ; a
task at all times important, and at the
.present time peculiarly arduous and
responsible. If Sir Robert Peel was
to accept the trust devolved upon him,
it was his duty, not to his own per-
sonal feelings, but to the country
which he was to govern, to the
CROWN which he was to serve, to
make his ministry as powerful and
efficient as the constitution would
permit him. We have seen enough
of the mischiefs and miseries of weak-
ness and vacillation, to teach us that
what the country wanted was a stable
and steady government ; and no states-
man was bound or entitled (for in this
matter right and obligation go to-
gether) to omit any legitimate pre-
caution to ascertain and to demon-
strate that he was possessed of as much
of the royal confidence, and secure of
as much of the royal support, as would
enable him, without doubt or difficulty
on that head, to make a trial of his
principles and plans.
Let us see, then, what arrangements,
beyond those of the Cabinet itself, a
minister in Sir Robert Peel's situa-
tion would naturally contemplate. At
first sight, it seems to have occurred
to all, that, in reference to the ladies
of the household, every thing would
adjust itself as a matter of course,
and nothing but sad experience could
have convinced us that a difficulty
was possible, such as that which has
arisen. On the one hand, no man
who could ever be supposed worthy
of the situation of minister, would
trouble his head about mere maids of
honour, or think of interfering as to
mere personal friends. On the other
hand, no one of honourable feel-
ings, or with a sense of common de-
cency, could dream that such persons
as Lady Normanby or the Duchess of
Sutherland would either be expected
to remain, or would submit to do- so,
if they were requested. There never
was an instance in which the ques-
tions that could arise as to the house-
hold were likely a priori to create so
little dispute. One part of the case
was so clear, and the other so trivial,
that nothing but the most perverse in-
genuity, or the most desperate intrigue,
could excite the slightest difference of
opinion on the subject.
Take the instance of Lady Nor-
manby as a test of the principle : will
any human being on the outer side of
a lunatic asylum pretend to entertain a
doubt that SirRobert Peel's expectation
of her removal was not only reasonable
and just, but that a permission for
her to remain under his administra-
tion would have been an act either of
the merest folly or the basest mean-
ness? The wife of the ex- Colonial
Secretary, whose Jamaica scheme had
been the occasion of the change ! — the
wife of the ex- ex- Lord Lieutenant of
Ireland, whose government had been
the object of an alleged attack but a
fortnight before, and was still the sub-
ject of a searching scrutiny ! — the wife
of a rival aspirant to the very office
of prime minister ! — this lady to seek
or to consent to remain a real or sus-
pected spy on the proceedings of a
hostile administration, was scarcely
credible ; but if such want of delicacy,
such utter degradation on her part,
or rather, let us say in justice to her,
on the part of her husband, was a pos-
sible thing, it was an additional rea-
son why it should not be suffered to
take place. Almost the same thing-
may be said of the sisters of Lord
Morpeth. The very idea of such
ladies continuing about court, not
as friends or visitors, but as official
persons, in privileged, and indeed
compulsory attendance on the Queen's
person, was utterly absurd, and essen-
724
The Late Political Events.
[Juno,
tially incompatible with the formation
of a ministry formed on the very dis-
placement of the political party to
whom those ladies were so closely al-
lied, and by whom, be it observed, they
had been appointed to their situations.
Can any man say that Sir Robert
Peel was not entitled to expect that
those ladies would cease to hold office
if he was to be prime minister? He
was entitled to expect it as a test of
confidence ; he was entitled to de-
mand it as a source of strength. It
was not, perhaps, necessary that the
Queen should confide at all in Sir
Robert Peel. It was not, perhaps,
necessary that she should call in the
aid of the Conservative party. But
it was impossible, if she had not been
badly and basely advised,that she should
confide in him to the effect of making
him her minister, without confiding in
him to the full extent which that charac-
ter reasonably required ; it was im-
possible that she should continue to
appeal to the Conservative party to
form a government, unless she was
resolved to give them fair play against
their self-displaced opponents. The
continuance of such appointments in
the household was a manifest contra-
diction to the course which her Ma-
jesty was, by Lord Melbourne's ad-
vice, pursuing at the time. If Ladies
Normanby, Sutherland, and Burling-
ton, were, at all hazards, to remain about
court, no new minister ought to have
been selected, to whom their continu-
ance would be reasonably objection-
able. If a person of Sir Robert Peel's
party, and in his position, was to be
chosen as minister, the removal of
those ladies was implied as a sine qua
non,
The proposition that we have, now
been maintaining is so self-evident,
that any direct contradiction to it has
scarcely been hazarded by the minis-
terial party iu the late discussion.
The proposition must be considered
on abstract principles, and as invol-
ving a general rule. It cannot be de-
cided in one way for a Whig admi-
nistration, and in another for a Tory
one. It cannot be one thing at one
time, and another thing at another. It
involves two questions, — one of fact,
and another of principle, both of them,
luckily, of very easy decision. 1st, Is
it possible, in point of fact, that the
character of the female officials in at-
tendance on the person of a Queen-
regnant, may become a source of weak-
ness and embarrassment to the admi-
nistration intrusted with the govern-
ment of the country ? 2d, If so, is a
minister entitled to expect, and entitled
to decline office if he does not receive,
that degree of control over the house-
hold which will remove the sources of
weakness and embarrassment thence
arising? We believe there is no one
so blind as not to see that the first of
these questions must be answered in
the affirmative ; and if this be done,
the same must follow by necessary in-
ference as to the second. We believe
we might go further, and say that
every minister is responsible for the
whole officers that he either appoints
or allows to remain about the sove-
reign's court. We cannot entertain
a doubt that the minister who would
either place or permit improper per-
sons to remain about the Queen-reg-
nant, especially when that Queen is
young and inexperienced, would be
directly responsible for his conduct. It
is not necessary to argue the case here
on that footing ; but the supposition
brings out the principle, and the exist-
ence of a responsibility, in any such
cases, implies a right of control in all.
Let it not be supposed that we are
in the slightest degree disputing the
power of the Queen to nominate her
ministers. So far from doing so, we
admit it in- its fullest extent, and place
our argument on that very basis. It
is perfectly in the Sovereign's power
to give or withhold her confidence as
she pleases. She may appoint to
office whatever minister she prefers,
and may, if so advised, make the ap-
pointment depend on the voices or
views of her female attendants, or on
any other criterion that is most agree-
able to her. It lies, indeed, with the peo-
ple to say whether they will ratify tho
choice ; and between the Sovereign's
prerogative to appoint on the one
hand, and the subject's privilege to dis-
approve on the other, the question will
adjust itself in the most advantageous
and satisfactory manner. Butwhatwe
contend for is this principle, that tho
Sovereign, if she does determine lo
appoint an individual as minister, must
give him all the powers which are ne-
cessary for his acting without embar-
rassment or disadvantage, in so far as
her court is concerned. If she is to
repose confidence, she must not do it
by halves, but must be prepared to
1839.]
The Late Political Events.
7-25
follow it out to the full and legitimate
extent to which, in reason and fairness,
it can be urged, If that confidence is
not to be fully given, it ought not be
offered at all.
The truth of this principle is, in-
deed, so manifest to common sense,
that the Whig party have found it
wholly impossible to confine their de-
fence to such untenable ground as its di-
rect and downright denial. They have
tried to rouse the country to take their
part upon a totally different footing1 —
on the allegation that Sir Robert Peel
insisted that the whole ladies of the
household should be removed. It is
true that this defence of the nainis-
terial advice has been, in appearance,
relinquished by the ministerial lead-
ers, and admitted to rest on an erro-
neous impression ; but it is not yet
abandoned by the main body of their
underlings or followers, and it be-
comes necessary for us, therefore, not
to accept as a concession, but to demon-
strate as a proved fact, that it is, and
over was, wholly false and groundless.
The grave allegation to which we
refer, rests exclusively on the autho-
rity of the Melbourne Cabinet. It is
contradicted or rendered incredible by
the following important articles of evi-
dence : —
1 . It is contradicted by the express
declaration of Sir Robert Pee], that
he never contemplated any sweeping
change in the female part of the house-
hold, or any other control over it, than
such as might relieve him from the
embarrassment and humiliation of re-
taining about the Queen the imme-
diate connexions of the ex-ministers.
Sir R. Peel's declaration of his inten-
tion in this respect, is confirmed by the
concurrence of every one of his poli-
tical friends to whom it was commu-
nicated.
2. It is contradicted by the whole
probabilities of the case. It is most un-
likely that any minister, in the infancy
of his power, and even while it was
scarcely in embryo, would run coun-
ter to his sovereign's wishes, by mak-
ing a demand so sweeping, so un-
usual, and so unnecessary. It is im-
possible, indeed, that her Majesty
could ever have entertained an impres-
sion of that nature, unless she had
been induced to adopt it, both by the
strongest present persuasions and the
grossest previous calumnies against
the Conservative leaders on the part
of those about her.
3. It is contradicted by the whole
conduct of the parties. A demand by
Sir R. Peel of the nature alleged,
would have been harsh and extreme,
according to any view of the question.
According to the Whig view, accord-
ing to the tone of all their organs and
dependents, it would have been insult-
ing and despotic. If such an insulting
and despotic demand had been made,
what would have been, what perhaps
ought to have been, the ans\ver ?
" The proposition thus insisted in is so
unwarrantable and unbecoming, as to
make it impossible for her Majesty to
hold further communication with the
individual who made it." But this is
not done. The proposition, whatever
it was, was so far entertained as to be-
come thesubjectof consultation and de-
liberation with the Cabinet; and an an-
swer was returned by the Queen, upon
advice given to her, not breaking off
the negotiation, but merely adhering
to her own view, and leaving Sir Ro-
bert Peel to proceed with the task
committed to him, if he chose to do so,
under the restraint so imposed.
Further, if Sir Robert Peel had made
an excessive demand, but was still to
be intrusted with the formation of a
ministry, the proper answer to be re-
turned to him was, not an absolute re-
fusal of all that he was supposed to
have asked, but a refusal only of that
part of it which was inadmissible, and
a concession of the remainder. It
should have been said : — " You have
asked the dismissal of the whole house-
hold ; that is unreasonable, and will
not be granted. But, if you are to be
minister, you are entitled to the re-
moval of the late ministers' near re-
latives ; that is reasonable, and you
shall have it." This was not done; and
therefore it must be held that no part
even of Sir Robert Peel's alleged de-
mand, or supposed demand, was deem-
ed admissible. The objection was not
to the extent of the demand, but to any
demand whatever that touched the
female part of the household, even in
its most obviously objectionable parts.
But, finally, the question of fact
now at issue, is set at rest by the written
evidence on the subject. On the one
hand, the letter of the Queen, though
worded by her advisers in vague and
somewhat general terms, is a complete
proof that Sir Robert Peel's proposal
was not understood to go beyond the
ladies of the bcdcli'tmlier. On the
uther hand, the letter of Sir Robert
726 The Late Political Events.
Peel to the Queen, on resigning his Peel have done ?
commission, professes to contain a
precise account of the negotiations
that had passed, and the points on
which the treaty had been broken off.
It places the matter of the household
appointments on this explicit footing
—that, while Sir Robert Peel required
merely the removal of SOME of the
ladies, the Queen was advised to re-
tain them ALL. Nothing can be more
clear than this explanation of the point
of difference given in that letter — no-
thing was more important than this
part of the statement as affecting the
relative position of the parties. No-
thing could more imperatively call for
contradiction if it was untrue — nothing
could be more conclusive if it remained
uncontradicted. It isone of the plainest
principles of evidence, that with refe-
rence to oral communications, to which
there are no witnesses, the record of
what has passed, stated in correspond-
ence by one party, and uncontroverted
by the other, must be held as, in all ma-
terial points, fixing the facts. It is
needless to add, that even if there had
been a previous misapprehension, this
statement by Sir Robert Peel must be
held to have cleared it up, and to have
placed the question on its true basis.
According, then, both to the real and
the written evidence on the subject,
the question in dispute was, whether,
in respect to a household consisting
partly of the nominees and near rela-
tives of the retiring ministry, it was
right and reasonable in Sir Robert
Peel to expect that, when he was called
to the administration, SOME of the
ladies in office should be removed ; and
whether he was justified in declining
to proceed further in his task when the
Queen was advised to declare that she
would not partwith ANYONE OF THEM.
When the question is thus fairly
stated, its merits are so self-evident,
that it would be an insult to common
sense to discuss it further. The con-
duct of Sir Robert Peel was that
which every honourable, wise, and
prudent man would have adopted in
the same circumstances. It is so per-
fectly and palpably right, and the con-
trary would have been so manifestly
wrong, that we think he would be
scarcely entitled to any praise for what
he did, if in these days the simple and
straightforward discharge of a plain
duty in public life did not deserve eu-
logium from its very rarity.
What else, indeed, should Sir Robert
[June,
The Radicals have
suggested one course, and the Whigs
another. A leading organ of the inde-
pendent Radical party has hinted that
heshouldhavepostponedhisdemandas
to the household until he had secured
a large majority in the House of Com-
mons. Lord John Russell has said,
that whatever embarrassment the de-
nial of his proposition might occasion
to Sir Robert Peel's government, he
ought to have submitted to that evil,
and have trusted to the ultimate gene-
rosity of the Queen.
Tory truth and principle are as
different things as possible from either
Radical trickery or Whig truckling.
Whatever Sir Robert Peel was at any
time to demand on this point, he was
bound to demand at first : whatever
he had a right to expect from the
Queen's justice in support of her new
administration, he was not entitled to
leave to her generosity. He deserves,
therefore, and he will receive from all
upright, independent, and intelligent
men, the approbation that is due to
one who has honestly adhered to a
public duty, where other men would
have betrayed it : who has maintained
the interests of the empire, and the
honour of himself and his party, at the
sacrifice of immediate power, and at
the hazard of even offending his Sove-
reign. By no one, however, we be-
lieve, will his conduct be so fully ap-
preciated as by that Sovereign herself,
when a little time and reflection shall
have broken the spell that evil influ-
ences have, for awhile, cast around her.
II. The same case that fully vindi-
cates Sir Robert Peel, contains the
heavy condemnation of the Melbourne
Cabinet. Let us only point out some
special considerations that affect the
proceedings which it has adopted.
1. After declaring itself defunct,
and professing to make way for the
appointment of a new ministry on
whom the government of the country
was to devolve in a peculiar and dif-
ficult crisis, the Melbourne Cabinet
interposed an insurmountable obstacle
to the very arrangements which they
had rendered necessary, by advising
her Majesty to insist in an unreason-
able demand, and to retain about her
person individuals whose continuance
in office was incompatible with either
the reality or the appearance of that
confidence, without which no minister
ought to receive or to accept of office.
2. The Melbourne Ministers stand
2/ie L.ate
in the peculiarly delicate and novel
situation of having tendered an advice
to the Crown to this effect, that while
they were themselves to retire, their
own wives and sisters were to retain
place and pay, and were to continue
as channels of intrigue, calculated from
the beginning to embarrass, and in the
end to supplant, the administration to
which, in the mean-time, they were
forced to give way.
3. The leaders of the Melbourne
party have been guilty of no ordi-
nary culpability in endeavouring to
fasten upon Sir Robert Peel a charge
of usurpation and injustice, which
they have now indeed been forced to
acknowledge as groundless, but of
which the true nature was as apparent
after the receipt of Sir Robert Peel's
letter to the Queen, as after the expla-
nation which he gave in Parliament.
The Duke of Wellington has well
said that they ought at the first to
have ascertained the facts as to which
they were to advise before they gave
their advice. It was plainly, indeed,
their duty to the Queen and the coun-
try to see in writing what Sir Robert
Peel's demand truly was, before they
recommended its rejection. At all
events, the letter of Sir Robert Peel
ought to have undeceived them, and
to have prevented all the misrepresen-
tation in which they afterwards chose
to indulge. But as on the receipt of
that letter they gave no sign of sur-
prise, and advised no statement in
answer, the presumption is, that from
the very first they knew the precise
state of the fact as there set forth.
The proceedings of the Hon. Wil-
liam Cowper are an apt illustration
of the course which the Whigs have
pursued. That gentleman, the nephew
and private secretary of Lord Mel-
bourne, having vacated his seat for
Hertford by accepting the office of
Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital,
offered himself again to his constitu-
ents in an address dated on Monday
the 13th May, containing the follow-
ing choice morsel of rhetorical arti-
fice : —
" Every dictate of feeling and ho-
nour, of loyalty and justice, impel me
at all hazards to support our Queen
in her noble resistance to the cruel
attempt so unworthily made to wrest
from her Majesty a prerogative hither-
to unquestioned; and to usurp the
power of dismissing, at the minister's
will, those ladies of her court, whom,
Events,
7*7
from their sympathy and devotion, and
from long acquaintance, her Majesty
could look upon as friends."
On what grounds, we ask, was this
violent attack made upon Sir Robert
Peel, the party principally implicated
in these proceedings? In the position
in which Mr Cowper stood, we cannot
suppose that he had not information
from Lord Melbourne as to the facts ;
and either his information must have
been false, or Mr Cowper must have
known of Sir Robert Peel's letter of
Friday, in which the same explanation
of his views is given as that which he
verbally submitted to Parliament. If
Mr Cowper knew of that letter, his
opinion of the transactions that passed
could not afterwards be materially
changed. But let us hear how he ex-
presses himself, after he has heard in
debate the same statements which he
must have previously seen in writing,
•when he denounced the conduct of the
Tory leaderin the termswehave quoted.
On Wednesday the 15th May he again
addresses his constituents, informing
them of the favourable progress of his
canvass, and thus expresses himself as
to the events of which he had previ-
ously spoken : —
" The explanations which have
taken place in Parliament since my first
address, andtvhich certainly remove ALL
grounds for ascribing ANY BUT PROPER
AND LOYAL MOTIVES to the leaders of the
Tory party in their late negotiations,
assure us of the re- establishment of the
Whig Administration, whose career
of sound and practical reform, if duly
supported by the people of this coun-
try, •will not suffer from this momen-
tary interruption " ! ! ! The logic of
this precious paragraph is quite
unique ; it runs in substance thus :— .
" The disclosures which have been
made, and which prove that the lead-
ers of the Tory party have been gross-
ly calumniated, will have naturally
prepared you for the official restora-
tion of their calumniators, who are
thus happily re-established on the
strength of their own detected calum-
nies." A consummation more con-
sistent with reason or justice cannot
well be conceived. We know not to
what considerations of prudence or
compulsion we owe this change of
tone ; but it affords a pretty satisfac-
tory answer to the outcry of the Whig
press. Most people, however, we be-
lieve, will be of opinion, that the base-
ness of the original attack is only
7-23
equalled by the abjectriess of the re-
cantation.
Notwithstanding, however, the ex-
planations that have been given, and
the direct and authoritative admissions
which have been made, that those ex-
planations have removed all ground
for impeaching the honour and loyalty
of Sir Robert Peel and his friends—of
this we are firmly assured, and daily
experience corroborates our opinion,
that the same system of falsehood
which was at first adopted by the
Whig party against their opponents as
to these transactions, will continue,
according to custom, to be pursued to
the last, and that the calumny will
only be the more vehemently reitera-
ted, the more thoroughly it is refuted.
4. The Melbourne Cabinet present
the dignified and decorous appearance
of a ministry first resigning office from
their not possessing the confidence of
the Commons and the country, and
now resuming office in a week's time,
without one circumstance having oc-
curred to alter their position in that
particular, or afford them a pros-
pect of carrying their measures in
the least degree more encouraging
than before. They are in office, by
their own confession, without the con-
fidence of the House of Lords, with-
out the confidence of the House of
Commons, without the confidence of
the nation at large. The confidence
of the Queen they can be said to pos-
sess in no other sense than in so far as
they have advised and persuaded her
Majesty to prefer the attendance of
their own female relatives to the for-
mation of a ministry able and willing
to assume the government, and af-
fording the only refuge from the im-
becilities and vacillations to which we
have hitherto been subjected. This
is indeed a proud position for any
party : it is peculiarly honourable for
one which professes its pre-eminent
attachment to popular and indepen-
dent principles.
But the position of the Ministry is
not merely despicable — it is ridicu-
lous. Never was 'the hacknied quo-
tation more laughably realized —
" The times have been
That, when the brains were out, the man
would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools.'1
It may be thought, indeed, that the
bruins of this ministry were out long
The Late Political Events. [June,
ago ; but here the breath as well as
the brains had departed, and yet, lo
and behold ! we have a wretched re-
surrection of the same dry and mar-
rowless bones that, but a week before,
we saw consigned to the grave that
had long been yawning to receive
them.
"Still round and round the ghosts of office
glide,
And haunt the places where their honour
died."
If, indeed, which is possible, the whole
affair was a trick, we can remember
no apter type of their conduct than
the experiment of the old gentleman,
who put his death into the newspapers
to see whether he would be generally
lamented. The result of the contrivance
in that case, we believe, was pretty
much the same with what the Whigs
experienced in the state of public feel-
ing during the few days in which they
were believed to be bonafide extinct.
But, ridiculous as the present posi-
tion of the Whig administration is, it
is singular to find Lord Melbourne so
insensible to the true nature of the
case against him, that, while professing
the most philosophical indifference to
those accusations to which he is most
obnoxious, he directs his whole efforts
to the refutation of a charge by which
he never has been, and never will be
assailed, that of " running away from
his post," to which, on the contrary,
the public admits that he has always
adhered with the most determined
tenacity, and to which, after a mo-
mentary and reluctant separation, ho
has since with such alacrity returned.
It is possible, however, and we say
this seriously, that an explanation of
Lord Melbourne's conduct may exist,
less unworthy of one who has been so
highly honoured by his Sovereign's
confidence, and has been permitted by
his country to hold the office of fii>t
Minister of the Crown . It is conceiva-
ble that, with all his faults, Lord Mel-
bourne, who is admitted to have recom-
mended the Conservative party as his
successors — from his conviction, we
presume, that in no other hands could
the destinies of Great Britain be saft1,
— has consented to resume office for
a time, in order to shield the country
from the curse of a Normanby or a
Durham administration.
III. With regard to the effect of all
these proceedings upon the fate of the
country and the success of the Conser-
vative party, we do not entertain the
1839.]
The L(tt<: Political Events.
729
shadow of a doubt. We arc not of those
•who think that they will tend to shake
the authority of the Crown. The people
of Great Britain will retain as firmly
as ever their devotion to the throne,
and their respect and attachment to
its present occupant. But they will
more than ever hate and despise the
evil advisers who have hazarded the
welfare of the nation by a pitiful in-
trigue about the retention in place of
a few bedchamber women, the mem-
bers of their own immediate fami-
lies. The Whigs have, indeed, con-
trived by this last affair to do what
could scarcely have been thought pos-
sible— to sink themselves in universal
estimation still lower than they were
before.
If the Conservative party was not
otherwise in a condition to govern
the country, it is as well that it
should be prevented by this impedi-
ment from assuming office, as that it
should have been expelled from power
after once attaining it. The disap-
pointment it has sustained, is less of a
disgrace and less of a defeat. If the
country is not yet tired of change and
agitation ; if its eyes are not yet
opened to the delusions of Whig liber-
ality ; if it is still content with theo-
retical sciolists and practical blunder-
ers, the Conservative party have no
right to expect, and we have no de-
sire that they should obtain, office. But
if thetimefor them is atlastcome ; if the
great mass of the people are disgusted
with the present state of things, where
no one is safe and no one is satisfied
— where the advocates of Reform find
none of the benefits of reformation,
and the lovers of stability feel all the
mischiefs of revolution ; if the de-
liberate and decided preference of
an able and honest Administration
to the present rotten and rickety
Cabinet has become a prevailing feel-
ing, then the success of the Conserva-
tive party is but postponed for a
moment, and its late difficulties will
only the more ensure and confirm its
ultimate triumph and ascendency.
The date of that desirable consumma-
tion is, we firmly believe, not far dis-
tant ; but, at all events, the great
leaders of our party have for us and
themselves maintained the high moral
and constitutional position which -be-
comes us, and which is all the more
conspicuous from the abject degrada-
tion of our opponents.
The Duke of Wellington spoke as
follows : — " In addressing you, my
Lords, on the present occasion, I shall
endeavour to imitate the moderation
of a part of what the noble viscount
has said ; and, in doing so, I think
tli at I shall pursue the course which is
most becoming to my own situation,
most suitable to the subject I have to
discuss, and most agreeable to the
feelings of your Lordships ; and, my
Lords, in order that I may sustain the
same tone of moderation with which I
commence, I will take the liberty of
laying out of the question those re-
ports to which the noble viscount has
referred, and which, in my opinion,
have nothing to do with the subject
now before your Lordships. Prob-
ably, if I were inclined to enter into a
discussion of those reports, I could
find a little to say upon them likewise ;
and, in referring to them, I might be
induced, as the noble viscount has
been induced, to depart from that tone
of moderation to which it is my firm
intention to adhere throughout the
whole of the address which I am now
about to make to your Lordships, I
must however say, that I have one
advantage over the noble viscount in
respect to reports. I have served the
sovereigns and the public of this coun-
try for fifty years, and throughout the
whole of that period I have been ex-
posed to evil report and to good re-
port, and I have still continued to
serve on through all report, both good
and evil, and thus I confess myself to
be completely indifferent to the nature
of reports. It does, however, sur-
prise me to find that, in the course of
the last few days, I have been traduced
as having ill-treated my most graci-
ous Sovereign — I, who was about to
enter into her service, and to be re-
sponsible for her government — for no
other reason that I know of, save that
I was going at my time of life to take
upon myself the trouble of sharing in
the government. Having been so
treated all my life, I have gained the
advantage of being able to preserve
my temper under it, and this advan-
tage I have over the noble viscount,
who seems strangely sensitive about
certain reports circulated respecting
him; with as little foundation as the
The Lute Political Events.
[June,
reports about myself, which I have
just mentioned to your Lordships.
The noble viscount commenced the
observations which he addressed to
your Lordships, by stating that he ex-
pected that I should have commenced
the discussion of these subjects, and
not himself. I am much obliged to
the noble viscount for the compliment
he thus offered me ,• but, unless a
question had been put to me pointed-
ly, I do not know that I should have
had any occasion to give any explana-
tion respecting them. I certainly
should not have thought it necessary to
give any explanation to-day, had I not
been called upon by what has just
been stated by the noble viscount ;
for I have heard that a most full, a
most distinct, and a most satisfactory
explanation of these transactions, was
given by my right honourable friend
the member for Tamworth last night
in another place. However, my Lords,
I admit that you have reason to ex-
pect, when a member of your body
has been engaged in such negotiations
as these, that he should explain to you
what has passed, especially when he is
called upon to explain by one of his
brother peers. My Lords, it is per-
fectly well known that I have long
entertained the opinion that the Prime
Minister of this country, under exist-
ing circumstances, ought to have a seat
in the other house of Parliament, and
that he would have great advantages
in carrying on the business of the So-
vereign by being there. Entertaining
such an opinion, it was only to be ex-
pected that I, who on a former occa-
sion had acted upon it, should, if again
called upon by my Sovereign, recom-
mend her to select a member of the
House of Commons to conduct the af-
fairs of her government. When the
noble viscount announced in this
House on Tuesday last that he had re-
signed his office, the probable conse-
quences of that annunciation occurred
to my mind, and I turned my atten-
tion in consequence to the state of the
government at the present moment —
to the state of the royal authority —
to the composition of the royal house-
hold— and to all those circumstances
which were likely to come under my
consideration, in case I were called
upon to assist in advising the compo-
sition of another administration. I
confess that it appeared to me impos-
sible that any set of men should take
charge of her Majesty's government
without having the usual influence and
control over the establishment of the
royal household — that influence and
control which their immediate prede-
cessors in office had exercised before
them. As the royal household was
formed by their predecessors in office,
the possession of that influence and
that control over it appears to me to
be especially necessary, to let the pub-
lic see that the Ministers who were
about to enter upon office had, and pos-
sessed, the entire confidence of her
Majesty. I considered well the na-
ture of the formation of the royal
household under the Civil List Act
passed at the commencement of her
Majesty's reign. I considered well
the difference between the house-
hold of a Queen-consort, and the house-
hold of a Queen-regnant. The Queen-
consort not being a political person
in the same light as a Queen-regnant,
I considered the construction of her
Majesty's household — I considered
who filled offices in it — I considered
all the circumstances attendant upon
the influence of the household, and
the degree of confidence which it
might be necessary for the govern-
ment to repose in the members of it.
I was sensible of the serious and anxi-
ous nature of the charge which the
minister in possession of that control
and influence over her Majesty'shouse-
hold would have laid upon him. I was
sensible that in every thing which he
did, and that in every step which he
took as to the household, he ought to
consult not only the honour of her
Majesty's crown, and her royal state
and dignity, but also her social condi-
tion, her ease, her convenience, her
comfort — in short, every thing which
tended to the solace and happiness of
her life. I reflected on all these con-
siderations as particularly incumbent
on the ministers who should take
charge of the affairs of this country.
I reflected on the age, the sex, the
situation, and the comparative inex-
perience of the Sovereign on the
throne ; and I must say that, if I had
been, or if I was to be, the first person
to be consulted with respect to the
exercise of the influence and control
in question, I would suffer any incon-
venience whatever rather than take
any step as to the royal household
which was not compatible with her
Majesty's comforts. There was an-
other subject which I took into con-
§ideration— I mean the possibility of
1833.]
The Late Political Events.
731
making any conditions or stipulations
in respect to the exercise of this in-
fluence and control over the house-
hold. It appeared to me that the
person about to undertake the direc-
tion of tho affairs of this country, who
should make such stipulations or con-
ditions, would do neither more nor less
than this — stipulate that he would not
perform his duty, that he would not
advise the Crown in a case in which
he thought it his duty to advise the
Crown, in order that he might obtain
place. I thought that no man could
make such a stipulation, and consider
himself worthy of her Majesty's confi-
dence, or entitled to conduct the affairs
of the country. I thought it impossible
that such a stipulation should be made.
Nor did I think it possible that the
Sovereign could propose such a stipu-
lation or condition to any one whom
her Majesty considered worthy of her
confidence. First of all, the Sovereign
making or proposing such a stipula-
tion, must suppose that her minister
was unworthy of the confidence of the
Crown ; but suppose him to be worthy
of confidence, and to break off all com-
munication in consequence of the pro-
posal of such stipulations, why I really
thought that the Sovereign would be
placed in a very disagreeable and
awkward position — a position into
which, I am thoroughly convinced
from what I have seen of the Sove-
reign now on the throne, she never
•will be thrown. With respect, my
Lords, to the share I took in these
negotiations, I have to state to your
Lordships that I waited by command
on her Majesty on Wednesday last.
I am not authorized to state what
passed in conversation between her
Majesty and me upon that occasion,
not having felt it necessary to request
her Majesty's permission to do so.
What I will state to your Lordships
is this — that nothing there passed in-
consistent with the opinions and prin-
ciples which I have just explained,
either with respect to myself person-
ally, and my own conduct as to the
formation of the government, or with
respect to the principles on which the
patronage of the household should be
managed, and its conduct, control,
and influence, supposing her Majesty
should think proper to intrust me
with the administration of affairs.
Her Majesty acted on the advice
which I humbly tendered to her, and
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXIV.
sent for a right honourable baronet,
a friend of mine, in another place. In
proposing to her Majesty to send for
Sir Robert Peel, I ventured to assure
her Majesty that I was perfectly ready
to serve her, in office or out of office :
I preferred serving her out of office.
I was willing to undertake to conduct
the affairs of the government in this
House not in office ; but, if her Ma-
jesty and her ministers preferred it, I
was ready to conduct the duties of any
office ; to do, in short, whatever would
be most convenient to her Majesty
and to her ministers, being disposed
to lend all my assistance in every pos-
sible way to serve her Majesty, in
whatever manner it might be thought
most desirable that I should do so.
After I had this interview, my right
honourable friend also waited by com-
mand upon her Majesty. He cer-
tainly did consult me, and take the
opinion of others, as has been stated,
on the important point of the con-
struction of her Majesty's household.
I may add, my lords, that all who were
present upon that occasion, my noble
and learned friend behind (Lord Lynd-
hurst), and several others, gave an
opinion exactly in conformity to what
my right honourable friend has stated
in his letter ; and he waited upon her
Majesty the following day, with the
view of submitting such propositions
as he should think proper, according
to what he had stated to his intended
colleagues. In the course of the con-
versation which Sir Robert Peel had
with her Majesty on Thursday, a dif-
ference of opinion arose with respect
to the ladies of the household. My
right honourable friend, I believe, sug-
gested that I should be sent for, in
order that her Majesty might have my
opinion on the subject. The right
honourable baronet came up to my
house and informed me of what had
occurred ; the discussion which had
taken place on the subject, and what
he had proposed, entirely in confor-
mity with the principles which I have
stated to your lordships. I returned
with him to Buckingham Palace, and
after a short time I was introduced to
her Majesty's presence. It is not ne-
cessary, and indeed I have not per-
mission, to go into the details of the
conversation which passed between
her Majesty and me on that occasion.
All that I shall say on the subject is,
that nothing passed on my part incon-
3 A*
73-2
The Late Political Events.
sistent with the principles I have al-
ready laid down, which I maintain are
the correct principles to govern a case
like the present, and most particularly
that part of the subject which related to
the administration of the influence and
control of the royal household, suppos-
ing her Majesty should think proper to
call me to her government. My right
honourable friend has stated correctly
that part of the conversation which re-
lated to the interpretation and decision
to which her Majesty had come, —
« that the whole should continue as
at present, without any change.' This
was her Majesty's determination ; and
accordingly I did, as stated in the pa-
per, immediately communicate to Sir
Robert Peel, who was in the next
room, the decision of her Majesty to
that effect. I do not know, my Lords,
that it is necessary for me to go any
further into this matter: we after-
wards had a communication with other
noble lords and right honourable gen-
tlemen, and we founditimpossibleforus
to undertake the conduct of her Majes-
ty's government unless this point was
set right. The noble viscount has
stated that he gave her Majesty advice
upon the subject — to write a letter on
a statement which he admits was er-
roneous. I don't mean to draw any
conclusion from this, except that pos-
sibly it might have been better if the
noble viscount had taken some means
to ascertain what the right statement
was, before he gave the advice. Whe-
ther the statement was erroneous or
not, the noble viscount had a right, if
he chose, to act on the principle that
our advice was erroneous ; that our
demands were such that they ought not
to have been made 5 but it will be well
for noble lords not to be in so great a
hurry in future as to give their opinion
and advice upon such important mat-
ters, without assuring themselves that
they have a really correct statement
before them. My Lords, I cannot but
think that the principles on which we
proposed to act with respect to the
ladies of the bedchamber, in the case
of a Queen-regnant, were the correct
[June,
principles. The public will not be-
lieve that the Queen holds no political
conversations with these ladies, and
that political influence is not exercised
by them, particularly considering who
they are who fill such offices. I be-
lieve the history of this country affords
a number of instances in which secret
and improper influence has been ex-
ercised by means of similar conversa-
tions. I have, my Lords, a somewhat
strong opinion on this subject. I have
unworthily filled the office which the
noble viscount now sr .vorthily holds ;
and I must say, I b . d felt the incon-
venience of an ai. malous influence,
not exercised, perhaps, by ladies, but
anomalous influence, undoubtedly, of
this description, and exerted simply in
conversations ; and I will tell the noble
viscount, that the country is at this
moment suffering some inconvenience
from the exercise of that very secret
influence. My Lords, I believe I have
gone further into principles upon this
subject than may, perhaps, suit the
taste of the noble viscount; but this I
must say, that at the same time we
claimed the control of the royal
household, and would not have pro-
posed to her Majesty to make any
arrangements which would have been
disagreeable to her, I felt it was ab-
solutely impossible for me, under the
circumstances of the present moment,
to undertake any share of the govern-
ment of the country without that proof
of her Majesty's confidence. And
now, my Lords, in concluding this sub-
ject, I hope with a little more modera-
tion than the noble viscount, I have
only to add the expression of my gra-
titude to her Majesty for the gracious
condescendence and consideration with
which she was pleased to listen to the
counsel which it was my duty to offer ;
and I must say, I quitted her presence
not only impressed with the feeling of
gratitude for her condescendence and
consideration, but likewise with deep
respect for the frankness, the intelli-
gence, the decision, and firmness,
which characterised her Majesty's de-
meanour throughoutthe proceedings."
1881).
My First Client.
733
MY FIRST CLIENT.
IT is a very remarkable fact in natu-
ral history, that when a married couple
have collected about them a family of
children, and begin to think it time
that such of those children as are boys
should acquire some means of provid-
ing themselves with future food and
raiment, they almost invariably put
them to professions or to business,
without any regard whatever to the
fitness of the little individuals, either
in mind, in manner, or in education,
to the occupations to which it is their
fate to be put, and by which they are to
provide for themselves, and those de-
pendant upon them, through life ; and
perhaps it is an equally remarkable
fact in natural history, that so per-
verse is human nature, that if a lad
had the luck to be apprenticed to an
angel, he would, as he grew up, think
(and perhaps correctly too) that it was
a business for which he had no pen-
chant, and for which his peculiar
genius was not in anywise adapted.
I will not stay to investigate this
matter, but proceed to the tale of my
first client ; first explaining to the
reader how it happened that I came
to be in the way of having a client at
all.
I was one of the younger scions of
a somewhat numerous family, and
very early in life both my worthy
parents imbibed an idea that it was a
duty which they, in an especial man-
ner, owed to me, to impress upon my
mind, on each and every occasion, the
positive necessity that existed for my
concluding upon a business by which
I could earn my future bread.
Solemnly and seriously did my fa-
ther, twice every week, tell me to keep
my eyes open, and if I saw any busi-
ness of which I approved to make him
acquainted with the important dis-
covery ; and solemnly and seriously
did my worthy mother, on each of
those occasions, give me an admoni-
tion to choose a healthy business, and
a money-making business, and a clean
business, and a gentlemanly business,
and I know not what all besides— but
such a sing-song as I suppose has
been rung in the ears of every young
brat by his anxious mother, from the
time when children first began to learn
a business to the present time.
My father and mother commenced
the forcing operation upon me when
I was about six years old, and carried
it on until I made two or three attempts
to choose a business for myself, in
pursuance of their advice ; but I was
so unfortunate in my choice, that the
matter was taken up by those who
thought themselves more competent
than I showed myself to be to decide
in so momentous an affair.
But, anxious as were my father and
mother that I should be satisfied with
the business by which I was to obtain
my living, and desirous as they were
that I should make the choice myself ;
yet, like many other good and simple-
minded people in similar circumstan-
ces, they never once thought of giving
me any instructions in the choice of a
business, or any directions for obtain-
ing any knowledge or insight into the
mode of carrying it on — its requisite
capital — its probable profits — its
agremens or Ais-agremens — and the
thousand other things which give, in
the minds of growing men and men of
information, a preference of one busi-
ness over another. No ; I was put in
my first breeches, and with them J, as a
matter of course, put on all the know-
ledge necessary to enable me to form
a sound and rational judgment.
I had received something like two
hundred admonitions from my father
to make choice of a business, and had
been asked, I know not how many
times, by my most anxious mother,
whether I had yet concluded upon any-
thing ; in other words, I was arrived
at something like the sapient age of
eight or nine years old, when the
usual question being asked by my
mother, whether I had yet concluded
on any thing, I determined to end the
matter by making a choice at once.
My mother, in her schemes of eco-
nomy for the management of a large
family, frequently employed a Miss
Jones to carry on the mystery of man-
tua-inuking in our house, thus making
the new, and furbishing up the old
734
My First Client.
[June,
dresses of my mother and sisters at
something like half-cost ; and during
her sojourn in the house, the younger
branches of the family, of whom I was
one, had a sort of saturnalia — revelling
in all the luxury of dolls and doll rags
— and thread and needles — and stitch-
ing and ripping — and making up and
pulling to pieces, with more good- will,
and ten times the avidity, of Miss Jones
herself; and, by dint of great practice,
I became a very expert assistant to
my senior sister in doll-dressing.
I frequently heard my mother, in her
confidential conversations with my
father, tell him that Miss Jones was
very industrious, and had got into a
very good business, and made a great
deal of money ; and one day it occur-
red to me, when my mother put 'her
old question, that being a good busi-
ness and getting a deal of money
were very likely requisites for me, and
I gaily answered my mother's enquiry
by saying I would be an apprentice to
Miss Jones.
Instead of giving my mother great
pleasure, as I thought I should do, by
the announcement, she called me a
silly lad, and told me to choose some-
thing more manly, as mantua-making
was only the business of women.
A few days afterwards I was taken
by a servant, with the rest of my
young brothers and sisters, to see the
performance of a mountebank, who
paid a stray visit to the little town in
which we resided. I never saw such
a performance before, and I shall
never see any thing again that will
give me such an idea as that did of
splendour and -nagnificence.
The first part of the performance
was dancing on the slack- rope; and we
children were standing in a row in
breathless expectation, wondering in
our hearts what dancing on a slack-
rope meant, when all at once there
stepped before us a man in a velvet
jacket, all slashed and adorned with
satin and ribbons, and covered with
gold lace, and spangles, and bugles,
glittering so that we scarce could look
at him ; and on his head was a beau-
tiful hat, from which ostrich feathers
were gracefully waving, and in front
was a shining button ; and he had a
splendid sash round his waist, and his
continuations and his terminations,
vulgo shoes, were white as snow. The
sight was electrical! We all stood
and stared, and audibly wished that
father and mother were there to see
the man, he was so fine.
He bowed to the spectators, waving
his plumes, and displaying all his
finery, and then, ascending the rope,
he capered about with such an air,
and twirled and twisted himself in all
directions, so that my faculties of as-
tonishment and delight were stretched
to their very utmost extent ; and my
little sister Laura, who stood by my
side, and was some two years my
junior, appeared to be equally spell-
bound with myself. She pulled my
sleeve to engage my attention, and
whispered in my ear — " It is the king
— I am sure it is ; for nobody but a
king could be dressed so fine, or do
such things as he does ;" and indeed
I was very much of my sister Laura's
notion.
I gazed at him with all my might,
scarcely allowing my eyes to close in
the act of winking, so fearful was I
of missing the slightest motion of that
wonderful man ; and when he de-
scended from the rope, I anxiously en-
quired from the servant what he would
do next.
My attention was very soon attract-
ed to sundry yards of fine flaunting
coloured printed cotton, which were
held up to the gaze of the spectators,
and to a display of fine shining ware,
such as tea and coffee-pots and trays,
which I, in my innocence, looked
upon as silver.
I enquired from the servant if the
king intended to give those fine things
away ; and I was then informed, in
reply, that the gentleman whose ap-
pearance and performance had so
much astonished me was not the king,
but a mountebank, whose business it
was to make money, and that he would
sell the things he displayed to the
spectators for a great deal more money
than they had cost him ; — all which
interesting information I communica-
ted, in a whisper, to my little sister
Laura.
I paid due attention to the proceed-
ings, and saw the gentleman in the
velvet jacket going round offering
little bits of paper to the people, in
exchange for which he received real
silver shillings, in such numbers that
he could scarcely manage to collect
them as fast as they were offered.
My little sister Laura and myself
1839.]
My First Client.
V35
had been intrusted with a sixpence
each, more to look at than with any
intention that we should spend them ;
but, with the approbation, or rather
with the tacit permission of our guar-
dian the servant, we put them together,
and saw them handed to the gentle-
man in spangles, in return for which
one of those mysterious bits of paper
was handed to me.
The servant directed me to keep
the paper until it was asked for, which
was not long ; and I was at length re-
quested to surrender it in exchange
for a little black tray, about the size
of my hand, with a flower painted
upon it, and which the servant inform-
ed me Was a tobacco dish, and worth
about a halfpenny.
I had sense enough to know that
our two sixpences were worth more
than that, but in vain asked for some-
thing else ; and, on finding that no-
thing more was to be had, it occurred
to me that the business of the mounte-
bank certainly met one of the requisi-
tions of my worthy mother, inasmuch
as it was evidently a money-making
business ; and I forthwith started off
home, as quick as my legs would carry
me, with my tobacco dish in my
hand.
I went direct to my mother, and,
holding- up the dish, told her I had
met with a man who sold those things
for a shilling a piece, and had plenty
of custom ; that he was a mountebank,
and dressed much finer than my father,
and that I would be an apprentice to
him.
At first my mother only langhed at
what she thought my nonsense ; but
finding on enquiry that the sixpences
with which myself and my sister
Laura had been intrusted, were really
and bona fide bartered away for the
little dirty-looking tobacco dish that I
held in my hand, her amusement was
changed to vexation, and she boxed
my ears for what she called my folly.
God help me ! how often do children
of eight years old get boxed, and
kicked, and cuffed, for not being as
wise as their parents of eight-and-
forty !
I afterwards made several other at-
tempts to select a business answering
the multifarious description given by
my worthy mother ; but, as all my at-
tempts were singular failures, the mat-
ter was at length fairly taken out of
my hands, and after three weeks'
serious cogitation betwixt my father
and my mother, the former informed
me that it was concluded I should bo
an attorney.
Now, what was meant by being an
attorney I was greatly at a loss to
know ; for whether it meant that I
was to grind scissors on a wheel; like
a man whom I had frequently seen in
the street, and whose performances I
much admired, or that I was to go
as a missionary to some uninhabited
island like Robinson Crusoe, I had no
more idea than the man in the moon ;
and serious, indeed, were the pondcr-
ings of myself and my sister Laura on
the subject, for I called her wisdom to
my assistance on the occasion.
At length, a little light began to
dawn upon me, for I was measured
for a new suit of clothes, and I was
told that I was to go to a new school,
and I was desired to pay particular
attention to learning Latin, that I
might be qualified for an attorney ;
and from that day forth I concluded
that an attorney and a schoolmaster
meant the same thing.
I went to the school, and I paid at-
tention to Latin, and in due time I
was articled to an attorney ; and after
serving the usual time, and learning1
that to be an attorney was not exactly
the same thing as to be a schoolmaster,
I was duly admitted, arid prepared to
set up business.
I was very soon made the proprietor
of an office in my native town, con-
sisting of two rooms, one occupied by
a dirty little lad (whom I dignified
with the name of clerk), a desk, a desk-
stool, and a chair for a waiting client,
if any such there should happen to be ;
and the other occupied by myself, a
desk, three chairs, three on* four law
book?, an almanac, a diary, a quire or
two of writing paper, a bundle of
quills, and an iftk-stand ; and thus
Avas I equipped for all that might oc-
cur in the shape of legal warfare.
But I must pause to explain what
then appeared, and still appears to me",
to be a serious obstacle to my success-
ful practice of the law.
It pleased my godfathers and god-
mothers, witjj (I am bound to pre-
sume) the consent and approbation of
my father and mother, to give me the
name of Gideon, a name that I am
particular in mentioning, because I
have a very strong notion that the
name should be adapted to the busi-
736
My First Client.
[June,
ness ; and that, before parents bestow
upon a child a name which they can-
not afterwards very well alter, they
should duly consider to what profes-
sion or business the child is to be de-
voted ; so that there should be, if I
may so term it, a moral fitness betwixt
the name and the occupation ; and
there should also be a proper and
suitable adaptation and fitness of the
Christian to the surname.
In both those particulars I have
been unfortunate. I derived from my
ancestors the name of Thropall ; and,
as I said before, my godfathers and
godmothers, with the consent and ap-
probation of my father and mother,
bestowed upon me the name of
Gideon — by the by, it was the only
thing they ever gave me — Gideon
Thropall !
Now, a man possessed of such a
name as that of Gideon Thropall
might have flourished very well as a
respectable brazier, or ironmonger, or
a timber-merchant, or a farmer ; and
I am not quite aware, that even the
dead weight of such a name would ab-
solutely have prevented a manufacturer
from making a fortune ; but, to a pro-
fessional man, the very sound was like
an extinguisher. However, I was
placed in my office, with the privilege
of subscribing myself Gideon Throp-
all, attorney-at-law, to any legal docu-
ment that might be submitted to such
an operation — a name and description
that I felt conscious was quite enough
to scare away the most litigious client
that ever dirtied the steps of an attor-
ney's office.
I trudged to my place of business
every morning with the punctuality of
the town-clock ; and, after waiting
there all day to little purpose, trudged
home again at night, to prepare for the
following day's repetition of the same
routine. I wrote Gideon Thropall,
attorney-at-law, five hundred and forty
odd times over. I wrote the names of
my father and mother, my sisters and
brothers, and all my relations, male
and female, married and single, times
without number. I wrote the name
and address of the gentleman whom I
had named as my London agent, as
regularly as the day came, as if I was
in daily correspondence with that gen-
tleman, though that sort of reminis-
cence was all that he had from me
during the first two years I practised
as an attorney. I wrote the names of
all my acquaintances, male and female,
with their particular titles and places
of address. I wrote, in short, until I
had covered every bit of my paper ;
and I cut and slashed my quills until
I reduced my stock to two decent-
looking pens, and a very small rem-
nant of a third. I had read my little
stock of law-books until I knew their
contents by heart ; and I had paid my
little dirty blackguard in the other
chamber of the office, some ten pounds
or thereabouts, in driblets of 2s. 6d.
a-week ; and still no client came !
I was almost in despair, and deliber-
ated whether I ought not to strangle
the clerk when his next two-and-six-
pence became due, by way of lessening
the outgoings, when, to my surprise,
the postman came to my door with a
letter — the first I had received since I
became an attorney — and lo ! I had a
client ! I was so unprepared for the
circumstance, that it was at least five
minutes, and not until after a very
diligent search through all my pockets,
that I was enabled to count out the
necessary ninepence for the postage
of the letter.
My father had an elderly friend of
the name of Lee, who, some two or
three-and- twenty years previous to my
commencing practice, had retired into
private life on the disbanding of a
regiment of local militia, of which he
had been the commander, carrying
nothing with him into his retirement
from his military career, but a pig-
tail, and the title of colonel ; both of
which he had borne for so many years,
that he would have felt the loss of
either as a real privation.
He was a man of property and of
a kind disposition ; and, during my
clerkship, he had often promised me
his patronage, when the time should
arrive that I could undertake business
on my own account. It was, there-
fore, with no surprise that I saw, on
glancing my eye over the letter, that
I was indebted for my client to the re-
commendation of Colonel Lee, though
I was somewhat surprised to find that
the letter related to business connected
with the local militia, from the com-
mand of which the worthy colonel had
retired so many years previously.
It was a letter from a person named
Buckley, who, it appeared, had writ-
ten to me respecting a drum belonging
to the regiment. But his letter shall
speak for itself, for I have carefully
1839.]
My First Client.
737
preserved the original document, on
account of its being the first letter I
ever received on business : —
" SIR, — I am commanded by my
kornall — Kornall Lee — the kornall of
the Condate local militia, to put the
case in your hands in respect of the
regimentle drum. And, sir, my kor-
nall commands me to request that you
will instantly, upon the receit of this,
write a very savage lawyer's letter to
Mrs Revett, and to all others whom
it may concern, commanding her to
deliver up the said drum, with the
sticks and the ticking-case, to me
forthwith, upon pain of all that will
follow ; for, sir, my kornall is deter-
mined to have it back, cost what it
may. And, sir, the said drum was lent
by me to John Revett, the husband
of the said Mrs Revett, and by the
consent of the kornall, and she has
parted with it to somebody else ; and
you will please to rummage up her
consarns, and threaten her with fire
and brimstone if the said drum is not
delivered to me without delay ; and
she lives in Glover's Court, in the
Horsemarket, on the left-hand side in
the Horsemarket in Warnton ; and so
you will please to write instantly on
the receit of this, according to the
command of my kornall, — and I am,
sir, your friend and well-wisher,
THOMAS BUCKLEY,
Late drum- major, Condate
local militia.
« N.B Sir, I live at No. 2 in Tib
Lane in Manchester, and since I left
of the drum-majoring line, I carry on
the tailoring department.
" To Mr Gibbin Thropple,
Atturney-at-law."
I wrote a long letter in due form to
Mrs Revett, threatening her with as
much fire and brimstone as I could
conveniently put in the compass of a
sheet of paper ; but I suppose she was
too old a soldier to be terrified by
such a flash in the pan as a lawyer's
letter, for she treated both me and my
client, the drum- major, with silent
contempt, and took not the smallest
notice of my fierce application.
It was about ten days after I had
spoiled my first sheet of paper in the
way of business, that I was standing
in the street, talking to a farmer who
had got into a dispute about a sack of
meal, and whom I was doing my very
best to convert into a client, when a
stout bulky man of middle age, or
somewhat more, but of very erect
figure and respectable bearing, walked
towards us, and stopped, and by an
insinuating and beseeching sort of
look, gave me to understand that he
wished to speak to me.
I had done my very utmost in the
way of recommending myself to the
too complacent farmer, and had for
some time perceived that my attempt
was a forlorn hope, and I consequently
without delay answered the intelligible
telegraph of the stout bulky man, and
turned from the farmer to him ; and
this I did the more readily, as it af-
forded me an opportunity of showing
the easy agriculturist that, if he would
not bite, another would.
" I am come, sir," said the stout
bulky man, " about the regimentle
drum ; the kornall can't rest about
it, and I am come, sir, to see if you
have got it."
Here, then, was the ex-drum-major
himself, and, as I had him fast, an
avowed and proper client in person, I
determined to make the most of him.
I desired him to accompany me to my
office, to which place I took care to
lead my fat friend in procession all
round the town, that the world in
general, and the inhabitants of my
native town in particular, might see
that I really and truly had a client.
Arrived at the office, I led the
worthy drum-major to my own room,
to the particular amazement of my little
sooty-faced clerk of all work, who,
never having seen a client during his
practice, had a very indifferent notion
of what such a thing might be, and
was quite prepared to believe that it
meant either a man or a fish, as he
might be instructed.
For the first time in my life, a bona
fide client sat in a chair in my office ;
and I explained to him, in answer to his
enquiries, the sort of application I had
made to Mrs Revett, and the result,
which, in the language of an excise-
man, was " nil."
" Well ! " said the ex-drum-major,
his countenance colouring like a tur-
key-cock with rage — " Well ! that
Mrs Revett is the greatest old she-
dragon that ever was born ! But she
always was the same when her hus-
band John Revett was in the regi-
ment—and he had no more music in
738
Mi/ First Client.
[June,
him than a cuckoo — whenever she said
the word. Only to think that she has
received that beautiful savage letter of
yours, and yet has the impudence to
keep the drum ! That woman, sir,
has no thought of a hereafter, and as
she has stole the regimentle drum, it's
plain she'd steal the triple crown from
the Pope himself, if she had the oppor-
tunity. Eh ! she's an abandoned bit
of brimstone! But do, sir, try her
once more — give her a reg'lar broad-
side— threaten to excommunicate her
— or imprison her — or sell her up —
or, what's a fiery Facias? — I've heard
of that — threaten her with that, and
put some thundering big words in
your letter ; and if she stands that,
why, sir, you must bring an action,
and kill her in earnest !"
I occupied a very considerable time
talking to my client ; and, ultimately,
it was arranged betwixt us that I
should make another application of a
very serious description to the obsti-
nately disposed Mrs Revett, and that
we should wait the result of that ap-
plication, before we concluded upon
the more awful proceeding of an ac-
tion at law.
Accordingly I penned a very for-
midable letter to Mrs Revett, pointing
out, in very strong language, the enor-
mity and illegality of her proceeding
in the detention of the drum, and
threatening upon her devoted head all
the evils that could be poured from a
court of law, if the drum was not
forthwith delivered to my client, the
worthy ex-drum-major, together with
the sticks and the ticking-case to the
drum belonging.
That formidable epistle was read
several times over by the drum-major,
and being corrected in various places
at his suggestion, where he thought
the language might be rendered more
fierce, was copied, and forwarded to
the unsuspecting Mrs Revett ; and,
after a further consultation with my
client, he wended his way from the
office, taking with him a promise from
me to communicate any thing I might
hear from Mrs Revett.
I was greatly surprised, on the fol-
lowing morning, to be greeted by al-
most all my friends, as I went down
the street, and congratulated on my
rising prospects — " Very glad to hear
of your success," said one. — " Very
glad to find that the old colonel is
lending you a helping hand," said
another. — " Ah, my good friend ! ca-
pital thing you'll make of the regi-
mental drum — good business that ! "
said a third ; and so I went on, run-
ning the gauntlet through all my
friends and acquaintances, until at
length I began secretly to wish the
regimental drum at the devil, and to
wonder seriously what had occasioned
all my friends to be running wild on
the subject.
I made very minute enquiry, and
ascertained that my friend the ex-
drum-major, after leaving my office,
had adjourned to a house in the town,
which, as its sign indicated, afforded
entertainment for man and horse ; and
he there had beefed and beered, and
smoked and grogged himself into a small
fever; and being a loquacious man,
and in his own estimation an import-
ant one withal — and knowing no one>
and having no subject to connect him
"with the town or any body in it but
the all-important one of the regimen-
tal drum, he had availed himself of that
to its utmost extent.
He had told a long yarn to every
body that he could induce to listen to
him, how his kornall had sent for him,
and commanded him to get the regi-
mental drum ;— how the drum had
been lent to John Revett, whose widow
— an unsoldierlike bitch as she was —
had given it up to her son-in-law ;
— how the kornall had said there was
only one man in England that could
get it back, and that was Mr Throb-
ble, and, therefore, he had come over
by the kornall's command to state the
case to me ; — and how I had written the
most magnificent letter that ever was
penned to Mrs Revett ; and how I was
going to make her do penance within
a month from that day, by walking in
the day time from one end to the other
of the town, dressed in a white sheet,
and with a wax candle in her hand ;
whilst he, the veracious drum-major,
was to march before her, playing the
rogue's march upon the very drum
which she had so scandalously disposed
of, contrary to the articles of war ; and,
finally, how that my fortune was de-
cidedly made by the business.
I was somewhat amused at the ac-
count, and certainly, after hearing it,
was not at all surprised at the gratu-
lations of my friends.
Another ten days passed over, and
no news from Mrs Revett; and, as an
almost necessary consequence, my
1839.]
My First Client.
T--50
friend, the ex-drum-major, was not in
the receipt of any news from me.
There was ayoung lady in the town,
one Miss Juliana Gawkrodger by name,
with whom I had been acquainted from
my infancy, and to whom I had lately
paid assiduous attention, with the se-
cret design of ultimately making her
Mrs Thropall. Having a consider-
able number of spare hours every day
at almost any body's service, I was
frequently to be seen in the street
dangling by the side of Miss Juliana
Gawkrodger, endeavouring to possess
her with an idea that I was a very
amiable creature, and performing all
those antics which young men go
through in their attempts to make
themselves agreeable to the fair sex.
I went out in the street one morn-
ing, and, by a preconcerted arrange-
ment with Miss Juliana Gawkrodger,
I accidentally met with that lady and
her two sisters, and agreed to accom-
pany them in a walk. We were pro-
ceeding along the street, and I was
performing all the pantomime for love
to Miss Juliana Gawkrodger, and
keeping up a noisy conversation with
her two companions, and we were all
very lively and gay, when a sudden
stop was put to our proceedings by a
voice calling out — " Mr Throddle, I
wish to say a few words to you about
the regimentle drum. " I turned round,
and saw before me the stout bulky
person of the drum-major, and I could
not help wishing that he and his dn>m
were at that moment five hundred
miles from the spot.
I took hasty leave of the ladies, and
returned with my client to my office,
and reported to him that the letter
which I had written and dispatched
under his able superintendence, had
been productive of no more beneficial
result than the one I had previously
dispatched without the advantage of
his inspection ; and that, consequent-
ly, I was led to believe that Mrs Ee-
vett was one of those very hard-head-
ed old women upon whom anything
that is written is totally thrown away,
inasmuch as they cannot read writing
, themselves, and either cannot under-
stand, or do not heed whatever Is read
to them by others.
" Well ! " said the drum major, " if
that woman dies a natural death, I
should wonder — only to think that
she should still keep possession of the
regimentle drum, after being ordered
by the kornall to give it up, and af-
ter receiving those two beautiful let-
ters from you. What will the world
come to? — a detestable old Jezebel! —
Sir, there is nothing left for it but an
action ; and you must forthwith bring
one in the kornall's name."
I asked him a great variety of ques-
tions respecting the transaction, and
wormed from him with much labour—-
for, notwithstanding his loquacity, it
was difficult to get any connected ac-
count from him — that the drum had
been lent upwards of twenty years ago,
when the regiment was broken up, and
had remained in the possession of Re-
vett or his family from that time.
Upon receiving that information,
I reasoned 'with the worthy drum-ma-
jor upon the difficulty that existed in
recovering the drum, in consequence
of the lapse of time; but he appeared
to be only half convinced. " The drum,"
he said, " belonged to his kornall, and
I must get it." It was in vain to ex-
plain that length of possession took
away the legal right : his answer was,
" the drum belonged to his kornall,
and I must get it."
I then took him on the other tack,
and talked of the expense ; and there I
found him a little more vulnerable. I
showed him clearly that Mrs Rervett
could have little, if any property, and
consequently the costs of a lawsuit
would in all probability fall upon the
colonel; and as those costs might even-
tually far exceed the value of the regi-
mental drum, it was prudent to pause
and con sider before they were i ncurred .
That was a puzzler to the drum-
major : he was loth to relinquish the
drum, and hinted that Mrs Revett
might be put in prison ; but that, I told
him, would not discharge the colonel
from the costs ; and, after a hard strug-
gle, he confessed that it would be well
to try every other means before hav-
ing recourse to an action at law.
We then took sweet counsel toge-
ther, and ultimately came to the con-
clusion that, inasmuch as I had tried
what threatening would do, and no
good effect had been produced, I
should now try a contrary course, and
endeavour to wheedle from her the
drum which threats could not wrest
from her grasp.
Accordingly, I sketched out the
blandest letter that ever dribbled from
the point of an attorney's pen — I di-
lated on the friendship which Colonel
740
My First Client.
[June,
Lee had always entertained for honest
John Revett — pointed out the example
of others who had given up the musi-
cal instruments of the regiment — told
her of her own well-known character
for honesty — and concluded by taking
for granted that she would, as an
honest upright woman, having a due
respect and regard for the colonel,
and the regiment, and her own future
welfare, give up the drum forth-
with.
Theletter, having received the sanc-
tion and approbation of the drum- ma-
jor, was dispatched to Mrs Revett, and
my client went away in the firm faith,
that although she had shown herself
insensible to threats, she would comply
with the kind and conciliatory requi-
sition now addressed to her.
Another ten days or upwards passed
away, but still no news from Mrs Re-
vett, and consequently I had nothing
to communicate to the drum-major.
I was sitting in my office one morn-
ing, giving an opinion to myself upon
an imaginary case — for, God knows, I
had no real case to give an opinion
upon — when my little dirty clerk came
to inform me that the postman had
called with a double letter, and I forth-
with handed out one-and-sixpence as
the postage.
I opened it in haste, but was ex-
ceedingly mortified to find that it was
a letter from my client, the drum-
major, which the blockhead had en-
closed in an envelope, and thereby
made it double.
He wrote like a man in a passion ;
but his letter will explain better than
I can — so here it is : —
" My dear sir, — About the regi-
mentle drum, I have been to see the
kornall, and he is very ill with the gout
in his boot, and is very much put out
of the way with the vile conduct of
that wicked woman, Mrs Revett. He
swears worse nor a dragoon, and talks
of having her tried by court-martial
for purlining the regimentle stores.
" Sir, the kornall says I must have
the drum ; and, sir, it is a brass drum,
and worth a deal of money ; and I
was nothing else but a goose ever to
lend it to John Revett, for he never
could play on it in his life.
" Sir, you must tackle to that old
viper, Mrs Revett, and bring her down
on her marrow-bones ; and you must
make her deliver it to me, with the
sticks and the ticking-case ; and, sir,
I will have it, mind that, or I'll know
the reason why ; and I'll not allow the
Condate regiment of local militia, to
which I had the honour to belong, to
be bamboozled by an ugly old sarpint
like Mrs Revett ; and so you must
beat up her quarters, and conquer her
for my sake, and for the sake of the
kornall and the regiment ; and all the
other instruments are delivered up but
the drum ; and the old varmint has
kept it for a very many years, only
she delivered it to her son-in-law some
years ago — and, sir, let me know
when you want to see me, and I will
come over and explain the whole case,
and take my affidavy about the drum
and all belonging to it, from its birth
to this time ; and I am yours affec-
tionately,
" THOMAS BUCKLEY,
" Late drum-major, Condate
Local Militia.
" N. B — Sir, the kornall cannot
sleep night nor day, and is very vehe-
ment— he has an attachment for the
regimentle drum, and swears he will
have it ; and is obligated to take
laudnam, because he cannot sleep.
« To Mr Gib Throttle,
" Atturney-at- Law."
I answered my client's letter in
terms as mild as I could use, explain-
ing to him the difficulties that lay in
the way of any proceeding at law, and,
as I thought, laying down so very
clearly the utter impossibility of suc-
ceeding in any action, that there must
be an end of the matter, and I should
hear no more of it — indeed, the drum
began to be a very sore subject.
The town in which I live began at
that time to partake of the political
ferment of the period, and various
meetings were held, and we determin-
ed to grapple with some of the great
questions of the day ; but we wavered
about for a length of time before
we could conclude what question we
would rally round. At length, after
much considering pro and con, we
came to the resolution of adopting the
Belgian question — Belgium being a
place with which the people of our
town had nothing on earth to do ; and
the question being one of which no
mortal in the place knew anything ! —
No matter for that, it showed our in-
dependence, and our impartiality, and
our philanthropy, and all the other
1839.]
M>j First Client.
741
fine things which make men proud —
so the Belgian question was selected
for our adoption.
Having made choice of a grievance,
our next step was to have a public
demonstration, and to that end a public
meeting was agreed to be held.
My friends were exceedingly anx-
ious that I should avail myself of the
occasion, to make a display and come
out as an orator, and by that means
acquire a notoriety that might be use-
ful to me in a professional point of
view ; and spirited by them to the task,
and having perhaps a spice of latent
vanity in my composition, I agreed to
make a speech. I the more readily
consented to do so, in consequence of
its being represented to me that a
friend of the family would be in the
chair, who having a particularly fat
unmeaning face, I should not feel ter-
rified when looking at him, though
clothed with the majesty of chairman ;
whilst his good feeling towards me
would induce him to cover any little
imperfection that might appear, either
in the matter of my oration, or in the
manner of its delivery.
Having concluded upon making my
debut as a speaker, I proceeded to
qualify myself for the occasion, and
to read myself up to the subject. I
dipped into two or three guide-books
through the Netherlands — skimmed
Mrs Trollope's book on Belgium —
hastily ran over the last hand-book for
travellers on the Continent, and took a
glance at every thing else that I could
lay my hands on that treated of Bel-
gium, from the commencement of the
Belgic Revolution to that time ; and
I stored up such a mass of heteroge-
neous and undigested information in
my head, that it would have taken
some months, and a much sounder dis-
crimination than mine, to separate the
wheat from the chaff, and arrange it
in any thing like method or useful
order. I overread myself; and the
consequence was, that the informa-
tion so collected, even had it been
sound, would have been of no use to
me.
My next step was to write a speech,
which occupied me several days. I got
it off by heart, and I spoke and acted
it before a large looking-glass in my
father's house, five times every day,
up to and including the morning of
the important meeting. I had a toler-
able memory, and I had rendered
myself so perfect, that I could hardly
by any possibility fail in the deli-
very.
1 went to the meeting, accompanied
by a number of kind and anxious
friends, and was placed in a most fa-
vourable position for being seen, and
seeing all that passed. The room in
which the meeting was held was
crammed, and many ladies were there,
and, amongst the rest, Miss Juliana
Gawkrodger and one of her sisters ;
and, as it had got whispered about the
town that I intended to speak on the
subject of the meeting, it was a source
of great gratification to me to observe
sundry nods and winks, and looks of
kindness and encouragement, cast upon
me from all parts of the room. It
appeared evident to me that I was the
lion of the meeting.
The proceedings were opened in
due form, our family friend with the
fat face being in the chair ; and two or
three dull prosy speeches were made,
in so stammering and hesitating a
manner as to give me considerable con-
fidence in myself; when, at the end of
one of those tedious orations, my ears
were greeted with the welcome and
cheering call from all parts of the
room of " Mr Thropall I Mr Throp-
all ! " and when I stepped on the
platform prepared for the speakers,
and made a low and graceful bow to
the assemblage in acknowledgment
of the call, the clapping of hands
and the waving of handkerchiefs by
the ladies, and the stampings, the
shoutings, and huzzaings of the gen-
tlemen, were really almost sufficient
to overwhelm a modest man like me.
When silence was obtained, I com-
menced my speech, slowly and deli-
berately, and speaking with great dis-
tinctness. I took a rapid view of
events in Belgium preceding the Re-
volution, and my memory served me
so well, that no one word of my writ-
ten speech, and no one action that
I had studied, was forgotten. I ap-
peared to be perfectly master of the
subject on which I spoke, and my
friends and the audience in general
were in raptures. Loud and frequent
were the " bravoes" — the " hear,
hears," and the other signals of en-
couragement and approbation from the
gentlemen, and almost perpetual was
the clapping of hands and the waving
of handkerchiefs of the ladies ; and I
thought I saw a tear of gratified de.
742
Mi/ First Client.
[June,
light trickle from the eye of Miss
Juliana Gawkrodger!
Every sentence I uttered was ap-
plauded to the skies ; and I was so
elated, that I felt myself equal to any
thing, and thought it impossible to err.
In the intoxication of the moment, I
took it into my head to improvise a
part of my speech, and to depart from
that which I had written. I talked
fustian about the opposition of the
Church to the liberties of the people —
quoted Hudibras, and lugged in, head
and shoulders,
" When the great drum ecclesiastic
Was beat with fist instead of a stick."
" But," said I, by way of conclud-
ing paragraph, before I got back to
my written speech — " But," said I,
" the brave Beiges heard the roll of
the spirit-stirring drum — they heard
that drum, which heretofore had only
sent forth its martial sounds at the
command of a tyrant — that drum, I
say, they now heard calling them to
liberty"
" Well done, Mister Throddle ! "
shouted a stentorian voice from the
crowd — " lay it on thick about the
regimentle drum."
I looked to the place from whence
the sound proceeded, and there I saw
the abominable drum-major himself,
standing in all his erect bulkiness, the
most conspicuous object in the room ;
and, as I caught sight of him, he nod-
ded his head, and familiarly winked
his eye at me.
The whole of my speech vanished
from my memory as though it never
had been. I blundered on a few words
further, but all was over. My throat
was parched, I gasped for breath, and
I could see nobody but the drum-ma-
jor. Preserving my consciousness, I
appeared to lose all command over
myself — I made faces at the drum-
major, and, raising my arm, I shook
my fist at him ; and after several at-
tempts to proceed, which terminated
in hysterical jibberings, I descended
from the platform on which I was ele-
vated, and so my speech ended in the
middle.
I made my way quietly, but with
great expedition, out of the room, and
then ran as fast as I could to my of-
fice, where I shut myself up, and locked
the door. I was in a perfect agony,
and walked about at the rate of
some ten miles an hour, stamping my
feet, and thumping my head with my
hands, and cursing from the very bot-
tom of my soul every regimental drum
that ever was made, and every drum-
major that ever walked at the head of
a regimental band.
At length, so violent was my vexa-
tion, that I burst into tears and wept
like a child, from which I experienced
considerable relief. Whilst I was
striding across the room with the
frenzied energy of something mad,
weeping one minute and cursing the
next, I heard a knock at the door, and,
on enquiry, was informed that my evil
genius, the drum-major, was waiting
to see me.
The announcement rendered me, if
possible, more frantic than I was be-
fore, and I knew not at the moment
whether to go down and make an end
of my tormentor by committing mur-
der, or to throw myself out of the win-
dow, and terminate the business by an
act of self-immolation — to offer to the
world, in fact, the glorious spectacle
of an attorney becoming a martyr to
the cause of an officious client.
Before I had determined which of
the two courses to adopt, I was aroused
by another tap at the door, followed
by a request from the drum-major,
saying, «« Mr Throddle, may I come
in ? " I refused with all the might of
my lungs, at the same time giving
vent to a whole ocean of curses against
the drum- major, and all his family
and connexions, and commanding him
peremptorily to be gone from my door.
But he would not go, and found some-
thing to say on his own behalf. He
said he did not like to be d d
through a door, and wished to be ad-
mitted, that he might face the matter
out like a man and a soldier. He par-
leyed for upwards of an hour, but I
was inexorable, and every petition for
admission was met by a volley of
curses and imprecations, enough to
annihilate any body but a drum major,
and by an announcement that I would
see or write to the Colonel ; and that
with him, the accursed representative
of his class, I would most assuredly
hold no further communication.
The drum-major at length was wea-
ried out, and raised the siege, and I
was at liberty to depart from my pri-
son-house whenever I pleased ; but my
shocking break-down at the meeting
pressed so heavily upon my sensibi-
lity, that I kept close in my office
until the shades of evening rendered
it probable that I might pass along
the street without being recognised.
1839.]
My First Client.
743
I kept close house for two or three
days, at the end of which I was com-
pelled to appear in public, and to en-
counter the greetings, the compli-
ments, and the banterings in disguise,
of all my friends and acquaintance.
Some complimented me on my elo-
quent display — others affected to en-
quire what made me conclude so
abruptly — and others pretended to con-
dole with me on the awkward inter-
ruption I received from the drum-
major, while I saw a laughing devil
in their eye, as they asked if he was
the client recommended to me by
Colonel Lee. Never man suffered so
seriously from a drum and a drum-
major as I did ; and the only thing
like consolation that I received in the
midst of my distress, was from Miss
Juliana Gawkrodger, who kindly and
feelingly applauded my exertions, and
assured me that every body attributed
the sudden and somewhat awkward
termination of my speech to the evil
eye of that bloated drum-major} whilst
her giddy sister almost spoiled Miss
Juliana's kindness, by asking if the
accursed drum-major was a relative of
mine, he appeared to be so much
interested in my behalf.
A few days restored things to their
usual channel, and I in some measure
got over the chagrin. I rode over to
Colonel Lee, and explained the law of
the case as applicable to the drum,
and he promised to see the drum-ma-
jor upon it ; so that I flattered myself
I had got rid of that abominable affair,
which had been productive of so much
trouble and annoyance.
About three weeks afterwards, I
was bouncing out of my office rather
in haste and unguardedly, when I ran
againSt a person whom I almost over-
turned. It was the postman, who said
he was calling on me with a double
letter, and producing it as he gave me
the information, I saw the address was
in the detestable scrawl of that ever-
lasting drum-major.
The blockhead had again inclosed
his letter in an envelope which occa-
sioned double postage ; and though I
would freely have given a sovereign
to put the letter, and the writer, and
the regimental drum also, into the
crater of Mount Etna, yet I felt oblig-
ed to pay the postage and take the
letter, lest it should be opened at the
dead letter-office, and I should become
the subject of ridicule. I therefore
paid the postage and retired into my
office to read the epistle, which was as
follows : —
" Sir, — I saw Koruall Lee this day,
the 18th instant, and he sends his
love to you — I informed him that you
had wrote three times according to
his directions, and had no answer con-
cerning the brass drum. He desired
me to inform you to commence an
action at law forthwith in his name
for the recovery of the drum, it be-
longing to him as kornall of the Con-
date local militia.
" Sir, — As I was the only person
master of the band at that time, and
know where the drum was paid
from, it is requested I should lay the
case open to you, that you may act
according as your judgment may lead
you. The drum cost £13, 13s. in
London, with sticks, buff carriage,
ticking-case, and packing-case, with
carriage down. It was placed in John
Revett's hands by me, lent him by his
giving me a most solemn engagement
to return it in two days' notice any
time the kornall might think proper
to call for it. The drum was properly
painted along with all the drums of the
regiment. I paid Darlington of Mid-
dlewick for it. He thought proper to
get it painted over again without ac-
quainting any one, and afterwards
made application for £1 for painting
it, which undoubtedly was refused.
He died about sixteen years back.
Five years back I applied for the drum,
and repeatedly since, up to the time
you took the case in hand. Never
got any answer, but privately heard
it would not be given up until that
money was paid. I threatened the
widow with an action, and, on her
seeing all other instruments given up,
she sends the drum to Warnton to her
son-in-law, and followed herself soon
after. His executors, also ; they told
me when I called they would not give
it up. As I knew neither one nor the
other had any claim to it, I thought to
get a search-warrant and take it where
I found it, and take them up for con-
cealing it ; but I after thought I would
take the kornall's advice upon it, and
he sent me to you.
" Sir, — If you wish me to attend
you at any time and place, I am any
time at your command ; but I don't
like to be d d through a door. The
widow's name is Barbara, and the exe-
744
My First Client.
[June,
cutor's name Wilson, beer- seller, and
the drum a brass drum. — So no more
at present, from yours, and so forth,
" THOMAS BUCKLEY,
" Late drum-major, Condate
" local militia.
" N.B Sir, the kornall is deter-
mined to have the drum, and the de-
lay makes him very unhappy consi-
dering he has the gout.
" To Mr Giddy Throbble,
« Atturney-at-law."
Though I was mortified at receiv-
ing the letter, and anticipated nothing
but vexation from its contents, yet I
felt a glow of satisfaction on getting
to the end of it, for a vista opened be-
fore me, and I saw a prospect of put-
ting a total end to this, to me, most
troublesome business. The name of
a drum was poison to me, and the
name drum-major was almost enough
to bring on hysterics. I forthwith
rode over to Colonel Lee on this im-
portant business ; for to me it was be-
come important to get rid of it, inas-
much as it was very evident that I
should never have any peace as long
as I had any thing to do with it.
I explained to the colonel, very
fully and very clearly, the difficulties
that lay in the way of his recovering
the drum by any proceeding at law ;
pointed out the certaintyof some cost
being incurred, and the probability of
that cost being considerable — much
more than the value of the drum —
whilst the chance of recovery was at
least problematical. I then told him
that the drum would be given up on
payment of the pound claimed for
painting, and that it would be good
policy to pay that pound and obtain
possession of the drum, rather than
incur the hazard of paying the costs
of an action, and not recover the drum
in the end.
The colonel was of the same opin-
ion, and authorized me to pay the
pound and obtain the drum. I rode
on to Warnton without delay — I paid
the pound and obtained the drum,
with the sticks and ticking-case, and
packed the whole off to the abomin-
able drum-major, by whom they were
duly received, and by that means I got
rid of my exceedingly troublesome first
client.
1839.]
MerimZe on Oil-Painting.
7-17
MERIMEE ON OIL-PAINTING, TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
BY W. B. S. TAYLOR.
THIS little volume makes its ap-
pearance under no common auspices.
M. I. F. L. Merimee was secretary
to the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in
Paris. The manuscript work is sub-
mitted to a committee by the Royal
Institute of France, whose chairman,
M. Quatremerede Quincy, in the name
of the commission, draws up an en-
tirely laudatory report. We select
the conclusion : —
" Intrusted with the duty of rendering
a faithful account of this work, the Com-
mission are of opinion that they have care-
fully pointed out the great utility and
advantages that must result to the art of
painting from its publication. The Aca-
demy approves of the opinions contained
in the Report, and have directed that a
copy of it be laid before the Minister of
the Home Department."
Mr Taylor dedicates his translation
of M. Merimee' s work to the president
and members of the Royal Academy
in this country, under permission and
sanction. He was urged to this task
by the most distinguished artists,
members of the Royal Academy ; Sir
Augustus Wall Calcott, Sir David
Wilkie, Mr Etty, Mr Mulready, Mr
Hilton, Mr Phillips, and Mr Cooper.
But he is further permitted to dedi-
cate it to the members of the Roy al Aca-
demy in " their public and collective
capacity." This volume, then, has the
stamp of the highest authority, and
must be considered by far the most
important work that has yet appeared
upon the subject ; and yet, though we
believe it to contain very valuable in-
formation, we are inclined to doubt if
it will be found to merit the entire
confidence of artists and amateurs,
which the very great'authorities, under
whose sanction and adoption it comes
forth, would seem to claim for it. We
say this with some hesitation, and
would only guard against a hasty re-
liance upon recipes said to be the re-
sult of experiments upon pictures of
the old masters, without having laid
before us the exact processes from
which certain deductions have been
made. We want facts first, and such
detail of facts as chemistry is able to
afford. We speak not here of any
other than such as can be proved from
VOL. XLV. NO. CCI.XXXIV.
the old pictures ; for, assuming that
M. Merimee has established his case
as to the use of varnishes, it may be
fairly allowed that his experiments
upon the making them are amply de-
tailed. What we would have is the
chemical analyses of the pictures of
the best time, with every particular,
incidental or otherwise, of working
them out. Without this we may be
rightly directed, but we are not suffi-
ciently assured that we are so. The
Report of the Institute of France thus
describes the object of the author : —
" That of bringing to light the primi-
tive processes of painting. For this
purpose he has consulted the earlier
works on this art, and has examined,
with the greatest care, many of the
pictures which have most successfully
resisted the effects of time and expo-
sure ; and he is decidedly of opinion
that these works owe their preserva-
tion to particular modes of combining,
in a liquid state, resinous substances,
by the use of which the colours were
defended from the action of causes
that have injured or destroyed pictures
of much more modern dates." It
would indeed be a most valuable dis-
covery, could we ascertain that me-
dium which will secure the perma-
nency of both the brilliancy and tex-
ture of colours. But here we come to
the fact, well known to all artists, that
very many, perhaps most modern,
painters, have, for at least this half
century, mixed oil and varnish toge-
ther; and what has been the result?
The colours have not only not retain-
ed their brilliancy, but in very many
cases have most desperately separated,
never have become really hard sub-
stances, though hardness is the pecu-
liar quality of the old paint. " M. M6-
rimee," continues the Report, " has
closely examined, and analysed with
great care, paintings of the earliest
dates, and has consulted many of the
ablest restorers of pictures ; and hence
he is strongly of opinion, from the
hardness of the ground, and the bright-
ness of the pictures, that the colours
have not only been incorporated with
oil, but also with varnishes, even of
that sort called 'hard varnish.'" Now,
the hardness of the old paint, and the
3 B
748
Merimce on Oil-Painting.
[June,
hardness of the hardest of hard var-
nishes, are quite different things. We
believe that no varnishes are tho-
roughly hard, unless there be some-
thing beside the oil incorporated with
them. But what substances, or ra-
ther what mixture of substances, does
M. Me'rimee propose ? He lays much
stress upon an " Italian varnish,"
prepared, as he says, in Italy from a
very remote period : the ingredients
are nut oil, wax, and mastic. To say
nothing of the wax, we conceive the
mastic to be one of the worst substan-
ces that can be mixed with paint, and
that it never becomes really hard, and
that it is subject to continual changes ;
and to the use of mastic do we ascribe
that separation of the paint, which
will perhaps pretty clearly distinguish
the era of the work. Nothing can be
more true than that the paint of the
old masters is like iron, it is so hard ;
the cracks in it, which we believe to
be mainly owing to the grounds, are
like spider-lines, perfectly fine, as if
the surface had been bent and broken ;
and though M. Merimee mentions,
as a thing of rare occurrence, "cracks
or gashes" in a picture of Titian's,
we have ourselves never seen such
cracks or gashes in any old pictures, ex-
cepting in such parts as have been re-
painted. We do not think this trea-
tise throws any light upon the origin of
painting in oil, although the Report
states that the " author commences his
first chapter by setting it down as an
incontrovertible fact, that the brothers
Van Eyck were the inventors of paint-
ing in oil, and refutes the assertions of
Theophilus and Cennino Connini on
that question." Now, who were The-
ophilus and Cennino Connini, and
what do they actually say ? The for-
mer was a monk, and wrote a trea-
tise, De Arte Pingendi, towards the
close of the tenth, or commencement
of the eleventh century. The latter
finished his treatise in 1437 ; but as
then Van Eyck had already painted in
oil more than ten years, nothing con-
clusive can be collected from him.
Theophilus, however, does positively
mention the painting in oil, and de-
scribes a method of making linseed-
oil, as well as varnish. But M. Meri-
mee says, it is house-painting only
that he speaks of. Were that the
case, we cannot help thinking that
the discovery of house-painting in oil
is, in fact, the discovery of other
painting, for surely the attempt so to
apply it must have been immediate.
But great stress is laid upon the direc-
tions given by Theophilus to house-
painters, not to lay on a second couch
of colour until the first is completely
dry ; and it is said that he nowhere
gives advice to apply oil-painting to
pictures, but adds, to the above-men-
tioned directions, " this remarkable
passage — that such a method would be
too sloiu and too laborious for paint-
ing pictures." It is somewhat singular
that he should have mentioned " paint-
ing pictures" at all ; for he must
either speak of an existing, but in-
convenient practice, or he must have
conceived the attempt. But does
Theophilus actually say that it "would
be" too slow ? &c. The translation
certainly makes him say so ; but he
says no such thing. He says " it is ; "
as if he should say — in house-painting
it is better not to put on a second
couch of colour before the first is dry ;
a practice, indeed, not followed by
painters of pictures, because to them
it would be too slow and tedious. And
such we take to be the meaning of his
text — " Quod in imaginibus diutur-
num et tsediosum nimium est" Mr
Taylor, in his appended " Observa-
tions on the English School of Paint,
ing," seems to contradict, or at least to
doubt, the strong assertion of his ori-
ginal, for he quotes Walpoleupon this
subject, and the more recent disco-
veries in St Stephen's Chapel ; and
quotes, from Smith's Antiquities of
Westminster, the positive opinion of
Mr Smith, and the examination of
the apartments of the ancient palace,
twenty years ago, by the late Sir John
Soane, and Mr J. N. Cottingham.
But, as we prefer facts to opinions, we
venture to add what Mr Taylor has
omitted, the actual experiments, in a
letter to Mr Smith. It is of St Ste-
phen's Chapel, fourth year of Edward
the Third. " In order to examine the
colours, I was obliged, after having
carefully scraped them from the stone,
to employ a quantity of impure ether
to dissolve the varnish which had been
laid over them, and also to separate the
oil with which the colours had been
prepared. By this method I was
enabled to procure the colours in a
state of purity, after they had subsi-
ded to the bottom of the phial. The
supernatant liquor, when decanted
and mixed with water, became imme-
diately turbid, and an oleaginous
matter swam on the surface." The
1839.]
Mirimee on Oil-Painting.
749
items of expenditure are likewise cu-
rious :— .
" Thirty peacocks' and swans' fea-
thers, and squirrels' tails, for the paint-
ers' pencils.
" Two flagons of cole for the same.
" Nineteen gallons of painters ' oil
for painting of the chapel, at 3s. 4d.
per flagon.
" One pound and half of hogs'
bristles for the brushes of painters."
It is remarkable that here a distinc-
tion is made between pencils and
brushes — the pencils made of peacocks'
and swans' feathers, and peacocks'
tails, were doubtless for the nicer work
of picture-painting. Is not, then, the
" incontrovertible fact" of the Report,
after all the authorities through which
it has passed, no fact at all ?
If, therefore, the brothers Van Eyck
invented any thing — and there is no
reason to doubt that they did — it must
have been a new method of painting
in oil. And to this new method, and
nearest to its invention, M. Merim^e
ascribes the most astonishing effects in
the preservation of the brilliancy of
the colours, and the hardness given
to the paint. As has been shown, he
attributes its perfection to the admix-
ture of varnish with the oils. We are
very doubtful if such admixture have
any such power, more especially if
the varnish be mastic. As, however,
M. Merimee has formed his opinion
from his own observation of ancient
pictures, and sought a corroboration
of it from the works of different authors
who have written upon the subject, it
may be worth while to examine these
authorities. He candidly confesses
that he has been disappointed in his
search. Leonardo da Vinci makes no
mention of the use of varnish, " ex-
cept in cases where Ihe acetate of cop-
per (verdigris) is used." There is an
anecdote that Pope Julius II., led by
curiosity, entered Leonardo's painting
room, expecting to see the designs for
his work, but discovered only chemical
apparatus, which he understood to be
for making varnish, and that he re-
marked, " this artist begins his work
where others finish." M. M6rimee
himself combats the conclusion that
has been drawn from this anecdote,
that Leonardo painted with varnish.
There is, undoubtedly, a fair ground
of reason for his opinion, in the ex-
tract given from Armenini da Faerza,
who lived towards the middle of the
sixteenth century; and yet we think
the passage does not go the whole
length of asserting a mixture of var-
nish with the colours in the general
painting, but only in the glazing, and
used equally over the whole — that is,
a coloured varnish. And it is some-
what remarkable that the first appli-
cation of it mentioned by Armenini,
is to verdigris, as recommended by
Leonardo, though here differing in
the manner of application. It may,
therefore, be worth while to refer to
Leonardo, and we shall find this use
is to remedy a defect in that particu-
lar pigment. Leonardo says, " The
green colour made of copper rust,
commonly called verdigris, though
ground in oil, will not fail to evapo-
rate in smoke and lose its beauty, un-
less you cover it with a thin skin of
varnish, immediately after laying it
on : but this is not all ; for, if you
wipe it with a sponge dipped in clear
water, it will rise from the bottom of
the painting, and peel off like a water
colour. This is particularly observ-
able in moist weather, and seems to be
owing to this, that verdigris, being a
kind of salt, is easily dissolved in moist
air, and especially if softened with the
additional wetness of a sponge." And,
after all, this varnish may have been
nothing but nut oil; for Leonardo,
speaking of a peculiar process, adds,
" after which you may varnish it with
nut oil and amber, or barely with nut
oil, taking care that it be well puri-
fied, and thickened in the sun." And
what says Armenini ? " In operating
upon a green drapery, the process
we have hinted at (predetto) is man-
aged in this way : After having laid
on the dead colour with green, black,
and white (verde, nigro, e bianco), in a
full, firm manner (che sia alquanto
crudetto), some common varnish is then
incorporated with yellow, lake, and
verdigris (si giungc poi con verderame
tm poco di vernice commune di giallo
santo~). With this mixture, the parts
prepared are glazed with a large tool.
The same process is used for crimson,
yellow, or other drapery, only mixing
the appropriate colours with the var-
nish," (ma se sara de lacca, si tien con
quello il medisimo stile mettendovi dex-
tro della predetta. vernice ; acosi si de
fare cfogni altro quando sie per vel-
arli). We have, in part, quoted the
Italian which is given in the notes, be-
cause we think the translation careless,
and not faithful, and, therefore, assert-
ing more than the Italian justifies.
TOO
Meriml-e on Oil-Painiii,ij.
[June,
But Leonardo's varnish for this par-
ticular pigment, may have been no-
thing more than another pigment, to
•which the old masters were partial,
"aloes cavallino," horse aloes, and that
either ground by itself in oil, or mixed
with the verdigris, just as Armenini
describes it ; so that we do not see that
Armenini's recipe necessarily differs
from Leonardo's, whose authority M.
Merirnee rejects. Leonardo says —
" Some aloes ca.va.Uino, mixed with
your verdigris, will make it much
more beautiful than it was before;
and it would become still more so by
the admixture of a little saffron, could
it be prevented from evaporating. The
goodness of your aloes will be found
in its dissolving in hot aqua-vitae,
which dissolves »it much better than
cold ; and if, after using any of the
verdigris, you go slightly over it with
some of this liquified aloes, you will
find the colour become incomparably
beautiful. Further, this aloes may be
ground in oil, either by itself or with
verdigris, or with any other colour that
you please." We suspect that Arme-
nini's recipe is but a repetition of Leo-
nardo's, and are surprised these pas-
sages from Leonardo escaped the notice
of the author. M. Merimee then re-
fers to Gerard de Lairesse. " The
uses of varnish are likewise pointed
out by G. de Lairesse, in his Treatise
on Painting. He describes how to
paint upon the dead colour of a pic-
ture. He tells us that the part in-
tended for repainting, should be first
moistened slightly by a couch of mas-
tic varnish, mixed with thick oil, clari-
fied in the sun." Is this, again, an in-
stance of bad translation ? Our edi-
tion of G. de Lairesse is 1778, trans-
lated by John Frederick Fritsch, pain-
ter. In this there is no mention what-
ever of mastic in the passage quoted.
It runs thus : " To do well, rub your
piece (or so much as you think you can
paint of it at one time, and before the
varnish grow dry) with a good thin
picture varnish, mixed with some fat
white oil, then work, on this wet
ground," &c. There is, however, here
no mixture with the paint. But is
the treatise under the name of G. de
Lairesse any authority at all ? In
the first place, it is not the work of
G. de Lairesse, but a collection from
his observations by the Society of
Artists, and not published till after
his death, which took place so late as
1711. This Treatise, therefore, may
be considered to have incorporated
with the observations of Lairesse the
notions of the Society, and to have ap-
peared at a time when the really good
medium, whatever it may have been,
may be considered as lost. Nor can we
attach very much value to recipes, the
examples of whose excellence is to be
found in the works of G. de Lairesse.
That painter was a whimsical theorist,
if the treatise really represents him.
His commencement of a picture was by
fiddling ; he sought the harmony of
colour and composition through the
harmony of music, and seems to have
taken literally the precept of Horace,
with the pun didicisse fideleter artes.
If we are to judge of the materials, and
the manner of using them, from the
works of the painters, we doubt if we
can safely look for examples beyond
the close of the seventeenth century.
The author, in his preface, if he
alludes to his own processes, speaks
very boldly. " When a pupil of
the French school has attained that
degree of experience which gives him
a fair chance of gaining the first
prize in the class of painting, there
can be no doubt of his capability
to make a copy from any picture
of his master. Let him then be di-
rected to copy a first-rate picture of
the Flemish or Venetian schools,
and I am quite sure he will encounter
difficulties which he will be unable to
surmount, should he not have been
made acquainted with the process used
by the colourist whom he wishes to
imitate ; but, if these processes have
been shown to him, and if he have
been taught the process for increasing
the brilliancy and transparency of his
colour, and how to preserve those fine
qualities, or to recover them after he
may have lost them, a practical know-
ledge of those methods may soon be
acquired by a young painter, whose
eye and hand have already attained to
a high degree of correctness and faci-
lity. With such instruction, he may
then set about to copy a picture of
Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, and Van-
dyke, without experiencing any greater
difficulties than he would find in copying
a work of his own master." This is per-
fectly true, if the real processes could
be shown to him — but can they? How
many attempts have we seen by the
admixture of varnishes, and what are
they but EO many failures? They
1839."] Mirimee on Oil-Paintimj.
either look flimsy at the time, or be- and of short duration.
come leathery in texture, and altoge-
ther lack the purity of the originals —
the illumination, in which we lose all
idea of oil and varnish, as if the oil
which we know was used had under-
gone some chemical change, which,
without destroying- its richness, had
taken from it every possible impurity.
Did any one ever see, satisfactory in
texture, a modern copy of Corregio,
or of Titian — such as his Peter Martyr
— and, of the Flemish school, is there
a single copy of Teniers that is not
offensive to the eye, which, under the
name of the master, naturally looks
for what it can never find? And yet,
probably, the recipes of M. Merimee
have been, under various modifications
not very material to their utility, long
in practice. Certainly in this country,
from the time of Sir Joshua to the
present, very similar vehicles have
been, and are still used : but are they
safe ? — do they preserve the brilliancy
and hardness of the colours ? We
should decidedly say no ; that in time
they crack, and in a manner the
works of the old masters never did ;
and that they very soon lose their first
texture. M. Merimee pays great de-
ference to the chemical knowledge of
M. Tingry, professor of chemistry
at Geneva, whose work, in two vol-
umes, entitled The Painter s and
Varnisher's Guide, published in 1803,
is of great value. In it will be found
nearly all that has since then been
published which is of any use. " This
work," says M. Merimee, " would
have been the best that could have
been produced at that time, if he had
united to the information he possessed
that knowledge which practice can
bestow. But at all times, the work of
Tingry upon the preparation and use
of colours and varnishes, is one of those
that may be consulted with the greatest
advantage." Did the following pas-
sage from Tingry's work escape the
notice of M. Merimee ? He is speak-
ing of preserving the colours in newly-
painted pictures before they are var-
nished, by covering them with white of
egg, and adds — " Some of the English
painters, too anxious to receive the
fruits of their composition, neglect
these precautions. Several artists even
paint in varnish, and apply it with
the colours. This precipitate method
gives brilliancy to their compositions
at the very moment of their being
finished ; but their lustre is temporary,
751
It renders it im-
possible for them to clean their paintings,
which are, besides, liable to crack, and
to lose their colour. In a word, it is
not uncommon to see an artist survive
his works, and to have nothing to ex-
pect from posterity." Now, without
practical experience in the mechan-
ical operation of painting, it may
fairly be admitted that Tingry is of
great authority with regard to che-
mical effects ; and, judging from his
knowledge of these effects, he pro-
nounces that an admixture of varnish
with the paint does not preserve the
colour, nor give durability tothepaiut;
while the great object of M. Meri-
mee's work is to prove that it does
both. But lest it be urged that Tin-
gry's work is rather addressed to
painters of another description than
painters of pictures, we venture to add
his observations immediately following
the above quotation. " Nothing that
relates to the house-painter is foreign
to the artist of a higher order, who
paints compositions ; in like manner,
the precepts admitted by the celebrated
painters deserve the attention of the
varnisher, to whom the painter in-
trusts his greatest interests. The ob-
servations contained in this note, are
the brief result of some instructive con-
versations I had with Saintours, a
celebrated painter, my friend and re-
lation."
The varnish, the manufacture of
which is minutely described by Theo-
philus, is the oldest recipe known;
if we may say known, for the chief in-
gredient is at best doubtful. M. Meri-
mee thinks it is copal — in the original
it is " gummi quod vocatur^/brms;"
and again, " gummi forms quod Ro-
mana glassa vocatur" — Roman glass,
not, as it is translated, " called by the
Romans glassa." There does not ap-
pear any sufficient grounds for de-
ciding upon this to be copal ; and M.
M6rimee admits the varnish as des-
cribed, if it were copal, would be un-
usable, as it could not then have been
thinned with distilled or essential oils,
which had not then been discovered.
It is extremely probable, that in the
transition from distemper to oil paint-
ing, much of the former method, and
many of the substances were employed
in the new art. The union of the two
may still have its advantages. This
seems to be the opinion of M. M6ri-
mee. Titian and P. Veronese laid in
their pictures with solid colour, and
752
very often painted on cloth primed in
distemper : but, in the latter case, they
laid their sketches on with water co-
lours. This very expeditious process,
which ought to lead from distemper to
oil-painting, is described by Leonardo
da Vinci. " I have seen several pic-
tures produced in this manner, which
evidently belong to the period when
painting in distemper had in some
degree been given up. I am astonish-
ed that no person of our school has
ever tried this method." He then
proceeds to describe the manner in
which Rubens sketched in his pic-
tures on distemper grounds ; and as-
serts the impossibility of so working
with colours prepared as ours are.
" The colour would glide over a sur-
face too fine to retain it." He un-
questionably did not use colours pre-
pared as ours are ; and here we may
be allowed to remark upon our absurd
practice of using bladder colours,
which are ground in oil of one charac-
ter and quality, while we use as our
vehicle oil of another character, and
perhaps varnishes too ; so that we have
in fact unequal and discordant mix-
tures over the whole surface of the
picture, enough to make the colours
change and paint separate. But to
return to the distemper method. " I
have had occasion to analyse a por-
tion of the ground of a picture by
Titian, painted on wood . This ground
was composed of plaster of Paris,
with starch and paste, but no glue or
size, flour paste being used instead of
gelatine." Afterwards, in page 224,
he recommends — " The dead colour
is to be laid on with water colour, and
a little size, to which may be added
a small portion of oil, or the emul-
sion of nuts or poppy-seeds." Why,
then, may we not suppose that Titian
and P. Veronese pain ted in the pictures
mentioned, in the very same manner
and with the same substance as they
made these grounds ? In fact, plaster,
or any earth or colour, and starch,
and a very small quantity of oil, will
make a very strong ground — distemper
ground ; and the same starch, with
very little oil, make a very good ve-
hicle for getting in the subject, in-
deed for painting it completely over,
and even much glazing may be done
with it. It is surprising how small a
quantity of oil will suffice, and how
firm what is so painted, is upon the
canvass. It is true, if with very little
oil it will dry dead, but it will be
Merimee on Oil-Painting. [June,
equally so ; and when the whole is
varnished out, the picture will be very
brilliant. The colours, of course, must
not be in bladder, but mixed up with
the starch and oil, as for making the
ground. We were not aware, until
we had read this account of starch in
the ground of a picture of Titian's in
M. M6rimee's book, that starch had
been ever so used ; but we had (as
amateurs) practically seen its use.
We tried first a ground with it, wish-
ing to avoid animal glue, which we
are persuaded, by chemical processes,
changes the colours, and goes through
them. Having made such a ground,
the use of the same vehicle in painting
in the subject suggested itself. This
was about four years ago ; and we
have, within this week, and for the
first time, varnished a picture so paint-
ed, and it came out in all respects
better than any we had ever painted
in any other method. The rapidity
with which it enables one to work is
a great advantage ; and we believe
such colours as Prussian blue, and
others, which are much affected by
oils, may be thus used with safety ;
and we may venture to assert, that
pictures so painted will become ex-
ceedingly hard ; for, let any one try a
mass of pigment, starch, and oil, and
expose it to the air, and he will find it
in a short time a perfect stone. Per-
haps it would be an excellent cement,
and a good substance in which to
mould ornaments, &c. I have washed
and scrubbed with much force the
surface of pictures so painted, not
many days after the work, with warm
and cold water, and adding common
kitchen yellow sand, and have not
found the paint move. Starch is, in
fact, one of the most indestructible
things in nature.
It may be thought strange, that
the exact medium used by the old
masters should not have reached us,
but many other arts have shared the
same fate ; we believe painting on
glass, is rather a revival than con-
tinuation of the art as it was. Cer-
tain it is that there is no work that
throws any light upon the subject.
" Rubens is said to have written an
essay in the Latin language, entitled
De Lumine et Colore. This manu-
script was, it appears, about fifty
years ago in the library of M. Von
Parys, a canon of Antwerp, who was
a descendant of that great painter."
We know not what information that
1839.]
Merimee on Oil-Painting.
753
.treatise may contain — surely the pub-
lication of it may yet be obtained.
" It seems to be the fate of the arts,"
says M. Merimee, " that their deca-
dence begins immediately after they
have attained near to perfection. This
destiny had been already in great part
accomplished in Italy, when the chief
founder of the French school, Simon
Vouet, went thither to study the great
masters. Even the traditionary ac-
counts of their processes had either
been lost, or had been so corrupted, that
the practitioners, who had constantly
before their eyes the chef-d ccuvres of
Titian, of Raffaelle, and Corregio,
were prodigal of their applause to Jo-
seph Arpino." Yet Simon Vouet died
in 1641. If, therefore, our author is
here speaking of the processes of
painting, they surely had not then
been lost ; for Claude and Poussin
(Gaspar) were then showing proofs of
a pure vehicle for their colours — sin-
gular enough that the two greatest
landscape painters, and each in a dif-
ferent way, were born the same year,
1600. That the process, however,
has been lost or corrupted, we think
is certain, as is proved by chemical
experiment, by the general acknow-
ledgement of the experienced eye of
taste, and by the universal, though
sometimes secret and unacknowledged
endeavours of artists to remedy the
evident defects of modern methods.
We fear, and Professor Tingry has
given authority to the caution, that
varnishes will only secure a temporary
brilliancy — we do not say they should
not be used ; but something else, we
are persuaded, is wanted, wherewith
to temper or charge our oils, before
varnishes can be with safety used.
Something is required which shall
destroy that quality in oil, which makes
it too often in time acquire a horny
appearance. We have seen pictures
that have looked well for a year or
two, acquire a look, as if they had
been painted with old stable lanthorns
liquified. M. Merimee, indeed, says
that varnish does not necessarily make
the pictures crack, but it is because it
is carelessly mixed, or improperly
used: if that were the case, there must
have been some careless persons and
bad varnishes occasionally before a
certain date, but we never see before
that date the effects we daily witness
now. It would be most desirable that
experiments should be made upon un-
important parts of old pictures, that
the paint should be subjected to every
possible chemical test. Do not tell
us of experiments and observations,
without minute detail. " We learn,"
says M. Merimee, " from these re-
searches, that the colour of those pic-
tures which belong to the first epoch
of oil-painting, are mostly of a harder
body than those of a later date ; that
they resist dissolvents much better,
and that, if rubbed with a file, they
show underneath a shining appearance,
resembling that of a picture painted in
varnish." Now, could not this paint
with a shining appearance be subjected
to better test than the file ? We will
now detail what we saw ourselves,
first prefacing the account thus : — A
valued friend, now unhappily no more,
of ample fortune, leisure, research,
and unlimited accuracy and patience,
with great chemical knowledge, for
many years devoted himself to the
subject in question. He had himself
a fine collection of pictures by the
old masters. His investigation was
patient in the extreme. We deeply
regret that his papers are not forth-
coming. We know it was his inten-
tion to have published the result of his
enquiry and his experiments. We
were in constant communication with
him many years, and have still many
of his colours, and his vehicles for
using them, which he sent to us.
He simplified them more and more,
and thought himself that he had re-
discovered the medium, " Veterem
revocavit artem." We know that to
speak confidently upon such a subject,
is only to insure derision ; we will
not therefore do so — indeed we do
not know certainly what his discovery,
if it be one, was ; but we will give it,
as we have had it analysed, and every
artist may try for himself. But it is
now time to say, what we ourselves
saw. Some paint was scraped off an old
picture, laid on some platina and sub-
jected to the blowpipe. The oil went
off with a slight explosion, and the
result was, that the paint was vitrified.
It was positive glass. Before he tried
the experiment he assured us it would
be so, and that the paint of all the old
masters was the same. This led him
to use glass of different sorts, and he
assured me, the effects on some of the
colours which would not stand without
it was very striking. At first his
vehicle was not facile, but he at last
754
Merimee on Oil-Painting.
[June,
simplified it that it became perfectly
so. We once said to him, " it is sup-
posed the Venetian masters used water ;
if this medium, therefore, be substan-
tially the same as theirs, you may dip
your pencil in water as well as in oil."
He thought a moment and replied, " I
think you might;" upon which we tried
the experiment, and found we could
•with facility dip the brush in oil or
water as we pleased, and paint with
either. We painted rather a large
picture with it, and using water ; after
a few months, wishing to paint over
the canvass, we tried to rub down the
surface with pumice-stone — itwouldnot
touch it, and with a razor — we might
as well have scraped a stone wall. In
this state, a friend coming in, saw
the picture (an artist), and thought
it was an old picture destroyed by
cleaners. We have now some of the
the last medium he sent us ; we know
.not if it be the same we painted the
picture as above with, but we sus-
pect it is. This we have had ana-
lysed, and are told it is borax. We
rather suspect it had, in very small
proportion, something else with it, at
least, so we are told ; and our friend
offered once to supply us with two
substances which we were to have
made up by a chemist ; but he changed
his mind and supplied us himself. We
therefore invite artists and scientific
persons who take an interest in the
subject, to try borax in every way
they may please. But the following
method was given us by our friend :—
Equal quantity by weight to measure
of oil of the impalpably pounded pow-
der borax, having been first made into
glass. This mixture will have the
richness of varnish, be very pleasant
to use, and will, if so required, by
being made thicker, stand up on the
palette. We have mended an old
picture or two with it, with perfect
success. To those who may reject
this without trying, or those who try-
ing may abandon it, and consider their
labour lost, we have only to say, that
we had rather the one should indulge his
prejudice, and the other suffer the in-
convenience of a little loss of time,
than that we should withhold a know-
ledge of any thing which might by pos-
sibility be beneficial to art. And
let the fact be tested, if the paint of the
old masters does vitrify — if it does, it
is no wonder if, under the file, it pre-
sents a shining appearance, and may
be the " Glassa Romana." It is not -
at all improbable that the " Arte Ve-T
traia," known so long before painting '
in oil, may have supplied Van Eyck
with his discovery ; and it is remark-
able that the most celebrated places for
the manufacture of glass, are the most
celebrated for painting in oil — Hol-
land and Venice. And the Chemical
Dictionary informs us (not having
any idea of a medium for painting),
that in Holland and Venice the art of
purifying borax was kept a secret.
Though we have expressed our doubts
as to the correctness of M. Merimee's
conclusions, we would by no means
speak positively against his varnishes,
provided they be hard ; but we do
think that varnishes alone will not have
that good effect upon the oil, which is
required to give that pure jewellery to
the pigments. The book should be in
every artist's hands. It is a very use-
ful little volume, and contains, concen-
trated, a great deal of practical as well
as entertaining information. The
theory of colours, the French and
English chromatic scales, may be with
great advantage practically applied.
The best colourist will be the first to
see their value. We had been ac-
quainted with the scale of Moses Hans
from Mr Phillips' valuable lectures.
The theories, French and English, in
this little volume, are very clearly ex-
plained. Mr Taylor's historical sketch
of the English school, though capable
of advantageous enlargement, is very
well done, and perhaps, as it is, is best
suited to the work. Tingry's work
is invaluable ; every artist should
have it. Nor should the curious trea-
tise of Leonardo da Vinci be unread —
though unconnected, the information
is great, and probably, on examination,
the scientific and philosophical views
may be found generally correct. His
account of his palette is provokingly
broken off by that great marplot,
Good Intention. The whole passage
is so curious that we are tempted to
extract it. " Though the mixture of
colours one with another do almost
admit of an infinite variety, yet must
it not be passed over without a few
transient remarks. Accordingly, in
the first place, I shall lay down a cer-
tain number of simple colours as a
foundation ; with each of these mixing
each of the rest, one by one, after-
wards two by two, and three by three,
proceeding thus to an entire mixture
1839.]
Merimce on Oil- Painting.
755
of all the colours together; afterwards
I shallbegin to mingle these colours over
again, two by two, then three by three,
four by four, and so to the end. Upon
those two colours shall be laid three,
and to those three shall be added three
more, afterwards six, and so on, con-
tinuing this mixture through all the
proportions. Now, by simple colours,
I mean such as cannot be made or
supplied out of the mixture of any
other colours. White and black I
do not reckon among colours— the
one representing darkness and the
other light ; that is, the one being a
mere privation of light, the other,
mere light itself — either original or
reflected. I shall not omit to speak of
these however, their use being of the
last importance in painting, -which is
nothing in effect but a composition of
lights and shadows, that is of bright
and obscure. After white and black
come green and yellow, then azure
after tanned or ochre, then violet and
lastly red — these eight being all the
simple colours in nature. I now pro-
ceed to speak of their mixture. In the
first place, mix black and white to-
gether, then black and yellow, and
black and red, afterwards yellow and
black, yellow and red, &c. But be-
cause paper begins here to fail me, I
shall treat at large of the mixture of
colours in a work by itself." This may
furnish some useful hints, but we know
not what arm could hold a palette, to
hold the mixtures. He should be a
Briareus in the art who would attempt
it, with no inconsiderable sized palette
on every thumb. There are painters
of the English school, to whose serious
attention we would recommend the
following admirable advice, particu-
larly such as convert parrots and ma-
caws into miraculous landscapes. As
the advice is not ours, but Leonardo
da Vinci's, it may not be scorned.
" That which is beautiful is not al-
ways good ; this is intended for certain
painters, -who are so taken with the
beauty of their colours, that they can
find no room for shadows, never using
any but what are slight and almost in-
sensible. These people have no re-
gard to that force and relievo which
figures receive from a bold shadow,
and are somewhat likeyourfine talkers,
who use abundance of good words, but
without any meaning." — That we may
not be in that predicament, " Verbum
non amplius."
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO.
1.
HE stood before the Signori
With a truthful look and bold ;
A look of calm simplicity,
That Fisherman poor and old :
Though every face, with a gathering frown
And a searching glance, look'd darkly down
While his wonderful tale he told :
2.
And, though a voice from — he knew not where —
(For none beside him stood),
Breathed in his very ear " Beware!"
In a tone might have froze his blood ;
He but cross'd himself as he glanced around,
But falter'd neither for sight nor sound,
For he knew that his cause was good.
3.
" I tell the truth— I tell no lie,"
Old Gian Battista said ;
" But hear me out, and patiently,
Signori wise and dread ;
And, if I fail sure proof to bring
How I came by this golden ring,
7 56 The Legend of the Lido. [June,
(He held it high, that all might see),
There are the cells and the Piombi —
Or — off with this old grey head.
4.
" Ye know — all know — what fearful work
The winds and waves have driven
These three days past. That darkness much
So shrouded earth and heaven,
We scarce could tell if sun or moon
Look'd down on island or lagune,
Or if 'twere midnight or high noon ;
And yells and shrieks were in the air,
As if with spirits in despair
The very fiends had striven.
5.
" And busy, sure enough, were they,
As soon ye'll understand ;
Many believed the doomful day
Of Venice was at hand :
For high o'er every level known,
The rising flood came crushing on,
Till not a sea-mark old was seen,
Nor of the striplet islets green
A speck of hard, dry sand.
6.
" ' Well, Gian and his old boat, quoth I,
* Together must sink or swim.
They've both seen service out wellnigh,
Half founder'd, plank and limb ;
But good San Marco, if he will,
Can save his own fair city still.
I put my trust in him.'
7.
" So— for the night was closing o'er —
San Marco's Riva by,
I thought my little boat to moor,
And lie down patiently
To sleep, or watch, as best I might,
Telling my beads till morning light —
I scarce could see to make all tight,
Night fell so suddenly.
8.
" While I still fumbled (stooping low),
A voice hail'd close at hand.
I started to my feet, and lo !
Hard by, upon the strand,
Stood one in close-cowl'd garments white,
Who seem'd by that uncertain light,
Methought, an holy Carmelite,
Slow beckoning with the hand.
9.
" Before, in answer to the call,
I'd clear1 d my husky throat,
Down leapt that stately form and tall
Into my crazy boat—
1839.] Tke Legend of the Lido. 757
A weight to crush it through. But no,
He came down light as feather'd snow,
As soundless ; and, composedly
Taking his seat, ' My son,' said he,
' Unmoor and get afloat.'
10.
" ' Corpo di Bacco ! get afloat
In such a storm !' quoth I,
' Just as I'm mooring my old boat
Here snug all night to lie.
And, Padre, might I make so free,
What service would you have of me ?'
* First to San Giorgio,' answer'd he,
* Row swift and steadily ;
11.
" ' And fear thou not ; for a strong arm
r Will be with thee,' he said,
' And not a hair shall come to harm,
This night, of thy grey head.
And guerdon great shall be thy meed,
If faithful thou art found at need.'
' Well, good San Marco be my guide,'
Quoth I, and, my old boat untied j
' I've little cause for dread :
12.
" ' Nothing to lose but my old life,—
So for San Giorgio ! — hey !' —
Never again so mad a strife
Unto my dying day
Shall I e'er wage with wind and sea ;
And yet we danced on merrily :
Now cleaving deep the briny grave,
Nofr breasting high the foamy wave,
Like waterfowl at play.
18.
" How we spun on ! — 'Tis true I plied
That night a lusty oar ;
But such a wind, and such a tide
Down full upon us bore !
And yet — in marv'llous little space
We reach'd San Giorgio's landing-place.
' Well, so far,' said my ghostly fare,
And bidding me await him there,
Rose up, and sprang ashore.
14.
" And in a moment he was gone,
Lost in the dark profound ;
Nor, as my oars I lay upon,
Heard 1 a footfall sound
Going or coming ; and yet twain
Stood there, when the voice hail'd again,
And, starting, I look'd round.
15.
" Down stept they both into the boat —
' And now, my son ! ' said he
Whom first I took — ' once more afloat-
Row fast and fearlessly.
The Legend of the Lido. [June,
And for San Nicolo make straight.'
« Nay, nay,' quoth I — ' 'tis tempting fate '—
But he o'erruled me, as of late,
And — splash ! — away went we.
16.
"Away, away— thro' foam and flood! —
' Rare work this same !' thought I,
' Yet, faith, right merrily we scud !
A stouter oar I ply,
Methinks, than thirty years ago.
The Carmelite keeps faith, I trow—-
Hurra, then, for San Nicolo !
We're a holy crew surely ! '
17.
" Thus half in jest, half seriously,
Unto myself I said,
Looking askance at my company.
But our second trip was sped ;
And there, on the marge of the sea-wash'd strand,
Did another ghostly figure stand ;
And down into the boat stept he.—
I cross'd myself right fervently,
With a sense of creeping dread.
18.
" But the Carmelite (I call him so,
As he seemed at first to me),
Said — ' Now, my son ! for the Castles row,
Great things thou soon shalt see.'
Without a word, at his bidding now
For the Lido Strait I turn'd my prow,
And took to my oar with a thoughful brow,
And pull'd on silently.
19.
" When to the Lido pass we came,
Cospetto ! what a sight-
Air, sky, and sea seem'd all on flame,
And by that lurid light
I saw a ship come sailing in
Like a ship of hell ; and a fiendish din "!
From the fiendish crew on her deck rose high,
And ' Ho ! ho ! ho ! ' was the cursed cry—
* Venice is doom'd to-night !'
20,
" Then in my little boat, the three,
With each a stretch'd-out hand,
Stood up ; — and that sign, made silently,
Was one of high command.
For in a moment, over all,
Thick darkness dropt, as 'twere a pall ;
And the winds and waves sank down to sleep,
Though the mutt'ring thunder, low and deep,
Ran round, from strand to strand.
21.
" As it died away, the murky veil,
Like a curtain, aside was drawn ;
And lo ! on the sea lay the moonlight pale,
And the daemon-ship was gone.
1839.] I he Legend of the Lido. 759
The moonlight lay on the glassy sea,
And the bright stars twinkled merrily,
Where the rippling tide roll'd on.
22.
" « Well done, well done, so far, my son !'
Said the first of the ghostly three.
' Thy good night's work is wellnigh done,
And the rich reward to be :
Put back— and, as we homeward row,
Land these my brethren dear ; whom know
For San Giorgio and San Nicolo —
Thou shalt afterwards know me.'
23.
" ' And doubtless,' to myself I said,
« For the greatest of the three : '
But I spoke not ; only bow'd my head,
Obeying reverently :
And pulling back, with heart elate,
Landed as bidden my saintly freight.
—That ever, old boat, it should be thy fate,
To have held such company !
24.
" The voyage was done ; the Riva won,
From whence we put to sea.
' And now, my son !' said the mighty one,
' Once more attend to me ;
Present thee with the coming day
Before the Signori, and say,
That I, San Marco, sent thee there,
The great deliverance to declare,
This night wrought gloriously.
25.
" ' What thou hast heard and seen this night,
With fearless speech unfold :
And thy good service to requite,
It will to thee be told
Five hundred ducats !' « Holy saint !'
I meekly ask'd, with due restraint ;
' Will they believe what I shall say,
And count, on his bare word, such pay
To the fisherman poor and old ?'
26.
" ' This token give to them,' said he,—
And from his finger drew
The ring, most noble Signori,
I here present to you.
' Let search in my treasury be made,
'Twill be found missing there,' he said.
So — vanish'd from my view!"
27.
There ran a whisp'r'mg murmur round,
As Gian closed his tale ;
And some still unbelieving, frown'd,
And some with awe grew pale.
Then all, as with one voice, cried oixt,
" Why sit we here in aimless doubt,
760 The Legend of the Lido. [June,
The means, and place of proof so nigh ?
One glance at the holy treasury
All words will countervail."
28.
Led by the Doge Gradenigo,
Set forth the solemn train,
Through arch and column winding slow
Till the great church door they gain.
With them the fisherman was led,
Guarded by two ; but his old head
He held up high : — " For sure," said he,
" San Marco will keep faith with me,
And prove his own words plain."
29.
The Proveditore stept on first
With high authority ;
And at his word, wide open burst
The saintly treasury ;
And holy monks, with signs devout,
Held high the blessed relics out :
And gifts of emperors and kings
(Priceless, inestimable things !)
Display'd triumphantly.
30.
Familiar as their beads to them
(So oft recounted o'er
Each history) was relic, gem,
And all the sacred store.
But now, " What know ye of this thing ?"
The Doge said, holding forth the ring,
" Have ye seen its like before ?"
31.
Short scrutiny sufficed. " Full well
That ring we know," said they.
" But if taken hence by miracle,
Or how, we cannot say.
'Tis the same this blessed image wore,
San Marco's self." All doubt was o'er.
" Viva San Marco evermore !''
Was the deafening roar that day.
32.
What throat than Gian's louder strain'd
The exulting sound to swell ?
And when the ducats, fairly gain'd,
Into his cap they tell,
With promise for San Marco's sake
Like sum a yearly dole to make :
" Viva San Marco I" shouted he ;
" Who would not row in such company
Against all the fiends in hell ?"
C.
1889.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 761
BOMB ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER.
FASCICULUS THE THIRTEENTH.
" From the vacant riband they went on to talk over this man's pension and the other man's job, and
considered who was to pet such and such a place when such and such a person should re.-ign, or succeed
to something better. Then all the miserable mysteries of ministerial craft were unfolded to Vivian's
eyes. He had read, he had heard, he h d believed that public afl'.n s weie conducted in this manner,
but he had never till now actually seen it , he was really novice enough still to lei 1 surprise at finding
that, after all the fine professions made on both sides, the main, the onlv object of these politicians
was, to keep their own or get into tne places of others. Vivian felt, every moment, his di-gust and his
melancholy increase. • And is it with these people I have consented to act ? Ana am 1 to be hurried
along by this stream of corruption to infamy and oblivion ?' " — Miss EDGE WORTH.
I HAD been married to Sophia more
than fifteen years, and had successively
essayed the various toils which await
the gentleman of the press — rising by
gradation and seniority, according as
my superiors on the paper were car-
ried off to Elysium, the Fleet, or Bo-
tany Bay (as the case might be), by
the several steps of penny-a-liner,
paragraph-compounder, and " dread-
ful. accident"-maker, up to supernu-
merary theatrical critic, and occasional
reporter. Thence I ascended into
"the Gallery," and became a perma-
nent parliamentary reporter, in which
capacity, as the inevitable conse-
quence of my situation, I imbibed that
propensity to exterminate oysters for
which you are indebted to the honour
of my acquaintance, and also a cor-
responding and equally extravagant
disposition towards drink. Man is the
child of circumstances. Wordsworth
says, the child is father of the man —
that's poetry ; I say, circumstances are
the fathers and mothers of men — that's
fact ; and, in the circumstances in
which a coal-whipper or parliamentary
reporter must necessarily be placed, I
defy eitherthe one or the other to avoid
a propensity to malt-liquors. Fancy
yourself, my good sir, instead of re-
clining at your ease as you are now,
luxuriating over this Magazine, or,
what is better still, having some fair
girl to read it you — fancy yourself, I
say, perched sky-high in a dirty hole
of a gallery, whereunto ascendeth
clouds of dust, smoke of lamps, and
smells of all unsavoury things, with
your hat full of " slips," and your poc-
kets full of quill-pens and writing-fluid,
inhaling the tallow-smelling atmo-
sphere, deafened with noise and blind-
ed with dust, cocking your ear to
catch the faintest echo of the vapid
platitudes of that poor creature the
Home- Secretary, the mouthings of
Hobhouse, the faded flippancy of that
battered-out debauchee Lord Cupid,
for hours together — receiver of stolen
nonsense, a recorder of lies, a chroni-
cler of small beer ; fancy this, not.
once or twice, but for a lifetime — not
your diversion, but your trade — I say,
fancy this, and thank God that you
only know the sort of life it is
through the medium of your imagina-
tion !
Between the life of the coal-whip-
per and that of the parliamentary re-
porter I see no manner of difference.
Both are Irishmen — both shamefully
worked and shamefully paid — both
imbibing an atmosphere that makes
tippling essential to existence — both
pass the prime of life and the period
of human enjoyment in an unintermit-
ting struggle to obtain the mere ne-
cessaries of existence — and both, when
the season of age and infirmity arrives,
are pushed from their stools by more
active labourers, and, lonely and de-
serted, pass the twilight of existence
in poverty and pinches, and finally
escape the workhouse in the grave !
1 emerged from "the Gallery" as
soon as I could, you may be sure, and
was appointed a sort of sub-editor, at
which 1 became so expert, that I could
do any thing but write the leading-
articles, which were furnished by a
gentleman of the bar, hired for that
purpose at three guineas per week.
In this sub-editorial capacity I hap-
pened to be employed in paying one
of our penny-a-liners for two " myste-
rious occurrences," five " shocking ac-
cidents," and an " extraordinary cir-
cumstance," which he had concocted
(to order) out of his own head, for
that day's paper, when, taking a news-
paper from his pocket, the penny-a-
liner, who happened to be a Galway
man, directed my attention to the fol-
lowing announcement, headed " Af-
fair of honour." " We (the Castlebar
Blazer} have the pleasure to announce
Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster- Eater. [June,
762
that an affair of honour was decided
near the Cross- Guns, on Sunday
morning (after last mass), between
Mr Bodkin of Bodkin Bog, in this
county, and Major Derrydown of the
North Mayo militia, in which the for-
mer gentleman met with an accident.
We understand the slight difference
arose about a cover hack, warranted
sound by Mr Bodkin to the Major,
but which the latter discovered to
have been afflicted with a blood spavin ;
whereupon the Major demanded in-
stant satisfaction, which, after some
delay (owing to the Major's bill for
the mare having been protested), was
acceded to by Mr Bodkin.
« At the third fire, Mr Bodkin fell,
shot through the occiput in a work-
manlike manner, the Major having
received his adversary's ball through
both whiskers, cheeks included ; where-
upon the delighted spectators peace-
ably dispersed to witness another
fight ten miles off. The parties were
attended to the ground by Count
O'Gilligan of the Holy Roman Em-
pire, and Patrick Taafe, Esq. of
Hovel- Taafe, who together published
a manifesto, declaring that their prin-
cipals, surviving and deceased, proved
themselves close shots and perfect gen-
tlemen !
" We have the further pleasure to
announce, that another affair is ex-
pected to come off on Sunday next, at
the same hour, between the gentle-
men above mentioned, Count O'Gilli-
gan and Patrick Taafe, Esq., who are
well-known as not likely to leave the
ground without showing 'pepper.'
We understand this difference arises
out of a bowl of mutton-broth, and
trust the weather maybe auspicious."
In another part of the paper, there
is an expression of the editor's strong
suspicion that some evil-minded per-
sons have it in contemplation to insti-
tute a prosecution in the Bodkin
affair, and he (the editor) warns the
grand jury, that, if they attempt to
find a bill, they may expect nothing
less than to be individually " riddled ;"
and further takes the liberty to assure
the going judge of assize, that, if he
countenances any such low and un-
gentlemanly proceeding, he may de-
pend upon the editor of the Blazer,
that there will be '-'wigs on the
green!"
The intelligence of Mr Bodkin's
little " accident" did not in the least
surprise me ; indeed the wonder is
that he had not met with it twenty
years before, which postponement of
his inevitable fate I can only account
for by supposing that Mr Snake Bod-
kin's previous antagonists were not
such close shots as Major Derrydown
of the North Mayo militia. I went
on with my professional avocations,
thinking little about the matter, and
caring less, when a letter in mourning
arrived from Pat Connor, the attorney
of Ballinasloe, to inform me that Bod-
kin had deposited with him a testamen-
tary deed, and duly sealed, signed, and
delivered, bearing date the day before
the date of the duel, and constituting
me tenant in life of the demesne of
Bodkin Bog, with all the lands, mes-
suages, and tenements thereunto ap-
pertaining, for the term of my natural
life ; and begging me, if I was alive,
to come over at once to take posses-
sion ; and, if I was dead, to let him
know by return of post. I forgot to
state that there were two conditions
described in Pat Connor's letter, as
essential to my legal enjoyment of the
estate — the first, that I should make a
handsome apology to Major Derrydown
on behalf of the deceased ; and the
second, that I should take the name
and arms of Bodkin, in preference to
my own. After communicating the
joyful intelligence to Sophia, I wrote
to Pat Connor, to inform him that I
was alive and kicking ; that I would
make the required apology promptly
to Major Derrydown ; and that I would
not only call myself Bodkin, but change
my patronymic to Knitting-needle for
half the money ! Soon after, Sophia
packed up our little all, and we found
ourselves on our way to the Emerald-
Isle, happy in anticipated happiness —
happy in each other — happy in our-
selves ! Our amusement OH the jour-
ney home consisted in building castles
in the air, and pulling them down to
build castles in the air anew. Sophia
was full of little plans of domestic en-
joyment, while I meditated no less
than the purchase of the Castltbar
Blazer, and, instead of hiring a bar-
rister to write the leading articles,
commencing Jupiter Tonans on my
own account.
" I'll astonish their weak minds,
never fear !" said I, "when I get hold
of the Castkbar Blazer."
"I^must have a dairy," observed
Sophia.
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
763
" Hang me, if I don't let them know
what fine writing is 1"
" And a dear delightful donkey."
" A what, Sophy ? " enquired I,
suspecting something personal.
" A donkey, dear," replied my wife,
innocently.
" Well, my love, you shall have a
donkey — But when I get the Blazer
into my own hands, I don't the least
doubt to make it equal to trumps. Let
me see — Monday, a leader on the poor
law ; Tuesday, a slashing-cut-and
thrust, double-barrelled article on
tithes ; Wednesday, a fire-and-fury
letter on the pig trade."
" What sort of house is Bodkin
House ?" enquired Sophy.
" The tumble-down order of archi-
tecture, sweet," said I.
" It must be rebuilt, of course?"
" Of course, my dear ; how can you
ask such a question? — Thursday, a" —
" We will have it in the Elizabethan
style."
" Italian, if you please, my dear.—
Thursday, a" —
" But I do not please any such
thing, my dear."
" Very well, duck."
" Don't duck me, sir, if you please j
and it is not very well. Am I to be
always crossed in my taste about every
thing ? I say again, I will have the
house with a bay window in every
scullery, attic, and cellar ; four prin-
cipal fronts, with two principal gables
to every front."
" Very well, madam."
" Yes, sir— with chimneys as long,
strong, and thick as asparagus in the
cheap season, growing in bundles out
of the roof."
" As you please, Mrs B. — Thurs-
day, a statistical account of Timbuc-
too, with the natural history of the red
herring."
If no man does any thing for the
last time without regret, neither does
any man approach a change in his con-
dition, or open a new vista in his pro-
spects of life, without a sensation plea-
surable, if it be not indeed pleasure in
the purest sense. " Anticipation for-
ward points the view," and novelty
lends a freshness and piquancy to the
anticipation ; the love of change natu-
ral to man, the colouring that inex-
perience gives to hope, the delusive
self-complacency with which we en-
hance the pleasures we expect to en-
joy, while we put away out of our
sight all the drawbacks to those plea/.
VOL, XLY. NO,
sures that are inseparable from every
condition of our chequered existence,—
all together mingling confusedly with
our thoughts, produce a sort of mental
intoxication as delightful as it is transi-
tory. But far higher even than this,
pleasurable as it is, are the sensations
of a man who, like myself, after
struggling in the sea of life, scarce
able to keep afloat, without hope or
expectation beyond the moment that
passes over his head, finds himself
suddenly dashed by a friendly wave
upon a hospitable shore, where, in
sheltered repose, he hears the storm
still rage, and in security beholds the
wreck of fortunes less happy than his
own ! It was this that gave such a
pleasurable turn at this period to the
complexion of my mind : relieved from
the pressure of present, or the dread
of future want, I busied myself in con-
triving schemes of ideal felicity. Al-
ready I had flocks and herds pastur-
ing by the banks of rivers, whose
names I did not know ; already I saw
hills, that had no material altitude,
clothed with groves planted by my
imaginative hand ; already the gables
and chimneys of Sophy's intended
Elizabethan mansion rose upon the
view ; already I had surrounded my-
self with troops of friends ; already I
devised plans for the welfare of my
children ; already all the delights of
learned leisure and cultivated retire-
ment I had made my own !
Alas ! that we should find our hap-
piness only in deceiving ourselves—-
that all that is blissful should be base-
less— and that the realities of life and
its sorrows should be the same 1
Our arrival at Bodkin Bog dissi-
pated in a twinkling all our high-
wrought anticipations, and the only
Sleasure we had left was in the de-
cious remembrance of our dreams.
Bodkin Bog was a dreary, sterile tract,
in a wild, treeless, humid country, co-
vered with mosses expanding to the
limits of the visible horizon, and
blotched over with sedgy, black-look-
ing lakes, that appeared like the craters
of volcanoes, which the Fire Brigade
had succeeded in putting out. It was
with no little difficulty I persuaded
Sophia that the mud hovels, scarcely
raised above the earth that formed
them, were the cottages of my tenan-
try ; and that the subdued, squalid,
heart-broken looking wretches who
issued from them could possibly be the
" finest peasantry in the universe."
80
764
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster- Later. [June,
When I came, with the assistance
of Pat Connor, to look into my affairs,
I discovered that, so far from being
likely to rebuild the mansion-house of
the Bodkins in the Elizabethan or any
other style of architecture, it was ques-
tionable whether it would not ultimate-
ly prove that I had gained a loss in the
estate, and had been left a legacy of
law-suits, debts, troubles, and respon-
sibilities, in its enjoyment.
The estate was held by lease of lives
renewable for ever (a tenure peculiar
to Ireland), under the Earl of Clan-
gallaher, at about double the intrinsic
value of the land. Bodkin had it sub-
let to under-tenants, at a rack-rent of
quadruple the value of the land ; and
the under-tenants con-acred it out to
tenants still more desperate than them-
selves, at whatever could be got from
desperate men ; and in this way I have
known an acre of land to cost the un-
happy wretches who ultimately tilled
it not less than twenty pounds.
If the devil were to come up out of
hell for no other purpose than that of
reducing a nation to the extremest
verge of misery, this sub-letting sys-
tem is precisely the system the devil
would adopt. It is forestalling not
the produce of the land, but the land
itself — it is compelling the labourer
who raises that produce, and cultivates
that land, to go through a succession of
usurers, from the lord of the fee down
to the top-booted, whisky- smelling ras-
cally middleman, who calculates to a
potato skin — ay, to a potato skin — the
minimum quantity of food by which
human life can be kept in, and that
minimum regulates the rent — the pro-
duce of the soil in Ireland is the rent,
and the rent is the produce of the soil
— the total produce — minus the quan-
tity of potato absolutely necessary to
enable the farmer to exist — not to live
— to exist, I say, for the purpose of
extracting from the soil the produce
thereof. The cultivator of the land in
Ireland — the raiser of its millions of
exported produce and its millions of
exported rent — facetiously called a
farmer — is never expected to pay his
rent ; he is expected only to give his
skill, time, labour, and the total pro-
duce of his farm — facetiously described
as rent. The rascally middlemen can-
not abide a man who pays his rent —
for they well know that if he can pay
his rent he can live ; they hate a good
tenant as the devil hates holy water,
for they are well assured that an honest
tenant will only subject himself to an
honest rent : the practice of the mid-
dleman is to lay on a rent which he
knows the farmer cannot pay — by this
means he has his victim completely in
his power — by this means he gleans
the last potato off the land, and gets
that land made productive for abso-
lutely nothing.
The plan Bodkin adopted was as
follows : — When any of the cabins and
potato plots on Bodkin Bog fell vacant,
he took proposals, as he called it ; that
is, he gathered the houseless, the starv-
ing, and the unemployed together, and
had a sort of auction, encouraging
them to bid over one another's heads,
when he decided not in favour of the
highestbidder,but of the strongest man
— not the wretch whose desperation
offered the most, but the man out of
whose sinews the highest rent could
be actually got in the shape of labour.
The rent was paid by the daily labour
of the tenant, at fivepence a day in
winter, and eightpence in summer ;
and at these wages, eight or nine
months of unintermitting toil were re-
quired to pay the rent of his hovel and
patch of potato ground, which, when
I came to the estate, was as much as
five pounds for half a rood of ground,
which, on my solemn oath, I can de-
pose to as not worth more than fifteen
shillings the acre ! I denounce these
rascally middlemen. Of landlords,
some are good, others bad, and not a
few indifferent ; of the middlemen, one
and all are equally bad — neither far-
mers nor gentlemen — neither fish, flesh,
nor good salt herring — clodhopping
pawnbrokers, agricultural usurers, ras-
cals in potatoes, and rogues in grain !
Lord Londonderry, Lord Lansdowne,
the Marquis of Downshire, the Duke of
Devonshire, Lord Lorton, Lord Stan-
ley— every man who can point to a de-
cent cottage on his land, and lay a head
on his pillow, not disquieted by the
consciousness that people are dying on
his estate from actual want — every one
of these worthy men, of both parties,
have cashiered the rascally middlemen.
The cream of the joke is, however,
that, while the good landlords are al-
most all non-resident, the rascally
middlemen are always on the spot, for
purposes of extortion. If it comes to
the middleman's ears, that Pat Mul-
lins's wife bought a second-hand
flannel petticoat, or that Jemmy
Joyce burns rushlights in his cabin, or
that Thady Brady's little boy was seen
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
in a pair of breeches, he is like to go
mad with rage and vexation ; but if,
by an unlucky chance, he happens to
get wind of the killing- of Corney Cal-
laghan's pig, and discovers that the
spare ribs and offal, instead of being
sold (with the carcase), were devoured
by the family, he denounces eternal
vengeance against the whole clan Cal-
laghan, rushes home like a lunatic,
turns Mrs Middleman out of doors,
thrashes young Master Middleman
(who is intended for the bar), and
kicks his top-boot through Miss Mid-
dleman's semi-grand piano !
" I never thought it would come to
this," said Sophia, sorrowfully looking
out on the brown bog and plashy lake
that formed our drawing-room prospect
in the tumble-down mansion of the
Bodkins of Bodkin Bog — " I never
thought it would come to this."
I saw a fine opportunity of making
an observation on Elizabethan archi-
tecture, and bundles of asparagus
chimneys, but checked myself in time,
and only observed in reply — .
" I never thought 7 would come to
this."
" To what — mon ami?" enquired
Sophy.
" To be a middleman," replied I ;
" to subsist upon the starvation of my
fellow- creatures — to suck their blood
— to find their competence my ruin,
their misery my gain — to watch every
morsel they put into their children's
mouths, and see so much deducted
from my rent."
" "Tis terrible indeed," observed
Sophia ; " who can bear the spectacle
of so much misery, who has a heart to
feel, but not the power to relieve ! "
" To eject, distrain, and auction off
— to bully, threaten, and cajole," con-
tinued I.
"To see their wives ragged and squa-
lid, their children naked and hungry."
" Yes — and themselves, with hearts
past hope, and, as a natural conse-
quence, faces pa"st shame."
" We had better return to London,"
concluded Sophia, with a deep sigh.
In this dilemma, Pat Connor was
sent for ; and that functionary, Sophy,
and myself, held a council of war — or
I should, with more strictness, call it
a committee of ways and means. So-
phia was sure the Earl of Clangalla-
her would reduce our head-rent ; but
Pat Connor assured Sophia that the
Earl was a pauper, and paupers never
reduce anybody's rent, Sophia then,
in the generosity of her heart, declared
that it was our duty to God and man
to reduce our rent whether or not ; but
Pat Connor demonstrated, to his own
blundering satisfaction, that Bodkin
had mortgaged his interest in the ter-
ritory to such an extent, that the
profit-stock, after paying interest of
borrowed money, and the other liabi-
lities, would leave little more than a
nominal balance, and that we should
not be able to live, much less reduce
the rent, unless we stayed upon the
land, and managed our own affairs.
" Well, I do not wish to stay here,"
said Sophia, " when my means to do
good cannot keep pace with my incli-
nation ; and sooner than live upon the
produce of such misery, I would pre-
fer to return to London, and support
myself by the labour of my own
hands."
Generous, kind-hearted soul 1 If
ever I discover the philosopher's stone,
you shall be mistress of an Elizabethan
edifice, as magnificent as Hatfield,with
bundles of asparagus chimneys, pier-
cing the seventh heaven !
To make a long story short, we
stayed three weeks at Bodkin Bog, by
which time Sophia had reduced her-
self to her last flannel petticoat, and
I was left without any other clothes
than those on my back. I gave a
power of attorney to Pat Connor to
act as my agent, on the condition of
reducing the tenants' rents five-and-
twenty per cent, paying the interest
of the incumbrances, saving me harm-
less, and remunerating himself rea-
sonably for his time and trouble. Pat
Connor had no head, but nature had
compensated for the loss by giving
him a little heart ; he was poor, and
on that account I gave him credit for
being honest.
" You know, Mr Connor," remarked
Sophia, " that for ourselves we expect
nothing from this miserable place,
except the pleasure of knowing that
those who depend upon us shall not
be completely wretched."
" They're used to it, ma'am, quite
used to it, I assure you," was the cool
response of Mr Pat Connor.
" They may, sir," said my wife
warmly, " but ice are not — we have
been accustomed to see men housed
like men, fed like men, clothed like
men — not housed like wolves, fed like
dogs, and clothed like scarecrows!
I am astonished to hear such an ob-
servation, Mr Connor."
766 Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [June,
Pat Connor was a married man
himself — so he quaked in his shoes !
" We leave these poor people,"
said Sophia, with tears in her eyes,
" to your generosity — to your jus-
tice."
Pat Connor laughed in his sleeve —
justice and generosity expected from
an attorney of Ballinasloe, was so de-
vilish good, as well as new !
" Would to God," exclaimed So-
phia, with vehemence, " that they
who have the power I want, had the
will I possess — and that Irishmen, in-
stead of treating lightly the distresses
of their countrymen, would respect
their miseries, and lend their lives to
relieve them ! "
Pat Connor scrutinized the floor,
blushed, and looked rather ashamed of
himself.
" Pardon me, Mr Connor, if I have
said too much, or rather, if my feelings
have been expressed as warmly as I
feel," continued Sophia. " I know that
you can do little for our poor people —
the distresses that press upon us press
with accumulated weight upon them
— the embarrassment of the landlord
is the misery of the tenant ; but there
is one thing you can still afford — your
sympathy in their distresses ; there is
a shelter you can always provide —
your protection from oppression ! "
Pat Connor started up, declared
that if he should lose his commission
altogether he would not be severe on
the Bodkin Bog tenantry — that there
was no resisting a lady of such noble
sentiments — and that, if he could not
leave Bodkin Bog better, declared,
upon the honour of an attorney, which
may be considered equivalent to ano-
ther gentleman's oath, that he would
leave it no worse!
Before we finally left that part of
the country, we waited upon our land-
lord, the Earl of Clangallaher, inform-
ing his lordship of the disappointment
in our territorial expectations, of the
arrangements we had made to return
again to London, and our desire to be
the bearers of his lordship's com-
mands. With Lord Clangallaher I
had some slight previous acquaint-
ance, reporting his speeches in Par-
liament in a superior style, and occa-
sionally troubling him for a frank ; he
had got wind, too, of Sophia's charac-
ter in the country, which was exag-
gerated upon the Irish principle of a
thousand pounds' worth of praise for
three penny worth of civility, so that
he received us very graciously, made
us stay dinner, and commanded us
peremptorily to remain the next day.
In the countries beyond the Shannon,
remaining the next day is an equiva-
lent term for remaining as long as you
like, or rather as long as you must.
Accordingly we staid a fortnight with
the old earl, and enjoyed a brace of
the pleasantest weeks I ever killed in
my life. The Earl of Clangallaher
was, as I have said, a pauper ; he was,
moreover, a finished old Irish gentle-
man— the finest specimen of that noble
animal — and may I never eat another
Carlingford oyster if I wouldn't rather
dine off a dish of flummery with a man
of his stamp, than wash down turtle
with turtle punch, at the board of a
city alderman or East India director.
Before leaving, the earl called me
aside, and after some expressions com-
plimentary to my wife and myself,
regretted that, in the circumstances in
which his estates were, it was utterly
impossible for him to do any thing
towards the augmentation of our pecu-
niary interest in Bodkin Bog ; but ob-
served that, if a situation in Dublin
would lie in my way, he had written
a pressing letter to his relative Vis-
count Cremona, who, in addition to
other government offices, was one of
the Commissioners of National Navi-
gation, and had vast power and pa-
tronage at his disposal. " Accord-
ingly," the earl continued, " I wished
to know whether you would do me the
favour to present this letter to Lord
Cremona — I say do me the favour,
because I am satisfied his lordship will
feel obliged to me for having recom-
mended to his notice a person so well
entitled in every way to notice as
yourself."
The unexpectedness of this favour
on the part of his lordship — his bland
and considerate manner, and the in-
genuous turn he gave to his intention
of providing for me for life, which
none but a nobleman of two centuries'
standing can give — laying an obliga-
tion so gracefully on your shoulders
that you cannot feel its weight, or
rather transferring the weight alto-
gether from your shoulders to his own,
so overwhelmed me, that if I had pre-
viously known what afterwards turned
out, that the patronage of his lordship
would have been the most unfortunate
accident of my life, I would neverthe-
less have done as I did — accepted the
favour with a warmth and readiness
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
767
that showed I knew the kindness that
prompted it, and was grateful for it.
Ireland is the land of job. From
the highest to the lowest, every per-
son in the remotest degree connected
with the public service is a jobber by
trade. The lords lieutenant job with
the supporters of their government,
or rather of the government whereof
they are the Polichinellos — the lords
chancellor job with the swarm of
seedy, needy, greedy, clamorous gen-
tlemen of the bar, except in the case
of Chancellor Hannibal, who jobs only
with the fruit of his own loins— the
secretary of state, his under- secretary,
and the under-secretary's private se-
cretary— as also the under-secretary's
private secretary 'sunder-secretary, job
with every living soul that will job with
them. As my friend Isaacs, the slop-
seller of Houndsditch, observes of his
congenial avocation, " I vill buy you,
by Gosh, and by Gosh I vill sell you
all de same." The only difference
between old Isaacs and the slop-sellers
of Dublin Castle is, that whereas the
latter traffic upon the public capital,
the Jew, more honest, carries on busi-
ness upon capital of his own.
There is no appointment in the gift
of these official jobbers which you may
not hope to attain, provided you have
no real or substantial qualification.
There is nothing for which you may
not confidently apply, providing you
can prove to their satisfaction that you
have not the shadow of a claim . There
is no degree of social familiarity to
which you may not aspire, provided
you have the required number of extra
joints in your back-bone.
Under one vice-regal reign a civet-
scented coxcomb, a clerical scamp, or
a captain with a turn for intrigue, will
be provided for in preference to all
others. One bumpkin of a secretary
of state provides for a fellow who
played skittles at Oxford, and an-
other puts his bastard son into a splen-
did snuggery for life ; but in all cases,
and under all circumstances, it is ex-
pected that to gain an appointment in
Ireland you must be a native of Eng-
land. The better to succeed in offi-
cial duties among the people, you are
required to know nothing of them,
and only to entertain for them the
highest contempt ; and the more effec-
tually to serve the country, you are to
take all you can get, and cut out of it
as fast as you possibly can. From the
lord lieutenant down to the bloated
state-porter at the lord lieutenant's
door, in the whole hive of officials — if
hive that can be called which is devoid
of industry and produces nothing-
there is not an insect in the slightest
degree identified with the people of
Ireland — with their benefit in anyway,
past, present, and to come. They
swarm round the viceroy, spectators of
a pitiable puppet-show, take their sa-
laries quarterly, and their very names
are unknown save in the almanac that
chronicles their places.
To assist the bumpkin statesmen in
the proper distribution of this patron-
age, eaoh secretary of state is ear-
wigged by a knot of sturdy beggars
from the moment he arrives on the
" sod," who cling to him like horse-
leeches, sucking through him the pub-
lic money, and only dropping off to
fasten upon the next bumpkin states-
man in succession. You will see these
fellows in the lord lieutenant's anti-
room besieging his excellency ; in the
secretary of state's anti-room block-
ading the secretary of state ; in the
under- secretary's cooling- room, dan-
cing attendance on the under-secre-
tary, lying in ambuscade under the
Castle stairs, and uncovering to every
flunky who wears the vice-regal livery.
No matter whether the thing to be
given away be a peerage or a police-
man's place, it is all the same, the
vermin are instantly in motion, and
the scratching incontinently begins.
Such more than oriental prostration,
such lick-spittling, such a congrega-
tion of rascally running dustmen you
never saw in your life ! If you were
to enquire what public services these
virtual dispensers of the patronage of
Ireland had ever performed, to entitle
them to select the office-holders of
the nation — if you demanded whether
their energies had ever been directed
to noble aims or praiseworthy pur-
suits— if they, or any of them, were
known in the remotest degree in lite-
rature or science, arms or arts, you
must receive a reply in the nega-
tive— place-hunting is'their trade, and
prowling about the Castle of Dublin,
the business of their lives ; nor are
you ever informed of their existence
save in some scurvy rag of a news-
paper that mentions their names for
hire, or at the tail of some humbugging
report to some humbugging commis-
sion. For the use and benefit of these
men are commissions organized in
perpetual succession, with the usual
768
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [June,
attendant army of civil mercenaries —
for their behoof are old situations re-
vived, useless ones re-salaried, and
new ones contrived — it is to them that
the public money is voted, and it is
through their hands the public money
is invariably misapplied.
Among the more eminent of the
Irish undertakers of the present day,
I cannot avoid making honourable
mention of my intended patron Vis-
count Cremona, the Right Honour-
able Lumpkin Snake, and the Reve-
rend Jim Crow, a trio to whom I offer
my respectful compliments, entreating
them to accept the assurances of my
most distinguished consideration. As
it may be useful to gentlemen apply-
ing for situations at Dublin Castle —
that is to say, all the gentlemen,
pseudo-gentlemen, and soi-disant gen-
tlemen in Ireland — I intend briefly
to describe the characters of the Vis-
count Cremona, the Right Honour-
able Lumpkin Snake, and the Reverend
Jim Crow. The character of the
Viscount Cremona — if character that
could be called, which character had
none — was of a negative quantity : his
Lordship was a good-easy, good-inten-
tioned, good-for-nothing man, eminent
only in scouring out a ditch, and great
in a solo on the big fiddle. The Right
Honourable Lumpkin Snake was a
lineal descendant of the celebrated
Mr Snake of the School for Scandal,
with a strong family likeness to that
respectable ancestor ; this difference
only existing, that whereas the great
Mr Snake being once detected in the
commission of a good action, repented
thereof most heartily, and recovered
in time the badness of his character,
the present representative of the fami-
ly has never been suspected even of a
kind or generous action towards man,
woman, or child, and thanks God he
has nothing whatever to be ashamed
of! In appearance he is of the hang-
dog formation, wearing his head en-
fonce between his shoulders, his eyes
downcast, and his back of the fidille
pattern. When you speak to him, he
looks three ways at once, like a stray
goose in a quarry hole, and for the
life of him, cannot look a man straight
in the face — an infallible indication of
the rascal !
The Reverend Jim Crow is by pro-
fession a political parson — of all par-
ties in the world a Whig parson — he
is, moreover, one of the lord lieute-
nant's chaplains, and I have no reason
to believe he would object to be one
of the devil's chaplains, if he could
get a better living by it. The Reve-
rend Jim Crow was not always a
Whig parson — only since the Whigs
came into power ; he was once a
Brunswicker, now he is a Radical;
formerly he was an out-and-out Tory,
at present he goes the entire swing as
a precursor ; to-day he exhibits him-
self at the Bible Society, and to-mor-
row you will find him interdicting
holy writ at a national school.
" Most skilful he to fawn and seek for
power,
By doctrines fashion 'd to the varying
hour."
The man is in hot pursuit of a mitre,
that's the fact ; and, from what I have
seen of him, of his venality, subser-
viency, tergiversation, and re-tergi-
versation, I have not the remotest
doubt, although he has been cruelly
disappointed once or twice, that the
fellow will get it !
In the externals of humanity, the
Reverend Jim Crow is the double of
Mr Snake — the same incapacity of
looking a man straight in the face, or
of holding themselves straight in the
back — the same hang- dog, sinister as-
pect, and the same violoncello- shoul-
ders appertain in an equal degree to
both.
" Hum — ha — exactly so — yes — just
so. Hum — your business — with — .
hum — ah — me ?" enquired the Viscount
Cremona, as I entered his lordship's
study, having previously sent in my
card.
" I have the honour to be the bearer
of a letter from the Earl of Clangal-
laher to your lordship," was my prompt
reply, presenting at the same time my
credentials.
*' Hum — ha — exactly so — yes — just
so — so I thought," was the profound
rejoinder of his lordship.
Now, in good society, when one
gentleman — I don't mean bagman —
presents another with a letter of in-
troduction, the rule is to invite the
bearer to be seated, to lay the letter
on one side, or put it in your pocket,
without looking at more than the su-
perscription, and to address the gen-
tleman recommended to your notice
in a manner that will lead him to the
belief that, if he had brought no letter
at all, he would have been equally ac-
ceptable to you. The gentleman re-
tires, satisfied that the warm courtesy
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
769
with which you have received him is
a tribute less to your friendship for
the introducer, than to his own intrin-
sic power to please ; the belief in his
own power to please gives him plea-
sure, and the object you had in view
in leading him to the belief, and its
attendant gratification, is the constant
object the man of the world and ac-
complished gentleman has in view — .
to please.
When the gentleman leaves, take
up your letter, peruse it, and if you
find every thing as it should be, the
first day you have a few more than
ordinarily agreeable people, send your
new friend an invitation to dinner.
The Viscount Cremona took his
friend's letter exactly as a she-cook
seizes with her tongs a stray cat who
has been clandestinely brought to bed
of an illegitimate kitten } and having
scowled at, rather than regarded me
from head to foot, turned the letter
over, examined the seal, to make sure
that the missive was not a forgery,
and keeping me standing where I was,
commenced reading the epistle intro-
ductory, as you might peruse an in-
tended footman's three months' cha-
racter.
" Hum — ha — just so — exactly so —
so I thought — yes — what do you
want ?" enquired the viscount, fling-
ing Lord Clangallaher's letter con-
temptuously upon the study table, in
a style that convinced me his lordship,
though a nobleman, was no gentle-
man— not in the remotest degree.
" I understand, my lord," said I,
" your lordship is one of the Commis-
sioners of National Navigation."
" Hum — ha — so I thought — just so
— exactly so — ha— hum !"
" And I was led to believe, by the
Earl of Clangallaher, that, on his ac-
count, your lordship might be disposed
to take into your favourable considera-
tion my application to be appointed
one of the inspectors under the bop.rd
at which your lordship so ably pre-
sides."
" Hum— ha — take a seat for a mi-
nute, will ye ? though — hum — I am
rather engaged this morning — exactly
so— just so — hum — ha — ha — hum !"
" I hope, my lord," continued I,
" that if I should be so fortunate as
to obtain the situation through the ge-
nerous interference of your lordship,
I shall discharge my duty with zeal,
fidelity, and" —
"Pooh! — hum — he— just so — so I
thought. Have you — hum — any other
interest? — Eh! — ha — hum!"
" No interest at all, my lord, unless
I succeed in having the advantage of
securing success, in securing that of
your lordship."
"Hum — ha — you sec, mister — eh
— ah — oh, yes! — mister — hum — very
well — you know — we don't do these
things on personal — hum — grounds.
Now, my Lord Clangallaher — you
see— hum — ha — though personally I
have a great — hum — respect for — hum
—him — cannot, you see, do us any
good ; and we, you see — I mean, you
know — hum — that is, you understand
— ha, hum — give these — hum — places
— in exchange for — hum — support of
another — hum — sort. If you — hum
— could do us— you see, any good—
we, you see — it would> I mean, be an-
other sort of a — hum — I mean — of a
thing 3 but without parliamentary—
hum — I mean interest, I can give you
no reasonable — hum — that is, hopes of
a — a — any — that is — (Here his bird-
ship rose, motioning me to the door
with his hand, and bowing very low).
A — a — good maw — ning — mister, a —
a — (here his lordship touched the bell)
— good maw— ning. Eh ! — ah ! — ha !
— hum !"
" Heavens !" said I to myself, as
the porter closed the hall door after
me, " was nature blind, d'ye think, or
drunk, or in her apprenticeship, when
she manufactured such a human ar-
ticle as that ! "
From the Viscount Cremona I pro-
ceeded to the domicile of the Right
Honourable Anthony Lumpkin Snake,
who lived some miles out of town,
whither I took my way on foot, pon-
dering on the wisdom of Providence
(which fools call the caprice of for*
time) in placing an animal like Lord
Cremona in a sphere of life, that, by
precluding him from the necessity of
earning his own bread, saved him from
dying of starvation in a diteh. When
I reached the gate of Mr Snake, a
starved-looking woman reconnoitered
me through the wicket, and after a
series of inquiries,-was at last induced,
on my assurance that I had pressing
business with her master, to admit me.
I walked up the avenue, observing by
the way, that no smoke issued from
the chimneys, and concluded that I
had my walk for my pains, when, to
my surprise, a footman of a cadaver-
ous aspect issued from the front door
and anticipating my pull at the bell,
770 Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [June,
replied in the affirmative to my enquiry
whether his master was at home. With
my card the cadaverous footman pro-
ceeded to his master, while I was in-
vited to remain in the hall; and the
cadaverous footman, observing that I
had walked to the house, desired me
with a sneer to stand upon the mat —
for in Ireland as in England you must
have observed that flunkies have a
terrible hatred to mad dogs, and to
people who visit their masters' houses
on foot. I presume the cadaverous
flunky duly presented the card to his
master, who, after observing, loud
enough for me to hear, " I don't
know him at all/' desired the cadave-
rous flunky in a loud tone to " ask
him what he wants," upon replying
to which polite interrogatory, I was,
with much demur, finally admitted.
" What may your business be with
me ?" enquired the Right Honourable
Anthony Lumpkin Snake, in that tone
of vulgar insolence in which he is ac-
customed to address his inferiors, as a
sort of set-off for the lick-spittling
subserviency with which he approaches
every one above him.
" I took the liberty, sir, of waiting
on you to say that I have been recom-
mended by Lord Clangallaher as a
proper person to fill the situation of
Inspector of National Navigation, and
with many apologies for the intrusion,
venture to solicit your kind interfer-
ence on my behalf, at the forthcoming
election."
" Lord Clangallaher I Pray, sir,
have you any claim on me ? "
" None, sir, whatever."
" Then, I have only to say, I am
astonished at your effrontery in com-
ing to my house to trouble me. I
know little of the Earl of Clangallaher,
and care less; and as for you, sir,
what do I know of you?"
I bowed, and remained silent. I
felt that I had degraded myself in so-
liciting a favour from a scoundrel-
he might have brained me at that mo-
ment with his lady's fan !
" The Reverend Jim Crow," said I
to myself, " is a Christian clergyman,
and a Christian clergyman is ever a
gentlemen. He may not feel inclined
to give me his interest, perhaps, but
doubtless he will not insult me."
With this rather premature reflec-
tion I took my way to the residence
of the Reverend Jim Crow.
The Reverend Jim Crow entered
the room as he enters the presence-
chamber of every pis aller lord lieu-
tenant, on every levee day (and if
you wish to get thoroughly sea-sick —
it may do you good — I recommend
you to go to a levee to look at him),
wriggling and contorting his body in
various evolutions, rubbing his hands
one upon the other, sniggling and sim-
pering, abasement clerically personified.
I told him, in a few words, the ob-
ject I had in view in troubling him j
upon which, with many contortions of
his India-rubber back, he sniggled out
an answer as follows : —
" My dear sir — do you know I feel
acutely the great value of the recom-
mendation of Lord Clangallaher, or
any other nobleman of his rank and
station, and I declare from my heart
(laying his hand on the place usually
occupied by that organ), that I be-
lieve his lordship, when he says, what
is so very plain to be seen, that you
are a gentleman of great attainments.
(Here I bowed very low.) But you
know, sir, my dear sir, that I have a
duty to discharge, to God (pointing
upwards with his fore-finger), and to
my country — (laying his hand once
more on his cardiac region), and I do
assure you that I have opposed my
own relatives who hold situations at
that board, and that I mean to prevent
my own friends, as far as I can, from
getting situations — merit, my dear sir
— you will excuse me — but merit is
with me — for I know my duty — the
sole con-si-de-ra-ti-on : therefore, with
great regret, the deepest regret, I have
to inform you that my duty to God,
and my country — I say my duty — not
my inclination (with a Satanic leer),
preclude me, very much against my will,
from giving you the slightest hope
(here his Reverence heaved a sigh,
and turned up the whites of his eyes
like a duck in thunder), the slightest
hope of obtaining this situation. Good
morning, my dear sir, God bless you !
With this, the Reverend Jim Crow
bowed me out, and I returned to my
dear Sophia, who wept bitter tears,
less for the disappointment I had ex-
perienced, than the insolence I had
endured from wretches, the loftiest of
whom, I will say, and what is more,
if God spares me, I will prove, is un-
worthy to lick the dirt from my shoes !
I dismissed from my mind all recol-
lection of these vermin, and made ar-
rangements for returning to labour
and to London with my dearest So-
phia, the parent of my pleasures, arid
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oystcr-Euter.
771
the soother of my cares, to -whose
bosom 1 turn in my sorrow and in my
joy — in whose sweet companionship I
find the only luxury of life, and on
whose breast, where I have deposited
all my cares, I hope, when the weary
world brings me to an end, to breathe
contentedly my latest sigh !
FASCICULUS THE FOCKTEENTH.
" Dless every man possessed of aught to give.
Long may Long Tilney, Long Pole. Wellesley live ;
And if in lime to come Old Nick should revej
England's Prime Minister— then bless the devil !"
Rejected Addretscs.
I was not a little surprised to re-
ceive, on the morning preceding the
day that was to have witnessed our
embarkation for England, a neat en-
velope, with a card of invitation to
dinner, from the Viscount Cremona,
which had hardly arrived, when an-
other missive was received, enclosing
a card for an evening party, from the
Reverend Jim and Mrs Crow.
As these scoundrels do not usually
exhibit their insolence after this fa-
shion, I concluded the affair was a
hoax, and could make neither head nor
tail of it, until Sophia, who usually
looked at the morning papers for me,
observed, on perusing the paper of
this eventful morning, that the mur-
der was out.
" What do you mean, my love ? "
enquired I.
" We are enabled to state, upon
unquestionable authority, that the Earl
of Alderney is selected to replace Lord
Foozlelesly as Lord Lieutenant of Ire-
land, and that his Excellency has been
pleased to appoint the Honourable
George Gallaher, second son of the
Earl of Clangallaher, to be private
secretary to his Excellency," — read,
Sophia.
" The murder is out, indeed," ex-
claimed I — " the spaniels ! "
" Pardon me, love," interrupted
Sophy, " you have no right to libel
spaniels — they have at least the virtue
of fidelity."
" Very true, Sophy ; I beg the spa-
niels' pardon."
In the course of the day, the cada-
verous flunky, appertaining to Mr
Lumpkin Snake, arrived with a mes-
sage from the right honourable rascal,
his master, to the effect that Mr Snake
would be happy to know if it would
be convenient for me to favour him
with an interview, and where ; and to
express his regret that the indisposi-
tion of Mrs Lumpkin Snake rendered
it impossible for him at present to
gratify the wish nearest to his heart,
of having me on a visit at Lumpkin
Lodge. By the persuasion of Sophia,
my guide, philosopher, and friend, I
abandoned -my original intention of
kicking the cadaverous flunky down
stairs, and consented, dreadfully
against the grain, to say that I would
be happy (God forgive me) to see Mr
Snake whenever he pleased to favour
me with a call — went to dinner to Vis-
count Cremona, for which I was suf-
ficiently punished, in being obliged to
affect to listen to his lordship's mur-
derous performance on the violoncello
of a fantasia of Lindley— and after that
adjourned to the mansion of the Reve-
rend Jim Crow, where I drank, of pure
malice, three bottles of champagne,
the receipt whereof I hereby acknow-
ledge.
In short, until the day of the elec-
tion for an Inspector of National Na-
vigation arrived, my life was one con-
tinued round of feasting and fiddling.
I did not, indeed, visit Lumpkin Lodge,
but I thought nothing of that, as I was
told that the indisposition of Mrs
Lumpkin Snake was of a chronic na-
ture, and that in her disease the smell
of a kitchen fire would be fatal ! If I
had been the Earl of Alderney, or the
Honourable George Gallaher himself,
I could not have been treated with
more distinction. Not only was I in-
vited to parties, but parties were ac-
tually made on my account — carriages
were perpetually driving to the door
of our obscure lodging in Denzille
Street, and Sophia was wearied with
importunities to visit people of vice-
regal consequence, whose names she
had never heard before. I will ho-
nestly confess that I was swindled out
of my sound senses, by the exhibition
of this hollow-hearted rascality. I
actually believed that it was to me, not
to the Honourable George Gallaher
and his venerable father, that all this
adoration was paid ; and believing my-
self possessed of some hitherto undis-
covered merit, plumed myself on my
success, and fell into the trap !
If I live a thousand years, I never
772
Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [June,
will forget the day of my election as
the Inspector of National Navigation.
I went up to the board-room, know-
ing that I was already elected, and
the reverend and right honourable
rascals composing the Board, went
up to the board-room, well knowing
in their hearts that they had elected
me, and that if I were blind, deaf, or
paralytic, they had not, with the fear
of the Lord (Lieutenant) before their
eyes, dared to do otherwise. How-
ever, the farce must be solemnly per-
formed, and solemnly performed it ac-
cordingly was . Although the vacancy
about to be filled up was studiously
concealed, lest the public should get
wind of it and bestow it on some emi-
nent civil engineer, or other qualified
person, there were six-and-fifty candi-
dates ; and, may I never see Mala-
hide, if I didn't pity the poor deluded
devils, many of them from distant
parts of the country, then and there
assembled, to be immolated at the
shrine of the solemn humbug of an
already decided election. They were
all snobs, and I have a natural aversion
to that frequent variety of the human
animal. By the way, they were not
all snobs : there was one so palpably
a gentleman — I knew him by that
first and surest criterion of his class,
repose — that I cottoned to him in a mo-
ment ; for, thank God, although po-
verty precluded me through life from
emulating the gentlemanly dress and
deportment, it cannot deprive one of
the right to admire gentlemanly senti-
ments and habits. I entered into
conversation with this gentleman, a
fine intelligent young fellow — frank,
not familiar — manly, not brusque —
serious, not solemn — gay, not trifling.
But, in short, you read this Magazine,
and, as a gentleman, you must know
what he was. His father, he told me,
had been a field-officer in the British
army — I forget the corps, but I think
it was the 18th light dragoons. After
long and honourable service, he was
seduced by some swindler in coloniza-
tion matters (such as are now not
only protected, but encouraged by the
present government, in every sort of
extortion, oppression, and deceit), and
having sold out of the army, purcha-
sed a territory from the colonization
crimp, where, having laid out his little
all in the necessary expenses, and the
transport of his family, he discovered
that all of his estate that did not con-
sist of lakes I was one dense forest and
impassable swamp. He returned to
his native country a beggar, and died
soon after of a broken heart.
" In a very few years," said his son,
with tears in his eyes, " my father
must have been a Major-general, when
I could have been ensured a commis-
sion in the service."
" Perhaps, sir," said I, " your fa-
ther's services might, if properly re-
presented, still entitle you to the no-
tice of the Horse-Guards."
" I fear not," replied the young
gentleman ; " we have made applica-
tion repeatedly, and my mother and
sisters, by a sacrifice of their little
patrimony, have actually lodged the
money for a commission, but we have
been uniformly answered from the
Horse- Guards that no hope can be af-
forded me of an entry into the ser-
vice. I heard of this situation," con-
tinued he ; " and being desirous to
relieve myself of the horrid conscious-
ness that I have contributed to the
poverty, if not to the misery, of my
family, I have applied for it. Oh !
how happy it would make them if I
should succeed ! "
I felt almost ashamed of myself, for
I knew he would not succeed, and I
knew that / was to preclude his hopes
of success. I thought of his mother
and sisters — I thought of my Sophia ;
and I will say for Sophia that this
was the only moment of my life when
I wished I had never married.
The surly porter of the Commis-
sioners of National Navigation entered
the apartment, and having called out
my name in an authoritative voice, I
left the room and ascended the state
staircase after the fellow, who bowed
very low at every step, as if he knew
that it was all settled, and that I was
already the inspector ; for the vermin
about public offices have a sort of in-
stinct in discovering the proper ob-
jects of their future subserviency. The
secretary — a gentleman and scholar-
received me very politely at the door
of the board-room, and the Commis-
sioners, when I entered, desired me
to take a chair.
" Hum — ha — just so — exactly so —
excuse us, mister — ah ! — you know —
hum — ha — that it is a partof our — hum
— duty — to — ah ! ah ! enquire — into
the — hum — qualifications — hum — of
candidates — at this — hum — election—
ha — hum," observed Viscount Cremo-
na, condescendingly.
" A mere matter of form ! " said the
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
773
Right Honourable Anthony Lumpkiu
Snake.
" A mere matter of form ! " echoed
the Reverend Jim Crow.
"A mere matter of form!" cho-
russed all the other Commissioners of
National Navigation.
" Hum — ha — just so — exactly so —
excuse us, mister — but we muat— hum
— ask you for your — hum — what are
your pretensions to — hum — this situa-
tion?— ha — hum," enquired the Vis-
count, bowing.
" The Earl of Clangallaher, my
lord," I replied, with ludicrous gravity.
" What are your qualifications,"
enquired Snake, who could be syco-
phantic, but not civil, nature having
made him a rascal, but not a gentleman .
" The Earl of Clangallaher, sir,"
repeated I, with another bow.
" 'Tis a mere matter of form — but
you'll excuse me, my dear sir. May
I presume to ask whether you have
any other qualification?" observed
the Reverend Jim Crow.
" Only the Earl of Clangallaher,"
I repeated, for the third time.
" Hum — ha — have you — may I
ask, any — hum — I mean any testimo-
nial s ?'' again interrogated the Viscount
Cremona ?
" Certainly, my lord," said I, "one
from the Earl of Clangallaher."
" Have you any other testimo-
nials ? " enquired Mr Lumpkin Snake.
" Oh yes ! sir," I replied ; " two
from the Earl of Clangallaher ! I "
" Have you any other testimo-
nials ?" re-echoed the Rev. Jim Crow.
" By all means, sir, three from the
Earl of Clangallaher!!!"
The Commissioners of National
Navigation paused, and looked so-
lemnly at one another.
- " Hum — ha — I think," observed
the Viscount Cremona, looking round
the table, " the testimonials (!) and
qualifications (! !) of this gentleman,
are — hum — quite satisfactory."
" Oh! quite satisfactory," replied
the Right Honourable Anthony
Lumpkin Snake.
" Oh ! perfectly satisfactory," said
the Reverend Jim Crow.
" Oh! perfectly satisfactory,"
echoed all the other Commissioners of
National Navigation.
" Mr Secretary, the gentleman may
retire," observed the Viscount Cre-
mona, and Mr Secretary bowed me out
with ludicrous gravity, accordingly.
When I descended into the wait-
ing-room, all eyes were fixed upon
me, and the snobs sidled up, one after
another, to get a hint of the nature of
my examination.
" Did they ask you the relative
strengths of timber and iron ? " en-
quired snob the first.
" Yes."
" Did you answer it?"
" No."
" J know that — J know that — I
know that ! " exclaimed several snobs
in a breath.
" May I ask if they examined you
on the construction of locks in canals?"
enquired snob the second.
" Yes."
" Did you know it ? "
" No."
" 1 know that — I know that — 1
know that!" chorussed several snobs
at once.
" Did they examine you on sub-
marine architecture ?" enquired snob
the third.
« Yes."
" Did you know it?"
" No."
" 1 know that — I know that — I
know that ! " exclaimed the snobs al-
together.
The door of the waiting-room open-
ed, and the eyes of all the snobs were
concentrated that way, in the expecta-
tion of the entrance of the burly porter,
when a very different species of appari-
tion presented itself. The door opened,
and while all the eyes of all the snobs
were directed upon it, a graceful girl
entered the apartment. She had not
made more than three paces advance
into the room, when, modestly look-
ing round, her eyes encountering the
vulgar stare of all the snobs, she made
a full stop, colouring deeply, and in
her embarrassment dropped a packet
from her bosom.
I hastened to pick it up, and pre-
senting it to the lady, had just observed
on the envelope the words " ON HIS
MAJESTY'S SERVICE," when the young
gentleman, whose conversation with
me I have elsewhere detailed, turning
from the window, caught a glimpse of
his sister, and, exclaiming "Char-
lotte," flew instantly to her arms. He
led the young lady into a window ra-
ther more removed from the gaze of
the snobs, and having conversed with
her for a moment, approached me in
evident emotion, with a request that I
would do him the favour to read a
letter which he had not sufficient com-
774 Some Account of Himself.
posure fo peruse himself. I followed
accordingly into the recess, and break-
ing open the letter, in a low tone, so
as not to be overheard by the snobs,
communicated the contents as follow :
" Horse Guards, May — , 18 —
" Sir, — I am directed by his Lord-
ship the General Commanding-in-
Chief to acquaint you, that upon a
representation made to him of the long
and distinguished services of your late
father, his lordship has been pleased
to recommend you for a commission
in the eighteenth light dragoons, with-
out purchase, to which in a few days
you will be gazetted accordingly. You
are hereby indulged with two months'
leave of absence, when you will be
expected without delay to join your
regiment, now stationed in Dublin,
and report yourself to the command-
ing officer for duty. — I have the ho-
nour to be, sir, your very obedient
humble servant, .
" To , Esq.
, Dublin."
I folded up the letter, handed it to
the young gentleman, who pressed
my hand warmly, without uttering a
word, then, taking his sister, who had
drawn her veil closely over her face,
but not before some tears dropped
from her eyes on his arm, bowed me
an adieu, and hastily left the apart-
ment. I went to the window, and saw
the young soldier and his sister walk
hurriedly down the street, arm in arm.
I threw it open, and leaning out, fol-
lowed them as far as I could with my
eyes, but I did not follow them far,
for my eyes, somehow or other, be-
came dim.
I forgot the snobs, the commission-
ers, and the election — it is not every
day a man is permitted to enjoy the
luxury of beholding a deserving family
made happy !
When the four- and-fifty remaining
snobs had been examined upon the re-
lative strengths of iron and timber,
the construction of locks on canals,
and sub-marine architecture, we were
all invited by the Secretary to the
board-room, where the Viscount Cre-
mona addressed the poor deluded
wretches in manner and form following:
" Hum — ha — justso — exactly so — so
I thought — hum — the Commissioners
of National — hum — Navigation, have
carefully examined — ha — into the qua-
lifications of every — hum — candidate
—and have resolved that Mister — ah
— ah— (pointing to me), is by pre-
By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [June,
vious — hum — education, habits — and
great — hum — general acquirements,
the fittest — hum — to be the — hum —
Inspector of National — hum — eh — ha
—hum ! "
" I may as well tell you all," ob-
served Snake, "that the Commis-
sioners have come to this decision
unanimously.
" Unanimously," echoed the Reve-
rend Jim Crow, with emphasis —
" Unanimously," chorussed the rest
of the Commissioners.
The Secretary bowed us all out, the
Commissioners of National Navigation
went home in their several carriages
to write letters of congratulation to the
Earl of Clangallaher (of which I have
three now in my pocket), the discomfit-
ed snobs sneaked off, wondering how a
man came to be elected who knew
nothing of the relative strengths of
iron and timber, the construction of
locks on canals, or sub- marine archi-
tecture, and I went home to acquaint
Sophia of my success, and to dress for
an evening party at the town-mansion
of Viscount Cremona.
It is not my purpose here to examine
the other appointments of the Com-
missioners of National Navigation,
(and their flame is Legion), but this I
will solemnly and truly assert, that as
far as I could ascertain, not one ap-
pointment they ever made, not one
person they ever promoted, was pro-
moted or appointed by them upon any
other grounds, or for any other rea-
sons than the reasons and the grounds
that governed my own appointment.
The Earl of Alderney had not re-
signed the government of Ireland
more than two months, when I re-
ceived a mandamus from the Commis-
sioners, ordering my attendance upon
the next board-day, when I attended
accordingly.
On entering the board-room, I was
met by a scowl from the Right Hon.
Anthony Lumpkin Snake, precisely
similar to that with which he greeted
me upon my first interview with him at
Lumpkin LL Jge, and which convinced
me that it would not be long before
a hole would be picked in my coat by
that functionary. The Viscount Cre-
mona, in his usual hesitating manner,
which I will not fatigue the reader by
further translating, informed me that
the Board had been made aware of the
fact, that I was able to do something
more than write my own name — and
that I had actually committed the
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater.
775
crime of writing a pamphlet, which
nobody had sold, which nobody had
bought, and of which not a solitary
copy, save one, which I had the mis-
fortune to present to Dr Viper — apro-
tegeofthe Reverend Jim Crow — which
was presented by that small animal to
the Reverend rascal his master, who
forthwith (for he had no longer the
fear of the Earl of Clangallaher before
his eyes,) laid the production thus re-
ceived, with all the circumstances of
aggravation he could imagine, before
his-brother Commissioners. After an
acknowledgment of the authorship,
which Mr Lumpkin Snake, who is a
Jesuit, invited me to deny, under pre-
tence that he wished me to save my
situation by telling a falsehood, the
Commissioners called on me for my
defence. My defence wag, that I had
written pamphlets before, and that the
Commissioners not only permitted,
but encouraged me to write them ;
praised them when written, and had
lick-spittled me for writing them ; and,
moreover, had thanked the Earl of
Clangallaher for recommending to
their notice a man capable of writing
so well.
This staggered them a little, but they
were too old to be put off their game
by such an answer as that ; and ac-
cordingly they repeated the charge
over and over again, informing me, in
reply to all my supplications, that they
had no occasion, unless they pleased,
to give me any reason for my dismis-
sal, that they were determined to dis-
miss me, and that they only gave me
this reason for doing so as a satisfac-
tion to my mind, and as a matter of
favour. I offered, both in words and
writing — for I thought of my wife and
children — to make them every satis-
faction for my unintentional offence.
I implored them, with tears in my eyes,
not to bring me and my family to ruin ;
but I implored in vain, Whether it
was that my election was a job of so
shameful a nature, that they wished to
drive away at once the recollection of
it and the object — or whether it was
that I was zealous and inflexible in the
discharge of my duty — or whether it
was that I knew more than all my
masters, put them all together — or,
what would contrast more forcibly
with them, even than talent perhaps,
because I was straightforward, manly
and independent; certain it is, from the
moment that the Earl of Aldemey
turned his back, when they knew they
dare do it, they settled my dismissal
and dismissed me accordingly. Not
only did they dismiss me, but they
carried their spite beyond their own
power — they refused me a certificate
to enable me to gain employment else-
where— they got up in their places in
Parliament, and although, thank God,
they could not even get a fact against
me, hinted a fault, and hesitated dis-
like. They gathered together the
hirelings who depended upon them for
present bread and future promotion,
to testify to what they pleased to allege
against me, on pain of being subjected
to my penalty.
But why do I suppose motives for
conduct where motives are so plain —
why invent hypotheses to explain that
which more than sufficiently explains
itself? The fact was, the Honourable
Tom Shuffleton had just sold out of
the army, where he had distinguished
himself everywhere but in the field,
and wanted a situation. Now, there
was unfortunately no situations va-
cant at the time the Honourable Tom
Shuffleton expressed, through his uncle,
the Earl of Fishgall, who patronized
the new Lord Lieutenant, his inten-
tion to take a situation ; and as the
Honourable Tom couldn't wait, the
next best thing the Commissioners of
National Navigation could do for him
was to make a vacancy, which, after
some consultation as to whose situa-
tion would make the vacancy most
quickly, was accordingly done — and
the privilege of being ejected, was
very politely conferred on me.
1 was dismissed, as I told you be-
fore, and received a very polite inti-
mation from the secretary (which I
have also in my pocket), informing
me that there had been an election for
an inspector vice your humble servant
cashiered, that the number of candi-
dates was forty-six, and that the Hon-
ourable Tom Shuffleton was unani-
mously elected.
The recital of this little incident
in my eventful life is not of a per-
sonal interest alone, for, if it were per-
sonal only to myself, it would be a
matter of no interest at all. It is,
on the contrary, of the deepest pub-
lic interest, and carries with it, as
I may say, a political moral. It is
proper that the public should know
that these Commissioners of National
Navigation are of that political faction
whose existence began by a denial of
the exercise of that very prerogative
776
Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [June,
of power, by the partial exercise of
which they are alone enabled, for one
single moment, to subsist. It is right
the public should know, that to enable
this faction to retain its place, com-
missioners such as these are needlessly
created upon the most trivial pre-
tences ; and, as the Persian leader was
said to have offered a reward to any
man who could invent a new pleasure,
so does the Whig leader offer a snug
birth to any sycophant who can invent
a new commission. The Commis-
sioners of National Navigation have
already squandered hundreds of thou-
sands of pounds of public money, of
which the merest fraction has found
its way into the country for the pur-
poses for which it was nominally
granted by Parliament, the great re-
mainder being altogether absorbed in
the qualification of the disinterested
supporters of this disinterested faction.
But this is a topic of a higher interest
than the recital of the life of an
oyster-eater, and demands graver
consideration from a graver pen.
With the fellows individually I have
no quarrel. Their election of me was,
like all their elections, a scandalous
job, and their dismissal of me was
only another scandalous job — the one
may be permitted to neutralize the
other. The Viscount Cremona is
too low for hatred, and too undig-
nified for revenge — he is a poor
creature, and it is not my intention
to make game of such small deer.
I leave him to scour out his ditch, and
to imitate the braying of a donkey on
his big fiddle. There was one, in-
deed, the loftiest of his name and the
proudest of his lineage, who had
nobler aspirations for his country than
to see her governed by the pitch-
forked fag of a talentless and profli-
gate faction, and higher views for
himself than dangling in the ante-
room of a subaltern secretary of state
— a man whose misfortune it was to
be leagued with cowards and to trust
to traitors — a man who looked the no-
bleman, lived the soldier, and died
the hero !
Of the Reverend Jim Crow I have
had ample revenge. He has been
dismissed, after clinging to the door-
posts of the National Navigation
office, and offering to live in the por-
ter's lodge sooner than not be quar-
tered on the public. He has been
dismissed, and has only not been dis-
graced, because honest men came by
their own, when — you can find the
other end of the proverb yourself. He
has been generously received back
into — but hold — he is a Christian
clergyman — I extend to him that
mercy he extended not to me — I spare
him for his Master's sake !
Of that scoundrel Snake I can take
no revenge. The man, if he had the
heart to feel, would have had the heart
to spare — if nothing that I urged to
save myself and family from ruin
could move him to pity, nothing that
I urge to show him up as he deserves
will nerve him to rage. He is one of
those cold-blooded animals in whom the
circulation is carried on without a heart
— a disciple of the Hannibal school,
with whom number one is not alone
the first, but the only law of nature.
Besides, the man is childless — he has
no son, who, if I had authority and
power, I could fling into dismissal
and disgrace — he has no father, whose
grey hairs, instead of being honoured
in the well-doing of his child, go down
with sorrow to the grave, in sympathy
with his misfortunes — no fire warms
his desolate hearth — no friend takes a
place at his inhospitable board — such a
man as he lives unfriended — dies unre-
gretted — and, ere the clod rattles on his
coffin, the name and memory of him
have faded from the face of the earth !
FASCICULUS THE FIFTEENTH AND LAST.
" We know him well ; and, though we admit at cnre that he is no beauty, and that his manners
are at the best bluff, and at the worst repulsive, yet, in those who choose to cultivate his acquaintance,
his character continues so to mellow and ameliorate itself, that they come at last, if not to love, to
like him, and even to prefer his company to that of other more brilliant v isitors.
"So true is it, both with months and men, that it requires only to know the most unpleasant of
them, and to see them during a favourable phasis, in order to regard them with that Christian com-
placency which a good heart slu'ds over all its habits." — CHRISTOPHER NORTH.
* The Oyster- Eater is no more. He marked that, as the oyster season drew
died on Wednesday last. It was re- to a close, his spirits became more and
* For this account of the death of our crustaceous correspondent, and for the
notice of his writings, we are indebted to the kindness of Doctor Snoaker,
1839.] Some Account of Himself. By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 777
more depressed ; and, when it was
communicated to him that Mr O'Hura
declined allowing him to go any longer
upon tick, he was observed to put his
hand on his heart, and to declare that
he was afraid his mainspring was
broke. The ruling passion, however,
exhibited itself strong in decay, and
almost in dissolution : the day before he
finally took to his bed, from which he
never rose, having devoured, for a
trifling wager (see Bell's Life in Lon-
don}, a couple of hundreds of full-
sized Malahides, six score to the hun-
dred, in nineteen minutes and thirty-
five seconds, with ease, getting through
his fish, as was remarked by the by-
standers, in a stylo equal if not supe-
rior to the performances of Dando
himself. I mention this fact merely
as another instance, in addition to the
many we already possess, of the con-
sistency of action and singleness of
purpose observable in the characters
of great men, which it is the duty of
an impartial historian faithfully to
record, and, whether false or true, to
stick up to manfully, for the honour
and glory of his hero.
This, however, was fated to be the
last of the Oyster- Eater's fields ; so
that the tremendous match which was
to have come off between him and the
immortal Dando, for the champion-
ship of England, and which excited as
much attention in the oyster, as the
match between Spring and Langan
did in the pugilistic, world, being
looked forward to, not merely with a
crustaceous but national interest, is
now for ever, as far as the Irish Oys-
ter-Eater is concerned, at an end, and
the immortal Dando reigns supreme.
It has been confided to me, although
unworthy, as the medical attendant of
the deceased, and, as I may say, his
literary executor, to attempt to gratify
that curiosity, as natural as it is laud-
able, that stimulates the little to pry
into the habits, modes of life, and
even the conversations of the trulj
great ; to measure the exact angle at
which they were in the habit of turn-
ing out their illustrious toes, and to
record whether they sniftered or
sneezed when their erudite noses took
snuff! Biographers have a settled
order of procedure in these matters,
from which it is not for an author, all
inexperienced as I am, to presume to
vary, even to the variation of a hair.
There are ten thousand published
precedents to guide me, and twenty
thousand more sweating in the press ;
— from statesmen and heroes down to
court physicians and vice-regal dan-
cing masters, and the devil is in it if I
cannot pick out of some one of them
a hint of the way in which it becomes
a biographer to go I
In the first place, then, I have to
apologize to the reader for the absence
of the mezzotinto engraving, from a
picture by Martin Cregan, P. R. H. A.,
of the Oyster-Eater, which should
have illustrated this portion of my
narrative, or rather have preceded it.
I need not say a mezzotint engraving
is the regular thing to begin with, and
that no respectable biographer would
put his name to a title without it.
However, it is unluckily not ready,
and I am, therefore, compelled to sub-
stitute in this place, for the mezzotint
engraving, a slight pen-and-ink sketch
of the illustrious subject of my biogra-
phical labours, trusting that the gene-
rous reader will excuse the want of
the engraving until next month, when,
to recompense his indulgence, two will
be given — that being also the regular
thing in illustrated publications, where
lithographs and letterpress share di-
vided laurels. It is a curious fact,
nor do I know how to account for it ;
but in every biographical work I ever
saw, the hero is either above the mid-
dle size or below it — none that I have
ever heard of being of the middle size
to a nicety. The Oyster- Eater was
rather above the middle size, and I
would have given his exact height if I
could have ascertained what height the
middle size is, in feet and inches. Let
it suffice, then, that he was not below
the middle size, like the one-half of the
world's great men, but resembled the
other half in being above it. His
nose — we begin with the nose, being
that which George Robins calls the
leading feature — was a variegated
proboscis, aquiline in the beginning
of its career, but, as it got on in the
world, becoming a perfect murphy,
turning up its cartilage in evident con-
tempt for noses less erudite than itself.
His eyes — but why proceed with a
catalogue of the individual articles of
his physiognomy? — he had the usual
number of eyes, with a corresponding
pair of eyebrows to match — a very
good head of hair, and a couple of
whiskers wljose growth he encouraged
with paternal solicitude, until at last
778
Some Account of Himself . By tlie Insli Oyster-hater. [June,
he looked more like an owl in an ivy
bush, than a rational human creature.
His figure was modelled on the plan
of a broomstick, or rather after the
fashion of a scullery door, and his ap-
pearance, take him altogether, was
that of a disbanded life-guardsman, or
one of the new police off duty. His
dress, for some years before his death,
was of that particular material and
cut known in Dublin as the Plunkett
Street style, — his hat a gossamer, that
some years ago had taken it into its
head to change its name from black
to brown — his shoes high-lows, to
which were strapped down tightly a
pair of " never-mention-'ems," evi-
dently made for the wearer when he
was a foot or two shorter than he sub-
sequently grew. His coat, winter and
summer, was tightly buttoned up, and
further secured closely at the throat
with a large corking-pin, so that I
cannot gratify the natural curiosity of
the inquisitive reader as to the cut of
the Oyster- Eater's waistcoat, or the
colour of his shirts, or indeed, for the
matter of that, whether he might not
have altogether dispensed with the
superfluities of both shirt and waist-
coat. To finish the matter, the dress
of the Oyster-Eater, taken altogether,
was seedy, and his whole turn-out an
unsophisticated specimen of the shab-
by-genteel.
The next point to which I think it
my biographical duty to direct the
attention of the patient reader, is to
the progress and probable cause of
that extraordinary mania for oyster-
eating which has gained for him a
niche in the temple of fame, and will
hand him down to posterity with Api-
cius, Dando, Sir George Warrender,
and the Editor of the Almanac des
Gourmands. It was to his dismissal
by the Commissioners of National
Navigation that he owed his devotion
to oyster-taverns, and the extraordi-
nary facility for the developement of
his peculiar turn of humour which
such places afford.
He has, in his own account of him-
self, said nothing of this, nor do I
suppose that, had he lived to complete
his work, would he have alluded to it;
being anxious to drown, in continual
dissipation, not only the present con-
sciousness of that he was, but also the
more bitter retrospect of that he might
have been. It is certain that, up to
the time of his dismissal by the Com-
missioners, whose conduct forms the
subject of his last chapter, he was a
good father, tender husband, a sober
and steady man, and was giving every
reasonable hope of becoming a bright
and useful member of society. From
the day of his being dismissed, how-
ever, misery and misfortune crowded
fast upon him — the Commissioners'
refusal to grant him a certificate, which
he might have relied on, deprived him
effectually of obtaining elsewhere an-
other employment — the influence they
exercised with the officials of every
successive government to prevent him
having his case taken into considera-
tion— and their personal malignity, si-
lently exercised by a shrug, a wink,
or a shake of the head, weighed alto-
gether too heavily upon his prospects,
and crushed him and them together.
As he himself has finely observed,
" the hopes upon which he fed for
years had died within him, and their
epitaphs might be read legibly on his
brow." It was often and often sug-
gested by those who wished him well,
that the Commissioners being syco-
phants by profession, the aspect of
erect independence was personally of-
fensive to them — that the subserviency
with which they approached their su-
periors, they exacted from their infe-
riors in turn, just as when in the
Rivals, Captain Absolute kicks his
valet, Mister Fag, and Mr Fag in his
turn kicks the little dirty boy who re-
calls him to wait upon his master. It
was observed by Sophia, that, as syco-
phancy was their current coin, it was
very unlikely they would consent to
be paid in any other. But the Oyster-
Eater was not naturally constituted to
stoop to conquer, particularly when
he would have been obliged to stoop
to men who crawled habitually on
their bellies in the worship of Mam-
mon. He replied to all the arguments
used to induce him to consent to such
a prostration as would perhaps satisfy
the Commissioners, that he would do it
for the sake of his wife and family if
he could, but that he found his back
refuse its degrading office ; he said he
had never in his life taken off his hat
save to virtue, independence, or a wo-
man, and it was too late in life to
begin now.
As the consciousness of his situa-
tion opened upon him, and the fate that
awaited his family became more and
more imminent; he appeared more
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster-Eater. 779
and more to lose that energy and spi-
rit that in more hopeful circumstances
characterised him. He shunned the
society of his wife and children, and
was almost exclusively to be found at
O'Hara's, where, so far from suppo-
sing that his heart was breaking, and
his constitution gone, the casual visi-
ter, who witnessed the flashes of his
broad and original humour, would have
supposed him a man without a care.
He became, by acclamation, a sort of
permanent chairman of the evening con-
vivial meetings, and, as he was usually
treated with oysters and grog by some
or other of the more wealthy guests, he
gained vast popularity, and thunders of
applause ; for he was a man who would
rather shine in a pot-house than shine
not at all, and lost nothing but iiis
self-respect, his time, and his consti-
tution.
The affection of his wife he still re-
tained, probably because she saw that
his faults were as much the offspring
of his misfortunes as the result of a
vicious inclination to dissipation, and
made allowances for her husband's
frailties accordingly.
Having thus endeavoured shortly to
account for the prevailing propensity
of my deceased friend, a short notice
of his writings — being also the regu-
lar thing — will not, I trust be altoge-
ther unacceptable.
The Crustaceans Tour, which intro-
duced him to the literary world, as it
was the first, so, like other maiden
efforts of other great pens, was the
best, of all the works he afterwards
gave to a discerning public. Whether
it was designed as a satirical burlesque
of the grave and solemn style of tours
in general, or simply a journey under-
taken with a view to a more intimate
acquaintance with what the author
enthusiastically describes as the " ge-
latinous objects of his affections," it is
impossible to conceive any thing more
racy, more full of piquant and origi-
nal humour, from the opening para-
graph to the close. But what is
perhaps the highest authority I could
adduce iu its favour, is the fact which
I can myself attest, that the Oyster-
Eaters in Dublin — no mean judges of
literary merit — have actually extracted
the favourite passages of the work, and
suspended them over the doors of their
several shops and cellars, " worthily
emblazoned in letters of gold." To
the Account of Himself, I regret that
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXIV.
I cannot afford the same full measure
of approbation. It appears to be a
story inartificially constructed, badly
connected, and unequally sustained,
beginning in the shape of a very dull
dialogue, which is metamorphosed, for
no reason that we can discern, into a
narrative equally dull. The charac-
ters are introduced apparently with no
fixed purpose or settled design, are
conducted any how, through a chap-
ter pedantically called by the author
a fasciculus, and, without contributing
in the least degree to the main action
or progress of the narrative, are finally
dismissed. Nor is the narrative itself
consistent in its several parts. A
chapter of personal narrative is inter-
rupted by a long digression, and di-
gression makes way again for personal
narrative. As it is the province of
the critic to lay hold of some trifling
anachronism or violation of arbitrary
rules which genius spurns and con-
temns, I think it my duty to observe
that the Oyster-Eater, in one of his
fasciculi, travels through the Mid-
land Counties in company with a fac-
tory-boy towards London, while the
next fasciculus exhibits them at War-
rington, north of the Midland Coun-
ties, so that they must have journeyed
towards London backwards — a style
of ambulation peculiarly crustaceous !
In another place, Sophia is made to
address her lover as "Horatio," while
in the dialogue between the Oyster-
Eater and the horse-jockey, the latter
is made to address the former by the
sponsorial appellation " Pat." This,
however, may be considered as a poet-
ical license, and, as there is a lady in,
the case, I will not be ungallant enough
to press the objection further.
Not only is the matter of the Oyster-
Eater's Account of Himself not inte-
resting, but his humour is not original
— perhaps, indeed, it might have been
original when he wrote it, but it cer-
tainly is not original now. It is a sort
of miscellaneous humour, compounded
of the humour, or rather of an imita-
tion of the humour, of Swift, of Gold-
smith, of Sterne, of Washington Ir-
ving, and, although I never read him
and know nothing about him, of the
humour of Rabelais. Accordingly,
not being original, it is bad; for, I pre-
sume, nobody will have the hardihood
to assert that in these days any thing-
(except port wine) can be good that
is not new !
780
Some Account of Himself, By the Irish Oyster-Eater. [June,
At the same time, I am free to con-
fess that the thoughts of my late friend,
if not original, have a savour of origi-
nality, and that there is a quaintness in
his turns of expression, in these days
of fine-spun dulness and long-drawn
platitude, peculiarly refreshing. The
characters too, who bear him company,
although too often unadvisedly intro-
duced and abruptly dismissed, have a
distinct individuality and complete
vraisemblance with nature.
The horse-jockey, faithful to the
death to his master, and a rogue to all
the world beside, is a true picture of
character, and the factory-boy's ac-
count of himself, is too good to be the
offspring of the imagination alone — it
is a photogenic drawing of a natural
object by natural means — it is full of
poetry and pathos, worth, not to rate
it too highly, a wilderness of Trollopes.
Of the state and prospects of the
Oyster-Eater's family, it is essential
that I should say something — that
being also the regular thing.
The widowed Sophia resides with her
daughter, a sweet girl of twelve years
old, in an empty house in an obscure
court off Mecklenburgh Street, which
she is permitted to occupy until let,
without paying rent, on the sole condi-
tion of keeping it clean, and exhibiting
it to probable tenants. Her household
furniture consists of a few broken
chairs, a paralytic table, an old piano-
forte, and a bit of carpet on the floor
. — here this admirable woman, worthy
of a better fate, spends her days and
nights with her daughter, in uuinter-
mitting toil, to procure clothing and
food by preparing little articles of
female skill for sale at the various
bazaars and charitable repositories of
this charitable metropolis.
Here, of an evening, the curate of
the parish himself does not disdain to
look in on the desolate woman, to
comfort her on her misfortune (for
such she strangely enough considers
the loss of a husband all unworthy of
her), to tell the gossip of the day, and
to observe the progress of her little
labours — here, of an evening, one or
two respectable decayed women like
herself, assemble, and combine from
their slender resources the womanly
luxury, a cup of tea — here Sophia,
laying aside for the moment her needle
and her thimble, charms her friends
with her sweet voice — and here I
often look in myself, to witness, in this
poor family, poverty made respectable
by virtue !
One evening, in particular, when a
cheerful little party (for virtuous po-
verty is ever cheerful) was, in the
usual way, assembled, the curate pro-
duced a bottle of sherry from his
pocket, begged permission of Sophia
to treat the ladies with a glass of wine
(the curate is poor, but very generous),
which being promptly granted, glasses
were subscribed for from the lodgings
of the decayed ladies (each having
one at home, as it happened), and the
frugal glass being duly honoured, So-
phia was requested by the curate to
favour the company with a song. My
deceased friend's wife is not a woman
to spoil our appetite for her singing
by unmannerly delay; laying aside
her work, therefore, she seated herself
gracefully at her piano, and with an
apology that the tone of her mind
would not permit her to sing any thing
lively, entreated the indulgence of the
little party for some verses of her own,
which she had attempted to set to
music.
SONG — BY SOPHIA.
1.
'Tis ever thus! when youth and joy
Make life an infant's new-found toy ;
The happy moments fall as fast
As leaves on an autumnal day ;
And still, ere half enjoy'd, are past —
A moment blissful — and away.
'Tis ever thus !
2.
'Tis ever thus! when care draws nigh,
With the sad brow and frequent sigh,
And our light- heartcdness is gone —
The tedious hours, prolong'd and slow,
Vex life with their continued stay,
And dreary come and dreary go.
'Tis ever thus !
3.
'Tis ever thus ! when to be blest
Is but to dream ourselves possess'd
Of friendship and of love. The heart,
O'ermastering the less ardent mind,
Gives all in love — will all impart
" To make that heaven it cannot find."
'Tis ever thus!
4.
'Tis ever thus, when friendship's gay
Delusive dreams have pass'd away,
1839.] Some Account of Himself . By the Irish Oyster- Eater.
781
And love to younger arms has flown —
When trusting oft, and oft deceived,
Our slumbers broke — our vision gone,
We weep — remembering we be-
lieved.
'Tis ever thus !
Sophia ceased — the decayed ladies,
who seemed to have caught cold, be-
taking themselves to their pocket-
handkerchiefs. The curate went to
the window, opened it, and, looking
out, observed that it rained, then re-
turned to his seat. I looked out of
the window, and saw that it did not
rain, but observing some drops on the
window-sill, where the curate had been
looking out, I concluded it was going-
to rain.
I had almost forgot to state that the
Oyster-Eater's only son, a fine youth
of fourteen, very like his late father,
is employed as one of the under wait-
ers in the Emporium of O'Hara, who
has been excessively kind to the family
of the deceased, and in whose service
the young lad, I am happy to be en-
abled to state, is giving every satisfac-
tion. It may seem strange that the
Oyster-Eater should have permitted
his son to occupy this humble position
in society ; but having entertained a
salutary dread that the young man, if
permitted to learn reading or writing,
would pine away his life behind a
brass plate as a fellow of the College
of Physicians, or starve in a garret in
the Temple, under pretence of being
a briefless barrister (starvation being
the only certain prospect held out by
that honourable degree), steadily re-
fused to permit the boy to become
possessor of such dangerous and fatal
accompli shments .
Accordingly, the youth being not
educated above his hopes, is satisfied
with his situation ; and, instead of be-
ing a burden to his surviving parent,
will, by being put in the way of an
honest living, be probably enabled, in
time, to afford some little comfort to
her declining years.
There lurks a moral under the Oys-
ter-Eater's account of himself; and I
must confess that I would as soon read
a temperance tract as one of those
moral tales, where the wisdom floats
like the scum of a broth-pot at top,
and which the reader is expected to
stand by with his ladle and skim off.
I say again there is a moral in the
story of this unfortunate man, which
I leave you to find out for yourself ;
if you have not penetration to find it,
you will not have fortitude to profit
by it. His observations on the folly
and vanity of parents, and the misery
that vanity and folly entail upon their
unhappy offspring, will, if he had never
written another line, command the
gratitude of every man who has had
experience (as I have) of the vast ad-
dition made from this source to the
sum of human misery. It is not my
wont to use my own language when
there is better ready cut and dry to
my hand, and therefore I take the li-
berty to borrow the concluding sen-
tence of the life of the unfortunate
Savage, by his gigantic friend Johnson,
to illustrate the position so applicable
to the case of my gifted but ill-fated
friend, where it is wisely and greatly
laid down, " that nothing can compen-
sate for the want of prudence, without
which knowledge is useless, wit ridicu-
lous, and genius contemptible."
The Oyster- Eater is gone; but I
do not ask you to drop a tear to his
memory — it will be better reserved
in pity to those he has left helplessly
behind. He is no more — nor need I
direct you to his lowly and unhonoured
grave.
Let me only entreat the humane
and courteous reader, who has borne
with him so long — who has been be-
guiled of the sorrow of an hour by
his eccentricities of thought or of ex-
pression— or who has detected in his
writings a spark of genius so lament-
ably misapplied — that whenever he
visits the Emporium of O'Hara, to eat
oysters in, or lobsters out of the sea-
son, he will suffer himself to be at-
tended by the Oyster- Eater's son, and
« Pray, remember the waiter I"
78:2
l)ii Minor urn Gentium. No, I.
[June,
DII M1NORUM GENTIUM.
No. I.
CAREW AND HERRICK.
THE names which we prefix to this
article have been often united together,
as the representatives of kindred as
well as contemporary genius, and the
objects of similar and nearly equal
commendation. The poets to whom
they belong, have indeed several points
of mutual resemblance in their history
and character. Both of them must be
ranked in the class of minor poets, as
well for the number and compass of their
several compositions, as for the eleva-
tion of excellence to which they aspired.
Both contributed in no inconsiderable
degree to smooth the versification and
polish the language of English poetry ;
and both descended to dishonour the
muse, and degrade their own fair fame,
by sullying the purity of their style
with impurity of sentiment. The civil
commotions and fanatical severities
which overtook or followed closely
after the periods in which they lived,
had the effect of alike consigning both
of them to contempt or forgetfulness :
and neither regained his just posi-
tion in literary estimation till long after
the cessation of those causes that ori-
ginally operated to deprive them of
celebrity. But with these features of
strong similarity, we can discover also
many striking marks of diversity be-
tween them, and we conceive that a
very different measure of praise is due
to the one and the other, whether we
regard the objects at which they re-
spectively aimed, or the degree of sue-'
cess which attended their attempts.
In point of manliness of thought, ten-
derness of feeling, dignity of manner,
and soundness of taste, we consider
Carew to be very greatly superior to
his competitor. We propose now to
give some analysis of the best produc-
tions of each, with the view of illus-
trating both their separate and their
comparative merits.
Carew may be considered first in
order, as the earlier in point of time,
having been born, it is believed, in
1589, and having died at the age of
fifty, in 1639, while the dates of Her-
rick's birth an d death appear to be 1 59 1 ,
and about 1 G74. A gentleman by birth,
andacourtier by his sovereign's favour,
Carew seems naturally to have turned
his poetical talents chiefly to those
lighter subjects that would be most
acceptable to the immediate circle in
which he was placed ; yet so that the
attainments of the scholar, and the
observation of the man of travel, gave
at once solidity and finish to his com-
positions. Love was, perhaps, his prin-
cipal and most prominent theme ; and
that not always of the purest or most
poetical kind. Yet, although we may
be shocked by his occasional viola-
tions of virtue and propriety, and may
wonder at the incongruities which we
find linked together in his verses, we
are bound to say that, unless many
of his offensive compositions have been
suppressed, the proportion which they
bear to his whole works is smaller
than might have been expected from
a man of pleasure, in an age where
virtue itself was not always accom-
panied with delicacy. The omission
of half a dozen pieces, and of a few
lines in half a dozen more, would ren-
der Carew's volume as inoffensive as
it is delightful. The licentiousness of
Carew is not the rule, but the excep-
tion : he has for the most part written
worthily of women and of love : and
there are many true and touching ex-
hortations to mental dignity and vir-
tue, which should more than compen-
sate or correct his occasional errors.
What shall we say of that style of
gallantry and compliment with which
women were wont to be addressed as
beings of a superior and almost sacred
order? We do not ridicule, but ap-
prove and delight in it, believing that
it flowed from a right source, and ful-
filled a salutary purpose. It has ever
been the mark of a noble spirit to
treat the softer portion of humanity
not only with tenderness, but with
homage and reverence. Our German
ancestors believed that asanctum aliquid
resided in the female breast, and a
form of the same feeling has diffused
among their best descendants that de-
votion and fidelity of attachment which
gives to life its dearest enjoyments, and
1839.]
Dii Minorum Gentium* No. I.
783
to society its surest solidity. Bacon
has pointed out to us the generosity
that inspires the inferior creation when
they find themselves maintained by the
countenance of man, who, to them, is
instead of a god or melior natura. So,
not to speak it profanely, woman is to
us as a melior. natura, in whom the
image of the heavenly character is
less defaced, and from whose presence
we derive or renew those kinder and
purer feelings, which the toil and tra-
vel of business and the world would
otherwise exclude. Cruel and callous
should many of us indeed be, if we did
notever and anon seek, with reverential
docility, in the converse of meek- heart-
ed women and innocent children, that
softening of the soul without which we
should lose our human feelings, and be
converted each of us into something
worse than the fox or wolf. In a rude
or a sensual age, this influence is pe-
culiarly necessary to purify and ele-
vate the passions ; but even in a period
like the present, of false liberality and
cold calculation, when, as we think,
the mere intellectual part of the female
mind is unduly advanced o ver the heart
and imagination, a return to the loving
worship of that moral grace, that sim-
ple rectitude, and that pure affection,
of which woman is to us the earthly
impersonation, would be a strong re-
medy against the evils we suffer. We
rejoice, therefore, to recur to those
tributes of tender and submissive ad-
miration, which taught the poets of the
school of romantic love to represent the
fair forms of their mistresses, and the
gentle minds which animated them,
as something more nearly allied to
divinity than we that are of coarser
clay.
Carew contains many elegant verses
of this class, from which we shall
make a selection. Our fair readers will
turn over their albums a good while,
before they light upon any compliment
so pretty as the following : —
LIPS AND EYES.
In Celia's face a question did arise
Which were more beautiful, her lips or eyes :
' We,' said the Eyes, ' send forth those pointed darts
Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts.'
' From us,' replied the Lips, ' proceed those blisses
Which lovers reap by kind words and sweet kisses.'
Then wept the Eyes, and from their springs did pour
Of liquid oriental pearl a shower :
Whereat the Lips, moved with delight and pleasure,
Through a sweet smile unlock'd their pearly treasure,
And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace,
Weeping or smiling pearls in Celia's face."
What we next select is no fiction or
flattery, but a true type of the balmy
influence of woman's spirit upon the
moral world, in converting its thorny
and rugged wilderness into a blissful
paradise.
A PRATER TO THE WIND.
" Go, thou gentle, whispering wind,
Bear this sigh ; and if thou find
Where my cruel fair doth rest,
Cast it in her snowy breast :
So, inflamed by my desire,
It may set her heart on fire.
Those sweet kisses thou shall gain
Will reward thee for thy pain.-—
There perfume thyself, and bring
All those sweets upon thy wing;
As thou return'st, change by thy power
Every weed into a flower ;
Turn each thistle to a vine,
Make the bramble eglantine ;
For so rich a booty made,
Do but this and I am paid."
In our next extract, any approach to
hyperbole is sweetly tempered by the
wholesome counsel added in the close.
THE COMPARISON.
" Dearest, thy tresses are not threads of
gold,
Thy eye» of diamonds, nor do I hold
Thy lips for rubies, thy fair cheeks to be
Fresh roses, or thy teeth of ivory :
Thy skin that doth thy dainty body sheathe
Not alabaster is, nor dost thou breathe
Arabian odours; those the earth brings forth,
Compare with which would but impair thy
worth.
Such may be others' mistresses, but mine
Holds nothing earthly, but is all divine.
Thy tresses are those rays that do arise
Not from one sun, but two — such are thy
eyes;
Thy lips congealed nectar are, and such
As, but a deity, there's none dare touch ;
The perfect crimson that thy cheek doth
clothe
(But only that it far exceeds them both)
784
Hit Minomm Gentium. No. L
June,
Aurora's blush resembles, or that red
That Iris struts in when her mantle's
spread ;
Thy teeth in white do Leda's swan exceed,
Thy skin's a heavenly and immortal weed;
And when thou breathest, the winds are
ready straight
To filch it from thee; and do therefore
wait
Close at thy lips, and snatching it from
thence
Bear it to heaven, where 'tis Jove's frank-
incense.
Fair goddess, since thy feature makes thee
one,
Yet be not such for these respects alone !
But as you are divine in outward view,
So be within as fair, as good, as true."
What we are about to quote is more
familiarly known ; its insertion in
Percy's Relics having been among the
first things that revived the admiration
for Carew. We give, as Percy did,
only two verses of the song as now
printed ; but, in doing so, we believe
we are only restoring it to its condi-
tion as originally published and set to
music. It is true and beautiful after
its kind, and what more can be sought
for in poetry ? What more can be
sought for in life, than the treasures
so sweetly described in the second
verse as the fit object of affection, —
a smooth and steadfast mind, *' gentle
thoughts and calm desires," when to
these are added the crowning gift of
" hearts with mutual love combined."
Percy has given to it a title of his own,
which we shall borrow as more appro-
priate to the poem in its shortened
state, than that of " Disdain Return-
ed," adopted by Carew when he added
the inferior lines which we are omit-
ting.
UNFADING BEAUTY.
" He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
" But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes."
The following stanzas, though com-
posed as part of a dramatic fiction,
have much of the power of indignant
truth, and might well paint the sym-
pathy of an honest mind for suf-
ferings such as we have witnessed in
our own day, inflicted on a spotless
spirit by the calumnies of those who
themselves have no other conception
of virtue than as the skill to escape
detection.
FEMININE HONOUR.
" In what esteem did the gods hold
Fair Innocence, and the chaste bed,
When scandal'd virtue might be bold,
Barefoot upon sharp coulters spread,
O'er burning coals to'march, yet feel
Nor scorching fire, nor piercing steel !
" Why, when the hard-edged iron did
turn
Soft as a bed of roses blown,
When cruel flames forgot to burn
Their chaste pure limbs, should man
alone
'Gainst female innocence conspire,
Harder than steel, fiercer than fire !
" O hapless sex ! unequal sway
Of partial honour ! who may know
Rebels from subjects that obey,
When malice can on vestals throw
Disgrace, and fame fix high repute
On the close shameless prostitute !
" Vain honour, thou art but disguise,
A cheating voice, a juggling art ;
No judge of virtue, whose pure eyes
Court her own image in the heart,
More pleased with her true figure there
Than her false echo in the ear."
We like the manner in which Carew
handles the ten-syllable couplet.
Without denying that the noblest ex-
amples of that admirable and truly
English form of versification are to
be found in Dryden and Pope, and
without advocating a different standard
from what their practice has set up,
we can read with pleasure the laxer
verses of the older school, where the
sentiment is less exposed to that Pro-
crustean operation which a corres-
pondence with the completed rhyme
so commonly involves, and which no-
thing but a masterly genius can
wholly avoid or conceal. Carew's
lines run on with almost the freedom
of blank verse. But they please our
ear, and the recurrence of the full
close, after a temporary suspension of
the regular movement, produces in us
something like what we feel in music
1839.] Dii Minor urn Gentium. No. I. 785
from the melting1 of passing discords picture of the reviving year, chequcr-
into perfect harmony. Take the fol- cd, not unpleasingly, by a lingering
lowing example, which, abating some April cloud of love's coyness, but
little meannesses of expression, ap- which it seems as if the progress of
pears to us a beautiful and cheerful the kindly season were sure to dispel.
THE SFRINC.
" Now that the winter's gone, the earth has lost
Her snow-white robes ; and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream :
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender ; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow ; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring,
In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring :
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.
Now all things smile — only my love doth lour :
Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields ; and love no more is made
By the fireside : but in the cooler shade
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep
Under a sycamore, and all things keep
Time with the season — only she doth carry
June in her eyes, in her heart January."
Carew's love thoughts do not, per- For I am hid within a flame,
haps, display the same fancy, and are And thus into thy chamber came,
in a similar degree exempt from the To let thee see
same profusion of conceits, which In wnat a martyrdom I burn for thee."
characterise some other poets of his There ig di u ag wdl as tnegg
time,-Dpnne who preceded, or Cow- in the foliowing iuustration of the
ley who followed him Yet we meet m; of onc who becomes a stranger
in him both faults and beauties of this and an exi]e ffom a heart once
description. There is a prettmess in thou ht to be for ever his ^
the following lines, which conveys a
pleasing image, and is no unnatural " Hard fate ! to have been once possest
effort of fancy in a lover longing for As victor, of a heart
the presence of one beloved. They Achieved with labour and unrest,
are from a song entitled " To his And then forced to depart.
Mistress confined," but in what cir- If the stout foe will not resign
cumstances of durance the lady was When l besiege a town,
placed we are not informed. 1 lose but what was never mine :
But he that is cast down
" O, think not Phoebe, 'cause a cloud From enjoy'd beauty, feels a woe
Doth now thy silver brightness shroud, Only deposed kings can know."
My wandering eye
Can stoop to common beauties of the sky ; Next to the love verses of Carew,
Rather be kind, and this eclipse we would place some of his composi-
Shall hinder neither eye nor lips ; tions in the department of epitaph and
For we shall meet elegy. Poetry of this kind requires
With our hearts, and kiss, and none shall a happy union of fancy and feeling,
see't. ingenuity and simplicity. It will be
" Nor canst thou in thy prison bo dul1 if ^ is not pointed : it will be
Without some living sign of me : flippant if the point is not sheathed
When thou dost spy and softened by tenderness and digni-
A sunbeam peep into the room, 'tis I : ty. Take the following specimens of
786
Carew's powers in epitaph. The first
example has been often praised, but
scarcely, we think, beyond its merits.
It is simple almost as the plainest prose,
yet graceful and melodious. It gently
engages our interest for the untimely
fate of one whose name and condition
seem to bespeak the nobleness of her
nature, and the wide-spread affliction
occasioned by her loss ; and there is,
we think, great skill and beauty in the
conclusion of the epitaph, which, pass-
ing over all others as if they had no
part in the story, confines its appeal
to those who themselves have children,
and who alone, in a fearful sense of
the brittle tenure of their own bless-
edness, are sure to understand the
sufferings of bereaved parents.
EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VJLLIERS.
" The Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone : with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear :
Or if thyself possess a gem
As dear to thee, as this to them—-
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewail in theirs thine own hard case;
For thou, perhaps, at thy return,
Mayst find thy darling in an urn."
ANOTHER.
" This little vault, this narrow room,
Of love and beauty is the tomb.
The dawning beam that 'gan to clear
Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here.
— 'Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again ;
A budding star that might have grown
Into a sun when it had blown."
Overlook some few quaintnesses in
the next, on Lady Mary Wentworth,
and it will deserve no mean commen-
dation : — -
" And here the precious dust is laid,
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine, that it the guest betray 'd.
" Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was hatch'd a cherubin.
" In height, it soar'd to God above ;
In depth, it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.
' ' Before, a pious duty shined
To parents, courtesy behind,
On either side an equal mind.
Dii Minor urn Gentium. No. I. [June,
" Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.
" So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To every grace, she justified
A chaste poligamy, and died.
" Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust. "
The elegies are of a more mixed
merit, and are less adapted for quota-
tion". They are often tedious and
strained, but they are as often sensi-
ble, elegant, and pathetic. We give
the beginning of one entitled " Obse-
quies to the Lady Ajin Hay."
" I heard the virgin's sigh ; I saw the sleek
And polish'd courtier channel his fresh
cheek
With real tears ; the new-betrothed maid
Smiled not that day ; the graver senate laid
Their business by ; of all the courtly throng
Grief seal'd the heart, and silence bound the
tongue.
I, that ne'er more of private sorrow knew
Than from my pen some froward mistress
drew,
And for the public woe, had my dull sense
So sear'd with ever adverse influence,
As the invader's sword might have, unfelt,
Pierced my dead bosom, yet began to melt ;
Grief's strong instinct did to my blood sug-
gest,
In the unknown loss peculiar interest.
But when I heard the noble Carlyle's gem,
The fairest branch of Denny's ancient stem,
Was from that casket stolen, from that trunk
torn,
I found just cause why they, why I, should
mourn."
Here, now, are some extracts from
another elegy, " To the Countess of
Anglesey, upon the immoderately-by-
her-lamented death of her husband."
" Madam, men say you keep with dropping
eyes
Your sorrows fresh, watering the rose that
lies,
Fallen from your cheeks upon your dear
lord's hearse.
Alas ! those odours now no more can pierce
His cold pale nostril, nor the crimson dye
Present a graceful blush to his dark eye.
Think you that flood of pearly moisture hath
The virtue fabled of old yEson's bath ?
You may your beauties and your youth con-
sume
Over his urn, and with your sighs perfume
1839.] £>H Minorum Gentium. No. I. 787
The solitary vault, which, as you groan, To their suspected faith ; you, whose whole
In hollow echoes shall repeat your moan : life
There you may wither, and an autumn bring In every act crown'd you a constant wife,
Upon yourselfj but not call back his spring. May spare the practice of that vulgar trade
Fuibear your fruitless grief, then ; and let Which superstitious custom only made :
t]lose Rather, a widow now, of wisdom prove
Whose love was doubted, gain belief with The pattern, as a wife you were of love."
shows
The description of the mourner's husband is that of a generous and gal-
lant man, well deserving a -wife's affection or a widow's tears.
" Within this curious palace dwelt a soul
Gave lustre to each part, and to the whole :
This dress'd his face in comely smiles ; and so
From comely gestures sweeter manners flow.
This courage join'd to strength ; so the hand, bent,
Was Valour's ; opened, Bounty's instrument ;
Which did the scale and sword of Justice hold,
Knew how to brandish steel and scatter gold. —
He chose not in the active stream to swim,
Nor hunted Honour, which yet hunted him :
But, like a quiet eddy that hath found
Some hollow creek, there turns his waters round,
And in continual circles dances, free
From the impetuous torrent ; so did he
Give others leave to turn the wheel of state
(Whose steerless motion spins the subjects' fato),
Whilst he, retired from the tumultuous noise
Of court, and suitors' press, apart enjoys
Freedom, and mirth, himself, his time, and friends,
And with sweet relish tastes each hour he spends.
I could remember how his noble heart
First kindled at your beauties ; with what art
He chased his game through all opposing fears,
When I his sighs to you, and back your tears
Convey'd to him ; how loyal then, and how
Constant he proved since to his marriage-vow,
So as his wand'ring eyes never drew in
One lustful thought to tempt his soul to sin ;
But that I fear such mention rather may
Kindle new grief than blow the old away."
We proceed to give one or two of a frank and manly spirit, telling the
specimens of Carew's miscellaneous poet of his declining powers, yet telling
poems, in which, we think, his sound it in a tone of warm and admiring
sense, right feeling, and vigorous ex- friendship, and by the mixture of plain
pression, will still appear conspicuous, truth and delicate flattery, reconciling
The first is apropos of a subject which him at once to the world and to him-
Maga has lately been handling with self ; and then let us imagine, if we
her accustomed success, — the merits of can, the fulsome and flippant style in
an illustrious dramatist, second in our which our friend Barry would have
literature to Shakspeare alone, if any performed the same task. The lines
can be called second to him, who is we are to quote must have been written
not merely first, but sole and single in about 1629, but the familiarity be-
his exalted and unapproachable sphere, tween Carew and Jonson continued,
Let us hear how Carew addresses Ben we know, while Jonson lived, and
Jonson, at a melancholy period of the Howell leaves us a record of having
old man's life, when age, sickness, and been with Carew in 1636, the year
poverty, combined to make him feel before Jonson's death, at a solemn
too severely the free opinions of the supper given by Father Ben, where
public on one of his latest and least " there was good company, excellent
successful productions. Let us re- cheer, choice wines, and jovial wel-
mark the candid, yet kindly criticism come."
788 Dii Minorum Gentium. No. I. [June,
TO BEN JONSON,
UPOXpCCASiON OF HIS ODE OF DEFIANCE ANNEXED TO HIS PLAY OF " THE NBVV INN."
" 'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand,
To their swoln pride and empty scribbling due :
It can nor judge, nor write ; and yet, 'tis true,
Thy comic Muse, from the exalted line
Touch'd by the Alchymist, doth since decline
From that her zenith, and foretels a red
And blushing evening, when she goes to bed ;
Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light
With which all stars shall gild the following night.
Nor think it much (since all thy eaglets may
Endure the sunny trial) if we say
This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine
Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.
Who hath his flock of cackling geese compared
With thy tuned choir of swans ? or else who dared
To call thy births deform'd ? But if thou bind,
By city custom or by gavel-kind,
In equal shares thy love on all thy race,
We may distinguish of their sex and place ;
Though one hand form them, and though one brain strike
Souls into all, they are not all alike.
Why should the follies, then, of this dull ago
Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage
As seems to blast thy (else immortal) bays,
When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of praise ?
Such thirst will argue drought. No ; let be hurl'd
Upon thy works, by the detracting world,
What malice can suggest ; let the rout say,
The running sands, that (ere thou make a play)
Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame,
To swallow, when th' hast done, thy shipwreck'd name ;
Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid,
Suck'd by thy watchful lamp, that hath betray'd
To theft the blood of martyr'd authors, spilt
Into thy ink, whilst thou grow'st pale with guilt :
Repine not at the taper's thrifty waste,
That sleeks thy terser poems ; nor is haste
Praise, but excuse ; and if thou overcome
A knotty writer, bring the booty home ;
Nor think it theft, if the rich spoils, so torn
From conquer'd authors, be as trophies worn.
Let others glut on the extorted praise
Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days :
Thy labour'd works shall live, when time devouri
Th' abortive offspring of their hasty hours :
Thou art not of their rank ; the quarrel lies
Within thine own verge ; then let this suffice,
The wiser world doth greater thee confess
Than all men else, than thyself only less. "
Our next example seems a sincere classical, though we could have dis-
tribute of joy for the safe return of a pensed with the very indifferent jest
long absent friend. It is pleasing and with which it concludes.
UPON MR WILLIAM MOUNTAGUE HIS RETURN FROM TRAVEL.
" Lead the black bull to slaughter with the boar
And lamb ; then purple with their mingled gore
The ocean's curled brow, that so we may
The sea-gods for their careful waftage pay :
1839.] Dii Minorum Gentium. No. J. 789
Send grateful incense up in pious smoke
To those mild spirits that cast a curbing yoke
Upon the stubborn winds, that calmly blew
To the wish'd shore our long'd-for Mountague :
Then, whilst the aromatic odours burn
In honour of their darling's safe return,
The Muse's choir shall thus with voice and hand
Bless the fair gale that drove his ship to land.
Sweetly breathing vernal air, •
That with kind warmth dost repair
Winter's ruins ; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' East
Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky :
Whose dishevell'd tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed ;
On whose brow, with calm smiles dress'd,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest ;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing.
Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
"With a pregnant flow'ry birth
Canst refresh the teaming earth :
If he nip the early bud,
If he blast what's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our hills, our bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us ;
Thou canst stroke great Eolus,
And from him the grace obtain
To bind him in an iron chain.
Thus, whilst you deal your body 'mongst your friends,
And fill their circling arms, my glad soul sends
This her embrace : thus we of Delphos greet ;
As laymen clasp their hands, we join our feet."
But the best, we think, of Carew's devote the first fruits of life to virtue
efforts in this style, is to be found in his and piety, the exhaustion of passing
commendatory verses prefixed to the and perishing objects of desiremay lead
Translation of the Psalms, published the way at last to the only enduring
in 1636, by a most pious and accom- object of love and satisfying source of
plished man, and no inconsiderable enjoyment. Every one that reads the
poet. Every one who feels the hu- lines we are about to transcribe, will
mility which conscious error inspires rejoice to know that, whatever were
in an ingenuous mind — every one who the irregularities of Carew's life, it
has wept over early indiscretions, or was his greatest glory, as Lord Cla-
that lingering listlessness of soul which rendon tells us, «' that he died with the
such transgressions produce, and which greatest remorse for that licence, and
remains after its first causes have with the greatest manifestation of
ceased — will fully sympathize with the Christianity that his best friends could
meek and modest devoutness which is desire." The date of Carew's death
here expressed, and will pray that in is about three years after that of the
themselves also, though omitting to verses that follow.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MASTER GEORGE SANDS, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THK PSALMS.
" I press not to the choir, nor dare I greet And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays.
The holy place with my unhallow'd feet ; So devout penitents of old were wont,
My unwash'd Muse pollutes not things divine, Some without door, and some beneath the
Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine : font,
Here, humbly- waiting at the porch, she To stand and hear the church's liturgies,
stays, Yet not assist the solemn exercise :
790
Dii Minorum Gentium. No. I.
[June,
Sufficeth her that she a lay-place gain,
To trim thy vestments or but bear thy train :
Though nor in tune nor wing she reach thy
lark,
Her lyric feet may dance before the ark.
Who knows but that her wandering eyes,
that run
Now hunting glowworms, may adore the
sun ;
A'pure flame may, shot by Almighty power
Into her breast, the earthly flame devour.
My eyes in penitential dew may steep
That brine, which they for sensual love did
weep.
So, though 'gainst Nature's course, fire may
be quench'd %
With fire, and water be with water drench'd.
Perhaps my restless soul, tired with pursuit
Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not when
enjoy 'd
Quench'd all her thirst, nor satisfied though
cloy'd,
Weary of her vain search below, above
In the first fair may find th' immortal love.
Prompted by thy example, then, no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore:
But tear those idols from my heart, and
write
What his blest Spir't, not fond love, shall
indite :
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha :
And rather strive to gain from thence one
thorn
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureates
As a parallel to one of the leading
thoughts in these verses, we may ex-
tract a passage from the letter on
Seraphic Love by the good and pious
Robert Boyle, whose blameless life led
him more to observe in others than to
feel in himself what he has thus de-
scribed : —
" And this truth, Lindamor, the very
fickleness of lovers concurs to testify. For
what men call and think inconstancy, is no-
thing but a chain of perfect beauties, which
our love fruitlessly follows and seeks in se-
veral objects, because he finds it not entire
in any one ; for creatures have but small and
obscure fragments of it, which cannot fix nor
satisfy an appetite born for, and though un-
willingly, aspiring unto God, who is proclaim-
ed the true and proper object of our love, as
well by man's fickleness to women as the an-
gels' constancy to him. Just as the trembling
restlessness of the needle, in any but the
north point of the compass, proceeds from and
manifests its inclination to the pole ; it* pas-
sion for which both its wavering and its rest
bear equal witness to. That unsatisfiedness
with transitory fruitions that men deplore as
the unhappiness of their nature, is, indeed,
the privilege of it ; as it is the prerogative of
men not to care for, or be capable of being
pleased with whistles, hobby-horses, and
such fond toys as children doat upon, and
make the sole objects of their desires and
joys. And by this you may, Lindamor, in
some degree imagine the unimaginable sua-
vity that the fixing of one's love on God is
able to bless the soul with ; since, by so in-
dulgent a father and competent judge as God
himself, the decreed uncontentingness of all
other goods is thought richly repaired by its
being but an aptness to prove a rise to our
love's settling there."
We ought not to close our notice of
Carew, without adverting to his Masque
of the Ccelum Britannicum, which, by
some critics, has been highly commend-
ed. We confess, however, we are not
inclined to allow it very great merit,
and suspect that the share which Inigo
Jones had, along with Carew, in the
invention of this spectacle, must have
yielded more entertainment than that
of his coadjutor. The poetry is
chiefly in blank verse, and affords
another proof that this form of versi-
fication, so admirably suited for the
development of vigorous and pregnant
poetical faculties, is destined, in infe-
rior hands, to degenerate into that
dulness and insipidity which Johnson
seems to have thought were its natural
characteristics. We shall give, as a fair
specimen of the quality of the poem, the
Answer of Mercury to the claim prefer-
red by Pleasure to a seat on high, in
room of the old constellations of Hea-
ven, supposed to have been dispersed
upon occasion of a general reforma-
tion of the celestial establishment, by
which the vices of paganism were to
be abolished, and the purity of the
British court under Charles I., more
immaculate, let us hope, than in some
succeeding times, was to be transfer-
red to the starry regions : —
" Bewitching syren ! gilded rottenness !
Thou hast with cunning artifice display 'd
Th' enainell'd outside, and the honied verge
Of the fair cup where deadly poison lurks.
Within, a thousand sorrows dance the round ;
And, like a shell, pain circles thee without.
Grief is the shadow waiting on thy steps,
Which, as thy jo^s 'gin towards their west
decline,
Doth to a giant's spreading form extend
Thy dwarfish stature. Thou thyself art pain,
1839.]
Greedy intense desire ; and tbe keen edge
Of thy fierce appetite oft strangles thee,
And cuts thy slender thread ; but still the
terror
And apprehension of thy hasty end
Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets ;
Yet thy Circean charms transform the
world.
Captains that have resisted war and death,
Nations that over fortune have triumph'd,
Are by thv magic made effeminate ;
Empires, that knew no limits but the poles,
Have in thy wanton lap melted away :
Thou wert the author of the first excess
That drew this reformation on the gods.
Canst thou, then, dream those powers, that
from Heaven
Banish'd th' effect, will there enthrone the
cause ? —
To thy voluptuous den fly, witch, from hence ;
There dwell, for ever drown'd in brutish
sense."
We have already said that we con-
sider Herrick to be in many important
points of poetical power inferior to
Carew. We are ashamed to confess
that we feel some prejudices against
Herrick on principles of physiognomy,
and sincerely wish that the portrait of
him prefixed to his works had not been
transmitted to us. We feel it almost
impossible to look on the brawny con-
formation, and the gross and gloating
expression which it represents, with-
out believing that the owner of those
features had less in him of the poet or
the clergyman than of the clown and
the sensualist. Yet much of this im-
pression is doubtless erroneous. Her-
rick must have been a fair scholar, and
cannot have been a very immoral man.
Some of his tastes, indeed, and a
great part of his writings, do him little
credit as a man of correct feeling, and
still less as a minister of the altar.
But the age was a peculiar one — the
example of classical literature had
then on some minds an effect which
has now been neutralized by better
sense and better influence, and charity
forbids us too harshly to condemn
what in no point of view can we pos-
sibly comprehend. We confess, how-
ever, that, independently of his inde-
cencies, Herrick exhibits in his poetry
unequivocal symptoms of a certain
degree of strange sensuality and want
of refinement. No one of true self-
respect, whatever might have been his
practical errors, would have written
as he did of himself, when he said — .
" Herrick! thou art too coarse to love."
Dii Minorum Gentium. No. I. 791
Then, even in his more serious de-
scriptions of his supposed mistresses,
instead of finding them elevated to the
glories of a semi-divine nature, we
have them sometimes lowered to the
vulgar level of meat and drink. Thus,
in an ode upon her recovery from
sickness, we are told that
" Health on Julia's cheek hath shed
Claret and cream commingled."
A pretty mess I Again, in compli-
ment to some of the same lady's
charms, he asks if we have
" Ever mark'd the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half- drowned in
cream."
A simile which has since, with more
propriety, been introduced and en-
larged in the popular song of the " Boys
of Kilkenny." But again, let us make
allowances for the times, and let us
acknowledge that outward laxity is
often an inaccurate indication of in-
ward vice. Herrick has himself thus
asked forgiveness for his errors in his
last request to Julia : —
" I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,
To chafe o'ermuch the virgin's cheek, or
ear :
Beg for my pardon, Julia ; he doth win
Grace with the gods, who's sorry for
his sin."
He lived, we know, to a ripe old
age, affording ample time for sincere
repentance ; and we are informed that
he left behind him the character of a
sober, learned, and even pious man.
In the observations we have made,
we must not be understood to deny
that Herrick is possessed of very con-
siderable merit as a writer, and we
willingly acknowledge that he has
some excellences peculiar to himself,
which deserve notice and commenda-
tion. He displays considerable faci-
lity of simple diction, and considerable
variety of lyrical versification. He is
successful in imitating the sprightli-
ness of Anacreontic gaiety, and the
lucid neatness of the ancient antholo-
gists. If not possessed of deep feel-
ing, he has, at least, a ready flow of
the commonplaces of pathos both in
thought and expression. If deficient
in those higher powers of imagination
which are conversant with the exalted
or the beautiful, he has yet a pleasing
vein of fancy, which represents what
may be called the pretty, in a bright
and graphic point of view. Above
all, he exhibits, if not a deep love, yet
79-2
Dli Minorum Gentium. No. I.
[June,
a real liking for rural sights and
scenes, and he has helped to confer on
some of our English country customs
a character of poetical and classical
interest. We proceed to give some of
the best specimens which we can se-
lect of the different styles in which he
may be said to excel.
Let us begin with some love-verses,
much commended by Dr Drake, but
which will not, on examination, be
found to contain very great depth of
feeling or felicity of thought. They set
out with an inauspicious conceit ; but
they are, on the whole, entitled to the
praise, and we think that is all they
are entitled to, of affectionate tender-
ness and of easy and natural expres-
sion.
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY
THING.
'* Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy protestant to be ;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
" A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.
" Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree ;
Or bid it languish quite away,
So shall it do for thee.
" Bid me despair, and I'll despair
Under that cypress tree ;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death, to die for thee.
" Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me ;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee."
Our next is of a livelier character,
and is described by Dr Nott as " per-
haps the sweetest of our poet's lyric
effusions." It is musical, and has been
successfully set to music ; but it seems
to us not exempt from the impeach-
ment of vulgarity.
TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OP TIME.
" Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying ;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
" The glorious lamp of heaven, tlie sun,
The higher he's a- getting ;
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
" That age is best which is the first,
When youth aud blood are warmer ;
But, being spent, the worse ; and worst
Times still succeed the former.
" Then be not coy, but use your time ;
And while ye may, go marry :
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry."
What follows, may be considered
as one of the most lively and flowing
of Herrick's compositions, in a style
of versification which has become more
common in recent times, but of which
this early attempt must still be pro-
nounced as a very favourable example.
The lines exhibit a good deal of fancy
and spirit, though they are not free
from blemishes.
THE NIGHTPIECE. TO JULIA ON HER
DEPARTURE.
'* Her eyes the glowworm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee ;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like sparks of fire, befriend thee !
''No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake nor glowworm bite thee ;
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright thee !
" Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber ?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number 1
" Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus, to come unto me ;
And, when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee !"
Our next extract is in a different
style. It presents us with some pretty
conceptions, neatly expressed, and
producing an effect like that of the
impression of a choicely cut seal, or
the sight of a picture through a re-
versed telescope. Its value as a piece
of poetry, or as the vehicle of thoughts
that can touch or elevate the feelings,
5s quite a different matter.
THE BAG OF THE BliE.
11 About the sweet-bag of a bee
Two Cupids fell at odds ;
1839.]
Dii Mjnorum Gentium. No. 1.
793
And whose the pretty prize should he,
They vow'd to ask the gods.
" Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them ;
And, taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.
" Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kiss'd, and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them."
In something of the same miniature
style, we find in Herrick a good many
lighter lays of fairy mythology ; but
to compare them, as has been done, to
Shakspeare's inventions in the same
department, is to do them injustice by
extravagant encomium.
The two following pieces may be
taken as fair, and they are certainly
creditable, specimens of our author's
powers in the moral-pathetic. They
are smooth and sweet, natural and
animated.
TO DAFFODILS.
" Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon ;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon :
Stay, stay,
Until the hastening day
Has run
But to the evensong :
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along !
" We have short time to stay, as you ;
We have as short a spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing :
We die,
As your hours do j and dry
Away
Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again."
TO BLOSSOMS.
" Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast ?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush, and gently smile,
And go at last.
" What ! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night ?
"Twas pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.
" But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave :
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave."
Is there not, however, a slight flaw
in the last of these pieces ? If from the
first the blossoms are considered not
in themselves, and as ultimate forms
of beauty, but only as the " pledges of
a fruitful tree," why should we grieve
so much when the pledge gives way
to the real value that it represents,
the shadow to the substance which it
preceded and foreshowed?
But the most attractive and charac-
teristic of Herrick's pieces is the "May
MorningAddress to Corinna." Here,
indeed, he seems to be at home, and in
his proper and peculiar domain. It
flows like the extemporaneous elo-
quence of a ready speaker, on the sub-
ject next his heart. It has the cheer-
fulness of the morning breeze, and the
brightness of the morning dew. It
combines at once the freshness and the
luxuriance of the season that it cele-
brates. It aims not at high devotion
or deep philosophy, but it is lively,
popular, and pure ; full of fancy and
full of feeling, such as the scene and
the occasion should inspire. Though
it leaves room here and there for cor-
rection, there are few poems which
have so successfully attained the pre-
cise object of their composition as the
one to which we now refer.
CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING.
" Get up, get up for shame ; the blooming
morn
Upon her wings presents the God unshorn :
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh- quilted colours through the air :
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree :
Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the
cast,
Above an hour since ; yet you not drest ;
Nay, not so much as out of bed ;
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation to keep in ;
When as a thousand virgins on this day,
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in
May!
" Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth like the spring-time, fresh
and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown, or hair ;
794
Dii Minor um Gentium. No. /.
[June,
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you :
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls un-
wept :
Come, and receive them, while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief
in praying ;
Few beads are best, when once we go a-
Maying !
"Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming,
mark
How each field turns a street, each street a
park
Made green, and trimm'd with trees : see
how
Devotion gives each house a bough,
Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't ?
Come, we'll abroad ; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by
staying ;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying !
" There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May :
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with whitethorn laden home :
Some have dispatch'd their cakes and
cream,
Before that we have left to dream,
And gome have wept, and woo'd, and plighted
troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off
sloth :
Many a green gown has been given ;
Many a kiss, both odd and even ;
Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament ;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd ; yet we're not
a- Maying !
" Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time :
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty :
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun :
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again ;
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade ;
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
Then, while time serves, and we are but
decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-May-
ing!"
Of Herrick's sacred poetry we shall
say nothing, except that it is in gene-
ral very inferior in merit. There are
some strong and solemn verses in his
" Litany to the Holy Spirit," pre-
served, we believe, by oral tradition ;
but the piece as a whole is unequal.
We have now, we hope, given suf-
ficient samples, both in number and
in selection, to enable our readers to
appreciate the merits of these two
poets, and to sit in judgment them-
selves upon the criticisms which we
have ventured to pronounce. Both of
them, it is obvious, are deserving of
no inconsiderable praise, and have
done good service to the cause of
poetry, whether in its intellectual or
in its mechanical advancement. Ca-
rew, we think, has contributed to this
end chiefly by the soundness of his
thoughts, the rectitude of his feelings,
and the selection of his language :
Herrick, more by the liveliness of his
images, the facility of his style, and
the variety of his numbers.
1839.]
Whig Decline and Degradation.
"95
WHIG DECLINE AND DEGRADATION.
ON the 5th of May, 1789, Louis
XVI., with great pomp, opened the
National Assembly of France, in
which Neckar had previously, with
the cordial concurrence of the crown,
doubled the representation of the Tiers
Etat, and all Europe was convulsed
by the boundless anticipations of so-
cial regeneration and public felicity,
which were then thought to be opening
on the nation and mankind ; on 8th Au-
gust, 1789, Neckar, the author of that
prodigious change, was driven from
office, an exile from France, under the
pressure of the passions which he had
called forth ; and, on the 31st of Oc-
tober, 1 793, the whole leaders of the
Girondists, the great promoters of the
Revolution, illustrious for their talents
but culpable for their rashness, were
led out to execution, amidst the exe-
cration and triumphs of the mob, whom
their suicidal hands had elevated to
undeserved and fatal power.
On the 17th of July, 1832, the Re-
form Bill, urged on by the whole force
of the Whig party, supported by the
whole revolutionary energy of the
people, received the royal assent in
England, and the British empire was
convulsed to its centre by the re-
joicings of the nation at the sud-
den elevation of five hundred thou-
sand new electors to political power.
In July 1834, Lord Grey was over-
thrown by the " constant and active
pressure from without," which, in
his own words, he felt it impossible
to resist ; and, on the 7th May, 1839,
Lord Melbourne's, the whole Reform
Cabinet, resigned the helm, in con-
sequence of having, as they them-
selves admitted, lost the confidence
of both Houses of Parliament ; and
the party of the Whigs, who had
looked forward to the Reform Bill as
their charter to a continual enjoyment
of power, sunk to the ground without
any external force, from avowed in-
ternal weakness and general external
contempt.
The Revolution of 1789, and the
establishment of the National Assem-
bly, was the triumph of the middle
classes over the monarchy and old
aristocracy who composed the form of
government in France. The Revolu-
tion of the 10th of August, 1792, which
VOL, XLV. NO. CCLXXX1Y,
led immediately to the captivity of
the King and all the royal family,
was 'the triumph of the working clas-
ses over the constitutional monarchy
and the middle ranks. The passing
of the Reform Bill in this country was
the forcible usurpation of power by
the middling classes, effected, as Lord
John Russell has told us, by a personal
request made by the King to the Con-
servative Peers to withdraw from the
Upper House. And already the symp-
toms of a similar discontent and dis-
satisfaction among the working classes
are apparent in this country ; a con-
vention, daily inculcating treasonable
and seditious doctrines, has sat, with-
out meeting with the least obstacle, for
four months in the metropolis ; and
open insurrection against the govern,
ment of the Queen and the Reformed
Parliament has broke out in almost
all the manufacturing districts of Eng-
land.
The whole power of the crown was
exerted in France, in the earlier
stages of the Revolution, to force on
the great organic changes which were
then called for by so large a portion
of the nation ; and the whole power of
the crown has, on the two most mo-
mentous occasions of the English Re-
volution, been exerted to forward the
same movement party ; — once when
King William, in April 1831, dis-
solved Parliament, in order to bring
into immediate operation the great
flood of liberal opinions which then
inundated the country ; and again in
May 1839, when Queen Victoria,
acting under the influence of a Papist
and Radical junto, stopped Sir Robert
Peel, on the pretext of her female at-
tendants, in the formation of a Con-
servative cabinet.
On the 2 1st of January, 1793, Louis,
in return for his unbounded conces-
sions to the Reform party, was pub-
licly executed in the principal square
of his own capital, amidst the tears of
the Royal, and the execration and de-
rision of the Revolutionary party in
France. On the 17th November,
1834, William IV., taught by d^v
bought experience the insupporta^^
weight of Whig oppression, and the
ruinous consequences of Whig admi-
nistration, threw himself in despera.
3 F*
Whig Decline and Degradation.
[June,
tion upon the Duke of Wellington,
and appealed to the loyalty of the real
friends of the constitution, against the
tyranny of those who had excited the
passions of the people only to mislead
or to betray them. The hour of re-
tribution to Queen Victoria, for the
desperate effort she has unconsciously
been advised to make to induce a
Popish government upon the country,
has not yet arrived ; but if her efforts
are successful, and such a domination
is established, it will inevitably come.
God grant that such a consummation
may be averted by the opening intel-
ligence of her royal mind to the real
interests alike of her people and her-
self; and that, when the hour of trial
approaches, the Conservatives may be
the first to protect her from the con-
sequences of her present infatuated
and domineering advisers.
Who will assert, after these marvel-
lous coincidences, that history is not
philosophy teaching by examples ; and
that, in a careful observation of the
past, is not to be found the means of
an almost certain anticipation of the
future ?
Among all the prodigies with which
the eventful domestic history of our
times has been distinguished, there is
none, perhaps, so remarkable as the
universal contempt and obloquy into
•which, in so short a time, the Re-
form Bill has fallen. We all recol-
lect the transports of 1832 :_" The
bill, the whole bill, and nothing but
the bill," is still ringing in our ears ;
the crash of stones which broke the
•windows of all supposed to be hostile
to Maxima Charta, is still rattling in
our recollection ; we yet see in vivid
remembrance bands of music, mingled
with tricolored flags, traversing the
streets ; the huge half-drunk crowds of
ragged artisans who followed the co-
lours, and the disgraceful spectacle of
gentlemen of property and education
heading a multitude rushing headlong
and blindfold to their country's ruin.
We have not forgotten the brickbat
and the bludgeon, the frightful elec-
tion mobs and the savage plebeian atro-
city ; we have not forgotten, nor will
history forget, that to such a degree
did the nation run mad under the ex-
citement applied to it by government,
that the Duke of Wellington, the
saviour of England, was only rescued
from murder on the streets of London,
by the gallantry of the Lincoln's- Inn
students ; and that the last hours of
Sir Walter Scott, the glory of Scot-
land, were embittered by the hellish
cry of "Burke Sir Walter!" which
has stamped eternal disgrace on the
Reformers of Roxburghshire.
Where are all these transports now ':
Where is the universal gratitude of the
nation to the patriotic founders of its
liberties and its rights? — where the
eternal thankfulness of the people for
the inestimable blessings of Maxima
Charta? How marvellous a change
to have come over the spirit of A na-
tion in the short space of seven years !
No one is now to be found who will
defend the Reform Bill, either among
its most enthusiastic supporters or
among its most resolute opponents.
The Whigs lament that it has by no
means answered their expectations,
and that that eternal dominion which
they had fondly anticipated from its
effects, is likely to be entirely frustra-
ted by the increased Conservative
tendencies of the middle classes whom
it installed in power. The Radicals
openly denounce it, as productive of a
tyranny far worse than that of the old
Tories. They execrate the expe-
rienced sway of the middle classes as
infinitely more oppressive than that of
the aristocracy and gentry who pre-
ceded them ; they bewail the New
Poor Law, which has been fixed about
their necks by the selfish rapacity of
these hard taskmasters ; and fiercely
contend for radical reform, univer-
sal suffrage, annual parliaments, and
vote by ballot, as the only means of
effecting the real regeneration of so-
ciety, and permanently arresting the
intolerable tyranny of property and
intelligence. It was the boast of the
authors of the Reform Bill that it
would put the House of Commons in
harmony with the sentiments of the
people, and prevent that jarring be-
tween the acts of the legislature and
the feelings of the commonalty which
had been the great subject of com-
plaint under the old constitution. Are
matters any better in these respects
now? Are the presenting of the peti-
tion of the National Convention, rolled
into the House of Commons upon a
wheel-barrow, bearing fifteen hundred
thousand signatures — the open insur-
rection of the Chartists in so many
quarters of England — the general
arming of the middle classes in the
manufacturing counties, for their own
1839.]
Whig Decline and Degradation.
797
defence, and the hideous spectacle of
a civil war every where prepared, and
in some places actually broken out, in
the most populous and opulent coun-
ties of England, to be considered as
the proofs which the Whigs have to
offer of the inestimable effects of their
darling Reform Bill, and of the ad-
mirable way by which it has brought
the feelings of the working classes of
the community into harmony with the
representative part of the legislature ?
Abused by its patrons and authors
the W higs, as not having done enough
for their interest, execrated by the
working classes, the object of vexa-
tion or indifference even to the middle
classes, whom it has admitted to
political power, the Reform Bill is
now upheld merely by the Conserva-
tives, who during its progress through
Parliament gave it so noble and perse-
vering a resistance. Why is it so
upheld by them? Simply because,
ruinous as it has proved to the best
interests of the country, it is better
to adhere to it, now that it is part of
the Constitution, than to make any
change upon it, in favour either of the
aristocracy or democracy ; because
confidence and security are essential
to the welfare of a commercial and
manufacturing state; and because such
security can never be obtained when
men's minds are kept in a state of
continual agitation, by organic changes
in the institutions of the country. This
has throughout been the principle of
the Conservatives. It was maintained
by them equally when the Reform Act
gave the Whigs a majority of two
hundred and fifty in Parliament, as
now, when to all human appearance
it will, on the next general election,
give the Conservatives a majority over
the once formidable, but now wasted
and discredited Reform party.
Among the innumerable evils which
the Reform Act has brought upon the
empire, and perhaps the greatest, are
the unreasonable and extravagant
expectations which it excited in the
minds both of the middle and working
classes, as to the immense benefits
which they were to derive from a par-
ticipation in political power, and the
magnitude of the evils which had been
brought on by the alleged previous
misgovernment of the Tory party.
Of all the " enormous lying," to
use the phrase of Sir Edward Lyt-
ton Bulwer, by which the Reform
Bill was carried, this was the most
enormous. It was deliberately and
mala fide put forth by the leaders
of the Liberal party ; for it is impos-
sible to suppose that men of their
standing in political life, and ability,
could for a moment have been deluded
by the popular cry, that the material
interests of the people were to be im-
proved by giving votes to the Ten
Pounders. They may have thought
in good faith, that a wider and more
popular basis for representation was
required, in order to calm the present
discontents, or provide a security
against future infringements upon the
liberties of the people ; but as to sup-
posing that it was to confer upon them
any present or sensible benefit, the
thing was too ridiculous ever to be
seriously entertained by men of any
sense or knowledge. Notwithstand-
ing this, however, the whole leaders
of the Reform party, both in and out
of Parliament, incessantly told the
people that all their grievances were
owing to the abuses of the Tories, and
the abominable misrule of that long
dominant faction ; that, as soon as the
Liberals were firmly established in
power, taxes would be taken off, trade
would revive, industry would be en-
couraged, wages would rise, provisions
would fall, poverty and suffering
would disappear, and all the blessings
of the age of gold would return to a
regenerated land.
This enormous lying answered its
purpose for the time, but, like all other
gross falsehoods, it has now come to
recoil with fearful severity upon the
heads of those who put it forth ; and
that is the real secret, both of the pre-
sent wide-spread popular discontent,
and of the abyss of degradation and
contempt into which the once popular
Whig party have every where fallen.
The leaders of that party, indeed,
were men of little ability, and by no
means calculated, by their public ap-
pearances or private conduct, either
to conciliate public esteem or satisfy
the anxious cravings of the multitude,
who looked forward for proofs of the
substantial fruits of Reform. Truly,
the spectacle of the Prime Minister,
either dining out, or riding with the
Queen, or both, every day, and the
deplorable neglect of all our commer-
cial and colonial interests by Lords
Palmerston and Glenelg, were little
calculated to satisfy the expectations
793
Whig Decline and Degradation.
[June,
of an excited people, who expected
that these great paladins of Reform
were to be occupied night and day in
the great work of political and social
regeneration. But still, it was not the
neglect of the national interests, nor
the degradation of the national cha-
racter, which has excited the wide-
spread discontent of the working
classes in England. These wretched
results have excited the profound in-
dignation of all men of intelligence,
property, or education in the country ;
and the effect of this universal feeling
is clearly seen in every contested elec-
tion, apart from Popish tyranny, which
occurs ; but they are too remote, and
bear too little on the senses, to excite
the masses of mankind. It was the
denial of the anticipated fruits of re-
form, the stoppage of the movement,
and the proclamation of the principle
of Finality, which occasioned the cla-
mour.
The Whigs were caught in their
own trap, and, like all persons who
have set out on false pretences, they
found them in the end to recoil with
desperate force upon their own heads.
After the struggle for the Reform Bill
was over, and they were fairly seated,
with an overwhelming majority, in
power, they found it utterly impracti-
cable to satisfy the wishes or expecta-
tions which they had themselves ex-
cited among the people, and thence
their party gradually dwindled away,
till at last it was reduced to the mere
holders or expectants of office ; while
all the worth, education, and principle
of the country, joined the Conserva-
tive ranks, and the great mass of the
working classes drew off in sullen
silence, or joined the treasonable
ranks of the Chartists, who, after ha-
ving exhausted all the efforts of oral
sedition, have at length, like the Fifth
Monarchy men, openly taken up arms,
to effect a general spoliation of all the
holders of property throughout the
kingdom.
The universal contempt into which
the Whigs have fallen, and their evi-
dent extinction as a party in the state,
leaving the commonwealth to be con-
tended for by the Conservatives and
Radicals, is to be regarded as the in-
evitable consequence of the false prin-
ciples with which they set out, and the
false position in which they placed
themselves in the guidance of public
affairs j and we have entered the more
at large into these views, because they
demonstrate that the ministerial crisis
which has lately arisen, and the extra-
ordinary obloquy and contempt into
which the Wings have every where
fallen, is not to be considered as any
extraordinary or unlooked-for event,
or as the result merely of incapacity
or imbecility, but as the effect rather
of the false and pernicious princi-
ples by which they arrived at power,
and which, in every instance recorded
in history where such principles have
been acted upon by government, have
proved fatal either to the nation, or
their authors, or both. The Morniny
Chronicle says, it was neither the Ja-
maica question nor the Canada ques-
tion which compelled Lord Melbourne
to resign, but that it was finality which
deprived him of the confidence of the
House of Commons and the country ;
while the Times asserts, that the Minis-
try, like the scorpion, having got into
the fire, were stung to death by their
own tail. Both are right ; and these
two seemingly contradictory exposi-
tions of the late dissolution of the Whig
Cabinet, are in fact nothing but dif-
ferent modes of expressing a state of
matters produced by the same cause.
It is the first duty and essence of all
good government, to keep things
steady, and to resist change, unless
obviously called for by tried experi-
ence or experienced necessity. Per-
petual movement is not only inconsis-
tent with any beneficial administration
of public affairs, but is destructive of
it, because it prevents the great object
of government being accomplished —
security and protection to persons and
property. It is as impossible for a
good government to be founded upon
the basis of perpetual motion, as it is
for a serviceable house to be con-
structed on a platform constantly
rolled on wheels. A ministry which
is wafted into power by the support of
the movement party, is necessarily,
after the first transports of victory are
over, reduced to this alternative —
either they must go on and destroy
the country, or stand still and ruin
themselves.
The main object of the Melbourne
administration, ever since it was re-in-
stated in office four years ago, has
been to give as little to the movement
party as was consistent with their own
retention of office. They saw clearly,
from the result of the general election
1839.1
Whig Decline and Degradation.
under Sir Robert Peel's short adminis-
tration, that the reaction had steadily
set in in the country, especially in the
county constituencies ; that the reform
mania had sensibly cooled down, and
that men's eyes were beginning to be
generally opened to the ulterior and
frightful objects which the revolution-
ists had at heart. The significant
fact of three hundred members being
returned in the interest of the Con-
servative party, within little more than
two years and a half after the Reform
Bill had passed, showed at once that
the middle classes had no inclination
to go on with the movement, till they
themselves were thrown into the revo-
lutionary furnace. This was rendered
still more apparent in August 1837,
when, upon the dissolution after the
accession of the present Queen, the
Conservative party in the Lower
House was increased to 320, in spite
of the whole weight of Govern-
ment, the most unsparing use of the
Queen's name, and the combined
operation of mob violence, and general
loyalty and attachment to a youthful
sovereign. In presence of this formi-
dable opposition, ministers could no
longer pursue their revolutionary pro-
jects. Supported by such a phalanx
in the Lower House, the Peers felt
themselvesboth called upon and bound
to stop all measures having a decided-
ly revolutionary character. Thence
the general arrest of the movement
policy, and the universal obloquy into
which the Whigs have fallen, inso-
much, that it is hard to say now, whe-
ther they are most execrated by the
Conservatives for the false and flagi-
tious pretences by which they roused
the country to madness eight years
ago, or by the Radicals for the stop-
page to the movement which they
have since interposed, from a just sense
of the imminent peril in which, as
Lord John Russell has told us, any
further advance would immediately
involve the crown, the constitution,
and the country.
That the Melbourne Ministry were
right in this opinion, and that Lord
John Russell's late finality manifesto
is founded on just principles, and a
true appreciation of the present state
of the empire, can be doubted by no
man whose judgment is not pervert-
ed by political ambition or private
interest. The principles and proceed-
ings of the Chartists, afford daily and
ocular demonstration of what tl e move-
ment leads to ; the Fifth Monarchy
men of the days of Cromwell, the Ja-
cobins of the days of Robespierre have
already arisen in grim array in the
manufacturing counties of England.
Hardly a night has passed for the
last four months, in which seditious
speeches have not been uttered in the
most inflammatory language, both in
the National Convention 'and in the
affiliated societies ; scarcely a day has
passed during the same period in
which preparations have not been made
by multitudes, in the most popu-
lous parts of the country, for overt
acts of high treason. The burnings
of farm-houses and rural disturbances,
about which so much noise was made
in November 1830, and which were
held forth by the Whigs as decisive
proof of the disastrous effects of Tory
misrule, sink into insignificance, when
compared with the wide-spread dis-
content and open preparations for
insurrection which now pervade the
manufacturing counties, in conse-
quence of only seven years of Reform
administration. Insurrection has ac-
tually broken out in many quarters,
the troops and the yeomanry are in
permanent requisition ; disturbances
and bloodshed have occurred, and
the alarming posture of public af-
fairs has compelled the Home Se-
cretary, as the only means of gene-
ral defence, to invite all the better
classes of society to form associa-
tions for their mutual defence, and
furnish them with arms from the Go-
vernment stores. This is the fruit of
Liberal government — this the conse-
quence of that atrocious system, which,
pandering in the outset to the worst
passions of the people, for the purposes
of selfish ambition, is in the end driven
to the necessity of arming one part
of the nation against another, and
plunging the country into the hor-
rors of plebeian insurrection and civil
warfare.
What are the principles which
these frantic incendiaries proclaim,
and in support of which they are
now prepared to drench England
in blood ? Annual parliaments — uni-
versal suffrage — vote by ballot — the
abolition of primogeniture, and the
new-modelling of the House of Com-
mons on the principle of giving one
member to every fifty thousand inha-
bitants. How long would the Monar-
800
WJiig Decline and Degradation.
[June,
chy stand against a House of Commons
so elected ? Not one week. How
long would the Peerage stand, or the
property of the country be safe from
spoliation ? How long would the
Protestant religion maintain its ground
against the deluge of two hundred
members from Ireland? The veil,
therefore, is now completely with-
drawn ; the ulterior objects of the
Revolutionary party stand disclosed.
The destruction of the Monarchy, of
the House of Peers, of the Protestant
religion ; a general spoliation of pro-
perty, stand revealed as the objects for
which fifteen hundred thousand men
are prepared to take up arms, and
incur the penalties of high treason.
Truly it is not surprising that the
middle classes are petitioning Govern-
ment for leave to arm themselves, and
that the shopkeepers are every where
forming associations for their mutual
defence. They begin now to see what
it is to let the revolutionary spirit
loose upon mankind, and in what aw-
ful perils any further concessions to
the democratic party will involve
themselves and their children.
And what a woful picture does the
present state of the country exhibit of
the paralysis with which the measures
of the Revolutionary Cabinet and
Reform party have afflicted the once-
powerful and energetic government
of England. Early in the debates on
the Reform Bill, the Duke of Wel-
lington asked the celebrated question,
" How, under the new constitution, the
King's government was to be carried
on." Truly, Lord Melbourne's ad-
ministration has not furnished any
solution to the difficulty. That the
nation is now placed in an unpa-
ralleled state of difficulty ; that the
colonies are all in a state of smothered
discontent or anticipated revolt ; that
the mutual passions of two populations
must necessarily bring on a bloody
national warfare on the banks of the
St Lawrence ; that the West Indies,
burning with indignation at the uni-
versal and unprincipled spoliation of
property with which they have been
visited, may be tempted to throw them-
selves into the arms of the first hostile
power which shall seriously menace
the British flag ; that a vast and costly
'war has already commenced on the
banks of the Indus ; that forty Rus-
sian ships of the line, manned by
thirty thousand troops, are ready to
pour down upon the defenceless arsen-
als of Great Britain ; that fifteen
hundred thousand Chartists in Eng-
land are prepared to deluge the coun-
try in blood, in pursuit of the vain
chimeras of revolutionary passion ;
and that two millions of Precursors
in Ireland, guided by a disciplined
militia of three thousand priests, are
ready, any day that O'Connell gives
the word, to let slip the dogs of war,
and renew, after the lapse of two cen-
turies, the awful Protestant massacre of
1641 ; — all this is universally known
and admitted. Government see these '
dangers — know them — acknowledge
them ; and they have given the most
convincing proof of the terror with
which they are inspired by them, by
having, under the pressure of appre-
hension, relinquished office, and forgot
even the ruling passion usually strong
in death.
What, then, in such circumstances,
and when surrounded by such dan-
gers, has been the conduct of the
Liberal Government ? They have
put one ship of the line in com-
mission, which, after a struggle of
four months, is hardly yet equipped
with its full complement of seamen,
and they have added fifteen hundred
men to the regular army. Literally
speaking, this is the whole that they
have done, or ventured to do, to main-
tain the country from external ene-
mies, when menaced by the whole
power of America on the one side,
and the whole force of Russia on the
other ; and to save the nation from
internal bloodshed and ruin, when
threatened alike by a revolutionary
insurrection in Great Britain, and by
the horrors of a Catholic massacre in
Ireland. For dangers in reality less
than these, she had, in the late war,
six hundred thousand men in arms
and a thousand vessels afloat ; but Sir
Charles Adam now assures us, that
" we are perfectly secure against the
united Russian and American navies,
for that we have three ships of the line
and three guard-ships to protect the
shores of England." And Lord Mel-
bourne deems himself quite safe from
English madness, or Irish revenge,
both inflamed to the highest point of
exasperation, because he has added
the amount of three weak battalions to
the British army ! And this is the
state of weakness and decrepitude to
which, in seven short years, a Liberal
1839.]
Whig Decline and Degradation.
administration and Reform principles
have brought the country of Nelson
and Wellington!
Numerous and formidable as are
the dangers which on all sides men-
ace the country, there is not one of
them which may not be distinct-
ly traced to the false policy pur-
sued, or pernicious principles instilled
into the country, by the Liberal Go-
vernment. Look at external matters.
What has brought on the alarming
crisis in Canada, produced two fright-
ful insurrections in that country, and
roused the frontier population of the
United States to such a pitch of hosti-
lity, as may, ere long, bring on a
costly and ruinous war with America ?
Clearly the monstrous conduct of the
Liberal Government, who first, for
years, spread doctrines and used lan-
guage from the seat of authority in
this country amply sufficient to set the
most phlegmatic people in the world on
fire, and then, when the flame had
begun to spread among the French
population on the banks of the St
Lawrence, from the dread of offend-
ing their liberal allies in this country,
dallied with and pampered treason to
such a degree amongst the Canadian
republicans, as at length brought on an
open revolt, and, but for the extraor-
dinary circumstance of the St Law-
rence not being frozen up in the mid-
dle of December, would, eighteen
months ago, probably have severed
our whole North American colonies
from the British empire. With their
usual and characteristic blindness, they
had, to meet this revolt, the result of
their own weak and infatuated con-
duct, and which every man of sense
in the kingdom had seen for years was
approaching, just three thousand men
in Canada ; and the consequence was,
that the revolt was so imperfectly sup-
pressed, that it broke out a second
time, led to a lamentable effusion of
human blood, and has sown the seeds
of indelible jealousy and discord on
both sides of the American frontier.
Turn to the East Indies. What is
it that has produced the present alarm-
ing crisis in that country, which has
rendered necessary the march of
nearly 30,000 British troops across the
Indus, and involved the Indian go-
vernment in a costly and distaut en-
terprise in Central Asia, the success
of which is uncertain, and the defeat
of which would place in the utmost
801
peril our whole empire in Hindostan ?
Clearly the short-sighted policy of the
Liberal Government in that country,
which, from the miserable desire of
gaining a temporary popularity, and
rounding a few periods about economy
and retrenchment before some demo-
cratic electorsof Great Britain, brought
about a ruinous reduction both in our
European and native army in the East,
and necessarily induced that weakness
and timidity in the Indian administra-
tion, which, in an empire so situated,
and founded entirely on opinion, is
the invariable forerunner of dissolu-
tion.
We are far from blaming the expe-
dition across the Indus, costly and
hazardous as it was ; on the contrary,
at the time it was undertaken, we
believe it to have been indispensable to
stop the progress of Russian intrigue,
and restore the tarnished glory and
credit of the British name in the pro-
vinces of Central Asia. What we say
is, that the enormous expense and im-
minent risk of this distant expedition
was the necessary consequence of, and
the only way of averting, the ruinous
effects of the previous infatuated and
short-sighted parsimony of the former
Whig administrations in India, espe-
cially Lord William Bentinck's, which
had reduced the British force so much,
and discredited the British name so
entirely, that it lost its whole influence
among the powers of Central Asia,
and was driven to this desperate effort
in order to regain it. In 1826 our
army in India numbered two hundred
and ninety thousand combatants ; in
1838 it had been reduced to one
hundred and eighty thousand, although
the necessities and wants of the em-
pire had greatly increased, from the
extension of our frontier into the Bur-
mese territories, and the rapid progress
of Russian influence in the states of
Central Asia. What did the British
Government do, under the influence of
this miserable, parsimonious spirit, ori-
ginating in the desire to curry favour
with the ten pound urban-constituen-
cies of England ? Why, they dismant-
led or sold the whole Bombay navy,
thereby shutting us out from any
maritime influence in the Persian gulf,
and they refused to ratify the judicious
treaty made by Lieutenant Burnes,
by which, for the moderate subsidy of
fifty thousand pounds, we would have
secured the cordial co-operation of
802
Whig Decline and Degradation.
[June,
Mahomed Khan and the Affghanistan
chiefs, and erected an impenetrable
barrier to the further advances of Rus-
sia across the shores of the Ganges.
The consequence was, that these
chiefs, in disgust, threw themselves into
the arms of Russia ; our influence at
the Court of Persia dwindled away to
nothing ; our able ambassador, Sir
John M'Neill, was compelled to aban-
don Tehran, leaving the Persian court
entirely open to Russian influence.
The consequence was, that the Rus-
sian emissaries soon reached the north-
ern provinces of India, and they were
found on the banks of the Sutledge,
and on the banks of Nepaul, secretly
organising a vast confederacy against
the British power in Hindostan. Then,
and not till then, the imminence of the
danger flashed upon our rulers in the
East, and a gigantic expedition at
length, at a vast cost, was undertaken
to remeasure, in an opposite direction,
the march of Alexander the Great to
India, and endeavour to regain, by
force of arms, that commanding influ-
ence in the passes between Persia and
Hindostan, which we had lost by the
weakness of former diplomacy and
the abject submission to blind demo-
cratic parsimony.
Turn to European affairs. Have
the Liberal Government upheld the
character, or maintained the interests
of the British empire in our own more
immediate concerns ? Who surren-
dered Antwerp to the French — that
great outwork of continental ambition
against British independence, which
Napoleon declared he lost his king-
dom because he would not abandon ?
Who kept alive the flames of a fright-
ful civil war in Spain, and drenched
the valleys of the Ebro with blood,
and stained the name of England, by
aiding in the overthrow and subjuga-
tion of the Basque provinces ? Who
brought an unheard-of disgrace upon
the British arms, and exhibited the
spectacle, unprecedented for five cen-
turies, of Englishmen armed with
Tower guns, and commanded by of-
ficers of the British army, flying in
utter rout and confusion before an
array of Spanish mountaineers ? Who
brought the Russian standard down to
Constantinople, and refused aid to the
Grand Seignior, when, in the agony of
distress, he threw himself upon us
for protection, and placed the keys
oi Constantinople, the gate of the
East, and the pass to the subjugation
of our Indian empire, into the hands
of the Imperial Autocrat of Russia ?
What is it that has now left the Bri-
tish shores defenceless, save from the
three ships of the line and three guard-
ships, of which Sir Charles Adams so
loudly boasts in the House of Com-
mons, against the thirty ships of the
line and thirty thousand men which
are in constant readiness in the Baltic,
to carry conflagration and ruin into
the whole naval arsenals of England ?
Who has lowered the character of the
British navy to such a degree, that
even the French, though hardly re-
covered from the terrors of the Nile
and Trafalgar, deem themselves in
safety to insult the British flag during
the establishment of a blockade of a
neutral power ? Who, but the miser-
able, democracy-paralysed Liberal Go-
vernment, who never venture to pro-
pose a decided measure, or take a
vigorous step, or bring forward an
enlarged estimate, lest they should
weaken the allegiance of their ten-
pound supporters, or endanger the
support of the extreme Liberal section
in the House of Commons.
The spectacle which the West In-
dies exhibits is, perhaps, still more
melancholy and instructing, because
it is there that the rashness and mob
subserviency of the Liberal Govern-
ment was first brought into action,
and that the effects of such a system,
in consequence, have been already
most fully developed. The West In-
dies were the first victim of the self-
government of the dominant multitude
in the British Islands. The English
people were determined, per fas out
nefas, that the slaves should be eman-
cipated, and by a mighty effort they
forced through this prodigious change
without sufficient regard either to the
circumstances of the slaves who were to
be the victims of the perilous experi-
ment, or of the ruling power by whom,
the price of their enfranchisement was
to be paid. Not content -with this, in
a few years after, they insisted upon
the immediate termination of the ap-
prenticeship system and total abolition
of slavery, whether the negroes were
in a fit condition to bear the ultimate
change or not. The consequence has
been, that the West Indies have been
thrown into an indescribable state of
confusion and uneasiness ; field-labour
of every kind, generally speaking, has
1839.]
Whig Decline and Degradation.
been suspended ; the crops of the two
next seasons have been ruined by the
suspension of work during the most
important period of the year — that
•when the sugar canes for the succeed-
ing crop were to be cleaned, and for
the crop following planted ; and even
those in the islands who are most fa-
vourable to the cause of emancipation
look forward with the most gloomy
forebodings to the ultimate effect of
the experiment. Within two years af-
ter the Apprentice System was first
introduced, the produce of Jamaica had
fallen off a third, although the seasons
had been remarkably fine.* Within
two years from the first of August last,
according to present appearances,
the negroes, generally speaking, will
work in so lazy and indolent a man-
ner, as to render it impossible to cul-
tivate the estates with profit ; part of
them will squat down in the unappro-
priated wooded fastnesses in the inte-
rior, and the unbounded fecundity of
nature in those tropical regions will
gradually choke up the cultivated dis-
tricts with the rank vegetation of a
southern sun. In ten years the prin-
cipal British Colonies in the West
Indies may be reduced to a state of
nature, and the negroes, wandering
over the wooded hills, or reposing in
the close thickets of the tropical re-
gions, exhibit, as in St Domingo, a hi-
deous compound of the vices of civil-
ized with the indolence of savage life.
Meanwhile, the present export of six
millions' worth of goods to these splen-
did colonies will disappear, and a
branch of trade, which has hitherto
maintained 250,000 tons of our ship-
ping, will vanish, or pass into the
803
hands of our enemies. We must buy
our sugar from Cuba or Brazil, and
under the reciprocity system the trade
of these countries will speedily be
engrossed by their own sailors.
But who are the persons that will
raise the sugar thus to be obtained
from Cuba and Brazil, instead of our
own colonies ? Will it be raised by
free labourers, working for voluntary
wages, and realizing the favourite
dreams of the philanthropists ? On the
contrary, it will be raised entirely by
slaves,a.nd those, too, slaves of the most
miserable kind, imported into these
great slave colonies, treated in the
passage across the Atlantic in a way
worse than the British slaves ever
were, and subjected, when settled in
the new world, to a degree of misery,
in comparison of which the condition
of the slaves in the British West
India Islands was happiness. It was
stated by Lord Brougham, in his late
speech in Parliament 'on this subject,
on the authority of Parliamentary do-
cuments, and repeated by Mr Buxtou
in his late pamphlet, and every one
acquainted with the subject knew it to
bo the fact, that there are now one
hundred and seventy thousand slaves
annually imported into the colonies of
Cuba and Brazil, and that in addition
to one-fourth who die in the mid pas-
sage. Into the Havannah alone, the
importation amounts to seventy-two
thousand a-year. The number an-
nually imported into the Britisli colo-
nies, even during the slave trade, was
in general about fifteen thousand a-
year, because the British colonies very
nearly maintained their own numbers,
and the total amount of those who
* We recommend to the careful consideration of our readers the following demon-
stration, from Parliamentary returns, of the practical working of the first three years
of the Apprentice System in Jamaica.
Years
Sugar.
Rum.
Molasses.
Coffee.
Hfida,
Puncheons.
Casks.
Pounds.
Average produce
of seven years,
1827 to 1832,
93,156
34,354
313
20,953,705
1833
78,395
33,215
755
9,860,060
1834
77,801
30,475
486
17,725,731
1835
71,017
26,434
300
10.593,018
1836
61,644
19,938
182
13,446,053
lords' Papers, No. 70, 1838.
804
crossed the Atlantic in 1789, for all
the colonies in the world, was not
above fifty thousand. The prodigious
increase since that time has been main-
ly owing1 to the rapid diminution of
produce in the British West India
islands, under the monstrous system
of legislation to which they have been
subjected, chiefly by the Reformed
Parliament, which has thrown the
supply of the European market so
much into the hands of foreign slave
colonies. Thus, while we have given
a fatal blow to our own colonies by
this most precipitate and ill-advised
step, and thrown the negro population
intrusted to our care irrecoverably
back in the career of civilisation, we
have cut off a staple branch of our
export and import trade, and tripled
the slave trade in extent, arid quadru-
pled it in horrors throughout the
world.
The consequences of this monstrous
and unheard-of spoliation, which, for
in general less than a seventh part of
its value, has, literally speaking, con-
fiscated the property of one of the
most flourishing parts of the British
empire, are more worthy of observa-
tion that they brought out, at a very
early period, that inherent mixture of
subserviency to their own supporters
among the mob, with arbitrary despot-
ism towards the holders of property,
which has, in every age, formed the
leading characteristic of democratic
government. The Jamaica House of
Assembly, finding that the emanci-
pated negroes would not work, that
their property was sinking to a fourth
part of its former produce, and that in
a few years they might calculate upon
its total extinction, gave way to some
impassioned language, and passed
some strong, perhaps imprudent reso-
lutions. What did the Liberal Go-
vernment do upon this ? Did they
make the proper allowance for persons
suffering under such an unexampled
spoliation, and use their best endea-
vours to mitigate the effects of the in-
dolence and idleness which generally
prevailed among the negro popu-
lation, and to uphold the cause of pro-
perty and order against the inroads
of anarchy and revolution, to the best
of their power ? Quite the reverse.
The first thing they did was to bring
in a bill to suspend the constitution of
Jamaica altogether, and reduce the
whole inhabitants of that colony,
white, black, and brown, to an indis-
Whig Decline and Degradation.
[June,
tinguishable servitude. Is this a way
to treat freemen ? The Liberal Go-
vernment first confiscate and destroy
the property of Jamaica ; and, when
its owners remonstrate and com-
plain, they suspend their liberties and
deprive them of the common rights of
freemen. Is this a way to spread the
principles of freedom throughout the
world 'f. Is this a way to secure and
extend the vast and far-scattered colo-
nial empire of Britain ? If these are
the blessings which democratic go-
vernment and liberal constitutions
bring to colonial independence, what
have they to fear from the rule of de-
spotic governments ? And is any thing
to be found, in the annals either of
Roman despotism or Russian ambition,
which is at all comparable to such a
monstrous act of mingled rashness,
injustice, and oppression ?
This system of suspending the con-
stitution of colonial, or other depend-
encies, the moment that the natural
effects of their own violent revolution-
ary changes begin to appear, is a fa-
vourite nostrum of our Whig state
doctors. They did just the same
thing in Canada ; and, from the wfly
in which that colony has been treated,
the people of England may get a clear
insight into the way in which absolute
despotic power will be established in
every part of the empire, if the Whig-
Radical Government is permitted
much longer to remain at the head of
affairs.
For ten years back, treason and se-
dition have not merely been tolerated,
but in many instances encouraged
and patronised in most parts of the
British dominions. The most in-
flammatory language has been studi-
ously and habitually addressed to the
working classes by all the liberal
party ; the overthrow of all our insti-
tutions by physical force has been
openly threatened by the agitators and
pressed upon the people ; and not only
has no attempt been made to discour-
age such dangerous language, but
in many instances the persons who
held it have succeeded in raising them-
selves to the highest influence and im-
portance in the state. For ten years,
the liberals have been throwing about
firebrands throughout the British em-
pire, without one moment's intermis-
sion. So far from wondering that
part has taken fire in consequence, the
only surprising thing is that the whole
empire is not in a state of combustion.
1830.]
Wliiy Decline and Degradation,
805
The old and sturdy Anglo- Saxon oak
could not be so easily set on h're, but
a smothered conflagration has long in
consequence been taking place in Ire-
land, and the flames have openly burst
and burned fiercely on the other side
of the Atlantic. The danger is post-
poned, not removed, in that quarter ;
the presence of twelve thousand men,
recently sent out, could not prevent
revolt from again breaking forth ; the
spirit of disaffection is unabated ; the
treasonable organization is complete ;
drilling is openly going on in many
quarters ; and the American Govern-
ment is only waiting the recovery
.of its own finances from the dreadful
shock of 1837, or the immersing of
England in a contest with any other
power, to advance her claim to the
disputed boundary, and, joining her
arms to those of the Canadian rebels,
drive us finally from the shores of the
St Lawrence, and establish the stan-
dard of the first republic in the world
on the fortresses commanding the
great internal communication of the
new hemisphere.
What was the only remedy which
the Liberal Government had to propose
for this disastrous state of matters in
our North American colonies ? They
had recourse to their usual nostrum of
suspending the constitution. They ex-
tinguished the provincial assemblies by
act of Parliament, and sent out the
great autocrat, Durham, with despotic
powers to govern the colony, while
the imperial despots at home were pre-
paring, by his suggestion, a constitu-
tion which was finally to determine
the rights and liberties of that great
and growing quarter of the globe.
Here again is the most striking illus-
tration of the way in which the li-
beral government prepare, in the ho-
mage which they pay in the outset to
democratic transports, the final extinc-
tion of liberty throughout the empire.
They first use inflammatory and dan-
gerous language themselves ; they next
patronise and promote those in their
interest who use similar language in
their dominions ; and when, in this
way, they have brought the people up
to open revolt, they immediately have
recourse to a suspension of the con-
stitution, and derive a temporary sup-
port to their government from the very
calamities which portend the dismem-
berment of the empire by the numer-
ous offices which they contrive to carve
out for their greedy democratic sup-
porters, in the establishment of despotic
government over their oppressed co-
lonial subjects.
Look at Ireland. Mystified as the
returns of crime have been by the ef-
forts of Lord Morpeth, and the police
employees of Lord Normanby's go-
vernment, enough has already appear-
ed to show, that the influence of a
democratic government, leaning on
popery and supported by a phalanx
of Catholic priests, has there been to
accelerate the progress of crime to a
degree unparalleled in any other part
of the empire.
From the Parliamentary Returns, it
appears that, while, from theyear 1829,
the year of Catholic emancipation,
crime has advanced in England about
a fourth, and in Scotland about a half,
in Ireland it has DOUBLED.* Thecon-
* Table showing the total number of persons committed for trial or bailed in England
and Wales, in Ireland, and in Scotland, in each of the years from 1828 to 1838.
Years.
England and Wales.
Ireland.
Scotland.
1828
16,564
14,683
1948
1829
18,675
15,271
2046
1830
18,107
15,794
2063
1831
19,647
16,192
2329
1832
20,829
16,056
2451
1833
20,072
17,819
2564
1834
22,451
21,381
2711
1835
20,731
21,205
2b52
1836
20,984
23,891
2922
1837
23,612
27,396
3126
1838
27,834
— Part. Papers, and M'GtHoeh's Slah't'.ins of the British Empire, i. 476, et seq., and
Moreau, ii. 290, 298.
806
Whig Decline and Degradation.
[June,
elusions to be drawn from this most
instructive table will not be rightly
appreciated, unless it is recollected
that the population of England is now,
according to the most approved sta-
tistical writers, about 16,000,000 ; so
that England, even \vith all its vast
cities and manufacturing establish-
ments, exhibits considerably less than
half the amount of crime, in propor-
tion to the population, that Ireland
presents with a population engaged
almost entirely in rural employments.
Every body knows what a frightful
character a large proportion of those
crimes bear ; how great a number
of them are murders, fire-raisings,
or crimes of the most atrocious
violence ; and how insecure life and
property have become in the sister
island. It is equally notorious how
extremely difficult it is to obtain a con-
viction in the disturbed parts of that
country, and how large a proportion,
especially of the most atrocious crimi-
nals, constantly escape altogether, from
the intimidation of juries and witnesses.
It may safely be affirmed that life and
property is incomparably less secure in
Ireland, under the liberal government
of Lord Normanby, than it is in the
most arbitrary or worst regulated
states of Europe.
So conscious indeed, was Govern-
ment of the truth of these assertions,
that all that Lord Morpeth had to say
in answer was, that it has always been
the same, and that no period, espe-
cially under Tory government, is to
be found in which prasdial disturbance
and agrarian bloodshed have not pre-
vailed more or less in the Irish coun-
ties. Is it then come to this, that all
that the Liberal Government can say,
in support of their administration in
Ireland, is, that the glorious days of
Normanby liberality are NO WORSE
than the execrable period of Tory
misrule ! We thought they were to
have been a great deal better ; and that,
under the fair and equal-handed ad-
ministration of Popery and O'Connell,
the hideous difference in the crimi-
nality of Ireland and Great Britain
was to disappear. Now, however,
the fatal secret stands admitted by
Ministerial confession, that the vast
ch;;nge which has taken place of late
years in the government of Ireland,
has had no effect whatever either in
checking crime or tranquillizing the
country, but that the only excuse they
can now make for the immense and
frightful accumulation of crime in
Ireland is, that matters were r.o better
under the Tory governments.
In truth, however, this pretence,
that murder and agrarian outrage are
no worse now than in the days of
Tory government is decisively dis-
proved by the statistical returns. The
following is a list taken from Moreau's
Statistics of the British Empire, of the
number of murders committed in Ire-
land during six years preceding and
following the accession of the Whig
Administration.
Murders during
Tory Misrule.
1823,
1824,
1825,
1826,
1827,
1828,
1829,
1830,
69
57
78
96
94
84
143
100
Murders during
\\ hig Justice.
1831,
106
1832,
136
1833,
231
1834,
180
1835,
218
1836,
231
1837,
264*
Returns like these are ugly cus-
tomers, and already the liberal writers
begin to wince under the statistics of
crime, which at first, in the belief that
they would support all their favourite
dogmas, they were so industrious in
procuring. " Many false inferences,"
says Mr M'Culloch in his Statistical
Account of England, " have been
drawn from comparing together re-
turns as to the state of crime in dif-
ferent countries, and in the same
country at different periods. Such
returns are obviously good for no-
thing, except to deceive and mislead,
unless the classification of offences in
the countries and periods compared
together were the same, and unless
the police and the laws were similar,
the former possessing nearly the same
vigilance, and the latter enforced with
about the same precision."! We
heard no complaints of these returns
not being a true index to the state of
crime, as long as they were thought
to afford any countenance to the
ruinous social and economical doc-
* Moreau's Stat, do la Grand Brelagne, ii. 280 — 285.
f M'Culloch's Statistical Account of the British Empire, ii. 4(i8.
1839.]
Whig Decline and Degradation.
807
trines of the Whigs. But no sooner
are they found, as has been decisively
done, and by none more than by this
miscellany, to prove how rapidly crime
has increased in Ireland under the
priest-ridden government of Lord
Normanby, and in the manufacturing
towns of Great Britain, under the in-
fluence of merely intellectual and se-
cular education, than they turn round
and exclaim that no reliance is to be
placed on such documents, and that so
many elements enter into their com-
pilation that they are more calculated
to mislead than to inform.
Perhaps the most fatal, though
hitherto the least observed effect of
the ascendency of liberal principles
for the last eight years in the British
government, has been the general cor-
ruption among the whole liberal party,
of the character of public men, and
the general spread of the fatal revo-
lutionary principle — that no other test
is to be applied to public actions but
success. It used in former days to be
the boast of the English nation, and
unquestionably it was the safeguard of
English statesmen, that no amount of
talent or oratorical ability could, in
public men, supply the want of pri-
vate character ; and that no states-
men could long retain the helm,
whatever the strength of their party
connexions might be, who wanted
the ascendant of private morality.
But among the free-and-easy ranks of
the liberals, these old-fashioned pre-
judices have long since been discard-
ed. The point with them is not what
is right, but what is expedient; not
what is honourable, but \vhat may be
successful ; not what will in the end
benefit their country, but will at the
moment be profitable to themselves.
The motley crew of the liberals have
no common bond but that of selfish
interest, and, by a mutual understand-
ing, or instinct, they demand nothing
of public men but the qualities calcu-
lated to promote their sordid motives.
The sway of character, virtue, and
honourable feeling accordingly, is
nearly extinguished among the liberals
in the empire. Not only are public
men now noways esteemed by that
party for their private virtues, but
such qualities, if they exist, are consi-
dered rather as a clog upon them, and
a fit subject for derision ; from a secret
apprehension that they may prove
inconvenient shackles upon political
conduct. The worse a man is, the
more is he liked, and the more readily
is he followed by that party, because
he is the more likely to be restrained
by no scruples in obtaining for them
the selfish objects of their common
ambition. That fatal depravity of
public opinion, which the historians of
antiquity so frequently lamented as
the immediate cause of the ruin of
their flourishing commonwealths, has
made unprecedented strides amongst
us since the fatal era of the Reform
Bill ; and, if it continues to advance for
ten years longer with the same rapi-
dity, the nation will be as irrecover-
ably lost as a dead man.
It was a growing sense of the
evils which have now been slightly
and imperfectly portrayed, spreading-
among a nation, in a large portion of
which religion still maintained its
ancient sway over the human heart,
and in which the foundations of public
morality were still generally rested
upon the only firm basis, that of Chris-
tian principle, which produced that
general indignation and contempt
which, on the 7th of May last, com-
pelled Lord Melbourne's Administra-
tion to resign the helm of power. It
is in vain to say that the fall of the
Whig Ministry was owing to the de-
fection of the Radicals. The transfer
often votes, as the Morning Chronicle
justly observed, never yet occasioned
the fall of a ministry which was not
already on the very verge of destruc-
tion from other causes. They fell
before the aroused indignation of
the moral and religious portion of the
community — before the discontent ex-
cited by the general and scandalous
neglect of all the great interests of the
empire — before the contempt of the
Radicals whom they had deceived, and
the hatred of the Revolutionists whom
they had not the courage to encounter.
Censured, as they themselves tell us,
by a vote of the House of Lords ; de-
prived, as Lord John Russell admits
they were, by the vote on the Jamaica
bill, of the confidence of the House of
Commons ; abhorred by the Conser-
vatives whom they were unable to re-
sist ; despised by the Radicals whom
they affected to disregard, they fell,
the object of ridicule and contempt
to the whole country. They fell without
any external attack, from such inhe-
rent weakness as amounted to admit-
ted inability to hold the reins of power.
Whig Decline and Degradation.
808
They have since been reinstated in
power, not by a resolution of the Lords
— not by a division in the Commons —
not by the voice of the country, or the
value of their former services, but by a
vote of confidence of three ladies of the
Queen's household. The great Whig
party, the pure and patriotic statesmen
•who disclaim all court influence, who
despise all courtly attendants upon
kings and queens, who shudder at the
very thought of back-stairs influence
or court intrigue — the noble, patriotic
successors of Somers and Chatham, of
Burke and Fox — censured by the Lords,
cast off by the Commons, despised
by the people — are driven to creep
again into office, clinging to the tails
of the petticoats of the ladies of
the bed-chamber. Now, then, is the
time — when such dangers threaten
alike the monarchy and the institutions
of the country — for the Conservatives
to come forward and demonstrate,
both by their language and their con-
duct, their steady adherence to their
principles, and their resolution to se-
parate the cause of the Queen and the
monarchy from that of the Popish
[June,
faction, who would render her the un-
conscious instrument of their designs in
subverting alike the Protestant religion
and established institutions of the em-
pire. Fortunately the real object of the
plot will soon become apparent, and
Lord Normanby and O'Connell will
speedily stand forth as the real rulers
of the empire, and the dreaded inves-
tigation of Irish misgovernment will
be sought to be stopped by the esta-
blishment of a similar system in this
country. Against such an attempt let
the nation arouse all its moral ener-
gies, and pour them forth through
every constitutional channel ; but let
them never forget that faction and in-
trigue are transient, but the durable
interests of the monarchy are perma-
nent ; that maturer years and more
enlarged experience will enlighten the
mind of our youthful Sovereign ; and
that, however slender the chances are
that the ladies about a palace will se-
lect fit men for the administration of
public affairs, there is greater likeli-
hood of their doing so, than of the fa-
vour of a democratic mob lighting
upon a worthy statesman.
1839.]
On the Genius of Raphael.
800
ON THE GENIUS OF RAPHAEL.
ON a former occasion, • the parti-
cular character or sphere of sentiment
of the genius of Michael Angelo, as
exemplified in the picture of the Last
Ju(/</mejit, was so far attempted to be
assigned ; our present object shall be
to endeavour, in some measure, to elu-
cidate that of the works of his compe-
titor for the sovereignty of painting
— Raphael da Urbino.
The title, " 11 Divino" — the divine
— which has been bestowed upon Ra-
phacl, is not, as may have frequently
been supposed, a mere synonyme of
excellence, vaguely accorded in refer-
ence to those qualities, which each for
himself may be most ready to perceive
or appreciate ; but a definite and discri-
minating appellation, which has ori-
ginated in the impression or general
sense of the nature and tendency of
his works — in their connexion with
the great division of sentiment which
gave birth to them, and which they
embrace, in art.
The apprehension of the sublime, of
the beautiful, of the graceful, of the
terrible, and other qualities, which, on
a wide view of art being taken, must be
considered merely to be its adjective at-
tendants, have generally been deemed
the ultimate subjects of appreciation.!
The perception of these has usually
bounded the recognition of the purposes
of art ; they have been deemed the far-
thest limits of its aim ; and each, on
different occasions, has been held to
be the great centre of its intention or
object. But, in recognising these, we
recognise merely qualities secondary to,
or frequently dependant upon,- those
more ultimate relations of the mind,
•which recede into the absolute and
final ; and, in connexion with which,
the purposes of art truly find their
value. " In cycle and epicycle" the
various arts move round the great
centre of all to man — his own mental
constitution. Their more or less ex-
tended connexion with, and inherence
in this — the intellection, the emotion,
the passion-, which they express or
signify, or of which they become sug-
gestive, either in anticipation or in re-
trospection— the desire or the enjoy-
ment which they are identified with,
marks the individual worth of each,
and by the rank of those divisions of
sentiment, which, in particular exem-
plifications, are enforced in the differ-
ent arts according to their powers or
medium, the station of those exempli-
fications must be assigned. From this
standard there is no possibility of ap-
peal. It sweeps down all those for-
tuitous partialities and fashions in re-
spect to art, which are the growth of
limited localities, and of the mode of a
day ; those particular peculiarities,
which are not unfrequently set up as
standards of judgment ; those indivi-
dual characteristics, which, instead
of being merely regarded as integrant
portions of the whole art of repre-
sentative substitution, or imitation,
as embraced by painting, have fre-
quently been made the archetypes of
all excellence. It embraces, in their
dependant order, in the necessary sub-
ordination and connexion of style
with sentiment — inseparable as heat
and light in the rays of the sun —
the material, the process, the com-
ponent parts of the modes and prac-
tice of art — what may be styled its
physiognomic features — which, not
only in painting, but in the more
amply discussed field of literature,
have been frequently mistaken for
their legitimate purposes, and upon
which criticism has more endeavoured
to find a basement for its construc-
tions than to found itself a science, in
relation to those ultimate objects, to
arrive at which these are merely the
means — less to build its decisions upon
the nature of man's being, his desires,
powers, and needs, rather than upon
certain limited portions of the opera-
tion of that being, by substituting
fragments for the whole, and adopting
certain models, and partial purposes as
* No. CCLXXX.
•j" Such a limited view has frequently been taken of painting, tbat any thing in itself dis-
agreeable entering into a picture has been considered not to come under the purposes of art.
How or what could The Last Supper really, or pictorially, have been without Judas?
Will such analogy not still the treble pipe of this sort of criticism ?
810
meters — keys of the rivers of thought
and sentiment, which have been held
•with too much Anubis-iike sameness
by their watchers.
On taking an extended view of that
sphere of painting, the value of which
is based in its moral significance,*
two grand divisions present themselves.
To one of these belongs Michael An-
gelo ; to the other Raphael : and the
more that the ultimate relations of art
are taken into cognizance, the further
do these become separated from those
around them who belong to the same
circle. Michael Angelo, like his youth-
ful Victory, under whom the aged
warrior bows in support, rises above
all the labours of his predecessors :
Raphael, as the radiance from the
angel in his St Peter conducted
from prison dims the torches and the
moonlight, absorbs the efforts of his ;
both with an extended certainty of
purpose, which renders those labours
(although in some instances their im-
portance can only be affected by com-
parison with those of Buonarotti, and
Raphael), and also those of their suc-
cessors, limited and partial. But set-
ting aside their common mode of
addressing the mind — pictorial repre-
sentation— there is no resemblance
betwixt them. The order of senti-
ment which the one enters into, is
altogether different from that of the
other. They operate towards their
final purpose or bearing with distinct
separateuess. They have frequently
been compared j but there is no mutual
ground of comparison betwixt them.
The efficiency of the nature of their
labours, in connexion with their ulti-
mate object, and the extent to which
each has entered into, or become iden-
tical with, the sphere of mind to which
his works belong, are grounds of con-
trast, not of comparison ; and were
the superiority of the one to the other
On the Genius of Raphael.
[June,
attempted to be assigned, it would
depend upon the decision of these
questions. The genius of Michael
Angelo exhibits or announces the
effort of will and desire in man. Its
reference centres in the fate of the
genus ; he seems constantly to ques-
tion,— shall humanity be dignified or
abased — shall its energy triumph or
suffer defeat ? He designed a repre-
sentation of venerable Age placed in a
go-cart, and wrote underneath, An-
chor a imparo — I still learn. His
prophets and sibyls are impressive of
mental power beyond the nature of
material being. His statue of Lorenzo
de Medicis is altogether un approached,
in its centred and commanding refer-
ence to a past and a future individu-
ality. His region is the intellectual.
That of Raphael is different — it is the
moral. The one operates through an
elevated and abstract bearing on hu-
man emotion ; the other, by virtue of
moral reliance, raises emotion to the
abstract and intellectual. But, before
proceeding further, it may be neces-
sary to remove several theoretical
constructions that have been put upon
the nature or purposes of painting,
which may appear to interfere with
what may be advanced.
One of these is the limitation which
has been attempted to be put to ex-
pression in painting and sculpture. It
has been considered that they should
be confined to the adoption of particu-
lar phases of emotion, or rather to the
nearest approach to the total negation
of emotion. A hypothetic demarka-
tion has been endeavoured to be
pointed outf as the true bounds of
their field, to the implied exclusion of
some of their grandest productions.
But the existence of these productions
(the statue of the gladiator, or the
cartoon of Pisa,J for example), and
their effect on the mind — the true cri-
* The use of this word is indefinite — it is at one time applied to whatever relates to the
operations of mind, becoming somewhat synonymous with mentality ; while at another, it is
confined to that serieswhich comes under the designation of ethics. This ig noticed, as
ik will be necessary frequently to adopt its use throughout this enquiry, in the latter sense,
though in the present instance it is used in tho former.
f See Lessing's Laocoon, in some respects ti valuable work, but one of those which
puts forward a partialobject, the result of the author's idiosyncracy, to supply the place of
what is extensive and general ; one of those theories which would feed man on bread alone.
But is it necessary to reply to such things? It has been denied that Michael Angelo was
a painter ; it is not long since Pope was asserted to be superior to Shakspeare ; and, on the
other hand, that he was not a poet !
| The cartoon of Pisa is said to have been destroyed by the stolid BacJo Bandinelli ',
but part of its design sti'l exists in copies,
1830.]
On the Genius of Raphael.
terion of. what is right and wrong in
art — is a conclusive answer to this cri-
tical solecism. There is, however, a
limitation of a different kind which has
been made, the examination of which
•will include the reply to this.
Painting and poetry have been fre-
quently compared or paralleled. Muta
poesis, etpictura loguens, has assumed
the station of a sententious definition
of both ; but if poetry is to be regard-
ed to consist in what even the mean-
est verses attempt to pursue — the ex-
pression of sentiment under the influ-
ence of enthusiasm or of imagination,
the parallel is altogether defective.
But if this, the legitimate distinction of
what is poetical, is not to be regarded,
and the recurrence of certain sounds,
or a particular measure of syllables, be
deemed distinctive of written poetry,
there might appear to be some grounds
for the comparison, inasmuch as there
may be measured verse and recurring
rhymes (not rhythm, from which
these originate, but which is essentially
and inherently part of verbal poetry),
where there is no excited feeling, or
virtual poetry. Were measure and
rhyme considered to belong alike to
the expression of every species of
emotion, or of sentiment, or of detail,
the parallel might hold ; but on re-
garding poetry to be what it really is
— a particular state of sentiment, which
in language is most frequently express-
ed in measured verse, and not con-
fined to oral or to written language,
but likewise extending throughout all
the arts, as one division or form in
which expression is given to thought,
at the same time that it is recognised
to hold no connexion with other states
of mental activity, which are also ex-
pressed in tho different liberal arts
(and, in a descending scale, in various
ways in the mechanical arts) — the com-
parison must at once be recognised to
be altogether defective. But while
painting and poetry cannot be com-
pared, painting and literature may ;
and, by keeping such a comparison in
view, much misunderstanding on the
subject maybe avoided. Painting is the
811
language of form and colour, and one
general and extended means of ex-
pressing and inculcating thought.
Literature, or written language, with
a more varied capacity of specifying
and also of conveying ideas, but with
less universality or immediate oneness
with nature (its medium being con-
ventional, and not alike addressed to
those of different times and countries),
pursues the same end. The parallel be-
twixt poetry and painting, substitutes^
written poetry for the extensive sphere
of all written knowledge — literature ;
and those who have made it must have
experienced the necessity of not being
baffled by difficulties in respect to its
congruity.* Instead of being con-
fined to the enunciation of the poetic
element, painting embraces (to the
extent that its medium is fitted to re-
cognise, and communicate or convey)
every diversity of sentiment. From
the lyric to the historic, and from that
descending through various grades of
the specialties of the art — the exhibi-
tion of styles of drawing, effect, and
/colour, made ultimate objects ; and
through a numerous diversity of tran-
scriptions of, and allusions to, the fluc-
tuating modes of life and individual
pursuit ; through all the variety of
descriptive scenery in landscape, to
the literal nomination or repetition of
fact, in the lowest grade of visible ex-
istence— painting finds its subjects and
field. The most poetic, and the most
un elevated or prosaic, come within its
range. Regarding it in any less ex-
tended view, what place can be as-
signed to the works of hundreds of
names, which, by no refinement of
analogy, can be considered to belong:
to poetry ; and to those instances in
the works of almost all the greatest
painters, wherein the intention which
was pursued, denied, or was not con-
sistent with, poetic treatment ? In
many of these, the dramatic element
becomes so strong, that the poetic has
no place : in others, a narrative mode,
rather than what can properly bo
styled dramatic, predominates ; and
again, historical severity does not ad-
* Dryden's parallel, annexed to his translation of Du Fresnoy, might more properly ha
called an attempt to twist or distort portions of the means or material of painting into
comparison with portions of those of different forms of poetic composition ; confounding the
epic, dramatic, &c., in pootry, with the historic or any other chss in painting, which ap-
pears first to present itself. Thus, what he calls position or grouping, is in one mass placed
against the dminatic arrangement of the chorus and acts of a tragedy — colouring, ngain>t
the heauties of diction, &c.
\rr\i v t v vn
812
iiiit poetical elevation. Of the flWt
of these, Raphael himself not linfte-
quently furnishes exemplifications.
Andrea del Sarto, in the Life of S.
Philip Benizzi, iii thd cortile of the
Church of the Aritiunziata at Flo-
rence, and the Cbm'niuhion of St
Jerome by Domehichinb, may serve
to instance the second : while the
historical is largely exemplified in
Poussin, almost the only one among
the old masters who can be said
to have rendered historical subjects
in a historical spirit, divested of con-
ventionalities and extraneous conco-
mitants, either in method or in style.
To descend from these, and seek poe-
try throughout the works of Gerhard
Douw, Netscher, and Terburg, of in
Teniers, Jan Steen, and Ostade, might
certainly be an exercise for ingenuity,
but its reward would be scanty. The
attempt would be almost as vain, as
were the' diver to plunge in search of
coral into one of their country's canals.
They have it not ; but they make no
pretensions to it. These qualities are
other, and different, and consummate
in their sphere ; but, by the endeavour
to throw a false illumination over
them, their just character is misun-
derstood— the appreciation of their
real nature or worth is lost sight of,
and confused notions in respect to
them are originated. Hence they are
at one time treated with contemptuous
disregard ; and at another with jealous
partisanship, asserted to realize the
highest excellence in painting.
Painting, then, in a just significa-
tion, is reiterative of whatever impres-
sions may be conveyed by the most
subtle and extensive of the senses —
sight. The external world presents a
continued tablet. Every visual sen-
sation is a picture ; and it is only by
means of other senses that it becomes
more. Every arrangement of objects
is a picture to the eye ; of which there
is not a line, or a colour, or gleam of
light, or dimness of shade, which vir-
tually does not at once, and ever after,
constitute part of the mental relations
of the perceiver; and the art of paint-
ing, in its proper acceptation, re-im-
presses, re-presents them, in their col-
lected tendency. It strives to create
a world recognizable by the sense of
On (ht Genius of Raphael.
[June,
sight, which will present things, or
more properly m'e'ntal impressions, di-
vested of those circumstances which
link with purposes aside from their
more important or ultimate end —
resting upon that alone which is most
valuable in relation to mind. This is
the essence of painting, and it is need-
less to say, after what has been ob-
served, that its application extends to
a very varied scale. In one instance
it becomes connected with abstract
intellection ; in others it is limited to
a mere reproduction of an impression
of sense. Hence that variety which
constitutes the taste of different pe-
riods, and necessarily diversity, or
fitness to various grades of mind : from
whence, by some particular branches
of the art gaining the ascendency,
while no invariable standard of great-
ness or worth has been recognised,
and while the general sense (never
wrong if operating freely) of the true
or absolute value of the various pro-
ductions of painting has been lost
sight of, or denied, by prejudice or in-
dividual preferences, much confusioti
and discrepancy of opinion has origi-
nated.
The supposed oneness of the object
of painting, or the language of form
and colour, with that of the particu-
lar portion of written language desig-
nated poetry, must have arisen from
the very extensive influence of the
lyric mode of imitation* in Greece,
and its almost universal adoption in
the early Roman Catholic art of Italy
and of other countries. Under this
mode, literature, painting, and sculp-
ture, have at particular epochs been
one in poetry ; but it was at periods
which present these under a much
more circumscribed development than
their history now exhibits. Thus (set-
ting aside the exemplification of this
in other times) for centuries, the re-
vived arts of painting and sculpture
in Europe were poetic. From the
attempts of the Greeks of the middle
ages, to those of Chimabue, which, in
forms half- human that never could have
possessed human faculties, fearful
gropings to imitate what they render
malcreated and hideous, to the time of
the still cramped, but more organized
efforts of Mantegra, and Domeiiico
* See " On the peculiarities of thought and style in the picture of the Last Judge-
ment, by Michael Ahgelo," No. CCLXXX.
1839.]
On Ike Genius of iluphad.
Ghirlandajo, and from these to the
accumulated power displayed in Buo-
narotti, Raphael, and Titian, painting,
in the greater number of instances,
was regulated in its modes and expres-
sion by poetic forms and sentiments.
Thus the poetic element may have
been considered general to all paint-
ing— but this, even before the period
of the greater names had been widely
encroached upon ; and it was not re-
served for the pictorial art of other
countries only, to render sentiments
in which the enthusiasm and excite-
ment of poetry had no place.
After having thus recognised the
extent and variety of the sphere of
painting, it is scarcely necessary to
advert to another distinction or limi-
tation which has been made in respect
to its object, or rather definition of its
intention. It has been asserted, that
the duty of poetry is to instruct ; that
of painting to please. That there is
a distinction in respect to these pur-
poses, in the view in which they were
apprehended by those who have spe-
cified them, may be admitted, and
likewise the specification itself ; at the
same time that the ridiculous limits
to which it would confine both arts,
are altogether denied. But from what
has been observed in reference to their
comparison, the crudeness of this as-
sertion must be fully apparent.*
Hence, having in some measure
attempted to remove those miscon-
ceptions in respect to the nature and
813
purposes of painting which most fre-
quently present themselves — having
endeavoured to clear the way for a
direct path into the pantheon of art —
we now with lowliness approach the
presence of Raphael.
Summarily, then, and fundament-
ally, the works of Raphael are ethi-
cal. They are the result of the ope-
ration of moral sentiment ; from and
under the influence of which they ori-
ginated, and upon which they tend to
strengthen reliance. This is their
basis. Looking back upon them in
connexion with the history and cha-
racter of the period in which they
were produced, they become strikingly
detached from all the associations
with which it is commonly regarded ;
not that the connexion with these oii-
ginating sources is not sufficiently
distinct — it is the brilliant distinctness
of that connexion which constitutes
the peculiarity of their appearance.
At a time when political and ecclesias-
tical contention were all-engrossing —
when history would make man appear
to have been at the mercy of every dete-
riorating influence — to have been under
the subjection of selfish power, which
the ignorance and misrule of centuries
had rooted too strongly to be yet
shaken off, his genius appears through
the troubled elements of the time, a
beautiful inspiration of the never-dy-
ing 'Eros in the human breast, and of
the creed of charity which he illustra-
ted. The mythic allegory of Peace
* These, with many other propositions cohnected with art, many of which, to those
who are staggered by them, appear to find no bottom, may in one sense be of service
in promoting the examination of its bearings ; but on many occasions they must have
obstructed the road, both to the knowledge of its practice and its theory. They, how-
ever, may be considered to be a part of the investigation of the subject — in the field of
painting, of that inductive experiment and observation, the influence of which has pass-
ed over metaphysics, politics, and religion, and their " long trains of light descending,"
with a scrutinizing rigour^ which has frequently appeared to wrench their every joint
and member asunder — which has introduced into one and all of them pyrrhonism and
practical experimentalism, to the extent, that metaphysical enquiry has not seldom been
regarded to be worthless, and scarcely meutionable — politics have been embroiled—
and religion and the spirit of sectarianism have been confounded. Each has been
broken up in the attempt to uncover its hidden nodus, and its vivifying spirit sought
for in the dissection of scattered fragments. But if the investigators of mental philoso-
phy have frequently mistaken their aim — if political movement may often be considered
merely to be change — or religion and controversy (which it ought to subdue and an-
tagonize) not seldom appear identical, the fiery experiments which they have undergone
must have important results. Whether or not there is to be a day when just and
extended analogy m;\y bind together, and gather into granaries, the harvest that ana-
lysis and induction have been considered destined to reap ; there appears so far to be
a change coming over the spirit of the time. A disposition towards the adoption of
synthetic data seems to preponderate. Questions in respect to the validity of religion
have died away — in mental speculations first principles are more recognised— and in
politics, the tendency seems at least towards immobility or fixity.
On the Genius of Raphael.
814
and Justice having fled from the earth,
originated in the very contradiction of
what it asserted. Fashions, to use a
light phrase, of prejudice, persecu-
tion, and discord, have " turned and
changed together :" the bipenne, the
gladiu?, and the rapier, have each had
their day — a trifling enough motive
at times, serving to lead to their use —
possibly to try their edge, or a new
shape ;" but into whatever Tartarus it
may descend, the beautiful ra x«x«v —
Jionestum — of man's moral being, how-
ever offuscated and obscured it may
be at times, has accompanied," and
must ever accompany his progress ;
whether that is onwards to a millen-
nium-like state of improved happi-
ness, or through a succession of indi-
vidual and profitless experiences.
Discarding those theories which
would, in the first place, cut asunder
reason from moral sentiment, and af-
terwards substitute the one for the
other, or which would derive from
Jimited principles others that are gen-
eral (such as Hume's utility or Man-
deville's selfishness) — without regard
to such systems, which invalidate the
distinction betwixt right and wrong ;
it must be contended, that intellectual
and moral perception are equally co-
existent portions of one whole — mind,
in whatever degree it may be evolved ;
and to one or other of which all emo-
tion must be held to be related or sub-
jected. These two inclusive branches
of mind become the first or original
categories of every mental act. Both
carry forward one ultimate purpose,
of which (without reference to super-
mundane or transcendental relation)
the visible scope or bearing may be
designated the inlpulse or will of
man to sustain himself in humanity ;
originating, as its highest hypostasis,
the endeavour to base the mind in per-
manency— to find an immovable foun-
dation for the good and true — to re-
concile the individual with the whole,
or perfection with the fixed and per-
fect. The operation of this impulse —
its advancement or failure — the con-
flict of Ormuz and Ahrirnanes, has the
fate of battle ; but, to whichever side
the balance tends, " humanity's afflict-
ed will" does not cease from the strife.
Under its influence, religion, science,
and the arts, are produced, each in its
separate essence, including a multi-
tudinous variety of action or effort ;
the relative importance of every parti-
cular exemplification of which, must
[June,
be discriminated by its greater or more
limited degree of power or aptitude
to promote this end. At its insti-
gation, " radiant philosophy and star-
crowned art," political and physical
science, go forth. In this they have
one universal aim — one general bond
of union. ' In this, without anticipa-
ting uninterrupted happiness or perfec-
tion on the one hand, or being in dread
of their extinction on the other —
neither considering partial evil to be
universal good — neither being Uto-
pian, Leibnitzian, or Utilitarian, may
be found a cause and end of exertion,
that may be considered to absorb, or
even to render necessary, the wars and
fightings of intellect, passion, and in-
stinct— one general object, which,
without being considered to be gained
or to be alone reachable by any one
path, becomes a common purpose,
which, as the links of one chain, binds
into unity the separate efforts of man,
from whence result his individual en-
joyment or suffering.
It is upon this ground that the often
talked of but scarcely defined value of
the arts is established ; upon which
they bring forward that combination
of intellectual and moral expression,
or signification, in connexion with the
excitement of emotion, joined to the
gratification of sense, which consti-
tutes them a series of the most influ-
ential means that operate in sustain-
ing the distinction of humanity.
But, in order that the connexion of
the works of Raphael with the hu-
manizing influence of moral sentiment
may be fully perceived, the particular
mode in which their bearing is evolved
must be distinctly recognised. The
religious sentiment, which may be de-
fined, the desire to find an objective
existence for the intellectual and the
moral, in respect to which emotion
may be brought into exercise, is the
most inclusive and universal form of
the operation of the mind. It is
scarcely denied, in some degree, to
the lowest grade of faculty — to the
nearest junction of the rational with
the instinctive animal. It embraces a
union of the intellective and the mo-
ral nature of man, in combination with
his emotive faculties ; and the various
degrees of these, the greater or the
inferior measure of reliance which is
placed on the one or the other, distin-
guishes or constitutes the characteris-
tics of the numerous creeds which have
succeeded each other, and found place
1839.]
On the Genius of Raphael.
in the world. It is in connexion with
the manner in which moral obligation
is recognised by Christianity, that the
works of Raphael must be considered.
This, with few exceptions, supplies
both their substantive combinations,
and constitutes their distinguishing
element — their vivifying spirit. ' Ra-
phael is the most eminently Christian
painter ; not so much merely in respect
to the subjects of his pictures, which
were in general those most adopted by
the painters of the time ; but in respect
to their sentiment. Religion having
passed through the mystery and
greatness of the creeds of India and of
Egypt, under the influence of Grecian
philosophy became denuded of every
element except that of pure reason. *
In Greece, theology, or more properly
the theogony, was a classification of
numbers or qualities, which was so
extended, that pantheism was philoso-
phy, and philosophy religion, so com-
pletely, that the Roman, whose form
of worship was derived from' that of
the Greek — a lengthening of its pro-
gression— might erect an altar " to
the unknown God" wherever he so-
journed. But a revulsion was about
to take place. A new and more
powerful combination of religious sen-
timent was to be formed, embracing
elements which had either been alto-
gether denied, or poorly and inade-
quately recognised ; and upon which
an important and direct dependence
was to be placed. The Orphic or
Hesiodtc all-perfect Love, from being
regarded merely as a mythic genesis
of the gods — the remote power which
originated their existence' from or
against Night — was to be considered
(and in this sense might still sustain a
somewhat similar allegory) an influ-
encing principle of human action ; —
a virtue which might dwell in man—
charity ; which originates, or, in a wide
acceptation, is properly one with
trust, faith, or reliance. Dependant
upon this, the moral code of Christian
theology is evulgated in those parti-
cular forms by which it is strikingly
distinguished. Its doctrines, the sen-
timents which it inculcates, and the
characters by which they are exem-
plified, from the first become the sub-
815
jects of emotion. The trust, or faith,
or love, or charity, of human fooling,
becomes to a certain extent, or may,
in one sense, be said to be, the key to
the happiness of existence, both in
this life and in a future. The cor
cordium of Christian humanity is be-
nevolence, which must be held to re-
gulate (eheu I only to modify) human
action.
It is from this that the spirit of the
works of Raphael emanates. Bene-
volence is influential throughout them.
At a period when such would appear
in a great measure to have been prac-
tically banished from religion itself,
it was in them the groundwork of an
extensive means of supporting reli-
gion. Other grand features of these
times may also be traced to this origin,
which, in so-called history, if adverted
to at all, appear only to form a por-
tion of its register of error, illibera-
lity, and crime. A history of senti-
ment would exonerate the human race.
Under this influence, rejecting all
allusion to the evils which it is fitted
to oppose — in almost no instance ad-
verting to or expressing moral de-
ficiency— the pictures of Raphael de-
monstrate practical virtue, founded
upon, and in connexion with its exem-
plification in the characters by which
Christianity is announced. They arc
an interpretation of the nature of these,
made by, and addressed to, the affec-
tions. It was in this that they sup-
ported and illustrated the doctrines of
the Church ; not merely, as already
noticed, in respect to, or in dependence
on, the subjects which they adopt, but
also in regard to the tendency of the
sentiments which they enforce — their
unison with the precepts which it in-
culcates, in the bearing of which, the
scope of the labours of Raphael must
be deemed to be co-inherent, alike
finding their value in the constitution
of the mind of man. Called forth in
aid of religion by the power of the
Church of Rome, they bring home to
men's bosoms those universal senti-
ments in which its morality is based.
Made the means of moving the heart,
by exciting those sympathies which all
are expected to feel, they also pro-
duced reliance on the doctrines of re-
It may be considered to have been the contention for a time, betwixt pure reason
and religions sentiment under popular notions, not altogether that betwixt knowledge
and ignorance, which led the people ill Greece to banish their sages, and make them
driuk the hemlock.
816
On the Genius
ligion — they stimulated confidence in
its abstract dogmas, by giving birth to
moral emotion.*
At the first view, it may appear
impossible to bring the varied range
of the works of Raphael under one
designation or category ; but that va-
riety, on their proper nature and rela-
tion being perceived, only serves more
strikingly to exhibit their collected and
specific character. Had his works been
less numerous and varied, they might
have more readily appeared to be iso-
lated examples of what they now ex-
tensively embrace, and, in painting,
become the principal exponents of.
Whatever are the subjects, their sphere
is the same ; to such an extent, that it
might be urged against their fidelity,
in connexion with description or his-
tory. But their greatness does not
consist in being faithful to these. The
worth of all the great masters consists
in the working outwards of particular
or exclusive portions of mind. Thus
the works of each are limited to cer-
tain circles — fate-bound within a cer-
tain range ; and, before painting is
understood (if unprejudiced play is
given to the mind, it must always be
correctly^/B#), it must be regarded as a
•whole, of which the separate works of
each form a part. This may be con-
sidered to be dependant upon the
limited nature of human power, and
so far it is ; but it also was, in a great
measure, the result of the character of
those ages which produced the great-
est painters. In the painting of these,
the apprehension of any particular
subject or character is only to be ar-
rived at by a comparison of the opin-
ions or dictates (it must be recollect-
ed that painting was, for centuries,
almost alone the book — Bible — of Eu-
rope) of various masters. Thus, to
take as an example the idea of Deity,
as expressed in the works of Michael
Angelo and Raphael. Michael An-
gelo has, by a combination of form,
attitude, and colour, expressed mental
greatness, super-humanity. The pro-
of Raphael. [Junc^
cess of the conception, and its signifi-
cation or meaning, are both profoundly
intellectual. Raphael both in style
and expression, impresses dignified
and reposed benevolence, and exalted
humanity, -j- Each illustrates or spe-
cifies particular portions of the sub-
ject ; they draw the mind toward its
contemplation under different aspects.
It is in this view that the works of
Raphael must be considered to come
collectively under one designation :
their numerous combinations present
the Eternal Father, the Christ, Ma-
donna, saints, disciples, prophets,
philosophers, doctors, and dignitaries
of the Church, soldiers, and all the
incidental characters which they offer,
under the dominion of one range of
sentiment.
Of this the most eminent and radi-
cal manifestation, are the pictures of
the Madonna and the Infant Jesus.
In these the nature of the genius of
Raphael is most strongly exemplified,
and his greatest excellence in art ex-
hibited. They may be viewed as a
centre, from which the ethical bearing
of his other works was irradiated.
The expression of any superhuman
character cannot be considered at all
to be their aim ; they would thus be
removed from the sphere of those
emotions which they present in a vi-
sibly appreciable form. No sentiment
of doubt or question enters into them.
The enquiry of intellectual power has
no place. They express a reposed
elysium of feeling. They canonize
one of the first of the charities of life.
In their subject and expression the
kindred relations are raised into the
sphere of divinity. They are a visi-
ble apotheosis of maternal love, worth,
and duty. Of this, they meet the men-
tal conception or idea ; beyond which,
if it is possible to go, no other exem-
plification has passed, and in very few
instances nearly reached.
The progress towards the perfected
evolution of the expression of these
pictures, proceeded throughout the
" Not on any preconcerted or systematic plan, such as that of Spenser's Faery Queen,
•which is " disposed into twelve books, fashioning twelve moral virtues," but which, in
the relation that it establishes with the mind, rather becomes expressive of a mixture
of the poetry of allegory and chivalric romance, than essentially impressive of the sen-
timents which it professes to set forth. In Raphael, this is set forth in the matter
much more than the mode.
•f His picture of God dividing light from darkness cannot be said to conform to this.
In it he probably intended to enter tlje sphere of Michael Angelo, but has altogether fail-
ed. It has not power or will, but much vulgar effort.
1839.]
On the Genius of Raphael.
•whole line of the predecessors of Ra-
phael, from the resuscitation of paint-
ing. The earliest mosaics — those at-
tributed to St Luke the Evangeliet,
but the works of Greeks of tho middle
ages, or probably even of the twelfth
century, by Apollonius or his asso-
ciates— supply the first attempts at the
pictured reference to it, It is peculiar,
and only incident in a prominent de-
gree to Roman Catholic painting. It
can scarcely be said to appear in
Qreek sculpture 5 the only important
instances in which, that refer to the
sanctity of the relations of kindred, are
the Niobe and the Laocoon, and in
both they are adopted not to enforce
their value, but to enhance, or assist
the expression of other sentiments.
They are rendered subjective to the
epic expression of woe, in the one in-
stance, and of mighty suffering in the
other '—the contention of will with
fate. In the Greek poets, the morality
dependant upon the saeredness of these
relations is extensively referred to;
but, in almost every noticeable in-
stance, it must be considered that it is
subordinated to particular objects,
which, on tho other hand, are seldom
or never subordinate to this. Their
violation in the story of the Iliad, finds
a cause for the epic expression ef the
character of Greek heroism. In the
Eumeitides of ^Eschylus, which is
built on their perceived importance,
they are subservient to tho announce-
ment of the power of the gods. The
(Eftipus of Sophocles presents their
subjection to irrevocable fate — to the
unquestionable will of the Stygian
Jove.
Throughout the works of Raphael,
the character of the Madonna conti-
nues, under various aspects, to furnish
a principal exemplification of their na-
ture. From her personification in his
beautiful early picture of the Mar-
riage of the Virgin,^ to that of her
beatification, finished by his pupils,:}:
a diversified, and it may almost be
said a continuous, series of the ex-
pression of emotion, under the influ-
ence of moral sentiment, is presented —
from placid trust to compassionating
agony.
Next to the Virgin Mary, the an-
gelic personages most strongly pre-
sent the essential features of his works.
They are so moulded in, and signifi-
cative qf amenity and benevolence —
so imbued with open-eyed benignity,
that in those instances wherein they
become the ministers of vengeaqce, as
in the fresco of the expulsion of He-
liodorus from the temple, their ex-
pression almost becomes contorted. It
appears to be the assumption of what
they seem physically and mentally in-
capable of feeling or expressing. In
this instance, their expression is that
of irritation ; it is deficient in super-
human power, in connexion with in-
tellect. So, likewise, is the head, and
also the figure of the warrior on horse-
back, which was intended to repre-
sent the vision that drove back the
intruder ; which, in connexion with
its subject, is one pf the moat unfortu-
nate of the productions of Raphael.
As an angry warrior, who assumes the
appearance of being still more so than
he really is— as a half- Gothic Roman,
clad (but this belongs to convention,
which must be so far allowed for in all
the old masters) in the mixed mode of
the decay of the empire, it is a good
figure, but not as a representation of
thp immediate agent of Deity. § But,
in the same picture, there is a contrast
to this failure in the figures of the fe-
males, and in those of Pope Julius II.
with his attendants. In these, Ra-
phael comes upon the ground to which
his powers are adapted.
In the Infant Jesus, much has been
considered to have been expressed that
is almost incompatible with possibi-
lity. But if the expression (consi-
dering it separately from its union
with the whole sentiment of the pic-
tures of the Madonna and Child, and
Holy FamiKet) may be regarded to
be to any extent distinct from that
* The refined criticisms that have been made on the Laocoon, which define the
measure of mental suffering that the father endures on account of his son's being in-
volved in the like calamity with himself, only attest how little their authors felt or un-
derstood the work.
f At Milan. J At Rome, in the gallery of the Vatican.
§ This figure has been often praised, in connexion with its subject, by those who had
learned that Raphael was great ; but, not knowing in what respect he was great, and
having a notion of what should have been done here, had either faith enough to believe
it done, or did voluntary violence to their own feelings, and gave hypocritical com-
mendation to what deserves none.
818
On Ike Genius of Raphael.
[June,
of the frequently attendant cheru-
bim, it consists in making the infant
countenance — at times so expressive
of intuitive perception — more com-
pletely its type. But, throughout his
works, Raphael cannot be considered
to be iu general successful in the
Christ. There are, however, so far,
exceptions to this ; but he probably
attempted more (though this cannot
be said to be apparent by study or la-
bour) to pursue an idea, and more to
present what was in conformity to
that, than altogether to rely upon the
expression with which his powers
coincided. These, however, although
ample and eminent in many subordi-
nate characters, and necessary as part
of the expression of the union of the
divine and human in this instance, are
not sufficient for its whole. Nor did
the intellectuality of Michael Angelo
effect it ; here he again was deficient
in what Raphael possessed.
Next to these, the characters which
frequently recur, and continue most
distinctly to exemplify the nature of
his genius, are the young St John, St
Elizabeth, Mary Magdalene, Joseph,
and St John the beloved — each of
which present different features of sen-
timent under the same influence.
But, although particular characters
may be specified as affording the most
direct exemplification : of what has
been stated to distinguish Raphael,
it must be kept in view, that the qua-
lities peculiar to his genius cannot al-
most be said to exist more in one
instance than in another ; although,
from the subject of his works coincid-
ing with it, it may be more fully dis-
played. What must be considered the
spirit of his works, was frequently op-
posed to that of their letter or subject.
This, a reference to the Battle of Con-
stantine, may exemplify. It cannot
be considered to be, in an elementary
or essential manner, expressive of strife
and confliction. There is too much
urbanity even in the anatomical ex-
pression. The whole is a very inade-
quate representation of the ruin and
confusion of such a scene. In this it
falls in comparison with Le Brun's
Alexander passing the Granicus, and
its value must rest upon its style and
signification in other respects. The
figure of Constantine is without much
expression ; but so far as it does pos-
sess such, it is not that of warlike
energy, but of the reposed power of
justice — he is preceded by divine mi-
nisters. Throughout the whole, there
is scarcely a head, figure, or group,
which impresses the idea of the awaken-
ed impetuosity of mortal combat. The
figure of Mezentius presents a poor
impersonation of the defeated and
drowning tyrant ; while the principal
incident — -the only feature which is
not implied by such a subject, and the
most efficiently produced in the work,
refers to the refined miseries of civil
and kindred strife — in the father re-
cognising his slain son.
In the Incendio del Sorgo — the Pope
arresting the fire of the suburbs of
Rome — the interest is altogether cen-
tred,'to the disregard of the miracle,
in incidents which exemplify affection
and duty. The School of Athens, in
a series of elevated characters, incul-
cates the dignity of wisdom — of men-
tal superiority, which is met by youth
with eager and implicit confidence in
its dictates. The Dispute of the Sa-
crament presents numerous features of
worth, intelligence, and consideration
— the fiery zeal of theological dispu-
tation has no place. The subject is
little heeded: the aspect and station
of the personages of the assembly
seem alone to be regarded.
But every work of Raphael might
here be adduced. Each, more or less,
exemplifies the sentiment— -that, ruling
throughput the whole, sacrifices, or
probably, in the instance of their au-
thor, does not fully permit the appre-
hension of any other, which would
materially interfere with its predomi-
nance. As a combined whole, in their
essential tendency, the works of Ra-
phael stand single and distinct among
the various productions of the different
arts. The living poetry of Homer
presents the self-boasted cause of
Greek superiority — the union of the
. demigod heroism of its imagined
chronology with actual history. The
tragic poets of Greece exhibit tluir
overruling power of the gods. Greek
sculpture is a perfected combination
of reason and poetic sentiment in
many various modes. Greek architec-
ture is poetry united to the rigidity of
mathematical law. The ^Eneid poet-
izes narrative ; Lucan and Lucretius,
Roman battle-fields and prevalent phi-
losophy. Dante and Michael Angelo
evulgate the fluctuating strife of intel-
lect. Raphael recognises moral dis-
tinction under the influence of reposed
benevolence ; from which, in common
whh Pythagoras, Plato, and the evan-
gelist St John, he derives his title—
the divine.
1830.] Hymns to the Gods. 819
HYMNS TO THE GODS.
BY ALBEBT PIKE — OF ARKANSAS.
No. I. — To NEPTUNE.
GOD of the mighty deep ! wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axles bow —
Whether thy strong proud steeds, wind-wing'd and wild,
Trample the storm- vex'd waters round them piled,
Swift as the lightning-flashes, that reveal
The quick gyrations of each brazen wheel j
While round and under thee, with hideous roar,
The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore,
Thundering, like antique Chaos in his spasms,
In heaving mountains, and deep-yawning chasms,
Fluctuates endlessly ; while through the gloom,
Their glossy sides and thick manes fleck'd with foam,
Career thy steeds, neighing with frantic glee
In fierce response to the tumultuous sea —
Whether thy coursers now career below,
Where, amid storm-wrecks, hoary sea- plants grow
Broad-leaved, and fanning with a ceaseless motion
The pale cold tenants of the abysmal ocean —
Oh, come ! our altars waiting for thee stand,
Smoking with incense on the level strand !
Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam
Upon some quiet plain : no wind-toss'd foam
Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely
They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea,
Fanning the waves with slowly floating manes
Like mist in sunlight : Haply, silver strains
From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring,
And green-robed sea-gods unto thee, their king,
Chant, loud in praise : Apollo now doth gaze
With loving looks upon thee, and his rays
Light up thy steeds' wild eyes : A pleasant warm
Is felt upon the sea, where fierce cold storm
Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds
That ^Eolus now within their prison binds,
Flying with misty wings : Perhaps, below
Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow
With myriad colours — many a monster cumbers
The sand a-near thee, while old Triton slumbers
As idly as his wont, and bright eyes peep
Upon thee every way, as thou dost sleep.
Perhaps thou liest on some Indian isle
Under a waving tree, where many a mile
Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands
Heap'd up in many shapes by Naiad's hands,
And, blushing as the waves come rippling on,
Shaking the sunlight from them as they run
And curl upon the beach — like molten gold
Thick-set with jewellery most rare and old —
And sea-nymphs sit, and with small delicate shells
Make thee sweet melody, as in deep dells
We hear, of summer night?, by fairies made,
The while they dance within some quiet shade,
Sounding their silver flutes most low and sweet,
lu strange but beautiful tune?, that their light feet
§20 Hymns to the Gods. [June,
May dance upon the bright and misty de\v
In better time : all wanton airs that blew
But lately over spice-trees, now are here,
Waving their wings, all odour-laden, near
The bright and laughing sea. Oh, wilt thou rise,
And come with them to pur new sacrifice !
No. II,— To AFOLLO.
Bright-hair'd Apollo ! — Thou who ever art
A blessing to the world — whose mighty heart
For ever pours out love, and light, and life :
Thou at whose glance all things of earth are rife
With happiness — to whom in early spring
Bright flowers raise up their heads, where'er tbjy pling
On the steep mountain side, or in the vale
Are nestled calmly. Thou at whom the pale
And weary earth looks up, when winter flees,
With patient gaze : thou for whom wind-stripp'd tree*
Put on fresh leaves, and drink deep of the light
That glitters in thine eye : thou in whose bright
And hottest rays the eagle fills his eye
With quenchless fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his joy to thee : By all the names
That thou dost bear — whether thy godhead claims
Phoebus or Sol, or gplden-hair'd Apollo,
Cynthian or Pythian — if thou now dost follow
The fleeing night, oh hear
Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near !
Oh most high Poet !— thou whose great heart's swell
Pours itself out on mountain and deep dell :
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet.
And make them for a poet's theme most meet :
Thou who dost make the poet's eye perceive
Great beauty every where — in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the war
Of its unnumber'd waters ; on the shore
Of pleasant streams, upon the jagged cliff
Of savage mountain, where the black clouds drift
Full of strange lightning ; or upon the brow
Of silent night, that solemnly and slow
Comes on the earth : Oh thou ! whose influence
Touches all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, tinges with thine own heart
Each thing thou meetest — thou who ever art
Living in beauty — nay, who art in truth
Beauty embodied — hear, while all our youth
With earnest calling cry !
Answer pur hymn, and come to us most high !
Oh thou! who strikest oft thy golden lyre
In strange disguise, and with a wondrous fire
Sweepest its strings upon the. sunny glade,
While dances to thee many a village maid,
Decking her hair with wild-flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel, while reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, with smiles at thy good heart,
As though thou wert of this our world a part,
Thou lookest on them in the darkening wood,
While fauns come forth, and, with their dances rude,
Flit round among the trees with merry leap
1839.] Hymns to the Gods.
Like their God, Pan ; and from fir thickets deep
Come up the Satyrs, joining the wild crew,
And capering for thy pleasure : Froni each yew,
And oak, and beech, the Wood-nymphs oft peep out
To see the revelry, while merry shout
And noisy laughter rings about the wood,
And thy lyre cheers the darken'd solitude —
Oh, come ! while we do soun4
Our flutes and pleasant-pealing lyres around !
Oh, most high prophet ! — thou that showest men
Deep-hidden knowledge : thou that from its den
Bringest futurity, that it comes by
In visible shape, passing before the eye
Shrouded in visions : thou in whose high power
Are health and sickness : thou who oft dost shower
Great Plagues upon the nations, with hot breath
Scorching away their souls, and sending death
Like fiery mist amid them ; or again,
Like the sweet breeze that comes with summer rain,
Touching the soul with joy, thou scndest out
Bright Health among the people, who about
With dewy feet and fanning wings doth step,
And touch each poor, pale cheek with startling lip,
Filling it with rich blood, that leaps anew
Out from the shrivell'd heart, and courses through
The long forsaken veins ! — Oh thou, whose name
Is sung by all, let us, too, dare to claim
Thy holy presence here !
Hear us, bright god, and come in beauty near I
Oh thou, the lover of the springing bow !
Who ever in the gloomy woods dost throw
Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight
Of those thine arrows that with mid-day light
Thou proudly pointest : thou from whom grim bears
And lordly lions flee, with strange wild fears,
And hide among the mountains : thou whose cry
Sounds often in the woods, where whirl and fly
The time-worn leaves — when, with a merry train,
Bacchus is on the hills, and on the plain
The full-arm'd Ceres — when upon the sea
The brine-gods sound their horns, and merrily
The whole earth rings with pleasure — then thy voice
Stills into silence every stirring noise,
With utmost sweetness pealing on the hills,
And in the echo of the dancing rills,
And o'er the sea, and on the busy plain,
And on the air, until all voices wane
Before its influence —
Oh come, great god, be ever our defence I
By that most gloomy day, when with a cry
Young Hyacinth fell down, and his dark eye
Was fill'd with dimming blood — when on a bed
Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head,
Breathing deep sighs : by those heart-cherish d eyes
Of long-loved Hyacinth — by all the sighs
That thou, oh young Apollo ! then didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,
Weeping at thy great soul, and making dull
Thy ever-quenchless eye, till men were full
Of strange forebodings for thy lustre dimm'd,
822 Hymns to the Gods. [Juno,
And many a chant in many a fane was hymn'd
Unto the pale-eyed sun ; the Satyrs stay'd
Long time in the dull woods, then on the glade
They came and look'd for thee ; and all in vain
Poor Dian sought thy love, and did complain
For want of light and life ; — By all thy grief,
Oh bright Apollo ! hear, and give relief
To us who cry to thee —
Oh come, and let us now thy glory see !
No. Ill — To VENUS.
Oh Thou, most lovely and most beautiful !
Whether thy doves now lovingly do lull
Thy bright eyes to soft slumbering upon '
Some dreamy south wind : whether thou hast gone
Upon the heaven now — or if thou art
Within some floating cloud, and on its heart
Pourest rich-tinted joy : whether thy wheels
Are touching on the sun-forsaken fields,
And brushing off the dew from bending grass,
Leaving the poor green blades to look, alas !
With dim eyes at the moon (ah ! so dost thou
Full oft quench brightness !) — Venus ! whether now
Thou passest o'er the sea, while each light wing
Of thy fair doves is wet — while sea-maids bring
Sweet odours for thee (ah ! how foolish they !
They have not felt thy smart !)
They know not, while in Ocean caves they play,
How strong thou art.
Where'er thou art, oh Venus ! hear our song —
Kind goddess, hear ! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings ; bright doves coo to thee
The while they twine their necks with quiet glee
Among the morning leaves ; thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth ; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we ever look ;
Among the leaves, in dimly-lighted nook,
Most often hidest thou, where winds may wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy beaming brow, and ruffle the white wings
Of thy tired doves ; and where his love-song sings,
With lightsome eyes, some little, strange, sweet bird,
With notes that never but by thee are heard —
Oh, in such scene, most bright, thou liest now,
And with half-open eye
Drinkest in beauty — oh, most fair, that thou
Wouldst hear our cry !
Oh thou, through whom all things upon the earth
Grow brighter : thou for whom even laughing mirth
Lengthens his note : thou whom the joyous bird
Singeth continuously : whose name is heard
In every pleasant sound : at whose warm glance
All things look brighter : for whom wine doth dance
More merrily within the brimming vase,
To meet thy lip : thou at whose quiet pace
Joy leaps on faster, with a louder laugh,
And Sorrow tosses to the sea his staff,
And pushes back the hair from his dim eyct,
To look again upon forgotten skies ;
1839.] Hymns to the Gods. 823
While Avarice forgets to count his gold,
Yea, unto tliee his wither' d hand doth hold
Fill'd with that heart-blood : thou, to whose high might
All things are made to bow,
Come thou to us, and turn thy looks of light
Upon us now !
Oh hear, great Goddess ! thou whom all obey ;
At whose desire rough Satyrs leave their play,
And gather wild- flowers, decking the bright hair
Of her they love, and oft blackberries bear,
To shame them at her eyes : Oh thou ! to whom
They leap in awkward mood, within the gloom
Of darkening oak-trees, or at lightsome noon
Sing unto thee, upon their pipes, a tune
Of wondrous languisbment : thou whose great power
Brings up the sea-maids from each ocean-bower,
With many an idle song, to sing to thee,
And bright locks flowing half above the sea,
And gleaming eyes, as if in distant caves
They spied their lovers (so among the waves
Small bubbles flit, mocking the kindly sun,
With little, laughing brightness) —
Oh come, and ere our festival is done,
Our new loves bless !
Oh thou, who once didst weep, and with sad tears
Bedew the pitying woods ! — by those great fears
That haunted thee when thy Beloved lay
With dark eyes drown'd in death— by that dull day,
When poor Adonis fell with many a moan
Among the leaves, and sadly and alone
Breathed out his spirit — oh ! do thou look on
All maidens who, for too great love, grow wan,
And pity them : Come to us when night brings
Her first faint stars, and let us hear the wings
Of thy most beauteous and bright-eyed doves
Stirring the breathless air : let all thy loves
Be flying round thy car, with pleasant songs
Moving upon their lips : Come ! each maid longs
For thy fair presence — Goddess of rich love !
Come on the odorous air j
And, as thy light wheels roll, from us remove
All love-sick care !
Lo, we have many kinds of incense here
To offer thee, and sunny wine and clear,
Fit for young Bacchus : Flowers we have here too,
That we have gather'd when the morning dew
Was moist upon them ; myrtle wreaths we bear,
To place upon thy bright, luxuriant hair,
And shade thy temples too ; 'tis now the time
Of all fair beauty : thou who lov'st the clime
Of our dear Cyprus, where sweet flowers blow
With honey in their cups, and with a glow
Like thine own cheek, raising their modest heads
To be refresh'd with the transparent beads
Of silver dew, behold, this April night
Our altars burn for thee : lo ! on the light
We pour out incense from each golden vase ;
Oh Goddess, hear our words !
And hither turn, with thine own matchless grace,
Thy white- wing'd birds.
Hymns to the Gods. [June,
No. IV.— To DIANA.
Most graceful Goddess ! — whether now tllou art
Hunting the dun deer In the silent heart
Of some old quiet wood, or on the side
Of some high mountain, and, most eager-eyed,
Dashing upon the chase, with bended bow
And arrow at the string, and with a glow
Of wondrous beauty on thy cheek, and feet
Like thine own silver moon — yea, and as fleet
As her best beams — and quiver at the back
"Rattling to all their stoppings ; if some track
In distant Thessaly thou fofiowest up,
Brushing the dew from many a flower- cup
And quiet leaf, and listening to the bay
Of thy good hounds, while in the deep woods they,
Strong-limb'd and swift, leap on with eager bounds,
And with their long deep note each hill resounds,
Making thee music : — Goddess, hear our cry,
And let us worship thee, while far and high
Goes up thy Brother — while his light is full
Upon the earth ; for, When the night winds lull
The world to sleep, then to the lightless sky
Dian must go, with silver robes of dew
And sunward eye.
Perhaps thou liest on some shady spot
Among the trees, while frighten' d beasts hear not
The deep bay of thy hounds ; but, dropping down
Upon green grass, and leaves all sere and brown,
Thou pillowest thy delicate head upon
Some ancient mossy root, where wood-winds run
Wildly about thee, and thy fair nymphs point
Thy death-wing' d arrows, or thy hair anoint
With Lydian odours, and thy strong hounds lie
Lazily on the earth, and watch thine eye,
And watch thine arrows, while thou hast a dream.
Perchance, in some deep-bosom'd shaded stream,
Thou bathest now, where even thy brother Sun
Cannot look on thee — where dark shades and dun
Fall on the water, making it most cool,
Like winds from the broad sea, or like some pool
In deep dark cavern : Hanging branches dip
Their locks into the stream, or slowly drip
With tear-drops of rich dew : Before no eyes
But those of flitting wind-gods, each nymph hies
Into the deep, cool, running stream, and there
Thou pillowest thyself upon its oreast,
Oh Queen, most fair I
By all thine hours of pleasure — when thou wast
Upon tall Latmos, moveless, still, and lost
In boundless pleasure, ever gazing on
Thy bright-eyed Youth, whether the unseen sun
Was lighting the deep sea, or at mid-noon
Careering through the sky — by every tune
And voice of joy that thrill' d about the chords
Of thy deep heart when thou didst hear his words
In that cool shady grot, where thou hadst brought
And placed Endymion ; where fair hands had taught
All beauty to shine forth ; where thy fair maids
Had brought up shells for thee, and from the glades
All sunny flowers, with precious stones and gems
1839;] Hyrtuis to the Guds.
Of utmost beauty, pearly diadems
Of many sea-gods ; birds were there that sang
Ever most sweetly ; living waters rang
Their changes to all time, to soothe the soul
Of thy Endymion ; pleasant breezes stole
With light feet through the cave, that they might kiSS
His dewy lips ; — Oh, by those hours of bliss
That thou didst then enjoy, come to us, fair
And beautiful Diana — take us now
Under thy care !
No. V — To MERCURY.
Oh, winged Messenger ! if thy light feet
Are in the star-paved halls where high gods meet,
Where the rich nectar thou dost take and sip
At idly-pleasant leisure, while thy lip
Utters rich eloquence, until thy foe,
Juno herself, doth her long hate forego,
And hangs upon thine accents ; Venus smiles,
And aims her looks at thee with winning wiles ;
And wise Minerva's cup stands idle by
The while thou speakest. Whether up on high
Thou wing'st thy xway — or dost but now unfurl
Thy pinions like the eagle, while a whirl
Of air takes place about thee — if thy wings
Are over the broad sea, where Afric flings
His hot breath on the waters ; by the shore
Of Araby the blest, or in the roar
Of crashing northern ice — Oh turn, and urge
Thy winged course to us ! Leave the rough surge,
Or icy mountain height, or city proud,
Or haughty temple, or dim wood dowii-bowM
With weaken'd age,
And come to us, thou young and mighty sage !
Thou who invisibly dost ever stand
Near each high orator ; and, hand in hand
With the gold-robed Apollo, touch the tongue
Of every poet ; on whom men have hung
With strange enchantment, when in dark disguise
Thou hast descended from cloud-curtain'd skies,
And lifted up thy voice, to teach bold men
Thy world-arousing art : oh thou I that when
The ocean was untrack'd, didst teach them send
Great ships upon it : thou who dost extend
In storm a calm protection to the hopes
Of the fair merchant : thou who on the slopes
Of Mount Cyllene first madest sound the lyre
And many-toned harp with childish fire,
And thine own beauty sounding in the caves
A strange new tune, unlike the ruder staves
That Pan had utter' d — while each wondering nymph
Came out from tree and mountain, and pure lymph
Of mountain stream, to drink each rolling note
That o'er the listening woods did run and float
With fine clear tone,
Like silver trumpets o'er still waters blown :
Oh, matchless Artist! thou of wondrous skill,
Who didst in ages past the wide earth iill
With every usefulness : thou who dost teach
Quick-witted thievoe the miser's gold to reach,
Hymns to the Gods* [June,
And rob him of his sleep for many a night,
Getting thee curses : oh, mischievous Sprite !
Thou Rogue-god Mercury ! ever glad to cheat
All gods and men ; with mute and noiseless feet
Going in search of mischief ; now to steal
The fiery spear of Mars, now clog the wheel
Of bright Apollo's car, that it may crawl
Most slowly upward : thou whom wrestlers call,
Whether they strive upon the level green
At dewy nightfall, under the dim screen
Of ancient oak, or at the sacred games
In fierce contest : thou whom each then names
In half-thought prayer, when the quick breath is drawn
For the last struggle : thou whom on the lawn
The victor praises, making unto thee
Offering for his proud honours — let us be
Under thy care :
Oh, winged messenger, hear, hear our prayer !
No. VI.— To BACCHUS.
Where art thou, Bacchus ? On the vine-spread hills
Of some rich country, where the red wine fills
The cluster'd grapes — staining thy lips all red
With generous liquor — pouring on thy head
The odorous wine, and ever holding up
Unto the smiling sun thy brimming cup,
And filling it with light ? Or doth thy car,
Under the blaze of the far northern star,
Roll over Thracia's hills, while all around
Are shouting Bacchanals and every sound
Of merry revelry, while distant men
Start at thy noisings ? Or in shady glen
Reclinest thou, beneath green ivy leaves,
And idlest off the day, while each Faun weaves
Green garlands for thee, sipping the rich bowl
That thou hast given him — while the loud roll
Of thy all-conquering wheels is heard no more,
And thy strong tigers have lain down before
Thy grape-stain' d feet ?
Oh, Bacchus ! come and meet
Thy worshippers, the while, with merry lore
Of ancient song, thy godhead they do greet !
Oh thou who lovest pleasure ! at whose heart
Rich wine is always felt ; who hast a part
In all air-swelling mirth ; who in the dance
Of merry maidens join'st, where the glance
Of bright black eyes, or white and twingling feet
Of joyous fair ones, doth thy quick eyes greet
Upon some summer green : Maker of joy
To all care-troubled -men ! who dost destroy
The piercing pangs of grief ; for whom the maids
Weave ivy garlands, and in pleasant glades
Hang up thy image, and with beaming looks
Go dancing round, while shepherds with their crooks
Join the glad company, and pass about,
With merry laugh and many a gleesome shout,
Staining with rich dark grapes each little cheek
They most do love ; and then, with sudden freak,
Taking the willing hand, and dancing on
About the green mound : Oh, thou merry Son
Of lofty Jove!
Wherever thou dost rove
1839.] Hymns to the Gods. 827
Among the grape-vines, come, ere day is done,
And let us too thy sunny influence prove !
Where art thou, Conqueror ? before whom fell
The jewell'd kings of Ind, when the strong swell
Of thy great multitudes came on them, and
Thou hadst thy thyrsus in thy red right hand,
Shaking it over them, till every soul
Grew faint as with wild lightning ; when the roll
Of thy great chariot- wheels was on the neck
Of many a conqueror ; when thou didst check
Thy tigers and thy lynxes at the shore
Of the broad ocean, and didst still the roar,
Pouring a sparkling and most pleasant wine
Into its waters ; when the dashing brine
Toss'd up new odours, and a pleasant scent
Upon its breath, and many who were spent
With weary sickness, breathed of life anew
When wine-inspired breezes on them blew ; —
Bacchus 1 who bringest all men to thy feet !
Wine-god ! with brow of light, and smiles most sweet !
Make this our earth
A sharer in thy mirth —
Let us rejoice thy wine-dew'd hair to greet,
And chant to thee, who gav'st young Joy his birth.
Come to our ceremony ! lo, we rear
An altar of bright turf unto thee here,
And crown it with the vine and pleasant leaf
Of clinging ivy : Come, and drive sad Grief
Far from us ! lo, we pour thy turf upon
Full cups of wine, bidding the westering sun
Fill the good air with odour ; see, a mist
Is rising from the sun-touch'd wine ! — (ah ! hist ! —
Alas ! 'twas not his cry !) — with all thy train
Of laughing Satyrs, pouring out a strain
Of utmost shrillness on the noisy pipe —
Oh, come ! — with eye and lip of beauty, ripe
And wondrous rare— oh ! let us hear thy wheels
Coming upon the hills, while twilight steals
Upon us quietly — while the dark night
Is hinder'd from her course by the fierce light
Of thy wild tigers' eyes ; — oh ! let us see
The revelry of thy wild company,
With all thy train ;
And, ere night comes again,
We'll pass o'er many a hill and vale with thee,
Raising to thee a loudly-joyous strain.
No. VII — To SOMNUS.
Oh Thou, the leaden-eyed I with drooping lid
Hanging upon thy sight, and eye half-hid
By matted hair : that, with a constant train
Of empty dreams, all shadowless and vain
As the dim wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave
With poppies at the mouth, which night winds wave,
Sending their breathings downward — on thy bed,
Thine only throne, with darkness overspread,
VOL. XLV, NO. CCLXXXIV. 3 H
Hymns to me uoas. [.June,
And curtains black as are the eyes of night :
Thou, who dost come at time of waning light
And sleep among the woods, where night doth hide
And tremble at the sun, and shadows glide
Among the waving tree-tops ; if now there
Thou sleepest in a current of cool air,
Within some nook, amid thick flowers and moss,
Grey-colour'd as thine eyes, while thy dreams toss
Their fantasies about the silent earth,
In waywardness of mirth —
Oh, come I and hear the hymn that we are chanting
Amid the star-light through the thick leaves slanting.
Thou lover of the banks of idle streams
O'ershaded by broad oaks, with scatter'd gleams
From the few stars upon them ; of the shore
Of the broad sea, with silence hovering o'er ;
The great moon hanging out her lamp to gild
The murmuring waves with hues all pure and mild,
Where thou dost lie upon the sounding sands,
While winds come dancing on from southern lands
With dreams upon their backs, and unseen waves
Of odours in their hands : thou, in the caves
Of the star-lighted clouds, on summer eves
Reclining lazily, while Silence leaves
Her influence about thee : in the sea
That liest, hearing the monotony
Of wavers far off above thee, like the wings
Of passing dreams, while the great ocean swings
His bulk above thy sand- supported head —
(As chain' d upon his bed
Some giant, with an idleness of motion,
So swings the still and sleep-enthralled ocean).
Thou who dost bless the weary with thy touch,
And makest Agony relax his clutch
Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart ;
Pale Disappointment lose her constant smart,
And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep
Her life away, and gain new cheer in sleep :
Thou who dost bless the birds, in every place
Where they have sung their songs with wondrous grace
Throughout the day, and now, with drooping wing,
Amid the leaves receive thy welcoming: —
Come with thy crowd of dreams, oh thou ! to whom
All noise is most abhorr'd, and in this gloom,
Beneath the shaded brightness of the sky,
Where are no sounds but as the winds go by, —
Here touch our eyes, great Somnus! with thy wand —
Ah ! here thou art, with touch most mild and bland,
And we forget our hymn, and sink away ;
And here, until broad day
Come up into the sky, with fire-steeds leaping,
Will we recline, beneath the vine leaves sleeping.
No. VIII To CERES.
Goddess of bounty ! at whose spring-time call,
When on the dewy earth thy first tones fal),
1839.] Hymns to the Gods. 829
Pierces the ground each young and tender blade,
And wonders at the sun ; each dull grey glade
Is shining with new grass ; from each chill hole,
Where they had lain enchain'd and dull of soul,
The birds come forth, and sing for joy to thee
Among the springing leaves ; and, fast and free,
The rivers toss their chains up to the sun,
And through their grassy banks leapingly run
When thou hast touch'd them : thou who ever art
The Goddess of all Beauty : thou whose heart
Is ever in the sunny meads and fields ;
To whom the laughing earth looks up and yields
Her waving treasures : thou that in thy car,
With winged dragons, when the morning star
Sheds his cold light, touchest the morning trees
Until they spread their blossoms to the breeze ; —
Oh, pour thy light
Of truth and joy upon our souls this night,
And grant to us all plenty and good ease !
Oh thou, the Goddess of the rustling Corn 1
Thou to whom reapers sing, and on the lawn
Pile up their baskets with the full-ear'd wheat ;
While maidens come, with little dancing feet,
And bring thee poppies, weaving thee a crown
Of simple beauty, bending their heads down
To garland thy full baskets : at whose side,
Among the sheaves of wheat, doth Bacchus ride
With bright and sparkling eyes, and feet and mouth
All wine-stain'd from the warm and sunny south :
JPerhaps one arm about thy neck he twines,
While in his car ye ride among the vines,
And with the other hand he gathers up
The rich full grapes, and holds the glowing cup
Unto thy lips — and then he throws it by,
And crowns thee with bright leaves to shade thine eye,
So it may gaze with richer love and light
Upon his beaming brow : If thy swift flight
Be on some hill
Of vine-hung Thrace — oh, come, while night is still,
And greet with heaping arms our gladdeu'd sight !
Lo ! the small stars, above the silver wave,
Come wandering up the sky, and kindly lave
The thin clouds with their light, like floating sparks
Of diamonds in the air ; or spirit barks,
With unseen riders, wheeling in the sky.
Lo ! a soft mist of light is rising high,
Like silver shining through a tint of red,
And soon the queened moon her love will shed,
Like pearl- mist, on the earth and on the sea,
Where thou shalt cross to view our mystery.
Lo ! we have torches here for thee, and urns,
Where incense with a floating odour burns,
And altars piled with various fruits and flowers,
And ears of corn, gather'd at early hours,
And odours fresh from India, with a heap
Of many-coloured poppies: — Lo ! we keep
830 Hymns to the Gods. [June,
Our silent watch for thee, sitting before
Thy ready altars, till to our lone shore
Thy chariot wheels
Shall come, while Ocean to the burden reels
And utters to the skv a stifled roar.
Little Rock, State of Arkansas,
August \ctth, 1838.
SIR, — It is with much doubt, and many misgivings, I have been induced by
the entreaties of some friends in Boston to send the accompanying trifles in
verse from this remote corner of the Union — beyond the Mississippi.
I would fain believe them worthy a place in your inestimable Maga, which
regularly reaches me here, two thousand miles from New York, within six or
seven weeks of its publication in Edinburgh, and is duly welcomed as it de-
serves. Should you judge them worthy of publication, accept them as a testi-
monial of respect offered by one, resident in South-western forests, to him whose
brilliant talents have endeared him, not only to every English, but to multi-
tudes of American bosoms — equally dear as Christopher North and Professor
Wilson.
Most respectfully, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
ALBERT PIKE.
[These fine Hymns, which entitle their author to take his place in the high-
est order of his country's poets, reached us only a week or two ago — though
Mr Pike's most gratifying letter is dated so far back as last August : and we
mention this, that he may not suppose such compositions could have lain un-
honoured in our repositories from autumn to spring. His packet was accom-
panied by a letter — not less gratifying — from Mr Isaac C. Pray — dated New
York, April 20th, 1839 — and we hope that, before many weeks have elapsed,
the friends, though perhaps then almost as far distant from each other as from
us, may accept this, our brotherly salutation, from our side of the Atlantic.—
C. N.]
SONNET.
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
BY ISAAC C. FBAY, JON.
WITHIN a dell, one Spring, my boyhood knew
A silver rill, which played through clustering ranks
Of white-leafed flowers that thickly fringed its banks ;
And near I often strayed, entranced, to view
And watch the lovely plants, whose blossoms grew
To fullness, as the day, with genial power,
Diffused its sun-light o'er each modest flower.
I left that home — returned, and once more flew,
While Autumn reigned, back to the cherished place ;
The rill was not — nor flower nor plant was there,
But earth instead, veiled by a gloomy air ;
I mourned the changes on sweet Nature's face :—
So hast thou vanished, loved one, and alone
I weep that thou with all thy gifts are gone.
1839.J
Our
831
OUR CHAMBERS.
" THREE pair of stairs north, sir,"
said the treasurer's clerk with a low
bow, — " three rooms, two fire-places,
and an escape-door to the roof."
" Nobody overhead?" said we.
"Not a soul, sir!" said the trea-
surer's clerk, repeating the inflection ;
" three rooms, two fire-places, and an
escape-door, too."
" Enough," said we ; " the cham-
bers are ours — ours from this mo-
ment ! " The words made us a house-
holder and an elector; and we emer-
ged from the treasurer's office three
inches the taller for our newly-acquir-
ed dignities.
*****
" And now to find these chambers
of ours," said we to ourselves, as we
stepped out into Aha ! gentle
reader, you had nearly caught us trip-
ping, but you are not going to find us
out so easily as all that — we intend to
be in our literary, as, alas, we dread
to be in our legal character — un-
known! We are of a retiring and
bashful disposition, and covet not the
digito monstrari et dicer e Jiic est : and
whether it be Old Square, or New
Square, or South Square, or any other
square; or Pump Court, or Fig-tree
Court, or Churchyard Court, or any
other court of an equally cheerful
and prepossessing appellation, in
which we have taken up our " local
habitation," we mean to leave to your
ingenuity to discover ; supposing,
of course, that you think it worth your
while to exert it in the enquiry. For
the smaller inns, indeed (for we will
own this much, that we dwell among
the aristocracy of the law), we en-
tertain horror not unmingled with
pity — miserable, broken-down, de-
cayed, shabby-genteel looking places
they are — masses of superannuated
bricks and mortar — full of untenanted
rooms and broken windows — silent
and sad — once the flourishing and fa-
voured children of the larger societies
— now neglected and disinherited out-
casts— cut off with a shilling by their
unnatural parents. We seem to grow
mouldy as we pass through them —
they startle us in the heart of London
with the echo of our own footsteps.
The very ghosts of old times must
feel ashamed to revisit them, and be
weary of their perambulations long
before cock-crow.
" But we must first find our laun-
dress," said we, stopping short at the
bottom of the staircase on whose door-
post our own name was soon to figure ;
so we faced about — obtained her di-
rection at the nearest porter's lodge,
and sallied forth for Court,
Street. How many times we
had to ask our way — how many
alleys we threaded — how many
times we felt our pockets, to con-
vince ourselves of the safety of their
contents — how many chimney-sweeps
and coal-heavers we encountered in
passages where there was only room
for one and a half abreast — hoAv many
pyramids of oranges, and how many
tempers of ancient Irishwomen, we
discomposed in our blunderings — how
many beau-traps we trod in — how
many times we devoted the object of
our search to the devil — may be per-
chance imagined, but assuredly not
enumerated. The houses — the people
— the sights we saw — the sounds we
heard — and, " horrible ! most horri-
ble !" tlr& smells we smelt, the pen of
Boz might perhaps describe — to our
own the attempt would be hopeless.
We had nearly given up the quest in
despair, when fortune pointed out to
us the good-natured face of a semi-
subterraneous green-grocer in a small
way, earnestly engaged in chaffering
for his last cabbage with an old wo-
man, who looked as if she could not
by any possibility live long enough to
eat it. However, the bargain was
struck — the stock was cleared — the
crone hobbled off with her prize, and
the vender of vegetables had time for
philanthropy. Kind soul ! but for his
aid our laundress had never greeted
our enquiring eyes, and — — Court
remained as undiscoverable as the
longitude.
As we entered, the door of which
we were in search opened, and the
visage of a female well-stricken in
years presented itself, just in time to
save the inhabitants of the district
from the astonishment of a double
knock. She was evidently in search
of something, and we were not long
832
Our Chambers.
[June,
in discovering the object of her anxiety,
in the form of a juvenile truant, who
was seated by the side of the kennel
at the further extremity of the court,
surrounded by a bevy of admiring con-
temporaries, and busily engaged, as
the facetious Thomas Hood has it,
" a-playing at making little dirt pies."
Happy innocent! little did he know
the service we then rendered him !
The storm was rapidly gathering — an-
other moment, and terrible would have
been its burst ! — the eye was already
kindling, the right hand working con-
vulsively, the lip half unclosed —
" Pray," said we, in our most in-
sinuating tone, " does a Mrs Mary
Popkins live here ? "
The hand unclenched — the gathered
lightning postponed its flash sine die
— the figure, drawn up to its full alti-
tude, sank down into a half-inquisitive,
half-reverential courtesy.
" If you please, sir, I am Mrs Pop-
kins," said the matron.
Now, we never yet could understand
how, in such cases, it matters one pin's
head whether we please or not. We
did not, as it happened, feel the slight-
est gratification at the intelligence ; but
the woman was Mrs Mary Popkins for
all that, and we had nothing left for
it but to explain the object of our
visit, and to request an immediate in-
spection of our future domicile.
It was our first introduction to that
peculiar race of females, who call
themselves laundresses on a very an-
cient and classical principle of nomen-
clature ; because, as the experience
of ages has at length most clearly de-
cided, they never do by any chance
wash any thing. We were accord-
ingly rather curious in our examina-
tion of the outward appearance of the
specimen which preceded us to our
chambers ; and the result of the scru-
tiny was at least so far satisfactory,
that we have never, since that day,
been mistaken in pronouncing sen-
tence of laundress or no laundress upon
any given woman. A pair of stuff
boots, unlaced — a dirty handkerchief,
thrown shawl-wise over the shoulders
(we have rarely set eyes upon a laun-
dress in a cloak) — a dull-patterned and
dull- coloured gown, with an extensive
hiatus behind, affording perspective
glimpses of various garments of un-
mentionable names and ineffable din-
giness — a bonnet, generally black,
which may be conceived, by a vigorous
exertion of the imagination, to have
boasted, at some long-past period,
some faint pretensions to a shape —
hands of horrid hue — " foreheads vil-
lainous low," and faces on which dirt,
and snuff, and gin, have set their most
indelible signs — may be pronounced
the most general characteristics of the
tribe ; — and when we say that Mrs
Popkins possessed them all, with the
slight addition, or rather variation, of
having but one solitary organ of vision,
we feel confident that she is standing
before the mind's eye of the reader
exactly as she appears at this moment
to put our chambers " to rights," in
blissful unconsciousness of the immor-
tality to which our pen is even now
consigning her.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty,
sixty steps ! Mercy on us ! here we
are at last. These old women are
truly astonishing creatures. Here are
we, on the topmost landing-place, with
but a light load of years on our back,
puffing and blowing like a stranded
grampus ; and there stands Mrs Pop-
kins, who might well be taken for
Methuselah's eldest daughter, as com-
posed as if she had not stirred a foot
for these three months.
" So these are our chambers, are
they ?" said we, as we entered a to-
lerably large room with three win-
dows, and a very time-honoured and
time-worn marble chimneypiece.
" Yes, if you please, sir," said Mrs
Popkins — " this is the sitting-room,
and this is the bedroom, and this is
the"
" Just so," said we, interrupting the
catalogue ; " and pray, Mrs Popkins,
what may this be ?"
" If you please, sir," replied our
laundress, pointing to a recess about
two feet square, with a board across
the front — " If you please, sir, that is
the coal-cellar."
*' The devil it is ! " said we, our
teeth literally chattering at the intelli-
gence.
Our astonishment was too evident
to escape the notice even of Mrs Pop-
kins' single eye.
" If I might make so bold, sir,"
said she, with a low courtesy to palliate
her audacity, " I should say you had
never lived in chambers before, sir."
" Never," said we ; not feeling, at
the moment, very much delighted at
1839.]
Our Chambers.
833
the idea of doing so now for the first
time. A gleam of satisfaction shot
across the countenance of Mrs Mary
Popkins as we pronounced the word
" never," the meaning of which, new
as it was to us, we could not for an
instant mistake. Mrs Popkins had
caught a greenhorn — and visions of
candle-ends, ounces of butter, frag-
mentary loaves, lumps of coal, and
unlocked cupboards, were floating in
rich profusion across her lively ima-
gination. We may live, thought we,
to disappoint you yet, old dame — we
had not a scout for four years at Ox-
ford without learning a trick or two.
" Well, Mrs Popkins," said we
aloud, " we shall send in our furni-
ture to-night, and we shall sleep here
to-morrow."
" Bless my heart, sir," said Mrs
Popkins, " begging your pardon for
the expression, I shall hardly have
time to get the chambers thoroughly
cleaned out." As, however, we thought
that whether Mrs Popkins had time
or not, the chambers stood a very poor
chance of undergoing such an unwont-
ed operation, we refused to alter our
resolution — possessed ourselves of the
keys — and strolled off to our club, to
read the Times, discuss chops and
corn-laws, yawn, put our hands in our
breeches-pockets, and stare out of the
bow-window.
We have ever, till lately, been ac-
customed to entertain a reasonably
good opinion of our own capacities ;
but, alas ! we have almost begun to
fear that we must be possessed of an
obtuseness of perception far beyond
that which falls to the lot of ordinary
dullards ; for we are utterly unable to
discover the truth of an opinion which
appears to be entertained by every
man, woman, and child of our ac-
quaintance, and which has been un-
ceasingly drummed into our ears from
the very moment of our taking pos-
session to the present. For the life
and soul of us, we cannot find out that
we are dull and miserable ; but every
body affirms that we must be so, and
" what every body says must be true,"
is an axiom old enough to have grown
by this time "something musty."
That the world, however (uncom-
mon as the case may be), is sincere in
its opinion, we cannot for an instant
permit ourselves to doubt. Tho pity
we meet with is astonishing ; the sym-
pathy overpowering. Old ladies of
seventy-two turn up the whites of their
eyes, and express their decided con-
viction that we must be " dismal be-
yond every thing." Facetious fathers
of families perpetrate most self-satis-
factory witticisms about blue devils,
bedposts, garters, and coroners' in-
quests. The moustachioed and " im-
periaP'-led loungers of Regent Street,
are of opinion that it must be " dey-
vilish slow." The nice, delightful,
talented young men, who hold an un-
disputed pre-eminence in quadrilles
and small talk, are unalterably con-
vinced that we must find it a " tre-
mendous bore :" and the nice young
ladies, who delight in the aforesaid
nice young men, are perfectly unable
to conceive how we can possibly en-
dure such a melancholy, hermit-like
state of existence. We have given
up the unprofitable labour of opposing
our own judgment to so universal an
opinion ; firstly, because we never
found any body to allow that we our-
selves could know any thing at all
about the matter ; and secondly, be-
cause we abominate arguments : — so
we leave the world to "write us down"
as miserable as it pleases, without
caring to plead " not guilty" to the in-
dictment.
We are, to speak the truth, lovers
of solitude, though far from being
haters of society. We can laugh with
the loudest, and crowd it with the most
fashionable. We can dance with the
daughter — discuss fashions and scan-
dal with mamma — dilate upon horses
and tailors with the brother (or rather
we are a good listener on such sub-
jects, which, as it serves both to cover
ignorance and flatter vanity, is far
more agreeable to both parties) —
debate politics with papa — and play a
rubber, if need be, with any old gran-
dam in the three kingdoms. We will
even confess to a kindly and affec-
tionate regard for an occasional good
dinner, despite of the dictum which
we found the other morning in Mon-
taigne, that " the young man who pre-
tends to a palate for wine or sauces,
ought to be whipped ;" for, much as
we reverence the old Gascon in a ge-
neral way, we cannot bring ourselves
to believe that we deserve to under-
take a pilgrimage at the cart's tail for
so amiable and social a weakness.
We have no objection, we said, to a
dinner : but still more to our liking
834
is what our continental neighbours call
a "petit souper," — the "champagne-
and-a-chicken" style of thing, of
which Lady Mary Wortley Montague
writes with such gout ; — the noctes
ccenceque Deum — the happy hours
of mirth and Miltons, song and Sillery,
laughter and lobster-salad, which in
our Oxford days Bah ! we shall
be taken for regular roysterers, and
Heaven knows that,now-a-daysatany
rate, we are innocent of the charge.
" We are not now as we were then" —
but our memory played us a slippery
trick, and we were for the moment
once more in our old rooms in the big
quadrangle of College. But now,
our organ of gregariousness, or what-
ever the bump is called, develops it-
self only by fits and starts, prominent
for a week, and impalpable fora twelve-
month. We have learned to grow
careless of society without degenerat-
ing into an absolute Timon, and to
love solitude without becoming a
thick-and-thin disciple of Zimmerman.
Dull? — how should we be dull?—
What ! with our fire blazing, and our
lamp trimmed — our kettle singing on
the hob, three good cups of Twining's
best brewing at our elbow, and the
last number of Blackwood in our
hand? We envy not the man who
would feel mopish in such society.
Do us the favour to cast your eyes
round our room, too — find you there
any lack of companions ? Mark yon
phalanx of bards posted in that left-
hand corner — yon corps of classics to
the right — that close and compact bat-
talion of historians in the centre ; —
observe, too, yon little band, the che-
rished "Immortals" of our literary
host — wise Bacon, and quaint old Bur-
ton, and eloquent Sir Thomas Browne,
the fascinating Michael de Montaigne,
and the incorrigible side-shaker Ra-
belais ; Sterne, variable as an April
day — like it, too, delightful in every
change — and dear old Charles Lambe,
with his merriment, and his wisdom,
and his kind-heartedness ! Dull, in-
deed ! — Mercy upon us ! what shall
we hear of next ! Listen, ye whose
happiness lies in a perpetual squeeze,
to the words of him who stands fore-
most in that bright array — " For a
crowd is not company — and faces are
but a gallery of pictures — and talk is
but a tinkling cymbal in which there
is no love."
But we are perverse beings ; and,
Our Chambers. [June,
little as we care about society when
left to ourselves, we would not for
worlds be positively debarred from it.
We are independent Britons, and hate
compulsion ; — in two words (which,
by the way, generally means about a
dozen), we are. waxing old-bachelor-
ish — somewhat selfish if you will have
it so — and we like our own way — and
that's the reason we took our cham-
bers. Somewhere or other — we think
in the pages of " Maga the Queenly"
— but we have a sad head, and cannot
be positive — we remember to have
read a song, written after our own
heart, by a minstrel who must have
lived in chambers, with such a hearty
spirit did he sing of his own happiness.
The burden of his strain has been
many a time on our lips in our most
particularly easy moments, and from
our inmost heart have we echoed the
wish —
" Oh! that kaisar or king the peace could
find
Of four stone walls, and a cheerful mind 1 "'
But happy as we are ourselves, we
very much fear that we must be a
positive nuisance to our inferior and
opposite neighbours ; for we are of a
most unquiet temperament, and have
in us the very spirit of unrest. Some-
times we pace our narrow domains,
like a " perturbed spirit," for a whole
evening through ; sometimes we sing ;
sometimes we read aloud, partly, be-
cause we think we remember the bet-
ter for it, and partly — out with it,
vanity ! — because we have a notion
that our reading is not to be sneezed
at ; very, very seldom are we per-
fectly quiet. We have not the slight-
est doubt that, in the.private judgment
of Mrs Popkins, we are irremediably
insane. We know no richer treat
than to note the look of mingled won-
der, compassion, and apprehension
with which she regards us, whenever
she happens to catch us in what we
overheard her one morning denomi-
nate, "our tantrums" — to observe
with what care she lays our breakfast
knife at the farther end of the table,
that she may escape before we clutch
it. We cannot even take up the poker
to stir the fire in her presence, without
calling up to her timorous imagination
all the fearful stories of shattered skulls
and scattered brains which nil the
pages of the Newgate Calendar, and
make pale the students of the Terrific
1839.]
Our Chambers.
835
Register. The very slam (Johnson
pronounces the word low — but we
can't help it — will he find us one more
expressive ?) — the very slam of the
door, as she leaves us for the morning,
bespeaks a thanksgiving for her tem-
porary escape. Her whole life is
nothing but a series of unexpected
reprieves.
We are, too, to our shame be it
spoken, sadly given to what Scott
calls " bedgown and slipper tricks."
We love, when we settle ourselves for
the evening, to kick our boots to one
end of the room, and fling our coat to
the other ; to envelope ourselves in
our " robe de matin ;" thrust our
weary toes into the last new pair of
slippers wrought for our especial
wearing by — never mind whom ;
wheel our easy chair full in front of
the fire ; set our feet each upon its
peculiar hob ; fold our arms, and re-
sign ourselves to all the luxuries of a
brown study. Most devoted lovers
are we of that dabbling with visionary
bricks and mortar, called " castle-
building" — a very Alnaschar in cham-
bers ; and, to enjoy it in its full per-
fection, we know no better recipe than
that which we have just written.
Many an evening hour do we thus
while away — and, alas ! not a few
morning ones into the bargain. It is
a sort of intellectual intoxication from
which we recover with a sigh, but,
thank Heaven ! without a headache.
We recollect reading somewhere,
in somebody's reminiscences of Percy
Bysshe Shelley, of the extreme delight
with which he was wont to expatiate,
while yet a sojourner on the shores of
the classic Isis, on the comforts of
what is called, in the language of the
"gens togata," an "oak;" that is —
in order that we may not be unintel-
ligible to the unacademic public — a
thick, strong outer door, universally
painted black, and ungarnished either
with handle or knocker, against which,
when closed, the most beloved fiiend
and the most detested dun may alike
kick, thump, and anathematize in vain.
Truly it was a blessing, even in those
days when we were much less given
to trimming the solitary lamp and
wasting the midnight oil than we now
are ; when we dwelt among those of
our own years and our own tastes —
men of our own souls, now widely
parted from us by time and space,
which obstinately refuse to be annihi-
lated, even by the balloons and rail-
roads of the nineteenth century. But
now — now that we are in London,
where the whole end and scope of
human existence is to make every
thing out of every body — where each
man's hand is against his neighbour's
pocket, and each man's tongue crieth
"give, give," as unceasingly as the
two daughters of the horse-leech—
now it is, indeed, inestimable. Cheap
tailors, and manufacturers of improved
steel pens, with polysyllabic names,
may indeed cram our letter-box with
puffs and circulars, but they neither
grieve our eyes nor vex our heart.
Furniture-brokers, men of lounging
chairs and library tables, and they of
" Israel's scattered race," whose traffic
lies in decayed habiliments, ascend
our stairs but to tramp down again un-
profited ; and economical tea- dealers
leave their cards in vain.
There is a thorough independence
in this mode of life which we prize
beyond measure ; — no gossipping
neighbours to watch our out-goings
and in-comings — to number our down-
sittings and up-risings ; — no code of
domestic law save our own good will
and pleasure — a most un-Medic-and-
Persian legislator; — no chidings for
coffee grown cold, and legs of mutton
done to rags. Do we chance to feel
convivially disposed, and let the stars
" begin to pale their ineffectual fires"
before we turn our thoughts bed-ward?
There is no drowsy domestic kept up
to grumble at our long-protracted
absence. Are we, as saith the bard
of the Seasons, " falsely luxurious,"
and indulge in a more than usually
extended snooze ? There are no house-
hold arrangements to be interrupted
by our somnolence. We have none
but the "blessed sun himself" to re-
buke us, and he does it with such
warmth, and yet with such gentleness,
that we are always thoroughly ashamed
of our own laziness, and register a
most serious resolution to " reform it
altogether." But alas ! man is weak,
and bed is pleasant ; " a little more
sleep and a little more slumber" has
been the cry of other voices besides
that of the hero of " the sluggard ;"
the very Druid, from whose animated
appeal to early rising we have just
quoted, was wont to let the noon-
day beam surprise him between the
sheets.
There is a stillness, too, about us
836
Our Chambers.
[June,
which is most refreshing, after the
turmoil and din of the crowded tho-
roughfares which surround us at so
slight a distance. The iron tongue of
a neighbouring clock, and the voice of
an antiquated watchman corrobora-
ting its announcement?, are the only
sounds which break our evening still-
ness. Here, and alas ! here only, does
that venerable and ill-used race of men
exist in undiminished dignity — here
only do they gossip — here only do
they tread their peaceful rounds, till,
unable any longer to resist the influ-
ence of the narcotic deity, they coil
themselves up in the warmest corner
of some secluded staircase, to dream
of the days when Peel ate pap, and
the new police were unimagined.
Often, when we have closed our
books for the night, do we throw open
our window, and, gazing around on
the many cells of the great legal hive
in which we are but a drone, busy
ourselves in picturing to onr mind's
eye the various occupations of their
tenants. That light on the left gleams
from the chambers of an eminent law-
yer, who, on the verge of the grave,
and wealthy as the most grasping ava-
rice could wish, is yet ever to be found
poring over his musty parchments,
with as deep and anxious an interest
as though they were the indentures of
his own salvation, instead of the me-
lancholy records of some client's ruin.
In yonder garret wakes a young stu-
dent, without wealth, without friends,
with nothing but his own ardent as-
pirations to support him ; sacrificing
youth, and health, and happiness, in
the pursuit of honours which he is
never destined to attain — of that
wealth which, if it come at all, will
come only when all the treasures of
the fabling East would be but a pro-
fitless burden — a splendid mockery !
A merry writer has spoken but a me-
lancholy truth when he says, " I would
rather hear many a legend with a
terrific-sounding name, than the true
history of one old set of chambers."
Could we be mistaken? We thought
we heard the chorus of a song. Ah J
there is a merry party " rousing the
night with a catch " in yonder corner.
Gay, careless souls — choice spirits all
— fellows of infinite jest and excellent
fancy — systematical eschewers of
Coke upon Littleton, whose impu-
dence or whose interest may yet
instal them in some snug sinecure,
when the lonely student is at rest in
his unnoticed and untimely grave.
But the night-breeze comes chillingly
off the river — nay, yonder bell warns
us that it is already morning. We will
watch no longer.
To bed, then, to rest undisturbed by
the scratehings and nibblings of the
crafty rat or timorous mouse — what
should such things do here? — unwaked
by the discordant love- tale of the
amorous grimalkin, who chooses, like
Philomel, the still calm hour of night
to " unburthen her full soul," — un-
wearying wanderer of housetops, un-
shrinking traveller of gutter and para-
pet, doomed to wail beneath the tryst-
ing chimney the absence of the fickle
and perfidious torn. " To sleep—
perchance to dream" — lapped in
Elysian visions of admiring judges
and overpowered jurymen, envious
leaders, enraptured juniors, and ec-
static attorneys, silk gowns, and special
retainers. Alas ! but in a few short
hours to be recalled by the voice of
Mrs Mary Popkins, to the unwelcome
but irresistible conviction that we are
only
ONE OF THE BRIEFLESS.
1839.]
The Life of a Speculative German.
887
THE LIFE OF A SPECULATIVE GERMAN.
IN the first volume of the Dcuk-
wiirdigkeiten und Vermischte Schrif-
ten of Varnhagen Von Ense, pub-
lished at Mannheim in 1837> is con-
tained a memoir of the philosopher
and physician Johann Benjamin Er-
hard, of which we propose to give our
readers an outline, in the hope that a
picture of a course of life, and of habits
of thought which may be new to many
of them, will be neither uninteresting
nor uninstructive. There are limits
to the fusion of national characteris-
tics, and the mutual understanding
which civilisation tends to produce;
and to see the cities of many men is
no longer to learn their thoughts. In
the days of Ulysses, the peculiarities
of foreigners lay upon the surface, and
a few days or hours enabled him to
understand the easy and hospitable
Phoenicians, the hungry Laestrygones,
whose giant queen his messengers saw,
Kara, S' eQwyov airiv, and the danger o
the dreamy land where
Round about the keel, with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotus-eaters
came.
Like a wise man, he took strangers as
he found them ; and, in truth, there
was no difference between himself and
those whom he met with, so wide or so
puzzling as the gulf which separates
the mind of the bookish German
thinker from that of the plain Eng-
lishman. In this country we are wont
to live and exert ourselves in various
ways, to infer consequences from cer-
tain admitted premises, and even, if
such is our fate, to write in prose or
verse ; but it must be confessed, that
we do these things without compre-
hending them in a systematic classifi-
cation according to the powers on
which they depend, or looking into
ourselves for the forms under which
we act and think. Of the few who
may at present study philosophy in
England, we do not speak ; but it is
certain, that, in educated society and in
general literature, no traces are to be
found of the vast revolution in philo-
sophy, which, from the time of Kant,
has penetrated the whole framework
of life and language in Germany.
Philosophy has indeed there created
a language of its own — a vast maga-
zine of formal terms, .under which
every particular may be included ; so
that all may write if they cannot think
scientifically, or with a show of science.
And genuine thought is, as might
naturally be expected, far more com-
mon than with us. Knowledge is, to
a German scholar, the great object of
life 5 cogitat, ergo est, if, indeed, exist-
ence may, in all cases, be predicated
of him ; for he has a self-reproducing
consciousness, first of his being, then
of his consciousness of being, again of
his cognizance of this consciousness,
and so on for ever ; perhaps it would
be safer to say simply cogitat ; while
our beloved countryman, who never
doubts that he is, or speculates upon
who he is that doubts not, may be
contented to abandon the premise, and
take up the simple inference est.
Which is better, the form without
matter, or the matter without form,
the active blind, or the far-sighted
cripple, we are not called upon to
judge, though we might suggest, with
./Esop, the advantage of a combination
of faculties and reciprocal counterac-
tion of defects : at present, we proceed
without further preface to the bio-
graphy of a man, who seems to have
Jived only to speculate, and to practise
the results of speculation.
The memoir before us is an auto-
biography with a supplement, preface,
and dedication to Hegel, by Varn-
hagen Von Ense, who anticipates a
preliminary objection, which probably
few of our readers would think of
making. After remarking that the
philosophy of Kant, in Erhard's days
the brightest light existing, has now
[Varnhagen is writing about the year
1824] been altogether extinguished in
science, as well as in its influence on
life, he proceeds thus, —
" It will be suspicious to call back
the attention of an advanced genera-
tion of high claims and rich endow-
ments to an earlier step of knowledge,
of which the majority is generally
little willing to retain the remem-
brance or recognise the value, unless
assistance is sought through the me-
dium of a justifying criticism." The
philosophy of Kant, then, was obsolete
fifteen years ago ; while with us, at the
838
present day, a student of the Kritik
der Reinen Vernunft is esteemed an
advanced scholar, if he has the good
luck to escape the reputation of a
dangerous innovator. The writer is,
however, stating a mere truism, in the
tone in which a geologist might apo-
logize for an account of the Plutonian
and Neptunian controversy. Our
readers, who may think it strange that
a biography should be suppressed,
because the speculative opinions of its
subject are out of date, will be glad to
know that this preliminary difficulty
is overcome by a consideration of the
enlarged and liberal views of the
Hegelians, " who look so benevolently
on the steps of the general advance
which they have left behind them."
In the preface, Varnhagen speaks
of the great burst of German liter-
ature about the beginning of the nine-
teenth century, of which the main
cause was, as he justly says, " the
philosophy which, in this point of
view, properly commences with Kant ;
and, consequently, all that concerns
his age will long remain an object of
attention and interest to posterity.
Therefore the writings and influence,
not only of the great masters, but of
those who stood second or third, who
present themselves to us as a class
highly deserving of honour, and as
examples of living and of authorship,
often belong to the first rank, will find
increasing interest hereafter ; and we
may hope, with the works of Kant, of
Fichte, and their equals, to see also
the writings of Mendelsohn, Garve,
Maimon, Reinhold, and especially of
Erhard, who was not the least among
them, collected and published as proofs
of the most varied, honest, philosophi-
cal labours ; nay, much of this kind
might be received and guarded even
with greater care, by those who are
further removed than it was by con-
temporaries, or than will now be prac-
ticable for those who are still near to
them." Whether the hope expressed
in this somewhat long-winded sentence
has been, or is likely to be fulfilled,
we know not ; though we have un-
bounded faith in the fecundity of Ger-
man publishers. We had rather read
the biographies of Erhard and the
rest, than their works, especially
when written, as in the present in-
stance, by themselves.
Johann Benjamin Erlfard was born
on the 8th of February, 1766, in the
The Life of a Speculative German.
[June,
venerable city of Nuremberg, now the
Pompeii, as it has been quaintly called,
of the middle ages, and once the toy-
shop of Europe. His father, Jacob
Reinhard Erhard, was a wire-drawer
by trade, and an amateur of various
arts and sciences by inclination. He
excelled in playing on the bugle, and
" Heaven," says his son, " could have
conferred upon him no higher grace
than a virtuoso for his son : but it did
not turn out so, and I had not the small-
est inclination to the pursuit. He gave
himself all possible trouble with me,
but it was soon evident that I was not
destined for a virtuoso." The labours
of the good Jacob were not, however,
entirely thrown away. " I got so far
as to learn to sing the gamut, and to
tune an instrument. This is a proof
of what persevering toil in instruction
can effect ; for I well remember that
I could not at first distinguish, whether
a note sung after my father was the
same or different. The sensation of
greater or less exertion of the organs
of voice and raising of the larynx, by
which I finally, after my father's utter-
ance of the note, hit it, was to me
the measure of high and low notes ;
and at last I felt whether I sang the
same note with him or not. . . .
I did not, however, require this labour
which it cost me to distinguish high
from low notes, to distinguish the
specific kind of sound. I never, after
once hearing an instrument, confused
it, without seeing it, with another.
The sensation, therefore, by which we
distinguish a higher from a lower note,
must be different from that by which
we distinguish like and unlike sounds,
as, for instance, of trumpets and flutes,
and must depend upon different parts
of our organ of hearing."
We have quoted this passage as a
characteristic and amusing specimen
of Erhard's speculative nature, and of
the unhesitating seriousness with wh ich
he narrates and discusses the minutest
facts relating to himself. Yet it is
not selfishness or vanity, which he
feels, but genuine scientific interest.
Cosmopolitan, as the botanist or the
geologist may be, he is not ashamed
to concentrate his attention on the
Flora or the stratification of his coun-
try, or province, or county ; and to
Erhard, his own idiosyncrasy, the ele-
ments of his empirical Ich, form the
province which he is peculiarly called
upon to examine, and to coramunicato
1839.]
The Life of a Speculative German.
839
his discoveries to the world, which he
doubts not, will be as ready to learn,
as he is to teach «' How the founda-
tions of his mind were laid." We can
discover few traces of self- applause,
and none of self-depreciation j there
is no comparison with others, no fear
of censure. We own that his person -
ality appears to have been his hobby,
but only as philosophers will have a
predilection for some special applica-
tion of their principles. His zealous
and yet passionless self-contemplation,
reminds us of a medical student of
whom we have heard, who, having a
leg amputated, dissected it himself,
and gave his friends a lecture on it, in
which he barely hinted at the muscu-
lar swell of the calf, and the delicate
fineness of the ancle.
We are not aware of any autobio-
grapher, except Mr Tristram Shandy,
who begins his adventures earlier;
and there is this remarkable difference
between them, that Tristram was, as
infants usually are, a passive subject
under the various mistakes of Dr
Slop, the curate, and Susanna ; and
but little affected in mind by the mis-
fortunes which befell his name and his
person ; while Johann, whose mind
was everything to him, was deliber-
ately forming and instructing it. He
says, that his recollections in some
things run back into his first year,
and in his second are in many things
only uncertain, because, up to his
fourth year, he was liable to confuse
dreams with waking perceptions. He
sometimes had disputes with his pa-
rents, whether circumstances had
taken place, of which he was thus per-
suaded. The tendency clung by him
in later years, and occasioned him
great discomfort. He infers, from the
vividness of these impressions, that, in
the case of a diseased condition of the
sensorium, which weakens the me-
mory, a dream may sometimes be the
cause of insanity.
Our young philosopher was taught
by his father- to despise the fear of
ghosts, though he at first appears to
have believed in their existence — for
his maternal grandmother was remark-
able for seeing them ; and, which was
more remarkable, was so free from
fear of them, that she recounted their
visits to her as coolly and indifferent-
ly, as a call from a neighbour. " I
was so curious," says Erhard, " to
test her statements by experience,
that in my third year I often slept
with her, to see the ghost ; but it
never showed itself when I was there,
and I consequently believed that I
had gained the victory over her be-
lief.1' We hope parents will hence-
forth teach their two-year-old offspring,
who now waste their time in play-
ing and prattling, and are a prey to
the most uncritical credulity, to test
the statements of their grandmammas
about "Jack and the Bean- Stalk," or
" Little Red Riding- Hood," by expe-
rience, and to gain victories over their
belief. Not that the victory in this
case was decided, for the dexterous
old lady, by dint of long practice, was
enabled to trip up the vigorous young
controversialist, and asserted that he
had with him an invisible good spirit,
which the ghost was afraid of. " Thus,"
he soberly reflects, " I learned early,"
(f. e. in his third year, which, for so ab-
stract a proposition may be called de-
cidedly early), "that it is absurd to try
to contend by experience against asser-
tions, which would destroy the condi-
tions of possible experience ; for they
may always be defended by an assump-
tion as absurd as the assertion itself.
.... I never again tried the expe-
riment of wishing to see any thing,
which, if I saw it, could only denote
the loss of the use of my understand-
ing." We really think his under-
standing was perfectly safe, when in
its long petticoats, as it were, it had
so fully ascertained the conditions of
possible experience.
But pride will have a fall. When
he had attained the maturity of three
years, even the cautious Johann fell
into an error, which, at the distance
of forty years, he remembers with the
deepest remorse. What was it ? Did
he steal lumps of sugar, or scream to
frighten his nurse, or try to drink out
of the speut of the kettle ? As it must
be told, we will give our readers his
own candid confession, hoping that
their own consciences are free from
similar burdens. " When I was full
three years old, I was sent to a com-
mon school. Here I believed the
common dogmas" (of Christianity —
credulous infant !) " as easily as I dis-
believed the ghosts ; for my father had
not declared himself against them.
With humiliation, I yet remember that
I found nothing revolting in the pro-
position, that a man who doubted the
creed, of St Athanasius" (which, no.
The Life of a Speculative German,
[June,
doubt, at the common schools of Nu-
remberg1, was used as preliminary to
the spelling-book), " was dealt with
as if he had committed the greatest
crimes." -
We are happy to find that the good
wire- drawer may be acquitted of the
charge of instilling intolerance into
his son's mind, of malice prepense.
On the contrary, "he tried, being
then by no means a sceptic, to teach
me tolerance, by disputing with me
against the dogmas, in the assumed
character of a heretic" (probably of
a Homoiousian, as Johann could hardly
be yet qualified to test his semi-Arian
statements by experience), " or of a
freethinker, and I shed many tears "
(surely this was unworthy of a phi-
losopher) " when I could not find ar-
guments to confute him. The origin of
my easy conviction " (which is really
surprising in the victorious opponent
of grandmamma) " lay in my feeling
for veracity ; I could not believe that
millions of men could believe an ab-
surdity, and look upon the exposure
of it as a crime." This comes of diffi-
dence and self-distrust. What was
the value of the opinion of a few mil-
lions of men, compared with that of
Johann Benjamin Erhard, aged three
years ? You ought to have tested their
statements by experience, Johann.
His excellent memory brought
him, in this Athanasian school, little
distinction, for he only " strove to
learn the meaning of things, without
troubling himself about the words."
In his ninth year, he entered the se-
cond class of the " Latin scholars," as
the public school of Nuremberg was
called. The first class was preparatory
to the University j and, as far as Er-
hard knows, " the mode of reckoning
is the same at all Protestant schools,
while, at the Catholic school, the first
class is the lowest." Here was food
for speculation — Why do they so?
" Was it done by the Protestants as a
mark of distinction from the Catholics,
as the first Christians made the first
day of the week their Sabbath ?" We
had indeed thought that the first day
of the week was so far from being a
Sabbath, that it originally co-existed
with the Jewish Sabbath ; but we are
so little given to speculation, that we
fear we might never have been puzzled
by the titles of the classes in the Nu-
remberg school. In the Latin school,
Erhard, notwithstanding his excellent
memory, learned no Latin, but he had
learned arithmetic, in the mean time,
at the German school ; whereupon he
thus reflects : —
" As far as my memory goes back,
I cannot remember to have learned to
count ; — I seem always to have been
able to do it. I am equally ignorant
of the time at which I exchanged the
speaking of myself in the third per-
son, which is so natural to children, for
the /. Probably counting in a child
succeeds the I ; for, till it not merely
feels itself as unity, but also thinks oi
itself as such, in opposition to all others,
it has no fixed type (schema) of the
one. It sees single things, but does
not arrange them according to the ab-
stract notion of singleness."
After two years, Erhard left the
Latin school, in consequence of a re-
proof from a preacher whose sermon
he had not attended to ; and, in his
self education from this time forward,
we cannot but admire the free and
generous spirit of the boy, who sought
knowledge for the sake of knowledge.
The absence of intercourse, in Ger-
man society, between the middle clas-
ses and the aristocracy, removes a
great danger which besets self-taught
genius in England, in the tendency of
eminence to break the bonds which
connect a man with the companions of
his youth, without raising him to a
perfect level with the class into which
he is removed. The son of the Nu-
remberg craftsman looked to no wider
public than his townsmen for sym-
pathy, and sought no reward for study
but knowledge. We are haunted with
a ghost, whose name is Cut Bono.
Fearing and dreading the name of
utilitarianism, we worship it in its
meanest forms, and set up wealth and
power in the place of wisdom, or,
which is worse, as the ends which
justify the search of wisdom as a
means. Fools and blind ! for which is
greater, the gold on the temple, or
the temple which sanctifies the gold?
The vis inertia of our universities still
opposes a partial resistance to the uti-
litarian tendencies of education ; but
even they are tormented into arguing
on the tendency of their studies to pro-
mote success in life. " Look at the
bench," they say, " crowded with
wranglers." " Listen to the first-class
man speaking in Parliament." " Who
shall argue, if logic be forgotten?"
" Who shall quote, when Virgil is un-
1839.]
The Life of a Speculative German.
841
read?" So the public turns sulkily
away for want of an answer, and
Alma- Mater goes on in her course of
training, sub rosu, the would-be judges
and statesmen into men. How differ-
ent is the feeling of the lonely and
uninstructed German lad !
" This feeling for freedom," he
says, after speaking of his sympathy
with the revolt of America, " was a
necessary result of my education.
With all the inclination for the arts
and sciences which my father had im-
planted in me, he never raised in my
mind the notion of supporting myself
by any other means than his profes-
sion. All that I learned, I learned be-
cause it gave me pleasure, or to please
my father ; for I loved my father so
dearly, that I liked no one better as
a playfellow This education,
which caused me to gain art and
science for its own sake, roused in me
so strong a feeling for freedom from
outward compulsion, that, in the choice
of my employments, I always followed
either inclination or duty, and disre-
garded all other views, especially those
of outward advantage."
From eleven to thirteen, Erhard
worked at his father's trade, and ac-
quiring some knowledge of engraving,
was able to procure with his gains a
few books; among which, he enu-
merates Wolf's Elements, Kriijer's
Theory of Nature, and, at a later pe-
riod, Wolf's Elementa Matheseos. He
entertained a laudable contempt for
books written to suit the capacity of
children, such as Natural History for
Children, by Raff; and in this feeling-
we fully agree with him, and would
extend the same condemnation to all
condescending compositions, and es-
pecially to sermons for the poor. Let
a man speak to his hearers on topics
they can understand and care for, to
children about giants and fairies, to
peasants about their fields and their
homes ; but let him not leave his po-
sition as a teacher, by the awkward
affectation of equality withhis learners.
They can dispense with intelligibility,
but not with earnestness ; with the
show of parity of knowledge, rather
than with the recognition of common
humanity. Children understand each
other, and they understand men
and women ; but the mongrel charac-
ter of affected puerility is as puzzling
to them, as an address which we once
heard a surly porter make to a perse-
vering foreign vagrant—" You not
understand me ; why you not walk
off, when 1 you tell ?"
" Maxima clelietur {men's reverentia;"
but the debt is paid by few.
In his fourteenth year, his studies
were interrupted by some alarming
fits of epilepsy, succeeded by a ha-
rassing tendency to see figures when
alone, which troubled him the more,
from his full conviction of their un-
reality. The propensity was evi-
dently inherited from his grandmo-
ther, who, like him, was free from
superstitious fear ; but the good wo-
man never troubled herself about ob-
jective causality, with which Erhard
considers his visions incompatible ;
forgetting that a morbid condition of
the retina or sensorium must produce
morbid results, which would be objec-
tively cognizable to a perfect physio-
logist. The " pain which, in such
cases, arises from the difficulty of
forming a judgment objectively valid,
which has for us at the same time sub-
jective evidence," proceeds from a
misconception of the judgment which
ought to be formed. The phantom-
seer has subjective evidence that he
sees phantoms ; but not that they are
cognizable to others, or independent
of his own bodily organization.
From his twelfth to his sixteenth
year was, in Nuremberg, the sentimen-
tal, or, as he calls it, the Siegwart-
Wertherisch period, and he had the
good fortune to see one of his acquain-
tances commit suicide, and to learn
from another, named Doerburem, to
fall in love. The same kind friend
instilled into him a smattering of
Greek, and expounded to him the
New Testament, " according to the
bold mode of interpretation which
was then fashionable ; " — that, we
•presume, of the Wolfenbuttel frag-
ments, or of Eickhorn. His precocious
genius, as might have been expected,
outran his teacher, and he saw the
imitations of Homer ! ! which show
the mythical character of the sacred
history. The gravity and earnestness
with which he narrates the crotchets
and follies of his boyhood, have a
whimsical and amusing effect. It is
strange that a thinking man should
value the convictions which he formed
in ignorance, even if on knowledge he
abides by the results. But in Erhard,
the boy was not the father of the man,
but the man himself; and that man,
though by fortune a critical philoso-
pher, was by nature and destiny a
842
The Life of a Speculative German.
[June,
believer and a dogmatist. He believed,
indeed, in the categories and not in the
prophecies, because hewasaspeculator
rather than a man, and the first sys-
tem that satisfied the conscious wants
of his intellect relieved it from craving
for ever after. In some things, he
appeared to be involved in the interests
of common humanity. " Schiller
used to relate," says Varnhagen,
" that when Erhard had inherited a
small house at Nuremberg, he was in
a great hurry to go into the kitchen,
and light a fire on the hearth, to ex-
press by this proceeding the act of
taking possession. Good sound com-
mon sense was more valued by him
than any learning or cultivation," &c.
True, perhaps ; and yet it was only life
in the rebound from speculation. We
have seldom known an abstracted stu-
dent who had not a theoretical interest
in life ; but it is always through a
peculiar medium — he is not one among
men in the first instance, but he pro-
jects an imaginary self into the midst
of them, and watches his reciprocal
influences upon them and from them.
He delights in the symbol of owner-
ship, but he knows that it is a symbol,
and amuses himself with his own de-
light ; for he has passed through the
antithesis of the conscious subject and
its object, to the comprehension of both
in a common objectivity, which is at
first not felt to imply, as its correlative,
a common subjectivity. The reflected
and secondary object is identified with
the simple and primary, and this con-
scious developement of unconscious
being forms one main element of Ger-
man literature. As a characteristic
specimen of the class, we have selected
Erhard. He could not feel himself
owner of a house, till he found a sym-
bol to represent ideal ownership to
his imagination. He exchanged theory
for life, only 'because life was to him
the emblem of a theory.
We have said that, as became a
philosopher in the Siegwart- Werther-
isch epoch, he fell in love, or fancied
that he did so ; apparently with no
particular fair one, but with an idea,
which the maidens of Nuremberg
«.- had the opportunity of realizing in
rotation ; yet all the while he was
preparing for a more permanent at-
tachment, and he determined " to
choose its object calmly, before his
mind was agitated by passion." He
fixed on a certain Wilhelmine, and
thought " that the idea) was realized j
and though, after some years, I was
forced to admit my error, nothing
would induce me to banish from my
recollection these years of happy
dreams. Every bright moonlight
night carries me back still to that
sweet delusion. Oh, no ! it was not
delusion — it was reality then ; this firm
trust in the harmony of our souls, this
abstraction from every thing corporeal
in our union, this completeness in our
being. I felt myself at thy side, free
from all influence of the world upon
me, and infinitely strong to act upon
it. In this feeling of force, the bold
idea arose in my mind of being able
to supply a complete theory of legis-
lation, and making this the object of my
life, since I had not yet learned to con-
sider on what, but for what, I was to
live." A true and beautiful picture
of the happy enthusiasm of youth, and
not to us an anticlimax, though it
leads from love to legislation ; for the
production of theory and system was
the work to which his mind was
adapted by organization, and which
could not but result, if a moving force
was found for its mechanism ; but the
a'^ij xivnireus is the same for all,
the original energy of the will ; and
if its effects are not the same, through
the clogging of the machine, by sel-
fishness and worldliness, enthusiasm is
the vis medicatrix nature, which art can
but partially imitate in attempting &'
e^isv xctl <po£eu •rt^ttiviiv rnv <ruv TUOVTUV
<na0r,fji.a,riav xu,$KgffiV.
We say enthusiasm, for of love we
doubt ; that cool and prudent deter-
mination to select the object firsthand
fall in love with her afterwards, makes
us rather sceptical, and we have a
lurking suspicion that real love was
too human and practical a state for
Erhard to be included in. An Ame-
rican rhetorician draws a distinction
between the shopkeeper and the man
in the shop, the farmer and man on
the farm ; and so we would say that
Erhard was not a lover, but a philo-
sopher in a condition of love. Varn-
hagen Yon Ense takes a sound view
of the question : —
" The mind and spirit of the young
man is all on fire ; he deprecates every
doubt, and every misunderstanding ;
he sees in her perfection, he expects
from her every spiritual elevation and
moral advancement ; he revels in ad-
miration and passionate devotion.
And yet, with all the
fire, with all the enthusiasm, with all
Thf Lift of <>
the tenderness which is expressed here
(in his correspondence with Wilhel-
mine), at bottom real love, we must
say it, is utterly wanting
The passion, the anxiety, the longing,
the confidences-all dispense with one
distinction, which alone forms the
characteristic of true love — with the
need of this definite personality."
This passion, he proceeds to say,
might have been easily, by a freak of
imagination, transferred to others.
" We can, in such a case, only pity
the poor girl, who, instead of being an
actual object of personal love, is obli-
ged to serve as a sort of counterpart
to a metaphysical excitement, as a Not-
I (negation of self)." It was pro-
bably fortunate for both parties that
the connexion wore itself out.
" They met and parted. Well, is there no
more?
Something within that interval, that bore
The stamp of why they parted, how they
met?"
There were suspicions, and doubts,
and discoveries ; in short, the dream
ended, and Erhard awoke, and was
indignant to find it was a dream. We
return to the more directly intellectual
development of his mind.
It was in his fifteenth year that he
first felt, the nature of mathematical
evidence. He had learnt from Wolf
the dogmatic method of deducing ma-
thematical as well as other truths from
the original notions (begriffen) of
them, and had tormented himself (bis
zur ohnmacht) with vain attempts to
prove propositions about straight
lines, &c., from his notions of them.
At last, in the proposition of the equa-
lity of parallelograms on equal bases
between the same parallels, the light
suddenly dawned upon him, and he
felt intuitive certainty, and a consci-
ousness, which however he could not
account for, of the difference between
mathematical evidence and logical
proof. He experienced a weaker but
somewhat similar feeling, when, a
year afterwards, he gained an insight
into " necessary subjection to strict
law."
There are probably few thinkers to
whom the first revelation of formal
truth is not a remembered intellectual
epoch. We suspect that it is not
desirable that it should first be sug-
gested by geometry, where the close
connexion of the intellectual with the
sensuous vUimi (fuuckattung), and of
the vision with the notions of which.
VOL, XLV, NO, CCLXXXIV,
Ucrnittit. 843
the propositions are formed, adopted
by Kant as the basis of his system,
inasmuch as it supplied the condition
of the possibility of synthetical judg-
ments a priori or of objective truth,
and rejected by Hegel as unessential
to the proposition (Phcenomenologie
des Geistes, p. 34), is likely to confine
the attention of an unpractised thinker
to the particular case of truth, accom-
panied by vision, instead of the form
of truth, which is exemplified by a
syllogism with false premises, as well
as by the proposition in Euclid which
enlightened Erhard. He could not,
however, have used a better prepara-
tive for his approaching study of
Kant.
For several years Erhard continued
his course of self- education, reading
in English Shaftesbury and Ossian,
whose frothy rhapsodies appear to
have met with greater acceptance in
every part of the Continent than in
England ; adding to Wolf's demon-
strative system, fragments from Spi-
noza and other philosophers ; and,
above all, maintaining an active in-
tercourse or correspondence with Wil-
helmine, and with two or three youth-
ful friends. " These years," he
feelingly says, " of friendship and of
love, when the search for truth was
the sole aim of my life, the commu-
nication of my discoveries to my
friends the only reward which I
wished or obtained, conversation with
my beloved on friendship and love
the full enjoyment of love — these years,
even now, compose my true life. I
shall be active as long as I live, and I
have felt much pleasure since ; but my
life itself, without reference to any of
its particular circumstances, as imme-
diate enjoyment of being, I possessed
only then, when ye, my never-to-be-
forgotten, formed my universe, for
which I wished to exist." Varnhagen
does justice to the class and the epoch
to which Erhard belonged, in his re-
marks on his correspondence at this
time with his friend Osterhausen.
From the contemplation of the pur-
suits and thoughts of this young han-
dicraftsman (for Erhard worked all
this time at his father's trade), we
may look further, he says, and con-
template a picture of civic life, which
is seldom so well presented to us.
" These lofty exertions and refined
relations, in a rank of life which in
general has little time to spend on
cultivation, and little claim to make to
ll
The Life of a Speculative German.
844
if, give the most favourable representa-
tion of our German middle class, which
exercised within itself the best attri-
butes of the nation, and for a long
time almost alone maintained them."
In the spring of 17SC, one of Er-
hard's friends mentioned to him a no-
tice of Kant's writings which he had
seen, from which it appeared that he
attacked the foundation of the Wolfian
dogmatism ; and, like a gallant parti-
san, immediately determined to read
Kant's works, and refute them. In
the transcendental aesthetic he found
nothing strange, as he had been fami-
liarized by the system of Leibnitz to
the doctrine of the ideality of time and
space, He passed easily through the
analytic (doctrine of the categories of
the understanding), and first recog-
nised the opposition of Kant's critical
to Wolf's dogmatic philosophy in the
parallogisms of the pure reason. In
the Antinomies (proofs of contrary
propositions, as of the infinity and
iiniteness of time, the infinite or ulti-
mate divisibility of matter, &c.), he
discovered, he says, the play upon
words in the assertion, that time and
space were objects for a notion (be-
griff"), and could again be known
from the notion ; " but with this in-
sight vanished the show of logical
necessity (dialektische scheiti), which
prevails in Wolf's system, and must
necessarily overcome a reason nur-
tured in obedience to faith, which
chooses to beautify its faith by repre-
senting it as the choice of freedom."
He felt, he says, a new intellectual
life, " unrestrained by all that men
choose to make one another believe,
and undisturbed in my faith, which
was not contrary to reason, by the
objection that I could not "formally
prove it." In short, he had learned
that if the speculative reason cannot
give positive answers to its own ques-
tions, it can solve them in the only
manner in which they admit of being
solved, by showing their insolubility.
Whether he had fully learned to give
unto reason the things, that be rea-
son's, and unto faith the things that be
faith's, may perhaps admit of doubt ;
but he had ascertained that the do-
mains and functions were distinct.
For the intellectual residence he had
now built, he had not long to wait for
an inhabitant. He was satisfied as to
the forms by which all is to be known,
the principles and limits on which
judgments are to be formed; but
[June,
where to find things to be known or
judged in an independent existence
and vitality, he had first to learn from
this great master's Critical Enquiry of
the Practical Reason. Let those who
are enthusiastic in an election, or ex-
uberantly joyful at a windfall of mo-
ney, respect and tolerate the feelings
of the satisfied searcher after truth: —
" All enjoyment which I ever receiv-
ed in my life," says the lover of Wil-
helm.ine, " vanishes in comparison
with the agitation of my whole mind,
which I felt at many passages of the
book. Tears of extreme pleasure
often fell on this book, and even the
recollection of these happy days ever
moistens my eyes, and has raised me
up when I was downcast and melan-
choly. , . . If I am to persevere
in the struggle with the depressing
thought, which the history of the time
often breathes into me like an evil de-
mon, that the development of man-
hood, among the acts and dealings of
men, is an old woman's tale, &c. .
It is thy work, my teacher, my
father in the spirit, and I feel myself
strengthened by the consciousness. I
am what I am — no other has my du-
ties— no other can think for me; the
world which I look on, is a problem for
my faculties of knowledge. .
It is thy work, my teacher, my father
in the spirit." " Here," he proceeds,
" my philosophical education closed it-
self: I recurred no more to first prin-
ciples, but sought rather to make what
use I could of my philosophy in other
sciences." " Erhard," says Varnha-
gen, "finds all now certain and secure ;
his convictions are decided, one might '
almost say stiffened, for his whole
life, no more to be loosened by dialec-
tic toil." He proceeds to speak of
the philosophy of Kant in action —
" It presses forward into life ; as doc-
trine, as example, as message, it forces
itself in every direction ; all the en-
lightened and the active take an in-
terest in it ; it is like a new religion
spreading We see it shine
forth as the object of the highest re-
lations and wants of a wide circle of
mankind, from Konigsberg to Ham-
burg and Copenhagen, and to Vienna
and Trieste; we see how it awakes
and inspires — how it makes the high-
est promises, and at last gives only an
insufficient satisfaction. The noblest,
the most gifted of the mature and of
the young, nay, even women, try the
path with zeal, and even reach the
1889.]
The Life of a Speculative (i,t >n«nt,
goal; but, after the first burst of joy,
they find themselves in intolerable
division, in fearful pressure."
Ajid all this time in England men
were satisfying themselves with the
dregs of Locke, or with the unveiled
eudsemonism of Paley ! How small
they appear in the comparison ! Then
came the storm of the French Revo-
lution, and England passed through
it harmless, and " Germany, with all
her lettered schools," sank, at the
foot of the Conqueror. Which was
best, practice without speculation, or
thought without life ? It was our
happiness to have preserved in our
institutions, in our household man-
ners, and in the mainspring of our
public greatness, unlimited political
activity in the individual, the realiza-
tion of those truths which Were de-
nied in our books and our sermons.
The dull pressure of continental des-
potism had forced the life out of the
forms of society, and taught men to
look for embodied truths only as
future possibilities. Believing in con-
science, and freedom, and law, they
could find no better means of applying
them to reality, than by arbitrary
associations in the place of states, and
secret symbols to supply to the imagi-
nation the want of habitual affections.
It was better to try such experiments
than to acquiesce in despair ; but it
was well for us that we had no occa-
sion to try them. We were better
than our principles, but we must have
been gradually corrupted by their in-
fluence ; and we ought to acknow-
ledge our gratitude to that profound
race of thinkers, who, in circumstan-
ces unworthy of their principles,
worked out the great truths, of which
we are now enjoying the advantage.
Erhard appears about this time to
have been infected with the fashion
of secret associations, set by the illu-
minati and freemasons of the day.
He formed a scheme for a league of
women to restore their equality with
the dominant sex, and one for a union
of all good men for the education of
the rest. " What a pity it is," said
his father's friend, Rector (of the
Latin school?) Lederer, " what a pity
that I do not know a single person
whom I could propose as a member."
A judicious observation, which sug-
gested to Erhard the equally judicious
reflection, that, for the production of
true good, virtue is the only bond of
tinion necessary. Yet he was very
845
melancholy when he considered how
impossible it was for him to do any
thing in the world. He came some-
times to the brink of suicide, and
might have yielded to the temptation,
if his affections had not still given him
a taste for life ; besides, he had for-
merly satisfied himself of the crimi-
nality of the act, and he had made it
his rule, and a good rule it was, in all
conflicts of passion, to observe tlin '
results of previous enquiries as un-
conditional commands. " It is a
practical rule," he proceeds, " for
every man" — we must, however,
strenuously protest against the latter
part of it — " to direct his course ab-
solutely according to the earlier re-
sults of his enquiries ; but, if there are
none such, to follow his inclinations
without further reasoning about it
(verniinftehi), for he can then only
injure himself or others (which, in-
deed, is a danger hardly worth con-
sidering), and he may make compen-
sation afterwards, if he has violated
justice or prudence." From which
it seems to follow, that if Mr Green-
acre had never deliberated on the pro-
priety of killing and cutting up mid-
dle-aged women, he was justified in
doing so when he felt inclined ; though
the act was both imprudent and injuri-
ous in some degree to Mrs Greenacre.
The reason of the rule is plausible :
" If he tries to enquire, while his in-
clinations are urging him, they arc
sure to trample upon his judgment ;
and he is in danger, instead of having
done a bad action, of becoming a bad
man/' The fallacy consists in a tacit
assumption, that there is no establish-
ed rule to command the inclinations
in such cases. Doubtful actions are
forbidden actions, and the results of
voluntary ignorance are voluntary
violations of duty.
The task which we proposed to
ourselves is nearly accomplished with
the completion of Erhard' s education,
and we shall pass briefly over the re-
maining events of his life. He se-
lected medicine as his profession ; and,
in the year 1788, proceeded to the
University of Wiirzburg to study it.
In 1790 he went to seethe coronation
of the Emperor Leopold at Frankfort,
and derived, as he says, from his
journey, the advantage " of losing all
taste for such costly ceremonies in
future." We, who are not by nature
speculative machines, confess that we
came to much the same conclusion
94G
at the #reat spectacle of her most gra-
cious Majesty's coronation last year.
At the completion of his academic
course he took a longer journey, pre-
ceded by a winter spent at Jena, where
he formed the acquaintance of Rein-
hold, Schiller, and Wieland, and of
a Baron Herbert, who formed a close
friendship with him, and afterwards
rendered him the most essential ser-
vices. From Jena he proceeded by
Goettingen, Hamburg, and Kiel, to
Copenhagen, and thence by sea to
Memel and Koenigsberg, where he
attained the great object of his travels,
personal knowledge of his great
teacher, Kant. " He seemed sur-
prised at my mode of speaking of his
works to him. I asked no explana-
tions ; but merely thanked him for the
pleasure they had afforded me, with-
out another word of compliment.
The facility of understanding him,
which this implied, seemed to make
him doubt at first whether I had read
them, but we soon came to an under-
standing, and found our society suitable
to each other." After his return to
Nuremberg, Kant wrote to him in
terms of which he is justly proud.
" Of all men whom I have learned to
know well, I should like no one for
daily intercourse better than you."
In fact, the respect and regard which
Erhard through life received from
others, is his best claim to our esteem.
We only know half a man's character
if we read how he thought and acted,
without knowing how he was thought
of and dealt by. The proofs of at-
tachment which Erhard received from
his immediate friends, and the notice
which he received from the great men
of his time, may counterbalance many
of the foibles which he unintentionally
or indifferently discloses.
From Koenigsberg he travelled with
his friend Herbert to Klagenfurt, and
afterwards through the north of Italy
and the Tyrol to Nuremberg, when
he proceeded with little eclat to his
doctor's degree, though, from a know-
ledge or belief of his unpopularity
there, he had determined to practise in
some other locality. About this time
he married, and employed himself in
periodical writing on subjects connect-
ed with the principles of jurisprudence.
He wished in vain to obtain some
university position, and thought of re-
moving to Poland, when he met with
a man named William Pearce, who
represented himself as an American
The Life uf a S^t.cuialtct; Gcr/ncirt.
LJune,
colonel, and offered him an appoint-
ment as regimental surgeon in that
service. His father-in-law advanced
money for this purpose ; but the colo-
nel turned out a swindler, and Erhard
was ruined. He speaks of this blow
with great bitterness. His fortunes
however, began, not long afterwards,
to improve. In the year 1795 he
gained an introduction to the well-
known minister, Baron von Harden -
berg, who at the time presided over
the administration of the Franconian
principalities ; and after being employ-
ed by him to write, for a handsome
stipend, in defence uf the claims of the
House of Brandenburg, was recom-
mended by him to settle as a physician
in Berlin, where he finally took up his
residence, and was admitted to prac-
tise in the year 1800. His reputation
gradually increased, and brought him
his share of the polysyllabic honours
so dear to his countrymen. He was
successively a member of the Medici-
nal-Upper-Examination-Commission,
and Upper- Medicinal- Councillor, and
from the King of the Netherlands he
received the order of the Belgian Lion.
In 1827 he died, " with the consola-
tion," says Varnhageii, " of the just.
Devotion to the will of the Supreme
had always accompanied him on his
way."
In many of the events of his life,
Erhard exemplifies the distinguishing
virtue of the national intellect, appre-
ciation of principles, and its great de-
fect, disregard of empirical rules. Ger-
mans are often so deeply impressed by
their intuition of the unity of truth,
that they consider the actual variety
of its manifestations as an obstacle to
be removed or disregarded, and not as
its condition and counterpart. They
reject an action, or class of actions, as
limited and fragmentary, in favour of
an arbitrary symbol of some general
law, as Erhard regarded not his owner-
ship of the house, but the fire-lighting
which represented to him abstract
ownership ; and within the limits of
that law they seek to produce corre-
sponding unity of outward things, or,
if that is impossible, an emblematic
unity which may satisfy the imagina-
tion ; wherein they are in reality break-
ing up the one great law into many,
while they deceive themselves by the
substitution of larger component units
for smaller, of secondary generaliza-
tions for individual objects and ac-
tions. Yet every action is, as Fichte
1839.J
The Life of a Speculative German.
847
taught of ever}' particle of matter, but
the point of intersection of a thousand
laws, each of which is severally satis-
fied and realized in it for that place
and time, while their co-existence and
necessary reciprocal action makes an
entire empirical realization of any one
impossible ; for the perfect fulfilment
of an independent law is at once a ne-
gation of the unity of the supreme
law. If a political course of conduct,
or an individual rule of life, fails to
correspond in itself to our ideal of the
state or of personal character, it may
nevertheless be required of us, if it
tends to the practice of some general
rule which experience has suggested
as tending to the production of the
ideal of a still higher law ; not that
one can contradict the other, but that
our perception of one may be enlight-
ened by our clearer perception of the
other. The great philosopher whom
we have just quoted, fell into the error
of seeking unity short of universality.
In his Geschlossener Handelstaat,
(close-trading state,) he lays down the
conditions under which the economic
relations of a state may be subordina-
ted to perfect legislation. The perfect
government must have absolutepower,
and dealings with foreigners must be
partially independent ; therefore, let
all dealings with foreigners be prohi-
bited, except to the government itself
for the supply of necessary imports to
its subjects. The deduction is irre-
fragable, but the major of the implied
syllogism, the hypothetical assertion
of the existence of a perfect govern-
ment in a portion of the earth, is false.
The existence of neighbours is the
limit of its power, and therefore of its
perfection. The problem of the prac-
tical reason is the perfect subordina-
tion of all existence to law, as the aim
of the speculative reason is to see the
coincidence of formal law with reality.
Formal law is but a shadow, to repre-
sent its realization to the mind, and
those who leap past the difficulties and
obstacles of the universe which is to
be subjected to it, or select a portion
to take the place of the whole, have
only avoided the task of which they
might have performed a part, by mis-
taking its nature and meaning. They
reject the discrepancies which they are
called upon to harmonize. '« Solitu-
dinem faciunt, pacem appellant."
The haste to realize laws which
Fichte displayed in political economy,
Erliard carried into lite ; anil the re-
sult is an occasional ;.ppearauce of
singular contradiction between his
principles y.v,r\ hi? actions — appear-
ance v •{• ;ire convinced it was ; but
men wiisi will not use the means which
nature provided them, by supplying
rules to mediate between the particu-
lar and universal — who try to make
watches by the laws of motion, and
to buy a horse according to the eternal
principles of justice, must expect to
make errors in their subsumptions of
facts so very small, to classes so very
large, and must bear with the incre-
dulity of the world, if it fails to per-
ceive the attempt to subsume them.
We suspect Erhard neither of pe-
culiar selfishness, nor of want of filial
affection ; but we may compare his
prolix discussions on his infantine
musical propensities, with his account
of the death of his mother : — " After
long indisposition, 1 found her one
morning with an eruption on her head
and face like St Anthony's fire, in
bed, without recollection, and my
efforts to recall it were vain — she died
the same d«y." Now for the son's
reflections : — " I have never seen a
patient in the same state, and there-
fore I cannot say whether I took the
right steps or not. I tried leeches',
blisters," &c.
" Physician art tliou 'i one all eyes ?
Philosopher ? a fingering slave-
One who would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave 'i "
Yes, and anatomize, too, if the inte-
rests of science required it : yet was
Erhard no fingering slave.
We have the authority of his biogra-
pher, and the fact of his reputation, in
favour of the belief that his profes-
sional talents and attainments were
considerable ; yet he met with diffi-
culties in passing the examinations,—
first for his Doctor's degree at Altorf,
and afterwards for admission to prac-
tice at Berlin. At the latter place,
the board required him to re- write the
anatomical essay which he had deli-
vered to them, " because much im-
portant and necessary matter belong-
ing to the subject is not brought for-
ward ; much is said that is untrue, Mid,
on the other hand, many things ir-
relevant to the essay are entered into."
How he was likely to receive this le-
proof, we may judge from his modest
remarks on a similar rebuke from the
Doctors at Altorf. " T can only.' ho
S;MS, " attribute to n«y melancholy
848
The Life of a Speculative German.
[June,
state of mind at the time, which pre-
vented me from reflecting on circum-
stances calmly, the fact, that I derived
less instruction from my examination,
than from my dispute with my grand-
mother about the ghosts ; and that it
was only lately" (query, at the Berlin
examination ?) " that I learned that, as
superstition is not to be overcome by
experience, so the vanity of learning
is not to be defeated by sound criti-
cism of the pretended experience
which it brings forward."
We wish some divine had drawn a
similar rebuke upon himself, by cri-
ticising, as in the Eigendunkel der
Gelehrsamheit he might perhaps have
been tempted to do, a plan which he
formed in conjunction with Goeschen,
a bookseller, during a pedestrian jour-
ney from Jena to Wiirzburg, " of a
translation of the Bible as a popular
book ( Toilettenbuch}. The translation
was divided between us, and we saw
in the spirit the fruits of this our un-
dertaking to communicate this history
more widely to mankind — fruits which
this book produces not so much through
the narrations, as through the manner
of narration, and the comprehensive
representation of all situations into
which man, as a being of nature, must
come." We had thought that "this
book" had been translated into some
two hundred languages, and, amongst
others, into the mother tongue of one
Martin Luther. We had even sup-
posed the manner of narration had
been tolerably preserved, and that it
was the " toilettenbuch " of every toi-
let table from Berlin to the Sandwich
Islands ; but in this new and wonder-
working publication, we recognise
one remarkable element ; — one of the
translators certainly, and the other
probably, was profoundly ignorant of
the original. Erhard, who knew on-
ly Latin enough to read modern works
of science, had little or no Greek ; and
of Hebrew, he had, for all that appears,
never so much as heard. What of
that ? " The road was made by these
thoughts as pleasant as a road to
everlasting blessedness. Nothing, in-
deed, has come of the proposal, but
it was sufficiently rewarded by the
pleasure it gave us at the time."
We might quote other instances of
oddity ; such as his complaining by
letter to Washington of the pseudo-
colonel who cheated him, or the treat-
ise which he, a republican from in-
fancy, wrote to prove that absolute
monarchy may satisfy all the wants
of the moral man ; but we have given
sufficient proofs of his total want of
that common sense, accompanied with
latent humour, which is happily to
Englishmen a national Socratic S«/-
ftiviov, cui plerumyue parent, nunquam
impellenti scepe revocanti. He tells us,
indeed, that his unpopularity at Nu-
remberg originated in the exercise of
a certain humorous disposition which
he derived from his father, and we
will not deny him the faculty, though
we should scarcely have discovered
its existence. Still less would we say
that his countrymen in general are
without humour. We know that some
of their writers possess it in a high de-
gree ; but in their common literature,
it rather concerns itself with the op-
positions of custom and reason, than
with those of caprice or ignorance
and custom, so that they direct the
laugh against the rule which violates
a principle, and we against the indi-
vidual who, in pursuit of a supposed
principle, breaks through the rule.
After all, men who are not afraid of
being laughed at, and have no tribu-
nal of humoristic conscience within
themselves, are most likely to possess
that self-confidence, which is the first,
second, and third requisite for success
in life. We have seen the prosperous
course which Erhard's fortunes took
in the latter half of his life, and it is
but fair to show, in the words of his
biographer, how he deserved and how
he bore them.
" On his personal character, one
voice prevails from all who knew him.
As the foundation of all his views, of
his exertion and action, we must point
out the strictest morality, to which he
referred every thing. All his thoughts
and his conduct continued, under all
circumstances, to be devoted, in the
first instance, to truth and justice,
combined with the purest philan-
thropy, which he felt and displayed
kindly and disinterestedly, but without
any hypocritical affectation, for all his
brethren — thousands of whom ho-
noured in him not only the skilful
physician, but also the tried friend
and counsellor, the generous benefac-
tor. His great understanding, his
inexhaustible learning, his kindly,
unpretending, and yet one might say,
proud character, made his society as
instructive as it was attractive."
And so, with much regard and re-
spect, we bid him farewell.
1839.] The Vision of Caligula.
THE VISION OP CALIGULA.
A FRAGMENT.
BY B. SIMMONS.
" Inritabarur insomnia maxime ; neque enim plus quam tribus nocturnis liorig quiescebat ; an
non his quidcm placida quiete, sod pavida miris rcrum imaglnibus ; ut qui, inter ceeteras, PBLAUI
QIIA.VDAM SPKCIEM tolloquentem secum videre visus sit."
SUKTONIU8, in fit. Calig.
I.
THE night is over Rome — deep night intense —
Cloudlessly blue in its magnificence ;
There is no moon, but holy starlight there
Shoots its soft lustre through the lucid air 5
The trophied shrines along1 old Tiber's stream
Fling their dim shadows with a solemn gleam j
While, in its far supremacy above,
Like dawn's white glimmer, towers the Fane of Jove.*
n.
The city's roar hath died, and far away
Died the gay discords of the jocund day ;
Long hours ago the proud Theatre's yell
Sank fiercely glad as the last fencer fell 5
And silent long, through every echoing path,
Lie the broad Forum and the mighty Bath ;
Even Love, the watchful, shrouds his voiceless lute
In precincts now where all but Power is mute.
in.
Bright througn you groves of plane and cedar shine
The lamps' gold radiance from the Palatine ;
Now lost, now lambent, as their circling ward.
The mail'd Pretorians pace, in ceaseless guard —
" Theirs the high charge to keep unbroken still
The slumbering echoes of that haughty hill ;
For, worse than treason's step or traitor's eye,
Who breaks the silence with a sound must die —
A silence sterner than the stillness spread
In Mizra'im deserts round her sceptred dead.
There, in its far immensity outroll'd,
The Caesars' Palace lifts its domes of gold,f
Or nobly stretches through the olive shades,
In marble coolness, its superb arcades ;
Or rears its soaring porticoes, that throw
A lustrous gloom on the tall groves below,
And porphyry founts, whose graceful waters gush
With clearer tinkle through the azure hush ;
* "In the midst, to crown the pyramid formed by such an assemblage of majestic
edifices, rose the shrine of the Guardian of the Empire — the temple of Jupiter Capi-
tolinus, on a hundred steps, supported by a hundred pillars, adorned with all the refine-
ments of art, and blazing with the plunder of the world." — EUSTACE.
f The Imperial residence was fixed by Augustus on the Palatine Hill. It was here,
too, that the Aurea Domus, the golden house of Nero, stood, which was afterwardi
destroyed by the order of Vespasian, as too sumptuous even for a Roman Emperor
850 .The, Vision of Caligula. [June,
White shine the pillar' d terraces, and long
Bright hosts of gods in many a sculptured throng,
Whose breathless life, in the calm starlight hours,
Casts a chill loveliness upon the flowers —
The thousand-banded flowers that, wide and far,
From the deep beauty of bell, cup, and star,
Their fragrance fling to heaven, though not an air
To kiss the lily's languid lips is there —
Even the sweet rose, that leans its tender cheek
Against yon shaft of rare Synnada's stone,*
Seems sculptured from the marble's purple streak,
So deep night's dread solemnity is thrown.
Say, to what Spirit's gentlest sway is given
This hour delicious 'neath the lull of heaven ?
Steal its pure influences down to steep
The revel- wearied in the bath of sleep —
To waft adoring sounds to beauty's pillow,
And stir with song her bosom's dazzling billow —
Or breathe deep quiet through the lonely room
When the pale sophist, in his reasoning gloom,
Or dreaming lyrist — ah, less happy sage ! —
Bends thoughtful o'er the lamp -illumined page?
Heed not, but hasten where the starlight falls,
And burns in gold on yon refulgent walls ;
Glance through the Augustan chambers — even there
Where the still myrtles look like spectres in —
And see black Night slip from their wolfish lair
On murderous Power the dogs of Hell and Sin.
VI.
Far down the radiant galleries HE came,
Where the soft cresset's duskly- curtain' d flame
Lent the voluptuous loneliness an air,
As Death and Pomp for mastery struggled there.
Onwards he came, and the tall Thracian slave,
That kept the portals with unsheathed glaive,
StifFen'd with horror, till his glassy eye
That dared not look, froze in perplexity.
He came — the Caesar dread — Earth's awful lord —
The all-tremendous One, whose whisper'd word
Fill'd, like pervading Nature, land and flood ; f
And, if but syllabled in wrathful mood,
Had the swift lightning's soundless power to pierce,
Rending and blasting, through the universe !
Breathe there no splendours from that august brow ?
Forth from his presence does no halo glow ?
Throng not around glad parasites to bask
In the stray smile their servile faces ask ?
* The most precious marble of the Romans was that brought from Synnada ; it was
of a white colour, tinged with a delicate purple.
•j- The arbitrary power of the emperors was as complete as it was despotic. For
the victim who incurred their displeasure, " to remain," says Gibbon, " was fatal, and
it was impossible to fly ; he was encompassed by a vast extent of sea and land, which
he could never hope to traverse without being discovered, seized, and restored to his
irritated master." " Wherever you are," said Cicero to the exiled Marcellus, " re-
member that you are equally within the.power of the conqueror."
1839.] The. Vision of Culiyula. 851
No ! — in that tall attenuated form,*
Lone as some prowling leopard of the storm —
In that pale cheek, and those red restless eyes,
Where the sweet balm of slumber never lies—-
In the parch'd lips, cleft by a moaning sound,
And haggard locks, where, twisted wildly round,
Empire's dread fillet clasps his temples broad,
Mark all a Despot needs to mar the works of God.
VIII.
" Bright maids!" the mad Blasphemer mutter' d — "ye
Who track'd Orestes with such constancy
That his brain burn'd, and reason fled at last
Beneath the spell your beauties round him cast —
Accept my thanks, that, turning from the fane
His ardours rear'd you on Telphusia's plain,f
You now vouchsafe to shake the witchery curl'd
In your fair locks, o'er him who shakes the world !
More faithful than the mortal nymphs whose care
Is still my momentary love to share,
Ye never leave me — morning, fragnant noon,
And night, fierce-glaring with its bloody moon-
That moon that, even when icy winter reigns,
Scorches and dries the current in my veins,
And still will stare upon my aching sight,
Startling the slumber that does not alight :
All constant Three I
— yet if, avenging Jove,
Thy handmaids come commission'd from above
To wreak — as erst upon thy sire — on me,
Earth's thunder- wielder, thy grim jealousy,
I scoff the scourge that only can destroy.
Storm as thou wilt — the dull lethargic joy,
Which the vile slave in Laurion's caverns dim —
Could Caesar sleep — might boast he shared with him.
Yet hold ! — the hour imparts with its deep rest
To this unslumbering, pleasure-craving breast
One stimulating throb — one strong delight —
To burst upon the soft patrician's night,
And watch the terror starting through each limb
When summon'd here, 'mid gladiators grim
They stand ; — by Orcus ! how they seem to feel
The cold keen fury of the griding steel
Already severing life asunder : — yes,
Night even to me is not without its bliss ;
And, while one sapient senator remains
To speed my hours with what fools call his pains,
Pale Nemesis may watch her lonely shrine,
Heap'd by no fear- wrung sacrifice of mine —
And choke my thresholds with a shadowy throng,
Each red hand shaking the uplifted thong ;
And the Olympus-throned may thunder still
Upon the right of this defying hill : —
" Statura fuit eminent!, pallido colore, corpore enormi, gracilitate maxima cervi-
cis et crurum, etoculis et temporibus concavis, fronte lata et torva,*' &c. — SUETONIUS.
f However reluctant the worship offered in them, there were several temples erected
to the Furies in Greece ; those at Cyrenea and Telphusia in Arcadia were amongst the
most distinguished. I am afraid, for the text's sake, that it was the former which
Orestes dedicated to those deities who exercised so fatal an influence on his destiny.
852 The Vision of Caligula. [June,
Even now I spurn,"
At once — as if the stroke
That in the Alp-storm smites the wasted oak
Had fell'd him there — the god-contemner prone
Dropp'd, like that wild tree from its mountains blown :
And ere the noiseless and attendant crowd
Of slaves, who watch'd behind the Tyrian cloud
That flung its folds, in many a silken fall,
Around the vastness of that gorgeous hall,
Could reach their prostrate lord, a change had cast
Its shadow o'er him — paralysed — and pass'd.
IX.
They raised him, with stunn'd frame and drooping head,
As one scarce rescued from the ghastly dead —
They fann'd his forehead, where the fiery will
With some strong agony contended still:
Sudden he shook aside their trembling cares,
And starting forward, as a maniac stares
Upon some shape — how dreadful we but guess
From the rack'd gazer's terrible distress—
Transfix'd he stood ; his fear-dilated eye,
Wild with amaze, stretch'd into vacancy,
As though some palpable horror stood between
Him and the placid beauty of the night,
That, through the rose and citron's fragrant screen,"
Fill'd all the portal to its Parian height.
x.
Long stood the Cursed-with-empire moveless there,
As marble vow'd by nations to Despair ;
Long seem'd to shudder at some voice, whose tone
Of thunder broke upon his ear alone :
At last the trance gave way in one wild gasp,
And, reeling back, he caught, with feeble clasp,
The nearest column, while shock'd nature's pain
Dropp'd from his forehead like the summer rain ; —
" Ho ! — instant, slaves ! " at length he falter' d — " Fly !
Bid to our sacred presence instantly
That prophet-raver, half a knave — half fool —
Adept in all that yonder starry school
Vouchsafes to teach its students — he who told
The wreath of empire never should enfold
This brow until o'er Baise's sunny bay —
A liquid path — I urged my war- steed's way ;*
Fool — as if winds or waves could
Ha ! again
That awful voice ! — tis crushing in my brain !
And thou wilt visit me, Tremendous Power,
Henceforth for ever in the stabber's hour ?
'Tis well — thou look'st too dreadful for a God
That kings can bribe, or hecatombs defraud.
So let me dare thee deeply — yes, by Him
Who shakes the sable urn in Hades grim !
Or by an oath more sacred — by the shrine
* Thrasyllus, an eminent soothsayer at Rome, in this and several of the preceding
reigns, hazarded the prediction alluded to : — " Non magis Ca'ium imperaturum, quam
per Baianum Sinum equis discursurum. " To disprove the prediction, Caligula built
the bridge from Pozzuoli to Baiee.
1839.] The Vision of Caliijula. 853
And name of her — Drusilla the Divine ! *
As Jove the Cloud-compeller, o'er my head
His judgment thunders ever vainly sped,
So do I shake my tameless spirit free
From all thy funeral threats, mysterious Deity !
Again — why stays the dotard ? — soft — he's here—
Thrasyllus, soothsayer, dismiss the fear
That blanches in thy cheek, it mocks the snow
Of thy most reverend tresses' scanty flow.
.Approach and mark me — quick — thy laggard foot
Treads onward as reluctantly and mute,
As thou wert bidden to those glorious feasts
Where I and Torture pledge the white-lipp'd guests ;
As if the domes that lean in radiant line
Their ponderous gold upon the Palatine
O'erhung thee now, filled with the festal state
I love to fling around the gulf of fate.
Thou start'st, as if thy moon-bewilder'd sight
Saw not this spacious audience-hall aright :
Look round thee, priest, perchance thou'lt dare to say
This is not Naples — that Sarrentum's bay ;
And there Misenum's cape, from whence — come near,
I saw what none e'er saw but me — what ear
Was cursed not with till now, — THE MIGHTY SEA,
As LIVE THE IMMORTAL GoDS ! HAS SPOKEN UNTO ME !
And lifted up its thousand tongues, and shook
All its wide deeps into one stormy look ;
And cast the thunder of its voice's roll,
And aspect's fierceness on both sense and soul.
XI.
" List to the portent. — Scarce an hour is past,
Since, on yon emerald promontory cast,
I look d along broad ocean's hush'd expanse
Fill'd with the strength of midnight's countenance :
Boundlessly slept the deep ; nor sail nor oar
Broke from the far horizon to the shore
The stretch of waves that, lapsing calmly even,
Drank the dark glory of the sapphire heaven ;
And far, away afar, Prochyta's isle
Hoarded one hue of day's departed smile,
One flush of rose-light that, I know not why,
Long as it linger'd, fix'd my feverish eye ;
At length it faded into night, and then
I faced the giant loneliness again !
I listen'd — 'twas the rushing through my heart
Of the hot blood in many a fiery start ;—
I listen'd — 'twas the sedges' whispering speech,
Kiss'd by the waters on the silver beach ; —
Once more — I dream, or else the sounds that surge
Still louder, break from ocean's circling verge !
'Twas even so — at first a mingling hum,
Like that of nations meeting as they come,
And then a loud hubbub — a sullen roar,
And dash of waves on every sounding shore —
And billows rose and rose, without a breeze,
And the stars shrank before the howling seas —
* His favourite sister. He caused temples to be erectsd to her divinity— and upon
all occasions of unusual solemnity he swore by her name.
854 The Vision of Caligula. [June,
And mighty clouds came upward from afar,
Like the old giants crowding on to war ;
And Heaven was hid, and hurrying voices high,
Calling and answering from the upper sky,
Shook the wild air : At length, when fiercest raged
The strife the waters with stunn'd Nature waged,
At once the whole tremendous Ocean heaved
Up in one wide convulsion! — Earth, relieved,
Reel'd to her centre ; — still the growing sea
Rear'd to the zenith its immensity,
And whirlwinds girt its limbs in stormy crowds,
While from above career'd the thunder-clouds,
And helm'd its shadowy head, as with the gloom
And dreadful tossing of a battle-plume ;
And the broad lightnings leap'd about, and pour'd
Their terrors round it like a fiery sword !
— Thou tremblest, slave, — well, Caius may confess
That he, for one brief moment, did no less:
Upward I strain'd my gaze to meet the brow
Whose glance I felt was burning through me now.
In vain — for still the thunder's streamy scowl
Muffled the features with a mighty cowl ;
And, though at times the madd'ning winds would sweep
That veil aside, I could not bear the deep
And wrathful face reveal'd and wrapp'd so soon
— Lurid and dim, like an eclipsed moon !
Fatigued I sank ; but, mark me, not subdued
By aught that savours of a weaker mood.
Then on my ear a voice, whose accents spoke
With earthquake's hope- destroy ing loudness, broke ;
At once o'er continent and islands spread
A calm, than even that warring din more dread ;
And thus — Bis-Ultor Mars ! what boots it what was said ?
Fierce words that told of some great Spirit still
Claiming ascendance o'er my sceptred will —
Some nameless God, who deem'd the Julian line
Were not so guiltless, not so a//-divine
As slaves would hold ; denouncements, too, that urge
To madness, lash'd as with a brazen scourge
My soul, and bared the future as the past,
And menaced of an hour, when on the blast
Of glory's heaven, no more our Eagle's wings
Should darken wide earth with their sbadowings,
But cower and stoop before the iron hail
That broods even now in some far Polar gale I
—I bore no more — but sprang and faced the sea
With a proud Roman's conscious majesty ;
And saw but there the fast-subsiding flood
Through eyes bedimm'd as with a film of blood.
XII.
" And I had still to suffer : in the east
The breeze that freshen'd o'er the billow's breast
Dash'd them to foam that, far as night prevails
Gleam'd like the canvass of a thousand sails ;
And sails were there, that forward fast and free
As those white billows, bounded countlessly ;
Strange spectre ships in many a ghastly fleet
Crowding, and wafting one portentous freight,
Which the rude barks demonstrate came from far
— The Spear's stern m«rchandsie — barbarian War!
1889.] The Vision of Uaiiyula. 856
They near'd ; each vessel burd&n'd with it« group
Of savage warriors at the shielded poop ;
Tall fire-eyed men, like the Athletaj we
Feed for the Arena's sportive butchery :
And still they swarm'd, and anchor'd, and outpour'd
On wailing shores that devastating Horde !
And a red haze swept o'er the groaning hills,
And every sound and sight, whose horror thrills
Perception, seem'd, by Hell's own black decision,
Roll'd on my soul in one chaotic vision !
Jove ! what a blinding scroll was there unfurl'd,
The last wild throes of my own Roman World !
The ravaged Province — slaughter'd people — Fanes
Blazing and tumbling on the famish'd plains ;
Even Rome, the god-built, belted round with war —
And lo ! the worse than Gauls burst through her every bar I
And, 'mid the Plague's rank steam, mad Famine's roar,
And woman ravish'd and man's rushing gore,
The savage feasted in our palace halls —
Aye, by the jasper founts, whose lulling falls
Bless my Velitrian villa with their rain,*
Beneath its shadows of luxuriant plane
Grim Scythia styed and quaff'd each priceless cup
The Scipios' suppliant children proffer'd up ! —
It was too much — a whirling in my brain—
A snapping of each hot distended vein —
And then oblivion — and that hour of fear
Was o'er — and thou, dull prophet, thou art here !
Aye, I remember all — while I have spoken,
Back on my sense reality has broken.
I have but dream' d — and yonder guarded shades
Shroud in 'mid Rome those glittering colonnades :
And I am safe — have called thee, crafty Greek,
To read the purport of my vision — speak ! "
XIII.
Slowly that bow'd and listening sage arose,
And, though a century's consecrating snows
Had whiten'd o'er his head, he stood as tall
In the rich shadows of that sinful hall,
And with as dauntless look, as he who read
The words Jehovah the Avenger traced
Before Belshazzar, in the hour the Mede
Burst in red valour on that godless feast.
" Ca'ius ! " thus calmly spoke the prescience-gifted,
In accents solemn as sepulchral breeze
Through some lone cypress, while his hands uplifted
Seem'd to attest immortal witnesses : —
" Cams ! my words are few ; but, though the gloom
Enwraps me of inexorable doom ;
Though to my searching eye thy stern intent,
Fang'd with all tortures tyrants can invent,
Is not unknown, as I have yet conceal'd
No truth thy wilful race would see reveal'd j
* The Imperial Villa at Velitrse was his favourite retreat. It was celebrated for its
gigantic plane-trees ; one of which was capable of containing in its branches a large
table, with the Emperor, attendants, &c. — PLINY.
856 The Vision of Caligula.
So do I now unshrinkingly to thce
Pronounce my last and parting prophecy : —
SlN STALKS THE LEP'ROUS EARTH FROM SHORE TO SHORE,
HER BUBBLING CHALICE WILL CONTAIN NO MORE ;
THE SHUDDERING GODS YIELD THEIR DERIDED POWER
To THE GREAT ANGEL OF THE COMING HOUR ;
SOME ONE ALMIGHTY, THAT FROM COUNTLESS ELD
HlS FACE IN CLOUDLESS DARKNESS HAS WITHHELD ;
HlS WRATH SHALL SWEEP THE NATIONS, AND THE SEA
BE THE STERN SERVANT OF THAT MINISTRY! *
IN BLOOD SHALL SINK EACH CESAR'S BLOOD- STAIN*D FORM-
YE SOW'D THE WHIRLWIND — GO REAP THE STORM !
[June,
* The first serious irruption of the barbarians took place by sea. They descended
the Ister to the Euxine, and pouring through the Hellespont, inundated the coasts of
Greece, Africa, and Italy.
INDEX TO VOL. XLV.
Adolphus, John, Esq., his memoir of John
Bannister, comedian, reviewed, 392.
^Eschylus, his Eumenides, translated by Mr
Chapman, 695.
Afghanistan, India, and Persia, 93.
Alcove, Christopher, in his, 538.
Alderley, the Iron Gate, a legend of, 271.
Ancient Scottish Music, the Skene MS.,
an account of, 1.
Angelo, Michael, remarks on the peculiari-
ties of thought and style in his picture of
the last judgment, 267.
Assassins and Bull Fights, 656.
Australia, Major Mitchell's, expeditions into
that country, reviewed, 113.
Aytoun, William E., his translation into
English Trochaics, of the twenty-second
book of the Iliad, 634.
Bannister, the comedian, his memoirs by
Adolphus reviewed, 392.
Ben-na-groich, a tale, 409 — Chap. II., 411
Chap. III., 413.
Browne, Washington, of New York, his
sonnets, 300.
Bull-fight at Valencia, described, 664.
Burnet's engravings of the cartoons, eulo--
390.
Caligula, Vision of, by B. Simmons, 849.
Cantilena, translated into song, 537.
Carew's poetry characterised, 783.
Chapman, Mr, his translation of the Eume«
nides of ^Eschylus, 695.
Chambers, our, 831.
Cheminant, Louis de, his Farewell to Eng-
land, 586.
Christopher in his Alcove, 538.
Client, my first, 733.
Consciousness, Introduction to the Phi-
losophy of, Part VI., Chap. I., 201—
Chap. II., 205— Part VII., The Con-
clusion, Chap. I., 419 — Chap. II., 424
— Chap. III., 426.
Corn-law question, dilemmas in regard to it
stated, 170.
Cornwall, Barry, his edition of Ben Jonson,
reviewed, 146.
Dauney, Mr, his edition of the Skene MS,
of Ancient Scottish Music, reviewed, 3.
Desultory dotting* down upon Dogs, 475.
Dii Minorum Gentium, No. I., Carew and
Henick, 782.
Dilemmas on the corn-law question, 1 70.
Dogs, desultory dotting* down upon, 475.
Domett, Alfred, his poem from Lake Wal-
lenstadtin Switzerland, entitled Kate, 301.
Education, religious and secular, 275.
Egypt — the Trojan horse — Homer, 366.
Elections, France and her, 431.
English language, the, 455.
Family, Prospectus of a history of our,
669.
Farewell to England, by Lours d« Cberrr-
nant, 586.
France and her elections, 431 — the defeat of
Louis Philippe would be the defeat of the
French monarchy, ib. — a rapid review of
the events of the last nine years taken,
ib — fickleness is the characteristic, and no
reliance can be placed in French assur-
Index.
857
: atices and conduct, 436 — What are the
reasons uf this fickleness? First, moral,
437 — second, political, 438 — the French
have always prepared themselves most for
revolution when most prosperous, ib.—
their Mtuation now ig precisely similar to
that in 1830, 439 — the coalition now
formed is against monarchy, proved — first,
by the address of the 221 deputies in
1830, 440 — by the alteration, made in
1830, of the charter of 1814, 441— by
tin! restraints imposed on royalty at, and
sinre 1830, 442— by the complaints made
by the coalition against Louis- Philippe in
1839, 443 — of his wishing to form a part
of the European family of sovereigns, ib. —
of maintaining peace, ib — of wishing to
esUblu-li an absolute monarchy, 443 — of
- wishing to perpetuate a line of policy fatal
to the liberties of the ountry, 445 — the
coalition have adopted the same cant phrases
as the English Radicals in regard to elec-
toral reform, 477 — the elections of 1839
the most momentous that ever occurred in
Fiance, 452 — its evil consequences de-
gmbcd, 453 — all parties seemed to have
combined for the purpose of attacking
Louis Philippe, and, through him, the
throne, 454.
Gardiner, William, his work of Music and
Friends, or Pleasant Recollections of a
dilettanti, reviewed, 480.
German, the life of a speculative, 837
Gods, hymns to the, No. I. To Neptune,
819 — No. II. to Apollo, 820— No. III.
- (• Venus, 822— No. IV. to Diana, 824
—No. V. to Mercury, 825— No. VI. to
Bucclius, tS2ti.
Goethe and the Germans, a discourse on
them, 247.
Hallowed Ground, a po*m by George
Paulin, parish sclionlin .stcr of Newlands,
Pait I., 695— Part II. 698
Herrick's poetry, characterised, 791.
Homer — Egypt — the Trojan horse, 366.
House on the Hills, the, a tate in verse,
654.
Hymns to the Gods. No I. To Neptune,
819— No. II. to Apollo, 820— No. III.
to Venus, 8-22— No IV. to Diana, 824
— No- V. to Mercury, 825 — No. VI. to
Bacchns, 826.
Iliad, th« twenty-second book of it translated
into English Trocbaics, by William E.
Aytoun, 63-1.
India, Persia, and Afghanistan, 93.
Ireland under the Triple Alliance — the po-
pular party, the Roman Catholic priests,
and the Queen's Ministers, 212 — the
agiarian calendar of crimes furnished by
this alliance is, 1st, Enforcement, &c.,
of the rights of property, 214 — landlords,
ib — ajronts, :> 1 8— bailiffs, 219 — tenants,
220— Unpopular exercise of elective fran-
chise, 222 — evidence, ib — jury, obnox-
ious verdict, 223 — Protestantism, 224 —
refusal to enter secret societies, 227 —
2d, proofs of agrarian crimes continued,
Baron Richard's charge, 341 — elective
franchise, 345 — evidence in court of law,
ib. — obligations of a juror, 346 — the
crime of Protestantism, or, conversion
from Rome, 347 — the landlord crime, 348
— elective franchise, ib. — evidence, ib.—
jury, 359 — Protestantism, 350 — Rib-
boriism, 352.
Iron gate, the, a legend of Alderley, 271.
Italy as it was, 62.
Kate, a poem, from Lake Wallenstadt in
Switzerland, 301.
Lamartine, Alphonse de, his life and literary
character, characterised, 76.
Legend of the Lido, the, 755.
Legendary Lore, by Archseus, No. V., The
Onyx Ring. Part III., Chap. I. 17 —
Chap. II., 20_Chap. III., 23— Chap.
IV., 26— Chap. V., 27— Chap. VI., 30
Chap. VII., 35 — Chap. VIII., 36—
Chap. IX., 38— Chap. X., 40— Chap.
XL, 43— Chap. XII., 46.
Lido, the Legend of the, 755.
Manchester, a week at, 481-
Mathews, the comedian, his memoirs by Mrs
Mathews, reviewed, 229.
Merimee on oil painting, reviewed, 747.
Mildmay, A. Murray, his letter to Chris-
topher North, Esq., on Scotch nationality,
643.
Milne's, R. M., on the Goddess Venus in
the middle ages, 613.
Mitchell, Major, his second and third ex-
pedition into the interior of Eastern
Australia, reviewed, 113.
Moral songs and poems, on the earlier
English, 303.
Morals and manners, reflections on them,
190.
Music and friends, or Pleasant recollections
of a Dilettanti, by William Gardiner, re-
viewed, 480.
My after-dinner adventures with Peter
Schlemihl, 467-
My first client, 733.
Nationality, on Scotch, in a letter to Chris-
topher North, Esq., 643.
Notes of a traveller — leaving London, 682
— Dover, the reveille, 683 — Dover, the
detenu, 685 — concerning parrots, and
our parrot, ib. — cheap French dinners,
687 — wet weather in Paris, 689 — a
dog-day in a diligence, 691 — souvenirs of
Baden, 693.
Old Roger, a poem, 106.
8*8
Index.
Our pocket-companions, 130 —descriptive
poetry, No. I. Dyer's poems, 573 —
Chambers,
Oyster-Eater, some account of himself by
the Irish, 47, 177, 358, 463, 618,
761.
Painting, oil, Merimee on, 747.
Paulin, George, parish-schoolmaster. New-
lands, his poem of Hallowed Ground, 598.
Persia, Afghanistan, and India, the reason-
ings on the attempt of Russia to gain our
Indian territories, as being Quixotic, some
years ago, are "now inapplicable, 93 —
the position and influence of Russia now,
on the borders of Europe and Asia, have
been vastly increased within these few
years, ib. — the geographical obstacles to
the march of Russian troops to India
examined, and proved to be not insur-
mountable, 95 — the siege of Herat un-
dertaken by the Persians through Rus-
sian influence, 96 — its avowed object the
reunion of Khorassan to Persia, 97 — a
historical sketch of the fall of the dynasty
of the Afghans, who occupy the mountain
country between Persia and India, given,
98 — the re-establishment of that dynasty
the object of the movement of our troops
in India, 99 — but it is questionable whe^
ther the same object of defending our Indian
frontiers, may not have been attained
by an alliance with Dost Mahommed of
Cabul, ib. — the difficulty of reviving a
a fallen dynasty, shown, 100 — difficulties
pointed out in dealing with the claim of
Kamran, 101 — our advance into Cabul
Trill also place us in a new position with
. the Seiks of the Punjab, 102 — whatever
may be the fate of the Punjab, the shock
of war will fall on its soil rather than on
our Indian possessions, 103 — this deter-
mination has been wisely acted on, for in
case of a foreign armed power advancing
beyond the Indus, many tribes would, it
is feared, join them against us, as for
instance the warlike tribes of the Raj-
pootana, 104— ^in short, the first footing
of a foreign power in India, would be
the signal for a general rising and arming
for plunder, ib. — on the success of the
Cabul expedition will depend the main-
tenance of peace on the frontier of Nepaul,
105 — Lord Auckland not equal to his
critical situation, ib.
Peru as it is ; a residence in Lima, &c., by
Archibald Smith, M.D., reviewed, 287.
Photography, — engraving, and Burnet's
cartoons, 382.
Picture Gallery, the No. VI. 319, the
w.eek of pleasure, a tale. Chap. I. 321 —
Chap. II. 325 — Chap. III. 327 — Chap.
IV. 331 — Chap. V- 333— Chap. VI.
338 — No. VII. 688, Castle-building, or
the modern Alnaschar, 590.
Pike, Albert, of Arkansas, his hymns to the
gods, 819.
Poems and moral songs, on the earlier Eng-
lish, 303.
Poetical description, what is it ? 529.
Poetry, our Descriptive, No. I., Dyer's
poems, 673.
Political events, the late, the momentous
importance of them to the character of
all parties in the state, 7 1 5 — the facts
in connexion with them truly stated, ib.
— extract given of Sir Robert Peel's
letter to the Queen, in which he traces
the steps of his negotiations to form a
new ministry, 717 — as admitted by the
Melbourne ministry, their relinquish-
ment of power was occasioned by the
withdrawal of confidence from them in
House of Commons ; and their resump-
tion of it was in consequence of the
changes contemplated in the ladies of the
household, 7 1 8 — the clamours and un-
truths of the Liberal press, condemned,
719 — extract of Sir Robert Peel's speech
in the House, given, wherein the diffi-
culties attending his government, whilst
the nearest connexions of the late minis-
try were retained in the household, are
fully and satisfactorily explained, ib. —
the reflections which these events gave
rise to are, that no deviation from that
respect and devotion due to the sovereign
was attempted by the Conservatives on
this trying occasion, 722 — the conduct
of Sir Robert Peel considered and vindi-
cated, ib.— the grave allegation brought
against him of the desire to remove
all the ladies of the household, contra-
dicted by Sir Robert Peel's own decla-
ration, 725 — by the probabilities of the
case, ib. — by the whole conduct of the
parties, ib.— and by the letter .of the
Queen, who only refers to the ladies of
the bedchamber, ib the conduct of the
Melbourne cabinet in this business se-
verely condemned ; because, after de-
claring themselves defunct, and making
way for a new ministry, they threw in-
surmountable obstacles in the way, by
advising her Majesty to make unreason-
able demands, in regard to the house-
hold, 726 — because, while they retired
themselves, their wives and daughters were
to retain their places as channels of in-
trigue, ib because they have endea-
voured to fasten upon Sir Robert Peel
the charge of usurpation, 727 — the pro-
ceedings of their inferior colleagues, in
this particular, exposed and condemned,
ib. — because they left office in conse-
quence of the withdrawal of the confidence
of the House of Commons, arid resumed
it when no change towards them in that
respect could have taken place, 728—
the position of the ministry is now despi-
Index.
859
cable and ludicrous, ib — there is no doubt
of the ultimate triumph of Conservative
principles, ib.— speech of the Duke of
Wellington in the Lords, on the subject,
quoted, 729.
Prospectus of a history of our family, 669.
Punch, reflections on him, 190.
Raphael, on his genius, 809.
Reflections on Punch, morals, and manners,
190.
Religious and Secular education, 275.
Rosenthal, Emily von, how she was spirited
away, Chap. I. 400— Chap. II. 492—
Chap. 111. 494— Chap. IV. 496.
Schlemihl, Peter, my after-dinner adven-
tures with him, 467.
Secular and religious education, intention of
the government condemned, to introduce
secular education detached from religious
instruction, 275 — the display of bene-
volence for the promotion of education,
to be rejoiced at, ib.— the conservatives
perceive that the cry for secular education
alone is to put a dangerous weapon into
the hands of the destructives, ib. — the
Liberal party are not insensible to the
danger, but are unwilling to admit it
in its full extent, 276 — intellectual pur-
suits, no antidote to the mass of the
people against political and sensual degra-
dation, ib. — the only power capable of
contending against sin is religion, ib. —
the examples of despotic states no rule
by which this country can be guided, ib.
— from the earliest time*, the influence of
education has been unable to present
national degradation, ib. — France given
as an example, 277 — Scotland always
held up as an example of an educated
people, ib. — but there crimes of the deep-
est dye have rapidly increased of late
years, ib. — Moreau's tables quoted to
show that a great amount of offenders
are found amongst those who can both
read and write, than those who can do
neither, 278 — Toqueville's representa-
tion of American crime are to the same
effect, 279 — this does not arise from any
deficiency of intellect amongst the lower
classes, 280 — but mere knowledge is per-
nicious without a corresponding formation
of character, ib. — hence the erroneous
theory ^)f those who hold that secular edu-
cation would raise the taste of the lower
orders, 281 — the kind of books generally
found in the libraries of the working
orders, given to prove the fallacy of the
theory, 282 — the truth is, we have fallen
on a superficial generation, ib — in a
political point of view, the spread of this
secular knowledge is attended with the
greatest danger, 283— it is no use arguing
that the danger apprehended arises not
VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXXIV.
from education but from imperfect educa-
tion, because working people have not
time to attain a perfect system of educa-
tion, 284 —it is a fact that most of the
prostitutes of Paris come from the best
educated northern provinces, ib that
education based on religion should produce
a better result than without it, is evident,
285 — it is also evident that secular liberty
is more enticing than the restraints of re-
ligion, 286 — the union of both would be
a blessed consummation, ib.
Skene MS., the, an account of, I.
Sketcher, sonnets by the, 651.
Smith, Dr Achibald, his residence in Lima,
&c., Peru as it is, reviewed, 287.
Some account of himself, by the Irish Oyster
Eater. Fasciculus the first, 47 — Fasci-
culus the second, 52 — Fasciculus the
third, 58 — Fasciculus the fourth, 177—
Fasciculus the fifth, 182 — Fasciculus the
sixth, 186 — Fasciculus the seventh, 358
— Fasciculus the eighth, 360 — Fasciculus
the ninth, 463 — Fasciculus the tenth,
471 — Fascicul us the eleventh, 6 1 8 — Fas-
ciculus the twelfth, 628 — Fasciculus the
thirteenth, 761 — Fasciculus the four-
teenth, 771 — Fasciculus the fifteenth and
last, 776.
Song, translation of a cantilena, 537.
Sonnets, by Washington Browne, of New
York. 300 — a sonnet, 617 — sonnets by
the Sketcher, 651.
Talbot, H. Fox, his letter to the Literary
Gazette, with reference to the new disco-
very of photography, quoted, 385.
Taylor, W. B. S., his translation from the
French of Meriuiee on oil-painting, re-
viewed, 747.
Traveller, notes of a, 682.
Trojan horse — Homer — Egypt, 366.
Venus, the goddess, in the middle ages, by
R. M. Milnes, 603.
Vision of Caligula, by B. Simmons, 849*
Week of pleasure, the, 321 — one at Man-
chester, 481.
What is poetical description ? 529.
Whig decline and degradation, 795 — re-
markable coincidences between the affairs
of France from 1789 to 1793, and those
of Britain from 1832, the passing of the
Reform Bill, to 1839, pointed out, ib.
the enthusiastic feelings in regard to the
Reform Bill at its passing, described, 796
— where are all those transports now ? ib.
— among the innumerable evils which
that bill has brought upon the empire,
that of exciting unreasonable and extra-
vagant expectations of its benefits, is per-
haps the greatest, 797 — this excitement
was maintained entirely by " enormous
lying," ib — the Whigs have been caught
3 K
860
in their own trap, and universal contempt
has now befallen them, chiefly because
they now endeavour to check the progress
of the movement they at first set agoing,
798 — the principal object of the Mel-
bourne Ministry has been, to yield as little
to popular demands as is consistent with
retention of office, ib. — they are right in .
the opinion of making a stand somewhere,
799 — for, what are the principles which
frantic incendiaries desire to support? ib.
— and what a woful picture does the present
state of the country exhibit, of the para-
lysis with which the revolutionary cabinet
conduct the measures of government !
800 — all the dangers that surround the
country may be distinctly traced to the
false policy pursued, and the pernicious
principles instilled by the government,
801 — they employed and encouraged the
language of revolt in Canada, and now
they have deprived that colony of its con-
stitution, ib. — by short-sighted parsimony
in Indian affairs, they have placed the
safety of that splendid appanage of the
crown in jeopardy, ib. — by practising
revolutionary propagandistn in Europe,
they have unsettled our relations with
every nation in it, 802r— by encouraging
the premature emancipation of the negroes
in our West India Colonies, they have
not only endangered the production
of colonial produce ; but have thereby
promoted the slave-trade to an increased
extent and refined cruelty in Cuba and
Brazil, 803 — and, because the House of
Assembly in Jamaica remonstrated against
their conduct in, perhaps, too impassion-
ed language, they threaten to destroy the
constitution of that once flourishing, but
now decaying, colony, 804— for ten years
back treason and sedition have been
tolerated in this country and the colonies,
and now that their natural fruits are
beginning to appear, the revolutionary
government are determined to rule their
dupes, and the country at the same time,
with a despotic sway, 805 — their support
of Popery has doubled crime in Ireland
ib. — so conscious are they of this, that
they excuse themselves by averring, that
things are not worse than they were
under Tory governments, 806 — but they
are worse, as is proved by official returns
which are quoted, ib — but perhaps the
most fatal effect of the ascendency of
' liberal princ-ples has been the general
corruption of the character of the Liberals,
807 — it was a growing sense of these evils
amongst an increasing and influential por-
tion of the people, over whom religion still
maintains its sway, and not any particular
question, that led to the recent retirement
of the Melbourne ministry from office, ib.
— their resumption of power, under recent
circumstances, show they are now the
ministry, not of the country, but of three
ladies of the bedchamber, 808 — now,
when dangers threaten alike the mon-
archy and the institutions of the country,
it is the duty of the Conservatives to coine
forward and demonstrate, both by their
language and conduct, their steady adhe-
rence to their principles, and their reso-
lution to separate the cause of the Queen
and the monarchy, from the Popish faction
which is domineering over every part of
this great empire, both at home and
abroad, ib.
Edinburgh : Printed by Bullantyne and Hughes, Paul's Work.
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