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BLACKWOOD'S
MAGAZINE.
VOL.LXXI. Tl'180
JANUARY JUNE, 1852.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH ;
37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
1852.
PRINTED BY W,LL1A FLACKWOOD AND SONS, KDI.VI
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCXXXV.
JANUARY, 1852.
VOL. LXXI.
POLITICAL AND MONETARY PROSPECTS.
Two years and a half ago, when
the world was yet convulsed with the
effects of the French revolution in
the year preceding, and the Liberals
were everywhere throughout Europe
looking for the regeneration of society
from the triumph of democracy in
France, we wrote and published in
this Magazine these words u It is
frequently asked, what is to be the
end of all these changes, and under
what form of government are the
people of France ultimately to settle?
Difficult as it is to predict anything
of a people with whom nothing seems
to be fixed, but the disposition to
change, we have no hesitation in
stating our opinion, that the future
government of France will be, what
that of imperial Rome was, an ELEC-
TIVE MILITARY DESPOTISM. Ill fact,
with the exception of the fifteen years
of the Restoration, when a free con-
stitutional monarchy was imposed on
its inhabitants by the bayonets of
the Allies, it has ever since the Re-
volution of 1789 been nothing else.
The Orleans dynasty has, to all
appearance, expired with a disgrace
even greater than that which attended
its birth. The Bourbons can scarcely
expect, in a country so deeply imbued
with the love of change, to re-establish
their hereditary throne. Popular
passion and national vanity call for
that favourite object of democratic
societies a rotation of governors.
Popular violence and general suffer-
ing will never fail to re-establish,
after a brief period of anarchy, the
empire of the sword. The successive
election of military despots seems the
only possible compromise between
revolutionary passion and the social
necessities of mankind ; and as a
similar compromise took place after
eighty years of bloodshed and con-
fusion in the Roman commonwealth,
so, after a similar period of suffering,
it will probably be repeated, from the
same cause, in the French nation." *
The only particular in which this
prophecy has proved incorrect is in
the TIME assigned for the establish-
ment of an elective military despot-
ism in France. Judging from the
past, it was thought that a consider-
able period might elapse between the
fervour of democratic ambition, the
establishment of republican institu-
tions, and the necessary advent of
military government. But events
now go on with railway speed : there
is an electric telegraph in the moral
as well as in the physical world.
Within less than four years after the
triumph of revolutionary ambition,
and the proclamation of " Liberty,
Equality, and Fraternity" by Lamar-
tiiie, the visionary fabric has fallen to
the ground. The brilliant dreams of
philanthropy, the towering ambition
* BlacJcwood's Magazine, August 1849, vol. Ixvi. p. 234-
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
of democracy, the selfish grasping of
socialist spoliation, have alike been
dissipated. Realities have succeeded
to chimeras, necessities have pro-
strated imaginations. Louis Napoleon
has assumed the dictatorship, with
the concurrence of the only power
in the country which, in a decisive
struggle, could be relied on. He has
virtually declared himself Emperor,
by the election of the soldiers. The
citizens have confirmed their choice.
It has ever been the same. The rule
of Caesar, and Cromwell, and Napo-
leon, was founded on the same social
necessities springing out of the same
social crimes. This 2d December
1851 was but a repetition, and from
the same causes, of the 18th Brumaire
1799. Successful high treason, tri-
umphant rebellion, lead invariably to
one result general slavery and mili-
tary despotism ; and of all the pioneers
to the last terrible catastrophe that
the mind of man ever conceived, a
socialist revolution is the most effec-
tual, for it at once unites all persons
possessed of property, however small,
on the side of despotic power.
That it may not be supposed that
these observations are exaggerations
of our own, we select, out of a multi-
tude of others which might be taken,
the following graphic description of
the state of Paris in the first week of
December 1851, three years and nine
months after the overthrow of Louis
Philippe, and establishment of Liberty,
Equality, and Fraternity by the forma-
tion of a republic.
"If anything could give an appearance
of legal necessity to the military opera-
tions in Paris, and to the tremendous
severity of the measures employed to
crush the resistance of the people, it is
the part which the organised sections of
the Red Republic and the desperate
combatants of that faction are again
taking in this struggle. ' Non tali
auxilio nee defensoribus istis,' may well
be the answer of the French people to a
cry of independence and a promise of
succour conveyed to them in the sinister
language of M. Louis Blanc. Nothing
can be more afflicting than the position
of the middle classes and the pacific part
of the population, between a host of fierce
revolutionists who can only be put down
by an immense army, and an army pre-
pared to dispose absolutely of all political
power as a recompense for the protection
it affords to property and life. For the
first time in these terrific street-battles
of Parisian history, tee hear nothing of
the National Guard. It is remarkable
that no proclamation or appeal has been
addressed to that body by the govern-
ment. The civic forces have been ex-
pressly consigned to inaction, evidently
because Louis Napoleon was afraid to
rely upon them, and nothing would have
been more inconvenient than the opposi-
tion of legions of armed citizens. Even
now it is not impossible that their weight
may be felt before the termination of this
conflict, but felt against the executive
power. The government has staked its
whole success on the army alone, and the
strength of the regular forces engaged is
immensely greater than on any former
occasion. But, be the political opinions
and ulterior views of the popular leaders
what they may, it is impossible not to
feel for the dauntless courage with which
they have flung themselves into open
resistance to an unexampled violation
of the rights of the nation. The middle
classes, though probably most aggrieved
by the menaces of military despotism,
would have found neither the means nor
the spirit to defy such a power. But, if
the men of the faubourgs are as tenacious
and as brave in the defence of the laws
of the republic as they have more than
once shown themselves to be when they
rose against the laws of the monarchy,
victory has not even yet declared herself
against the liberties of France. These
men are not, at least on this occasion, the
insurgents, if by an insurgent is meant
the man who conspires against the legal
order of the country, and seeks to change
by force the constitution and the govern-
ment.
"The barricades first thrown up on
Wednesday evening were speedily carried
by the soldiers ; but the night was spent
in further preparations for war. A large
column of troops was silently moved
along the Boulevard towards the Fau-
bourg St Antoine, and the positions be-
tween the Canal and the Porte St Martin
were strongly occupied. Shots were
occasionally fired from houses on the line
of march, but these acts of hostility were
instantly punished by the summary seizure
or slaughter of the inhabitants. A per-
manent court-martial was sitting, by
whose orders some, and we are told a
large number, of the prisoners taken
between the barricades were shot. Yet
these operations and this rigour did not
prevent the popular movement from in-
creasing in extent and in violence. An
immense body of troops, or rather an
entire army, described to consist of fifty
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
thousand men, poured towards the scene
of action. Yet we find by the latest
accounts that barricades had been raised
as far to the west as the Rue Grange-
Bateliere; the upper Boulevards were
continually swept by charges of lancers ;
and the cannonade had almost reached
the fashionable quarter just beyond the
Rue Vivienne. Hitherto we had be-
held in France contests between govern-
ments armed to defend the laws of
society, and insurgents armed to over-
throw them. But now, as if to make
this chaos of anarchy worse confounded,
men have to take a part between a
government attacking the law, and an
insurrection to defend it; though it is
but too probable that the triumph of
either faction will inflict a ghastly wound
on the freedom and welfare of the nation.
Such are the results of those alternations
between an excessive impatience of legal
authority, and a servile deference to
arbitrary power, which are so strangely
united in the French character; and,
whatever be the deplorable condition of
such a people, its trials and its struggles
are solely attributable to acts depending
on its own will.
"Our readers can hardly have forgotten,
although nearly four years have elapsed,
the spirit of deep self-abasement and
humiliation, as regarded England, and of
respectful and enthusiastic veneration
as regarded France, with which certain
of our contemporaries heralded the dawn-
ing of that bright day which announced
to an astonished world the then last
French revolution. Compared to the
gigantic progress of our lively neighbours,
our own steps in the march of improve-
ment seemed sluggish and unphilosophi-
cal. Our historical constitution seemed
shabby and timeworn beside the flaunt-
ing robe in which France, for the twen-
tieth or thirtieth time, had bedecked her-
self. Our cumbrous statutes, our prosy
speeches, our hum-drum habits of plod-
ding industry, were despised in their eyes,
when compared with the brilliant achieve-
ments and flowery oratory of French Re-
publicanism, and above all, with the im-
peccable constitution which M. MARHAST
so happily improvised to meet the wants
of a nation able at one rapid bound to
clear the distance which separates a con-
stituency of two hundred thousand per-
sons from universal suffrage. Their con-
stitution was founded, not like ours, upon
the historical precedents of semi-barba-
rous ages, but upon the three mighty
corner-stones of LIBERTY, EQUALITY, and
FRATERNITY, on which the stately fabric
rested in all the indestructibility of logi-
cal cohesion. Vote by ballot they had
already, universal suffrage and quadren-
nial Parliaments the constitution gave
them. Aristocracy they had none so
there was no need of a second chamber
to control the deliberations of the Assem-
bly. There was no political Manicheeism,
and the good or democratic element was
left unchecked by its evil or aristocratic
counterpoise. Besides this, France was
freed from the anomaly of hereditary
monarchy, and enabled by the same wise
and glorious institutions to select from
her citizens the best and worthiest for
her Chief, uninfluenced by the accident
of birth, and unshackled by the tyranny
of an Act of Settlement. Did ever
nation, according to modern liberal
theories, make a fairer start on the road
to prosperity and greatness I
" Waving the tedious retrospect of the
intervening period, we would ask enthusi-
astic admirers of modern republicanism,
as preached by KOSSUTH, and as practised
by France, how far they are content with
the fruits of their favourite system ?
And, first, of individual liberty. How
would the citizens of this monarchical
and aristocratical country relish a pro-
hibition against the assembling of groups
in the streets, and the announcement that
they would be dispersed by armed force,
and without previous notice ? Surely
this was not the 'FRATERNITY' that
Monsieur LAMARTINE promised us. The
liberty of the press is even still less
favoured than that of individual pedes-
trians, for, while the latter are allowed
to ' circulate,' the newspapers are, with
very few exceptions, suppressed by vio-
lence, and their offices occupied by mili-
tary. The passage of public vehicles is
likewise prohibited. Such things are,
we suppose, impediments to the full and
unrestricted exercise of freedom, though in
our benighted metropolis many a Radical
would grievously miss the newspaper on
his breakfast table, and the omnibus which
was wont to carry him to the city ; while
we greatly doubt if the coachmen and con-
ductors possess patriotism enough to ac-
quiesce without a murmur in such a
sacrifice, however requisite to the cause
of freedom. Then, as to public liberty,
we find the child and champion of uni-
versal suffrage packing off two hundred
of the chosen of the nation in vans to St
Valerien, a sort of Parisian Pentonville,
and sending the best generals and ablest
orators of France to eat their Christmas
dinners with what appetite they may ia
a remote and gloomy fortress. We find
the Court of Justice, charged by the
constitution with an important duty
which it was sworn to perform, forbid-
den to execute it by a person who had
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
Bworn to the same constitution, and
dissolved by military force. How sorry
we ought to be that we failed to appre-
ciate the modern doctrines of liberty,
and forbore to rival our neighbours in
the facile art of reorganising society !
" We are afraid at the present moment
fraternity fares little better in Paris than
liberty. The arms of the soldier are turned
remorselessly on the citizen, and one
of the twin children of universal suffrage
evinces a truly Romulean propensity to
strangle the other. Of course the people
are still sovereigns ; but their right of
sovereignty in re-electing the PRESIDENT is
to be exercised at a week's notice, with-
out the enlightenment of the public press,
and under the immediate terror of
military coercion. Alas for universal
suffrage, vote by ballot, quadrennial
Parliaments, and an elected President,
when all they can do is to give the
people the opportunity of choosing a
master without alternative ! It is a
melancholy fact for the admirers of
modern constitutions that the voice poten-
tial in this matter is with the army, and
.that the people are only called on to
confirm what they are powerless to
reject. The Praetorian bands dispose
of the empire, and the trembling electors
must confirm their choice. What makes
.the thing more agreeable is, that these
-very troops have been pointedly re-
minded that they have the discomfitures
of two modern revolutions to avenge, an
exhortation designed, we presume, to fan
their zeal for liberty with a gentle
stimulant of fraternity. As for 'EQUAL-
ITY,' we need not say much. The citizen
is sunk below the soldier ; and the civil
magistrate, in order to enslave his con-
stituents, has condescended to become
the creature and dependent of his guards.
He does not rule by, but under, the
sword. Under such circumstances a good
deal of ' equality ' may naturally be
expected, for nothing is so fatal to
equality as freedom, and nothing so
favourable to it as despotism." Times,
Dec. 6, 1851.
We make no apology for the
length of these quotations; for, in-
dependent of their ability in graphic
power, they are nothing more than
a historical statement ex post facto
of what we have constantly predicted
would be the inevitable result of
successful revolution among our Con-
tinental neighbours. Terrible as this
military execution has been, it has
obviously carried with it the con-
currence of the great majority of the
French ; and the reason is obvious.
Bad as Louis Napoleon and his
Praetorian Guards are, they are in-
comparably better than Louis Blanc
and his Red Republicans. The former
are subject at least to military dis-
cipline, the latter to no authority
whatever. The case is the same
everywhere else as in France. Aus-
tria, Prussia, Italy, are all alike
prostrated under the yoke of mili-
tary power. Compared with their
present state, the condition of
these countries, under the rule of
Hardenberg and Metternich, was ab-
solute felicity. With the usual un-
happy tendency of civil conflicts, the
reaction has been as violent as the
action ; and Austria, in particular,
appears to be now suffering under a
rigorous military government, which,
however unavoidable in a country
torn by the passions and lacerated
by the wounds which Austria has re-
ceived since the commencement of
her convulsions, must ever be deeply
deplored by every friend of real free-
dom. A country which has been so
torn in pieces by internal convulsions
as to be compelled to call in a foreign
enemy to appease them, and sacrifice
its independence to prolong its exis-
tence, may find some apology for
subsequent measures of severity. Let
those answer for them who rendered
them unavoidable who desolated a
noble people with the passions, not
only of civilisation, but of race who,
while they proclaimed national suf-
frage at Vienna, instigated national
separation at Buda, and let loose at
once upon a people wholly unaccus-
tomed to freedom, both the strongest
passions which can agitate the human
heart, and either of which, in all past
time, has been found sufficient to let
slip the dogs of war upon mankind.
The following extracts from two
journals, who will not be suspected
of favouring the last revolution in
France the Daily News and the
Times prove that this usurpation of
Louis Napoleon, violent and bloody as
it has been, has, from the horror at a
Republic and Universal Suffrage, car-
ried with it the assent of the most
influential and respectable classes in
France :
( ' I am told to-day on all hands, by
persons conversant with the tone of opi-
nion, that Louis Napoleon's triumph at
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
the poll, fixed for the 20th, is considered
as certain. Physical resistance, or ma-
terials for it, there may be said to exist
none in Paris at the present moment. The
blow is struck, and it has perfectly suc-
ceeded. The great proprietors, the mer-
chants, and the moneyed interests on all
hands, adhere to the new power. They
regard the revolution of February as com-
pletely slain ; they look forward to the
rising of rents, to the revival of commerce,
to the reanimation of industry. The per-
sons and classes who, since February 1848,
have been sunk in dejection and choked
with fear, begin to breathe with ease,
and to appear radiant with hope. I de-
scribe what I see among the opulent
orders and the tradespeople, who have no
political creed whatever, but only look
to a strong central power to put down
with the strong hand all attempts at dis-
turbance, and stop all sources of agita-
tion. You will find it of great impor-
tance to bear this in mind, that the
government of Louis Napoleon is accepted
already by all such. The new dictator
meets resistance only in the political
orders, which are at this moment in a
terrible minority. So true is this, that M.
Thiers has been set at liberty, together
with the greater part of the representa-
tives who remained still in confinement.
It is the opinion of those with whom I
have conversed men quite disinterested
in their views, who stand aloof from poli-
tics that the achievement of Louis Na-
poleon has taken, that he will obtain a
large majority of suifrages, and that no
serious resistance will be offered to him
in the departments. We may gather,
from various signs, that gradually all
traces of the revolution of February will
disappear, whether in the shape of exter-
nal symbols or political institutions."
Daily News, Dec. 7, 1851.
"The letters from the Parisian capi-
talists and speculators continue for the
most part to express unbounded satisfac-
tion at the prospect of military rule being
thoroughly established. No desire seems
to be entertained, either now or for the
future, of any intermediate state be-
tween that and anarchy. An uncompro-
mising system of repression is described
as the only true reliance; and the convic-
tion that it will now be carried out
without compunction to the utmost extre-
mity imparts a degree of confidence to
the frequenters of the Exchange which
overrides all other considerations. Under
these circumstances, the funds continue
to rise rapidly; and according to a tele-
graphic report received at a late hour
at the Stock Exchange, the Five per
Cents this morning were at 99f. 50c.,
5
being an adcance of more than 2 per cent.
Many persons still assert that the move-
ment is owing to Government operations;
and probably the dealers, being aware of
these operations, act to some extent
simply upon the strength of them. The
improvement, however, has been too-
well maintained to leave a doubt that it
is also supported by purchasers among
the public. The conclusion, therefore,
strange as it may appear to the people of
Holland and England, must be that, on
the whole, the moneyed classes of Paris
have arrived at the conviction that the
array will henceforth permanently identify
themselves with the cause of economy
and commerce, and insure the state of
external and internal repose that is essen-
tial to restore the balance of income an&
expenditure " Times, Dec. 15, 1851.
Count Montalembert's letter o
Dec. 12 is equally conclusive.
" I begin by declaring that the act of
the 2d December has put to flight the
whole of the revolutionists, the whole
of the Socialists, and the whole of tha
bandits of France and Europe ; and that
alone is, in my opinion, a more than suffi-
cient reason for all honest men to rejoice,
and for those who have been most morti-
fied to console themselves. I do not
enter into the question as to whether the
coup d'etat (which had been foreseen by
every one) could be executed at another
moment, and in another manner ; to do
so I should have to go back to the
causes which produced it, and to give my
opinion on persons who cannot now reply
to me. I do not pretend to guarantea
the future any more than to judge of the
past ; I only look at the present that is
to say, the vote to be delivered on Sunday
week.
" There are three courses open the
negative vote, neutrality, and the affir-
mative vote.
" To vote against Louis Napoleon
would be to justify the Socialist revolu-
tion, which, for the present at least, is
the only one that can take the place of
the actual government. It would be to
invite the dictatorship of the Reds in
place of the dictatorship of a prince who
has rendered for three years incomparable
services to the cause of order and Catho-
licism." Times, Dec. 16, 1851.
It is impossible to predict as yet y
with any degree of certainty, what
may be the issue of the present
struggle in France ; or, rather, which
section of the army will prove victo-
rious. We say advisedly of " the
army," because it is evident that
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
neither the people nor the National
Guard are of any weight in the con-
flict. If the army is unanimous, and
remains faithful to its chief, the con-
test will speedily be terminated ; and
before these sheets issue from the
press, Louis Napoleon will be the real
Emperor of France. But that is a con-
test of persons only ; it is whether Na-
poleon or Changarnier is to be the dic-
tator. The contest in which mankind
are really interested the contest of
things and principles, of property with
Eed Republicanism is already over.
The strife between monarchy and de-
mocracy is at an end. The republic of
1 848 is numbered amongst the things
that have been. It is dead and buried ;
it only remains for history to pro-
nounce its funeral oration ; and if it
be founded on truth, that oration will
be anything rather than an eloge.
The only question that remains is, .
who is to be the military despot ? and
before that question is finally settled,
it is not improbable that many days
of mourning are in store for France.
Possibly we may see, as in the days
of the Roman Empire, the legions
arrayed under opposite banners ; and
a second battle of Lyons, between
150,000 men on each side, determine
who is to be the master of the Gallic
world. But, in any event, the great
civil question is fixed. Democracy
has found its natural and inevitable
master in a military chief. And the
year 1851 has added another " to
the many lessons which history," in
Hume's words, "has taught, that
civil dissensions, from whatever cause
beginning, end only in the empire of
the sword." *
The democratic orators at Man-
chester, conscious of the commentary
which the passing events on the Con-
tinent was reading on their projects
of Reform and Universal Suffrage,
are the first to discuss the subject.
They say .that as 400,000 bayonets
and sabres in France have ex-
tinguished the Republic and Uni-
versal Suffrage, the conclusion to be
drawn is not that we should abolish
the Republic, but the bayonets; and
that the catastrophe at Paris affords
an additional argument in favour of
their favourite project of selling the
ships of the line and disbanding the
soldiers, and trusting ourselves to the
tender mercies of English Chartists,
Russian bayonets, or French cuiras-
siers. It is amusing to see men
whose theories when reduced to prac-
tice have armed every nation against
the other, and converted Europe into
one vast camp still continuing,
amidst the universal desolation these
theories have occasioned, an unshaken
adherence to their ruinous dogmas,
and gravely proposing the disarming
of one nation, amidst the arming of
all the adjoining states. We should
like to see what these gentlemen would
do when real danger approaches : we
have not forgot what they did in the
bull-ring at Birmingham in 1842,
or during the pillage of Glasgow
in 1848. We should like to see
how earnestly they would invoke the
protection of the red-coats, if their
beloved allies, the Chartists, were
to begin to reduce their principles to
practice ; or some of the myriads of
armed men whom they have " called
into existence " on the Continent of
Europe were to approach the British
shores. When will mankind learn
that soldiers are a necessity, not a
luxury, and that nothing calls that
necessity so speedily into action as
the letting loose the passions of men
by the triumph of democracy ? When
France was governed by its lawful
monarch in the days of Charles
X., its military establishment was
not quite 109,000 men ; when a
throne surrounded with republican
institutions was established, it was
at once raised to 320,000 ; but with
the establishment of a Republic and
Universal Suffrage, it was increased
to 480,000. Charles X. was over-
turned because he had only 11,000
troops in Paris when the revolution
broke out, of whom only one-half
would fight ; Louis Philippe, because
neither he nor his sons had the cour-
age to put themselves at the head of
their soldiers; but Louis Napoleon
has succeeded because he brought up
150,000 men, all of whom were faith-
ful. If the dreams of the Manchester
reformers were realised, Great Britain
would speedily find its military es-
tablishment increased to 300,000
* HUME'S England, c. 60, adfincm.
X852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
men, and its direct taxes of every
description doubled ; and Lord Pal-
merston would have no grounds for
exultation at the influence of the
constable's staff amongst us.
The Keform with which we are
threatened in the next session of
Parliament is, in many respects, the
most remarkable recorded in history.
The most ardent reformers have never
ventured to assert that either any
real grievances existed which re-
quired redress, or any public demon-
stration whatever had been made of
a general desire for further popular
concessions. In fact, the public
apathy on the subject was the theme
of constant lament and no small sur-
prise among the democratic party,
and was the subject of loud complaint
in their journals. Without doubt,
when the Manchester leaders saw the
Government voluntarily coming for-
ward to offer them a large measure
of reform, they were not such fools
as to decline the proposal. But till
the intentions of Government were
declared, there was nothing heard of
reform, or any necessity or desire
for it. Not even a solitary peti-
tion was presented on the subject.
In other cases, and in former times,
Government made popular conces-
sions from their declared inability to
resist them, and from the weight of
the pressure from without, which could
no longer be withstood. But on this
occasion, the case was just the reverse :
the pressure from without, if it shall
ever be felt, will have arisen entirely
from the measures of Government.
What, then, is it which has induced
the Government to adventure upon
the measure, at all times perilous,
and more especially in the present
excited state of Europe, of a large
concession of power to the popular
portion of the constitution? We are
told the people are perfectly satisfied
with Reform, and the TTree-Trade
policy which it has engendered ; that
wellbeing is universal, provisions
cheap, and our labouring classes con-
tented ; that our exports and imports
were never so large, nor public pro-
sperity established on so wide and
secure a basis. Be it so. Where,
then, is the necessity for a new reform
bill? What can excuse the unpre-
cedented step of voluntarily offering
the nation a vast increase of popular
power, when it is notorious that
nobody was asking it, and it is
alleged that everybody is entirely
satisfied with the measures which the
Reformed Parliament have adopted ?
It cannot be disputed that this step is
attended with hazard. Every popular
concession, especially in excited times,
is so, in greater or less degree. Lord
John Russell has told us that we
cannot afford to have a revolution
every year. Where, then, is the ne-
cessity in the absence certainly of
any demand for it in the country, and
the alleged non-existence of any dis-
tress which can justify it for a new
and uncalled-for concession of power
to the democratic part of the consti-
tution? Where is the wisdom of
volunteering to give it, at the very
moment when every state on the Con-
tinent, without one single exception,
affords proof of the inevitable ten-
dency of any approach towards uni-
versal suffrage to lead the nation, by
a rapid and certain process, to the
destruction of industry, the ruin of
freedom, and the triumph of military
despotism ?
The thing will admit only of one
solution. Government are prepared
to hazard the freedom, the constitu-
tion, it may be, in the end, the
crown of England, solely because
they are afraid of being thrown into a
minority at the next election. Amidst
their ceaseless boasts of the universal
satisfaction which the policy of the
Reformed Parliament has given, their
acts evince a secret sense of their un-
popularity. They do not venture to
appeal to the constituency which they
themselves have created, on the vital
question of Free Trade. They feel it
to be indispensable to drown the cries
of suffering in the shouts of passion ;
to convulse the nation with demo-
cratic ambition, in the hopes of stifling
the prayers for employment, or the
demand for a readjustment of direct
taxation ; to run any hazard to their
sovereign, their country, and them-
selves, rather than let their own mea-
sures be canvassed on the hustings
before their own constituencies. They
are acting as they did in Ireland
three years ago, where, amidst cease-
less protestations of the admirable
working of free trade in provisions
8
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
in the Emerald Isle, they were quietly
taking measures to fill up the hideous
gaps in the rural constituency which
their own measures had made, and
actually brought in a bill the object
of which was to lower the franchise
of tenants to a 5 interest, which was
only raised to 8 by the Conservatives
in the House of Lords. They had
destroyed their own voters so com-
pletely that, according to their own
statement, they were reduced from
250,000 to 72,000. In like manner,
at present, while they are constantly
boasting of the immense blessings
which their measures have con-
ferred upon the country, and the un-
bounded popularity which they have
acquired, particularly in the urban
constituencies, for whom they were
all intended, they are quietly taking
measures to swamp those very consti-
tuencies, and drown the cry for an
alteration of policy in that for organic
change, and an extension of the elec-
toral suffrage. Other nations have
been revolutionised by general suffer-
ing, experienced evils, or the undue
retention of old institutions ; but Eng-
land is the first country recorded in
history in which great and serious
organic changes are threatened from
no experienced evils, from no popular
outcry, from no antiquated privileges,
but simply and solely from the anxiety
of a party to retain power, and their
dread of meeting their own constitu-
encies on their own measures.
It is no wonder that, amidst their
boasting and high-sounding profes-
sions, the acts of government should
betray a secret distrust of their own
measures, and an agony of terror at
the open discussion of them ; for never
did the policy of a pacty, within so
short a time, inflict such general and
wide- spread ruin on a country. This
is proved, in the most decisive way,
by public documents, published under
parliamentary authority, about which
there can be no dispute, and by the
admission of the ablest and best in-
formed of their advocates themselves.
We desire no other testimony ; we
know the value of an adverse and
unwilling witness ; we shall rest the
case against them on these two
grounds, and on them alone.
And first, as to emigration, the
best and surest test of the wellbeing
or suffering of the working classes
for no one need be told that men will
never leave their country, their homes,
the land of their fathers, the cradle of
their childhood, unless driven to it by
stern necessity. Now it appears, from
the Parliamentary Eeports, that the
total and average of emigration from
Great Britain and Ireland for twenty-
one years, from
Total.
1825 to 1845 inclusive, was . . . 1,349,476
For five years, from 1846 to 1850 inclusive, was 1,216,557
Average.
64.260
243.311
Thus it appears that the average
emigration has been nearly QUADRU-
PLED since Free Trade was introduced,
and that in the short space of five
years. What was formerly merely a
trifling rill, draining off in a health-
ful and beneficial stream the surplus
numbers of our people, has all at once
swollen into a huge torrent, which
carries everything before it, and
threatens to drain away at once
the strength, the resources, and the
future population of the empire. The
details of the last thirteen years,,
year by year, are perhaps still more
instructive. They have been often
given, but can never be sufficiently
studied.
1838,
1839,
1840,
1841,
1842,
1843
]
Before Free Trade.
33,222
62,207
90,243
118,592
128,344
57 212
1846,
1847,
1848
1849,
1850,
1844,
1845,
70,686
93,501
After Free Trade-
129,851
258,271
248,089
299,498
286,584
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
The emigration during the last
year, 1851, has not yet been made
up ; but the following extract from
the Times of October 20, 1851, shows
that the number this year will be at
least 320,000 being probably the
greatest exodus recorded of mankind
since Moses led the children of Israel
across the Red Sea, and far exceeding
anything narrated in a similar period
of the Goths and Vandals.
INCREASE OF POPULATION. " While
150.584 children were born and regis-
tered in the summer quarter, 91,600 per-
sons died ; leaving an excess of 58,984 in
the population. The excess of births
over deaths in the first nine months of the
present year has been 170,411, which is
probably more than equivalent to the
actual increase of the population.
" It is well known that, up to a late
period, there has been a constant im-
migration of the Irish and Scotch into
England, which appears to have been
fully equivalent to the emigration of the
English into the colonies and to foreign
parts ; but no exact statistical informa-
tion on this subject exists.
" 85,603 emigrants left the ports of the
United Kingdom at which there are Go-
vernment emigration-offices, in the quarter
ending September 30, 1851. This is at
the rate of 930 a-day ; 6510 a- week.
13,963 sailed from Irish ports, 4378 from
Glasgow and Greenock, and 67,262 from
three English ports namely, 10,062 from
London, 2799 from Plymouth, and 54,401
from Liverpool. Many of the Irish emi-
grants are returned at Liverpool. Of the
total number, 68,960 emigrants sailed to
the United States, 9268 to British North
America, 6097 to the Australian colonies,
and 1278 to other places. The emigration
has hitherto been greater in 1851 than it
was in the corresponding quarters 0/1850.
" The present movement of the popula-
tion is in many respects remarkable. The
free admission of grain, fruit, and meat
since the scarcity, is equivalent to an
addition to the country of a vast tract of
fertile soil, which calls for cultivators,
and, as the land is abroad, for agricul-
tural emigrants who prefer the cheap,
though distant lands of America, to the
high-rented farms of Ireland, no longer
possessing a 'monopoly for its produce in
the English market. ' The fact deserves
attention, that, while the United Kingdom
has been importing food in unprecedented
quantities, it has been sending out swarms
of emigrants from the population, of which
the marriages and births promise to keep
up a perpetual and increasing supply."
Times, Oct. 10, 1851.
That this marvellous migration is
not on the decline, but rather the re-
verse, may be gathered from the fol-
lowing accounts from the same journal
of its progress at the commencement
of winter :
THE EMIGRATION MOVEMENT. "Al-
though winter is now fairly set in, and
thus early there is a prospect of its being
a severe season, the flight of the people
proceeds almost as generally as it did
during the months of spring and summer.
The arrivals of emigrants in Dublin do
not appear to be quite so numerous, yet
the leading shipbrokers find it difficult
enough to provide accommodation for the
applicants for passage who swarm the
offices along the quays and docks here.
A respectable medical practitioner in the
metropolis and his numerous family were
among last week's departures for New
York; and, if report speaks truly, next
year will witness the exodus of no incon-
siderable body of the members of another
profession, that of the law, the business of
which has declined, and must still farther
decline, to a point at which it would be
hopeless to expect that provision could be
made for one-fourth of the persons who
tiad heretofore derived a competence
from this fast-fading branch of Irish re-
sources. Speaking of the flight from the
south, the Tipperary Free Press says
* The emigration of the people has pro-
gressed, and is progressing, to an awful
extent. On Thursday over sixty car-
loads of peasants, from the counties of
Tipperary and Kilkenny, arrived at Wa-
terford to take shipping for Liverpool
en route to America. In most instances
they appeared of the better class, and
were well and comfortably clothed. A sin-
gular fact is, that among them were seve-
ral old men and women, who were going
doubtless to join their children in the land
of freedom !'" Times, Nov. 12, 1851.
The cause of this extraordinary
movement, which is now exciting, as
well it may, so much attention
throughout the country, is so well
stated by that able journal the Stan-
dard, that we cannot do better than,
give it in its own words :
" One large and important limb is
wasting away in a confirmed atrophy.
Ireland (to drop the language of meta-
phor) presents to the political economists
such evidence of the failure of their
scheme as it would seem almost impos-
sible for any man to resist a fertile soil
untilled, a sturdy and hard-working race
unemployed. The Irish peasant hastens
across the Atlantic to dig and plough,
10
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
because in America he can hope to be
paid for ploughing and digging. They
who employ him can hope to make profit
of his labour by selling the produce of it.
Is not the fertility of the Irish soil so
much national capital wasted, if we buy
from France and America what Ireland
can produce ? The abandonment of this
national capital involves the expenditure
of capital, too, in another way. They
who do not find employment in the field
must be fed in the workhouse. In other
portions' of the empire the effect of the
untaxed import system maybe discovered;
but in Ireland it thrusts itself under our
notice. The effect there is immediate,
visible, and direct. Its population earned
its subsistence by raising agricultural
produce to be disposed of in the home
market. We have gone to a cheaper
workman, and given our custom to the
peasant- proprietor of France and the far-
mer of the Mississippi. What, then, is
the Irish peasant to do \ Even Manches-
ter will not pretend that the whole popu-
lation of the island is to take to spinning
cotton. The markets of the world do not
require a fresh supply. That the popula-
tion must be idle if there is nothing for
them to do, is tolerably clear; that they
must be fed or allowed to starve, is no
less obvious; so that under the influence
of the Manchester policy we witness this
remarkable development of political saga-
city 4hat a fertile territory is left uncul-
tivated, and an industrious population is
held in enforced idleness, and maintained
at the cost of those who have saved some
capital wherewith to maintain them."
Standard, Oct. 5, 1851.
The emigration movement is not
confined to Ireland. Go into any
village, even in the eastern counties
of England or Scotland, and you
will find that a continual drain of
the very best inhabitants is going
forward. In the small village of
Staindrop, at the gate of Raby in
Durham, fifty-six of the very best
inhabitants emigrated during the last
summer. From the smaller village
of Hovingham, in the North Riding
of Yorkshire, fifty went off in the
same period. It is the same wher-
ever you go in Great Britain. Not
only are great numbers of the inhabi-
tants constantly emigrating, but the
class who do so are the very best of
the community the industrious, the
thrifty, the well-doing. The reason
is obvious. They are the only ones
who can get away ; the poor cannot,
but must, when thrown out of em-
ployment, go to the workhouse or
starve. It is painful to think of what
the country must come to if this ex-
traordinary flight of our industrious
population continues. How are the
taxes to be paid, the interest of debt,
public or private, provided for, the
poor maintained, if a vast army of
300,000 of our best inhabitants, most
of them in the prime of life, annually
leaves our shores, being at the rate of
about a thousand every week-day,
leaving all the paupers, orphans,
and widows behind, to be provided
for by the real proprietors who can-
not get away. We already have about
800,000 of that burdensome class in
England alone, besides 400,000 in
Ireland and Scotland, and they never
emigrate, because they have no money
to do so. Let those say how that
class is to be maintained who are
driving the industrious class, who
have hitherto done so, headlong out
of the country.
There is one very curious effect which
must follow from this frightful flight
of the industrious population that has
not hitherto been observed, but which
must ere long attract general atten-
tion, from the absorption of manufac-
turing profit which it must occasion.
This is the scarcity which must soon
take place in the supply of young and
healthy labourers from the country
to carry on the various branches of
manufacturing industry. Every one
knows that not one of our great
towns can maintain its own num-
bers, such is the mortality, especially
among children under five years of
age, which obtains in those huge
receptacles of impure air, impure
morals, and crowded habitations. It
is by a constant influx of persons
from the healthy districts of the
country, that not only is this in-
crease provided for, but even their
numbers kept up. But how is this
stream to be supplied, if the country
districts from which it is at present
supplied are themselves depopulated?
Already the scarcity of labour has
become such in several districts of
Ireland, that wages have risen from
6d. to Is. a-day ; and such was the
diminution of the usual influx of Irish
labourers, which has for long passed
over to Great Britain during harvest,
that great difficulty was experienced
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
in getting in the crops in many parts
of Great Britain. Hitherto the want
of hands has not been so much expe-
rienced in our manufacturing towns,
because the multitude of persons who
have been thrown out of employment
in the country by Free-Trade mea-
sures, and flocked into the great
towns in quest of subsistence, has
supplied the labour market. But that
supply cannot be permanently relied
on ; and it is not from decayed paupers
and destitute old men or children fly-
ing from the workhouse behind them,
that an adequate supply of hands
can be supplied to our manufactures.
Tims the results will be, that, while
Free Trade will reduce to one-half
the home market, by halving the re-
muneration of rural industry, it will
as much, in the end, contract the
foreign, by raising the price of the
labour by which the fabrics are pro-
duced. Was this what the Man-
chester school intended to bring
about by their Free-Trade system?
A memorable instance of the way in
which, under the just administration
of an all-wise Providence, the devices
of the selfish and the grasping are
made to recoil on their own heads,
and they fall into the pit which they
themselves have dug.
One thing is very clear, and goes
far to explain many of the peculiari-
ties in our social situation, which are
justly regarded as most alarming.
This is, that the labourers who are
thrown out of employment by the
cessation of demand for their industry
in the country, and have not money
wherewithal to emigrate, will almost
all flock to the great towns. It is there
alone that they can hope to find the
chance of employment, or the certainty
of charity or succour, legal or volun-
tary. This, accordingly, took place
during the whole decline of the Roman
Empire. The more that the country
districts were ruined and depopulated
by the cessation of all demands for
grain crops, from the effects of the vast
importation of foreign grain into their
great towns, the greater was the in-
flux of persons from the rural districts
into them, and the more did the nu-
merical amount of their inhabitants
increase. The burden soon became
too great to be borne by their own
local resources alone ; and the gratui-
11
tous distribution of grain from the
Imperial granaries was the mode in
which a certain portion of it came to
be borne by the public treasury. In
Ireland, the same effect has already
taken place. The last census showed,
that, while the population of every
county, without one single exception,
has receded, and the total decrease
was, in the last ten years, 1,560,000
souls, the population of all the towns,
without one single exception', had
increased. The reason is obvious :
starvation and ruin drove the pea-
santry from the country into them.
The same effect is taking place at
this moment in all our great towns :
the number of paupers and burden
of the poor-rates in them is every
day becoming more intolerable ; and
so well is that known, and so severely
is it felt, that great numbers of the
more respectable classes of merchants
and tradespeople, even in our great-
est and most flourishing manufactur-
ing towns, are taking houses in the
country, to avoid the insupportable
weight of rates and taxes with which
town residences are attended.
Take as examples Manchester and
Glasgow, our two greatest manufac-
turing cities, from which the Free-
Trade policy has mainly emanated,
and where its most strenuous sup-
porters are to be found. Take them,
too, in a year of general and boasted
manufacturing prosperity, when pro-
visions were cheap, exports brisk, and
the working classes, generally speak-
ing, in comfortable circumstances.
From the report lately published of
the Guardians of the Poor, it appears
that, in the Union of Manchester, the
number and cost of the poor for the
year ending
Number. Cost.
March 25, 1485, was 8,839 36,794
1850, . 11,701 48,283
1851, ... 13,317 48,920
Although, as the report bears,
" strenuous efforts have been made
all the time to reduce the number of
recipients of relief," it is added
" The weekly report, bearing date the
3d of this month, (November,) shows an
increase of 153 paupers, at an increased
cost of 26, 18s., as compared with the
corresponding week of last year ; in that
of the 10th instant, there appears an in-
crease of 163 cases, at an increased cost
12
of 14, Is. 5d., as compared with the cor-
responding week of last year ; and, in
that of the 17th inst., there is an increase
of 272 cases, at an increased cost of
42, 18s. lid., as compared with the
corresponding week of last year, showing
an increase on the increased state of
pauperism of last year's report."
It is not surprising that this great
increase in paupers has taken place
even duriiag a period when the price
of provisions has been constantly fall-
ing, and, therefore, the cost of their
maintenance should be diminished in-
stead of being increased ; for the fol-
lowing extract from Mr English's
letter, of November 24, 1851, shows
how the remuneration, obtained dur-
ing this boasted period of Free-Trade
prosperity by the staple branches of
industry, has declined :
"In the year 1844-5, the sum of
1, 9s. was- paid for weaving forty rounds
of plush; the price now is 19s. 6d., and
work is difficult to procure at that price;
the quantity named being the average
produced per individual in a fortnight,
the loss in wages is 4s. 9d. per week to
each person so employed: and for weav-
ing what is termed a chenie, thirty-eight
yards long, 7s. 6d. was paid about six
weeks since ; the price is now reduced to
5s.; fifty yards being the average pro-
duced in a week by each weaver, the loss
of wages in this case appears at about
Gd. per day's work to each person so
employed." The Home, p. 251.
So much for Manchester. Now,
in regard to Glasgow, the northern
emporium of Free Trade, the poor-
rates of the city and suburbs to
1845 was about 20,000 a-year.
So rapid, however, has been the pro-
gress of parochial burdens since Free
Trade and its consequent boasted
prosperity was established, that the
sum expended on the poor in the
three parishes of Glasgow, Barony of
Glasgow, and Gorbals, forming the
total of the city, is now about
110,000 a-year ; and it is kept down
to that level only by the most strenu-
ous efforts in all the parochial boards
to reduce the number of recipients of
public relief. This immense sum, ex-
ceeding what is paid by Glasgow for
the income-tax, is provided for by an
Political and Monetary Prospects. [Jan.
assessment on real property of 12
per cent within the parish of Glasgow,
and an income-tax in the Barony par-
ish, where the greater part of the
wealthy inhabitants of Glasgow re-
side, of 3 per cent. These assess-
ments, the sad bequest of Free Trade
to the very part of the country for
whose benefit the whole system was
intended, are felt as so oppressive,
that every inhabitant of Glasgow-
knows they seriously menace its
prosperity, and, if they continue, may
threaten the existence of our manu-
facturing establishments ; and they
have given rise to a u war to the
knife" between the different classes
of society, each striving, by getting
the mode of assessment changed, to
throw the burden off themselves upon
their neighbours ; so that, after having
distracted the community for three
years, the struggle has at last risen to
such a height as to call for legislative
interference.
When such have been the effects of
Free Trade in those very emporiums
of manufacturing industry for whose
benefit the whole system was devised,
it may be conceived what it has
proved to the remainder of the com-
munity. There cannot be a stronger
proof of the woeful results it has thus
produced, than is founded on the
arguments which the ablest Free-
Trade organ, the Times, has founded
on the general Poor-law lleturn for
the last year. The Times quotes
with triumph the following return :
Comparative Statement, showing the
Amount of Money Expended for Ill-
maintenance and Out-door Relief in
607 Unions, &c., in England and Wales,
during the years ending Michaelmas
1850 and 1851. *
No.
of
Unions.
Amount of Money expended for In
nance and Out-relief.
mainte-
Year* ended at
Michaelmas.
Amount
of
Decrease.
Decrcase
per Cent.
1850. 1851.
607
\
3,469,857 j 3,288,192
181,665
5.2*
From the return of the number of
paupers relieved in 1850 and 1851, it
* In-maintenance consists of the cost of food, clothing, and necessaries supplied to
the poor in the workhouse. Out-relief consists of relief in money and kind, together
with relief by way of loan (if any) to the out-door poor.
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
13
appears that there were relieved, in
England and Wales, on
1st July 1850, - 831,780
1st July 1851, - 813,089
Decrease, 18,691
This decrease of 18,691 persons in a
year of alleged general prosperity, out
of above 800,000, and this decrease
of five per cent in the expenditure in a
year of unprecedented cheapness, is a
source of unbounded congratulation
to the Times. They forget to add,
that in nine months of a year in which
the paupers in England decreased
18,000, no less than 270,000 persons
emigrated from Ireland alone, and of
course proportion ably took the press-
ure of pauperism off Great Britain ;
and that the total emigration from the
British islands was above 320,000!
They say nothing of the fact that in a
year in which five per cent was saved
on out-door relief in England that
is, in the purchase of food, or money
for its purchase at least ten per
cent was saved by the fall in the
price of provisions. They are thank-
ful for small mercies. Nothing can
be clearer than that the state of the
poor, coupled with the enormous and
unprecedented amount of the emigra-
tion, and low price of provisions, in
reality indicates a great increase of
distress in the labouring classes.
Had it been otherwise, the number of
paupers would have decreased at least
100,000, and the expenditure twelve
or fifteen per cent.
So much has been said lately of the
decline of our shipping in consequence
of the repeal of the Navigation Laws,
that it is enough to refer to the fol-
lowing table to show in how disastrous
a manner Free Trade has acted upon
that important branch of the national
industry, as stated in the Economist
itself:
Between October 1849 and October 1851, in
first eight months, the increase of British
inwards is, in round numbers, from .
Outwards,
The increase of Foreign inwards is, in round
numbers, from
Outwards, ....
Total increase inwards and outwards British,
Total increase inwards and outwards Foreign,
Tons. Tons.
2,740,000 to 2,753.000
or \ per cent.
2,006,000 to 2,912,000
or less than 12 per cent.
1,114,000 to 1,811,000
or above 62 per cent.
1,105,000 to 1,580,000
or above 43 percent.
5,346,000 to 5,665,000
or not quite 6 per cent.
2,220,000 to 3,392,000
or 53 per cent.
From the returns of shipping published by the Board
of Trade in October 1851, it appears that between
October 1849 and October 1851 British monthly ton-
nage had decreased from
Ships monthly decreased from .....
On the nine months from 1st October 1849 to 1st October
1851, the British ships had declined from .
Tonnage from
During the same periods the tonnage
engaged in the British trade of Russia Ships.
has increased from 220 to 339, and from
Sweden from
Norway from
Prussia from
Tons. Tons.
540,667 to 506,407
2,504 to 2,216
Ships.
15,324 to
Tons. Tons.
3,281,196 to 3,259,722
America from
Thus while the rival naval states
in Europe and America have been
rapidly augmenting their shipping
employed in carrying on our trade,
481 to 1,167,
Tonnage.
58,995 to 92,026
44,199 to 78,135
135,309 to 261,111
96,315 to 248,728
485,116 to 625,143
ours has, so far from increasing, been
declining. It is easy to see that
under this system the foreign shipping
employed in carrying on our traffic
Political and Monetary Prospects.
tt
will ere long be greater than our
own ; and from that moment our
naval superiority and means of main-
taining our national independence
will be at an end.
Such a result cannot but be looked
upon as the more remarkable, when
it is considered how great an addition
the present policy of our rulers should
have produced to the shipping interest,
if the blasting influence of Free Trade
had not paralysed this as it has done
every other branch of our industry.
When we reflect on Adam Smith's
words, that " man and his staple food,
corn, are the most bulky articles that
can be transported," and recollect that
we have come now to export annually
above 300,000 human beings, and im-
port 10,000,000 quarters of grain,
being the food of 10,000,000 of peo-
ple, the addition should have been
immense to our shipping. Two thou-
sand vessels are employed in Liverpool
alone, in the transport of our emi-
grants to America the greater part
of the tonnage of the eastern har-
bours of the kingdom is taken up to
import food from Poland, and the
eastern states of Europe yet in spite
of the extraordinary impulse thus
given to the shipping interest, it has
declined during the very period when
this prodigious increase in the expor-
tation of human beings and importa-
tion of food has been going on I
Whence is this prodigy? Simply
because Free Trade has turned it
mainly to the profit of the foreigner ;
because, such is the blasting influence
of that system, that even the last
gleam of prosperity which it will allow
us the exportation of our strength
and importation of our weakness
has turned to the advantage of our
enemies.
Then as to agriculture, the staple
of every country, the source of two-
thirds of our national wealth, in what
state is it ? We shall answer in two
lines of the Times, the great Free-
Trade organ :
" FOR NEARLY TWO YEARS AND A HALF
AGRICULTURAL PRICES HAVE BEEN BELOW
A REMUNERATIVE LEVEL." *
So that the branch of our national
industry from which two -thirds of our
[Jan.
national wealth is derived, and which
is the main fountain from whence our
home market, which takes off two-
thirds of our manufactures, is fed, has
for two years and a half yielded nothing
to the cultivators engaged in it. We add
no more. These are the words of the
leading Free Trade journal itself.
The set-off, and the only set-off
which the advocates of Free Trade
have to oppose to this wretched con-
dition in the staple branches of our
national industry, is the increase of our
imports and exports. They tell ns
that the imports this year will be from
105,000,000 to 110,000,000, and
our exports from 63,000,000 to
65,000,000. Be it so. What sort
of trade has this import and export
trade proved to those engaged in it ?
The Times has furnished us with the
answer :
" Since the 1st of January there is
scarcely an article of large consumption
which has not been involved in a decline,
ranging in many instances (coffee, sugar,
and cotton among the number) from 20
to 30 per cent. Such a decline, however,
is quite consistent with prosperity, and
in fact, under a natural course of events,
would be a symptom of it." f
Here, then, is this splendid im-
port trade which Free Trade has pro-
mised for us, and which is to be a com-
pensation for the woeful dulness ad-
mitted by the Free-Traders themselves
in the other staple branches of our na-
tional industry an import trade
attended with a loss amounting in the
principal articles of COTTON, SUGAR,
AND COFFEE, TO FROM 20 to 30 PER
CENT. Need we wonder that, with
such tremendous losses attending im-
ported articles, the bankruptcies of late
in Liverpool and Glasgow have been
so very great far greater, indeed,
among persons engaged in the import
trade than in any year for the last
twenty years, 1847 and 1848 alone
excepted? But the Times has con-
solation ready. The importers may
be ruined, but the imported articles
are there ; they must be sold to some-
body, and their diminished price is all
fructifying in the pockets of the con-
sumers ! This is certainly a notable
way of encouraging the industry and
* Times, July 7, 1851.
f Ib. Aug. 26,1851.
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
15
augmenting the resources of the
country. Hear their own words :
" Mr Greenhow is good enough to set
out for our information a comparison be-
tween the rates of freight in 1847 and at
the present date. ' To the North Ameri-
can colonies the freight on timber was,
in 1847, 49s. a load; it is now 30s.
From New York it was 10s. a barrel for
flour; it is now being brought for Is. 6d.
a barrel. The outward coal freights
from this port were 25 a keel to Con-
stantinople, now they are 13 ; they
were 24 a keel to Alexandria, they are
now 12.' We must plead guilty to the
charge of being most completely influen-
ced by that absurd mania for ' cheapness '
which appears to be so displeasing to
Messrs G. F. Young, Greenhow, &c."
Then as to the export trade, no-
thing can be clearer than that any in-
crease that may have taken place in
it is to be ascribed by no means to
Free Trade, but to other causes
wholly irrespective of that policy, and
which, as will immediately appear,
are mainly to be found in the repeal
of the Free-Trade monetary system,
by the interposition of nature. This
has been so well put by Lord Malmes-
bury, in a debate last Session of Par-
liament in the House of Peers, that
we cannot do better than transcribe
his words :
"In 1815 this country exported to
America 68,230,000 yards of cotton goods.
In 1835 those exports had increased to
74,000,000 yards. But when this coun-
try began to receive provisions from
America the exports of cotton goods fell
to 12,000,000 ; and up to 1846 the amount
of exports had only, been brought up to
37,105,000 yards, against 68,000,000
yards in 1815, and 74,000,000 yards in
1835. He might be asked, however,
what had been the condition of our trade
with European states ? It appeared to
him that the quantity of wheat imported
into this country from the Continent had
increased almost in the same ratio with
the decline of our exports. In 1845 we
imported from Russia 33,764 quarters of
wheat, and exported textile fabrics to the
value of L,2,153,491 ; while in 1849 we
imported from that country 599,556 qrs.
of wheat, and exported textile fabrics
worth only L. 1,566,000. In 1845, Prussia
gave this country 423,743 quarters of
wheat, and took from us L.577,999 worth
of textile fabrics ; but in 1849 our im-
ports of wheat had increased to 618,690
quarters, while our exports had fallen off
to L.404,000. But what was the case
with regard to France, a country from
which they had been told no imports of
corn were to be expected \ In 1845,
France gave us 32,000 quarters of wheat,
and took from us textile fabrics worth
L.2,791,238, while in 1849 we received
from France 742,000 quarters of wheat,
and exported textile fabrics worth
only L.634,000. France had, therefore,
increased her exports of corn to this
country by about 700,000 quarters, and
had reduced her imports of our produc-
tions to the amount of L.2, 100,000."
So that, after all, Free Trade has had
no share in producing this increase in
our export of manufactures which has
taken place ; for the countries from
which we have imported most largely
in grain, so far from having in any
corresponding degree increased their
consumption of our manufactures,
have signally DECREASED in the quan-
tity they took off our hands since
Free Trade began.
The way in which Free Trade ope-
rates in so signal a manner in dimin-
ishing our exports to the countries from
which we import rude produce most
largely, is this and the observation
is important, and points to the great
fallacy of the whole system The
theory of Free Trade is, that the
grain countries, the more their pro-
duce is taken off their hands, are to
go on growing the more grain, and to
take all their manufactures from us.
They assert that, as we have chosen
to make ourselves, in part at least, a
nation of manufacturers, these others
are to continue for ever nations of
grain-growers or herdsmen. This is
the theory ; now, attend to the prac-
tice. The moment that an agricul-
tural nation becomes at all enriched
by the sale of its rude produce, it
begins to think of manufactures. This
is the law of nature this is the dis-
position of man this has been the
case since the beginning of the world.
As certainly as the desire for pleasures
and enjoyments springs up in indivi-
duals with the increase of their
means, does the desire for home-made
fabrics spring up in the national mind
with the increase of wealth derived
from an extended sale of agricultural
produce. This is the secret of the
rapid decline of our export of textile
fabrics to America, France, and Kus-
sia the three countries from which
1C
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
we import most largely in rude pro-
duce. We have made them so rich
by the quantity of their grain and
cattle we have taken off their hands,
that capital has grown up among
them, and they have become manu-
facturing states. The Free-Trade
system, which was intended to extend
and perpetuate the market for our
manufactures, by putting foreign na-
tions into a condition to purchase
them, is already, from the wealth it
has taken from us and given to them,
producing the very opposite results,
and bids fair, at no distant period, to
render them independent of us in the
supply of manufactures, and induce
the same ruin upon our manufactur-
ing cities as it has already done upon
our fields.
The clearest proof that this is all
we get by the most unrestricted ad-
mission of foreign agricultural produce
to our harbours, is to be found in the
fact, that all the grain-growing states
of the world, without one single ex-
ception, have met our concessions in
favour of their rude produce by heavy
burdens upon their admission of our
manufactures. We have given them
wealth, and they have determined, in
consequence, to become manufactur-
ing. We import immensely in
wheat, maize, and flour, at a nomi-
nal duty, from America, and the re-
turn they have made is to levy a
uniform import duty of 30 per cent
on our manufactures of every de-
scription. We import grain in en-
ormous quantities from Elbe and
Dantzic, and the Prussian govern-
ment has shown their gratitude by
the Zollverein, which has closed the
whole north of Germany, embracing
25,000,000 of souls, against our manu-
factures, except at a duty amount-
ing practically to from 25 to 40 per
cent on prime cost. We draw a great
part of our rude produce of every
kind from Russia, and the Czar has
loaded our manufactures with such
heavy duties that 66,000,000 of in-
habitants take off only 1,500,000
worth of manufactures, being at
the rate of only 5d. a-head. Our
millers can tell us how enormously
we import flour from France; and the
National Assembly have, in return,
loaded our manufactures with such
duties, to protect her rising fabrics,
that our manufactured exports to that
country are only 600,000 a-year. In
all these cases, the reason of the thing
is the same : The more that agricul-
tural nations become rich, by an en-
hanced price and extended sale for
their produce, the more do they be-
come manufacturing, and the more
rigidly do they take measures to
exclude the rival fabrics of older
manufacturing states.
All this becomes the more impor-
tant when it is recollected how vast
an impulse the gold of CALIFORNIA
has given during the last year to
industry all over the world, and to
Great Britain, as the centre of the
world's industry, in particular. So
great is this effect, so immense and
lasting are its results likely to be,
that we do not hesitate to affirm
that in our opinion they much exceed,
in importance and in influence ou
the ultimate fortunes of mankind,
anything that has occurred in this
age of wonders. The French Revolu-
tion, the conquests of Napoleon, the
convention of Europe, the colonisa-
tion of half of the world by England,
are not likely to be attended with
more lasting effects upon the for-
tunes of the species. The reason
is that all these causes, great and
important as they are, affect the
social state or political feelings of
mankind only; but a great addi-
tion to the precious metals, cir-
culating through the world, affects
in a permanent way their material
interests, by diminishing the weight
of debt and increasing the remu-
neration of industry. It comes in this
way to affect in a gradual, but in the
end most effective, way the elevation
and improvement of the species ; for
it makes the condition of the labour-
ing classes permanently comfortable,
and lessens in a material degree the
great evils felt in all old communities,
arising from the weight of debt and
undue influence of the moneyed
classes. The subject is far from being
so generally either understood or ap-
preciated as its importance deserves ;
but it is too momentous to fail, ere
long, in forcing itself upon the atten-
tion of mankind.
That general distress has existed
in this country among the industrious
classes, with the exception of a few
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
years of fleeting prosperity during this
last thirty years, is too well known
to require illustration ; but it is not
equally considered to what that long-
combined depression and suffering have
been owing. It was entirely owing,
however, to two causes the one part-
ly, the other entirely, owing to our
own policy, which during that period
has been entirely framed to answer
the views of the holders of realised
capital, or the dealers in manufactur-
ed produce. These were the destruc-
tion of the gold and silver mines in South
America from the effects of the re-
volution in that quarter of the globe,
and the simultaneous contraction of
our paper currency to a half of its for-
mer amount, by the Bill of 1819.
The first reduced the average produc-
tion of these precious metals for the
use of the whole globe, from an ave-
rage of ten millions sterling to less
than five millions ; the second at the
very same time contracted our paper
currency, which might have supplied
the deficiency, from sixty to thirty
millions for the British Islands. The
Times is so elated with the success of
these simultaneous and decisive mea-
sures for the contraction of the cur-
rency of the world in general, and
this country in particular, that ,it has
saved us the trouble of inquiring
what their effect has been. It tells
us they have " rendered the sovereign
worth two sovereigns.' 1 ' 1 In other words,
they have doubled the whole debt,
public and private, of the country
doubled the weight of mortgages and
family settlements, as well as taxes,
poor-rates, and all public or local bur-
dens ; and in most trades and occupa-
tions, as a necessary consequence of
these changes, halved the remunera-
tion of industry. Nothing more is
requisite to explain the extraordinary
combination of immense wealth in
some classes, with frightful poverty in
others of private riches and public
penury of general splendour with
national weakness of overflowing
capital with increasing destitution,
which has so long formed the charac-
teristic of the British empire.
The only sensible relief which in-
dustry obtained during this long pe-
riod of disaster was derived from the
silent but constant increase of the pro-
duce of the mines of gold and silver
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
11
in the Ural and Altai mountains of
Russia, which have now come to pro-
duce from three to four millions ster-
ling. This increase, however, did no
more than supply the deficit occa-
sioned by the ruin of the South Ame-
rican mines from the effect of the re-
volutions which, since we " called a
new world into existence," have never
ceased to desolate that unhappy quar-
ter of the globe ; and they made no
provision for the wants of the globe
when population in Russia was dou-
bling every sixty, in Britain every
eighty, in America every five-and-
twenty years. Meanwhile the Eng-
lish government, which might with
ease have arrested the evil, so far at
least as this country is concerned, by
an issue of paper adequately secured
proportioned to the wants of its in-
creasing and active inhabitants, not
only made no attempt to do so, but
adopted additional measures to con-
tract the currency, and render it
entirely dependent on the retention of
gold and silver in the country. This,
under the Free-Trade system, whick
required a balance of some thirty or
forty millions of imports over exports
to be paid in specie, soon became a
matter of impossibility. Thence the
terrible monetary crisis of October
1847, from the effects of which the
nation is far from having yet recover-
ed ; and thence the certainty of similar
catastrophes in every year in which
a deficient harvest, or other causes,,
should produce an unusual drain upon
the metallic resources of the country*
But the experience of these evils,
and the certainty of their periodical
recurrence, had no effect whatever in
altering our monetary policy, so
strongly were the moneyed classes
intrenched in the citadel of power.
The case of mankind and industry
seemed hopeless ; nothing but a long
and painful decline, like that which,
from similar causes, overtook Rome,
seemed to a\vait the British empire,
when Providence in pity to mankind
interposed. The Americans con-
quered California a few grains of
gold were discovered in digging a
mill-race human folly was arrested
the destinies of the world were
changed.
To appreciate the immense conse-
quences of this most important event,
B
18
we have only to cast our eyes back on
the ruinous effects of the contraction
of the currency by our own acts during
the thirty preceding years, and to re-
flect that all those effects must now be
reversed. When we consider that Cali-
fornia has only been spreading its
treasures through the world for two
years, and that already the annual
supply has come to exceed 20,000,000
sterling, while, in addition to this,
other gold mines of rival richness
have been discovered in Australia, it
may safely be affirmed that the conse-
quence of the change upon human hap-
piness will be incalculable. The tripling
the annual supply of the precious metals
for the use of the globe must come,
gradually indeed, like all the changes
induced by nature, but in the end
certainly and decisively, to change
prices. That universal fall which our
rulers, governed by the moneyed inte-
rest, have so long laboured with such
success to effect, will be at first ar-
rested, and then turned into a rise.
The weight of debts, taxes, and pub-
lic burdens will be diminished, from
the increased means of those who are
to provide for them. Labour will be
again adequately remunerated, be-
cause its produce, instead of con-
stantly declining, will be constantly
advancing in price. Instead of credit
being everywhere impaired, profits
ruined, and bankruptcy induced upon
the industrious classes, by the con-
tinual fall in the price of the articles
in which they deal, credit will be
restored, profits revived, bankruptcy
averted, by their continual rise. This
effect is as certain, if the gold mines
continue productive, as that the sun
will rise to-morrow in the east, and
the day begin to lengthen after the
winter solstice. Within half a cen-
tury after the discovery of the mines
of Mexico and Peru, prices over the
whole world were quadrupled. This
effect has already commenced amongst
us ; but it has taken place as yet by
arresting a fall, not in inducing a rise.
It has appeared in lessening the disas-
ters produced by human folly, not in
revealing the blessings arising from the
wisdom of nature. Wheat, on an ave-
rage of the last six weeks, has been sell-
ing at 36s. 8d. a quarter ; but for Cali-
fornia, it would have been down at 32s.
Imported articles, as the Times tells
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
us, have all been selling during the
last year at from twenty to thirty per
cent below prime cost ; but for Cali-
fornia, it would have been from thirty
to forty per cent below that standard.
It may seem extraordinary to those
who are not practically acquainted
with the working of that most sensi-
tive of created things mercantile
credit to affirm, but it is neverthe-
less perfectly true, that the most
important effect of a steady and plen-
tiful supply of the precious metals
being obtained for the world is, that it
tends directly to support and extend
paper credit. The good it does is not
so much by the gold it brings zn, but by
the paper it keeps out. Here, again,
we have been furnished by human
folly with a gauge wherewith to mea-
sure the effects of the beneficence of
nature. All our mercantile and
monetary disasters, for the last thirty
years, have been induced by one cause
the considering paper, not as a sub-
stitute for gold, but a representative of
it ; and the establishment of regula-
tions, in consequence, to contract the
issue of paper when the precious metals
were withdrawn, and expand it when
they flowed in and became abundant.
This extraordinary and infatuated
system precisely the reverse of what
it should have been, since it tended
to increase the issue of paper and to
foster speculation, when gold was
abundant and it was not required, and
to add tenfold intensity to disaster,
by forcing it to be drawn in, and
credit to be contracted when the pre-
cious metals flowed abroad was
brought to a perfect climax by the
combination of our monetary with the
Free-Trade system in 1846 ; since
the last provided, in seasons of scar-
city, for the entire removal of the
precious metal, while the first forced
on a still greater contraction of paper
and credit, at the very time when its
expansion was most loudly called for
to avert ruin from society. Now this
is precisely the reverse of what takes
place from the influx of the precious
metals, owing to the mines of Cali-
fornia, Kussia, and Australia, which
is now going forward. It removes
the apprehensions of the moneyed
classes as to a drain of gold, from
the magnitude of the stream of that
metal which is continually flowing in;
1852.J
Political and Monetary Prospects.
and thus sustains credit in a durable
and lasting way, by removing the
terrors of its being withdrawn. Thus
prosperity goes on in an equal and
steady current, sustained by the peren-
nial stream of the precious metal
flowing into it from the reservoirs of
nature widely different from the
swollen flood at one time, and ruinous
drought at another, occasioned by the
selfish and tortuous policy of man.
Had it not been for the copious
stream flowing into the coffers of the
Bank of England from California,
which has sustained credit and con-
tinued prosperity during the last year,
there would, beyond all question,
have been a monetary crisis last au-
tumn, equalling that of 1847 in
severity. The immense excess of
our imports above our exports,
amounting to at least forty millions
sterling, must have occasioned such a
drain on the metallic resources of the
country, as would have brought down
the bank-notes in circulation to
L. 16,000,000, as in November 1847,
had it not been for the copious stream
from without, which constantly fed
the supplies of the precious metals.
The drain on the Bank of England is
said to have been L. 15,000,000
greater in the past than in any preced-
ing year : but what then ? The Free-
Traders had brought on the drain, but
nature had provided the supply. The
supply was L.15,000,000 greater also,
and so the coffers were kept full, the
bank-notes and credit were sustained.
Gold at St Francisco is now worth
only L.3, 5s. an ounce ; 2s. additional
an ounce will bring it to this country :
but the Bank of England are forced
by the act of 1844 to give L.3, 17s.
10d. to every person who brings it
to their doors. The consequence is,
that all this gold is brought to the
bank; and that establishment, to
meet the heavy losses thus occa-
sioned, is under the necessity of
pushing its business and circula-
tion as much as possible. Thence
the late lowering of discounts to
2 per cent ; thence the prosperity,
in great part delusive, which has
existed in our manufacturing estab-
lishments for the last year, so far as
the export trade is concerned. The
19
manufacturing prosperity, such as it
is, of the last year, therefore, is not to
be ascribed to Sir R. Peel's Free-
Trade policy, but to the beneficence
of nature having subverted his mone-
tary policy. Prices were sustained
all over the world to an unhoped-for
extent, credit supported, and indus-
try remunerated, in consequence of
the reserve of nature opened in Cali-
fornia having provided an adequate
circulating medium for the world.
In the vast and frightful augmenta-
tion of the emigration from these
islands, the increase of pauperism, as
measured by its real standard grain
the rapid decline of our shipping as
compared with the growth of that
of foreign states, and the ruinous fall
in the price of imported articles of
all sorts, from the failure of the home
market, in consequence of agriculture
having ceased to be remunerative, are
to be found the real effects of his
Free-Trade system.
ORGANIC CHANGE is the great cir-
cumstance which determines the fate
of nations, in which the public voice
has any weight, because it fixes the
class in which supreme power is to
be vested ; and that class immedi-
ately begins to exercise it for its own
immediate and supposed advantage.
Twenty years ago, when the Reform
Bill was introduced, we predicted in
this journal that it would, by the
vesting of three -fifths of the seats in
the House of Commons in the repre-
sentatives of boroughs, lead to the abo-
lition of the Corn Laws ; by the closing
the door by which the representatives
of distant settlements had hitherto
obtained an entrance to the Legis-
lature, to colonial alienation, and
in the end separation; and then,
through the effects of the discon-
tent and heartburnings produced by
these great changes, to a new Re-
form Bill, far more democratic
and sweeping in its tendency than
the one then under discussion.* The
world is now in a situation to judge
whether or not our predictions have
been verified, and are in course of
being so. It is a mistake to suppose
that it was Sir R. Peel's political wheel
which induced the repeal of the Corn
Laws, and all the incalculable conse-
* Blackwood's Magazine, May 1831, and Alison's Essays, i. 42, 43.
20
quences, social, political, and national,
with which it is fraught. He was
the immediate author of the change,
and history will judge his conduct in
becoming so. But what made him
undertake the experiment, and desert
all his former principles and friends
to carry it out? Simply the consti-
tution of the House of Commons by
the Reform Bill. He was an ambitious
man, who desired to make himself,
and long retain himself, the ruler of
the state. He saw that the colonies
were disfranchised, colonial represen-
tation destroyed, and British agricul-
ture thrown into a minority m the
House of Commons, and he acted
accordingly.
We do not profess, any more than
our contemporaries, to be acquainted
with the intentions of Government in
regard to the Reform Bill which
they have volunteered to throw out
to the country, in the hope of with-
drawing public attention from the
consequences of their measures. We
know from their speeches what the
Manchester school expect, and what
they will endeavour to force them to
concede and that is, in effect, univer-
sal suffrage. A forty-shilling suffrage
in towns as well as country, and in
leasehold property as well as freehold
and copyhold, and for lodgers as well
as householders, amounts in truth to
universal suffrage for what beggar
inhabits a room worth less than 2
a-year ? It is of more consequence to
consider what will be the effects of
this change ; and they will probably
be very different from what its
authors either expect or desire.
The first effect of household suf-
frage, or such an approach to it as is
in effect the same thing, will in all
probability be the RESTORATION OF
PROTECTION. Free Trade was .in-
troduced in direct opposition to the
whole previous policy of England,
solely in consequence of the suffrage
going down to the shopkeepers and
no further and those shopkeepers
being a majority both of the con-
stituencies, and" having a majority
of the seats at their disposal. Go a
step lower, and you will have passed
the class whose interest is to buy cheap
and sell dear, and come to the one
whose interest is to sell dear, because
they are the producers. Two-thirds
Political and Monetary Prospects.
[Jan.
of the present inhabitants of Great
Britain, 18,000,000 out of 27,000,000,
are engaged in agriculture, or in
the trades immediately dependent
on it. Will they continue to ruin
themselves by bringing in foreign
grain and cattle duty free? Will
the iron-miners and colliers, the
cotton-spinners and calico-printers,
the millwrights and engineers, the
cabinetmakers and working jewellers,
the glovemakers and hatmakers, the
tailors and shoemakers, support a
government which reduces every one
of their incomes to a half ? The thing
is ridiculous ! Look at France: what
has universal suffrage done there?
Established rigid protection by a
majority of two to one in the National
Assembly. Look at America : what
has universal suffrage done there?
Established by a majority of two to
one a duty of 30 per cent on all
foreign imported articles whatever. It
has done the same in Spain and Por-
tugal. Rely upon it, the workmen of
the British Islands will not be behind
their brethren on the Continent and
across the Atlantic in attention to
their own interests.
The next effect that will follow
such a sweeping reform will be the
confiscation of the whole, or a large
part, of the national debt, and with it
the entire destruction of mercantile
and manufacturing credit. Are our
rulers really simple enough to suppose
that, when they have vested supreme
power in three or four millions of
electors, these will go on paying
28,000,000 to the interest of debt
contracted, as they are told, by the
borough-mongers, and for their pur-
poses ? Will they resist the cry that,
by abolishing or applying the sponge
to a large part of that debt, they will
be able to abolish the entire duties on
beer, spirits, tobacco, tea, sugar,
coffee, and all articles of daily con-
sumption? What though their mea-
sures, by levelling a fatal blow at
public and private credit, should
prove destructive of capital, and the
means of employing the poor, or con-
suming their produce ? That is a
secondary effect, which never is per-
ceived or acted upon by the great
majority of mankind. Look at France :
what did they do when the National
Assembly established universal suf-
1852.]
Political and Monetary Prospects.
21
frage in 1793 ? Abolished two -thirds
of the national debt by a final decree
in 1797, after reducing the fund-hold-
ers to beggary by the issue of assig-
nats in the intermediate years. What
did universal suffrage lead to in
America? Repudiation of state debts.
Why are some of the States of the
Union who formerly repudiated now
paying the interest of their debts?
Because they derive 3,000,000 a-
year from the sale of the lauds be-
longing to the Indians, which by fraud
or violence they have contrived to
get possession of. If the Cape colo-
nists could discharge the interest of
their state debts by selling the Caffres 1
lands, doubtless they would be most
regular in their payments. But we
have no Indian lands to sell to pay
our state debts ; taxation, heavy
taxation on ourselves, is our only
resource. Will the masses, once put
in possession of the suffrage, submit
to that? Recollect the proverb in
America, " Free Trade is another
word for direct taxation ; and direct
taxation is another word for repudia-
tion of state debts." This terrible
measure, by ruining mercantile credit,
will of course utterly destroy and
overwhelm all the beneficial conse-
quences now within our reach by the
restoration of Protection with the
preservation of credit. Let a new
Reform Bill pass, and the period
when that is practicable will have
passed for ever ! It need hardly be
said that Calif ornian gold will only
alleviate the evils of Sir R. Peel's
monetary system. The evils of his
Free-Trade system will be perfectly
unaffected by it, because, by changing
prices over all the world equally, it
will expose the old state to the same
evils as now, from the competition
of the young one.
In this respect there is an important
observation to be made regarding the
present political state of France, which
is scarcely ever thought of. This is,
that France has gone through the con-
vulsions and confiscations of a revolu-
tion : England awaits them. In France
there are six millions of landed pro-
prietors, who hold among them nine-
tenths of the lands of the country ; and
two-thirds of the national debt exist-
ing in 1793 has been permanently
confiscated. When England has gone
through a similar fusion in her revo-
lutionary career, possibly our four
millions of electors, of whom three
millions shall have divided the present
landed estates of the country, may be
equally disposed to be conservatives.
It is no easy matter " from the rob-
ber to rend the prey." But our people
have not yet become robbers ; the
Chartists have the sweets of robbery
only in prospect, and we must not judge
of what the expectant robber will do
by what the gorged one is doing. When
our fund-holders are reduced from
800,000,000 to 250,000,000, and
our landed estates are divided among
four millions of new proprietors, pos-
sibly our universal-suffrage men may
in pity let the public creditors retain
a third of their wonted dividends, and
our new millions of landholders may
support an English Louis Napoleon.
Possibly, also, they may be content,
after a brief period of anarchy and
suffering, to support a scourging mili-
tary despotism, such as the realisation
of the dreams of the reformers has
induced in the neighbouring kingdom.
Dramas by William Smith.
[Jan,
DRAMAS BY WILLIAM SMITH.
HIDDEN behind a pile of books,
the fearful accumulation of exactly
five years many indicating that
far greater pains had been success-
fully bestowed upon adorning the ex-
teriors than fitting the interiors for
the fastidious eye of the true public
there lay, till a few weeks ago, dusky
with reproachful and significant dust,
a small, homely-looking volume, dis-
figured by no affectation of any kind,
bearing the title which is placed at
the head of this article. Surely, it
may be feared that such a title-page,
so inscribed, constitutes, on the very
view, a safe and speedy passport to
neglect and oblivion ! We think, in-
deed, that we have somewhere met
with a sensible observation concern-
ing the force of " a name," in answer
to the question " What's in a name?"
and the answer concerns a rose,
sweet smelling, with a profound hint
that its rich odour might possibly not
be affected, were the rose to be called
by any other name ! Nevertheless a
pretty large class of readers in the
present day may be dealt leniently
with, for feeling a natural squeamish-
ness on seeing poetry "by Mr Smith."
It may, indeed, be worth speculating
concerning the reception which the
two little poems, V Allegro and II
Penseroso, would meet with, if the
prestige of Mr Milton's name could
melt into that of Mr Smith now-a-
days a very incarnation of 'Owns.
One or two of the critical journals of
the day might vouchsafe a patronising
glance at the pretty but quaint and
out-of-the-way verses, with a some-
what affected title, " by a Mr Smith :"
and gentle Mr Smith would then see
his poor twin-flowers of poesy trod-
den under foot and forgotten. Could,
on the other hand, a Chatterton of
1851 contrive, with still greater suc-
cess than he exhibited in the case of
Rowley, to put forward one or two
little fragmentary dramas, so as to
beget a general belief that they were
the real relics of William Shakspeare
would not the world run wild within
a month or two's time, and the fortu-
nate finder and publisher cf the pre-
cious MS. be rubbing their hands, and
each shaking the other's in a sort of
ecstasy, felicitating themselves on
their good fortune, and congratulat-
ing the public on its discriminating
astuteness? In vain might we anxious-
ly and resolutely attempt to stem the
torrent ; our indignant whisper of
misgiving would be lost amidst the
deafening universal roar of the confi-
dent Eureka ! After our readers shall
have discussed this knotty problem,
we would recall them to the little
volume before us. Scarcely knowing
how we came to do so, we blew off
some of the dust which had settled
upon it ; and opening it in anything
but a hopeful mood, lit on the following
exquisite lines, which the author puts
into the mouth of a beautiful be-
trothed, dying, broken-hearted, be-
cause of her lover's sudden and ruth-
less desertion. Bianca, with her
confidante, is in the chapel, where,
some time before, she was about to
have been wedded, and is gazing at
the monuments of the early dead :
" I will be patient that I promise you {
Nor speak of pain that is immedicable,
Nor vex with outcries, knowing none can help.
I fix my rest at one step from the grave,
I will live neighbourly with death, Vllwatclt
The white reflection from his marble home
Steal on my quiet check, and settle there,
And, smiling, note how, day by day^ I grow
To the complexion of that statue pale,
Which soon will lie upon my monument."
" Quaint image ! that within thy little
porch
Built o'er the peaceful tomb, kneels day and
night,
Day and night prays before that holy book
Would one could rob thee of thy marble
heart,
Which thou dost keep so sure ! What think
you now ?
Might not one kneel beside this figure here,
Beside it, in the self-same attitude,
So bow the head, so at the bosom join
The upraised palms with gentle pressure met r
Until one drew its quiet from the stone 1
Until the marble half our sorrow felt,
And we took half its cold torpidity ?
This were a trick fantastic, yet the heart
Might find its gain therein."
Dramas. By WILLIAM SMITH. London, Pickering.
1852.]
Dramas by William Smith.
23
Mr Smith must forgive us if we
assure him that both he and his
name passed away from our thoughts,
while we sate down, book in hand, to
see whether it sustained the suddenly
disclosed promise. The next passage
which attracted our eye was the
following, occurring in the same
drama, (Guidone.) Guidone, the
father of Bianca, is a banished noble-
man, who, having aided the guilty
Manfred in the murder of his royal
brother Conrad, is standing con-
science-stricken in the gallery of a
Gothic castle, witnessing a midnight
thunder-storm :
" Enter GUIDONE, (the tempest increasing.)
Let the storm on it broke no calm in me,
Nor to my mind brings added turbulence.
Rather it stills tumultuous thoughts within
To watch the uproar of these elements,
The rushing wind, and the loud hissing rain,
And lightning pale that scrawls with hurried
hand
Huge hieroglyphics on the screen of night,
Balking the dazzled vision of the seer,
Who fain would read that writing on the
wall.
Peal on, ye thunders ! and urge all your
fires,
Ye quick- repeated lightnings ! till ye threat
The nations with a molten firmament !
For while your dreadful pageant is displayed,
The vulture conscience something will relax
The fixture of his talons, and surcease
The secret and unutterable wound.
Oh, that ye powers, so strong to ruinate,
Whirlwind, and torrent, and the forky
blaze-
Might enter in the Past, and ruin there !
And strike the life that has been! Oh.
that is !
That ever must endure while I endure."
These glimpses of beauty and
power induced us to turn to another,
one of the earliest passages of this
little book; and there we stumbled
on a passage of a different character,
but exhibiting poetry of a high order.
It occurs in Sir William Crichton, the
first of the three dramas before us.
A gallant young nobleman, Douglas,
the son of the sixth Earl Douglas,
encounters, in his father's castle, a
moody and mysterious monk, who
has come on a mission to the earl
from his abbot, soliciting protection
from the Borderers, who are threaten-
ing his monastery. The young noble-
man, telling him that the earl is ab-
sent, invites the monk to remain till
the earl's return, making " the castle
his monastery." He is good-
humouredly twitted by Douglas and
his companion, Sir James Hamilton,
with the contrast between castle and
cloister, suggested to be so greatly
to the advantage of the former :
" Hamilton. Yours,
Good monk, must be imaginative very,
If it make one of Douglas castle. Look
Around you, man ! Some change of scene,
I ween,
This from your cloister.
Monk. ( Who, as he proceeds, lapses into ab-
straction, and speaks to himself.) Yes,
your walls are hung
With instruments of carnage, and they wave
With plume and banner, all the flaunting
pomp
That celebrates the death ye deal a pomp
Far sadder than the black funereal pall
That tells of death received. To one who
creeps
Forth from his solitude, how strange appear
The old insanities of life ! how passing
strange
This tiger-hearted monster men adorn,
Caress, and fondle at their very hearths.
Yon glittering lance that leans against the wall
So gracefully, and catches on its point
The beam it plays with, soon shall lose its
glitter,
And its proud owner hold it to the skies,
And boast the stain it bears of human blood !
Some change of scene, in truth, this martial
hall
From the monk"s chapel, with its altar spread
With book and cross, devotion's implements,
And all the quiet furniture of prayer.
Some change of scene but there is that
within
Makes all external scene, whatever it be,
Mere dream and phantasm merely moving
cloud
Athwart some pale and stationary thought.
Doug. Stay give me leave it is an idle
whim;
Let me a moment try this ghostly garb.
Give me the sable gown, its hood and cord;
Take you the velvet cloak take the sword
too.
Gives it no titillation to the palm ?
Catch you no fever from the hilt of it ?
Now for your robe. (Puts it on.
Ham. By Jove ! a comely monk
A very modest, gentle saint.
Doug. (Pacingtoandfroin.it.) Think,
Hamilton,
Oh do but only think what it must be
To wrap this shroud around a heart still
warm,
To walk in grave-clothes in the open day,
And see the sun reanimate all things
Except the dead and thee ! How the mere
garb
Infects the imagination ! Now methinks
I am a monk. I pace the pillared cloister
From shaft to shaft a moving shadow there,
Blotting the light a moment silently
From pavement mute as monumental stone ;
Or else I stand beneath the half-lit arch,
Musing, and as the marble stationary,
24
My life wound up, and nothing left to do
But weary heaven with prayers monotonous,
Which failing of all other end, do still
Lull the poor beadsman like a nurse's rhyme.
Or else I pass the day in some lone cell,
Watching the sanded hour-glass ; the same
sand
Is ever falling there, and the same thought
Falls ever with it. Time in those haunts
moves on,
But nothing moves with time, which there
revolves
Like a loose wheel in some crushed mechan-
ism,
Whose sick and feeble motion spends itself
On its own inane circle. God ! there are
Who quit thy sun, thy skies, and the green
earth,
The stir, the animation of this world,
Friendship, and love's sweet ecstasy which
last
In Heaven itself were still a second Heaven
To shut them in dark walls, and talk to Thee,
To Thee God of the beautiful ! in groans !
Oh, 'tis the devil's sin, sullen rebellion,
Or pitiable madness ; either way
A fate intolerable. Take, take your gown
Give me my cloak give me my sword
again
Once more I am a living and a Christian man.
Monk. The time may come when, putting
on this garb,
Your wish shall be to clothe as easily
Your spirit in its torpid quietude."
In this finely-conceived contrast it
is difficult to which to award the palm
of just and eloquent reflection, whether
to the monk or to the soldier; but who
cannot sympathise with the meditative
soldier, realising to himself the moon-
lit solitude " of the pillared cloister,"
and the feelings of mournful loneliness
which it excites within him, in his
temporary state of dead-alive?
It seemed out of all question that we
should return such a volume as this
to its undeserved and desolate quin-
quennium of solitude and neglect ; for
it seems that exactly five years have
elapsed since it was modestly issued
from the press. We will now make
amends dealing, however, justly as
well as generously. Before charac-
terising, as it has appeared to us, the
author's mind, which is very clearly
mirrored in these pages, and exhibits
a somewhat peculiar idiosyncracy, but
decided by the attributes of genius, we
shall present the reader with a slight
account of the structure of each of
the three dramas before us. They
all lie far out of the beaten track of
play-wrights ; they all exhibit high
pOAver, but of a somewhat sombre
aspect, for which the author, perhaps
Dramas by William Smith.
[Jan.
unintentionally, has enabled us, as
we shall presently show, pretty satis-
factorily to account ; all are liable to
similar criticism ; and all are preg-
nant with valuable suggestions to
minds of kindred power with the
author, but endowed more liberally
than himself with qualities essential
to dramatic success, or with a greater
disposition to aim at attaining it.
I. Sir William Crichton\s founded on
a gloomy passage in Scottish history,
about the middle of the fifteenth
century. The leading characters are
the youthful James II. ; his sanguin-
ary Chancellor, Sir William Crichton ;
William, the sixth Earl of Douglas,
and his son. The nature of the con-
nection between these personages,
and their doings, will be found
clearly and eloquently set forth in
the first book of Robertson's History
of Scotland. Crichton, a man of
signal ability, had been the minister
of James I., and thoroughly imbued
with the policy on which that able
king had acted, of humbling his arro-
gant and dangerously powerful nobi-
lity. On the murder of James I.,
Crichton became the regent of Scot-
land during the minority of James
II. ; and, bent upon pursuing the same
policy towards the nobility, but in a
far more rigorous spirit, rendered
himself infamous by deco} r ing one of
the greatest of them, William, the
sixth Earl of Douglas, and his brother,
to Edinburgh castle, where he mur-
dered them both. On the accession
of James II., Crichton became his
chancellor ; and in the same fiendish
spirit, but with aggravated baseness,
so far corrupted the heart of the
youthful monarch, as to prevail on
him to decoy the seventh Earl of
Douglas, by a false safe-conduct, to
Stirling castle, and there murder
him. The nobles of Scotland, bent
on avenging such ^diabolical trea-
chery and murder, entered into an all
but overwhelming conspiracy against
the king, which the young Earl of
Douglas joined. He at length led an
army into the field, to encounter the
king near Abercorn, where might
have been fought the battle which
would decide whether a Stuart or
a Douglas was to tenant the Scot-
tish throne. Probably owing to the
potent agency of Crichton in inspir-
1852.]
Dramas by William Smith.
ing distrust and disaffection among
the young earl's leading followers,
he was suddenly deserted at the ele-
venth hour, and obliged to fly for his
life to England. On the basis of
these facts Mr Smith has constructed
his drama, his plot centring in the
loves of young Douglas, the son of
the sixth earl, and Margaret, the
daughter of Sir William Crichton.
She knows who her lover is the son
of her father's mortal enemy ; but her
lover does not know her as the
daughter of Sir William Crichton,
who has concealed her as a recluse, in
one of his castles, forbidding her to
disclose .her true position or name.
While the lovers are engaged in fond
converse, a messenger arrives breath-
lessly, and announces to him, in her
presence, the murder of his father by
the king and Sir William Crichton.
The young earl vows vengeance on Sir
William Crichton, her father; and,
without then disclosing herself as his
daughter, she interchanges with her
lover a ring for a dagger : with the
latter she declares that she will re-
lease herself from any marriage which
may be forced upon her ; and she
places the ring, containing her father's
crest and her own name, on his finger,
enjoining him not to look on it till he
shall have gone far away. Appa-
rently one of the stanchest adherents
of Douglas was Sir James Hamilton,
whom Crichton, however, contrives
to detach from him by the offer of
a dukedom, great estates, and, above
all, the hand of his beautiful daughter
Margaret. On her father's authorita-
tively announcing to her her destiny,
she tells him that her heart has become
another's ; and on his pressing for
the name, hears with dismay that it
is young Douglas. After enduring
the indignity of a long interview with
her ordained suitor Hamilton, she
flies from the castle, aided by a
mask, to the tent of Douglas, at Aber-
corn. She has scarcely announced
herself, and her desperate situation,
before the king's forces attack those
of Douglas. A sentinel at the tent
door is driven in, and a party of the
royal troops rush in, headed by
Crichton, who is accompanied by
the treacherous Hamilton. Crichton
pointing with his sword to the sur-
prised Douglas, Margaret, suddenly
25
rushing forward to intercept the
blow, is killed in her father's pre-
sence ; who, on finding that it is
his daughter, kills himself, horror-
stricken, by falling on his sword.
Douglas is presently taken prisoner,
and the king, at the instance of
Crichton who announces the pledge
he had given, in the king's name,
that the earl's life should be spared if
he did not fall in battle offers him
the choice of natural, or civil death.
He answers, " Either death you will,"
and is led away, robed in the habit
of a monk. The play ends with the
bitter soliloquy of Crichton, at the
end of which it is, that he falls on his
sword. Such is an outline of Sir Wil-
liam Crichton ; and whether with a
view to actual representation, or to the
formation of a completely constructed
plot, as a mere reading drama, it is
easy to see how even only a mode-
rately fertile and practised invention
could have varied the circumstances,
so as to turn them to effective pur-
pose. As it is, however, the plot,
qua plot, is inartificial and imper-
fect ; and there are considerable
drawbacks upon the interest which,
ought to be excited by a dramatic
composition. The acts and their
respective scenes hang but loose-
ly together; the circumstances un-
der which Douglas and Margaret
become acquainted with each other,
so as to admit of his being ignorant
who she was, though she knew him
so well, and the expedient of the ring
and dagger, will not bear close exa-
mination. Nor can the reader be
easily reconciled to Margaret's fond-
ness for the man who avows that he
is hurrying to destroy a father whom
she has had no reason whatever
assigned to her for regarding as un-
worthy of a daughter's love. Yet
she embraces Douglas, declares that
she " still must love " him ; and after
he has rushed out of her presence, on
his deadly errand against her father,
no effort on her part having been
made to dissuade or thwart him, she
soliloquises solely on the probability
that, when he shall have seen her
name on her ring, he will think of
her no more ! She concludes by gaz-
ing at the dagger which he has given
her, and which she vows to retain
against the exigency of her forced
2G
marriage to another. We must be
excused for doubting whether we
should be justified in entertaining
any lively sympathy for such a hero-
ine. Nor is there anything said or
done by her subsequently, to kindle
any interest in her. The character
of the play is, of course, Crichton ;
and here, again, we find it impossible
to entertain any sympathy towards
one who avows that, in the prosecu-
tion of his political schemes for de-
fending the Scottish monarchy against
the overgrown powers of the nobility,
he has himself decoyed two of them,
by false pretences, to the scene of
their murder ; and uses all the weight
of his eloquence and influence with
his youthful sovereign, and but too
successfully, to prevail on him to per-
petuate a similar act of treachery
and murder. He tells the king that
"the Douglas must be crushed."
"But how?" inquires the alarmed
king.
" Crichton. I said,
Where justice cannot use Iter sivord,
She must the knife.' 1 ' 1
When the king is expressing the
horrors of remorse which must needs
attend the perpetrators of such enor-
mities, Crichton answers him in a
passage which gives the key to his
character and the principles on which
he acts. It is very powerful and very
repulsive :
" Crichton. Were there a priest at hand,
he would explain
Doubtless to anxious majesty, that ends
Of state, vast and momentous, ofttimes need
Strange means, and justify the means they
need;
And thereon would he promise to a king,
A docile king, the tender chastisement
Or liberal absolution of his church.
I am not skilled in cure of souls, nor care
To touch that stuff of which a prating race
Moulds the sick consciences of men. I know
Myself and my own deed therefore I walk
Erect, unswerving, to my destined goal.
But with the conscience of another, how
Can I, or any, deal ? How tell what aim,
What passion lurk within ? Can I be sure
He has an object higher than his own
Poor pelf or vanity ? Or that his soul
Be equal to his task, and that vile fears
May not yet rack him with the pangs of Hell
For doing Heaven's journeywork ? No hate,
No avarice, no ambition, no revenge,
That know I well, prompts me, or kindles me,
When unremittingly I still exclaim
Dramas by William Smith.
[Jan.
Our Carthage must be levelled Trith the
dust
The house of Douglas fall ! "
The dying soliloquy of this unscru-
pulous and sanguinary statesman is
in keeping with the character which
he had maintained throughout his
career; and with this soliloquy the
drama ends :
" I had a charge, a duty to fulfil.
I have fulfilled it, and the Scottish throne
Stands, now secure, supreme. Life's task-
work done,
And this dear flower, life's only sweetness,,
crushed,
Crushed by my hand Say, wherefore should
I live ?
Shall I live on for mere decrepitude,
And weak regrets ? live on till coward age,
Until the palsied, base senility,
Bring to my wasted, miserable heart,
Craven remorse for what I boldly did
In plenitude of reason and of strength ?
Let life end with life's purposes,
Mine was not futile so far well. All ye
Who seek revenge on Crichton, gather round
And see your wish accomplished.
Farewell, my child ! Farewell, my king !
Farewell, my foe ! And Scotland, O my
country,
Whom I have served, not, as soft flatterers do,
With boastful phrase, which honours much
the speaker,
But with harsh deeds, and bloody sacrifice,
Which taint the perpetrator fare thee well !
This too accept as victim on thy altar ! "
In strict accordance with the fore-
going" was Crichton's sketch of his
own character, in an early part of the
drama :
" Crich. As I entered,
I overheard you honestly avow
The monarchy was not your care. So be it,
Say 'twere the care of some one mad enough
To waste his life, to forfeit his good name,
To load himself with hate and calumny,
For what he deemed good service to the state,
Say such a one were bold, unscrupulous,
As daring in defence of monarchy
As others of their order is it Douglas,
The bold, the daring, that should censure
him ?"
The character of Crichton is elabo-
rately worked out, after a distinct
and undoubtedly very able conception.
It affords a signal illustration of the
working of the hateful and appalling
doctrine that
" The ends
Of state .... ofttimes need
Strange means, and justify the means they
need." *
Pp. 7-8.
Dramas by William Smith.
27
Why, what am I,
1852.]
By the blighting potency of _ this
doctrine, the statesman is unconscious-
ly converted into the scoundrel, blinded
to the metamorphosis by only the
splendour and vastness of his schemes
and objects. In profound self-igno-
rance, Crichton has mistaken his over-
mastering ambition for patriotism. _
One very remarkable character in-
troduced into the drama is that of the
Monk, who is brought into momentary
contact with the equally remarkable
Crichton. This monk is miserable
beyond expression, withering under
the pressure of some secret guilt,
which at length proves to be that of
atheism: he is "an af/jeows monk ; "
and the mental struggles which at-
tend his descent into such an abyss
of ineffable wretchedness are described
with no little power. One does not see,
however, why he is brought into COn- ^ QeW) W ith rough and sanguinary ton,
tact with Crichton, except for the pur- A path which they who follow me will tread
" King .....
If this alliance hold ?
A puppet set upon a gilded chair,
To hear petitions that it may not grant,
Clamours of wrongs it never must redress,
And crimes it dare not punish to sit there
The general scapegoat for their tyrannies,
Convenient target for their noble pride
To hurl a safe defiance at and still
The puppet sits by merest sufferance,
To be flung headlong out, it it but wince
As being sensitive to injury."
A statesman sternly contemplating
justice at the hands of posterity ;
" Crush. Ay, in the future, happier states
will rise,
And with them bring a gentler patriotism,
And that posterity, to which sometimes
I look for tardy justice to my name,
Nurtured in peace, will perhaps but execrate
The tainted virtue of such men as I.
That matters not.
Here, at my post, I labour as I may;
I hew, with rough and sanguinary toil,
pose of their having the philosophical
dialogue to which we have alluded.
Having thus freely expressed our opi-
nion concerning apparent defects in
the construction of this drama, we
have the greater satisfaction in saying
that it really abounds in such beauties,
both of thought and expression, as
render unimportant, and even invi-
sible, all these imperfections. We
shall string together a few gems.
Here is a father contemplating his
daughter becoming a bride :
" I must soon lose thee, Margaret the child
Becomes the bride the father is no more.
Our daughters die to us ev'n in the hour
They open to the world. If Death, who sits
A constant guest in all our homes, should
spare,
Contented with the wife we loved, should
spare
Awhile the daughter, she no sooner blooms
Than comes the licensed spoiler with his suit,
His open theft, and the new family
Begins by rooting up from out the old
Its choice, perchance its solitary flower.
Such nature's course. Torn from the bleeding
side
Is ever tliefair Eve that is to form
The next year's Paradise. And so the young
Gather their joys underneath the tears
Of aged eyes moist, perishable joys;
And scarce the dew has dried upon the leaf
Than they too fade. What other could be
hoped
Of fruit or flower from a world that hath
Death at its core ? "
Here is a jealous monarch's account
of the misery and degradation of mere-
ly nominal sovereignty :
With tender unhurt consciences, nor bless
The founder of it. To subdue and tame
A fierce nobility, to make supreme
The monarch, and with monarchy the law,
Here do I find a task a work to do
And I will do it."
Wisdom after the event :
" We can but fill the hour with its best deed,.
The knowledge which the tardy morrow
brings
Impeaches not the wisdom of the act
It came too late to guide."
Here is the rising sun of royalty
contemplating his approaching satel-
lites :
"Douglas. I prosper as men say; they
bring me news
Of cities burnt, of provinces laid waste,
Of Scotchmen slain; and then congratulate !
I prosper as men say; the war goes well,
I shall be conqueror, I shall be king.
I've had at least my courtiers, I can boast
My parasites and sycophants ; I know
How great men flatter, how they lie and beg;
How proud men beg! and for they ask
estates,
Lordships and bishoprics, not peddling pence,
Beg shamelessly, and with a pompous grace,
As begging were a noble privilege.
Oh, they may liken monarchs to the sun,
But I am sure 'tis not their brighter side
His planets turn towards him as they roll."
Wives and singing-birds :
" Hamilton. 'Tis with our wives as with
our singing-birds;
We catch them often by what sleight we can,,
And cage them, fluttering with impatient
wings,
28
And pecking furiously with tiny beaks;
But being once within their gilded bars
They grow more gentle, of their keeper fond,
Each movement pleasure, and each sound a
song."
Metaphysical scepticism :
*' The Monk (in an attitude of deep abstrac-
tion.)
Thought without object object without
thought
Impossible conceptions. Then the One,
The Absolute, is neither, or is both.
When, when shall I escape the revolution,
Hopeless of this interminable theme,
Which still eludes ajl seizure ! 'Tis as if
Some god lay dreaming, and his dream
behold,
It is the life we live, the things we are ;
And we the very substance of the dream,
Strive to expound the great reality
Of him the dreamer.
The very herb of grass
Which at my feet, from darkness into light,
Pushes its verdant spear, startles the mind,
Nor lets it rest, but goads it on again
To run its fruitless circle. Beautiful
Are hill, and cloud, and valley; but to me
All this fair nature is but as a mask,
Which hides its owner, and like other masks,
Tells constantly that it is there to hide.
And this her wondrous beauty, lost on me,
Is but the beauty of the sphinx, that smiles
Its dread enigma in the face of men."
Puzzled, profound, and miserable
monk!
II. Athelwold is a play infinitely
better suited to English taste, and
exhibits far higher manifestations of
the author's capabilities, than either
of its associates, Crichton or Guidone.
It has in it the warm and strong
pulsation of active, ardent life, cha-
racter, and feeling, and is constructed
out of rich materials, calculated to
excite and sustain curiosity and in-
tense interest. It has in it, in a
word, flesh and blood. Mr Smith
has adhered pretty closely to the
story, as it is given in Hume, who
takes it from that worthy Saxon
chronicler, William of Malmesbury.
One of our most learned modern
Saxon scholars, Dr Lappenberg,* tells
us that it is to be regarded as not
altogether false, and that it is "a
pearl in the romantic treasury of the
Anglo-Saxons." The essence of the
story is, that King Edgar, hearing of
the extraordinary beauty of Elfrida,
the daughter and heiress of the wealthy
Olgar, Earl of Devonshire, determines
Dramas by William Smith.
to make her
rumour
[Jan.
his queen, provided
has not exaggerated the
splendour of her charms. ^ In an
evil hour he despatched his friend
Athelwold, son of the half-king Eth-
elstan, and himself a gallant and fas-
cinating young soldier, to ascertain
how the matter stood, and, as the case
might be, woo her on his royal mas-
ter's behalf. Athelwold, however, was
so ravished by the sight of her beauty,
that all sense of honour and loyalty
was consumed within him : he trea-
cherously concealed the true object of
his mission, made love to her on
his own account, and married her.
He then returned to the king, assur-
ing him that fame had belied the
supposed beauty that he had found
her, in fact, a very ordinary person,
and utterly unworthy of the resplen-
dent position of queen of England.
Not long afterwards, however, the
king receives, through the intrigues
of Duustan, secret intelligence of
what has been done, and, to be
assured of the fact, intimates his in-
tention to pay the newly-married
pair a visit. Athelwold, filled with
consternation, contrives to anticipate
the visit of his royal master, and
discloses his treachery to his wife,
imploring her to save him from the
vengeance of the king, by concealing
and even disfiguring her beauty,
during the occasion of the king's visit.
She, however, is fearfully enraged on
hearing of the treachery which has de-
prived her of a seat upon the throne of
England, and, instead of concealing or
disguising, so heightens the charms
of her person and address that the
king is proportion ably entranced with
rapture, and inflamed with a very
natural indignation. He seizes an
opportunity to stab Athelwold in the
back, during an encounter in the
forest, and then marries his widow,
nothing loth. Conceive the famous
Dunstan to be a prominent actor in
these exciting scenes, and a compe-
tent dealer with men, women, and
incidents, and we shall be justified
in expecting great things. Nor will
the reader be disappointed. In our
review of Mr Taylor's dramas, in
our November number, we stated
that the character of this singular
* England under the Anglo-Saxon Kings, (by THORPE,) vol. ii. p. 138.
1852.]
Dramas Jnj William Smith.
personage, Bunstan, might be re-
garded and justifiably represented
under several aspects, and that Mr
Taylor had represented him as a
strange compound of religious enthu-
siasm and madness. We greatly
prefer, however, the Dunstan of Mr
Smith, who lives and breathes be-
fore us the haughty, ambitious, in-
triguing church- statesman ; a vivid
exponent of the genius of the Romish
Church arrogant, uncompromising,
exclusive ; in the pursuit of his great
ends, resorting to degrading expe-
dients, yet with such a reliance on
the execrable axiom that the end
justifies the means that he is (if it
can be conceived) not personally
degraded by condescending to such
expedients. This is beautifully ex-
plained by Mr Smith, in the words of
Athelwold :
" This Dunstan deals
In a dissembling policy, in arts
Tortuous and little for a noble mind;
And yet in him there is no littleness,
For all is done as task- work, wise or not,
For greatest purposes. This 'tis to be
One of your world- controllers ! I'd not stoop
From my own pride of virtue and of truth
To rule the planet."
A fine speech, dashed off with the
frank, shrewd spirit of a noble young
Saxon.
Mr Smith has bestowed much
greater pains on the construction of
this play than on that of Crichton.
We are introduced, in the first in-
stance, to a capital scene Edgar in
tender dalliance with his lovely mis-
tress Edith, whom he had not long
before carried off from a convent.
They are interrupted by Duustan,
who appears in the simple garb of a
Benedictine monk, authoritatively
bids her begone, and then severely
upbraids the king with his crime
against the Church. Discreetly re-
collecting his obligations to Dunstan,
the king yields to his rebuke, and is
rewarded by a very slight sentence,
by way of penance to lay aside his
crown for seven years, "except on
necessary days!" Edgar then in-
forms the archbishop of his designs
with reference to Earl Olgar's daugh-
ter, and of his having selected Athel-
wold for the delicate and responsible
mission. Dunstan is startled, and,
on the king's leaving him alone, ex-
claims moodily
" The only man who at the council board
Dares to confront me ! He is all in all
The only man
The only man who scans and
penetrates
My measures and my motives he is now
The favoured noble of our fickle king ! "
He proceeds
" Now Athelwold, I win thee for my friend,
Or, as my dangerous rival, tread thee down !
The cause exacts it, and I may not shrink,
That cause which makes of all this mortal
world
But one vast engine for its purposes,
And still works on, and pauses not, nor
spares,
Though every strained and shrieking cable
there
Is spun of human fibre."
On Athelwold's entering, an admir-
able and highly characteristic dia-
logue ensues between him and Dun-
stan, every word of which has an
emphatic significance. The following
passage speaks volumes :
" Dunstan. What is the nice adjustment,
moralist,
Of one man's penalty to one man's sin,
Weighed in the balance with that sovereign
sway
Of Holy Church whereon the fate depends
Of all this breathing world ? This pompous
king,
Selfish but shrewd withal, finds his own power
Linked with our sacred cause, and being full
Of royal imperfections, creature spoiled,
Caressed and tempted more than man can
bear,
We humour him, and lead along our path
With show of gentle force. His brother
braved
Our high authority and supreme rule,
And him we conquered, him we tamed with
blows
How could we else? and broke upon the
wheel
The stubborn rebel. The dread charge is
mine
To conquer guilt and error in this world;
Nor may I quit dominion, I must rule !
Ye children of the earth, who feel at worst
Simply your own sin and its punishment,
Who having to the priest told forth the tale,
With sighs and wailing, of repented crime,
And heard his pardon authorised of God,
Go straightway to the busy world again,
Unburdened save with some good purpose?,
(A load, alas ! but little burdensome)
How might I envy you ! tvith me ye leave
The past transgression mine the grief,
The constant sadness of this guilty icorld,
And I must render to a jealous God
Account of all my painful stewardship.' 1 ''
Dunstan tries to win over Athel-
wold to the Church, but in vain ;
and they part, Dunstan with omin-
ous words upon his lips :
Dramas by William Smith.
[Jan.
" Farewell ! And still, my lord,
Mark this who is not with us, is against."
On Athelwold subsequently com-
plaining to the king of Dunstan's
having become acquainted with what
Athelwold had concealed, and his
secret mission, the king intimates the
sinister means by which " the priest
learns all ; " and adds
" He has no love of thee :
But fear him not ; for were he twenty
Dunstans,
I will uphold thee."
The second act introduces us to a
-charming scene the secluded beauty
and her confidante in Earl Olgar's
castle. Elfrida is gently chafing at
the sort of imprisonment to which
her father's jealous fondness had con-
signed her:
" Elf. The earl, my father, lauds this soli-
tude,
Calls it his port, his haven of content,
Good reason doubtless has the good old earl
But what is port to us who never felt
The breeze upon our sails ? Oh, for one
cruise,
But one on the broad billows of this world,
Then afterwards to harbour if you will.
Gil. Why, thou art sailing rapidly to port,
With the blind boy for pilot, on his raft
That takes but one on board beside with thee.
Elf. Now would that I were but in Edgar's
court,
To play this fearful part amongst his thanes !
How glorious in some royal festival
To feel I was the queen of it ! "
She has, however, seen the fasci-
nating thane, and half owns that
he has successfully besieged her
heart; but she is in cruel uncer-
tainty as to his intentions the fact
being that he feels almost spell-bound
by her beauty, and distracted by a
sense of duty. The foUowing glow-
ing passage exhibits the contest that
is going on within :
" I in vain retreat
To this fair solitude the placid world
Of wood and water, hill and verdant plain,
Is all on fire with love ; the liquid lake
Glows with a beauty warmer than its own ;
In the soft air the breath of woman burns
Upon my conscious cheek; and nothing lives
O'er all the scene, as nothing lives within,
But one consuming passion.
A bride a beautiful and loving wife
Grant it a good the chief est good the sole
Notorious happiness for which we live
Why, in the name of reason, why alone
This woman's beauty ? Why her love alone ?
Could sweet affection from no eyes but hers
Look out upon me ? could no hand but hers
Give that soft pressure felt upon the heart ?
Are there no smiles, no beauty, none, but hers
In this wide world? Is all that's dear in
woman
Summed in Elfrida, that I must pursue
Her only at the hazard of my life,
And certain loss of honour ? Gracious
Heaven !
This madness even as I drag it forth
For utter scorn and mockery lo, my heart
Claims as her own ! I'm blotted from the
list
Of reasonable beings ! lost ! lost ! lost !
But one resolve but one the spell were
broke !
My horse ! my horse ! with spurs into his
flanks
I'll ride to Edgar tell the blazing truth
As far as tongue can speak it, and then fly
For ever these detested shores."
Elfrida's entrance heightens the
tumult ; but, after a desperate effort,
he resolves to fly from the scene so
destructive of his honour, but is
suddenly encountered by Olgar, in
whom he finds a very unexpected
ally, and the king a sore enemy.
Olgar offers his daughter to Athel-
wold himself; passionately implores
him not to report her beauty to the
licentious king ; and they agree that
Athelwold shall " hide her beauty
in his false report."
In the third act we have a fine
scene between Edgar, Athelwold,
and Dunstan. The treacherous
thane has communicated his false
tidings successfully to the king, and
obtained permission to marry Elfrida
for the sake of her wealth. Dunstan
insinuates, very skilfully, but myste-
riously, that there is something
wrong ; treading so near to the truth
that he must have startled Athel-
wold, though the king does not
appear to have caught any suspicion.
After a stern and even fierce alter-
cation with Dunstan, the king and
Athelwold leave him alone, mutter-
ing to himself
" Dun. (alone.) He's in the toils en-
meshed beyond reprieve ;
He shall have time to wed his ruin fast !
And then but need is none I stir in this.
The court shall know it, and some gossip
there
Without a fee will bear it to the king.
Or stay the jester shall some afternoon
Keep majesty awake with the sly trick
That has been played him by his favoured
thane.
Oh world ! oh world ! how do thy passions
steal
On the most guarded bosom ! What means
this ?
1852.]
Dramas by William Smith.
I have no triumph here, and this man's fall
Is not for my advancement. Let me now,
This perturbation to subdue, retreat
Awhile to solitude and peace."
We soon see that Dunstan's was
not an idle threat: the king, with
Edith by his side, is approached by
his jester, who, after bandying with
Edgar some of his privileged comi-
calities, at length discloses, in a way
not to be mistaken, both the deceit
which had been practised on the
king, and the galling fact that he
has become the laughing-stock of
his own court! on which, forgetful
of the presence of poor Edith, he
breaks out
" Now, as I live ! ere many days are past,
I'll see this wife of Athelwold's ! Dunstan
Threw shrewd suspicions on the man, but I
Was resolute to disbelieve the priest.
If he have played me false made me his
jest
The jest has dug his grave ! He wins the
woman,
But he shall lie alone for this ! "
Edith, discarded by her royal lover,
is received with fatherly commisera-
tion by Dunstan, who atones for a
somewhat heterodox soliloquy some
time previously by the following
beautiful exhortation to his lovely
penitent :
" Dun. Grieve not so much that sin
Hath found a stealthy passage to thy heart,
As now rejoice that penitence hath tracked
Its subtle footsteps there. Sin and repent-
ance
These two give men religion and their God,
Their faith, their hope. It is not innocence,
It is not wisdom claims the skies for man,
Or wings his soul to immortality,
'Tis guilt that leads to the celestial gate,
And weeping mercy stands to open it."
The fourth act presents us with
Athelwold toying with his radiant
bride. She says
" You talk the sweetest wildness, Athelwold,
And give the sweetest kisses therewithal,
That ever lover dealt in."
Suddenly a spy of Edgar hastily
enters to announce the coming of the
king. Athelwold's guilty conscience
begins to manifest its uneasiness ;
and he expresses so much apprehen-
sion as to the effect of her beauty on
the king that she fondly chides him.
" I thought my lord
Too proud for jealousy. Oh, were this Edgar
The greatest monarch underneath the sun,
Outfacing him in splendour were he great
31
As were those emperors in the Roman time
When emperors were gods, or like the gods
In their world-government his offered
sceptre
Could not a moment shake my constant
faith
To thee and to thy fortunes."
At length he is compelled to disclose
what has happened, and the love of
Elfrida is consumed in the raging
fires of her anger and mortification.
We wished to present our readers
with the scene, but have not space.
It is very masterly at once a bold
and faithful portraiture of a female
heart, under the exquisite trial to
which it has been so suddenly ex-
posed. Her swelling heart is in
flames with defeated ambition.
" Oh ! what is this to be a sceptred queen,
To wear the robe imperial, to look down
From our serene and royal eminence,
With condescending and unruffled smile,
Upon all ranks below ?
( Walks to a mirror and stands before it.
Fair face, you were
Defrauded of your rights; these brows,
methinks,
Would not have misbecome the diadem.
What ! over-smear with some dull muddy
dye
This delicate soft cheek, efface its bloom,
Perhaps never to return ? Monstrous request !
A suicidal thought ! "
Elfrida arrays herself in all that can
add splendour to her beauty, and
Edgar, on his arrival, is overwhelmed
by the sight. As soon as he has
recovered from the first shock, he
requests her, and all others but
Athelwold, to retire. Who shall
deny that the king has a fearful ac-
count to settle with his faithless
thane ? Edgar is fierce, but not more
so than the occasion warranted ;
Athelwold desperate, but sustained
by a strong pride, under the cutting
reproaches of the king ; who, on Athel-
wold's refusing to fight with him,
commits him to the custody of his
attendant guards. Edgar soon intro-
duces himself to Elfrida, who, how-
ever, is shocked by the licentious
rudeness of his approaches. She fears
that the king's object is to make her
his mistress only, since he so readily
consents to spare the life of her hus-
band. Better thoughts return to
her ; her stunned fondness revives,
and is quickened by remorse. She
seeks and obtains leave to see her
husband in his prison.
32
Dramas by William Smith.
[Jan.
In the last act we see Dunstan
authoritatively demanding access to
the imprisoned Athelwold, to whom
he utters a stately exhortation to
take the vows, and so receive the
protection of the Church which
Athelwold sternly rejects, and Dun-
stan withdraws, leaving Athelwold
calm, but animated by implacable
resentment towards the faithless El-
frida, who had so readily surrendered
him to his fate. In this humour she
enters his apartment, and passion-
ately entreats him to forgive her, and
receive her again as his wife surely
a reasonable request, and one inspir-
ing us with high sympathy for El-
frida. It is impossible to peruse this
highly-drawn scene without emotion.
She offers to stab the king that night,
if Athelwold will but be reconciled to
her. She clings to him in desperate
embrace, but he repels her ; on which
she exclaims
" Great God ! if at the day of final doom
I stand at thy tribunal to be judged
nhc
For some unheard-of crime, let this repulse,
This agony, this penitence, and shame,
This deep humiliation I have borne,
Plead in behalf of mercy ! "
Athelwold, however, is inexorable,
and, maddened by his bitter, con-
temptuous reproaches, she suddenly
throws open the folding-door, the
guard rushes in, and Athelwold is
slain. The uproar, however, brings
in the king and Dunstan, who sternly
attributes the murder to Elfrida.
" Dunstan. Tigress ! Oh thou savage,
painted fair !
Thou beautiful ferocity !
Dar'st thou avouch this crime ?
Elf. I dare.
What is there now I would not dare ? I laugh
To-scorn your loud and tragic railings, priest
The deed is mine. Oh for still wider field
Of daring deed, and wild ambitious thought,
Where sense of crime in the bold act of crime
Is swallowed up and lost ! Let me look on
him.
Dun. (Taking lier ly the tcrist, and leading
Iter to the body of ATHELWOLD.) Have
thy wish. Look there simply, thou
fiend look !
Peruse it, note it well that blood-stained
cheek.
Now, go thy ways go wheresoe'r thou wilt
That bleeding form shall never quit thy sight;
Ay, turn aside, or close thy aching balls,
'Tis there traced out indelibly.
And I can meet it."
Then ensues a dialogue between the
murdress and the archbishop. Her
calm despair is depicted with thrilling
power ; but, somewhat unexpectedly,
she turns to Edgar, saying, " Now,
Edgar, I am thine." Dunstan vehe-
mently protests that he has not sanc-
tioned, nor ever will sanction, a mar-
riage under such guilty circum-
stances : but Edgar makes his nobles
do homage on the spot to Elfrida as
their queen ; and while they are suc-
cessively performing that act, she
suddenly falters, and, pronouncing
the name of Athelwold, falls with a
shriek upon his dead body, and the
curtain drops.
It should be mentioned that Athel-
icoldtf course, with considerable
curtailments was represented on the
stage, in Covent Garden theatre, un-
der the auspices of Mr Macready,
with great splendour and considerable
success.
III. Of Guidone the reader has
already had one or two glimpses.
Its dramatic action is still more
feeble than that of Cricltton; but
it is full of beautiful poetry, alter-
nating between strength and tender-
ness, and overspread with a cheerless
contemplative air, that would remind
one of evening sunlight shining on
sepulchres, suggestive of tranquil
but mournful loveliness. The author
calls Guidone " a dramatic poem."
Its name is derived from the leading,
virtually the only, character in it
that of a noble Italian exile, broken-
hearted and guilt-laden ; having
assisted Manfred, aspiring to be
king of Naples, in the murder of
his natural brother Conrad, and being
afterwards betrayed and banished by
the royal partner of his guilt.
Gtiidone's only daughter, Bianca,
long destined to Camillo by their
respective parents, is rejected by
him, because of his having formed an
attachment elsewhere to Fiorinda.
Camillo is a pensive, contempla-
tive youth, shut out, since his
youth, from the great world, and
rendered unlit for it. Instigated by
the Pope, the Count of Anjou makes
war upon Manfred, who betakes
himself in his extremity to Guidone,
who retains great military power.
Both Manfred, indeed, and the Count
of Anjou, by turns solicit his aid
1852.]
Dramas by William /Smith.
against each other, but in vain : he
is deadened in heart to the world,
and will interfere no more in its
concerns. Manfred is slain, and the
Count of Anjou mounts the throne.
Bianca's grief and broken-hearted-
ness are presented to us as though
we beheld a lovely flower crushed
under foot, and in death exhaling
sweetness. The moody mind of the
bereaved and woe- stricken Guidone
is soothed by turns by two visitors
a hermit and a minstrel introduced
simply as ethical contrasts, to ex-
hibit different views of life and feel-
ing. The poem ends with a gloomy
soliloquy of Guidone, on hearing of
the triumphant entry of the Count
of Anjou into Naples. The moral
of the poem is to be found in these
few lines, uttered by the hermit to
assuage the remorse of Guidone :
" As guilt brings terror on the soul of man,
So calm returns with penitence which
clothes
The form divine in mercy, and the heart
Of the bowed man in second spotlessness :
Begin new life, and enter into peace."
Here are one or two of the choicest
passages :
THE YOUNG SCHOLAR, AWAKING FROM THE
DREAMY SCHOLARSHIP OF HIS YOUTH.
" Camilla. There I stood, and conned
The ways, and passions, tempers, creeds of
men
Forgetting I was also man till joy,
Till truth itself, was what some other felt,
No property of mine. Life's creeping wheel
For ever seemed as 'twere about to pause,
Yet turned, and turned upon its toilsome
way,
With ponderous revolution once again.
And this God help me ! was philosophy ! "
WOMAN'S LOVE, UNA VOWED AND
UNSOLICITED.
" A woman's love, we know not yet avowed,
Solicited, or bruited to the world
Is so o'erruled by virgin purity,
And dignity serene of womanhood,
It is a harmless guest. A pleasing fear,
It plays observed upon the verge of thought,
Like silent lightning in a summer sky,
Whose lambent beauty does but hint the
power
Which may some other time be perilous.''
THE MURDERER, ANTICIPATING THE CURSES
OF POSTERITY.
" Hereafter, when our story shall be known,
As known be sure it will for deeds like ours,
Pile on them what we may, are not extinct,
But through the mountain obstacle will work,
And front its summit glare upon the world
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
Then, when the history of our lives is told,.
This coward slaughter of a trustful guest
Shall in the narrative stand last of all ;
And when the listener has of Manfred heard"
How he was subtle and unscrupulous,
And by ambition brought to deadly sin,
This ruffian murder coming in shall snatch
His memory from the gathered curse, and
turn
Aslant on you the damnatory close."
THE BROKEN-HEARTED GIRL AND DEATH.
" I will Sit^
Like very silence with her brow declined,
Her willow tresses streaming dense around;
And grief may pour its ashes on my head
Till the heap reach my lip I will not stir."
THE FUTURE.
" I could then stand,
Watching with folded, calm expectancy,
Before that curtain of obdurate woof,
Which limits mortal vision, whose dim folds
Perpetually do stir, but never rise.'"'
DEAD BIANCA.
" After long search,
I found her sitting on her mother's tomb;
Approaching, I petitioned her to leave
That melancholy spot. I spoke to one
Now as the marble cold ! Her forehead
leaned
Upon her arm as one who pensive sat,
Woe- wearied and forlorn ; but on her lip
The straggled tresses lay Death, rudest
wooer,
Now kneeling at her side, withheld the hand
That should have put them back.
Such are the three " dramas" before
us. They are well calculated to serve
the purposes of men of dramatic genius,
disposed to exercise their own powers
in constructing the professed drama,
or the novel, or romance. They will
teach, on the one hand, the conse-
quences of imperfect dramatic struc-
ture, of languid action ; but, on the
other, they give out in every direction^
bright sparks of suggestion, inesti-
mably valuable to vivid and creative
genius, principally indicative of novel
contrasts and combinations of charac-
ter, as well as unhackneyed situations
for exhibiting them effectively. No
one could have written these dramas
who had not read extensively, thought
deeply, and been, at the same time,
a man of refined and original mind,
exquisitely sensitive of the beautiful,
the tender, the true, and capable of
expressing his thoughts in language
at once exact, free, and, when the
occasion required it, picturesque. Mr
Smith's conceptions are always clear
34
Dramas by William Smith.
[Jan.
as crystal : it is evident that he sees
his own way with unwavering dis-
tinctness, and contrives to take his
educated reader along with him. That
companion, however, he continually
delights and surprises, by, as it were,
dropping at his feet rich pearls of
thought which he must fain stop to
pick up, to admire, and determine on
treasuring ; but he forgets, the while,
that both profess to have set out upon
a journey, and are like to be benighted,
or lose their way, or forget their
errand. On casting over, at the close
of one of these plays, the course of
thought which they have suggested,
one beholds the slight vehicle of plot,
of incident, of character, already
melted out of sight, but leaving, in
all its distinctness and entirety, the
poetical and philosophical spirit which
it had conveyed. And, in fact, to
deal justly by the author, this seems
to have been very nearly his professed
object, which we shall explain in
his own words. " In writing Sir
William Crichton, and also its pre-
decessor Athdwold, the author ad-
dressed himself immediately to the
reader and it was his ambition to be
read: but, at the same time, he has
been disposed to think that both these
dramas, after the curtailment of cer-
tain parts manifestly of too reflective
a character" that is, in one word,
after pulling down the building, but
leaving the scaffolding " would per-
haps be found not ill- adapted for the
stage. Guidone is strictly the
dramatic poem, and was written
without even this secondary, or the
most remote, reference to the theatre.
It aims at exhibiting rather states of
mind" here is supplied a true key to
the whole of this volume " than
individual character, and pretends to
no interest of plot or story." The
delineation of states of mind rather
than individual character, and the
subordination of action to reflection,
constitute at once the distinguishing
delights and the excellence of this
author ; and he seems to be aware of
it, yet unable to forego a secret yearn-
ing for the visible embodiment of his
musings upon the stage, linked with
a secret suspicion that it might be
ineffective.
There is yet another poem to be
noticed in this little volume the last,
entitled Solitude : it is short, but full of
beauty, and exhibiting occasionally
very subtle thought. If anyone were to
commence the perusal of this volume
with the poem in question, which
stands in it last, he would find, in
coming to the dramas, that he had
gained a very clear insight into the
mind and character of the author;
that of a man of refined and sensitive
mind of speculation rather than
action, of a melancholy turn, and
long habituated to solitary observa-
tion and reflection. Did he write
thus, with a sigh ?
" My thread of life stands still,
And the tired fate forgets the sluggish wheel,
And drops her song. Becalmed, yet anchored
not,
No breath of heaven of all the winds that blow,
Visits my nagging canvass ; never mine
The stir, the chase, the battle, and the prize.' 1
We must, however, draw to a close.
These dramas, though they have not
hitherto made any noise in the world,
and have come in a measure acci-
dentally under our notice, we think
entitled to take high rankiu literature.
They are manifestly the production of
a man of genius, and a well- trained
thinker on moral and metaphysical
subjects', some of the most difficult
and perplexing points in which will
be found touched in these poems
with the delicate yet decisive touch
of a masterly familiarity. We have
afforded many illustrations of this in
the foregoing extracts, which we could
easily have extended. It is delight-
ful to read, to hang over an author,
in these days of superficiality, sloven-
liness, and vulgar mannerism, who
does not meditate in order to come
before the public, but comes before
the public because he has medi-
tated that which he believes worthy
of their attention. In the present
case, we have reason to know that
the gentleman who has shown him-
self so capable of high excellence in
poetry is himself an acute and accom-
plished critic.
1852.]
Mont Blanc.
MONT BLANC.
TWENTY-SEVEN years ago when
children's books were rare presents,
and so were prized, and read, and
read again, until the very position of
the paragraphs was known by heart
I had a little volume given to me at
the Soho bazaar, called The Peasants
of Chamouni, which told, in a very
truthful manner, the sad story of Dr
Hamel's fatal attempt to reach the
summit of Mont Blanc in 1820. I
dare say that it has long been out of
print ; but I have still my own old
copy by me, and I find it was pub-
lished by Baldwin, Cradock, and
Joy, in 1823.
My notions of the Alps at that
time were very limited. We had a
rise near our village called St Anne's
Hill, from which it was fabled that
the dome of St Paul's had once been
seen with a telescope, at a distance of
some sixteen or seventeen miles, as
the crow flew : and its summit was
the only high ground I had ever
stood upon. Knowing no more than
this, the little book, which I have
said had a great air of truth about
it, made a deep impression on me :
I do not think that The Pilgrim's
Progress stood in higher favour. And
this impression lasted from year to
year. Always devouring the details
of any work that touched upon the
subject, I at length got a very fair
idea, topographical and general, of the
Alps. A kind friend gave me an
old four-volume edition of de 8aus-
sure; and my earliest efforts in
French were endeavours to translate
this work. I read the adventures of
Captain Sherwill and Dr Clarke
in the magazines of our local institu-
tion ; and finally I got up a small
moving panorama of the horrors per-
taining to Mont Blanc from Mr
Auldjo's narrative the best of all
that I have read; and this I so
painted up and exaggerated in my
enthusiasm, that my little sister
who was my only audience, but a
most admirable one, for she cared not
how often I exhibited would become
quite pale with fright.
Time went on, and in 1838 I was
entered as a pupil to the Hdtel Dieu,
at Paris. My first love of the Alps
had not faded ; and when the vacan-
ces came in September, with twelve
pounds in my pocket, and an old
soldier's knapsack on my back,
(bought in a dirty street of the
Quartier Latin for two or three
francs,) I started from Paris for
Chamouni, with another equally hum-
bly-appointed fellow student, now
assistant-surgeon in the th Hussars.
It was very late one evening when
I arrived at the little village of
Sallenches, in Savoy then a cluster
of the humblest chalets, and not as
now, since the conflagration, a pro-
mising town very footsore and dusty.
At the door of the inn I met old
Victor Tairraz, who then kept the
Hdtel de Londres at Chamouni, and
was the father of the three brothers
who now conduct it one as maitre,
the second as cook, and the third as
head waiter. He hoped when I
arrived at Chamouni that I would
come to his house ; and he gave me a
printed card of his prices, with a
view of the establishment at the top
of it, in which every possible peak
of the Mont Blanc chain that could
be selected from all points of the
compass was collected into one aspect,
supposed to be the view from all the
bed-room windows of the establish-
ment, in front, at the back, and on
either side. I was annoyed at this
card; for I could not reconcile, at
that golden time, my early dreams of
the valley of Chamouni with the
ordinary business of a Star - and-
G-arter-like hotel.
I well remember what a night of
expectation I passed, reflecting that
on the early morrow I should see
Mont Blanc with my own practical
eyes. When I got out of my bed the
next morning I cannot say " awoke,"
for I do not think I slept more than
I should have done in the third class
of a long night train I went to the
window, and the first view I had of
the Mont Blanc range burst on me
suddenly, through the mist that
wondrous breath- checking coup d'ceil,
which we all must rave about when
we have seen it for the first time
36
Mont Blanc.
[Jan.
which we so sneer at others ^ for
doing when it has become familiar
to us. Every step I took that day
on the road was as on a journey to
fairy-land. Places which I afterwards
looked upon as mere common halts
for travellers Servoz, with its little
inn, and Cabinet cTHistoire Naturelle,
where I bought my baton ; the
montets above Pont Pelissier ; the
huts at Les Ouches, where I got some
milk were all enchanted localities.
And when, passing the last steep, as
the valley of Chamouni opens far
away to the left, the glittering rocky
advanced post of the Glacier des Bos-
sons came sparkling from the curve, I
scarcely dared to look at it. Con-
scious that it was before me, some
strange impulse turned my eyes to-
wards any other objects unimpor-
tant rocks and trees or cattle on the
high pasturages as though I feared
to look at it. I never could under-
stand this coquetting with excitement
until years afterwards, when a young
author told me a variety of the same
feeling had seized him as he first saw
a notice of his first book in a news-
paper. He read the paragraphs above
and below and about it; but only
glanced at the important one, as
though striving constantly to renew
the vivid pleasure he had felt upon
first seeing it. The whole of that
week at Chamouni passed like a
dream. I started off every morning
at daybreak with my alpenstock, and
found my own way to the different
" lions" of the valley to Montanvert,
the Flegere, the Pelerins, and the
other points of resort : for the guide's
six francs a-day would have made a
great void in my student's purse.
With the first light I used to watch
the summit of Mont Blanc from my
room ; and at sunset I always went
into the fields behind the church, to
see the rosy light creep up it, higher
and higher, until it stood once more
cold, clear, mocking the darkening
peaks below it against the sky.
From long study of plans, and models,
and narratives, I could trace every
step of the route : and I do believe,
if any stalwart companion had pro-
posed it, with the recollection of what
Jacques Balmat and Dr Paccard had
done alone, I should have been mad
enough to have started on their
traces. I was in hopes, from the
settled weather, that some one would
attempt the ascent whilst I was at
Chamouni ; when I should immedi-
ately have offered myself as a volun-
teer or porter to accompany him.
But no one came forward until the
day after my departure ; and then a
lady, Mademoiselle Henriette d'Ange-
ville, succeeded in reaching the top,
together with the landlord of the
HOtel Royal, and a Polish gentleman,
who was stopping in the house.
When I came home to England I
had many other things to think about.
With the very hard work which the
medical practice attached to a large
country union required, I had little
time for other employment. One dull
evening, however, I routed out my
old panorama, and as our little village
was entirely occupied at the time
with the formation of a literary and
scientific institution, I thought I could
make a grand lecture about the Alps.
Availing myself of every half-hour I
could spare, I copied all my pictures
on a comparatively large scale about
three feet high with such daring
lights, and shadows, and streaks of
sunset, that I have since trembled at
my temerity as I looked at them ; and
then contriving some simple mecha-
nism with a carpenter, to make them
roll on, I selected the most interesting
parts of Mr Auldjo's narrative, and
with a few interpolations of my own
produced a lecture which, in the vil-
lage, was considered quite a " hit,"
for the people had seen incandescent
charcoal burnt in bottles of oxygen,
and heard the physiology of the eye
explained by diagrams, until any
novelty was sure to succeed. For
two or three years, with my Alps in a
box, I went round to various literary
institutions. The inhabitants of
Richmond, Brentford, Guildford,
Staines, Hammersmith, Southwark,
and other places, were respectively
enlightened upon the theory of
glaciers, and the dangers of the
Grand Plateau. I recall these first
efforts of a showman for such they
really were with great pleasure. I
recollect how my brother and I used
to drive our four-wheeled chaise
across the country, with Mont Blanc
on the back seat, and how we were
received, usually with the mistrust
1852.] Mont Blanc.
attached to wandering professors
generally, by the man who swept out
the Town Hall, or the Athenaeum, or
wherever the institution might be
located. As a rule, the Athenaeums
did not remind one of the Acropolis :
they were situated up dirty lanes, and
sometimes attached to public-houses,
and were used, in the^ intervals of
oxygen and the physiology of the
eye, for tea festivals and infant
schools. I remember well the " com-
mittee-room," and a sort of con-
demned cell in which the final ten
minutes before appearing on the
platform were spent, with its melan-
choly decanter of water and tumbler
before the lecture, and plate of mixed
biscuits, and bottle of Marsala after-
wards. I recollect, too, how the
heat of my lamps would unsolder
those above them, producing twilight
and oil avalanches at the wrong time;
and how my brother held a piece of
wax-candle end behind the moon on
the Grands Mulcts, (which always
got applauded;) and how the dili-
gence, jwhich went across a bridge,
would sometimes tumble over. There
are souvenirs of far greater import
that I would throw over before those
old Alpine memories.
No matter why, in the following
years I changed my lancet into a
steel pen, and took up the trade of
authorship. My love of the Alps
still remained the same; and from
association alone, I translated the
French drama La Grace de Dieu,
under the name of The Pearl of
Chamouni, for one of the London
minor theatres. I brought forward
all my old views, and made the
directors get up the scenery as true
to nature as could be expected in an
English playhouse, where a belief in
the unreal is the great creed ; and
then I was in the habit of sitting in a
dark corner of the boxes, night after
night, and wondering what the audi-
ence thought of " The valley and
village of Chamouni, as seen from the
Col de Balme pass, with Mont Blanc
in the distance : " so ran the bill. I
believe, as far as they were concerned,
I might have called it Snowdon or
Ben Nevis with equal force; but I
knew it was correct, and was satis-
fied.
In the ensuing seven or eight years
37
I always went over to Chamouni
whenever I had three weeks to spare
in the autumn. Gradually the guides
came to look upon me as an habitue
of the village ; and in our rambles I
always found them clear-headed, in-
telligent, and even well-read com-
panions. But whatever subject was
started, we always got back to Mont
Blanc in our conversation ; and when
I left Chamouni last year, Jean
Tairraz made me half promise that I
would come back again the following
August, and try the ascent with him.
All the winter through the intention
haunted me. I knew, from my en-
gagements in periodical literature,
that the effort must be a mere
scamper a spasm almost when it
was made ; but at length a free fort-
night presented itself. I found my
old knapsack in a store-room, and I
beat out the moths and spiders, and
filled it as. of old ; and on the first of
August last I left London Bridge in
the mail-train of the South-Eastern
Railway, with my Lord Mayor and
other distinguished members of the
corporation who were going to the
fetes at Paris, in honour of the Exhi-
bition, and who, not having a knapsack
under their seat, lost all their luggage,
as is no doubt chronicled in the city
archives.
I had not undergone the least train-
ing for my work. I came from my
desk to the railway, from the railway
to the diligence, and from that to the
char-a-banc ; and on the night of my
arrival at Chamouni I sent for
Tairraz, and we sat upon a bit of
timber on the edge of the Arve, con-
sulting upon the practicability of the
ascent. He feared the weather was
going to change, and that I was
scarcely in condition to attempt it ;
but he would call a meeting of the
chief guides at his little curiosity shop
next morning, and let me know the
result. I made up my mind, at the
same time, to walk as much as I
could ; and, on the second day of my
arrival, I went twice to the Mer de
Glace, and, indeed, crossed to the
other side by myself. In the court-
yard of the Hotel de Londres, on the
Friday afternoon, I had the pleasure
of making the acquaintance of three
young gentlemen, who had come from
Ouchy on the Lake of Geneva, with
38
the intention also of trying the ascent.
It was immediately settled that we
should unite our caravans ; and that
same evening, Jean Tairraz, Jean
Tairraz the elder, Jean Carrier, and
Gedeon Balmat, met us to settle our
plans. The weather had unfortunately
changed. It rained constantly : the
wind came up the valley always a
bad sign and the clouds were so
low that we could not even see the
Aiguilles, nor the top of the Brevent.
But so determined were we to go,
that, at all risks, we should have
ventured. Every arrangement of
food, covering, &c., was left to M.
Edouard Tairraz, the landlord of the
excellent Hotel de Londres; and it
was understood that we were all to
keep in readiness to start at half an
hour's notice. My young friends,
who had been in regular training for
some time, continued to perform
prodigies of pedestriauism. I did as
much as I could ; but, unfortunately,
was taken so poorly on my return
from Montanvert on the Monday I
suspect from sudden overwork, and
sitting about in the wet that I was
obliged to lie down on my bed for
four or five hours on my return to the
hotel, and, in very low spirits, I began
to despair of success.
All this time the weather never
improved : it rained unceasingly. We
almost rattled the barometer to pieces
in our anxiety to detect a change ;
and Jean made an excursion with
me to the cottage of one of the
Balmats the very same house spoken
of in my old book, The Peasants of
Chamouni who was reported to have
a wonderful and valuable weather-
guide, the like of which had never
been seen before in the valley, called
Le Menteur by the neighbours, be-
cause it always foretold the reverse
of what would happen. This turned
out to be one of the little Dutch
houses, with the meteorological lady
and gentleman occupiers. The lady,
in her summer costume, was most
provokingly abroad, and the worst
fears were entertained. Whilst, how-
ever, we were at dinner that day, all
the fog rolled away clean out of the
valley as if by magic. The mists
rose up the aiguilles like the flocks
of steam from a valley railway ; the
sun broke out, and M. Tairraz cried
Mont Blanc. [Jan.
out from the top of the table " Voilct
le beau temps qui vient: vous ferez
une belle ascension, Messieurs : et de-
main,"
We thought no more of dinner that
day ; all was now hurry and prepara-
tion. At every stove in the kitchen,
fowls, and legs and shoulders of mut-
ton were turning. The guides were
beating up the porters, who were to
carry the heavier baggage as far as
the edge of the glacier ; the peasants
were soliciting us to be allowed to
join the party as volunteers ; and the
inhabitants of the village, generally,
had collected in the small open space
between the church and the Hotel de
1'Union, and were talking over the
chances of the excursion for the
mere report of an attempt puts them
all in a bustle. We walked about
Chamouni that night with heads
erect, and an imposing step. People
pointed at us, and came from the
hotels to see what we were like. For
that evening, at least, we were evi-
dently great persons.
The sun went down magnificently r
and everything promised a glorious
day on the morrow. I collected all
my requisites. Our host lent me a
pair of high gaiters, and Madame
Tairraz gave me a fine pair of scarlet
garters to tie them up with. I also-
bought a green veil, and Jean brought
me a pair of blue spectacles. In my
knapsack I put other shoes, socks,
and trousers, and an extra shirt; and
I got a new spike driven into my
baton, for the glacier. I was still far
from well, but the excitement pulled
me through all discomfort. I did not
sleep at all that night, from anxiety
as to the success of the undertaking :
I knew all the danger ; and when I
made a little parcel of my money,
and the few things I had in my " kit,"
and told the friend who had come
with me from London to take them
home if I did not return, I am afraid
my attempt to be careless about the
matter was a failure. I had set a
small infernal machine, that made a
hideous noise at appointed hours, to
go off at six ; but I believe I heard
every click it gave all through the
night ; and I forestalled its office in
the morning by getting out of bed
myself at sunrise and stopping it.
We met at seven o'clock on the
1852.]
morning of Tuesday, the 12th, to
breakfast. All our guides and por-
ters had a feast in the garden, and
were in high spirits for the glass
had gone up half an inch, and not a
cloud was to be seen in the sky.
Nothing could exceed the bustle of
the inn- yard ; everybody had collected
to see the start : the men were divid-
ing and portioning the fowls, and
bottles of wine, and rugs, and
wrappers ; something was constantly
being forgotten, and nobody could
find whatever was of most importance
to them ; and the good-tempered cook
another Tairraz kept coming
forth from the kitchen with so many
additional viands that I began to
wonder when our stores would be com-
pleted. The list of articles of food
which we took up with us was as
follows :
NOTE No. 1.
PROVISIONS FOR THE ASCENT OP MONT
BLANC.
H6tel de Londres, Chamouni,
August 12, 1851.
Francs.
60 bottles of Vin Ordinaire,
60
6 do. Bordeaux,
36
10 do. St George,
30
15 do. St Jean, .
30
3 do. Cognac,
15
do. Syrup of raspber
do. Lemonade,
ies,
3
6
2 do. Champagne,
20 Loaves,
14
30
10 Small cheeses, .
8
6 Packets of chocolate,
9
6 do. Sugar, .
6
4 do. Prunes, .
6
4 do. Raisins, .
6
2 do. Salt,
1
4 Wax candles, .
4
1
4 Legs of mutton,
24
4 Shoulders, do.,
12
6 Pieces of veal, .
30
1 Piece of beef, .
5
30
35 Small do., .... 87
Total,
About half-past seven we started ;
and as we left the inn, and traversed
the narrow ill-paved streets of
Mont Blanc. 39
Chamouni towards the bridge, I be-
lieve we formed the largest caravan
that had ever gone off together. Each
of us had four guides, making twenty
in all ;* and the porters and volun-
teers I may reckon at another score ;
besides which, there was a rabble
rout of friends, and relations, and
sweethearts, and boys, some of whom
came a considerable distance with us.
I had a mule waiting for me at the
bridle-road that runs through the
fields towards the dirty little village
of Les Pelerins for I wished to keep
myself as fresh as I could for the real
work. I do not think I gained any-
thing by this, for the brute was ex-
ceedingly troublesome to manage up
the rude steep path and amongst the
trees. I expect my active young com-
panions had the best of it on their
own good legs. Dressed, at present,
in light boating attire, they were
types of fellows in first-rate fibrous
muscular condition ; and their sunny
good- temper, never once clouded dur-
ing the journey, made everything
bright and cheering.
The first two hours of the ascent
presented no remarkable features,
either of difficulty or prospect. The
path was very steep and rugged,
through a stunted copse of pines and
shrubs, between which we saw on
our right the glistening ice-towers of
the lower part of the Glacier des
Bossons. On our left was the ravine,
along which the torrent courses to
form the Cascade des Pelerins. The
two nice girls who keep the little re-
freshment chalet at the waterfall
came across the wood to wish us God
speed. Julie Favret, the prettier of
the two, was said to be engaged to
our guide Jean Carrier a splendid
young fellow so they lingered behind
our caravan some little time ; and
when Jean rejoined us, an unmerciful
shower of badinage awaited him. We
kept on in single file, winding back-
wards and forwards amongst the trees,
until we came to the last habitation
up the mountain, which is called the
456
* The following were the names of our guides, copied from my certificate of the
ascent : Jean Tairraz, Jean Tairraz, Jean Carrier, Gedeon Balmat, Michel Couttet,
Frederic Tairraz, Pierre Cachat, Michel Couttet, Franois Cachat, Joseph Tairraz,
Joseph Tissay, Edouard Carrier, Michel Devouassoud, Auguste Devouassoud, Francois
Favret. One guide I forget his name was poorly, and could not sign, the next
morning.
Mont Blanc.
[Jan.
Chalet de la Para; and here I was
glad to quit my mule, and proceed
with the rest on foot. From this
point the vegetation gradually became
more scanty ; and, at last, even the
fir-trees no longer grew about us.
The hill-side was bare and arid,
covered with the debris of the spring
avalanches amongst which tufts of
alpine rhododendron were blowing
and some goats were trying very hard
to pick up a living. Our caravan
was now spread about far and wide ;
but at half- past nine we came to an
enormous block of granite called the
Pierre Pointue, and here we reunited
our forces and rested awhile. During
our halt the porters readjusted then-
packs ; and some who had carried or
dragged up billets of wood with them,
which they found on the way, chopped
them into lengths and tied them on to
their knapsacks. The weight some
of these men marched under was
surprising. Hitherto we had been on
the ridge of one of the mighty
buttresses of Mont Blanc, which hem
in the glaciers between them : we had
now to cling along its side to gain the
ice. This part of the journey requires
a strong head : here, and towards the
termination of the ascent, dizziness
would be fatal. Along the side of
the mountain, which is all but per-
pendicular, the goats have worn a
rude track, scarcely a foot broad.
On your left your shoulder rubs the
rock ; and on your right there is a
frightful precipice, at the bottom of
which, hundreds of feet below you,
is that confusion of ice, granite blocks,
stones, and dirty roaring water, which
forms in its ensemble the boundary of
a glacier. The view is superb, but
you dare not look at it. It is only
when the loose ground crumbles away
beneath your rightfoot, and you nearly
elide away over the precipice you
would do so if the guide did not seize
you by the arm with the sudden grip
of a vice that you give up staring
about you, and do nothing but care-
fully watch the footsteps of the man
who is going on before. The path
goes up and down its gradual ten-
dency, however, is to descend ; and
in about twenty minutes we had
arrived at the bottom of the ravine.
Here we had another half- hour's
troublesome scramble over loose boul-
ders, which threw and twisted our
ankles about in every direction, until
at last we gained the second station,
if it may so be called, of our journey
another huge rock called the Pierre a
1'Echelle, under shelter of which a
ladder is left from one year to the
other, and is carried on by the guides,
to assist them in passing the crevices
on the glacier. The remains of an old
one were likewise lying here, and the
rungs of it were immediately seized
for firewood.
We were now four thousand feet
above Chamouni, and the wonders of
the glacier world were breaking upon
us. The edge of the ice was still half
an hour's walk beyond this rock,
but it appeared close at hand liter-
ally within a stone's-throw. So vast
is everything that surrounds the
traveller there is such an utter ab-
sence of any comprehensible standard
of comparison his actual presence is
so insignificant a mere unheeded,
all but invisible speck on this moun-
tain world that every idea of pro-
portionate size or distance is lost.
And this impossibility of calculation
is still further aided by the bright
clear air, seen through which the
granite outlines miles away are as
sharply defined as those of the rocks
you have quitted but half-an-hour
ago.
Far below us, long after the torrents
had lost themselves in little grey
threads amongst the pine-woods, we
saw the valley of Chamouni, with its
fields and pastures parcelled out into
particoloured districts, like the map
of an estate sale ; and we found the
peaks of other mountains beginning
to show above and beyond the lofty
Brevent. Above us, mighty plains
of snow stretched far and away in all
directions ; and through them the ice-
crags and pinnacles of the two glaciers,
Bossons and Tacconay, were every-
where visible. On either side of us,
at the distance perhaps of a couple of
miles from each other, were the two
huge buttresses of Mont Blanc which
form the channel of the glacier before
alluded to. Along one of these we
had come up from the valley : de
Saussure chose the other when lie
made his ascent in 1787. High up
the sides of these mountains were
wondrous cornices of ice of incalcul-
1852.]
able weight, threatening to fall every
instant. Pieces now and then tumbled
down with a noise like distant thunder;
but they were not large enough to be
dangerous. Had a block of several
tons descended at once, its momen-
tum would have carried it along the
glacier, sweeping everything before it ;
and of this occurrence the guides are
constantly in dread.
We rested here nearly half-an-hour;
and it was not until we unpacked
some of our cold fowls from the Galig-
nanis in which they were rolled that
we found our knives and forks had
been left behind. Tairraz thought
Balmat had them and Balmat had
told Carrier to look after them and
Carrier had seen them on the bench
outside the hotel just as we started,
and expected young Devouassoud
had put them in his knapsack and so
it went on. But nobody in the end
had brought them. Most of us, how-
ever, had pocket-knives ; and what
we could not carve we pulled to pieces
with our fingers, and made a famous
meal. The morning was so bright,
and the air so pure, and the view so
grand, and we were already so fa-
tigued or fancied we were that I
believe, if the guides had not beaten
us up again into marching order, we
should have dawdled about this Pierre
a 1'Echelle for half the day. So we
took our batons and started off
again ; and after a troublesome scuffle
over the grimy border of the glacier
we reached its clean edge, and bade
good-by to firm footing and visible
safety for the rest of the excursion.
The first portion of the journey
across the Glacier des Bossons is easy
enough, provided always that the outer
crust of the snow lying upon it is
tolerably hard. We marched on in
single file, the guides taking it by
turns to lead, (as the first man had
of course the heaviest work J amidst
cliffs and hillocks, and across sloping
fields and uplands, all of dazzling
whiteness. I here observed, for the
first time, the intense dark-blue colour
which the sky apparently assumes.
This is only by comparison with the
unsubdued glare from the snow on
all sides since, on making a kind of
lorgnette with my two hands, and
looking up, as I might have done at
a picture, there was nothing unusual
Mont Blanc. 41
in the tint. Our veils and glasses
now proved great comforts, for the
sun was scorching, and the blinding
light from the glaciers actually dis-
tressing. By degrees our road be-
came less practicably easy. We had
to make zig-zag paths up very steep
pitches, and go out of our line to
circumvent threatening ice-blocks
or suspected crevices. The porters,
too, began to grumble, and there was
a perpetual wrangling going on be-
tween them and the guides as to the
extent of their auxiliary march ; and
another bottle of wine had constantly
to be added to the promised reward
when they returned to Chamouni.
All this time we had been steadily
ascending ; and at last the glacier was
so broken, and the crevices so fre-
quent and hugely gaping, that the
guides tied us and themselves together
with cords, leaving a space of about
eight feet between each two men,
and prepared for serious work.
The traveller who has only seen
the Mer de Glace can form no idea
of the terrific beauty of the upper
part of the Glacier des Bossons. He
remembers the lower portions of the
lattfer, which appears to rise from the
very corn-fields and orchards of Cha-
mouni, with its towers and ruins of
the purest ice, like a long fragment
of quartz inconceivably magnified ;
and a few steps from the edge of
Montanvert will show him the icy
chasms of the Mer. But they have
little in common with the wild and
awful tract we were now preparing
to traverse. The Glacier des Bos-
sons, splitting away from that of
Tacconay, is rent and torn and
tossed about by convulsions scarcely
to be comprehended ; and the alter-
nate faction of the nightly frost and
the afternoon sun on this scene of
splendid desolation and horror, pro-
duces the most extraordinary effects.
Huge bergs rise up of a lovely pale
sea-green colour, perforated by arches
decorated every day with fresh icicles
many feet in length ; and through
these arches one sees other fantastic
masses, some thrown like bridges
across yawning gulfs, and others
planted like old castles on jutting
rocks commanding valleys and
gorges, all of ice. There is here no
plain surface to walk upon ; your
42
only standing-room is the top of the
barrier that divides two crevices;
and as this is broad or narrow, termi-
nating in another frightful gulf, or
continuous with another treacherous
ice-wall, so can you be slow or rapid.
The breadth of the crevice varies
with each one you arrive at, and
these individually vary constantly,
so that the most experienced guide
can have no fixed plan of route.
The fissure you can leap across to-
day, becomes by to-morrow a yawn-
ing gulf.
Young Devotiassoud now took the
lead, with a light axe to cut out foot-
steps and hand-holds with when ne-
cessary, and we all followed, very
cautiously placing our feet in the
prints already made. " Choisez vos
pas " was a phrase we heard every
minute. Our progress was neces-
sarily very slow ; and sometimes we
were brought up altogether for a
quarter of an hour, whilst a council
was held as to the best way of sur-
mounting a difficulty. Once only the
neck of ice along which we had to
pass was so narrow that I preferred
crossing it saddle-fashion, and so
working myself on with my hands.
It was at points similar to this that
I was most astonished at the daring
and sure-footedness of the guides.
They took the most extraordinary
jumps, alighting upon banks of ice
that shelved at once clean down to the
edges of frightful crevices, to which
their feet appeared to cling like those
of flies. And yet we were all shod
alike in good stout " shooting
shoes," with a double row of hob-
nails ; but, where I was sliding and
tumbling about, they stood like rocks.
In all this there was, however, little
physical exertion for us it was
simply a matter of nerve and steady
head. Where the crevice was small,
we contrived to jump over it with
tolerable coolness ; and where it was
over three or four feet in breadth, we
made a bridge of the ladder, and
walked over on the rounds. There
is no great difficulty, to be sure, in
doing this, when a ladder lies upon
the ground; but with a chasm of
unknown depth below it, it is satis-
factory to get to the other side as
quickly as possible.
At a great many points the snow
Mont Blanc. [Jan.
made bridges, which we crossed easi-
ly enough. Only one was permitted
to go over at a time ; so that, if it
gave way, he might remain suspended
by the rope attached to the main
body. Sometimes we had to make
long detours to get to the end of a
crevice, too wide to cross anyway ; at
others, we would find ourselves all
wedged together, not daring to move,
on a neck of ice that at first I could
scarcely have thought adequate to
have afforded footing to a goat. When
we were thus fixed, somebody cut
notches in the ice, and climbed up or
down as the case required ; then the
knapsacks were pulled up or lowered ;
then we followed, and, finally, the
rest got up as they could. One
scramble we had to make was rather
frightful. The reader must imagine
a valley of ice, very narrow, but of
unknown depth. Along the middle
of this there ran a cliff, also of ice,
very narrow at the top, and ending
suddenly, the surface of which might
have been fifteen feet lower than the
top of this valley on either side, and
on it we could not stand two abreast.
A rough notion of a section of this
position may be gained from the let-
ter W, depressing the centre angle,
and imagining that the cliff on which
we were standing. The feet of our
ladders were set firm on the neck of
the cliff, and then it was allowed to
lean over the crevice until its other
end touched the wall, so to speak, of
the valley. Its top round was, even
then, seven or eight feet below where
we wanted to get. One of the young
guides went first with his axe, and
contrived, by some extraordinary
succession of gymnastic feats, to get
safely to the top, although we all
trembled for him and, indeed, for
ourselves ; for, tied as we all were,
and on such a treacherous standing,
had he tumbled] he would have
pulled the next after him, and so on,
one following the other, until we
should all have gone hopelessly to
perdition. Once safe, he soon helped
his fellows, and, one after the other,
we were drawn up, holding to the cord
for our lives. The only accident
that befell me on the journey here
happened. Being pulled quickly up,
my ungloved hand encountered a
sharp bit of granite frozen in the ice,
1852.]
Mont Blanc.
and this cut through the veins on my
wrist. The wound bled furiously for
a few minutes ; but the excitement of
the scramble had been so great that
I actually did not know I was hurt
until I saw the blood on the snow.
I tied my handkerchief round the
cut, and it troubled me no more ;
but, from such hurried surgery, it has
left a pretty palpable scar.
Our porters would go no farther
promises and bribes were now in
vain and they gave'up their luggage,
and set off on their way back to
Chamouni. We now felt, indeed, a
forlorn hope ; but fortunately we did
not encounter anything worse than
we had already surmounted ; and
about four o'clock in the afternoon
we got to the station at which we
were to remain until midnight.
The Grands Mulcts are two or
three conical rocks which rise like
island peaks from the snow and ice at
the head of the Glacier des Bossons,
and, were they loftier, would probably
be termed aiguilles. They are visi-
ble with the naked eye from Cha-
mouni, appearing like little cones on
the mountain side. Looking up to
them, their left hand face, or outer
side, as I shall call it, goes down
straight at once, some hundred feet,
to the glacier. On the right hand,
and in front, you can scramble up to
them pretty well, and gain your
resting-place, which is about thirty
feet from the summit, either by climb-
ing the rock from the base, which is
very steep and fatiguing, or by proceed-
ing farther up along the snow, and
then returning a little way, when you
find yourself nearly on a level with
your shelf for such it is. A familiar
example of what I mean is given in a
house built on a steep hill, where the
back-door may be on the third story.
The ascent of this rock was the
hardest work we had yet experienced :
it was like climbing up an immense
number of flag-stones, of different
heights, set on their edges. Before
we got half-way, we heard them firing
guns at Chamouni, which showed us
that we were being watched from
the village ; and this gave us fresh
energy. At last we reached some-
thing like a platform, ten or twelve
feet long, and three or four broad ;
and below this was another tolerably
level space, with a low parapet of
loose stones built round it, whilst
here and there were several nooks and
corners which might shelter people on
emergency. We acknowledged the
salute at Chamouni, by sticking one
of our batons into a crevice, and tying
a handkerchief to the top of it ; and
then set to work to clear away the
snow from our resting-place. Con-
trary to all my expectation, the heat
we here experienced was most sultry,
and even distressing. Those who
have noted how long the granite
posts and walls of the Italian cities
retain the heat after the sun has gone
down, will understand that this rock
upon which we were was quite warm
wherever the rays fell upon it, although
in every nook of shade the snow still
remained unthawed.
As soon as we had arranged our
packs and bundles, we began to
change our clothes, which were toler-
ably well wet through with trudging
and tumbling about among the snow \
and cutting a number of pegs, we
strewed our garments about the cran-
nies of the rocks to dry. I put on
two shirts, two pairs of lamb's-wool
socks, a thick pair of Scotch plaid
trousers, a "Templar" worsted head-
piece, and a common blouse; and my
companions were attired in a similar
manner. There was now great acti-
vity in the camp. Some of the guides
ranged the wine bottles side by side
in the snow; others unpacked the
refreshment knapsacks ; others, again r
made a rude fireplace, and filled a
stew-pan with snow to melt. All this
time it was so hot, and the sun was
so bright, that I began to think the
guide who told de Saussure he should
take a parasol up with him did not
deserve to have been laughed at.
As soon as our wild bivouac as-
sumed a little appearance of order,
two of the guides were sent up the
glacier to go a great way ahead, and
then return and report upon the state
of the snow on the plateaux. When
they had started, we perched our-
selves about, on the comparatively
level spaces of the rock, and with
knife and fingers began our dinner.
We had scarcely commenced when
our party was joined by a young
Irishman and a guide, who had
taken advantage of the beaten track
:
44
Mont Blanc.
[Jan.
left behind us, and marched up on our
traces with tolerable ease, leaving to
us the honour (and the expense) of
cutting out the path. My younger
friends, with a little ebullition of
university feeling, proposed, under
such circumstances, that we should
give him a reception in keeping with
the glacier ; but I thought it would be
so hyper- punctilious to show temper
here, on the Grands Mulcts rocks,
up and away in the regions of eternal
snow, some thousand feet from the
level world, that I ventured on a very
mild hint to this effect, which was
received with all the acquiescence
and good temper imaginable. So we
asked him to contribute his stores to
our table, and, I dare say, should
have got on very well together ; but
the guides began to squabble about
what they considered a breach of
etiquette, and presently, with his at-
tendant, he moved away to the next
rock. Afterwards another "follower"
arrived, with two guides, and he sub-
sequently reached the summit.
We kept high festival that after-
noon on the Grands Mulcts. One
stage of our journey and that one
by no means the easiest had been
achieved without the slightest hurt
or harm. The consciousness of suc-
cess thus far, the pure transparent
air, the excitement attached to the
very position in which we found our-
selves, and the strange bewildering
novelty of the surrounding scenery,
produced a flowing exhilaration of
spirits that I had never before expe-
rienced. The feeling was shared by
all ; and we laughed and sang, and
made the guides contribute whatever
they could to the general amusement,
and told them such stories as would
translate well in return ; until, I be-
lieve, that dinner will never be for-
gotten by them. A fine diversion
was afforded by racing the empty
bottles down the glacier. We flung
them off from the rock as far as we
were able, and then watched their
course. Whenever they chanced to
point neck first down the slope, they
started off with inconceivable velocity,
leaping the crevices by their own im-
petus, until they were lost in the dis-
tance. The excitement of the guides
during this amusement was very
remarkable : a stand of betting men
could not have betrayed more at the
Derby. Their anxiety when one of
the bottles approached a crevice was
intense ; and if the gulf was cleared,
they perfectly screamed with delight,
" Void un bon coureur! " or " Tiens!
comme il saul bien ! " burst from them ;
and " Le grand s'arrete!" " // est
perdu quel dommage ! " " Non il
marche encore /" could not have been
uttered with more earnestness had
they been watching a herd of chamois.
It got somewhat chilly as the sun
left the Mulcts, but never so cold as
to be uncomfortable. With my back
against the rock, and a common rail-
way rug over my feet and legs, I
needed nothing else. My knapsack
was handy at my elbow to lean upon
the same old companion that had
often served for my pillow on the
Mediterranean and the Nile ; and so
I had altogether the finest couch upon
which a weary traveller ever rested.
I have, as yet, purposely abstained
from describing the glorious view-
above, around, and beneath us, for
the details of our bivouac would have
interrupted me as much as the ar-
rangements actually did, until we got
completely settled for the night at
least so much of it as we were to pass
there. The Grands Mulcts rocks
are evidently the highest spines, so to
speak, of a ridge of the mountain di-
viding the origin of the two glaciers
of Bossons and Tacconay. They are
chosen for a halting-place, not less
from their convenient station on the
route than from their situation out
of the way of the avalanches. From
the western face of the peak on which
we were situated we could not see
Chamouni, except by climbing up to
the top of the rock rather a hazard-
ous thing to do and peeping over it,
when the whole extent of the valley
could be very well made out ; the
villages looking like atoms of white
grit upon the chequered ground.
Below us, and rising against our po-
sition, was the mighty field of the
glacier a huge prairie, if I may term
it so, of snow and ice, with vast
irregular undulations, which gradually
merged into an apparently smooth
unbroken tract, as their distance in-
creased. Towering in front of us,
several thousand feet higher, and two
or three miles away, yet still having
1852.]
the strange appearance of proximity
that I have before alluded to, was
the huge Dome du Goute* the mighty
cupola usually mistaken by the valley
travellers for the summit of Mont
Blanc. Up the glacier, on my left,
was an enormous and ascending val-
ley of ice, which might have been a
couple of miles across ; and in its
course were two or three steep banks
of snow, hundreds of feet in height,
giant steps by which the level land-
ing-place of the Grand Plateau was
to be reached. On the first and low-
est of these, we could make out two
dots slowly toiling up the slope. They
were the pioneers we had started from
the Mulcts on arriving, and their
progress thus far was considered
a proof that the snow was in good
order. Still farther up, above the
level which marked the Grand Pla-
teau, was the actual summit of Mont
Blanc. As I looked at it, I thought
that in two hours' good walking,
along a route apparently as smooth
as a race- course after a moderate fall
of snow, it might be easily reached ;
but immediately my eye returned to
the two specks who had already taken
up that time in painfully toiling to
their present position. The next in-
stant the attempt seemed hopeless,
even in a day. As it was now, with
the last five hours' unceasing labour
and continuous ascent, the lower
parts of the glacier that we had tra-
versed appeared close at hand ; but
when I looked down to my right,
across the valley, and saw the Bre-
vent to get to the summit of which,
from Chamouni, requires hours of
toil : when I saw this lofty wall of
the valley gradually assuming the
appearance of a mere ploughed ridge,
I was again struck with the bewil-
dering impossibility of bringing down
anything in this " world of wonders" *
to the ordinary rules or experiences
of proportion and distance.
The sun at length went down be-
hind the Aiguille du Gout 6, and then,
for two hours, a scene of such wild
and wondrous beauty of such incon-
ceivable and unearthly splendour
burst upon me, that, spell-bound and
Mont Blanc. 45
almost trembling with the emotion
its magnificence called forth with
every sense, and feeling, and thought
absorbed by its brilliancy, I saw far
more than the realisation of the
most gorgeous visions that opium or
hasheesh could evoke, accomplished.
At first, everything about us above,
around, below the sky, the moun-
tain, and the lower peaks appeared
one uniform creation of burnished
gold, so brightly dazzling that, now
our veils were removed, the eye
could scarcely bear the splendour.
As the twilight gradually crept over
the lower world, the glow became
still more vivid ; and presently, as
the blue mists rose in the valleys, the
tops of the higher mountains looked
like islands rising from a filmy ocean
an archipelago of gold. By degrees
this metallic lustre was softened into
tints, first orange, and then bright
transparent crimson, along the hori-
zon, rising through the different hues
with prismatic regularity, until, im-
mediately above us, the sky was a
deep pure blue, merging towards the
east into glowing violet. The snow
took its colour from these changes;
and every portion on which the light
fell was soon tinged with pale car-
mine, of a shade similar to that which
snow at times assumes, from some
imperfectly explained cause, at high
elevations such, indeed, as I had
seen, in early summer, upon the
Furka and Faulhorn. These beauti-
ful hues grew brighter as the twilight
below increased in depth ; and it now
came marching up the valley of the
glaciers until it reached our resting-
place. Higher and higher still, it
drove the lovely glory of the sunlight
before it, until at last the vast Dome
du Goute^ and the summit itself stood
out, icelike and grim, in the cold
evening air, although the horizon still
gleamed with a belt of rosy light.
Although this superb spectacle had
faded away, the scene was still even
more than striking. The fire which
the guides had made, and which was
now burning and crackling on a ledge
of rock a little below us, threw its
flickering light, with admirable effect,
* " A world of wonders, where creation seems
No more the works of Nature, but her Dreams."
MONTGOMERY.
46
Mont Blanc.
[Jan.
upon our band. The men had col-
lected round the blaze, and were
making some chocolate, as they sang
patois ballads and choruses : they
were all evidently as completely at
home as they would have been in
their own chalets. "We had arranged
ourselves as conveniently as we could,
so as not to inconvenience one another,
and had still nothing more than an
ordinary wrapper over us : there had
been no attempt to build the tent with
batons and canvass, as I had read in
some of the Mont Blanc narratives the
starry heaven was our only roofing.
F. and P. were already fast asleep.
W. was still awake, and I was too
excited even to close my eyes in the
attempt to get a little repose. We
talked for a while, and then he also
was silent.
The stars had come out, and, look-
ing over the plateau, I soon saw the
moonlight lying cold and silvery on
the summit, stealing slowly down the
very track by which the sunset glories
had passed upward and away. But
it came so tardily that I knew it
would be hours before we derived any
actual benefit from the light. One
after another the guides fell asleep,
until only three or four remained
round the embers of the fire, thought-
fully smoking their pipes. And then
silence, impressive beyond expression,
reigned over our isolated world. Often
and often, from Chamouni, I had
looked up at evening towards the
darkening position of the Grands Mu-
lcts, and thought, almost with shud-
dering, how awful it must be for men
to pass the night in such a remote,
eternal, and frozen wilderness. And
now I was lying there in the very
heart of its icebound and appalling
solitude. In such close communion
with nature in her grandest aspect,
with no trace of the actual living
world beyond the mere speck that our
little party formed, the mind was car-
ried far away from its ordinary trains
of thought a solemn emotion of
mingled awe and delight, and yet self-
perception of abject nothingness, alone
rose above every other feeling. A
vast untrodden region of cold and
silence, and death, stretched out, far
and away from us, on every side ; but
above, heaven, with its countless
watchful eyes, was over all !
It was twenty minutes to twelve
when the note of preparation for our
second start was sounded. Tairraz
shook up the more drowsy of the
guides, and they were soon bustling
about, and making their arrangements
for the work before us. They had
not much to carry now. Everything,
with the exception of a few bottles of
wine, some small loaves, and two or
three cold fowls, was to be left on the
Grands Mulcts : there was no danger
of theft from passers-by, as Carrier
observed. This quarter of an hour
before midnight was, I think, the
heaviest during the journey. Now
that we were going to leave our lodg-
ing, I did feel uncommonly tired ; and
wild and rugged as it was, I began
to think the blankets and wrappers
looked very comfortable in the ruddy
firelight, compared to the glooming
desert of ice before us. The moon
was still low that is to say, the light
on the mountain had not come farther
down than the top of the Aiguille do.
Gdute", so that we were in comparative
darkness. Three or four lanterns
were fitted up with candles ; and
Jean Tairraz had a fine affair like a
Chinese balloon, or more truly the
round lampions used in French illu-
minations, only larger ; and this he
tied behind him to light me as I fol-
lowed. Michael Devouassoud took
the lead; we came after him with
regular numbers of guides, each tra-
veller having a lantern carried before
him, and then another guide or two,
lightly laden. In this order, in single
file, we left the Grands Mulcts not
by the scrambling route of our arrival,
but by the upper portion of the rocks,
where we descended at once, in a few
feet, to the snow. As we passed the
upper Mulcts, we heard our Irish fol-
lower " keeping it up" by himself in
most convivial fashion, and singing
" God save the Queen" to his guide.
Soon afterwards we saw his lantern
glimmering on our traces; and the
light of the second aspirant was also
visible, moving about before his start.
The snowy side of Mont Blanc,
between the Grands Mulcts and the
Rochers Rouges near the summit, is
formed by three gigantic steps, if they
may so be called, one above the other,
each of which is many hundred feet
high. Between each is a compara-
1852.]
tively level platform of glacier ; and
the topmost of these, which is two or
three miles across, is called the Grand
Plateau. Its position can be made
out very well from Chamouni with
the naked eye. Up these slopes our
road now lay ; and for more than two
hours we followed one another in
silence now trudging over the level
places, and now slowly climbing, in
zigzag, up the steeps. Very little
talking went on, for we knew that we
should soon need all our breath. The
walking here, however, was by no
means difficult ; for the snow was hard
and crisp, and we made very good
progress, although, for a long time,
we saw the red speck of fire, far below
us, gleaming on the Grands Mulcts.
The stars were out, and the air was
sharp and cold, but only disagree-
ably biting when the lightest puff of
wind came. This was not very often,
for we were sheltered on all sides by
the heights and aiguilles around us.
The march from the Mulcts to the
foot of the Grand Plateau was the
most unexciting part of the journey.
It was one continuous, steadily as-
cending tramp of three hours and a
half now and then retracing our
footmarks with a little grumbling,
when it was found, on gaining the neck
of a ridge of snow, that there was an
impracticable crevice on the other side ;
but the general work was not much
more than that of ascending the Mer
de Glace, on your route to the Jardin.
Whenever we came to a stand-still,
our feet directly got very cold ; and
the remedy for this was to drive them
well into the snow. The guides were
anxious that we should constantly
keep in motion; and, indeed, they
were never still themselves during
these halts.
We had nearly gained the edge of
the Grand Plateau when our caravan
was suddenly brought to a stop by
the announcement from our leading
guide of a huge crevice ahead, to
which he could not see any termina-
tion ; and it was far too wide to cross
by any means. It appeared that the
guides had looked forward, all along,
to some difficulty here and they were
now really anxious ; for Tairraz said,
that if we could not reach the other
side our game was up, and we must
return. Auguste Devouassoud went
Mont Blanc. 47
ahead and called for a lantern. We
had now only one left alight : two
had burnt out, and the other had been
lost, shooting away like a meteor
down the glacier until it disappeared
in a gulf. The remaining light was
handed forward, and we watched its
course with extreme anxiety, hover-
ing along the edge of the abyss anon
disappearing and then showing again
farther off until at last Auguste
shouted out that he had found a pass,
and that we could proceed again.
We toiled up a very steep cliff of ice,
and then edged the crevice which
yawned upon our left in a frightful
manner, more terrible in its semi-
obscurity than it is possible to convey
an impression of until the danger
was over, and we all stood safely
upon the Grand Plateau about half-
past three in the morning.
We had now two or three miles of
level walking before us ; indeed our
road, from one end of the plateau to
the other, was on a slight descent.
Before we started we took some
wine : our appetites were not very
remarkable in spite of all our work ;
but a leathern cup of St George put
a little life and warmth into us, for
we were chilled with the delay, and
it was now intensely cold. We also
saw the other lanterns approaching,
and we now formed, as it were, one
long caravan. Still in single file we
set off again, and the effect of our
silent march was now unearthly and
solemn, to a degree that was almost
painfully impressive. Mere atoms in
this wilderness of perpetual frost, we
were slowly advancing over the vast
plain slowly following each other on
the track which the leading glimmer-
ing dot of light aided the guide to
select. The reflected moonlight, from
the D6me du Gouts', which looked
like a huge mountain of frosted silver,
threw a cold gleam over the plateau,
sufficient to show its immense and
ghastly space. High up on our right
was the summit of Mont Blanc, ap-
parently as close and as inaccessible
as ever ; and immediately on our left
was the appalling gulf, yawning in
the ice of unknown depth, into which
the avalanche swept Dr Hamel's
guides; and in whose depths, ice-
bound and unchanged, they are yet
locked. Tairraz crept close to me,
48
Mont Blanc.
[Jan.
and said, through his teeth, almost in
a whisper " C'est ici, Monsieur, que
mon frere Augaste est peri en 1820,
avec Balmat et Carrier : les pauvres
corps sont encore la bas ! \$& me
domic de peine, toujours, en traver-
sant le Plateau; et la route est en-
core perilleuse." "Etles avalanches?"
I asked " tombent elles toujours?"
" Oui, Monsieur, toujours nuit et
jour. Le plutot passe", mieux pour
nous !"
In fact, although physically the
easiest, this was the most treacherous
part of the entire ascent. A flake of
snow or a chip of ice, whirled by the
wind from the summit, and increasing
as it rolled down the top of the moun-
tain, might at length thunder on to
our path, and sweep everything be-
fore it into the crevice. Everybody
was aware of this ; and for three quar-
ters of an hour we kept trudging
hurriedly forward, scarcely daring to
speak, and every now and then look-
ing up with mistrust at the calotte,
as the summit is termed, that rose
above us in such cold and deceitful
tranquillity. Once or twice in my
life I have been placed in circum-
stances of the greatest peril, and I
now experienced the same dead calm
in which my feelings always were sunk
on these occasions. I knew that
every step we took was gained from
the chance of a horrible death ; and
yet the only thing that actually dis-
tressed me was, that the two front
lanterns would not keep the same
distance from one another a matter
of the most utter unimportance to
everybody.
At last we got under the shelter of
the Rochers Rouges, and then we
were in comparative safety ; since,
were an avalanche to fall, they would
turn its course on to the plateau we
had just quitted. A small council
was assembled there. The Irishman,
who had got a little ahead of us, was
compelled to give in he was done up
and could go no farther. Indeed, it
would have been madness to have
attempted it, for we found him lying
on the snow, vomiting frightfully,
with considerable hemorrhage from
the nose. I think this must have
been about the same elevation at
which young Mr Talfourd was com-
pelled to give in, in 18. I told our
poor companion that he must not
think the worse of us for leaving him
there, with his guide, as unfortunately
we could do nothing for him ; but I
recommended him to go back as
as speedily as he could to the Grands
Mulcts, where he would find every-
thing that he might require. He took
this advice, and, indeed, we found him
still at the rock, on our return.
As we reached the almost perpen-
dicular wall of ice below the Rochers
Rouges we came into the full moon-
light ; and, at the same time, far
away on the horizon the red glow of
daybreak was gradually tinging the
sky, and bringing the higher and more
distant mountains into relief. The
union of these two effects of light was
very strange. At first, simply cold
and bewildering, it had nothing of
the sunset glories of the Grands
Mulcts ; but after a time, when peak
after peak rose out from the gloomy
world below, the spectacle was mag-
nificent. In the dark boundless space
a small speck of light would suddenly
appear, growing larger and larger, un-
til it took the palpable form of a
mountain-top. Whilst this was going
on, other points would brighten, here
and there, and increase in the same
manner ; then a silvery gleam would
mark the position of a lake reflecting
the sky it was that of Geneva un-
til the grey hazy ocean lighted up
into hills, and valleys, and irregulari~
ties, and the entire world below
warmed into the glow of sunrise.
We were yet in gloom, shadowed by
the Aiguille Sans Norn, with the
summit of Mont Blanc shut out
from' us by the Rochers Rouges ; but,
of course, it must have been the ear-
liest to catch the rays.
It was now fearfully cold ; and
every now and then a sharp north-
east wind nearly cut us into pieces,
bringing with it a storm of spiculai of
ice, which were really very painful,
as they blew against and past our
faces and ears: so we took to our
veils again, which all night long had
been twisted round our hats. I felt
very chilled and dispirited. I had
now passed two nights without sleep ;
and I had really eaten nothing since
the yesterday's morning but part of
an egg, a piece of fowl, and a little
bit of bread for my illness had taken
1852.] Mont Blanc.
away all my appetite; and on this
small diet I had been undergoing the
greatest work. But none of us were
complaining of nausea, or difficulty
of breathing, or blood to the head, or
any of the other symptoms which
appear to have attacked most persons
even on the Grand Plateau ; so I
plucked up fresh courage, and pre-
pared for our next achievement.
This was no light affair. From the
foot of the Rochers Rouges there runs
a huge and slanting buttress of ice,
round which we had to climb from
the N. E. to the E. Its surface was
at an angle of about sixty degrees.
Above us it terminated in a mighty
cliff, entirely covered with icicles of
marvellous length and beauty; below,
it was impossible to see where it went,
for it finished suddenly in an edge,
which was believed to be the border
of a great crevice. Along this we
now had to go ; and the journey was
as hazardous a one as a man might
make along a steeply-pitched roof
with snow on it. Jean Carrier went
first with his axe, and very cautiously
cut every step in which we were to
place our feet in the ice. It is diffi-
cult at times to walk along ice on a
level ; but when that ice is tilted up
more than half-way towards the per-
pendicular, with a fathomless termi-
nation below, and no more foot and
hand hold afforded than can be chip-
ped out, it becomes a nervous affair
enough. The cords came into requi-
sition again ; and we went along,
leaning very much over to our right,
and, I must say, paying little atten-
tion to our guides, who were conti-
nually pointing out spots for us to
admire the Jardin, Monte Rosa,
and the Col du Geant as they be-
came visible. It took us nearly half-
an-hour to creep round this hazard-
ous slope, and then we came once
more upon a vast undulating field of
ice, looking straight down the Glacier
du Tacul, towards the upper part of
the Mer de Glace the reverse of the
view the visitor enjoys from the Jar-
din.
My eyelids had felt very heavy for
the last hour ; and, but for the abso-
lute mortal necessity of keeping them
widely open, I believe would have
closed before this; but now such a
strange and irrepressible desire to go
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
49
to sleep seized hold of me that I
almost fell fast off as I sat down for
a few minutes on the snow to tie my
shoes. But the foremost guides were
on the march again, and I was com-
pelled to go on with the caravan.
From this point, on to the summit,
for a space of two hours, I was in
such a strange state of mingled un-
consciousness and acute observation
of combined sleeping and waking
that the old-fashioned word " be-
witched " is the only one that I can
apply to the complete confusion and
upsetting of sense in which I found
myself plunged. With the perfect
knowledge of where I was, and what
I was about even with such caution,
as was required to place my feet on
particular places in the snow I con-
jured up such a set of absurd and im-
probable phantoms about me, that the
most spirit-ridden intruder upon a
Mayday festival on the Hartz moun-
tains was never more beleaguered. I
am not sufficiently versed in the finer
theories of the psychology of sleep to
know if such a state might be : but I
believe for the greater part of this
bewildering period I was fast asleep,
Avith my eyes open, and through them
the wandering brain received exter-
nal impressions ; in the same manner
as, upon awaking, the phantasms of
our dreams are sometimes carried on,
and connected with objects about the
chamber. It is very difficult to ex-
plain the odd state in which I was,
so to speak, entangled. A great many
people I knew in London were accom-
panying me, and calling after me, as
the stones did after Prince Perviz in
the Arabian Nights. Then there was
some terribly elaborate affair that I
could not settle, about two bedsteads,
the whole blame of which transaction,
whatever it was, lay on my shoulders ;
and then a literary friend came up,
and told me he was sorry we could
not pass over his ground on our way
to the summit, but that the King of
Prussia had forbidden it. Everything
was as foolish and unconnected as
this, but it worried me painfully ; and
my senses were under such little con-
trol, and I reeled and staggered about
so, that when we had crossed the
snow prairie, and arrived at the foot
of an almost perpendicular wall of ice,
four or five hundred feet high the
D
50
Mont Blanc.
[Jan.
terrible Mur de la Cote up which
we had to climb, I sat down again on
the snow, and told Tairraz that I
would not go any farther, but that
they might leave me there if they
The Mont Blanc guides are used to
these little varieties of temper, above
the Grand Plateau. In spite of my
mad determination to go to sleep,
Balmat and another set me up on my
legs again, and told me that if I did
not exercise every caution, we should
all be lost together, for the most really
dangerous part of the whole ascent
had arrived. I had the greatest diffi-
culty in getting my wandering wits
into order ; but the risk called for the
strongest mental effort ; and, with
just sense enough to see that our suc-
cess in scaling this awful precipice
was entirely dependent upon "pluck,"
I got ready for the climb. I have
said the Mur de la C6te is some hun-
dred feet high, and is an all but per-
pendicular iceberg. At one point you
can reach it from the snow, but im-
mediately after you begin to ascend
it, obliquely, there is nothing below
but a chasm in the ice more frightful
than anything yet passed. Should
the foot slip, or the baton give way,
there is no chance for life you would
glide like lightning from one frozen
crag to another, and finally be dashed
to pieces, hundreds and hundreds of
feet below, in the horrible depths of
the glacier. Were it in the valley,
simply rising up from a glacier mo-
raine, its ascent would require great
nerve and caution ; but here, placed
fourteen thousand feet above the level
of the sea, terminating in an icy abyss
so deep that the bottom is lost in ob-
scurity ; exposed, in a highly rarefied
atmosphere, to a wind cold and vio-
lent beyond all conception ; assailed,
with muscular powers already taxed
far beyond their strength, and nerves
shaken by constantly increasing ex-
citement and want of rest with blood-
shot eyes, and raging thirst, and a
pulse leaping rather than beating
with all this, it may be imagined that
the frightful Mur de la Cote calls for
no ordinary determination to mount it.
Of course, every footstep had to be
cut with the adzes; and my blood
ran colder still, as I saw the first
guides creeping like flies upon its
smooth glistening surface. The two
Tairraz were in front of me, with the
fore part of the rope, and Francois-
Cachat, I think, behind. I scarcely
know what our relative positions were,
for we had not spoken much to one
another for the last hour ; every word
was an exertion, and our attention
was solely confined to our own pro-
gress. In spite of all my exertions,
my confusion of ideas and extraor-
dinary drowsiness increased to such a
painful degree, that, clinging to the
hand-holes made in the ice, and
surrounded by all this horror, I do
believe, if we had halted on our climb
for half a minute, I should have gone
off asleep. But there was no pause.
We kept progressing, very slowly
indeed, but still going on and up so
steep a path, that I had to wait until
the guide before me removed his foot,
before I could put my hand into the
notch. I looked down below two or
three times, but was not at all giddy r
although the depth lost itself in a blue
haze.
For upwards of half-an-hour we
kept on slowly mounting this iceberg,
until we reached the foot of the last
ascent the calotte as it is called
the "cap" of Mont Blanc. The
danger was now over, but not the
labour, for this dome of ice was diffi-
cult to mount. The axe was again
in requisition ; and everybody was so
"blown," in common parlance, that we
had to stop every three or four minutes.
My young companions kept bravely
on, like fine fellows as they were,
getting ahead even of some of the
guides ; but I was perfectly done up.
Honest Tairraz had no sinecure to
pull me after him, for I was stumbling
about, as though completely intoxi-
cated. I could not keep my eyes
open, and planted my feet anywhere
but in the right place. I know I
was exceedingly cross. I have even
a recollection of having scolded my
"team," because they did not go
quicker ; and I was excessively indig-
nant when one of them dared to call
my attention to Monte Rosa. At
last one or two went in front, and
thus somewhat quickened our pro-
gress. Gradually our speed increased,
until I was scrambling almost on my
hands and knees ; and then, as I
found myself on a level, it suddenly
1852.] Mont Blanc.
stopped. I looked round, and saw and much admiration.
51
there was nothing higher. The batons
were stuck in the snow, and the
guides were grouped about, some
lying down, and others standing in
little parties. I was on the top of
Mont Blanc I
The ardent wish of years was grati-
fied ; but I was so completely ex-
hausted, that, without looking round
me, I fell down upon the snow, and
was asleep in an instant. I never
knew the charm before of that mys-
terious and brief repose, which
ancient people term "forty winks."
Six or seven minutes of dead slumber
was enough to restore the balance of
my ideas ; and when Tairraz awoke
me, I was once more perfectly myself.
And now I entered into the full delight
that the consciousness of our success
brought with it. It was a little time
before I could look at anything
steadily. I wanted the whole pano-
rama condensed into one point ; for,
gazing at Geneva and the Jura, I
thought of the plains of Lombardy
behind me ; and turning round to-
wards them, my eye immediately
wandered away to the Oberland, with
its hundred peaks glittering in the
bright morning sun. There was too
much to see, and yet not enough : I
mean, the view was so vast that,
whilst every point and valley was a
matter of interest, and eagerly
scanned, yet the elevation was so
great that all detail was lost. What
I did observe I will endeavour to
render account of not as a tourist
might do, who, planting himself in
imagination on the Mont Blanc of
Keller's map or Auldjo's plan, puts
down all the points that he considers
might be visible, but just as they
struck me with an average traveller's
notion of Switzerland.
In the first place, it must be under-
stood, as I have just intimated, that
the height greatly takes away from
the interest of the view, which its
expanse scarcely makes amends for.
As a splendid panorama, the sight
from the Rigi Kulm is more attrac-
tive. The chequered fields, the little
steamer plying from Lucerne to
Fluelyn, the tiny omnibuses on the
lake-side road to Art, the desolation
of Goldau, and the section of the fatal
Rossberg, are all subjects of interest
But the Rigi
is six thousand feet above the sea
level, and Mont Blanc is over fifteen
thousand. The little clustered village,
seen from the Kulm, becomes a mere
white speck from the crown of the
monarch.
The morning was most lovely ;
there was not even a wreath of mist
coming up from the valley. One of
our guides had been up nine times,
and he said he had never seen such
weather. But with this extreme
clearness of atmosphere there was a
filmy look about the peaks, merging
into a perfect haze of distance in the
valleys. All the great points in the
neighbourhood of Chamouni the
Buet, the Aiguille Verte, the Col du
Bonhomme, and even the Bernese
Alps were standing forth clear
enough; but the other second-class
mountains were mere ridges. It was
some time before I could find out the
Brevent at all, and many of the
Aiguilles were sunk and merged into
the landscape. There was a strange
feeling in looking down upon the
summits of these mountains, which I
had been accustomed to know only
as so many giants of the horizon.
The other hills had sunk into perfect
insignificance, or rather looked pretty
much the same as they do in the
relief models at the map shops. The
entire length of the Lake of Geneva,
with the Jura beyond, was very
clearly defined ; and beyond these
again were the faint blue hills of
Burgundy. Turning round to the
south-east, I looked down on the
Jardin, along the same glacier by
which the visitor to the Couvercle
lets his eye travel to the summit of
Mont Blanc. Right away over the
Col du Ge"ant we saw the plains of
Lombardy very clearly, and one of
the guides insisted upon pointing out
Milan ; but I could not acknowledge
it. I was altogether more interested
in finding out the peaks and gorges
comparatively near the mountain,
than straining my eyes after remote
matters of doubt. Of the entire
coup d 1 oe.il no descriptive power can
convey the slightest notion. Both
Mont Blanc and the Pyramids, viewed
from below, have never been clearly
pictured, from the utter absence of
anything by which proportion could
52
be fixed. From the same cause, it is
next to impossible to describe the
apparently boundless undulating ex-
panse of jagged snow-topped peaks,
that stretched away as far as the
horizon on all sides beneath us.
Where everything is so almost incom-
prehensible in its magnitude, no suffi-
ciently graphic comparison can be
instituted.
The first curiosity satisfied, we
produced our stores, and collected
together on the hard snow to dis-
cuss them. We had some wine,
and a cold fowl or two, a small
quantity of bread and cheese, some
chocolate in batons, and a bag of
prunes, which latter proved of great
service in the ascent. One of these,
rolled about in the mouth, without
being eaten, served to dispel the
dryness of the throat and palate,
otherwise so distressing.
The rarefaction of the air was
nothing to what I had anticipated.
We had heard legends, down at
Chamouni, of the impossibility of
Alighting pipes at this height ; but
now all the guides were smoking
most comfortably. Our faces had an
odd dark appearance, the result of
congestion, and almost approaching
the tint I had noticed in persons
attacked by Asiatic cholera ; but
this was not accompanied by any
sensation of fulness, or even incon-
venience. The only thing that dis-
tressed me was the entire loss of
feeling in my right hand, on which I
had not been able to wear one of the
fur gloves, from the bad grasp it
allowed to my pole. Accordingly it
was frost-bitten. The guides evi-
dently looked upon this as a more
serious matter than I did myself, and
for five minutes I underwent a series
of rather severe operations of very
violent friction. After a while the
numbness partially went away ; but
even as I now write, my little finger
is without sensation, and on the
approach of cold it becomes very
painful. However, all this was no-
thing : we had succeeded, and were
sitting all together, without hurt or
harm, on the summit of Mont Blanc.
We did not feel much inclined to eat,
but our vin ordinaire was perfect
nectar ; and the bottle of champagne
brought up on purpose to be drunk
Mont Blanc. [Jan.
on the summit was considered a
finer wine than had ever been met
with. We all shook each other by
the hand, and laughed at such small
pleasantries so heartily that it was
quite diverting; and a rapid pro-
gramme of toasts went round, of
which the most warmly drunk was
"Her," according to each of our
separate opinions on that point. We
made no "scientific observations,"
the acute and honest de Saussure
had done everything that was wanted
by the world of that kind ; and those
who have since worried themselves
during the ascent about " elevations"
and temperatures, have added nothing
to what he told us sixty years ago.
But we had beheld all the wonders
and horrors of the glacier world in
their wildest features ; we had gazed
on scenery of such fantastic yet mag-
nificent nature as we might not hope
to see again ; we had laboured with
all the nerve and energy we could
command to achieve a work of down-
right unceasing danger and difficulty,
which not more than one-half of those
who try are able to accomplish, and
the triumph of which is, even now,
shared but by a comparative handful
of travellers : and we had succeeded !
Although the cold was by no means
severe when the air was still, yet, as
I have before stated, the lightest puff
of wind appeared to freeze us; and
we saw the guides getting their packs
ready they were very light now
and preparing to descend. Accord-
ingly, we left the summit at half-past
nine, having been there exactly half-
an-hour. We learned afterwards that
we had been seen from Chamouni by
telescopes, and that the people there
had fired cannon when they perceived
us on the summit : but these we did
not hear. We were about three hours
and a half getting back to the Grands
Mulcts ; and, with the exception of
the Mur de la C6te, (which required
the same caution as in coming up,)
the descent was a matter of great
amusement. Sliding, tumbling, and
staggering about, setting all the zig-
zags at defiance, and making direct
short cuts from one to the other sit-
ting down at the top of the snow
slopes, and launching ourselves off,
feet first, until, not very clever at
self-guidance, we turned right round
1852.]
and were stopped by our own heads :
all tliis was capital fun. The guides
managed to slide down very cleverly,
keeping their feet. They leant rather
back, steadying themselves with their
poles, which also acted as a drag, by
being pressed deeply into the snow
when they wished to stop, and so
scudded down like the bottles from
the Grands Mulcts. I tried this plan
once ; but, before I had gone a dozen
yards, I went head-over-heels, and
nearly lost my baton ; so that I pre-
ferred the more ignoble but equally
exciting mode of transit first alluded
to.
Although our return to the Mulets
was accomplished in about half the
time of the ascent, yet I was aston-
ished at the distance we had tra-
versed, now that my attention was
not so much taken away by the
novelty of the scenery and situations.
There appeared to be no end to the
montets which divide the plateaux;
and, after a time, as we descended,
the progress became very trouble-
some, for the snow was beginning to
thaw in the sun, and we went up to
our knees at every step. We were
now not together little parties of
three or four dotting the glacier above
and in front of us. Everybody chose
his own route, and glissaded, or
skated, or rolled down, according to
his fancy. The sun was very bright
and warm we were all very cheerful
and merry ; and, although I had not
had any sleep for two nights, I con-
trived to keep up tolerably well with
the foremost.
At one o'clock in the afternoon we
got back to our old bivouac on the
Grands Mulets. We had intended
to have remained here some little
time, but the heat on the rock was so
stifling that we could scarcely support
it ; and Tairraz announced that the
glacier was becoming so dangerous
to traverse, from the melting of the
snow, that even now it would be a
matter of some risk to cross it. So
we hastily finished our scraps of re-
freshment, and drank our last bottle
of wine out of a stew-pan, by the
way, for we had lost our leathern
cups in our evolutions on the ice
and then, making up our packs, bade
good-by to the Grands Mulets, most
probably for ever.
Mont Blanc. 53
In five minutes we found that, after
all, the greatest danger of the under-
taking was to come. The whole sur-
face of the Glacier des Bossons had
melted into perfect sludge ; the ice-
cliffs were dripping in the sun, like
the well at Knaresborough : every
minute the bridges over the crevices
were falling in ; and we sank almost
to our waists in the thawing snow at
every step we took. I could see that
the guides were uneasy. All the
ropes came out again, and we were
tied together in parties of three, about
ten feet distant from one another.
And now all the work of yesterday
had to be gone over again, with much
more danger attached to it. From
the state of the snow, the guides
avowed that it was impossible to tell
whether we should find firm standing
on any arch we arrived at, or go
through it at once into some frightful
chasm. They sounded every bridge
we came to with their poles, and a
shake of the head was always the signal
for a detour. One or two of the tracks
by which we had marched up yester-
day had now disappeared altogether,
and fresh ones had to be cautiously
selected. We had one tolerably nar-
row escape. Tairraz, who preceded
me, had jumped over a crevice, and
upon the other side alighted on a
mere bracket of snow, which directly
gave way beneath him. With the-
squirrel-like rapid activity of the
Chamouni guides, he whirled his
baton round so as to cross the crevice,
which was not very broad but of un-
known depth, transversely. This
saved him, but the shock pulled me
off my legs. Had he fallen, I must
have followed him since we were
tied together and the guide would
have been dragged after me. I was
more startled by this little accident
than by any other occurrence during
the journey.
At length, after much anxiety, we
came to the moraine of the glacier,
and I was not sorry to find myself
standing upon a block of hard granite,
for I honestly believe that our lives
had not been worth a penny's pur-
chase ever since we left the Grands
Mulcts. We had a long rest at the
Pierre a 1'Echelle, where we deposited
our ladder for the next aspirants, and,
in the absence of everything else.
Mont Blanc.
[Jan.
were content with a little water for
refreshment. The cords were now
untied, and we went on as we pleased ;
but I ordered Jean Carrier to go
ahead, and tell his pretty sweetheart
at the Pavilion des Pelerins that we
should make all the party drink her
health there a promise I had given
a day or two previously and he
started off like a chamois. Jean
Tairraz was sent forward to bespeak
some milk for us at the Chalet de la
Para, and then we took our time ;
and, once more upon solid trustworthy
ground, began the last descent. Some
mules were waiting at the Chalet,
but the road was so exceedingly
steep and tortuous that I preferred
ray own legs ; and by five o'clock we
had come down the pine wood, and
found ourselves at the little cabin,
with Julie, all brightness and blushes,
busying about to receive us.
Several ladies and gentlemen had
come thus far to meet us ; and, what
with the friends and families of the
guides, we now formed a very large
party indeed. It was here humbly
suggested that we should mount our
mules, to render our entry into Cha-
mouni as imposing as possible ; so
after the men had drunk with their
friends, and with one another, and
indeed with everybody, we formed
into our order of march across the
fields between the two villages. First
went the two Tairraz, Balrnat, and
Carrier, with their ice-axes, as the
chiefs of the party, and specially at-
tached to us ; then we came on our
mules ; after us walked the body of
the guides, with such of their families
as had come to meet them, and little
boys and girls, so proud to carry their
batons and appear to belong to the
procession ; and, finally, the porters
and volunteers with the knapsacks
brought up the rear. And so we
went merrily through the fields that
border the Arve, in the bright after-
noon sunlight, receiving little bou-
quets from the girls on the way, and
meeting fresh visitors from Chamouni
every minute.
We had heard the guns firing at
Chamouni ever since we left the
Pelerius ; but as we entered the vil-
lage we were greeted with a tre-
mendous round of Alpine artillery
from the roof of the new Hotel
Royal, and the garden and court-
yard of the Hotel de Londres. The
whole population was in the streets,
and on the bridge ; the ladies at the
hotels waving their handkerchiefs,
and the men cheering ; and a harpist
and a violin player now joined the
cortege. When we got into the court
of our hotel, M. Edouard Tairraz had
dressed a little table with some beau-
tiful bouquets and wax candles, until
it looked uncommonly like an altar,
but for the half-dozen of champagne
that formed a portion of its orna-
ments ; and here we were invited to
drink with him, and be gazed at, and
have our hands shaken by everybody.
One or two enthusiastic tourists ex-
pected me there and then to tell
them all about it ; but the crowd was
now so great, and the guns so noisy,
and the heat and dust so oppressive,
coupled with the state of excitement
in which we all were, that I was not
sorry to get away and hide in a com-
fortable warm bath which our worthy
host had prepared already. This,
with an entire change of clothes, and
a quiet coinfortable dinner, put me
all right again ; and at night,
when I was standing in the balcony
of my chamber window, looking at
the twinkling pine illuminations on
the bridge, and watching the last
glow of sunset once more disappear
from the summit of the grand old
mountain king, I could hardly per-
suade myself that the whole affair
had not been a wonderful dream.
I did not sleep very well when I
went to bed. I was tumbling down
precipices all night long, and so
feverish that I drank off the entire
contents of a large water jug before
morning. My face, in addition, gave
me some pain where the sun had
caught it, otherwise I was perfectly
well sufficiently so, indeed, to get up
tolerably early the next day, and ac-
company a friend on foot to Montan-
vert. In the evening we gave the
guides a supper in the hotel garden.
I had the honour of presiding ; and
what with toasts, and speeches, and
songs, excellent fare and a warm-
hearted company, the moon was once
more on the summit of Mont Blanc
before we parted. I know it will be
some time before the remembrance of
that happy evening passes away from
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
55
those, between whom and ourselves
such an honest friendship had grown
up as only fellow-labouring in diffi-
culty and danger can establish.
The undertaking so long antici-
pated is all over, and I am sitting in
a little top-bedroom of the Couronne
at Geneva, and settling the expenses
with Jean Tairraz. The sunset, the
glaciers, and the Mur de la Cote, have
come down to a matter of u little
bills." He first gives me the hotel
account after the ascent. It is as fol-
lows :
NOTE No. 2.
1 03 Bottles lost,
18 Breakfasts to Guides,
18 Suppers to do., .
6 Bottles London Porter,
Francs. Cents.
50
22 50
36
18
126 50
So it will be seen our racing with the
bottles was not without some of the
expense attached to that sport in
general. But it was better to throw
them away than to fatigue the men
with the thankless task of carrying
them down again. They were charged
at a high rate, as everything else is at
Chamouni; because, it must be re-
membered, in such a wild secluded
place the transport becomes very ex-
pensive.
I next receive his own account :
NOTE No. 3.
16 Guides, .
18 Porters, .
3 Mules,
The Boy,
1 Lantern broken,
Milk at the Chalet,
Extra pay to porters.
Expenses due to Julie at the
Pavilion des Pelerins,
Nails for shoes,
Franca. Cents.
1600
108
1755 25
Adding these together, we make
Provisions for ascent,
Subsequent expenses,
Tairraz 1 guides' account,
Total,
Francs. Cents.
456
126 50
1755 25
2337 75
This divided by four the number
of tourists gives about 584 francs
each. Had I gone up alone, of course
the expense would have been greater.
Not without vivid recollections of a
delightful and wondrous journey, thus
safely and happily accomplished, and
of the excellent humour and courteous
attention of my companions with a
recommendation, to all whose time
and constitution will permit, to make
the same excursion, is this plain nar-
rative concluded.
ALBERT SMITH.
THE RURAL SUPERSTITIONS OF WESTERN FRANCE.
THE last traces of that picturesque
and fascinating class of superstitions
whose home, remote from cities, must
be sought in forest glades and amidst
mountain peaks, on the desolate
moor and along the lonesome fen,
among the mists of ocean and in the
recesses of the mine, are fast receding
and disappearing before the height-
ened civilisation and prodigious me-
chanical progress of the present cen-
tury. Disappearing, but not wholly
unregretted. Here and there, some
lover of these lingering relics of a less
enlightened day uplifts voice and pen
against the unsparing sacrifice of the
romantic and ideal to the material
and useful. He may not deprecate,
he cannot check, the consequences of
that inevitable fusion of country and
town, which steam, the press, mili-
tary conscription, and other minor
causes are surely and rapidly effecting
throughout Central Europe. He
plainly sees that when the newspaper
reaches the remotest hamlet, and
politics supply materials for the even-
ing gossip round the farm-house
faggot, the supernatural has lost its
hold on the peasant's imagination,
Les Derniers Paysans. Par EMILE SOUVESTRE. Two volumes. Paris : 1851.
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
56
and he not unnaturally desires to
preserve some record of traditions and
beliefs now evidently upon the eve of
final departure. The amiable author
of Un Philosophe sous les Toits, is
one of these, who witnesses this de-
parture with no good will, and who
has applied himself to chronicle the
superstitions of that race of peasantry
which he believes to be in process of
extinction, and about to be replaced
by men of a totally different stamp.
In his double capacity of antiquarian
and romance-writer, it is easy to
understand his wish to preserve some
memento of those superstitious fan-
cies, which only yesterday were pre-
valent in the wilder districts of
France. He has selected the western
provinces Normandy, Picardy, La
Vendee, and especially his native
land of Brittany; and he has brought
to the task an intimate acquaintance
with the country and people, a fair
share of antiquarian knowledge, a
keen perception of natural beauties,
and the simple graceful style for
which he is distinguished. " He has
chosen in his memory," he says in his
preface, " the scenes, places, and per-
sons which seemed to him most vividly
to reflect the artless fancies of the
past. The six pastorals in which he
has grouped these last aspects of
rustic life, are like six landscapes
studied by the setting sunlight of
popular poetry ; in them will be
found all the fantastic world created
by that muse of the fields and forests,
who, after all, has merely translated,
in a childish mythology, the eternal
aspirations of humanity itself. For
to what do our dreams invariably
aspire ? To overstep the limits of the
real ; to achieve happiness on earth ;
to live beyond the tomb; to under-
stand the marvellous creation in the
midst of which God has placed us.
The first of these instincts has crea-
ted sorcerers, fairies, elves, and all
those supernatural beings which have
overthrown the barriers between fact
and thought ; the second has given
rise to the belief in hidden treasures,
in talismans, in marvellous gifts ; the
third has broken the gates of death,
aud rendered immortality palpable,
by giving an appearance to departed
souls ; the last has established a
mysterious bond between us and
[Jan.
nature; has sought a meaning in the
cry of a bird, in the sound of the
wind ; has interpreted every murmur
of the heavens, of the earth, and
of the waters. Thus has popular
imagination placed man in the centre
of an invisible world, which alter-
nately aids and menaces him. It is
in this world, in which the peasant
alone has preserved a belief, that we
have endeavoured to exhibit him."
In three short and admirably skilful
tales, perhaps the most pleasing that
ever proceeded from her pen, and to
which, on former occasions, we have
laudatorily alluded, George Sand
has displayed doubtless somewhat
idealised, but still with admirable
truth to nature the sentimental side
of French rural life. M. Souvestre
has sketched its fantastic aspects.
His delineations have the great merit
of convincing the reader that they are
the result of personal knowledge and
observation. They are evidently
sketches from nature by the hand of
one of nature's ardent lovers not
cold copies, or laboured compilations.
Besides the exposition of popular su-
perstitions, they comprise curious and
charming glimpses of country life in
remote parts of France ; of customs,
scenes, and occupations, of which we
previously had no knowledge. By
English readers, and, we suspect, by
the great majority of French ones,
the page thus presented will be found
as full of novelty as it undeniably is
of variety and interest.
M. Souvestre has cast his reminis-
cences into the form of eight detached
narratives, of which two or three
have almost enough of plot to entitle
them to be styled tales, whilst all
comprise more or less of incident.
Normandy, Picardy, La Vendee, are
each the scene of one of these
sketches , the other five are taken
upon the soil of Brittany. Passing
over the first two, which are amongst
the least interesting, our attention is
arrested by the third, a Breton story
entitled Les Bryerons et les Saulniers.
The Bryerons are turf- cutters. To
the north of the mouth of the Loire is
a vast bed of turf, more than twenty
leagues in circumference, known as
La Grande Bryere, and compared by
M. Souvestre to a desert of calcined
sponge, continually overhung by a fetid
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
heavy fog. In spite of its unpromis-
ing aspect, the Bryere affords the
chief means of subsistence to eleven
parishes of turf- cutters. It and the
saltpans are the principal resources of
what may be termed Brittany Proper,
the tract of country to the left of the
Sillon or "ridge" a name given to
a long hill which separates from the
rest of Brittany the territory com-
prised between the mouth of the Loire
and that of the Vilaine. The inhabi-
tants of this district are the descen-
dants of a colony of Northmen, who
disembarked there in the fifth century,
and have now amalgamated with their
neighbours. " Their families have
augmented into parishes, of which at-
most all the inhabitants bear the same
patronymic, and are distinguished
only by nicknames. It is in the Bryere
especially, and in the salt districts, that
the physiognomy of the foreign race
is conspicuous. There the old sea-
rovers have preserved somewhat of
their adventurous disposition. The
summer over, you see them embark
upon their futreaux,* or set out with
their mules those to sell turf at
Nantes, La Rochelle, Bordeaux ;
these to barter their salt in the towns
and villages of the West. For the
most part the wife accompanies her
husband. Mounted upon the best
mule, which marches first, adorned
with variegated tufts, and with the
string of bells that guides the caravan,
she spins or knits wool, the produce
of the farms of Brittany and La
Vended ; whilst the saulnier (salt-
maker) follows, singing some old
canticle." In company with one of
these caravans, M. Souvestre once
made an excursion. Towards the
close of a long day's ride on muleback,
observing the saulnier's wife to cut
across the Bryere, he followed her,
expecting thereby to abridge his jour-
ney. Inexperienced in the intricacies
and dangers of the way, he not only
prolonged it, but incurred considerable
danger. "I forced my mule into a trot,
in order to overtake Jeanne. Unfor-
tunately this was less easy than I
had supposed. Every moment I
came upon pools of stagnant water,
which I was obliged to ride round, or
upon turf-cuttings intersecting the
57
path. Darkness, too, came on apace,
and, by a singular contrast, seemed
denser in the Bryere than at a few
hundred paces off. Whilst in my
front several islands stood out from
the bog, so vividly illumined by the
setting sun that their smallest details
were distinguishable, the sort of val-
ley I was following was plunged in
deep gloom. It even seemed to me
as if a cloud of smoke mingled with
the shadows of night ; acrid fumes
penetrated my throat ; my breathing
became more difficult ; the air grew
burning hot. Soon my mule got visi-
bly uneasy : she danced upon her
hind legs, and snorted as if in agony ;
at last she turned short round, and
would have retraced her steps, but
doubtless encountering the same in-
visible obstacle, she sprang wildly
aside and back again, and then, as if
frantic with violent pain, began to
gallop hither and thither, neighing
loudly. I made fruitless efforts to
master her. Restive to bit and
spur, she would stop short for a mo-
ment, rear up, and then set off again,
more madly than before. Compelled
to bend forward upon my saddle,
I at last perceived that the surface of
the ground was covered with white
ashes, from which a slight smoke
arose. At every step, the mule's
hoofs sank deep in the burning soil :
she hastily plucked them out, and in
so doing raised a shower of sparks.
I now remembered to have heard
that the embers from a smoker's pipe
sometimes sufficed to set fire to the
turf-bed, and to cause a conflagra-
tion whose smouldering intensity set
at naught all the Bryeron's efforts for
its extinction, which the winter rains
alone suffice to accomplish. I could
not doubt that I was caught in one of
these latent fires, whence the darkness
of the night rendered it scarcely pos-
sible for me to discover means of
escape. Seriously alarmed, I was
about to utter a cry of distress, when
I heard the voices of Michael and the
saltmaker, whom the windings of the
path had brought near, and who had
just perceived me. In an instant my
danger was apparent to them both :
hurrying towards me, they stopped at
a short distance and called to me to
* Boats of a particular form, used for the transport of turf.
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
53
join them. I made a desperate effort
to force the mule to move iii that di-
rection; but on reaching a narrow
dingy pool which alone separated me
from them, the beast refused to cross
it. I was but at twenty paces from
the two peasants, who continued
shouting ' This way ! ' but I could
not induce my unruly animal to ad-
vance. Soon I felt her gathering her-
self up and preparing to resume her
mad gallop towards the burning turf,
when Pierre Louis, after having in
vain coaxed and called her by her
name, seized a long pole which the
Bryeron carried in his hand, plunged
one end of it in the pool, took a
spring, propping himself with the
other end, and alighted upon the
crupper of the mule. Then passing
his arms under mine, he seized the
bridle, applied his heels to the mule's
flanks, and, uttering familiar cries,
forced her to plunge into the ravine.
"Scarcely had the beast felt the
freshness of the water when she
paused with a sort of sigh of relief.
Her neck was white with sweat, and
her whole frame quivered. Pierre
Louis leaned forward.
" ' There, there, Belotte,' said he,
caressing her with hand and voice ;
4 'tis nothing, my girl ; a foot-bath
will soon cure you.'
*' Without much difficulty the mule
walked out of the pool. I dismount-
ed, and turned towards the tract of
burning turf. At the short distance
at which we now were from it, a thin
whitish smoke, rendered more visible
by the darkness, alone indicated the
conflagration. Michael told me that
happily these accidents were of toler-
ably rare occurrence, and that the fre-
quent rains brought by the south-west
wind usually prevented the spread of
the evil. There was upon record, how-
ever, a terrible conflagration, which had
insensibly extended over several hun-
dreds of acres, and had threatened to
invade the entire plain. It had been
found necessary to ring the bells in
the eleven parishes bordering on the
bog, for a general muster of all who
were able to handle pick or spade ;
and a ditch, a league in length, had
been cut round the burning tract of
turf. The pool I had just crossed
Lad formed part of the ditch. Whilst
speaking, the Bryeron tried to pull
[Jan.
out the pole which Pierre Louis had
left sticking in the turfy bed of the
ravine ; but it resisted all his efforts,
and I had to help him.
" * Monsieur sees that the Bryere
loves to keep what it holds,' said
Michael smiling; 'if my pole were
left there a few days it would totally
disappear- Nothing here is as else-
where. There is something going on
under ground. Cut away the turf as
much as we may, it alw&ys preserves
the same level. In proportion as we
lower it the Bryere rises.'
" I asked if any explanation of this
phenomenon was current in the
country.
. " ' Pardieu ! it is the fault of the
sons of Japhet,' interrupted the salt-
maker, laughing ; ' the gentleman
has not heard the story? It seems
that in old times the Bryere had, as
one may say, a ground-floor and a
cellar. The whole belonged to the
Kourigans and to the family of Japhet,
and each in their turn dwelt above or
below. But at last the men took
advantage of the time when they
occupied the best part of the habita-
tion, to wall up their neighbours in
the cellar, where they have ever since
remained, except the Little Charcoal-
burner, w r ho escaped by the chimney
and has become our evil spirit. If
the Bryere rises, it is because the
Kourigans raise it in their endeavours
to regain the ground floor ; and if
poles sink down, it is because they
seize upon everything that is thrust
into the soil.'
" I had more than once had op-
portunity to observe how much the
imagination of these highway wan-
derers inclines to the marvellous.
Abandoned to all the illusions to
which ignorance and desire can give
rise, they pursue their lonely path in
constant observation of the lights
and shadows, of the stillness and
murmurs of nature. Little by little
the fascination of solitude troubles
them ; they feel their reason vacillate,
and a thousand confused images form
themselves in the darkness. Rocked
by the slow pace of the mules, lulled
by the monotonous melody of their
bells, they behold the trees scud by
them like phantoms; the wind, whist-
ling amongst the rocks, is a voice
that calls to them ; the rippling of
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
waters is the lamentation of the
departed. All the incidents of dark-
ness are transformed into startling
mysteries. An imaginary world
gradually substitutes itself for the
real world ; they perceive that which
they have imagined, they hear things
which others have told them they
had heard. In vain do they seek in
their travelling-flask the confidence
and lucid perception which escapes
them ; each dram of spirits evokes a
fresh swarm of visions, until at last,
bewildered by intoxication, they slip
from the back of their mule and fall
asleep upon the turf of some cross-
road. There, continuing their journey
in their slumbers, they pass at once
from reality to fiction. Then it is
that the muleteers who cross the
sandy shores of Normandy encounter,
in their dreams, the Maine Trompeur,
seated on the stones of the road, with
his seductive piles of gold, and his
cards that always win, offering to
gamble with the passer-by for his
soul ; then do they meet the Mule of
Misguidance, which suffers itself to be
mounted by the first comer and forth-
with disappears with him for ever;
and then it is that they hear ,the Bell
of Perdition, tinkling across the waves
and luring travellers into the abyss.
The saltmakers of the Loire are not
more exempt than those of the
department of the Manche from these
deceitful hallucinations."
This last paragraph is an ingenious
attempt minutely to define and trace
the origin and growth of many of the
superstitions current amongst the
peasantry of Western France, and
which it is the object of M. Souvestre
to exhibit and illustrate. The intro-
duction of the brandy flask does not
tend to heighten the poetry of these
delusions, although we have no doubt
of its frequent agency in fostering
them. But the juxta-position of the
fantastic and the spirituous inevitably
excites a smile. One cannot help
contrasting the fanciful commence-
ment and terribly prosaic termina-
tion of these long and solitary jour-
neys of the Norman and Breton
salt-carriers. They begin by a sort
of Ossianic reverie ; darkness sur-
rounds them, voices murmur in
the waters, visions flit before their
half-closed eyes, they are environed
59
by an imaginary world when sud-
denly they have recourse to cognac,
tumble off their mules and subside
into a snooze. We have no doubt of
the fidelity, in numerous instances, of
the latter of these two pictures. It
is praiseworthy, however, of M. Sou-
vestre, that whilst displaying the
attractive features of French peasant
character, he does not too completely
subdue the coarse traits. And in this
respect he perhaps deserves the pre-
ference over George Sand, who, in
her rural tales, has occasionally given
her peasantry a shade more of deli-
cacy and refinement than is altogether
consistent with nature. This im-
pression is certainly rare, and so
fleeting as in no way to impair the
charm of such graceful tales as Fran-
cois le Champi and La Petite Fadette.
Although somewhat drawn out,
there is a wild interest in Les Bryerons
et les Saulniers, which is based on the
superstition of the Black Kourigan, or
Little Charcoal-burner, a sort of Bre-
ton brownie, personifying misfortune,
and whose appearance is considered
of fatal, or at least disastrous omen.
The tone and sequel of the story are
melancholy ; and such is the charac-
ter of all but one of M. Souvestre's
pastorals, tales, reminiscences, or by
whatsoever other name they may
most appropriately be called. The
next in order of index is entitled La
Chasse aux Tresors The Hunt af-
ter Treasures another picture of the
superstitions and peasant life of Brit-
tany, but on the opposite side of
that province, near its inland fron-
tier. The divining-rod figures in
this chapter, which comprises some
French village and cottage sketches,
cleverly drawn, and brightly coloured,
and terminates very tragically. It
opens with a curious Arab tradi-
tion, which, having been brought
across the Pyrenees, according to
M. Souvestre, by shepherds and
smugglers, is still current in the
French Basque country. " Whilst
leading their flocks along the banks
of the gaves, or mountain streams,
the peasants still relate that, long
before Julius Ccesar, there existed a
bronche, or sorcerer, who ascended
into the air on a dragon that he
had subdued, and thus arrived at
the rock on which slept Debrua, the
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
60
genius of evil. Surrounding him nine
times with a magic chain, he forced
him to make known to him the king
of talismans, which gives pleasure,
wealth, and power. Debrua declared
to the sorcerer that, in order to obtain
everything upon earth, he must make
himself master of the saffron-yellow
fly, which showed itself nightly in a
certain pass of the Pyrenees. To
catch this fly he must make a net of
those hairs nearest the brain, and dip
the net in sweat and blood. The
bronche did as he was advised, and
soon the saffron-yellow fly appeared
to him. For seven days and nights
he followed it over rock and ravine,
through thicket and torrent, leaving
upon his way as many fragments of
his clothes and flesh as sheep, before
shearing-time, leave locks of wool
upon the brambles ; at last he saw it
settle upon the hut of a shepherd who
was away in the pastures. In vain
did he endeavour to get at the fly ; all
his efforts were insufficient to drive
it from the roof. As a last resource,
and having made sure that none could
see him, he set fire to the hut, and
the saffron-yellow fly flew away. The
bronche followed it to a meadow,
where it alighted upon a tuft of fennel.
Unable to approach a plant which is
the enemy of sorcerers, he remained
some distance off, until a young pea-
sant, who was taking care of horses in
the pastures, perceived the fly, and
caught it in his cap. The bronche,
now quite frantic, ran after the child,
struck him with his stick, and killed
him ; but just as he seized the saffron-
yellow fly, it stung him, and rendered
him sad for the rest of his days.
Richer than the fairies of the gaves,
he fell into the same languor that
afflicts those whose enemies have re-
commended them to 8t Sequayrius*
and he died a lingering death, as if
the main root of his heart had been
cut." Tradition says nothing further
of the snffi on-yellow fly ; but M. Sou-
vestre, regarding it as an allegory, be-
holds men constantly engaged in its
pursuit ; in Mexico and Peru, with
Cortez and Pizarro, in the Bahamas,
digging after pirates' buried hoards,
[Jan.
in the rocks and rivers of California,
and nearer home, amidst the crumbling
ruins and vaulted foundations of
European castles and convents.
" Science herself, in her austere re-
treats, lent an ear to the buzzing of
the saffron-yellow fly, and forgot her-
self, for centuries, in quest of the
philosopher's stone." These and
other reflections are suggested to
this agreeable and intelligent French
writer by his approach to the market-
town of St Cosme, on the road to Le
Mans. A mound near St Cosme,
known in history as the Motte (mount)
d> Yge, has long been reputed to con-
tain immense treasures. In the
twelfth century the English con-
structed a fort upon it, which they
held until the treaty of Bretigny,
signed in 1360, by which Edward
III. of England renounced his claim
to the French crown. According to
the tradition, the English, before
evacuating the place, buried a quan-
tity of treasure which they dared not
take with them, but of which they
hoped to regain possession when an-
other war should break out. Not a
very probable story, considering that
their retreat was in virtue of a treaty
of peace, and consequently unmo-
lested. The tale, however, was logi-
cal enough to satisfy many, for the
Motte d'Yge, better known in modern
times as Mount Jallu, has been the
scene of repeated excavations and
researches. Of the principal of
these, M. Souvestre gives a brief ac-
count. "The first indication," he
says, " of the precious deposit, was
a copper plate found in the Tower of
London, on which were inscribed
the words : Thesaurus est in Monte
Salutis, prope Comum. Doubtless a
knowledge had been obtained of this
in Louis XIII. 's time, for under his
reign the regiment of Maine was set
to dig up Mount Jallu. In 1735, the
Duke de Chevreuse authorised fresh
researches, which proved as fruitless
as the preceding ones. After these
two failures, the hill had a long re-
spite. A parchment found at Paris
in 1825, on the demolition of an old
church, again drew attention to the
* St Seqnayrius is a popular saint in the Basque country, to whom people recom-
mend their enemies that Le may dry them up.
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
Motte cTYge. A company of share-
holders was formed, for the purpose
of once more rummaging the deceitful
mountain. All they accomplished
was the interment of their capital.
Towards the same period, the English,
who had already, in the eighteenth
century, claimed a right of search,
renewed their demand through M. de
Talleyrand, and addressed a petition
to the Chamber of Deputies, which
passed to the order of the day. Then
the father of one of our most noted
actresses, Mr Fay, suddenly enlight-
ened by the revelations of a somnam-
bulist lady's-maid, purchased from
the proprietor of the hill permission to
recommence digging. The indications
of the magnetised subject were so ex-
act that this time the search had a
result. After work which cost him
twelve thousand francs, Mr Fay found
five copper coins and three nails !
After him several ladies resumed the
enterprise, and, amongst them, a re-
lative of the most prolific of our novel-
ists, (Balzac,) who hoped to discover
old Grandet's treasure in the bowels
of Mount Jallu. Finally, there came
the Polish General Milkieski, Mes-
dames Herpin, Hersant, and a new
company of shareholders. These last
were at work in 1844, having in their
pay, like their predecessors, a magne-
tiser and his subject, whose revelations
served to guide the workmen." The
announcement, by the newspapers, of
their proceedings, excited M. Sou-
vestre's curiosity, and he set out to
witness the treasure-hunt. He found
a number of labourers cutting trenches
and digging wells ; but, either from
ignorance or discretion, the foreman,
who directed the works, could furnish
no information of any interest. The
digging and delving of the series of
speculators seemed literally to have
altered the position of the hill. Faith
had removed the mountain, but of trea-
sure there was as yet no sign. The
real golden store had been discovered
by the inhabitants of St Cosme and
its vicinity, into whose pockets had
flowed upwards of two hundred thou-
sand francs, the cost of these oft-
repeated researches. They, as may
be imagined, took good care to express
no doubt of the existence of the
treasure, and to cast no ridicule on its
credulous seekers. To them Mount
61
Jallu was indeed an invaluable neigh-
bour. Turning with a smile from the
hopeless and unprofitable toil of which
its sterile flanks were the scene, M.
Souvestre presently fell in with a
treasure-seeker of a humble class, a
wandering tinker and kettle-patcher
from Berry. Claude, surnamed the
Rouleur, because he was always
rolling (roving) about the country,
was a living dictionary of popular
superstitions relating to hidden wealth.
He had consolidated these into a sort
of system of his own. His whole
thoughts were concentrated upon the
subject. He worked at his tinkering
trade just enough to keep body and
soul together, and endured the great-
est hardships without so much as
heeding them, convinced that one day
he should attain a pitch of opulence
such as it is only given to beggars
even to dream of. A good dinner,
and the familiarity of M. Souvestre's
travelling companion with the patois
of Berry, partially dissipated the
Rouleur^s habitual reserve, and curious
admissions were obtained from him.
He had heard of the celebrated cal-
dron at the Cross of La Barre a sort
of devil's-casket, discovered by dig-
ging up the ground at midnight. At
a certain depth a great basin is dis-
covered, full of gold pieces, but it is
attached to the earth by magic roots,
and hitherto no one has been able to
remove it. At the time of his meet-
ing with M. Souvestre, he was in
quest of a supernatural dog, of a
tawny colour, with straight ears, a
pointed muzzle, and tail sweeping the
earth, which burrowed in holes where
treasure lay. A sort of rustic wizard,
also given to treasure-seeking, who
sold charms and secret remedies,
discovered springs by means of hazel
rods, possessed a living spider enclosed
in a nut-shell as a cure for the fever,
figures, as does his idiot sister, in
the incidents that ensue, and which
we abstain from sketching in order to
turn to the fifth narrative, entitled,
La Niole Blanche. This is a supersti-
tion of the fens of La Vende'e. The
Niole (nacelle) Blanche, the White
Skiff, is a supernatural boat that
haunts the marshes, covered over
with a winding-sheet, and manned
by the Tousseux Jaune, the phantom
of the bilious fever, which plays such
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
62
havoc with the population of that
unwholesome region. This boat is a
warning of approaching disease to
the person to whom it appears. " The
Niole Blanche, in the marshes, is an
equivalent of the death-cart in the
rest of France. Whoever beholds it is
fated to die within the year. In this
new form I found a belief common to
all races of men and periods of the
world's existence. From the phan-
tom that appeared to Brutus down to
the little red spectre of the Tuileries,
there have always and everywhere
been warning apparitions, evidence of
a supreme goodness which would not
deliver man to death unless well
prepared." The date of this tale is
nearly twenty years ago, shortly
previous to the unfortunate royalist
rising in La Vendee, and the slender
plot, which turns upon the perils and
escape of a refractory conscript, has
apparently been introduced merely as
a thread whereon to string curious
details of the habits, pursuits, and
superstitions of the dwellers in the
Yendean marshes. It opens with an
account of a trap and trapper such as
Cooper certainly never sketched, and
such as few of our readers are likely
ever to have heard of. Whilst slowly
rambling, like a true lover of nature
as he is, amidst the beautiful shades
and rural murmurs of the forest of
Vouvant, M. Souvestre, emerging
from a thicket, suddenly found him-
self in an open place, surrounded by
rocks, tapestried with yellow lichens,
and partially shrouded by reeds
and holly. " In the centre of
this species of glade stood a man
dressed in a suit of tanned leather,
which covered him entirely, and al-
lowed nothing but his eyes to be
seen. Before him, on a pan of fire,
there boiled a caldron, the steam of
which would have sufficed to betray
the nature of its contents, even if the
ground in its vicinity had not been
poaked with freshly-spilt milk. The
man kept turning about and looking
at his feet with an uneasy attention.
Presently I saw him stoop down, seize
an adder, which the perfume of the
milk had lured from its cover, and
throw it into the caldron. At its
furious hissing there was a stir in the
tufts of grass at the foot of the rocks,
and several reptiles glided out. The
[Jan.
man in the leathern raiment crushed
their heads under his heel, and put
them into a little barrel closed by a
valve. Whilst thus occupied, he
observed my presence.
" ' Keep off!' he shouted, in a voice
which sounded strangely from under
his leathern mask ' don't you see
they are vipers ? '
" I started back, and went and sta-
tioned myself thirty yards off, on a
little eminence quite bare of brush-
wood, whence I could observe the
movements of this singular sports-
man. He several times recommenced
the operation I had already witnessed,
and ended by pouring upon the ground
the whole of the milk in his caldron.
At last, hopeless of attracting any
more victims, he nailed down the
cover of his barrel, hung it over his
shoulder by a strap, took up his kettle,
and approached the foot of the mound
on which I had taken refuge. Then
only did he strip off his leathern ar-
mour."
The snake- catcher, divested of his
professional costume, proved to be an
old sailor with a wooden leg, which
had replaced that of flesh and blood
ever since the battle of Aboukir. The
snakes were for the apothecaries, who
used them in the composition of an
old-fashioned medicament, then ra-
pidly becoming obsolete. At one
time, said the old man, the vermin
had been worth a cornfield to him,
but now they barely found him in
pipes and tobacco. So, in addition to
snake-snaring, he followed various
other pursuits, whose multiplicity had
earned him the nickname ofFait-Tout.
He was now on the eve of an excur-
sion in the marshes, to fish for leeches.
M. Souvestre, who was bound in the
same direction, gladly offered a place
in his boat to a man of such diversi-
fied accomplishments, and who, more-
over, was thoroughly versed and a
firm believer in the local superstitions
of the Vendean fens ; and, attended by
a single boatman, together they de-
scended the river Sevre. It is not
our intention to trace their subsequent
adventures. We content ourselves,
before turning to the second volume,
with extracting the following curious
sketch of a corner of France rarely
visited by foreigners, and of the man-
ner of life of its inhabitants :
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
1852.]
" Scarcely had we left Maillezais
when we found ourselves in the midst
of the wet marshes. I was never
weary of gazing at the strange spec-
tacle they presented. Far as the eye
could reach, water was the main fea-
ture of the view the basis, as it were,
of the landscape. Here and there
were little islands, covered with
verdure, and known by the name of
mottees (sods or mounds.) The large
ones were distinguished by the growth
of hemp and flax ; the smaller, by
that of ash -trees and willows. The
latter, planted in beds, like the vege-
tables in our gardens, and having
their feet in the water, sprouted with
furious vigour, every stem seeming to
support a whole copse. At intervals
we passed some of those forests of
pavas * known by the name of rose-
lieres, and whose produce surpasses
that of the most fertile land. On the
stems of the reeds were suspended
the nests of the tire-arrache, whose
hoarse cries resounded on all sides.
The surface of the marsh was alive
with thousands of domestic ducks.
Here and there our boat skimmed
over floating meadows of water-lilies.
On the more lofty of the banks and
islands stood huts, constructed like a
savage's wigwam, of sheaves of reeds
bound together by osier-bands. In
the centre of this sort of hive, which
had no chimney, blazed the fire, whose
smoke escaped through all the pores
of the hut, and surrounded it with a
misty halo. These are the habitations
of the huttiers, descendants of those
Colliberls whom old chroniclers de-
scribe as idolaters, worshipping the
rain, and living by depredations.
They cultivate marsh-beans upon the
mottees, keep a few cows, and breed
swarms of ducks, which they sell, as
well as the produce of their fishing,
at Maillezais and Marans. But their
proper domain is the Wet Marsh itself.
There they set thousands of snares,
with which the canals are choked till
they can scarcely disgorge their waters.
The most abundant fishery is that for
eels with yellow bellies, called pibeaux.
The hutter, always in the marshes,
seldom goes home except to sleep.
When the autumn floods inundate
63
the hut, he brings his boat indoors,
and it becomes the habitation of the
entire family.
"The hutters' reputation is little
better than that of their ancestors, the
Colliberts. The inhabitants of the
plain accuse them of having confused
ideas of the respect due to property ;
but, judging by Fait-Tout, it seemed
to me that the plain, in this respect,
was no better than the marsh.
Whenever my wooden-legged com-
panion perceived a cord fastened
to a tree, he pulled it to him, got
hold of a faggot which was fixed
to the other extremity of the rope,
shook it in the boat, and out fell the
leeches. I objected to this as a larceny
committed to the prejudice of those
who had set the faggots; but he
shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
" ' Bah ! ' said he, ' the fox whose
hide you take does but repay you the
price of your fowls ! A theft from a
hutter is always a restitution.'
" Hitherto I had seen but the out-
side of the reed-built dwellings. Ex-
tremely curious to see the inside of
one of them, I ran the boat to land
near a hut which, judging from its
appearance, must have been built at
the beginning of the century. The
slimy mud that had been employed
to fill up the interstices of the roof
had at last transformed it into a sort
of verdant terrace. House-leek flour-
ished upon it, and towards the sum-
mit a willow sapling expanded its
silver-grey branches. The door was
an opening of irregular form, and only
four feet high. In the centre of the
hut were two posts united by a cross-
bar. This was the fireplace. The
smoke, finding no exit, had covered
everything with a black and brilliant
glaze. At the further end of the
cabin three cows ruminated, lying
upon a litter of rushes ; and before
their manger hung a branch of coux-
laurier (ilex aquifolium) intended to
guarantee them from disease. f The
furniture of the place consisted of a
few vessels of coarse earthenware, a
stool, and a hurdle covered with a
mattress of moss. Upon this bed
was a woman, suffering from the pul-
monary fever which the malaria of
* A sort of reed, (typlia latifolia.)
f This superstition prevails throughout La Vendee.
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
64
the marshes gives. She was alone,
and lay shivering beneath a green rug.
Now and then one of the cows ad-
vanced its head, fixed its great mean-
ingless eye upon the pale countenance
of the patient, and enveloped her with
the vapour of its potent breath. Fait-
Tout approached the bed.
" 'Well, maraichaine,' said he, 'so
the fever has knocked us off our legs ?
We can no longer go stamp* upon
the mottees, and the poor man must
work for two ? '
"The sufferer opened her eyes,
looked at us one after the other, but
made no reply.
" ' The master is away after his
nets, no doubt '? ' inquired my com-
panion.
" ' He is gone for the priest,' she
replied in a very low voice."
M. Souvestre suggested a physician,
but the sick woman shook her head.
No physician could avail, she said ;
her hour had come. She had seen the
Niole Blanche.
The Kacouss de V Armor and the
Groac'h are sketches from Northern
Brittany. A Groac'h is a sorceress
of the worst and most malignant class ;
a Kacouss is a sort of Breton paria,
formerly excluded from the society of
Christians, and doomed to occupations
that were considered infamous such
as horse-flaying and rope-making
and still regarded, especially by the
older portion of the lower orders, with
contempt and dislike. " Once so
numerous," says M. Souvestre, " as
to have been the object of special
regulations in the civil and religious
ordinances of Brittany, the Kacouss
long hid themselves in the most soli-
tary places, rejected even by the
church, which permitted them to at-
tend divine service only at the door
of the temple, under the bells. The
traditions as to their origin were nu-
merous and obscure : some held them
to be Gypsians or Bohemians ; others
took them for Jewish lepers ; and
others, again, for Saracen captives,
brought to France in the time of the
Crusades. The Dukes of Brittany at
first prohibited their occupying them-
selves with agriculture and commerce ;
[Jan.
but in the fifteenth century, Francis
II., wishing to diminish the number
of mendicants, permitted them to take
farms on leases of three years, and to
trade in thread or hemp in unfre-
quented situations. These new pri-
vileges were granted them only on
condition of their wearing a badge of
red cloth upon their garments. In
time, all these distinctions disappear-
ed, but popular prejudice survived.
The small number of Kacouss whose
origin was still visible continued to
live apart, divided from all by a bar-
rier of contempt. In the case of those
I had seen in the mountains, this ex-
clusion had produced no other re-
sult than ignorance and misery. If
rightly informed, I was now about to
see one whose heart it had envenomed
and filled with malice." This was
Judok Shipwreck, an old man who
dwelt at Crow's Point, a wind-buffet-
ed promontory on the bleak north-
west coast of Finisterre, who was ac-
cused of hoisting false signals, and of
lighting fires to decoy ships into the
breakers in stormy weather, and who,
in the memory of man, had never been
known to cook a meal or warm him-
self, save with wood that had floated
under canvass. In 1812 he had been
brought to trial at Brest, on suspi-
cion of acting as spy to the English,
but had been acquitted for want of
evidence. The superstitious inhabi-
tants of the coast believed him to
have made a compact with Satan,
who supplied him with devices to bring
vessels to the coast. Judok did not
live alone. His hut had another in-
mate, as mysterious and ill-famed as
himself. An old boatman a type of
the credulity of his class and province
gave M. Souvestre the following
strange account of their first associa-
tion :
" ' It was on a spring evening, sir,
and the suroit ("south-west wind) was
lashing the sea as though it would
have carried away pieces of it, when
a large three-master in distress ap-
peared at the entrance of the channel
of the Isle of Sein. A cruel pity it
was to see how those poor christened
planks were swept before wind and
* The allusion is to a practice of the women of those marshes, who stamp upon
the fat earth of the fields to make the worms come out which serve as baita for their
husbands' fishing.
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
wave. All the people of the coast
were there, gazing at the ship in its ,
last agony, but helpless to save. Ju-
dok Shipwreck stood alone on his rock,
boat-hook in hand. It was as if he
attracted the vessel by the malice of
his eye. We saw her go straight to-
wards him, to within four or five cable-
lengths of the shore ; then she came
to the Feather-bed, a shoal which is
uncovered only at the equinoxes ; in
an instant she struck, and went to
pieces at once. We ran down to see
if any of the crew reached land ; but
the sea brought nothing but chests,
casks, and broken planks. At first
nobody had the heart to touch them.
Jndok alone was at work, up to the
hips in the surf, and as pleased as an
owl supping upon wrens, when sud-
denly something black was wafted to-
wards him by a wave. The rope-
maker threw out his hook, and brought
in a cage. Inside this cage was a great
drowned bird, such as none of us had
ever before seen, and on the top of it
was a half- naked lad, who began to
dance for joy, and to utter cries like
a wild beast. He it is whom they
call Beuzec.' *
" 'And how came the wrecker to
adopt him for his son ? '
" * Excuse me, sir : it was he who
adopted the wrecker for his father.
When Judok returned to his hut, he
followed him, as a dog follows his
master. The Kacouss took him in for
that day ; but upon the morrow he
turned him out. As soon as the door
was opened, the boy went in again ;
when he was refused food, he stole it ;
when he was beaten, he defended him-
self, and returned blow for blow. In
short, none can tell what passed be-
tween him and Judok ; but the new
comer forced the horse-flayer to keep
him under his roof, and give him a
share of his bread. When he learned
to speak, he called him his father, as
if in derision ; for Judok never called
him anything but the reptile. And it
has always been the belief in the
country that Beuzec came from the
bottom of the abyss, sent by the
spirit of evil to watch for the fulfil-
ment of the compact.' "
This extract gives a fair idea of the
general character of the sketch, which
65
is of singular wildness, and perhaps
the most striking, although not the
most pleasing, in the book. Those
who would know more of it must seek
it in the original French, as we intend
devoting what space remains to us to*
Les Boisiers, a charming narrative of
peasant life in the woodland districts
of Brittany, and which, contains all the
elements of a well-constructed tale,
although M. Souvestre, here as in
other instances, has applied himself
rather to the illustration of local cus-
toms and superstitions, than to give
a romantic colouring and arrangement
to incidents in themselves sufficiently*
dramatic, but at the same time so*
natural as to impress us with a strong
conviction of their having really oc-
curred.
The scene of Les Boisiers is in the
extensive forest of Gavre, which
covers a tract of land in southern
Brittany, enclosed between the rivers
Don and Isac, two of the principal
tributaries of the Yilaine. M. Sou-
vestre was already acquainted with
most of the large coppices and small
woods, sprinkled over the western
provinces of France, but he desired to
visit " a forest oasis sufficiently vast
to enclose a special population, and to
create characters and trades." Henco-
his journey to Gavre, on which he
was accompanied by an Alsatian,
named Moser, who had just been
appointed head-forester in that dis-
trict, whither he was sent by the
administration of the Royal Woods
and Waters, in the expectation that
his long experience and remarkable
shrewdness would stimulate the ac-
tivity of the keepers, and check vari-
ous abuses which negligence and tra-
dition had fostered. Moser was a
character. He was not cunning, in
the mean sense of the word, but he
was extremely wary, inured to stra-
tagems, difficult to deceive, and im-
plicitly devoted to the Forest Code,
which he looked upon as the most
sacred of human institutions. Be-
guiling the way by tales of adven-
tures with poachers and outlaws, of
many a patient ambuscade and fierce
contest, the forester and his com-
panion reached at sunset the village
of Blain, on the edge of the forest of
* Beuzec, in the Breton tongue, signifies the drowned.
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
Tlie Rural Superstitions of Western France.
[Jan,
Gavre. Awakened at daybreak by
the sound of a horn, M. Souvestre saw
from his window the village cowherd
collecting the cattle to drive them to
the forest, where an ancient charter
secured them right of pasture. Eager
to follow in the same direction, he
hastened down stairs and found
Moser on foot, waiting the arrival of
his keepers, whom he had summoned,
and breakfasting on a glass of wine
and a bit of brown bread. M. Sou-
vestre had commenced a like frugal
repast, when a peasant entered the
humble tavern in which, for want of
a better, he had taken up his quarters.
On perceiving the strangers, the new
comer paused at the threshold, seemed
to hesitate, but finally approached the
hostess, and silently handed her a
little gourd. She took it without re-
mark, and turned away to fill it with
brandy.
" The peasant waited, resting his
back against the table which served
as a bar, and his two hands on his
holly stick. He was tall and thin,
stooped a little, but was of robust ap-
pearance. His dress consisted of a
threadbare jacket of green cloth, of
trousers of coarse material, and of
shoes with wooden soles ; slung across
his body was a linen pouch, which
had much the form of a game-bag.
After a careless glance round the
room, and without appearing to ob-
serve us particularly, he began whis-
tling and poking the point of his stick
into the hard earthen floor. When
the tavern-keeper gave him back his
gourd, filled with brandy, he did not
pay, but made a gesture, to which the
woman replied by a nod, and he left
the place.
" 'Do you know that man? 1 said
I to Moser, who, like myself, had
walked to the door to gaze after the
peasant. Moser made a negative
sign, and descended the two door-
steps, in order to see what direction
the man in the green jacket took.
" ' He goes towards the forest,' he
remarked.
" ' Whither should he go ? ' I re-
plied ; * the forest is here the common
field in which all seek their harvest.'
" ' Yes, but all do not gather in
the same sort of crop.'
" ' I certainly observed something
unusual in the appearance of yonder
silent visitor.'
" ' Did you notice that he has not
the customary wooden shoes, but
galoshes, more convenient for walking,
and which leave the same mark?
The other peasants go bare-legged,
whilst he wears leathern gaiters to
protect him from the thorns of the
thicket ; their jackets are blue or
brown ; his is green, to blend the
better with the colour of the leaves.
His linen game-bag might pass for a
bread-wallet, but for the stains of
blood ; and his hands would be those
of a labourer, were they not blackened
with gunpowder.'
" * So you think we have just seen
a poacher ? '
" ' Of the worst sort ; and I am
much mistaken if it be not he who for
the last ten years has been stripping
this forest of game, and who has been
particularly pointed out to the admi-
nistration.'
" ' You call him ? '
" ' Antoine better known as Bon-
AffuC *
" The tavern-keeper, who was
busy with her bottles, started and
turned round.
" ' I have hit the mark, you see,'
said Moser, observing the movement ;
' the vagabond has a running account
at the White Horse, and will pay for
his brandy in game.'
"Our hostess began one of those
wordy protestations which peasant
women take for reasoning, when the
arrival of a young boisiere fortunately
interrupted her.
" This name of boisier (woodman,
or, more exactly, a worker in wood)
properly belongs to cutters of hoops
and vine props, to makers of wooden
shoes and spoons, to turners of bowls
and spinning-wheels, to charcoal-
burners and lath -splitters a nomadic
population which inhabits huts of
branches in the forest glades, flits
when the timber is felled, and settles
again where the axe is sounding. But
the same name is commonly applied
to all who live by forest-produce,
even though they do not themselves
work in wood. It was the case with
Michelle, who hawked about to vil-
Afftit is the cover or lurking-place where the hunter lies in wait for his game.
1852.]
Tlie Rural Superstitions of Western France.
67
lage fairs the articles manufactured in
the Gavre, and whose smiling manner,
malicious address, and ready tongue
bewitched her customers, till they
could hardly distinguish beech from
birch. With three horses, bearing
empty panniers, she was on her way
to the encampment of the wood-
workers to replenish her store."
This was exactly the road M.
Souvestre desired to take, so he left
Moser, who was about to make the
tour of the forest with his keepers,
and accompanied Michelle, who Avill-
ingly gave him a place on the pack-
saddle of one of her horses. Michelle
was a strapping and comely damsel
of twenty, black - eyed and fresh-
coloured, who had learned, during
the six years that had elapsed since
her uncle first sent her out with
wooden wares, to defend both her in-
terests and her person, and to take
her own part vigorously against all
comers. M. Souvestre congratulated
himself in having fallen in with so
lively and intelligent a companion.
Riding through the forest, they fell in
with Bruno the Honey-Hunter.
" This was a young lad in the full
flash of early manhood, and whose
tattered garments revealed rather than
concealed the beauty of his form.
His curling hair was covered by a
straw-hat with a ragged brim ; a cloth
jacket, too narrow for the wearer,
displayed the contour of his bust and
his well-turned arms ; through the
rents in his linen trousers were visible
nervous legs, which would have en-
chanted a sculptor. Strength was the
predominant characteristic of his
whole person ; but it was the supple
and graceful strength of youth. He
reminded me of one of those trees with
a delicate bark, rich foliage, and bold
branches, which spring up, of a single
shoot, in generous soils. Slung over
his shoulder by a leathern strap, he
carried a wooden vessel, with a mov-
able cover.
" ' Well! have the bees worked for
you?' said Michelle, in a familiar
tone, authorised by her superiority of
age and fortune.
" ' God's flies always work for
Christians,' replied Bruno, showing us
his tub full of fresh honeycomb.
" ' And where did you plunder your
beech-tree sugar ? '
" ' Down yonder, towards the
hedge thorn, in a hollow which I
smoked. I know of more than ten
other places where the little beauties
are toiling for my profit. It will be
a good year for the honey-crop, for
the elder-trees bloomed finely this
spring.'
" I questioned Bruno about bees'
nests, and learned there were many
hundreds of them in the forest. He
knew them nearly all, but the ma-
jority were out of reach, and to get
the honey it would have been neces-
sary to cut down the tree, like the
honey-hunters of the New World.
Bruno's pursuit was consequently not
very lucrative, and he was fain to
unite with it the search after squirrel
nests, which he stripped of the beech-
mast, chestnuts, and walnuts, accu-
mulated by the little animals for their
winter store. He sold twigs to the
cage-makers, holly-tree bark to the
makers of birdlime, and in winter time
took into the village waterfowl, which
he caught in traps. These contra-
band occupations had not enriched
him, but they seemed to make him
happy. Tolerated by the keepers,
whom his complaisance and good-
humour had propitiated, his life in the
forest was as free as that of the fisher-
man on the waters."
Like Michelle and M. Souvestre,
Bruno intended calling at the farm of
the Magdalen, where dwelt Louison, a
young girl of fifteen, petite, pale and
somewhat fragile, not regularly pretty,
but whose sweet smile and wonder-
ing blue eyes at once captivated the
beholder one of those delicate and
exceptional rustics, in short, whom
George Sand delights to draw, and
draws with such surpassing skill.
Louison is a miniature that would do
her no discredit. Nearly fifteen years
previously, Antoine, surnamed Bon-
Aflut, had brought her to the farm,
wrapped in his goat-skin coat. He
had found her, he said, in the forest ;
but the infant was in good case, and
many thought that he had received
her from the mother. The farmer,
who had dealings with the poacher,
took charge of the child at his request,
and brought her up indulgently, as
was needful, for Louison was not very
strong, nor apt at rustic toils. In her
early childhood, Bruno had been her
68
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
[Jan.
playmate; once he had rescued her
from drowning ; his choicest honey-
comb and finest nuts were still for
her ; and Michelle, who, by stealth,
looked tenderly on the handsome bee-
hunter, detested Louison, and twit-
ted Bruno with his affection for the
red-haired freckled foundling, as she
called the gentle little girl, with re-
ference to her rich auburn locks and
to the brown spots that dappled her
delicately white complexion. Here
are already assembled, if we mistake
not, the elements and personages of
a woodland romance, and the scene
could hardly be better chosen. Mr
James has often raised the super-
structure of three volumes on far
slighter foundations. We scarcely
know whether to tax M. Souvestre
with indolence, or to praise his con-
stancy to his original design, wheii
we find him still steadfastly adhere
to the sketching style, and make his
characters subservient to the illus-
tration of a popular superstition, in-
stead of elaborating (as few better
know how) such promising materials
into a longer and more carefully con-
structed tale, in which he might
equally well have introduced the local
usages and traditions he desires to
display.
After a volley of sarcasms directed
at the poor vestments and quiet mien
of Louison, Michelle continued her
journey. M. Souvestre made a halt
at the farm, which excited his curio-
sity by its singular position in the
heart of the great forest. Whilst
rambling over it, Louroux, the
farmer, had continually to warn him
against ambushed perils, rendered
indispensable by the number of four-
footed destructives that the woods
harboured. Here was a pitfall for
wolves, concealed under grass; there,
in a ditch bordering a wheat-field,
and slightly covered with branches,
scythe-blades were fixed, intended to
rip up the wild boars that infest the
Gavre. These last snares, the most
dangerous of all, were also the most
numerous, but they were insufficient
to protect the crops from the voracity
of the grunters. AVhen the corn be-
gan to ripen, all the men on the farm
went out into the fields in carts,
armed with guns, to await and repel
the wild boars. The wolves were
troublesome only in winter, when
they came in bands and besieged the
cow-houses. Two years before, said
the farmer, they would have devoured
Louison, had not Antoine come to her
rescue. Just as Louroux had related
this incident to M. Souvestre, they
caught sight of the poacher and the
young girl, talking confidentially at
the corner of a glade.
" Antoine was seated at Louison's
feet, his elbows resting on her knees,
off which he ate a piece of black
bread. His head was turned towards
her, and his eyes gazed into hers. It
seemed that for him the table trans-
formed the frugal repast into a
banquet, for every line of his rude
countenance appeared to smile. The
young girl had doubtless been telling
of the humiliation she had had to en-
dure from Michelle, for she now and
then wiped away a tear with the
corner of her apron, and her voice
was broken by little sobs. But the
poacher's words had already restored
cheerfulness to her childish physiog-
nomy, on which smiles were beaming
through her final tears, like the sun
through a summer shower. We fol-
lowed the edge of the forest, hidden
by the tufts of holly, our footsteps
inaudible in the grass, our pre-
sence unperceived. The poacher had
unconsciously raised his voice, and I
thought I distinguished words of a
well-known dialect.
'"It sounds as though they were
talking Breton ? ' said I, in a low
voice.
" ' So they are ! ' replied Louroux,
in the same tone ; ' Bon-Affut is born
towards the woods of Camore, and
when he came here, now fifteen years
ago, he had great difficulty in learn-
ing to speak like other folk. So he
taught the jargon of the low country
to his darling Louison, who, in her
turn, taught it to Bruno ; and when
the three are together, it is a jabber
such as the saints themselves could
not understand. Only listen whether
that resembles a language intended
for men and women to speak.'
" Notwithstanding the farmers
opinion, I perfectly understood the
dialogue.
" * Make yourself easy,' said An-
toine caressingly, ' I tell you that
you shall dance at the first festival,
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
69
and shall be the finest of all who are
there.'
" * Cloth and linen are very dear,'
objected the little girl, who now wept
with only one eye.
" * But roebuck sells well,' replied
the poacher, ' and no later than to-
morrow there shall be one at the
farm. As usual, father Louroux will
manage to send it to Nantes.'
'"And if the keepers watch to-
night ? ' said Louison, now quite con-
soled.
" ' They will not watch,' replied
Bon-Affut ' I have a sure means of
sending them to their hay-loft.'
"The dead branches, crackling
under our feet, betrayed our approach;
by a hasty gesture the poacher en-
joined the child to seeresy, and then
rose to receive us."
The poacher's distrust of the com-
panion of the new forester whose
office had been revealed to him by
his uniform M. Souvestre took care
to dissipate by mentioning, in the
course of conversation, the casual
nature of his acquaintance with
Moser, and the motives of his excur-
sion into the forest ; so that, when
he inquired of the farmer the best
road to the huts of the boisiers, Bon-
Affut said he was going that way
himself, and would guide him. We
are tempted into translating the fol-
lowing woodland picture :
" As we advanced into the forest,
its aspect grew more and more wild,
until at last all trace of man's hand
disappeared. Around us was a chaos
of trees of all sizes a battle of vege-
tation in which the weak writhed at
the feet of the strong, strangled in its
folds or fading in its shadow. Hero
and there great beeches, overthrown
by time, rested their crumbling skele-
tons against the robust trunks of
their successors; climbing shrubs,
seeking the sun, coiled their garlands
round the loftiest summits, springing
from one to the other and forming a
thousand floating bridges on which
the squirrel swaug. The floor of the
forest, upset in ancient days by some
terrible convulsion, was furrowed by
ravines, on whose brink impended
masses of rock, overgrown with
ragged briars. At intervals there
occurred an opening in this wilder-
ness of stones and verdure, and
ponds appeared, all studded with
water-lilies.. Flocks of wood-pigeons
flew over them ; the king-fisher
flashed his brilliant colours along the
beds of rushes; and the heron, mo-
tionless on the dry branches of the
willow, stooped his head towards the
still waters like some intent and
patient angler.
" In the very heart of this solitude
we reached an open space in whose
centre shone a pool of water, so
limpid that each tint and form of the
clouds was reflected on its surface.
Here the poacher slackened his pace,
casting well -pleased glances around
him, like a proprietor who enters his
domain. He began to reply to the
music of the birds, by notes so mar-
vellously imitated that the deluded
songsters descended from branch to
branch, and stopped within a few
paces of us, turning their heads on
one side the better to listen. The
squirrels came forward at his cry ;
the water-hens swam out of the tufts
of reeds to pick up the seeds he scat-
tered on the little lake ; some rabbits
that were playing beneath a tuft of
heaths stood still, and looked impu-
dently at us. The poacher smiled at
my astonishment.
" ' They are my friends and neigh-
bours,' said he ; * we have long lived
together without strife or lawsuit, and
as few persons come this way, they
have not learned to be distrustful.'
'"Then you never set snares for
them ? '
"'Never; it would be betraying
their confidence ! But I do not see
the Verdaude; she is usually more
alert.'
" He approached the pool, and be-
gan to hiss in a particular manner ;
soon a similar hissing answered him,
and the triangular head of an enor-
mous adder reared itself amongst the
reeds. Involuntarily, I made a move-
ment backwards.
" ' No fear,' said Bon-Affut quietly,
' she is an old comrade ; see, she re-
cognises me ! '
"The adder had left the bed of
rushes, and swam towards us with
head erect, darting out her forked
tongue with slight hissings. The long
folds of her greenish body, veined
with dark marks, left a furrow upon
the still waters in her rear. Dart-
70
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
[Jan.
ing on shore, and coiling herself up,
ghe reached as high as the poacher's
waist. He held out his arm ; she
wound round it and attained his
bosom, into which she glided.
" ' Monsieur is surprised at my con-
fidence,' said Bon-Affut, who observ-
ed my expression of uneasiness and
disgust ; but the creature is harmless
it is only a water-snake. When
a man passes long weeks alone in the
woods, he becomes less particular in
respect to his society; he is happy
to find some living thing which knows
him. And when I cannot go to the
farm to talk to Louison, and Bruno is
away, I sometimes get down-hearted ;
then I come here for recreation, and
God's creatures keep me company.' "
At some distance beyond the Pool
of the Green Snake, the pedestrians
encountered Bruno, peeling branches
for the basket-makers. Ambiguous
phrases were exchanged between him
and the poacher, who looked uneasily
at some recent foot-prints, and,
giving M. Souvestre directions how
to reach the huts of the boisiers, ab-
ruptly wished him good day. In the
principal encampment of the wood-
workers, the description of which we
regret our inability to extract, was a
large hut, serving as a tavern, where
M. Souvestre found Moser and two of
his keepers at supper. He joined
them. Presently Michelle came in,
out of breath and somewhat discom-
posed. Bruno was the cause of her
alarm. She had met him in the
forest, and he told her he had just
seen, near Dead-Man's thicket, the
mau-piqueur , or spectre- huntsman,
beating the cover. This news caused
a general sensation amongst the in-
mates of the tavern ; conversation
ceased in the various groups, and
Michelle was overwhelmed with ques-
tions. Bruno had seen him, she
declared, as plainly as she saw her
interrogators ; he was leading his
black dog by a chain, and seemed in
quest of the tracks of game. At first
the bee-hunter had taken him for a
keeper, but when the herald of sadness
turned towards him, he beheld his
eyes distilling fiames, and heard him
utter the terrible words :
" Fauves par les passees,
Gibiers par les foulees,
Place aux ames damnees ! "
Then he disappeared amongst the
trees, and the leaves shrivelled up on
At this wild tale the women ceased
to spin, the men stared at each other,
even the two keepers seemed scared.
Moser demanded an explanation. In
forest-belief, he was told, the appear-
ance of the mau-piqueur foreboded
the great hunt after the wicked. The
Alsatian stood aghast at finding that
there lived baptised men capable of
believing such absurdities. His in-
credulity scandalised all present. All,
including the keepers, deposed to
having heard, at one time or other,
the horn of the evil huntsman.
" ' So you admit to have heard a
horn in the forest without seeking
the hunters?' said Moser to his
men.
" * They would have courted death
had they sought them,' said the old
boisier who had already spoken ; 'the
appearance of the mau-piqueur is
always a bad sign, but whoever
meets his hunt may prepare his coffin,
for his hours are numbered.'
" * I will run the risk,' said Moser,
' and the devil burn me if I don't
force your goblins to show me their
licenses.'
"All present exclaimed against
this irreverence ; the old man shook
his head.
" ' It is not good to jest with the
dead,' he said, ' God has made a
division ; He has given the day to
man, and the night to evil spirits.
It is too proud a heart that revolts
against His will, and you will be
spared this trial, if you have a good
patron in heaven.'
" ' I hope, on the contrary, that it
will be granted me,' said Moser.
' During fifteen years that I have
walked the forests, all the poachers I
have met have been of this world; I
should be well-pleased to meet some
of the other ; but you will find that
the hunt has been put off, and that
the devil considers us too sober and
vigilant for the mau-piqueur to wind
his horn.'
" None replied ; there was a pause.
Profound silence prevailed around the
hut, scarcely broken by the rustle of
the wind and the murmur of the
waters. Suddenly the sound of a
horn arose, increased, resounded
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
through the alleys of the forest, and
ended, with a clamorous burst, at
the very door of the cabin. The
effect was tremendous. With one
accord men and women started to
their feet. Moser looked at me with
surprise. There was a brief silence.
Then the winding of the horn was
repeated, in livelier notes, and nearer
at hand.
" "Tis he! 'tis he!' murmured
every one.
" The forester was on his feet.
" ' It is evident,' he said, with an
irritable impatience, ' that some one
amuses himself at our expense ; we
shall see who laughs last.' And
turning to his two companions,
* Come ! ' said he, ' the mau-piqueur
seems rather hoarse we will try to
clear his voice for him.'
" The keepers, who had risen,
looked uneasily at each other. The
horn continued to resound with
increased loudness ; the homers,
assembled round the chimney,
conversed in a low voice. Moser
waited near the door, and saw to the
lock of his gun. At last his men
joined him, but with evident unwill-
ingness. The Alsatian asked them
if they were afraid.
" ' There is no shame in fearing
what one cannot comprehend,' said
the elder man, surlily ; ' and, for my
part, I do not know what we have to
do in the forest at this time of night.'
" ' Your duty ! ' replied Moser
harshly : ' do you know the object of
the stupid joke by which they try to
frighten us ? are you sure it is not the
stratagem of some marauder, who is
poaching the cover? The forest is
confided to our care, we must watch
over it like our child. Do you want
to be taken for cowards? Come,
forward, I say, and look to your
guns.'
" The keepers made no reply, and
we walked out into the forest, follow-
ing the horn, whose sound became
each moment more distinct. The airs
it played did not resemble those now
in use in the hunting-field ; they were
prolonged and plaintive calls, inter-
rupted by furious flourishes, recalling
by their antique rhythm the hunt-
ing calls of old France. The mau-
piqueur appeared coming to meet us
by a path parallel to that we were
71
following. Soon the horn was blown
upon our right hand, and so near
that we seemed separated from it
only by a few bushes. Moser turned
abruptly to that side ; but at the
same moment the blast was heard on
our left. Surprised, the forester hur-
ried in that direction ; the horn was
forthwith winded to our right, more
violently than ever. This time Moser
stood still, quite confounded, and
asked the keepers if there were echoes
in the forest. Both replied by a nega-
tive, and made us observe that the
sound had again changed its place,
and was now behind us. The Alsa-
tian was about to turn back, when
we heard it in our front, where it for
some time continued, but with inter-
mittances that led us astray. Some-
times the nocturnal bugler seemed close
to us, at others lost in the depths of the
forest. The two keepers followed us,
their hard breathing betraying their
alarm. When at last we paused in
the centre of a wild opening, they
gazed about with a terror which they
no longer attempted to conceal.
" ' It is a wilful running into
the jaws of destruction ! ' said the
elder man, in a troubled voice ; ' the
forester must be convinced by this
time that they are not men with whom
we have to deal, and reason bids us
return to the huts.'
"Moser replied not. His body
bent forward, his ear open to every
sound, he seemed studying with par-
ticular attention the hallalis of the
mau-piqueur. At last he drew him-
self up and turned towards us.
" ' I have hit it,' said he, quickly ;
* the distant sounds are clearer and
stronger than those close at hand ; it
is neither the same instrument nor the
same musician : evidently there are
two horns, and they have been mak-
ing fools of us for the last hour.'
" Probable as this explanation was,
it did not satisfy our companions, who
positively refused to explore one side
of the forest whilst Moser and I
searched the other. The Alsatian
was obliged to take them with him in
one direction, whilst I took the oppo-
site route by myself. One of the
keepers gave me his gun, and I en-
tered a narrow glade leading to the
most solitary part of the forest."
We are compelled, however un-
72
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
[Jan.
willingly, to abridge the remainder of
the story. M. Souvestre fell in with
Bruno, horn in hand, and made him
prisoner, but released and remained
with him. A shot was heard. Bon -
Affilt joined them, with a fresh-killed
roebuck. On learning that the
keepers whom he had thought to
deter by enacting, in concert with
Bruno, the part of the mau-piqueur
were seeking poachers in the forest,
he knew that the report of his gun
would attract them, and hurried off,
accompanied by Bruno and M. Sou-
vestre, who had lost his way, and who,
amused by the adventure, sympa-
thised at least as much with the pursued
as with the pursuers. They fell in with
Moser and his men, but Bon-Affut
escaped unseen. Just then a fire
broke out amongst the brushwood on
the edge of the forest, and threatened
to extend to the lofty trees, but was
extinguished by the exertions of the
boisiers, who mustered in force with
axes and buckets. Various incidents
occurred, enabling Moser to prove to
the peasants that the mau-piqueur
had been personated this time, at
least by Bruno and Bon-Affut.
Angry at the deception practised on
them, and at the damage done by the
fire which of course was imputed,
although unjustly, to the poachers
the boisiers willingly offered assistance
to capture them. Michelle came up.
She had seen the two offenders follow-
ing a path leading to the farm of the
Magdalen ; she had called to them,
but instead of replying, they plunged
intothethicket. This sufficed. Thefirst
tint of dawn found Moser and a party
of peasants at the farm, which they
had already thoroughly searched.
The farmer had attempted to take
things with a high hand, and protested
against the violation of his domicile,
but quickly changed his note when
the resolute forester informed him
that he would have to answer a charge
of complicity in poaching and fire-
raising in the royal forest. Lights
had been found burning in the house,
and Bruno seated in the chimney-
corner. Louison was afoot ; and from
her restlessness, and certain of her
movements, M. Souvestre felt con-
vinced Bon-Affut was hidden near at
hand. Michelle, who had accom-
panied the party to the farm, and, as
usual, had hastened to fix a quarrel
on Louison, entertained the same
conviction ; and, in presence of the
forester, offered to wager that the
little shepherdess could find the
poacher if she chose. The following
dramatic scene must conclude our
extracts :
"Moser, who had hitherto paid
slight attention to the quarrel of the
two young girls, suddenly became
attentive. He questioned Louison,
using every means to entrap her ; but
the little pastoure avoided his snares
with a natural ingenuity and address
which astounded me. Meanwhile
the boisiers came in ; they had ex-
plored all the paths and seen no one.
The forester could not conceal his
vexation. Besides the necessity of
justifying the confidence of the ad-
ministration, to which he had pro-
mised a speedy reform of the abuses
that ruined the forest, his self-love
was interested not to fail before so
many witnesses, and to signalise his
arrival in the Gavre by an important
capture. After giving orders again
to beat the neighbourhood of the
farm, he lighted his German pipe, and
seated himself at the house door, as
if resolved there to await the result of
the fresh researches.
" I perceived, however, that Moser
continued to watch allLouison's move-
ments. Day had broken, and the
cowherd's horn* sounded far off in
the forest; the little shepherdess
turned the cattle out of the stables,
and set off with them towards the
pasture. Moser suffered her to
depart apparently unheeded ; but
scarcely had she entered the path
leading to the grazing ground, when
I sa\v him quickly extinguish his pipe
and take up his gun. I asked him
what he was about to do ; he put his
finger on his lips, pointed to the shep-
herdess, and glided into the field she
was skirting. I joined him, without
* Le lamlis du vacher. Of this and a few other local or patois words, which
M. Souvestre has contented himself with putting in italics, without appending their
French equivalents, we have been compelled rather to guess than translate the
meaning.
1852.]
The Rural Superstitions of Western France.
73
understanding his project, and we fol-
lowed Louison on the contrary side of
the hedge. The little girl walked sing-
ing along, neither hurrying nor looking
behind her, apparently solely occupied
with the straw she was plaiting. Thus
she reached the pasture, ascended
a small mound that overlooked it, and
seated herself under a clump of ash
trees. For the first time she then cast
her eyes around her, but vaguely, and
as if noticing nothing. Almost at her
feet was a field of ripe corn, waving
in the morning breeze. To her right
was the forest, to her left the culti-
vated ground where we lay concealed.
Louison continued singing ; but
gradually her voice grew louder, and
its modulations resounded afar.
44 4 In what barbarous tongue does
she sing? said Moser, who in vain
endeavoured to understand the words.
44 1 signed to him to be silent, for I
had recognised the rude Celtic accent.
The pastoure sang the old guerz or
ballad of Jean Devereux, mingling
with it warnings addressed to an in-
visible auditor.
44 4 Bretons, be all upon your guard ;
yonder dwells Jean la Prise, with his
soldiers in his castle, like a snail in
his shell.'
44 Here the voice slightly altered its
inflexion, and substituted for the tra-
ditional words this rapid warning :
44 4 All the band of wood- cutters is
here ; the safest for you is to return
at once to the forest, to the cover near
the Pool of the Green Snake.'
44 Then the original song was re-
sumed :
" 4 All that was old and all that
was new they have plundered through-
out the land ; from the churches the
silver crosses the gilt cups from the
burgher's table.'
41 She raised her voice to add :
44 4 There is no one to the right ;
follow the corn without raising your
head, you will reach the little cluster
of holly.'
44 1 turned my eyes to the corn-field,
and in a few seconds I saw the ocean
of ears slightly open, and a furrow
formed which seemed to move towards
the forest. I stood up, in order to
see better. Moser, who followed all
my movements, observed the direc-
tion of my glance, perceived the mo-
tion in the corn, and uttered a joyful
exclamation ; he saw the whole thing.
Opening the bushes behind which we
were concealed, he ran across the
pasture reached the enclosure of the
corn-field, there too high to leap
skirted it for a moment and then,
coming to an opening filled up with
branches, sprang into it. I heard him
utter a cry of pain, and saw him fall.
He had come upon a scythe-blade
hidden under. the leaves, in readiness
for the passage of the wild boars.
44 The two keepers, who just then
came up, and who, like myself, had
seen the accident, hurried with me to
the assistance of the Alsatian. He
was covered with blood, but heeded
not his wounds.
44 4 Quick, quick, after the poacher ! '
he faltered, pointing out the direction
in which Bon-Affut was flying. After
a momentary hesitation the keepers
hurried in pursuit, whilst Moser prop-
ped himself against the bank and fol-
lowed them with his eyes. In vain
did I endeavour to ascertain whether
he was dangerously hurt : mechani-
cally stanching with his handker-
chief the blood that flowed from his
hands and breast, he seemed to think
only of the poacher. When the latter
found he was discovered, he no longer
attempted to conceal himself in the
corn, but ran across the furrows in
the direction of the forest, pursued by
the keepers. The interval between
them increased every moment, and
his escape appeared certain, when, at
the last enclosure, he suddenly found
himself face to face with a party of
boisiers, who surrounded and seized
him.
44 On hearing the shouts which an-
nounced this capture, Moser made a
gesture of triumph, and then, his
strength completely exhausted, he
sank down at the foot of the bank.
44 A quarter of an hour later, all
were assembled in front of Louroux'
farm-house. A cart was getting ready
for the forester, whose wounds had
been dressed. A few paces off, sur-
rounded by a group of the woodcut-
ters, stood Bon-Affut and Bruno.
Their hands were bound, and they
leaned against a low wall. Louison
was seated a little farther off, sob-
bing, with her head upon her knees.
44 It was two days before I could
74
Husbands, Wives,
get to Savenay ; but then I went
straight to the magistrate charged
with the prosecution of Bruno and
the poacher. My explanations suf-
ficed to clear them of the charge of
incendiarism, and to procure the
young wood-ranger his liberty. As
to his companion, he had too many
old accounts to settle with the forest-
ers for it to be possible for me to ob-
tain his release before my departure ;
but fortunately I found at Savenay a
college chum, by profession a lawyer,
who promised to watch the proceed-
ings and to assist him if necessary.
Some time had elapsed since rny ex-
cursion amongst the bolsters, when I
learned that the Savenay man of law
had succeeded in getting Bon-Affiit
out of prison after a few weeks' con-
finement, and had procured him
employment on the domain of Car-
heil, where the ex-poacher had be-
come a model gamekeeper. At the
same time I learned that Antoine
was about to find himself once
more associated with the honey-
Fathers, Mothers. [Jan.
hunter, who had been engaged as
planter and terrace- maker, and who
was to join him after the August sap,
with the pastoure of the Magdalen,
whom the dwellers in the forest
already called by the name of Louison
Bruno."
The length to which our extracts
have extended would preclude further
comment, were any requisite. We
have said and translated enough to
show that M. Emile Souvestre's latest
work possesses a degree of interest
and merit very uncommon in the
recent publications of the Paris press.
And we also say of it what we
rarely venture to say of a book
belonging to the lighter class of
French literature that it is well
adapted to English tastes, and may
be recommended to English readers
of either sex and any age. So much
novel and curious information, con-
cerning the habits and superstitions
of an interesting peasantry, has seldom
been imparted in a style and form so
attractive and entertaining.
HUSBANDS, WIVES, FATHERS, MOTHERS.
WE read in an American paper, (the
Providence Journal,) a passage expres-
sive of some apprehension that the
old names of " wife" and "woman"
are being fast supplanted by " lady"
and " female." " We suppose," says
the paper, " that the same dandyism
will find out some new names for
'father and mother.' Lady is a
beautiful word in its proper applica-
tion, but it does not mean wife."
We presume the writer is not quite
aware, then, of the extent of this
change in our moral vocabulary.
" Father" has been long suppressed ;
and as he was, ad absurdum, sup-
posed to keep unruly children in
order, they have borrowed a name
from our prisons so the father, in
derision of any subjection to him, is
now the " governor." Considering
the frequent university and other
debts he is called upon to pay, we
really think "the relieving officer"
would be a more fit title.
There are, however, other substan-
tial reasons why "fathers" should
become obsolete. The word is now
in disrepute, as associated with our
old divinity "the fathers of the
church" against whom religionists
of the new school love to throw mud.
This kind of zeal pervades our par-
lours, and introduces itself into our
kitchens, so that " fathers" is becom-
ing a term of contempt and mockery,
implying those who are worn out,
useless, and ought to be cheated, and
otherwise maltreated.
Telemachus said he had only his
mother's word for it that Ulysses
was his father. Ulysses was never-
theless notoriously wise ; and if it be
true that " he is a wise man who
knows his own child, and it is a wise
child that knows his own father,"
this little anecdote of ancient history
shows that the wisest may be deceiv-
ed. It is remarkable that the word
" mother" is still retained, excepting
in cases where the mother is at the
same time a widow and not yet
grown down, and the daughters
are grown up ; but this retainment
implies a suspicion upon the morals
of the age, as by its ready ackuow-
1852.]
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
ledgment of the mother, which, in
fact, a man must be a fool to hesitate
about, it throws paternity altogether
into the doubtful scale. And it is
worthy of notice, that all other rela-
tions, especially on the mother's side,
are in cherished existence as brother,
sister, uncle, aunt, cousin ; but these
relationships come not too close to
scorch society with the hot blood of
consanguinity. There is a prover-
bial guard, " Call me cousin, but cozen
me not." But wife with us, at least,
and since the new Marriage Act that
is becoming an "old wife's tale."
No man now need take a wife
" for better for worse." He may have
her without hoping "to have and
to hold." The Eegistrar's Office has
conveniently turned the sanctity of
matrimony into a civility, which need
not last beyond the length of the next
street, and perhaps seldom does.
The "better" is a thing altogether
not to be hoped, and the "worse"
he feels sure of; and the repeating it
in words, as well as deed, would be
but an insulting kind of tautology by
fact ; and therefore our Parliament,
in its regard for " tender conscien-
ces," and in its love of making a free
trade of everything in religion and
morals, as well as in other imports
and exports, has taken off the " duty"
both from man and wife, and they
may now sit as loose to each other
and to the world as they please. It
is true, some people do retain a predi-
lection for being wedded in church ;
but the practice is coldly looked upon
by our Whig Legislature, and thought
romantic ; and it is continually point-
ed out to young women, that the be-
ing " led to the altar," as the Morning
Post used to say, was nothing more
nor less than an " immense sacrifice."
But still that fashion is not gone out,
for very young women have quite a
pride in being sacrificed, and there-
fore go to the altar garlanded accord-
ingly. It is thought the present
crusade against altars will do some-
thing towards suppressing it, as in
our Low Church edifices no altars will
be found to go to. Still, as long as
we see widows in India throw them-
selves on the funeral- pile of their dead
husbands, we trust in the pertinacity
of the sex, and do not believe the
better sort of young women in Eng-
land will be married at all, unless the
old altar be set up somewhere. We
know strong attempts are made to
put down this partiality, and that,
having hitherto failed with the ladies,
females, as the Providence Journal
would say arguments of some force
are used with the bridegrooms elect.
They are told to "beware of the
horns of the altar."
Still we must acknowledge that the
Marriage Act is damaging matrimony
even with our "church-goers," for
many a couple go to the church be-
cause their fathers and mothers (per-
haps) did ; but it is not with them
the same serious thing it used to be.
That registrar he is the mar-plot.
He may remonstrate with couples,.
and point out the idle, useless waste
of time and money in going to a
church, when he can do all for them in
no time, and at moderate fee. But
powerful as this influence may be,
there are many respectable enough to
wish to pay the clergyman the com-
pliment of going to him ; and they feel
a pleasure in conferring this favour
upon him and the more, as they think
they really get nothing valuable from
him in return. Still, as we said, this
tends to make matrimony itself a
matter of indifference, for what is so
easily joined may be at any time
separated by mutual consent and
little trouble. For instance, at a par-
ish church which we will not men-
tion, lest, the locality known, the idea
may be catching two couples pre-
sented themselves. Now it so hap-
pened that in putting in the banns
the clerk had made a mistake ; so
that, instead of putting on the same
line Philip Jones to Mary Tho-
mas, and Joshua Slyboots to Lucy
Ogle, as" he should have done, the
said Lucy was given to the said
Philip, and the said Mary to the said
Joshua. This not being discovered
till the parties were at the altar, the
ceremony was there stopped. They
retired to the church porch. Philip was
at once, in his simplicity, for going
to the registrar ; but Slyboots knew
better notice had not been given
it was impossible. Lucy Ogle said
she came there to be married, and be
married she would ; upon which hint
Slyboots cast a sheep's eye at Mary,
who looked " nothing loth :" at the
76
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
[Jan.
same moment the eyes of Philip and
Lucy met Philip and Mary were as
effectually obliterated from the future
annals of fate, as from the face of an
old coin current in % the reign of Philip
and Mary. The slight wall of the bul-
wark of defence which Philip had set
up in Mary's heart fell down at once
before the summoning voice of con-
quering Joshua. The ordering of the
whole affair went through the four
hearts as instantaneously as if the
" submarine telegraph" had had its
pipes there. Slyboots says it was done
by mesmerism, and that he hadjfee'e?
Dr ; but Lucy, who should have
married him, said it was an excuse to
account for the money which she
knew he had spent at a " public" be-
fore they came to church. The
agreement was soon entered into, so
the two couples presented themselves,
before the clerical hour had expired,
to the curate, with these pithy words
" Sir, we've considered on it, and
made up our minds,' so we'll bide as
we be." " Exchange is no robbery."
*' Two people make a bargain," says
another proverb, much more four.
They were all legally married. And
now we have a glimpse how it is that
names are changed. These were not
ladies are they females ? How long
will they boast of the title of wives,
and conduct themselves as such ? The
unpleasantness of the matter is, while
our language is in its transition state,
it is not easy always to ascertain the
real position of parties ; and this
inconvenience may be fairly exempli-
fied in the following anecdote we
vouch for the truth of it. When the
Bishop of was appointed to the
See of , before he came into resi-
dence, his wife went to to pre-
pare matters, look at the cathedral,
the palace, the cloisters, &c. At one
of these places we do not remember
which she presented herself with a
* k female " friend and a fine footman
in attendance, who knocked for ad-
mission. The sexton, or the verger, or
whoever was the official, [came to the
presence. " Oh," said the Bishop's
wife, "I wish to seethe palace, or
the cathedral, or the chapter-room,"
(or whatever it was.) " Do you,
marm?" was the answer; " but you
mustn't you can't I've orders not
to let anybody in." " Oh," said she,
" nonsense nonsense ! let me in,"
and she made a move inwards, but was
repulsed. "Oh, I see, I see," she
replied ; "you don't know who I am
I'm the bishop's lady." " May be
so, marm," was the ready answer,
" but if you were his wife I couldn't
admit you." Now, if this had hap-
pened in the days of " good Queen
Bess," wouldn't she have shaken her
starched peacock's tail of a frill by
her unextinguishable laughter ! She
always had a pique against married
clergy.
It is very curious, this reluctance to
use the word wife. It was shown
here not only in the bishop's wife, but
had you asked the porter or verger if
he was married, he would have said
he had a "missus" at home
meaning mistress of his home, and all
things in it, including his own person.
He would equally have avoided the
word wife ; it is thought to be grat-
ing upon the ear. Thus, for instance,
one meeting his friend in the street,
whom he had not seen of late not,
indeed, since his marriage inconsi-
derately said at parting, " And how's
your wife ?" " If you come to that,"
replied the other, sharply, " how's
yours ?" Even the word marriage is
confined to fashionable localities, ex-
cepting as an adjective to license or
certificate. It is only a marriage in
" high life ;" it is a wedding in low.
The lower class, feeling sure that di-
vorce is only for the rich, and very
costly, as a most taxable luxury, are
cautious how they adopt the word
marriage, which, by its connection
with "Marriage Act," and Parliamen-
tary or legal penalties, seems to bind
them to a state more indissolubly
than suits their intentions. We hope
these changes of names do not indi-
cate that marriage is really progress-
ing to its downfall, nor that there is
any real inkling after Communism. It
is certainly spoken slightly of. Con-
versing the other day with an elderly
tradesman, we learnt from him that
his prosperity in life was owing to his
having had four wives. " Four good
ones," we replied " careful, busy
housewives?" " Oh, very well as to
that," said he ; " but they had all of
them a little money, and it went into
the trade and prospered." But think
of the ungrateful man ! he added, sit-
1852.]
Husbands, Wives, Fatliers, Mothers.
77
ting easily in his chair, and twirling
his thumbs in his contentment, " they
are all dead, and I'm very happy."
At least, he was contented with his
lot : unreasonable man is not always
contented where he ought to be. We
once congratulated a farmer that he
had done well, for he had married
three wives, and had something worth
having with each. " Oh, as to that,"
said he, surlily, " what with the carry-
ing of 'em home, and the carrying of
'em out, there isn't much to be got by
'em." Poor wives ! your very titles,
you see your legitimate titles are
grudgingly acknowledged. If you do
not domineer at home which you,
really ought to do in your own defence,
and to keep up the respect you are en-
titled to you have but a poor chance
in this life, and you are to guess from
this last anecdote what kind of epi-
taphs you are likely to have. A little
resolution on your parts will do won-
ders ; men are courageous with men,
but to a resolute woman every man
is a coward. Remember what the
Spartan women were, and how the
stern lawgiver Lycurgus attempted in
vain to restore to the husband his
proper domestic authority, which,
history tells us, the women had very
properly usurped. Nature has fur-
nished you with one weapon for this
very object ; if you have not a voice
in the family, you do not exercise your
gift. It is quite a mistake which some
wives have made, to try another me-
thod, and, as they would say, get their
"hand into it." They keep their
spouses thus in fenr, and cause them
to show to the world a wonderful af-
fection ; but somehow or other such
wives bring the old reproach upon
their children " Your mother was a
Hittite, and your father an Amorite"
It is really a very shameful thing, but
whether it arises from French Social-
ist principles spreading amongst us,
or from other hidden causes, nothing
is more common than to hear marriage
disparaged. The consequence is, that
this u exodus" of our male population
leaves the women behind. The cen-
sus shows this frightfully. We be-
lieve in Limerick there are three wo-
men to one man. It is thought Par-
liament will interfere, and make every
emigrant take a wife with him, as a
merchant took out once grindstones
and cheeses : he couldn't get rid of
the former at any price, till he deter-
mined not to sell a cheese without a
grindstone.
We are inclined to think the notion
among the young emigrants is, that
they are going to a land of liberty, and
would not burthen themselves think-
ing they shall have a much better
chance and choice amongst the Bloom-
ers ; for the American newspapers are
industriously circulated, in which the
Progress of Bloomerism, or the Rights
of Women, may be profitably studied.
We have had one of these very re-
cently in our Jhands, 'and read the
accounts of their great meeting their
Congress where "ladies" address
eloquently audiences of many thou-
sands. Now, this not only acts as a
kind of invitation from the new coun-
try to the young men of the old, but
it deters our women from encounter-
ing such formidable rivals. In another
point of view, however, we must con-
gratulate the fair sex upon this move
that is, if it ends in moderation, and
in establishing no more than their
rights. They seem to be aware that
all old terms must be abolished wo-
man and wife will soon be branded as
with the stigma of slaveiy. There is
some fear of a little intemperance in
this respect, and that,in their attempts
to go " ahead," they will be above tak-
ing their hearts with them. We
could not help noticing that, though
some men have joined the association
for establishing the Rights of Women,
few of them had wives present. This
does not look well. The women, in-
deed, seem perfectly aware that they
shall have to fight for it ; and there
is something in their speeches which
indicates that they mean to eman-
cipate themselves from the shackles of
matrimony. In fact, they show their
intent to assume all the functions of
men to take all offices of government,
as of everything else, off their hands,
and probably to set up a community
of women ; and, as a prelude, they
dress themselves as much like men as
may be. They are of the Pythagorean
philosophy, (Pythagoras was the first
who wore breeches.) He inculcated
the transmigration of souls by wear-
ing the insignia of the philosophy ;
they seem to think that they may bo-
dily transmigrate into the other sex,
78
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
[Jan.
perceiving that their souls that is,
such as think they have any are
daily, hourly, becoming more robust
and masculine. Be that, however, as
it may, this idea of rights of women
a community of women though
springing up in the New World, is no-
thing but an old fantasy of the Old
World. Like the grain in the hand of
the Egyptian mummy, it has been,
after two or three thousand years,
brought to light, put in the ground of
people's minds, and is fructifying over
a large field. And it seems to have
lost none of its vitality from the em-
balming, but rather to come up spiced,
a little hot in the mouth, as O'Con-
nell accounted to an English farmer
for the effect of the potato on the Irish
-constitution " You see, sir, we boil
them before we plant them, and then
they come up hot." The fable of the
Amazons, though well known, has
scarcely been credited ; and but that
we see, now-a-days, such odd things
done by human nature, we might have
still withheld belief from the narra-
tions of history. Gibbon says
*' Women have often combated by
the side of their husbands, but it is
almost impossible that a society of
Amazons should ever have existed in
the Old or New World." If the histo-
rian had lived to our day, he would
have seen in the New World, which he
did not take into the account, that
there may be Amazonian women.
As our Transatlantic friends are in
this respect " revivers" or imitators,
rather than originators, it may be
worth while to look back upon what
has been recorded of the old pro-
pagators of the Rights of Women, in
order to ascertain what the new order
of masculi-feminality propose to be.
We are told, then, that the women of
the Sauromatae dressed in the habits of
men none allowed to marry till she
had killed an enemy : according to
Hippocrates, she must have killed
three. Hence it happened that many
died old maids, never having been
able to fulfil the conditions. The
Amazons, a community of women
called also Oiorpata, or, as it may be
interpreted, men-slayers having in-
vaded Greece, were overcome at Ther-
modon. The Greeks put as many of
them as they were able to take captive
on board three vessels ; these, when out
at sea, rose against their conquerors,
and put them all to death. Ignorant
of navigation, and of the management
of helms, sails, or oars, they trusted
to the wind and tide, and were car-
ried to a place near the Palus Moeotis,
inhabited by the free Scythians.
Here they disembarked, and meeting
with a stud of horses, seized them,
and, mounted on these, proceeded to
plunder the Scythians. The Scythians
were unable to explain what had hap-
pened, being neither acquainted with
the language, the dress, nor the coun-
try of the invaders. Under the im-
pression that they were men nearly of
the same age, they gave them battle.
Having taken some prisoners, they
discovered that they were women.
Consulting amongst themselves, they
determined to put none of them to
death, but to select a detachment of
their youngest men, equal in number,
as they might conjecture, to the Ama-
zons. They were directed to encamp
opposite to them : if attacked, they
were to retreat without resistance;
when pursuit should be discontinued,
to return and encamp as near the
Amazons as possible. Imperceptibly
the two camps approached each
other. The young Scythians and
Amazons, finding no hostility offered,
by degrees came nearer and nearer ;
and as they lived by the chase, each
party frequently joined in it. Finally,
they so perfectly associated that the
Scythians forsook their homes, and
went with the Amazons to dwell be-
yond the Tanais.
We learn by the " Women's Rights
Convention " that the women assem-
bled mean to claim equal rights, or
the whole of the propria qua mari-
bus. It is not improbable that in our
Transatlantic republic the women, who
resolve to be behind the men in no-
thing, may form themselves into an
army of " sympathisers ;" and as
sympathy is the old virtue of the sex
or, we should say, the virtue of the
old sex enough of it may remain,
after the usual routine of warfare and
truce, to become the cement of a new-
society in some country yet to be
conquered, by which a race of savages,
or worse, of civilised, shall be brought
under obedience to the laws feminine.
There is a very happy version of
this Amazonian bit of history in the
1852.]
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
79
Spectator, in which, if we remember, a
truce is entered into, which is renew-
d so often that at length the generals
of the female army were not in a con-
dition to fight. This version is very
amusing, and worthy the wit of Ad-
dison. Our readers will not fail to
recognise in this story of the Amazons,
and, mutatis mutandis, in Shak-
speare's play of u Love's Labour
Lost," the originals of our modern
poem, Tennyson's "Princess." Such
a subject as a "Convention of Wo-
men" could not fail to draw forth all
the wit and satire of Aristophanes.
The wonder is that such plays could
have been represented before an Athe-
nian audience. In one, the women con-
spire to force the men to make peace ;
in the other, they assume the male
dress while their husbands sleep, make
a " parliament of women," and pass
laws which they compel the men to
confirm. Our new Convention is very
likely to come to the same result ; for,
as they pass a resolution not to be
taxed unrepresented, they will, if they
succeed, be in the House of Assembly
and Senate ; and once there, who will
doubt their power to coerce the men,
not only by their matchless and un-
ceasing eloquence, but by that secret
influence which they have ever pos-
sessed? Now as senates, as we presume
the name implies, senum consilium, will
ever be composed of the more ad-
vanced in years, we think it not out
of place to guard the younger mem-
bers of the " Women's Rights Con-
vention" against such a law as the
comedian imagined, and which we
think, in the regular course of things,
must pass in the end if the Convention
prevail. It was decreed, that no
young women should take husbands
until all the old had been thus pro-
vided for. In the end of the play a
tumult arises on account of this law,
some old women endeavouring to bear
away a youth who had, not revering
the law, attached himself to a younger
woman. The coarse dramatist plainly
aimed his satire at the philosophy of
"Communism," and particularly at
the " Republic" of Plato.
It was said of the Pedasians, who
inhabited a district beyond Halicar-
nassus, that when they were menaced
by any great calamity, the priestess
of Minerva produced a large beard.
Whether the beard grew out of the
calamity, or the calamity out of the
beard, is not stated : it is not, how-
ever, impossible that this supposed
priestess of Minerva may have been a
female president of a very advanced
age, when beards have been known to
grow upon the faces of women, and
that by her misconduct of public
affairs everything went wrong. In-
deed, if women are to be admitted
into the Assembly, Senate, or Parlia-
ment, in any country, and to become,
as they claim to be, as representatives
of the people, law-givers, law-makers,
and even ministers of state, a govern-
ment may be brought into very great
difficulties ; for how could a Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer at once be in
labour of a budget and the home la-
bour ? There must be a law to pro-
vide a political accoucheur. It would
be quite indecent in a prime-minister,
instead of standing up in her place to
reply to an Oppositionist, to retire to
suckle her infant. We can imagine
some unwedded Cobden rising to bid
her
" To suckle fools and chronicle small beer. 11
It would be equally ridiculous to see
the minister of war, in her inability to
answer a Peace Society member, car-
ried out of the house in hysterics ; or
to have two members of the cabinet
both so furiously in love with the
prime-minister as to quit the house
for a duel. At a moment when an
interesting debate might be expected,
it might be discovered that the Speaker
had eloped with the minister for the
home department. The wife or hus-
band of a prime-minister would in all
probability always head an Opposition.
We can imagine every sort of confu-
sion (mulier est hominis confusio) from
this amalgamation of masculine and
feminine powers brought into political
collision.
Lest it be thought that we are
making up a mere fable about the
" Rights of Women Convention," we
recommend the reader to make in-
quiry as to Transatlantic feminine
doings. We have now before us
The New York Tribune of Oct. 22,
1851, the columns of which are filled
with particulars of the great meeting of
the " Rights of Women Convention,"
which occupied three entire days,
80
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
[Jan.
double and treble sittings each day.
In part of the proceedings a long let-
ter from Miss Martineau is read, in
which (no uncommon matter with
her) she makes one mistake for she
speaks of equal rights of sex and of
colour, a passage quite at variance
with all the habits of thought of the fail-
assembly. There was likewise a letter
read from two Frenchwomen, dated
from the prison of StLazare, June 15,
signed Jeane Deroin and Pauline Ro-
land. Rather oddly, they address the
"Sisters of America" as "Your So-
cialist Sisters of France," but con-
clude, forgetful of their sex, by send-
ing their u fraternal salutation." The
letter is very long, and is read out by
the male Choripheus, W. H. Chan-
ning. Jeane Deroin was editor of the
Voice of Women. " Her offence,"
says the male conventionist, " was
meeting with an assembly of working
people in illegal numbers, among
whom she has been active in forming
co- operative unions." These women,
then, are French sympathisers getting
up a sympathy of French Socialist ma-
nufacture for America; and as they
are, or were, imprisoned in that land
of liberty and fraternity, as it was in
July, it is fair to infer that their fra-
ternity was very belligerent. The
members of the Convention are, as
might be supposed, mostly women ;
but there were among them some of
those doubtful masculines, who, if they
resemble them at our Bloomerism lec-
tures, really or artificially whiskered
and bearded, are represented in wax-
work looking womanly sentimental in
our perfumers' shops. The women
themselves are far more bold. These
males seem rather to put on the sweet
distress of injured woman, which wo-
man herself altogether repudiates.
Her wrongs are armed. These mus-
tached and bearded men who now
mix in our Bloomerism meetings and
conventions, remind us of what was
said by Cardinal Angelot, on a Gre-
cian bishop coming to Rome with a
long beard, of which he took great
care, at a time when Rome was tilled
with effeminate prelates and worse
characters; the Cardinal excused
him, saying, he " thought it necessary
that one he-goat should be allowed
among so many nannies."
If we glance over the resolutions
we find them also of the epicene kind
a jargon between sense and non-
sense. We take one at random:
" Resolved, that it is the duty of the
women of our day to study enough of
the abstruse science of surveying, to
define, if possible, the boundaries of
her own sphere, that man be no longer
compelled to keep her informed of this
great fact." It might require an
(Edipus to unriddle the " great fact ;"
nor is it easy to conjecture how " the
abstruse science of surveying" should
be required to measure the sphere of
women who throw off their petticoats,
lessening the rotundity of the sphere
so perfectly measurable. And here
we must say it seems very inconsistent
that American ladies, who are so very
nice that the word " legs" is tabooed,
so that they even cover those ap-
pendages to tables and chairs with
the disguises of flounces and frills,
should yet so boldly assume the
male dress, and make a visible isosce-
les triangle in their own persons.
They are like the Giant in Rabelais,
who could swallow windmills, but was
in fear of being choked with a pat of
fresh butter. But to take another
look at the New York Tribune here
we find a Mrs Davis concluding
a report by offering the following re-
solution : u That we, as wives and
mothers, will do our utmost to pro-
mote the highest education of our
children at our colleges and institutions
of learning, without distinction of sex,
challenging the same privilege for our
daughters as already accorded to our
sons, making the public funds avail-
able to both in the process of mental
development." Really we cannot tell
what to make of this; but must guess
that the mental would not be the only
development in these so strangely
mixed colleges. Mrs Davis perhaps
was right, therefore, in speaking in
the general name " as wives and mo-
thers," and little might have been
thought of it, had not the very next
announcement been the presence of
Miss Antoinette Brown, who, says the
Tribune, " was introduced to the au-
dience. She is a young woman of a
cultivated mind, has educated herself
to preach the gospel, and is of the
orthodox faith according to the most
liberal interpretation." Perhaps the
reader might desire to know what
1852.]
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
8L
is " the orthodox faith according
to the most liberal interpretation."
We have heard some define liberal
interpretation thus, that an affirmative
may stand for a negative, a negative
for an affirmative, ad libitum dissen-
tium. Miss Antoinette Brown pro-
bably explained herself clearly on this
point, but the editor provokingly
omits all her arguments, perhaps con-
sidering questions of orthodoxy quite
uninteresting to the Convention.
" Miss Antoinette Brown again ad-
dressed the Convention on the sphere
of woman, (this sphere of woman is a
favourite phrase what means it ?) in
a clear and argumentative speech,
and explained those passages in St
Paul's writings which were supposed
to conflict with the doctrine of wo-
man's rights. She showed very satis-
factorily that St Paul has been misre-
presented on this subject ; but I am
obliged to bring my report to a close."
This is provoking, for it would have
been very interesting to have had
these " satisfactory arguments" on the
most " liberal interpretation" of the
following passages : 1 Tim. ii. 12,
" I suffer not a woman to teach, nor
to usurp authority over the man, but
to be in silence." 1 Cor. xiv. 34,
^Let your women keep silence in
the churches ; for it is not permitted
unto them to speak ; but they are com.'
manded to be under obedience, as also
saith the law." 1 Tim. ii. 9, " That
women adorn themselves in modest
apparel, with shamefacediiess and
sobriety;" 11, "Let the women learn in
silence, with all subjection." Eph. v.
22, " Wives, submit yourselves unto
your own husbands, as unto the Lord,
for the husband is the head of the
wife;" 24, " So let the wives be [sub-
ject] to their own husbands in every-
thing." A " Mrs Emma E. Coe of
Ohio" was " wondrously powerful ;
but the rapidity of her utterance, the
imaginative flights in which she in-
dulged, and the frequent sallies of wit
and humour that marked her style,
render it next to impossible to report
her. She was quite a favourite with
the audience, and her speeches are
better adapted for immediate effect
than to be read." A woman of such
" good report" to be so ill reported is
quite shameful ; but she reappears
"in her usual felicitous and happy
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
manner." But of all these " female
worthies" we prefer honest Mrs Me-
hitable (an odd name for a husband to
pronounce) Haskell, for she confesseth
" she did not know what were wo-
man's rights, but for forty, nay, fifty
years, she had known what woman's
wrongs were, for she had felt them."
It is remarkable that Mehitable is the
only woman that owns age admirable
honesty before a convention of women.
She need not do as we have heard
two elderly ladies did every New-
year's Day, when one used to go to the
other and say, " Madam, as we are
both of the same age, I wish to know
how old we are to be this year." This
is really liberal, and shaking off a
rooted prejudice.
We were shown a letter the other
day from an emigrant, which said,
" Ask Sophy Bligh of our village if
she will come out to me, for I can't
think of taking a wife here they
won't do for me." We fear the Con-
vention is making the fair sex too
predominant. When they have it all
their own way we can scarcely say
" we wish they may get it " there is
no knowing to what legislative exac-
tions they may come. By acts of
the New World they may take re-
venge of the old, and of all time. We
shudder to think of the married pros-
pect of Sinbad ; most men would be
as great cowards. We are told that
among the Getse, when a husband
died, there was a contest of affection
among the wives; happy was the
one who was considered the most
beloved, and entitled thereby to the
honour of being sacrificed. It is to
be hoped the Convention, however
they may extend their notion of
rights, and by the principle of com-
munism enlarge the menagerie of hus-
bands, will not become enamoured of
such sacrificial passages of history.
But there undoubtedly is a fear, in
spite of Miss Antoinette Brown's
profession of " the gospel," and ortho-
dox faith according to its most liberal
interpretation, that Christianity is at
present quite in the background of
the Convention, and is becoming quite
a dissolving view. He must be a
very superficial observer of society
who does not perceive that the " rights
of man" and "rights of woman"
societies are so thoroughly Frenchified
82
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
[Jan.
and Germanised, that it is one of the
main objects to free man and woman
from the fetters of Christian morals,
and the absurd and deteriorating
virtues hitherto practised, or pretended
to be practised, among civilised people.
There is to be but one virtue, " soli-
darity," the true meaning of which
is for future development. But here
we venture to remonstrate with the
fair sex, and bid them be cautious,
for there may be inconveniences
attending the abolishing Christianity
beyond that one which Dean Swift
pointed out namely, that it would
lower the Funds one per cent, which
was more than any government had
given to uphold it. We would sug-
gest to the Convention, that, as the
history of the world shows that no na-
tion has ever existed without some re-
ligion, it is not likely that, even with
all her freedom and emancipation,
(excepting of slaves,) America will
repudiate all religion. To what, then,
can they resort? Having tried the
Jewish and the Christian, which
indeed are necessarily connected,
there appears no choice, but that they
must fall in with the Mahommedan.
Now we know very well the Conven-
tion would oppose this, as we should
say, " tooth and nail ;" but when they
are legislators they may not in any
great number be in a condition to
attend the Senate or House of Assem-
bly, and the men may take advantage
of their predicament, so that, instead
of that freedom which Communism
and Socialism promises, women may
find themselves suddenly cooped up
like so many hens. Thus, as too
much liberty causes revolution, and
is succeeded by military tyranny, the
male tyranny may not only supersede,
but quite overwhelm, the female, till
at last they will not be able to say,
what we are sorry to say their cor-
respondent, Miss Martineau, has
denied already, that their souls are
their own. Let them consider what
sort of country they live in where
already they hold in subjection three
millions of slaves, male and female ;
and as Miss Martineau tells them
there should be no difference of
" colour," there may be a great addi-
tion to these three millions, especially
if men, under the pretence or the
reality of this Convention-conspiracy
think it time to look to themselves.
They should not forget that the crow,
according to the fable, was once
white.
We must say a few words upon that
offset of the Convention Bloomer-
ism. We readily admit that the dress,
as depicted in the Illustrated News,
is not unbecoming, nor, if we had
never known any other, should we
have thought it indecent. But it is
indecent and why? Because, simply,
it removes the separation wall, as it-
were, between the sexes. Men may
break it down, and rudely, but no
woman should voluntarily " stand in
the breech." If they do, they may
fancy a Spartan liberty, and come to
wrestle in nudity. No, it will not
do ; there is a prior convention to the
Woman's Rights Convention: the
whole world have passed one law that
women shall not dress as men. It
seems to have been one of the first
results of civilisation to raise woman
by the difference, till at length the
habit has become in its way ido-
lising ; and as idols they, women, are
dressed up in a mysterious conceal-
ment. Ex pede Herculem but it
is only the very tip of the toe, ex
pede Papam and that the wor-
shippers kiss; but the veneration
for the sex scarcely ventures to-
reach that point.
" Madam, I do, as bound in duty,
Honour the shadow of your shoe-tie,"
really seems to express the common -
sense of cultivated mankind. The
Chinese have carried it to the extent
that a perfect beauty should positively
have no feet at all. We virtually
acknowledge the correctness of their
taste, when we clothe our women with
long petticoats and trains which sweep
the ground. There is something too
terrestrial in legs and feet for a world
that, in the improved state, would
make angels of women. They are
idealised by imagination, as in pic-
tures, and are supposed to come and
go like angels with wings ; or if they
are allowed to have the smallest show
of feet, their very traces are to be
worshipped, so that men " love the
very ground they tread on." It is a
very odd notion this, the concealment
of feet, but it seems nearly universal.
We do not know if it be an argument
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
1852.]
valid with any, but it should be
known that Bloomerism is not quite
so new as people suppose that it
was of Papal introduction indeed, at
first, a real " Papal aggression."
For the Pope, knowing the Omne
ignotum pro mirifico greatly to pre-
vail, and that much of his own
sanctity arose from his robes of con-
cealment, and that hence the very
tip of his toe was kissed by kings and
emperors worshipping the unseen
holiness by the visible particle minute
was vexed to see the long trains of
women attract a devotion which de-
teriorated the Papal sovereignty.
It was easy enough to give a turn to
the edict, which would conceal the
object ; and here is the edict, a man-
date issued by the Papal legate in
Germany in the fourteenth century:
"Velamina etiam mulierum, quoad
verecundiam designandam eis sunt
concessa, sed nunc per insipientiam
carum, in lasciviam et luxuriam ex-
creverunt, et immoderata longitudo
superpelliceorum quibus pulverem
trahunt, ad moderatum usum, sicut
decet verecundiam sexus, per excom-
municationis sententiam cohibeantur."
(" It is decreed that the apparel of
women, which ought to be consistent
with modesty, but now through their
foolishness is degenerated into wan-
tonness and extravagance, more parti-
cularly the immoderate length of their
petticoats, with which they sweep the
ground, be restricted to a moderate
fashion, agreeably to the decency of the
sex, under pain of the sentence of ex-
communication.") It might be sup-
posed that the Bloomers are Jesuits in
disguise, for they adopt the very words
of the mandate, and call the wearers
of the usual dress " street-sweepers."
The arrogance of the Popes has ever
been wonderful, but that it should enter
into the imagination to excommuni-
cate womankind, and thus nip society,
and posterity, in the bud, is a piece
of extravagance not exceeded by
modern aggressions. History, say
some of our politicians, is but an
" old song," and perhaps there is an
old song which records this bit of
history. Why may not the Pope's
mandate have given rise to the nur-
sery rhymes of the old woman who
met with the beggar, whose name
was Stout
83
" Who cut her petticoats all round about,
He cut her petticoats up to her knee ? " &c.
Now, as there never has been in the
wide world so big a beggar as His
Holiness the Pope, nor one by his
power and obstinacy more deserving
the name of Stout, to whom can this
so readily apply? and surely there
are innumerable historical conjectures
not half so good. Let this be placed
at least amongst "historic doubts."
Nor let it be thought infra dignitatem
Papalem that a connection is sug-
gested between a petticoat and the
Papacy, for the dress is one specially
by the mandate said to be consistent
with modesty ; so that it would not
at all surprise us if, on further search
into history, all the cardinal virtues
should be found hidden under a petti-
coat.
This assumption of the toga virilis
by women, and the dress of man ap-
proximating to the feminine, will
inevitably make a social revolution,
which will affect both trade and
morals. In the first place, it will
throw a large population out of em-
ployment. They say it takes " nine
tailors to make a man," but one
milliner will suffice to unmake him.
What will become of this industrious
class? A pretty thimble-rig affair
this will be ; for our men, when they
forsake their present virile occupa-
tions which at least half mankind
must do if offices are to be equally
distributed between the sexes will
soon learn to thread needles for lack
of something to do ; and perhaps we
may live to see them take in needle-
work, or go out by the day and
many is the Hercules to be beaten by
an Omphale's slipper.
That men will amalgamate the
feminine with the masculine dress,
we are assured from the following
extract put into our hands while
writing ; it is an account of a visit to
a Bloomer meeting :
"Behind the lady we observed what
we supposed must be characterised as
the male of the species ' Bloomer.' He
wore a silken cassock with sleeves, deep
cuffs, and ruffles embroidered round the
throat ; had his collars turned down a let
Byron, and his cravat tied outside his
coat, the bows jutting out from each side
in the modern fashion of Cheapside, and
the ends falling down in a cataract of
64 Husbands, Wives,
silk to about half over his manly bosom.
We could not see his nether extremities,
to define what alteration had been there
effected ; but his cheeks were fringed
with a thin whisker, and his upper lip
made more prononce, by a rim of spare
mustache his countenance, on the whole,
wearing that chastened aspect which so
well befits the husband of a species, the
female of which talks so much and so
well."
Now we foresee a moral mischief
too, for where man and woman are
.so, to say, confused in dress, so will
they be to a great extent in mind.
The masculine must become feminine,
as the feminine masculine ; and from
a congenital confusion of ideas, a man,
when he sees his wife after dinner
cross her legs, put her feet on the
fender, and smoke a cigar, will have,
Jx> say the least, sensations of doubt ;
and, as he looks at his spouse, be
ready to say with Master Slender,
whom he may be brought much to
resemble, " I came yonder at Eaton
to marry Mistress Anne Page, and
she's a great lubberly boy." And
the lady, looking at her spouse of the
species " Bloomer," may in her mind
question the strength of the registrar-
bond, or only have been wedded
according to the Socialist " Woman's
Rights Convention," and may take
np, too, a surmise from Master Slender,
-and think to herself, " If I had been
married to him, for all he was in
woman's apparel, I would not have
had him."
" Unum quodque eodem modo dissolvitur
quo colligatum est."
They who marry by a leap over a
broomstick have but to leap back
again to find a happy release and
" all's well that ends well." In fact,
to carry out by enactment the "Rights
of Woman," according to the am-
bition of the " Convention," and
the maxims of their brotherhood
and sisterhood in France, so-called
marriages must be made easy, and
divorces as easy as marriages. As
we may fairly judge from some of the
Socialist writings, divorces are desired,
not because man and wife would not
agree if left in freedom with regard
to each other, but simply, because
they are under the shackles of an
obligation. It has been pointed out,
Fathers, Mothers. [Jan.
that in the French Revolution, when
divorce was made easy, in most cases
the divorced came together again and
were remarried. However bad the
husband or the wife, they were taken
back again like evil habits, they are
not easily shaken oif : in our fancied
freedom we coquet with a virtue, but
we take our old vice home. At least
this was the case in France, and per-
haps is, but names are changed. Vice
has been banished as a name, and
every virtue is merged in " solida-
rity." We find a passage in Jardine's
Letters from France, written many
years ago, which the spread of French
morals and French philosophy has
made applicable to other people :
44 The French authors talk of man
and woman, and fancy they speak
generally of the whole race, and know
not that they speak only of French
men and women, fancying all the
world like themselves, forgetting that
French nature is not human nature,
and that few of their qualities are
common to the species."
French novelists invent a vice,
having exhausted the old stock, and
call it a new development of nature.
The moral at the end is, that what
mankind have been pleased to call
vices are nothing more than perse-
cuted virtues, and that, like the " Con-
vention of Women," they should re-
establish their rights in society ; and in
this respect there is a great cor-
respondence going on between that
people and the Transatlantic Repub-
lic ; and both seem to be of the
opinion that there is nothing right
but what they think and do, and that
it is their glory and privilege to revo-
lutionise the world, and set it up on a
new basis of Socialist fraternity. At
the " flights of Woman Convention,"
*' Lucretia Mott of Philadelphia, and
Elizabeth Blackwell of New York,
were appointed a committee to cor-
respond with Jeane Deroin and Pau-
line Roland of Paris, and express to
them the interest of this Convention
in the position of France." The " con-
fusio hominis" is certainly com-
menced, for it is announced that
" the Convention was called to order
at two o'clock, and Mrs Pauline
Dairs, from the Committee on Educa-
tion, of which she is chairman, read
the report."
1852.]
Certainly, in the whole proceedings,
the women do rate the men soundly
they would make those present look
very small indeed, but that they are
feminising, and, under that delusion,
know not exactly their own state.
One in a female paroxysm breaks
out unconnectedly into an incoherent
truth, u Madness is a fixed idea
monomania is the concentration of
the whole mental force in the actions
of a single faculty." However, the
few men present bore the reproaches
heaped upon them with perfect meek-
ness ; indeed, joined in them as if they
had already disowned manhood. Not
knowing their condition, we cannot
pronounce that they have been used
to bear reproaches. It does not seem
that their wives were present ; but if
they have these home-truths told
them at their own hearths, they can-
not err from any ignorance of their
faults. There is some advantage in
having a flapper to remind us of our
faults it enables us the better to make
a " clean breast of it." It was well
said by a gentleman reproached for
his many failings, " I acknowledge
them all, and if you will ask my
neighbour, he will tell you a good
many more ; indeed, before I go to
confession, I make a point of angering
my wife, on a principle of devotion,
who never fails to read me so con-
vincing a lecture on all my sins and
failings that I never omit one." If
things go on in this way, manhood
will soon be at a discount in America,
and feminality work more than its
weight in gold ; but as in this country,
notwithstanding free trade, we have
not learnt that the Americans have
exported much of the commodity, we
are enabled on this side of the
water yet to look up. And although
Bloomerism is reading a few lectures
Husbands, Wives, Fathers, Mothers.
85
here and there, and making one or
two exhibitions of the " male of the
species Bloomer," neither our men nor
our women like the appearances. So
that, notwithstanding that our legis-
lature has, in some degree, by mar-
riage acts and other discouragements,
damaged our national matrimonial
ideas, we do consider ourselves as
yet within the " charmed ring" of
safety. Whether the Bloomers that
come over be married or single, we
know no man in his senses that will
take one at a venture. We should con-
sider one adventurous enough to do so,
to deserve the lot obtained once by a
man who, on the eve of his marriage,
following the fashion of the Sortes
Virgiliana3, dipped into Skakspeare
instead, and found his fortune
" Not poppy nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the East,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep,,
Which thou owedst yesterday."
If in the course of this paper we-
have said one word which may seem
to throw matrimonial happiness into
the shade, let it be considered as the
shade of the bower of a terrestrial
Eden, where blessed man and woman
may, in their contentment, look, as
Cowper says, out " from the loop-
holes of retreat," upon the world
without. A truly wedded pair make
their own world.
We are in the cold season yet the
season for warm hearths, and we say
to the single, whether of the " exo-
dus" or of home, choose well and'
wisely of, not the Bloomers, but the
blooming daughters of England ; re-
alise the poetry of two lines suitable to
the season and to pleasant feelings
" Go take a wife unto thine arms, and see
Winter and browning hills shall have a,
charm for thee.' 1 ROWLEY.
86
My Novel ; or. Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
[Jan.
MY NOVEL ; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.
BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.
BOOK IX. INITIAL CHAPTER.
Now that I am fairly in the heart
of my story, these preliminary chap-
ters must shrink into comparatively
small dimensions, and not encroach
upon the space required by the various
personages'whose acquaintance I have
picked up here and there, and who are
now all crowding upon me like poor
relations to whom one has unadvis-
edly given a general invitation, and
who descend upon one simultaneously
about Christmas time. Where they
are to be stowed, and what is to be-
come of them all, Heaven knows ; in
the meanwhile, the reader will have
already observed that the Caxton
family themselves are turned out of
their own rooms, sent a-packiug, in
order to make way for the new comers.
And now that I refer to that re-
spected family, I shall take occasion
(dropping all metaphor) to intimate
a doubt, whether, should these papers
be collected and republished, I shall
not wholly recast the Initial Chapters
in which the Caxtons have been per-
mitted to reappear. They assure me,
themselves, that they feel a bashful
apprehension lest they may be accused
of having thrust irrelevant noses into
affairs which by no means belong to
them an impertinence which, being
a peculiarly shy race, they have care-
fully shunned in the previous course
of their innocent and segregated exis-
tence. Indeed, there is some cause
for that alarm, seeing that not long
since, in a journal professing to be
critical, this My Novel, or Varieties
in English Life, w&s misnomed and in-
sulted as " a Continuation of The Caz-
fows," with which biographical work it
has no more to do (save in the afore-
said introductions to previous Books
in the present diversified and com-
pendious narrative) than I with Hecu-
ba, or Hecuba with me. Reserving
the doubt herein suggested for maturer
deliberation, I proceed with my new
Initial Chapter. And I shall stint the
matter therein contained to a brief
comment upon PUBLIC LIFE.
Were you ever in public life, my
dear reader ? I don't mean, by that
question, to ask whether you were ever
Lord - Chancellor, Prime - Minister,
Leader of the Opposition, or even a
member of the House of Commons.
An author hopes to find readers far
beyond that very egregious but very
limited segment of the Great Circle.
Were you ever a busy man in your
vestry, active in a municipal corpora-
tion, one of a committee for further-
ing the interests of an enlightened
candidate for your native burgh, town,
or shire? in a word, did you ever
resign your private comforts as men
in order to share the public troubles
of mankind? If ever you have so far
departed from the Lucretian philo-
sophy, just look back was it life at
all that you lived? were you an indi-
vidual distinct existence a passenger
in the railway ? or were you merely
an indistinct portion of that common
flame which heated the boiler and
generated the steam that set off the
monster train? very hot, very active,
very useful, no doubt ; but all your
identity fused in flame, and all your
forces vanishing in gas.
And do you think the people in the
railway carriages care for you ? do
you think that the gentleman in the
worsted wrapper is saying to his neigh-
bour with the striped rug on his com-
fortable knees, " How grateful we
ought to be for that fiery particle which
is crackling and hissing under the
boiler ! It helps us on a fraction of
an inch from Vauxhall to Putney ?"
Not a bit of it. Ten to one but he is
saying " Not sixteen miles an hour !
What the deuce is the matter with
the stoker?"
Look at our friend Audley Egerton.
You have just had a glimpse of the
real being that struggles under the
huge copper ; you have heard the
hollow sound of the rich man's coffers
under the tap of Baron Levy's friendly
knuckle heard the strong man's heart
give out its dull warning sound to the
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in
scientific ear of Dr F . And
away once more vanishes the sepa-
rate existence, lost again in the flame
that heats the boiler, and the smoke
that curls into air from the grimy
furnace.
Look to it, O Public Man, whoever
thou art, and whatsoever thy degree
see if thou canst not compound mat-
ters, so as to keep a little nook apart
for thy private life ; that is, for thy-
self! Let the great Popkins Question
not absorb wholly the individual soul
of thee, as Smith or Johnson. Don't
so entirely consume thyself under that
insatiable boiler, that when thy poor
little monad rushes out from the
sooty furnace, and arrives at the
stars, thou mayest find no vocation
English Life. Part XVII. 87
for thee there, and feel as if thou
hadst nothing to do amidst the still
splendours of the Infinite. I don't
deny to thee the uses of "Public Life ;"
I grant that it is much to have helped
to carry that great Popkins Question ;
but Private Life, my friend, is the life
of thy private soul ; and there may
be matters concerned with that which,
on consideration, thou mayest allow,
cannot be wholly mixed up with
the great Popkins Question and
were not finally settled when thou
didst exclaim "I have not lived
in vain the Popkins Question is
carried at last ! " O immortal soul,
for one quarter of an hour per diem
de-Popkinise thine immortality !
CHAPTER II.
It had not been without much per-
suasion on the part of Jackeymo, that
Riccabocca had consented to settle
himself in the house which Randal
had recommended to him. Not that
the exile conceived any suspicion of
the young man beyond that which he
might have shared with Jackeymo,
viz., that Randal's interest in the
father was increased by a very natu-
ral and excusable admiration of the
daughter. But the Italian had the
pride common to misfortune, he did
not like to be indebted to others, and
he shrank from the pity of those to
whom it was known that he had held
a higher station in his own land.
These scruples gave way to the
strength of his affection for his daugh-
ter and his dread of his foe. Good
men, however able and brave, who
have suffered from the wicked, are
apt to form exaggerated notions of
the power that has prevailed against
them. Jackeymo had conceived a
superstitious terror of Peschiera ; and
Riccabocca, though by no means ad-
dicted to superstition, still had a
certain creep of the flesh whenever
he thought of his foe.
But Riccabocca than whom no
man was more physically brave, and
no man, in some respects, more mo-
rally timid feared the Count less as
a foe than as a gallant. He remem-
bered his kinsman's surpassing beauty
the power he had obtained over
women. He knew him versed in
every art that corrupts, and void of
all the conscience that deters. And
Riccabocca had unhappily nursed him-
self into so poor an estimate of the
female character, that even the pure
and lofty nature of Violante did not
seem to him a sufficient safeguard
against the craft and determination
of a practised and remorseless in-
triguer. But of all the precautions
he could take, none appeared more
likely to conduce to safety, than his
establishing a friendly communication
with one who professed to be able to
get at all the Count's plans and
movements, and who could apprise
Riccabocca at once should his retreat
be discovered. " Forewarned is fore-
armed," said he to himself, in one of
the proverbs common to all nations.
However, as with his usual sagacity
he came to reflect upon the alarming
intelligence conveyed to him by Ran-
dal, viz., that the Count sought his
daughter's hand, he divined that there
was some strong personal interest
under such ambition ; and what could
be that interest save the probability
of Riccabocca's ultimate admission to
the Imperial grace, and the Count's
desire to assure himself of the heri-
tage to an estate that he might be
permitted to retain no more ? Ricca-
bocca was not indeed aware of the
condition (not according to usual cus-
toms in Austria) on which the Count
held the forfeited domains. He knew
not that they had been granted mere-
ly on pleasure ; but he was too well
aware of Peschiera's nature to sup-
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII. [Jan
pose that he would woo a bride with-
out a dower, or be moved by remorse
in any overture of reconciliation. He
felt assured, too and this increased
all his fears that Peschiera would
never venture to seek an interview
himself; all the Count's designs on
Violante would be dark, secret, and
clandestine. He was perplexed and
tormented by the doubt, whether or
not to express openly to Violante his
apprehensions of the nature of the
danger to be apprehended. He had
told her vaguely that it was for her
sake that he desired secresy and con-
cealment. But that might mean any-
thing : what danger to himself would
not menace her? Yet to say more
was so contrary to a man of his
Italian notions and Machiavellian
maxims ! To say to a young girl,
" There is a man come over to Eng-
land on purpose to woo and win you.
For heaven's sake take care of him ;
he is diabolically handsome ; he never
fails where he sets his heart,"" Cos-
petto !" cried the Doctor, aloud, as
these admonitions shaped themselves
to speech in the camera-obscura of
his brain ; " such a warning would
have undone a Cornelia while she was
yet an innocent spinster." No, he
resolved to say nothing to Violante
of the Count's intention, only to keep
guard, and make himself and Jackey-
mo all eyes and all ears.
The house Randal had selected
pleased Riccabocca at first glance. It
stood alone, upon a little eminence ;
its upper windows commanded the
high road. It had been a school, and
was surrounded by high walls, which
contained a garden and lawn suffi-
ciently large for exercise. The gar-
den doors were thick, fortified by
strong bolts, and had a little wicket
lattice, shut and opened at pleasure,
from which Jackeymo could inspect
all visitors before he permitted them
to enter.
An old female servant from the
neighbourhood was cautiously hired ;
Riccabocca renounced his Italian
name, and abjured his origin. He
spoke English sufficiently well to
think he could pass as an Englishman.
He called himself Mr Richraouth (a
liberal translation of Riccabocca.) He
bought a blunderbuss, two pair of pis-
tols, and a huge house-dog. Thus
provided for, he allowed Jackeymo to
write a line to Randal and communi-
cate his arrival.
Randal lost no time in calling.
With his usual adaptability and his
powers of dissimulation he contrived
easily to please Mrs Riccabocca, and
to increase the good opinion the exile
was disposed to form of him. He en-
gaged Violante in conversation on
Italy and its poets. He promised to
buy her books. He began, though
more distantly than he could have
desired for her sweet stateliness
awed him in spite of himself the pre-
liminaries of courtship. He estab-
lished himself at once as a familiar
guest, riding down daily in the dusk
of evening, after the toils of office, and
retiring at night. In four or five days
he thought he had made great pro-
gress with all. Riccabocca watched
him narrowly, and grew absorbed in
thought after every visit. At length
one night, when he and Mrs Ricca-
bocca were alone in the drawing-room,
Violante having retired to rest, he
thus spoke as he filled his pipe :
" Happy is the man who has no
children ! Thrice happy he who has
no girls !"
u My dear Alphonso !" said the
wife, looking up from the wristband
to which she was attaching a neat
mother- o' -pearl button. She said no
more ; it was the sharpest rebuke she
was in the custom of administering to
her husband's cynical and odious ob-
servations. Riccabocca lighted his
pipe with a thread paper, gave three
great puffs, and resumed.
" One blunderbuss, four pistol?,
and a house-dog called Pompey, who
would have made mince-meat of Ju-
lius Czesar ! "
" He certainly eats a great deal,
does Pompey ! " said Mrs Riccabocca,
simply. " But if he relieves your
mind ! "
" He does not relieve it in the
least, ma'am," groaned Riccabocca ;
*' and that is the point I was coming
to. This is a most harassing life, and
a most undignified life. And I who
have only asked from Heaven dig-
nity and repose ! But, if Violante
were once married, I should want
neither blunderbuss, pistol, nor
Pompey. And it is that which would
relieve my mind, cara mia; Pompey
only relieves my larder ! "
Now Riccabocca had been more-
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part X VII.
communicative to Jemima than he
had been to Violante. Having once
trusted her with one secret, he had
every motive to trust her with an-
other ; and he had accordingly
spoken out his fears of the Count di
Peschiera. Therefore she answered,
laying down the work, and taking
her husband's hand tenderly
" Indeed, my love, since you dread
so much (though I own that I must
think unreasonably) this wicked,
dangerous man, it would be the hap-
piest thing in the world to see dear
Violante well married ; because,
you see, if she is married to one per-
son, she cannot be married to another;
and all fear of this Count, as you
say, would be at an end."
u You cannot express yourself
better. It is a great comfort to un-
bosom one's-self to a wife, after all 1"
quoth Riccabocca.
" But," said the wife, after a grate-
ful kiss "but, where and how can
we find a husband suitable to the
rank of your daughter ? "
u There there there," cried Ric-
cabocca, pushing back his chair to the
farther end of the room "that comes
of unbosoming one's-self ! Out flies
one's secret ; it is opening the lid of
Pandora's box ; one is betrayed,
ruined, undone ! "
41 Why, there's not a soul that can
hear us !" said Mrs Riccabocca,
soothingly.
" That's chance, ma'am ! If you
once contract the habit of blabbing
out a secret when nobody's by, how
on earth can you resist it when you
have the pleasurable excitement of
telling it to all the world ? Vanity,
vanity woman's vanity! Woman
never could withstand rank never ! "
The Doctor went on railing for a
quarter of an hour, and was very
reluctantly appeased by Mrs Ricca-
bocca's repeated and tearful assu-
rances that she would never even
whisper to herself that her husband
had ever held any other rank than
that of Doctor. Riccabocca, with a
dubious shake of the head, renewed
" I have done with all pomp and
pretension. Besides, the young man
is a born gentleman ; he seems in
good circumstances ; he has energy and
latent ambition ; he is akin to L'Es-
trauge's intimate friend ; he seems
89
attached to Violante. I don't think
it probable that we could do better.
Nay, if Peschiera fears that I shall
be restored to my country, and I
learn the wherefore, and the ground
to take, through this young man
why, gratitude is the first virtue of
the noble ! "
"You speak, then, of Mr Leslie?"
" To be sure of whom else ? "
Mrs Riccabocca leaned her cheek
on her hand thoughtfully. " Now
you have told me that, I will observe
him with different eyes."
" Anima mia, I don't see how the
difference of your eyes will alter the
object they look upon ! " grumbled
Riccabocca, shaking the ashes out of
his pipe.
"The object alters when we see it
in a different point of view ! " replied
Jemima, modestly. " This thread
does very well when I look at it in
order to sew on a button, but I should
say it would never do to tie up
Pompey in his kennel."
" Reasoning by illustration, upon
my soul ! " ejaculated Riccabocca,
amazed.
"And," continued Jemima, "when
I am to regard one who is to consti-
tute the happiness of that dear child r
and for life, can I regard him as I
would the pleasant guest of an even-
ing? Ah, trust me, Alphonso I don't
pretend to be wise like you but,
when a woman considers what a man is
likely to prove to woman his sincer-
ity his honour his heart oh, trust
me, she is wiser than the wisest man!"
Riccabocca continued to gaze on
Jemima with unaffected admiration
and surprise. And, certainly, to use
his phrase, since he had unbosomed
himself to his better half since he
had confided in her, consulted with
her, her sense had seemed to quicken
her whole mind to expand.
"My dear," said the sage, "I
vow and declare that Machiavelli was
a fool to you. And I have been as-
dull as the chair I sit upon, to deny
myself so many years the comfort and
counsel of such a but, corpo di
Baccho ! forget all about rank ; and
so now to bed."
" One must not holloa till one's out
of the wood," muttered the ungrateful r
suspicious villain, as he lighted the
chamber candle.
90
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII. [Jan.
CHAPTER III.
Riccabocca could not confine him-
self to the precincts within the walls
to which he condemned Violante.
Resuming his spectacles, and wrapped
in his cloak, he occasionally sallied
forth upon a kind of outwatch or
reconnoitring expedition restricting
himself, however, to the immedi-
ate neighbourhood, and never going
quite out of sight of his house. His
favourite walk was to the summit of
a hillock overgrown with stunted
bushwood. Here he would seat him-
self musingly, often till the hoofs of
Randal's horse rang on the winding
road, as the sun set, over fading herb-
age, red and vaporous, in autumnal
skies. Just below the hillock, and
not two hundred yards from his own
house, was the only other habitation
in view a charming, thoroughly Eng-
lish cottage, though somewhat imi-
tated from the Swiss with gable
ends, thatched roof, and pretty pro-
jecting casements, opening through
creepers and climbing roses. From
his height he commanded the gar-
dens of this cottage, and his eye
of artist was pleased, from the first
sight, with the beauty which some
exquisite taste had given to the
ground. Even in that cheerless
season of the year, the garden wore
a summer smile ; the evergreens
were so bright and various, and the
few flowers, still left, so hardy and so
healthful. Facing the south, a colon-
nade, or covered gallery, of rustic
woodwork had been formed, and
creeping plants, lately set, were al-
ready beginning to clothe its columns.
Opposite to this colonnade there was
a fountain which reminded Ricca-
bocca of his own at the deserted
Casino. It was indeed singularly like
it : the same circular shape, the
same girdle of flowers around it. But
the jet from it varied every day
fantastic and multiform, like the
sports of a Naiad sometimes shoot-
ing up like a tree, sometimes shaped
as a convolvulus, sometimes tossing
from its silver spray a flower of ver-
milion, or a fruit of gold as if at
play with its toy like a happy child.
And near the fountain was a large
aviary, large enough to enclose a tree.
The Italian could just catch a gleam
of rich colour from the wings of the
birds, as they glanced to and fro
within the network, and could hear
their songs, contrasting the silence
of the free populace of air, whom the
coming winter had already stilled.
Riccabocca's eye, so alive to all
aspects of beauty, luxuriated in the
view of this garden. Its pleasantness
had a charm that stole him from his
anxious fear and melancholy me-
mories.
He never saw but two forms within
the demesnes, and he could not dis-
tinguish their features. One was a
woman, who seemed to him of staid
manner and homely appearance : she
was seen but rarely. The other a
man, often pacing to and fro the
colonnade, with frequent pauses be-
fore the playful fountain, or the birds
that sang louder as he approached.
This latter form would then disappear
within a room, the glass door of
which was at the extreme end of the
colonnade ; and if the door were left
open, Riccabocca could catch a glimpse
of the figure bending over a table
covered with books.
Always, however, before the sun
set, the man would step forth more
briskly, and occupy himself with the
garden, often working at it with good
heart, as if at a task of delight ; and
then, too, the woman would come
out, and stand by as if talking to her
companion. Riccabocca's curiosity
grew aroused. He bade Jemima in-
quire of the old maid-servant who
lived at the cottage, and heard that
its owner was a Mr Oran a quiet
gentleman, and fond of his book.
While Riccabocca thus amused him-
self, Randal had not been prevented,
either by his official cares or his schemes
on Violante's heart and fortune, from
furthering the project that was to
unite Frank Hazeldean and Beatrice
di Negra. Indeed, as to the first, a
ray of hope was sufficient to fire the
ardent and unsuspecting lover. And
Randal's artful misrepresentation of
Mr Hazeldean's conversation with
him, removed all fear of parental dis-
pleasure from a mind always too dis-
posed to give itself up to the tempta-
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
91
tion of the moment. Beatrice,
though her feelings for Frank were
not those of love, became more and
more influenced by Randal's argu-
ments and representations, the more
especially as her brother grew morose,
and even menacing, as days slipt on,
and she could give no clue to the
retreat of those whom he sought for.
Her debts, too, were really urgent.
As Randal's profound knowledge of
human infirmity had shrewdly con-
jectured, the scruples of honour and
pride, that had made her declare she
would not bring to a husband her
own encumbrances, began to yield to
the pressure of necessity. She listened
already, with but faint objections,
when Randal urged her not to wait
for the uncertain discovery that was
to secure her dowry, but by a private
marriage with Frank escape at once
into freedom and security. While,
though he had first held out to young
Hazeldean the inducement of Bea-
trice's dowry as reason of self-justi-
fication in the eyes of the Squire, it
was still easier to drop that induce-
ment, which had always rather damped
than fired the high spirit and gene-
rous heart of the poor Guardsman.
And Randal could conscientiously
say, that when he had asked the
Squire if he expected fortune with
Frank's bride, the Squire had replied
" I don't care." Thus encouraged
by his friend and his own heart, and
the softening manner of a woman
who might have charmed many a
colder, and fooled many a wiser
man, Frank rapidly yielded to the
snares held out for his perdition.
And though as yet he honestly shrank
from proposing to Beatrice or himself
a marriage without the consent, and
-even the knowledge, of his parents,
yet Randal was quite content to leave
a nature, however good, so thoroughly
impulsive and undisciplined, to the
influences of the first strong passion
it had ever known. Meanwhile, it
was so easy to dissuade Frank from
even giving a hint to the folks at
home. " For," said the wily and
able traitor, " though we may be sure
of Mrs Hazeldean's consent, and her
power over your father, when the step
is once taken, yet we cannot count
for certain on the Squire he is so
choleric and hasty. He might hurry
to town see Madame di Negra, blurt
out some passionate, rude expressions,
which would wake her resentment, and
cause her instant rejection. And it
might be too late if he repented after-
wards as he would be sure to do."
Meanwhile Randal Leslie gave a
dinner at the Clarendon Hotel, (an
extravagance most contrary to his
habits,) and invited Frank, Mr
Borrowell, and Baron Levy.
But this house-spider, which glided
with so much ease after its flies,
through webs so numerous and mazy,
had yet to amuse Madame di Negra
with assurances that the fugitives
sought for would sooner or later be
discovered. Though Randal baffled
and eluded her suspicion that he was
already acquainted with the exiles,
("the persons hehad thought of were,"
he said, "quite different from her
description ; " and he even presented
to her an old singing-master, and a
sallow-faced daughter, as the Italians
who had caused his mistake,) it was
necessary for Beatrice to prove the
sincerity of the aid she had promised
to her brother, and to introduce Randal
to the Count. It was no less desirable
to Randal to know, and even win the
confidence of this man his rival.
The two met at Madame di Negra's
house. There is something very
strange, and almost mesmerical, in the
rapport between two evil natures.
Bring two honest men together, and
it is ten to one if they recognise each
other as honest ; differences in temper,
manner, even politics, may make each
misjudge the other. But bring to-
gether two men, unprincipled and
perverted men who, if born in a
cellar, would have been food for the
hulks or gallows and they recognise
each other by instant sympathy.
The eyes of Franzini, Count of
Peschiera, and Randal Leslie no
sooner met, than a gleam of intelli-
gence shot from both. They talked on
indifferent subjects weather, gossip,
politics what not. They bowed and
they smiled ; but, all the while, each
was watching, plumbing the other's
heart ; each measuring his strength
with his companion; each inly say-
ing, " This is a very remarkable
rascal; am I a match for him?" It
was at dinner they met ; and, follow-
ing the English fashion, Madame di
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
92
Negra left them alone with their
wine.
Then, for the first time, Count di
Peschiera cautiously and adroitly
made a covered push towards the
object of the meeting.
" You have never been abroad,
my dear sir ? You must contrive to
visit me at Vienna. I grant the
splendour of your London world ;
but, honestly speaking, it wants the
freedom of ours a freedom which
unites gaiety with polish. For as
your society is mixed, there are
pretension and effort with those who
have no right to be in it, and arti-
ficial condescension and chilling arro-
gance with those who have to keep
their inferiors at a certain distance.
With us, all being of fixed rank
and acknowledged birth, familiarity
is at once established. Hence," added
the Count, with his French lively smile
" hence there is no place like Vienna
for a young man no place like Vienna
for bonnes fortunes"
" Those make the paradise of the
idle," replied Randal, u but the pur-
gatory of the busy. I confess frankly
to you, my dear Count, that I have
as little of the leisure which becomes
the aspirer to bonnes fortunes as I
have the personal graces which obtain
them without an effort ;" and he in-
clined his head as in compliment.
" So," thought the Count, " woman
is not his weak side. What is ? "
"Morbleu! my dear Mr Leslie had
I thought as you do some years since,
I had saved myself from many a
trouble. After all, Ambition is the
best mistress to woo; for with her
there is always the hope, and never
the possession."
" Ambition, Count," replied Ran-
dal, still guarding himself in dry sen-
tentiousness, u is the luxury of the
rich, and the necessity of the poor."
" Aha," thought the Count, " it
comes, as I anticipated from the first
1 comes to the bribe." He passed
the wine to Randal, filling his own
glass, and draining it carelessly : " Sur
mon ame, mon cher," said the Count,
" luxury is ever pleasanter than ne-
cessity ; and I am resolved at least to
give Ambition a trial je vais me
refuyier dans le sein da bonlieur domes-
tlque a married life and a settled
home. Pestc! If it were not for ambi-
[Jan.
tion, one would die of ennui. Apropos,
my dear sir, I have to thank you for
promising my sister your aid in finding
a near and dear kinsman of mine, who
has taken refuge in your country, and
hides himself even from me."
u I should be most happy to assist in
your search. As yet, however, I have
only to regret that all my good wishes
are fruitless. I should have thought,
however, that a man of such rank had
been easily found, even through the
medium of your own ambassador."
" Our own ambassador is no very
warm friend of mine ; and the rank
would be no clue, for it is clear that
my kinsman has never assumed it
since he quitted his country."
" He quitted it, I understand, not
exactly from choice," said Randal,
smiling. " Pardon my freedom and
curiosity, but will you explain to me
a little more than I learn from Eng-
lish rumour, (which never accurately
reports upon foreign matters still more
notorious,) how a person who had so
much to lose, and so little to win, by
revolution, could put himself into the
same crazy boat with a crew of hair-
brained adventurers and visionary
professors."
" Professors !" repeated the Count;
" I think you have hit on the very
answer to your question ; not but
what men of high birth were as mad
as the canaille. I am the more willing
to gratify your curiosity, since it will
perhaps serve to guide yourkindsearch
in my favour. You must know, then,
that my kinsman was not born the heir
to the rank he obtained. He was but a
distant relation to the head of the house
which he afterwards represented.
Brought up in an Italian university,
he was distinguished for his learning
and his eccentricities. There too, I
suppose, brooding over old wives'
tales about freedom, and so forth, he
contracted his carbonaro, chimerical
notions for the independence of Italy.
Suddenly, by three deaths, he was
elevated, while yet young, to a station
and honours which might have satis-
fied any man in his senses. Que
diable! what could the independence
of Italy do for him ! He and I were-
cousins ; we had played together as
boys ; but our lives had been separated
till his succession to rank brought us
necessarily together. We became
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVIL
exceedingly intimate. And you may
judge how I loved him," said the
Count, averting his eyes slightly from
Randal's quiet, watchful gaze, "when
I add, that I forgave him for enjoying
a heritage that, but for him, had been
mine."
*' Ah, you were next heir? "
" And it is a hard trial to be very
near a great fortune, and yet just to
miss it."
" True," cried Randal, almost im-
petuously. The Count now raised his
eyes, and again the two men looked
into each other's souls.
" Harder still, perh aps," resumed the
Count, after a short pause "harder
still might it have been to some men
to forgive the rival as well as the
heir."
"Rival! How?"
" A lady, who had been destined
by her parents to myself, though we
had never, I own, been formally be-
trothed, became the wife of my kins-
man."
"Did he know of your preten-
sions ? "
" I do him the justice to say he did
not. He saw and fell in love with
the young lady I speak of. Her
parents were dazzled. Her father
sent for me. He apologised he ex-
plained ; he set before me, mildly
enough, certain youthful imprudences
or errors of my own, as an excuse for
his change of mind ; and he asked me
not only to resign all hope of his
daughter, but to conceal from her new
suitor that I had ever ventured to
hope."
" And you consented ? "
41 1 consented."
"That was generous. You must
indeed have been much attached to
your kinsman. As a lover I cannot
comprehend it ; perhaps, my dear
Count, you may enable me to under-
stand it better as a man of the
world."
" Well," said the Count, with his
most roue air, "I suppose we are
both men of the world ? "
" Both ! certainly," replied Randal,
just in the tone which Peachum
might have used in courting the con-
fidence of Lockit.
" As a man of the world, then, I
own," said the Count, playing with
the rings on his fingers, " that if I
93
could not marry the lady myself, (and
that seemed to me clear,) it was very
natural that I should wish to see her
married to my wealthy kinsman."
" Very natural ; it might bring
your wealthy kinsman and yourself
still closer together."
" This is really a very clever fel-
low ! " thought the Count, but he
made no direct reply.
" Enfin, to cut short a long story,
my cousin afterwards got entangled
in attempts, the failure of which is
historically known. His projects were
detected himself denounced. He
fled, and the Emperor, in sequestrat-
ing his estates, was pleased, with rare
and singular clemency, to permit me,
as his nearest kinsman, to enjoy the
revenues of half those estates during
the royal pleasure ; nor was the other
half formally confiscated. It was no
doubt his Majesty's desire not to ex-
tinguish a great Italian name ; and if
my cousin and his child died in exile,
why, of that name, I, a loyal subject
of Austria I, Franzini, Count di
Peschiera, would become the repre-
sentative. Such, in a similar case,
has been sometimes the Russian policy
towards Polish insurgents."
" I comprehend perfectly ; and I
can also conceive that you, in profit-
ing so largely, though so justly, by
the fall of your kinsman, may have
been exposed to much unpopularity
even to painful suspicion."
" Entre nous, mon cher, I care not a
stiver for popularity ; and as to suspi-
cion, who is he that can escape from,
the calumny of the envious? But,
unquestionably, it would be most de-
sirable to unite the divided members
of our house ; and this union I can now
effect, by the consent of the Emperor
to my marriage with my kinsman's
daughter. You see, therefore, why I
have so great an interest in this re-
search ? "
"By the marriage articles you
could no doubt secure the retention
of the half you hold ; and if you sur-
vive your kinsman, you would enjoy
the whole. A most desirable mar-
riage ; and, if made, I suppose that
would suffice to obtain your cousin's
amnesty and grace?"
" You say it."
" But even without such marriage,
since the Emperor's clemency has
94
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
[Jan.
been extended to so many of the pro-
scribed, it is perhaps probable that
your cousin might be restored ? "
"It once seemed to me possible,"
said the Count, reluctantly ; " but
since I have been in England, I think
not. The recent revolution in France,
the democratic spirit rising in Europe,
tend to throw back the cause of a
proscribed rebel. England swarms
with revolutionists : my cousin's resi-
dence in this country is in itself suspi-
cious. The suspicion is increased by
his strange seclusion. There are many
Italians here who would aver that
they had met with him, and that he
was still engaged in revolutionary
projects."
" Aver untruly ? "
" Ma foi it comes to the same
thing ; les absens out toujours tort. I
speak to a man of the world. No ;
without some such guarantee for his
faith, as his daughter's marriage with
myself would give, his recall is impro-
bable. By the heaven above us, it
shall be impossible ! " The Count
rose as he said this rose as if the
mask of simulation had fairly fallen
from the visage of crime rose tall
and towering, a very image of mascu-
line power and strength, beside the
slight, bended form and sickly face of
the intellectual schemer. Randal was
startled ; but, rising also, he said care-
" What if this guarantee can no
longer be given ? what if, in despair
of return, and in resignation to his
altered fortunes, your cousin has al-
ready married his daughter to some
English suitor ? "
" Ah, that would indeed be, next
to my own marriage with her, the
most fortunate thing that could hap-
pen to myself."
" How ? I don't understand ! "
" Why, if my cousin has so abjured
his birthright, and forsworn his rank
if this heritage, which is so danger-
ous from its grandeur, pass, in case of
his pardon, to some obscure English-
man a foreigner a native of a coun-
try that has no ties with ours a
country that is the very refuge of
levellers and Carbonari mart de ma
vie do you think that such would not
annihilate all chance of my cousin's
restoration, and be an excuse even to
the eyes of Italy for formally confer-
ring the sequestrated estates on an
Italian ? No ; unless, indeed, the girl
were to marry an Englishman of such
name and birth and connection as
would in themselves be a guarantee,
(and how in poverty is this likely?)
I should go back to Vienna with a
light heart, if I could say, ' My kins-
woman is an Englishman's wife
shall her children be the heirs to a
house so renowned for its lineage, and
so formidable for its wealth ? ' Par-
bleu ! if my cousin were but an ad-
venturer, or merely a professor, he
had been pardoned long ago. The
great enjoy the honour not to be par-
doned easily."
Randal fell into deep but brief
thought. The Count observed him,
not face to face, but by the reflexion
of an opposite mirror. " This man
knows something ; this man is deli-
berating ; this man can help me,"
thought the Count.
But Randal said nothing to confirm
these hypotheses. Recovering from
his abstraction, he expressed cour-
teously his satisfaction at the Count's
prospects, either way. " And since,
after all," he added, " you mean so
well to your cousin, it occurs to me
that you might discover him by a
verv simple English process."
"How?"
"Advertise that, if he will come to
some place appointed, he will hear of
something to his advantage."
The Count shook his head. " He
would suspect me, and not come."
" But he was intimate with you.
He joined an insurrection ; you were
more prudent. You did not injure
him, though you may have benefited
yourself. Why should he shun you ? "
" The conspirators forgive none who
do not conspire; besides, to speak
frankly, he thought I injured him."
" Could you not conciliate him
through his wife whom you resign-
ed to him ? "
" She is dead died before he left
the country."
" Oh, that is unlucky ! Still I think
an advertisement might do good. Al-
low me to reflect on that subject.
Shall we now join Madame la Mar-
quise ? "
On re-entering the drawing- room,
the gentlemen found Beatrice in full
dress, seated by the fire, and reading so
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
intently that she did not remark them
enter.
"What so interests you, ma sceur?
the last novel by Balzac, no doubt ?"
Beatrice started, and, looking up,
showed eyes that were full of tears.
" Oh, no ! no picture of miserable,
vicious Parisian life. This is beauti-
ful ; there is soul here."
Randal took up the book which the
Marchesa laid down ; it was the same
that had charmed the circle at Hazel-
dean charmed the innocent and fresh-
hearted charmed now the wearied
and tempted votaress of the world.
" Hum," murmured Randal ; " the
Parson was right. This is power
a sort of a power."
"How I should like to know the
author! Who can he be can you
" Not I. Some old pedant in spec-
tacles."
" I think not I am sure not. Here
95
beats a heart I have ever sighed to
find, and never found."
"Oh, la naive enfant!" cried the
Count ; "commeson imagination s'egare
en reves enchantes. And to think that,
while you talk like an Arcadian, you
are dressed like a princess."
" Ah, I forgot the Austrian am-
bassador's. I shall not go to-night.
This book unfits me for the artificial
world."
"Just as you will, my sister. I
shall go. I dislike the man, and
he me ; but ceremonies before men ! "
" You are going to the Austrian
Embassy? " said Randal. " I too shall
be there. We shall meet." And he
took his leave.
"I like your young friend prodi-
giously," said the Count, yawning.
" I am sure that he knows of the lost
birds, and will stand to them like a
pointer, if I can but make it his inte-
rest to do so. We shall see."
CHAPTER IV.
Randal arrived at the ambas-
sador's before the Count, and con-
trived to mix with the young
noblemen attached to the embassy,
and to whom he was known. Stand-
ing among these was a young
Austrian, on his travels, of very high
birth, and with an air of noble grace
that suited the ideal of the old
German chivalry. Randal was
presented to him, and, after some
talk on general topics, observed,
" By the way, Prince, there is
now in London a countryman of
yours, with whom you are doubtless
familiarly acquainted the Count di
Peschiera."
" He is no countryman of mine.
He is an Italian. I know him but by
sight and by name," said the Prince
stiffly.
" He is of very ancient birth, I
believe."
" Unquestionably. His ancestors
were gentlemen."
" And very rich."
" Indeed ! I have understood the
contrary. He enjoys, it is true, a
large revenue."
A young attache, less discreet
than the Prince, here observed,
" Oh, Peschiera! Poor fellow, he
is too fond of play to be rich."
" And there is some chance that
the kinsman whose revenue he
holds may obtain his pardon, and
re-enter into possession of his for-
tunes so I hear, at least," said
Randal artfully.
" I shall be glad if it be true,"
said the Prince with decision ; " and
I speak the common sentiment at
Vienna. That kinsman had a noble
spirit, and was, I believe, equally
duped and betrayed. Pardon me,
sir ; but we Austrians are not so
bad as we are painted. Have you
ever met in England the kinsman
you speak of? "
" Never, though he is supposed to
reside here ; and the Count tells me
that he has a daughter."
" The Count ha ! I heard some-
thing of a scheme a wager of
that that Count's a daughter.
Poor girl! I hope she will escape
his pursuit; for, no doubt, he pur-
sues her."
" Possibly she may already have
married an Englishman."
" I trust not," said the Prince
seriously; "that might at present
be a serious obstacle to her father's
return."
"You think so?"
" There can be no doubt of it,"
96
My Novel; or, Varieties in
interposed the attache with a grand
and positive air ; " unless, indeed,
the Englishman were of a rank equal
to her own."
Here there was a slight, well-bred
murmur and buzz at the doors; for the
Count di Peschiera himself was an-
nounced ; and as he entered, his pre-
sence was so striking, and his beauty so
dazzling, that whatever there might
be to the prejudice of his character,
it seemed instantly effaced or for-
gotten in that irresistible admiration
which it is the prerogative of personal
attributes alone to create.
The Prince, with a slight curve of
his lip at the groups that collected
round the Count, turned to Randal
and said, " Can you tell me if a
distinguished countryman of yours is
in England Lord L'Estrange ? "
" No, Prince he is not. You
know him ? "
" Well."
"He is acquainted with the
Count's kinsman; and perhaps from
him you have learned to think so
highly of that kinsman ? "
The Prince bowed, and answered
as he moved away, " When a man
of high honour vouches for another,
he commands the belief of all."
" Certainly," soliloquised Randal,
" I must not be precipitate. I was
very nearly falling into a terrible
trap. If I were to marry the girl, and
only, by so doing, settle away her
inheritance on Peschiera! How hard
it is to be sufficiently cautious in this
world ! "
While thus meditating, a member
of Parliament tapped him on the
shoulder.
" Melancholy, Leslie ! I lay a
wager I guess your thoughts."
" Guess," answered Randal.
" You were thinking of the place
you are so soon to lose."
" Soon to lose !"
tf Why, if ministers go out, you
could hardly keep it, I suppose."
This ominous and horrid mem-
ber of Parliament, Squire Hazeldean's
favourite county member, Sir John,
was one of those legislators especially
odious to officials an independent
* large-acred ' member, who would
no more take office himself than he
would cut down the oaks in his park,
and who had no bowels of human
English Life. Part X VII. [Jan.
feeling for those who had oppo-
site tastes and less magnificent
means."
"Hem!" said Randal, rather
surlily. "In the first place, Sir
John, ministers are not going out."
" Oh yes, they will go. You
know I vote with them generally,
and would willingly keep them in;
but they are men of honour and
spirit ; and if they can't carry their
measures, they must resign; other-
wise, by Jove, I would turn round
and vote them out myself! "
41 1 have no doubt you would, Sir
John ; you are quite capable of it ;
that rests with you and your consti-
tuents. But even if ministers did
go out, I am but a poor subaltern
in a public office. I am no minister
why should I go out too ? "
" Why? Hang it, Leslie, you are
laughing at me. A young fellow
like you could never be mean enough
to stay in, under the very men
who drove out your friend Eger-
ton ! "
" It is not usual for those in the
public offices to retire with every
change of Government."
" Certainly not ; but always those
who are the relations of a retiring
minister always those who have
been regarded as politicians, and
who mean to enter Parliament, as of
course you will do at the next elec-
tion. But you know that as well
as I do you who are so de-
cided a politician the writer of that
admirable pamphlet! I should not
like to tell my friend Hazeldean,
who has a sincere interest in you,
that you ever doubted on a ques-
tion of honour as plain as your
A, B, C."
" Indeed, Sir John," said Randal,
recovering his suavity, while he inly
breathed a dire anathema on his
county member, " I am so new to
these things, that what you say
never struck me before. No doubt
you must be right; at all events,
I cannot have a better guide
and adviser than Mr Egerton him-
self."
"No, certainly perfect gentle-
man, Egerton ! I wish we could
make it up with him and Hazeldean."
RANDAL, (sighing.)" Ah, I wish
we could ! "
1852.]
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
97
SIR JOHN. " And some chance of
it now ; for the time is coming when
all true men of the old school must
stick together."
KANDAL. " Wisely, admirably
said, my dear Sir John. But,
pardon me, I must pay my respects
to the ambassador."
Randal escaped, and, passing on,
saw the ambassador himself in the
next room, conferring in a corner
with Audley Egerton. The ambas-
sador seemed very grave Egerton
calm and impenetrable, as usual.
Presently the Count passed by, and
the ambassador bowed to him very
stiffly.
As Randal, some time later,
was searching for his cloak below,
Audley Egerton unexpectedly joined
him.
u Ah, Leslie," said the minister,
with more kindness than usual, " if
you don't think the night air too
cold for you, let us walk home
together. I have sent away the
carriage."
This condescension in his patron
was so singular that it quite startled
Randal, and gave him a presenti-
ment of some evil. When they were
in the street, Egerton, after a pause,
began
u My dear Mr Leslie, it was my
hope and belief that I had provided
for you at least a competence ; and
that I might open to you, later, a
career yet more brilliant. Hush !
I don't doubt your gratitude ; let me
proceed. There is a possible chance,
after certain decisions that the Go-
vernment have come to, that we may
be beaten in the House of Com-
mons, and of course resign. I tell
you this beforehand, for I wish you
to have time to consider what, in
that case, would be your best course.
My power of serving you may then
probably be over. It would, no doubt,
(seeing our close connection, and my
views with regard to your future
being so well known,) no doubt,
be expected that you should give up
the place you hold, and follow my
fortunes for good or ill. But as I
have no personal enemies with the
opposite party and as I have suf-
ficient position in the world to up-
hold and sanction your choice, what-
ever it may be, if you think it more
prudent to retain your place, tell me
so openly, and I think I can contrive
that you may do it without loss of
character and credit. In that case,
confine your ambition merely to rising
gradually in your office, without
mixing in politics. If, on the other
hand, you should prefer to take your
chance of my return to office, and so-
resign your own ; and, furthermore,,
should commit yourself to a policy
that may then be not only in opposi-
tion, but unpopular, I will do my
best to introduce you into parliamen-
tary life. I cannot say that I advise
the latter."
Randal felt as a man feels after a
severe fall he was literally stunned.
At length he faltered out
" Can you think, sir, that I should
ever desert your fortunes your party
your cause ? "
"My dear Leslie," replied the
minister, " you are too young to have
committed yourself to any men or to
any party, except, indeed, in that,
unlucky pamphlet. This must not be
an affair of sentiment, but of sense and
reflection. Let us say no more on
the point now ; but, by considering the
pros and the cons, you can better judge
what to do, should the time for option
suddenly arrive."
u But I hope that time may not
come."
" I hope so too, and most sin-
cerely," said the minister, with de-
liberate and genuine emphasis.
" What could be so bad for the-
country?" ejaculated Randal. " It
does not seem to me possible, in the
nature of things, that you and your
party should ever go out ! "
" And when we are once out, there
will be plenty of wiseacres to say it
is out of the nature of things that we
should ever come in again. Here we
are at the door."
CHAPTER V.
Randal passed a sleepless night ;
but, indeed, he was one of those per-
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
sons who neither need, nor are ac-
customed to, much sleep. However,.
G
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII. [Jan.
98
towards morning, when dreams are
said to be prophetic, he fell into a
most delightful slumber a slumber
peopled by visions fitted to lure on,
through labyrinths of law, predestined
chancellors, or wreck upon the rocks
of glory the inebriate souls of youth-
ful ensigns dreams from which
Rood Hall emerged crowned with the
towers of Belvoir or Raby, and look-
ing over subject lands and manors
wrested from the nefarious usurpa-
tion of Thornhills and Hazeldeans
dreams in which Audley Egerton's
gold and power rooms in Downing
Street, and saloons in Grosvenor
Square had passed away to the
smiling dreamer, as the empire of
Chaldaea passed to Darius the Median.
Why visions so belying the gloomy
and anxious thoughts that preceded
them should visit the pillow of Randal
Leslie, surpasses my philosophy to
conjecture. He yielded, however,
passively to their spell, and was
startled to hear the clock strike eleven
as he descended the stairs to break-
fast. He was vexed at the lateness
of the hour, for he had meant to
have taken advantage of the un-
wonted softness of Egerton, and
drawn therefrom some promises or
proffers to cheer the prospects which
the minister had so chillingly ex-
panded before him the preceding
night. And it was only at breakfast
that he usually found the opportunity
of private conference with his busy
patron. But Audley Egerton would
be sure to have sallied forth and so
he had only Randal was surprised
to hear that he had gone out in his
carriage, instead of on foot, as was
his habit. Randal soon despatched
his solitary meal, and with a new and
sudden affection for his office, thither-
wards bent his way. As he passed
through Piccadilly, he heard behind
a voice that had lately become fami-
liar to him, and turning round, saw
Baron Levy walking side by side,
though not arm-in-arm, with a gen-
tleman almost as smart as himself,
but with ajauntier step and a brisker
air a step that, like Diomed's, as
described by Shakspeare
" Rises on the toe ; that spirit of his
In aspiration lifts him from the earth."
Indeed, one may judge of the spirits
and disposition of a man by his ordi-
nary gait and mien in walking. He who
habitually pursues abstract thought,
looks down on the ground. He who is
accustomed to sudden impulses, or is
trying to seize upon some necessary
recollection, looks up with a kind of
jerk. He who is a steady, cautious,
merely practical man, walks on deli-
berately, his eyes straight before him ;
and even in his most musing moods,
observes things around sufficiently to
avoid a porter's knot or a butcher's
tray. But the man with strong
ganglions of pushing lively tempera-
ment, who, though practical, is yet
speculative the man who is emulous
and active, and ever trying to rise in
life sanguine, alert, bold walks
with a spring looks rather above
the heads of his fellow- passengers
but with a quick easy turn of his
own, which is lightly set on his
shoulders ; his mouth is a little open
his eye is bright, rather restless,
but penetrative his port has some-
thing of defiance his form is erect,
but without stiffness. Such was the
appearance of the Baron's companion.
And as Randal turned round at Levy's
voice, the Baron said to his com-
panion, " A young man in the first
circles you should book him for your
fair lady's parties. How d'ye do, Mr
Leslie ? Let me introduce you to
Mr Richard Avenel." Then, as he
hooked his arm into Randal's, he
whispered, " Man of first-rate talent
monstrous rich has two or three
parliamentary seats in his pocket
wife gives parties her foible."
" Proud to make your acquaint-
ance, sir," said Mr Avenel, lifting his
hat. " Fine day."
" Rather cold too," said Leslie, who,
like all thin persons with weak diges-
tions, was chilly by temperament; be-
sides, he had enough on his mind to
chill his body.
*' So much the healthier braces the
nerves," said Mr Avenel ; " but you
young fellows relax the system by
hot rooms and late hours. Fond of
dancing, of course, sir?" Then, without
waiting for Randal's negative, Mr
Richard continued rapidly, " Mrs
Avenel has a soiree dansante on Thurs-
day shall be very happy to see you
in Eaton Square. Stop, I have a
card ; " and he drew out a dozen large
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
invitation cards,from which he selected
one and presented it to Randal. The
Baron pressed that young gentleman's
arm, and Randal replied courteously
that it would give him great plea-
sure to be introduced to Mrs Avenel.
Then, as he was not desirous to be
seen under the wing of Baron Levy,
like a pigeon under that of a hawk,
he gently extricated himself, and,
pleading great haste, walked quickly
on towards his office.
" That young man will make a
figure some day," said the Baron. " I
don't know any one of his age with so
few prejudices. He is a connexion by
marriage to Audley Egerton, who"
"Audley Egerton!" exclaimed Mr
Avenel ; " d d haughty, aristocratic,
disagreeable, ungrateful fellow !"
" Why, what do you know of him?"
" He owed his first seat in Parlia-
ment to the votes of two near rela-
tions of mine, and when I called upon
him some time ago, in his office, he
absolutely ordered me out of the
room. Hang his impertinence ; if ever
I can pay him off, I guess I shan't
fail for want of good will !"
" Ordered you out of the room? That's
not like Egerton, who is civil, if formal
at least to most men. You must
have offended him in his weak point."
99
" A man whom the public pays so
handsomely should have no weak
point. What is Egerton's ? "
" Oh, he values himself on being
a thorough gentleman a man of the
nicest honour," said Levy with a
sneer. " You must have ruffled his
plumes there. How was it ? "
"I forget now," answered Mr
Avenel, who was far too well versed
in the London scale of human digni-
ties since his marriage, not to look
back with a blush at his desire of
knighthood. " No use bothering our
heads now about the plumes of an
arrogant popinjay. To return to the
subject we were discussing. You
must be sure to let me have this
money next week."
" Rely on it."
"And you'll not let my bills get
into the market ; keep them under
lock and key."
" So we agreed."
" It is but a temporary difficulty
royal mourning, such nonsense-
panic in trade, lest these precious
ministers go out. I shall soon float
over the troubled waters."
" By the help of a paper boat," said
the Baron, laughing; and the two
gentlemen shook hands and parted.
CHAPTER VI.
Meanwhile Audley Egerton's car-
riage had deposited him at the door
of Lord Lansmere's house, at
Knightsbridge. He asked for the
Countess, and was shown into the
drawing-room, which was deserted.
Egerton was paler than usual ; and as
the door opened, he wiped the un-
wonted moisture from his forehead,
and there was a quiver in his firm lip.
The Countess too, on entering, showed
an emotion almost equally unusual
to her self-control. She pressed
Audley's hand in silence, and seat-
ing herself by his side, seemed to
collect her thoughts. At length she
said
" It is rarely indeed that we meet,
Mr Egerton, in spite of your intimacy
with Lansmere and Harley. I go so
little into your world, and you will
not voluntarily come to me."
"Madam," replied Egerton, "I
might evade your kind reproach by
stating that my hours are not at my
disposal ; but I answer you with plain
truth, it must be painful to both of
us to meet."
The Countess coloured and sighed,
but did not dispute the assertion.
Audley resumed. " And therefore,
I presume that, on sending for me,
you have something of moment to
communicate."
"It relates to Harley," said the
Countess, as if in apology ; " and I
would take your advice."
" To Harley ! speak on, I beseech
you."
"My son has probably told you
that hehas educated and reared a young
girl, with the intention to make her
Lady L'Estrange, and hereafter Coun-
tess of Lansmere."
" Harley has no secrets from me,"
said Egertou, mournfully.
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII. [Jan.
100
"This young lady has arrived in
England is here, in this house."
"And Harley too?"
" No, she came over with Lady
N and her daughters. Plarley
was to follow shortly, and I expect
him daily. Here is his letter. Ob-
serve, he has never yet communicated
his intentions to this young person,
now intrusted to my care never
spoken to her as the lover."
Egerton took the letter and read it
rapidly, though with attention.
" True," said he, as he returned the
letter; "and before he does so, he
wishes yon to see Miss Digby and to
judge of her yourself wishes to know
if you will approve and sanction his
choice."
"It is on this that I would con-
sult you a girl without rank ; the
father, it is true, a gentleman, though
almost equivocally one, but the
mother, I know not what. And Har-
ley, for whom I hoped an alliance with
the first houses in England!" The
Countess pressed her hands convul-
sively together.
EGERTON. " He is no more a boy.
His talents have been wasted his
life a wanderer's. He presents to
you a chance of re-settling his mind,
of re-arousing his native powers, of a
home beside your own. Lady Lans-
mere, you cannot hesitate !"
LADY LANSMERE. "I do, I do!
After all that I have hoped, after all
that I did to prevent "
EGERTON, (interrupting her.)
"You owe him now an atonement:
that is in your power it is not in
mine."
The Countess again pressed Auclley 's
hand, and the tears gushed from her
eyes.
" It shall be so. I consent I con-
sent. I will silence, I will crush back
this proud heart. Alas ! it wellnigh
broke his own ! I am glad you speak
thus. I like to think he owes my
consent to you. In that there is atone-
ment for both both."
"You are too generous, madam," said
Egerton, evidently moved, though still,
as ever, striving to repress emotion.
" And now may I see the young lady?
This conference pains me ; you see
even my strong nerves quiver ; and at
this time I have much to go through
need of all my strength and firmness."
"I hear, indeed, that the government
will probably retire. But it is with
honour : it will be soon called back
by the voice of the nation."
" Let me see the future wife of
Harley L'Estrange," said Egerton,
without heed of this consolatory ex-
clamation.
The Countess rose and left the
room. In a few minutes she returned
with Helen Digby.
Helen was wondrously improved
from the pale, delicate child, with
the soft smile and intelligent eyes,
who had sate by the side of Leonard
in his garret. She was about the
middle height, still slight, but beauti-
fully formed ; that exquisite roundness
of proportion, which conveys so well
the idea of woman, in its undulating
pliant grace formed to embellish
life, and soften away its rude angles
formed to embellish, not to protect.
Her face might not have satisfied the
critical eye of an artist it was not
without defects in regularity ; but its
expression was eminently gentle and
prepossessing; and there were few
who would not have exclaimed,
" What a lovely countenance ! " Tho
mildness of her brow was touched
with melancholy her childhood had
left its traces on her youth. Her step
was slow, and her manner shy, sub-
dued, and timid.
Audley gazed on her with earnest-
ness as she approached him ; and
then coming forward, took her hand
and kissed it.
"I am your guardian's constant
friend," said he; and he drew her
gently to a seat beside him, in the
recess of a window. With a quick
glance of hiseye towards the Countess,
he seemed to imply the wish to con-
verse with Helen somewhat apart.
So the Countess interpreted the glance;
and though she remained in the room,
she seated herself at a distance, and
bent over a book.
It was touching to see how the
austere man of business lent himself to
draw forth the mind of this quiet,
shrinking girl ; and if you had listened,
you would have comprehended how
he came to possess such social influ-
ence, and how well, some time or
other in the course of his life, he had
learned to adapt himself to women.
He spoke first of Harley L'Estrange
1852.] My Novel ; or, Varieties in
spoke with tact and delicacy. Helen
at first answered by monosyllables,
and then, by degrees, with grateful
and open aifection. Audley's brow
.grew shaded. He then spoke of Italy ;
and though no man had less of the
poet in his nature, yet, with the dex-
terity of one long versed in the world,
aud who has been accustomed to
extract evidences from characters
most opposed to his own, he suggested
such topics as might serve to arouse
poetry in others. Helen's replies
betrayed a cultivated taste, and a
charming womanly mind ; but they
betrayed also one accustomed to take
its colourings from another's to
appreciate, admire, revere the Lofty
aud the Beautiful, but humbly and
meekly. There was no vivid enthu-
siasm, no remark of striking originality,
no flash of the self-kindling, creative
faculty. Lastly, Egerton turned to
England to the critical nature of the
times to the claims which the country
possessed upon all who had the ability
to serve and guide its troubled desti-
nies. He enlarged warmly on Harley's
natural talents, aud rejoiced that he
had returned to England, perhaps to
commence some great career. Helen
English Life. Part X VII. 10 1
looked surprised, but her face caught
no correspondent glow from Audley's
eloquence. He rose, and an expres-
sion of disappointment passed over
his grave, handsome features, and as
quickly vanished.
"Adieu! my dear Miss Digby;
I fear I have wearied you, especially
with my politics. Adieu, Lady Lans-
mere ; no doubt I shall see Harley as
soon as he returns."
Then he hastened from the room,
gained his carriage, and ordered the
coachman to drive to Downing Street.
He drew down the blinds, and leant
back. A certain languor became
visible in his face, and once or twice
he mechanically put his hand to his
heart.
" She is good, amiable, docile will
make an excellent wife, no doubt,"
said he murmuringly. " But does
she love Harley as he has dreamed
of love ? No ! Has she the power
and energy to arouse his faculties,
and restore to the world the Harley
of old ? No ! Meant by heaven to
be the shadow of another's sun not
herself the sun this child is not the
one who can atone for the Past and
illume the Future."
CHAPTER VII.
That evening Harley L'Estrange
arrived at his father's house. The
few years that had passed since we
saw him last, had made no percep-
tible change in his appearance. He
still preserved his elastic youthfulness
of form, and singular variety aud play
of countenance. He seemed unaftect-
edly rejoiced to greet his parents, and
had something of the gaiety and the
tenderness of a boy returned from
school. His manner to Helen bespoke
the chivalry that pervaded all the com-
plexities and curves of his character.
It was affectionate, but respectful.
Hers to him, subdued but inno-
cently sweet and gently cordial. Har-
ley was the chief talker. The aspect
.of the times was so critical, that he
could not avoid questions on politics ;
and, indeed, he showed an interest in
them which he had never evinced be-
fore. Lord Lansinere was delighted.
"Why, Harley, you love your
v.country, after all ? "
" The moment she seems in danger
yes ! " replied the Patrician ; and
the Sybarite seemed to rise into the
Athenian.
Then he asked with eagerness
about his old friend Audley ; and,
his curiosity satisfied there, he in-
quired the last literary news. He
had heard much of a book lately
published. He named the one as-
cribed by Parson Dale to Professor
Moss : none of his listeners had read
it.
Harley pished at this, and accused
them all of indolence and stupidity,
in his own quaint, metaphorical style.
Then he said "And town gossip?"
" We never hear it," said Lady
Lansinere.
" There is a new plough much
talked of at Boodle's," said Lord
Lansmere.
" God speed it. But is not there
anew man much talked of at White's? "
"I don't belong to White's."
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
102
u Nevertheless, you may have
heard of him a foreigner, a Count
di Peschiera."
" Yes," said Lord Lansmere ; " he
was pointed out to me in the Park
a handsome man for a foreigner ;
wears his hair properly cut; looks
gentlemanlike and English."
"Ah, ah! He is here, then !" And
Harley rubbed his hands.
"Which road did you take? did
you pass the Simplon ? "
" No ; I came straight from
Vienna."
Then, relating with lively vein his
adventures by the way, he continued
to delight Lord Lansmere by his
gaiety till the time came to retire to
rest. As soon as Harley was in his
own room, his mother joined him.
" Well," said he, " I need not ask
if you like Miss Digby ? Who would
not?"
" Harley, my own son," said the
mother bursting into tears, " be
happy your own way ; only be happy,
that is all I ask."
Harley, much affected, replied
gratefully and soothingly to this fond
injunction. And then gradually
leading his mother on to converse
of Helen, asked abruptly " And of
the chance of our happiness her
happiness as well as mine what is
your opinion ? Speak frankly."
" Of her happiness, there can be no
doubt," replied the mother proudly.
" Of yours, how can you ask me ?
Have you not decided on that your-
self? "
" But still it cheers and encourages
one in any experiment, however well
considered, to hear the approval of
another. Helen has certainly a most
gentle temper."
" I should conjecture so. But her
mind"
" Is very well stored."
" She speaks so little"
" Yes. I wonder why ? She's
surely a woman ! "
" Pshaw," said the Countess, smil-
ing in spite of herself. u But tell me
more of the process of your experi-
ment. You took her as a child, and
resolved to train her according to
your own ideal. Was that easy ? "
" It seemed so. I desired to instil
habits of truth she was already by
nature truthful as the day ; a taste
[Jan.
for nature and all things natural
that seemed inborn ; perceptions of
Art as the interpreter of Nature
those were more difficult to teach.
I think they may come. You have
heard her play and sing ? "
"No."
"She will surprise you. She has
less talent for drawing ; still, all that
teaching could do has been done in
a word, she is accomplished. Temper,
heart, mind these all are excellent."
Harley stopped, and suppressed a
sigh. " Certainly, I ought to be
very happy," said he ; and he be-
gan to wind up his watch.
" Of course she must love you ? ' r
said the Countess, after a pause.
" How could she fail? "
" Love me ! My dear mother, that
is the very question I shall have to
ask."
" Ask ! Love is discovered by a
glance ; it has no need of asking."
" I have never discovered it, then,
I assure you. The fact is, that be-
fore her childhood was passed, I re-
moved her, as you may suppose, from
my roof. She resided with an Italian
family, near my usual abode. I visited
her often, directed her studies, watched
her improvement "
" And fell in love with her ? "
" Fall is such a very violent word.
No; I don't remember to have had
a fall. It was all a smooth inclined
plane from the first step, until at last
I said to myself, ' Harley L'Estrange,
thy time has come. The bud has
blossomed into flower. Take it to
thy breast.' And myself replied
to myself meekly, ' So be it.' Then
I found that Lady N , with her
daughters, was coming to England.
I asked her ladyship to take my ward
to your house. I wrote to you, and
prayed your assent ; and, that granted,
I knew you would obtain my father's.
I am here you give me the approval
I sought for. I will speak to Helen
to-morrow. Perhaps, after all, she
may reject me."
" Strange, strange you speak thus
coldly, thus lightly ; you so capable
of ardent love ! "
" Mother," said Harley, earnestly,
"be satisfied I /am ! Love, as of old,
I feel, alas ! too well, can visit me
never more. But gentle companion-
ship, tender friendship, the relief and
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII. 103
the sunlight of woman's smile here- are my hope. Is the hope so mean,
after the voices of children music my fond mother ? "
that, striking on the hearts of both Again the Countess wept, and her
parents, wakens the most lasting and tears were not dried when she left
the purest of all sympathies : these the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
Oh! Helen, fair Helen type of
the quiet, serene, unnoticed, deep-felt
excellence of woman ! Woman, less
as the ideal that a poet conjures
from the air, than as the companion
of a poet on the earth ! Woman
who, with her clear sunny vision of
things actual, and the exquisite fibre
of her delicate sense, supplies the
deficiencies of him whose foot stum-
bles on the soil, because his eye is
too intent upon the stars ! Woman,
the provident, the comforting angel
whose pinions are folded round the
heart, guarding there a divine spring
unmarred by the winter of the world !
Helen, soft Helen, is it indeed in
thee that the wild and brilliant " lord
of wantonness and ease " is to find the
regeneration of his life the rebaptism
of his soul ? Of what avail thy meek
prudent household virtues to one
whom Fortune screens from rough
trial ? whose sorrows lie remote from
thy ken ? whose spirit, erratic and
perturbed, now rising, now falling,
needs a vision more subtle than thine
to pursue, and a strength that can
sustain the reason, when it droops, on
the wings of enthusiasm and passion ?
And thou thyself, O nature, shrink-
ing and humble, that needest to
be courted forth from the shelter, and
developed under the calm and genial
atmosphere of holy, happy love
can such affection as Harley
L'Estrange may proffer suffice to
thee? Will not the blossoms, yet
folded in the petal, wither away be-
neath the shade that may protect
them from the storm, and yet shut
them from the sun? Thou who,
where thou givest love, seekest,
though meekly, for love in return ; to
be the soul's sweet necessity, the
life's household partner to him who
receives all thy faith and devotion
canst thou influence the sources of
joy and of sorrow in the heart that
does not heave at thy name ? Hast
thou the charm and the force of the
moon, that the tides of that wayward
sea shall ebb and flow at thy will?
Yet who shall say who conjecture
how near two hearts can become,
when no guilt lies between them,
and time brings the ties all its own ?
Rarest of all things on earth is the
union in which both, by their con-
trasts, make harmonious their blend-
ing; each supplying the defects of
the helpmate, and completing, by
fusion, one strong human soul ! Hap-
piness enough, where even Peace does
but seldom preside, when each can
bring to the altar, if not the flame,
still the incense. Where man's
thoughts are all noble and generous,
woman's feelings all gentle and pure,
love may follow, if it does not precede;
and if not, if the roses be missed
from the garland, one may sigh for the
rose, but one is safe from the thorn.
The morning was mild, yet some-
what overcast by the mists which
announce coming winter in London,
and Helen walked musingly beneath
the trees that surrounded the garden
of Lord Lansmere's house. Many
leaves were yet left on the boughs ;
but they were sere and withered.
And the birds chirped at times ; but
their note was mournful and com-
plaining. All within this house, until
Harley's arrival, had been strange and
saddening to Helen's timid and sub-
dued spirits. Lady Lansmere had
received her kindly, but with a cer-
tain restraint ; and the loftiness of
manner, common to the Countess
with all but Harley, had awed and
chilled the diffident orphan. Lady
Lansmere's very interest in Harley's
choice her attempts to draw Helen
out of her reserve her watchful eyes
whenever Helen shyly spoke, or shyly
moved, frightened the poor child, and
made her unjust to herself.
The very servants, though staid,
grave, and respectful, as suited a dig-
nified, old-fashioned household, pain-
fully contrasted the bright welcoming
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
104
smiles and free talk of Italian domes-
tics. Her recollections of the happy
warm Continental manner, which so
.sets the bashful at their ease, made
the stately and cold precision of all
around her doubly awful and dispirit-
ing. Lord Lansmere himself, who did
not as yet know the views of Harley,
and little dreamed that he was to
anticipate a daughter-in-law in the
ward whom he understood Harley, in
a freak of generous romance, had
adopted, was familiar and courteous,
as became a host. But he looked
upon Helen as a mere child, and
naturally left her to the Countess.
The dim sense of her equivocal
position of her comparative humble-
ness of birth and fortunes, oppressed
and pained her; and even her grati-
tude to Harley was made burthensome
by a sentiment of helplessness. The
.grateful long to requite. And what
could she ever do for him?
Thus musing, she wandered alone
through the curving walks ; and this
sort of mock country landscape Lon-
don loud, and even visible, beyond the
high gloomy walls, and no escape
from the windows of the square
formal house seemed a type of the
prison bounds of Bank to one whose
soul yearns for simple loving Nature.
Helen's reverie was interrupted by
Nero's joyous bark. He had caught
sight of her, and came bounding up,
and thrust his large head into her
hand. As she stooped to caress the
dog, happy at his honest greeting, and
tears that had been long gathering to
the lids fell silently on his face, (for
I know nothing that more moves us
to tears than the hearty kindness of a
clog, when something in human beings
has pained or chilled us,) she heard
behind the musical voice of Harley.
Hastily she dried or repressed her
tears, as her guardian came up, and
drew her arm within his own.
"I had so little of your conversa-
tion last evening, my dear ward, that
I may well monopolise you now, even
to the privation of Nero. And so
you are once more in your native
land?"
Helen sighed softly.
" May I not hope that you return
under fairer auspices than those which
jour childhood knew ? "
Helen turned her eyes with ingenu-
[Jan.
ous thankfulness to her guardian, and
the memory of all she owed to him
rushed upon her heart.
Harley renewed, and with ear-
nest, though melancholy sweetness
" Helen, your eyes thank me; but hear
me before your words do. I deserve no
thanks. I am about to make to you
a strange confession of egotism and
selfishness."
"You! oh, impossible!"
"Judge yourself, and then decide
which of us shall have cause to be
grateful. Helen, when I was scarcely
your age a boy in years, but more,
methinks, a man at heart, w r ith man's
strong energies and sublime aspirings,
than I have ever since been I loved,
and deeply "
He paused a moment, in evident
struggle. Helen listened in mute
surprise, but his emotion awakened
her own ; her tender woman's heart
yearned to console. Unconsciously
her arm rested on his less lightly.
" Deeply, and for sorrow. It is a
long tale, that may be told hereafter.
The worldly would call my love a
madness. I did not reason on it then
I cannot reason on it now. Enough ;
death smote suddenly, terribly, and
to me mysteriously, her whom I
loved. The love lived on. Fortu-
nately, perhaps, for me, I had quick
distraction, not to grief, but to its
inert indulgence. I was a soldier ; I
joined our armies. Men called me
brave. Flattery ! I was a coward
before the thought of life. I sought
death : like sleep, it does not come
at our call. Peace ensued. As
when the winds fall the sails droop
so when excitement ceased, all
seemed to me flat and objectless.
Heavy, heavy was my heart. Perhaps
grief had been less obstinate, but that
I feared I had cause for self-reproach.
Since then I have been a wanderer
a self-made exile. My boyhood had
been ambitious all ambition ceased.
Flames, when they reach the core of
the heart, spread, and leave all in
ashes. Let me be brief: I did not
mean thus weakly to complain I to
whom heaven has given so many
blessings ! I felt, as it were, separated
from the common objects and joys of
men. I grew startled to see how,
year by year, wayward humours pos-
sessed me. I resolved again to attach
1852.] My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. Part XVII.
myself to some living heart it was
my sole chance to rekindle my own.
But the one I had loved remained as
my type of woman, and she was dif-
ferent from all I saw. Therefore I
said to myself, ' I will rear from child-
hood some young fresh life, to grow
up into my ideal.' As this thought
began to haunt me, I chanced to dis-
cover you. Struck with the romance
of your early life, touched by your
courage, charmed by your affectionate
nature, I said to myself, ' Here is
what I seek.' Helen, in assuming
the guardianship of your life, in all
the culture which I have sought to
bestow on your docile childhood, I
repeat, that I have been but the egotist.
And now, when you have reached
that age, when it becomes me to
speak, and you to listen now, when
you are under the sacred roof of my
own mother now I ask you, can you
accept this heart, such as wasted years,
and griefs too fondly nursed, have left
it? Can you be, at least, my comfort-
er? Can you aid me to regard life as
a duty, and recover those aspirations
which once soared from the paltry
and miserable confines of our frivolous
daily being? Helen, here I ask you,
can you be all this, and under the
name of Wife?"
It would be in vain to describe the
rapid, varying, indefinable emotions
that passed through the inexperienced
heart of the youthful listener as Har-
ley thus spoke. He so moved all the
springs of amaze, compassion, tender
respect, sympathy, childlike gratitude,
that when he paused and gently took
her hand, she remained bewildered,
speechless, overpowered. Harley
smiled as he gazed upon her blushing,
downcast, expressive face. He con-
jectured at once that the idea of such
proposals had never crossed her
mind ; that she had never contem-
plated him in the character of wooer ;
105
never even sounded her heart as to
the nature of such feelings as his
image had aroused.
"My Helen," he resumed, with a
calm pathos of voice, " there is some
disparity of years between us, and
perhaps I may not hope henceforth
for that love which youth gives to the
young. Permit me simply to ask,
what you will frankly answer " Can
you have seen in our quiet life abroad,
or under the roof of your Italian
friends, any one you prefer to me? "
" No, indeed, no ! " murmured
Helen. " How could I ? who is like
you? " Then, with a sudden effort
for her innate truthfulness took alarm,
and her very affection for Harley,
childlike and reverent, made her
tremble lest .she should deceive him
she drew a little aside, and spoke
thus :
" Oh, my dear guardian, noblest of
all human beings, at least in my eyes,
forgive, forgive me if I seem ungrate-
ful, hesitating ; but I cannot, cannot
think of myself as worthy of you. I
never so lifted my eyes. Your rank,
your position "
" Why should they be eternally
my curse ? Forget them, and go
on."
" It is not only they," said Helen,
almost sobbing, " though they are
much ; but I your t} 7 pe, your ideal!
I ! impossible ! Oh, how can I ever
be anything even of use, of aid, of
comfort to one like you ! "
" You can, Helen you can," cried
Harley, charmed by such ingenuous
modesty. "May I not keep this
hand ? "
And Helen left her hand in Harley 's,
and turned away her face, fairly
weeping. A stately step passed under
the wintry trees.
"My mother," said Harley L'Es-
trange, looking up, " I present to you
iny future wife."
106
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
[Jan.
STRUGGLES FOR FAME AND FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I.
" TO-MORROW is the day of exami-
nation," said my mother to me, " and
I hope you will distinguish yourself
as much as you expect."
" I don't see what's to hinder me,"
I replied, with the assurance and self-
reliance of youthful genius. " I am
head of the school. There isn't a fel-
low that can touch me at longs and
shorts ; and I only wish the examiners
were better able to judge of scholar-
ship. But what can a set of pin-
makers know of Latin and Greek?"
" The pin-makers, my dear, are
the founders of the school, and ad-
vance a great deal of money to sup-
port it; but the examiners are re-
markably clever men from Oxford,
who will try to puzzle you with all
their mights."
" I defy them," I said ; " and no-
thing shall keep me from joining the
exhibition to St John's. So you had
better prepare my things, mother, for
I shall go up to reside next term."
" And who is to keep you there ?
for the exhibition is only eighty
pounds a-year, and I hear nobody
can live at the university under a
hundred and fifty."
" We must make another attempt
on my uncle the colonel. He would
never miss a couple of hundreds
a-year out of his millions of rupees."
" You may write to him yourself,
Charles. I can't address him again
on the subject of money. He seems
to take delight in recalling to my re-
membrance that your father was poor,
and that you're likely to be a beggar."
" Does he ?" I said. " I'll teach
the old hunks to be more civil in his
language ; and immediately after the
examination, hang me if I don't sati-
rise him in the fiercest hexameters.
He shall be the laughing-stock of
India the mean, contemptible, un-
gentlemanly curmudgeon."
This conversation took place be-
tween me and my mother about seven
years ago, and ended, as usual, in one
of the interlocutors getting into a pas-
sion, and the other falling into tears.
And no wonder it had that effect on
both of us. My uncle had gone to
India as a cadet ; had risen through
all the intervening ranks, till now he
was colonel in command ; had pay
and allowances without end ; had laid
out his savings and prize-money to
great advantage ; and, in short, was
rolling in wealth and honours. He
must have been a clever man in his
way, for there were few operations
either in peace or war that were car-
ried on without his participation. His
signature flourished in the newspapers
to every variety of report. Some-
times there was a survey of a hitherto
unexplored district the country ex-
cellently described the population
classified the revenue calculated
the capabilities explained and then
there was the unfailing name " Hil-
debrand Bawls, C.B."
In the next newspaper there would
be an account of a meeting of bank
proprietors a flourishing description
of the pecuniary affairs of the com-
pany ; fortunate speculations entered
into balance in hand six million
rupees dividend 10 percent. " Hil-
debraud Bawls, C.B., chairman."
The same name presented itself at
the end of a plan for the introduction
of railways for the improvement of
steam- navigation for a speedier
means of raising the revenue due by
the native princes. In short, we were
quite tired though sometimes we
were a little proud of seeing the per-
petual recurrence of the well-known
signature, and were lost in vain calcu-
lations of the amount of money that
must have been accumulated by so
much energy in so many years. In
the mean time it was much easier,
though not so satisfactory, to calculate
our own resources. They were very
small ; but my mother was a wonder-
ful manager, and I cannot yet under-
stand how we contrived to live so
comfortably, to dress so well, and
make altogether so respectable an
appearance, even in the cheap and
modest country town to which she
had retired for the benefit of my edu-
cation. What an amazing thing that
1852.]
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
107
management is ! and what a charming
addition to a small fortune is a little
taste ! Why, whatever my mother
touched, grew beautiful at once. Our
cottage on the London road looked
like a perfect villa in miniature ; the
walk was so trimly kept, the flower-
beds so prettily laid out ; and if you
did not see that the little grass plot
was intended for a lawn and shrub-
bery, you had very little imagination,
and would have wished the Koh-i-noor
to be as big as Benlomond. Then,
inside, the same transfigurations went
on ; the papers agreed so well with
the carpets, the cottage chairs seemed
in such exact harmony with the tables
and chiffoniers, that you never ob-
served they were all of the cheapest
materials and commonest kinds of
wood. What taste is to furniture,
manners are to people ; and nobody,
to see my mother walk down the
street, or enter a shop, or receive a
few visitors to tea, could have sup-
posed for a moment that she was a
poor curate's widow, with an income
on which the bishop's butler would
look down with a sneer. Rather, she
seemed a duchess of Devonshire in
disguise, and you expected every mo-
ment to hear her say, " Order the
carriage and four posters, for they
must be wondering what has become
of me at Chatsworth." I often won-
dered if her bilious old brother knew
what a gentle, ladylike creature she
was. If he did, what a double-
distilled, hard-hearted wretch he
must be ! Why didn't he send for us
to Madras to take care of his house,
to preside at his dinners, to ride his
horses, to be his aide-de-camp and
acknowledged heir? If he did not
know the treasure he possessed in
such a sister not to mention her son
what an uninquiring ass ! what a
dull, pudding-headed impostor ! He
to lay out roads in the Ham Jam
hills ! He to prepare a code of
laws for a newly- ceded territory as
large as France and Spain ! He to
regulate the revenue of great nations,
and send steam-fleets puffing and
panting among the spicy islands of
the South, or up the mysterious rivers
of the Flowery land ! He to do all
this, and yet not to know me or my
mother! the thing was impossible;
and I wrote him down in my secret
soul as an immeasurable humbug.
And perhaps I despised him too on
another ground his name was un-
known in the peerage, whereas my
blood was as blue as Eglinton's or
Medina Celi's.
My father's family came in with
the Conquest, and I suspect must
have gone out very shortly after-
wards gone out, I mean, as a lamp
might do, for want of oil ; for the
lands had rapidly been dispersed. In
reading the history of England I
almost became a republican, and bore
a personal enmity to kings. When
Henry the First was in want of
money, he got up a quarrel with my
ancestor, Reginald de Bohun, and
fined him twenty manors in York-
shire and six in Berks. The Empress
Maud was still worse, for she burnt
down our family house in Hampshire,
and laid waste the estate with fire
and sword. Godfrey de Bohun sided
with that intolerable blockhead Henry
the Third, and had fourteen manors
forfeited by Simon de Montfort
which manors that pusillanimous
king, instead of restoring to the
rightful owner after the battle of
Evesham, retained to his own use
giving my denuded progenitor a right
to indemnify himself on the bodies
and estates of ten of the Jews in
Nottingham. The Jews had pro-
bably lost all their teeth, or been
tortured out of all their money before,
for there seems to have been no great
revival of the wealth of the De Bohuns
after that date. In the subsequent
reigns they were generally put to
death, which is a sign of a family
being impoverished. Henry the
Seventh got possession of the last
remaining estate in Yorkshire ; and
the sole property now left to support
the dignity of the name was the origi-
nal seat of the companion of the
Conqueror, which the Empress Maud
had burned, but which was still a
stately mansion surrounded by broad
fields and sheltered by extensive
woods. My ancestor rode away from
the ancient hall to join King Charles
at Oxford, and a gallant Independent
was presented to it by Oliver Crom-
well, the grant being ratified by
Charles II., who, however, shook
hands with the old Cavalier whenever
he went to court, and invited him
108
once to play a game at skittles, not
remembering that he had lost his
right arm on the field of Worcester.
After that the De Bohuns retired from
the public stage of history into the
modest obscurity of middle life, but
trailing clouds of glory from that
previous brilliant existence that never
ceased to shed their light upon them
wherever they moved. My grand-
father was a captain in the marines,
and was wounded by a splinter at
Trafalgar ; but, in the midst of his
exertions on that glorious day, he
felt sure there was a whole bevy of
the De Bohuns of old seated on the
cross-trees, spectators of their de-
scendant's prowess ; and when my
father was appointed to his curacy in
a rather marshy part of Essex, he
comforted himself with the reflection
that many of his name had pined for
years in the dungeons of the Saracens,
and that one was reported to have
been precipitated down an Austrian
oubliette. But the strange thing all
this while was, that antiquaries and
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
[Jan.
genealogists were busy from morn to
night in endeavouring to prove that
new-made peers and fresh batches of
baronets were descended from the
De Bohuns. "When Samuel Smith
was made a knight of the Hanoverian
order, an ingenious herald discovered
that Godfrey de Bohun had a sister,
Sibille, who married, in the time of
Stephen's usurpation, a German baron,
ambassador from the Emperor, whose
name was possibly Schmidt, and from
this marriage Sir Samuel was un-
doubtedly derived. Others of higher
pretensions affiliated themselves in
the same manner, hanging on by the
far-off branches, jumping up to clutch
them though far out of their reach,
and climbing up towards them with
all manner of ludicrous contortion
and all the time they left the veritable
tree, with straight stem and healthy
budding branches, to stand as well
as it could the cold winds of a swamp
in Essex. And do I forget you for
these things, ye snobs of false aristo-
crats ? No.
CHAPTER II.
So the next day we were all in our
places at the appointed hour. I sat,
as usual, at the head of the school,
and with ill-disguised contempt
looked down the line of terrified vis-
ages that were turned with such awe
and veneration towards the door.
My mother and many other ladies had
taken possession of seats in the upper
part of the hall. Crowds of the re-
lations of the pupils were standing in
front of our benches ; and an easy
triumph, I felt, was in store for me ;
for I had studied very hard, and had
long been recognised as the wonder
of the school. The door opened which
communicated with the master's
house, and for a moment the per-
turbed countenance of the pedagogue
was seen taking a hurried glance at
the assemblage. He nodded to me,
as if to give me notice that the exa-
miners were about to appear. And,
amidst a universal clapping of hands
and stamping of feet, the distinguished
visitors made their appearance. It
was not the magnates from Oxford
who presented themselves at first.
A stout fat man, who nearly tumbled
-over the skirts of the long gown in
which he had enveloped his person,
broke upon our enraptured sight in
all the glory of gold chain and flow-
ing garments ; for he was Sheriff, or
some other high dignitary, of the city of
London. He was the senior pin-
maker, and represented the august
founders and supporters of the school.
The other was a tall man, of rather
stately demeanour, with no peculiar
decoration or badge of office. A ruddy
hue but whether of health or port
wine I did not know gave a glow to
his very handsome features and good-
humoured expression, which height-
ened the favourable effect of his ap-
pearance ; and, clinging close to his
side, and holding him by the hand,
was a tall graceful girl of twelve or
thirteen, with features so much re-
sembling those of her conductor,
though softened and purified by her age
and sex, that there was no mistaking
the relationship that existed be-
tween them. There was not a boy
in the school that did not fall in love
with that girl to the full extent that
his agitation and fear of the approach-
ing examination allowed him. We
even liked the pompous-looking father
1852.]
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
for her sake ; and I determined to
put forth all my powers to distinguish
myself in the presence of such a
beauty. That two people should have
grown so rich and influential by being
pinmakers struck us all as very
strange. Did they make all the pins
that were sold in all England ? Did
they make shirt-pins and breast-pins
as well as the common round-headed
brass ones ? If so, why not nine-
pins, thole-pins, lynch-pins, and all
other sorts of pins in iron and wood ?
That might account for their wealth,
and enable them to found a school
and endow fellowships at Oxford.
But these lucubrations were inter-
rupted by the entrance of the exami-
ners. They wore their college gowns
and caps. One was a little man of
preternatural ugliness, with the most
hideous expression I ever saw. A
mouth of enormous size was the vast
arena on which all the contemptible
passions displayed themselves by
turns. A simper of sycophantic adu-
lation filled its whole expanse when
he looked on the pinmakers; a
curl of superiority made it almost
as disgusting when he turned his face
to the boys ; and when a smile of
admiration rested on it when he saw
the little girl whom the junior patron
led by the hand, I hated the fellow
as if he had done me some personal
injury. I perceived, however, a shud-
der of disgust pass through the girl
as he shook her by the hand ; and
there was a community of feeling es-
tablished between us at once. I only
longed to tell her what a brute I
thought the reverend Philip Scowl.
The other was a pale sallow-faced
young man, who seemed to look
up to his coadjutor with the greatest
respect. They both wore straight
cut coats, low waistcoats, and enor-
mous white neckcloths. If they had
been a trifle dirtier, they might have
passed very well as Popish priests.
After the buzz of their entrance had
'subsided, the business of the day
began. I read the prize essay of the
year ; I repeated the prize speech ; I
recited the prize poem. The applause
was terrific. I saw my mother in
tears. The little girl kept her eyes
fixed on me the whole time, and in-
voluntarily nodded her head in time
with the cadence of the verses. The
109
pinmakers sat on lofty chairs, and the
junior at intervals smiled to the little
girl at his side with the strongest
symptoms of approval. The constru-
ing began ; it was the Andria of
Terence. Didn't I throw tire into
the description of the beautiful Gly-
cerium, and make the rooms echo
with laughter at the humours of Simo
and Davus? The master presented
me with a prize a beautifully-bound
Virgil and began a speech wishing
me as triumphant a career in Oxford
as I had run in Puddlecomb-Kegis,
when a short cough from the senior
examiner interrupted him, and at his
request we withdrew into the doctor's
private study for the written exami-
nation Tom Swallow, Giles Winkup,
Harry Losel, and I. I had been in
the habit, for three years, of writing
all their versions and making all their
verses ; and all were grateful for my
assistance, except Tom Swallow. He
always denied that I gave him any
help ; so sometimes I used to thrash
him after cricket ; for he was a sulky,
dull fellow, two years older than any
other boy in the school, and as big as
any butcher in the town. The other
three sat down to their papers, for
show more than any effort they were
going to make. Mr Scowl set us all
to different tables ; and, on going
out, made Tom Swallow promise, on
his honour, that he would give no
help to me, either in translation or
history ! Tom Swallow ! to me !
We all laughed, as the hideous coun-
tenance of Mr Scowl was withdrawn.
Even Tom looked rather ashamed,
and gave the promise at once. For
an hour we wrote and wrote. Tom
looked up occasionally to the ceiling,
and asked me for a date, or the quan-
tity of a syllable, or the situation of a
town. The promise of non-assistance
had not extended to me, and I told
him. I also told him the meaning of
eleemosynary, f and how to spell it ;
and when the younger classes had all
been examined in the school, and the
little boys had finished their Ovid and
Latin grammar, we were ushered into
the august presence of the pinmakers,
amidst the profound silence of all the
room. Mr Scowl was detained in the
doctor's study looking over the
papers the junior examiner was
summoned to join him. The doctor
110
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
[Jan.
shook hands with me, and thanked
me for doing such credit to the school,
the junior pinmaker called me up
to him, and putting the little girl's
hand into mine, said, " Thank Mr
De Bohun yourself, Emily. My
daughter," he continued, " is so de-
lighted with your verses that she
insisted on my making your acquain-
tance." I gave the small hand that
lay in mine a pressure that came
from my heart and blushed and
stammered for having done so before
so many people. The examiners
came in dead silence again, and
every boy in his place. The senior
examiner, the Reverend Mr Scowl,
stumbled through two or three sen-
tences of introduction, looked towards
the fat old pinmaker, as if to
gather strength from his encouraging
looks, and concluded by stating
that his colleague and he, after
mature consideration, but with no
hesitation, had decided in favour of
Thomas Swallow. Talk of the charge
at Waterloo ! or the Black Hole of
Calcutta! or the earthquake at
Lisbon ! after that. I felt that some-
body had pushed me into the sea,
and was keeping my head under
water with all his might; the sky
grew fiery red, and the earth reeled
to and fro ; and there, amid all its
undulations, and amid all that lurid
and gloomy light, I saw my mother's
face as pale as ashes, and a grin of
malignant satisfaction on the features
of Mr Scowl. Here were all our
hopes and plannings at once over-
thrown ! five years of pinching and
saving altogether thrown away ! and
the triumphant and biting letter
I intended for my uncle in India,
scattered for ever to the winds!
There was an interval during which
I sat, I was told, quite calm and
unconcerned-looking ; then the room
began to clear then my mother
came up to me then the junior
pinmaker, in passing, shook my
hand, and the little girl again looked
in my face with a sweeter expression
than ever, but said nothing; and
after a while I found myself in the
little low parlour, with nobody but
my mother, and neither of us able
to speak.
CHAPTER III.
At last a knock came to the door.
It startled us as if it had been a
peal of thunder ; and before we had
time to prepare ourselves for the
interview, the junior pinmaker and
his young companion were ushered
into the parlour.
" Madam," he said, " I come to
tell you that you are not more dis-
appointed in the result of to-day's
examination than I am ; but with
the decision, I beg to tell you, I
had nothing to do."
" Sir," replied my mother, who
liked the stately manner and formal
language of her visitor, " your kind-
ness is very great, and I hope this
will be a lesson both to Charles and
me not to have exaggerated notions
of our own superiority. I did not
give young Swallow credit for the
talents he possesses."
" Madam, his principal talent, in
this instance, consists in a vacancy
which at present exists in the rectory
of Snivelton, in Bucks, to which my
colleague, Mr Potts, as senior pin-
maker, has the right of presentation."
" I do not see the connection," said
my mother.
" Madam, I do," replied the gen-
tleman. " Tom Swallow is nephew
of Mrs Potts, and the Reverend Mr
Scowl is aware of the relationship."
" I told you he was a horrid
man," said the little girl to me,
whose conversation, in fact, almost
entirely consisted of a succession of
bitter railings against the pinmaker
and the examiner.
" Therefore, madam," continued
the visitor, " I beg you not to give
way to despair; your son so evidently
deserved the prize, that I feel it a
point of conscience to prevent him
from being a loser; and with your
permission, madam, I desire to be
always considered his friend; and
that you will allow me to bear all
the expenses of his college education.
My name is Matthew Pybus, a
merchant in the city, residing at
Muswell Hill."
My mother was silent for a good
while, during which the little girl
took my hand and said, " Isn't that
1852.]
so delightful ? I knew papa was going
to do something kind."
"Is he your papa?" I said in a
whisper.
" Yes my name is Emily I am
his only child. They say he is sure to
spoil me ; but I don't think he will."
" What do you say to this propo-
sition, Charles ? " said my mother.
" I say decidedly no," I replied.
" It is most kindly made, and I am
very grateful ; but it is charity, and
I can't forget that my name is De
Bohun."
" Does that hinder you from going
to college?" said Emily. "Why
don't you change it ? "
I let go the hand, which she had
not withdrawn from mine. " I will
rather enlist," I said, " and go out as
a common soldier to India in the
regiment of my uncle or break stones
on the road or go on the stage or
write a book or, in fact, do anything
unfit for a gentleman, rather than
accept a stranger's assistance." I spoke
passionately : it looked like anger.
"In the first place," replied Mr
Pybus, " I commenced by begging to
be considered a friend, and not a
stranger; secondly, if you stand so
much on your independence, I have a
scheme by which you can repay me
for the expense which I propose to
incur; and thirdly, with the excep-
tion of your proposal to break stones,
I don't see how you will be able to
support yourself in any of the ways
you mention. Books, I believe, do
not pay ; and the stage, I am told, is
exploded"
" And the scheme of repayment? "
I inquired, gulping down the attack,
as I considered it, on my literary and
dramatic abilities.
" Simply that in the vacations you
reside with us at Muswell Hill, and
act as tutor to my daughter in mathe-
matics and Latin."
" O, delightful ! " cried Emily ;
" but you mustn't be very severe
will you?"
"No, Miss Pybus, I will not be
severe, for I have no intention of
accepting your father's offer. I re-
gret, sir, extremely, that it is impos-
sible to avail myself of your kindness.
I must retain my independence, at
any sacrifice."
" And do you approve of this
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
Ill
answer, madam ? " said Mr Pybus to
my mother.
" I admire the feeling that prompts
it," she replied, " though I wish very
much he had taken another view of
your offer."
"Well," said Mr Pybus, rising,
" I can't say that I don't approve of
the feeling myself ; but it is a disap-
pointment to me, I confess ; and I only
beg you to consider that the offer is
always open, and I shall be delighted
if you bring yourselves to accept of it
at any time."
"Farewell," said Emily, as they
went away ; "I wish you would
learn to forget that your name is De
Bohun, for most likely my tutor will
be an ugly horrid old man like Mr
Scowl. I wish your name had been
Smith."
She looked rather angry as she
spoke, and there was a sneering tone
in her voice which I did not like.
But she was so pretty, and had such
beautiful eyes, and was so graceful in
all her motions, and the father had so
benevolent an expression, and was so
solemn and dignified in his manners,
that I felt angry with myself for hav-
ing been so ungracious. However, I
felt I was right ; and next day, when
my mother sat down to write a long
letter to her brother, with the con-
tents of which she did not intrust me,
I took a long walk among the chalk
downs near the town, with a copy of
Hamlet in my hand, and got all the
speeches in the first act by heart. I
also began a drama on the subject of
Hengist and Horsa. I was seventeen
years of age, according to the bap-
tismal register ; full grown, according
to all appearance; and eminently
handsome, according to my mother.
I gave implicit faith to all these
authorities, and was perfectly satis-
fied as to age, and height, and looks.
There was no farther occasion for our
residence at Puddlecomb-Regis ; so
we gave up the cottage in the London
road, sold off the little furniture we
possessed, and had the world before
us where to choose. In my opinion
the choice is very limited. There is
but one spot on the surface of English
earth which can satisfy the longings
of an intelligent being, and that spot
must be decidedly within hearing of
the great bell of St Paul's. To be a
112
single unit in the immense sum total
which is formed by that most stupen-
dous population, is itself a gratifica-
tion to the ambition, which dies away,
or eats bitterly into its own heart, in
solitude. Never mind of what snobs,
and fools, and rascals, and dupes, the
great aggregate is composed. A
thousand silly fellows taken in their
separate capacities shall make you
a most acute and judicious critic, if
crammed into the pit of a theatre ; and
five or six hundred country gentle-
men, whose talk is of bullocks, and
their vision contracted to the limits of
their park palings, interspersed with
a few dozen middling lawyers, and
a score or two of presumptuous
cheesemongers and bagmen, make the
most fastidious and tasteful audi-
ence in the world. So the innumer-
able congregation of cockneys, and
schemers, and railway directors, and
stock-brokers, and thimble-riggers, of
all orders and degrees, make out,
among them, a power whose lightest
pulse is felt at the extremity of the
globe. And to London I was deter-
mined to go. From the seethings of
that cauldron rose prophetic heads
more intelligible to me than the arm-
ed phantoms that gave confidence to
Macbeth. " Be steady, bold, and re-
solute," they said to me. " Bestir
yourself as fits a man, and life throws
open all her paths before you. Finish
your tragedy," they added in a more
confidential voice, " and get up the
other four acts of Hamlet, and take
your choice whether you will be Gar-
rick or Shakspeare." So we took a
suite of three rooms in a nice quiet
street in the outskirts of the town,
which the tide of new building had
fortunately passed by unsubmerged,
and I now felt that the serious busi-
ness of my existence was begun.
Didn't I work at the immortal
Dane? The little maid whom we
had brought with us from Puddle-
comb-Regis must have thought I had
gone mad, or that the house was
haunted, for she very often came in
on me, with my eyes fixed on vacancy,
and holding mysterious conversations
with a ghost. The attitudes I found
it very difficult to stud}'. There was
no mirror in our lodging larger than
a foot square. However, by placing
my looking-glass on the ground, and
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
[Jan,
my mother's on the lowest step of
the stair, I could gesticulate in the
passage with a full view of my lower
extremities ; and so by elevating the
glasses on a chair and the window
sill, I could command the upper por-
tion, with the exception of the head ;
but that I could study whenever I
chose, and even save time by doing
two things at once ; for by putting the
glass on my writing table, I could
assume the startled and puzzled looks
of Hamlet while I was composing
my tragedy of Hengist and Horsa.
For some months I couldn't get be-
yond the first scene. There was a
venerable priest of the Saxons who
began the play, by informing his sub-
ordinate what were the motives of
the aggression on the ancient Britons.
It was not very easy to find out any
good reason for the descent, but the
aged divine managed to let it be under-
stood, at all events, by the gentleman
to whom he conveyed the informa-
tion, that Hengist and Horsa, un-
known to each other, were both in
love with a mysterious young lady
whom they had seen in one of their
friendly visits to the tribes on the
shores of Kent. But farther than
this I found it impossible to go. The
man would talk on for ever, in spite
of all I could do to stop him ; but not
a step would he move. I could de-
vise no means of getting him off the
scene, or even of interrupting him ;
and the attendant Druid could give
me no help ; so there these two in-
tolerable twaddlers stood on my paper
for three whole months, neither able
to make an exit themselves, nor to
admit the remainder of the dramatis
persona. I suspect this is the great
difficulty of dramatic composition
to make your chattering people leave
off chattering, and teach them to
push along and keep moving. And
yet the poetry was so fine, the similes
so simple, and the dialogue altogether
so natural and well sustained, that I
couldn't miss out a line of it. At
last, in the very middle of a descrip-
tion of moonlight upon a lake, I made
the attendant cry, " Hark ! .did'st
thou not on the tympanum of thine
ear feel a great stroke of sound ? "
Druid." I did ; as if
Our mighty Thor with his clenched fist had
done it."
1852.] Struggles for Fame and Fortune. 113
On \vbich, after waiting in inute ex- and my mother was satisfied. It said
pectation for some time, they rush nothing about my disappointment at the
out into the woods to discover the
cause of the commotion. Need I
mention it is the arrival of Hengist
and Horsa ? Things now got on in
a surprising manner. The brothers
quarrelled and made it up ; the lady
smiled sometimes on one, sometimes
on the other, being all the while so
devoted to the cause of her country
that she intended to be the murderer
of both ; but in the course of her efforts
to charm the young and gallant Hen-
gist, she herself fell a victim to the
tender passion ; and in the middle of
the fifth act it was quite doubtful
whether the play was to be tragedy
or comedy. It soon, however, ^disco-
vered itself ; for, at the very time of
the mutual confession, and protesta-
tions of unending devotion, word was
brought of the success of Editha's pre-
vious plots against the Saxons, and
the death of Horsa by the dagger of
her brother. Whereupon Hengist took
vengeance on her perfidy by stabbing
her, after a lecture of thirty lines ; and
had only strength left to immolate
himself, when the old original Druid
of the first act rushed in to say it was
a false report, and that Horsa was
alive and well, the passionate Cad-
waller having slain his tyrannical
uncle in mistake for the Saxon leader.
The nights I spent meditating the ca-
tastrophe ! the days I laboured at
heightening and strengthening the
language ! The Roman virtue I
showed in resisting all my mother's
entreaties to give the play a happy
ending! I verily believe she began
to have a bad opinion of my disposi-
tion when I persisted in putting so
many people to death. However, we
went over the tragedy nearly every
day, and always began to have watery
eyes at the same scene. It was a very
happy year this year of composition
and hope ; and few people have worked
harder to establish a reputation/ Even
my flute, on which at one time I con-
sidered myself a first-rate performer,
was neglected or taken up at remote
intervals. A letter had arrived from
India in answer to our announcement
of our removal from Puddlecombe.
It was very short, as all Colonel
Bawls' epistles were; but it contain-
ed a cheque for a small sum of money,
VOL. LXXI. NO. CCCCXXXV.
school, nor of my not going to college,
nor, in fact, alluded to me at all, ex-
cept by expressing a hope that I
wasn't such a fool from family pride
as my father had been ; and that I
would set to and support myself by
some honest occupation. Honest oc-
cupation ! I determined to return the
miserable blockhead all the money he
had advanced, and to cut his acquaint-
ance the moment my play was acted.
I resolved to send him a copy when it
was printed, with the numbers of the
Edinburgh and Blackwood and Quar-
terly in which the reviews appeared.
If the Queen asked me to Court, I
would send him the Times in which
the interview was announced; but
not a word would I write to him, or
acknowledge our relationship. And
how to get it on the stage was now
the only difficulty. The high drama,
I was told, had gone out of fashion.
Macready had gone to America ; and
there was horsemanship at Drury
Lane. Be it mine, I exclaimed, to
consecrate a new tern pie, since the old
ones have been secularised and defiled!
I will offer it to the manager of some
theatre unknown to fame, and on the
success of " Hengist and Horsa," that
discerning and tasteful manager
whoever he is shall rise to the wealth
and reputation which England is al-
ways ready to bestow on its benefac-
tors ! I therefore looked into a Sun-
day newspaper for a list of places of
entertainment, and fixed on the Step-
ney Star. To this I was partly guided
by the aristocratic patronymics of the
performers. The manager was " Mar-
maduke Montalban, Esquire ;" and
the chief tragedian " the celebrated
Walter Fitz-Edward." What a sweet
creature the principal lady must be,
" the popular and astonishing Emily
de la Rose !" I had never heard of
the celebrated Fitz-Edward, nor. of the
astonishing De la Rose; but I nothing
doubted that their talents were worthy
of their names. And I wrote to Mr
Montalban, requesting an interview
for the purpose of showing him a tra-
gedy, and making other propositions
which might be useful to the theatre.
To which he replied, that he would be
happy to see me in his business-room at
the establishment on the following day.
1H
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
[Jan.
CHAPTER IV.
Through a very dark passage I
groped my way up a very narrow
stair, and emerged at last into a small
chamber, in which a man about fifty
years of age was smoking a penny
cigar. He was very tall and thin, with
a small winking eye placed on each
side of a preposterously long nose ;
his chin was also very long and pro-
minent, and projected considerably
beyond the yellow silk handkerchief
which formed the ornament of his
neck. He wore a dark green coat
and buff waistcoat, and kept his feet
on a chair, and eyed them from time
to time, as if he were very proud of his
boots.
" Servint, sir," he said, but not
taking the cigar from his mouth.
" Mister De Bowing, I presume ?"
I bowed to this polite address, and
he renewed the conversation by say-
ing, " What do you want ?"
44 1 want you, sir, to hear me read
a tragedy on which I have bestowed
many months' labour ; and perhaps
you will find it adapted to the powers
of your very talented company."
44 There ain't such a company for
talent in all London," he replied. 4 ' I
ain't one of they asses as cares for Mr
Macready and Mr Phelps, and them.
I have a man in this company as can
roar three times louder than either of
them. I found him in a sand-cart, in
Derby, and pay him sixteen bob a-
week."
44 1 doubt, sir," I said with a smile,
44 whether roaring is the best qualifi-
cation of a tragedian."
44 Do you ?" he said ; " that shows
all you knows about it. When does
the pit applaud most ? Why, when
the actor roars, to be sure ! When
did you ever hear a single hand fol-
low a quiet speech like this here that
you and I are now making to each
other? I tell you, there's nothing
can be done without good lungs, and
Mr Martingdale always holloas as if
he had a speaking-trumpet in his
throat. But let's hear some of your
play ; I'll tell you in five minutes
whether it will do." As I unrolled
the manuscript he lighted a fresh ci-
gar, settled himself more comfortably
in his chair, and, reclining his head
on the back, gave to a casual observer
the appearance of being asleep.
44 Them's two of the cussedest
fools I ever heard in my life," he said,
when the Druid and his attendant
had opened the first scene of the play.
44 All that about stars and roses must
be cut out, for you may take for
granted that no man at ten shillings
a-week can do justice to a simile."
I submitted in silence to his criti-
cisms, and went on.
44 Fitz-Edward will never stand
this," he said, when I had finished the
first burst of passion between the ri-
val brothers. 4< Why, you have given
as much of the fat to Martingdale
as to the first performer. You will
have to make Mister Horsa sing much
smaller than that."
44 1 thought you said Mr Marting-
dale gained great applause by his
powers of voice."
44 Ay, but he never roars in pre-
sence of Fitz-Edward. When Fitz-
Edward is off the stage,then Marting-
dale can do as he likes, and generally
cracks a lamp or two at the foot-
lights ; but when the leading trage-
dian is on the boards, he never rises
above an ordinary talk. Therefore,
out with all that 'ere about telling the
north wind that it may sink navies,,
but never shall subdue the courage of
a victorious sea-king. You must let
Hengist take that 'ere lion by the
beard, and teach it the might that
dwells in a warrior's arm. Second-
rate actors never take lions by the
beard mind that ; as why should
they ?"
I had no reason at hand for any
such hostile proceedings towards a
lion, or any other animal, on the part
of Mr Martingdale ; and said I thought
it possible to transfer the speech to
the superior actor ; and with a nod,
and a fresh puff of smoke, the mana-
ger signalled me to proceed.
Without any farther interruption I
finished the second act. I went on
with the third, and took the long-con-
tinued silence for approval. I gave
all the effect I could to the speeches.
I was soft and pathetic when I read
the speeches of Edith, and fancy I
might have stood a competition even
1852.]
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
115
with the stentorian Martingdale in
the part of the boisterous Horsa ; but
my auditor was imperturbable in his
chair. He never moved till sud-
denly, when I closed the roll of paper,
he sat upright, and taking the cigar
from his lips, asked me if I had done.
" Certainly, 1 ' I said, a little nettled;
" most of the people are killed, and
all the rest miserable I don't see
what more could be added."
"Well, I never trouble myself
about these things," he said, " for I
leave judgments of plays, and all that
sort of thing, to Ginger the stage-
manager. If you like to leave your
play, he shall read it in a short time,
and let you know whether he can
cobble it into shape. But here comes
Ginger himself : he can judge of a
play by half a page." Mr Ginger
now made his appearance a red-
faced, dissipated-looking man, very
shabbily dressed, and remarkably
dirty.
"I'm glad you're come, Ginger,"
began the manager. " Here's a young
gent has been reading a play to me
for the last two hours, but it might as
well have been an act of parliament,
for bless the syllable of it could I
understand ; but it seems full of grand-
sounding words and plenty of work.
Something could be made of it, per-
haps, if we cut it down into two acts,
or put in some songs and dances, and
made a 'melo' of it."
" Will the gentleman stand any-
thing? 1 ' inquired Mr Ginger, snuffling
through his nose, and looking in-
quiringly at me.
" I have stood a good deal already,"
I said ; " and you may guess from
that whether I shall flinch from stand-
ing more. Pray look at the play, and
give me your opinion."
" O ! that makes a great differ-
ence," said Ginger, looking at me
with more respect than he had shown
on his first entrance. He turned
over a few pages, mumbled a speech
or two, nodded his head in approval,
and in a very few minutes handed
the manuscript to the manager, and
said, " I would undertake to run it
for a fortnight certain, and guarantee
it for fifty pound."
" Would that please you, Mr De
Bowing? " inquired the manager.
" The offer," I said, " I understand
to be this, that you will produce the
play, and pay me fifty pounds for
every fortnight of its run. I expect-
ed, certainly, a different arrangement,
as I had made up my mind to a pay-
ment down but "
Here the two gentlemen, who had
exchanged looks of surprise with each
other for some time, burst into a
laugh.
" Ho ! ho ! you expected to be
paid, did you? I should like to know
what for? I should like to know
what right you would have to take
my money for doing you the favour
to make your name as famous as
Shakspeare's. Don't I take all the
trouble, and pay for " scenery, and
acting, and dresses and every-
thing? And yet you want me,
besides all this, to give you a lumping
sum of money. I never hear tell of
such a thing ; did you, Ginger ? "
It was quite evident, from Mr Gin-
ger's expression, that such a thing
had never suggested itself to his ima-
gination. He stared, ~as if trying to
command a view of the astonishing
proposition, but evidently in vain ;
for after an effort to understand my
words, by repeating them to himself,
he turned in a hopeless manner to the
manager and asked, " Does the young
gentleman really expect to get money
for his play ? "
" Shakspeare wouldn't get a far-
ding," resumed the manager, " if he
were alive at the present moment.
As how could he, with such a vast
amount to pay for scenery and
dresses, beside thirty shilling a- week
to many of the actors ? They had
nothing but a board in those days,
I'm told, hung down from the ceiling,
with the name of the place written on
it ; all very good ; board eighteen-
pence ; name of the place a penny a
letter. But what have we ? If the
town be Athens, haven't we temples
and churches and whole sets of old
men in kilts, and woods and acade-
mies, costing no end of money ; and
processions and banquets, with no
end of supernumeraries ? So what
money can be left for the manager,
with his rent to pay, and actors to
keep, and wardrobe to furnish ?
Why, none, or very little ; and I
should think it a most impertinent
proceeding in Shakspeare, or any one
116
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
[Jan.
else, that had merely written with
perhaps a halfpenny worth of ink on
twopenny worth of paper, to claim
any of the hard-earned profit of
manager and actor."
"You will observe, sir," I said,
41 that the author"
"Has nothing to do with it no
more than the carpenter that laid
down the floor of this here theatre
has to do with the dances that take
place upon it. The author furnishes
*he deal boards; but WE, sir WE
are the people that dance upon them ;
and I suppose an audience don't come
here to look at the planks, but at the
legs of the corps de ballet eh,
Ginger?"
"I was not aware of the estimate
in which original works were held,"
I said, folding up the manuscript.
*' I thought theatres were opened for
the encouragement of the drama
and"
"So they are; but why should
the encouragement be all on one
side ? Why shouldn't the drama be
started for the encouragement of
theatres? I don't like all play and
no pay eh, Ginger?"
"Then I withdraw my tragedy,"
I said coldly, " only thanking you
for the trouble you took in hearing it
read."
" Don't mention it," replied Mont-
alban ; " I didn't attend to what was
said. I only counted the number of
scenes ; and perhaps you don't know
that you change thirty-two times,
with fifteen different flats."
" But the young gentleman will
gain experience as well as fame,"
interposed Mr Ginger, who saw me
take my hat and prepare to go ; " he
scarcely understood your proposal."
" Well, explain it to him yourself.
I think it's uncommon liberal, and
what I wouldn't offer, let me tell you,
io Bulwer or Sheridan Knowles."
" Mr Moutalban is so pleased with
your work," said Mr Ginger, thus
empowered, " that he will not object
to give you a very large sum in case
of success ; but his expenses are so
great in bringing out a new play,
that he requires some sort of guar-
antee against loss. This is fair
enough, you will grant, in the case
of an unknown author."
I bowed to this ; and in fact it
appeared very reasonable.
" Well, sir, Mr Montalban will give
you four hundred pounds for your
tragedy of Hengist and Horsa"
Here I sprang up and shook hands
in a vehement manner with tho
generous manager.
" Receiving from you fifty pounds
towards preliminary expenses, and
the said sum of four hundred pounds
to be made up by nightly payments,
beginning on and after the thirtieth
night, at the rate of five pounds for
every night on which it shall be
enacted.
"I don't know," I said hesitating-
ly, staggered by the proposed advance
of fifty pounds; "I must consult a
friend before I close with this offer.
It certainly is tempting. How many
nights should you think a good play
likely to run ?"
" O, that is a matter of chance,"
replied the manager. The Bloody
Milkmaid had a run of a hundred and
sixty nights, and I have known un-
mitigated * screamers' go on for three
hundred ; I should say, at an average,
your tragedy may run a hundred
nights."
By a rapid calculation, I made out
that there were seventy nights at
five pounds secured to me by this
calculation and once more I shook
hands with the benevolent fosterer of
dramatic genius ; and saying I would
see him again on the morrow, and
give him my final answer, I descend-
ed the dark steps, and stumbled over
some person halfway down.
CHAPTER V.
What was to be done in order to
raise the required fifty pounds, and
BO secure the benefit of a run of seventy
nights? Three hundred and fifty
pounds, besides the fame of a success-
ful dramatist, were by no means to be
thrown away ; and I laid the whole
matter before my mother. Ah ! it
was a happy consultation that we
held that night. She had the money
in her drawer, prepared for the house-
keeping and expenditure of the next
three months, so there was no diffi-
culty about giving Mr Montalban the
1852.]
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
sum he required. The month of
non-paying nights would soon pass,
and then there would be seventy
nights two months and a half of
fame and fortune ! What were we
to do with the profits at the end of
that time ? Was it too late yet to go
to Oxford at my own expense, and
support myself in good style while
there, by a tragedy every year ? Or,
should I go into the medical profes-
sion, or enter at Lincoln's Inn? Or
as my own inclinations suggested
to me should I persist in my theatric
intention, and make my appearance
in Hamlet? Building many castles
upon these various foundations a
bishopric, a baronetcy, the chancellor-
ship, a fame like Kean's, and a for-
tune^like Garrick's we at last de-
termined to secure the present open-
ing, at all events, and leave the uses
to be made of our gains to after-con-
sideration. With ten new and glossy
five-pound notes in my pocket, I pro-
ceeded next day to the Stepney Star.
There is something in a full purse
which acts magnetically upon all who
come into contact with the bearer of
it. The very door-keeper, a half-
starved-looking man, who sat on a
three-legged stool at the private en-
trance to the theatre, rose with
alacrity when I appeared, and put on
a sort of smile. The scene- shifters
touched their paper-caps as I passed
the wing where they were at work,
and " Come in, my dear sir ! " was
pronounced in a very cheerful and
friendly voice as I gave a tap at the
manager's door.
He saw from my face that I agreed
to his terms.
" It ain't the money I value," he
said, " for this here fifty pound wont
pay for the colours of the scenery ; but I
wish to have gentlemen, and none but
gentlemen, concerned with my theatre;
and a little security like this keeps
the stage select. Besides, what is it
after all but a loan ? for you see how
soon it is paid back again, with three
or four hundred pounds added to it
by way of interest."
" I consider it a very satisfactory
arrangement, and beg to place these
notes in your hand at once." So
saying, I stretched the purse towards
him; but he held up his hands, and
recoiled with a sort of horror.
117
" You don't know business so well
as I do, Mr Dipbowing, and you
don't know the delicacy I feel on all
these matters of pounds, shillings, and
pence, among gentlemen. Let me
sign the agreement to accept your
tragedy first, and then I can safely
accept your deposit."
He drew out a sheet of paper,
" Now this here," he continued, " is
the agreement drawn out by old
Ginger. I can't help thinking him
too hard at a bargain ; but what can
you expect from a fellow like he, that
has never associated with gentlemen
and ladies, as you and I have done t
Mr Dipbowing? and, therefore, I
have altered the clause which delays
your receiving your nightly payments-
till the thirtieth night. You shall
receive your five pounds, sir, every
night after the eighteenth ; and I
wish, for both our sakes, it may rtm<
from here till Christmas twelvemonth.
But don't say anything of this to-
Ginger he is always blaming me for
extravagance ; and as he is treasurer
and book-keeper, I must not quarrel
with him about his bargains."
He signed the agreement, and pub
my notes in his pocket. " You are
now entered on your dramatic career f
and as a first proof, I beg you to con-
sider yourself free of this theatre.
You'll come and see us, perhaps, to-
night."
I said I would, and asked if he had
given Hengist and Horsa another
perusal.
" No," he said, " I sent it to Fitz-
Edward, who is ten minutes behind
his time. He is always unpunctual,
is that Fitz-Edward. O, you're here,
sir," he continued, as the tragedian at
this moment glided into the room.
" The call was for twelve o'clock, and
I fine you threepence. The author
of the new play, sir. I introduce-
you, Mr Dipbowing, to Mr Fitz-
Edward."
" You shan't have a copper far-
thing Sir, my respects to you A
pretty old rascal you are to insist on
forfeits, when the notice is only stuck
up in the morning I have read your
play, sir And you are nothing but
an old-clothes Jew, to talk about
your paltry threepences in presence
of a stranger I have the greatest
pleasure in making your acquaint-
118
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
[Jan.
ance, and hope it will be mutually
advantageous."
To each of these observations he
attached the proper look and action ;
scowling, and speaking with a very
husky voice whenever he addressed
the manager, and smiling in a very
fascinating manner whenever he spoke
to me.
" Your fine is forgiven, my dear
fellow," said MrMontalban, who was
in high good-humour. " Say no more
about it, I beg, but tell us what you
think of the play."
"I think very highly of the play,
sir. " Here I felt my cheek glowing
with a thousand blushes. " The cha-
racters are for the most part well
drawn ; but it wants construction, and
without that, you know, sir, language
is of no use, and character ineffective."
" In what respect is it so deficient
in construction ? " I inquired.
" The interest is too diffused, sir.
Horsa, in my opinion, ought to be cut
out altogether, and I would certainly
shorten Edith. The Druid's speeches
are too flowery ; and in the fifth act
Hengist has undoubtedly too little
to do."
*' Why, sir," I interposed, " he does
everything that is done : he rescues
Edith from the burning temple ; he
defeats the confederated Britons ; he
reprimands Horsa ; he soliloquises on
the state of the world if the sun were
to be extinguished. I don't see what
more he could possibly do, unless he
had the whole act to himself."
"Perhaps, sir," replied Mr Fitz-
Edward with a smile, " that might
not be a bad idea ; but as you wish, of
course, to concentrate the interest in
the principal character, it is quite out
of keeping to give such a very promi-
nent scene to Edith as that where
she recovers, first from the fainting
fit into which she was thrown by
Horsa's appearance, and then from
the insanity into which she was
driven by the news she heard of me.
That is sure to bring down three
rounds ; and that is what I can't
afford. Paintings and madness are
great advantages the ladies have over
us, and are only admissible in a
regular woman's play."
I suggested Ophelia as a proof that
insanity was sometimes admitted in
a secondary personage of a tragedy.
" O, Shakspeare ah, clever man,
no doubt," said Mr Fitz-Edward ;
" but great allowances are always
made for him. A great man but still
I think he may be improved."
" Do you act Hamlet, sir ? " I in-
quired.
Fitz-Edward frowned. " I am
principal tragedian, sir," he replied,
" and have the round of all parts of
the kind. I thought I was better
known to fame ; but I believe it all
arises from the jealousy of Mr Mac-
ready. I have every reason, sir, to
believe that he sends home from
America every week a set of infamous
attacks, that appear against me in
the Stepney Rosciad, a detestable
publication, which I never see, and of
course disregard."
" Oh, of course," said Mr Montal-
ban ; u who cares what a halfpenny
paper says ? And yet, Mr Debowing,"
he added in a lower key, " it might
not be a bad move if you sent the
editor five shillings occasionally."
"Corrupt the press, sir?" lex-
claimed. " The purity of the press
is the palladium of British liberty. If
that fountain of fame, of justice, is
defiled at its very source, what are
we to expect ? "
" Why, favourable notices, and
puffs that do us good," replied Mr
Montalban ; " but for my part, I
wishes them 'ere fountains would keep
themselves clear, for they do no more
benefit to a real good thing than to a
precious bad one. I know I've cor-
rupted 'em long enough, and got very
little return for my money. Here
are sixty box-seats set apart for the
gentlemen of the press. When we
have a very taking performance, and
could fill the house with a paying
audience, don't they, or their friends,
come with their sixty orders a shil-
ing a-piece three pounds and
pocket eighteen pounds a- week of my
money ! And perhaps, after all, notice
us in three lines, or even find fault
with the whole performance! It's
just the same as if I gave 'em the
coin ; only they would turn up their
noses at the hard cash, but take their
front seats with all the dignity of a
set of gents as has paid for their ad-
mittance."
" And yet, sir," said the tragedian,
" it wouldn't do to quarrel altogether
1852.]
Struggles for Fame and Fortune.
119
with the press. There is the Stepney
Drop Scene, a remarkably fair and
intelligent publication, whose judg-
ments are always to be depended on."
"He writes in it himself," whis-
pered the manager to me, " and cuts
up poor Martingdale in the cruellest
way possible."
"As for me," I said, scarcely at-
tending to Montalban's explanation,
" I will keep free of the press I will
neither bully nor bribe, but trust
entirely for success to the merit of
the play and the genius of the per-
formers."
" What I can do, sir," replied Mr
Fitz-Edward, softened by the compli-
ment, "shall not be wanting."
We shook hands. "Now, I con-
clude," he added, " you will attend to
the few hints I have ventured to give
you, and you will shorten Horsa and
Edith down to three lengths a-piece."
" I will see what can be done with-
out damaging the general composi-
tion," I replied, as I received the
manuscript from his hand, and wished
Mr Fitz -Edward good morning. ' ' You
see what a life a manager's is," said
Mr Montalban when we were again
alone. " I would far rather keep a
lunatic asylum than a theatre, if it
weren't for the attachment I feel to
the stage. The quarrels I have to
appease, and the good- temper I have
to exercise, would wear out any other
man in a month ! Come in," he added,
in a voice of thunder. " What brings
you here bothering me in this manner
when I am settling important business
with an author of distinction?" The
person, who had opened the door at
the first intimation, now came into
the room a little woman, very round
and fat, dressed in a gay- coloured
silk mantle, and a pink bonnet, with
a white veil doubled over the upper
part of her face, revealing nothing of
her countenance but her mouth and
chin. The veil she threw up, and
fixed very bright and very angry eyes
upon the manager.
" You will never learn politeness,
you intolerable old swindler," she
began, " and I give you fair notice I
won't stand any more of your im-
pertinence. If Ginger ha'n't spirit
enough to revenge me, I will show
you I have spirit enough myself.
Your servant, sir," she said, turning
to me. "I believe we met on the
stair yesterday? "
" Miss de la Rose ?" I timidly in-
quired.
" The same," she said, with a stage
curtsey " and delighted to hear we
are likely to have something novel
from your pen."
"I was not aware," I said, "the
secret had spread quite so far."
" Oh, Ginger told me," she replied
with a smile. "Annabella has the
measles, and Ginger, who was sober
last night for a wonder, gave me a
sketch of Edith."
I looked a little confused, I sup-
pose ; for Mr Montalban flew to the
rescue. " Miss de la Rose," he said,
is married to Mr Ginger, and has
eight children ; but we still keep
her stage name in the bills ; for, as
she is our youthful heroine, we don't
like the pit to fancy that Juliet and
Desdemona have been married for
fifteen years."
" Fourteen, Mr Montalban," she
interposed. " I was wedded almost in
my infancy, before judgment had ex-
panded, or sense had come into my
foolish little head a creature of im-
pulse then as now ; and grievous has
the expiation been." When she
pronounced the word judgment/, she
looked wise ; when she spoke of her
foolish little head, she tossed it as if
she had been still fifteen ; and when
she quoted Lady Randolph's melan-
choly line from Douglas, she put on
the most dismal expression I ever saw.
" I am enchanted with the notion
of that noble Saxon maiden all fire
and passion all tenderness and de-
spair. Ah ! Mr de Bohun, if you
had seen me before fate united me to
Mr Ginger ! I feel as if it were a
portrait, and have made up my mind
to do every justice to y 
