Google
This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project
to make the world's books discoverable online.
It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.
Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the
publisher to a library and finally to you.
Usage guidelines
Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:
+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.
+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.
+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.
+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.
About Google Book Search
Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web
at|http: //books .google .com/I
6 6
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
pmiirraD mv williau blackwooo ahd aoirt, KDrHJiVBtJif.
BLACKWOOD'S
£;trtnfittrgit
MAGAZINE.
VOL, LXVI.
JULY— DECEMBER, 1849.
WII-HAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH ;
37, PATEENOSTEE EOW, LONDON.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCV. JULY, 1849. Vol. LXVL
No. II.
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.
EXCAMP3IENT AT Cladich. Time — Eleven, a.m.
Scene — I7ie Portal of die Pavilion,
North — ^Buller — Seward.
BULLER.
I Kxow there is nothing you dislike so much as personal observations
NORTH.
On myself to myself— not at all on others.
BULLEU.
Yet I cannot help telling you to your face, sir, that you are one of the
finest looking old men
NORTH.
Elderly gentlemen, if you please, sir.
BULLER.
In Britain, in Europe, in the World. I am perfectly serious, sir. You are.
NORTH.
You needed not to say you were perfectly serious ; for I suffer no man to
be ironical on Me, Mr BuUer. I am.
BULLER.
Such a change since we came to Cladich ! Scwai*d was equally shocked,
with myself, at your looks on board the Steamer. So lean — so bent— so
sallow — so haggard — in a word— so aged!
NORTH.
Were you shocked, Seward?
SEWARD.
Buller has such a blunt way with him that he often makes me blush. I
was not shocked, my dear sir, but I was affected.
BULLER.
Taming to me, he said in a whisper, ^^ What a wreck ! "
VOL. LXVI.— KO. CCCCV. A
2 Christopher under Canvass, [Joly*
NORTH.
I saw little alteration on yon, Mr Seward; but as to Buller, it was with
the utmost difficulty I conld be brought, by his reiterated asseverations, into
a sort of qnasi-belief in his personal identity ; and even now, it is far from
amounting to anything like a settled conyiction. Why, his face is twice the
breadth it used to be — and so redl It used to be narrow and pale. Then,
what a bushy head^now, cocker it as he will, bald. In figure was ho not
filim ? Now, stout's the word. Stout — stout — ^yes, BuUer, you have grown
stout, and will grow stouter-— your doom is to be fat — I prophesy paunch
BULLEB.
Spare me — spare me, sir. Seward should not have intermpted me — 'twas
but the first impression — and soon wore oflf— those Edinboro' people have
much to answer for — unmercifully wearing you out at their ceaseless soirees —
but since you came to Cladich, sir, Chbistopher's Himself again — ^pardon
my familiarity — ^nor can I now, after the minutest inspection, and severest scru-
tiny, detect one single additional wrinkle on face or forehead — nay, not a
wrinkle at all — ^not one — so fresh of colour, too, sir, that the irradiation is at
timcB ruddy — and without losing an atom of expression, the countenaucc
absolutely — ^plump. Yes, sir, plump's the word — plump, plump, plump.
NOBTH.
Now you speak sensibly, and like yourself, my dear BuUer. I wear well.
BULLEB.
Your enemies circulated a report —
NOBTH. '
I did not think I had an enemy in the world.
BULLEB.
Your Mends, sir, had heard a rumour — ^that yon had mounted a wig.
NOBTH.
And was there, among them all, one so weak-minded as to believe it ? But,
to be sure, there are no bounds to the credulity of mankind.
BULLEB.
That you had lost your hair — and that, like Sampson —
NOBTH.
And by what Delilah had my locks been shorn ?
SEWABD.
It all originated, I verily believe, sir, in the moved imagination of the Pcn-
sive Public :
** Res est solicit! plena timoris Amor."
NOBTH.
BuUer, I see little, if any— no change whatever — on you, since the days of
Deeside — ^nor on you, Seward. Yes, I do. Not now, when by yourselves ; but
when your boys are in Tent, ah I then I do indeed — a pleasant, a happy, a
blessea change 1 Bright boys they are — delightful lads—noble youths— and
80 are my Two— emphasis on my —
SEWABD AND BULLEB.
Yes, all emphasis, and may the Four be friends for life.
NOBTH.
In presence of us old folks, composed and respectful— in manly modesty
attentive to every word we say — at times no doubt wearisome enough ! Yet
each ready, at a look or pause, to join in when we are at our gravest — anil
the solemn may be getting dull — enlivening the sleepy flow of our conversa-
tion as with rivulets issuing from pure sources in the hills of the morning —
8EWABD.
Ay — ay ; heaven bless them all I
NORTH.
Why, there is more than sense — ^more than talent — there is genius among
them — in their eyes and on their tongues-chough they have no suspicion of it —
and that is the charm. Then how they rally one another I Witty fellows all
Four. And the right sort of raillery. Gtentlemcn by birth and breeding, to
whom in their wildest sallies vulgarity is impossible— to whom, on the giddy
1849.] Chruicpher wider Catwass. 3
brink— the perilous edge— <till adheres a natiye Decorum superior to that of
all the Schools.
BBWAKD
They haye theu* foults, sur—
KORTH.
So hare we. And 'fcLs well for us. Without faults we should be unbre-
able.
6BWABD.
In affection I spake.
NORTH.
I knowYou did. Thero is no such hateful sight on earth as a perfect cha-
racter. He is one mass of corruption — ^for he is a hypocrite — m(t» et in cut^-^
by the necessity of nature. The moment a perfect character enters a room— I
leaye it.
SEWARD.
What if you hi^ipened to liye in the neighbourhood of the nuisance?
NORTH.
Emigrate. Or remain here— encamped for life— with imperfect characters-
till the order should issue — Strike Tent.
BULLSR.
My Boy has a temper of his own.
NORTH.
Original— or acquired?
BULLER.
Katurally sweet-blooded—'assuredl^ by the mother's side— but in her good-
ness she did all she could to spoil lum. Some excuse — We haye but
Manny.
NORTH.
And his &ther, naturally not quite so sweet-blooded, does all he can to pre-
serye him ? Between the two, a pretty Fickle he is. Has thine a temper of
his own, too, Seward 1
SEWARD.
Hot
NORTH.
Hereditary.
SEWARD.
No — ^North. A milder, meeker, Christian Lady than his mother is not
in England.
NORTH.
I confess I was at the moment not thinking of his mother. But somewhat
too much of this. I hereby authorise the Boys of this Empire to have what
tempers tiiey choose— with one sole exception — ^The Sulky.
BULLER.
The Edict is promulged.
NORTH.
Once, and once only, during one of the longest and best-spent liyes on record,
was I in the mood proscribed — and it endured most part of a whole day.
The Anniyersary of that day I obsenre, in severest solitude, with a salutary
horror. And it is my Birthday. Ask me not, my friends, to reveal the
Cause. Aloof from confession before man — ^we must keep to ourselves — as
John Foster says — a comer of our own souls. A black corner it is — and enter
it with or wiUiout a light — ^you see, here and there, something dismal —
hideous — sh^)eless — nameless — each lying in its own place on the floor.
There lies the Cause. It was the morning of my Ninth Year. As I kept sit-
ting high upstairs by myself-— one familiar face after another kept ever and
anon looking in upon me — all with one expression 1 And one familiar voice
after another — all with one tone— iept muttering at me — " He's sHU in the
Sulks /" How I hated them with an intenser hatred— and chief them I before
had loved best — at each opening and each shutting of that door I How I hated
myseli; as my blubbered face felt hotter and hotter— and I knew how ugly
4 C7iristopher under Canvass, [July,
I must be, with my fixed fiery eyes. It was painful to sit on such a chair for
hours in one posture, and to have so chained a child would have been great
cruelty — but I was resolved to die, rather than change it ; and had I been
told by any one under an angel to get up and go to play, I would have spat in
his face. It was a lonesome attic, and I had the fear of ghosts. But not
then — my superstitious fancy was quelled by my troubled heart. Had I not
deserved to be allowed to go ? Did they not all know that all my happiness in
this life depended on my being allowed to go ? Could any one of them give a
reason for not allowing me to go? What right had they to say that if I did
go, I should never be able to find my way, by myself, back ? What right had
they to say that Roundy was a blackguard, and that he would lead me to the
gallows ? Never before, in all the world, had a good boy been used so on his
birthday. They pretend to be sorry when I am sick — and when I say my
prayers, they say theirs too ; but I am sicker now — and they are not sorry, but
angry — there's no use in prayers — and I won't read one verse in the Bible
this night, should my aunt go down on her knees. And in the midst of such
unworded soliloquies did the young blasphemer fall asleep.
DULLER.
Young Christopher North ! Incredible.
UOKTH.
I know not how long I slept ; but on awaking, I saw an angol with a most
beautiful face and most beautiful hair — a little young angel— about the same
size as myself— sitting on a stool by my feet. " Ai-o you quite well now,
Christopher? Let us go to the meadows and gather flowers." Shame, sor-
row, remote, contrition, came to me with those innocent words — ^^ve wept to-
gether, and I was comforted. " I have been sinful" — *' but you are forfjiven."
Down all the stairs hand in hand we glided ; and there was no longer anger
in any eyes— the whole house was happy. All voices were kinder — if that
were possible — than they had been when I rose in the morning — a Boy in hi??
Ninth Year. Parental hands smoothed my hair — parental lips kissed it — and
parental greetings, only a little more cheerful than prayers, restored me to
the Love I had never lost, and which I felt now had animated that brief and
just displeasure. I had never heard then of Elysian fields ; but I had often
heard, and often had dreamt happy, happy dreams of fields of light in heaven.
And such looked the fields to be, where fairest Mary Gordon and I gathered
flowers, and spoke to the birds, and to one another, all day long — and again,
when the day was gone, and the evening going, on till moontime, below and
among the soft-burning stars.
BULLER.
And never has Chrxsiopher been in the Sulks since that day.
NORTH.
Under heaven I owe it all to that child's eyes. Still I sternly keep the
Anniversary— for, beyond doubt, I was that day possessed with a Devil—
and an angel it was, though human, that drove him out.
SEWARD.
Your first Love ?
NORTH.
In a week she was in heaven. My friends— in childhood— our whole future
life would sometimes seem to be at the mercy of such small events as these.
Small call them not — ^for they are great for good or for evil — because of the
unfathomable mysteries that lie shrouded in the growth, on earth, of an im-
mortal soul.
SEWARD.
May I dare to ask you, sir— it is indeed a delicate — a more than delicate
question — if the Anniversary — has been brought round with the revolving
year since we encamped ?
NOBTH.
It has.
8EWARD.
Ah ! Buller ! we know now the reason of his absence that day from the
1^9.] ChriM/ophtT under Caxwaa. 5
PaTllion and Deeside — of his utter seclnslon — he was doing penance in the
S?riss Giantess — a severe sojourn.
NOBTH. ^
A Good Temper, friends— not a good Conscience— is the Blessing of Life.
BULLER.
locked to hear you say so, sir. Unsay it, my dear sir — unsay it — per-
nicions doctrine. It may get inroad.
NOBTH.
The Suuls !— the Celestials. The Sulks are hell, sirs— the Celestials,
by the very name, heaven. I take temper in its all-embracing sense of
Physical, Mental, and Moral Atmosphere. Pure and serene — then we respire
God's gifts, and are happier than we desire ! Is not that divine? Foul and
disturbed— rthen we are stifled by God's gifts— and are wickeder than we
fear ! Is not that devilish ? A |ood Conscience and a bad Temper ! Talk
not to me. Young Men, of pernicious doctrine — ^it is a soul-saving doctrine —
'* millions of spiritual creatures walk unseen " teaching it — men's Thoughts,
commauing with heaven, have been teaching it — surely not all in vain— since
Coin slew Abel.
SEWABD.
The Sage !
BULLER.
Socrates.
NOBTH.
Morose / Think for five minutes on what that word means— and on what
tbat word contains — and you see the Man must be an Atheist. Sitting in
the House of God morosdy! Bright, bold, beautiful boys of ours, ye are not
morose — heaven^s air has free access through your open souls — a clear con-
science carries the Friends in their pastimes up the Mountains.
SEWABD.
And their fathers before them.
NOBTH.
And their great-grandfather — ^I mean their spiritual great-grandfather —
myself — Christopher North. They are gathering up — even as we gathered up —
images that will never die. Evanescent ! Clouds — ^lights — ^shadows — glooms
~>the falling sound — ^the running murmur — and the swinging roar — as cataract,
stream, and forest all alike seem wheeling by — these are not evanescent — ^for
they will all keep coming and going — ^before their Imagination — all life-long at
the bidding of the Will— or obedient to a Wish I Or by benign Law, whose
might is a mystery, coming back from the far profound — remembered apparitions !
SEWABD.
Dear sir.
NOBTH.
Even my Image will sometimes reappear — and the Tents of Cladich — the
Camp on Lochawe-side.
DULLER.
My dear sir — it will not be evanescent
NOBTH.
And withal such Devils 1 But I have given them carte blanche.
SEWABD.
Nor will they abuse it.
NOBTH.
I wonder when they sleep. Each has his own dormitory — the cluster
forming the left wing of the Camp — but Deeside is not seldom broad awake
till midnight ; and though I am always up and out by six at the latest,
never once have I caught a man of them napping, but either there they arc
each more blooming than the other, getting ready their gear for a start ;— or, on
sweeping the Loch with my glass, I see their heads, like wild-ducks— swim-
ming— around Rabbit Island — as some wretch has baptised Inishail— or away
to Inistirnish — or, for anything I know, to Port-Sonachan— swimmmg for a
Medal given by the Club ! Or there goes Gutta Percha by the Pass of Brandir,
6 Christopher under Canvasi, [Julyi
or shooting away into the woods near Kilcham. Twice have they been on
the top of Cmachan — once for a clear hour, and once for a dark day — the very
next morning, Marmadake said, they would have ^^ some more mountain,^' and
the Four Clond-compellers swept the whole range of Ben-Bhuridh and Bein-
Lurachan as far as the head of Glensrea. Thoagh they said nothing abont it,
I heard of their having been over the hills behind os^ toother night, at Cairn-
dow, at a wedding. \Vliy, only think, sirs, yesterday they were off by day-
light to try their luck in Loch Dochtrt, and again I heard their merriment
soon after we had retired. They must have footed it above forty miles.
That Cornwall Clipper will be their death. And off again this morning — all
on foot — to the BiMk Mount
BUUJCR.
For what?
NORTH.
By permission of the Marquis, to i^oot an Eagle. She is said to be again
on egg— and to cliff-climbers her eyrie is witi^ rifle-range. But let U3
forget the Boys — as they have forgot us.
SEWARD.
The Loch is calmer to-day, sir, than we have yet seen it ; but the calm is
of a different character from yesterday's — that was serene, this is solemn — I
had almost said austere. Yesterday there were few clouds ; and such was
the prevailing power of all those lovely woods on the islands, and along the
mainland shores — that the whole reflexion seemed sylvan. When gazing on
such a sight, does not our foeUng (^ tiiie unrealities — the shadows— attach to
the realities — the substances ? So that the living trees— earth-rooted, and
growing upwards — ^become almost as visionary as their inverted semblances
in that commingling dime ? Or is it that the life of the trees gives life to the
images, and imagination believes that the whole, in its beauty, must belong,
by uie same law, to the same world ?
NORTH.
Let us understand, without seeking to destroy, our delusions — for has not
this life of 0018 been wisely called the dream of a shadowl ^
To-day tiiere are many clouds, and aloft they are beautiful ; nor is the
light of the sun not most gracious ; but the repoee of all that downward
world affects me — I know not why— with sadness — it is beginning to look
almost gloomy — and I seem to see the hush not of sleep, but of death. There
is not the unboimdaried expanse of yesterday— 4he looi looks narrower— and
Cmachan doMr tons, with all his heights.
BULLBR.
I felt a drop of rain on the back of my hand.
SBWARD.
It must have been, then, from your nose. There will be no rain this week.
But a breath of au* thero is somewhere — for the mirror ia dimmed, and tho
vision gone.
NORTH.
The drop was not from his nose, Seward, for here are three — and clear, pure
drops too— on my Milton. I shoold not be at all surprised if we were to have
a little rain.
SEWARD.
Odd enough. I cannot conjecture where it comes from. It must be dew.
BtTKLBR.
Who ever heard of dew dropping hi large fiit globules at meridian on a sum-
mer's day? It is getting very close and snltry. The ulterior must be, as
Wordsworth saysi ^ Like a Lion*s den." Did yon whisper, sir ?
NORTH.
No. But something dM. Look at the quicksilver, Buller.
BUIXER.
TheroKMBeter 85. Barometer I can say nothing about — but that it is very
low indeed. A kwg way below Stormy.
1849.] Ckruiopher tmder Qmea$$. 7
NOBTH.
What colour would yon call that Glare aboat the Crown of CmachanP
Yellow?
SEWARD.
YoQ may just as well call it yellow as not. I never saw sach a colour be-
fore—and don't care thongh I never see sach again^for it Is hoirid. That is
a — Glare.
NOBTH.
Cowper says grandly,
^ A terrible sagacity informs
The Poet's heart: he looks to distant storms;
He hears the thnnder ere the tempest lowers.'*
He is speaking of tempests in the moral world. Yon know the passago—
it is a fine one — so indeed is the whole Epistle— Table-Talk. I am a bit of a
Poet mysdf in smelling thnnder. Early this morning I set it down for mid«
day— and it is mid-day now.
BULLXB.
liker Evening.
NOBTH.
Dimmish and darkish, certainly — ^bnt imlike Evenhig. I pray yon look at
the Son.
BULLEB.
What about him?
NORTH.
Thongh nnclonded— he seems shronded In his own solemn light— expecting
tiimider.
BUIXEB.
There is not much motion among the clouds.
NOBTH.
Not yet. Merely what in Scotland we call a cany— yet that great
central mass is double the size it was ten minutes ago — ^the City Churchea
are crowding round the Cathedral — and the whole assemblage lies under the
shadow of the Citadel— with battlements and colonnades at once Fort and
Temple.
BULLEB.
Still some blue sky. Not very much. But some.
NORTH.
Cmachan! you are changing colour.
BULLEB.
Grim— very.
NOBTH.
The Loch*8 like ink. loould dip my pen in it
SBWABD.
We are about to have thunder.
NOBTH.
Weather-wisewiaard— weare. That mutter was thunder. In five seconds
you wfll hear some more. One — ^two — three — four — there ; that was a growL
I call that good growling— sulky, sullen, savage growling, that makes the
heart of Silence quake.
SBWABD.
And mine.
NOBTH.
What ? Dying away ! Some incompreheDsible cause Is tuning the thun-
derous masses round towards Appin.
SEWABD.
And I wish them a safe journey.
All ri^t. They are coming this way— all at onee-4he iHioto Thnnder-
storm. Flasli— roar.
8 Ouri^opher under Canvass, [ Juljr
^ Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France;
For ere thou canst report I will be there,
The thnnder of my cannon shall be heard."
Who but Willy could have said that?
SEWARD.
Who said what?
NORTH.
How ghastly all the trees !
SEWARD.
I see no trees — ^nor anything else.
NORTH.
How can you, with that Flying Dutchman over your eyes?
BCLLER.
I gave him my handkerchief— for at this moment I know his head is lik&
to rend. I wish I had kept it to myself; but no use— the lightning is seen
through lids and hands, and would be through stone walls.
NORTH.
Each flash has, of course, a thunder-dap of it« own — if we knew where to
look for it ; but, to our senses, all connexion between cause and effect is lost
— such incessant flashings — and such multitudinous outbreaks — and such a
continuous roll of outrageous echoes !
BULLER.
Coruscation — explosion— are but feeble words. •
NORTH.
The Cathedral's on Fire.
BULLEE.
I don't mind so much those wide flarings among the piled clouds, as these
gleams oh I
NORTH.
Where art thou, CruachanI Ay— methinks I see thee — mcthinks I do
not — thy Three Peaks may not pierce the masses that now oppress thee —
but behind the broken midway clouds, those black purple breadths of solid
earth are thine — thine those unmistakeable Clifls — thine the assured beauty
of that fearless Forest — and may the lightning scathe not one single tree !
ROLLER.
Nor man.
NORTH.
This is your true total Eclipse of the Sun. Day, not night, is the time
for thunder and lightning. Night can be dark of itself— nay, cannot help it ;
but when Day grows black, then is the blackness of darkness in the Briglit
One terrible ; — and terror — Burke said well — is at the heart of the sublime.
The Light, such as it is, sets off the power of the lightning— it pales to that
flashing— and is forgotten in Fire. It smells of hell.
SEWARD.
It is constitutional in the Sewards. North, I am sick.
NORTH.
Give way to gasping— and lie down — nothing can be done for you. The
danger is not —
SEWARD.
I am not afraid^I am faint.
NORTH.
You must speak louder, if you expect to be heard by ears of clay. Peals is
not the word. ** Peals on peals redoubled" is worse. There never was — and
never will be a word in any language — ^for ail that,
BULLBR.
Unreasonable to expect it. Try twenty— in twenty languages.
NORTH.
BuUer, you may countjten individual deluges — ^besides the descent of three
at hand — conspicuous in the general Rain, which without them would be Hain
sufficient for a Flood. Now tiie Camp has it— and let us enter the Pavilion*
1849.] Christopher under Canvass. 9
I don't think there is much wind here— yet far down the black Loch is silently
whitening with waves like breakers ; for here the Rain alone mles, and
its roshing deadens the retiring thunder. The ebbing thnnderl Still lender
than any sea on any shore— bat a diminishing loudness, though really vast,
seems quelled ; and, losing its power oyer the present, imagination follows it
not into the d^nt region where it may be rag^g as bad as ever. BuUer ?
BULLER.
What?
NOBTH.
How's Seward?
SEWARD.
Much better. It was veiy, very kind of you, my dear sir, to carry me in
your arms, and place me in your own Swing-chair. The change of atmosphere
has reyived me — ^bnt the Boys I
KOBTH.
The Boys— why, they went to the Black Mount to shoot an eagle, and see
a thmider-storm, and long before this they have had their heart's desire.
There are caves, Seward, in Buachail-Mor ; and one recess I know— not a
cave — ^but grander far than any cave — ^near the Fall of Eas-a-Bhrogich — far
down below the bottom of the Fall, which in its long descent whitens the
sable dil&. Thither leads a winding access no storm can shake. In that
recess you sit rock-surrounded — ^but with elbow-room for five hundred men —
and all the light you have — and you would not wish for more — comes down
upon you from a cupola far nearer heaven than that hung by Michael
Angelo.
SEWARD.
The Boys are safe.
NOBTH.
Or the lone House of Dahiess has received them — ^hospitable now as of yore —
or the Huntsman's hut — or the Shepherd's shieling— that word I love, and shall
use it now — ^though shieling it is not, but a comfortable cottage — ^and the
dwellers there fear not the thunder and the lightning— for they know they are
in His handle— and talk cheerfully in the storm.
SEWABD.
Over and gone. How breathable the atmosphere I
KOBTH.
In the Forests of the Marquis and of Monzie, th^ horns of the Bed-deer are
again in motion. In my mind's eye— Hany — ^I see one — an enormous fellow —
bigger than the big stag of Benmore himself— -and not to be so easily brought
to perform, by particular desire, the part of Moricns — ^ving himself a shake of
his whole huge bulk, and a caive of his whole wide antleiy — and then leading
down 6om the Corrie, with Platonic affection, a herd of Hinds to the green-
sward islanded among brackens and heather— a spot equally adapted for
feed, play, rumination, and sleep. And the Roes are glinting through the
glades— and the Fleece are nibbling on the mountains' glittering breast— and
the Cattle are grazing, and galloping, and lowing on the hills— and the furred
folk, who are always dry, come out from crevices for a mouthful of the fresh
air ; and the whole four-footed creation are jocund—- are happy I
BULLEB.
What a picture !
NOBTH.
And the Fowls of the Air— think ye not the Eagle, storm-driven not un-
alarmed along that league-long face of cliff, is now glad at heart, pruning the
wing that shall carry him again, like a meteor, into the subsided skies?
BULLEB.
What it is to have an imagination I Worth all my Estate.
NORTH.
Let us exchange.
BULLEB.
Kot possible. Strictly entailed.
10 Ckristopher under Camnus. [Joly*
NORTH.
Dock.
BULLEB.
Mno.
NORTH.
And the little wren flits out from the back door of her nest — too happy
she to sing — and in a minute is back again, with a worm in her mouth, to
her half-score gaping babies — the sole family in all the dell. And the sea-
mews, sore against their will driven seawards, are returning by ones and
twos, and thirties, and thousands, up Loch-Etive, and, dallying with what
wind is still alive above the green transparency, drop down in successive par-
ties of pleasure on the silver sands of Ardmatty, or lured onwards into
the still leas of Glenliver, or the profounder quietude of the low mounds of
Dalness.
SEWARD.
My fiincy is contented to feed on what is before my eyes.
BULLBR.
Doff, then, the Flying Dutchman.
NORTH.
And thousands of Rills, on the first day of their apparent existence, are
all happy too, and make me happy to look on them leaping and dandng down
the rocks— and the River Etive rejoicing in his strength, m>m far Kingshouse
all along to the end of his jomney, is happiest of them all ; for the storm that
has swoUen has not discoloured him, and with a pomp of clouds on liis breast,
he is flowing in his expanded beauty into his own desired Loch.
SEWARD.
Gaze with me, my dear sir, on what lies before our eyes.
NORTH.
The Rainbow I
BULLBR.
Foot miles wide, and half a mile broad.
NORTH.
Thy own Rainbow, Cmachan— from end to end.
8BWARD.
Is it fading— or is it brightening ? — no, it is not finding — and to brighten
is impossible. It is the beautiful at perfection — ^it is dissolving — ^it is gone.
BULLER.
I asked you, sir, have the Poets well handled Thonder?
NORTH.
I was waiting for the Rambow. Many eyes beddes ours are now regard-
ing it — ^many hearts giaddened-^bnt have yon not o^n felt, Seward, as if
such Appariti<His came at a silent call in our souls — ^that we might behold
them— and that the hour — or the moment— was given to us ^one! So
have I felt when walking alone among the great solitudes of Nature.
SEWARD.
Lochawe is the name now for a dozen little lovely lakes I For, lo I as the
Yiq[>our8 are rising, they disclose, here a bay that does not seem to be a bay,
but complete in its own encircled stillne8s,--there a bare grass island — ^yes, it is
Inishail — ^with a shore of mists, — and there, with its Pines and Castle, Freoch,
as if it were Loch Freoch, and not itself an Isle. Beautiful bewilderment !
but of our own creating I — for thus Fancy is fain to dally with what we love —
and would seek to estrange the familiar — as if Lochawe in ito own simple
grandeur were not all-suflicient for our gaze.
BULLEB.
Let me try my hand. No — ^no— no — I can see and feel, have an eye and
a heart for Scenery, as it is called, but am no hand at a description. My
dear, sweet, soft-breasted, fair-fronted, bright-headed, delightful Cruachan —
thy very name, how liquid with open vowels — not a consonant among them
all — no Man-Mountain Thou — ^Thou art the Ladt of the Lake. I am in
love with Thee — ^Thou must not think of retiring from the earth — ^Thoa
1^9.] Christopher vnder CamxM. 11
must not take the veil — off with it— off with it from those glorious shoulders
—and come, in all Thy loveliness, to my long — my longing arms !
SEWASD.
Is that the singing of larks?
NORTH.
Xo larks live here. The laverock is a Lowland bird, and loves onr brairded
tields and onr pastoral braes ; bnt the Highland mountains are not for him —
be knows by instinct that they are hannted— though he never saw the shadow
nor heard the sngh of the ea^'s wing.
SEWABD.
The singing from the woods seems to reach the sky. They have utterly
forgotten their fear ; or think you, sir, that birds know that what frightened
them is gone, and that they sing with intenser joy because of the fear that kept
them mute ?
NOBTH.
The lambs are frisking— and the sheep staring placidly at the Tents. I
hear the ham of bees— returned— and returning uom their straw-built Cita<
dels. In the primal hour of his winged life, that wavering butterfly goes by 'm
search of the sunshine that meets him ; and happy for this generation of
ephemends that they first took wing on tiie afternoon of the day of the Great
Storm.
BULLER.
How have the Poets, sir, handled thunder and lightning?
KOBTH.
Snpe ego, ciim flavis messorem induceret arvis
Agiicola, et frtigili jam stringeret hordea culmo,
Omnia ventomm concurrere prselia vidi,
Quje gravidam lat6 segetem ab radicibus imis
Sublim^ expulsam eruerent: ita turbine nigro
Ferret hyems cuhnumque levem, stipulasque volantee.
S«pe etiam immensum ccelo venit agmen aquarum,
Et todam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris
Collectie ex alto nubes : ruit ardnus aether,
£t pluvitL ingenti sata l»ta, boumque labores
Diluit : implentor foss», et cava flumina crescunt
Cum sonitu, fervetque fretis spirantibus aequor.
Ipse Pater, medift nimborum in nocte, oorusca
Fnlmina molitur dextrft : quo maxima motn
Terra tremit : fugdre fersa, et mortaUa corda
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor : ille flagranti
Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Cerannia telo
Dejicit : ingeminant Austri, et densiesimus imber :
Nunc nemorm ingenti vento, nunc littora piangunt.
BX7LLEB.
You redte well, sir, and Latin better than English— not so sing-songy— »
tnd as sonorous : then Virgil, to be sure, is fltter for recitation than any
Liker of you all
NOBTH.
I am not a Laker— I am a Locher.
BULLER.
Tweedledum — tweedledee.
NOBTH.
That means the Tweed and the Deo? Content One might have thought,
Bullcr, that our Scottish Critics would have been puzzled to find a fault in
that strain
BULLEB.
It is fiuiltleBS ; but not a Scotch critic worth a curse but yoursrff
NOBTH.
I cannot accept a compliment at the expense of all the rest of my country-
cnen. I cannot indeed.
12 Christopher under Canv€U8» [July,
BULLER.
Yes, you can.
XORTH.
There was Lord Eames — a man of great talents — a most ingenious man —
and with an insight
BULLER.
I never heard of him— was he a Scotch Peer ?
XOBTn.
One of the Fifteen. A strained elevation — says his Lordship^I am sure
of the words, though I have not seen his Elements of Criticism for fifty
years
BULLER.
You are a creature of a wonderful memory.
NORTH.
*^ A strained elevation is attended with another inconvenience, that the author
is apt to fall suddenly, as well as the reader ; because it is not a little difiicult
to descend sweetly and easily from such elevation to the ordinary tone of the
subject. The following is a good illustration of that observation" — and then
his Lordship quotes the passage I recited — ^stopping with the words, ^^ den^
sissimus imberj** which are thus made to conclude the description !
BULLER.
Oh I oh ! oh ! That's murder.
NORTH.
In the description of a storm^KX)ntmues his Lordship — ^' to figure Jnpiter
throwing down huge mountains with his thunderbolts, is hyperbolically sub-
lime, if I may use the expression : the tone of mind produced by that image
is so distinct from the tone produced by a thick shower of rain, that tho
sudden transition must be very unpleasant^
BULLER.
Suggestive of a great-coat. That's the way to deal with a great Poet. Clap
your hand on the Poet's mouth in its fervour — shut up the words in mid-
volley — and then tell him that he does not know how to descend sweetly and
easily from strained elevation I
NORTH.
Nor do I agree with his Lordship that *^ to figure Jupiter throwing down
huge mountains with his thunderbolts is hyperbolically sublime." As a part
for a whole is a figure of speech, so is a whole for a part. Virgil says,
*' dejidt ;" but he did not mean to say that Jupiter ^^ tumbled down" Athos
or Rhodope or the Acroccraunian range. He knew — ^for he saw them — that
there they were in all their altitude afl^r the storm — ^little if at all the worse.
But Jupiter had struck — smitten — splintered — rent — ^trees and rocks — midway
or on the summits — and the sight was terrific — and *^ dejicit " brings it before
our imagination which not for a moment pictures tho whole mountain
tumbling down. But great Poets know the power of words, and on great
occasions how to use them — in this case — one — and small critics will not sufier
their 0¥ni senses to instruct them in Poetry — and hence the Elements of
Criticism are not the Elements of Nature, and assist us not in comprehending
the grandeur of reported storms.
BULLER.
Lay it into them, sir.
NORTH.
Good Dr Hugh Blair again, who in his day had a high character for taste
and judgment, agreed with Henry Home that ^^ the transition is made too
hastily — I am afraid — from the preceding sublime images, to a thick shower
and the blowing of the south wind, and shows how difficult it frequently is
to descend with grace, without seeming to fall." Nay, even Mr Alison
himself— one of the finest spirits that ever breathed on earth, says — ^^I
acknowledge, indeed, that the ' pluvi& ingenti sata laeta, boumque labores
dilnit' is defensible from the connexion of the imagery with the subject of the
poem ; but the ^ implentm* fossae' is both an unnecessary and a degrading cir«
1819.] Chrittopher under Canvass, 13
cumstance when compared with the magnificent eflfects that are described in
the rest of the passage." In his quotation, too, the final grand line is inad-
vertently omitted —
^ NoDC nemora ingenti yento, nunc liiora plangunt."
BULLER.
I never read Hngh Blair— but I have read— often, and always with in-
creased delight— Mr Alison's exquisite Essays on the Nature and Principles
of Taste, and Lord Jeffrey's admirable exposition of the Theory— in state-
ment so clear, and in illustration so rich — worth all the -Esthetics of the Ger-
mans— Schiller excepted — in one Volume of Mist.
NORTH.
Mr Alison had an original as well as a fine mind ; and here he seems to
have been momentarily beguiled into mistake by unconscious deference to the
judgment of men — in his province far inferior to himself— whom in his
modesty he admired. Mark. Virgil's main purpose is to describe the dangers —
the losses to which the agriculturist is at all seasons exposed from wind and
weather. And he sets them before us in plain and perspicuous language, not
rising above the proper level of the didactic. Yet being a Poet he puts poetry
into his description from the first and throughout. To say that the lino
*' Et pluvia," &c. is " defensible from the connexion of the imagery with the
subject of the Poem" is not enough. It is necessitated. StrUte it out an(l
you abolish the subject. And just so with " implentur fossje." The " fossa?"
we know in that country were numerous and wide, and, when swollen, dan-
herons — and the " cava flumina" well follow instantly — for the " fossaj" were
their feeders — and we hear as well as see the rivers rushing to the sea — and
we hear too, as well as see, the sea itself. There the description ends, Vir-
gil has done his work. But his imagination is moved, and there arises a new
strain altogether. He is done with the agriculturists. And now he deals with
man at large — with the whole human race. He is now a Boanerges — a son
of thunder — and he begins with Jove. The sublimity comes in a moment.
*' Ipse Pater, medlA nimbornm in nocte" — and is sustained to the close — the
last line being great as the first — and all between accordant, and all true to
nature. Without rain and wind, what would be a thunder-storm ? The
" densissimus imber" obeys the laws — and so do the ingeminanting Austri —
and the shaken woods and the stricken shores.
BULLEK.
Well done, Virgil— well done. North.
NORTH.
I cannot rest, Buller — I can have no peace of mind but in a successful
defence of these Ditches. Why is a Ditch to be despised? Because it is
dug? So is a grave. Is the Ditch — wet or dry — that must be passed by the
Volunteers of the Fighting Division before the Fort can be stormed, too
low a word for a Poet to use? Alas! on such an occasion well might he say,
as he looked after the assault and saw the floating tartans — implentur fossce —
the Ditch is filled !
BULLER.
Ay, Mr North, in that case the word Ditch— and the thing— would be
dignified by danger, daring, and death. But here
NORTH.
The case is the same— with a difference, for there is all the Danger— all the
Daring->all the Death — that the incident or event admits of— and they arc
not small. Think for a moment. The Rain falls over the whole broad heart
of the tilled earth— from the face of the fields it runs into the Ditches— the
first unavoidable receptacles — ^these pour into the rivers — the rivers into the
river mouths-^and then you are in the Sea.
BULLER.
Go on, sir, go on.
NORTH.
I am amazed— I am indignant, Buller. Ruit arduus <pt7ter. The steep or
14 Chrigiopher under Cantxus, [Jnljt
high ether nuheB down ! as we saw it rash down a few minntes ago. What
happens?
" Et ploTiii ingenti sata Iscta, boumqne Ubores
DUait !"
Alas! for the hopeful — hopeless husbandman now. What a mnltiplied and
magnified expression hare we here for the arable lands. All the glad seed-
time vain — yain all industry of man and ox&st — ^there yon have the tmc agri-
cultural pathos — ^washed away — set in a swim— deluged ! Well has the Poet
— ^in one great line— spoke the greatness of a great matter. Sudden afflic-
tion—visible desolation — imagiuMl dearth.
BULLEB.
Don*t stop, sur, yon speak to the President of our Agricultural Society — go
on, sir, go on.
NORTH.
Now drop in— in its veriest place, and in two words, the necessitated Im^
plentwr foss4B, No pretence— no display— no phraseology— the nakedest, but
quite effectual statement of the fact— which the farmer — I love that word
farmer— has witnessed as often as he has ever seen the Coming — the Ditches
that were dry ran fall to the brim. Ihe homely rustic fact, strong and im-
gressive to the husbandman, cannot be dealt with by poetiy otherwise than
y setting it down in its bald simplicity. Seek to raise— to dress— to disguise
—and you make it ridiculous. The Mantuan knew better— he says what
must be said — and goes on—
BUIXER.
He goes on— so do you, sir— you both get on.
KOBTH.
And now again begins Magnification,
^ £t oara flamina crescant
Cum Bonitu."
The " hollow-bedded rivers" grow, swell, visibly wax mighty and turbulent.
You imagine that you stand on the bank and see the river that had shrunk
into a thread getting broad enough to fill the capacity of its whole hollow bed.
The rushing of arduous ether would not of itself have proved sufficient.
Therefore glory to the Italian Ditches and glory to the Dumfriesshire Drains,
which I have seen, in an hour, change the white murmuring Esk into a red
rolling river, with as sweeping sway as ever attended the Amo on its way to
inundate Florence.
BtJLLEB.
Glory to the Ditches of the Vale of Amo— glory to the Drains of Dumfiries-
shire. Draw breath, sir. Now go on, sur.
NORTH.
'* Gum sonltu." Not as Father Thames rises— «t2^n<^— till the flow lapse
over lateral meadow-grounds for a mile on either side. But ^' cum. sonitu,'^
with a voice— with a roar — a mischievous roar — a roar of — ten thousand
Ditches.
BULLEB.
And then the " flnmina" — " cava" no more — will be as dear as mud.
KOBTH.
You have hit it. They will be— for the Amo in flood is like liquid mud—
by no means enamouring, perhaps not even sublime— but showing you that
it comes off the fields and along the Ditches — ^that you see swillings of the
*^ sata IsDta boumque labores."
BT7LLEB.
Agricultural Produce I
NOBTEL
For a moment— a single moment— leave out the Ditches, and say merely,
" The rain falls over the fields— the rivers swell roaring." No picture at all.
You must have the fall over the surface— the gathering in the narrower artifi-
1849.] Christopher tinder QmooBe. 15
dftt— the deliyery into the wider natural channels—the fight of spate and smve
at rircr month—
'^ Ferreiqae fretis spinuitibiis ceqaor."
The Ditches are incBspensaUe in nature and in Virgil.
BTTLLER.
Put this glass of water to your lips, sir— not that I would recommend water
to a man in a fit of eloquence— but I know jou are abstinent— infatuated in
joor abjuration of wine. Go on— half-minute time.
NORTH.
I swear to defend — at the pen's point— against all Comers— this position —
that the line
'^ Diloit: implentnr fossse, oava flumina oresoont
Cam Bonita — "
is, where it stands— and lookhug before and after— a perfect line ; and that to
strike out ^* imptentor fosse*' would be an outrage on it— just equal, Buller,
to mj knocking out, without hesitation, your brains — ^for your brains do not
contribute more to the flow of our oonversation — than do the Ditches to that
other Spate.
BTTLLER.
That will do — ^you may stop.
NOBTH.
I ask no man's permission — ^I obey no man's mandate — to stop. Now Vir-
gil takes wing — ^now he blazes and soars. Now comes the power and spirit
of the Storm gathered in the Person of the Sire— of him who wields tiie thun-
derbolt into which the Cyclops have forsed storms of idl sorts — ^wlnd and
rain together — ^'^ Dres Imbri torti radios! ' ' &c. You remember tJie magnificent
mixture. And there we have VmaiLras versus Hombrum.
BULLER.
You may ait down, sir.
NORTH.
I did not know I had stood up. Beg pardon.
BULLER.
I am putting Swing to rights for you, Sir.
NORTH.
Methinks Jupiter is iwke apparent — the first time, as the President of
the Storm, which is agreeable to the dictates of reason and necessity ; — the
second— to my fancy — as delightiug himself in the conscious exertion of
power. What is he splintering Athos, or Rhodope, or the Acroceraunians for ?
The divine use of the Fulmen is to quell Titans, and to kill that mad fellow
who was running up the ladder at Thebes, Capanens. Let the Great Gods find
o«l Iftetr enemies notp— find out and finish them— and enemies they must have
not a fow among liiose prostrate crowds — '' per gentes humilis stravit pavor.^'
Bat shattering and shivering the mountain tops — ^which, as I take it, is here
the prominent affair — and, as I said, the true meaning of *' dejicif' — is
mere pastime — as if Jupiter Tonans were disporting himself on a holiday.
BUIXER.
Oh ! sir, you have exhausted the subject — if not yourself— and us ; — I be-
seech you sit down ;— see, Swing solicits you— and oh I sh-, you— we— all of
ns will find in a few minutes' silence a great relief after all that thunder.
NORTH.
You remember Lucretius?
BUIXER.
No, I don't. To you I am not ashamed to confess that I read him with
some difficulty. TVith ease, sir, do you?
NORTH.
I never knew a man who did but Bobus Smith ; and so thoroughlv was he
hnboed with the spirit of the great Epicurean, that Landor— himself the best
Latinist fiving-^aals him with Lucretius. The famous Thunder passage is
16 Christopher under Canwus, [July,
very fine, but I cannot recollect every word ; and the man who, in recitation,
haggles and boggles at a great strain of a great poet deserves death without
benefit of clergy. I do remember, however, that he does not descend from
his elevation with such ease and grace as would have satisfied Henry Home
and Hugh Blair— for he has so little notion of true dignity as to mention
rain, as Virgil afterwards did, in immediate connexion with thunder.
" Quo de concussu sequitur aravU imber et uber,
Omnis utei Tideatar in imbrem vortier asther,
Atque ita pnecipitans ad diluviem revocare."
BULLER.
What think you of the thunder in Thomson's Seasons ?
NORTH.
What all the world thinks — that it is our very best British Thunder. He
gives the Gathering, the General engagement, and the Retreat. In the Gather-
ing there are touches and strokes that make all mankind shudder — the fore-
boding— the ominous ! And the terror, when it comes, aggrandises the premo-
nitory symptoms. " Follows the loosened aggravated roar" is a line of power
to bring the voice of thunder upon yom* soul on the most peaceable day.
He, too—prevailing poet — feels the gi*andeur of the llain. For instant on
the words ** convulsing heaven and earth," ensue,
" Down comes a deluge of eonorous hail,
Or prone-descending rain."
Thomson had been in the heart of thunder-storms many a time before he left
Scotland ; and what always impresses me is the want of method — the con-
fusion, I might almost say — in his description. Nothing contradictory in
the proceedings of the storm ; they all go on obediently to what we know of
Nature's laws. But the effects of their agency on man and nature are given —
not according to any scheme — but as they happen to come before the Poet's
imagination, as they happened in reality. The pine is struck first — thpn the
cattle and the sheep below — and then the castled cliff— and then the
" Gloomy woods
Start at the flash, and from their deep recess
Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shake."
No regular ascending — or descending scale here ; but wherever the light-
ning chooses to go, there it goes — the blind agent of indiscriminating destruc-
tion.
DULLER.
Capricious Zig-zag.
NORTH.
Jemmy was overmuch given to mouthing in tlie Seasons ; and in this de-
scription—matchless though it be — he sometimes out-mouths the big-mouthed
thunder at his own bombast. Perhaps that is inevitable — you must, in
confabulating with that Meteor, either imitate him, to keep him and yourself
in countenance, or be, if not mute as a mouse, as thin-piped as a fly. In
youth I used to go sounduig to myself among the mountains the concluding
lines of the Retreat.
'^ Amid Camarron's mountains rages loud
The repercussiye roar ; with mighty cmsh,
Into the flashing deep, from the mae rocks
Of Penmanmaur heap'd hideous to the sky.
Tumble the smitten cHffb, and Snowdon's peak,
Dissolving, instant yields his wintry load :
Far seen, the heights of heathy Cheyiot blaze,
And Thnle bellows through her utmost isles."
Are they good— or are they bad ? I fear— not good. But I am dubious. The
Erevious picture has been of one locality — a wide one— but within the visible
orizon — enlarged somewhat by the imagination, which, as the schoolmen said.
1849.] Christopher under Canvass. 17
inflows into eveiy act of the sensea—and powerfnllj, no doubt, into the senses
engaged in witnessing a thnnder-storm. Many of the effects so faithfully, and
some of them so tenderiy painted, interest ns by their pictoresque par*
ticnUurity.
** Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look
They wore alire, and raminating still
In fancy's eye ; and there the frowning bnU^
And ox half-raised."
We are here in a confined world— -close to us and near ; and our sympathies
with its inhabitants— human or brute— comprehend the TCty attitudes or pos-
tores in which the lightning found and left them ; but the final verses wan us
away from all that terror and pity— the geographical takes pUce of the
pathetic — a yisionary panorama of material objects supersedes the heart-
throbbini^ region of the spiritual— for a mournful song instinct with the
humanities, an ambitious bravura displaying the power and pride of the
musician, now thinking not at all of us, and following the thunder only as
affording him an opportunity for the display of his own art.
BULLER.
Are they good— or are they bad ? I am dubious.
NORTH.
Thunder-storms travel fast and far— but here they seem simultaneous;
Thnle is more vociferous than the whole of Wales together— yet perhaps the
sound itself of the verses is the loudest of all— and we cease to hear the thunder
in the din that describes it.
BULLER.
Severe— but just.
NORTH.
Ha! Thou comest in such a questionable shape —
ENTRANT.
That I will speak to thee. How do yon do, my dear sir ? God bless you,
how do yon do?
NORTH.
Art thou a spirit of health or goblin damned ?
ENTRANT.
A spirit of health.
NORTH.
It ifr— it Is the voice of Talbots. Don't move an inch. Stand still for ten
seconds — on the very same site, that I may have one steady look at you, to
make assnrance doubly sure — and then let us meet each other half-way in a
Cornish hog.
TALB0Y8.
Are we going to wrestle already, Mr North ?
NORTH.
Stand still ten seconds more. He is He— You are Yon^gentlemen— -H. G.
Talboys— Seward, my crutch— Buller, your arm—
TALBOTS.
Wonderful feat of agility ! Feet up to the celling—
NORTH.
Don't say ceiling —
TALBOTS.
Why not ? cdHng— coelum. Feet up to heaven.
NORTH.
An involnntaiy feat— the fault of Swing— sole fault— but I always forget it
when agitated-*
BUIXER
Some thane or other, sir, you will fiy backwards and fracture your skuU.
NORTH* - ,. -
There, we have recovered our equilibrium— now we are in grips, don i lear a
fall— I hope you are not displeased with your reception.
VOL. IXVl. NO. CCCCV.
18 CkriMtopher tmder Camvats. [Joly*
TALBOYS.
I wrote Uft night, sir, to saj I was coining — but there being no q^eedier
conyejano^— I pat tibe letter in my pocket, and there it is —
NORTH.
( On recuiing " Dies Boreales, — ^No. 1.")
A Mend retnmed I spring bursting forth again !
The song of other years ! which, when we roam,
Brings up ail sweet and common tilings of home,
And sinics into the thirsty heart lilce rain I
Sach the strong influence of the thrilling strain
By human love made sad and musical,
Yet full of high philosophy withal,
Poured from thy wizard harp o*er land and main!
A thousand hearts will waken at its call.
And breathe the prayer they breathed in earlier youth, —
May o^er thy brow no envious shadow fall I
Blaze in thine eye the eloquence of truth !
Thy righteous wrath the soul of guUt appal,
As lion's streaming hair or dragon's fiery tooth !
TALBOTS.
I blush to think I have given you the wrong pi^r.
KORTH.
It is the right one. But may I ask what you have on your head ?
TALBOYS.
A hat. At least it was so an hour ago.
NORTH.
It never will be a hat again.
TAIBOTS.
A patent hat — a waterproof hat—it was swimming, when I purchased it
yesterday, in a pail— warranted against Lammas floods— -
NORTH.
And in an hour it has come to this 1 Why, it has no more shape than a
coal-heaver's.
TALBOTS.
Oh! then it can be little the worse. For that is its natural artificial
shape. It is constructed on that principle — and the patentee prides himself
on its affording equal protection to head, shoulders, and back — helmet at once
and shield.
NORTH.
But you must immediately put on dry clothes —
TALBOYS.
The clothes I have on are as dry as if they had been taking horse-exercise
all morning before a laundry-fire. I am waterproof all over — and I had
need to be so— (or between Inverary and Cladich there was much moistnre in
the atmosphere.
NORTH.
Do— do— go and put on diy clothes. Why the spot you stand on is abso-
lutely swimming —
TALBOYS.
My Sporting-jacket, sir, is a new invention — an invention of my own — to
the sight silk->to the feel feathers — and of feathers is the texture— but that is
a secret, don't blab it — and to rain I am impervious as a plover.
NORTH.
Do— do— go and put on dry clothes.
TALBOTB.
Intended to have been here last night— left Glasgow yesterday morning—
and had a most delightful forenoon of it in the Steamer to Tarbert. Loch
Lomond fairly outshone herself— never before bad I felt the foil force of the
words—'' Fortunate Isles." The Bens were magnificent. At Tarbert— j^^
1649J] Chiiiopker UMkr OoMoau. 19
as I was disembarking— who should be embarking bnt our friends Outram,
M^CiiUochf MacDiee—
KOBTH.
And whj are thej noi here?
TALBOYS.
And I was induced — ^I could not resist them — to take a trip on to Inveraman.
We returned to Tarbert and had a glorious aftenuxA tLU two this morning —
tiiongfat Imight lie down for an hour or two — ^but, a^r undressing, it occurred
to me that it was advisable to redress— and be off instanter— so, wheeling
rrand the head of Loch Long— never beheld the bay so lovely — ^I glided np the
gentle slope €i Glencroe and sat down on " Best and be tiiankful'* — ^to hold a
minnte*s eoUoqny with a hawk — or some sort of eagle or another, who seemed
to think nobody at that hour had a right to be there but himsdf— covered hun
to a nicety with my rod— and had it been a gun, he was a dead bird. Down
the other — ^that is, this side of the glen, which, so far from beins precipitous, is
known to be a descent but by the pretty little cataractettes playmg at leap-fk>g
— ^from your description I knew that must be Loch Fine — and that St Cathe-
rine's. Shall I drop down and signalise the Liveraiy Steamer? I have not
time — so through the woods of Ardkinglass — surely the most beautiful in this
world — to Caimdow. Looked at my watch — had forgot to wind her up-
set her by the sun — and on neailng the inn door an unaccountable impulse
tamdsd me in the parlour to the ri^t. Breakfast on the table for somebody
np stain— whom nobody-^-so the giri said — could awaken— ate it — and the ton
ndles were bnt one to that celebrated Circuit Town. Saluted Dun-nu-quech
lor yoor sake— and the Castle for the Duke's— and oonld have lingered all June
among those gorgeous groyes.
NORTH.
Do— do— go and put on dry clothes.
TALBOTS.
Iffitherto it had been cool— shady— breezy— the veiy day for such a saunter
— when all at once it was an oren. I had occasion to note that flue line of the
Poet's — " Where not a lime-leaf moves," as I passed under a tree of that
spedes, with an umbrage some hundred feet in curcumference, and a presenti-
ment of what was coming whispered '* Stop hare*^— but the Fates tempted me
on — and if I am rather wet, sir, there is some excuse for it— for there was
thunder and lightning, and a great tempest.
NOBTH.
Not to-day? Here all has been hush.
TALBOTS.
It c4me at once fix>m all points of the compass — and they all met — all the
storms— every mother's son of them — at a central point — ^where I happened
to be. Of course, no house. Look for a house on an emergency, and if
once in a million times you see one — ^the door is locked, and the people gone
to Australia.
KOKTH.
I Inaiat on you putting on dry clothes. Don't try my temper.
TALBOTS.
By-and-by I began to have my suspicions that I had been distracted from
the Toad— and was in the Channel of the Ah^. But on looking down I saw
the Airey in his own channel — ^almost as drmnly as the miro-bum— vulgarly
catted road— I was plashing up. Altogether the scene was most animating —
and in a moment of intense exhilaration— not to weather-fend, but in defi-
ance— ^I unfurled my UmbreUa.
NORTH.
What, a Ployer with a Farapluie ?
TALBOYS.
I use it, sir, but as a Parasol. Never but on this one occasion had it
iffironted rain.
AOKTIi.
The same we sat mder, that dog-day, at Dunoon?
20 Christopher under Canvass, [Jalj,
TALBOYB.
The same. Whew ! Up into the sky like the incarnation of a whirlwind f
No taming outside in — too strong- ribbed for inversion — before the wind he
flew — like a creature of the element— and gracefully accomplished the descent
on an eminence about a mile off.
NORTH.
Near Orain-imali-chauan-mala-chuilish?
TALBOTS.
I eyed him where he lay — ^not without anger. It had manifestly been a
wilful act — he had torn himself from my gi*asp— and now he kept looking at
me— at safe distance as he thought — like a wild animal suddenly undomesti-
cated — and escaped into his native liberty. If he had sailed before the
wind — why might not I ? No need to stalh him — ^so I went at him right in
front — but sudi another flounder ! Then, sir, I flrst knew fatigue.
NORTH.
" So eagerly The Fiend
0*er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense, oi rare.
With head, hands, wings, or feet pursues his way.
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies."
TALBOTS.
Finally I reached him — closed on him — ^when Eolus, or Eurus, or Notus, or
Favonius — for all the heathen wind-gods were abroad — inflated him, and away
he flew — rustling like a dragon-fly — and zig-zagging all fiery-green in the
gloom — sat down— as composedly as you would yourself, sur — on a knoll, in
another region— engirdled with young birch-gi'ovea — as beautiful a resting-
place, I must acknowledge as, after a lyrical flight, could have been selected
for repose by Mr Wordsworth.
NORTH.
I know it — Arash-alaba-chaUn-ora-begota-la-chona-hurie. Archy will go
for it in the evening— all safe. But do go and put on dry clothes. What
now, Billy?
BILLY BALMER.
Here are Mr Talboy trunk, sir.
NORTH.
IVho brought it?
BILLT.
Nea, Maister— I dan't kna'— I 'spose Carrier. I ken't reet weell— anco
at Windermere- watter.
NORTH.
Swiss Giantess— Billy.
BILLY.
Ay— ay— sir.
NORTH.
Ton will find the Swiss Giantess as complete a dormitory as man can desire,
Talboys. I reserve it for myself, in event of rheumatism. Though lined with
velvet, it is always cool— ventilated on a new principle — of which I took
merely a hint from the Punka. My cot hangs in what used to be the Exhibi-
tion-room— and her Retreat is now a commodious Dressing-room. Billy, show
Mr Talboys to the Swiss Giantess.
BILLY.
Ay— ay, sir. This way, Mr Talboy— this way, sir.
TALBOYS.
What is your dinner-hour, Mr North ?
NORTH.
Sharp seven— seven shaip.
TALBOYS.
And now *tis but half-past two. Four hours for work. The Cladich— or
whatever you call him — is rumbling disorderly in the wood ; and I noted, as I
crossed the bridge, that he was proud as a piper of being in Spate — ^bnt he
1849.] Chriiiopher under Canvass, 21
looks more rational down in yonder meadows — and ^heaven have merct
OS M£ ! there's Loch Awe ! !
NORTH.
I thoogfat it qneer that you never looked at it.
TALBOYS.
Looked at it ? How conld I look at it ? I don't believe it was there. If
it was— from the hill-top I had eyes bnt for the Camp — the Tents and the Trees
— and ^^ Thee the spirit of them all !'* Let me have another eye-fall — another
sonl-fnll of tiie Loch. Bat 'twill never do to be losing time in this way.
Where's my creel — ^where's my creel ?
NORTH.
On your shoulders —
TALBOYS.
And my Book? Lost— lost — ^lostl Not in any one of all my pockets. I
shall goxnad.
NORTH.
Not far to go. Why yonr Book's in your hand.
TALBOYS.
At eight?
NORTH.
Seven. Archy, follow him — ^In that state of excitement he will be walking
with his spectacles on over some predpice. Keep yoor eye on him, Archy —
ARCHY.
I can pretend to be carrying the landing-net, sir.
NORTH.
There's a specimen of a Scottish Lawyer, gentlemen. What do you think
of him?
BULLER.
That he is without exception the most agreeable fellow, at first sight, I ever
met in my life.
NORTH.
And so you would continue to think him, were you to see him twice a-weck
for twenty years. But he is far more than that — though, as the world goes,
that Is mudi : his mind is steel to the back-bone — his heart is sound as his
longs — ^bis talents great — in literature, had he liked it, he might have excelled ;
¥at he has wisely chosen a better Profession — and his character now stands
high as a Lawyer and a Judge. Yonder he goes ! As fresh as a kitten after
a score and three quarter miles at the least.
BULLER.
Seward — let's after him. Billy — the minnows.
BILLY.
Here's the Can, sirs.
Scene closes.
Scene n.
Interior of Deesidc—Tnas^Seven p.m.
North— Talboys — ^Buller — Seward.
NORTH.
Seward, face Buller. Talboys, face North. Fall too, gentlemen; to-day we
disp^ose with regular service. Each man has his own distinct dinner before
him, or in the immediate vicinity— soup, fish, fiesh, fowl— and with all neces-
sary aocompaniments and sequences. How do you like the arrangement of
the table, Talboys?
22 C9an$tafher tmder Ckuwau. VMjf
TALBOTB.
The principle shows a profonnd knowledge of human nature, sir. In theory,
self-love and social are the same — ^bnt in practice, self-love looks to your own
plate — social to your neighbours. By this felicitous multiplication of dinners
— ^this One in Four — this Four in One— the harmony of the moral system is
preserved — and all woiks together for the general good. Looked at artisti-
cally, wo have here what the Germans and others say is essential to the beaa-
tifol and the sublime — Unity.
KOBTH.
I believe the Four Dinners*-if weighed separately — ^would be found not to
differ by a pound. This man^s fish mig^t prove in the scale a few ounces
heavier than that man's — but in such case, his fowl would be found just so
many ounces lighter. And so on. The Puddings are cast in the same mould
—and things equal to the same thing, are equal to one another.
TALBOYS.
The weight of each repast?
KORTH.
Calculated at twenty-five pounds.
TALBOYS.
Grand total, one hundred. The golden mean.
NORTH.
From these general views, to descend to particulars. Soup (turtle) two
Sounds— Hotch, ditto— Fish (Trout) two pounds— Flesh, (Jigot— black face
ve-year-old,) six pounds — ^Fowl (Howtowdie boiled) five pounds — ^Dnck
(wild) three pounds— Tart (gooseberry) one pound — ^Pud (Variorum Edition)
two pounds.
BULLER.
That is but twenty-three, sir ! I have taken down the gentleman's words.
NORTH.
Polite — and grateful. But you have omitted sauces and creams, breads
and cheeses. Did you ever know me incorrect in my figures, in any affirma-
tion or denial, private or public?
BULLER.
Never. Beg pardon.
NORTH.
Now that the soups and fishes seem disposed of, I boldly ask yon, one and
ally gentlemen^ if you ever beheld Four more tempting Jigots?
TALBOYS.
I am still at my Fish. No fish so sweet as of one^s own catching — so I
have the advantage of you all. This one here — ^the one I am eating at this
blessed moment — ^I killed in what the man with the Landing-net called the
Birk Pool. I know him by his peculiar physiognomy — an odd cast in his eye
— ^which has not left him on the gridiron. That Trout of my kilUng on your
plate, Mr Seward, made the fatal plunge at the tail of the stream so overhung
with Alders that you can take it successfully only by the tail — and I know him
by his colour, almost as silvery as a whitling. Yours, Mr BuUer, was the
third I killed— just where the river — ^for ariver he is to-day, whatever he may
be to-morrow — goes whirling into the Loch — and I can swear to him from his
leopard spots. Illustrious sir, of him whom yon have now disposed of— the
finest of the Four — I remember saying inwardly, as with difficulty I encreeled
him— for his shoulders were like a hog*s — ^this for the King.
NORTH.
Your perfect Pounder, Talboys, is the beau-ideal of a Scottish Trout. How
he cuts up I If much heavier — ^you are frustrated in your attempts to eat him
thoroughly — have to search — probably in vain — for what in a perfect Pounder
lies patent to the day— he is to back-bone comeatable— from gill to forit.
Seward, you are an artist. Good creel ?
SEWARD.
I gave Mr Talboys the first of the water, and followed him — a mere caprice
—with the Archimedean Minnow. I had a run — but just as the monster
1849.] CSuriitopfm mukr Cammm. 28
opened his jaws to absorb — ^he suddenly eschewed the scentless phenomenon,
and with a sollen plnnge, sunk into the deep.
BUIXBR.
I tried the natnral minnow after Seward— hat I wished Ardiimedes at S7-
racose — ^for the Screw had spread a panic — and in a panic the scaly people
lose dl power of discrimination, and fear to tonch a minnow, lest it torn np a
bit of tin or some other precious metal.
KORTH.
I hare often been lost in conjecturing how yon always manage to fill your
creel, Talboys ; for the tmth is — and it mnst be spoken — ^yon are no angler.
TALBOYS.
I can afford to smile I I was no angler, sir, ten years ago— now I am.
Bat how did I become one? By attending yoa, sir— for seven seasons — along
the Tweed and the Yarrow^ the Clyde and the Daer, the Tay and the Tam-
mel, the Don and the Dee — and treasuring up lessons from the Great Master
of the Art.
NORTH.
You surprise me ! Why, you never put a single question to me about the
art — always declined taking rod in hand — seemed reading some book or
other, held close to your eyes — or lying on banks a-dose or poetising — or
facetious with the Old Man — or with the Old Man serious — and sometimes
more than serious, as, sauntering along our winding way, we conversed of
man, of natmre, and of human life.
TALBOT8.
I never lost a single word yon said, sir, dnriog those days, breathing in every
sense ** vernal delight and joy," yet all the while I was taking lessons in the
art. The flexure of your shoulder — the sweep of your arm — ^the twist of your
wrist — ^your Dcdivery, and your Recover — ^that union of grace and power — ^the
utmost delicacy, with the most perfect precision — ^All these qualities of a
heaven-bom Angler, by which you might be known from all other men on the
banks of the WMttadder on a Fast-day
NORTH.
I never angled on a Fast-day.
TALBOYS.
A lapnu UnguiB—¥Tom a hundred anglers on the Daer, on the Queen's
Birth-day
NORTH.
My dear Friend, you ex
TALBOYS.
All those qualities of a heaven-bom Angler I leamed first to admire — ^then
to understand— and then to imitate. For three years I practised on the car-
pet— ^for three I essayed on a pond — ^for three I strove by the ranning waters
— and still the Image of Christopher North was before me— till emboldened
by conscious acquisition and constant success, I came forth and took my place
among the Anglers of my country.
BULLER.
To-day I saw you fast in a tree.
TAIJBOYS.
You mean my Fly.
BULLER.
First your Fly, and then, I think, yourself.
TALBOYS.
I have seen J7 Maestro himself in Timber, and in brashwood too. From
him I learned to disentangle knots, intricate and perplexed far beyond the
Gordian— " with frizzled hair impUcit"— round twig, branch, or bole. Not more
than half-a-dozen times of the forty that I may have been fast aloft— I speak
mainly of my noviciate — have I had to effect liberation by sacrifice.
SEWARD. A, n n
Pardon me, Mr Talboys, for hinting that you smacked off your taU-liy
to-day — ^I knew it by the sound.
24 Christopher under Canvass, U^^y^
TALBOTS.
The sound ! No trnsting to an nnccrtain sound, Mr Seward. Oh ! I did so
once — but intentionally — ^the hook had lost the barb — ^not a fish would it hold
— so I whipped it off, and on with a Professor.
BULLER.
You lost one good fish in rather an awkward manner, Mr Talboys.
TALBOTS. .
I did — that metal minnow of jours came with a splash within an inch of
his nose — and no wonder he broke mo — ^nay, I believe it was the minnow
that broke me — ^and yet you can speak of my losing a good fish in rather an
awkward manner !
NORTH.
It is melancholy to think that I have taught Young Scotland to excel
myself in all the Arts that adorn and dignify life. Till I rose, Scotland was
a barbaroucr country —
TALB0Y8.
Do say, my dear sir, semi-civilised.
NORTH.
Now it heads the Nations—and I may set.
TALBOTS.
And why should that be a melancholy thought, sir?
NORTH.
Oh, Talboys— National Ingratitude! They are fast forgetting the man
who made them what they are — ^in a flaw fleeting centuries the name of
Christopher North will be in oblivion I Would you believe it possible,
gentlemen, that even now, there are Scotsmen who never heard of the Fly
that bears the name of me, its Inventor— Killing Kit !
BULLER.
In Cornwall it is a household word.
SEWARD.
And in all the Devons.
BULLER.
Men in Scotland who never heard the name of North !
NORTH.
Christopher North — ^who is he ? Who do you mean by the Man of tlie
Crutch ?— The Knight of the Ejioui ? Better never to have been bom than
thus to be virtually dead.
SEWARD.
Su*, be comforted — ^you arc under a delusion— Britain is ringing with your
name.
NORTH.
Not that I care for noisy fame — ^but I do dearly love the still.
TALBOTS.
And you have it, shr— enjoy it and be thankful.
NORTH.
But it may be too still.
TAI30TS.
My dear sir, what would you have ?
NORTH.
I taught you, Talboys, to play Chess — and now you trumpet Staunton.
TALBOTS.
Chess — ^Where's the board? Let us have a game.
NORTH.
Drafts— and you quote Anderson and the Shepherd Laddie.
TALBOTS.
Mr North, why so querulous?
NORTH.
Where was the Art of Criticism ? Where Prose ? Young Scotland owes all
her Composition to me — ^buries me in the eai'th^ — and then claims inspiration
from heaven. ^' How sharper than a Seopent^s tooth it is to have a thankless
1849.] CSiriitopher vndtr Canvau. 25
€lnld I " Peter— Peteiidn—Pjm—Stretch^where are your lazinesses-niear
decks.
^ Awftj with Melancholy —
Nor doleftil changes ring
On Life and hnman Folly;
BqI merrily, merrily sing^fal la !"
BULLSR.
What a sweet pipe ! A single snatch of an old song from jon, sir—
NORTH.
Why are yon glowering at me, Talboys?
TALBOYS.
It has oome Into my head, I know not how, to ask you a question.
KORTH.
Let it be an easy one— for I am languid.
TALBOTS.
Pray, sir, what is the precise signiacation of the word '< Classical?'*
NORTH.
My dear Talboys, you seem to think that I have the power of answering,
off-hand, any and eveiy question a first-rate fellow chooses to ask me. Clas*
aical— classical! Why, I should say, in the first place— One and one other
Mighty People— Those, the Kings of Thought— These, the Kings of the
Earth.
TALBOTS.
The Greeks — and Bomans.
NORTH.
In the second place —
TALBOTS.
Attend— do attend, gentlemen. And I hope I am not too much presuming
on our not ancient friendship— for I feel that a few hours on Lochawe-side
gire the privilege of years — ^in suggesting that you will have the goodness to
use the metal nnt-cradLcrs ; they are more euphonious than ivory with walnuts.
NORTH.
In the second place— let me consider— Mr Talboys— I should say— in the
second place — yes, I have it— a Character of Art expressing itself by words :
a mode — a mode of Poetry and Eloquence — Fitness and Beautt.
TALBOTS.
Thank you, sir. Fitness and Beauty. Anything more?
NORTH.
Much more. We think of the Greeks and Romans, sir, as those in whom
the Human Mind reached Superhuman Power.
TALBOTS.
Superhuman?
NORTH.
We think so— comparing ourselves with them, we cannot help it. In the
Hellenic Wit, we suppose Genius and Taste met at their height — ^the Inspira-
tion Omnipotent — ^the Instinct unerring! The creations of Greek Poetiy ! —
llmmit — a Making! There the soul seems to be free from its chains — ^happily
aelf-lawed. ^' The Earth we pace" is there peopled with divine Forms. Sculp-
ture was the human Form glorified— deified. And as in Marble, so in Song.
Something common — terrestrial — ^adheres to our being, and weighs us down.
Th^—the Hellenes— appear to us to have rtaUy walked— as we walk in our
▼iatons of exaltation— as if the Graces and the Muses held sway over daily
and houriy existence, and not alone over work of Art and solemn occasion.
No moral stain or imperfection can hinder them from appearing to ns as the
Light of hnman kind. Singular, that in Greece we reconcile ourselves to
Hnithenism.
TALBOTS.
It may be that we are all Heathens at heart.
NORTH.
The entbosiaat adores Greece— not knowing that Greece monarchises over
26 • C3knsiop?i€r under Canxnu. [JqIt?
him, only because it is a miracnlons mirror that resplendently and more beau-
tifully reflects — himself—
'* Diyisqne yidebit
Permixtos Heroas, et Ipse Tidebitnr iUls."
SEWARD.
Very fine.
NORTH.
0 life of old, and long, long ago I In the meek, solemn, soul-stilling hush of
Academic Bowers !
SEWARD.
ThelsisI
NORTH.
My youth returns. Come, spirits of the world that has been ! Throw open
the valvules of these your shrines, in which you stand around me, niched side
by side, in visible presence, in this cathedral- like Libwy ! I read Historian,
Poet, Orator, Voyager — a life that slid silently away in shades, or that
bounded like a bark over the billows. I lift up the curtain of all age»— I stand
imder all skies — on the Capitol — on the Acropolis. Like that magician whose
spirit, with a magical word, could leave his own bosom to inhabit another, I
take upon myself every mode of existence. I read Thucydides, and I would
be a Historian — Demosthenes, and I would be an Orator — Homer, and I dread
to believe myself called to be, in some shape or other, a servant of the Muse.
Heroes and Hermits of Thought — Seers of the Invisible — ^Prophets of the
Ineffable — Ilierophants of profitable mysteries — Oracles of the Nations —
Luminaries of that spiritual Heaven ! I bid ye hail 1
BULLBR.
The fit is on him — ^he has not the slightest idea that he is in Deeside.
NORTH.
Ay — from the beginning a part of the race have separated themselves from
the dusty, and the dust-devoured, turmoil of Action to Contemplation. Have
thought — known — worshipped! And such knowledge Books keep. Books
now crumbling like Towers and Pyramids — now outlasting them I Biooks that,
from age to age, and all the sections of mankind helping, build up the pile of
Knowledge — a trophied Citadel. He who can read Books as they should be
read, peruses the operation of the Creator in his conscious, and in his uncon-
scious Works, which yet we call upon to join, as if conscious, in our worship.
Yet why — oh ! why all this pains to attain that, through the labour of ages,
which in the dewy, sunny prime of mom, one thrill of transport gives to me
and to the Lark alike, summoning, lifting both heavenwards? Ah ! perchance
because the dewy, sunny prime does not last through the day ! Because light
poured into the eyes, and sweet breath inhaled, are not the whole of man^s life
here below — and because there is an Hereafter !
SEWARD.
1 know where he is, Buller. He called it well a Cathedral-like Library.
NORTH.
The breath of departed years floats here for my respiration. The pure air
of heaven flows round about, but enters not. The sunbeams glide in, be- "
dimmed as if in some haunt half-separated from Life, yet on our side of Death.
Kecess, hardly accessible— profound — of which I, the sole inmate, held under
an uncomprehended restraint, breathe, move, and follow my own way and
wise, apart from human mortals ! Ye I tall, thick Volumes, that are each a
treasure-house of austere or blazing thoughts, which of you shall I touch with
sensitive fingers, of which violate the calmly austere repose ? I dread what I
desire. You may disturb — ^you may destroy me 1 Knowledge puisates in me,
as I receive it, communing with myself on my unquiet or tearful pillow— or as
it visits me, brought on the streaming moonlight, or from the fields afire with
noon-splendour, or looking at me from human eyes, and stirring round and
around me in the tumult of men — Your knowledge comes in a holy stillness and
dullness, as if spelt off tombstones.
lSi9J} Ckntttqthar wuier Ccanoan. 27
SIWARD.
Magdalen College library, I do believe. Mr North— Mr NortJi— awake-
awake — ^here we are all in Deeside.
NORTH.
Ay— ay— yon say well, Seward. " Look at the studies of the Great
Scholar, and see from how many qnarters of the mind impnlses may mingle
to compose the motives that bear him on with indefatigable streDgth in his
laborious career."
SEWARD.
These were not my very words, sir —
NORTH.
Ay, Seward, you say well. From how many indeed I First among the
prime, that peculiar aptitude and faculty, which may be called — a Taste and
Genius for — ^Words.
BULLER.
I rather fuled there in the Schools.
NORTH.
Yet yoQ were in the First Class. There is implied in it, Seward, a readi-
ness (rf* logical discrimination in the Understanding, which apprehends the
propriety of Words.
BULLER.
I got up my Logic passably and a little more.
NORTH.
For, Seward, the Thoughts, the Notions themselves — must be distinctly
dissevered in the mind, which shall exactly apply to each Thought — ^Notion —
its appropriate sign, its own Word.
BULLER.
Yon might as well have said '^ BuUer "—for I beat Seward in my Logic.
NORTH.
But even to this task, Seward, of rightly distinguishing the meaning of
Words, more than a mere precision of thinking — more than a clearness and
strictness of the intellectual action is requisite.
BULLER.
And in Classics we were equal.
NORTH.
You will be convinced of this, Buller, if you recollect what Words express.
The mind itseUl For all its affections and sensibilities, Talboys, furnish
a whole host of meanings, which must have names in Language. For
mankind do not rest from enriching and refining their languages, until they
have made them doable of giving the representation of their whole Spirit.
TALBOYS.
The pupil of language, therefore, sir— pardon my presumption — before he
can recognise the appropriation of the Sign, must recognise the Thing signified?
NORTH.
And if the Thing signified, Talboys, by the Word, be some profound, solemn,
and moral affection— or if it be some wild, fanciful impression— or if it be
some delicate shade or tinge of a tender sensibility — can anything be more
evident than that the Scholar must have experienced in himself the solemn,
or the wild, or the tenderly delicate feeling before he is in the condition of
a£Sxing the right and true sense to the Word that expresses it?
TALBOYS.
I should think so, sir.
SEWARD.
The Words of Man paint the spirit of Man. The Words of a People
depicture the Spirit of a People.
NORTH
Wen said, Seward. And, therefore, the Understanding that is to possew
the Words of a language, in the Spirit in which they were or are spoken and
written, must, by self-experience and sympathy, be able to converse, and
have conversed, with the Spirit of the People, now and of old.
38 Chiatapher under Canvass, [Jnlyt
BULLER.
And yet what coarse fellows hold np their danderheads as Scholars, forsootfa,
in these our days !
NORTH.
Hence it is an impossibility that a low and hard moral nature shonld fur-
nish a high and fine Scholar. The intellectual endowments must be supported
and made available by the concurrence of the sensitive natnro—of the moral
and the imaginative sensibilities.
BULLER.
What moral and imaginative sensibilities have they — the blear-eyed — the
purblind — the pompons and the pedantic 1 But we have some true scholars
— for example
NORTH.
No names, Bullcr. Yes, Seward, the knowledge of Words is the Gate of
Scholarship. Therefore I lay down upon the threshold of the Scholar's
Studies this first condition of his high and worthy success, that he will not
Sluck the loftiest palm by means of acute, quick, clear, penetrating, sagacious,
itellectnal faculties alone — let him not hope it: that he requires to the
highest renown also a capacious, profound, and tender soul.
SEWARD.
Ay, sir, and I say so in all humility, this at the gateway, and upon the
threshold. How much more when he reads.
NORTH.
Ay, Seward, you laid the emphasis well there — reads.
SEWARD.
When the written Volumes of Mind from different and distant ages of the
world, from its different and distant climates, are successively unrolled before
his insatiable sight and hb insatiable soul !
BULLER.
Take all things in moderation.
NORTH.
No— not the sacred hunger and thirst of the soul.
BULLER.
Greed — give — give.
NORTH.
From what unknown recesses, from what unlocked fountains in the depth
of his own being, shall he bring into the light of day the thoughts by means
of which he shall understand Homer, Pindar, iBschylus, Demosthenes, Plato,
Aristotle — discoursing I Shall understand them, as the younger did the
elder — the contemporaries did the contemporaiies — as each sublime spirit
understood— himself ?
BULLER.
Did each sublime spirit always understand himself?
TALBOTS.
Urge that, Mr Buller.
NORTH.
So— and so only— to read, is to be a Scholar.
BULLER.
Then I am none.
NORTH.
I did not say you were.
BULLER.
Thank you. What do you think of that, Mr Talboys? Address Seward,
6ir.
NORTH.
I address you all three. Is the student smitten with the sacred love of
Song ? Is he sensible to the profound allurement of philosophic truth ? Does
ho yearn to acquaint himself with the fates and fortunes of his kind ? All
these several desires are so many several inducements of learned study.
BULLER.
I understand that.
1849.] Chrittopher under Canvass. 29
TAIAOTS.
Ditto.
KORTH.
And another indacement to such study is— an ear sensible to the Beanty of
the Musk of Words — and the metaphysical faculty of unravelling the causal
process which the human mind followed in imparting to a Woni, originally
the sign of one Thought only, the power to signify a cognate second Thought,
which shall displace the first possessor and exponent, usurp Vie throne, and
mle for ever oyer an extended empire in the mindsj or the hearts, or the
souls of men.
BULLER.
Let him have his swing, Mr Talboys.
TALBOYS.
He has it in that chair.
NORTH.
A Ttate and a Genius for Words ! An ear for the beautiful music of Words I
A happy justness in the perception of their strict proprieties I A fine skill in
apprehending^ the secret relations of Thought with Thought— relations alone
which the mmd moves with creative power, to find out for its own use, and
for the use of all minds to come, some hitherto uncreated expression of an
Idea— an image — a sentiment — a passion! These dispositions, and these
faculties of the Scholar in another Mind falling in with other faculties of
genius, produce a student of a different name—THs Poet.
BULLER.
Oh I my dear dear sir, of Poetry we surely had enough — ^I don't say more
than enough — a few days ago, sir.
NORTH.
Who is the Poet ?
BULLER.
I beseech you let the Poet alone for this evening.
NORTH.
Well— I will. I remember the time, Seward, when there was a great cla-
mour for a Standard of Taste. A definite measure of the indefinite !
TALBOTS.
Which is impossible.
NORTH.
And there is a great clamour for a Standard of Morals. A definite measure
of the indefinite !
TALBOYS.
Wluch is impossible.
NORTH.
Why, Mntlemen, the Faculty of Beauty 2tiM»; and in finite beings, which
we are. Life changes incessantly. The Faculty of Moral Perception Iwes-^
and thereby it too changes for better and for worse. This is the Divine Law
— ^at once encouraging and fearful^that Obedience brightens the moral eye-
sight—Sin darkens. Let all men know this, and keep it in mmd always^that
a smgle narrowest, sunplest Duty, steadily practised day after day, does more
to support, and may do more to enlighten the soul of the Doer, than a course of
Moral Philosophy taught by a tongue which a soul compounded of Bacon,
Spenser, Shakspeare, Homer, Demosthenes, and Burke— to say nothing of
Socrates, and Plato, and Aristotle, should inspke.
BULLER.
You put it strongly, su*.
TALBOYS.
Undeniable doctrine.
NORTH
Gentlemen, you will often find this question— "Is there a Standarf of
Taste? " inextricably confused with the question ," Is there a true and a false
Taste ? " He who denies the one seems to deny the other. In like manner,
" Is there a Rl^t and Wrong ? " And " is there accessible to us an mfaUible
so ChriMtopher under CimooM. EJoITi
measure of Bight and Wrong ** are two questions entirely distinct, bat often
confused — for Liogic fled the earth with Astrsea.
TALBOTS.
She did.
NOBTH.
Talboys, yon understand well enough the seDse and coiture of the Beantifnl?
TALBOTB.
Something of it perhaps I do.
170BTH.
To feel — to love — ^to be swallowed up in the spirit and works of the Beautiful
— in verse and in the visible Universe I That is a life— an enthusiasm — a
worship. You find those who would if they could, and who pretend they can,
attain the same end at less cost. They have taken lessons, and they will
have their formalities go valid against the intuitions of the dedicated aouL
TALBOTS.
But the lessons perish— the dedicated soul is a Power in all emergencies and
extremities.
NORTH.
Thore are Pharisees of Beanty— and Pharisees of Morality.
SEWARD.
At this day spiritual Christians lament that nine-tenths of Christiaiis
Judaise.
NORTH.
Nor without good reason. The Gospel is the Standard of Christian
Morality. That is unquestionable. It is an authority without appeal, and
under which undoubtedly all matters, uncertain before, will ficdl. Bat pray
mark this — ^it is not a positive standard^ in the ordinary meaning of that woid
— it is not one of which our common human understanding has only to require
and to obtain the indications-^which it has only to apply and observe.
SEWARD.
I see your meaning, sir. The (rospel refers all moral intelligence to the
Light of Love within our hearts. Therefore, the very reading or the canons,
of every prescriptive line in it, must be by this light
NORTH.
That is my meaning — ^but not my whole meaning, dear Seward. For take
it, as it unequivocally declares itself to be, a Bevelation — not simply of in-
stmction, committed now and for ever to men in written human words, and
so left— but accompanied with a perpetual agen^ to enable 'Will and Under-
standing to receive it ; and then it will follow, X believe, that it is at every
moment intelligible and applicable in its full sense, only by a direct and pre-
sent inspiration — is it too much to say— anew revealing itself? '^ They shall
be taught of God."
SEWARD.
So far, then, from the Christian M<nrality bemg one of which the Standard
is i^plicable by every Understanding, with like result in given cases, it is one
that is different to every Christian in proportion to his ol^dience?
NORTH.
Evoi 80. I suppose that none have ever reached the fiill understanding of
it. It is an evergrowing illumination — a light more and more unto the peiroct
day— which day I suppose cannot be of the same life, in whicJi we see aa
through a glass darkly.
TALBOYS.
May I offer an illustration? The land shall descend to the eldest son— you
shall love your neighbour as yourself. In the two codes these are founda-
tion-stones. But see how they differ I There is the land— here is the eldest
son — the right is clear and fast — and the case done with. But — do to tiiy
neighbour ! Do what ? and to whom ?
NORTH.
AU human actions, all human aflbctions, all human thoughts are then contained
in the one Iaw— as the mi^ of which it defines the diinMsal. Ail mankind,
1849.] Ckrisiqpkar mmder OamHUS. 31
bat distributed into communities, and individuals all differently related to me
are contained in it, as the panie$ in respect of whom it defines the disposal !
8SWABD.
And what is the Form ? Do as thou wouldst it be done to thee !
NOBTH.
Ay — ^my dear friend — ^The form resolves into a feeling. Love thy neighbour.
That is all. Is a measure given ? As thyself.
SEWAXD.
And is there no limitation ?
NORTH.
By the whole appoaition, thy love to thyself and thy neighbour are both
to be put together in subordination to, and limitation and relation by— thy
Love to God. Love Him utterly— infinitely— with all thy mind, all thy heart,
ill thy strength. This is the entire book or canon-^THE STA2a>ARD. How
wholly indefinite and formless to the Understanding 1 How full of light
and form to the believing and loving Heart I
SEWARD.
The Moon is up— how calm the night after all that tempest — and how
steady the Stars 1 Images ci enduring peace in the heart of nature-^and of
man. They, too, are a Revelation.
NORTH.
They, too, are the legible Book of Gk)d. Try to conceive how different the
World must be to its rational inhabitant — with or without a Maker I llihik
of it as a sooUess — ^will-less Worid. In one sense, it abounds as much with
good to enjoy. But there is no good-giver. The banquet spread, but the
Lord of the Mansicm away. The feast — and neither grace nor welcome. The
heaped enjoyment^ without the gratitude.
SEWARD.
Tet there have been Philosophers who so misbelieved!
NORTH.
Alas I tliere have been — and alas ! there are. And what low souls must be
theirs I The tone and temper of our feelings are determined by the objects with
which we habitually converse. If we see beautiful scenes, they impart sere-
nity— ^if sublime scenes, they elevate ns. Will no serenity, no elevation come
from contemplating Him, of whose Thought the Beautiful and the Sublime are
bat shadows I
SEWARD.
No ainceie <^ elevating influence be lost out of a World out of which He
is lost?
NORTH.
^010 we look upon Planets and Suns, and see Intelligence ruling them— on
Seasona that succeed each oUier, and we apprehend Design^on plant and
animal fitted to its place in tiie worid, and furnished with its due means of
existence, and repeated for ever in its kind — and we admire Wisdom. Oh I
Atheist or Sceptic — what a difference to Us if the marvellous Laws are here
without a Lawgiver — ^If Design be here without a Designer — all the Order
that wisdom could mean and effect, and not the Wisdom — if Chance, or
Kecesstty, or Fate reigns here, and not Mind— 4f this Universe is matter of
Astonishaent merely, and not of adoration I
SEWARD.
We are made better, nobler, sir, by the society of the good and the noble.
Perhaps of ourselves unable to think high thoughts, and without the bold
warmth that dares generously, we catch by degrees something of the mounting
spirit, and of the aidour proper to the stronger souls with whom we live fami-
liarty, and become sharers and imitators of virtues to which we could not
have givea birth. The devoted courage of a leader turns his followers into
heroei--tiie patient death of one martyr inflames in a thousand slumbering
bosoms a seal answeraUe to his own. And shall Perfect Goodness oontem-
plaledaM>TB no goodness in us? Shall His Holiness and Purity raise fai nsno
desire to be holy and pure ?— His inflnite Love towards His creatures kbdle
no spaiic of lore in us towards our feUow-creaturesf
82 Christopher under Canvass. V^J^
NORTH.
God bless you, my dear Seward — but you speak well. Our fellow- creatures !
The name, the binding title, dissolves in aii', if He be not our common Creator.
Take away that bond of relationship among men, and according to circum-
stances they confront one another as friends or foes — ^but Brothers no longer —
if not children of one celestial Father.
TALBOYS.
And if they no longer have immortal souls !
NORTH.
Oh ! my friends — if this winged and swift life be all our life, what a mourn-
ful taste have we had of possible happiness ? We have, as it were, from some
dark and cold edge of a bright world, just looked in and been plucked away
again I Have we come to experience pleasure by fits and glimpses ; but inter-
twined with pain, burdensome labour, with weariness, and with indifference ?
Have we come to try the solace and joy of a warm, fearless, and confiding
affection, to be then chUlcd or blighted by bitterness, by separation, by cliange
of heart, or by the dread sundercr of loves — Death ? Have we found the
gladness and the strength of knowledge, when some rays of truth have
flashed in upon our souls, in the midst of error and uncertainty, or amidst con-
tinuous, necessitated, uninstructive avocations of the Understanding — and is
that all ? Have we felt in fortunate hour the charm of the Beautiful, that
invests, as with a mantle, this visible Creation, or have we found ourselves
lifted above the earth by sudden apprehension of sublimity ? Have we had
the consciousness of such feelings, which have seemed to us as if they might
themselves make up a life— almost an angePs life — and wei*e they '^ instant
come and instant gone ?" Have we known the consolation of Doing Bight,
in the midst of much that we have done wrong? and was that also a corrus-
cation of a transient sunshine ? Have we lifted up our thoughts to see Him
who is Love, and Light, and Truth, and Bliss, to be in the next instant
plunged into the darkness of annihilation? Have all these things been but
flowers that we have pulled by the side of a hard and tedious way, and that,
after gladdening us for a brief season with hue and odour, wither in our
hands, and are like ourselves — nothing ?
BUIXER.
I love you, shr, better and better every day.
NORTH.
We step the earth— we look abroad over it, and it seems immense — so does
the sea. What ages had men lived— and knew but a small portion. They cir-
cumnavigate it now with a speed under which its vast bulk shrinks. But let the
astronomer lift up his glass and he learns to believe in a total mass of matter,
compared with which this great globe itself becomes an imponderable grain
of dust. And so to each of us walking along the road of life, a year, a day,
or an hour shall seem long. As we grow older, the time shortens ; but when
we lift up our eyes to look beyond this earth, our seventy years, and the few
thousands of years which have rolled over the human race, vanish into a point:
for then we are measuring Time agsdnst Eternity.
TALBOYS.
And if we can find ground for believing that this quickly-measured span of
Life is but the beginning— the dim daybreak of a Life immeasurable, never
attaining to its night — what weight shall we any longer allow to the cares,
fears, toils, troubles, afliictions— which here have sometimes bowed down our
strength to the ground— a burden more than we could bear?
NORTH.
They then all acquire a new character. That they are then felt as transi-
tory must do something towards lightening theur load. But more is disclosed
HI them; for they then appear as having an unsuspected worth and use. If
this life be but the begmning of another, then it may be believed that the
accidents and passages thereof have some bearing upon the conditions of that
other, and we learn to look on this as a state of Probation. Let us out, and
look at the sky. '
1349.]
The Iskmd of Sardinia.
38
THE ISLAND OF SARDDs'IA.
The opinion of Kelson with regard
to the importance of Sardinia, — that
it is ^* worth a hundred Maltas,'*
is well known ; and that he strongly
recommended its purchase to our gov-
ernment, thinking it might be obtain-
ed for £500,000. We can scarcely
bdieve that Nelson failed to make an
impreesionon the goveroment, and con-
jecture rather that it was with the King
of Sardinia the precious iuheritance
of a Kaboth*s yineyard. We do not
remember to have met With a Sardi-
nian tonrist. Travellers as wo are,
with our ready ** Hand-Books" for
the remote comers of the earth, we
seem, by a general consent, to have
cut SardQnia from the map of observ-
able conntries. *^ Nos numerus sumus "
— we plead guilty to this ignorance
and ni^lect, and should have remain-
ed onoonoemed about Sardinia still,
had we not, in the work of MrTyndtde,
dipped into a few extracts from Lord
Nelson's letters. Extending our read -
iog, we find in these three volumes
90 much research, learning, historical
speculation, and interesting matter,
interspersed with amusing narrative,
that we think a notice in Maga of this
valuable and agreeable work may be
not unacceptable.
The very circumstance that Sar-
dinia is little known, renders it an
agreeable speculation. The ipnotum
makes the diarm. Our pleasure is in
the fabulous, the dubious, the uncx-
plidned. In the ecstacy of i|norance
the reader stands by the side of Mr
Layard, watching the exhumation of
the nnknown gods or demons of Nine-
veh. " Ignorance is bliss," — for the
subject-matter of ignorance is fact —
fact is(^ated — or the broken links in
time's long chain. The mind longs
to fabricate, and connect. Were it pos-
e&Ae tiiat other sibylline books should
be offered for sale, it would bo pre-
ferable that Mr Murray should act the
part of Tarquin than publish them as
*' Uaod-Books." In truth, curiosity,
that happy ingredient in the clay of
tlie human mind, if so material an ex-
prasslon be allowed, is fed by igno-
rance, but dies under a surfeit of
knowledge. Now, to apply this to
our subject— Sardinia. The island is
full of monuments, as mysterious to
us as the Pyramids. There is suffi-
cient obscurity to make a ** sublime."
It is happy for the reader, who has
not lost his natural propensity to won-
der, that there is so little known re-
specting them, and yet such grounds
for conjecture ; for he may be sure
that, if any documents existed any-
where, MrTyndale would have dis-
covered them, for he is the most
indefatigable of authors in exploring
in all the mines of literature. But ho
has to treat of things that were be-
fore literature was. The traveller
who should first discover a Stone-
lienge — one who, walking on a hither-
to untrodden plain, shoiUd come sud-
denly upon two such great sedate
sitting images in stone as look over
Egyptian sands— is he not greatly to bo
envied? We, who peer about our cities
and villages, raking out decayed stone
and mortar for broken pieces of antique
art or memorial, as we facetiously
term the remnants of a few hundrecl
years, and of whose " whereabouts,"
from the beginning, we can receive
some tolerable assurance, have but a
slight glimpse of the delight experi-
enced by the first finder of a monument
of the Felasgi, or even Cyclopean
walls. But to make conjecture upon
monuments beyond centuries — to
count by thousands of years, and
make out of them a dream that shall,
like an Arabian magician, take the
dreamer back to the Flood — is a
happiness enjoyed by few. We
never envied traveller more than
we once did that lady who came
suddenly upon the Etrurian monu-
ment, in which there was just aperture
enough to see for a moment only a
sitting figure, with its look and drapery
of more than thousands of years ; who
just saw it for a few seconds, pre-
served only in the stUlness of antiquity,
and fallhig to dust at her very breath-
ing. Not so ancient the monu-
ment, but of like character the dis-
TksItUmd of Sardinia. By Joun Warrs Tyndalb. 3 tola., post Bro.
VOL. LXn,— KO. COOCV. c
84
The Island of Sardinia.
[July,
coveiy of him who, digging within
the walls of his own honse at Portici,
came npon marble steps that led him
down and down, till he fonnd before
hhn, in the obscure, a white marble
equestrian statue the size of life. If
one could be made a poet, these two
incidents were enough. The interior
of Sardinia has been hitherto a kind of
*^ terra incognita.'* Mr Tyndale must
therefore have ascended and descended
its cragsy or wooded mountains, and
threaded its ravines, and crossed its
fertile or desolate plains, with no com-
mon feeling of expectation ; and though
the frequent " Noraghe" and " Sepol-
tnre de is Gigantes," and their accom-
panying strange conical stones, were
not of a character to fill him with that
amazement produced by the above-
mentioned incidents, they were suffi-
ciently mysterious, and the attempt
to reach them in some instances suffi-
ciently adventurous — to keep idive the
mind, and stir the imagination to the
working out visions, and conjuring up
the seeming-probable existences of the
past, or wilder dreams, in such variety
as reason deduced or fancy willed.
On one occasion he descended an aper-
ture, in a domed chamber of aNoraghe,
groped his way through a subterranean
passage, and came upon some findy-
pulverised matter, ^^ about fifteen
mches deep, which at first appeared
to be earth, but on scraping into it
were several human bones, some broken
and others mouldering away on being
touched." But here the reader unac-
quainted with Sardinia, as it may be
presumed very many are, may ask
something about these Noraghe, with
their domed chambers, and the Sepol-
ture. There may be a preliminary
inquiry into the origin of the inhabi-
tants. Various are the statements of
difierent authors: without following
chronological order, we may readily
concur in their conclusions, that the
island was peopled by Phoenician, Li-
byan^ Tyrrhenian, Greek, l^ojan, and
other colonies — unless the disquisi-
tions of some historians of our day
would compel us to reject the Trojans,
in the doubt as to the existence of
Troy itself. But many of these may
have been only partial, temporary
inunigrations, which found a people in
prior possession. The argument is
strongly in favour of the supposition
that the Sarde nation are of Phoenician
origin, and that its antiquities are
Phoenician, or of a still earlier epoch.
In descending to more historic times,
we find the Carthaginians exercis-
ing influence there as early as 700
B.C., and that the island suffered
severely from the alternate sway of the
rival powers of Rome and Ca[rthage.
And here we are disposed to rest,
utterly disinclined to follow the laby-
rinth of cruelties which the history of
every people, nation, and language
under the sun presents.
If, at least for the present moment,
a disgust of history is a disqualifi-
cation for the notice of such a work
as this before us, the reader must be
referred to the book itself at once;
but there are in it so many subjects of
interest, both as to customs, manners,
and some characters that shine out
from the dark pages of history here
and there, that we venture on, not
careful of the thread, but with a pur-
pose of taking it up, wherever there
may be a promise of amusement.
There is little pleasure in recording
how many hundreds of thousands were
put to the sword by Carthaginians,
Komans, and, subsequently, Vandals
and Goths ; nor the various tyrannies
arising out of contests for the posses-
sion of the island, which have been
continually inflicted upon the people
by the European powers of Christian
times. Mankind never did, and it
may be supposed never will, let each
other alone. We are willing to be-
lieve that peace and security, for
any continuance, is not for man on
earth, and that his nature requires
this universal stirring activity of ag-
gression and defence, for the develop-
ment of his powers — and that out of
this evil comes good. Where would
be virtue without suffering ? Yet we
are not always in the humour to sit
out the tragedy of human life. There
are moments when the present and
real troubles of our own times press
too heavily on the spirits, and we
shrink from the scrutiny of past re-
sults, through a dread of a similar
future, and gladly seek relief from
bitter truths in lighter speculations.
In such a humour we confess a dislike
to biographv, in which kind of reading
the future docs cast its dark shadow
before, and we are constantly haunted
1349.3 Tl^Idmdoj
\jj the sJKMt of the last pages, amid
the earnest pnrsnits and perhi^
gaieties of the fiist Bat what that
last page of biography is, we find
nearly ereiT page of history to be,
only hr sadder, and far more cmel.
Iheman's tale may tell as that at least
he died in his bed ; bat history draws
op the cnrtain at every act, presenting
to the nnqoiet sig^t, scenes of whole-
sale tortores, poisonings, slanghters,
and fields of onbaried and mutilated
It is time to say something of these
monnments of great antiqaity, the
Koraghe, and what they are, before
qpecoUting upon who baUt them. We
extract the following account, unable
to make it more concise : —
** All an boilt <m natarml or artifloial
iiomdi, whether in Talieys, pUunB, or on
AomitiiBs, indBome are partially enclomd
at a sUgbt dietaooe, by a low wall of a
similar eooftraetion to the bnildiiig.
Tbeir eeeeatial arehiteetiiral feature is a
tmneated eooe or tower, areragiiig from
tidrtj to sixty feet in height, and from
one hundred to three hundred in drcnm-
fcreMe at the baie. The miy'ority have
no baeement) bnt the rest are raised on
one extending either in oorresponding or
in irregnlar riiape, and of which the peri-
meter ^87100 from three hundred to six
himdred and ilfly-three feet, the largest
yet meaeored. The inward inclination
of the exterior wall of the principal tower,
which almost always is the centre of the
boildingy is so well executed as to pre-
sent, in its eleration, a perfect and con-
tinnooaly symmetrical line ; bnt some-
times a smidl portion of the external fftce
of the onterworks of the basements,
which are not regular, is straight and
perpendicular : such instances are, how-
ever, reiy rare. There is eyery reason
to beUere, though without podtiTc proof
— fer none of tito Noraghe are quite per-
fect— that the cone was originally trun-
cated, and formed thereby a platform on
its summit. The material of which they
are built being always the natural stone
of the locality, we accordingly find them
of gnudte, limestone, basalt, trachiUo por-
phyry, lava, and tufe; the blocks yarying
in dupe and sise from three to nine cubic
feet, while those ferming the architrayes
of the passages are sometimes twelye feet
leng, fiye feet wide, and the same in
depth. The sorfeees present that slight
irrsgnlarity which proyes the blocks to
hate been rudely worked by the hammer,
but with soflldent exactness to ferm re-
gular horiaontal layers. With few excep-
36
tions, the stones are not polygonal, but,
when BO, are without that regularity of
form which would indicate the use of the
rule; nor is their construction of the Cy-
clopean and PehuBgic styles; neither haye
they any sculpture, ornamental work, or
cement. The external entrance, inyari-
ably between the E^.£. and S. by W.,
but generally to the east of south, seldom
exceeds fiye feet high and two feet wide,
and is often so small as to necessitate
crawling on all fours. The architraye, as
preyiously mentioned, is yery large; bnt
haying once passed it, a passage yarying
from three to six feet high, and two to
four wide, leads to the principal domed
chamber, the entrance to which is some-
times by another low i^rtnre as small as
the first. The interior of tiie cone con-
sists of one, two, or three domed cham-
bers, placed one aboye the other, and di-
minishing in size in proportion to the ex-
ternal inclination ; the lowest ayeraging
from fifteen to twenty feet in diameter,
and from twenty to twenty-fiye in height.
The base of each is always circular, but,
when otherwise, ellipticiU ; the edges of
the stones, where the tiers oyerlay each
other, are woiked off, so that the exterior
assumes a semioyoidal form, or that of
which the section would be a parabola,
the apex being crowned with a large flat
Btone, resting on the last circular layer,
which is reduced to a small diameter."
" In the interior of the lowest chamber,
and on a leyel with the floor, are fre-
quently from two to four cells or niches,
formed in the thickness of the masonry
without external communication, yarying
from three to six feet long, two to four
wide, and two to fiye high, and only ac-
cessible by yery small entrances. The
access to the second and third chambers,
as well as to the platform on the top of
those Noraghe which haye only one
chamber, is by a spiral corridor made in
the building, either as a simple ramp,
with a gradual ascent, or with rough
irregular steps made in the stones. The
corridor yaries from three to six feet in
height, and from two to four in width,
and the outer side either inclines accord-
ing to the external wall of the cone, and
the inner side according to the domed
chamber, or resembles in the section a
segment of a circle. The entrance to
this spiral corridor is generally in the
horizontal passage which leads from the
external entrance to the first-floor cham-
ber of the cone; though sometimes it is
by a small aperture in the chamber, about
six or ei^t feet from the base, and yery
dii&cult of entry. The upper chambers
are entered by a small passage at right
angles to this corridor; and opposite to
Tlie Island of Sardinia,
36
this passage, is often a small aperture in
the outer wall, having apparently no re-
gular position, though frequently over the
external entrance to the ground floor ;
while, in some instances, there are several
apertures so made that only the sky, or
most distant objects in the horizon, are
visible."
Such is the description of these
singular structures — when and by
whom built ? Their number must have
been very great indeed ; for although
there have ever been decay and ab-
straction of the materials for common
purposes going on, there are now up-
wards of three thousand in existence ;
yet, not one has been built during the
last 2500 years. Not only is the
inquiry, by whom, and when were
they erected, but for what purpose?
On all these points, various opinions
have been given. Mr Tyndale, who
has well weighed all that has been
written on the subject, is of opinion
that they were built by the very early
Can aanites, when, expelled from their
country, they migrated to Sardinia.
There are visible indications of other
migrations of the Canaanites, but no-
where are exactly, or even nearly
similar buildings found. We know,
upon the authority of Procopius, that
in Mauritania were two columns, on
which were inscribed in Phoenician cha-
racters, " We are those who fled from
the face of Joshua, the robber, the son
of Nane." There is certainly a kind of
similarity between these buildings and
the round towers of Ireland— a sub-
ject examined by our author; but
there is also a striking dissimilarity in
dimensions, thev not being more than
from eight to fltteen feet in diameter.
But there is a tumulus on the banks
of the BojTic, between Drogheda and
Slane, which in its passages, domed
chambers, and general dimensions,
may find some affinity mth the Sarde
Noraglie. It certainly is curious that
an opinion has been foimed, not with-
out show of reason for the conjecture,
that these people, whether as Canaan-
ites, Phoenicians, or Carthaginians,
reached Ireland ; and it is well known
that the single specimen of the Car-
thaginian language, in a passage in
Plautus, is very intelligible Irish.
It has been observed that when Cato,
in the Roman senate, uttered those
celebrated and significant words,
[July,
" Delenda est Carthago," he was nn-
consciously fulfilling a decree against
that denounced people. AVe should
be unwilling to trace the denundation
further. There are, however, few things
more astonishing in history, than
that so powerful a people as the Car-
thaginians were — the great rivals of
the masters of the world, should have
been appareiitly so utterly swept from
the face of the world, and nothing
left, even of their language, but those
few unintelligible (unless they be
Irish) words in Plautus.
The " Sepolture de is Gigantes"
should also be here noticed.
** They may be described as a series of
large stones placed together without any
cement, enclosing a foss or vacuum, from
fifteen to thirty-six feet long, from three
to six wide, the same in depth, with
immense flat stones resting on them as
a covering ; but though the latter are not
always found, it is evident, by a compari-
son with the more perfect sepulture, that
they once existed, and have been destroyed
or removed. The foss runs invariably
from north-west to south-east ; and at the
latter point is a large upright headstone,
averaging fVom ten to fifteen feet high,
varying in its form ftrom the square, ellip-
tical, and conical, to that of three quar-
ters of an eggy and having in many in-
stances an aperture about eighteen inches
square at its base. On either side of this
still commences a series of separate stones,
irregular in size and shape, but forming
an arc, the chord of which varies from
twenty to forty feet, so that the whole
figure somewhat resembles the bow and
shank of a spear."
Their number must have been very
great. They are called sepulchres of
giants by the Sardes, who believe that
giants were buried within them . There
is no doubt that these Sepolturft and
Noraghe were works of one and the
same people. Mr Tyndale thinks, if
the one kind of structure were tombs,
80 were the other : we should draw a
different conclusion from their general
contiguity to each other. It should
be mentioned, that in the Noraghe
have been found several earthenware
figures, which are described in La
Marmora's work as Phoenician idols.
There is another very remarkable ob-
ject of antiquity—" a row of six coni-
cal stones near the Sepoltura, standing
in a straight line, a few paces apart
from each other, with the exception
1849.]
The Island ofSardmia.
37
of one, which haa been upset, and lies
on the ground, bnt in the sketch is
represented as standing. They are
alioat fonr feet eight inches high, of
two kinds, and have been designated
male and female, from three of them
having two globnlar projections from
the surface of the stone, resembling
the breasts of a woman." He meets
elsewhere with five others, there evi-
dentlj having been a sixth, bat with-
out the above remarkable significance.
We know, firom Herodotus, that co-
lumns were set up with femide em-
blems, denoting the conquest over an
effeminate people, but can scarcely at-
tribute to these such a meanhig, for
they are together of both kinds. For a
curious and learned dissertation upon
the subject of these antiquities, we
confidently refer the reader toMr'I>^-
dale^s book.
After the mention of these singular
monuments, perhaps of three thousand
years ago, it may be scarcely worth
wbHe to notice the antiquities of, com-
paratively speaking, a modem date,
Roman or other. Nor do we intend
to speak of the history of the people
under the Romans or Carthaginians,
and but shortly notice that kind of
government under ^^ Giudici," as
princes presiding over the several
provinces some centuries before the
Pisan, Grenoese, and Aragon posses-
sion of the island. The origin of this
government i3 involved in much ob-
scurity; there are, however, docu-
ments of the eleventh and twelfth
centuries, which speak of preceding
Giudici, and their acts. It would be
idle to inquire why they were called
Giudici: Jt may suffice, that the
^judges'* were the actual mlers.
*'^ It is supposed,'* says our author,
that the whole island was originally
comprehended in one Giudicato, of
which CagUari was the capital ; but,
in the course of time, the local inter-
ests of each grew sufficiently self-
important to canse a subdivision and
establishment of separate Giudicati."
The minor ones were in time swal-
lowed up by the others, and only four
remained, of which there is a precise
history, CagUari, Arborea, Gallura,
and hogadoTO.
To OS, the government of Giudicati
is ioterestiDg from Its similarity to the
eonditloa of £ngland under the Hep-
(i
41
tarchy. This similarity is traced
through its detail by Mr Tyndale.
The Giudici are mentioned as early as
598, thongh there is no account of any
direct succession till about 900. '^ In
both countries the ecclesiastics took a
leading part in the administration of
public affairs; and the hierarehy of
Sardinia was as sacred and honoured
as that of England, where, by the laws
of some of the provinces of the Hep-
tarehy, the price of the archbishop's
head was even higher than that of the
king's. It is unnecessary, though it
would be easy, to give fhrther proofs
of similarity in the institutions of the
two countries; but those above are
sufficient to show then: analogy, with-
out the appearance of there having
been the slightest connexion or com-
munication with each other, or derived
from the same origin." Perhaps
something may be attributed to the
long possession of both countries by
the Romans. We have not certainly
lost all trace of them in our own.
The government of the Giudici was
not characterised by feudalism, before
the Pisan, Genoese, and Aragon in-
flnence. It did, however, become
established in all its usual forms.
Feudalism has, however, been abo-
lished by the present reigning family ;
and we trust, notwithstanding our
author's evident doubts and suspicions,
that the change will ultimately, if not
immediately, be for the happiness of
the Sardes. It requires a very inti-
mate knowledge of a people, of then:
habits, their modes of thinking, then:
character as a race, as well as their
character fh>m custom, to say that
this or that form of government is best
suited to them.
The constitution-mongering fancy
is a very mischievous one, and is
generally that of a very self-conceited
mind. There are some among us, m
high places, who have dabbled very
unsucc^sfully that way ; and there is
now enough going on in the state of
Europe to read them a good lesson.
Carlo Alberto is no great favourite
with Mr I^ndale; yet we are not
sure that he has not done more wisely
for Sardmia than if the barons had set
aside their " pride and ignorance,"
and made such *^ spontaneous conces*
sions" as we find elsewhere have not
had very happy terminations. Wo
88
The Island ofSardima.
[Jolj,
coDclade the following was written
prior to events which throw rather a
new light on the nature of constitu-
tional reforms, as they are called:
^* In Hungary and SicUy the nobles,
with generous patriotism, voluntarily
conceded, not only privileges, but
pecuniary advantages, and the people
have reaped the benefit. In Sardinia,
the empty pride and ignorance of the
greater part of the feudal barons
always prevented such a spontaneous
concession." We beg Mr Tyndale to
reflect upon the pecuUar tenets those
two happy people are now reaping.
A man cannot tell his own growth of
mind and character, how he comes to
be what he is; but he must have little
reflection indeed not to know, that,
under other circumstances than those
in which he has been placed, he must
have been a very different man, and
have required a very different kind of
self, or other government, to regulate
bis own happiness. So institutions
grow — and so governments. Paper
changes are very pretty pieces for
declamation ; but for sudden applica-
cation, and that to all, whatever their
condition in morals and knowledge,
they are but ^^ orjfwra Xvy/xi," and in-
dicate bloodshed.
To return, however. We will not
dismiss the subject of the Giudici
without the mention of two persons
whose romantic histories are inti-
mately connected with Sardinian af-
fairs. The celebrated Enzio, illegiti-
mates on of the Emperor Frederick II.
and the Giudicessa Eleonora. More
than a century elapsed between these
two extraordinary characters; the
benefits conferred on Sardinia by the
latter may be said to still live in
some of the excellent laws which she
established.
Ensio, not a Sarde by birth, by his
marriage with Adelasia, a widow,
Giudicessa of Torres, and Gallura, and
a part of Cagliari, came into posses-
sion of those provinces, and soon, by
treaty and force of arms, became
powerful over the whole island. The
favourite son of Frederick n., as a
matter of course, he obtained the
enmity of Gregory IX., who had, by
this marriage, been foiled in hm
schemes upon Sardinia, through a
marriage he contemplated between
Adelasia and one of his own relatives.
Enzio bore an illustrious part in the
warfare of those times, between the
Pope and the Emperor; and such was
his success, that, after his celebrated
engagement of the fleets near Leg-
horn, and the capture of the prelates
who had been summoned from the
Empire to the Pope — to prevent whose
arrival this armament was undertakoi
— Pope Gregory died in his hundredth
year, his disease having been greatly
aggravated by this disastrous event.
The quarrel was, however, continued
by his successor, Innocent lY., and
the fortune of events turned against
the Emperor. Enzio was taken pri-
soner in an unsuccessful battle near
Modena, by the Bolognese, and was,
though handsomely treated, detained
captive twenty years, during which all
the members of his family quitted this
life. He consoled the hours of his
captivity by music and poetry, in
which he excelled, so as to have ob-
tained eminence as a poet amongst
the poets of Italy. But he enjoyed a
still sweeter solace. When he had
been led in triumph as prisoner into
Bologna, in his twenty-fifth year, so
early had he distinguished himself as
a warrior, the beauty of his person,
and the elegance of his deportment,
awakened in all the tenderest sym-
pathies. An accomplished maiden of
Bologna, Lucia Yiadagoli, besides the
pity and admiration which all felt, en-
tertained for him the most ardent
passion ; an intimacy ensued, and the
passion was as mutual as it was ar-
dent. From this connexion, as it is
said, arose the founder of the family
of Bentivoglio, who were, in after years,
the avengers of his sufferings, and
lords over the proud republic. He
had likewise obtained the devoted at-
tachment of a youth, Pietro Asinelli ;
through this faithful friend, a plan was
laid down for his escape, which was
very nearly successful. He was car-
ried out in a tun, in which some ex-
cellent wine for the king Enzio's use
had been brought. His friends Asin-
elli and Raineriode' Gonfalioneri were
waiting near, with horses for his es-
cape, when a lock of beautiful hair,
protruding from the barrel, was dis-
covered, either by a soldier, or, as
some say, a maid, or an old mad
woman, for accounts vary. Alarm was
giveii, and Uie prisoner resecnred ia
1SI9.]
The Idand ofSardmia.
liispUioeofoovifinemeiit. Gonfalioneri
was arrested and execated; his friend
Asinelli eecaped, bat was banished
for life. Enaio died in this captivity
in the 47th year of his age, 15th
March 1272, on the anniversary of
his father the Emperor's death, and
the saints' day of his beloved Lucia.
He was buried magnificentiy at the
expense of tiie republic. It might
have been record^ of him, that he
possesaed every virtue, had not his
coDdnct to his wife left a stain on his
name. Hia early and ill-assorted mar-
riage may offisr some excuse for one
who showed himself so amiable on all
other occasions. He had won and
governed Sardinia, and " conquered a
great part of Italy, at an age when the
vast majority of youths, even under the
most Cavonrable circumstances, are
but bennning to aspire to glory and
active me; while, equally fitted for the
duties of a peaceful statesman, he was,
MX the same early age, intrusted with
a highly important charge, and op-
poaed to the most subtle politicians."
Should any future Hesiod meditate
another poem on illustrious women,
Eleonora of Sardinia will have a con-
spicaons place among the ^'Houu."
This Giudicessa was bom about the
middle of the fourteenth century.
Her father was Mariano lY., Giodlce
of Arborea. She was married to
Brancaleone Doria, a man altogether
iaferior to his wife. On the death of
her brother IJgone IV., a man worthy
of note, she assumed the government,
styling hersdf Giudicessa of Arborea,
in the name of her infant son ; in this
she displayed a talent and vigour
superior even to her father.
** The ftrst ooeation on which her coor-
age mod political eagacitj were tried, was
OB the nmrder of her brother Ugone, and
hit daai^iter Benedetta, when the insur-
geois oooght to destroy the whole reign-
ing family, and to form themselves into a
republic. PeiceiTing the danger which
threatened the lives and rights of her
aoBSy and undismayed by the pusillani-
Bons ceodoet of her husband, who fled
Ibr sooooor to the oonrt of Aragon, she
proo^y took the command in the state,
aad placing herself in arms, at the head
of each troops as remained faithful,
speedily and entirely discomfited the
rebels. She lost no time in takiug pos-
aession of the territories and castles be-
leoi^to tfM Qindiei of Arborea, eansing
89
all people to do homage, and swear fealty
to the young prinee, her son ; and wrote
to obtain asaistanoe from the King of
Aragon, in resttmag order in her Gindi-
cato. Brancalione, encouraged by Ms
wife's intrepidity and success, asked per-
mission from the King of Aragon to return
to Sardinia with the promised auxiliaries;
but the king, alarmed at the high spirit
of the Giudicessa, preTcntedhis departure,
and kept him in stricter confinement,
under pretence of conferring greater
honours on him. He was, however, at
last allowed to depart, under certain
heavy conditions, one of them being the
surrender of Frederic, his son, as a host-
age for the performance of a treaty then
commenced. On his arriyal at Cagliari
in 1384, with the Aragonese army, he
repeatedly besought his wife to submit to
the king, in pursuance of the treaties. It
was in Tain. Despising alike the pusillani-
mous recommendation of her husband,
and the threats of the Aragonese general,
she for two years kept up a courageous
and successfhl warfare against the latter,
till haying, by her exertions, acquired an
adrantageous position, she commenced a
treaty with her enemy respecting the
soTereignty in dispute, and for the de-
liyerance of her husband, who, during the
whole of the time, was kept in close con-
finement at Cagliari."
Finally, these terms of peace, so
honourable to her, were signed by
Don Juan I., who succeeded his
brother Pedro, who died in 1387.
^ The peace was but ill kept, for Bran-
caleone, when at liberty, and once more
under the infinence of his high-minded
wife, regained his courage, and in 1390,
renewing the war more fiercely than oyer,
he continued it for many years, without
the Kings of Aragon eyer reducing Eleo-
nora to submission, or obtaining posses-
sion of her dominions. She formed alii-
anoes with Genoa, and, with the aid of
their fieet, took such vigorous measures
that nearly the whole of Logoduro yras in
a short time subdued ; while Brancaleone,
inspired by her example, reconquered Sas-
sari, the castle of Osilo, and besieged the
royal fortresses of Alghero and CUfia."
After this, Don Martmo, who suc-
ceeded his brother Don Juan I. of
Aragon, made peace, which secured
the prosperity and honour of Arborea
during the life of Eleonora. But this
extraordinary woman not only, in a
remariiable degree, exhibited the ta-
lents of a great general, and the genius
of a consummate politician, but, for
that age, a wonderful forethifflghtf
40
Tfte Island ofSardimd,
[Jol^
sagacity, and hnmanity, in the fabri-
cation of a code of laws for her people.
As Debora judged Israel, and the
people came to her for judgment, so
might it be said of Eleouora.
*' The Carta di Logu, 80 called from its
being the code of laws in her own do-
minions, had been commenced by her
father, Mariano IV., but being compiled,
finished, and promulgated by Eleonora, to
her is chiefly due the merit of the under-
taking, and the worthy title of enlightened
Icgislatrix. It was first published on
11th April 1895, and by its provisions,
the forms of legal proceedings and of
criminal law are established, the civil and
customary laws defined, those for the pro-
tection of agriculture enjoined, the rights
and duties of every subject explained,
the punishments for offences regulated ;
and, in these last provisions, when com-
pared with the cruelty of the jurispru-
dence of that age, we are struck with the
humanity of the Carta dc Logu, and its
superiority to the other institutions of
that period. Tlic framing of a body of
laws so far in advance of those of other
countries, where greater civilisation ex-
isted, must ever be the highest ornament
in the diadem of the Gindicessa. Its merits
were so generally felt, that, though intend-
ed only for the use of the dominions sub-
ject to her own sceptre, it was some years
after her death adopted throughout the
island, at a parliament held under Don
Alfonzo v., in 1421. This great princess
died of the plague in 1403 or 1404, re-
gretted by all her subjects."
Of the natural curiosities, the Antro
de Nettuno, a stalactitic grotto, about
twelve miles from Alghero, is one of
the most iuterestiug. It was seen by
Mr Tyndale under very favourable
circumstances, ho having been invited
by the civic authorities to visit
it in the suite of the King of Sar-
dinia. The Antro de Nettuno is
under the stupendous cliffs of Capo
Caccia, close to the little island of
Foradala. ^* In parts of the grotto
were corridors and galleries some 300
or 400 feet long, reminding one, if the
comparison is allowable, of the Moor-
ish architecture of the Alhambra. One
of them terminates abruptly in a deep
cavern, into which we were prevented
descending." " Some of the columns,
in different parts of the grotto, are
from seventy to eighty feet in circum-
ference, and the masses of drapery,
drooping in exquisite elegance, are of
equally grand proportions."
The coast of Alghero is noted for
the Pinna marina, of the mnasel tribe,,
whose bivalved sheU frequently ex-
ceeds two feet in length. As the
shark is accompanied by its pilot fish,
80 is this huge mussel by a diminntive
shrimp, supposed to be i^pointed by
nature as a watchman, bnt in fact the
prey of the Pinna. The Pinna is fos-
teued by its hinges to the rock, and is
itself a prey to a most wily creatnre,
the Polypus octopedia. This crafty
creature may be seen, in fine weather,
approaching its victim with a pebble in
its claws, which it adroitly darts into
the aperture of the yawning shells, so
that the Pinna can neither shut itself
close, to pinch off the feelers of the
polypus, nor save itself from being
devoured. The tunny fishery is of
some importance to the Sardes. Mr
Tyndale was present at one of their
great days of operation, the Tonnara.
A large inclosure is artificially made,
into which the fish pass, when the
** portcullis" is let down, and a great
slaughter commences.
^ Fears now began to be expressed
lest the wind, which had increased, should
make it too rough for the Mattanza, but,
while discussing it, a loud cry broke upom
us of* Guarda sotto' — * look beneath.' The
ever watchful Rais, (commander,) whose
eye had never been off its victims, in a
moment had perceived by their move-
ments that they were making for the
Foratico, and, obeying his warning yoice,
we all were immediately on our knees,
bending over the sides of the barges, to
watch the irruption, and, from the dead
silence and our position, it appeared as if
we were all at prayers. In less than two
minutes the shoal of nearly 500 had pass-
ed through. The well-known voice shouted
out' Ammorsella' — ^'letdown the portcul-
lis,*— down it went amid the general and
hearty cheers of all present ; and the
fatal Foratico, into which ' Lasciate ogni
speranza voi che entrate,' was for ever
closed on them."
AVhatever foundation there may be
for conjecture as to the origin of the
races, and extent of Phoenician migra-
tions, we are continually struck with
tlie resemblance between the Sardes
and the native Irish. There is the
same indolence, the same recklessness,
superstition, and Vendetta — that dis-
regard of shedding human blood, and
the same screening of the murderers^
The Itkmd of Sardinia.
re are told, though well known,
16 the towns on *^ festa " dajs,
dy and with impunity. But
■oetta of the Sanies is not only
oEcnsable, from a habitual de-
porenion of justice, but it has
I honourable and humane laws,
kr any circumstances to be iu-
, which place it in conspicuous
(t with the too common bar-
I and cruelties of onr unfortu-
iter island.
Sardinian " fnorusciti " arc
I Italian banditti. The term
s, with the robber, those who
from the arm of the law, and
nger of injuries. These take to
mitains. The common robbers
', and their attacks on passcn-
ft for necessary subsistence, and
sommonly for gunpowder with
they may obtain it. Those
Rape from the consequences of
for fengeance — ^Vendetta — are
bnt these, as we related, have
inmanc code, we might almost
iir romantic — for the presence
iman is a perfect security. It is
iw that no atrocity, no Ven-
i allowable when a woman is
company. A foe travelling
ifo or child is safe. A melan-
istanoe of a breach of this law
giren : —
nrigtnd was eondaeting his wife
Mbaek through the mountains
> ■■ddenly met his adversary, who,
■■ of the conrentional and living
tmee, attacked and slew him, to-
irith his pregnant wife. The re-
nd friends of the deceased were
•nlj outraged parties ; a general
of tadignation and vengeance was
tfcnraghout the whole province.
nadit felt it to be a breach of
in of honour; and even the mur-
paitiians not only denounced the
'refated him the kiss of peace.'
■gledeorpees were conveyed home,
fritnds of the deceased having
OB the body of the unfortunate
ly a perpetual Vendetta against
Illy of the assassin, a system of
Md bloodshed was framed and
out to such an extent, that hun-
(f viotims, perfectly innocent of
lireok participation in this single
dldionoor^ fell in all parts of
ft
htst characteristic story is told.
f of six females were sojoum-
41
ing at a church, performing a '* No-
▼ena." Some banditti, knowing this,
descended from their mountains to
visit them, and proposed the hospi-
tality of the mountains. The women
assented, and accompanied the ban-
dits, who treated them with respect,
and they closed their evenhigs with
songs and dancing. The banditti kept
watch the whole night guarding their
fair guests : one of the bandits had
been the rejected lover of one of the
party, whose husband and other
friendis, hearing of this departure to
the mountains, in fear and for ven-
geance, collected in force to rescue the
women. The bandits, in their descent,
to conduct back their guests, met the
other parly ascendmg. The pre-
sence of women prohibited Vendetta ;
a tmcc was therefore demanded, when
the bridegroom and the rejected lover
met, with feelings of past injuries,
and fears of more recent on one side.
Each had his gun cocked ; they felt
them, and gazed at each other. Their
lives were at instant peril, when the
bride rushed into the arms of her hus-
band, seized his gun, and discharged
it ; then, placing herself in front to pro-
tect him, she led him up to the bandit,
and demanded from him his gun. He
yielded it, and she discharged it also.
The rest of the pai*ty pressed on, an
explanation was given of the nature
of the visit, and both parties joined in
a feast, and mutual explanations of
former differences were given and re-
ceived, their Vendetta terminated, and
a general and lasting reconciliation
took place. Such quarrels are, how-
ever, sometimes settled otherwise than
by Vendetta. The " Paci " are recon-
ciliations through means of the priest.
The parties meet in the open air near
some chapel, and such settlements are
perpetual. But another mode is pre-
ferred, by " Ragionatori " or um-
pires ; but appeals may be made from
these to a greater number, whose de-
cision is final. An interesting anecdote
showing their power is thus told : —
'< It was the case of a young shepherd
who had been too ardent in his advances
to a young maiden. On the youth de-
murring to the decision as too severe, the
Ragionatori,indignant at his presumption,
arose from under the shady wild olive,
and saying to the surprised spectators,
* we have spoken,and done justice/ saluted
42
them and tarned towards their homes.
But one of his nearest relations, who was
leaning against the knotted tronk of an
oak, with his bearded chin resting on the
hack of his hand on the mozzle of his
gun, raised his head, and, with a fierce
look, extended his right hand to the
llagionatori : * Stop,friend8 1 ' he exclaimed,
* the thing must be finished at this mo-
ment.' Then turning to his nephew, with
a determined and resolute countenance,
and placing his right hand upon his chest,
he said to him, ' Come, instantly !— either
obey the yerdict of the Ragionatori,or '
The ofiender, at this deadly threat^ no
longer hesitated, but approached the
offended party and sued for pardon. The
uncle, thus satisfied, advanced, and de-
manded for him the hand of the maiden ;
the betrothal took place, and things being
thus happily terminated, they betook
themselres to prepare the feast.*'
We could wish that we had space
to describe an interview our author
had with one of the Fuornsciti, and of
his rescue of his guide from the Ven-
detta. But we must refer to the book
for this, and many other well- told in-
cidents respecting these strange peo-
ple ; and partictdarly a romantic tale
of ^^ U Rosario e La Palla/* which, if
not in all its parts to be credit-ed, is
no bad invention — ** Se non e vero e
btfC trovato,*^
We would make some inquiry into
the habits and manners of the Sardes.
We have before observed their re-
acmblanoe to the Irish. A descrip-
tion of the houses, or ratl|er huts or
hovels in the oountiy, will remind the
reader of the Irish cabin, where a
hole in the roof serves for chimney,
and the pig and the family associate
on terms of mutual right. Like Ita-
lians in general, they are under a
nervous hydrophobfa, and prefer dirt
to cleanliness, and, in common with
really savage nations, lard their hair
with an inordinate quantity of grease.
Washing is very superfluous, as if
they considered the removal of dirt
as the taking off a natural clothing.
Upon one occasion Mr Tyndale, arriv-
ing at a firiend^s house, and retiring
to his room, sent his servant to re-
quest some jugs of water, for ablution
after a hot ride. This unusual demand
put the whole habitation into commo-
tion, and brought the host and seve-
ral visitors in his rear, into the room,
while Mr Tyndale was in a state of
The Island ofSardmki.
[July,
nudity, to ascertain the om <^ so
much water. They had no idea of
this being an indelicate intmaion.
Finding that the water was for a kind
of cold bath, they were astonished—
*' What, wash in cold water? wliatia
the good of it? do all yoor country-
men do such thmgs? are they veiT
dirty in England? we do not wash
in that way— why do yon?** Sack
were the questions, on the spot, which
he was required to answer. Bnt they
were reiterated by the ladies below
stairs, who expressed amaiement at
the eocentrictties of the English. ^
Hospitality is the common yirtoe
of the Sardes. ''In most houses
admitting of an extra room, one is
set apart for the guests— the kotpUtk
cuhicukum of the Romans— ready
and open to all strangers.'* It would
be the highest offence to offer the
smallest gratuity to the host, however
humble, though a trifle may be given
to a servant. ''La mia casa k plocola,
ma il cuore i grande," (my house is
small, but my heart is large,) was tiie
apology on one occasion of his Gaval-
lante, on his arrival in Tempio, where,
owing to the presence of the King,
not a bed was to be had, and the
Cavallante earnestly entreated the use
of his hospitality, which, indeed,
seemed in the proof to bear no pro-
portion to his means of exercising it.
Even the family bed was emptied of
four children and a wife's sister, in
spite of fall remonstrance, for his
accommodation.
Where hospitality is a custom
stronger than law, inns offer few com-
forts and fewer luxuries — ^the traveller
is supposed to bring, not only his
own provisions, but h& own furniture.
Our traveller arriving at Ozieri, a
town with more than eight thousand
inhabitants, '*mine host" was asto-
nished at the unreasonable demand of
a bed. Finding how things were, Mr
Tyndale stood in the court-yard,
contemplating the alternative of pre-
senting some of his letters to parties
in the town, when he was attracted
to a window on the other side of the
court, from whence this invitation
issued : "Sir, it is impossible for yon
to go to the Osteria ; there is no ac-
commodation fit for you. Apparently
you are a stranger, and if you have
no friends here, pray accept what
I Tke Idimd of Sardinia.
ve can do for yon." He aaoend- mast obey me,
stain to thank his hostess.
48
as the people obey
him in Tcrra-firma." What compro-
mise his majestr made between the
regal crown and the pound of gun-
powder, we are not told. Tboagh we
would by no means vouch for this
shepherd's story, which is neverthe-
less very probable, we can vouch for
one not very dissimilar.
Not very long since, a small furmer
in a little village in Somersetshire,
who prided him^f on his cheeses, in
a fit of unwonted generosity — for he
was a penurious man — sent to her
majesty Queen Victoria a prime
cheese. A person given to practical
indness." And such hospitable jokes knowing this, bought an eigh-
he invariably received, teenpenny gilt chain, and sent it in a
be from her
e
nt for her husband, holding a
lovemment appointment in the
who reoeivea and entertamed
1 if they bad been his intimate
s. On another occasion, in
I of the Ferdas Lnngas stones,
wian cariosities, he met a
;er, who, though going to Nnovo
great hnny, and anxious to re-
ar the Festa, on finding he was a
ner, insisted on accompanying
m he was acquainted with the
."one of the many instances,"
Ifr l^dale, ^^ of Sards civility
ter in towns or among the
Bt in the mountain villages, or
lonely places. It has been
■Uj observed, that hospitality is
firtne of uncivilised nations.
»ver selfishly gratifying the exer-
if it may have been to that
ij Scotch laird, who said that
•rest neighbour, as a gentleman,
the King of Denmark, among
1 people as the Sardes, it surely
le an indication of natural kind-
aad, in some degree, of honesty,
IT civilised roguery is a sore
jer of open-housed hospitality,
oyml return for hospitable care
irover, not to be altogether re-
. When the King of Sardinia
1 the island, a shepherd of the
Isfauid of Talovara, the ancient
ea, near the port of Terranova,
Bple manners and notions, sent
n^esty some sheep and wild
, Judging that the royal larder
t not be over-richly stored. His
itf properly, in turn, requested to
If he oonld grant him anything.
shepherd consulted his family
iU their real and imaginary wants,
Inally decided against luxuries,
would not mind if the king gave
. pound of gunpowder.'* '* On
ojal messenger, therefore, sug-
ig that he should ask for some-
else, the dilemma was greater
ever; bat, after strolling about,
torturing his imagination for
il minntes, he suddenly broke
>* Ob, tell the King of Terra-
that I should like to be the king
kvolara ; and that if any people
to live in the island, that th^
letter, purporting to
majesty, appointing him her ^^ well
beloved" mayor of the village, in the
document exalted into a corporate
town, but whereof he, the said mayor,
formed the sole body and whole
authority. The ignorant poor man
swallowed the bait, and called the
village together; gave an ox to be
roasted whole, and walked at the head
of the invited procession, wearing his
chain of office ; and for several weeks
exhibited the insignia of royal favour,
the chain and royal autograph, at
church and at markets. It is a doubt
if he be yet undeceived, and lowered
from his imaginary brief authority.
We know not what our farmer would
say to the use to which the Sardes
apply their cheeses, or what may be
expected from a free trade with them
in this article ; but we learn that so
plentiliil was cheese in the Donori
district, in 1842, that some of it was
used for manuring the ground, which
practice would amount to throwing it
away, for they are not given to any
industrial means of agriculture. So
fertile was Sardinia under the Romans,
that, in the last years of the second
Funic war, com was so abundant that
it was sold for the mere price of the
freight. Should the reader be curious
to know the result of this cheapness,
he may see it in the present condition
of Sardinia compared with its former,
a population diminished from about
two millions to about five hundred
and twenty-four thousand, and full
three quarters of the land uncultivated.
The " Attitu," or custom of mourn-
ing around the body of the dead, will
u
The Island of fiardima.
[Jnlj,
bring to mind, to those who have wit-
nessed sncb a ceremony, the Irish
hovel. The "Conducti" are ever
more vehement than the verh ploran-
tibus. The word Attitu is supposed to
be derived from the cUai of the Romans,
but it was not an original word
of their language, nor may it have
been so with the Greeks, from whom
they took it. The Sarde Attitadores
arc thus described, and the description
perfectly answers to exhibitions we
have witnessed in some remote parts
of Ireland. ** They wear black stuff
gowns, with a species of Capucin
hood, and, maintaining a perfect si-
lence, assume the air of total ignorance
as to there having been a death in the
family, till, suddenly and accidentally
seeing tbe dead body, they simulta-
neously commence a weeping, wail-
ing, and gnashing of teeth, accom-
panied with groans and ejaculations,
— tearing their hair, throwing them-
selves on the ground, raising their
clenched fists maniacally to heaven,
and carrying on the attitudes and ex-
pressions of real anguish.*' It is cu-
rious that the ** ailinon" of the Greeks
is traced to the Phoenicians, and, on
the authority of Athenrcus, ^^ Linns
was a mythological personage, who
gave his name to a song of a mourn-
ful character. *' It is said that the
Phoenician ^^ Lin" signifies complaint.
It would be well if writers, especi-
ally travellers, would exercise a little
more forbearance in speaking of the
superstitions of the people amongst
whom they are thrown. It is too
prevalent a custom to attribute every
superstition to the priesthood, where-
as the mere traveller can scarcely be
able to distinguish what belongs wholly
and hereditarily to the people, and
what the priests enjoin. We suspect
in most instances the foundation is in
the people, and that the priests could
not, though in many cases it may be
admitted they would not, put a stop
to them. They would too often lose
their influence in the attempt, and
find themselves compelled to acquiesce
in practices and ceremonies of which
they do not approve. Those who
treat with contempt and ridicule the
superstitions of other countries do not
scrutinise those of their own. It is true
ours are wearing out, and before their
expiration become very innocent: at-
tempts to suppress them by anthoritj
would only tend to perpetuate them.
It would be very silly, for instance, to
issue a proclamation against " May
day," or to remind the innocents who
crown the Maypole that they are fbl-
lowing a pagan and not very decent
worship and ceremony. Saperstitions
are the natural tares of the mind, and
spring up spontaneously, and among
the wheat, too, it should be observed;
and we should remember the warning
not to be over eager to uproot the
tares, lest we uproot the wheat also.
It is the object of travel to gratify
curiosity, and the nature of travel to
increase the appetite for it. It is,
therefore, like wholesome food, which
by giving health promotes a fresh re-
lish ; but there arises from this tra-
veller's habit a less nice distuiction as
to quality, and at length a practised
voracity is not dismayed by quantity.
The inquirer is on the look-ont, and
overlooks but little ; and in all Roman
Catholic counti-ies there is no lack of
infidels, happy to have their tonnes
loosened in the presence of question-
ing Englishmen, and to pour into theur
listening ears multitudes of tales, fab-
ricated or true, as it may chance, with
a feeling of hatred for the religion of
their country — for the superstition of
unbelief is inventive and persecnting.
We are not for a moment meditating
a defence of Romish superstitions, but
we think they are too widespread,
and too mixed up with the entire haUt
of thought of the general population,
to render a sudden removal possible,
or every attempt safe. The reforma-
tion will not commence with the un-
learned. In the meanwhile, there is a
demand on the traveller's candour and
benevolence for the exercise of for-
bcarance; for we doubt if a foreign
traveller in our own country woidd
not, were he bent upon the search^
pick up, amongst both our rural axki
town population, a tolerably large col-
lection of the ^* Admiranda" of super-
stition, and sectarian and other saints,
with surprising lives and anecdotes,
to rival the Romish calendar and the
*'*• Aurea Leggenda." We offer these
few remarks, because we think onr
author in his anti-popish zeal, and
abhorrence of ^Mgnorance," is too
much inclined to see all the wrong,
and overlook the good in — shall we sa^
The Idand of Sardinia.
perstitions he meets with, and
iude that the clergy encoorage,
and pofisiblj wisely, they
ilerate. It may not be amiss
refer to a fact narrated by oar
, that a Capncin convent at
is at present mdebtcd for the
f with which its laws are
dt to the interference of the
not to establish but to put
a pretended miracle. A nun
nonnced that she had received
tigmata;** pilgruns flocked, and
SB were made. The bishop
Led, perhaps more than sas-
I ftiind, caused a strict inqair}^
M miracnloos Stigmata disap-
. Bat let as come to an in-
whcre the clergy eucoaraged,
M candid, assuming the peHect
of the narration, originated a
Udoiis fear. It is one that had
di reverence of a right kind in
I to much of truth at least in the
, If not in the fact, as may well
r a kind of belief in the minds
9 who propagated it.
m the King of Sardinia visited
md, he caused some excavations
made at Terranova. Tombs
iroken into, and the dead de-
of their rings, buckles, and
ornaments; upon which, Mr
le says, ^^ a heavy gale of wind
■m, having done some damage
town, during the progress of
Inp the graves, the priests
the people, and the people
ted the assurance, that the
tj arose from, and was a pun-
tt for having disturbed and dug
tombs of the holy saints and
IS of Terranova T*
lie mark of admiration one of
Mtlonortherevcrse? We cannot
) it to be one of contempt, and
re car author would not wish to
I feding — ^to the credit of human
, a common one^ — eradicated.
the Sejrthians were taunted
jing before their invaders, they
repued, " We will stay and fight
burial places of our fathers.**
xmaidered no possession so well
preserving intact.
Bn Mr T^ndale was receiving
lUty in a shepherd*s hut among
Mmtuns, a Ronuts arrived with
of relics. The household within
a mother and daughters, placed
45
themselves on their knees l»ofore it.
They embraced the box, and three
times affectionately kissed it, and
expressed dismay in their looks that
theur guest did not do likewise. Ho
admits they looked upon him as an
infidel, but they did not treat him, on
that account, as Franklin^s apologue
feigned that Abraham treated his
unbelieving aged stranger guest, but
bore with him, as the warning and
reproving voice told Abraham to do.
The poor hostess, in her ignorance,
knew not even whose relics she had
reverenced, for hers was the common
answer, when inquu^d of as to this
particular—" Senzadubbio la reliquia
d*una Santa del Paese, ben conosciuta
da per tutto." But this poor family
superstition did not harden the heart ;
the shepherd's wife believed at least
in the sanctitt/ of some saint, and that
veneration for a life passed in holiness,
by whomsoever, demanded of her good-
will to all, and kindly hospitality, and
such as should overcome even the
prejudice of an ignorant shepherd's
wife ; and therefore we must quote
Mr Tyndale's confession to this virtue
of her faith. " If the ignorance and
superatitious credulity of my present
hostess were great, her hospitality
and generosity were no less. She
soon recovered from her momentary
horror of my heretical irreverence,
and, though not the bearer of a holy
relic, it was with some difficulty I
could get away without having several
cheeses put into my saddle-bags ; and
when my repeated assurances that I
was not partial to them at length
induced her to desist, she wanted to
send her husband to bring me home a
kid or a lamb. She would have con-
sidered it an insult to have been
offered any payment for her gifts, had
they been' even accepted ; and after
repeated expressions of her wish to
supply me A^m her humble store, we
parted with a shower of mutual bene-
dictions.'* We have brought to
our remembrance patriarchal times,
when kids and lambs were readily set
before wayfaring strangers. There
have been, and are, worse people in
the world than those poor ignorant
superstitious Sardes.
Not far from San Martino our tra-
veller halted, to inquire his way at
an " ovilo," the shepherd's hut. It
46
T7ie Iskmd ofSarduda.
[Jnfyt
may not be nnsatialiustory to describe
the dwellings whose inhabitants are
thos hospitable. The hnt here spoken
of was mde enough — a mass of stones
in a circle of abont twelve feet dia-
meter, and eight feet high, with a
conical roof mwle of sticks and reeds,
llie whole family had bat one bed ; a
few ashes were bnming in a hole in
the gronnd; a bundle of clothes, some
flat loaves of bread, and three or foor
§ans, made up the inventory of goods.
*he shepherd was preparing to kill a
lamb for his family, yet he offered to
accompany the stranger, whidi he
did, and went with him a distance of
three miles. ^^ After showing me the
spot, and sharing a light meal, I
offered him a trSe for his trouble;
but he indignantly refused it, and, on
leaving to return home, gave me an
adieu with a fervent but courteous
demeanour, which would have shamed
many a mitred and coroneted head.**
We are not, however, to conclude
that all the shepherd districts, how-
ever they may bear no reproach on
the score of hospitality, are regions of
innocence and virtue. We are told,
on the authority of a Padre Angius,
that the people of Bonorva are quar-
relsome and vindictive ; and a story
is told of their envious character. A
certain Don Pietrino Prunas was the
owner of much cattle, and ninety-
nine flocks of sheep ; he was assassi-
nated on the very day he had brousht
the number to a hundred, for no other
reason than out of envy of his happi-
ness. And here Mr Tyndale remarks,
in a note, a French translator's care-
lessness. ^^ Valery, in mentioning
the circumstance, says that he was
murdered ^ lo jour mSme oti il atteign-
ait sa centi^me annde.* " The words
professed to be translated are,
*' Padrone di 99 gre^gi di pecori,
trucidato nel ^omo istesso che ei
doneva formarsi la centessima.*'
The reader will not expect to find
accounts of many treasures of the
fine arts in Sardinia. Convents and
churches are, however, not without
statues and pictures. Nor do the
clergy or inmates of convents possess
much knowledge on the subject. If
a picture is pronounced a Michael
Angelo, without doubt the possessors,
with a charming simplicity, would
inquire ** who Michael Angelo was."
We qnote the following^ as wofthy
the notice of the Arundel Society^,
particulariy as it is ont of the gmeral
tourings of connoisseurs.
''The screen of the high altar (the
chnrch at Ardara) ie covered with por>
traits of apostles, saints, and mar^n^
apparently a work of the thirteenth or
early part of the fourteenth eentmy;
and, notwithstanding the neglect m4
damp, the colours and gildings ave sHD
bright and untarnished, liaay of thes
are exquisitely finished, with all the
fineness of an Albert Dnrer and Holbek^.
and will vie with the beet spedaens of
the early masters in the gallery of Dres-
den, or the Pinakotheke at Mnnioh."
Valery, the mistranslate just men*
tioned, is in ecstacy in his notice of
these woricB. He considere them
worthy the perpetuity which tiie
graver alone can give them, and con-
siders how great their repntatioii
would be had they found a Lanxi, a
d^Agincour, or a Cicognanu
We have now travelled with onr
agreeable, well-informed anthororer
much country — ^wHd, and partiallycol-
tivated; have speculated with Mm
upon all things that attracted atten-
tion by the way; and, though the
roads have been somewhat rough, we
have kept our tempers pret^ well-
no light accomplishment for foUow-
travders; and our disputes have
been rather amusing than serious.
We now enter with him the capital
of Sardinia--CagliarL We shall not
follow him, however, through the mo-
dem town, though there can be no
better cicerone ; nor look in at the
museum, fearfid of long detention;
not even to examine the Phoenician
curiosities, or discuss the identity in
character, with them, of some seals
found in the bogs of Ireland ; or to
speculate with Sir Greorgo Stanntoa
as to their Chinese origin, and how
they unaccountably found themselves,
some in an Irish bog and some in
excavated earth in Sardinia, and from
thence into the museum at Cag^ari.
We are content to visit some Itoman
antiquities, and read inscriptions prob-
ably of the age of the Antonines, or
of an earlier period. The monuments
are sepulchral : one is of a very in-
teresting character. It is of some ar-
chitectural pretensions — ^in honour of
an exemplary wifo, who, like Alces-
Thehlmda,
nid to have died for her has-
The prose tale, were it in ex-
t| migfat have told, periu^is, how
in*— for that is her name — at-
. her husband in a sickneas,
• his fever, and died, while he
nd. TlieiiiaeriDtioiiaaremai^.
ksvB been made out toleralNy
tihejare in Latin and Greek,
i weak, haa ao much tender-
httiy deeming it qnite worthy the
IMj eadenoe of verse, we have
BMpied to sabstitate onr own
tfeo for that of Mr Tyndale in
wfth whidi we are not <iaite
mL
1% Urdbi tby dew-emlNJiiied Mffth,
■PQinftd homafe of oar love receive!,
■■^ birert liliee riie,
annii of » nd faamnal birtb—
M«fana tiieir leevM-Umhrng leayee,
3t tMid»Ht dfii,
dill. Oik firom their languid ejM,
Hka pHflnned ihowei^
■rti^iMieiith that nvrer diet .
>l betiiTMlfaflower,
■Ofai ■MTiMbop— being end wihuw
»
mtm self, e^ to perpetaal jears —
a iowYet fiir Nareumi grew—
MiBthu all bed<iw*d witii tean.
Mu BOW in the tramalooa honr of
OM Fliilippai near to Lethe drow
■blBig upi and fiunting hreaih,
k woman^k duteona tow ihe Tow*d— >
ahrfol aaide Ua drooping head,
rnm ptcaanee to the waten bow*d,
lad dnnk the fiitel stream instead.
did Ham Death diTide,
rilllag hnabaad and the willing wife—
:te die^ while he. now loaihinff life,
ft Aa daar Ioto ox hia devoted DrideH—
m^ and weepa, and prays that he may
spirit to hen mi^ flr,
bgMofitmora with hers abide.
■king leave of our author, we
■tl^ reoommend the three
Ba on Saidinia to the general
47
reader— we sajr general reader, for,
whatever be his taste or pnrsoit, he
will find amusement and Information.
The work is a J^U work. If the
reader be an antiquary, he will be
gratified with deep research and his-
toric lore ; if an economist, he will
have tabular detail and dose statis-
tics; an agriculturist, and would he
emigrate from his own persecuted
land^, he will learn the nature of soils,
their capabilities, and how fidr a field
is offered for that importable and ex-
portable commodity, his industry, so
much wanted in Sardinia, and so little
encouraged at home ; if a sportsman,
besides the use of the gun, which he
knows already, he will be initiated
into the mystery of tunnv fishing,
and, would he turn it to his profit,
have license to dispose of his game.
Nay, even the wide-awake shop-
keeper may learn how to set up lus
^^ store" in Sassari or Cagliari, and
what stock he had best take out. If
he be a neer-do-weel just returned
from California, and surprised into
the possession of a sackful of gold, Mr
Tyndale will conduct him to the
Barathra into which he may throw it,
whether they be sea-fisheries or land-
marshes; or into whose pockets he
may deposit the wealth, whose burthen
he is of course wearied in bearing, for
the excitement of generoeity in be-
coming a benefactor, or for the amuse-
ment of corrupting.
The work is indeed a ^^ gu^^ book,"
as well as much more, for it tells e veiy
one what he may do profitably or un-
profitably in Sardinia — whether as
traveller and private speculator, mind-
ing hia own concerns ; or as an enthu-
siastic disperser of ignorance, and
renovator of the customs, manners,
religion, and political condition of a
people as unhke his own race and
kindred as possible.
48
The Caxtans.—Pari XIV.
My.
THE CAXT0N8.— PART XIV.
CHAnSB LXXX.
Thkre would have been nothing in
what had chanced to joBtlfy the sus-
picions that tortured mo, but for my
impressions as to the character of
Vivian.
Header, hast thou not, in the easy,
carcieH8 sociability of youth, formed ac-
quaintance with some one, in whose
more engagi n g or brill ian t qualities thou
hast — not lost that dislike to defects
or vices which is natural to an age when,
oven while we err, wo adore what is
good, and glow with enthusiasm for
the ennobling sentiment and the vir-
tuous deed— no, happily, not lost dis-
like to what is baa, nor thy quick
sense of it, — but conceived a keen in-
tercHt in the struggle between the bad
that revolted, and the good that at-
tracted thee, in thy companion? Then,
perhaps, thou hast lost sight of him
for a time — suddenly thou' hearest
that ho has done something out of the
way of ordinary good or common-
place evil : And, in either — the good
or the evil — thy mind runs rapidly
back over its old reminiscences, and
of cither thon say est, " How natural 1
— only So-and-so could have done this
thing I ''
Thus I felt respecting Vivian. The
most remarkable qualities in his cha-
racter were his keen power of calcula-
tion, and his unhesitating audacity —
qualities that lead to fame or to in-
famy, according to the cultivation of
the moral sense and the direction of
the passions. Had I recognised those
qualities in some agency apparently
of good— and it seemed yet doubtful if
Vivian were the agent — I should have
cried, *^ It is he I and the better angel
has triumphed !" With the same (alas !
with a yet more impulsive) quickness,
when the agency was of evil, and
the agent equally dubious, I felt that
the qualities revealed the man, and
that the demon had prevailed.
Mile after mile, stage after stage,
were passed, on the dreary, intermin-
able, high north road. I narrated to
my companion, more intelligibly than
I had yet done, my causes for appre-
hension. The Captain at first listened
eagerly, then checked me on the sad-
den. '^ There mi^ be motking in all
this i" he cried. *'*' Sir, we mosl be men
here— have onr heads oooL, our reasoii
dear : stop I" And, leaning baek in
the chaise, Rdand refused fifther con-
versation, and, as the niglit advanced,
seemed to sleep. I took pi^ on liis
fatigue, and devoured my heart in
silence. At each stage we heard of
the party of which we were in pnisuit
At the first stage or two we were leas
than an hour behind ; gradoally, as we
advanced, we lost ground, despite the
most lavish liberality to the postboys.
I supposed, at length, that the mere
circumstance of changing, at each re-
lay, the chaise as weU as the horses,
was the cause of our comparative
slowness ; and, on saying this to Ro-
land, as we were changing horses,
somewhere about midnight, he at once
called up the master of the inn, and
gave him his own price for permission
to retain the chaise till the journey^
end. This was so unlike Roland's oidi*
nary thrift, whether dealing with my
money! or his own — so unjustified by
the fortune of either — that I could
not help muttering something in apo-
logy. •
^^ Can yon guess why I was a
miser?" said Roland, calmly.
^* Amiser! — anythingbutthatl Only
prudent — military men often are so."
^^ I was a miser," repeated the Cap-
tain, with emphasis. ^^ I began the
habit first when my son was but a
child. I thought him high-spirited, and
with a taste for extravagance. ' Well,*
said I to myself, * I wiU save for him ;
boys will be boys.* Then, afterwards,
when he was no more a child, (at least
he began to have the vices of a man I) I
said to myself, ^ Patience, he may re-
form still ; if not, I will save money
that I may have power over his self-
interest, since I nave none over his
heart. I will bribe him into honour 1*
And then — and then — Grod saw that
I was very proud, and I was punished.
Tell them to drive fiaster— faster —
why, this is a snail's pace !"
All that night, all the next day, till
lSi9.2
The CaxtonB.^Part XIV.
49
towards the eycning, we parsned oar
journey, withoat pause, or other food
than a crust of bread and a glass of
wine. Bat we now picked ap the
ground we had lost, and gained upon
the carriage. The night had closed
in when we arriyed at the stage at
which the ronte to Lord N 's
hnuBched from the direct north road.
And here, making oar osaal inquiry,
mj worst suspicions were confirmed.
The carnage we pursued had changed
horses an hour before, but had not
taken the way to Lord N 's ; — con-
tinning the direct road into Scotland.
The people of the inn had not seen
the lady in the carriage, for it was
already dark, but the man-servant,
(whose lirery they described) had
ordered the horses.
The last hope that, in spite of ap-
pearanees, no treachery h^d been de-
signed, here Tsnished. The Captain,
at fifst, seemed more dismayed than
myself, but he recovered more quickly.
** We wiU continue the journey on
horeeback," he said ; and hurried to
the stables. All objections vanished
at the sight of his gold. In five
minutes we were in the saddle, with
a postilion, also mounted, to accom-
pany us. We did the next stage in
little more than two-thirds of the time
whidi we should have oocnpied in
our former mode of travel — indeed, I
found it hard to keep pace with Bo-
land. We remounted; we were only
twenty-five minutes behind the car-
riage. We felt confident that we
ah^ild ovortake it before it could
reach the next town — the moon was
up — ^we eonld see far before us — ^we
rode at (all speed. Milestone after
milestone elided by, the carriage was
not visible. We anived at the post-
town, or ratber village ; it contained
butonepoating-hoase. We were long
in kiiocfang up the ostlers — ^no car-
riage had anived just before us ; no
carriage had passed the place since
nooiL
¥niat mystery was this?
'^Baek, back, boyl" said Boland,
with a soldier's quick wit, and spurring
his laded horse from the yard. ^^They
will have taken a cross-road or bv-
laae. We shall track them by the
hoofii of the horses or the print of the
wheeb."
Our posftilScMD gmmUed, and pointed
VOL. Lxn.— HO. occcv.
to the panting sides of our horses.
For answer, Boland opened his
hand — full of gold. Away we went
back through the doll sleeping vil-
lage, back into the broad moonlit
thoroughfare. We came to a cross-
road to the right, but the track we
pursued still led us straight on. We had
measured back nearly half the way to
the post-town at which we had last
changed, when, lo ! there emerged
from a by-lane two postilions and
their horses.
At that sight our companion, shout-
ing loud, pushed on before us and
huled his fellows. A few words gave
us the information we sought. A
wheel had come off the carriage just
by the turn of the road, and the young
lady and her servants had taken refuge
in a small inn not many yards down
the lane. . The man-servant had dis-
missed the post-boys after they had
baited their horses, saying they were
to come again in the morning, and
bring a blacksmith to repair the wheel.
^^ How came the wheel off?" asked
Boland sternly.
"Why, sir, the linch-pin was nil
rotted away, I suppose, and came
out."
" Did the servant get off the dickey
after you set out, and before the acci-
dent happened ?"
" Why, yes. He said the wheels
were catching fire, that they had not
the patent axles, and he had forgot to
have them oil^."
" And he looked at the wheels, and
shortly afterwards the linch-pinch
came out?— Eh?"
"Anon, sirl" said the postboy,
staring ; " why, and indeed so it was 1"
" Come on, Fisistratus, we are in
time; but pray God— pray Grod —
that — ^ the Captain dashed his spur
into the horse's sides, and the rest of
his words was lost to me.
A few yards back from the cause-
way, a broad patch of green before it,
stood the inn — a sullen, old-fashioned
building of cold gray stone, looking
livid in the moonlight, with black firs
at one side, throwing over half of it a
dismal shadow. So solitary! not a
house, not a hut near it. If they who
kept the inn were such that viilany
might reckon on their connivance, and
innocence despair of their aid — there
was no neighbourhood to alarm — ^no
x>
60
The Caxtans.-^Part XIV.
[July,
refuge at hand. The spot was well
chosen.
The doors of the inn were closed ;
there was a light in the room below ;
but the outside shutters were drawn
over the windows on the first floor. My
nncle paused a moment, and said to
the postilion—
" Do you know the back way to
the premises ?"
"No, sir; I does'nt often come
by this way, and they be new folks
that have taken the house — and I
hoar it don*t prosper over-much.'*
" Knock at the door — ^we will stand
a little aside while yon do so. If any
one ask what you want — merely
say you would speak to the servant —
that you have found a purse ; — ^here,
hold up mine."
Roland and I had dismounted, and
my uncle drew me dose to the wall
by the door. Observing that my im*
patience ill submitted to what seemed
to mo idle preliminaries,
" Hist!" whispered he ; " if there be
anything to conceal within, they will
not answer the door till some one has
reconnoitred: were they to see us,
they would refuse to open. But see-
ing only the postboy, whom they will
suppose at first to be one of those who
brought the carriage — they will have
no suspicion. Be ready to rush in the
moment the door is unbarred.
My uncle's veteran experience did
not deceive him. There was a long
silence before any reply was made to the
postboy's summons ; the light passed
to and fro rapidly across the window,
as if persons were moving within.
Roland made sign to the postboy to
knock again ; he did so twice — thrice
— and at last, firom an attic« window
in the roof, a head obtruded, and a
voice cried, " Who are you ? — what do
you want?"
" I'm the postboy at the Red Lion;
I want to see the servant with the
brown carriage; I have found this
purse I"
" Oh, that's all— wait a bit."
The head disappeared ; we crept
along under the projecting eaves of
the house ; we heard the bar lifted
firom the door ; the door itself cau«
tiously opened; one spring and I
stood within, and set my back to the
door to admit Roland.
'^Ho, help!— thieves!— help r* cried
a loud voice, and I felt a hand gripe
at my throat. I struck at random ia
the dark, and with effect, for mj
blow was followed by a groan and a
curse.
Roland, meanwhile, had detected
a ray through the chinks of a door in
the hall, and, guided by it, foniid his
way into the room at the window of
which we had seen the light pass and
ffo, while without. As he threw the
door open, I bounded after him ; and
saw ui a kind of parlour, two females—
the one a stranger, no doubt the hostess,
the ot^er the treacherous alngiiL
Their faces evinced their terror.
" Woman," I said, seizing the last,
"where is Miss Trevanion?" In-
stead of replying, the woman set ip
a loud shriek. Another light now
gleamed from the staircase, which
immediately faced the door, and I
heard a voice that I recognised as
Peacock's, cry out, " Who's there?—
what's the matter?"
I made a rush at the stairs. A bur-
ley form (that of the landlord, who
had recovered firom my blow) ob-
structed my way for a moment, to
measure its length on the flow at the
next I was at the top of the stairs.
Peacock recognised me; reouled, and
extinguished the light. Oaths, cries,
and snrieks, now resounded thnmgh
the dark. Amidst them all, I sud-
denly heard a voice exclaim, " Here,
here! — help!" It was the voice d
Fanny. I made my way to the right,
whence the voice came, and received a
violent blow. Fortunately, it fell on
the arm which I extended, as men do
who feel their way through the dailr.
It was not the right arm, and I seized
and closed on my assaUant. Roland
now came up, a candle in his fanand;
and at that sight my antagonist, who
was no other than Peacock, slipped
firom me, and made a rush at the
stairs. But the Capt^n caught Ida
with his grasp of iron. Fearing notiiing
for Roland in a contest with any single
foe, and all my thoughts bent on the
rescue of her whose voice agidn broke
on my ear, I had abeady (befbre the
Hght of the candle which Roland held
went out in the stmgde between him-
self andPeacock)ca^t ngfat of adoor
at the eoBtd of the passage, and throwB
myself against it : it was locked, bttt
it shook and groaned to wj pveoBture.
I
Tke Caxknu.-^Part XIV.
51
[old iMiGk, whoever yoa are I"
a Toiee from the room within,
BTerent from that wail of distress
had guided my steps. *^Hold
at the peril of your life I^*
) Toice, the threat, redoubled my
;th ; the door flew from its fast-
I. I stood in the room. I saw
r mt my feet, clasping my hands ;
raising herself, she hang on my
ier and mormured, ^* Saved 1"
rile to me, his face deformed by
Q, his eyes literally blazing
SBvage fire, his nostrils dls-
d, his lips apart, stood the man
B called Francis Vivian.
'amy — Miss Trevanion — what
{e — ^what villany is this? Yon
not met this man at yonr free
i«— oh speak!" Vivian sprang
Id.
liMdon no one bat me. Un-
that lady, — she is my betrothed
a be my wife."
"o, no, no, — don't believe him,"
Faany ; *'*' I have been betrayed
f* own servants — brought here,
w not how ! I heard my father
1 ; I was on my way to him :
met me here, and dared
9m Trevanion— yes, I dared to
kiv«d yon."
rotect me from him I — yoa will
t Be fix>m him I "
o, madam I " said a voice behind
1 a deep tone, ^Mt is I who
the right to protect yoa from
nan; it is I who now draw
1 yon the arm of one sacred,
to him ; it is I who, from this
laimch npon his head— a father's
Violator of the hearth ! Baffled
ler^-go thy way to the doom
tton hast chosen for thyself.
irill be mercifol to me yet, and
le a grave before thy coarse find
se in the hoiks — or at the gal-
iekness came over me — a terror
my vems — I reeled back, and
m support against the wall.
d had passed his arm roond
r, and she, ft^ and trembling,
to his broad heart, looking
lly up to his face. And never
;t fhoB, ploughed by deep emo-
and dan with onatterable sor-
luid I seen an expression so
in III wratii, so subUme in its
despair. Following the direction of
his eye, stern and fixed as the look of
one who prophesies a destiny, and de-
nounces a doom, I shivered as I
gazed upon the son. His whole
frame seemed collapsed and shrink-
ing, as if already withered by the
curse: a ghastly whiteness overspread
the cheek, usually glowing with the
dark bloom of Oriental youth; the
knees knocked together; and, at last,
with a faint exclamation of pain, like
the cry of one who receives a death-
blow, he bowed his face over his
clasped hands, and so remained —
still, but cowering.
Instinctively I advanced and placed
myself between the father and the
son, murmuring, ^^ Spare him; see,
his own heart crushes him down."
Then steaUng towards the son, I whis-
pered, ^' €r0, go; the crime was not
committed, the curse can be recalled."
Bat my words touched a wrong chord
in that daric and rebellious nature.
The young man withdrew his hands
hastily ftt)m his ikce, and reared his
frx)nt in passionate defiance.
Waving me aside, he cried,
^^ A?ray ! I acknowledge no authority
over my actions and my fate ; I al-
low no mediator between this lady
and myself. Sur," he continued, gaz-
ing gloomily on his frither — ^^ sir, you
forget our compact. Our ties were
severed, your power over me an-
nulled ; I resigned the name you bear ;
to you I was, and am still, as the dead.
I deny your right to step between me
and the object dearer to me than life.
^^ Oh 1 " (and here he stretched forth
his hands towards Fanny)—" oh I Miss
Trevanion, do not reftise me one
prayer, however you condemn me.
Let me see you alone but for one
moment; let me but prove to you
that, guilty as I may have been, it was
not from the base motives you will
hear imputed to me— that it was not
the heiress I sought to decoy, it was
the woman I sought to whi; oh!
hear me" —
** No, no," murmured Fanny, cling-
ing closer to Roland, " do not leave
me. If, as it seems, he is yonr son, I
forgive hun ; but let him go— I shud-
der at his very voice ! "
" Would you have me, indeed, an-
nihilate the very memory of the bond
between us ? '' said B.olsaid^ in «^\xolloii
i
52
ITie Caxtons.-^art XIV.
[Joly,
voice; *^ would you have me lee in
yon only the vile thief, the lawless
felon,— deliver yon up to justice, or
strike you to my feet. Let the me-
mory still save yon, and begone!*^
Again I caught hold of the guilty son,
and again he broke from my grasp.
*^ It is," he said, folding his arms de-
fiberately on his breast, *4t is for me to
command in this house: all who are
within it must submit to my orders.
You, sir, who hold reputation, name,
and honour at so high a price, how can
you ful to see that you would rob them
from the lady whom you would protect
ft>om the insult of my affection ? How
would the world receive the tale of your
rescue of Miss Trevanion? how believe
that— Ok pardon me, madam, — ^Miss
Trevanion — Fanny — pardon me — I
am mad ; only hear me — alone — alone
—and then if you too say * Begone,* I
snbmit without a murmur; I allow
110 arbiter but you."
But Fanny still clung closer, and
closer still, to Roland. At that mo-
ment I heard voices and the trampling
of feet below, and supposing that
the accomplices in this villany were
mustering courage, perhaps, to mount
to the assistance of their employer, I
lost all the compassion that had
hitherto softened my horror of the
young man's crime, and all the awe
with which that confession had been
attended. I therefore, this time,
seized the false Vivian with a gripe
that he could no longer shake off, and
said sternly —
•* Beware how you aggravate your
offence. If strife ensues, it will not be
between father and son, and — "
Fanny sprang forward. ^^ Do not
provoke tins bad, dangerous man. I
fear him not. 8ir, I wiil hear you,
and akme."
*' Never !" cried I and Roland sim-
ultaneously.
Vivian turned his look fiercely to
•me, and with a sullen bitterness to
his father, and then, as if resigning
his former prayer, he said— "Wefi
then, be it so ; even in the presence
()f those who judge me so severely, I
will speak at least." He paused, and,
throwing into his voice a passion
that, had the repugnance at hUi guilt
been less, would not have been with-
out pathos, he continued to address
Fanny: '^1 own that, when I first
saw you, I might have thou^t of k>vo,
as the poor and ambitious think ef
the way to wealth and power. Those
thoughts vanished, and nothing re-
mained in my heart but love and mad-
ness. I was as a man in a delirium
when I planned this snare. I knew
but one object — saw but one heavenly
vision. Oh, mine — mine at least io
that vision — are you indeed lost Uy
me forever!"
There was that in this man's tone
and manner which, whether arising
from accomplished hypooriay or actual
if perverted feeling, would, I thought,
find its way at once to the heart of a
woman who, however wronged, had
once loved him ; and, with a cold
misgiving, I fixed my eyes on Wa&
Trevanion. Her look, as she turned
with a visible tremor, suddenly met
mine, and I believe that she dis-
cerned my doubt ; for after sufibring
her eyes to rest on my own, witS
something of mournful repnmeh, her
lips curv^ as with the pride of her
mother, and for the first time in my
life I saw anger on her brow.
^* It is wel^ sur, that you have thus
spoken to me in the presence of others^
for in their presence I call upon you
to say, by that honour which the son
of this gentleman may for a while iof*
get, but cannot whoUy forfeit, — ^I call
upon you to say, whether by deed«
word, or sign, I, Frances Trevanion,
ever gave you cause to believe that I
returned the feeling you say you
entertained for me, or encouraged you
to dare this attempt to place me in
your power."
"No!" cried Vivian readily, but
with a writhing lip— *^ no; but where
I loved so deeply, periled all m^ for-
tune for one fair and firee oecaaion to
tell you so alone, I would not think
that such love could meet only loath-
ing and disdain. What 1— has natuse
shaped me so unkindly, that where I
love no love can reply ? WhatV— has
the accident of birw aliut me out from
the right to woo and mate with the
highborn? For the last, at least,
that gentleman in justice should tell
you, since it has been his care to
instil the haughty lesson into me» that
my lineage is one that befita k>flgr
hopes, and warrants fearless ambi-
tion. My hopes, my ambition — th^
were you! Oh, Miss TrevanioBisit
2949.]
7^ OuUm.^Part XIV.
5ir
is trae that to win yon I would
liave bntved the world's laws, defied
crerf foe, save him who now rises
before me. Yet, believe me, beUeye
me, had I won what I dared to aspire
to, yon woold not have been dis-
graced by ytm choice; and the name,
for which I thank not my father,
should not have been despised hy the
woman who pardoned my presumption,
— nor by the man who now tramples
on my angnish, and curses me in my
desolation."
Not by a word had Roland sought
to interrupt his son — nay, by a fevensh
exdtement, which my heart understood
in its secret sympathy, he had seemed
eagerly to court every syllable that
could extenuate the darkuess of the
offence, or eyen imply some less sordid
motive for the baseness of the means.
But as the son now closed with the
words of unjust rq>roach, and the
accents of fierce despair ;— closed a
defence that showed in its false pride,
and its perverted eloquence, so utter
a blindness to every principle of that
honour which had been the father's idol,
Roland placed his hand before the eyes
that he had previously, as if spell-
hound, fixed on the hardened offender,
and once more drawing Fanny towards
him, said —
"" His breath pollutes the air that
innocence and honesty should breath.
He says ' All in this house are at his
command,* — ^why do we stay? — let us
go." He turned towards the door,
and Fanny with him.
Meanwhile the louder soundii below
had been silenced for some moments,
bat I heard a step in the hall.
Vi^^an started, and placed himself
before ns.
*' No, no, you cannot leave me thus,
Miss lYevanion. I resign you — ^be it
so; I do not even ask for pardon.
But to leave this house thus, without
carriage^ without attendants, without
explanation ! — the blame falls on me —
it shafl do so. But at least vouchsafe
ne the right to repair what I yet can
repair of the wrong, to protect all that
is left to me — ^your name.'*
As he spoke, he did not perceive (for
he was facing us, and with his back
to the door,) that a new actor had
noiselessly entered on the scene, and,
pansing by the threshold, heard his
last words.
'^The name of Miss Trovanlon, sir —
and from what? " asked the newcomer,
as he advanced and surveyed Vivian
with a look that, but for its quiekr
would have seem^ disdain. 9
'' Lord Gastleton I " exclaimed
Fanny, lifting up the face she had
buried in her hands.
Vivian recoiled in dismay, and
gnashed his teeth.
'^ Sir," said the marquis, ** I await
your reply ; for not even you, in my
presence, shall imply that one re-
proach can be attached to the name
of that lady."
" Oh, moderate your tone to me, my
Lord Gastleton! "cried Vivian: *^inyou
at least there is one man I am not for-
bidden to brave and defy. It was to
save that lady from the cold ambition
of her parents — it was to prevent the
sacrifice of her youth and beauty, to
one whose sole merits are his wealth
and bis titles — it was this that im-
pelled me to the crime I have com-
mitted, this that hurried me on to risk
all for one hour, when youth at least
could plead its cause to youth; and
this gives me now the power to say
that it does rest with me to protect
the name of the lady, whom your
very servility to that world which you
have made your idol forbids you to
claim from the heartless ambition that
would sacrifice the daughter to the
vanity of the parents. Ha I the future
Marchioness of Gastleton on her way
to Scotland with a pennyless adven-
turer,! Ha! if my lips are sealed,
who but I can seal the lips of those
below in my secret ? The secret shaU
be kept, but on this condition— vou
shall not triumph where I have failed ;
I may lose what I adored, but I do
not resign it to another. Hal have I
foiled you, my Lord Gastleton?— ha,
ha!"
"No, sir; and I almost forgive
you the villany yon have n(A effected,
for informing me, for the first time,
that, had I presumed to address
^liss Trevanion, her parents at least
would have pardoned the presump-
tion. Trouble not yourself as to
what your accomplices may say-
They have already confessed their
infamy and your own. Out of my
path, sir!"
Then, with the benign look of a
father, and the lofty grace of a prince^
u
The Cazions.'^Part XIV.
[July*
Lord Caatleton advanced to Fanny.
Looking round with a shudder, she
hastily placed her hand in his, and, by
so doing, peiiiaps prerented some vio-
lence on the part of Vivian, whose
heaving breast, and eye bloodshot,
and still nnqnailing, showed how little
even shame had snbdaed his fiercer
passions. Bat he made no offer to
detain them, and his tongoe seemed
to cleave to his lips. Now, as Fanny
moved to the door, she passed Boland,
who stood motionless and with vacant
looks, like an image of stone ; and with
a beantifol tenderness, for which
(even at this distant date, recalling
it) I say, " Grod requite thee, Fanny,"
she laid her other hand on Roland's arm,
and said, ^^ Come too ; your arm still 1"
Bat Boland^s limbs trembled, and
refused to stir ; his head, relaxing,
drooped on his breast, his eyes closed.
Even Lord Castleton was so struck
(though unable to guess the true and
terrible cause of his dejection) that
he forgot his desire to hasten from the
spot, and cried with all his kindliness
of heart, "You are ill — you faint;
give him your arm, Fisistratus."
"It is nothing," said Roland feebly,
as he leant heavily on my arm,
while I turned back my head with all
the bitterness of that reproach which
filled my heart, speaking in the eyes
that sought him whose place should have
been where mine now was. And, oh ! —
thank heaven, thank heaven ! — the look
was not in vain. In the same moment
the son was at the father*s knees.
" Oh, pardon — pardon I Wretch,
lost wretch though I be, I bow my head
to the curse. Let it fall — bu t on me, and
on me only — not on your own heart too."
Fanny burst into tears, sobbing out,
** Forgive him, as I do."
Roland did not heed her.
" He thinks that the heart was not
shattered before the curse could come,"
he said, in a voice so weak as to be
scarcely audible. Then, raising his
eyes to heaven, his lips moved as if he
prayed inly. Pausing, he stretched
his hands over his son's head, and
averting his face, said, " I revoke the
curse. Pray to thy God for par-
don."
Perhaps not daring to trust himself
further, he then made a violent efiBort,
and hurried from the room.
We followed silently. When we
gained the end of the passage, the
door of the room we had 1^ closed
with a sullen jar.
As the sound smote on my ear,
with it came so terrible a sense of the
solitude upon which that door had
dosed — so keen and quick an appre-
hension of some fearful impulse, sug-
gested by passions so fierce, to a con-
dition so forlorn — that instinctively
I stopped, and then hurried badk
to the chamber. The lock of the
door having been previously forced,
there was no barrier to oppose my
entrance. I advanced, and beheld a
spectacle of such agony, as can only
be conceived by those who have looked
on the grief which takes no fortitude
from reason, no consolation from con-
science— the grief which tells us what
would be the earth were man aban-
doned to his passions, and the chakcb
of the atheist reigned alone in the
merciless heavens. Pride humbled to
the dust ; ambition shivered into frag-
ments ; love (or the passion mistaken
for it) blasted into ashes ; life, at the
first onset, bereaved of its holiest ties,
forsaken by its truest guide; shame
that writhed for revenge, and re-
morse that knew not prayer — all, ail
blended, yet distinct, were in tiiat
awful spectacle of the guilty son.
And I had told but twenty years,
and my heart had been mellowed in
the tender sunshine of a happy home,
and I had loved this boy as a stranger,
and, lo — he was Roland's son I I for-
got all else, looking upon that anguish ;
and I threw myself on the groimd by
the form that writhed there, and, fold-
ing my arms round the breast which in
vain repelled me, I whispered, " Com-
fort— comfort — life is long. Yon shall
redeem the past, yon shall e&oe
the stain, and your father shall bleaa
you yet!"
1649.3
Tim Ontomt.^-nP^ai ZIV.
55
I conM nol stay kmg with my im*
happj oonflin, but still I staid long
eaoii^ to make me think it probable
that Lord Castleton's carriage would
have left the inn: and when, as I
passed the hall, I saw it standing before
the open door, I was seiaed with fear
fiir Roland ; his emotioBS might have
ended in some physical atta<&. Nor
were those fears without foondation.
I found Fanny kneeling beside the
old seedier in the parlour where we
had seen the two women, and bathing
his temples, while Lord Castleton
was binding his arm ; and the mar-
qnis's (aroorite valet, who, amongst
his otlier gifts, was something of a
■ugeoB, was wiping the blade oT the
penkufs that had served instead of a
lancet. Lord Castleton nodded to me,
''I>an't be mieasj— a little fainting fit
— we have bled him. He is safe now
— see, he is recoyering."
BolsLud's e^es, as they opened, tam-
ed to me with an anxious, inquiring
look* I sauled upon him as I kissed
his forehead, and could, with a safe
eoosdeoce, whisper words which
■either fiather nor Christian could re-
fose to receive as comfort.
In a fow minutes more we had left
the house. As Lord Castleton's car-
riage only held two, the marquis,
having assisted Miss Trevanion and
Bolaad to enter, quietly mounted the
seat behind, and made a sign to me
to come by his side, for there was
room for both. (His servant had
taken oae of the horses that had
broo|^ thither Boland and myself,
and already gone on before.) No
oonveraation took place between us
then. Lord Castleton seemed pro-
foundly affected, and I had no words
at my command.
When we reached the inn at which
Lord Castleton had changed horses,
about six miles distant, l£e marquis
Insisted on Fanny's taking some rest
for a few hours, for indeed she was
thoroughly worn out.
I attended my uncle to his room,
but he only answered my assurances
of his son's repentance wijth a pressure
of the hand, and then, gliding th>m me,
went into the furthest recess of the
zoom, and there knelt down. When
he rose, he was passive and tractable
as a child. He suffered me to assist
him to undress ; and when he had lain
down on the bed, he turned his face
quwtty from the light, and, after a
few heavy sighs, sleep seemed merci-
folly to steal upon him. I listened to
his breathing till it grew low and
regular, and then descended to the
sitting-room in which I had left Lord
Castleton, for he had asked me in a
whisper to seek him there.
I found the marquis seated by the
fire, in a thoughtful and dejected atti-
tude.
*^ I am glad you are come,*' said he,
making room for me on the hearth,
" for I assure you I have not felt so
mournful for many years; we have
much to explain to each other. Will
you begin ? they say the sound of the
beU dissipates the thunder- cloud. And
there is nothing like the voice of a
frank, honest nature to dispel all the
clouds that come upon us when we
think of our own faults and the villany
of others. But, I beg you a thousand
pardons— that young man, your rela-
tion ! — ^yonr brave uncle's son I Is it
possible ! "
. My explanations to Lord Cas-
tleton were necessarily brief and
imperfect. The separation between
Boland and his son, my ignorance ot
its cause, my belief in the death of the
latter, my chance acquaintance with
the supposed Vivian ; the interest I
took in him; the relief it was to
the fears for his fate with which he
inspired me, to think he had returned
to the home I ascribed to him ; and the
circumstances which had induced my
suspicions, justified by the result — all
this was soon hurried over.
'* But, I beg your pardon," said the
marquis, interrupting me, ^^dld yon, in
your friendship for one so unlike you,
even by your own partial account,
never suspect that you had stumbled
upon your lost cousin ? "
*^Such an idea never could have
crossed me."
And here I must observe, that
though the reader, at the first intro-
duction of Vivian, would divine tho
secret, — the penetration of a reader
is wholly difi'erent from that of the
60
7^ CoxicNw.— i\in xir.
IJtAfi
actor in events. That I had chiuioed
on one of those cnrions coincidences
in the romance of real life, which a
reader looks out for and expects in
following the course of narrative, was
a supposition forbidden to me by a
variety of causes. There was not
the least family I'esemblance between
Vivian and any of his relations ; and,
somehow or other, in Roland^s son
I had pictured to myself a form and
a character wholly different from
Vivlan^s. To me it would have
seemed impossible that my cousin
could have been so little curious
to hoar any of our joint family affairs ;
been so unheedful, or even weary, if
I spoke of Roland — never, by a word
or tone, have betrayed a sympathy
with his kindred. And my other con-
jecture was so probable ! — son of the
Colonel Vivian whoso name he bore.
And that letter, with the post-mark
of * GodalmingI ' and my belief, too, in
my cousin's death ; even now I am
not surprised that the idea never
occurred to me.
I paused from enumerating these
excuses for my dulness, ansry with
myself, for I noticed that Lord Castle-
ton's fair brow darkened ; — and he ex-
claimed, ^^ What deceit he must have
gone through before he could become
such a master in the art !"•
*^ That is true, and I cannot deny
it," said I. ^* But his punishment now
is awful ; let us hope that repentance
may follow the chastisement. And,
though certainly it must have been his
own fault that drove him from his
father's home and guidance, yet, so
driven, let us make some allowance
for the influence of evil companionship
on one so young — for the suspicions
that the knowledge of evil produces,
and turns into a kind of false know-
ledge of the world. And in this last
and worst of all his actions "—
" Ah, how justify that I"
" Justify it !— good heavens I justify
it I— no. I only say this, strange
as it may seem, that I believe his
affection for Miss Trevanion was for
herself: so he says, from the depth of
an anguish in which the most insincere
of men would cease to feign. But no
more of this,— she is saved, thank
Heaven I"
" And you believe," said Loi*d
Castleton musingly, " that he spoke
the truth, when he thought that J-^**!
Tfaemarquisstoppedf tfolonredsligkilT;!
and then went (A. ^^^Bnt ii»; iMJn
EUinor and Treranioo, wfaatofcv
might have been in thait Ihoofl^-
would never hare ao forgot their dig4
nity as to take him, a yontijM nhnoatat
stranger— nay, take any oac into thekf
confidence on such a snbjcet^" ^ •>*
^* It was but by broken gaspa, i|ico*^
herent, disconnected woi^, that Yi^
vian, — I mean my oonsiB, — ^gave mi
any explanation of this. Bol Lady^
N \ at whose house be was atay^
ing, appears to have entertained snolr
a notion, or at least led my eoosia iH
think so."
'' Ah 1 that is possible," said Leva
Castleton, with a look of relief. ^^Ljidtjr
N and I were boy ^tad girftr
together ; we oorrespond ;• abe ia^
written to me snggestiog tbalk*4i— ^i:
Ah 1 1 see, — an mdiaoreet womaiup
Hum I this comes of lady tomuffut^l
dents!" ; . :. »
Lord Castleton had reconraa ta tfat^
Beaudesert mixture; and then, as if
eager to change the subject, began hir
own explanation. On reeuving mip
letter, he saw even more canie t«
suspect a snare than I had dooa, tei
he had that morning received a letter^
from Trevanion, not mentioaing «
word about his illness ; and on tammgr
to the newspaper, and seeing a panno
graph headed, ^^ Sudden and alarming
illness of Mr Trevanion,' the marqaii
had suspected some party manoNiTiB
or unfeeling hoax, since the matt that
had brought the letter would hava:
travelled as quickly as any meaaanger
who had given the information t» the
newspaper. He had, however, in*'
mediately sent down to the c^lce -of
the journal to inquire on what aiitb<H!
rity the paragraph had been ittaertei^*
while he desjMU^hed another meaaen*^
ger to St James's Square. Thd'
reply from the office was, thatitba
message had been brought by aaervanlf
in Mr Trevanion's livery, but was nei'
admitted as news nntil it had bao»
ascertained by inquiries at the mtnia*--
ter's house that Lady Eillnor bod re*.
ceived the same intelligence, and
actually left town in conaeqnenee. ^
"I was Qxtremely sony topoof'
I^dy EUinor's nneasinesa,^^ said Lord ^
Castleton, "and extremely pviczled^
but I still thought there cotild be
1849.3
TAe Ccakm.-^Part XIV.
67
fMl grooBd for alarm when your letter
fetched me. And when you there
elated jov eoaTictioii that lir Gower
was auxed np in this fable, and that
it ooaeealcd aome anare upon Fanny,
I aaw the thing at a glance. The
mad to Lord N % till within the
last atage or two^ woQld be the road
to SootUnd. And a hardy and nn-
ecnqmlooB adventurer, wiUi the as-
sislanoe of Miss Trevaiiion*8 servants,
ought thus entrap her to Scotland
hnlff and there work on her fears;
or, if he had hope in her affections,
win her oooaent to a Scotch marriage.
Yon may be aaro, therefore, that I
was on the road as soon as possible.
Bat as yonr messenger came an the
way finom the dty, and not ao qniek
peiiiapa as he mij^t have eome ; and
then aa there was the carriage to see
to, and the hones to send for, I fonnd
myself move than an hour and a half
bdilad yoi. Fortoaately, however,
I made good ground, and should pro-
bably have overtaken you half-way,
but that, on passing between a ditch
and waggon, the carriage was upset,
and that aonewfaat delayed me. On
arriving at the town where the road
brandwd off to Lord N 's, I was
rejoioed to learn yon had taken what I
was inre would prove the right dlrec-
tioUf and finally I gahaed the clue to
that villanona inn by the report of
the postboys who had taken Miss
Tpevaniott^ caniage there, and met
TOO OB the road. On reaching the inn,
1 fomd two fellows conflerring outside
the door. They sprang in as we drove
nmbnt not betoe my servantSnmmers
-—a qoick fellow, you know, who has
travelled with me from Norway to
Nnbia^had quitted his seat, and got
iaCo the house, into which I followed
him with a step, you dog, as active as
yonr own ! Egad ! I was twenty-one
then! Two lBlk>ws had ahrcady knock-
til dowm poor Snnmiers, and showed
piaatj of ight. Do you know," said
the marquia, interrupting himself with
an air of aerio-oomic humiliation — ^^do
yoa know tiut I actually — ^no, you
never will believe ifr--mind 'tis a secret
-Hustnallylffokemycane over one fel-
low's shoulders ?— look I " (and the
marquis held up the fragment of the
lameated weapon.) ^^ And I half sns-
aect, bat I can't say positively, that I
had even the necessity to demean my*
self by a blow with the naked hand —
dencbed too ! — quite Eton again —
upon my honour It was. Ha, ha ! "
And the marqnis, whose magnificent
proportions, in the fall vigour of man's
strongest, if not his most combative,
age, would have made him a formi-
dable antagonist, even to a couple of
prize-iighteiiB, supposing he had re-
tained a little of Eton skill in such
encounters — laughed with the gico
of a school -boy, whether at the thought
of his prowess, or his sense of the
contrast between so rude a recourse
to primitive warfare, and his own in-
dolent habits, and almost feminine
good temper. Composing himsdf,
however, with the quick recollection
how little I could share his hilarity, he
resumed gravely, *^It took us some time
— I don't say to defeat our foes, but to
bind them, which I thought a necessary
precaution; — one feUow, Trevanion^s
servant, all the while stunning me
with quotations from Shakspeare. I
then gently laid hold of a gown, the
bearer of which had been lon^ trying to
scratch me ; but being luckily a small
woman, had not succeeded in reaching
to my eyes. But the gown escaped,
and fluttered off to the kitchen. I
followed, and there I found Miss Tre-
vanion's Jezebel of a maid. She was
terribly frightened, and affects to be
extremely penitent. I own to you
that I don't care what a man says in
the way of slander, but a woman's
tongue against another woman —
especially if that tongue be in the
mouth of a lady's lady— I think it
always worth silencing; I therefore
consented to pardon this woman on
condition she would find her way here
before morning. No scandal shall
come from her. Thus you see some
minutes elapsed before I joined you ;
but I minded that the less, as I heard
you and the Captain were already in
the room with Miss Trevanion ; and
not, Idas I dreamingof your connexion
with the culprit, I was wondering
what could have delayed you so long,
— ^afraid, I own it, to find that Was
Trevanion's heart might have been
seduced by that — ^hem— hem J— hand-
some— ^young — hem — hem ! — There's
no fear of that ?" added Lord Castle-
ton, anxiously, as ho bent his bright
eyes upon mine.
I felt myself colour as I answ^i^
58
7%e Caxtons.—Pan XIV.
[J«ir.
firmly^ ^^ It 18 just to Miss Treyanion
to add that the unhappy man owned,
in her presence and in mine, that he
had never had the slightest encourage-
ment for his attempt — never one canse
to believe that she approved the af-
fection, which I try to think blinded
and maddened himself."
" I believe you ; for I think" — Lord
Castleton paused uneasily, again
looked at me, rose, and walk^ about
the room with evident agitation ;
then, as if he had come to some reso-
lution, he returned to the hearth and
stood facing me.
" My dear young friend," said he,
with his irresistible kindly frank-
ness, **this is an occasion that ex-
cuses all things between us, even my
impertinence. Your conduct from
first to last has been such, that I wish,
from the bottom of my heart, that I
had a daughter to offer you, and that
yoa felt for her as I believe yon feel
for Miss Trevanion. These are not
mere words ; do not look down as if
ashamed. All the marquisates in the
world would never give me the pride
I should feel, if I could see in my life
one steady self-sacrifice to daty and
honour, equal to that which I have
witnessed in you."
" Oh, my lord ! my lord ! "
^^ Hear me out. That you love
Fanny Trevanion, I know ; that she
may have innocently, timidly, half
unconsciously, returned that affection,
I think probable. But—"
** I Imow what you would say ;
spare me— I know it all."
^^ No I it is a thing impossible ; and,
if Lady Ellinor could consent, there
would be such a life-long regret on
her part, such a weight of obligation
on yours, that — ^no, I repeat, it is
impossible 1 But let us both think
of this poor girl. I know her better
than yon can — have known her from
a child ; know all her virtues —
they are charming; all her faults —
they expose her to danger. These
parents of hers — ^with their genias, and
ambition — may do very well to rule
England, and infinence the world;
but to guide the fate of that child-
no !" Lord Castleton stopped, for he
was affected. I felt my old jealousy
return, but it was no longer bitter.
"I say nothing," continued the
marquis, ** of this position, in which,
without fault of hers. Miss Treraaioii
is placed : Lady Elihior's knowledge
of the woild,and woman's wit, wltt
see how all that can be best pat right.
Still it is awkward, and demands
much consideratioB. Bat, putting this
aside altogether, ifyoudofinnlybelievt
tiiat Miss Trevanion is lost to joUy
can you bear to think that At is to
be flung as a mere cipher into the
account of the worldly greatness of «a
aspnring politician — ^manied to soum
minister, too busy to watdi OFsr
her ; or some duke, who looks to pay
off his mortgages with her fbrtane
— minister or duke only regarded
as a prop to Trevanion's power
against a counter cabal, or as giving
his section a preponderance in the
Cabinet? Be assured such is her
most likely destiny, or rather the be-
ginning of a destiny yet more moamfuL
Now, 1 tell yoa this, that he niie
marries Fanny Trevanion ahoold
have little other object, for the first
few years of marriage, than to correct
her failings and develop her virtues.
Believe one who, alas ! has too dearly
bought his knowledge of women — ben
is a character to be formed. Well,
then, if this prize be lost to yoa, would
it be an irreparable grief to yomr
generous affection to think tiiat it
has fallen to the lot of one who at
least knows his responsibilides, and
who will redeem his own life, hitherto
wasted, by the steadfast endeavour
to fulfil them? Can you take this
hand still, and press it, even though
it be a rival's ?"
'' My lord I This fh>m yoa to me,
is an honour that — "
*^ You will not take my hand ? Then
believe me, it is not I that will give
that grief to your heart."
Touched, penetrated, melted by this
generosity in a man of snch lofty
claims, to one of my age and fbrtanes,
I pressed that noble hand, half raising
it to my lips — an action of respect
that would have misbecome neither ;
but he gently withdrew the hand, in
the instinct of his natural modesty.
I had then no heart to speak furtfier
on snch a subject, but, faltering out
that I would go and seemy unde, J took
np the light, and ascended the stairs.
I crept noiselessly into Roland's room,
and shading the light, saw that, though
he slept, his fhoe was very troubled.
Asd
The Caakmi.'^Part XJV.
69
I thoofffat, ^^Wbat an ay beside the bed, oommimed with my
iefetobis?" and— fiittiDg own heart and was still !
CHAPTIB LXZXII.
At sunrise, I w^t down into the
flitting-iooin, having resolved to write
to mj father to join ns; for I felt
how much Remand needed his comfort
and his coonsel, and it was no great
distanopi from the old Tower. I was
supnaed to find Lord Gastleton still
seated by the fire ; he had evidently
not gone to bed*
''That's xi^t«" said he ; '' we most
eneonnge each other to xecmit
nature,'' and he pointed to the break-
last things cm the table.
I had scarcely tasted food for many
hours, but I was only aware of my
own hunger by a sensation of faint-
ness. I eat unconsciously, and was
almost ashamed to fed bow much the
food restored me.
'' I suppose," said I, '' that yon will
soon set off to Lord N 's ?"
''Nay, did I not tell you, that I
have sent Sammem express, with a
note to Lady Ellinor, begging her to
eome here? I did not see, on reflec-
tioB, how I oould decorously accom-
pany Miss Trevanion akme, without
even a female servant, to a house full
of gossiping guests. And even had
your nnde been well enough to go
with Bs, his presmoe would but have
created an additional cause for wonder ;
so as soon as we arrived, and while
you went up with the Captain, I wrote
my letter and despatched my man.
I expect Lady £Uia<Mr will be here
before nine o'doek. Meanwhile, I
have already seen that infamous wait-
ing-woman, and taken care to prevent
any danger from her gamdity. And
yon will be pleased to hear that
I have hit upon a mode of satisfying
the curloai^ of our friend Mrs
Gmwly— that is, ' The World'— with-
out iiyary to any one. We must
snppose that that footman of Treva-
nion'a was out of his mind — it is but a
diaritable, and yourgood father would
say, a philosophical supposition. All
great knaveiy is madness I The world
eoukinot get on if truth and good-
were not the natural tenden-
cies of sane minds. Do you under-
stand ?"
"Not quite."
" Why, the footman, being out of
his mind, invented this mad story of
Trevanion's illness, frightened Ldtdy
Ellinor and Miss Trevanion out of
their wits with his own chimera, and
harried them both off, one aher the
other. I having heard from Tre-
vanion, and knowing he oould not
have been ill when the servant 1^
him, set off, as was natural in so old
a friend of the family, saved her from
the freaks of a maniac, who, getting
more and more flighty, was beginning
to play the Jack o' Lantern, and lead-
ing her. Heaven knows where! over the
country; — and then wrote to Lady
Ellinor to come to her. It is but a
hearty laugh at our expense, and
Mrs Grundy is content. If you don't
want her to pity, or backbite, let her
laugh. She is a she-Cerberus — she
wants to eat you : well — stop her
mouth with a cake."
"Yes," continued this better sort
of Aristi^pus, so wise under all his
seeming levities ; " the cue thus
given, everything favours it. If that
rogue of a lackey quoted Shakspeare
as rauch in the servant's hall as he
did while I was binding him neck and
heels in the kitchen, that's enough for
all the household to decUire he was
moon-stricken; and if we find it neoes-^
sary to do anything more, why, we
must get him to go into Bedlam for
a month or two. The disappearance
of the waiting- woman is natural;
either I or Lady Ellinor send her
about her business for her folly in
being so gulled by the lunatic. If
that's unjust, why, injustice to ser-
vants is common enough — public and
private. Neither minister nor lackey
can be forgiven, if he help ns into a
scrape. One must vent one's passion
on something. Witness my poor
cane ; though, indeed, a better illus-
tration would be the cane that Louis
XIY. broke on a footman, becauso
60
Hu CaxUms.-^Pwrt XIV.
his majesty was ont of hnmoar with
a prince whose shoulders were too
sacred for royal indignation.
"So you see," concluded Lord
Oastleton, lowering his voice, " that
your uncle, amongst all his other
causes of sorrow, may think at least
that his name is spared in his son's.
And the young man himself may find
reform easier, when freed fi'om that
despair of the possibility of redemp-
tion, which Mrs Grundy inflicts upon
those who — Courage, then ; life is
long!"
" My very words ! " I cried ; " and
so repeated by you, Lord Castleton,
they seem prophetic."
"Take my advice, and don't lose
sight of your cousin, while his pride
is yet humbled, and his heart perhaps
softened. I don't say this only fbr
his sake. No, it Is your poor «ncle I
think of: noble old feHow. And now,
I think it right to pay L«dy BUi-
nor the respect of repidring, as well
as I can, the havoc three sleeple»
nights have made on the exterior of
a gentleman who is on the shady side
of remorseless forty."
Lord Ca^eton here left me, and I
wrote to my father, begging him to
meet us at the next stage, (whicb was
the nearest point ttom. the high roa4
to the Tower, ) and I sent off the letter
by a messenger on horseback. Tiiat
task done, I leant my head upon my
hand, and a profound sadness settled
upon me, despite all my efforts to foce
the future, and think only of the duties
of life — not its sorrows.
CHAPTBR LXXXIII.
Before nine o'clock. Lady Ellinor
arrived, and went straight into Miss
Trevanion's room. I took refoge in
my uncle's. Roland was awake and
calm, but so feeble that he made no
effort to rise ; and it was his calm,
indeed, that alarmed me the most — it
was like the calm of nature thoroughly
exhausted. He obeyed me mechani-
cally, as a patient takes from your
hand the draught, of which he is al-
most unconscious, when I pressed
him to take food. He smiled on me
faintly when I spoke to him ; but
made me a sign that seemed to im-
plore silence. Then he turned his face
from roe, and burled it in the pillow ;
and I thought that he slept again,
when, raising himself a little, and
feeling for my hand, he said in a
scarcely audible voice, —
"Where is he?"
" Would you see him, sir?"
" No, no ; that would kill me — and
then — ^what would become of him ?"
"He has promised me an inter-
view, and in that interview I feel
assured he will obey your wishes,
whatever they are."
Roland made no answer.
" Lord Castleton has arranged all,
so that his name and madness (thus
let us call it) will never be known."
" Pride, pride I pride still !" — mur-
«nured the old soldier. " The name,
the name — ^well, that is much; but
the living soul ! — I wish Austin were
here."
" I have sent for him, sir."
Roland pressed my hand, and was
again silent. Then he began to
mutter, as I thought, incohtt«ntly,
about "the Peninsula and obeying
orders; and how some officer woke
Lord Wellesley at night, and said
that something or other (I could
not catch what*— the phrase was
technical and militaa^) was impos-
sible ; and how Lord Weliesley aiktd
^ Where's the order-book?' and look-
ing into the order-book, said, *NoC
at all impossible, for it is in the
order-book;' and so Lord Welleeley
turned round and went to deep again."
Then suddenly Roland half rose, and
said in a voice clear and firm, " But
Lord Wellesley, though a great cap-
tain, was a fallible man, sir, and the
order-book was his own mortal
handiwork.— Get me the Bible T*
Oh Roland, Roland! and I bad
feared that thy mind was wandering!
So I went down and borrowed s
Bible in large characters, and placed
it on the bed before him, opening the
shutters, and letting in God's day
upon Grod's word.
I had just done this, when there
was a slight knock at the door. I
opened it, and Lord Castleton stood
16i9.2
The Caxtons,'^F»t XI V.
CI
withooL He asked me, in a whisper,
if be Blight see my. nncte. I drew
him in gently, and poiated to th&sol-
dier of life ^* learaing what was not
isHMMsible" from the mecring (Mer<^
Book.
Lord Gastletea gased with a chang-
iiig coooteoanee^ sody without distnrb-
iag my nnde, stole back. I followed
him, and gendy closed tho door.
'' Yoo most save his-son," he said in
a filtering tchco— ^'yoa most; and
tell me how to help yon. That sight!
—no sermon ever touched me more.
Now come down, and receive Lady
Enioor's thanks. We are going.
She wants me to tell my own tale to
m^ old friend, Mra Gmndy : so I go
with them. Come.**
On entering the sitting-room, Lady
EllinoT came np and frurly eihbraccd
me. I need not repeat her thanks,
still less the jmuses, which fell cold
and hollow on my ear. My gaze
rested on Fanny where she stood apart
— her eyes, heavy withfresb tears, bent
on the ground. And the sense of all
her charms — the memory of the ten-
der, exquisite kindness she had shown
to the atiicken father; the generons
pardon she had extended to the cri-
miaal son; the looks she had bent
ipon me on thai memorable night —
looks that had spoken such trust in
my, pffesenco*rthe moment in which
she had clung to me for protection,
and her bi«ath been warm upon my
cheek, — all these rushed over me;
and I felt that the struggle of months
was undone—that I had never loved
her as I loved her then— when I saw
her but to lose her evermore! And
then there oame for the first, and, I
now ji^fokse to think, for the only
time, n hitter, ungrateful aeeusation
amrfnst the cruelty of fortune and the
daparitiee of life. What was it that
set our two hearts eternally apart,
and made hope impossible? Not
nature, but the fortune that gives a
second nature to the world. Ah,
cwdd I then think that it is in that
second nature that the soul is ordained
to seek its trials, and that the ele*
meots of human vhrtue find their
harmonious place! What I answered
I know not. Neither know I how
kmg I stood there listening to sounds
which seemed to have no meaning,
till there came other sounds which
indeed woke my sense, and made ray
blood run cold to hear,— the tramp
of the horses, the grating of the
wheels, the voice at the door that
said ^* All was ready."
Then Fanny lifted her eyes, and
they met mine; and then involuntarily
and hastily she moved a few steps
towards me, and I clasped my right
hand to my heart, as if to still its
beating, and remained still. Lord
Castleton had watched us both. I
felt that watch was upon us, though
I had till then shunned his looks:
now, as I turned my eyes from
Fanny*s, that look came fall upon me
— soft, compassionate, benignant.
Suddenly, and with an unutterable
expression of nobleness, the marquis
turned to Lady EUinor, and said —
^* Pardon me for telling you an old
story. A friend of mine — a man of
my own years — had the temerity
to hope that he might one day or other
win the affections of a lady young
enough to be his daughter, and whom
curcumstances and his own heart led
him to prefer from all her sex. My
friend had many rivals ; and you wiU
not wonder— for you have seen the lady.
Among them was a young gentleman,
who for months had been an inmate
of the same house— (Hush, Lady
ElUnor! you will hear me out; the
interest of my story is to come) — who
respected the sanctity of the house he
had entered, and idft it when he felt
he loved — ^for he was poor, and the
lady rich. Some time after, this gen-
tleman sav^ the lady from a great
danger, and was then on the eve of
leaving EngUnd — (Ilush! agam—
hush I) My friend was present when
these two young persons met, befbro
the probable al^nce of many years,
and so was the mother of the lady ta
whose hand he still hoped one day to
aspire. He saw that his young rival
wished to say, * Farewell !* and with-
out a witness : that farewell was all
that his honour and his reason could
suffer him to say. My friend saw thjit
the lady felt the natural gratitude for
a great service, and the natural pity
for a generous and unfortunate affec-
tion ; for so, Lady EUinor, lie only in-
terpreted the sob that reached his
ear ! What think you my friend did?^
Your high mind at once conjectures.
He said to himself—* If I am ever
62
Tke Caxtom.^Part XIV.
[July,
to be blest with the heart which, in
spite of disparitj of jears, I yet hope
to win, let me show how entire is the
tmst that I {dace in its integrity and
innocence: let the romance of first
youth be closed — the farewell of pure
hearts be spoken — nnimbittered by the
idle iealonsies of one mean suspicion.'
With tiiat thought, which yon, Lady
ElUnor, will never stoop to blame,
he placed his hand on that of the
noble mother, drew her gently
towards the door, and, calmly confi-
dent of the result, kit these two
young natures to the unwitnessed
impulse of maiden honour and manly
duty."
All this was said and done with a
grace and earnestness that thrilled
the listeners : word and action suited
each to each with so inimitable a har-
mony, that the spell was not broken
till the voice ceased and the door
closed.
That mournful bliss for which I had
80 pined was vouchsafed : I was alone
with her to whom, indeed, honour and
reason forbade me to say more than
the last farewell.
It was some time before we recovered
— before we felt that we were alone.
O ye moments j [that I can now re-
call with so little sadness in the mel-
low and sweet remembrance, rest
ever holy and undisclosed in the
solemn recesses of the heart. Yes ! —
whatever confession of weakness was
interchanged, we were not unworthy
of the tmst that permitted the mourn-
ful consolation of the parting. No
trite love-tale — ^with vows not to be
fulMed, and hopes that the future
must belie — ^mocked the realities of
the lifo that lay before us. Yet on the
confines of the dream, we saw the
day rising cold upon the worid : and
if— children as we wellnigh were—
we shrunk somewhat fi:x)m the light,
we did not blaspheme the sun, and
cry ^^ There is darkness in the dawnl''
All that we attempted was to com-
fort and strengthen each other for
that which must be : not seeking to
conceal the grief we folt, but pro-
mising, with simple faitii, to struggle
against the grief. If vowwerepled^
between xut — (fctf was the vow —
each for the other's sake would steive
to enjoy the MessingB Heaven left
us stilL W^ may I say that we
were children ! I know not, in flie
broken words that passed between us,
in the sorrowM hearts wbkh those
words revealed— I know not if there
were l^at which they who own, in
human passion, but the stoim and
the whinwind, would call tiie love of
maturer yean — the love that gives
fire to the song, and tragedy to the
stage; but I know that there was
neitiier'a word nor a thought which
made the sorrow of the children a
rebellion to the heavenly Fadier.
And again the door undoeed, and
Fanny walked with a fijrm step to her
motho^s side, and, pausing tiiere,
extended her hand to me, and said^
as I bent over it, ^ Heaven will be
with you I"
A word firom Lady EQinor ; a finmk
smile firom him — the rival ; one laat,
last ^iuice firom the soft eyes of
Fanny, and then Solitode rushed imoB
me — rushed, as something visibie,
palpable, overoowering. I folt it hi
the glare of the sunlMtfun— I heard it
in the breath of the air : like a ghost
it rose there — ^where she had filled tiie
space with her presence but a moment
before? A something seemed gone
firom the universe for ever; adiange
like that of death passed through my
being ; and when X woke to fied that
my being lived aeain, I knew that it
was my youtii and its poet-land that
were no more, and that I had passed
with an unconsdous step, Tdiich never
could retrace its way, mto the hard
world of laborious man I
1849.]
Tltf Game Law$ in Scotkmd.
63
THK GAME LAWS IN SCOTLA2n>.
Thosb who hare been accustomed
to watch the tactics of the Manchester
partj cannot haye overiooked or for-
gotten the significant coincidence, in
point of time, between Mr Br^ht's
altaekon the GameLaws, and the last
grand assault npon the barrier whic^
formerij protected British agricoltnre.
That wilj loTer of peace among fdl
orders of men saw how much it would
asfiiat the ultimate designs of his
party to ezdte distrust imd enmity
between the two gre«t divisions of
the protectionist garrison — the own-
ers tmd the enltiyators of land ; and
the anti-nme-law demonstration was
planned lor that purpose. The ma-
noBOTie was rendered useless by the
sudden and uneonditional surrender
of the ibrtress by that leader, whose
system of defence has ever been, as
Capefigne says — '^c^er inoessam-
aKBt-" It is impossible, however, to
diagoise the true source of the sudden
fly^mthy for the farmers' grievances,
whidi in 1845 and 1846 yearned in
Hm compassionate bowels of the
agrarian leaders, and led to the
inquoies of Mr Bright's
Bnt it seems we are not yet done
widi the game-law agitation. It is
true tiie li»t rampart of protection is
leveUed to the ground : but the sub-
jugation of the country interest to the
pcientatos of the &ctofy is not yet
aeeo«plished. The owners of the
soil wre not yet bowed low enough
to the Baal of free trade ; their influ-
enoe ii not altogetiier obliterated, nor
theff privileges sufficiently curtailed ;
and theref(»re Mr Bright and the
Anti-Cram^Law Association have
buckled on their armour once more,
and the tenantry are again invited to
join in the crusade against those who,
they are assured, have always been
their inveterate oppressors; and, to
cut off as much as possible the re-
motest chance of an amicable settle-
ment, it is prodaimed that no con-
cession wfll be accepted — ^no proposal
of acgustment listened to — short of the
total and immediate abolition of every
statute on tlie subject of game.
The truth Is, that this branch of
the agitation trade is too valuable to
be lost sight of by those who earn
their bread or their popularity in that
line of business. Hundreds oi honest
peasants, rotting in unwholesome
gaols, their wives and children herded
in thousands to the workhouse — ^hard-
workmg tenants sequestrated by a
grasping and selfish aristocracy — these
are all too fertile topics for the
platform philanthropist to be risked
by leaving open taij door for ccmdlia-
tion ; and therefore the terms de-
manded are sudi as it is well known
cannot be accepted.
Our attention has been attracted to
the doings of an association which
has for its professed object the abc^-
tion of all game laws, and which has
recently opened a new campaign in
Scotland, under the leadersh^ of the
chief magistrate of Edinburgh, and
one of the representatives of the city.
Of coarse the construction of such
societies is no longer a mystery to any
one ; and that under our notice ap-
pears to be got up on the most ap-
proved pattern, and with all the
newest improvements. A staff of
active officials directs its movements,
and collects funds — lecturers, pam-
phleteers, newspaper editors are paid
or propitiated. From the raw ma-
terial of Mr Bright's blue-books the
most exaggerated statements and
calculations of the most zealous wit-
nesses are careftdly picked out, and
worked up into a picture, which is
held up to a horrmed public as a
true representation of the condition
of the rural districts ; and the game
laws become, in the hands of such
artists, a monster pestilence, enough
to have made the hair of Pharaoh
himself to stand on end. It is not to
be wondered at if some, who have
not had the opportunity of investigat-
ing for themselves the effects of these
laws, have been misled by the bold
ingenuity of the professed fabricators
of grievances ; but it is a fact which
we shall again have occasion to
notice, that they have made but little
impression on the tenant farmers. Of
the few members of that class who
have taken an active share in the
64
The Game Lttws in Scotland,
[Juir,
agitation, we doubt if there is one
who coald prove a loss from game on
any year's crop to the value of a five-
pound note.* The fact is, that while
no one will deny the existence of in-
dividual cases of hardship from the
operation of the game laws, you will
hear comparatively little about them
among those who are represented as
groaning under their intolerable bur-
den. If you would learn the weight
of the grievance, you must go to the
burghs and town-councils ; and there
— among smidl grocers and dissenting
clergymen, who would be puzzled to
distinguish a pheasant from abird-of-
paradise — you will be made acquaint-
ed with the extent of the desolation
of these "fearful wildfowl:" from
them you will learn the true shape
and dimensions of " the game- law
incubus," which, as one orator of the
tribe tells us, "is gradually changing
the surface of this once fertile land
into a desert."
But while we arc willing to allow
for a certain leaven of misled sin-
4^rity among the supporters of this
association, it is evident that, among
its most active and influential leaders,
the relief of the fanner or the relaxa>-
tion of penal laws is not the real
object. We shall show from their
own writings and speeches the most
convincing proof that they contem-
plate far more extensive and funda-
mental changes than the mere abo-
lition of the game laws. There is
not, indeed, much congruity or sys-
tem in the opinions which wo shall
have to quote; but in one point it
will be seen that they all concur — a
vindictive hostility to the possessors
of land, and an eager desire to abridge
or destroy the advantages attached,
or supposed to be attached, to that
description of property. Thus the
system of entails — ^the freedom of real
property from legacy and probate
duty — the laudlora's preferable lien
for the rent of his land, figure in the
debates of the abolitionist orators,
along with other topics equally rele-
vant to the game laws, as oppressive
burdens on the industry of the conn-
try. The system of the tenore of
land, also, is pronounced to be a cry-
ing injustice; end one gentleman
modestly insists on the necessity of a
law for compelling the landlord to
make payment to his tenant at the
expiry of every lease for any increase
in the value of the farm daring his
occupation. The author of an " Essay
on the Evils of Game-Laws," which
the association rewarded with their
highest premium, and which, there-
fore, we are fairly entitled to take as
an authorised exposition of their senti-
ments, thus enlarges on *^ the wither-
ing and ruinous thraldom" to which
the farmers are subjected by a system
of partial legislation.
" No individual," he complains, '* of
this trade has ever risen to import-
ance and dignity in the state. While
merchants of every other class, law-
yers, and professional men of eveiy
other class, have often reached the
highest honours which the crown has
to bestow, no farmer has ever yel
attained even to a seat in the legisla-
ture, or to any civic title of distinc-
tion ; uncertain as the trade is natu-
ridly, and harassed and weighed
down by those sad enactments the
game laws, to be enrolled am(mg the
class of farmers is now tantamonnt to
sajdng, that you belong to a caste
which is for ever exdnded from the
rewards of fair and honourable ambi-
tion."—(Mr Cheine Shepherd's Essay.
Edinburgh, 1847.)
The association of the game laws
with the scorns which " patient merit
of the unworthy takes," is at least in-
genious. We confess, with Mr Cheine
Shepherd, that the aspect of the times
is wofully discouraging to any hoipe
that a coronet, " or even the lowesi
order of knighthood,** will in our days
become the usual reward for skill
" In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, or
the drill."
We cannot flatter him with the juros-
pect of becoming a Clndnnatos; or
that we shall live to see the time when
muck shall make marquisates as well
as money ; and perhaps the best ad-
* ^ The game agitators are individaalfl who suffer a liuU, and see their brethren
snffering more, and who have their feeling* annoyed; and those who are not hurt al
all by game, but will strike at any public wrong.**— Spee^ of Mr Munro, one of (A«
Council of the Atiociation,
ttid.]
neOamsLawsinSco^and.
65
Yke, under the dreamstaiiefts, we
eta tender him, is that wiiich the old
onide gare to certain unhappy «A4»-
Aerdf in YiigU'a time--
U in ViigU'a tiaie--
Mcito, ut ante, boresj pneri— sabmit-
iifte taaros.'*
Absudf however, as the eomplaint
of this ambitions Damon appears, it
indicates at least the extent of change
which he and his patrons of the asso-
ciation think they may justly demand.
It is not, then, redress of game-law
griefances they aim at, but an inde-
finite change in the social and political
system of tlie conntry. If any one
dionbts this, let him read the following
extract from the address of Mr Wilson
of Giassmonnt : —
** Mncb ommic <:Aaii^6 must, how-
ever, pfeceA the reforms for which
they were now agitating. The suf-
froge MMf ftferlnMM.— (applanse) —
and, abore aD, the voters must be
protected in the exerdse of their fdnc-
tions by ike bailoi; for, in a conntry
wiiere so great a disparity existed be-
tween the social condition of the elec-
toral body, parliamentary election,
as now conducted under a system of
open voting, was only a delusion and
a mockery.'* — (^Caledonian Mercury,
Eeb. 12, 1849.)
From snch an authority we cannot
expect much amity towards the aris-
tocracy, who, he says, ^^ it is notorious,
are, in point of political, scientific, and
genoraf knowledge, far behind those
emfdoyed in commerce and manufac-
tures."* He compares the present
state of Britain with ^^ the condition
of Ffimee anterior to her first revolu-
tioQ, wliea the ancient nobksse pos-
sesaed the same exclusive privileges
which are still enjoyed by the aristo-
craey of tills country — and, among the
rest, a game law, which was adminis-
tered with so much severity, that it is
admitted on all hands to have been
the chief cause of that convulsion
wliich shook Europe to its centre.*'t
France and its institutions form a
snbject of constant eulogy to this
gentleman, whose speeches show him
to be by fkr the ablest, and, at the
same time, the most straightforward
of the League lecturers. He admon-
ishes our landed proprietors to visit
that country. ''In the social condi-
tion of that country they would see
the results of the abolition of those
dass privileges and distinctions which
their order are still permitted to enjoy
in England; and they wonld there
find a widespread comfort in all the ru-
ral districts, which has been produced
by the subdivision of property, and
which is nowhere to be found in this
conntry, where game laws, and laws
of entail and primogeniture, are main-
tained for the exclusive amusement
and aggrandisement," &c4
We are willing to believe that Mr
Wilson of Giassmonnt has never him-
self visited the country whose condi-
tion he longs to see resembled hero ;
and that it is simply from ignorance
that he eulogises the agricultural pros-
perity of a land where ^ve bushels of
wheat is the average yield of an impe-
rial acre — where, in two generations,
the lauded system of the Code Napo-
leon has produced five and a-half
millions of proprietors, the half of
whom have revenues not exceeding
£2 a-year, and whom the greatest
statist of France describes as ^^pro-
prietaires ripublicains et cffame$y
Our object, however, is not to reason
with adversaries of this stamp, but
simply to show, from their own words,
the nature of the reforms they con-
template, under cover of a design to
ameliorate the game laws. It may
be said, indeed, that such indiscreet
avowals of the more zealous members
of the Anti-Game-Law Association
cannot be fairly ascribed to its leaders.
But though their language is, of
course, more wary, it were easy to
select from their orations even equally
strong proofs of that bitter hostility
to the landed interest, which prompts
Mr Bright himself to cheer on bis fol-
lowers with the announcement that the
people are ready to throw off " the
burdens imposed on them by an aris^
tocracy who oppress, grind them down,
and scourge Aemf* and "that the
time is now come to teach the prO'
* Leeknre on the Game Lawi, by R. WUbod, &0., March 22, 1848.
t Ibid. ::: Ibid.
VOL. txyi. — ^NO. ccoov. *
66
71k Game Lacs m Scodamd,
[JiOy,
prietars of the soil the IbmiU of their
rightsr ♦
A refa^Dce to the proceedings of
the anti-game-law leaders will show
that the specimens we have given are
only fair samples of the factions spirit
— the qnemlons, jet bullying and
vindictive tone, in which they have
condocted this controversy. No one
can serionsly believe that a hostility,
directed not against these laws in
particular, bnt against the whole social
and political system of our country,
can be founded on a wise and deliber-
ate re\iew of the effects of the statutes
in riuestion. Discontent ^ith things
in general is a disease which admits
of no remedy, and which any ordinary
treatment, by argument or concession,
would only aggravate.
There are many, however, of more
moderate views, who arc interested
in knowing to what extent the com-
plaints they have heard arc founded
on reason, and are capable of redress.
We purpose, for the present, to limit
r>ur remarks principally to the opera-
tion of the Scotch law upon game,
both l>ecause agitation on this subject
ha» recently been most active on this
side of the Tweed, and because we
think the important differences in the
game-laws of England and Scotland
have not be<:n sufficiently attended
to, and have given rise to much popular
misapprehension.
All the abolition orators begin by
telling us that game laws are a rem-
nant of the feudal system — ^that they
originated in the tyranny and oppres-
sion of the middle ages, and are,
thcnrfore, wholly unsuited to our im-
proved state of society. Such an
origin, of course, condemns them at
itwcAi ; for, in the popular mind, feudal
law is w^mehow synonymous with
j'lavery, rape, robbery, and all that is
damnable. The truth is, however,
that the game law of Scotland has
no more* cx)nnexion with the feudal
law than with the code of Lycurgus.
Even as regards England, there is
good ground for questioning Black-
Htonc^s doctrine that the right to pur-
sue and kill game is, in all cases, trace-
able to, and derived from, the crown.
Bat in Scotland, at all events, there
never existed any snch exdoflive
system of forest laws as that which
grew up under the Norman kings,
and which lung John was finaOj com-
pelled to renounce. The broad and
liberal principle oat of which the
Scotch game law has grown, is the
maxim of the civil law — quod mmBiitt
€st occupanti eoncediiwr — that any one
may lawfully appropriate and enjoy
whatever belongs to no one elso--a
maxim which must necessarily tem
the fonntainhead of all property. All
wild animals, therefore, may be seised
by any one, and the law will defend
his possession of them. Bat ontof
this very principle itself there natu-
rally springs a most important restric-
tion of the common privilege of pur-
suing game; for the possessor of
land^ as well as the possessor of game,
must be protected in the exclnsive en-
joyment of what (though ori^^nally
res nulUus) he has made his own by
occupation or otherwise. It is evi-
dent, then, that the contingent right
of the hunter to the aninu^ he may
succeed in seizing, can be exercised to
its full extent only in an nnoccapied
and uncultivated coimtry ; and most
give way, wherever the soil has be-
come the subject of property, to the
prior and perfect right of the land-
owner. Accordingly, we find that in
the Roman law the affirmation of the
common right to hunt wild animals
is coupled with this important restric-
tion, under the very same title — ^^Qni
alienum fnndum ingreditnr, venandi
aut aucupandi grati^ potest a domino
prohiberi ne ingrediator;'* and, not-
inithstanding the perplexed and ano-
malous nature of the tenure of land
among the Romans, we find every-
where traces of a strict law of trespass,
from the Twelve Tables down to Jus-
tinian. And in this the dvU law was
followed by that of Scotland. Sabject
to this inevitable restriction, and to a
few regulative enactments of less im-
portance, the privilege conthraed open
to all, without distinction, up to the
year 1 621 .t About this time the tenor
• AddresH in Mr WelfordV Influfncft of the Oame Lavs.
t Tho Btatute of 1 600, prohibiting hanting and hawking to those who had not
** the rcvenueH requisit in Bik pastimcH," is plainly one of a sumptuary tenor, and not
properly a game law.
1849.3
The Game Lowe in ScodatuL
67
of the statntes shows that game of all regarding the pursuit of game in Scot-
kinds had become exceedingly scarce ; land, commonly known as the Night
and it was probably with a Tiew of and the Day Trespass Acts, 9 Geo
" * ' " IV. c. 69, and 2 and 3 Will. IV. c.
68, cannot here be criticised in de-
tail. Their provisions contain one or
two anomalies which we shall have
occasion to notice below, in sug-
gesting some practicable amend-
ments on tho present law. But as to
their general spirit, we venture to
affirm that they are most legitimate
developments of the genertd prin-
ciple above stated. In every class
of injuries to the rights of others,
there are some species of the offence
which, from their frequency, or from
their being difScult to detect, must
necessarily be prevented by more
stringent prohibitions than those at-
tached to the genus in general ; and
in the same way that orchards for
example, timber, salmon fisheries,
and many other subjects are protected
by special pHenalties, so has it been
found requisite to amplify the com-
mon law of trespass, in its application
to that particular manner of trespass
which is confessedly the most frequent
and annoying. If the penalties are
unnecessarily stringent, let them by
all means be modified ; but their se-
verity, in comparison with the pun-
ishment of ordinary trespass, is not
inconsistent with justice, or the prin-
ciples of wise legislation.
We have adverted, in this hasty
sketch, only to the prominent fea-
tures and growth of tbc law of Scot-
land ; but a more detailed comparison
with that of England and other
countries of Europe, especially when
recent statutes and decisions are
taken into view, will fully justify the
opinion of Hutcheson and other well
qualified judges, that it is ^Hhe most
liberal and enlightened of all laws
as to game." It recognises, of course,
no such thing as property in game
more than in any other animals of a
wild nature. The proprietor of a manor
has no right to the pheasant he has
fed until he shall have actually
brought it to bag, or at least disabled
it from escaping ; and the right which
he then first acquires is quite inde-
pendent of his ownership of the land.
To many the distinction thus
created, by considering all game as
wild animals, appears too theoreUcal\
presenting its extirpation, as well as
of diflODnraging tre^MUSS, which, from
the increase of the population, had
increased in frequency, that, in the
aboTe-mentioiied year, an act was in-
trodaced which was, without doubt, a
decided violatioii of the principle on
whidi the system was originally
Ibonded. The act 1621 prohibited
every one from hunting or hawking
who had not ^* a plough of land in
heritage;" and subsetjiieot statutes ex-
tended this prohibition to the sale and
purchase, and even to the possession
of game, by persons not thus qualified.
This, we repeat, was a direct depar-
ture from the leading maxim of the
law, as il stood previously ; and we
can see no reason whatever for now
retaining it on the statute-book. It
is notorious^ however, that, practi-
cally, these statotes have now fallen
into desoetnde, and that the mere
want of the heritable qualification
has not, fbr a long period, been made
a ground fbr prosecution. In fact,
the privilege is open to any one pro-
vided with the landlord's permission,
and who has paid the tax demanded
by the Exchequer, though ho may not
possess a foot of land. When, then,
we find the orators of Edinburgh com-
plaining of the harsh and intolerable
operation of the qualification statutes,
it affords the most complete evidence
cither of their utter ignorance of the
actual state of the law, or of the
weakness of a cause that needs such
^sin^ennons advocacy.
The fiscal license, which was first
reqnired by the act 24th Geo. m. c.
43, cannot be justly regarded in the
lig^t of an infraction of the general
principle of the Scotch law. Its
direct object is not the limitation of
the right of hunting, but the main-
tenanee of the public revenue ; and it
will be readily admitted by all rea-
sonable men that, on the one hand,
there cannot be a less objectionable
source of taxation than the privilege
in question, and, on the other, that
the duty is not excessive, when we
find above 60,000 persons in Great
Britain voluntarily subjecting them-
selves to it every year.
The two other principal enactments
63
The Game Laws in ScothauL
[Jul7.
and no doubt it is a question for
zoologists rather than for lawyers to
decide, whether there really be in ani-
mals any sach permanent and inva-
riable character as to justify such a
universal distinction. There is the
strongest presumption that all our
domesticated animals were at one
time fera ; and it is rather a difficult
task to show reason for considering
some classes as " indamitabiUsy^ when
wo see the reindeer, of a tribe natu-
rally the most shy of man, living in the
hut of his Lapland master — and when
we recollect that among birds, the duck,
turkey, and peacock, with us the most
civilised ana familiar of poultr}', are
elsewhere most indubitable feree at
this very moment. It has been argued
that the commoner kinds of game,
under the system of rearing and feed-
ing now so general, are scarcely more
shy or migratory in their habits than
those animals which the law contrasts
with them as manguefactm, and there-
fore regards as property: that even
when straying in the fields, we may
as reasonably impute to them the
animus revertendi—tho instinct of re-
turning to their haunts and coverts,
as to pigeons and bees which the law
for this reason retains under its pro-
tection, though abroad from their
cots or hives; that the common
objection as to the difficulty of iden-
tifying game, is one which applies as
strongly to many other subjects re-
cognised as vested in an owner ; and
finally, that, being now in reality
valuable articles of commerce, these
classes of animals should cease to be
viewed as incapable of , becoming
property. It is difficult to gainsay
the premises on which this proposal
is built : and if we look to analogy, it
cannot be doubted that the invariable
tendency of civilisation is towards
the restriction of the category of res
nuUinsy and by art and culture to
subject all products of the earth to
the use, and consequently to the pos-
session of man. But, apart from this
speculative view of the subject —it
seems to us that, while common
opinion is unprepared for so funda-
mental a change in the law of Scot-
land, the alteration proposed would
not in practice improve the position
of any of those classes who are affect-
ed by the operation of the present
game laws, nor materially obviate
any of the bad effects nsnally ascribed
to them.
But it is time now to turn to those
alleged evils, and to form some judg-
ment as to whether they are in reality
so weighty and numerous, that no-
thing short of the total abolition of
the game laws can effectually check
them. The abrogation of a law is
no doubt an easy way of overcoming
the difficulty of amending it — ^in the
same way that the expedient of wear-
ing no breeches will unquestionably
save you the cost of patching them ;
and as a device for diminishing game-
law offences, the total repeid of idl
game laws is perhaps as simple and
efficacious a recipe as could well be
conceived. But let us first inquire
into the existence of the disease, be-
fore we resort to so summary a re-
medy.
There are three distinct parties who
are said to be injured by the operation
of these laws — The cammumiy at large
suffer chiefly by being deprived, it is
alleged, of a very large proportion of
the produce of the soil, which, if not
consumed by game, would go to in-
crease the stock of human fbod — The
poadier has to bear the donUe injus-
tice of a law which first makes the
temptation, and then punishes the
transgression — The farmer finds, in the
protection given to game, a source of
constant annoyance, loss, and disap-
pointment. We shall take these com-
plainants in their order.
The public, Cwc are told by the eu-
lightened commercial gentleman who
represents the metropoUs of Scotland,)
the public have a right to see that
none of the means for maintaining
human life are wasted — a great popu-
lar principle popularly and broadly
stated. It is possible, however, that
Mr Cowan may not have contem-
plated all the admirable results of his
principle. He may, perchance, not
have seen that it sweeps away, not
only every hare and pheasant, but
every animal whatever that cannot be
eaten or turned to profit in the ledger.
His carriage horses eat as much as
would maintain six poor paper-miners
and their families; the keep of his
children's poney would board and
educate four orphans at the Kagged
Schools. But we are not yet done
1849.]
The Game Law$ in Scotland,
6d
with him ; for he cannot stick his fork
into that tempting fowl before him
nntil he can satisfy ns, the public,
that the grain it has consumed would
not have been more profitably applied
in fattening sheep or cattle. And what,
pray, is tibat array of plate on the
buffet behind him but so much capi-
tal held back from the creation of
emplo3rment and food for that starv-
iug population, which he assures us
(though every one but himself knows
it is nonsense) is increasing at the
rate of 1000 per diem! Political
economy of this quality may do very
well for the Edinburgh Chamber of
Commerce; but wo really hope, for
the credit of the city he represents,
that he will not expose himself on any
other stage, nor consider it a necessary
part of his duties as a legislator, to
prescribe the precise manner in which
com shall or shall not be used.
The supposed amount of destruc-
tion by gune of cereal and other pro-
duce, has afforded a fine field for the
more erudite of the game law op-
ponents. Mr 6ayford*s celebrated
calculation, that three hares eat as
much as a full-grown sheep, is gene-
rally assumed as the infallible basis of
their estimates, and the most astound-
ing results are evolved from it.* Mr
Charies Stevenson thinks the destruc-
tion cannot be less than two bushels
per acre over the whole kingdom, re-
presenting a total of tu>o hundred
Uumeand quarters, ^^ If it be tlie case^^
says Mr Chiene Shepherd, with a
modest hesitation — ^^ if it be the case,
that throughout this empire the
farmers, in seneral, suffer more loss
from game than they pay in the form
of poor's tax (and I suppose it cannot
be doubted that they do so — that in
most parts they suffer more than double
the amount of their poor-rates,) then
it follows, of course, that there is more
destmction from game than would
make up the sum collected from poor-
rates from the whole lands of the
empire." t Double the amount of
poor-rates paid by land may be taken
roughly at some £9,000,000. But
there are others who think even this
too low an estimate, and throw into
the scale (a million out or in is of no
importance) the cocmty rate, high-
way rate, aud all the other direct
burdens on land put together 1 Let
us carry on the line of calculation a
step further: if game animals alone
consume all this, and if we allow a
faur proportion of voracity to the
minor, but more numerous ^er^e — rats,
mice, rooks, wood-pigeons, &c. — it is
clear as daylight that it is a mere de-
lusion to think that a single quarter of
wheat can, by any possibility, escape
the universal devastation. There is
no lunatic so incurable as your ram-
pant arithmetician ; and the only de-
lusion that could stand a comparison
with the above would be the attempt
to reason such men out of their ab-
surdities.
But the actual waste of grain is
not, it seems, the only way in which
the public suffers. The annual cost
to the community of prosecutions un-
der the game acts is an enormous and
annually increasing burden. This is
proved, of course, by the same sys-
tem of statistics run mad as that of
which we have just given some speci-
mens. The game convictions in the
county of Bedford, it is discovered^
were, Id the year 1843, 36 per cent of
the total mcde summary convictions;
and the lovers of the marvellous, who
listen to such statements, are quietly
left to infer, not only that this is
usually the case in Bedfordshire, but
that a similar state of things prevails
throughout England and Scotland
also. They are sagacious enough, how-
ever, never to refer to general results.
They carefully avoid any mention of
* It 18 right to mention, that there is some discrepancy in the estimates of Mr
Bright's authorities on this point, of whom Mr Gayford is comparatiyely moderate ;
for we have others who, (upon, no doubt, equally sound data,) think two hares is the
proper eqaifalent ; and Mr Back of Norfolk is convinced that one hare is worse than
a dieep ; in other words, that one hare will eat up a statute acre. On the other
hand, Mr Berkeley weighed ihe full stomachs of a large hare, and an average South-
down sheep, and found them as one to fifty-five. So that, if the accounts of Mr
Gayford and his confrlres are right, we have arrived at a law in physiological science
equally new uid surprising— that the digestive powers of animals increase in a com-
poand inverse ratio to the capacity of the digestive organs !
t Seotman, February 12, 1848.
70
The Crome Laws in ScatkauL
[July,
the fact, (which, however, any one
may learn for himself, by referring to
Mr Phillipps' tables,) that the average
of the game convictions daring the
five years these tables include, was,
for ah England^ not 36, but a frac-
tion over 6 per cent of the whole.
Now, let us see how the case stands
in Scotland. We have observed that
our northern orators always draw their
illustrations from the south of the
Tweed ; and we have, therefore, look-
ed with some cariosity into the re-
cords of our Scotch county courts,
as affording some test of the real
extent of the grievance in this part of
the empire. Unfortunately these re-
cords are not preserved in a tabular
form by all the counties; but we
have been favoured with returns from
^ve of the most important on the east
coast, which we selected as being those
in which the preservation of game is
notoriously carried to the greatest
extent. An abstract of these returns
will be found below,* and will suffice
to show how false, in regard to Scot-
land, is the assertion that game pro-
secutions are alarmingly numerous;
while every one knows that the ex-
pense is borne, not by the public, but
by the private party, except in very
rare and aggravated cases. From
these it appears that the whole num-
ber of game cases tried, or reported to
the authorities, in these five coanties,
during the years 1846 and 1847, was
one hundred and forty-four, being
about 2.5 per cent of the whole. Fi£9-
shire (which was selected to be shown
np before Mr Bright^s committee as
an abyss of game-law abuses) had, in
1848, out of eight hundred and tbiity
offences, only three under the game
acts. As to the alleged progressive
increase of such cases, the subjoined
table of the numbers for the five years
preceding 1848 1 proves that, whether
it be true or not as respects isolated
districts of England, that the num-
ber of game-law trials is every year
becoming a heavier burden on the
public, it certainly is not true in four
of the largest and most game-keqnng
counties of Scotland.
We have now to make a remark or
two on the plea set np on behalf of
the poacher against the present game
laws. What is it that mikea a man
become a poacher? ^'Temptation,''
says Mr Bright, '* and temptation only.
How can you expect that the poor bat
honest labourer, who, on his way home
from his daily toil, sees hares and
*
Coontiet.
1846.
1847.
Percent,
(both yean.)
Total
cases.
Game
Total
Ganra
caSM.
Aberdeen,
Berwick,
Edinburgh,
Haddington,
Fife,
Total,
683
817
336
456
862
2
10
12
33
13
800
342
475
572
819
5
16
14
33
6
0.4
3.9
3.2
6.4
1.1
2654
70
3008
74
2.5
1
Compare these facts with the preposterous statements which the latest orator of
the league, Mr M. Crichton, has been repeating to listening zanies at Oreenock, Glas-
gow, and Edinburgh, that ** the commitments arising from game laws amount to onb-
FOURTH of the whole crime of the country."
f Return of game-law offences during the years 1843-7
Counties.
1843.
1844.
1845.
1846.
1847.
Berwick,
Edinburgh,
Haddington,
Fife,
Total,
14
41
35
30
8
48
55
25
14
21
23
19
10
12
33
13
16
14
S3
6
120
186
77
68
69
I»i9.]
The Game Laws in ScotlantL
71
pheasants swarming round his path,
should abstain fix>m eking out his
scanty meal with one of those wild
animals, which, thoogh on jour land,
are no more jonrs than his ? The idea
wonld never have occurred to him if
he had not seen the pheasants ; and if
there had been no game laws, he would
hare remained an upright and useful
member of society. ^ Such, we believe,
is the bean-ideal of the poacher, as we
find it in abolitionist speeches, and in
popular afterpieces at the theatre.
He is, of coarse, always poor, but
virtuous,^
^ A firiendleu man, at whose dejected eye
Tb* unfediBf pitmd one looks, eikI peases bj.**
We shall not quarrel, however, with
the fidelity of this fancy sketch ; but
we may be allowed to doubt whether
any large proportion of those who
incnr penalties for game trespass have
been led into temptation by the mere
abondanoe of game in large preserves.
Men of plain sense will think it just
as fur to ascribe the frequency of
larceny to the abundance of bandanas
which old gentlemen wHlkeep dangling
from their pockets while pursuing their
studies at print-shop windows. The
tTideooe tai^en by the committee seems
rather to show that the poacher^s trade
thrives best where there is what is
called ^^a fair sprinkling" of ill-
watched game, than where he has to
enoonnter a staff of vigilant and well-
trained keepers. But what though
the case were otherwise? Suppose
the existence of the temptation to be
admitted, is it to be seriously argued
that the province of legislation is not
to prohibit offence, but to remove all
temptation frx>m the offenders? not to
protect men in the enjoyment of their
rights, but to abridge or annihilate
tlrase rights, that they may not be
invaded by others ? This, we affirm,
is the principle when reduced to simple
terms ; and startling enough it is to
those who have been accustomed to
think that the proper tendency of laws
and civilisation is in precisely the
<qpposite direction. What although a
breach* of these laws may sometimes
be the commencement of a course of
crime, are there no other temptations
which open the road to the hulks or
the penitentiary ? If the magistrates
of oar towns, who so vehemently
denounce the danger of the game laws,
are sincere in their search after the
sources of crime, and in their efforts
to repress them, we can help their in-
qniries — we can show them at their
own doors, and swarming in every
street, temptations to debauchery,
which have made a hundred crimes
for every one that can be traced to
game Laws, — and yet we cannot
perceive that the seal of our civic
reformers has been very strenu-
ously directed to discourage or to
diminish the numbers of these dens of
dissipation. We can refer them to
the reports of our gaol chaplams for
proof that three out of every four
prisoners are ignorant of the simplest
rudiments of education; and yet a
praiseworthy attempt lately made in
our metropolis to promote instruction
by means of apprentice schools, was
not favoured with the countenance of
our chief magistrate, because he hap-
pened to be engaged in the more phi-
lanthropic duty of presiding at a meet-
ing for condemning the game laws I
If we are called upon to assign a
reason for the frequency of poaching,
we should attribute it neither to the
mere superabundance of game by
itself, nor jet to the pressure of po-
verty, but very much to the same sort
of temptation that encourages the
common thief to filch a watch or a
handkerchief— namely, the facility of
disposing of his spoiL Well-stodged
covers may present opportunities to
the poacher for turning his craft to
account, but it is plain the practice
would be comparatively rare if he did
not know that at the bar of the next
alehouse he can barter his sackful of
booty either for beer or ready coin, and
no questions asked. Every village of
1000 or 1500 inhabitants offers a
market for his wares, imd any surplus
in the hands of the country dealer can
be transferred in eighteen hours to the
London poulterer^s window. There
cannot be a doubt that the consump-
tion of game has increased enormously
since the beginning of this century.
It was formerly un£iown at the tables
of men of moderate means, except
when haply it came as an occasional
remembrance from some country re-
lation, or grateful M.P. No w-a- days
the spouse of any third-rate attorney
or thriving tradesman would consider
72
7%e Game Laws in Scotland.
[Jnlr.
her housekeeping disgraced for ever,
if she f&Iied to present the expected
pheasant or brace of moorfowl '^ when
the goodman feasts his fiiends/* And
even if we descend to the artisans and
operatives of onr large towns, it will
be found that hares and rabbits form
a wholesome and by no means unnsnal
variation of their daily fare. We have
the evidence of one of the great Lead-
enhall game dealers, that in the month
of November hares are sent up to
London in such quantities, that they
are often enabled to sell them at 9d.,
and even at 6d. each. The average
weight of a hare may be taken at
about 8 lb. ; and if we deduct one-
half for the skin, &c., there will re-
main 4 lb. of nutritious food, which,
even at 2s., is cheaper than beef or
mutton ; while the occasional change
cannot but be both agreeable and
beneficial to those who have so limited
a choice of food within reach of their
means. Some idea may be formed of
the vast quantity of game brought
into London, from the statements of
Mr Brooke, who buys £10,000 worth
of game during the course of the win-
ter; and there are ten other gi*eat
salesmen in Leadenhall market alone.
If we make allowance for the supplies
sent directly to the smaller poulterers,
for the consumption in the other great
towns throughout the kingdom, and
for the probably still larger quan-
tity that never comes into market at
all, it is impossible to deny that game
has now become an important part of
the food of the people, and that, as an
article of commerce, it deserves the
attention of the legislature. Any
attempt to check the production and
sale of a commodity for which there
is so general a demand, must prove
both useless and mischievous. It is
in vain to proscribe it as an expensive
luxury, and insist on the substitution
of less costly fare. It may be true,
for anything we know, that the gi*ain
or provender consumed by the 164,000
head of game, which Mr Brooke dis-
posed of in six months, might have
produced a greater weight of bullocks
or Leicester wedders, (though this is
extremely unlikely, for the simple
reason that grain, grass, and green
crops form only a part of the food of
any of the game species) ; bat, whether
true or not, it is useless to prevent the
rearing of game by any sort of samp*
tnary enactment, direct or indirect.
The proper coarse of legislation is very
plain. While compensation should be
made exigible for all damage from
excess of game, and new statutory
provision made for this purpose, if the
present law is insufficient — fair en-
couragement should at the same time
be given for the production, in a legi-
timate way, of what is required for the
use of the public. Facilities should be
afforded to the honest dealer for con-
ducting his trade without risk or
disguise, and the useless remnant of
the qualification law in Scotland
should be abolished. Measures of this
nature, by turning the constant de-
mand for game into proper channels,
will prove the most effectual dis-
couragement to the occupation of the
poacher, and to the reckless and irre-
gular habits of life which it generally
induces.
A very opposite result, we are per-
suaded, would follow from the adop-
tion of Mr Bright^s quack recipe for
putting an end to the practice of
poaching. By what indirect influence
is the abolition of the game laws ex-
pected to produce this effect ? If,
indeed, along with the game laws,
you sweep away also the law of com-
mon trespass — if you proclaim, in the
nineteenth century, a return to the
habits of the golden age, when, as
Tibullus tells us —
** Nttllus erat custos^ nulla exclusura volente&
Janua;^*
and if you authorise the populace at
large to traverse every park and en-
closure, at all hours and seasons, and
in any numbers and any manner they
please, then we can understand that a
few months probably of rustic riot and
license may settle the question by the
extermination of the whole game
species. But we have not yet met
any game-law reformer so rabid as to
propose putting an end to the penal-
ties on ordinary trespass ; on the con-
trary, we find most of them', (Su*
Harry Verney and Mr Pusey among^
the number,)* anticipating the neces-
sity of arming the law with mudi
• Evidence, Part i. 1414; u. 7647, 7651.
1849.]
The Game Laws m Scotland.
73
strooger powers for prerenting com-
moD trespasses. And eyen without such
idditioiud powers, will not the tres-
pass law as it stands be emplojed by
proprietors to prevent interference with
their sports ? Is it supposed that the
abolition of the game statutes will at
miee prevent the owners of great
manors from rearing pheasants in their
own ooyers? It may indeed drive
them to do so at a greater expense,
and to enlist additioiud watchers ; but
it is not likdy that keen game pre-
servers will not avail themselves of
such defences as the common law may
still leave them. Game then, we con-
tend, may be thinned by this plan,
but it will not be exterminated. The
conseqnenoe will be that its price
will be enhanced; but as the de-
mand will still continue, the trade of
the poacbenwill remain as thriving
as ever. He may have to work
harder and to trudge farther before
he can fill his wallet ; but this will be
compensated by the additional price ;
and if the present quantity of game is
diminished by one-half, the conse-
quence will be that his agents will be
able to pay him ^^Rt shilMngs a-head
for his pheasants instead of five shil-
lings a-brace. In short, we should
antidpate, as the effects of abolishing
the present statutes, that, while many
of the less wealthy owners of land
would be deterred by the expense
fi!om protecting game, and while the
amusement (such as it is) would be-
come greatly more exdusive than it
is now, such a measure would not
only fail to remove any of the induce-
ments which tempt the idle peasant
to take to the predatory life of a
poacher, but would, in the outset at
least, indoce many to try it who never
thought of it before.
We must now pass on to the con-
siderations we have to offer on the
situation of the tenant-farmer as to
game; and the first question that
suggests itself as to his case is this, —
Whether the injury suffered by ten-
ants be really so serious and extensive
as is represented?
^* There is no denying," says Mr
Shepherd, in his E$$ay, (p. 12,) '' the
not<Nriety of the fact that, tit a greai
nu^or^ of uuiaHcesj this excessive
power of infiringement on the pro-
perty of the tenant through these
laws has been abused. It has been
almost universalfy abused^ Is this
true as regards either England or
Scotland ? or is it merely one of those
vague and reckless formations which
a man writing for a purpose, and not
for truth, is so apt to hazard, in dis-
regard or defiance of the facts before
him? One thing we do find to be
notorious — that the committee^s evi-
dence of game abuses in Scotland was
limited to one solitary case^ that of
the estate of Wemyss. And although
we may very readily conceive that,
with more time and exertion, the
agents of the league might have fer-
reted out other Instances, we may,
nevertheless, be allowed to express
our astonishment that, on the slender
foundation of this single case, Mr
Bright should have ventured to ask
his committee to find the general
fact proved, that the prosperity of
agriculture " tit many parts of Scot-
land as well as England, is greatly
impaired by the preservation of
game." We learn at least to esti-
mate the value of the honourable
gcntleman^s judgment, and the amount
of proof which an abolitionist regards
as demonstration. But the truth is,
that the case of Scotland was not
examined at all; and the rejected
report of Mr Bright and his associates
bears on its face the most satisfactory
evidence of their utter ignorance that
the law on this side the Tweed is a
perfectly different system from that
of England.
Will any believe that if our Scotch
farmers, ^^ in a great majority of in-
stances," found their property sacri-
ficed, they would not have universally
joined in demanding the interference
of the legislature? But what is the
fact ? An examination of the reports
on petitions during the last two ses-
sions shows that there certainly have
been petitions against the game laws,
but that for every one emanating firom
an agricultural body there have been
ten from town-councils. We have
better evidence, however, than mere
inference, for the general distrust with
which the farmers have regarded this
agitation; for we find the Leaguers
themselves, one and all of them, la-
menting that then* disinterested exer-
tions on behalf of the tenantry have
been viewed by that body with the
74
The Game Laws in ScotkuuL
[July,
most calloas and ungrateful indiffer-
ence. It is impossible to read withont
a smile Mr Bright^s Address to the
Tenant-farmers (prefixed to Mr Wel-
foixl's Sanimary of tlie Evidence) ; and
to marlc the patient earnestness with
which he entreats them to believe that
they are groaning under manifold op-
pressions—and insists on ^^ rousing
them to a sense of what is due to them-
selves." But your tiller of the soil is
ever hard to move. It is surprising
that tlio obstinate fellow cannot be
made to comprehend that he is the
victim of a malady he has never felt
— that he will persist in believing that
if game were all he had to complain
of, he might snap his fingers at Doctor
Bright and his whole fraternity. The
essayist of the Association can find no
better reason to assign for what he
calls ^^ the wondrous and apparently
patient silence of the tenantry under
»o exasperating an evil," — than, for-
sooth, that they are too servile to speak
out their true opinions. Such an ex-
planation, at the expense of the body
whom he pretends to represent, can
only insure for him the merited scorn
of all who have opportunities of know-
ing the general character of the
spirited, educated, and upright men
whom he ventures thus to calumniate.
The most obvious way of accounting
for their wondrous silence under op-
pression is also the true one — namely,
that, as a general fact, the oppression
is unknown. When an intelli^nt
farmer looks round among his neigh-
bours, and finds that for every acre
damaged by game there are thou-
sands untouched by it, — when he
knows that there are not only whole
parishes, but almost whole counties,
in which he could not detect in the crops
the slightest indication of game,— and
further, that, in ninety-nine cases out
of a hundred in which a tenant really
suffers injury, he is sure of prompt
and ample compensation — it is not sur-
prising that he looks upon the Associa-
tion with suspicion, and refuses to sup-
port, by his name or his money, their
system of stupendous exaggeration.
If anyone wishes to convince Umself of
the actual truth, we venture to suggest
to him a simple test. Damage from
game, to be appreciable at all, cannot
well be less than a shilling an acre.
Now, let any farmer survey in his
mind the district with which he is
best acquainted, and estimate on how
much of it the tenants would give
this additional rent, on condition of
the game laws being abolished. An
average-sized farm, in our best cnlti-
vated counties, may be taken at two
hundred acres — how many of his bro-
ther farmers can he reckon np, who
would consent to pay £10 a-year ad-
ditional on these terms? A similar
test, it may be mentioned, was offered
to one of Mr Bright^s witnesses, (£vi-
deuce, 1. 4938,) who had set down
his annual dama^ges from game at from
£180 to £200, and who, after sue
cessively declining to give £200, £100,
and £75 a-year additional rent for
leave to extirpate the game, thought,
at last, he might give £50 a-year for
that bargain.
But the question immediately be-
fore us is this : what remedy does the
existing law of Scotland give a tenant
in cases of real hardship from the pre-
servation of game ? In regard to this
question, it is impossible to OTolook
the broad distinction between the
cases of those who have expressly nn-
dertaken the burden of the game, and
those whose leases contain no such
covenant. The quasi-right of pro-
perty in game recognised by the Eng-
lish law is, by Lord Althorpe^s sta-
tute of 1832« vested in the occtqner of
land, when there is no express stipa-
lation to the contrary. Thereyeroe
is virtually the case in Scotland— the
landlord retains his right to kill game,
unless he shall have agreed to surren-
der it to his tenant. In most cases,
however, the landlord's right does not
rest merely on the common law, but
is expressly reserved to him in the
lease. Now, when a tenant has deli-
berately become a party to sudi an
express stipulation, and when the
quantity of game (whether it be small
or great) does not exceed, during the
currency of the lease, what it was at
his entry, on what conceivable idea of
reason or justice can he ask the inter-
ference either of a court of law or of
the legislature? To say, with Mr
Bright and his coadjutors, that be sel-
dom attends much to such minor articles
in a lease—that he does not under-
stand their effect— that in the compe-
tition for land he is glad to secure a
£arm on any oonditiaiis— all this is th«
1819.3
The Game Law$ in Scotland.
76
most childish trifling, and unworthy
of a moment's seriooB notice. There is
not a single sentence in any lease that
may not be set aside on the yery same
grounds; and if agreements of this na-
ture are to be cancelled on pretences
so ftiYoloas, there is an end to sJl
faith and meaning in contracts be-
tween man and man.
Bat the tenant's case assumes a very
different aspect when, by artificial
means expressly contrived for the
purpose, the game has been increased
subgequemi to his entry. Then, it is
obyious, the burden is no longer the
same which the tenant undertook. It
is a state of things which he could not
antkipate firam &e terms of his con-
tract; and if the authority of the
courts of law were unable to reach
such a case, and to protect the tenant
from what is in fact an infringement,
on the part of the landlord, of their
mutual agreement, it is difficult to
imagine stronger grounds for insisting
that the defect should be supplied by
positiye enactment. No sudi inter-
ference, however, is requisite. Our
law courts not only possess the power
of enfiofcing compensation f<Mr such in-
jniies, bat in the recent decision, in
the case of Wemyss and Others v.
Wilson, the supreme court has as-
serted and exercised that power in
the moat distinct and unqualified man-
ner. *' There is no instance," says
Mr Cbiene Shepherd, writing before
the date of the above-mentioned judg-
ment, *^iii which oar head court in
Scotland — the Court of Session— has
ever given a decision entitling a
tenant to damages fix)m a landlord for
deatnctioB of his crops 1^ game."
Kow, sappofling the fact as here
stated, to be strictly correct, what
inference, we ask, can common can-
door draw from it? Are we to con-
clude that the law of Scotland^ or the
bench that administers it, are so cor-
mpt aa to coontenance such an insult
to jnatloe ? No such express decision
had then been given, simply because
nosnch daim had ever been tried;
and floiely this very hd is in itself
the stroogeat posdble presumption
against the alle^Ml nnivenal abuse of
the power of preserving game— a pre-
aomption that a hardship which, up
to 1847, 1^ never been made the
ground of a formal appeal to the law
tribunals, caunot be either very fire-
quent or very severe. The statement,
however, is not strictly correct ; for,
though no actual decree had been
given on the special amount of da-
mages before 1847, a very distinct,
though incidental, opiniou as to the
liability of landlords in such cases was
given in a case which occurred fifteen
years ago— Drysdale t?. Jameson.
The principle of the law could not be
more lucidly stated than in the words
of the learned judge (Fullerton) on
that occasion.
^^ A tenant, in taking a farm, must
be considered as taking it under the
burden of supporting the game, and
may be presumed to have satisfied
himself of the extent of that burden,
as he is understood to do of any other
unfavourable circumstance impairing
the productiveness of the farm. But,
on the other hand, it would seem con-
trary to principle that the landlord,
who is bound to warrant the beneficial
possession to the tenant, should be
allowed, by his own act, to aggravate
the burden in any great degree. A
tenant, in order to support such a
claim, must prove not only a certain
visible damage arising from game, but
a certain visible increase of the game,
and a consequent alteration of the cir^
cumstances contemplated in the am-
tract, imputable to the landlord. The
true ground of damage seems to be, not
that the game is abundant, but that
its abundance bos been materially in-
creased since the date of the lease."*
Surely so clear an opinion, coming
from such a quarter, was a pretty plain
indication of the protection which the
law would extend to a tenant in these
circumstances ; and, accordingly, it
has been completely confirmed on
every point by the more recent and
comprehensive decision on Captain
Wemyss' case. Any new steps on the
part of a landlord for stimulating the
natural supply of game, whether
by feeding them, bree&ig them arti-
ficially, or by a systematic destruction
of the vermin which naturally prey
on them, will be held as indicating an
intention on his part to depart from
the terms of the contract, and as
• Shaw, ii. 147,
76
The Game Laws in Scotland.
[Joir.
therefore opening a valid claim for
any damage the tenant may experience
in conseqnence of the change. And
it is not only snch direct and active
measures for augmenting the stipulated
burden that will be thus interpreted
against the landlord ; but even his doing
80 negatively — that is, his failing to
exorcise the power he retains in his owq
hands, and to keep down the buixlen
to the same amount at which the ten-
ant found it on his entry, will be held
as equivalent to his positive act.
If, then, there ever was any ground
for alleging that the state of the law
was indefinite, the objection is now
removed. No one can pretend to
doubt that a tenant of land in Scot-
land has as ample a protection
against injury from game as the law
can give him. To prevent the injury
beforehand is beyond the power of
any law. All that it can do is to
afford him as prompt and effectual
means of redress as it furnishes against
any other species of injury. In short,
when its principle is weighed fairly,
and when we take into consideration
the relief from the fiscal qualification
which Mr Mackenzie's act of last ses-
sion conferred on the farmei*s, we shall
be able to estimate how far it is true
that, ^^ both in parliament and out of
parliament, the interests and industry
of tenants are systematically sacrificed
to the maintenance of the odious pri-
vileges of more favoured classes."
We have followed out and exposed,
perhaps at greater length than was
necessary, the stock sophisms and
more flagrant exaggerations by which
the total abolition of game laws is
usually supported. Some points are
3'et untouched ; but we prefer employ-
ing the rest of our paper in briefly
stating a few suggestions for the re-
moval of some of those difficulties and
anomalies in the Scotch law, which
we set out with acknowledging. In
judging of any such alterations, it is
necessary never to lose sight of the
leading principle on which the whole
Scotch system is founded — namely,
the original and common right to seize
and appropriate the animals of chase,
qualified and determined by the pre-
vious right of the landowner to the
exclusive use of the soil.
1st. Keeping this in view, our first
change would be the abolition of the
land-qualification introdaced by the
Act 1621 ; and this for the doable
reason that it was originally an un-
warrantable departure from the gene-
ral principle just mentioned, and thai
it is inexpedient to cumber the sys-
tem with a law which is practically
in desuetude.
2d. The cfifect of this alteration
would be to remove also the useless
and improper restriction on the sale of
game. There can be no good reason
for throwing difficulties in the way of
the game- dealer's trade. As a check
to poaching, we have abundant proof
that the present restriction is inopera-
tive ; or, if it has any effect, it is
directly the reverse of that intended,
by throwing the trade very much into
the hands of a low class of retailers.
Instead of requiring a qualification or
permission , which is constantly evaded,
we would substitute a game-dealer's
license, as in England.
3d. The fifth section of the Day
Trespass Act empowers the person
having the right to kill game on any
lauds, or any person authorised by
him, to seize game in the possession'of
a trespasser. This provision has
sometimes given occasion to danger-
ous conflicts between the parties, and
is, moreover, quite at variance with
the principle of the law above noted.
4th. The next particular we shall
mention is of more importance. The
evidence of Mr Bright's committee
has, we think, fully disproved the
charge against the county magistracy
of England, of partiality and excessive
severity in game cases. Exceptions no
doubt were brought forward, but thefar
paucity shows the contrary to be the
rule. In Scotland there is still less
ground for such an accusation. With
us, such an occurrence as a justice
adjudicating in his own case is un-
known ; and we find even the most
violent of the abolition lecturers ad-
mitting that proceedings before the
sessions under the game statutes are
conducted with equity and leniency.
But this is not enough. The parties
who have to administer the law should
be above all suspicion of bias or in-
terest, even of the most indirect kind ;
and we should greatly prefer that
game prosecutions were removed al-
together, into the court of the judge-
ordinary. Such an alteration, were a
2849.]
Dammique,
rare, wonld be regarded generally by
the beDches of county magistrates as
a moat desirable relief fi^m one of
the moat invidlons and embarrassing
duties they hare to execute. Bnt, as
the law stands, tbey have no option —
for offences under the Day Trespass
Act are cognisable by them only. If,
then, there be any yalid reason against
tnnsferring the trial of all game of-
fences to the sheriff court, (and at
present we can see none^ it is at all
erents most advisable that his juris-
diction shonld be extended to day as
well as to night trespasses.
77
6th. Any revisal of the law shonld
embrace provisions against the accu-
mulation of penalties ; for although
these are very rarely insisted on in
Scotland, the power of enforcing them
affords a pretext for declamations
against the severity of the game law,
which its opponents know well how to
employ.
Besides these modifications of the
statutes, it seems roost desirable
that in all leases the disposal of game
should be regulated by special clauses,
which should include a reference to
arbitration in case of dispute.
DOMINIQUE.
A 8KSTCH FROM LIFE.
TWO STUDENTS.
At the lower extremity of that an-
cient street long recognised as the
head and centre of the Pc^s Latin or
sdiolastic quarter of Paris, and which,
far six centuries, has borne the name
of the Rue de la Htarpe, within a few
doors of the bridge of St Michel, and
in aroom upon the fifthfloor, two young
men were seated, on a spring mom-
mg of the jrear 182-. Even had the
modest apartment been situated else-
where than in the focus of the students'
district, its appearance would have
prevented the possibility of mistake
as to the character of its inmates.
Scanty furniture, considerably bat-
tered, caricatnres of student life, par-
tially veiling the dirty damp-stained
pi^Der that blistered npon the walls,
which were also adorned by a pair of
foils, a cracked guitar, and a set of
castanets; a row of pegs supporting
pipes, empty bottles in one comer,
ponderous octavos thickly coated with
dost in another, told a tale confirmed
by the exterior of the occupants of the
apartment. One of these, a young
man of two-and-twenty, was evidently
at home, for his feet were thrust into
slippers, once embroidered, a Greek
cap covered his head, and a tattered
dreasfaig-ffown of pristine magnificence
enrekq^Ua slender and activefigure.
~[ia ibatiires were regular and intelli-
gent, and he had the dark fiery eyes,
clustering black hair, and precociously
abundant beard of a native of southern
France. His companion, a young
Norman, had nothing particularly
noticeable in his countenance, save a
broad open brow and a character of
much shrewdness and perspicacity —
qualities possessed in a high degree
by a majority of his fellow provincials.
His dress was one of those nondescript
eccentric coats and conical broad-
leafed hats at all times particularly
affected by French studiosi.
The two young men were seated at
either extremity of the low sill of a
tall French window, thrown wide open
to admit the pleasant spring sunshine,
into which they puffed, from capacious
pipes, wreaths of thin blue smoke.
Their conversation turned upon a crime
—or rather a series of crimes — ^which
occasioned, at that particular moment,
much excitement in Paris, and which
will still be remembered by those per-
sons upon the tablets of whose me-
mory the lapse of a quarter of a ceu-
tuiy does not act as a spnnge. About
three years previously, a young man
named Gilbert Gaudry, of respectable
family, liberal education, and good
reputation, had been tried and con-
victed for the murder of an uncle, by
whose death he largely inherited. Th^
78
DonUmque.
[Jnly,
accused man was ia debt, and his em-
barrassed circnmstances prevented his
marrjing a woman to whom he was
passionately attached ; his nndo had
•recently refused him pecuniary assis-
tance, upon which occason Gaudry
was heard to express himself harshly
and angrily. Many other circum-
stances concurred to throw upon him
the odium of the crime; and, alto-
gether, the evidence, although entirely
circumstantial, was so strong against
him, that, in spite of his powerful ap-
peal and solemn denial, the judge con-
demned him to death. The sentence
had been commuted to the galleys for
life. Three years passed, and the real
murderer was discovered — a dis-
charged servant of the murdered man,
who, at the trial, had given important
evidence against Gaudry. The guil-
lotine did its work on the right offen-
der, and Gaudry's sentence was re-
versed. But three years of slavery
and opprobrium, of shame, horror,
and gnawing sense of injustice, had
wrought terribly upon the misjudged
man, inspiring him with a blind and
burning thirst of revenge. Almost
his first act, on finding himself at
liberty, was to stab, in broad day-
light, and in the open street, the judge
who had condemned him. This time
there could be no question of his guilt,
and he would inevitably have been con-
demned to death ; but, before his trial,
he found means of hanging himself in
his cell. This last tragical and shock-
ing incident had occurred but two
days previously, and now furnished
the embryo jurists with a theme for
animated discussion. Without vindi-
cating the wretched murderer and
suicide, the young Norman was dis-
posed to find an extenuating cir-
cumstance in the unjust punishment
he had endured. But his Mend scout-
ed such leniency, and, taking up high
ground, maintained that no criminal
was baser than he who, the victim of
judicial error, revenged himself upon
the magistrate who had decided ac-
cording to the best of his judgment and
conscience, but who, sharing the lia-
bility to err of every human judge, was
misled by deceitfol appearances or
perjured witnesses.
" Argue it as you will," cried Domi-
nique Lafon ; *^ be plausible and elo-
quent, bring batteries of sophisms to
the attaek, yon cannot breadi my
solid position. Excuse and extenua-
tion are alike in vain. I repett and
maintam, that to make a magistrate
personally responsible for his judg-
ments, be they just or unjust, so long
as he has kept within the line of his
duty, and acted according to his con-
science, is revenge of the basest and
most criminal description."
*''■ Bear in mind," replied Henry la
Chapelle, ^^that I attempt not to
justify the unhappy Gaudry. All I
assert is, that injustice excites m the
breast of every man, even of the
gentlest, hatred against him by whom
the injustice is done. And its frequent
repetition, or the long continuance of
the suffering it occasions, will ulti-
mately provoke, in nine cases out of
ten, an outbreak of revengeful fury.
The heart becomes embittered, the
judgment blinded, the mild and beau-
tiful injunctions of Scripture are for-
gotten or disregarded, in the gust of
passion and vindictive rage. To offer
the left cheek when the right has been
buffeted, is, of all divine precepts, tbe
most difficult to follow. A maa
ruined, tortured, or disgraced l>y in-
justice, looks to the sentence, not to
the intention, of his judge ; taxes him
with precipitation, prejudice, or over-
severity, and views revenge as a right
rather than a crime. Doubtless there
arc exceptions — ^men whose Christian
endurance would abide by them even
unto death ; but, believe me, they are
few, very few. The virtues of Job are
rare; and rancour, the vile weed,
chokes, in our corrupt age, the meek
flower, resignation."
^^ A man to whom injustice is really
done," said Dominique, ^^ may conscde
himself with the consciousness of his
innocence, which an act of ranooroos
revenge would induce many to doubt.
The suffering victim finds sympathy ;
the fierce avenger excites horror and
reprobation."
"Mere words, my dear fellow,"
replied la Chapelle. " Fine phrases,
and nothing else. You are a theorist,
pleading against human nature. What
logic is this ? Undeserved punishment
is far more difficult to endure than
merited castigation; and an act of
revenge should rather plead in favour
of the innocence of him who commits
it. In a crimmal, the consciousness
that he BMrited
leare leas room forhatifed than fixr
shame; itwonld ezdte Tezation at
his ill lock, rather than enduring
anger against his judge. There would
be exceptions and Tariations, of
ooorBe, accordingto the moral idiosyn-
cracy of the indiYidoal. It is impos-
sible to estaUish a mathematical scale
for the workings of human passions.
I repeat that I do not justify such re-
venge, but I still maintain that to seek
it is natural to man, and that many
men, eren with less aggrayation than
was ^yen to Grandiy, mijght not have
suffiaentresolntion and virtue to resist
the impulse."
" You have but a paltry opinion of
your lUlow-creatures," saia Domi-
nique. ^^ I am glad to think better of
them. And I hold him a weak slave
to the corruption of our nature, who
has not straiffth to repress the im-
pulse to a deed his conscience cannot
justify."
** Admirable in principle," said la
Chapelle, smiling, *^but difficult in
practice. Yon yourself, my dear
Dominiqoe, who now take so lofty a
tone, and who feel, I am quite sure,
exactly as jon roeak — ^you yourself,
if I am not greatly mistaken in your
character, would be the last man to
sit down quietly under injustice.
Your natural ardour and impetuosity
woald aoon upset your moral code."
*^ Never!" vehemently exclaimed
Dominique. '^ La Chapelle, never
will I soffer my passions thus to sub-
due my reason! What gratification
79
of revenge can ever compensate the
loss of that greatest of blessings, a
pure and tranquil conscience ? What
peace of mind could I hope for, after
permitting such discord l^tween my
principles and my actions ? La Cha-
pelle, you wrong me by the thought."
"Well, well," replied his friend,
" I may be wrong, and at any rate I
reason in the abstract rather than per-
sonally to you. I heartily wish you
never may suffer wrong, or be tempted
to revenge. But remember, my friend,
safety is not in over-confidence. The
severest assaults are for the strongest
towers."
A knock at the room-door inter-
rupted the conversation. It was the
porter of the lodging-house, bringing
a letter that had just arrived for
Dominique. On recognising the hand-
writing of the address, and the post-
mark of Montauban, the young man
uttered a cry of pleasure. It was from
home, from his mother. He hastily
tore it open. But as he read, the
smile of joy and gratified affection
faded from his features, and was re-
placed by an expression of astonish-
ment, indignation, grief. Scarcely
finishing the letter, he crumpled it in
his hand with a passionate gesture, and
stripping off his dressing-gown began
hastily to dress. With friendly soli-
citude la Chapelle observed his vary-
ing countenance.
"No bad news, I hope?" he
inquired.
For sole reply, Dominique threw
him the letter.
MOTHER AND SON.
Dominique Lafbn was the son of a
man noted for his democratic prin-
ciplee, who, after holding high provin-
cial office under the Republic and the
Consulate, resigned his functions in
di^>lea8ore, when Napoleon grasped
an emperor's sceptre, and retired to
his native town of Montauban, where
he ance had lived upon a modest
patrimony. Under Napoleon, Pascal
Lafon had been unmolested; but
when the Bombons returned, his name,
pnmuBent during the last years of the
dghte^ith centmry, rendered him the
o^ect of a certain mtrveiUance on the
p«t of tiie police of the Restoration.
On the occasion of more than one re-
publican conspiracy, real or imagin-
ary, spies had been set upon him, and
endeavours made to prove him impli-
cated. Once he had even been con-
ducted before a tribunal, and had
undergone a short examination. No-
thing, however, had been elicited
that in any way compromised him ;
and in a few hours he was again at
liberty, before his family knew of his
brief arrest. In reality, Lafon, al-
though still an ardent republican, was
entu^ly guiltless of plotting against
the monarchy, which he deemed too
firmly consolidated to be as yet
80
Dommique,
[Jnlj,
shaken. France, he felt, had need of
repose before again entering the revo-
lationary arena. His firm faith still
was, that a time would come when
she would dismiss her kings for ever,
and when pure democracy would
govern the land. But before that time
arrived, his eyes, ho believed, would
be closed in death. He was no con-
spirator, but he did not shun the
society of those who were ; and, more-
over, lie was not sufficiently guarded
in the expression of his republican
opinions and Utopian theories. Hence
it came that, like the Whig in Claver-
house's memoranda, he had a triple
red cross against his name in the
note-book of the Bourbon police, who,
at tlie time now referred to, had been
put upon the alert bv the recent assas-
sination of the Duke of Berrl. Al-
though the circumstances of that crime,
and the evidence upon LouvePs trial,
combined to stamp the atrocious deed
:is the unaided act of a fanatic, with-
out accomplices or ulterior designs, the
event had provoked much rigid inves-
tigation of the schemes of political
malcontents throughout Franco ; and
in several districts and towns, magis-
trates and heads of police had been
replaced, as lax and lukewarm, by
men of sterner character. Amongst
other changes, the Judge of Instruc-
tion at Montauban had had a succes-
sor given him. The new magistrate
was preceded by a reputation of great
vigilance and severity — a reputation
he lost no time in justifying. By the
aid of a couple of keen Parisian police
agents of the Procureur du Eoi, whom
he stimulated to increased activity,
he soon got upon the scent of a repub-
lican conspiracy, of which Montauban
was said to be a principal focus.
Various reports were abroad as to the
mamier in which Monsieur NoeU, the
new judge, had obtained his informa-
tion. Some said, the plotters had been
betrayed by the mistress of one of
them, in a fit of jealous fury at a fan-
cied infidelity of her lover; others
declared, that hope of reward had
quickened the invention of a police
spy, who, despairing of discovering a
conspiracy, had applied himself to
fabricate one. Be that as it might, a
number of arrests took place, and,
amongst others, that of Dominique*s
father. The intelligence of this event
was conveyed to the young student in
a few despairing linea firom hia mother,
whose heidth, fuready Tery precarions,
had suddenly given way under the
shock of her husband's imprisonment
She wrote from a sick-bed, imploring
her son to lose no time in returning
to Montauban.
Gloomy were the forebodings of
Dominique as the mail rattled him
over tiie weary leagues of ro«d be-
tween Paris and Montauban. Yet,
when he reached home, he half hoped
to be greeted by his fikther's firiendl^
voice, for, himself convinced of his
innocence, he could not believe the
authorities would be long in recognis-
ing it. He was disappointed. The
sorrowful mien of the domestic who
opened the door told a tale of mis-
fortune.
*^ Oh, Monsieur Dominique I" said
the man, an old servant, who had
known the student from his cradle,
** the house is not wont to be so sad
when you return."
*^My mother! where is my mo-
ther?" cried Dominique. The next
instant he was at her bed-side, clasp-
ing her poor thin fingers, and gaaing
in agony on her emaciated features.
A few days of intense alarm and
anxiety, acting on an exquisitely sus-
ceptible organisation, had done the
work of months of malady. A slow
fever was in her veins, undermining
her existence. Dominique shuddered
at sight of her sunken temples, and of
the deep dark furrows below her eyes.
It seemed as if the angel of death had
already put his stamp upon that be-
loved countenance. But he concealed
his mental an^sh, and spoke dheer-
ingly to the mvalid. She told him
the particulars of his father^s arrest.
She had already written to some
friends, sent for others, and had done
all in her power to ascertain exactly
the ofienccs of which Lafon was ac-
cused ; but the persons who had made
the inquiries had been put off with
generalities, and none had obtained
access to the prisoner, who was in
solitary confinement.
Dominique Lafon was tenderly at-
tached to both his parents. Upon him,
their only child, tneir entire affection
was concentrated and lavished. They
had made him their companion even
from his earliest years, had tended
1M9.2
Dominique,
81
him with unwearying solicitnde
throngh his delicate infancy, had de-
Toted themaelTes to his education
when he grew older, and had con-
sented with difficulty and re^t to
part from him, when his amyal at
man*s estate rendered it desirable he
flhonld Yisit the capital for the con-
cloaion of his studies. Dominique
repaid their care with dcTOted love.
His father's consistency and strengtii
of character inspired him with re-
spect ; he listened to his precepts with
Teneration and gratitude; but he
idolised his mother, whose feminine
graces and tender care were inter-
twined with Uie sweetest reminiscences
of childhood's happy days. He now
strove to repay some portion of his
debt of filial love by the most un-
wearying attendance at the invalid's
pillow. His arrival brought a gleam
of joy and hope to the sick woman's
brow, but the ray was transient, and
quickly faded. The vital flame had
sunk too low to revive again per-
manentiy. She grew weaker and
weaker, and felt that her hour ap-
proached. But her spirit, so soon to
appear before her Maker, yet clung
to an earthly love. Whilst striving
to fix her thoughts on things heavenly,
they still dwdt upon him by whose
side she had made life's checkered
pilgrimage. She wrung her hands in
agony at the thought that she must
l^ve the world without bidding him
a last farewelL She asked but a mo-
ment to embrace him who, for five-
and-twenty years, had been her guar-
dian and protector, her tenderest
firiend and companion. Dominique
could not endure the spectacle of her
grief. He left the house to use every
endeayour to obtain for her the in-
dnlgenoe she so ardently desired.
^e first person to whom he ap-
plied was the Judge of Instruction,
Monaieur Koell. Provided with a
medical certificate of his mother's
dying state, he obtained admission to
that magistrate's cabinet. He found
ataUthm man, with harsh strongly
marked features, and a forbiddmg
expression of countenance. The glazed
stare of his cold gray eyes, and the
emel lines about his mouth, chiUed
Dominique's hopes, and almost made
him deroair of success. The youth
prefemd his request, however, with
VOL. LXVI.— -KO. CCCCV.
passionate earnestness, imploring that
his father might be allowed to leave
his prison for a single hour, under
good guard, to visit the bedside of
his expiring wife, in presence of such
witnesses as the authorities would
think proper to name. The reply to
this prayer was a formal and decid^
negative. Until the prisoner Lafon
had undergone a second examination,
no one coiUd be admitted to see him
under any pretext whatever. That
examination was not to ia^e place
for at least a week. Dominique
was very sure, from what the phy-
sicians had told him, that his mo-
ther could not survive for a third
of that time.
The frigid manner and unsym-
pathising tone of the magistrate, and
the uncourteous brevity of his refusal,
grated so unpleasantly upon the irri-
tated feelings of the student, that he
had difficulty in restraining a momen-
tary anger. In less imminent cu'cum-
stances, his pride would have pre-
vented his persisting in a petition
thus unkindly rejected, but the thought
of his dying mother brought patience
aud humility to bis aid. Warmly,
but respectfully, he reiterated his
suit. The magistrate was a widower,
but he had children, to whom report
said he was devotedly attached.
Harsh and ri^d in his official duties,
in his domestic circle he was said to
be the tenderest of fathers. Domi-
nique had heard this, and availed of
it in pleading his suit.
" You have children, sir I" he said;
^'you can picture to yourself the grief
you would feel were your deathbed^
unblessed by their presence. How
doubly painful must be the parting
agony, when the ear is unsoothed by
the voice of those best beloved, when
no cherished hand is there to prop the
sinking head, and close the eyes for
ever on this world and its sufferings I
Refuse not my father the consolation
of a last interview with his dying
wife ! Have compassion on my poor
mother's agony I Suffer her to breathe
her last between the two beings who
share all her affection 1 So may your
own deathbed be soothed by the pre-
sence of those you most dearly love 1"
Doubtless Monsieur Noell's ear was
well used to such pleadings, and his
heart was hardened by a long course
82
Dommique,
[July,
of judicial seyerity. His dance lost
nothing of its habitoal^cola indiffer-
ence, as he replied to Dominique's
passionate entreaties with a decided
negative.
*^ I must repeat my former answer,"
he said ; *^ I neither can nor will grant
the indalgence you require. And
now I will detain you no longer, as
you may perhaps make use of your
time to greater advantage in other
quarters."
He rose from his chair, and re-
mained standing till Dominique left
the room. The tone of his last words
had wellnigh crushed hope in the
young man^s bosom. But as louff as
a possibility remained, the student
pursued it. He betook himself to the
jF^rocureur du Roiy whose office consti-
tuted him'public prosecutor in cases of
this kind. That functionary declared
himself incompetent, until the pri-
soner should have undergone anotiier
examination. Until then, the only
appeal from the judge was to the
minister of justice. Dominique in-
stantly drew up and forwarded a
Petition ; but before it reached Paris,
IS mother breathed her last. She
met her death, preceded and attended
by acute sufferings, with the resigna-
tion of a martyr. But even after the
last sacrament of her religion had
been administered, and when she
earnestly strove to fix her mind on
eternity, to the exclusion of things
temporal, the thought of her husband,
so long and tenderly beloved, and
absent at this supreme hour, intruded
itself upon her pious meditations,
brought tears to her eyes, and drew
heartrending sobs from her bosom ;
her last sigh was for him, her latest
breath uttered his name. This fer-
vent desire, so cruelly thwarted,
those tears of deferred hope and final
profound disappointment, were inex-
pressibly painful to contemplate.
Upon Dominique, whose love for his
mother was so deep and holy, they
made a violent impression. Bitter
were his feelings as he sat beside her
couch when the spirit had fled, and
gazed upon her clay-cold features,
whereon there yet lingered a grieved
and suffering expression. And later,
when the earth had received her into
its bosom, that pallid and sorrowfhl
eomtenanoe yraseyer before his eyes.
In his dreams he heard his mother's
well-known voice, moamfaUy pro-
nouncing the name of her beloved
husband and praying, aa die had
done in the last hours of her lifo, that
she might again behold him befoie
she departed. Nor were these viatoos
dissipated by daylight They recur-
red to his excited imagination, and
kindled emotions of fierce hafared
towards the man who had had it in Ua
power to smooth his mother's paaaage
nrom life to death, and who h^d wan-
tonly refused the alleviation. Naj
more ; convinced of his other's inno-
cence, Dominique considered the
judge who had thrown him into prison
as in some sort his mother's mmSterer.
He had accelerated her decease, and
thrown gall into the cup it is the lot
of eveiT mortal to drain. The phjrsi-
cians had declared anxiety of mind
to be the immediate cause of her
death. Dominique brooded over this
declaration, and over the miafottones
that had so suddenly overtaken him,
until he came to consider M. Noell
as much an assassin as if he had
struck a dagger into his mother's
heart. '^ What matter," he thought,
" whether the wound be dealt to b^
or to soul, so long as it slays ?" He
had nothing to distract his thoughts
firom dwelling upon and magnifying
the wrongs that had deprived him <x
both parents, one by death, the other
by an imprisonment whose termina-
tion he could not foresee. At times
his melancholy was broken by bursts
of fury against him he deemed the
cause of his misfortunes.
''Could I but see him dieP' he
would exclaim, ''the cold-blooded
heartless tyrant— die alone, childless,
accursed, without a friendly hand to
wipe the death-sweat from his fiicel
Then, methinks, I could again be
happy, when his innocent victim was
thus revenged. Alas, my moUier I—
my poor, meek, long-suffcoing mother,
— mustyourdoath go unrequited ? For
what offence was your idb taken as
atonement ? By wliat vile distortion
of justice did this base inquisitor
visit upon your innocent head a trans-
gression that never was comndtted?**
Meanwhile the ci^tivity of the
elder Lafon was prolonged. Aaeeond
examination nUixjed nothing of hia
jailor's severity, and his son's applka*
lBi9.i
Dommique,
88
tkMifl lo flee him wwe all rejeoted.
Dominiqiie wrote to his father, but
he reoeiTed no anawer ; and he after-
wards learned that hia letter had not
been delivered when sent, but had
been detained by Noell, who, finding
nothing eriminatorj in ito contents,
had snbjected it, with characteristic
saspicioii, to chemical processes, in
hopes to detect writing with sym-
pathetic ink, and had finally made it
ircesiiaTy to an attempt to extort a
confessioa firom the prisoner. This
mfiMmatioo, obtained firom an nnder-
fitrapper of the prison by means of a
large biilie, raised Dominiqae*s exas-
poation to the highest pit^
^' Gfadona Heaven 1" he exclaimed,
**ar6 such tbin^ to be endured in
sUenoe and submission ? Hashuman
justloe inm seourges for nominal of-
fenfiea^— hoBonrs and rewards for real
crimes? On a false accusation my
fiither puMS in a dungeon, whilst my
mother's aunderer walks scatheless
and exalted amcmgst his fellows ; but
if the Imwa of man are impotent to
avenge her death, who shall blame
her son for remembering her dying
agony, and requiting it on those who
agmyated her sufferings ?"
And he walked forth, pondering
vengeance. Unoonsdously his steps
took the direction of the prison. Lcmg
hestoodt with folded arms and lower-
ing iHTow, gazing at the small grated
aperture that gave light and air to his
father's cell, and hoping to see his
beloved parent look out and recognise
him. He gased in vain : twilight
came, night followed, no one appeared
at the window. Dominique ^ew not
that it was high above the prisoner's
reach. He returned home, foncying
his father ill, nourishing a thousand
bitter thoughts, and heaping up finesh
hatred against the author of so much
misery. That night Michel, the old
servant, came twice to his room door,
to see what ailed him, since, instead
of retiring to rest, he unceasingly
paced the apartment. Dominique
dismissed the faithful fellow to his bed,
and resumed his melancholy walk.
But in the morning he was so pale
and haggard that Michel slipped out
to ask the family physician to call in
by accident. When he returned,
Dominique had left the house. In
great alarm — for his young master's
gloomy despondency at once suggested
fear of suicide — ^Michel tracked his
steps. His fears proved unfounded.
With some trouble he ascertained that
Dominique had quitted the town on
the top of a passing diligence, with a
yalise for sole baggage, and without
informing any one of Uie ol)ject of his
journey.
tOK nOUBLB nuiL.
Antony Noell, the indge, had three
diildren, and r^rt lied not when it
said that he was tendarl v attached to
them. ▲ harsh and unfeeling man in
his official eapadty, and in uie ordi-
nary aflairs cf lifo, all the softer part
of hk natue seemed to haye resolved
itMlf into paternal affidction. His two
aoaa were stedente at the university
of Tonloue; his youngest child, a
blooming maiden of twelve, i^
brightened his home and made his
heart joyftil, althoui^ she soon was
to leave him to fini& her education
iaacosreot. The two studento were
aj handsome lads, bat somewhat
niflsjpatnd : fonder of the bottle and
the biUiafa-feom Aaa of grave lec«
iuea (ud dry studies. They were in
email flwov with their pedagogues,
til ia H(h lepite with thehr foUow
collegians ; whilst peaceable dtisens
and demure young ladies regarded
them with mingled aversion, interest,
and curiosity, on account of certain
mad pranks, by which, daring their
first half-year's residence, they had
gained a certain notoriety in the quiet
city of Toulouse.
It hfl^pened one night, as the bro-
thers came both flushed with play and
wine from their accustomed cofiee-
house on the Place du Capitole, that
Vincent, the elder of the two, stumbled
over the feet of a man who sat upon
one of the bendies placed outside the
establishment. The passage through
the benches and tobies was narrow;
and the stranger, having thrast his
legs neariy across it, had little reason
to complain of the trifling offiMce of-
foredhim. NevertheLessfaeJampedtp
84
Dominiqu€m
[July,
his feet and fiercely taxed young Noell
with an intentional insult. Noell,
full of good humour and indifierent
wiuo, and taking his interlocutor for
A fellow student, made a jesting re-
ply, and seizing one of the strangers
annd, whilst his brother Martial
grasped the other, dragged hiui into
the lamp- light to see who he was. But
the face they beheld was unknown to
them; and scarcely had they obtained
a glimpse at it when its owner shook
them off, applying to them at the same
tiino a most injurious epithet. The
students would have struck him, but
he made a pace backwards, and, seiz-
ing a heavy chair which he whirled
over his head as though it had been a
feather, he sworo he would dash out
the brains of the fii*st who laid a finger
on him.
'• I do not fight like a water-car-
rier,'* he said, ** with fists and feet ;
but if you are as ready with your
8words as you arc with your insolence,
you shall not long await satisfac-
tion."
And offering a card, which was at
once accepted, he received two in re-
turn. The disputants then separated ;
and as soon as the Xoells turned out
of the square, they paused beneath a
lamp to examine" the card they had
received. Inscribed upon it was the
name of Dominique Lafon.
It was too late, when this quarrel
occurred, for further steps to be taken
that night ; but early on the following
morning Dominique's second, a young
lawyer whom he had known during
his studies at Paris, had an interview
with the friends appointed by the
Koell* to act on their behalf. ' The
latter anticipated a duel with swords,
and were surprised to find that Domi-
nique, entitled, as the insulted party,
to fix the weap'jn, selected the more
dangerous and le^s usual one of pistols.
Thfrv could not object, however, and
the meeting was fixed for the next
day: the arrangement being that both
hrothers should come upon the ground,
and that, if Dominique was unhnrt in
the first enoonnter, the second duel
abould immediately succeed it.
In a sedoded field, vty the right of
At pteiaaot road from Toulouse to
md at DO EKat distance from
on whose •ummit a stone
Soult'e gallant
resistance to Wellington's conquering
forces, the combatants met at the ap-
pointed hour, and saluted each other
with cold cotutesy. Dominique was
pale, but his hand and eye were steady,
aud his pulse beat calmly. The two
Noells were cheerful and indifiTerent,
and bore themselves like men to whom
encounters of this kind were no novelty.
The elder brother took the first turn.
The seconds asked once more if the af-
fair could not be peaceably arranged ;
but, receiving no answer, they made
the final arrangements. Two peeled
willow rods were laid upon the around,
six yards apart. At ten yaras firom
either of these the duellists were placed,
making the entire distance between
them six and twenty yards ; and it was
at their option, when the seconds gave
the word, either to advance to the
ban'ier before firing, or to fire at once,
or from any inten'cning point.
The word was givcn^ and the anta-
gonists stepped out. Vincent Koell
took but two paces, halted and fired,
lie had missed. Dominique continued
steadily to advance. When he bad
taken five paces, the seconds looked
At each other, and then at him, as if
expecting him to stop. He took no
notice, and moved on. It was a
minute of breathless suspense. In the
dead silence, his firm tread upon the
grass was distinctly audible. He
paused only when his foot touched the
willow wand. Then he slowly raised
his arm, and fired.
The whirling smoke prevented him
for an instant from discerning the effect
of liis shot, but the hasty advance of
the secondis and of two surgeons who
had accompanied them to the field,
left him little doubt that It had told.
It had indeed done so, and with fatal
effect. The unhappy Mncent was
bathed in his blood. The snigeons
hastened to apply a first dresung, but
their countenances gave little hope of
a favourable result.
Pale and horror-stricken, not with
personal fear, but with grief at his
brother's f;\te, Martial XocU whispered
his second, who proposed poetponing
the second duel till another day.
Dominique, who, whilst all his com-
panions had been busy with the
wounded man, had remained leaning
against a troe, his discharged pisiol in
his hand, collected and msnnpiibis-
ing, stepped forward on hearing this
proposition.
'^Another day?" said he with a
-cmel sneer. ^^ Before another daj
arriTes, I shall doubtless be in prison
for this morning's work. But no
matfer; if tiie gentleman is less ready
to fight than he was to insnlt me, let
him leave the field."
The scomfhl tone and insinnation
bronght a flnsh of shame and anger
to the brow of the younger Noell. lie
detested himself for the momentary
weakness he had shown, and a fierce
flame of revenge kindled in his heart.
" Murderer !" he exclaimed, '*my
brother's blood caUs aloud for ven-
geanoe. May Providence make me
its instrument ! "
Dominiflue replied not. Under the
same oonoitions as before, the two
young men took their stations. But
the chances were not equal. Domi-
nique letained all his coolness; his
opponent's whole frame quivered with
passionate emotion. This time, neither
was in haste to fire. Advancing
slowly, their eyes fixed on each other,
they reached at the same moment the
limits of then* walk. Then their
pistols were gradually raised, and, as
85
if by word of command, simultaneously
discharged. This time both balls took
effect. The one that struck Domi-
niqne went through his arm, without
breaking the bone, and lodged in his
back, inflicting a severe but not a
dangerous wound. But Martial Noell
was shot through the head.
The news of this bloody business
soon got wind, and the very same day
it was the talk of all Toulouse. Mar-
tial Noell had died upon the spot ; his
brother expired within forty-eight
hours. The seconds got out of the
way, till they should see how the
thing was likely to go. Dominique's
wound prevented his following their
example, if he were so disposed ; and
when it no longer impeded his move-
ments, he was already in the hands
of justice. Frantic "with grief on
learning the fate of his beloved sons,
Anthony Noell hurried to Toulouse,
and vigorously pushed a prosecution.
He hoped for a very severe sentence,
and was bitterly disappointed when
Dominique escaped, in consideration
of his wounds and of his having been
the iusulted party, with the lenient
doom of five years' imprisonment.
FIVE YBARS LATER.
Five years of absence from home
may glide rapidly enough away, when
passed in pursuit of pleasure or profit ;
dragged out between prison walls,
they appear an eternity, a chasm
between the captive and the world.
80 thought Dominique as he re-
entered Montauban, at the expiration
of his sentence. During the whole
time, not a word of inteUigence had
reached him from his home, no friend-
ly voice had greeted his ear, no line
•of familiar handwriting had gladdened
his tearless eyes. Arrived in. his
native town, his first inquury was for
his l^sther. Pascal Lafon was dead.
The fate of his wife and son had
preyed upon his health ; the prison
«ir had poisoned the springs of life in
the strong, free-hearted man. The
physician declared drugs useless in
Ids case, for that the atmosphere of
liberty alone could save hhn ; and he
Teoommended, if unconditional release
Impossible, that the .prisoner
should be guarded in his own house.
The recommendation was forwarded
to Paris, but the same post took a
letter from Anthony Noell, and a few
days brought the physician's dismis-
sal and an order for the close confine-
ment of Lafon. Examinations fol-
lowed each other in rapid succession,
but they served only to torment the
prisoner, without procuring his re-
lease; and after some months he
died, his innocence unrecognised.
The cause of his death, and the cir-
cumstances attending it, were loudly
proclaimed by the indignant physi-
cian ; and Dominique, on his return
to Montauban, had no difficulty in
obtaining all the details, aggravated
probably by the unpopularity of the
judge. He heard them with unchang-
ing countenance ; none could detect a
sign of emotion on that cheek of
marble paleness, or in that cold and
steadfast eye. He then made inquiries
concerning Anthony NoelL That
8G
DomuUpte.
[jmr,
magistrate, he learned, had been pro-
moted, two yean preyionsly, and now
resided in his native town of Mar-
seillee. At that moment, howerer,
he happened to be at an hotel in
Montaaban. He had never recovered
the lose of hie sons, which had aged
him twenty years in appearance, and
had greatly augmented the harshness
and soar severitv of his character.
He seemed to find his sole consolation
in the society of his daughter, now a
beantifdl girl of seventeen, and in
intense application to his professional
duties. A tour of inspection, con-
nected with his judicial functions, had
now brought him to Montauban.
During his compulsory absences from
home, which were of annual occur-
rence and of some duration, his
daughter remained in the care of an
old female relation, her habitual com-
panion, .whose chief faults were her
absurd vanity, and her too great indul-
gence of the caprices of her darling
niece.
Dominique showed singular anxiety
to learn evei*y particular concerning
Anthony Noell's household, informing
himself of the minutest details, and
especially of the character of his
daughter, who was represented to him
as warmhearted and naturally ami-
able, but frivolous and spoiled by
over-indulgence. On the death of
his sons, Noell renounced his project
of sending her from home, and the
consequence was, that her education
had been greatly neglected. Madame
Verl^ the old aunt already men-
tioned, was a well-meaning, but very
weak widow, who, childless herself,
had no experience in bringing up
young women. In her own youth
she had been a great coquette, and
fi'ivolity was still a conspicuous fea-
ture in her character. As M. Noell,
since his sons' death, had shown a
sort of aversion for society, the house
was dull enough, and Madame Verio's
chief resource was the circulating
library, whence she obtained a con-
stant supply of novels. Far from
prohibiting to her niece the perusal of
this trash, she made her the com-
panion of her unwholesome studies.
The false ideas and highflown romance
with which these books teemed, might
have made little impression on a
character fortified by sound principles
and a good education, bat they sank
deep into the ardent and unenltivatad
imagination of Florinda Noell, to
whose father, engrossed by his aor-
rows and by his professional labouv,
it never once occurred to chedL the
current of corruption thus permitted
to flow into his daughter's artleaa
mind. He saw her gay, happy, and
amused, and he inquired no farther ;
well pleased to find her support so
cheerfully the want of society to
which his morose regrets and gloomy
eccentricity condemned her.
One of Dominique's first cares, on
his return to Montauban, was to visit
his parents* grave. Although his
father died in prison, and his memory
had never been cleared from the slur
of accusation, his friends had obtained
permission, with some difilcalty, to
inter his corpse beside that of his wift.
The day was fading into twilight
when Dominique entered the cemeteiy,
and it took him some time to find the
grave he sought. The sexton would
have saved him the trouble, but the
idea seemed a profanation ; in sflenoe
and in solitude he approached the
tomb of his affections and happiness.
Long he sat upon the mound, plunged
in reverie, but with dry eyes, for the
source of tears appeared exhausted in
his heart. Night came; the white
tombstones looked ghastly pale in tiie
moonlight, and cast long black shadows
upon the turf. Dominique aroeOr
plucked a wild-fiowerfrom his mother^
grave, and left the place. He had
taken but three steps when he became
aware he was not fdone in the chmnch*
yard. A tall figure rose suddenly
fh>m an adjacent grave. Althoigb
separated but by one lofty tombstone,
the two mourners had been too ab-
sorbed and Silent in their grief to
notice each other's presence. Now
they gazed at one another. Hie
moon, for a moment obscured, emer-
ged fh)m behind a doud, and sbime
upon their features. The recognitiOB
was mutual and instantaneous. Bofli
started back. Between the graves of
their respective victims, Anthony
Noell and Dominique Lafon oott-
fronted each other.
A dusky fire gleamed in the eyes of
Dominique, and his fisatares, won
and emaciated fVom captivity, were
distorted with the grimace of inteDse
1^9.2
Dommigue.
87
hmtred. His heart throbbed as though
it would have burst from his bosom.
*^ Maj jour dying hour be deso-
hte ! ^ he shrieked. " Maj your end
be in misery and despair 1''
The magistrate gased at his inyete-
rate foe with a ^j^ stare of horror,
as tiion^ a phantom had suddenly
lisen before him. Then, slowly rais-
ing his hand, till it pointed to the
graye of his sons, his eye still fixed,
as if by fudnation, npon that of Do-
miniqne, a single word, uttered in a
hdlow tone, burst from his quivering
lipa.
^* Murderer 1" he exclaimed.
Dominique laughed. It was a
hideous sound, a laugh <^ unquench-
able hatred and savage exultation.
He approached Noell till their faces
were bol a few inches ^>art, and
spoke in a yoice of suppressed fierce-
*' My iUhex and my mother,'* he
said, ** expired in grief, and shame,
and misery. By your causeless hate
and relentless persecution, I was made
anoiphaa. The debt is but half paid.
You have still a child. You still find
happiness on earth. But you yet shall
lose all— all I Yet shall you know
despair and utter solitude, and your
death shall be desolate, even as my
father's was. Remember I We shall
meet again, ^^
And passing swiftly before the ma-
gistrate, with a gesture of solemn
menace, Dominique left the cemetery.
Noell sank, pale and trembling, upon
his children's grave. His enemy had
found him, and security had fled.
Dominique's last words, "We shall
meet again 1" rang in his ears, as if
uttered by the threatening voice of
hostile and irresistible destiny. Slow-
ly, and in great uneasiness, he returned
into the town, which he left early the
next day for Marseilles. To his terri-
fied fancy, his daughter was safe only
when he watched over her. So great
was his alarm, that he would have
resigned his lucrative and honourable
office sooner than have remained
longer absent from the tender flower
whom the ruthless spoiler threatened
to trample and destroy.
THB H0B8B-BIDBH8.
Months passed away, and spring
letumed. On a bright morning of
May — in parched Provence the plea-
santest season of the year — a motley
cavalcade approached Marseilles by
tiie Nice road. It consisted of two
large waggons, a score of horses, and
about the same number of men and
women. The horses were chiefly
w1dte> cream-coloured, or piebald, and
some of them bore saddles of peculiar
make and fantastical colours, velvet-
oovered and decorated with gilding.
One was caparisoned with a tiger-
akin, and from his headstall floated
atreamen of divers-coloured horse-
hair. The women wore riding-habits,
flome of gaudy tints, boddices of purple
or crimson velvet, with long flaunting
robes of green or blue. They were
aunbumed, boldfaced damsels, with
marked features and of dissipated
aq>ect, and they sat firmly on their
saddles, jesting as they rode along.
Their niale companions were of corre-
nondlng appearance; lithe vig<»rous
leUowB, from fifteen to forty, attired
in Tarioua hussar and jockey costumes,
with beards and mustaches fantasti-
cally trimmed, limbs well developed,
and long curling hair. Various na-
tions went to the composition of the
band. French, Germans, Italians,
and Gipsies made up the equestrian
troop of Luigi Bartolo, which, after
Sassing the winter in southern Italy,
ad wandered north on the approach
of spring, and now was on its way to
give a series of representations at Mar-
seilles.
A little behind his comrades, upon
a fine gray horse, rode a young Flo-
rentine named Yicenzo, the most skil-
ful rider of the troop. Although but
five-and-twenty years old, he had
gone through many vidssitudes and
occupations. 0( respectable family,
he had studied at Pisa, had been ex-
pelled for misconduct, had then en-
listed in an Austrian regiment,
whence his friends had procured his
discharge, but only to cast him off for
his dissolute habits. Alternately a
professional gambler, a stage player,
and a smuggler on the Italian fron-
tier, he had now followed, for up-
88
Dommiqye,
[Jiiy,
wards of a year, the vagabond life of a
borsc-ridcr. Of handsome person and
much natural intelligence, he covered
his profligacy and taste for low asso-
ciations with a certain varnish of
good l)rocding. This had procured
hitn in the troop the nickname of the
MarctifHt\ and had made him a great
favourite with the female portion of
the strollers,' amongst whom more
than one fierce quarrel had arisen for
tho good graces of the fascinating Vi-
ccnxo.
Tho Florentine was accompanied by
n ntrunger, who had fallen in with
tho tnxm at Nice, and had won their
hearts oy his liberality. lie had
given them a magnificent supper at
their aMm/M, had made them presents
of wine and trinkets— all apparently
out of pure generosity and love of their
Hoch^ly. lie it was who had chiefly
cirtermlnod them to visit Marseilles,
iuNtond of proceeding north, as they
hiid originally intended, by Avignon
to Kyonn. lie marched with the
troop, on horseback, wrapped in a
long looMo roat, and with a broad hat
Hloiiclu^d over his brow, and bestowed
IiIn ronipanlonHhip chiefly on Vicenzo,
to whom he nppiMirod to have taken a
grout affection. The strollers thought
lilm a strange eccentric fellow, half
ernrkod, to say tho least; but they
cured little whether he were sane or
mad, MO long as his society proved
profltablii, his i)ui*tfe well filled, and
over In lils lian(l.
The wanderiTS were within three
miles of Marseilles when they came
to onn of the Imntifirny or country-
houMoHf so thickly scattered around that
city. It was ot unusual elegance, al-
moNt concenlod amongst a thick plan-
tation of trees, and having a terrace.
In the Italian style, overlooking the
road. Upon this terrace, in the cool
shade of an arbour, two ladies were
Monted, enjoying the sweet breath of
tho lovely spring morning. Books
and embroidery were on a table be-
fore them, which they left on the ap-
f>oarance of the horse-riders, and, lean-
ng upon tho stone parapet, looked
down on the unusual spectacle. The
elder of the two had nothing remark-
able, except the gaudy ribbons that
contrasted with her antiquated phy-
siognomy. The younger, in full flush
of youth, and seen amongst the bright
blossoms of the plants that grewia
pots upon the parapet, mipfat have
passed for the goddess oif spimg in her
most sportive mood. Her hau' hmig
in rich dusters over her alabaster
neck; her blue eyes danced in humid
lustre ; her coral lips, a little parted,
disclosed a range of sparkling pearia
The sole fault to be found with her
beauty was its character, which was
sensual rather than intellectnaL One
beheld the beautiful and Mvoloos
child of clay, but the ray of the spirit
that elevates and purifies was want-
ing. It was the beauty of a Bacchante
rather than of a Vestal- Anrora dis-
porting herself on the flower banks,
and awaiting, in firolic mood, the ad-
vent of Cupid.
The motley cavalcade moved on,
the men assuming their smartish seat
in the saddle as they passed nnderthe
inspection of the bella biondincu When
Vicenzo approached the park wall, bis
companion leaned towaSrds him and
spoke something in his ear. At the
same moment, as if stung by a gadfly,
the spirited gray upon which the Flo-
rentine was mounted, sprang with all
four feet from the ground, and com-
menced a series of leaps and curvets
that would have unseated a less ex-
pert rider. They only served to dis-
play to the greatest advantage Vi-
cenzo's excellent horsemanship and
slender graceful figure. Disdaining
the gaudy equipments of his comrades,
the young man was tastefully attired
in a dark closely-fitting jacket. Hes-
sian boots and pantaloons exhibited
the Autinous-like proportions of his
comely limbs. He rode like a centaur,
he and his steed seemingly forming
but one body. As he reached, grace-
fully caracoling, the terrace on whose
summit the ladies were stationed, he
looked up with a winning smile, and
removing his cap, bowed to his horse^s
mane. The old lady bridled and
smiled; the young one blushed aa
the Florentine's ardent gaze met herei,
and in her confusion she let fkll a
branch of roses she held in her hand.
With magical suddenness Vicenao's
fiery horse stood still, as if carved of
marble. With one bound the rider
was on foot, and had snatched np the
fiowers; then placing a hand upon
the shoulder of his steed, who at
once started in a canter, he lightly,
Dommique.
89
Ithoafc apparent effort, vaiilted
16 saddle. With anotberbow
nile he rode off with hia com-
•
iras well done, Yicenzo," said
tor.
hat an elegant cavalier!'* ex-
1 Florinda Noell pensively, fol-
with her eyes the accomplished
id so distingnished in his ap-
oe r chimed in her silly aunt.
how he looked np at us I One
fim^ him a nobleman in dis-
twDt on adventures, or seeking
mce of a lost lady-love/'
iada smiled, but the stale pla-
boiTOwed from the absurd ro-
I that crammed Madame Verio's
■bode in her memory. Whilst
adaome horse-rider remained
(ti ahe continued upon the para-
dgased after him. On his part,
0 aeveral times looked back,
m than once he pressed to his
1 firagrant flowers of which ac-
had made him the possessor.
nail theatre, which happened
> be unoccupied, was hired by
teatrians for their performances,
umnoement of which was soon
bd from one end to the other of
Des. At the first representa-
florinda and her aunt were
It the audience. They had no
check their inclinations, for Mr
after passing many months
a daughter without molestation
OBunique, who had disappeared
Imtauban the day after their
e in the churchyard, had for-
ma apprehensions, and had de-
an hM annual tour of profes-
ta^. At the circus, the honours
B^t were for Vicetazo. His
il figure, handsome face, skilful
sanoe, and distingoished air,
le theme of univeisal admira-
Florhida could not detach her
Pom him as he flew round the
standing with easy negligence
ia liorBe's back ; and she could
f reatndn a cry of horror and
It the boldness of some of his
IHcenxo had early detected
aenoe m the theatre ; and the
itm of his eyes, when he passed
her box, made her conscious
t had done so.
nl days elapsed, during which
Florinda and her aunt hod more than
once again visited the theatre. Vi-
cenzo had become a subject of con-
stant conversation between the super-
annuated coquette and her niece, the
old lady indulging the most extrava-
gant conjectures as to who he could
be, for she had made up her mind he
was now in an assumed character.
Florinda spoke of him less, but thought
of him more. Nor were her visits to
the theatre her only opportunities of
seeing him. Yicenzo, soon after his
arrival at Marseilles, had excited his
comrades' wonder and envy by ap-
pearing in the elegant costume of a
private gentleman, and by taking
frequent rides out of the town, at flrsc
accompanied by Fontaine, the stran-
ger before mentioned, but afterwards
more frequently alone. These rides
were taken early in the morning, or
by moonlight, on evenings when there
was no performance. .The horse-
riders laughed at the airs the Mar-
chese gave himself, attributed bis
extravagance to the generosity of
Fontaine, and twitted him with some
secret intrigue, which he, however,
did not admit, and they took little
{)ains to penetrate. Had they fol-
owed his horse's hoof-track, they
would have found that it led, some-
times by one road, sometimes by
another, to the basHde of Anthony
Noell the magistrate. And after a
few days they would have seen
Yicenzo, his bridle over his arm,
conversing earnestly, at a small pos-
tern-gate of the garden, with the
charming biondina, whose bright
countenance had greeted, like a good
augury, their first approach to Mar-
seilles.
At last a night came when this
stolen conversation lasted longer than
usual. Vicenzo was pressing, Flo-
rinda irresolute. Fontaine had ac-
companied his friend, and held his
horse in an adjacent lane, whilst the
lovers (for such they now were to be
considered) sauntered in a shrubbery
walk within the park.
" But why this secrecy?*' said the
young girl, leaning tenderly upon the
arm of the handsome stroller. ^^ Why
not at once inform your friends you
accede to their wishes, in renouncing
your present derogatory pursuit?
Why not present yourself to my
90
father under your real name and title ?
lie loves his daughter too tenderly to
refuse hiB consent to a union on which
her happiness depends."
*' Dearest Florindal" replied Vi-
cenzo, ^*how could my ardent love
abide the delays this course would
entail V How can you so cruelly urge
ne thus to postpone my happiness ?
See you not how many obstacles to
our union the step you advise would
raise up V Your father, unwUling to
part witti his only daughter, fand
such a daughter!) would assuredly
object to our immediate marriage —
would make vour youth, my roving
disposition, fifty other circumstances,
pretexts for putting it off. And did
we succeed in overniling these, there
still would be a thousand tedious for-
malities to encounter, correspondence
between your father and my family,
who are proud as Lucifer of their
ancient name and title, and would
Im) wearisomelv punctilious. By my
plan, we would avoid all long-winded
negotiations. Before davlight we are
across the frontier; and before that
excellent Madame Verl^ has a^usted
her smart cap, and buttered her first
n>n, mv adored Florinda is Marchion-
ess of Monteleane. A letter to papa
explains all ; then away to Florence,
and in a month back to Marseilles,
where you shall dul^ present me to
my respected father- m-law, and I, as
In humilitv bound, will drop upon my
knees and crave pardon for running
off with his treasure. Papa gives his
benediction, and curtain drops, leav-
ing all parties happy."
liow often, with the feeble and
irresolute, does a sorry jest pass for a
good argument ! As Vicenzo rattled
on, his victim looked up in his face,
and smiled at his soft and insidious
words. Fascinated by silvery tones
and gaudy scales, the woman, as of
old, gave ear to the serpent.
" *Tis done," said the stroller, with
a heartless smile, as he rode off with
Fontaine, half an hour later — '^ done.
A postchaise at midnight. She brings
her jewels— all the fortune she will
ever bring me, I suppose. No chance
of drawmg anything from the old
gentleman ? '*
[July,
**Not much," r^ed Fontaine
drily.
^' Well, I must have another thou-
sand from you, besides expenses.
And little enough too. Fifty yellow-
boys for abandoning my place in the
troop. I was never in b^ter cue for
the ring. They are going to PariSt
and I should have joined l^mnoonL"
'' Oh ! " said Fontaine, with a alight
sneer, '•^ a man of your abilities wiQ
never lack employment. But we
have no time to lose, if yon are to be
back at midnight."
The two men spurred their horseir
and galloped back to Marsttllea.
A few minutes before twelve o'dock,
a light posting-carriage was drawn m
by the road-side, about a hnndna
yards beyond Anthony Noell's gar-
den. Vicenzo tapped thrice with his
knuckles at the postern door, whi^
opened gently, and a trembling female
form emerged firom the gloom of tiie
shrubbery into the broad moonUgfat
without. Through the veil coverinip
her head and face, a tear mic^t he
seen glisteningupon|her cheek. She fil-
tered, hesitated; her good genins
whispered her to pause. But an evH
spirit was at hand, luring her to de-
struction. Taking in one hand a cas-
ket, the real object of his base desures,
and with the other arm encircling her
waist, the seducer, murmuring soft
flatteries in her ear, hurried Florinda
down the slope leading to the road.
Confused and fascinated, the poor
weak girl had no power to reaisL
She reached the carriage, cast one
look back at her father's hoose^
whose white walls shone amidst the
dark masses of foliage ; the Floren-
tine lifted her in, spoke a word to the
postilion, and the vehicle dashed
away in the direction of the Italian
frontier.
So long as the carriage was in
sight, Fontaine, who had accompanied
Vicenzo, sat motionless upon his
saddle, watching its career as it sped,
like a large black insect, along the
moonlit road. Then, when distance
hid it from his view, he turned his
horse*s head and rode rapidly into
Marseilles.
91
WOMB AMD FBIEND8.
IT tha Beeond daj after Flo-
elopemeiit with ber worthless
itm luge coffise-room of Uie
de France, at MontanlMii, was
i, asre hj two gaests. One
iwaa a man of about fifty-fiye,
bv in appearance, whose thin
ttt and stooping figore, as well
de^ anzions ininkles and
U ezpfeaaion of his oonnte-
lold a tale of cares and tron-
bme with a nbellions rather
itii a leugned spirit. The other
Bt of the i^Mutment, who sat
Mipoeite extremity, and was
01, ezoept npon near approach,
Kt of high projecting counter,
ywQger, for his age conld
tUrty years. A certain
ezprcflsion, (hardly
Hag to ansterity,) ii^qaently
lUe in Boman Catholic priests,
Uch sat becomingly enough
ii open intelligent countenance,
id his profession as surely as
iigfat derical peculiarities of
t.
Wlj a waiter entered the room,
pmching the old man with an
ffoal respect, informed him
gentleman, seemingly just come
Mney, desired paiticulariy to
iHth him. The person address-
led his eyes, whose melancholy
rion corresponded with the
I of his cheek, from the Paris
iper he was reading, and, in a
t OBoe harsh and feeble, desired
■■ger should be shown in. The
iraa obeyed ; and a person en-
wnqpped in a cloak, whose col-
I turned up, concealing great
f his face. His conn ten ance
rther obscured by the vizard of
dllng-cap, from beneath which
ng hair hung in disorder.
sd and unshaven, he had all
jwarance of having travelled far
St. The gentleman whom he
ked to see rose from his seat
approach, and looked at him
, even uneasily, but evidently
t recognition. The waiter left
m. iRie stranger advanced to
three paces of him he sought,
DOd stiU and silent, his features
laked by his cloak collar.
"Tour busfaiess with me, sir?*^
said the old man quickly. *^ Whom
have I the honour to address ? "
"I am an old acquaintance, Mr
Anthony Noell,*' said the traveller, in
a sharp ironical tone, as he turned
down his collar and displayed a palo
countenance, distorted by a malignant
smile. " An old debtor come to dis-
charge the balance due. My errand
to-day is to tell you that you are
childless. Your daughter Fiorinda^
your last remaining darling, has fled
to Italy with a nameless vagabond
and stroller."
At the veiT first word uttered by
that voice, Koell had started and
shuddered, as at the sudden pang of
exquisite torture. Then his glasqr
eyes were horribly distended, his
mouth opened, his whole face waa
convulsed, and with a yell like that of
some savage deniaen of the forest
suddenly despoiled of its young, he
sprang upon his enemy and seiaed
him by the throat.
"Murderer!" he cried. "Help!
help 1 "
The waitera rnshed into the room,
and with difficulty freed the stranger
from the vice-like grasp of the old
man, to whose foeble hands frensy
gave strength. When at last they
were separated, Koell uttered one
shriek of impotent ftiry and despair,
and fell back senseless in the servants'
arms. The stranger, who himself
seemed weak and ailing, and who
had sunk npon a chair, looked curi-
ously into his antagonist's face.
" He is mad," said he, with hor-
rible composure and complacency ;
" quite mad. Take him to his bed."
The waiters lifted up the insensible
body, and carried it away. The
stranger leaned his elbows upon a
table, and, covering his face with hi&
hands, remained for some minutes ab-
sorbed in thought. A slight noise
made him look up. The priest stood
opposite to him, and uttered his name.
"Dominique Lafon," he said,
calmly but severely, "what is this
thing you have done? But you need
not tell me. I know much, and can
conjecture the rest. Wretched man,
know you not the word of God, to
t)2
Damimque.
[July,
whom is all vengeance, and who
rcpajcth In his own good time ? "
Domlniqnc seemed surprised at
hearing his name pronounced by a
stranger. lie looked hard at the
priest. And presently a name con-
nected with days of happiness and
innocence broke from the lips of the
vindictive and pitiless man.
" Henry la Chapelle ! "
It was indeed his former fellow-
stndcnt, whom circumstances and dis-
position had induced to abandon the
study of the law and enter the church.
They had not met since Dominique
departed from Paris to receive the last
sigh of his dying mother.
'^^^lo shall trace the secret springs
whence flow the fountains of the
heart? For seven years Dominique
Lafon had not wept. His captivity
and many sufferings, his father^s death,
all had been borne with a bitter heart,
but with dry eyes. But now, at sight
of the comrade of his youth, some
hidden chord, long entombed, sud-
denly vibrated. A sob burst from his
bosom, and was succeeded by a gush
of tears.
Henry la Chapelle looked sadly
and kindly at his boyhood^s friend.
" He who trusteth in himself," he
«aid in low and gentle tones, *Met
him take heed, lest his feet fall into
the snares they despise. Alas I Do-
minique, that you so soon forgot our
last conversation ! Alas I that you
have laid this sin to your soul I But
those tears give me hope : they are
the early dew of penitence. Come,
my friend, and seek comfort where
alone it may be found. Verily there
is joy in heaven over one repentant
dinner, more than over many just men."
And the cood priest drew his friend's
arm throng his, and led him from the
room.
Dominique*s exclamation was pro-
phetic. When Anthony Noell rose
from the bed of sickness to which grief
consigned hun, his intellects were
gone. He never recovered them, bnt
passed the rest of his life in helpless
idiocy at his country -house, near
Marseilles. There he was sedalously
and tenderly watched by the unhappy
Florinda, who, after a few miserable
months passed with her reprobate
seducer, was released from futher ill-
usage by the death of Tlcenxo, stabbed
in Italy in a gambling brawl.
Not long after 1830, there died m a
Sardinian convent, noted for its ascetic
observances and for the piety of its
inmates, a French monk, who went
by the name of brother Ambrose. Hit
death was considered to be accelerated
by the strictness with which he fbl'
lowed the rigid rules of the order,
from some of which his failing health
would have justified deviation, and
by the frequency and severity of hb
self-imposed penances. His body,
feeble when first he entered the con-
vent, was no match for his courageous
spirit. In accordance with his dying
request, his beads and breviary were
sent to a vicar named la Chapelle,
then resident -at Lyons. When that
excellent priest opened the book, he
found the following words inscribed
upon a blank page : —
'^ Blessed be the Lord, for in Him
have I peace and hope ! "
And Henry la Chapelle kneeled
down, and breathed a prayer for the
soul of his departed friend, Dominique
Lafon.
im.2
Pestahzziana,
95
PESTALOZZIAKA.
" Ettam illad a^j^ngo, 8»pia8 ad laudem atqoe yirtatem naturam sine dootrin&y
q^oam Bine natori irmlaiase doctrinam." — CicxBo,pro, Aroh,^ 7.
€t
Qne Tons ai-je done fait, O mes jeunes ann^s !
Ponr m'ayoir foi si vite, me oroyant satisfait 1"
Victor Hugo, Odes,
Fob the abnonnal, and, we most
think, somewhat feidty education of
our later boyhood — a few random re-
caUections of which we here purpose
to lay before the reader — oor obliga-
tions, mumtultBcungwB sint^ are cer-
tainly ane to prejudices which, though
they have now become antiquated and
obsolete, were in fhU force some thirty
years ago, against the existing mode
of education in England. Not that
the pubUc— ^ifd public— were ever very
far misled by the noisy declamations
of the Whigs on this their favourite
theme : people for tiie most part paid
T&ry little attention to the inuendoes
of the peripatetic sdboolmaster, so
carefidly primed and sent " abroad "
to disabuse them; while not a few
smiled to recognise under that impos-
ing misnomer a small self-opinionated
d^we— free traders in everything else,
but absolute monopolists here— who
aou^t by its idd to palm off on society
thejbcora imoffo of their own crotchets,
as though in sympathetic response to
a sentiment wholly proceeding from
itself. When much inflammatory
'* stuff'' had been discharged against
the walls of our venerable institutions,
not only without setting Isis or Cam
on fire, but plainly with some discom-
fitures to the belligerents engaged, from
the oppoute party, who returned the
salute, John Bull began to open his
eyes a little, and, as he opened them,
to doubt whether, after all, the pro-
mises and programmes he had been
reading of a splc-and-span new order
of ever^thmg, particularly of educa-
tion, might not turn out a flam ; and
the authors of them, who certainly
showed off to most advantage on
Edmburgh Raiew days, prove any-
thing but the best qualifiea persons to
make good their own vaticinations, or
to bring in the new golden age they
had announced. Still, the crusade
against English public seminaries,
though abortive in its principal dedgn
—that of exciting a generau defection
from these institutions— was not quite
barren of results. It was so far suc-
cessful, at least, as completely to un-
settle for a time the minds of not a
few over-anxious parents, who, taught
to regard with suspicion the creden-
tials of every schoolmaster *^ at home,"
were beginning to make diligent in-
quiries for his successor among their
neighbours ^* abroad." To all who
were in this frame of mind, the first
couUur de rose announcements of Fes-
talozzPs establishment at Yverdun
were news indeed I offering as they
did — or at least seeming to offer— the
complete solution of a problem which
could scarcely have been entertained
without much painful solicitude and
anxiety. "Here, then," for so ran
the accounts of several trustworthy
eyewitnesses, educational amateurs,
who had devoted a whole morning to
a most prying and probing dissection
of the system within the walls of the
chateau itself, and putting down all
the results of their carefully conducted
autopsy, "here was a school composed
of boys gathered from all parts of the
habitable globe, where each, by simply
carrying over a little of his mother
tongue, might, in a short time, become
a youthful Mezzofante, and take his
choice ofmany in return; a school which,
wisely eschewing the routine service
of books, suffered neither dictionary,
^adns, grammar, nor spelling-book to
be even seen on the premises ; a school
for morals, where, in educating the
head, the right tramlng of the heart
was never for a moment neglected ; a
school for the progress of the mind,
where much|discemment,blendingit8elf
with kindness, fostered the first dawn-
ings of the intellect, and carefully pro-
tected the feeble powers of memory
from being overtaxed — where delight-
ed Alma, in the progress of her de-
velopment, might securely enjoy many
privileges and immunities wholly
denied to her at home— where even
philosophy, stoophig to conquer, had
94
Pestaiozxiana,
become sportive the better to persuade;
where the poet's vow was actually
realised — the bodily health being as
diligently looked after as that of the
mind or the affections ; lastly, where
they found no fighting nor bullying, as
at home, but agriculture and gymnas-
tics instituted in then* stead. ^* To such
encomiums on the school were added,
and with more justice and truth, a
commendation on old Pestalozzi him-
self, the real liberality of whose senti-
ments, and the overno?ring8 of whose
paternal love, could not, it was argued,
and did not, fail to prove beneficial to
all within the sphere of their influence.
The weight of such supposed advan-
tages turned the scale for not a few just
entering into the pupillary state, and
setUed their future destination. Our
own training, hitherto auspiciously
enough carried on under the birchen
discipline of Westminster, was sud'
c/^^stopt; the last silver prize-penny
had crossed our palm ; the last quar-
terly half-crown tax for birch had been
paid into the treasury of the school ;
we were called on to say an abrupt
good-by to our friends, and to taJ^ea
formal leave of Dr P . That cere-
mony was not a pleasing one ; and had
the choice of a visit to Polyphemus in
his cave, or to Dr P in his study,
been offered to us, the first would cer-
tainly have had the preference ; but
as the case admitted neither evasion
nor compromise, necessity gave us
courage to bolt into the august pre-
sence of the formidable head-master,
after lessons ; and finding presently
that we had somehow managed to
emerge again safe from the dreaded
interview, we invited several class-
fellows to celebrate so remarkable a
day at a tuck-shop in the vicinity
of Dean's Yard. There, in unre-
stricted indulgence, did the party get
through, there was no telling how
many " lady's-fingers," tarts, and
cheese-cakes, and drank — there was
no counting the corks of empty ginger-
beer bottles. When these delicacies
had lost their relish — km €$ tpov cVro—
the time was come for making a dis-
tribution of our personal efiects. First
went our bag of " taws" and "alleys,"
pro hono publico^ in a general scramble,
and then a Jew*s-harp for whoever
could twang it ; and out oijone pocket
came a cricket-ball for A, and out of
[July,
another a peg-top for B ; and then
there was a hocky-stick for M, and a
red leathern satchel, with book-stn^
for N, and three books a-pieoe to two
class-chums, who ended with a tOM-^
for YirgiL And now, being fiuriy
cleaned out, aftw reiterated good-byi
and shakes of the hand given and takcm
at the shop door, we parted, (many of
us never to meet again,) th^ to eiyoy
the remainder of a hal^holiday in the
hocky-court, while we walked homt
through the park, stopping in the mldit
of its ruminating cows, ouraelf to romi^
nate a little upon the fhtoie, and to
wonder, unheard, what sort of a plaoa
Switzerland might be, and what Mit
of a man Pestalozzi !
These adieus to old WeatmiBater
took place on a Saturday; and the
followmg Monday found us alxeady
en rouie with our excellent fiiAber for
the new settlement at Yveidtin. The
school to which we were then tr»-
volling, and the venerable man who
presided over it, have both been long
since defonct-— de mortids ml nm
honum; and gratitude itself foibidf
that we should speak either of one or
of the other with harahnesa or dis-
respect; of a place where we certainly
spent some very happy, if not tlM
happiest, days of life ; of him iHio—
rightly named the^atAer of the eetalK
lishment — ever treated ub, and aU
with whom he had to do, with a nni*
form gentleness and impartiality. To
tell ill-natured tales ont of school— of
such a school, and after eo long a
period too — would indeed argoe HI for
any one^s charity, and accordinriy 100
do not mtend to try it. Bat doogb
the feeling of the ahmmui may iMt
permit us to think unfavourably of the
Pensionat Pestalozzi, we shall not, on
that account, suppress tlie mention of
some occasional hardships and inecm-
veniences experienced there, mndi
less allow a word of reproach to escape
our pen. The reader, with no snoh
sympathies to restrain his coxioai^t
will no doubt expect, if not a de*
tailed account, some ontiino or genml
ground-plan of the system, whkli,
alas f we cignnot give him ; oar endea-
vour to comprehend it as a digeated
19^020— proceeding on certain data,
aiming at certain ends, and poraaing
them by certain means — has iMen en-
tirely onsucoesafol ; and therefore, if
Piuialozzuma.
95
i fi>r more than we can tell,
iww moat be, in the words of
Dtprtooir ne me ianquam phi'
■i puiei 9ckolam iihi utam ex*
VM.* Bot though unable to
ot — if, indeed, there were anj
>f unity to be made oat—in
sai^g scheme, there were cer-
anifeat impeifectiona in the
ition of his plan of education
nprieties to which the longest
:^7 could acareely reconcile,
warmest partiality blind even
It determined partisan. In the
state them at once, and
with the unpleasing office
ing ikolt— it always struck us
pitel error, in a school where
were not allowed, to suffer
the whole teaching of the
to devolye upon some leading
w of each; for what, in fact,
islf-taught lads be expected to
■alesi It were to make a ring
yiF— to fish, to whistle, or to
Of course, any graver kind
mation, conyeyed by an in£uit
r to his gaping pupUs, must
Mked the necessary precision
B it available to them: first,
I he would very seldom be
itlj possessed of it himself;
eoodly, because a boy^s imper-
aabolaiy and inexperience ren-
1 mt all times a decidedly bad
Bter even of what he may really
In plaoe of proving real lights,
itUe Jack-o'-Lantems of ours
rather to perplex the path of
loiring, and to impede their
■ ; and when an appeal was
0 the master, as was sometimes
lia master— brought up in the
figue, bookless manner, and
w . nothing more accuraUly^
M might know more than his
•pated pupUs — ^was very seldom
» give them a lift out of the
ire, where they accordingly
stick, and flounder away till
1 of the lesson. It was amusing
how a boy, so soon as he got
^pse of a subject before the
md could g^ve but the ghost of
in for what he was eager to
upon, became incontinent of
|ht discovery, till all his com-
panions had had the full benefit of it,
with much that was in-elevant besides.
The mischiefs which, it would occur
to any one^s mind, were likely to
result in after life from such desultory
habits of application in boyhood, ac-
tually did result to many of us a few
years later at college, ft was at once
painful and difficult to indoctrinate
indocile minds like ours into the accu-
rate and severe habits of university
discipline. On entering the lists for
honours with other young aspirants,
educated in the usual way at home,
we were as a herd of unbroken colts
pitted against well-trained racers:
neither had yet run for the prize — ^in
that single particular the cases were
the same ; but when degree and race
day came, on whose side lay the odds ?
On theirs who had been left to try an
untutored strength in scampering over
a wild common, at will, for years, or
with those who, by daily exercise in
the manege of a public school, had
been trained to bear harness, and
were, besides, well acquainted with
the ground? Another unquestionable
error in the system was the absence
of emulation, which, firom some strange
misconception and worse application
of a text in St Paul, was proscribed
as an unchristian principle ; in lieu of
which, we were to be brought — though
we never wete brought, but that was
the object aimed at— to love leamhig
for its own sake, and to prove our-
selves anxious of excelling without a
motive, or to be good for nothing^ as
Hood has somewhere phrased it.
^' Nanquam pneponens le aliifl, rri. facilUme
Sine inTidiA iiiTeiuas laudem,^*
says Terence, and it will be so where
envy and conceit have supplanted emu-
lation : yet ore the feelings perfectly
distinct; and we think it behoves all
those who contend that every striving
for tiie mastery is prohibited by the
gospel, to show how communism in
inferiority, or socialism in dnlness,
are likely to improve morals or mend
society. Take from a schoolboy the
motive of rewards and punishments,
and you deprive him of that incentive
by which your own conduct through
life is regulated, and that by which
* CxcEBO, 1>€ Fim,, IL 1.
96
Pestahzzkma,
[Jolyr
(rod has thongfat fit, in the moral
govemment of his rational creatures,
to promote the practice of good works,
and to disconrage and dissnade from
evil. Nor did that which sonnds thos
ominonsly in theory succeed in its
application better than it sonnded.
In fact, nothing more nnfortnnate
conld have been devised for all par-
ties, but cspa:ially for such as were
by natnre of a studions torn or of
quicker parts than the rest; who,
finding the ordinary stimulus to exer-
tion thus removed, and none other to
replace it, no longer cared to do well,
(why should they, when they knew
that their feeblest efforts would tran-
scend their slow-paced comrades* best?)
but, gradually abandoning themselves
to the vis inertia of sloth, incompe-
tence, and bad example, did no more
than they could help ; repressing the
spirit of rivalry and emulation, which
had no issue in the school, to show
it in some of those feats of agility or
address, which the rigorous enact-
ment of gymnastic exercises imposed
on all alike, and in the performance
of which wo certainly did pride our-
selves, and eagerly sought to eclipse
each other in exhibiting any natural
or acquired superioritv we might pos-
sess. The absence of all elementary
books of instruction throughout the
school, presented another barrier in
the way of improvement still more
formidable than even the betise of
boy pedagogues, the want of sufficient
stimulus to exertion, or the absurd
respect paid sometimes to natural in-
capacity, and sometimes even to idle-
ness. Those who had no rules to
learn had of course none to apply
when they wanted them ; no masters
could have adequately supplied this
deficiency, and those of the chateau
were certainly not the men to remedy
the evil. As might therefore have
been anticipated, the young Fesia-
lozzian^s ideas, whether innate or ac-
quired, and on every subject, became
sadly vague and confused, and his
grammar of a piece with his know-
ledge. We would have been conspi-
cuous, even amongst other boys, for
what seemed almost a studied impro-
priety of language; but ittt'o*, in fact,
nothing more than the unavoidable
result of natural indolence and in-
attention, uncoerced by proper dis-
cipline. The old man*s alonching gait
and ungracefhl attire afforded bat too
apt an illustration of the intellectaal
nonchalance of his pupils. Aa to the
modem languages, of which so much
has been said by those who knew so
little of the matter, they were in par-
lance, to be sure— but how spoken?
Alas ! besides an open violation of all
the concords, and a general disregard
of syntax, they failed where one
would have thought them least likely
to faU, in correctness of idiom and
accent. The French— this was the
language of the school— abounded in
conventional phrases, woven into its
texture from various foreign sources,
Grerman, English, or Italian, and in
scores of barbarous words — not to be
foundinthe/>{ctii9nnatre de rAcademk^
certainly, but quite current in the
many-tongued vernacular of the
chateau. Our pronunciation remained
unequivocally John Bullish to the end
— not one of us ever caught or thought
of catching the right intonation ; and,
whether the fault originated merely
in want of ear, or that we could not
make the right use of our noses, it is
quite certain that all of us had either
no accent or a wrong one. The Grer-
man was as bad as the French : it was
a Swiss, not a Grerman German,
abounding in paiois phrases and pro-
vincialisms— ^in shoit, a most hybrid
affair, to say nothing of its being as
much over-guttural as the last was
sub-nasal. With regard to Spanish
and Italian, aa the English did not
consort with either of these nations,
all they ever acquired of their lan-
guages were such oaths and mauwds
mots as parrots pick up from sailors
aboard ship, which they repeated
with all the innocence ot parrots.
Thus, then, the opportunities offered
for the acquisition of modern languages
wei*o plainly defective; and when it is
further considered that the dead lan-
guages remained untaught — nay, were
literally unknown, except to a small
section of the school, for whom a kind
Frovidcnce had sent a valned friend
and preceptor in Dr M , (whose
neat Greek characters were stared at
as cabalistical by the other masters of
the Pensionat^) — and finaJly, that our
veiT English became at last defiled
and corrupted, b^ the introduction of
a variety of foreign idioms, it will bo
Pesfydozziana,
97
uU for any advantage likely to
firom the poljdot duu-acter of
slitation, the Tower of Babel
, in factf have furnished every
IS good a school for langoages
onr tnrreted chateau. And
r candonr has compelled this
of some, it must be admitted,
I blemishes in the S3rstem of
italozzi, where is the academy
ithem?
ver hopes a faaUleBs school to see,
I what ne'er was. nor is. nor is to
n
rliQe the Swiss Pension was
ithont solid advantages, and
fiiatly lay claim to some regard,
IS a school for learning, at least
oral school ; its inmates for the
part spoke truth, respected
tj^ esdiewed mischief, were
r nippies, nor bullies, nor tale*
I. liiere were, of course, excep-
» all tins, but then they were
fms; nor was the number at any
iffident to invalidate the gene-
», or to corrupt the better prin-
Perhaps a ten hours' daily at-
oe in class, coarse spare diet,
lod somewhat severe training,
» considered by the reader as
I some explanation of our ge-
ropriety of behaviour. It may
bat we are by no means willing
il, that the really high morid
tiie school depended either upon
Stic exercises or short commons,
t arose from the want of faci-
»r getting into scrapes, for here,
Mri^re, where there is the will,
I ever a way. We believe it to
ffiginated from another source—
fm^ from the encouragement
«t to the study of natural
'» and the eagerness with which
w5j was taken up and pursued
sehool in consequence. Though
itxi might not succeed in mak*
disdples scholars, he certainly
lad in making many among
nahtrtUiiti; and of the two
08 ask it without offence —
r Is he the happier lad Tto
thing of the future man) who
ibriMie faidtless pentameters
nueolate iambics to order ; or
^ already absorbed in scanning
MiderB of creation, seeks with
fa^ diligence and zeal to know
trvi.— NO. occcv.
more and more of the visible works
of the great Poet of Nature f " Saepius
sane ad landem atque virtntem na-
turam sine doctrinii, quam sine naturft
valuisse doctrinam;** which words
being Cicero's, deny them, sir, if you
please.
The Pension, during the period of
our sojourn at Yverdun, contained
about a hundred and eighty dl^ves,
natives of every European and of some
Oriental states, whose primitive mode
of distribution into classes, according
to age and acquirements, during school
hours, was completefy changed in
pla^ime, when the boys, findme it
easier to speak their own tongue than
to acquire a new one, divid^ them-
selves into separate groups accord-
ing to theur respective nations. The
English would occasionally admit a
Grerman or a Prussian to their
coterie ; but that was a favour seldom
conferred upon any other foreigner: for
the Spaniards, who were certainly the
least well-conducted of the whole
community, did not deserve it: among
them were to be found the litigious,
the mischief-makers, the quarrellers,^
and — ^for, as has been hinted, we were
not all honest — the exceptional thieves.
The Italians we could never make
out, nor they us : we had no sympathy
with Pole or Greek ; the Swiss we
positively did not like, and the French
just as positively did not like us ; so
how could it be otherwise? The
ushers, for the most part trained up
in the school, were an obliging set of
men, with little refinement, less pre-
tension, and wholly without leammg.
A distich from Crabbc describes them
perfectly —
" Men who, 'mid noise and dirt, and play
and prate.
Could calmly mend the pen, and wash
the slate."
Punishments were rare; indeed, flog-
ging was absolutely prohibited; and
the setting an imposition would have
been equidly against the geiiius loci^
had lesson-books existed out of which
to hear it afterwards. A short impri-
sonment in an unfurnished room — a not
very formidable black-hole — with the
loss of a goutte^ now and then, and at
very long intervals, formed the mild
summary of the penal ** code Pesta-
lozzi."
98
Peitahzziama,
[July,
It was Saturday, and a half holiday,
when we arrived at Yverdon, and oh
the confosion of tongues which there
prevailed ! All Bedlun and PanuMsna
let loose to rave together, could not
hare come up to that diapason of dis-
cords with which the high corridors
were ringing, as, passing through the
throng, we were conducted to the
venerable head of the establishment
in his private apartments beyond.
In this gallery of mixed portraits
might be seen long-haired, high-
bom, and high - ch^ - boned Ger-
mans ; a scantling of French ^a-
mins much better dressed ; some
dark-eyed Italians; Greeks in most
foreignoering attire; here and there
a fair ingenuous Russian face; several
swart sinister-looking Spaniards, mo-
dels only for their own Carravagio ;
some dirty specimens of the universal
Pole ; one or two unmistakeable
English, ready to shake hands with
a compatriot ; and Swiss from
every canton of the Helvetic con-
federacy. To this promiscuous mul-
titude we were shortly introduced, the
kind old man himself taking us bv the
hand, and acting as master of the
ceremonies. When the whole school
had crowded round to stare at the
new importation, *^ Here," said he,
^^aro four English boys come from
their distant home, to be natu-
ralised in this establishment, and
made members of our family. Boys,
receive them kindly, and remember
they are henceforth your brothers."
A shout from the crowd proclaiming
its ready assent and cordial partici-
pation in the adoption, nothing re-
mained but to shake hands a VAnglaise^
and to fraternise without loss of time.
The next day being Sunday, our
skulls were craniolodcally studied by
Ilcrr Schmidt, the ncad usher ; and
whatever various bumps or dcjpres-
sions phrenology might have disco-
vered thereon were a& dulv registered
in a large book. After this examina-
tion was concluded, a week's furlough
was allowed, in order that Herr
Schmidt might have an opportunity
afforded him of seeing how far our
real character squared with phre-
nological observation and measure-
ment, entering this also into the same
ledger as a note. What a contrast
were we unavoidably drawing all thia
time between Tverdim aad Weitaia-
ster, aad how e^foyalde was the
daagetovs! The reader will pleaie
to imagine as well as he can, the sen-
sations of a lately pent np chiysalis,
on first finding himself a bntteray, or
the not less agreeable surprise of some
newly metamorphosed tadpole^ when,
leaving his assodates in the mnd and
green slime, he floats at liberty on tbe
surface of the pool, endowed witk
lungs and a voice, — if he would at all
enter into the exultation of our feel-
ings on changing the penitential air
of Millbank for the fresh mountain
breezes of the Pays de Yand. It
seemed as if we had — ^nay, we had
actually entered upon a new existence,
so thoroughly had all the elements
of the old been altered and improved.
If we looked back, and compared past
and present experiences, there, at the
wrong end of the mental telescope,
stood that small dingy house, it
that little mis-ydept Great Smitk
Street, with its tmy cocoon of a bed-
room, whilom our dose and airiess
prison; here, at the other end, aad
in immediate contact with the eye, a
noble chateau, full of roomy rooms,
enough and to spare. Another retro*
spective peep, and tha-e was Tothill
Fidds, and its seedy cricket ground;
and here^ again, a levd eqnally perfect,
but carpeted with fine turf, and ex-
tending to the margin of a broad liv-
ing lake, instead of terminating in a
nauseous duck -pond ; while the cold
clammy cloisters adjoining Dean's
Yard were not less favourably replaced
by a large open airy play-groond,
intersected by two clear trout-streams
— and a sky as unlike that above Bird-
Cage Walk as the interposed atmo*
sphere was different ; whilst, in place
of the startling, discordant Keleusmaia
of bargees, joined to the creaking,
stunning noise of commerce in a gr^
dty, few out-of-door sounds to meet
our ear, and these few, with the ex-
ception of our own, all quiet, pastoral,
and soothing, such as, later in life^
make
" Silence in the heart
For thoQg^bt to do her pttt»**
and which are not without thehr charm
even to him *^ who whistles as ho goes
for want of thought.** Ko wonder,
then, if Yverdun seemed Paradisaical
in its landsciq>e8. Nor was this alL
PuiiiiozzutnQ,
99
\ views ontside were charm-
r domeetic and social relations
doors were not less pleasing,
t, the nnwelcome yision of the
Bad-master woold sometimes
nSf Glad in his flowing black
robes — ^^ tristis severitas in
aftqne in verbis fides," looking
> Intended to flog, and his words
lelying his looks. That terrible
fan arm, raised and ready to
was again shadowed forth to
while we coold almost fancy
m once more at that judicial
table, one of twenty boys who were
to draw lots for a " hander.*' How
soothingly, then, came the pleasing con-
scionsness, breaking onr reverie, that a
very different person was now onr
headmaster — a most indulgent old
man whom we should meet ere long,
with hands uplifted, indeed, but only
for the purpose of clutching us tight
while he inflicted a salute on both
cheeks, and pronounced his affection-
ate gtUen morgen^ Hebes kind^ as he has-
tened on to bestow the like fatherly
greeting upon every pupil in turn.
TUC DORMlTOar.
Bleeping apartments at the cha-
xnpied three* of the four sides
mier quadrangle, and consisted
snny long rooms, each with a
row of windows ; whereof one
into the aforesaid quadrangle,
he opposite rows command,
ly, views of the garden, the
oimftry, and the Grande Place
town. They were accommo-
with sixty uncurtained stump
idsy flfty-nine of which afforded
a like number of boys; and
no respect superior to the rest,
astined to receive the athletic
f Herr Gottlieb, son-in-law to
Pestalozzi, to whose particular
we were consigned during the
if the night. These bedrooms,
as lofty as they were long,
and over-furnished with win-
were always ventilated; but
•dranght of air, which was suf-
to keep them cool during the
\ day in sunmier, rendered them
ad sometimes very cold, in the
. In that season, accordingly,
iDy when the hke blew, and
id sleet were pattering against
sements, the compulsory rising
0 by candlelight was an unge-
ad nnwelcome process; for
however, there being no re-
tlie next best thing was to take
xwUy, we were going to say —
f course — ^bnt, as patiently as
be. The disagreeable anticipa-
if the rS^eU was frequently
1 to Bcare away sleep from our
AH hour before the command
Dp ovt of bed was actually
issued. On such occasions we would
lie awake, and, as the time approached,
be^ to draw in our own breath, fur-
tively listening, not without trepida-
tion, to the loud nose of a distant
comrade, lest its fitful stertor should
startle another pair of nostrils, on
whose repose that of the whole dor-
mitory depended. Let JEolus and his
crew make what tumult they liked
Inside or outside the castle — they dis-
turb^ nobody's dreams — ihey never
murdered sleep. Let them pipe and
whistle through every keyhole and cre-
vice of the vast enceinte of the building
— sigh and moan as they would in their
various imprisonments of attic or cor-
ridor; howl wildly round the great
tower, or even threaten a forcible entry
at the windows, nobody's ears were
scared into tmwelcome consdousness
by sounds so fanuiliar to them all. It
was the expectation of a blast louder
even than theirs that would keep onr
eyes open — a blast about to issue from
the bed of Herr Gottlieb, and thun-
dering enough, when it issued, to
startle the very god of winds himself I
Often, as the dreaded six A.iff. drew
nigh, when the third quarter past five
hid, ten minutes since, come with a
sough and a rattle against the case-
ments, and still Gottfieb slept on, wo
would take courage, and begin to
dream with our eyes open, that his
slumbers might be prolonged a little ;
his face, turned upwards, looked so
calm, the eyes so resolutely closed —
every feattu^ so -perfectly at rest. It
could not be more than five minutes
to six— might not he who had slept
100
Pestalozziana,
[July,
to long^ for once oversleep himself?
Nf.ver I However placid those slum-
bers might be, they invariably for-
gook our " unwearied one" just as the
clock was on the point of striking six.
To judge by the rapid twitchings —
they almost seemed galvanic — first of
the muscles round the mouth, then of
the nose and eyes, it appeared as
though some ill-omened dream, at
that very nick of time, was sent
periodically, on purpose to awaken
film; and, if so, it certainly never re-
turned mrpaKTot, Ciottiicb would in-
stantly set to rubbing his eyes, and
aM the hour struck, spring up wide
awake in his shirt sleeves — thus de-
fltroying every lingering, and, as it
always turned out, ill-founded hope
of a lunger snooze. Presently we be-
held hlin jump into his small-clothes,
nnd, when sufilciently attired to be
aecn, unlimber his tongue, and pour
forth a rattling broadside— ^t(/', kin-
fieri ichwind! — with such precision
of delivery, too, that few sleepers
could turn a deaf ear to it. But, lest
any one should still lurk under Ids
warm coverlet out of earshot, at the
further end of the room, another and
a Hhrlllor summons to the same effect
once more shakes the walls and win-
dows of the dormitory. Then every
boy knew right well that the last
moment for repose was past, and that
ho must at once turn out shivering
from hh) bed, and dress as fast as pos-
sible ; and it was really surprising to
witness how rapidly afi could huddle
on their clothes under certain condi-
tions of the atmosphere!
In less than five minutes the whole
school was dressed, and Gottlieb, in
Ills sounding shoes, having urged
the dilatory with another admonitory
Hchwindy schwind! has departed, key
and candle in hand, to arouse the
remaining sleepers, by ringing the
** Great Tom" of the chateau. So cold
and cheerless was this matutinal sum-
mons, that occasion^ attempts were
made to evade it by simulated head-
ach, or, without being quite so specific,
on the plea of generd indisposition,
though it was well known beforehand
what the result would be. Herr
<jrOttlieb, in such a case, would pre-
sently appear at the bedside of the
delinquent patient, with veiy little
compassion in his countenance, and,
in a business tone, proceed to ioqmre
from him. Why not up? — and on
receiving for reply, in a melancholy
voice, that the* wonld-be invalid
was sehr krank^ would instantly pass
the word for the doctor to be sum-
moned. That doctor — ^we knew him
well, and every truant knew — ^was a
quondam French army surgeon — a
sworn disciple of the Bronssais school,
whose heroic remedies at the chateao
resolved themselves into one of two —
t. e., a starve or a vomit, alternately
administered, according as the idio-
syncracy of the patient, or as this or
that symptom turned the scale, now
in favour of storming the stomach,
now of starving it into capitulation.
Just as the welcome hot mess of
bread and milk was about to be sen'cd
to the rest, this dapper little Sangrado
would make his appearance, fed the
pulse, inspect the tongue, ask a few
questions, and finding, generally, in-
dications of what he would term une
Ugere gastrite^ recommend diete <dh
solve; then prescribing a mawkish
tisoMy composed of any garden
herbs at hand, and pocketing lancets
and stethoscope, would leave the pa-
tient to recover sans calomel — a mode
of treatment to which, he would tell
us^ we should certainly have been sub-
jected in our own country. Mean-
while, the superiority of his plan of
treatment was unquestionable. On
the very next morning, when he called
to visit his cher petit malade^ an
empty bed said quite plainly, " Very
well, I thank you, sir, and in class.**
But these feignings were compara-
tively of rare occurrence ; in general,
all rose, dressed, and descended to-
gether, just as the alarum-bell had
ceased to sound ; and in less than two
minutes more all were assembled in
their respective class-rooms. The rats
and mice, which had had the run of
these during the night, would be still
in occupation when we entered ; and
such was the audacity of these ver-
min that none cared alone to be the
first to plant a candle on his desk.
But, by entering en masse^ we easily
routed the Rodentia^ whose forces
were driven to seek shelter behind the
wainscot, where they would scuffle,
and gnaw, and scratch, before they
finally withdrew, and left us with blue
fingers and chattering teeth to stndy
1849.]
Pegiahgzuma.
101
to make the best of it Uncomfort-
able enough was the effort for the first
ten nunntes of the session; bat by de-
grees the hopes of a possible warming
of hands npon the sonace of the Dntch
atoTes after dass, if they should have
been lighted in time, and at any rate
the certainty of a hot breakfast, were
entertained, and brought thehr conso-
lation ; besides which, the being up in
time to welcome in the dawn of the
dullest day, while health and liberty
are onrs, is a pleasure in itself. There
was no exception to it here ; for when
the daximess, becoming eveiy moment
less and less dark, had at length given
way, and melted into a gray gloaming,
we would rejoice, even b^ore it ap-
peared, at the approach of a new day.
That approach was soon farther
heralded by the fitful notes of small
day-birds chirpiug under the leaves,
and anon by their sudden dashings
against the windows, in the direction
of the lights not yet extinguished in
the class-rooms. Presently the pigs
were heard rejoicing and contending
over their fresh wash ; then the old
horse and the shaggy little donkey in
the stable adjoining the styes, knowing
by this stir that their feed was coming,
snorted and brayed at the pleasant
prospect. The cocks had by this time
roused their sleepy sultanas, who came
creeping firom under the bam-door to
meet their lords on the dunghill. Our
peacock, to satisfy himself that he had
not taken cold during the night, would
scream to the utmost pitch of a most
discordant voice ; then the prescient
goats would bleat from the cabins,
and plamtively remind us that, till
thehr door is unpadlocked, they can
get no prog ; then the punctufd mag*
gie, and his Mend the jay, having
opped all down the corridor, would
be heard screaming for broken vic-
tuals at the school-room door, till
our dismissal bell, finding so many
other tongues loosened, at length
wags its own, and then for the next
hour and a half all are free to fol-
low their own devices. Breakfast
shortly follows; but, idas! another
cold ceremony must be undergone
first. A preliminary visit to pump
court, and a thorough ablution of
face and hands, is indispensable to
those who would become successfal
candidates for that long-anticipated
meal. This bleaching process, at an
icy temperature, was never agreeable ;
but when the pipes happened to be
frozen— a contingency by no means
unfrequent— and the snow in the yard
must be substituted for the water
which was not in the pump, it proved
a difiiciUt and sometimes a painful
business; especially as there was
always some uncertainty afterwards,
whether the chllblained paws would
pass muster before the inspector-gene-
ral commissioned to examine them —
who, utterly reckless as to how the
boys might ^* be off for soap," and
incredulous of what they would fain
attribute to the adust complexion of
their skin, would require to have that
assertion tested by a further experi*
ment at the ^^ pump head."
THB RBFECIOBT.
^ Forbear to aeoff at woes you eannot feel.
Nor mock the misery of a Bti&ted meal." — Ckabbb.
The dietary tables at the chateau,
conspicQons alike for the paucity and
simplicity of the articles registered
therein, are easily recalled to mind.
The fare they exhibited was certainly
eoarse — though, by a euphemism, it
might have been termed merely plain
Sad spare withal. The breakfast
would consist of milk and water — the
first aqueous enough without dilution,
bdng the produce of certain ill-favour-
ed, and, aa we afterwards tasted their
fiesh, we may add ill-flavoured kine,
whose impoverished lacteals could fur-
nish out of their sorry fodder no better
supplies. It was London sky-blue, in
short, but not of the Aldemey dairy,
which was made to serve our turn at
Yverdun. This milk, at seven in sum-
mer, and at half-past seven in winter,
was transferred boiling, and as yet
unadulterated, into earthenware mix-
ers, which had been previously half-
filled with hot water from a neigh-
bouring kettle. In this half-and-
half state it was baled out for the
102
Pttialoxtitma.
[Jnlft
assembled school into a series of pew- in its cage, give fbll scope to its
ter platters, ranged along the sides of tongue, and appear, from the loud in-
three bare deal boards, some thirty
feet long by two wide, and mounted
on treasels, which served us for tables.
The ministering damsels were two
great German Frans, rejoicing seve-
rally in the pleasing names of Gret-
chen and Bessie. When Fran Grct-
chen, standing behind each boy, had
dropt her allowance of milk over his
right shoulder— during which process
there was generally a mighty clatter
for fall measure and fair play — the
creasing swell of its prolonged oyez^
to announce the message of good
cheer like a herald consciona and proud
of his commission. Ding-dong 1 — come
along ! Dinner^s dishing I — ding-dong!
Da capo and encore I Then, starting
up from every school-room form
throughout the chateau, the noisy
boys rushed pell-mell, opened aU
the doors, and, like emergent bees
in quest of honey, began coursing up
and down right busily between the
other Fran was slicing off her slices of saUe-h-manger and the kitchen^
bread from a brown loaf a yard long,
which she carried under her arm, and
slashed clean through with wonder-
ful precision and address. It was now
for all those who had saved pocket-
money for menuS'plaisirs to produce
their comets of cinnamon or sugar,
sprinkle a little into the milk, and
then fall to sipping and munching with
increased zest and satisfaction. So
dry and chaffy was our pain de mdnage
that none ventured to soak it entire,
or at once, but would cu^ it into /rti«-
trums^ and retain liquid enough to
wash down the boluses separately.
In a few minutes every plate was
completely cleaned out and polished ;
and the cats, that generally entered the
room as we left it, seldom found a
drop with which they might moisten
their tongues, or remove from cheeks
and whiskers the red stains of mur-
dered mice on which they had been
breaking their fast in the great tower.
So much for the earliest meal of the
day, which wks to carry iis through
five hours, if not of laborious mental
snuffing the various aromas as tiiey
escaped from the latter into the pas-
sage, and inferring from the amount
of exhaled fragrance the actual pro*
gress of the preparations for eating.
Occasionally some ^* sly Tom " would
peep into the kitchen, while Uie
Fraus were too busy to notice him,
and watch the great canldron that
had been milked dry of its stores in
the morning, now dischai^ng its
aqueous contents of a much-attenuated
houillon — the surface covered with
lumps of swimming bread, thickened
throughout with a hydrate of pota-
toes, and coloured with coarse insii^d
carrots, which certainly gave it a
savoury appearance. It was not good
broth — ^far from it, for it was both
ra^-greasyand^/>er-salted; bntthen
it was hot, it was, thick, and thoB
was an abundant supply. It used to
gush, as we have said, from the great
stop-cock of the cauldron, steaming
and sputtering, into eight enormoua
tureens. The shreds of beef, together
with whatever other solids remained
study, at least of the incarceration of behind after the fluid had been drawn
our bodies in class, which was equally off, were next fished up from the
irksome to them as if our minds had
been hard at work. These five hours
terminated, slates were once more in-
salivated and put by clean, and the
hungry garrison began to look for-
ward to the pleasures of the noon-day
repast. The same bell that had been
calling so often to class would now
give premonitory notice of dinner, but
abyss with long ladles, and plumped
into the decanted liquor. The young
gastronotne who might have beheld
these proceedings would wait till the
lid was taken off the saur-kraut;
and then, the odour becoming over-
poweringly appetising, he woidd run,
as by irresistible instinct, into the
dining-room, where most of the boys
m a greatly changed tone. In place of were already assembled, each with a
the shrill snappish key in which it had ration of brown bread in his hand^
all the morning jerked out each short and ready for the Fraus, who were
unwelcome summons from lesson to speedily about to enter. The dinner
lesson, as if fearful of ringing one note was noisy and ungenteel in the ex-
beyond the prescribed minute, it now treme — how could it be otherwise?
would take time, vibrate far and wide ventre affamd n'a point cPoreilies^
Pntahzxiantu
r was the German grace con-
, and the covers removed,
that bone of contention, the
w bone, was canght up by some
f near the top of the table, and
B the signal for a ffenend row.
his neighbonrfaood would call
eond, third, fourth, fifth, &c.,
i bone ; and thus it would travel
plate to plate, yielding its
to freely to the two or three
ipplicants, but wholly inade-
-anless it could have resolved
Itogether into marrow — ^to meet
demands made upon its stores.
iroae angry words of contention,
waxed hot as the marrow
I cold, every candidate being
f Todferous in maintaining the
y of his particular claim. £ar-
ippeals in German, French,
ik, English, &c., were bandied
xw to the other in consequence,
who had really said tqftia tot
At last the ^' dry bone" was
imdeserving of further conten-
and, ceasing to drop any more
I upon any boy's bread, the
KitSon for it was dropt too.
now we had half-filled our
dm with a soup which few
ians would have withheld from
ever patients on the score of its
kh, we threw in a sufficiency
sad and saur-kraut to absorb
d, after the post-prandial Grer-
irace had been pronounced, the
eft the table, generally with a
crnst in their pockets, to repair
i garden and filch — ^if it was
C — an alliaceous dessert from
)di, which they washed in the
itmm, and added, without fear
llgKtion, to the meal just con-
103
in the class-room. At half-past four
precisely, a goute was served out,
which consisted of a whacking slice of
bread, and either a repetition of the
morning's milk and water, or caf4 au
laky (without sugar '^ him eniendu^^')
or twenty-five walnuts, or a couple
of ounces of strong-tasted gruyhre^
or a plateful of schnitz (cuttings of
dried apples, pears, and plums.) We
might choose any one of these several
dainties we liked, but not more.
Some dangerous characters — not to
be imitated-— would occasionally, while
young Fran Schmidt stood doling
out the supplies from her cup-
board among the assembled throng,
make the disingenuous attempt to
obtain cheese with one hand and
schnitz with the other. But the
artifice, we are happy to say, seldom
succeeded ; for that vigilant lady,
quick-eyed and active, and who, of
all things, hated to be imposed upon^
would turn round upon the false
claimant, and bid him hold up both
his hands at once — ^which he, ambi-
dexter as he was, durst not do, and
thus he was exposed to the laughter
and jeers of the rest. At nine, the
bell sounded a feeble call to a soi-
disant supper ; but few of us cared for
a basin of tisane under the name
of lentil soup— or a pappy potato,
salted in the boiling — and soon after
we all repaired to our bed-rooms —
made a noise for a short time, then
undressed, and were speedily asleep
under our! duvetg, and as sound, if
not as musical, as tops.
Our common fare, as the reader has
now seen, was sorry enough ; but we
had our Carnival and gala days as
well as our Lent. Vater Pestalozzi's
I within the chateau. ' Most of birthday, in summer, and the first
ore upon this Spartan diet ; but day of tlie new year, were the most
conspicuous. On each of these occa-
sions we enjoyed a whole week's holi-
day; and as these were also the
periods for slaughtering the pigs, we
fed (twice a-year for a whole week !^
upon black puddings and pork a
discretion, qualified with a sauce of
beetroot and vinegar, and washed
down with a fiuid really like small-
beer.
Micate boys, unendowed with
trich power of assimilation usual
i period — for boys, like ostriches,
Igmt almost anything — became
jed in their chylopoietics, and
ned to feel its ill effects in
teric and other chronic ail-
for years afterwards. An hour
iven for stomachs to do their
before we re-assembled to ours
104
Pe9iahzziana,
tJniy,
CLASSES.
The school-rooms, which lay im-
mediately under the dormitories on
the ground-floor, consisted of a num-
ber of detached chambers, each of
which issued upon a corridor. They
were airy — there was plenty of air at
Yvcrdun — and lofty as became so
venerable a building ; but they were
unswept, uuscrubt>ed, peeled of their
paint, and, owing to the little light
that could find its way through two
very small windows punched out of
the fortress walls, presented, save at
mid-day, or as the declining sun illu-
mined momentarily the dark recess,
as comfortless a set of interiors as yon
could well see. It required, indeed,
all the elasticity of youth to bear
many hours* daily incarceration in
such black-holes, without participat-
ing in the pervading gloom. Such
dismal domiciles were only fit resorts
for the myoptic bat, who would occa-
sionally visit them from the old tower;
for the twiUght horde of cockroaches,
which swarmed along the floor, or the
eight- eyed spiders who colonised the
ceiling. The tender sight, too, of a
patient just recovering from ophthal-
mia would here have required no
factitious or deeper shade — but merits
like these only rendered them as un-
gcnial as possible to the physiology
and feelings of their youthful occu-
pants. If these apartments looked
gloomy in their dilapidations and want
of sun, the sombre effect was much
heightened by the absence of the or-
dinary tables and chairs, and what-
ever else is necessary to give a room
ft habitable appearance. Had an ap-
praiser been commissioned to make
out a complete list of the furniture and
the fixtures together, a mere glance
had sufficed for the inventory. In
vain would his practised eye have wan-
dered in quest of themes for golden
sentences, printed in such uncial char-
acters that all who run may read ; in
vain for the high-hung well-backed
chart, or for any pleasing pictorial
souvenirs of iEsop or the Ark —
neither these nor the long " coloured
Stream of Time," nor formal but use-
ful views in perspective, adorned our
sorry walls. No old mahogany case
clicked in a comer, beating time for
the class, and the hour npetriking
loud that it should not be defrauded i
its dues. No glazed globe, gUding
round on easy axis, spun under its
brassy equator to the antipodes on its
sides being touched. No bright zodiac
was there to exhibit its cabalistic
figures in pleasing arabesques. In
place of these and other well-known
objects, here stood ft line of dirty,
much-inked desks, with an equally
dirty row of attendant forms subjacent
alongside. There was a scftntling^t
seldom exceeded a leash — of ricketty
rush-bottom chairs distributed at long
intervsds along the walls ; a ooal-black
slate, pegged high on its wooden horse;
a keyless cupboard, containing the
various implements of learning, a
dirty duster, a pewter plate with
cretaceous deposits, a slop-basin and
a ragged sponge ; — and then, unless he
had included the cobwebs of the ceil-
ing, (not usually reckoned up in ,the
furniture of a room,) no other
movables remained. One conspicu-
ous fixture, however, there was, a
gigantic Dutch stove. This lumber-
ing pai'allelogram, faggot-fed from
the corridor behind, projected several
feet into the room, and shone bright
in the glaze of earthenware em-
blazonments. Around it we would
sometimes congregate in the intervals of
class : in winter to toast our hands and
hind quarters, as we pressed against the
heated tiles, with more or less vigour
according to the fervency of the cen-
tral fire ; and in summer either to tell
stories, or to con over the pictorial
History of the Bible, which adorned
its firontispiece and sides. We can-
not say that every square exactly
squared with even our schoolboy
notions of propriety in its mode of
teaching religious subjects ; there was
a Dutch quaintness in the illustrations,
which would sometimes force a smile
from its simplicity, at others shock,
from its apparent want of decorum
and reverence. Pi-e-eminent of course
among the gems from Genesis, Adam
and Eve, safe in innocency and ^^ naked
truth," here walked unscathed amidst
a menagerie of wild beasts — there^
dressed in the costume of their fall,
they quitted Eden, and left it in pos-
1W9.]
Pesiahztiana*
lOd
sesBion of tigen, bears, and crocodiles.
Hard by on a smaller tile, that brawny
^knaye of dabs/* Cain, battered
down bis brother at the altar ; then
followed a long pictnre-gallery of the
acts of the patriarchs, and another
equally long of the acts of the apostles.
Bnt, queer as many of these miscon-
ceptions might seem, they were no-
thing to the strange attempts made at
dramatising the parabU$ of the New
Testament — e. g. a stent man, stag-
gering under the weight of an enor-
mous beam which grows out of one eye,
employs his fingers, assisted by the
other, to pick ont a black speck from
the cornea of his neighbour. Here, an
nndean spirit, as black as any sweep,
issues from the mouth of his victim,
with wings and a tidl ! Here again, the
good Samaritan, turbaned like a Turk,
18 bent oyer the waylaid traveller, and
pours wine and oil into his wounds
trom the mouths of twoFlorenceflasks ;
there, the grain of mustard-seed, be-
come a tree, sheltering already a large
aviaij in its boughs; the woman,
dancing a hornpipe with the Dutch
broom, has swept her house, and lo !
the piece of silver that was lost in
her hand ; a servant, who is digging a
hole in order to hide his lord^s talent
under a tree, is overlooked by a mag-
pie and two crows, who are attentive
witnesses of the deposit : — ^and many
others too numerous to mention. So
much for the empty school-room, but
what's a hive without bees, or a school-
room without boys? The reader
who has peeped into it untenanted,
shall now, if he pleases, be intro-
dooed, €han fervet opus fhll and alive.
iShould he not be able to trace out
Tery deariy the system at work, he
will at least be no worse off than the
bee^fander, who hears indeed the
buaaing, and sees a flux and reflux
current of his whiged confectioners
entering in and passing out, but can-
not investigate the detail of their la-
bours any farther. In the Yverdnn,
as in the hymenopterus apiary, we
swarmed, we buazed, dispersed, re-
assembled at the sound of the bell,
flocked in and flocked out, all the
day long ; exhibited much restlessness
and activity, evincing that something
was going on, bnt what^ it would have
bem ban! to determine. Here the
<Kmiparison must drop. Bees buzz to
some purpose ; they know what they
are about; they help one another;
they work orderly and to one end, —
^ How BkUiuUy they baild the eelJ,
How neat they ipread the wax.
And labour hara to store it well
With the sweet food,** &c &c
In none of these particulars did we
resemble the ^^ busy bee.** This being
admitted, our object in offering a few
words upon the course of study pur-
sued at the chateau is not witii any
idea of enlightenhog the reader as to
anything really acquired during the
long ten hours* session of each day ;
bnt rather to show how ten hours*
imprisonment maybe inflicted upon
the body for the supposed advantage
of the mind, and yet be consumed in
"profitless labonr, and diligence
which maketh not rich ;** to prove, by
an exhibition of their opposites, that
method and disdpline are indispen-
sable in tuition, and (if he will accept
our "pathemata** for his "mathe-
mata *' and guides in the bringing up
of his sons) to convince him that edu-
cation, like scripture, admits not of
private interpretation. Those who
refuse to adopt the Catholic views of
the age, and the general sense of the
sodety in which they Uve, must blame
themselves if they find the experi-
ment of foreign schools a failure, and
that they have sent their children
" farther to fare worse."
And now to proceed to the geography
class, which was the first after break-
fast, and began at half-past dght.
As the summons-bell sounded, the
boys came rushing and tumbling in,
and ere a minute had elapsed were
swarming over, and settling upon, the
high readuiff-desks : the master,
alnBady at his work, was chalking
out the business of the hour ; and as
this took some little time to accom-
plish, the youngsters, not to sit un-
employed, would be assiduously en-
gaged in Impressing sundry animal
forms— among which the donkey was
a favourite— cut out in doth, and well
powdered, upon one another*s backs.
When Herr G had finished his
cfaalkings, and was gone to the comer
of the room for his show-perch, a
skeleton map of Europe might bo seen,
by those who chose to look that way,
covering the sUte : this, however, was
what the majority of the assembly
nr:'/fT dr^ftmi of, or only drtamt xbej
wf:r*» diiint;. TIms ciaM ^nenllj —
thr>n;|rh mid J when call<4 opoa to
(TIT'- th^ f:ffici*^nt anpport of their
tr^njfnftii — k<>pt their eves to gap« el3«-
wh^^ff'. and, like 5y/lomon'3 foot had
th'^rn wher*T they had no bnsine'S.r to
be. The map, too often repeated to
attract from ita novelty, had no claim
Ut r^-fljiect on other groanda. It was
one or a cUa^ acenratf:ly desij^ated by
that earefni iff-rt^ziiher, old Homer,
%A ''pi^ nv Kara Koapoy.'' Coarse
and clumpy, however, ax it nece:>dari!y
would l>e, it rni^ht still have proved
of service ba/i the hf}j^ been the
drao^htfimen. Aa it was, the follow-
in j( mer,hanically Herr G 's wand
tit join in the {general choma of the
\AAi cenaoj) of a city, the p^rrpendicnlar
altitude of a mountain, or the length
and brea^lth of a lake, could obviously
c/>nvey no ufieful instruction to any
out*. Hut, UHefnl or otheml^e, such
wa« our rtfjime^—io set one of from
fifty to sixty lads, day after day,
week after wctek, repeating facts and
figures notorious to every little reader
of p<!nny guides U) science, till all
ha/1 the last statistical returns at
their tongue's tip ; and knew, when
all was done, as much of what geo-
graphy really meant as on the day
of tlieir first matriculation. Small
wonder, then, if some should later have
foresworn this study, and been re-
volted at the bare sight of a map!
All our recollections of map^ unlike
thr>sc of jterBomd travel, are suffi-
ciently distasteful. Often have we
yawn^jd wearily over them at Yver-
dun, when our eyes were demanded to
follow the titnbations of Ilerr G 's
magic wand, which, in its uncer-
tain route, would skip from Europe
to Africa and back again — quimodo
ThfitoM mofio me panit Athenis ; and
our dislike to them since has increased
ama;(ingly. Docs the reader care to
he tohl the reason of this? Let him
—in ord(5r to obtain the pragmatic
sanction of some stiff-necked examiner
— have to **get up" all the anasto-
mosing routes of St Paurs several
joumeyings; have to follow those
rebellious Israelites in all their wan-
derings through the desert ; to draw
the line round them when in Pales-
tine ; going from Dan to Beersheba,
and ** meting out the valley of Suc-
coch r or, iSiHiHy, lape to corer •
larze sheet oi AmIkip wkk m pm-
jpre^Te iorvcy of the apicad of
Chrisciaaifiy dnriag' As three fint
centuries — aad he wiE c«iiy enter
into oar lieeihuza. To retom to the
clasB-room : Tbe geognpUcal keeon,
thoogh of daily indietion, wne acce-
rately circnmaciibed in ita daration.
Old Time kept a sharp k)ok-ont over
his bUkoming dangkters, sad never
snlTered one hovr to trend npen the
heeU or trench upon tbe prorinee of
a sister hoar. Sixty nunntes to aU,
and not an extra minnte to any, wae
the old genthman's impartial nle;
and he took care to see it waa strictly
adhered to. As tbe dock strack tea,
geography was sliOTed aside by the
mnse of mathematics. A sea of dirty
water had washed oot in a twinkling
all traces of the continent of Europe,
and the palimpsest slate presented a
clean face for whatever fignres might
next be traced upon it.
The hoar for Enclidiging was ar-
rived, and anon the black parallelo-
gram was intersected with nnmeroaa
trian^es of the Isosceles and Scalene
pattern ; but, notwithstanding this
promising dtlmi^ we did not make
much quicker progress here than in
the previous lesson. How should
we, who had not only the difficulties
inseparable from the subject to cope
with, but a much more formidablo
difficulty — viz. the obstmction which
we opposed to each other's advance,
by the plan, so unwisely adopted, of
making all the class do the same
thing, that they might keep pace to-
gether. It is a polite piece of folly
enough for a whole party to be kept
waiting dinner by a lounging gnest,
who chooses to ride in the park when
he ought to be at his toilet ; but we
were the victims of a moch greater
absurdity, who lost what might have
proved an hour of profitable worit,
out of tenderness to some incorrigibly
idle or Boeotian boy, who conld not
get over the Pons Asinomm, (every
proposition was a pom to some ofumr
or other,) and so made those who
were over stand still, or come back
to help him across. Neither was
this, though a very considerable
drawback, our only hindrance — the
guides were not always safe. Some-
times he who acted in that capacity
PiBiialazziaMa.
flhoQi "Earcka" too soon;
aving nndertaken to lead the
mmI it astray till jiut abonfc, aa
posed, to come down upon the
lidf, and to oome down with a
3. : the master would stop him
and Ind him — as Coleridge told
goiioiis author of Ouesia at
->* to gness again/' Bat snp-
le ^* gness " fortonate, or that a
d even sncoeeded, by his own
7 or reflection, in mastering a
itkm, did it follow that he
be a dear expositor of what he
It was far otherwise. Oar
Archimedes — nnacqnainted
be terms of the science, and
also (as we have hinted) la-
Aj defectire in his knowledge
power of words — wonld mix np
*^ fiuiago " of irrelevancies and
lona with the proof, as, in fact,
ider it to the majority no proof
foclid shoald be taught in
m words,— jost enough and
o Mptre: the employment of
ist engender obscurity ; and of
i want of neatness and perspi-
The best geometrician amongst
Id have cut but a bad figure
aide of a lad of very average
brought up to know Euclid
Jier twitch of the bell an-
d that the hour for playing at
ss had expired. In five mi-
he slate was covered with bars
ias and crotchets, and the
leHon begun. This, in the
. tone of its delivery, bore a
f resemblance to the gcographi-
of two hours before ; the only
lea being that '' ut, re, me **
ceeeded to names of certain
ind *^fa, so, la" to the num-
heir inhabitants. It would be
an attempt to describe all the
re made as to show its ra-
or motive. It was loud
to have cowed a lion, stopped
sy in mid-bray — to have ex-
le envy of the vocal Lablache,
vw% sent any prima eUnma into
s. When this third hour had
llowed away, and the bell had
ilMurd the advent of a fourth —
107
presto — ^in came Mens. D , to re-
lievo the meek man who had acted as
cor3rph«as to the music class; and
after a little tugging, had soon pro-
duced from his po^et that without
which you never catch a Frenchmen
— a t/itme. The theme being an-
nounced, we proceeded (not quite
ton/ bien que mal) to scribble it down
at his dictation, and to amend its
orthography afterwards fh>m a cor-
rected copy on the slate. Once more
the indefatigable bell obtruded its
tinkle, to proclaim that Herr Koth was
coming with a Fable of Gellcrt, or a
chapter from Yater Pestalozzi's seri-
ous novel, Gumal und Lino, to read,
and expound, and catechise upon.
This last lesson before dinner was
always accompanied by fi^uent
yawns and other unrepn^sed symp-
toms of fatigue ; and at its conclusion
we all rose with a shout, and rushed
into the corridors.
On resuming work in the afternoon*
there was even less attention and
method observed than before. The
classes were then broken up, and
private lessons were given in accom-
plishments, or in some of the useful
arts. Drawing dogs and cows, with
a master to look idler the trees and
the hedges ; whistling and spitting
through a flute ; playing on the pa-
tience of a violin ; turning at a lathe ;
or fencing with a powerful maUre
tif armes; — such were the general
occupations. It was then, however,
that we English withdrew to our
Greek and Latin ; and, under a kind
master, Dr M , acquired (with
the exception of a love for natural
history, and a very unambitious turn
of mind) all that really could deserve
the name of education.
We have now described the seden-
tary life at the chateau. In the next
paper the reader shall be carried to>
the gymnasium; the drill ground
behind the lake ; to our small mena-
geries of kids, guinea pigs, and rab-
bits; be present at our annual ball
and skating bouts in winter, and at
our bathings, fishings, frog-spearing9f.
and rambles over the Jura in
summer.
108 The Crouming of the Column^ and Crushing ofiht PedeataL [Jnlv,
THE CROWNING OF THE COLUMN, AND CRUSHING OF THE PEDESTAL.
It was said in the debate on tlie
Navigation Laws, in the best speech
made on the Liberal side, by one of the
ablest of the Liberal party, that the
repeal of the Navigation Laws was
the crotcning of the column of free
trade. There is no doubt it was so ;
but it was something more. It was
not only the candying out of a prin-
ciple, but the overthrow of a system ;
it was not merely the crowning of
the column, but the crushing of the
pedestal.
And what was the system which
was thus completely overthrown, fbr
the time at least, by this great triumph
of Liberal doctrines ? It was the sys-
tem under which England had become
free, and great, and powerful ; under
which, in her alone of all modem
states, liberty had been found to coexist
with law, and progress with order;
under which wealth had increased
without producing divisions, and power
grown up without inducing con^uption ;
the system which had withstood the
shocks of two centuries, and created an
empire unsurpassed since the beginning
of the worldin extent and magnificence.
It was a system which had been fol-
lowed out with persevering energy by
the greatest men, and the most com-
manding intellects, which modern
£urope had ever produced; which
was begun by the republican patriot-
ism of Cromwell, and consummated
by the conservative wisdom of Pitt ;
which had been embraced alike by
Somers and Bolingbroke, by Walpolo
and Chatham, by Fox and Castlercagh ;
which, during two centuries, had pro-
duced an unbroken growth of national
strength, a ceaseless extension of na-
tional power, and at length reared up
a dominion which embraced the earth
in its grasp, and exceeded anything
ever achieved by the legions of Ctesar,
or the phalanx of Alexander. No
vicissitudes of time, no shock of ad-
verse fortune, had been able perma-
nently to arrest its progress. It had
risen superior alike to the ambition of
Louis XrV. and the genius of Napo-
leon ; the rude severance of the North
American colonies had thrown only a
passing shade over its fortunes; the
power of Hindostan had been sub"
dued by its force, the sceptre of the
ocean won by its prowess. It bad
planted its colonies in every quarter
of the globe, and at once peopled with
its descendants a new hemisphere,
and, for the first time since the crea-
tion, rolled back to the old the tide
of civilisation. Perish when it may,
the old English system has achieved
mighty things ; it has indelibly affixed
its impress on the tablets of history.
The children of its creation, the Anglo-
Saxon race, will fill alike the solitudes
of the Far West, and the isles of the
East ; they will be found equally on
the shores of the Missouri, and on the
savannahs of Australia ; and the period
can already be anticipated, even by
the least imaginative, when theLr
descendants will people half the globe.
It was not only the column of free
trade which has been crowned in this
memorable year. Another column,
more firm in its structure, more last-
ing in its duration, more conspicuous
amidst the wonders of creation, has,
in the same season, been crowned by
British hands. While the sacrilegious
efforts of those whom it had sheltered
were tearing down the temple of pro-
tection in the West, the last stone was
Eut to the august structure which it
ad reared in the East. The victory of
Goojerat on the Indus was contempo-
rary with the repeal of the Navigation
Laws on the Thames. The comple-
tion of the conquest of India occurred
exactly at the moment when the sys-
tem which had created that empire
was repudiated. Protection placed the
sceptre of India in our hands, when free
trade was surrendering the trident of
the ocean in the heart of our power.
With truth did Lord Gough say, in
his noble proclamation to the army of
the Punjaub on the termination of
hostilities, that ^^ what Alexander had
attempted they had done.*' Supported
by the energy of England, guided by
the principles of protection, restrained
by the dictates of justice, backed by
the navy which the Navigation
Laws had created, the British arms
had achieved the most wonderful
triumph recorded in the annals of
Tke Crowmmg of^ Colttmn^ and Crushing of the PedestoL 109
ad. They had subjagated a
9d and forty millioius of men in
mtinent of Hindostan, at the
» of ten thousand miles from
arent state; they had made
dres felt alike, and at the same
It, at Nankin, the ancient capi-
tiie Celestial Empire, and at
I, the cradle of Mahommedan
Conqneiing all who resisted,
g all who submitted, securing
egiance of the subjects by the
and experienced advantages of
lorernment, they had realised
iMted maxim of Roman admin-
«ra sabjtctii et debelUre superbos/*
leadily advanced through a
ed years of effort and glory, not
jed with disaster, from the banks
Hoof^y to the shores of the
—from the black hole of Cal-
U> the throne of Aurengzebe.
alU magna civitas," said Han-
M din quiescere potest — si foris
I non habet, dami invenit: ut
ilida corpora ab extends causis
identur, suis ipsis viribus conii-
r."^ When the Carthi^nian
lade this mournful reflection on
ktoated spirit which had seized
n ooontrymen, and threatened to
f their once powerful dominion,
le thought what a marvellous
nation (S* it a future empire of
later extent and celebrity was to
That the system of free trade
; by the universal preference of
len, for the sake of the small-
daction of price, to ^our own
ti^Hnust, if persisted m, lead to
■memberment and overthrow of
ritbh empire, cannot admit of a
Dt's doubt, and will be amply
I to every unbiassed reader in
quel of this paper. Yet the
Bt chosen for carrying this prin-
itoeiTect was precisely that, when
od eflects of the opposite system
Men most decisively demon-
ic and an empire unprecedented
rltnde and magnificence had
its acme under its shadow.
lid be impossible to explain so
strange an anomaly, if we did not
recollect how wayward and irrecon-
cilable are the changes of the human
mind : that action and reaction is the
law not less of the moral than of tho
material world ; that nations become
tired of hearing a policy called wise,
not less than an individual cidled the
just ; and that if a magnanimous and
truly national course of government
has been pursued by one party long
in possession of power, this is quite
sufficient to make its opponents
embrace the opposite set of tenets,
and exert aU their influence to carry
them into effect when they succeed
to tlie direction of affairs, without the
slightest regard to the ruin they may
bring on the national fortunes.
The secret of tho long duration and
unexampled success of the British
national policy is to be found in
the protection which it afforded to ail
the national interests. Bat for this, it
must long since have been overthrown,
and with it the empire which was
^owin^ up under its shadow. No
institutions or frames of government
can long exist which are not held to-
gether by that firmest of bonds, ex-
perienced hemfita. What made the
Roman power steadily advance during
seven centuries, and endure in all a
thousand years? The protection
which the arms of the legions afforded
to the industry of mankind, the inter-
national wars which they prevented,
the general peace they secured, the
magnanimous policy which admitted
the conquered states to the privileges
of Roman citizens, and caused the
Imperial government to be felt through
the wide circuit of its power, only by
the vast market it opened to the in-
dustry of its multifarious subjects,
and the munificence with which local
imdcrtakings were everywhere aided
by the Imperial treasury. Free trade
in grain at length mined it : the har-
vests of Lvbia and Egypt came to
supersede those of Greece and Italy,
—and thence its fall. To the same
cause which occasioned the rise of
Rome, is to be ascribed the similar
unbroken progress of the Russian ter-
\o great state can long remain quiet; if it has not an enemy abroad, it finds one
t, mm powerftd bodies resist all external attacks, but are destroyed by their
1 •tmgtii.''— LiTT.
ne Croummg efAe Oohmm^ amd Qmtkmg cfUm PBiataL LJolf,
110
ritorial dominion, and that of the
British colonial empire in modem
times. What, on the other hand,
caused the conqnests of Timonr and
Chariemagne, Alexander the Great
and Napoleon, to be so speedily
obliterated, and their vast empires
to fall to pieces the moment the
powofol hand which had created
them was laid in the dnst? The
want of protection to general interests,
the absence of the strong bond of
experienced benefits ; the oppressive
nature of the conqnering government;
the sacrifice of the general interests
to the selfish ambition or rapacious
passions of a section of the community,
whether civil or military, which had
got possession of power. It is the
selfishness of the ruling power which
invariably terminates its existence:
men will bear anything but an in-
terference with their patrimonial
interests. The burning of 50,000
Protestants by the Duke of Alva was
quietly borne by the Flemish pro-
vinces : but the imposition of a small
direct tax at once caused a flame to
burst forth, which carried the inde-
pendence of the United Provinces. At-
tend sedulously to the interests of
men, give ear to their complaints,
anticipate their wishes, and yon may
calculate with tolerable certainty on
acquiring in the long run the mastery
of their passions. Thwart their in-
terests, disregard their complaints,
make game of their sufferings, and
you may already read the handwrit-
ing on the wall which announces your
doom.
That the old policy of England,
foreign, colonial, and domestic, was
thoroughly protective, and attended,
on the whole, with a due care of the
interests of its subjects in every part
of the world, may be inferred with
absolute certainty from the constant
growth, unexampled success, and long
existence of her empire. But the
matter is not left to inference : deci-
sive proof of it is to be found in
the enactments of our statute-book,
the treaties we concluded, or the
wars we waged with foreign powers.
Protection to native industry, at
homo or in the colonics, security to
vested interests, a sacred regard to
the rights and interests of our
subjects, in whatever part of the
worid, wore the prineiideB invariably
acted upon. L<mg and bloody wan
were undertaken to secure fheir pn*
dominance, when threatened by fbraign
powers. This protectiTe Byateui ef
necessity implied some reetrictiom
upon the industiy, or restraints upon
the liberty of action in the colonial
dependencies, as well as the mother
country— 4)ut what then ? They were
not complained of on either siae, be*
cause they were accompanied with
corresponding and greater benefits,
as the consideration paid by the
mother oonntiy, and leeeived by her
distant offspring. Reciprocity in those
days was not entirely one-sided;
there was a quid pro quo on both
sides, llie American colonies were
subjected to the Navig^ation Laws,
and, in consequence, paid somewhat
higher for their frei^ts than if they
hi^ been permitted to export and
import their produce in the cheaper
vessels of foreign powers; but this
burden was never complained of, be-
cause it was felt to be the price paid
for the immense advantages of the
monopoly of the English market, and
the protection of the English navy.
The colonies of France and Spain de-
sired nothing so much, during the late
war, as to be conquered by the armies
of England, because it at once opened
the closed markets for their produce,
and restored the lost protection of a
powerfd navy. The English felt that
their colonial empire was in some re-
spects a burden, and entaUed heavy
expenses both in peace and war ; but
they were not complained of, because
the manufacturingindustry of England
found a vast and increasing market for
its produce in the growth of its off-
spring in evenr part of the world, and
its commercial navy grew with unex-
ampled rapidity from the exclusive
enjoyment of their trade.
Such was the amount of protection
afforded in our statute-book to com-
mercial industry, that we might
imagine, if there was nothing else in
it, that the empire had been governed
exclusively by a manufacturing aris-
tocracy. Such was the care with
which the interests of the colonies
were attended to, that it seemed as if
they must have had reinresentatives
who possessed a minority in the legis*
lature. To one who kK^^ed U> the
310
^Af CTafuwii, md Crwhmg of the Pedestal. Ill
B of land, and the protection of
dace, the chapel of St Stephens
1 to have been entirely composed
representatives of squires. The
ig interest was sedoloasij fos-
as appeared in the nnex-
1 growth and vast amount of
sncantile tonnage. The interests
oar, the welfare of the poor,
loi overiooked, as was demon-
L in the moat dedaiye way by
■MnmB enactmoits for the reli^
indigent and nnfinrtunate, and
mense burden which the legisla-
olnntarily imposed on itseS' and
itkn for the relief of the desti-
Ikns olf interests were attended
id that worst of tyrannies, the
tf of one class over another
was effectually prevented. It is
\ aedulons attention to oZ/ the in-
a of the empire that its long
lOO and unparalleled extension is
lacribed. EUid any one class or
It been predominant, and com-
d the QTBtem of pursuing its
le objects and advantages, to
bvenlon or injury of the other
I in the state, such a storm of
tent must have arisen as would
\f have proved fatal to jhe
Bity, and with it to the growth
naperity of the empire.
) causes mainly contributed to
oe this system of catholic pro-
I by the British government
ktlye industry; and to their
i operation, the greatness of
nd is chiefly to be ascribed.
list of these was the peculiar
Intion which time had worked
jr the House of Commons, and
laaner in which all the interests
) state had come silently, and
■t being observed, to be in-
ly but most effectually repre-
L in parliament. That body,
or to the Reform Bill, possessed
ivaluable quality^its franchise
multiform and various. In
Imrffhs the landed interest in
leighbonrfaood was predominant ;
It counties it returned members
6 interests of agriculture. In
towns, mercantile or commercial
h acquired by purchase an
Inction, or won it from the
Boe of some great family.
ial qpulenoe found a ready inlet
I oloae boreoghs : Old Sarum or
Gatton nominally represented a house
or a green mound— really, the one
might furnish a seat to a representa-
tive of Hlndostan, the other of the
splendid West Indian settlements.
The members who thus got in by
purchase had one invaluable qualit}',
like the officers who get their com-
missions in the army in the same
way— they were independent. They
were not liable to be overruled or
coerced by a numerous, ignorant, and
conceited constituency. Hence they
looked onljr to the mterests of the
class to which they belonged, amidst
which their fortunes had been made,
and with the prosperity of which
their individual success was entirely
wound up. With what energy these
various interests were attended to,
with what perseverance the system of
protecting them was followed up, is
sufficiently evident from the simul-
taneous growth and unbroken pros-
perity of all the great branches of
industry during the long period of a
hundred and fifty years. Talent,
alike on the Whig and the Tory side,
found a ready entrance by means of
the nomination burghs. It is well
known that all the great men of the
House of Commons, since the Revolu-
tion, obtained entrance to parliament
in the first instance through these
narrow inlets. Rank looked anxiously
for talent, because it added to its
influence. Genius did not disdain
the entrance, because It was not ob-
stnicted by numbers, or galled by
conceit No human wisdom could
have devised such a system ; it rose
gradually, and without being observed,
from the influence of a vast body of
great and prosperous interests, feeling
the necessity of obtaining a voice in
the legislature, and enjoying the
means of doing so by the variety of
election privileges which time had
established in the House of Commons.
The reality of this representation of
interests is matter of history. Tlie
landed interest, the West India
interest, the commercial interest, the
shipping interest, the East Indian
interest could all command their res-
pective phalanxes in parliament, who
would not permit any violation of the
rights, or infringement on the wel-
fare, of their constituents to take
place. The combined effect of the
112 The Crowning of the Column^ and Cnukmg o/Ae PdieML [Jnly;
whole was the great and glorious
British empire, teeming with energy,
oversowing with patriotism, spread-
ing out into every quarter of the
globe, and yet held together in all its
parts by the firm bond of experienced
benefits and protected industry.
The second cause was, that no
speculative or theoretical opinions
had then been broached, or become
popular, which proclaimed that the
real interest of any one class was to be
found in the spoliation or depression
of any other class. No gigantic
system of beggar my neighbour had
then come to be considered as a
shorthand mode of gaining wealth.
The nation had not then embraced
the doctrine, that to buy cheap and
sell dear constituted the sum total of
political science. On the contrary, pro-
tection to industry in all its branches
was considered as the great princi-
]ilo of policy, the undisputed dictate
of wisdom, the obvious rule of justice.
It was acknowlcdfi^ed alike by specu-
lative writers and practical states-
men. The interests of the producers
were the main object of legislative
fostering and philosophic thought —
and for this plain reason, that they
constitute the great body of society,
and their interests chiefly were thought
of. Realised wealth, was then, in
comparison to what it now is, in a
state of infancy ; the class of traders
and shopkeeper^, who grow up with
the expenditure of accumulated opu-
lence, was limited in numbers and
inconsiderable in influence. It would
have been as impossible then to get
up a party in the House of Commons,
or a cry in the country, in favour of
the consumers or against the pro-
ducers, as it would be now to do the
same among the corn producers in the
basin of the Mississippi, or among the
cotton growers of New Orleans.
It is in the profound wisdom of
Hannibal's saying— that great states,
impregnable to the shock of external
violence, are consumed and wasted
away by their own internal strength —
that the real cause of the subsequent
and extraordinary change, first in the
opinions of men, and then in the mea-
sures of government, is to be found.
Such was the wealth produced by the
energy of the Anglo-Saxon race, shel-
tered and invigorated by the protec-
tion-policy of goveroment in eveiy
quarter of the globe, tluit in the end
it gave birth to a new cltss, which
rapidly grew in numbers and iii^aenoe,
and was at length able to bid defiance
to all the other interests in the state
put together. This was the monofed
interest — ^the class of men whose ftv-
tunes were made, whose position was
secure, and who saw, in a general
cheapening of the price of oommoditin
and reduction of prices, the means of
making their wealth go mndi farther
than it otherwise woi3d. This dass
had its origin from the long-continned
prosperity and accumulated savings of
the whole producing classes in the
state ; like a huge lake, it was fed by
all the streams and rills which de-
scended into it from the high groonds
by which it was surrounded ; and the
rise of its waters indicated, as a regis-
ter thermometer, the amount of ac-
tions which it was receiving finran the
swelling of the feeders by which it
was formed. But when men once
get out of the class of producers, and
into that of moneyed consumers, they
i*apidly perceive an immediate benefit
to themselves in the redaction of
the price of articles of consump-
tion, because it adds proportionally
to the value of their money. If prices
can be forced down fifty per cent by
legislative measures, every thousand
pounds in effect becomes fifteen hun-
dred. It thus not nnirequently and
naturally happened, that the son who
enjoyed the fortune made by protec-
tion came to join the ranks of the free
traders, because it promised a great
addition to the value of his inheritance.
The transition from Sir Robert Peel
the father, and staunch supporter of
protection, who maele the fortune, to
Sir Robert Peel the son, who inherited
it^ and introduced free-trade principl<s,
was natural and easy. Each acted in
conformity with the interests of his
respective position in society. It is
impossible to suppose in snd^ men a
selfish or sordid regard to their own
interests, and we solemnly disclaim
the intention of imputing such. Bnt
every one knows how the ablest and
most elevated minds are insensibly
moulded by the influence of the atmo-
sphere with which they are snrronnd-
cd ; and, at all events, they were a
typeof the corresponding change going
I The Cnmmmg qfihe Cohmmj and Cruslimg of the Pedestal. 118
iQOcefifttye generations of others
len etorated class of mindSf in
the infloence of interested mo-
iraa direct and Immediate,
im Smitii's work, now styled the
MB of economical science by the
tiders, first gave token of the
fcaat and decisive change then
forward in society. It was an
08 and characteristic title : The
€ and Cause of the Wealth of
M. It was not said of their
n, virtue, or happiness. The
ion of such a mind as Adam
*s to the exclusive consideration
I riches of nations, indicated
Ivmt of a period when the fruits
mtry in this vast empure, shel-
bj protection, had become so
thai they had formed a power-
laa in society, which was begin-
&o look to its separate interests,
aw them in the beating down the
/article8^thatis,diminishingtbo
leration of other men's industry.
wed that the Plutocracy was be-
g powerful. The constant ar-
kta that able work contained, in
' of competition and against
nly, — its impassioned pleadings
roar of freedom of commerce,
le removal of all restrictions on
tation, were so many indications
new era was opening in society ;
he interests of retuised wealth
Mginning to come into collision
loeeof creating industry, and that
ne was not far distant when a
legislative contest might bo an-
m between them, it is well
1 that Adam Smith advocated
Bvigation Laws, upon the ground
Bawmal independence was of
inportance than national wealth.
leie can be no doubt that this
k deviation from his principles,
lat, if they were established in
parfticulard, it would be difficult,
impossible, to succeed in main-
; an exception in favour of the
Bg interests, because that was
Bg a bnrden on the colonies,
the correspondmg benefit had
'Oted away.
lons^, however, the doctrines
la Sniith, from their novelty,
tftj, and alliance with demo-
Hberty, spread rapidly in the
generation — ever ready to re-
ft the doctrines and throw off
. ULVL-^irO. ccocv.
the restraints of their fathers^yet, so
strongly were the producing interests
intrenched in the legislature, that a
very long period would probably have
elapsed before they came to be prac-
tically applied in the measures of
government, had it not been that*
at the very period when, from the
triumph of protection-principles dur-
ing the war, and the vast wealth thej
had realised in the state, the moneyea
interest had become most powerful, a
great revolution in the state gave that
interest the command of the House
of Commons. By the Reform Bill
two-thirds of the seats in that house
were given to boroughs, and /uy)-
thirds of the voters in boroughs, in
the new constituency, were shop-
keepers or those in their interest.
Thus a decisive majority in the house,
which, from having the command of
the public purse, practically became
possessed of supreme power, was vest-
ed in those who made their living by
buying and selling — with whom cheap
prices was idl in all. The producing
classes were virtually, and to all
practical purposes, cast out of the
scale. The landed interest, on all
questions vital to its welfare, would
evidently soon be in a minority.
Schedules A and B at one blow dis-
franchised the whole colonial empire
of Great Britain, because it closed
the avenue by which colonial wealth
had hitherto found an entrance to the
House of Commons. Scats could no
longer be bought : the virtual repre-
sentation of unrepresented places was
at an end. The greatest fortunes
made in the colonies could now get
into the house only through some
populous place ; and the majority of
voters in most populous places wero
in favour of the consumers and against
the producers, because the consumers
bought their goods^ and they bought
those of the producers. Thus no colo-
nial member could get in but by for-
swearing his principles and abandon-
ing the interests of his order. The
shipping interest was more strongly
intrenched, because many shipping
towns had direct representatives in
parliament, and it accordingly was
the last to be overthrown. But when
the colonies were disfranchised, and
protection was withdrawn from their
industry to cheapen prices at home, it
114 The CrawMimg of Uie Cvlumn^ and Cnuhmg of <Ae Puiatai. [Jnly^
became next to impossible to keep np
the shipping interest — ^not only be-
cause the injustice of doing so, and
80 enhancing freights, when protection
to colonial prodace was withdrawn,
was evident, bat because it was well
understood, by certain nneqnivocal
symptoms, that snch a coarse of po-
licy would at once lead to colonial
revolt, and the dismemberment of
the empire.
The authors of the Reform Bill were
well aware that under it two-thirds of
the seats in the House of Commons
were for boroughs : but they clung to
the idea that a large proportion of
these seats would fall under the in-
fluence of the landed proprietors in
their vicinity, and thus be brought
round to the support of the agricultu-
ral interest. It was on that belief that
Earl Grey said in private, amidst all
his public democratic declamations,
that the Reform Bill was ^^ the most
aristocratic measure which had ever
passed the House of Commons.'^ But
in this anticipation, which was doubt-
less formed in good faith by many of
the ablest supporters of that revolu-
tion, they showed themselves entirely
Ignorant of the effect of the great
monetary change of 1819, which at
that very period was undermining the
influence of the owners of landed
estates as much as it was augmenting
the power of the holders of bonds over
their properties. As that bill changed
the prices of agricultural produce, at
least to the extent of forty per ccntj it
of coarse crippled the means and
weakened the influence of the land-
owners as much as it added to the
powers of the moneyed interest
whidi held securities over their estates.
This soon became a matter of para-
mount importance. After a few severe
struggles, the landowners in most
places saw that they were overmatch-
ed, and tiiat their burdened estates and
declining rent-rolU were not equal to
an encounter with the ready money
of the capitalists, which that very
change had so much enhanced in value
and augmented in power. One by one
the rural boroughs slipped out of the
hands of the landed, and fell under the
influence of the moneyed interest. At
the same time one great colonial inte-
rest, that of the West Indies, was so
entirely prostrated by theruinoos mea-
sure of the emandpation of the negroes,
that its influence in parliament was
practically rendered extinct. Thvs
two of the great prodncing interests
in the state — those of com and sugar-
were materially weakened or nnlMed,
at the Tery time when the power of
their opponents, the moused aris-
tocracy, was most augmented.
Experience, however, proved, on
one important and decisive occasioii,
that even after the Reform Bill had
become the law of the land, it was
still possible, by a coalition of off the
producing interests, to defeat the at*
most efibrts of the moneyed party, even
when aided by the whole influence of
government. On occasion of the me-
morable Whig budget of 1841, sooh a
coalition took place, and the efforts of
the free-traders were overthrown. A
change of ministry was the conse-
quence ; but it soon appeared that
nothing was gained by an alteration
of rulers, when the elements in which
political power resided, under the
new constitution, remained unchanged.
Sir Robert Peel, and the leaders of
the party which now succeeded to
power, appear to have been gaided
by those views in the firee-trade mea-
sures which they subsequently intro-
duced. They regarded, and with
justice, the Reform Bill as, in the
language of the Times^ *^ a great
fact" — the settlement of the constita-
tion upon a new basis— on foundations
non tangenda nan mavenda^ if we woold
shun the peril of repeats shocks to
our institutions, and ultimately of
a bloody revolution. Looking on
the matter in this light, the next
object was to scan the compoaitioii <^
the House of Commons, and see in
what party and interest in the state
a preponderance of power was now
vested. They were not slow in dis-
cerning the fatal truth, that the Re-
form Bill had given a decided mfyority
to the representatives of boroughs,
and that a dear majority in these
boroughs was, from tiie embarrass-
ments which monetary change had
produced on the landed proprietors,
and the preponderance of votes
which that bill had given to shop-
keepers, vested in the moneyed or con-
suming interest. Such a state of
things might be regretted, but still it
existed; and it was the business of
1849.] ThBCnwmHg4^1htCdbmn^and(>ushmgofAe 115
pnctiod sftatesmen to deal with
tiiii]^ as they were, not to indulge in
Tain regrets on wbat tliey once were
er might haye been. It seemed im-
possible to cany on the goyemment
eo an J other footing tluui that of
eooeesnon to the wishes and atten-
lioo to the interests of the moneyed
and mercantile classes, in whose
hands sofireme power, nnder the new
eonstitntion, was now practically
vested. Whether any snchyiews, sup-
posing them well founded, conld jns-
tify a statesman and a party, who had
reoetyed oflfee on a solemn appeal to
the oomitry, mder the most solemn
engagfimeet to sopport the principles
of protection, to repudiate those prin-
dptes, and introduce the measures
they were pledged to oi^xjse, is a
question on which, it is not difficult to
sec, but OM opinion will be formed by
future times.
Still, eyen when fiiee-trade mea-
sures were resolyed on by Sir R.
Peel's goyeniment, it was a very
doobtfol matter, in the first instance,
howto secure their entire success. The
great coalition of the chief producing
iateresta, whidi had proyed fatal to
the Whig administration by the elec-
tion of 1841, mi^t again be reorgan-
ised, and oyerthrow any goyemment
which attempted to renew the same
prefects. Ministers had been placed
m office on the principles of protec-
tion— they were the watches, planted
to descry the first approaches of the
enemy, and repel his attacks. But
the old Roman maxim, ^^ Divide et
impera^^ was then put in practice
with fatal effect on the producing
interests, and, in the end, on the
general fortunes of the empire. The
assault was in the first instance
directed against the agricultural inte-
rest : the cnr of " Cheap bread," ever
an-powerfnl with the multitude, was
raised to drown that of ^^ Protection
to natiye industry.** The whole
wei^t of goyemment, which at once
abandoned all its principles, was di-
rected to support the free-trade as-
sault, and beat down the protectionist
opposition. The whole population in
the towns — ^that is, the inhabitants of
the places which, under the Reform
Bill, returned two-thirds of the House
of CoBmioBS— was roused almost to
madness by the prospect of a great
reduction in the price of provisions.
The master - manufacturers almost
unanimously supported the same
yiews, in the hope that the wages of
labour and the cost of production
would be in a similar way reduced,
and that thus the foreign nuuicet for
thoir produce would be extended.
The West India interest, the colonial
interest, the shipping interest, stood
aloof, or gave only a lukewarm sup-
port to the protectionists, conceiving
that it was merely an agricultural
question, and that the time was far
distant when there was any chance
of their interests being brought into
jeopardy. " Cetera quis nescitf^ The
corn-laws were repealed, agricultural
protection was swept away, and Eng-
land, where wheat cannot be raised
at a profit when prices are below
50s., or, at the lowest, 45s. a quarter,
was exposed to the direct competition
of states possessing the means of
raising it to an indefinite extent,
where it can be produced and im-
ported at a profit for in all 82s.
What subsequent events haye abun-
dantly verified, was at the time fore-
seen and foretold by the protection-
ists,— that when agricultural protec-
tion at home was withdrawn, it conld
not be maintained in the colonies,
and that cheap prices must be ren-
dered universal, as they had been
established in the great article of
human subsistence. This necessity
was soon experienced. The West
Indies were the first to be assailed.
Undeterred by the evident ruin which
a free competition with the slave-
growing states could not fail to bring
on British planters forced to work
with free labourers — undismayed by
the frightful injustice of first estab-
lishing slavery by law in the English
colonies, and giving the utmost en-
couragement to negro importation,
then forcibly emancipating the slaves
on a compensation not on an average
a fourth part of their value, and then
sweeping away all fiscal protection,
and exposing the English planters,
who could not with thdr free labour-
ers raise sugar below £10 a ton, to
competition with slave states who
could raise it for £4 a ton — ^that
great work of fiscal iniquity and free-
trade spoliation was perpetrated. The
English landed interest resisted the
116 ITie Crowning of the Column^
unjust measure; but it could hardly
be expected that they were to be very
enthusiastic in the cause. They had not
forgotten their desertion in the hour
of need by the West India planters,
and the deferred punishment, as they
conceived, dealt out to them in return,
was not altogether displeasing. The
shipping interest did little or nothing
when either contest was going on;
nay, they in general, and with fatal
effect, supported free-trade principles
thus far : they were delighted that the
tempest had not as yet reached their
doors, and flattered themselves none
would be insane enough to attack the
wooden walls of Ola England, and
hand us over, bereft of our ocean bul-
warks, to the malice and jealou^ of
our enemies. They little knew the ex-
tent and infatuation of political fanati-
cism. They were only reserved, like
Ulysses in the cave of Polyphemus, for
the melancholy privilege of being last
devoured. Each session of Parlia-
ment, since free trade was introduced,
has been marked by the sacrifice of
a fresh interest. The year 1846 wit-
nessed the repeal of the com laws ;
the year 1847 the equalisation, by a
rapidly sliding scale, of the duties on
English free-grown and foreign slave-
raised sugar ; and 1849 was immor-
talised by the destruction of the
and Crushing ofiht P^esiaL [July,
Navigation Laws. The British ship-
owner, who pays £10 for wages oa
ships, is exposed to the direct compe-
tition of the foreign shipowner, who
navigates his vessel for £6. *'*' Perish
the colonies,'* said Robespierre, '^ ra-
ther than one principle be abandoned.**
Fanaticism is the same in all ages
and countries. The triumph of free
trade is complete. A minons and
suicidal principle has been carried
out, in defiance alike of bitter ex-
perience and national safety. Each
interest in the state has, since the
great conservative party was bro-
ken up by Sir R. Peel's free-trade
measures, looked on with indifference
when its neighbour was destroyed;
and to them may be applied with
truth what the ancient annalist said
of the enemies of Rome, *^ Dum siii-
gulipugnant, universi vtncuntw.^^^
We say advisedly, each interest has
looked on with indifference when its
neighbour was destroyed. That this
strong phrase is not misapplied to the
effect of these measifres in the West
Indies, is too well known to require any
illustration. Ruin, widespread and
universal, has, we know by sad experi-
ence, overtaken, and is rapidly de-
stroying these once splendid colonies.
While wo write these lines, a decisive
prooff has been judicially afforded of
** While each separately fights, all are conquered.'* — Tacttus.
f- Slavery"\-aluc.
After Abolition.
After Abolition
of
Apprenticeship.
Since passing
Sugar DiU of
1846.
Xtune of the Estate.
£
120,000
65,000
55,000
80,000
70,000
45,000
£
60,000
32,000
27,500
30,000
25,000
20,000
£
45,000
26,000
23,000
20,000
17,000
15,000
£
5,000
5,000
3,500
6,000
3,000
5,000
Windsor Forest.
La Grange.
Belle Piahie.
Rabacca.
Sir W. South.
Richmond Hill.
435,000
194,500
146,000
27,500
Slarery value,
Estimated present Talue,
Or equal to 93i per cent on
. a
D4
original value
• •
)preciation,
£435,000
27^00
£407,500
—In Rk CRUiRSHAKTKa, IN Cqancert, Times, June 6th, 1849.
Let me remind that noble and learned
Lord that if any statement founded
on statistics remains unshaken, it is
the statement that under reciprocity
treaties now existing, by which this
country enjoys no protection, she, neyer-
theless, monopolises the greater part of
the commerce of the north of Europe.'
As an impartial statist, as well as a
statesman, your Lordship will perhaps
permit me to inyite your attention to the
following abstract from Parliamentary
returns, respectfully trusting that, if the
facts it discloses should be found irre-
concilable with the opinions you have
expressed, a sense of justice will induce
your Lordship to correct the error : —
The reciprocity treaty with the United
States was concluded in 1815.
The British inward entries from that
country were —
Tons.
In 1816 45,U0
In 1824, reciprocity haying been
eight years in operation ... 44,994
British tonnage haying in )
Bed ... )
146
1^9.] Tke Crownmg ofikt Cohmin^ and Crushing ofiht Pedestal 117
the frightful deprodation of property
which has there taken place, from
the acta of soocefisive adnunistrations
acting on liberal principles, and yield-
ing to popular outcries : the fall
has amounted to ninety-three per cent.
Beyond all doubt, since the new sys-
tem b^^ to be applied to the West
Indies, property to the amount of a
hmdredand twenty mUMons has perish-
ed under its strokes. The French
Ck>nTention never did anything more
complete. Free- trade fanaticism may
well ^orj in its triumphs ; it is doubt-
ful if they have any parallel in the
annals of mankind.
We do not propose to resume the
debate on the Navigation Laws, of
which the public have heard so much
in this session of parliament. We
are awaie that their doom is sealed ;
and we accept the extinction of ship-
ping protection as un fait accompli,
from which we must set out in all
future discuauons on the national
prospects and fortunes. But, in order
to show how enormously perilous is
the change thus made, and what
strength oi argument and arrays of
facts fr«e-trade fanaticism has had
the merit of triumphing over, we
cannot resist the temptation of tran-
scribing into our pages the admirable
letter of Mr Toung,* the able and
unflinching advocate of the shipping
interest, to the Marquis of Lans-
downe, after the late interesting de-
bate on the subject in the House of
Lords. We do so not merely from
sincere respect for that gentleman's
patriotic spirit and services, but be-
cause we do not know any document
wMch, in so short a space, contains
so Interesting a statement of that
leading fact on which the whole ques-
tion hmges — viz. the progressive and
raind dedine of British, and growth of
foreign tonnage, with those countries
with whom we have concluded reci-
procity treaties : affording thus a
foretaste of what we may expect now
that we have established a reciprocity
treaty, by the repeal of the Navigation
Laws, with the whole world :
^ My Lord,— In the debate last night
on the Navigation Laws, your Lord^p
that period decreased
The inward entries of American ton
nage were —
In 1816 ...
In 1824 ...
Tons.
... 91,914
... 163,475
American tonnage haying in I a\kr\
that period increased ... ( '
During that period no reciprocity ex-
isted wiUi the Baltic Powers ; and
In 1815 the British entries from
Prussia, Sweden, Denmark, Tons,
and Norway were 78,533
In 1824 129,895
British tonnage haying in- 1 51 3^2
creased { '
In 1815 those Baltic entries were 319,181
In 1824 350,624
Baltic tonnage haying in- 1 j^^
creased ) '
44S
' TIm noble and learned Lord opposite
has spoken ecmtemptuously of statistics.
Thus, firom the peace in 1815 to 1824^
when the ^ Reciprocity of Duties Act*'
passed, in the trade of the only country
in the world with which great Britain
was in reciprocity, her tonnage declined
146 tons, and that of the foreign nation
adyanced 61,561 tons ; while in the trade
with the Baltic powers, yrith which no
reciprocity existed, British tonnage ad-
yanced on its competitors in the propor-
tion of 51,362 to 81,443 tons.
From 1824 the reciprocity principle
was applied to the Baltic powers ; and—
118 The Ommmg of^ Cohimn,
Tout.
In 1 824, the British entries being 129,896
In 1846 they had declined to ... 88,894
Haying diminished during) 4ir)oi
the period ... ..• )
While the Baltic tonnage, which
in 1824 was 850,624
Had advanced in 1846 to ... 671^61
Showing an increase of no ) 000,537
less than ... ••* )
And during this same period, the pro-
portion of tonnage of the United States
continued, under the operation of the same
principle, steadily to adyance, the British
entries thence being-
Tons.
205,123
435,399
In 1846
And the American
Showing an excess of)
American over British > 280,276
of ... ••• ••• )
I haye (I hope not unfairly) introduced
into this statement American tonnage,
because it shows that while, in the period
antecedent to general reciprocity, the
adoption of the principle in the trade
with that nation produced an actual de-
cliue of British navigation, while in the
trade with the Baltic powers, which was
Aree fVom that scourge, British navigation
outstripped its competitor, it exhibits iu
a remarkable manner the reverse result,
from the moment the principle was ap-
plied to the Baltic trade ; while, above
all, it completely negatives the statement
of the greater part of the commerce of
the north of Earope being monopolised
by British ships, showing that in that
commerce, iu 1846, of an aggregate of
660,055 tons, British shipping had only
88,894 tons, while no less than 571,161
tons were monopolised by Baltic ships !"
It is eyident, from this sammary,
that the decline of British and growth
of foreign shipping will bo so rapid, un-
der the system of Free Trade in Ship-
ping, that the time is not far distant
when the foreign tonnage employed
in condacting oar trade will be supe-
rior in amount to the British. In sdl
probability, in six or seven years that
desirable consummation will be ef-
fected ; and we shall enjoy the satis-
faction of having purchased freights
a farthing a pound cheaper, by the
surrender of our nationid safety.
It need hardly be said that, from the
moment that the foreign tonnage
employed in conducting our trade
and Cnukmg o/Ae JMbML [July,
exceeds the British, our independence
as a nation is gone ; becanae we have
reared up, in iSlvonr of states who may
any day become oar enemies, a nursery
of seamen superior to that which we
possess ourselves. And every year,
which increases the one and diminishes
the other, brings us nearer the period
when our ability to contend on our
own element witii other powers is to
be at end, and England is to undergo
the fate of Athens afterthe catastrophe
of Aigos-potamos — that ofbeing block-
aded in our own harbours by the
fleets of our enemies, and obliged to
surrender at discretion on any terms
they might think fit to impose.
But in truth, the operations of the
free-traders will, to all appearance,
terminate our independence, and com-
pel us to sink into the Ignoble neutral-
ity which characterised the policy of
Venice for the last two centuries of its
independent existence, before tiie fo-
reign seamen we have hatched in our
bosom have time to be arrayed in
a Leipsic of the deep against us. So
rapid, softarfuiUy rapid^ has been the
increase in the importation of foreign
grain since the repeal of the corn -
laws took place, and so large a por-
tion of our national sustenance has al-
ready come to be derived from foreign
countries, that it is evident, on the firat
rupture with the countries furnishing
them, we should at once be starved
into submission. The free-traders
always told us, that a considerable im-
portation of foreign grain would only
take place when prices rose high; that
it was a resource against seasons of
scarcity only ; and that, when prices
in England were low, it would cease
or become trifling. Attend to the
facts. Free trade in grain has been in
operation just three years. We pass
over the great importation of the year
1847, when, under the influence of the
panic, and high prices arising from the
Irish famine, no less than 12,000,000
quarters of grain were imported in
fifteenmonths, ataoostof £31,000,000,
nearly the whole of which was paid in
specie. Beyond all doubt, it was the
great drain thus made to act upon our
metallic resources — at the very time
when the free-traders had, with con-
summate wisdom, established a hid-
ing paper circulation^ under which the
bank-notes were to be withdrawn from
1W9.] Tha Crommmg of Ike CobnM, and CmMng o/Ae Ptdttal. 119
the public in proportion u the sots- is in the face of prices fallen to
i«i^ were exported— which wm the 44b. 9d. for the qnarter of wheat, and
m&in ckose of Uie dreadfdl commercial 18s. the qnarter of oats I We recom-
catastropbe which eosned, and from mend the Table below, taken from
the effects of which, after two y eara the colmnns of that able free-trade
1^ noexampled suffering, the nation jonmal, the rtmef— showing the
has scarcely yet begun to recover, amount of importation for the month
Bat what we wish to draw the public ending April 5, 1849, when wheat was
attention to is this. The greatest im- at 453. a-qnart«r— to the consideration
Mutation of foreign gnun ever known, of those well-informed persons who
mto the British islands, before the expect that low prices will check,
corn laws were repealed, was in the and at last stop importation. It
year 1839, when, in consequence of shows decisively that even a very
three bad harvests in succession, great reduction of prices has not that
4,000,000 quarters in round numbers tendency in the slightest degree. The
were imported. The average impor- importation of grain and flouris going
tatioQ bad been ateadilj diminishing on steadily, under the present low
before that time, unce the commence- prices, at the rate of about 15,000,000
mentirftiie century: in the dve years quarters a-year.*
ending with 1635, it was only 381,000 The reasons of this continued and
<lDartetB. But since the duties have increasing importation, notwithstand-
becoma nomtnal, unce the 1st Febni- ing the lowness of prices, is evident,
aiy in this year, the importation has and was fully explained by the pro-
becosM M prodJgiooB that it is going tectiooisCs before the repeal of the
on at Uw rat« of nsTEBX muxions com laws took place, tboo^h the &ee-
of qnarten a-year, or a full fourth of traders, with their nsoal disregard of
the national consumption, which is facts when subversive of a favoorit«
somewhat nnder sixty millions. This theory, obstinately refused to credit
120 7%« Crawmng of the Column^ and Cnuhing ofih$ PeduiaL [Jaljv
it. It is this. The price of wheat and
other kinds of grain, in the grain-
growing conntries, especially Poland
and America, is entirely regulated by
its price in the British islands. They
can raise grain in sach quantities, and
at such low rates, that everything
depends on the price which it wiU
fetch in the great market for that
species of produce — the British empire.
In Poland, the best wheat can be
raised for IGs. a-qnarter, and landed
at any harbour in England at 25s.
The Americans, out of the 260,000,000
quarters of bread stuffs which they
raise annually, and which, if not ex-
ported, is in great part not worth
above 10s. a-quarter, can afford, with
a handsome profit to the exporting
merchant, to send grain to England,
however small its price may be in the
British islands. However low it may
be, it is much higher than with them
— and therefore it is always worth
their while to export it to the British
market. If the price here is 40s., it
will there be 28s. or 30s. ; if 30s.
here, it will not be more than 15s. or
20s. there. Thus the profit to be
made by importation retains its pro-
portion, whatever prices are in this
country, and the motives to it are the
same whatever the price is. It is as
great when wheat is low as when it is
high, except to the fortunate ship-
pers, before the rise in the British
islands was known on the banks of the
Vistula or the shores of the Mississippi.
Now that the duty on wheat is reduc-
ed to Is. a- quarter, we may look for an
annual importation of from 15,000,000
to 20,000,000 quarters— that is, from
a fourth to a third of the annual sub-
sistence, constantly, alike in seasons
of plenty and of scarcity.
That the importation is steadily
going on, appears by the following
returns for the port of London alone,
down to May, taken from the Morn-
ing Post of May 7 : —
Entered for home consumption during
the month ending —
Whcftt. Flour.
qn. cwt
Febmary 5, . . 442,389 . 478,815
March 5, . . . 405,685 . 355,462
April 5, ... 559,602 . 356,308
May 5, . . . . 383,395 . 243,154
— equal, if we take 3} cwt. of flour to
the qr. of wheat, to 2,200,700 qrs. of the
latter. The importations of the first four
months of the year are, therefore, nearly
as great as they were during the whole of
the preceding twelve months, the quanti-
ties doty paid in 1848 being, of wheat,
2,477,366 qrs., and of flour, 1,781,974
cwt.
The reason why young states, espe-
cially if they possess land eminently
fitted for agricultural prodactiou, such
as Poland and America, can thus
permanently undersell older and longer
established empires in the prodnction
of food, Lb simple, permanent, and of
universal application, but nevertheless
it is not generally understood or ap-
pi*eciated. It is commonly said that
the cause is to be found in the superior
weight of debts, public and private, in
the old state. There can be do doubt
that this cause has a considerable
influence in producing the effect, but
it is by no means the only or the
principal one. The main cause is to
be found in the superior riches of the
old state, when compared with the
young one, wliich makes money of less
value, because it is more plentifoL
The wants and necessities of an ex-
tended commerce, the accumulated
savings of centuries of industry, at
once require an extended circolation,
and produce the wealth necessary ta
purcnase it. The precious metals, and
wealth of every sort, flow into the rich
old state from the poor young one, for
the same reason that com, and wine,
and oil, follow the same direction in
obedience to the same impulse. That
it is the superior riches, and not the
debts or taxes, of England which ren-
der prices so high, comparatively
speaking, in these islands, is decisively
proved by the immense diflTerenoe
between the value of money, and the
cost of living at the same time, in
different parts of the same empire,
subject to the same public and private
burdens, — ^in London, for example^
compared with Edinburgh, Aberdeen,
and Lerwick. Every one knows that
£1500 a-ycar will not go farther lit
the English metropolis than £1000 in
the Scotch, or £750 in the ancient
city of Aberdeen, or £500 in the
capital of the Orkney islands. Whence-
this great difference in the same
country, and at the same time?
1819.J neC^rowmmgqftkeColumti^andCrusIiingofthePedeital, 121
Simplj, because money is over plcn-
tiful in London, less so in Edinburgh,
and iniidi less so in Aberdeen or
Lerwick* The same cause explains
the different cost of agricultural pro-
dnctioa in En^and, Poland, the
L^faraine, and .Ajnerica. It is the
comparative poverty, the scarcity of
momeyj in the latter countries which is
the cause of Uie difference. Machinery,
and the division of labour, almost om-
nipotent in reducing the cost of the pro-
duction of manufactured articles, are
comparatively impotent in affecting the
coat of articles of rude or agricultural
produce. England, nndera real system
of free trade, would undersell all the
world in its manufactures, but be
undersold by all the worid in its
agricultural productions. If the na-
tional debt was swept away, and the
wbole taxes of Great Britain removed,
the cost of agricultural production
would not be materially different from
what it now is. We shall be able to
raise grain as cheap as the serfs of
Poland, or the peasants of the Ukraine,
when we become as poor as they are,
but nai tiB then. Under the free- trade
system, however, the period may
anive sooner than is generallv sus-
pected, and the importation of foreign
grain be checked by the universal
pauperism and grinding misery of the
country.
Assuming it, then, as certain that,
under the free-trade system, the im-
portation of grain is to be constantly
from a third to a fourth of the annual
eoDsnmption, the two points to be
considered are, How is the nation^
mdepemdatce to be mamtamed, or m-
oetMDil commercial crises aotrted^ under
the new system? These are questions
OB wfajkdi it will become eveiy inha-
bitant of the British islands to ponder;
for on them, not only the indepen-
dence of his country, but the private
fortune of himself and his children, is
entirely dependent. If so large a
portion as a third or a fourth of tho
annual subsistence is imported idmost
entirely from three countries, Russia,
Prussia, and A.merica, how are we to
withstand the hostility of these states V
Prussia, in the long run, is under the
influence of Russia, and follows its
system of policy. The nations on
whom we depend for so large a part
of our food are thus practically re-
duced to two, viz., Russia and Ame-
rica— what is to hinder them from
coalescing to effect our ruin, as they
practically did in 1800 and 1811,
against the independence of England ?
Not a shot would require to be fired,
not a loan contracted. The simple
threat of closing their harbours would
at once drive us to submission. Im-
porting a thii'd of our food from these
two states, to what famine-price
would the closing of their harbours
speedily raise its cost! The failure
of £15,000,000 worth of potetoes in
1847 — scarce a twaUieth part of tho
annual agricultural produce of these
islands, which is about £300,000,000,
— raised the price of wheat, in 1848,
from 60s. to 110s.— what would tho
sudden stoppage of a third do ? Why,
it would raise wheat to 150s. or 200s.
a- quarter — in other words, to famine-
prices — and inevitably induce general
rebellion, and compel national sub-
mission. After the lapse of fifteen
centuries, we should again realise,
after similar Eastern triumphs, the
mournful picture of tho famine in
Rome, in the lines of the poet Clau-
dian,* from the stoppage of the
** AdTenio rapplex, non ut procaleet Araxen
Consul OTins, nostneve premant pharetrata secares
Sqbi, nee nt mbris Aquilas figamus arenis.
Hsse nobis, hiec ante dabas. Nunc pabala tantum
Roma precor. Miserere tuse pater optime gentis,
JExtremamde/eHdafamam — Satiavimas irain,
Si qoa fait. Lugenda Gretis et flenda Saevis
Hausimos : ipsa meos exhorrei Parihia casas.
Armato quondam popnlo, Patramqne vigebam
Consiliis. Domni terras, urbesque revinxi
Legibas : ad solem victrix utrumque cucarri,
Nanc inhonoms egens perfert miserabile pacis
Supplioianii nulloqae palam circumdatus boste,
122
Tke(>aumingdftheColwmt,a»dCnuhmffqfikBP^(k9kd. [July,
wonted supplies of grain from the two
granaries of the empire, Egypt and
Lybia, by Uie effect of the Gildonic
wai'. But the knowledge of so ter-
rible a catastrophe impending over
the nation would probably prevent
the collision. England would capitu-
late while yet it had some food left,
on the first summons from its impe-
rious grain-producing masters.
But supposing such a decisive catas-
trophe were not to arise, at least for
a considerable period, how are com"
mrrvial crises to be prevented from
continually recurring under the new
policy ? IIow is the commercial in-
terest to be preserved from ruin — from
the operation of the system which itself
lias established ? This is a point of
paramount interest, as it directly affects
every fortune in the kingdom, the
commercial in the first instance, but
also the realised and landed in the
last ; but, nevertheless, it seems im-
l>ossible to rouse the nation to a sense
of its overwhelming importance and
terrible consequences. Experience has
now decisively proved that the corn-
growing states, upon whom we most
depend for our subsistence, will not
take our manufactures to any extent,
though they will gladly take our so-
vereigns or bullion to any imaginable
amount. The reason is, they are
poor states, who are neither rich
enough to buy, nor civilised enough
to have acquired a taste for our manu-
factured articles, but who have an
insatiable thirst for our metallic riches,
the last farthing of which they will
drain away, in exchange for their
rude produce. The dr^ful mone-
tary crises of 1889 and 1848, it is
well known, were owing to the drain
upon our metallic resources, produced
by the great grain importations of
those years, in the latter of which
above £30,000,000 of gold, probably
a half of the metallic circulation, was
at once sent headlong out of the coun-
try. Now, if an importation of grain
to a similar amount is to become per-
tnaneni^ and an export of the precious
metals to a corresponding degree to go
on year after year, how, in the name
of wonder, is a perpetual repetition of
similar disasters to be prevented?
We could conceiye, indeed, a system
of paper currency which mi^t in a
great degree, if not altogether, prevoit
Uiese terrible disaaten. If the natiim
possessed a circulation of bank-notes
capable of being erloMlM/ in proportion
as the metallic circulation was with-
drawn by the exchanges of the oom-
merce in grain, as was the Uw during
the war, the industry of the ooontiy
might be vivified and sustained dur-
ing the absence of the precious rnetols,
and their want be very little, if at all,
experienced. But it is well known
that not only is there no pfovision
made by law, or the poli(nr of gov-
ernment, for an extauion of the paper
circulation when the metallic cnrren^
is withdrawn, bot the very revene is
done. There is a provision, and a
most stringent and effectual one, made
for the carUractum of the cnrrencj at
the very moment when its expansioa
is most required, and when tiie na-
tional industry is threatened with
starvation in consequence cf the vast
and ceaseless abstraction of the pre-
cious metals which free trade in grain
necessarily establishes. When free
trade is sending gold headlongoot of
the (^untry, to bay food. Sir Bobert
Peers law sends the bank-notes, pub-
lic and private, back into the banker^
coffers, and leaves the industry of the
country without e^her of its necessaiy
supports f Beyond all question, it if
the double operation of fbee trade hi
sending the sovereigns in auHTBOOS
quantities out of the country, and of
the monetary laws, in contracting the
circulation of paper in a similar degiee,
and at the same time, which has done
all the mischief, and produced that
widespread ruin which has now om-
taken nearly all the interests— but
most of all the oommetcial interests —
in the state. That ruin is easily ex-
plained, when it is recollected what
government has done by legislative
enactment, on free-trade principles,
duringthe last five years.
1. They first, by the Acts of 1844
and 1845, restricted the paper chncu-
Obsessi discrimen habet — per siDgala ktam
Impendit momenta mihi, dabitandaque pauci
Prescribant alimenta Dies."
— Clauoiaic, D€ Bella. Gildonico, 35—100.
18*9.] TkB Cnwrnm^ o/tke Cobmm, ami Cnukingof^ Petkstal.
Ulioii of the whole empne, inchidiDg
IreUnd, to £32,000,000 in round
uunben. For eveiT note iasned, either
by the Bank of England or private
hmkft, aboTe that sum, thej reqnir^
these eetablishniente to haye aoye*
reigns in their coffers.
2. Haying thns restricted the cor-
rencj, by which the industiy of the
eonntry was to be paid and supplied,
to an amonnt barely snfficient for its
crdimanf wants, they next proceeded
to encoorage to the greatest degree
railway specalatkm, and pass bills
throQgh parliament reqmring an ez-
troordimary ezpeodilaure, in the next
foor years, of £833,000,000 sterling.
8. Haying thos contracted the cur-
rency of the nation, and doubled its
work, they next proceeded to intro-
duce, in ldi6 and the two following
years, the fre^trade system, under the
operation of which our iq>ecie was
sent o«i of the country in enormous
quantities, in exchange for food, and
by the operation of the law the paper
proporticMially contracted.*
4. When this extraordinary system
of augmenting the work of the people,
at the time the currency which was to
sustain it was withdrawn, had pro-
daeed its natural and uhayoidable
efteta, and landed the nation, in Octo-
ber 1847, in such a state of embarrass-
ment as rendered a suspension of the
law nnayoidabie, and induced a com-
mercial crisis of unexampled seyerity
and dnratian, the authors of the
monetary measures still clung to them
^ the iheet-anchor of the state, and
stUl npheld them, although it is as
oertam as any proportion in Euclid,
that, eombined with a free trade in
grain, tiiey rnnui produce a constant
suooession of similar catastrophes,
until the nati<m, like a patient ex-
hausted by repeated shodLS of apo-
plexy, perishes under their effects.
It may be doubted whether the
123
lishment of free trade and fettered cur-
rency, and a raflway mania, in the
heart of the empire.
The effect of these measures upon
the internal state of the empire has
been beyond all measure dreadfiil,
and has far exceeded the worst piedic-
tions of the protectionists upon their
ineyitable effect. Proofs on this sub-
ject crowd In on every side, and all
entirely corroborative of the prophecies
of the protectionists, and subversive
of all the prognostics of the free-
traders. It was confidently asserted
by them that their system would im-
mensely increase our foreign trade,
because it would enrich the foreign
agriculturists from whom we purchased
grain, and who would take our manu-
factures in exchange ; and what has
been the result, after free- trade prin-
ciples have been in full operation for
three years? Why, they have stood
thus: —
Import!,
Mvket Value.
1845, £84,054^72
1846, 89,281,433
1847, 117,047,229
1848, 92,660,699
Ezporte.
Dedarad Value.
Britiih end IrWi pro-
duoe.
£60,111,081
67,786,876
58,971,166
63,099,01 It
Thus, while there has been an enor-
mous increase going on during Uie
last three years in our imports, there
has been nothing but a diminution at
the same time taking place in our
exports. The foreigners who sent us,
in such prodigious quantities, their
rude produce, would not take our
manufactures in return. They would
only take our gold. Hence our me-
tallic treasures were hourly disap-
pearing in exchange for the provisions
which showered in upon us ; and this
was the precise time which the free-
traders took to establish the monetary
system which compelled the contrac-
tion of the paper circulation in direct
annals of the world can produce proportion to thai very disappearance.
aaoiher example of insane and suicidal
poliqr on so great a scale as has been
exhibited by the government of Eng-
land of late years, in its West In&k
and the nmidtaneous estab-
It is no wonder that our commercial
interests were thrown into unparalleled
embarrassments from such an absurd
and monstrous system of legislation.
Observe, if the arguments and ex-
• la 1845» the Bank of England notes ont with the public were aboat £88,000,000.
Sinee the free trade began they hare seldom been above £18,000,000, and at times
ae tow as £16^00,000, and that at the yery time when all the railways were going on.
t Newdegate's Letter to Mr Labouehere, p. 12-13.
124 The Crowmng of the Column^ and Crushing of Ike Pedetial. [JnljTy
pectatioDB of the fi*ee-traders had been
well founded, the immense importa-
tion of provisions which took place in
1847 and 1848, in consequence of the
failure of the potato crop in Ireland
and the west of Scotland, should im-
mediately have produced a vast rise
in our exports. Was this the case ?
Quite the reverse; it was attended
with a decline in them. The value of
com, meal, and flour imported in the
following years stood thus : —
1845, .
. £3,594,299
1846, .
8,870,202
1847, .
. 29,694,112
1848, .
. 12,457,857*
Now, in the year 1847, though we
imported nearly thirty millions' worth
of grain, our exports were £1,200,000
less than in 1845, when we only re-
ceived thi*ce millions and a half of
subsistence from foreign states. Can
there be a more decisive proof that
the greatest possible addition to our
importation of grain is not likely to
be attended with any increase to
our export of manufactures ?
But if the great importation of grain
which free-trade induces into the
British empire is not attended with
any increase of our exports, in the
name of heaven, what good does it
do ? Feed the people cheap. But
"What do they gain by that, if their
wages, and the profits of their em-
ployers, fall in the same or a greater
proportion ? That effect has fdready
taken place, and to a most distressing
extent. Wages of skilled operatives,
Buch as colliers, iron- moulders, cotton-
spinners, calico-printers, and the Uke,
are now not more than haif of what
they were when the corn-laws were
in operation. They are now receiving
28. 6d. a-day where, before the ohaoge,
they received 58. Wheat has been
forced down firom 56s. to i4s. : that ii
somewhat above a fifth, bat wages
have fallen a half. The last state of
those men is worse than the first
The unjust change for which they
clamoured has proved roinons to
themselves.
The way in which this disastrous
effect has taken place is this : In the
first place, the balance of trade has
turned so ruinously against us, firom
the effect of the free-trade measures,
that the credit of the commercial
classes has, under the operation of
our monetary laws, been most seri-
ously confused. It appears, from the
accurate and laborious researches of
Mr Newdegate, that the balance of
trade against Great Britain, during
the last three years of free trade, has
been no less than £54,000,000 ster-
ling.f Now, woful experience has
taught the English people that the
turning of the balance of trade is
a most foimidable thing against a
commercial nation, and that &e prac-
tical experience of mankind^ which
has always regarded it as one of the
greatest of calamities, is more to he
regarded than the theory of Adam
Smith, that it was a matter of no sort
of consequence. When conpledwith
a sliding currency scale, which con-
tracts the circulation of bank-notes in
proportion as the specie is withdrawn,
it is one of the most terrible calami-
ties which can befall a commercial and
manufacturing state. It is under this
evil that the nation is now labour-
ing : and it will continne to do so, titt
foUy of conduct and error of opinion
have been expiated or eradicated by
suffering.
Ncwdcgate's Letter to Mr Lahouchere, p. 17.
t Total Importo.
Total Exports.
Home And Coloolal.
Balance of Frclfht
earriadby
Brllteh Ship*.
Balance of Trade against Britain.
Exports and Importa.
V.»»^Wn^
1845
1846
1847
1848
£84,054,272
89,281,433
117,047,229
92,660,699
£70,236,726
66,283,270
70,329,671
61,5.57,191
£12,979,089
13,581,165
18,817,742
14,699,491
£13,817,446
22,998,163
46,717^8
31,103,508
£838.357
9,416,998
27,899,816
16,404,017
£383,043,633
£268,406,878 £60,077,487
i
£114,636,675
£54,559,188
— NsWDBQATBy 12-13.
1$I9.] The Crowmmg of the Column^ and Crwhing dfihe Pedtsial. 125
In the next place, the purchase of
00 very Uurge a portion as a fourth of
the annual subeistenoe— not from our
own cidtiyators, who consume at an
ayera^ five or six pounds a-head of
our mann&ctnres, but from foreign
growera, who consume little or no-
thing— has had a most serious effect
upon the home trade. The introduc-
tion of 12,000,000 or 13,000,000 quHr-
ters of grain a-jear into our markets,
from countries whose importation of
our manufactures is almost equal to
nothing, is a most dreadfully dq>ress-
ing drcumatance to our manufac-
turers. It is destroying one set of
costomera, and that the very best we
have — the home growers — ^without
rearing up another to supply their
place. It is exchanging the pur-
chases by substantial yeomen, our
own countrymen and neighbours, of
our fabrics, fbr the abstraction by
aliens and enemies of our money. It
is the same thing as converting a cus-
tomer into a pauper, dependent on
our support. It was distinctly fore-
told by the protectionists, during the
whole time the debate on the repeal
of the com laws was going forward,
that this effect would take place:
that the peasants of the Ukraine and
the Yistida did not consume a
hondredth part as much, per head, as
those of East Lothian or Kssex ; and
that to substitute the one for the
other was to be penn^ wise and pound
fbolish. These predictions, however,
were wholly disregarded; the thing
was done ; and now it is found that
the leralt has been much worse than
was antidpated^for not only has it
gralnltousiy and unnecessarily crip-
pled the means of a large part of the
home consumers of our manufactures,
but it has universally shaken and con-
tracted credit, espedaDy in the com-
meixaal districts, by the drain it has
induced upon the predous metals.
These evils, from the earliest times,
have been felt by mercantile nations ;
but they were the result, in previous
cases, of adverse circumstances or
neoesaity. It was reserved for this
age to introduce them voluntarily,
and r^sard them as the last result of
politicai wisdom.
In the third place, the reduction
ef prices, and dmiinution in the re-
muneration of hidustry, which has
taken place from the introduction of
free trade, and the general admis-
sion of foreign produce and manufac-
tures, raised in countries where pro-
dnction is cheap, because money is
scarce and taxes light, to compete
with one where production is dear,
because money is plentiful and taxes
heavy, cannot of course fail to be at-
tended— and that from the very out-
set— with the most disastrous effects
upon the general interests of the em-
pire, and especially such of them as
are engaged in trade and manufac-
tures. Suppose that, anterior to the
monetary and free- trade changes in-
tended to force down prices, the annual
value of the industry of the country
stood thus, which wo believe to bo
very near the truth : —
Lands and minerals, . £300,000,000
Manufactures and commerce
of all sorts, . . 200,000,000
Deduct taxes and
local burdens, £80,000,000
Interest of mort-
gages, . 50,000,000
130,000,000
Clear to national industry, £370,000,000
But if prices are forced down a half,
which, at the very least, may be anti-
cipated, and in fact has already taken
place, from tho combined effect of
free trade and a restricted currency,
estimating each at a fourth only, the
account will stand thus, —
Land and minerals.
Manufactures,
Total, .
Deduct taxes and
rates, . £80,000,000
Interest of mort-
gages, . 50,000,000
£150,000,000
100,000,000
£250,000,000
130,000,000
Clear to national industry, £120,000,(K)0
Thus, by the operation of these
changes, in money and commerce,
which lower prices a halff the whole
national income is reduced from
£870,000,000 to £120,000,000, or
less than a third. Such is the inevit-
able effect of a great reduction of
prices, in a community of which the
major and more important part is
still engaged in the work of produc-
tion ; and such the illustration of the
The Croummg of the Column, and CruMng of At P^deML [Jnlj,
126
truth of the Marquis of Granby^a ob-
iseryation, that, under such areduction,
the whole producing classes must lose
more than they can by possibility
gain, because their loss is upon their
wJiole income, their gain only upon
that portion of their means — seldom
more than a half— which is spent on
the purchase of articles, the cost of
which is affected by the fall of prices.
The most dedsive proof of the
universality and general sense of this
reduction of income and general dis-
tress, is to be found in the efforts
which Mr Cobdcn and the free- trade
party are now making to effect a great
reduction in the public expenditure.
During the discussion on com- law
repeal, they told us that the change
they advocated could make no sort of
difference on the income of the pro-
ducing and agricultural classes, and
that it would produce an addition to
the income of the trading classes of
£1 00,000,000 a-year. Of course, the
national and public resources were to
be greatly benefited by the change ;
and it was under this belief adopted.
Now, however, that the change has
taken place, and its result has been
found to be a universal embarrass-
ment to all classes and interests,
but especially to the commercial,
they turn round and tell us that this
effect is inevitable from the change of
prices — that the halcyon days of high
rents and profits are at an end, and
that all that remains is for all classes
to accommodate themselves the best
way they can to the inevitable change.
They propose to begin with Queen
Victoria and the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, from whom they propose
to cut off £11,000,000 a-year of in-
come. But they consider this per-
fectly safe, because, as the aspect of
things, both abroad and in our colonial
empire, is so singularly pacific, and
peace and goodwill are so soon to
Srevail among men, they think it will
e soon possible to disband our troops,
sell our ships of war, and trust the
stilling the passions and settling the
disputes of nations and races to the
great principles of justice and equity,
which invariably regulate the pro-
ceedings of all popular and democratic
communities. We say nothing of the
probability of such a millennium soon
arriving, or of the prognostics of its
approach, which paasiiig and recent
events in India, Canada, Francey Ger-
many, Hungary, Italy, Skfly, and
Ireland, have afforded, or are afford-
ing. We refier to them only as giving
the most decisive proof that the firee-
traders have now themselves become
sensible that their meaaores have pto-
duced a general impoverishment of all
classes, from the head of the state
downwards, and that a great ledoc-
tion of expenditure is nnaToidable, if
a general public and priyate bank-
ruptcy would be averted.
In truth, the proofs of this general
impoverishment are now so numerous
and decisive, that they have broogfat
conviction home to the minds of the
most obdurate, and, with the ezoq>-
tion of the free-trade leaders or a^-
tators — ^whose fanaticism is, of ooone,
fixed and incurable — ^have produced a
general distrust of the new piinciples.
A few facts will place them in the
most striking light. The greatest
number of emigrants who had previ-
ously sailed from the British shores
was in 1839, when they readied
129,000. But in the year 1847, the
sacred year of free trade and a fettered
currency, they rose at once to 258,270.
In 1848 they were 248,000. The
number this year is understood to
be still greater, and composed al-
most entirely, not of paupers — ^who, of
course, cannot get away — ^bnt of the
better sort of mechanics, tradesmen,
and smidl farmers, who, under the new
system, find their means of snbsisteoce
dried up. The poor-rate in England
hasnowrisen to £7,000,000 annually—
as mnch in nominal amonnt as it wis
in 1834, when the new poor-law was
introduced by the Whig goyemment,
and, if the change in the valae of
money is taken into account, half as
much more. A anaUh of the Britiflh
empire are now supported in the two
islands by the parish rates, and yet
the demands on private charitjr are
hourly increasing. Crime is univer-
sally and rapidly on the increase : io
Ireland, where the commitments never
before exceeded 21,000, they rose in
1848 to 39,000. In England, in the
same year, they were 30,000; in
Scotland, 4908 ; all a great increase
over previous years. Itisnotsnrpris-
kig crime was so prolific in a country
where, in the preceding year, at least
18i9.] TkB Qrmmmg of the Cohmm^ and Crushing of the Pede$tal. 127
250,000 persons died of famine^ in
spite of the noble grant of £10,000,000
from the British treasmy for their
rapport. We extract from the Stan-
dard of Freedom the following sum-
mary of some of the social resnlts
which haye followed the adoption of
liberal principles : —
^ Statbof EifOLANiK — One man In erery
ten, aeeording to Sir J. Gnham, a short
time ago was in receipt of parish relief
in this country ; bnt now, it appears,
from a retnm np to Jnne laat, it is not 10
per eent, bnt 11 per cent of the popnla-
tioB who reeeiye paroehial relief; for the
persons so xelieTed amount to 1,700,000
ont of 15,0OO,O<K). £7,000,000 was raised
annnally for the relief of the poor in
England, and £500,000 in Scotland; and,
taking the amount collected for and raised
hi Irdand at £1,860,957, it makes a total
of £9^4€iyM7, aa the snm leried annnally
in the BtHHh empire for the relief of the
poor, or thne times the coet of the dril
gOTetBrnent, iadependently of the cost of
the army a»d nary. Besides the regular
standing force, there is the casual poor, a
kind of disposable force, moying about
and ezhansting erery parish they go
fhron^ In 1815, there were 1,791 ra-
grants In one part of the metropolis, and,
in 1828, la the same district in London,
they had faicreased to 16,086. In 1832,
the number was 85,600, which had in-
CTsased, in 1847, to 41,743. MoreoTer,
them is a certain district south of the
Thames^ in which, for the six months end-
lag September 1846, the number was
18,533, and which had increased, during
the same six months in 1847> to 44,937.
And, in the county of York, in one of the
Irst unions in the West Ridiuff, in 1886,
one T^irant was reliered, and, in 1847,
1^61. TUs affords a pretty strong, dark,
aad ^oomy picture of the state of des-
titnttoa mndlhig m this country."—
flriindflfm 4^ Freeaom,
General as the distress is which,
nnder the comtoned operations of free
trade and a fettered currency, has
been bron^t upon the country, there
IS (»e drcomstance of peculiar impor-
tance which has not hitherto, from the
efforts of the free-traders to conceal
it, met with the attention it deserves.
This is the far greater amount of ruin
and misery theyhave brought upon the
commercial classes, who supported,
than the agriculturists, who opposed
them. The landed interest is only
be^nning to experience, in the pre-
sent low prices, the depressing effects
of free trade. The Irish famine has
hitherto concealed or postponed them.
London is suffering, but not so much
as the proyincial towns, from its being
the great place where the realised
wealth of the country is spent. But
the whole commercial classes in the
manufacturing towns have felt them
for nearly two years in the utmost in-
tensity. It is well known that, dur-
ing that short period, one-half of the
wealth realised, and in course of reali-
sation, in Manchester, Ldverpool, Bir-
mingham, and Glasgow, has perished.
There is no man practically acquainted
with these cities who will dispute that
fact. The poor-rates of Glasgow,
which, five years ago, did not exceed
£30,000 a-year for the parliamentary
city, have now reached £200,000; viz.
Glasgow parish, . £90,000
Barony, . . . 70,000
Goibals, . . . 40,000
£200,000
The sales by shop-keepers in these
towns have not, during three years,
been a third of their average amount.
All the witnesses examined before the
Lords* committee on the public dis-
tress, describe this panic of autumn
1847 as infinitely exceeding in duration
and severity anvthing previously expe-
rienced ; and the state of matters, and
the intensity of the shock given to
public credit, may be judged of by the
followinj? entries as to the state of the
Bank of England in June 1845 and
October 1847, when the law was sus-
pended : —
JuHE 1845.
Halt.
I8SVB DSPAaTMKNT.
Banking Dxpartmxnt.
NotMlaned.
Gold and SOrsr
Bullion.
Notes in Reserve.
Gold and Sflrer
Coin.
Jnne 7
— 14
— 21
— 28
£29,732,000
* 29,917,000
30,051,000
8O,(M7,0e0
£15,732,000
15,917,000
16,051,000
16,047,000
£9,382,000
9,854,000
9,837,000
9,717,000
£779,000
696,000
587,000
554,000
128
The Crowning of the Column^ and Crushing o/Ae
OcroBBE 1847.
[July.
Dat«.
iMtus Dkpartmsnt.
BAinaira Dbfaktmbstt.
Note* iMued.
Gold and SOrer
BulUoD.
NolwUiIUMrr<t.
Gold And saver
Cote.
Oct. 2
— 9
— 16
— 21
no
£22,121,000
21,961,000
21,989,000
21,866,000
22,009,000
£8,121,000
7,961,000
7,989,000
7,865,000
8,009,000
£3,409,000
3,321,000
2,630/)00
1,547,000
1,176,000
£443,000
447/>00
441,000
447,000
429,000
Tlius, Buch was tho severity of the
paniCf and tho contraction of the cnr-
rcncy, consequent on tho monetary
laws and tho operation of free trade
in grain, that the nation was all but
rendered bankrupt, and half its traders
unquestionably were so, when there
wore still eight millions of sovereigns
in the issue department of the bank
which could not bo touched, while
the reserve of notes in the banking
department had sunk from nearly
£10,()0<),00(), in 1845, to £1,100,0001
So portentous a state of things,
fraught as it necessarily was with
utter ruin to a groat part of the best
interests in the empire, was certainly
not contemplated by the commercial
classes, when they embarked in the
crusade of free trade against tho pro-
ductive interests. It might have been
long of coming on, and certainly would
never have set in with half the seve-
rity which actually occurred, had it
not been that, not content with the
project of forcing down prices by
means of the unrestricted admission
of foreign produce, they at the same
time sought to augment their own
fortunes by restricting the currency.
It was tho double project^ beyond all
question, which proved their ruin.
They began and flattered themselves
they would play out successfully the
game of " beggar my neighbour^^^ but
by pushing their measures too far, it
turned into one of " beggar ourselves J*^
It was the double strain of free trade
and a fettered currency which brought
such embarrassment on the commer-
cial classes, as it was the double strain
of the Spanish and Russian wars
which proved the destruction of Napo-
leon. It would appear to be a general
law of nature, that great measures of
injustice cannot be carried Into execn-
tion, either by communities or single
CommereicU Crisis, 2d ediUon, 132-133.
men, without vindicating the justice
of the Divine administration^ by
bringing down upon themselves the
very min which they have designed
for others.
The free-traders say that there is
no generaJ reaction against their prin-
ciples, and that the fonnation of a
government on protectionist prin-
ciples is at present impossible. Wo
shall not inqnu*e, and have not the
means of knowing, whether or not
this statement is well founded. We
are willing to accept the statement as
true, and we perceive a great social
revolution, accompanied with infinite
present suffering, but most important
ultimate results, growing from their
obstinate adherence to their principles
in defiance of the lessons of experience.
J%e free-traders are with their own
hands destroying the commercial dosses,
which had acquired an undue prqpon'
derance in the state. They must work
out their own punishment before they
abjure theur principles. Every day a
free-trading merchant or shopkeeper
is swept into the Gazette, and his
family cast down to the humblest
ranks in society. They go down like
the Fifth Monarchy men when ex-
pelled the House of Commons by the
bayonets of Cromwell, or the Giron-
dists when led to the scaffold by the
Jacobins, chanting hymns in honour
of their principles when perishing from
their effects : —
*' They %xt true to the last of their blood and
their breath.
And, like reapers, descend to the harvest of
death/*
But this constancy of individnals
when suffering under the measnres
they themselves have introduced,
however curious and resj^table as a
specimen of the unvaiymg effect of
fanaticism, whether religioas or social,
1849.] The Crowning of the Column^ and Crushing of the Pedestal 129
on the human mind, cannot perma- tend revolntion in all the adjoining
neotly arrest the march of events; it states? Did we not insidiously and
cannot stop the effect of their own hasely support the revolutions in
measures, any more than the courage South America, and call a new world
of the Highlanders in 1745 could pre- into existence to redress the balance
vent the final extinction of the Jacobite of the old? Was not the result of
cause. Let them adhere to free trade that monstrous and iniquitous inter-
and a fetterod currency as they like, ference in support of the rebels in an
the advocates of the new measures are allied state, to induce the dreadful
daily and hourly losing theirinfluence. monetary catastrophe of December
Money constitntes the sinews of war 1825, the severest, till that of 1847,
not less in social than in national ever experienced in modem Europe?
contests. No cause can be long vie- Did we not, not merely instantly re-
torions which is linked to that worst cognise the French revolutions of 1830
of allies, iNaoLvsNcr. In two years and 1848, but lend our powerful aid and
the mercantile classes have destroyed countenance to extend the laudable
one-half of tiieir own wealth ; in two example to the adjoining states? Did
years more, one-half of what remains we not join with France to prevent
will be gone. Crippled, discredited, the King of the Netherlands from re-
ruined, &at down by foreign compe- gaining the command of Flanders in
tition, exhausted by the failure of 1882, and blockade the Scheldt while
domestic supplies, the once powerful Marshal Gerard bombarded Antwerp?
mercantile body of England will be 'Did we not conclude the Quadruple
prostrate in the dust. All other classes, Alliance to effect the revolutionising
of couise, will be suffering from their of Spain and Portugal, and bathe both
fall, but none in the same degree as countries for four years with blood, to
themselves. It is not improbable that establish revolutionary queens on both
the land may regain its appropriate the thrones in the Peninsula? Have
mfluence in the state, by the ruin which we not intercepted the armament of
theffown insane measures havebrought the King of Naples against Sicily, by
upon its oppressors. No one will Admiral Parker^s fleet, and aided the
regret the lamentable consequences of insurgents in that island with arms
such a change, already far advanced from the Tower? Did we not inter-
in its progress, more than ourselves, fere to arrest the victorious columns
who have uniformly foretold its ad- of Badetsky at Turin, but never move
vent, and strenuouslyresisted the com- a step to check Charles Albert
mercial and monetary changes which, on the Mindo ? Did we not side
amidst shoots of triumph from Uie with revolutionary Prussia against the
whole Liberal party, were silently Danes, and aid in launching Plo Nono
but certainly inducing these results. into that frantic career which has
Confounded at such a series of spread such ruin through the Italian
events, so widely different from what penmsula? Have we not all but lost'
they antldpated and had predicted the confidence of our old ally, Austria,
from their measures, the free-traders from our notorious intrigues to en-
have no resource but to lay them all courage the furious divisions which
on two extemid causes, for which they have torn that noble empire ? Nay,
arenot, as they conceive, responsible: have we not been so enamoured of
these causes are, the French and Ger- revolution, that we could not avoid
man revolutions, and the potato famine showinga partialityfor itinourowndo-
m Ireland. minions — rewarding and encouraging
That the revolutions on theconti- O^Connell,andallowingmon8termeet-
nent of Europe have materisdly affect- ings, till by the neglect of Irish in-
ed the market for the produce of dustry we landed them in famine, and
British industry, in the countries where by thefanning of Irish passions brought
they have occurred, is indeed certain ; them up to rebellion ; — and establish-
hot are the Liberals entitled to shake ing a constitution in Canada which
themselves free from the consequences gave a decided majority in parliament
of these convulsions ? Have we not, to an alien and robel race, and, as a ne-
for the last thirty years, been labour- cessary consequence, giving the colo-
Ing incessantly to encourage and ex- nial administration to the very party
VOL. XXVI. — ^NO. CCCCV. I
The Crowning of the Column, and Cnuhing o/Ae Arffifa/, [July,
130
whom, ten years ago, the loyalists pat
(lowu with true Hritish spirit at the
point of the bayonet? All this wc have
done, and have long been doing, with
impunity ; and now that the consequen-
CC6 offtuch multifarious sins have fallen
upon us, in the suffering which revo-
lution lias at last brought upon the
British empire, the Liberals tarn round
and seek to avoid the responsibility of
the disustors produced by their inter-
nal ])olicy, by throwing it on the ex-
ternal events which they themselves
have induced.
Then as to the Irish famine of 1846,
it Is rather too much, after the lapse of
three years, to go on ascribing the
gtiueral distress of the empire to a
partial failure of a particular crop,
which, after all, did not exceed the
loss of a twentieth part of the annual
agricultural produce of the British
Islands. Hut if the free-traders* prin-
ciples had l)oeu well founded, this
failure in Ireland should have been the
greatest possible blessing to theur party
in the state, because it immedialdy ef-
fected that transference of the purchase
of a part of the national food from
home to foreign cultivators, which is
the very thing they hold out as such an
advantage, and likely in an especial
manner to enlarge the foreign market
for our manufactures. It induced the
importation of X.')0,00(),000 worth of
foreign grain in three months : that,
on the principles of the free- traders,
should have ])ut all our manufacturers
in activity, and placed the nation in
the third heaven. Disguise it as you
will, the Irish potato-rot was but an
anticipation, somewhat more sudden
than they expected, of the free-trade
roty which w>is held out as a certain
panacea for all the national evils. And
now, when free trade and a restricted
currency have not proved quite so
great a blessing as they anticipated,
the free-traders turn round and lay
it all on the substitution of foreign
importation for domestic production
in Ireland, when that very substitu-
tion is the thing they have, by abolish-
ing the com laws, laboured to effect
over the whole empire.
Then as to the state of Ireland, which
has at length reached the present
unparalleled crisis of difficulty and
suffering, the conduct of the Liberals
has been, if possible, still more incon-
sistent and self-eoodenuuitory. For
half a oentory past, they have been
incessantly declaiming on the mild,
inoffensive, and indastriona character
of the Irish race; upon their inherent
loyalty to the throne ; and upon tile
enormous iniqoity of British mlei
which had brought the whole miafor-
tunes under whuh they were labonr-
ing on that virtaoos people. Nothing
but equal privileges. Catholic emanci-
pation, paiiiamentajy reform, bmgh
reform, and influence at Dnblin Cast^
we were told, were required to set
everything right, and render Ireland
as peaceable and prosperous as any
part of the British dominions. Hie
conduct of James L and CromweU,
in planting Saxon and Protestant
colonies in Ulster, was in an essential
manner held np to detestation,
as one of the chief canses of tiie
social and religions divisions which
had ever since distracted the oonatiy.
Well, the Liberals have given all
these thuDgs to the Irish. For
twenty years, the island has been
governed entirely on these prin-
ciples. They have got Catholio
emandpation, a redaction of the Pro-
testant church, national edncatkm,
corporate reform, pariiamentary re-
form, monster meetings, ceitteleBB
agitation, and, in fact, Sn the objects
for which, in common with the Liberal
party in Great Britain, they have so
long contended. And what has been
the result ? Is it that pauperism has
disappeared, industry flourished, divi-
sions died away, prosperity become
general? So far from it, divisions
never have been so bitter, dissension
never so general, miseiy so grinding,
suffering so universal, since the Britiui
standards, under Henry n., seven
centuries ago, first approached thdr
shores. A rebellion has broken out;
anarchy and agitation, by taming the
people aside from industry, have termi-
nated in famine ; and even the stream
of English charity seems dried np, from
the immensity of the suffering to be re-
lieved, and the ingratitude idth which
it has heretofore been received. And
what do the Liberals now do ? Why,
they put it all down to the score of the
incurable indolence and he^essness
of the Celtic race, which nothing can
eradicate, and cordially support Sir
R. Peel's proposal to plant English
1^9.] 'I'he Crommmg ofAe Column^
oolonies in Oonaanght, exacify similar
to CromwelTs in UUier^ so long tbd
object of Liberal hatred and declama-
tion ! Thej tell ns now that the na-
tive Irish are irredaimable helots,
hewers of wood and drawers of water,
and Incapable of ImprovemeDt till
directed by Saxon heads and support*
ed by the prodace of Saxon hands.
They ibrget that it is these very helots
whom they represented as sach im-
maculate and valuable subjects, the
victims of Saxon injustice and Ulster
€tnd Crushing of the Pedestal, 131
misrule. They forget that English ca-
pitalists and farmers would long since
have migrated to Ireland, and induced
com cultivation in its western and
southern provinces, were it not that
Liberal agitation kept the people in a
state of menacing violence, and Libe-
ral legislation took away all prospect
of remunerating prices for their grain
produce. And thus much for the
Crowning of the Column of Fr^
Trade, and Crushing of the Pedestal
of the Nation.
rofiiscaiPT.
The discossion on the Canadian
question, in the House of Lords, has
had one good effect. It has elicited
from Lord Lyndhnrst a most powerM
and able speeefat in tiie best style of
that great Jodge and distmguished
statesman^ oratory ; and it has caused
Lord Campbell to make an exhibition
of spleeuv ill-hnmour, and bad taste,
wliicfa his warmest firieads must havi
beheld with regret, and which was
akme wanting to show the cogent
ellect whkJi I^rd Lyndhnrst's speech
had made on the house. Of the
natare of Lord Campbell's attack on
that able and venerable judge, second
to none who ever sat in West-
minster Hall for Judicial power and
fofenaic eloquence, some idea may be
formed from the observations in reply
Gi Lord Stanley : —
" I must say for myself, and I think I
Bfty tay for the rest of the house, and not
with the exception of noble lords on the
opposite side of it, that they listened to
that able, locid, and powerful speech
(Lord Lyndhnrst's) with a feeling of
anything but pain — a feeling of admira-
tioo at the power of language, the undi-
minished deamess of intellect — (cheers)
— the ecmeiseness and force with which
mj noble and learned friend grappled
with the arguments before him, and
whichy while on the one hand they showed
that age had in no degree impaired the
vigoor of that power, on the other added
to the regret at the announcement he
made of his intention so seldom to occupy
the attention of the house. (Hear, hear.)
Bat I thoold have thought that if there
were one fooling it was impossible for any
man to entertain after hearing that
wpeeehf it wonld be a feeling in any way
sikin to that which led the noble and
learned lord to have introduced his answer
to that speech by any unworthy taunts.
(Loud cheers.) His noble and learned
friend's high position and great experi-
ence, his high character and eminent
ability, might have secured him in the
honoured decline of his course from anv
such unworthy taunts— (great cheering)
— as the noble and learned lord has not
thought it beneath him on such an occa-
sion to address to such a man. (Renewed
cheering.) If the noble and learned lord
listened with pain to the able Statement
of my noble and learned friend, sure am I
that there is no friend of the noble and
learned lord who must not have listened
with deeper pain to what fell from him
on this occasion." — Timet, 20th June
1849.
And of the feeling of the country,
on this uncalled-for and unprovoked
attack, an estimate may be formed
iVom the following passage of the
Times on the subject -.—"This debate
has also recalled to the scene of his
former triumphs the undiminished
energy and vigorous eloquence of
Lord Lyndhurst. That it supplied
Lord Campbell with tho opportunity
of making a series of remarks in the
worst possible taste on that aged and
distinguished peer is, we suspect, a
matter on which neither the learned
lord nor any of his colleagues will be
disposed to look back with satisfac-
tion."—rtme*, 22d June 1849.
What Lord Campbell says of Lord
Lyndhurst is, that he was once a Li-
beral and he has now become a Con-
servative : that the time was when he
would have supported such a bill as
that which the Canadian parliament
tendered to -Lord Elgin, and that now
he opposes it. There is no doubt of
132 The Crowmng ofAe Column, and Crushing ofAe P^dMd. [J11I7, 1349.
the fact : experience has tanght him
the errors of his early ways ; he has
not stood all day gazing at the east
because the sun rose there in the
morning — he has looked aroand him,
and seen the consequences of those
delusive visions in which, in common
with most men of an ardent tempera-
ment, he early indulged. In doing
80, he has made the same change
as Pitt and Chatham, as Burke
and Mackintosh, as Windham and
Brougham, as Wordsworth, Coleridge,
and Southey. There are men of a
ditferent stamp — men whom no expe-
rience can teach, and no facts wean
from error — who retain in advanced
life the prejudices and passions of
their youth, and signalise declining
years by increased personal ambition
and augmented party spleen. ^Vhat-
erer L^rd Lynuhurst maybe, he is
not one of them. He has not won his
retiring allowance by a week*s service
in the Court of Chancery. He can
look back on a life actively spent in
the public service, and enjoy in his
declining years the pleasing reflection,
that the honours and fortune he has
won are but the just meed of a nation's
gratitude, for important public services
long and admirably performed.
The Canadian question, itself, on
which ministers so narrowly escaped
shipwreck in the House of Peers (by
a majority of three) appears to us
to lie within a very small compass.
Cordially disapproving as we do of
the bill for indemnifying the rebels
which the Canadian ministr}- intro-
duced and the Canadian parliament
passed, we yet cannot see that any
blame attaches to Lord Elgin per-
sonally for giving the consent of
government to the bill. Be the bill
good or bad, just or nnjust, it had
passed the legislature by a large majo-
rity, and I^ni Elgin wonld not have
been justified in withholding his con-
sent, any more than Queen Victoria
would have been in refosing to pass
the Navigation Laws Bill. The pass-
ing of disagreeable and often nnjnst
laws, by an adverse majority, is a great
evil, no doubt ; l>nt it is an evil in-
herent in popular and responsible
government, for which the Canadian
loyalists equally with the Canadian
rebels contended. Let our noble
brethren in Canada reflect on this.
The Conservatives of England have
for long seen a series of measures
pass Uie legislature, which they
deem destructive to the best interests
of their country ; but they never
talked of separating from their Libend
fellow. citizens on that account, or
blamed the Queen because she affixed
the royal assent to their bills. They
are content to let time develop the
consequences of these acts; and mean-
while they direct all their efforts to
enlighten their countrymen on the
subject, and, if possible, regain a pre-
ponderance in the legislature for their
own party. The Canadian loyaltBts,
second to none in the British emphe
in courage, energy, and public spirit,
will doubtless see, when the heat of
the contest is over, that it is by such
conduct that they will best discharge
their duty to their country.
Printed by WiUiam Blackwood and Sons, Edtnlmrgk,
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCVI.
AUGUST, 1849.
Vol. LXVI.
CHARLES LAMB.
To Charles Lamb shall be allotted
— ^gencnl assent has ahreadj assigned
it to bim, and we have no wish to
djspate his clidm — a quiet, quaint
niche, apart to himself, in some odd
nook or corner in the great temple of
English literature. It shall be carved
from l^e solid oak, and decorated with
Gothic traceiy ; but where Madonnas
and angels ordinarily appear, there
shall be all manner of laughing cherubs
— one amongst them disguised as a
€iumnej'8we€p — with abundance of
sly and humorous devices. Some such
niches or stalls may occasionally bo
seen in old cathedrals, sharing the
eternity of the structure, and drawing
the peculiar regard of the curious and
kxtoing visitor. Ton are startled to
find a merry device, and a wit by no
means too reverential, side by side
with the ideal forms of Catholic piety.
You approach to examine the solemn-
looking carving, and find, perhaps, a
fox clothed in priestly raiment — teach-
ing, in his own way, divers lessons of
morality to the bears and geese. Such
venerable and Gothic droUery sus-
pends for a moment, but hardly mars,
the serious and sedate feelings which
the rest of the structure, and the other
sculptured figures of the place, are
dedgned to excite.
Smne such peculiar place amongst
our literary worthies seems, as we
have said, to be assigned by general
consent to Charles Lamb, nor are we
about to gainsay his right to this
position. He has all the genius that
could comport with oddity, and all
the oddity that could amalgamate with
genius. With a range of thought
most smgularly contracted, consider-
ing the times in which he lived, and
the men by whom he was surrounded,
he has contrived, by a charming
subtlety of observation, and a most
felicitous humom-, to make us in love
even with that contractedness itself,
which in another would be despised,
as evidencing a sluggishness and ob-
tuseness of mind. Perhaps there are
few writers who could be named, of
these later days, on whose peculiar
merits there is so littie di£ference of
opinion. As a poet, he was, at all
events, inoffensive, and his mediocrity
has been pardoned him in favour of
that genius he displayed as the hu-
morous and critical essayist. The
publication ' of his letters, too, has
materially added to his reputation,
and confirmed him as a favourite with
all to whom his lambent and playful
wit had already made him known and
esteemed. We are not aware, there-
fore, that we have anything to dispute,
or essentially to- modify, in the ver-
dict passed by popular opinion on this
writer. Yet something may remain
to be said to assist in appreciating and
discriminating his peculiar merits as
The Worh of CkarU$ Lamb.
Final MemariaU of Ckarltt Lamb, By Thomas Noon Talfovrd.
VOL. LXVI.^NO. OCCCVI. K
134
Charles Lamb.
[Aug.
a hnmoriBt — something to point ont
where praise is dne, and something to
draw the limits of that praise. More-
over, his biography, as presented to
us by Mr Talfourtl, claims some no-
tice ; disclosing, as it does, one of the
saddest tragedies, and one of the
noblest acts of heroism, which ever
afflicted and dignified the life of a man
of letters. This biography is also
"WTitten by one who is himself distin-
guished in the litcrarj' world, who
was an intimate friend of Lamb, and
personally acquainted with those lite-
rary characters by whom Lamb had
surrounded himsefr, and who are here
grouped around him. Upon the whole,
therefore, the Life and Writings of
Elia^ though a subject which no longer
wears the gloss of novelty, still invites
and may repay attention.
We hardly know whether to regret
it as a disadvantage to us, on the
present occasion, that we never en-
joyed the slightest acquaintance with
Charles Lamb, or indeed with any of
those literary friends amongst whom
he lived. We never saw this bland
humorist ; we never heard that half-
provoking, half-pleasing stutter, which
awakened anticipation whilst it de-
layed enjoyment, and added zest to
the witticism which it threatened to
mar, and which it had held back, for
a moment, only to project with the
happier impetus. We never had be-
fore us, in bodily presence, that slight,
black-coated figure, and those antique
and curionsly-g^tered legs, which, we
have also been assured, contributed
their part to the irresistible effect of
his kindly humour. Wo never even
knew those who had seen and talked
with him. To us he is a purely his-
toric figure. So, too, of his biographer
— which argues ourselves to l^ sadly
unknown — we have no other know-
ledge than what runs about bruited in
the world ; even his displays of elo-
(]uence, forensic or parliamentary, we
liave never had an opportunity of
hearing; we know him only by his
writings, and by that title we have
often heard bestowed on him, the
amiable author of Ion; — to which
amiability we refer, because to this
wo must attribute, we suppose, a lai'ge
portion of that too laudatory criticism
which, in these volumes, he bestows
so lavishly and diffasely. We cannot.
therefore, bring to our subject any of
those vivid reminiscences, anecdotes,
or details which personal acquaintance
supplies. But, on the other hand, we
have no bias whatever to contend
against, whether of a friendly or hos-
tile descriptioD, in respect of any of
the literary characters whom we may
have occasion to speak of. Had thej
all lived in the reign of good Queen
Anne, they could not have been more
remote ftx>m our personal sympathies
or antipathies.
It is probably known to most of
our readers that when, shortly ttfter
the decease of Charles Lamb, his
letters were given to the world with
some biographical notices, there were
circumstances which imposed silence
on certain passages of his life, and
which obliged the editor to withhold
a certain portion of the letters. That
sister, in fact, was stiil alive whose
lamentable history was so iatimately
blended with the career of Lamb, aad
an allusion to her unfortunate tra($e47
would have been cruel in any ooe, and
in an intimate firiend ntterlj inipoe-
siblc. Serjeant Talfourd bad no other
course than to leave the gap or hiatus
in the biography, and cover it up and
conceal it as well as might be, from
the eyes of such readers as were not
better informed from other sonroes.
Upon the decease of that sister, there
no longer existed any motive for this
silence; and, inde^, shortly after
this event, the whole narrative was
revealed by a writer in the Briikk
Quarterly Revieu^^ who had himself
waited till then before he permitted
himself to disclose it, and by its dii-
closure do an act of justice to the
moral character of Lamb. Mr Tal-
fourd was» therefore, called upon to
complete his biographical notioe, and
also the publication of the letters.
This he did in the two volnmes en-
titled Final MemoriaiSy &c.
As a separate and subsidiary publi-
cation became inevitable, and as pro-
bably the exigencies of the trade re-
quired that it should be of a oertain
bulk and substance, we suppose we
must rather commiserate Mr Tal-
fourd than cast any blame np(m him
for the manifest difficulty he has had
to fill these two volumes of Final
Memorials. One of them would have
been sufficient for all that he had to
I
CSkatiet Lamb.
135
mieAte, or that it was wise to
Many of the letters of Lamb
liated are such as he had very
iy laid aside, in the first in-
, not because they trenched upon
Ucate ground, bnt because they
vriiolly uninteresting. He had
QfTCCtly said, in what, for dis-
n*s sake, we will call The Life^
.▼e thought it better to omit
of this verbal criticism, which,
!nr interesting in itself, is nn-
pble without a contemporaiy
ice to the poems which arc its
t."— (P. 12.) Now we cannot,
ne, undertake to say that the
! given us here ore precisely
which he speaks of as being
njected on the former occa-
ml we know that there was the
good reason for this rejection,
ey are occupied with a verbal
sm utterly uniutcrcsting. Surely
neitfaer illustrates a man*s life,
Ida a tittle to his literary repu-
onght not to be allowed to
bar for ever, as with a dead
^ the collected works of an
'. Themischiefis, that, ifmate-
f this kind are once published,
ancoeeding editor finds it in-
nt on him to reprint them, lest
Ution should be thought less
t than others, and thus there is
ting rid of the useless and bur-
se increment. It is otherwise
mother portion of these two
ea, the sketches of the contem-
ea and friends of Lamb, which
(ijeant Talfonrd, or any future
, can either retrench, omit, or
le, at his option.
"hit next edition that is published
\ works of Lamb, we hope the
may be perauaded altogether
:a8t his materials. The bio-
f should bo kept apart, and not
parsed piecemeal amongst the
L This is an arrangement, the
provoking and irritating to the
* that could have been devised.
I liave all the biography at once,
lien sit down and enjoy the
( of Lamb. Why be incessantly
id firom the one to the other?
if Ae letters need any explana-
if they do, the briefest note at
lad or at the foot would be suffi-
Not to add, that, if it is wished
ir to any event in the biography,
one does not know where to look for
it. And, apropos of this matter of
reference, it may be just worth men-
tioning that the present volume is so
divided into PartSy and the parts so
paged, that any reference to a passage
by the number of the page is almost
useless. The numbers recommence
some half-dozen times in the course
of the volume ; so that if you are
referred to page 50, you may find five
of them — ^you may find page 50 five
times over before you come to the
right one. For which reason we shall
dispense ourselves, in respect to this
volume, with our usual punctuality of
reference, for the reference must bo
laboriously minute, and even then
will imx>ose a troublesome seareh. In
the mere and humble task of editing,
the Serjeant has been by no means
fortunate.
Lying about in such confusion as
the fractions of the biography do at
present, we shall perhaps be rendering
a slight service if we bring together
from the two different publications
the leading events of the life of Lamb.
^' Charles Lamb," says the first
publication, *^ was bom on the 18th
February 1775, in Crown-office Row,
in the Inner Temple,- where he spent
the first seven years of his life." At
the age of seven he was presented to
the school of Christ's Hospital, and
there remained till his fifteenth year.
His sweetness of disposition rendered
him a general favourite. From one
of his schoolfellows we have the fol-
lowing account of him: — "Lamb,"
says Mr Le Grice, " was an amiable,
gentle boy, very sensible, and keenly
observing, indulged by his school-
fellows and by his master, on account
of his infirmity of speech. Ills coun-
tenance was mild; his complexion
clear brown, with an expression which
might lead you to think that he was of
Jewish descent. His eyes were not
each of the same colour-— one was
hazel, the other had specks of gray
in the uris, mingled as we see red
spots in the bloodstone. His step was
plantigrade^ (Mr Le Grice must be a
zoologist — Lamb would have smiled
to hear himself so scientifically de-
scribed,) which made his walk slow
and p^uliar, adding to the staid ap-
pearance of his figure. I never heard
his name mentioned without the
136
Ckarles Lamb,
[Aug.
addition of Charles, althoagb, as there
was no other boy of the name of
Lamb, the addition was nnnecesaarj ;
but there was an implied kindness in
it, and it was a proof that his gentle
manner excited that kindness.'^ Mr
Lc Gricc adds that, in the sketch Lamb
gave in his RecoUection$ of Christ^i
Hospital^ he drew a faithful portrait of
himself. ^^ While others werd all fire
and play, he stole along with all the
self- concentration of a yonng monk."
He had, in fact, only passed from
cloister to cloister, and, during the
holidays, it was in the Temple that ho
found his homo and his only place of
recreation. This cloistcring-in of his
mind was the early and constant
peculiarity of his life. He would have
made an excellent monk; in those
good old times, be it understood, when
it was thought no great scandal if
there was a well-supplied cellarage
undcnieath the cloister.
After quitting Christ's Hospital, he
was emploj-ed for some time in the
South Sea House, but on the 5th April
1702 obtained that appointment in the
accountant's office in the East India
Company which was his stay and
support, in more senses than one,
through life.
A little anecdote is here introduced,
which strikes us as very characteristic.
It reveals the humorist, ready to
appreciate and promote a jest even at
his own expense, and at the easy
sacriiice of his own dignity or self-
respect : but it reveals something
more and sadder ; it seems to betray a
broken, melancholy spirit, that was no
longer disposed to contend for its claim
to respect from others. " In the first
year of his clerkship," says Mr Le
(Jrice, "Lamb spent the evening of
the 5th November with some of his
former schoolfellows, who, being
amused with the particularly large and
flapping brim of his round hat, pinned
it up on the sides in the form of a
cocked hat. Lamb made no alteration
in it, but walked home in his usual
sauntering gait towards the Temple.
As he was going down Ludgato Hill,
some gay young men, who seemed
not to have passed the London Tavern
without resting, exclaimed, ' The
veritable Gny! — no man of straw!*
and with this exclamation they took
him up, making a chair with their
arms, carried him, seated him on a
post in St Paul's ChnrchTard, and
there left him. lliis atoiy Lamb told
80 aerionsly, that the traUi of it was
never donbted. He wore bis three-
cornered hat many evenings, and re-
tained the name of Gny ever after.
Like Xym, he quietly sympathised m
the fun," and seemed to say ^ that was
the humour of it/ " Some one may
suggest that probably Lamb was him-
self in the same condition, on this 5th
of November, as the young men " who
had not passed the London Tarem
without resting," and that therefore all
peculiar significanco of the anecdote,
as it bears upon his character and dis-
position, is entirely lost. Bnt Lamb
relates the story himself, and after-
wards, and when there is no' question
of sobriety, quietly acquiesces and
participates in the absurd joke played
upon himself.
At this time his most constant com-
panion was one Jem White, who wrote
some imaginary " Letters of John
FalstafT." These letters Lamb went
about all his life praising, and causing
others to praise, but seems never to
have found any one to share his
admiration. As even Mr Talfbnrd
has not a good word to throw away
upon the literaiy merits of Jem White,
we may safely conclude that LamVs
friendship had in this instance quite
overruled his critical judgment.
But the associate ana friend who
really exercised a permanent and
formative influence upon his mind,
was a man of a very different stamp
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge. They
had been schoolfellows at Chrisfs
Hospital, and, though no particular
intimacy existed at that time, the
circumstance formed a foundation for
a future friendship. "While Cole-
ridge," writes Mr Talfonrd, " remain-
ed at the university, they met occa-
sionally on his visits to London ; and
when he quitted it and came to town,
Aill of mantling hopes and clorioas
schemes. Lamb became his aanuriog
disciple. The scene of these happy
meetings was a little pnbUc-honse,
called the Salutation ctnd Cfatj in the
neighbourhood of Smithfield, where
they used to sup, and remain long
after they had * heard the diimcs at
midnight.' "
These suppers at the Salutation and
1849.]
Chco'kt Lamb,
137
Cat, in Smlthfield, seem to carry back
the imagination far bejond the period
here aUaded to ; thej seem to trans-
port ns to the times of Oliver Gold-
smith, or to take ns across the water
into Germany, where poetnr and
philosophy may still occasionally find
refnge in the beer-shop. They were
always remembered by Lamb as the
brightest spots of his Ufe. " I think
I hear yon again,*' he says, writing to
Coleridge. ^' I imagine to myself the
little smoky room at the Salutation
and Cat, where we sat together through
the winter nights, beguiling the cares
of life with poetry." And in another
place he alludes to *^ those old suppers
at our old inn — ^when life was fresh
and topics exhaustless — and you first
kindled in me, if not the power, yet
the love of poetry, and beauty, and
kindliness.'' It was in these inter-
views that the project was started, we
believe, of publishing a volume of
poems, the joint production of the two
friends.
But this pleasing project, and all
the poetry of life, was for a time to
give place, in the history of Lamb, to
a domestic tragedy of the most afl9ict-
ing nature. It is here that the Final
Memorials take up the thread of the
iMOgryphy. It was on the 22d
Sei^ember 1796, that the terrible
event took place which cast so per-
petual a shibde, and reflected also so
constant an honour, on the life of
Lamb. He was living at this time
with his lather, mother, and sister,
in lodgings in Little Queen Street,
Holbom. After being engaged in his
taakwori^ at the India House, he
retomed in the evening to amuse his
fiUher by playing cribbage. The old
man had sunk into dotage and the
miserable selfishness that so often
attends on old age. If his son wished
to discontinue for a time the game at
cribbage, and turn to some other
avocation, or the writing of a letter,
be would pettishly exclaim, — ^^ If you
dont play cribbage, I don't see the use
of your coming home at all." The
mother also was an invalid, and Miss
Lamb, we are told, was worn down
to a state of extreme nervous misery,
by attention to needlework by day,
and to her mother by night, until the
4ii8ani^ which had been manifested
moirt than once broke out into frenzy.
" It appeared," says the account ex-
tracted from the Times^ (an account
of the inquest, in which the names of
the parties are suppressed,) " that
while the family were preparing for
dinner, the young lady seized a case-
knife lying on the table, and in a
menacing manner pursued a little girl,
her apprentice, round the room. On
the calls of her infirm mother to for-
bear, she renounced her first oWect,
and with loud shrieks approached her
parent. The child by her cries quickly
brought up the landlord of the house,
but too late. The dreadful scene pre-
sented to him the mother lifeless,
pierced to the heart, on a chair, her
daughter yet wildly standing over her
with the fatal knife, and the old man,
her father, weeping by her side, him-
self bleeding at the forehead from the
effects of a severe blow he received
from one of the forks she had been
madly hurling about the room."
The following is the letter which
Lamb wrote to Coleridge shortly after
the event. From this it appears that
it was he, and not the landlord, who
took the knife from the hand of the
lunatic.
"My Dearest Friend, — White,
or some of my friends, or the public
papers, by this time may have in-
formed you of the terrible calamities
that have fallen on our family. I
will only give you the outlines. My
poor, dear, dearest sister, in a fit of
insanity, has been the death of her
own mother. I was at hand only
time enough to snatch the knife out
of her grasp. She is at present in a
madhouse, from whence I fear she
must be removed to an hospital. God
has preserved to me my senses. I
eat, and drink, and sleep, and have
my judgment, I believe, very sound.
My poor father was slightly wounded,
and I am left to take care of him and
my aunt. Mr Norris of the Blue-coat
School has been very kind to us, and
we have no other friend ; but, thank
God, I am very calm and composed,
and able to do the best that remains to
do. Write as religious a letter as
possible, but no mention of what is
gone and done with. With me ^ the
former thipgs are passed away,' and I
have something mofe to do than to feel.
" God Almighty have us all in his
keephig! — C. Lamb.
138
Ckarkt Lamb,
[Aug.
^' Meotiou notliing of poetry; I have
destroyed every vestige of past vani-
ties of that kind. Do as yon please ;
but if you publish, publish mine (I
give free leave) without name or
initial, and never send me a book, I
charge you.
" Your own judgment will convince
you not to take any notice of this yet
to your dear wife. You look after
your family — I have my reason and
strength left to take care of mine. I
charge ^ou, don't think of coming to
see me — write. I will not see you if
you come. God Almighty love you,
and all of us." — C. Lamb."
Miss Lamb was of course placed in
an asylum, where, however, she was
in a short time restored to reason.
And now occurred the act of life-long
heroism on the part of the brother.
As soon as she was recovered, he
petitioned the authorities to resign
her to his care ; he pledged himself to
be her guardian, her provider, her
keeper^ for all her days to come. He
was at that time paying his addresses
to a young lady, with what hopes, or
with what degree of ardour, we arc
not informed. But marriage with
hor, or with any other, was now to
be entirely renounced. He devoted
his life, and all his love, to his un-
happy sister, and to the last he ful-
filled the obligation he had taken upon
himself without a murmur, and with-
out the least diminution of affection
towards the object of it.
We have called it an act of heroism ;
we applaud it, and rejoice that it
stands upon record a complete and
accomplished act. There it stands,
not only to relieve the character of
Lamb from such littleness as it may
have contracted from certain habits of
intemperance, (of which perhaps more
has been said than was necessary;)
but it remains there as an enduring
memorial, prompting, to all time, to
the like acts of self-denying kindness,
and unshaken generosity of purpose.
But, admiring the act as we do, we
must still be permitted to observe,
that there was a degree of impru-
dence in it which fully justified other
members of the family in their endea-
vours to dissuade Lamb from his reso-
lution, and which would have justified
the authorities (whoever they were^
and about this matter there seems a
singular obscurity, and a suspicion is
created that even in proceedings of
this nature much is done carelessly,
informally, uncertainly) in refosing to
accede to his request. Mias Lamb
had several relapses into temporaiy
derangement; and, although she never
committed, as far as we are informed,
any acts of violence, this calomess of
behaviour, in her seasons of mental
aberration, could not have been cal-
culated on. We confess we should
have shrunk firom the responsibility
of advising the generous but perilous
course wMch was adopted with so
fortunate a result
How sad and fearful a charge
Lamb had entailed upon himsdf, let
the following extract suffice to show.
The subject is too painful to be longer
dwelt upon than is necessary. ^^ The
constant impendency of this great
sorrow saddened to ^ the Lambs' even
their holidays, as the journey iHuch
they both regarded as the relief and
charm of the year was frequently lid-
lowed by a seizure; and, when ihqf
ventured to take it^ a straU-waisiicoaJt^
carefully packed up htf Miss Lamb her'
self, was their constarU oompamiigm.
Sad experience at last induced the
abandonment of the annual excur-
sion, and Lamb was contented with
walks in and near London during the
interval of labour. Miss Lamb expe-
rienced, and full well understood^ pre-
monitory symptoms of the attack. In
restlessness, low fever, and the biabi-
lity to sleep ; and, as gently as pos-
sible, prepared her brother for the
duty he must soon perform ; and thus,
unless he could stave off the terrible
separation till Sunday, obliged him to
ask leave of absence from the oflBoe as
if for a day's pleasure — a lutter
mockery 1 On one occasion Mr
Charles Lloyd met them ak>wly
pacing together a little footpath in
Haxton Fields, both weeping bitter^,
and founds on joining them^ thai tkof
were taking their solemn way to the
accustomed asylum J "*
It seems that a tendency to lonacy
was hereditary in the family, and
Charles Lamb himself had been for a
short period deprived of his reason.
* Final Memorials^ vol. ii., p. 212.
I
Charles Lcanh,
139
lis subject lilr Talfourd makes
oUowing excellent remark:—
I wonder is, that, amidst all the
Ities, the sorrows, and the ex-
snts of his sncceeding forty
the malady never recurred.
|IB the true cause of this remark-
Bxemption — an exemption the
remarkable when his afflicticms
midered in association with one
frailty — will be found in the
a claim made on his moral and
etnal nature by a terrible exi-
, and by his generous answer to
laim ; so that a life of self-sacri-
R reicarded by the preservation
iamded reason.''^
'■ will not weaken so admirable a
k by repeating it in a. worse
M^ogy of our own. We wish
ieijeant always wrote in the
dear, forcible, and unaflfected
er. With respect to this seizure
Lamb, in an early part of his
ad experienced, there is a refe-
In one of his letters too cu-
to pass unnoticed. Writing to
dge, he says — '^ At some future
[ will amuse you with an ac-
■8 full as my memory will per-
if the strange turus my frenzy
I look ba& upon it at times
a gloomy kind of euvy, for,
t luted, I had many, many hours
B happiness. Dream not, Cole-
of having tasted all the gran-
uid wildness of fancy till you
jgone madl All now seems to
{^ or comparatively so."
\ residue of Lamb's life is un-
UL The publication of a book
Qfamey into Cumberiand — his
liberation from office, are the
incidents. These it is not ne-
j to arrange in chronological
: they can be alluded to as occa-
equires. But we will pursue a
forther our notice of Mr Tal-
B biographical labours, that we
iear our way as we proceed.
I tuive seen that Lamb, in the
gony of his grief, nidely threw
his poetry, and his scheme of
king conjointly with Coleridge,
f and schemes of publication
iCy however, so easily dismissed.
B mind subsided into a calmer
tiiey were naturally resumed.
Ittmnr partnership was ex-
I, and Lloyd was admitted to
associate his labours in the forthcom-
ing volume. ^^ At length," says Mr
TaJfourd, ^* the small volume con-
taining the poems of Coleridge, Lloyd,
and Lamb, was published by Mr
Cottle at Bristol. It excited little
attention." We do not wonder at
this, if the lucubrations of Mr Lloyd
had any conspicuous place in the vo-
lume. How the other two poets — how
Coleridge especially, could have con-
sented to this literary partnership, with
so singularly inept and absurd a^iitcr,
would be past explaining, if it were
not for some hint that we receive that
Charles Llovd was the son of a wealthy
banker, and might, therefore, be the
fittest person to transact that part of
the business which occurs between the
author and the publisher. Here wo
have a striking instance of Mr Tal-
fourd*s misplaced amiability of criti-
cism. " Lloyd," he says, " wrote
pleasing verses, and with great facility
—a facility fatal to excellence; but
his mind was chiefly remarkable for
the fine power of anafysis which dis-
tinffuishes his ^ London^ and other of
his later compositions. In this power
of discriminating and distinguishing —
carried to a pitch almost of pain-
fulness — Lloyd has scarcely been
equalled ; and his poems, though rug-
ged in point of versification, will be
found, by those who will read them
with the calm attention they require,
replete with critical and moral sugges-
tions of the highest value." Very
grateful to Mr Serjeant Talfourd will
any reader feel who shall be induced,
by his recommendation, to peruse, or
attempt to peruse, Mr Lloyd's poem
of " London I" We were. " Fine
power of analysis 1" Why, it is one
stream of mud — of theologic mud.
^^ Rugged in point of versification 1"
There is no trace of verse, and the
style is an outlandish garb, such as
no man has ever seen elsewhere,
either in prose or verse. Poor Lloyd
was a lunatic patient I— on him no one
would be severe ; but why should an
intelligent Serjeant, unless prompted
by a sly malice against all mankind,
persuade us to read his execrable
stuff? The following is a fair speci-
men of the drug, and is, indeed, taken
as the book opened. We add the two
last lines of the preceding stanza, to
give all possible help to the elucida-
140
Charles Lamb,
[Aug;
tion of the one we quote. The italics
are all Mr Lloyd's : —
" If you affinn grace irresisUble^
You must deny all liberty of will.
142.
« But you reply, grace irresistible
Our creed a^its not. I am sonr for*t.
Enough, or not enough, to bind the free will,
Grace must be. Not enough ? The dose
falls short.
This is of cause the prime condition still
That it be operaltve. Yet divines exhort
Would Mr Talfonrd Aaoe such a reputa-
tion, if it were offered him? Would he
not rather have remained in complete
obscunty than be distinguished hj such
^^splendours'* as the authorship of
Jack Skeppard would have inyested
him with? Why should he throw about
this indiscriminate praise, and make
his good word of no possible value ?
Splendid reputation ! Can trash be
anything but trash, because a multi-
tude of the idle and the ignoranty
Us todeemgr^ace so/. *o«r"r«, of an salvation, ^^^D? jj exactly SuitS, read and ad-
And if we're damned, bkme but its appltca- nwre ? By-aud-by they grow ashamed
• " of their idol, when they find they have
him all to themselves, and that sens-
ible people are smiling at their enthu-
tion.
But divinity of this kind, it may be
said, though well calculated to display
*' the power of discriminating and dis-
tinguishing, carried to a pitch almost
of painfuluess,'' is not exactly favour-
able to flowing verse. Here is a spe-
cimen where a lady is the subject,
and the verse should be smooth then,
if ever.
** I well remember her years, five-and- twenty,
(Ah ! now my muse is got into a gallop,)
Longer perhaps I But time sufficient, plenty
Of treasured offices of love to call up.
She was then, as I recollect, quite dainty.
And delicate, and seemed a fair envdope
Of vii^in sweetness and angelic goodness ;
That fate should treat her with such reckless
rudeness ! ^
Tlie poor man seems to have had
not the least appreciation of the
power of language, so as to distin-
guish between the ludicrous and the
pathetic. He must have read " Hu-
dibras " with tears, not of laughter,
in his eyes, and hence drawn his
notion of tenderness of diction as well
as harmony of verse. The most sur-
prising thmg about Lloyd is, that
such a man should have chosen for
his literary task to translate — Alfieril
And although he has performed the
task verv far from well, he has accom-
plished it in a manner that could not
have been anticipated from his origi-
nal compositions.
Aiter this specimen of Mr Talfourd^s
laudatory criticism, we need not be
astonished at any amount of eulogy
he bestows on such names as Hazlitt
and others, which really have a cer-
tain claim on the respect of all men.
And yet, even after this, we felt
some slight surprise at hearing Mr
Talfourd speak of ** the splendid repu-
tation " of Mr Harrison Ainsworth !
siasm ; they then discard him for
some new, untried, and unconvicted
favourite. Such is the natural history
of these splendid reputations.
The second volume of the " Final
Memorials" is in great part occu-
pied with sketches of the literaiy
friends and companions of Lamb.
These Mr Talfourd introduces by a
somewhat bold parallel between the
banquets at the lordly halls of Holland
House and the suppers in the dark and
elevated chambers in the Liner Tem-
ple, whither Lamb had removed*
We arc by no means scandalised at
such a comparison. Wit may flow,
' and wisdom too, as freely in the gar-
ret as in the saloon. To eat off pkie,
to be ser\'ed assiduously by Uveried
attendants, may not give any more
real zest to colloquial pleaaurev to
good hearty talking, than to attacks
without ceremony '^tho cold beef
flanked with heaps of smoking pota-
toes, which Becky has just mrought
in." Nor do we know that claret in
the flagon of beautifully cut glasB,.
may be a more potent inspiration of
wit than '^ the foaming pots of porter
from the best tap in Fleet Street."
We are not at all astonished that sncb
a parallel should be drawn ; what sur*
prises us is, that, bein^ in the humour
to draw such comparisons, the Ser-
geant could find only one place In all^
London which could be broa^t inlo-
this species of contrast, and of rivalry,
with Holland House. *^ Two cireles
of rare social enjoyment, differing as
widely as possible in all external dr-
cumstances— ^ti/ each superior in its-
kind to an otlters^ were at the same time
generously opened to men of lettersJ*
1W9.]
C^uxrks Lamb,
141
We, who havebeen admitted to neither,
have perhaps no right to an opinion ;
bat, jadging hj the bill of fare pre-
sented to QB, we shrewdly saspect
there were very many drdes where
we shonld have preferred the intellec-
taal repast to that set ont in Inner
Tomplo Lane. We donbt not the
Serjeant himself has assembled round
bis own table a society that we shonld
greatly more have coveted the pica-
fare of joining. We have the name
of Godwin, it is true, but Godwin
never opened hismouth ; — ^played whist
all the evening. Had he not written
his book ? why should he talk ? We
have Hazlitt, — bnt by all accounts he
was rarely in a tolerable humour,
perpetually ravhig, with admirable
consistency. In praise of republics and
Buonaparte. Coleridge was too rarely
a visitor to be connted in the list; and
certain we are that we should have no
delight in hearing Charles Lloyd
*' reason of fate, frce-wiU, foreknow-
ledge absolute,*^ to Leigh Hunt.
Some actors are named, of whoso
conversational powers wo know no-
thing, and presume nothing ver>' ex-
traordinary. Lamb*3 "burly jovial
brother, the Ajax Telamon of clerks,"
and a Captain Bumey, of whom we
are elsewhere told that ho liked
Shakspeare "because ho was so
lunch of a gentleman,*^ promise little
on the score of intellectual convei-sa-
tion ; neither should we be particu-
larly anxious to sit opposite a certain
M. B., of whom Lamb said, " M., if
dirt were trumps, what hands you
wonld hold I **
After this singnlar parallel, we arc
shown round a gallor of portraits.
First we have George Dyer, who ap-
pears to be the counterpart of our old
frieiid Dominie Sampson. But, in-
deed, we hold Georae Dyer to be a
sort of myth, a fabulous person, the
creation m Charles Lambda imagina-
tion, and imposed as a reality on his
firienda. Sndi an absurdity as he is
here represented to be could not have
been bred, could not have existed, in
these times, and in London. If we
are to credit the stories told of him,
his walking in broad day into the
canal al Islington was one of the
wiseat things m did, or could possibly
have donou Lamb tells him, in the
ftrictest confidence, that the " Wa-
verley Novels" aro the works of
Ix)rd Castlereagb, just returned from
the Congress of Soveroigns at Vienna !
Off he runs, uor stops till he reaches
Maida Hill, wliere he deposits his
news in the ears of Leigh Hunt, who,
" as a public man," he thinks ought
to be possessed of the great fact. At
another time Lamb gravely inquires
of him, " Whether it was true, as was
commonly reported, that he was to bo
made a lord ?" ** Oh dear, no I Mr
Lamb," he responds with great ear-
nestness, " I could not think of such a
thing : it is not true, I assure you."
" I thought not," replies the wit,
^' and I contradict it wherever I go ;
but the government will not ask your
consent — they may raise you to tho
peerage without your even knowing
it." "I hope not, Mr Lamb ; indeed,
indeed, I hope not ; it would not suit
me at all," repeats our modem Do-
minie, and goes away musing on the
possibility of strange honours descend-
ing, whether he wUl or not, upon his
brow. It goes to our heart to disturb
a good story, but such a man as tho
George Dyer here represented never
could have existed.
We have rather a long account of
Godwin, with some remarks not very
satisfactory upon his intellectual char-
acter. That Mr Godwin was taciturn,
that he conversed, when he did talk,
upon trivial subjects, and in a small
precise manner, and that he was espe-
cially fond of sleeping after dinner —
all this we can easily understand. Mr
Godwin's mental activitv was absorbed
in his authorship, and he was a very
voluminous author. But we cannot
so easily understand Mr Talfourd's
explanations, nor why these habits
should have any peculiar connexion
with the intellectual qualities of the
author of Caleb Wittiamsj and a host
of novels, as well as of the Political
Justice^ of the LifeofCliaucer^ and the
History of the ComnumweaUh, Such
habits are rather the result of a man's
temperament, and the manner of lifo
which circumstances have thrown him
into, than of his Intellectual powers.
Profound metaphysicians have been
very vivacious talkers, and light and
humorous writers very taciturn men.
Mr Talfonrd finds that Godwin had
no imagination, was all abstract
reason, and thus accounts for his
U2
Charles
having no desire to address his fellow-
men but through the press. The pas-
sage is too long to quote, and would
be very tedious. We must leave him
in quiet possession of hL^ own theory
of the matter.
It was new to us, and may be to
our readers, to hear that Godwin
supported himself ^^by a shop in
Skinner Street, where, under the
auspices of * Mr J. Godwin & Co.,*
the prettiest and wisest books for
children issued, which old-fashioned
parents presented to their children,
without suspecting that the graceful
lessons of piety and goodness which
charmed away the selfishness of
infancy, were published, and some-
times revised, and now and then
written, by a philosopher whom they
would scarcely venture to name ! "
We admire the good sense which
induced him to adhere to so humble
an occupation, if he found it needful
for his support. But what follows is
not quite so admirable. He was a
great borrower ; or, in the phrase of
Sir Talfourd, '•*' he met the exigencies
of business with the trusting simplicity
which marked his course; he asked
his fiiends for aid without scruple,
considering that their means were
justly the due of one who toiled in
thought for their inward life, and had
little time to provide for his own out-
ward existence, and took their ex-
cuses when offered without doubt or
offence.'' And then the Serjeant pro-
ceeds to relate, in a tone of the most
touching simplicity, his own personal
experience upon this matter. '•'• The
very next day after I had been
honoured and delighted by an intro-
duction to him at Lamb's chambers, I
was made still more proud and happy
by his appearance at my own on such
an errand, which my poverty, not my
will, rendered abortive. After some
pleasant chat on indifferent matters,
he carelessly observed that he had a
little bill for £150 falUng due on the
morrow, which he had forgotten till
that morning^ and desured the loan of
the necessary amount for a few weeks.
At first, in eager hopes of being able
thus to oblige one whom I regarded
with admiration akin to awe, I began
to consider whether it was possible
for me to raise such a sum ; but, alas!
A moment's reflection sufficed to con-
Lamb. [Aug.
vince me that the hope was vain, and
I was obliged, with much confusion,
to assure my distinguished visitor
how glad I should have been to serve
him, but that I was only jost starting
as a ^)ecial pleader, was obliged to
write for magazines to help me (m,
and had not snch a sum in the world.
* Oh dear!' said the philosopher, 'I
thought you were a young gentleman
of fortune — don't mention it, don't
mention it — I shall do very well else-
whei*e 1 ' And then, in the most gra-
cious manner, reverted to our former
topics, and sat in my small ipom for
hsdf-an-hour, as if to convince me
that my want of fortune made no dif-
ference in his esteem." How veiy
gracious ! The most shameless bor-
rower coming to raise money firom a
young gentleman of fortune, to meet
'' a little bill which he had fQi^tten
till that morning," would hardly, on
finding his mistake, have made an
abrupt departure. He would have
QOoHj beat a retreat, as the philosopher
did. We never hear, by the way,
that he returned *^ to my small room"
at any other thne, for half-an-honr'a
chat But how very interesting it is
to see the learned Serjeant, whose
briefs have made him acquainted with
every trick and turn of commercial
craft, retaining this sweet and pristine
simplicity !
The Serjeant, however, has a style
of narrative which, though <« the sor-
face it displays the most good-natored
simplicity, slyly insinuate to the more
intelligent reader that he sees quite as
far as another, and is by no means
the dupe of his own amiability. Thus,
in his description of Coleridge, (whidi
would be too long a subject to enter
into minutely,) he has the following
passage, (perhaps the best in the de-
scription,) which, while it seems to
echo to the full the unstinted apidanse
so common with the admirers of that
singular man, gives a quiet intimatioii
to the reader that he was not alto-
gether so blind as some ci those ad-
murers. ^^If his entranced hearers
often were unable U> perceive the
bearings of his argument — ^too mighty
for any grasp but his own — and some-
times readiing beyond his own — tbcT
understood ^ a beiaUy in the words, if
not the words ;' and a wisdom and a
piety in the illustrations, eves whea
I^9.J
Charles Lamb.
US
unable to coimeet them with the idea
which he desired to illoBtrate." Mr
Talfoord revealB here, we suspect, the
true secret of the charm which
Coleridge exercised in conyersation.
His hearers never seemed to have car-
ried awaj anything distinct or ser-
viceable from his long discourses.
They nndeistood "a beaatj in the
words, if not the words ;" they felt a
charm like that of listening to music,
and, when the voice ceased, there was
perhaps as little distinct impression
left, as if it had really been a beautiM
symphony they had heard.
There is only one more in this gal-
leiy of portraits before which we shall
pause, and that only for a moment,
to present a last specimen of the cri-
tical manner of Mr Talfonrd. We
are eony the last shonld not be
llie best; and yet, as this sketch is a
reprint, in an abridged form, of an
essay aflxed to the LUerary Remcdna
of HazHii^ it may be considered as
having received a more than nsnal
share of the anther's attention. It is
thofl that he analyses the mental con-
sdtntion of one whom he appears to
have studied and greatly admired —
William Haalitt ''He had as un-
qneachable a desire for troth as others
have for wealth, or power, or fame :
he ponned it with sturdy singleness
of porpoae, and ennndat^ it without
favour or fear. Bnt besides that love
of tmth, thai ^ncerity m pursuing it,
and that boldness in telling it, he had
abo a fervent aspiration after the beau-
tifoLi a vivid sense of pleasure, and an
iUaue eotudtmtmeis of his own indwi-
dual heing^ which sometimes {Mroduced
obetades to the current of speculation,
by which it was broken into daazling
eddies, or urged into devious wind-
ings. Acate, f«rvid, vigorous as his
mkid was, it wanted the one greai
eaUrai power of imaffmationy which
hrimgs oB the o&er faemkks into har-
WMMJomt action, mutt^fHai them mto
oaek other, makee truth visible in the
forme ofbeamtjf, and substitutes intd^
kctmsi vision for proof , Thus in him
troth and beanty held divided empire.
Li him the spirit was willing but the
flesh was strong, and when these con-
tend it IS not diffi^t to anticipato
the resolt ;' for the power of beauty
shall sooner transform honesty from
what it is into a bawd, than the per-
son of honesty shall transform beauty
into its likeness.* This * sometime
paradox' was vividly exemplified in
Hazlitt's personal history, his conver-
sation, and his writings."*
Are we to gather from this most
singular combination of words, that
Hazlitt had a grain too much of sen-
suality in his composition, which di-
verted him from the search after
truth? The expression, ''the flesh
was strong," and the quotation so cu-
riously introduced from Shakspeare,
seem to point this way. And then,
again, are we to understand that this
too much of sensuality was owing to
a want of imagination ? — that central
power of imagination which is here
described in a manner that no systom
of metaphysics we have studied enables
us in the least to comprehend. We
know something of ScheUing's " In-
tellectual intuition" transcending the
ordinary scope of reason. Is this
" intellectual vision, which the imagi-
nation substitutes for proof," of the
same family ? But indeed it would
be idle insincerity to ask such ques-
tions. Sergeant Talfourd knows no
more than we do what it means.
The simple truth is, that here, as too
frequently elsewhere, he aims at a
certain subtlety of thought, and falls
unfortunately upon no thought what-
ever— upon mere confusion of thought,
which he attempts to hide by a quan-
tity of somewhat faded phrase and
riietorical diction.
If we refer to the original essay it-
self, we shall not be aiding ourselves
or Mr Talfourd. The statement is
fuller, and the confusion greater. In
one point it relieves us — it relieves
us entirely from the necessity of too
deeply pondering the philosophic im-
port of any phraseology our critic
may adopt, for the phrase is changed
merely to please the ear ; and what at
first has the air of definition proves to
be merely a poetic colouring. He
thus commences his essay: "As an
author, Mr Hazlitt may be contem-
plated principally in three aspects —
as a moral and political reasoner, as
an observer of character and manners,
and as a critic in literature and paint-
• Vol.ii., p. 157.
144
Charles Lamb.
[Aug.
lag. It is in the first character only
that he should be followed with cau-
tion." In the two others he is, of
course, to be followed implicitly. Vfky
he was not equally perfect as a moral
and political reasoner, Mr Talfourd
proceeds to explain. I^Ir Hazlitt had
^^ a passionate desire for truth," and
also ^* earnest aspirations for the beau-
tiful." Now, continues our critic,
'* the vivid sense of beauty may, in-
deed, have fit home in the breast of
the searcher after truth, but then ho
must also be endowed with the highest
of all human faculties — the great me-
diatory and interfusing power of ima-
gination, which presides supreme over
the mind, brings all its powers and
impulses into harmonious action, and
becomes itself the single organ of all.
At its touch, tmth becomes visible in
the shape of beauty; the fairest of ma-
terial things become the living sym-
bols of airy thought, and the mind ap-
prehends the finest affinities of tfie
world of sense and spiiit ^in clear
dream and solemn vision.^ " This last
expression conveys, we presume, all
the meaning, or no- meaning, of the
phrase afterwards adopted — the " in-
tellectual vision which it substitutes
for truth." Both are mere jingle.
The rest of the passage is much the
same as it stands in the Final Memo-
rials. Somehow or other Mr Hazlitt
is proved to have been defective as a
reasoner, because he wanted imagi-
nation ! — and imagination was want^,
not to enlarge his experience of men-
tal phenomena, but to step between
his love of truth and his sense of
beauty. Did he ever divulge this dis-
covery to his friend Hazlitt? — and how
did the metaphysician receive it ?
To one so generous'^.towards others,
it would be ungradons to use hard
words. Indeed, to leave before an
intelligent reader these specimens of
** fine analysis," and "powers of discri-
minating and distinguishing," is quite
severe enough punishment. We wish
we could expunge them, with a host of
similar ones, not only from our record,
but from the works of the author him-
self.*
It is time that we turn from the
biography to the writings of Charles
Lamb — ^to Ella, the gentle humorist.
Not that Charles Lamb is exclosivdy
the humorist : far from it His ven^
is, at all events, sufficient to demon*
strate a poetic sensibility, and his
prose writings display a subtlety of
analysis and a delicacy of perception
which were not always enlisted in the
service of mirth, bnt which were often
displayed in some refined criticism, or
keen observation upon men and man-
ners. Still it Is as a humorist that he
has chiefly attracted the attention of
the reading public, and obtained his
popularity and literary status. But
the coarser lineaments of the humor-
ist are not to be found in him. His
is a gentle, refined, and refining
humour, which never trespasses npon
delicacy ; which docs not excite tnat
common and almost brutal laughter
so easily raised at what are caUea the
comic miseries of life— often no comedr
to those who have to endure them. It
is a humour which generally attains
its end by investing what is lowly
with an unexpected interest, not b^
degrading what is noble by allying it
with mean and grotesqne circum-
stance, (the miserable art of parody;)
it is a humour, in short, which excites
our laughter, not by stifling all reflec-
tion, but by awakening the mind to
new trains of thought, and prompting
to odd but kindly sympathies. It is a
humour which a poet might indulge in,
which a very nun might smile at,
which a Fenelon would at times pe-
pare himself mildly to admonish, but,
on seeing from how clear a sjurit it
emanated, would, relaxing his brows
again, let pass nnreproved.
There is a great rage at present
for the comic ; and, to do jostioe to
our own times, we think it may be
said that wit was never more abun-
dant— and certaihly the pencil was
never used with more genuine hunonr.
But we cannot sympathise with,
or much admire, that class of writers
who seem to make the comic their
exclusive study, who peer into eyery-
thing merely to find matter of jest in
it. Everything is no more comic than
everythmg is solemn, in this mingled
world of ours. These men, reyersinr
the puritanical extravagance, would
* The author of Ion ought not to be held in remembrance for any of these piostio
blunders he may have committed.
1849.]
Charles Lamb,
145
improve every incident into the occa-
sion of a langh. At length one ex-
treme becomes as tedions as the other.
We hare, if we may trust to adver-
tisements, for we never saw the pro-
dnction itself, a Comic History of
Engiand! and, amongst other editions
of the learned commentator, A Comic
BShduiome! We shall be threatened
some day with a Comic EncydopcB^
dia; or we shall have these comic
gentry following the track round the
whole world which Mrs Sonmier-
%ille has lately taken, in her charming
book on Physical Geography. They
will go hopping and grinning after
her, peeping down volcanoes, and
Conning upon coral reefsj and finding
tuffhter in all things in this circum-
oaingable globe. Well, let them go
^nning from pole to pole, and all
along the tropics. We can wish them
no wor?e punishment.
This exclusive cultivation of the
comic must sadly depress the organ
of veneration, and not at all foster
any refined feelings of humanity. To
him who is babitmdly in the mocking
vein, it matters little what the sub-
ject, or who the sufferer, so that ho
has his jest. It is marvellous the
utter recklessness to human feeling
these light langhcrs attain to. Their
seemingly sportive weapon, the ^^ sa-
tiric thong" they so gaily use, is in
harder bands than could be found
anywhere else out of Smithfield. Nor
is it qoite idle to notice in what a
direct barefaced manner these jesters
appeal to the coarse untutored malice
of onr nature. If we were to ana-
lyse the jest, we should sometimes find
that we had been laughing just as
wisely as the little untaught urchin,
who cannot hold his sides for ** fun,**
if some infirm old woman, slipping
npon the slide he has made, falls down
upon the pavement. The jest only
tots while reflection is laid asleep.
In this, as we have already inti-
mated, lies the d^erenee between the
crowd of jesters and Charles Lamb.
We quit their uproarious laughter fbr
his more qniet and pensive humour
with somewhat the same fbclnig that
we leave the n<Msy, though amusing,
bfgfaway, fbr the cool landscape and
the soft greensward. We reflect as
wo smile ; the malice of our nature is
father laid to rest than called forth ; a
kindly and forgiving temper is excited.
We rise from his works, if not with
any general truth more vividly im-
pressed, yet prepared, by gentle and
almost imperceptible touches, to be
more social in our companionships,
and warmer in our friendships.
Whether from mental indolence, or
from that strong partiality he con-
tracted towards familiar things, he
lived, for a man of edncation and in-
telligence, in a sin^nlariy limited
circle of thought. In the stirring
times of the first French Revolution,
we find him abstracting himself from
the great drama before him, to bur}'
himself in the gossip of Bumefs His-
tory. He writes to Manning — *' I am
reading Burners own Times, Quite
the prattle of age, and outlived im-
portance. . . . Burnetts good old
prattle I can bring present to my
mind; I can make the Revolution
present to me — the French Revolu-
tion, by a converse perversity in my
nature, I fling as far from me.*^
Science appears never to have inter-
ested him, and such topics as political
economy may well be supposea to have
been quite foreign to his nature. But
even as a reader of poetry, his taste, or
his partialities in his range of thought,
limited him within a narrow circuit. IL^
could make nothing of Groethe's Faust ;
Shelley was an unknown region to
him, and the best of his productions
never excited liis attention. To Byron
he was almost cqnsdly indifferent.
From these he could turn to study
George Withers ! and find matter for
applause in lines which needed, in-
deed, the recommendation of ago t(»
give them the least interest. His per-
sonal friendship for Wordsworth and
Coleridge led him here out of that
circle of old writers he delighted to
dwell amongst ; otherwise, we verily
believe, he would have deserted them
for Daniell and Quarlcs. But perhaps,
to one of his mental constitution, it
required a certain concentration to
bring his powers into play ; and wo
may owe to this exclnsiveness of taste
the admirable fragments of criticism
he has given us on Shakspeare and
the elder dramatists.
In forming our opinion, however, of
the tastes and acquirements of Lamb,
we must not forget that wo are deal-
ing with a humorist, and that liis tcs-
146
ChaarUs L(mh.
[Aug.
tlmony against himself cannot be
always ts^en literally. On some
occasions we shall find that he amnsed
himself and his friends by a merry
vein of self-disparagement ; he wonld
delight to exaggerate some deficiency,
or perhaps some Cockney taste, in
which, perhaps, he differed from others
only in his boldness of avowal. He
had not, by all accounts, what is called
an ear for masic ; but we are not to
put faith in certain witty descriptions
he has given of his own obtoseness to
all melodious sounds. Wc find him,
in some of his letters, speaking of
Braham with all the enthusiasm of a
young haunter of operas. " I follow
him about," he says, " like a dog."
Nothing has given more scandal to
some of the gentle admirers of Lamb,
than to find him boldly avowing his
preference of Fleet Street to the
mountains of Cumberland. Ho claimed
no love for the picturesque. Shops,
and the throng of men, were not to be
deserted for lakes and waterfalls. It
was hL<9 to live in Tendon, and,
as a place to Uve in^ there was no
peculiarity of taste in preferring it to
Cumberland ; but when he really paid
his visit to Coleridge at Keswick, he
felt the charm fally as much as tour-
ists who are accustomed to dwell,
rather too loudly, upon their raptures.
The letters he wrote, after this visit,
from some of which we will quote, if
our space permits us, describe very
naturally, unatfectedlv, and vividly,
the impressions which are produced
on a first acquaintance with moun-
tamous scenery.
Indeed wo may remark, that no
man can properly enter into the cha-
racter or the writings of a humorist,
who is not prepared both to permit
and to understand certain little depar-
tures from truth. We mean, that
playing with the subject where our
convictions are not intended to be
seriously affected. Those who must
see everything as true or false, and
immediately approve or reject accord-
ingly, who know nothing of that
pundtum indifferens on which the hu-
morist, for a moment, takes his stand,
had better leave him and his writings
entirely alone. " I like a smuggler,"
says Charies Lamb, in one of his
essays. Do you, thereupon, gravely
^".lect that a smuggler, living in
constant violation of the laws oT
the land, ought by no means to
be an object of partiality with any
respectable order-loving gentleman?
Or do you nod assent and aoqniesoe in
this approbation of the smuggler?
Yon do neither one nor the otiier.
Yon smile and read on. Yon know
very well that Lamb has no de-
sign upon yonr serions convictions,
has no wish whatever that yotc should
like a smuggler ; he merely gives ex-
pression to a partiality of his own,
unreasonable if yon will, bnt arisfaig
firom certain elements intheamn^er's
character, which just then are upper-
most in his mind. A great deal of
the art and tact of the humorist lies
in bringing out little truths, and
making them stand in the foregroond,
where greater truths usually take op
their position. Thus, in one of Lamb^s
papers, he would prove that a con-
valescent was in a less enviable con-
dition than a man downright ill. This
is done by heightcnmg the effeet dT
a subordinate set of circnmstanoes,
and losing sight of facts of mater
importance. No error of jn^gment
can really be introduced by this spor-
tive ratiocination, this mock logic,
while it perhaps may be the means of
disclosing many ingenions and snbtle
observations, to which, afterwards,
you may, if yon will, assign thdr jnst
relative importance.
It would be a work of snpereroga-
tion, even if space allowed ns, to go
critically over the whole writings of
Lamb — ^his poems, his essays, and his
letters. It is the last alone that
we shall venture to pause upon, or
from which we may hope to make any
extract not ahready familiar to the
reader. His poetiy, indeed, cannot
claim much critical attention. Itis pos-
sible, here and there, to find an elegant
verse, or a beautiful expression; there
is a gentle, amiable, pleasing tone
throughout it ; but, upon the whole, it is
without force, has nothing to recom-
mend it of deep thought or strong pas-
sion. His tragedy of John WoodmB^ is
a tame imitation of the manner of the
old dramatists— K)f their manner when
engaged in their subordinate and pre-
paratory scenes. For there is no
attempt at tragic passion. We read
the piece asking ourselves when the
play is to begin, and while still asking
J
OarkiLttmb.
MBtioD, find onfselres brought to
MdiuioiL If the poems are read
nr, the Etaajf$ of Eiia have
perused bj all. Who is not
ar with what is now a historic
the disooveiy of roast pig in
? This, and many other touches
iionr, it wonld be useless here to
« His letters, as being latest
hed, seem alone to call for any
al observations, and firom these
lU cuU a few extracts to enliven
rn critical labours,
at first strikes a reader, on the
d of the letters, is their remark-
■mflarity in style to the essays.
of them, indeed, were altcr-
eonverted into essays, and that
by adding to them than altering
rtnictnre. That style, which at
leems extremely artificial, was,
A, natural in Lamb. Ho had
d for himself a manner, chiefly
9 atody of our classical essayists,
f still older writers, from which
Id have been an effort in him to
;. "With whatever ease, there-
V rapidity, he may have written
ters, it was impossible that they
. bear the impress of freedom.
7le was essentially a lettered
partaking little of the conversa-
Ume of his own day. Tliey
obtain the ease of finished com-
•i8f not of genuine letters. For
^ for no other reason, they can
be brought into comparison with
cbmrming spontaneous eifbsions
lonr wWch flowed from Cowper,
letters to his old friend Hill, and
lain, Lady Hesketh. They are
ing productions, however, aud
lat of his letters will take rank,
nk, with the best of his essays,
pid>lic estimation.
must first quote from a letter to
iag, after his visits to the lakes,
me his character in the eyes of
rers of the picturesque from the
ition of being utterly indifferent
higher beauties of nature.
Iflfidge received as with all the
Jitj in the world. He dwells
small hill by the side of Keswick,
afortable house, quite enveloped on
Bt b J a net of mountains : great
iring bean and monsters they-
If lul conchant and asleep. We
in the evening, travelling in a post-
ftvm PeDri&, in the midst of a
147
gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all
the mountains into colours, purple, Ac,
&c. We thought we had £ot into fairy-
land. But that went off (and it never
came again ; while we stayed we had no
more fine sunsets), and we entered Cole-
ridge's comfortable study just in the
dusk, when the mountains were all dark
with clouds on their heads. Such an im-
pression I uever received from objects of
sight before, nor do I suppose that I can
ever again. Glorious creatures, fine old
fellows — Skiddaw, &c. — I neyer shall for-
get ye, how ye Uy about that night like
an entrenchment — gone to bed, as it
seemed for the night, but promising that
ye were to be seen in the morning
We have clambered up to the top of
Skiddaw ; and I have waded up the bed
of Lodore. In fine, I have satisfied my-
self that there is such a thing as tourists
call romantic, which I very much sus-
pected before ; they make such a sput-
tering about it Oh! its fine black
head, and the bleak air atop of it, with
the prospects of mountains about aud
about, making you giddy. It was a day
that will stand out like a mountain, I am
sure, in my life."
Of IVIr Manning we are told little
or nothing, though he seems to have
been one of the very dearest friends
of Lamb. His best letters are written
to Manning — the drollest, and some
of the most affecting. The following
was written to dissuade him from
some scheme of oriental travel. Man-
ning was, at the time, at Paris : —
«F<f6. If), 1803.
''Mr DEAR Manning, — The general
scope of your letter afibrdcd no indications
of insanity ; but some particular points
raised a scruple. For God's sake, don't
think any more of ' Independent Tartary.*
What are you to do among such Ethio-
pians { Read Sir John Mandeville's
travels to cure you, or come over to
England. There is a Tartar-man now
exhibiting at Exeter Change. Come and
talk with him, and hear what he says
first. Indeed, he is no favourable speci-
men of his countrymen ! Some say they
are cannibals ; and then conceive a Tar-
tar fellow eatintj my friend, and adding
the coot maliijnity of mustard and vine-
gar! I am afraid 'tis the reading of
Chaucer has misled you ; his foolish
stories about Cambuscan, and the ring and
the horse of brass. Believe me, there are
no such things. Tliese are all tales — a
horse of brass never flew, and a king's
daughter never talked with birds. The
Tartars really are a oold, insipid,
148
Charles Lamb.
[Aug.
smoutchy set. You'll be sadly moped
(if you are not eaten) amongst them.
Pray try and cure yourself. Share your-
self ofkener. Eat no saffron; for 8affh>n
eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like
yellow. Shave the upper lip. Go about
like a European. Read no books of
voyages, (they are nothing but lies;) only
now and then a romance, to keep the
fancy under. Above all, don't go to any
sights of itild hearts. That has been your
it
rum.
And when Manning really departed
on his voyage to China, he writes to
him in the following mingled strains
of humour and of feeling. Being
obliged to omit a great deal, it would
only be unsightly to mark every in-
stance where a sentence has been
dropt. The italics, we must remark,
are not ours. If Lamb's, they show
how naturally, even in writing to his
most intimate friend, ho fell into the
feelings of the author: —
*' May 10, \80G.
" Be sure, if you see any of
those people whose heads do grow be-
neath their shoulders, that you make a
draught of them. It will be very curious.
Oh ! Manning, I am serious to sinking
almost, when I think that all those
evenings which you have made so pleasant
are gone, perhaps for ever. Four years,
you talk of, may be ten — and you may
come back and find such alterations!
Some circumstance may grow up to you
or to me, that may be a bar to the return
of any such intimacy. I dare say all this
is hum I and that all will come back ;
but, indeed, we die many deaths before
we die, and I am almost sick to think
that such a hold I had of you is gone."
^Dec.5,U06.
" Manning, your letter dated Hotten-
tots, August the — what was it ? came to
hand. I can scarce hopo that mine will
havo the same luck. China — Canton —
bless us! how it strains the imagination,
and makes it ache. It will be a point of
conscience to send you none but bran-
new news (the latest edition), which will
but grow the better, like oranges, for
a sea voyage. Oh that you should be so
many hemispheres off— if I speak incor-
rectly you can correct me — ^why, the sim-
plest death or marriage that takes place
here must be important to you as news in
the old Bastile."
He then tells him of the acceptance
of his farce — Mr H. ; which fai'co, by
the way, was produced, and failed,
Lamb tnmiog against his own pro-
duction, and joining the andienoe in
hissing it off the stage. It certainly
deserved its fate.
*' Now, you'd like to know the subject
The title is, * Mr H.' No more ; how
simple, how taking ! A great H sprawl-
ing over the play-bill, and attracting eyes
at every comer. The story is, a coxcomb
appearing at Bath, vastly rich — ^all the
ladies dying for him — all bursting to
know who he is ; but he goes by no other
name than Mr H. — a curiosity like that
of the dames of Strasburg about the man
with the great nose. But I won't tell
you any more about it. Yes, I will ; bat
I can't give you any idea how I have
done it. I'll just tell you that, after
much vehement admiration, when his true
name comes out, 'Hogsflesh,' all the
women shun him, avoid him, and not one
can be found to change her name for him;
that's the idea — ^how flat it is here — but
how whimsical in the farce ! And only
think how hard upon me it is, that the
ship is despatched to-morrow, and my
triumph cannot be ascertained till the
Wednesday after. But all China will
ring of it by-and-by. Do you find, in aU
this stuff I have written, anything like
those feelings which one should send my
old adventuring friend that is gone to
wander among Tartars, and may never
come again I I don't ; but your going
away, and all about you, is a threadbare
topic. I have worn it out with thinking.
It has come to me when I have been doll
with anything, till my sadness has seemed
more to have come flrom it than to have
introduced it. I want you, you don't
know how much ; but if I had you here,
in my European garret, we shonld but
talk over such stuff as I have written.
" Grood Heavens ! what a bit only I've
got left ! How shall I squeeze all I know
into this morsel ! Coleridge is come home,
and is going to turn lecturer on taste at
the Royal Institution. How the paper
grows less and less 1 In less than two
minutes I shall cease to talk to yon, and
you may rave to the great Wall of China.
— N.B. Is there such a wall t Is it as big
as Old London WaU by Bedlam ! Have
you met with a friend of mine, named
i3all, at Canton ? If you are acquainted,
remember me kindly to him."
But we shonld be driven into as
hard straits as Lamb, at the close of
his epistle, if we should attempt, in
the small space that remains to ns, to
give any fair idea of the various
^'humours" and interests, of many
kinds, of these letters. We pass at
yS^.2 Charles Lamb,
once to those that illnsh'ate the last
important inddeot of his life, his re-
tirement from office. It is thus he
describes his manamission, and the
sort of troubled delight it brought
with it, to Wordawortti : —
149
'* m April, ier25.
''Here am I then, after thirty-three
years' slaTery, sitting in my own room, at
eleren o'clock this finest of all April morn-
ings, a freed man, with £441 a-year for
the remainder of my life, live I as long
as JiAm. Dennis, who outliyed his annuity
anJ starred at ninety.
** I came home for bter on Tuesday
of last week. The incomprehensibleness
of my condition OTerwhelmed me. It was
like pMsing from life into eternity. Every
year to be as long as three ; i.^.,to have
three times as much real time — time that
is my own in it ! I wandered about think-
ing I was happy, but feeling I was not.
Bet that tnmnltnousness is passing oif,
an J I begin to understand the nature of
tlie gift."
And to Bernard Barton he writes »
''^ My spirits are so tumultuary with
the noTelty of my recent emancipation,
that 1 hare scarce steadiness of hand,
ranch more of mind, to compose a letter.
I am free, Bernard Barton — free as air !
* The little bird, that wings the sky,
Knows no such liberty.*
I was set free on Tuesday in last week at
four o>lock. I came home for ever !
*^ I haye been describing my feelings,
as well as I can, to Wordsworth, and
care not to repeat. Take it briefly, that
ior a few days I was painfully oppressed
by so mighty a change, but it is becoming
daily more natural to me. I went and
sat among them all, at my old thirty-
three years' desk yester morning; and
deuce take me, if I had not yearnings at
learing all my old pen-and-ink fellows,
merry sociable lads, at leaying them in
the larch— fag, fag, fag ! The comparison
of my own superior felicity gaye me any-
thing but pleasnre.
^ B. B., I would not serye another
seyen years for seren hundred thousand
ponnda ! I haye got £440 net for life,
with a proyisiou for Mary if she surrives
me. I will liye another fifty years."
Bat to live without anj steady
oompnlsory occapation requires an
apprenticeship as mnch as any other
mode of life. An idle man ought to
be bom and bred to the profession.
VTiih Lamb, literature could be no-
thing bat an amusement, and for a
VOL. LXVI.— wo. CCCCVI.
mere amusement literature is far too
laborious. It cannot, indeed, serve
long as an amnsemcnt except when it
is ^opted also as a labour. He was
destined, therefore, to make the hu-
miliating discovery, which so many
have made before him, that one may ,
have too much time, as well as too
little, at one's own disposal. Writing
to the same Bernard Barton, a year
or two afterwards, he says : —
" What I can do, and over-do, is to
walk ; but deadly long are the days,
these summer all-day days, with but a
half-hour's candle-light and no fire-light.
I do not write, tell your kind inquisitive
Eliza, and can hardly read. 'Tis cold
work authorsliip, without something to
puff one into fashion. ... I assure
you MO icork is worse than over-xcork. The
miud preys on itself, the most unwhole-
some food. I bragged, formerly, that I
could not have too much time.^ I have a
surfeit ; with few years to come, the days
arc wearisome. But weariness is not
eternal. Something will shine out to
take the load off that crushes me, which
is at present intolerable. I have killed
an hour or two in this poor scrawl. Well ;
I shall write merrier anon. 'Tis the pre-
sent copy of my countenance I send, and
to complain is a little to alleviate.*'
He had taken a house at Enfield,
bat the cares of housekeeping were
found to be bm*dcnsome to Miss Lamb,
and they took up their abode as
boarders in the house of a neighbour.
To this circumstance he alludes in the
following extract from a letter to
Wordsworth, which is the last we
shall make, and with which we shall
bid farewell to our subject. It wDl
be found to be not the least remark-
able amongst the letters of Lamb, and
contains one passage, we think, the
boldest piece of extravagance that
ever humorist ventured upon with suc-
cess. It just escapes ! — and, indeed, it
rather takes away our breath at its
boldness than prompts to men*iment.
** Jantt«ry2,1831.
" And is it a year since we parted from
you at the steps of Edmonton stage !
There are not now the years that there
used to be. The tale of the dwindled
age of men, reported of successional man-
kind, is true of the same man only. We
do not live a year in a year now. 'Tis a
pun^um gtant. The seasons pass yrith
indifference. Spring cheers not, nor win-
ter heightens our gloom ; autumn hath
150
CkarktLamb.
IJ^
foregone its moralilies. Lei the Ballea
notMng paat. Saffloe it, that after sad
spirita, prolonged through many of its
months, we haTe cast our skins ; hare
taken a farewell of the pompous, trouble-
some trifle, called housekeeping, and are
settled down into poor boarders and lodg-
ers at next door, the Baucis and Bauoida
of dull Enfield. Here we have nothing
to do with our Tictnals but to eat them ;
with the garden but to see it grow ; with
the tax-gatherer but to hear him knock ;
with the maid but to hear her scolded.
Scot and lot, butcher, baker, are things
unknown to us, sare as spectators of the
pageant. We are fed we know not how ;
quieted — confiding rarens. Yet in the
self-condemned obliTiousness, in the stag-
nation, some molesting yearnings of life,
not quite killed, rise, prompting me that
there was a London, and that I was of
that old Jerusalem. In dreams I am in
Fleet Market, but I wake and cry to
sleep again. I die hard, a stubborn
Eloisa in this detestable Paraclete. What
have I gained by health f Intolerable
dnlness. What by early hours and mo-
derate meals f A total blank. Oh ! let
no natire Londoner imagine that health,
and rest, and innocent occupation, inter-
change of conTerse sweet, and recreatire
study, can make the country anything
better than altogether odious and detest-
able. A gardtm wot ike prkmUve primmt
till man, with Prametkmm ftlieiiy amd
boldtuu, luckily timued kvmelf tml U
it:*
Any further summary than what
we have already given, ^ the literary
character of Lamb, would be only
tedioos. He is one who will be
generally Uhed^ who with a amalier
class will be greatly admired, and
who will never excite hostile criti«
dsm, unless hit iojudicioiis friends
shall elevate him to a higher pedestal
than is due to him, or than he is
manifestly fit to occupy. Such is the
cold and calm verdict with which oi-
ticLam must dismiss him. But those
who have thoroughly enjoyed the
essays of Elia and the letters of Lamb,
will feel a warmer, a more partial
affection than Criticism knows weQ
how to express: she becomes some-
what impatient of her own enforced
gravity; she would willingly throw
away those scales with which, like
Jastice, we suppose, she is symboli-
cally supplied, and, embracing the
man as he is, laugh and be pleased
with the rest of the world, without
further thought of the matter.
18490
The CaxtonB.^Port XV.
161
THE GAXTON8. — PART XV.
CHAFTEB LXXZIV.
** Plkase, sir, be this note for yea?"
asked the waiter.
" For me — yes ; it ia my name."
I did not recognise the handwriting,
juid yet the note was from one whose
writing I had often seen. Bat for-
■leriy the writing was cramped, stiff,
perpeadicaiar, (a feigned hand, though
I guessed not it was feigned ;) now
it was has^f irregular, impatient —
weaane a letter formed, scarce a word
tibat seemed finished — and yet strange-
ly legible withal, as the handwriting
of a bold man almost alwajrs is. I
apeaed tbe note listlessly, and
**I hare watched for yon all the
BoniiDg. I saw her go. Well! — I
did not dnDw myself under the hoofs
of the hones. I write this in a pub-
lic-honse, sot far. Will you follow
tl« bearer, and see once again the
ooteast whom all the rest of the world
will Shan ?"
Though I did not recognise the
hand, there could be no doubt who
was the writer.
" The boy wants to know if there's
an answer," said the waiter.
I nodded, took up my hat, and left
the room. A ragged boy was stand-
ing in the yard, and scarcely six words
passed between us, before I was fol-
lowing him through a narrow lane
that faced the inn, and terminated in
a turnstile. Here the boy paused,
and, making me a sign to go on, went
back his way whistlmg. I passed the
turnstile, and found myself in a green
field, with a row of stunted wUlows
hanging over a narrow rill. I looked
lonnd, and saw Vivian (as I intend
stin to call him) half kneeling, and
aeemin^y intent upon some object in
Hm grass.
My eye followed his mechanically.
A young nnfledged bird, that had left
liM nest too soon, stood, all still and
akne, on the bare short sward — its
beak open as for food, its gaze fixed
oiiQS with a wistful stare. Methonght
there was something hi the forlorn
inrd tiiatsetoned me more to the for-
lomer youth, of whom it seemed a
type.
*''' Now," said Vivian, speaking half
to himself, half to me, ^' did the bird
fail from the nest, or leave the nest at
its own wild whim ? The parent does
not protect it. Mind, I say not it is
the parentis fault — perhaps the fault
is all with the wanderer. But, look
you, though the parent is not here,
the foe is 1 — ^yonder, see I"
And the young man pointed to a
large brindled cat, that, kept back
from its prey by our unwelcome neigh-
bourhood, still remained watchful, a
few paces off, stirring its tail gently
backwards and forwards, and with
that stealthy look in its round eyes^
dulled by the sun — half fierce, half
frightened — which belongs to its tribe,
when man comes between the de-
vonrer and the victim.
*'*' I do see/' said I, *^ but a passing
footstep has saved the bird !"
"Stop!" said Vivian, laying my
hand on his own, and with his old
bitter smile on his lip — " stop I do
you think it mercy to save the bird ?
What from ? and what for? From a
natural enemy — from a short pang
and a quick death ? Fie I—is not that
better than slow starvation? or, if
you take more heed of it, than the
prison- bars of a cage? You cannot
restore the nest, you cannot recall
the parent. Be wiser in your mercy :
leave the bird to its gentlest fate I"
I looked hard on Vivian ; the lip
had lost the bitter smile. He rose
and turned away. I sought to tako
up the poor bird, but it did not know
its friends, and ran from me, chirping
piteously — ^ran towards the very jaws
of the grim enemy. I was only just
in time to scare away the beast, which
sprang up a tree, and glared down'
through the hanging boughs. Then I
followed the bird, and, as I followed,
I heard, not knowing at first whenco
the sound came, a short, quick, tremu-
lous note. Was it near ? was it far ?
—from the earth ? In the sky? Poor
parent-bird 1 — like parent-lore, it
152
Tlie Caxtons.^Part X V.
seemed now far and now near ; now
on earth, now in sky !
And at last, quick and sadden, as if
born of the space, lo ! the little wings
hovered over me !
[Aug.
The young bird halted, and I also-
'* Come," said I, "ye have found each
other at last — settle it between you!"
I went back to the out<^ast.
CnAPTEB LXXXV.
PisisTRATus. — How camc you to
know we had stayed in the town ?
VrvTAN. — Do you think I could re-
main where you left me? I wandered
out — wandered hither. Passing at
dawn through yon streets, I saw the
ostlers loitering by the gates of the
yard, overheard them talk, and so
knew you were all at the inn — all !
(He sighed heavily.)
PisiSTRATUs. — Your poor father is
very ill! O cousin, how could you
fling from you so much love !
Vivian. — Love ! — his ! — my fa-
ther's !
PisisTRATrs. — Do you really not
believe, then, that your father loved
yon?
Vivian. — If I had believed it, I had
never left him ! All the gold of the
Indies had never bribed me to leave
my mother !
PisiSTRATUs. — This is indeed a
strange misconception of yours. If
we can remove it, all may bo well yet.
Xeed there now be any secrets be-
tween us? {persuasively.) Sit down,
and tell me all, cousin.
After some hesitation, Vivian com-
plied; and by the clearing of his brow,
and the very tone of his voice, I felt
sure that he was no longer seeking to
disguise the truth. But, as I after-
wards learned the father^s tale as well
as now the son^s, so, instead of re-
peating Vivian's words, which — not
by design, but by the twist of a mind
habitually wrong— distorted the facts,
I will state what appears to me the
real case, as between the parties so
unhappily opposed. Header, pardon
me if the recital be tedions. And if
thou thinkest that I bear not hard
enough on the erring hero of the
story, remember that he who reciten
judges as Austin's son must judge of
Roland's.
CHArTER LXXXV r.
ViVLvy.
AT THB ENTRANCE OF LIFE 81TS — THE MOTHER.
It was during the war in Spain that
a severe wound, and the fever which
ensued, detained Roland at the house
of a Spanish widow. His hostess had
once been rich ; but her fortune had
been ruined in the general calamities
of the country. She had an only
daughter, who assisted to nurse and
tend the wounded Englishman ; and
when the time approached for Ro-
land's departure, the frank grief of
the young Bamouna betrayed the
impression that the guest had made
upon her afifections. Much of grati-
tude, and something, it might be, of an
exquisite sense of honour, aided, in
Holand's breast, the charm naturally
produced by the beauty of his young
nurse, and the knightly compassion he
felt for her ruined fortunes and deso-
late condition.
In one of those hasty impulses
common to a generous nature — and
which too often fatally vindicate the
rank of Pnidence amidst the tntelaij
Powers of Life — ^Roland committed
the error of marriage with a girl of
whose connexions he knew nothmg,
and of whose nature little more tJiaa
its warm spontaneous susceptibility.
In a few days subsequent to these
rash nuptials, Roland rejoined the
march of the army ; nor was he able
to return to Spain till after the crown-
ing victory of Waterloo.
Maimed by the loss of a limb, and
with the scars of many a noble wound
still fresh, Roland then hastened to a
1W9.]
The Caxtons.'-Part XV,
153
kome the dreams of which had soothed
the bed of i>ain, and now replaced the
earlier visions of renown. Daring
his absence a son had been born to
him — a son whom he might rear to
take the place he had left in his conn-
try's service ; to renew, in some fa-
tare fields, a career that had failed
the romance of his own antique and
chivalroos ambition. As soon as that
news had reached him, his care had
been to provide an English nurse for
the infant — so that, with the first
Eoands of the mother's endearments,
the child might yet hear a voice from
the father's land. A female relation
of fiolt's had settled in Spain, and
was induced to undertake this duty. Na-
tural as this appointment was to a man
so devotedly English, it displeased his
wild and passionate Ramouna. She
had that mother's jealousy, strongest
in minds uneducated; she had also
that peculiar pride which belongs to
her country-people, of every rank
and condition ; the jealousy and the
pride were both wounded by the sight
of the English nurse at the child's
cradle.
That Roland, on regaining his Spa-
■ish hearth, should be disappointed in
his expectations of the happiness
awaiting him there, was the inevi-
table condition of such a marriage ;
9ince, not the less for his military
bluntness, Roland had that refinement
of feeling, perhaps over- fastidious,
which belongs to all natures essen-
tially poetic ; and as the first illusioiis
•f love died away, there could have
been little indeed congenial to his
stately temper in one divided from
him hy an utter absence of education,
and by the strong but nameless dis-
ttnctkms of national views and man-
nen. The disappointment probably,
koweyer, went deeper than that
which usually attends an ill-assorted
viion; for, instead of bringing his
wife to his old tower, (an expatria-
tion which she would doubtless have
nsisted to the utmost,) he accepted,
maimed as he was, not very long after
his retom to Spain, the offer of a
military post under Ferdinand. The
Cavalier doctrines and intense loyalty
of Roland attadied him, without reflec-
tion, to the service of a throne which
the English arms had contributed to
establish ; while the extreme unpopu-
larity of the Constitutional Party in
Spain, and the stigma of irreligiou
fixed to it by the priests, aided to
foster Roland's belief that he was sup-
porting a beloved king against the
professors of those revolutionary and
Jacobinical doctrines, which to him
were the very atheism of politics.
The experience of a few years in tlic
service of a bigot so contemptible as
Ferdinand, whose highest object of
patriotism was the restoration of the
Inquisition, added another disappoint-
ment to those which had already em-
bittered the life of a man who had
seen in the grand hero of Cervantes
no follies to satirise, but high virtues
to imitate. Poor Quixote himself —
he came rooumfnlly back to his La
Mancha, with no other reward for his
knight-errantry than a decoration
which he disdained to place beside his
simple Waterioo medal, and a grade
for which he would have blushed to
resign his more modest, but more
honourable English dignity.
Bat, still weaving hopes, the san-
guine man returned to his Penates.
His child now had grown from in-
fancy into boyhood— the child would
pass naturally into his care. Delight-
ful occupation! — At the thought,
Home smiled again.
Now, behold the most pernicious
circumstance in this ill-omened con-
nexion.
The father of Ramouna had been
one of that strange and mysterious
race which presents in Spain so many
features distinct from the characteris-
tics of its kindred tribes in more civi-
lised lands. The Gitdno, or gipsy of
Spain, is not the mere vagrant we see
on our commons and roadsides. Re-
taining, indeed, much of his lawless
principles and predatory inclinations,
he lives often in towns, exercises
various calUngs, and not unfrequently
becomes rich. A wealthy Git4no
had married a Spanish woman;*
Roland's wife had been the offspring
of this marriage. The Gitdno had
died while Ramouna was yet ex-
tremely young, and her childhood had
* A Spaniavd jerj rarely indeed marries a Gitina or female gipsy. Bat coca-
jnonallj (obserres Mr Borrow) a wealthy Gitino marries a Spanish female.
154
JTk Ctatmu^^Pcart
[A»f.
been free from the inflaences of her
paternal kindred. Bat, thoagh her
mother, retatninf( her own religion,
had bronght np Ramoana in the same
faith, pnre from the godless creed of
the Git4no — and, at her husband's
death, had separated herself wholly
from his tribe — still she had lost caste
urith her own kin and people. And
while straggling to regain it, the for-
tune, which made her sole chance of
success in that attempt, was swept
away, so that she had remained apart
and solitary, and could bring no
friends to cheer the solitude of Ra-
mouna during Roland's absence. But,
while my uncle was still in the semce
of Ferdinand, the widow died; and
then the only relatives who came
round Ramoana were her father's
kindred. They had not yen tared to
claim affinity while her mother lived ;
and they did so now, by attentions
and caresses to her son. This opened
to them at once Ramouna's heart and
doors. Meanwhile, the English nurse
— who, in spite of all that could ren-
der her abode odious to her, had,
from strong love to her charge, stontly
maintained her pos1>-— di^, a few
weeks after Ramouna's mother, and
no healthftil influence remained to
counteract those baneful ones to which
the heir of the honest old Caxtons
was subjected. But Roland retarned
home in a humour to be pleased with
all things. Joyously he clasped his
wife to his breast, and thonght, with
self-reproach, that he had forborne
too little, and exacted too much — he
would be wiser now. Delightedly he
acknowledged the beauty, the intelli-
gence, and manly bearing of the boy,
who played with his sword-knot, and
ran off with his pistols as a prize.
The news of the Englishman's
arrival at first kept the lawless kins-
folk from the house ; but they were
fond of the boy, and the boy of them,
and interviews between him and these
wild comrades, if stolen, were not less
frequent. Gradually Roland's eyes
became opened. As, in habitnal in-
tercourse, the boy abandoned the re-
serve which awe and canning at fii-st
imposed, Roland was inexpressibly
shocked at the bold principles his son
affected, and at his utter incapacity
even to comprehend that plain honesty
and that frank honoar which, to the
English soldier, seemed IdMs imurte
and heaven- planted. Soon after-
wards, Roland found that a system of
j^under was carried on in his hons^
hold, and tracked it to the oonnivanee
of the wife and the agency of the sob^
for the benefit of lazy bravos and dis-
solute vagrants. A more patient man
than Roland might well have been
exasperated — a more wary man con-
founded, by this discovery. He toek
the natural step — perhaps insisting on
it too summarily — perhaps not allow-
ing enough for the nncaltored mind
and lively passions of his wife: he
ordered her instantly to prepare to
accompany him from the place, and'
to give np all commanication with her
kindred.
A vehement refusal ensued ; bat
Roland was not a man to give ip
such a point, and at length a false
submission, and a feigned repentance
soothed his resentment and obtained
his pardon. They moved several
miles from the place ; bat where tbej
moved, there, some at least, and
those the worst, of the baleful broody
stealthily followed. Whatever Bn*
mouna's earlier love for Roland had
been, it had evidently long ceased in
the thorough want of sympathy be-
tween them, and in that abeenoe
which, if it renews a strong affection^
destroys an affection already weak*
ened. But the mother and son adored
each other with all the strength of
their strong, wild natures. Even un-
der ordinary circumstances, the father's
influence over a boy yet in childhood
is exerted in vain, if the mother lend
herself to baffle it. And in this miser-
able position, what chance had the
blunt, stem, honest Roland (separated
from his son dnring the roost daetile
years of infancy) against the ascend-
ency of a mother who hnmoaied all
the faults, and gratified all the wishes,
of her darling?
In bis despair, Roland let fall the
threat that, if thns thwarted, it woald
become his duty to withdraw his son
from the mother. This threat in-
stantly hardened both hearts agaiosi
him. The wife represented £U»land
to the boy as a tyrant, as an enemy
— as one who had destroyed all the
happiness they had before enjoyed in
each other — as one whose severity
showed that he hated his own child ;
la^j
lU Ck3atmi.^Pltirt XV.
155
and the boy believed her. In bis own
houe a firm nnion was formed against
Roland, and protected bj the canning
which is the force of the weak against
the strong.
In spite of ail, Boland could never
Ibrgei the tenderness with which the
joong nurse bad watched over the
woanded man, nor the love — genuine
for the hour, though not drawn from
the ieeliBgs which withstand the wear
and tear of life — that lips so beautiful
had pledged him in the bygone days.
Tbeae thonghts must have come per-
petually between his feelings and his
judgment, to embitter still more his
positioo — to harass still more his
heart. And if, by the strength of
that sense of dnty which made the
force of his character, he could have
strung himsdf to the ftdfilment of the
threat, hvnanity, at all events, com-
peiied him to delay it — his wife pro-
mised to be andn a mother. Blanche
was bom. How could he take the
in&nt from the mother^s breast, or
abandcm the daughter to the fatal
iafluences fh>m which only, by so
violent an eifiurt, he could free the son?
No wonder, poor Roland I that those
deep furrows contracted thy bold
front, and thy hair grew gray before
its time I
Fortunately, perhaps, for all par-
ties, Roland*8 wife died while Blanche
was still an infant. She was taken
ill of a fever — she died delirious,
clasping her boy to her breast, and
praying the saints to protect him from
bis cruel father. How often that
deathbed haunted the son, and justi-
fied his belief that there was no pa-
rent*s love in the heart which was
now his sole shelter fh>m the world,
and the ^* pelting of its pitiless rain."
Again I say, poor Roland I — ^for I know
that, in that harsh, unloving disrup-
tnre of such solemn ties, thy large
generous heart forgot its wrongs;
again didst thou see tender eyes bend-
ing over the wounded stranger — again
hear low murmurs breathe the warm
weakness which the women of the
south deem it no shame to own. And
now did it all end in those ravings of
hate, and in that glazing gaze of
terror I
OHAPTEB LZZXVn.
TBI PRECBPTOR.
Roland removed to France, and
ixed his abode in the environs of
Paris. He placed Blanche at a con-
vent In the immediate neighbourhood,
going to see her daily, and gave him-
self np to the education of his son.
The boy was apt to learn ; but to un-
learn was here the arduous task — and
for that task it would have needed
either the passionless experience, the
exquisite fiorbearance of a practised
teacher, or the love, and confidence,
and yielding heart of a believing
pupil. Roland felt that he was not
tibe man to be the teacher, and that
Iris son's heart remained obstinately
doeed to him. He looked round, and
fi>and at the other side of Paris what
aeemed a soitable preceptor — a young
Frenchman of some distinction in
letten, more especially in science,
with all a Frenchman's eloquence of
talk, ftillof high-sounding sentiments,
that pleased the romantic enthusiasm
of the Captain; so Rohmd, with san-
guine hopes, confided his son to this
man's care. The boy's natural quick-
ness mastered readily all that pleased
his taste; he learned to speak and
write French with rare felicity and
precision. His tenacious memory,
and those flexile organs in which the
talent for languages is placed, served,
with the help of an English master,
to revive his eariier knowledge of his
father's tongue, and to enable him to
speak it with fluent correctnescT —
though there was always in his accent
something which had struck me as
strange ; but, not suspecting it to be
foreign, I had thought it a theatrical
afiectation. He did not go far into
science — little farther, perhaps, than
a smattering of French mathematics ;
but he acquired a remarkable facility
and promptitude in calculation. . He
devoured eageriy the light reading
thrown in his wav, and pifiked up
thence that kind of knowledge which
novels and plays afford, for good or
156
The CaxtOHS.^Part XV.
[Aug.
evil, according as the novel or the
play elevates the understanding and
ennobles the passions, or merely cor-
nipts the fancy, and lowers the stan-
dard of human nature. But of all
that Roland desired him to be taught,
the son remained as ignorant as be-
fore. Among the other misfortunes
of this ominous marriage, Koland's
wife had possessed all the supersti-
tions of a Roman Catholic Spaniard,
and with these the boy had uncon-
sciously intermingled doctrines far
more dreary, imbibed from the dark
paganism of the Gitauos.
Roland had sought a Protestant for
his son's tutor. The preceptor >vas
nominally a Protestant — a biting
deridcr of all superstitions indeed !
He was such a Protestant as some
defender of Voltaire's religion says
the (ireat Wit would have been had
he lived in a Protestant country. The
Frenchman laughed the boy out of
his superetitions, to leave behind them
the sneering scepticism of the Erwy-
<:lopedie^ without those redeeming
ethics on which all sects of philosophy
are agreed, but which, unhappily, it
requires a philosopher to comprehend.
This preceptor was doubtless not
aware of the mischief he was doing ;
and for the rest, he taught his pupil
after his own system — a mild and
plausible one, very much like the
system we at home are recommended
to adopt — " Teach the understanding,
all else will follow ;" " Learn to read
something^ and it will all come right;'*
" Follow the bias of the pupil's mind ;
thus you develop genius, not thwart
it." Mind, Understanding, Genius —
fine things ! But, to educate the whole
man, you must educate something
more than these. Not for want of
mind, imderstanding, genius, have
Borgias and Neros left their names
as monuments of horror to mankind.
Where, in all this teaching, was one
lesson to warm the heart and guide
the soul ?
O mother mine ! that the boy had
stood by thy knee, and heard from thy
lips, why life was given us, in what
life shall end, and how heaven stands
open to ns night and day I O father
mine ! that thou hadst been his pre-
ceptor, not in book-learning, but the
heart's simple wisdom ! Oh ! that be
had learned from thee, in parables
closed with practice, tlie happiness of
self-sacrifice, and how "good deeds
should repair the bad 1"
It was the misfortune of thb boy,
with his daring and his beaaty, that
there was iu his exterior and his
manner that which attracted indulgent
interest, and a sort of compassionate
admiration. The Frenchman liked
him — believed his story — thought him
ill-treated by that hard-vlsag^ £ng«
lish soldier. All English people were
so disagreeable, pai'ticnlarly English
soldiers ; and the Captain once mor-
tally oflTended the Frenchman, bj call-
ing Yilainton un grand homme^ and
denying, with brutal indignation, that
the English had poisoned Napoleon !
So, instead of teaching the son to love
and revere his father, the Frenchman
shrugged his shoulders when the boy
broke into some unfilial complaint,
and at most said, ^^ Mais^ cher enfant^
ton pere est Anglais — c^est tout dire J''
Meanwhile, ns the child sprang rapidly
into precocious youth, he was i)cr-
mitted a liberty in his hours of leisure,
of which he availed himself with all
the zest of his early habits and adven-
turous temper. He formed acquaint-
ances among the loose yonng haunters
of cafes, and spendthrifts of that
capital — the wits ! He became an
excellent swordsman and pistol-shot
— adroit in all games in which skill
helps fortune. He learned betimes to
furnish himself with money, by the
cards and the billiard-balls.
But, delighted with the easy home
he had obtained, he took care to
school his features, and smooth his
manner, in his father's visits — to
make the most of what he had learned
of less ignoble knowledge, and, with
his characteristic imitativenesa, to
cite the finest sentiments he had found
in his plays and novels. What father
is not credulous? Roland believed,
and wept tears of joy. And now he
thought the time was come to take
back the boy — to return with a worthy
heir to the old Tower. He thanked
and blest the tutor — he took the son.
But, under pretence that he had yet
some things to master, whether id
book knowledge or manly aooom-
plishments, the yonth b^ged his
father, at all events, not yet to return
to England — to let him attend his
tutor daily for some months. Rohuid
1649.]
The Caxiant.—Part XV.
157
consented^ moTed Irom his old qnar-
ten, and took a lodging for both in
the same snbnrb as that in which the
teacher resided. Bnt 80on« when
thej'were under one roof, the boy's
habitnal tastes, and his repugnance
to all paternal anthority, were be-
trayed« To do my nnhappy consin
justice, (snch as that justice is,)
though he had the cnnning for a short
disgnise, he had not the hypocrisy to
maintain systomatic deceit. He could
play a part for a while, from an
exalting joy in his own address ; but
he could not wear a mask with the
patience of cold-blooded dissimula-
tion* Why enter into paioful details,
so easily divined by the intelligent
reader ? The faults of the son were
precisely those to which Boland would
be least indulgent. To the ordinary
scrapes of high-spirited boyhood, no
father, I am sure, would have been
more lenient ; but to anything that
seemed low, petty—that grated on
him as gentleman and soldier— there,
not for worlds would I have braved
the darkness of his frown, and the
woe that spoke like scorn in his voice.
And when, after all warning and pro-
hibition were in vain, Roland found
his son, in the middle of the night, in
a resort of gamblers and sharpei-s,
carrying all before him with his cue,
in the full flush of triumph, and a
great heap of flve-franc pieces before
him — ^you may conceive with what
wrath the proad, hasty, passionate
man, drove out, cane in hand, the
obscene associates, flinging after them
the son's ill-gotten gains ; and with
what resentful humiliation the son
was compelled to follow the father
home. Then Roland took the boy to
Eogland, but not ^to the old Tower ;
that hearth of his ancestors was still
too sacred for the footsteps of the
vagrant heir !
CHAPTER LXXXVm.
TEIS RBARTH WITHOUT TRUST, AND THB WORLD WrTHOUT A GUIDE.
And then, vainly grasping at every
argument his blunt sense could sug-
gest— ^then talked Roland much and
grandly of the duties men owed —
even if they threw off all love to their
father — stili to their father's name;
and then his pride,>always so lively,
grew irritable and harsh, and seemed,
BO doubt, to the perverted ears of the
son, unlovely and unloving. And
that pride, without serving one pur-
pose of good, did yet more mischief;
for the youth caught the disease, but
in a wrong way. And he said to
himself, —
^'Ho! then my father is a great
man, with aU these ancestors and big
words! And he has lands and a
castle — and yet how miserably we
live, and bow be stints me I But if
he has cause i<x pride in all these
dead men, why, so have I. And are
these lod^gs, these 'appnrtonances,
fit for the ^ gentleman ' he says I
am?"
Even in England, the gipsy blood
broke out as before; and the youth
found vagrant associates, heaven
knows bow or where ; and strange-
looking forms, gaudily shabby, and
disreputably smart, were seen lurking
in the comer of the street, or peering
in at the window, slinking off if they
saw Roland — and Roland could not
stoop to be a spy. And the sou's
heart grow harder and harder against
his father, and his father's face now
never smiled on him. Then bills
came in, and duns knocked at the
door. Bills and: duns to a man who
shrunk from the thought of a debt, as
an ermine from a spot dh its hide!
And the son's short answer to remon-
strance was, — ^' Am I not a gentle-
man?— these are the things gentle-
men require." Then perhaps Roland
remembered the experiment of his
French friend, and left his bureau
unlocked, and said, ^^ Ruin me if you
will, bnt no debts. There is money
in those drawers — they are unlocked.*^
That trust would for ever have cured
of extravagance a youth with a high
and delicate sense of honour: the
pupil of the Gitdnos did not under-
stand the trust; he thought it con-
veyed a natural though ungracious
permission to take out what ho
wanted — and he took! To Roland
this seemed a theft, and a theft of the
158
Tkt CbxIoM.— Avf XV.
[AiV.
coarsest kind : bat when he so said,
the son started indignant, and saw in
that which had been so touching an
appeal to his honour, but a trap to
decoy liim into disgrace. In short,
neither could understand the other.
Roland forbade his son to stir from
the house; and the young man the
same night let himself out, and stole
forth into tlie wide world, to enjoy or
defy it in his own wild way.
It would be tedious to follow him
through his various adventures and
experiments on fortune, (even if I
knew them all, which I do not.) And
now, putting altogether aside his right
name, which he had voluntarily aban-
doned, and not embarrassing the
reader with the earlier aliases as-
sumed, I shall give to my unfortu-
nate kinsman the name by which I
first knew him, and continue to do so,
until — heaven grant the time may
come I — having first redeemed, he may
reclaim, his own. It was in joining a
set of strolling players that Vivian
became acquainted with Peacock ;
and that worthy, who had many
strings to his bow, soon grew aware
of Vivian's extraordinary skill with
the cue, and saw therein a better
mode of making their joint fortunes
than the boards of an itinerant Thespis
furnished to either. Vivian listened
to him, and it was while their inti-
macy was most fresh that I met them
on the highroad. That chance meet-
ing produced (if I may be allowed to
believe his assurance) a strong, and,
for the moment, a salutary effect upon
Vivian. The comparative innocence
and freshness of a boy*s mind were
new to him ; the elastic healthful
spirits with which those gifts were
accompanied startled him, by the
contrast to his own forced gaiety and
secret gloom. And this boy was his
own cousin !
Coming afterwards to London, he
adventured inquiry at the hotel in the
Strand at which I had given my
address ; learned where we were ;
and, passing one night in the street,
saw my uncle at the window — to
recognise and to fly from him. Hav-
ing then some money at his disposal,
he broke off abruptly from the set into
which he had been thrown. He re-
solved to return to France— he would
try for a more respectable mode of
existenoe. He had not found happi-
ness in that liberty he had woo, nor
room for the ambition that began to
gnaw him, in those porsnits from
which his father had yainl j warned
him. His most reputable' frieid
was his old tutor; he would go to
him. He went; but the tntor was
now married, and was himself a
father, and that made a wonderfal
alteration in his practical etfaiei. It
was no longer moral to aid the atm
in rebellion to his father. Yiviaa
evinced his usual sarcastic haughti-
ness at the reception he met, and wis
requested civilly to leave the house.
Then again he flung himself on his
wits at Paris. But there were plenty
of wits there sharper than his own.
He got into some qnarrel with the
police — ^not indeed for any dishonest
practices of his own, but from aa
unwary acquaintance with others less
scrupulous, and deemed it pmdent to
quit France. Thus had I met him
again, forlorn and ragged, in the
streets of London.
Meanwhile Roland, after the first
vain search, had yielded to the indig-
nation anddisgustthat had long ranklei
within him. His son had thrown off
his authority, because it preserved
him from dishonour. His ideas of
discipline were stem, and patienos
had been wellnigh crushed out of his
heart. He thought he could bear to
resign his son to his (mte — ^to disown
him, and to say, *^ I have no more a
son." It was in this mood that he had
first visited our house. But when, on
that memorable night in which he had
narrated to his thrilling listeners the
dark tale of a fellow-sufferer's woe and
crime — betraying in the tale, to my
father's quick sympathy, his own sor-
row and passion — it did not need ranch
of his gentler brother's subtle art to^
learn or guess the whole, nor muck
of Austin's mild persuasion to con-
vince Roland that he had not yet
exhausted all efforts to track the wan*
derer and reclaim the erring child.
Then he had gone to London — then ho
had sought every spot which the out-
cast would probably haunt — then had
he saved and pinched from his own
necessities, to have wherewithal to
enter theatres and gaming-houses, and
fee the agencies of police ; then had
he seen the form fnr which he had
I
71b Oa3Kiomt.—Pari XV.
169
ed and pined, m the street below
ndow, and cried in a joyoas de-
, ^ He repents I" One da j a let-
ached my nnde, through his
r'a, from the French to cor, (who
nf no other means of tracing Re-
al through the house by which
larj had been paid,) infonning
his 8on*8 visit. Roland started
tlj for Paris. Arriving there, he
fwly learn of bis son through
iliee, and from them only learn
a kad been seen in the company
onpliahed swindlers, who were
J in the hands of justice ; but
lie youth himself, whom there
was nothing to criminate, had been
suiiered to quit Paris, and bad taken,
it was supposed, the road to £ngland.
Then at last the poor Captain*s stout
heart gave way. His son the com-
panion of swindlers I — could he be sure
that he was not their accomplice? If
not yet, how small the step between
companionship and participstion I He
took the child left him still from the
convent, returned to England, and
arrived there to be seized with fever
and delirium — apparently on the same
day (or a day before that on which)
the son had dropped shelteriess and
penniless on the stones of London.
CBAFTIR LXZXIX.
ATTEMrr TO BUILD A TBMPLB TO FORTUNB OUT OF THB RUINS OP BOMB.
lat^" said Vivian, pursuing his
* bat when yon came to my aid,
lowing me — when you relieved
rhen from yonr own lips, for the'
Ime, I heard words that praised
nd for qualities that implied I
yet be ^ worth much.* — Ah I (he
monmfnlly,) I remember the
rords — a new light broke upon
itniggling and dim, but light
Tlie ambition with which I had
t the truckling Frenchman re-
, and took worthier and more
tB form. I would lift myself
(he mire, make a name, rise in
iu^s head drooped, but he raised
klj, and laughed— his low mock-
Agb. What follows of his tale
be told succinctly. Retaining
tier feelings towards his father,
olved to continue his incognito
gave himself a name likely to
2l conjecture, if I oonvers^ of
> my family, since he knew that
d was aware that a Colonel
II had been afflicted by a runaway
■nd, indeed, the talk upon that
t had first put the notion of
into his own head. He caught at
ea of becoming known to Tre-
] ; but he saw reasons to forbid
log indebte<l to me for the intro-
n-^to forbid my knowing where
s: sooner or later, that know-
eoakl scarcely fail to end in the
my of his real name. Fortu-
vaa be deemed, for the plans he
began to meditate, we were all leaving
London— he should have the stage to
himself. And then boldly he resolved
upon what he regarded as the master
scheme of life — viz., to obtain a small
pecuniary independence, and to eman-
cipate himself formally and entureiy
from his father*s control. Aware of
poor Roland's chivalrous reverence
for his name, firmly persuaded that
Roland had no love for the son, but
only the dread that the son might
disgrace him, he determined to avail
himself of his father's prejudices in
order to efiect his purpose.
He wrote a 8hort letter to Roland^
(that letter which had given the poor
man so sanguine a joy — that letter
after reading which he had said to
Blanche. '' Pray for me.") stating
simply, that he wished to see his fa-
ther; and naming a tavern in the city
for the meeting.
The interview took place. And
when Roland, love and forgiveness in
his heart— but (who shall blamehim?)
dignity on his brow, and rebuke in his
eve — approached, ready at a word to
fling himself on the boy's breast, Vi-
viiin, seeing only the enter signs, and
Inrcrpreting them by his own senti-
ments— recoiled; folded his arms on
his bosom, and said coldly, ''Spare
me reproach, sir — it is unavailing. I
seek you only to propose that yoa
shall save your name, and resign yonr
son.
i»
Then, Intent perhaps but to gain
160
The Caxtans.—Part XV.
[Aug.
his object, the unhappy youth de-
clared his fixed determination never
to live with his father, never to acqai-
osce in his authority, resolutely to
pursue his own career, whatever that
career might be, explaining none of
the circumstances that appeared most
in his disfavour — rather, perhaps,
thinking that, the worse his father
judged of him, the more chance he
had to achieve his purpose. " All I
ask of you," he said, " is this : Give
me tlic least you can afford to pre-
serve me from the temptation to rob,
or the necessity to starve ; and I, in
fiiy turn, promise never to molest you
in life — never to degrade you in my
death ; whatever my misdeeds, they
will never reflect on yourself, for you
shall never recognise the misdoer!
The name you prize so highly shall
he. spared." Sickened and revolted,
Roland attempted no argument — there
was that in the son's cold manner
which shut out hope, and against
which his pride rose indignant. A
meeker man might have remonstrated,
implored, and wept — that was not in
Roland's nature. He had but the
choice of three evils, to say to his
son : *' fool, I command thee to fol-
low me ;" or say, " Wretch, since
thou wouldst cast me off as a stranger,
as a stranger I say to thee — Go,
starve or rob, as thou wilt !" or last-
ly, to bow his proud head, stunned
by the blow, and say, " Thou refusest
me the obedience of the son, thou de-
mandest to be as the dead to me. I
can control thee not from vice, I can
guide thee not to virtue. Thou wouldst
sell me the name I have inherited
Htainless, and have as stainless borne.
Be it so ! — Name thy price !"
And something like this last was
the father's choice.
He listened, and was long silent ;
and then he said slowly, " Pause be-
fore you decide."
" I have paused long — my decision
is made! this is the last time we
meet. 'I see before mo now the way
to fortune, fairly, honourably; yon can
aid me in it only in the way I have
said. Beject me now, and the option
may never come again to either!"
And then Roland said to hunself,
'^ I have spared and saved for this
son ; what care I for aught else than
enough to live without debt, creep
into a comer, and await the grave!
And the more I can give, why the
better chance that he will abjnrethe vile
associate and the desperate course.^
And so, out of that small income,
Roland surrendered to the rebel child
more than the half.
Vivian was not aware of his father's
fortune — he did not snppose the sum
of two hundred pounds a-ycar was an
allowance so disproportioned to Ro-
land's means — ^yet when it was named,
even he was struck by the generosity
of one to whom he himself had given
the right to say, *^ I take thee at thy
word ; * just enough not to starve!' '*
But then that hatefnl cynicism
which, canghtfrom bad men and evil
books, he called *^ knowledge <xf tbe
world," made him think, ^Mt is not for
me, it is only for his name ;** and he
said aloud, *^I accept these tenns,
sir ; here is the address of a solicitor
with whom yours can settle them.
Farewell for ever."
At those last words Roland started,
and stretched out his arms vaguely
like a blind man. But Vivian bad
already thrown open the window,
(the room was on the ground floor)
and sprang upon the sill. "Fare-
well," he repeated : ** tell the world I
am dead."
He leapt into the street, and the
father drew in the outstretdied arms,
smote his heart, and said — "Well,
then, my task in the world of man is
over ! I will back to the old min —
the wreck to the wrecks — and the
sight of tombs I have at least rescued
from dishonour shall comfort me for
all !"
CHAPTER XC.
THE RESULTS—PERVERTRD AMBITION — SELFISH PAS810N — THE INTELLECT DISTOETEO
BY THE CROOKEDNESS OF THE HEART.
Vivian's schemes thus prospered.
Ho had an income that permitted
him (he outward appearances of a
gentleman — an independence modest
indeed, but independence still. We
were all gone from London. One
1849.]
The CaxtoM.-'Parl XV.
161
letter to me^ with the postmark of
the town near which Colonel Yiyian
tiyed, sufficed to confirm mj belief in
his parentage, and in his return to his
Mends. He then presented himself
to Trevanion as the young man whose
pen I had employed in the member's
service; and knowing that I had
never mentioned his name to Treva*
nion — for without Vivian's permission
I should not, considering his apparent
trust in me, have deemed myself
authorised to do so — he took that of
Gower, which he selected haphazard
from an old Court Guide, as having
the advantage in common with most
names borne by Uie higher nobility of
England, viz., of not being confined,
as the ancient names of untitled gen-
tlemen usually are, to the membera of
a single family. And when, with his
usual adaptability and suppleness, he
had contrived to lay aside, or smooth
over, whatever in his manners would
be oilcnlated to displease Trevanion,
and had succeeded in exciting the
interest which that generous states-
man dways conceived for ability, he
owned candidly, one day, in the pre^*
sence of Lady Ellinor — ^for his experi-
ence had taught him the comparative
ease with which the sympathy of
woman is enlisted in anything that
appeals to the imagination, of seems
out of the ordinary beat of life — that
he had reasons for concealing his
connexions for the present — ^that he
had cause to believe I suspected what
they were, and, from mistaken regard
for his welfare, might acquaint his
relations with his whereabout. He
therefore begged Trevanion, if the
latter had occasion to write to me,
not to mention him. This promise
Trevanion gave, though reluctantly ;
for the confidence volunteered to him
seemed to exact the promise ; but as
he detested mystery of all kinds, the
avowal might have been fatal to any
farther acquaintance ; and under aus-
pices 80 doubtful, there would have
been no chance of his obtaining that
Intimacy in Trevanion's house which
ho de^red to establish, but for an
acddent which at once opened that
house to him almost as a home.
Vivian had alwa^^s treasured a lock
of his mother's hair, cut off on her
deathbed; and when he was at his
Prencb totor's, his first pocket-money
had been devoted to the purchase of
a locket, on which he had caused to
be inscribed his own name and hi^
mother's. Through all his wander-
ings he had worn this relic ; and in
the direst pangs of want, no hunger
had been keen enough to induce him
to part with it. Now, one morning
the ribbon that suspended the locket
gave way, and his eye resting on th(^
names inscribed on thegold,hethou^t,
in his own vague sense of right, im-
perfect as it was, that. his compact
with his father obliged him to have
the names erased. He took it to a
jeweller in Piccadilly for that purpose;,
and gave the requisite order, not
taking notice of a lady in the farther
part of the shop. The locket was
still on the counter after Vivian had
left, when the lady coming forward
observed it, and saw the names on
the surface. She had been struck by
the peculiar tone of the voice, which
she had heard before ; and that very
day Mr Gower received a note from
Lady Ellinor Trevanion, requesting
to see him. Much wondering, he
went. Presenting him with the
locket, she said smiling, *^ There is
only one gentleman in the world who
calls himself De Caxton, unless it be
his son. Ah! I see now why you
wished to conceal yourself from my
friend Plsistratus. But how is this ?
can you have any difierence with
your father ? Confide in me, or it is
my duty to write to him."
Even Vivian's powers of dissimula-
tion abandoned him, thus taken by
surprise. He saw no altemative but
to trust Lady Ellinor with his secret,
and implore her to respect it. And
then he spoke bitterly of his father's
dislike to him, and his own resolution
to prove the injustice of that dislike
by the position he would himself
establish in the world. At present,
his father believed him dead, and
perhaps was not ill-pleased to think
so. He would not dispel that belief
till he could redeem any boyish errors,
and force his family to be proud to
acknowledge him.
Though Lady EUinor was slowto be-
lieve that Roland could dislike his son,
she could yet readily believe that ho
was harsh and choleric,with a soldier's
high notions of discipline; the yoting
man's story moved her, his determina-
162
The Caxtons.^Pan XV.
lion pleased her own high spirit ; —
always with a touch of romance in
her, and always sympathisiog with
each desire of ambition — she entered
into Vi viands aspirations with an
alacrity that surprised himself. She
was charmed with the idea of mini-
stering to the son's fortunes, and
ultimately reconciling him to the
father, — through her own agency ; —
it would atone for any fault of which
Roland could accuse herself in the
old time.
She undertook to impart the secret
to Trevauion, for she would have no
secrets from him, and to secure his
acquiescenece in its concealment from
all others.
And here I must a little digress from
the chronological course of my expla-
natory narrative, to inform the reader
that, when Lady Ellinor had her in-
terview with Roland, she had been
repelled by the sternness of his manner
from divulging Vivian's secret. But
on her first attempt to sound or conci-
liate him, she had begun with some
eulogies on Trevanion's new friend
and assistant, Mr Gower, and had
awakened Roland^s suspicions of
that person's identity with his son
— suspicions which had given him a
terrible interest in onr joint deliver-
ance of Miss Trcvanion. But so
heroically had the poor soldier songht
to resist his own fears, that on the way
he shrank to put to me the questions
that might paralyse the energies which,
whatever the answer, were then so
much needed. ^^ For," said he to my
father, ^^ I felt the blood surging to my
temples ; and if I had said to Pisis-
tratns, *• Describe this man,^ and by
his description I had recognised my
son, and dreaded lest I might be too
late to arrest him from so treacherons
a crime, my brain would have given
way ; — and so I did not dare !"
I return to the thread of my story.
From the time that Vivian confided in
Lady Ellinor, the way was cleared to
his most ambitious hopes ; and though
his acqniMtions were not sufKcicntly
scholastic and various to permit Tre-
vanion to select him as a secretary,
yet, short of sleeping at the house, he
was little less intimate there than I
had been.
Among Vivian^s schemes of ad-
vancement, that of winning the hand
[Aug.
and heart of the great heiress had not
been one of the least sanguine. Thif
hope was annulled when, not long
after his intimacy at her iather*t
house, she became engaged to young
J^rd Castleton. But he could not
see Miss Trevanion with impunity^
(alas! who, with a heart yet free,
could be insensible to attractions so
winning?) He permitted the love^
such love as his wild, half-educated,
half-savage nature acknowledged—
to creep into his soul — to master it;
but he felt no hope, cherished no
scheme while the young lord lived.
With the death of her betrothed,
Fanny was free; then he began to
hope — not yet to scheme. Acciden-
tally he encountered Peacock. Paitly
from the levity that accompanied a
false good-nature that was consUta-
tional with him, partly from a vaffoe
idea that the man might be usefol,
Vivian established his quondam asso-
ciate in the service of TreTanitm.
Peacock soon gained the secret of
Vivian's love for Fanny, and, dazzled
by the advantages that a marriige
with Miss Trevanion would confier oa
his patron, and might reflect on him-
self, and delighted at an occasion to
exercise his dramatic accompJishmeBts
on the stage of real life, he soon pno-
tised the lesson that the theatres bid
taught him — yiz: to make a sob-
intrigue between maid and yakt seno
the schemes and insure the success of
the lover. If Vivian had some op-
portunities to imply his admiration,
Miss Trevanion gave him none to
plead his cause. But the softness of
her nature, and that graceful kindneii
which snrrounded her like an atmo-
sphere, emanating unconsciously froni
a girl's harmless desire to please,
tended to deceive him. His own per-
sonal gilts were so rare, and, in his
wandering life, the effect they had
produced had so increased his reliance
on them, that he thought he wanted
bnt the fair opportunity to woo in
order to win. In this state of mental
intoxication, Trevanion, having pro-
vided for his Scotch secrotaiy, took
him to Lord N 's. His hostess
was one of those middle-aged ladies
of fashion, who like to patronise and
bring forward young men, accepting
gratitude for condescension, as a ho-
mage to beauty. She was atmck by
ne Caxtom.'-Part XV.
168
i*s exterior, and that ^pieta-
' in look and in manner which
ad to him. Naturallj garrulooa
diacreet, ahe was unreserved to
{ whom she conceived the whim
ke ^amjaii to society.' Thus
iked to him, among other topics
liiOD, of Miss Trevanion, and
•ed her belief that the present
Caatleton had always admired
Mt it was only on his accession
aarqaisate that he had made
I mind to marn% or, from his
edge of Lady £llinor*s ambi-
thonght that the Marquis of
Um might achieve the prize
wonld luive been refused to Sir
^ fieandesert. Then, to corro-
I the predictions she hazarded,
peafted, perhaps with exaggera-
MM passages from Lord Castle-
vepliea to hei* own suggestions
a anbject. Vivian's alai-m be-
iktally excited ; unregulated
■• eauly obscured a reason so
wnrerted, and a conscience so
mUy dulled. There is an in-
Ib all intense affectioo, (whether
eocmpt or pure,) that usually
its jealousy prophetic Thus,
he first, out of all the brilliant
lonnd Fanny TrevaDion, my
IT had pre-eminently fastened
Sedley Beaudesert, though, to
ming, without a cause. From
ime instinct, Vivian had con-
, tiio same vague jealousy — a
7, in his instance, coupled with
> dialike to his supposed rival,
■d wounded his self-love. For
irquis, though to be haughty or
d was impossible to the bland-
f hia nature, had never sho^^ni
4aa the genial courtesies he had
ed upon me, and kept politely
from his acquaintance — while
I'a personal vanity had been
led by that drawing-room effect,
the proverbial winner of all
produced without an effort — an
that threw into the shade the
» Mid the beauty (more striking,
laitely less prepossessing) of the
twoiis rival. Thus animosity
vd Castleton conspired with
Vb passion for Fanny, to rouse
It was worst by nature and by
B, in this andacious and tnrbu-
«aaftdaiit, Peacock, suggested
from his stage experience the out-
lines oi a plot, to which Vivian's
astuter intellect instantly gave tangi-
bility-and colouring. Peacock had
already found Miss Trevanion's wait-
ing-woman ripe for any measure that
might secure himself as her husband,
and a provision for life as a reward.
Two or three letters between them
settled the preliminary engagements.
A friend of the ex-comedian*s had
lately taken an inn on the North road,
and might be relied upon. At that
inn it was settled that Vivian should
meet Miss Trevanion, whom Peacock,
by the aid of the abigail, engaged to
lure there. The sole difficulty that
then remained would, to most men,
have seemed the greatest — viz., the
consent of Miss Trevanion to a Scotch
marriage. But Vivian hoped all
things from his own eloquence, art,
and passion ; and by an inconsis-
tency, however strange, still not un-
natural in the twists of so crooked an
intellect, he thought that, by insisting
on the intention of her parents to
sacrifice her youth to the very roan of
whose attractions he was roost jealous
— by the picture of disparity of years,
by the caricature of his rival's foibles
and frivolities, by the commonplaces
of "beauty bartered for ambition,"
&c, he might enlist her fears of the
alternative on the side of the choice
urged upon her. The plan proceeded,
the time came: Peacock pretended
the excuse of a sick relation to leave
Trevanion ; and Vivian, a day before,
on pretence of visiting the picturesque
scenes in the neighbourhood, obtained
leave of absence. Tlius the plot went
on to its catastrophe.
^^ And I need not ask;" said I, try-
ing in vain to conceal my indignation,
" how Miss Trevanion received your
monstrous proposition 1"
Vivian's pale cheek grew paler, bat
he made no reply.
^^ And if we had not arrived, what
would yon have done ? Oh, dare you
look into the gulf of infamy you have
escaped !"
*^ I cannot, and I will not bear
this!" exclaimed Vivian, starting up.
*''' I have laid my heart bare before
you, and it is ungenerous and nnman-
ly thus to press upon its wounds.
You can moralise, you can speak
coldly— but I— I loved I"
1G4
The Caxtons.—Part XV.
[Aug.
** And do yon think," I burst forth
— ^' do you think that I did not love
too ! — love longer than you have done ;
better than yon have done p gone
through sharper struggles, darker
days, more sleepless nights than yon,
— and yet — "
Vi>ian caught hold of me.
**Hnsh!" he cried; "is this in-
deed true I I tfiought you might have
had some faint and fleeting fancy for
Aliss Trevanion, but that you curbed
and conqnered it at once. Oh no ;
it was impossible to have loved really,
and to have surrendered all chance as
you did I — have left tiie house, have
fled from her presence! No — no,
that was not love ! "
" It xcm love ! and I pray Heaven
to grant that, one day, you may know
liow little your affection sprang from
lliose feelings which make true love
sublime ns honour, and meek as is
religion ! Oh cousin, cousin ! — with
those rare gifts, what you might have
been! what, if you will pass through
repentance, and cling to atonement —
what, I dare hope, you may yet be !
Talk not now of your love; I talk
not of mine ! lA)ve is a thing gone
from the lives of both. Go back to
earlier thoughts, to heavier wrongs!
— ^your father — that noble heart which
yon have so wantonly lacerated, that
much- enduring love which joa have
so little comprehended !"
Then with all the warmth of emo-
tion I hnrried on — showed him the
true nature of honour and of Roland
(for the names were one!) — showed
him the watch, the hope, the manly
anguish I had witnessed, and wept-^
I, not his son — to see ; showed him
the poverty and privation to which
the father, even at the last, had con-
demned himself, so that the son might
have no excuse for the sins that Want
whispers to the weak. This, and
much more, and I suppose with the
pathos that belongs to all earnestness,
I enforced, sentence after sentence-
yielding to no inteiTnption, over-mts-
tering all dissent; driving in the
truth, nail after nail, as it were, ioto
the obdurate heart, that I constrained
and grappled to. And at last, tbc
dark, bitter, cynical nature gave way,
and the young man fell sobbing at my
feet, and cried aloud, *^ Spare me,
spare me ! — I see it all now ! Wretch
that I have been I"
CUAPTER xci.
On leaving Vivian, I did not pre-
sume to promise him Roland's imme-
diate pardon. I did not nrgc him to
attempt to see his father. I felt the
time was not come for either pardon
or inten'iew. I contented myself
with the victory I had already gained.
T judged it right that thought, soli-
tude, and suflering should imprint
more deeply the lesson, and prepare
the way to the steadfast resolution of
reform. I left Jiim seated by the
stream, and with the promise to inform
him at the small hostelry, where he
took up his lodging, how Roland
struggled through his illness.
On returning to the inn, I was
uneasy to see how long a time had
elapsed since I had left my uncle.
But on coming into his room, to my
surj)rise and relief I found him up and
dressed, and with a serene though
fatigued expression of countenance,
lie asked me no questions where I
had l)een— perhaps from sympathy
with my feelings in parting with Miss
Trevanion — perhaps from conjecture
that the indulgence of those feeliogs
had not wholly engrossed mv time.
But he said simply, ^^ I think I
understood from you that yon bad
sent for Austin— is it so?"
" Yes, sir ; but I named ♦♦♦♦♦, ii
the nearest point to the Tower, for
the place of meeting.**
**Then let us go hence forthwith—
nay, I shall be better for the change.
And here, there must be cnriosity,
conjecture— torture !" said he, locking
his hands tightly together. ^* Order
the horses at once ! **
I left the room, accordingly; and
while they were getting ready the
horses, I ran to the place where I had
left Mvian. lie was still there, in
the same attitude, covering his face
with his hands, as if to shnt ont the
sun. I told him hastily of Roland*8
improvement, of our approaching de-
parture, and asked him an addr^ in
2819.3
London at which I could find him.
He gave me as his direction the same
lodging at which I had so often visited
Mm. ^' If there be no vacancy there
for me,'* said he, *^ I shall leave word
The Caxtans.—Part XV.
1C5
where I am to be found. Bat I wonld
gladly be where I was, before — " lie
id not finish the sentence. I pressed
his hand and left him.
CHAPTER xcn.
Some days have elapsed ; we are in
London, my father with ns; and
BoUnd has permitted Austin to tell
me his tale, and received throHgh
Anstin all that Vivian^s narrative to
me suggested, whether in extenuation
of the past, or in hope of redemption
in the fntore. And Anstin has inex-
pressibly soothed his brother. And
Koiand^s ordinary roughness has gone,
and hi8 looks are meek, and his voice
low. Bat he talks little, and smiles
never. He asks me no questions;
does not to me name his son, nor
recnr to the voyage to Australia, nor
ask ^why it is put off,* nor interest
himself as before in preparations for
it — he has no heart for anything.
The voyage is put off till the next
vessel sails, and I have seen Vivian
twice or thrice, and the result of the
interviews has disappointed and de-
pressed me. It seems to me that
mnch of the previous effect I had pro-
duced is already obliterated. At the
veiy sight of the great Babel — the
evidence of the ease, the luxury, the
wealth, the pomp, the strife, the
penury, the famine, and the rags,
which the focus of civilisation, in the
disparities of old societies, inevitably
ga&ers together — the fierce combative
dispofiition seemed to awi^en again ;
the perverted ambition, the hostility
to the world ; the wrath, the scorn ;
the war with man, and the rebellious
mmrmor against Heaven. There was
still the one redeeming pomt of repen-
tance for his wrongs to.his father — his
heart was still softened there; and,
attendant on that softness, I hailed a
rinciple more like that of honour than
had yet recognised in Vivian. He
eaneeUed the agreement which had
aasored him of a provision at the cost
(tf his father's comforts. ** At least,
there," he said, '' I will injure him no
more!**
Bat while, on this point, repentance
seemed genoine^ it was not so with
regard to his conduct towards Miss
VOL. LZVI. — ^NO. CCCCVI.
Trevanion. His gijpsy nurture, his
loose associates, his extravagant
French romances, his theatrical mode
of looking upon love intrigues and
stage plots, seemed all to rise between
his intelligence and the due sense of
the fraud and treachery he had prac-
tised. He seemed to feel more shame
at the exposure than at the guilt;
more despair at the failure of success
than gratitude at escape from crime.
In a word, the nature of a whole life
was not to be remodelled at once — at
least by an artificer so unskilled as I.
After one of these interviews, I stole
into the room where Austin sat with
Roland, and, watching a seasonable
moment when Roland, shaking off a
reverie, opened his Bible, and sat
down to it, with each muscle in his
face set, as I had seen it before, into
iron resolution, I beckoned my father
from the room.
PisiSTRATus. — I have again seen
my cousin. I cannot make the way I
wish. My dear father, you must see
him.
Mr Caxtok. — I ! — yes, assuredly,
if I can be of any service. But will
he listen to me?
PisisTRATUS. — I think so. A young
man will often respect in his elder,
what he will resent as a presumption
in his contemporary.
Mr Caxton. — ^It may be so : (ihen^
more thoughtfully^) but you describe
this strange boy's mind as a wreck I —
in what part of the mouldering timbers
can I fix the grappling-hook V Here,
it seems that most of the supports on
which we can best rely, when we would
save another, fail us. Religion, ho-
nour, the associations of childhood,
the bonds of home, filial obedience —
even the intelligence of self-interest,
in the philosophical sense of the word.
And I, too ! — a mere book-man I My
dear son ! — I despair I
PisiSTRATUs. — No, you do not de-
spair— no, you must succeed ; for, if
you do not, what is to become of
M
166
The Caxtons.'-Part X V.
[Angr-
Uncle Roland? Do 70a not see bis
heart is fast breaking?
Mr Caxton. — Gret me my hat ; I
will go. I will save this Ishmael
— I will not leave him till he is
saved!
PisiSTRATUS (some minutes after,
as ifiey are walking towarcTs Vivian's
lodgings.) — You ask me what support
you are to cling to 1 A strong and a
good one, sir.
Mr Caxton. — Ay, what is that?
FisisTRATus. — ^Affection ! There is
a nature capable of strong affection at
the core of this wild heart 1 He could
love his mother; tears gosh to his
eyes at her name — he would have
starved rather than part with the
memorial of that love. It was his be-
lief in his father^s indifference or dis-
like that hardened and embruted him
— it is only when he hears how that
father lov^ him, that I now melt his
pride and curb his passions. Yon
have affection to deal with I — do yon
despair now ?
My father turned on me those eyes
80 inexpressibly benign and mild, and
replied softly, " No I'"
We reached the house; and my
father said, as we knocked at the
door, " If he is at home, leave me.
This is a hard study to which you
have set me ; I must work at it
alone." Vivian was at home, and the
door closed on his visitor. My father
stayed some hours.
On returning home, to my groat
surprise I found Trevanion with my
undo. lie had found us out — no easy
matter, I should think. But a good
impulse in Trevanion was not of that
feeble kind which tuma home at the
sight of a difficulty. He had come to
Loudon on purpose to see and to
thank us.
I did not think there had been so
much of delicacy — of what I may call
the ^^ beauty of kindness" — in a man
whom incessant business had rendered
ordinarily blunt and abrupt. I hardly
recognised the impatient Trevanion
in the soothing, tender, subtle respect
that rather implied than spoke grati-
tude, and sought to insinuate what he
owed to the unhappy father, without
touching on his wrongs from the son.
But of this kindness — which showed
how Trevanion's high nature of gen-
tleman raised him aloof from that
coarseness of thought which those
absorbed wholly in practical 9Saiis
often contract---(^ this kindness, so
noble and so touching, Roland seemed
scarcely aware. He sat by the em-
bers of the neglected fire, his hands
grasping the arms of his elbow-chair,
his head drooping on his bosom ; and
only by a deep hectic flush on his
dark cheek coidd yon have seen that
he distinguished between an ordinary
visitor and the man whose child ho
had helped to save. This minister of
state — this high member of the elect,
at whose gift are places, peerages,
gold sticks, and ribbons — has notUng
at his command for the bruised spirit
of the half-pay soldier. Before that
poverty, that grief, and that pride, the
King's Counsellor was powerieas.
Only when Trevanion rose to depart,
something like a sense of the soothing
intention which the visit imjdied
seemed to rouse the repose of the old
man, and to break the ice at its sur-
face ; for he followed Trevanion to the
door, took both his hands, pressed
them, then turned away, and resumed
his seat. Trevanion beckoned to me,
and I followed him down stairs, and
into a little parlour which was unoc-
cupied.
After some remarks upon Boland,
full of deep and considerate feeling,
and one quick, hurried reference to
the son — to the effect that his guilty
attempt would never be known by the
world — ^Trevanion then addressed him-
self to me with a warmth and urgency
that took me by surprise. ^* After
what has passed," he exckumed, *' I
cannot st^er you to leave England
thus. Let me not feel with yon, as
with your uncle, that there is nothing
by which I can repay — ^no, I will not
so put it. Stay and serve your coxmtiy
at home : it is my prayer — ^it is EUi-
nor^s. Out of .all at my disposal, it
will go hard but what I ^all find
something to suit yon." And then,
hurrying on, Trevanion spoke flatter-
ingly of my pretensions, in right of
birth and capabilities, to honourable
employment, and placed before me a
picture of public life — ^its prizes and
distinctions — ^which, for the moment
at least, made my heart beat loud and
my breath come quick. Bnt stiQ,
even then, I felt (was it an unreason-
able pride ?) that there was something
J8i9.]
l%e Caxtona.-^Part X V.
167
that jarred, somethiiiff that humbled,
in the thought of h<dmng all my for-
tones as a d^endency on the father
of the woman I loved, bat might not
aspire to; — something even of per-
sonal degradation in the mere feeling
that I was thns to be repaid for a
service, and recompensed for a k>as.
Bat these were not reasons I coold
advance ; and, indeed, so for the time
did Trevanion's generosity and do-
qnence overpower me, that I conld
Mily fiiUer oat my thanks, and my pro-
mise that I would consider and let him
know.
With that promise he was forced to
content himself; he told me to direct
to him at his favourite country-seat,
whither he was going that day, and
so left me. I looked round the hum-
ble parlour of the mean lodg^g-house,
and Trevanion's words came again
before me like a flash of golden light.
I stole into the open air, and wan-
dered through the crowded streets,
agitated and disturbed.
CHAPTER XCm.
Several days elapsed^and of each
day my ikther spent a considerable
part at Vivian's lodgings. But he
maiBtained areserve as to his success,
begged me not to question him, and
to refrain also for the wesent from
visiting my cousin. My ^de guessed
or knew his brother's mission; for I
obeored that, whenever Austin went
noiseless away, his eye brightened,
and the colour rose in a hectic flush
to his cheek. At last my father came
to me one morning, his carpet-bag in
his hand, and said, " I am going
away for a week or two. Keep Ro-
land company till I return."
'' Going with Aon r'
" With hun."
*'^ niat is a good sign."
" I hope so ; that is all I can say
BOW."
The week had not quite passed
when I received from my father the
letter I am about to place before the
reader ; and you may judge how ear-
nestly his soul must have been in the
task it had volunteered, if you observe
how little, comparatively speaking, the
letter contains of the subtleties and
pedantries ^may the last word be par-
doned, for It is scarcely a just one)
which ordinarily left my father a
scholar even in the midst of his emo-
tions. He seemed here to have aban-
doned bis books, to have put the
hnnum heart before the eyes of his
papil, and said, ^^Read, and un-
leani!"
To PisisnuTCS Caxton.
^ Mt Deae Son, — ^It were needless
to tell yon all the eariier difficulties
I have had to encounter with my
charge, nor to repeat all the means
which, acting on your suggestion, (a
correct one,) I have employed to
arouse feelings long dormant and con-
fused, and aUay others, long prema-
turely active, and terribly distinct.
The evil was simply this : here was
the intelligence of a man in all that
is evil — and the ignorance of an in-
fant in all that is good. In matters
merely worldly, what wonderful acu-
men ! in the plain principles of right
and wrong, what gross and stolid
obtuseness! At one time, I am strain-
ing all my poor wit to grapple in an
encounter on the knottiest mysteries
of sodal life ; at another, I am guid-
ing reluctant fingers over the horn-
book of the most obvious morals.
Here hieroglyphics, and there pot-
hooks ! But as long as there is affec-
tion in a man, why, there is Nature
to begin with ! To get rid of all the
rubbish laid upon her, clear back the
way to that Nature, and start afresh
— that is one's only chance.
" Well, by degrees I won my way,
waiting patiently till the bosom,
pleased with the relief, disgorged itself
of all Mts perilous stuff,* — ^not chiding
— not even remonstrating, seeming
almost to sympathise, till I got him So-
cratically to disprove himself. When
I saw that he no longer feared me —
that my company had become a relief
to him — ^I proposed an excursion, and
did not tell him whither.
** Avoiding as much as possible the
main north road, (for I did not wish,
as you may suppose, to set fire to a
train of associations that might blow
108
The Caxtons.—Part XV.
[Ang.
us np to the dog-star^ and, where that
avoidance was not possible, travelling
by night, I got him into the neigh-
bourhood of the old Tower. I would
not admit him under its roof. But
yon know the little inn, three miles
off the trout stream ? — we made our
abode there.
^^ Well, I have taken him into the
village, preserving his incognito. I
have entered with him into cottages,
and turned the talk npon Roland.
You know how your uncle is adored ;
you know what anecdotes of his bold,
warm-hearted youth once, and now
of his kind and charitable age, would
spring up from the garrulous lips of
gratitude ! I made him see with his
own eyes, hear with his own ears,
how all who knew Roland loved and
honoured him — except his son. Then
I took him round the ruins — (still not
suffering him to enter the house,) for
those ruins are the key to Roland's
character — seeing them, one sees the
pathos in his poor foible of family
pride. There, you distinguish it from
the insolent boasts of the prosperous,
and feel that it is little more than the
pious reverence to the dead — * the
tender culture of the tomb.' We sat
down on heaps of mouldering stone,
and it was there that I explained to
him what Roland was in youth, and
what he had dreamed that a son
would be to him. I showed him the
graves of his ancestors, and explained
to him why they were sacred in Ro-
land's eyes I I had gained a great
way, when he longed to enter the
home that should have been his ; and
I could make him pause of his own
accord, and say, * No, I must first be
worthy of it.' Then you would have
smiled— sly satirist that you are — to
have heard me impressing upon this
acute, sharp-witted youth, all that we
plain folk understand by the name of
HOME— its perfect trust and truth, its
simple holiness, its exquisite happi-
ness—being to the world what con-
science is to the human mind. And
after that, I brought in his sister,
whom till then he had scarcely named
—lor whom he scarcely seemed to
care — brought her in to aid the
tather, and endear the home. * And
you know,' said I, ' that if Roland
were to die, it would be a brother's
«nty to supply his place ; to shield her
innocence — to protect her name ! A
good name is something, then. Yoor
father was not so wrong to prize it
You would like yonrs to be that which
your sister would be prond to own !'
*^ While we were talking, Blanche
suddenly came to the spot, and mshed
to my arms. She looked on him as a
stranger ; but I saw his knees trem-
ble. And then she was abont to put
her hand in his— but I drew her back.
Was I cruel ? He thought so. But
when I dismissed her, I replied to his
reproach, ' Your sister is a part of
Home. If you think yourself worthy
of either, go and claim both ; I will
not object.' — *She has my mother's
eyes,' said he, and walked away. I
left him to muse amidst the ruins,
while I went in to see your poor
mother, and relieve her fears abont
Roland, and make her understand
why I could not yet return home.
'' This bmf sight of his sister has
sunk deep into him. But I now ap-
proach what seems to me the great
difficulty of the whole. He is fully
anxious to redeem his name — to re-
gain his home. So far so well. But
he cannot yet see ambition, except
with hard, worldly eyes. Ho still
fancies that all he has to do is to get
money and power, and some of those
empty prizes in the Great Lotteiy,
which we often win more easDy by
our sins than our virtues. (Here
follows a long passage from Seneca,
omitted as superfluous.) He docs not
yet even understand me — or, if he does,
he fancies me a mere bookworm in-
deed, when I imply that he might be
poor, and obscure, at the bottom of
fortune's wheel, and yet be one we
should be prond of! He supposes
that, to redeem his name, he has only
got to lacker it. Don't think me
merely the fond father, when I add
my hope that I shall use you to ad-
vantage here. I mean to tiUk to him
to-morrow, as we return to London,
of you, and of your ambition : you
shall hear the result.
^^ At this moment, (it is past mid-
night,) I hear his step in the room
above me. The window-sash aloft
opens — for the third time ; would
to Heaven he could read the true
astrology of the stars! There they
are — bright, luminous, benignant.
And I seeking to chain this wander-
I&i9.2
The Caxtons.-^Part XV.
169
ing comet into the harmonies of hea-
Ten ! Better task than that of astro-
logers, and astronomers to boot ! Who
among them can *• loosen the band of
Orion?* — bat who amongst ns may
not be permitted by God to have sway
OTer the action and orbit of the
hnman sonl?
" Your ever affectionate father,
A. C."
Two days after the receipt of this
letter, came the following; and though
I would fain suppress those references
to myself which mast be ascribed to a
fath^s partiality, yet it is so needful
to retain them in connexion with
Vivian, that I have no choice but to
leave the tender flatteries to the ia-
dnlgence of the kind.
" My Dear Son, — I was not too
sanguine as to the effect that your
simple story would produce upon your
cousin. Without implying any con-
trast to his own conduct, I described
that scene in which you threw your-
sdf apon oar sympathy, in the struggle
between love and duty, and asked for
our counsel and support; when Eo-
land gave you his blunt advice to tell
all to Trevanion ; and when, amidst
each sorrow as the heart in youth
seems scarcely large enough to hold,
you caught at truth impulsively, and
the truth bore you safe from the ship-
wreck. I recounted your silent and
manly straggles — ^your resolution not
to su^er the egotism of passion to
mifit yon for the aims and ends of
that spiritual probation which we call
UFE. I showed you as you were,
still thoughtful for us, interested in
our interests — smiling on us, that we
might not guess that you wept in
se^et ! Oh, my son — my son ! do
not think that, in those times, I did
not feel and pray for you ! And while
he was melted by my own emotion,
I turned from your love to your am-
bition. I made him see that you,
too, had known the restlessness which
belongs to young axdent natures; that
yon, too, had your dreams of fortune,
and aspirations for success. But I
]Munted that ambition in its true
coloars : it was not the desire of a sel-
fish intellect, to be in yourself a some-
body— a something— raised a step or
.twointbe sodal ladder, for the pleasure
of looking down on those at the foot,
but the warmer yearning of a gener-
ous heart ; your ambition was to repair
your father^s losses — minister to your
father^s very foible, in his idle desiro
of fame — supply to your uncle what
he had lost in his natural heir — link
your success to useful objects, your
interests to those of your kind, your
reward to the proud and grateful
smiles of those you loved. That was
thine ambition, O my tender Ana-
chronism ! And when, as I closed the
sketch, I said, ' Pardon me : you
know not what delight a father feels,
when, while sending a son away from
him into the world, he can speak and
think thus of him! But this, you
see, is not yom* kind of ambition.
Let us talk of making money, and
driving a coach-and-four through this
villanous world,' — ^yom* cousin sank
into a profound reverie, and when he
woke from it, it was like the waking of
the earth after a night in spring — the
bare trees had put forth buds !
" And, some time after, he startled
me by a prayer that I would permit
him, with his father's consent, to
accompany you to Australia. The
only answer I have given him as
yet, has been in the form of a ques-
tion : * Ask yourself if I ought ? I
cannot wish Fisistratus to be other
than he is ; and unless you agree with
him in all his principles and objects,
ought I to incur the risk that yon
should give him your knowledge of the
world, and inoculate him with your
ambition ? ' He was struck, and had
the candour to attempt no reply.
**Now, Fisistratus, the doubt I
expressed to him is the doubt I feel.
For, indeed, it is only by home-truths,
not refining arguments, that I can
deal with this unscholastic Scythian,
who, fresh from the Steppes, comes to
puzzle me in the Fortico.
^^ On the one hand, what is to be-
come of him in the Old World ? At
his age, and with his energies, it
would be impossible to cage him with
us in the Cumberland ruins ; weari-
ness and discontent would undo all
we could do. He has no resource in
books — and I fear never will have ?
But to send him forth into one of the
overcrowded professions — to place
him amidst all those ' disparities of
social life,' on the rough stones of
170
The Caxtotu.'-'Part XV.
[Aug,
which he is perpetually grinding his
hcnrt — turn him adrift amongst all
the temptations to which he is most
prone — this is a trial which, I fear,
will be too sharp for a conversion so
incomplete. In the New World, no
doubt, his energies would find a safer
field ; and even the adventurous and
desultory habits of his childhood might
thei*e be put to healthful account.
Those complaints of the disparities of
the civilised world, find, I suspect, an
easier if a bluffer reply from the poli-
tical economist than the Stoic philoso-
pher. * You don't like them, you
find it hard to submit to them,^ says
the political economist ; * but they
are the laws of a civilised state, and
you can't alter them. Wiser men
than you have tried to alter them,
and never succeeded, though they
turned the earth topsy-turvy I Very
well ; but the world is wide — go into
a state that is not so civilised. Tlie
di8i>arities of the Old World vanish
amidst the New ! Emigration is the
reply of Nature to the rebellions cry
against Art.' Thus would say the
political economist : and, alas, even
in your case, my son, I found no reply
to the reasonings! I acknowledge,
then, that Australia might open the
best safety-valve to your cousin's
discontent and desu^es ; but Lacknow-
ledge also a counter-truth, which is
this — ^It is not permitted to an honest
man to corrupt himself for the sake
of others.' That is almost the only
maxim of Jean Jacques to which I
can cheerfully subscribe! Do you
feel quite strong enough to resist
all the influences which a com-
panionship of this kind may subject
you to — strong enough to bear his
burthen as well as your own — strong
enough, also — ay, and alert and vigi-
lant enough — to prevent those influ-
ences harming the others, whom you
have undertaken to guide, and whose
lots are confided to you ? Pause well,
and consider maturely, for this must
not depend upon a generous impulse.
I think that your cousin would now
pass under your charge, with a sin-
cere desire for reform ; but between
sincere desire and steadfast perform-
ance there is a long and dreary inter-
val— even to the best of us. Were it
not for Roland, and had I one grain
less confidence in yon, I could not
entertain the thought of laying on
your young shoulders so great a
responsibility. Bnt every sew ie«
sponsibiUty to an earnest nature is a
new prop to virtue ; — and all I now
ask of you is — to remember that it u
a solemn and serious charge, not to be
undertaken without the most delibe-
rate gauge and measure of the strength
with which it is to be borne.
" In two days we shall be in
London. — Yours, my Anachronism,
anxiously and fondly,
A. C."
I was in my own room while I
read this letter, and I had just finished
it when, as I looked up, I saw Roland
standing opposite to me. ^^ It is from
Austin," said he ; then he paused a
moment, and added in a tone that
seemed quit« humble, ^'May I see it?
— and dare I ? " I placed the letter
in his hands, and retired a few paces,
that he might not think I watched his
countenance while he read it. And I
was only aware that he had come to
the end by a heavy, anxious, bat not
despondent sigh. Then I tnmed,
and our eyes met, and there was
something in Roland's look, inquiring
— and as it were imploring. I inter-
preted it at once.
^^ Oh, yes, uncle,^' I said, smiling;
^' I have reflected, and I have no fM
of the result. Before my father
wrote, what he now suggests had
become my secret wish. As for oar
other companions, their simple na-
tures would defy all such sophistriei
as — but he is already half cored of
those. Let him come with me, and
when he returns he shall be worthy
of a place in your heart, beside his
sister Blanche. I feel, I promise it —
do not fear for me ! Such a change
will be a talisman to myself. I ww
shun every error that I mi^t other-
wise commit, so that he may have no
example to entice him to err."
I know that in youth, and the super-
stition of first love, we are credaloasly
inclined to believe that love, and the
possession of the beloved, are the
only happiness. But when my uncle
folded me in his arms, and cdled me
the hope of his age, and stay of his
house — the music of my father's
praise still ringing on my heart — I do
affirm that I knew a greater and a
1849.J
The Caxtong.^PQrt XV.
171
prouder Miss than if TreTanion had
piaeed Fannj's hand m mme, and
md, ''She is yonn.''
And now the die was cast — the
decision nouide. It was with no regret
tittt I wrote to Trevanion to decline
kisofleri. ^Nor was the sacrifice so
freat — even patting aside the natural
pride which had bdbre inclined to it
-Hu it may seem to some ; for, rest-
ku tboQgh I was, I had lahoured to
constrain myself to other views of
life tiian those which close the vistas
of ambition with images of the terres-
trial deities — Power and Rank. Had
I not been behind the scenes, noted
all of joy and of peace that the par-
salt of power had cost Trevanion,
and seen how little of happiness rank
gave even to one of the polished
bahita md gracefhl attributes of Lord
Caatkion? Yet each nature seemed
fitted 80 well — ^the first for power, the
\Mssi for rank 1 It is marvellous with
what liberality Providence atones for
the partial dispensations of Fortune.
Independence, or the vigorous pursuit
of ii; affection, with its hopes and its
rewards ; a life only rendered by art
more susceptible to nature— in which
the physical enjoyments are pure and
healthftil — in which the moral facul-
ties expand harmoniously with the
intellectual— and the heart is at peace
with the mind : is this a mean lot for
ambition to desire — and is it so far
out of human reach ? '^ Know thy-
self,'* said the old philosophy. *^ Im-
prove thyself," saith the new. The
great object of the Sojourner in Time
is not to waste all his passions and
gifts on the things external that he
must leave behind — that which he
cultivates within is all that he can
carry into the Eternal Progress. Wo
are here but as schoolboys, whose life
begins where school ends ; and the
battles we fought with our rivals, and
the toys that we shared with our
playmates, and the names that we
carved, high or low, on the wall,
above our desks — will they so muck
bestead us hereafter? As new facts
crowd upon us, can they more than
pass through the memory with a smile
or a sigh ? Look back to thy school
days, and answer.
CHAPTER XCIV.
Two weeks, since the date of the
preceding duipter, have passed; we
have slept our last, for long years to
eome, on the English soli. It is
ni^t ; a^ Vivian hsA been admitted
to aa interview with his father. They
hare been together alone an hour and
MOfe, and I and my father will not
diatub them. Bnt the clock strikes
— the hoor is late— the ship sails
to-night — we should be on board.
And as we two stand below, the door
opens in the room above, and a heavy
atep descends the stairs ; the father
IB leaidng on the son's arm. You
^MNdd see how timidly the son guides
tiie halting step. And now, as the
iight gleams on their faces, there are
tears on Yivian's cheek ; but the face
of Roland seems calm and happy.
Happy I when about to be separated,
nerhape for evor, from his son ? Yes,
feappjl beeanse he has found a son
inr the first time ; and is not thinking
<if years and absence^, and the chance
of death — bnt thankful for the Divine
mengr, and cherishing celestial hope.
If ye wondor why Roland is happy in
such an hour, how vainly have I
sought to make him breathe, and
live, and move before you !
We are on board ; our luggage all
went first. I had had thne, with the
help of a carpenter, to knock up
cabins for Vivian, Guy Bokhng, and
myself in the hold. For, thinkmg we
could not too soon lay aside the pre-
tensions of Europe — " de-fine -gentle-
manise" ourselves, as Trevanion re-
commended— we had engaged steerage
passage, to the great humouring of
our finances. We had, too, the
luxtury to be by ourselves, and onr
own CumberhuDid folks were round
us, as our friends and servants both.
We are on board, and have looked
our last on those we are to leave, and
we stand on deck leaning on each
other. We are on board, and the
lights, near and far, shine from the
vast dty ; and the stars are on high,
bright and clear, as for the first mari-
ners (tf old. Strange noises, rough
voices, and crackling cords, and here
172
and til ere the sobs of women, ming-
ling with the oaths of men. Now
the swing and heave of the vessel —
the dreary sense of exile that comes
when the ship fairly moves over the
waters. And still we stood, and
looked, and listened ; silent, and lean-
ing on each other.
Kight deepened, the city vanished —
not a gleam from its myriad lights I
The river widened and widened. How
cold comes the wind ! — is that a gale
Jonathan in Africa.
[Ang:
from the sea? Thestars grow faint—
the moon has sunk. And now, how
desolate look the waters In the com-
fortless gray of dawn ! Then we
shivered and looked at each other,
and muttered something that was not
the thought deepest at onr hearts,
and crept into onr berths — feeling^
sure it was not for sleep. And sleep
came on us soft and kind. The ocean
lulled the exiles as on a mother'^
breast.
JONATHAN IX AFRICA.
A NEW school of novelists is evi-
dently springing up on the western
shores of the Atlantic. The pioneers
arc already in the field — and the main
body, we suppose, will shortly follow.
The style of these innovators seems a
compound imitation of Gulliver, Mun-
chausen, The Arabian Nights, and Ro-
binson Crusoe; the ingredients being
mixed in capricious proportions, well
stirred, seasoned with Yankee bulls"
and scraps of sea-slang, and served
hot — sometimes plain, at others with
a hors doeuvre of puffs. We know not
how such queer ragouts affect the
public palate ; but we are inclined to
prefer dishes of an older fashion. Mr
Herman Melville, of New York and
the Pacific Ocean, common sailor, fiist
introduced the new -fangled kickshaw.
This young gentleman has most com-
pletely disappointed us.- Two or three
years ago, he published two small
volumes of sea> faring adventure and
island-rambles, of which we thought
more highly than of any first appear-
ance of the kind we for a long time
had witnessed. (In the pages of Maga,
where praise is never lightly or lavishly
bestowed, we said as muc^); and were
glad to hope that Typee and Omoo
were but an earnest of even better
things. And, therefore, sadly were we
disgusted on perusal of a rubbishing
rhapsody, entitled Mardi, andaVoyage
Thither. We sat down to it with glee
and self-gratulation, and through
about half a volume we got on plea-
santly enough. The author was afloat ^
and although we found little that
would bear comparison with the fine
vein of nautical fun and characteristic
delineation which wo had enjoyed on
board the Little Jule, and after-
wards at Tahiti, yet there was inter-
est— strong interest at times ; and a
scene on board a deserted vessel was
particularly exciting, — replete with
power of a peculiar and uncommon
kind. But this proved a mere flash
in the pan — the ascent of the rocket
which was soon to fall as a stick. An
outlandish young female, one Miss^
Yillah, makes her first appearance:
Taji, the hero and narrator of the
yarn, reaches a cluster of fabulous
islands, where the jealous qneen Hau-
tia opens a floral correspondence with
him : where the plumed and turbaned
Yoomy sings indifferent doggerel; and
Philosopher Babbalanja nnceaaingly
doth prose ; and the ^gnm of Pim<-
minee holds drawing-rooms, whidi 9X%
attended by the Fanfnms, and ths
Diddledees, and the Fiddlefies, and a
host of other insular magnates, with
names equally elegant, enphonions^
and significant. Why, what trash is
all this ! — mingled, too, with attempta^
at a Rabelaisian vein, and with strain-
ings at smartness — the style of the
whole being affected, pedantic, and
wearisome exceedingly. Wo are re-
minded, by certain parts of Mardi^ of
Footers nonsense about the nameless
lady who ** went into the garden to
Kaloolahf or Journeying to the Dj4hel Kumri : an Autobiography of Jonaika%
Momer, Edited by W. S. Mayo, M.D. London: 1849.
Janaihan in Africa.
173
pe-Ieaf to make an apple-
wfaose wedding the Job-
lie Picninnies, and the
ndrum, danced till the
in ont at their boot-heels.
Us absnrd paragraph, wc
f a friend's memory ; Mr
evidently written his un-
lovel to try the public's
r three things we are cer-
\ that the Panjandrum
as easy to understand as
it is much more divert-
3 chief advantage of all,
til shorter.
lich wc dismissed from
len we closed it with a
wtwo after its publica-
D recalled to our memory
Mk, also proceeding from
longh published in Lon-
hich, like Mr Melville's
■ds the real and the pos-
5 ideal and the fantastic.
Mven help these Yankee
i) professes to be the
J of Jonathan Romer, a
mcket sailor, to whoso
(ring his absence in the
ftiea, one of his country-
8. Mayo, obligingly acts
!o8t readers wiU probably
that the American M.D.
a nearer interest in the
Oing — the first-bom, wo
tf his own pen and ima-
•nt oar business is with
ad not with the author,
whether Romer or Mayo,
mown to fame, but who
pair of achieving reputa-
lah combines with certain
I may presently be indi-
very excellent qualities,
ral chapters, whereof any
more real good stuff, and
ad amusement, than the
second and third volumes
idoced to a concentrated
stides, it is manifest that
As must be viewed and
ently — one as a first, and
IS unpromising attempt;
the backsliding perform-
a who has proved himself
ir better things,
oimencing his own story,
dian Romer introduces us
ion, and asserts his right
idventure. ^^ Descended
on both sides of the house from some
of the earliest settlers of Nantucket,
and more or less intimately related to
the Coffins, the Folgers, the Macys,
and the Starbucks of that adventurous
population, it would seem that I had
a natural right to a roving disposition,
and to a life of peril, privation, and
vicissitude. Nearly all the male mem-
bers of my family, for several gene-
rations, have .been followers of the
sea : some of them in the calm and
peaceful employment of the merchant-
service ; others, and by far the greater
number, in the more dangerous pur-
suit of the ocean monster." After re-
lating some of the feats of his family,
and glancing at his own childhood,
which gave early indications of tho
bold and restless spliit that animated
him at a mature period, Jonathan
presents himself to his readers at the
age of eighteen— a stalwart stripling
and idle student ; the best rider, shot,
swimmer, and leaper for many miles
around, with little taste for books, and
a very decided one for rambling in the
woods with rifie and rod. At this
time the academy, of which he had
for four years been an inmate, is nearly
broken up by what is called "a re-
vival of religion ;" in other words, a
violent fit of fanatical enthusiasm,
provoked and fed by Baptist and Me-
thodist preachers. Pupils and teachers
alike go mad with fervent zeal, classes
are at an end, unceasing prayer is sub-
stituted for study, and Jonathan, who
is one of the few unregenerated, walks
into the forest, and knocks the head
off a partridge with a rifle-ball. The
bird is picked up, and the excellence
of the aim applauded by an old trapper
and hunter, Joe Downs byname, well
known along the shores of the Rackett
and Grass rivers, in the northern and
uninhabited part of the state of New
York. Joe is not the wild, semi-In-
dian trapper of tho south and west,
whom Sealsfield and Ruxton have so
graphically sketched ; there is as much
difference between the two characters
as between a sailor in the coasting
trade and a Pacific Ocean beach-
comber. There is nothing of the half-
horse, half-alligator stylo about Joe,
whose manner is so mild, and his coat
so decent, that ho has been taken for
a country parson. He despises the
Redskins, sets no value on their scalps,
174
Jamaihaii in Afrka.
[ADg.
and would not shed their biood^ ex-
cept in self-defence. Uow he had
once been thos compelled to do so,
he relates to Jonathan in the course
of their tirst conversation.
" It wa3 the way towards Tapper's
lake. There had been a light fall of snow,
and 1 was sconting round, when I hap-
pened to make a eircnmbendibns, and
came across my own track, and there I
saw the mark? of an Indian's fo«t right
on my trail. Thinks I. that is kind of
queer; the fellow most hare been follow-
ing me; howsomever 1*11 try him, and
make sure ; so I made another Urge
circle, and again struck my own track,
and there was the tarnal Indian's foot
again. Says I, this won't do; I must find
out what this customer wants, and how
hell have it. So I stopped short, and soon
got sight of him; he knew that I saw him,
so he came along up, in the most fHendly
manner yon can think. But I didn't like
his looks; he was altogether too darned
glad to see me. He had no gun, but he
had an almighty long-handled tomahawk,
and a lot of skins and real traps. Thinks
I, may be, old fellow, yonr gun has burst,
or you've pawned it for rum, and you
can't raise skins enough to redeem it,
and you want mine, and perhaps you'll
get it.
"At last I grew kind of nerrous; 1
knew the fellow would hatchet me if I
gave him a chance, and yet I didn't want
to shoot him right down just on suspicion.
But I thonght, if I let him cut my thro«t
first, it would be too late to shoot him
afterwards. So I concluded that the best
way would be to give him a chance to
play his hand; and if so be he'd lead the
wrong card, why I should have a right to
take the trick. Just then, at the right
,time, a partridge flew into a clump that
stood five or six rods ofL So I kind of
'noenvred round a little. I drew oat my
ramrod, as if to feel whether the ball in
my rifle was well down; but instead of
returning it again, I kept it in my hand,
and, without letting the vagabond see me,
I got out a handful of powder. I then
sauntered off to the bash, shot the par-
tridge, and in an instant passed my hand
over the muzzle of my rifle, and dropped
the powder in. I picked up the bird, and
then just took and run my ramrod right
down upon the powder. Now, he thought,
was his chance before I loaded my gun
again. He came towards me with his
batchet in his hand. I saw that he was
determined to act wicked, and began to
back off; he still came on. I lowered my
rifle, and told him to keep away. He
xaiied his tomahawk, gare one yell, and
bouided ri|^ at me. When be was joafc
abont three or feor feet fh»m the maaley
I fired. Yon neTer lee a fellow janp so.
He kicked his heels up in the air, and
came down plamp on his head, dead ai
Julius Cssar. He never winked; the
ramrod — a good, hard, tough piece of hic-
kory— ^had gone clean through him, and
stnck out alK»nt two feet ftmm bis backt
Served him right; did'nt it!"
The old trapper urges Jonathan to
accompany him on an expedition into
the woods, promising, as an induce-
ment, to put him ^^ right alongside the
biggest catamount be has ever seen,**
and to let him fight it out, with rifle,
hatchet, and knife, without making
or meddling in the contest. He also
pledges himself to show him a fifih*
pond, '^ where the youngest infimta,
of a genteel pickerelto family, weigh
at least three pounds." Such induce-
ments are irresistible. Jonathan packs
up a brace of blankets and his shoot-
ing and fishing fixings, and goes off
in the canoe with Joe Downs on t
pleasant up-stream cruise, enlivened
by a succession of beantifnl sceneryi
and by the varied and original con-
versation of his companion. On thdr
way they feU in with a party of In-
dians, amongst them one Blacksnake,
a brother of the gentleman whooi
Joe had spitted on his ramrod. Ho
suspects Joe of having shot his kins-
man, and Joe strongly suspects hun
of havinsalready attempted to revenge
his death.
*" I was leaning oat of the Meond alffT
doorway of Jones's shop one day,' said
Joe, * looking aeroas the river, wheif
whizz, a rifle ballet came and hnried it*
self ia the doorpost. I hain't the leuk
doubt that that very identical Blaeksntke
sent it. Thank God, his aim was not aS
his will ! He's a bad chap. Why, I
really believe it was he who mnrderei
my old friend Dan White the tn^psr.
If I only knew it was the Ihet, I wiA I
may be stuck, forked end nppenaeei, iaa
coon hole, if I wouldn't send a he&
through his painted old brainease, this 'eH
very identical minute. Dam year akin f
energetically growled Joe, shakinf hit
flst at the distant canoe."
It would have saved Mr DowM
some trouble and suffering if he had
yielded to the impolse, and expended
half-an-onnee of lead upon Black-
snake, who, about a week later,
sneaks up, with two companions, to
Jomaikan w Africa.
176
er^ pine-k^ fire^^and shoots
tonate Joe, but is" shot down
Am Ttry next moment, by
Bomer, whose doable-barrel
0 of the murderers, and then
vUh crushing force upon the
if the third. Joe not being
loogh Tery badly wounded,
; oompanion conveys him to
irfaoae hidden entrance the
■d levealed to him the pre-
', and there tends him till he
> bear removal. AVith his
1 to the hands of a village
Mr Bomer's backwoods ad-
leroihiate, a source of regret
Mder, since they are more
1 attractive than some snb-
ortionsof the book, evidently
fj the author more interest-
important, and therefore
mat greater length. Indeed
opfauon that the author of
b mistaken, as young au-
itmitly are, in the real scope
re of his own abilities, and
rmM shine much more in a
bm^woods life, or nautical
I, th«n in the mixed style he
ked for his first attempt,
sort of mosaic, distinguished
r variety and vividness of
a for harmony and regularity
IB reaches home in time to
6 last adieu of his mother, a
Bt eccentric old lady, who
Q«t her son, on his depar-
Akm)!, with a winding-sheet,
otiier necessaries, that he
buried decently should he
im his friends, and that he
reminded of his mortality as
le eii4>tied his trunk. It was
conceit, but, as Jonathan
■he was from Nantucket,
are ail queer people there,
afliBCtion induced him long
« the shroud. Mrs Ronier
•OB applies to the study of
pets himself into trouble by
matching exploit, has to
Vew York, and there, find-
I still in danger from the
the disinterred corpse, who
the police upon his track,
self on board the fine fore-
ehooner, ^^ Lively Anne,"
r Ae Western Islands, and
ed by Captain Coffin, an old
shipmate of his father's. In this
smart little craft, he sees some coun-
try and more water, until, upon tbo
voyage from the Azores to Malaga, a
white squall or a waterspout — ^whlch
of the two he could never ascertain —
ci^izes the schooner and dashes him
senseless down the hatchway, whence
he was just emerging, in alanu at tho
sudden uproar on deck. On recover-
ing himself, he finds the vessel dis-
masted, the deck swept of ail its fix-
tures, and the captain and crew
missing. Doubtless they had been
hurled into the waves by the same
terrible force that had shattered the
bulwarks and carried away boats,
casks, and galley. The horizon was
now dear, not a sail was in sight, and
Jonathan Bomer was alone on a
helpless wreck in the middle of the
wide ocean. But he was a man of
resource and mettle, whom it was
hard to discourage or intimidate ; and
finding the schooner made no water,
he righted her as well as he could, and
resigned himself to float at the will of
the wind nntU he should meet a rescu-
ing sail. This did not occur for some
weeks, during which he floated past
Tenerifie in the night, within hail of
fishermen, who would not approach
him for fear of the quarantine laws.
At last, sitting over his solitary din-
ner, he perceived a ship heading up
for tho schooner.
** Ab she came on, I had fall time to
note all her beautiful proportions. She
was small, apparently not above 300
tons, and had a peculiarly trim and
clipper-like look. Her bright copper^
flashing occasionally in the sunlight^
showed that she was in light sailing
trim ; whilst from the cut of her sails,
the symmetrical arrangement of hier spars
'and rigging, and her quarter-boats, I
concluded she must be a man-of-war.
Passing me about half a mile astern, she
Btood on for a little distance, then, hoist-
ing the bilious-koking flag of Spain, she
tacked and ran for me, backing her
main-topsail within twenty yards of my
larboard beam. Her quarter-boat was
immediately lowered, and half-a-dozen
fellows, in red caps and flannel shirtSj
jumped into it, followed by an oflicer in
a blue Telret jacket, with a strip of gold
laoe upon his shoulders, and a broad-
brimmed straw hat upon his head. I ran
below, stuff'ed all the money that I had
in gold— about a thousand dollars— into
176
Jonathan in Africa,
[Anfr
my pockets, and got upon deck again just
as the boat touched the side."
The precantion was a good one :
the saucy Bonito, Pedro Garbez
master, was bound from Cnba to the
coast of Africa, with a cut-throat
crew and an empty slave- deck.
Owing to an accident, she had sailed
without a surgeon, and Romer was
well received and treated so soon as
his profession was known. When he
discovered the ship's character, he
would gladly have left her, but means
were wanting, for the Bonito loved
not intercourse with passing craft,
and touched nowhere until she reached
her destination — Cabenda Bay, on
the western coast of Africa. There
being no slaves at Cabenda, it was
resolved to run a few miles up the
Congo river.
** We at length reached Loonbee, and
aujhorcd off the town, which is the chief
market or slave-depot for Embomma. It
consists of about a hundred huts of palm-
leaves, with two or three block-houses,
wliere the slaves are confined. About
two hundred slaves were already col-
lected, and more were on their way down
the river, and from different towns in the
interior. After presents for the King of
Embomma, and for the Mafooka (a sort
of chief of the board of slave-trade,) and
other officials, had been made, and a deal
of brandy drunk, we landed, and in com-
pany with several Fukas, or native mer-
chants, and two or three Portuguese,
went to take a look at the slaves. Each
dealer paraded his gang for inspection,
and loudly dilated upon their respective
(iualities. They were all entirely naked,
and of all ages, sexes, and conditions, and
all had an air of stolid indifference, va-
ried only in some of them by an expres-
sion of surprise and fear at sight of the
white men.**
In one of these unfortunate groups
of dingy humanity. Homer was struck
by the appearance of a young girl,
whose features widely differed from
the usual African stamp, and whose
complexion, amongst a white popu-
lation, would not have been deemed
too dark for a brunette. Her grace-
fully curling hair contrasted with the
woolly polls of her companions ; her
eyes were large and expressive, and
her form elegant, but then emaciated
by fatigue and ill-treatment. This is
Kaloolah. On inquiry of the slave-
dealer, a great burly negro, wielding
a long thong of plaited buffalo hldey
Romer learned that she is of a fiur
distant nation, called the Gerboo
Blanda, who dwell in stone hooses oa
an extensive plain. The slaye-dealef
knows them only by report, and Ka-
loolah and her brother, who la near at
hand, are the first specimens he has
seen of this remote tribe. He had
bought her two months' journey oiE^
and then she had already come a long
distance. And now that he had got
them to the coast, he esteems then
of small value compared to the foll-
blooded blacks ; for Kaloolah has pined
herself away to a shadow, and her too-
ther, Enphadde, is bent upon suicidet
and cannot be trusted with unfettered
hands; so that for thirty dollars
Romer buys them both. The Bonito
having been driven out to sea by the
approach of a British cruiser, be
passes some days on shore with
his new purchases; daring which
time, i^ith a rapidity bordering on
the miraculous, he acquires suflBctent
of their language, and they of his, to
carry on a sort of piebald convena-
tion, to learn the history of these pile
Africans, and some particulars of their
mysterious country.
*'Tlie Gerboo Blanda, I found, wu
a name given to their country by the
Jagas, that its true name was Fruu-
zugda, and that the people were called
Framazugs. That it was aitnated at a
great distance in the interior, in a direo-
tion west by north, and that it was sur-
rounded by negro and savage natiaa^
tlirough whom a trade was carried m
with people at the north-west and eait»
none of whom, however, were ever leea
at Framazugda, as tJie trade had to pan
through a number of hands. Enphadde
represented the country to be of oonBi-
derable extent, consisting mostly of a
lofty plateau or elevated plain, and ex*
ceedingly populous, containing nnmerou
large cities, surrounded by high waUi^
and filled with houses of stone. Serexal
large streams and lakes watered the soil,
which, according to his acoount, wasdosdj
cultivated, and produced in abundance the
greatest variety of trees, fruits, floweifr
and grain. Over this country ruled Selhs
Shouns^, the father of Enphadde and Ka-
loolah, as king. It was in going from the
capital to one of the royal gardens thsl
their escort was attacked by a party ef
blacks from the lowlands, the attendaali
killed or dispersed, and the yonng prince
and princess carried off."
L
JcftnaAiai in Africa,
dollars oonld hardly be
iMTj price for the son and
if the neat Shonns<^, and
was well pleased with bis
though it was not yet dear
Kwld realise a profit; but
it was something to be the
a their royal highnesses of
Ia ; something too to gaze
lah's bright black eyes, and
ker dnlcet tones, as she
Be of her conntry*s ditties
Faltnl, a sweet-scented
liBg beside the rivnlets of
moontains. The verses,
, are not to be commended
mi's version ; they perhaps
iter in the original fVama-
hen issning from the sweet
Mlah.
of a week, the Bonito was
llient, having been canght
. Captain Pedro Garbez
lie Virgin Mary the value
negro in wax.jjghts for a
rind, bat in vain ; and he
» tear the hair from his
impatience. Meanwhile
had canght a fever in the
Congo, and Kaloolah had
chicken-broth, and tended
iy, and restored him to
though he was still so
appearance that Garbez
BOt when he mounted the
e slaver. All speed was
to bay and ship a cargo,
it of the latter process is
and, we have no donbt,
Rthentic ; for although the
KiokHAah has chosen to iu-
d perhaps deteriorate his
range stories of imaginary
inimals, flowers, &c., it is
It to distinguish between
1 ills fiction, and to^recog-
ernal evidence of veracity
lal observation. A short
IT here with propriety be
the benefit of anti-slaveiy
lists.
li Blares that came on board
below the berth-deck, and
pon a temporary slaye-deck
> the water-casks, and at a
not more than three feet and
ibe deck overhead. . . .
ffere arranged in fonr ranks.
; down, the heads of the two
touched the sides of the ship,
177
their ffeet pointing inboard or athwart
the yessel. They, of course, occupied a
space fore and aft the ship, of about six
feet on either side, or twelre feet of the
whole breadth. At the feet of the out-
side rank came the heads of the inner
row. They took up a space of six feet
more on either side, or together twelye
feet There was still left a space running
up and down the centre of the deck, two
or three feet in breadth; along this were
stretched single slayes, between the feet of
the two inner rows, so that, when all were
lying down, almost eyery square foot of
the deck was coyered with a mass of hu-
man flesh. Not the slightest space was
allowed between the indiyiduiUs of the
ranks, but the whole were packed as
closely as they could be, each slaye hav-
ing just room enough to stretch himself
out flat upon his back, and no more. In
this way about two hundred and fifty were
crowded upon the slaye-deck, and as
many more upon the berth-deck. Hor-
rible as this may seem, it was nothing
compared to the 'packing' generally
practised by slayers. Captain Garbez
boasted that he had tried both systems,
tight packing and loose packing, tho-
roughly, and found the latter the best.
^'If you call this loose packing,' I
replied, ' haye the goodness to explain
what you mean by tight packing !'
'*' Why, tight packing consists in mak-
ing a row sit with their legs stretched
apart, and then another row is placed
between their legs, and so on, until the
whole deck is filled. In the one case
each slaye has as much room as he can
coyer lying ; in the other only as much
room as he can occupy sitting. With
tight packing this craft ought to stow
fifteen hundred.'"
The Bonito was not above three
hundred tons. Such are the blessings
for which the negroes are indebted to
the tender-mercied emancipators who
have ruined our West Indian colonies. -
'''When it comes to closing the
hatches,' (in the eyent of a gale) said
Captain Pedro, ' it is all up with the
yoyage. You can hardly saye enough to
pay expenses. .They die like leeches in
a thunderstorm.* I was once in a little
schooner with three hundred on board,
and we were compelled to lie-to for three
days. It was the worst sea I oyer saw,
and came near swamping us seyeral times.
We lost two hundred and fifty slayes in
that gale. We couldn't get at the dead
ones to throw them oyerboard very
handily, and so those that didn't die from
want of air were killed by the rolling
and tumbling about of the corpses. Of
178
Jonathan in Africa^
[Aug:
the liring ones some had their limbs
broken, and erery one had the flesh of
liis leg worn to the bone, by the shackle
irons.'
'''Good God ! and you still pursue the
horrible trade I'
" ' Certainly ; why not ! Despite of
accidents the trade is profitable, and, for
the cruelty of it, no one is to blame
except the English. Were it not for
them, large and roomy yessels would be
employed, and it would be an objeot to
bring the slaves over with every comfort,
and in as good condition as possible.
Now, every consideration must be sacri-
ficed to the one great object — escape from
capture by the British cruisers.'
** I had no wish to reply to the cap-
tain's argument. One might as well re-
ply to a defence of blasphemy or murder.
Giddy, ftiint, and sick, I turned with
loathing from the fiends in human guise,
and sought the more genial companion-
sliip of the inmates of my state-room."
These were Kaloolah and Enphad-
dc. To conceal the beanty of the
former, pcrilons amidst the lawless
crew of the slaver, Jonathan had
marked her face with caustic, pro-
ducing black spots which had the
appearance of disease. This terapo-
Tsry disfigurement secured her from
liceutions outrage, but not from harsh
treatment. Monte, second captain of
the Bonito, was an ex-pirate, whose
Tcssel had been destroyed by Yankee
cruisers. To spite Romer, whom he
detested as an American, he threat-
ened to send Kaloolah and her brother
amongst the slaves, and took every
opportunity of abusing them. Chap-
ter xxi. passes wholly on board
the slaver, and is excellent of its
kind. The Bonito is chased by a
man-of-war, but escapes. At (lay-
break, whilst lying in his berth.
Homer hears a bustle on deck, fol-
lowed by shrill cries and plunges in
the water. The following is good : —
" I jumped from my berth and stepped
out upon deck. A dense fog brooded
upon the surface of the ocean, and closely
enveloped the ship — standing up on
either side, like huge perpendicular walls
of granite, and leaving a comparatively
clear space — the area of the deck and
Ihc height of the maintopmast crosstrees.
Inboard, the sight ranged nearly free
fore-and-aft the ship, but seaward no
eye could penetrate, more than a yard or
two, the solid-looking barrier of vapour.
A man standing on the tafflrail might have
seen the catheads the whole length of the
deck, whilst at the saBie time, behind hiBy
the end of the q^aaker boom^ pTojeetiii|
over the water, was lost in the misC I
looked up at the perpendicular walla and
the lofty arch overhead with feelings of
awe, and, I may add, fear. Cursed, indeed,
must be our craft, when the genius of
the mist so carefrilly avoided the poUa-
tion of actual contact. His rolling legions
were close around us, but vnponiy horse
and misty foot shrank back afii|^ited
i¥om the horrors of onr blood-stoined
decks."
The phenomenon was doobtleaB
attribntablo to the hot air generated
in the crowded 'tween-de(^. The
cries and plashings that had startled
Jonathan were soon explained. Yirn-
leut opthalmia raged on board, and
Monte was drowning the blind, whose
valne of course departed with their
eyesight. A blind slave was ^an
encumbrance, an unsaleable article, a
useless expense. Pitch him over-
board ! Twenty-five to-dav, and a
dozen more to-morrow !" Bnt retri-
bution was at hand, threatened, at
least, by a British brig-of-war, which
appeared when the fog cleared, at
about a mile and a half to windward.
During the chase, Monte, casually
jostled by Kaloolah, stmck her to the
deck, and a furious scofQe ensued
between him and Jonathan, wheat
last, seeing some of the crew ap-
proaching, knife in hand, leaped over-
board, dragging his antagonist with
him, and followed by Enphadde and
Kaloolah. After a deep ^ve, dur-
ing which Monte's tenadoos grup
was at last relaxed, the intre|Hd
Jonathan regained the surface, where
he and his friends and enemy easily
supported themselves till pidcM up by
the brig. The swift slaver escaped.
Monte was put in irons, Bomer and
his Framazugdan friends were made
much of by Captain Halsey and the
officers of her Majesty's brig Flyaway,
and landed in the pictnresqne bnt pes-
tilent shores of Sierra Leone. Thea
Kaloolah and her brother propose to
seek their way homewards, and
Jonathan takes ship for Liverpool
Previously to his departure, there are
some love passages between the Yan-
kee and the Princess of Framazugda.
These are not particularly snccesahl.
Sentiment is not Dr Mayors ybr/e: he
is much hi4)pier in scenes of bustle
Jcmatium m Africa.
179
fltim -^ when n^ng his
omediry scroes boundless
udf or ^nigiDg deadly com-
be fieree innuites of African
Hifl book wiU delight Mr
ngfa. There is a dael be-
on and a boa that we make
of seeing dramatised at
a ioon as a serpent can be
Bdentlj for the p^onn-
lat Dr Mayors liona are of
inft magnitnde, the foliow-
ption shows : — ^^ His body
f less in sise than that of a
i; his paw as largo as the
1 elephant ; while his head!
■ be said of snch a head ?
te the fiiry, the power, the
md the disposition for eWl of
iHnderstorms into a roond
li two feet in diameter, and
. thin be able to get an idea
iUe expression of that head
emloped and set off as it
• dstrk framework of brist-
bI" This pleasing qnad-
fcnrbed in its forest solitude
▼ent of Jonathan and the
Aah, who have wandered,
to some distance from their
it onee prepares to break-
them. Jonathan had im-
laid down his gun to pluck
TlDckles for his mistress,
uoo, stepping in, cuts him
la weapon. Suddenly *^ the
e of kaloolah rushed past
, fijt Jonathan V she wildly
, aa she dashed forward
wards the lion. Quick as
; dmned her purpose, and
erfaer, grasping her dress,
g her forcibly back, almost
on those formidable jawd.
dahed animal gave several
Bways and backwards, and
nmching to the ground, and
ind lashing his sides with
\U7. It was clearly taken
rar nnexpccted charge upon
ret was not to be frightened
toning his prey. His mouth
up for us, and there could
ibt, if his motions vstre a
w, that ho considered us as
ttged.** Fulling back Ka-
d drawing his Imife, Romer
itih desperate determination,
B*! tenible ondanght, when
peeled ally arriTes to the
rescue. " It seemed as if one of the
gigantic creepers I have mentioned
had suddenly quitted the canopy
above, and, endowed with life and a
huge pair of widely distended jaws,
had darted with the rapidity of light-
ning upon the crouching beast There
was a tremendous shakuig of the tree-
tops, and a confused wrestling and
jumping and whirling over and about,
amid a clond of upturned roots and
earth and leaves, accompanied with
the most terrific roars and groans.
As I looked again, vision grew more
distinct. An immense body, gleaming
with purple, green, and gold, appear-
ed convoluted around the majestic
branches overhead, and, stretching
down, was turned two or three times
around the struggling lion, whose head
and neck were almost concealed from
sight within the cavity of a pair of jaws
still more capacious than his own.'*
A full-grown boa, whose length is
estimated by Mr Romcrat about a hun-
dred feet, ("much less than many he sub-
sequently saw, but still " a very rc-
spectablc-sized snake,") had dropped
a few fathoms of coil from the gigantic
tree around which he was twined, and
enveloped the lion, who soon was
crushed to death in the scaly embrace.
Jonathan makes no doubt that the
serpent was about to swallow his vic-
tim whole, according to the custom of
his kind ; and it is certainly to be re-
gretted that the entreaties of Kaloo-
lah, combined with the ^^ strong sickly
odour" diffused by the boa, prevented
his remaining to witness a process of
deglutition which, considering the di-
mensions of the morsel to be swal-
lowed, could not have been otherwise
than curious.
Wrecked a second time, Romer
again reaches the coast of Africa, in
company with an old sailor named
Jack Thompson. They fall into the
hands of the Bedouins, and suffer
much ill treatment, an account of
which, and of various adventures and
escapes, occupy many chapters, and
would have borne a little curtailment.
Romer is wandering about with a
tribe, upon whom he has passed him-
self off as an Arab from a distant
region, when he is compelled to join
in an attack on a caravan. Kaloolah
is amongst the prisoners. She has
been captured by a party of slave-
180
Jonathan in Africa.
[Ang.
hunters, and is on her way to Mo-
rocco, where her master hopes her
beauty will fetch a good price from
the Emperor Mulcy Abderrahman.
In the partition of the spoil, she falls
to the share of an old Arab, who is
ill satisfied with the acquisition.
'^ lie was extremely chagrined at the
turn of fortune which threatened to
throw into the wrangling elements of
his domestic felicity a feminine super-
fluity— or, as he expressed it, * another
tongue in his tent.'
*^ * Bismillah !' he exclaimed; ' God
is great, but this is a small thing!
She is not a man ; she is not a black
— she cannot work ; but won't she eat
and talk ! They all eat and talk. I
take a club sometimes, and knock
them down ; beat them ; break their
bones ; but they still cat and talk !
God's will be done ! but it is too much
to put such a thing upon me for my
share! She is good for nothing: I
cannot sell her.'"
The grumbling old Bedouin did sell
her, however, to Jonathan, for three
or four cotton shirts. Flight now
becomes necessary, for Hassan, son
of the chief of the tribe, seeks Jona-
than's life, and Mrs Ali, the chief's
wife, persecutes him with her mis-
placed aftcction, and is spiteful to
Kaloolah, whom she looks upon as the
chief obstacle to its requital. Upon
this head our Yankee is rather good :
" Respect for the sex," he says, " and
a sentiment of gentlemanly delicacy,
which the reader will appreciate, pre-
vents me from dwelling upon the
story at length. It was wrong, un-
doubtedly, in Seffora to love any
other than her old, rugose-faced,
white-bearded husband ; but it is not
for me to blame her. One thing,
however, in her conduct can hardly be
excused. Tnie, I might have treated
her aficction with more tenderness ; I
might have nursed the gentle flowers
of passion, instead of turning away
from their fragrance ; I might have re-
sponded to that * yearning of the soul
for sympathy'— have relieved, with
the food of love, * the mighty hunger
of the heart ;' but all this, and more
that I might have done, but did not
do, gave her no right to throw stones
at Kaloolah." To avoid the pelting
and other disagreeables, the lovers
take themselves off in the night-time,
mounted on AeihVf— camels of a pecu-
liar breed and excellence, famed in
the desert for endurance and speed.
On their road they pick up, in a
Moorish village, an Irish renegade;
at some salt-works, they find Jack
Thompson working as a slaye ; and
soon afterwards their par^ is in-
creased to five persons, by the addition
of Ha^an, a runaway negro. With
this motley tail, Mr Romer pushes on
in the direction of Framazngda. Here
the editor very judiciously epitomises
six long chapters in as many pages ;
and, immediately after this compressed
portion, there begins what may be
strictly termed the fabulous, or idmost
the supernatural part of the book.
Previously to this there have been not
a few rather startling inddents, but
now the author throws the reinjon the
neck of his imagination, and scours
away into the realms of the extrava-
gant ; still striving, however, by cir-
cumstantial detail, to give an appear-
ance of probability to his astonndiog
and ingenious inventions. Some of
the descriptions of scenery and savage
life in the wilderness are YiTid and
striking, and show power whidi mi^t
be better applied. Of the fiibnlous
animals, the following acconnt of an
amiable reptile, peculiar to central
Africa, wiU serve as a snffident sped-
meu of Yankee natural histoiy: —
" It is au amphibious polypus. If the
reader will conceive a large cart-whecJ,
the hub will represent the body of the
animal, and the spokes the long arms,
about the size and shape of a foil-grown
kangaroo's tail, and twenty in number,
that project from it. When the animal
moves upon land, it stiffens these radii,
and rolls over upon the points like a
wheel without a felloe. These arms hare
also the eapabUUy of a lateral prdkiUtUe
contraction in curves, perpendicular toils
plane of retolution, and enable the aidoal
to grasp its prey, and draw it into its
voracious mouth. It attacks the Ud^
animals, and even man itself ; but, if dan-
gerous upon land, it is still more formid-
able in the water, where it has been known
to attack and kill an alligator. Thii
horrible monster is known by the name
of the Sempersongh or * snake-star/ and is
more dreaded than any other animal of
Framazngda, inasmuch as the natives
have no way of destroying it, except by
catching it when young, in cane traps
sunk in the water, and baited with hip-
popotamus cubs ( !) Fortunately it is not
Idl9.]
Jonathan in Africa.
Tery prolific ; and its increase is further
prerenied by the furioos contests that
these animals haye among themaelyes.
Sometimes twenty or thirty will grasp
each other with their long arms, and
twist thcmselres np into a hard and in-
tricate knot. In this situation they re-
main, h«gging and gnawing eaoh other to
4eath ; and neyer relaxing their grasp
mtU their arms are so firmly intertwined
that, when life is extinct, and the huge
maas floats, they cannot be separated.
The natiTes now draw the ball ashore,
eat it ap with axes, and make it into a
eompoet for their land." (! ! )
Is Dr Mmjo addicted to heavy sap-
pers? We can just fancy an unfor-
tunate indiyidnal, after a midnight
meal on a shield of brawn and a Brob-
dignagian crab, which he has omitted
to qualify by a snbseqaent series of
Atiff tnmblen, sinking into an nneasy
slomber, and being rolled over by such
an incnbos as this vivacions waggon-
wheeL Doobtless there is a possibi-
lity of a man dieting himself into this
style d writing, whereof a short spe-
dmea may excite a smile, but whose
freqnmt recnrrence is necessarily
wearisome, and which obvioosly es-
caiMB critadsm. But the author of
EfB^ooiak ifl not contented with brute
moDstroaitieB. He dironides reports
that reach his hero's ears, of nations
of hnman monsters, with teeth filed
to a sharp point (no uncommon prac-
ttoe amongst certain negro tribes,)
wiUi tnsks projecting like those of a
wild boar, and with pendant lips that
eontinomlly drop blood. All this is
childish enough ; but Jack Thompson,
who ia 4t dry dog, caps these astound-
ing fictions with a cannibal yam fix>m
ike Sootiiem Hemisphere.
''Tte been among the New Zea-
laaden,* qvotii Jack; ' and there they use
cadi oilier fiir f^sh grub, as regular as
boiled doff in a man-of-wai's mess. They
to eat their fathers and mothers,
they got too old to take care of
; but now they're got to be
mom driliised, and so they only eat
ilciDetty children, and slayes, and enemies
taken in battle.'
'''A dedded instance of the progress
of {■MOTement, and march of mind,'
Midi.
*'<WeIl, I belieye that is what the
■dHionariee call it,' replied Jack; but
it's a bad thine for the old folks. They
dent take to m new fashion — they are
in fkTonr of the good old custom. I neyer
VOL, LXVI.— HO. CCOCVI.
181
see'd the thing myself; but Bill Brown,
a messmate of mine once, told me that,
when he was at the Bay of Islands, he
see'd a great many poor old souls going
about with tears in their eyes, trying to
get somebody to eat them. One of them
came off to the ship, and told them that
he couldn't find rest in the stomachs of
any of his kindred, and wanted to know
if the crew wouldn't take him in. The
skipper told him he was on monstrous
short allowance, but he couldn't accom-
modate him. The poor old fellow, Bill
said, looked as though his heart would
bresik. There were plenty of sharks
round the ship, and the skipper adyised
him to jump overboard ; but he couldn't
bear the idea of being eaten raw.' "
The great audacity of Dr Mayo's
fictions preclude surprise at the bold-
ness of his tropes and similes. The
tails of his lions lash the ground
^^ with a sound like the fallmg of
dods upon a coffin ;*' theii* roar is like
the boom of a thirty-two pounder,
shaking the trees, and ratUing the
boulders in the bed of the river. Of
course, allowance must be made for
the yein of humorous rhodomontade
peculiar to certain American writers,
and into which Dr Mayo sometimes
unconsciously glides, and, at others, vo-
luntarily indulges. His description of
the conjuring tricks of the Framazug-
dan jugglers comes under the latter
head.
"Some of them were truly wonderful,
as, for instance, turning a man into a tree
bearing firuit, and with monkeys skipping
about in the branches; and another case,
where the chief juggler apparently swal-
lowed fiye men, ten boys, and a jackass,
threw them all up again, turned himself
inside out, blew himself up like a balloon,
and, exploding with a lond report, disap-
peared in a puff of luminous vapour. I
could not but admire the skill with which
the tricks were performed, although I was
too much of a Yankee to be much aston-
ished at anything in the Hey, Presto!
line."
A countryman of Mr JeffersonDavis
is not expected to feel surprise at
anything in the way of sleight of
hand, or *^ double shuffle ;" and there
was probably nothing more startling
to the senses in the evaporation of
King Shouns^'s conjuror, than in the
natural self-extinction of the Mississi-
pian debt. It is only a pity that
Jonathan Homer did not carry his
N
182
Jonathan m Africa.
[Aug.
smart fellow-citizen to the country of
the Pkoldefoos, a class of enthnsiasts
who devote their lives to a search for
the germs of moral, religions, and
political truth. Mr Davis would have
felt rather out of his clement at first,
but could not have failed ultimately
to have benefited by his sojourn
amongst these singular savages.
On coming in sight of her father's
capital, Kaloolah is overcome with
emotion, and sinks weeping into her
brother's arms. " I felt," says Jona-
than, ** that this was a situation in
which even the most sympathising
lover would be de trop. There were
throngiDg associations which I could
not share, vibrating memories to which
my voice was not attuned, bonds of
affection which all-powerful love might
transcend, and even disrupt, but
whose precise nature it could not as-
sume. There are some lovers who
are jealous of such things — fellows
who like to wholly monopolise a
woman, and who are constantly on
the watch, seizing and appropriating
her every look, thought, and feeling,
with somewhat of the same notion of
an exclusive right, as that with which
they pocket a tooth-pick. I am not
of that turn. The female heart is as
curiously aud as variously stocked as
a country dry-goods store. A man
may be perhaps allowed to select out,
for his own exclusive use, some of the
heavier articles, such as sheetings,
shirtings, flannels, trace- chains, hob-
by-horses, and goose-yokes ; but that
is no reason why the neighbours should
be at once cut off from their accus-
tomed supply of smallwares."
We venture to calculate that it
takes a full-blooded Yankee to write
in this strain, which reminds us, re-
motely, it is true, of some of Mr
Samuel Slick's eccentric fancies. Dr
Mayo has considerable versatility of
pen; he dashes at everything, fi*om
the ultra- grotesque to the hyper-sen-
timental, from the wildest fable to the
most substantial matter-of-^t ; and
if not particularly successftd in some
styles, in others he really makes what
schoolboys call " a very good offer."
But the taste of the day is by no
means for extravaganza travels, after
the fashion of Gulliver, but without
the brilliant and searching satire that
lurks in lilliput and lAputa. Mr
Herman Melville might have known
that much; although we have heard
say that certain keen critics have
caught glimpses in his Mardi of a
hidden meaning — one, however, whicli
the most penetrating have hitherto
been unable to unra^. We advise
Dr Mayo to start afinesh, with a better
scheme. Instead of torturing his in-
ventive faculties to prodnoe rotatoiy
dragons, wingless birds, (propdled
through the aur by valves in their
heads,) and countries where conrtien,
like Auriol in the ring at PrBnooni'i»
do public homage by stan<Mng on their
hands ; let him seeik his iniqSntioiiui
real life, as it exists in the wilder re-
gions of the vast continent of idiidi
he is a native. A man who has
Btrayedjso fiur, and seen so much, can
hardly be at a loss. Hie aUrver^
surgeon, the inmate of the Bedouin's
tent, the bold explorer of the deadly
swamps of Congo, had sorely nunbled
nearer home befbre a restlesBfiuu^
lured him to such distant anddmger-
ous latitudes. Or are we too bdd hi
assuming that the wUds and forests of
Western America have echoed to the
crack of his rifle, and that Uie West
Indian seas have borne the ftniow of
his vessel's prow ? It is in such scenes
we would gladly find him, when next
he risks himself in print : beikuththe
shade of the live oak or on the xoUing
prairie, or where the black flag, with
the skeleton emblem, floats tnm tiie
masthead. He has woriced out Us
crotchet of an imaginary white nation
in the heart of Africa, canying it
through with laborious mimUeness,
and with results hardly equal to tiie
pains bestowed: let him now tan
from the ideal to the real, and mm
our next meeting be on the Spaoiw
main under rover's bunting, or west
of the clearings, where the bison
roams and the Redskin prowls, andthe
stragglers from civilisation have but
begun to show themselves.
lddl9.J
ne Chmn Hmd^A " SkoH " Yam.-^PiKn III,
18;j
THE OBBEN HAKD.*
A *'aBOST" TABM. — PABI III.
Thk ayening after that in which
the eoaunander of the Gloucester
TndianMui introduced his adventures,
learij the same partj met on the poop
to hMT them continued.
** Well then," began Captam Col-
lins, leaning back against a stanchion
of the qnarter-rail, with folded arms,
legs crossed, and his ^es fixed on the
weathsr-leech of the misen-topsail to
coDeet his thoughts; — '^well then,
tiy to Uaef the Seringapatam in
chase of the Gloucester; and ]11 do
ise a few extra sea-terms, I consider
the ladiflsgoodenoo^ sailors for them
already. At any rate, lust throw a
gianoe aloft now and tnen, and our
good old hdf will explain herself; to
her own sex, she's as good as a dic-
tioiiaiy without words !
Ihe seeond day out we had the wind
Bore firom seaward, which broke up
the haae into bales of cloud, and
awmr they went rolling in for the Bay
of fikci^ ; with a longer wave and
daiker water, and the big old India-
man smged oyer it as easily as might
be, the bine breeze gushing right into
her main-tack through the heave of
the following seas, and the tail of
the trade -wind flying high above
her tmofcs in shreds and patches.
ThuigB flot more ship-shape on deck ;
andbor-flokes brought in-board on
the head-ran, and cables stowed
nway — the verj best sign you can
hsYe of being clear of the land.
The fint officer, as they called him,
wasn good-lookingfellow, that thought
BO noall-beer of himself, with his
gicM^y bine jacket and Company's but-
tons, white trowsers, and a gold thread
ronnd his cap : he hiad it stuck askew
to show how his hair was brushed,
and dianged his boots evenr time he
came on dedL. Still he looked like a
sailor, if bnt for tiie East India brown
on his ftce, and there was no mistake
abont his knowing how to set a sail,
tiim yards, or put the ship about;
so that the stiff old skipper left a great
deal to him, besides trusting in him
for a first-rate navigator that had
learned headwork at a naval school.
The crew were to be seen all muster-
ing before tea-time in the dog-watch,
with their feet just seen under the
foot mat of the fore-course, like actors
behind a playhouse curtain : men that
I warrant you had seen every conntiy
under heaven amongst them, as pri-
vate as possible, and rea4y to enjoy
their pots of tea upon the forecastle,
as well as their talk.
The old judge evidently fought shy of
company, and perhaps/meant to have
his own mess-table under the 4>oop
as long as the voyage lasted : scarcely
any of the ladies had apparently got
tbeir sea-qualms over yet, and, for
all I knew, she might not be on board
at all ; or, if she were, her father
seemed quite Turk enough to keep
her boxed up with jalousie-blinds,
Calcutta fashion, and give her a
walk in the middle watch, with the
poop tabooed till morning ! The
jolly, red-faced indigo -planter was
the only one that tried to get up any-
thing like spirit at the taUe ; indeed,
he would have scraped acquaintance
with me if I had been in a mood for
it: all I did was to say ^Yes' and
^No,' and to take wine with him.
^^Poor feUowl" said he, turning to
three or four of the cadets, that stuck
by him like pilot-fish to an old shark,
(^ he's thinkingof his mother at home,
I daresay." The fools thought this
was meant as a joke, and b^^ to
laugh. " Why, you unfledged grif-
flns you," said the planter, ^' what
d'ye see to nicker at, like so many
jackals in a trap ? D'ye suppose one
thinks the less of a man for having a
heart to be sick in, as well as a sto-
mach—eh ? " **0h, don't speak of it,
Mr Bollock ! " said one. " Come,
come, old boy I" said another, with a
white mustache on his lip, ^* 'twon't
do for you to go the sentimental, voit
know!" ^' Capsise my main-spanker,
'tis too fimny, though 1 " put in a fel-
low who wore a glazed hat on deck,
* Ste No. CCCCL, Mai^ 1849.
184
The Green Hand^A " Sliort " Yam.-^Part HI.
[Ang;
and put down all the ropes with num-
bers on paper, as soon as he had done
being sick. The planter leant back
in bis chair, looked at them coolly,
and burst out a>laughing. *^ Catch me
ever Agoing home* again 1" said he.
^^ Of aU the absurd occasions for im-
pudence with the egg* shell on its head
coming out, hang me if these fifteen
thousand miles of infernal sea- water
ain't the worst I India for ever! —
that's the place to ^ a man ! He's
either sobered or gets room to work
there ; and just wait, my fine fellows,
till I see you on the Custom-house
Bunda at Bombay, or setting off up
country — ^you're all of you the very
food for sircars and coolies! That
quiet lad there, now, soft as he looks,
— I can tell by his eye he won't be
long a griff"— He'll do something I I
tell you what, as soon as he's tasted
a mango -fish, he'll understand the
country I Why, sir I " said he again,
smackmg his lips, '"tis worth the
voyage of itself— you begin a new
existence, so to speak ! ru be bound
all this lot o' water don't contain one
single mango-fish ! Remember, boys,
I promised you all a regular blow-out
of mango-fish, and^oncoit with bread-
sauce, whenever you can get across to
Chuckbully Factory ! " *' Blow good
breeze, then; blow away the main
jib !" said the nautical young gentle-
man; "I'll join you, old fellow!"
"Not the best way to bring it about,
though!" said the indigo-planter,
good-naturedly, not knowing but there
was such a sail on the ship.
The yellow setting sun was striking
over the starboard quarter- boat, ana
the Bay of Biscay lay broad down
to leeward for a view — a couple of
large craft, with all studding-sails
set before the wind, making for land,
far enough off to bring their can-
vass in a piece, and be^ to look
blue with the air — one like a milk-
woman with pitchers and a hoop;
the other like a girl carrying a big
bucketful of water, and leaning the
opposite way to steady herself. There
'was one far to north-east, too, no more
than a white speck in the gray sky ;
and the land-cloud went up over it
into so many sea-lions' heads, all look-
ing out of their manes. The children
flapped their hands and laughed; and
the ladies talked about the vessels^
and thought they saw land — Spain or
the Pyrenees, perhaps. However, it
wasn't long before my American friend
Snout caught sight of me in the midst of
his meditations, as he turned bolt round
on his toes to hurry aft again.
"The fact is, mister," said he,
"/'m riled a little at the 'tamatioir
pride of yon Britishers. There now,'*
said he, pointing at the blaze of the
sun to westward, with his chui,
"there's a consolation! I calculate
the sun's just over Noo-Tork, which
I expect to give you old coontry folks
considerable pain !"
"No doubt!" said I, with a sigh,
" one can't help thinking of a banker
run off with ever so much English
gold!" "You're a sensible chap,
you are. It's a right-down asylum
for oppressed Europains, that can't
be denied." "And Afiricans too,"
I put in. " Indy, now," said he,
" I reckon there's a sight of
dollars made in that country — yon
don't s'pose I'm goin* ont there for
nothing? We'll just take it ont o'
your hands yet, mister. I don't ought
to let you into the scheme till I know
you better, you see; but I expect to
want a sort o' company got up before
we land. There's one of yonr nabobs,
now, came into the ship at Possmouth
with a whole tail of niggers-dressed-
np ." " And a lady with him, I
think?" said I, as coolly as I could.
— " I'll somehow open on that chap
about British tyranny, I gness, after
gettin' a little knowledge out of
him. We'd just rise the niggoiSf
if they had not such a right^own
cur'ous 91^-thullogy — ^but I tell yon
now, mister, that's one of the veiy
p'ints I expect to meet Miss^naries
won't do it so slick off in two thou-
sand years, I kinder think, as tiiis
indentical specoolation will in liM,—
besides payin' like Pemvain mines,
which the miss'nary line don't. I'm
a regoolar Down-easter, ye see —
kindei* piercin' into a snbje(^ like our
nation in gin'ral — and the wholl
schim hangs together a little, I cal-
culate, mister ? " " So I should
think, Mr Snout, indeed," I said.
Here the American gave another
chuckle, and turned to again on his
walk, double quick, till you'd have
thought the whole lenffth of the poop
shook : when who should I see with the
1^9.]
Tke Green H<md-~A " Short'' Yam.-^Pari III.
185
tail of my eye, but mj friend the ^iV-
fma^ar salaaming to Mr Snont, by the
br^ of the qnarter-deck. The
Yankee seemed rather taken aback at
first, and didn't know what to make
of him. '' S* laam, sah 'b,!* said the
dark senrant, with an impadent look,
and load enough for me to hear, as I
stepped from aft, — '^ Judge sahib
i-send genteeman salaam — say too
miMih hiyyy boot he got — all same as
IBimpkant ! S'pose master not so
much lond walk, this side ? " '' Welir
broke ont the American, looking at
the Bengalee's flat turban and mus-
tache, as if he were too great a curi-
osity to be angry with, then, turning
on bis heel to proceed with his walk,
'* Now, mister," said he to me, " that's
what I call an incalculable impudent
black — bat he's the first I ever saw
with hair on his lip, it's a fact ! "
'' Master not mind t " said the Eit-
magar, raising his key next time Mr
Snoot wheeled round. ^^ Judge sahib
barra barrm bnhadoorkea ! — yer' great
man ! ^ " D nlggur ! " said Mr
Sooat, tramping away aft ; ^^ there's
yoor British regoolations, I say, young
man ! niggars bkhing on the quarter-
deck, and free-bom citizens put off
it ! " " Bhote kJioob, mistree ! "
sqaeaked oat the native again ; ^^ burra
jfldge sahib not i-sleep apter he dine?
— ^reri well — I tell the sahib, passlger
mistree moor stamp-i-stamp all the
moor I can say ! " So off he went to
report in the poop-cabin. A little
i^ter, ap shot a head wrapped in a
yeUofw bandanna, just on the level of
the poop-deck, looking through the
breast- nul ; and the next thing I saw
was the great East Indian himself,
with a brMd- flapped Manilla hat over
this top-gear, and a red-flowered
dressiDg-gown, standing beside the
bumade with Captsun Williamson.
^* What the dence, Captain William-
MQ 1 " aaid the judge, with an angry
Chance ap to the poop, " cannot I
ctose my eyelids after dinner for one
instant — in my own private apart-
ments, air — for this hideous noise!
Who the deaoe is that person there —
eh, di?** ^^ He's an American
gentleman, I believe, Sir Charles,"
replied the captain. '* Believe, sir ! "
said the jndge, ^^ yon ought to know
erery indiTmoal, I think. Captain
Williaiiuon, whom yon admitted into
this vessel ! I expressly stipulated
for quiet, sir — I understood that no
suspicious or exceptionable persons
should travel in the same conveyance
with my suwarry. I 'd have taken
the whole ship, sir I " "I 've no
more to do than tell him the regula-
tions aboard, Sir Charles,". said the
captain, *'and the annoyance will
cease." ''Tell him, indeed!" said
the judge, a little more good-humour-
edly, " why, captain, the man looks
like a sea-pirate ! You should have
taken only such raw grifins as that
young lad on the other side. Ho,
kitmagar ! " " Maharaj ? " said the
footman, bowing down to the deck.
" Slippers lao ! " " Jee, khodabund,"
answered the native, and immediately
after he reappeared from the round-
house door, with a pair of turned- up
yellow slippers. *' Take them up
with my salaam to that gentleman
there," said Sir Charles, in Hindos-
tanee, '^and ask him to use them."
*' Hullo I/' sung out Mr Snout, on
being hove- to by the kitmagar, with
one hand on his breast and the other
holding the slippers, '' this won't do !
You'd better not rile me again, you
cussed niggur you — out o' my way ! "
There they went at it along the poop
together, iir Snout striding right for-
ward with his long legs, and the kit-
magar hopping backward out of his
way, as he tried to make himself un-
derstood ; till, all at once, the poor
fellow lost his balance at the ladder-
head, and over he went with a smash
fit to have broken his neck, if the
captain's broad back hadn't fortu-
nately been there to receive it. The
rage of Sir Charles at this was quite
beyond joking; nothing else would
satisfy him but the unlucky Yankee's
being shoved off the poop by main
force, and taken below — the one
stamping and roaring like an old
buffalo, and the other testifying
against all '' aristocratycal /granny."
At eight bells, again, I found it a
fine breezy night, the two upper
mates walking the weather quarter-
deck in blue-water style, six steps
and a look to windward, then a
wheel round, and, now and then, a
glance into the binnacle. I went aft
and leant over the Seringapatam's
lee quarter, looking at the white back-
wash running aft from her bows, in
186
The Green Hand—A " Short'' YoTH.-^Pari III.
[Any.
green sparks, into the smooth along-
side, and the snrge coming round her
connterto meet it. Eveiything was
set aloft that conld draw, even to a
starboard main-topmast-stnnsail ^ the
high Indiaman being lighter than if
homeward-bonnd, and the breeze
strong abeam, she had a good heel-
over to port: but she went easily
through the water, and it was only at
the other side you heard it rattling
both ways along the bends. The
shadow of her went far to leeward,
except where a gleam came on the top
of a wave or two between the sails
and nnder their foot. Just below the
sheer of the hull aft it was as dark as
night, though now and then the light
from a port stmck on it and went in
again ; but every time she sank, the
bight of her wake from astern
swelled up away round the counter,
with its black side as smooth as a
looking-glass. I kept peering into it,
and expecting to see my own face,
while all the time I was very naturally
thinking of one quite different, and
felt uneasy till I should actually see
her. " Confound it I" I thought,
" were it only a house, one might walk
round and round it till he found out
the window !" I fancied her bewitch-
ing face through the garden door, as
clearly as if I saw it in the dark head
of the swell; but I'd have given
more only to hear that imp of a
cockatoo scream once— whereas there
was nothing but the water working up
into the rudder-case; the pintles
creaking, and the tiller-ropes cheep-
ing as they traversed ; and the long
welter of the sea when the ship eased
down, with the surgeon and his friends
walking about and laughing up to
windward. From that, again, I ran
on putting things together, till, in
fact, Jacobs's notion of a shipwreck
seemed by far the best. No doubt
Jacobs and West wood, with a few
others, would be saved, while I didn't
even object much to the old nabob
himself, for respectability's sake,
and to spare crape. But, by Jove,
wouldn't one bring him to his bear-
ings soon enough there ! Every sailor
gets hold of this notion some night-
watch or other, leaning over the side,
with pretty creatures aboard he can
scarce speak to otherwise ; and I was
coiling it down so fiEist myself, at the
moment, that I had jnst b^^ to
pitch into the nabob about oht all
being Adam's sons and dangfaten,
nnder a knot of green palm-trees, at
the door of a wooden honae, half
thatched with leaves, when I was
brought up with a round tarn by see-
ing a light shining through the hair
bull's-eye in the deck where I stood.
No doubt the sweet girl I had been
thinking of was actually there, and
going to bed ! I stretched over the
quarter, but the heavy mouldings
were in the way of seeing more th«i
the green bars of the after window —
all turned edgeways to the water,
where the gallery hung out like a
comer turret from the ship's side.
Now and then, however, when she
careened a little more than ordinary,
and the smooth lee swell went heaping
up opposite, I conld notice the light
throngh the Venetians fh>m the state-
room come out upon the dark water
in broad bright lines, like the grate
across a fire, then disappearing in a
ripple, till it was gone again, or some-
body's shadow moved inside. It
was the only lighted window in the
gallery, and I looked every time
it came as if I could see in ; when at
lost, yon may fkncy my satisfaction,
as, all of a sudden, one long slowhesve-
ovcr of the ship showed me the whole
bright opening of the port, squared
out of her shadow, where it shone
upon the glassy round of the swell.
'Twas as plain as from a mirror in %
closet,— the lighted gallery window
with its frame swung in, a bit of the
deck-roof I was standing on, and two
female figures at the T^ndow — ^mere
dark shapes against the lamp. I al-
most started back at the notion of
their seeing me, but away lengthened
the light on the breast of the swelL,
and it sank slowly down into a Uack
hollow, as the Indiaman eased up to
windward. Minute by minute, quite
breathless, did I watch for such another
chance ; but next time she leant over
as much, the port had been dosed,
and all was dark ; although thoae flBW
moments were enough to send the
heart into my month with sheer delight
The figure I had seen holding with one
hand by the portsill, and apparently
keeping up her dress with t&e other,
as if she were looking down steadily
on the heave of the sea below — it
1849.]
The Qrtoi Sand^A ^^ Short'' Yam.-^Parl IH.
187
Qoaldn't be mistaken. The line of
her head, neck, and ahouidmis, came
out more certain than if they hadn't
been fiUed np with nothing bat a black
Bhadow ; it was jut Lota Hyde's, as
she sat in the baii-room amongst the
crowd, rd have bet the Victory to a
bamboat on it: only her hair hang
loose on one aide, while the girl be-
hind seemed to be dressing the other,
for it was tamed back, so that I saw
clear past her cheek and neck to where
the lamp was, and her ear gleamed to
the light. For one moment nothing
eoold be plainer, than the glimpse
old Dary Jones gave me by one of his
tricks ; bat the old fellow was quite
as decoroos in his way as a chamber-
blind, and swallowed his pretty little
hit of blab as qoickly as if it had been
amermaid caaght at her morning toilet.
Whenever I foand there was to be no
more of it for the night, the best thing
to calm one's feelings was to lig^t a
cigar and walk out the watdi ; bat I
took caxe it abonld rather be over the
nabob's head than his daaghter's,
and went np to the weather side, where
there was nobody else by this time,
wishing her the sweetest of dreams,
and not doubting I shoald see her
next day.
I dansay I shoald have walked oat
the first watch, and the second too,
if Westwood hadn't come ap beside
me before he tamed in.
" Why, yon look like the officer of
the watch, Ned 1" said my friend,
after takmg a glance roand at the
night. "Yes— what?— ar-a— I don't
thmk so," stammered I, not knowing
what he said, or at least the meaning
of it, thoagh certaioly it was not so
deep. *'*• I hope not though, Tom !" said
I agam, " 'da the yery thing I don't
want to look like I" "You seem
bent on keeping it up, and coming
the innocent, at any rate," said he ;
^I really didn't know you the first
time I saw you in the cuddy." ^^Why,
man, yon never saw our theatricals in
tbe dear old Iris, on the Mican sta-
tion ! I was our beet female actor of
tragedy there, and did Desdemona so
weU that the black cook who stood for
Otbello actnaUy cried. He said, ' No-
body but 'ee dibble umself eo for smnd-
dermisaeeDasdemonerl"'^ "I dare-
say," said Westwood ; " but what is
tiie need for it mno, even if you could
serve as a blind for me ?" ^^ My dear
fellow I" said I, ** not at all— you've
kept it up very well so far— just go
on." Keep it up, Ned ? " inqaired he,
^^ what do you mean ? I've done no-
thing except keep quiet, fit>m mere
wantof spiiits. " " So much the better,"
I said ; " I never saw a man look more
like a prophet In the wildemess ; it
doesn't cost you the least trouble — why
you'd have done for Hamlet in the Lris,
if for nothing else ! After all, though, a
missionary don't wear blue pilot-cloth
trousers, nor tie his neckerchief as you
do, Tom. You must bend a white
neckcloth to-morrow morning! I'm
quite serious, Westwood, I assure
you," continued I. ''Just think of
the suspicious look of two navy men
being aboard an IncUaman^ nobody
knows how ! Why, the first frigate we
speak, or port we touch at, they'd
hand one or both of us over at once —
which I, for my part, shouldn't at all
like 1" '' Indeed, Collins," said Tom,
turning round, '' I really cannot un-
derstand why you went out in her I
It distresses me to think that here
you've got yourself into this scrape
on my account ! At least you'll put
back in the first home-bound ship
we-
ll
'<OhI" exclaimed I, blushing a
little in the dark though, both at
Westwood's simplicity and my not
wishing to tell him my secret yet —
" I'm tired of shore — I w€mt to see
India again — I'm thinking of going
into the army^ curse it!" " The army,
indeed 1" said Westwood, laughing for
tho first time, '' and you midshipman
all over. No — no — that won't do I I
see your drift, you can't deceive me I
You're a trae friend, Ned, to stand
by an old schoolmate so I " '' No,
Tom !" said I ; '"tis yourself has too
kind a heart, and more of a sailor's,
all fair and above-board, than I can
manage ! I uxmU humbug youj at any
rate — I tell you I've got a scheme of
my own, and you'll know more of it
soon." Tom whistled ; however I
went on to tell him, *' The long and the
short of it is, Westwood, you'll bring
both of us by the head if you don't
keep up the missionary." '' Mission-
ary!" repeated he; ''you don't mean to
say you and Neville intended all that
long toggery you supplied my kit with,
for me to sail under minionary
188
The Green Haiid^A » Short'' Yam.-^Part III.
[Ang,
colours ? I tell jovL what, Ned, it*s
not a character I like to cut jokes
upon, ranch less to sham !" " Jokes !"
said I ; ^^ there's no joking about it ;
'tis serious enough." " Why," said
West wood, " now I know the reason
of a person like a clerg}nnan sighting
me through his spectacles for half an
hour together, these two evenings be-
low ! This very afternoon he called me
his brother, and began asking me all
manner of questions which I could no
more answer than the cook's mate."
" Clergyman be hanged ! " said I,
'' you must steer clear of him, Tom'—
take care you don't bowse up your jib
too much within hail of him ! Mind,
I gave your name, both to the head-
steward and the skipper, as the Reve-
rend Mr Tliomas, going back to
Bombay." "The devil you did!"
** Why there was nothing else for it.
West wood," I said, " when you were
beyond thinking for 'yourself. All
you've got to do with that solemn chap
iu the spectacles, is just to look as
wise as possible, and let him know you
belong to the Church. And as forsham-
ming,you needn't sham abit — taketoiU
mydearfellow, ifth at will do you good !"
I said this in joke, but Westwood
seemed to ponder on it for a minute
or two. " Indeed, Collins," said he
gravely, "I do think you're right.
What do we sailors do, but give up
everything in life for a mere school-
boy notion, and keep turning up salt
water for years together like the old
monks did the ground ; only they gi'ew
com and apples for their pains, and we
have nothing but ever so many dull
watches and wild cruises ashore to re-
member! How many sailors have
turned preachers and missionaries, just
because something, by accident as it
were, taught them to put to account
what you can't help feeling now and
then in the very look of the sea. AVhat
does it mean in the Scriptures, Ned,
about ' seeing the wonders of the Lord
in the deep ?' " As Westwood said this,
both of us stopped on the taffrail, and,
somehow or other, a touch of I didn't
well know what went through me. I
held my breath, with his hand on my
arm, just at the sight I had seen a thous-
and times — the white wake running
broad away astern, with a mark in the
middle as if it had been torn, on to the
green yeast of the waves, then right
to their black crests plunging in the
dark. It was midnight ahead, and the
clouds risen aloft over where I had
been looking half an hour before ; bat
the long ragged split to westward was
opened up, and a clear glaring glance
of the sky, as pale as death, shot through
it on the horizon. *^ I can't be sony
for having gone to sea," said West-
wood again ; ^^ but isn't it a better
thing to leave home and friends, as
those men do, for the sake of carrying
the gospel to the heathen ?" As soon
as we wheeled round, with the ship
before us, leaning over and mounting
to the heave, and her spread of can-
vass looming out on the dark, my
thoughts righted. " Well," said I,
"it may be all very well for some —
every one to his rope ; but, for my
part, I think if a man hadn't been
made for the sea, he couldn't have
built a ship, and where would your
missionaries be ihenf Yon're older
than I am, Westwood, or I'd say you
let some of your notions ran away
with you, like a Yankee ship with
her short-handed crew !" " Oh, Ned,"
said he, " of all places in the workl
for one's actions coming back on him
the sea is the worst, espedally when
you're an idler, and have nothing to
do but count the sails, or listen to the
passengers' feet on deck. These two
days, now, I've thought more than I
over did iu my life. I can't get that
man's death out of my head ; eyery
time the sea flashes round me as I
come from below, I think of him — ^it
seems to me he is lying yet by the
side of the Channel. I can't help hav-
ing the notion he perhaps fired in die
air!'' "'Twas a base liel" said I;
** If ^e weren't Merc, you wouldn't be
here, I can tell you, Westwood." "I
don't know how I shall ever dnf
through this voyage," continued be.
" If there were a French gunboat to
cut out to-morrow morning, or if we
were only to have a calm some day in
sight of a Spanish slaver, — 'tis nothing
but a jog^g old Indiaman thongfa!
I shall never more see the flag over
my head with pride — every prospect
I had was in the service!"
Next morning was flne, and pro-
mised to be hot ; the ship still with ft
sidewind from near south-west, whidi
'twas easy to see had slackened since
midnight with a pour of rain, the
lSi9.2
IJte Green Hand— A " Short'' Yam.^Pari III.
189
dftils being all wet, and coats hong
to dry in the fore-rigging; she was
going little more^han five or six
knots headway. The water was
Uoer, lifting in long waves, scarce a
speck of foam except about the ship ;
lat instead of having broke ap with
the snn, or snnk below the level, the
long white donds were risen high to
leeward, wandering away at the top
tad Hang ns steaoy below ont of the
sky, a pretty sore sign they had more
to do. However, the Indiaman was
ail alive from stem to stem: decks
drying as dean as a table ; hens and
dncks docking in the coops at their
food ; pigs granting ; stewards and
cabin-boys going fore and aft, below
and above, and the men from aloft
coming slowly down for breakfast,
with an eye into the galley fannel.
Most of the passengers were npon
deckf in knots all along the poop-net-
tings, to look ont for Corvo and Flores,
the westernmost of the Azores, which
we had passed before daybreak.
" I say, Fawd !** said the warlike
cadet with the mustache, all of a
sodden yawning and stretching him-
self, as if he*d been struck with the
thing himself, ^^Cnssed doll this
vessd already, ain't it?" ''Blast
me, no, yon fellow !'* said Ford, the
nanticai man — '' that's because you're
not interested in the ocean— the sea —
as I am! Yon should study the
crafts Bob, my boy ! I'U teach you to go
aloft. lonly wish it would blow harder
— not a mere capful of wind, you know,
but a tempest !" " By Jove I Fawd,"
said the other, '' how we shail enjoy
India— even that breakfast with old
Bollock I By the bye, ain't breakfast
ready yet?" These two fdlows, for
my part, I took for a joint-model, just
trying to hit a mid-helm betwixt
them, dse I couldn't have got through
it: accordingly they both patronised
me. **Haw, Cawlins!" said one,
nodding to me. ''Is that you, my
bc^?" said the other; "now you're
a nSknw never would make a sailor !"
" I daresay not," I said, gravely, " if
they have all to commence as horse-
marines." " Now, such ignorance ! "
8^ Ford ; "marines don't ride horses,
Ci^lins, yon fallow I — ^how d'you think
they eonid be ^ at sea— eh?"
" Well— now— that didn't occur to
me I" said I, in the cadet key. "Fawd,
my boy, you — demmee — ^you know
too much — ^you're quite a sea-cook ! "
" Oh, now I But I'm afraid, Winter-
ton, I never shall land ashore in India
— I <xm tempted to go into the navy
instead." "I say, Mr Ford," put in
a fat unlicked cub of a tea-middy,
grinning as he listened, " I've put you
up to a few rises aboard, but I don't
think I told you we've got a dozen or
so oi donkeys* below in the steerage? "
"Donkeys!— no?" said the griffin.
"Yes," replied the midshipman;
" they kick like blazes, though, if they
get loose in a gale — why mine, now,
would knock a hole through the side
in no time — ^I'il show you them for a
glass of grog, Mr Ford." '^Donel"
and away they went. "That fool,
Fawd, you know, Cawlins, makes one
sick with his stuff ; I declare he chews
little bits of tobacco in our room till
ho vomits as much as before," said
Winterton. '*I tell you what, Caw-
lins, you're a sensible man — ^I'll let
you into a secret! What do you
think — there's the deuccdest pretty
girl in the vessel, we've none of us
seen except myself; I caught a sight
of her this very mawning. She don't
visit the cuddy at all ; papa's proud,
you pusseeve — a nabob in short!'*
"Oh, dear!" said I. "Yes, I do
assure you, quite a bew-ty ! What's
to be done ? — we absolutely must meet
her — eh, Cawlins?" Here I mused
a bit. "Oh!" said I, looking up
again, "shall we send a deputation,
do you think?" '* Or get up a ball,
Cawlins?— Hallo, what's this?" said
he, leaning over the breast-rail to
look at a stout lady who was lugging
a chubby little boy of three or four,
half-dressed, up the poop-stair, while
her careful husband and a couple of
daughters blocked it up above. "Sec,
Tommy, dear!" said she, "look at
the land — the nice land, you know.
Tommy." "Come away, my love,"
said her spouse, "else you won't see it."
Tommy, however, hung back man-
fully. "Tommy don't want wook
at yandy' sang out he, kicking the
deck ; " it all such 'mell of a sheep,
ma; me wook at 'at man wis gate
feel. Fare other /ee/, man ? Oh, fat
Sea Blang for sailors' chests.
im
I%e Greeh Hamd—A ** SwH'' Yam.-^Part HI.
[Anfi^
a u^y man ! " The honest tar at the
wheel pulled up his shirt, and looked
terribly cut at this plain remark on
his phiz, which certainly wasn^t the
most beautiful ; meanwhile he had
the leech of the main topgallant sail
shaking. ^^Mind your helm, there ,'^
sung out the second mate from the
capstan. *^ My good man,^* said the
lady, '^ will you be so kind as to show
us the land ? " " Ay, ay, sir," growled
he, putting up his weather spokes;
^^ sorry I cam't, ma'am — please not to
speak to the man at the wheel."
Jacobs was coiling down the ropes on
a carronade close by, and stepped
forward : " Beg your ladyship's par-
don," said he, ^^ but if yo'll give me
charge o' the youngster till you goes
on the poop — why, IVc got a babby
at home myself." The stout lady
handed him over, and Jacobs managed
the little chap wonderfully. This was
the first time Tommy had been on
deck since leaving home, and he
could'nt sec over the high bulwarks,
so ho fancied it was a house he was
in. ^^ Oh, suts big tees^ man!" shouted
he, clapping his hands as soon as ho
noticed the sails and rigging aloft;
" nuts warge birds in a tecs /" " Ay,
ay, my little man," answered Jacobs,
•'that's the wonderfowl tree! Did
ye ever hear Jack and the Bean-stalk,
Tommy?" "Oh, 'ess, to be soo,
manP' said Tommy, scomftilly, as if
he should think ho had. ''Well,
little un," said Jacobs, '' that's it, ye
see. It grows up every night afore
Jack's door — and them's Jack an'
his brothers a-comin' down out on the
wonderfowl country aloft, with frnitB
in their hands." The little fellow was
delighted^ and for going aloft at once.
*'Ye must wait a bit, Tommy, my
lad, till you're bigger," said Jacobs ;
"here I'll show you the country,
though;" so he lifted the boy up to
let him see the bright blue sea lying
high away round the sky. In place
of crying, as he would have done other-
wise. Tommy stared with pleasure,
and finished by vowing to get as soon
big as possible, Jacobs advising him
to eat always as hard as he had been
doing hitherto.
This morning the breakfast party
was in high spirits: Mr Finch, the
chief officer, rigged up to the nines
in white trowsers and Company's
jacket, laying himself ont to pletae
the young ImUos, with whom be be-
gan to be a regriar hero. He was
as blustering as a yomag Uon, and at
salt-tongued as a Channel pilot to
the men; bat with the ladies, on the
poop or in the cabin, he waa always
twisting his sea-talk into fine lan-
guage, like what yon see in booka^
as iSf the real thing wcanen't good
enough. He mbbed his hands at
hearing the mate on deck ainging out
over the sky-light to trim yards,
and gave a look ^ong to the captam.
'' You must understand, ladies," said
the mate, ''this is what we mariners call
the ' ladies' wind I ' " " Oh dcli|^
fnl! " " Oh«o nicel" " Yon sailoca
are so polite ! " exclaimed the yomig
ladies — " then does it actually bekmff
to us ? " " Why it's a Trade wmd,Mifla
Fortescue 1 " said Ford the naatical
cadet, venturing to put in a word ; ImA
the ladies paid no attention to him,
and the chief mate gave him a look of
contempt. ''Yon see, ladies, the
reason is," said the mate, in a flourish-
ing way, "because it's so regular,
and as gentle as — as — why it wafta
your bark into the region of, yoa
see,— the— " "The 'Doldrums,"*
put in the third mate, who was a
brinier individual by f^, and a true
seaman, but wished to pay his compli-
ments too, between his monthfola.
" At any rate," Finch went on, "it's
congenial, I may say, to the iMings
of tho fair — ^you need never touch her
braces from one day to another. I
just wish. Miss Fortescue, you'd allow
me tho felicity of letting yon see how
to put the ship about I" "A 9oU^
might put her in stays, miss," aaidthe
third mat« again, encouragingly, "and
out of 'cm again ; she's a remarkable
easy craft, owmg to her ^" "Ckm-
found it 1 Mr Bickett," said the fint
mate, tinning round to his anlndty
inferior, "you're a sight too ooarse
for talking to ladies. Well tho cap-
tain didn't hear you!" Riokett looked
dumbfoundered, not knowing what
was wrong ; the old ladies firowned ;
the young ones either bloshed or pot
their handkerchiefs to their montna,
and some took the oooaaion for walk-
ing off.
The weather began to hmve a dif-
ferent turn aLready by the time we
got up— the clouds banking to lee-
IM9.J
l%e Gnen Hand— A " Short »' Yixm,^Part IH.
191
ward, the sem dxuky under them, and
the air-line between rather bluish.
Two or three Uiy gnlls in our wake
began to look alive, and show them-
selTes, and a whole black shoal of por-
poises went tumbling and rolling across
the bows for half an honr, tiU down
they dived of a sndden, head- foremost,
ODc after another in the same spot,
Mke so many sheep through a gap.
My gentleman-mate was to be seen
everywhere about the decks, and ac-
tive enough, I must say : the next
minute he was amongst two or three
young ladiee aft, as polite as a dan-
cing-master, showing them every-
thing in board and out, as if no-
body knew it except himself. Here
a yoong girl, one of Master Tommy's
sisters, came slapping aft, half in a
fright. '* Oh, Miss Fortescue I'' cried
8h&, '^just think ! — ^I peeped over
into a nasty black hole there, with a
ladder in it, and saw ever so many
common sailors hung up in bags from
the ceiling. Oh, what do you think,
one of them actually kissed his hand
to me 1" *' Only one of the watch
below awake. Miss," said the mate ;
^impertinent swab! — ^I only wish I
knew which it was." "Poor fel-
lows !" said the young ladies ; *^ pray,
don't be harsh to them—but what
have they been domg ?" " Ob, no-
thing,** said he, with a laugh, *^ but
swing in their hammocks since eight
bdls.** " Then are they so lazy as
to dislike getting up to such delight-
M-looking occupations ?" ^* Why,
ma'am,** said the mate, staring a
little, ** they've been on deck last
night two watches, of four hours each,
I must say that for them." *^ Dear
me r broke out the ladies ; aud on
this the chief officer took occasion to
launch out again conceming ^* the
weary vigils," as he called them,
** whi(di we mariners have to keep, far
distant from land, without a smile from
the eyes of the fair to bless us I But,
however, the very thought of it gives
eonrageto the sailor's manly heart, to
disrei^tfd the billows' fearful rage, and
reef topsails in the tempest's angry
height!" Thought I, ''he'd much
better do it before." However, the
young ladies didn't seem to see that,
evidently looldng upon the mate as
the very pink of seamen; and he
actually set a seoond lower stud-sail,
to show them how fast she could
walk.
" D'ye know, sir," put in the third
mate, coming firom forward, " I'm in
doubt it's going to be rather a sneezer,
sir, if ye look round the larboard
stun-s'ls." Sure enough, if our fine
gentleman had had time, amidst bis
politeness, just to cast an eye beyond
his spread of cloth, he would have no-
ticed the clouds gathered all in a lump
to north-eastwai^, one shooting into
another — ^the breast of them lowering
down to the horizon, and getting the
same colour as the waves, tUl it bulked
out bodily in the middle. You'd have
fancied the belly of it scarce half a mile
o£f from the white yard-arms, and the
hollow of it twenty — coming as steal-
thily as a ghost, that walks without
feet after you, its face to yours, and
the skirt of its winding-sheet in
''kingdom come" all the while. I
went up on the poop, and away be-
hind the spanker I could see tlie sun
gleam for one minute right on the eye
of a stray cloud risen to nor'-west,
with two short streaks of red, purple,
and yellow together — ^what is called
a " wind-gall ;" then it was gone. The
American was talking away with jo-
vial old Rollock and Ford, who began
to look wise, and think there was mis-
chief brewing in the weather. " Mind
your helm there, sirrah 1" sung out
the mate, walking aft to the wheel,
as everything aloft fluttered. " She
won't lie her course, sir!" said the
man. " All aback for'nd !" hailed
the men at work on the bowsprit;,
and hard at it went all hands, trim-
ming yards over and over again ; the
wind freshening fast, stun-sails flap-
ping, booms bending, and the whole
spread of canvass in a cumber, to
teach the mate not to be in such a
hurry with his infernal merchantman's
side* wings next time. The last stun-
sail he hauled down caught foil aback
before the wheel could keep her away
quick enough ; the sheet of it hitched
foul at the boom-end, and crack
through wont the boom itself, with a
smash that made the ladies think it a
case of shipwreck commencing. The
loose scud was flying fast out from
behind the top of the clouds, and
spreading away overhead, as if it
would catch us on the other side;
while the clouds themselves broke up
192
The Green Hand^A " S/torf' Yam.-^Part III.
[Aog.
slowly to both hands, and the north-
cast breeze came sweeping along right
into the three topsails, the wind one
way and the sea another. As she
roanded away steadying before it, you
felt the masts shake in her till the
topsails blew out full ; she gave one
sudden bolt up with her stem, like an
old jackass striking behind, which
capsized three or four passengera in a
heap ; and next minute she was surg-
ing along through the wide heave of
the water as gallantly as heart could
wish, driving a wave under her bows
that swung back under the fore-chains
on both sides, with two boys running
up the rigging far aloft on each mast
to stow the royals. The next thing
I looked at was poor Ford^s nautical
hat lifting alongside on the top of a
wave, as if it were being handed up
to him ; but no sooner seen, than it
was down in the hollow a quarter of
a mile off, a couple of wliite gulls
making snatches at it and one an-
other, and hanging over it again with
a doubtful sort of a scream. Still the
wind was as yet nothing to speak of
when once aft ; the sea was getting up
slowly, and the Indiaman's easy roU
ovet it made every one cheerful, in
spite of the shifts they were put to
for getting below. When the bell
struck for dinner, the sun was pretty
clear, away on our starboard bow ; the
waves to south-westward glittered as
they rose ; one side of the ship shone
bright to the leech of the mainto'gal-
lant-sail, and we left the second mate
hauling down the jibs for want of use
for them.
The splendid pace she went at was
plain, below in the cuddy, to every-
body ; you felt her shoving the long
seas aside with the force of a thousand
horses in one, then sweep they came
after her, her stem lifted, she rolled
round, and made a floating msh ahead.
In the middle of it all, something dar-
kened the half- open skylight, where I
perceived the Scotch second-mate's
twisted nose and red whiskers, as he
squinted down with one eye aloft, and
disappeared again ; after which I heard
them clue up to'gallantsails. Still
she was driving through it rather too
bodily to let the seas rise under her ;
yon heard the wind hum off the main-
topsail, and smg through betwixt it
and the main-course, the scud flying
over the skysail-mast track, which I
could see from below. The second
mate looked in once more, cangbt the
first officer's eye with a glance aloft,
and the gallant mate left attending to
the ladies to go on deck. Down went
the skylight frame, and somebody care-
fully threw a tarpaulin over it, so that
there was only the light from the port-
windows, by which a dozen faces
tumed still whiter.
The moment I shoved my head out
of the booby-hatch, I saw it was like to
turn out a regular gale from nor'-east.
Both courses braUed close np, and
blowing out like rowsofbig-bladden;
the three topsail-yards down on the
caps to reef, their canvass swelling and
thundering on the stays like so many
mad elephants breaking loose; the
wild sky ahead of us staring right
through in triumph, as it were, and
the wind roaring from aft in her
bare rigging ; while a crowd of men in
each top were laying out along the
foot-ropes to both yard-arms. Below,
they were singing out at the reef-
tackles, the idlers tailing on behind
from the cook to the cabin-boys, a
mate to each gang, and the first officer
with hi8 hands to his month before the
wheel, shouting " Bear a hand ! — d'ye
hear! — two reefs I" It did one's heart
good, and I entered into the spirit of
it, almost forgiving Finch his fine
puppy lingo, when I saw him take it
so coolly, standing like a seaman, and
sending his bull's voice right np with
the wind into the bellies of the top-
sails— so I e'en fell- to myself, and
dragged with the steward upon the
mizen reef-tackle till it was chock np.
There we were, running dead before
it, the huge waves swelling long and
dark after us out of the mist, then the
tops of them scattered into spray ; the
glaring white yards swayed slowly
over ^oft, each dotted with ten or a
dozen sturdy figures, that leant over
with the reef-points in their hands,
waiting till the men at the earmgs
gave the word ; and Jacobs's face, is
he looked round to do so^hanging on
heaven knows what at one of the ends
— ^was as distinct as possible against the
gray scud miles off, and sucty fiset
above the water. A middy, without
his cap, and his hair blowing oat,
stood holding on in the maui-top to
quicken them ; the first mate waved
1849.]
7%e Green Hond-'A " Short'' Yam.^Part III.
193
his hand for the helmsman to ^^ luff a
little." The ship's head was roonding
slowly up as she rose on a big bine
swell, that caught a wild gleam on it
from westward, when I happened to
glaaoe towards the wheel. I could
flcaroely tmst my eyes — ^in fact it bad
never been less in my mind since
coming aboard than at that yery point
—but ontside one of the roond-hoose
doors, which was half open, a few feet
from the bulwark I leant over — of all
moments in the day, there stood Lota
Hjde herself at last ! Speak effaces I
—why, I hadn'teyen power to turn far-
ther round, and if I was half oat of
breath before, what with the wind and
with pulling my share, I was breath-
less now— all my notions of her neyer
came up to the look of her face at that
instant I She just half stopped, as it
were, «i sight of the state of things,
her hands letting go of the large shawl,
and her hair streaming from under a
straw hat tied down with a ribbon —
her lips parted betwixt dread and be-
wilderment, and her eyes wandering
round tUlthey settled a-gazing straight
at the scene ahead, in pure delight. I
actually looiced away aloft from her
again, to catch what it was she seemed
to see that could be so beautiful I — the
seocmd reef just madefast, men crowd-
ing in to run down and hoist away
with the rest, till, as they tailed along
decks, the three shortened topsiuls
rose faster up against the scud, and
their hearty roaring chorus was as
k>nd as the ^e. " Keep her away,
my lad T said the mate, with another
wave of his hand ; the topsails swelled
fair b^ore it, and the Indiaman gave
a plunge right through the next sea,
rising easily to it, heave after heave.
The setting sun struck two or three
misty spokes of his wheel through
a dood, that made a big wave here
and ihete cotter; the ship's white
yards caught some of it, and a row of
broad ba<£s, with their feet stretching
the fr>ot-rope as they stowed the fore-
sail, shone Imght out, red, blue, and
striped, upon uie hollow of the yellow
fore-topsail, in the midst of the gale ;
while just imder the bowsprit you saw
her blade figure-head, with his white
turban, and his hand to his breast,
giving a cool salaam now and then to
the spTBj from her bows. At that
moment, though, Lota Hyde's eye was
the brightest thing I could find — all
the blue gone out of the waves was in
it. As for her seeing myself, I hadn't
had space to think of it yet, when all
of a sadden I noticed her glance light
for the first time, as it were, on the
mate, who was standing all the while
with his back to her, on the same plank
of the quarterdeck. *^ Down main-
course!" he sang out, putting one hand
in hisjacket-pod^et ; * *' down both tacks
— that's it, my men — down with it I • '
— ^and out it flapped, slapping fiercely
as they dragged it by main force into
the bulwark-cleets, tiU it swelled steady
above the main-stay, and the old ship
sprang forward faster than before,
with a wild wash of the Atlantic past
her sides. " Another hand to the
wheel, here!" said the first officer.
He took a look aloft, leaning to the
rise of her bows, then to windward as
she rolled; everything looked trim
and weatherly, so he stepped to the
binnacle, where the lamp was ready
lighted, and it just struck me what a
smart, good-looking fellow the mate
was, with his san-bumt face; and
when he went to work, straight-for-
ward, no notion of showing off*. *^ Con-
found it, though 1" thoaght I of a
sadden, seeing her eyes fixed on him
again, and then to seaward. *^ Mr
Macleod," said he to the second mate,
^^ send below the watch, if you please.
This breeze is first-rate, though!"
When he tamed round, he noticed
Miss Hyde, started, and took oflf his
cap with a fine bow. " I bee pardon,
ma'am," swd he, " a trifle of wind we
have ! I hope. Miss Hyde, it hasn't
troubled you in the round-house?"
What Miss Hyde might have said I
don't know, but her shawl caught a
gust oat of the spanker, though she
was in the lee of the high poop ; it
blew over her head, and then loose — ^I
sprang forward — ^bnt the mate had
hold of it, and put it over her again.
The young lady smiled politely to the
mate, and gave a cold glance of sur-
prise, as I thoaght, at me. I felt, that
moment, I could have knocked the
mate down and died happy. " Why,
sir," said he, with a cool half sneer,
^^I fanded none of you gentlemen
would have favoured us this capful of
wind— plenty of aur there is on deck,
though." It just flashed through my
mind what sort of rig I was in— I
lU
7Ae Grem Himd^A '' Short " Yam.
looked over my infernal Uong-sliore
toggery, and no wonder she didn't
recollect me at all! ^' Curse this
confounded folly 1^' muttered I, and
made a dart to run up the poop- steps,
where the breeze took me slap aback,
just as the judge himself opened the
larboard door. " Why, Violet I '' ox-
claimed he, surprised at seeing his
daughter, '^ are you exposing yourself
to this disagreeable — I declare a per-
fect j(/on»i/" *^But sec, papa!*^ said
she, taking hold of his arm, ^^ how
c'han<]red the sea is ! — and the ship ! —
just look where the sun was !" ^^ G^t in
— get in, do!" kei)t on her father; "you
can sec all that again in some finer
place ; you should have had a servant
with you, at least, Violet." "I shall
come out oftoner than I thought, papa,
I can tell you I" said she, in an arch
sort of way, before she disappeared.
The mate touched his cap to the judge,
who asked wliere the captain was.
'* 'Gad, sir," said the judge crossly,
" the floor resembles an earthquake
— every piece of furniture swings,
sir ; 'tis well enough for sleep-
ing, but my family find it impos-
sible to dine. If this oolta-pooUa con-
tinues in my apartments, I must speak
to Captain Williamson about it ! He
must manage to get into some other
part of the sea, where it is less rough,"
saying which he swayed himself in
and shut the door. I still kept thmk-
ing and picturing her fac« — Lota
Hyde's — when slie noticed the mate.
After all, any one that knew tack
from bowline might reef topsails in a
fair wind ; but a girl like t/uit woidd
make more count of a man knowing
liow to manage wind and sea, than of
the Duke on his horse at Waterloo
l)eating Bonaparte ; and as for talk, he
would jaw away the whole voyage, no
doubt, about moonlight and the ocean,
and your genteel fancy mariners ! " By
George, though!" thought I, "if the
mate's a better man than me, hang
V tT**'® all light ; but bum my wig
" 1 don't go and turn a Hindoo fakeer,
)^n T™^ one arm stuck up in the air
till I die! Go it, old lady!" said
^1 as I glanced over the side before
gomg below for the night, " roU away,
only shake something or other to do
out of the pace you're going at ! "
-I ho next morning, when Westjvood
«ntt 1 went on deck, there was still a
[Ang.
long -sea running after us. However,
by noon the aun came sifting throndi
aloft, the breeze got warm, the decu
were dry as a bone, and one just saw
the large dark-bine swells lift up
alongside with a shower of spray, be-
tween the seams of the bol wiurka. Bj
six o'clock, again, it was got pret^
dosk ahead, and I strolled forward
right to the heel of the bowsprit,
with Westwood, looking down through
her head-boards into the heap of
white foam that washed up among
the woodwork every time ahe plunged.
One knot of the men were sittuig
with their legs over the htetk of the
topgallant forecastle, swinging u
she rolled — laughing, roaring, and
singing as load as Uiey could bawl,
suice the wind carried it all for^
ward out of the officers* hearing. I
was rather surprised to see and heir
that Jaoobs's mends, Bill Dykes and
Tom, were there : the rogues were tak-
ing back their savage to the Anda-
man Isles again, I suppose. " Well,
my lads," said Tom, a regular sample
of the man -o'- war's -man : " this
is what I calls bailmg it off! That
mate knows how to nuidce her go, anj
how I " " We'U soon be into trowil
regents, I consider!'* remarked Bill,
who made a point of never using sea-
phrases except ashore^ when he came
out double salt, to nuike up for his
gentility afloat. " Hum," gmmbled
a big ugly fellow, the same so flattered
at the wheel by little Tommy, "I
doesn't like your fair winds ! I'll tall
you what, mates, we'll be havin' it
puff more from east'ard ere third
watch." "What's the odds, Hanyi
old ship?" said Tom, "a fair wind
still 1 " "I say, my lads," exclaimed
Tom agaUi, looking along toward the
poop, " yonder's the onld naboob
squinting out of the round-house
doors I — ^what's ho after now, I won-
der?" On stooping down, acocnd-
ingly, I could see the judge's Cue
with the binnacle-light shimng on It,
as he swayed to and fro in the doonrayy
seemingly in a passion at somethhig or
other. " Why," said BiU, " I colder
he can't altogether cuncnmstand the
shindy as this here roll kicks up in-
side of his blessed paliss ! " " Nabob,
does ye caU him I" said Hany, aulkUy ;
" I'll tell you what, 'mates, he bent
nothin' but a reg'lar bloody onld
I
7^ Green Htmd—A " Short " YcaiL^Part III.
195
1 T'other mornin* there, I
tfUBceB to bmah against him as
up a rope, says he ^ Fellow!^
ffl he to the dupper, ' I'd take
I,' lays he, ' if ye'd horder them
in flidlon for to pay more con-
i alongaide o* n^ legs, Captin
men I' Why, do the old bog-
t think as a feller ben't a man
U as hiflself, with his commin
, an* be blowed to him I"
L though, Harry, old ship," said
*^ an't that danrter of his'n a
I say, 'mates, she's all ronnded
lebead, and a clear ran from
ce a ooryette model ! My eye,
air of hers is worth gold ; I'd go
on the deck to please her, d-ye
" No doubt," says BUI, '' she's
I call a exact sparkler!"
If I doesn't know," said Harry.
b ^7*96 but one we'd got one
1, a'moBt beantifiiller— half as
Ipuo, an' twice her beam — ^I'm
ire bat she^" ^* All my eye,
lates!" broke in Tom ; '^that one
bnilt for stowing^ ye see, bo',
rcai^go lumpers. Now, this here
gal minds me o' no other blessed
mt the Nymph corvette's figure-
-and that wam't her match,
r! She don't look down upon
r, I can tell ye ; there I see her
' morning-watch a talkin' to
iTonder, as pleasant and cheery
•Hnllo, there's the captain comed
the naboob's cabin, and speak-
th the mate by the compass, —
1 if they an't agoin' to alter her
!"
end aft here to the braces!"
»iit the first officer to the boat-
" Blow mc, shipmates, that's
naboob now, Til bet a week's
' growled Hairy ; ^^ ship's course
r as a handspike through a
net; couldn't bring the wind
aft; b— t my eyes, the sea's
' to be bought and sold!"
aver it might be/(>r, in came the
aid yardarms till she lay over
) ; down studding and top-gid-
mllA^ as neither of them could
it except from aft ; and off went
1 ship rising high athwart the
her head sou'-south-cast, and
reak of broken yellow light, low
to westward on her lee quarter.
I beginning to blow harder, too,
f eight bells it was *' Beef top-
sails, single reef!" The waves
played slap on her weather side, the
heavy sprays came showering over
her bulwarks forward, and the fore-
castle planks were far from being so
comfortable for a snooze as the night
before. As soon as the wheel was
relieved, and the other watch below,
the '^ ugly man " and his companions
returned. ^^Mates," said he, solemnly,
planting his back against the bitts,
^^I've sailed this five-and-twenty
year before the mast, an' I never
yet seed the likos o' that! Take my
say for it, we're on a wind now, but
afore next mornin' we'll be close-
hauled, beating up against it."
'^ Well," said another, ^^ she leaks a
deal in the eyes of her below ; in that
case, Harry, yowr watch as slings in
the fore-peak '11 be all afloat by that
time." ^'What day did this here craft
saU on, I asks ? " said the sailmaker
gravely. " Why, a Thursday night,
old ship," replied several eagerly.
^^ No," went on the sailmaker ; '^ you
counts sea-£EU3hion, shipmates; but
till yc're clear o' the pilot, ye know,
its land fashion ye ought for to go by.
'Twas a Friday by that 'ore said
reckonmg, shipmates." ^^No! so it
was though," said the rest — ^* it don't
look well." " Howsomedever I'm
not goin' to come for to go and be
a croaker," continued the sailmaker
in a voice like a ghost's. '^ Well,
luck or no luck, 'mates," gnimblcd
big Harry, *' if so be them larboard
bowlines is haule<l taut by the morn-
ing watch, blow me if I don't be up-
sides witii that 'ere bloody ould
naboob — that's all/'
Next morning, after all, it was easy
to feel the ship had really been hauled
close on a wind. When we went up, the
weather was clearing, though with a
strongish gale from eastward, a heavy
sea running, on which the ludiaman
ritraiucd and creaked as she rose,
rolling slowly to windward with her
three double-reefed topsails strained
full, then pitched head into it, as ii
cloud of foam and spray flew over her
weather bow. It was quite early, the
decks lately washed down, and the In-
dian judge walking the weather quar-
terdeck as grave and comfortable as if
it was all right. The captain was
with him, and two mates to leeward.
*^ Sail O !" hailed a man on the fore-
rjf.
The Grtok Hmd^A " SAort' Tvm.^Pmt lU.
jarL *'Wb€:re awav?" sang cmt
th<i mzm of the watch. " Broad
a}>^am !"* The captain went ap to
the poop, ind I stood on the foremost
carronade near the main rizging.
wherr; I could jmc see her now and
then white a^rainst the blae haze be-
tween the hollows of the waves, as
the Indiaman lifted. '' There she is ! "
said I, thinking it was West wood that
ft topped behind me ; it was the jodge,
however, and as soon as I got down
he fltepfjed np, holding on with one
hand to a back -stay. The ship was
rlring after a pitch, every balkhead and
timlier in her creaking, when all of a
BQrlden I felt by my feet what all sailors
feel the same way — she was coming up
in the wind too fast to mount with the
next wave, and a regular comber it
was going to be. I looked to the
wlicel — there was big Harry himself
with a grin on his face, and his eye
on Sir Charles, as he coolly gave her
half a weather-spoke more, and then
whjrl<;^l it back aeain to meet her.
•' For heaven's sake, look out, sir I"
exclaimed I. " Why so I do," said
the judge, rather good-naturedly.
" 'Zoundjj I what's—" You felt the
whole ship stop creaking for a mo-
ment, as she hung with the last wave^
*^ Hold on!" shouted a mid — she
gave a dull quiver from stem to stem,
and I fairly pulled the judge close into
the bulwark, just as smash, like thun-
der, came a tremendous green sea
over UM, three in one, washing down
into the Ice scuppers. The old gen-
tleman staggered up, dripping like a
poodle, and unable to see — one heard
the water trickling through the sky-
lights, and stepping away down stairs
like a fellow with iron heels; while
there was the sailor at the wheel
grinding down his spokes in right
earnest, looking aloft at the shakmg
forctop-sail, and the Indiaman seem-
ingly doubtful whether to fall off or
broach- to. Up she rose again, how-
ever, and drove round with her Turk-
head in the air, then dip through the
Fpray as gallantly as ever. "Send
that lubber from the wheel, Mr Mac-
Icodl" said the captain angrily, when
he came down, " he nearly broached
the ship to just now!" The "ugly
man" put on a double-gloomy face, and
giiimbled something about her "steer-
lug wild ; " but the knowing squint he
[Aug.
gav« Jacobs^ wte refiered him, was
e&:cj!i so sSbom mt be was one of the
bsss hehttssKa aboud. As for the
jttd^ hi hadn*t the least notion it
waf anything more than a natml
mischance, owinzto expoalng himselL
He cjcd the boiwaik as if he oooldbi't
ondemaDd how any wave was aUeto
rise over it. whDe the captain wasapo-
l>>gi3in^. and hoping be wooMbH be the
worse. ^* £b, yonnggoitlenian !*" said
Sir Chailes of a sn£ien, tsming round
to me, after a glance from'tbe weather
side to the lee onet ^' now I obserre
the drcomstanoes, the probability is
I should have had mysdf seTerdf
injured oii the opposite aide there, had
it not been for yonr presence of mind,
sir— eh ? " Here I made a bow, aad
looked as modest as I ooold. *' I per-
ceive yon are wet, yoong gentlanan,"
said he again ; *''• yWd better change
yourdres^— eh?" *' Thank jon, sir!"
I said ; and as be walked off quite
drenched to his cabin, with the cap-
tain, I heard him remark it was
"wonderfully inteOigent in a mere
griffin."
However, the wind soon got down
to a fine top-gallant breeze; less of a
sea on, the donds sunk in a long gray
bank to leewaid, and the strange stal
plain abeam of us — a large sMp steer-
ing seemingly more off the wind than
the Seringapatam, with top^g^lant-
sailsset — you could just see tneheadsof
her courses, and her black lower-yards,
when both of us rose together. Our
first officer was all alive at the sight ;
the reefs were out of onr topsails
already, and he soon had us pkragfaing
along under ordinary canvass, though
still hugging the wind. In a sh^
time the stranger appeared to take
the challenge, for he slanted his yards,
clapped on royals, and hauled down a
stunsail, heading onr course, till he
was one body of white doth on the
horizon. For a while we seemed
to gain on her ; but aft^er dinner, there
was the other ship*s hull up on our
Ice-bow, rising her white streak out
of the water steadily, and just liftmg
at times on the long bine seas : she
was fore-reaching on us, as plun as
could be. The mate gave. a stamp on
the deck, and kept her away a little to
set a stunsail. " Why," said I to
Westwood, " he'll fall to leeward of
himsdf !" " She's toomuch by^e keod^
lSi9.2
I%e Green Hand— A *< Short" Yarn.-^Part III.
197
CoUins," said Westwood ; " that's it ! "
** Hasnt he the sense to take the fore-
oonrsc off her?" said I, *^ instead of
packing more an! Why, that craft
weathers on ns like a schooner — I
wish jon and I had the Indiaman for
an hour or two, Tom !" It wasn't an
hour before we conld see the very
waves splashing np nnder her black
weatber>side,and over her high bows, as
she slanted right thronch it and rose to
windward again, standing np to cross
onr course — a fine frigate-built India-
man, sharper stemmed than her kind
in oidinazy, and square in her spread ;
one yardarm jnst lookingover the other
as they ranged aloft, and all signs of a
weatherly craft. '' That's the Duke o'
Bedford!'* said a sailor at the braces
to his companions, " all oak planks,
and not a splinter of teak ia her!
No chance!" Ont flew the British
colonre from her mizen-peak, and next
the Company's striped ensign at her
fore-royal-mast head," as a signal to
speak. However, the Seringapatam
only answered by showing her colours,
and held on. All of a sudden the
oUier Indiaman was seen slowly fall-
ing off before the wind, as if in scorn
at such mde manners, and sure of
passing ns if she chose. For a moment
the r^ snnset glanced through be-
twixt all three of her masts, every
rope as fine as wire ; then the canvass
awnng broad against it, blood-red
from the sun, and she showed us her
qnarter-galleiy, with a glimpse of her
stem-windows glittering, — ^yon even
made ont the crowd of passengers
and soldiers on her poo|p, and a man
or two goine np her ngging. The
sea b^ond her lay as blue as blue
covld be, what with the crimson
strmk that came zig-zag on both sides
of bar shadow, and gleamed along the
tmo&Oi troogfas, takmg a crest or two
to dance on by the way ; and what
iritli the rough of it near hand, where
the tope of we dark waves ran hither
and thUher in broad white flakes, we
surging heavily over them.
In a few minutes more the sun was
not only down, but the clouds banked
op to westward, of a deep purple ; and
aunoet at once you saw nothing of the
other ship, except when a stray streak
somehow or other canght her rising,
or her mast-heads came across a pale
1^ in the donds. The breeze got
voi^ ixvi.— wo. ooccvi.
pleasanter as the night went on, and
the Seringapatam rattled awav in fine
style, careening to it by herself.
Well, you know, nothing could be
better for a good understanding and
high spirits amongst us than a fast
course, fine weather, and entering
the tropics. As for the tropics, if
you have only a roomy ship and a
good run of wind, as wc had, in
those latitudes everything outside of
you seems almost to have double
the stuff in it that air and water
have in other places ; while inside of
one, again, one felt twice the life he
had before, and everybody else came
out newer a good deal than on the
parlour rug at home. As the days
got each hotter than the last, and the
sea bluer and bluer, we began to
think better of the heavy old Seringa-
patam's pace, teak though she was,
and her sole good point right before
the wind. Every night she lighted
her binnacle sooner, till deuce the bit
of twilight there was, and the dark
sky came down on us like the extin-
guisher over a candle. However, the
looks of things round and aloft made
full amends for it, as long as we held
the "Trades;" old Neptune shiftiughis
scenes there so quickly, that nobody
missed getting weather and air, more
than he could help, were it only a
sight of how the Indiaman got on,
without trouble to any living soul
save the man at the wheel, as one
long, big, bright wave shoved her to
another, and the slower they rose the
more business she seemed to do of her-
self. By the time they had furbished
her up at their leisure, the Seringa-
patam had a queer Eastern style, too,
throughout; with her grass mattings
and husky coir chafing-gear, the yd-
low varnish about her, and her three
topsails of country- canvass, cut nar-
row towards the head — bamboo stu'n-
sail booms, and spare bits of bamboo
always ready for everything ; besides
the bUious-like gold-coloured patches
here and there in the rest of her sails,
and the outlandish figure-head, that
made you sometimes think there
might be twenty thousand of them un-
der the bows, dancing away with her
like Juggernaut's travelling pagoda.
The decks were lively enough to look
at ; the men working quietly by twos
and threes about the bulwarks all day
198
The Green Hand— A '' Short" Yam.^PlKri JJX
lAiig:
loDgf and pairs of them to be made
out at different points aloft, yarning
away comfortably together, as the
one passed the ball for the other^s
serving-mallet, with now a glance at
the horizon, and now a grin at the
passengers below, or a cautions squint
at the top of the matC's cap. White
awnings triced over poop and quarter-
deck, Uic cover of the waist hammock-
netting clean scrubbed, and the big
shady main- course half brailed-np,
rustling and bulging above the boats
and booms amidships ; every hatch-
way and door with a round funnel of
a wind-sail swelling into it, and their
bellies moving like so many boa-con-
strictors come down from aloft, and
going in to catch cadets. Yon saw
the bright white sky dazzling along
under the awning-cheeks, that glared
on it like snow ; and the open quar-
ter-deck ports let in so many squares
of shifting blue light, with a draught
of air into the hot carronade muzzles,
that seemed to gasp for it with their
red tomplons stuck out like tongues.
The very look of the lifting blue water
on the shady side was refreshing, and
the brighter the light got, it grew the
darker blue. You listened for every
cool splash of it on the bends, and
every rustle of the canvass aloft ; and
instead of thinking, as the landsmen
did, of green leaves and a lazy nook
for shelter, why, to my fancy there^s
a deuced sight more satisfaction in
good dcwh blue, with a spray over
the cat-head to show you^re going,
and with somewhat to go for ! For
want of better, one would have given
his ears to jump in head -foremost,
and have a first-rate bathe — the very
sea itself kept rising up alongside to
make an easy dive for one, and sink-
ing into little round troughs again,
where the surges would have spriiMed
over your head. Now and then a
bigger wave than ordinary would go
swelling up, and out sprang a whole
glittering shower of flying-j£h, freck-
ling the dark side with drops, and
went flittering over into the next, or
skunmiug the crests out of sight into
a hollow. The writers and cadets
were in high feather at knowing
th^ were in the same latitude as
India, and appeared in all sorts of
straw hats, white trousers, and white
jackets. Ford had left off talk-
ing of going aloft for a while, to
flourish about his swimming — ^when
he looked over with the sorgeoii in-
to the smooth of a hollow, and saw
someUiing big and green, like an im-
mense cucumber, floating along withm
a fathom or two of the ship, deep
down in the blue water. While the
griffin asked what it was, a little
ripple broke above, a wet black honi
came right out of it, and two deYilish
round eyes ^ared up at as ahead oC
it, as we leant over the quarter, set
wide in a broad black snout, shaped
like a gravedigger's ahovd; then it
sank away into the next waTe. Ford
shivered, in spite of theheat. " The
devil?'' inquired one of the writers,
coolly, to the surgeon. '^ Kot just
him,'' said the Scotchman ; ^^it'a only
the first shark r
The young ladies, in thebr white
dresses, now made yon think of angels
gliding about: as to the only .one I
had an eye for, by this time it wasnt
of not seeing her often enough I had
to complain, as she seemed to delight
in nothing else but being somewheie
or other upon deck ; first one part of
the ship, then another, as if to see
how different the look-out could be
made, or to watch something in the
waves or the horizon. Instead of sit-
ting with a needle or a book, like the
rest, with the comer of one eye to-
ward the gentlemen, or talking and
giggling away at no allowance, she
would be noticing a man aloft as if
she were there herself, or trying to
see past a sail, as if she fimcied there
was something strange on the other
side of it. The rest of the girls ap-
peared shy of her at first, no doubt
on account of the Jndge*s separate
quarters and his grandee style ; next,
they made acquaintance, she speaking
and smiling just as if she had known
them before; then, again, most of
them seemingly got j€»alotts because
the cadets squint^ after her ; while
old Bollock said Miss Hyde would be
the beauty on Chowringee Course,
and the first officer was eternally
pointing out things to her, like a show-
man at a fair. However, she seemed
not to mind it at all, either way:
those that did talk to her would scarce
hear her answer ere they lost her, and
there she was, looking qnieUy down
by herself into the rip|des
1849.]
The OnmHmd^A ''Short'' ¥am,--I\trt IIL
199
a lainiite after, she would be half-
pUjing with little Tommy, and mak-
ing companions of Tommy's young
asters, to see the sheep, the pigs, and
the covr, or feed the pooltry. As for
the handsome '*• first officer," when he
canght occasion for his politeness, she
took it gradonsly enough, and listened
to all he said; till, of a sodden, a smile
woold break over her &ce, and she
seemed to me to pnt him off as easy
as a duchess — on the score, it might
be, of the Judge's looking for her off
the poop, or something else of the
kind. *Twas the more carious how
mndi at home she seemed amongst
the men at work, when she chan^
to go ^forward" with Tommy and
Ins sisters, as they skipped hither
and thither: the rough, Uue-shirted
feUowB took the quids out of their
cheeks as soon as they saw the party
coming fixm aft, and began to smirk,
shoying the tar-buckets and ropes
aside. One forenoon, an old lady
mder the poop awning, where she and
bar daughter were sewing together at a
bright strip of needlework, asked me
to hold her woollen yams for her as
she balled them off— being the red coat
inr a sepoy, killing a tiger, which her
danghter was making m yellow. I
conkhit mSl refuse, seeing that
amongst the ladies I was reckoned a
mild, mdet young man. Even in these
days, I most say I had a good deal of
that look, and at home they used
always to call me '' quiet Ned." My
mother, good soul, never would believe
I bnAe windows, killed cats, or fought,
and the mystery to her always is why
tlM neighbours had a spite at me ; for
if I had been a wild boy, she said, or
as noisy as little Brown next door,
why she wouldn't have objected to my
going to sea 1 — that noisy little Brown,
by the bye, is a fat banker. So in I
had to stick my thumbs at arms'-
length, and stoop down to the old
lady, the more with a will since I
gnsiBBcd what they were talking of.
" Well ihoQgh, Kate," continued the
<>ld lady, winding away at the thread,
** yon cannot deny her to be a charm-
ing creatore, my love?" ^'Oh, if
ycm mean /vref^y / " said the girl, '' I
doo*t iMBil to deny it— not /, ma'am 1
—why should I, indeed?" ''Pity
•he*s a ttttle light-headed," said her
iMrtherlmaBnafaigway. ^*^ Affected^
you mean, mother I" said Miss Fortes-
cue, " and haughty." " Do you know,
Kate," replied the old lady, sighing,
'' I fear she'll soon go in India 1"
'' Goi " said the daughter sharply.
" Yes ; she won't stand the hot season
as I did — these flighty gu'ls never do.
Poor thing ! she certainly hasn't your
stamina now,my love 1" HereMissFor-
tescue bit her lip, tossed her head, and
was saying that wasn't what she cared
about, though in fact she looked ready
to cry ; when just at the moment I saw
Lota Hyde herself half above the little
gallery stair, gazing straight at me,
for the first time, too ; a curious kind
of half-smile on her face, as I stood
with my paws out, the old lady jerk-
ing the yam off my wrists, and I
staring right over her big bonnet at
the sky astem of the awning, pretend-
ing not to listen. All at once my
mouth fell, and before she could turn
her face away from the funny counte-
nance I no doubt put on, I saw her
cheek rosy and her eyes sparkle with
lau^ter, instead of seeming like one to
die soon. For my part I couldn't stand
it at all, so I just bolted sheer round
and made three strides to the poop
ladder, as dignified as was possible
with ever so many plies of red yam
foul of my wrists, and a big red ball
hopping after me when I^d vanished,
like a fellow running firom a hot shot !
I daresay they thought on the poop
I'd had a stroke of the sun on my
brain ; but till next day I kept clear
of the passengers, and took to swigging
off stiff nor'-westers of grog, as long
as Westwood would let me.
Next evening, when the cuddy din-
ner was scarce over, I went up to the
poop, where there was no one to be
seen ; the sun just setting on our star-
board-quarter in a golden blaze that
stretched overhead, with fiakes of it
melting, as 'twere, all over the sky to
port, and dropping in it like threads of
oil in water ; the ship with a light
breeze aft, and stunsaUs packed large
upon her, mnning almost due for the
line. The waves to westward were
like liquid light, and the eddies round
our counter came glittering out, the
whole spread of her mizen and main
canvass shining like gold cloth against
the fore : then 'twas but the royals
and i^ysails brighter than ever, as the
big round sun dij^ped down with a
200
The Green Hand'-A '' ShorV Yam^Pttrt III.
[Ang.
red streak or two, and the red water-
line, against his hot old face. Every
blue surge between had a clear green
edge about its crest, the hollows turn-
ing themselves inside out from deep
purple into bright blue, and outside
in again, — and the whole rim of the
sea grew out cool and clear away from
the ship^s taffrail. A pair of sharp-
headed dolphins that had kept along-
side for the last few minutes, swim-
ming near the surface, turned tail
round, the moment I put my nose
over the bulwark, and shot off like
two streaks of a rainbow after the
flying-fish. I was just wondering
where Lota Hyde conld be, this time,
when on a sudden I observed little
Tommy poke his curly head out of
the booby- hatch, peeping cautiously
i*ound ; seeing nobody, however, save
the man at the wheel, who was look-
ing over his shoulder at the sun, the
small rogue made a bolt out of the
companion, and scampered aft under
the awning to the Judge's starboard
door, with nothing on but his night-
shirt. There he commenced kicking
and shoving with his bare feet and
arms, till the door flew open, and over
went Tommy on his nose, singing out
in fine style. The next thing I heard
was a laugh like the sound of a silver
bell ; and just as the boy's sister ran
up in a fright lest he had gone over-
board, Violet Hyde came out leading
the little chap wrapped in a long shawl
that trailed astern of him, herself with
a straw bonnet barely thrown upon
her head. "Tommy says you put
him to bed too soon, Jane !" aiud she
smiling. " Iss I " said Master Thomas,
stoutly, "go 'way, Dzane !" "You
hadn't bid me good-night — wasn't that
it, Tom ? But oh ! whcu a sea I'* ex-
claimed she, catching sight of it imder
the awning. The little fellow wanted
to see it too, so the young lady lifted
him up in her arms, no small weight
I daresay, and they both looked over
the bulwark : the whole skvfar out of
the awning to westward bemg spotted
with orange scales, turning almost
scarlet, faster than the dusk from
both ends^ could close in ; the clear
greenish tint of it above the openings
of the canvass, going up into fathom-
less blue overhead, the horizon purple,
and one or two still, black clouds
tipped with vermilion against the far
sky— while the Indiaman stole along,
scarce plashing nnder her bends.
Every now and then yon heard a
whizz and a flutter, as the flying-fish
broke out of a bigger snrge, sometimes
just missing the ship's side : at last
two or three fell over the mizen chains,
and pop came one all of a sndden right
into the white breast of Miss Hyde'ft
dress inside her scfuf, where only the
wings kept it from disappearinfj^. She
started, Jane screamed, bnt the little
boy coolly pulled it ont, commendng
to overhaul it in great delight. " Oh
fat a funny ickoo burd ! '* snouted he,
"it's fell down out of 'ese fees!"
looking aloft. "No, no," said Misa
Hyde, laughing, as she drew her
shoulders together with a shiver,
"birds' noses don't drop water!
'Twill die if yon don't put it in again^
Tommy— 'tis a fish!" "A fiah!''
said he, opening his eyes wider, and
smacking his lips, " yes, Tommy eat
it for my beckfust!'* However the
young lady took it ont of his hand
and dropped it overboard ; on which
the small ogre went off rather discon-
tented, and kissed her more as a
favour than otherwise. It was almost
dark already, the water shining np in
the ship's wake, and the stars coming
out aloft ; so I was left wondering at
the impudence of flying-fish, and the
blessings of being a fat little imp In a
fi'ock and trousers, compared with
this puzzle of a " traverse," betwixt
being a third lieutenant and hailing
for a " griffin.'*
The night following, after a snltiy
hot day, the wind had varied a good
deal, and the ship was mnning almost
close-hauled on a warm sonth-eaateriy
breeze, with somewhat of a swell m
the water. Early in the first watch
there was a heavy shower, after which
I went on deck, leaving Westwood
at his book. The half-moon was jnst
getting down to leeward, clear of
a ragged dark cloud, and a lone
space of faint white light spread
away on the horizon, behina the
sheets of the sails hanled aft; so
that you just saw a sort of a gh'm-
mer under them, on the black heave
of the swell between. Evexr time
she rolled to leeward on it, a gleam of
the moonshine slipped inside the sha-
dow of her high bulwarks, from one
wet cannonade to another, and went
1849.3
The Chreen Hand^A " Short " Fom.— i\ir/ ///.
201
gUsteniog oyer the moist decks, and
anKmff the boats and booms, that
looked like some big brnte or other
lying stretched ont on his paws, till
700 saw the men's faces on the fore-
castle as if they were so many muti-
neers skulking in the dark before they
mshed aft : then np she righted again,
and all was dark inboard. The awn-
ings were off, and the gruff third mate
craiking slowly to and fro in his soak-
ed shoes; the Judge stood talking
with the captain before one of the
ronnd-honse doors; directly after I
noticed a young lady's figure in a
white dress close by the mizen-rig-
ging, apparently intent on the sea to
leeward. *' Well, now or never!"
thought I, stepping over in the shadow
of the nuun-dieet. I heard her draw
a long breath : and then, without
turning her head at the sound of my
foot, ** I wonder if there is anything
so strange in India," exclaimed she ;
" is there now ? " " No, by , no,
madam! " said I, starting, and watch-
ing as the huge cloud grew darker,
with a rusty stain in it, while three or
four broad-backed swells, one beyond
the other, rose up black against the
setting moon, as if they'd plunge right
into her. Miss Hyde turned round,
with one hand on the bulwark to steady
herself, and half looked at mo. *' I
tbongfat — " said she ; *^ where is papa ?
— ^I thought my father — " I begged
pardon for intruding, but next minute
she appeared to have forgotten it, and
•aid, in a musing sort of wi^, partly
to herself, partly to me — '^ I seem to
remember it all — as if I just saw that
black wave — and— that monstrous
dond — OTcr again ! Oh I really that is
the very same top it had then — see ! "
** Yes,'' said I, leaning forward, with
m notion I had seen it before, though
heaven knew when. *^ Did you ever
if»d about Columbus and Yasco di
Gama ? " asked she, though directly
afterwards her features broke into
m laughing smile as she caught sight
of mine— at the thought, I suppose, of
ay ridiculous figure the last time she
saw me. '* No, never," stud I ; " but
look to windward, ma'am ; 'tis coming
on a sanall again. For heaven's sake.
Miss Hyde, go in ! We're to have an-
other shower, and that pretty thick.
I wonder the mate don't stow the
royals.'* ^' What do you mean ?" said
she, turning. " Why are you alarm-
ed, sir ? I see nothing particular." The
sea was coming over, in a smooth,
round-backed swell, out of a dirty,
thick jumble of a sky, with a pitch-
black line behind — what Ford would
have called " wild " by daylight ; but
the young lady's eye naturally saw no
more in it than a dark night. Hero
the Judge came over from the bin-
nacle, giving me a nod, as much as to
say he recollected me. ^^ I am afraid,
sir," said I, " if you don't make haste,
you'll get wet." ' " How!" said Sir
Charles, " 'tis an exceedingly plea-
sant night, I think, after such a
deuced hot day. They don't know
how to cool rooms here — this pei^pe-
tnal wood retains heat till midnight,
sir ! That detestable pitch precludes
walking— the eea absolutely glares
like tin. Why do you suppose so now
— eh, young gentleman?" said ho
again, turning back, all of a sudden,
with his daughter on his arm. " Why
—why— why. Sir Charles," said I, he-
sitating betwixt sham innocence and
scarce knowing what reason to give ;
" why, I just think— that is to say, it's
my feeling, you see." " Ah, ah, I do
sec," replied the Judge, good-hu-
mouredly ; " but you shouldn't apo
the sailor, my good fellow, as I fancy
you do a little. I don't particularly
admire the class, but they always
have grounds for what they say in
theirprofession, frequently even acute.
At your aunt's, Lady Somers's, now,
Violet, who was naturally so sur-
rounded by naval oflScers, what I had
to object to was, not their want of in-
telligence, but their forwardness. Eh I
eh! who— what is that?'' exclaimed
he suddenly, looking straight up into
the dark, as five or six large drops
fell on his face out of it. All at onco
you heard a long sigh, as it were, in
the canvass aloft, a clap like two or
three carronades fired off, as all the
sails together went in to the masts —
then a hum in the air far and near—
and whish ! rush ! came the rain in
sheets and bucketfuls off the edge of
a cloud over our very heads, plashing
and washing about the deck with coils
of rope ; ship rolling without a breath
of wind in her sails ; sails flapping out
and in ; the rain pouring down ten
times faster than the scupper-holes
would let it out, and smoking gray in
202
Tk€ Qrtem Hami—A '' Short'' Ymm.—PHrt IH.
[Aug-.
the dark hollow of the swells, that
sank under the force of it. The first
officer came on deck, roaring in the
hubbub to cine up and furl the royals
before the wind came again. It got
pitch-dark, yon conldn^t we your hand
before you, and we had all lost mark
of each other, as the men came shoving
in between us. However I knew
whereabonts Miss Hyde was, so I felt
along the larboard rigging till I found a
backstay clasped in her hands, and the
soaked sleeve of her muslin dress,
while she leant back on a carronade,
to keep from being jerked down in the
water that washed up over her feet
with every roll, full of ropes and a
capstan-bar or two. Without saying
a word, I took up Lota in my arms, and
carried her aft in spite of the roll and
confusion, steering for the glimmer of
the binnacle, till I got her iuside one
of their own cabins, where there was
a lamp swinging about, and laid her
on a sofa. I felt somehow or other,
as I went, that the sweet creature
hadn't fainted, though all the while as
still as death ; accordingly I made
off again at once to find the
Judge, who, no doubt, was call-
ing for his daughter, with a poor
chance of being heard. In a minute
or two more the rain was over; it
was light enough to make out the
horizon, as the belt of foam came
broadening out of it ; the ship gave
two or three wild bounds, the wheel
jolting and creaking : up swelled the
black waves again over one side, the
topsails flapped full as the squall
rushed roaring into them, and away
she rose ; then tore into It like a
scared horse, shaking her head and
throwing the snow-white foam into
her forechains. Twas as much as
three men could do to grind down
her wheel, leaning and grinning to it;
yon saw just the Indiaman herself,
scarce so far forward as the booms,
and the broad swell mounting with
her out of the dark, as she slowly
squared yards before it, taking in
to'gallant-sails while she did so, with
her topsail-yards lowered on the caps.
However, the look of it was worse than
its force, else the swell wouldn't have
risen so fast, as every sailor knew ; and
hy two bells of the mid-watch she was
bowling under all, as easy as before, the
mate of the watch setting a stunsail.
When I went down, riimkittg myself
like a Newfomidlaiid, Weetwood was
swinging in his oot with a book tamed
to the lamp, reading Don Qmxote m
l^nish. '' Bless me, Ned I*" said he»
'^ yon seem to like it I paying fur aad
weathering it tool'' '^Onlj a little
adventure, Westwood I" said I, laogfa*
ing. " Why, here hare I been enjoy-
ing better adventures than we seem
likely to have," said he, ^^witheot
stirring a hand, except for the wild
swings you gave me from deck.
Here's Dan Qvtrole— •" '' Don Qaixote
be hanged !" said I : ^^ I'd rather wesr
ship in a gale, myself, than all the
humbug that never happened — atd of
an infernal play-book. What's the use
of thinking yon see service, when yon
don't ? After all, yon couldn't expect
much till we've crossed the Line —
nothing like the tropics, or the Cape,
for thickening a plot, Tom. Then
there's the Mozambique, yon know !'*
*'Well, we'll see," said Westwood,
lazily, and half asleep.
The whole next day would have
been weary enough in itself, as not a
single glimpse of the fair Lota could
I catch ; and the weather, between
the little puffs of air and squalls we
bad, was fit to have melted poor Fofd
to the bone, but for the rain. How-
ever, that day was sufl^ient, by fits
and starts, to bring us up to the line;
and, before crossing it, which we did
by six o'clock in one of the black
squalls, half of the passengers had
been pretty well ducked by Neptmie
and his gang, besides. Rare fun we
had of it for three or fonr bonrs on
end; the cadets and writers siiow-
ing fight in a body, the Yankee beinff
regularly keelhauled, tarred, and
feathered, though I believe be had
crossed the Line twice by laind ; while
the Scotch surgeon was fonnd oot, in
spite his caution, never to have been
lower than the West Indies — so he got
dooble ration. A word to Jacobs
took Westwood Scot-free; bnt, for
my own part, wishing of course to
blind the officers, I let the men stick
the tar-brush in my mouth the first
word I spoke, and was shaved like
the mischief, not to speak of plomping
afterwards behind the studding- saU
curtain into three feet water, where I
absolutely saved Ford from drowning,
he being as sick as a dog.
Igl9.] Tk$ Chmm Etmd^A '* S3hrt Yam.''— Part IlL
203
Lftte at nig^t, the breeie lield and
freabened ; aad, being Satnrdaj night,
the gentlemen in the cnddj kept it
nproarionslj after their troubles,
drinking uid singing songs, Tom
little's and joor sentimental affairs ;
tiU, being a bit flashed myself, I was
on tlie point of giving them one of
curious — ^bnt when I was ^'two or
three cloths in the wind," far from
growing stupid, I used always to get
a sort of cunning that would have
made me try and cheat a purser ; so
away I lowered myself till the rope
was taut, when I slipped easy enough
round the counter, below the window.
Dibdin*a, when I thought better of Eveiy time she rolled, out I swung,
it, and went on deck instead. The
Bate was there, however, and his
red-whiskered Scotch snb with the
twisted snoot, leaning on the capstan
with their noees together. The night
was dark, and the ship made a good
Boiae tkroogh the water ; so ^^ hang
it ! ^ thought I, ^* somehow or other
r H have oat a stave of * Black-eyed
Soaan ' at the top of my pipe, though
overboard I go for it ! ** There was
an old spare topsail-yard slung along-
aide to larboard, as far as the quarter-
boat, and I went up to the poop to
get over and sit on it; especially
when I Ibond Ford's friend, the fat
midshipman, was in the boat itself,
**canlking"* his watch out, as he
Hd every night in a fresh place. I
was no sooner there, again, than I
saw ft light in the aftermost gallery
window, and took it in my head if I
aong CAcre, why, in place of being
afraid there was some one under her
caaemeat, that and the wind and
water together would put her to sleep,
if ska waa the worse of last night—
ia. fact I may say I was a little
*^ihwiil"t At the time. How to
oel there, though, was the matter, it
being rather nice practice to sling
over an Indiaman's quarter-gallery,
bnlging ont from her steep counter :
aeeordingly, first I took the end of a
eofl roond the mixaen-shroods, and
■ade a bo^pdine-knot to creep down
the aten- mouldings with, and then
awtng free by help of a gnide-Une to
boot. Jost befbre letting go of the
tafimil, another fancy strudc me, to
hitch the guide-line to the trigger of
the Ufe-buoy that hung ready for use ;
not that I'd the notion of saving my-
lelf if I went overboard, but just
because of the good joke of a fellow
alipi^g his own life-buoy, and
then cruiziug away with a light at
mast-head back to the Line. Twas
and in again, till I steadied with ray
feet, slaclung off the other line from
one hand. Then I began to give voice
like old Boreas himself, with a sort of
a notion, at each shove I got, how I
was roclung the Indiaman like a big
cradle, as Jacobe did his baby. All
at once, I felt the rope was ffiomg off
the belaying-pin, till I came down
with a jolt under the window below ;
only singing the louder, as it was half
open, and I could just look in. With
every wash of the waves, the water,
a couple of fathoms under my feet,
blazed up like fire, and the wake ran
boiling out from the black stem by
the rudder, like the iron out of a fur-
nace: now and then there came a
sulky flare of dumb lightning to lee-
ward, and showed the black swell ont
of the dark for miles. I fancied I
didn't care for the water , but I began
to think 'twas rather uncomfortable
the notion of sousing into such an in-
fernally flame-looking stream : I was
actually in a fright at being boiled,
and not able to swim. So I dropped
chorus to haul myself up ; when of a
sudden, by the lamp inside the state-
room, I saw Winterton and Ford come
reeling in, one after the other, as
drunk as lords. Winterton swayed
about quietly on his legs for a minute,
and then looked gra^y at Ford, as
if he'd got a dreadful secret to make
known. "Fordl" said he. "Ay,"
said Ford, feeling to haul off his
trousers, — " ay— avast you — blub-
lub-lubber I" " I say, Ford P' said the
cadet again, in a melancholy way, fit
to melt a marlinspike, and then fell
to cry — ^Ford all the time pulling off
his trousers, with a cigar in his mouth,
till ho got on a chest, and contrived
to flounder into his cot with his coat
on. After that he stretched over to
put the lamp out, carefully enough ;
but he let fall his cigar, and one leg
Sleeping on deck.
t Anglice — not sober.
204
Uie Green Humd^A ^^ Short ^' YartL^Ptai III.
[Ao«.
of his nankeen tronsers hung out of
the cot, jost scraping the deck every
time he swung. I watched, accord-
ingly, holding on by the sill, till I
saw a spark catch in the stuff— -and
there it was, swinging slowly away
in the dark, with a fiery ring creeping
round the leg of the trousers, ready
to blow into a flame as soon as it had
a clear swing. No doubt the fool
would come down safe enough him-
self with his cot ; but I knew Winter-
ton kept powder in the cabin sufficient
to blow up the deck above, where
that sweet girl was sleeping at the
moment. *' Confound it 1" I thought,
quite cooled by the sight, " the sooner
I get on deck the better 1" However,
you may fancy my thoughts when I
heard men at the taffirail, hauling on
the spanker-boom guys, so I held on
till they^d go forwaM again : suddenly
the mate's voice sung out to know
-** what lubber had belayed the slack
of a topsul-dueline heref^^ Down I
went with the word, as the rope was
thrown off, with just time to save
myself by a clutch of the port-sill at
arm's-length— where, heaven knew, I
couldn't keep long. The mate looked
over and caught sight of my face, by
a flicker of the summer lightning, as
I was slipping down : I gave him one
onrse as loud as I could hail, and let
go the moulding — ^^ Man overboard 1"
shouted he, and the men after him :
however I wasn't altogether over-
board yet, for I felt the other part of
the rope bring me up with a jerk and
a swing right under the quarter-boat,
where I clung like a cat. How to
get on deck again, without being seen,
was the question, and anxious enough
I was at thought of the burning train
inside; when out jumped some one
over my head : I heard a splash in the
water, and saw a fellow's face go
sinking into the bright wake astern,
while the boat itself was coming down
over me from the davits. I still had
the guide-line from the life-buoy round
my wrist, and one moment's thought
was enough to make me give it a
furious tug, when away I sprang dear
into the eddies. The flrst thing I
saw at coming up was the ships'
lighted stem- windows driving to lee-
ward, then the life-buoy flaring and
dipping on a swell, and a bare bead,
with two hands, sinking a few feet off.
I made for him at once, and held him
up by the hair as I struck out for the
buoy. A couple of minutes after, the
men in the boat had hold .of us and
it ; the ship came sheering round to
the wind, and we were very shortly
aboard again. '^ Confound it, Simm,
what took you overboard, man?"
asked the mid in the boat at his drip-
ping messmate, the fat reefer. " Ob,
bother 1" said he,* " if you must know
— why, I mistook the quarter-boats;
I thought 'twas the other I was in,
when you kicked up that shbdyl
Now I remember, though, there was
too much rain in it for comfort!"
" Well, youngster," said Tom, the
man-o'-wai;'sman, ^'this here gentle-
man saved your life, anyhow 1"
"Why, mate," whispered BiU, "'tis
the wery same greenhorn we puck-
alowed so to-day I Didn't he jamp
sharp over, too?" "Pulll for your
lives, my lads 1" iSaid J, lookuig np at
Ford's window ; and the moment we
got on deck, below I ran into the
state-room, and cnt Ford down by
the heels, with the tinder hanging
from him, and one leg of his trousers
half gone. As for the poor reefer, a
pretty blowing-up he got ; the men
swore I had jumped overboard after
him, and the mate would have it that,
instead of sleeping, he wanted to get
into the Judge's cabins; especially
when next day Sir Charles was m a
rage at his daughter being disturbed by
some sailor or other singing outside.
49.] For Oe Ltut Page of ^^ Our Album:' 205
FOR THE LAST PAGE OP " OUR ALBUM."
At length onr pens mnst find repose !
With verse, or with poetic prose,
Filled is each nook ;
And these poor little rhymes most close
Our pleasant book !
Its every page is filled at last !
When on these leaves my eyes I cast,
Doll thoughts to cheer.
How many memories of the past
Seem written here I
Those who behold a river run
Bright glittering in the noonday sun,
See not its source ;
And few can know whence has begun
Its giddy course I
And thus the feelings that gave rise
To many a verse that meets their eyes
How few can tell !
Yet for those feelings gone, I prize
And love it well !
Some stanzas were composed to gi*ace
An hour of pleasure, — some to chase
Sad care away ;
And some to help on timers slow pace
Which would delay I
In some, wo trace affection*s tone
To friends then kind,— now colder grown
By force or art ;
In some, the shade of hopes, now gone.
Then, next the heart I
Such fancies with each line I weave,
And thus our book I cannot leave
Without a sigh I
Fond recollections make me grieve
To lay it by!
How other hands, perchance, than mine,
A fairer wreath for it might twine,
Twere vain to tell ;
I can but say, in one brief line,
Dear Book, Farewell I
206
TV Inswrrectiam m Saiin,
i^-
THK nfeURRBCnON IN BADKN.
(to the editor op Blackwood's maoaziiib.)
Sir, — I chanced to be at Heidel-
berg at the outbreak of the late revo-
lutionary movement, and remained
thcrCf or in the neighbourhood, during
its entire duration. It occurs to me
that a brief narrative of the leading
events of that period of confusion and
anarchy, from the pen of one who was
not only an eye-witness of all that
passed, but who, from long residence
in this part of Germany, has a pretty
intimate acquaintance with the real
condition and feelings of the people,
may prove suitable to the pages, and
not uninteresting to the readers, of
Blackwoods Magazine.
At a public meeting held at OflTen-
burg,in theduchy ofBaden,on the 13th
of May 1819, and which was attended
by many of the most violent members
of the German republican party, it
was resolved that the constitution
voted by the national assembly at
Frankfort should be acknowledged;
that Brentano and Peter should be
charged with the formation of a new
ministry ; that Struve, and all other
political offenders, should be forthwith
set at liberty ; that the selection of
oflRcers for the army should be left to
the choice of the privates ; and lastly,
that the movement in the Palatinate
(Rhenish Bavaria) shonld be fully
snpported by the government of
Baden.
For the information of those who
have not closely followed the late
course of events in Germany, it may
be necessary to mention, that early in
the month of May a revolutionary
movement, the avowed object of which
was to force the King to acknowledge
the constitution drawn up by the par-
liament at Frankfort, had broken out
in Rhenish Bavaria. A provisional
government had been formed, the
public money seized, forced contribu-
tions levied, and the entire Palatinate
declared independent of Havaria. The
leaders of the insurrection had been
joined by a portion of discontented
military; and, in an incredibly short
space of time, the whole province,
with the exception of the fortresses of
Germershcim and Landau, had fallen
Into their hands.
Although the declared motive of
the Oflenburg assembly was to support
this movement, and thus oblige the
reigning princes to bow to the decreea
of the central parliament, there ii
little doubt that a long- formed and
widely-extended conspiracy existed,
the object of which was to proclaim t
republic throughout Germany. Tbe
meeting in question was attended \xj
upwards of twenty thousand persons,
many of whom were soldiers, seduced
by promises of increased pay, and of
the future right to elect their officers.
Money was plentifully distributed;
and towards evening the mob, mad
with drink and excitement, retaroed,
howling revolutionary songs, to their
homes. At the very time this wii
going on, a mutiny in the garrison of
Rastadt had placed that fortress
in the power of about four thousand
soldiers, many of them raw recruits.
This extraordinary event, apparendj
the result of a drunken quarrel, wis
shrewdly suspected to be part of i
deep-laid scheme for supporting the
movement, which was expected to
follow the next day's meeting it
Offcnbnrg. If such were the hopesof
the leaders, they were not disappoint-
e<l ; the train was laid, and wanted
but a spark to fire it. The result of
the Offenburg meeting was known li
Carlsruhe by six o'clock in tbe even-
ing of the day of its occurrence ; and
on the same evening, some riotoos
soldiers having been placed in confine-
ment, their comrades insisted on their
release. In vain did the officers,
headed by Prince Frederick, (the
Grand -duke's second son,) endeavoor
to app(»ase them ; they were grossly
insulted, and the prince received a
sabre cut on the head. It is thought
by many persons that if, at this time,
energetic measures had been taken,
thewhoje movement might have been
crushed*.
But with citizens timid or luke-
warm, and soldiers the greater num-
ber of whom were in open mutiny, it
I%» Angmeticm m Baden,
207
suit to say wbere the repressiye
was to have been found. Be
it may, the barracks were de-
ed, the stores broken open and
1; and by eleven o^clock that
Ike dacal family, and as many
ministers and attendants as
ind the means of evasion, were
lliffht. With arms supplied by
mder of the barracks, the mob
ttacked the arsenal, which was
tlM protection of the national
A squadron of dragoons who
to assist the latter were fired
both parties, and the captain, a
nig yonng oflScer, was killed on
ot The dragoons, seeing their
to support the citiaens thus
orpreted, retired, and left the
1 to its fate.
ly next morning, a provisional
ment, headed by Brentano and
r, was proclaimed, to which all
were summoned to swear obe-
; and, absurdly enough, the
BCD, soldiers and citiaens, who
ay before had, with the ac-
BDce of the duke, taken an oath
fiance to the empire, now swore
faithful to the new order of
. The news of the outbreak
i like wild6re. It was received
articnlar exultation in the towns
BBheim and Heidelberg ; in the
of which a very republican
prevailed, and where, at the
ail, the national guard assem-
mger to display their valour-—
da. It was not long before their
; was put to the proof. The
who had taken refuge in the
■ of Germersheim, had been
ed in his flight by about three
ed dragoons, with sixteen pieces
llery. These brave fellows, who
smained faithful to their sove-
attempted, after leaving him in
f to make their way to Frank-
As every inch of the country
md to traverse was in open re-
le circumstance was soon known
iidelberg, where, late in the
ig, the tocsin rang, to summon
sasants from the neighbouring
SB, and the ffStereUe beat through
vets to call the citizens to arms,
ler that parties might be sent
Intereept the soldiers. It would
Bcalt to describe the panic that
led in Heidelberg at the first
sound of this terrible drum. The
most ridiculous and contradictory re-
ports were circulated. That some
great danger was at hand, all agreed ;
and the story generally credited
was, that the peasants of the Oden-
wald were coming down, ten thousand
strong, to plunder the town. When
the real cause of the disturbance was
discovered, it may be doubted whether,
to many, the case appeared much
mended ; for, besides the disinclination
a set of peaceable tradesmen might
feel to attack a body of dragoons,
backed by sixteen pieces of artillery,
many of those who were summoned
from their beds were secretly opposed
to the cause they were called upon to
serve. But there was no remedy;
and, amidst the tears and shrieks of
women, the ringing of bells, and beat-
ing of drums, the first detachment
marehed off. No sooner did they ar-
rive at the supposed scene of action,
than, seized with a sudden panic,
caused by a row of trees which, in
the dark, they mistook for the enemy
in battle array, they faced about, and
fairly ran for it till they found them-
selves once more in Heidelberg.
The consequences were more serious
to some of the members of a second
party, despatched to Ladcnburg. In
the middle of the night, the sentry
posted on the bridge mistook the trot-
ting of some stray donkey for a charge
of dragoons, and firing his rifle, with-
out farther deliberation he threw him-
self over the bridge, breaking a thigh
and a couple of ribs in the fall. The
others stood their ground ; but it is
well known that several of the party
were laid up next day with nercenftbery
(a sort of low typhus,) brought on by
the fear and agitation they had under-
gone.
These facts are merely mentioned
to show that, had the government, at
the commencement of the outbreak,
made the slightest show of firmness,
they would not have met with the re-
sistance which they afterwards found.
The dragoons, after dodging about
for two days and nights, worn out
with fatigue and hunger, at length
allowed themselves to be captured
near the frontiers of WUrtemberg.
It seems that the soldiers positively
refused to make use of their arms after
the Duke*s flight, which, indeed, is
208
The Insurrection in Baden.
[Aog.
the only way of accounting for three
hundred mounted dragoons, with six-
teen pieces of artillery fully supplied
with ammunition, falling into the
hands of as many peasants, who would
undoubtedly have fled at the first shot
fired.
Whilst these events passed, the
reins of government at Carlsruho had
been seized by Brentano, Peter, Fick-
ler, and Goegg — the latter a convicted
felon. Struve and Blind, condemned
to eight years* imprisonment for their
rebellion the year before, were re-
leased, and, with their friends, took a
prominent ])art in the formation of the
new ministry. The war department
was given to a Lieutenant Eichfeld,
who, by the way, had some time pre-
viously quitted the service, on account
of a duel in which he displayed the
wliite feather. His first measure was
to order the whole body of soldiers,
now entirely deprived of their officers,
to select others from the ranks. The
choice was just what might have been
expected; and instances occurred in
which recruits of three weeks* stand-
ing passed at once to the rank of
captain and major. All discipline
was soon at an end. The army, con-
sisting of 17,000 men, was placed
under the command of Lieutenant
Sigcl, a young man of twenty- two,
whose sole claims to preferment seem
to have been, that he was compro-
mised in Struvo's abortive attempt at
Friburg, and had since contributed a
number of articles, violently abusive of
the government, to some low revolu-
tionary newspapers. Head-quarters
were established at Heidelberg, where
Sigel, accompanied by Eichfeld, ar-
rived on the 19 th of May.
The pecuniary affairs of the insur-
gents were in the most flourishing
condition. Seven millions of florins
(about £560,000) were found in the
war-chest, besides two and a half
millions of paper-money, and large
sums belonging toother departments of
the ministry. Their stock of arms con-
sisted of seventy thousand muskets,
without reckoning those of the national
guard and military. Thus equipped and
supplied, they would have been able,
with a little drill, and if properly
commanded, to make a long stand
against the regular forces sent against
them. By this time, too, the country
was fast filling with political refugees
of all shades of opinion. Italians,
Swiss, Poles, and F^^nch were daOy
pouring in ; and the well-known Met-
temich, of Mayence celebrity, who
had not been beard of since his fliglit
from the barricades at Frankfort,
again turned up as commander of a
free corps. A sketch of his costume
will give a pretty fair idea of thtt
adopted by all those who wished to
distinguish themselves as nltra-libe-
rals. He wore a white broad- brimmed
felt hat, turned up on one side, with a
large red feather; a blue kittel or
smock-frock; a long cavalry sabre
swung from his belt, in which were
stuck a pair of ponderous horse pistols;
troopers* boots, reaching to the middle
of the thigh, were garnished with
enormous spurs, and across his breast
flamed a crimson scarf, the badge of
the red republican.
In onler to extend the revolt, and
to place Baden in a state of defence
before the governments shonld recover
from their panic, the most encrgetie
measures were taken. A decree wis
issued for arming the whole male
population, from eighteen to thirty
years of age ; and as in many instances
the peasantry proved refractory, a tax
of fifty florins per day was laid on aU
recusants, who, when discovered, were
taken by force to join the army.
Kaveaux, Trutschler, Erbe, and
Frobel, the latter that Mend of
Robert Blum, who so narrowly
escaped the cord when his companion
was shot, — ^made their appearance at
Carlsruhe. They issued a violent
proclamation against the King of
Prussia, and, the better to disgaisa
their real object, called on allCrermany
to arm in defence of the parliament at
Frankfort, and the provisional eovem*
raent of Baden. Every artifice, no
matter how disreputable, that could
serve the cause, was nnscmpulonsly
resorted to. It was officially an-
nounced that Wurtemberg and Hesse-
Darmstadt were only waiting a
favourable opportunity to join the
movement ; and to further this objeet,
a public meeting (which it was hoped
would bring forth the same fruits at
Darmstadt, as that of Offenbnrg had
produced at Carlsruhe) was called hj
the radicals of the Odenwald. It
took place at Laudenbach, a yUlage
l%e Insurrection in Baden.
209
d about three mUes within
eMian finontier, and was at-
hj upwards of six thousand
peasants, and by three or
iMfoaand of the Baden free
The authorities were, Iiow-
on the alert; and after a
a mimmons to the insurgents
the territory, the military were
)iit. Before orders to fire were
the civil commissary, desirous
id effusion of blood, advanced
owards tiie crowd, endeavour-
MTBoade them to retire peace-
Se was barbarously murdered ;
le light of his dead body so
id the Hessian soldiers, that
■shed forward without waiting
I word of command, and with
Hey put the whole mob of in-
fea to flight.
nirit displayed on this occa-
x>Dably saved the country from
l|j dril war ; for had the revoln-
r'BOYement passed the frontiers
en, at that moment the flame
doubtless have spread to Wiir-
g, and thence not improbably
whole of Germany, with the
km perhaps of Prussia,
onnteract the very unsatisfac-
fisct of the meeting at Lauden-
it was resolved, by a council
t Carlsruhe, that a bold stroke
be struck. The Hessians,
0 unsupported by other troops,
lot command anything like the
cbI force of Baden, and Sigel
d orders to cross the frontier
ttbis disposable troops. Four
DOS of the line, with about six
■dTOlunteers, were reviewed at
bog before taking the fleld.
rere indeed a motlev crew! The
I, who had helped themselves
le stores at Carlsruhe to what-
sit inited their fancy, appeared
■de equipped accordingly. Sha-
dmets, caps, greatcoats, frocks,
an and undress uniforms, all
i in the same ranks. The so-
officers, io particular, cut a
figure. If the smart uniform
penlette could have disguised
iwniah recruit, who had perhaps
1 Imt a few weeks in the ranks,
BDM of his conduct would soon
letnjedhim; for ofBcers and
M, arm in arm, and excessively
mig^t coDStantlj be seen reel-
ing through the streets. The free
corps, unwilling to be outdone by the
regulars, indulged in all sorts of
theatrical dresses, yellow and red
boots being in great favour; whilst
one fellow, claiming no lower rank
than that of colonel, actually rode
about in a blouse and white cotton
drawers, with Hessian boots and
largo gold tassels.
As it was strongly suspected that
the soldiers placed little confidence in
their new leaders, and the free con)5,
many of whom were serving against
their own wishes, seemed equally
unwilling to risk their lives under
such commanders as Mettcmich and
Benin, (a watchmaker from Wies-
baden,) all sorts of artifices were
resorted to, to encourage both regulars
and irregulars. Their whole force
might amount to thirty thousand
men ; but, by marches and counter-
marches, similar to those by which,
in a theatre, a few dozen of soldiers
are made to represent thousands, they
so dazzled the eyes of the ignorant,
that it was believed their army
numbered nearly a hundred thou-
sand men. The cavalry", in parti-
cular, which were quartered in Heidel-
berg, were marched out and in again
five times in as many days — at each
appearance being hailed as a fresh
regiment. Soothsayers and prophets
were also consulted, and interpreted
divers passages in holy writ as fore-
telling the defeat of the Prussians, and
the success of the " Army of Free-
dom." But the trick which, no doubt,
had the greatest influence on the
minds of the poor duped people was a
forged declaration, purporting to bo
one put forth by the Hessian troops,
professing their intention of throwing
down their arms on the approach of
their " German brothers."
On the 28th of May, the insur-
gents, ten thousand in number, crossed
the frontier of Hesse-Darmstadt. The
Hessians, with three battalions of
infantry, a couple of six-pounders,
and a squadron of light cavalry,
waited their approach ; and having
withdrawn their outposts, (a move-
ment interpreted into a flight by the
opposite party,) they suddenly^ opened
a severe fire on the advancing col-
umns—driving them back to Wein-
heim, with a loss of upwards of fifty
-40
The Insurrection m Badem,
[Aof.
killed and wounded. The affair com-
menced at four o'clock in the after-
noon, and by ten at night the whole
insurgent force arrived pell-mell at
Heidelberg. Officers and dragoons
led the van, followed by artillery,
infantry, baggage- waggons, and free
corps, mingled together in the utmost
disorder. They had run from Wein-
heiin, a distance of twelve miles, in
three hours — driven by their fears
only: for the Hessians, too weak
to take advantage of their victory,
and content with driving them from
their own territory, waited rein-
forcements befoi-e attempting farther
hostilities.
This check was a sad damper to the
ardour of the insurgents. It was neces-
sary to find some one on whom to fix
the blame ; and as the dragoons were
known to be unfavourable to the new
order of things, the official account of
the affair stated that the enemy would
have been thoroughly beaten, had the
cavalry charged when ordered so to do.
This was the only action fought
under Sigel's generalship — as a speci-
men of wliich it may be mentioned
that the band of the Guards was sent
into action at the head of the regi-
ment, and lost five men by the first
volley fired. Whatever the reason,
Sigel was removed from his functions
next day, and Eichfcld, disgusted
with such an opening to the cam-
paign, changed his phice of minister
of war for a colonelcy in the Guards ;
and, pocketing a month^s pay, took
himself quietly off, and has' never
})oen heard of since.
As it was now evident there could
be no hopes of the Hessians joining
the movement, the tactics were
changed, and the most violent abuse
was lavished on them by the organs
of the provisional government. The
vilest calumnies were resorted to, to
exasperate the Baden troops against
them, such as that they tortured and
massacred their prisoner.'^, &c.
Sigel had succeeded Eichfeld as mi-
nister of war; and as it was tolerably
clear that th oy possessed no general
fit to lead their iirmy to the field,
Meiroslawski w;is invited to take the
command. A large sum of money
was sent to him in Paris, and, while
waiting his arrival, it was determined
to act strictly on the defensive. With
this object the whole line of the
Neckar, from Mannheim to Eberbadi
and Mosbach, was strongly fortified;
and the regular troops were withdrawn
from Bastadt, and concentnted oo
the Hessian fix>ntier.
At length the Polish adyentnrcr,
whose arrival had been so impatiently
expected, made his appearance at
Heidelberg. Meuroslawski, a nativB
of the grand-dnchy of Posen, begn
his career as a cadet in the Pmssiaa
service. In the Polish reyolationof
1832 he played an active part, and
was deeply implicated in the plot
concocted at Cracow in 1846, which
brought such dreadful calamities ob
the unfortunate inhabitants of Gil*
licia. For the second time he took
refuge in France, and only retorned
to his native country to join the oat-
break at Posen in 1848. Hiere he con-
trived to get himself into a Pmsait
prison, firom which, howercr, he wai
after a time released. He next bd
the ranks of the Sicilian insurgents;
and on the submission of the i&lind
to the Neapolitan troops, had scsroely
time to gain his (Ad asylum, Fraooe^
before he was called on to aid ths
revolutionists of Baden. He ii i
man of about forty years of age, of
middle height, sli^tly bnilt, and, N
long as he is on foot, of military ctf-
riage and appearance ; but seen on
horseback, riding like a postiUoa
rather than a sol£er, the effect is not
so good. His eyes are lai^ and a-
pressive, his nose aquiline, and thB
lower part of his face covered with i
large sandy beard, which descends to
the middle of his breast. Sixty of
the Duke^s horses, left hi the staUei
at Carlsruhe, were sent to mount hia
and his aides-de-camp. Poles, SwiaSi
desperadoes of every description, re-
ceived commissions, and were attadied
to the staff, the members of which,
when assembled, were not nnlike i
group of masqneraders. Aoddenttt
sucli as stumbUiig over their owi
sabres or their comrades' spurs, wart
of common occurrence. Sometimes i
horse and his rider would be seen roll-
ing over together ; for, exceptinff oaa
gentleman, whose rank I could not
learn, but who had figured as rider at
an equestrian circus that had attended
the fair, none of the party looked as if
they had erer monntod ahone befive-
jHm MnoTftotton^ M JBcUUHm
211
nt step tftken by the ^vern-
ilter Mciroslawski^s arrival,
Aake a formal treaty of al-
riHi the provisional govern-
Etheniah Bavaria, in pursoance
f whose provisions a plentiful
i artHleiy was sent from tho
of Rastadt, to famish the
I that part of the coontry.
e two governments were in
; oommunication with Ledra
ind his friends, is now an
erted fact, as well as that
of hopes of sneccss were bnilt
autaneo they expected to re-
mi Paris. So confidently did
tidpate the overthrow, by the
M party, of the present order
I in France, that on the very
: the attempt took place in
^aeards were posted up in
havMannheioL, and Heidelborg,
iiig that the citadel of Stras-
M is the hands of the de-
, who were hastening with
id thousand men to Uie as-
of their friends in Baden,
the arrival of Meiroslawski,
o had refused to pot in exo-
Im rigorous measures urged on
fitmve and his party; but
m now conducted differently,
a of persons were cast into
rithoat any formal accusation.
rgymMtk in particular, thrown
■iaecBble dungeon, akd kept
Bka in solitary confinement,
loot his senses, and, on the
tf his liberators, the Prussians,
» taken to a lunatic asylum,
ho still remains. The whole
was declared to be under
law, and notice was given
ybody expressing dissatisfac-
th the government would bo
r puilshed. No person whom
ioa or ignorance of the mob
Aoose to consider a spy was
way of the principal shops in
■a were closed, the proprietors
■ent off or concealed their
Mdfled the country. Persons
to be inimical to the govcm-
«re punished for theu* opinions
iflmtions being levied on their
f, or soldiers billeted in their
CooBt Obendorf, who has a
L bi the vicinity of Heidelberg,
thai seven hundred and
qoartered on him at one
time. Complaint was unavailing ;
tyranny and terrorism reigned
throughout the land.
In order to give the semblance of
legality to their proceedings, the elec-
tions for a new chamber commenced.
It will readily be imagined that none
but the friends of those in power pre-
sented themselves as candidates : the
deputies were therefore, without ex-
ception, the intimates or supporters
of Brentano & Co. The first act of
the new assembly was to dissolve the
Landei-cauehuM^ or provisional go-
vernment, as being too numerous a
body to act with the required vigour;
and a dictatorial triumvirate, composed
of Brentano, Peter, and €k>egg, was
appointed in its stead.
By this time serious dissensions had
broken out among the leading mem-
bers of the democratic party. Bren-
tano had quarrelled with Strove, who
was resolved on nothing less than the
procUunation of the red republic
JTindiug his friends at Carlsrahe op-
posed to this attempt, he called a
public meeting at Muinheim. Here
again his efforts were unsuccessful,
the soldiers especially being opposed
to his doctrines. As the Wiirtemberg
deputies had always figured among
the most violent of tho left, or republi-
can party, at Frankfort, and late events
had given rise to the idea that the
people of that country were disposed
to support the movement in Baden,
Fickler was sent to Stnttgardt, with a
considerable sum of money to oorropt
the soldiers ; and in full expectation of
the success of his mission, billets were
made out for three thousand men, who,
it was stated, were to arrive in the
evening at Heidelberg. Disappoint-
ment cnsnoil. The Wtirtombergers,
satisfied with having forced from their
king a promise to accept the constitu-
tion in support of which the Badeners
professed to be fighting, were not in-
clined to bring further trouble and
confusion into their country, and
Fickler was thrown into prison. This
untoward event, had the Bodcn revo-
lution lasted much longer, was to havo
produced a terrible war between tho
two countries. The AVurtemberg
minister, however, laughed at the
insurgent government's absurd and
impotent threats, and Fickler still
remains in confinement.
212
The Insurrection in Baden.
[Aug.
Tlie first week after Meiroslawski's
arrival was taken up with preparations
for opening the campaign on a grand
scale. Upwards of fiil^ thousand men
were collected on the I lessiau frontiers,
from which side it was expected that
the enemy would make their attack.
At the same time, the Hessians hav-
ing been reinforced by troops from
Mecklenburg, Nassau, Ilesse-Cassel,
and Prussia, prepared to take the field
in earnest. Whilst the first division
of the army, under the command of
the Prince of Prussia and General
Ilirschfcld, entered the Palatinate be-
tween Kreutznach and Saarbrucken,
and advanced to the relief of Germers-
heim and Landau ; Meiroslawski was
held in clieck by continual feints, made
along the whole line of the Neckar.
On the 15th of June, a battalion of
Mecklenburgers, with a squadron of
Hessian light cavalry, and a couple of
gnus, advanced from Weinheim as far
as Ladenbnrg. The village was taken
at the point of the bayonet ; but, igno-
rant of the immense force of the insur-
gents, or perhaps from undervaluing
their courage, the troops allowed
themselves to be almost surrounded
by the enemy. With great difficulty
they succeeded in regaining their old
position ; while the major who com-
manded the party, and ten privates,
were left in the hands of the rebels.
The loss on both sides was consider-
able, but was in some degree compen-
sated to the Imperial troops, by two
companies of the Baden Guards passing
over to them. This slight success was
boasted of by Meiroslawski as a splen-
did victory, in the following buUetm: —
" Headquarters, IIeideldero,
''imJune 1849.
" Our operations against the advanciog
cuemy have been crowned with success.
Yesterday, our brave army was simulta-
neously attacked on all sides.
^ In Rhenish Dayariathe Prussians were
driven back with great loss. At Laden-
burg, Colonel Sigel engaged the enemy,
who had advanced in front; while a column,
under the command of the valiant Oborski>
attacked them in rear. The enemy was
defeated on all points, and driven back m
the greatest confusion.
" It is only to be regretted that want
of cavalry prevented our following and
completely annihilating them.
'* Many prisoners were made, and their
loss in arms, ammunition} and baggage.
all of which fell into our hands, was con-
siderable.
^ Inhabitants of Heidelberg, fear no-
thing for the future. Continue to pro-
vide the intrepid army under my com-
mand with necessaries for oontinuing the
campaign so gloriously commenced, and I
will answer for the result. Strict obe-
dience to my orders is all I require from
you, to prevent the enemy firom ovemm-
ning the country.
" In commemoration of the victory of
yesterday, so gloriously [obtained, the
town of Heidelberg will be illuminated.
The lights will be left burning till day-
break, and the beer-houeefl will remain
open the whole night.
^ (Signed) Louis MsiROsukwsEi,
<' General-in-Chief of the Army."
This bombastic effusion was follow-
ed by several others equally false and
ridiculous. The Prussians had advan-
ced as far as Ludwigshafeo, opposite
Mannheim, without encountering any
serious resistance. The insurgent army
in the Pfalz, numbering about twelve
thousand men, under the command
of the Polish General Sznayda, had
abandoned their intrenchments almost
without striking a blow, and, with the
provisional government, fled to*. KnieU
ingen, from whence they crowed the
Rhine into Baden. The only seriooa
impediment encountered by thePnu*
sians was at Lndwigshafen, iriuch
suffered immense damage from the
heavy and constant bombardment kept
up from batteries erected at the oppo-
site town of Mannheim. The railway
station was burned to the ground, ana
the value of property destroyed in the
store-houses alone has been calculated
at two millions of florins, (£170,000.)
On the 17th, Landau and Geraen-
heim were relieved; and the Prince of
Prussia, with his whole force oonoen-
trated before the latter fortress, pre-
pared to cross the Rhine ander the
protection of its guns.
Having thus fully accompllBhed the
first part of his arduons undertaking,
by re-establishing order in the Pfahii
the Prince of Prussia prepared to ef-
fect a junction with the second and
third divisions of the army, under the
command of General Von Grbbeo, and
Pcucker, the former of whom had
again advanced to Ladenbnrg, on the
right bank of the Neckar. Meiroslaw-
ski, in the mean time, remained totally
inactive from the 16th to the 20Ui inst.
The Imurrectum in Baden.
218
to of fiftj thousand men bad
riewed bj him in Heidelberg
idoitj ; besides this, the twelve
d Bayaiian insurgents, under
mand of Sznajda, were in the
nriiood of Bmchsal ; and with
force, anything like a deter-
e^tance wonld have compel-
Proasians to purchase victory
avy loss. Whatever may be
ttation for talent, Meiroslawski
bnt little skill as a general
hto short command in Baden.
of opposing the crossing of the
>T the Prussians, which, with so
forccy and fifty-four pieces of
nred artillery, he might easilv
me, the Prince of Prussia, with
on of fifteen thousand men, was
[ to obtain a secure footing in
r, almost unopposed,
a this moment the position of
migenta became critical in the
e. The line of the Ncckar was
id on the riglit bank by the
and third divisions of the army,
ling upwards of thirty thousand
/Uthough hitherto held in check
Btrong intrenchments that had
brown up, they might still ad-
in front ; whilst the high road
tadt was effectually cut off by
ince of Prussia, whoso head-
ra were now at Phillipsburg.
Rhine had been crossed by the
ins on the 20th, and on the
g of that day Meiroslawski, for
it time, showed a disposition to
finom his comfortable quarters
Prince Carl hotel in Heidelberg.
ting idl his force, (with the ex-
I ol three or four thousand men,
me left in the intrenchments
Ladenburg and on the line of
eckar,) he left Heidelberg '^ to
lie Prussians," as he announced,
ilie Rhine,^* and effect a junc-
irith Sznayda^s corps in the
wnrtiood of Carlsruhe. The
iraa a bold one; but Meiros-
ovght to have known better
to attempt its execution with
iffiadplined force he command-
lef however, appears to have
ained no doubt of the result;
le commissariat, baggage, and
hd miiitaiy chest were sent for-
he himself following in a
n ud four,
fy on the morning of the 2l8t the
m ULTX.— no. ccccn.
action commenced, and Meiroslawski
found to his cost that six thousand well-
disciplined Prussians were more than
a match for his whole army. At ten
o'clock on the same morning a pro-
clamation was issued at Heidelberg
by Struve, stating *^ that the Prussians
were beaten on all points, that their
retreat to the Rhine was cut off, and
that ten thousand prisoners woiUd be
sent to Heidelberg m the evening. The
loss on the side of the " Anny of
Freedom" was eight slightly hurt, and
two severely wounded — no killed I
In spite of the obvious absurdity of
this proclamation, most of the towns-
people believed it ; and it was not till
two o'clock in the afternoon that their
eyes were opened to the deception
practised on them, by the arrival of
between thirty and forty cart-loads of
wounded insurgents. Before nightfall,
upwards of three hundred suffering
wretches filled the hospitals. Crowds
of fugitives flocked into the town, and
evciy appearance of discipline was at
an end. It seems that, on the approach
of the enemy, the Prussian advanced
gnard, composed of one battalion only,
retired till they drew the insurgents
into the very centre of their line,
which lay concealed in the neighbour-
hood of Waghciisel. This movement
was interpreted into a flight by Meiros-
lawski ; a halt was called ; and whilst
ho was refreshing himself at a road-
side inn, and his troops were in ima-
gination swallowing dozens of Prus-
sians with every fresh glass of beer,
they suddenly found themselves al-
most surrounded by the royal forces.
At the very first volley fired by the
Prussians, many of the Baden heroes
threw down theu' arms, and took to
their heels ; the artillery and baggage
waggons, which were most unaccount-
ably in advance, faced about, and
drove through the ranks at full speed,
overthrowing and crushing whole
companies of insurgents. The panic
soon became general: dragoons, in-
fantry, baggage-waggons, and artil-
lery, got mmgled together in the most
inextricable confusion, and those who
could, fled to the woods for safety.
The approach of night prevented the
Prince of Prussia from following up
his victory, but he established his
headquarters at Limgenbruken, with-
in nine miles of the town*
2U
Hit Ituurrecium m Badau
[Any-
Whilst the hopes of the insargents
ri'ceived a deathblow in this quarter,
General Peucker had piuthi'd with his
division through the Odenwald, and,
after some insignificant skirmishing
at llirsohhoni, crossed the Neckar in
the vicinity of Zwingenberg, with the
intention of advancing on Sinsheim,
and cutting ofi' the retreat of the re-
bels in that direction. Von Grciben,
who, on account of the bridges at La-
denburg, Mannheim, and Heidelberg,
being undermined, was unwilling to
cross the Neckar, sent a small recon-
noitring party over the hills, and, to
the great consternation of the inhabi-
tants, the Prussians suddenly made
their appearance on the heights above
the village of Neucuheim, thus com-
manding the town of Heidelberg.
Four hundred of the foreign legion
immediately sallied over the bridge,
and, posting themselves in some houses
on that side of the river, kept up a
de^^pcrate firing, though the enemy
were too far above their heads for
their bullets to take oflcct. The Prus-
sians for some time looked on with
indlDcrence, but, before retiring, tliey
gave the insurgents a taste of what
then- newly - invented » zund-nadel
muskets could accomplish. Out of
four shots fired, at a distance of full
fifteen hundred yards, two took effect ;
the one killing an insurgent ou the
bridge, and the other wounding one of
the free corps in the town.
To return to Meirosluwski^s army.
After those who had been fortunate
enough to reach Heidelberg had taken
a few hours' rest and refreshment, the
entire mass moved off in the direction
of Sinsheim, their only hope of escape
l>eing to i>ass that town before the
arrival of General Peucker's division.
Ihousands had thrown away their
arms and fled ; and most of the soldiers,
anxious to escaiKi another collision
with the Prussians, threw off their
uniforms and concealed themselves in
the woods. One-half of the rebels
were disbanded, or had been taken
prisoners ; and Meiroslawaki, with the
remnant, made all speed to quit the
town. Every horse in the neighbour-
hood was put into requisition to aid
them in their flight, and the whole
gang of civil authorities, headed by
Struve and his wife in a carriage,
(well filled with plunder,) followed the
great body of fugitives. The Intrench-
ments at I^adenburg, &c., were aban-
doned, and by 7 o'clock on the eveoing
of the 22d, the town of Heldelbei];
was once more left to the peaceable
possession of its terrified inhabitants.
The foreign legion, composed of Poles,
Italians, Swiss, French — ^in short, the
refuse of all nations — ^were the last to
leave ; nor did thev do so, till they
had helped themselves to whatever
they could conveniently cany off:
indeed, the near vicinity of the Prus-
sians alone prevented the complete
plunder of the town. Daring the
night, the better disposed citizens re-
moved the powder that undermined
the bridge, and a deputation was sent
to inform General von Groben that he
could advance without impediment.
At 4 o'clock on the morning of the
23d, to the great joy of every respect-
able inhabitant of Heidelberg, he made
his entry into the town. Mannheim
had also been taken possession of
without firing a shot, and the com-
munication between the first and se-
cond divisions of the royal army wis
now open.
Af^er leaving Heidelberg, Meiros-
lawski succeeded in once more onituf
about fifteen thousand of the fugitives
under his banner. General Pcncker^s
attempt to intercept him at Sinsheim
had failed, the insurgent general hav-
ing reached it two hours before him.
Taking to the hills, he got out in rear
of the Prince of Prussia's division,
and joined his force to that of Sznayda,
which was before Carlsnihe. Kobbery
I
I%e Imurreetkm in Baden.
215
lander marked the entire line of
I. Wine and provisions that
not be carried off, were wanton-
ilroyed, and the inhabitants of
Uages traversed by this undis-
sd horde, will long have reason
lembcr the passage of the sclf-
" Armj of Freedom."
dpsdal, Darlach, and Bmchsal,
boa made a more energetic rc-
M than they had yet done; and
not without a hard stmggle, and
lofls on both sides, tiiat the
) of Prussia, at the head of the
Ihisionsofhis army, (nownnited,
numbering npwards of forty
wd men,) entered Carlsmhc on
•th of June. On the approach
Prussians, the provisional gov-
nt, the members of the chamber,
le dvil authorities of eveiy des-
», having emptied the treasury,
■nied on all the public money
ieh they could lay their hands,
their escape to join the remains
Rnmp parliament, who, since
ad been kicked out of WUrtem-
had established themselves at
v a rest of two days in the
I of Baden, the Prussian army
pihi put in motion to attack the
enta, now strongly intrenched
the valley of the Murg, the
rest part of the duchy. Owing
mimerons and well-served ar-
of the insurgents, it was not
it severe fightin^^ and great
» of life, that tbcy were driven
heir positions. Another disor-
fllght succeeded ; and by the
3f the month, the Prussians
in quiet possession of Baden -
, Oos, Otfenburg, and Kehl,
9 having completely surrounded
It, and cut off every hope of
; from that fortress. The re-
fir of Mciroslawski's force was
Y dispersed, the greater num-
dng captured, or escaping in
ries into France or Swit-
A few hundreds only re-
i fai Freiburg, under the com-
oi Sigel. Siciroslawski took
in Basle, having held the com-
of the Baden forces exactly
weeks ; and Brentano, after
I remained just long enough to
ised and threatened bv his own
made his escape with most of
the other revolutionary leaders into
Switzerland, from which he issued the
following justification of his conduct.
As the document contains a tolerably
faithful sketch of the revolution, with
the opinion of one who may certainly
be considered as an unprejudiced
judge, we give it in full : —
*^ To THE People of Baden.
'^ Fellow-citizens I Before leaving the
town of Freiburg and the duchy of I^deu,
on the night of the 28th June, I informed
the president of the constitutional assem-
bly that it was my intention to justify my
conduct towards the people of Baden, but
not towards an assembly that had treated
me with outrage. If I did not do this at
the time I left the country for which I
have acted all through with a clear con-
science, and from which I was driyen by
a tyrannical and selfish party, it was
because I wished to sec what this party
would say against the absent. To-day I
hare seen their accusation, and no longer
delay my defence, in order that yon may
judge whether I hare merited the title of
traitor ; or whether the people's cause —
the cause of freedom, for which your sons,
yonr brothers, have bled — can prosper in
the hands of men who only seek to bide
personal cowardice by barbarity, mental
incapacity by lies, and low selfishness by
hypocrisy.
'* Fellow-citizens ! Since the month of
February I have strained every nerve in
the cause of freedom. Since the month
of February, I have sacrificed my own
affairs to the defence of persecuted repub-
licans. I have willingly stood up for all
who claimed my assistance; and let any say
if I have been reimbursed one krentzer of
the hundreds I have expended. Fellow-
citizens ! I am loath to call to mind the
sacrifices I have made ; but a handful of
men are shameless enough to call mc
traitor ; a handfhl of men, partly those
in whose defence I disinterestedly strained
every nerve, would have me brought
to * well-deserved punishment : ' these
men, whose sole merit consists in tending
to bring discredit on freedom's cause,
through their incapacity, barbarity, and
terrorism ; and whose unheard-of extra-
vagance has brought us to the brink of
ruin.
** I did not return home after Fickler's
trial. The exertion I had used in his de-
fence had iigured my health, and I went
for medical advice to Baden-Baden. On
the 14th of May, I was fetched from my
bed ; but, in spite of bodily weakness, I was
unwilling to remain behind. I wished to
seethe cause of freedom free from all dirty
machinations, I wished to prevent the
216
The Insurrection in Baden.
[Ang.
holy cause from falling into disrepnte
through disgraceful traffic ; I wished to
keep order, and to protect life and pro-
perty. For some time I was enabled to
effect this : I endeavoured to prevent
lujustice of all kinds, and in every place,
and whenever I was called on ; I strove
to protect the innocent against force,
and to prove that even the complete over-
throw of the government could be accom-
plished without allowing anarchy to reign
in its stead.
** Fellow-citizens ! However my con-
duct as a revolutionist may be judged, I
liave a clear conscience. Not a deed of
injustice can be laid to my door : not a
kreutzer of your money have I allowed to
be squandered, not a heller has gone into
my pocket ! But this I must &ay, you
will be astonished, if ever you see the ac-
counts, to find how your money has been
wasted, and how few there were who
fracrificed anything to the holy cause of
the people, and how many took care to
be well paid out of the national cofiers
for every service rendered.
*' No sooner had the revolution broken
out than hundreds of adventurers swarmed
into the land, with boasts of having suf-
fered in freedom's cause : they claimed
tlieir reward in hard cash from your
coffers. There was no crossing the streets
of Carlsruhe for the crowds of uniformed,
pabre-carrying clerks ; and whilst this
herd of idlers revelled on your money,
your half-famished sons were exposing
their breasts to the bullets of the enemy
in freedom's cause. But whoever set
himself to oppose this order of things
was proclaimed to be a mean and narrow-
niiudcd citizen; whoever showed a dis-
inclination to persecute his political ad-
versary h la Windigchijrats, was a riac-
tionnalre or a traitor.
'' At the head of this party was Struve,
the man whose part I took before the tri-
bunal at Freiburg — not as a legal adviser,
but as a friend ; the man whose absurd
plan for giving the ministers salaries of
hix thousand florins ; of sending ambas-
sadors to Rome and Venice, and agents to
St Peter:iburg and Hungary, I overruled ;
the man whose endeavour to give every
situation to which a good salary was at-
tached to foreign adventurers, was efibctu-
ally opposed by me. This man, despised for
his personal cowardice, whose dismissal
from the provisional government was de-
manded by the entire army— this man, in-
stead of supporting and strengthening the
government as he promised, tried, because
his ambitions views found no encourage-
ment, and with the assistance of foreign
adventurers, to overthrow me ; and when
I showed him the force that was drawn op
ready to oppose him, he took refage in
base lies, and had not even sofficieoi
courage to go home, till I, wbom he had
just tried to overthrow, protected him
with my own body to Iub house.
'* The people had chosen between as, for
at the elections he had been first throwi
out, and he only obtained three thonsand
votes as a snbstitnte, whilst I had been
elected by seven thousand roices.
'* I had placed all my hopes in the Con-
stitutional Assembly. I thought that mea
elected by the free choice of the people
would duly support my honest endea-
vours. I was mistaken. An assembly,
the majority of whose members were
mere ranters, totally incapable of fiil-
filling the task imposed- on them, and
who sought to conceal their ignorance
by proposing revolutionary measures—
which were carried one day, to be re-
voked as impracticable the next — was
the result of the election. That I shonld
prove a thorn in the sides of such mea
was clear; and as it was not in their
power to get rid of me, they sought to
make me a powerless tool, by creating a
three-headed dictatorship, with the evi-
dent intention of making use of my ntme,
whilst holding me in check by the other
two dictators. Although such a sitoatioo
might be undignified, still, from love of
the cause, I determined to accept it. I
scarcely ever saw my colleagues in Carb-
ruhe, as they found it more agreeable to
run after the army. No reports from the
seat of war ever reached me; and yet the
assembly demanded from me, as being the
only one present, accounts of what I bid
received no report of. All responsibility
was thrown on my shoulders. If the
minister of war iicgltcted to supply the
army with arms or ammunition, Uie fioU
was mine ; if the minister of finsnce
wanted money, I was to blame; and if the
army was beaten, my want of energy wn
the cause of it!
*' Thus was I abandoned at Carbnhe
in the last most dangerous days, and left
with a set of deputies who, for the msit
part, had not even sufficient courage tf
sleep in the capital. My co-dictaton
found it more convenient to play the euier
part of mock heroes with the amy-
Thousands can bear witness that I slmiik
from no work, however trivial; but I esft
prove to most of these pot-raliant hefMi,
that they put off the most urgent moHoM
as 'not pressing,' whilst they dnog to
others that were of no importaneey neiely
because they carried them outof all dan-
ger at the national expense.
" In Offenburg wo were joined by the
newly-elected member GustaTus S^^e,
who immediately demanded my disaissal
J%e ItmarecUon in Baden.
217
« gOTenaieiit. On being told thai
m impoedble, he next wished me
iktB from the dietatonhip, and to
B one of the miniBter'B places. He
sf the want of eneii^ displayed by
eniment, called it little better than
y and tried to learn from my friends
lans I intended to adopt. He de-
I that the fbgitires from the Pfalz
be placed in office, though, Grod
wie owed them nothing. Indignant
& conduct, I took no part in the
oovncil held at Freiburg, although
■ed se? eral of the deputies of my
m to resign, unless I received full
ition for the machinations of
•first pnblio meeting of the assem-
k place on the evening of the 28th
vlten Struve brought forward the
Dg motion: —
hat every effort at negotiation with
nay be considered and punished as
eiMo.' Considering what had before
ilMe,I could not do less than oppose
ition, which I did on the grounds
I nich negotiations could only pro-
m the government, the motion was
Avnt to a vote of want of confidence.
m of this declaration on my part,
itipn was carried by twenty-eight
i fifteen votes, and the contest
a Stmve and Brentauo was decided
or of the former. Although some
the deputies declared their vote not
ly want of confidence, the assembly
1^ in that capacity, express such an
I. If they did, I call on them to
le the notes of such a resolution
; been carried ; and if thoy fail to do
mod them with the name of infa-
lian. After thi«, I did what all
mble men would have done — I re-
• Who, I ask, was to prevent my
■o; and why am I to be branded
he name of traitur ! I laugh those
ko Bcom who imagine they could
It fireedom of action in a man who,
; been shamefully ill-used, chose to
row from public life.
do not fear inquiry, and demand
1m national assembly that the result
ir investigation be made public, as
I only terminate in victory for me
Mtruotion to my adversaries. Why
it some assembly keep secret the fact
n the 28th of June, they decided to
se o deputation the next morning, in
to beg I would remain in power —
traitor, I who was to be brought
foll-merited punishment!' It was
0 fbresee the personal danger I was
•d to if I refused, and I therefore
ved seeking quiet and repose in
iilondi to enjoying the rags of free-
dom emitted under Struve*s dictatorship
in Baden.
^ I am to be called to account! My
acts are open to the world. No money
ever came under my superintendence —
this was taken care of by men who had
been employed in the department for
years. My salary as head of the govern-
ment was three florins per day, and I
have paid all travelling expenses out of
my own pocket. But if those are to. be
called to account who had charge of the
public money, and became my enemies
because I would not have it squandered,
then, people of Baden! yon will open your
eyes with astonishment; then, brave com-
batants, you will learn that, whilst you
fasted, others feasted!
'' The people of Baden will not be thank-
ful for a ' Struve government,' but they
will have to support it; and over the
grave of f^edom, over the graves of their
children, will they learn to know those who
were their firiends and those who only
sought for self-aggrandisement and
tyranny!
** And when the time comes that the
people are in want of me again, my ear
will not be deaf to the call! But I will
never serve a government of tyrants, who
can only keep in power by adopting mea-
sures that we have learned to despise, as
worthy of a Windischgr&tz or a Wrangel!
** Fellow-citizens! I have not entered
into details. I have only drawn a gene-
ral sketch, which it will require time to
fill up. Accused of treason by the princes,
accused of treason by the deputies of
Freiburg, I leave you to decide whether
I have merited the title.
** Feuerthalfn M Schajgrhaiuen,
I /M/y, 1849.
'* Louis BnENTAMO."
At this time of writing, Rastadt still
remains in possession or two or three
thousand insurgents; but, almost with-
out provisions, and deprived of all
hopes of assistance, the fortress may
be daily expected to surrender. Such
is the termination of an insurrection
of seven weeks' duration, which is cal-
culated.to have cost the country thirty
millions of florins and four thousand
lives. There is no denying that, at
one time, it assumed a most formidable
aspect ; and had the people of Wtir-
temburg given it the support its
leaders confidently expected from
them, it might, aided by the discon-
tent that undoubtedly prevails in
many other parts of Germany, long
have baflled the efforts of Trussia to
218
The Insurrection m Baden.
[Aug:
pat it down. Yet there are few per-
sons, even amoug those who witnessed
the outbreak from its commencement,
who can tell what was the object of
its promoters, unless plunder and per-
sonal aggrandisement be assigned as
their incentives. Their professed mo-
tive was to support the union of Ger-
many in one empire ; but, as the Grand-
du]^e of Baden had already taken the
oath to ob^ and defend the constitu-
tion framed at Frankfort, there was
not the slightest pretext for upsetting
his government. It is certain that
the republicans played a most active
part in the affair — their intention no
doubt being, as soon as they found
themselves victorious under the banner
of the empire, to hoist a democratic flag
of their own. Many who were not
inclined to go so far, joined them upon
doubts of the fair intentions of the
Crermanic princes towards tlieir sub-
jects. Some were perhaps glad of
any sort of change, other turbulent
spirits were anxious for a row, but^
from first to last, none seem to have
had any clearly defined object, or
anything to ofibr in extennation of
such waste of blood and treasure.
The next striking drcomstance Is the
evident incapacity of the chiefs, civil
and military. Thronghont the affikiz^
we do not see one proof of superior
talent, or a single act of daring oonrage.
The only useful reflection it affords if
one that is perhaps worthy the atten-
tion of the rulers of Grermany. Last
year, Stmve's attempt to revolntiiHiise
the country was principally supported
by ignorant peasants, mad stndenti,
and a few ultra-liberals and republi-
cans, and it was in great measure put
down by the soldiers of Baden, litis
^ear, a great proportion of the dtiieiis
m the principal towns were openly in
favour of the movement, andnwiy the
whole Baden army joined tlie revolt
HnDSLBiao, 151* Jmfy 1849.
184».]
LamaiUni^ RmfobUum of 1848.
219
LAMABTINE^S SBYOLITIIOBr OF 1848.
So completely was the ordlnaiy
framewQik of EniopeaiL society bro-
ken op in France by the Bevolntion
of 1789, that the leaders of every
ipreat political moyement, since that
tune, hare spnmg from an entirely
different daas of society from what
thej were befi^re that event. The old
tenitonal noblease no longer appear
» the kadeia in action, or the rulers
of thought. The time has gone by
when an Admiral de Coligny, or a
Heniy of Bdam, stood forth as the
chiflb of the Reformed movement;
a Doc d'Orieana no longer heads the
defectmn of the nobles from the
throne, or a Mirabeau rouse a resist-
ance to the mandates of the sove-
reign. Not only the powers of the
fiwoid, not only the political lead of
the people^ but the direction of their
thougfate, has passed frwn the old no-
Wky, The confiscation of their pro-
pttty has destroyed their consequence,
the disperBian of their fiemiilies mined
thdr influence. Neitiier collectively
nor mdividnally can they now lead
the people. The revolution of 1830,
begnn by Thiers and the writers in
the Natumai newspaper, was carried
out by Lafitte tlie great banker.
That of 1848, springing from the co-
hnnns of the B^orme and the UNsmo"
otxtm Faafiqwy soon fell under the
iesd of M. Marcast the journalist, and
M. Laauwtine the romancer and poet.
And now the latter of these authors
has come forth, not only as the leader
bnt as the historian of the movement,
lilw Casar^ he appears as the an-
ulist of his own exploits : Uke him,
he no doubt flatters himself he can
fl^r, ^^ I came, I saw, I conquered.^'
The mason is, that mankind cannot
cdst even for a day but under the
lead of a fow» Self-government is
the dream of the enthusiast, the vision
of the mezperieneed : oligarchy is the
iuatoiy of man. In vain are institu-
tions popularised, nobles destroyed,
n^weca Novated, education diffhsed,
■^'^govemmoit established : all that
wHi not alter the diaracter of man ;
it will not qnalily ^e multitude for
self-direotion ; it will not obviate that
tot of necessities to mankind— lAe
fiecesmCy of hemg governed. What is
the flrst act of every assembly of men
associated together for any purpose,
social, politi<»il, or charitable? To
nominate a committee by whom their
common affiurs are to be regulated.
What la the first act of that commit-
tee? To nominate a sub-committee
of two or three, in whom the direc-
tion of afRurs is practically to be
vested. Begin, if you please, with
universal siSrage: call six niilliona
of electors to we poll, as in France
at this time, or four millions, as in
America — the sway of two or three,
ultimately of one, is not the less ine-
vitable. Not only does the huge mass
ultimately fall under the direction of
one or two leading characters, but
from the very first it is swayed by
their impulsion. The millions repesi
the thoughts of two or three joumahi,
they daborate the ideas of two or
three men. What is the origin of the
whole free-trade principles which have
totally altered the policy, and probably
shortened the existence, of the British
empire ?- The ideas of Adam Smith,
nurtured ui the solitude of Kirkaldy.
Would yon learn what are the opi-
nions ^erally prevalent in tiie
urban cirdes in England, in whom
political power is practically vested^
on Wednesday or Thnraday ? Bead
tlie U«ding articles of die Times on
Monday or Tuesday. The more men
are educi^ed, the more tiiat instruc-
tion is diflhsed, the more widely that
journals are read, the more vdiement
the politiiad exdtement that prevails,
the more is tho sway of this oligarchy
established, for the greater is tiie ^)ti-
tude of the general mind to receive the
impulse oomnnmicated to it by the
leaders of thought. Tho naticm, in
such drcnmBtamsee, becomes a vast
electric-machine, which vibrates witii
tiie sli^tKst movement of the central
battery.
Lamartfaie, as an author, can never
be mentwned without tiie highest
respect. The unpress of geniu»is to
be seen in all his worka: nature has
marked him for one of the leaders of
thought. A mind naturally ardent
and entilnsiastie, has been nurtured
220
Lamartme's Revolution of 18i8.
[Aug.
by travel, enriched by reflection,
chastened by siifTering. His descrip-
tive powers are of the very highest
order. We have already done jus-
tice, and not more than justice, to the
extreme beauty of his descriptions of
Oriental scenery.* They are the
finest in the French, second to none
in the English language. His mind
is essentially poetic^. Many of his
effusions in verse are touching and
beautiful, though they do not possess
the exquisite grace and delicate ex-
pression of Beranger. But his prose
is poetry itself : so deeply is his mind
imbued with poetical images — so sen-
sitive is his taste to the grand and
the beautiful — so enthusiastic is his
admiration of the elevated, whether
in nature or art, that he cannot treat
even an ordinary subject without
tinging it with the colours of romance.
From this peculiar texture of La-
martine*s mind arises both the excel-
lences and defects of his historical
compositions. lie has all the roman-
tic and poetical, but few of the intel-
lectual qualities of an historian.
Eminently dramatic in his description
of event, powerful in the delineation
of character, elevated in feeling,
generous in sentiment, lofty in specu-
lation— he is yet destitute of the
sober judgment and rational views
which ai-o the only solid foundation
for either general utility or durable
fame in historical composition. He
has the conceptions of genius and the
Are of poetry in his narrative, bat
little good sense, and still less of
practical acquaintance with mankind.
That is his gix^at defect, and it is a
defect so serious that it will probably,
in the end, deprive his historical works
of the place in general estimation to
which, from the beauty of their com-
position and the rich veins of ro-
mance with which they abound, they
are justly entitled. These imagina-
tive qualities are invaluable additions
to the sterling qualities of truth,
judgment, and trust-worthiness ; but
they can never supply their place.
They are the colouring of history ;
they give infinite grace to its compo-
sition ; they deck it out with all the
charms of light and shade : but they
can never make up for the want of
accurate drawing from nature, and a
faithful delineation of objects as they
really exist in the world aroand us.
Nay, an undue preponderance of the
imaginative qualities in an historian,
if not accompanied by a scrapoloiia
regard to truth, tends rather to lessoi
the weight due to his narrative, by
inspiring a constant dread that he Is
either passing off imaginary scenes
for real events, or colouring reality ao
highly that it is little better than fie-
tion. This is more espedally the
case with a writer such as I^martine,
whose thoughts are so vivid and stfk-
80 poetical, that, even when he is
describing events in themselves per-
fectly true, his narrative is so embd-
lished that it assumes the character
of romance, and is distrusted from a
suspicion that it is a mere creation of
the imagination.
In addition to this, there is a capital
deficiency in Lamartine^s historical
works, for which no qualities of stjie
or power of composition, how brilliant
soever, can compensate ; and whidv
if not supplied in some future edittons,
will go far to deprive them of all
credit or authority with future timea.
This is the entire want of all oM^karir
ties or references^ either at the bottom
of the page or at the end of the woik.
In tlie eight volumes of the Hitkny^
the Girondists^ and the four on tbs
Revolution of 1848, now before ua,
we do not recollect ever having met
with a single reference or foot-note
containing a quotation from any stats
paper, speech, or oflScial document
It is impossible to over-estimate the
magnitude of this defect ; and it is
astonishing how so able and well*
informed a writer as Lamartlne shooli
have fallen into it. Does he suppoefr
that the world are to take evenrthuag
he says off his hand, without reKrenoae
or examination ; or imagine that the
brilliant and attractive graces c€ his
style do not increase the necessity ftr
such authorities, from the constant
suspicion they beget that they hate
been drawn from the store of his
imagination, not the archives of his-
tory? No brilliancy of dcscriptioBt
no richness of colouring, no amount
of dramatic power, can make up for
a want of the one thing needful-
See Blacheood't Magazine, vol. Ivi., p. 657.
LamartmeU Revolution o/'1848.
221
tlie TRUTH of the narrative,
children: eyeiy one knows
Buonately fond 'they arc of
stories told them, and how
«f prefer them to any of the
^ {Mstimes suited to their
How often, however, do yon
MD say. But is it all true f It
iking them believe that fiction
imtive of real event that the
I interest is communicated to
rj. Where the annals of
ire colonred as Lamartine
low to colonr tbem, they be-
lore attractive than any ro-
The great saccess of his
0^ the Girondists^ and of Ma-
tiistory of England^ is a safii-
poof of this. Bat still the
t will recur to men and wo-
weii as children — " But is it
(?" And truth in his hands
10 much the air of romance,
wooid do well, by all possible
I, to convey the impression
■ in every respect founded in
t Is no work which has been
d in France, of late years,
as met with anything like the
which his History of the
tU has had. We have heard
ry thousand copies of it were
the first year. Beyond all
t had a material effect in pro-
the Revolution of 1848, and
ating Louis Philippe from the
It was thus popular, from the
use which attracts boys to nar-
of shipwrecks, or crowds to rc-
itkms of woe on the theatre —
terest in tragic events. He
lied the heroes of the first
onvnlsion in such attractive
that men, and still more
were not only fascinated by
native and deeply interested in
'acfeers, but inspired by a desire
psinto similar scenes of excite-
emselves— just as boys become
from reading terrific tales of
dc, or soldiers, from stories of
II the deadly breach. In his
rice eqnally with virtue, weak-
th resolution, became attrac-
le communicated the deepest
to Robespierre himself, who is
. lieio of his story, as Satan is
Paradise Lost. He drew no
ur the weakness, the irresolu-
tion, the personal ambition of the
Girondists, so fatal in their conse-
quences to the cause of freedom in
France, and through it to that of
liberty over the whole world ; but he
contrived to make them interesting
notwithstanding their faults — nay, in
consequence of those very faults. Ho
borrowed from romance, where it has
been long understood and successfully
practised, especially in France, the
dangerous secret of making characters
of imperfect goodness the real heroes
of his tale. He knew that none of the
leading characters at Paris were Sir
Charles Grandisons ; and he knew that,
if they had been so, their adventures
would have excited, comparatively
speaking, very little interest. But he
knew that many of them were political
Lovelaces ; and he knew well that it is
by such characters that in public,
equally as private life, the weakness
of the world is fascinated, and their
feelings enchained. And it is in the
deep interest which his genius has
communicated to I'eally worthless
characters, and the brilliant colours
in which he has clothed the most
sinister and selfish enterprises, that
the real danger of his work consists,
and the secret of the terrible conse-
quences with which its publication
was followed is to be found.
In truth, however, the real cause of
those terrible consequences lies deeper,
and a fault of a more fundamental
kind than any glossing over the frail-
ties of historical characters has at
once rendered his work so popular
and its consequences so tremendous.
Rely upon it, truth and reason, all-
powerful and even victorious in the
end, are never a match for sophistry
and passion in the outset. When you
hear of a philosophical historical work
going through half-a-dozen editions
in sis months, or selling fifty thousand
copies in a year, you may be sure
that there is a large intermixture of
of error, misrepresentation, and one-
sldedness in its composition. Tlie
cause is, that truth and reason are
in general distasteful in the outset to
the human mind; and it is by slow
degrees, and the force of experience
alone, that their ascendency is esta-
blished. What attracts, in the first
instance, in thought, independent of
the charms of eloquence and the graces
'>•)•>
Lamartines RevohUion of 1MB*
[Aug.
of composition — which of course are
iiididiMsnsublc to f^m&t success — is co-
invidtnce with the tendency and aspiro'
lions oftjeneral thought. But so prone
to error and delusion is the humAn
mind, from its inherent character and
original tcxtnn.% tliat It is a hundred
to one that geni'ral thought at any
one time, especially if it is one of con-
.siderable excitement or vehement
feeling, irt founded in error. And
thus it often hapi>ens, that the works
which have the most unbounded suc-
cess at their lirst publication, and for
a considerable time aft4?r, are precisely
those which contain the largest por-
tion of error, and arc likely, when re-
duced into practice, to have the most
fatal effects upon the best Interests of
tilt? speiies. Witness the works of
Kousseau and Voltaire iu France, to
whose influence the first revolution is
mainly to be ascribed ; those of La-
martino, Victor Hugo, and Eagene
Sue, who have been chiefly instm-
niuntal in bringing about the still more
widespread convulsions of our times.
Tiie fundamental principle of La-
niartine's political philosophy, and
which wo regard as his grand error,
and the cause at once of hia success in
the outset and his failure in the end, is
the priuci])le of the general innocence
and perfectibility of human nature.
It is this principle, so directly repug-
nant to the fundamental doctrines of
Christianity, that it may be rcgeirded
as literally speaking the ^^ banner-cry
of hell," which is at the bottom of the
whole revolutionary maxims ; and it
is so flattering to the hopes, and agree-
able to the weakness of human nature,
that it can scarcely ever fail, when
brought forward with earnestness and
enforced by eloqoence, to captivate
the great majority of mankind. Rons-
seau proclaimed it in the loudest terms
iu all his works; it was the great
secret of his success. According to
him, man was bom innocent, and with
dispositions only to virtue: all his
vices arose from the absurdity of
the teachers who tortured his youth,
all his sufferings from the tyranny of
the mlcra who oppressed his man-
hood. Lamartine, taught by the
crimes, persuaded by the sufferings of
the first Revolution, has modified this
principle without abandoning its main
doctrines, and thus succeeded in ren-
dering it more practically dangerous,
because less repugnant to the com-
mon sense and general experience of
mankind. His principle is, that d!s-
magogie is always selfish and dan-
gerous ; dimocratie always safe and
elevating. The ascendency of a few
ambitious or worthless leaders preci-
pitates the masses, when they first
rise against their oppressors, into acts
of violence, which throw a stain upon
the cause of freedom, and often retard
for a season its advance. Bnt that
advance is inevitable : it is only sus-
pended for a time by the reaction
against bloodshed: and in the pro-
gressive elevation of the millions of
mankind to general intelligence, and
the direction of affairs, he sees the
practical development of the doctrinei
of the gospeU and the only secure
foundation for general felicity. He is
no friend to the extreme doctrines of
the Socialists and Commnnists, and
is a stanch supporter of the rights of
property — and the most important of
all rights, those of marriage and fa-
mily. But he sees in the sway of the
multitude the only real baais'of gene-
ral happiness, and the only aeoirity
against the inroads of selfishness; and
he regards the advances towards thii
grand consummation as being certain
and uresistible as the advance of the
tide upon the sand, or the progress firon
night to morning. In this way ht
hopes to reconcile the grand dootrias
of human perfectibility with the ui'
versal failure of all attempts at Ml
practical establishment; and continofli
to dream of the irresisdble and blesisd
march of democracy, while reeountiag
alike the weakness of the Girondistii
and the crimes of the Jacobins — As
woful result of the Etevolution of 1789
— and the still more rapid and ngnl
failure of that which conTolaed ths
worid sixty years afterwards.
The simple answer to all teae ab-
sordities and errors, productive of
such disastrous consequences whsB
reduced into practice, is this^^ lUe
heart is deceitfU above all things, and
desperately wicked.** — '* There it
none that doeth good, no, not oae."
It is from tills ummtrml and UMvitaMa
tendency to wickedness, that tlie
practical impossibility of eatabllshiig
democratic institutions, without otter
ruin to the best interests of society,
Revoiuihn of ISiS.
223
Yoa seek in vain to escape
te coDseqaences of this universal
ion, by committing poorer to a
ide of individuals, or extin-
ig the government of a few in
9j of numbers. The multitude
smselves as bad by nature as
Tj Badj for the discharge of the
i duties with which they are
ed, incomparably worse; for,
r case, nnmbera anuihilate re-
ality without conferring wis-
nd the contagion of common
IS inflames passion without
liening reason. In the govern-
if a fi3w, capacity is generally
tor, because it is felt to be
iai by the depositaries of
bnt in that of numbers it is' as
sly rejected, because it excites
L jealousy, without the prospect
hidoai benefit. Democratic
niiCies are ruined, no one knows
r by whom. It is impossible
any one who is responsible for
«r is done. The ostensible
are driven forward by an un-
vwer, which they are incapable
i regulating or withstanding:
il Imuicrs — the directors of
t — are unseen and irresponsible.
itera occur, they ascribe them
ineapacity of the statesmen at
dofaffiurs: they relieve them-
of reiponsibility, by idleging,
uAj the irresistible influence of
iown power. No one is trained
dntiea of statesmanship, be-
10 one knows who is to be a
no. Ignorance, presumption,
lUtion, generally mount to the
r afiun : the wheel of fortune,
hvoar of a multitude incapable
^kkg of the subject, determines
■lag. The only efiectnal se-
igaiast spoliation by the rulers
t, the dread of being spoliated
Ifea, IB loet when these rulera
I who are not worth spoliating.
• Interest in the fortunes of the
■ily la no longer felt, when
) teanre of power is known to
Buible. The only motive which
• ii, that of making the most
mro of power which is univer-
lewn to be aa riiort-lived as it
; and prolonging it as
long as possible, by bending, in every
instance, to the passions or fantasies
of the multitude, nominally vested
with supreme power, really entirely
guided by a few insolvent and ambi-
tious demagogues —
*' CeB petite souvoruiiu qa* il fait pour un
anuee,
Voyant d^m temps si court leur puisiuico
hornce,
Des plus hcureux desseins font avorter le
fruit,
De p«nr de le laiser a celui qui le 6uit ;
Comme ils ont peu do pari aux biois dont
ils ordonnent,
Dana le champs dn public largement ils
moissonneut ;
Assur^ que chacun leur pardonne aisement,
Espcrant a son tour un pareil traitement;
Le pire des etats, c^est I'etat populaire.^*
Lamartino, regarding the march of
democracy as universal and inevitable,
is noways disconcerted by the uniform
failure of all attempts in old com-
munities to establish it, or the dread-
ful catastrophes to which they have
invariably led. These are merely the
breaking of the waves of the advancing
tide; but the rise of the flood is not
the less progressive and inevitable.
He would do well to consider, how-
ever, whether there is not a limit to
human suffering ; whether successivo
generations wiU consent to immolato
themselves and their children for no
other motive than that of advancing
an abstract principle, or vindicating
privileges for the people fatal to their
best interests; and whether resisted
attempts, and failures at the estab-
lishment of republican institutions^
will not, in the end, lead to a lastmg
apathy and despair in the public mind.
Certain it is, that this was the fate of
popular institutions in Greece, in
Kome, and modem Italy : all of which
fell under the yoke of servitude, finom
a settled conviction, founded on expe-
rience, that an3rthing was preferable to
the tempests of anarchy. Symptoms,
and those too of the most unequivocal
kind, may be observed of a similar
disposition in the great majority, at
least of the rural population, both in
France and England. The election
of Prince Louis Napoleon by four
millions ont of six millions of electo^^
* CoBNciLLBy dmia, Aot ii., ■cans 1.
224
Lamariine^s BevoUUion of 1848.
[Aug;
in the former country — the quiet de-
spair with which measures of the most
ruinous kind to general industry are
submitted to in the latter, are so
many proofs of this disposition. The
bayonets of Changamier, the devas-
tating measures of free trade and a
restricted currency, are submitted to
in both countries, because anything
is better than shaking the foundations
of government.
In treating of the causes which have
led to the revolution of 1848, Lamar-
tine imputes a great deal too much, in
our estimation, to individual men or
shades of opinion, and too little to
general causes, and the ruinous effects
of the first great convulsion. He
ascribes it to the personal unpopularity
of M. Guizot, the selfish and corrupt
system of government which the king
had established, and the discontent at
the national risks incurred by France
for the interests only of the Orleans
dynasty, in the Montpensier alliance.
This tendency arises partly from the
constitution of Lamartine^s mind,
which is poetical and dramatic rather
than philosophical; and partly frarn
the disinclination felt by all intelligent
liberal writers to ascribe the failure of
their measures to their natural and
inevitable effects, rather than the
errors or crimes of individual men. In
this respect, doubtless,he is more con •
sistent and intelligible than M. Thiers,
who, in his History of the French Re*
volution^ ascribes the whole calamities
which occurred to the inevitable march
of events in such convulsions — forget-
ting that he could not in any other
way so severely condemn his own
principles, and that it is little for the
interest of men to embrace a cause
which, in that view, necessarily and
inevitably leads to ruin. Lamartine,
in running into the opposite extreme,
and ascribing everything to the mis-
conduct and errors of individual men,
is more consistent, because he saves
the principle. But he is not the less
in error. The general discontent to
which he ascribes so much, the uni-
versal selfishness and corruption which
he justly considers as so alarming,
were themselves the result of previous
events : they were the effects, not the
causes, of political change. And
without disputing the influence, to a
certain extent, of the individual men
to whose agency he ascribes every-
thing, it may safely be affirmed that
there are* four causes of paramount
importance which concurred in bring-
ing about the late French revolntion ;
and which will for a very long period,
perhaps for ever, prevent the esta-
blishment of anything like real free-
dom in that country.
The first of these is the universal dis-
ruption of all the old bonds of society,
which took place in the first Bevola-
tion, and the general fretting agamst
all restraint, human or divine, which
arose from the ruin of religion and
confusion of morals which then took
place. These evils have only been
partially remedied by the re-establish-
ment of the Christian faith over the
whole realm, and the sway which it
has undoubtedly acquired iu the rural
districts. The active and energetic
inhabitants of the groat towns still
continue influenced by the Revolntion-
ary passions, the strongest of which a
the thirst for present enjoyment, aad
the impatience of any restraint, whether
from the influence of conscience or the
authority of law. This distinctly ap-
pears from the licentious style of the
novels which have now for a quarter
of a century issued from the press of
Paris, and which is in general such
that, though very frequently read in
England, it is very seldom, especially
by women, that this readmg is ad-
mitted. The drama, that mirror of
the public mind, is another indicatioa
of the general prevalence of the sasie
licentious feeling: it is for the most
part such, that few even of the least
tight-laced English ladies can sit oit
the representation. The irreUgion, or
rather general obhvion of rti^iio^
which commonly prevails in the towas,
is a part, though doubtless a most
important part, of this universal dis-
position : Christianity is abjured or
forgotten, not because it is disbeliev-
ed, but because it is disagreeable*
Men do not give themadTves Ibfr
trouble to inquire whether it is true
or false ; they simply give it the go-
by, and pass quietly on the ouer
side, because it imposes a restraint, to
them insupportable, on their passions.
Dispositions of this sort are tliM tnie
feeders of revolution, because they
generate at once its convulsions in
like manner, as passions which re-
Lamartine^s Revolution ofiSiS.
225
rtification, poverty which
food, and activity which
for employment. Foreign war
iieatic convulsion are the only
ilives which, in snch a state of
% remain to government. Na-
tried the first, and he brought
iflsacks to Paris ; Louis Philippe
to become the Napoleon of
Imt he succeeded only in being
meer of revolution,
great and durable interests of
% which the indulgence of such
08 inevitably ruins, are the
r which, in ordinary circum-
Sa is opposed to these dis-
: And it is this influence which
long prevented any serious ont-
of anarchy in Great Britain.
tie immense extent of the con-
on of landed property during
vt Bevolution, and the total ruin
nmercial and movable wealth,
he events of the maritime war,
le effects of the enormous issue
[gnats, has prevented the con-
ion of this barrier in anything
dBcient strength to withstand
roes which pressed against it.
tenths of the realised wealth of
antry was destroyed during the
laion ; what remained was for the
Murt concentrated in the hands of
bankers and moneyed men, who
at cheapening everything, and
ning industry, in order to aug-
bhe value of their metallic riches,
ifloence of the natural leaders of
odacing class, the great proprie-
f land, was at an end, for they
Imost all destroyed. The six mil-
of separate landed proprietors,
bad come in their place, had
]y any influence in the state ; for
reat majority of them were too
to pay 200 francs a-year (£8)
taxes — ^the necessaiy condition
ds an admission into the elec •
body — and as indinduals they
in too humble circumstances to
iny influence in the state. The
18 of the " Imp6t fonciere,^ or
tax, showed that above four mil-
of this immense body had pro-
0 varjringfirom £2 to £10 a-year
-not more than is enjoyed by an
bogtrotter. In these circum-
ea, not only was the steadymg
noe of property in general nnfelt
B state', bat the property which
did make itself felt was of a disturb-
ing rather than a pacifying tendency ;
for it was that of bankers and money-
lenders, whose interests, being those
of consumers, not producers, went to
support measures calculated to depress
industry rather than elevate it, and
thereby augment rather than diminish
the distress which, from these causes,
soon came to press so severely upon
the urban population.
These causes werc the necessary
results of the dreadful waste of pro-
perty, and ruin of industry, which had
taken place during the first Revolu-
tion. The multitude of little pro-
prietors with which France was over-
spread, could furnish nothing to the
metropolis but an endless succession
of robust hands to compete with its
industry, and starving mouths to share
its resources. What could the six
millions of French landowners, the
majority of them at the plough, afibrd
to lay aside for the luxuries of Paris V
Nothing. You might as well expect
the West-End shopkeepers of London
to be sustained by tlie starving west-
em Highlanders of Scotland, or the
famished crowds of Irish cottars. The
natural fiow of the wealth of the land
to the capital of the kingdom, which
invariably sets in when agricultural
property is unequally distributed, and
a considerable pait of it is vested in
the hands of territorial magnates, was
at once stopped when it became di-
vided among a multitude of persons,
not one of whom could afford to travel
ten miles from home, or to buy any-
thing but a rustic dress and a blouse
to cover it. At least sixty millions
sterling, out of the eighty millions
which constitute the net territorial
produce of France, was turned aside
from Paris, and spent entirely in the
purchase of the coarsest manufactures
or rude subsistence in the provinces.
The metropolis came to depend mainly
on the expenditure of foreigners, or
of the civil and military employes of
government. This wofol defalcation
in its resources occurred at a time, too,
when the influx of needy adventurers
from the country was daily increasing,
from the impossibility of earning a
livelihood, amidst the desperate com-
petition of its squalid landowners, and
the decline of agriculture, which neces-
sarily resulted from thehr inability to
226
LmMrime's BMohiHfm qf IMS.
[Anr.
adopt any of its improvements. Thus
the condition of the working classes
in Paris went on getting constantly
worse, during the whole reign of
Louis Philippe ; and it was only in
consequence of the vast influx of
foreigners, which the maintenance of
peace and the attractions of the
court occasioned, that they were not
reduced many years before to the
despair and misery which at once
occasioned and followed the last revo-
lution.
Amidst a population excited to dia-
content by tlicse causes, another cir-
cumstance has operated with pecu-
liar force, which we do not recollect
to have seen hitherto noticed in dis-
quisitions on this subject — this is the
prodigious number of natural children
and foundlings at Pans. It is well
known that ever since the close of the
first Revolution the number of illegi-
timate births in Paris has l)omc a very
great proportion to the legitimate;
they are generally as 10,000 to 18,000
or 19,000. For a long time past, every
third child seen in the streets of Paris
has been a bastard. Hitherto this im-
portant feature of society has been con-
sidered with reference to the state of
morality in regard to the relation of
the sexes which it indicates ; but
attend to its social and political
effects. These bastards do not always
remain children ; they grow up to he
men and women. The foundlings of
Paris, already sufficiently numerous,
are swelled by a vast concourse of a
similar class over all France, who
flock, when they have the means of
transport, to the capital as the com-
mon sewer of the commonwealth.
There are at present about 1,050,000
souls in the French metropolis. Sup-
pose that a third of these are natural
children, there are then 850,000 per-
sons, most of them foundlmgs of
illegitimate bu^h, in that capita.
Taking a fourth of them as capable of
bearing arms, we have 85,000 bae-
iards constantly ready to fight in
Paris,
Consider only the inevitable results
of such a state of things in an old and
luxurious metropolis, teeming with
indigence, abounding with tempta-
tion, overflowing with stimulants to
the passions. The enfant trouve of
Paris, when grown np, beoomes a
gamin de Parity jost as natnnilly and
inevitably as a chrysalis beoomes a
butterfly. He has obtained enoagh
of instruction to enable him to imbibe
temptation, and not enongh to enable
him to combat it. He has in general
received the rudiments of education :
he can read the novels of VIetor
Hugo, Eugene Sue, and George Sand ;
he can study daily the R^orme or
National^ or Danocratie PadtiqmR,
He looks upon political strife as a
game at hazard, in which the win-
ning party obtain wealth and hon-
our, mistresses, fortunes, and enjoy-
ments. As to religion, he has never
heard of it, except as a cnrions relic
of the olden time, sometimes very
efiective on the opera stage; as to
industry, he knows not what it ifl ;
as to self-control, he regards it as
downright folly where self-indnlgeoce
is practicable. The most powerful
restraints on the passions of men-
parents, children, property — are to
him unknown. He knows not to
whom he owes his birth ; his offsiniii;
are as strange to him as his parentB,
for they, like him, are consigned to
the Foundling Hospital : he has no-
thing in the world he can call his own,
except a pair of stout arms to aid ia
the formation of barricades, and t
dauntless heart ready at any moment
to accept the hazard of death orplss-
surc. Hanging midway, as it were,
between the past and the foinre^he htf
inherited nothing from the fomer
but its vices, he inU transmit SM^hiDg
to the latter but its passions. Who-
ever considers the inevitable results
of eighty or ninety thonsand men ii
the prime of life actuated by these
dispositions, associating with an oqul
number of women of the same class,
afiected by the same miafortnne la
their birth, and influenced by tfaesam^
passions, constantly existing in a state
of indigence and destitatimi in the
heart of Paris, will have no difficulty in
accounting for the extraordinary diffi-
culty which, for the last half centnryt
has been experienced in coveininr
France, and will probably despair or
ever succeeding in it bnt by foroe of
arms.
We hear nothing of these frets firom
Lamartine, whose mind is essentiidiy
dramatic, and who represents revoln-
tions, as he evidently considers them.
Lamarime't JRevohaion of 1848.
work of individaal men, work-
)ii the iDevitable inarch of so-
>wftrds extreme repuhlican in-
Oft. He gives ns no statistics ;
rar refers to general causes,
the universal progress towards
•mcy^ which he regards as irre-
. Least of all is he alive to
MNU effects of the first great dis-
i of the bonds of society which
Jj followed the Revolution of
r disposed to regard the subsc-
ODvulsions, as what they really
he inevitable result and just
nent of the enormous sins of
fTolntion. And — morkworthy
stance I — these consequences
i obvious result of the great
committed in its course ; the
ition of property which it oc-
d, the overthrow of religion
orals with which it was at-
. They have fallen with pecu-
erit^ upon Paris, the centre of
3lntionary faction, and thefocns
lich all its iniquities emanated,
lerc the blood of its noblest
was shed. And if revolutions
i we have witnessed or read
bat country are indeed inevi-
and part of the mysterious
of Providence in the regnla-
human affairs, we can regard
B nothing but a realisation of
leral tendency to evil which is
rly foretold in prophecy, and
ons of the advent of those
lUS times which are to be dosed
Kcond coming of the Messiah.
lave all heard of the mingled
ry and irresolution — treachery
national guard, irresolution iu
^al family — which brought
the revolution which Lamar-
B 80 eloquently described. It
ent, even from his account —
it may be supposed, is not uu-
fltUe to the popular side— that
the bar-sinister in its birth
proved fatal, in the decisive
t, to the Throne of the Barri-
aod that the revolution might
iBe have been suppressed, if
er power had been called to
it but that which owed its
80 to a similar convulsion.
Xiag was lost in thought, wliilc
A was Boonding, on the means by
■igjht yet be possible to calm
»1«, and rettrain the reTolution, in
227
which he persisted in seeing nothing but
a riot. The abdication of hit* external-
political system, personified iu M. Guizot,
M. Duchatel, and the majority of the
Chambers entirely devoted to hid inte-
rests, appeared to him to amount to more
than the renunciation of his crown ; it
was the abandonment of his thouglits, of
his wisdom, of the prestige of hio uifalli-
bility in the eyes of Europe, of hi^ family,
of his people. To yield a throne to ad-
verse fortune, in little to a great mind.
To yield his renown and authority to tri-
umphant adTcrse opinion and implacable
history, is the meet painful efibrt which
can be required of a man, for it at once
destroys and humbles him. But the King
was not one of those hardy characters
who enjoy, with ian<j froid, the destruc-
tion of a people for the gratification of
their pride. He had read much of his-
tory, acted much in troubled time-i, re-
flected much. He could not conceal from
himself, that a dynasty which should re-
conquer Paris by means of grape-shot and
bombs would be for ever besieged by the
horror of the people. Ills field of battle
had always been opinion. It was on it
that he wished to act ; he hoped to regain
it by timely concessions. Only, like a
prudent economist, he higgled with opi-
nion like a Jewish pawnbroker, in the
hopes of purchasing it at the smallest
possible sacrifice of his system and dig-
nity. He fiattcred himself he had several
steps of popularity to descend before
quitting the throne." — (Vol. i., p. 102.)
The immediate cause of the over-
throw of the throne, it is well kiiowu,
was the fatal order which the delusion
of M. Thiers, when called to the mi-
nistry, extorted from the weakness of
the King, to stop firing — to cease re-
sistance— to succumb to the assailants.
Marshal Bugeaud was perfi'ctly firm ;
the troops were steady ; ample mili-
tary force was at their command ;
everj-thing promised decisive success
to vigorous operations. Marshal Bu-
geaud^s plan was of the simplest but
most eflicacious kind.
'^ Marshal Bugeaud, with his mili-
tary instinct, matured by experience and
the habit of handling troops, knew that
mnwhility is the ruin of the morale of
soldiers. He changed in a moment the
plan of operations submitted to him. He
instantly called around him the officers
commanding corps. The one was Tiburie
Sebastiani, brother of the marshal of the
same name, a calm and faithfbl officer; the
other. General Bedeaii, whose name, made
illudtrious by his exploits iu AfHca, car-
228
Lamartine's RevobUion of ISiS.
[Aug.
ried respect with it, to his companions in
arms in Paris. He ordered them to form
two columns of 3500 men each, and to
advance into the centre of Paris — the one
by the streets which traverse it from the
Boulevards to the Hotel de Ville, the
other by streets which cross it from the
<iuays. £ach of the columns had artil-
lery, and their instructions were, to carry,
in their advance, all the barricades, to de-
Btroy these fortresses of the insurrection,
to cannonade the ma-ses, and concen-
trate their columns on the Hotel de
Ville, the decisive point of the day. Ge-
neral Lamorici^re was to command a
reserve of .0000 men, stationed around
the palace."— (Vol. i., pp. 136, 137.)
The despair of the troops when
compelled to retire before a tumul-
tuous mob — to confess defeat ia
their own capital, and in the face of
Europe, is thus described : —
" At daybreak the two columns of
troops set out on their march ; their pro-
gress was, every ten minutes, reported by
Btaff-officers in disguise. They experifneed
no gerioii9 retittunce on their 'icay to the
Jlotei de Villi'; the crowd opened as
they advanced, with cries of * Vite la
Rfforme.'* they trampled under foot,
without firing a shot, the beginnings of
the barricades. Nevertheless, the uncer-
tainty of what was passing in the Tuileries
paralysed the arms in the hands of the
soldiers. The Marshal, at length con-
strained by the reiterated orders of the
King, sent orders to his lieutenants to
make the troops fall back. Marshal Be-
deau, upon this, made his battalions re-
tire. Some soldiers threw their muskets
on the ground, as a sign of despair or
fraternisation. Their return across Paris
had the appearance of a defection, or of
the advanced guard of the revolution
marching on the Tuileries. The troops,
already vanquished by these orders, took
up their position, untouched but poverlen,
on the Place de la Concorde, in the Champs
ElysCes, in the Rue de Rivoli. The
French troops, when disgraced, arc no
longer an army. They felt in their hearts
the bitterness of that retreat ; they feel
it still."— (Vol. i., p. 139.)
But it was soon found that these
disgraceful concessions to mob vio-
lence would avail nothing; that M.
Thiers and M. Odillon Barrot were
alike unequal to stemming the torrent
which they had put in motion; and
that the King, as a rewiurd for his
humane order to the troops not to fire
upon the people, was to be called on
to abdicate ! In the disgraceful scene
of pusillanimity and weakness which
ensued, we regret to say the princes
of the royal family, and especially the
Duke de Montpensier, evinced as
much cowardice as the princesses did
courage; — exemplifying thns again
what Napoleon said of the Bonrbons
in 1815, that there was only one man
in the family, and that man was a
woman. The decisive moment is thus
described with dramatic power, bat,
we have no donbt, historic tmth, by
M. Lamartine : —
"M. Girardin, in a few brief and nd
words, which abridged minutes and cot
short objections, said to the King with
mournful respect, that changes of minis'
try were no longer in season ; that the
moment was sweeping away the throM
with the councils, and that there was bat
one word suitable to the urgency of the
occasion, and that word was * ahdkn'
tiOH.*
" The King was in one of those mo-
ments when truths strike without offend-
ing. Nevertheless, he let fall, upon hearing
these words, from his hands the pen with
which he was arranging the names of the
new ministry. He was desirooB of dis-
cussing the question. M. Girardin, jnti-
less as evidence, pressing as time, wonld
not even admit of discussion. 'Sirtf
said he, ' the abdication of the kiqg, or
the abdication of the monarchy — there ii
the alternative. Circumstances will sot
admit even of a minute to find a third
issue from the straits in which we are
placed.' While he thus spoke, M. Giru^
din placed before the King the draft of a
proclamation which he had prepared aad
he wished to have printed. That pio-
clamation, concise as a fact, consisted
only of four lines, calculated to attnct
the eyes of the people.
The abdication of the King.
The regency of the Duchess of Orkas**
The dissolution of the Chamber of De*
puties.
A general amnesty.
" The King hesitated. The Duh it
MontpennerhU soHf carried away,deiM*
less, uy the energetic expressioa ia the
physiognomy, gestionlations, and words
of M. Girardin, pressed his fiither with
more vehemence than rank, age, and *i*'
fortunes shonld have permitted to A*
respect of a son. The pen wa§ pfmnH^t
and the erown torn from tkt mononA ^
an impatience «AtcA could mot wait fof^
full and free eonrieiion. The ndeMMf
fortune towards the King was fi>igotteni>
the precipitance of the council, Oo the
other hand, blood was beginning to fie^i
the throne was gliding away. The Uti>
184D.]
LamartMs EevohUion of l^S.
229
evea of Uie King and his fiunily might be
endangered. Everything can be explain-
ed hj the solicitnde and the tenderness of
the councillors. History should ever
take the yersion which least humiliates
and bmlses least the human heart."—
(Vol. i., p. 127.)
Observe the poetic jiutice of this
oonsninixiation. The member of bis
fSunilT, who at the decisive moment
failed in bis daty, and compelled his
infirm and gray-h^red father to ab-
dicate, was the Due de Moio'pensieb
— the yery prince for whose elevation
he had perilled the English alliance,
violated his plighted word, endan-
gered the peace of Europe I The
heir-presnmptive of the crown of
Spain was the first to shake the crown
of France from his father's bead!
Vanquished by bis personal fears, nn-
wortby of bis high rank and higher
prospects, a disgrace to bis conntiy,
he evinced, what is rare in France in
any station, not merely moral, but
physical posillanimity. To this end
have the intrigues of the Orleans
family, from Egalitd downwards, ulti-
mately tended. They have not only
lost the crown, to win which they
forgot their allegiance and violated
their oaths, but they have lost it with
dishonour and disgrace : they are not
only exiles, but they are despised
exQes. Such have been the fruits of
the Orleans intrigues to gain the
crown of France.
As a bright contrast to this woful
exhibition, we gladly translate M.
Lamartine's account of the memor-
able scene in the chambers, where the
Duchess of Orleans nobly contended
with an infuriated and bloodthirsty
rabble for the crown, now devolved
to her son bv his grandfather's abdi-
cation. Had such spirited devotion
been found in her husband's family,
they might have transmitted the
honours they bad won in the Orieans
dynasty.
''The great door opposite the tri-
bune, on a level with the most elevated
benehes in the hall^ opened ; a woman ap-
peared dressed in mourning : it was the
Daeliess of Orieans. Her veil, half raised
on her hat, allowed her countenance to
be seen, hewing the marks of an emotion
and Badness wlSch heightened the interest
of youth and beauty. Her pale cheeks
bofe the traces of the tears of the widow,
tbs anzletiee of the mother. No man
VOIm UCVI. — 1X0. CCOCVI.
could look on those features without emo-
tion. At their aspect, all resentment
against the monarchy fled iiom the mind.
The blue eyes of the princess wandered
OTor the scene, with which she had been
a moment dazzled, as if to implore aid by
her looks. Her slender but elegant form
bowed at the applause which saluted
her. A slight colour — ^the dawn of hope
amidst ruin— of joy amidst sorrow — suf-
fased her cheeks. A smile of gratitude
beamed through her tears. She felt herself
surrounded by friends. With one hand
she held the young king, who stumbled
on the steps, with the other the young
Duke of Chartres : infants to whom the
catastrophe which destroyed them was a
subject of amusement. They were both
clothed in short black dresses. A white
shirt-collar was' turned oyer their dresses,
as in the portraits by Vandyke of the chil-
dren of Charles I.
" The Duke of Nemours walked beside
the princess, faithfal to the memory'of his
brother in his nephews ; a protector
who would ere long stand in need of
protection himself. The figure of that
prince, ennobled by misfortune, breathed
the courageous but modest satisfaction of
a duty discharged at the hazard of his
life. Some generals in uniform, and
officers of the national guard, followed her
steps. She bowed with timid grace to the
assembly, and sat down motionless at the
foot of the tribune, an innocent accused
person before a tribunal without appeal,
which was about to judge the cause of
royalty. At that moment, that cause was
gained in the eyes and hearts of all.'* —
(Vol. i. p. 177.)
Bat it was all in vam. The mob
on the outside broke into the assem-
bly. The national guard, as usual,
failed at the decisive moment, and
royalty was lost.
'^ An unwonted noise was heard at the
door on the left of the tribune. Unknown
persons, national ffuardt with arms
in their hands, common people in their
working-dresses, break open the doors,
overthrow the officers who surround the
tribune, inyade the assembly, and, with
loud cries, demand the Dake of Ne-
mours. Some deputies rose firom their
seats to make a rampart with their bodies
around the princess. M. Mauguin calmly
urged them to retire. General Oudinot
addressed them with martial indignation.
Finding words unaTailing, he hastily tra-
versed the crowd to demand the support
of the national guard. He represented to
them the inyiolability of the assembly,
and the respect due to a princess and a
woman insulted amidst French bayonets.
230
Latncurtine^s BetohUioti of 1848.
[Anjp.
The national guards heard him, feigned
to be indignant, but ttuniy took up their
arm*, and endeti b*/ doiiuj ttotkin*/.** —
(Vol. i. p. 180.)
In justice to Lamartfnc also, we
must give an abstract of his animated
and eloquent account of the most
lionourable event in his life, and ono
which should cover a multitude of
sins — the moment when he singly
contended with the maddened rabble
wlio had triumphed ovor the throne,
and, by the mere force of moral
courage and eloquent expression, de-
feated the Red Republicans, who were
desirous to hoist the drapean romje^
the well-known signal of bloodshed
and devastation : —
^ In this moment of popular frenzy,
Lamartine succeeded in calming the
people by a sort of patriotic hymn on
their victory — so sudden, so complete, so
unlooked-for' even by the most ardent
fViends of liberty. He called God to
witness the admirable humanity and re-
ligious moderation which the people liad
hitherto shown alike in the combat and
their triumph. He placed prominently
forward that sublime instinct which, the
evening before, had thrown them, when
still armed, but already disciplined and
obedient, into the arms of a few men
who had snbmitted themselyes to ca-
lumny, exhaustion, and death, for the
safety of all. ^ That,' said Lamartine,
' was what the sun beheld yesterday, and
what would he shine upon to-day f He
would behold a people tlio more furious
tliat there was no longer any enemies
to combat ; distrusting the men whom
but yesterday it had intrusted with the
lead, — constraining them in their liberty,
insulting them in their dignity, disavow-
ing their authority, substituting a revolu-
tion of vengeance and punishment for one
of unanimity and Aratemity, and com-
manding the government to hoist, in
token of concord, the standard of a com-
bat to the death between the citizens of
the same country ! That red flag, which
was sometimes raised as the standard
against our enemies when blood was
llowiug, should be furled after the com-
hat, in token of reconciliation*and peace.
1 would rather see the black flag which
they hoist sometimes in a besieged town
as a symbol of death, to designate to the
bombs the cdiflces consecrated to huma-
nity, and which even the balls of the
enemy respect. Do you wish, then, that
the symbol of your republic should be
more menacing' and more sinister than
the coloum of a besieged city V ' No no I'
cried some of the crowd, ^liamartine is
right : let ns not keep that standard, the
symbol of terror, fbr our citizens.' ' Yes,
yes !' cried others, * it is onrs — it is that
of the people — ^it is that with whioh we
have conquered. Why should we net
keep, after the conflict, the eolonn whieh
we have stained with oar blood f —
' Citizens !* said Lamartine, after h»ving
exhausted every argument oalculnted to
affect the imagination of the people,
' you may do violence to the government :
you may command it to change the colours
of the nation and the colours of France.
If you are so ill advised and so obsti-
nate in error as to impose on it % repnbhe
of party and flag of terror, the govern-
ment is 9B decided as myself !•• dis
rather than dishonour itself by obey-
ing yon : for myself, my hand shall
never sign that decree : I will resiit
even to the death that symbol of Uood;
and you should repudiate it as well as
I ; for the red flag whioh yon bring
us has never gone beyond the Champ de
Mars, dragged red in the blood of the
people in '91 and '93; bat the tricolor
flag has made the tonr of the world, with
the name, the glory, and the liberty of
our conntry.' At these words, Lannr-
tine, interrupted by the unaniaons eries
of enthusiasm, fell firora the chair whkh
served for his tribune, into the arsis
stretched out on all sides to receive hia.
The cause of the new repnblio was tri-
umphant over the bloodv recollectiou
which they wished to substitute fbr it.
The hideous crowd which filled the hall
retired, amidst cries of' Vive Lamarthe*
— Vlre U Drapeau Tricolor/*
" The danger, however, was not over.
The crowd which had been earried away
by his words was met by another eitw^
which had not hitherto been able to peas-
trate into the hall, and whioh was mois
vehement in words and gesticolatioaa
Menacing expressions, ardent voeiftn-
tions, cries of suffocation, threatsabg
gestures, discharges of fizeanns on Ab
stair, tatters of a red flag waved ^
naked arms above the sea of heads, re^
dered this one of the most frightAil icsaM
of the Revolution. * Down witk Lasir-
tine! Death to Lajnartine ! no Teiapiri^
ing, — the Decree, the Decree, er tht
Grovemment of Traitors to the lamp-ptit''
exclaimed the assailants. These crici
neither caused Lamartine to hesitatSfto
retire, nor to turn pale. At the si|^ ^
him the fUry of the assailants, intteMcf
being appeased, increased tenfold. Hsi-
kets were directed at his head, the nesisA
brandished bayonets in his fkce, and a M-
vage group of twenty, with bmtal dronlia
visages, charged forward with their bei^
down, as if to break through with la
enormous battering-ram the eirdt iriudi
Lmmrtme'» RevokUkm 0^1848.
231
d Inm. The ftnremost appeared
rtaaoD. Naked sabres reached
nf tlM orator, whose hand was
wmnded. The critical mo-
[ aniTed; nothing was yet de-
[aard determined which should
ABartine expected momentarily
ywn down and trampled under
tint instant one of the populace
ym the crowd, a ball discharged
w graied hi? foce and stained it
>d; while it still flowed, he
oat his arms to Lamartine —
■M him, let me touch him,'
' let me kiss his hand! Listen
hp ay citizens! follow his coun-
Aall strike me before touch-
I will die a thousand times
rv« that good citizen for my
With these words he preci^i-
■elf into his arms, and held him
dj embraced. The people were
% this scene ; and a hundred
lim exclaimed ' Vi ne U Gourtrnc-
«(botre / — Vi re Lama rtine ! * ** —
p. 893, 402.)
urposely close our account of
ae'k personal career with this
passage in his life. His sub-
aoadnct, it is well known, has
led with this beginning. His
ty in Paris fell as rapidly as
iaen ; and on occasion of the
leroit of Jane 1848, he re-
im the goTemmcnt, with all
agues, mm acknowledged in-
0 meet the crisis which had
We have heard different ac-
f the real causes of his mys-
■lliance with his former op-
tnd the head of the Red
cans, M. Ledru Rollin, to
U fidl was owing. Some of
Qffiea are little to his credit.
lear to mention them, lest we
mwittingly disseminate false-
mard to a man of undoubted
ind great acquirements. Per-
. some fhture ^^ Confidences,'*
r he able to explain much
mdonbtedlj at present stands
of explanation. We gladly
lis dubious subject, to give a
> his dramatic account of the
L eooflict in June, in the streets
ki which is the more entitled to
as he was an eyewitness of
of its most terrible scenes: —
nUam ttf eight or ten thousand
ifm abeady formed on the Place
'•■ihton to attack tiie Luzem-
K. Arago harangued them and
ad fhem to disperse; but it was
only to meet again in the quarters ad-
joining the Seine, in the Faubourg St
Antoine, and on the Boulevards. At tho
sight of them the ftinbourgs turned out —
the streets were filled — the Atelwrs
NiUionaux tamed out their hordes — the
populace, excited by some chief, began
to raise barricades. These chieft were,
for the most part, brigadiers of the
national workshops, the pillais of sedi-
tion and of the clubs, irritated at the dis-
banding of their corps, the wages of which,
passing through their hands, had been
applied, it is Mtid, to paying the Revolu-
tion. From the barriers of Qiarenton,
Fontainebleau, and Menilmontant, to the
heart of Paris, the entire capital was in
the hands of a few thousand men. The
rappd called to their standards 200,000
National Guards, ten times sufficient to
overthrow those assemblages of the sedi-
tious, and to destroy their fortifications.
But it must be said, to the disgrace of
that day, and for the instruction of pos-
terity^that the National Guard at that
decisive moment 'did not antiter i» a hody
to the ctppeal of ike goteruiMnt, Their
tardiness, their disinclination, their inert-
ness, left the streets in some quarters open
to sedition. They looked on with calm
eyes on the erection of thousands of bar-
ricades, which they had afterwards to
reconquer with torrents of blood. Soon
the government quitted the Luxembourg
and took refoge in the National Assem-
bly, where, at the headquarters of General
Cavaignae, was established the supreme
councU of the nation.
'' Government had reckoned on the
support of the National Guard; but the
incessant beating of the rappd foiled in
bringing it forth to its standards. In
several quarters they were imprisoned by
the insurgents. In fine, be it tardiness,
or be it fatality, the army was far from
responding in a body to the imminence and
universality of the peril. Its numerical
weaknessaggravated the danger. Greneral
Lamoriciere, invincible, though soon be-
sieged by 200,000 men, occupied the whole
extent from the Rue duTemple to theMade-
leine,£rom the Rue de Cliohy to the Louvre
— constantly onhorseback, ever foremost in
fire, he had two horses shot under him —
his countenance black with powder,hi8 fore-
head running down with sweat, his voice
hoarse with giving the word of command,
but his eye serene and calm as a soldier in
his native element, he restored spirit to his
men, confidence to the National Guards.
His reports to goveniment breathed
the intnpidiiy of his soul, but he made
no oonoealmeni of the imminenea of the
danger, and the insuffloienoy of the troops
at his disposal. He pidnted the immense
multitude of the asMilants and the vast
i
232
Lamartine^s Revolution of 1848.
[Aug.
network of barricades which stretched be-
tween the Bastile and tlie Cliateau d*£aa,
between the barriers and the Bonleyard.
Incessantly he implored reinforcements^
which the govemment as continnally sum-
moned to its support by the telegraph, and
officers specially despatched. At length
the National Guards of the neighbourhood
of Paris began to arrire, and, ranging
themselves round the Assembly, furnished
an example to those of the capital. Then,
and not till then, confidence began to be
felt in the midst of the chances of the
combat.**— (Vol. ii.,pp. 480-481.)
It was a most fortnnato event for
the cause of order, and, with it, of
real freedom throughout the world,
that this great revolt was so com-
pletely suppressed, though at the cost
of a greater number of lives, particu-
larly in general officers, than fell in
many a bloody battle, by the efforts
of General Cavaignac and his bravo
companions in arms. It is said that
their meiisure.<«, at fii*st, were not skil-
fully taken — that they lost time, and
occasioned unnecessary bloodshed at
the outset, by neglecting to attaci^ the
barricades when they began to be
formed; and certainly the easy and
bloodless suppression of the late re-
volt against the government of Prince
Louis Napoleon, by General Chan-
garnier, seems to favour this opinion.
It must be recollected, however, that
the revolt of May 1849 occurred when
the memor}' of the popular overtlirow
of June 1848 was still fresh in the
minds of the people; and it is not
easy to overestimate the effect of that
decisive defeat in paralprsing i-evolt
on the one side, and addmg nerve to
resistance on the other. It is evi-
dent that Louis Kapoleon is not a
Due de Montpensier — he will not sur-
render his authority without a fight.
But supposing that there was some
tardiness in adopting decisive mea-
sures on occasion of the June revolt,
that only makes the lesson more com-
plete, by demonstrating the inability
of the bravest and most determined
populace to contend with a regular mi-
litary force, when the troops are steady
to their duty, and bravely led by their
chiefs. The subsequent suppression of
therrevoltsin Prague, Vienna, Madrid,
and Rome, have confirmed the same
important truth. Henceforth, it ia
evident, the horrors of revolution may
always be averted, when government
is firm, and the military are faithfbl.
And these horrors are in truth such,
that it becomes evidently the first of
political and social duties for the
rulers of men to justify the eminence
of their rank by their coorage, and the
troops to vindicate the trust reposed
in them by their fidelity. Passing by
the woful expose of the almost hope-
less state of the French finances, with
a deficit of above Twelvr Miluoks
sterling, despite an addition of forty-
five per cent to the direct taxes, made
by Prince Louis Napoleon to the Na-
tional Assembly, we rest on the fol-
lowing curious and important details
taken from the Times of July 12, in
regard to the effect of the revolation
of 1848 upon the comforts and con-
dition of the labouring classes in
France : —
*' It appears it is the middle class of
tradesmen that are now most suifeiiiig
from the effects of rerolution. The funds
on which this class had been liTiog, in
the hope that better days would soon
arrive, and which amongst some of tbe
small tradesmen formed their eapitil,
hare become exhausted. Those who hid
no money had, at all events, some credit;
but both money and credit are now goot.
The result is, that even in this period of
comparatire tranquillity more diope tie
closed than in the days of tnrbnlence.
" The following sUtement of the fioe-
tuations of the revenues of the eityef
Paris, occasioned also by revolation, and
which goes back to 1826, is taken ftoa
the D^tt:—
** ' The returns of the prodnee of indi-
rect impost is the unfailing testimony to
the progress or decrease of publie tiaa-
quillity. We proved this truth yetterdij
in publishing, on the aathority of a irsD-
informed journal, the comparative stits
of the receipts of the Paris octroi ftr the
first six months of the years 1817, 1848,
and 1849. It is still f^her proved by
valuable documents which we have atihif
moment before us. Thus, the prodnee of
the oc(ro»was, in 1847, 34,51l489fraBtf;
and in 1848, only 26,519,627 fhuies,ikofr-
ing a difference of 7,991,762 tnncs, Thii
decrease is enormous, in relation to thf
immense necessities created bj the poli-
tical and social crisis, the works naMf-
taken by the city, and the previoii tx-
penses it had to provide for. We eoaU
analyse the different chapters of tUi
municipal revenue, which aflbrda lift te
so many branches of Parisian indoaliy;
but it is nseless to inquire, far each ef
these chapters, the particnUr eansai of
dimmuUon. With the great aveat of 1848
before as, all details dSappaar. Om aob
1849.]
LcoMrtMs RevohUian of IMS.
233
ooM has prodaeed a deerease in the re-
ceipUy and that is the reTolation of Feb-
narj; which, at first menaeing society
itself by the Toice of democratic orators
and the pens of demagogue writers, fright-
ened away capital and annihilated indus-
try of all kinds. In order to be able to
jndge of the inflaence of great political
STents on the receipts of the Paris octroi,
it will be sufficient to recur to the years
which preceded and followed the rcTolu-
tioaof 1830:—
Fmoo.
In 1B36 the produce was 31,057,000
In 1827 (the fint shock in conte-
ffumem of the progress of the
opposition in the country, and
the dissolution of the national
guard) . . . • 29,215,000
In 1828 (fall of the Villele minis-
try—continuation of the politi-
cal moTement notwithstanding
the Montignae miniitry 28,927 000
In 1829 (ministry of the 8th
August — presentiments of a
stn^Ie between the crown and
country) .... 27,695,000
In 1830 (July Revolution) . 26,240,000
la 1831 (incessant agitation — ro-
peaftad ontbrsaks) 24,035,000
la 1832 (continuation of rcTolu-
tionaiy moTement— events of
the 501 and 6th June) . 22,798,000
la 1833(progresstve establishment
oftcmnquUlity) . . 26,667,000
In 18M (the situation becomes
better, with the exception of the
stents of the 13th and 14th
AmiI, whidi, however, were
bneO .... 27,458,000
From 1835 to 1838 (calm— cabi-
net of 15th April — the produce
in the Utter year) 31,518,000
In 1839 (Parliamentary coalition,
12th May) 30,654,000
In 1840 (Man of war — ^rupture of
tibe English Alliance, &c) 29,906,000
Vnm 1841 to 1845 (calm— pro-
grsasive increase in the latter
ysar) .... 34,165,000
In 1846 (notwithstanding the
daamsas of food, the receipts
WBVe) .... 33,990,000
in 1847 (eoBimereial crisis, &e.) 33,033,000
In 1848 (revolution of February) 26,519,000
* Thn following firom La Patrie gives a
gssd idea of ths Elects of an unquiet state
sfsoetety: —
* ' RsvotttUons cost dear. They, in the
pUcs, angment the public expenses
diiiBish &e general resources. Oc-
CHkoally they yield something, but before
f[Uh«ring in the profits the bill must be
paid. H. Andi|puine, chef de bureau at
ths dspartnwnt of commerce and agri-
caltarsy has pnblished a curious work on
ths indnsttial crisis brought on by the
Isolation of Febmary. M. Audiganne
hMtZMDiMdaUbnachss of manufactures,
and has shown that the crisis affected every
one. In the Nord, at Lisle, cotton-spin-
ning, which occupied thirty-four consider-
able establishments, employing a capital
of 7,000,000f. or 8,000,000f. ; and tulle
making, employing 195 looms, were
obliged to reduce their production one-half.
At Turcoingand Roubaix, where cloth and
carpet manufactories occupied 12,000
workmen, the produce went down two-
thirds, and 8000 men were thrown out of
work. In the Pas-dc-Calais the fabrication
of lace and cambrics was obliged to stop
before a fall of twenty-five per cent. The
linen factory of Capecure, founded in 1836,
and which employed 1800 men, was in
vain aided by the Municipal Council of
Boulogne and the local banks ; it at last
succumbed to the crisis. In the depart-
ment of the Somme, 142,000 workmen,
who were employed in the woollen, cotton,
stocking, and velvet manufactories, were
reduced to idleness. In the arrondisee-
ment of Abbeville, where the business,
known by the name of Mockwork' of
Picardy, yielded an annual produce of
4,000,000f.,the orders stopped completely,
and the unfortunate workmen were
obliged to go and beg their bread in the en-
virons. At Rouen, where the cotton trade
gave an annual produce of more than
250,000,000f., there were the same dis-
asters ; yet the common goods continued
to find purchasers, owing to their low
price. At Caen, the lace manufacture,
which in 1847 employed upwards of 50,000
persons, or one-eighth of the population of
Calvados, was totally paralysed. At St
Qnentin, tulle embroidery, which gave a
living to 1500 women, received just as
severe a blow as in March and April,
1848 ; almost all the workshops were
obliged to close. In the east the loss was
not less considerable. Rheims was obliged
to close its woollen-thread factories during
the months of March, April, and May,
1 848. The communal workshop absorbed
in some weeks an extraordinary loan of
430,000f. Fortunately, an order for
l,500,000f. of merinos, from New York,
allowed the interrupted factories to re-
open, and spared the town fresh sacrifices.
The revolutionary tempest penetrated
into Alsace, and there swept away two-
thirds of the production. Muhlhansen
stopped for several months the greater
number of its looms, and diminished one-
half the length of labour in the workshops
which remained open. Lyons also felt all
the horrors of the crisis. In the same
way as muslin and lace, silk found its
consumption stopped. For several months
the unfortunate Lyons* workmen had for
sole subsistence the produce of the colours
and scarfs ordered by the Provisional
Government. At St Etienne and St
2di
CaiMMiidy ike piaeipil poiatfl of «iir ribbon
«ii4 velfet iiia&«fM(iire» and i*li we 85,000
woiioMD were ^employedy the produotion
went dewn iwo-tUrdSk At Pteie M.
Andigeone eitiafttei the lo« in wkftt ie
^kd Pane geode at niae^enthe «f ibe
INTodiiction. Hie leee on ethe^ artioles,
heoeniiden* on the contrary, to have been
only two-thirde on the eaJ^ and a little
more than one-half on the amonnt of the
inrodaoe. We only tonbh in these remarice
nn the noet etriking points of Che calenln-
^on ; the total loss, aoeordu^ to M.
Andiganne, aiaooKts, for the wotkmok
alone, to upwards of 300,000,000t
Such hftve been the comeqneiioes
to the people of likening to lAie yoioe
of their demagogues, who impelled
them into the revolution of 1848— to
the national gnards, of banging back*
at the decisive moment, and forget-
ting their oaths in the intoxication of
]K>pii2ar eofthnaiasm.
And if »aj one snppoees that these
effeots were only temperaiy, and that
lasCmg freedom is to be won for
France by l^ese sacrliloes, we recom-
mend him to consider the present
state of France, a year and a half
after the revolntion of 1848, as paint-
ed by one of its ablest supporters,
M. Louis Blanc.
pnorasT.
* While Paris is in a state of siege,
and when most of the jonmals which re-
present oar opinions are by violence con-
demned to sQenoe, we believe it to be a
duty owing to onr party to convey to it,
if possible, the public expression of our
sentiments.
** It is with profound astonishment that
we see the organs of the counter-revolu-
tion triumph over the events of the 13th
of June.
* Where there has been no contest, how
can there have been a viotoiy !
*• What is then proved by the IdOi of
June!
•* That under the pressure of 100,000
soldiers, Paris \b not free in her move-
ments ! We have known {his more Chan
enough.
A. *' ^^^£ ^ '* ^" always been, the ques-
tion IS, rf by crowding Paris with soldiers
and with cannon, by stifling with violent
hands the Uberty of the press, by suppres-
sing individual freedom, by invading prf-
^»*« <*«nucaes, by substitutiqg the reitn
of Terror for that of Reason, by nncei-
ingly repressing Airious despair— that
which there is wantiqgn capacity to pre-
vent, the end will be attained of reani-
Zammiim^M Renoi^imm ^1848.
[Aog.
mating oenftdence, ear re-estiblisUag
eredity of diminiBhing taxes, of oariectisg
the vioee of the administratkm, of ehaaag
away the spectre of the deficit, ef dete-
JopiBg indutry, of cutting shoit the dis-
aetan attendant upon naliaited eonpeti-
tion, of enppresaing those revolts wUdi
have their aonroe in the deep reocmes of
hunan feelings of traa^villisiiig tessil-
meats, of calming ail hearts ! The state
ef si^[e of 1848 has engendeied that of
1849. The question is, if ttie amiaUe
petfipeetive of Paris in a state of siege
•very eight or ten Menths wiD resteee to
commerce its elastie movements, te tbe
industrious their mairicets, and te the
middle classes their repoee.^ — L,Blamc.
It is frequently asked what is to be
the end of a& tbese cbanges, and under
what form of government are thepeq)le
of France nltimately to iwtde? Diffi-
cult as it is to predict avythingwith cer-
tainty of a people with whom nothiDg
seems to be fixed bnt tbe dispoRitiwi to
change, we have no hesitatioii in stat-
ing om* opinion that the intiire govern-
ment of France wiH be what that of
uqpeiial Rome was, an Elegtite Mi-
LiTART Despotism. In fact, with the
exception of the fifteen years of the
Restoration, when a fines constitational
monarchy was imposed on Its in-
habitants by the bayonets of the
Allies, it has ever since the Revolution
of 1789 been nothing else. The Or-
leans dynasty lias, to «U iqvpeannce,
expired with a disgrace even greatff
than that which attended its birth:
the Bourbons can scarcely exp«ot, in
a conntiy so deeply imbued with the
love of change, to re-establish thdr
hereditary tlmme. Popnlar psssioii
and national vanity call fbr that fa-
vourite object in democratic sodetiftfr—
a rotation of governors : popular vio-
•loKce and general sufieriag will never
fail to re-establish, after a brief period
of anarchy, the empire of the sword.
The successive election of mifitary
despots seems the only popnlar com-
promise between revoliitioiiaiy pas-
sion and the social neceasKties of man-
kind; and as a similar compromise
took place, after^ighty yean of blood-
shed and confusion, & the Roman
commonwealth, so, after a similsr
period of suffering, it wiH probably
be repeated, from the influence of tbe
same cause, In the Fiendi nation.
1M9.] CkriBl9pkmr umdtr CmvoM. 235
CHEISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.
Sg£2(B — GuUa Perdia.
Time — Early Evening.
NOtSTH — ^BULLEB — SeWARD— TaLBOYS.
NOBTH.
Trim— trim — ^trim —
TALBOTfi.
Gentlemen, are you all seated ?
NORTH.
Whjinto sach strange vagaries fall as 70a would danoe, Longfellow!
Seixe lus skirts, Seward. Buller, cling to his knees. BiUj, the boat-hook —
^ will be — he la— overboard.
TALBOYS.
Not at alL Crotta Percha is somewhat crank — and I am steadying her, sir.
NORTH.
What is that round your waist ?
TALBonrs.
Mj Air-girdle.
NORTH.
I iasist upon yon dropping it, Longman. It makes you reckless. I did
lot tiuBk joo were such a a^fiah character.
TALBOTS.
AkB ! in this world, how are onr noblest intentions misunderstood I I pot
k OB, air, that, in case of a capsize, I might more buoyantly bear you
NORTH.
Forgive me, my friend. But — ^be seated. Onr craft is but indifferently
^ aoapted for the gallopade. Be seated, I beseech you 1 Or, if you will
ted, do plant both feet— do not— do not alternate so — and above all, do
lot, I imj^nre yon — show off on one, as if you were composing and reciting
^tties.— There, down you are — and if there foe not a hole in her bottom,
Gotta Percha is safe against all the hidden rocks in Loch Awe.
TALBOYS.
Let me take the stroke oar.
NOBTH.
For sake of the ancient houses of the Sewards and the BuUeiB, sit where
yon are. We are already in four fathom water.
TAXB0TB.
The Lines?
BILLY.
Kea, nea— ^Mister Talboy. Nane shall steer Perch when He's afloat but
(' aold commodore;
236 Christopher under OcmooM. [Aog.
NORTH.
Sbove off, lads.
TALDOTS.
Are we on earth or in heaven ?
BILLY.
On t' watter.
NORTH.
Billy — mnm.
TALBOTS.
The Heavens are high — and they are deep. Fear would rise up from tba^
Profound, if fear there could be in the perfectly Beautiful !
SEWARD.
Perhaps there is — though it wants a name.
NORTH.
We know there is no danger— and therefore we should feel no fear. But wo
cannot wholly disencumber ourselves of the emotions that ordinarily greafc
depth inspires — and verily I hold with Seward, while thus we hang over the^
sky-abyss below with suspended oars.
SEWARD.
The Ideal rests on the Real — ^Imagination on Memory — and the Visiontry^.
at its utmost, still retains relations with Truth.
BULLER.
Pray you to look at our Encampment. Nothing visionary there —
TALBOYS.
Which Encampment ?
BULLER.
On the hill-side— up yonder — at Cladich.
TALBOYS.
You should have said so at first. I thought yon meant that other down—
BULLER.
When I speak to you, I mean the bonajide flesh and blood Talboys, sitiinff
by the side of the bona fide flesh and blood Christopher North, in GnttS'
Percha, and not that somewhat absurd, and, I trust, ideal personage, stand*
ing on his head in the water, or it may be the air, some nthoms below her
keel — like a pearl-diver.
TALBOTS.
Put up your hands — so — my dear Mr North, and frame the picture.
NORTH.
And Maculloch not here ! Why the hills behind Cladich, that peo]^ ciA
t ame, make a back-ground that no art might meliorate. Cultivation cUmbfite
green slopes, and overlays the green hill- ridges, while higher np all is rongl^
brown, heathery, rocky — and behind that undulating line, for the first time Ihl
my life, I see the peaks of mountains. From afar they are looking at tkB
Tents. And far off as they are, the power of that Sycamore Grove consaetB
them with our Encampment.
TALBOYS.
Are yon sure, sir, they are not clonds ?
NORTH.
If clouds, so much the better. If mountains, they deserve to be clouds ; vA
if clouds, they deserve to be mountains.
SEWARD.
The long broad shadow of the Grove tames the white of the Tents— to<*J
it — reduces it into harmony with the surrounding colour — into keeping wi»
the brown huts of the villagers, clustering on bank and brae on both wfi^ ^
the hollow river.
NORTH.
The cozey Inn itself from its position is picturesque.
TALBOYS.
The Swiss Giantess looks imposing —
BULLER.
So does the Van. But Deeside is the Pandemonium —
18i9.] CkriMtopher under Canvass. 237
TALBOTS.
Well translated by Paterson in his Notes on Milton, ** AU-DeyiPs-
liall."
NORTH.
Hush. And how lovely the foreground ! Sloping upland— with single trees
standing one bj one, at distances wide enough to allow to each its own little
grassy domain — with its circle of bi*ackcn or broom — or its own golden gorse
grOTe — divided by the sylvan course of the hidden river itself, visible only
when it glimpses into the Loch — Hei-e, friends, we seem to see the united occu-
pations of pastoral, agricultural — and —
BULLER.
Fardon me, sir, I have a proposition to make.
NORTH.
Ton might have waited a moment till —
BULLER.
Not a moment. We all Four see the background — and the middle-ground
ind the foreground — and all the ground round and about — and all the islands
and their shadows — and all the mountains and theirs — and, towering high
above all, that Cruachan of yours, who, I firmly believe, is behind us — though
'twoold twist my neck now to get a vizzy of him. No use then in describing all
tbat ties within the visible horizon — there it is — let us enjoy it and be thankful
—and let us talk this evening of whatever may happen to come into our re-
spoctive heads — and I beg leave to add, sir, with all reverence, let's have fair
play— let no single man — ^young or old — take more than his own lawful
share—
NORTH.
Sir?
BULLER.
And let the subject of angling be tabooed — and all its endless botheration
>bont baskets and rods, and reels and tackle — salmon, sea- trout, yellow-fin,
P^f pike, and the Ferox— and no drivel about Deer and Eagles—
NORTH.
Bir? What^s themeaning of all this — Seward, say—tell, Talboys.
BULLER.
, And let each man on opening his mouth be timed— -and let it be two-minute
^'^■B^HUid let me be time-keeper — but, in consideration of your years and habits,
^ presidency, let time to yon, sir, be extended to two minutes and thirty
MooDds— and let ns all talk time about — and let no man seek to nullify the
|tw by talking at railway rate— and let no man who waives his right of turn,
«owfiret often, think to make np for the loss by claiming quarter of an hour
^'^trds— and that, too, perhaps at the smartest of the soiree — and let
^ be no contradiction, either round, fiat, or angular — and let no man
'P^ about what he understands—that is, has long studied and made himself
•••tcr of— for that would be giving him an unfair— I had almost said — would
^ Wng a mean advantage — and let no man —
NORTH.
Why, the mutiny at the Nore was nothing to this !
BULLER.
Lord High Admiral though yon be, sir, yon must obey the laws of the
NORTH.
Iseehowitis.
BULLER.
How is it?
NORTH.
Bat it will soon wear off— that^s the saving virtue of Champagne.
BULLER. .
Champagne indeed ! Small Beer, smaller than the smallest size, ion
^ve not the heart, sir, to give Champagne.
NORTH.
We had better put about, gentlemen, and go ashore.
236 Chsrklopher umkr Camoau. I^vg.
BTJIXER.
My ever-hononred, long-revered sir I I h«ve got intoncatod on our Tee-
total debauchery. Tlie fumes of the water have gone to my head — and I need
bat a few drops of brandy to set me ail right. Billy — ^the flaak. There— I am
«s sober aa a Jndge.
KORIH.
Ay, 'tis thus, BoUer, yon wise wag, that yon wonld let tiie ^' old mia
garrolons " into the secret of his own tendencies — too often nnooDBcioiis he cf
the powers that have set so many asleep. I accept ike law 4intlet.it-^
let it be three-minute time.
Fiye— ten — ^twenty — ^* with ihae oonvarBiBg I £oi)gst an time."
KOBTH.
Strike medtam — ^Ten.
BUIXES.
My dear sur, for a moment let me have that6py*|^a08.
I most lay it down— for a Bevy of Fair Women are on the Moonfe— and
are brought so near that I hear them langhing^-^speoiaUy the Prima BonBa,
whose Glass is in dangerous proximity with n^ noae.
BUIUEB.
Plmg her a kiss, sir.
NOBTH.
There— and how prettily she returns it !
BULLEB.
Happy old man I Go where yon will —
TALBOTS.
Ulysses and the Syrens. Had he my air-girdle, he wonld swim ashore.
NOBTH.
«i Oh, mihi pmteritos referat si Jupiter annus I''
TAIAOTS.
The words are regretful — ^but there is no regret in the voice that syllables
them — ^it is dear as a bell, and as gladsome.
NOBTH.
Talking of kissing, I hear one of the most nudodions songi that everiowed
irom lady's lip—
** Th« oumnt liiat with gentle motion glides,
Thon knowest, being stopped, impaiieiitly delh'imge ;
Bnt when his iUr course is not hindeied.
He mains sweet mnsio with th' enmnelled jtitmniSj
Qiting a gentle km to ewry eedfe
Me overtaketk in ki$ pilgrimage ;
And 10 by many winding nooks he strays
With willing sport to the wild ocean."
Is it not perfect?
SEWABD.
It is. Music — ^Painting, and Poetiy —
BULLEB.
Sculpture and architecture.
NOBTH.
Buller, you're a blockhead. Dear Mr Alison, in his charming Esio^s en
Taste, finds a little fault in what seems to me a great beanljy in thia^ one of
the sweetest passages in Shakspeare.
BULLEB.
Sweetest. That's a miss-moUyish word.
NOBTH.
Ass. One of the sweetest passages in Shakspeare. TLe finds fkult with
the Current kissing the Sedges. " The pleasing personification which we attri-
bute to a brook is founded upon the faint beUef of voluntaiy motion, and is
immediately checked when the Poet descends to any minute or particular re-
eemblance."
1^0 ChnUtpher mmder Cmmmu, 239
Denendsi
NOBTK.
Hie word, to i^y «ar, doee sound strangely; and though his e^qn-ession,
«> fjumt belief^" is a troe and a fine one, jet here the doctrine does not apply.
Kaj, here we have a tme notion inconsiderately misapplied. Without donbt
Poets cf more wit than sensibility do follow on a shnilitnde beyond the sug-
gestion of the contemplated snl^ect Bat the ripplmg of water against a
sedgQ suggests a kiss — is, I believe, a kiss — ^liquid, soft, loving, i^ppedL
BULLBB.
Beautifol.
NORTH.
Culler, you are a fellow of fine taste. Compare the whole catalogue of meta-
phorical kisses — ^admitted and daimable — and you will finud this one of the
B&oBt natural of them alL Pilgrimage, in Shakspeare's day, had dropt, in the
ipeeoh of oar Poets, finam Its eariy rdigious propriety, of seeking a holy place
aader a vow, into a roving of the region. See his ^* Passionate Pilgrim.*' If
Shakspeare found the word so far generalised, then ^^ wanderer throagh the
woods," or plains, or through anything else, is tiie suggestion of the behold-
ing. The river is more, indeed ; being, like the pUgrim, on his way to a
lersa, and An obliged way — *'*' the wild ocean."
SEWARD.
The "faint belief of voluntary motion'' — Mr Alison's fine phrase — Is one,
and possibly the grounding incentive to Impersonating the '•^ current" here ;
but other eiements enter in ; liquidity— transparency — which suggest a spi-
cifcaal latone, and Beanty which moves Love.
KOBTB.
Ay, and the Poets of that age, in the fresher alacrity of their fancy, had
a justification of comparisons, which do not occur as promptly to us, nor,
when presented to us, delight so much as they would, were our fancy as alive
tt theusB. Yon might suspect a priori Ovid, Cowley, and Dryden, as likely
to be led by indulgence of their ingenuity into passionless similitudes — and
jou may misdoubt even that Shakspeare was in danger of being so mn away
with. But let us have dear and unequivocal instances. This one assuredly
is not of the number. It is exquisite.
TALBOTS.
Mr Alison, I presume to think, sir, should either have qnotod the whole
^Ptecb, or kepi ths whole in view, when animadverting on those two lines
abost the kissuig Pilgrim. Julia, a Lady of Verona, beloved by Proteus, is
<Bt7 haiMoae— ffiul now she oomes — ^to herself.
^ Then let mego, and hinder not my oonrae ;
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step haye brought me to my loTe ;
And there 111 rest, as, after mach turmoilj
A hleased soul doth in Etysiam."
^ language of Shakapeare's Ladies is not the language we hear in real
^ I wish it were. Beal life would then be delightfitl indeed. Julia is
pMlend to be poetical far beyond the usage of the very best drdesp— far
*i9m that of any mortal oreatures. For the €k)d Shakspeare has made
^lad all her kin poetical — and if you ol^ect to any of the lines, yon must
tbieetto them aU. Eminently beautifhl, sbr, they are ; and their beauty lies
^ tt« pasBlonBte, imaginative spirit that pervades the wiiole, and sustains
the Similitude throughout, without a moment's flagging of the fancy^ without a
^^Unoent's dq>arture firom the truthMness of the heart.
Talboys, I thank you— you are at the root
A wontefifl Hdng— -altogether— is Impersonati<m.
240 CkriMtopker under Camxtis, [Aug.
KOBTH.
It IB indeed. If we would know the magnitade of the dominion which the
disposition constraining ns to impersonate has exercised over the hnmaa
mind, we should have to go back nnto those ages of the world when it exerted
itself, nnoontroUed by philosophy, and in obedience to religions impnlBeB—
when Impersonations of Natural Objects and Powers, of Moral Powers and
of Notions entertained by the Understanding, filled the Temples of the Natioiu
with visible Deities, and were worshipped with altars and incense, hymns
and sacrifices.
BULLER.
Was erer before such disquisition begotten by — an imaginary kiss among
the Sedges!
NORTH.
Hold yonr tongue, Bnller. But if you would see how hard this dominion
is to eradicate, look to the most civilised and enlightened times, when severe
Truth has to the utmost cleansed the Understanding of illusion — and observe
how tenaciously these imaginary Beings, endowed with imaginary life, hold
their place in our Sculpture, Painting, and Poetry, and Eloqnence — ^nay, in
our common and quiet speech.
SEWARD.
It is all full of them. The most prosaic of prosers uses poetical language
without knowing it — ^and Poets without knowing to what extent and
degree.
NORTH.
Ay, Seward, and were we to expatiate in the walks of the prc^onnder
emotions, we should sometimes be startled by the sudden apparitions of boldly
impersonated Thoughts, upon occasions that did not seem to promise them—
where yon might have thought that interests of overwhelming moment would
have effectually banished the play of imagination.
• TALBOYS.
Shakspeare is justified, then— and the Lady Julia spoke like a Lady in
Love with all nature— and with Proteus.
BCLLBR.
A most beautiful day is this indeed— but it is a Puaaler.
" The Swan on still St Mary's Lake
Floats double, Swan and Shadow;*'
But here all the isUnds float double— and all the castles and abbeys— and
all the hills and mountains — and all the clouds and boats and men, — double,
did I say — triple— quadruple, — we are here, and there, and everywhere, and
'^rT^^'^' ftll ftt the same moment. Inishaii, I have yon — ^no— Gntta Perclia
sUdes over you, and you have no material existence. Very well.
Is there no house on Inishaii ?
NORTH
•» ^°* ®"®— l>'>t the house appointed for all Uving. A Borial-plaoe. I see
It— out not one of you— for it is little noticeable, and seldom used— on an
BnnffS^^"?®.?"?^ *" .*« y«"- ^orty years ago I stepped into a small
mnff-shop m the Saltmarket, Glasgow, to raplenUb my sheU-^and found my
A^ r^ h?" Lochawe-side. I asked him if he often revisited bis nattre
his lot ^d w'^r^'l?"-^^?'"' "^ '•«' "ot fo' » »o«>« time-but that thongh
sSuA UD » M^r K.** "^« *««'. »>« hoP«J to belnried in InisbaiL We
unTS **r w P"*"" """'f was good, and so was his whislcy, for it was
-««» . J . . '^^ y**« «W0, troUine for F« "
coffin, and m it the body of tSe old tobSil
SEWARD.
" ThA r«l»««*v JM SEWARD.
alone '^ZW/ZZAfT^f ^ Wordsworth's E^c^on, is
M. So for Gray's is his Elegy. But some hundred and forty lines in
1M9.] Chrutopher under Canvass. 241
all— no more— yet how comprehensiye— how complete! "In a Country
Chnrchjard !" Every generation there buries the whole hamlet— which is
nnch the same as boding the whole world— or a whole world.
SEWARD.
^ The mde fore&thers of the hamlet sleep !"
AH Peasants — diers and mourners I Utmost simplicity of all belonging to
iif;»— utmost »mplicity of all belonging to death. Therefore, universally
afTectlng.
NORTH.
Then the— Grayishness.
BULLER.
The what, sir?
NORTH.
The Grayishness. The exquisite scholarship, and the high artifice of the
irords and music — ^yet all in perfect adaptation to the scene and its essential
character. Is there not in that union and communion of the solemn-pro-
found, and the delicate-exquisite, something Cathedral-like? Which has
tbe awe and infinitude of Deity and Eternity, and the prostrations and
aspirations of adoration for its basis — expressed in the general structure
and forms ; and all this meeting and blent into the minute and fine ela-
boration of the ornaments? Like the odours that steal and creep on the
soft, moist, evening air, whilst the dim hush of the Universal Temple
dilates and elates. The least and the greatest in one. Why not ? Is not that
spiritual— angelical — divine ! The least is not too exiguous for apprehension
—the amplest exceeds not comprehension — and their united power is felt when
not nnderstood. I speak, Seward, of that which might be suggested for a
primary fault in the Elegy^the contrast of the most artful, scholarly style,
tnd the simple, mde, lowly, homely matter. But you shall see that every
^cy seizes, and every memory holds especially those verses and wordings
whidi bring out this contrast — that richest line —
^' The breezy call of incense-breathing mom !"
ia felt to be soon followed well by that simplest —
** No more shall rouse them fVom their lowly bed "
where— I take " lowly" to imply low in earth — humbly turfed or flowered —
ttd of the lowly.
SEWARD.
And 80, sir, the pomp of a Cathedral is described, though a village Church
?w is in presence. So Milton, Cromwell, and other great powers are set
^ ttray— that which these were not, against that which those were.
NORTH.
Tet hear Dr Thomas Brown — an acute metaphysician — but an obtuse critic
7>nd no Poet at all. *^ The two images in this stanza (*Full many a gem,*
^i) certainly produce very different degrees of poetical delight. That which
!*|Kim>wed from the rose blooming in solitude pleases in a very high degree,
^ as it contains a just and beautiral similitude, and still more as the similitude
*<ni6of the most likely to have arisen in such a situation. But the siniile in
^tiro first lines of the stanza, though it may perhaps philosophically be as
M, has no other charm, and strikes us immediately as not the natural sng-
^on of sndi a moment and such a scene. To a person moralising amid a
v&ple Chnrdiyard, there is perhaps no object that would not sooner have
2^ciired than this piece of minute jewellery — * a gem of purest ray serene,
'^ the onfathomed caves of ocean.* "
SBWARB.
A person moralising I He forgot that person was Thomas Gray. And he
%er knew what you have told us now.
NORTH.
Why, my dear Seward, the Grem is the recognised most intense expression,
worn tlie natural world, of worth—hiestimable priceless price— dependent on
242 Ckritiopher under Comtm. [Atg:
rarity and beantr. The Flower to a like intense expressioiif from the same
world, of the power to call forth lore. The first image to feU by erwy
reader to bo high, and exaiting its object; the second to be tender, aid
openly pathetic. Of course it moves more, and of course it comes last. The
Foot has just before spoken of Milton and Cromwell — of bards and kingi
and htotonr with all her wealth. Is the transition Tiolent Ihmi mm
objects to Gems? He to moved by, bat he is not bound to, the scene wA
time. Hto own thoughts emancipate. Brown seems utterly to have foiigoftta
that the Poet himself is the Dramatic person of the Monologue. Shall he be
restricted from using the richness and splendour of hto own thongfats ? Thai
one stanza sums up the two or three preceding— and to perfectly attuned tc
the reigniug mood, temper, or pathos.
BXTLLKR.
Thank yon, gentlemen. The Doctor to done brown.
irORTH.
** The paths of glory lead but to the g^rata 1 "
Methinks I could read yon a homily on that Text.
BULLEK.
To-morrow, sir, if yon please. To-morrow to Sunday— and yon may read W
to us as we glide to Divine Service at DalmaQy—two of ns to the Establtohed
and two of us to the Free Kirk.
NORTH.
Be it so. Bat yon will not be dtopleased with me fbr qnoting now, fnm
heart-memory, a single sentence on the great line, fh>m Beattie, and ftoa.
Adam Ferffosson. ^'It presents to the imagination a wide i)lain, when
several roaos appear, crowded with glittering multitndes, and issoing ftw
different quarters, but drawing nearer and nearer as they advance, tul tkq
terminate in the dark and narrow house, where all their glories enter I
succession, and dtoappear for ever."
sewahd.
Thank you, sir. That to Beattie ?
NORTH.
It to. Fergusson^s memorable words arc — '* If from thto wo are disposed
to collect any inference adverse to the pursuits of glory, it may be asked
whither do the paths of ignominy lead? If to the grave also, then oar <Mee
of a life remains to be made on the grounds of its intrinsic vahie^ wiAail
regard to an end which to common to every station of life wo can lead,
whether illustrioos or obecare."
SEWARD.
Very fine. Who says it ? Fergnsson— who was he ?
NORTH.
The best of yon Englishers are intoleraUy ignorant about Scotland. Do
you know the Reverend John Mitlbrd ?
8EWARD.
I do— and have for him the greatest respect.
NORTH.
So have I. He is one of our best £^tor»— as Pickering to one of onrM
Publtohers of the Poets. But I am some^at donbtfol of the trnthftdneM ^
hto remarks on the opening of theElcg^, in the Appendix to hto exoeUent U^
of Gray. ^* The Curfew ^ toll' to not the appropriate word— -it was not a rfW
bell tolling fbr the dead."*
SEWABD.
Gray
Toll to right.
NOBTH.
But, says my friend Mitford, ^^ there to another error, a oooftnkm of time
A9l] Ckriatopher under Canvass. 24S
b carfew toDa^ and the pkro^^imaii returns from work. Now the plongfa-
n retnnia two or three honxa before the cnrfsw rings ; and ^ the glimmer-
Ukadaeipe* hia 'long ceased to &de' before the cm:f3w. The 'partine day'
I dM incorrect; the day had long finished. But if the word Cnrfew is
Ukn simply for * the Evening Bell,' then also is the time incorrect — and
ibeS is not tolled for the parting, bat for the parted — ' and leaves the world
to darkness and to me/ *Now fades the glimmering landscape on the
si^* Here the inddents, instead of being progressive, fall back, and make
itepietare conlnsed and inhaimonions ; especially as it appears soon after
IhiAit was moi dark. For ^ the moping owl does ta the moon complain.* **
aBWABD»
Fflpdonme^ sir, I cannot yentore to answer all that — ^bnt if Mitford be
right, Gray must be very wrong indeed. Let me see — give us it over again —
sentoice by sentence —
BXJLLER.
No-iio— not Once is enooghr— and enoogh is as good as a feast.
NORTH.
TJUAOTS.
Smoe foa have a great respeet for Mr Mitford, sir, so have I. But hitherto
I Ure beea a stranger to his merits.
8SWARD.
^ tat of yon Soottiahers are nitolerably ignorant about England.
TALBOTS.
^theifBt ^aoe,MrI!lorth, when does the Curfew toll, or zing? — for hang
106 if I remember— or rather ever knew. And in the second place, when does
tike Evening Bell give ton^e? — ^for hang me if I am much better informed as
tiUi notions. Yet I shonld know something of the femily of the Bells. Say —
^ e'ek)ck. WeU. It is summer-time, I suppose ; for you cannot believe
wa> dainty a person in health and habits, as the Poet Gray, would write an
B^in a Country churchyard in winter, and well on towards night. True,
^ is a way of speaking ; he did not write it witii his crow-quill, in his neat
jund, on his neat vellum, on the only horizontal tomb -stone. But in the
^^■thyard he assBmes to sit— probably under a Plane-tree, for sake of the
<>ipaial Gloom. Season of the year ascertained — Summer— time of Curfew
""^ilkt— then I can find no fault with the Ploughman. He comes in well —
^ttas an image or a man. He must have been an honest, hard-working
wr, and worth the highest wages going between the years 1745 and 1750.
^ what hour do ploughmen leave the stilts in Cambridgeshure ? We must
^Bay at six. Different hours in different counties, BuUer.
^ on— all*s right, Talboys.
TALBOYS.
It is not too much to believe that Hodge did not grudge, occasionally, a
^-bour over, to a good master. Then he had to stable his horses— Star
^Smiler — ^rub them down— bed them — ^fill rack and manger — ^water them —
*^ sore their noses were in the oats — lock the stable before the nags were
''^te— and then, and not till then,
* The Ploughman homewards plods his weary way.**
'^lie does not sleep on the Farm-^ has awife and small fjamily^that is,
*«e femily of <^^k>» duldreo— in the Hamlet, at least two miles off—
2^it does not walk for a wager of a flitch of bacon and barrel of beer-but
^^Mcastomed ra^er and a jug — and such endearments as will restore
IJjimaiiueaB np to the proper pitch for a sound night's sleep. God bless
Shorn of your beams, Mr North, eclipsed.
TALBOTS.
The plonghman, then, does not return " two or three hours before the cur-
244 Chmiopher under Canvau. [Ang.
few rings.*' Nor has " the glimmeiing landscape long ceased to fade bdore the
curfew." Nor is " the parting day incorrect.*' ifor *' has the day kmg
finished.*' Nor, when it may have finished, or may finish, can any man in the
hamlet, daring all that gradual subsiding of light and sound, take upon him to
glye any opinion at all.
»OBTH.
My boy, Talboys.
TALBOTS.
" And leave the world to darkness and to me." Ay — into his hut goes the
ploughman, and leaves the world and me to darkness — ^whidi is coming^bnt
not yet come — the Poet knows it is coming — ^near at hand its coming glooms ;
and Darkness shows her divinity as she is preparing to mount her throne.
NORTH.
Nothing can be better.
TALBOTS.
" ^ Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.' Here the incident,
instead of being progressive, fiuls back, and makes tiie picture confused and in-
harmonious." Confused and inharmonious I By no manner of means. Nothing
of the sort. There is no retrogression — the day has hwD. unwilling to die^
cannot believe she is dyin^^and cannot think 'tis for her the cmfew is toll-
ing ; but the Poet feels it is even so ; the glimmering and the fiiding, beantifol
as they are, are sure symptoms— she is dying into Evening, and Evening will
soon be the dying into Night ; but to the Poet's eye howbeautifalthe transmuta-
tions I Nor knows he that the Moon has arisen, till, at Uie voice of the night-
bird, he looks up the ivied church-tower, and there she is, whether full, wan-
ing, or crescent, there are not data for the Astronomer to declare.
NORTH.
My friend Mr Mitford says of the line, " No more shall rouse them from
their lowly bed "—That '« here the epithet iawfy, as applied to bed^ occasions
an ambiguity, as to whether the Poet means the \)ed on which they sleep, or
the grave in which they are laid ;'* and he adds, " there can be no greater
fault in composition than a doubtful meaning."
TALBOTS.
There cannot be a more touching beauty. Lowly applies to both. From
their lowly bed in their lowly dwelUngs among tiie quick, those joyous sounds
used to awaken them ; from their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the
dead, those joyous sounds will awaken them never more : but a sound will
awaken them when He comes to judge both the quick and the dead ; and for
them there is Christian hope— firom
" Many a holy text around them strewed
That teach the rastio moralist to die."
NORTH.
^ Their fVirrow oft the Btubhom glebe hath broke ;
How jocand did they driye their team afield !
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !"
This stanza— says Mr Mitford — "is made up of various pieces Inlaid.
* Stubborn glebe' is from Gay; * drive afield' firom Milton; 'sturdy
stroke' from Spencer. Such is too much the system of Gray's composition, and
therefore such the cause of his imperfections. Purity of language, accuracy of
thought, and even similarity of rhyme, all pve way tottie introduction oi
certain poetical expressions ; in fact, the beautiful jewel, when brought, does
not fit into the new setting, or socket. Such is the difference between the
flower stuck into the ground and those that grow from it." Talboys ?
BULLBR.
Whynot— Buller?
_ . TALBOTS.
I give way to the gentleman.
1H9*] Christopher under Canvass. 245
BULLER.
Kot for worlds would I take fhe word oat of any man^s moutb.
TALBOY8.
Gray took " stubborn glebe "■ from Gay. Why from Gay ? It has been
fomilUr in men's months iropi the introdnction of agriculture into this Island.
May not a Saxon gentleman say ^^ drive their teams a-field'* without charge
of theft from Milton, who said ^^ drove a-field." Who first said *^ Gee-ho,
Minn?'' Was Spenser the first — the only man before Milton— who used
^'sturdy stroke ?" and has nobody used it since Gray?
BULLER.
Yon could give a "sturdy stroke" yourself, Talboys. What's your
weight?
TALBOYS.
Gray's style is sometimes too composite — you yourself, sir, would not deny
itU 80— but Mr Mitford's instances here are absurd, and the charge founded on
them false. Gray seldom, if ever — say never, " sacrifices purity of language,
and accuntcy of thought," for the s^e of introducLng certain poetical expres-
sions. " AU give way" is a gross exaggeration. The beautiful words of
the brethren, with which his loving memory was stored, came up in the hour of
imagination, and took their place among the words as beautiiful of his own
congenial mspirations ; the flowers he transplanted from poetry " languished
not, grew dim, nor dic^ ;" for he had taken them up gently by the roots, and
with some of the old mould adhering to their tendrils, and, true florist as he
was, had prepared for them a richest soil in his own garden, which he held
from nature, and which the sun and the dew of nature nourished, and will
nooriah for ever.
BULLER.
That face is not pleasant, sir. Nothing so disfigures a face as envy. Old
Poets at last grow ugly all— but you, sir, arc a Philosopher — and on your
haiign countenance 'twas but a passing cloud. There — ^you are as beautiful as
«^er-^ow comely in critic^ old age ! Any farther fault to find with our
friend Mitford ?
NORTH.
" On some fond breast the partmg soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires,
Even from the tomb the roice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes liye their wonted fires."
Rons drops' is from Ovid— piae lachrymae; * closing eye' is from Pope —
'voice of nature' from the Anthologia, and the last line from Chaucer— * Yet
from Pope's Elegy ; " voice of nature" is not from the Anthologia, but from
^Jtoe herself; Chaucer's line may have suggested Gray's, but the reader of
(^lumcer knows that Gray's has a tender and profound meaning which is
^k in Chaucer's at all— and he knows, too, that Mr Mitford is not a reader
^Chaucer — for were he, he could not have written " ashes" for " ashen."
■"icrewere no quarries — there is no Mosaic. Mosaic pavement I Worse, if
P08^1e— more ostentatiously pedantic— even than stuck in flowers, jewels,
'^gs, and sockets.
TALBOYS.
^ Stanza is sacred to sorrow.
NORTH.
. "Prom this Stanza," quoth Mitford, "the style of the composition drops
^iitoa lower key; the language is plainer, and is not in harmony with the
"Plendid and elaborate diction of the former part." This objection is disposed
of by what I said some*minutes ago
BULLER.
Half an hour ago— on Grayishness,
VOL. LXVI. — ^NQ. CCCCVI. ^'
246 C^fitUfphar wtder Obmoom . [Aug.
ROKTB.
And I have only this farther to say, geBtlemeo, that though the laBgnge is
plainer — ^yet it is solemn ; nor is it uopoetical — for the hoaiy-headed swain
was mored as he spake ; the style, if it drop into a lower key, is aooocdant
with that higher key on whieh the mnsic was pitched that has not yti left ear
hearing. Aa Ele^ is not an Ode— -the dose shoold be moanftil as the opoi-
ing— with loftier strain between— and it is so; andwhateTerwemigfathaiveto
say of the Epitaph— its final lines are '* awfhl"— 4M erreiy man mnst hare Mt
them to be--whether thought on in our own lonely night-room— is the
Churchyard of Granchester, where it is said Gray mnsed the £legy — or by
that Buial-gronnd in Inishail— or here afloat in the joyons snaahme for an
hour privileged to be happy in a world of grief.
Let's change the snb|ect, sir. May I ask what antibor yon hare hi yonr
other hand?
HOBTH.
Alison on Taste.
BULLEK.
Yon don't say so I I thought you quoted froai memory.
HOBTH.
So I did ; but I hare dog-eared a page or two.
BULLKR.
I see no'books lying about in the Pavilion— only New^Mtpece — aad Maga-
aines— and Beview»— and trash of that kind-^
WORTH.
Without which, you, my good fellow, could not live a week.
BULLKB.
The Spkit of the Age ! The Age should be ashamed of heraelf for Uviog
from hand to month on Periodical Literature. The old Lady should indeed,
sh-. If the Pensive Public conceits herself to be the Thinking Woild—
NOBTH.
Let us help to make her so. I have a decent little Libraiy of sone tfarea
hundred select volumes in the Van — my Plate-chest — and a few dozens of
choice wines for my friendfr— of Champagne, which yon. Bailer, call small
beer
BtJLLBB.
I retracted and apologised. Is that the key of the Van at your watch-
chain?
ZIOBTR.
It is. So many hundred people about the Encampment — somethnes among
them suspicious strangers in paletots in search of the picturesque, and per-
haps the pecuniary — that it is well to intrust the key to my own body-guard.
It does not weigh an ounce. And thai lock is not to be picked by die ^Mi
of Huffiey White.
6EWABD.
But of the volume hi hand, sir?
KOBTH.
" In that fine passage in the Second Book of the Greoi^gles,** says Mr Alison,
* in which Yirgil celebrates the praises of his native country, after these fine
lines —
* Hie rer asBidaiim, atque alienis mensibas sbUui;
BIb graTidas pecudes, bis pomis utilia arbos.
At rabidse tigres absunt, et BSBva leonum
Semina: nee miseros fallunt aoonita legentes:
Neo rapit immensos orbes per humiim, neque tanto
Squamens in epiram tractn se eolligit angvis.'
There Is no reader whose enthusiasm is not checked by the cold and prosaic
line which follows, —
• Adde tot egregias urbes^ opemmque laborem.'
ii
f
18A9.] Ckriskq^ker tmder Camxtss, 247
The tameneaa and vulgarity of the transition dissipates at once the emotion
le bad shared with tht Poet, and reduces him, in our opinion, to the level of
iiaeredescriber."
SEWARD.
Cold and prosaic line 1 Tameness and yalgarity ! I am stmck mute.
KORTH.
I hare no doubt that Mr Alison distressed himself with ^' Adde,'' It is a
wofd firom a merchant's counting-house, reckoning up his gains. And so much
tto better. Virgil is making out the bsdance-sheet of Italy — he is inventory-
}^ lier wealth. Mr Alison would have every word away firom reality. !Not
so Ik Poet Every now and then, they — ^the Poets — amuse themselves with
%aig their pencils into tiie real, the common, the everyday, the homely.
By so doing they arrest belief, which above everything they desire to hold fast.
I ahoold not wonder if you mi|^t catch Spenser at it, even. Shakspeare is
M of it There is nothing ^se prosaic In the passage ; and if Virgil had
bid tlie bad taste to say ^^Eoob" instead of ^^ Adde," I suppose no fault would
biTt been found.
SEWABD.
M wbat can Mr Alison mean by the charge of tameness and vulgarity f
NORTH.
I bive told you, sir.
SEWARD.
Yoli hire not, ur.
NORTH.
I have, sir.
SEWARD.
Ye»-yes— yes. *^ Adde " is vulgar ! I cannot think so.
NORTH.
He Cities of Italy, and the " operum labor," always have been and are an
sdnintion. The words ^^Egregias urbes" suggest the general stateliness
and weiikh — ^^ operumque laborem," the particular buildings — ^Temples, Basi-
licMfllieatres, and Great Worics of the lower Utility. A summary and most
nvid expression of a land possessed by intelligent, civilised, active, spirited,
ngoiMi, tastefU inhabitantft--also an enunent adorning of the land
SEWARD.
Lacretias says, that in spring the Cities are in flower — or on flower — or a
floirer— with children. And Lucan, at the beginning of the Pharaalia^
^ttcribes the Ancient or Greek Cities desolate. They were fond and proud
of tbeir «* tot egregift urbes " as the Modem Italians are— and with good
niMa.
NORTH.
How judkriously the Critics stop short of the lines that would overthrow
^ criterion always ! The present case is an extraordinary example. Had
^ Alison looked to the lines immediately following, he would not have
<%ted to that One. For
^ Tot congesta manu prseruptis oppida saxis,
Flominaque antiquos subter labentia muros ''
**.very beautiful — brings the whole under the domain of Poetry, by singular
pcturesqueness, and by gathering the wholepasthistory of Italy up— fetching
*^ in with a word— an/i^ruo*.
SEWARD.
' cui form no conjecture as to the meaning of Mr Alison^s objections. He
2^^<^ a few fine lines fi!X>m the ^^ Praise of Italy,** and then one line which
Y ^^ prosaic, and would have us to hold up our hands in wonder at the
^ and impotent conclusion— at the sudden transformation of "Virgil the
^ iito Vi^ the most prosaic of Prosers. You have said enough already,
J» to pwfve that he is in error even on his own showing ;— but how can this
^^Haeatary — ^this piecemeal mode of quotation — so common among critics of
^k lower scho^ and so unworthy of those of the higher— have found favour
248 Christopher under Ctmoau, [Ang.
with Mr Alison, one of the most candid and most enlightened of men ? Some
accidental prejndice from mere carelessness — bnt, once formed, retained in
spite of the fine and trae Taste which, unfettered, wonld have felt the ftllacy,
and vindicated his admired Virgil.
NORTH.
The " Laades "—to which the Poet is brought by the preceding bold,
sweeping, winged, and poetical stnun abont the indigenous vines of Italy-
have two-fold root— Tbees and the glory of Lands. Vu^l kmdles on the
double suggestion — ^the trees of Italy compared to the trees of other regions.
They are the trees of primary human service and gladness— Oil and Wine.
For see at once the deep, sound natural ground in human wants— the boontj
of Nature— of Mother Earth— ^^ whatever Earth, all-bearmg Mother,
yields"— to her human children. That is the gate of entrance; bnt not
prosaically — but two gate-posts of a most poetic^ mythus-fed ho^andman.
For we have Jason^s fire-mouthed Bulls ploughing^ and Cadmus-sown teeth
of the dragon springing up in armed men. Then comes, instead, mild, benign,
Man- loving Italy—" gravidic fmges " — the heavy-eared com— or rather Wg-
teeming— the joice of Bacchus — the Olives, and the " broad herds of Cattle."
Note— ye Virgilians— the Com of Book First— the Oil and VTme of Book
Second— and the Cattle of Book Third— for the sustaining Thonght-the
organic life of his Work moves in his heart.
BULLER.
And the Fourth — Bees — ^honey — and honey-makers are like Milkers— in a
way small Milch-cows.
NORTH.
They are. Once a-foot — or a-wing— he hurries and rushes along, all
through the ^* Laudes." The majestic victim-Bull of the Clitumnus-the inci-
pient Spring— the double Summer— Me absence of all envenomed and deadly
broods— tigers— lions— aconite— serpents. This is Nature's Favour. Then
Man^s TVorA«— cities and forts — (rock-fortresses)— the great lakes of Northern
Italy— showing Man agsun in their vast edifications. Then Nature in yeins
of metals precious or useful— then Nature in her production of MaiH-ihfl
Marai— the Sabellian youth— the Ligurian inured to labour— and the Volsdffl
darters — then single mighty shapes and powers of Man — Romans— the DecUt
the Marii, the CamiUi,
'' Soipiadas doros belle, et te, mazime Ctesar.'*
The King of Men— the Lord of the Earth— the pacificator of the distracted
Empire — ^which, to a Roman, is as much as to say the World. Then— haU
Saturaian Land I Mother of Cora 1 Satumian, because golden Satnni had
reigned there— Mother, I suppose the rather because in hie time com sprnog
unsown — sine semine — She gave it from out of her own loving and cherishing
bosom. 7(9 77iee, Italy, sing I mv Ascrasan or Hesiodic song. The Works and
Days — the Greek Georgics are his avowed prototype— rude prototype to mag-
nificence— like the Arab of the Desert transplanted to rear his empbre of
dazzling and picturesque civilisation in the Pyrenean Peninsula.
duller.
Take breath, sir. Virgil said well —
*' Adde tot egregias urbes opemmqne labcrem."
SEWARD. . .
Allow me one other word. Virgil— in the vivid lines quoted with admiration
by Mr Alison— lauds his beloved Italy for the absence of wild beaste uid
serpents— and he magnifies the whole race of serpents by his picture of One
Saturaian Land — ^the mother of cora and of men — bounteous, benign, golden,
materaal Italy. The negation has the plenitude of life, which the fabnlocs
absence of noxious reptiles has for the sacred Island of lerae.
1849.] Chrisiopher under Canvass. 249
BUIXER.
Erin-go-bragh !
SEWARD.
Saddenlj he sees another vision^not of what is absent bnt present ; and
then comes the Ime arraigned and condemned — ^followed by lines as great —
*' Adde tot egregias arbes, opemmque laborem,
Tot congesta manu prseraptis oppida saxis,
l^luminaqae antiqnos sabter labentia muros."
Hie first line grasps in one handfnl all the mighty, fair, wealthy CrriEs of
Itilr—the second all the rock-cresting ForU of Italy— from the Alpine head
to the sea-washed foot of the Peninsula. The collective One Thought of the
Human Might and Glory of Italy — as it appears on the countenance of the Land
— OTTisible in its utmost concentration in the girdled Towns and Cities of Men.
BULLER.
" Adde" then is right, Seward. On that North and yon are at one.
NORTH.
Yes, it is right, and any other word would be wrong. Adde ! Note the
iharpness, BuUer, of the significance — ^the vivacity of the short open sonnd.
Fling it out— ring it ont—sing it out. Look at the very repetition of the
powcrfnl " tot" — " tot egregias" — " tot congesta" — witnessing by one of the
first and commonest rules in the grammar of rhetoric — whether Virgil speaks
in prose or in fire.
BULLER.
hfire.
KORTH.
Mr Alison then goes on to say, " that the effect of the following nervou?
ttd betatiful lines, in the conclusion of the same Book, is nearly destroyed
br a similar defect. Aflter these luies,
** Hanc olim veteres yiiam colu6re Sabini,
Hanc Remus et Frater ; sio fortis Etruria creyit,
Scilicet et reram facta est pulchcrrima Roma ;*'
We little expect the following spiritless conclusion : —
^ Septemque una stH muro circumdedit arcts**
SEWARD.
Oh I why does Mr Alison call that line spiritless?
NORTH.
He gives no reason — assured by his own dissatisfaction, that he has but to
We It, and leave it in its own naked impotence.
8EWARD.
I hope you do not think it spiritless, sir.
NORTH.
I think it contains the concentrated essence of spirit and of power. Let
toy one think of Rome, piled up in greatness, and grandeur, and glory — and
A Wall round about — and in a moment his imagination is filled. What sort
of a Wall ? A nirden wall to keep out orchard thieves — or a modem wall of
I fVench or Italian town to keep out wine and meat, that they may come in
U the gate and pay toll ? I trow not. But a Wall against the World armed
ttid aauuling ! Remember that Virgil saw Rome — and that his hearers did
•Hmd ibat m his eyes and theirs she was Empress of the inhabited Earth.
8be held and called herself such — it was written in her face and on her fore-
bead. The viaible, tangible splendour and magnificence meant this, or they
meant nothing. The stone and lime said this — and YirgiPs line says it,
sedately and in plain, simple phrase, which yet is a Climax.
SEWARD.
Aa the dreaded Semiramis was flesh and blood — corporeal—made of the four
elementa— vet her soul and her empiry spake out of her— so spake they from
the Face of Borne.
250 Ckruk^pihtr iwdar CVhwumi. [Aug.
KOBTB.
Aj, Seward— put these two things together — ^the Aspect iihat spetiksDoni-
nation of the World, and the Wall that girds her with strength impregnable
— ^and what more could you poaaiblj demand from her Great Poet ?
BKWAKD.
Arx is a Citadel — ^we may say an Acropolis. Athens had one Arx— so had
Corinth. One Arx is enough to one Qaeenly City. Bat this Qneen, within
her one Wall, has enclosed Seyen Arces — as if she were Seyen Queens.
NORTH.
WeU said, Seward. The Seyen Hills appeared— and to lUa day d(H-to
characterise the Supremacy of Rome. The Seyen-HiUed City! You seem to
haye sakl eyerything — ^the Seyen HiUs are as a seyen-pillared Throne— and
all that is in one line — giyen by YirgiL Delete it— no not for a thousand gold
crowns.
Not fmr the Figot Diaaond— sot for the Sea of Ught
NORTH.
Imagine Romulus tradsg the cifcuit on which the walls w«re to rise ef his
little Bom&— the walls ominously lustrated with a brother's blood. War
after war humbles neighbouring town after town, till the seaa that bathe, and
the mountains that gurd Italy, endose the confederated Republic It is a
8tep--a beginning. East and West, North and South, flies the Eagle, dip-
ping its beak in the blood of battle-fields. Where it swoops, there fkmung
away the pride, and fame, and freedom of nations, with the waftnre of its
wings. Kingdoms and Empires that were, are no more than Proyinees ; till
the haughty Roman, stretching out the fact to the limits of his amhitioos
desires, can with some plausibiUty deoeiye himself^ and call the edges of the
Earth the boundaries of his unmeasured Dominitm.
SEWARD.
" O Italy I Italy ! would Thou wert stronger or leas beautifnl I"— was the
moumfiil apostrophe of an Italian Poet, who saw, in the latter ages, his re-
fined but eneryated countrymen trampled under the foot of a more martial
people from far beyond the Alps.
XORTH.
Good Manners giying a yital energy and efficacy to good Laws — ^in these
few words, gentlemen, may be comprised the needful constituents of National
Happiness and Prosperity — the foremost conditions.
TALBOTS.
Ay— ay — sir. For good Laws without good Manners are an empty breath—
whilst good Manners ask the'protecting amd presendng succour or good Laws.
But the good Manners are of the first necessity, for they naturally prodnoe
the good Laws.
MORTK
What does history show, Talboys, but nations risen up to flourish in wealth.
power, and matness, that with corrupted and hixurious manners haye again
sunk from theur pre-emmenoe ; whilst another purer and simpler people has
in turn grown mighty, and taken their room in the world's eye— some hardy,
simple, frugal race, perhaps, whom the seeming disfayour of nature constrains
to assidnons labour, and who maintain in the lap of .their mountains their
independence and their pure and happy homes.
TALBOTS.
The Luzury^the hiyadlng Goth and Hun— the dismembering— and oev
States uprisen upon the ruins of the Worid*s fallen Empire. There is one fine
in Collins' Ode to Freedom— Mr Korth— which I doubt if I understand.
NORTH.
Which?
TALBOTS.
* No, Freedom, no — I will not tell
How Rome before thy weeping faee
Pushed by a wild and artless race
1M9.] ChriOopktr fmdtr Ckmvois. 251
From •ff its wide, ambitious bMe,
With heaviest ioiuid a giant^statue fell —
What time the northern Sons of Spoil awoke.
And all the blended work of strength and grace.
With many a mde repeated stroke,
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.*'
^Vhich ?
NORTH.
TAI.B0T8.
^^ How £ome before thy weeping face.^^
NOBTH.
freedom wept at Bome's overthrow — though she had long been Freedom's
enemy — and thoogfa her destroyers were Freedom's children — and ^* Spoil's
Sons'"— for how could Freedom look unmoved at the wreck *^of all that
blended wori^ of strength and grace" — ^though raised by slaves at the beck of
X'^nants ? It was not always so.
BUIXEB.
liet me, ApoUo-like, my dear sir, pinch yonr ear, and admonish yon to re-
to the point from which, in discnrsive gyrations, yon and Seward have
NORTH.
ILrike an Eagle giving an Eaglet lessons how to fly
BULLEB.
Ilovl promised solemnly, sir, not to mention Eagles this evening.
NOBTH.
1 did not, sir.
BULLEB.
^ Bat, then, Seward is no Eaglet — he is, and long has been, a full-fledged
bird, and can fly as well's yourself, sir.
KOBTH.
There yon^re right. But then, making a discursive gyration round a point
is not leaving it — and there you're wrong. Silly folk — ^not you. Boiler, for
70U are a strong-minded, strong-bodied man — say ^* keep to the point" — ^Imow-
iDg that if yon quit it one inch, you will from their range of vision disappear
— and then they comfort themselves by charging you with having melted
unong the clouds.
BULLEB.
I was afraid, my dear sir, that having got your Eaglet on your back — or
your Eaglet having got old Aquila on his — you would sail away with him — or
'^^ with you — ** to prey in distant isles."
NOBTH.
T'ou promised solemnly, sir, not to mention Eagles this evening.
BULLEB.
X did not, sir. Bat don't let us quarrel.
BBWABD.
What does Virgil mean, sir, by ^^ Rerum," in the line which Mr Alison
™^iiks should have concluded the strain —
'' Scilicet et rerum facta est pnlcherrima Roma."
NOBTH.
** Rerum " — what does he mean by " Rerum ?" Let me perpend. Why,
S^ard, the legitimate meaning of Res here is a State — a Commonwealth.
"The fairest of Powers — then— of Polities — of States."
SEWARD.
Is that all the word means here ?
NOBTH.
Why, metlunks we must explain. Observe, then, Seward, that Rome is '
the Town, as England the Island. Thus ^* England has become the fairest
among the Kingdoms of the Earth.*^ This is equivalent, good English ; and
the only satisfactory and literal translation of the Latin verse. But here, the
252 Christopher under Cemvasi.
Physical and the Political are identified, — that is, England. Eii|
the name at once of the Island— of so much earth limited ont on the
of the terraqueous globe— and of what besides ? Of the Inhabitanto 1
but of the Inhabitants (as the King never dies) perpetuated from gei
to generation. Moreover, of this immortal inhabitation, further madi
blood and speech, laws, manners, and everything that makes a peoi
short, England, properly the name of the land, is intended to be, at tl
time, the name of the Nation.
<< England, with all thy faults, I lore Thee still."
There Cowper speaks to both at once— the faults are of the men only
— for he does not moan fogs, and March east winds, and fever ant
I love thee — ^is to the green fields and the white cliffs, .as well as to
still survives of the English heart and thought and character. And 1
sorption, sir, and compenetration of the two ideas — land into people
into land — the'exposition of which might, in good^hands, be made been'
a fruitful germ' of Patriotism — an infinite blending of the spiritual
corporeal. To Virgil, Rome the City was also Rome the Romans ; aiu
fore, sir, those Houses and Palaces, and that Wall, were to him, i
green fields, and hills, and streams, and towns, and those clifis arc
The girdled-in compendium of the Heaven's Favour and the Earth*
and Power.
^ Scilicet et Rerun facta est pulcherrima Roma,
Septemque una sibi muro circumdcdit arces."
Do you all comprehend and adopt my explanation, gentlemen ?
TALBOYS.
I do.
DULLER.
I do.
SEWARD.
I ask myself whether Virgil's "Rerum Pulcherrima" may no
*' Fairest of Things"— of Creatures— of earthly existences ? To j
English reader, probably that is the first impi*ession. It was, I thinl
But fairest of earthly States and Seats of State is so much more idionu
to the purpose, that I conceive it — indubitable.
NORTH.
You all remember what Horatio sayeth to the soldiers in Hamlet
-coming and going of the Ghost.
* In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julias fell.
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets ;
Stars shone with trains of fire, dews of blood fell ;
Disasters veiled the sun, and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands.
Was sick almost to Doomsday with eclipse.
What does Horatio mean by high and palmy state? That Rome w
flourishing condition ?
DULLER.
That, I believe, sir, is the common impression. Hitherto it has bee
NORTH.
Let it be erased henceforth and for ever.
BULLER.
It is erased— I erase it.
NORTH.
Read henceforth and for ever high and palmy State. Write hencefc
for ever State^with a towering Capital. Res I ^^ Most high and palmy
IS precisely and literally ** Eerum Pulcherrima.'^
8EWARD.
At your bidding— yon cannot err.
1M9.] ChrUtopher wider Canvass, 253
NORTH.
1 err not miireqoentij— bnt not now, nor I believe this evening. Horatio,
tbe Scholar, apeaks to tbe two Danish Soldiers. Tbej have brought him to
be of their watch becanse he is a Scholar— and they are none. This relation
of distinction is indeed the ground and life of the Scene.
** Therefore I hare entreated him, along
With U8 to watch the minutes of the night ;
That if again this apparition come,
He may approve onr eyes, and speak to it.*'
TALB0Y8.
^ Thon art a Scholar— speak to it, Horatio.''
NORTH.
Toa know, Talbojs, that Scholars were actual Conjurors, in the me-
dueral belief, whicb has tales enow about Scholars in that capacity. Ho-
ndo comes, then, possessed with an especial Power ; he knows how to deal
with Ghosts — ^he could lay one, if need were. He is not merely a man of
superior and cultivated intellect, whom intellectual inferiors engage to assist
them in in emergency above their grasp— but he is the very man for the work.
TALBOTS.
Hare not the Commentators said as much, sir?
NORTH.
Periups— probably — who? If they have in plenitude, I say it again—
^Qse I once did not know it— or think of it — and I suppose that a great
^^7 persons die believing that the Two resort in the way of general dei^en-
dence merely on Horatio.
TALBOYS.
I believed, but I shall not die believing so.
NORTH.
perefore, the scholarship of Horatio, and the non-scholarship of Bernardo
and Marcellus, strikes into the life, soul, essence, ground, foundation, fabric,
Aod oi^isation of this First Ghost Scene — sustain and build the whole
rllT.
^ TALBOYS.
Eh?
NORTH.
^1? Tes. But to the point in hand. The Ghost has come and gone;
^ the Scholar addresses his Mates the two Non-Scholars. And show mo
^ lining Scholar who could speak as Horatio spake. Touching the matter
that is m all their minds oppressively, he will transport their minds a flight
Jddenly off a thousand years, and a thousand miles or leagues— their nn-
ytored minds into the Region of History. He will take them to Rome—" a
!«y«cre^'~.and, therefore, before naming Rome, he lifts and he directs their
^^ation— " Li the most high and ptdmv State." There had been Four
Jjf^t Empires of the World— and he will by these few words evoke in their
'UNs tbe Image of the last and greatest. And now observe with what de-
^^t as well as with what majesty, the nomination ensues- of Rome.
^ TALBOYS.
I fed it, sir.
.^^ north.
. fiy, Talboys, to render " State " by any other woi-d, and you will be put
w.it Yon may analogfse. It is for the Republic and City, what Realm or
5^om is to ns— at once Place and indwellmg Power. " State "—properly
'^blic — ^here specifically and pointedly means Reigning City. The Ghosts
^«bd in the City— not in the Republic.
TALBOYS.
I think I have you, sir— am not sure.
NORTH.
You have me — ^yon are sure. Now suppose that, instead of the solemn,
ceranonkma, and stately robes in which Horatio attires the Glorious Rome,
k had said simply, " in Rome," or " at Rome," where then Us >/ri/;oay«y/«—
254 Ckmtophtr wukr CammaB, [Avf.
his leading of their spirits ? Where hia own scholar-enthnsiasm, and lo?e,
and joj, and wonder ? All gone ! And where, Talboys, are they who, by
here onderstanding *' state '^ for '^condition" — which every man alive doe»—
TAIBOTB.
Every man alive ?
NOBTH.
Yes, yon did — confess yon did. Where are they, I ask, who thus oblige
Horatio to introduce his nomination of Rome — thus nakedly — and prosaic-
ally ? Every liackneyer of this phraae — state — as every man alive hacknejs
it — is a nine-fold Murderer. He DMirders the Phrase — he murders the Speech
— he murders Horatio — he murders the Ghost — ^he murders the Scene— he
murders the Play — he murders Rome — he murders Shakspeare — and he mur-
ders Mo.
TALBOTS.
I am innocent.
HOBTH.
Why, suppose Horatio to mean — ** in the moat glorions and victorioiis ooe-
dition of Rome, on the Eve of Cesar's death, the graves stood t^ianUess "—
You ask — Where V See where yon have got. A story told with two de-
terminations of Time, and none of Place I Is that the way that ^lakqMare,
the intelligent and intelligible, recites a fact? No. But my explanation shows
the Congruity or Parallelism. ^^In the meet high and palmy Statey^—thAt
is. City of Rome — ceremonious determination of Place — ^^ a little eie tbe
mightiest Julius fell,^^ — ceremonious determmation of Time.
TALBOYS.
But is not the use of State, sir, for City, bold and singular?
NORTH.
It is. For Verse has her own Speech — though Wordsworth denies it in his
Preface — and proves it by his Poetry, like his brethren Shakspeare nd
Milton. The language of Verse is rapid— abrept and abrupt. Horatio wanto
the notion of Republic ; because properly the Republic is high and palmy,
and not the wood, stone, and marble. So he manages an expeditious wcfd
that shall include both, and strike you at once. The word of a Poet strikes
like a flash of lightning — it penetrates — it does not stay to be scauMd—
" probed, vexed, and criticised," — it illuminates and is gone. But you must
have eyes — and suffer nobody to shut them. I ask, then— -Can any lawful,
well-behaved Citizen, having weighed all this, and reviewed all these ti^iog^
again violate the Poesy of the Avonian Swan, and Ids own mose-enligkteDed
intelligence, by lending hand or tongue to the convicted and condemned
VUIXJARISH ?
TALBOYS.
Now, then, and not till now, we Three know the fiiU power of the lines--
<* Scilicet et Remm facta est puloherrims Roma,
Septemqne una sibi mnro circumdedit arces."
NORTH.
Another word anent Virgil. Mr Alison says—" There is a still more sur-
prising instance of this fault in one of the most pathetic passages of the wbol^
Poem, in the description of the disease among the cattle, which conclude the
Third Georgic. The passage is as follows : —
'' Ecce autem duro famans Bub Tomere Tannis
Concidit, et mixtum Bpamis yomit ore cnioiem
Eztremosqae eiet gemitns; it triatis arator,
Moerentem abjungens fratem& morte javeiicam»
Atque opere ia medio defixa relinqait aratra."
The unhappy image in the second line is less calculated to excite compasaon
than disgust, and is singularly ill-suited to the tone of tenderness and delicacy
which tho Poet has eveiywhere else so successfully maintained, in deecribin^
the progress of the loathsome disease." The line here objected to is the Ufo
^^ the description— and instead of offence, it is the clenching (tf tlie paAos.
IM9.] Ckrigiopker under Camfass. 265
Pint of all, it is thtt which the Poet always will have and the Critics wont —
:he Necesntaied— the Thing itsetf— the Matter in hand. It shapes — features —
characterises that particular Murrain. Leave it ont — ^ the one Ox drops dead
n the farrow, and the Ploughman detaches the other.' It*s a great pity, and
rery surprising — ^but that is no plague. Suddenly he falls, and blood and
!bim gush mixed with his expiring breath. Tkat is a plague. It has terror —
iflKght — sensible horror — life vitiated, poisoned in its fountains. Vomit — a
settled word, and one of the foremost, of the reversed, unnatural vital func-
ion. Besides, it is the true and proper word. Besides, it is vivid and pic-
aunesqne, being the word of the Mouth. Effundii (which they would prefer
^I do not mean it would stand in the verse) is general— might be from the
san. Vomit in itself says month. The poor mouth! whose function is to
neathe, and to eat grass, and to caress — the visible organ of Ufe^f vivifica-
ion — and now of mortification. Taken from the dominion of the holy powers,
ind given up to the dark and nameless destroyer. ^^Vomil orecruorem!'*
The verse moans and groans for him — it may have in it a death-rattle. How
much more helpless and hopeless the real picture makes Arator's distress 1
BTov, '^ a tri»ti»'^ comes with effect.
BBWABD.
Tes, Virgil, as in dnty bound to do, faced the Cattle Plague in all its hor-
POfi^ Had he not, he would have been false to Pales, the Goddess of Shop-
Iwrds— to Apollo, who fed the herds of Admetus. So did his Master, Lucretius
— wiiOB he emulated— equalled, but not surpassed, in execution of the dismal
iMt iieTitable work. The whole land groaned under the visitation — ^nor was it
BOoflDed to Cattle— it seemed as if the brute creation were about to perish.
Bot h^ tender heart, near the dose, singled out, from the thousands, one yoke
of Steors— in two lines and a half told the death of one — in two lines and a
Utf t(^d the sadness of its owner — and in as many lines more told, too, of the
iVTivor sinking, because his brother *' was not" — and in as many more a
bnent for the cruel sufferings of the harmless creature — lines which, Scaliger
say^ he would rather have written than have been honoured by the Lydian
er tile Persian king.
BUIXBR.
Peihaps you have said enough, Seward. It might have been better, per-
kipB, to have recited the whole passage.
NOKTH.
Here is a sentence or two about Homer.
BUIXEB.
Tken yon are ofil Oh! sir— why not for an hour imitate that Moon
tnd those Stars? How silently they shine I But what care you for the hea-
rty luminaries ? In the majestic beauty of the nocturnal heavens vain man
^ aot hold his peace.
SSWiURD.
Istlat themumnir of the fiur-off sea?
NORTH.
^ is— the tide, may be, is on its return— is at " Connal's raging Ferry"—
"^ Lodi Etive— yet Uiis is not its hour — 'tis but the mysterious voice of
BUXXKB.
Bosh!
NOBTH.
% moonlight and stariight, and to the voice of Night, I read these words
^ Mr Alison — *^Iii the speech of Agamemnon to Idomeneus, in the
^<)Qrth Book of the Iliad, a circumstance is Introduced altogether inconsistent
^ with the dignHif of^ speech, and the Majesty of Epic Poetry >-^
'Birine Idomeneus I what thanks we owe
To worth like thine, what praise shall we bestow!
9o Thee the foremost honoura are decreed,
Vfanl ia tho fight, and erery graoefbl deed.
256 Ckrigtcpher under Canvois. [Aag.
For iliis, in banquets, when the generous bowls
Restore our blood, and raise the warriors' souls,
Though all the rest with stated rules be bound,
. Unmixed, unmeasured, are thy goblets crowned.' "
8EWABD.
That is Pope. Do you remember Homer himself, sir ?
KOBTH.
I do.
'idofifycv, iTfpi yutv ov rim Aava&p ra;(vir4»Xa>v,
Tfd^ fv dai0*, St€ ir€p rf yepownoy cuAma ob^op
'A/>yf iW ol SmurtH €v\ Kprirfjpat itc/Kovnu.
ctTTfp yap T* dXXot yt Kaprjicofi6mtms 'Axoiol
fkurp6p ntPoiMnv, trhv de irXctov dcWar aU\
€(rrrix\ &(nr€p c/iol, trutWf &r€ Bvpas av&yot^
aXX' Sptrtv ir6K€fjL6vd\ clot wapos €if}(€o tUHu.
I believe you will find that in general men praise more tmlj, that is
justly, deservedly, than they condemn. They praise from an impnlse of love-
that is, from a capacity. Nature protects love more than hate. Their con-
demnation is often mere incapacity — ^want of insight. Mr Alison had elegance
of apprehension— truth of taste— a fine sense of the beautiful— a sense of the
sublime. His instances for praise are always well — often newly chosen, from
an attraction felt in his own genial and noble breast. The true chord struck
then. But he was somewhat too dainty-schooled — school-nursed, and school-
born. A iudge and critic of Poetry should have been caught wild, and tamed ;
be should cairy about him to the last some relish of the wood and the
wilderness, as if he were ever in some danger of breaking away, and relapsmg
to them. He should know Poetiy as a great power of l£e Universe — a sun—
of which the Song— whosesoever— only catches and fixes a few rays. How
dinerent in thought was Epos to him and to Homer ! Homer pabits Msn-
ners— archaic, simple manners. Everybody feels — everybody says this— Mr
Alison must have known it— and could have said it as well as the best^
SEWARD.
But the best often forget it. They seem to hold to this knowledge better
now, Mr North ; and they do not make Homer answerable as a Poet, for the
facts of which he is the Historian— Why not rather accept than critidse ?
NOBTH.
I am sorry, Seward, for the Achaean Chiefe who had to drink dacr/ior— that is
all. I had hoped that they helped themselves.
8EWABD.
Perhaps, sir, the Stint was a custom of only the oivor ytpBowp^z ceremonious
Bowl— and if so, undoubtedly with religious institution. The Feast is not
honorary— only the Bowl : for anything that appears, Agamemnon, feasting his
Princes, might say, ** Now, for the Bowl of Honour"— and Idomeneus alone
drinks. Or let the whole Feast be honorific, and the Bowl the sealing, and
o-owning, and characterising solemnity. Now, the distinction of the Stin^ tnd
the Full Bowl, selected for a signal of difierent honouring, has to me no
longer anything irksome. It is no longer a grudged and scanted cbeei^-bnt
lawful Assignment of Place. .
TALBOYS.
The moment you take it for Ceremonial, sir, you don't know what profound
meanmg may, or may not be in it. The phrase is very remarkable.
KOBTH.
When the " Best of the Argives" mix in the Bowl " the honorific dark-glowing
wme, ' or the dark-glowing wine of honour— when <Jt»— quite a specffic and
peculiar occasion, and confined to the wine— you would almost think that the
Chiefs themselves are the wine-mixers, and not the usual ministrants— which
would perhaps express the descent of an antique use from a time and manners
of stUl greater simplicity than those which Homer describes. Or take it
18i9.] Ckriitopher under Canvass. 257
merely, that in great solemnities, high persons do the functions proper to
Servants. This we do know, that nsually a servant, the Tafucvr, or the
otpoxpos^ does mix the Bowl. By the way, xalboys, I think you will be not a
little amnsed with old Chapman's translation of the passage.
TALBOTS.
A fiery old Chap was George.
NORTH.
It rons thns —
** O Idomen, I eyer loTed thyself past all the Greeks,
In war, or any work of peace, at table, everywhere ;
For when the best of Greeks, besides, mix ever at our cheer
My good old ardent wine with small, and onr inferior mates
Dnnk ever that mixt wine measured too, thon drink'st without those rates
Oar old wine neat ; and ever more thy bowl stands like to mine ;
To drink still when and what thon wilt; then rouse that heart of thine ;
And whatfloever heretofore thon hast assumed to be,
This day be greater."
TALBOYS.
Well done, Old Back ! This fervonr and particnlarity are admurable. But,
methinks, if I canght the words rightly, that George mistakes the meaning of
yrpsaioy— honoraiT ; he has ytpav ytpovros^ an old man^ singing in his ears ; but
old for wme would be quite a different word.
NORTH.
And he makes Agamemnon commend Idomeneus for drinking generously
and honestly, whilst the others are afraid of their cups — ^as Claudius, King of
Denmark, might praise one of his strong-headed courtiers, and laugh at
Folonios. Affamemnon does not say that Idomeneus* goblet was not mixed —
was neat— ra&er we use to think that wine was always mixed — but whether
^^with small," as old Chapman says, or with water, I don't know^but I
Cuded water! But perhaps, Seward, the investigation of a Grecian Feast in
heroic time, and in Attic, becomes an exigency. Chapman is at least deter-
niffled->and wisely — to show that he is not afraid of the matter—that he saw
nothmg in it *' altogether inconsistent with the dignity of the speech and the
majesty of Epic Poetry.
8EWABD.
Dignity 1 Majesty ! They stand, sur, in the whole together— in the Manners
taken collectiyely by themselves throughout the entire Iliad — and then taken
as a part of the total delineation. Apply our modem notions of dignity and
majesty to the Homeric Poetry, and we shall get a shock in every other page.
NORTH.
The Homeric, heroic mannersl Heyne has a Treatise or Excursus— as you
know— on the mrapKtuk—l think he calls it— of the Homeric Heroes— their
waiting on themselves, or their self-sufficiency — ^where I think that he collects
the picture.
SEWARD.
I am ashamed to say I do not know it.
NORTH.
No matter. You see how this connects with the scheme of the Poem— in
vhich, prevalent or conspicuous by the amplitude of the space which it occu-
pies, is the individual prowess of heroes in field— conspicuous, too, by its moment
in action. This is another and loftier mode of the avrapKxui, The human bosom
is a seat or fountain of power. Power goes forth, emanates in all directions,
high and low, right and left. The Man is a terrestrial God. He takes coun-
sel with his own heart, and he acts. '* He conversed with his own magna-
mmous spuit'* — or as Milton says of Abdiel meeting Satan— *^ And thus his
own undaunted heart explored."
SEWARD.
Yes, Mr North, the Man is as a terrestrial God ; but— with condnual
recognition by the Poet and his heroes — as under the celestial Gods. And I
apprehend, sir, that this two-fold way of representing man, in himself and
258 Chrittopher under CarnxMO^ [Aug.
towards them, is that which first separates the Homeric from and above all
other Poetry, is its proper element of grandeur, in which we nevOT bathe
without coming out aggrandised.
NOBTH.
Seward, you instruct me by
SEWARD.
Oh, no, sir ! You instruct me
NORTH.
We instruct each other. For this the heroes are all Demigods — that is, the
son of a God, or Goddess, or the Descendant at a few Generations. Sarpedon
is the Son of Jupiter, and his death by Patroclus is perhaps the passage of
the whole Iliad that most specially and energetically, and moet profonndly
and pathetically, makes the Gk>ds intimate to the life and being of men— pre-
.^ents the conduct of diyinity and hnmanity with condescension there, and for
elevation here. I do not mean that there is not more pomp of glorification about
Achilles, for whom Jupiter comes from Olympus to Ida, and Vnlcan fbrges
arms — whose Mother- Goddess is Messenger to and from Jupiter, and into
whose lips, when he is faint with toil and want of nourishment — abstaining in
his passion of sorrow and vengeance — ^Minerva, descending, instils Nectar.
But I doubt if there be anythmg so touching — under dtis rehuion — and so Inti-
mately aggrandising as that other whole place — thehesitation of Jnpiter whetirar
he shall violate Fate, in order to save his own flesh and blood itom its
decreed stroke — the consolatory device of Juno (in remonstrating and dis-
suading) that he shall send Apollo to call Death and Sleep— a Crod-Mesaenger
to God-Ministers — to bear the dead body from the battle-field to his own limd
and kin for due obsequies. And, lastly, those drqp$ ofhiood which fidl firont
the sky to the earth, as if the heart-tears of the Sire of all the worlds and
their inhabitants.
BULLER.
You are always great, sir, on Homer. But, pray, have you any inteniiiMi
of returning to the ovropxcia?
NORTH.
Ha ! BuUer—- do you speak ? I have not wandered from it. But since you
seem to think I have, think of Patroclus lighting a fire nnder a tripod with his
own hands, to boil meat for Achilles' guests — of Achilles himself helping to lay
the ransomed body of Hector on the car that was to take it away. This last ia
honorific and pathetic Ministrations of all degrees for theme! ves, in their own
affairs, characterise them all. From the least of these to Achilles fighting the
lliver-God — which is an excess — all holds together — is of one meaning — and
here, as everywhere, the least, and the familiar, and most homefe^, attests,
vouches, makes evident, probable, and facile to credence, the highS^ most
uncouth, remote, and difficult otherwise of acceptation. Pitching the specu-
lation lower, plenitude of the most robust, ardent, vigorous IHe overflows the
Iliad— up from the animal to the divine — ^from the beautiful tall poplar by the
river- side, which the wheelwright or wainwright fells. Eating, drinking,
•sleeping, thrusting through with spears, and hacking the live flesh off the bona
—all go together and help one another — and make the "Majesty and Dignity"
— or what not — of the Homeric Epos. But I see, Buller, that you are timUg
me — and I am ashamed to confess that I have exc^ded the assigned fimit.
Gentlemen, I ask all your pardons.
BULLER.
Timeing you — ^my dear sir ! Look — 'tis only my snuff-box — ^yoor own gift—
with yonr own haunted Qead on the lid— inspired work of Laurence MaftdiwifM
NORTH.
Give it me~why there — ^there— by your own unhappy awkwardness — ithtf
gone— gone — to the bottom of the deepest part of the Loch !
BULLER.
I don't care. It was my chronometer I The Box is safe.
NORTH.
And so is the Chronometer. Here it is— I ?ra8 laughing at yon— in my sleeve.
1M9.] Ckriatopher under Canvass, 259
BUIXKB.
Another Herman Boaz ! — ^Bless my eyes, there is Kilchnrn ! It most be —
tiere is no other sach huge Castle, surely, at the head of the Loch — and no
other sack mountains —
NORTH.
You promised solemnly, sir, not to say a single word about Loch Awe or
its appurtenance, this Evening — so did every mother^s son of us at your order
-ud t*was well— for we have seen them and felt them all — at times not the less
fiofomidly— as the visionary pomp keeps all the while gliding slowly by — per-
petual accompaniment of our discourse, not uninspired, perhaps, by the beauty
or tbe grandenr, as our imagination was among the ideal creations of genius
—with the far-off in place and in time— with generations and empires
** VThtiL dark oblivion swallows cities up.
And mighty States, characterless, are grated
To dnsty nothing !
SSWARD.
In the declining light I wonder your eyes can see to read print.
NORTH.
My eyes are at a loss with Small Pica— but veritable Pica I can master,
yet, tfter sunset. Lideed, I am sharpest-sighted by twilight, like a cat or an
owL
BULLER.
Haveyoa any more annotations on Alison ?
NORTH.
MiBy. The flaws are few. I verily believe these are all. To elucidate
Wj Iratbs— in Taste and in Morals — ^would require from us Four a far longer
Milogne. Alison's Essays should be reprinted in one Pocket Volume — wis-
^ and Goodness are in that family hereditary— the editing would be a Work
of Love^and in Bohn's Standard Library they would confer benefit on
tkoonnds who now know but their name.
6KWARD.
My dear sfr, last time we voyaged the Loch, you said a few words — per-
Jwpfl you may remember it — about those philosophers— Alison — the " Man
^ Tute,** as Thomas Campbell loved to call him — assuredly is not of the
DUBber— who have insisted on the natural Beauty of Virtue, and natural De-
^naity of Vice, and have appecffed to place our capacity of distinguishiug
^t from Wrong chiefly, if not sddy, on the sense of this Beauty and of
*k« Deformity—
NORTH.
I lemember saying, my dear Seward, that they have drawn their views
Jw miich from the consideration of the state of these feelings in men who
Mdbeen long exercised in the pure speculative contemplation of moral Good-
nos and Truth, as wcU as in the calmness and purity of a tranquil, virtuous
^ Wasitso?
SEWARD.
It was.
NORTH.
In such minds, when all the calm faculties of the soul arc wedded in happy
^OB to the image of Virtue, there is, I have no doubt, that habitual feding
Iw which the tei-m Beauty furnishes a natural and just expression. But I
^Pv^end that this is not the true expression of that serious and solemn feeling
*|^ aooompanies the understanding of the qualities of Moral Action in the
Jl*^ of the generality of men. They who in the midst of their own nn-
^^p perversions, are visited with knowledge of those immutable distinctions,
|N tbey who in the ordinary struggles and trials incident to our condition,
"^tiin their conduct in unison with their strongly grounded principles and
j^ Mpirations, would seldom, I apprehend, employ this language for the
**>cription of feelings which can hardly be separated from the ideas of an
5^ responsibility involving the happiness and misery of the accountable sub-
J^ of a mwal cider of Government.
260 Christopher under Canwus, [Avg.
SEWARD.
You think, sir, that to assign this perception of Beaaty and Deformity, as
the groundwork of our Moral Nature, is to rest on too slight a foandation
that part of man's constitution which is first in importance to his welfu^ ?
NORTH.
Assm*edly, my dear friend, I do. Nay, I do not fear to say that the
Emotion, which may properly be termed a Feeling of Beauty in Virtue, takes
place at those times when the deepest affection of our souls towards (rood
and Evil acts less strongly, and when the Emotion we feel is derived more
from Imagination — and —
SEWARD.
And may I yentnre to suggest, sir, that as Imagination, which is so strong a
principle in our minds, will take its temper from any prevalent feelings, and
even from any fixed and permanent habits of mind, so our Feeling of
Beauty and Deformity shall be different to different men, either according to
the predominant strength of natural principles, or according to their oourse
of life ?
NORTH.
Even so. And therefore this general disposition of Imi^ination to receive
its character will apply, no doubt, where the prevailing filings and habits
are of a Moral cast ; and hence in minds engaged in calm intellectual specula-
tion, and maintaining their own moral nature rather in innocence and simplicity
of life than in the midst of difficult and trying situations and in conflict with
passions, there can be no doubt that the Imagination will give itself up to this
general Moral Cast of Muid, and feel Beauty and Deformity vividly and uni-
formly in the contemplation of the moral quality of actions and moral states
of character.
SEWARD.
But your words imply— do they not, sir ? that such is the temper of their
calmer minds, and not the emotion which is known when^ from any great act
of Virtue or Crime, which comes suddenly upon them, their Moral Spirit rises
up in its native strength, to declare its own Affection and its own Judgment?
NORTH.
Just so. Besides, my excellent friend, if yon consider well the feoling whidi
takes possession of us, on contemplating some splendid act of heroic and self-
devoting Virtue, we shall find that the sort of enthusiastic transport which may
kindle towards him who has performed it, is not properly a moral transport
at all ; but it is a burst of love and admiration. Take out, then, from any
such emotion, what Imagination, and Love, and Sympathy have supplied, and
leave only what the Moral Spirit recognises of Moral WiU in the act, and yon
Avill find that much of that dazzling and splendid Beauty which prodnced the
transport of loving admiration Is removed.
SEWARD.
And if so, sir, then must it be very important that we should not deceive
ouraelves, and rely upon the waimth of emotion we may feel towards generous
and heroic actions as evidence of the force of the Moral Principle in onr own
breasts, which requires to be ascertained by a very different test —
NORTH.
Ay, Seward ; and it is important idso, that we should learn to acknowledge
and to respect, in those who, without the capacity of such vivid feelings, are
yet conscientiously faithful to the known Moral Law, the merit and dignity of
their Moral Obedience. We must allow toVirtue, my dearest Seward, all that
is her due — her countenance beautiful in its sweet serenity — ^her voice gentle
and mild — her demeanour graceful — and a simple majesty in the flowing folds
of her stainless raiment. §o may we picture her to our imagination, and to oor
hearts. But we m^st beware of making such abstractions fantastic and
visionary, lest wc come at last to think of emotions of Virtue and Taste as one
and the same — a fatal ciTor indeed — and that would rob human life of much of
its melancholy grandeur. The beauty of Vu*tue is but the smile on her celestial
countenance— and may be admired— loved— by those who hold butlitUe com-
1849.3 Chrittopher under Canvau. 261
mnnion with her inner heart — and it maj be oyerlooked by those who pay to
her the most deyont worship.
TALBOT8.
Methinks, sir, that the moral emotion with which we regard actions greatly
ri^t or greatly wrong, is no transport ; it is an earnest, solemn feeling of a
mind knowing there is no peace for living sonls, except in their Moral Obe-
dience, and therefore receiving a deep and gratefnl assurance of the peace of
one soul more, in witnessing its adherence to its virtue ; and the pain which
is suffered from crime is much more allied to sorrow, in contemplating the
wilful departure of a spirit from its only possible Grood, than to those feelings
of repugnance and hate which characterise the temper of our common human
emoticMi towards crimes offering violence and outrage to humanity.
NORTH.
I believe that, though darkness lies round and about us seeking to solve
such questions, a feeling of deep satisfaction in witnessing the adherence to
Moral Rectitude, and of deep pain in witnessing the departure from it, are
the necessary results of a moral sensibility ; but taken m their elementary
simplicity, they have, I think, a character distinct from those many other
emotioiis which will necessarily blend with them, in the heart of one human
being looking upon the actions of another — *^ because that we have all one
human heart."
TALBOYS.
Who can doubt that Religion infuses power and exaltation into the Arts?
The bare History teaches this. In Greece Poetry sang of Gods, and of Heroes,
in whose transactions Gods moved. Sculpture moulded Forms which were
attempted expressions of Divine Attributes. Architecture constructed Tem-
ples. De faUo the Grecian Arts rose out of Religion. And were not the
same Arts, of revived Italy, religious?
BULLBR.
They all require for their foundation and support a great pervading sym-
pathy— some Feeling that holds a whole national breast. This is needed to
mnnifioently defiraying the Costlier Arts — no base consideration at bottom.
For it is a life-bond of this life, that is freely dropped, when men freely and
generously contribute their means to the honour of Religion. There is a sen-
timent in opening your purse.
SEWARD.
Yea, BnUer — ^without that sentiment, no man can love noble Art. The
Irae, deep, grand support of Grenius is the confidence of univerBsl sjrmpathy.
Homer sings because Greece listens. Phidias pours out his soul over marble,
gold, and ivory, because he knows that at Olympia united Greece will wonder
and will worship. Think how Poet is dumb and Sculptor lame, who fore-
knows that what he vxndd sing, what he would carve, will neither be felt nor
understood.
BULLER.
The Religion of a people furnishes the sympathy which both payi and
i^lfpiauds.
TALBOTS.
And Religion affords to the Artist in Words or Forms the highest Norms of
nioaght — sublime, beautiful, solemn — withal the sense of Aspiration — pos-
ubtj of Inspiration.
NORTH.
And it gnards Philosophy — and preserves it, by spiritual influence, from
di^pnidation worse than death. The mind is first excited into activity through
the impressions made by external obiects on the senses. The French meta-
physicaans— lnre^^<l^°S ^ follow Lockc — proceeded to discover in the mind a
mere compound of Sensations, and of Ideas drawn from Sensations. Sensa-
tions, and Ideas that were the Relics of Sensations — ^nothing more.
TALBOTS.
And thus, sir, by degrees, the Mind appeared to them to be nothing else
than a product of the Body — say rather a state of the Body.
VOL. ULTI. — ^XO. CCCCn. 8
262 Christopher under Qmoau* [Aug. 1849.
NOBTH.
A self-degradation, my friend, which to the utmost removes the mind from
Grod. And this Creed was welcome to those to whom the belief in Him
was irlLsome. That which we see and touch became to such Fhilosopben the
whole of Reality. Deity— the Relation of the Creation to the Creator— the
hope of a Futurity beyond the grave — vanished from the Belief of Msterialisto
living in, and by, and to— Sensation.
SEWARD.
And with what a horrid sympathy was the creed welcomed!
NORTH.
Ay, Seward, I who lived nearer the time — ^perhaps better than yoa can^
know the evil. Not in the schools alone, or in the solitude of philosophical
thought, the doctrine of an arid speculation circulated, like a thin and im-
wholesome blood, through the veins of polite literature ; not in the acboois
alone, but in the gorgeous and gay saloons, where the highly-born, the eonitlj^
and the wealthy, winged the laay hours with light or dissolute pleasmet-
there the Philosophy which fettered the soul in the pleasing bands of the
Senses, which plucked it back from a feared immortality, which opened agnif
of infinite separation between it and its Maker, was cordiidly entertained—
there it pointed the jest and the jibe. Scepticism a study — ^the zeal of Un-
belief 1 Principles of false thought appeared suddenly and widely as principle
of false passion and of false action. Doubts, difficulties, guesses, fine spinningB
of the perverse brain, seized upon the temper of the times — ^became the springs
of public and popular movements— engines of political change. The Yeneca-
tions of Time were changed into Abominations. A Will strong to overthrow
— hostile to Order — anarchical — *^ intended siege and defiance to Heaven."
The irreligious Philosophy of the calmer time now bore its firuits. The Cen-
tury had prepared the explosion that signalised its dose— Impiety was
the name of the Giant whom these throes of the convulsed earth had borne
into the day, and down together went Throne and Altar, — ^But where are we?
ROLLER*
At the river mouth.
NORTH.
Whatl at home.
RULLER.
See the Tent-Lights— hear the Tent-Music.
NORTH.
Your arm, Talboys — till I disembark. Up to the Mount I shall then diinhi
unassisted but by the Crutch.
1
ftwiii hg WiOmm Blaebeood whT Sim$t fUMwyl.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
Ko. ccccvn.
SEPTEMBER, 1849.
Vol, LXVL
THK SCOTTISH MABRIAOS AND REGISTRATION BILLS.
About two years ago, we fonnd it
nccessaiy to draw the attention of our
readers to certiun alterations whidi
our Whig nilers, or at least a section
of tbem, proposed to make in the ex-
isting law of marriage, as applicable
to Scotland. We stated oar views
moderately, not denying that in some
points it might be possible to effect a
salutary change ; bat utterly depre-
cadng the enforcement of a bill which
was so constnicted as to uproot and
destroy the andent consgetndinal law
of the kingdom, to strike a heavy and
malignant blow at morality and reli-
gioo, aod which, moreover, was re-
garded by the people of Scotland with
feelmgs of uneqaivocal disgast. So
widely spread was that feeling amongst
our comitrymen, of every shade of
political opinion and form of religions
faith, that we believed this ill-advised
attempt, once arrested in its progress,
would be finally withdrawn. Popu-
larity, it was quite clear, could n^ver
he gained from persisting in a mea-
sure so anpalatable to the whole com-
mmiity; nor had England, save in
the matter of Gretna-green marriages,
any visible interest in the .question.
It is just possible— -for self-conceit will
sometimes betray men into strange
extravagancies— that a few individual
legislators had more confidence in the
soundness of their own opinions than
in that of the opinions of the nation ;
but, even if we should give them credit
for such honest convictions, it still re-
mams a doubtful point how far indi-
vidual opinions should be allowed to
override the national will There may
be parliamentary as well as regal
VOL. LXVL— KO. CCCCVIL
despotism ; and we are much mistaken
if the people of Scotland are inclined
to submit to the former yoke, even at
the hands of those who claim honour
for then* party on the strength of tra-
ditionary denunciations of the latter.
We think it is pretty clear that no
Erivate member of parliament would
ave attempted to carry through a
bill, the provisions of which had been
encountered by such general opposi-
tion in Scotland. No ministry would
have lent its support to such a case
of insolent coerdon ; and we confess
we cannot see why the crotchets, or
even the convictions, of an official are
to be regarded with greater favour.
In a matter purely Scottish, it would,
indeed, be gross despotism if any Bri-
tish cabinet should employ its power
and its interest to overwhelm the voice
of Scotland, as fairly enunciated by
her representatives. That has not
been done, at least to the last unpar-
donable degree ; yet, whilst grateful
to Lord John Russell for having, at
the last moment, stopped the progress
of these bills, we may very fairly com-
plain that earlier and more decided
steps were not taken by the premier
for suppressing the zeal of his subor-
dinates. Surely he cannot have been
kept in ignorance of the discontent
which has been excited by the intro-
duction of these bills, three several
times, with the ministerial sanction,
in both houses of parliament ? Had a
bill as obnoxious to the feelings of the
people of England, as these avowedly
are to the Scots, been once aban-
doned, it never would have appeared
again. No minister would have been
t
The Scottish Montage and Registration B3b.
264
so blind to bis daty, or at all eyents
to his interest, as to have adopted the
repudiated bantling ; since, by doing
so, he would have inevitably caused
an opposition which could only termi-
nate in his defeat, and which, proba-
bly, might prove fatal to the existence
of his cabinet. And yet, in the case
of these bills, we have seen three
separate attempts deliberately made
and renewed — first in the House of
Commons, and afterwards in the
House of Peers — to thrust upon Scot-
land measures of which she has em-
phatically pronounced her dislike.
No wonder if, under such circum-
stances, when ranoostimiioe is disre-
garded, and the expression of popular
opinion either misrepresented or sup-
pressed, men begin to question the
prudence of an arraagement which
confides the chief condoct of Soottirii
affiure to a lawyer and judge-expect-
ant, whose ftmctions are so mnltila-
rious as to iateiftre with their regular
discharge. No wonder if the desire
of the Scottish nation to have a sepa-
rate andindependentsecretary of state,
altogether unconnected with the 1^^
profeesion, is finding an audible voice
at the ooondi-boards of the larger
cities and towns. Of late years it has
been made a subject of general and
just complaint, that the pnblic busi-
ness of Sootland is poetpomd to every-
thing else, huddled over witii indecent
haste at unlimeoas hoiirB, and often
entirely frustrated for the want of a
parliamentary quorum. This arises
from no incti^sition, on the part oi
the House of Commons, to do justioe
to the internal afiSidni of the northern
kingdom, but it is the natural rasnlt
of the system, which virtually leaves
Sootland without an ofilcial represen-
tative in the cabinet Eveiyone knows
that Sir George Grey is not only an
able, but a most conscientioos home-
secretary ; bat, in point of £Kt, he is
hoBe-secretaiy for England alooe. It
is inqKnaible to expect tiiat, in addi-
tion to the enormous labour attendant
upon the English home administra-
tion, any man can adequately master
the details of Scottish business. The
fundamental difference which exists in
the laws of the two ooantries wonld
of itself prove an insunnountable bar-
rier to this; and consequently, like
his predecesson, Sir G«o^ Grey has
[Sept.
no personal knowledge either of our
wishes or our requirements. He can-
not, therefore, take that promiDenoc
in a Scottish debate which his posi-
tion would seem to require ; and the
duty which ought to be performed by
a member of the cabinet is usually
intrusted to a subordinate. In thU
way Scottish public business reoeim
less than its due share of attention,
for the generality of members, obsenr-
ing tiiat cabinet ministers take little
siiare in such discussions, Batarally
enough attribute their silence to a cer-
tain degree of indifference, and are
careless about their own attendance.
All this, which invotves not only scan-
dal, but positive inconvenience, woold
be cured, if a return were made to the
older syi^iem, and a secretary of state
for Sootland numbered in the roll of
tiie cia>inet. 13ie want of wwh an
arrangement is posttivvly detrimental
to the interests of nuustry; for, dor*
a\ the last searion, they have awir-
y gained but few laurels fron
their northern legislation. Four or
five Mils, purporting to be of great
pnbile hnportaaoe, have been iritb-
drawn, and one only, which esta-
blishes a new oflioe connected witt
the Court of Session, has been grioed
by the royal assent. Among w
lapsed bills are those wUeh fom the
subject of the msent p^MT ; hot tii^
have not yet lOBt their vitality. Ob
the oontrwy , we are led to hder tiiat,
in the course of next sesship, they wiU
again be introduced, in someibnnor
otiier, befbre parliament.
This mode of treateient is 80 uflpe-
oedented, that we cannot pass it over
m silence. It may not be mKOOSh-
tutional, acoording to the letterof the
law; but if it be true, as we aaahitam
it to be, that the people of Soo^
have already protested amnst taese
measures, it does seem ramr tyranni-
cal that for the fourth time they flhoB^
be compelled to oiganise a resiitoiice|
and to make themselves heard tfaroogo
petitiona, lest the veiy absanee oc
liMse should be held as an iatiiM^
of passive acqniesoenee. Thisnad^
reasoning has actually been n>o^
to; andaveryprenanthotanoeenc
is to be found In ^e reported speov
of the Lord Advocate iV<«^^
reading of the Marriage BUL ^'Ya
respect to the dissenters in Seotla»d,
The SeoUM Marrkiffe and Begutratiom BUb.
265
sot a single petition from
inst the bill ; tkertfore they
kikenm» being mJavawrofitP^
lOtaUe je^vifacr. In the first
qaitea new doctrine to main-
)ecaase men do not organise
or go ont of their way to
aittamcnt against anj mca-
'most thereftmre be held as
In the second place, it is
startling thing to find that
ipected to petition in a rell-
srthan in a social character.
m be correct, no individual
It has any right to express
di^inions unless he petitions
kh his congregation. No
rthe Episcopal Church ought
. Toice in a secular matter
goes along with his dio-
Te are almost tempted to
nestion, whether congreffa-
Gotland are to be regarded
olitical clubs, or as associa-
praiso and worship? The
teils of most of the large
Scotland have petitioned
16 bills — are there no dis-
any of those boards? One
and thirty parishes have
recorded their detestation
B, not one parish has made
»t demonstration in their
t, according to the logic of
Advocate, those that are
It be held as acquiescing!
azkable, however, that if
nally tend to confer such
e boons upon the people of
that stubborn race have
ilariy reluctant to acknow-
szfeent of the benefit. Nay
8 certainly a most striking
lotwithstanding thercligious
which are more numerous
elsewhere, it has been im-
» procure one isolated testi-
an ecclesiastical body, in
Krt of these singularly un-
Us. Lord Campbell, in
ce given before the Com-
Ae House of Commons— of
B anon— indicates an opinion
dergy of the Established
Bcouand have been actn-
«hr unanimous and decided
to the Marriage Bill by the
veserve a monopohr of cde-
nal marriages. If so, how
of the dtesenting clergy,
in whose favour this monopoly was to
be broken up, came forward in sup-
port of the measure? But the truth
is, as we shall presently show, that no
such monopoly exists at all, save in
the imagination of the noble lord.
By the law of Scotland, there is no
distinction in favour of any sect, and
clergymen, of whatever denomina-
tion they may be, have the right, and
are in the daily practice, of celebrat-
ing formid marriages.
'^ I admit," says the Lord Advo-
cate, " that the clergymen of Scotland
are generally against this measure;
but surely the house will think that,
by this time, the thkd year of the dis-
cussion of this bill, these reverend
gentlemen ought to have come for-
ward with some substantial grounds
for their opposition." We must fairly
confess our inability to fathom the
meaning of this remark. Two hundred
and twenty-five petitions against this
bill have emanated from the Esta-
blished Church — at almost every
meeting of presbytery and synod, the
matter has been fully and thoroughly
discussed — the moral and political
objections to its enactment have been
over and over again brought forward
— yet still, in the eyes of the learned
lord, there is a want of '* substantial
grounds." It is not enough, there-
fore, to say that a measure is unneces-
sary, immoral, and impolitic — ^it is
not enough to assign reasons why
these opinions are entertained, and to
repeat them year after year. Some-
thing more must be done, according
to this remarkably liberal view, before
it becomes the duty of the legislature
to give any weight to the general re-
monstrance—something ^* substantial"
is required, but no intelligible defini-
tion has been vouchsafed of that sub-
stantiality. Nor does the following
sentence by any means tend to sharpen
the edge of our apprehension. *^ If
they (the clergy) meant to say that
they came here to assert that they had
the power or right to supersede the
inteHerence of the legislature, they
would put forward a right in them
much greater than the Church of
Rome asserted, because they took
theur right to interfere in reference to
the rules of marriage, on the ground
that it was a sacrament, which car-
ried with it a degree of plausibility ;
266
The Seotiiih Maniage and Bxgtttraiion BSU.
[Sept
and they required no witness to their
marriage, or proof of the marriase,
beyond that of the parish priest fnio
performed the ceremony.** Now, if
any kind of meaning whatever is to
be extracted from this sentence, it
mnst be taken as an innendo that the
Chnrch of Scotland, in petitioning
against the bill, is directly or occultly
preferring some ecclesiastical claim to
interfere m the celebration of regular
public marriages. The Ghnr^ of
Scotland asserts no claim of the kind,
nor has it ever been so mnch as hinted
that snch a right was inherent in that
body. The chnrch does not seek to
interfere with the legislatm'e. It
neither has, nor claims ecclesiastical
dominion or preference in the matter
of marriage. As a Christian com-
monion and a Christian chnrch, it
has entreated parliament not to pass
a measure which, justly or not, it con-
siders as hurtful to the moral charac-
ter of the people, and in doing so, it
has been actuated by no motive save
a due regard to its high and holy
functions. If such considerations as
these are not suflScient to justify the
right of petitioning, it is difficult to
understand why that right should be
exercised at all. Must a pounds-
shillings-and-pence interest be estab-
lished, before the Church of Scotland
can be allowed to approach the legis-
lature on such a question? In our
mind, the absence of all pecuniary
interest, and the utter abnegation of
any kind of ecclesiastical monopoly,
are the strongest reasons why the
opinion of the Clrarch of Scotland, in
a matter such as this, should be lis-
tened to with reverence and respect.
Having thus disposed of the church,
though in a manner, we should think,
scarcely satisfactory to himself, and
not at all to his auditory, the Lord
Advocate summarily remarks of the
petitions against the bill, that '^as
proof to be relied on of a general feel-
ing throughout Scotland, they were
worthless and insignificant.** It may
be useful for intending petitioners to
know what sort of demonstration they
must be prepared to make, if they
wish their remonstrances against any
government measure to pass the limits
of worthlessness. It is always advan-
tageous to learn what is the last de-
finition of the true t»x/iopti/t, in order
that there be no mistake or mismter-
pretation of its extent. We turn to the
admirable speech of Mr McNeill, the
learned Dean of Faculty, and we find
the following analysis of the extent of
the lay opposition : —
*' An opportunity had been afforded to
the coanttes of Scotland to take the mu-
sure into conaideration at their aoniuJ
meetings on the 30th ApriL They had
done so, and, with very few ezoepiions,
had petitioned against this measure ; and
of those that had not actnallj petitioned
this year, some had petitioned last yetr;
and some had contented themseltes this
year with reiterating, in resoletioos
passed at public meetings^ their contiiiiicd
dissatisfaction with the measare. The
county which he bad the hononr to re-
present (Argyleshire) had not seat nps
petition ; bat they had, at a public meet-
ing, passed resolations, temperately, yet
firmly expressed, in reference both to the
Marriage and the Registration Bills. No
county, he beliered, had passed resolu-
tions in fkTOur of this bill. So much for
the counties. Next aa to the boiigfas.
The burghs comprehended about ooe-
third of the population of Sootiaod.
There was an institntion recognised by
law called the Convention of Boyal
Burghs, and which consisted of delegates
from all the burghs in Scotland, who as-
sembled once a-year or oftener in Edin-
burgh, and deliberated on matters affect-
ing their interests. At the conrention of
1849, the matter of these bills was taken
into consideration. They were disap-
proved of, and a petition against them
was voted unanimously. Thus you had
all, or nearly all, the oonnties petition-
ing, and you had the assembled dele-
gates from all the boig^ pettttoning.
Then there were separate petitions from
the popularly elected town-councils of
most of the large towns in Scotland.
The town-councils of Edinburgh, of Dan-
dee, of Perth, of Greenock, of Leith,
of Inverness, of Stirling, of Kilmar-
nock, of St Andrews, of Haddington,
and many others, had petitioned against
this bill. There was also another body
of persons, popularly elected to a gre*t
extent, and who had a very material in-
terest in the probable eflfects of this mea-
sure, especially with a knowledge of the
fear^l extent of bastardy in some parts
of England — he meant the parodiial
boards of populous parishes. Petitions
against this measure had been presented
from the parochial boards of many of the
most populous parishes in Scotland— the
parochial board of the city parishes of
Edinburgh--of the great suburiMa paw
1849.]
ne Seottith Marriage and Registration BUb.
267
of Si Catlibert6--of the city of Glasgow
— of the great Biibiirbaa parish of Ihe
Barony — of the parishes of Dundee^
Paisley, Greenock, Leifeb, Port-Glai^owy
Campbelton, and several others."
Sach is the demonstratioii which
the Lord Advocate of Scotland, with-
out any oonnter display of opinion to
back him, yentnres to characterise as
worthless and insignificant I Conn-
ties, bnrghs, town-conndls, parochial
boards, presbyteries, and General
Assembly, which also represents the
(pinion of the unirersities, dl combine
to denounce the hated measure; stUl
their remonstrance is to be cast aside
as worthless and insignificant, and as
in no way representing the feeling of
the i>eople of Scotland! A more ex-
traoTdinary statement, we venture to
say, was never made within the walls
of the House of Commons; but the
premier very properly refused to ho-
mologate its extravagance, and with-
drew the bill on account, as he ex-
pressly said, of the opinion that had
been expressed in the house regard-
ing the sentiments of the Scottish
people. Lideed, as Lord Aberdeen
aftcowards remarked, had the bill not
been withdrawn, '* representative go-
vernment would become a farce ; for
the whole kingdom of Scotland was
univerBally agdnst it."
Some of our readers may naturally
wonder why so much perseverance
should be shown in this reiterated
attempt to force an obnoxious bill
upon the acceptance of the nation.
It is, to say the least of it, an un-
Bsual thing to find a professing phy-
sician so clamorously and importn-
aately insisting upon his right to
practise on the person of a patient,
who vehemently denies the existence
of any bodily ailment. It is true,
that we are accustomed to hear
crotchety people crying up the effi-
^^ of their peculiar remedies, and
we admit the right even of Paracelsus
to dikte upon the value of his drugs.
Bat the case becomes wldelv different
▼hen the empiric requires that, nokns
I'D^, you shall sw^ow them. Such,
however, for the last three sessions,
has be^ the conduct of the promoters
of Uiis bill ; and as it is now plun be-
yond all dispute that nobody wanted
It, this sudden rage for legislation
becomes proportionally wonderfhl.
Hitherto we have rather complained
of the apathy than of the over-zeal of
our representatives. Sometimes we
have grumbled at their want of spuit
for not watching more closely over
our immediate interests, and in not
protesting more loudly against the
injustice of that neglect to which Scot-
tish charities, foundations, and institu-
tions are consigned, whilst a very
different mode of treatment is adopted
by government upon the other side of
the Irish Channel. But we have seldom
had reason to deprecate an excess of
legislative activity, and it therefore
becomes matter of curiosity to dis-
cover the motives for the present fit.
We must premise that the Scottish
Marriage and Re^tration Bills are
indissolubly linked together. The
object of the Registration Bill is to
secure a perfect record of all births,
marriages, and deaths; and no reason-
able objection can be taken to this
upon the score of principle. It is ad-
mitted on all hands that our registers
are at present defective — ^that is, they
are not sufficiently minute to satisfy
the cravings of the scrupulous statist.
To have a perfect record is unques-
tionably desirable: the mfun objec-
tion to the scheme lies in the expense
with which it must be attended. It
is not our present purpose to examine
the details of this bill, which we have
nevertheless perused with much at-
tention. We shall therefore merely
remark that it seems to us quite pos-
sible to realise jthe same results with
a far less expensive machinexy. The
present bill would create not only a
well-salaried staff of officials in Edin-
burgh, but registrars in every county
and town, whose services would fall
to be defrayed by local assessment;
and we need hardly say that, under
present circumstances, the imposition
of any new burden, especially in the
shape of direct taxation, would be
felt as an especial grievance. There
is no prosp^t of relief from the in-
come and property tax, though Sir
Robert Peel gave the country a direct
assurance that the measure was merely
proposed to supply a temporary de-
ficiency. It is now quite clear that
neither the right hon. baronet,
nor his successors, will ever attempt
to redeem that dishonoured pledge.
The poor-rates are increasing in Scot-
268
Ilk SeoiHik Marriagi§ wui BBgittrmiiom BiBt.
[Sept
land at a fngfatftil ratio, and are al-
ready 80 high as, in the opinion of
many, to constitute an intolerable
bnr&n. It is now evident that, in a
very short while, the inexpediency of
the new system will be submitted to
a serioQS review, or at least that some
SQch attempt will be made. Other
hardens are by no means decreasing,
whilst the general wealth and pro-
sperity of the conntry has, within the
last tiiree years, received a violent
check. It is, therefore, not in the least
surprising, if men hesitate to accept
the proffered boon of a perfect regis-
try at the price of a new assessment
Isolated cases of inconvenience which
have oeouredt from ibe want of such
a register, may no doubt be pointed
out r but, upon the whole, there is no
general grievance, since the means of
effective registration are at present
open to all who choose to avail them«
selves of it. The present bill proposes
to do nothing more than to substitute
imperative for voluntary registration:
its provisioas are not only costly, but
in some respects they are hif^y penal,
and therefore, for a double reasmi, it
is regarded with general dislike. Men
do not like to be taxed for the altera-
tion of a privilege which is already suf-
ficiently within thdr power; and they
are jealous oi exposing themselves to
fines, for omitting to do that which
is no duty at all, except it is made
so by the fone of statute. They do
not see any weight or shadow of
reason in the argument, that Scotland
must necessarily have a registration
act, because England has ahready
submitted herself to such a measure.
On the contrary, they are not fond of
uniformity, because, under that pre-
text, many inroads have of late years
been made upon laws and institutions
which hitherto have woiked well, and
against which, intrinsically, it was
ImpossiMe to bring any tangiUe
ground of oomphunt. Nor is it with-
out some reason that they Tiew with
jealousy that endless multiplication of
offices which the Whigs seem deter-
mined to effiftct. Ko doubt it is con- -
venient for a political leader to extend
the sphere of his patronage ; but the
public have, at the present time, too
many stringent motives for economy,
to acquiesce in the creation of a new
ataff as the indiqMnsable consequence
of every ministerial bitt. IVj do
not want to be visited by a fresh flight
of locusts, whose period of occspadon
is to be everlasting, whenever it is
thought expedient to make some
change inthefoimandnottheeMeBoe
of our institutions. And theralMv it
is that the BegistratioB, apart sHo-
gether firom its counekkm with the
Marriage Bill, has been regarded asa
measure not strictly objeetioDable in
principle, but exoeedins^ ill-tiiMd,
inconvenienty and unlikuj to prodoce
any results oommensunte with the
coat which it must entaiL
We believe that the above is a liur
statement of the public feelmg with
regud to the Registration BiH; bit,
notwithstanding all these dbjeetioos,
it might very possibly have been car-
ried had it stood alone. The mims-
terial phalanx m the House of Com-
mons would probably have regarded
the adyantages of uniformity as a
thorough answer to the argsnents
which might be adduced on the other
side; and English members might la-
tarally have been slow to &cof«
any valid obfections to the exteasioa
of a system already in ftdl epen^
within their own domestic boonda
But the promoters of the bill had, at
the very outset, to enooonter a diffi*
culty of no ordinary weight and
magnitude. That difficult arose
firom the peculiar positxm of the
law of Scotland with regard towff'
riage. There oould be no miitaka
about births and death, for these aif
distinct contingencies ; but how to
register marriages, which required no
legal formality at all, save coaseat, to
render them binding, was indeed a
puzzle, which even the wiaest of the
mnovators could not pretend to solv&
There stood the law as it had done for
ages; not demanding any ceremoBf
to render the deliberate eooseot cf
contracting parties binding ; shieldiDg
the weaker sex against the machina-
tions of fraud, and interpoeiBg an
efiectual hairier to the designs of the
unscrupulous sedocer. There it stood^
so mercifhl in its provisions that it left
open a door to r^Muation and repeo-
tance, and did not render it imperative
that the birtMght of tiie child should
be irretrievably sacrificed on aoooimt
of the error of the parents. At the
same time, that law drew, or itther
1849.J
ne SeoUkk Mmitifie mui Reffistratiim BUh.
269
esUbliflbed, ft widedistioolion in point
of chanoter between regular and irre-
gnlar marriageB. It had wrought so
upon the people that instances of the
latter were of oomparatiTely rare oc-
eonenoe, except, perhaps, apon the
Bonier, which was crossed by £ngliah
parties, less scrapnlons in their feel-
ings of decomm. Irregular marriages
were discountenanced by the church,
not by the establishment only, bat by
eyeiy religions body; and, to consti-
tate a regular marriage, publication
of the banns was required. No oom-
plamt had been heard from Scotland
against the law ; on the contrary, it
was eoHsidered, both by jurists and
hj tlw peoi^e, as equitable in its prin-
ciple, and less liable than that of
other nations to abuse in the mode of
its operation.
The ezisten.ce of this law effectually
inteifered wifeh the establishment of
saeh a system of registration as was
contemplated by the reforming Whigs.
80 long as it stood intact, their efforts
is behalf of nniformity, additional
taxation, aad increased patronage,
were hopdess ; and no alternatiye
remauiea save the desperate one of
deliberatdy smiting down the law.
It was not difBcttlt for m«i so pur-
posed and inspired to find out defects
is the marrtage law, for never yet
was law framed by human wisdom in
which some defect could not be de-
tected. It was, first of aU, urged,
that the statoof the Scottish law gave
vodue enoooragement to the contract
of Gretna-green marriages by fugitive
Bogliafa couples. The answer to that
was obvious — Pass a law prohibiting
soeh marriages until, by residence,
£ngii8h parties have obtained a Scot-
tiah domicile. That would at once
^▼e obviated any such ground of
<^Qtplaint, and such a measure actually
was mtroduced to pariiament by Lord
Brougham in 1835, but never was
carried through. Next, the whole
£ibric of the law was assailed. The
^Milities given to the contraction of
i^T^egidar marriages were denounced
M tNirbarons and disgraceful to any
oviUsed country. Old cases were
nked up to show the uncertainty of
^e hiw itself, and the diflculty of
*8certaudng who were and who were
u^t married persons. According to
one noble and learned authority, the
tune of the House of Peers, while sit-
ting in its judicial capacity, was grie-
vously occupied in considering cases
which arose out of the anomalous con-
dition of the Scottish law with regard
to marriage ; and yet, upon referring to
an ofScial return, it appeared very
plainly that, for the last seventeen or
eighteen years, only six cases of decla-
rator of marriage or legitimacy had
been brought before that august tri-
bunal, and that of these six, three had
no connexion with the subject-mattor
of the proposed bill 1 Lord Brougham,
who entortains strong opinions on the
subject, fdt himself compelled to ad-
ndt, in evidence, that most of the hy-
pothetical abuses which nught take
place under the exisUng system, did
not, in practice, occur amongst na-
tives and reaidenters in Scotland.
Lord Brougham is to this extent a
Malthusian, that be thinks minors
ought to be, in some way or other,
protected against the danger of an
over-hasty marriage. His lordship's
sympathies are strongly enlisted in
behalf of the youthful aristocracy,
more especially of the male sex ; and
he seems to regud Scotland as an in-
finitely more dangerous place of resi-
dence for a young man of rank and
fortune than Paris or Vienna. In the
latter places, the morals may be
sapped, but personal liberty is pre-
served; in the former, the heir-ex-
pectant is not safe, for at any moment
he is liable to be trapped like vermin.
The red-haired daughters of the Gael,
thinks Lord Brougham, are ever on
the watoh for the capture of some
plump and unsuspecting squire. Pen-
niless lads and younger sons may be
insured at a reasonable rate against
the occurrence of the matrimonial
calamity, but wary indeed must be
the eldest son who can escape the
perfervidwn mgemum Sootmum, This
is, no doubt, an amusing picture, and
the leading idea might be worked out
to great advantage in a novel or a
farce; but, unfortunately, it is not
drawn firom the usual occurrences of
life. Isolated cases of hasty marriages
may, no doubt, have taken place, but
our memory does not supply us with
a single instance of a clandestine mar-
riage having been contracted under
such circumstances as the above. In
Scotland, a stranger may, for the base
270
The Scottiih Marriage and BegUtraikm B3ls.
[Sept.
purposes of sednction, pledge his so-
lemn faith to a woman, and so obtain
possession of her person. If he does
jio, the law most justly interferes to
prevent him resiling from his contract,
and declares that he is as completely
bound by the simple interchange of
consenting vows, as though he had
solicited and received the more formal
benediction of the priest. Will any
man gravely maintain that in such a
case the tenor of the law is hurtful to
morals, or prejudicial to the interests
of society ? Even if the woman should
happen to be of inferior rank in life to
the intending seducer, is she on that
account to be consigned to shame,
and the man permitted to violate his ,
engagement, and escape the conse-
quences of his dastardly fraud? In
England, it is notorious to every one,
and the daily press teems with in-
stances, that seduction under promise
of marriage is a crime of ordinary
occurrence. We call it a crime, for
though it may not be so branded by
statute, seduction under promise of
marriage is as foul an act as can well
l)e perpetrated by man. In Scotland,
seduction under such circumstances is
next to impossible. The Scottish
people are not without their vices, but
seduction is not one of these ; and we
firmly believe that the existing law of
marriage has operated here as an effec-
tual check to that license which is far
too common in England. Would it
be wise, then, to remove that check,
when no flagrant abuse, no common
deviation even from social distinctions,
can be urged against it ? If seduction
does not prevail in Scotland, still less
do hasty and unequal marriages. Lord
Brougham is constrained to admit that
it is most unusual for Scottish heirs,
or persons possessed of large estates,
or the heirs to high honours, to con-
tract irregular marriages when in a
state of minority. The law, in the
opinion of Lord Brougham, may be
theoretically bad, but its very badness
raises a protection against its own
mischiefs — it ceases, in fact, to do any
harm, because the consequences which
it entails are clearly and generally
understood. We confess that, accord-
ing to our apprehension, a law whidi
is theoretically bad, but practically
innocuous, is decidedly preferable to
one which may satisfy theorists, but
which, when we come to apply it, is
productive of actual evil. It requires
no great stretch of l^gal ingennity to
point out possible imperfections in the
best law that ever was devised by the
wit of man. That is precisely what
the advocates of the present measnre
have attempted to do with the estab-
lished marriage law of Scotland ; trat
when they arc asked to specify the
practical evils resulting from it, they
are utterly driven to the wall, tnd
forced to take refuge under the cqd-
vcnient cover of vague and random
generalities.
It is said that, under the opentioo
of the present law, persons in Scotland
may be left in doubt whether they are
married or not. This is next thing to
an cntii-e fallacy, for though there
have been instances of women claim-
ing the married status in consequence
of a habit-and-repute connexion, with-
out distinct acknowledgment of ma-
trimony, such cases are rema^bly
rare, and never can occur save under
most peculiar circumstances. Tbe
distinction between concubinage and
matrimony is quite as well establiabed
in Scotland as elsewhere. Kothlng
short of absolute public recognitloB,
so open and avowed that there cu
be no doubt whatever of the poeitiOB
of the parties, can supply the place of
that formal expressed consent whi^
is the proper foundation of matn-
mony. If the consent once has been
given, if the parties have serioody
accepted each other for spouses, or if
a promise has been given, mbseqvatt
copula, there is an undoubted atf^
riage, and the parties themselves can-
not be ignorant of their mntoal rela-
tionship. It is, however, quite W
that proof may be wanting. B ^
possible to conceive cages m whkh
the contract cannot be legally estib'
lished, and in which the actoal wife
may be defrauded of her coojogil
rights. But granting all this, why
should the whole character (^ mtt'
riage be chanced on accoont of pos-
sible cases of deficient evidence? Fov
if this bill were to pass into law,
consent must necessarily cease to b6
the principal element of mmrriage. Ht
marriage could be contra^ed at ill
unless parties went either befture the
priest or the registrar ; and the Aet
of the mutual contract wooid be
1849.]
I%eSMii9h
and RegistraHon BOU,
271
ignored without the addition of the
imposed formality. Upon this point
the commentary of Mr McNeill seems
to na peculiarly lucid and quite irre-
sistible in its conclusions.
" The law of SeoUand being now m
heretoforei that consent, given in tibe way
he had deaoribedy makes marriage — that
it is, in the langosge of Archbishop
Oanmer, * beyond all doabt ipaum matri-
tuonium* — the present bill says that
henceforth it shall not make marriage,
whateyer may haye followed upon it,
nnlese the consent is giyen in presence of
a clergyman^ or by signing the register.
It does not say that all marriages must
be celebrated in presence of a clergy-
man ; bat, professing to recognise the
principle that consent, though not giyen
in presence of a clergyman, may consti-
tute marriage, it says that the consent
shall be of non-ayail whatever may have
followed upon it, unless it was giyen in
the particular form of signing the regis-
ter, and can be there pointed out. No
matter how deliberately the consent may
bare been interehanged, and how com-
pletely snseeptible of proof. No matter
althoogh the parties may have liyed all
their lives as man and wife — ^may have
so published themselyes to the world
erery day, by acts a thousand times more
public than any entry in a register can
possibly be — ^by a course of life more
clearly indicating deliberate and conti-
nued purpose than a single entry in a
register can do. All that shall not avail
them or their families ; they are to be
denied the rights and privileges of legiti-
maey oalenthey can point to their names
in the joninal kept by the registrar.
To borrow the language of a high au-
thority, relied upon in support of the bill,
' It may be according to the law of Soot-
land that it is a complete marriage, and
so it may be by the law of God ; but if
tbe woman is put to prove that marriage
after the birth of children, of that she is
or may be without proof.' Thai rAidk, 6y
1k4 law of8eotiandandhytkslaw<^Ood,
i» a marrlaaey tkg people ofSeaUand wish
to be allowed to prove by aU the evidence of
whidk U U tMMC^ible. They do not wish
that parties should be allowed to escape
firom such solemn obligations undertaken
towards each other, to their offspring,
and to society. They are unwilling that
aoy man should be. enabled, with the con-
fidence of perfect hnpnnity, to impose
upon an unsuspecting community, by
Wearing a mask of pretended matrimony,
Behind which is concealed the reality of
vice. I do not wonder that the people of
Scotland have no liking to this measure.
There may occasionally be cases in which
the proof of marriage is attended with
difficulty; and so there may be with
regard to any matter of fact whatever.
So there may be in regard to the fact
of marriage under the proposed bill, even
where the marriage has been celebrated in
the most solemn manner in presence of a
clergyman. Occasional difficulty of proof
is not a satisfustory or adequate reason
for so great a change in the law. Cer-
tainty is desirable in all transactions, and
is especially desirable in regwrd to mar-
riage ; and the means of preserving evi-
dence of such contracts is also desirable ;
but although these objects are desirable,
they should not be prized so highly, or
pursued so exclusively, as to endanger
other advantages not less valuable."
We think it is impossible for any
one to peruse the foregoing extract
from the speech of the Dean of Fa-
culty, without being forcibly impress-
ed by the soundness and strength of
his argument. He is not contending
against registration; he simply de-
mands that through no pedantic desire
for uniformity or precision, shall the
general principle of the law of Scot-
land regarding marriage be virtually
repealed. We are indeed surprised
to find a lawyer of great professional
reputation attributing to the estab-
lished clergy of the Church of Scot-
land a desire to arrogate to themselves
the functions of the Church of Home,
whilst, in the same breath, he asks
the legislature to constitute itself into
an ecclesiastical court, and to enact
new preliminaries, without the obser-
vance of which there shall hencefor-
ward be no marriage at all. If the
old principle of tbe law is to be aban-
doned, if consent is no longer to be
held as sufficient for the contraction
of a marriage, but if some further
ceremony or means of publication are
thought to be essential, we have no
hesitation in saying that we would
infinitely prefer the proscription and
annulment of all marriages which aro
not p^ormed tn facie eccluuB^ with
the previous proclamation of the
banns, to a hybrid measure such as
this, which neither declares marriage
to be the proper subject of ecclesiasti-
cal function, nor permits it to remain
a civil contract which may be estab-
lii^ed and proved by any mode of
evidence within the reach of either of
the parties. If marriage is not a.
72
ne SeoHM Mwrriagt ami lUgiOfwiimi B3b.
[Sept.
Bacrtment, but a dTil eontract, why
take it ont of the operatioii of the
comnMHi law? Why make it null
without the obserrance of certain cinl
ceremonies, nnless it is intended vir-
tually to confer npon the legislature
regoiating powers which have been
claimed by none of the reformed
chorches, and which, when arrogated
by that of Rome, have been bitterly
and nniversaUy opposed ?
Another objection to onr present
law of marriage has been frequently
urged, and great nse has been made
of it to prejudice the minds of English
members m favonr of the proposed
alteration. We have ah*eady shown
that there is in reality no doubt of
what oonstitntes a Scottish mairiage ;
that parties so contracting know very
well what they are about* and are fully
sensible of the true nature of their ob-
ligations. If any doubt should by
possibility exist, it can be set at rest
hy a simple form of process — a form,
however, which is never resorted to,
nnless there has been gross intention
to deceive on the one part, or a most
imnsual degree of impmdenoe on the
other. But it is said that the possible
existence of a private marriage may
ontail the most cruel of all injmies
upon innocent parties — that it is easy
for a man who has already contracted
a private marriage, to present himself
in the character of an unfettered suitor,
imd to enter into a second matrimonial
engagement, which may be, at any
moment, shameftilly terminated by the
appearance of the first wife. No ordi-
nary amount of rhetoric has been ex-
pended in depicting the terrible con-
sequences of such a state of things ;
the misery of the deceived wife, and
the wrongs <tf the defrauded children,
have, in their tnin, been employed as
iffguments against the existing mar-
riage law of Scotland.
This is a most unfair mode of rea-
soning. Unless it can be shown,
which we maintain it cannot, that the
law of Scotland, with regard to matri-
mony, is so loose that a party may
really be married without knowing it,
the argument utterly fails. Without
distinct matrimonial consent there is
no marriage, and no one surely can be
ignorant of his own intention and act
npon an occasion of that kind. He
may try to sappress proofii, bat for all
that he is married, and U^ during the
lifotime of the other party, he shall
eoBtract a second marriage, be has
OHnmitted bigamy, and is guilty of %
criminal ofienice. Loard Can^hell, m
his evidence, admits that the marriage
law of Scotland has been perfectly
well ascertained npon most pomts—
that there can be no doubt what Is,
and what is not, a marriage ; but that
the real difficulty consists in gettmg at
the facts. Armed with this testimony,
we may fairly condude that uninten*
tional bigamy is impossible ; but that
bigamy, when it takes place, is the
deliberate act of a party.
Bigamy is beyond all dispote a crime
of a heinous nature. Its consequences
are so obviously calamitous, that no
power of oratory can make them ap-
pear greater than they are ; and we
should rejoice to see any legislative
measure mtroduced whidi could ren-
der its perpetration impossible. But,
nnfortunately, the eradication of big-
amy, like that of every other crime, is
beyond the power of statnte. It may
perhaps be toesened by decreanng
foeilities, or by augmentine its punish-
ment, but we cannot see how it is to
be prevented altogether by any effort
of human ingenuity. But if the
marriage law of Scotland is to be
assailed upon this ground, it is ineom-
bent upon its opponents to show that
it really tends to promote bigamy. If
the wrongs so pathetically depkved
have a real existenoe, let as be mde
aware of that fact, and we shall all of
us be ready to lend our assistance to-
wards the remedy. No paltry scraito
shall stand in the way of sndi a refor-
mation, and we shall willingly pay
even for registration, if it can be made
the means of averting an actual social
calamity.
But here again we find, on exa-
mination, that we are dealing with a
pure hypothesis. We are teU of hor-
rible private injuries that may occur
under the operation of a law^whieh
has been in foiree f<Mr centuries: we
ask for instances of those injuries;
and, as in the former case, it tnnis
out that they have no existence save
in the imagination of the promoters of
the new bUls. If the present law of
Scotland has a tendency to promote
bigamy, surely by this time it would
have been extremely finiitful ia iti
1849.]
The Seoiiuk Marriage ami Registrathn BiOa.
results. On the contrarj, we are told
bj Lord Campbell that the Scots are
mTeryvirtiiciis people; and certainly,
in so lar as bigamy is concerned, no
one will Tcnture to contradict that
o|Hnion. One case, it appears, lias
occnred, in which a man of high rank,
lutving previously contracted a private
narriage nnderpecnliarcircnmstanccs,
Btme«l a second time, and that anion
was found to be illegal. The case is
t notorious one in the books and in
the records of society, and it occurred
forty years ago. " About forty years
igo,"" said the Dean of Faculty, *^ a
SVBtieman of high position in society,
M hx forgot for the time what was
worthj of, and due to that position in
pont of honour, and truth, and obser-
fttce of the law, as to marry a lady
|n£B|U]id, while he had a wife living
jnSeodand-— and so he itaight have done
if he hid had a wife living in France
or HoQand. In short, he committed
I^Wy. And this one case of bigamy,
nrty years ago, without even an alle-
P^ of any similar case since that
^ is brought forward at the present
^7i u a reason for now altering the
nw of Scotland in regard to the con-
itituioD of marriage.** The individual
^ question lived and died in exile,
^ the case is never quoted without
^pRBBions of deep reprobation. It is
^^7 one of the kind which can be
J^^t forward ; and surely it cannot
^ Uken as any ground for altering the
^^b&hed law of the country. But
2JJ^registration prevent bigamy? Un-
j^^lODately it is shown by numerous
^itiaees in England that it does not.
Alttat country, registratiofi is already
^blished, but, notwithstanding re-
S^MntioD, bigamy is infinitely more
peraient there than in Scotland. It
■• indeed, impoesible by any means of
%Uation to prevent imposition, fraud,
Md crime, if men are determined to
cnmiit them. Registration at Man-
chester will not hinder a heartless vil-
liin flmn committingdeliberate bigamy
li London. The thing is done every
dlj, and will be done in spite of idl
the eflbrts of law-makers. Why, then,
■ake the law of Scotland conformable
to that of England, since, under the
eperation of the latter, the very griev-
asee complained offiourishes fourfold?
We pause for a reply, and are likely
to panae long before we receive any
273
answer which can be accepted as at ail
satisfactory.
Under the Scottish law, it is ad-
mitted that there is far less seduction,
and far less bigamy, than under the
English law, which is here propounded
as the model. And having come to
this conclusion — which is not ours
onlv, but that of the witnesses exa-
mined in favour of the bill, all evi-
dence against it having been refused —
what need have we of saying anything
further? Surely there is enough on
the merits of the question to explain
and justify the unanimous opposition
which has been given to the Marriage
Bill by men of every shade of opinion
throughout Scotland, without expos-
ing them to the imputation either of
obstinacy or caprice : indeed we are
distinctly of opinion that the pro-
moters of the bill have laid themselves
palpably o^n to the very charges
which they rashly bring against their
opponents.
We cannot, however, take leave of
the subject, without making a few
remarks upon the evidence of a noble
and learned lord, who was kind enough
to take charge of this bill during its
passage through the upper house.
Lord Campbell is not a {Scottish peer,
nor, strictly speaking, a Scottish law-
yer, though he is in the habit of
attending pretty regularly at the hear-
ing of Sa)ttish appeals. But he is of
Scottish extraction ; he has sat in the
House of Commons as member for
Edinburgh, and he ought therefore to
be tolerably well conversant with the
state of the law. Now we presume
it will be generally admitted, that
any person who undertakes to show
that an amendment of the law is
necessary, ought, in the first place, to
be perfectly cognisant of the state of
the law as it exists. That amount of
knowledge we hold to be indispensa-
bly necessary for a reformer, since he
must needs establish the superiority
of his novel scheme, by contrasting its
advantages with the deficiencies of
the prevalent system. But in read-
ing over the evidence of Lord Camp-
bell, as given before the Committee of
the House of Commons, a very pahi-
fal suspicion must arise in every mind,
that the learned peer is anything but
conversant with the Scottish marriage
law : nay, that upon many important
274 The Scottish Marrioffe and RegiitraiumB^. [Sept
particulars he utterly misunderstands interposed from the chair to the fol-
its nature. Take for example the
following sentence : —
« With regard to this bill which has
been introduced, I am very much surprised
and mortified to find the grounds upon
which it has been opposed ; for it has
been opposed on the ground that it intro-
duces clandestine marriages into Scotland.
I think, with deference to those who may
have a contrary opinion, that its direct
tendency, as well as its object, is to pre-
vent clandestine marriages. I may like-
wise observe, that I am very sorry — being
the son of a clergyman of the Church of
Scotland — to find that it is opposed, and
I believe very violently opposed, by the
clergy of the Established Church of Scot-
land. I think that they proceed upon
false grounds ; and lam afraidy although
I would say nothing at all disrespectful
of a body for whom I feel nothing but
respect and affection, tkat they are a little
injlueneed by the notion, that a marriage
by a dergpnan trAo is not of the Established
lowing eflTect:— "He cannot many
without banns ; he is subject to pun-
ishment if he marries without banns?"*
But the hint, though dexterously
given, fell dead on the ear of the ex«
chancellor of Ireland. He proceeded
deliberately to lay down the law,—
"There are statutes forbidding mar-
riages unless by clergymen of tlie
Established Church."
This is, to say the least of it, a an-
gular instance of delusion. No such
statutes are in force ; they have loi^
been repeaded ,• and every dergymaa ii
free to perform the ceremony of mir-
riage, whatever be his denomination,
provided he receives a certificate of the
regular proclamation of the banns.
So that Lord Campbell, if he again
girds himself to the task, must be pre-
pared to account on some more intel-
ligible grounds for the opposition which
his father's brethren have unifonnly
sider, that they are placed nearly in the
same situation as the clergy of the Church
of England, who, without the smallest
scruple or repining, have submitted to it,
because a marriage before a Baptist min-
Church, M hereafter to be put upon the -i^^^ ^ ^jjjg |jm. But, tO do hi«
$anie footing with a »"«rn<gc ffraied by ? ^.^ ^0,^ CampbeU does not Stand
a cUrgMman of the hitablmed Church : "I. ,^„^ .' ^«„^« „:*i, m^i*^ ♦a thtk nm-
but I^hould L glad if they would co„- Sr.4q=e7<f fo^e ^leK
of a regular marriage. Unless then
is a grievous error in the reported de-
bate before us, the Lord Advocate «
„ r Scotland is not quite so convenairt
ister, or before a Unitarian minister, is with statute law as might be expected
just as valid now as if celebrated by the from a gentleman of his undoabted
eminence. Whilst advocating a spr
tem which is to entail the inevitable
payment of a fee to the registrar, he
at the same time considers the v»
which is presently exigible for pro-
claiming the banns a grievance. ^*He
was astonished to hear the honouraw
baronet opposite (Su: George Clerk)
state that it was the first time he had
heiurd it considered a grievance, that
pei*sons could not marry without pro*
clamation of banns in theparish cbufA
by the payment of a large fee to the
precentor or other officer of the chutk-
That had always been considered ft
very great grievance by the dissent-
ing body throughout Scotland, so ^
as he undersUm. The membtts «
the Episcopal communion were, how-
ever, saved from that grievance, be-
cause they were in possession of aa
act of parliament, which provided that
the proclamation of banns made ia
their own chapel was sufficient to au-
thorise a cler^man to solemnise the
marriage." We should like very much
Archbishop of Canterbury ; and I should
trust that, upon consideration, they would
be of opinion that their dignity is not at
all compromised, and that their opposition
to it may subside."
We can conceive the amazement
with which a minister of the Esta-
blished Church, could he have been
present at the deliberations of the
select committee, must have listened
to the reasons so calmly assigned for
his opposition, and that of his brethren,
to the progress of the present bill!
Never for a moment could it have
crossed his mind, that a marriage
celebrated by him was of more value
in the eye of the law than that which
had received the benediction of a dis-
senter ; and yet here was a distinct
assumption that he was in possession
of some privilege, of which, up to that
hour, he had been entirelv ignorant.
" At present," continued Lord Camp-
bell, ^*a marriage by a dissenting
clergyman, I rather think, is not
strictly regular!" Here a hint was
TkeSeoUiih
0 know what act of parlia-
ea any such dispensation from
1 proclamation to the Episco-
Certain we are that the
10 Anne, cap. 7, confers no
i^ege; for Uiongh it ctUows
ition of banns to be made in
eopal chapel, it at the same
link, nnder a penalty, that pro-
n shall also be made " in the
I to which they belong as pa-
s by yirtneof their residence ;"
^uiglyi in practice, no Epis-
marriage is ever celebrated
lirevions proclamation of the
I the parish church. We do
bote much importance to this
loagh it is calcnlated to mis-
Me who are not conversant
I law and practice of Scotland.
) rather impressed, on reading
te, with the circumstance, that
fstem of proclsdming by banns
mth church was denounced,
therefore directed our atten-
more doscly to the provisions
1, hi order to discover the exact
f the new metho<l by which
9 be superseded. The bill is
ly iU-drawn and worded ; but
prebend it sufficiently to see
a it passed into law, regular
M could have been contract-
er its sanction without any
f^ and with no publicity at
till declares that henceforward
B shall be contracted in Scot-
one of the following modes,
otherwise: — Ist, By solem-
in presence of a clergyman ;
by registration, the parties
ig so to marry appearing ^^ in
3 of the registrar, and there
sn signing, before witnesses,
7 of theur marriage in the re-
irldent, however, that without
ecaation for publicity, the rc-
I offtce would be as much a
)f Hymen as the blacksmith's
t Gretna-green, and accord-
irevions to registration — that
marriage — ^residence for four-
fS was required ; and, besides
written notice to the registrar,
I names and designations of the
•eren days previous to the
iby. A copy of such notice
M affixed upon the door of the
and Beffistraiion Bills,
276
parish chnrch for one Sunday, and this
was to be the whole of the publication.
Notwithstanding this, if the registrar
chose to take the risk of a penalty,
and allow the parties to sign the re-
gister without their havingproved their
residence or given notice of their in-
tention, the marriaffe was, neverthe-
less, to be valid and effectual.
Worse regulations, we are bound to
say, never were invented. Why se-
lect the church door? Why post up
the names amidst lists of candidates
for registration, notices of roups, and
advertisements of the sale of cattle?
Is not the present mode of announcing
the names wiUnn the church more
decent than the other, and likely to
attract greater Aotice? But the whole
thing is a Juggle. The bill gives ample
facility for evasion, should that be
contemplated ; for it is easy to divine
that, with the whole proof in his o^ii
hand, and no check whatever placed
upon him, no registrar would be hard-
hearted enough to refuse dispensing
with the preliminaries in any case
where the amorous couple were ready
and willing to remunerate him for the
risk of his complaisance.
So much for marriage by registra-
tion, which, instead of throwing any
obstacle in the way of ill-advised or
hasty unions, would, in effect, have
a direct tendency to increase them.
But the case is absolutely worse when
we approach the other form of mar-
riage, wluch was to supersede that
solemnity which is at present in
every case preceded by the formal
proclamation of banns. The provi-
sions of the bill were as follows : —
No clergymen could solemnise a
marriage, unless,
1st. Both or one parties should
have been resident for fourteen
days within the parish in which
the marriage was to take place :
or,
2d. In some other parish in Scot-
land : the certificate in both
cases to be granted by the Regis-
trar; or,
3d. Unless both or one of the
parties had been for a fortnight
a member or members of the
congregation resorting to the
church or chapel in which the
clergyman solemnising the mar-
riage usually officiates ; or^
276
The ScoUisk Marriage tmd Bts^utratim BiOi.
4th. Unless thej had simiUriy
attended some other place of wor^
shg> ; the same to be certified bj
the minister of such congrega-
tion; or,
5th. Unless they conld produce
the registrar's certificate of a
week's notice ; or
6th. Unless they had been rogalaiiy
proclaimed by banns.
Snch is the species of hotch-potch,
which it was serionsly proposed to
substitute, instead of the present
clear, simple, cheap, and decent mode
of celebrating regular marriages ; and
it is not at all surprising that hardly
one native of Scotland could be found
to raise his voice in fiivour of such
an enormity. So far from publicity
beiug obtained or increased, it would
have afforded the most ample facili-
ties for the celebration of marriage
without the slightest warning given
to the friends of either party. In
reality, this pretended mode of mar-
riage M Jhcie ecdesitB, would have
been far more objectionable than the
simple method of registration ; for, in
the latter case, the recistrar, if he did
his duty, was bound to ^ve some
kind of notice ; in the former, none
whatever was required by the clergy-
man. What is a member of a con-
gregation? Abounding as Scothind
is in sects, we apprehend that any
one who pays for a sittinff in any
place of worship is entitled to that
denomination. For ten shilUngs, or
five shillings, or half-a-crown, a seat
may be readily purchased in some
place of worship ; and if any one held
that seat for a fortnight, he was to
be entitled, according to this bill, to
ask the officiating minister to marry
him, without any further process
whatever. If it should, however, be
held, that no one is a membw of a
congregation unless he is in full com-
munion, all difficulty could have been
got over, by resorting to the fourth
method. The member of the Estab-
lished Church had simply to ask
Jrom his minister a certificate of his
membership, and, armed with that,
ho might be legaUy married anywhere,
^f^ ^y kind of clergyman, with-
out the slightest notice to the public!
We confess that, when we arrived at
hii? £S!*^"',P^ *^« provisions of the
wii, we could acaniely credit the tes-
timony of our eyesight. W
heard it proclaimed, over ai
again, by those who snppor
measure, that its principal a
to put an end to hasty and fll-
marriages ; and on peruflioir I
denoe, we ibund Lord w
most damorous against the i
given by the present law of 8
for tying the nuptial knot, '
due warning afforded to ]
more especially when yomig
men were oonoemed. We !
the remedy, and we find thai
out the assistance of the ic
marriages might, under the pn
of this bill, have been om
before a clei^gjrman, at a b
notice, without any banns aft j
no formality, beyond paja
seat-rent for a single fortni^
chapel, or a certificate to th
efiect 1 A proposal more pim
than this — ^more irreconcQali]
decency — ^more injurious to
terests of society and of i
it is really impossible to CO
and if the language which In
used regarding it thronghoal
land has been generally tea
we apprehend uat the tenq
has b^n entirely owing to a
what inaccurate estimate of i
extent of its provisions. It k
judgment, emphatically a hi
and we trust that after this, i1
defeat, it will never again 1
mitted to appear in eitiber hi
pariiament. Ourrepresentativ
done no more than Uieir c
giving it theur most stremu
position ; and, thoogh a f
dividuals may mourn over tt
trated hopes, occasioned hy A
less blight of a crop of ea
offices, they can look for ac
pathy from the people. Y
assure Lord John RusaeU, I
never acted more wisely ti
refusing to force thronn tb
stages such unpalatabto tai
these ; and we hope that> in ftil
will give the Scottish people
for understanding their own
and not suffer raeir deliben
expressed opinion to be treafei
undeserved contempt, simply 1
it may be possible, by "ma
house," to swamp the snAi
their representatives.
Tkt CuAmu.— wRsff XF/.
277
TBS GAXTONS. — PART XVI.
CHJLFTER XCT.
hnanehasdnM^ped. Settle
my good andienoe; chat
his neighbour. Dear ma-
bcses, take up your opera-
lok about 700. Treat Tom
Sal to some of those fine
> thou happy - looking
the two-shilling gallery!
*|nentice boys, in the tier
!al-€»ll by all means! And
t potent, grave, and reve-
fon," in the fh>nt row of
actised critiGs and steady
m— who shake your heads
fB and play-wrights, and,
cned of your youth, (for
lU honour to yon I) firmly
ft we are shorter by the
those giants our grand-
ly or scold as yon will,
^op-soene still shuts out the
a just that you should all
ladTes in your own way,
bI for the interval is long.
bora have to change their
i the scene-shifters are at
ig the ^*' udes" of a new
theur grooves ; and, in
I of all unity of time as of
will see in the playbills
I a great demand on your
B are called upon to sup-
re are older by five years
yon last saw us *'*' fret our
the stage." Five years !
ells OS especially to humour
ly letting the drop-scene
rthan uinal between the
dbe stage.
O ye fiddles and kettle-
tioie is elapsed. Stop that
Bong gentleman! — heads
he pit there! Now the
'VBP--^e scene draws up :
n.
, dear, transparent atmo-
At as that of the East, but
id bradng as the air of the
RMd and fair river, rolling
de grassy plains; yonder,
iaftuoe, stretch away vast
reqpreen, and gentle slopes
BB of tiM cloudless horizon ;
with sheep
in hundreds and thousands— Thyrsis
and Menalcas would have had hard
labour to count them, and small time,
I fear, for singing songs about Daphne.
But, ahisl Daphnes are rare; no
nymphs with garlands and crooks trip
over those pastures.
Turn your eyes to the right, nearer
the river ; just parted by a low fence
from the thirty acres or so that are
fanned for amusement or convenience,
not for profit — that comes fW>m the
sheep,— you catch aglimpseofagarden.
Look not so scomfiiUy at the primi-
tive horticulture; such gardens are
rare in the Bush. I doubt if Uie
stately King of the Peak ever more
rejoiced in the famous conservatory,
through which you may drive in your
carriage, than do the sons of the Bush
in the herbs and blossoms which taste
and breathe of the old fatiierland.
Go on, and behold the palace of the
patriarchs— it is of wood, I grant you,
but the house we build with our own
hands is always a palace. Did you
ever build one when you were a boy ?
And the lords of that palace are lords
of tiie land, almost as far as you can
see, and of those numberless flocks ;
and, better still, of a health which an
antediluvian might have envied, and
of nerves so seasoned with horee-
breakiug, cattle-drivmg, fighting with
wild blacks— chases from them and
after them, for life and fbr death —
that if any passion vex the breast of
those kings of the Bushland, fear at
least is ensed from the list.
See, here and there through the
landsci^, rude huts like the masters'
— wild spirits and fierce dwell within.
But they are tamed into order by
plenty and hope; by the hand open
but &Tn, by the eye keen but just
Now, out from those woods, over
tnose green rolling plains, harum-
scarum, helter-skelter, long hair flying
wild, and all bearded as a Turk or a
pard, comes a rider you recognise.
The rider dismounts, and another old
acquaintance turns from a shephoxi,
with whom he has been convereiog
on matters that never phigned Tliyr-
278
T7te CaxioHt.'^Part XVI.
[Sept.
sis and Menalcas, whose sheep seem
to have been innocent of foot-rot and
scab, and accosts the horseman.
PiBiSTBATUs. — My dear Gny,
where on earth have yon been?
Gut {producing a book from his
pocket w&h grtat /rwuipA.)— There I
Dr Johnson^s Lives of the Poets. I
conld not get the squatter to let me
have Kenilworth, thongh I offered him
three sheep for it. Dall old fellow,
that Dr Johnson, I suspect ; so much
the better, the book will last all the
longer. And here's a Sydney paper
too, only two months old I (Guytak^
a short p^)e or dodeenfrom his hat, in
the band of which it had been stuck^flUs
and Ughts it,)
PisisTRATus. — Yon must have
ridden thirty mUes at the least. To
think of your taming book-hnnter,
Guy!
Guy BoLi>mo, (philosophically.) —
Ay, one don't know the worth of a
thing till one has lost it. No sneers
at me, old fellow ; you, too, declared
that you were bothered out of your
life by those books, tUl you found how
long the evenings were without them.
Then, the first new book we got — ^an
old volume of the Spectator! — such
fun!
PisiSTRATUs. — Very true. The
brown cow has calved in your absence.
Do you know, Guy, I think we shall
have no scab in the fold this year ? If
so, there will be a rare sum to lay
by! Things look up with us now,
Guy.
Guy Boldikg. — ^Yes ; very diffe-
rent from the first two years. You
drew a long face then. How wise
you were, to insist on our learning ex-
perience at another man's station be-
fore we hazarded our own capital!
But, by Jove ! those sheep, at first,
were enough to plague a man out of
his wits ! What with the wild dogs,
just as the sheep had been washed
and ready to shear ; then that cursed
scabby sheep of Joe Timmes's, that
we caught rubbing his sides so com-
placently against our unsuspecting
poor ewes. I wonder we did not run
away. But " Poftenfia j«r,»— what is
that line in Horace? Never mind now
" It is a long lane that has no turn-
ing" does just as well as anything in
Hoiace, and Virgil to boot. I say, has
not Vivian been here ?
FisiSTKATUS. — No ; but he will be
sure to come to-day.
Gut Bou>ino.— He has much the
best berth of it. Horse^breeduig ud
cattle-feedine; galloping after those
wild devils; lost in a forest of horns;
beasts lowing, scampering, goring,
tearing off like mad bnffUoes ; hones
gallopang up hill, down hill, over
rocks, stones, and timber; whips
cracking, men shouting— your neck
all but broken ; a great bull makiDg
at you full rush. Such fun! Sheep
are duU things to look at after aboil-
hunt and a cattle-feast.
PisisTRATUS. — Every man to his
taste in the Bush. One may make
one's money more easily and safely,
with more adventure and sport, in
the bucolic department. But one
makes larger profit and quicker for-
tune, with good luck and good care,
in the pastoral — and our object, I take
it, is to get back to England as soon
as we can. » . u
Guy Boldino.— Humph ! I shomd
be content to live and die in the Bush
—nothing like it, if women were not
so scarce. To think of the redundant
spinster population at home, and not
a spinster here to be seen within
thirty mUes, save Bet Goggins, in-
deed—and she has only one eye! Bnt
to return to Vivian— why should it
be our object, more than his, to ^t
back to England as soon as we can ?
PisisTKATUs.— Not more, certainly.
But you saw that an exdtementmore
stirrmg than that we find in the s^P
had become necessary to hhn. lo^
know he was growing dull and dejwt-
ed ; the cattle station was to be sold a
bargain. And then the Durham bnUs,
and the Yorkshire horses, which Mr
Trevanion sent you and me out as pre-
sents, were so tempting, I thought we
might fairly add one speculatton to
another ; and since one of us mm
superintend the bucolics, and two oi
us were required for the pastors^ i
thmk Vivian was the best of us three
to intrust with the first; and, cer-
tainly, it has succeeded as yet
Guy.— Why, yes, Vivian is Q®"
in his element— always in action, ana
always in command. Let tarn m
first in everything, and there is not »
finer fellow, nor a better tempge^r;
present company excepted. H«*-
the dogs, the crack of the whip; there
1849.]
7%e CaxtoHS.^Pari XVI.
279
1:0 is. And now, I suppose, we may
go to dinner.
Enier VrviAW.
^ His frame has grown more athletic ;
his eye, more steadfast and less rest-
less, looks yon full in the face. His
smile is more open; but there is a
melancholy in his expression, almost
approaching to gloom. His dress is
the same as that of Pisistratas and
GQy~.white vest and trowsers ; loose
Mclicloth, rather gay in colour ; broad
etbbage-leaf hat ; his mustache and
beard are trimmed with more care
tban onrs. He has a large whip in
bis band, and a gun slung across his
sboalders. Greetings are exchanged ;
matoal inquiries as to cattle and sheep,
tod tbe last horses despatched to the
Indiin market. Guy shows the Lives
of At Poets ; Vivian asks if it is pos-
sible to get the Life of Oivc, or Na-
po^ or a copy of Plutarch. Guy
<bak6s his head — says, if a Robinson
Onioe will do as well, he has seen
Me in a very tattered state, but in too
Sreit request to be had a bargain.
The party turn into the hut. Mise-
rable inimals are bachelors in all
QMmtries ; but most miserable in Bush-
^ A man does not know what
^bdpmate of the soft sex is in the
OM Worid, where women seem a
^tter of course. But in the Bush,
*^ is literally bone of your bone,
"^ of your flesh — your better half,
jov ministering angel, your Eve of
|be Eden — ^in short, all that poets
UTe song, or young orators say at
Mriic dinners, when called upon to
9Te the toast of "The Ladies."
^! we are three bachelors, but we
f^ better off than bachelors often are
Ijaie Bush. For the wife of the
vepherd I took from Cumberland
^ me and Bolding the honour to
«ve in oar hut, and make things tidy
ttd comfortable. She has had a
QMple of children since we have been
h the Bash ; a wing has been added
to the hat for that increase of family.
Hie children, I daresay, one might
hare thought a sad nuisance in Eng-
hnd; bat I dechupe that, surrounded
as one is by great bearded men, from
snmiae to sonset, there is something
faamtnishig, mnsical, and Christian-
like, in the yery squall of the baby.
There it goes — bless it ! As for my
other companions from Cumberland,
Miles Square, the most aspiring of all,
has long left me, and is superinten-
dent to a great sheep-owner some two
hundred miles off. The Will-o'-thc-
Wisp is consigned to the cattle sta-
tion, where he is Vivian's head man,
finding time now and then to indulge
his old poaching propensities at the
expense of parrots, black cockatoos,
pigeons, and kangaroos. The shep-
herd remains with us, and does not
seem, honest fellow, to care to better
himself; he has a feeling of clanship,
which keeps down the ambition com-
mon in Australia. And his wife —
snch a treasure ! I assure yon, the
sight of her smooth, smiling woman's
face, when we return home at night-
fall, and the very flow of her gown,
as she turns the ** dampers"* in the
ashes, and Alls the teapot, have in
them something holy and angeli-
cal. How lucky our Ctunberland
swain is not jealous! Not that there
is any cause, enviable dog though he
be; but where Desdemonas are so
scarce, if you could but guess how
green-eyed their Othellos generally
are ! Excellent husbands, it is true
— none better; but you had better
think twice before you attempt to
play the Cassio in Bnshland ! There,
however, she is, dear creature I —
rattling among knives and forks,
smoothing the tablecloth, setting on
the salt-beef, and that rare luxuiy of
pickles, (the last pot in our store),
and the produce of our garden and
poultry-yard, which few Bushmen
can boast of— and the dampers, and a
pot of tea to each banqueter; no
wine, beer, nor spirits — those arc only
for shearing- time. We have just said
grace, (a fashion retained from the
holy mother country), when, bless my
sold ! what a clatter without, what a
tramping of feet, what a barking of
dogs! Some guests have arrived.
They are always welcome in Bush-
land! Perhaps a catUe-buyer in
search of Vivian ; perhaps that cursed
squatter, whose sheep are dways
migrating to ours. Never mind, n
hearty welcome to all — friend or foe.
The door opens ; one, two, three
strangers. More plates and knives ;
* A damptr is a eake of flour baked without yeast, in the ashes.
VOL. LXVI.-'XO. CCCCVII. U
280
J%e Ottaaom.-^Pmi XVI.
CBept
draw yonr stools ; just in time. First
eat, then — what news ?
Just as the strancera ait do>w]i, a
Toioe is beard at the door —
*^ Yoa wiii take particular can of
this horse, young man: walk him
aboat a little ; wash his back with
salt and water. Jost nnbnckle the
saddle-bags ; give them to me. Oh I
safe enough, I daresay — ^bnt papers of
consequence. The pioaierity of the
colony depends on these papen.
What would become of yon all if any
accident happened to them^ I shudder
to think.*'
And here, attired in a twill shoot-
ing-jacket, buddudg witii gilt buttons,
impressed with a well-remembered
device ; a cabbage-leaf hat shading a
face rarely seen in the Bush — a iSoe
smooth as raaor could make it : neat,
trim, respectable-looking as ever — his
arm full of saddle-bags, and his nostrils
gently distended, inhaling the steam
of the banquet, walks in — UncAe Jack.
PisisTRATUS, (hoping «/».)— Js it
possible! You in Aostralia— you in
the Bush I
Uncle Jack, not recognising Pisis-
tratus in the tall, bearded man who is
making a plunge at him, recedes jn
alarm, exclaiming — *^ Who are you?
— ^never saw you before, sir! I sup-
pose you'll say next tlmt I owe you
someAmg ! '*
PiBisTBATus. — Uncle Jackl
Uncle Jack, (drcppmff hu saddle-
bags,) — ^Nephewl — ^Heaven be praised.
Come to my arms 1
They embrace; mntoal introduc-
tions to the company — Mr Vivian,
Mr Bolding, on the one side— Major
MacBlamey, Mr Bullion, Mr Emanuel
Speck on the other. Major Mac-
Blamey is a fine partly man, with a
slight Dublin brogue, who squeeaes
your hand as he wonld a sponge.
Mr Bullion—Preserved and haughty —
wears green spectacles, and gives you
a fore&ger. Mr £mannel Speck —
unusually smart for the Bush, with a
bine satin stock, and one of those
blouses common in Germany, with
elaborate hems, and pockets enough
for Briarens to have put all his hands
into at once — ^is thin, dvil, and stoops
— bows, smiles, and aitadown todinner
again, witii the mr of a man aocua*
tomed to attend to the main chance.
Uncle Jack, (Am wumlh fidl of
beef.) — ^Famooi beef 1— bread it your-
self, eh? Slow work that cattle-feed-
ing t (Enqftidt dk reei of the piekk'
jar into hie fdate,) Must team to go
ahead in the new woiid—raflway tuDM
these ! We can pnt him upteathmg
or two— eh, Bi&ion? (Whupemg
Me,)— <i^raat c^utalist tiiat BoUioii !
IX>OK AT HIM 1
Mb Buixiqn, (prane^.)— A thing
or two 1 If he hae capital—- yoa have
aaidit, MrTibbets. iLeohwimdfor
the pieUes^^Ae greeHipedaeUirmm
Jimed'tipom Uncie JadCephte.)
Unolb Jaok.— AU that tfak coloDy
wants is a few manlike os, witii capi-
tal and spirit. Instead of pajing
painters to emigrate, th^ should pay
zich men to oome — di, Speck ?
While Undo Jack tumato Mr^iedE,
Mr Bullion fixes his fsrk in a piokled
onion in Jack's plate, and trtasfin it
to his own-Kibserving, not isinadw-
tally to the onion, bnt to trnth a
genaral— '^ A man, geotlemaD, iBth0
country, has only to keep his ^^^
the look-ont, and aeiae on the ^i^*^
vantage {-Hresonraes wx^ inoaicnlsWe r
Uncle Jack, returning to the pla^
and misaingthe onion, forestalls Mr
Speck in seizing the liwt po^^or^
serving also, and in thesasM phOoeo-
phical and generalising spirit as jv
Bullion— ''The great thing in«tf
eountiy is to be always Wowtaad:
disoovery and inventioo, prooptiw
and decision 1— that's yonr go. roo
my life, one picks vep sad vulgtf >J"
ings among the natives herel--*wj
yonr goP shocking! What ^wjw
your poor father si^ ? How is w^
good Austin? WeU?— that^ingw*'
and my dear slater? Ah, that diiD-
nable Peckl-^tiU haqnng ^^,
AnH-O^diaHet,^? BntVUBaioin
1^ to you all now. GentlemeB,cw«»»
your glasses — ^a bumper^^ast'' T
Mb SracK, (m an t^jMedl^;^
I respond to the sentiment in %W^^
cup. Glasses are not fortheonm'
Unclb Jacbc— a bumper-toasi w
the health of the future lam^J^
whom 1 preaentto you in myj^S!:
and sole heir-^Pisiatratas €a^
£sq. Yes, gentlemen, I bete paWJ^
announce to yon that this S'^^'^Tr^
will be the iidieritor of aU my w^f*^
freehold, leasehold, •gncviwv^^
mineral ; and when 1 am in *°^«^
grave— (teAef out hi$ podkd-h^^^'^
}
1819.]
The CcuUons.-^Ptirt XV L
281
cAiir/T— and nothing remains of poor
Jolin Tlbbets, look npon that gentle-
Dum, and aaj, ^^ John Tibbets lives
again !^*
Mh Spxgk, (ehaimimgly,) —
''Let the bumper toast g^o round/^
Gut Holding. — Hip, hip, hurrah !
times three ! \Vhat fan !
Order is restored ; dinner- things are
islemred ; each gentleman lights his pipe.
"Vivian. — ^Wbat news firom Eng-
l»0d?
JkiR Buu.ioir. — As to the fnnds, sir?
HIr Speok. — ^I suppose you mean,
f^tber, as to the railways : great for-
tnDtt will be made there, sir; but
still I think that our speculations here
Vivian. — I beg pardon for inter-
fopting yon, sir ; bnt I thought, in the
iMt papers, that there seemed some-
thing hostile in the temper of the
¥reach. No chance of a war ?
Major MacBlabnet. — Is it the
wanyoa'd be after, young gintleman ?
If me interest at the Horse Guards
en avail yon, bedad I you'd make a
pood man of Major MacBlamey.
Ma BiTLUON, (authoritaiwety,) —
Ko, sir, we won't have a war : the
ttpitalirtB of Europe and Australia
^^"t have it The Rothschilds, and
t fev others that shall be nameless,
^ only got to do this, sir— (Afr Bul-
^ hUionM vp his pockets) — and we'll
^ it too ; and then what becomes of
7^ war, sir? {Mr BuBionsnt^s his
f'Pjt « the tfehemence with which he
^f^ his hamd en the tabie, turns round
^green speetaeies, and takes up Mr
^ftdCsp^ft^ which that gentlemen had
^asuk m an unauarded moment.)
FrviAK. — ^Bnt the campaign in
MajosMaoBlabnet Oh! — and
if its the Ingees you'd —
BuLXJOir, (r^fUlingSpedt^spipefrom
Oaqf Boktimg^s exckuive tobacco-pouch,
md uttem^oHng the Mafor,) — India —
that's another matter : I don't object
to that ! War there— rather good for
the mooej maricet than otherwise I
YnrzAir. — ^What news there, then ?
Bdujon. — Don't know— haven't
got India stock.
MbSfbok. — ^Nor I either. The day
iir India ia over : this is our India
BOW. {Mines his tobacco-p^; sees
a m BsUHon^s mouthy and stares aghast!
— N,B, — The pipe is not a clay dodeeu,
hut a small meersdiaum — irreplaceable
in Bushland.)
PisisTRATUs. — Well, uncle, but I
am at a loss to understand what new
scheme you have in hand. Something
benevolent, I am sure — something for
your fellow-creatures — for philan-
thropy and mankind ?
Mr Bullion, (starting.) — Why,
young man, are you as green as all
that?
PisiSTRATUs. — I, sir — no — Heaven
forbid ! Bnt my — ( Uncle Jack holds
up hisfor^nger imploringly, and spills
his tea over the pantaloons of his
nepliew!)
Pisistratus, wroth at the effect of
the tea, and therefore obdurate to the
sign of the forefinger, continues rapid-
ly, **But my uncle w/ — some grand
national-imperial-colonial-anti-mono-
poly"—
Uncle Jack. — ^Poohl Pooh! What
a droll boy it is I
Mr Bullion, (so^bnnfy.)— With
these notions, which not even in jest
should be fathered on my respectablo
and intolligent friend here — {Uncle
Jack bows) — I am afraid you will never
get on in the world, Mr Caxton. I
don't think our speculations will suit
you ! It is growmg late, gentlemen :
we must push on.
Uncle Jack, (Jumping tip.)— And
I have so much to say to the dear boy.
Excuse us : you know the feelings of
an uncle I (Takes my arm, and leads
me out of the hut.)
Uncle Jack, (as soon as we are in
the air.) — ^You'll ruin us — you, me,
and your father and mother. Tes 1
What do you think I work and slave
myself for but for you and yours ? —
Buin us all, I say, if you talk in that
way before Bullion ! His heart is as
hard as the Bank of England's — and
quito right he is, too. Fellow-crea-
tures ! — stuff I I have renounced that
delusion — the generous follies of my
youth ! I begin at last to live for my-
self—that is, for self and relatives !
I shall succeed this time, you'll see !
Pisistratus. — Indeed, uncle, I
hope so sincerely ; and to do you jus-
tice, there is always something very
clever in your ideas — only they don't —
Uncle Jack, (interrupting me with
a groan.) — ^The fortunes that other
men have gained by my ideas!—
282
The CaxtoM.—Pwrt XVL
shocking to think of ! What !— and
shall I ^ reproached if I live no longer
for such a set of thieving, greedy, un-
grateful knaves ? No — no I Number
one shall be my maxim ; and Til make
you a Croesus, my boy — I will.
Fisistratus, after grateful acknow-
ledgment's for all prospective benefits,
inquires how long Jack has been in
Australia ; what brought him into the
colony; and what are his present
views. I^ams, to his astonishment,
that Uncle Jack has been four years
in the colony ; that he sailed the year
after Pisistratus — induced, he says, by
that illustrious example, and by some
mysterious agency or commission,
wliich ho will not explain, emanating
either from the Colonial Office, or an
Kmigration Company. Uncle Jack
has been thriving wonderfully since he
abandoned liis fellow-creatures. His
first speculation, on arriving at the
colony, was in buying some houses in
Sydney, which (by those fluctuations
in prices common to the extremes of
the colonial mind — which is one while
skipping up the rainbow with Hope,
and at another plunging into Ache-
rontian abysses with Despair) he
bought excessively cheap, and sold
excessively dear. But his grand ex-
periment has been in connexion with
the infant settlement of Adelaide, of
which he considers himself one of the
first founders ; and as, in the rush of
emigration which poured to that
favoured establishment in the earlier
years of its existxjnce, — rolling on its
tide all manner of credulous and in-
experienced adventurers, — ^vast sums
were lost, so, of those sums, certain
fragments and pickings were easily
griped and gathered up by a man of
Unde Jack^s readiness and dexterity.
Unde Jack had contrived to procure
excellent letters of introduction to the
colonial grandees : he got into close
connexion with some of the principal
parties seeking to establish a mono-
poly of land, (whidi has since been
in great measure effected by raising
the price, and excluding the small fry
of petty capitalists ;) and effectually
imposed on them, as a man with a
vast knowledge of public business
— in the confidence of great men at
liome— considerable influence with
the Enfflish press, &c., &c. And no
discredit to theh: discernment, for
Jack, when he pleased, &
with him that was almost ii
In this manner he contrive
elate himself and his earn
meu really of large capital^
practical experience in the
by which that capital migl
ployed. He was thus adn
a partnership (so far as 1
went) with Mr Bullion, wh
of the largest sheep-owners
holders in the colony, thonj
many other nests to feather,
tleman resided in state a
and left his runs and stati<
care of overseers and super!
But land-jobbing was JacJ
delight; and an ingenioiu
having lately declared that
bonrhood of Adelaide bet
existence of those mineral
which have since been broni
Mr Tibbets had persuade
and the other gentlemen m
panying him, to undertake
journey from Sidney to
privily and quietly, to asc
truth of the German's rep
was at present very little
If the ground failed of mil
Jack's account convinced
elates that mines quite as
might be found in the pod
raw adventurers, who wen
buy one year at the deare
and driven to sell the ne
cheapest.
" But," concluded Uncle .
a sly look, and giving me
the ribs, " I've had to do i
before now, and know whai
I'll let nobody but you in
scheme: you shall go sha
like. The scheme is as |
problem in Euclid, — if the
right, and there are muoies,
mines will be worked. Hi
must be employed ; but ill
eat, drink, and spend the
Tlie thing is to get that nu
you take?"
Fisistratus. — ^Not at al
Uncle Jack, (majestk
Great Grog and Store De
miners want girog and store
your depot; you take thei
Q.E.D1 Shares— eh, yon dc
as we said at school. Pat i
thousand or two, and 701
halves.
\m.]
The CaxUms,'--Part XVI.
283
PisiST&ATUS, (vehemenify.) — Not
for ftll the mines of Potoei.
Uncle Jack, (jgfoad humowedly.)
— WeD, it shan't be the worse for
joa. I ahan*t alter my will, in spite
•f joar want of confidence. Your
joang friend, — ^that Mr Vivian, I
think jon call him — intelligent- look-
ing fdlow, sharper than the other, I
guess,— wonld he Uke a share?
PisiBTBATUs. — In the grog depot ?
Toa hid better ask him !
Unclb Jack. — What I you pretend
to be aristocratic in the Bush 1 Too
good. Ua, ha ! — they^re calling to me
-wemnstbeoff.
PisuTRATus. — ^I will ride with yon
» few miles. What say you, Vivian ?
Md yon, Guy?—
As the whole party now joined us.
G07 prefers basking in the sud,
nd reading the Lives of the Poets,
Vhlan assents ; we accompany the
ptttf tili sunset. Major MacBlamey
pnxfigaiises his offers of service in
every conceivable department of life,
>nd winds up with an assurance that,
^ ve want anything in those depart-
iBeBts connected with engineeriog —
"Kh as mining, mapping, surveying,
•c.-;"he will serve us, bedad, for
jothing, or next to it. We suspect
«*jor MacBlamey to be a civil en-
Sioeer, suffering under the innocent
hallucination that he lias been in the
army.
Mr Specks lets out to me, in a con-
fidential whisper, that Mr Bullion is
monstrous rich, and has made his for-
tune from small beginnings, by never
letting a good thing go. I think of
Uncle JadL^s pickl^ onion, and Mr
Speck^s meerschaum, and perceive,
with respectful admiration, that Mr
Bullion acts uniformly on one grand
system. Ten minutes afterwar£, Mr
Bullion observes, in a tone equally
confidential, that Mr Speck, thougli
so smiling and civil, is as sharp as a
needle ; and that if I want any shares
in the new speculation, or indeed in
any other, I had better come at once
to Bullion, who would not deceive
me for my weight in gold. ** Not,"
added Bullion, ^^ that I have any-
thing to say against Speck. He is
well enough to do in the world — a
warm man, sir ; and when a man is
really warm, I am the last person to
think of his little faults, and turn on
him the cold shoulder."
*' Adieu!" said Uncle Jack, once
more pulling out his pocket-handker-
chief; ** my love to all at home.''
And, sinking his voice into a whisper,
** If ever you think better of the grog
and store depot, nephew, youUl find
an uncle*s heart in this bosom ! "
CHAPTER XCTI.
It was night as Vivian and myself
^e slowly home. Night in Austra-
bi How impossible to describe its
bttoty ! Heaven seems, in that new
VQrid, 80 much nearer to earth!
£very star stands out so bright and
lirtieiilar, as if fresh from the time
vftan the Maker willed it. And the
■oon like a large silvery sun; — the
least ol>ject on which it shines so
UMacX and so still.* Now and then
a aonnd breaks the silence, but a
iCNiiid so much in harmony with the
aolitode that it only deepens its
cbanna. Hark! the low cry of a
^^t-bird, from yonder glen amidst
the small gray gleaming rocks. Hark !
as night deepens, the bark of the dis-
tant watch-dog, or the low strange
howl of his more savage species, from
which he defends the fold. Hark!
the echo catches the sound, and flings
it sportively from hill to hill— farther,
and farther, and farther down, till all
again is hushed, and the flowers
hang noiseless over your head, as
you ride through a grove of the (^t
gum-trees. Now the air is literally
charged with the odours, and the senso
of fragrance grows almost painful in
its pleasure. You quicken your pace,
and escape again into the open plains.
• «* I have frequently," says Mr Wilkinson, in his iuTaloable work npon South
Aietralfft, at once so graphic and so practical, ^ been out on a jonmej in snch a
■Mi, aod, whilst allowing the horse his own time to walk along the road^ have
■Meed vyielf by reading in the still moonlight."
284
The Caaions.^Pari XVT.
[Sept.
and tbe foil moonli^ty and through
the slender tea-trees catch the gleam
of the river, and^ in the exquisite fine-
ness of the atmosphere, hear the sooth-
ing soand of its mormor.
PisiSTRATus. — ^And this land has
become the heritage of onr people !
Methinkfi I see, as I gaze around, the
scheme of the AUhben^oent Father
disentangling itself clear through the
troubled, history of numkind. How
mysteriously, while Europe reare its
populadona, and fulfils its dviliaing
missibn, these realms have been con-
cealed ftom its eyes— divulged to us
just as civilisation needs the solution
to its problems ; a vent for feverish
energies, baffled in the crowd ; ofier-
ing bread to the fiunished> hope to the
desperate ; in veiy truth enabling the
'* New World to sedress the balance
of the Old." Here, what a Latium
for the wandering spirits,
<* On variou sew by ^wioni ttmpeite
Here, the actual .Skieid passes befi>re
onr eyes. From the huts of the ex-
iles scattered over this hardier Italy,
who cannot see in the futuie,
'< A race from wheooe new Alban sires shall
come.
And the long glories of a fntore Rome " P
Vivian, (wournfuUy,)'~-lA it ftom
the outcasts of the workhouse, the
prison, and the transport- ship, that a
second Rome is to arise ?
PisisTRATUs. — There is something
in this new soil — in the labour it calls
forth, in the hope it umpires, in tbe
sense of property, which I take to be
the core of social morals — that ezpe*
dites the work of redemption with
marvellous rapidity. Take them alto-
^ther, whatever their origin, or what-
ever brought them hither, they are a
fine, manly, frank- hearted race, these
colontstS' now ! — rude, not mean, es-
pecially in the Bnsh--end, I suspect,
will ultimately become as gaUimt and
honest a population as that now
springing up in South Australia, from
which convicts are excluded — and hap-
pily excluded— for the distinction will
sharpen emulation.- As to the rest,
and in direct answer to your question,
I fancy even the emancipist part of
our population every whit as respect-
able as the mongrel robbers under
Romnlus.
Vivian.— But were <ftqf not sol-
diers ?— I mean the firat Romans?
PisisTRATua— My dear coosid, we
•are in advance of those grim oatcaets,
if we can get lands, houses, and wives,
(though the last is difficoit, and it is
well that we have no white Sahines
in the UM^bonriiood I) withoat fthst
same soldiering which was the neces-
sity of their existenoe.
Vivian, (jtfter a pamn.)-^ have
written to my fhther, and to yours
more fully — stating in Hie one tetter
my wish, m the other trymg to expliin
the feelings from which itiq^iings.
P18I8TRATU8. — Are the tetters
gone?
VrviAN.— Yet.
PisisTRATus. — ^And 7<ni would not
show them to me I
Vi\TAN.— Do not speak so re-
proachfully. I promised your hther
to pour out my whole heart to hinit
whenever it-was troubled and atstrife.
I promise you now that I will go by
his advice.
PlSISTRATUB, (dSttCCWMOtoeif.) —
What is there in this military life for
which you yeam tiiat can yield yea
more fbod for healthfoL exdtement and
stirring adventure than your present
pursuits a£brd?
Vivian.— i>Ml6ifl<wii/ Ton do not
see the difference between us. You
have but a fortune to make, I have a
name to redeem ; you look calmly on
the future, I have a dark blot to erase
from the past.
PiBIBTRATini, (sOVMtfffy.y^lt 15
erased. Five years of no werit bc-
wailings, but of manly reform, stead-
fast industry, conduct so blamidesSv
that even Guy (whom I look upon as
the incarnation of blunt English bo-
nesty) half doubts whether you aie
'cute enough for '* a station " — a cha-
racter already so high, that I long for
the hour when you will again take
your father's spotless name, and give
me the pride to own onr kinship to
the worid ; all this surely redeems the
errors arising from an unedueattd
childhood and a wandering youth.
Vivian, (lining over his horse,
and puUinghis hand on my shoulder,) —
"My dear friend, what do I oweyou?*'
Then recovering his emotion, and
pushing on at a quicker pace, while he
continues to speak, " But can yon
not see that, just in proportion as mjT
1849.]
The Caxtons,-^Part XVL
285
comprehensioii of right wonld become
dear and strong, so my conscience
would become also more sensitive and
leproichfiil ; and the better I under-
stud my gallant father, the more I
most desire to be as he wonld have
luid his son. Do yon think it wonld
coBtent him, conld he see me brand-
ing cattle and bargaining with bnilock-
driven? Was it not the strongest
wish of bis heart that I shonld adopt
liis own career? Have I not heard yon
flay that be wonld have had yon too a
soidier, bat for yonr mother ? I have
no mother ! If I made thousands, and
teas of thonsands, by this ignoble
calling, wonld they give my father
half the pleasure that he wonld feel at
sedog my name honourably men-
tioned in a despatch ? No, no I yon
have banished the gipsy blood, and
now the soldier^s breaks out I Oh for
006 glorious day in which I may clear
my way into fair repute, as our fathers
before ns ! — when tears of proud joy
inay flow from those eyes that have
^^t 8och hot drops at my shame !
^hen lAe, too, in her high station,
l^nide that sleek lord, may say, * His
||6art was not so vile, after all ! '
^'t argue with me — it is in vain !
^y, rather, that I may have leave
to work out my own way; for I
l^yon that, if condemned to stay
°^y I may not murmur aloud — I
^y go through this round of low du-
ties as the brute turns the wheel of a
mill : but my heart will prey on itself,
and you shall soon write on my grave-
stone the epitaph of the poor poet yon
told us of, whose true disease was the
thirst of glory — * Here lies one whoso
name was written in water.' "
I had no answer ; that contagions
ambition made my own veins run
more warmly, and my own heart beat
with a louder tumult. Amidst the
pastoral scenes, and under the tran-
quil moonlight, of the New, the Old
World, even in me, rude Bushman,
claimed for a while its son. But as
we rode on, the air, so inexpressibly
buoyant, yet soothing as an anodyne,
restored mo to peaceM Nature. Now
the flocks, in their snowy clusters,
were seen sleeping under the stars ;
hark, the welcome of the watch-dogs ;
sec the light gleaming far from the
cliink of the door ! ^d, pausing, I
said aloud, *^ No, there is more glory
in laying these rough foundations of
a mighty state, though no trumpets
resound with your victory — though no
laurels shall shadow your tomb — than
in forcing the onward progress of your
race over burning cities and hecatombs
of men 1 " I looked round for Vivian's
answer; but, ere I spoke, he had
spurred from my side, and I saw the
wild dogs slinking back from the hoof^
of his horse, as he rode at speed, on
the sward, through the moonlight.
CHAPTEB XCYII.
The weeks and the months rolled
OB, and the replies to Vivian's letters
eune at last: I foreboded too well
their purport. I knew that my father
could not set himself in opposition to
the deliberate and cherished desire of
a man who had now arrived at the
fall strength of his understanding, and
must be left at liberty to make bis
own election of the paths of life.
Long after that date, I saw Vivian's
letter to my father ; and even his con-
Tersation had scarcely prepared me
for the pathos of that confession of a
mind remarkable alike for its strength
and Its weakness. If bom in the age,
or sabmitted to the influences, of reli-
gions entbosiasm, here was a nature
that, awaking from sin, could not have
been contented with the sober duties
of mediocre goodness — that would have
plunged into the fiery depths of monk-
ish fanaticism — wrestled with the fiend
in the hermitage, or marche<l barefoot
on the infidel, with the sackcloth for
armour — the cross for a sword. Now,
the impatient desire for redemption
took a more mundane direction, but
with something that seemed almost
spiritual in its fervour. And this en-
thusiasm flowed through strata of such
profound melancholy ! Deny it a vent,
and it might sicken into lethargy, or
fret itself into madness— give it the
vent, and it might vivify and fertilise
as it swept along.
My father's i^ply to this letter
was what might be expected. It
286
27ie Caxtans.^Part XVL
gently reinforced the old lessons in
the distinctions between aspirations
towards the perfecting ourselves — as-
pirations that are never in vain — and
the morbid passion for applause from
others, which shifts conscience from
our own bosoms to the confused Babel
of the crowd, and calls it ^^fame/'
But my father, in his counsels, did
not seek to oppose a mind so obsti-
nately bent upon a single course — he
sought rather to guide and strengthen
it in the way it should go. The seas
of human life are wide. Wisdom may
suggest the voyage, but it must first
look to the condition of the ship, and
the nature of the merchandise to ex-
change. Not every vessel that sails
from Tarshish can bring back the
gold of Ophir ; but shall it therefore
rot in the harbour? No; give its
sails to the wind I
But I had expected that Roland^s
letter to his son would have been full
of joy and exultation— joy there was
none in it, yet exultation there might
be— though serious, grave, and sub-
dued. In the proud assent that the
old soldier gave to his son^s wish, in
his entire comprehension of motives
60 akin to his own nature — there was
yet a visible sorrow ; it seemed even
as if he constrained himself to the
assent he gave. Not till I had read
it affain and again, could I divine Ro-
land's feelings while he wrote. At
this distance of time, I comprehend
them well. Had he sent from his
8ide> into noble warfare, some boy
fresh to life, new to sin, with an en-
thusiasm pure and single-hearted as
his own young chivalrous ardour —
then, with all a soldier's joy, he had
yielded a cheerful tribute to the hosts
of England ; but here he recognised,
though perhaps dimly, not the frank
military fervour, but the stern desire
of expiation — and in that thought he
admitted forebodings that would have
been otherwise rejected — so that, at
the close of the letter, it seemed not
the fiery war-seasoned Roland that
wrote, but rather some timid, anxioiis
mother. Warnings and eutreatiefl,
and cautions not to be rash, and as-
surances that the best soldiers were
ever the most prudent— woe these
the counsels of the fierce veteran, who,
at the head of the foriom hope, bad
mounted the wall at , his sword
between his teeth 1
But, whatever his presentimeDts,
Roland had yielded at once to his
son's prayer — Chastened to London at
the receipt of his letter— obtained a
commission in a regiment now in ac-
tive service in India ; and that com-
mission was made out in his son's
name. The commission, with an order
to join the regiment as soon as pos-
sible, accompanied the letter.
And Vivian, pointing to the name
addressed to him, said, "Now, in-
deed, I may resume this name, and,
next to Heaven, will I hold it sacred!
It shall guide me to glory in life, or
my father shall read it, without shame,
on my tomb !'' I see him before mc,
as he stood then — ^his form erect, his
dark eyes solemn in their light, a
serenity in his smile, a grandeur on
his brow, that I had never marked till
then ! Was that the same man I bad
recoiled from as the sneering cynic,
shuddered at as the audacious traitor,
or wept over as the cowering outcast?
How little the nobleness of aspect de-
pends on symmetry of feature, or Uie
mere proportions of form ! What dig*
nity robes the man who is filled with
a lofty thought !
CHAPTBE XCTIII.
Ho is gone ! he has left a void in
my existence. I had grown to love
him so well; I had l^n so proud
when men praised him. My love was
a sort of self-love — I had looked
upon him in part as the work of my
own hands. I am a long time ere I can
settle back, with good heart, to my
pastoral life. Before my cousin went,
we cast up our gains, and settled our
shares. When he resigned the allow-
ance which Roland had made hun,
his father secretly gave to me, for bis
use, a sum equal to that which I and
Guy Bolding brought into the com-
mon stock. Roland had raised the
sum upon mortgage ; and, while the
interest was a trivial deduction firom
his income, compared to the former
allowance, the capital was much more
1619.]
The Caxtans.—Part XVI.
287
isefol to his son than a mere yearly
payment could have been. Thas, be-
tween ns, we had a considerable snm
for Anetralian settlers— £4500. For
the fint two years we made nothing ;
indeed, great part of the first year
WIS spent in learning our art, at the
itition of an old settler. But, at the
end of the third year, onr flod^s hav-
iog then become very considerable,
we detred a retom beyond my most
saogoine expectations. And when
Bjr eonein left, jost in the sixth year
ef exile, onr shares amounted to £4000
each, exclasiye of the valae of the
two stitions. My cousin had, at first,
wished that I should forward his share
to his fiither, but he soon saw that
BoUnd would never take it; and it
was finiUy agreed that it should rest
is ny hands, for me to manage for
^ send him out interest at five
pv cent, and devote the surplus pro-
fits to the increase of his capital. I
k*d now, therefore, the control of
^UOOO, and we might consider our-
wives very respectable capitalists. I
ttpt on the cattle station, by the aid
•f the Will-o'-the- Wisp, for about two
yttn after Vivian's departure, (we
^ then had it altogether for five.)
^theend of that time, I sold it and
^ stock to great advantage. And
we sheep— for the " brand" of which
J lied a high reputation — having won-
dttfoUy prospered in the meanwhile,
I thought we might safely extend our
l^enlations into new ventures. Glad,
f<*» of a change of scene, I left Bold-
iBg in charge of the flocks, and bent
^tome to Adelaide, for the fame
^Jte new settlement had aJready
^tBrbed the peace of the Bush. I
^^ Uncle Jack residing near Ade-
^^ in a very handsome villa, with
J^the signs and appurtenances of co-
j^ opolence ; and report, perhaps,
vd not exaggerate the gains he had
J^:— so many strings to his bow —
^ each arrow, this time, seemed to
J^nme straight to the white of the
^1 I now thought I had acquired
'^Bowledge and caution sufficient to
*^ myself of Unde Jack's ideas,
]ffloat mining m3rself by following
'^ out in his company ; and I saw
* kind of -retribntive justice in making
'tt brain minister to the fortunes
*Uefa bis ideaUty and constructive-
aev, aeoordhig to Squills, had served
so notably to impoverish. I must
here gratefully acknowledge, that I
owed much to this irregular genius.
The investigation of the supposed
mines had proved unsatisfactoiy to
Mr Bullion ; and they were not fairly
discovered till a few years after.
But Jack had convinced himself of
their existence, and purchased, on his
own account, ^^ for an old song," some
barren land, which he was persuaded
would prove to him a Golconda, one
day or other, under the euphonious
title (which, indeed, it ultimatelv
established) of the "Tibbet's Wheal."
The suspension of the mines, how-
ever, fortunately suspended the ex-
istence of the Grog and Store Depot,
and Uncle Jack was now assisting
in the foundation of Port Philip. Pro <
fiting by his advice, I adventured
in that new settlement some timid
and wary purchases, which I resold
to considerable advantage. Mean-
while, I must not omit to state briefly
what, since my departure from Eng-
land, had been the ministerial career
of Trevanion.
That refining fastidiousness, — that
scrupulosity of political conscience,
which had characterised him as an in-
dependent member, and often served,
in the opinion, both of friend and of
foe, to give the attribute of general
impracticability to a mind that, in
all details^ was so essentially and labo-
riously practical — might perhaps have
founded Trevanion's reputation as a
minister, if he could have been a
minister without colleagues — if, stand-
ing alone, and from the nece^ar}*'
height, he could have placed, clear and
single, before the world, his exquisite
honesty of purpose, and the width of
a statesmanship marvellously accom-
§lishcd and comprehensive. But
'revanion could not amalgamate with
others, nor subscribe to the discipline
of a cabinet in which he was not the
chief, especially in a policy which
must have been thoroughly aohorrent
to such a nature— a policy that, of
late years, has distinguished not one
faction alone, but has seemed so
forced upon the more eminent political
leaders, on either side, that they who
take the more charitable view of
things may, perhaps, hold it to arise
fipom the necessity of the age, fostered
by the temper of the public — ^I mean
288
The Caxm$.^Pwn XVT,
[jSCflCo
the policy of Expediency. Certainly
not in this book will I introduce the
angry elements of party politics ; and
how should I know much about them?
All that I have to say is, that, right
or wrong, such a policy must have
been at war, every moment, with each
prtncqile of Trevanion's statesman^
ship, and fretted each fibre of his
moral constitation. The aristocratic
combinations which his alliance with
the Castleton interest had brought to
his aid, served perhaps to fortify his
position in tiie cabinet; yet aristo*
cratic oombinations were of small
avail against what seemed the atmo-
spherical epidemic of the age. I could
see how his situation had preyed on.
his mind, when I read a pacagraph
in the newspapers, " that it was re-
ported, on good authority, that Mr
Trevanion bad tendered his resigna-
tion, but had been prevailed upon to
withdraw it, as his retirement at that
moment wonld break up the govern*
ment." Some months afterwards
came another paragraph, to the effect
^^ that Mr Trevanion was taken sud-
denly ill, and that it was feared his
illness was of a nature to preclude his
resuming his official labours/' Then
parliament broke up. Before it met
again, Mr Trevanion was gazetted
as Eari of Ulverstone, a title that
had been onoe in his family — and
had left tiie administration, unable
to encounter the fatigues of office.
To an ordinary man, the elevation
to an earidom, pasang over the
lesser honours in die peerage, would
have seemed no mean close to a
political career ; but I felt what pro-
found deepau- of striving against cir-
cnmstanoe for utility — what entangle-
ments with his colleagues, whom he
could neither conscientiously support,
nor, acoordingto his high old-fashioned
notions of party honour and etiquette,
energetically oppose— had driven him
to abandon that stormy scene in which
his existence had been passed. The
House of Lords, to that active intellect,
was as the retirement of some warrior
of old into the cloisters of a convent.
The gaaette that chronicled the Earl-
dom of Ulverstone was the proclama-
tion that Albert Trevanion lived no
more for the world of public men.
And, indeed, ih)m that date his career
vanished out of sight. Trevanion
died— the Bad of Ulf«retoiift mide
no sign.
I had hitherto written bat twice to
Lady EUSnor during my exile— enos
upen the marriage of Fanny widi Lord
Castleton, which took plase aboatox
months after I soiled fWm Saghuid,
and again, when banking herboBbHd
for some care animals, eqaiae, pastoral,
and bovine, which he had sent as
preeenta to Bokdng and myself. I
wrote again after '^vanion's etefa-
tion to the peerage, and received in
due time a reply, coninnmg ail my
impressions— for it was fhil of bittar-
neas and gall, aecnsatioBS of the
world, fears fortiieGonntry : BicMea
himself could not have taken a
gloomier view of things, wfaeo his
levees were deserted, and' his pswer
seemed annihilated before the ''Day
of Dupes." Only one gleam of com-
fort appeared to vint Lady Ulver-
stone's breast, and thence to settle
prospectively over the fotnre of the
worid— a second son had been born to
Lord Castleton ; to that son tfaeead-
dom of Ulvenfeoma, and the estotes
held in right of its oonntess, would
descend ! Never wms there a child of
such promise! Not YirgU himsalf}
when he called on the Sicilian Moses
to celebrate the advent of a son to
Follio, ever sounded a loftier flinm.
Here was one, nonsr perchanoe en-
gaged on words of two syliableSt
called —
*< By labouring nature to snstain
The nodding fraote of heaven, and euAi «"
main, .
Seeto their base reatei«d« earth, aaa, HduTt
And joyful ages from behind in envdin;
ranks appear ! ^
Happy dreun which Heaven sends
to gnwdparente 1 rebaptism of Hope
in the font whose drops sprinkle the
grandchild I
Time flies on ; affairs oontinve to
prosper. I am just leaving the bank
at Adelaide with a. satisfied air, when
I am stopped in the street by bowing^
acquaintanoes, who never shook me
by the hand before. They shake we
by the hand now^ and cry—" I wisb
you joy, sir. That brave follow, yoor
namesake, is of course yoor ne«r
relation."
What do yon mean ? "
Have not you seen tiie papeisr
Horethey are>
1W9.]
The Caxtotu.-^Part XVL
289
"Galliiit conduct of Ensign de
Cazton— promoted to a lientenaucj
01 the field " — I wipe my eyes, and
en — '^ Thank Heaven — it is my
coain!^' Then new hand-shakings,
new groups gather round. I feel
tidkr by the head than I was before I
We grmnbllng English, always quar-
lefliBg with each other — the world
not wide enough to hold us ; and yet,
when in the far land some bold deed
ii done by a countryman, how we feel
that we are brothers ! how our hearts
warm to each other ! What a letter I
wrote home ! and how joyously I went
back to the Bush I Tlie Will-o'-tlie
Wisp has attained to a cattle station
of his own. I go fifty miles out of
my way to tell him the news and
give him the newspaper; for he knows
now that bis old master, Vivian, is a
Cumberland man — a Caxton. Poor
AVill-o'-the Wisp ! The tea that night
tasted uncommonly like whisky-
punch ! Father Mathew forgive us !
— but if you had been a Cumberland
man, and heard the Will-o'-tho Wisp
roaring out, '' Blue bonnets over the
Borders,'^ I think your tea, too, would
not have come out of the caddy !
CIIAPTKK XCIX.
A great change has occurred in our
household. Guy's father is dead —
hiilatter years cheered by the accounts
Qfhii80D*s steadiness and prosperity,
tDd by the touching proofs thereof
vhiefa Gay has exhibited. For be
iviited on repaying to his father the
oU college debts, and the advance of
tk£l5(H), begging that the money
■ight go towards his sister's portion.
^ow, after the old gentleman's death,
^ lister resolved to come out and
five with her dear brother Guy. An-
other wing is built to the hut. Ambi-
tiott plans for a new stone house, to
be eommenced the following year, are
cttertained; and Guy has brought
bvk from Adelaide not only a sister,
iNrt, to my utter astonishment, a wife,
fa the shape of a fair friend, by whom
the aister was accompanied. The
JODg lady did quite right to come to
Aaatralia if she wanted to be married.
8he was very pretty, and all the beaux
flUdelaide were round her in a moment.
6iy was in love the first day — in a
11^ with thirty rivals the next — in
dnpair the third — put the question
Ihe fomth — and before the fifteenth
wwa a married man, hastening back
■rich a treasure, of which he fancied
iH the world was conspiring to rob
te. His sister was quite as pretty
IS her friend, and she too had ofiers
mwgh the moment she landed — only
be was romantic and fastidious, and
AuKsy Gny told her that ^^ I was just
Mde for her."
However, charming though she bo
-with pretty blue eyes, and her
rollier^s frank smile — I am not en-
chanted. I fancy she lost all chance
of my heart by stepping across the
yanl in a pair of silk shoes. If I were
to live in the Bush, give me a wife as
a companion who can ride well, leap
over a ditch, walk beside me when I
go forth, gun in hand, for a shot at
the kangaroos. But I dare not go on
with the list of a Bush husband's requi-
sites. This change, however, serves,
for various reasons, to qnicken my
desire of return. Ten years have now
elapsed, and I have already obtained
a much larger fortune than I had cal-
culated to make. Sorely to Gny's
honest grief, I therefore wound up our
afiairs, and dissolved partnership ; for
he had decided to pass his life in the
colony — and, with his pretty wife, who
has grown very fond of him, I don't
wonder at it. G^y takes my share of
the station and stock ofi^ my hands ;
and, all accounts sqnared between us,
I bid farewell to tlie Bush. Despite
all the motives that drew mv heart
homeward, it was not without partici-
pation in the sorrow of my old com-
panions, that I took leave of those I
might never see again on this side the
grave. The meanest man in my em-
ploy hod grown a friend ; and when
those hard hands grasped mine, and
from many a breast that once had
waged fierce war with the world came
the soft blctising to the Homeward-
bound — with a tender thought for the
Old England, that had been but a
harsh step-mother to them — I felt a
clioking sensation, which I suspect is
little known to the friendships of May-
fair and St James's. I was forced to
290
The Caxtotu.'^Pari XVI.
get off, with a fow broken words,
when I had meant to part with a long
speech: perhaps the broken words
pleased the audience better. Sparring
away, I gained a little eminence and
looked back. There, were the poor
faithful fellows gathered in a rin^,
watching me — their hats off— their
hands shading their eyes from the sun.
And Guy had thrown himself on the
ground, and I heard his loud sobs
distinctly. His wife was leaning over
his shoulder, trying to soothe: for-
give him, fair helpmate, yon will be
all in the world to him— to-morrow I
And the blue-eyed sister, wli
she? Had she no tears for til
friend who langfaed at tlie dl
and taught her how to hdd ti
and never fear that the oi
would run away with hml
matter ?— if the tears were ah
were hidden tears. No lb
them, fair Ellen — since tiie
hast wept happy tears oyer t
bom — those tears have Ic
washed away all bittemeai
innocent memories of a |^
fancy.
CHAPTEB C.
(DATED FROM ADELAIDK.)
Imagine my wonder — Uncle Jack
has just been with me, and — but hear
the dialogue.
Uncle Jack So yon are posi-
tively going back to that smoky,
fusty, old England, just when you are
on your high road to a plumb. A
plumb, sir, at least 1 They all say
there is not a more rising young man
in the colony. I think Bullion would
take you into partnership. What are
you in such a hunyfor?
FisisTOATus. — ^To see my father,
and mother, and Undo Roland, and
(was about to name some one eise^
but stops,)
You see, my dear uncle, I came out
solely with the idea of repairing my
father's losses, in that unfortunate
speculation of The CapitaUst.
Uncle jACK(coughsand^faculates)
—That villain Peck 1
PisisTBATus. — ^And to have a few
thousands to invest in poor Roland's
acres. The object is achieved : why
should I stay ?
Uncle Jack. — ^A few paltry thou-
sands, when in twenty years more,
at the farthest, you would wallow in
^old!
PisiSTRATus.— Aman learns in the
Bush how happy life can be with
plenty of employment, and very little
money. I shall practise that lesson
in England.
Uncle Jack.— Your mind's made
up?
PisisTRATUs. — ^And my place in the
ship taken.
Uncle Jack. — ^Tben thf
more to be said. {Hums^ kn
examines his naUs— filbert noA
speck on them.) Then sndde
jerking up his head. ^' That
talistP it has been on my ooi
nephew, ever since; and, s
or other, since I have abandc
cause of my fellow-creaturea
I have ciured more for n
tlons.''
PisiSTRATUS, (smUinff^ m
members hisfatfier*s shrewd nr
thereon,) — ^Naturally, my del
any child who has thrown a 8l
a pond knows that a circle di
as it widens.
Uncle Jack. — Very true-
midce a note of that, applicah
next speech, in defence of w!
call the ^Mand monopoly.**
you — stone — circle! (Jots do
in his pocket'hook ) J3nt, toi
the point : I am well off now-
neither wife nor child ; and I
I ought to bear my share in
ther's loss : it was onr joint
tion. And your father, go
Austin, paid my debts into
gain. And how cheering tl
was that night, when yom
wanted to scold poor Ja<x 1
£300 Austin lent mo when 11
nephew, that was the remaU
— the acorn of the oak I hai
planted. So here they aie
Uncle Jack with a heroical
and he extracted from the
book, bills for a sum betwe
1W9.]
7%e Caxtons.^Part XVI.
291
and four tbonsand pounds.) There,
it is done — and I shall sleep better
for it ! ( With that Uncle Jack got vp,
sad boHed out of the room.)
Ongbt I to take the money ? Why,
I tbi&k yes ! — it is bat fair. Jack
most be really rich, and can well spare
the money ; besides, if he wants it
igiin, I blow my father will let him
hire it. And, indeed. Jack caused
tbeloes of the whole sum lost on The
C^HaUtt^ &c. ; and this is not quite
thehtlf of what my father paid away.
But is it not fine in Uncle Jack !
Well, my father was quite right in his
milder estimate of Jack's scalene con-
formation, and it is hard to judge of a
mtn when he is needy and down in
the world. When one grafts one's
ideas on one's neighbour's money, they
an certainly not so grand as when
thQr spring from one's own.
UxcLE Jack, (popping his head into
Ae room,) — ^And you see, you can
doBble that money if you will just
Ittve it in my hands for a couple of
jens,— you have no notion what I
shin make oftheTibbet's Wheal! Did
I teH you? — the German was quite
i^t,— I have been offered already
seren times the sum which I gave for
the land. But I am now looking out for
I Coopaoy : let me put you down for
>bu«8 to Uie amount at least of those
tnimpeiy bills. Cent per cent, — I
Pttrantee cent per cent ! (And Unde
M ftretches out those famous smooth
hands of his^ with a tremulom motion
of the ten eloquent fingers,)
PisiSTRATUs. — Ah, my dear uncle,
if you repent
Uncle Jack. — Repent ! when I
offer you cent per cent, on my per-
sonal guarantee !
PisiSTRATUS, (carefully putting the
bills into his breast coat-pocket, ) Then ,
if you don't repent, my dear uncle,
allow me to shake you by the hand,
and say that I will not consent to
lessen my esteem and admiration for
the high principle which prompts this
restitution, by confounding it with
trading associations of loans, interests,
and copper mines. And, you see,
since this sum is paid to my father, I
have no right to invest it without his
permission.
Uncle Jack, (with emotion.) —
^'Esteem, admiration, high principle!"
— these are pleasant woMs, from you,
nephew. (TTien shaking his head and
smiling.) You sly dog I you are quite
right: get the bills cashed at once.
And hark ye, sir, just keep out of my
way, will you? — and don't let me coax
you out of a farthing! (Uncle Jack
skans the door^ and rushes out, Pisis-
tratus draws the bills warily from his
pockety half suspecting they must al-
ready have turned into withered leaves^
like fairy money ; slowly convinces him-
self that the bills are good billSy and by
lively gestures testifies his delight and
astonishment.) Scene changes.
:292
Autobiogrqpfiy — CfuUeoMArkauPs Memoin.
AUTOBIOaBALPnY— CnAT£AUfiRIAND*8 MEIfOXBS.
Autobiography, wheu skilfully
and judiciously done, is one of the
most delightful species of composition
of which literature can boast. There
i.^t a stron^^ desire iu every intelligent
and well-informed mind to be made
acquainted with the private thoughts,
and secret motives of action, of those
who have filled the world with their
i*cnown. We long to learn their early
history, to be made acquainted with
thou* first aspirations — to learn how
they became so great as they after-
wards turned out Perhaps literature
has sustained no greater loss than that
of the memoirs which Hannibal wrote
of his life and campaigns. From the few
fragments of his sayings which Roman
admiration or terror has preserved,
his reach of thought and statesman-
like sagacity woidd appear to have
been equal to his military talents.
Cn^sar^s Commentaries have always
been admired ; but there is some doubts
whether they really were written by
the dictator; and, supposing they
were, they relate almost entirely
to military- movements and public
events, without giving much insight
into private character. It is that
which wc desire in autobiography:
we hope to find in it a window by
which we may look into a great man^s
mind. Plutarch's Lives owe their vast
and enduring popularity to the insight
into private character which the in-
numerable anecdotes he has collected,
of the heroes and statesmen of anti-
quity, afford.
Gibbon's autobiography is the most
perfect account of an eminent man's
life, from his own hand, which exists
in any language. Independent of the
intei-est which naturally belongs to
it as the record of the studies, and the
picture of the growth of the mind of
the greatest historian of modem times,
it possesses a peculiar charm from the
simplicity with which it is written,
and the judgment it displays, con-
spicuous alike in what is revealed
and what is withheld in the narrative.
It steers the middle channel so diffi-
cult to find, so invaluable wb
between ridiculous vanity oi
side, and affected modesl^
other. We see, from many
in it, that the author was ral
of the vast contribution he h
to literature, and the finn
wliich he had built his coloa
But he had good sense enoif
that those great qualities wi
so likely to impress the r
when only cautiously alindi
the author. He knew thi
and ostentation never fail to :
character in which they prei
ridiculous — if excessive, c^itfl
and that, although the wori
thankfully receive all the deli
minute soever, connected wU
mortal work, they would not
his hands any symptom of
entertaining the opinion of
all others have formed. It k
summate judgment with wU
bon has given enough of tb
connected with the preparatk
works to be interestinff, i
enough to be ridiculous, lAid
tutes the great charm, and
casioned the marked buoomi
autobiography. There are I
sages in the English laag
popular as the well-known
which he has recounted the f
ception, and final complettoi
history, which, as models of t
as well as passages of exquiaiti
we cannot refuse ourselves t
sure of transcribing, the mo
cially as they will set off, bj
contrast, the faults in some
passages attempted by Ghatei
and Lamartine.
^ At the distance of twenty-ft^
I can neither forget nor expren ti
emotions which agitated my m
first approached and entered thi
City. After a sleepless night, 1 1
a lofty step the rains of the Form
memorable spot — ^where Romoli
or TuUy spoke, or Ocsar fell — ^wai
present to my eyes; and seven]
intoxication were lost, or eigoye
M^moirei cPOutre Tonihe. Par M. le Vicomte de Cbateaubruliid.
Paris, 181C-9.
AMkMfgrt^g^^—ChateaubrianfPs Memoirs,
293
dMOend to » oool and minute in-
ion. It was at Rome, on tlie loth
1764, as I nt musing amidst the
the Oipitol, while the barefooted
BfB singing Tespers in the Temple
cr, that the idea of writing this
and Fall of the city first started to
I. But my original plan was cir-
»d to the decay of the city, rather
tlw empire; and though my read-
nflections began to point towards
Kt, lome yean elapsed, and seye-
stions intervened, before I was
r engaged in the execution of that
I woriL"— (L^e, p. 198, 8yo edi-
ii,tiie weU-known descriptiou
oacliuioii of his labonrs : —
iTB presomed to mark the moment
plion: I shall now commemorate
' ef my final deliverance. It was
KTf or rather night, of the 27th
17, between the hours of eleven
limited sale it mot with fur some time
after its first appearance, lie knew
well how these humble beginnings
would be contrasted with its 8nbf<e-
queat triumphant snccess. Amidst
bis many great and good qualities,
there is none for which Sir Walter
Soott was more admirable than the
unafiected simplicity and good sense
of his character, which led him to con-
tinue through life utterly unspotted
by vanity, and unchanged by an
amount of adulation from the most
fascinating quarters, which would pro-
bably have turned the head of any
other man. Among the many causes
of regret which the world has for the
catastrophes which overshadowed his
latter years, it is not the least that
it prevented the completion of that
autobiography with which Mr Lock-
hart has commenced his Life, His
iw, tWi wrote the'iast lines of simplicity of character, and the
I, in a summer-house in my vast number of eminent men with
whom he was intimate, as well as the
merit of that fragment itself, leave no
room for doubt that be would have
made a most charming memoir,
if he had lived to complete it. This
observation does not detract in the
slightest degree from the credit justly
^ due to Mr I^>ckhart, for his admirable
i iiii&V^tlie' estabHshiJicn/of my ^JJ^ ^^ ^« iUustnous father-in-law : on
kt ny pride was soon humbled, ^^ contrary, it forms its highest enco-
mium. The charm of that work is
mainly owing to its being so cmbued
with tlie spirit of the subject, that it
may almost bo regarded as an auto-
« Ikte of my History, the life of biography.
■in must be short and preca- Continental writers of note have,
more than English ones, fallen into
that error which is of all others the
most fatal in autobiography — inordi-
nate vanity. At the head of all the
delinquents of this class we must
place Rousseau, whose celebrated
Confessions contain a revelation of
folly so extreme, vanity so excessive,
and baseness so disgracefiU, that it
would pass for incredible if not proved
, however, the existence of by the book itself, which is to be found
Mbig in the recesses of his in every libra ly. Not content with
affirming, when past fifty, that there
was no woman of fashion of whom
he might not have made the conquest
if he chose to set about it,* he
thought fit to entertain the world
AfUr laying down my pen, I
eml turns in a bereeam, or covered
MMiae, which commands a pro-
tin country, the lake, and moun-
At air was temperate, the sky
M^ the silver orb of the moon was
from the waters, and all nature
It. I will not dissemble the first
I of Joy on recovery of my tree-
iber melancholy was spread over
,-by the idea that I had taken an
■g leave of an old and agreeable
»; and that, whatever might be
iHfe, p. 255, 8vo edition.)
»^ acooont of his own life is a
if perspicuity, modesty, and
Me ; bnt it is so brief that it
cm be called a biography.
t fifty pages long. The wary
utbor was well aware how
I snch compositions defeats its
ect: be had too much good
) let it appear in his pages.
ay be detected in the promin-
Mf in which he brings forward
xmragement he experienced
le firat volume of his history
bliflhed, and the extremely
a pen. dm IbmmM, mdme dans le hant rang, dont je n'eusse fait la conqu6to
iBwatmpnM^"-^ Biographic UnlrernUe ^ xuax. 136.
Autobiography — Chateaubriand b Memoin,
29^
with all the private details of his life,
which the greater prudence of his
most indiscreet * biographers would
have consigned to oblivion. No one
who wishes to discredit the Genevese
philosopher, need seek in the works of
others for the grounds of doing so.
Enough is to be found in his own to
consign him to eternal execration and
contempt. He has told us equally in
detail, and with the same air of
infantine simplicity, how he com-
mitted a theft when in service as a
lackey, and permitted an innocent
girl, his fellow-servant, to bear the
penalty of it; how he alternately
drank the wine in his master's cellars,
and made love to his wife; how he
corrupted one female benefactress
who had sheltered him in extremity
of want, and afterwards made a boast
of her disgrace; and abandoned a
male benefactor who fell down in a
fit of apoplexy on the streets of Lyons,
and left him lying on the pavement,
deserted by the only friend whom he
had in the world. The author of so
many eloquent declamations against
mothers neglecting their children, on
his own admission, when in easy cir-
cumstances, and impelled by no neces-
sity, consigned five of his natural
children to a foundling hospital, with
such precautions against their being
known that he never did or could
hear of them again I Such was his
vanity, that he thought the world
would gladly feed on the crumbs of
this sort which fell from the table of
the man rich in genius. His grand
theory was that the human mind is
bom innocent, with dispositions only
to good, and that all the evils of
society arise from the follies of educa-
tion or the oppression of government.
Judging from the picture he has pre-
sented of himself, albeit debased by
no education but what he himself had
afforded, we should say his disposition
was more corrupt than has oven been
imagined by the most dark-minded
and bigoted Calvinist that ever ex-
isted.
Alfieri was probably as vain in
reality as Rousseau; but ho knew
better how to conceal it. He had
not the folly of supposing that he
could entertain women by the boast-
ful detail of his conquests over them.
He judged wisely, and more like a man
[Sept.
who had met with howm fortmtt^
that he would attain more effectaally
the object of interesting their feeiiogs,
by painting their conquests over him.
He has done this so fully, so sLaoere-
ly, and with such eloquence, that
he has made one of the most power-
ful pieces of biography in any lan-
guage. Its charm consists in the
picture he has drawn, with equal
truth and art, of a man of the
most impetuous and ardent tempera-
ment, alternately impelled by the
strongest passions which can s^tate
the breast— love and ambition. Bom
of a noble family, inheritmg a great
fortune, he exhibited an nnoommon
combination of patridan tastes and
feelings with republican principles
and aspirations. He was a democrat
because he knew the great by whom
he was surrounded, and did not know
the humble who were removed to a
distance. He said this himself, alter
witnessing at Paris the horrors of the
10th August.—" Je connaia bien les
grands, maisje ne cormaispat lespetiu.*^
He drew the vices of the fbnner
from observation, he painted the
virtues of the latter from imagination.
Hence the absurdity and nnnataral
character of many of his dramas,
which, to the inhabitant of oar free
country, who is familiar vnth the
reid working of popular institutions,
renders them, despite their genios,
quite ridiculous. But, in the deli-
neation of what passed in his own
breast, he is open to no such r^roacb.
His picture of his own feelings is as
forcible and dramatic as that of sny
he has drawn in his tragedies; and it
is far more^ truthful, for it is taken
from nature, not an imaginaiy world
of his own creation, having little
resemblance to that we see aronnd
us. His character and life were
singularly calculated to make snch a
narrative interesting, for never was
one more completely tossed about by
vehement passions, and abounding
with melodramatic inddents. Al-
ternately dreaming over the moBt
passionate attachments, and labonr-
ing of his own accord at Dante fov-
teen hours a-day ; at one time mak-
ing love to an Eng^h nobtoman^
wife, and fighting hfan in the Part, at
another driving through France vitu
fourteen blood horses in harness;
Aniohiograpky'^Chateaubriand^s Memoirs,
295
from the Pretender his
riTiogtoemalate Sopho-
srgy of his picture of the
was himself a living
e intensity of those feel-
he has so powerfully
his dramas. It is this
d to the simplicity and
the confessions, which
le charm of this very
ntobiography. It could
Titten by no one but
aa ordinary biographer
Ave described the inci-
fe, none else could have
vehement passions, the
ktions, firom which they
iketches of Goethe*s life
een preserved, it is evi-
o^h probably not less
) french philosopher or
loet, his vanity took a
tionfrom either of theirs.
er vain of liis turpitudes,
D, nor of his passions.
His self-love was of a
c kind ; it partook more
-scenes of the Father-
one will question the
ithe*s knowledge of the
) saeacity of the light
lins has thrown on the
ad feelings of human
his private life partook
Stic affections and un-
st in which it was
pt alike from the grind-
rhlch too often impelled
watchmaker's son into
^ons, or the vehement
ich drove the Italian
^brilliant crimes. Hence
f exhibits an extraor-
re of lofty feelincs with
Icity, of depth of views
ness, of divine philoso-
lely inclinations. Amidst
ifliasm and effusions of
was as much under the
any man of creature
id never hesitated to
(Nrt lofty efforts of the
idpate in the substantial
r lich preserves or sweet
ringmar mixture arose
Munre from the habits of
le limited circle by which,
eater part of it, he was
living with a few
—HO. CCCCVII.
friends in the quiet seclusion of a
small German town, the object of
almost superstitious admuration to a
few females by whom he was sur-
rounded, he became at once a little
god of his own and their idolatry,
and warmly inclined, like monks all
over the worid, to the innocent but
not very elevating pleasures of break-
fast and dinner. Mahomet said that
he experienced more difficulty in per-
suading his four wives of his divine
mission, than all the rest of the world
besides ; and this, says Gibbon, was
not surprising, for they knew best his
weaknesses as a man. Goethe
thought, on the same principle, his
fame was secure, when he was wor-
shipped asagod by his female coterie.
He had the highest opinion of his
own powers, and of the lofty mission
on which he was sent to mankind ;
but his self-love was less offensive
than that of Rousseau, because it was
more unobtrusive. It was allied
rather to pride than vanity — and
though pride may often be hateful, it
is never contemptible.
From the Life of Lord Byron which
Moore has published, it may be in-
ferred that the latter acted wisely in
consigning the original manuscript of
the noble poet's autobiography to the
flames. Assuming that a consider-
able part of that biography is taken
from what the noble bard had left of
himself, it is evident that a more com-
plete detail of his feeUnes and motives
of action would have done anything
rather than have added to his reputa-
tion. In fact, Moore's Life has done
more than anything else to lower it.
The poetical biographer had thought
and sung so much of the passions, that
he had forgot in what light they are
viewed by the generality of men ; he
was so deeply imbued with the spirit
of his hero, that he had come to regard
his errors and vices as not the least
interesting part of his life. That they
may be so to that class of readers,
unhappily too extensive, who are en-
gaged in similar pursuits, is probably
true ; but how small a portion do these
constitute of the human race, and how
weak and inaudible is their applause
when compared to the voice of ages I
What has become of the innumerable
licentious works whose existence in
antiquity has become known from tho
X
296 AxdM^aph^-'-'ChBdbmdfry^ [Sept
specimens diaiiiterred in the ruins of gieai % bloi in tlie oiipaslddivenr.
Hercolaoeom ? Is there one of them Johnson's sayings wore of a kad
which has tatoi its place beside the which were susceptible of being icoa-
Lives of PhUarchf Whatever is fetid, rately tran8feRed,aiidwiihMefiBet,
to paper, beoavse thej weie ahDOttaU
reflectioDS on morals, aea, or maa-
ners, which are of nnivensl afl^
tUm, and oome home to the seiMB of
manidnd m ewvpj aga. la tUs i»*
spect th^ were nneh «oie likelf to
prodnoe an iflB^prassioa in biogr^
l^an the conyeRsatioiiof Sir Wato
Soott, which, bowerer QhsnuKjo
^ ^ those who heard il, couisted chW
that it may be regarded as a sort of of anecdotes and stories, great part «
however much prized at the moment,
is speedily sank in the waves of time.
Kothing permanently floats down its
stream bat what is buoyant fiN>m its
elevating tendency.
Bosweirs L^ ofJokmum is so re-
plete with the sayings and tbooghts
of the intellectual giant, whom it was
so much his olject to elevate, even
above his natural Fatafionian statore.
autobiography, dictated by the sage
in his moments of ohiuyion to his de-
vout worshipper. It is hardly g<Hng too
far to say that it is the most popular
book in the English languace. John-
son's reputation now niain^ rests on
that iHO^phy. No one now reads
the Bambler or the Zc&r— few the
Lives of the Poets^ interesting as they
are, andadmirable as are the criticisms
on our greatest authors which they
contain. Bat Bosweirs Life ofJokm^
son is in everybody's hands ; you
wUl hear the pithy sayings, the admi-
rable reflections, tbesagacious remarks
it contains, from one end of the w<Hid
to the other. The secret of this asto-
nishittg success is to be found in the
caustic tone, sententious bnvity, and
sterling good sense of Johnson, and
the inimitable accuracy, faithfinl me-
mory, and sJlmoat IniSukiae simplicity
of his biographer. From the un-
bounded admiration with which he
was inspired for the sage, and the
faithful memory with which he was
gifted, he was enabled to commit to
paper, almost as they were deliver-
ed, those admirable sayings whieb
have ever since been the delight
and aduoatioa of the world. We
almost live irlth the members of the
Literary Clnb ; we hear theur divers
aentlments, and can almost conceive
their tones of voice. We see the gigan-
tic form of Uie sage towering Above
his intellectaal compeers. Boikesaid
that Johnson was greater in conver-
sation than writing, and gfiMter in
Boswell than either ; sad it is easy to
conceive that this must have been the
case. The Life contains all the adaai*
rable sayings, verhaUm a« they were
the charm of which consiofeed iatbe
mode of telling and eipreeaoa of
the countenance, which, of oow«i
eottld not be traarfoRed to fiaper.
But it is not evteiy emineat iim
who is so foituiate as to find a bio-
grapher like Boswell, who, totally for-
getfol of self, recorded for portoitj
wUh inimitable fidelity all the stjiBgi
of his hero. Nor is it msay mn
who would bear so fiHthMandiesidi-
ing an exposnre. Johnson, like eveiy
other man, had his £ulings; b«t tbef
were those of pnsivdiee or vima^^
rather tium monda or oondict. ^«
wish we could any that eveiy mmi
eminent literaiy man was eqisuy
immhcnlate, or that an enike dis-
closure of chameter vould in evoy
ease reveal no naore weakneaaai er
S£amn«i than hare been broug^to
ht>y Boswell's futfaftd chroaide.
e know that eveiy one is li^ to
err, and ihat no man is a hem to bta
valet-de-chamhre. Bnt being ame
of aU thai, we were not prepwed f»
the immense naas of weskneiWi
foUaes, and erron, whidi have beea
brought to Ught by the indiscreet seal
of biographm, in the character «
many of onr ablest Uteraiy, poeacsl,
and philosophical charaefeera. Cer-
tainly, if we look at the detaflsof thev
private lives, Aese men of literaiy
celebrity have had little title to aei
up as the hastmetors, or to call tlM-
sdves the benefiactors ef mankaid.
From the days of Milton, whoee
divine genius wm so deeriy taniished
by the aneriihr of hia ieelingB, and
the nnpardoikable lioense In oontio-
versy which he pemalited to hi*
tongue, to thoae of Lord J3yi»a« who
delivered, and without the aspoilT of scandalised his ooBntrjr mad the worid
tone and manner which fomed so by the unifaguiaed proflign^ «f ^
1^9.]
A^iiMographjf — Chateaubriand's Memoirs,
297
private life, the biography of literary
men, with a few brilliant exceptions,
— in the foremost of which we must
place Sir Walter Scott— consists in
great part of a series of follies, weak-
1HH09, or faults, whicli it wonld be
veil for their memory could they be
buried in obliyion. We will not say
tiat the labours of their biographers
hive been the Massacre .of the Inno-
ento, for truly there were very few
imocents lo massacre; but we will
uj ^at they have, in general, done
■ore to degrade those they intended
to deTate, than the envenomed hosti-
litj of their worst enemies. We for-
te to mention names, which might
pn ptin to many respectable persons
ttiQ ilive. The persons alluded to,
and the truth of the observation, wUl
be It onoe understood and admitted
l^ereiy person acquainted with the
litauy history of France and £ng-
W daring the last century.
Vaity and jealousy — ^vanity of them-
wim, jealousy of others — are the
pBtt idlings which have hitherto tar-
tthed the character and disfigured the
jiiopiphy of literary men. We fear it
u destined to continue the same to the
^ of the world. The qualities which
^ntribute to their greatness, which
Wa8i<m Uieir usefulness, which insure
^ fame, are closely allied to failings
vUeh too often disfigure their private
fim, and form a blot on their memory,
vkcn mdiscreetly revealed in bio-
pipfay, either by themselves or others.
Geniiis is almost invariably united to
niemtibility; and this temperament
k anhapplly too apt to run into irrita-
Utty. No one can read D'Israeli*s
any on 7%e Literary Character^ the
■est admirable of his many admirable
workB, without being convinced of
that Celebrity of any sort is the
Bttsral parent of vanity, and this
weakness Is in a peculiar manner fos-
feerad in poets and romance writers, be-
CMae their writings interest so warmly
the hir^ who form the great dispensers
of generml fome, and convey it in the
mM flattering form to the author. It
wwld perhaps be unjust to women to
WKf fhmt poets and novelists share in
tMir weakneesee ; but it is certain that
their dispoaition is, in general, essen-
tially feminine, and that, as they attract
the admiration of the other sex more
itnmgty than any other chiss of wri-
ters, so they are liable in a peculiar
degree to the failings, as well as distin-
guished by the excellencies, by which
their female admirers are character-
ised. We may regret that it is so :
we may lament that we cannot find
poets and romancers, who to the genius
of Byron, or the fancy of Moore, unite
the sturdy sense of Johnson, or the
simplicity of character of Scott ; but
it is to be feared such a combination
is as rare, and as little to be looked for
in general life, as the union of the
strength of the war-horse to the fiect-
ness of the racer, or the courage of tho
mastiff to the delicacy of the ^y-
hound. Adam Smith long ago pomted
out the distinction between those who
serve and those who amuse mankind ;
and the difference, it is to be feared,
exists not merely between the philoso-
pher and the dperandancer, but be-
tween the instructors of men in every
department of thought, and those
whose genius is devoted rather to tho
of the eye, the melting of the
pleasing
feelinm,
feelings, or the kindling of the imagi-
nation. Yet this observation is only
generally, not universally, true ; and
Sir Joshua Reynolds remains a me-
morable proof that it is possible for an
artist to unite the highest genius and
most imaginative power of miud to the
wisdom of a philosopher, the liberality
of a gentleman, the benevolence of a
Christian, and the simplicity of a
child.
Wo are not at all surprised at the
intoxication which seizes the literary
men and artists whose genius procures
for them the favour or admiration of
women. Everybody knows it is tho
most fascinating and transporting fiat-
tery which themindof man can receive.
But we confess we are sarprised, and
that too not a little, at tne want of
sense which so frequently makes men
even of the highest abilities mar the
influence of their own genius, and de-
tract fh)m the well-earned celebrity
of their own productions, by the in-
discreet display of this vanity, which
the applause they have met with has
produced in their minds. These
gentlemen are charmed with tho
incense they have received, and of
course desirous to augment it, and ex-
tend the circle from which it is to bo
drawn. WoU, that is their object;
let us consider what means they take
298
Autobhgrapky — C^ateauMand's Memoiri.
[Sept.
to gain it. These consist too often in
the most nndisgoised display of vanity
in their condact, manner, and conyer-
sation. Is this the way likely to aug-
ment the admiration which they enjoy
so much, and are so solidtons to ex-
tend? Are they not clear-sighted
enoQgh to see, that, holding this to
be their aim, considering female admi-
ration as the object of their aspira-
tions, they cannot in any way so effec-
tnally mar their desires as by permit-
ting the vanity, which the portion of
it they have already received has pro-
dnced, to appear in theur manner or
conversation? Are they so little
versed in the female heart, as not to
know that as selMove acts, if not in
a stronger at least in a more conspicn-
ons way in them than in the other sex,
80 there is nothing which repels them
so effectnally as any display of that
vanity in men which they are all con-
scions of in themselves, and nothing at-
tracts them so powerfully as that sdf-
forgetfalness, which, estimable in idl,
is in a pecoliar manner graceful and
admirable when it is met with in
those whom none others can forget ?
Such a quality is not propmiy modesty
— ^that is the retiring disposition of
those who have not yet won distinction.
No man who has done so is ignorant
of it, as no woman of beauty is in-
sensible to her charms. It is more
nearly allied to good sense, and its
invariable concomitant — ^a due regiffd
for the feelings of others. It not
nnfreqnently exists, in the highest
degree, in those who have thesUt>ngest
inward consciousness of the services
they have rendered to mankind. No
man was more unassuming than
Kepler, but he wrote in reference to
his great discoveries, and the neglect
they at first met with, "I may
well be a century without a reader,
since God Almishty has been six
thousand years without such an ob-
server as me." Yet is this univer-
sally felt to have been no unworthy
efiusion of vanity, but a noble ex-
pression of great services rendered by
one of his most gifted creatures to
tiie glory of the Almighty. Such
men as Kepler are proud, but not
vain, and proud men do not bring
their feelings so prominently or fre-
quently forward as vain ones ; for
pride rests on the consciousness of
superiority, and needs no extenul
support ; vanity arises from a secret
sense of weakness, and thirsts for s
perpetual solaoe.from the applanae of
others.
It is in the French writers that
thi^ inordinate weakness of litersry
men is most conspicuous, and m
them it exists to such an extent as,
on this side of the Channel, to be alto-
gether ridiculous. Every Frenchmsa
thinks his life worth recording. It
was long ago sdd that the number
of unpublished memoirs which exist
in IVance, on the war of the League,
would, if put together, form a lar|^
library. If those relating to the war
of the Revolution were aocnmnlaled,
we have no doubt they would fill the
Biblioth^que du JBot. The number
ahready published exceeds thnost the
dimensions of any private collection
of books. The composition and style
of these memoirs is for the most i«rt
as curious, and characteristic of
French character, as thor nunber
is descriptive of their ruling pasrion.
In the age of the religions wars, every
writer of memoirs seems to have
placed himself in the first rank,
Menry IV. in the second; in that oi
the Revolution, the greater part of the
autobiographies scarcely ^sgoise the
opinion, that, if the first plaee most
be reluctantly conceded to Napotooa
Buonaparte, the second must, bojoad
all question, be assigned to them-
selves. The Abbd de Pradt expressed
the feeling almost every one enter-
tained of himself in France, sot the
sentiment of an individual man, when
he said, ^^ There was one who over-
turned Napoleon, and that man was
me." Most persons in this eoaatry
will exclaim, that this statement is
overcharged, and that it is incredible
that vanity should so generally ptf-
vade the writers of a whole nation.
If they will take the tronble to read
Lamartine*s Cknifidences WBLdRapkad,
containing the events of his youth, or
his Histoire de la RevobUiom de MS,
recently published, they will find ample
confirmation of these remarks; nor are
they less ocmapicuoasly illostFated by
the more elaborate MAmnre$ dChdre
Tcmhe of Chateaubriand, the name of
which is prefixed to this essay.
One thing is very remarkable, and
forcibly illustrates the marked differ-
1849.]
AiOobiograj^ — ChaiMouibriandg Memoirs.
299
ence, in this respect, between the cha-
racter of the French and the English
nation. In France all memoirs as-
sume the form of autobiographies: and
90 general is the thirst for that species
of composition that, where a man of
any note has not compiled his own
life, his papers are put into the
hands of some skilful bookmaker,
who speedily dresses them up, in
the form of an attractive autobio-
graphy. This was done with the
papers of Brissot, Robespierre, Mar-
shal Key, Fouche, and a great many
others, aU of which appeared with the
name of their authors, and richly
stored with these private papers,
tboogh it was morally certain that
thej could not by possibility have
written their own lives. In England
Botlung of the kind is attempted.
Scutely any of the eminent men in the
list ige have left their own memoirs ;
ind the papers of the most remark-
lUe of them have been published
vitiKAt any attempt at biography.
Thu we have the Wellington Papers^
titt Marlborough Papers, the Nelson
A^p^i the CasUereagh Papers, pub-
luked without any autobiography,
^ ODly a slight sketch, though in
lO these cases very ably done, of the
v^'s life by their editor. The
livvof the other eminent men of the
^ Ige have been given by others,
sot themselves : as that of Pitt, by
^n&line and Gifford; that of Fox, by
i^nottor; that of Sheridan, by Moore ;
{hit of Lord Eldon, by Twiss ; that of
I^ Sdmonth, by Fellew. There is
AMre here than an accidental diversity :
tee is a difference arising from a
Mfirenee of national character. The
Saglishmen devoted their lives to
the public service, and bestowed not
s thought on its illustration by them-
lelfeB ; the French mainly thought of
themselves when actms in .the public
iMTlee, and considered it mainly as
a mesDS of elevation and self-lauda-
ti(m to themselves.
In justice to the literary men of
Franoef however, it must be stated
that, of late Tears at least, they have
teen exposed to an amount of tempta-
tion, and of food for their self-love,
mnch exceeding anything previously
seen among men, and which may go
Car to account for the extraordinary
vmnltj which they have everywhere
evinced. In England, literary distinc-
tion is neither the only nor the greatest
passport to celebrity. Aristocratic
influences remain, and still possess
the deepest hold of the public mind :
statesmen exist, whose daily speeches
in parliament render their names as
household words. Fashion exorcises
an extraordinary and almost inex-
plicable sway, especially over the
fairest part of creation. How cele-
brated soever an author may be, ho
will in London soon be brought to his
proper level, and a right appreciation
of his situation. He will see himself
at once eclipsed by an old nobleman,
whose name is fraught with historic
glory ; by a young marquis, who is an
object of solicitude to the mothers
and daughters in the room; by a
parliamentary orator, who is begin-
ning to acquire distinction in the
senate house. We hold this state of
things to be eminently favourable to
the right character of literary men ;
for it saves them from trials before
which, it is all but certain, both their
good sense and their virtue would
succumb. But in Paris this salutary
check upon individual vanity and
presumption is almost entirely awant-
ing. The territorial aristocracy is
confiscated and destroyed; titles of
honour are abolished ; historic names
are almost forgotten in the ceaseless
whirl of present events; pariiamentar}-
orators are in general unpopular, for
they are for the most part on the side
of power. Nothing remains but the
government of mind. The intellectual
aristocracy is all in all.
It makes and unmakes kings alter-
nately; produces and stops revolu-
tions ; at one time calls a new race to
the throne, at another consigns them
with disgrace to foreign lands. Cabi-
nets are formed out of the editors
of newspapers, intermingled with a
few bankers, whom the public con-
vulsions have not yet rendered insol-
vent ; prime ministers are to be found
only among successful authors. Thiers,
the editor of the National and the
historian of the Revolution ; Guizot,
the profound professor of history;
Villemaln, the eloquent annalist of
French literature; Lamartine, the
popular traveller, poet, and historian,
have been the alternate prime mini-
sters of Franco since the revolution of
800
1680. ETen the gtmt name of Kfr*
poleos CMUiot save his nephew fnm
the iriEsoneness of bending to the
eame neoeasity. He nsmed Thien
his prime mmister at the time of the
BonlogDe nuBadTentimy he is cwom
yig hna now in the sakms of the
£lys^ Bonrbon. Sueeeeafiil aothon
thus in France are sunranded with
a halo, and exposed to iniaenees, of
which in this conatry we camiot form
aconcepti(m. They unite in their per-
sons the fame of Mr Fox and the Instie
of Sir Walter Sc»tt: often the political
power of Mr Pitt with the eMbiitj of
Lord Byron. Whether sndi a eon-
eentration is faroiinble eiiher to their
present ntility or lastmg fame, and
whether the best sehodi to train an-
thors to be the instmctors of the
worid is to be foond in that whieh
exposes.them to the combined infinenee
of its greatest temptations, are qaes-
tions on which it is not neoessary now
to enter, bcit on whieh posterity will
probably haye no difienlty in coming
to a condnsion.
But while we fnQy admit tiiat these
extiaordinaiy drcnmstances, nnjMurai-
leled in the past lustofy of the worid,
go £» to extenoate the Uame which
must be thrown em the French writers
for their extraofdiaary vanity, they
will not entirely exculpate tliem.
Ordinary men may well be carried
away by sadi adventitions and flatter-
ing mai^ of their power ; bnt we can-
not accept snch an excase from the
first men of the age — men of the
cleareet mtdlect, and the gieatest ac-
quisitions— whose genios is to charm,
whose wisdom is to instmct the world
throngfa every saceeedhig age. If the
teachers of men are not to be above
the lollies and weahnesses which are
general and ridicidons in those of
mferior capacity, where are we to
look for such an exemption? It is a
poor excnse for the orerweening va-
nity of a Byron, a Goethe, a Lamar-
tine, or a Chateaabriand, that a similar
weakness is to be fonnd in a Madame
Oris! or a Mademoiselle Gerito, in the
first cantatrice wr most admired balle-
rina of the day. We sdl Imow that
the professors of these charming arts
are too often intoxicated by the ap-
planse which they meet with ; we
excnse or overtook tliis weakness from
respect doe to their genins and their
[89L
sex. BntwelmowyattiiennetHK,
that there an some eoeeptiomtstke
general firattty; aadiaoneeDdnatiBi
performer, onr admiratMi fortalmto
of tlie very highest order is eahttOBd
l^ req[>ect fiir the ahnptintf of ebp
meter and geMrosity of disposhin
with which they are aooompaaied. We
might desiderate in the men who a|ift
to direct the thoa^ts of the wM,
and have received fromnstme ttleats
eqnal tothetash, thennafetednsglfl-
ness of hemrt, and steiling good smii,
wluch we admire, not lem than ber ad-
nnrablepowerB, HsMntamisatte Jobf
lind.
The fanlta, er rather iMitifli, ijre
have allnded to, are in an eapodal
manner conqneaons in two of the aaat
renmikabla wiiteis ^ Fmm of the
present eentnzy — LamartuM aad
Chateaabriand. There is asms enatt
for the vanity of these iUastaiomiBm.
They have both acqnirod an eadanag
fame— theirnames are known allow
the worid, and will conthmetehoao
while the French langaaga is spekm
on the earth ; and they hnve botb,lij
their literary talents, been devaftodto
positions far beyoad tiie rank la so-
ciety to which they were bera, ari
which might well make an oidhniy
head reel ftom the giddy pieeipiMi
with whichit issnnonnded. Chatssa-
briand powerfolly aided m cmA^
ing Nq>oleon in 1814, whsn Eorope
in arms sanomided Paris: w
still more hononralde ocmstan^ ht
resisted him in 1804, when, hi the
plenitade of his power, he esecated
the Dnke d'Enghien. He beoaav
ambassador to London for the Besto-
ration — ^minister of foreign aihin, aad
representative of Fnaot at the Coa-
gress of Verona. He it was who pro-
jected and carried into execothmtbo
French invasion of the Peniasda in
1823, the only snoeessfhl expedtthm of
the Bestoratiott. Laauurtine's caner,
if briefer, has been still more daaahag.
He aided largely in the movemeDt
which overthi^ Louis Philippe; by the
force of his genins be obtained the mw-
tery of the movement, ^^stmggled with
democracy when it was strongest, and
raled it when it was wildest ;'' aad had
the glory, by his sin^e comge and
energy, of saving the character of the
revelation from bloodshed, and coer-
cing the Red Republicans in the vevy
1849.] AiUobtOffrapky^Clkateaubrianfrs Memoirs. 801
tamalt of their Tictoiy. He has since have attained the political i^weryrhich
fdlenfinnn power, less from any known tiiey have both wielded if they had
deliaqnencies impated to him, than not' done so ; for no man, be liis
from the inherent fickleness of the genius what it may, will ever acquire
Fresdi people, and the impossibility a practical lead among men unless his
of their submitting, for any length of opinions coincide in the main with
time, to the lead of a single individual, those of the majority by whom ho is
The mntobiography of two such men surrounded. Chateaubriand's earliest
cannot be other than interesting and work, written in London in 1793— the
instmctive in the highest degree; and Essai Ilistorifjtte — is, in truth, ra-
if we see in them much which wo in ther of a republican and sceptical ten-
£ngland cannot altogether under- dency; and it was not till he had
stand, and which we are accustomed travelled in America, and inhaled a
to stigmatise with the emphatic epi- nobler spirit amid the solitudes of na-
thet ^^ French," there is much also ture, that the better parts of his nature
m them which candour must respect, regained their ascendency, and his
tnd an equitable spirit admire. fame was established on an imperish-
The great thing which characterises able foundation by the publication of
the^e memoirs, and is sufficient to re- Atnia et Hette^ and the Oenie du
deem a multitude of vanities and frail- Christian isme. Throughout his whole
tin, is the elevated and chivabrous career, the influence of his early liberal
spirit m which they are composed, principles remained conspicuous : al-
In this respect they are a relic, we belt a royalist, he was the steady sup-
£nr, of the olden time ; a remnant of porter of the freedom of the press and
tfaon ancient days which Mr Burke the extension of the elective suffrage ;
^ 80 eloquently describetl in his por- and he kept aloof from the government
tnit of Marie Antoinette. That is of Louis Philippe less from aversion
the spirit which pervades the breasts of to the semi-revolutionary spirit in
tiieie illustrious men ; and therefore it which It was cradled, than from an
isthitwe respect them, and forgive or honourable fidelity to misfortune and
^fifxi many weaknesses which would horror at the selfish corrupt multitude
^nriae be insupportable in their au- by which it was soon surrounded,
'^^biogrephies. It is a spurit, however, Lamartinc's republican principles are
Bore nJan to a former era than the universally known : albeit descended
P'snit ; to the age which produced of a noble family, and'largely imbued
^ cnsades, more than that which with feudal feelings, he aided in the
pve birth to railways ; to the days of revolt which overturned the throne of
Gwifrey of Bouillon, rather than those I-#onis Philippe in February 1 848, and
*kich raised a monument to Mr Hud- acquired lasting renown by the cour-
*■■ We are by no means convinced, age with which he combated the san-
^wever, that it is not the more likely guinan* spirit of the Red Republicans,
to be enduring in the future ages of when minister of foreign affairs. Both
tfceworid; at least we arc sure it will are chivah-ous iu heart and feeling,
be so, if the sanguine anticipations rather than opinions ; and they thus
enerrwhere formed, by the apostles exhibit curious and instructive iu-
of toe movement of the future im- stances of the fusions of the moving
jvovement of the species, are destined principle of the olden time with the
ifi any degree to be realised. ideas of the present, and of the man-
Althongfa, however, the hearts of ner in which the true spirit of nobility,
Chftteaatniand and Lamartine arc forffeifulness of self] can 9iCi:ommo{iAtc
stamped with the impress of chivalrj', itself to tlie vailing circumstances of
and the principal charm of their writ- society, and float, from its buoyant
ngs ia owing to its generous spirit, tendency, on the surface of the most
yet we shonld err greatly if we inia- fetid stream of subsequent selfish -
pined that they have not shared in the uess.
Eiflaencesof the age in which they lived. In two works recently published by
and become largely imbued with the Lamartine, Les Confidences and /?«-
Bore popular and equalising notions phael^ certain passages in his auto-
wbicta have sprang up in Europe diir- biography are given. The first recounts
Ing the last century. They could not the reminisccuces of his infancy and
Autohioffraphy — ChaUaubriandB Memoin.
802
childhood; the second, a loYe-story
in his twentieth year. Both are dift*
tingoished bj the pecnliarities, in re-
spect of excellences and defects, which
appear in his other writings. On the
one hand we have an ardent imagina-
tion, great beanty of language, a gene-
rous heart — ^the true spirit of poetry —
and uncommon pictorial powers. On
the other, an almost entire ignorance
of human nature, extraordinary Ta-
nity, and that susceptibility of mind
which is more nearly allied to the
feminine than the masculine character.
Not but that Lamartine possesses
mat energy and courage: his con-
duct, during the revolution of 1848,
demonstrates that he possesses these
qualities in a very high degree ; but
that the ardour of his feelings leads
him to act and think like women, from
their impulse rather than the sober
dictates of reason. He is a devout
optimist, and firm believer in the in-
nocence of human nature, and indefi-
nite perfectibility of mankind, under
the influence of republican institu-
tions. Like all other fanatics, he is
wholly inaccessible to the force of
reason, and altogether beyond the
reach of facts, how strong or convin-
cing soever. Accordingly, he remains
to this hour entirely convinced of the
perfectibility of mankind, although he
has reconnted,*with equal truth and
force, that it was almost entirely owing
to his own courage and energy that
the revolution was prevented, in its
very outset, from degenerating into
bloodshed and massacre ; and a tho-
rough believer in the ultimate sway
of pacific institutions, although he
owns that, despite all his zeal and
eloquence, the whole provisional go-
vernment, with himself at its head,
would on the 16th April have been
guillotined or thrown into the Seine,
but for the determination and fidelity
of threebattalions of the Garde Mobile^
whom Cbangamier volunteered to
arrange in all the windows and ave-
nues of the Hotel de Yille, when
assailed by a column of thirty thou-
sand furious revolutionists.
Chateaubriand is more a man of
the world than Lamartine. He has
passed through a life of gi-eater vicis-
situdes, and been much more fre-
quently brought into contact with
men in all ranks and gradations of
[Sept.
society. He is not less ddvilroiM
than Lamartine, but more practical;
his style is less pictorial bat mon
statesmanlike. TheFrenchofallshadM
of political opinion agiee m pbciiig
him at the head of the writeis of the
last age. This high position, bow-
ever, is owing rather to the detached
passages than the general tenor of hia
writings, for their average st^le U
hardly equal to sudi an enoominm.
He is not less vain than LamaitiDe,
and still more egotistical— a defect
which, as already noticed, he ahara
with nearly all the writen of aatobio-
graphy in France, but which appears
peculiarly extraordinary and Uneat-
able in a man of such talents and
acquirements. His life aboonded
with strange and romantic adren-
tures, and its vicissitudes would have
furnished a rich field for biography
even to a writer of less imaj^TO
powers.
He was bom on the 4th S^tember
1768— the same year with KapoleoB-
at an old melancholy chateau oa the
coast of Brittany, washed by the waves
of the Atlantic ocean. His mother,
like those of almost all other eminent
men recorded in history, was a very
remarkable woman, gifted with a
prodigious memory and an ardoat
imagination — qualities which she
transmitted in a very high degree to
her son. His family was very an-
cient, going back to the year 1000 ;
but, till illustrated by Francois Ben6,
who has rendered it immortal, the
Chateanbriands lived m unobtrnaiTO
privacy on their paternal acres. After
receiving the rudiments of edacati^
at home, he was sent at the age of
seventeen into the army; but the
' Revolution having soon after broken
out, and his regiment revolted, be
quitted the service and came toFana,
where he witnessed the horrors of
the storming of the Tuileiies on the
10th of Au^ist, and the massacre m
the prisons on 2d September. M«By
of his nearest relations— In particiuar
his sister-in-law, Madame de CJ|«-
teanbriand, and sister, Madame Ro-
zambo-~were executed along with
Malesherbes, shortly before the Wl
of Robespierre. Obliged now to fly
to England, he lived for some years in
London in extreme poverty, support-
ing himself by his pen. It wu there
\m.]
Autobiography — CTtateaubnancTs Memoirs,
803
he wrote his earliest and least credi-
Uble work, the E$iai Historigue,
Tired of such an obscnre and mono-
tODOQs- life, however, he set out for
America, with the Qnixotic design of
diNOTering by land jonrnej the
Notb-west passage. He failed in
tfaat attempt, for which, indeed, he
hid no ideqnate means; bnt he dined
withWashmgton, and in the solitudes
of the Far west imbibed many of
the noblest ideas, and found the sub-
ject! of several of the finest descrip-
tions, which have since adorned his
works. Finding that thei-e was no-
thing to be done in the way of dis-
oorery in America, he returned to
£igiiuid. Afterwards he went to
Piri8,tnd there composed his greatest
vwks, Atala et Rene and the Genie
<b Ckristianume^ which soon acquired
1 colossal reputation, and raised the
urtW to the highest pinnacle of lite-
my fame.
Ktpoleon, whose piercing eye dis-
<!ned talent wherever it was to be
^Mttd, DOW selected him for the pub-
^Nrriee in the diplomatic line. He
pvtttbe following interesting account
<if the first and only interview he had
*ith that extraordinary man, in the
*^ of his brother Luden : —
1 wu in the gallery when Napoleon
Citdcd ; his appearance struck me with
^ Hreeable snrprise. I had never pre-
^i*«ily seen him bnt at a distance. His
"■Qe was sweet and enconragiDg ; his
2* ^vaatifti], especiallj from the way in
yh it was OTershadowed by the eye-
J>*wi. He had no charlatanism in his
Mi^ nothing affected or theatrical in his
•ttaer. The Ghiie du ChriHianisme,
*hfaJi at that time irew makiHg a great
w rf flotM, had produced its effect on
•KvawoB. A virid imagination animated
Useold policy ; he wonld not haye been
wftal he was if the Mnse had not been
ihtn ; reason in him worked out the
Ueaaofspoet. All great men are com-
fiied of two natnre»--for they must be
al eiie* capable of inspiration and action,
■ iha one eonoeives, the other executes.
" BsMu^arte saw me, and knew me I
r iiioft how. When he moved towards
it was not known whom he sought.
emwd opened; every one hoped the
Consnl would stop to converse with
Ufli; his air showed that he was irritated
at thase mistaket. I retired behind those
around me; Buonaparte suddenly raised
his voice, and called out, *' Monsieur de
Chateaubriand." I then remained alone in
front; for the crowd instantly retired, and
re-formed in a circle around us. Buona-
parte addressed me with simplicity, with-
out questions, preamble, or compliments.
He began speaking about Egypt and the
Arabs, as if I had been his intimate
friend, and he had only resumed a con-
versation already commenced betwixt us.
* I was always struck,' said he, ' when I
saw the Scheiks fall on their knees in
the desert, turn towards the east, and
touch the sand with their foreheads.
What is that unknown thing which they
adore in the east V Speedily then pass-
ing to another idea, he said, ' Christianity !
the Ideologues wished to reduce it to a
system of astronomy ! Suppose it were
so, do they suppose they would render
Christianity little 1 Were Cliristianity
only an allegory of the movement of the
spheres, the geometry of the stars, the
etprits forts wonld have little to say :
despite themselves, they have left suffi-
cient grandeur to PInfame,* *
** Buonaparte immediately withdrew.
Like Job in the night, I felt as if a spirit
had passed before me; the hairs of my
flesh stood up. I did not know its coun<
tenance ; but I heard its voice like a little
whisper.
** My days have been an uninterrupted
succession of visions. Hell and heaven
continually have opened under my feet, or
over my head, without my having had time
to sound their depths, or withstand their
dazzling. I have met once, and once
only, on the shores of the two worlds, the
man of the last age, and the man of the
new — Washington and Napoleon — I con-
versed a few moments with each — both
sent me back to solitude — the first by a
kind wish, the second by an execrable
crime.
** I remarked that, in moving through
the crowd, Buonaparte cast on me looks
more steady and penetrating than he had
done before he addressed me. I followed
him with my eyes.
* Who is that great man who cares not
For conflagrations ?'"t-(Vol. iv. Ii8-i21.)
This passage conveys a just idea of
Chateaubriand's Memoirs : his eleva-
tion of mind, his ardent imagination,
his deplorable vanity. In justice to
so eminent a man, however, we tran-
scribe a passage in which the noble-
ness of his character appears in its
true lustre, untarnished by the weak-
* Allndiiig to the name PInfame, given by the King of Prussia, D*AIembert, and
Dfdtfoiy in tlwir eorrespondences, to the Christian religion.
t Dante.
804
80 often diflfigare the cba-
ncter of men of gemw. We aUnde to
his eoorageons throwing down the
ganntlet to Napoleon, on occasion of
tiie mnrder of the Dnke d*Enghien : —
<< Two days before the fatal 20th Uaicb,
I dieflKd Bjielf, before UJkimg itBrnwe of
Baonapartey on ay way to the
to which I hadxeeelTed a diploBMtie mis*
mon; I had sot seen him nnee the tine
when he had ipekeB te me at the Teile-
lies. The gallery wheit the reeeptiott
was geiag en wae fbll ; he wae aooom-
panied by Mamt and hie aide-de-camp.
Whea he approaohed me, I waa stntok
with an altecation in hia ooontanaaee:
his ehec^ were ihUen in, of a livid hae;
his eyes stem ; his colonr pale ; his air
■ombre and terrible. The attraction
which had fbnaerly drawn me towards
him was at an end ; instead of awaiting,
I fled his approach. He east a look to-
wards me, as if he sought to recognise me,
moved a few stepe towards me, tamed,
and disi^peaied. Retamed to the H6tel
de France, I said to scTeral of my friends,
* SoaOMthiag strange, which I do act know,
most haTC happened : Baonaparte oonld
■ot have changed to such a degree anless
he had been ilL' Two days after, at
eleyen in the forenoon, I heard a snn cry
in the streets — * Sentence of the military
commission convoked at Yincennea, which
has condemned to the pahi of DaAra
Loois Antoiae Henri de Boarben»bMB
2d August 1772 at ChaatiUy.' That 017
fell on lae like a dap of thunder: it
ahanged my life as it changed that of Ni^
poleon. I returned hoaie, and said to
Madame de Ghateaubriaad— ' The Duka
d'Enghien has jnst been shot.' I sal
down to a ti^le and began to write my
resignation — Madame de Chateaubriand
made no opposition : she had a great deal
of courage. She was fully aware of my
danger: the trial of Morean and Georges
Cadoudal was going on: the lion £ul
tasted Uoed: it was not the sMment to
irritate him."— (VoL iv. 228-229.)
After this honourable step, which
happilj passed without leading to
Chateanbriand^s being shot, he tra-
velled to the East, where he visited
Greece, Constantinople, the H0I7
Land, and Egypt, and collected the
materials which have formed two of
his most celebrated works, Vltineraire
a Jenumlem^ and Les Martyrs. He
returned to France, but did not appear
in public life till the Allies conquered
Paris in 1814, where he composed with
extraordinary rapidity his famous
pamphlet entitled Buont^fforte and tke
Bourbons, which had so powerful an
[ant
effect in bringing abont tiie Xestsiar
tioD. Tbe voyiilisti weie tow ii
power, and Chsteasbriind was too
napoftantaBantobeovetleaked. In
1821 he waft seat af iMfcaowdflr to
London, the aeene of his ftraer
penny and suffering; hildSShewas
made Ifinster of Foieign Aftin, ad
in tiuit capad^ pnjected, and siooen*
ftdhr canrM mroogh, the expedHioi
to Spain whidi reseated Ferdmiad en
the throoe of bis aneeaton; nd bo
waa afterwards the pleaipoteDtfuy of
France at the cmtgvns of Verona ia
18ft4. Hewastooliboaiamantobe
employed by the ateimitratian of
Charies X., b«t he exhibited an hon-
onrable constancy to misfoitaao oa
oceaaionoftheBeyolutionofiaSO. Ho
waa offered the portfiDiio of FoRip
AAdn if be woidd abelaia from oppo-
Rtk>n ; bat he reftised tte prDpoetl,
made a last noble and doqoent sftiA
in favour of his dethroned sovertigB in
the Chamber of Peeis; and, wiMm-
ing into priva^, lived in retinMi,
engaged in literwy pnravits, aadte tko
composition or revising of hhi aiBV-
008 pnblicationi, tiU his death, wUeh
occnrred in Jvne 1848.
Sneh alilbof snehamancaBBOtbe
other than interesting., for it autos
the greatest possible range and vsiioty
of events with the reflections of a
mind of great power, ardent imagina-
tion, and extensive emditioB. His
antobiography, or Memoires ^Otts
Tomhe, as it ia caUed, was aoeort-
ingiy looked for with gre<t inte-
rest, which has not been scariWy
diminished by the revolutiott of IW
which has brought a new set of pjw-
tical acton on the stage. Fonr
volumes only have hitherto beenpnb-
Oshed, but the rest may speedily he
looked for, now that the milittfT
government of Prince Louis Napoleon
has terminated that of aaaicby m
France. The three fint voivmos cer-
tainly disappointed ns : eMefiy tnm
the perpetual and oifcnsiye yuwj
which they exhibited, and the vm-
bcr of detaifs, many of them of*
puerile or trfffine character, which
they contained. The fourth volnnie,
however, from which the proccdmg
extracts have been taken, exhibits
Chateaubriand, in many P^^^c^M^.*"^
original vigour ; and if the snooosding
ones are of Ae same stampr w^ F*^
pose to return to them.
1M9.]
neGrteHHtrnd—A'' Short'' Yam. Pio-t IV.
805
THX OBEEK HAIO).
A "short" TARX.
PART IT.
^ Yoir Bust imely be tired by thu
tne, m'liB, of this long-winded
yan of mine ? " nid the commander of
tke Gknoester to the elder of his fair
lirteMn, next evening they met with
tbe evident expectation of hearing
iirtker; ^ hot after all, tUs most be
dull work for yon at present, so I
dmtjr yon are amused with any-
tUof iy way of a change.
— ^*Well, one morning when
Weitwood and I went on decl^ it was
t lUrk staring calm ; as dead as a
■iO'pOBd, save for the long winding
^etve that seemed to oome miles np
Mt of the stale bine water, and get
tired with the journey — from the
boriioii to ns in one lazy coil, and on
every side, jnst serving to jerk the
vM t sp^e back and forward, with
lobody at it. The very bits of
pq>kiD-paring and fat which the
ttokkad thrown overboard the night
Mi«, lay still alongside, with an
^tnA oosing round about them
froQ the * dnsh,' * — the sails hang-
^ froB the yards, np and down,
ttdotbei on a screen — and when
7M looked over the side away from
tkesoa, yon saw your own face, like
inflow's that had been long drowned,
peering back at yon as it were roond
tte keel— in fact, there yon scarce
bev where the water vfos. Some-
how or other the ship kept sheering
nmd, by llt^ and little, till, although
9m had chosen a shady spot, all of a
Mdden the blasinff sun came right
kto bis eyes ; or the single streak of
vUl6 dond Uying behind you, to star-
loard, a while after stuck itself before
jonr face from the very opposite
fHDter — ^yon fancying, too, you had
war eye the whole time on the same
1ft of water. Being lost in a wood
ir m Ibg was nothing to it, especially
iHth tlM son at noon drawn up right
•vorfaead, so that you couldn't look
■loft, and staring down into the sea
of m pool of bright light ; ^^ like
tremendously keen little eye," as
If
MBie of the passengers said, ^^ ex-
amining a big blind one." *^ Why,
put in one of the ^^ writers," ^^ I fear
he wants to take the mote out of his
brother's eye, — this vessel, that is to
say!" ^^ Hang it, I hope not!" said
Winterton, rather alarmed. ^^ He
promises well to do it, then," said
another young civilian, ^^ but I wish
he'd take the bectm out of his own,
first— ha, Smythe ? " However, few
men have the spirit to laugh at little
in a calm near the Line, so Smythe
gave no more than a sickly grin, while
Westwood looked the clergyman very
properly.
Both passengers and crew, all of us
that could swim, gave wistful looks now
and then alongside at the water, hot
as it seemed, for a bathe ; just floating
up, as it were, with the mere huge
size of it, under a dazzle of light, and
so blue and smooth you could'nt see a
hair'sbreadth below ; while, a bit off,
the face of it, and the very air, ap-
peared to dance and quiver like little
streams of glass. However, all
thoughts of bathing were put out of
your head when you saw the black
three-cornered affair, with a rake aft,
somewhat like the end of a scythe, that
went steering slowly round us ; then
cruising hither and thither, till its
infemsd horn was as dry as the deck ;
and at times driving straight off, as if
it ran in a groove through the level
surface, when back again it came
from the other side, creeping lazily
towards us, till it sank with a light
tip^ and a circle or two on the blue
water. The hook and chain were
hanging up and down over the taffrail,
with the piece of rank pork looking
green in the shadow near the rudder,
where you read the white figures of
her draught as plain as in dock ; but
the shark, a fifteen-feet customer, if
he was an inch, was too knowing to
have touched it. *' Pity he's gone,
Collins," said Ford to me, after we
had watched him at last out of sight ;
" wasn't there any plan of catching
him, I wonder ! Now we shall have a
* Cook'ti grease.
d06
ne Green Hand— A " Short " Yam. Bart IV.
[Sept.
bathe though, at any rate." " Gone ?"
said I, " he won*t leave ns in a hurry,
if wc don't leave him !'^ '* Poh, man 1 "
said Ford, " I toll you ho's tired out
and gone away ! " Five minutes after,
Ford was leaning over the quarter,
and wiping his face, while he fanned
himself with his straw-hat, which fell
out of his hand into the water. He had
got over into the mizen-chains to
throw a line round it, when he gave a
loud shriek, and jumped in-board
again. Two or three fathoms of
green came up from the keel, balan-
cing on a pair of broad fins under
Ford's hat, and a big round snout
touched it ; then a dozen feet of white
belly gleamed in the water, the hat
gave a gulp as it was drawn down,
and a few small air-bells rose to the
top. " He prefers some flavours to
others you see, Ford," said I. " Tis
the second hat I've seen you lose : I
hope your head won't be in the third;
but you mariners, you see ," how-
ever Ford had bolted to his cabin.
On turning round I perceived Miss
Hyde with the General s lady under
the awning on the other side, where
the old lady leant against a cushion,
with her hands crossed, and her bon-
net-strings loose— though a strapping
raw-boned Irishwoman she was —
and kept Miss Hyde's maid fanning
her from behind with a large feather
punkah. The old lady had started at
Ford's cry, and gave a look round at
me, half flerce and half order-wise, as
if she expected to know what was the
matter at once. '' Only my friend
•lost his hat, ma'am," said I, stepping
forward. *' These cadets are so tay-
^ous, my dearl" said she to the
young lady, falling back again with-
out the least other notice of me.
" They plague the life of me, but the
brigadier can't drill them as he would
if this were a troop-ship — I wish he
could, for the sake of the profession !
— now, my dear, d^o kape out of the
s-huni" However I stuck where I
was, fancying I caught the slightest
-bit of an arch twinkle in the corner of
the young lady's eye, though she
didn't look at me. *^ Keep going,
can't ye!" said the old lady crossly
to the maid. " No, ma'am, indeed !"
eaid the girl, glancing over to her
young mistress, " I'm ready to drop I"
** Send up papa's kitmagar, then.
Wilkins,'' said Miss Hyde ; and the
girl went off toward the gallery stair,
muttering she ^^ hoped she didn't come
— ^here to be — made a black Indiaa
slave of— at least to an old" — the re-
mainder being lost in the stair. As I
leant on the rail-netting, behind the
old lady, I happened to tread on her
fat pug-dog's tail, whereupon the ugly
brute made its teeth meet withoot
further notice in the small of my leg,
after which it gave a yelp, and ran
beneath the chairs. " What's that,
Die?" exclaimed its mistress: ^^good
hivens ! is that same griflin here yet,
my dear I Hadn't hcayren the spirit to
take a hint? — I say, was it you hurt
Dianny, young man?" " Ob, dear!
no, ma'am, not for the world!" said.
I, looking at my troosers, hard as
the thing was to stand, bat thinking t(»
smooth her over, though I was*nt quit»
up to the old Irishwoman, it tomedl
out. ^^Hal ha! so she bit yoa?'*
said she, with a flash of her hawk's*
eye, and leaning back again cwAIt =
*' If he'd only kicked poor Die for
it under my chair, now, I*d havo
foi^ven him; but he hadn't ayreoa
the heart at the time to drop ber »
curse, — and I thmkin^ all the while*
too, by the Inke of his eye, he was
from the county Clare I My hearC
warms to the coanty Clare always*
because, although I'm not Irish my-
self, you know, I'd once a schooUeUo^
was bom in it — without conntiog slL
my relations I Oh, the smooth spsl-
peenl" continued she, harder tba&
before, glancing at me as I looked all
abroad from one to the other ; — ^^ lis*
ten, niver you let that fellow spake to
you, my dear! he's too . Bot
here I walked quietly off, to pot tba
poop's length betwixt me and tbo
talking old vixen, carsing her and her
dog both, quite enough to have ptessed
her Irish fancy.
On the quarterdeck, the Judge and
the General seemed to eptoy the beat
and quiet, sitting with their feet op
before the ronnd-honse, and smokisg
their long red-twisted hookahs, wbile
they watched the wreaths of soioke go
whirling straight up from the bowls to
the awning, and listened to the ftiot
bubble of it through the water in tbe
bottles, just dropping a word now and
then to each other. A tall thin *'ni-
tivo" servant, with long sooty biir
im.]
The Green Hand.^A " Short " Yarn. Part I V.
307
haDgiog from his snow-white turban,
stood ^hind the Jndge*s chair, bolt
npright, with his arms folded, and
twice as solemn as Sir Charles him-
self: jon saw a stem-window shining
fir iImIV, through one of the round-
hoose doors, and the fat old fellow of
icouinmah* busy laying the cloth for
tiiBD, while the sole breath of air
thm was came out of there-away.
Soddenly eight bells struck, and
ereiy one seemed glad of something
new; the Judge's consumah came out
Mliamiog to say tiflin was ready;
tlie caddy passengers went below for
wine-ind- water and biscuit ; and the
sen were at dinner. There being
nothing to take care of on deck, and
the heat of coarse getting greater, not
isodI staid up but myself ; but I pre-
fiened at the moment lighting a
cheroot, and going up aft to see clear
of the awnings. The cockatoo had
been left on Uie poop-rail, with his
silrer chain hitched round one of the
nizen badc-stays, where it shifted
jnm one leg to the other, hooked
itelfnp the back-stay as far as it
covhl ^, then hurried down again,
and mnaed a bit, as wise as Solomon,
--then screamed out at the top of its
^'Oioe— " Tip— tip — ^pr-r-Fetty cacka
"-tq>-poo — cok-ka — whee-yew-ew-
^\^ finishing by a whistle of tri-
*oph fit to have split one's ears, or
^^'i^i a gale of wind— though not
tt aocoont of skill in its books, at any
ite. Again it took to swinging
Viietly h^-down, at a furious rate,
^ then slewed upright to plume Its
leathers, and shake the pink tuft on
b head. No sooner had I got up the
itiir, however, than, to my perfect
M^fht, I saw Violet Hyde was still
Mttug aft, and the old Irishwoman
90oe; so I stepped to the taffrail at
noe, and, for something to be about,
I hauled up the shark-hook from
utern. The moment I caught her
^e, the young lady smiled — bv way
flf making np, no doubt, for the old
MM. *' How very lonely it is !'* said
Aev rifling and looking out ; ** the
lUp almost seems deserted, except by
M i" ** By JoTO ! I almost wish it
mn^ thought L *^ A dead calm,
madam,*' I said, '' and Ukel;r to hold
—the imder-swell's gone qmte down.
and a haze growing." " Arc we snre
ever to leave this spot then ?" asked
she, with a slight look of anxiety.
" Never fear it, ma^am," said I ; " as
soon as the haze melts again, we^rc
near a breeze I assure you — only, by
the length of the calm and the heat
together, not to speak of our being so
far to eastward, I'm afraid we mayn't
get rid of it without a gale at the end
to match." " Indeed?" said Miss
Hyde. The fact was, West wood and
I had been keeping a log, and calcu-
lated just now we were somewhere to
south-eastward of Ascension ; where-
as, by the captain and mate's reckon-
ing, she was much farther to west.
^^ I never thought the sea could ap-
pear so awful," said she, as if to her-
self— " much more than in a storm."
" AVhy, madam," said I, " you
haven't exactly seen one this voyage
— one needs to be close-hauled on the
Cape for that." Somehow or other,
in speaking to her^ by this time I for-
got entirely about keeping up the
sham cadet, and slipped into my own
way again ; so all at once I felt her
two dark-blue eyes looking at mo
curiously. " How ! — why," exdaimed
she suddenly, and then laughing,
" you seem to know all about it I —
why, you speak — have you been stu-
dying sea affairs so thoroughly, sir,
with your friend, who — but I do think,
now, one can scarcely trust to what
you have said?" "Well — why —
well," said I, fiddling with the shark-
hook, ^^ I don't know how it is, but I
feel as if I must have been at sea
some time or other before ; — you
wouldn't suppose it, ma'am, bnt when-
ever I fix my eyes on a particular
rope, I seem almost to know the name
of it!" "And its use, too?" asked
she, men-ily. " I shouldn't wonder I"
said I ; " perhaps I was horn at sea,
you know, ma*am ? " and I gave a side-
look to notice how she took it. "Ah !
perhaps ! " said Miss Hyde, laughing ;
"but do you know one sometimes
fancies these things ; and now I think
of it, sir, I even imagined for a moment
I had seen yo»/r««§^ before !" "Oh,"
said I, " that couldn't be the case ; I'm
sure, /or my part, I should recollect
dear enough if I'd seen — a — a ladif
anywhere ! I think you said something
* East-Indian steward.
308
The Grem Htmd—A ^^ Skari" Ymn. Part IV.
Ifi^
of the kind, ma^ani, thai ni^t of the
last squall— about the water and the
dooda, ma*am, yoa rememfoer?" The
young lady looked away, thoagfa a no-
tion seemed to flash throngh her mind.
^* Yes," said she, *^ tiiat teriiUerain —
you were " " Washed into the lee-
scnppers," said I, indifferently, for I
didn't want her to sospect it was /
that had kissed her hand in the dark
as I carried her in. "I hope Sir
Charies and yoonelf got in safe,
madam ?" However, she was watching
the water alongside, and soddenly lAe
exclaimed — '^Dearl what a pretty
little fishP ''By heaTenal" said I,
seeing die creature with its sharp nose
and blae bars, as it glanced abont near
the surface, and then swam in below
the ship's bilge again, '' that's one of
the old villain's pllots--4ie's lying right
across our keell I wish I could catch
that shark !" The poric was of no use
for such an old sea4awyer, and I cast
a wistful eye on the LrishwDman's fat
pug-dog stretched asleep on her shawl
by the bnlwaric; she was far gone in
the family way, and, thought I, '' he'd
take that in a trice !" I even laid out
some marline from a stem-locker, and
noticed how neatly one could pass the
hook under her belly round to the
tidl, and seise her so snugly on,
muzzled and all; but it was no go,
with the devil to pay afterwards. All
of a sudden I heai^ somebody hawking
and spitting above the awning forward,
near where the cockatoo kept still try-
ing to master his own name. " The
Yankee, for a thousand 1" thought I,
*' is Daniel trying to walk along the
spanker-boom I" Next, some one sung
out, '' Hal-loo*oo-oo !" as if there was
a tomahawk orer him, ready to split
his brain. Miss Hyde looked alarmed,
when the Scotch mate, as I thought,
roared, '^ Shiver my tops'ls 1" then it
was a sailor hailing grnffiy, '' Bloody
Capting Brown — bloody Ci^tiing
Brown, damn your— daptmg Brown I"
'' Somebody drunk aloft t" thought I,
walking forward to see; whenanmny
little black head peeped round the
awning, with a yellow nose as sharp as
a marlinspike, and red spectacles.
seeniBgly, romd its keen Uttle eyes;
then, with a flutter nd a hop, the
steward's pet Mina-bird came dowo,
and lighted Juat mtderthe eeckafteo.
"Haf said I, laiu^img, ''ifs only
Faxnon Bamadhe!" as the meaaOled
Urn— a sooty little creatne seane big-
ger tfaaa a biackbtrd, with a white
spot on. each wing, aadacmieiupMr
of nataral gfauses on his head, idiieh
they kept in the fi>reea8tle and taaght
aU sortaof ''jaw,'* till theyawom lie
eould have pot Ike ship about, took
khidiy to tar, and hunted the eod-
roaches like n cat No doidithewtt
1^ to meet bin eountiTmaa the
eeekatoo, but Tippoo stuck up bii
crest, swelled his ehope, and looked
dreadlbUyfrMtened; while ftelGBa-
biri* eoeked his head on one side,
gave a knowing wink as it woe,
though aU the tine aa grate with kis
spectooies aa a veal panon. ^*How^
her head?" croaked he, in a voioeUkB
a (luarter-master^ ^bhnring hvdl"
'' Damn Capting Brown !" and bopped
nearer to the poor cockatoo, who coaid
stand it no longer, but hooked hhaielf
up the baekstav^aa tet aa poBiible, oBt
of sif^t, the dkaia running with him:
and just as I swumr myself dear of tke
awning to run aloft for a catdi of it,
out flew Panon Banacle to the end of
the crojack-yard, while the cockatoo
gave a flap wat kxMsed the kilmagv*!
lubberly hitch, and sent him down witk
hM wings spread on the water. At
another time it wouldn't have cost ne
a thought to go head-foremost ate
him, when I heard his young nditretf
exdaiming, "Oh, poor dear Tlppoo
will be drowned I" butreeoUeotfaigoar
hungry green friend on the other lide,
I jumped down for the end of a rope
to dip myself quietly alongside witk.
However, at the very moment, Tom
the man-o'-war's man happening to
come up fhmi the fore^hatchway to
throw something overboard, and seeing
BUSS Hyde's cockatoo, off went hu
edioes and jacket at once, and I heard
the splash as he strack the water. I
had scares time to thuik, eitiior, before
I saw Mick O'Hooney^sred head shoot
up on deck, and heard him eing out,
* Mina-htrd, or Grrakle ; a fireqnent pet in homeward-bound East Indiamen, and
atngnlar for its mtmetie fkenlty; bat impudent, and,fhymedneatiofnAldisadTantag«8i
not partionhuriy select in its expressions: appesranee as deseribed by the
lieatenant.
1849.]
I%e Cfrtem HoMd—A " Short " Yam. Part IV.
309
«' Han OTerboard, be the powers, boys !
Fdly my lader ! Hnrroo V* and over
he sprang. ^' Here's dip," said another,
ad in half a minote every man that
«»ld swim was fionndering in the
Mooth water alongside, or his head
Aowing as it came np, — pitching the
«Nkatoo to each other, and all ready
Is CDJoy their bathe ; though, for my
pvt, I made but one spring to the
lUp's starboard quarter, to use the
fAj chance of saviug the thoughtless
ttbwB from a bloody fate to some of
tlML I knew the shark would be
caitMos at first, on such a sudden to-
do, ind I had marked his whereabouts
vfails the men were all well toward tlie
bm; and '^hang itl," thought I,
MdDg the old woman's fat pug in my
viy, "Dianny, or die-all ; I bear no
Biiioe, but yon must go for it, my
beiitjl" As quick as thought, I made
OMtara of marline round her nose,
took off the pork, and lashed her fast
« to the hook all standing, in spite of
bcr flqueaks ; then twist^ the lady's
ihawi round the chain for a blind to it,
nd flung the whole right over the lar-
burd quuler, where I guessed the old
ftUow would be slewing round astern
tokvs a lookout before he went fairly
IB chase. I watched the line sink
iMj with the weight over the gun-
vilefor half a minute, afraid to let him
Meny head, and trembling for fear I
ihoohi hear a cry from one of the men ;
vhes jerk went the ropo clear of a be-
h^hig.pui as he ran off with his bait.
Itook a quick turn to hook him smartly
fa the throat, and then eased off again
tin the "deets" brought him up with
B **iiirge " fit to have parted the line,
U it not been good new three-inch
np»— though, as it was, the big India-
>>» would soon have sheered stem-
"BiBd to the force of it, if he'd only
P^.fair. The yonng lady stood
^otidngwhat I did, first in a perplexed
'^ of way, and then with no small
i^priie, especially when the shark
9*s every now and then a fiercer tug,
** he took a sweep astern : by this
f"*8i however, everybody was on deck
^^crowd, Uie passengers all in a
"*^, and half of the men scrambling
jjP fiom alongside to taU on to the
h>e, and nm him out of water. So
twiT they went with it full speed to-
^^ the bows, as soon as the ladies
^^ out of the way — dragging two or
three cadets back foremost, head over
heels, down the poop stair — till, in
spite of his tugging, tlie sliark's round
snout showed over the taffrail, with
the mouth wide open under his chin,
as it were, and one row of teeth laid fiat
behind another, like a comb-maker's
shop. A running bowline passed round
his handsome waist, then another pull,
and over he came on the poop, floun-
dering fourteen feet long, and flourish-
ing his tail for room, till the carpenter
chopped it across, in a lucky moment,
with his axe.
All hands gathered round the shark
to see him cut up, which was as good
as a play to them, becalmed as we
were ; when, to my no small dismay,
I heard Mrs Brigadier Brady's loud
voice asking where her dog was ; and
the Brigadier himself, who seemed
more afndd of his wife than anybody
cdse, kept poking about with his red-
faced EngUsh butler to flud the ani-
mal. ''For godsake," said he, in a
half whisper, twenty times over,
" haven't ye seen Mrs Brady's dog,
any of ye ? — she'll i*out the ship inside
out for it, captain, if we don't soon
ase her mindl" However, I knew
only Miss Hyde was aware who
caught the shark, and as she didn't
appear to have told, why of course I
kept all fast, myself. ''Here's a
'baccy-box 1" sung out the big old
boatswain, standing astride over the
tail, while the cook and his black mate
ripped away from the tail up. " Hand
over, if yc please, sir," said ' ugly '
Harry, "it's mine's, Mr Burton!''
Harry gave it a wipe on his knee, and
coolly bit a quid off the end of his
lost pigtail. The next thing was
Ford's hat, which no one claimed, so
black Sambo clapped it on his woolly
head. " Wiiat's that you've got there
now. Sambo?" said the boatswain,
" out with it, my lad 1" " Golly 1"
chuckled the nigger, rolling the whites
of his eyes and grinning like mad ;
" oh sar, misser Barton ! dis 'ere
shark riglar navligatorl I 'dare to
you, sar, nm got chr'omcter aboard !
Oh gnm ! berry much t'ink dis you
own lost silber tickler, misser Barton ! "
"Bless me, so it is, my lad!" said
the boatswain, as the black handed
him a silver watch as big as a turnip,
and he looked at the cook, who was
busy fumbling with his knife. " Sony
810
TU Green Hand^A " Short " Yam. P»t IV.
as you was taxed with it, doctor!"*
said he, doubtfollj, — " well Fm Wow-
ed, though ! — it only goes an hour and
a-half, — and here it's a-ticklng yet!"
Here a burst of laughter went round,
aud somebody sung out, ^* Maybe the
onld pawn-broking Judas of a shark
winded it up, hisself, list to mark
the time o* his * goin' off the hooks'!"
'^ I say, doctor!'' hailed another,
*^ too bloody bad, an't it though, to
cut up yer undef'* *^ Ha I ha I ha ! "
cried the cadets and writers, looking
at the Scotch surgeon, ^^d'ye hear
that, doctor? I wouldn't stand it!
They say yon ain't particular in £din-
bro', though! Some mm mistakes
happened there, eh, doctor?" The
Scotchman got into a passion at this,
being the worst cut they could give
any fellow from a country where they
were famous for kindred and body-
snatching at once — but all of a sudden
there was a *' HuUoo ! Shiver my
taw'scls I What's this ? Let's see ! "
and the whole poopful of us were
shoving together, anil jumping on each
other's shoulders to have a look.
" WeU, we-eUI" said the old boat-
swain, as he peered curiously into
the mess of shark's bowels — *^ I'll be
d d 1 " " The likes o' that now ! "
ci-oakcd the old sailmaker, lifting np
his two hands, ^* tan't lucky, Mr Bur-
ton !" " My eye ! them's not young
sharks^ anyhow!" said one of the
men. ^^ What's t'ou think they be,
mun," said the north-country Chips,
** but litter o' yoong blind poops? an'
here's t' ou'd un, see, as deed's mutton !
Dang him, but some un's got an'
baitcKl t' hook wi't, there's nou't else
in 's guts!" The whole poop was
one roar of laughing, when Mrs
Brady's pug was found delivered of
four pups, inside the shark, since she
went overboard, and two of 'em alive ;
the news ran fore and afc in a moment.
^^ Took short she's been, Jack ! " said
one. "Beats the profit Joney!"
*' I say, 'mate, them whelps is bom
twice over. Blessed if my Sal at
home, now, wouldn't give a year's
'lotment for one on 'em!" "Poor
devil ! " said one of the writers, " she
must have been sadly in want of a
lying-in hospital !" "Look out,
all hands of ye!" cried some one,
" there's the old girl herself
on deck! sharp's the word!
away we scuttled right and k
aloft, and some down onepoM
as Mrs Brady, with the t
and his butler after her, cmm
np the other. The black m
spring over the qnarter as lo
saw her; but the Irish topmai
slipped his foot amongst the
blood, and rolled on bia hmc
the old bo'sun made stand
thick of it behind. " Saze the
I charge ye, Brigadier!** s
Mrs Brady, though he and fa
servant only kept dodging tl
swain round a sort of a quij
blood and grease, while tb^ 6i
canght Mick by his red h
whiskers. "W^here's my i
murdering spalpeen ? " saidsh
ing for breath, " what have
with my Dianny, ye monstberl
or I'll " " Be the hxAj
thousand, yer ladyship ! " aai
" an' it's lost did ye thmk si
isn't there Jive of 'em back I Vl
yer ladyship's riv'rence, — dieV
poor craythure, an' " *V
Irish thief!" roared Mrs Bra
ting him a slap as he tried
that sent him down again, '* i
you'd say to " "No, thin
out Mick, rubbing his ear, and
ing with one arm, — "rest he
but I'm innydnt ! Av thai *]
mim, och an' I'll swear she
vargin " Tug came bo
Brady's hands through his hai
the butler caught a kick in the i
fi-om Mick's foot. "Mv
gasped the poor fellow, *\sn
dun' know she was ay^-en a I
bad luck t'ye, 'mates, give ns
Och, an' is this the ro^ad ye 1
counthiyman, mim?" "U
countryman! ye bogtrottin'
ye!" screamed the old ta
brogue getting worse the m
heated,—" take <//a//— don't r\
dare!" "Faix thin, yer 1
darlin'," said O'Hooney, grin
spite of his hard usage, " I tov
— och, lave some o' me hair!
ther iutirely 1 I'm " Alli
none of us could stir for sheei
ing, but seeing poor Mick like
hard with the old vixen, n
* Familiar metonomy, at sea, for the Bhip's oook.
1M9.]
The Green Hand— A " Sh&rf' Yam. Part IV.
311
leir as big as himself, and as strong
M i horse^ I whispered to the men to
nn roand and let go the poop awn-
iig-so down it came, with a few
iMKkets of water in it, over the five
of them ; and you jost saw Mrs
Bndj*8 sharp elbow through the can-
TUB, lifted for the next slap, when
we hid her all fast, straggling like a
cat in a bag, while O^Hooney and the
boitswain crept out below. ^^D d
breeze that we've had!" said the
bo'ivD, shaking himself on the fore-
ciitle. ** Couldn't ye've bowsed over
OQ the old jade's pitticuts, Mick?"
said one of his shipmates, *^ and cap-
■zed her all standing ? " " Sorra fut
jon|d stir, yourself, 'mate,'' said he,
wiping bis face, ^^ wid such a shay
gnimydeer! she'd manhandle ye as
asy'stwurlamop!"
After all this you may suppose
one didn't weary even of the calm.
At soon as the decks were clear, most
of u took tea on the poop, for fear of
Qoedog the Brigadier's lady below,
every one holding his cup ready for a
Btart Bollock the planter, who had
^ and swung in his cot half the
^Ti was like to split his sides when
i« heard the story: by the way, I
belie?e both the little pups lived and
^re on goats' milk, and the men
called one of them * Young Jonab,'
thoogh he had so much of the terrier
^the old lady disowned him. It
^ quite dark, and cool for a night
^ the Line, though not a ripple
itiired, and I staid ^ter the rest to
*>*Ae a cigar, stopping every now
^ then near the aftermost bull's -
^t that shone through the deck,
«jd thmking of Lota. " By Jove ! "
«»uAt I, " she hasn't said a word of
^ Think of having a secret, almost,
^h kerr After aU, though, I felt
^ enough I might as soon hope for
1^ Emperor of China's daughter as
^ such a creature, imlcss something
Joaderfnlly strange fell out : deucedly
« lo?e as I was, I wasn't puppy
*Oiigh to fancy I'd ever succeed by
JJ^etalk; "but here's for a bold
■^ and a weather-eye ! " I thought ;
tad if these can do it, I tnV//" said
^ tlond, when some one clapped me
^ the shoulder. " Well, Tom, are
TOQ there?" said I, thinking it was
Weatwood. "Why," answered old
Boik)ck, laughing, " not so far wrong,
VOL. LXVI. — ^NO. CCCCVII.
my boy, — but as it's thirty years
since any one called me so, I thought
you wercy for a moment! — meditating,
oh ? " " Only a cigar before bed-time
— will you have one, sur?" "Ah —
well," said the planter, "Fll take a
light, at least — queer life this, eh?
Shouldn't know this was water, now
— ^more like train-oU ! Looks junglish
a little under the stars yonder."
" Nothing but the haze come down,"
saidi ; " 'tis clear enough aloft, though,
— look out for squalls ere long !"
"As your friend Ford would have it," —
said Rollock ; " but how a lad of your
spirit can manage to stand this so
well, I can't think 1" "Deyvilish
dull, sir!" said I, with a lazy drawl,
" but can't be helped, you know."
" Come, come, now, don't mend it by
copying poor Winterton," chuckled
Rollock; "you're no fool, Collins, so
don't pretend to be. I say though,
Collins my boy," continued he, rather
gravely, " there is one really soft
piece I begin to notice in you lately —
I, fear you're falling in love with that
girl!" "/, sir!" said I; "dear me!
what makes you — " " My dear boy,"
went on the kind-hearted old fellow,
"I take an interest in you; no lad
of your stuff practises all this tom-
foolery without something under it,
and I see you've some serious meaning
or other. Did you know her before ? "
" Oh — why — not exactly," I dropped
out, taken rather short. "I see, I
see ! " he went on ; " but I tell you
what, Collins, a cadet can do nothing
madder than marr}- at first landing ;
she had better be a cold-hearted flirt,
after all — though, God knows, no man
can say what t/tat does but one that's
— ^felt it ! I— I mean I knew — a young
fellow that went out as ambitious as
you can be, and he — " Here the
planter's voice shook a little, and he
stopped, pufiing at his cheroot till the
short end of it just lighted up his hook
nose and part of his big white whiskers
in the dark, only you saw his eye
glistening too. "Devil take it!"
thought I, " who'd have expected the
old boy to be so sharp, though."
" WeU but, Collins," said he at last,
"just you enter heart and soul into
your profession ; I'd stake my life you'll
rise, who knows how far — get your
captain's pay even, tlten you may think
of it— that is, if she—" " Why," said
S12
The Green lland-^A " Skort " Pom. Pwri IV.
I, " d'ye suppose the Jadge would — ^"
*''' Jitfige r^ exclaimed Mr Rollock,
"when — worse and worse! weren't
we talking of pretty little Kate For-
tcscue? My fiear boy, tou don't
intend to say yon mean Miss Hyde !
I left that to yonr first officer, as they
call him ! — why, that young girl will
be the beauty of Calcutta." At this
I fancied some one else gave a whistle
near us. " Of course, sir," said I,
raising my voice, ^'you didn't suppose
me such a fool." In fact, Miss For-
toscue had never entered my head at
nil. ^* Something strange about .von,
Collins!" said the planter, a little
shortly; ^^you puzzle me, I must
say." As we turned to go below, I
lieard somebody walk down the poop-
ladder, and then the mate's voice
sung out from the binnacle to ^* strike
eight bells ! "
The calm wos as dead as ever next
morning, and, if possible, hotter than
before — not a rope changed aloft, nor
a cloth in the sails moved ; but it was
pretty hazy round us, which made the
water a sort of pale old-bottle blue,
that sickened you to look at ; and a
long dipping and drawling heave gra-
dually got up as if there were blankets
on it ; the ship, of course, shifting
round and round again slowly, like a
dog going to lie down, and the helm
getting every now and then a sudden
jolt. Near noon it cleared up with a
blaze of light, as it were ; the sole
difference at first being, that what
looked like melting lead before, now
turned into so many huge bright sheets
of tin, every bend of it as good as
flashing up thousands of needles in
yonr eyes. A good deal surprised wo
were, however, shortly after, to find
there was a sail in sight, another
square-rigged vessel, seemingly stand-
ing up on the horizon six or seven miles
off. Being end on to us at the time,
though every glass in the ship was
brought to bear on her, 'twas hard to
say what she was ; then she and we
went bobbing and going up and down
with a long round heave between us,
slowly enough, but always at cross
purposes, like two fellows see«-sawing
on a plank over a dyke. When she
was up, we were down, and we just
caught sight of her royal, no bigger
than a gull on tlie water ; yerk went
our rudder, and next time she seemed
to have vanished out of tibc
altogether, till we walked koid
other side, and made her o
under the awning on the
beam. At length she lifted 1
us for a moment or two, sb
long pale sort of hull with a m
apparently without ports, m
rigged, though the space befei
two masts was curious for ti
of craft. "Wonderfhl light
for her size that brig, sir,**
third ofiicer, dropping his sIh
so she is, Mr Small," replied
Williamson: *^what would
her, then ? YouVe as good fcn
of craft as any man, l£r i
think." " Why," said the 61
screwing his eye harder for a Ic
^^I'd say she's — ^not a cmiM
tin Williamson — no, nor a €
Indyman — nor a — " "Oh
Finch, "some African Umli
other, I daresay. Small." " 1
Finch," said the third mate,
him the glass, "mayhap jc
say yourself, sir." "No,
Small," said the captain ; " Pd
yon as soon as any man, i
matter of the kind." " Why,
of her 's wondcriiil Yankee-IE
said Small again ; " I'm i
they've been and squared her
schooner — and a d d bad j
sir! Bless us! what a leai
pair o' taups'ls, too, — as hi^
fbre one, sir." Suddenly the c
gave his thigh a slap, and lai
his glass on the ca]>staii:
sir!" said he, "that's the tUn
nothing more nor less but
Crapean, Captain Williamsoi
daresay you're right, Mr Smi
the skipper, taking the glaai
so, — ay, ay, — ^I thought it i
"Pity old Nap's boxed mi
then," sir," said the first oflfi
bing his hands and pointing
ward, where he thought §t
was: "why, sir, we should 1
peppering of the Frenchman;
suppose we'd need to care Um
were twice the size — ud
more, we want fresh wata
seeing the Cape, sir ! " '* Wl
the old skipper, laughing, ^tb
worst of it^ Finch! As lb
you've as much aa any n
Finch^ and I do think we*d hi
to take the weather-hand of Ui
1849.]
The Gretn Hand'-A '' Short'' Yam, Part IV.
313
"^m be bonnd we shonld!" said
Finch, langhing too. As for the
FitDchman, both Westwood and I
had made him out by his rig at onc«,
thmka to man-o'-war practice; but
we smiled to each other at the notion
of making a prize of Monsieur, under
Fmch's management, with not a gun
thit could have been used for half a
diT, ind eveiything else at sixes and
serens.
In i little while it was proposed
amongst the cadets, hot as the calm
wai. to make a party to go and see
the French vessel. Ford of course
was at the head of it. Winterton
thought they would no doubt have
plenty of champagne on board, and
wne others, who could row, wanted
to tiT their hands. Accordingly the
captain's gig was got ready, a sort of
iwning rigged over it, and two or
three of them got in ; when one, who
was Mira Fortcscue's cousin, per-
suaded her to join, if Mr Bollock
vooldcome. Then the Brigadier, being
nther a goodhumoured man, said he
shonid like to face the French once
more, and Daniel Snout shoved him-
Mlf m without asking by your leave.
One of the men was sent to take
charge ; and as there was room still,
I was just going to jump in too, for
tbeaoosement of it, when Mrs Brady
luDried to the taffrail with her parasol
ip, and said, if the Brigadier went,
the should go as well, — ^in fact, the
<M woman's jealousy of her rib was
*lvayB laughably plain. ^' Hang it !
ttfn," thought I, " catch me putting
■TKlf in the same boat with her I
w same ship is enough, in all con-
■Dooe ! " So away they were low-
end off the davits, and began pulling
B tiderable style for the brig, a couple
^boon' good work for such hands at
>^-day, smooth water as it was.
**Hoir, gentlemen," said the first
Jjeer l^skly, as we looked after
2^ dipping over the long bright
2J* heave — " now, gentlemen, and
'idiflstlso, if they please, we'll have
"jofter party as soon as the men get
jw dmner — give these gentlemen a
Jjj hour's law, we'll overhaul them.
°ce the larboard quarter-boat clear,
Joobs." It was just the least pos-
vile hazy again behind the brig in
the distance, and as the Judge stood
'viking to his daughter on the poop, I
heard her say, " Is the other vessel
not coming nearer already, papa ?
See how much more distinct its sails
are this moment — then?! — one al-
most observes the white canvass ! "
"Pooh, Lota child!" answered Sir
Charles, "that cannot be — 'tis per-
fectly calm, don't you know?" In
fact, however, Lota showed a sailor's
eye for air, and I was noticing it my-
self; but it was o/i/y the air made it
look so. " Ah ! now," exclaimed she
again, " 'tis as distant as ever ! That
must have l)een the light : " besides,
the brig had been lifting on a wide
swell. " I beg pardon, Sir Charles,"
said the mate, coming up and taking
off his cap, " but might I use the free-
dom — perhaps yourself and Miss
Hyde would like to visit the French
brig?" The Judge looked at his
daughter as much as to ask if she
woidd like it. " Oh yes ! so much ! "
exclaimed she, her bright eyes spark-
ling, " shall we ? " " No, the deuce !
Not //" said Sir Charles: "I shall
take my siesta. Quite safe, sir — eh ?"
" Oh, quite safe. Sir Charles ! " said
Finch, " a dead calm, sir — I '11 take
the utmost care you may be sure,
Sir Charles — as safe as the deck, sir !"
"Oh, very well," replied the Judge,
and he walked down to see after his
tiffin. The young lady was going
down the quarter-gallery stair, when
I caught my opportunity to say — " I
hope you '11 excuse it, Miss Hyde,
ma'am — but I fh tnist you '11 not risk
going in the boat so far, just now ! "
Half a minute after I spoke, she
turned round, and looked at me with
a curious sort of expression in her
charming face, which I couldn't make
out, — whether it was mischievous,
whether it was pettish, or whether
'twas inquisitive. " Dear me ! " said
she, "why — do you — " "The
weather might change," I said, look-
ing round about, " and I shouldn't
wonder if it did— or a swell might
get up — or — " " I must say, Mr —
Mr Collins," said she, laughing
slightly, " you are very gloomy in
anticipating — almost timorous, I de-
clare ! I wonder how you came to
be so weather-wise ! But why did
you not advise — poor Mrs Brady,
now?" I couldn't see her face as
she spoke, but the tone of the last
words made me feel I'd have given
3U
The Green Hand^A «' Slwrt'' Yam, Part IV.
worlds to look ronnd and see what it
was like at the moment. '^ Perhaps,
ma*am," said I, ^^ joa may remember
the ram t " " WeU, we shaU see,
sir 1 " replied she, glancing np with a
bright sparkle in her eye for an in-
stant, bnt only toward the end of the
spanker-boom, as it were ; and then
tripping down the stair.
I kept watching the gig pnll slowly
toward the brig in the distance, and
the cutter making ready on onr quar-
ter, till the men were in, with Jacobs
amongst them ; where they sat wait-
ing in no small glee for the mate and
his party, who came up a few minntes
after: and I was just beginning to
hope that Violet Hyde had taken my
advice, when she and another young
lady came out of the round-house,
dressed for the trip, and the captain
gallantly handed them in. «^ My
compliments to the French skipper,
Mr Finch," said the captain, laugh-
ing, " and if he an*t better engaged,
happy to see him to dinner at two
bells * in the dog-watch, we *11 make
it ! " " Ay, ay, sir," said Finch.
"Now then 1— all ready ? " "Smythe's
coming yet," said a "writer." "We
can't wait any longer for him," re-
plied the mate ; " ease away the
falls, handsomely, on deck!" "Stop,"
said I, '» I'll go, then I " " Too late,
young gentleman, " answered the
mate, shai-ply, " you '11 cant us
gunnel up, sir !— lower away, there I"
However, I caught hold of a rope and
let myself down the side, time enough
to jump lightly into her stem-sheets
the moment they touched the water.
The officer stared at me as he took
the yokellnes to steer, bnt he said
nothing, and the boat shoved off;
while Miss Hyde's blue eyes only
opened out, as it were, for an instant,
at seeing me drop in so uncera-
moniously ; and her companion
laughed. " I shouldn't have sup-
posed you so nimble, Mr Collins I"
said the writer, looking at me through
his eye-glass. " Oh," said I, "Ford
and I have practised climbing a good
deal lately." " Ha I ha ! " said the
civilian, "shouldn't be surprised, now,
if your friend were to take the navi-
gation out of Mr Finch's hands, some
day ! " " Bless me, yes, sir I " said
[Sept
Finch, with a gufbw, ashe stt hand-
ling the lines carelessly, and smOiog
to the ladies, witib his cap over one
ear ; " to be sure— ha I ha I ha I-it's
certain, Mr Beveridge! Wouldn't you
take the helm here, ^?'' to me.
" Oh, thank you, no, su: ! " replied I,
modestly, " I'm not quite so far yef—
but we 've got a loan of Hamiltoii
Moore and Falconer's Dictioauy
from the midshipmen, and mean to—''
" No doubt you'll teach us a trick or
two yet I " said Finch, irith a
sneer. "Now, for instance," said I
coolly, "aloft yonder, you've got the
throat haUiartU jammed in the blod
with a gasket, and the mizen-topnil
cinelines rove wrong-side of it, which
Hamilton Moore distinctly—" ''Hang
the lubber that did it, so they are!"
exclaimed the mate, looking throngfa
the spy-glass we had with us. '' Nov
you've jo\ir Jibs hauled down, ar,"
continued I, " and if a squall came on
abeam, no doubt they'd wish to shorten
sail from o/l, and keep her away—
however, she would broach-to at once,
as Hamilton Moore shows most—"
" You and Hamilton Moore be — ;
no fear of a squall just now, at any
rate, ladies," said he. " Stretch ont,
men — diet's head upon Mr Ford and his
gig, yet !" Terribly hot it was close to
the water, and so stifling that yon
scarce could breathe, while the long
glassy swell was far higher than one
thought it from the ship's deck ; how-
ever, we had an awning hoisted, and
it refreshed one a little both to bear
the water and feel it below again, as
the cutter went sliding and rippling
over it to long slow strokes of the
oars ; her crew being all man-o'-war's-
men, that knew how to pull together
and take it easy. The young ladies
kept gazing rather anxiously at the
big old Seringapatam, as she rose and
dropped heavily on the calm, amnsed
though they were at first by a sight
of their late home turning " gable" on
to us, with her three masts in one,
and a white straw hat or two watdi-
ing ns frx>m her taffirail; whereas,
ahead, they only now and then caught
a glimpse of the brig's upper canvass,
over a hot, hazy, snUen-looking sweep
of water as deep-blue as indigo— with
six hairy brown breasts bending be*
* Five o'clock, p.h.
1849.]
The Green Hand— A " Short " Yam. Part IV.
315
fore them to the oars, and as many
pair of qacer, rollicking, fishy sort of
eyes fixed steadily on their bonnets,
in i shame-faced, down-hill kind of
war, like fellows that couldn't help it.
In fact, I noticed a carious grin now
and then on every one of the men's
faces, and a look to each other, when
they caoght sight of myself, sitting
behind the mate as ho paid off his
high-flying speeches; Jacobs, again,
regarding mc all the while out of the
whites of his eyes, as it were, in a
wooden, unknowing fashion, fit to
have made a cat laugh — seeing he
uevermisscd his mark for one moment,
ud drew back his head at every pull
with the air of a drunk man keeping
sight of his waistcoat buttons. By
the time we were half-way, the swell
Jwgan to get considerable, and the
Mate stepped up abaft to look for the
gig. '; Can't see the boat yet," said
1»; *'give way there, my lads— stretch
wt and bond your backs ! there's the
brigP »Hal-lo !" exclaimed he again,
*'8he]8 clued up royals and to'gal-
lintsls! By heavens! there go her
topa'ia down too 1 Going to bend new
*f^ though, I daresay, for it looks
clear enough there." " The ship's run
'Vaflag aft, sir," said Jacobs. "The
~*> she has," said Finch, turning
'wnd; *»rec4ill signal! What's
^roag? Sorry tee can't dine aboard
"6 French vessel this time, ladies !"
••M he — "extremely so — and the
gnffioj there after all, too. I hope you
^'t be disappointed in any great
*tt8ttre, Miss Hyde — but if you
^ed it now, l^Iiss, I'd even keep on,
ttd— " The young lady coloured a
little at this, and turned to her com-
Kon just as I remembered her doing
i the dragoon in the ball-room.
'^ Do yon not think. Miss Wyndham,"
ttid she, " we ought not to wish any
offioer of the ship should get reproved,
perhaps, on our account?" " Oh dear
no,** said Miss Wyndham ; " indeed,
Mr Finch, you had better go back, if
the captain orders you." " Hold on
there with yonr larboard oars, you
lubbers !" sang out Finch, biting his
lip, and round we went pulling for the
Indiaman again ; but by this time the
swell was becoming so heavy as to
mmke it hard work, and it was soon
rarely we could see her at all ; for
nothmg gets up so fast as a swell.
sometimes, near the Line ; neither one
way nor the other, but right up and
down, without a breath of wind, in
huge smooth hills of water, darker
than lead, not a speck of foam, and
the sky hot and clear. Twas almost
as if a weight had been lifted from off
the long heaving calm, and the whole
round of it were going up dark into
the sky, in one weltering jumble, the
more strange that it was quiet : sweep
up it took the boat, and the bright
wet oar-blades spread feathering out
for another stroke to steady her, let
alone making way ; though that was
nothing to the look of the ludiaman
when we got near. She was rolling
her big black hull round in it as help-
less as a cask ; now one side, then the
other, dipping gunwale to in the round
swell that came heaping up level with
her very rail, and went sheeting out
bright through the bulwarks again ;
the masts jumping, clamps and boom-
irons creaking on the yards, and every
sail on her shaking, as her lower yard-
arms took it by turns to aim at the
water — ^you heard all the noise of it,
the plunge of her flat broadside, the
plash from her scuppers, the jolts of
her rudder, and voices on board ; and
wet you may swear she was from stem
to stem. " Comfortable 1" thought I ;
" we've come home too soon of a
washing-day, and may wait at the
door, I fear I" "Oh dear," exclaimed
the three griffins, " how are we to
get in !" and the young ladies looked
pale at the sight. The mate steered
for her larboard quarter without say-
ing a word, but I saw he lost coolness
and got nervous — not at all the man
for a hard pinch: seemingly, ho meant
to dash alongside and hook on. " K
yon do, sir," said I, "you'll be
smashed to staves ;" and all at once
the ship appeared almost over our
heads, while the boat took a send in.
I looked to Jacobs and the men, and
they gave one long stroke off, that
seemed next heave to put a quarter of
a mile between us. " 1) — —d close
shave that," said the bowman. " Begs
pardon, sir," said Jacobs, touching
his hat, with his eyes still fixed past
the mate, upon me ; " hasn't we better
keep steadying ofl", sir, till such time
as the swell—" " Hold your jaw,
sirrah," growled Finch, as he looked
ahead stiM more flurried ; " there's a
816
ne Grten Htmd—A ^^ Short'' Yarn. Part IV.
[Sept
aguall coming yonder, gentlemoi, and
if we don*t get qai<^ aboard, we may
lose the ship in it ! Poll rannd, d^ye
hear there." Sure enough, when we
lifted, there was the French brig dear
out against a sulky patch of dark-gray
sky, growing in as it were far off be-
hind the uneven swell, till it began to
look pale; the Indiaman's topsails
gave a loud flap ont, too, one after the
other, and fell to the mast again.
Suddenly I eanght the glance of Violet
Hyde^s eyes watching me seriously as
I sat overhauling the Indiaman for a
notion of what to do, and I fancied
the charming girl had somehow got
nearer to me daring the last minute or
two, whether she knew it or not : at
any rate the thought of protecting such
a creature made all my blood tingle.
"Never fear, ma'am," said I, in a
half whisper ; when Finch's eye met
mine, and he threw me a malicious
look, sufficient to show what a devil
the fellow would be if ever he had oc-
casion ; however, he gave the sign for
the nieu to stretch out again, and high
time it was, as the Indiaman's main-
topsail made another loud dap like a
musket-shot. Still he was holding
right for her quarter— the roll the ship
had on her was fearful, and it was
perfect madness to try it ; bat few
merchant mates have chanced to be
boating in a Line swell, I daresay :
when Just as we came head on for her
starboard counter, I took the boat's
tiller a sudden shove with my foot,
as if by acddent, that sent us sheering
in dose under her tffem. The bowman
prized his boat-hook into the rudder-
chains, where the big hull swung
round us on both sides like an im-
mense whed round its barrel, every
stem-window with a face watching
us— though one stroke of the loose
rudder would have stove us to bits,
and the swell was euAi moment like
to make the men let go, as it hove us
np almost near enough to have caught
a hand from the lower-deck. "For
godsake steady your wheel," said I;
"hard a-porti" while the mate was
singing out for a line. "Now, up
you go," said I to Jacobs in the hub-
bub, " look sharp, and send us down
a whip and basket from the boom-end,
as we did once in the Pandoim, you
know!" Up the rope went Jacobs
like a cat, hand over hand ; and five
minutes after, down came the *^ba8«
ket" over our heads into theboit,
made out of a sluddrngHsail and three
capstan-bars, like a big grocer's scale
dangling from the sj^nker-boom.
The mate proposed togo i^t fintwitk
Miss Hyde, but she hnog hack in
&vour of her companion ; so away
aloft went Miss Wyndbam and he,
swinging across the Indiamsn's eton
as she rolled again, with a gantiioeto
steady them in-^Findi hol£ng on to
the whip by one hand, and the other
round the young lady, while my Uood
crept at the thought how it might
have been Lota herself 1 Assoonisit
came down again, she looked for a
moment from me to Jacobs, when
Captain Williamson himadf shonted
over the taffrail, "Sharp, sharp tiieie!
the squall's coming down ! she'll he
up in the wind ! let's get the hehn
free !" and directly after I foond my-
self swinging twenty feet over the
¥rater with Violet Hyde, as the ship
heded to a puff that filled the spanker,
and rose again on a huge swelli
gathering steerage way, while every
bolt of canvaas in her fiapped in again
at once like thunder. I felt her
shudder and cling to me-^erewas
one half minute we swung feirly clear
of the stem, they stopped hoisttngi
— and I almost thou^t I'd have
wished that same half minute half a
day ; but a minute after she was in
the Judge's aims on the poop; the
men had contrived to get the cadets
on board, too, and the boat wasdng-
ging astam, with the line veered out,
and her crew still in it baling har out
I fixed my eyes at once, breatUefls
as we of the boat-party were, on the
weather-signs and the other veasel,
which everybody on the poop was
looking at, as soon as we were safei
and our friends in the gig had to be
thought of. The abort toptswdl was
beginning to soften in long regdtf
seas, with just air enough aloft to give
our light sails a purchase on it, and
put an end to the infernal datter;
but the vapour had gathered quinker
than yon could well fanoy behind the
brig in the distance, so that she looked
already a couple of miles nearer, rising
up two or three times on as many
huge Bwells that shone like blue glass,
while she steadied heradf like a tight-
rope danoer on the top of them, fejy »
1^9.]
The Green Iland^A " Short " Yarn. Part IV.
317
stadding-aail set high from each side.
On the far horizon bejoud her, you'd
have thouglit there was a deep black
ditch sunk along under the thickening
blue haze, as it stretched out past her
to both hands, till actually the solid
breast of it seemed to shove the brig
bodily forwanl over the oily-like
▼ater, every spar and rope distinct ;
then the fog lifted below as if the teeth
q{ a saw came spitting through it, and
ve t^w her bearing down toward us
— cload, water, and all, as it were —
vUU a white heap of foam at her
low*. " Brace up sharp, Mr Finch !"
said the old skipper hastily, ^^ and
suiid over to meet her. Confound this !
we wut have these people out of that
bri:; in a trice ! wc shall soon have a
tuach of the Horse Latitudes, or my
unie'e not Richard Williamson — ay,
tnd bid good-bye to 'em, too, I
thinkr
For a quarter of an hour or so, ac-
cordingly, we kept forging slowly
>bead, while the brig continued to
Bear lu. No one spoke, almost — you
beird the lazy swash of the water
nood our fore-chains, and the still-
iWH aboard had a gloomy enough
ciKt, as one noticed the top of the
Ittze creep up into round vapoury
^^ npon the sky, and felt it dark-
ening aloft besides. We were scarce
tbree quarters of a mile apart, and
coold see her shar]) black bows drip
<^er the bright sheathing, as she
^^^ easily on the swell, when the
^ndiaman suddenly lost way again,
'iKered head round, and slap went all
kr sails from the royals down, as if
^bad fired a broadside. Almost the
aext moment, a long, low growl ran
Anttering and rumbling far away
loond the horizon, from the clouds
and back to them again, as if they
liad been some huge monster or other
DO the watch, with its broad grim
mnzale shooting quietly over us as it
Jij ; the brig dipped her gilt figure-
head abeam of us, and then showed
her long red streak ; the swell sinking
fiwt, and the whole sea far and wide
coming out from the sky as dark and
iXNind as the mahogany drum -head of
the capstan.
'* Bless me, Small," said the Cap-
tain, ^* bnti hope theyVe not knocked
A hole in my gig— ay, there tiiey are,
I thinkf looking over the brig*6 quar-
ter; but don't seem to have a boat
to swim ! Get the cutter hauled along-
side, Mr Stebbin^," continued he to
the fourth mate, "and go aboard for
them at once — confounded bothering,
this! Mind get my gig safe, sir, if yon
please— can yQ parity- voo^ though, Mr
Stebbing?" ** Not a word, sir," said
the young mate, a gentlemanly, rather
soft fellow, whom the other three all
used to snub. *^ Bless me, can^t wo
*j"
muster a bit o' French amongst nsV
said the skipper ; *^ catch a monshoor
that knows a word of English like any
other man — 'specially if they've a
chance of keeping my gig!" ''Well,
sir," said I, '' I'll be happy to go with
the oflicer, as I can speak French well
enough !" *' Thank ye, young gentle-
man, thank ye," said he, " you'll do it
as well as any man, I'm sure — oidy
look sharp, if you please, and bring
my gig with you !" So down the side
we bundled into the cutter, and pulled
straight for the brig, which had just
hoisted French colours, not old "three-
patche43," of course,' but the new Re-
storation flag.
I overhauled her well as we got
near, and a beautiful long schooner-
model she was, with sharp bows, and
a fine easy-run hull from stem to
stem, but dreadfully dirty and spoilt
with top-bulwarks, as if* they meant
to make her look as clumsy as pos-
sible ; while the brig- rig of her aloft,
with the ropes hanging in bights and
hitches, gave her the look of a hedge-
parson on a race-horse : at the same
time, I counted six closed ports of a
side, in her red streak, the exact
breadth and colour of itself. Full of
men, with a long gun, and schooner-
rigged, she could have sailed round
the Indiaman in a light breeze, and
mauled her to any extent.
They hove us a line out of the gang-
way at once, the mate got up her side
as she rolled gently over, and 1 follow-
ed him : the scene that met our eyes
as soon as we reached her deck, how-
ever, struck me a good deal on va-
rious accounts. We couldn't at first
see where Mr Rollock and his party
might be, for the shadow of a thick
awning after the glare of the water,
and the people near the brig's gang-
^-ay ;— -but I saw two or three dark-
faced, ver}' French-like individuals,
in broad-brimmed straw hats and white
318
The Green Iland^A " Short " Yarn. Part IV.
[Sq)t
tronsers, seemingly passcDgers; while
about twenty Kroomen and Negroes,
and OS many seamen with unshaven
chins, ear-rings, and striped frocks,
were in knots before the longboat,
turned keel up amidships, careless
enough, to all appearance, about us.
One of the passengers leant against
the mainmast, with his arms folded
over his broad chest, and his legs
crossed, looking curiously at us as wo
came up; his dark eyes half closed,
the shadow of his hat down to his
black mustache, and his shirt-collar
open, showing a scar on his hairy
brcast ; one man, whom I marked for
the brig's surgeon, beside him ; and
another waiting for us near the bul-
warks— a leathery- faced little fellow,
with twinkling black eyes, and a sort
of cocked hat fore-and-aft on his
cropped head. " 3/o/, Monsieur,"
said he, slapping his hand on his
breast as the mate looked about him,
" oui, je suis capitaine, monsieur."
'* Good-day, sir ; " said Stcbbing,
*' we've just co\ne aboard for our
passengers — and the gig — sir, if you
please." " Certainement, monsieur,"
said the French skipper, bowing and
taking a paper from his pocket, which
he handed to the mate, ^^ I comprind,
saro — monsieur le capitaine d' la
frogatte Anglaise, il nous demandc nos
— vat you call, — peppares — voila I I
have 'ad le honneur, messieurs, to be
already sarch by vun off vos crusocs —
pour des enclaves ! vous imaginez cela^
messieurs ! " and here the worthy
Frenchman cast up his hands and
gave a grin which seemed meant for
innocent horror. " Shiifa! chez le
brigantin Louis Bourbon, Capitaine
JeanDuprez? Non!^^ said he, talk-
ing away like a windmill, " de Mar-
seilles a risle de France, avec les vins
choisis " " You mistake, mon-
sieur," said I, in French; " the ship is
an ludiaman, and we have only come
for oxvrfn'emls^ who are enjoying your
wine, I daresay, but we must "
"■ Comment?" said he, staring, " what,
monsieur? have de gotness to "
Here the mustached passenger sud-
denly raised himself off the mast, and
made one stride between us to the
bulwarks, where he looked straight
out at the Indiaman, his arms still
folded, then from us to the French
master. He was a noble-looking man,
with an eye I never saw the like of ii
any one else, 'twas so clear, bold, and
prompt, — it actually went into you
like a sword, and I couldn't help fancy-
ing him in the thick of a battle, with
thousands of men and miles of smoke.
" Duprez," said he, quickly, " je vous
le dis encore — debarquez ces misen-
bles! — nous combattronsi " Then,
mon ami," said the surgeon, in a Iof,
cool, determined tone, stepping op
and laying a hand on his shoolder,
^^ aussi, nous couperons les ailes de
rAiglfj seulemcnt! — Hush, mon ami,
restrain this unfortunate madness of
yours ! — c'est bien malapropos, i
present!" and he whispered some-
thing additional, on which the pis-
senger fell back and leant against the
main-mast as before. " Ah ! " said
the French master, shaking bis head,
and giving his forehead a tap, 'Me
pauvre homme-lal Ho has had a
conp-de-soleil, messieurs, or rather of
the moon^ you perceive, from sleep-
ing in it« rays ! Mafoi! " exclaimed
he, on my explaining the matter, "c^est
l^oS'Sible /—we did suppose your boat
intended to visit us, when evidently
deterred by the excessive unduUtioB 1
— My friends, resign yourselves to »
misfort — " '* Great heavens! Mr
Stebbing," said I, " the boat is hst^
" By George ! what will the captaut
say, then ! " replied he ; however, as
soon as I told him the sad truth, poor
Stebbing, being a good-hearted fellow,
actually put his hands to his face aid
sobbed. All this time the brig's cfew
were gabbling and kicking up a con-
founded noise about something thev
were at with the spare spars, and ia
throwing tarpaulins over the hatches;
for it was fearfully dark, and going to
rain heavy; the slight swell shone
and slid, up betwixt the two vessels
like oil, and the clouds to south-west-
ward had gathered up to a steep blaek
bank, with round coppery heads, like
smoke over a town on fire. "Will
you go down, messieurs," said the
Frenchman, politely, *^ and taste my
vin c/c— " " No, sir," said I, " we
must make haste off, or else — ^besides,
by the way, we couldn't, for yon'va
got all your hatches battened down!"
** Diable, so they are !" exclaimed he,
^^par honneur, gentlemen, I regret the
occasion of— ha! " Just before, a glar-
ing brassy sort of touch had seemed to
1849.]
The Green Hand— A " Sftort " Yarn. Part IV.
019
come across the face of the immense
doml; and thongh every thing, far
and wide, was as still as death, save
the creaking of the two ships' yards,
it made yon think of the last trnmpct's
month ! But at this moment a dazzling
flash leaped zig-zag out of it, running
along from one cloud to another, while
the huge dark mass, as it were, tore
right up, changing and turning its in-
side out like dust — you saw the sea far
away under it, heaving from glassy
blue into unnatural-like brown — when
crash broke the thunder over our very
heads, as if something had fallen out
of heaven, then a long bounding roar.
The mad French passenger stood up,
walked to the bulwarks, and looked
out with his hand over his eyes for
the next ; while the young mate and I
tambled down the brig's side without
farther to do, and pulled fast for the
ship, where we hardly got aboard be-
fore there was another wild flash, an-
other tremendous clap, and the rain
fell m one clash, more like stone than
^fUer, on sea and decks. For half-
an-hoar we were rolling and soaking
n the midst of it, the lightning hissing
^l^gh the rain, and showing it
Setter; while every five minutes came
* borat of thunder and then a rattle
fit to split one's ears. At length, just
tt the rain began to slacken, you
^vU see it lift bodily, the standing
*^Wb of it drove right against our
^vass and through the awnings, —
^^ we made out the French brig
^ her jib, topsails, and boom-main-
^ fall, leaning over as she clove
tltroagh it before the wind. The
iQOtil burst into our wet topsails as
w as the thunder, with a flash al-
most like the lightning itself, taking
u broad abeam; the ship groaned
nd shook for a minute ere gathering
way and falling off, and when she
rose and began to go plunging through
the black surges, no brig was to be
seen: every man on deck let his
breath ont almost in a cry, scarce
feeline as yet but it was equal to los-
ing sight for ever of our late ship-
mates, or the least hope of them. The
passengers, ladies and all, crowded in
the companion-hatch in absolute ter-
ror, every face aghast, without think-
ing of the rain and spray : now and
then the sulky crest of a bigger wave
ironld be caught sight of beyond the
bulwarks, as the soa rose with iis
green back curling over into white;
and you'd have said the shudder ran
down into the cabin, at thought of
seeing one or other of the lost boat's
crew come weltering up from the mist
and vanish again. I knew it was of
no use, but I held on in the weather
mizen-rigging, and looked out to
westward, against a wild break of
light which the setting sun made
through the troughs of the sea ; once
and again I could fancy I saw the
boat lift keel up, far off betwixt me
and the fierce glimmer. " Oh, do you
see them ? do you not see it yet !"
was passed up to me over and over,
from one sharp-pitched voice to an-
other ; but all I could answer was to
shake my head. At last, one by one,
they went below ; and after what had
happened, I must say I could easily
fancy what a chill, dreary-like, awful
notion of the sea must have come for
the first time on a landsman, not to
speak of delicate young girls fresh
from home : at sight of the drenched
quarterdeck leaning bare down to
leeward, the sleet and spray battering
bleak against the round-house doors,
where I had seen Miss Hyde led sob-
bing in, with her wet hair about her
face ; then the ship driving oft' from
where she had lost them, with her
three strong lower-masts aslant into
the gale, ghastly white and dripping
— her soaked sheets of canvass blown
gray and stiff into the rigging, and it
strained taut as iron ; while you saw
little of her higher than the tops, as
the scud and the dark together closed
aloft. Poor Miss Fortescue's mother
was in fits below in her berth — the
two watches were on the yards aloft,
where no eye could see them, struggling
hard to furl and reef ; so altogether it
was a gloomy enough moment. I
stayed awhile on deck, wrapped in a
peacoat, keeping my feet and hanging
on, and thinking how right down in
earnest matters covld turn of a sud-
den. I wasn't remai'kably thoughtful
in these days, I daresay, but there
did I keep, straining my eyes into the
mist to see I couldn't tell what, and
repeating over and over again to
myself these few words out of the
prayer-book, " In the midst of life wo
are in death,'* though scarce knowing
what I said.
:;l'0
The Green Iland—A '• Short'' Yam. Part IV.
[Sept.
However, the Indiaman's oflicers
and crew bad work cuough in manag-
iiig her at prcseut : alter a sunset
more like the putting out of him than
auy thing else, with a tiariug suuffand
:i dingy .sort of smoke that followed,
the wind grow from sou^vest into
a regular long gale, that drove the
tops of tiie heavy seas into the dead-
lights astern, rising aft out of the dark
like so many capes, with the snow
drifting otf them over the poop. At
midnight, it blew great guns, with a
witness ; the ship, under storm stay-
sails and close-reefed mainto])sail, go-
ing twelve knots or more, when, as
both the captain and mate reckoned,
wo were near St Helena on our pre-
sent course, and to haul on a wind
was as much as her spars were worth :
lier helm was put hard down and we
lay to for morning, the ship drifting
oti' bodily to leeward with the water.
The night was quite dark, the rain
coming in sudden s))its out of the wind ;
you only heard the wet gale sob and
hiss through the bare rigging into her
storm- canvass, when the look-out men
ahead sung out, ^^Land — land close
to starboard !" '* IJless me, sir," said
the mate to the captain, ^^t's thcKock
— well that we did — " " Hard up I
hard up with the helm !" yelled the
men again, " it's a ship /" I ran to
the weather main-chains and saw a
broad black mass, as it were, rising
high abeam, and seeming to come out
irom the black of the night, with a
gleam or two in it which they had
taken for lights ashore in the island.
The Scringapatam's wheel was put up
already, but she hung in the gale,
doubtful whether to fall off or not ;
and the moment she did sink into the
trough, we should have had a sea over
her broadside fit to wash away men,
boats, and all — let alone the other ship
bearing down at twelve knots.
*' Show the head of the fore-topmast-
stnysaiir shouted I with all my
strength to the forecastle, and up it
went slapping its hanks to the blast —
the Indiaman sprang round heeling to
her ports on the next sea, main-top-
sail before the wind, and the staysail
down again. Xext minnt«, a large
ship, with the foam washing over her
cat-heads, and her martingale gear
dripping under the huge white bow-
sprit, came lifting close past us — as
black as shadows aloft, save the glim-
mer of her main-tack to the lantenu
aboard — and knot after knot of dim
faces above her bulwarks shot by, till
you saw her captain standing high m
the mizen- chains, with a spewing
trumpet. He roared ont something
or other through it, and the skipper
sung out under both his hands, ^^ Ay,
ay, sir I" in answer; but it turned cot
after that nobody knew what it was,
unless it might be as I thought,
^^ IF/i^rt* are yon going ?" The minute
following, we saw her quarter-lanterns
like two will-o'-the-wisps beyond s
wave, and she was gone— a big frigate
running under half her canvass, strong
though the gale blew.
" Why, IVIr Finch," said Captain
Williamson, as soon as we had tioM
to draw breath, ^^ who was Ma^, bid
show the fo'topmast-stays^l — 'twan^
Ifou r " No," said the mate, " I'd like
to know who had the hanged impn-
dence to give orders here withont— "
'' Well now, Finch," continaed the
old skipper, ^^ I'm not sure bat that
was our only chance at the moment,
sir ; and if 'twas one of the men, whj
I'd pass it over, or even give him aa
extra gloss of grog in a quiet way!"
No one could say who it was, hoir-
ever ; and, for my part, the sight of the
frigate made me still more cantiooi
than before of letting out what West-
wood and I were : in fact, I conldnt
help feeling rather uneasy, and I was
glad to hear the snpcrstitioiis old
sailmaker whispering about how be
feared there was no luck to be looked
for, when '^ drowned men and gM'
esses began to work the ship !" Th*
first streak of dawn was hardly seepi
when a sail could be made out in iti
far on our lee bow, which the offlcert
supposed to be the frigate; Westwood
and I, however, were of opuiion it waa
the French brig, although by sunriM
we lost sight of her again. Every one
in the cuddy talked of our unfortunate
friends, and their melancholy fate;
even Ford and Winterton were misaad,
while old Mr Bollock had been the
life of the passengers. But there wii
naturally still more felt for the poor
gurl Fortescue; it made all of us
gloomy for a day or two ; though tlM
^resh breeze, and the Indiaman'tB Cast
motion, after our wearisome spdl of a
calm, did a great deal to bring thingi
The Onen Ecmd—A " S/iort " Yam. Pari IV.
321
gidn. WeBtwood was greatly
p with my account of the brig
'people, both of ns agreeing
u Bomewhat anspicioos about
ingfa I thought she was pro-
either more nor less than a
nd he had a notion she was
mething deeper: what that
e, ^twas hard to conceive, as
n't ^ipear like pirates. One
Dwever, we did conclude from
tter, that the brig couldn't
ni at all inclined for visitors ;
Gut, there was little doubt but
Irf actually refuse letting the
md, if they reached her ; so
Gslihood our unhappy friends
II swamped on that very ac-
OBt as the squall came on.
lis idea got about the ship, of
roa may suppose neither pas*
nor crew to have felt particu-
iaUe towards the French vcs-
If we had met her again, with
d occasion for it, all hands
Mb inclined to give her a right-
nafaing, if not to make prize
I a bad character.
U, Tom," said I to West-
IB day, ^^ I wish these good
qm't be disappointed, but I
BCt this blessed mate of ours
n out to have run us into
e mess or other with his navi-
Did yon notice how bkie the
ad thia morning, over to east-
XHBpared with what it did
' where the sun getf' '' No,"
Mtwood, ^^not particularly;
« of that ?" " Why, in the
pUed I, ^^ we used always to
DMt a sign, hereabouts, of our
lar the kmdl Just you sec,
moROW morning, if the dawn
hasy yellow look in it before
ti6 fiuls; in which case, *tis
sm coast to a certainty 1 Pity
Syaon Mundungo' men, as
la them, shouldn't have their
Qt 'em as well as on the log-
[ daareaay, now," continued I,
, ** you heard the first mate
K lately about the great vari-
the compass here? Well,
yon suppose was the reason
t that sly devil of a Idtmagar
in his block for ^frinding curry,
B fbet of the binnacle, every
iras done using it ! I saw him
k one morning from the man
at the wheel, who chanced to look
down and notice him. Good solid
iron it is, though painted and polished
like marble, and the circumcised rascal
unluckily considered the whole binnacle
as asort of second Mecca for security 1"
" Hang the fellow !" said Westwood,
^* but I don't see much to laugh at,
Xed. Why, if you're right, we shall
all be soaked and fried into African
fever before reaching the Cape, and
we've had misfortunes enough already!
Only think of an exquisite creature
like Miss " " Oh," interrupted
I, fancying Master Tom began lately
to show sufficient admiration for her,
'^betwixt an old humdrum, and a
conceited fool like that, what could
you expect ? All I say is, my dear
parson, stand by for a pinch when it
comes."
On going down to tea in the cuddy,
we found the party full of spirits, and
for the first time there was no men-
tion of their lost fellow-passengers,
except amongst a knot of cadets and
writers rather elevated by the Madeira
after dinner, who were gathered round
the reverend ISli KnowTes, pretending
to talk regretfully of his Yankee friend,
Mr Daniel Snout. " Yes, gentlemen,"
said the niisslonaiy, who was a wor-
thy, simple-hearted person," *^ in spite
of some uncouthness — and perhaps
limited views, the result of defective
education — ^he was an excellent man,
I thmk ! " " Oh certainly, certainly ! "
said a writer, looking to his friends,
" and the one thing needful you spoke
of just now^ sir, I daresay he had it
always in his eye, now ? " '^ Mixed,
I fear," replied the missionary, '^ witli
some element of worldly feeling — for
in America they are apt to make even
the soul, as weU as religious associa-
tion, matter of commerce— but Mr
Snout, I have reason to be assured,
had the true welfare of India at heart
— ^we had much interesting conversa-
tion on the subject." ^'Ahl" said
the sharp civilians, ^^ he was fond of
getting information, was poor Daniel !
Was that why he asked you so many
questions about the Hindoo gods, Mr
Knowles?" "He already possessed
much general knowledge of tlicir
strange mythology, himself," answered
the missionary, " and I confess I was
surprised at it — especially, as he con-
fessed to me, that that gorgeous
322
T%e Green Hamd-^A '^Shari^ Tanu Fdrt IV.
[Sept
coQBtiy, with its many boundless
capabilities, should hare occupied his
thoughts more and more from boy-
hood, amidst the secular activity of
modem life ^ey en as it oocorred nnto
myself!" Here the worthy man took
off his large spectades, gave thein a
wipe, and put them on again, while
he finished his tea. ^^ Before this
deplorable dispensation," oontinned
he again, ^'he was on the point of
reyealing to me a great scheme at
once for the enlightenment, I believe,
of that benighted land, and for more
lacrative support to those engaged in
it. I fear, gentlemen, it was enthu-
siasm— but I have grounds for think-
ing that our departed friend has left
in this vessel many packages of v^-
nmes translated into several dialects
of the great Hindu tongue — ^not omit-
ting, I am convinced, the best of
books." ^^ Where!" exclaimed several
of the cadets, rather astonished, ^^weU!
poor Snout can't have been such a bad
feUow, after aU ! " '' All hum ! " said
the writer, doubtfully, '^ depend upon
it. I should like, now, to have a peep
at Jonathan's bales!" "I myself
have thought, also," said the mission-
ary, ^' it would gratify me to look into
his apartment — ^and were it permitt^
to use one or two of the volumes, I
should cheerfully on our arrival in
Bom " "Come along!" said
the cadets,-—" let's have a look!—
shouldn't wonder to see Daniel beside
his lion yet, within ! or hear * guess
I aint.' " " My young friends," said
the missionary, as we all went along
the lighted passage, "such levity is
unseemly ; " sod indeed the look of
the state-room door, fastened outside
as the steward had left it befora the
gale came on, made the brisk cadets
keep quiet till the lashing on it was
unfastened— 'twas so like breaking in
upon a ghost. Howerer, as it
chanced, Mr Snout's goods had got
loose during her late roll, and heaped
down to leeward against the door^
so, whenever they turned the handle,
a whole bundle of packages came
tumbhng out of the dark as it burst
open, with a shower of small affain
like so many stones after them.
"What's all this!" exclaimed the
cadets, stooping to look at the articles
by the lamp-Ugfat, strewed as thej
were over the deck. The revereod
gentleman stooped too, stood straight,
wiped his spoA^des and fixed them
on his nose, then stooped again ; at
length one long exclamation of sur-
prise broke out of his mouth. They
were nothing bnt little ugly images,
done in earthenware, painted and
gUt, and exactly the same : the writer
dived into a canvass package, and
there was a lot of a dl£Berent kind,
somewhat larger and uglier. Eroy
one made fi«e with a bale for himsdf,
shouting out his disooveries to the
rest. " I say Smythe, this is Yishno,
it's marked on the comer !" " D n
it, Bamsay, here's Brahma!" ''Ha!
ha! ha! if / havn't got Seeva !" "I
say, what's this though?" screamed a
young lad, hauling at the biggest bale
of all, while the missiottaiy stood
stock upright, a perfect picture of be-
wilderment — "Xo.'" being all he
could say. "What can *'Lmgm$'
be, eh?" went on the young griffin,
reading the mark outside — " ' LmgsmM
—extra fine gilt, Staffordshire— 70 Bs.
perdoz.— D. S. to Bombay,'— what
may UMgasm» be ?" and he pulled oat
a sample, meant for an improvement
on the shapeless black stones reckoned
so sacred by Hindoo ladies that love
theur lords, as I knew from seeing
them one morning near Madras, bring-
ing gifts and bowing to the Lingam, at a
pretty little white t^nple nndor an old
banian-tree. Formypart,Ihadlighted
on a gross or so of gentlemen and
ladies with three heads and five anns,
packed nicely through each other in
cotton, bnt inside the state-nxMn.
At this last prize, however, the poor
missionary could stand it no longer;
" Oh I oh !" groaned he, clapping his
hand to his head, and walking slowly
off to his berth ; while, as the truth
gleamed on the cadets and us, we sat
down on the deck amidst the spoil,
and roared with laughter like to go
into fits, at the unfortunate Yankee's
scheme for converting India.'^ "Well
• It is here doe to the credit of our friend the captain, who was not Dnnsoally im»-
f I. J iir* « * !*'^®'» *® **•*«' ***** *>"" "pecnUtion as a commercial one, is itrictlf
^A 111 K 1^ *-^*^' *• ***« Anglo-Indian of Calcotto can probablj testify. The bold
Ma aU bat poetical cathoUcity of the idea could have been reached, perhaps, by tha
1^9.]
The Green Hand^A " Shorr Yam. Pari IV.
323
— hang me ! " said a writer, as soon
as be could sjpcak, " bat tbis is a streak
beyond tbe Society for Diffasing Use-
fdl Knowledge!'* "Every man bis
own priest, — bal ba! ba!" sbonted
tnotber. '*I say, Smytbe," sung
out a cadet, "last fancy — ba I ba I
*D. Snout and Co'— bo I bo! bo!
you know it's too ricb to enjoy by our-
selyes. ' Afytbullogy store,' Bombay,
near tbe cathedral 1" " Cbeap Bra-
mabs, wholesale and retail — eh?
funilies supplied!" "By George!
Wft a genius lost!" said Smythe,
'^ but tbe parson needn't have broken
m\^ him for that, — ^I shouldn't won-
der, now, if they had joined partner-
ship, but Daniel might have thought
of mming all their heads with gun-
powder and percussion springs, so
tfaatthe missionary' could have gone
roond afterwards and blown up hea-
thenism by a touch I" The noise of
lU this soon brought along the rest
of the gentlemen, and few could help
lugfaing. When the thing got wind
on deck, however, neither the old
*ipper nor tbe men seemed to like it
noch : what with the notion of the
"hip's being taken, as it were, by a
thonaand or two of ugly little imps
tod Pagan idols, besides bringing up
jj drowned man's concerns, and ' yaw-
J*Hng,' as they said, into bis very
t door,— it was thought the beat thing
I to hare them all chucked over board
•ext morning.
Tiras a be&utifnlly fine night, clear
*loft, and the moon rising large on our
aboard bow, out of a delicate pale
fort of haze, as tbe ship beaded
woth'ard with the breeze; for I
Buirked tbe haze particularly, as well
>8 the colour of the sky that lay high
orer it like a deep-blue hollow going
tvay down beyond, and filling up with
the light. There was no living below
br heat, and the showers of cock-
roaches that went whirring at the
lamps, and marching with their infer-
nal feelers out, straight up your legs ;
00, fore and aft, tbe decks were astir
with ns all. Talk of moonlight on
land ! but even in tbe ti*opics you have
to see it pouring right down, as it was
then, tbe whole sky full of it aloft as
the moon drew farther up ; till it came
raining, as it were, in a single sheet
from one bend of the horizon to an-
other : the water scarce rippling to the
breeze, only heaving in long low
swells, that you heard just wash her
bends; one track brighter than the
rest, shining and glancing like a look-
ing-glass drawn out, for a mile or so
across our quarter, and the ship's
shadow under her other bow. You
saw tbe men far forward in her head,
and clustered in a heap on the bow-
sprit-heel, enjoying it mightily, and
looking out or straight aloft as if to
polish their mahogany faces, and get
their bushy whiskers silvered ; while
the awnings being off the poop, the
planks in it came out like so much
ivory from the shade of the spanker,
which sent down a perfect gush of
light ou every one moving past. For
tlie air, again, as all the passengera
said, it was balmy ; though for my
part — perhaps it might be a fancy of
mine— but now and then I thought it
snified a little too much that way, to
be altogether pleasant in the circum-
stances.
Of course, no sooner had I caught
sight of Sir Charles Hyde than I looked
for his daughter, and at last saw some
cue talking to a young lady seated
near the after- gratings, with her head
turned round seaward, whom it didn't
require much guessing for me to name.
Not having seen her at all since the
affair of the boats, I strolled aft, when
I was rather surprised to find that her
companion was Tom Westwood, and
they seemed in the thick of an inte-
resting discourse. The instant I got
near, however, they broke it off; the
young lady turned her head — and
never, I'd swear, was woman's face
seen fairer than I thought hers at that
moment — when the bright moonlight
that bad seemed trying to steal round
her loose bonnet and peep in, fell
straight down at once from her fore-
head to her chin, appearing, as it
were, to dance in under her long eye-
lashes to meet her eyes; while one
mass of her brown hair hung bright in
it, and white against the shadow
round her cheek, that drew the charm-
' progressing ' American intellect alone, while Staffurdshire, it is certain, fUmished
it< mlisation : the investment, it is nevertheless belieyed, proved eventuallj unpro-
ttabU.
The Green Hand^A " Shifrt'' Ywm. Bart IV.
824
ing line of her nose and UpM clear
astiiehoiuonon theakyi Theyery
momoit, in fact, that a bitter thon^^
flashed into mj mind — ftnr to my fcuicy
she lodEod Texed at seeing me, and a
coLonr seemed monnting np to her
cheel^ even throngh the fairy sort of
glimmer on it. Coti&f Tom Westwood
have been acting no more tium the
clerical near snch a creatnre? and if a
fellow like him took it in his head,
what chance had If The next minnte^
accordingly, she rose off her seat, gave
me a slight bow in answer to mine,
and walked direct to the gallery stair,
where die disappeared.
*'^ We were talking of that nnlncky
adventure tiie other day," said West-
wood, glancing at me, bnt rathertaken
aback, as I thon^t '' Ay ? " said I,
carelessly. ^'Tes," contuined he;
" Miss Hyde had no idea you and I
were particularly acquainted, and
seems to think me a respectable
clergyman ; but I must tell you, Ned,
she has rather a suspicious opinion of
yourself r "Oh, indeed!" said I,
suUenly. ''Fact, Ned," said he;
'' she even remembers having seen yon
before, somewhere or other— I hope,
mydearfellow, itwasn't on thestage?"
*'Hal ha! how amnsingl" I said,
with the best laugh I could get up.
*' At any rate, Coflins," he went on,
'' she sees through your fisigned way
of carrying on, and knows you're nei-
ther jpriffin nor land-lubber, but a
sailor ; for I fancy this is not the first
time the young lady has met with the
doth I what do yon suppose she
askedme now, quite seriously?" '' Oh,
I couldn't guess, of course," replied I,
almost with a sneer ; " pray don't — ^"
'' Why, she inquhred what could be
the d^gn of one conoealing his pro-
fession so carefully ; and actually ^>-
pearing to be on a secret understand-
mg with some of the sailora ! Directly
after, she asked whether that brig
mifthtn't really have been a pirate,
and taken off the poor general. Miss
Fortescne, and the rest ?" " Ah,"
said I, coldly, '' andif Imight ventore
to ask, what did your— •" " Oh, of
course," replied Westwood, laugfahig,
''I could only bide my amusement,
and profess doubts, you know, Ned !"
" Deuced good joke, Mr Westwood,"
thought I to myself, " but at least you
can t weather on me quite so inno-
[Sepfe
oently, my fine fellow I Ididn'tAwik
it of him, after all ! By heaven, I dii
notr ''By tiie bye^ Collins," ex-
claimed Westwood in a littie, as he
kept hia eye asteni, *' there's some-
tiiing away yonder on our lee-quarter
that I've been watehing for these last
ten minutes — what do yon think it
maybe? Lookl just in the tail of tiie
moonshine yonder!" What it might
be, I oared little enough at the time;
but I did give a glanoe, and saw a
Hfetie black dot, as it were, rismg and
&Uing with the long run of the water,
apparency making way betoe the
breeae. '*Onlyabitofwood,Idare-
say^" rsmaiiDedl; "bnt whateverit
is, at any rate the diifk will take it fiHT
to leevrard of us, so yon needn't
mind." Here we heard a slewani
eome np and say to tiie first offioor,
who wae waiting with the rest to take
a lunar obser^iticm, that Captain
Williamson had tuned in naweUthnt
he wanted to hear when theyfeuni
tiie longitude: aGCordinf^y, l^gnt
their altitode, and went on mafciBg
the calculations en deck. "Well,
steward," said the mate, after a little
humming and hawing, '^go down and
tell the captain, in the meantime,
Bhofiijbfe eiut; bnt I think if s a good
deal over the nuok^— eay rii be down
myself directly.''
" A deuced ai^t bdtm tiie meik,
rather! " said I, walking aft again,
where Westwood kept still loeldng
out for the black dot. " Yonll see it
nearer, now, Ned," said he; "moie
like a negro's head, or his hand, than
a bit of wood— ^?" "Cmrionsl"!
said ; " it lies well np far our bean,
still— '«pite of the breeae. Mustbea
shark's back-fin, I tfahik, making ftr
convoy." In ten minotea hmger, tiM
liriit swell in the diatanoe gave it a
lift up fiur into the moonahme; it
Creamed fiir a moment, and then
aeemed to roll across into tiie bine
glimmer of the sea. "By Jove, Col-
lins," said Weelwood, gasing eageriiy
at it, "'tis more like abotie, toaqr
sight!" Wewidkedb|u±andfiHward,
looking each time over the taffirail,till
at length the affiur in qneatkm oonld
be seen dipping and creeping ahead
in the smooth shining wash of the sur-
face, just like to go lobbing across oar
bows and be missed to windward.
" Crossing our hause I do dedare 1—
1849.]
ne Qrmn Hmd^A ^^ i^hrt'' Yam. Part IV.
325
Hanged if that ain't fore-reaching on
US, with a witness!" exclaimed the
two of ns together : ^' and a bottie it
i$!" said Westwood. I slipped down
the poop-fltair, and along to the fore-
caatleY where I told Jacobs ; when
two or three of the men went ont on
the martingale-stays, with the bight
of a line and a conple of blocks in it,
leadj to throw ronnd this said floating
oddity, and hanl it alongside as it
suged past. Portly after we had it
■fe in onr hands ; a sqoare-bailt old
Dutchman it was, tig^t corised, with
ft red rag nmnd the nedc, and crusted
over with salt — ^almost like one of
Yinderdecken's messages home, com-
ing up as it did from the wide glitter-
mg na, of a tropical moonlight ni^^t,
vne weeks or so after leaving land.
Ike mm who had got it seemed afraid
oCttar prize, so Westwood and I had
BO diiHcnlty in smuggling it away
Moir to onr berth, where we both
ntdown on a locker and looked at
000 mother. ^'What poor devil
WrotUs overboard, I wonder, now,''
■U ke; '^I daresay it may have
knckod abont, God knows how long,
iboe Mi affidr was settled." '' Why,
ftr thtt matter, Westwood," replied
If ^Ifimcy if s mnch more important
to find thm's a strong easterly cnr-
Rot hereiU)onts jnst now I " * Here
Westwood got a cork-screw, and pulled
out the cork with a true parson -like
gravity: as we had expected, there
was a paper tacked to it, crumpled up
and scrawled over in what we could
only suppose was blood.
" ' No. 20,'" read he,— "what does
that mean ? " " The twentieth bottle
launched, perhaps," said I, and he
went on — " ' For Godsake, if you find
this, keep to the south-west — ^we are
going that way, we think — we've fallen
amongst regular Thugs, I fear — just
from the folly of these three — (they're
looking over my shoulder, though) —
we are not ill-treated yet, but kept
below and watched — ^yours in haste — '
What this signature is I can't say for
the life of me, Ned ; no date cither ! "
" Did the fellow think he was writing
by post, I wonder," said I, tiying to
make it out. " By the powers! West-
wood, though," and I jumped up,
" that bottle might have come from
the Pacific, 'tis true — but what if it
were old RoUock after all! Thuga^
did you say? Why, I shouldn't won-
der if the jolly old planter were on
the hooks still. Tliat rascally brig !"
And accordingly, on trying the scrawl
at the end, over and over, we both
agreed it was nothing but T. Rol-
lockI
* Cvmits are designated from the direction they ran towirds; winds, the qnarter
326
M<^al and Sodai CotuUtitm of Waks.
[Sqrt.
MOBAL AKD 80CIAI. OONDITIOK OF WALES.
We have before ns a valaable and
InterestiDg work on a portion of the
British dominions mnch visited but
little known, and one which is satis-
factory, not only from the good feel-
ing and taste it evinces on the part of
its author, but also from its setUng at
rest a question that was lately much
agitated, and to which we at the time
adverted in our pages for May 1848.
Sir Thomas Phillips has taken up the
cudgel, or rather the pen, to defend
the honour of his beloved country, and
has acquitted himself well of the task,
partly in combating real opponents,
partly in knocking down men of straw. -
The book, however, comes so far late
of its subject as that the interest felt
upon it had been gradually subsiding.
No very mighty grievance could be
alleged by our hot-blooded Cambrian
brethren ; many hard words and blus-
tering speeches had been uttered
throughout the length and breadth of
Wales, and a sort of Celtic agitation
had been got up by sundry ladies and
gentlemen, not much connected with
the country. The nation at large,
however, had not paid great atten-
tion to it J the British lion did not
show any indication to lash his sides
into foam with his magnanimous tail ;
the storm in a tea-cup was left to
itself: oil had been floating on the
face of the troubled waters ; and though
a few disappointed persons had tried
to revive a little excitement, for the
sake of ^* having their names before
the public," peace was again reigning
throughout Cambrians vSes, and her
people were following their own simple
occupations, unknowing and unknown.
Sir Thomas Phillips, however, with a
most patriotic motive, determined to
fire one shot more against his conn-
try's traducers ; and thus, while con-
cocting a final reply to the "Blue
Boolts," — as they are commonly called
in the Principality— found himself led
on and on, fix>m page to page, and
chapter to chapter, until, inst^ of a
pamphlet, he has prodnced a tfaidc
volume of six hundred pages, and has
compiled what may be termed a com-
plete apology for Wales.
Our readers wUl very likely remem-
ber that certain Reports on the state
of education in Wales, printed by
order of the House of Commons, gave
immense offence to all who had got
ever so little Welsh blood in their
veins. We reviewed these veiy re-
ports, and gave our opinions on Welsh
education at considerable length;
and therefore we do not open Sir Tho-
mas Phillips' pages with the intentioa
of reverting to that part of the sub-
ject, though the author. In compilmg
it, seems to have had the education of
his countrymen principally in view.
We consider, nowever, that a work
written by a gentleman, known for
his forensic abUities and literary pur-
suits, upon a large portion of this
island, and purporting to be a complete
account of its moral and social con-
dition, must form a snitable topic for
review and discussion. Our readers
will not repent our introducing it to
their notice: we can at once assure
them that it will amply repay the
trouble — ^if it be a trouble at all— of
perusing it. The style is graceful and
yet nervous; the whole tone and ootoar
of the thoughts of the author show
the gentleman ; while the general com-
pilation and discussion of the facts
collected prove Sir Thomas Phillips to
have the mind and the abilities of a
statesman.* Another, and a more
important reason, however, why this
work will be acceptable to many of
our readers, is that it touches upon
various questions which, at times like
the present, are of vital iniportance to
the welfare, not of Wales only, bat of
Wales : the Language^ Social Condition, Moral Character, and Beltgumt Opinions
of the People considered in their relation to Education, By Sir Thomas Phillips.
1 Tol. 8yo, pp» 606. London : 1849.
* For the information of those among our readers who may not be aware of the
fact, it will be well to mention that Sir Thomas Phillips was knighted for baring, as
mayor of Newport, in Monmonthshire, aided so materially in suppressing the Chu-
tist riots that took place there in 1839.
184^.]
Moral and Social CondiHon of Walts.
327
the British empire ; and that it proves
the existence of feelings in the Princi-
pidity— mentioned by ns on a pre-
Tious occasion — ^which onght to be
brought before the notice of the public,
and commented upon. This is the
task which we reserve for ourselves
after reviewing more in detail the work
of the learned author; for Wales may
become a second Irdand in time, if
neglected, or it may continue to be
a source of permanent strength to
the crown, if properly treated and pro-
tected. The existence of such a state
of things is hinted at in the preface —
an uncommonly good one, by the way,
and dated, with thorough Cambrian
spirit, on St DavuTs Day^ if not from
the top of Snowdon, yet from the more
prosaic and less mountiunous locality
of the Inner Temple. The author^s
words
^ Amongst the mischieTons results which
the temper and spirit of the reports have
proToked in Wales, I regard with dis-
comfort and anxiety a spirit of isolation
from England, to which sectarian agen-
das, actively working through various
channels, have largely ministered. In
ordinary times this result might be disre-
garded ; but at a period of the world's
"hutorywhen the process of decomposi-
tioDisactire amongst nations, and phrases
which appeal to the sympathies of race
l>«eome readily mischievous, it behoves
those very excellent persons, who claim
^ales for the Welsh, to consider whether
tliej are prepared to give np England to
the English, and to reUnquish the advan-
^es which a poor province enjoys by its
onion with a rich kingdom. For fenera-
tio&s, Welshmen have been admitted to
*n equal rivalry with Englishmen, as
^Q in England as iu those colonial pos-
*^ODs of the British crown, whieh have
^red so wide a field for enterprise, and
f'cved sneh ample rewards to provident
industry ; and, whether at the bar or in
we senate, or in the more stirring feate of
J^) they have obtained a fair field, and
have won honourable distinction. There
^ offices in the Principality, the duties
^ whidi demand a knowledge of the
*^elsh language, and for them such know-
^^ge should be made a condition of eli-
l^ility, In tiie same maimer as a know-
'^gs <^ English wonld be required, under
IJI^Qgous eireumstanees, in England. In
^ law these'offioes will be few, and pro-
'^17 confined to the local Judges ; as it
*^ 11 not be lerionsly proposed that, in our
"^^ixe courts, the pleadhigs of the advo-
^w, «ad the address of the Judge, shall
'VOL. LXVI.— KO. CCCCVII.
be delivered in the Welsh language; and
even in the courts of quarter-sessions,
which are oomposed of local magistrates
most of whom were bom and reside in
the oountry, but few of those gentlemen
could address a jury in their own tongue.
A remedy for the inconvenience occa-
sioned by an ignorant or imperfect ac-
quaintance, on the part of the people, with
the language employed in courts of jus-
tice, mnst be looked for in that instruc-
tion in the English language which is in-
tended to be prorided for all, and which
is necessary to qualify men to appear as
witnesses, or to serve as Jurors, in courte
wherein the proceedings are conducted
in that tongue. The difficulties arising
from language are principally felt in the
Church : and it seems a truism to affirm,
that where Welsh is the ordinary lan-
guage of public worship, and the common
medium of conversation, the language
should be known to those who are to
teach and exhort the people, and to with-
stand and convince gainsayers. The no-
mination of foreign prelates to English
sees before the Reformation, occasioned
great dissatisfkction in the minds of the
English clergy, and tended to alienate
them from the papacy; and yet men who
are prompt to recognise that grievance,
are insensible to the effect produced on
the Welsh clergy, by their general exclu-
sion from the higher offices of the Church.
The ignorance of Welsh in men promoted
to bishoprics in Wales, may be more than
compensated for by the possession of other
qualifications; and a rigid exclusion from
the episcopal office in the Principality of
every man who is unacquainted with the
language of the people, might be inconve-
nient, if not iojurious, to the best interests
of the Church. The selection, however,
for the episcopal office of men conversant
with the language 'of the country, when
otherwise qualified to bear rule in the
Christian ministry, would give a living
reality to the episcopate in the Principal-
ity, and might materially aid in bringing
back the people into the fold of the
Church."
The difiference of language is here
made the principal grievance between
the Saxon and Celtic population ; and
it is certfdnly one of the principal^
though not the main, nor the only>
cause of the unpleasantness and un-
settledness of feeling that exists in
Wales towards England and English
people. Where two languages exist,
it is impossible but that national dis-
tinctions lAould exist also ; and as the
traditions of conquest, and the heredi *
tary consciousness of political inferior*
:\-2S
Mural and Social Condition qf Wmkt.
ity, .arc aomcof the last sentiments that
abandon a vanquislied people, so it is
probable that the Welsh will remain a
distinct people for more centuries to
come than we care to count up. We
do not know but that, to a certain ex-
tent, it may be a source of strength to
England that it should be so, though it
will undoubtedly be a cause of weak-
ness and division to Wales. Never-
theless, the difficulty is not so great as
may be at first sight suppoMd. In
adverting to this part of the sobject,
Sir Thomas Phlllipe observer—
*' When Edward the FirBt conquered
the country, and sabjected the natives to
English rule, he was deeply sensible of
the difficulty which now paralyses educa-
tion commifitiionersy and he dealt with it
in a manner characteristic of Uie monarch
and the time£>. Of him Carlyle would
say, he wa.*) a real man, and no sham; and
did not believe in any distracted Jargon
of univeri^al rose-water in this world stUl
so full of sin. Accordingly, he gathered
all the Welsh bards together, and put
them to death ; and Hume, a philosophic
and ordinarily not a cruel historian, says
this policy was not absurd. English
legislation, between the conquest of the
country by Edward the First and its in-
corporation with England by Henry the
Eighth, was characterised by a deliberate
and pertinacious endeavour to extirpate
the language and subjugate the spirit of
the inhabitants. By laws of the Lancas-
trian princes, (whoso usurpation was long
resisted by the Welsh people,) * rhymers,
minstrels, and other Welsh vagabonds,'
were forbidden to burden the country ;
the natives were not permitted to have
any house of defence, to bear arms, or to
exercise any authority ; and an EnglLbh-
man, by the act of marrying a Welsh wo-
man, becamo ineligible to hold office in
Iiis adopted country. By statutes of
Henry the Eighth, it was enacted, tliat
law proceedings should be in the English
tongue ; that all oaths, affidavits, and
verdicts, should be given and made in
English; and that no Welsh person, 'who
did not use the Englibh speech ' shoold
hold office within tlie King's dominions.
Even at the Reformation, which secured
the sacred volume to Euglislimen 'in
their own tongue wherein they were bora,'
the revelation to man of God's will was
not given to Welshmen in a langnnge un-
derstood by the people. In 1^(J'2, how-
[SepC.
ever, provinoa was mad* (or tranalatiiig
the Bible and the Book of CoBmoa
Prayer into the British or Welah toDgne,
by an act which declared that the most
and greatest pari of the Queen*i loving
suly'ects in Wales did not understand the
English tongue, and therefore were ut-
terly destitute of God's holy Word, and
did remain in the like, or rather more,
darkness and ignorance than they were ii
the time of papistry, and reqnired thai
not only a Wclah, biit also an En^id,
Bible and Book of Common Prayer sbDeM
be laid in every chnreh througfaoot Waleib
there to remain, that each aa nndentood
them might read and pemse the mae ;
and that such as understood them nst
might, by conferring both tongneitogetker,
the sooner attain to the knowledge of the
English tongue.
''Nearly six centuries have elapsed
since the first Edward croeeed the nfty
mountains of North Wales, which, befon
him, no King of England had treddo,
and in the citadel of Caernarvon received
the submission of the Welsh people ; and
more than three centuries have passed
away since the country was iacoipoxated
with, and made part of, the rnlm d
England ; and althoogh, for lo long n
period, English laws have been ealbroed^
and the use of the Welsh language dis-
couraged, yet, when the question is no*
asked, what progress has been aide is
introducing the English language { thi
answer may be given from Part II. of thi
Reports of the Edacation CommissioBn^
page 68. In Cardiganshire, 3000 peop^
out of 68,766 speak English.* The n-
sult may be yet more strikingly ihowBby
saying that double the number of penotf
now B^ak Welsh who spoke ftoft lU'
guage m the reign of £liaaA>eth.''
It is a mistaken idea to suppose thst
the Welsh language is hard to be ac-
quired,— the very reverse of this is the
fact : there is probably ao nobA
laugoAjce of Europe, not deriYeatoa
the Latin, which may be so soon tf ^
agreeably acquired as the Wdsh. A
good knowledge of it, so as to e&sbb
the learner to read and write it ctf-
rcntly, may be attained certainly wiA-
in a year by even a moderatdj dili-
gent student; and the power of con-
verging in it with ease and flneo^^
to bo gained within the oonns «
perhaps a couple of years. The lu-
guage is daily studied more and inoiv
* ** In Broconshirc, the proportion of persons who speak English is maeh liifVt
but a considerable number of these are immigrants from i^g}*^* to the iiv>
works ; whilst, in lUdnorshize, the great bulk of the populatioa ia aol Celtic, m
English is all but universal."
]
Marai and Socitd CotuUtion of Wak%.
329
enous not cooBected with the
ipftlit J, aad acquired bj them ;
•rhat [fl a remarkable fact, next
I galaxy of the Williamses/ the
i¥ekh scholar of the present day
' Meyer, the learned German
ian at Buckingham Palace ;
Dr Hiirlwall, the present bishop
David's, baa made himself^ with
a few years' study, as good a
1 acholar as he had long before
iGennanone. We believe that,
present system of education be
ly carried oat, with its conse-
developments, in the Principa-
In two languages, English and
I, win become equally familiar
Me who may be bom in the
1 generation from the present
and that the inhabitants of
i, becoming thoroagfaly bilmtptal
we do not anticipate that they
bmdon their ancient tongue —
iparent obstacle to a more corn-
amalgamation of interests be-
ihe two races will be entirely
■d. One thing is certain, that
titade of Welsh children to learu
fc, of the purest dialectic kind,
r xemarkable—and that the de-
> acquire English la prevalent
jBt all the people.
ooni(B88 that we should be sorry
any language impaired, much
igotten : they constitute some of
est maits which the Almighty
(pressed upon the various tribes
children — not lightly to be nc-
I nor set aside. They form
)f the surest grounds of national
th and pennancnce; and they
me of those old and venerable
iduch, as true conservatives,
\ by no means desirous to see
sted or injured. As, however,
ibriously impossible that the
fiterature of the Anglo-Saxon
lonld be translated into Welsh,
nentiai to the Cambrians that
mold no longer hesitate as to
teg themselves ibr reading, iu
1 tongue, that literature which
dain^ so great an influence over
\ portion of the globe ; and the
MO of the two languages will
\ elevate the character, as well
remove the prejudices, of the
people that shall take the trouble to
acquire them.
The social condition of Wales ia
gone into by the author at some
length; but he confines his observa-
tions principally to the manufacturing
and xnining population of Glamorgan
and the southern counties. Upon
this part of the sul^t he has com-
piled much valuable information
which, though not exactly new, tells
well in his work when brought into
a focus and reasoned upon. He in-
troduces the snbject thus: —
'^ The social eondition of the inhabitants
is influeneed by the conflguratioii of the
countiy, for the most part abrupt, and
broken into hill and valley; the elevatioa
of the npper moantain ranges, whieh aro
the loftiest in South Britain, and the
large proportion of waste and barren
land; the hnmidity of the oiimate; the
variety and extent of the nuneral riches
in certain localities; and the great length
of the sea-coast, forming namerons bays
and havens ; and thos mre is presented
much variety in the occapation, and re-
raaricable contrasts in the means of sub-
sistence and habits of lifo, of the people.
Monmouthshire, Glamorganshire, and the
southern extremity of ft-econshire, are
the seat of the iron and coal trades. In
the western part of Glamorganshire,
around Swansea, and in the south-eastern
comer of CarmarthenBhire, copper ore,
imported from Cornwall, as well as from
foreign coantries, is smelted in large
quantities ; and the same neighbourhood
is the seat of potteries, at which an inex-
pensive description of earthenware is
made. Coal, in limited quantities, and of
a particular description, is exported from
Carmarthenshire and Pembrokeshire; and
lead ore and quarries of slate are worked
in Cardiganshire. In North Wales, con-
siderable masses of people are collected
around the copper mines of Anglesey ;
amidst the slate quarries opened in tho
lofty mountains of Caernarvonshire and
Merionethshire, as well as in some of the
aea-ports of those counties ; amongst the
lead mines of Flintshire, and the coal and
iron district*), which extend from the con-
fines of Cheshire, through Flintshire and
Denbighshire, to the confines of Merion-
ethshire ; and in those parts of Montgom-
eryshire, on the bonks of the Severn,
where flannel-weaving prevails. For-
merly, the woollen cloths and flannels
with whieh the people clothed themselres
were manufiutured throughout the coun-
• loading schohus and authors of Wales are all named Williams : ris. Arch-
WiUiama, and the Revs. Robert Williams, John Williams, Rowland Williamfl,
WiiUaasy aad Monte WiUiams^noae of theai relations t
330
Moral and Social Condition of Walet*
[SepL
try, at small mills or factories placed on
the margin of mountain streams, which
furnished the power or agencj necessary
for carrying on the process ; but the
growth of the largo manufacturing esta-
blishments in tlie north of Elngland and
Scotland, and the substitution of cotton
for wool in various articles of clothing^
have uprooted many of the native facto-
ries, and reduced to very small dimensions
the once important manufacture of home-
made cloths and flannels. The larger
portion of the industrial population of
North Wales, and of the counties of Car-
digan, Carmarthen, Radnor, and Pem-
broke, in South Wales, is engaged in
agriculture. It consists, for the most
part, of small farmers — a frugal and cau-
tious race of men, employing but few la-
bourers, and cultivating, by means of their
own fkmilies and a few domestic servants,
the lands on which they live.
** In times ofmining and manufacturing
prosperity, the productions of the agrionl-
tural and pastoral districts find ready
purchasers, at remunerating prices, at the
mining and manufacturing establishments,
to which they are conveyed from distant
places; and the surplus labour of the agri-
cultural districts finds profitable employ-
ment at the mines, factories, and shipping
ports, where a heterogeneous population
is collected fVom every part of the king-
dom. The wages of labour are, neverthe-
less, very low, in the agricultural portions
both of North and South Wales; and are
probably lower in the western counties of
South Wales, and in some districts of
North Wales, than in any other part of
South Britain. The Weleh farmer pre-
sents, however, a stronger contrast than
even the Webh labourer to the same class
in England, lie occupies a small farm,
employs an inconsiderable amount of
capital, and is but little removed, either
in his mode of life, his laborious occupa-
tion, his dwelling, or his habits, from the
day-labourers by whom he is surrounded;
feeding on brown bread, often made of
barley, and partaking but seldom of ani-
mal food. The agricultural and pastoral
population is, for Uie most part, scattered
in lone dwellings, or found in small ham-
lets, in passes amongst the hills, on the
sides of lofty mountains, or the margin of
a rugffed sea-coast, or on lofty moors, or
table-land; and oftentimes this population
can be approached only along sheep-tracka
or bridle-paths, by which these mountain
Bolitndes are traversed.
'^ Whilst, however, such is the condition
of a wide area of the Principality, there
is found in particular districts, of which
mention has been already made, a popu-
lation congregated together in large num-
bers, which has groTm with a rapidity of
which there is scaroely another example
— not by the gradual inerease of biiiha
over deaths, but by immigration from
other districts, as well of Wales and Eng-
land, as of Ireland and Scotland also.
That immigration is not constant in its
operation and regular in its amount, bat
fluctuating, or abruptly suspended ; and
in times of adversity, which flreqneotly
recur, men, drawn hither by the prospect
of high wages, however Bhort-Uved sad
prosperity may prove, migrate in seanh
of employment to other distrietSy or are
removed to their former homes. In tbe
iron and coal districts of South Waltf,
these colonies are collected at two points
— the mountain sides, at whidi the miM-
rals are raised, and the shipping ports, at
which the produce of the mines is ex-
ported."
It appears that the total value of
shipments from the comities of Moa-
month, Glamorgan, and Carmarthen,
in metals and minerals, during the
year 1847 was, in round nnmbo^, u
follows : —
Iron, .
Copper,
Coal, .
Tin plate.
£4,000,000
2,000,000
800,000
400,000
Jt7,200,000
The copper specified above is not
copper found in Wales, bnt that which
is brought to Swansea, and other
ports of Glamorgan and Garmartfaen,
for the purpose of being smdted,
and then reshipped for various ptrts
of the world, principallv to Fnnoe
and South America. This trade gives
occupation to a large population
in those districts, and it forma OM
of the few branches of British manu-
factures, in which no very grest
fluctuations have been experienoed
during the last few years. It Is, in-
deed, estimated that more than tluce-
fourths of all the copper used on the
face of the globe is smelted in the
South- Welsh coal-field. Bnthowproi-
pcrous soever may have been the con-
dition of the great capitalists and iron-
masters in South Wales, It does not
appear that, with two or three bright
exceptions, they have done much to
ameliorate the condition of the people
in their employment, — and even, in the
present unsettled state of the woi^
the lufluence upon their hearts, of the
metals they deal in, may be but loo
evidently seen. We find a most inge-
1849.]
nions and imporUint passage in SirT.
Phillips* work upon this subject, fall
of sound philosophy and excellent
feeling. He obsenres : —
** The wilderness, or mooniain waste,
has been corered with people; an aotivity
and energy almost saperhnman characte-
rise the operations of the district; wealth
has been aeenmnlated hy the employer;
and large wages have been earned hy the
labourer. Thus far the piotnre which has
been presented is gratifying enough ; bat
the more serions question arises — How
have the soeial and moral relations of the
district been inflnenced by the changes
which it has witnessed ! May ife not be
Mid with troth, that the weiJth of the
capitalist has ordinarily ministered to the
selfish enjoyments of the possessor, whilst
the ample wages earned in prosperous
times by the labourer have been nsniJly
sqaandered in coarse intemperance, or
careless eztrayagance 1 Prosperity is suc-
ceeded periodlcflJly by those seasons of
adyenity to which manufacturing indus-
try IS peculiarly exposed ; when the la-
bonren whose wants grew with increased
means, experiences positiye suffering at a
rate of wages on which he would have
UTed in comfort, had he not been accus-
tomed to larger earnings. Crowded dwell-
ings, badly-drained habitations, constant
incitements to intemperance, and, above
ally association with men of lawless and
abandoned character, (who so f^qaently
TMort to newly •peopled districts,) are also
nnikToorable elements in the social condi-
tion of this people. To those influences
may be added, the absence of a middle
clans, as a connecting link between the
employer and the employed ; the neglect
of saeh moral supervision on the part of
ibe employers as might influence the cha-
raeter of their workmen ; and the want
of ihoee institutions for the relief of moral
or physical destitution — whether churches,
sebools, almshouses, or hospitals— which
dmneterise our older communities.
Wealth aeenmnlated by the employer is
foond by the side of destitution and suffer-
ing in the labourer— often, no doubt, the
result of intemperance and improvidence,
but not seldom the effect of those calami-
ties against which no forethought can
Adequately guard ; and when no provision
is made for the relief of physical or motal
suffering, by a dedication to GK>d's serrice,
for the relief of His creatures, of any por-
tion of that wealth, to the accumulation
of which by the capitalist the labourer
lias eontribnted, it will be manifest that
the social and political institutions of our
land are exposed to trials of no ordinary
severity intiiese new communities.
" We live in times of great mental and
Moral and Social CondiHon of Wales,
831
moral activity. In the year which has
now reached its close, changes have been
accomplished, far more extensive and
important than are usually witnessed by
an entire generation of the sons of men ;
and around and about us opinions may be
discerned, which involve, not merely the
machinery of government, but the very
f^mework of society : and these opinions
are not confined to the closets of the stu-
dious, but pervade the workshop and the
market, and interest the men who fill our
crowded thoroughfares. In former agesj
as well as in other conditions than the
manufkcturing in our own times, social
inequalities may have presented them-
selves, or may still exist, great as those
which characterise, in our own age, the
seats of manufacturing labour ; and the
lord and vassal of the feudal system may
have exhibited, and the squire and the
peasant of some of our agricultural dis-
tricts may still present, as wide a dispar-
ity of condition, as exists at this day be-
tween the master manufacturer and the
operative ; but the antagonism of inter-
ests, whether real or apparent, between
the manufacturer and the operative, is
altogether unlike that simple disparity of
condition which may have perplexed for-
mer serfdom, or may excite wonder in the
agricultural mind of our own age. To
the eyes and the contemplations of the
serf, as of the peasant, the lord or the
squire was the possessor of wide and fer-
tile lands, which he had inherited Arom
other times, and which neither serf nor
peasant had produced, but which both
believed would minister to their necessi-
ties, whether in sickness or in poverty,
because neither the castle-gate nor the
hall-door had ever been closed against
their tales of suffering and woe. Neither
the ancient serf, nor the modem peasant,
witnessed that rapid acoumulation of
wealth, which is so peculiarly the product
of our manufacturing system, and saw
not, as the operative does, fortunes built
up flrom day to day, which he regards as
the creation of his sweat and labour— and
at once the result and the eridence of a
polity which fosters capital more than
industry, and regards not the poverty with
which labour is so often associated. Dif-
ferent ages and conditions produce differ-
ent maxinis. The modem manufacturer
is not a worse (he may be, and often is, a
better) man than the ancient baron, but
he has been brought up in a different phi-
losophy. By him, the operative is well-
nigh regarded as a machine, fh>m whom
certain economical resultsmay be obtained
— who is free to make his own bargains,
and whose moral condition is a problem
to be solved by himself, because, for that
condition, no duty attaches to his em-
832
Mond md Stdtd CamttiOimtfWtki.
[Sept
ployer, who has contraoted with him imum
other than ao eeonomieal relation. Yet,
18 there not danger that, in poming with
logical preciflion, and with the oonfldeaoe
of demonatrated truths, the docirinee of
political economy, we may forget dntiea
fkr higher than any vrfaieh that fdenoe
can teach — dutim which man owea to hia
fellow, and which are alike independent
of capital and labour t It ii no doubt
true, that men who earn large wagei,
whilst blessed with health and strength,
and iu full employment, ooght to make
provision for sickness, old age, or want of
work ; bat suppose that duty neglectod|
even tlien the obligation attadiee to the
employer to care for those of his own
household. In old eommnnities, too, the
proportion must erer be large of thoee
who, in prosperity, can barely provide for
their bodily wants, and, in adTcrsity, ex-
perience the bitterness of actual want in
some of its sharpest visitations. To the
humble-minded Christian, who has been
accustomed to consider the gifts of .God,
whether bodily strength, or mental power,
or wealth, or rank and influential station,
as talents intrusted to him, as G^'s
steward, for the good ef his fellow-crea-
tures—afflicting, indeed, is the spectacle
of wealth, rapidly aoonmulated by the
agency of labour, employed only for self-
aggrandisement, with no fitting acknow-
ledgment, by its possessor, of the claims
of his fellow-men.
" In our new and neglected communi-
ties, Chartism is found in its worst mani-
festations—not as an adbesion to political
dogmas, but as an indication of that class-
antagonism which proclaims the rejection
of our common Christianity, by denying
the brotherhood of Christians. This anta-
gonism originated, as great social evils dition of the public mind nutj
ever do, in the neglect of duty by the judged of from the following table of
master, or ruling class. They firat practi- erimintl retoma for 1S46 :—
" Convictions —
England, . , ^
Blonmottthshire and Glamorganshire
11 counties of North and South Walei,*
Executions —
calif denied te oUigatssa Impowd m
every maa who widertakei to goven «
to guide othm, iHietlier ae — ***^ er
ruler, to care for, to ooonael* to instnol^
and, when necessary, to control thoee who
have contraeted vrith him the depeedcnt
relation of servant or aabiieet ; wmd tnm
that negleot of duty has wpnag npy and
been nourished in the snbjee^ er depend*
ent class, impatienee of lesteminty discsn
tent with their eondition, a jeaioesy, oAm
amonnting to hatred, of the dasees aheie
them, and a desire, tet to destroy to Ihs
base, and then to reeonstroct en diA^
ent principles, the pehtienl and asdal
systeBBs under which they live. Thai
will it erer be, as thns it ever has bsM»
throughont the worid^i histety ; and As
ridation or neglect of dnty, whether by
nations or individuals, in its own diiact
and immediate oenseqoenees, wotfcs sal
the appropriate national or iniiifidsil
punishment; and thoas who sow the wmi,
will surely reap the whiriwind— it maf
be, not in their own peraons, bnt ia ths
visitation of thehr children's childi
Notwithfitanding the lamentiWa
prevalence of diseaaed political aad
moral feeling among a certain portka
of the inhabitants of Sonth Walei, it
is certain that the primitive tkmMtf
of character by whidi the Wcw
nation ia still distingnished, tends ia t
great dc^e to keep them from the
commission of those crimes which tt-
tract the serious notice of the lav. Is
most of the coontiea of Waleii th»
bosiness on the crown aide at the
assiaes is generally light, aometiatf
only nominal ; and the general efla-
17,644, erl in aM
250, or 1 inl2e0
260, or i in JOOe
EngUnd,
Wales, ....
Transportations —
England,
Monmouthshire and Glamoraanshire.
11 Welsh counties, . .
Imprisonments above a year —
EngUnd,
Monmouthshire and Glamorganshire,
1 1 Welsh counties.
Imprisonments not above a year —
Eogland,
Btonmouthshire and Glamorganshire,
11 Welsh counties,- . .
None.
2801, or 1 in 5800
29,or 1 in 10,000
25, or 1 in 30^000
322, Of 1 in 4500
10, or 1 in 30,000
2, or I in 350,000
14,515, or 1 fai leOO
211, or 1 In 1500 •
233, or I In 8300 j
d
S
m
t
9
s
i
Moni tmd SoeM Condition of WaleB,
M MmparatiTe rarity of crime in
iWB Welsh eonnties is represented
Wmot to 3000 of the popaUtion ;
m abaence of serious crimes b j the
»mber of transportations, namely,
1 in 30/)00; and still more remark-
\y tlie large proportion of the offend-
lOW punishment did not exceed a
UBprisonment, namely, 223 ont of
««ing 27 as the number of all the
ab oonTicted [in a year, in eleven
Sly whose punishment exceeded a
iBprisonment.'*
) accnsation that was brought
rd in the nnfortnnate Blue Books
It the chastity of the Welsh
n, and which was the real canse
hubbnb made abont them, we
n from our consideration. It
fix>m a misapprehension of the
) of criminality implicKl by the
lence of an ancient custom,
exists not in Wales only, but
ther think amongst the peasants
whole of Europe, and certainly
dely in England as in Wales.
her existing in other nations or
he Welsh press, (generally con-
1 by Englishmen, l^ it observed,)
be pseudo-patriots of Wales, a
empt^'-headed class, ma<le a
stir abont it, an<l declaimed
lUy : they did not, however, ad-
ft single solid argument in dis-
of the accusation. There is one
lone which is quite sufficient to
En the accusation and to remove
iin : bastardy is not less common
in England, but prostitution is
t unknown ; the common people
t consider that to be a crime be-
lUTiage, which after it they look
u a heinous enormity. Such is
iode of national morals : whether
or wrong, tliey abide by it pretty
itently ; and they appear to have
BO from time immemorial. They
no harm by it, and they look
it as venial :'thiH is the state of
atlonal feeling, and it settles the
bn.
) now turn to the chapters that
to the religious condition of the
ry, which is treated of by the
r at foil length, though our own
lents must be necessarily brief.
Ives a luminous account of the
nd progress of modem dissent
'ales ; from which, however, we
;be highly improbable statement,
the actual nnmber of members of
333
dissenting congregations, of all deno-
minations in Wales, amounted to only
1<)6,006 in 1846, with 1890 ministers.
W^e should rather say that, whatever
the gross population of the country
may be at the present moment, there,
is not more than one person out of
ten, who have arrived at years of dis-
cretion, belonging tdtoffether to the
church ; and we infer the fulness of
dissenting chapels, not only from the
crowds that we have seen thronging
them, on all occasions, but also from
the thinness of the congregations at
church. For the Welsh are eminently
an enthusiastic, and we might almost
say, a religious people: they are decid-
edly a congregational people ; and as
for st^iying at home on days of public
worship, no such idea ever yet entered
a true Welshman's head. Wo think
that the author must have been mis-
informed on this head, and that the
numbers should rather be the other
way— 100,000 out of 900,000 being a
very fair proportion for the members
of the church.
For all this there are good and
legitimate reasons to be found, not
only in what is adduced in this work
on the church establishment, but also
in the current experience of every
man of common observation through-
out the Principality. The wonder
is, not that dissent should have at-
tained its present height, but that
the church should have continued to
exist at all, amidst so many abuses,
so much ignorance^ so much neglect,
and such extraordinary apathy — ^until
of late days — on the part of her rulers.
The actual condition of the church in
Wales may be summed up in a few
words — it is that of the chnrch in Ire-
land: only those who diflfer from it are
Protestants instead of Roman Catho-
lics. Let us quote Sir Thomas
Phillips again : —
** We have no ir passed in review various
iiiflaences by which the church in Wales
has been weakened. We have seen the
religions edifices erected by the piety of
other times, and with the sustentation of
which the lands of the country have been
charged, greatly neglected, whilst the lay
officers, on whom the duty of maintaining
those buildings iu decent condition was
imposed, are sometimes not appointed, or,
if appointed, make light or naught of their
duties : we have seen ecclesiastical offi-
cers, specially charged with the oversight
of the churches, not required to exercifle
functions which have been reTiyed bj re-
cent legishitive enactments : we haye
found a clergy, with scanty incomes, and
a want of decent residences, ministering
in a peculiar language, with which the
gentry hare most commonly an imperfect
and often no acquaintance — eren where it
is the language of public worship — influ-
ences which lower the moral and intel-
lectual standard of the clergy, by intro-
ducing into holy orders too large a pro-
portion of men, whose early occupations,
habits, and feelings, do not ordinarily con-
duce to maintain the highest standard of
conduct, and who (instead of forming, as
in England, a minority of the whole body,
and being elevated in tone, morally and
mentally, by association with minds of
higher culture) compose the large majority
of the clergy of the Principality. It can-
not, then, be matter of surprise, if amongst
those men some should be found who (not
being received on a footing of equality
into the houses of the gentry, over whom
they exercise but little influence) again
resume the habits from which they were
temporarily rescued by an education itself
imperfect, and, selecting for daily compa-
uiunship uneducated men, are either
driven for social converse to the village
alehouse, or become familiarit^cd with
ideas and practices nnsuited to the cha-
racter, injurious to the position, and de-
structive to the influence of the Christian
pastor. Nor could we wonder, if even
the religious opinions and well-meant ac-
tivity of the more zealous among persons
thus circumstanced, were to borrow their
tone and colour from the more popular
influences by which they are surrounded,
rather than fVom the profounder and more
disciplined theology of the church of
which they are minister. We have
found the ecclesiastical rulers of this
clergy and chief pastors of the people, as
well as many other holders of valuable
church preferment, to consist often of
strangers to the country, ignorant alike of
the language and character of the inhabi-
tants, by many of whom they are regarded
with distrust and dislike ; nnable to in-
struct the flock committed to their charge,
or to teach and exhort with wholesome
doctrine, or to preach the word, or to
withstand and convince gainsayers, in the
language familiar to the common people of
the land. Finally, we have seen the
church, whilst she compassed sea and
land to gain one proselyte from the hea-
thendom without, allow a more deplorable
heathendom to spring into life within her
own borders; and the term baptised hea-
thens, instead of being a contradiction in
tctms, has become the true appellation of
Moral and Social Condition of Wakt.
[Sept.
thousands of men and women in this
island of Christian profession and Chris-
tian action. Nevertheless the Welsh art
not an irreligious people; and whilst the
religious fabrics of dissent are reared np
by the poor dwellers of their monntaia
valleys, in every comer in which a few
Christian men are congregated, and these
buildings are thronged by earnest-minded
worshippers, assembled for religions ser>
vices in the only places, it may be, then
dedicated to God's glory, the feeling matt
be ever present, ' Surely these men sad
women might have been kept within tbs
fold of the church.' A supposed excita-
bility in the Cambro-Uriton, a lovs fur
extemporaneous worship, and an impa-
tience of formal services, have been repre-
sented as intractable elements in the cha-
racter of this people. Even if such ele-
ments exist, it does not follow that they
might not have received a wholesome di-
rection; while, unfortunately, their actioft
now finds excuse in the neglect and pr^
vocation which alone render them dang•^
ous. The church in Wales has been pre-
sented in her least engaging aspect ; her
offices have been reduced to the baldest
and lowest standard; and whilst nofofl-
cient efforts have been employed to make
the beauty of our liturgical services
appreciated by the people, neither haiiay
general attempt been made to enlist, ia the
performance of public worship, their pro*
found and characteristic eigoymest ef
psalmody, by accustoming them to chsat
or sing the hymns of the ehnroh."
All the abuses of ecclefliastktl
property seem to have floarisbed it
the lana of Wales, as in a nook when
there was no chance of their being
ever brought to light ; — more thu
one-half of the income of the chofch,
for parochial purposes, totally aliea*
ated ; the bishops and other digni-
taries totally asleep, and exerdsiDgM
spiritual supervision ; ploralitiet ii4
non-residence prevailing to a great tUf
tent ; the character of the dei^ de-
graded; the gentry and ariatocrMf
of the land starving the church, tm
giving it a formal, not a real aappoit|
—how can any spiritual 8>'Bteni flouM
under such an accnmnlation of erili}
The true spirit of the chardi baiag
dead, a reaction on the part of the
people inevitably took pUoe; and it
IS hardly going too far to say, that hid
it not been for the efforts of diasentfliii
*^ progressing by antagonism,'' Chrii-
tianity would by this time kave falkft
into desuetnde within
1849.] Moral and Social Condition of Wales.'
It 18 a veiy thorny Bobject to toocfa
upon, in the present exeitable state
of the woiid, and therefore we refrain;
but we would earnestly solicit the
attention of onr readers to the pages
of Sir Thomas Phillips, — ^himself one
of the very few orthodos churchmen
835
of the Welsh, that they are not more
nearly on a level with the inhabitants
ofsome parts of England. The Welsh
Inhabit a peculiar land, where fog and
rain, and snow and wind, are more
prevalent than fine working weather
m more favoured spots of this island.
still left in Wales,— for a proof of A considerable part of their land is
what we have asserted; and should
thej still doubt, let them try an ex-
clusion among the wilds of the nor-
tbeni, or the vales of the southern
diriston of the conntiy, and ihej will
become full converts to our opinion.
Things, however, in this respect are
mendiog — ^the church has at length
stirred, abuses are becoming corrected,
the ecclesiastical commissioners have
donejostioe in several cases — and in
none more signally than in the extra-
ordinary epitome of all possible abuses,
shown by the chapter of Brecon —
abuses existing long before the Refer-
matioo, but increased, like many others,
tenfold since that period. The church
has never yet had fair play in the
coQDtry, for she has never yet done
herself — mu^ ks$ her peo^— justice ;
so that what she is capable of effect-
ing among the Cambrian mountains
eaoooi yet be predicated. We fondly
think* at times, that all these evils
might be abolished ; but this is not
the place for such a lengthy topic:
we have adverted to the state of things
as ^ey have hitherto existed in the
Principality, chiefly with the view of
showing their influence upon the pecu*
still unreclaimed and uncultivated-^
their country does not serve as a place
of passage for foreigners. Visitors,
Indeed, come among them ; but, with
the exception of the annual flocks of
summer tourists, and the passengers
for Ireland on the northern line of rail-
road, they are left to themselves with-
out much foreign admixture during a
great portion of each year. The mass
of the gentry are neither rich nor
generous: there are some large and
liberal proprietors, but the body of the
gentry do not exert themselves as
much as might be expected for the
benefit of their dependants ; and hence
the Welsh agriculturist lacks both
example and encouragement. That the
cultivation of the land, therefore, should
be somewhat in arrear, that the min-
eral riches of the country should be but
partially taken advantage of, and that
extensive manufactures should rarely
exist amongst the Welsh, ought not to
form any just causes of surprise : these
things will in course of time be reme-
died of themselves. The main evil that
the Welsh have to contend against is
one that belongs to their blood as a
Celtic nation ; and which, while that
liar political and ethnical condition of blood remains as much unmixed as at
the people, which it is our main object present, there is no chance of eradi-
to discuss. We will content ourselves
with observing, that Sir Thomas
Phillips' remarks on this subject,
ftud on the connexion of the state
with the education of the country, are
^harMterised by sound religious feel-
ing, and a true conservative interpre-
tation of the political condition of the
eiiniie.
Ob a calm view of the general con-
dition of Wales, we are of opinion that
the mbabitants, the mass of the nation,
are IS well off, in pr(H>ortion to the
msans of tlie country itself, to the
eating. We allude to that which haa
distinguished all Celtic tribes where-
cver found, and at whatever period of
their history — we mean their national
indolence and want of perseverance-*
the absence of that indomitable energy
and spirit of improvement which haa
raised the Anglo-Saxon race, crossed
as it has been with so manjr other
tribes, to such a mighty position in
the dominion of the worid.
This absence of energy is evident
upon the very fkoe of things, and liea
at the bottom of whatever slowness of
fnodeniB quantity of capital ooUeoted improvement is oomplainedof in Wales,
^n the Principality, and the number of It is the same pest that infeste Irehmd,
f^eaident gentry—- which is not very only it exists in a minor degree ; it Is
Krait—as might have been fairly ex- that which did so much harm to the
pectcd; and that it is no true argu- Scottish Highlands at one period of
meotag^inat the national capabilities their history ; and it is a component
836
Mand and Sodad OmdUkm of WakB,
[Sept,
canse of many anomalies in the French
character, thongh in this case it is
nearly bred out. One of the most
striking evidences and effects of it is
thedirt and antidiness which is so strik-
ing and offensive a peculiarity of Welsh
villages and towns — that shabby,
neglected state of the honses, streets,
and gardens, which forms sach a pain-
ful contrast the moment you step
across t-hc border into the Principality.
In this the Welsh do not go to the
extremes of the Irish : they are pre-
8er\-ed from that depth of degradation
by some other and better points of
their character; but they approach
very closely to the want of cleanliness
ob.servablc in France — and the look of
a Welsh and a French village, nay,
the very smell of the two pUices, is
nearly identical. A Welsh peasant,
amidst his own mountains, if he can
got a shilling a-day, will prefer starv-
ing upon that to labouring for another
twelvepenoe. A farmer with £50
a-year rent has no ambition to become
one of £200 ; the shopkeeper goes on
in the small-ware line all his life, and
dies a pedlar rather than a tradesman.
There are brilliant and extraordi-
nary exceptions to all this, we arc
well aware ; nay, there arc ditlerenocs
in this respect between the various
counties, — and generally the southern
parts of Wales arc as much in advance
of the northern, in point of industry,
as they are in point of intellect and
agricultural wealth. It is the general
characteristic of this nation — and it
evidences itself, sometimes most dis-
agreeably, in the want of punctuality,
and too often of straightforward deal-
ing, which all who have any commer-
cial or industrial communications with
the lower and middle classes of the
Welsh have inevitably experienced.
It is the vioe of all Celtic nations, and
is not to be eradicated except by a
cross io the blood. Joined with all
this, there is a mean and petty spirit of
deceit and concealment too often shown
even in the middle classes ; and there
is also the old Celtic vice of feud and
clanship, which tends to divide the
nation, and to impede its advance-
ment in civilisation. Thus the old
feud between North and South Wales
still subsists, rife as ever; the nor-
thern man, prejudiced, ignorant, and
indolent, comes forth from his moun-
tains and looks down with contempt
on the dweller in the sontbem vales,
his superior in all the arts and pmsuts
of civilised life. Even a difference of
colloquial dialects eaoaes a national
enmity; and the rough Cymro of
Gwynedd still derides the softer maa
from Gwent and Morganwg. All
these minor \'ices and follies tend Io
impair the national character — and
they are evidences of a qnrit whieh
requires alteration, if the condition of
the people is to be permanently eleva-
ted. On the other hand, the WeUi
have many excellent q[iialificatioiiB
which tend to coimteract their inaale
weaknesses, and afford promise of
much future good: their intellectual
acnteness, their natural kindlhiesiof
lieart, their constitntional poetry aai
religious enthusiasm, their indomit-
able love of countiy — ^which tiiey shsn
with all mountain tribes — all these
good qualities form n conntaMaaoo
to their failings, and tend to rectify
their national oonrse. Take a Welsfa-
man out of Wales, place him in Loa-
don or Liverpool, send him to the Eart
Indies or to North Ajnerica, and be
becomes a banker of fabnloos weilth,
a merchant of illinutable resources, b
great captain of his country's hosts, or
an eminent traveller and philosopher;
but leave him in his native valley, lad
he walks about with his hands ia Ub
pockets, angles for trout, and goes to
chapel with hopeless pertinacity. So(^
was the Highlander once; but bi*
shrewd good sense has got tiie bettor
of his indolence, and he has come oit
of his fastnesses, conquering and to
conqner. Not sndi, bat fiur, far wone
is the Irishman ; and andi wUl ho be
till he loses his national ezistenee. St
Andrew is a better saint than St
David, and St David than St PaHicfc;
but they all had the same fanlta oaoe,
and it is only by external dmn-
stances that any amelioration hasbeea
produced.
It is a fact of ethnolory , that wfcOe
a tribe of men, kept to ItMlf and ft«t
from foreign admixtnre, pieseifos in
natural good qualities in nndLniaiibed
excellence through nnnenms ageOi ^
its natural vi<%s become increftMd li
intensity and vitality by the n*^
circumstances of isolation. Look ^
the miserable Irish, always standing iB
their own light; look at the Spaniardi»
M^ir^midSoeiaiCimdidon^fWmks,
heaielvefl, nd ftifiing all
qnalitieB by the perma-
Wr national Tioes ; look
I «f Airia, 4oomed to per-
Mtion while they remain
blood. Had the Saxons
Ml vicrosaed blood, tiiey
B atolid, faea^y, dreaming^,
• Gcnaana, though they
. the plains of England ;
■ixed with the Celts and
Jiey formed the Lowland
KHt indostrious and can-
In the wide woiid : fused
■6 and Norman, and snb-
bud with all people, they
IWmen — rerum Dammi—
nana of old. It may be
Boongli to national pride,
fc is, nevertheless, patent
, that extensive admix-
ed commonly benefits a
Cliaa all its geogr^>hical
Dtimato eonviedon of the
ftiet, so clearly dedncible
ife of nniversal history,
lyfrom the border history
nd Wales, that shows ns,
m tsUae and absord is the
itriotism of a small party
lentry and clergy of Wales
lately raised the cry of
• tfae Welsh!'* and who
wj ooidd, get np a sort of
p n repeal of the Norman
that are sundry persons
rho, principally for local
puposes, are trying to
Uh still more dbtinct from
ftimn they now are, — ^who
0 the old animosities be-
ad Saxon, — ^who pretend
loen have no right even
l^ales, — and who, instead
1 m knowledge of the £ng-
9f declaim in &vonr of the
aintenance of the Welsh.
B8t actuated by a desire to
elves forward into tempo-
ly, profess, at the same
extraordinary contradic-
of the high Conservative
Bose themselves by th wart-
gB| and abusing the Dis-
M atmoet of their power.
sdnly supported — not by
f the middle classes, who
separate hobby to ride,
fcmst the former too mnch
887
to eo-operate with them— but by Eng-
lish settlers in Wales, and on its
borders, wiio, in order to make for
themselves an interest in the conntry,.
pander to the prejudices of a few am-
bitious twaddlers, and get up public
meetings, at which more nonsense is
talked tiian any people can be supposed
gullible enough to swallow. This
spirit exists in the extreme northern
portion of Wales, in Flintshire, Den-
bighshire, and CaemaiTonBhife ; and
on the south-eastern border of the
country, in Monmouthshire, more than
in any other district. It is doomed to
be transient, because it is opposed,
not less to the wishes and the good
sense of the mass of the people, than
to the views and policy of the noMes
and leading gentiy of the Principality.
One or two radical M.F.s., a few
disappointed clei^gymen, who fancy
that their chance of preferment lies in
abusing Enriand, and a few amateur
students of Welsh literature, who
think that they shall thereby rise to
literary eminence, constitute the clique,,
which will talk and strut for its day,
and then die away into its primitive
insignificance. But, by the side of
this unimportant faction, there does
exist, amongst the working classes and
the lower portion of the middle orders,
a spirit of radicalism, chartism, or
republicanism, — for they are in rea-
lity synonymous terms, — which Is
doing much damage to the Principality,
and which it lies easily within the
power of the upper clawes to extin-
guish,— not by force, but by kindness
and by example.
It has been one of the consequenoea
of dissent in Wales — ^not intended, we
believe, by the majority of the mini-
sters, but following inevitably from
the organisation of their congrega-
tions,— that a democratic spirit of
self-government should have arisen
among the people, and have inter-
woven itself with their habits of
thought and their associations of daily
life. The middle and lower classes,
separated from the upper by a differ-
ence of language, and alienated from
the church by its inefficiency and ne-
glect, have thrown themselves into
the system of dissent, — that is, of self-
adopted religious opinions, meditated
upon, sustained, and expounded in
their own native tongue, with all the
838
Moral and Social Condition of Waki.
[Sept
enthusiasm that marks the Celtic cha-
racter. The ^If between the nobles
and gentry of Wales on the one side,
and the middle and lower classes on
the other, was already sufficiently
wide, without any new principle of
iUsunion being introduced; but now
the church has become emphatically
the church of the upper classes alone,
— the chapel is the chapel of the lower
orders — and the country is divided
thereby into two hostile and bitterly
opposed parties. On the one hand
are all the aristocratic and hierarchic
traditions of the nation ; on the other
is the democratic self-governing spirit,
opposed to the former as much as
light is to darkness, and adopted with
the greater readiness, because it is
linked to the religious feelings and
practices of the vast majority of the
whole people. Dissent and democra-
tic opinions have now become the tra-
ditions of the lower orders in Wales ;
and every thing that belongs to the
church or the higher onlers of the
country, is repulsive to the feelings of
the people, because they hold Uiem
identical with oppression and super-
stition. The traditions of the con-
quest were quite strong enough, — the
Welshman hated the Englishman tho-
roughly enough already ; but now
that he finds his superiors all speak-
ing the English tongue, all members
of the English church, he clings the
more fondly and more obstinately to
his own self-formed, self-chosen, sys-
tem of worship and government, and
the work of reunion and reconciliation
is made almost impossible. In the
midst of all this, the church in Wales
is itself divided into high and low,
into genteel and vulgar; the digni-
taries hold to the abuses of the system,
— and some, less burdened with com-
mon sense than the rest, gabble about
" Wales and the Welsh," as if any
fresh fuel were wanted to feed the fire
already burning beneath the surface
of society !
Even at the present moment, char*
tism is active in Wales : Mormonites
and Latter-day Saints still preach and
fo forth from the Principality to the
Jnited States, (fortnnately for this
country;) and Dnprinclpled itinerant
lecturers on socialism, chartism, and
infidelity, are now going thdr circuits
in Wales, and obtaining nnmerooa
audiences.*
Most of the leading gentry and
nobility of Wales are, strange to say,
dabblers in Whigglsm and amateur
radicalism ; many of the M.P^ ara
to be found on the wrong side in the
most disgracefal divisions: the cor-
porations of the country are of an no*
satisfactory character, and disaflbction
prevails extensively in many of the
chief towns. We believe that a great
deal of all this has arisen from the
folly, the neglect, the bad examj^
and the non-residence of the natural
leaders of the Principality. Welsh
landlords, like Irish — thongh not an
bad as the latter— are nnoommonlf
unwilling to loosen their parse-striagiv
except for their own immediate plM-
sures. Scores of parishes have U9
other representative of the upper
classes in them than a half-edncateA
and poorly paid resident clcrgymsB :
agents and lawyers ride it roughly
and graspingly over the land; tlio
people have few or no natural leaders
within reach; they pay their rent8«
but they get little back from them, U^
be spent in their humble villages*
Their only, and their best friend, a9
they imagine, is their preacher— on9
of themselves, elected by themselves^
deposoMe by themselves. They com*
in contact with a aharp lawyer, ik
drunken journalist, a Chartist lecturcTir
a Latter-day Saint— can the result b»
wondered at?
As long as the patriotism of tb»
* It is only a short time since that Vincent, of London notoriety, made a tncee*^
ful visit to South Wales, lecturing in the Baptist chapels, wherever he went, on tbe
Claims of the Age, on the Bights of Woman, on the Claims of Labour, and Uie other
usual clap-trap subjects. At Swansea, though it is a poor compliment to the good
sense of its inhabitants, he actually succeeded in getting one of his meetings pic-
sided over by a gentleman who had once been mayor of the town, and he lined bii
pockets at the expense of not a few persons calling themselves respectable, and pit-
tending to be people of discernment. The lecturer, in his hand-billi posted on dM
walls of Swansea and Tenby, called himself simply Henry Vincent; but in the smiUcr
towns, such as Llanelly and Caermarthen, he gave himself out as Henry Viaoenti
Id49.]
Moral and Sociai CtmdiHan of Wales,
Welsh gentry and clei^ consbts, as it
now, too often, does, in frothy words,
and an absence of deeds — ^in the accept-
ing of English money and in abasing
England — in playing the Aristocrat at
home, and the Whig-radical-liberal
in public — so long will disafibction
continoe in the Principality, and the
social condition of the people remain
nnimproved. The only thing that
preserves Wales from rapidly verging
to the condition of Ireland, is the
absence of lane towns with their con-
taminating influences, and the purely
agricnltoral character of the greatest
porUon of the people. But even the
mountaineer and the man of the plain
may be corrupted at last, and he may
degenerate into the wretdied cottier —
the poor slave, not of a proud lord,
but of a profligate republic. It is
from this lowest depth that we would
wish to see him rescued ; for in the
peasaBtry the ultimate hope of the
coontry is involved quite as much as in
tiie upper classes ; and until the latter
set tfae example, by actually putting
their shoulders to the wheel, throwing
aside their i)olitical tampenngs with
the wrorat Action that divides the
state, and especially by encouraging
the itfitroduction of English setUers
into fliii comers of the country, — we
shall not see the social and moral con-
dition of Wides such as it should be.
Let the nobles and gentry spend their
839
incomes in the country, not out of it ;
let them live even amid theu: moun-
tains, and mix with their people ; let
them improve the towns by introda-
cing English tradesmen as much as
possible ; let them try to get up a
spirit ^of industry, perseverance, and
cleanliness throughout the laud; — so
shall they discomfit the ChartiBts,
and convert the democrats into good
subjects. Let the clergy reform the
discipline of the Welsh church; let
them alter the financial inequalities
and abases that prevail in it, to an
idmost incredible extent; and let them,
by their doctrines and practice, emulate
the good qualities of their professional
opponents ; — so shall they empty the
meeting-houses, and thaw the cold-
ness of Independentism or Methodism
into the warmth of union and afiec-
tionate co-operation. Let every
Welshman, while he maintains intact
and undiminished the real honour of
his country, join with his Saxon
neighbour, imitating his good quali-
ties, correcting his evil ones by his
own good example ; and let their
children, mingling in blood, obliterate
the national <Ustinctions that now are
mischievously sought to be revived ;
— so shaU the imion of Wales with
England remain unrepesled, and the
common honour of the two countries,
distinct yet conjoined, be promoted
by theur common weal.
340
The Stroifed Btvelkr.
[Sept.
THE ST&^YED REVELUCB.
The other Qvcning, on retnming
borne from tlie pleasant hospitalities
of the Koyal Mid-Lothian Yeomaniy,
our heart cheered with claret, and onr
intellect refreshed by the patriotic elo-
quence of M'Whirter, we found upon
our table a volume of suspicious thin-
ness, the title of which for a moment
inspired us with a feeling of dismay.
Fate has assigned to us a female rela-
tive of advanced years and a curious
disposition, whose allection is con-
stantly manifested by a regard for our
private morals. Belonging to the
Supra-lapsarian persuasion, she never
loses an opportunity of inculcating her
own peculiar tenets : many a tract has
been put into our hands as an anti-
dote against social backslidings ; and
no sooner did that ominous phrase,
The Strayed Beveller^ meet our eye,
than we conjectured that the old lady
had somehow fathomed the nature of
our previous engagement, and, in our
absence, deposited the volume as a
special warning against indulgence in
military banquets. On opening it,
however, we discovered that it was
verse ; and the iirst distich which met
our eye was to the following effect: —
*' O Vizier, thoa art old, I young,
Clear in tlicdo things I eaanut see.
My heufl ii> burning; and a heat
la in my nkiu, vrliich augers me.*^
This frank confession altered the
current of our thought, and we straight-
way set down the poet as some young
roysterer, who had indulged rather
too copiously in strong potations, and
who was now cclobrating in lyrics his
various erratic adventures before
reaching home. But a little more
attention speedily convinced us that
jollity was about the last Imputation
which could possibly be urged against
our new acquaiutaucc.
One of the most painful features of
our recent poetical literature, is the
marked absence of anything like hear-
tiness, happiness, or hope. We do
not want to sec young gentlemen
aping the liveliness of Anacrcon, in-
dulging in praises of the rosy god, or
frisking with supernatural agility;
but we should much prefer even and
an unnecessary exaberance of spiriMv
to the drearj melancholy uriiiefa is
but too apparent in their songs. Bead
their Ingnbriovs ditties, and yon woald
think that life had utteriy lost sU
charm for them befoie Uiey have
crossed its threshold. The caass d
such overwhelming doqMiodency it li
in vain to discover ; for none of then
have the plnck, like Byxon, to oonuait
imaguiary crimes, or to rcpwseit
themselves as racked with remonefiDr
murders which they never perpetnted.
If one of them would broadly sccsse
himself of having mn his man thnnf^
the vitals— of having, in an e^>en-
mental &t, plucked np a nil, and «
caused a tenific accident on the Sosftl-
Westem— or of having done sone
other deed of reasonable turpitude aid
atrocity, we conld understead wktf
the fellow meant by his exceoivelf
unmirthfhl monologues. But we in
not indulged with any fnll-flaTOOied
tictions of the kind. On the ctmtnrfi
our bards affect the purity and iaio-
cence of the dove. They shrink froa
naughty phrases with instinctlte hor- j
ror — have an idea that the nildti^ !
kind of flirtation involves a deviatioa j
from 'virtue; and, in their most sarage
moments of wrath, none of themwoiiI<l
injure a fly. How, then, can we ac-
count for that unhappy mist which i
floats between them and the ainre
heaven, so heavily as to dond tbe
whole tenor of their existence? ^Vliat
makes them maunder so incefisantly
about gloom, and graves, and misery?
>\'hy confine themselves everlastingly
to apple-blossoms, whereof the pro-
duct in autumn will not amount to a
single Bibston pippin? What bis
society done to them, or what can
they possibly have done to society,
that the future tenor of their sptt
must be one of unmitigated woe?
AVe rather suspect that most of tbe
poets would be puzzled to give satis-
factory answers to such queries. Vitj
might, indeed, reply, that misery is the
heritage of genius; but that, we ap*
prehend, would be arguing npon false
Thi fStrayed liawller, and other Foemt. By A. London : 1849.
n^ Stratftd Revdkr.
341
i; for w« can discover yciy
liu to viodicate the existence
il a qnaatity of woe.
lope, for tlie sake of human
AAt the whole thing is a hum-
7, we have not the least donbt
tr the experience of a good
san has convinced as, that a
oat in print is a vevy different
twol the actoal existing bard.
■ar haa nerves of gossamer,
eaihat he is sodded with dew;
BT is generally a fellow of his
nd his no insnperaUo objec-
gin and water. In the one
\ he fisebl 7 implores an early
hk the other, he shouts for
Udnevslong after midnight,
s ought to be snoring on his
Of a morning, the Strayed
r ioapires you with ideas of
i»— towards eveninc[, your es-
if his character decidedly im-
Only fancy what sort of a
iA the author of the following
ist be:^
"TO FArSTA.
iw and goM: life obbi and flowi,
Like the mTe.
I dblh nnknit tlio tzanquil BtreDgth
'■ Imdi life a nttlc gncc,
ir Md smilci: and then,
an hiid in one cold place,
In the grave.
I dawn and fly: friendi smile and die,
Like tpring flowerSb
anted life if one long iunenl.
dig gniTei with bitter tear*,
Omit dead hopei; and all,
id with doubts, and sick with fcar:«,
Connft the hours.
Bt the hoars: these dreams of ou»,
False and hollow,
re go hence and find thej are nut
ad?
we dimlj apprehend,
■ tiiat smiled and fled,
la bora here, and bom to end,
ShaU we follow?**
mpossible to account for tastes ;
fidriy confess, that if wc
Uie above lines were an ac-
«flex of the ordinary mood of
Mr, we should infinitely prefer
in company with the nearest
However, we have no sus-
of the kind. An early inti-
ith the writings of Shelley, who
wn person was no impcSstor, is
to account finr the composition
a singularly dolorous verses,
without supposing that they are any
symptom whatever of the diseased
Idiosyncrasy of the author.
If wo have selected this poet as the
type of a class now unfortunately too
common, it is rather for the purpose
of remonstrating with hun on the abuse
of his natural gifts, than from any de-
sire to hold lum up to ridicule. Wc
know not whether he may be a strip-
ling or a grown-up man. If the lat-
ter, we fear that he is incorrigible,
and that the modicum cf talent which
he certainly possesses is already so
perverted, by excessive imitation, as to
afford little ground for hope that he
can ever pnnfy himself from a bad
style of writing, and a worse habit of
thought. But if, as we rather incline
to bdieve, he is still a young man, we
by no means despair of his reforma-
tion, and it is with that view alone
that we have selected his v<rfume for
criticism. For although there is hardly
a page of it which is not studded with
faults apparent to the most common
censor, there are nevertheless, hero
and there, passages of some promise
and beauty; and one poem, though it
be tainted by imitation, is deserving
of considerable praise. It is the glit-
ter of the golden ore, though obscured
by much that is worthless, which has
attracted our notice; and we hope,
that by subjecting his poems to a strict
examination, we may do the author a
real service.
It is not to be expected that the
first essay of a young poet should be
faultless. Most youths addicted to
versification, are from an cariy ago
sedulous students of poetry. They
select a model through certain affini-
ties of sympathy, and, having done so,
they become copyists for a time. We
are far from objecting to such a prac-
tice ; indeed, we consider it inevitable ;
for the tendency to imitate pervades
every branch of art, and poetry is no
exception. We distrust originality in
a mere boy, because he is not yet
capable of the strong impressions, or
of the extended and subtile views,
from which originality ought to spring.
His power of creating music is still
undeveloped, but the teudency to imi-
tate music which he has hoard, and
can even appreciate, is strong. Most
unmature lyrics indicate pretty clearly
the favouruo study of then: authors.
842
The Sira^ BeoeUer.
[Sept
Sometimes they read like a weak yer-
8ion of the choiic songs of Euripides :
sometimes the yersification smacks of
the school of Pope, and not nnfre-
qnentlr it betrays an nndne intimacy
with the writings of Barry Cornwall.
Nor is the resemblance always con-
fined to the form ; for ever and anon
we stumble upon a sentiment or ex-
pression, so very marked and idiosyn-
cratic as to leave no donbt whateyer
of its paternity.
The same remarks apply to prose
composition. Distinctions of style
occupy bnt a small share of academi-
cal attention ; and that most important
rhetorical exercise, the analysis of
the Period, has fallen into general dis-
regard. Roles for composition cer-
tainly exist, bat they are seldom
made the subject of prelection ; and
consequently bad models find their
way into* the hands, and too often
pervert the taste, of the rising genera-
tion. The cramped, nngrammatical
style of Carlyle, and the vague pom-
posity of Emerson, are copied by
numerous pupils ; the value of wot&
has risen immensely in the literary
market, whilst that of ideas has de-
clined; in order to arrive at the
meaning of an author of the new
school, we are forced to crack a sen-
tence as hard and angular as a hick-
ory-nut, and, after all our pains, we
are usually rewarded with no better
kernel than a maggot.
The Strayed Reveller is rather a
curious compound of imitation. He
claims to be a classical sdiolar of no
mean acquirements, and a good deal
of his inspiration is traceable to the
Greek dramatists. In certain of his
poems he tries to think like Sophocles,
and has so far succeeded as to have
constructed certain choric passages,
which might be taken bv an unletter-
ed person for translations from the
antique. Th^ language, though hard,
is rather stately; and many of the
individual images are by no means
destitute of grace. The epithets
which he employs bear the stamp of
the Greek coinage; but, upon the
whole, we must pronounce these speci-
mens failures. The images are not
bound- together or grouped artisti-
cally, and the rhythm which the
author has selected is, to an English
ear, utteriy destitute of melody. It
is strange that people cannot be
brought to nnderstand that the genios
and capabilities of one langoage dUEer
essentially from those of anotMr : and
that the measures of antiquity are
altogether unsuitable formodemvene.
It is no donbt possible, by a Pro-
crustean operation, to foroe word*
into almost any kmd of mould; a
chorus may be constructed, which, bo
far as scanning goes, might satisfy tlM
requirements of a peda^>gne, bat tlie
result of the experiment will hwvit-
ably show that melody has been saeri-
fied in the attempt. Now metody is
a charm without which poetry is of
little worth; we are not quite sore
whether it would not be more oomct
to say, that withont melodv poetiy
has no existence. Our author does
not seem to have the slightest idea of
this ; and accordingly he treats as to
such passages as the following:—
" No, no, old meiijiCnMii I eune not.
I weep, Thebans,
One than Creon eraeUer far.
For he, he, at leaat hy idajiiw her,
August lawB doth mightilj Tiudicate:
But thou, too bold, headstrong, pitilMS,
Ah me I honourest more thui tbj lover,
O Antigone,
A dead, ignorant, thanklew eoipse.**
** "Sot was the lore oatrue
Which the Dawn-Goddess bore
To that fair youth she erst,
Leaving the salt-sea beds
And cominr SnshM OTer the stomj tnfk
Of loud Bnrtpns, saw :
Saw and snateh*d, wild with lote,
From the pine-dotted spars
Of Fames, where thy wnTes,
Asopus, gleam rock-nemmM ;
The Hunter of the Tanagnsan Field.
But him, in his sweet prime, -
By severance immature,
Br Artemis* soft shafts.
She, though a goddess boiv.
Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die.
Such end overtook that Iotoi
For she desired to make
Immortal mortal man.
And blend hb happy lUeu
Far from the gods, with hers :
To him postponing an eternal law.^
We are sincerely sonry to find the
lessons of a good classical edocation
applied to so pitiable a use; for if, out
of courtesy, the above should be de-
nominated verses, they are neverthe-
less as far removed from poetoy as
the Indus is from the pole. It is one
thing to know the classics, and an*
other to write dassically. Indeed, if
1U0.2
T/ie Strayed Reveller.
343
t
t
r
this be classical writing, it would fnr-
iiisb the best argomeot ever yet ad-
vaoced against the stndy of the works
of antiquity. ^Ir Tennyson, to whom,
as we shall presently have occasion to
observe, this author is indebted for
another phase of his inspiration, has
bandied classical subjects with fine
tiste and singular delicacy ; and bis
" Ulysses" and " (Enone " show how
betntifally the Hellenic idea may be
wrought out in mellifluous English
veree. But Tennyson knows his craft
too well to adopt either the Greek
pbrasedogy or the Greek rhythm.
IlTea m the choric hymns which he
lus once or twice attempted, he has
tpvned halt and ungainly metres,
and given full freedom and scope to
the cadence of his mother tongue.
iTiese antique scraps of the Reveller
tre forther open to a still more serious
objectioQ, which indeed is applicable
to most of bis poetry. We read them,
marking every here and there some
^nj^ge of considerable beauty; but,
^cn we have laid down the book,
^e ire unable for the life of us to tell
^li« it is all about. The poem from
^luch the volume takes its name is a
^fosed kind of chaunt about Circe,
^vsses, and the Gods, from which
*<> exercise of ingenuity can extract
^0 vestige of a meaning. It has
^•ctrnes which, were they introduced
^f any conceivable purpose, might
Jjirly deserve some admu*ation ; but,
*Qni8t in as they are, without method
^ reason, they utterly lose their
effect, and only serve to augment our
J^^saatisfaction at the pervci*sion of a
^te which, with so much culture,
J^oold have been capable of better
*hings.
The adoption of the Greek choric
^circa, in some of the poen^^, appears
T^ 03 the more inexplicable, because
*J others, when he descends from his
^^Baic altitudes, our author shows
^t he is by no means insensible to
jje power of melody. True, he wants
^^ peculiar characteristic of a good
J*^*«t— a melody of his own ; for no
^ is master of his craft unless his
l^tisic is sdf-inspired : but, in default
^Uiat gift, he not nnfrcquently bor-
1^ a few notes or a tune from some
of Us contemporaries, and exhibits a
m command and mastery of his in-
''funent. Here, for example, are a
VOL. LxvL — ^KO. ccccni.
few stanzas, the origin of which no-
body can mistake. They are an
exact echo of the lyrics of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning : —
*' Are the acccnto of your luriug
More melodious thxui of yore ?
Are those frail forms more enduring
Than the charms Ulysses bore ?
That we sought you with rejoicings,
Till at evening wc descry.
At a pause of siren voicings.
These vcxt branches and this howling sky ?
" Oh ! your p«u'don. The uncouthness
Of that primal age is gone,
And the kind of dazzling smoothness
Screens not now a heart of stone.
Love has flushed those cruel faces ;
And your slackened arms forego
The aelight of fierce embraces ;
And those whitening bone-mounds do not
grow.
*' * Come,^ you say ; * the large appearance
Of man^s labour is but vain ;
And we plead as firm adherence
Due to pleasure as to pain.*
Pointing to some world- worn creatures,
' Come,* you murmur with a sigh :
' Ah ! we own diviner features,
Loftier bearing, and a prouder eje.* **
High and commanding genius is
able to win our attention even in its
most eccentric moods. Such genius
belongs to Mrs Browning in a very
remarkable degree, and on that ac-
count we readily forgive her for some
forced rhyming, intricate diction, and
even occasiontd obscurity of thought.
But what shall we say of the man who
seeks to reproduce her marvellous
effects by copying her blemishes? Read
the above Unes, and you will find that,
in so far as sound and mannerism go,
they are an exact transcript from Mrs
Browning. . Apply your intellect to
the discovery of their meaning, and
you will rise from the task thoroughly
convinced of its hopelessness. Ttic
poem in which they occur is entitled
The New Sirens^ but it might with
equal felicity and point have been
called The New Harpies^ or The Lay
of the Hurdy-Gurdy. It seems to us
a mere experiment, for the purpose of
showing that words placed together
in certain juxtaposition, without auy
regard to theii* significance or pro-
priety, can be made to produce a
peculiar phonetic effect. The pheno-
menon is by no means a new one — it
occurs whenever the manufacture of
nonsense-verses is attempted ; and it
needed not the staining of innocent
2a
344
The Strayed ReoeUer.
[Sept
wire- wove to convince us of its prac-
ticability. Read the following stanza
—divorce the sound from the sense,
and then tell ns what you can make
of it : —
" With A Bad majestic motion —
With a stately ulow surprise —
From their earthward-bound devotion
Liftine up your htnguid eyes :
Woiifd you freeze my louder boldnei$^
I/umhiu smiiing a* yfiu (to ?
One faint frown of distant coldness
Flitting fast across Mch marble brow ? '*
What say vou, Parson Sir Hugh
Evans? ** The tevil with his tam:
what phrase is thia— freeze my louder
hvldness 1 Why, it is affectations."
If any one, in possession of a good
car, and with a certain facility for
composing verso, though destitute of
the inventive faculty, will persevere
in imitating the style of different
poets, he is almost certain at last to
discover some writer whose peculiar
manner he can assume with far greater
facility than that of othcra. The
Strayed liei-eller fails altogether with
^ri*s Browning ; because it is beyond
his power, whilst following her, to
make any kind of agreement between
sound and sense, lie is indeed very
far from being a metaphysician, for
his perception is abundantly hazy;
and if he be wise, he will abstain from
any fiiture attempts at profundity.
But he has a fair share of the painter's
gift ; and were he to cultivate that
on his own account, we believe that
he might produce something far supe-
rior to any of his present ellbrts. As
it is, we can merely accord him the
praise of sketching an occasional
landscape, very like one which we
might expect from Alfred Tennyson.
lie has not only caught the trick of
Tennyson's handling, but he can use
his colours with considerable dexte-
rity. He is like one of those second-
rate artists, who, with Danby in their
eye, crowd our exhibitions with fiery
sunsets and oceans radiant inc<armine;
sometimes their pictures are a little
overlaid, but, on the whole, they give
a fair idea of the manner of tlieir un-
doubted master.
The following extract will, we
think, illustrate our meaning. It is
from a poem entitled Mycerinus^
which, though it does not possess the
interest of any tale, is correctly and
pleasingly written : —
" So spake lie, half In anger, half in scorn.
And one loud cry of grief and of amaze
Broke from his sommlag people ; so he spela,
And turahig, left them tbetv ; and wHh Wtf
Girt with a throng of rtfeUevt, bent.his naj
To the cool regions of the grove be loved.
Tliere by the rirtr banks be wandered on.
From palm-grove on to palm-grove ; happy inm,
Tlieir smooth tops shhiing smiwards, and ticniiti
Bniyfaig their nnsnnn'd stems In gnsi sii
flowers ;
Where In one dxeam the Csverish tine of yooth
Might fsde in slumber, and tlie feet of Joy
Might wander all day long and never the :
Here came the kiog, holding hfgfa fcast.st mom
Rose-crown 'd; and ever, when the son vest
down,
A hundred bunps beam*d in the tnmqttfl itleoBi
From trse to tree, aU throogh the twisUir
gro^-e,
ReveaUng aU the tomnli of the fsest,
Flusli'd guests, and goMea goblets, foemM ^
wine,
Wliile the deep bumifh'd foliage overiKsd
Spllnter'd the silver airows of the moon."
This really is a pretty iMCtorc; itt
worst, and perhaps its only faolt, beiig
that it constantly reminds ns of tlM
superior original artist. Throiiglio|it
the book indeed, and incoiporated is
many of the poems, there oocir
images to which Mr Tennyson has*
decided right by priority of inventioOj
and which the Strayed BecfUer hi*
'' conveyed " with little attention to
ceremony. For example, in a po«*
which we never much admired, Tk
Vision of Sin^ Mr Tennyson ha» tb*
two following lines —
'* And on tlie gllnraiering limit, fiir nlllAses-
God made himself an awful rose of daen."
This image is afterwards repeated iB
the Princess, Thus —
"TiUthesun
< jrew broader towanl liia death and fell, sod •"
Tlie rosy heiglits came out above the Uwni."
Young Danby catches at the idA
and straightway favoors ns with a
copy—
*' >V1ien the first rose-fludi was steeping
All tlie frore peak"^ awftil crown."
The image is a natural one, and o|
course open to all the world, but tW
diction has been clearly borrowed. ,
Not only in blank verse bnt *
lyrics docs the Tcnnysonian tendency
of our author break ont, and to that tet-
The Strayed Reveller,
oirebj far ibe best poem in
it Tolome. " The Foroaken
' though the subject is fan-
1 thoni^ it has nurther the
•ge of directlj reminding us
Alfred's earfy extravagan-
rertheless indicative of con-
power, not only of imagery
Ication, but of actual pathos.
of the earth has been taken
he depths of the sea, where
die has resided with her
over, and has borne him
We shall let the poet tell
This story, the more rea^y
e are anxious thai he should
edit for what real poetical
iment he possesses, and Uiat
ot suppose, from our cen-
} Ikults, that we are at all
to his merits.
U5
But, ah, she gavt me never a look.
For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.
' Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door.'
CTome away, ebUdien, caU no mora
Come away, eoiaa down, eaU no naore.
its
r, was it yesterday
I) that she went away ?
Mia with you and me,
poid throne in the heart of the sea,
fMBgeet sale on her knee.
I Wgbt hair, and she tended It weO,
■■Bf the sound of the fsr-olT bell.
ilaok'd up tfarougli Uie clear green
Mil fO, for my kinsfolk pray
i^f chnrch on the shore to-day.
»-tfane ha the world— ah me !
wgf poor soul, Merman, here witii
P9
heart, tlirongli the waves,
and come back to tlie kind sea-
• went np through the surf in the
, was it yesterday ?
were we long alone ?
It stormy, the little ones moan.
' I said, * in the world they say.
and we rose through the surf in
the
be beach, by the sandy down
bloom, to tlie white- wall'd
nacrow pav'd streets, where aU was
!lj church on the whidy bOL
■eh came a murmur of folk at theh*
witliout hi the oold-blowing afa%
in ttie graves, on the stones worn
IB8,
d op the aisle through tlie small
• polar} we saw her dear:
ill eome quick, we are here.
U ' we are long alone,
r, the Uttte ones moan.'
** Down, down, down,
Down to the depths of the sea.
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Bunging moet joyiUly.
Hark, what she sings ; * O Joy, 0 Joy,
For tb» humming street, and the child with
toy.
For the priest, and the bOD, and the holy weU.
For the idiM where I spun.
And the bless'd light of the sun.'
And so she sings her au, ^
Singhig most Joyfully,
TiU the shuttle fslls from her hand.
And the whining wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand ;
And over the sand at ttie ssa ;
And her eyea are set in a itara ;
And aaon tiicre breaks a sigh,
And anon tbtfe drops a tear,
From a sonow-douded eye.
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh.
For the cxAd strange eyes of a little Bfermalden,
And the gleam of her goldeo hair."
Had 'the author given us much
poetry like this, our task would, in-
deed, have been a pleasant one ; but
as the case is otherwise, we can do no
more than point to the solitary pearl.
Yet it is somethiug to know that, in
spite of imitation, and a taste which
has gone far astray, this writer has
powers, which, if properly directed
and developed, might insure him a
sympathy, which, for the present,
must be withheld. Sympathy, in-
deed, he cannot look for, so long as he
appeals neither to the heart, the affec-
tions, nor the passions of mankind, but
prefers appearing before them in the
ridiculous guise of a misanthrope.
He would fain persuade us that he is
a sort of Timon, who, despairing of
the tendency of the age, wishes to
wrap himself up in the mantle of ne-
cessity, and to take no part whatever
in the vulgar concerns of existence.
It is absolutely ridiculous to find this
young gentleman — after confiding " to
a Republican friend " the fact that he
despises
** llic barren, optimistic sophistries
Of comfortable moles, whom what they do
Teaches the limit of the just and true,
And for such doing have no need of eyes," —
thus favouring the public in a sonnet
46
T/te Strayed Reveller.
[Sept.
with his views toucbing the onward
progress of society : —
^* Yet, when I muse on what life i.«, I Bcem
Katherto patience proiupted, than that prond
Pro5[>ect of hope which Franco proclaims so
loud —
Fmnco, famed in all good arts, in none
Mipreme.
Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we
dream I
I * on all sides o^ersliadowetl by the high
L'nuVrlcapM mountain:} of nece»ity,
Spurinc: u;i narrower margin than we deem.
Nor will that day dawn at a human nod.
When, bursting thruugh the network eupor-
l>osM
By 8elti»h occu[iation— plot and ['Ian,
Lu>t, avarice, envy — liberated man.
All difference with his fellow-man composM,
2Shall be lefl standing face to face with Crod.'^
What would our friend bo at? It
he is a Tory, cau*t he find work
enough in denouncing and exposing
ilie lies of the League, and in taking
ever may be their latest number? Bat
we think that, all things considered,
he had better avoid politics. Let him
do his duty to God and man, work six
hours a-day, whether lie requires to do
so for a livelihood or not, marry and
get children, and, in his moments of
leisure, let him still study Sophocles
and amend his verses. But we hope
that, whatever he does, be will not
inflict upon us any more such plati-
tudes as ^* Resignation/' addressed
*^ to Fausta," or any sonnets similtf
to that which he has written in Emer'
son's Essays. Wq tender our counsel
with a most sincere regard for his fu-
ture welfare ; for, in spite of his mtnj
faults, the Strayed Reveller is a cleTer
fellow ; and though it cannot beaverred
that, up to the present time, he hii
made the most of fair talents and a
first-rate education, we are not with-
up the cudgels for native industry? If out hope that, some day or other, wi
ho is a Whig, can't he bo groat upon
sewerage, and the scheme of planting
colonies in Connaught, to grow com
syid rear pigs at prices which will not
pay for the manure and tho hogs*-
wash ? If he is a Chartist, can^t he
say so, and stand up manfully with
Jiiliau Harney for ** the points," wliat-
may be able to congratulate him oo
having faurly got rid of his affected
misanthropy, his false philosophy, ud
his besetting sin of imitation, andthic
ho may yet achieve something wbidi
may come home to the heart, and se-
cure the admuration of the public.
1849.]
New Light on the Story of Lady Grange.
817
NEW LIGHT ON THE STORY OP LADY ORANGE.
Before we offer our readers some
new light on this renowned mystery,
it is necessary that we should give
them, in a sentence, the briefest pos-
sible 'outline of the oft-told tale, so
far as it has been hitherto known.
John Erskine, Lord Grange, a judge
of the Court of Session, and a leader
of the ultra-religious party in Scot-
land, was married to the daughter of
that Cbiesley of Dairy who had shot
the Lord President in the High Street
of Edinburgh, for giving a decision
against hiin. The marriage was a
very unhappy one. The pious leader
of a religious party was scandalised
in various ways, obliged to live separate
from his wife, and subjected to many
outrages from her. At length her
death was announced, her funeral was
dnlj attended, and the widower pre-
served the decorous silence of one to
whom^ death has brought relief from
what is generally counted a calamity.
This occurred in January 1732.
The lapse of nearly nine years had
almost consigned the remembrance of
the unfortunate woman to oblivion,
when strange rumours gained circu-
lation, that she who was believed to
be dead and buried was living in bon-
dage in the distant island of St Kilda.
The account she subsequently gave of
her adventures, bore, that one night in
her solitary lodging she was seized by
some Highlanders, whom she knew to
be retainers of Lord Lovat, and con-
veyed away, gagged and blindfolded, in
the arms of a man seated in a sedan
chair. It appears that she was kept in
yarioas places of confinement, and sub-
jected to much rough usage, in the Low
Coantry. At length she was conveyed
north-westward, towards the Highland
line. She passed through the grim soli-
tudes of Glencoe, where recent murder
must have awakened in the captive hor-
rible associations, on to the western
part of LordLovat's country, where
*ny deed of tyranny or violence might
^ committed with safety. Thence she
^as transferred to the equally safe
conntry of Glengarry, and, after cross-
jog some of the highest mountains in
Scotland, was shipped on the wild
Loch Honm, for ever darkened by the
shadow of gigantic mountains falling
on its narrow waters. She was kept
for some time on the small island of
Heskir, belonging to Macdonald of
Sleat, and was afterwards transferred
to the still more inaccessible St EJlda,
which has acquired a sort of celebrity
from its connexion with her strange his-
tory. In 1741, when a communication
from the captive had, through devious
courses, reached her friends in Edin-
burgh, an effort was made to release
her ; but it was baffled by her trans-
ference to another place of confine-
ment, where she died in 1745.
Little did tiie old judge imagine, at
the time when he had so successfully
and so quietly got rid of his domestic
curse — ^when the mock funeral had
been performed, the family condo-
lences acted over, and the victim
safely conveyed to her distant prison,
that on some future day the public,
frantic with curiosity, would tear to
pieces the covering of his great mys-
tery, and expose every fragment of
it to the admiring crowd. It was but
a simple matter in the eyes of those
who were concerned in it. The
woman was troublesome — her husband
was a judge, and therefore a power-
ful man — so he put her out of the
way. Nor was he cruel or unscru-
pulous, according to the morality of
the circle in which he lived, in the
method he adopted to accomplish his
end. He had advisers about him,
who would have taken a shorter and
a more effectual plan for ridding them-
selves of a troublesome woman, wife
or not» and would have walked forth
into the world without being haunted
by any dread that rumours of remote
captivities might rise up to disturb
their peace. Indeed, when we re-
member the character of the instru-
ments to whom Lord Grange com-
mitted the kidnapping and removal
of his wife, it is only wonderful
that they had patience enough to
carry out so long and troublesome an
operation ; and that they did not, out
of regard to themselves and to their
employer, put a violent termination
to the career of their troublesome
charge, and send her at once to where
us
New LigM on the Story of Lady Grange.
[Sept
tbe weary are at rest. Had this been
ber fate, the affair of Lady Grange
woukl have been one of secondary
interest. Such tilings were too easily
accomplished in those days. The
chances would have been greatly
against a discovery, and if it took place,
equally great against the conviction
and punishment of the offendei*s, un-
less the lady had a more powerful
party at her back than the daughter
of Chieslcy the munlerer would l)e
likely to command. It would have
created, so far as it was known, great
excitement, and some little horror at
the time, but it would have speedily
sunk to the level of the ordinary con-
tents of the criminal records, and
would never have bequeathed to the
ensuing century an object which anti-
quarians have hunted out as religiously
and zealously as if it had involved the
fate of Europe.
In fact. Lord Grange was what was
called in his day *^ a discreet man."
He wished to avoid scandal, and bore
a character for religious zeal, which
appears to have been on occasion a
very serious burden not easily borne.
He dreaded scandal and notoriety, and
therefore he shrouded his great act of
iniquity in the most profound secrecy.
Moreover, he kept a conscience —
something that, like Rob Roy*8
honesty, might be called a conscience
'* after a kind." He said pretty accu-
rately of himself in his Diary — "I
have religion enough to spoil my
relish and prosecution of this world,
and not enough to get me to the
next." We may probably believe
that, even if he could have performed
the deed with perfect secrecy and
safety, so far as this world is con-
cerned, he would not have murdered
his wife, his conscience recoiling at
the dreadful crime — his fear of the
world causing him to shrink from ex-
posure. Ur^d by these two conflict-
ing motives, he adopted the expedient
of the secret removal to a desolate and
distant spot, believing that he had sur-
rounded the whole project with a deep
and Impenetrable cloud of mystery.
Never was human foresight more
signally set at naught. It was this
very machinery of intense mystery
that, by ministering to one of the
cravings of the human imagination,
has made the incident one of the moet
notorious of human events. It Is
almost satisfactory to know that this
dreaded notoriety visited the hoary
tyrant, for after he had for nine yeais
enjoyed in secret the snce^ss of hit
plot, and kept his fair fame with the
world, we find him, when legal pro-
coedlngs were commenced against
him, bitterly saying that "Strang
stories were spread all over the town
of Edinburgh, and made the talk of
coffee-houses and tea-tables, and sent,
as I have ground to apprehend, to
several other places of Great Britaiu."*
One may notice, too, in the follovrifl;
discontented mumblings, the bitte^
ness with which he contemplated tbe
divulging of the secret, — it is in t
letter to the imprisoned lady*s chun-
pion, Mr Hope of Rankeilior.
'' Any of the smallest discreiioa wiH
see what a worthy part kt acts towiHs j
me and mine, and many others, aad cveB *
tovrards the person pretended to be caied
for, who, in such an occasion, begitf bf
spreading through Great Britain itnig*
stories, unexamined and nnvoncbed, ib^
not so much as commanicated to as eit-
cemed ; and next, when oiBned miiMr
tion, yet proceeds to fix such on pobli*
records, and to force others to bring >*
record sad and proved truths^ which hi
himself knows and formerly has aolmo^
lodged to be truths, and that ooght fi^
ever to be sunk. This cannot be 000^
strued to be anything but an endeavo*^
to fix, as fiur as in him lies, a lastiBf bl0^
on persons and fkmilies. The fint m0
defamation, and the next would be thP
same, under a cover of a pretewkd legif
shape, but in itself more atroeioiu. Ot0
cannot doubt that this is a aerioiis thi^^
to many more than me, aad caimot bii
be laid to heart." f
The text from which wo are at pie-
sent discoursing, is a bundle of cfmft-*
dentlal letters from Lord Gnuig^i
printed In the MiscMmy oj Ae
Spalding Club, and not the leait
valuable and cnriona of the miBy
contributions made by that uieM
and spuited institntion, to the ehici-
dation of Scottish history aiid nm-
ners. At the foot of the high oonieil
hill of Bennochie, in a small groop d
forest trees, there nestles one ef ^^^
quaint small tnrreted' mansions of old
• MiHdlany o/the Spalding Oub, iii. 58.
t Ibid. 6S-3.
1849.]
New Light on the Story of Lady Grange.
349
French architectore so frequently to
be seen in the north of Scotland.
The owner of this mansion was an
Erskine ; he was related to Erskine
of Grange, and it so happened that
this relatire was the person in whose
ear he poured his secret sorrows, as a
disappointed and morbid politician.
Sach confidential ontponrings are not
the most interesting of commnnica^
tions, even when one has the fortnne to
be 80 &r connected with the waller as
to be the chosen vessel into which he
poors the angolah of his heart. Some of
these letters are portentons — ^they are
absolute pamphlets — in their spirit
asjeUowand mMdewed with discon-
tent, as their ontward aspect may
hare been by the cold damp air of
Bennochie, when they were disooy-
ered m the worm-eaten chest. It re-
qairoB a little zeal to pemse the whole
series ; but, unless we are greatly de-
oeiyed, we think we can present onr
readeiB with a few plums picked out
of the mass, which they may find not
unaoe^table. And here, by the way,
let ns observe, how great a seirice is
done by those who ransack the repo-
sitories of our old Scottish houses,
and make their contents accessible to
the public. We are convinced that
in d^ty ganreta, in vaults, in musty
libnuries, and crazy old oak-chests,
there is still an almost inexhaustible
wealth of curious lore of this descrip-
tion. The correspondence of the old
Scottish families is generally for more
interesting than that of English houses
of the same rank. Since tl^ civil wan
of the seventeenth century, England
may be said to have been internally
nadiatarbed, and no private papers
<»ntaui matters of state, save those of
the great families whose ancestors
hare been high in ofice. But in
Scotland, the various outbreaks, and
the unceasing Jacobite intrigues,
made almost all the country gentle-
men statesmen — ^made too many of
them state offenders. The Essex
squire, be he ever so rich, was still
but the lord of a certain quantity of
timber and oxen, grass and turnips.
The Highland laird, be he ever so poor,
was a leader of men — ^a person who
had more or less the power of keeping
the country in a state of war or dan-
ger—a sort of petty king reigning
over his own people. Hence, while
the letters of the last century one
might pick up in a comfortable old
En^h mansion, would relate to
swing-gates and turnpike roads,
eame preserves and tithes, those
found Mdden behind the wainscoat of
a gaunt old cheerless Scottish fortalice,
would relate to risings at home, or
landings firom abroad — to the number
of broadswords and targets still kept
in defiance of the Anns Act — ^to com-
munications received through French
Jesuits, or secret missions ^^ across
the water." ♦
We believe that the passages from
these documents, on which we are
now to comment, in the first place
exhibit to us pretty plainly the motive
of Lord Grange for the deportation
of his wife ; and, in the second place,
prove that he entertained designs of a
similar character against another fe*
male with whom he was nearly con-
nected.
When Lady Grange's strange his-
tory was first communicated to the
public, it was believed that the cause
of her abduction was not merely her
violent temper, but her possession of
certain secrets which would enable
her to compromise the safety of her
husband and his friends, by proving
* We lemember once ia such a honse — ^it wu a rainy day, and for the anuuement
of the inmates a genenl mmmage was made anong old papers^^that in a eomer of
^pnss of a law library were fonnd a multitude of letters yery precisely folded npy
ttd titled— they had a most bnsiness-like and nninteresting appeanuiee, bat on
^iog examined they were fonnd to consist of the confidential eorretpoadence of the
lH<lm of the Jacobite army in 1745. Their presenration was acconatod for by the
^vnuBstance that an ancestor of the owner of the house was sheriff of the county at
tbe period Tof the rebellion. He had seized the letters; but, finding probably that
tliey inipUeaied a considerable number of his own relations, he did not consider him-
^If espeeiaUy called on to inrite the attention of the law officers of the crown to his
Fi« ; while, on the other hand, the damnatory documents were carefolly preserred,
|<st tone opportunity should occur of turning them to use. They are now printed
iA ft substantial quarto, under the patronage of one of the book clubs.
Xth: Light on t/te ^tont of Lady Gramgt,
tbrir connexion with the Jacobite
iritrignes of the period. The view
fiinre lately taken of the mystery,
has l>een that she was merely
a ma<l woman, nn«l that hor ab-
flmitinii, witli all its lalKjrious mys-
t.Tv, was «»nly an attempt to ac-
rDinmoflate the jml;_'e with a resource
ill which Scotland was thon deficient
—a Innatic asylum for insane relatives,
riiongh, as we shall pre^^rntly see,
ITn ronfiflential commiinicatiDns give
ritht-r and darker revelations, this was
the light in which Lord (J range wished
the matter tn be viewed, after his
plot had been discovered: and in his
rontrover.^ial letter to Mr Hope, al-
ready referred to, he gives an account
nf her frantic outbreaks, which cer-
tainly affords a picture of one likely to
have been a most distressing partner
in life to a grave juilge, having a few
secrets to conceal which required him
to be peculiarly circumspect in his
walk ; and holding a high, but a rather
precarious position, in the opinion of
the religions world. After stating
that she had ngreod to a separation,
he continues —
"Then it was hoped that I and the
Hiildrcn (who &he u«ccl to curse bitterly
when they went dutifully to wait on her)
would be iu quiet; but she often attacked
my houi>e, and from the streets, and
among the footincn and chairmen of
visitors, cried and raged againi^t me and
mine, and watched for me in the street:!,
and chased me from place to place in
the most indecent and shamelesii manner,
and threatened to attack me on the
bench, which, dreading she would do
every time I went to it, made my duty
there very heavy on me, le^t that honour-
able Court of Session should be disturbed
and affronted on my occasion. And not
content with these, and odd and very bad
contrivances about the poor children, she
waited on a Sunday's afternoon that my
lister, Lady Jane Paterson, with my
rocond daughter, came out of the Tron
Church, and on the ptreet, among all
the people, fell upon her with violent
Fcolding and curses, and followed her so
down Merlin's Wynd, till Lady Jane and
the child near the bottom of it got shelter
from her and being exposed to the multi-
tude in a friend's house. You al%:o
know, and may well remember, that be-
fore you and the rest advised the separa-
tion, and till she went from my house,
fliC would not keep herself in that part
[Sept.
of it (the best apartment) which wu as-
:jigned her, bat abused all in the family,
and when none were adverting, broke
into the ri>om of ane old gentlewoBao^
recoiiimended to me for honsekeeper,
and carried off and destroyed her se-
compts, &c., and committed catragef, s»
that at length I was forced to have i
watch in my house, and especially in tbe
night time, as if it had been in the frui-
tier cf an enemy's conntry, cr to bi
spoiled by robbers."*
This was doubtless the tmth, bnt
not the whole truth. Fonnding ap-
parently on these statements, wbich
are Lord Grange's vindication of
himself, the editor of the collection of
h.'tters s:iy3 — '-The letters now printed
mast considerably impair themysterr
of the reasons which led to the abduc-
tion of Lady Grange. They may be
held conclusively to refute tbe snp-
position that the affair had any cod-
nexion with the political intrigneflof
the period." On the contrair, w
cnnnot read the confidential portioa
of the correspondence without feelinj
that it almost conclusively establishes
the fact, that the affair llad a "con-
nexion with the political intrignes of
the period ;" and that the reason why
so many people of rank and polilicil
influence aided the plot, why the rf-
moval was conducted with so mnch
secrecy, and the place of scchi?ioB
was so remote and inaccessible, *M
because Lady Grange was possessed
ot dangerous secrets, which compro-
mised her hnsband and his ftieDd^.
The general tone of the letters, a»i
their many cantious and mysteriooSi
yet unmistakeable references to tbe
proceedings of friends across tbe
water, show that the judge confided
to the owner of the old mansion tt
the foot of Bennochic some things
which it woidd be dangerous for rt
enemy to know. But we shall cite
just one passage, which we consider
sufficient of itself to support onr posi-
tion. It is taken from a letter dated
22d March 1731, just ten months be
fore his wife was seized and carried
off. There is something very peculiar
in the structure of the letter, and,
whether in ]iursnit of some not very
appreciable joke, or to waylay the
penetration of any hostile party who
might take the liberty of opening the
• JUifccIlani/ of the S^paUiifnj Club, iii. CO.
1849.]
New Light on the Story of Lady Granye,
packet on its journey, the writer
spealcs of himself daring the most
curious and important part of It, in
the third person. Talking of a yery
difficnlt and hazardous project in
which he is about to be engaged, he
thus passes a neat commendation on
himself, — ** but I am sure he never
jet was frightened from what was
right la itself, and his duty towards
his friends, by his own trouble or
danger, and he seems as little frighted
now, as ever in his life.*' He then
approaches the subject of his wife's
character and intentions, like a man
treading on the verge of a frightful pit-
fall. *^ I have found that, in such a
case, there is no bounds set to such
mischief, and it is pushed on though it
should go the length of your utter
ruin, <md of Ty^tm itself or the
Grcusmarket,^^ — the one being the
place where the gibbet of London, the
other where that of Edinburgh stood.
From such portentous associations he
passes immediately to his wife and
her proceedings. To make the pas-
sage more distinct, we fill up the
names, of which the letter contains
only the first and last letters ; it will
be remarked that he still assumes the
third person, and that he himself is
the person about to depart for
London.
'' Then I am told that Lady Grange
is going to London. She knows no-
thing of his going, nor is it suspected
here, nor shall be till the day before
he goes off, and so she cannot pretend
it is to follow him. She will certainly
strive to get access to Lady Mary
Wortley, Lady Mar's sister, (whom
she openly blesses for her opposition
to our friends,) and to all where her
malice may prompt her to hope she
can do hurt to us. You will remember
with what lying impudence she threat-
ened Lord Grange, and many of his
friends, with accusations of high trea-
son and other capital crimes, and
^poke so loud of her accusing directly
by asignedinformation to Lord Justice-
Clerk, that it came to his ears, and
she was stopped by hearing he said,
that, if the mad woman came to him,
he would cause his footmen turn her
down stairs. What effect her lies
may have, where she is not so well
351
known, and with those who, ftom
opposition to what Lord Grange is
about, may think their interest to en-
courage them, one cannot cenainly
know ; but if proper mecuures be not
fatten on against it^ the creature may
prove trottblesome ; at any rate, this
whole affair will require a great
deal of diligence, caution, and ad-
dress."*
He talks of her as mad ; and so far
as passion and the thirst of vengeance
make people mad, she undoubtedly
was so. He speaks of her intended
accusations as lies — that is, of course,
a convenient expression to use towards
them. But what is very clearly at
the bottom of all the trepidation^ and
doubt, and difficulty, is, that she
might be able, mad and false as she
was, to get facts established which
called up very ugly associations with
Tyburn and the Grassmarket. A
minute incident stated in the common
histories of the affair, that Lady
Grange planned a journey to London
for the purpose of taking her accusa-
tion to the fountain-head of political
power, is confirmed by this extract.
It may easily be believed that, among
Grange's official colleagues — some of
whom had also their own secrets to
keep — the lady's frantic accusations
met with little encouragement. The
Justice-clerk referred to in the extract,
Adam Cockbum of Ormiston, was,
like Grange himself, a great professed
light of the church, and what sort of
interview he would have held with
the furious lady, may be inferred from
the character given of him by a con-
temporary,— *'He became universally
hated in Scotland, where they called
him the curse of Scotland ; and when
ladies were at cards, playing the nine
of diamonds, commonly called ' the
curse of Scotland,' they called it the
Justice-Clerk. He was, indeed, of a
hot temper, and violent in all his
measures."!
In the old narratives of the affair,
it is stated that Grange felt his posi-
tion to be the more dangerous, as
some letters had been intercepted
tending to inculpate him with the*
Jacobites on the Continent. It is sin-
gular that this should also be pretty
satisfactorily proved by the present
Mitcellany of the Spalding; Oitb, iii. 6.
t Houston** Memoin, 92.
./»2
\r»r Liijht on Uiti ^tory •//' Lady Gnm^.
re
[Sept.
riirri'-j'''-Ti'l^::'.'. ■. It will h*? pem-^m-
l;*-rftd thi^t </m:_'i> wv-i ;i brother ot
ttj'- Karl of Mar. tvlio-i^ pp>min'>nce
in thf atfiir^ ^if 1710 iifvi 'Irivi-n lain
int'i '-xile. A ^tr.-n^' at:adim'.-nr to
rhl^ finfortiinjit'- innn i--, <"»n tho whole,
tlif inorft pl'-a-inir iV-ainp* in the oha-
rAct'^-r "if til*- 111 Oft: oiin tion^ an- 1 nri'-re
f>»rriitiat.(: jiuitre. It wan natural that
III'- lir-itlnrrH aliouM k^^ep up a ivirw-
-I>'iri(l«'nr>\ and >iMit<* a< natural that
Sir lio^)^^t Walp<>U: "hotild be parti-
riilariv anxioiH to disco vrT what thev
.-•ai'l to rarh othfr. Grange c^n-
»lMft'*«l romc nf^rotiations with the
u'ov'fniTnrnt fr«r hi.s brother's panlon
and restoration, and wc finfl him de-
('••ftf»:d in hiM aim, and n:ceivin;j some
V rry Hiirniiicant hints about the natnre
of hirt rorrt'Hpondence.
*• Sir KolK-rt told me in wrath that
hfi would liave nothing to do with
Lord Mar, that he had dealt ill with
him, and he should not have his par-
don ; and he would by no meanj? give
me anv n*asi)n for it, but Lord Town-
send flid, w horn tln-y liad stirred up :
for he in anger told me Sir Robert had
intercepted his letters to me with very
<idd thingH in them, injurious to Sir
Robert ancl his friends.
Soon after this, Hay, with cloudy
lookn, began to make insinuations of
some diMCoverics against me too, and
at length told mc that Sir Robert said
that he had also intercepted bad let-
ters of mine to Lord Mar, but con-
fe«sed they were not directed to Lord
Mar, and neither subscribed by me
nor in my hand of write, but that by
the contents they knew them to be
mine to Ixird Mar. I answered that
they might assert what they pleased
of letters said to 1x! directed to me,
and which they owned I had never
»een, bat that 1 must know of letters
wrote by myself, and that I ever
"wrote any such was a damned, villain-
ous, malicious lie ; and let Sir Robert
or any else be the asserter of it, who-
ever did assert it, was a liar."*
This is a ver>' successful outbreak of
virturms indignation, and does consi-
derable credit to its author, as a pupil
of that school of which his dear friend
1^)rd Lovat was the undoubted head.
Wc cannot help considering that it
is a question of some historical in-
tep'j-t .ind import auw whether the
al^tlriotion of LaiIv Gnnge was or was
n<:-c a measure adopted for political
rea.«on::. and that tho leners before ns,
by linally d'.'cidlDg the qaestion, throw
an impi^rtdac light on the political
state 'jf Scotland in the eariy part of
the eighteenth centary. If we suppose
that the lad V was carried under cir-
cnm.4tancea of such profound mysteir,
and by the agency of some conspicaons
and distingnUhed personages, to the
di^itant Li land of Sc Kilda. merely be-
cjiUse she was a lonatic who required
ti) l)e in custody, we only see that
many important and sagacious people
were taking a very complex and
cumbrous method of accomplishiflg
what might have been done with
ease : for in those days, few wonid
have troubled themscivea about the
wTetched woman, if her bnsband hid
chosen to keep her in any place of
confinement, telling the neighbourhood
that she was insane. But when we
find that the Jacobite party in Soot-
land were powerful enough to kidnip
a person obnoxions to them, and keep
her for nine years in a place to whin
the laws of the realm and the autho-
rity of the crown nominaUy extended,
but where their own power was the
real operative authority, we hare i
very formidable notion of the streDgth
and compactness of the Jacobite union
during Walpole*8 apparently powerfid
ministry.
The correspondence of Lord Grange
admits its reader to a species of con-
fidential intercourse with Mm, which
can scarcely be called agreeable. It
exhibits one of the most disgnstug of
all the moral diseases — the rankling of
the arrow of disappointment in the
heart of a defeated political schemer.
It is not the man of brave and bold
designs baffled, or the ntopian entkn-
siast disappointed of the fnlfilmeDt of
his golden dreams, or the adherent of
one absorbing political idea looking at
it lying broken to pieces at his fi^ :
in all of these there is a dash of noble
and disinterested sentiment, and the
politician defeated in his conflict with
the world has still the consolation of
an honest if mistaken heart, into
which he can retire withont the sthig
of self-reproach. Bat all Grange't
* M\9CtHanif of the Spaldiitg C/ii6,iii. 34-5.
1849.]
dLsappointments were connected with
paltrj schemes of personal aggrandise-
oient. Fawn and flatter as he might,
Sir Robert Walpole, and his Scottish
coadjacor Bay, knew him and dis-
trusted him, and, when he came to
court them, gave him but fair words,
and sometimes not even that. With
Sir Robert he carried on an nneqnal
war. BeHeving that he conld scourge
the minister in parliament, while he
w^ a jndge of the Court of Session, he
resolved to obtain a seat, and there-
upon the all-powerful minister at once
checkmated him, by carxying an act
New Light on the Story of Lady Grange.
853
bribes to stop all inquiry into, or the least
araandinent of these things, either by par-
liuBMni or otherwise ; openly ridiculing
all yirtne and uprightness ; enhancing aU
power to himself and his brother, and
Buffering almost none else to do or know
anything ; barefaced and avowed bribing
of members of parliament and others, and
boasting of it ; heaping up immense
wealth to himself and his most abject pro-
fligate creatures of, both sexes, while the
public treasure and trade of the nation ia
ruined ; suffering and eneonraging these
locusts to get birge bribes, and giving
considerable employment at their recom-
mendation, while men of merit and service,
and of the best families and interest, are
to prohibit judges of the Cowt of neglected or abused, employmg insignifi-
Session from holding seats in the House
of Commons— it was a less invidious
proceeding than the dismissal of his
lordship mm the bench would have
been, and it had the appearance of
being dictated by a desire for the
public good. Grange preferred the
senate to the bench, and resigned his
judgeship, but he never achieved
political eminence. In the mean time
ne acquired Dr Johnson*s desideratum
of an honest hatred towards his enemy,
and indeed hatred appears to have
been the only honest ingredient in his
character. He expressed it so well
towards Walpole, that we must quote
his confldential opinion of that mighty
statesman : —
** Am imntont a&d rapacious minister,
who haa kepi us under the expense of war
in time of peace, yet hindered us to fight
to vindioaie our trade, so grossly violated
by Spanish robberies, and when we could
have put a stop to it, and corrected them
without drawing upon us the arms of any
other nation, maintained his hollow and
«zpenflive peace by ridienloui contradic-
tory ireatwa, trying us to take part in all
the qnanelfl of Europe, and sometimfle to
be on both mdes, and at the same time
allowing eonfedetaoies to go on so power-
lul, and which we aie not o^ that now
when a war is breaking out we know not
where to turn us ; laying plots to devour
the land by new swarms of oflicers of the
revenue, to put the merchants' stocks in
the possession of these vermin, and trade
under their power, &e., as by that most
damned excise scheme; openly proteeting
the fraeds and villains that plunder the
•locks and ruin multitudes, and must sink
the kingdom ; plundering the revenue,
and using all his art, and power, and
cant brutes or the greatest rogues, and
favouring almost none but such; maltreat-
ing and insulting all whom his rascals and
jades complain of. But the list is too long
to go through with here.*' *
Grange thought at one time that he
had great claims on Walpole and
Lord Ilay; and he seems to have
very diligently performed one class of
duties which politicians sometimes
think sufficient to establish a claim
for reward — ^he had been an indefati-
gable petitioner for ministerialfavours.
We have heard somewhere of a story
of a political economist, who during
ft long walk is pestered by an Irish
beggar, who asks his honour just to
give him a sixpence, ^^ for the love of
G^od." The economist turns round to
argue the matter : " I deny," says he,
" that I would be showing my love to
the Deity by giving an idle rascal like
yon money ; if you can state any
service you have ever done to me
worth the sixpence, yon shall have
it."—" Why, then," says the mendi-
cant thus appealed to, "haven^t I
been keeping your honour in discourse
this half hour ? " Such seems to have
been the character of Grange's claim
on the ministry — ^he kept them in
unceasing ^* discourse" as a peti-
tioner. Not that he did not profess
some claims of another kind. " Dur-
ing all this time," he says, ^' I ran
their errands and fought their battles
in Scotland." Nor did he fail some-
times to aUnde to his services as a
religious professor, so Ul-requited,
that he taunto Ilay with having
"already effectually interposed for
• Mitcdlany of the Spaldmg avby iii. p. 57.
'■ ".I : T ?,;ir-- •. A.-r.n--'.". v:;i. "laii
■ -w ••■■■■i " ii'/- . .irr. ^n-.L -i-ni'Mifaa
I.! ir- .*■■■'-•.•;■■. i;: ■;?•":-. /■•i'».« ^
- f.. i# / " ."■..■: .1" "v ;.- 1- ;■(*-
l"li*'i"-' ."■' ' ' ' > - — .-^n-'i - .■— -niij
:.. =:- ■:;. '■':'.. i ' ".■ ■• ■■:- *:.• •;>;
k k ki' ■■ III. .••kt*l.L «
: ■ •.*■ • ."■;:ii-; ■ r •■■■ v.". . .
.:.' . . \ .-.- -i" .vr-:u., 1..- v.::.-s :i»
: ■ : '.i- • i 1 I- ■ MC T." -'-va
:..■:. I'-— 'V'-' r ^ :r - vir- T:isr.
1 ■ ■ ■'■■,.■• I' V ."i: iri'v:! ft"
.'.'-. i-'i .s.:- :.•'••-■*■: v.'i -v-'irr-m
■■ T-^r-. ;:;»■'! I ■■ :: v.ii-- or
■ t 'i .■ '. r • • -. ' ■•'.«•* ' i V'' "iri-
■ 'I" ■■ 1,1 1 - ■ 1 ■■*■ ■! ,' i:«~'i'\--" - *
■ •■*• .* ■ • t^ . ft •* m* •• « . ■
•" .';•■'*.' ^ r " ". .V. .» !'■•■. 11 Li : ^. i ■ n . :: X- j-
• '■:n-.--.' i..t- .-.,1. -i:- m- v-..-. ,n ■•ir
. ■.^■■r* r ..- >-.-^-^ r : .i '.iiai L >.:U
■ . «• I ■ J • ■:.-"■ * ■■ ■ ..r 1 -" .* '.11 ;•
.. ".■*■■ i. !• !ii 1 --I r..".'.. u 1 •"...!» ir i
; •:'-. •■• ■ . . v.. IkW :..ri: '-^ :ik- -ir:!-*!!-
.ir ;:■.-. ■•* -f ■•-.:. i: i 'y, ij-it: .-...i of
fi ". .r, 1 .■! tr-i" !-.•* -^ !". -l-i f-.-r /■.■■i: w'-.i-'Ii
^-1.; ;.;-* !--.r Il.'.fi , 'v.',; r-.iic-^ --.v jfioie
.'■■I ;: : r,: i r." v.m-* *o iil^i :!-..i'. \.-^. r-:/h:
V. ,' .lor.*'.!., i r -r* my—;:' in S;r K/ cr!'-=
'•/'■ i.i tli^ froi.t <■.* \\.> f.T,x\ :ha: -r:r-
rrj'in !^'! I.im, an'l IItj wn- by ar.'l Ii^k-
irii; '»!!. Ssr U-ih-vrt r-yxc.^. an*! went by
r.-i" without *bft l^^r:*-.* re^-irl. Hay -lip:
in»o r4:rr,th--r r-iom ; f^T-l, that I might
r.'.t wii* Ion:;^r in -o .-i.ly a fiijnre, I
rn.-Mli iij» wirhon» h<>in^ rail**'! to the
(Trent, kiiif^lit ; ami told liim I came to
If •<t.ify niy r*' p»^rt, '\w\ a.-k bin comniand.s
for Srotliii'I. IIJH an-wcr, with a very
•Iry Ior;k, All'] u\i\ nir wn ', * I have nothing
to «;iy t'* you, my lor«l. I wi.rh you a
tjoo'l joiirii»?y.' I .«-aw Hay aftcrwanl«,
f»:r«l lie Kajil th*frc was nothing in it. Sir
Hofi<Tt hafi only forgot, ami I am Kiire
(Mfijil hf)b'* will do for you what [ dc-
»in;d ]iiin."*
Fn \\\\\ H(W|!i(.l he oxolaims, "Can
piicJi iiH{ij,'o hi\ l)nro, fvcn by tho spirit
lifn poor inoimc !"— iloeniinjr probably
til at \U ('ndnrain-c! by a m/ was quite
out id" \\w rinj'stinii.
It * -iniTiisir ■?n<'nirii tc 5nii rVom
•iit-.-i»» r«*v.?ititiuii5 ■»[" Lonl Grange'*
•:;;ir!icr'T lEii jaiiir?. thac while he
V la ... -r::!!:: 'in; lixinrrfon ■■•i oae mad
■V- m.in. ir Tia bnsLiv -ecjizwl in
ii:i-iiM)T;n:i *:ie roieas*? of axi*.>cher.
r -s. L«: L !ii-*t -f'-p. ail ^M Intending
"!■ .•«»Lt-:L-.* ler: ":-ic tii-rre ir-* a few
i:ii:.'. '•!i:nr ".n •Mt.'iiis<»ive*. hi:i woa-
iri-uil;- ^»iL:L:"<riv.* wiieu ::ii?y are
•;• n'.u:! i> "isu: '.lii ilrim;Ktj Ln'.-rnzi.-n
VI.- -.» aiiKi.i 1 •■'••on'i v:rtim. In
• "...s -••iit-nii' "3«i x:id iei'»*ate«i ^-j a 5pi-
-r .rs* ".-i:tv b"ir more in':.i<:i'C5
':'.:in .ii= vj — by n) 'h''!» ren >w!:rd it
^»*r-Ti man Laii^ M-irr Wortlev
■
■7 L.iiiy ijf:in^»i r* T h'-v ** oFp>sition
:.--.ur ::*!Hatia."" T.oaninj che Jacr-bite*.
^^'■» 'j,iv ? iai':n:i *iie pa per* the IjU-
: ry ■ c" :hii 'raiiHii air'-mpt— :U leiit
■".".•i :iLi!ii ^t" :Iit* bi.*:«.ry. as J, when
^a.ii-^n :r«!o -i-f the tliist of Granae'a
pr..-:x ZT'imMlnj-. it U intiaiiely
im >i2;r. The :iUi.T.»i»*il vi..:ini in
riiii iasiani^e w:u Laily Mar. Ladj"
3lAr-"f ?i.?trr. I he wi:e ot Grange's
"T'/cner. I-ii«iy Mar was io?Aue. and
ill fi.m- -h:ipe or other committed to
t;.e i*Tariiian^!i:p of her sister.
Then: were s«"'me p4*«:niiian' matters
•lept-ii'iiDi on the iiue>tion of herde-
rs ntL:'n or rtflease. &o vaguely hinted
at that it i* not oi?y to discover tholr
nature. It wo:iM appear that Lady
Mar wa* allowe<l by the favour of the
C'Urt, and probably thn>n^h the inl^
rest of her relatives, a jointure of
£.'>'>> a-year over the estates whick
wore forfeited from her husband. Lord
Mar was then living iu poverty
abroad ; and I^rd (irange was io'
olined to think that this snm wonid
\y^ bettor administered by himself
and his friends than by Lady Mary,
looking at the £500* from his own
side, he of course saw Lady ^lary on
the other, and judged that her mo-
tives were as parallel to his own a>
the one jaw of a shark is to the other--
so he says, " Ladj' Mar, they say, i«
quite well ; and so as in common jus-
tice she can no longer be detained as
a lunatic ; but she is obstinately
avcr?e to appearing in chancery, that
" MitCfiiuni/ ufihe SiMhling dub, iii. p. jrt.
1W9.] New Light on the Story of Lady Grange.
855
that she might be put " in right hands,"
— in hands i n which there was no chance
of her refusing what might be de-
manded. Bat there was a lion in the
way, or rather a lioness, as we shaJl
see. Lord Grange's anticipations of
Ladj Wortley Montague's operations
is not the least remarkable of hid
revelations. It is " the power within
the guilty breas^" working as in
Engene Aram's dream. What Lady
Mary suspected it were difficult to
say, but he who ventured to predict
her suspicions spoke from his own
guilty conscience— spoke as the kid-
napper and secret imprisoner. We
the sentence may be taken off. Her
sister probably will oppose her liberty,
for thereby she would lose, and Lord
Marin effect gain, £500 yearly: and
the poor lady, being ' in her custody,
and under her management, had need
to be very firmly recovered, for the
guardian may at present so vex,
tease, and plague her, that it would
tnm anybody mad."*
It was believed that if Lady Mar
were released from Lady Mary Wort-
ley Montague's influence, means might
be taken for so arranging matters that
her husband should participate in her
jointure. There was another matter,
however, m which Grange himself pray attention to the remarkable ex-
bad a more particular prospect of pressions with which the following
pecumary advantage. Lady Mar ap- quotation closes :—
'' May not an artf\il woman impose on
one in such ciroumstances, and whose
mind cannot yet be very firm 1 And this
ia the more to be feared, because at the
beginning of her illness the sister said
loudly, and oftener than once to Lord
Grange himself, that her hnsband's bad
usage had turned her [Lady Marl mad.
Supposing, then, the sister tell and per-
suade her to this purpose : ' You see
your husband's friends quite neglect yon.
Lord Erskine, though in the place, seldom
comes near you. How easy were it for
Lord Grange to have made you a visit on
hearing you are so well. Surely it be-
came the fellow to pay you that regard,
and he would have done it had he any
kindness for yon ; and, if the husband
had, he would have laid such commands
on his son and brother which they could
not have resisted. Now, you may get
your freedom, but can you again trust
pears to have had a beneficiary inte-
rest in a lease of a house in White-
hall, forming part of the royal demesne.
An arrangement seems to have been
made by which, during her Incapacity
from insanity, her own teim was con-
veyed to her brother-in-law. Lord
Grange, while he at the same time
obtained a reversion of the lease in
his own favour. He had, it appears,
sold his whole interest in the pro-
perty— ^both the lease he had obtained
from Lady Mar's guardians and his
own reversionary interest. He was
now, therefore, in endeavouring to
pnxrnre the release of Lady Mar, on
the ground of her restoration to
sanity, about to enable her to revoke
the transference that had been made
to him of her own share in the lease.
In his own words, " On Lady Mar's
bemg at freedom, the assignment of yo««elf in their hands t Quite separated
her lease, to Lord Grange becomes ^om Jour father's and mother's friends,
void, and so does the sale he has f^^^VrJ^AT^^^^
made of it ; and in that sale the lease
to Lady Mar was valued at £800
sterUng, which will be lost by the
avoidance of it." Such is the danger ;
»nd now, in a very brief continuation
of the quotation, let us observe the
>«^ay in which it was to be met, for,
considering who was the writer, it
is really well worthy of observation.
"Were Lady Mar in her freedom, in
right hands, she would ratify the bar'
gain^ but if in her sister's, probably
she will not.'» Such was the plot ;
she was to be restored to her freedom
land or foreign parts, and ichcUy in their
potecr, what can you expect 1 Your
friends here could give you no relief, and
you should be wholly at the barbarous
mercy of those whose sense get not suf-
ficiently the better of their hatred or con-
tempt, as to make them carry with seem-
ing respect to you till they get you in
their power. What mU tluy not do when
they have you V*f
Such are Lord Grange's ^Mmaginary
conversations" of Lady Maiy Wort-
ley— like many others, a more accu-
rate reflection of the thoughts habitu-
aUy dwelling in the writer's own mind,
* Misedlany of the BpaUing Qnh, iU. 4.
t Ibid. p. 6.
New Light on the Story of Lady Gnmge.
r,56
than of those of the person in whose
iiatne they are uttered. And then, in
continnatiou, he paints the formidable
effect of the imaginary pleading —
'* Snch thmgs to a woman so lately of
a disturbed brain, constantly incul-
cated by so near a relation whom she
only sees, and her creatures, and de-
pends on her entirely for the time —
[Sept
able, and perhaps no one will ever be
able, to determine.
We must quote, nnmutilated, one
of Grange's conflicts with Avidien't
wife. Though the scene be roughlj
described, it has an interest, from the
unscrupulous vehemence of the prin-
cipal actors, and the eminence of the
, ,. .,. little group, who cluster round it like
wliut may they not produce ? And if a circle of casual passengers round the
they have their effect, then the con-
sequences are these : the lady being
at freedom legally, but de facto still
under her sister's absolute govern-
ment, the bargain about her jointure
becomes void, and thereby she (or
rather the sister) gets more by £5iX)
sterling yearly, and our friend has
nothing at all." Then fullowa the
statement about the lease; and the
meaning of the whole is, that Lady
Mar, as a free woman, would be
entitled to live with her sister, and
dispose of her own property, unless
she were put in the " right hands" to
make her "ratify" any desired bar-
gain.
The interchange of compliments
between the parties, when they came
to actual conflict, is extremely in-
.structive. " She concluded with rage,"
says the judge, ** that we were both
rascals, with many other ridiculous
things." But perhaps more people
will think her ladyship's penetration
was not more ridiculously at fault on
this than on other occasions. Horace
Walpole left an unfavourable testi-
mony to her treatment of her sister,
when he alluded to ** the unfortunate
Lady Mar, whom she treated so hardly
when out of her senses." Pope caught
up the same charge in the insinua-
tion—
** Who starves a sister, or denies a debt."
Lord Grange, for his own part, has
the merit, when characterising his op-
ponent, of a coincidence with the illus-
trious poet— at least in the bestowal
of an epithet. Every one remembers
Pope's—
" Avidien and bis wife, no matter which;
For him you call a dog, and her a ."
It is satisfactory to And, on the most
palpable evidence, that Lord Grange
had sufficient poetical genius to supply
this rhyme, though whether his poetic
powers went any farther, we are un-
centre of disturbance, where the wife
and the brother- bacchanalian competer
on the pavement, for the possessioo
of some jovial reveller, whose hatf-
clouded mind remams vibrating be-
tween the quiet comforts of home and
the fierce Joys of the tavern. There
is somcthmg affecting in the vacfl-
lating miseries of the poor invBlid—
we wonder how much of the crod
contest can be true; for, that it is til
true, it is impossible to believe— jet
Lady Mary could be violent, and she
could be hard, when she was attacked
or baffled ; and she had a rough aod
unscrupulous nature to combat with,
in the historian of their warfare.
'^ Lady Mary, peroeiring how tbii|i
were like to go^ did what I wm almyi
afraid of, and could not possibly prevBat:
she went in rage to her poor sister, sad
so swaggered and fHghtened her, that the
relapsed. While she was about that foe
piece of work, Lord Erskine happened to
go to Lady liar's; and in his pretence
Lady Mary continaed to this pnrpON
with her sister : *• Can yon pretend to ^
well ! Don't yon know yon are still iisd?
Yon shan't get ont of my oostody ; and if
Lord Grange and his confederates brilf
you before Lord Chanoellor, 111 Bake
yon, in open court, in presence of tht
world, lay yonr hand on the Gospel, lad
swear hy Almighty God, whether yoo ctf
say you are yet well. Your salTatioi
shall be at stake ; for, remember, pe^juj
infers damnation — your eternal danst-
tion.' So soon as 1 was inftmned of tUii
I assured my lady (and so did oUien,)
that in law no such oath could be pot t*
her, and that Lady Mary bad only fii^
so to Aright her. But so stvong wu tht
fHght^ that nothing we oonld aay wai sUe
to set her right again. And Lady MaiTi
haying thus dismounted her, came iguf
and coaxed her, and (as I fbund by di-
verse instances) strove to give her bad
impressions of her family, and ererybodf
but Lady Mary's sweet self. Yet next
day Lady Mar went and dined at Mr
Baillie's in town, and there saw a deal of
company, and behaved very well. And
Dr Arbnthnot, who, among other?, s»w
i
1849J
New Light on ike Siory of Lady Grange.
357
her ihete^ said be thought her very well ;
and had not the tam h^pened you will
pieieiiUy hear of, he and Dr Monro (son
to Mr Monro who, at the ReTolutiony was
Principal of Edinburgh College^ and la
now physician to BedUm,) and Dr Mead,
were to have gone to her with me next
day and afterwards, that they might have
Toaehed her condition before the chan-
cellor. I belioTed it best for me not to
be at Mr BaiUie's, that all might appear
as it was, free and natural, and not con-
ducted by any art of mine ; only I went
thither about seyen at night,and found her
in a room with Ladies Harrey, Binning,
Hturay, Lady Griziel Baillie, and others.
She was behaiing decently^ but with the
gr&Tity of one that is wearied and tired.
Mr Baillie himself, and the other gentle-
neii and ladies, (a great many being in
the next room,) now and then joined us,
and she seemed not in anything discom-
posed, till the couTsrsation turned on her
&isier*a late insult, which, it was viBible,
gaTe a shock to her, and disconcerted her;
and when Lady Murray and I went home
with her to Knightsbridge, she was so
dumpish that she scarcely said one word.
When I went to her next day, I saw how
strongly Lady Mary's physic wrought,
sad JU^pated her poor returning senses.
She had before urged me earnestly to
proceed fkster than was fit, to get her
before the chancellor, and do eyerything
needftd for her liberation, that she might
go to her husband and famUy. Bat now
she told me she would not for the world
appear before the chancellor, and that
neither she nor any other must make oath
as to her recoyery, (at this time, indeed,
It had been a yery bold oath) ; and that
Ae preferred her soul's salyation to all
things. And, among other things, she
siid, what a dismal condition shall I be
ia if, after all, the chancellor send me
baek under Mary's goyemment; how
diall I pass my time after such an at-
tempt I In short, she was bamboualed,
and frii^ted quite. But that her head
was rsaily turned by Lady Mary's threats
of damnation, farther appeared by this
instance : Lady Grizzel Baillie and Lady
Hurray haying gone to take leaye of her,
(their whole fomily is gone to Spa,) when
1 law her next day, she grayely told me
that Lady Murray was no more her
friead, haying endeayoured, when taking
Issre, to depriye her of all the comfort
left hier— the hope of heayen. And tiiough
(aaid she) I was bred to the CSinrch of
£og]and, and she to that of Scotland, yet
aerely the diffSsrenoe is not so great that
the must pronounce me in a state of
damnation : and she asked me seriously,
what Lady Murray had said to me about her
being damned ? Neyer in my life, madam,
answered I, did she or any London lady
speak to me about salyation or damna-
tion; but I'm sure my Lady Murray loyes
you as her sister, and heartily wishes
your happiness here and hereafter. Then
she gaye me a sealed letter to Lady
Murray, begging me to deliyer it and
bring an answer. I read it with Lady
Murray. It was long, and all expostu-
latory why she pronounced her to be
damned ; and said many odd things.
Lady Murray's answer was the proper
one — short and general, but yery kind,
which I also deliyered ; and Lady Mar
said no more to me on that head. Before
she took this turn, perceiying her so ya-
pourish and easily disconcerted, I would
not yenture to put the case wholly on
perfect recoyery, bat stated it also as I
really thought it — ^yiz., recovered firom all
that could properly be called lunacy, yet
exceeding weak, and apt to be over-
tumed. And I had prepared a memorial
in law on that supposition, which I was
to haye laid before Mr Talbot, solicitor-
general, and other counsel, the very day
she took this wrong turn ; but thereupon
stopt altogether. At parting, she ap-
peared to me as one who, fearing to pro-
yoke a worse fate by attempting to be
better, sat down in a sort of sullen de-
spairing, content with her present con-
dition, which she (justly) called misery.
Thus seemed she to be as to any sense
that remained with her; but all her sense
was clouded, and, indeed, fancies which
now perplexed her brain were, like the
clouds, fleeting, inconstant, and sometimes
in monstrous shapes."*
We have no more of this affair nntil
the lapse of several months, when the
judge, at the very moment of apparent
victory, is routed by his watchfal an-
tagonist. He had obtained possession
of Lady Mar — she was on her way to
Scotland, " in right hands,^* bnt had
not crossed the border. This was in
1733, a few months after Lady Grange
had been safely conveyed to the grim
solitudes of Hesker. Surely some bird
of the air had whispered the matter to
Lady Mary; for her measures were
prompt and stern, and they draw from
the baffled plotter many hard expres-
sions and insinuations. *^ But on the
road, she [Lady Mar] was seized by
Lord Chief- Justice's warrant, procured
on false affidavit of her sister Lady
Miteellany of the Spalding Club, pp. 17-20.
New Lifflit on the Story of Lady Grange*
358
Ii[ar}', *S:c., and l)roii;,'bt back to Lon-
don—iloclarod lunatic, and by Lord
Chancellor (whose crony is Mr Wort-
ley, Lady Mary's husband) delivered
into the custody of Lady ^Liry, to the
astonishment and offence even of all
the English, (Sir Kobert among the
rest :) and Hay pretended to be angry
at it, yet refused to give me that relief
by the kin;j: in council, which by law
was undoubtedly conii>ctent."*
The people with whom bis London
connexion brought the judge in con-
tact, display a gathering of dazzling
names in the firmament of fashion and
wit. Bolingbroke, Windham, and
"the courtly Talbot'* are casually
mentioned. Grange says in passing,
*' I am acquainted with Chesterileld."
lie has something to say of " sweet
Lepel," the *' wife of that Lord Iler-
vey who last winter wrote the pam-
l)hlet against Mr Pulteney, and on Mr
rulteney's answer, fought with him
and was wounded." Arbuthnot, and
tlie prince of classical collectors,
llichard Mead, mix with the ordinary
actoi*3 of the scene. Young Murray,
not then a crown lawyer — but suffi-
ciently distinguished fur wit, elo-
quence, and fashionable celebrity, to
have called forth the next to immortal
compliments of Pope — mmt have been
one of the brilliant circle ; and in the
early ])eriod of his intercourse with
his brother's sister-in-law, accident
would be strangely against him, if he
did not sometimes meet in the ordi-
nary circle the pale distorted youth,
with noble intellectual features and
an eye of fire, whose war of wit and
rancour with " furious Sappho" left
the world uncertain whether to laugh
with their fierce wit, or lament the
melancholy picture of perverted ge-
nius, exhibited by a hatred so paltry
yet so unquenchable.
Li his autobiographical revelations,
the economical old judge leaves some
traces of his consciousness that his
journeys from Merlyn's Wynd to
Whitehall were a decided transition
from the humble to the great world,
lie thus describes one of these jour-
neys, in the letter already cited, in
which he gratified his Immour by talk-
ing of himself in the third person.
" Lord G. is now pretty well acquainted
* llouiton's MeiHuirs, p. 31.
[Sept.
with the ways there ; his personal ch&rgeK,
he is sure, will be small in comparisoa ;
he will not be in ezpeasive companies or
houses, but when business requires it;
nor at any diversion bnt what he findj
necessary for keeping up the cheerfuhieM
of his own spirit, and the health of bii
body. He wears plain and not fiae
clothes. When there last he kept not a
servant, but had a fellow at call, to wfaon
he gave a shilling a-day snrh days as he
was to be at court or among the great,
and must have a footman as necewtrilf
as a coat on his back or a sword bj hu
side. Ho never was nice and ezpeniiTe
in his own eating, and less now tltas
ever ; for this winter he has quite lost Un
relish of French claret, the most ezpeo-
sive article in London. He is to travel
without a servant, for whom he knein
not any sort of use on the road, and only
has a post-boy, whom he mnst have, hxl
he twenty servants of his own ; acd M
he travelled last year."f
Strange indeed were the social ex-
tremes between which this jotumeyliy.
At the one end we see the briilisot
assemblages of the most briiliaot ige
of English fashion. The rays of tie
wax -lights glitter back from stars aod
sword-hilts, diamond buttons vai
spangles. Velvet coats, hoge liced
waistcoats, abundant hoops, spread
forth their luxurious wealth — ^tbe lir
is rich and thick with perfamed pov-
der — the highest in rank, and wealtb,
and influence are there, so are the first
in genius and learning. Reverse tbe
picture, and take the northern end of
the journey. In an old dark stoM
house, at the end of a dismal aUej^i
Lovat's ragged banditti throttle •
shrieking woman — a guilty cavilcada
passes hurriedly at night across tke
dark heath — next opens a drevj
dungeon in a deserted feudal fortalioo
— a boat tosses on the bosom of the
restless Atlantic — and the yicthn ii
consigned to the dreary rock, whei(
year follows year, bringing no chinc^
with it but inci*easing age. The ooi-
trast is startling. Vet, when Yfere^
Lady Grangers diary and Lady Msiy
AVortley's lettera together, ihey \evtt
one doubtful whether most to sboddiir
at the savage lawlessness of one cdo
of the island, or the artificial vices tM
were growing ont of a putrid civili>>'
tion in the other.
Ibid. p. 8.
1^9.]
Tke Royid Progress.
359
THS ROYAL PROOBSSS.
Question— " What is a King?"
Answer — ^^A monster who deyoors
the human race.'' Sach was a part
Df the catechism taught to all the
children of France during the first
feivoiiroftheBevolationinl789. '^I
wonder thepeople shonld die of want,*^
said a princess dnring the dreadful
famine of 1774 ; *^ for my part, if I was
one of them, I should live on beef-
steaks and porter, rather than perish."
Soch are the feeUngs with which the
members of the same community,
children of the same family, unhappily
sometimes come to regard each other
daring periods of democratic excite-
ment, or mutual estrangement. Igno-
rance, worlced on by falsehood, and
mialed by ambition, is the main cause
of this fatal severance. Nothing re-
moyes it so effectually as bringing
them together. So natural are the
feelin|;s of loyalty to the human heart,
80 nmversally do they spring up when
the fdsehood which has smothered
them is neutralised by the evidence of
the senses, that it may be considered
as one of the greatest evils which can
afflict society, when circumstances
oeeur which keep sovereigns aloof from
their people, and one of the greatest
blessmgs when they can rejoin each
other. Of this, a signal example oc-
curred on the return of the royal
£unily of France from the fatal jour-
ney to Yarennes, when Bamave, who
had been sent down with Petion, as
one of the most vehement and stem
republicans, to bring them back to
Paris, was so impressed with the phi-
lanthropic benevolence of the King,
and so melted by the heroic magnani-
i&ity of the Queen, that he became
thenceforward one of the most faithful
def(aiders of the royal cause. ^^ How
often," says Thiers, in recounting
this remarluible conversion, ^' would
factions the most inveterate be recon-
ciled, if they could meet and read each
other's hearts I"
The sudden change often produced
in the general mind, by the veil of
ignorance and prejudice being with-
drawn, which had concealed from them
the real character of their rulers, is
not to be ascribed merely to the lustre
VOL. Lxvi.~NO. ccccvn.
of royalty, or the daaaling of the pub-
lic gaze by the magnificent pageants
which, on sudi occasions, generally
surround it. It arises mainly from a
different cause: it is allied to the
generous affections^t springs frt>m
the feelings planted by the Author of
nature in the human heart, to bind
sodety together. It is often seen
most strongly when the royal pageants
are the most unpretending, and the
royal personages, laying aside their
previous state, mingle almost without
distinction, save from the superior grace
of their manners, with the ordinary citi-
zens. It is more like the irresistible
gush of affection which overspreads
every heart, when the members, long
severed, of a once united family are
reassembled; or when the prodigal
returns to his father's home, only the
more dear from the events which had
estranged him front it.
It is sometimes said that loyalty is
an instinctive principle, meant to sup-
ply the place of reason before the in-
tellectual faculties have grown to their
full strength among a people, but un-
necessary, and which gradually dies
out, when society, under the direction
of self-government, has come to be
regulated by the rational faculties.
There never was a greater mistake ;
and every day's experience may con-
vince us that it is not only false, but
directly the reverse of the truth. The
time will never come, when the aid of
loyidty will not be requured to bind
society to its chief: and if the time
should ever come that its generous in-
fluence is no longer felt, it may safely
be concluded that the sun of national
prosperity has set, and that a night
of darkness and suffering is at hand.
Mankind cannot be attached, save in
a passing moment of fervour, to an
abstract principle, or a vast com-
munity without a head, or some-
thing which may supply its want to
the senses. The aid of individuals or
localities is required to concentrate
and keep alive tiie patriotic affections,
where they are not centred on an
individual sovereign. What the
Acropolis was to Athens, the Capitol
to Rome, St Mark's to Venice, that
2r
■{(^
m
■:.,-' JOT-.-rr-: ,-n - v- i nonairnicai
■mir.iWi..'"" in. I •■ .: "r'A "r'ln.Liii :«•
- r.ii -r' 111- ^•-■r.a. .ul -.ne ar^niir
r a.- .If '■•■.in tit -p. :r.r.:ii !■.■: niLr-.r in
r-:inrp "hp want jI ■'«ne auet. dH
Xinotenn <*mir.miniteii the .o^aL jifae-
'.0Ti> nn iimfKiil T.ie rp:u •^nisiT' to
.M^iirv ill nor '^.imn. unt ^^itiBinuBL
It. \\» iwnr. .101 r.iitKT die juhzens
'^t* -minrqRfi •MinrAsiim. nnt iniier dm
'-tt* .111 amen r«*fi ■nrmpaon : ind dil duB
HAT 'twr.'^nr'nationai'iecsr lafl.i
ir-« •!:im«w.il ^niy nm die mor™
!i- rWtm n>aNnn .uiiiins rhe mei or
xhii^h it .H to rw» fftfi.
f: iny tminr. (*n>ii(i ^ eixterr.iziiBd.
7 I ^v<.iI-ll1tn1m(*d mnxii. or* rhe incai-
viiAi-.it* impnnjuK!!! of u>rairr. an die
'rhwf and often the only bond woich
Miiid.- ^nriety t.»tretii<*r. it ▼onlii iere-
inor-»d hy r^-o t»v*na which iia--? oc-
^■.irr 'tl in mr own rlmeia. — the Moscow
invminn. ind the n>!fldine!W jf Ens-
Mnil f\:ir:n** tiie minii-toake af ISfci?.
On th«^ r/.-^t orcA-Hion. this aacnd piin-
rip 1 1- drtft^att^d the muihtieMC anna-
. \''-VkZ -rT-rr .i.--»:mnleti bj thr p«>was of
ir.ri>nerT a Tains r thr: liberties ••f num-
siii^: on the iaat. ir, pres^'rved tin-
• ukei. And nnacathed the ark of the
r/.n^^it^tion in thi» Bhcuh iaiandB,
nniid.'it the dehuT'': which had ariaken
tuf: throne^ of almost all thi? other
f^rirr^an monarchies. In the^r two
exiiTnpleH. wherf; two fitatee in the
tipfirmtf. ^xtr«nne^ of infancy and ctvi-
Jiisiatifin were suc^efiively reacned from
the mfAt apipallin:; dangers, amidst
iUf- min.H of all aronnd them, bv the
influvnce of thifl noble principle, we
If J ay discern the clearest proof 'if its
Ifl^tinc^ inAnence nfion man, and of
the incalculable ble.ri:='in^'s it i.a fitted to
confer, not le«s in the mofit enllglit-
ened than the mmt imenlightencd agee
of society. Hut for it, the social in-jti-
tiitioHM of Oreat Britain wonld hove
bf;en overturned on the 10th April
1H4H, and Kn^lnnd, with all its cdn-
f 'fit ion f cIviliHation, nnd habits of free-
rionif wonld have iN'cn con»i^cd to
dcHtriiction hy a deluge of civilised
linrbarinnH, compared to whom, as
Afnranlny hnn well naid, those that
followed tlie Htandnrd of Attila or
Alarir were hnmnnc and temperate
iviirrlfirH. Ilenc(; we may learn how
ivonderfnlly loyalty is htrenrfthened^
iimienil of I»einf7 weakened, by the
progn'ss of knowledge und the spread
! iT-Iiiatii-n !n i i^ail*^ tw cr-main-
::rf iC'i vnat Totre -liar ii'.bie T?ria-
-jinie icqnirea Tuen. :u the jtn»*roe
^nthiLsUsm v'.iiL-a .>ind5 die inietti^nd
-vmxor :d jis daei. is added the de-
rcnmnanon •! dnonen » dosBd i
dnoiie wmch ail :etii va iie d&e lEe^
-oone m. she jnai oi dn *—*«^"*J tdP*
ames.
he nearer the tmth ib
deniul dicumiHaiiice. thai & Qms.
•imrin^the iuteevigntal y
•m tile din^ne af the ~
Hod a kxnir ixen diere. sill man 9m
lOTofalBaD. Af
01 ^mpopiuiir ™-""'— or
'^rnen ail dit* duonea of Eavope
siilixup apiond oa. die evcot
hove iseoi t^tj
with ail EB -pjirigiy^ have
die b«>taaiiiieBB pic at'
tieeiin^s of loyaicy co a
ally it* jiie L^ vomiir and
anicea die virmeB to tiie
3ex. aie very iiiiliitMi
wfaidi. imder the motsc
cTcntfuncea. can be mwvkeaed isfmir
ofbff
tkitt
dr-
man. tfaeteelnics of ehm^Ttte ff-
apecc dne to thesofter sis. afeaiagW
in overwiKlming proportioDB with tiK
abetracc paasioiiB ot' lojaisy wks •
y oong and iotereBting woman, endow-
ed with mascoiine energy, ImtadoffBd
with teminine beaotv, finnoonded 1?
the hosband of hn' dnHce ud the
children of her lore, k aecn bnniC
the risks and endnring the £irti||iMi*
a jonmey tlinmgfa iuids reeeDt^eoB-
vnised by civil diasenoon, solely ^
win the love of her snlgects, to had
the divisions of the great fiunilrtf
which she fonns the head.
History affcnds nmnerons cxamplv
of the far greater power, in periods tf
intestine tronblea, qaeena have dtfi
kings in winning the affisctioos flf
calming the exasperation of tbtdmh*
jects. Despite all her ernn, it^
withstanding her faults, Qoeen IM
exercised a swsy over a laxj^ joita
her snbjects which no man m «iiOif
circnmstanoes conld have dime. Aas-
tria woiUd have been cmflhed byik0
arms of France and Bavaria ia 174tt
but for the chivalrons loyal^ vw
led the Hungarian nobloB to eid*^
in a transport of generons enthnsitfiii
** Moriamor pro Rsffe noatro, li«^
Theresa."
2%€ Roifiti Pirogras,
> ipnttdi htf moanlal flhanm,
NB»thc btantj, mU the world in
t ii doabtftd if all the fienronrB
Armation oonld have enabled
towUhetand the assault of
lolic leagne, headed by Spain
me of Philip n^ if in defence
ition bad not been joined the
H loyalty of a gallant nobiiity
jpmtn, as well as the stern re-
ef a Protestant people in be-
MiraligBon and their liberties,
he passion of loyalty, as all
■bms, reqairies aliment for its
like lore, it can live on
Ay litOebope, bat it absolutely
eomo. A look, a smile, a
■ a sovereign, donbtless go a
f ; bat entire and long-conti-
laBoe will chill even the warm-
ion. It is on this acconnt
li progresses have so impor-
ienieiioe in knitting together
B wUoh nnite a people to their
■• Th^ have one inestimable
hey nue them known to each
Xhe one sees in person the
Ilio iffiBCtion with which the
■ is regarded by the people,
w the parental interest with
B people are regarded by their
I. I^adices, perhaps, noa-
r iiMtion or fiM^ered by party,
qr before the simple li^ht of
k ftw hoars of matnal inter-
Bqpels the alienation which
separation, and the continued
if gailty ambition daring a
an, may haveprodaccd. The
lafiiBCtionsspnnfi; np unbidden,
e evidence of the senses dis-
load of falsehood by which
d been restrained. Mutual
ge produces mutual interest ;
chances of success to sub-
eflbrts to bring about an
ment are matcriadiy lessened,
Isoovery of how wide had been
mprehension which had for-
med, and how deep the mu-
sCion which really dwelt in the
of the heart, and was now
to light by the happy ap-
kion of the sovereign and her
I a noble spectacle to behold a
loeen, at a time when scarce a
in Europe was secure on his
letting oat with her lllostrions
861
consort and ftimlly to make a royal
progress through her dominions, and
selecting for the first place of her visit
the island which had so recently
raised the standard of rebellion
against her government, and for the
next the oity which had fint hi the
empire re«M>nded to the cry of treason
raised in Paris, on the overthrow of
the throne of Louis Philippe. Nor
has the result failed to correspond,
even more happily than could have
been hoped, to the gallant nndertakin^.
If it be true, as is commonly reported,
that oar gracious sovereigo said, ** She
went to IreUnd to make friends, but
to the Land of Cakes to ^find them,"
she must l^ this time have been con-
vinced that the generous design has,
in both islands, proved saccessfnl be-
yond what her most enthusiastic
friends coald have dared to hope.
Who could have recogidsed, in the
mnltitudes which thronged to witness
her passage through Cori^, Dublin, and
Belfast, aad the universal acdamations
with whioh she was everywhere re-
ceived by all classes of her subjects,
the chief cities of an island long torn
by civil dissension, and which had only
a year before broken out into actual
rebellion against her government?
Who could have recognised in the
youthful sovereign visiting the public
buildmgs of Dublin, like a private
peeress, without any of the state of a
Sovereign, and chiefly interested with
her royal consort in the institutions
devoted to beneficence, the Head of a
Government whom The Nation had so
long represented as callous to all the
sufferings of the people? And du-
ing the magnificent spectacle of the
royal progress through Glasgow,
where five hundred thousand persons
were assembled from that great city,
and the neighbouring counties, to see
their Queen — and she passed for tbree
miles through stately structures, loaded
with loyalty, under an almost con-
tinued archway of flags, amidst inces-
sant and deafening cheers — who could
have believed he was in a dtv in which
democratic revolt had actuall v broken
out only eighteen months before, and
the walls had all been placarded, on
the day when London was menaced,
with treasonable proclamations, call-
ing on the people to rise in their thou-
sands and tens of thousands against
d62 The Royal Ptogreu. ijBepf.
the thnme? And how blesaed the sent oomplieaied oondidon of flodetf,
contrast to the condition of SooUuid and the contending uiteresU which
when her kui Qmeem had been in that agitate its bosom — one eTil, ud thit
neighbonriioody and the towers of the grtatett of aU^ is lesMned, and
Glugow cathedral looked down on that is an estrangement between tbe
Morton issuing from the then diminn- People and their Sovereign. Crima
tire borough, to assail, in the imme- may retnm; but the lecnrreiioeof the
dlate vicinitj at Langside, the rojal greatest of all, becanseit is the pirait
army headed by Maiy, and drive her of all others— high treason— is for s
to exile, captiTity, and death.* time, to any extent at least, ren*
We are not foolish enough to expect dered impossible. The most aaored
impossibilities from the Queen's visit, and important of all bonds, that
— ^how splendid and grati^^g soever wfalchnnitesthesovertign and bersob*
its circumstances may have been. We jects, has been nmteriaUy strength-
know well how many and deep-rooted ened. The most noble of all feel-
are the social evils which in both ings, the disinterested aifectkm of a
islands afflict society, and we are not people to their Queen, has been
so simjde as to imagine that they will called into generous and heart-stiimg
be removed by the sight of the Sove- action. The ^^ nnbought loyal^ of
reign, as the innocent peasants believe men, the cheap defence of nadona," is
that all physical diseases willbe cured fio< at an end. And if the efSect of
by the royal touch. We are well the Royal Visit were only that, in tbe
aware that the impression of even greatest cities of her dominions, onr
the most splendid pageants is often gracious sovereign, in an age unnsnally
only transitoiy, and that sad reali- devoted to material influenoes, has
ties sometimes return with accn- succeeded, by the sweetness and grace
mulated force after they are over, of her manners, in can^g the hearts
from the contrast they present to of some hundred thousands of her
imaginative vision. Still a step, and sulnects to throb with loyal devotioD,
that, too, a most important one, has and, for a time at least, suppUnted
been taken in the right direction. If the selfish by the generous emo-
great, and, in some respects, lasting tions— the eflfect is not lost to tbe
good has been done — ^if evils remain, cause of order and the moral etera-
as remain they ever will, in the pre- tion of her people.
* It is a curious coincidence, that the Jint ntau whom her M^esty met with ud
addressed, when she landed in Glasgow, was the Earl of Morion, the lineal descen-
dant of the ruthless baron whose arms then proved so tktal to her beaatifal Asd
«infortunate ancestress.
IW^J Christopher under Canvass. 3C^
No. IV.
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.
ScsNS — The Pavilion.
Time — One p.m.
BuLLEB — Seward — ^Talboys — ^North.
TALBOTS.
Here he is— here he is ! I traced him by Cratch-print to the Van— like an
old Stag of Ten to his lair by the Slot.
SEWABB.
Hiank heaven 1 Bat was this right, my dear sir?
BULLEB.
Yoor Majesty ought not thus to have secreted yoorself from yoor subjects^
SEWABD.
We feared yon had absconded — ^abdicated — and retired into a Monastery.
BULLEB.
^ We have all been miserable'about yon since an early hoar in the morning —
inviaible to mortal eye since yester bed-going gong— regal conch manifestly
QQslept b— tent after tent scrntinised as narrowly as if for a moose — Swiss
Giantess searched as if by costom-honse officers — ^no Christopher in the En-
campment—what can I compare it to— bnt a Bee-hive that had lost its Qneen.
The yeiy Drones were in a ferment — ^the workers demented— dismal the ham
of grief and rage— of national lamentation and dvil war.
NOBTH.
BiUy coald have told yon of my retreat.
SBWABD.
Billy was in a state of distraction— rnshed to the Van— and, finding it
empty, fidnted.
KOBTH.
Billy saw me in the Van— and I told him to shnt the spring smartly— and
be mom.
BULLEB.
VUUdn!
MOBTH.
Obedience to orders is the snm-total of Dnty. Most of the men seem
tolerably sober— those whom despair had driven to drink have been sent to
ueeping-qnarters— the Camp has recovered from its alarm — and is fit for
Inspection by the General Commanding the Forces.
SEWABD.
Bat have yon breakfasted, my dear sur?
NOBTH.
Leave me alone for that. What have yon all been abont ?
T'i.tr n "ii - -r n" :rviii tion •" \Lbi I :iot 'i-il ~jii Thar in :hi: jall,
lii-.r* i:r— i. nr^ -til— - — a *ii:ic Tin nuou uid 'noa« :ailo^-::iaiile sun—
'.ill * ■': ii'»^ u.-j :'i..r,- "-^r -^r-iii Srr'VTwr " ■■ la tiie iim'^sphereiii
TT.i :\ :•• :--.♦ uiit -.r^i:::*-- . iii'i "le-in^numt-na -f "▼oii'ii "ae <LillT Kes, ind
■—:.-. laii itr-*r.\ •--. uiii nrOcTT--. "it? TiiU'i-'riiier ^tami^ in lAiluovl^ged
jr.- riaf-r .r mk ;i'v- ▼*iii::i ^'*~*n .c Z-? ll? k-v*r:aui»."i. Lniietiii. It* extent,
.:.' V :::n. i;iil .ta uimpaiaicon »ic:huiicii -u lan iiMrimif d» Liv •i-f heat
m'l V.' L-rir-. imi iriidiMi ■iii' -iJvrSTi: u"-a«.i«45 -viiici Jidaence la >^:IIdition,
.!•* M::ai I" '••■li'"- r •- -ii irrr;x:aiiitr; --. i i:!-**!!!:!:' a. ▼aether ra the mor-
•■'V Ml- -iia vi:i*l ?a:n»'. ^r :a- nin ai*l. .r ::ie -^'^d '310^. or the lightniaj
:i»?»r: •:!»:. ■
toutti.
Xv\ 1*1 ":i,ir _- ;irr:'iii*:l7 "ne. N" f ^ertiiricsi. ▼» ▼'gather- wi?e and veatiff-
:*■ »".il.« I ;»^ rii — f:i:r r'nl* •*«"na»'r= "'nc Emriri'is — -jiLIor? lad shepherda^witli
i.l ar '^*A .a :iiJ* ^onr-»r iiiii :he iiijpier iea^'iad — fidier ap pp>gn<>saeatlaiu
'.t v.t» .n:ini:r.»r f -he :!-ai:nj ";axe — m it: or .r 1 lar — cake in oar canrasi
xA'i '^r. .'!:• -r^.m-^ib— :r na r-.r -ome '::i7 ^here :ae pmlent ship shall ride
*- iiir..;* r. w s.if-^ inii ilaii --t ijj ii«rioii:e« k? if ?he w-sr* in a dry-dock: or
■Tf :■". ■!•* r'.ir hl'.^-iiiv v, '«}• « ir.tr "ihe ?ill~ ?heer — v«;c not =0 sillr either—
:":r Tiii^r^^ thrj ar». !a.^riai:rl-i :r 1 liuiise. '.y-i'^i «e«:TxrHl by that black bell of
*r.oceii-Fir» .ieaix»c :1k :empe9C bRwinc over Lockerb^ or Lodunaba— ftr
:'/ .ai :he l-.aa BLli'.im B'-ie:; — Ton Three scarnni ai FWe o'ckwk for Loib?
TALBOT «w
r rj'jii^ -x-r IM. A !iiHe <!arnafe ij in ^ weacfaiers detaetaUe— JW
V- .j Ir -hoald K*^ ''.oea :•> ill t^v^t Lmhieiicee — with nochznz aboat it that oft
ri4% i^t ap or let •io'wii— «>cfaerwue mow oa^ or ocher i>f tiw pHt;^— oa Bose
f.r'=^rnre -/r other — will be f-ir ?hatiiiif yon all in. And then — FareweD, Thoi
^f.-een Earth — ^Tbo« Ctir Daj^and je ^Uca : It bad appareoUy baa "'^'^
for some little time
For ^x boon, and more beaTiij. I do think, than I ever heard it raia brfoTB
in this waterr workL Having detected a few drofis in the ceiling of mj dbt"
cnlmn. I had' slipt away to the Van on the first Uaah of the brtiiwii tw
fmm that boor to thia have been nnder the WateiftU-H»aBg.aa nSelpiei
TALBOTS.
In we ^ot — well jannned together — a single gentlenuoi, or even two. woal^
h^vf. F>een blown oat — and after ?ome remonstrancea with the old Greys, w^
w«Te off Ui Liiib. I»ng Ijefore we were nearly ludf-way np the braa behind th^
Camp, Seward complained that the water was running down his back — bnt eitf
we readied the U>p, that inconvenience and every other waa mo^ed. Thecir'
riagf; Heemed to 1^ in a sinking state, somewhere about AchUan ; and roUia^
Imfore the rain-storm— horses we saw none — it needed no great power of ima-'
gination to fear we were in the Loch. At this jnuctnre we came all at oiio9
(Uwf. nr»r»n— and into — an appalling crash, and squash, and splash — a plnngiDfp
milling, groaning, and moaning, and roaring — which for half-a-minute bamd
('oNjertnro. 11ic Hrldgc — you know it, sir — the old Bridge, that Sewaid waa
ii(!v*'r tired of sketching — going — going — gone ; down it went — men, horses,
!iil, at the very parapet, and sent na with Ajaup in among the Wooda.
sonni.
1)0 yon mean to nay you were on the Bridge aa it svnk?
TALBOYS.
I know notliin^; nliout it. How should I? AVc were in the heart of the
NniHo- wo were in the heart of the Water — wo were in the heart of the
Wood- we, tlie vehicle, the horses — the same horses, I believe, that were
Htnndlng behind the Camp when we monuted— thon^^ I hud not aeea them
2840;] Ckntiopker vmler Camum. 36&
distineft^ abise, tin I rdoogntfled tbam madl7 fpiJin|dny in tbdr bmDea up
«iid down Uie fooBiiig InuiIu.
Were joa all on this side of the Riyer ?
TAHBoneSh
Ultimately we were--elfle how oonld wa have got hare? Yon aeem; Inare-
doloQS, sir. Mind me— I don't saj we were on the Bridge— and went down
with it. It 18 an open qnestion— and in tilia absanoe of diqiaaBionata wit-
nesses must be settled by probabilities. Sony that, though the Driver saved
hims^, the Vehicle in the mean time should be lost— witk all the Sods..
They will he Kaavrntd on a cbaoge: o£ iiiillini Haw and wdaen got ye
MRKx
TALBOTS.
On horseback. Bnller behind Sewvd*— myself before a man who occa-
sionally wore a look of the Driver. Ihope^i^wa&iia-4f iirwaBnot-*4heiMMr
moat have been drowned. We had now the wind — that is, the storm — that
n, thi hnnicaoB ia onr fiH»»— and tiie aaiiaala ev«ry otiiar mlmite wheded
ahont and stoadmoted for many minntefrto the noad, with their tails towanls
CbdidL Myba^hadfbrtfUnatelyliMtaUaaiuatibnhoarabefiue waingai
toe vmbbl
HOSTH.
Horn! Hioir lonip did it tafai yom to aeoompQsh the two mUes?
TALBOTS.
I did not time it ; but we entered the Gfeat Gate of the Camp to the sound
e£flie Bseak&at Bagpipea.
SEWABD.
As soon as we had changed oursetvaa — ^as you say in Scotland
TAIJBaSB.
Let'a bather JUbr NoBth no mose about it. With esceptioa o£ the Bridflo^
'tis not worth talking o£— and we aogbk to be thaniiM itwaa not JSUffk,
IShd what a daldghtfiu feelinc of secority now^ sir, from all fastmaioaof vagrant
viators ftomtlmDdmallyaMlal By thla tilne ocunmnaiaalian ntnst ba cut off
with Bdinhmi^ and GlaaiOW^-4M(a Invenury — so the Camp ia virtnaUy inau^
l^tod. In orcunary weather, then la no oalling the Camp onr own. So far
hack as yesterday only, 8 English— 4 G^man— 8 French— 2 Italian— 1 Irish,
^ Mda, many muatached — and from those and otiier eouniriea, nearly an
^qiialnnmbK ofliomalfr— sonw mnateahed too^^' bnt that not mnah*'*
, InipoflBUe- indeed it ia to^ei^oy one hour's oonsGioiiBneaa of seeme scdtede,
in this most nnsedentary age of the worid.— Look thare. Who the dence
are jou, sir? Do you belong to Cloiid*land — ^and have you made an in-
^"shman^ daaoent in ^ dalnge ? Or are yon of tiie earth earthy?' Qff,.sii>— off
^the hadL pnariaas. Snter the Pavilion at year peril; yon Fhannmanon^
Tuin him out, Talboys. ,
Hien I oniat torn out myaelL I. stepped ibrth for a nHnent to the
Front
And have in that moment been tnmemogrified into the Man of the Moon.
A false alann. Bnt methinks yon might have been satisfied with the Bridge.
It is clearing up, shr — it is clearing np^^ails and buckets, barrels and hogs-
heads, fountains and tanka^ are no longer Hie crdnr of the day. Jopiter Hu-
^ins is descending on Juno with modentted impetuosity— is restricting himself
h>w«fteritt|ppan» and garden engines— there is reason toanspect, from the look
tftha-at— sphaBB, tint the mppllea are mnnmg>8hort— that in a fow hova the
^^ will INt 1^ to atcmny— and hnrra, then, fbr a W9fk of fine» sanahiny,
™J*»wy» bweiyi balmy, an^^g Weather! Why, it ia almost faur now.
ido intk that we dtall hnve no more of thoaa dryr^oai^^ sandy, gnra^y
JSU* '
▼ lira UWi V^3 TLnZZiL &s rslLS
«!!>- :ii' ?Briuifi Bbi jtff air
;.»7 JbMi — ^1!» toil 'V'ttKE.
Tvi !si U7-1 111 jiksfl. dc •£ ^u Vfnr.rii -uimiiy %£ as Z^
»c> iw7 un{'
9iI1
T^sttopsi — u: tiutii. >ic & Ida. a '?«sxcsxil :ai£ -vicse af Vuo^
;ii7 ><afW ffcrkia l&uixit uIawj jc — L bmil jmfliiri osssvcr a jpoi CBHt; ^
^uvi^ x jt ncuv JsKft A at( jv iir iOBSL lyrTiiBW I ivHUni oi Ae
virvtfSrA. 5m.« >JAfUMn. jBut imHEs. tsuL ag^es jjae — ike vMe Fon^
A */xaix9av^ *A \sai wtasaa fcr a cit or tv^ viii bria^ then ip *
xt^^i frfjm tJu^ l/jd^-^ZwAxJuuiSj wt sUi kaT« TA. I de^kt a di»p-
iA ¥hf$Mi, M>4 ii^ i^'Jud of jw «n TaliKn? ikafl fisogage tke fint ""^
SwXh^i ukaJl ti« »k«cdKd bj hu ova Sewmid. in m moment of trimni^i ^
IHhfffcmpkuA f/x MuMck for the fofthcoming Editkii c^Tom Stoddart
Aw\ htH tfwn Huller »ba]] make the chips fly like Michiel Angdo— tBdfi<)Oi
(li<{ rnarMff Mock evolve a Christopher #iflcator not nnwortbjr a Steele-o^ ^
Siiu'jUmnUL
XORTH.
Uny nnUln your ta«klc, Talboja, and let ns talk.
TALBOTS.
I mil ntivi'r mt talkative as over my tackle.
BUIXER.
I My It anlilo then, Talbojs, at Mr North*8 request.
TALB0Y8.
Woiilil, my ilf'fir iilr, you had been with me on Thnrsday, to witness tw
nKlilottN of thU (tKiKMi.Y Palmkk. Miles np Gleusrae, yon come — sodd^T^
\ litt litfi In a llttio fflcn of its own— on sach a jewel of a Waterfall. Not ten
I'iMti lull.. In the pIcsMuro-grounds of a lowland mansion *twonld be ctlled *
i'MHOMlf. Hut soft as its voice is, there is something in it that spMks tbs
1819.] Owutopher wider CamHUB. * 867
Catairact. Ton discern the Gaelic gurgle — and fisel that the Foniitain is high
upin somespot of greensward amongheatber-hiUs. Snow-white it is not — almost
as translncent as the pool into which it glides. Yon see throngh it the green
ledge it slides over with a gentle tonch — and seeking its own way, for a few
moments, among some mossy cones, it slips, without being wearied, into its
place of rest, which it disturbs not beyond a dimple that beautifies the quiver-
ing reflection of the sky. A few burch-trees — one much taller than the rest —
are all the trees that are there— but that sweetest of all scents assures you of
the hawthorn — and old as the hills — stunted in size — but fuQ-leaved and
budded as if in their prime — ^a few hawthorns close by among the clefts. But
why prattle thus to yon, my dear sir?— no doubt you know it well— for what
beautiCiil secret in the Highlanda is unknown to Christopher North?
KORTH.
I do know it well ; and your description— so much better than I could have
drawn— has brought it firom the dimmer regions of memevy, ^' into the study
of imagination.*'
TALBOTS.
After a few circling sweeps to show myself my command of my gear, and
to g^ve the Naiad warning to take care of her nose, I let drop this gbiesly
Fauebr, who alighted as if he had wings. A Grilse 1 1 cried— a Grilse 1 No,
a Sea-trout — an Amber Witch— a White Lady — a Daughter of Pearl — ^whom
with gentle idolence and quick despatch I solicited to the yellow sands — and
folding not my arms, as is usual in works of fiction, slightly round her waist —
but both hands, with all their ten fingers, grasping her neck and shoulders to
pot the fahr creature out of pain — in with her — in with her into mv Creel —
and agam to business. It is on the First Victim of the Day, especially if, as
in this case, a Bouncer, an angler fondly dwells in reminiscence— each succes-
sive captive — ^however engrossing the capture — loses its distinct individuality
in the fast accumulating crowd ; and when, at dose of day, sitting down
among the broom^ to empty and to count, it is on the First Victim that th&
anglePs eye reposes — ^in refilling, it is the First Victim you lav aside to crowiv
the treasure — in wending homewards it is on the First Victim's biography yoa
muse; and at home — ^in the Pavilion— it is the First Victim you submit to th&
critical ken of Christopher
BUIXER.
Espedally if, as in this case, she be a Bouncer.
XOBTH.
Yon pride yourself on your recitation of poetry, Talboys. Charm us with,
the finest descriptive passage you can remember from the British Poets.
Not too loud — ^not too loud — this is not £xeter Hall— nor are you about to
address the Water- witch from the top of Ben-Lomond.
TALBOTS.
^ Bat thou, Clitumnns! in thy sweetest wave
Of the most living crystal that was e'er
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lare
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear
Thy grassy banks, whereon the milk-white steer
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters!
And most serene of aspect, and most clear;
Snrely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters —
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters !
" And on thy happy shore a Temple still.
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,
Upon a mild declivity of hill,
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps
The finny darter with the glittering scales,
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails
Down where the shallower wave stUl tells its bubbling tales.
Adnanir,ij mul md she. Tjiir lam vmm
loii 7>HL sBciss. ike jfl. ^srae IwBs 'iif
:'-ir« CO bdiiMd zhrt pcBboBoce. Vmk. ^ 5p» oi
...I.'' ni.iiie :ii«»Txi i£a :^ — iiiii iefiflHiM deeL ia cb«ir beaatr an adequto
I 'Jo not Mf M. ar.
TiRt caae to
finitfaM,
Sir Wil tcr iuM mhI— "^ Perlnia
pier itaciiptifi power than the nro
no*."^
TlwB I m right.
XORTH.
\'f'.Th%\A yon are, Scott lo^ed BrnNi — aad it is ennobliiig to hear one gi^
Vft«:i praUio^^ another : yet the adiiuas whicfa so delighted o«r IfiartniatJ
not \}fi tto felicitom as thej seemed to be to his moved imaginatioiL
FosaiUx not
Tn the First Stanza what do we find ? An apoetropho— ^ lluni CSStame^
not yetqaite an Impersonation — a few lines on, an Impersonatioaof theStreaiD^
^ the purest God of gentlest watenl
And most serene of aspeet, luid most clear.**
What is gained bpr this Impersonation? Nothing. Fort&e qnalitififl btfj
attrihated to the River- God are the verj same that had already been attributrf
to the water — parity— serenity — clearness. " Sweetest wave ofthemostlifinf
(Tyntfil *' — aficcts us just as much— here I think more than the two lines aboa^
tho (;od. And observe, that no sooner is the God intiodnoed than he dinp*
poarH. 1 1 Id coming and his going are alike onsatisfactory— for his oomifll
tfivf'N us no new emotion, and his going is instantly followed by ImeB tki^
havo no relation to his Godship at all.
TALBOTS.
Why— why— I rciilly don't know.
NOBTH.
I have inihlly— and inoffensively to all the woild— that isi to all as Foo^
hIio^'h (»no Imperfection ; and I think— I feel there is another— is this Sttftf**
*' Tlin Nwoctost wave of the most livlns crystal" is visioned to ns in the open-
ing lines as the haunt ** of river nymph, to giM and lava her llaba when lo*
Ilbem«'*— ADdwe an pieased; it is visionod to ub, in tite condoding
" tin miixar and the batii for Beanie's yonngeat ^'ff gHff«w *' — and ira
d; or i£w6 aie^ bnt for a moment-^for it la, as nearij as may
ame vision over again — a mirror and a batli I
TALBOTS.
leUf sir—
TALBOTEk
HOBTHI.
■fc ffTB that I nndentand ^^ Beanty'a yonngeat dani^teok"
TALBOYB.
mali maidens from ten to twelve years old, who in their innocent
MP bathe without danger, and in their innoeent aelf-admiiation may
kontfear.
it the expression at once o(Hnmonplaoe and obsonre.
XALBOYS.
aay so, sir.
NOBnrH.
ByiOB iMBiis the Graces?
»--4ie doas the Gnusea anre enongfar— the Gnces.
HOBTH.
watit meaos^it means no more titan we had befoie. Adeaeriptive
hoald ever be progreesive, and at the cioae complete. To my feeling,
Im** had better been kept far away from, the imagination as from the
know Byron alludes here to the Sttigninetto of the preceding Stansa.
oi^tnot to have alluded to it — ^tfae contrast is complete without
HBoe — beftwieen the river we are delighting in and the blood-
XBHii that has passed away. Why, then, foioe soch an ima^ back
—when of ourselves we should never have thought of it, and it is the
fd we should desire to see ?
TALBOTS.
a few minutes to consider
NOBTB.
.. Wm yon be aogood»Talboystaa tell ma in ten words the meaning
le next Stanza — ^^ keeps its-menmry of Thee"?
TALBOYS.
hamediately.
NQBTH.
niriod— ani^er aa Xam^—
zince of Anglers.
KOBSB.
mrind, two lines and a half about Itshea are here too mneh — '* finny
conceited — and ^* dwells and reveb" needlessly strong'— rand
rismg of " finny darters with the glittering scales** to me seems
with the solemn serenity inspired by the Temple, ^ of small
ate proportion" *^ keeping its memory of Thee," — whatever that may
nor do I think that a poetical mind Uke Byron's, if fully possessed in
itemplation with the beauty of the whole, would have Uiought so
an oeemvence, or dwelt upon it with so many weeds.
TALBOTS.
finny darteca with the^ttering scalea had oft leaped firom out
■lliaeaInuHn,.l]ion Glenordiy, yeateiday— bntnot a fin could I atir
H iHhla and Daoble-lSFotfamga*
eitiHroiie wayoraootiier,to.mygHide deonur to thai
370 Ckrisiapher under CaMoau. 08e|it
perfection of the stanzas. The ^^ scattered water-lily** may be well enongb-fio
let it pass— with this ob, that the flower of the water-Ill;^ is not easOy sepanted
from its stalk— and is not, in that state, eligible as an image of peace.
TALBOTS.
It is of beanty.
NORTH.
Be it so. But is ^* scattered " the right word? No. A water-lily to be
scattered must be torn — for yon scatter many, not one — a fleet, not a ship-t
flock of sheep, not one lamb. A solitary water-lily — ^broken off and drifUog
by, has, as you said, its own beanty— and Byron doubtlessly intended tbat-
but he has not said it — ^he has said the reverse — for a *^ scattered " water-lilj
is a dishevelled water-lily — a water-lily no more — a dispersed or dispersing
multitude of leaves — of what had been a moment before — a Flower.
TALB0Y8.
The image pleases everybody— take it as you And it, and be content.
KORTH.
I take it as I find it, and am not content ; I take it as I don't find it, and
am. Then I gently demur to ^^ still tells its bubbling tales.** In Gray's lin&-
^ And pore upon the brook that babbles by/*
the word " babbles" is the right one— a mitigated " brawling" — acontinnow
murmur without meaning, till you give it one or many — ^llke that of some
ceaseless female human being, pleasantly accompanying your reveries that
have no relation to what you hear. Her blameless babble has that effect—
and were it to stop, you would awake. But Byron's *^ shallower wave still
tells its bubbling tales " — a tale is still about something — ^however smali-Hsd
pray what is that something ? Nothing. ^* Tales," then, is not the Mryvord
here— nor will *^ bubbling" make it so — at best it is a pretty ism rather thm
Poetry. The Poet is becoming a Poetaster.
^ TALBOTS.
I shall never recite another finest descriptive passage from the whole rasg^
of our British Poets— during the course of my life — in thia Pavilion.
NORTH.
Let us look at the Temple.
TALB0Y8.
Be done, I beseech you, sir.
NORTH.
Talboys, yon have as logical — as legal a head as any man I know.
TALBOTS. - ^
What has a logical or legal head to do with Byron's description of ^'^
Clitumnus ?
NORTH. ^i
As much as with any other " Process." And you know it. Bnt yoii ^^
in a most contradictory — I had almost said captious mood, tMs forenoa^
and will not imbibe genially
TALBOTS. ^1
Imbibe genially — acids — after having imbibed in the body immeasor^^
rain.
NORTH.
Let us look at the Temple. ^^ A Temple still" might mean a still templ^'^
TALBOTS.
Bnt it doesn't.
NORTH.
A Poet's meaning should never, through awkwardness, be ambifooii^
But no more of that. '^ Keeps its Memory of Thee " suggests to my misd tk^
the Temple, dedicated of old to the River- Gk>d, retains, under the new reli|ig^
of the land, evidence of the old Deification and Worship. The Temple wamt^
to express to us of another day and faith, a Deification and wordi]|) of Thaa-^
Clitumnus — dictated by the same apprehension of thy characteristic Beant/
in the hearts of those old worshippers that now possessea oiin Im^dng on Tkf^
1849.] ChariOopher under Canvass. 871
nioa ait nncbaoged— tbe sensitive and imaginative intelligenee of Thee in
man is unchanged — ^altiiongh times have chan^— states, nations — and, to the
ejes of man, the heavens themselves! If idl this be meant — ^all this is not
said — ^in the words jon admire.
TALBOTS.
I cannot saj, as an honest man, that I distincti j understand yon, my dear
sir.
NORTH.
Yon understand me better than yon understand Byron.
TALBOTS.
I understand neither of you.
NOftTH.
The poetical thought seems to be here — that the Temple rises np spon*
taneously on the bank — ^under the power of the Beantiful in the river — a per-
manent self-sprung reflexion of tto Beantiful— as indeed, to imagination, all
things appear to create themselves!
TALBOTS.
You speak like yourself now, sir.
KOBTH.
Bat look here, my good Talboys. The statue of Achilles may " keep its
memory*'— granting the locution to be good, which it is not — of Achilles—for
Achilles is no more. Sink — ^in a rapture of thought— the hand of the artist —
think that the statues of Achilles came of themsehes — ^as tmsown flowers come
— for poets to express to all i^es the departed Achilles. They keep — as
long as they remain unperished—" their memory of Achilles" — they were
from the begmning voluntary and intentional conservators of the Memory of
the Hero. But Ck'tumnus is here-^aliye to this hour, and with every prospect
of ontliving his own Temple. What do you say to that?
TALBOTS.
To what?
NORTH.
finally— if that reminiscence of the Heathen deification, which I first pro-
posed, was in Byron's mind — and he means by " stiU keeps its memory of Thee"
memory of the River-God— and of the Worship of the River-God — then all he
says about the mere natural river— its leaping fishes, and so forth, is wide
of his own purpose— and what is worse — implies an absurdity — ^a reminiscence
— ^not of the past — ^but of the present.
TALBOTS.
If all that were submitted to me for the Pursuer, in Printed Papers — ^I
shoold appoint answers to be given in by the Defender — within seven days —
and within seven days after that — give judgment.
NORTH.
Keep your temper, Mr Testy. As I have no wish to sour you for the rest
of the day, I shall say littie about the Third Stanza. ^* Pass not unblest the
Genius of the Place," would to me be a more impressive prayer, if there were
more spirUuaUty in the preceding stanzas — and in the lines which follow it ;
for the Genius of the Place has been acting, and continues to act, almost
solely on the Senses. And who is the Genius of the Place ? The River-God —
he to whom the Gentile worship built that Temple. But Byron says, most
unpoetically, '^ along his margin " — along the margin of the Genius of the
Place ! Then, how flat— how poor— after " the Genius of the Place" — " tht
freshness of the Scene^^ — for the freshness of the Scene bless the genius ofthePIace!
Is that language flowing from the emotion of a Poet's heart? And the last line
spoils all ; for he whom we are to bless — the River- God — or the Genius of the
Place— has given the heart but a " moment's" cleanness from dry dust — but a
moment's, and no more I And never did hard, coarse Misanthropy so mar a
Poet's purpose as by the shocking prose that is left grating on our souls —
'^ sngpension of disgust J^^ So, after all this beauty— and all this enjo^ent of
beauty — ^well or ill painted by the Poet — ^yon tnustpi^f orisons to the River-God
or the Grenius — ^whom you had been called on to bUss — ^for a mere momentary
S72 CSMitopAcr under Ommms. TEhpL
snspenBioii of diagnst to all onr ftttow-oreKtines— a cUsgost tt«t woidd letam
as strong— or stronger than ever — as soon as yon got "to Borne.
TALBOTYB.
I confess I don't like it.
KORTK.
<* Must !*' There are Nbk]>8 of all sorts, shapes, and sixes. There is teniUe
necessity — there is bitter necessity — there is grinding necessity — there \&iat
—delicate — Gloving — ^playfnl necessity.
TA3LB0TS.
Su"?
KORTH.
There are Musts that fly npon the wings of devils— Mnsts that fly upon the
wings of angels — ^Mnsts that walk npon the feet of men— ^Moats that flatter
npon the wings of Fakies. — ^Bnt I am dreaming I— ^y o&.
TALBOTS.
I think the day's clearing— let ns launch Gntta Perdia, Boiler, and tnlllr
aFerox.
NORTH.
Then fling that Tarpaulin over yonr Feather-Jacket, on which you pinme
yourself, and don't foiget yonr Gig-Parasol, Longfellow— for the rahi-guge is
running over, so are tibe water-bntts, and I hear the Loch fnnging itswiy op
to the Camp. The Cladich Cataraot is a stonner. Sit down, my dear Id-
boys. Redte away.
TALBOYB.
No.
170KTU.
G^entlemen, I call on Mister Bnller.
BULLER.
" The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the waye-woni precipice ;
The fall of waters I rapid as the light
The flashing mass fbams shaking the ahyss ;
The hen of waters ! where they howl and 'hiUy
And boil in endless tortnre ; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this
Their Phlegethon, oiralB ronnd the rooks of jet
That gird the gulf around^ in pitiless honr#r set,
^ And mounts in spray the skies, and tbenee again
Returns in an unceasing shower, whidi mnndy
With its unemptied oloud of gentle rain.
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald : — ^how profound
The golf ! and how the giant element
From Tock to rock leaps with delirious hound.
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and wnt
With his fleroe footsteps, yield in chasms a fearfbl vent
** To the broad oolnmn which rolls on, aad ^hows
More like the fountain of an infent sea
Tom flwm the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of riyers, which flow gushingly
With many windings, through the vale;— Xook back ;
Lo J where it comes like an eternity.
As if to sweep down all things in its track.
Charming the eye with dread,— a matcUcuBS cataract.
Horribly beantiflol ! but fn the vBigo,
From Bide to side, benea^ the glit&ring mom.
An Iris sits, «midst the iafmial suige.
Like Hope upon a death-bod, and, uimom
JM8.;] CSmttopk&rmmdBr XSmmm, 87S
Its steady dyes, while aU^noimd is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene
Its brilliant hues with all their -beams unshorn ;
Resembling, 'mid the torture M the seene,
LoTe watching Madness with unalterable mien."
HOBXH.
In the Urst Stanza there ib a veir pecallar and a very striking form — or con-
•fitnctiini— The Bmur of WBtei«--The Eall of Waten— The HeU of Waters.
TonidmirB it.
Ido.
XAI30YB.
I>on!t beUare him, Boiler. Let's be off— there is no rain worth mentioning
—see— there's a Fly. Oh t 'tis bat a Bed Professor dangling from mj bonnet
—a Bed Professor with tinsj and a taiL Come, Sewa^, here's the Chess-
Board. Let ns make out the Main.
KOBTH.
The four lines about the Boar and the Fall are good
TALBOTB.
Indeed, sir.
NOBTH.
Mind yonr game, sir. Seward, yon may give bim a Pawn. The next four
— aboat Hell-— are bad.
TALBOYS.
Indeed, air.
NOBTH.
Seward, yon may likewise gi^e him aXnight. As bad as can be. For there
IS an incremble confhsion of tormented and tormentor. They bowl, and hiss,
and boil in endless tortnre— they are snffering the Pains of Hell — they are in
Hell. ^^ Bat the sweat of their great agony is wrong ont from this their
Phleffethon.'' Where is this their Fhlegethon ? Why, this their Phlegethon
10— uemaelveeJ Leok down— there is no other river— but the Yelino.
BUTJiBB.
Hear l^ii;gil— ^
^ jftoBnia Jala videt,iripliei cixeiimdaia mnm,
-QiUB zapidofi flammie ambit tonentibne amnis
IDtftarens Phlegethon, torquetqne aonantxa laza."
Ko Phlegetihon with tOKrents of fire surrounding and shaking Byron's Hell. I
do not imderetaiid ii— «n imaoeomitable bhmder.
IfOBTH.
In noct BtODzai wiiat is gained by
*^ Haw profonnd
The gulf 1 and how the giant element
^som rook to rook lei^ps with delirioue bound" !
Nothing. In the Font Stanaa, we had the ^^ abgw," '' the Knlf," and the agony
—all and more than we have here.
8EWABD.
Check-mate.
TAiaiOTB.
Confioimid tin bond I — no, not the board— bat Hnrwitz himself ^uld not
phiy in snoh.an infernal .clatter.
HORTH.
BaDer Iom not got to the word '^infernal" yet, Phillidor— bnt he will
hy-«ad-l)y. ^' OmduBg the CULflb" — emshing is not the ri^t word— it is the
^vvong one—to jsat sndi is the prooese — ^visible or invisible. ^^Daumtoard
worn*' ja aill^. ** FLoroe fbotsteps," to my imagination, is tame and ont of
tf tno tfiiwigh it may not be to yoora ; — and I thonder in the ears of the
ClMMB^piayaa that the fixst half of the next atanaa— the thbrd— is as bad
iviitiBg aa la to be £>nnd in Byion.
S74 Chriitopher under Canvats. [Sept
TALB0T8.
Or in North.
NORTH.
Seward — jou may give him likewise a Bishop^
^ Look back:
Lo! where it comes like an Eternity '/'
I do not say that is not sublime. If it is an image of Eternity—
sublime it must be — but the Poet has chosen his time badly for inspiring u
with that thought—for we look back on what he had pictured to na as fidoog
into hell — and then flowing diffosed *^ only thus to be parents of rivers that
How gushingly with many windings through the vale" — images of Time.
" As if to sweep down all things in its track/*
is well enough for an ordinary cataract, but not for a cataract that comes
** like an Eternity."
TALBOYS.
^ ChArming the eye with dread — a matchless cataract,
Horribly beautiful."
SEWARD.
One game each.
TALBOYS.
Let us go to the Swiss Giantess to play out the Main.
NORTH.
Li Stanza Fourth — " But on the vcrge^'' is very like nonsense—
TALBOYS.
Not at all.
KORTH.
The Swiss Giantess is expecting you— good-bye, my dear Talboys. Kot,
Buller, I wish you, seriously and calmly, to think on this image —
^ An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge^
Like Hope upon a death-bed.'*
Did Hope — could Hope ever sit by sudi a death-bed I The infernal surge-^k*
hell of waters — the howling— the hissing — the boiling in endless tortiue^-^
sweat of the great agony wi'ung out — and more of the same sort — ihett w^
the death-bed, Hope has sat beside many a sad — ^many a miserable deatb*
bed — but not by such as this ; and yet, here, such a death-bed is hinted fttii
not uncommon — in a few words — " like Hope upon a death-bed.*^ Tl*
simile came not of itself— it was sought for — and had far better have bc<^
away. There is much bad writing here, too — " unworn" — " nnshora"-'
' ' torn"—" dyes"— " hues"— " beams"—" torture of the «:eiic"— epithet heyfl
on epithet, without any clear perception, or sincere emotion — the Iris chiom
from Hope upon a death-bed to Love watching Madness — both of which 1
pronounce, before that portion of mankind assembled in this Tent, tobe<>B
the FALSETTO — aud wide from the thoughts that visit the suffering sools »
the children of men remembering this Ufe^s greatest calamities.
SEWARD.
Yet throughout, sir, there is Power.
NORTH.
Power! My dear Seward, who denies it? But great Power— true poe***
cal Power— is self-collected — not turbulent though dealing with turbulence-'
in its own stately passion dominating phvsical nature in its utmost distrtc*
tion — and in her blind forces seeing a grandeur — a sublimity that only becoBfii
visible or audible to the senses, through the action of imagination cna^
its own consistent ideal world out of that turmoil — ^makin^ the fury of fiM
waters appeal to our Moral Being, from whose depths and heights rise eno*
tions echoing all the tones of the thundering cataract. In these stanias i
Byron, the main Power is in the Cataract— not in the Poetry— ^lond to the «•
—to the eye flashing and foaming— full of noise and Airy, Bignifyingnotmiiehto
the soul, as it stuns and confounds the senses — ^while its more spintual inguifl-
1849.] Chriihpher under Canoasi, 875
cations are uncertain, or nniatelligible, accepted with doubt, or rejected with-
out hesiution, becatkse felt to be &Ifle and deceitfol, and bat briUiant mockeries
ofthelhith.
TALBOYS.
Spare Bjron, who is a Poet — and castigate some popular Versifier.
NOBTH.
I will not spare Byron — and jnst because he is a Poet. For popular Vers! -
fiera, they may pipe at their pleasure, but aloof from our Tents— chirp any-
where bat in this Encampment ; and if there be a Gowdspink or Yellow-ham-
per among them, let us incUne oar ear kindly to his chattering or his yammer-
ing, '* low doun in the broom," or high up on his apple-tree, in outfield or
orchard, and pray that never naughty schoolboy may harry his nest.
SEWARD. •
Would Sk Walter's Poetry stand such critical examination?
NOBTH.
All— or neariy so— directly dealing with War— Fighting in all its branches.
Indeed, with any kind of Action he seldom fails— in Reflection, oftea — and,
stnmge to say, almost as often in description of Nature, though there in his
happier hours he excels.
SEWARD.
I was always expecting, during that discussion about the Clitumnus, that
joa would hare brought in Virgil.
NORTH.
Ay, Marc — ^in description — is superior to them all — in the ^Sneid as well as
in the Georgics. But we have no time to speak of his Pictures now— ^nly just
let me ask you— Do you remember what Payne Knight says of ^neas ?
SEWARD.
No, for I never read it.
KORTH.
Payne Knight, in his AnafydccU Inquiry irUo the Principles of Taste — a work
of high authority in his own day, and containing many truths vigorously
expounded, though characterised throughout by arrogance and presumption —
speaks of that " selfish coldness with which the^neas of Virgil treats the unfor-
tonate princess, whose ejections he hadseduced^^^ and adds, that '^Every modem
reader of the ^neid finds that the Episode of Dido, though in itself the most
exquisite piece of composition existing, weakens extremely the subsequent inte-
resit of the Poem, it being impossible to sympathise either cordially or kindly
with the fortunes or exertions of a hero who sneaks away from his high-
minded and much-mjured benefactress in a manner so base and unmanly.
When, too, we find him soon after imitating all the atrocities, and surpassing
the utmost arrogance, of the furious and vindictive Achilles, without display-
mg any of his generosity, pride, or energy, he becomes at once mean and
odioas, and only excites scorn and indignation ; especially when, at the con-
clusion, he presents to Lavinia a hand stained with the blood of her favoured
lover, whom he had stabbed while begging for quarter, and after being ren-
dered mcapable of resistance." Is not this, Seward, much too strong ?
SEWARD.
I think, sir, it is not only much too strong, but outrageous ; and that we
are bound, injustice to Viigil, to have clearly before our mind his own Idea
of his Hero.
TALBOYS.
, To try that iEneas by the rules of poetry and of morality ; and if we find
his diaracter such as neither our imagination nor our moral sense will suffer
iu to regard with favour— to admire either in Hero or Man— then to throw
the iKneid aside.
BULLER.
And t^e up his Georgics.
TAIAOTS.
To love Vhrgil we need not forget Homer— but to sympathise with JEneas,
our imagmation must not be filled with Achilles.
vox, IIVI.— NO. ccccvu. 2 c
379 Ckrittopher under Cammu, [Sept
SEWARD.
Troy is dost— the Son of Thetis dead. Let ns go with the Fogitires and
their Leader.
TAI^BOYS.
Let us believe from the first that they seek a Destined Seat — vndet One
Man, who knows his mission* and is worthy to fulfil it. Has Vlrpi so sm-
tallied the character of that Man — of that Hero? Or has he, from ineptitnde,
and unequal to so great a subject — ^let him sink below onr nobler sympatUee-
nay, unconscious of failure of his purpose, as Payne Knight says, aooon*
modated him to our contempt ?
SBWABD.
For seven years he has been that Man — that Hero. One Nigbt^s Tak bie
shown liini — as he is — for I presume that Virgil — and not Payne Knight— wis
his Maker. If that Speech was all a lie — and the Son of Anchises, not t gal-
lant and pious Prince, but a hypocrite and a coward — ^shut the Book or Ihuh
it.
TALBOYS.
Much gossip — of which any honest old woman, had she ottered the half of
it, would have been ashamed before she had finished her tea — has been acrib-
bied by divers male pens — stupid or spritely — on that magnificent RedtaL
iBneas, it has been said, by his own account, skulked dnring the Town Sack-
and funked during the Sea Storm. And how, it has been asked, came he to
lose Creusa ? Pious indeed ! A truly pious man, say they, does not speak
of his piety — he takes care of his household gods withont talking about Lares
and Penates. Many critics — some not withont name— have been sich^
unrepentant — old women. Come we to Dido.
NORTH.
Be cautious— for I fear I have been in fault myself towards JSneas for Ills
part in that transaction.
TALBOTS.
I take the account of it from Vii^ Indeed I do not know of ai7
scandalous chronicle of Carthage or Tyre. A Trojan Princse and a Tjns^
Queen — say at once a Man and a Woman-— on sndden temptation and aofoiC'
seen opportunity-— Sin — and they continue to sin. As pioos men as Jkieas—
and as kingly and heroic too, have so sinned far worse than that— yet have
not been excommunicated firom the fellowship of saints, kings, or heroea.
SKWARP.
To say that iBneas ^^ seduces Dido," in the s^ise that Payne Knight ruf^
the word, is a calumnious vulgarism.
TALBOYS.
And shows a sulky resolution to shut his eyes — and keep them shut
SEWAItD.
Had he said that in the Schools at Oxford, he would have been pl^^^^j^^^
his Little-go. But I forget — there was no plucking in those days — and ra^f^
I rather think he was not an University Man.
NORTH.
Nevertheless he was a Scholar.
SEWARD.
Not nevertheless, sir — notwithstanding, sir.
NORTH.
I sit con-ectcd.
SEWARD.
Neither did Iniblix Ellssa seduce him— desperately in love as she tras^
'twas not the storm of her own will that drove her into that fiatel eave.
TALBOYS.
Against Venus and Juno combined, alas ! for poor Dido at last !
SEWARD.
iEneas was in her eyes what Othello was in Desdemona's. No DesdeiDOO^
bhe — no ^^ gentle Lady"— nor was Vii]gil a Shakspeara. Yet tboaeicni^'
strances — and that ravhig — and that suicide I
XAIiBOTfi.
Aj, Daa Vifgil liMred not to pat t]ie oondemnatioB of his Hero into those
lips of fire— to let her winged corses porsae the Pious Fecfidioiis as he
pats to sea. Bnt what Is tmth—pMsion— nature from the reproachful and
taiii^^he tender «id the tmcolent— the repentant and the refvengefbl— the
tnift and the £alse Dido— ftor she had forgot and she remembers Sychsus —
when cut up into bits of bad law, and framed into an Indiotment through
which the Junior Jehu at the Scottish Bar might drive a Coach and Six !
SBWAJSD.
But ha forsook her I He did— and in obedirace to the will of heayen.
Throughout the whole of his Tale of Troy, at that fsUal banquet, he tells her
iiiiither, and to what fated region, the fleet is bound — ^he is not sailing under
aeaisd onters—Dido hears the Hero's destiny from the lips of Mceatissimus
HeetoB, tmaat the lips of Crensa's Shade. But Dido is deaf to all those solemn
enondaiions — ^non9 so deaf as those who willnot hear ; the Likeness of Ascanius
Ijiog by her on her Royal Couch fired her vital blood — and she ahready is so
insane as to dream of iymg ere long on that God-like hnnOk He had foigot
—and he rttmembeza his dnty— yes — ^his duty ; according to the Creed of his
coontiy^of the whole heathen world — in deserting Dido, he obeyed the
Gods.
TALBOTS.
He sneaked away ! says Knight. Go he must— would it have been more
horoieloset fire to the Town, and embark in the Genmral lUniiination ?
SSWABD.
Would Payne Knight have seriously advised Ykgil to many ^oeas, in
good earnest, to Dido, and make him King of Carthage?
BULI.BB.
Would they have been a happy Couple ?
SEWABD.
Does not our sympathy go with ^neas to the Shades ? Is he unworthy
to look on the Campos Lugentes? On the Elysian Fields? To be shown
bj Anchisen the Shades of the predestined Heroes of unexisting Rome?
TAIAOTS.
Do we — beeanse of Dido—despise him when first he kens, cm a calm
bri^ moniing, that great Grove on the Latiau shore near the mouth of the
liber?
" .^neas, primique daces, et pnlcher Ivlua,
Corpora emb ramis deponnnt arboris altse,
IiiBtii9imi<iae dapeB."
Bnt he was & robber— a pirate^an invader— an usurper— so say the Payne
Knights. Virgil sanctifies the Landing with the spirit of peace — and a hun«
dred olive-crowned Envoys are sent to Laurentum with such peace-offerings
as had never been laid at the feet of an Anaonian King.
TALBOTS.
Nothing can exceed in simple grandeur the advent of iBneas — the reception
of the Envoys by old Latinus. The right of the Prince to the region he has
reached is established by grant human and divine. Surely a father, who is a
king, may ^spoae of his daughter in marriage— and here he must ; he knew,
from omen and orade, the Hour and the Man. Lavinii^ belonged to ^neaa
—not to Tumus — ^though we must not severely blame the fiery Rutulian
because he would not give her up. Amata, in and out of her wits, was on his
side ; but their betrothment — if betrothed they were— was unhallowed — and
might not bind in face of Fate.
Tumus was in the wrong firom beginnuig to end. Viigil, however, has
p^de him a hero— and idiots have said that he eclipses iEneas — the same
idiotB, who, nt the same time, have told us that Yir^ conld not paint a hero
atatt.
378 Ckrisiopher under Cmrnxui. [SepC
TALBOYS.
That his genius has no martial fervoar. Had the blockheads read tiie Rtaipg
— the Gathering — ^in the Seventh iE^eid ?
KOBTH.
Sir Walter himself had much of it by heart— and I have seen the *^ repetted
air*' kindle the aspect, and nplift the Lion-Port of the greatest War-Poet tkit
ever blew the tmmpet.
8BWARD.
JEncos at the Court of Evander — that fine old Grecian t There he is a Hem
to beloved — and Pallas loved him — and beloved Pallas — and all men with hearto
love Virgil for their sakes.
TALBOTS.
And is he not a Hero, when relanding from sea at the month of his owir
Tiber, with his Etrurian Allies — some thousands strong? And does he not tlien
act the Uero? Virgil was no War-Poet ! Second only to Homer, I hold—
BSWARD.
An imitator of Homer ! With fights of the Homeric age— how could be help
it ? But he is, in much, original on the battle-field — ^and is there in all the
Iliad a Lausus, or a Pallas?^
BULI.ER.
Or a Camilla?
SEWARD.
Fighting is at the best a sad business—but Payne Knight is offeadTe oa
the cruelty— the ferocity of .£neas. I wish Virgil had not made him seueiod
sacrifice the Eight Young Men to appease the Manes of Pallas. Such sacri-
fice Virgil believed to be agreeable to the manners of the time — and, if usual
to the most worthy, here assuredly due. In the final Great Battle,
** Km,j to heaven, reroectiTe Lenity,
And fire-eyed Fary be my conduct now."
BULLER.
Knight is a ninny on the Single Combat. In all the previous drcnmstaooes
regarding it, Tumus behaved ill — ^now that he must fight, he fights well: [tid
as fair a fight as ever was fought in the field of old Epic Poetry : tutelaiy in*
terposition alternates in favour of either Prince : the bare notion of atber
outliving defeat never entered any mind but Payne Knight's : nor did any
other fingers ever fumble such a charge against the hero of an Epic as
*' Stabbing while begging for quarter" — but a momentary weakness ui TarnBS
which was not without its effect on ^Eneas, till at sight of that Bdi^ be
sheathed the steel.
TALBOYS.
Payne works himself up, in the conclusion of the passage, into an absoloto
maniac.
NORTH.
Good mannera, Talboys— no insult — remember ]Mr Knight has been \^S
dead.
TALBOYS.
So has ^Eueas — so has Virgil.
NORTH.
True. Youn([ gentlemen, I have listened with much pleasure to yoor v^"
mated and judicious dialogue. Shall I now give Judgment?
BULLER.
liCngthy?
NORTH.
Not more than an hour.
BULLKR.
Then, if you please, my Lord, to-morrow.
NORTH. .
You must all three be somewhat fatigued by the exercise of so modi critici^
acumen. So do you, Talboys and Seward, unbend the bow at another g***
1M9.3 Ckrisiopher wider CamHt$8. 879
of Cheas ; and jon, Boiler, reanimate the jaded Moral Sentiments by a sharp
letter to Marmadoke, insinnating that if he don't retom to the Tents within
a week, or at least write to say that he and Hal, Volnsene and Woodbarn,
are not going to retom at all, bot to join the Bajah of Sarawak, the Grand
Lama, or Prester John — ^which I fear is bot-' too probable from the general
tone and ten<« of their life and conversation for some days before their Seces-
sion from the Established Camp— there will be a general breaking of Mothers'
hearts, and in hia own particular case, a cotting off with a shilhng, or disin-
heriting of the heir apparent of one of the finest Estates in Cornwall. Bot I
foiget— these Entails will be the min of England. What I BiUy, is that
yon?
BILLT.
Measter, here's a Fish and a Ferocioos.
TAI^BOTS.
Ha ! what Whappen I
BUIXSB.
More like Fish before the Flood than after it.
SBWABD.
After it indeed! Daring it. What is Billy sa^dng, Mr North? Tltat
Coomerian' dialect's Hottentot to my Devonshire ears.
NORTH.
They have been spoiled by the Doric delicacies of the '* Ezmoor Coortship."
He tells me that Arohy M'Callom, the ComwaU Clipper, and himself, each in
a cow-hide, having ventured down to the River Mooth to look after and bale
Gotta Percha, foregathered with an involuntary invasion of divers gigantic
Fishes, who had made bad their landing on our shores, and that after a
•desperate resistance they succeeded in securing the Two Leaders— a Salmo
Salar and a Salmo Ferox — see on snoot and shoulder tokens of the Oar.
Thirty— and TVenty Pounders— Billy says; I should have thought they were
•resp^ively a third more. No mean Windfall They will tell on the Spread.
J retire to my Sanctum for my Siesta.
TALBOTS.
Let me invest you, my dear sir, with my Feathers.
BULLER.
Bo— do take my Tarpaulin.
SEWARP.
BiDy, your Cow-hide.
KOBTH.
I need none of yonr gimcracks— for I seek the Sanctum by a subterranean
—beg your pardon— a Snbter- Awning Passage.
Scene n.
Scene — Deeside.
Time — Seven p.c.
NOBTH — ^BULLEB — SeWARD— TaLBOTS.
NORTH.
^ fiow little tfane or disposition for anything like serious Thinking, or Bead*
log, out of people^s own profession or trade, in this Bailway Worid ! The
hos^-bodies of these rattling times, even in their leisure hours, do not affect
on mterest in studies their fathers and their grandfathers, in the same rank
of life, pursued, even systematically, on many an Evening sacred from the dis-
fraction that ceased with the day.
aSO Ckrmtapkmr fmder Omwmtu [Scfi*
TALBOYS.
Not all basy-bodies, my good sir— 4hink of
KOBTH.
I hare thought of them— and I know their worth — ^their Uberality and thefr
oniightemnent. In all oar cities and towns— and viUagea — and in all ordm
of the people — there is Mind — Intelligence^ and Knowledge ; and the ■ien%
the shame in that too general appetence for mere amwement in Uteratore, per
petnally craving for a change of diet — for something new in the light way—
while anything of any sabstanoe, is, '* with spattering noise rejected*^ as toigl
to the teeth, and hard of digestion— howeyer sweet and nntritions ; wtnild tbef
bnt taste and try.
SRWARD.
I hope yon don't mean to allude to Charles Dicltens?
KOKTR.
Assuredly not. Charles Dickens is a man of original and genial geaioi—
his popularity is a proof of the goodness of the heart of the people ; — and the
love of him and his writings — though not so thoaghtftil as it might be-Hloes
honour to that strength in the English character which is indestmctihle b?
any iuflaences, and survives in the midst of frivolity, and folly, and of neital
depravations, worse than both.
SEWARD.
Don*t look 80 savage, sir.
xoimi.
I am not savage — ^I am serene. Set the literatmie of the day aside iHxk
gether — and tell me if yon thmk oar conversation since dinner w(Nild nottaie
been thought dull by many not altogether nnedncated persons, who pri^
themselves not a little on their intellectnality and on their fall paiticipatkvii
the Spirit of the Age P
TAUBOTS.
Oar conversation since dmner dull ! I No — ^no — no. Many poorcrestireB,
indeed, there arc among them — even among those of them who work the Pre*
— pigmies with pap feeding a Giant who sneezes them away when sick of
them into small offices in the Customs or Excise; — ^bat not one of our yon-
Icged brethren of the Guild — with a true ticket to show — ^but would haw
been delighted with such dialogue — but would be ddighted with its continfl-
tion — and thankful to know that he, " a wiser and a better man, will rise to-
morrow mom.'-
SEWARD.
Do, my dear sir— resame yoar discoursing about those Greeks.
NORTH.
I was about to say, Seward, that those shrewd and just observers, and ^
the same time delicate thinkers, the ancient Greeks, did, as yon well kfio^i
snatch from amonjjst the ordinary processes which Nature pursues, in respect
of inferior animal life, a singularly beautiful Type or Emblem, expressively
imaging to Fancy that bursting disclosure of Life from the bosom of Deatbt
which is implied in the extrication of the soul from its corporeal prisoOi
when this astonishing change is highly, ardently, and joyfully contempUt^-
Those old festal religionists — who carried into the solemnities of tbe»
worship the buoyant gladsomeness of their own sprightly and fervid sccnl*'
life, and contrived to invest even the artful splendour and passionate haio^
interest of their dramatic representations with the name and character^
a sacred ceremony — ^found for that soaring and refulgent escape of a sp'^'
from the dungeon and cliains of the flesh, into its native celestial day, a fi"^
and touching similitude in the liberation of a beautiful Insect, the gorpeou^lj'
winged, aerial Butterfly, from the li^-ing tomb in which Nature has, dvring *
season, cased and umed its torpid and death- like repose.
SEWARD.
Nor, my dear sir, was this life-conscious penetration or intuition of a ke^
and kindling intelligence into the dreadful, the desolate, the dood-co^^ff^
Future, the casual thought of adventuring Genius, transmitted ui some baf^
Ckriaiapktr mider Canvati. 881
t or in some gnKions and viaible powy of a fine chlBel ; but the
id the Thmg symbolued were eo boirad together in the nnderstand-
natiOQ, that in tlie Oreek language the name borne bj the busect
uw designating the 600I is one and the same-^fYXH.
NORTH.
I They have come out, bj their original egg-birth, into an active
Y Jka?e crept and eaten — and slept and eaten--creeping, and sleep-
Bling— fltiil waxing in size, and travelling on from fitted pasture to
h^ have in not many snns reached the utmost of the minute
a allotted them— the goal of their slow-footed wanderings, and the
1 we aMkj^<jf their life,
SEWARD.
^iiiJbMifirti period^ through which they have made some display
Ifea as living agents. They have reached Mm term. And look at
r.
NORTH.
)k at them — now. Wonder on wonder I For now a miraculous instinct
1 eompels the creature— who has, as it were, completed one life—
lecomplished one stage of his existence — ^to entomb himself. And he
y bnilds or spins himself a tomb— ^r he buries himself in his grave.
Yy that she herself, his guardian, his directress, Great Nature, cojfha
loeed in a firm shell — hidden from all eyes — torpid — in a death -like
I dead — he waits the appointed hour, which the days and nights
I iHiich having come — his renovation, his resuscitation is come. And
folture no longer holds him I Now the prisoner of the tomb has right
OBverse with embalmed air and with glittering sunbeams — now, the
It was — nnreeognisably transformed from himself— a glad, bri^t,
creature, unfrirls on either side the translucent or the richly-
Q8 that shall waft him at his liking from blossom to blossom, or lift
ntore of aimless joyancy to disport and rock himself on the soft-
anlating breeze.
SEWARD.
iMl sir, the Greek in his darkness, or uncertain twilight of belief,
I and perpetuated his beautiful emblem. Will the Christian look
opon the singular imaging, which, amidst the manifold strangely-
d aecrets of nature, he finds of his own sealed and sure foith ?
NORTH.
vard. The philosophical Theologian claims in this likeness more
4 smile, pleasing to the stirred fancy. He sees here an Analogy
s Analogy he proposes as one link in a chain of argumentation,
ha would show that Reason might dare to win firom Nature, as
Jie truth which it holds from God as revealed knowledge.
SEWARD.
JM, BUT, yon allude to Butler's Analogy. I have studied it.
NORTH.
I the First Chapter of that Great Work. This parallelism, or appre-
•emblanee between an event continually occurring and seen in
d one unseen but continually conceived as occurring upon the utter-
E md edge of nature— this correspondency, which took such fast hold
^[Ination of the Greeks, has, as you know, my dear friends, in these
I been acknowledged by calm and profound Reason, looking around
ide for evidenoes or intimations of the Immortality of the Soul.
BDLLER.
a be so good, sir, as let me have the volume to study of an evening
I Tent ?
NORTH.
ty. And for many other evenings — in your own Library at home.
talboys.
air, to state Butler's argument in your own words and way.
NORTH.
te^ ftyle is hard and dry. A living Being nndergoea a vicisaitode by
382 Ckmtopher under Canvau. [Sept
which on a sadden he passes from a state in which he has long continued intoi
new state, and with it into a new scene of existence. The transition is from i
narrow confinement into an ample liberty — and this change of drcnmstanees ii
accompanied in the subject with a large and congmons increment of powen.
Thej believe this who believe the Immortality of the Sonl. Bnt the fact is, thit
changes bearing this description do indeed happen in Nature, nnder our Toy
eyes, at every moment ; this method of progress being nniversal in her IiTU^[
kingdoms. Snch a marvellous change is literally undergone by innumoible
kinds, the human animal included, in the instant in which they pass ont from
the darkness and imprisonment of the womb into the light and open libertjof
this breathing world. Birth has been the image of a death, which is itself
nothing else than a birth from one straightened life into another ampler and
freer. The ordering of Nature, then, is an ordering of Progreesion, wberebf
new and enlarged states are attained, and, simultaneously therewith, new and
enlarged powers ; and all this not slowly, gradually, and insensibly, but sud-
denly ana per saltum.
TALBOYS.
This analogy, then, sir, or whatever there is that is in common to birth as
we know it, and to death as we conceire it, is to be understood as an evidence
set in the ordering of Nature, and justiMng or tending to justify such onr
conception of Death ?
NORTH.
Exactly so. And you say well, my good Talboys, "justifying or tendinij
to justify." For we are all along fully sensible that a vast dfeerence— a dif-
ference prodigious and utterly confounding to the imagination — ^holds betirixt
the case from which we reason, hirtJi — or that further expansion of life i>
some breathing kinds which might be held as a second birih — ^betwixt these
cases, I say, and the case to which we reason. Death !
TAIJIOYS.
Prodigious and utterly confounding to the imagination indeed! Forii
these physiolo^cal instances, either the same body, or a body changing l7
such slow and insensible degrees that it seems to us to be the same body, k*
companies, encloses,'and contains the same life — from the first moment in wbica
that life comes under our observation to that in which it vanishes fh»i<)tf
cognisance ; whereas, sir, in the case to which we apply the Analogy—oar (yt
Death — the life is supposed to survive in complete separation from the bodji
in and by its union with which we have known it and seen it manifested.
NORTH.
Excellently well put, my friend. I see you have studied Bntler.
TALBOTS.
I have— but not for some years. The Analogy is not a Book to be fof*
gotten.
NORTH.
This difference between the case from which we reason, and the case to
which we reason, there is no attempt whatever at concealing — quite the cfli*
trary — ^it stands written, you know, my friend, upon the very Front of tw
Argument. This difference itself is the very motive and occasioi ^
the Whole Argument I Were there not tliis difference between the c0^
which furnish the Analogy, and the case to which the Analogy is applied— W
we certainly known and seen a Life continued, although suddenly passing^
from the body where it had hitherto resided — or were Death not the ^^^^
able disruption which it is of a hitherto subsisting union — the cases woaldDi
identical, and there would be nothing to reason about or to inquire. There **
this startling difference — and accordingly the Analogy described has been pio*
posed by Butler merely as a first step in the Argument.
TALBOYS.
It remains to be seen, then, whether any further considerations can be VO*
posed which will bring the cases nearer together, and diminish to our woi^
the difiiculty presented by the sudden separation.
NORTH.
Just so. Wliat ground, then, my dear young friends— for yon seem aid
1^9.] CkriUopher under Canvass. 383
are jonng tome— what gronnd, my friends, is there for believing that the
Desiii which we «ee, can affect the liying agent which we do not see? Bnt-
ler makes his approaches cantionslj, and his attack manfully— and this is the
comse of his Aigament. I begin with examining my present condition of
existence, and find myself to be a Being endowed with certain Powers and
Capacities — ^for I act, I enjoy, I suffer.
TALB0T8.
Of this mach there can be no doubt ; for of all this an unerring conscious-
ness assures me. Therefore, at the outset, I hold this one secure position —
that I exist, the possessor of certain powers and capacities.
KOKTH.
But that I do now before Death exist, endued with certain' powers and capa-
cities, affords a presumptive or primd facie probability that I shall after death
contmue to exist, possessing these powers and capacities —
BULLER.
How is that, sir?
NORTH.
Yon do well to put that question, my dear BuUer— a primd fade proba-
bility, unless there be some positive reason to think that death is the " de-
fttmcUon" of Me, the living being, and of these my living Faculties.
BULUCIL
A presumptive or prima fade probability, su* ? Why does Butler say so ?
NORTH.
** Because there is m every case a probability that aU things will continue as
we experience they are, in all respects, except those in which we have some
reason to think they will be altered.**
BULLER.
Yon will pardon me, sir, I am sm*e, for having asked the question.
NORTH.
It was not only a proper question,, but a necessary one. Butler wisely
says—" Thia is that kmd of Presumption or Probability from Analogy, ex-
pressed in the very word Continuancr, which seems our only natural reason
for believing the course of the world will continue to-morrow, as it has done
80 far as oar experience or knowledge of history can carry us back.** I give
70a, here, the Bishop*s very words — and I believe that in them is afSrmed a
truth that no scepticism can shake.
TALBOTS.
If I mistake not, sir, the Bishop here frankly admits, that were we not for-
tified against a natural impression, with some better instruction than unre-
flecting Nature's, the spontaneous disposition of our Mind would undoubtedly
he to an expectation that in this great catastrophe of our mortal estate. We
Ourselves must perish ; but he contends— does he not, sir? — that it would be a
blind fear, and without rational ground.
NORTH.
Yes— that it is an impression of the Ulusory faculty, Imagination, and not
an inference of Reason. There would arise, he says, *^ a general confhsed
sospicion, that in the great shock and alteration which we shall undergo hj
death. We, i.«. our living Powers, might be wholly destroyed ;"— but he adds
solemnly, '* there is no particular distmct ground or reason for this apprehen-
sion, so far as I can find.*'
TALBOTS.
Sndi " general confused suspicion," then, is not justified?
NORTH.
Butler holds that any justifying ground of the apprehension that, in the
shock of death, I, the living Being, or, which is the same thing. These my
powers of acting, enjoying, and suffering, shall be extingmshed and cease,
must be found either in " the reason of the Thing" itself, or in '' the Analogy
of Nature." To say that a legitimate ground of attributing to the sensible
mortal change a power of extinguishing the inward life is to be found in the
Beasonof the Thing, is as much as to say, that when considering the essen-
tial nature of this great and tremendous, or at least dreaded change, Death,
.SS4 Ckriftopher under CamfMU. [SepL
:\!id upon also considerinir what these powers of acting, of enjoying, of raffer-
inj. tralT art. and in tckat maimer, absolntclj, they subsist in ns— then
does appear to lie therein demonstration, or evidence, or likelihood, that
the change. Death, will swallow np snch living Powers — md that WcsUuhwo
longer be.
TALBOYS.
In .^hort. sir. that from considering urkai Death is, and vpan what these
Powers and their exercise depend, there is reason to think, that the Powenor
th'.'ir exercise will or muit cease with Death.
KORTU.
The very point. And the Bishop's answer is bold, short, and decisive. We
cannot from considering what Death is, draw this or any other concliisioii,/)r
wtL do not know what Lknth is ! We know only certun effects of Death--4be
stopping of certain sensible actions — the dissolution of certain sensible pvik
AVe can draw no couclnsion. for we do not possess the premises.
SEWAKI).
From your Kxposition. sir. I feel that the meaning of the First Chapter of
the Aualogy is dawning into clearer and clearer light.
KOKTII.
Inconsiderately, my dear sir, we seem indeed to oorselvea to know whit
Death is ; but this is from confounding the Thing and its Effects. For we we
effects : at first, the stoppage of certain sensible actions — afterwards, the dis-
solution of certain sensible parts. But what it is that has happened— icAm-
Jhre the blood no longer flows — the limbs no longer move — thistwe do not see.
We do not see it with onr eyes — we do not discern it by any inference of QV
understanding. It is a fact that seems to lie shrouded for ever from onrfacilr
ties in awful and impenetrable mysteiy. That fact — the produce of as
instant— which has happened witkim, and in the dark — that fact come topasi
in an indivisible point of time — that stem fact — ere the happening of whick
the Man was alive — an inhabitant of this breathing world — nnit^ to obt-
solves— our Father, Brother, Friend — at least our Fellow-Creatore—by tkt
happening, he is gone — is for ever irrecoverably sundered from this worid,iai
from us its inhabitants — is Dead — and that which lies outstretched beto
onr saddened eyes is only his mortal remains — a breathless corpse — an iuni-
mate, insensible clod of clay :— Upon that interior sudden &ct — wddbft, it
last, how slowly and gradually soever prepared — since the utmost attennatloB
of a thread is a thing totally distinct from its ending, from its becoming no
thread at all, and since, np to that moment, there was a possibility that saat
extraordinary, perhaps physical application might for an hour or a isv
minutes have rallied life, ur might have reawakened consdonsness, and tij%
and voice npon that elusive Essence and sdf of Death no curious sent^
ing of ours has laid, or, it may be well assnmed, will ever lay hold. Wbfli
the organs of sense no longer minister to Perception, or the organs of motioi
to any change of ])osture— ^whcn the blood stopped in its flow thickens and
grows cold — and the fair and stately form, the glory of the Almighty's Hnd,
the burning shrine of a Spirit that lately rejoiced in feeling, in thought, and ii
power, lies like a garment done with and thrown away — ^* a kneadid dod**—
ready to lose feature and substance — and to yield back its atoms to tto
dominion of the blind elements from which they were gathered and oon-
pactcd What in Death f And what grounds have wo for inferring thst ■■
event manifested to us as a phenomenon of the Body, which alone we toncht
and hear, and sec, has or has not reached into the Mind, which is for us Nov
just as it always was, a Thing uttcriy removed and exempt from the cognis-
ance and apprehension of onr bodily senses ? The Mind, or Spirit, the in-
known Substance, in which Feeling, and Thought, and AVill, and the Spring*
Life were — was united to this corporeal frame ; and, being united to it, !■•
mated it, poured through it sensibility and motion, glowing and creatiTe li^
crimsoned the lips and cheeks — flashed in the eye — and murmured musk fro^
the tongue ; — now^ the two — Body and Sonl — arc c7tffoujen#---a8d we beholi
one-half the consequence — the Thing of dust relapses to the dmt ;^-we dtf*
to divine the other half of the consequence — the quickening Spu^ thescBtitf^
19.] Ckrittopfier umder Camvass. 385
aiUgence, the Being gifted with Life, the Image of the Maker, ia Man, has
seended, hu retnnied thither whence it came, into the Hand of God.
SEWARD.
[f, §ir, we were without light from the revealed Wonl of God, if we were
i, by the help of reason, standing upon the brink of Time, dimly gaessing,
i inquiringly exploring, to find for ourselves the grounds of Hope and Fear,
uld your description, my dear Master, of that which has happened, seem to
- Natural Faculties impossible ? Surely not.
KORTH.
Ifjr dear Seward, we have the means of rendering some answer to that
satioD. The nations of the world have been, more or less, in the condition
ipoeed. Self-left, they have borne the burden of the dread secret, which
them only the grave could resolve ; but they never were able to sit at rest
the darkness. Importunate and insnppressible desire, in their bosoms,
DdLed at the gate of the Invisible world, and seemed to hear an answer
m beyond. The belief in a long life of ages to follow this fleet dream —
aginary revelations of regions bright or dark — the mansions of bliss or of
TOW — an existence to come, and often of retribution to come — has been the
Bglan of Mankind — hero in the rudest elementary shape — here in elabo-
tedsyatemfl.
SEWARD.
Ay, sir; methinks the Hell of Virgil — and his Elysian Fields are examples
f a high, solemn, and beautiful Poetry. But they have a much deeper in-
VMt for a man studious, in earnest, "of his fellow* men. Since they really
ipnu the notions under which men have with serious belief shadowed out
vtbemselvee the worlds to which the grave is a portal. The true moral
pirit that breathes in his enumeration of the Crimes that are punished,
f the Virtues that have earned and found their reward, and some scattered
nrlU warnings — are impressive even to us Christians.
NORTH.
Tfli, Seward, they are. Hearken to the attestation of the civilised and
hiknbupoua. Universally there is a cry from the human heart, beseeching,
■it were, of the Unknown Power which reigns in the Order and in the Muta-
te of Things, the prolongation of this vanishing breath — the renovation, in
■iMovered spheres, of this too brief existence — an appeal from the tyranny
if the tomb— a prayer against annihilation. Only at the top of Civilisation,
iMtliues a cold and barren philosophy, degenerate from nature, and bastard
tonuon, baa limited its snllen view to the horixon of this Earth — has shut
Wtnd refused all ulterior, happy, or dreary anticipation.
REWARD.
Tm may now, assured of our profound attention— return to Butler— if in-
ta you have left him
NORTH.
I have, and I have not. A few minutes ago I was expounding— in my own
'Wfc— and for the reason assigned, will continue to do so — his argument. If,
{< blowing what death is, we are not entitled to argue, from the nature of
jyfci that this change must put an ond to Ourselves, and those essential
P***! In our mind which we are conscious of exerting— just as little can we
^■eftom the nature of these powers, and from thoir manner of subsisting in
*ithat they are liable to be affected and impaired, or destroyed by death.
^* what do we know of thcfe powers, and of the conditions on which we
IjWthem, and of the mind in whic-h they dwell? Just as much as wc do of
**P«tt change. Death itself— that is to say — Notiiino.
TALBOY8.
^t know the powers of our mind solely by their manifestations.
NORTH.
«>t people in general do not think .»!0— and many metaphysicians havo
jHtea as if they had forgot that it is only from the manifestation that wo
n«iiame to the Power. We know the fact of Seeing, Hearing, Remember-
■S; Beasoning— the feeling of Beautv— the actual pleasure of Moral Appro-
ttioa, the pain of Moral Disapprobation— the state— pleasure or pain of loving
386 Christopher under Canvau. [Sept.
— the state — plea5ure or pain of hating — the fire of anger — the froat of fear—
the curiosity to know— t be thirst for distiuction — ^the exnltation of oonsdoiu
Power — allthese, and a thousand more, we know abundantly: our consdons
Life is nothing else but such knowledge endlessly diversified. Bat the Fowim
themselves, which are thus exerted — what they are — how they subsist in as
ready fur exertion — of this we know — Nothing.
TALBOYS.
We know something of the Conditions upon which the exercise of ih&^
Powers depends — or by which it is influenced. Thus we know, that for sceiDg,
we must possess that wondrous piece of living mechanism, the eye, in its
liealthy condition. We know further, that a delicate and complicated sjstem
of nerves, which convey the visual impressions from the eye itself to the see-
ing power, must be healthy and nnobstructed. We know that a sound and
healthy state of the brain is necessary to these manifestations — that accideoti
befalling the Brain totally disorder the manifestations of these powers— ton-
ing the clear self-possessed mind into a wild anarchy — a Chaos — that other
accidents befalling the same organ suspend all manifestations. We knov
that sleep stops the use of many powers — and that deep sleep— at least as far
as any intimations that reach our waking state go — stops them all. Wekopv
that a nerve tied or cut stops the sensation — stops the motory volition whick
iisnally travels along it. We know how bodily lassitnde — how abstinence-
how excess— atfects the ability of the mind to exert its powers. In short, the
most untutored experience of every one amongst us all shows bodily coo-
Uitions, upon which the activity of the faculties which are seated in the mind,
depends. And within the mind itself we know how one manifestation olds cr
counteracts another — how Hope invigorates — how Fear disables — how IntI^
pidity keeps the understanding clear —
NORTH.
You are well illustrating Butler, Talboys. Then, again, we know thtt/or
Sea'mj^ we nmst have that wonderful piece of living mechanism x>erfectly con-
structed, and in good order — that a certain delicate and complicated sysM
of nerves extending from the eye inwards, is appointed to transmit the in-
mediate impressions of light from this exterior organ of sight to the perctpient
Mind — that these nerves allotted to the function of seeing, must be free from
any accidental pressure ; knowledge admirable, curious, nsefnl ; but when all
is done, all investigated, that our eyes, and fingers, and instruments, and
thoughts, can reach — What^ beyond all this marvellous Apparatus of seein|^
is Thai which sees — what the percipient Mind is — that is a mystery into whicb
no created Being ever had a glimj^. Or what is that immediate connexion
between the Mind itself, and those delicate corporeal adjustments — ^whereby
certain tremblings^ or Other momentar}' changes of state in a set of nerves, npoa
the sudden, turn into Colours — into Sight— into the Vision of a Univdwc-
SEWARD.
Does Butler say all that, sir ?
north.
In his own dry way perhaps he may. These, my friends, are Wonders nio
which Reason looks, astonished ; or,* more properly speidLing, into which i^
looks not, nor, self-knowing, attempts to look. But, reverent and afraid, ske
repeats that attitude which the Great Poet has ascribed to " brightest cben*
bim" before the footstool of the Onmipotent Throne, who
** Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyet."
talboys.
For indeed at the next step beyond lies only the mystery of Omnipotence--
that mystery which connects the world, open and known to as, to the vQiu
withheld and unknown.
NORTH.
The same with regard to Pleasure and Pain. Whai eiyoys Pleasnit <^
suffers Pain ? — all that is, to our clearest, sharpest-sighted science, nothial
else but darkness— bat black nnfathomable night. Therefore, since we know not
•what Death itself is— and since we know not what this liring Mind iM^^
M9.] Christopher under Canvass. 387
rhat any of its powers and capacities are — ^what conclasion, taken in the na-
ure of these unknown subjects, can we possibly be warranted in drawing as
0 the infiaence which this unknown change, Death, will exert upon this nn-
nown Being— Blind — and upon its unknown faculties and sensibilities ? —
lout*
8EWAKD.
Shall unknown Death destroy this unknown Mind and its unknown capa-
ItNs? It is jnst as likely, for anything that Reason can see, that it will set
hem free to aUrger and more powerful existence. And if we have any reason
poo other grounds to expect this — then by so much the more likely.
NORTH.
We know that this Eye and its apparatus of nerves no longer shall sen^e
or teemg — ^we know that these muscles and their nerves shall no longer serve
oraioriii^ — we know that this marvellous Brain itself no longer shall serve, as
16 are led to believe that it now serves, for thinkina — we know that this
mmding heart never asain shall throb and quicken, with all its leaping pulses,
vitih joy — that pun of this body shall never again tire the mind, and that pain
if this mind shall never again tire this body, once pillowed and covered up in
lii bed of imperturbable slumber. And there ends our knowledge. But that
tUs Mind, wnich, united to these muscles and their nerves, sent out vigorous
tad swift motions through them — which, united to this Brain, compelled this
Bnin to serve it as the minister of its thinkings upon this Earth and
iithiimode of its Being — which, united to this Frame, in it, and through
ki ind from it, felt for Happiness and for Misery — that this Mind,
Qoee disunited from all these, its instruments and servants, shall therefore
K, or shall therefore forego the endowment of its powers, which it mani-
by these its instruments—of that we have no warranty — of that there is
M probability.
TALBOYS.
Much rather, sir, might a probability lie quite the other way. For if the
itnetnre of this corporeal frame places at the service of the Mind some five or
iiieiues, enabling it, by so many avenues, to communicate with this external
vorid, this very structure shuts up the Mind in these few senses, ties it down
teAe capacities of exactness and sensibility for which they are framed. But
vchsTo no reason at all to think that these few modes of sensibility, which
vt eiU our external senses, are all the modes of sensibility of which our spirits
snetpable. Much rather we must believe that, if it pleased, or shall ever
itee, the Creator to open in this Mind, in a new world, new modes of sensa-
^1 tke susceptibility for these modes is already there for another set of
iMi. Now we are confined to an eye that sees distinctly at a few paces of
'iiUiice. SVe have no reason for thinking that, united with a finer organ of
1^ we should not see far more exquisitely ; and thus, sir, our notices of the
Jqioidenee in which the Mind now subsists upon the body do of themselves
w 08 to infer its own self-subsistency.
XORTII.
, What we are called upon to do, my friends, is to set Reason against Ima-
£J|>tion and against Habit. We have to lift ourselves up above^ the limited
'Ptte of sensible experience. We have to htUeve Wi^X something more f>
**tt that which we see — than that which we know.
TALBOYB.
^^t, sir, even the facts of Mind, revealed to us living in these bodies, arc
*^gh to show us that more is than these bodies — since we feel that We
^ and that it is impossible for us to reganl these bodies otherwise than as
f^^^^ions q/*oiir«— utterly impossible to regard them as Ourselves.
NORTH.
. Wfl distinguish between the acts of ISIind, inwanlly exerted — the acts, for
°*«ace, of Reason, of Memory, and of Affection — and acts of the Mind com-
*^ikicatlDg through the senses with the external world. But Butler seems to
■•to go too far when he says, " I confess that in sensation the mind uses the
Wj; but in reflection I have no reason to think that the mind uses the body."
Bat, my dear friends, I, Christopher North, think, on the contrary, that the
:)88 ChriMiopher mukr CamHtts. [Sept.
Mind uses the Brain for a thinking instrament ; and that mneb tbonght
fatignes the Brain, and causes an oppressive flow of the blood to the Brun,
and otherwise disorders that organ. And altogether I aboold be exoeediaglj
.sorr^' to rest the Immortality or the Soul upon so doubtful an aaramptiMi ai
that the Bniln is n<jt. in any n-.^^pcct or sort, the Minds Organ of Thinking. I
SCO no uooil for so timid a /htlteriug of the ar;;umont. On the contrar}*, the
simple doctrine, to my thought, is this — ^The iilind, as we know it, is unpU-
cated and mixol up with the Body — througkoui — in all its ordinaiy actiooL
This corporeal frame U a system of organs, or Instmmenta, which the >Gdi!
employs in a thousand ways. They are its inttrwmenU — all of them an— and
none of them is itself. What does it matter to me that there is ooe more
organ — tlie Brain — for one more function — thinking ? Unless the Mind wen
in itself a seeing thing— that is, a thing able to see — it could not use tbe Eje
for seeing ; and unless the Mind were a thinking thing, it could not me tke
Brain for thinking. The most intimate implication of itself with its iutn-
nients in the functions which constitute our consciousness, piOTes notUag ii
the world to me, against its essential distinctness from them, and against the
po.^ibility of its living and acting in separation from them, and when they m
dissolved. So far from it, when I see that the body chills with fear, and ghnn
with love, I am ready to call fear a cold, and love a warm paaaion, and to hj
that the ^lind uses its bodily frame in fearing and in loving. All theae tkinfi
have to do with manifestations of my mind to itself. Now, whilst implicitMl
in this body. Let me lift myself above imagination — or let mj imaginatiGi
soar and carr%' my reason on its wings — ^I leave the body to moulder, and I go
sentient, volent, intelligent, whithersoever I am called.
TALDOYS.
It seems a timidity unworthy of Butler to make the distinction. Such a
distinction might be used to invalidate his whole doctrine.
2CORTH.
It might — if granted — and legitimately. But the course is fdain, and fhe
tenor steadfast. As a child, you think that your finger is a part of yonnd^
and that you feel with it. Afterwards, you find that it can be cnt off withoo^
diminithing you: and physiologists tell yon, and you bdieve, that it doei not
feel, but sends up antecedents of feeling to the brain. Am I to stop anf
where ? Xot in the body. As my linger is no part of Me, no more is xtf
liver, or my stomach, or my heart — or my brain. When I have overwortod
myself, I feel a lassitude, distinctly local, in my brain — inside of nw hni'^
and therewithal an indolence, inertness, inability of thinking. If reflection —
as Butler more than insinuates — hesitatingly says — ^is independent of my tnun-
and body, whence the lassitude? And how did James Watt get miconqier-
able hcadachs with meditating Steam-engines?
TALBOTB.
It is childish, sir, to stagger at degrees, when we have admitted the kind-
The Bishop's whole argument is to show, that the thing in us which feeb,irill*»
thinks, is distinct from our body ; that I am one thing, and my body another-
NORTH.
Have we Socls ? If we have — they can live after the body— cauiot perish,
with it ; if we have not — wo betide us all !
SEWARD.
Will you, sir, be pleased to sum up the Argument of the First Chapter of th«?
Analogy V
NORTH.
No. Do you. You have heard it — and you understand it.
SEWARD.
I cannot venture on it.
NORTH.
Do you, my excellent Talboys— for you know the Book as wdl u 1 ^^
myself.
TALBOY8.
That the Order of Xatnro shows us great and wonderfhl changes, vkj*
the living being undergoes—and arising from beginnbigB inomeiw
1849.] CftrMft^to* wiukt C^Hnau. 339
low, to Itigjier aad highev QOBcBtiooB of eoBfieiDamflBS aad aetion ;
Thai hflnoe an exaKatioa of onr Powers hy tiie change Deaths would be con-
graoos to the progress wbieh we have witnessed in other creatures, aad have
experienced in omselvea;— That the fact, that before Death we possess
Poweis of aetiag, and anffmog, and enjoying, affords a primd Jade probabi-
litj that, after Death, we ahall oontinne to possess them ; becanse it u a con*
staat praswDption in Natnre, and one upon which we oaistantKy reason and
rdj, specnlatiyidy and praeticaUy, that aU things will ooatinne as they are,
oaiesa a canse appear safficient for changing them ^— But that in Death no-
thing appears which sheold snffice to destroy the Powers of Action, Enjoy-
meat, aad Snfierii^ in a liying Being; — For that in all we know of Death
we know the destroctioo of parts nutrttmeHial to the nses of a living
Being; — Bnt that of any destruction reachrag, <Mr that we have reason to sup-
pose to reach the Livmg Bemgv we know nothing ;~That the Unity of Con-
floonsnesB peranades na that the Being in which Conscionsness essentially
residea in one and indiriaible— by any accident, Death inchiaive, indtsoerp-
tiUe;— That Um progress of diseases, growmg till they kill the mortal body,
but leaving the Facalties of the Sonl in fhll force to the kst gasp of living
fanatfa, is apartienlar argmnent, establishing this independence of the living
Beoig---t]ia Spirit^whidL is the Man himself-— npon the accidents which may
b«iill Hie pocishable Erame«
HOSTH.
Having sees, Hmny aNatoral Probability that the principle within as, which
is the seat and sonice of Thoaght and Fe<^g, and of each Life as can be im-
pirted to the Body, wUl sobsist nndestroyed by the changes of the Body— and
baring recognised the undonbted Power of the Creator— if it pleases Him —
mdefinltdy ta pfokmg the life which He has given— how ¥roidd yon and I,
my dear i^nds, proceed — ^from the ground thna gamed — and on which — ^with
Boder— we take onr stand— to speak farther of reasons for believing in the
Xwaertality of the Soul?
SEWARD.
IhA, air, that I have already taken mora than my own part in this conver«
satien. We shoold have to inquire, sir, whether in Bis known attribntes, and
in the known modes oi His government, we conld ascertain any causes making
it probable that He wiH thus prolong oor ezistenoe — ^and we find many such
gromida of oonfideace.
KORTH.
Go on, my dear Seward.
SaWARD.
If yott please, sir, be yours the doring words — ^for the Night.
I3ie implanted longing in every hnman bosom for snch permanent exist-
ence— the fixed anticipation of it — and the recoil from ambulation — seem
to as intimation vouchsafed by the Creator of His designs towards
as ; — the horror with which Remorse awakened by sin looks beyond the
Gfinre, partakes of the same prophetical inspiration. We see how precisely the
lower animals are fitted to the places which tiiey hold upon the earth, with
instiacts that exactly 8iq)ply their needs, witii no powers that are not here
satisfied— while we, as if out of place, only through much difficult experience
esn adapt ourselves to the physical circumstances into which we are intro-
duced—and thus, in one respect, furnished below our condition, are, on the
other hand, by the aspirations of our higher faculties, raised Infinitely above
it — as if intimating that whilst those creatures here fulfil the purpose of their
creation, here we do not — and, therefore, look onward ; — That whUst our
other Powers, of which the use is over, decline in the course of nature as Death
approaches, our Moral and Intellectual Faculties often go on advancing to tho
last, as if showing that they were drawing nigh to their proper sphere of ac-
tion ;— That whilst the Laws regulating the Course of Human Affairs visibly
proceed from a Ruler who favours Virtue, and who frowns upon Vice, yet that a
just retribution does not seem uaifonDly carried out In the good success of
well-doers, and the ill success of evil-doers— so that we are led on by the
390 Chritiopher tmder Oanvau. [Sq»t. 1849.
constitution of onr sonls to look forward to a world in which that which liero
looks like Moral Disorder, might be reduced into Order, and the Justice of the
Baler and the consistency of His Laws yindicated ; — ^That in stadjing the
arrangements of this worid, we see that in many cases dispodtions of Honuni
affairs, which, upon their first aspect, appeared to us evil, being more deariy
examined and better known, resolted in good — and thence draw a hope thit
the stroke which daunts our imagination, as though it were the worst of evils,
will prove, when known, a dispensation of boun^ — ^' Death the Gate of life,"*
openmg into a world in which His beneficent hand, if not nearer to us than here,
will be more steadily visible— no clouds interposing between the eyes of onr soal
and their Sun; — ^Tbat the perplexity which oppresses ourIJnderstandiagfrM&
the sight of this world, in which the Good and £vil seem intermixed and crasoag
each other, almost vanishes, when we lift up our thoughts to contemplate this mu-
table scene as a place of Probation and of Discipline, where Sorrows and Safer-
ings are given to school us to Virtue — as the .Ajrena where Virtue strives in the
laborious and perilous contest, of wliich it shall hereafter receive tiie weU-w<m
and glorious crown ; — ^That we draw confidence in the same condudons, fiom
observing how closely allied and agreeing to each other are the Two Great
Truths of Natural Religion, the Belief in God and the Belief in oar own
Immortality ; so that, when we have recdved the idea of God, as the Great
Governor of the Universe, the belief in our own prolonged exl^noe appears
to us as a necessary part of that Grovemment ; or if, upon the physicd arga-
ments, we have admitted the independent conviction of our Immortality, this
doctrine appears to us barren and comfortless, until we understand thattiiis con-
tinuance of our Being is to bring us into the more untroulded fruition of that
Light, which here shmes upon us, often through mist and dood ; — ^That in ail
these high doctrines we are instructed to rest more secnrdj, as we find the
growing harmony of one solemn conviction with another — ^as we find that all
onr better and nobler Faculties co-operate with one another — and these pre-
dominating principles cany us to these convictions — so that our Uader-
standing then first begins to possess itself in strength and light when the
heart has accepted the Moral Law ;^Bnt that onr Understanding is ody folly
at ease, and onr Mord Nature itself, with dl its affectiona, only fdly rap-
ported and expanded, when both together have borne us on to the Imowledge
of Him who is the sole Source of Law— the highest Object of Thought— the
Favourer of Virtue— towards whom Love may eternally grow, and still be
infimtely less than His due— till we have reached this knowledge, and with it
the steadfast hope that the last act of this Life joins us to Him — does not for
ever shut us up in the niffht of Oblivion ;— And we have strengthened our-
selves in inferences forced upon us by remembering how hnmanJund has ooo-
Bcnted in these Beliefs, as if they were a part of our Nature— and by remem-
bering farther, how, by the force of these Beliefs, human Sodeties have sob-
sisted and been held tosether— how Laws have been sanctioned, and hoir
Virtues, Wisdom, and all the good and great works of the Human Spirit
cu *u° *^^® influences, been produced ;— Suidy g&xat is the Powkb
ot all these concurrent considerations brought from every part of our Natore-
from theMaterid and the Immaterid— from thelntdlectudandMord-ftom*
the Zndividud and the Sodd— fix)m that which respects our existence on this^
side Of the grave, and that which respects our existence beyond it— fixw that
Which looks down upon the Earth, and that which looks up towards
/"tinted bjf WiUiam Bla^jktpood and Som, EdMurgk.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
Ko. ccccvm.
OCTOBER, 1849.
Vol. LXVI.
THE CAXTON8.— PART THE LAST.
CHAFTEB CI.
Adieu, thou beautiful land ! Canaan
^ the exiles, and Ararat to many a
tkitteied ark ! Fair cradle of a race
for whom the unbounded heritage of
ifiUare, that no sage can conjecture,
BO prophet divine, lies afar in the
foUea promise-light of Time I — des-
t^ perchance, from the sins and
><^wa of a civilisation struggling
^ its own elements of decay, to
'^■•ir the youth of the world, and
^Jttsmit the great soul of England
^^^Migfa the cycles of Infinite Change.
AH olmatcs that can best ripen the
Jji^docts of earth, or form into various
^'^'icter and temper the different
2J3ie8of man, "rain influences" from
^ heaven, that smiles so benignly
!^O0e who had once shrunk, ragged,
^^ the wind, or scowled on the
2l?^feB8 sun. Here, the hardy air
5^ chill Mother Isle, there the mild
^y^th of Italian autumns, or the
jjSJtlileas* glow of the tropics. And
I??- ^ic beams of every climate, glides
j?**^ Hope. Of her there, it may
^i^<id as of Light itself, in those ex-
i^j^« linos of a neglected poet —
^^^'^gh the soft ways of heaven, and air,
^pK.^ndiea,
l^^^^^h open all their pores to thee ;
^* » clear river thou dost glide-
All . ■ . .
^lie world^s bravery, that delights our
ly^.^% thy several liveries ;
Iji^^ the rich dye on them bostowest ;
^ Nimble pencil paints the landscape as
^ott goest.' "
«•
Adieu, my kind nurse and sweet
foster-mother! — a long and a last
adieu I Never had I left thee but for
that louder voice of Nature which calls
the child to the parent, and woos us
from the labours we love the best by
the chime in the Sabbath-bells of Home.
No one can tell how dear the memory
of that wild Bush-life becomes tohim
who has tried it with a fitting spirit.
How often it haunts him in the com-
monplace of more civilised scenes!
Its dangers, its risks, its sense of
animal healthy its bursts of adventure,
its intervals of careless repose — the
fierce gallop through a very sea of
wide rolling plains — the still saunter,
at night, through woods never chang-
ing theu* leaves — with the moon, clear
as sunshine, stealing slant through
their clusters of flowers. With what
an effort we reconcile ourselves to the
trite cares and vexed pleasures, *•*■ the
quotidian ague of frigid impertinences,"
to which we return ! How strong and
black stands my pencil-mark in this
passage of the poet from which I have
just quoted before I—
^*We are here among the vast and
noble scenes of Nature— we are there
among the pitiful shifts of policy ; we
walk here, in the light and open ways
of the Divine Bounty— we grope there,
in the dark and confused labyrinth of
human malice." f
But I weary you, reader. The New
World vanishes — now a line — now a
* Cowley's Ode to Light.
t Cowley on Town and Country, (Diecourse on Agriculture.)
'^^^ Lzvi.— KG. ccccvm. 2 D
892
The Cartons,— Part the Last.
[Oct.
speck : let us turn away, with the face
to the Old.
Among my fellow-passengers, how
many there are returning home dis-
gusted, disappointed, impoverished,
ruined, throwing themselves again on
those unsuspecting poor friends, who
thought they had done with the luck-
less good-for- naughts for ever. For
don't let me deceive thee, reader, into
suj)posing that every adventurer to
Australia has the luck of Pisistratns.
Indeed, though the poor labourer, and
especially the poor operative from
Loudon and the great trading towns,
(wliD has generally more of the quick
knack of learning — the adaptable fa-
culty — ^required in a new colony, than
the simple agricultural labourer,) aro
pretty sure to succeed, the class to
which I belong is one in which fiiilnres
are numerous, and success the ex-
ception— I mean young men with
scholastic education and the habits of
gentlemen — with small capitals and
sanguine hopes. But this, in ninety-
nine times ont of a hundred, is not the
fault of the colony, bnt of the emi-
grants. It requires, not so much
intellect as a i)ecnliar turn of intellect,
and a fortunate combination of physi-
cal qualities, easy temper, and qnick
mother- wit, to make a small capitalist
a prosperous Bushman. * And ifyoa
could see the sharks that swim roond
a man just dropped at Adelaide or
Sydney, with one or two thousand
pounds in his pocket ! Hurry out of
the towns as fast as yon can, my yoaog
emigrant; turn a deaf ear, for the
present at least, to all jobbers and
speculators ; make friends \^itb some
pnictised old Bushman; spend several
months at his station before youhaztrd
your capital ; take with you a temper
to bear everything and sigh for no-
thing : put your whole heart in wbat
you are about ; never call upon Her-
cules when your cart sticks in the rut,
and, whether you feed sheep or breett
cattle, your success is but a question
of time.
Bnt, whatever I owed to nature, I
owed also something to fortune. I
bought my sheep at little more than
7s. each. When I left, none we«
worth less than 158., and the fit sheep
were worth £l.t I had an excdlent
shepherd, and my whole care, night
and day, was the improvement of the
flock. I was fortunate, too, in entff-
ing Australia before the system mis-
called "The Wakefield "t haddimiB-
ished the snpply of labour and raised
* How true are the following remarks : —
'^ Action is the first great re<iuisite of a colonist, (that is, a pastoral or agrieoltvnl
settler.) With a young man, the tone of his mind is more important than hispR'
vioas pursuits. I have known men of an active, energetio, oontented dispontioiy
with a good flow of animal spirits, who had been bred in loxury and refiieBM^
Bucoeed better than men bred as farmers, who were always hankeriBg after hrai
and beer, and market ordinaries of Old England. . . . To b« dreamiag iAib
you shoold be looking after your cattle, is a terrible drawback. . . . Tbntai*
certain persons who, too lazy and too extravagant to succeed in Europe, nil ftr
Australia under the idea that fortunes are to be made there by a sort of lyrdelia»
spend or lose their capital in a very short space of time» and return to Enj^nd t0
abuse the place, the people, and everything connected with colonisation."— Si'i'J^
Australian Handbook — admirable for its wisdom and compactness.
t Lest this seem an exaggeration, I venture to annex an extract firom a MS. kUff
to the author fVom Mr George Blakeston Wilkinson, author at S<mtk Anshulla.
'' 1 will instance the case of one person, who had been a fturmer in Engtaad, M^
emigrated with about ^2000 about seven years since. On his arrival, he fnuid ttaj
the prices of sheep had fallen firom about 30s. to 59. or 6s. per head, and he bov
some well-bred flocks at these prices. He was fortunate in obtaining a good aid
extensive r«it, and he devoted the whole of his time to improving Us floeki,aMl
encottzaged his shepherds by rewards ; so that, in about fonr yeaniy his original IMS'
ber of sheep had increased firom 2500 (which cost him £700) to 7000 ; aid fh«
breed and wool were also so much improved that he could obtain £\ per held ^
2000 fat sheep, and 159. per head for the other 5000, and this at a time whea ti^
general price of sheep was from lOs. to 16s. This alone inereased fafts origiaal «apit>M
invested in sheep, frt)m £700 to £5700. The proflts fh>m the wool paid tlieiHMkoi
his expenses and wages for his men."
X 1 felt sure, from the first, that the system called *^ The WakeieM" conld neitf
fidrly represent the ideas of Mr Wakefield himself, whose singolar bnadth of andff-
1849.]
The Caxt&Hi.-^Plart the LomU
893
the price of Itad. When the change
came, (like most of thoee with large
aUotmoBts and sarplos capital,) it
greatly increased the yalne of my own
property, though at the cost of a t<ff-
rible blow on the general interests of
the colony. I was lucky, too, in the
additional ymtore of a cattle station,
and in the breed of horses and herds,
which, in the ^re years devoted to
that branch establishment, trebled the
smn invested therein, exclosive of the
advantageous sale of the station.* I
was lucky, also, as I have stated, in
the purchase and resale of lands, at
Un<^ Jack's recommendation. And^
lastly, I left in time, and escaped a
very disastrous crisis in colonial af-
fairs, which I take the liberty of
attributing entirely to the mischievous
crotchets of theorists at home, who
want' to set all docks by Greenwich
time, forgetting that it is morning
in one part of the world at the time
they are tolling the oozfew in the
OthM*.
OEULPTER Cn.
London once more ! How strange,
lone, and savage I feel in the streets.
I am ashamed to have so much health
and strength, when I look at those
slim forms, stoopiug badts, and pale
fiu^es. I pick my way through the
oowd with the merciful timidity of a
good-natured giant. I am afraid of
jostUng against a man for fear the col-
lision should kill him. I get out of
the way of a thread-paper clerk, and
'tis a wonder I am not run over by the
omnibuses ; — I feel as if I could rmi
over them I I i>eroeive, too, that there
Is sometiiing outlandish, peregrinate,
and lawless about me. Beau Brum-
mell would certainly have denied me
all pretension to the simple air of a
gentleman, for eveiy third passenger
turns back to look at me. I retreat
to my hotel — send for bootmaker,
hatter, tailor, and haircutter. I
humanise myself from head to foot.
Even Ulysses is obliged to have re-
course to the arts of Imnerva, and, to
speak nnmetaphorically, ^' smarten
himself up," before the faithful Pene-
lope condescends to acknowledge him.
The artificers pronrise all despatch.
Meanwhile I hasten to re-make ac-
qnaintaace with my mother country
overfiles of the Tunes^ Post, Chrtmicle^
and HerakL, Nothing comes amiss to
me, but articles on Australia -, from
those I turn aside with the true
pshaw-supercilious of your practical
man.
No more are leaders filled with
praise and blame of Trevanion.
' * Perm's spur is cold. " Lord Ul ver-
stone ngures only in the Court Circular ^
or ^^Fashionable Movements.''^ Lord
Ulverstone entertains a royal duke at
dinner, or dines in turn with a royal
duke, or has come to town, or gone
out of it. At most, (faint Platonic
reminiscence of the former life,) Lord
Ulverstone says in the House of
Lords a few words on some question,
not a party one ; and on which (though
affecting perhaps the interests of some
few thousands, or millions, as the case
may be) men speak without ^* hears,"
and are inaudible in the gallery ; or
Lord Ulverstone takes the chair at an
agricultural meeting, or returns thanks
when his health is drank at a dinner
at Guildhall But the daughter rises
as the father sets, though over a very
diflbrent kind of world.
" First ball of the season at Castle-
ton House I" Long descriptions of
fltandifigj and various knowledge of mankind, helled the notion that fathered on him
file domsy exeontion of a theory wholly inapplicable to a social state like Australia.
I am glad to see that he has vindicated Mmeelf fh>m the discreditable paternity. But
I grieve to find that he still cUags to one cardinal error of the systemi in the dis-
eoimigement of small holdingSy and that he evades, moie ingeniously than ingeniu
oiuly> the important question — *^ What shoald be the minimum price of land I"
* " The profits of cattle-farming are smaller than those of the sheepowner, (if the
latter have good lack, for mach depends npon that,) bat cattle-fkrming is much more
safe as a specnlation, and less care, knowledge, and management are required. £2000,
laid out on 700 head of cattle, if good rans be proonred, might increase the capital
in five years, ttom ^£^2000 to £6000, besides enabling the owner to maintahi himself^
pay wagee^ fto."— ifjSf. UUerfnm G* B. WUkvMon.
394
The Caxton8,-'Pari the Last,
[Oct.
tho rooms and the company; above
all, of the hostess. Lines on the
Marchioness of Castleton^s picture in
tho " Book of Beanty," by the Hon.
Fitzroy Fiddlcdam, beginning with,
** Art thou an angel from," &c. — a
paragraph that pleased me more on
^^ Lady Castleton*s Infant School, at
Raby Park ; " then again — " Lady
Castleton, the new patroness at
Almacks ; " a criticism more rapturous
than ever gladdened living poet, on
Lady Castloton's superb diamond
stomacher, just re- set by Ston* and
Mortimer ; Wcstmacott^s bust of Lady
C-astlcton ; Landsccr's picture of Lady
Castle ton and her children, in the
costume of the olden time. Not a
month in that long file of the Morning
Post but what Ltuly Castleton shone
forth from the rest of womankind —
((
Velut inter ignes
Luna minorcs/
The blood mounted to my cheek.
AVas it to this splendid constellation
in the patrician heaven that my obs-
cure, portionless youth had dared to
lift its presumptuous eyes ? But
what is this? ^^ Indian intelligence
—Skilful Retreat of the Sepoys, under
Captain de Caxton!" A captam
already — what is the date of the news-
paper? Three months ago. The lead-
ing article quotes the name with high
praise. Is there no leaven of envy
amidst the joy at my heart ? How
obscure has been my career — how
laurel-less my poor battle with adverse
fortune ! Fie, Pisistratus ! I am
ashamed of thee. Has this accursed
Old World, with its feverish rivah-ies,
diseased thee already? Get tbee
home, quick, to the arms of thy
mother, tho embrace of thy father-
hear Roland^s low blessing, that thon
hast helped to minister to the vciy
fame of that son. If thou wilt have
ambition, take it, not soiled and foni
with the mire of London. Let it
spring fresh and hardy in the calm
air of wisdom ; and fed, as with dews,
by the loving charities of Home.
CHAPTF.n till.
It was at sunset that I stole through
the ruined courtyard, having left my
chaise at the foot of the hill below.
Tliough they whom I came to seek
knew that I had arrived in England,
they did not, from my letter, expect
mc till the next day. I had stolen a
march upon them ; and now, in spite
of all the impatience which had urged
me thither, I was afraid to enter —
afraid to see the change more than
ten years had made in those fonns,
for which, in my memory. Time had
stood still. And Roland had, even
when wo parted, grown old before his
time. Then, my father was in the
meridian of life, now he had approache<l
to tho decline. And my mother,
whom I remembered so fair, as if the
freshness of her own heart had pre-
served thfe soft bloom to the cheek —
I could not bear to think that she
was no longer young. Blanche, too,
whom I had left a child — Blanche,
my constant correspondent during
those long years of exile, in letters
crossed and re-crossed, with all the
small details that make the eloquence
of letter wri ting, so that in those epistles
I had seen her mind gradually grow
up in hannony with the very charac-
ters— at firat vague and infantine-
then somewhat stiff with the fiwt
graces of running hand, then dashing
off, free and facile ; and, for the last
year before I left, so formed, yet so
air}' — so regular, yet so unconscions
of effort — though, in truth, as the
caligraphy had become thus matured,
I had been half vexed and half pleased
to perceive a certain reserve creepiDg
over the style — wishes fbrmyretorn
less expressed from herself than »s
messages from others ; words of the
old childlike familiarity repressed;
and *' Dearest Sisty " abandoned for
the cold form of " Dear Consitt-
Those letters, coming to me in a spot
where maiden and love had bees tf
myths of the bygone, phantasms wd
eidola, only vouchsafed to the virions of
fancy, had, by little and little, ciep^
into secret comers of my heart ; 9^
out of the wrecks of a former romancfi
solitude and reverie had gone far^^
build up the fairy domes of t romance
yet to come. My mother^s letters
had never omitted to make mcntioo
of Blanche— of her forethought and
tender activity, of her warm heart
1849.]
Th€ CaztoHS.—Part the Last
895
and sweet temper — and, in many a
little home picture, presented her
image where I would fain have placed
it, not '^crystal-seeing,'* bat join-
ing my mother in charitable visits to
. the village, instructing the young,
and tending on the old, or teaching
herself to illuminate, from an old
missal in my father's collection, that
she might surprise my uncle with a
new genealogical table, with all shields
&Qd qnarterings, blazoned or, sable,
aud argent; or flitting round my father
*where he sat, and watching when he
looked round for some booli he was
too lazy to rise for. Blanche had
made a new catalogue and got it by
heart, and knew at once from what
comer of the Heraclea to summon
the ghost. On all these little traits
had my mother been eulogistically
minute ; but somehow or other she
had never said, at least for the last
two years, whether Blanche was pretty
or plain. That was a sad omissioD.
I had longed jnst to ask that simple
question, or to imply it delicately and
diplomatically ; but, I know not why,
I never dared — for Blanche would
have been sure to have read the letter
—and what business was it of mine ?
And, if she wns ugly, what question
more awkward both to put and to an-
swer? Now, in childhood, Blanche
had just one of those faces that might
become very lovely in youth, and
wonld yet quite justify the suspicion
that it might become gryphonesqne,
witch -like, and grim. Yes, Blanche,
it IB perfectly true! If those large,
serions black eyes took a fierce light,
instead of a tender — if that nose, which
seemed then undecided whether to
be straight or to be aquiline, arched
off in the latter direction, and assumed
the martial, Roman, and imperative
cluffacter of Roland's manly proboscis
— if that face, in childhood too thin,
left the blushes of youth to take refuge
on two salient peaks by the temples
(Comberland air, too, is famous for
the growth of the cheek-bone \) — if all
that should happen, and it very well
might, then, O Bhmche, I wish thou
hadst never written me those letters^
and I mi^ht have done wiser things
than steel my heart so obdurately to
pfetty Ellen Holding's blue eyes and
silk shoes. Now, combining together
aU these doub'ts and apprehensions,
wonder not, O reader, why I stole so
stealthily through the mined court-
yard, crept round to the other side of
the tower, gazed wistfully on the sun
setting slant on the high casements
of the hall, (too high, alas, to look
within,) and shrunk yet to enter ; —
doing battle, as it were, with my
heart.
Steps! — one's sense of hearing
grows so quick in the Bushland ! —
steps, though as light as ever brushed
the dew from the harebell ! I crept
under the shadow of the huge but-
tress mantled with ivy. A form
comes from the little door at an
angle in the ruins — a woman's form.
Is it my mother ? — it is too tall, and
the step is more bounding. It winds
round the building, it turns to look
back, and a sweet voice — a voice
strange, yet familiar — calls, tender,
but chiding, to a truant that lags
behind. Poor Juba ! he is trailing
his long ears on the ground: he is
evidently much disturbed in bis
mind ; now he stands still, his nose
in the air. Poor Juba! I left thee
so slim and so nimble —
" Thy form, that was fashioned as light as a.
fay^s,
lias assumed a proportion more round.**
Years have sobered thcc strangely,
and made thee obese and Primmins-
like. They have taken too good care
of thy creature comforts, O sensual
Mauritanian I still, in that mystic
iutcUigence we call instinct, thou art
chasing something that years have
not swept from thy memory. Ti)ou
art deaf to thy lady's voice, however
tender and chiding. That's right,
— come near — nearer — my cousin
Blanche ; let me have a fair look at
thee. Plague take the dog ! he flies
oflf from her : he has found the scent
— he is making up to the buttress!
jJow — pounce — he is caught! whining
ungallant discontent. Shall I not yet
see the face? it is buried in Juba's
black curls Kisses too! Wicked
Blanche, to waste on a dumb animal
what, I heartily hope, many a good
Christian would be exceedingly glad
of! Juba struggles in vain, and is
borne off. I don't think that those
eyes can have taken the fierce turn,
and Roland's eagle nose can never
go with that voice which has the coo
of the dove.
;)9C
The. Caxi<m9,—Part the Loit,
I leave my hidiug-place, and steal
after the Voice, and its owner. Where
c^m she be going? Not far. She
springs up the hiU whereon the lords
of the castle once administered justice
— that hill which commands the land
far and wide, and from which can be
last caught the glimpse of the west-
ering sun. How gracefully still is
that attitude of wistful repose ! Into
what delicate curves do form and
dra|>cry harmoniously flow ! How
softly distinct stands the lithe image
a<^ainst the pun)lc hues of the sky!
Then again comes the sweet voice,
gay and carolling as a bird^s — now in
snatches of song, now in playful ap-
peals to that dull four-footed friend.
She is telling him something that
nmst make the black ears stand on
end, for 1 just catch the words, " Ho
is coming," and *' home ! "
I cannot see the sun set where I
lurk in mv ambush, amidst the brake
and the ruins ; but IJeel that the orb
has passed from the landscape, in the
fresher air of the twilight, in the
deeper silence of eve. Lo 1 Hesper
[Oct
comes forth : at his signal, star after
star, come the hosts —
" Clfcran con lui, qtuuido ramor divino,
Mosae da primi quelle cose belle ! '''*
and the sweet voice is hnslied.
Then slowly the watcher descends
the hill on the opposite side — the
form escapes from my view. What
charm has gone from the twilight?
See, again, where the step steals
through the ruins and along the deso-
late court. Ah ! deep and true heart,
do I divine the remembrance that
leads thee V I pass through the wick-
et, down the dell, skirt the laurels,
and behold the face, looking up to
the stars — the face which had nestled
to my breast in the sorrow of parting,
years, long years ago : on the graTe
where we had sat, I the boy, thoD
the infant — there, O Blanelie ! is thy
fair face — (fairer than the fomleit
di*eam that had gladdened my eiik)
— vouchsafed to my gaze !
^^ Blanche, my cousin 1 — again,
again — sonl with soid, amidst the
dead ! Look up, Blanche ; it is V
CUAPTER CIV.
^^Go in first, and prepare them,
dear Blanche : I will wait by the door.
Lrcave it ajar, that I may see them."
lioland is leaning against the wall
— old armour susi>ended over the gray
head of the soldier. It is but a glance
that I gave to the dark cheek and
high brow: no change there for the
worse — no new sign of decaj-. Rather,
if anything, Roland seems younger
than when I left. Calm is the brow
— no shame on it now, Roland : and
the lips, once so compressed, smile
with ease— no stniggle now, Roland,
^^ not to complain." A glance shows
me all this.
** Papas I " says my father, and I hear
the fall of a book, ^* I can't read a line.
He is coming to-morrow ! — to-mor-
row ! If we lived to the age of Me-
thusalem, Kitty, we could never
reconcile philosophy and man ; that
i.s, if the poor man^s to be plagued
with a good affectionate son !"
And my father gets up and walks
to and fro. One minute more, father
— one minnte more — and I am on thy
breast ! Time, too, has dealt gently
with thee, as he doth with tiiose for
whom the wild passions and keoi
cares of the world never sharpen his
scythe. The broad front looks more
broad, for the locks arc more seanty
and thin ; bat still not a furrow!
Whence comes that ^ort sigh?
'' What is really the time, filanehe?
Did you look at the turret dock?
Well, just go and look again."
** Kitty," quoth my father, "yoi
have not only asked what tune it i>
thrice within the last ten minutes, hot
you have got my w^x±, and Roland^
great chronometer, and the Dttch
clock out of the kitchen, all befon
you, and they all concur in the saBB
tale — to-day is not to-morrow."
^* They are all wrong, I know," said
my mother, with mild firmness ; '^aid
they Ve never gone right sinco he kit"
Now out comes a letter — for I hetf
^the rustle — and then a step glides to-
wards the lamp ; and the dear, gentle,
womanly face — fair still, fidr ever ftr
me — fair as when it bent over my
pillow, in childhood's first sickness, or
when we threw flowens at each other
l%e Oaxtma^Part the Last.
397
lawn at snirny noon ! And
ftacbe is whispering ; and now
ter, the start, the cry—** It Ls
; is tnio ! Your arms, mother.
Close, close i*onnd my neck, as iu the
old time. Father ! Koland, too ! Oh
joy ! jov I joy ! home again — home
tiU death !"
CUAPTEIl CV.
I a dream of the- Bushland,
\ dingoes,* and the war-whoop
did men, I wake and see the
ining in througli the jasmine
anche herself has had tniiued
Jie window — old school-books,
ranged round the wall — Ashing
ricket-bats, foils, and the old-
ed gnn, — and my mother seated
bedside — and Jnba whining
latching to get up. Had I
thy murmured blessing, my
, for the whoop of the blacks,
ba*8 low whine for the howl of
goee?
L what days of calm exquisite
1 — the interchange of heart with
what walks with Iloland, and
* him once our shame, now our
tnd the art with which the old
Mild lead those walks round by
ige, that some favourite gossips
itop and ask, ^^ What news of
vc young honour V "
ire to engage my uncle in my
I for the repah* of the ruins —
culture of those wide bogs and
ndfl: why is it that he turns
and looks down embarrassed ?
gnessi — his true heir now is
d to him. He cannot consent
ahonld invest this dross, for
[the Great Book once published)
no other use, iu the house and
ida that will pass to his son.
r would he sulfer me so to hi-
•n his son^s fortune, the bulk of
[ atiil hold in trust for that son.
in his career, my cousin may
to have his money always
ming. But I, who have no
—pooh I these scruples will rob
alf the pleasure my years of toil
\ pnrchaae. I mast contrive it
m or other : what if he would
honsc and moorland on a long
ing lease? Then, for the rest,
\ a pretty little properly to be
Dse by, on which I can retire
ay cousin, as heir of the family,
perhaps with a wife, to reside
at the Tower. I must consider of all
this, and talk it over with Bolt when
my mind is at leisure from happiness
to turn to such matters; meanwhile
I fall back on my favourite proverb,
— " Where there^s a will therein a %pay"
What smiles and tears, and laughter
and careless prattle with my mother,
and roundabout questions from her, to
know if I had never lost my heart in the
Bush ; and evasive answers fh)m me,
to punish her for not lotting out that
Blanche was so charming. *' I fancied
Blanche had grown the image of her
father, who has a fine martial head
certainly, but not seen to advantage
in petticoats ! How could you be so
silent with a theme so attractive ?"
" Blanche made me promise."
W'hy ? I wonder. Therewith I fell
musing.
What quiet delicious hours are
spent with my father in his stddy, or
by the pond, where he still feeds tlio
carps, that have gro>vn into Ceprini-
dian leviathans. The duck, alas I
has departed this life — the only victim
that the Orim King has earned off;
so I mourn, but am resigned to that
lenient composition of the great tribute
to Nature. 1 am sorry to say the
Great Book has advanced but slowly
— by no means yet fit for publication,
for it is resolved that it shall not come
out as first proposed, a part at a time,
but totu8y teres, atqtie rotundm. The
matter has spread beyond its original
compass ; no less than five volumes —
and those of the amplest— will contain
the History of Human Error. How-
ever, we are far in the fourth, and one
must not hurry Minerva.
My father is enchanted with Uncle
Jack's ** noble conduct," ns he calls it ;
but he scolds me for taking the money,
and doubts as to the propriety of re-
turning it. In these matters my father
is quite as Qnixotical as Roland. I
am forced to call in mv mother as
umpire between us, and she settles the
matter at once by an appeal to feeling.
* Difi^OM— the name given by Australian natives to the wild dogi.
398 Tke Caxtons.—Part the LaH. [Od
"Ah, Austin! do younothnmblc me, heart that I wUl not wear tbe new
if yon are too proud to accept what is flannel waistcoats she had such plet'
due to you from my brothe r " sure in making — " Young gentlemen
*' Velit, nolity quod arnica^'' an- j ust growing up are so apt to go off itt I
swered my father, taking off and rub- galloping 'sumption ! " " She knew jnrt
bing his spectacles— " which means, such another as Master Sisty, when
Kitty, that when a man*3 married he she lived at Torquay, who wasted
has no will of his own. To think," away, and went out like a muff^ all
added Mr Caxt>u, musingly, " that because he would not wear flanod
ill this world one cannot be sure of the waistcoats." Therewith my mother
simplest mathematical definition! You looks grave, and says, " One cant
soe, Pisistratus, that the angles of a take too much precaution."
triangle so decidedly scalene as your Suddenly the whole neighbourhood
Undo Jack's, may* be equal to the is thrown into commotion. Trevanioa
angles of a right-angled triangle after — I beg his pardon. Lord Ulverstone
all !'*• — is coming to settle for good at
The long privation of books has Compton. Fifty hands are employed
quite restored all my apiH?tite for them, daily in putting the grounds into hasty
How much I have to pick up !— what order. Fonrgons, and waggons, and
a compendious scheme of reading I vans have disgorged all the necessaries
and mv father chalk out. 1 see a great man requires, where he means '
I'uough'to till up all the leisure of to eat, drink, and sleep—books, wines,
life, nut, somehow or ulher, Greek pictures, furniture. I recognise mj
and Latiu stand still : nothing charms old patron still. Ho is in earnest,
me like Italian. Blanche and I are whatever he does. I meet my friend,
reading Metastasio, to the giwitindig- his steward, who tells me that Lorf
nation of my father, who calls it Ulveretone finds his favourite aeal,
''rubbish," and wants to substitute near London, too exposed to intermp-
Dante. I have no associations at pre- tion ; and, moreover, that as be hii
sent ^\ith the souls there completed all improvements that
" Che son coutouti wealth and energy can efiect, he has
Nel fuoco ;*' Icss Occupation for agricultural pnr-
I am already one of the ^^heaie suits, to which he has grown mora
tjentey Yet, in spite of Metastasio, and more partial, than on tbe wide
Blanche and I are not so intimate as and princely domain which has hither-
cousins ought to be. If we are by to wanted the master*s eye. *' He is
accident alone, I become as silent as a bra^ farmer, I know!|" quoth tbe
a Turk, as formal as Sir Charles stewanl, ^^so far as the theory goes;
Grandison. I caught myself calling but I don't think we in the north wait
her Miss Blanche the other day. great lords to teach us how to foUow
I must not forget thee, honest the pleugh." The steward's sense of
Squills ! — nor thy delight at my health dignity is hurt ; but he is an hoocil
and success ; nor thy exclamation of feUow, and really glad to see tbi
pride, (one hand on my pulse and the family come to settle in the oMplaiOb
other griping hard the " ball " of my They have arrived, and with tbea
arm,) '^ It all comes of my citrate of the Castletons, and a whde pom
iron ; nothing like it for children ; it comitaius of guests. The CoMQf
has an effect on the cerebral develop- Paper is full of fine names,
ments of hope and combativeness." ^* What on earth did Lord UlveistM
Nor can I wholly omit mention of poor mean by prctendmg to get out of tbe
Mrs Primmins, who still caUs me way of troublesome visitors?"
^^ Master Sisty," and is breaking her *^ My dear Pisistratos," anawerti
* Not haTing again to adrert to Uncle Jack, I may be pardoned for informing tba
reader, by way of annotation, that he continues to prosper surprisingly in Au-
tralia, though the Tibbets' Wheal stands still for want of workmen. Despite of a
few nps and downs, I have had no fear of his success nntil this year, (1849^ when I
tremble to think what effect the discovery of the gold mines in Caliifoniia may biv«
on his liTely imagination. If thou escapest that snare, Uncle Jack, ret agSjtwHs efisr'
thou art safe for life I
The CartoM.^Part the Lasi.
099
to that exclamation, " it
Tiaitors who come, bnt the
bo stay away, that most
irspose of a retired minister,
wocession, he sees bat the
Bmtns and Cassias — that
re I And depend on it, also,
at 80 near London did not
e enoagh. Yoa see, a re-
aaman is like tliat fine carp
ler he leaps from the water,
r splash he makes in falling
weeds! Bat," added Mr
a a repentant tone, ^Uhis
» not become us ; and, if I
t, it is only because I am
id that Trcvanion is likely
nd out his true vocation.
K>ii as the fine people ho
<h him have left him alone
iry, I trust be will settle to
Ion, and be happier than he
bat vocation, sir, is — "
jaics!" said my father.
}e quite at home in puzzling
Sr, and considering whether
8 chair, and the olllcial
, were really things whose
gore, extension, and hard-
I all in the mind. It will
eonsolatiou to him to agree
a, and to find that he has
led by immaterial phan-
or was quite right. Tlio
nbtle, truth-weighing Tre-
umed by his conscience in-
lU sides of a question, (for
[nestion has mora than two
is hexagonal at least,) was
I fitted to discover the origin
lum to convince Cabinets
as that two and two make
oposition on which ho him-
have agreed with Abraham
rhere that most ingenious
itive of all English meta-
oli8erves, *^ Well persuaded
mi two and two make four,
to meet with a person of
idonr, and understanding,
I ahucerely call it in question,
ye him a hearing ; for I am
certain of that than of the
g greater than a part. And
yet I could myself suggest some con-
sidercUians that might seem to contro'
vert tJiis pointy* I can so well imagine
Trovanion listening to *^ some persoit
of credit, candour, and understanding, ''
in disproof of that vulgar proposition
that twice two make four 1 Bat the
news of this arrival, including that of
Lady Castleton, disturbed me greatly,
and I took to long wanderings alone.
In one of these rambles, they all called
at the Tower— Lord and Lady Ulver-
stone, the Castletons, and their chil-
dren. I escaped the visit; and on
my return home, there was a certain
delicacy respecting old associations,
that restrained much talk before me
on so momentous an event. Roland,
like mo, had kept out of the way.
Blanche, poor child, ignorant of the
antecedents, was the most communi-
cative. And the especial theme she
selected — was the grace and beauty of
Lady Castleton !
A pressing invitation to spend souid-
days at the castle had been cor-
dially given to all. It was accep-
ted only by myself: I wix)te word
that I would come.
Yes ; I longed to prove the strength
of my own self- conquest, and accu-
rately test the nature of the feelings
that had disturbed me. That any senti-
ment which could be called love
remained for Lady Castleton, the
wife of another, and that other a man
with so many claims on my afTcction
as her l9rd, I held as a moral impos-
sibility. But, with all those lively
impressions of early youth still en-
graved on my heart — impressions
of the linage of Fanny Trevanioiv,
as the fairest and bright^t of human
beings — could I feel free to love
again? Could I seek to woo, and
rivet to myself for ever, the entire
and virgin affections of another, while
there was a possibility that I might
compare and regret? No; eithes
I must feel that, if Fanny were
again single — could be mine without
obstacle, human or divine — she
had ceased to be the one I would
single out of the world; or, though
regarding love as the dead, I woald
be faithful to its memory and its
}f JBfatun — chapter on Jud^ent — See the very ingenious illuBtration of
latiMT the part is always greater than the whole "—taken from time, or-
iltj.
400
The Caxtons.-^Part the Latt.
[Oct
:i<)ho.s. ^ly mother sij^hed, and
looked fluttered and nneasy all the
morn in rr of the day on which I was
to repair to Compton. She even
•^eemod croA», tor about the third time
in her life, and paid no compliment
to Mr Stultz. when my shoot ing-
iaeket was exchanged for a blade
iVooU, which that artist had pro-
nounced to be *' splendid ; *' neither
did she honour me with anv of those
little attentions to the contents of my
portmanteau, and the perfect ** getting
up" t^f my white waistcoats and
cravats, which made her natural
instincts on such memorable occa-
sion.-*. There was also a sort of que-
rulous pitying tenderness in her torn
when she spoke to Blanche, whidi
was quite pathetic; though, fn-
tnnately, its c«iise remained daik
and impenetrable to the innoeot
comprehension of one who conkl not
sue where the past filled the nms d
the future, at the fountain of life.
My father understood me better-
shook mc by the band, as I got into
the chaise, and muttered, out of
Seneca —
" Non tanqiinm tra nsfuga, sed tanqun
expl orator! "
' Not to desert, but ejuunine.*
Quite right.
CUAPTER CTI.
Ajrreeably to the usual custom in
j:reat houses, as soon as 1 arrived at
v'oinpton 1 was conducted to my
room, to adjust my toilet, or com-
pose my spirits by solitude: — it
wanted an hour to dinner. I had
not, however, been thus left ten
miiuites, In^fore the door opened, and
Trevanion himself, (as I would fain
still call hinO stood befon' me. Most
cordial were his greet in j: and wel-
come; and, seatiu;; himself by my
side, ho continued to converse, in his
l>couliar way — bluntly eloquent, and
c^iivhssly learned — till the half hour
bell rang. He talked on Australia,
the Waketiehl system— cattle^— books,
his tn>uble in arrangiuij his library —
his schemes for improving his pro-
perty, and embellishing his grounds —
liis delight to tiod my father look so
well — his determination to see a great
deal of him, whether his old college
friend would or no. He talked, in
short, of everything except politics,
and his own past career — showing only
his soreness in that silence. But (in-
dei>endently of the mcR^ work of time,)
he looked yet more worn and jaded in
his leisure than he had done in the fhll
tide of business ; and his fonner ab-
rupt quickness of manner now s<>emed
to partake of feverish excitement. I
hoped that my father icoutd see much
of him, for I fielt that the weary nund
wanted soothing.
Just as the second bell rang, len-
t ered the d raw ing-room . There wBt
at least twenty guests present— etek
guest, no doubt, some planet of £uhioi
or fame, with satellites of its ovi.
But I saw only two forms distinctly-
first. Lord Castleton, oonspiciioM
with star and garter, somewint ib-
plcr and portlier in proportions, oi
with a frank dash of gray in the ^
waves of his hair, but still as pi^
eminent as ever for that beantf-
tho charm of which depends ktt thii
any other upon youth — arising, as ^
does, from a felicitoas comlnnatkm of
bearing and manner, and that ezqi"
site snavity of expression which aw
into the heart, and pleaMS so bvA
that it becomes a satisfkction to a^
mire ! Of Lord Castleton, Indeed, t
might be said, as of Aldbiadn, 'tW
he was bcautifnl at every age.* I M
my breath come thlek, ud a flW
pas.sed before my eyes, as Loid Ci^
tleton led me through the crowd, oi
the radiant vision of Fanny IVivir
ion, how altered— and how danttV^
— ^burst upon mc.
I felt the light touch of that bvi
of snow; bat no guilty thrill ^
through my veins. I heard the vtM
musical as over — lower than H wtf
once, and more subdued in its k^
but steadfast and untremolons— itvtf
no longer the voice that made ^^
soul plant itself in the ean.*** ^
Sir Philip Sidney.
1819.]
The OaxUmi.-^Part the LoBt
401
erent wms over, and I knew that tlie
dream had. fled fi'om the waking world
forever.
'^Another old friend!" as Lady
UlveiBtone came forth from a little
group of children, leading oae fine
boy of nine years old, while one, two
or three years younger, clang to her
gown. ^*- Another old Mend ! — and,"
added Lady Ulverstone, after the first
kmd greetings, *^ two new ones, when
the old are gone." The slight melan-
choly left the Toiee, as, after presenting
to me the little visconnt, she drew
forward the more badifhl Lord Allxnt,
who indeed bad something of his
gnm^ire's and namesake's look of re-
fined intelligenee in his brow and eyes.
The watchful tact of Lord Castleton
was qxdck in terminating whatever
embarrassment might belong to these
introdaellons, as, leaning lightly on
my ann, he drew me wrward, and
presented me to the gnests more im-
mediately in our neighbourhood, who
seemed by their earnest cordiality to
have been already prepared for the
ifltrodvction.
Burner was now announced, and I
welcomed that sense of relief and se-
gregation with which one settles into
ODe*s own " particular" chair at your
lai|;e miaceUaneous entertainments.
I stayed three days at that house.
How truly had Trevanion said that
Fanny would make ** an excellent
great lady." What perfect harmony
between her manners andher position ;
just retaining enough of the girl's se-
doetiye gaiety and bewitdiing desire
to please, to soften the new dignity of
bearingshe had unconsciously assumed
— 4efls, alter all, as great lady than as
wile and mother: with a fine breeding,
P^aps a little languid and artificial,
as compared with her lord's — ^whidi
sprang, fresh and healthfal, wholly
from nature— but still so void of all
the cbiU of eondeeeension, or thesubtle
inipertin^ce that belongs to that order
of the hifenor nobbstc, which boasts
the name of ^^ exebuives ; " with what
gnce, void of prudery, she took the
adnktion of the flntterers, turning
^^ them to her ehildren, or escaping
Hgbtly to Lord Castleton, with an
ease tiuit drew round her at once the
protectimi ofhearth and home.
And certainly Lady Castleton was
more incontestably beautiful than
Fanny Trevanion had been.
AU this I acknowledged, not with a
sigh and a pang, but with apure feeling
of pride and delight. I might have
loved madly and presumptuously, aa
boys* will do ; but I had loved worthily ;
— ^the love left no blosh on my man-
hood ; and Fanny's very happiness
was my. perfect and total cure of every
wound in my heart not quite scarred
over before. Had she been discon-
tented, sorrowfiil, without joy in. the
ties she had formed, there might have
been more danger that I should brood-
over the past, and regret the loss of
its idol. Here there was none. And
the very improvement in her beauty
had so altered its character — so altered
— ^that Fanny Trevanion and Lady
Castleton seemed two persons. And,
thus observing and listening to her, I
could now dispassionately perceive
such differences in our nature as
seemed to justify Trevanion's asser-
tion, which once struck me as so
monstrous, '^ that we should not have
been happy had &te permitted our
union." Pore-hearted and simple
though she remained in the artificial
world, still that world was her element ;
its interests occupied her; its talk,
though jost chastened from scandal,
flowed from her lips. To borrow the
words of a man who was himself a
courtier, and one so distinguished that
he could afford to sneer at Chester-
field,* '' She had the routine of that
style of conversation which is a sort
of gold leaf, that is a great embellish-
ment where it is joined to anything
else." I will not add, ^'^but makes a
very poor figure by itself, "'— for that
Lady Castleton's conversation cer-
tainly did not do-*perhaps, indeed,
because it was not "by itself" — and
the gold leaf was all the better for
being thin, since it could not cover
even the surface of the sweet and ami-
able nature over which it was spread.
Still, this was not the mind in which
now, in matnrer experience, I would
seek to find sympathy with -manly
action, or companionship in the charms
of intellectnal leisure.
There was about this beautiful
favourite of nature and fortune a cer-
• Lord 'Htrroy's Memcin of Charge II.
402
The Caxtxm*,^Part the Latt.
[Oct.
tain helplessness, 'which had even its .
grace in that high station, and which
perhaps tended to insure her domestic
peace, for it served to attach her to
those who had won influence over her,
and was happily accompanied by a
most affectionate disposition. Bat
still, if less favoured bj circumstances,
less sheltered from every wind that
could visit her too roughly — ^if, as the
wife of a man of inferior rank, she had
failed of that high seat and silken
canopy reserved for the spoiled darlmgs
of fortune — that helplessness might
have become querulous. I thought of
poor Ellen Holding and her silken
shoes. Fanny Trovanion seemed to
have come into the world with silk
shoes — not to walk where there was
a stone or a briar ! I heard something,
in the gossip of those around, that con-
firmed this view of Lady Castlcton*s
character, while it deepened my ad-
miration of her lord, and showed me
how wise had been her choice, and
how resolutely he had prepared him-
self to vindicate his own. One evening,
as I was sitting a little apart from the
rest, with two men of the London
world, to whose talk — for it ran upon
the on-diis and anecdotes of a region
long strange to me — I was a silent but
amused listener ; one of the two said
— "Well, I don't know anywhere a
more excellent creature than Lady
Castleton ; so fond of her children—
and her tone to Castleton so exactly
what it ought to be— so affectionate,
and yet, as it were, respectful. And
the more credit to her, if, as they say,
she was not in love with him when
she married, fto be sure, handsome as
he is, he is twice her age I) And no
woman could have been more flattered
and courted by Lotharios and lady-
killers than Lady Castleton has been.
I confess, to my shame, that Castleton's
luck puzales me, for it is rather an
exception to my general experience.**
** My dear * * ♦/' said the other,
who was one of those wise men of
pleasure, who occasionaUy startle ns
mto wondermg how they come to be
80 clever, and yet rest contented with
mere drawing-room celebrity— men
who seem always idle, yet appear to
nave read everything ; always indif-
ferent to what passes before them, yet
^ho know the characters and divine
tne secrets of eveiybody— '' my dear
* * *,*' said the gentteman, ^^yonwoold
not be puzzled if yon had studied Lord
Castleton, instead of her ladyship. Of
all the conquests ever made by Sedlej
Beandesert, when the two fiurat
dames of the Faubourg are said to
have fought for his smiles in the Botr
de Boulogne— no conquest ever cost
him such pains, or so tasked hts know-
ledge of women, as that of his wife
afler marriage ! He was not satislied
with her hand, he was resolved to hare
her whole heart, ' one entire and per-
fect chrysolite;* and he has succeeded!
Never was husband so watchful, and
so little jealous— never one who con-
fided so generously in all that was best
in his wife, yet was so alert in protect-
ing and guarding her wherever she
was weakest I When, in the second
year of marriage, that dangerous
German Prince Von Lelbeofdls at-
tached himself so perseveringij to
Lady Castleton, and the scandal-
mongers pricked np their ears in hopes
of a victim, I watched Castleton with
as much interest as if I had been look-
ing over Deschappelles playing at
chess. You never saw any^iug so
masterly: he pitted himself against bis
highness with the oool confidence, not
of a blind spouse, but a fortunate rival.
He surpassed him in the delicacy of his
attentions, he ontahone him by his
careless magnificence. Leibeafeb had
the impertinence to send Lady Castle-
ton a bouquet of some rare flowers
just in fashion. Castleton, an hour
before, had filled her whole balcony
with the same costly exotics, as if they
were too common for nosegays, and
only just worthy to bloom for her a
day. Young and really aocomplished
as Leibenfels is, Castleton eclipsed
him by his grace, and fooled him with
his wit : he laid little plots to tarn his
mustache and guitar into lidiciilc;
he seduced him into a hunt with the
bnckhounds, (thongh Castleton him-
self had not hunt^ before, stnoe be
was thirty,) and drew him, ^iotteriag
Crerraan oaths, ont of the sloogh of a
ditch ; he made him the lanf^ter of
the clubs; he put him fairiy out of
fiishion— and all with soch snavity and
politeness, and bland sense of supe-
riority, that it was the finest piece of
high comedy yon ever beheld. The
poor prince, who had been eoxoomb
enongh to lay a bet with a Frendi-
1849.]
2%e Casioni.^Part Oe Last.
403
man as to hissoccess with the English
in general, and Lady Gastleton in
particolaTi went away with a face as
long as Don Quixote's. If yon had
batseen him at S House, the night
before he took leave of the island, and
his comical grimace when Gastleton
offered hun a pinch of the Beaudesert
mixture I No! the fact is, that Castle-
ton made it the object of bis existence,
the masterpiece of his art, to secure to
himself a happy home, and the entire
possession of his wife's heart. The
first two or three years, I fear, cost
him more trouble than any other man
ever took, with his own wife at least
—but he may now rest in peace ; Lady
Gastleton is won, and for ever."
As my gentleman ceased, Lord
Castleton's noble head rose above the
group standing round him; and I
saw Lady Castieton turn with a look
of well-bred fatigue from a handsome
jooog fop, who had affected to lower
bis voice whUe he spoke to her, and,
encountering the eyes of her husband,
the look changed at once into one of
such sweet smiling affection, such
fi'snk unmistakeable wife-like pride,
that it seemed a response to the as-
sertion - *' Lady Gastleton is won, and
for ever."
Yes, that story increased my ad-
miration for Lord Gastleton : it show-
ed me with what forethought and ear-
nest sense of responsibiUty he had
nndertaken the charge of a life, the
guidance of a character yet undeve-
loped ; it lastinglv acquitted him of
the levity that had been attributed to
Sedley Beaudesert. But I felt more
than ever contented that the task had
devolved on one whose temper and
experience had so fitted him to dis-
charge it. That German prince made
me tremble from sympathy with the
husband, and in asort of relative shud-
der for myself! Had that episode
happened to me, I could never have
drawn "high comedy" from it! — ^I
could never have so happily closed
the fifth act with a pinch of the Beau-
desert mixture! No, no; to my
homely sense of man's life and em-
ployment, there was nothing idluring
in the prospect of watching over the
golden tree in the garden, with a
" woe to the Argus, & Mercury once
lull him to sleep!" Wife of mine
shall need no watching, save in sick-
ness and soiTow! l%ank Heaven,
that my way of life does not lead
through the roseate thoroughfares, be-
set with German princes laying bets
for m^ perdition, and fine gentlemen
admlnng the skill with which I play at
chess for so terrible a stake ! To each
rank and each temper, its own laws.
I acknowledge that Fanny is an ex-
cellent mardiioness, and Lord Gas-
tleton an incomparable marquis. But,
Blanche ! if I can win thy true simple
heart, I trust I shall begin at the fifth
act of high comedy, and say at the
altar—
" Once won, won for ever ! "
CHAPTER CYII.
I rode home on a horse my host
lent me; and Liord Gastleton rode
part of the way with me, accompanied
by bis two boys, who bestrode man-
fnlly their Shetland ponies, and can-
tered on before us. I paid some com- >
pliment to the spirit and intelligence
of these children— a compliment they
well deserved,
/^Why, yes," said the marquis,
with a fiather's becoming pride, ^^I
hope neither of them will shame his
grandsire, Trevanion. Albert (though
not quite the wonder poor Lady Ulver-
stone decUres him to be) is rather too
precocious ; and it is all I can do to
prevent his being spoilt by flattery to
his cleverness, which, I think, is much
worse than even flattery to rank— a
danger to which, despite Albert's
destined inheritance, the elder brother
is more exposed. Eton soon takes
out the conceit of the latter and more
vulgar kind. I remember Lord
(yon know what an unpretending
good-natured fellow he is now) strut-
ting into the play-ground, a raw boy
wiui his chin up in the air, and burly
Dick Johnson (rather a tuft-hunter
now, I'm afraid) coming up, and say-
ing, ^ Well, sir, and who the deuce are
you?' *Lord ,' says the poor
devil unconsciously, ^eldest son of the
Marquis of .' • Oh, indeed !' cries
Johnson ; ' then, there's one kick for
my Icrd, and two for the marquis ! '
404
The Caxiomi.'^Part tke Lati.
[Oet
I nin not fond of kicking, bnt I donbt
if annhing ever ilid more good
than those three kicks! But" con-
tinued Loni Castleton, '*wben one
flatters a boy for his cleverness, even
Eton itself cannot kick the conceit ont
of him. Li't him bo last in the form,
and the L'rcatest dance ever flogged,
there are always people ti» say that
yonr public schools don't do for yonr
groat geniuses. And it is ten to one
but what the f;ither is plagued into
taking the l>i\v home, and giving him
a private tutor, who rtxes him into a
prig for over. A coxcomb in drees,"
8aid the marquis smiling, ^'is a trifier
it would ill l>ecome me to condemn,
and I own that I would rather see a
youth a fop than a sloven ; but a cox-
comb in ideas — why, the younger he is,
the more unnatural and disa^'reeable.
Now, AlU'it, over that hedge, sir."
"That he<lge, i)apa? The pony
will never do it."
"Then," said Lord Castleton, taking
off his hat with politeness, "I fear
yon will deprive us of the pleasure of
yonr company."
The boy laughed, and made gal-
lantly for the hedge, thongh I saw by
his change of colour that it a little
alarmed him. The pony could not
clear the hedge ; but it was a jiony of
tact and resomres, and it scrambled
through like a cat, inflicting sundry
rents and tears on a jacket of Raphael
blue.
Lord Castleton said, smiling, "You
see I teach them to get through a
difficulty one way or the other. Be-
tween you and me," he added serious-
ly, " 1 perceive a very different world
rising round the next generation from
that in which I flrst went forth and
took my pleasure. I shall rear my
boys accordingly. Rich noblemen
must uow-a-days be useful men ; and
if they can't leap over briars, they
must scramble through them. Don*t
yon agree with me?"
" Yes, hearrily."
"Marriage makes a man much
wiser," said the marquis, after a pause.
" I smile now, to think how often I
sighed at the thought of grawingoU.
Now I reconcile myself to the gnj
hairs without dreams of a wig, and
enjoy vonth still^for" (pointmgtolw
sons)'' it is there r
" He has very nearly fonnd onttlie
secret of the saflTron bag now," slid
my father, pleased, and rubbing kii
hands, when I repeated this talk witk
Lord Castleton. " Bat I fear poor
Trevauion," he added, with a oompn^
sionate change of conntenance, "isstifl
far away from the sense of Loni
Bacon^s receipt. And his wife, yoi
say, out of vczy lo^^e for him, keepi
always drawing discord firom tiw mm
jarring ivire."
" You mnst talk to her, sir."
" I will," said my father angrilj;
" and scold her too — ^foolish wooub!
I shall tell her Luther^s advice to tte
Prince of Anhalt."
" What was that, sir?"
" Only to throw a baby into the
river Maldon, because it had socked
dry five wet-nnrses besides the do-
ther, and must therefore be a diaii^
ling. Why, that ambition of in
woidd suck dry all the mothen' milk
in the genus mammalian ! And tuA
a withered, rickety, malign little
changeling too ! She shall fling it iito
the river, by all that is holy !" cried
my father ; and, sniting the actkw to
the word, away went the specttdci he
had been rubbing indignantly for tbe
last three minntes, into the poai
"Papaol" faltered mj father aghHli
while the Ceprinid%, mistaking the
dip of the spectacles for an invitw*
to dinner, came scudding up to tte
bank. " It is all yonr iamt," sud Hr
Caxton, recovering himself. "Get
me the new tortoise-shdl spectadii
and a large slice of bread. 7o*f*
that when fish are rednoed to a pi^
they recognise a benefactor, wUv
they never do when rising at fli^M[
groping for worms, in the waste tm*
of a river. Hem I — a hmt fer tti
Ulverstones. Besides the brad av
the spectacles, jnat look ont aodM
me the old black-letter copj of ^
Anthony's Semum to Fukt$.^
1849.]
Th^ Caxiom^^PaH ^Lagi.
405
CHAfTBB OVin.
Some -weeks now have passed siiiee
my retain to the Tower : the Castle*
tons aie gonct and all Trevanion^s gay
guests. And sinoe these, departnres,
▼isita between the two honses haye
beeainterofaanged often, and the bonds
ofintimacy are growing close. Twice
has mj hih&r hM loi^ conversations
i^art with Ladj Ulyerstone, (my
mother is not fooUsh enoagfa to feel a
paaffnowatsnoh confidences,) and the
res«ut has become apparent. Lady
Ulyerstone has ceased all taUc against
the world and the pnl^o— ceased to
fret the galled pride of her husband
with irritating sympathy. She has
made h^eelf the true partner of his
present occopations, as she was of
those in the past ; she takes interest
in fanning, and gardens, and flowers,
and those philosophical peaches which
come from trees academical that Sir
WiniaEm Temple reared in his gracefril
retirem^it. She does more — she sits
by her hnsbend*s side in the library,
reads tiie books he reads, or, if m
Latin, coaxes him into construing
tiiem. Insensibly she leads him into
stndiee frurther and f arth^ remote from
Bine Books and Hansard ; and, taking
my frUher's hint,
** AUurea to brighter worlds, and leads the
n
They are inseparable. Darby-and-
Joan-like, yon see them together in
the libraiy, the garden, or tlw homely
little pony-phaeton, for which Lord
Ulyerstone has resigned the fast-trot-
ting cob, once identified with the
eager looks of the bnsy Treyanion. It
ismosttonching, mostbeantiftd! And
to think what a victory oyer herself
the prond woman mnst have obtained I
— never a thoaght that seems to mnr-
nrar, never a word to recall the ambi-
tions man back from the pdiilosophy
into wlndi Ids active mind flies for
refi^se. And with the effort her brow
has become so serene ! That care-
worn expression, which her fine
featores once wore, is fast vanishing.
And what affects me most, is to think
tiiat tlds chanjpe (which is ahreaiy set-
tling iato happmess) has been wrought
by Austin's oomis^ and' appeals to
her sense and afieetion. '* It is to yon,"
he said, ^* thai lYevamon mast look
for more than comfort — for cheerfol-
ness and satisfaction. Yom* child is
gone from you — the world ebbs away
— ^yon two should be all in all to each
other. Be so.*' Thus, after paths so
devious, meet those who had parted
in youth, now on the verge of age.
There, in the same scenes where
Austin and Ellinor had first formed
acquaintance, he aiding her to soothe
the wounds infiicted by the ambition
that had separated their lots, and
both taking counsel to insure the hap-
piness of the rival she had preferred.
After all this vexed public life of
toil, and care, and ambition, — ^to see
Trevanion and Ellinor drawing closer
and closer to each other, knowing
private life and its charms for the first
time, — ^verily it would have been a
theme for an elegiast like Tibullos.
But all this while a younger love,
with no blurred leaves to erase from
the chronicle, has been keeping sweet
account of the summer thne. *' Very
near are two hearts that have no guile
between them," saith a proverb, traced
back to Confacius. O ye days of still
sunshine, reflected back from ourselves
— O ye haunts, endeared evermore by
a look, tone, or smile, or rapt silence ;
when more and more with each hour,
unfolded before me that natare, so
tenderiy coy, so cheerfrd though seri-
ous, so attuned by simple cares to af-
fection, yet so filled, frt>m soft musings
and soUtude, with a poetry that gave
grace to duties the homeliest ; — setting
Sfe's trite things to music. Here
nature and fortune concurred alike :
equal in birth and pretensions — simi-
lar in tastes and in objects, — loving
the healthful activity of purpose, but
content to find it around us — ^neither
envying the wealthy, nor vying with
the great ; each firamed by temper to
look on the bright side of fife, and find
founts of delight, and greea spots
fresh with verdore, where eyes but
accustomed to cities could see but the
sands and the mirage. While afar (as
man's duty) I had gone through the
travail that, in wrestling with fortune,
£^ves pause to the heart to recover its
losses, and faiow the value of love,
in its graver sense of life's earnest
realities ; heaven had reared, at the
406
Tk£ Caxiotu,^P»i Ae La$L
thresholds of home, the voang tree
that ^oold cover the roof with its
1)10880019, and embalm with its fra-
grance the dailj air of my being.
It had been the joint prayer of those
kind ones I left, that sach might bo
my reward : and each had contribnted,
in* his or her several way, to fit that
fair life for the ornament and joy of
the one that now asked to guard and
to cherish it. From Roland came that
deep, earnest honour — a mau*s in its
strength, and a woman's in its deli-
cate sense of refinement. From
Roland, that quick taste for all things
noble in poetry, and lovely in natnro
— the eye that sparkled to read how
Bayard stood alone at the bridge, and
saved an army — or wept over the
page that told how the dying Sidney
put the bowl from his burning lips. Is
that too masculine a spirit for some ?
Let each please himself. Give mc
the woman who can echo all thoughts
that are noblest in man ! And that
eye, too — like Roland's, — could pause
to note each finer mesh in the won-
derful webwork of beauty. Xo land-
scape to her was the same yesterday
and to-day, — a deeper shade from the
skies could change the face of the
moors—the springing up of fresh wild
fiowers, tlie verj- song of some bird
unheanl before, lent variety to the
broad rugged heath. Is that too sim-
ple a source of pleasure for some to
prize ? Be it so to those who need the
keen stimulants that cities afford. But
if we were to pass nil our hours in
those scenes, it was something to have
the tastes which own no monotony in
Nature.
All this came from Rolaud; and
to this, with thoughtful wisdom, my
father had added enough kuowledgc
from books to make those tastes
more attractive, and to lend to im-
pulsive perception of beauty and good-
ness the culture that draws finer
essence from beauty, and expands the
€k>od into the Better by heightening
the site of the sur\'ey : hers, know-
ledge euough to sympathise with
intellectual pursuits, not enough to
dispute on man's province — Opinion.
Still, wliether in nature or in lore, still
*' The fairest nrden in her looks.
And in her mind the choicest books ! **
And yet, thou wise Austin — and thou
Roland, poet that never wrote a verse,
— ^yet yonr woi^ had been iae
but then Woman stept in,
mother gave to her she derigi
dangfater the last finish of omi
day charities — the mild li
virtues, — *^ the soft word ttal
away wrath," — ^the angelfe
man*s rougher fianlta-Hthe
that bideth its time— and, en
^'rights of woman," 8nlyv|
delighted, to the invisible thr
Dost thou remember, mj '.
that soft summer evening i
vows onr eyes had long inftei
stole at last from the lip? W
come to my side,— look overi
I write; there, thy tean-
tears, are they not, Blanche'
blotted the page ! Shall we
world more? Right, myBta
words should profane the pbi
those tears have fallen 1
And here I would fain o
but alas, and alas! that ]
associate with onr hopes, Oft
the grave, him who, we fondl
(even on the bridal-day, thai
sister to my arms,) wonldon
hearth where his place m
vacant, contented with ^
fitted at last for thetranqoilh
which long years of repenti
trial had deserved.
Within the first year of :
riage, and shortly after a gtiSi
in a desperate action, wl
covered his name with new
just when we were most eUb
blinded vanity of human prK
the fatal news I The brief e
run. He died, as I knew 1
have prayed to die, at the c
day ever memorable in the
that marveUons empire, whh
without parallel has annexe
Throne of the Isles. He di
arms of Victory, and hif h
met the eves of the noble d
even in that hour, oonid pai
the tide of triumph by the
had cast on its bloody ahon
favour," faltered the dying i
have a father at home— m
soldier. In my tent ia m]
gives all I have to him— he
it without shame. That Is Bd
Write to him— yon— with y
hand, and tell him how hit •
And the hero fUfilled the pn
1819.] The Caxioni.
that letter is dearer to Roland than
all the long roll of the ancestral dead !
Natnre has reclaimed her rights, and
the forefathers recede before the son.
In a side chapel of the old Gothic
church, amidst the mouldering tombs
of those who fonght at Acre and Agin-
coori, a fresh tablet records the death
of Herbert be Caxton, with the
simple inscription—
HB F£LL ON THB FIELD *.
HIS COUNTRY MOURNED HIM,
AND HIS FATHER IS RESIGNED.
Years haye rolled away since that
tablet was placed there, and changes
have passed on that nook of earth
which bounds our little world : fair
chambers have sprung up amidst the
desolate ruins ; far and near, smiling
corn-fields replace the bleak, dreary
moors. The land supports more re-
tainers than ever thronged to the
pennon of its barons of old ; and Bo-
land can look from his tower over
domains that are reclaimed, year by
year, from the waste, till the plough-
share shall win a lordship more opu-
lent than those feudal chiefs ever held
by the tenure of the sword. And the
hospitable mirth that had fled from
the ruin has been renewed in the hall ;
and rich and poor, great and lowly,
have welcomed the rise of an ancient
house irom the dust of decay. All
those dreams of Boland's youth are
fulfilled ; but they do not gladden his
heart as does the thought that his son,
at the last, was worthy of his line, and
the hope that no gulf shall yawn be-
tween the two when the Grand
Circle is rounded, and man's past
and man's future meet where Time
disappears. Never was that lost one
foi^tten ! — never was his name
breathed but tears rushed to the eyes ;
and, each morning, the peasant going
to his labour might see Roland steal
down the dell to the deep-set door of
the chapel. None presume there to
follow his steps, or intrude on his
solemn thoughts; for there, in sight
of that tablet, are his orisons made,
and the remembrance of the dead
forms a part of the commune with
heaven. But the old man's step is
still firm, and his brow still erect ; and
you may see in his face that it was no
hollow boast which proclaimed that
VOL. Lxvi. — vo, ccccvm.
"-Pari the Last
407
the " father was resigned : " and ye
who doubt if too Boman a hardness
might not be found in that Christian
resignation, think what it is to have
feai'ed for a son the life of shame, and
ask, then, if the sharpest grief to a
father is in a son's death of honour.
Years have passed, and two fair
daughters play at the knees of Blanche
or creep round the footstool of Austin,
waiting patiently for the expected
kiss when he looks up from the Great
Book, now drawing fast to its close ;
or, if Boland enter the room, forget
all their sober demureness, and, un-
awed by the terrible *' Pap« I" run
clamorous for the promised swing in
the orchard, or the fiftieth recital of
" Chevy Chase."
For my part, I take the goods the
gods provide me, and am contented
with girls that have the eyes of their
mother ; but Boland, ungrateful man,
begins to grumble that we are so ne-
glectful of the rights of heirs-male.
He is in doubt whether to lay the
fault on Mr Squills or on us : I am
not sure that he does not think it a
conspiracy of all three to settle the
representation of the mai'tial De Cax-
tons on "the spindle side." Who-
soever be the right person to blame,
an omission so fatal to the straight
line in the pedigree is rectified at last ;
and Mrs rrimmins again rushes, or
rather rolls->in the movement natural
to forms globular and spheral — into,
my father's room with—
" Sir, sir— it is * boy I"
Whether my father asked also this
time that question so puzzling to
metaphysical inquirers, " What is a
boy?" I know not ; I rather suspect
he had not leisure for so abstract a
question : for the whole household
burst on him, and my mother, in that
storm peculiar to the elements of the
Mind Feminine— a sort of sunshiny
storm between laughter and crying —
whirled him off to behold the Neogilos.
Now, some months after that date,.
on a winter's evening, we were all
assembled in the hall, which was stiU
our usual apartment, since its size
permitted to each his own segregated
and peculiar employment. A large
screen fenced off from interruption my
father's erudite settlement ; and quite
out of sight, behind that impermeable
barrier, he was now calmly winding
2e
408
The Caxtofu.^Part the Last
[Oct
np that cloqacnt pororation which will
astonish the world whenever, by
Heaven's special mercy, the printer's
devils have done with' *^ The History
of Hainan Error." In another nook
my uncle had ensconced himself—
stirring his coffee, (in the cnp mj
mother had presented to him so many
years ago, and which had mu-aca-
ionsly escaped all the ills the race of
crockery is heir to,) a volume of
Ivanhoi in the other hand : and, de-
spite the charm of the Northern
Wizard, his eye not on the page. On
the wall behind him, hangs the pictore
of Sir Herbert de Caxton, the soldier-
comrade of Sidney and Drake ; and,
at the foot of the picture, Roland has
slim^ his sou's sword beside the letter
that spoke of his death, which is
framed and glazed : sword and letter
had become as the last, nor least
honoured, Penates of the hall:— the
son was grown an ancestor.
Not far from my uncle sat Mr
Squills, employed in mapping oat
phrenological divisions on a cast he
liad made from the sknll of one of the
Australian aborigines— a ghastly pre-
sent which (in compliance with a
yearly letter to that effect) I had
i)ronght him over, together with a
stuffed ^^ wombat" and a large bundle
of sarsaparilla. (For the satisfaction
of his patients, I may obsenx, paren-
thetically, that the sknll and the
"wombat" — that last is a creature
between a miniatnre pig and a veiy
small badger — were not precisely
packed up with the sarsaparilla!) Far-
ther on stood open, but idle, the new
pianoforte, at which, before my father
had given his preparatory hem, and
sat down to the Great Book, Blanche
and my mother had been trying hard
to teach me to bear the thii-d in the
glee of ** The Chough and Crow to
roost have gone," — vain task, in spite
of all flattering assurances that I have
a very fine " bass," if I could but
manage to humour it. Fortunately
for the ears of the audience, that at-
tempt is now abandoned. My mother
is hard at work on her tapestry — ^the
last pattern in fashion — to wit, a rosy-
cheeked young troubadour playing the
lute under a salmon-colonred bal-
cony : the two little girls look gravely
on, prematurely in love, I susi)ect,
i^'ith the troubadour; and Blanche and
I have stolen away into a comer, whkfa,
by some strange delusion, we consida
out of sight, and in that corner is the
cradle of the jYeo^ilM. Indeed it is sot
our fault that it is there— Bohud
would have it so ; and the baby is lo
good, too, he never cries — at Imt lo
say Blanche and my mother : at iH
eveuts he does not cry to-night And
indeed, that child is a wonder I Hi
seems to know and respond to whit
was uppermost at our hearts when hi
was bom ; and yet more, when Bo-
land (contrary, I dare say, to all coi'
torn) permitted neither mother, nor
nurse, nor creature of womanUad, to
hold him at the baptismal font, bnt
bent over the new Christian }ti& on
dark, high-featured face, remhidiBS
one of the eagie that hid the iafiMft
in its nest, and watched over It wiA
wmgs that had battled witii the stom:
and from that moment the child, whi
took the name of Herbjekt, leeaed
to recognise Roland better tbaa hii
nurse, or even mother^— seemed ti
know that, in giving him that nam,
wo sought to nve Roland his loi
once more ! Never did the (rid nua
come near the infant bat it uiiliil
and crowed, and stretched out iti
little arms ; and then the mother aad I
would press each othcr^s hands secKttff
and were not jealous. Well, thfff
Blanche and Pisistratns were settrf
near the cradle, and talking in lov
whispers, when my father pmltfl
aside the screen and said —
''There— the work is donel vi^
now it may go to press as boob tf
you will."
Congratulations ponrod in— nj
father bore them with his usual eqoi^
nimity ; and standing on the hevthi
his hand in his waistcoat, be wi
musingly, '' Among the last ddnriooi
of Human Error, I have had toaoCioe
Rousseau's phantasy of Perpekosl
Peace, and all the like pastonl dresuSf
which preceded tho bloodiest wsfi
that have convulsed the earth ftr
more than a thousand years I" ,
'* And to judge by the newspaperii
said I, *' the same delusions sn ff'
newcd again. Benevolent theoiiiii
go about, prophesying peace as *
positive certainty, deduced from thit
sibyl-book the ledger; and ^^."HJ
never agam to buy cannons, proTided
only we can exchange cotton for coff.
TkB OutoNi.— Poit tke Last.
409
Iquills, (wkoj kaomg almoti
wturedjrim gmeral hmtmtMs^
n woMi aftommthimff better to
Ad mmdrf ^^ Demotutraikmi
MtA," iince whkk As Aot talked
mi die MorcA ef improvement^
r ^ dke mge^ and " us of the
h een/nry/'V— I heartily hope
M beaeYofent theoristB aare
phBli. I have fonnd, in the
if mj profeaakmal practice,
■ so ont of the world quite
«^ without hacking them
MB, or Mowing them op into
War is a great evil.
■B, {poMemg bjf SqaHU^ and
tmoardi iiofanil)— Hnsh I
d mnains silent.
AZTQW. — ^War is % great evil;
k admitted \xj Pnnridenoe
amj^ of creation, physical
ri. TheeKisteoceof evilhas
vinr heads than oars. Squills.
donbt, there is One above
I His reasons for it. The
m tramp seems as common to
■B sknll as the philo-progeni-
ft tein onr organisation, be
is not there without cause,
is It Just to man, nor wiselv
ve to the Disposer of all
to nppose that war is wholly
rtonly produced by human
■d follies— that it conduces
U, and does not as often arise
aeoessities interwoven in the
ik of society, and speed the
As of the human race, conibr-
ith Uie designs of the Onmi-
Kot one great war has ever
I tiie earth, but has left behind
that liave ripened into bless-
denlable.
Iquzlls, (widi. the groan of a
^ ait a ^^DemfmstratUm:')—
I
1MB Squills I Little could he
reseen the shower-bath, or
b«dlc, of erudition that fell
1 his head, as he pulled the
Itii that impertinent Oh! oh I
Irst came the Persian War,
idian myriads disgorging all
B they had drunk up in their
mragfa the East — all the arts,
Utars, all the sciences, all the
)f liberty that we inherit from
-ay fisther rushed on with
I, sousing Squills with his
lat, without the Persian War,
Greece would never have risen to
be the teacher of the world. Be-
fore the gasping victim could take
breath, down came Hun, €roth, and
Vandal, on Italy and Squills.
''What, sir I" cried my father,
''don't you see that, from those erup-
tions on demoralised Rome, came the
regeneration of manhood ; the re-
baptism of earth from the last soils of
paganism ; and the remote origin of
whatever of CSiristianity yet exists,
fr«e from the idolatries with which
Borne contaminated the faith ?"
Squills held up his hands, and made
a splutter. Down came Charie-
msLgae — paladins and all! There
my father was grand ( What a pic-
ture he made of the broken, jarrmg,
savage elements of barbaric society.
And the iron hand of the great Frank
— settling the nations, and founding
existent Europe. Squills was noir
hst sinkinginto coma, or stupe&ction ;
but, catchuig at a straw, as he heard
the word ^' Crusades ** he stuttered
forth, "Ahl tkereldefy youl"
" Defy me, there 1" cries my father ;
and one would think the ocean was in
the shower-bath, it came down with
such a rattle. My father scarcely
touched on the smaller points in ex-
cuse for the Crusades, though he re-
cited very volubly all the humane
arts introduced into Europe bv that
invasion of the East ; and showed
how it had served dviliiBation, by the
vent it a£fbrded for the rude energies
of (Rivalry — by the element of de-
struction to feudal tyranny that it
introduced — by its use in the emanci-
pation of borgfas, and the disrupture
of serfdom. But he showed, in colours
vivid as if caught from the sides of the
East, the great spread of Mahometan-
ism, and the danger it menaced to
Christian Europe — and drew up the
Godfreys, and Tancreds, and Bichards,
as a league of the Age and Necessity,
against the terrible progress of the
sword and the Koran. "You call
them madmen," cried my father, " but
the frenzy of nations is the statesman-
ship of fmte I How know you that —
but for the terror inspired by the hosts
who marched to Jerusalem — ^how
know you that the Crescent had not
waved over other realms than those
which Boderic lost to the Moor ? If
Christianity had been less a passion,
410
The CaxtoM.-^Part the Last.
[Oct
and the passion had less stirred np all
Europe — how know yon that the creed
of the Arab (which was then, too, a
passion) might not have planted its
mosqaes in the forum of Rome, and
on the site of Notre Dame ? For in
the war between creeds — ^when the
creeds are embraced by vast races —
think yon that the reason of sages can
cope with the passion of miUions ?
Enthusiasm mnst oppose enthusiasm.
The crusader fought for the tomb of
Christ, but he saved the life of Chris-
tendom."
My father paused. Squills was quite
passive; he struggled no more — ^hewas
drowned.
^*So," resumed Mr Caxton, more
quietly—" so, if later wars yet per-
plex us as to the good that the All-
wise One draws from their evils, our
posterity may read their uses as clear-
ly as we now read the finger of
Providence resting on the barrows of
Marathon, or guiding Peter the Her-
mit to the battle-fields of Palestine.
Nor, while we admit the evil to the
passing generation, can we deny that
many of the virtues that make the
oniament and vitality of peace sprang
up first in the convulsions of war !^^
Here Squills began to evince faint
signs of resuscitation, when my father
let fly at him one of those numberless
waterworks which his prodigious
memory kept in constant supply.
"Hence,*' said he, "hence not un-
justly has it been remarked by a philo-
sopher, shrewd at least in worldly
experience — (Squills again closed his
eyes, and became exanimate)—^ It is
strange to imagine that war, which of
all things appears the most savage,
should be the passion of the most
heroic spirits. But 'tis in war that
the knot of fellowship is closest drawn ;
'tis in war that mutual succour is most
given — ^mutual danger run, and com-
mon affection most exerted and em-
ployed ; for heroism and philanthropy
^'^most one and the same ! '"♦
v.^/ o***??. ^^*«®d' and mused a
little, Sqmlls, ifstOlUving, thought
It prudent to feign continued extinc-
tion.
|l?[f>" said Mr Caxton, resuming
Z^^t ^"* ^^*^ I hold it our duty
never to foster into a passion what we may not see it, SqoiUS;
must rather submit to as an awfiil
necessity. You say truly, Mr Squilb
— ^war is an evil ; and woe to those
who, on slight pretences, open tho
gates of Janus,
* The dire abode,
And the fierce issaee of the fiariootgod.'*^
Mr Squills, after a long ptose,
(employed in some of the more hudy
means for the reanimation of sub-
merged bodies, supporting himsell
close to the fire in a semi-erect pos-
ture, with gentle friction, self-spplicd,
to each several limb, and copiood re-
course to certain steaming stimoluts
which my compassionate hands pre-
pared for him,) stretches himself, tad
says feebly, " In short, then, not to
provoke further discussion, you wonld
go to war in defence of your conntir.
Stop, sir— stop, for God's sake! I
agree with yon— I agree with you!
But, fortunately, there is little chiow
now that any new Boney will buiM
boats at Boulogne to invade ua."
Mr Caxton.— I am not so sure of
that, Mr Squills. (SgrnUsfaUt bad
with a glassy stare ofdeprecatwg htrr-
rar,) I don't read the newspapers
very often, but the past helps mc to
judge of the present.
Therewith my father earnestly re-
commended to Mr Squills tbc carcftrt
perusal of certain passages in Tbucy-
dides, just previous to the outbreak
of the Peloponnesian War, (Sjw"
hastiiy nodded^ mostservUc aegna'
cence,) and drew an ingenious panu-
lei between the signs and smp^
foreboding that outbreak, and the^
apprehension of coming wtf ]^
was evinced by the recent io/w®"
to peace. And, after sundry notaw
and shrewd rttmarks, tending i^^
where elements for war ^'rew.^^J
ripening, amidst clashing opinions »?
disorganised sUtes, he wound up ^
saying,—" So that, aU things con-
sidered, I think we had better j^
keep up enough of the beUioosc spmi,
not to think it a sin if we ixecm
upon to fight for our V^^^^^i.
tars, our three per cents, gow ^ .
tels, and liberties. Such a tune m^
come, sooner or later, even tows
the whole world were spmnmg^^^^
^laftesbnry.
1849.]
The CaxUms.-^Pari the Last.
411
yonog gentleman in the cradle, whom
yon have lately brought into light,
may."
" And if 80," said my nncle abrnptly,
speaking for the first time — *' if indeed
it is for altar and hearth ! "
My father suddenly drew in and
pished a little, for he saw that he was
caogbt in the web of his own elo«
qaence.
Then Roland took down from the
wall his son*s sword. Stealing to the
cradle, be laid it in its sheath by the
infant's side, and glanced from my
father to ns with a beseeching eye.
InstlnctiYely Blanche bent over the
cradle, as if to protect the Neogilos ;
hot the child, wakmg, turned from
her, and, attracted by the glitter of
the hilt, laid one hand InstUy thereon,
and pointed with the other, laugh-
iogly, to Roland.
" Only on my father^s proviso," said
I hesitatingly. ^* For hearth and altar
— nothing less!"
** And even in that case," said my
father, " add the shield to the sword !"
and on the other side of the infant he
placed Roland's well-worn Bible,
blistered in many a page with secret
tears.
There we all stood, grouping round
the young centre of so many hopes
and fears — ^in peace or in war, bom
alike for the Battle of Life. And he,
unconscious of all that made our lips
silent, and our eyes dim, had already
left that bright bauble of the sword,
and thrown both arms round Roland's
bended neck.
"^0r6ert," murmured Roland ; and
Blanche gently drew away the sword,
— and left the Bible.
41S
Lymmmih BmimiBd.
[Od
LYXlfOUTH RETIBXTXD.
BT TBB 6KKTCHBR.
NcARLT sixteen yetn ago, there
appeared in the pages of Maga, de-
scTiptions of the scenery of Lynmonth,
North Devon. As Sketcher, I then
propoeed to myself to analyse the
impraasions which landscape scenery
makes npon the minds of artists and
lovers of nature, and to show thad
there most be in the artist a higher
aim than imitation; and that the
pleasure of the uopractising admirer
will be in proportion to his power of
extracting trom the insensitive matter
of nature, the poetic life of thought;
to rescae both art and nature from
the degradation they suffer when dis-
connected with the higher senses; to
show that nature, to be the worthy ob-
ject of art, should be suggestive/ Its
charm is to elicit, to draw out finely,
and to embellish what is already, in a
ruder state, in the mind. If there be
poverty within, there is no room for
the reception of the riches so profusely
surrounding us in the external worldf.
Neither artists nor amateurs are gene-
rally sufficiently aware, that a pre-
vious education is necessary to make
sketching effective and expressive.
We find ourselves everywhere. Svhat-
ever be the scenery, the sketcher
brings little back that he does not
take with him. Hence the diversity
in the character of sketches — of differ-
ent sketcbers — and the one character
that pervades the portfolio of each.
I have heard of an artist who visited
our lakes, and brought back with him
only cottages ! Morland would have
added, or rather made the principal,
the stye and pigs ; and even Gains-
borough's sketch-book may have
shown little more than ragged pol-
lards, and groups of rustic children.
To know what is in nature, you must
know what is in yourself. If you arc
ignorant of art, your sketches can
only be accidentally good. It is pos-
sible to be a very close observer, even
of minute beauties, and yet be a very
bad sketcher. One of an original
genius will convert, and, by a bold
dissimilitude in non-essentials, incor-
porftte into his own iverknit cqm^
tiona whatever is before fafan; nl
thus, by preserving the great lagia-
tive characteristics, reprpsont Mine
with a i«r greater tmth, eihihWn
her very life and feeling, ttan Iky
who ann at tmih throng ozaotai
minnte imitation.
Let this be exemplified in SahnMr
Rosa. Do his wild scenes of nd^
and nigged rook-engendered ma,
exist to the general eye, exactly ii
their form, and ooknnr, and coHfoi-
tion, as he has represented tei!
The exact sketcher wonld have fmi
a less correspondence in branches aid
foliage — a less marked living feeliig
between the rocks and trees; te
woidd have foimd mnch in the coloor-
ing, especially in the green leafes
where they are so few and scattered^
of an inconsistent gaiety. Tkese
wonld have been distracting ; but liis
educated eye, toned by a one bold
feeling, rejected these, and seised the
wilder characteristic, to which to
resolutely, under the impnlse of bis
genius, made all the rest suhserrieBt
and suggestive. He embodied what
he saw with what he felt, and mured
not the savage freedom by attnu^v^
littlenesses, but gave it fhll phjj
and with an execution as bold ud
free, which the minute critic weald
pronounce not natural, though most
natural, as most expressive of tkit
spontaneous out-flung unconstrahMd-
ness of nature's growth, which reiUf
pervades all, he harmoniously bnmght
all the parts under the domlnioii of
one poetic feeling. Take his fi^ia^
even in form — ^to say nothing of its^
actual unnaturalness of colour m tte
exact sense— there is a rag^ness, tf
torn and storm-beaten, in the isdi-
vidual leafage, which the untutored
sketcher will in vain look for in his
beat ; but all this stamps one grei^
truth, and that speaks more of natme
than many small ones. I do not
mean here to give the palm to Sal^-
tor Rosa, as if he were " Lord of
Landscape;" I mention him aa a
ZumwuA Bgviiiied.
418
oumple, as tfae boldest deyi-
Mi that which the unpoetic
fii, and minda totally tin-
i by poetry can oonoeive.
ii well hero to lay some atreea
eae preliminary remarks, be-
ach has been written, with a
Beiaation of langoa^, recom-
|» as I belieYe too strongly, a
aervatioB in detail of the phe-
. of naiore ; oreriooking the
MDoaenon — ^the accordance of
I Badire with the heart, fieel-
li Tery life and soul <Mf man.
lair in particnlar, with great
and andacioas confidence, be-
I his blindness he, uneducated
MB not in nature what soch
MB as Salvator Rosa and
Fooasin have extracted from
Ci made it nature's and their
B upon their established
• anUum fiUmen of his con-
Hd abuse. Dcmnat guod hoa
t He knows not the true
las of art which exist to per-
ls their woriu, nor knows how
tkese principles belong to art
toe only through and by their
im with the mind of man.
ta^ study meteorology in the
May rmwe, or geology and
f Boat adentifically ; but it will
yen a rery little way, while
iiti»Uo Is under your arm, and
m in search of a pictnresqne
yon have not learned to find.
. aaay happen, for it often does
, tb»t the more you sketch
thsr yon are from art. It is
Bt also, for the most accom-
artist to sketch too much;
■lay the power of his iuTention,
rriag too constantly to the pre-
I and indiyiduality of scenery.
C8 BOi so much trost his palette
MrtfoUo, as it were his register
ra, to which he has bound him-
fsiid the usual apprenticeship.
IB been remarked by sketchers,
IB, and artists by profession,
WOD a sketching expedition,
hands are not in" for some
I doubt if die fault be so much
hand as in the eye ; for in most
ihe hand had come fh>m the
iate practice of the studio:
I eye te distracted by the many
IB which now force themselves
baerratioD, and which in the
home-practice, and in fidlowing the
mind's bent on the canvass, the
memonr did not vividly present as not
wanted. It is more duBcnlt, there--
fbre, at first to generalise, to escape
the £HSciaations of local finrm and
colour, which keep the eye firom the
instant acknowledgment of a whole.
We are thus at first apt to begin with
the detail, instead of leaving it to the
last, by which means we have more
than we want, or less accurately and
accommodatiBgly what ia wanted.
When we have learned again to
reject, and to see, we are surprised
with a facility we at first deq>aired of.
We do, then, because we know what
to do.
I would recommend, therefore, be-
fore setting out on such expeditions,
where it be practicable, to visit daily,
and all day, during a week or fortnight,
the best salleries of pictures, such as
contain idl schools, that as much as
possible thercf may be no bias, but
such as every one must find in him-
self before he reaches the galleiT. I
would do this to confirm, and fasten
upon the memory, the prindples of
art, — breadth, greatness, trutii, ex-
pression, eolouring, sentiment, and
how obtained. Hero will be a gram-
mar without its drudgery ; for eveiy
lesson win be a delight, if we go to it
with no conceited opinions of our own,
and no cavilling spirit bringing our-
selves down to an admission that these
great men of former days had some
foundation upon which t&er built their
fame, tiieir acknowledged fame — so
searching, we shall see the reasons of
their doings — whv they, each for thor
own purpose, adopted this or that
style of colour, or of composition, or
chiaro-scnro. Going then imme-
diately to nature from art, we shall
see how very true art is— a secret that,
without this immediate comparison,
would be very apt to be hidden finom
us. No man in his senses would be-
gin a science from his own observation
alone. It was not the first shepherd
who, studying the stars, laid open the
study of astronomy. We shall leam
nothing by despising all that has been
learnt before we were born. So it is
in art; some principles have been
established, which it is well to know
thoroughly ; and, the more wo know
them, the more enthusiastic will bo
4U
LymiMuUi RtcUited,
[Oct
our admiration, the love of art through
nature, and of nature through art.
Durin<» my former visits lo the
beautiful scenerv of Lvnmouth, I had
seldom taken any whole view, but
chiefly studied parts for use in the
detail of compositions ; and this I
think to be a good practice for tlie
lan<l?cape painter, which term I use
here in contradistinction to the pain-
ter of views. There is so great a
pleasure in as it were creating — in
being the Tronyn;?, the maker — that, to
one accustomed to and at all skilled
in composing, it becomes an irksome
task to make a "view." The con-
tinued habit of view-painting must
necessarily check invention, and
limit unworthily the painter's aim.
In revisiting Lynmouth, I changed
my purpose ; and this, not under the
idea of making pictures of any of the
sketches, but for the practice of not-
ing how a picture, framed in from
nature, as if it were a work of art,
would be brought to its completion ;
for sketching with such an object, I
cannot but think of as great impor-
tance as the other method. We must
learn from nature to make a whole,
as well as the use of the parts sepa-
rately. With this puri)ose the
sketcher will look out for subjects,
not detail ; he will be curious to see
how nature composes now, and when
it is that scenes are most agreeable —
made so by what combination of lines,
by what agreement of colours, by
what proportions of light, and grada-
tions of shadow : for he will often find,
when nature looks her best, that light
and shade aro employed as substitutes
for lines which, in the actual and true
drawing of them, would bo unfortu-
nate. How often is it that a scene
strikes the eye at once for its great
beauty, that, when we come to it again,
seems entirely to have lost its charm !
Now these spots should be visited
again and again, till the causes bo
asciirtained of the charm and of the
deterioration: for here must lie the
principles of art, nature assuming and
putting oflf that which is most agree-
able to us, that in which our human
sympathies are engaged. Sketchers
often pass hastily these spots that are
no longer beautiful; but they are
wrong, for they can learn best, by
accurate observation of the changes
presented to them. And they will
thus learn to remedy dcficicnctes,
and acquire a better power of selecting
scenes, by knowing where the defi-
ciencies lie; the mind's eye will not
dwell upon them, or will 611 them up,
and the composition show itself to
them in a manner quite otherwise thu
it wonld have appeared, had no sndt
previous observations been made.
There arc sometimes good lines marred
by bad effects, and bad lines remedied
by skilful management of effects-of
light and shadow. It must be a
practised eye that can properly ab-
stract and separate lines from effects,
and effects from lines. AVe play with
colour, but our senons business is
with light and shade ; the real pictnro
is more frequently in black and white,
than those who addict themseWcs to
colour will credit. I will here but
refer to some passages in the eariv
numbers of The Sketcher, on the com-
position of lines, wherein I showed,
and I believe truly explained, the
principle of composition upon whidi
manvoftheold masters worked. And
I particularly exemplified the prina-
l)lo in the pictures of Gaspar PouasiD,
whom Thompson calls learned Poos-
sin, (unless he meant Nicole, wbo,
though in other respects he may with
equal justice be called learned, is, in
this art of the composition of liDe3,ui
no way to be compared writh his
brother-in-law.) I showed that there
was one simple rnlc which be inyari*
ably adopted. AVc may likewise go
to nature, and find the rale there,
when nature, as a compositioD, kwb
her best.
I think it will be fonnd that txsf
scene is most pleasing when its va-
riety is in the smallest portion— that
is, when the greatest part of the pic*
ture is made up of the most sunpl^
and per\'ading lines, and the inui-
cacies, all variety, and alternatioDSi
and interchanges of lines and partSi
shall be confined to a very small per*
tion ; for thus a greatness, a large
ness, an importance, is preserved aod
heightened, and at the same tine
monotony is avoided — thongh tbeiv
be much in it, the piece is not
crowded. There is a print firosa i
picture by Smith of Chichester, who*
by the bye, obtained the prize against
Richard Wilson, which attract^ ny
1849.]
Lpnmouth lUvisited.
attention the other day at a print-
seller's window. It was meant, I
presume, as an imitation of Claude,
Claude redaced to the then English
Tulgarity. If mnltiplicity of parts
vonld make a picture, doubtless
Richard Wilson, with his simple,
sweeping, free lines, could have no
cbance in competition with such a
painter. Every niche was crowded
—and equally so—every niche might
have made a picture, such as it was,
but all the niches made none, or a
bad one. Why, the variety was uni-
versal ; it should have been confined
to the smaller space. The picture is
objectionable in other points of view;
but this ignorance of the very nature
of composition was fatal. Yet this
work was evidently an imitatii)n of
Olaiide, whose variety, however, of
distance, the modem imitator brought
ioto his very foreground. He could
not see the simplicity of Claude.
Not that Clande himself was a learned
composer ; his lines are often incon-
gruous, and there is not nnfrequently
a poverty of design, scarcely con-
cealed by the magic of his colouring.
Now, I find, in looking over my
sketches, that I had selected those
scenes where the passages of variety
lay in the distance, and, it being a
narrow valley, they occupied but a
small space ; but, though small, it
was mostly the place of interest —
there was the more vivid light or the
deeper shade, the change, the life of
the pictnre, and the embellished way
of escape ont of a defile, that from
its closeness wonld have been other-
wise painfuL In saying " painful," I
seem to point to a defect in this
Lynmonth valley. Indeed, it will
not suit those who do not love close
scenery. That certainly is its charac-
ter. Yet is it not so close, but that
there is room for this kind of variety.
I thmk what I have said upon this
point, of interest and variety lying in
the smaller portion of the canvass —
for I here speak even of nature as a
picture— ma^ be applicable generally
^ light. I imagine those scenes will
^ found most pleasing, where the
light is by far the smallest portion,
the half-tone by far the larger, and
the dark but to show the power of
both. Take, for instance, a guden
Mene— a broad walk, trees on each
415
side— all is in broad light, but all is
in painful glare, monotony, and same-
ness of endless detail. Let a shadow
pass over it, a broad shadow— or
rather a half-tone of light, that shall
only show the local colour subdued —
now, let a gleam pass across it, and
just touch here and there the leafage,
and seem to escape behind it — how
small is the light, but it has given
life to the picture. I cannot but
think it a fault of our day that half-
tone is neglected ; light is made a
glare, and therefore the very object of
light is lost. I believe it was the
aim at a mere novelty that first intro-
duced this false principle. It was
recommended to Guido, but he failed
in it : pictures so painted by him are
far from being his best. Rubens
erred in it ; but modem artists have
carried the false principle to the ut-
most limit; and, in doing so, are
liable to a palpable incongruity,
an impossibility in nature, which they
profess to imitate. For it is the pro-
perty of light to take away colour ;
yet in this school, the whitest light,
and the most vivid colours, are in the
same piece. The old painters, aware
of this property of light, in their out-
of-door scenes, avoid, not to say a
white, but even a light sky — especially
the Venetian — so that their great
depth and power of colour was ren-
dered natural, by the depth of their
skies. Their blues were dark— in-
tensely so — ^but they were sustained
by the general colour. If it be said the
Italian skies are notoriously the bluest,
Mr Ruskin has, in contradiction, pro-
nounced them to be white; but I be-
lieve the fact is, that the great pain-
ters considered colour, as a beauty in
art, Mil generis^ and that there was no
need of a slavish adherence, in this
respect, to nature herself. Indeed,
they delighted, even when aiming at
the richest colouring, to subdue all
glare, and to preserve rather a deep
half-tone.
I believe they studied nature through
coloared glasses; and we learn from
Mrs Merrifield that Caspar Ponsain
used a black mirror, which bad been
bequeathed to him by Bamboccio.
The works of some of the Flemish
painters evidently show that theynsed
snch a mirror.
Have I not, then, reached Lyn-
416
Lffmmomih BmmM.
[Oct
month yet '? I foond it in full leafage,
and the' Uitle river as clear as amber,
and like it in cokmr. It id always
beantifnl, and variable too — after rain
it assumes more variety of colour, and
c^ great richness. For most part of
the time of my visit, it was more shal-
low than I had ever seen it. I was
pleased that it was so, thoogrh I heard
many complaints on that score. To
those who sketch cloee to the water,
it is, in fact, an advanta^: for where
the scenery is so confined, it is a great
thing to be able to reach the large
stones in mid -stream, and thas many
new views are obtained : and when
yon are pretty close to water, whether
it be a falL or still, there is reallv but
very little diffen^nce whether the river
K^ full or not— the fails still retain
sufficient l^xly. and the still pools are
sufficiently iR-ide.
Thei« are but two parties who know
anything of the painter- scenery of
Lynmonth — the sketchers and' the
anglers. The common road generally
taken by tourists shows not half the
beauty 'of the place. Did Lynmonth
appear less beautiful V — certainly not.
I easily recognised the chosen spots,
and was surprised to find what little
change had taken place. I knew in-
dividual trees perfectly, and. strange
to say, they did not seem to have ac-
quired growth. There were ap-
parently the same branches stretch-
ing over the stream.
In one spot where large ledges of
rock shoot ont in mid-stream, down
whose grooves the river rushes pre-
cipitously, (I had» sixteen years ago,
sketched the scene,) there was grow-
ing ont of the edge of the rock a young
ash-tree shoot — to my surprise,' there
it was still, or the old had decayed,
and a similar had spmng up. There
is something remarkable in this con-
tinned identity, year after year, as if
tlic law of mutability had been sus-
pended. Yet there' were changes.
I remember sketching by a little fall
of the river, where ftirthcr progress
was staid by a large mass of project-
ing rock. I felt sure there must be
fine subjects beyond, and in my at-
tempt to reach it from the opposite
side by climbing, and holding by the
boughs of a tree, one broke off, and I
fell into the cauldron. I found now
that the whole mass of this ledge of
rock had given waj, and opened s
passage, and one of no great difBcnhj.
Here, as I suspected, were some vcff
fine stndiea. The place where I de-
scended is about half a mile, or loir
from Lynmonth, where the road tarn,
near to a little bridge across a wall^
course intercepting the road. Us
view of this little fisll from above h
singtilariy beantifnl ; and, being «
mnch elevated, yon see the bed of the
river eontinnons for a long distaaoe^
greatly varied. I know no plaet
where' there are such fine studies if
this kind, though they are nrif
taken, being only parts for compon-
tion — the whole not making a nev.
Was Lynmonth, then, to me ss it
was ? — not qniie. llie intenrai of yem
had qpt, I trust, been lost. If tee
was little change in the ^aoe, thoe
was a change in the mind's eye ui
head of the sketcher. Tbongh In-
cognised neariy all the spots wherel
had sketched, I foimd many nev*
some that might have esd^wd M,
because I had not taken the feeSig
n-ith me, at least not in the de^
in which I now poBseeeed it. Dmir
all the years that had intervened,!
had scarcely painted a siag^ viev.
I could not but obseire that the lev
scenes were those more especiiiiT
suggestive, leading to the itaL
A friend who was part of dM tias
with me observed that he had thought
some of my pictvres, wUch he M
seen, compositions withost the w«-
ranty of nattire ; bnt he now saw tkit
nature supplied me with what I
wanted, and acknowledged tet tks
sketches were correct. It was tki
I observed that the sketcher may tii
almost everywhere what he has ktft
to look for. The fact is, that it is iot
whole and large soener7,nortbeaaik
beautifid, that best saito the psmur,
but those parts which he can eoB-
bine. The real painter looks to nalvB
for form and oolonr, the eLeaenls d
his art: upon these he most woifc;
and they seldom reach aay sm^
magnitude, or are difinsed over \uf^
space.
Why is it, that generally what «e
term beantifhl scenery was seldom the
ground of the old painters? They
were not, generally speiJcing, pamteri
of views ; and why not ? There the
pictures were made for them. Ih^
1819.]
mil ail tiMWVffid Itti thetUiigbt*
lors tbfim to love Mid to miamt^H
wBsalreodydoBe; tlMio was bo rMm
Inr tiMir genaosy wlack is » creatiTO,
net an inutetive facal^. The scoae
for aiv«iT a^ was not tfaein. They
fiaai ttet, by their tKi, liMgr could
take aatere'a heat featia^ evoA finoa
her fragaaeBta. It seqnirea sot an
Alp to perfenry g^randesr. Fifty feat
0f ntkj pvadpitoiis or aapeoaipeiid-
hig« wfll better fepreaent the greatneaa
of dancer; ftr it is & more immediate
and ao&d masa to eraafa the intmdery
and the iBnn mi^fivira with a demon
laafioeL The whole awe of darkneaa
naj be felt in a caiFem of a few feet
nMwe. JUeed, It nuqr be ahneat said
mt lafgeness is not to be ofatahied
OS the eanvMB, by the largeness of
whole eztaBslva scenes in natmw, bnt
by the oontinaoos fines of near
maaaee: whatever is actnaUy lai^gest
in nataie the fereat and the moan*
tain — in act may with adraatage
ooeopy the amallest space. For the
beat aaagnltade hen is in perspective,
and in that aerial tone which, as a
veii, half osnoeals, and thereby makes
and converts into one
wlieie the parts wiiich would,
oAsrwise seen, bat break up the
gpeat eharaeto'. The Arabian genii
were greatest when dimly seen tfaroog^
smdEo and vaponr.
Aity indeed, diffena from natnre in
tloB, aa vegaida the pleasnre derived
tiwonogh tlieeye,tliatnatareaUowa yon
anmy onpenpeetive views at many ia-
atant gittioes, and therefore surprises
yon, if I maf so express it, with a
perspective impossibility, of which the
jndgmewt at the time is not cognisant;
whereas art is bomided by a mle,
looks not all aronnd, and comprehends
by mind beyead the eye, bnt is con-
strained to frame in the conception.
It niBSt, therefore, make to itself an-
other power — ^and this power it finds
in fonn, in light and shade, and oo-
kwr, all which are in greater intensity
and force in tiie fragmentary parts
than in the whole and large scenes.
It u a Btq> for the yonngardstto be-
lieve that art and natnre ai?e net and
should not be the same— that they are
essentially diifeieBt, and use their
matortals differenify, have other roles
of space and largeness. If art be
more Itmited, its power is greater by
417
beiBg moie ccmdensei, — and its im-
pressions move certain, because moce
direct, and not under the vague and
changeaUe process of making an ide*
fiYwn many per^[>ectives.
If there be trath in these remaikSv
we may see why Ae old masteoB left
nntoncted these scenes which are the
delight of tourists. To copy the scene
before them was to put their creative
faculty in abeyance. It was only to
work alter a given pattern — ^and tiiat
pattern imperfect— of a whole whidt
deied the lawa of optics. I faere-
^peak almost entirdy of the Italian
masters, both the historical, and more
strictly the landscape painters. The
Flemish and Dutch schools had mostly
another aim, and were more imita--
tive; hence they are more easily
understood, bnt felt with a fiur less
passion. But even these, far from
undervaluing the conventional aids of
art, appfied as much of them as the
nature of their snt^ects would admit.
Bnt the sketcher mnst not consider
himself in his studies when he is out
with his portfolio. However he may^
select, he must be fatthfuL And tiuis-
fideit^ I have seen painterB of great
skill often unwisely contonn, become
too conventional, both in theur draw-
ing and colouring. It requires much
practice of the eye, as well as that
knowledge which constitutes taste,
to frame in as it were pictures, from
the large space that fills the eye.
Nothing is more usefal than to carry
in the portfolio a light frame of stiflT
paper or wood, and to hold it up, so
as aotnaUy to frnme in pictures, and
thus to experimentalise upon the
design, and see what shiftings of the
fhune make the best choice. It is an
assistance even to the most practised
in composition.
Lynmonth is greatly Improved of
late years in accommodation ; many
new lodging-houses are built, and
there are some residents who have
shown great taste in laying out their
grounds, and in their bnildings. The
little pier has been rendered pic-
turesque, by the erection of a small
look-oot house after a model from
Ehodes. There is not much here at
any time that would deserve the
name of shipping ; but a few fishing
boats, and such small craft compose
well with the little pier. The even-
413
Ltfnmouih HetUiUd.
[Oct.
iii-^'s are veiy fine, the snii setting
nvor the Channel ; and the AVelsh
coast in the distance assumes, occa-
sionally, a very beantitiil ultramarine
blue, like a glaze over warm colour-
ing. When the tide comes in, and
the little vessels are afloat, these are
good subjects, the water being of a
pray gi*een, softening the reflections.
I began a sketch when the boats were
aground ; but the tide, coming in
rapidly, soon so altered the position
oi the vessels that I did not proceed.
When the tide receded, leaving the
vessels aground, they were not in the
same direction in which I had sketched
thein : and an artist who was present
remarked, that the beauty of the
scene as a composition was gone, and
referred to the sketch. This led to
some discussion, as to the cause — Why
should it be less good now, said he,
than when you drew it ? 1 believe I
Kaw the reason, and pointed it out.
There was a sloop, larger by much
than all the rest, which were indeed,
though having masts, but boats. The
larger vessel was the principal ob-
ject, even more so than the buildings
on the pier, towards which it leaned ;
and this leaning was important, for
a union and certain connexion of
parts was everything here, for it made
one of many thing*;. Accordingly,
the smaller boats on each side the
larger vessel inclined their masts
towards it ; so that this manifest
uniting, and the belonging of one to
the otlier, was the ])leasing idea,
and invested the whole with a kind
of life and sensitiveness ; but in the
alteration, after the receding of the
tide, this commnnication of the one
with the other was gone, and, on the
contrary, there was left an uncomfort-
able feeling of disunion.
This reasoning was admitted, and
we further discussed the principle in-
volved in the remarks, as applicable
to all scenes and subjects. It is this
correspondence of part with part
which animates the works of nature,
invests them with an ideal sensitive-
ness ; and through this fond belief of
their life, our own sensitiveness is
awakened to a sympathy with them.
Whatever inanimate objects we in
our fancy invest with life, through
our own sympathy, we clothe with a
-kind of humanity ; and thus we look
on trees and rocks, and water, as to a
degree our fellow creatures, in this
great wild world. We love accord-
ingly. Sihil humanum a me aHemm
puto. The very winds speak to 13
as human voices, as do the trees la
their whisperings or complaiDUgi;
and the waters are ever repeating
their histories and their lomaDces to
onr willing ears. As we walked ve
tested the principle, and were belieT-
ers in its truth. ^^Mnrk," said oar
friend, "that bank of fern— how
graceful, how charming, is their bend-
ing, their interchange, their m»aa
and their hollow shades, their little
home-depths, wherein they groWt
and retire as their home-cbtmbers :
there is through oat the pleasing idei
of a family enjoying their quiet ex-
istence, and all in one small greea
world of their own." He enj(^
nature most worthily, and most io-
tensely, who carriea with him this
sense of nature's life, and of a on-
tuality, a co-partnership with the
blessings of existence with himself.
There are some fine rocks at the twj«
of the precipitous cliffs— of fine form
and colour; I never went snffideDtljr
near to sketch them, having no fia^
to be caught by the tide. I bAve
seen sketches made amongst then
that prove them to afford veiy good
subjects. 3^Iany years ago, wWlc sit-
ting imder these cliffs, I heard ft
groan ; I thought at the time it mtft
have been a delnsion, bat on thit
evening a man bad fallen over the
cliffs. His body was, I think, fooad
the next day. It fell from Coimt«^
bury Hill, the road on which is
certainly not safllciently protected.
And this reminds me to speak 01
an alarming occurrence on theroftdt
about half a mile from Lynmoat^
We were a small party, tad bftd
taken shelter from rain agauist the
receding part of the rocks cot Jo'
the widening the road. I ^
another were reading a neirspapef*
Looking up, we suddenly sawtv^
man on horseback very near ns. IV
animal started, add was frightened ><
the newspaper. Oar endeavour to
conceal it made the matter worse ; |kp
horse retreated from as, and I tbinl^
his hind legs coald not have be^
many inches from the precipice. It
was a tiding moment ; one step n^i^
1849.]
Lynmouth Revisited.
419
back wonld have been certain death to
both the woman and the horse. We
were tmly happy when, by a little
management, we contrived to get
tliem past ns. The road, too, is in
these dangerous places very narrow ;
vet the people yentnre to drive at a
good pace, and without reins, their
nncoath and apparently unmanage-
able teams — ^"neither quite dray nor
cart— fearlessly. It is surprising that
accidents do not often occur, especi-
ally as there is some danger from the
falling of masses of stone from above ;
and even such as the sheep remove
with their feet may frighten horses,
and precipitate all to sure destruction.
There are great rents in huge masses
of rock, close to the road, and some
apparently are kept firm with but
little earth, and seem to threaten a
move. I have had some blows on the
back occasionally from small stones,
cast down by passuag sheep, whUe I
have been sketching down by the
water; and once so large a one took
the comer of my portfolio, that with
my best speed I quitted the place.
That was some years ago ; but I have
recently seen not very small fragments
fall very near me. I would, there-
fore, ca.tttion the sketcher to choose as
safe a position as he can, which he
may generally find under some pro-
jection of rode. Some of the masses
in the l)ed of the river are of enormous
size; and let me here remark upon
the fine, bold character these masses
in the river possess — they are veiy
fine in form, and the beauty and
variety in their colouring are quite
wondrous. Some are very dark, en-
tirely covered with brown, and some
with bright golden moss. But most
of them when dry are gray — but one
name will not describe that gray,
varying as it does from the blue to the
green and pink hues. They are com-
monly in bold relief against the dark
water — yet themselves show dark,
edged by the white foam, where the
water, sloping insinuatingly, falls and
rushes by them. Here and there, in
some deep-shaded, wUd, lonely places,
they are of gigantic size, and look
like huge Titans turned to stone, amid
the fragments that had hurled them
down. The sketcher may easily
imagine himself in the territory of
magic. Shall I confess that, in such
places, I do not like to sketch alone?
And why not ? Why should there be
a something like a superstitious awe
of the spot, the ^^severi religio locif'
Doubtless it is because we do feel
contradicting knowledge, in this con-
sciousness of all nature in its own life
and power. Nor can we divest our-
selves of a kind of natural poetry — a
feeling that the rocks, the wild trees,
and the somewhere though unseen
'^ genius loci^^ all look at us, and we
fancy ourselves but under sufferance,
and know not how long our presence
may be endured. It is surprising how
a sense of such presences possesses
us when alone. I could often have
fancied voices, and mocking ones too,
in the waters, and threats that thun-
dered in the ear, and went off as if to
fetch and bring whole cataracts down
upon mo. In such places I do not
like to be caught by the dusk of the
evening, being quite alone.
The fact is, nature, to a real lover
and sketcher, is at all times powerful.
Scenes affect him as they affect no
other. I have oftef surprised people
by the assertion that I could not live
in the midst of fine scenery ; it is too
powerful, it unnerves one with an
unrelaxing watchfulness. The pre-
sence of the mountain will not be
shaken off. It becomes a nightmare
upon the spirits, holds communion
with the wild winds and storms, and
has fearful dealings I would not dream
of in the dark, howling, dismal nights.
Nor, when the sombrelight of a melan-
choly day just obscures the clouds that
have been gathering round it, would
I in imagination draw the curtain to
behold the unearthly drama.
There is something terrific in the
sound of unseen rushing water. When
all else is still in the dark night, and
you are uncertain of the path, and
feel the danger that a false footing
may plunge you into an abyss of
waters, that seem to cry out and roar
for a victim, have you not felt both
fear and shame ? Recently I experi-
enced this in Lynmouth, having in
the darkness lost my way. To the
poet and the painter, here is a source
of the sublime. Plunge your pencil
boldly into this eclipse, and work
into it a few dim lights, formless and
undefined — the obscure will be of a
grand mystery. The night- darkness
420
LymmnnUh RecisiUtL
[Oct
that settles over fine moantainoiis
scenery iloes not remove the sense of
its presence : as its lakes blacken,
they iKvome fabnJons. of unknown
depths, below which may be infernal
*" N.>lge." Bat I am wandering into
strange regions now. and far from
Lynmonth, whose scenes, after all,
are not of a very severe beauty, unless
we will to make it so. It will then
answer the demand imagination makes
upon it. Many are the scenes of a
piurely quiescent kind, still and calm,
and of gtMitlo repose, where the shal-
low river shows its amber bed, where-
in the gleams rest upon the well- de-
fined leiiges beneath, whose gray
shadows melt into golden tints : and
beyond, in the deeper pools, the green
of the trees is refiected greener still,
across which here and there is a gray
streak, showing the river's silent oii-
wanl movement : and further on. some
dark stones send their brown and
pur}^le hues, mirrored and softened
down into the green, just dotted here
and there with white. Then the trees
shoot out lovingly from the bank over-
head, and reach and communicate
pleasantly with those on the opposite
side ; and here a bough sends down
and just forbears to touch the stream.
Narcissus- like, loving its ot^'u image.
The gray stones in the foreground,
half beneath the water, are of a deli-
cate hue, bine intermingling with pale
greenish and lakey tints : for there is
nothing violent in all this scene of
peaceful repose. Very many spots of
this kind are there that court the
sketcher. Let him wind his way over
masses of stone, and roots of trees,
beyond these — the scene how chang-
ed ! The masses of stone are huge,
blocking up, in various positions, the
free passage of the river, which chafes
and tbama between them, throwing
off its whiteness into the brown and
green water depths. One broad sha-
dow is over the dark stones ; and be-
yond that rise the tops of other
masses, gray illuminated ; and beyond
them, a gleam or two of falling water.
>Vilder are the trees that shoot out,
from rocky fragments near, and lock
their branches with those on the other
side ; while in the hollow space be-
neath their arching boles, distant and
fantastic stems cross the stream.
Opposite are huge masses, ledges
it-ith precipitoiis and brown-mossed
sides ; above which the high rockj
bank sends forth large trees, tbdr
roots twisting about the rocks sad
coming out again throngh the fissenii
and met by green weed leafinge. Ill
trees are darker than the doa-nd
grotmd, bot edged with greenish li^;
and above them tiie yellow sanfaiht
gleams through, and the dotted hh
of sky is just seen ; and, as aToidJH
the light, a huge branch, or liu
rather, shoots down, edged with tki
light on its vpper sm&oe, aad dak
underneath, and throws a scanty d^
fined lea£^pe across oyer the dsptfaif
the river. Bat this predpitoos hink
again terminates towaids the le^fBi
in fine masses, rods that pRjeot ud
recede, partially Inminons with v^
fleeted Ugfat, and then falUig M
into extreme brown uid puple dskr
neas, down into which the ify ftb
clustering and perpendicidar, wu ii-
nnmerable tariar-luEe shoots and tan-
drils. Here are serarer staiHi
They are to be found by cnMsfaigtki
Lyn by the wooden lirito, not Ar
from Ljnimontii, and folfowhv tbe
path through the wood some ir^i
and seeking the bed of the rinrbf i
scarcely-disoemible sheep-pafli, ti
it be lost at the edge of a dowainid
way, not very dmicnlt of daBoent
Within a very small spmo^ then an
fine and very different sirigeets. Om
of scarcely less grandev than tk
last described, if it liad not wan
beauty blended with it; hit it
must be seen in the son's €9»-
the best time will be about 8 owck.
Reach a large stone that mtsoitfroB
the river's side, dimb it, and look
down the stream. Ton mvstskslth
rapidly, for the charm will not isat *
is most lovely in colour, and tiie faai
are veiy beantifnl. T%e opposite ade
of the river may be termed a non-
tain side, broken into hoUows, in wtiA
rock and vegetation deepen into shads.
The top is covered with txees, nn
graceful, the sun edges their tops, sad
rays flow throngh them, tonching witk
a white and silver ^ght tb» i^ed rock.
which is here perpendicnlar. Bejwi
this moimtain-side, which juts outt if
another clothed cUff, tenmnatisg st
the base in bold and bare rock: be-
yond this, and hl^h above, shooting
into the sky, are piled rocks of a wild
kw duDicter, gray, bat dark
Hm distant moontaiii range, of
marine haze, over warm and
vailed downward passages ;
I the iUomined and (Unmiaat-
. On the side of the river from
lovely view is seen, are
i« bad^ed by trees, which
bnt Ugh overhead, so
sketch the leafage wonld
It wen from the sky into the
if tlM Dieting. The river itself
•oooraant in ooionr, and in the
■d light and shade of the
Aat, though so large, are
I hf_ tiw laige precipitons rocks
above them. The coarse
is away from the eye of
in parts darkly tran-
deep---liere and there
^ike white foam, and in other
I floiber and reddish bed.
la tether back from this point
Ja «M>ther of the same scene ;
■bCflil whidi would make the
On tiie very same stone
I sketched the scene de-
tag with my back to the
\ iride of the river, I was mnch
fMi the fine forms and solemn
Id duuto (tf a rock, that was
■% hollow at its base, and
Vtbe stream. Above it, and
giato the middle of the pic-
I smUt boles of coppice-trees,
Mrtg the light- green leafage,
Im only positive sunlight of
tve: whatever else of light
li, was shade lominoos. This
■ VBhed with another across
■re, that thus made a centre
ndBg te the coppke, dotted
I Mm sky ; bat all that side of
■VB was in veiy dark shadow,
nk perpendicoiar, through the
Tivmch light and boldly formed
le to the top of the picture, and
Ivwn leafage into the deep
Tke colouring of the cavernous
iras remariuible : it was dark,
ifaig gray, and pink, and green.
■e was of an ideal character ;
donbt if the sketch, though
Itt as much truth as I could
ironld be thought to be from
The same rocky mass, taken
ber direction, supplies a very
fc but perhaps equally good
te the pencU. I say these
I are of an ideal kind. It maybe
421
asked — ^Are they not true? — ^are they
not in nature ? Thev are ; but still for
a better use than the pleasure of the
imitation a mere sketch offers. These
are the kinds of scenes for the painter's
invention, into which he is to throw
his mind, and to dip his pencil freely
into the gloom of bte palette, and con-
centrate depths, and even change the
forms, and even to omit much of the
decorative detail, and make severity
severer. He would give the little trees
a wilder life, a more visible power, as
if for lack of inhaUtant they only were
sentient of the scene. If a figure be
introduced, they would be kept down,
but shoot their branches towards him,
for there would be an agreement, a
sentient sympathy. Bnt what figure?
It is not peaceful enough for a hermit ;
too solemn for the bandit, such as
Salvator would love to introduce ; an
eariy saint, perhaps a St Jerome — ^no
unapt place for him and his lion : and
somehow it must be contrived to have
the water perhaps entering even into
the retreat, and reflecting the aged,
the hoary bearded saint. Is not then
the subject ideal, and the sketch only
suggestive ? And here let me remark,
with regard to that favourite word
'^ finish," — an elaborate finish of all
the detail, either of objects or colour-
ing, would ruin the sketch ; it would
lose its suggestive character, which is
its value. I have here described, I
know how inadequately, several very
striking scenes ; yet are they scarcely
a stone^s throw apart. I mention them
exclusively on that account, for, where
there is so much, it must be the more
worth the while of the sketcher to
take some pains to find out the spot.
What do we mean by the " ideal "
of landscape ? The ^* naturalists ^^
ask the question in a tone of somewhat
more than doubt. The sketcher is apt
to be caught in the snare of nature's
many beauties, and, growing enamour-
ed of them in detail, to lose the higher
sense in his practical imitation. This
is a danger he must avoid, by study,
by reflection, by poetry. If the " ideal"
be in himself, he will And it in nature.
If he sees in mountains, woods, and
fields but materials for the use of man,
and what the toil of man has made
them, he may be a good workman
in his imitation, but he will be a poor
designer. The ^^ ideal" grows out of
422
Lynmouth Rtviaited,
[Od.
a revereuce. which he can scarcely
feol. If the earth be nothing to him
l.'Ut for the plough, and the rivers for
the mill, and its only people are the
present people — doomed to toil, bear-
ing about them parochial cares, and
tasteless necessity, ignorant and re-
^rardless of the historj* of the earth
they ti-ead— he may boast of his love
of nature ; but his love is, in fact, the
love of his technical skill, of his imi-
tation, lie thinks more of the how
to represent, than what the scene may
represent. The ideal ranges beyond
tho present asi>ect, and he who has a
belief in it will reverence this ancient
earth, the cradle wher^cin he and all
living things took form from their
creation, lie will see visions of the
past, and dream dreams of its future
aspects and destiny : and will learn, in
his meditations, to recall the people of
old, and imprint its soil with imagi-
nary footsteps. The painter is no trae
artist if ho feel not the greatness of
nature*s immortality — at least, that as
it rose from the creation so will it be,
throwing forth its bounty, and beam-
ing with the same vi^jorous beauty,
till it shall pass away as a scroll. The
painter-i>oet must l)e of a loving super-
stition, must acknowledge powers
above his own — beings greater between
him and the heavens. They may be
invisible as angels, yet leave some un-
derstanding of their presence. They
will voice the woods and the winds,
and tell everywhere that all of natui*o
is Ufe. Are there not noble elements
here for the landscape painter, and
can neither history nor fable supply
him with better figures than toil-worn
labourers, drovers taking their cattle
or sheep to the butchers, and paupers
walking to the poorhouse? I like not
the "naturalist's'* poverty of thought.
If the art be not twin sister with poetry,
her charm is only for the eye. Nothing
great ever came from such hands.
'• Aud deeper faith — intenser tire —
Fed i»cul])tor*s chisel — poet's pen ;
What nobler theme might art reijuirc
Than ^ods on earth, and trodlike men ?
Yea, Jioas then >vatohed with loving caie
(Or ifuch, at least, the fond helief )
EVn lifeless things of earth and uir —
The cloud, the strciim, the stem, the leaf:
IriM, a goddess ! tinged the flower
With more than merelv rainbow hues ;
ivreat Jove himself !<ent down the shower,
Or freshen \l earth with healing dews I ^*
Kknvo*n'8 PoetHS,
How do such thoughts enhance all
nature's beauties! The sketchefd
real work is to see, to feel them ail,
and to fit them to the mind's poetic
thoughts.
I seem to be forgetting that the
reader and myself are all this while at
the water's edge, and undex deep-
brow'd rocks; that sunshine hadldt
us, and it is time to dimb to the
path that leads toward Lynmonth.
For such an hour we are on thewTDog
side of the stream. Now the woods
are mapped, and edged only by the sua
hastenmgdownwaru. Yet after awhile
we shall not regret that we are in this
path. Escaping the closer and shaded
wood, we shall reach a more open
space, and see the flood of evening*!
sunlight pouring in. Here it is ; my
sketch was poor indeed, for there was
neither time nor means to do anjthng
like justice to the scene. Here is a
narrow, winding rocky path, a little
above the river, from whose soperim-
pending bank, trees that now look
large shoot across the landscape, ud
a bold stem or two rises up bokUj to
meet them ; the river stretcbee to
some distance, wooded on thif side to
the edge, and wooded hills in front,
and in perspective. The distant hOls
are most lovely in colour, PcarlT sod
warm gray; the river, the btafinc
sky reflected, yet showing how lich
the tone, by a few yeHowisb-grif
lighter streaks that mark its mor^
ment. The fragments of rock in the
river are of a pinkish-grty, tnd,
though not dark, yet strongly marked
against the golden stream,— the whole
scene great in its simplicitj of effect
and design. In broad day the scev
would be passed unnoticed ; it voou
want that simplicity which is iu
charm, and be a scene of detail ; hot
now the lines arc the simplest, sou,
happily, where the river really turns,
its view is lost in the reflection of the
shaded wood. And here, in tbis
smallest portion of the pictnre, the
hills on each side seem to meet aou
fold, giving the variety in the smalltft
space, upon which I have maderf*
marks in this paper. This boantiiij
picture of nature I visited sever*!
evenings, and it little varied. But the
charm lasts not long — the sun sel^.^^
is behind the wooded hill, before it^
actual setting, yet leaves its tinge oi
1849.]
LifnmoiUh Hevinted,
423
lake blushing above the gold In the
sky — ^khe life of the scene has faded,
and it is still and solenni. I cannot
better describe the impression it left,
than by a quotation mm an old play,
In which the loyer sees his mistress,
who had swooned, or was in a death-
like sleep : —
" Ajnomo.
▲t tiM llfai liKhft I did btUtn her dMd—
Yol in that state w awfiil ilie uppmnd.
Thai I ftppcoftdMd lier with m much respect
As If the soul bad animated still
That body tvhiefa, though dead, scarce mortal
Bnt as the eon tnta oar horisOD gonot
His lieiim do lea^e a tincture on the skies.
Which shows it was not hmg since he withdrew ;
60 In her kifetj Ceoe there stiU appeared
Seme sosUei^ strsalcs of those TonnUion beams
Whidi osed t' inmdiaie that bright firmament.
Thus didi find that distreassd mirade,
Abie to wound a heart, as if allTe—
iDcapahle to ene it, aa if dead.**
Thns is there sympathy between onr
hearts and nature — ^a sympathy, the
secret of taste, which, above ail, the
sketcher should cultivate as the
source of his pleasure, and (may it
not he added ?) of his improvement.
I will not proceed fhrther with
description of scenes ; Lynmouth will
be long remembered. I scarcely know
a better spot for the study of close
flcenerj^. On reviewing my former
impresBions with the present, I should
not say that Ljrnmouth has lost, but
I have certunly gained some know-
ledge, and, I think, improved my
sympathies with nature ; and if I have
not enjoyed so enthusiastically as I
did sixteen years ago, I have enlarged
my sight and extended my power. I
am practically a better sketcher. The
hana and the eye work together; the
improvement of one advances the
other.
I know no better method of sketch-
ing than the mixture of transparent
and semi-opaque colouring. It best
represents the variety and the power
of nature; and as it more nearly
resembles in its worldng the practice
of oil-pi^ting, so is it the more
likely to improve the painter. I
have remarkea that, even in depth of
colour, the semi-q)aque is very much
more powerful than the transparent^
however rich; for the one has, be-
sides its more varied colour, the
solidity of nature ; whereas the most
transparent has ever an unsubstantial
look^— you see through to the paper or
the canvass. Semi-opaque, (or de-
grees of opacity, till it borders on the
transparent,) as it hides the material,
and throws into every part the charm
of atmosphere, so it will ever bestow
upon the sketch the gift of truth.
I did not begin this paper on Lyn-
mouth Revisited with any intention
of entering upon the technicalities of
art; so I will refrain firom any
further remarks tending that way,
which leads to far too wide a field for
present discussion.
VOL. LXVI. — ^NO. CCCCVIII.
2 F
121
M'hat has RevoUUitmuittg Germany attained f
[Oct
^•HAT HA3 REVOLUTIOKISING OERMAXY ATTADIED?
It is now rather more than a year
since we a;»keil, '' What would revo-
lutionising Germany be at ? '* A full
year has passed over the dreamy,
theorising, restless, autl excited head
of Gennany, theu Ci>n fused and stag-
p:cring, like ** a \im\i drunken with
new wine." but loudly vaunting that
its strong dose of revolution had
strengthened and not fuddled it, and
that it was about to work out of its
troubled brains a wondrous system of
German Unity, which M-as to bring it
intinite and ))ermanent happiness ; and
now we would once more ask. What
is the result of the attempted applica-
tion of German revolutionising theory
to practice ? In fact, what has revo-
lutionieing Germany attained? Our
first question we asktnl without being
able to resolve an answer. The pro-
blem was stated: an attempt was
made to arrive at something like a
solution out of the distracting hurly-
burly of supposed purposes and so-
called intentions; but, after every
elibrt to make out our ^^ sum" in any
i*eajsonable manner, we were obliged
to give it up, as a task impossible to
any ]>olitical mathematician, not of
(rerman mould ; to declare any defi-
nite solution for the present hopeless, —
and to end our amount of calculation
by arriving only in a cercie vicieujc at
the statomont of the jn'oblem with
which we started, and asking, as de-
spairingl}' as a tired schoolboy with
a seoniingly Impracticable equation
bcfoTO him, *' What, indeed, uoitld
revolutionising Germany be at ?" Are
we any further advanced now ? Wc
will not attempt the ditlicult sum
again, or we might find ourselves
obliged to avow ourselves as mnch
deticient in the study of German poli-
tical mathematics as before. But we
may at least try to und(Ttake a mere
smn of addition, endeavour to cast up
the amount of figures the Germans
themselves have laid before us, and
make out, as well as we can, what,
after a year's hard — and how hard ! —
work, revolutionising Germany has
attained. The species of sum -total,
as far as the addition can yet go, to
which wo may arrive, may be still a
veryconfnscd and nnsatiafactoryone;
but in asking, ^^ What has revolatkn-
ising Germany attained?" wc will not
take it entirely to our own charge, if
the answer attempted to be made is
thus confused and unsatisfactory.
German political sums are ill too
puzzling for English heads.
Last year Germany was, as jet,
very young in its rcvolntionaiy cireer.
It gal lotted over the country like an
unbroken colt, or rather like a nnd
bull, ^* running a-mnck** it scandy
knew, and seemingly little cared, it
what, provided that it trampled be-
neath its hoofis all that stood, and, with
proper culture, might have flonriihed
and borne fruit. It tried to imiuta
the frantic caperinga of its idlow-
revolut ioniser in the next paddock,
just over the Rhine; bat it imitated
this model in BoclumByafa8hk>n,tkift
it might have been very aptly coa-
pared to the ass in the fable, had not
the demonstrations it sought to auks
been destructive kicks, ami not mii^
taken caresses; and the model it
sought to copy resembled the blood-
hound rather than the lap-dog. ^
kicked ont to the right and to the left,
and, with its kicks, inflicted wvenl
stnnning blows, from which the othtf
states, upon whose heads the kicks ftD|
found some difficulty in reeovena^
Even the maddest of the drivers who
spurred it on, however, found it neces-
sary to present some goal, at which it
was eventually to arrive in its inad
career — that goal was called **Ge^
man Unity" in one great powerfii
united Germany. Where this vision-
ar}' goal existed, or how it was to be
attained — by what path, or hi what
direction, none seemed to know; b«t
the cry was, " On, on, on!" That it
should miss this coal, thus visionaiy
and indistinct, and plnnge on past it,
through the darkness of anarchy« to
another winning-post, jnst as indis-
tinct and visionary, called *^ a lUliTe^
sal republic," was a matter of Uttle
consideration, or was even one of boM
to those of its prindnal drivers who
whipped, and spnrrea, and hooted it|
with deafening and distracting cries,
like the Roman drivers of the oi*
1849.]
What has Revolutionigmg Cfermany aUcdnedf
ridden horses in the Corso races. A
br«iker-in was attempted, however,
to be placed, and not, at first, pre-
cise! j by those who most wished to
check it, upon the back of the tearing
beast, in order to moderate its paces,
and canter it as g^ently as might be,
onwvds to the denied goal — ^which
still, however, lay only in a most misty
distance, to which none seemed to
know the road. In this rider, called
a central Frankfort parliament, men
began to place thehr hopes; they
tar^ted confidently that it might ride
the animal to its destination, sdthongh
tiiey knew not where that lay. The
revohition, then, was decked ont with
colonis of red, and black, and gold —
the colonre of an old German empire,
snd of a new derived Grerman nnity—
and the rider mounted into the saddle.
How the rider endeavoured to show
the animal's paces — ^how he strove to
goide bim forwards — how sometimes
he seemed, indeed, to be proceeding
along a path, noeertam, it is true, but
apparently leading somewhere — how
often he stmnbled — how often, In his
inexperience, he slipped in his saddle
— how, at last, he slipped and fell firom
it altogether, in vain endeavouring,
nairaed, matilated, braised, and half
stmmed, to spring hito the saddle
again, are matters of newspaper his-
tSry that need no detail here. It
sniBces to say, that tiie rider was im-
horsed — ^that the animal gave a last
desperate plunge, Ueking and wound-
ing the only one of the states around
that stroTe to the last to caress and
soothe it with gentle treatment — ^that
It now stands perspiring, shaking,
quivering in eveiy limb — snorting
in vain struggle, and champing the
bit of ^e bridle which Prussian mili-
taiy force has thrown upon it. To
what, then, has Germany attained in
Its revolutionising career? It has,
at all events, not reached that ima-
ginary goal to which men strove to
ride it ^thout dnrection-post. The
goal is as fitr off as ever, i>erhaps
tether off than before, as may be
shown. It remains just as vague/ and
visionary, and misty. Not one step
seems to have been taken towards it.
Has no farther step whatever been
taken, ^en, after aU this mad rushing
faitiier and thither ? And if any, how,
and whither? We shall endeavour to
425
see, as far as we are able. Our readers
must, then, judge whether it be for-
wards or backwards, or whether, in
fact, it be any step at idl.
The Franldfort parliament has fallen
fi^m its seat. Last year, when we
gave a sketch of its sittings in that
Lutheran church of St Paul in Frank-
fort— ^now bearing a stamp which
its sober-minded architect probably
never dreamt of, as a historical build-
ing— ^it was young, still in hopes;
and amidst its inexperience, its va-
pouring declamation upon impractic-
able theories, its noise and contiision, its
clamorous radicalism, and its internal
treachery, that sought every pretext for
exciting to anarchy and insurrection, it
put forward men of note and ability —
iHio, however lacking in practical ex-
perience, gave evidence of noble hearts,
if not soundheads, and good intentions,
if not governmental power. It con-
tained, amidst much bad, many ele-
ments of good ; and, if it has no other
advantageous result, it has proved a
school of experience, tact, and reason —
as far at least as Grermans, in the pre-
sent condition of their political educa-
tion, have been able to profit by its
lessons and its teaching. De mortuia
nU nisi banum as far as possible I It
is deftmct. What its own inability,
want of judgment, internal disorgani-
sation, and ^^ vaulting ambition, that
overleaps its sell," commenced, was
completed by the refusal of the prin-
cipal northern German states to ac-
knowledge its ill-digested constitution.
It sickened upon over-feeding of con-
ceit, excess of supposed authority, and a
naturally weak constitution, combined
with organic defects, weakened still
more by a perpetual and distracting
fever ; it was killed outright by what
the liberals, as well as the democrats,
of Germany choose to call the ill
faith and treachery of Prussia in de-
clining to accept its ofiers, and ulti-
mately rescuing to listen to its dic-
tates. Its dying convulsions were
frightful. It fled to Stutgardt, in the
hopes that change of air might save it
In its last extremity: and there it
breathed its last. Its very home is a
wreck ; its furniture has been sold to
pay the expenses of its burial; its
lucubrations, and its mightv acts, in
which it once fbndly hoped to have
swayed all G^ermany, if not the world,
42r>
What h<u Rerolathnising Gtrmcmy aitamedf
[Oct
have beon dispersed, in their i-ecorded
form, among cheesemongers and green-
grocers as waste- paper, at so much the
ponnd. Its honse — the silent, sad, and
denuded church of St Paul— looks now
like its only mausoleum : and on its
walls remains alive the allegorical pic-
ture of that great German empire,
which it deemed it had but to will to
found — the grim, dark, shaded face of
which grows grimmer and darker still,
day by day; whilst the sun that rises
behind it, without illuminating its
form, daily receives its thicker and
thicker cloud of dust to obscure its
painted rays. Of a sooth, the allegory
is complete. It is dead, and resolved
to ashes. Its better and brighter ele-
ments have given up their last breath,
as, in their meeting at Gotha, they
made a last eflfort to discuss the ac-
ceptance of the constitution which
Prussia oflfered in lieu of their own,
and strove, although only still wear-
ing a most ghostly semblance of life,
to propose to themselves the best ulti-
mate means of securing that deside-
ratum, which they still seem to con-
sider as the panacea for all evils — ^thc
great and powerftil " United Ger-
many" of their theoretical dreams.
This last breath was not without its
noble aspirations. Its less pure, more
self-seeking, and darker elements have
striven, by wild and no longer (even
in appearance) legal means, to galva-
nise themselves into a false existence ;
their last struggles were snch hideous
and distracted contortions as arc usu-
ally produced by such galvanic appli-
cations ; and now the German papers
daily record the arrest of various
members of the so-called '^ Rump
Parliament,** (so nicknamed by the
application or rather misa])pllcation of
an English historical term,^ which re-
ceived its final extinguishing blow at
Stutgardt, mixed up, in these days of
imprisonment, as the consequence of
mistaken liberty, along with insnr-
gents and rebels engaged in the late
disastrous scenes acted in the duchy
of Baden. Such was to be their fate.
But, be it for good or for evil, the
Frankfort parliament has died, as was
prophesied, and not without convul-
sions : its purposes have proved null ;
its hopes have been dispersed to the
winds ; its very traces have been
8wei)t away; its memory is all but a
bitter mockery. Thus far, then, wc
may indeed shake our heads de^>
ingiy as we ask — "Whit has
revolutionising Germany as yet at-
tained?''
AVhat has it attained? Letosp^
on. In the first place, what remains
of the gigantic cloud, which men
attempted to catch, embody, ind
model into a palpable form, althongli
with hands inexperienced, and with
as little of the creative and vivifying
health really within its power, ts
Frankenstein, when he sought to
remould the crumbling elements he
possessed into a human form, ind
produced a monster. What remiios
of the great united German empne
of men's dreams? Notliing but %
phantom of a central power, grasping
the powerless sceptre of a ghmx
empire; surrounded by nunistof
whose dictates men despise and dli-
regard, in veritable exercise of tfadr
functions, as ghostly as itself. The
position of the Imperial adoiiiii-
t ration has become a bywoid nd s
scoff; and it is lamentable to see a
prince, whose good intentions nerO'
have been doubted, and whose pop-
lar sympathies have been so oms
shown, standing thus, in a situtte
which borders npon the ri^Bcnlon^-
an almost disregarded and now me-
less puppet — a gwui emperor wHhont
even the shadow of an empfav ; tfd
yet condemned to play at empiN-
administrating — as children plirf tt
kings and queens — ^none heeding1iN|r
innocent and bootless ffune. Hov
far the edicts of the dotoct FmiJt-
fort parliament, and the decrees of
the government of the Imperial Yicir-
age—paralysed in aU real strength, if
not utterly' defunct now — are Md ts
a public mockery, is Tery pithily eri-
denced to the least open eyes of uj
traveller to the baths of Gemnyf
at most of which the gambling tiMss
— supposed to be suppressed, iwl
declared to be illegal by the shade of
the " central power," — openly pawie
their mancenvres, and earn their gibs
as of yore ; or, at most, fix npon the
doors of their hells a ticket, writtet
" sahns reservdsj** to give them the
faint appearance of private establish-
ments, and thus adopt a very fUmsy
pretext, and effect a most barefiictd
evasion of a hitherto usele» Uw
1849.]
What has RevobUumimg Germany atiainadf
427
Croupiers and gamblers sit sqHatting,
most dlsrespectfoilj, at almost every
bathiiig-place, npoaihe Impoial edict
— ^aa the toads and fro|^ squatted
upon King Log — ^treating bim as a
jest, and oovering bim with their
dltby slime. By what authority—of
the same Imperial Vicar al8a--the
whole country around Frankfort is
overrun with Prussian soldiers, it
would be difficult to show. That the
.so-called free city itself should be
oocnpied by a joint garrison of Prus-
aian and Austrian troops for its
protection^ may be looked upon as
a lesal measure, adopted and autho-
rised by a new parliament, and a
oentral power, such as it is, as by
the old Diet. But when we see
in every village round about— in
«very house, in almost eveiy hovel
— ^those hosts of Prussian spiked
helmets gleaming in the sun — ^those
Prusaian bayonets planted before
every door — those Prussian uniforms,
studding, with variegated colour,
ewery gnesa rural scene; when we
oever cease to hear upon the breeze —
wherever we may wander in the
4xmnti7 — ^the clang of Prussian mili-
tary bands, and the tramp of Prussian
infantey ; when we find the faces of
Proflsian military at every window,
and observe Prussian soldiers mixing
in every action of the common every-
day life of the country; and then
tnra to ask how it comes that Prus-
sian soldiers swarm throughout a
part of the land in no way t^longlng
to Pmssia, we are able to receive no
more reasonable answer than that
*^tliey are there because they are
tbere'^ — an explanation which has a
more significant meaning in it than
the apparently senseless words seem
to express. " They are there because
they are there** — that is tosay, without
anyreeognised authority from anycen-
tnd German power. ^^ They are there
becaose they are there,** — because
Prussia has sent them. Where, then,
is the central power? — ^what is its
force ? what its authority ? what its
aense ? If, then, all that still remains,
in living form, of that great united
Oennany of men*s dreams, is but the
-^^ shadow of a shade,*' in power — tL
power disregarded— even more, de-
spised and ridiculed^ what has revo-
lutionising Germany attained in its
chase after the phantom of its
hopes?
if in this res^t it has attained
nothing which it can show, after
more than a year*s revolution, for the
avowed or pretended purpose of ob-
taining some result to this very end,
it cannot bo said, however, that no-
thing remains to Germany ^ its
dream of unity. Spite of sad expe-
rience— spite of the uselessness of
every effort — spite of sacrifices made
and sorrows suffered — ^Germany still
pursues its phantom with as much
ardour as berore. Like the prince in
the fairy-tale, who, panting, breath-
less, half-dead with exhaustion and
fatigue, still hunted without rest for
the imaginary original of the fair por-
trait placed in his hands— 'Untired
and unyielding, after the repeated
disappointments of lifting veil after
veil firom forms which he thought
might be that of the beloved one —
still driven on by an incurable longing
— still yearning despairingly, and with
false hope, — so does Germany, after
lifting veil after veil only to nnd de-
lusive spectres beneath, still yearn
and long for the object of its adora-
tion. It is impossible to travel, even
partially, through the country. With-
out discovering, from every conversa-
tion with all classes, that the intense
craving for this object — this great
blessing of a grand and powerful
United Germany — is as strong as
ever — ^far stronger than ever! For
what was not very long ago only the
watchword of the fancied liberal stu-
dent, in his play of would-be conspi-
rator— what was but the pretext of
really conspiring and subversive de-
mocrats— ^what grew only by degrees
into the cry of the people, who
clamoured, not knowing what they
clamoured for — has taken evidently
the strongest root throughout the
whole mass of German nationality,
and grows — grows in despite of the
rottenness of the branches it has as
yet sent forth — ^grows in despite of
the lopping, breaking, and burning of
its first offshoots — grows in despite of
the atmosphere of contention, rather
than of union, that becomes thicker
and more deleterious to its ^owth,
around it, and of the blight it daily
receives from the seemingly undis-
persable mildew of hatred, suspicion,
El in ••I the
::.c
^ : - ..:. i N r. ■::. '•■rnianv.
..«-... a.-.* . .■.■—.■■- i^—.v .. itii^tru
TT i-.::-! .: Iv?- "s^*.!.. l.Zi-zri.'.'t of
r: ■:.::. .s ■::■:-. \. 1-: Et«5- 1? _>avrawd
ktvIt.^ :.: :Lc :.-?•.??!. a of ihe
; " . ;. : : : rj — in : : -. i ? '. - j . : : w.:.n: i sroxn.
:.. ; : ■■:■::!■ -l a? :... ::.Ar.M:.i ni«
:..:::.er .wniiarihcr :ro". :hr iTa^p— is
r-.- :■■.. : i: : rvic-.* il* cidi?-e* ip>in
I- *. w I.' .\\-vr : i: ij i:: the month of
;*.. :\iiv. ■:•: .i'.:l.u aa-.; ;•:* !ic::*e. as in
i_i: j:::.e wLu sli rv-ti^o-fvUiicai
c :.:':•->';. i^: : i: WvViiie? ni'ire and
■.:*i.;r\- u-j'vor^a'.. and it aicoani? to a
V iuia. A*k •: :" wb« r.i > ..a iviil. Whi-
:". -.7 t-i IV.? 4.T-:ra2an !:. ;v": and ihv an-
T'Wrr wi.i -:;.i anl v^rrl*^ ibe s-ame^
'■ ^.tvrn^i:i ui.ity.'" Bn: a?k n«.»n:"re:
f'V i['>\ii iL'iuire. a« la?: ye^v, into
i:.? ■•hoA-.* ihi- -wht.n." i\^^ "w-hi-re."
iho aii*WLT wiii In iiiv.?i cai^slv- eivirii
ill the *ame «tr.iiii of incouii-reueasible
aLil .-till nn.'iv iiiipra^iicablt* rh.^.f-sody
— Ti^i.inarv. p«>etii?;\l. n«.»l»le Si**me-
tinies. but piirpchjekss a* liefore : or
nii'n will shnji their shi.»nli]iT<. rliake
their iiead<i. and si;L'h. bnt still dream
on the divam of German unity — still
clamour for it loud i v. And well mar
W'*tat fiji Rei-rjUttioHWHO Germany attained? [Oct.
Saxony ; but even in tliis union has
)>een disunion — reticence, and snspi>
ciou. and doubt, and indecision, amoog
tlit' proposed allies themselves ; while
Austria. Bavaria, and even \Vnrtcfl-
Wnz. have held aloof to sulk nd
sr-if. and have seemed to hide thil
time when Austria should be kfls
^hackled, and could better oppoM the
?'.;j'remacy of Xorthcrn Ciermtn in-
niTc-noo. Coalitions even now ire
taiked of. to which, if Prussia be not
a stranger, it is to be admitted only
as a humbled ally. AVith these feel-
icjs. which exist not only between
j«>wers. bnt in the people, the cirrf
L'uited C^rmany is bnt a jeM—tbe
I'.'njinj a jcrreon- sickness. Certainlj
rev'.'iutionisinir C^rmanv has not thus
far attained any step in its progrev
towards the great desideratum of iU
nationality. The only scmblanoeof
]rojrre?s has been, in the advances tf
Prussia towards supremacy, ia the
ce?<iou of the principality of Hohen-
Z'lllom Si^maringen to its territoit,
(an example which other small G^
man principalities may follow^ in i^
present occupation of the free town of
Hamburg, in its military occnpitioi
of the duchy of Baden, of which
more further" on. But if these he
steps towards a united Germaoy, teD
it to Southern Germany, aad heir
they shake their luads and groan, if what it will say!
such Ih.* the enil and aim of all Ger-
man aspirations I fur where, indeed,
is the path that leads to it? That
which Germany is itself folio win £r up.
leads (for the present at least) visibly
from it, and not tr»wards it. Prussia
has promulgated its o»nstitntion, —
and we may ask. par pfirtntfose^
whether that is to be put forward as
the great end which revolutionising
Germany has attaine<l, after more
than a year's ro volution? Prussia
has called upon all Germany to join
with it, hand in hand, in this consti-
tution, granted and given, but not
nrcepted, at the hands of a Frank-
fort parliament. In answer to its
rail, it has found the cleft between
Xorthcrn and Southern Germany —
the cleft of envy anrl jealousy, suspi-
cion and mistrust— growing wider and
wifler to oppose it. It haf» attempted
to fijrrn a partial union of Nortliem
Ciormanv — between the more north-
crn states of Prussia, Hanover, and
If so little, then, baa been attuned
1>y revolutionising Germany, in iti
progress towards its most londlf
clamoured desire, let na see whit
else it has attained. After a yesr's
labour, wliich was not without itt
throes, revolutionising Gennaoy, •*
represented by its central pariiamenti
brought forth its constitution— •
ricketty child, bnt fnlly expected toy
its fond, and in many respects infttn-
ated parents, to grow into a pa^
and flourish under the edifice d *
I'nited German Empire. TV i«"
piicit adoption of this bantling hf
the several German states, as tl^
heir and future master, was decUred
by revolutionisers to be the tint ^
iion of their sufferance still to ew
at all, under the will of the peof*.
Unhappy bantling, decked out with
all sorts of promised gifts for the
futin-o weal of mankind by its wwiM-
he fairy godmothers ! it prove<l but fc
changeling — or rather an imp, pii>-
J^ai has BevohUioniaing Germany attained?
ritb every CDrse, instead of
easing ; as if tlic gifts it was
L to bestow had been reversed
icked fairy among the god-
, who had more power than
And, of a truth, there was
one among them : and her
18 Anarchy or Subversion, al-
the title she gave hcrseif was
inblic, and the beast on which
was Self- interest. The conse-
was, that the very contrary
I to that which revulutionisers
tphesied or rather menaced.
and the other states, which
to adopt the bantling, thus
gly thrown into their arms,
me on, wo cannot say the
' but uneven *^ tenor of their
ao matter now by what means,
apeak only of the strange
I of the much -laboured, long-
1, loudly- vaunted Frankfort
tton. Ahno-tt the only one—
of the larger states the only
bat seemiugly accepted tlfe
I forced npon it, with frank-
lIllngneBS, and openness, has
nvnbed by the most terrible
WHTB. In Baden, the accep-
f the Frankfort constitution,
t Us rejection, by a well-
f, mild, but perhaps weak
ras eagerly seized upon as
ext for disa flection, armed
tion, civil war; while Wiir-
', where it was received by
If, although with evident un-
ess, or, as he himself ex-
it, in a somewhat overstrained
pathos, ^Mvith bleeding and
heart, " narrowly escaped
nvolved in the same fearful
The process by which this
raa attained in Baden was
enough, although fully in
Qce with the usual mancouvres
inarchical leaders of the day,
lile denouncing Jesuitism, in
urts of the world, as the gi*ent
lanti- popular influence against
they have most to contend,
ly adopt the supposed and
snonnced principle of Jesuit-
that ^^the ends justify the
' — as their own peculiar line
act ; and use every species of
ry, deceit, falsehood, and do-
u holy and righteous weapons
lacred cause of liberty, or of
429
that idol of their worship which they
choose to nickname liberty. In show-
ing what revolutionising Germany
has, or rather perhaps has not, as yet,
attained, we must briefly, then, revert
once more to that insurrection and
its suppression, that has so fearfully
devastated the duchy of Baden, and
its neighbouring province of the Pala-
tinate, which, although belonging to
Bavaria, is so distant and divided
from that kingdom as to be included,
without further distinction, in the
same designation.
It was with almost prophetic spirit
that we, last year, spoke of the un-
happy duchy of Baden, which had
then, as since, the least cause of com-
plaint of any of the several subdivi-
sions of Germany. " Nothing," it
was then said, ^^ can be more uneasy
and dis(iuieting than its appearance.
In this part of Germany, the revolu-
tionary fermentation appears far more
active, and is more visible in the
manner, attitude, and language of the
lower classes, than even in those (at
that time) hotl)eds of revolutionary
movement, Austria and Prussia. To
this state of things the continity with
agitated France, and consequently a
more activo aflinity with its ideas,
caught like a fever from a next-door
neighbour's house, the agency of the
emissaries from the ultni- republican
Parisian clubs, who find an easier
access across the frontiers, and the fact
also that the unhappy duchy has been,
if not the native country, at least
the scene of action of the repub-
lican insurgents, Ilecker and Struve,
have all combined to contribute."
*''• It is impossible to enter the duchy,
and converse with the peasant popu-
lation, formerly and proverbially so
peacefully disposed in patriarchal
Germany — formerly so smiling, so
ready, so civil, perhaps only too
obsequious in their signs of respect,
now so insolent and rude — without
linding the poison of those various
influences gathering and festering m
all their ideas, words, and actions."
Such were the viewH written last
year; and this state of things has
since continued to increase, as regards
popular fomientntion, and disposition
lo insurrection. D^jmagogic agitators
swanned in the land, instilling poison
wherever they went, and rejoicing as
TVJiat has Recolutionising Gtrmany aUamedf
130
tlicy saw the virus do its work in tbe
brcakiug out of festering sores. The
tactics of this party, in all lands, has
been to try their experiments upon
the military ; bnt it has only been in
Baden, thns demoralisetl, and dis-
organised by weakness of sufferance,
and a vain spirit of concession and
looked-for conciliation, that these
subjects were found fitting for the
efibrts of the experimentalisers. The
rit-us had already done its work
among them, to the utmost hopes of
the poisoning ci*ew, when the New
Frankfort Constitution — the rejection
of which was to be the signal for a
ffuasi legal insurrection — was accepted
by the Grand- duke of Baden. But
the agitators were not to bo thus
baffled. A pretence, however shallow
and false, was easily found in the
well-prepared fermentation of men^s
minds ; and the military, summoned
by demagogic leaders to tumultuous
meetings, were easily persuaded that
a false, or at least a defectiye draught
of the new boasted constitution had
been read to them and proclaimed—
that, in the rea/ constitution, an enact-
ment provided that the soldiers were
to choose and elect tlieir own officers —
that this paragraph had been care-
fully suppressed ; and that the mili-
tary had been thus deprived and
cheated of their rights. £asily de-
tected as might have been the false-
hood, it nevertheless succeeded in
its purposes. The military insurrec-
tion, in which the tumultuous and
evil-disposed of the lower classes, and
a great portion of the disaffected
peasantry joined, broke out on the
very evening of one of these great
meetings ; and, by means of a well-
prepared and actively organised con-
centration of measures, in various
parts of tbe duchy at the same time.
Thus was the very acceptance of the
revolutionary constitution made in
Baden a pretext to stir the land to
insurrection.
After the full account already pub-
lished in the«e pages, it is needless
to enter into detail, with regard to
the events which marked the pro-
gress and suppression of this great
insurrection. It is only to show the
insensate state of mind to which re-
volutionary agents, left to do their
will, were able to work up the miii-
[Oct.
tary ; the confused ideas and pnrpcaes,
with which these would-be revolutioa-
ising German heads were filled ; the
ignorance that was displayed amoig
these men, said to be enliffhtaud by
^^ patriots,'' and their want of aU
comprehension of the yery rights ftr
which they pretended to cUmonr— k
fact, the utter absence of any expe*
rieuce gained by the lower dassei^
and especially the militaiy portion of
them, after more than a year's nrolo-
tionising, that we briefly recapitilita
some of the leading events of toe ont-
break. It was with a perfect headkng
frenzy that the garrison of the fintrai
of Rastadt first revolted ; it was with
just as much appearance of madnoi
that the mutiny broke oat simlti-
neously in the other gairison towsL
There waa every evldeiice of xaM
mania in the depi<H«ble scenes irhkk
followed, when saperior offloers inTOi
attempted with seal and coonga to
stem the torrent, and, in many In-
stances, lost their lives at the haids
of the infuriated soldiery ; when ottan
were cruelly and diagraoafiiUy obk
handled, and two or three, uabb to
contend with the seose of ^ihoMV
and degradation which orerwhebMi
them as militaiy men, nuhed, ail-
dened also, into soicide, to have ftbor
very corpses mutilated by the nm
whom they had treated, aa ifchappeaedi
with kindness and conoeaaioa ; wtea
others again, who had escaped onr
the frontiers, were, l^ a rioUtion of
the Wiirtemberg territory, captandf
led back prisoners, andLmmaiBdtiiDdff
every circumstances of cmel^ ail'
ignominy, in the fortras th^ had it
vain attempted loyally to gmrd.
There was madness in all this; tai
then we learn, to complete tki
deplorable picture, from m very le*
curate account of all the ctao-
stances, lately published by a Badea
officer, as well as from another pamph*
let, more circumscribed in detail, btf
fully as conclusive as regards aaRfr*
tion of feeling, in almost evefy pi0^
that when the Insurgent allien wen
asked by their officera what tkv
wanted, they could only answer, "Oir
rights and those of the peopto ;" asd
when questioned further, *'*• What an
those rights?" either held their toogim
and shook their heads in ignoranor,
or i-epiied with the strangest naFrrfe,
1849.]
What has RevohUiomgmff GermoMy aUamed f
**That 70a ought to know better than
we." Still more etrikingly Gharacter-
tttic of the insensate nature of the
straggle are the examples where
the in&taaied soldiers parted from
their officers with tears in their eyes,
th6n, driven on by their agitators,
hunted them to the death ; and then,
again, with eyes opened at last to
their delusion, sobbed forth the bit-
terest lepentaoee for their blindness.
It has been already seen how the
Gnad-dnke fled the land, how Baden
was giTen up, in a state of utter
aaanmy, to a Provisional govern-
ment, that esusted but long enough
to be ntteriy rent and torn by the
very iaatruments which its members
had oeMtribnted to set in movement ;
and to a diaorgaaJsed, tumultuous
anajf prepared to domfaieer and
tynunise in its newly-acquired self-
ponrer; how the insurrection was
4iq>pnB8ed, after an unwilling appeal
to PiQSBia by the Grand- duke— how
the insDigent troops were dispersed by
meaoa of a Prussian anny~aud how
B^atadt was finally surrendered by
the xwolutionaiy leaders. As these
unite have already been detailed, and
aa iS'ia our pnrpose to ask in general,
'*' What has rsvotetloulsiag Germany
attaiaed?" we need do no more
oa this head, than ask, ''What,
bjr ka late movement, has revolution-
ioDg Baden attained ? *" '' What then
is the present position, and the pre-
sent aqpeet of the country, after the
armed soppression ? '*
What, indeed I Poor old Father
BUae, although stiU, in these revohi-
tionaiy dirys, somewhat depressed in
spirita, doesnotnow, however, exhiUt
that aspect of utter m^ancholy and
deapair which we tast year pictured ;
he has ^en contrived to reassnme
something of that conceited air which
we have so often witnessed in his
old tee. Foreign tourists, If not in
the pleasure-peeking shoals of afbre-
tiaie, at least in vtrj decent sprink-
lina, return again to pay him visits ;
and the hotels upon his banks give
evidence that bis courts are not wholly
deserted. Ems, iVom various causes
Independent of its natural beautiee—
the principal one of which has been
ihe pilgrimage of French Legitimists
Xo the hefar of the fallen Bourbons,
during his short residence in that
431
sweet batliing-place — ^has overflowed
with ''guests." Homburg has had
scarcely a bed to offler to the wan-
derer on his arrival. Rhenish Prus-
sia, then, has profited, by its com-
parative state of quiet, somewhat to
redeem its losses of last year. But
the poor duchy of Baden still hangs
its head mournfully; and Baden-
Baden, the fairest queen of German
watering-places, finds itself utterly
deprived of its weU-deserved crown
of supremacy, and seems to have
covered itself, in shame, with a veil
of sadness. Although ^l now wears
again a smiling face of peaceful quiet,
and Prussian uniforms, which at least
have the merit of studding with colour
the gay scene, give warrant for peace
by the force of the bayonet, yet
tourists seem to avoid the scene of
the late fearfol convulsions, as they
would a house in which the plague
has raged, although now declared
wholly disinfected. A few wandering
*^ guests " only come and go, and tell
the worid of foreign wanderers with
dismal faces, ^* Baden-Baden is
empty r Travellers seem to hurry
through the country, as swiftly as the
railroad can whirl them across it, to-
wards Strasburg and Bdle — ay I rather
to republican France, or fermenting
Switzerland : they appear unwilling
to turn aside and seek rest among the
beautifnl hills of a country where the
reek of blood, or the vapour of the
cannon-smoke, may be still upon the
ahr. In Baden-Baden bankrupt hotds
are closed; and the lower dasses,
who have been accustomed to amass
comparative wealth by the annual in-
flux of foreigners, either 1^ their pro-
duce, or in the various Afferent occu-
pations of attending upon visitors,
wear the most evident expression of
disappointment, listlessness, and want.
Baden pays the bitter penalty of in-
surrection, by being ntteriy crippled
in one of the branches of its most
material interests. It bears as quiet
an aspect outwardly, however, as if
it were sitting, in humiliation and
shame, upon the stool of repentance.
There is notiifaig (if they go not be-
yond the surface) to prevent foreign
pleasure or health seekers from find-
ing their pleasure or repose in this
sweet country ; and in what has been
simply, but correctly, termed " one of
What han Reroiutioni$i9hg Germany attained f
432
till- loveliest 5pot< upon Ooil's oarth/'
as of von? ; but thev are evidonilvshv,
mid lot^k a.^kiiiice upon it. Baden
pavs its ponalty.
Alt lion j:li nature smiles, howe\'er,
ap\>n mount a iu and valley, and ro-
mantic village, as oboorilv as bofore,
and tliore is iraiotv still in overv snn-
beam, yet tran'-s nf tbo horrors lately
ouaoted in the land arr still left, which
caan«>t fail to strike the eve of the
most lisilrss. men* outward observer,
aas he whisks aUui^ the country —
sometimes in the trampled plain, on
which nature has not been as vet
able to throw hor all-coverin«r veil
a.u'ain. and which sliows where has
been ihe bat tie- field, which should
have been the hai-vost-tield. and was
n.>t — sometimes in the shatteivd wall
K>x ruined house — sometimes iu the
Motxi cut down or burjied. At every
>tep tlu- traveller may be shown, by
his ;rnide. the spots on which battles
or skirmishes havi- laken place, where
the cannon has latelv roared, where
blond has been sheil, where men have
fallen in civil contest. Heiv he may
be conveyed over the noble railway-
bridge of the Neckar, and see the
broken parapet, and hear how the
insurgents had commenced their work
of destniction upon the edifice, but
were arrested iu its accomplishment
by the ra]Hd advance of the Prussian
troops, llere a<;ain he may mark the
late repairs of the railroad, where It
has been cut up into tn^nches, to pre-
vent the speedy conveyance of the
war- material of the enemy. If he
lingers on his way, he may seek in
vain in the capital, or other "resi-
dence towns '^ of Boilen, where ducal
[Oct.
held ont, that the strongest traces
of the late convulsions maj be
found. Marks of devastation are
everywhere perceptible in the comhy
aronnd ; the remains of the tempomr
defences of the besiegers still lie scat-
tered iu newly dug trenches ; and the
blackened walls of a railway station-
house, by the road-side, tell him bow
it was bombarded from the town bj
the besieged insurgents, and then
burned to the groand, lest it should
afford shelter to the besiegers. These
are, however, after all, bat slight
evidences of what the duchy of
Baden has attained by its late rcroln-
tion. If we go below' the surface, the
dark spots are darker and fiirmoR
fi*equent still.
It is imix>s8ible to enter into con-
versation with persons of any da»,
without discovering, either dhectly or
indirectly, how deeply rooted still
remains the demoralisation of the
count n\ The bitterness of feelinp*
and the revolutionary mania of refla-
tion ising, to obtain no one can teD
what, may have been cmahed down
and overawed; but they evidently
still smoulder below the 'siirfare and
ferment. The volcano - month ha£
been tilled with a mass of Pm»ian
bayonets; but it still bums bek)w: it
is clogged, not extinct. The demo-
cratic spirit has been too deeply in-
fused to be drugged oat of the niss
of the people by the dose of militaiy
force. Fearful experience seems to
have taught the snfferera little or
nothing; and althongh, here ud
there, may be found evidences of
bitter repentance, conseqnent ipo>
personal loss of property, or hm!
palaces stand, for the treasures of sultering, yet even below that mj
antiquity which were their boast, be constantly fonnd a [Wound fait-
Fillagc has done its work : insnr^^nts temess, and an eager rancour, against
have appropriated these objects of unknown and Tisionaiy enemies,
value to themselves, in the name of Talk to that poor old woman, who
the people ; and the costly and be- sits with pale face npon a stile on the
jewelled trappings of the East, the
rich gold inlaid armour, and the valu-
able arms, brought in triumph home
by the Margrave Louis of Baden, after
his Turkish campaigns, arc now dis-
persed, none knows where, after hav-
ing fed the greed of some Fronch
red-republican or Polish democrat.
But it is more particularly in the
neiphbourhood of the fortress town of
Itastadt, where the insurgents last
mountain-side. She will weep ftr
the son she has lost among the ia-
surgents, and deplore, with bittir
tears, his error and his delusion; 0^
yet, if you gain her confidence, she
will raise her head, and, with some
fire in her snnken eye, tell yon that
she lias still a son at horned a hoj.
her last-bom, who bides but his thno
to take up the mnsket against *' those
accursed enemiea of the people aad
WkatkoM ReoohUionUing Germany attained/ 433
pk's rights!" Enter into greet the return of the Grand-duke
to his states, as the symbol of the
cause of order, yet, in spite of birth-
day fi'tes^ and banners, and garlands,
and loyal devices in flowers, which
have bedecked the road of the traveller
in the land not long since, these same
men will gmmble to you of those
^* accursed Prussian soldiers," who
alone were able to restore him to his
country, when the Baden army, as
troops to support tlieir sovereign,
existed no longer — when those who
composed it fought at the head of the
insurgents. The very shadow of a
Baden army, even, is not now to be
found. And it is this fact, and the
evidences that an insurrectionary
spirit is still widely spread abroad,
which are given as the excuse of a
continued Prussian occupation. It is
ditlicult, certainly, for a traveller in
a land so lately convulsed, and still
placed in circumstances so peculiar,
to arrive at truth. Prussian oflicers
will tell him how, on the arrival of
Ute of Baden, (if not of the Prussian army in the country,
in general,) we firmly and the dispersion of the insurgents,
flowers were strewn along its path
by the populations, who thus seeming-
ly hailed the Prussian soldiers as
their deliverers ; and in the next
breath they will inform him that this
ind nnpractical mixture of was only done from feoT', and that,
m as if they were not to be were it not for this salutary /ear, the
to the earth and the realms insuiTection would break forth again.
lie troth by the lessons of He may suspect that this account is
se, however strongly, and given as the pretext for a continued
iUy, inculcated. occupation of the laud. But Baden
eraiiing feeling, however, at oflicials will tell him that such is the
Bt time in Baden, among the case — that Prussian troops alone keep
IB8M, seems the hatred of down a further rising ; and if he still
MUkm of the Prussian army, suspects his source, he will certainly
find among the people, at all events,
both the hatred and the fear. Mean-
while the Prussian officers seem to
think that both these feelings are
necessary for the pacification of the
land ; and, upon their own showing,
or rather boasting, they inculcate
them by flogging insolent peasants
across the cannon, by shooting down
insurgent prisoners, who spit upon
them from prison windows, without
any other form of trial, and by other
autocratic repressive measures of a
similar stamp. Meanwhile, also, they
seem, by all their words as well as
actions, to look upon Baden as a
conquered province acquired to Pru»-
tioB with that shopkeeper
lis counter, or that hotel-
n his palace hotel — both ai'e
>do" in the world, or have
imtil revolutions shattered
neroe of the one, or deprived
r of wealthy visitors — you
ect to find in them a feeling,
tieai at least by experience,
mj farther convulsion. No
g ; they are as ripe for further
D as the lower classes, and
to avenge their losses — not
ose who have occasioned
nt upon those who would
eited them. Even in the
sses you will find that crav-
be idol, " United Germany,"
we have before alluded, and
mns to invite revolutions,
aa to fear them. Of course
18 may be found, and many,
camples here given; but in
these figures into the forc-
4 the picture to be painted
re have given characteristic
tte prevailing feelings of the
German heads, once let
> the regions of ideal fanta.sy,
tical or philosophical, or the
I saved the land from utter
The very men who have
ght by their demagogues to
finr *' German Unity" as a
or insurrection, look on the
military as usurping aliens
fa oppressors. Military oc-
is certainly the prevailing
)f the country. Prussian
> every where — in every town.
Tillage, in every house, in
'el. Whichever way you turn
If there are soldiers — soldiers
i^horse and foot. The mili-
{ to form by far the greater
he population ; and, much
as many may have been to
404
What has RctduiionUing Germany aUainedf
[Oct.
r".A, ac-i vpvnlr aiid loudly vannt
their cunt^yt*t. I-ci it uoi bo sup-
pi^st-d thai I hi* IS l^x;lgi^f ration. It
is :he general tone of l*n:>?ian officers —
ay. and oven of the common rmssian
s-.'Mier?. c-ccupyine the dnchy of
Uii2en — with a snper- addition of tine
Prussian conceit in manner, indescrib-
able by words. In spite of what we
may rvad iu late newspaper rej^ort*,
then, of conciliaiion between the two
jnvat pt"»wers of Northern audSonthem
Cienuanv, we raav well ask. What
wiil riv^ A'lstria say to this V Where
i> the pn>spect hor^^ of a ^^at United
liermany ? And. after this resume of
the preknt position of Baden as a
part, we may well ask. also, \Miat
has re Yolnt ionising Germany attained
as a whole ':
We have seen that the main ob-
ject, and at all events the chief pre-
text of the revolation. the establish-
ment of a great United Ivennany,
is still further frx>m the prasp of the
revolutionising country than ever —
although it remains still the clamour
and the cry. Prussia may point in
irony to its advances, by the occupa-
tion of the duchy of Badeu and of
Hamburg, and by its aciiuisition of the
principality of Hohenzollem-Sigma-
ringcn. and smile while it says that it
has efitvted thus much towards a union
of Germany under one head. Or, in
more serious mood, it may put for-
ward its projected alliance of the three
uortheni German potentates. But,
with regard to the former, what, in
spite of the reports we hear of conci-
liation, will be the conduct of jealous
Austria, now at last unshackled in its
dealings? The latter only shows still
more the cleft that divides the north-
cm portion of the would-be united
country from the southern. ^^ United
Germany'^ only remains, then, a play-
thing in the hands of dreamers and
democrats — a pretty toy, about which
they may build up airy castles to the
one — an instrument blunted and
notched, for the present, to the other.
What has revolutionising Germany
attained here V
What declared last year the mani-
festo of Prince I>ciningen, then Minister
fur Foreign Atfairs, and leading mem-
ber of the cabinet of the newly cstab-
iinhcd central power— put forward, as
it w^as, as the programme of the new
government for all Germany? It
denounced *' jealousies between the
individual states, and revilings of tbe
northern by the southern parts of the
empire,'' as ^^ criminal absarditiet:"
and yet went on to say that ^Mf the
old spirit of discord and sepantin
were still too powerfnllj at woik-lt
the jealousy between race and noe,
between north and south, were still too
strongly felt — the nation must convinoo
itself of the fact, and return to tbe oU
feudal system." It declared, bowerer,
in the same breath as it were, thit "to
retrograde to a confederation of statei
would only be to create a monnfol
period of transition to fresh catastro-
phes, and new revolntions." FiiCflS
of the realisation of the great tmioi,
to which the revolution waa snppond
to tend, the manifesto then placed xe-
volutionising Germany between As
alternative of returning to a piiti
which it declared impossible, or fiirther
convulsions and civil wmra. It }wt
Germany, in fact, into a deft stack.
Has a year's revolution tended to ex-
tricate it from this position^ Tbe
alternative remains tiie same ^ Ger-
many sticks in the deft stidt as HBch
as ever. Revolntioniaing Genntvfi
with all its throes and aU its eflbrti,
has attained nothing to rdieva it tm
this position. Without acoeptiqf the
manifesto of Prince Leiningeo, atber
as necessarily prophetic, or as apoli-
tical dictum, from which there is bo
evasion or escape, it ia yet impoMibb
to look back upon it, while tfyitf ^
discover what revolntionirilng to-
many has attained, without nd pie-
sentiments, without looking with wnA
mournful apprehension upon thefiBtin
fate of the country. To retura, bof -
ever to the present state of Gemaa^y^
for the investigation of that ti o*
purpose, and not apecnlation ipoBthe
future, although none may lodL ipoa
the present without asking with •
sigh, ^* What is to become of Gm^
many? ""
We find the revolationaiy t^
crushed by the eventa of the last ycVt
but not subdued ; writhing, bat flflt
avowing itself vanquished. The fB^
mentation is as great aa hexetofon:
experience seems to have taught tk
German children in politics no oee£il
lesson. Now that the great object, ftr
which the revolution appeared M
1849.]
What has Revo&Uidnmng Cfermany attained f
straggle, has recdved so notable a
check, the confoslon of parposes, (if
German political rhapsodies may be
called svdi ;) of projects, (if, indeed, in
such visionary schemes there be any,)
and pretexts,(of a nature so evidently
false,) is greater than ever-<the con-
fhsion not only exists, bat ferments,
and ge&erates fonl air, whidi most find
vent somewhere, be it even in imf^-
nation. Of the revolutionary spints
whom we sketched last year in
Germany, the students alone seem
somewhat to have learned a lesson of
experience and tactics. Although many
may have been found in the ranks of
insurgents, yet the general mass has
sadlfy sobered down, and, it may be
hoped, acqnired more reason and
method. The Jews — ^we cannot again
now inquire into the strange whys
and whereibres^-still remain the rest-
less, gnawing, cankering, agitaUng
agenta of revolntionaiy movement.
The insolence and coarseness of the
lower classes increases hito bitter ran-
cour, and has been in no way amtoded
by bonoession and a show of good- will.
Among the middle-lower classes, the
most reatless and reckless spirits, it
appeajs from well-drawn statistical
accounts^, are the village schoolmas-
ters, (9^ in Frailce)— to exemplifythat
*'a little learning is a dangerous
ihing**-^tfae barbers, and the tailors.
Had we time, it might form the sub-
ject of curious speculation to attempt
to discover why these two latter
occnpation^, (and especially the last
one) induce, more than all othens,
heated bndns and revolutionary
habits; bdt we cannot 'stop on our
way to play with such curious ques*
ttond. Cher allthe rdations <^ social,
as well as public Ufb, hover politics
likea ddeterious atmiMphere,bh|^ting
aQ tfiat is bright andf air, withering art
in ell its branches, science, and sodal
tnteroonree. And^ good heavens, wliat
VoHtics!— the politics of a bedlamite
philosopher in his ravings. In the
late fes^itSes, given in honour of
Goethe at Frankfbrt, the city of
his bSrtb,'to commemorate the hun-
dredtb anniversary of that event,
when it might have been supposed
that all men might have, for once,
united to do homage to the memory
of one whom Germans considered
their greatest spirit, politics again
435
interfered to thwart, and oppose, and
spoil. The democratic party endea-
voured to prevent the supplies offered
to be given by the town for the festi-
vities, because they saw the names of
those they called the ** aristocrats,'*
among the list of the committee, even
although men of all classes were in-
vited to join it ; and, when a serenade
was given before the house in which
the poet was bom, the musicians were
driven away, and their torches extin-
guished, by a band of so-called ^^ pa-
triots,** who insisted upon singing, in
the place of the appointed cantata
composed for the occasion, the revo-
lutionary chorus in honour of the re •
publican Hecker — the now famous
song of the revolutionary battle-field,
the Hecker-Lied. And such an ex-
ample of this fermentation of politics
in all the circumstances of Ufe, how-
ever far from political intents, is not
singular: it is only characteristic of
the every- day doings of the times.
Among the upper classes, those feel-
ings which we last year summed up in
the characteristic words, *^ the dulness
of doubt and the stupor of apprehen-
sion," have only increased in intensity.
None see an issue out of the troubled
passage of the revolution. Their eyes
are blinded by a mist, and they
stumble on their way, dreading a pre-
cipice at every step. This impression
depicts more especially the feelings of
the so-called moderates and liberal
conservatives, who had their repre-
sentatives among the best elements of
the Frankfort pariiament, and who,
with the vision of a united Germanr
before their eyes, laboured to reach
that visionary goal, at the same time
that they endeavoured to stem the
ever-invading torrent of ultra-revolu-
tion and red-republicanism. *^The
dtdness of doubt, and the stupor of
apprehension," seem indeed to have
fUQen upon them smce the last vain
meeting of the heads of their party in
Gotha. They let their hands fall
upon their laps, and sit shakmg their
heads. Gagem, the boldest spirit^
and one of the best hearts that
represents their cause and has strug-
gled for its maintenance, is represent >
ed as wholly prostrate in spirit, un-
strung— missgestimmt^ as the Germans
have it. He has retired entirely into
private life> to await events with aching
l:^6 Tht Green Ilamd—A "
heart. It any feclin? i> still expressed
}iv the mo'lerati* lilKTals. it ha« been,
of late, syiiipathy in the fate of Unn-
;:avy. whkh tlie i*nissi:ius put forward
visibly only viut of opju^sitiim to Aus-
tria, at the same time that, with bat
little consi*teney, they comlenin all
the apt Ills of the Iiim<rarian struggle.
We have emleavinnvil to ;rive a
faint ami ileeiinp sketehofwhat ^evo-
lutioni^in!:( ieniiany has attained, after
a year's revolution. The picture is a
dark one. of a truth, but we believe
Short " Yanu Pdrt V.
[Oct.
in no ways overdone. In actual pro-
^ss the sum-total appears to be t
zero. The position of Germany, al-
thou^'h calmer on the surface, is u
difticult, as embarrassing, as much in
the '' cleft stick," as when we spco-
lated upon it last year. All tbewtH-
wishcrs of the conntrjandof mukiad
may give it their hopes ; but wha
theV look for realisation of their hopei,
they can only shake their heads, witk
the Germans themselves, as thej isk,
" What will become of Germaay?"
TOE GREEK HAXI>— A '* SHORT" TAJU?.
1.11
PART V.
The next evening our friend the
(.'apt a in found his fair autiience by
ilie tat! rail inerea<»'d to a rouud dozen,
whili* several of the gentlemen pa-ssen-
gers lounged near, and the chief officer
divided his attention between the gay
group of ladii's below and the " fan-
liing" main -topsail high up, with its
corresponding studding-sail hung far
out aloft to the breeze : the narrati^'e
having by this time contracted a sort
of professional interest, even to his
matter-of-fact taste, which en.ible<l
him to enjoy greatly the (Occasional
glances of slv humour directeil to him
by his superior, for whom he evidently
entertained a kind of admiring respect,
that seemed to be enhauecd as he lis-
tened. As for the commander him-
self, he related the adventures in
question with a spirit and vividness of
manner that contributed to them no
small charm : amusingly contrasted
with the cool, dry, inditlerent sort of
gravity of countenance, amidst which
the keen gray seawardly eye, under
the ppnk of the naval cap, kept chang-
ing and twinkling as it seemed to run
through the experience of youth again
—.sometimes almost approaching to
an undeniable wink. The expression
of it at this time, however, was more
rserious, while it appeared to run along
the dotted reef-band of the mizen-
topsail above, as across the entry in
a log-book, and as if there were some-
thing interesting to come.
*' irw/, my dear captain,** asked his
matronly refativo, *^ what comes next ?
Yon and yonr Mend had picked 191
— a — what w"as it moic/"
'' Ah ! I remember, ma*am," saidtke
naval man, laughing ; *^ the bottle^
that was where I wa& Well, as yM
may conceive, this said scrap of pn-
manship in the bottle did take both of
us rather on end ; and for two or three
minutes Westwood and I sat stirug
at each other and the nnoonth-lookng
list, in an inquiring sort of way, liki
two cocks over a beetle. WesmodL
for his part, was donbtftd of its being
the Planter at all; but the wbdis
tiling, when I thonght of It, oadi
itself as clear to me, so &r, as tve
half-hitches, and the angrier I wis it
myself for l>eing done by a firog-eitiB|f
blbody-politeful set of Frenchmen Bto
these.' Could we on! j have dapped
eyes on the villanona thieving oift
at the time, by Jove! if Iwoaldal
have manned a boat from the lodiip
man, leave or no leave, and boarded
her in another fashion! Bot when
they were now, what they mvut, md
whether we should ever aee tkem
again, heaven only knew. For alius
could say, indeed, something atnnff
might have turned np at honeli
Europe — a new war, old Boney irt
loose once more, or what not — and I
could scarce fall asleep for gneasiiK
and bothering over nie matter, M
restless as the first night wo crniied
down Channel in the old Pandora.
Early In the morning-watch a soddea
stir of the men on deck woke me, and I
bundled np in fiye nunntea* tfane. M
1849.]
The Green Hand^A " Short'' Yam. Part F.
it was only tbe second mate setting
them towssh desks, snd out they came
from sU qnarters, yawning, stretching
thcmselTes, and tocking np their
tponsefSf as they passed the fall
bsekete lastly along; while a oonple
of bojs coold be seen haid at work to
keep the head-pomp going, up against
the gray sky orer the bow. How-
eyer, I was so anxious to have the
fint look-oni ahead, that I made a
boki posh thnmgh the thick of it for
the bowsprit, where I went ont till I
coold see nothing astern of me bnt tlie
Indiaman's big hiack bows and fiffure-
head, swinging as it were ronnd the
spar I sat npon, with the spread of
her canvass coming dim after me oat
of the fog, and a Ib!xj snatch of foam
liftiog to her cnt^water, as the breese
<Ued away. The snn wss jest begin-
ning to rise ; ten minntes before, it
had been almost qnite dark ; there was
a iniat on the water, and the sails
were heavy with dew ; wben a am^^
began to open roond ns, where tiie
fls^hoe looked as smooth and dirty as
in a dock, the base seeming to shine
through, as the snnligbt came sifting
thro^h it, like silver ganse. Yon saw
thehig red top of the ann glare against
the waler-luM, and a wet gleam of
criaiaQn came alidSng from one onooth
hhie aweH to another ; while the back
of the haae asAem tnmed from bine
to pmple, and went lifting away into
vapoury atreaks and patches. All of
& Baiden die sliip came clear oat aloft
and en the irater, with her white
stieik as bri^it as snow, her fore-
foyai and track gilded, her broad fore-
st aa red as Iriood, and every face on
deek shining as they looked ahead,
wherel felt like afellow held up on a
toaslag-fbrk, against the fiery wheel
the son made eredearing the horison.
^W or three strips of clend mdted in
itlikehmips of sngar in hot wine;
yji» after overhanluig the whole sea-
board roimd aad lonnd, I kept strain-
ing vy eyes into the 11^ with the
notion there was somethkig to be aeen
mthat quarter, bnt to no pnrpose;
uere wasn't the sli^itest sign of the
biig or any other blessed thing. What
8*™dL me a little, Iwwever, was the
■^^ of the water jnst as the fog was
^n«ing away : the sweU was sinking
<iow«, the wind &llen to the tkie to
noead calm; and iHiSAthe soaootii
437
face of it caught the light foil from
aloft, it seemed to come ont all over
kmg-winding wrinkles and eddies,
nmning in a broad path, as it were,
twisted and woven together, right into
thewakeofthesanrise. When I came
inboard frvmi the bowsprit, big Harry
and another gmmpy old salt were
standing by the bitts, taking a fore-
castle observation, and gave me a
squint, as much as to adc if I had come
out of the east, or had been trying to
pocket the flying-jib-boom. '^ D'yon
notice anything strange about the
water at aUP'' I asked in an off-
hand sort of way, wishing to see if the
men had remarked anght of what I
suspected. The old fellow gave me
a queer look ont of the tail of his eye,
snd the ugly man seemed to be mea-
suring me from head to foot. ^^ No,
sir,'' said the first, carelessly ; ^* can't
say as how I ^ms," — ^while Harry
coolly commenced sharpening his
sheath-knife on his shoe. ^' Did yon
ever hear of currents hereabouts?"
said I to the other man. ^^Hen*
sway 1" said he ; *^ why, bless ye, sir,
it's unpossible ss I cotdd ha' heer'd tell
CBsich a thing, 'cause, ye see, but, there
an't none so far out at sea, sir — al'ays
axin' yaar psrding, ye know, sirl"
while he hitched up Ids trousers and
lodced aloft, as if there were some-
what wrong about the jib-halliards.
The Indiaman by this time had
quite lost steerage-way, and came
sheering slowly round, broadside to
the sun, while the water began to
glitter like a single sheet of quicksilver,
trembling and sweUing to the firm
edge of it far off; the pale blue sky
filling deep aloft with light, and a long
white haae growing out of the horizon
to eastward. I kept still looking over
from the fore-chains with my vms
folded, and an eye to the water on the
starboard aide, next the sun, where, jnst
a fiithom or two from the bright cop-
per of her sheathing along the water-
line, you could see into it. Every now
and then little bells and bubUes, as I
thou^t, would come up in it and
break short of the sur£u9e; and some-
times I fancied the line of a slight
ripple, ss fine as a rope-yam, went
turning and glistening round one of
the ship's quarters, across her shadow.
Just then the old sailor behind me
shared Us face over the bulwari^ too»
Tfe Ufwii J7«rf— J " 5*or# " yam. Pdrt V.
the end, — altars one or aw
*eni*9 got a foni torn in hii oo
ye see ! I say, Hnate,*^ conti
looking round, ^^ didn't ya :
'ere long-shore looking gov
walked Stt jost now, with the
soft qnest*nso* his abont — ^
said Jack, '' it's him Jaedbi
larboard watch calls the Gi«
an' a blessed good joke they)
him. to all appearance,— baft t
it pretty dose." " Close, b
growled Harry, "1 doeaaH
cat of his jib, I tell ye, I
Jist you take my word ftr
'ere fellow's done some*al
home, or he's bent on aon
afloat — it's all one ! Don*!
how he keeps boxhanlin' ai
ing fore an' aft, not to s
ing out to wind'ard ererf
ajraio, as much as he ez|
sail to heave in sight I"
I'm blowed but you're ririit,
said the other, taking di h
scratch his head, thoughtfldl
and what's more," went a
** it's just corned ath'art m
Tre clapped eyes on the di
wheres or other afore this—
if I don't think it was amoB|
o' Spanish pirates I saw
their lives and let off, in Hk
ney!" *^ Thank too, sq
thought I, as I leant 9§
booms on the other side, "
you did ! — a wonder it waa
bid Bailey, which would h
more possible, though leas rn
seeing in the Havannah I ne
The curious thing was fhal
to have a faint recollection, i
having seen this same cm
beauty, or heard his voioi
though where and how 11
couldn't for the life of me a
moment. "Lord bless Uy
faltered out the old sailor, *
mean it! — sich a young, m
shaver, too!" "Themsmooli
sort o' coves is kimmonljl
'mate," replied Hany; *
matter ye may be d — d aav
his chums aboard, — an' hon
know but the ship's toU, I
to stam? There^s that >
avizzcd parson, now, and o
more aft--cass me if that '
smells brine for the first time
for this here Bob Jacobs 0*76
45S
i': wMtf Jiad wrinkles. Uke a ripe
-iTjJr^i-fbtlL with a r>und knob of a
:}:<« in ibr middle of is. and seemed
1:. I* waichinc to see it bdow,
vhen he sadikiily s*)uirled his to-
liscco-iiace as far out as possible
a'onrF'idf. and gave his month a wipe
w::h the back of his tarry yellow
hir. \ : catching my eye in a sbame-
facwi son of way. as I gianoed nrst at
him and then at his floating property.
I leant listlessly over the rail, watch-
inp the patch of oily yellow froth, as
it f.Mted quietly on the smcK>th face
of thewiter: till all at once I started
to ^»l^rre that beyond all question it
had crept slowly away past our siar-
N^dmi N>w, clear of the ship, and at
last melte^l into the glittering blue
brine. The two men noticed my at-
tention, and stared along with me ;
while the owner of the precious cargo
himself kept looking after it wistfully
into the wake of the sunlight* as if he
were a little hurt; then aloft and
round abont, in a puzzled sort of
way. to see if the ship hadn't perhaps
taken a sudden sheer to port. * ' Why,
my man,*" I said, meeting his oyster-
like old sea-eye, *' what *s the roason
of thai t — ^perhaps there u some cur-
rent or other here, after all. ehV*'
Just as he meant to answer, however,
I noticed his watchmate give him a
hard shove in the ribs with his huge
elbow, and a quick screw of £s
weather top-light, while he kept the
lee one doggedly fixed on myself. I
accordingly walked slowly aft as if to
the quanerdeck, and came round the
lonflT-boat again, right abreast of them.
Harry was pacing foro and aft with
his arms folded, when his companion
made some remark on the heat, peer-
ing all abont him, and then right up
into the air aloft. ''Well then,
shipmate," said Harr}-, dabbing his
handkerchief back into his tarpaulin
again, "I've seen worse, myself, —
ownly, 'twas in the Bight 0' Benin,
look ye, — an' aforo the end on it,
d'ye see, we hove o'board niue of
a crew, let alone six dozen odds of a
cargo ! " '' Cargo ! " exclaimed his
companion in surprise. "Ay, black
passertffers they was, ye know, old
ship ! " answered the ugly rascal,
c(K)lIy ; "an' I tell yc what it is, Jack,
I never sails yet with passengers
aboard, but some'at bad turned np in
1849.]
Tlie Green Hand-'A " Shorf' Yam. Part V.
439
me if there an^t over many of his kind
in the whole larboard watcb^ Jat^ I
A man-o^-war^s-man^s aPays a black-
goard out on a mau-o'-war, look-ye 1"
*^ Why, bless me, shipmate/*, said
Jack, lowering his voice, '' by that
recknin', a man donH know his friends
in this here craft! The sooner we
gives the mate a hint, the better, to
my thinking ?'' " No, blow me, no.
Jack," said Harry, " keep all fast, or
yell kick ap a worse nitty, old boy I
Jist yon honld on till ye see what's to
turn up, — ownly stand by and look
out for squalls, that's all! There's
the skipper laid up below in his berth,
I hears, — and to my notions, that 'ere
mate of oui-s is no more but a blessed
soldier, with his navigation an' his
head-work, an* be blowed to him —
Where's he mnned the ship, I'd like
to know, messmate 1" *^ Well, strike
me lucky if I'm fit to guess I" answer-
ed Jack, gloomily. " No, s'hclp me
Bob, if he knows hisself !" said Harry.
** But here*s what / says, anyhow, —
if so be we heaves in sight of a pirate,
or bumps ashore on a ileyand i' the
dark, shiver mv tawsels if I doesn't
have a clip with a handspike at that
'ere soft-sawderin' young blade in the
straw hat I" " WeU, my fine feUow,"
thought I, '^many thanks to you
again, but I certainly shall look out
for you r All this time I couldn't
exactly conceive whether the sulky
rascal really suspected anything of
the kind, or whether he wasn't in fact
soQudiog his companion, and perhaps
others of the crew, as to how far they
would go in case of an opportunity
for mischief; especially when I heard
him begin to speculate if ** that 'ere
proud ould beggar of a naboob, aft
yonder, musn't have a sight o' gould
aad jewels aboard with him I" " Why,
for the matter o' that, 'mate," con-
tinued he, ^^I doesn^t signify the
twmklin' of a marlinspike, mind ye,
what lubberly trick they sarves this
here craft, — so be ownly ye can get
uyhow ashore, when all's done ! It's
noQther ship-law nor shore-law, look
ye, 'mate, as houlds good on a bloody
dazart!" "Ay, ay, true enough,
ho'," siud the other, " but what o'
that?— there an't much signs of a
dazart, I reckon, in this here blue
water!" "Ho!" repUed Harry,
nther scornfully, " that's 'cause you
VOL. Lxvi. — ^KO. ccccvni.
blue-water, long-v'yage chaps isn't up
to them, brother! There's yon and
that 'ere joker in the striped slops.
Jack, chaffing away over the side
jist now about a current,— confounded
sharp he thinks hisself, too! — ^but
d'ye think Harry Foster an't got his
weather-eye open? For my part I
thinks more of the streak o' haze
yonder-away, right across the star*
board bow, nor all the currents in — ^"
" Ay, ay," said Jack, stretching out
agam to look, " the heat, you means ?"
" Heat!" exclaimed the ugly topman,
" heat be blowed ! Hark ye, 'mate,
it may be a strip o' doud, no doubt,
or the steam over a sand-bank, — but
so be the calm lasts so long, and you
sees that 'ere streak again by sun-
down, with a touch o' yidlow in't — "
"What — whaty shipmate?" asked
Jack, breathless with anxiety. "Then«
dammee,it's the black coast ivAfricay,
and no mistake 1" said Hany. " And
what's more," continued the fellow,
coolly, after taking a couple of short
turns, '^ if there 2^'« a current, why,
look ye, it'll set dead in to where the
land lays — an' I'm blessed if there's
one aboard, breeze or no breeze, as is
man enough for to take her out o'
the suck of a Africane current i" " The
Lord be with us!" exclaimed the
other sailor, in alarm, " what's to be
done, Harry, bo*,— when d'ye mean
for to let them know, aft ?" " Why,
maybe I'm wrong, ye know, old
ship," said Harry, " an' a man musn't
go for to larn his betters, ye know, —
by this time half o' the watch has a
notion on it, at any rate. There's
Dick White, Jack Jones, Jim Sidey,
an' a few more Wapping men, means
to stick together incase o' accidents —
so d — ^n it. Jack, man, ye needn't be in
sich an a taking! What the—"
(here he came out with a regular string
of top-gallant oaths,) "when you finds
a good chance shoved into your fist,
none o' your doin', an't a feller to haul
in the slack of it 'cause he's got a tarry
paw, and ships before the mast ? I
tell ye what it is, old ship, 'tan't the
first time you an' me's been cast
away, an' I doesn't care the drawin'
of a rope-yam, in them here latitudes,
if I'm cast away again! Hark ye,
ould boy, — grog to the mast-head, a
grab at the passengers' walUbles,
when they han't no more use for 'em|
2o
i^'
fn '.y-tr'. H-Jud — .1 " .<fior1" Yarm. Part V.
[OcL
\z co^ri< — ar.' :•:■? j '.ck cc :: r ladies,
/ir: r'M" tr;-? lii;:." ■/ ibvs i^Lore:"
'•■ L.t: 1. vo vv. Uirrv. >:..-. v i^.. neT"
Svil: .TaCiL. •• i»:.;i: ? xL-. *:x»d o" :^kiii*
cr. wiai atii ilk*.' lo >■ :" " Less
Lkr li.inr* tsrn* :.; 1 " s.^ii Ilarrr.
•■ M ro \y :>Ri-ii. i: 1 Lijn'i piicbod
or. ::.v riDCv la** i>.-a*ir — an'
V I.-.' kn-.-ws. via rhip. l»s: you :.iarrie5
a Lit- »-jb> dani-r vvr. ;\ud ;:•■:? vc-nr-
Sill ?:.jveii aii s^-jr-arc Ilk:- a h^'iar
bar-, inro 1:1* Uv-st.iZe. a? xbev caU*
i!: For n\y j^rx. Ive m tk noiion of
the wi'7*ty.' An* i: ii sr:- Ji.ird with
mo ii we d-^e^n't manajCt- to ha-.il that
Vrr nLbiivuaf p.ir<<.'n ?ai\' aj-hon* on
tho *:reui:ih of it ! " " <n:nl bi-i-** ve.
•
llarrv." answered Jack, ^omcwhlt
iU".»uniinilv. "Im iwice s] Viced
i'.'rtradv : ■■ •• Ti-.ird lime's luck v.
m m
thouffh." replied llarrv. wiih a chuckle,
a^ h>' walked t^wnrd? the side Airain,
and loc'ked over: tiie rest of ihe
watch I'einjr paibero«l on the other
Ktw. talking and laaghin^ : the pas-
sengers Wrinninu' xm appear on the
1 h:»o p, and the Scot c h ^t■oon d - m ate
standing np nft on the taifraii. feeling
for a breath of wind. The big top-
man came slowlv back to iii< com-
m
p anion, and leant himseb* on the spars
again . *• Blowed if I don't think vi »u're
ridit. 'mate." said he, " you and that
'ere lawver. You'd a' most sav there's
a npple ronnd her larboanl bow just
now, sure enough — like she were
broadside on to some drift or another.
Hows'cver, that's noother here nor
thciw — for my part, I sets more count
by the look '0* the sky to east'ard,
an' Ik? blowed, shipmate, if that same
yonder don't make me think 0' troods**^
" Well," said Jack, '' 1 goes by snn-
rl-^e, messmate, nu' I didn't like it
overmuch mvself. d've see! That
'ore talk 0' vours, llarrv. consaniin'
dazarts and wliat not — why, bless mc,
it's all my eye, — this bout, at any
rate— sceiii' as how. if we doesn't have
a stiif snuffler out 0' that very ({uarter
afnrc twentv-four hours is over, von
call me lubber ! ■' " Ho, ho ! old salt,"
chuckled U«irr}', "none o' tliem saws
holds go«'>d hereaway, if its the coast
of Africay — d— n it, 'mate, two
watches '11 settle our hash in them
longitudes, without going the length
0' six! Han't I knocked about the
b1<x>dy coast of it six weeks at a tine,
nivseii'. let alone livin^ as manv months
in t he woods? — so I knows the breediu*
of a tumady a cnsse<l sight too well, not
to speak on the way the laud-blink
looms afore yon sights it I '' '' Liui
in them there woods, did ve?" in-
quired Jack. *• At, bo', an' a mm
T\z it was too, sure enough." said
Harr\- : '• the veri' same time I tould
you on. i' the Bight 0' Benin.'* "My
eye!" exclaimed the other, "a maa
never knows what he may come to.
Let*? into the rights of it, llanrr.
cani't yo, afore eight-bells strikes V
'• Wix^d.- ! " said Harrv, '* I b'lieve vp.
ould ship. I see'd enongh 0' wood*.
that time, arter all ! — and 'twan'tthit
long agi>ne. either — I'll not say Aor
long, but it wan't last v yage. A sharp,
clinker- bmlt craft of a schooner she
wor. I'm not goin' to give ye her right
name, but they called her the Lnbto'-
hater.*— an' if there wan*t all sons oa
us alKKird, it *s blaming ye — an* a big
ili.nible-jinted man-eatin' chap of n
Yankee was onr skipper, as sly a»
slu;h — more by token, he had a wart^
alongside 0* one eye as made him kwiE.
two ways at ye-Job Price by name
— an' arter he'd made his fortin. X
heard he's took up a tea-total chapel
afloat on the Mlssishippey. She^dgoC
a hell of a long nose, that 'ere schocmcr^
so my boy we leaves everything astarn .
chase or race. I promise ye; an' 13
for a blessed ould teu-gnn brig whit
kept a-cniising thereaway, why. we
jest got used to her, like^ and al'iy?
lowers onr mainsail afore takin' the
wind of her, by way 0' good bye, qiriw
pcrlite. 'Blowed if it warn't nmt
though, for to see the brig's white
figger'ed over the swell, rolfin' wider
a cloud 0' canvass, sten-a'ls crowded
out alow an' aloft, as she jogged aiicr
us ! Then she'd hanl her wind sad
fire a gun, an' go beating away up in
chase of some other craft, asciBght
the chance for runnin' out whcnerff
they sees the Lubber-hater wvH ^
?ea— why, s'elp me Bob, if the traden
on the coast didn't pay Job Price half
a dozen blacks a-piecc eveiy trip^jirt
for to play that 'ero dodge ! At last
one time,' not long after I joined the
craft, what does he do but nigh-hand
loses her an' her cargo, all owio' to
^ Quere — Liberator t
ia49.]
The Green Hand^A " SfwrV Yam, Part V.
441
jeckonin* orcr mnch on this here
trayerae. Oat we comes one night in
the tail of a squall, an^ as soon as it
clears, there snre enough we made out
the brig, hard after ns, as we thinks,
->60 never a rag more Job daps on,
'canse two of his friends, ye see, was
jist oataide the bar in the Noon river.
Well^ bloodj soon the cruiser begins
to orerhanl os, as one gaff-tanpsl
wouldn't do, nor jet another, till the
fljing-jib and bonnets made her walk
away from tiiem in right 'amest,
— ^wiiffli slap comes a long-shot that
took the fore-topmast out of ns in a
twinkling. So when the moonlight
eomed ont, lo an' behold, instead o'
the brig's two masts stiff and straight
against the haze, there was t&ee
spanking sticks all atannto, my boy,
in a fine new sloop- o'- war as had fresh
eame on the station— the Irish, they
called her — ^and a fast ship she wor.
But all said and done, the schooner
had the heels of her in anght short of
a reef-tanps'l breeae, — though, as for
the other two, the sloop-o'-war picked
off both on 'em in the end." At this
point of the feUow's account, I, Ned
Collios, began to prick up my ears,
pretty sore it was the dear old Iris he
was talking of; and thought I, '* Oho,
my mate, we shall hare you directly,
— hsteiiing's lair with a chap of this
breed."
" Wdl," said he, " 'twas the next
Mp after that, we finds the coast clear,
as commonly was — for, d'ye see, they
couldn't touch us if so be we hadn't a
BlaTe aboard, — ^in fact, we heard as
how the cruiser was up by Serry Lony,
and left some young luffitenant or
oilier on the watch with a sort o'
lateen-rigged tender. A precious raw
diap he was, by all accounts, — and
save enough, there he kept plying off
and on, inshore, 'stead of out of sight
to seawird till the craft would make
a bolt ; an' as soon as ye dropped an
andior, heM send a boat aboard with
a reefer, to ax if ye'd got slaves in the
hold. In course, ye know. Job Price
sends back a message, ^* palm-ile an'
iv'ry, an' gould if we can," — ^h'ists the
Forttngee colours, brings up his Por-
tingee papers, and makes the Portingee
rtooW ski|pper for the spell, — but
anyhow, bem' no less nor three slavers
in the montii of the Bonny river at
the time, why, he meant to show fight
If need be, and jest manhandle the
young navy sprig to his heart's con-
tent. Hows'ever, the second or third
night, all on a suddent we found he'd
sheered off for decency's sake, as it
might be, an hour or two afore we'd
began to raft off the niggers. Well,
'mate, right in the midst of it there
comes sich a fury of a tumady off the
land, as we'd to slip cable and run
fair out to sea after the other craft
what had got sooner fall, — one on 'em
went ashore in sight, an' we not
ninety blacks aboard yet, with barely
a day's water stowed in. The next
morning, ont o' sight of land, we got
the sea-breeze, and stood in again
under eveirthing, till we made Fer-
nandyPo ileyand three leagues off,
or thereby, an' the two ebony-brigs
beating out in company, — so the skip-
per stands over across their course
for to give them a hail, heaves to and
pulls aboard the nearest, where he
stays a good long spell and drinks a
stiff glass, as ye may fancy, afore
partin'. Back comes Job Price in
high glee, and tould the mate as how
that momin' the brigs had fell foul o'
tlie man-o'-war tender, bottom up,
an' a big Newfoundling dog a-howlin'
on the keel— no doubt she'd turned
the turtle in that 'ere squall — ^more by
token he brought the dog alongst
with him in a present. So away we
filled again to go in for the Bonny
river, when the breeze fell, and
shortly arter there we was all three
dead becalmed, a couple o'miles be-
twixt us, sticking on the water like
flies on glass, an' as hot, ye know, as
blazes — the very moral o' this here.
By sundown we hadn't a drop o'
water, so the skipper sent to the
nearest brig for some ; but strike me
lucky if they'd part with a bucketftil
for love, bein' out'ard bound. As
the Spanish ddpper said, 'twas either
hard dollars or a stout nigger, and
t'other brig said the same. A slight
puff o' land-wind we had in the night,
though next day 'twas as calm as
ever, and the brigs farther off— so by
noon, my boy, for two blessed casks,
if Job Price hadn't to send six blacks
in the boat. Shorter yam, Jack,—
but the calm held that night too, and
'blowed if the brigs would sell another
brealEer — ^what we had we couldn't
spare to the poor devils under hatches,
4i2
The Green Hand^A " S/iort " Yam. Part V.
[Oct.
and the next day, why, they died off
like rotten sheep, till we hove the last
on ^cm o'board ; and frightful enongk
it was, mind ye, for to see about fifty
sharks at work all ronnd the schooner
at once^ as long as it lasted. Well,
in the arternoou we M just commenced
squabbling aboard amongst ourselves,
round the dreg water, or whether to
board one o' the brigs and have a fair
fight, when oft* come a bit of a breeze,
betwixt the two high ])eaks on Fer-
uandy To, both the brigs sot stensails,
and begins slipping quietly off— our
skipper gave orders to brace after
them, and clear away the long gun
amidships ; but all on a suddent we
made out a lump of a brig dropping
down before it round the ileyand,
which we knowed her well enough for
a liristol craft as had lost half her
hands up the Callebar, in the goold
au' iv'ry trade. J)own she comed,
wonderfic fast for the light breeze, if
there hadn't been one o' yer currents
besides oft' the ileyand, till about half-
a-milc away she braces up, seemingly
to sheer aci-oss it and steer clear of us.
Out went our boat, an* the skipper bids
every man of her crew to shove a
short cutlosh inside his trousers.
Says he," I guess we'll first speak 'em
fair, but if we don't ha' water enough,
il '11 be 'tarnal queer, that's all," says
he — an' Job was a man never swore,
but he looked mighty bad, that time,
I must say ; so we out oai*s and pulls
right aboard the trader, without an-
swerin' ever a hail, when up the side
we bundled on deck, one arter the
other, mad for a drink, and sees the
master with ftve or six of a crew, all
as white as ghostcsses, and two or
three Kroomen, besides a long-legged
young feller a-sittin' and kicking his
feet over the kimpanion-hatch, with a
tumblerful o' grog in his fist, as fi*esh
to all seemiu* as a ftsh, like a supper-
cargo or some'at o' the sort, as them
craft commonly has. "What schooner's
that?" axes the master, all abroad
like ; an' says Job, says he out o'
breath, " Never you niind ; I gue^s
you'll let's have some water, for wo
wants it almighty keen ! " " Well,
sa^'s the other, shaking his head,
" I'm afeared we're short ourselves —
anyhow," says he, " we'll give yo a
dipper the piece,"— and accordingly
they fists us along a dozen gulps,
hand over hand. "Twon't do, I
guess, mister, says our skipper; "we
wants a cask ! " Here the roaster o'
the brig shakes his bead again, and
giv a look to the young Mong-riiore-
like chap aft, which sings out as we
couldn't have no more for lore nor
money, — an' I see Cap'en Price com-
mence for to look savltch again, and
feel for the handle on his cntiash.
"Rather you'd ax iv'ry or gonld-
dust ! " sings out the supper- carp),—
" hows'ever," says be : "as yc've
tooken sich a fancy to it, short o'
water ns we is, why a fair exchange
an't no robbery," says he: "you
wants water, an' we wants hands;
haven't ye a couple o' niggers for to
spare us, sir, by way offa barter, now?"
he says. AVell, 'mate, I'll be blowed
if I ever see a man turn so wicked
fur'ous as Job Price turns at this
here, — an' says be, through his tcetb,
" If ye'd said a nigger's uail-parin', I
couldn't done it, so it's no use talkm'."
" Oh come, capting," says the yonBg"
fellow, wonderfle angshis like, "MjT
one jist — it's all on the quiet, yo
know. Bless me, captiu," says fe,
" I'd do a deal for a man in a straitr
'tickerly for yerself— an' I think we'd
manage with a single hand moR.
I'll give ye two casks and a bog o*
gould-dnst for one black, and we'll
send aboard for him just now, oar-
selves ! " " No ! " roars Job Price,
walkin' close up to hbn ; " yc've ri»
jne, ye cussed Britisher ye, an' I teE
ye we'll take what we wants ! " "No
jokes, though, captin !"saysthefeller—
" what's one to a whole raft-fnl I heeH
of ye shipping?" "Go an' tx
the sharks, ye beggar 1" says tlN
skipper ; — " here my lads 1 " says ke,
an' makes grab at the other's thioit,
when slap comes a jug o' mm in hii
eye-lights, and the yonng diap vft
fist in quick-sticks, and drops )am
like a cock, big as he was. By tbit
time, though, in a twinklin', tiM
master was flat on deck, and ik»
brig's crow showed no fight — ^wben lo
an' behold, my boy, up bundles •
score o' strapping men-o'-war's-nA
out of the cabin. One or two ot
us got a cut abont the bead, ai^
my gentleman supper-cargo dapf *
pistol to my car from aft, so «•
knocked nnder withont more to d<k
In five minutes time every nun j
1849.]
The Green Hand^A " ShorV Yam. Part K
443
of na had a Beijing about his wriBts
and lower pins, — and says Job Price,
in a givin-np sort o* v'lce, ^You're
too cost spry for playin' jokes on, I
calculate, squire,* he says. ^ Jokes V
says the yoang feller, ' why, it's no
joke — in course you knows me?'
'Niver see'd ye atween the eyes afore,'
says Job, ' but don*t bear no malice,
mister, now.' ' That's it,' says the
t'other, lookin' at the schooner again,
— *no more I does — so jist think a
bit, han't you really a nigger or so
aboard o' ye — if it was jist one?'
* Squash the one I' says Job, shakin'
his head nellicholly like, — an' ' Sorry
for it,' says the chap, ' 'cause ye see
I'm the Iniltenant belongin' to the
Irish, an' I cam't titch yer schooner
if so be ye han't a slave aboard.'
* Lawk a'mighty ! — ^no 1' sings out
Job Price, 'cause bein' half blinded he
couldn't ha' noted the lot o* man-o'-
warVmen sooner. — ' But I can^^ says
the otiier, ^ for piratecy, ye see ; an'
what's more,' he says, * there's no help
for it now, I'm afeared, mister what-
they-calUye V Well, 'mate, after that
ye may fancy om* skipper turns terrible
down in the mouth; so without a
w(Mrd more they parbuckles us all
down below into the cabin — an' what
does this here lufftenant do but he
strips the whole lot, rigs out as many
of lu8 men in our duds, hoists out a
Mg cask o' water on the brig's far
side, and pulls round for the schooner,
— ^hlsself togged out like the skipper,
and his odd hands laid down in the
boat's bottom." Yon won't wonder
at my being highly amused with the
fellow's yam, shice the fact was that
it happened to be one of my own
adventures in the days of the Iris,
two or three years before, when we
saw a good many scenes together, far
more wild and stirring, of course, in
the thick of the slave-trade; but
really the ugly rascal described it
wonderiTully well.
" Well," said Harry, " I gets my
chin shoved up in the stam-windy,
where I see'd the whole thing, and
tonld the skipper accordently. The
schooner's crew looked out for the
water like so many oysters in a tub ;
the lufftenant jumps up the side with
Kia vnAn oftAP hlrn o»»' ♦»<** "*» .i-..**!* oa
JIlM m^ll ZHm^*. MftukA, «MA UVIt eVf UiU\/U ttU
the cross of two cutlashes did we
hear afore the onion-jack flew oat
a-peak over her mains'l. In five
minutes more, the schooner fills
away before the breeze, and begins
to slide ofif in fine style after the pair
o' brigs, as was nigh half huU-down
to seaward by this time. There we
was, left neck an' heel below in the
trader, and he hauled up seemin'ly for
the land, — an' arter a bit says the
skipper to me, * Foster, my lad, I
despise this way o' things,' says he,
* an't there no way on gettin' dear ?'
^ Never say die, cap'en !' I says ; an*
says he, * I calc'late they left consid-
erable few hands aboard?' 'None
but them sleepy-like scum o' iv'ry
men,' I says, — but be blowed if I
see'd what better we was, till down
comes a little nigger cabin-boy for
some'at or other, with a knife in his
hand. Job fixes his eye on him —
I've heerd he'd a way in his eye with
niggers as they couldn't stand — an'
says he, softrsawderin' like, *Come
here, will ye, my lad, an' give us a
drink,' — so the black come for'ad with
a pannikin, one foot at a time, an' he
houlds it out to the skipper's lips— for,
d'ye see, all on us had our flippers
lashed behind our backs. 'Now,'
says he, thankee, boy, — look in
atwixt my legs, and ye'll find a dollar.'
With that, jest as the boy stoops,
Job Price ketches his neck fast be-
twixt his two knees, an' blowed if he
didn't jam them harder, grinning all
the time, till down drops the little
black throttled on the deck. ' That's
for thankin' a bloody niggurl' says
he, lookin' as savitch as the devil,
and got the knife in his teeth, when
he turned to and sawed through the
seizing round my wrists — an' in
course I sets every man clear in quick-
sticks; ^NowP says Job, lookm'
round, ' the quicker the better — that
cussed lubber-ratin' hound's got my
schooner, but maybe, my lads, this
here iv'ry man '11 pay expenses — ^by
th'almighty, if I'm made out a pirate,
I'll am the name !'
'' Well, we squints up the hatch-
way, and see'd a young midshipman
a-standing with his back to us,
watching the brig's crew at the braces,
an' a pistol in one band — when all at
once our skipper slips off his shoes,
rU!! r.p the SUif as quiet as a cat, an'
caught the end of a capstan-bar as
lay on the scuttle. With that down
lU
The O'tecH Hand-' A '' ShorV' Yam. Part V.
[Oct.
liC omoa craah on tbc poor fellow's
aoull from aft, aud brained him in a
moment. Every man of us got
bloody -minded ^vitli the bight, so wc
scarce knowcd what ^\ e did, ye know,
'mate, afore all hands o' them was
jione, — how, 1 an't jjoin' for to say,
nor the share as one had in it more
nor another. 'J1ic lon<jr an* the short
on it was, we run the bri« by sun-
down in amongst the cix-eks up the
C am aroons river, thinkiu' to lie stowed
away dose thereabouts till all wor
cold, llows'cver they kicked up the
devirs delif;;ht about a pirateey, and
the sloop-o'war comes back shortly,
when night an^ day there was that
youn^ shark of a, lufftenant huntin^
arter us, as sharp as a marlinspike —
we dursu't come down the river
nohow, till what with a bad con-
science, fogs, and sleepin^ every night
within stiuk o' them blasted muddy
mangroves an' bulrushes together,
why^ mate, the whole ten hands died
oft* one arter the other in the fever —
leaving ownly me an' the skipper.
Job Trice was like a madman over
the cargo, worth, good knows how
many thousand dollars, as he couldn't
take out— but for my part, I gets the
brig's punt one night and sculls myself
ashore, and olT like a hare into the
bush by moonlight. No use, ye
know, for to say what rum chances I
meets with in the woods, livin' up
trees and the like for fear o' illiphants,
sai-jicnts, an' bloody high-annies, —
but, blow me, if I didn't think the
farther ye went aloft^ the more
monkeys an' pjurykeets you rowsed
out, jabberin'all night so' as a feller
couldn't close an eyo — an' as for
the sky, be blowed if I ever once
sighted it. So, d' ye see, it puts all
notions o' fruits an' Aowers out o'
my head, an' all them jimmy -jcssamy
sort o' happy-go-lucky yarns about
barbers' ileyands and shipherdresses
what they used for to spell out o'
dicshinars at school — all gammon,
mate I" " Lord love ye, no, sure-
ly," said Jack ; " it's in the Bible !"
*'Ay, ay,'' said Harry, "that's
arter ye've gone to Davy Jones,
no doubt; but I've been in the
South-Sy ileyands since, myself, an'
1)0 blowed if it's much better t'ncre i
Hows'ever, still anon, T took a new
fancy, an' away I makes for the river,
in sareh of a nigger villache, as tlioy
calls 'em ; and snre enough it wam't
long ere right I plumps in the midst
on a lot o' cane huts amongst tries.
But sich a shine and a nittv as I kicks
up« ye see, bein' half naked, fortlltlw
world like a wild man o' the woodj;,
an' for a full hour I has the town to
myself, so I hoists my shirt on a stuk
over the hut I took, by way of a flag
o' truce, an' at last they all begins for
to swarm in again. Well, ye see, I
k no wed the ways o' the natifB there-
abouts pi-etty well, an* what does I do
but I'd laid mvself tlat afore a blasted
ugly divvle of a wooden bimmacbe, ts
stood on the flour, an' I wriggles and
twists myself, and groans like a chap
in a At— 'what they callsy^tt/^A, there-
away— an' in course, with that they
logs me down at once for a rigltf
holy-possel from Jerusalem. The
long an' the short on it was, the fit-
tish-man takes me under charge, aad
sets me to tell fortlns or the like with
an ould quadrant they'd got some*
whercs — gives mo a hut an- two
black wives, begad! and there I lireA
for two or three weeks on end, no
doubt, as proud as Tommy — when, 0110
line morning, what does I see offshoiv
in the river but that confounded man-
o'-war tender, all ship-shape aa'
ataunto agam. So, my boy, I givei
'em to understand as how, bein' oftf
vallible at home with the King d
England, in course he*d sent for ti
puckalow me away — an' no aooaer
said, but the whole town gets ii s
tlnster— the fittish-man, whic£ aknov-
ing chap he was, takes an* raba nu
from heel to truck with ile ont Qi i
sartain nut, as turned me cool-hlack
in half an hour, an' as soon asl kraki
in the creek, 'mate, be blowed ifFdi
known myself from a nigger, soM-
how I" To tell the truth, as / tboight
to myself, it was no wonder, as BlasMT
Harry's nose and lips were \ff M
means in the classic style, and Mi
skin, as it was, didn't appear of the
whitest. " So there, ye know, I «■
before a hut grindin' away at maii^
with nothink else bnt a waist*eloA
round me, and my two legs stock 0^
till such time as the InfRenantan't**
boats' crews had sarched the ▼fliacke*
havin' hccrd, no donbr, of a w»W
man thereabouts — an' at last off tk^
went. Well, in course, at Arst thii
The Often Hemd^A " Short " Yarn. Part V,
445
ur gives the fittbh-man a lift
Diggenes eyes, by reason o*
tamed a white man black —
re see, them fittish-men has a
red knowledge on plants and
Bat howsoever, in a day or
gins for to getraythcr oncasy,
didn^t wash oflf, an' accord-
Bade beknown as much to the
lan, when, my boy, if he
shake his mop- head, and rubs
IS much as to say, ^ We an't
4> part.' Twas no nsc, and
I, * Ye man-eatin* scam, be
if I don*t put yonr neck ont,
So I turns to with my knife
1 0* wood, carves a himmage
8 big an* ugly as his*n, and
. hut over it, where I plays all
lerin* tricks I could mind on —
haBged if the niggers didn't
> leave the fittish-man pretty
' make a blessed sight more o*
takes a couple more wives,
■nk every day on palm-wine
Idy-jaice — as for the hogs an'
Ds they brought me, why I
; flow 'em away ; an' in place
in' myself white again, I rubs
vrer an' over with that ere
■lone palm-ile, till the bloody
iih-man looks brown alongside
At last the king o' the niggers
ij — KingChimbey they called
some'at o' the sort — he sends
ee me, an' away to his town
M8 me, a mile or two up the
, where I see'd him ; but I'm
Jack, if he'd got a crown on
oly a onld red marine's coat,
ir o' top-boots, what was laid
m he wam't in state. Hows' -
gives me two white beans an'
B, in sign o' high favour, and
M to know as I wor to stay
Bat one thing I couldn't make
f the black king's hut an' the
an, as they calls it, was all
lond with bones an' dead men's
-*twan*t long, though, ere I
oat, 'mate! That ere fittish-
fo see, wor a right-down imp
Bt, and devilish wicked he
s; bat still anon I sends over
wives, turns ont a black feller
da hot, an' slings a hammock
hoB the next day or so I meets
; ittiah-man in the woods, an'
»or diwle looks wonderfle
•like, oiakin' me all kinds o'
woeful signs, and scemin'ly as much
as to say for to keep a bright look-out
on the other. All on a suddent what
does he do, but he runs a bit, as far
as a tree, picks up a sort of a red
mushroom, an' he rubs with it across
the back o' my hand, g^ves a wink,
and scuttles off. What it meaned I
couldn't make out, till I gets back to
the town, when I chanced to look at
my flipper, and there I see a clean
white streak alongst itl Well, I
thinks, liberty's sweet, an' I'm blessed
if a roan's able to cruize much to
windward o' right-down slavery,
thinks I, if he's black ! Uowsomever,
thinks I, I'll jest hold on a bit longer.
Well, next day, the black king had
the blue-devils with drinldn' rum,
an' he couldn't sleep nohow, 'cause, as
I made out^ he'd killed his uncle, they
said — I doesn't know but he'd eaten
him, too — anyhow, I see'd him eat as
much of a fat hog, raw, as ud sarve
out half the watclK--so the fittish-man
tells him there's nought for it but to
please the fittish. What that wor,
blowed if I knew ; but no sooner sun-
down nor they hauls me ont o' my
hut, claps me in a stinking hole as
dark as pitch, and leaves me to smell
bell till momin', as I thought. Jist
about the end o' the mid-watch, there
kicks up a rumpus like close-reef
taups'ls in a harricane — smash goes
the sticks over me ; I seed the stars,
and a whole lot o' strange blacks
with long spears, a-fightin', yellln',
tramplin', an* twistin' in the midst
o' the huts, — and off I'm hoisted in
the gang, on some feller's back or
other, at five knots the honr, throngh
the woods, — ^till down we all comes in
a drove, plash amongst the very
swamps close by the river, where, lo
an' behold, I makes out a schooner
afloat at her anchor. The next thing
I feels a blasted red-hot iron come
hiss across my shoalders, so I jumped
np and sang out like Maaes, in coune.
But, my flippers bein' all fest, 'twas
no use : I got one shove as sent me
head-foremost into a long canoe, with
thirty or forty niggers stowed away
like cattle, and out the men pulls for
the schooner. A big bright fire there
was ashore, astam of us, I mind,
where they heated the irons, with a
chap in a straw hat sorvin' out mm
to the wild blacks from a cask ; and
446
The Green Hand-^A ^« Short'^ Yam. Part V.
[Oct
ye saw the pitch-black woods behind,
with the branches 8ho7ed oat red in
the light on it, an* a bloody-like patch
on the water under a clamp o' sooty
mangrooves. An* be d-n), Jack, if
I didn't feel the life sick in me, that
time — ^for, d*ye see, I hears nothin'
spoke roand me bat cassed French,
Portingeese, an' nigger tongue — 'spe-
cially when it jist lightens on me what
sort on a case I were in; an' thinks I,
^ By G — if I'm not took for a slave.,
arter alll — ^an'be hanged bat I left that
'ere 'famal moshroom a-lying under
that there tree yonder ! ' I begins for to
think o' matters an' things, an' about
Bristol quay, an' my old mother, an'
my sister as was at school — mind ye,
'mate, all atwixt shovin' off the man-
groves an' coming bump again the
schooner's side — ^an' blow me if I
doesn't tarn to, an' nigh-hand com-
mences for to blabber — when jist then
what does I catch sight on, by the lan-
tern over the side> but that 'ere villain
of a fittish-man, an' what's more,
King Chimbey hlsself, both hauled in
the net. And with that I gives a
chuckle, as ye may suppose, an' no
mistake ; for, thinks I, so far as con-
sams myself, this here can't last long,
blow me, for sooner or later I'll find
some un to speak to, even an I niver
gets rid o' this here outer darkness-^
be bio wed if I han't got a white mind,
any ways« an' frae I'll be, my boy !
Bat I laughs, in course, when I see'd
the fittish-man grin at me, — for thinks
J; my cocks, you're logged down for
a pretty long spell of it P'
** Well, bo', somehow I knows no
more about it till such time as I sort
o' wakes up in pitch-dark, all choke
and sweat, an' a feller's dirty big toe
in my mouth, with mine in some un
else's eye,— so out I spits it, an' makes
scramble for my life. By the roll an'
the splash, I knowed I wor down in
the schooner's hold; an' be hanged if
there wan't twenty or thirty holding
on like bees to a open weather-port,
where the fresh wind and the spray
come a-blowing through — but there,
my boy, 'twere no go for to get so
much as the tip o' yer nose. Accor-
dently, up I prizes myself with my
feet on another poor devirs wool, —
for, d'ye see, by that time I minds a
man's face no more nor so mach tim-
ber!—an' I feels for the hatch over me,
where by good lack, as I thought,
there I finds it not battened down
yet, so I shoved my head through oo
deck like a blacksmith's hammer.
Welly 'mate, there was the schooaer'a
deck wet, a swell <^ a sea on round
her, well off the land, no trifle of a
morning gale, and the craft heeling l»
it — ^a lot o' hands up on her yards*
a-reefing at the boom mains'! and
fo'taups'i, an' begod if my heart
doesn't jump into my mouth with the
sight, for I feels it for all the world
like a good glass o' grog, settin' aU to-
rights. Two or three there was walk-
in' aft the quarterdeck, so out I sings
^ Hullo ! hullo there, shipmates, give
us a hand out o' this 1' Two on 'en
comes forud, one lifts a handspike,
but both gives a grin, as much as to
say it's some nigger tongue or otho*,
in place o'*good English — ^for, d'ye see^
they'd half their faces black-beard,
and rings i' their ears — when up walks
another chap like the skipper, aa^
more the looks of a oountryraaik.
'D — n it,' roars I again, ^I'm a
free-bom Briton I' with that he lends
me a squint, looks to the men, saT
gives some sort o' a sign — when thejr
jams-to the hatch and nips me £ut by
the neck. ' Devil of a deep beggar,
this here 1' says he; ^jist give him tb*
gag, my lads,' says he; * the plaolevs
often thinks more of a dumby, 'caoee
he works the more, and a stout pleoa
o' goods this if /'says he. WcU^'nate,
what does they do but one palls onS
a knife, an' be blowed if they wara't
a-goin' for to cut out my tongue; baft
the men aloft sung out to hoist away
the yards; so th^ left me ready
clinched till they'd belay the ropes.
Next, a hand lorud, by good liidc«
hailed ' SaU-O,' and they'd aome'st
else to think o' besides me; for therei
my bov, little more nor three miles
to wind'ard, I see'd the Irish as she
come driving bodily out o* the mistt
shakin' out her three to'gallant-ssilsr
an' a white spray flying witii her off
one surge to anoUier. Bloody bad U
was, mind ye, for my wind-pipe, fot
every time the schooner pitcbedi
away swings my feet dear o' the nig-
ger's heads, — ^'canse, d'ye see, we
chancedfortobe stowed on the 'tweea-
decks, an'another tier there was, sIbA^
in her lower hold — an' theie I stock*
'mate, so as I couldn't help watchin?
The Green Hand—A " Short " Yarn. Part V.
447
le chase, till at last the hatch
ip a bit, and down I plumps
dark again."
II, bo*, the breeze got lighter,
ii seemin' the cursed schooner
own; but howsoever, the sloop-
kept it up all day, and once
i she tips us a long shot ; till
Bt, as I reckoned, we hears no
I b^. The whole night long,
here we stews as thick as peas
ipeharknin* to the sighs an*
an* the wash along the side,
! of a doze ; an* s^help me Bob,
s for a moment Tm swinging
ammock in the fox'sle, an* it*s
\ but the bulkheads and tim-
akfai*. Then I thinks its some
I dreams on, as is d — d on-
ce to choke for heat and thirst ;
a*chuckling at him — when np
I with the cockroaches swarm-
r my face. Another groan runs
ftt end to this, the whole lot
ieehard, and kicks their neigh-
0 turn, an* be blowed if I
. bnt I was buried in a church-
ith the blasted worms all a-
ibont me. All on a sudden,
ad to day-break it was, I
gnn to wind*ard, so with that
fes for to scramble up with
1 to the scuttle-port. *Twas a
tmeze, an* 1 8ee*d somo*at lift
a, like a albatrosse*s wing, as
f gay — though what wor this
IriBh*8 bit of a tender, stand-
it across our bows—for the
r, ye see, changed her course i'
It-time, rig*lar slayer*s dodge,
for to drop the sloop-o*-
m enough. But as for the
Inoca, why, they hadn*t
Bd for her at all, 13'ing-to as
with a rag 0* sail up, in the
of the sea, till the schooner was
I her. Well, no sooner does
«bont, my boy, but the mus •
^ a cruiser lets drive at her off
ef a sea, as we hung broadside
i fai stays. Blessed if I ever
A mark ! — the shot jist takes
►top fair slap — for the next
[ aee'd the fore-topmast come
I lee-side, an* astam we begins
rectly. What*s more, mate, I
Be a small craft yet handled
I a sea, as that *ere chap did —
same thing done, cleaner at
»— for they jist comes nigh-
hand tip on our bowsprit-end, as tho
schooner lifted — then up in the wind
they went like clock-work, with a
stamway on as carried the f*lacca
right alongside on us, like a coachman
backing up a lane, and rfrind we both
heaved on the swell, with the top-
mast hamper an* its canvass for a
fender atwixt us. Aboard jumps tho
man-o'-war*8-men, in course, cntlash
in hand, an* for five minntes some
tough work there was on deck, by tho
tramp, the shots, an* the curses over
our heads — when off they shoved the
hatches, and I see*d a tall young feller
in a gold-banded cap look below. Be
blowed if I wasn*t goin* to sing out
again, for, d*ye see, I*m blessed if I
took mind on the chap at all, as much
by reason 0* the blood an* the smoke
he'd got on his face as aught else.
Ilows'ever I holds a bit meantime, on
account o* Job Price an* that *ere
piratccy consain — till what does I
think, a hour or two arter, when I
finds as this here were the very luff-
tenant as chased us weeks on end in
the Camaroons. So a close stopper,
sure enough, I keeps on my jaw ; an*
as for scentin* me out amongst a
couple o* hundred blacks in the hold,
why, *twere fit to paul my own mother
herself.
**WelI, Jack, by this time bein*
near Serry Lone, next day or so we
got in— where, what does they do but
they lubber-rates us all, as they calls
it, into a barracoon ashore, till sich
time as the slaver ud be condemned —
an* off goes tho tender down coast
again. Arter that, they treats us well
enough, but still I dursn*t say a word ;
for one day, as we goed to work makin^
our huts, there I twigs a printed bill
upon the church-wall, holdin* out a
reward, d*yc see, consamin* the pi-
ratecy, with my oun name and my
very build logged down— ownly, bo
hanged if they doesn*t tack on to it all,
by way of a topgallant ink- jury to fv
man, these here words — ' He's a very
ugly feller— looks like a furriner?
Well, mate, I an*t a young maiden,
sure enough — but, thinks I, afore I fell
foul 0* that blasted fittish-man an* his
nut, cuss me if I looks jist so bad as
that *ere ! So ye know this goes more
to my heart nor aught else, till there
I spells out another confounded lie iia-
tho bill, as how Cap*eu Price*s men
118
The GncH Hand— A " Short " Yam. Part F.
[Oct.
had mutinied again him, and murdered
the brig's crew — when, in course, I sees
the villain's whole traverse at once. So
seein' 1 watched my chance one night,
an' went aboard of a Yankee brig as
were to sail next day : an' I tells the
.skipper part o' the jftory, ofterin' for
to work my passage across for no-
thiir — which, says lie, * It's a hinter-
esstin' narritifc' — them was his words ;
an' says he, * It's a land o' freedom is
the States, an' no mistake — an't there
no more on ye in the like case?' he
says. ' Not "as I knows on, sir,' I
answers; an' says he, 'Plenty o'
coloured gen'lmen there is yonder, all
in silks an' satins ; an' I hoar,' says
he, ^ there's one on 'em has a chance
o' i)ein Trcsident next time — anyhow
I'm your friend,' says he, quite
hearty. Well, the long an' short of
it was, I stai'S al^oard the brig, works
my spell in her, an' takes my trick at
the helm — but I'm blowed. Jack, if
the men ad let me sleep in thefok'sle,
'cause I was a black, — so I slung my
hammock aft with the nigger stoo'rd.
D'yo see, I raisgived myself a bit
when we sank the coast, for thinks I
its in Africay as that 'ere blessed
mushroom are to be found, to take
the colour off me — hows'ever, I thinks
it carn't but wear out in time, now
I've got out o' that 'ere confounded
mess, where, sure enough, things was
against me — so at last the v'yage were
up, an' the brig got in to New Orleens.
There I walks aft to the skipper for
to take leave, when says he, won-
<iertle friendly like, — ' Now my lad.'
says he, ' I'm goin' up river a bit for
to see a friend as takes a interesst in
your kind— an' if ye likes, why, I'll
pay ycr passage that far ?' In course
I agrees, and up river we goes, till we
lands at a fine house, where I'm left
in a far- handy, ye know, while the
skipper an' his friend has their dinner.
All at once the gen'lman shoves his
head out of a doure, takes a look at
me, an' in again, — arter that I hears
the chink o' dollars — then the skipper
walks ont, shuts the doure, an' says
he to me, ' Now,' he says, ' that's a
'cute sort o' tale yon tonld me, my
lad — but it's a lie, I guess !' ' Lie,
sir !' says I, * what d'ye mean ?' for
ye see that 'ere matter o' the iv'ry
brig made me sing small, at first.
* No slack, Pampey,' says ho, llftin'
his fore-finger like a schoolmaster,—
'ain't ycr namePumpeyV sayd he.
' Pumpey be d — d!' says I, *my
name's Jack Brown' — ^for that war
the name Fd^ved him, afore. *Ohr
says he, 'jest say it's Gin'ral Wish-
inton, right off! Come,' says he, 'I
guess rd jest tell yc what tripe yoo
belongs to — ^yoa're a Mandingj nig-
gur,' says he' ' It's all very well,' ha
says, ' that 'ere yarn, bat that's wot
they'd all say when they comes,
they've been dyeil black I Why,' styi
he,' doesn't I see that 'ere brand one
night on yer back — ^there's yer amii
all over pagan tattooin' — ' 'BleH
ye, cap'en,' I says, a-holdin' up my
arm, 'it's crowns an' aachenr
' Crowns !' says he, tarnin' ap hii
nose, ' what does we know o' crowBi
hereaway — ict ain't barbers yet, I
guess.'— Of what he meaned \il
barbers here^ mate, Pm hanged if I
knowed — ' 'sides,' says be, ' yot
speaks broken Aimerricane !' ' 'Me^
ricain ?' I says, ' why, I speaks good
£nglish 1 an' good reason, bein* a free-
bom Briton— as white's yerself, if «o
be I could ownly clap hands for ft
minnet on some o' them mushrooms I
tonld ye on!' 'Where does tb^
grow, then ?' axes be, ecrewin' od0
eye up. ' In Africay yonder, ar,' I
says, ' more's the pity I hadnt tha
chance to lay hands on 'em again f
*Phoo!' says be, 'glad they aiat
here! An does yon think weVe agoii'
for to send all the way over to Afriei|
for them mnshrooms yoa talks oi?
Tell ye what, yer free papen 'nd d*
ye a sight more good here P says be—
' its no use, with a black skSn, for to
claim white laws ; an' what's wot,
ye'rc too tarnation nglj-faced lor %
let alone colour, Pnmpey, ny buT
he says. ' I tell ye what it is, Cap**
Edwards,' says I, 'my tTOBtispien
an't neither bene nor there, bot if JM
calls me Pnmpey again, 'blowed ai^
I don't pitch inty ye f — so with tW
I handles my bones in a way M
makes him bop inside the doin—
an' says the skipper, hooklia' ^
half shut, ' Harkee, lad,* he mjh
' it's no go yonr tryiii' for to rffi
or they'll make ye* think angdi o*
bo'snn's-mates. But what's iBO>Cf|
says he, ' niver you whisper a woid
o' what yc tells me, about nuts u*
mushrooms, or sichlike trash -'iO
2%« Green Hand— A ''Short " Yam, Part V.
449
[11 1; for d'ye see, my lad, ia
le they'd jest hu$k ye up for
'Who d'ye mean!' I says, all
an' of a sdiiyer, like — mindin'
lare-schooner again. ' Why,
Ller's people,' says he, ' as I've
to;' an' with that he p'ints
month, and shuts the door.
late, ye may fancy how I feels !
stands, givln' a look round for
Bag; bat there was bulwarks
om high all round the house,
loodhonud chained, with his
cm his two paws, an' nobody
or to mind mo. So I see'd it
. «p wonst more ; an' at the
fa knife in my tongue, I sits
<wn in the far-handy, rig'lar
asted, — when out that 'ere
dipper shoots his head again,
I lie ^Fnmpy, my lad, good
ji he ; ' you knows some'at o'
er, mn' as they've boat- woiic at
lii-away, I don't know but, if
Kvca yeraelf, they'll trust you
oar now an' then ; for I tonld
ter ji8t now,' says he, ' as how
n't speak no English ! ' Well,
Mm a damn, 'cause by that
hadn't a word to throw at a
i' shortly arter, up comes the
r with his black mate, walks
0 s shed, strips me, and gives
air o' cotton drawers an' a
nt— so ont I goes the next
Ibt to hoe sugar-cane with a
niggers.
dlPmate, arter that I kept
owh— says no more but mum-
la no-man's jargon, as makes
log me down for a sort o'
{■inea savitch — ,canse why, I
■ged afeared for my tongue,
r so be I lost it, I'd be a nig-
erer, sure enough. So the
fcr most part bem' country
ey talks nothin' but a blessed
lor all the world like babbies
I ; aa' what does they do but
nicies ma a rig'lar African
as proud as Tommy, an'
ready for to washup me they
by, the poor divvies nd bring
n an' fish, they kisses my
aa' toes as I'd been the Pope;
nr the young girls, Fm blowed
*t all the go amongst 'em—
1 eam't say the same where
irhite, ye know ! What with
an' the cocoa-nnt lie, to my
thiukin', I gets blacker an' blacker —
'blessed if I didn*t fancy a feller's very
mind tamed nigger. I lams their
confounded lingo, an' I answers to tho
name o' Pumpoy, blast it, till I right-
down f(H^ts that I'd ever another.
As for mnnin', look ye, I knowed 'twas
no use thereaway, as loug as my skin
tould against me, an' as l<Mig as Africay
wor where it wor. So, my boy, I
see'd pretty clear, ye know, as this
here bloody worid ud turn a man into
a rig'lar built slave-nigger in the long
run, if he was a angel out o' heaven!
''• Well, 'mate, one day I'm in the
woods amongst a gang, chopping fire-
wood fur the sugar-mill, when, by the
Lord ! what docs I light on betwixt
some big ground- leaves and sichlike,
but a lot o' them very same red mush-
rooms as the fittish-man shows me in
Africay I — blowed if there wam't a
whole sight o' them round about, too!
So I pulU enough for ten, ye may be
sure, stuffs 'em in my hat, an' that
same night, as soon as all's dark, off
I goes into the woods, right by the
stars, for the nearest town 'twixt there
an' New Orlecns. As soon as I got
nigh-hand it, there I sits down below
a tree amongst the bushes, hauls off
my slops, an' I turns to for to mb
m^-self all over, from heel to track,
till daybreak. So, in course, I watches
for the light angshis enough, as ye
may suppose, to know what colour I
were. Well, strike me lucky. Jack,
if I didn't jump near a fadom i' the
air, when at last I sees I'm white
wonst more 1 — 'blessed if I didn't feel
myself a new man from stem to stam!
I makes right for a creek near by,
looks at my face in the water, then up
I comes again, an' every bloody yam
o' them cussed slave-togs I pulls to
bits, when I shoves 'em under the
leaves. Arter that I took fair to the
water for about a mile, jist to smooth
out my wake, like ; then I shins aloft
up a tree, where I stowed myself
away till noon — 'cause, d'ye see, I
knowed pretty well what to look for
next. An' by this time, mind ye, all
them queer haps made a feller won-
derfie sharp, so I'd schemed out the
whole chart aforehand how to weather
on them cussed Yankees. Accord-
en tlye, about noon, what docs I hear
bot that 'ere blasted bloodhound
comin' along up creek, with a set o'
I
4M
The Green Hand^A " Shorr' Yarn. Part V.
[Oct.
slave- catchers nstarn, for to smell out
my track. With that, down I went
in the water a^ain, rounds a point
into the big river, where I grets
abreast of a landin' - place near the
town, with craft layino: ont- stream,
boats i»lyinp. an' all alive. DVe see,
bo', I'd ^t no clothes at all, an* how
for to rig mvf elf again, 'blowed if I
knows — sooin' as how bv this time
I'd tamed as white as the dav I were
born, an' a naked white man in a
town arn't no better nor a black nig-
ger. So in I swims like a porpas
afore a breeze, an' up an' down I
ducks in the shallow, for all the world
like a ch,^p at akin' a bath : an' ont I
hollers to .ill an' sundn-, with a
Yankee twang i' my nose, for to know
if thev'd see'd mv clothes, till a ^ hole
lot on 'em crowds on the quay.
llowsVver, I bethinks me on that
*ere bListed brand atwixt my shoul-
ders, an* I makes myself out as modest
as a lady, kicks but my legs, and
splashes like a whale agi*onnd, an'
sticks ont my stam to 'em for to let
'em sec it's white. ^Ilullo!' I sings
ont, * han't ye seen my clothes'/'
* No, stranger,' says they," 'some un's
mnned oflf with 'em, we calc'lates ! '
With that I tells *em I'm a Boston
skipper new corned up from New
Orleens ; an' not bein' used to the
heat, why, I'd took a bath the first
thing ; an' I 'scribes the whole o' my
togs as if Fd made 'em, — ' split new,'
says I, * an' a beaver hat, more by
token there's my name inside it ; an"
says I, ' there's notes for a hnndred
dollars in my trousers I' By this
time down comes the slave-catchers,
an' says they, hearin' on it, 'That 'ere
t^imation niggur's gone off with 'era,
we'll know un by them marks well
enough,' says they, an' off they goes
across river. ' IIullo!' I sings out to
the folks, ' I'm a gettiu' cold here, so
I guess I'll come ashore again, slick
off! ' I twangs out. * Guess ye can't,
straunger !' they hails; 'not till we gets
ye some kiverin's! — we're considerable
proper here, we are !* ' An't this a free
country, then?' I says, givin' a
divvlc of a splash ; an' w'ith that they
begs an' axes me for to hould on, an'
they'd fix me, as they calls it, in no
time. Well, mate, what does they do
but one an' another brings me some-
thin* as like what I 'scribed as could
be, hands 'em along on a pole, an' 1
puts 'em on then an' there. Arter
that, the ladies o' the place bcin'
blessed modest, an' all of a fright
leest I'd a corned ont an' gone through
the town, — why, ont o' grannvtui,
as they says, they gets up a sapper-
script ion on a hundred dollars to make
up mv loss — has a public meetiu' log-
ged down for the evenin', wben I'm
for to indress the citizens, as they
says, all about freedom an' top-gal-
lantry, an' sichlike. Ilows'ever, I j'lst
sticks my tongue in my cheek, eati
a blessed good dinner in a hot-ell,
watches my chance, an' off by a track-
boat at sun-down to New Orleeni,
where I shipped aboard a EngUsh
barque, an' gets safe out to sea woiut
more." " I^ord love ye, Htnyr' ex-
claimed Jack hereupon, " the likes o'
that now ! But I've hecrd say, then
fittish-men yon talks on has wonder-
ful knowledge — why, mayhap it*B
them as keeps all the niggers black,
now ? " " Well, bo'," saidHiny, " I
don't doubt but if them 'Merricane
slaves jist knowed o' that 'ere red
mushroom, why, they'd show the Yan«
kees more stripes nor stars ! D'ye iet,
if a Yankee knowed as his own falher
were a-hoein' his sngar-canes, 'blowcd
if he wouldn't make him work ap hitf
liberty in dollars! All the stnpes,
d'ye see, 'mate, is for the blacks, an*
all the stars is for the whites, in tbeai
Yankee colours as they brags so mocb
about ! Bnt what I says is, it*8 cnrst
hard to get through this here worldf
shipmate, if ye doesn't keep well to
wind'ard of it!" I was the mon
amused with this acconnt of the v^J
rascal's adventures, that I remembered
two or three of the occasions he met-
tioned, and he told them pretty exactly
so far as I had to do with them. iJ
for the fetish-man's cnriooa nut, and
that extraordinary mushroom of hia,
why ' ten to one' thought I, ' b«t
all the while the fellow never once
touched a piece of soapP which, bo
donbt, had as much to do with it is
anything besides. Somehow or other,
notwithstanding, I had taken almoei
a fancy to the villain — snch a rMgk
sample of mankind he was, with hil
uncouth, gmmpy voice and his huge
black beard ; and he gave the story ia
a cool, scornful sort of way that was
laughable in itself. ' So, my lad,' I
1849.]
ne Green Hand—A '' Shorr' Yam. PartV.
451
thought, 'it seems yon and I have
met twice before ; but if you play any
of your tricks this time, Master Harry,
I hope you've found your match ;' and
certainly, if I had fancied my gentle-
man was in the slaver's hold that time
off the African coast, Td have * lub-
ber-rated ' him with a vengeance I ^^ I
say, 'mates," said he again, with a
sulky kind of importance, to those of
the watch who had gathered round
during the last half of his yam,
** there's three things I hates — an'
good reason 1" "What be's they,
Harry ?" asked the rest. " One's a
Yankee," said he, " an' be blowed
to him I the second's a slaver j and
the third is — ^I cam't abide a mgger,
nohow. But d'ye see, there's one
thing as I likes " Here eight
bells struck out, and up tumbled the
watch below, with Jacobs's hearty
face amongst them ; so I made my
way aft, and, of course, missed hear*
ing what that said delightful thing
might be, which this tarry JEsop ap-
proved of so much.
Whilelwas listening, I had scarcely
noticed, that within the last few mi-
nutes a light air had begun to play
aloft among the higher canvass, a
fidnt cat's-paw came ruffling here and
there a patch of the water, till by this
time the Indiaman was answering
her wheel again, and moving slowly
^head, as the breeze came down and
crept out to the leeches of her sails,
witii a sluggish lifting of her heavy
fore-course. The men were all below
at breakfiist, forward, and, of course,
at that hour the poop above me was
quite a Babel of idlers' voices ; while
I looked into the compass and watched
the ship's head falling gradually off
from north-east-by-north, near which
It had stuck pretty close since day-
break. The sun was brought before
her opposite beam, and such a perfect
gosh of hazy white light shot from
that quarter over the larboard bul-
warks, that there-away, in fact, there
might have been a fleet of ships, or a
knot of islands, and we none the
wiser, aa you couldn't look into it at
all. The chief mate came handing a
wonderfully timid young lady down
the poop-ladder with great care, and
as aeon as they were ssSe on the quar-
terdeck, she asked with a confiding
sort of lisp, " And where are we going
now then, Mr Finch?" "Well,
Miss," simpered he, " wherever you
please, I'll be glad to conduct you I "
" Oh, but the ship I mean," replied
slie, giggling prettily. "Why," said
Finch, stooping down to the binnacle,
" she lieads due south-east at present,
Miss." ^^ lam so glad you are going
on again !" said the young lady ; " but
oh I when shall we see dear hnd once
more, Mr Finch?" "Not for more
than a week, I fear," answered the
mate, " when we arrive at the Cape
of Good Hope. But there. Miss, your
poetic feelings will be gratified, I
assure you I The hills there, I might
say. Miss Brodie," he went on, " not
to speak of the woods, are quite dra-
matic! You mustn't suppose the
rough mariner, rude as he seems. Miss
Brodie, is entirely devoid of romance
in his sentiments, I hopel" and he
looked down for the twentieth time
that morning at his boots, as he
handed her down the cabin hatchway,
londng to see the Cape, no doubt.
*' Much romance, as you call it, there
is in ugly Harry yonder !' thought I ;
and comparing this sort of stuff, aft,
with the matter-of-fact notions before
the mast, made me the more anxious
for what might turn up in a few hours,
with this gallant first officer left in
fall charge, and the captain, as I un-
derstood, unable to leave his cot. A
good enough seaman the fellow was,
so far as your regular deep-sea work
went, which those India voyagers had
chiefly to do with then ; but for aught
out of the way, or a sadden pinch, why,
the peace had just newly set them free
of their leading-strings, and here this
yonng mate brought his new-fangled
school navigation, forsooth, to ran the
Seringapatam into some mess or
other ; whereas, in a case of the kind,
I had no doubt he would prove as
helpless as a child. By this time, for
my part, all my wishes for some tick-
lish adventure were almost gone,
when I thought of our feelings at the
loss of the boat, as well as the num-
ber of innocent young creatures on
board, with LotaHydeherself amongst
them: while here had I got myself
fairly set down for a raw griffin. Yet
neither Westwood nor I, unless it
came to the very worst, could venture
to make himself openly useful I I was
puzzled both what to think of our
4.i2 Thf i'rrttn Ihvvl^^A "
exact ca=o. and whit to do : whereas
:i i-retty short time in tho-so latitudes,
a- the foremast -01:111 h.id said. mi;^ht
finish our liujines-^ alt«»,'otber: indeed,
the whole I'-'^U of ihinir>. s.'raeh«»wor
utlier. at that nv^ment. had a strange
un^-ttled t'^nch ai^iiit it. nut of which
one a«'cn.*t-.tnvd tn ili-ijo ]\in< mipht
be 51. re sonii* chauuv wo.iM come.
Th'^ air. a littK- ai:-^. wa- rfiitesuffo-
caiini:. tlie luat jot jrreater: and the
brei/.e. th>>u::h it >-.'i-uh dto stri/nu^hen
alot'i. at times sank i^iietir out of her
luwo:* canva?- like a l.»iiaih drawn in.
anil caught it a.'ain as qnietly ere it
fi'U to the masts. What with the
slow Uuizi' heavi" of the water, as it
w:isheil cltierinsrp.isi. and what with
the blue tropical sky overhead, get-
tinsr paU'r and )>aler at the horizoti
astern, iV-^m fair he.it — while the snn-
liirht and tlio whiii- hazt^ on onr lar-
b.-ard Ivani. made // a complete pazzle
to bthoM— >* iiv. I tell just like some
Allow in one of those >tnpid dreams
after a heavy supi'i-r, with nothing at
all in tlk-ni. when yi>u don't know how
lonsr ur how often you've dreamt it
K^fiire. Deuce the hand or I'uot you
ran stir, and yet you've a notion of
somethiuir horrid that's sure to come
upon yon. We couldn't Ik* much
more than a hundred miles or so to
sonth'ard of St Hi'lena : but we might
hv two tliuu-and milis ort' the land, or
we might be fifty. I had only lioen
once in my lifi- near thi^ coast there -
awav, and certainlv mv recollections
of it weren't the most pleasant. ^Vs
for the charts, so little wa? known of
it that we couldn't depend upon them :
yet there was no doulit the ship had
been all niirht lou^ in a strong set of
water t»iward north-east, rij;ht across
her course. For my owu part, I was
as anxious as any one else to reach
the Caju\ and get rid of all this
cursed nonsense : for since last night,
I saw f|uiie well liy her look that
Violet Hydewonkl never favour me, if
I kept in her wake to the day of judg-
ment. There was I, too, every time 1
came on deck and saw those round-
house doors, my heart leapt into my
throat, and I didn't know port from
Btarboard 1 But what was the odds,
that I'd havi' kissed the very pitch
she walked upon, when she wasn't for
wff — being deep in love don't
sharpen the faculties, neither, and the
Short" Yam. Part V.
[Oct.
more I thonght of matters the stupider
I seemed to get. *' Green Hand!''
thought I, '^as Jacobs and the larboard
watch call me, it appears— why,
they're right enough ! A green hind
I came afloat nine years ago, and br
Jove! though I know the sea and
what belongs to it, from sheer I'lkin;
to them, as 'twere— it seems a greca
hand Tm to stick — seeing I know so
blesseil little of woman-kind, not to
speak of that whole coufoundeilworid
ashore ! With all one's schenws and
one's weather-eye, something new
always keeps turning np to show ooe
what an ass he is ; and hang me, if I
don't begin to suppose Tm only fit for
working small traverses npon slavoi
and jack-nasty-faces, after all ! Thcrei
^Vestwood, without troubling hiioself,
seoms to weather npon me, witb hfr,
like a Baltimore clipper on a Dotefc
schuyt !" In short, I wanted to leave
the Seringapatam as soon as I cooM.
wish them all a good voyage toother
away fi3r Bombay, sit down nndff
Table Mountain, damn myownpyes.
and then perhaps go and tran-)
amouf^st the Hottentots bv waT of i
change.
The chief officer came aft towvdf
the biimacle again, with a strut in bl^
gait, and more full of importanrctbaB
ever, of course. *'ThJs breeze H
hold. I think, ^lacleod?" said he t<'
the second mate, who was shafiiu
about in a lonnging, nnseamanlik^
way he had, as if he felt imcomfiiffi*
able on the qnartcrdeck, and bock
hands in his jacket pockets. '* WeH,"
said the Scotchman, ^' do ye not thiik
it's too early bcgnn, sir"^?" and hf
looked about* like an old owL winldn?
against the glare of li^t past tbe
mainsheet to larboard : ** J '11 not say
but it will, though," continued h^
*" but 'odsake, sir, it's terrible wann!"
" Can't be long ere we get into Capt
Town, now," said the mate. "»
yon '11 tnm the moji on deck as aoci
as breakfast's over, ]Mr Blacieod. nd
commence giving her a coat of paint
outside, sir." "Exactlr, Mr Fincb,*
said the other, '' all hands it 11 bf,
sir? For any sake, Mr Finch, p'J
thay lazy scoundrels something ado!"
'' Yes, all hands," said Finch ; and kc
was going below, when the aecoi'
mate sidled up to him again, as if ^
had something particular to ^y-
1849.]
The Green Hand^A " Short'' Yam. Part V.
45$
**The eaptaiii'Il be qoite better by
this time, no doubt, Mr Finch ? "
asked he. '' TTefiU d'ye mean ? " in-
qnired the mate, rather shortly;
^^why no, sir — ^when the surgeon saw
him in tiie morning watch, 1^ said it
was a fever, and the sooner we saw
the Cape, the better for him." " No
doubt, no doubt, sir," said the second-
mate, thoughtfEilly, puttmg his fore-
finger up his twisted nose, which I
noticed he did in such cases, aa if the
twist had to do with his memory, —
'^ no doubt, sir, that 's just it I The
doctor's a sharp Edinbro' lad-— did he
see ancht bye common about the cap-
tain, sir ? " " No," said Finch, " ex-
cept that he wanted to go on deck
^is morning, and the surgeon took
away his clothes and left the door
locked." '' Did he though ? " asked
Madeod, shaking his head, and look-
in|^ a little anxious ; " didna he ask
for audit in particular, sir? " *^ Not
that I heard of, Mr Madeod," replied
the mate ; *^ what do you mean ? "
*'* Did he no ask for a green leaf? "
replied the second mate. *^ Pooh I "
said Finch, '' what if he did ?"
'' Well, sir," said Madeod, " neither
you nor the doctor's sailed five
voyages with the captain, like me.
He's a quiet man, Captain Weelum-
8on, an* well he knows his calling ;
but sometimes warm weather doesn't
do with him, more especial siccan
warm weather as this, when the
moon's foil, as it is the night, ye
know, Mr Fhich. There 's something
else besides that, though, when he 's
talixn that way." *^ Well, what is
it ?" asked the mate cardessly.
'' Oo I " said Macleod, '' it can't be
^ka this time, of course, sir, — ^it's
when he's near the kmdt The cap-
tain knows the smell of it, these
timee, Mr Finch, as wdl's a cock-
roach does— an' it's then he asks for
a gr^n leaf, and wants to go straight
aahore — ^I mind he did it the yoy'ge
betoe last, air. He's a quiet man,
tiie captain, as I said, for ord'nar' —
but when he 's roused, he 's a — "
"Why, what was the matter with
him?" said Findi, more attentive
thanbefore, "youdon'tmeantosay—?
go on, Mr Madeod. " The second
mate, boweyer, looked cautious, closed
his lips firmly, and twfarled his red
whiskeiB, as he glanced with one eye
aloft again. *^ Hoo I " said he, care-
lessly, " hoo, it 's nothing, nothing, —
just, I'm thinking, sir, what they
call disgestion ashore — all frae the
stommach, Mr Finch ! We used jast
for to lock the state-room door, an'
never let on we heard — but at any
rate, sir, this is no the thing at all, ye
know I " " Master Semm, " con-
tinued he to the fat midshipman, who
came slowly up from the steerage,
piclung his teeth with a pocket-knife,
" go forred and get the bo'sun to turn
up all hands."
^^Sir," said I, stepping up to the
mate next moment, before the round-
house, " might I use the freedomof ask-
ing whereabouts we are at present ?"
Finch gave me a look of cool indiffe-
rence, without stirring head or hand ;
which I saw, however, was put on,
as, ever since our boating afiair, the
man evidently detested me, with all
his pretended scorn. ^' Oh certainly,
sir I" said he, " of course I — ^sorry I
haven't the ship's log here to show
you — ^but it's two hundred miles or so
below St Helena, eight hundred miles
odd off south-west African coast,
with a light westerly breeze bound for
the Cape of Good Hope — so after that
you can look about you, sir I" Are
you sure of all that, sir?" asked I,
seriously. " Oh, no, of course not I"
said he, still standing as before, ^* not
in the least, sir! It's nothing but
quadrant, sextant, and chronometer
work, after all — ^which every 3'oung
gentleman don't believe in I" Then he
muttered aloud, as if to himself,
^^ Well, if the captain should chaxLCQ to
ask for a green leaf, I know where to
find it for him I" I was just on the
point of giving him soipe angry answer
or other, and perhaps spoiUng all,
when I felt a tap on my shoulder,
and on turning round saw the Indian
judge, who had found me in the
way either of his passage or his pro-
spect, on stepping out of the starboard
door. "£h ! " sud he, jocularly, as I
begged his pardon, "eh, young sir —
Fve nothing to do with pardons — al-
ways leave that to the governor-gene-
ral and councillors ! Been doing any-
thing wrong, then ? Ah, what's this —
still caJm, or some of your wind again,
Mr officer?" "Afine breeze like to hold,
Su* Charles," answered the mate, all
bows and politeness. '^ So 1" said Sir
454
The Green Hand— A «' Sliort " Yarn. Part V.
[Oct.
Charles, "but I dOn't see Captain
Williamson at all tlii-s moraing — where
is he?'* '* I am sorrj'to say he is very
unwell, Sir Charles," said Finch.
*' Indeed !" exclaimed the Judge, with
whom the captain stood for all the
seamanship aboard, and looking round
again rathi'r dissatisfied. " Don't like
that, though ! I hope he won't be long
unable to attend to things, sir— let mo
know as soon as he is recovered, if
yuu please!" ^- Certainly, Sir Charles,"
tiiiid the chief officer, touching his cap
with some appearance of pique, ''but
I hope, sir, I understand my duties in
command. Sir Charles." ** Daresay,
sir," said the Judge, '* as officer, pro-
bably. Commander absent! — horrible
accidents alreadv!" he muttered cross-
ly, changing his usual high sharp key
to a harsh croak, like a saw going
through a heavy spar, " something
sure to go wrong — wish we'd done
with this deuced tiresome voyage I"
"11a, young gentleman!" exclaimed
he, tuniing as he went in, " d'ye play
chess — suppose not— eh V" " Whvyes,
sir," said i, '* I do." '' Well," conti-
nued he, overhauling me more care-
fully than he had done before, though
latterly I had begun to bo somewhat
in his good graces when we met by
chance, ** after all, you've a c?iess eye,
if you know the game at all. Come
In, theu, for godsake, and let's begin 1
Ever since the poor brigadier went^
I've had only myself or a girl to play
against ! 'Gad, sir, there is something,
I can't express how horrible to my
miud, in being matched against vio-
Z^or/y— or, what's worse, damme, a
icomati ! But recollect, young gentle-
man, I can not bear a tyro !" and he
glanced at me as we walked into the
large poop-cabin, as sharply and as
cold as a nor'-wester ere it breaks to
windward. Now I happened to know
tlie game, and to be particularly fond
of it, so, restless as I felt otherwise, I
gave the old nabob a quiet nod, laid
down my griffin-looking straw-hat on
the sofa, and in two minutes there we
were, sitting opposite over a splendid
China-made chess-board, ^vith ele-
phants, emperors, mandarins, and
china-men, all square and ataunto, as
if they'd been set ready for days.
The dark kitmagar commenced fan-
ning over his master's head with a
bright feather punka, the other native
ser\'ant handed him his twisted hookah
and lighted it, after which he folded
his arms and stood lookiag down on
the board like a pnndit at some cam-
paign of the Great Mogul — ^wbile tite
Judge himself waited for my first
move, as if it had been some of our
plain English fellows in Hindoetu
commencing against your whole \k
India hnbbnb and finery, to get hold
of it all in the end. For my part I
sat at first all of a tingle and tremble,
thinking how near his lovely dinghter
might be ; and there were the bretk-
fast cups laid oat on a round table at
the other side, behind me. However I
made my move. Sir Charles made his,
iind pitched in to the game in t half
impatient, half long-headed sort of
way, anxious to get to the thick of it,
as it were, once more. Not a wonl
was said, and you only heard the sock
of the smoke bubbling throagfa the
water-bottle of his pipe, after each
move the Judge made ; tllll set nj-
self to the play in right earnest, awi
owing to the old gentleman's haste it
the beginning, or his over-sharpncfiit
I hooked him into a mess ^ith which
I used to catch the old hands at chess
in the cock-pit, just by fancying what
they meant to be at. The Judge lifted
his head, looked at me, and went oo
again. ^^ Your queen is ia check, Si^
Charles !" said I, next time, by way
of a polite hint. '^ Ckedi^ thongbv
young gentleman I" said he, chacklinf*
as he dropped one of his ontUmdisl^
knights, which I wasnH yet up to th^
looks of, close to windward of my
blessed old Turk of a king ; so the
skirmish was just getting to be a fair
set-to, when I chanced to lift myeja*
and saw the door from the afler-abiia
open, with Miss Hyde coming throneh.
^^ Now, papa," exclaimed she on the
moment, ^^ yon must come to break-
fast,"— when all of a sndden, at see*
ing another man in the cabin, iIm
stopped short. Being not so load
and griffin -like in my toggery that
morning, and my hat off, the yong
lady didn't recognise me at first,—
though the next minute, I saw by ber
colour and her astonished look, she
not only did that, but something daa
— no doubt remembering at last where
she had seen me ashore. "W'eQ,
child," said the Jndge, " make haste
with it, then I — ^Recollect where we
1849.]
The Green Hand^A «« ShorV Yam. Part V.
45i>
arc, now, young gentleman, — and
come to breakfast.'* She had a piak
muslin morning-dress on, with her
brown hair done np like the Virgin
Marj in a picture, and the sea had
taken almost all the paleness off her
cheek that it had in the ball-room at
Epsom, a month or two ago, — and, by
Jove 1 when I saw her begin to pour
out the tea out of the silver tea-pot, I
didn't know where I was I " Oh, I
forgot," said the Judge, waving his
hand from me to her, in a hurry,
"Mr Robbins, Violet I — ho, Kitma-
gar, curry Tao !" " Oh," said she,
stiffly, with a cold turn of her pretty
lip, " I have met Mr— Mr— •" " Col-
lins, ma'am," said I. '' I have met
this gentleman by accident before.'*'*
•* So you have — so you have," said
ber father ; " but you play chess well,
Mr — a — i^^what's hia name? — ah 1
Colley. Gad you play weU^ sir, — we
must have it out 1" The young lady
glanced at me again with a sort of asto-
nishment ; at last she said, no doubt
for formes sake, though as indiffer-
ently as possible, — " You have known
your friend the missionary gentleman
long, I believe, sir? — the Heverend
51r Thomas — I think thatis his name?"
*** Oh no, ma'am !" said I hastily, for
the Judge was the last man I wished
should join Westwood and me to-
gether, "only since we crossed the
Line, or so." " Why, I thought he
said you were at school together 1"
snid she, in surprise. " Why — hem
— certainly not, ma'am — a — a — ^I — a
— a — ^I don't remember the gentleman
there," I blundered out. " Eh, what?
—check to your queen, young gentle-
man, snrely?" aSked Sir Charles.
" What's this, though I Always like
to hear a mystery explained, so" —
and he gave me one of his sharp
glances. " Why, why — surely, young
man, now I think of it in that
way, I've seen you before in some
peculiar circumstances or other-— on
land, too. Why, where was it — ^let
me see, now?" putting his finger to
bis forehead to think; while I sat
pretty uneasy, like a small pawn
that had been trying to get to the
head of the board, and turn into a
knight or a bishop, when it falls foul
of a grand figured-out king and queen.
However, the queen is the only piece
you need mind at distance, and bless-
ed hard it is to escape from her^ of
course. Accordingly, I cared little
enough for the old nabob finding out
I had gone in chase of them ; but
there sat his charming Uttlc daughter,
with her eyes on her teacup ; and
whether the turn of her face meant
coolness, or malice, or amusement^ I
didn't know — though she seemed alittle
anxious too, I thought, lest her father
should recollect me.
" It wasn't before me, young man?"
asked he, looking up of a sudden:
" no, that must have been in India —
must have been in England, when I
was last there — let me see." And I
couldn't help fancying what a man's
feelings must be, tried for his life, as
I caught a side-view of his temples
working, dead in my wake, as it
were. The thing was laughable
enough, and for a moment I met
Lota's eye as he mentioned England
— 'twas too short a glimpse, though,
to make out ; and, thought I, " he'll
be down on Surrey directly, and
then Croydon — last of all, the back of
his garden wall, I suppose 1 " " Check"
it was, and what I was going to say
I couldn't exactly conceive, unless I
patched up some false place or other,
with matters to match, and mentioned
it to the old fellow, though small
chance of its answering with such a
devil of a lawyer — when all at once I
thought I heard a hail from aloft,
then the second-mate's voice roared
close outside, " Hullo I — aloft there !"
The next moment I started up, and
looked at Miss Hyde, as I heard
plainly enough the cry, " On deck
there — land O ! " I turned round at
once, and walked out of the round-
house to the quarterdeck, where, two
minutes after, the whole of the pass*
engers were crowding from below, the
Judge and his daughter already on
the poop. Far aloft, upon the fore-
to'gallant-yard, in the hot glare of the
sun, a sailor was standing, with his
hand over his eyes, and looking to the
horizon, as the Indiaman stood quietly
before the light breeze. " Where -
away-ay?"was the next hail from
deck. " Broad on our larboard bow,
sir," was the answer.
VOL. I*XVI. — ^XO. CCCCVIII.
2h
• »
Ph} -'rni Oronrnjtfiu,
[Oct
1*IIY<ILAL liK'Xtll VrilY.
AVi: li.iw "I'-iv oomMiiO'.] t!;.* bost of
:;:l } "••■■k<. ;i::l tIu- V--'rt i-f all unp?.
: -r il:-'' <n;',ly . t' tlio ir."?t iiitoiv^tini.'
ii..>. :ii li'.'ii of ;:".-fLTa] l.y. Mr .7'>lm-
i': .1 KTin whii.1i r.. iivliTS it ;i-. I o?tibl«'
t- ;.ToattT iiiinibiT-, i? wit^iMiit .i rival
n^ ;i coniiar.i"r. ai:J giii.U- in this ile-
].; I'll nor T "f -iu«lv: auil bv .IwvlUiii.'
111 it 5 ni'.rit? ami utility, wi- slii.»Uid
b • uiilv ii.b.-.'in:: a vi-rdiot wluth has
alroii'ly boon prouoinK\'d by almost
t vi ry Jr-iinial of seientifio >:y critical
col-jbriiy. And. indocd. the saiuc
liiijit b'.* -aid of ouriommeudati«.»n of
^ir> SoiiUTvillo's bo-»k: onr i>raiso
I 'lUi - lajru'iuL: in the rear, and i» wcll-
ni;:h sni.i-rlb.ions. l^it n««t only are
\ e dv>ir«»n- to tcnd-.r our tribute of
Vv^poct !■■> «.»no M'lio h'.xs dono more
than any ntlior living writer lo extend
anU'UC'.'^t u-s <ouud, a? well as ;,'oneral
Uno\v]i'd.ri' ijf phy.sioal srience; we are
anxious also to recommend to our
youth the enlarjred method of sttidyiuj:
jreography. which her present work
demonstrate^ to be as captivating as
ii is instniotive.
^ I rs Som er v ille ' ^ Phi/> it nldtt tarnphy
does not assume s«) profi.umd an aspect,
v.i-r has it S'> lofiv an aim. as the
( vsmos of Ah'xander Von Humboldt ;
neither c:iu it » laim. like that work,
to be ^n•it!en bv one who has himseU'
surveyed the -rreaier part c»f the terra -
"lueous ;rlolv he imdor takes to de-
scribe. This hitter circumstance gives
an extraordinary interest to the Cos-
)nifs. FnMu time to time the pro-
fessor of science, gleaning his know-
lod;,'e from books, and laboratories,
and museimis, steps aside, and we
liear, and almost see. the adventurous
traveller, the man IInmb«^ldt himself.
l^ho seems to speak to us from the
distant ocean he ha> traversed, or the
sublime mountain lieights he has
ascended. Our countrywoman can
fdaim no such peculiar prerogative.
Who else can? T(» few — to none
other — has it ever been permitted to
combine so wide a range of knowledge
with so wide a range of vision — to
V.avi^ carried his mind through all
- ichce. and his eye over all rtfrions.
IK- is familiar with all the graiiileuR
'f our earth. He speaks with the air
.•f thf mountain still around him.
"NVhen he discourses of the Himalnya
■r the Andes, it is with the ^ivid
Impre.>siiai of one whose footsteps are
-till lying unplaced amongst their
rarely-trodden and precipitous parses.
The phenomena he describes he has
seen. He can reveal to us, and make
u> feel with him, that strange impres-
sion \Uiich "the tirst earthquake''
makes even upon the most educated
and reliective man, who snddent'
tlnds his old faith shaken in the stabi-
lity of the earth. And what lecturer
upon electricity could ever arrest the
i!ttentiL»n of his auditors by so cliann-
lug a reference to his personal exp^
ricuce as is contained in the followiog
passage?—
''It was not without suqiri^ that I
nutiood, on the shores of the f)rino«»
children belonging to tribes in the lowest
irtage of barbariinu amuKing themselTes
l»y rubbiug the dry, ftat, shining s«<b
of a legumiuou:» climbing plant (puobaUy
a negretia) for the purpose of finrinS
them to attract fibres of cotton or bam-
boo. It was a sight well fitted to leave
on the mind of a thoughtful spectator »
deep and serious impression. How wiik
is the interval which separate;; the simpte
knowledge of the excitement of electricity
by friction, shown in the sports of the*
naked, copper-coloured children of ih»
forest, from the invention of the metallic
ounductor, which draws the aivift ligbtninf
from the storm-cloud — of the voltaic pilci
capable of effecting cliemical decompwi-
tion — of a magnetic apparatus, ctoItiiij
light — and of the magnetic telegraph!"
Tlie writer naturally reflects on the
wide interval which separates the
knowledge of electricity shown bj
these naked children on the banks of
the Orinoco, and the inyentioiu of
modern science, which have tangU
the lightnings of heaven to do oor
messages on the earth. But, to oor
mind, thii$ wide interval is far taost
strikingly displayed by the pictnrB
Phtf.^kat Oi'v<iii.i/'hu. By M.iuv Somkrtille.
The Phi^nicat Atfa/, By Alf.xa.vder Keith JoUNsroN.
Physical Geography,
457
I here presented to the imagi-
>f the profound aud meditative
A looking down, pleased and
d, at the first unconscious
n experimental philosophy
lese copper- coloured cliildreu
forest are making in their
f Mrs Somerville's book has
this extraordinary interest
le great traveller has tlirown
work, and if it does not aspire
philosophic unity of view, (of
iPttxl hereafter, in passuig,) it
ke precedence of this, and
flier works, as a useful com-
i of the latest discoveries, and
idest knowledge we possess,
wious subjects it embraces.
B, except in her own previous
%e Comuxion of the Physical
. is there to be found so large
of well-sclcctcd information,
\j set forth. In surveying
qiing together whatever has
m by the eyes of others, or
by their laborious inve^stiga-
le is not surpassed by any
id the absence of all higher
■ore original effort, is favour-
Us distinctness of exposition.
'e no obscurities other than
e imperfect state of science
xdresherin; no dissertations
« felt to interrupt or delay.
Bgs her beads distinct and
)eUier. With quiet perspica-
seizes at once whatever is
Bresting aud most captivating
ilgect.
Timmos of Humboldt has the
s aim of presenting to us
Bne, so far as we know it, in
rfy of harmony which results
wMe. Thus, at least, we
nd his intention. He would
r, as ^vith an caglc'S glance,
known creation, and embrace
nnity, displaying to us that
rhich exists in the harmony
pttrts. The attempt no one
ipnciate or decr}% but mani-
e Imperfect state of science
fai execution. We have at-
» point of view from which we
tjT the world as one harmo-
ole. Onr knowledge is firag-
f mcertain, imperii; and
t philosophic mind cannot
i^ any shape in which it
sliall appear other than uncertain and
fragmentary. We cannot *^ stand in
the sun,'* as Coleridge says in liis fine
verse, and survey creation ; we have
no such luminous standing-point.
There never, indeed, was a time when
the attempt to harmonise our know-
ledge, and view the universe of things
** in the beauty of unity," was so hope-
less, so desperate. For the old
theories, the old methods of repre-
senting to the imagination the more
subtle and invisible agencies of the phy-
sical world, are shaken, or exploded,
and nothing new has been able to
take their place. What is new, and
what is old, are alike unsettled, un-
confirmed. In reality, therefore, the
work of Mrs SomerviUe is as much a
Cosmos as that of Von Humboldt ; and,
as a work of instruction, is far better
for not aiming higher than it does.
Mrs Somerville presents to us each
gospel of science — if we may give that
title to its imperfect revelations — and
does not bewilder or confuse by
attempting that "harmony of the
gospels " which the scientific expositor
is, as yet, unable to accomplish.
As yet, we have said — but, indeed,
will science be ever able to realise
this aspiration of the intellect after
unity and completeness of view ? To
the reflective mind, human science
presents this singular aspect. Whilst
the speculative reason of man con-
tinually seeks after unity, strives to
see the many in the one — as the Fla-
tonist would express himself— or, as
we should rather say, strives to resolve
the multiplicity of phenomena into a
few ultimate causes, so as to create
for itself a whoh^ some rounded system
which the intellectual vision can em-
brace ; the discoveries of science, by
which it hopes and strives to realise
this end, do in fact, at every stage,
increase the apparent complexity of
the phenomena. The new agencies,
or causes, which are brought to light,
if they explain what before was ano-
malous and obscure, become them-
selves the source of innumerable
difficulties and conjectures. Each dis-
covery stirs more questions than it
sets at rest. What, on its first intro-
duction, promised to explain so muiy
things, is found, on further acquam-
tance, to have added but one more to
the inexplicable facts around ns.
I
405? ]*hfsicnl *jt
AVith each >[cp. al?'.». in our inquin-,
tlK* physical aironis tli;i: .iiv revealed
t-.i Us become mure >':bili'. iii-'ie cal-
culated to I'X- it'.' ami t-.* t-lu-le our
« urio-^ity. Aln-aily, luil!* iiur M.-ionce
i- t.u\upi«.- 1 uith matiiT iliat is iu-
visible. Fr^m lime to time ^-ime
;:r.^.nd u''.-un\\li-ia:i-»u is jroposi-d —
il'Otri'.'iry is ii=.'W thf fv.jked spirit
\\V.:\i is to li.Ip u- thrMi^'h our
l'"-«iiinj dill". ■i!liio> — l'i:i. la-t as the
i-K-.-ry i^ :'.'rmed, some iie^v fiict
i-mvi.:'-i tli.it will U'.'t iMUjie itself
vithiu it: the caiiiii'.-.s thinker steps
T».vk, and a.kii'\\l«.d»v< that the
irV'ri is as vi^t preiiiaiure. It ahvavs
V i:i be 1 n; 1.1 at mo.
There is a p rpoiu.d autaL'^nism
bttweeu tlie iiitoUectual loikkncy to
redu^.'.' all jbon-'meua t'» a harmo-
iii'.'U* and O'liipletf system, and that
iiiirea-o K}\ kr..'wl. iL'e which, while it
S'-.ms to tav.inr tiie atieuipt. renders
it m-iro and m-ire iin practicable. With
our limited powor-^. we cin/i'tt embrace
the wh>le : and iherer'.Te it must
follow, that it is oulv when our know-
ledire is scanty, that we seem capable
of the task. Kven* addition to that
knowledge, iVmui the time that Thales
would have reduced all thinirs to the
one element of water, has rendered
the task mure liMpeless. And as
science was never so far advanced as
at thepresent time, so this antagonism
wa-? never >•» clearlv illustrated be-
m
tweeu the etVort of rea>on to jreneral-
ise, and the iniinx of broken know-
ledge, reducing: the overtasked intel-
lect to desi>air. How much has
lately been revealed i«» us of the more
subtle powers and luncesses of nature
—of light, of heat, uf electricity!
How temptini; the peneralisatious
oftered to our view I AVe seem to be,
at least, upon the eve of some great
discovery which will explaiu all : an
illusion which i.^ dcstin«'d to prompt
the researches of the ardent spirits of
every age. They will always be ou
the eve of some great «liscovery which
is to place the clue uf the labyrinth
into their hand. The new discovery,
like its predecessor, A\ill add only
another chamber to the interminable
labvrinth.
wf
Let us, for instance, suppose that
w(? have discovered, in electricity, the
cause of that attraction to which we
had conlided the revolution of the
tnjraphy. [Oct.
planets ; of t*:at chemical affinity to
which we had ascribed the various
combinations of those ultimate atoms
of which the material world is j»re-
>umeil to be composed ; of that vital
principle which assimilates iu tho
plant, and ;:rows and feels in tlie
anliii il. Let us suppose that this is d
sound genoraiisatiun ; yet, as ek*ctri-
city cannot be alone both attraction
i.i the mass, and chomical atHuityiD
the atom, and irritability and ^uscep-
tibility iu the tibre and the lune.
what has the speculative reason at-
tained but to the knowledge of a now
and necessary agent, producing dif-
ferent elVects according to the ditfennt
condititius in which, and the different
c^-agencie-j with which it oi>erate3?
'J'hese c<»nditions, these co-agencies,
are all to be discovered. It is une
ilasli K)'^ light, revealing a whole world
uf iL'norauce.
'Jo the explanation of the most
obstinate of all problems — the natunJ
of the vital principle — we seem to
ha^e made a great step when »"e
introduce a current of electricity cir-
culating through the nerves. If tliis
hypothesis l>e established, we sball
probably have made a valuable and
very useful addition to our stock of
kn«»wledge : but we shall be as f:»r as
e\ er from sulvuig the problem of the
vital principle. AVe have now a
current of electricity circulating along
the nerves, as we had before a current
^^( blood, circulating through the vein*
and arteries; the one ma v become «
prominent and as important a fac: in
the science of the physician as the
other; but it will be equally iH)wcr-
less with the old discovery of Har\ey
to explain the ultimate cause uf
vitality. To the speculative reason
it has but complicated the phenomena
of animal life.
AVithin the memory of a livinj;
man, there has been such progress
and i-evolution in science, that not
one of the great generalisations tangtit
him in his youth can be now receiwi
as uncontested propositions, ^'o*
many years ago, how commodioaalj'
a few words, such as attraciiou-
caloric, alliuity, rays of light, and
others, could be used, and how much
they seemed to explain ! Caloric ww
a fluid, unseen indeed, bnt very olW"
dient to the imagination — expanding
1849.]
Pkytiad Geography,
459
bodies, and radiating from one to the
other in a qoite orderly manner.
What is it now ? Perhaps the vibra-
tton of a subtle ether interfnsed
through all bodies ; perhaps the vibra-
tion of the atomic parts themselves of
those bodies. Who will venture to
say ? Attraction and affinity are no
longer the clearly defined ultimate
facts they seemed to be ; we know so
much, at least, that they are intimately
connected with electrical phenomena,
though not to what extent. That
electridty is implicated with chemical
composition, and recomposition, is
clearly recognised; and Sir J. Her-
schel has lately expressed his opinion,
that it is impossible any longer to
attempt the explanation of the move-
ments of all the heavenly bodies by
simple attraction, as understood in
the Newtonian theory — ^these comets,
with their trains perversely turned
from the sun, deranging sadly our
systematic views. The ray of light,
which, with its reflection and its
refraction, seemed a quite manageable
substance, has deserted us, and we
have an ethereal fluid — ^the same as
that which constitutes heat, or another
— svbstituted in its stead. Science
has no language, and knows not how
to speak. If she lectures one day
upon the *' polarisation^' of light, she
professes the next not to know what
she means by the term ; she is driven
even to talk of "invisible rays" of
light, or chemical rays. Never was
it so difficult to form any scientific
conception on these subjects, or to
speak of them with any consistency.
Mrs Somerville is a correct writer;
yet she opens her brief section upon
magnetism thus : — " Magnetism is one
of those unseen imponderable exist-
ences, which, Kke eleetricity and heat,
are known only by their effects. It is
certainly identical with electricity,
for," &c. It is like, and it is identical,
in almost the same sentence.
£ven in the fields of astronomy,
where we have to deal with large
masses of matter, it is no longer pos-
sible for the imagination to form any
embraceable system. We are plunged
into hopeless infinitude, and the little
regularities we had painfully delineated
on the heavens are all effaced. The
earth had been toni from its moorings
and sent revolving through space, but
it revolved round a central stationary
sun. Here, at least, was something
stable. The sun was a fixed centre
for our minds, as well as for the
planetary system. But the sun him-
self has been uprooted, and revolves
round some other centre — ^we know
not what — or else travels on through
infinite space — we know not whither.
A little time ago, the stately seven
rolled round their central orb in clear
and uninterrupted space ; their number
has been constantly increasing; we
reckon now seventeen planetary bodies
that can be reduced to no law of pro-
portion or harmony, either as to their
size, their orbits, the inclinadon of
their axes, or any other planetary pro-
perty ; ^ and the space they circulate
in is intruded on by other smaller
* ** Nor are there/' writes Humboldt* " any constant relations between the distances
of the planets from the central body round which they reTol?e, and their absolute
magnitudes, densities, times of rotation, eccentricities and inclinations of orbit and of
ajLis. We find Mars, though more distant from the sun than either the earth or
VenoB, inferior to them in magnitude; Saturn is less than Jupiter, and yet much
larger than Uranus. The zone of the telescopic planets, which are so inconsiderable
in point of volume, riewed in the series of distances commencing from the sun, comes
next before Jupiter, the greatest in size of all the planetary bodies. Remarkable as
is the small density of all the colossal planets which are farthest firom the sun, yet
neither in this respect can we recognise any regular succession. Uranus appears to
be denser than Saturn, and (though the inner group of planets differ but little from
each other in this particular) we find both Venus and Mars less dense than the earth,
which is situated between them. The time of rotation increases, on the whole, with
increasing solar distance, but yet it is greater in Mars than in the earth, and in
Saturn than in Jupiter." After other remarks of the same character, be adds, ^ The
planetary system, in its relation of absolute magnitude, relatire position of the axis,
density, time of rotation, and different degrees of eccentricity of the orbits, has, to
our apprehension, nothing more of natural necessity than the relatire distribution of
land and water on the surface of our globe, the configuration of continents, or the
elevation of mountain chains. No general law, in these respccte, is discoverable
either in the regions of space or in the irregularities of the erust of the earth."
,•■.•> I'f'i^'xiol Of't(7raphu. [Oct.
■-■•••; ■:!■:»-•-••- r .■.;;■;.. :.?! roi'i?. pAiriphli-t he show?, tliat he has ihe
« ■ • • •
■ ft •
.ft& I
; •. i :.•■■ ;:k». i ::•... .•! w:.l..ij. :i - rns. :.>t" aii-i jiowrr tVu* c-nhirg*'cl specnla-
.;- :. : ;y :.;.! : • ::.•• -a::!.. C m.-!- li ■:! r-ii i!!«.* truth:? which cxp'Timciit
•. sv. •.;;-.. J ::: ::•.-.:;, i ■.iir./.iJi!.. * riii.'? t'» liL'ht. AVe woiilil n-com-
-ra.-. r'.-v ::■■' _. '.: !-:!;■",:.:. -r-me j;;- liI tlu- pcru-;il ut" hU paiuphK-i to
liji.r t:: - 1:. : y. .ir- : r :::.■::■ '■■ ^■•h^- ; 1 wl.-. aiv intercti'd in ihe?c lii^'hcr
:. :. . v.-. ; :'..• - .n -^ '..• ■: r..fSO ?.•.". n. iv a:?:ract >prculatioi:?. II"*'
» : • '« •?.":. • :"; ;'- ■:■■".:* . ::• hn* :\r[h. ^\li!r- ■joni'nili.-atioQ he ail'-f'ts
.V ^,.'.\ :'■ . '/■ [[ ..I ;:..;. , ..;•.■ -.y^tX i« .-v.^taliio-l I'V laots, WO aio iiOi j-re-
: '.V •'■ : .!-':■ J ■':■•!«■ :■ :;!. 1 li ■ --.in. j .JT-i ti- -ay. But it i.-? a powi-rfnl
_-.v- ' :. •:! . : - ■:::r i. ■.•.:■■■.. : ■ :■.- r ^v.-ik. aiul ir i- a .-insular one: tl-ril
::- :': oi..: :-: i.!--] .ii o-. !- U"i «>?[ori. in thi-» country at !ea-t.
.y! _• ; r -: • t. I'-y ':'i i-iir :i:a: :■. man m.» well vvr^cil in the
-•.-:•.!:■..«'.■■•.-.•::.: in-:- l-o^. !;.:. il »■.«'. niinuiij 'i" >«"irnco vrniuros upon fo
'i..i- -i:.!:- .»:•■ : !■.■::. -r •• lix-.l." n« r l- !■! n -tv;..* ot' -'•■norali-atiou. Aiut
!- li.' -.1 i'llii'..! . V jfi.iii.il I., tln.m: :••%■• -.I iij sonjo uf the more latdviitf-
!':.:- ii:- •• .1-' avA liirvivi-'r-..^^ w'liU • -vi iv«l proporiic? ofrloctricity. heat,
1 . •■; ". \i:'j i:-.>-t-ry. \\'::.;r 'i-niiil :i_l.!. an«l nia^Uftism. aud >lk»wiflg
r. -'.">■ \-\\i •■: ■.:_:. t. r^- ".v. ^ itioli !:m\v rach ..-i* thorn is capabK' of I'W-
! .T ■ :«■■ -Mr:- r \. '.vii:_r r-'iinil • .i-.h, ilii.!n^ i-r re-Mlviu;: it.'rolf into ti|^
I -riri :-.-:iivm. :.;!y ^\\\ :,i.,[ planet. otii'T-. lu- rca-ons that all the ll'iu"
1 .- :.::i;t ..n ! r'li-:i^. ■:•■.■ ii- l^iil.i. iust ;:ri' lii;r i ho varied activity of ••nc and
r- .:■:..-. I Jy :\i- _'.a^- in ■n-- nji^, is the >anie element. lie ad(Js. ili«
I'";:, i in il. ii. \t t' l-c a » ■n^'r-.-ra- this rlement is probably no other than
;] ii < !'ii:-.ni;-.' r.r-I- -rar-. (>-.r n:i:ky the in'imliive atuni itA'lf; and that.
"i^iy i-. ;it !li' -.u:i - i:i«t.r.:..e. ii-t snvh in f.iv-i. tlu-se may be all rOi:ard<^l
: -i-ti.- r n. ?ii.l.i. "ii.- il'i-r 11. -r- a- a!b'eii':'n> of matter, wliich fo!l'''T
-. li"! . .iliiiiat- - iliii! ti:- liu'ht uf the in tln-ir l«'«:al M'«jneHC«'. and nut as ili«
i:ii-t .ii-i:int n«-bj:ia. lii-fiviTod by n'-nlt- of separate tiuids or ethers,
lii^ i«iiy-loi! n'tiMct'.»r. rc-jniif-: two We are not suiv that we do ju>iiocto
nii;li-|n- ni yj-ar- t«» n-a«. :i o^v ey»'>." lii- view^. as we have not the work at
<»li. -iuit up tin- ii.Ii'H-'i '•! lheri.'a-«»n land, and it is some time since '^i'
i*'"-^; ri-ad it : but we are persuaded iliat
N'ienci*. in -h.-rt. pr.>"ni< !»oi"rvn-i 'A< pern<al will be of interest to a
a ti..l I !•!' pt rprtnil aciiviiy- -.-f ^nil- ]ihil<)s>^phic reader, thnujrh its reason-
].^-s exiiieniriu. ;nul tiirJi «•! the I-.il'Ii- jil' *hunhl fail to satisfy him.
e?t order— cf ]iraeii«al re-nlt- (if the
irrea[e'it ntilirv an«l nm.-t ln-neiii-ial
I»nt we have not placed the titled
^frs Somerville's b«H»k attheho:ulof
do-irripiinn : bnt it jL'ives no ]iiv-]'ect
of any restinLr-]'hu-e — any vejin-e for
th'^ spi-enlative n-a-on — anv pi»-ition
with whiih tin- -cifniiiii^ iiiiml shall be
this paper, as an occasion to involve
I'urselves in these dark and abstract
«li-en>sions. We an* for out-nf-iiwtr
lifi»: we would survey this ^i*»i'»^
('•ntenr. and fri»ni whieh it >liall em- round world, whose various repv-ns
I'laci' the >tvne luf..]'.- ii in \i> unity with their products and their iuhabi-
and harmony. Aiwa} - will ir be tant<. she has bruu«:ht before us.
«» Moviiii.' u'-.iit ill \v..rl.l.- l;..:f.rc.,ii-. .i." " l^hyMCil i^eoi^'raphy," thus commenrt?
("iir writer. *"i- a dest'ription of the oirtlu
Ilavhi;: t0Uf'lie«i np"»n tho«:e subtle tl.o "-m, and the air. with iheir iulabi-
a'lenci'- iiflijlii. and heat. ami eleetri- t.mt- animal and voidable, of die ui*-
city. and on the inoreasinL' ditliculty trihutiuii of these or;;auised K-inc:'. anJ
we have of franiiiiL' to mnsehe-i anv the taii.-=f s of that di^t^ibntio^. iVlnifil
di<tinet cmcptiMirof them we e-in- ""'^ arbitrary di\i<ioiis are diMejjanleJ =
not r-frain fn-m allu-linj: to a little J^':' -^^^a a"'^ '^J'^^ ^'/"J are oonsia.Tca oiny
v-nrL- .^.1. 1,..,.., i.i f 1 . >T •'.'"'" With re<iK'.:t to these LToai fcaiuro:«.:w
v.urK ii\ jianiiililet. li\- .Air drove, i i * i i i.. i'**
,, . I'll. , . •' 'V'""" haml «-l the Ahn^htv ; and mauuni--'"
lurns^ in uhicli tlu^ >nl.|r,'r istr.-ated j. virwed bnt as a VeHow-inhal itani of
Mith LTeat (.n;.'in.iliiy. Mr (irove the iilwl,e with otli.-r created ihitisis. J't
ha-i made himsell' a name in experi- iuiliuiiring them to a certain oMcnt by
mental s«ienr»- \\y hi«. iii«.oiv«"rii -^ in hi- a'-ii'Mi-^, and inUiicueod in n'tuni."
liectrii'.ity and chomishy : in iliis Thysieal geography stands thu-? in
1849.]
Physical Geography.
contrast with political and historical
geography. Kussia is here no despot-
ism, and America no democracy ; they
are only portions of the globe inha-
bited by certain races. To some per-
sons it will doubtless seem a strange
" geography" that takes no notice of
the city, and respects not at all the
boundaries of states. Those to whom
the name recalls only the early labours
of the school-room, when counties and*
county-towns formed a great branch
of learning— where the blue and red
lines upon the map were so anxiously
traced, and where, doubtless, some
suspicion arose that the earth itself
was marked out by corresponding
lines, or something equivalent to them
—will hardly admit that to be geo-
graphy which takes no note of these
essential demarcations, or allow that
to be a map in which the very city
they live in cannot be found. To them
the Physical Atlas will still seem no-
thing but a series of maps, in which
most of the names have still to be
uiserted. They unconsciously regard
cities and provinces as the primary
objects and natural divisions of the
earth. They share something of the
feeling of that good man, more pious
than reflective, who noted it as an
especial providence that all the great
nvers ran by the great towns.
Others, however, will be glad to
wcape for a time from these land-
marks which man has put upon the
earth, and to regard it in its great
natural Imeaments of continent and
■ea, mountidn and island. To do this
T^ith advantage, it is necessary to dis-
embarrass ourselves, both in the book
«nd the map, of much that in our
Bsaal nomenclature ranks pre-emi-
nently as geography. Nor is it easy
w study this, more than the older
hranch of geography, without an ap-
propriate atlas. To turn over the
maps of Mr Johnston's, and con the
janed information which accompanies
«em, is itself a study, and no dis-
fP'eeable one. Of the extent of this
mrormation we can give no idea by
extract or quotation ; it is manifestly
m too condensed a form for quota-
won; it is a perfect storehouse of
knowledge, gathered from the best
anthorities.
^^ first thmg which strikes an
ODservant person, on looking over a
461
map, or turning round a globe, is the
unequal division and distribution of
land and water. Over little more
than one-fourth of the surface of the
earth does dry land appear ; the re-
maining three- fourths are ovei-flowed
by water. And this land is by no
means equally disposed over the
globe. Far the greater part of it lies
in the northern hemisphere. " In the
northern hemisphere it is three times
greater than the south."
Of the form which this land as-
sumes, the following peculiarities have
been noticed : —
^ The tendency of the land to assume
a peninsular form is very remarkable,
and it is still more so that almost all the
peninsulas tend to the south — circum-
stances that depend on some unknown
cause which seems to have acted very
extensively. The continents of South
America, Africa, and Greenland, are
peninsulas on a gigantic scale, all tending
to the south ; the Asiatic peninsula of
India, the Indo-Chinese peninsula, those
of Corea, Kamtchatka, of Florida, Califor-
nia, and Aliaska, in North America, as
well as the European peninsulas of Nor-
way and Sweden, Spain and Portugal,
Italy and Greece, take the same direc-
tion. All the latter have a rounded form
except Italy, whereas most of the others
terminate sharply, especially the conti-
nents of South America and Africa, India
and Greenland, which have the pointed
form of wedges; while some are long and
narrow, as California, Aliaska, and Ma-
lacca. Many of the peninsulas have an
island, or group of islands, at their extre-
mity— as South America, which terminates
with the group of Terra del Fuego; India
has Ceylon; Malacca has Sumatra and
Banca; the southern extremity of New
Holland ends in Van Piemen's Land; a
chain of islands run from the end of the
peninsula of Aliaska; Greenland has a
group of islands at its extremity; and
Sicily lies close to the termination of
Italy. It has been observed, as another
pecnliarity in the structure of peninsulas,
that they generally terminate boldly, in
bluffs, promontories, or mountains, which
are often the last portions of the conti-
nental chains. South America terminates
in Cape Horn, a high promontory which
is the visible termination of the Andes;
Africa with the Cape of Good Hope; India
with Cape Comorin, the last of the
Ghauts; New Holland ends with Sonth-
Eaat Cape in Van Diemen's Land ; and
Greenland's farthest point is the elevated
bluff of Cape Farewell."
102 Physical
Th-.\-i^ aro peculiarities intoresting
to notice, ami which may liereatter
explain, or be explaine«l by, other
phenomena. Resomblauces and ana-
loiiies f^f this kind, whilst they are
permitted only to dirv^ct and stimulate
inquiry, have their legitimate place in
?iionce. It was a rcM-mblance oithis
de-siTipiion. between thezijr-zag course
•"'f the mrtaliilenii]5 voins, ami the path
of the liirhtnin^'. which tirst siijirsrested
the iheorv. ba<cd. ot' ciuirse. on verv
diiVrrent n-asimins<. that electricitv
had essentially ci'iitributed to the fV»r-
m a I ion o!'tl>»»se vein* — atheovv which
Mrs >.i:iierville has c-msideri-.l snf-
ticivMitly -^Mind to intrMbice into her
wi^rk.
Wh:it lies w'lt'tiu i.iv.r jrlobe i- still
mailer of Civ.i'^ornre. The radius of
the o.irih is l'»'.*0 miles, and bv one
m\ins or anoi]i«r, mining:, and the
examinatiiMi uf the npheawil strata,
and K>i what vnK*anoes have thrown
o'.::. we are supposed tn li.ive pene-
trated, with spec Illative vision, to about
the ile]>th often niiks.
*• The incrci-o of toinpor.'ituro," writes
Mrs S.«incrvilli\*' with tho il,«i»th below the
sv.rfaro of the carili, an-.l tl;e treiueiidons
do>olaiio!i h-.irloJ owr wide regions by
iinniorous Iire-broathir.;: niountains, show
ilKit mail is removed but a few miles from
immense lakes or ?eas of liiiuid fire. Tlic
very shell on vNhieh he siiukI-; is unstahie
mulcr his feet, not onlv Irom tho-e tera-
p.trary eonvulsioa? that seem to shake the
jjlube to its centre, but from a slow, almost
impereepiiMe, elevation i-i some places,
anii an eiir.ally tentle subsi^lonce in others,
a« if the internal molten matter wore sub-
ject to sfeeular tides, now heaving and now
ebbing ; or that the snhjaeent rocks were
in one place expandetl and in another
contracted by chanj^es in temperature.'*
Perhaps these '* immense lakes or
seas of liquid tire " are a little too
hastily set down here in our^'eography.
But of these obscure regions beneath
the earth, the student must understand
he can share only in the bi'st conjec-
tures of scientitic men. (ieology is
compelled, at present, in many cases,
to content herself with intelligent con-
jecture.
To return again to the surface of
the earth, the tirst grand spectacle
that strikes us is the mountains. Be-
fore it was understood how the moun-
tain was the parent of the river, the
"•^blc elevation was apt to be regard-
Gcography. [Oct.
cd in the light of n ruin, as evidence
of some disastrous catastrophe ; and
Burnett, in his Theory of the Earthy
conceived the ideal or normal state of
our planet to bo that of a smooth ball,
smooth as an egg. The notion not
onlv lu'travs the low state cf scicn-
■ tific knowledge in his age, bat a
miserable taste in world -architec-
ture, which, we may remark in excnse
fur poor Burnett, was, almost as much
as his scientilic ignorance, to be shared
with the age in which be lived. For
it is surprising, with the exception uf
a few poets, liow destitute men
were, in his time, of all sympathy
with, and admiration of, the grander
and more sublime objects of natnre.
** We have changed all that!" The
mountain range, pouring down its
streams into the vallevs on both sides,
is not only recognised as necessaiyta
the fertility of tlie plain ; but, strange
to say, we become more and more
awake tu its surprising beauty and
magnificence. The description of the
mountain ranges of the several con-
tinents of the world, forms one of the
]u-incipal attractions of the study of
jdiysical geography, and ouc of the
great charms of Mrs Somerville's bout
The mountains of Asia take prece-
dence of all others in altitude and
length of range.
*• The mean height of the Himalayjw
stupendous. Captain Gerard and hi^
brother estimated th.it it could notbcka
than from 16.000 to *2«\0ix» feet; but. from
the average elevation of the passes OTrt
these mountains. Baron Humbidiit tliiob
it must be under ITi.TOO feet. Colonel
Sabine estimates it to be only 1 1,510 fecti
tliough the peaks exceeding that elevt-
tion are not to be numbered, cspeciallf
at the sources of the Sutlej. Indeed, from
that river to tI;o Kalee, the cbaia (K-
bibits an endless succession of the loftirit
mountains on earth : forty of them 60^
pass the heiglit of Chimborazo, one of thi
highe>t of the Andes, and several Ridi
the height of 'J.=>,000 feet at least. . •
The valleys aro crevices 8o deep and Dtf*
row, and the mountains that hang over
them in menacing cliffs are so lofty,
that these abysses are shrouded iu perpe-
tual gloom, except where the rays of* Te^
tioal sun penetrate their depths. From the
steepness of the descent the rivers short
down with the swiftness of an arrow, fill-
ing the caverns with foam and the lir
with mi.-?t.
'* Most of the passes orer the Ilioalsyt
18490
Physical Geography,
bat little lower than the top of Mont
Blanc ; many are higher, especially near
the Sntlej, where they are Arom 18,000 to
19,000 feet high ; and that north-east of
Kfaoonawnr is 20,000 feet above the level
of the sea, the highest that has been at-
tempted. All are terrific, and the fktigne
and suffering from the rarity of the air in
the last 500 feet is not to be described.
Animals are as mnch distressed as hnman
beings, and many of them die ; thousands
of birds perish from the violence of the
winds; the drifting snow is often fatal to
travellers, and violent thunder-storms add
to the horror of the journey. The Niti
Pass, by which Mr Moororoft ascended to
the sacred lake of Manasa, in Tibet, is
tremendous : he and his guide had not
only to walk bare-footed, from the risk of
slipping, but they were obliged to creep
aloQg the most frightful chasms, holding
by twigs and tofts of grass, and sometimes
they crossed deep and awful crevices on
a branch of a tree, or on loose stones
thrown across. Yet these are the
thoTongfafares for commerce in the Hima-
laya, never repaired, nor susceptible of
improvement, from frequent landslips and
torrents.
" The loftiest peaks, being bare of snow,
give great variety of colour and beauty
to the scenery, which in these passes is
at all times magnificent. During the day,
the stupendous size of the mountains, their
interminable extent, the variety and
sharpness of their forms, and, above all,
the tender clearness of their distant out-
line melting into the pale blue sky, con-
trasted with the deep azure above, is de-
scribed as a scene of wild and wonderful
beaaty. At midnight, when myriads of
stars sparkle in the black sky, and the
pure blue of the mountains looks deeper
still below the pale white gleam of the
earth and snowlight, the effect is of un-
paralleled sublimity ; and no language can
•describe the splendour of the sunbeams
at daybreak streaming between the high
peaks, and throwing their gigantic
shadows on the mountains below. There,
far above the habitation of man, no living
thing exists, no sound is heard ; the very
echo of the traveller's footsteps startles
him in the awful solitude and silence that
reigns in these august dwellings of ever-
lasting snow."
The table-lands of Asia are on a
scale corresponding with its moun-
tains. Bnt the same elevation, it is
remarked, is not accompanied with
the same sterility in these parts of the
world, as in the temperate zone. Com
4ia8 been fonnd growing at heights
exceeding the sommit of Mont Blanc.
463
"According to Mr Moorcroft, the
sacred lake of Manasa, in Great Tibet,
and the sarrounding country, is 17,000
feet above the sea, which is 1240 feet
higher than Mont Blanc. In this ele-
vated region wheat and barley grow,
and many of the fruits of Southern
Europe ripen. The city of HXassa,
in eastern Tibet, the residence of the
Grand Lama, is surrounded by vine-
yards, and is called by the Chinese
* the Realm of Pleasure I ^ " Never-
theless the general aspect of the table-
lands is that of a terrific sterility.
Here is a striking description of them.
We should have been tempted to say,
that in this singularly dark appcai'-
ance of the sky at mid-day, there was
something of exaggeration, if our own
limited experience had not taught us
to be very cautious in attributing ex-
aggeration where the scenic efiects of
nature are concerned.
^ In summer the sun is powerful at
mid-day ; the air is of the purest transpa-
rency, and the azure of the sky so deep
that it seems black as in the darkest
night. The rising moon does not en-
lighten the atmosphere; no warning radi-
ance announces her approach, till her
limb touches the horizon, and the stars
shine with the distinctness and bril-
liancy of suns. In southern Tibet the ver-
dure is confined to favoured spot3 ; the
bleak mountains and high plains are
sternly gloomy — a scene of barrenness
not to be conceived. Solitude reigns in
these dreary wastes, where there is not a
tree, nor even a shrub to be seen of more
than a few inches high. The scanty,
short-lived verdure vanishes in October ;
the country then looks as if fire had pass-
ed over it; and cutting dry winds blow
with irresistible fury, howling in the bare
mountains, whirling the snow through
the air, and freezing to death the unfortu-
nate traveller benighted in their defiles."
The description of the territory of
the East India Company will be read
with interest. We cannot afford space
to extract it. Plains and valleys the
very richest in the globe are to be
found here, as also much rank marshy
land, and also much jangle. *' It has
been estimated that a third of the
East India Company's territory is
jangle."
Ajb a set-off against this jangle we
have it intimated that, if proper search
were made, gold would probably be
found in this territory, as abundantly
as in California. We sincerely hope
4154
Phiifik'fd Geogrnphif.
[Oct.
no >ui"h clLsi.' 'VPiy will W ma'lo. It
liieiv i- a "^inv ■spociiic for di-inoralis-
i'.]^ a I'oopl'"'. it i< to invnlve tliom in
tlM- cli:i-o k»ru'olil. iii-ii:i«l of that pro-
licali!t> iii'In-try wli'u-li pro'lu-'i'S the*
vorit.iMi? wv:ilili fir mIjuIj i^i-ld lin<
I'comr the -viii]i«il .111.1 uM'ivj?'?nt.\tive.
I'hv' lil.-t'jvi'ry iif L'.Vii in uiie of onr
ro!i"iiio-i wor.l'l 11- -t umIv ilonn'iniliMN ii
woulil iiiij»"Vi-ri^!i. \\ ^\onUl dfino-
"aliTO. I'V ?ii!«siinitin:,' f-'i' .stOivly iii-
''.!!«-trv. ^\iIh <r..aily roiuni-. a specie?
• fonUTpri-o whi.-li lia^ all tb-.' iinoer-
!unty anil tl»irfn;i»iMn I'f -.MniMiuj: :
vvA it wivaltl linally iinpovrnr^h by
liiviM'iinL' labour \\'^*\\\ tin- creati«»n of
annculiiuMl .iiuiinannfa-.tiii'in.irwiMlth.
t ■ t!i«^ i'.»:ai:iini' of the dry bairen
>»ymh.»l<^f wealth, wh'.eh.ajtart trom it.y
r-pre-eiitative eharactrr. has hut very
little valne \\liatev.T.
\Ve will not ln..k back towani?
(iiiinlKin-.. anil the Ain.U<, as wo
sli'.nh.l iiivolvr oiirseP. /s in hmcr aud
r 'inpiinL' iK'>cripiion<. lii Africa, it
i- n-markriMe that wo ar.* little ac-
tjuainti'd with the nionntain;?. •• No
l!nr«*i'ean lias yrt x'i-n the M<nintains
of the M«».»nl" What a vhallenL'e to
iiiterprisiii;: traveller- 1 We know the
K'vrl >aniU t>f Afriea butter than then'
elevatiouis which liave assumed .so
uiapiiiicent a tiile. What a teniiic
sterility d«'i'> a lariT"' portion v»f tlii?
the most ill-fated of the prvat eonti-
nents prc?eni I " On the interminable
^and:* and rorks i«f the^ie dest/rt.-! no
animal— no iiiT^eci — broak^ the dread
silenee ; not a tree nor a shrub is to be
.<eou in this land witlmut a >hadow.
In the j^lare <»f noon tln^ air i|niver?j
with the heal reilecteil from the red
>and, and in the ni^ht it is ehilled
iimler a elear sky sj.arkling with its
ho.st of star.<.'" The wind of heaven,
which elsewhere brt-atiirs so refresh-
injrly, is here a bnrninj; blast latal to
iif»'; or else it drives the sand in clouds
before it, obseuriiiir tiie sun. and
stiriing and iniryiiig the hapless cara-
van.
In the 7/fM' continent of America —
if it still retains that title — the desert
is comparatively I'are. lint its enor-
mous forests iiave, in some ro^^ions,
proved that exces>iNe vegetal imi q^w
assume almost as territic an appear-
ance a-i this interminable sterilitv.
*' Tlio fure-t-^ of iho Ainazous not only
cover the ba^iu of that river, from the Cor-
dillera of CLiquitos to the mountaiiu of
Pari ma, but also its limiting mountiin-
r!. a iris!, ihc Sierra Dus Verientcs and
Tarimn. so that the whole forms au am
of woodland more tlian .six times the ixm
of Fraiioe, lyiiiit between the l?th parallel
of soiiih latitude and the 7ih of n(>rtt
coiiaciiuoutly inter-tropieal and trar^ne-j
I'V tho oi[nator. Arr-irJInprto Baron Hub-
boldt, the .«oil, cnrifhod for ages by tbe
«I»oil> of tlii? forest, cou-i.«ts of the richest
mould. The heat i'^ ButfocatiriJir in tlie
dt-ep aud dark reces-ses of these primeTil
wiMids, where not a breath of air |ieM-
trato=», and wIuto, after being drenrfwl
1 y the periodical rain-, tho damp issfoex*
ci.'>>ive that a blue mist rises in theeiriy
uiurning amoui? the huge :^tem» of tte
troo^,nnd onvelop-* the entangled creepers
Kiretchiiig from hough to bough. A deitb-
like fttiilne.fs prevails from sunrise to.-nu-
setf then tho thousands of animal;: tlut in*
habit ihe:!e fore-ts join in one loud di«or-
dant roar, not continuous, tut in buMf.
The boa-t-- seem to be periodi«?ally ib4
unanimously roused by some unknown ia-
piil-e, till the fore.-' is ring in uni»eral
ujiroar. Pnttoniid silence prevail* at
niidui.:,Mit, whivh is broken at the dawn rf
morning by another general roar of ibe
wild eltorns. The whole forest often T^
^v'undd when the animab, startled ftm
their sleep, scream in terror at the ni'ia
ma<le by bands of its inhabitants^ flyi^
fri>m some night-prowling foe. Tbeir
anxietv and terror before a thunder-siw*
is excessive, and all nature i?ecins to p»^
take in the dread. The tops of the lofty
trees rustle umiuonsly, though nirt *
breath of air agitate:^ them; a bJltf*
whittling in the high regions of the atcw
sphere comes as a wanting f^•m the bhA
floating vapour; midnight darkneseW^**
lops the ancient forests, which .*oon afif
groan and croak with the blast of l^
hurricane. The gloom is rendered sliJ*
more hideous by the vivid lightning, tf*
the stunning crash of thunder."
One of the most intercstingsnbifrt5*
of which mention is made in th? wcik
before ns, is the gradual elevation arf
subsidence observed in some i>ortion*
of these continents themselves. Jts*
when the imagination had becomtf
<omewhat familiar with the ^M^
but very ]iartial npheaving: of thecartli
by volcanic agencies, this new di.^
very came to light of the slow rising
and thinking of vast areas of the Uml,
and unaccompanied with any larth-
ijnakea or volcanic eruptions. In
some parts the crust of the e:»rth ha*
sunk and risen a^ain;- in ulhers,
1849.]
Phiffkal Geogrc^hy.
465
sort of see-saw movement on a most
gigantic scale has been detected.
" There is a line crossing Sweden from
east to west, in the parallel of 56** 3' N.
lat., along which the ground is perfectly
stable, and has been bo for centuries. To
the north of it for 1000 miles, between
Gottenburg and North Cape, the ground
is rising; the maximum eleration, which
takes place at North Cape, being at the
rate of five feet in a century, from whence
it gradually diminishes to three inches in
a centnry at Stockholm. South of the
line of stability, on the contrary, the land
is sinking through part of Christianstad
and Malmo; for the village of Stassten in
Scania is now 380 feet nearer to the
Baltic than it was in the time of Linnteus,
by whom it was measured eighty-seveu
years ago."
It is erident that the elevation of
the land, in relation to the level of the
sea, may be produced either by an
uprising of the continent or a depres-
sion of the bed of the ocean, permit-
ting the waters to sink ; as also the
apparent depression of the land may
be occasioned T)y an elevation in the
bed of the ocean. This renders the
problem some^what more diflScnlt to
solve, because the causes we are seek-
ing to discover may be sometimes
operating at that part of the crust of
the earth whicli is concealed from our
view. Mr Lyell, who, in his Prin-
cipks of Geology^ has collected and
investigated tlie facts bearing upon
this subject, mentions the following
sa probable causes of the pheno-
mena : —
1. ** It is easy to conceive that the
shattered rocks may assume an arched
form daring a convulsion, so that the
country above may remain permanently
upheaved. In other cases, gas may drive
before it masses of liquid lava, which
may thus be injected into newly opened
fissares. The gas having then obtained
more room, by the forcing np of the in-
cumbent rocks, may remain at rest; while
the Uva, congealing in the rents, may
^rd a solid foundation for the newly
nised district.
2. ^ fizperiments have recently been
made in America by Colonel Patten, to
ascertain the ratio according to which
some of the stones commonly used in
architecture expand with given incre-
ments of heat. . . . Now, according
to the law of expansion thus ascertained.
a mass of sandstone, a mile in thickness^
which should have its temperature raised
200° F., would lift a super-imposed layer
of rock to the height of ten feet above its
former level. But, suppose a part of the
earth's crust one hundred miles in thick-
ness, and equally expansible, to have its
temperature raised 600^ or 800"*, this
might produce an elevation of between
two and three thousand feet. The cool-
ing of the same mass might afterwards
cause the overlying rocks to sink down
again, and resume their original position.
By such agency, we might explain the
gradual rise of Scandinavia, or the subsi-
dence of Greenland, if this last pheno-
menon should also be established as a fact
on further inquiry.
3.*' It is also possible that, as the clay
in Wedgwood's pyrometer contracts, by
giving otf its water, and then by incipient
vitrification ; so large masses of argilla-
ceous strata, in the earth's interior, may
shrink, when subjected to heat and che-
mical changes, and allow the incumbent
rocks to subside gradually. It may fre-
quently happen that fissures of great ex-
tent may be formed in rocks, simply by
the unequal expansion of a continuous
mass heated in one part, while in another
it remains in a comparatively low temper-
ature. The sudden subsidence of land
may also be occasioned by subterranean
caverns giving way, when gases are con-
densed, or when they escape through
newly •formed crevices. The subtraction,
moreover, of matter from certain parts of
the interior, by the flowing of lava and of
mineral springs, must, in the course of
ages, cause vacuities below, so that the
undermined surface may at length fall
in.
»*
Two agencies of the most opposite
character have apparently been, at all
times, acting on the crust of the earth
to change its form, or add to the sur-
face of dry land — the volcano and the
insect ! — the one the most sudden and
violent imaginable, producing in a
short time the most astonishing effects ;
the other gradual, silent, and imper-
ceptible, yet leaving the most stu-
pendous monuments of its activity*
The volcano has thrown up a moun-
tain in a single night ; there is an in-
stance, too, on record, where a moun-
tain has quite as suddenly disappeared,
destroying itself in its own violent
combustion, and breaking up with re-
peated and terrific explosions. On
the other hand, besides what has beea
« Lyell'B PHneipUt of Geology, p. 536.
466 Physical Otagrig>ky. [Oct.
long known of the works of the coral geological series (if we may so term
insect, the microscope has revealed to it) of animal life has been regulated,
ns that huge cliflfs have been con- for the distribution of the seyeral
stnicted of the minute fossil shells of animals over the several countries and
aiiimalcul®. These creatures, abstract- climates of the world follows no rule
ing from the water, or the air, or both,
the minute particles of vegetable or
other matter they hold in solution,
first frame of them their own siliceous
shells, and then deposit these shells
by mjrriads, so as ultimately to con-
that one can detect. Of course, no
animal can exist where provision bu
not been made for its subsisteace, but
the provision has been made with the
same abundance in two countries, tnd
in the one the animal is found, snd
struct enormous solid mounds out of the other not. We should ask ia
imperceptible and fluent particles.
Astonishing, indeed, is the new
world of animals invisible to the naked
eye, which science has lately de-
tected.
"Professor Ehrenberg," says Mrs
Someryille, ** has discovered a new world
of creatures in the infusoria, so minute
that they are invisible to the naked eye.
He found them in fog, rain, and snow, in
the ocean and stagnant water, in animal
and vegetable juices, in volcanic ashes
and pumice, in opal, in the dusty air that
sometimes falls on the ocean ; and he de-
tected eighteen species twenty feet below
the surface of the ground in peat earth,
which was full of microscopic live animals:
they exist in ice, and are not killed by
boiling water. This lowest order of ani-
mal life is much more abundant than any
other, and new species are found every
day. Magnified, some of them iftem to
consist of a transparent vesicle, and some
have a tail; they move with great alacrity,
and show intelligence by avoiding ob-
stacles in their course: others have sili-
ceous shells. Language, and even ima-
gination, fails in the attempt to describe
•the inconceivable myriads of these in-
visible inhabitants of the ocean, the air,
and the earth."
With every great change, however leopards of the present day. J
brought about, in the surface of the we would observe that the f^^^
earth, and the climate of its several
regions, it appears that, either by the
direct agency of the Omnipotent
Creator, or through the intermediate
operations of laws which are at present
profound secrets to us, a corresponding — — , .^ . ^^.
change takes place in the forms of lead. But it is P^™"^*^? finite
animal life, and in the whole vegetable pare one animal with «no"f ,":/;«
kingdom. Modern science presents -*-'— ^ ;i *K.«i,.r^itfw
no subject to us of more interest than
this, and none apparently so inscrut-
able. Nor does the examination of
the globe, as it exists before us at this
moment, with its various floras and
faunas, at all assist us in forming any
conception of the law by which the
vain why the horse was found a na-
tive of the deserts of Tartaiy, and
why it was originally unknown to the
plains of America? Nor can any
cause be detected for the differeDce
between the congeners, a represeau-
tive species of one continent or island,
and those of another. And not only
have the larger animals an arbitraiy
territory marked out to them by na-
ture, but birds, and even insects, are
separated and grouped together in iftc
same unaccountable manner. Tm
chapters which Mrs SomerviUe m
devoted to this subject will be read,
especially by those to whom the topic
is new, with extreme interest. They
are enlightened and judidons.
It is a natural supposition to mm
that, in the series of animals whichii
great geological periods have beea
introduced upon the earth, there tas
been a progression, so that each Deff
form of animal life has been, in soine
mai-ked manner, superior to thatwbica
is substituted. The comparative ana-
tomist has not sanctioned this opimfi
he tells us that he finds the same m
organisation" in the fossil sannansoj
a by-gone world, as in the lions ana
we wouiQ ODserve ma* w^ ,f • \./»t
of thU "high organisation" is o^
sufficient to determine the (m^^\
We should be surprised, indeed, «
any creature were to be fo^^^/Tj
structure was not perfectly wapw^
to the mode of life it was destinedjo
lead. But it is permissible to;
pare one animal with another i
whole nature, and the character'^
existence. The pig has the «^
high organisation as the dog, Fj;.
should certainly prefer the 0De*B>J»*
to the other; we should say tw*;
was calculated for a happiw wc- J ^
cannot suppose that a bird ^^^
more joyous creature than thewor
1849.]
Physical Geography.
the snail. The adaptation of the whole
form and stracture to a pleasurable
existence, and not what is termed high
organisation, is that which we mnst
regard, in estimating the superiority of
one animal to another. Now, in this
respect, there surely has been a pro-
gression from the earliest epochs.
Tiie crocodile and the tortoise are,
amongst the animals which now exist,
those which most resemble some of
the more remarkable of the extinct
genera. They are as perfectly
adapted, no doubt, as any other crea-
ture, to their peculiar mode of
being ; but that mode of being is not
an enviable one. The long stifif un-
wieldy body of the one, and the slow
movement, with the oppressive car-
ca^ie, of the other, are not consistent
with vivid animal enjoyment. The
crocodile, accordingly, lies motionless
for hours together — waits for its prey
— and slumbers gorged with food.
And for the tortoise, it appears to
lead a life as near to perpetual torpor
as may be. Pass through a museum,
and note those huger animals, the
elephant and the rhinoceros, the seal
or wahrus, all those which most
remind us of the gigantic creatures of
the antediluvian world, and compare
them with the horse, the deer, the
dog, the antelope. Surely the latter
present to us a type of animal life
superior to the former — superior, inas-
much as the latter are altogether cal-
culated for a more vivacious, sprightly,
and happy existence. We must not
venture to remark on then: greater
comparative beauty, for we shall be
told that this is a matter for our own
peculiar taste. We should not be
contented to be so easily silenced on
this head, but we should require far
more space than we have now at our
disposid to defend our esthetic notions.
We have found ourselves imper-
ceptibly conducted from the inani-
mate to the animate creation; we
shall proceed, therefore, with the same
topic, in the few farther extracts we
shall be able to make from the work
before us. Indeed, with so vast a
Bulject, and so brief a space, it would
be idle to affect any great precision
in the arrangement of our topics;
enough if they follow without abrupt-
ness, and are Unked together by
naliiral aesodations of thought.
467
"Three hundred thousand insects
are known 1 " and every day, we were
almost going to add, increases the
number. They abound, as may bo
expected, in equatorial regions, and
decrease towards the poles. "The
location of insects depends upon that
of the plants which yield their food ;
and as almost each plant is peopled
with inhabitants peculiar to itself,
insects are distributed over the earth
in the same manner as vegetables ;
the groups, consequently, ai*e often
confined within naiTow limits, and it is
extraordinary that, notwithstanding
their powers of locomotion, they often
remain within a particular compass,
though the plant, and all other cir-
cumstances in their immediate vicinity,
appear equally favourable for their
habitation."
Mountain-chains, Mrs Somerville
observes, are a complete barrier to
insects ; they differ even in the two
sides of the Col de Tende in the Alps,
and they are limited in the choice of
their food. K a plant is taken to a
country where it has no congeners, it
will be safe from the insects of that
country ; but if it has congeners, the
insect inhabitants will soon find the
way to it. Our cabbages and caiTots,
when transplanted to Cayenne, were
not injured by the insects of that
country; and the tulip tree,'and other
magnolias brought here, are not mo-
lested by our insects.
The insect is a race, or order, of
creatures not friendly to man, or- any
of the larger animals.
^* The mosqaito and culex are spread
over the world more generally than any
other tribe ; they are the torment of men
and animals f^om the poles to the equa-
tor, by night and by day ; the species are
nnmeroas, and their location partial.
... Of all places on earth, the Orinoco
and other great riyers of tropical America,
are the most obnoxious to this plague.
The account given by Baron Humboldt is
really fearful ; at no season of the year,
at no hour of the day or night, can rest
be found; whole districts in the Upper
Orinoco are deserted on account of these
insects. Different species follow one
another with such precision, that the
time of day or night may be known ac-
curately from their humming noise, and
fh>m the different sensations of pain which
thedifferent poiBons produce. The only
■ •'•*
y
I !•
r'
« i'."." ::::.r-3! ■•!" a few minute^
.•:' •:■.■ 1:^:1 ij and
-.:■?•.= -or?. :>L»r ihe
' '.. r-.'iuv p-ris of
rl-.
A:
-V ..-ilof
ig-V.: of :w-.aty
liiv --A. .'.? w.'il a- 1::-.- air. i- i"jpii-
: :i- \\ii!i i:i- ■:: VA'.: Tl^- -iisc-'loured
\ i:i -i:- '.! :h.' ..'^.-.aii ::i.'ii'Tally owe
::.«.'ir :!'.;: : > ifi^rlaJ? 01" iis^octs. Tho
\- nii:.;-.:! -.; il lailf-rnii is pro-
i ;\"..'lv tj ! ■ ;i» ■ ouiit«-J tor iruin this
.1' M:- D.irwiu iVimi.1 red
' ■!.i:--»..''.'..iiiV'l water 011 the
i-.U ■■:' liiiu- 'rcopiv. ani-
in.i; ■.".".i-. •'..irii:..^ a^/.ii iu ovcry diivc-
■ ;.ii. and '.■.•lac-timcs .■xpioJm.u'"' — wu
:. 1..1 : -r "..v. ■' lu t!ie ArtiK" »Las,
1 >«.'.
.i>i
"■ ' mil'.-
./...■:•■ i':..- w.ir.r > I'Uiv tran^paivut
■■.■.::ani.iriiiO c-'I-.-m-. i-ar:- ui tweiity or
:::ir:,v -iu.uv hil'-c.-, nw tl:Ol:^alul live
";i;:niiii;«l w : Jc^-p, ar-.- p;ri-cii and
:.:rMil. iV'in tlio .iiiauiiry vt uiimite
auiinalcul- s. Captain >C"n'>liy calou-
iM.'d that it would ro'i'.iire oiirhiy
:'-. -■.i-andiM-r-iuiis wurkini: uuoea^indv.
iroin the oioaiiun of man 10 the prc-
>!-iit day. In CMiiii th<* iiam]>or of in-
"fct? contained in two mile- of the
,roeu water."
Cai'iaiu Sorivsbv mu-t In* vrrv foud
A oal'Uilation-. Wc liavf n«»ticed, by
::i.^ way, .-n -jeviTal oe«. anions, how
v.Tv ]t-..ld thi>e men of fiL'iires are I
« ).w p- -.mil- an-l piilv<.-riM'> ilie Pyre-
i.-os, an«l -stivws thorn .'ver France.
.iid tell" n^ h"W many fei-t this would
:mN.' til-' K-v- 1 of the wh-'-le ooimtrv.
Viiothi-:- K-.\l\\\ III.-- h-.w mil. h >oil thr
.^li•J^i--ippl l-riiic- down. \\y liour, to
tlie oei-an : antl an«"tlior. -till bolder,
undertakes to -av wluii .iiiautiiv of
Pfitjyiral Gtotjraphii. [Oct.
under the ice, how shallow the gliuier
may be in some parts, and into whit
])rofoiind caverns it may sink inothen?
rhcre is something childish iu 'Sm%
u-s an array of liiTurcs, when the figures
present no useful approximatiuD to
the truth.
We have alluded to the diflkalt
]<roblem of the distribution of the
dirterent species of animals through-
out the several regions of the globe:
the same problem meets ns in the
vi';:etablo world. Here we might
expect to jrrapple with it with .^ome
butter hopes of success, yet the diffi-
culties are by no means diminished;
we only si'em to see them more plainly.
In the'fir.-t place, it is clear, as Mr3
S,.iinerville says, that "no similarity
of existiurr circumstances can acconnt
for whole families of plants bemg con-
lined to one particular country, or
even to a very limited district, which,
as far as we can jndge, might hi«
;.To>\Ti equally weU in many othen."
But the dift'reno' of the floras is not
the only difficulty. While there ia
dirlVrence in a great number of the
-jiecies, there is idtntitif in a certain
other number. If now we account
for the dil^ercnce by supposing that
the several portions of laud emerged
from the ocean at lUderent epochs,
and under ditferouc conditions, and
that, therefore, the generative powers
■ •f vegetable life, (in whatever, andff
the will of Divine Providence, these
may be supposed ti) consist) mini-
fe^teil themselves differently, how
?hall we next account for this identity.'
'* In islands tar from continents, the
number of plants is small: but ^
those a lar^^rc proportion occur nowhew
olse. In St Helena, of tliirtv flower-
ice lies am-'n::st liie wliole raniro of bearing plants one or two only aw
ihc Alp-i. S.»mi^ of the-e ealcnbiion.- native elsewhere.** But these on*
:v.e laborious iuniiliiiL-, as it is cvi- or two become a new perplexity.
lent that no accurate data can be *' In the Falkland Islands there are
olttaiued to proceed upon. In the more than thirty flowering plasty
]a>t instance, how lind the depth of identical with those iu Great Dritaifi-"
i!u' iceV Tlie sand of the desert has Very many similar cases might b*
H -en sonmlod in one phue, we are told,
and the lead has sunk three hundred
ami sixty feet without tindiug a bottom;
but what plummet can sound the gla-
cier? Here and there a crevice may
h't u- into tin: secret of its depth, and
we know that below a certain level ice
cannot remain unmelted ; but who can
tell the conliguration of the mountain
cited ; wc quote these only to show
the nature of the dilficolty with which
science has to cope.
And here comes in the foUowiag
strange and startling fact, to render
this subject of vegetable prodactiM
still more inexplicable : —
''Nothing grows under tbe«e gf«*
forest?^ (of Sonth America ;) and whn ae-
1849.]
Physical Gtography.
cideuUlIy burnt down in the monntainoiis
parts of Patagonia, they never rise again ;
but the ground they grow on is soon covered
vlth an impenetrable hrusliwood of other
I'l'AHtt, In Chili the violently stiDging
Loa?a appears first in these burnt places,
bushes grow afterwards, and then comes
a tree-grass, eighteen feet high, of which
the Indians make their huts. The new
vegetation that follows the burning of
phmeTii forests is quite unaccountable.
The ancient and undisturbed forests of
Pennsylvania have no undergrowth ; and
^hen burnt down they are succeeded by
a thick growth of rhododendrons." — (Vol.
ii. p. 190.)
Bat we mofit bring onr rambling
excarsion throngh these pleasant
volumes to a dose ; the more especially
as we wish once more to take this
opportunity, not as critics only, but
as readers also, to express onr grate-
ful sense of the benefit which Mrs
Somerville has conferred npon society
by this and her preceding volnme,
The Cmmexian of the Physical Sciences.
It was once a prevailing habit to
speak in a sort of apologetic strain of
works of popular science. Such habit,
or whatever residue of it remains, may
be entirely laid aside. If by popular
.science is meant the conveyance, in
clear intelligible language, as little
technical as possible, of the results of
scientific inquiry, then are we all of us
beholden more or less to popular
science. The most scientific of men
cannot be equally profound in all
branches of inquiry. The field has
uow become so extensive that he can-
not hope to obtain his knowledge in
all departments from the first sources,
lie must trust for much to the autho-
rity of others. Every one who is
desirous of learning what anatomy
and physiology can teach us, cannot
attend the dissecting table. How
mach that we esteem, as amongst the
most valuable of our acquisitions,
<lcpends on this secondary evidence !
How few can follow the calculations
of the mathematician, by which he
establishes results which are neverthe-
less familiar to all as household words I
And the mathematician himself, great
aristocrat as he is in science, must
take the chemist on his word for the
^ce analysis the latter has performed.
He cannot leave his papers to follow
pat experiments, often as difficult and
uitricate as his own calculations. In-
409
deed the experiments of the man of
science have become so refined and
elaborate, and deal often with such
subtle matter, and this in so minute
quantities, that, as it has been said
of the astronomer, that it requires a
separate education, and takes half a
life to learn to observe, so it may
be truly said, that to devise and con-
duct new experiments in philosophy
has become an ai*t in itself. We must
be content to see a great deal with
the eyes of others ; to be satisfied with
the report of this or that labourer in
the wide field of science. We cannot
all of us go wandering over moor and
mountain to gather and classify herbs
and flowers ; interested as we all are
in geological speculations, we cannot
all use the geological hammer, or use
it to any purpose ; still less can wc
examine all manner of fishes, or pry
with the microscope into every cranny
of nature for infusoria,
Mrs SomervUle gives us the book I
— the neat, compact, valuable volume,
which we hold so commodiously in
the hand. The book — ^the book for
ever 1 There are who much applaud
the lecture and the lecture-room, with
its table full of glittering apparatus,
glass and brass, and all the ingenious
instruments by which natm'e, as we
say, is put to the torture. Let such
as please spend their hot uneasy hour
in a crowd. We could never feed in
a crowd ; we detest benches and sit-
ting in a row. To our notion, more is
got, in half the time, from a few pages
of the quiet letterpress, quietly perused :
the better if accompanied by skilful
diagrams, or, as in this case, by ad-
mirable maps. As to those experi-
ments, on the witnessing of which so
much stress is laid, it is a great fallac}'
to suppose that they add anything to
the certainty of our knowledge. When
we see an experiment performed at a
distance, in a theatre, we do, in fact,
as entirely rely on the word of the
lecturer as if we only read of its per-
formance. It is our faith in his cha-
racter that makes all the difference
between his exhibition and that of
the dexterous conjurer. To obtain
any additional evidence from behold-
ing the experiment, we ought to
be at the elbow of the skilful mani-
pulator, and weigh, and test, and
scrutinise.
470
Physical Geoffraphy.
[Oct
But, indeed, as a matter of evidence,
tlic experiment in a popular Icct arc-
room is never viewed for a moment.
It id a mere show. It has de^ne-
ratod into a mere expedient to attract
idlers and keep them awake. The
crowd is tliere, and expect to see some-
thing: and it has become the confirmed
habit of the whole class of popular
lecturers to introduce their experi-
ments, not when they are wanted to
elucidate or prove their propositions,
but whenever and wherever they can
answer the purpose of amusing the
audience. If a learned professor is
iecturinjr upon the theory of combus-
tion, he will burn a piece of stick or
paper before you, to show that when
such things are burnt tlame is pro-
duced, lie would on no account forego
that liame. Yes ; and the audience
look on as if they had never seen a
stick or a piece of paper bum before.
And when he is so happy as to arrive
at the point where a few grains of gun-
powder may be ignited, they give him
a round of applause ! In tlie hands of
many, the lecture itself becomes little
more than an occasion for the experi-
ment. The glittering vials, the air-
pump, the electrical machine, undoubt-
edly keep the eyes at least of the
audience open; but the expedient,
with all due deference be it said, re-
minds us of the ingenious resource of
the veteran exliibitor of Pii/ic/i, who
knows that if his puppets receive
knocks enough, and there is sufficient
clatter with the sticks, the dramatic
dialogue may take its course as it
pleases : lie is sure of his popularity.
Therefore it is we are for the book;
and we hold such presents as Mn
Somerville lias bestowed upon the
public to be of incalculable value, dis-
seminating more sound informitioii
than all the literary and scientific in*
stitutions will accomplish in a whole
cycle of their existence. We will cob*
elude with one or two practical sug-
gestions, which would add to the otilitf
of the last of her two works— 7%« Bf'
sical Geography, Mrs Somcnille has
thought it well to insert a few nota
explanatory of some scientific tenos.
But these notes are few. If it
was well to explain snch terms «
" Marsupial animals, " or " T«i-
taceo!,** a reader might be excused fir
wishing to know what a "toniOD
balance " was, or what a ^* monioe,'*
— terms which fall upon him jmt y
suddenly, and unexplained by nj
pi-evious matter. Would not a glos-
sary of such terms be advisable? Bit
whatever may be thought of thissig-
gestion, our next remark la bdb-
putable. To such a work as this, u
index is extremely nsefnl — is all bat
essential. There is an index, hotitii
so defective, so scanty, that it is worth
nothing. We cannot say whether
this last remark applies cqnailjto
The Connexion of the Physical Sdatca^
not having that work at present onder
our eye. But we beg to intimate to
all authors and anthoresses, thst
whenever a book is of snch a luUan
that it becomes valuable as a woikflf
reference, it should be accorapaiuedl7
a good index. It is a plodding bosi-
ucss, but it must be executed.
1849.]
Civil Revobakm in the Canadtu, — A Remedy.
471
CIVIL KEVOLUnON IN THE CANADAS. — ^A REMEDY.
To be British, or not to be, is now
literally the question in all the North
American colonies. Like England,
when Mr Cobden and the potato
blight produced, together, a panic
which seemed to obliterate, for the
time, all past argaments, and all
fatare consequences — changing minds
before deemed unchangeable, and
raising to fame and greatness men
and reasoning that the world was
never previously able to see the force
or the depth of— like England then,
are the colonies now. Thej are in all
the depths and mazes of a panic. One
of the storms which occasionally break
over the heads of all people is now
raging over theirs. Nor is it sur-
prising— with England's history for
ten years before us — if there should be
those among them who shrink from
its drenchings or its shocks, or are
incapable, in the midst of its wild
commotions, of seeing sunshine in the
distance. For our part, we are fond
of that sturdy greatness which can put
its shoulder to the blast, and say,
^' Blow on, great guns ; we can stand
your thunder."
Not that the panic in the colonics
arises from the people's looking for-
ward to having nothing to eat. They
have plenty, thank God, and to spare.
But they have nothing in their pockets ;
and, what is worse, they are afraid, if
they go on much longer as they are
now doing, they will soon be without
pockets too. Factory cotton may be
but fourpence a-yard; but if they
havenH the fourpence to pay for it, it
might as well be as dear as diamonds,
as far as they are concerned.
The policy of England, from the day
that Lord Chatham said '* that he
would not allow the colonies to make
a hob -nail for themselves," has been
to convert them into marts for her
manufactures — to make them useful
and profitable to her, by causing them
to consume those things which give
her poor employment, her merchants
and manufacturers profit, and her
commercial navy all the incidental
carrying trade. As a return for this,
the colonies were directly and indi-
rectly assured by England, that their
VOL. Lxvi. — ^NO. ccccvm.
produce should be protected in her
markets — ^that, for aU the profits Eng-
land might make by manufacturing
for the colonies, they should have a
full return in the profits they should
have by their produce being pro-
tected.
Meantime, the United States pursued
an entirely different system. They,
notwithstanding the interests of the
great body of the southern states —
whose interest, their principal product
being cotton, was to buy what they
wanted of manufactured goods in the
lowest market, and to sell their cotton
in the highest — rigidly adhered to the
system of forming manufacturinginter-
ests of their own, and of fostering and
encouraging them by every means in
their power. While the colonies,
therefore, bought, with the produce
of their country, broad cloths, cottons,
silks, blankets, scythes, hardware, and
crockery, which were manufactured
in England, they saw all the profits
of their manufacture, their sale, and
their carriage, go to another country,
to be spent among another people.
The Americans, on the other hand,
who bought, with the produce of their
lauds, the manufactures of their own
country, saw the profits upon these
manufactures applied to building up
factories, villages, and towns, which
brought together a useful population ;
built churches, made roads, established
places of learning and improvement ;
made better markets for some things
which might have been sold other-
wise, and made sale for many that
could not otherwise have been sold at
all, besides greatly enhancing the
values of all adjacent property, and
increasing the general wealth of the
whole country. The advantages
of the one system over the other,
however, did not stop here. The
necessities and the advantages of
manufactures, which first dictated the
making and improving of a common
road, next conceived the benefit of a
raihroad and a canal, and the profits
of manufacturing were straightway
applied to their construction, and they
were done. The farmer, therefore,
imperceptibly to himself, was placed
2i
I
47S
CioU BevohtUom vn ike Cemmtku. — A Bamtdy,
[Oet
within a few honrs of the best mar-
kets oyer the continent — ^fonnd his
prodnce carried to them for a trifle. In
comparison to what it used to cost
him — andlimnd, withal, the prooese
which made it bo, bringing thonaands
vpon thovaands of people into the
eonntrf , to develop its riches, to m-
crease tlie price of its lands, and to
ooitribate to ita cirilisatioa and
oonyeniencies, from the establishment
of a cc^efle down to the baildlng of a
bladosmitti's riiop. The colonial
£umer, too, who bought the goods of
an Engtish or a Scotdi manvfactnrer,
contributed to send thoee mannfao-
tnrers* children to 6cho(^ to give
them a proflssaioD, or to leave them a
fortune. The American farmer, who
bought his ndgfabours* manufactures,
contributed to establish a school in
his own neighbourhood, where his
children could be educated; and to
bring people together to support them,
if they chose to study a profession or
to enter into business.
To trace, within the limits of a
whole magazine even, much less m
the fragment of an article, tiie wealth
and prosperity that have accrued to
the States over the Colonies, by this
system, would be impossible. We
must content ourselves, for the pre-
sent, with glancing at the accumu-
lation of capital, and the extraordin-
ary iminovements in one State, as an
example of what must have, and in
truth what has, accrued to the rest,
in a greater or less degree, in propor-
tion as they have been engaged in
manufiMStnriDg.
The state of Massachusetts, in
pcnnt of soil, climate, and resources,
has fewer, or, at all events, as few ad-
vantages as any other state in the
American Union. With a few ver-
dant valleys, and some highly pro-
ductive land, it has much that is
rocky and barren, and more that is
marshy and useless. Yet this state,
^A^r^ ^PP^ Canada in natural
aovantagee, has, intersecting it in
d^went ways, five canals, their ag-
gregate length bemg ninety-niie
S^S^ \ ^»*.' *^' «^o fe^e' than
3«^ "^roads winding through it
«nd round It, constructed at an im-
"JMe cost, and affording a profitable
;^ to their proprietore. Now
wnat is the cause of this extraordinary
growth of capital, in a place where
there was litcurally so litde for it to
grow upon? — and how came soch
immense facilities for public bosiDeaB
to be enq^oyed, where aatme his toe
so little to craaAa bBsmen? Ihe
answer is obvious. Massachnsettgtai
not prospered toyits land, ornatDnl !»•
Bouroes— 'it haa pgospcrod by iis nm-
fiustures ; and its improvenMBls, ^eit
and extraoidinai7 tliou^ they be, fle
but the natoral oflbpring of thoae
manufMStnies. Its principal mante-
turing town, Lowell, tiie largest sadi
town in the United StuifiB, has
grown from a few hundred iahabk-
ants, that the land might have Isebif
supported, to some forty thoaeud,
that mannfactarea have pratofalj
emplo ved. The neoessitieB of Ihese
manumotnrea called for a cnai
and a railroad. The profito of tke
capital invested in then, aad the
labour they employed, soon oea-
Btructed tfaeoDL Saleai, wholly by the
profits of making cotton ftfano, he
become a town of fifteen thoawnd
inhalutants. Salem's mauulaeiiuia;
interests reqoired a raihoad to Bos-
ton, aad Salem's manufactarers' vA
artisans' profits were able to eoastnict
it Manchester aad Lawnaoe eve
their existence and prospoi^, ^
the acQaoent conntiy owes the adno-
tages tiiey are to it, whoOy to own-
factories. They wanted, too, a nS-
road to connect them ; and tfaef vere
able to make, and have made one.
Springfield, also in this State, sm
Worcester, Falliiver, Lynn, and New-
buiy-port, aad Beveral odier plaoesof
minor consequence, owe eQualiy theu*
existence and proqierity to tiie s*"^
cause. Nor is it to be wondered tt
that, in so short a period, saeh ntf
improvements should l>e made, wheo
we consider the immense profits thst
have accrued upon the capitai «■-
ployed in these manu&ctaries, sBd
i^xm the labour o^psged in than.
There is a cotton &etory la Sdeo
which itself employs a cKfiSaA^
£200,000, giving work to firehniHW
and seventy-five operativefl,— t**^
fourths of whoa are gW^-;^^*^
average wages are three pounds W»w
shillings steiiing a-month. ^^^ *
great proportion of these heing^
young, it necessarily foflowswfw
wages of the grown up sre rednoed w
1849.]
CivU RevobUion m the C€aiadaB,*^A Eemedy.
473
make np the average of those of the
-VTMikor, and that in reality an indas-
triooB woman ^^ can generally earn a
dollar a-day ; and there are those who
have been known, from one yearns end
to another, even to exceed this."
Speaking of the character of this la-
bour, and of its effect upon the States,
Mr Webster, the highest authority
upon this subject in America, thus
tmthfolly and eloquently remarks —
*^ I hftve spoken of labour as one of the
great elements of our society, the great
substantial interest on which we all stand.
Not feudal serrice, not predial toil, not
the irksome drudgery by one race of man-
kindy subjected, on account of colour, to
the control of another race cf mankind ;
tmt labour, intelligent, manly, independ-
ent, ihfiiking and acting for itself, eaniiig
its own wages, aecumulating those wages
into capital, becoming a part of society
and of our social system, educating child-
hood, maintaining worship, claiming the
right of the electiye franchise, and helping
to uphold the great fabric of the State.
That is American labour, and I confess
that all my sympathies are with it, and
ny Toiee, until I am dumb, will be for
it."
Of the profits arising from the capi-
tal invested in these mann&ctnres,
they have varied in different years,
bat have, on the average, vastly ex-
ceeded those ap<m all similar invest-
mentis in England, or in any part of
Europe. The Newbwjport HeraM^
a ooufde of years since, gave a state-
ment of the profits arising from the
Eaeex Steam Mill Company in that
towDt by which it appeared tkatfwfy'
two and a half per cent npon the capi-
tal invested was paid to the stodc-
holdera, as the amonnt of profits for
1845. The Dedham Company, in the
same state, also divided ten per cent
f(M> aix months of the same year ; the
Norfolk Company, twelve per cent for
the same period; and the Northern
Company ten. All these companies
were engaged in the mannfactore of
cotton goods — ^the most profitable,
however, of all mannfactores in the
States.
Bnt agauat this immense accnmn-
lation of capital in the States, against
the vast inddental improvements and
wealth to the country that have arisen
from manufactures, what have the
British ccdonies to show ? What have
the Canadas to arrest the eye of the
traveller, and to prove to him that,
though they have pursued the system
which I^rd Chatham chalked out for
them, of not manufacturing a hob-nail
for themselves — ^and which the policy
of England has ever since prevented
their doing — they have still where-
withal to attest that they have pros-
pered ; and that their labour has been
equally rewarded by agriculture as
by manufactures ?
From one end of the provinces to
the other, in every colony Britain has
in America, there are no evidences of
prosperity approaching, much less
equalling that of Massachusetts ; there
is nothing, in truth, wherewith to in-
stitute a comparison between them.
Beyond the towns which are supported
by the trade incident to selling Eng-
land's goods, there are none to be
found in British America. Beyond
the little villages throughout the pro-
vinces, that owe theur existence to tiie
necessity for agencies to collect the
profits of the whole products of the
country, and to send them to other
lands to be spent, there is no appear-
ance of labour employed in business^
or capital reproducing capital. Pro-
bably one of the best cultivated and
most productive districts in Upper
Canada, is the Grore. It is situated at
the head of Lake Ontario; has the
beautiful little city of Hamilton for its
capitfld ; is composed of very fair land,
and is settled by a population distin-
guished for their industry, and for the
great comfort and independence it has
brought them. Upon entering this
district by the high road from Toronto,
or in passing in a steamer np the
north shore of Lake Ontario, the tra-
veller is struck with the appearance
of a little village called Oakville. It
is situated on the bank of the lake,
has its neat white chiu*ches, and its
little picturesque cottages, looking out
upon the broad lake. A stranger at
a distance, from its situation and
appearance, would imagine it one of
those villages that spring np so magi-
cally in America, — ^full of activity,
energy, and prosperity. He visits it,
and to his surprise he finds, that
thou^ it bears all the evidences of
having been built in a hurry, it bears
also all the tokens of rapid decay — its
shops being for the most part unoccu-
474
Cin't Revolution in the Canadas. — ^1 Remedy,
[Oct.
pied, its houses untenanted, and its
streets without people. And what
may be the reason, in a district so
prosperous as the Gore, and sur-
rounded by a country teeming with
grain, and with still many unused
resources, that this village has so
I)alpably disappointed the expecta-
tions of its founder? It is this, —
Oakville was projected and built with
a view to the largest prosperity of the
country; and with facilities and neces-
sities for a trade equal to the cultiva-
tion of every lot of land in the adjacent
country that could support a family,
and to the manufaoturing into staves
and boards, and square timber, of
every tree in the surrounding woods.
But the policy of England has ren-
dered it unprofitable to get out the
timber; and free trade has taken
away the inducement to enter into
Canadian farming. Tlie consequence
is that the shops, which were built to
do an anticipated trade in Oakville,
are now unrequired ; and the people,
wIjo built houses for the accommoda-
tion of those who were to be engaged
in the expected business, have their
houses upon their liands. Nor can
any one well acquainted with rpi>er
Canada fail to recognise in Oakville
a faithful picture of many, if not most,
of the towns and villages in the pro-
vince.
But let us now reverse tlio picture,
and suppose that Oakville, instead of
looking forward to rising, and being
supported by the trade incident to
selling England's goods, and the
draining of the country's resources to
pay for them, had looked forward to
prosperity by manufacturing and sell-
ing goods of its own. Let us suppose
that its founder — who, fifteen years
ago, spent some £20,000 in adapting
its harbour for ships, that never had
occasion to come; and in building
storehouses, for which there has
never been use — had spent the same
money in establishing one of these
factories which first formed the nucleus
of Lowell or Salem in Massachusetts.
Is it not reasonable to infer, that in
the same country, and among a people
having the same necessities, the same
results would have accnied in the
Canadas which have accnied in the
States? That the profits of fifteen
years' manufacturing would have
surrounded Oakville with mansions,
proving the success of enterprise;
and filled its streets with houses,
showing that labour bad prospered,
and the country had its benefits?
Would not its capitalists, instead of
empty houses and rained hopes, bare
now the proceeds of well-invested
capital, or see them rcprodaciog
wealth in railroads, or public im-
provements ?
But let us suppose, further, t hat tbe
whole province of Upper Canada bad
invested in manufactui*cs, from time
to time, for fifty years, the whole pro-
fits that England and other coantiies
have made by the sale of all the goods
to it that it has consumed, and that
this capital had been augmenting and
reproducing itself during this period—
what would be the probable resolt?
It is impossible to calculate it. It
can only bo measured by the towns
that have spning up, by the railroads
and canals that have been made, and
by the vast capital that has been
accumulated in the same period by
Massachusetts, and the other mana-
facturing states of America.
It is not, therefore, to institntioos
or to laws, to peculiarities of race or
of situation, that we ascribe the pre-
sent undeniable pros|>erity of the
States, or, at all events, of those states
which have roanufactnrcd, over the
Canadas. It is to the system the one
adopted, of manufacturing what th^
required, and thus securing to their
country the benefit of the popnlation
it required to do so, the j^rofits of the
labom* employed in it, and the inciden-
tal improvements it occasioned. Itii
the system the other followed, or which
was chalked out for them, of speodiog
all they could make in the parchise
of g<)ods manufactured in EngUidi
the profits of which all went there to
be spent. The States, by the oi«
system, have made the most of their
country's resources and its labour;
the Canadas, by the other, have made
the least. The States have citicsi
and railroads, and canals, and degaat
mansions, to show for their labonr ^
fifty years ; the Canadas have hiilt
elegant mansions, too, by their li-
bour, and have bonght fine countfr-
seats, and have contribnted to m^
railroads, bnt they arc unfortnnateK
all in England and Scotland. A>~hat
1849.]
Civil Revolution in die Ccmadcu, — A Remedy,
holds good of a family, sometimes
holds good of a people. There is as
mach often accumulated by saving as
by making. Probably the making
little, and saving it, will end better
than making much and saving little.
The States might have made but little
on their produce at first — ^probably
less, for many years, than the C ana-
das; but their system inevitably
tended to saving for the country all
they did make; whereas the Cana-
dian system, whatever the provinces
made, much or little, as inevitably
tended to the country's losing it:
and the consequences are, the vast
differeoce in the growth of capital in
the one country over the other.
The arguments, however, in favour
of England's manufactnrmg for the
colonies, were not without their spe-
clousness, and, as applied to other
countries, were not without their
tmth. These were, that England
could manufacture cheaper for the
colonies than they could manufacture
for themselves ; and, moreover, that
the labour the colonies might apply
to manufacturing, could be more pro-
fitably employed in raising produce.
Bat these arguments, as far as the
Canadas and all America are con-
cerned, are fallacious. In a country
where the largest possible rewai'd for
labour bears frequently no sort of pro-
portion to the advantages gained by
mdividuals and the whole common-
wealth, by the mere fact of that
labour's being employed in it, the
question changes from what the people
save upon a yard of calico, to what
the country loses by towns not being
built, by railroads not being made,
and by improvements not taking
place that always follow manufac-
tures. It may be true, that where
the greatest possible reward for labour
is the only object sought for or attain-
able, that a people should find out,
and engage in what pays them best :
tut where the congregation of a hun-
^^ people in one place raises the
value of property there ten thou-
sand fold — and such has often been
the case in the States — and every
farmer adjacent not only gains a
inarket by them, but has his roads
improved, his lands increased in value,
double, and triple, and ten times;
and has a thousand conveniences and
475
benefits supplied him by them, that
he never otherwise could have had —
then the question arises with him,
Which benefited him most? — the hun-
dred people's manufacturing, and
spreading the profits of their labour
around them, or the buying a few
yards of cloth a few shillings cheaper,
and keeping the hundred people
away ? For every penny that the
whole people of the United States
have lost, by buying their own goods,
they have made pounds by making
them. And the profits of a mechanic's
own labour sink into utter insigni-
ficance in comparison to the wealth
he often acquires by a single lot of
land, upon which he settles down
with others, and which makes him
rich by also enriching all around him.
To measure, indeed, the advantages
that manufactures have given to
America, by the mere profits of the
actual labour employed in them,would
be but like valuing an oak at the price
of one of its acorns. Men may com-
pute the probable profits of labour
employed in manufacturing, by com-
puting the cost of raw material with
the expense of manufacturing it, and
what it sold for. But the enormous
wealth that has accrued to America, —
by the increase of population incident
to manufacturing, by the develop-
ment of its resources, and the gigantic
improvements that have followed it —
would be utterly out of the reach of
all human industry to compute.
But in striking out the system Eng-
land did for her colonies, she should
at least have considered whether the
benefits she intended to confer would
be really used as benefits ; whether
the system of protection to colonial
produce was not, in fact, something like
that of indulgent parents giving to
their sons pocket-money in addition
to sufficient salaries — which same
pocket-money does not generally add
to the morals or property of the
recipients. And, in truth, this was
in effect the character of England]s
colonial protective system. But it
wcDt a little farther than the wisdom
displayed by anxious parents ; for,
with the gifts, it took good care to
furnish temptations to spend them — a
piece of amiable generosity that we
would acquit even all indulgent
mothers of. However, this was —
17'j Ciril I2icj(uti'jn in tht
\\\\M v-r K:!-r!.k::'l m- .n:.- r -xi-- :•"!.
_•■ l.i' ■ ••«!■•> • ^^ ■ . »' »l'. 1*4.* •..- '. -- -»
- i:i ■■.'.: I" ■■iiy j-r- i/.^-.- 'jr ti-.i-l-vr. it
>'_v a : ri". •:■::■■:..•.:•• -! :k vi i-r-Mil
• l.ti.- .''i-l -iLjv-. rii.iii:? an-l -h.iwl-.
T;i«— ■ «'iii '.«"'u!'l h.i\'.' •!":!?? v -ry
w. -l \%::!: r'.iiia-lia.! jr.iy. w..r- i:i-
• iuc-. I '■• f''.iy br-'.i'l ^l.':!:-. aii-l
i.'iivii i.-u:i-i bill th'"-.* i;: triO ir...rkt.r :
:-r K: .•!.»!! I l--:,'!'.: Ti:i' i-"r.i::ry'i
cr-.'p. :iu 1 Kiul.ui'l* i.itTol: lilt* knf»r
:'i:;i wv".i «:siit ilu" urnn-rs •■■•iM af-
f-'pl i) J ay f..r. W- mi'ii w-^re >!lk
tip.*-'-! .iini -.iiin boniK-t?. wh-.- mizht
h:ivo ! "ki'il .harming en«'UL:!i. Wi"re
:hi-ir ::i'T.'!< m !:u*i-tin_'. in Il-'ylr'.'?
Ilia:-, ur bi-r'-n* all r.*A?"aaMf bo.iiis
:ir h-.-.ii'.'. in :;.hh1, ht»no?i. hume-maile
lianr.'-l. Dr.unly and waier. i-."^. was
I "■ ""^n -ab*tit ■.ri.il I'-r wiiMlos-'nie
L.'i' I". .in«l :"!>h:-»naM'' tailor* for
inlii-trioiis wi.nii.'n. Tho -li(iini'-?cale
"i" ix:»».*n«lirr.re alwav* wi-nt nw and
il«.»wn !■» >:iit tho tiiiK-s. A c.XmI yoar
was ni.irkiil by an inciva>o uf finery
and i-xtravagauo' : a bail cue by
debts and law-.«inii«:. depre-sioni! and
cuni}ilaints — the country (gaining no-
ihiup, from year to } i-arl for it^ labour
or its resoun.'c.'?. Anil wliat is uoir
the consequence 'f The system which
occasioned the evil is now done away,
but tho evil and its results remain.
The fiinner. unkuowinu' the cause at
first of the iK'clensi(.>n in his income,
WL-nt into debt, thinkin;L^ as had
often been the case before, that
a good year wouUl follow a bad
one : and that he would be able
to retrieve by it. But ihc next year
came, and it was worse than the
former. He could not pay his debts,
and he was obliged to mortjr.iL'e hid
property, or sell his stock, to do so.
lie could no longer jwt credit from
the shopkeeper, and he was unable
to purchase with cash the quantity or
the cjiiality of goods he bou>:ht before.
The shopkeei>er, in his turn dej^onding
upon the custom of the farmer for the
sale of his jrooils, and depending upon
receiving his accounts from him to
meet his own, found both fail him
togi'thcr; was obli;:eil to curtail his
business to a miserable remnant : or
to >hut up his shop, or to wait for
the .*heritl' (o do it f-n- him. Hence
tlnj altered appearance of every part
C'tn'jfi'is. — A Remedy, [Oct.
•f Canada, both town and conntiT.
Hi ".ice the whole streets in Montreal
V. ith liardiy a single shop open. Hence
iliM-jo S'-rry emblems of jioverty aod
r»-troi:ri.-ssion — «.-mpty houses with
'■■roki-n windows, and streets withoot
]•<-.. <i!.'. \ihieh may be seen in almost
.•very vill:i^'e in the provinces.
N«»w. fi.r the .-ysiein which has pro-
duced this state of things, who is to
blame? Clearly and unmistakeablj,
Kngland. If the colonies, as is now
palpable to all America, have woriwd
but with one arm towards prosi«crity,
\\hii.* the Slates have worked with
two. it was England's maunfactaring
interests that tie«l the colonies* arm.
T!.i' colonies were, in this respect,
whiilly in the hands of England. She
not only established a system for
them, by which the proceetls of every
acre of l.iuil they cleared, and every
tree tlK-y hewed.* went to give wort
to her pi»or. and wealth to her rich,
but -he reserved the right of tldnkog
fiT thfm .IS well. Withont her, they
mus't have naturally adopted the
course taken by the rest of Amerid.
She legislated for them ; they believed
her wise, and foUowe<l her dictattf
without tliought or apprehensknu
They are injured ; and she is to
blame.
lint when I^rd Chatham laid the
foundation of the .system by which the
colonies have been, in ctFect, prevent-
ed manufacturing for themselves, he
established mutuality of intere^
between them and the mother coantiy*
If he would have England^s poor
employed, and England's capitaliflti
enriched by making goods for the
colonies, be' wonid have the coloiiei
pn.>tit eipially by ])rotection in the
English markets. The partnenhip,
for such it i*cally was, gave to each
country its own particular share of
benefits; and the system was each,
too, that the more the profits of the
one rose, though by its own iodividoil
efforts, the more it was able to benetit
tho otiier. For the more people ea-
gaged in Canadian farming, the noie
land that became cleared, and the moifl
timber that was got out, the more
English manufactures were consoned.
But we have shown, by compari^Hi
with the States, the disastroofl
effi'ct of this system njHjn the p«H
sl^<'rity of the colonies. We have
1849.]
CM BevohUioH m the Canadas, — A Remedy.
477
shown, too, from its own char-
acter, that it never was, and never
could have been, of any substantial
benefit to them ; that it made them
extravagant, withont leaving them
capital; that it made them to all
intents and porposes poorer, whilst
it was expected to make them richer.
And who was this system expressly
and avowedly intended to benefit?
Who were, in all seasons, and at all
timesy whether good or bad for the
colonies, the only benefiters by it?
It was the mannfacturers of England,
for if the colonies conld buy but
prints and cottons, they bought of
these all they could pay for, and these
maanfiuturers had all the profit. If
they could buy broad cloths and silks,
they purchased as much as theur crops
were worth, and oiten were induced
to draw upon the future, English
mannfacturers and merchants gettiog
all the benefit. But after these manu-
&ctmrerB had thus bled the colonies of
all their vitality, in the shape of capi-
tal, for upwards of half a century —
alter the colonies' right arm had been
tied iq9 so long, for their express bene-
fit, Uiat it became impotent from want
of exercise, these same manufacturers
turned round and told their colonial
putners — ^^We have now made all
we can out of yon ; or, if we have not,
we think we can make a little more by
free trade than we can by keeping our
honest engagements with jou. We
are sorry you have acquired a lamer
ami in our service. It is a pity. It
<»n't be helped now. Good-bye."
Yes, it was these mann&cturers, who
flo long bled the colonies, that turned
ronnd to strike them in the end the
blow that should finish them. It was
their selfish agitation for years; it
was their constant sounding mto the
ears of England one unvarying theme ;
it was thehr disregard of all inte-
nats, .of all duties, and of all obli-
gations to all men, in one deadly, un-
wavering struggle for the attainment
of one object, and for one class, that
cost the colonies their solemnly
pledged protection — that cost them,
we may add, their respect for the
honour and the justice of England.
Bat we have now, afler a digression
which has been somewhat of the
longest, come to the point of our ar-
gument, and that is this : — Upon a
question so vitally afiecting the inte-
rests of the colonies ; upon a question
that might cost them the institutions
of England ; upon a question where
all truth and justice demanded that
they should have been in a situation to
protect themselves against manufactur-
ing selfishness, does it not occur to the
reader, that the colonies should have
had a representation where it was de-
cided? The measures that exaspe-
rated the old colonies to rebellion,
shrink into utter insignificance, as far
as injury or efiect are concerned, in
comparison to this one. Here are ^ee
millions of people, the main profits of
whose labour for upwards of fifty
years have gone to enrich a certain
class of people in En^and. And here
they are now, sacrificed to the selfish-
ness of that very class, without hav-
ing the opportunity of saying a word
for themselves. If the legislation of
England, for ten years past, has been
pregnant with vaster consequences to
her than the legislation of a century,
it has hardly afiected her so deeply as
it has afiected her North American
colonies. If her landowners see ruin
in it — ^if her agricultural labourers see
in it the means of depriving them of
bread — still her other classes see, or
think they see, advantages in it to
counteract the evils, and prosperity to
balance the injuxy. But in England
all have been heard — all have con-
tended, where giant intellect sways as
well as mighty interests ; where mind
has its influences as well as matter.
But in the colonies, where every inte-
rest and every dass saw, in imperial
legislation, injustice and ruin, neither
their intellect nor their interests avaQ-
ed them anything. They were literally
placed in ike legislative boat of Eng-
land : they found that they must either
sink or float in it ; that Irapslation
hi^>pened to sink them ; and though
they saw themselves going down, and
might, with their firiends, have pulled
themselves ashore, they were not
allowed an oar to do so — they were
not in a situation to make an effort to
save themselves.
In the face of these deeply impor-
tant considerations, can it be fairly
said that the colonies have no interest
in imperial legislation, and that there
are no interests for imperial legislation
to guard m the colonies ? Palpably to
478
Civil Revolution in the Canadas. — A Remedjf,
[Oct.
all the world, the States have been
making pigantic strides iu pros-
perity, while the colonies have been
standing still. Yet in the British
House of Commons, whenever the
question of the colonies has been
mooted, has it not been with the
view to consider how the colonies
conld be made to consume more
En dish manufactures, rather than
how they should prosper by manu-
lUctures \«f thtir own? VVho has
urjred the question there, that instead
of England's perpetually sending out
goods, and draining the colonies of all
the fruits of their lalH)ur, England
shi'uld send out ]»eople to make good?,
who iu makin>; them would make the
country? Yet this is the root uf tho
depression and the poverty of the
Canadas. And wh-^ with this vast
country's resources brfore hioi — with
its ways and moans of making millions
indipendeut, and with the vast faci-
liiies for the invostment of capital it
atVorded and atfords — can say that no
interi'sts could spring up in it of con-
sequence to the legislation of England?
It is true that the colonies have
had their own parliaments; and it has
been imagined that these parliaments
encompassed the whole of their in-
terests. But when did the colonial
legislatni*es decide that the colonies
should not make a hob -nail for them-
selves? Yet the want of making the
hob-nails has been the ruin of their
prosperity. It is estimated that the
colonies lose upwards of two hundred
thousand pounds a-year by the loss
of protection : it is but too well known
how deeply this loss has aHected them.
Y'et whose legislation and policy edu-
cated them literally to feel this loss?
whose interests were consulted in
giving the protection, and taking it
away again, that has been the cause
of all the evil? It was England's.
The colonies have been allowed by
their legislatures to shake the leaves
of their interests ; imperial legisla-
tion has always assailed the tnmk.
But this is not all ; colonial interests
have been, unheard and unheeded,
sacrificed to other interests in England.
The destiny of the colonies, without
question and without redress, has been
placed in the hands of men who have
made a convenience of their interests,
and an argument of their misfortunes,
brought about by these men them-
selves. Nor conld, nor ever can,
whatever may be imagined tu tlm
contrary, the connexion of the colo-
nies Ikj preser^'cd with England, with-
out her policy and her legislation
vitally afl'ecting them. For they
must be either English or American;
they must be, as they ever nive
been, if the connexion is maintained,
made subservient to the interests of
England, or their int<;rests most be
identified with hers: and if their io-
te rests are identical, their legislation
should be identical also. It, is iaipos-
sible that the flag of England cau
long wave over what is all American.
If the colonies are to be wholly indc-
])endent in their interests of En^'land,
it is in the very nature of things, that
their measures and their policy maj
become, not only what England mi^t
not like, but what might be an actoal
injury to her ; and what might owe
its very success, like much of the
policy of America, to its being detri-
mental to her intercuts. And it is as
unnatural as it is absurd to suppose,
that England would or conld, for any
length of time, extend her protection
over a people whose interests and
whose policy might be pulling against
her own, whose success might be
marked by her injury, and whose pro-
sperity might increase at the expense
of her adversity.
But, apart from the abstract right
of the colonies being represented
where they are, and, we insist, mnst
continue to be, so deeply concened,
it is time the present* humiliating
system of understanding their vievi
or feelings in the English parllameit
should come to an end. Upon a
vitally important question to them—
upon one of these things that only cons
up once in a century, or in a people's
whole history — ^take the following, as
an example of tho way in wldch theb
opinions and their interests were n-
gai'ded : —
" DisuoNESTv OF Pl'blic Men. (Ft
the Loudon Prwf.)~Mr Laboucherc wisbcil
to show that Canada chafed iinUer tba
restrictions of the Narigatiou LawfySsd
that they would be satisfied with 'tte
new commercial principle,' provided the
Navigation Laws were repealed. F<ir
this ]>iirpose the minister took a eovite
which he would no more have thooghi of
1849.]
CwU Revohaion in Oie
taking in the affairs of prirate life, than he
would haye thought of taking purses on
the highway. The minister quoted the
statement of three respectable gentlemen
at Montreal, which coincided with his
Tiews; and he did not let fall one word
from which the house could have inferred
that the opinions thus alluded to, were not
th^^eneral mercantile opinions of Mon-
treal. Now, the minister could scarcely
be ignorant that this question about free
trade, and the alteration of the Naviga-
tion Laws, has been the subject of very
earnest discussion in Montreal; and he
cannot but have known that Mr Young
and Mr Holmes, however respectable in
their position, and influential in their busi-
ness, are the leaders of a small minority
of the body to which they belong. Mr
Laboachere read a statement to the House
of Commons, which he had the confidence
to call * a proof irrefragable* of the
mercantile public opinion of Montreal and
Upper Canada, when the truth is— as
he conld not but have known — that the
opinions of that statement are the opin-
iona of a few persons utterly opposed to
the general opinion of the mercantile
body. There was held in Montreal, on
the 17th of last month, the largest public
in-door meeting that ever assembled in
that city, at which a string of resolutions
was passed by acclamation, in favour of
the policy of protection, and against the
* new commercial principle ' of the go-
vernment. That meeting was addressed
both by Mr Young and Mr Holmes. They
endeavotired to support the views held by
Mr Labouchere, but against the over-
whelming sense of the meeting, from
which they retired in complete 'discomfi-
ture. We are bound to suppose that the
minister who is head of the British Board
of Trade cannot but be aware of this ;
and yet he not only conceals it altogether
from the House of Commons, but he reads
to that house the statement of Mr Young
and Mr Holmes, as * proof irrefragable '
of the opinion of the colony of Canada, in
favour of the ministerial policy. The
President of the Board of Trade would as
soon cut off his right hand as do anything
of the kind in the ordinary concerns of
life ; and yet so warped is he by party
politics — so desirous of obtaining a tri-
umph for the political bigotry which pos-
sessed him — that he represents the mer-
cantile interest of Montreal and Upper
Canada as if it were decidedly on his
side, when, if he had told the whole story
fairly and honestly, he would have been
obliged to admit that exactly the contrary
was the fact."
Kow, if it be necessary for England
to understand colonial feelings, and
Canadas.'^A Remedy. 470
opinions in order to legislate for them,
is this a fair or honourable way of
treating them? Are the interests of
these gi-eat provinces to be thus made
subservient to political trickery ? Is
their destiny of so little importance to
Great Britain, that it should be even
in the very nature of things for any
man, or any party, in England, to have
it in his or their power thus to insult
their intellect as well as to violate
their interests ? And is this circum-
stance not a counterpart of others that
have from time to time occurred, when
Canadian subjects have been before
parliament ? If we mistake not, up-
on another vitally important question
to them — the corn laws — the petitions
and the remonstrances even of their
governor and their legislature were,
to enable misrepresentation and un-
truth to have its influence in a
debate, kept back and concealed.
A party's interests in England were
at stake ; the colonies were sacrificed.
Now, can it be reasonably urged, that
the allowing these colonies to speak
for themselves, and to be understood
for themselves, in that place and before
that people who literally hold their
destiny in then* hands, would be preg-
nant with more danger to England
than this dishononrablo system is to
both her and to them ? Would it not
be better to have them constitutionally
heard than surreptitiously represented?
Is it necessary to the understanding
of the wants and wishes of the colonies,
and to the good government of them,
that tricking and dishonesty should
triumph over truth and principle, and
that the legislative boons which reach
them should be filtered through false-
hood and deception? It will be in
the recollection of all who have read
the debate in the House of Lords upon
the Navigation Laws, how Lord Stan-
ley exposed these same Messrs Holmes
and Young, mentioned by Mr La-
bonchere, but who, on this occasion,
in the Lords, were joined with a Mr
Knapp. It was shown by his lord-
ship that these eminent commercial
men (who seem to be the standing
correspondents of the present minis-
try,) wrote what is called in America
a hunkum letter to Earl Grey, to be
used in the House of Lords, making a
grand flourish of their loyalty, and a
great case out in favonr of the colonial
.1
;.•»•^.• .-. — _i Bam^tiv,
OCL
. *>
.1" .•
- 1
i *
-I.
•V .■ .- I
ii:i ■;:.ii.
1 - ■ . - 5- I i'
-". ".I- C^"
zi I" . .iz,i ".--iir
-■^•■. -i
T^. - .•tl-" ..
.L .t. .Z. I . ^1. .1 '■.■ " .'■■:•■ 7-:i-'ja*
,*: .•■r^ ■;— t*.!: -'i .J. l%.....i.. L. :-»rr*
■ ■ " '•■■«*
^« i ■ X- . J.... .!^~ . -■ ■
■:.'".r.-r^ -^!.: ;: :... r... . .: :.zi.il:i-2
1*1*1.: in.- -j] -rjki: -lj-, Cilj:.: b^v^ >ien
av...ii].:il, :s:i.i tr.'.-sr ■>.•! 'HIts h-'cii in a
ricaaiion :r;:a I'lmr 10 tir.ie 10 have
exirUIue<i th*.-ir on-n azfair*. and ti.»
have allow.>ii their i»^tty s^iuahblos of
r !.:•.• JD'i of factl'jD t" iijv..- e-i«:a|:»oii ia
l"..'-- j;ai»:ty-v:ilvea of iinf»«-nal IrjUIa-
tluii .' In i*:;7. it C'-t Enslan-l the
time ami expense ini.i«k'Qt to a par-
ii.iin<:ntar\' report. ufH>n the civil
^'iiVKrninent of Lower (.anada alone,
which e\tenrI.-4 over nearly live hun-
«lred pa(?es <jciavo. Ami this wad irre-
ij|>ective, of course, <>t' the questions
and debates wiiicli led to it, besides
all tiiat prew out of it. Next came
tlie debates upon the causes of the
failure of the rernedie.^ proi>o9ed in the
report — for the rcfpijrt itself turned out
to be like throwin^i^ a little water on a
larj,'e tire — it only .'5er\'ed to increase
the blaze. Then came Lord (iosford,
Willi extensive iM^wers to settle all
dilHcuIties, and, it wa.'^ hoped, with a
lurf^n capacity for undcrstnndinr,' tlicm.
lint he, whatever else he did, succeeded
to admiration in briiif;in^ matters to a
head ; or, bein^r an Irishman, perhaps
lie thought he would make things f^o
byronlraries — forhecameouttopacity
ail ]>arlie.s and he managed to leave
-.: : ».- t^i-j:.-. X-rxt cam*? the
:- ir-- 's.tr. i2«: :JLe ■: -t of. the
■ ■ . ■:. Ill zz-^z r-r** the bright
•- :-■ - ■ ir. I :' I- i:?*- izi :'p>«peritT;
■ •.. Mk--. :' l'~^r.i:n wji depntdJ,
■v .J. I i.-jt . . .. ':r: :: of wlf«l-jni. uJ
I • '.:;■ .- '.■: Ti .-'•• *- >-; of other com-
- •:.— L- ^ :.!< :o faille the wb«jie
-7. .:■:-.?. L ::. i:: ?-.oth. i'^ks^ Cana-
:.az- :- :i: :•? 1 ja»x rru for he pro-
. :.• •: :.:-rs rr^c-josibie srovemment,
la 1 : :!- - tlI'? :•> have set liiem cleiB
y .-*. i.:i2>»3r^ it may N? tnxe that
• : :.. "! ■"? zLi.i: have had bat few
! .:.-■;:- i: nr?: :o en^a^*? the atteo-
:..:c :' 'ruTTnAl leii^iiiion, ye: it
^ . - i -dv ' 'r.rrii uiz Urtter to hive
:.: XZ'-.I iLern. to onderitand that
>- -ii:! u. lU'i to have appreciited
iI::_::j.L!j in-r izniratnesa ihrongh her
'^sir.-j.zijn-i — ami at the same time, to
:.Av.* Ez'jland taa^t, by practiol
J.*"?*.- iativD ami i:onnexion with theiB,
:r.:ir r-i-ol worth — than to have hid
E^zii^h !eri*lation largely and pff-
p iiiAlIy wisti?'! upon colonial bioflSi
A-i th'» coloni'.-s as perpetually dis-
;^ii?nt:ii with Eudi^sh legislation. The
tn::h Li. their system of intematioial
lc:d?UciMn only made the two conn-
trii^s known to each other by mem
of their difficulties. The cokmiei
w?r»* never tansrfat to look to the pio-
ceodinsrs of the imperial parlianesti
nnl'^-is when there was some broil to
sortie, or some imperial qnestion to
be decided, that was linked with colo-
nial ruin, and in the decision of whieh
the colonies had the interesting put
to play of looking on. Xor has Eng*
land ever thought of, or regwded the
colonies, except to hand them ovtf
bodily to some subordinate in tke
colonial office — ^unless when they no*
forced upon her attention by herpridi
being likely to be wonnd'ed by ber
losing them, or by some other eqniQT
disagreeable consideration. The legis-
lative intercourse between them hii
ever been of the worst possible kind.
Iiistciul of intending to teach the
people of England to respect, to rel^
upon, and to appreciate the real worth
of the colonies, it has taught them to
underrate, to distrust, and to aToU
them. Instead of imperial legishitioB'i
forming the character of the peoptei
as it has formed the character of the
people of England, and giving then
1849.]
Civil Revolution in the Canadas, — A Remedy.
principles to cling to, and to hope
upon, it b&s directly tended to con-
centrate their attention upon America,
and to alienate their feelings from
England.
Bnt it la not alone in the passing of
laws^ or in the arrangements of com-
merce, or the harmonising and com-
bining of interests, that the colonies
woold be benefited by imperial repre-
sentation. They would be benefited
a thousand times more by the inter-
course it would occasion between the
two countries. The colonies would
then be taught to regard England as
their home. They would read the
debates of her parliament as their own
debates; they would feel an interest
in her greatness, in her struggles, and
in her achievements, because they
would participate in their accomplish-
Dient. The speeches of English states*
men — the literature of England— her
institntions and her history, would
iben be studied, understood, and ap-
preciated by them ; and instead of the
colonies belonging to the greatest
empire in the world, and being the
most insignificant in legislation, they
would rise to the glory and dignity of
that empire of which they formed a
pari— ehariog in its intellectual great-
neflB, its rewards, and the respect that
id doe to it from the world. Every
person, too, who represented the colo-
nies in Eaglaad, would not Mmply be
the representatives of their pubUo
policjt w Bational interests — he would
alaa repiesent theur vast resources,
their thousand openings for tiie pro-
fitable investment of capital, which the
people of England might benefit by as
Duich as the cokmies. The public im-
provementa now abandoned in the
eokmiei for want of ci^ital to carry
them oot and for want of sufficient
coDfidence in their government on the
pact of capitalist^ to invest their
money in them, would then become,
as similar improvementa are in the
Slatee, a wide field for English enter-
prise to earieh itself in, and for Eng-
lieh poverty to shake off its misery
by. If the resources of the colonies
— if their means of making ri(^, and
being enriched, were underetood and
taken advantage of—- if international
legislation, common interests, and a
common deetiny, could make the colo*
met stand vpon the same footing to
481
England as England does to herself,
Grod only can tell the vast amount
of human comfort, independence, and
hsppiness, that might result from the
consummation.
But how can these advantages
accrue to England, or to the colonies,
as long as it is understood that, the
moment a man plants his foot upon a
colony, that moment he yields up the
fee-simple of his forefathers* institu-
tions— that moment he takes, as it
were, a lease of them, conditioned to
hold them by chance, and to regard
them as a matter of temporarv con-
venience and necessity. And who
that has observed the tone of public
feeling in England for years, or the
spirit of the debates in her parliament,
can deny that this is the case ? — who
that now lives in the colonies can
deny it ? And with such an under-
standing as this, and with an educa-
tion perpetually going on in colonial
legislatures, weaning the feelings and
separating the interests of the colo-
nies from the mother country, how
can it be expected that that interest
in England necessary to all true
loyalty, and that knowledge and ap-
preciation of her institutions necessary
to all enlightened or patriotic attach-
ment, can take root, or subsist for any
length of time in the colonies ? If the
colonies, in truth, are to be made, or
to be kept British, in anything else
than in name — if even in name they
can long be kept so — it must be by
the infusion of the essential ele-
ments of British character and British
principle into them, by means of
British legislati(m. If they are to be
part and parcel of the great oak, the
gradts must be nourished by the same
sap that supports the tree itself The
little boat that is launched on the
great sea to shift for itself, must soon
be separated from the great ship.
The colonies, denied all practical par-
ticipation in the true greatness of
England, and having with them, bj
virtue of their very name ae colonies,
the prestige of instability and inseen-
rity, must, in the very nature of
thmgs, be avoided by all who, though
they would be glad to trust the great
ship, cannot rely upon one oi its frail
boats. The great wings <tf England's
legislation must be made to cover the
North American colonies, and to warm
ir-
*l\rii lUt'/iHiiun in rW CanaJfi*. — .1 Remedy,
[Oct.
• ■ ^ f
• ^«.-«V%.« -• ■■■'..•
w
r.-.y .ai i :■> ^^ :vl .irr.
..ivl ^:. i i: : ...red
'.-: •*; '"ii.v r.i List
■.>
j^oi .ill-
.1.
Frini
-t
:cr.
iiior
V. •■.-.*.
> ■ ■ _ a ■
k.. .
A
i;
-.-•J'-OKmI
vL. k.
V
". r. V
r.
•t-.
w:
.rfl* !■■■•■•■■
l"..- y V...; r-.t :■
V> ■ ■ .'■ " , •,
■*-■■--■ ■* : *• ■ i ■
i" ■" ' • 'i • i • '■ •
i\-*V*1*"'ll ■•■il"-
«*■>« * ..k^.a mmL A««.^*li>B
l..:u-i'.:* a- .i ; .. :*.■ v. : ;v
■.V
:■••? I
•. .tr
w
'.s
K. J,
0. .-. :.:«:?
-. I'. <. .
: " V- ' !
>. . . ■ 1 tt:,
ii* 1 !l.e
} . I-.-l-yc'l.
- :.• ^ .-i.riicr
V-. r-.:^n over
I.::c:>i.!!' into
. • .- •■ •
■ -■■*• ■ aft ■
t
1 •-
.!■
1
• ■ ■ .*. T:a' : ar-
^\\^'. I.:.; ^T -c.v ir..!ke
:r..!y : .:'. r:iivl uf their
• •fc •.■■■*■■■■ V ■ Tni 3
: rv: r-.- ■::! iiiw- from
t!:o •.••■!.'.:iis : vd i!.-.' i/.rli.in.o:.: ■•t'Lu::-
l.:-.:l is fu::-! vt' i -iiTL-i-i.-^' :Li- j«-.««t.r. a::J
Lir.'ur^'t.i:;-:.-. .'!
taun-.-: » e w.v.i
I ..
averse t> t:;..' i.:iiy i:ifjii? t-i noiUiriBg
l:ave bei'n vloue with some otlicr vifv
tl!:in makiu;; safe oud conviriiicnl
l'..icfs r-r the stars and stripes to
Wiivf '.'ii ill a few years I Yet wheu
wo C'-^ino to look back upou Englaods
k';: illation f«>r the same poricul. and
HI" '11 ih«- spirit ev.>kedby tlie debates
i:l !iCT purl lament, it would really
-■••..•111. it' the had anv rational de^tni
i:: :lsi.-?o exponditures at all, that sue
nir.-t liavc intended thorn for ilie I'X-
] r- ."-i ln-netit of her once rebellion? son
.Jonathan. England, by these de-
!';;i.\-::, wiiuld seem to say to the coIod-
!>!•: — " Look there, my lads, and n'e
t'.i' oinhK'ni< of your protection, and of
l»riti-ih rule in America for ever/' By
l.-r leL'i>lation and free- trade p»^licy.
^ho has unoriui vocally told ihein.
•• that >he must bnv her bread wliere
the :. Ci-s.'arv kiiuv.ifdjo iVr
i: ; which is ijo^irin^ lu l-e :. .h'-f .Uht
without beini; ■■>«».•■■•«' /if
There remain? among the
colonijit.? somu''h re-pect. vemTaiion, and
aiieciiori for Iiritain. that, if o:iUivated
I'ni'ientiy, wiiii a kiiiu ii-:ige. and tenJer-
!ie=s for their jirivileje-:, ihey might be
easily governed ty Kngland still forages,
without force, or any e'.»n'i>lerable ex-
pense, but I do n<n <ee th»'re a &uffieient
H'.iantiiy of the wisJiin tliai is nectsiary
to produce ^uch a conduct, and I lament
the want of it." — L- "• /• t'j Lvi\l K'.itntJ.
Bnt it is most strange, that while
England's policy, and the spirit of her
legislation, have for some years past
clearly indicated to the world, that
she expected and seemed disposed to
pave the way for a :*eparation between
herself and hor colonies, her conduct
in other resj^ects should bo so opposed
to her views in this. For while she
was foreshadowin*; in her legislature
the independence of her colonies, she
wjis build inp, at a heavy expense,
garrisons in them to support her power
for all time to come. Within the ten
years last [)ast, i^'arrison quarters, upon
a large scale, have been built at Toron-
to; and large sums liave been laid out
npon every fr>rt and place of defence
in the cofonies. Suiviv this must
=lie jdea?
?os
and thev mav lind a
^'oveniment ^% here they please." ^^ ith
one hand she has taken her colouies
by the shoulder, and told them ib«j
must behave themselves: with the
Miller. >he has shaken hands with
them, and tuld them they may kick
up their heels as they please for all
she cares.
lint there is a question, up«'n the
satisfactory answering of which rest*
the whole matter of whether the colo-
nie-ican, or cannot, continne connected
with Groat Britain. And that que.-
tion is, Can tliey prosper in propor-
tion to their abilities to prosper, by
that connexion V
AVehave already partially answered
it, by showing the benefit that would
inevitably accrue to the colonies ftwn
their being represented in the imperiil
parliament — by their whole property
and worth being, by this meaWi
placed in the market of the world side
by side with the property and wortb
of England herself; and by EnslwwT*
capital partially, if not to all intentA
and purposes, flowing into the colonies
upon the same footing that it flowi
through England — i.e., upon ll*
principle of advantaf^cous investmeBi.
But we shall prove that they can ani!
should prosper, to the fullest extent
of their capabilities, in connexioB
with Britain, in another way.
It is admitted, on all haiuU thtt
were their connexion with EngliDJ
broken off, and were the colonies to
become, as it is certain they would,
several States of the American Umon,
1849.]
Civil Revolution in the Canadcu. — A Remedy.
483
they would prosper, in proportion to
their capabilities, equally with any of
the northern states having no greater
advantages in soil or resonrces. It is
thonght, and we believe with tmth,
that the pablic improvements which
now lie dormant for want of capital to
carry them on, or for want of sufficient
knowledge of, or confidence in, the
colonies from without, to induce the
necessary capital to be advanced for
them, would be completed, if the
colonies were joined to the States. It
is thongbt, too, and with equal pro-
priety, that Lower Canada, whose
popidation is singularly well fitted to
prosper and be benefited by manu-
factures, would, were it a State, be
directed in that course most condu-
cive to its prosperity. And it is
thought — likewise correctly — ^that the
great resources of Upper Canada,
were that province too a State,
would become greatly more available
than they now are: its population
would increase ; its cities and towns
enlarge; and every man having an
acre of land, or a lot in a town in it,
would become much better off than he
is at present. This, if the States re-
main united as they have been, and
prosper as they have done, might be
all strictly true. But why is it that
the colonies believe this, and that the
States are also of the same opinion ? It
is because the colonies know what the
Americans are, and the Americans
know what the colonies are capable of.
They understand each other, and
they know how ihey could work to-
gether for good.
But what means would the Ameri-
cans employ to develop the un developed
resources of the colonies, and to secure
wealth to themselves, while they
brought prosperity to them? They
would simply employ their capital in
them ; and they know that it could,
and they would see that it should, be
so employed as to secure these results.
But let us now inquire, — ^Is it impos-
sible to employ the capital of England
in these colonies, so as to effect the
same thing? If American enterprise
and skill could cause wealth to spring
up in Lower Canada, and could enrich
itself by doing so, is it impossible for
English enterprise and skill to do
likewise? If American capitalists
oonid, beyond any manner of ques-
tion, accumulate wealth for them-
selves, and vastly benefit the Canadas,
by constructing railroads through them,
or rather by continuing their own,
is it out of the power of English capi-
talists to be enriched by the same
process ? If the Canadas, as we have
said, believe the States can infuse
prosperity into them, because they
see the States understand them, and
know what they are capable of, is it
impossible for England to understand
them also, and to take advantage of
their worth ? But then, it will be an-
swered, there is the difficulty of colo-
nial government. Who will invest
his capital for a period of fifteen or
twenty years, where he may be paid
off by a revolution — when, as Moore
said of the old colonies —
*< Enfland^s debtors might be chuiged to
England's foes ?'*
But suppose the stability of Eng-
land's own government were imparted
to the colonies, suppose the perma-
nency and the interests of England
became effectually and for ever iden-
tified with them— what then? That
there is no reason under heaven left
why they should not prosper, to the
fullest extent of their ability to pros-
per, and that England might not be
benefited by them in proportion.
But even this is but a partial view
of the case ; for the Americans would
actually borrow the money in Eng-
land that they would invest in the
colonies, and yet enrich themselves by
doing so. The colonies, in truth —
joined to the States — ^would prosper
by diluted benefits, the Americans
reaping all the advantages of the di-
lution. Connected with Great B];i-
tain— did Britain confide in them as
she might, and understand them as
she should, and were they in a situ-
ation to inspire that confidence, and to
occasion that understanding — they
must inevitably reap, in many re-
spects, double the benefits they would
enjoy with the States.
But the States would bemfit the colo^
nies all they could. Will England f
The scheme of imperial representa-
tion for the North American colonies
may be, and doubtless is, open to
many objections ; and many difficul-
ties would have to be got over before
it could be accomplished. The first,
484
Or// Revolution in the Canadas, — A Remedy,
[Oct.
if not the onlr proat difficulty, w —
\Voiild the colonics bear tlie burden
of taxation, and the rosponsibility of
beinp part and parcel of the lJriti«h
ompiiv, for better or fur worst*, for
all time ti) ciMne V And conUl they, if
they would y
In considering these question?, it is
but fair ti» vii'w them. ni»t only in re-
pard to the n.*sp<msibilities the system
we propose would entail, but also in
repard to the responsibilities they
would and must incur bv anv other
system they niipht adept. For this
niav be taken for pran ted — thevmnst
Foon btvomo all American, or all Enp-
lish. Thev must eui'>v Euirlish credit
and English permanency, or they must
have some othtr. A great country,
with an in^iu-trious. entei*prising
peoj^le. eannt.it loup remain wiihout
cn'clit, without ]»r*wperiiy, and with-
i»ut either theuM* i»r the hope of capi-
tal. The Canadas are now in this
situation.
If, then, the colonies should become
independent, and it were possible for
them to continue so, they woidd hare
to pay for their own protection. And
if they became a republic, they would
have to take their stand with the
other iHnvci*s of the world, and bear
the expense of tloiup so. If, on the
other hand, they were taken into the
American Union, they would have to
contribute, in atldition to the cost of
their own local or state governments,
to the su]>port of the general govern-
ment of the whole Union ; they would
liave, too, to contribute to the form-
ing a navy for the States, such as Eng-
land has now pot : and they would be
obliged to ton tribute, too, flu* the con-
struction of military defences for
America, which Eiipland is pretty
well supi»lied with. They woidd have,
in short, to expend uprm America a
great deal of wliat Enpland, in three
or four centuries, has been expending
upon herself as a nation.
It may also be fairly presumed,
that, with interests every day becom-
ing more indei>end('ut of England ;
with a system of government which
leaves England nothinp in America
but a name — or, as Lord Elgin says,
a *• dignified neutrality," and which
really means a dignitied nothingness —
with a system of government such as
this, every sensible man must foresee
that England will soon get tnrd of
])ayinp largely for the snpport of her
dignified nothingness in Amcrici;
that she will — as indeed she has il-
i*cady done — inquire what right or
occasion she has for protecting colo-
nies from their enemies from without:
or, what is much more serious to bcr,
from themselves within, when shehu
ceased to have a single intcre£4 ia
commerce with them ; and when she
must see — if the present system be
kept up much longer — that eveir day
must separate her still more widely
from them in feeling, and in all the es-
sential principles that bind a people to
each other, or a colony to a mother
cotmtn- V
In view, therefore, of all these con-
siderations, taken separately or to-
gether, it is but reasonable to suppose
that the colonies may soon be called
upon to pay for their own protection
from their enemies from withont, w
for their own sffnabbles within, if
they must induipe in such expensive
amusements. And the question then
arises — Would their being practi-
cally identified with the British em-
pire, participating in all its greatness,
and enjoying the prestige of its sta-
bility ajid its credit, entail upon them
greater cost or responsibility, than
they would have to incnr to maintam
a puny, helpless independence, or in
becoming states of the American
Union?
It is out of onr power to make the
calcidation, as it is impossible for ns
to know upon what terms En;dand
would agree to the colonics partici-
pating in her government as we pro-
pose. It is likewise impossible fer ni
to tell how much might be saved br
removing the tea-pots, so pregnant
with tempests, in the shape of colonial
legislatures; in removing govcmon
to preserve ^^diftnificd neutralitf'^
and conrts to keep op the shadow of
England's government in America*
the substance having gro^^ni '^ beinti-
fully less " of late years. But after
much thought and investigation, bf
both ourselves and others better
accustomed to such matters than we
are, we have come to the concloskNi—
that imperial representation might
cost the colonies nothing more, if ai
much, as any other change tbev wonM
have to make ; that Englancf would
Tke Eaghth MaO-Coach, or the Glory of Motion.
485
iBmeii8el7 by the change ; and
« wooeeds of the vast tracts of
f Mjing north and north-west
Onadas, their fisheries, their
1 resources, and their other
. aid unappropriated wealth in
and other things, might be
tod into a sinking fond by the
fo^emments of England and
milea, that, in its effects, might
h both England and the world.
I but throw out the suggestion ;
* others to consider it.
If tlie connexion of the colonics
hfwi Britain is to be made a
latter of time and convenience,
boi it thall end, or how, then
' little nse in hoping much, or
g deeply, npon what may be
irtwith such vast consequences
pmi'B race in America, and
Borica^s own race in it. A time.
Id seem, wliich has taught
I to know what their institn-
n worth, must cost them in
a these institutions. A time,
lit exhibited, during the prin-
cipal settlement of the Canadas, the
fall alike of the fabric of the political
enthusiast and the fortress of the
despot in Europe, must cost, it seems,
the colonies that government which
bore freedom aloft through the wild
storm. England has stood upon a
rock, and, iUler pointing out to her
colonies the wreck of human institu-
tions, she is about to push them off
to share the fate she has taught them
so much to dread. If En^Land has
the heart to do it, it must be done.
Three millions of people will cease to
say *'God save the Queen!" The
sun will set upon her empire. Full
many an honest tear will be shed at
hearing that it must. Full many a
heart will be torn from what it would
but too gladly die for. But the days
of chivalry are gone ; the days of
memory are fled. The selfish, mer-
cenary nineteenth century will be
marked with the loss of the best jewel
in Britain's crown.
Hamilton, Canada AVist,
Attffust lUiK
THE EHGLUH MAIL-COACH, OR THE GLORY OF MOTION.
E twenty or more vears before
ndated at Oxford,'^MrPahncr,
r Bath, had accomplished two
fwy bard to do on our little
Aa Earth, however cheap they
Pn to be held by the ecccn-
in comets : he had invented
idws, and he had married the
r* of a duke. He was, therc-
i twice as great a man as Ga-
10 certainly invented (or dis-
the satellites of Jupiter, those
Itiiingsextantto mail-coaches
vo capital points of speed and
tfane, but who did not marry
(fater of a duke,
mail-coaches, as organised
'aimer, are entitled to a cir-
tial notice from myself— hav-
la burge a share in developing
diiea^my subsequent dreams,
Cj which they accomplished.
first, through velocity, at that time
unprecedented ; they first revealed the
glory of motion: suggesting, at the
same time, an under-sense, not un-
pleasurable, of possible though indefi-
nite danger ; secondly, through grand
effects for the eye between lamp-light
and the darkness upon solitary roads ;
thirdly, through animal beauty and
power so often displayed in the class
of horses selected for this mail ser-
vice ; fourthly, through the conscious
presence of a central intellect, that, in
the midst of vast distances,t of storms,
of darkness, of night, overruled all
obstacles into one steady co-operation
in a national result. To my own feel-
ing, this Post-office service recalled
some mighty orchestra, where a thou-
sand instiiiments, all disregarding each
other, and so far in danger of discord,
yet all obedient as slaves to the
' Madeline GkMrdon.
t$ dittanett,** — One ca90 wa/i familiar to mail-coach trayellers, where two
MMttta dinetionsy north and south, starting at the same mmute fVom points
Sk Bkiles apart, met almost constantly at a particular bridge which exactly
Ika total distance.
= Tj
•CIV.K-
T7te English Mail-Coach^ or the Glory of Motion, [Oct.
■V'jh of 501110 great leader, accordingly, it was possible tbat a
t r;ain:i!o in a perl ec lion of harnmny
like i\v\\ of heart, vein>. and arteries,
in a h-ali".iy a\iinuil orjani<aiion. Hnt,
f.v..ii'.y. that partii.ular ekment in this
w'-i/ic co;ubinati''U "vvhiL-h ni«»?t im-
|:v>scd my<il:*. av.-l ihrou;:h which it
1? I'la: :o ihi- hM;.r Mr Palmer's mail-
c.'Uh -v^iem tyrannise? bv ierr«>r and
■ ■ ■
lerririo iM-aiity i»ver my dreams, lay iu
t::o aw:V.! iviliiioal nu<jion which at
t ; . .1 1 1 i ::i v. t fill :i i 1 I . T ii e mail- c oaelies
i: ^\a- that di>rri!»uied owr the face
oi" :".i- land, like the openin;: of apoca-
ly::;.- vi;iN. tin* heart-?hakin:: news
« :' Tiaiai^ir. *•!" >a!amar.?a. of Vitto-
ria, ".'f W.uvvl*'. These were the har-
vests tha?, \\\ the criMndeur of their
rcapl'i^. :iviivmo-l tlio ti-ars and blood
iu whi-'.i :*..ey ha- 1 been sown. Xeither
w.\- rho nivaiii'St peasant so much bc-
l.'W ;::■' jiv.'.il iir and the sorrow of the
;■.'.!.- a<i to C'lifound these battles,
^^■■I-. 1: w^re ::radnallv nitnildinu' the
ilestiiiif* •'f 1 \irl-:.nd«v.n. wich thi- vid-
.i.ar Lonilicis i.'l\«rdinary warfan*. which
are ofioniiau'S bur L:ladiatorial trials
i.f ri.iiioiial i«i-.'Wv\<s. Tiie victories uf
i2n_rl.ind in this stiipcnd«uis contest
rose of il;enis<-lves as natural Tt Ihitms
to j.raven : and it was felt by the
th-.«ULrhtiVil that snch victorie-s, at such
a crisis of iiencral prostration, were
not in- 're l»enetioial ii» ourselves than
tin ally to France, and to the nations
I'f western and eentral Europe, thronsh
whose ]»u>illanimity it was that the
Fr. -ich dominaiit^n had prospenvl.
The mail-coach, as the national
orizan for publishinjr these iniLrhty
»-vent<. became ii>elf a spiritualised
and '-.'loriiied object to an impassioneil
heart : and naturally, in the ()xford
of that day. all hearts were awakened.
Til ere were, perhaps, of ns pownsmcD,
twi'j thou>and nsithnt^ iu Oxford,
and dispersed ilironghlive-and-twenty
colle;.'es. In some of these the custom
liermiited the student to keep what
are called -short terms:" that is, the
fiMir terms of Michaelmas, Lent,
Easter, and Act. were kept severally
by a re-idence, in the agjire^rate, of
ninety-one days, or thirteen weeks.
Cnder this interrupted residence,
student might have a reason for going
down to his borne fonr timers in the
year. This made eight journeys to
and fro. And as these homes lij
dispersed through all the shires of the
island, and most of lis disdained all
coaches except his majesty's mall, do
city out of London could pretend to
so extensive a connexion with Mr
Palmer's establishment as Oxford.
Naturally, therefore, it became a
point of some interest with us, whose
journeys revolved every six weeks on
an average, to look a little into the
executive details of the svstem. With
some of these ^Ir Palmer had uo ojd-
cern : they rested upon bye-laws not
unreasonable, enacted by posting-
houses for their own benefit, and upon
others equally stern, enacted by the
inside passengers for the illastration
i»f their own cxclusivencss. These last
were of a nature to ronse our scorn,
from which the transition was not
venj lomj to mutiny. Up to this tune,
it iiad been the fixed assumption of
the four inside people, (as an old tra-
dition of all public carriages from the
reign of Charles II.,) that they, the
illustrious quaternion, constituted i
porcelain variety of the human raw,
whose dignity would have been com-
promised by exchanging one word of
civility with the three miserable delf
ware out sides. Even to have kicked
an outsider might have been he'd to
attaint the fo4:>t concerned inthato]^era-
tiou ; so that, perhaps, it would have
required an act of parliament to restore
it^ purity of blood. What word.*,
then, could express the horror, and
the sense of treason, in tbat casft
which had happened, where all three
ontsides, the trinity of Parialis, mide
a vain attempt to sit down at the
same bi'eak fast -table or dinner-taWe
with the consecrated four? I myself
witnessed such an attempt ; and on
that occasion a benevolent old gentle-
man endeavoured to soothe his threa
holy associates, by suggesting that«if
the outsides were indicted for thi*
criminal attempt at the next assize*,
the court would i*egard it as a case n
* ** /t'vJV. ;/^" — The nniiiber on the books was far greater, many of whom kcjt^?
r.n iiit<Tniittin.'^ foiiiTiuinipntion with Oxford. Bnt 1 speak of those only whow*"
M'-rnlily pur-uing their aoaiJemic studies, and of those who resided coMtanily»*
1849.]
The English Mail-Coachy or the Glory of Motion.
lunacy (or delirium tremens) rather
than of treason. England owes mnch
of her grandeur to the depth of the
aristocratic element in her social com-
position. I am not the man to laagh
at it. But sometimes it expressed
itself in extravagant shapes. The
conrse taken with the infatuated out-
siders, in the particular attempt which
I have noticed, was, that the waiter,
beckoning them away from the privi-
leged salie-h-manger^ sang out, ^^ This
way, my good men;" and then enticed
them away off to the kitchen. But
that plan had not always answered.
Sometimes, though very rarely, cases
occurred where the intruders, being
stronger than usual, or more vicious
than usual, resolutely refused to move,
and so far carried their point, as to
have a separate table arranged for
themselves in a comer of the room.
Yet, if an Indian screen could be found
ample enough to plant them out from
the very eyes of the high table, or
dcds^ it then became possible to as-
sume as a fiction of law—that the
three delf fellows, after all, were not
present. They could be ignored by the
porcelain men, under the maxim, that
objects not appearing, and not exist-
ing, are governed by the same logical
constmction.
Such now being, at that time, the
usages of mail-coaches, what was to
be done by us of young Oxford? We,
the most aristocratic of people, who
were addicted to the practice of look-
ing down superciliously even upon the
insides themselves as often very sus-
picions characters, were we voluntarily
to court indignities ? If our dress and
bearing sheltered us, generally, from
the suspicion of beinff ^^rafr," (the
name at that period for ^' snobs,***)
we really tpere such constructively, by
the place we assumed. If we did not
submit to the deep shadow of eclipse,
we entered at least the skirts of its
penumbra. And the analogy of theatres
was urged against us, iniere no man
can GOihplain of the annoyances inci-
dent to the pit or gallery, having his
instant remedy in paying the higher
price of the boxes. But the sound-
ness of this analogy we disputed. In
487
the case of the theatre, it cannot be
pretended that the inferior situations
have any separate attractions, unless
the pit suits the purpose of the drama-
tic reporter. But the reporter or
critic is a rarity. For most people,
the sole benefit is in the price. Where-
as, on the contrary, the outside of the
mail had its own incommunicable ad-
vanta^. These we could not forego.
The higher price we should willingly
have paid, but thatyrtia connected with
the condition of riding inside, whicb
was insufferable. The air, the free-
dom of prospect, the proximity to the
horses, the elevation of scat — these
were what we desired ; but, above all,
the certain anticipation of purchasing
occasional opportunities of driving.
Under coercion of this great prac-
tical difficulty, we instituted a search-
ing inquiry into the true quality and
valuation of the different apartments
about the mail. We conducted this
inquiry on metaphysical principles;
and it was ascertained satisfactorily,
that the roof of the coach, which some'
had affected to call the attics, and
some the gan*ets, was really the draw-
ing-room, and the box was the chief
ottoman or sofa in that drawing-
room; whilst it appeared that the
inside, which had been traditionally
regarded as the only room tenantable
by gentlemen, was, in fact, the coal-
cellar in disguise. '
Great wits jump. The very same
idea had not long before struck the
celestial intellect of China. Amongst
the presents carried out by our first
embassy to that country was a state-
coach. It had been specially selected
as a personal gift by George in. ; but
the exact mode of using it was a
mystery to Pekin. The ambassador,
indeed, (Lord Macartney,) had made
some dim and imperfect explanations
upon the point ; but as his excellency
communicated these in a diplomatic
whisper, at the very moment of his
departure, the celestial mind was very
feebly illuminated; and it became
necessary to call a cabinet council on
the gi'and state question — " Where
was the emperor to sit ? " The ham-
mer-doth happened to be unusually
• t€
SaohSf" and its antithesis, ^^nobs/' arose amoug the internal factiona of shoe-
makera perhaps ten years later. Possibly enough, the terms may have existed much
earlier; but they were then first made known, picturesquely and effectively, by a
trial at some assizes which happened to fix the public attention.
VOL. Lxvi. — vo. ccccvm. 2 K
i-^-* The. Enijli^ii M'iii-Cuacli,
jxor-'ooiis; aii'l ]>artly on that con-
.^ivKTaiioii. but i)artly aU«.» hc-cause the
box ulVeivil the m-t^t t-lL-vatcd ^oat,
and uiidenialily went fi.nvuK»:Jt, it was
n.'.Si.'lvc«l by acclamation that the box
was the inipt'rial itlace, and. for the
.^fuuttt/rcl u'hti tirort^y he uwjht nit
irht/n: he rati hi ^fintl a ptrch. The
lioi>i-.s, tht-rt-rore, bcini^: harne.>5ed,
uiuU-r a Honrish ut' nin.sic and a salute
01 guns, suleujuly his iiupcTial majesty
asccudrd his- new Kn<;lish throne,
havinj: the first lurd oi' the treasury
oik his ri^^iit hand, and tlie chief jester
on liis left, rekin gloried iu the spec-
lacle ; and in the whole tlowrry
]j«uple, cunstnictivoly present by re-
present atiun, there was but one dis-
('•nti'iitcd ]>iM'son, which was the
( oachman. This mutinous individual,
h'ukiug as blackhearted as he really
was, aiidaciuuslv shouted — ** Where
am / to sit".'*- But the privy council,
incensed by his disloyally, iinani-
nuMisly opened the door, and kicked
liiin into the inside. lie had all the
InMiK* ])Iaces to himself; but such is the
rapacity of ambition, that he was still
(lis^ati^fled. '* 1 sav,"' he cried out iu
an extempore petition, addressed to
the em])eror through a window, " how
am I to catch hold of the reins'?" —
*' Any how," was the answer; *• don't
trouble m*: man, in my glory : through
the wiudmvs, tlirongh the key-holes
— how you ]ilease.'' Finally, this
contumacious coachman ien^ahened
the checkst rings into a sort of jury-
icins, communicating with the horses ;
with these liir drove as steadily as
may liO supposed. The emperor re-
luriK'd afnr the briefest of circuits:
iic descended in great ])omp from his
throne, ^\ith the severest resc>lution
]iever to remount it. A public thanks-
L'iving was ordered for his majesty's
prosperous escajjc from the disease of
'A broken neck ; and the state- coach
^va.s dedicated for ever as a votive
(iiTeriiiLr to the ( Jod Ko, To — whom the
I«;arned moi*c accurately call Fi, Fi.
A r(^v(»lution of tliis same Cliineso
character did young Oxford of that
era ellect in the constitution of mail-
coach society. It wjw a perfect
French n^volufion; and we had good
reason to say, Ca irn. In fact, it
.soon becamt; too pojjiilar. The *' pub-
lic," a well-known character, par-
ticularly disagreeable, though slightly
or the Glory of Motion.
[Oct.
respectable, and notorious for affect-
ing the chief seats in synagogncs, had
at tirst loudly opposed this revola-
tion : but when all opposition showed
itself to be ineflectual, our disagreeable
friend went into it with headlong zeal.
At tirst it was a sort of race between
us ; and. as the public is usually above
.iO, (say generally from 30 to 50 yeari
old, ) naturally we of young Oxfonl,
that averaged about 20, had the ad-
vantage. Then the public took to
bribing, giving fees to horse- kccpersi
Oi^c, who hired out their persons ag
warming-pans on the box-seat. Tlnt^
you know, was shocking to our moral
sensibilities. Come to bribery, we
obser\'ed, and there is an end to all
morality, Aristotle's, Cicero*s, or any-
body'•:. And, besides, of what use
was it? For ire bribed also. And
as our bribes to those of the public
being demonstrated out of Euclid to
be as live shillings to sixpence, hen
again young Oxford bad the advan-
tage. But the contest was rninons to
the principles of the stable -establish-
ment about the mails. The whole
corporation was constantly bribed,
rebribed, and often sur-rebribed: ao
that a horse-keeper, ostler, or helper,
was held by the philosopliical at thai
time to be the most corrupt character
in the nation.
There was an impression upon the
])ublic mind, natural enough ffomthe
continually augmenting velocity of
the mail, but quite crroncooB, that an
outside seat on this class of carriages
was a post of dtinger. On the con-
t rary, I maintained that, if a man h»l
become nervous from some gip^' pr^
diction in his childhood, allocatUigto
a particular moon now approaching
some unkuo^vn danger, and ho sboold
inquire earnestly, — ^'Whither can I
go for shelter? Is a prison the safest
retreat ? Or a lunatic hospital ? Or
the British Museum?'^ I should have
replied—" Oh, no ; Til tell you whit
to do. Take lodgings for the next
forty days on the box of his majesty's
mail. Kobody can touch you there.
If it is by bills at ninety days at^
date that you are made unhappy-^
uoters and protesters are the sort ^
wretches whose astrological shadovs
darken the house of life — then note
you what I vehemently protest, vix.t
that no matter though tao sheriff iA
1849.]
The EnglM MaH'Coachy or Ihe Gloty of Motion,
every county should be ruiming after
yoa with his paste, touch a hair of
yoor head he cannot whilst yon keep
honse, and have your legsd domicile,
on the box of the mail. It's felony
to stop the mail; even the sheriff
cannot do that. And an extra (no
great matter if it grazes the sheriff)
tooch of the whip to the leaders at
any time gnarantees your safety.^' In
fact, a bed-room in a quiet house
seems a safe enough retreat ; yet it is
liable to its own notorious nuisances,
to robbers by night, to rats, to fire.
Bat the mail laughs at these terrors.
To robbers, the answer is packed up
and ready for delivery in the barrel of
the goard's blunderbuss. Rats again I
there are none about mail-coaches,
any more than snakes in Yon Troll's
Icefamd; except, indeed, now and
then a parliamentary rat, who always
hides his shame in the " coal-cellar."
And, as to fire, I never knew but one
in a mail-coach, which was in the
Exeter mail, and caused by an obsti-
nate sailor bound to Devonport.
Jack, making light of the law and
the lawgiver that had set theur
faces against his offence, insisted
on taking up a forbidden seat in the
rear of the roof, firom which he
could exchange his own yarns with
those of the guard. No greater
offiaooe was then known to mail-
coaches ; it was treason, it was leesa
nu^estas, it was by tendency arson;
and the ashes of Jack's pipe, falling
amongst the straw of the hinder boot,
containing the mail-bags, raised a
flame which (aided by the wind of
our motion) threaten^ a revolution
in the republic of letters. But even
this left the sanctity of the box un-
vioiated. In dignified repose, the
coalman and myself sat on, resting
with benign composure upon our
knowledge— that the fire would have
to bum its way through four inside
passengers before it could reach our-
selves. With a quotation rather too
trite, I remarked to the coachman, —
Uealflgon.^*
.(« Jam prozimufl ardet
But, recollecting that the Ykgiliaa
part of his education might have been
neglected, I interpreted so far as to
say, that perhaps at that moment the
flames were catching hold of our
489
worttiy brother and next-door neigh-
bour Ucalegon. The coachman said
nothing, but by his faint sceptical
smile he seemed to be thinking that
he knew better ; for that in fact, Uca-
legon, as it happened, was not in the
way-bill.
No dignity is perfect which does
not at some point ally itself with the
indeterminate and mysterious. The
connexion of the mail with the state
and the executive government — a
connexion obvious, but yet not strictly
defined — gave to the whole mail estab**
lishment a grandeur and an official
authority which did us service on the
roads, and invested us with season-
able terrors. But perhaps these
terrors were not the less impressive,
because their exact legal limits were
imperfectly ascertained. Look at
those turnpike gates; with what de-
ferential hurry, with what an obedient
start, they fly open at our approach I
Look at that long line of carts and
carters ahead, audaciously usurping
the very crest of the road : ah ! trai-
tors, they do not hear us as yet, but
as soon as the dreadful blast of our
horn reaches them with the proclama-
tion of our approach, see with what
frenzy of trepidation they fly to their
horses* heads, and deprecate our
wrath by the precipitation of their
crane-neck quarterings. Treason they
feel to be their crime; each individual
carter feels himself under the ban of
confiscation and attainder : his blood
is attainted through six generations,
and nothing is wanting but the heads-
man and hh axe, the block and the
sawdust, to close up the vista of his
horrors. What! shall it be within
benefit of clergy, to delay the king's
message on the highroad ? — to inter-
rupt the great respirations, ebb or
flood, of the national intercourse—
to endanger the safety of tidings
running day and night between all
nations and languages? Or can it
be fancied, amongst the weakest of
men, that the bodies of the criminals
will be given, up to their widows for
Christian burial? Now, the doubts
which were raised as to our powers
did more to wrap them in terror, by
wrapping them m uncertainty, than
could have been effected by the
sharpest deflnitions of the law from
the Quarter Sessions. We, oa our
490 The Em/lish Mail-Coach^
part?, (we, tlie collective mail, I
me;in.) ilid onr utmost to exalt the
idea of our privilege? by the insolence
with which we wielded them. Whe-
ther this insolence rested upon law
that gave it a sanction, or upon con-
scious power, haughtily dispensing
with that sanction, etjually it spoke
from a potential station ; and the
agent in each particular insolence of
tlie moment, was viewed reverentially,
as one having authority.
Sometimes after breakfast his ma-
jesty's mail would l>ecome frisky ; and
m its ditKcult wheelings amongst the
intricacies of early markets, it would
upset an apple-cart, a cart loaded
with eggs, »?tc. Huge was the afflic-
tion and dismav, awful was the smash,
though, after all, I believe the damage
might be levied upon the hundred.
T. as far as Wiis iM>ssible, endeavoured
in such a o;ise to n»present the con-
science and moral sensibilities of the
mail ; and, when wildernesses of eggs
were lying ]>oached under our horses'
hoofs, then would I stretch forth my
hands in sorrow, saying (in words too
celebrated in those days from the
false* echoes of Marengo) — *' Ah !
wherefore have we not time to weep
over you?" which was quite impos-
sible, for in fact we had not even time
to laugh over them. Tied to post-
olTice time, with an allowance in some
cases of fifty minutes for eleven miles,
could the royal mail pretend to under-
take theofKces of s}'mpathy and condo-
lence? Could it be expected to provide
tears for the accidents of the road ? If
even it seemed to trample on humanity,
it did so, I contended, in discharge of
its own more peremptory duties.
Upholdingthc morality of the mail, a
fortiori I upheld its rights, I stretched
to the uttermost its privilege of imperial
precedency, and astonished weak minds
by the feudal powers which I hinted
to be lurking constructively in the
charters of this proud establishment.
Once I remember being on the box of
the Holyhead mail, between Shrews-
bury and Oswestry, when a tawdry
thing from Birmingham, some Tallyho
or the Glory of Motion,
[Oct.
or Highflier^ all flaunting with gTC4!n
and gold, came up alongside of as.
What a contrast to our royal simpli-
city of form and colour is this plebeian
wretch ! The single ornament on our
dark ground of chocolate colour was
the mighty shield of the imperial
arms, but emblazoned in proportions
as modest as a signet-ring bears to a
seal of otlicc. Even this was displayed
only on a single pannel, whispering,
rjther than proclaiming, our relations
to the state ; whilst the beast from
Hirmingham had as much writing
and painting on its sprawling flanks
as would have puzzled a decipherer
from the tombs of Luxor. For some
time this Birmingham machine ran
along by our side, — a piece of famili-
arity that seemed to ns sufficientlr
Jacobinical. But all at once a move*
ment of the horses announced a des-
perate intention of leaving us behind.
** Do you see thatV I said to tbe
coachman. ^^ I see," was his short
answer. He was awake, yet he waited
longer than seemed prudent ; for the
horses of our audacious opponent had
a disagreeable air of freshness and
power. But his motive was loyal;
his wish was that the Birmingham
conceit should be full-blown before he
froze it. When that seemed ripe, he
imlooscd, or, to speak by a stronger
image, he sprang his known resoorceSi
he slipped onr royal horses like
cheetas, or hunting leopards after the
affrighted game. How they oonld
retain such a reserve of fiery power
after the work they had accomplidied,
seemed hard to explain. But on cor
side, besides the physical superiority,
was a tower of strength, namely, the
king*s name, ^* which they upon the
adverse faction wanted. *' Pasang
them without an effort, as it seemed,
we threw them into the rear with 89
lengthening an intervid between u,
as proved in itself the bitterest mock-
ery of their presumption ; whilst onr
guard blew back a shattering blast of
triimrph, that was really too painfUly
full of derision.
I mention this little incident for its
* •* False echoes** — yes, false ! for the words ascribed to Napoleon, as breathtd U
the memory of Dcsaix, never were uttered at all. They stand in the same eatfgoiT
of theatrical inveiitious as the cry of the foundering Venffetir, as the vaunt of Genfi*!
Cambronne at Waterloo, " L-.i Garde nuHrt, mait ne w riwl pa*" as the repartees of
Talleyrand.
1849.]
The EngUih Meal-Coach, or the Glory of Motion.
connexion with what followed. A
Welshman, sitting behind me, asked
if I had not felt my heart bnm within
me during the continuance of the
race ? I said — No ; because we were
not racing with a mail, so that no
gloiy could be gained. In fact, it
was sufficiently mortifying that such
a Birmingham thing should dare to
challenge us. The Welshman re-
plied, that he didn't see that; for that
a cat might look at a king, and a
Brummagem coach might lawfully
race the Holyhead mail. ^* Race us
perhaps,** I replied, ** though even
thai has an air of sedition, but not
beat US. This would have been trea-
son ; and for its own sake I am glad
that the Tallyho was disappointed.**
So dissatisfied did the Welshman
seem with this opinion, that at last I
was obliged to tell him a very fine
story from one of our elder drama-
tists, viz. — ^that once, in some On-,
ental rc^on, when the prince of all
the land, with his splendid court,
were flying their falcons, a hawk
suddenly fiew at a majestic eagle ; and
in defiance of the eagle*s prodigious
advantages, in sight also of all the
astonished field-sportsmen, specta-
tors, and followers, killed him on the
spot. The prince was struck with
amazement at the unequal contest,
and with burning admiration for its
unparalleled result. He commanded
that the hawk should be brought
before him; caressed the bird with
enthusiasm, and ordered that, for the
commemoration of his matchless
courage, a crown of gold should be
solemnly placed on the hawk*s head ;
but then that, immediately after this
coronation, the bird should be led off
to execution, as the most valiant
indeed of tndtors, but not the less a
traitor that had dared to rise in rebel-
lion against his liege lord the eagle.
^'Now," s^d I to the Welshman,
*'^ bow painful it would have been to
yon and me as men of refined feelings,
that this poor brute, the Tallyho, in
the impossible case of a victory over
us, should have been crowned with
jewellery, gold, with Birmingham
ware, or paste diamonds, and then
led off to instant execution.** The
Welshman doubted if that could be
warranted by law. And when I hinted
at the 10th of Edward in. chap. 15,
491
for regulating the precedency of
coaches, as being probably the statute
relied on for the capital punishment
of snch offenc^jhe replied drily— That
if the attempt to pass a mail was
really treasonable, it was a pity that
the Tallyho appeared to have so im-
perfect an acquaintance with law.
These were among the gaieties of my
earliest and boyish acquaintance with
mails. But alike the gayest and the
most terrific of my experiences rose
again after years of slumber, armed
with preternatural power to shake my
dreaming sensibilities ; sometimes, as
in the slight case of Miss Fanny on
the Bath road, (which I will imme-
diately mention,) through some casual
or capricious association with images
originally gay, yet opening at some
stage of evolution into sadden capa-
cities of horror ; sometimes through
the more natural and fixed alliances
with the sense of power so various
lodged in the mail system.
The modem modes of travelling
cannot compare with the mail-coach
system in grandeur and power. They
boast of more velocity, but not however
as a consciousness, but as a fact of
our lifeless knowledge, resting upon
alien evidence; as, for instance, be-
cause somebody says that we have
gone fifty miles in the hour, or upon
the evidence of a result, as that actu-
ally we find ourselves in York four
hours after leaving London. Apart
from such an assertion, or such a result,
I am little aware of the pace. But,
seated on the old mail-coach, we need-
ed no evidence out of ourselves to
indicate the velocity. On this system
the word was — Non magna loqmmur^
as upon railways, bat magna vivimus*
The vital experience of the glad ani-
mal sensibilities made doubts impos-
sible on the question of our speed;
we heard our speed, we saw it, we felt
it as a thrilling; and this speed was
not the product of blind insensate
agencies, that had no sympathy to
give, but was incarnated in the fiery
eyeballs of an animal, in his dilated
nostril, spasmodic muscles, and echo-
ing hoofs. This speed was incarnated
in the visible contagion amongst brates
of some impulse, that, radiating into
their natures, had yet its centre and
beginning in man. The sensibility of
the horse utteriog i^elf in the maniac
The EntjUsh Mail- Coach, or the Ghry of Motion.
402
I'lL'lit of his eye, mijrlii bo the last
vibration in such a movoraont ; the
glory of Salamanca mijrlit bo the first
— but the intorvoniu^' link that con-
nected them, that spread the earth-
quake of the battle into the eyeball of
tlie horse, was the heart of man —
kinilling in the rapture of the fiery
strife, and then propajratinjr its own
tumults by motions and ^'ostniH?^ to
the sympathies, more or less dim, in
Li-? servant the horse.
But now, on the now system of
travelling, iron tubes and boilers have
disconnected man's heart from the
ministers of his h.>ci>motion. Nile nor
Trafal;rar has ]K»wor any more to raise
an extra bnbble in a steam-kettle.
The pal van io cycle is broken up for
ever ; man's imperial nature no lon^r
sends itself ft.»rward through the elec-
tric sensibility of the horse : the inter-
a^'encifs are jinne in the mode of com-
munication between the horse and his
master, out of which jrrew so many
aspects of sublimity under accidents
of mists that hid. or sudden blazes
that revealed, of mobs that agitated,
or midnight solitudes that awed. Tid-
ings, fitted to convulse all nations,
must henccfor wards travel by cidinary
pi"ocos.*J: and the trumpet that once
announced from afar the lann?Iledmail,
heart -shaking, when heard screaming
on the wind, and advancing through
the darkness to every village or soli-
tar}- house on its route, has now given
way for ever to the pot -wallopings of
the boiler.
Thus have perished multiform open-
ings for sublime ellccts, for interesting
pereonal communications, for revela-
tions of im]>ressive laces that could
not have ofiered themselves amongst
the hurried and flnctuating groups of
a railway station. The gatherings of
gazers about a mail-coach had one
centre, and acknowledged only one
interest. But the crowds attending
at a railway station have as little
nnity as running water, and own as
many centres as there are separate
carriages in the train.
rocf.
How else, for example, than as a
con.stant watcher for the dawn, and
fur the London mail that in summer
months entered about dawn into the
lawny thickets of Marlboron;;h Forest,
coiddst thou, sweet Fanny of the Rsth
road, have become known to myself?
Yet Fanny, as the loveliest yonn^
woman for face and person that per-
haps in my whole life I have beheld,
merited the station which even herl
could not willingly have spared ; yet
(thirty- five years later) she holds in
my dreams ; and thongh, by an am-
dent of fanciful caprice, she brongiit
along with her Into those dreams i
troop of dreadful creatores, faboto
and not fabulous, that were more
abominable to a hnman heart thin
Fanny and the dawn were delightfiil.
Miss Fanny of the Bath road, stricttT
speaking, lived at a milc's distaaee
from that road, bnt came so ooi-
tinually to meet the mail, that I on
my frequent transits rarely missed
her, and natnrally connected her naae
with the great thoronghfare when I
saw her : I do not exaoly know, bat
I believe with some burthen of cos-
missions to be executed in Bath, bcr
own residence being probably the
centre to which these commisaioii
gathered. The mail coachman, vW
wore the royal livery, being ooe
amongst the privileged few, *■ hap-
pened to be Fanny's grandfather, k
good man he was, that loved Us
beautiful granddaughter ; and, loviDg
her wisely, was vigilant over hff
deportment in any case where ygaii;
Oxford might happen to be conceiaed.
Was I then vain enough to imapM
that I myself individually coold &I
within the line of his terrors ? Cff-
tainly not, as regarded any pbrsieil
pretensions that I could plMd: fr
Fanny (as a chance passenger fron
her own neighbourhood once told ae)
counted in her train a hundred aid
ninety-nine professed admiren, if boI
open aspirants to her favour : od
probably not one of the whole hrifidP
bnt cxcoUod myself in personal adtw-
* " PriYile;,'ed few.** The general impression was that this splendid cofttane br
longed of ri^ht to the mail coachmen as their professional dresfl. But that wa« tf
error. To the guard it ♦/»7 bt'|i>ntj ass a matter of course, and waa esMntialt^ *■
ofTicial warrant, and a nicaii^ of instant identification for his person, in the diyhuj^
of hir? important pnMic «liitiof. IJiit the coachman, and especially if his pla« in*^
perics ilid not cunnect him immciiiately with l^ndon and the General Post Ofi<«»
obtained the pcarlet coat only as an honoran* dii«tinction after long or special serrw-
1649.]
The English Mail'Coach, or the Glory of Motion.
ta^es. UljBBes even, with the unfair
advantage of his accursed bow, coQld
hardly have undertaken that amount
of snitOFB. So the danger might have
seemed slight— only that woman is
xmiversally aristocratic : it is amongst
her nobilities of heart that she is so.
Now, the aristocratic distinctions in
my &voar might easily with Miss
Fanny have compensated my physi-
cal deficiencies. Did I then make
love to Fanny ? Why, yes ; mais out
done ; as much love as one can make
whilat the mail is changing horses, a
pfoceas which ten years later did not
oociq^ above eighty seconds; but
then^ viz. abont Waterloo, it occupied
five times eighty. Kow, four hun-
dred seconds offer a field quite ample
HBongh for whispering into a young
woman's ear a great deal of truth ;
and (by way of parenthesis) some
trifle of falsehood. Grandpapa did
right, therefore, to watch me. And
yet, as happens too often to the grand-
papas of earth, in a contest with the
admirere of granddaughters, how
Tainly would he have watched me
had I meditated any evil whispers to
Fanny ! She, it is my belief, would
have protected herself against any
man^ evil suggestions. But he, as
the result showed, could not have
intercepted the opportunities for such
soggestions. Yet he was still active ;
be was still blooming. Blooming he
as Fanny herself.
** Saj, an our pnuses why should lordB — ^^
No, that's not the line :
** Say, all our roses why should girls eogross?^^
The coachman showed rosy blossoms
•en his face deeper even than his
gianddaaghter's, — his being drawn
from the ale -cask, Fanny's irom
yonih and innocence, and from the
foimtains of the dawn. But, in spite
of his blooming face, some infirmities
be had ; and one particularly, (I am
▼eiy sore, no more than one,) in
whkh he too muoh resembled a croco-
^e. This lay in a monstrous inapti-
tude for turning round. The crocodile,
I presume, owes that inaptitude to
the absurd length of his back ; but in
our grandpapa it arose rather from
the absurd breadth of his back, com-
l>ined, probably, with some growii^
stiffness in his legs. Now upon this
493
crocodile infirmity of his I planted an
easy opportunity for tj^ndering my
homage to Miss Fanny. In defiance
of all his honourable vigilance, no
sooner had he presented to us his
mighty Jovian back, (what a field for
displaying to mankind his royal scar-
let I) whilst inspecting professionally
the buckles, the straps, and the silver
turrets of his harness, than I raised
Miss Fanny's hand to my lips, and,
by the mixed tenderness and respect-
fulness of my manner, caused her
easily to understand how happy it
would have made me to rank upon her
list as No. 10 or 12, in which case a
few casualties amongst her lovers (and
observe — they hanged liberally in
those days) might have promoted me
speedily to the top of the tree; as,
on the other hand, with how much
loyalty of submission I acquiesced in
her allotment, supposing that she had
seen reason to plant me in the very
rearward of her favour, as No. 199+1.
It must not be supposed that I al-
lowed any trace of jest, or even of
playfulness, to mingle with these ex-
pressions of my admiration ; that
would have been insulting to her,
and would have been false as regarded
my own feetings. In fact, the utter
shadowyness of our relations to each
other, even after our meetings through
seven or eight years had been very
numerous, but of necessity had been
very brief, being entirely on mail-
coach allowance — ^timed, in reality, hj
the General Post-Office— and watched
by a crocodile belonging to the ante-
penultimate generation, left it ea^
for me to do a thing which few people
ever con have done — viz., to make
love for seven years, at the same
time to be as nncere as ever creature
was, and yet never to compromise
myself by overtures that might have
been foolish as regarded my own
interests, or misleacBng as regarded
hen. Most truly I loved this beauti-
ful and ingenuous girl; and had it
not been ht the Bath and Bristol
mail, heaven only knows what might
have come of it. People talk of being
over head and ears in love — now, the
mail was the cause that I sank only
over ears in love, which, you know,
still left a trifle of brain to overlook
the whole conduct of the affair. I
have mentioned the case at all for the
The English Mail-Coach^ or the Glory of Motion,
494
sake of a dreadful result from it in
after years of dreamlDg:. But it seems,
rx ahundanti^ to yield this moral — \\z,
that as. in England, the idiot and the
half-wit are held to be under the guar-
dianship of Chancery, so the man mak-
ing love, who is often but a variety of the
same imbecile class, ought to 1)0' made
a ward of the General Post -Office,
whose severe course of timing and
perio<lical intemiption might inter-
cept many a foolish declaration, such
as lays a solid foundation for fifty
years' roi>entance.
Ah, reader! when I look back upon
those days, it seems to me that all
things change or perish. Even thun-
der and lightning, it pains me to say,
are not the thunder and lightning
which I seem to remember about the
time of Waterloo. Roses, I fear, are
degenerating, and, without a Red re-
volution, must come to the dust. The
FannifS of our island — though this I
say with reluctance — are not improv-
ing ; and the Bath road is notoriously
superannuated. Air Waterton telfs
mc that the crocodile does not change
— that a CAvman, in fact, or an alli-
gator, is just as good for riding upon
as he was in the time of the Pharaohs.
That may be ; but the reason is, that
the crocodile does not live fast — he is
a slow coach. I believe it is generally
understood amongst naturalists, that
the crocodile is a blockhead. It is my
own impression that the Pharaohs were
also blockheads. Now, as the Pha-
raohs and the crocodile domineered over
Egyptian society, this accounts for a
singular mistake that prevailed on the
Nile. The crocodile made the ridicu-
lous blunder of supposing man to be
meant chiefly for his own eating.
Man, taking a ditferent view of the
subject, naturally met that mistake by
another ; he viewed the crocodile as a
thiugsometiraes to worship, but always
to run away from. And this continued
until Mr Waterton changed the rela-
tions between the animals. The mode
of escaiung from the reptile he showed
to be, not by nmning away, but by
leaping on its back, booted and spurred.
[Oct.
Tlie two animals bad misunderstood
each other. The use of the crocodile
has now been cleared up — it is to be
ridden ; and the use of man is, that he
may improve the health of the croeo-
dile by riding him a fox-bnntingbefon
breakfast. And it is pretty certain tfait
any crocodile, who has been regnlailj
hunted through the season, and is
master of the weight he carries, win
take a six-barred gate now as wcUu
over he would have done in the infaocj
of the Pyramids.
Perhaps, therefore, the crocodile
does no/ change, but all things else do;
even the shadow of the Pyramids grows
less. And often the restoration m vlakn
of Fanny and the Bath road, mikea
me too pathetically sensible of that
tnith. Out of the darkness Jf I happei
to call up the image of Fanny from
thirty-five years back, arises suddeolj
a rose in June ; or, if I think for n
instant of the rose in June, up rises
t he heavenly face of Fanny. One after
the other, like the antiphonics in a
choral service, rises Fanny and the rose
in June, then back again the rose ii
June and Fanny. Then come botk
together, as in a chorus ; roses vA
Fannies, Fannies and roses, withont
end — thick as blossoms in paradise.
Then comes a venerable crocodile, in t
royal livery of scarlet and gold, orii
a coat with sixteen ca)>es ; and the
crocodile is driving fonr-in-bini
from the box of the Bath miiL
And suddenly we upon the mul
are pulled up by a mighty dial, sculp-
tured with the hours, and with tie
dreadful legend of too late. Then
all at once we arc arrived in Mari-
borough forest, amongst the lov^
households* of the roe-deer : these re-
tire into the dewy thickets ; the thickets
are rich with roses ; the roses call Bp
(2A ever) the sweet conntenanoe i
Fanny, who, being the granddaughter
of a crocodile, awakens a dreadfid
host of wild semi- legendary animals-
griffins, dragons, basilisks, sphinxei
— till at length the whole vision of
fighting images crowds into one tower^
ing aimorial shield, avast cmblazoaiy
* " HoH$ehold»'' — Roo-dcer do not congregate in henls like the fallow or the ltd
deer, but by separate families, parentH, and children ; which feature of approxima-
tion to the Kanctity of human hearths, added to their comparatively miniature and
graccriil proportions, conciliate to them an interest of a peculiarly tender chancier,
if less dignified by the grandeui's of 6a>'age and forest life.
^
1849.]
The English Mail'Coach, or the Glory of Motion,
of human cbalities and human loveli*
ness that haye perished, but quartered
faeraldically with nnntterable horrors
of monstrons and demoniac natures ;
whilst oyer all rises, as a surmounting
crest, one fair female hand, with the
fore-finger pointing, in sweet, sorrow-
fill admonition, upwards to heaven,
and haying power (which, without ex-
perience, I neyer could have believed)
to awaken the pathos that kills in the
veiy bosom of the horrors that madden
the grief that gnaws at the heart, to-
gether with the monstrous creations
of daitaess that shock the belief, and
make dizzy the reason of man. This
is the peculiarity that I wish the reader
to notice, as having first been made
known to me for a possibility by this
eariy vision of Fanny on the Bath
road. The peculiarity consisted in the
confluence of two different keys, though
apparentiy repelling each other, into
the music and governing principles of
the same dream ; horror, such as pos-
sesses the maniac, and yet, by momen-
taiy transitions, grief, such as may be
supposed to possess the dying mother
when leaving her infant children to
to the mercies of the cruel. Usually,
and perhaps always, in an unshaken
nervous system, these two modes of
miseiy exclude each other — here first
they met in horrid reconciliation.
Hiere was also a separate peculiarity
in the qnalihr of the horror. This was
afterwards developed into far more re-
volting complexities of misery and
incomprehensible darkness ; and per-
haps I am wrong in ascribing any
value as a catutUive agency to this
particular case on the Bath road —
XKMsibly it furnished merely an occa^
wm that accidentally introduced a
mode of horrors certain, at any rate,
to have grown up, wither without the
Bath road, from more advanced stages
of the nervous derangement. Yet, as
the cubs of tigers or leopards, when
domesticated, have been observed to
495
suffer a sudden development of their
latent ferocity under too eager an ap-
peal to their playfulness — ^the gaieties
of sport in them being too closely con-
nected with the fiery brightness of
their murderous instincts — so I have
remarked that the caprices, the gay
arabesques, and the lovely floral Inxu-
riations of dreams, betray a shocking
tendency to pass into finer maniacal
splendours. That gaiety, for instance,
(for such at first it was,) in the dream-
ing faculty, by which one principal
point of resemblance to a crocodile in
the mail-coachman was soon made to
clothe him with the form of a crocodile,
and yet was blended with accessory
circumstances derived from his human
functions, passed rapidly into a fur-
ther development, no longer gay or
playful, but terrific, the most terrific
that besieges dreams, viz. — ^the horrid
inoculation upon each other of incom-
patible natures. This horror .has al-
ways been secretly felt by man ; it
was felt even under pagan forms of
religion, which offered a very feeble,
and also a very limited gamut for
giving expression to the human capa-
cities of sublimity or of horror. We
read it in the fearful composition of
the sphinx. The dragon, again, is the
snake inoculated upon the scorpion.
The basilisk unites the mysterious
malice of the evil eye, unintentional
on the part of the unhappy agent,
with the intentional venom of some
other malignant natures. But these
horrid complexities of evil agency are
but objectivefy horrid ; they infiict the
horror suitable to their compound na-
ture ; but there is no insinuation that
they feel that horror. Heraldry is
so full of these fantastic creatures,
that, in some zoologies, we find a
separate chapter or a supplement de-
dicated to what is denominated heral-
dic zoology. And why not? For
these hideous creatures, however
visionary,* have a real traditionary
• €*
Haweter visionary,** — But are they always visionary 1 The unioom, the kraken,
the searserpont, are all, perhaps, zoological facts. The unicorn, for instance, bo far
from being a lie, is rather too true ; for, simply as a monokerat, he is found in the
Himalaya, in Africa, and elsewhere, rather too ofien for the peace of what in Scotland
would be called the intending traveller. That which really m a lie in the account of
the tmicom — ^vis., his legendary rivalship with the lion — ^which lie may Qod preserve,
in praeerring the mighty imperial shield that embalms it — cannot be more destruo-
tive to the zoological pretensions of the unicorn, than are to the same pretensions
in the Hon our many popular erases about his goodness and magnanimity, or the old
fimcy (adopted by Spenser, and noticed by so many among our elder poets) of his
40*;
The Enqlvih Mail-Ctfadtn or the Ghty ofMotiom.
[Oct.
pr.iiind in ine<lieval lielief — ^inoere and
jianlv rt?a.sijnaljle. ihou^'li a«liiiif rating
vitli'nitiulacity. blini»li.*nn::, cr«Hliility.
and inti-nsi: su]nrr?iitiuu. Diit the
di"'>nni-liorr».ir which I ?peak or i? far
more iVii^'hiiiil. Tin- dn-aoier rinds
li'iii-ed within liim-ji.'lf — occupying', as
it wen-, soim.' sejuirai-* chamber hi his
brain — hold in i:. ]'«.*rhai>.s, fr»»in that
station a aucn-t ami df test aide com-
merce with hi-inwn heart — somt.* horrid
alien nature. What it" it weri* his own
nature npoatid, — still. \\ the duality
wur*? disiimtly jiercepiible, tven that
— even this mere nunuTical double of
hi-s own consciou-sness — nii;;ht be a
curse too miu'hty to be sustained.
But how. if the alien nature contra-
dicts hid own, fijcrhts with it, perplexes,
and confoumU it? How, ajEfaio, if
not one alien nature, bat two, hot
threi-. but four, bat five, are intro-
duced within what once he thonjrht the
inviolable sanctuarv of hinifelf? These.
liMwevcr. are horrors from the king-
doms of anarchy and darkness, which,
liv their vorv intcnsitv, clialieuze the
sanctity of concealment, and gioomiJj
retire from exposition. Yet it wv
necessary to mention them, became
the tirst* introduction to snch appev-
ances (whether causal, or merelj
casual) lay in the heraldic moosten.
which monsters were themselves intro-
duced (thon^h pla^-fnlly) by the trus-
figured coachman of the Bath mail
GOING DOW?l WITH VICTOKT.
But the ^andest chapter of our ex-
])crience. within the whole mail-coach
service, was on those occasions when
wc went do nil from London with the
news of victory. A period of about
ten years stretched from Trafalgar to
Waterloo : the second and third years
of which period ( l^MiO and l>«J7)'were
comparatively sterile; but the rest,
from 18u5 to lHl.0 inclusively, fur-
nished a long succession of victories ;
the least of which, in a contest of that
portentous nature, had an inappre-
ciable value of ])Osition — partly for its
absolute interference with the plans
of our enemy, but still more from its
keeping alive in central Europe the
sense of a deep-seated yulnerability
in France. Even to tease the coasts
of oar enemv, to moitifV them bf
continual blockades, to insnlt toai
by captaring if it were bat a banbliK
schooner under the eyes of their ir-
rogaut armies, repeated from tune lo
time a snllen proclamation of pow
lodfred in a quarter to which the hopa
ofChristcndom tamed in secret. Hov
much more loudly mnst this procbr
mat ion have 8]M)kcn in the andadt^
of having bearded the einte of tbor
troops, and having beaten them ii
pitched battles I Five years of life it
was worth pajdng down for the privi-
lege of an odtside place on a mail-
coach, when carrying down the M
tidings of any such event. And it is
to be noted that, from om* insols
situation, and the mnltitade of ov
gracioufincsH to maiden iuiiuccucc. The wretch in the baseBt and mo^ oomidi^
luiioiig the forcHt tiihes ; uor lian the suVdiine courage of the EnglJKh bull-dog ew
bucii HO inciiiorably cxhiliitod a.s iu his lioi.H!lo8s fight At Warwick witL the cowMdlr
mid cniel lion ciiUcd Wiill:u'ti. Aiiothoi' of the tmdiiioual creatures, still duuhtw,
iN the mermaid, upon which Soiithcy once remarked to mo, tliat, if it hod been Jif-
fcrently named. (:ui, suppose, a nier-ajH^,) nobody would have questioued its csislcntt
miy more than lluit of sc:i-cows, Hen-lions, &c. Tlic mermaid has boon discredited byha'
htinian natm." and her Icjrendary hnnian habits. If she woidd not coquette w nmch
with melancholy Kiiilors, and hnwh her hair po nwiduonaly upon tsoUtary mcb.
fshc would b<} C".irrio<l on our bookR for a.-s houcat a reality, as decent a female, is
many that iirc asNcssod to tho poor-mtcf*.
* *' Audaeitii /" Sucli the French accounted it ; and it has simek me that Sovh
would not haTc been so popular in London, at the period of her praaant U^eAtj^
coronation, or in Manchester, on occasion of his visit to that town, if they hai bcci
aware of the invulonce with wliicli ho spoke of us in notes written at intervals ftv*
the field of Waterloo. As though it had been more felony in oor army to Isok s
French one in the face, he said more than once — ^*^ Here are the Englidh — ^we ba«>
them : they arc caught fu ji'tqrant deUt" Yet no man should have known us ^ff^^j
no man had driiuk deeper from the cup of humiliation than Soult had in the nsfili *
Portugal, during his ili(;ht from an £ngli8h army, and Bubsequently at Albae»« ^
the bloodiest of recorded battles.
7%e Ekgiuk Mail-Coach^ or the Giory of Motion.
fl disposable for the rapid trans-
B of intelligence, rarely did any
Mriaed mmonr steal away a
ition from the aroma of the re
ieqpatchee. The government of-
MTB was generally the first news.
m eight p.m. to fifteen or twenty
» l^ier, imagine the mails as-
)d cm parade in Lombard Street,
, At that time, was seated the
■1 Fost-Offioe. In what exact
feh we mustered I do not re-
ar; but, from the length of each
te Qtielage^ we filled the street,
1 a long one, and though we
Inwn np in double file. On any
tiie spectacle was beautiful.
ilMolnte perfection of all the
Ltments about the carriages and
ineas, and the magnificence of
IMS, were what might first have
Am attention. Every carriage,
ntf morning in the year, was
down to an inspector for exa-
iOB — ^wheels, aides, linchpins,
[iMBes, &C.9 were all critically
I and tested. Every part of
jQaniage had been cleaned,
hmehad been groomed, with
akrigonr as if they belonged to
«le gentleman; and that part
mwctacle ofifered itself always,
le night before ns is a night of
f ; and behold! to the ordinary
f, what a heart-shaking addi-
-tenes, men„ carriages — all are
d in laurels and flowers, oak
nnd ribbons. The guards, who
I Mi^ty^B servants, and the
■en, who are within the privi-
r ihe Poat-Office, wear the royal
I of course ; and as it is sum-
hr all the land victories were
a Bumner,) they wear, on this
vdng, these liveries exposed to
irithout any covering of upper
Snch a costume, and the ela-
< arrangement of the laurels in
lata, dilated their hearts, by giv-
tbcm openly an official conncc-
rith the great news, in which
f Ih^y have the general interest
■iolum. That great national
«Bt Burmounts and quells all
nf ordinary distinctions. Those
^era who hi^en to be gentle-
m now hardly to be distin-
497
guished as snch except by dress. The
usual reserve of their manner in speak-
ing to the attendants has on this night
melted away. One heart, one pride,
one glory, connects every man by the
transcendant bond of his English
blood. The spectators, who are nu-
merous beyond precedent, express
their sympathy with these fervent
feelings by continual hurrahs. Every
moment are shouted aloud by the
Post-Office servants the great ances-
tral names of cities known to history
through a thousand years, — ^Lincoln,
Winchester, Portsmouth, Gloucester^
Oxford, Bristol, Manchester, York,
Newcastle, Edinburgh, Perth, Glas-
gow— expressing the grandeur of the
empire by the antiquity of its towns,
and the grandeur of the mail estab-
lishment by the diffusive radiation of
its separate missions. Every moment
you hear the thunder of lids locked
down upon the mail-bags. That
sound to each individual mail is the
signal for drawing off, which process
is the finest part of the entire spec-
tacle. Then come the horses into
play; — ^horses 1 can these be horses
that (unless powerfully reined in)
would bound off with the action and
gestures of leopards ? What stir 1 —
what sea-like ferment I — ^what a thun-
dering of wheels, what a trampling of
horses 1— what farewell cheers — what
redoubling peals of brotherly congra-
tulation, connecting the name of the
particular maU — *^ Liverpool for
everT' — ^with the name of the parti-
cular victory — *^ Badi^oa for everT^
or *^ Salamanca for ever ! " The half-
slumbering consdonsness that, all
night long and all the next day— per-
haps for even a longer period — ^many
of those mails, like fire racing along
a train of gunpowder, will be lundling
at every instant new successions of
burning joy, has an obscure effect of
multiplying the victory itself by mul-
tiplying to the imagination into infi-
nity the stages of its progressive
diffusion. A fiery arrow seems to be
let loose, which from that moment
is destined to travel, almost without
Intermission, westwards for three
hundred* miles — northwards for six
hundred; and the sympathy of our
Qhw Immini,** Of necessity this scale of meMnrcmcnt, to ui Americmn, tfhe
IB to be a ihmightless man, must sonnd ludion>as. Aeoordingly, I rwMmber •
4';i8 The English Mail-Coach^ or the Glory ofMoHoti. [Oct.
Lombard Street friends at parting is that private carriage which is ap-
t'xalted a iLundredfoid by a sort of proaching ns. The weather being so
vijionan- sympathy with the ap- warm, the glasses are all down ; and
proacliiiig Sympathies, yet unborn, one may road, as on the stage of a
wliich we wi're jroinj: to evoke. theatre, everything that goes on within
Liberated from the embarrassments the carriage. It contains three ladles,
uf the city, and issuing into the broad one likely to be " mama,^' and two of
uncrowded avenues of the northern seventeen or eighteen, who are proba*
suburbs, we begin to enter upon our bly her daughters. What lovely ani-
natural pace of ten miles an hour. In mation, what beautiful unpremeditated
the broad light of the summer even- pantomime, explaining to us cveiy
in;:, the sun perhaps only just at the syllable that passes, in these uig^
])oint of Si'ttiug. we arc seen from nuons girls ! By the sudden start and
every storey of every house. Heads raising of the hands, on first discover-
of every aj:e crowd to the windows — ing our laurelled equipage — by tbe
young and old understand the Ian- sudden movement and appeal to tbe
giiajre of uur victorious symbols — and elder la^iy from both of them— and ly
rolling volleys of symi>at*liising cheers the heightened colour on their am-
run along behind and iK'fore our course, mated countenances, we can almort
The be*rj:ar, rearing himself against hear them saying — ''Sec, see! Look
the wall, forgets his lameness— real or at their laurels. Oh, mama! there
assumed— thinks not of his whining has been a great battle in Spain; and
trade, but stands erect, with bold it has been a great \ictory." In a
exulting smiles, as we pass him. The moment we are on the point of patt-
victory h.is healed him, and says — Be ing them. We passengers — I on [he
thou whole ! Wi>uK-n and children, box, and the two on the roof behind
from garrets alike and collars, look me — raise onr hats, the coachniB
down or look up with loving eyes upon makes his professional salute with tke
our gay ribbons and our martial lau- whip ; the guard even, thongfa paB^
rels — sometimes kiss their hands, tilious on the matter of his dignity M
sometimes hang out, ns signals of an officer under the crown, toaches bii
alloction, pocket handkerchiefs, aprons, hat. The ladies move to ns, in re-
dusters, anything that lies ready to turn, with a winning gradonsnesa of
their hands. On the London side of gesture: all smile on each side in a
Barnet, to which we draw near with- way that nobody could misnnderstand,
in a few minutes after nine, observe and that nothing short of a grand
I'a^e in which an American writer indulges himself in the Inznry of a little lyinfi
by ascribing to an £nglif>hman a pompons account of the Thames, constructed ca-
tirely upon American ideas of grandeur, and concluding in something like theN
terms : — " And, sir, arriying at LK>ndon, this mighty father of rivers attains a breadth
of at least two furlongj», having, in its winding course, traversed the astonishing dii-
tauce of 170 miles.'* And this the candid American thinks it fair to contrast withthi
scale of the Mississippi. Now, it is hardly worth while to answer a pure faliehood
gravely, else one might say that no Englishman out of Bedlam ever thought of look*
iug in an island for the rivers of a continent ; nor, consequently, could have thoo^
of looking for the peculiar grandeur of the Thames in the length of its course, or ii
the extent of soil which it drains : yet, if he htjd been so absurd, the American ni^
have recollected that a river, not to be compared with the Thames even as to votomt
of water — viz. the Tiber — ^has contrived to make itself heard of in this worid fSif
twenty-five centuries to an extent not reached, nor likely to be reached very iooD,hy
any river, however corpulent, of his own land. The glory of the Thames is meannd
by the density of the population to which it ministers, by the commerce which it n^
ports, by the grandeur of the empire in which, though far fVom the largest, it is thi
most influential stream. Upon some such scale, and not by a transfer of Coloahiai
standards, is the course of our English mails to be valued. The American nay ftacj
the effect of his own valuations to our English cars, by supposing the case of a Sibe-
rian glorifying his country in these terms : — *^ Those rascals, sir, in France and YMt
land, cannot march half a mile in any direction without finding a house where M
can be had and lodging : whereas, such U the noble desolation of our magnificcat
-country, that in many a direction for a thousand miles, 1 will engage a dog shall aak
iiud shelter from a snow-storm, nor a wren find an apology for breiUdkit"
1849,]
The Englufi MaU-Coach^ or the Glory of Motion,
natioaal sympathy could so instanta-
neously prompt. Will these ladies say
that we are nothing to themf Ob, no ;
they will not say that. They cannot
deny — ^they do not deny — that for this
night they are onr sisters: gentle or
simple, scholar or illiterate servant,
for twelve hoars to come — ^we on the
ontside have the honour to be their
brothers. Those poor women again,
who stop to gaze upon us with delight
at the entrance of Bamet, and seem
by their air of weariness to be return-
ing from labour— do you mean to say
that they are washerwomen and char-
women ? Oh, my poor friend, you are
quite mistaken; they are nothing of
the kind. I assure you, they stand in
a higher rank : for this one night they
feel themselves by burthright to be
daughters of England, and answer to
no humbler title.
Every joy, however, even rapturous
joy — such is the sad law of earth —
may carry with it grief, or fear of grief,
to some. Three miles beyond Bamet,
we see approaching us another private
carriage, nearly repeating the circum-
stances of the former case. Here also
the glasses are all down — ^here also is
an dderiy lady seated ; but the two
amiable daughters are missing; for
the single young person, sitting by
the lady's side, seems to be an at-
tendant— so I judge from her dress,
and her air of respectful reserve.
The lady is in mourning; and her
countenance expresses sorrow. At
first she does not look up; so that
I believe she is not aware of
onr approach, until she hears the
measured beating of our horses' hoofs.
Then she raises her eyes to settlethem
painfully on our triumphal equipage.
Onr decorations explain the case to
her at once; but she beholds them
wiih apparent anxiety, or even with
terror. Some time before this, I, find-
ing it difficult to hit a fiying mark,
when embarrassed by the coadiman's
person and reins intervening, had
given to the guard a Courier evening
p^per, containing the gazette, for the
next carriage that might pass. Ac-
cordingly he tossed it in so folded that
the huge capitals expressing some
such legend as— qlobious victory,
might catch the eye at once. To see
the paper, however, at all, interpreted
as it was by our ensigns of triumph,
499
explained everything; and, if the
guard were right in thinking the lady
to have received it with a gesture of
horror, it could not be doubtful that
she had suffered some deep personal
affliction in connexion with this
Spanish war.
Here now was the case of one who,
having formerly suffered, might, erro-
neously perhaps, be distressing her-
self with anticipations of another
similar suffering. That same night,
and hardly three hours later, occurred
the reverse case. A poor woman, who
too probably would find herself, in a
day or two, to have suffered the
heavest of afflictions by the battle,
blindly allowed herself to express an
exultation so unmeasured in the news,
and its details, as gave to her the ap-
pearance which amongst Celtic High-
landers is called fey. This was at
some little town, I forget what, where
we happened to change horses near
midnight. Some fair or wake had
kept the people up out of their beds.
We saw many lights moving about as
we drew near ; and perhaps the most
impressive scene on our route was
our reception at this place. The flash-
ing of torches and the beautiful ra-
diance of blue lights (technically Ben-
gal lights) upon the heads of our
horses; the fine effect of such a showery
and ghostly illumination falling upon
flowers and glittering laurels, whilst
all around the massy darkness seemed
to invest us with walls of impenetrable
blackness, together with the prodigious
enthusiasm of the people, composed a
picture at once scenical and affecting.
As we staid for three or four minutes,
I alighted. And immediately from a
dismantled stall in the street, whei*e
perhaps she had been presiding at
some part of the evening, advanced
eagerly a middle-aged woman. The
sight of mv newspaper it was that
had drawn her attention upon myself.
The victory which we were carrying
down to the provinces on this occa-
sion was the imperfect one of Tala-
vera. I told her the main outline of
the battle. But her agitation, though
not the agitation of fear, but of exul-
tation rather, and enthusiasm, had
been so conspicuous when listening,
and when first applying for informa-
tion, that I could not but ask her if
she had hot some relation in the
- Z.I. .'.v -i-:. - ... •• ■"'' -•"'"•# tr ji£.iiuaL, 'Oct
, ._ '.i-.m
:..:i: ■ r. r.:' uiii .•' .• : r:»*ar4.i.:-r B.:, if
. - ■ — : . ■- ::...:■ :: ■ - -- :-r r •: : .-r:r.:!itiiii t-^^ ZLi Scrriw aad
. - ./. ■:- .-• ....•:•_-■- :: ■— i -.> u-j ^ .r :-cT2yfCT
■■: — • -IT.:. I r '-.Tijr: ziy-i^ lAiorrizilj. I
. - :. : :. ..:: v": mi- ■;:• v-i :•::• z;c "Ji-* rizcnu bamxen
'.■*"-. iz^. I ^-i 2-.': ihe C'Tffshi-
». r !■■
.11 .-•^-■. --.- T^-.--— -
"."•P.- : : V :-..=■■ -^:--■.. Tj.. -• v..-. :-.t~j:j j^ir"*ii ^:n. tii-* "»i'»J«' trs
: — ■• :.■ IZ-: v.-.- --: : -. - jl -ri^.'jL i:r^ icti TisbiT Iaj manM
.:■■■ -.Ill- ^r: ■•: : :.- :.— ■: -tr- - c-.^nttr. Ei: i zzLi '2kt how these
"*.■::" — i : - " :■* t •: ■ ■•.}.-/ :— :.?- i-lt :^.ir»!i :r E2,rij:id. privaMS
-T. ._:- -:Lr- j-u.-.-i " - •: :i:Lr: i:i«: ic-'.^r-. .1.1*2 laiptr'i ib^ir bossei
-. I- ■ :• u - -: ---• n --'::■}?.'. :: .-:•.• u. ."r-rricl-rt; i^'zaiir 11 hnntos
. -^ v.. :-.: ---•: .i-i :: ▼•..- ■ z:r :. ".-" -■ ■-^'•^''g chj^. I told her
.; -:"*■■: — ^.1 l: "^ :-r.i.~'. -li- i.-*^ :_ - r:-!: :i-:lr horses into tiw
'•■■:. A •-■_-L-*. :■: :- -z-u" r.iii z-r~f ": ieirz. sajizi to xnyseif. bat
- . .'. .'i-r' : • 1 ". I r.-~r. rS' -■ ' r-iy-zz :•: vr. t ani lid down
'.' •■-• -. -.:"..-'"": I ?:•- *ii v.-ri.: 7-—* -"^^s for thee- O mctkef
Z.*^-i-: L5 -willlarfv — ponred oat
: -T-T 1 : - Ir t I:c< a? cheoiixiiy — iserer,
iTTcr i ! z^ iir's «p.?rt. whenmfaatSi
'.i-rj iid rrs:ed their weiried he«fa
IT- z :'2-ir ziv^er?" knees, or had swk
:. -Itrp in ber arms. It ij sangnlir
'.11: riie seecied to have no f«rti
:"tz after this knowledge that tha
1 ! I Dnit<n5 had been conspicnoiuly
zrir^L f:r her K»n'3 safety: but*
z:r.:h ^25 ?he enraptured bj ihs
kno^iod.'^ that Au regiment, aid
:ie:r:V-re A*, had rendered emmflft
iCiy— : :r. 3 -;:.:.':: ■/: t-. - :.y-:r-.I -.n- v>n-ice in the trving conflict— isw-
*fj -i'-rn. D: 1 J !■.;; :. r :h? :r::rh > vice which had actaallv made thefl
If.i'l f tv- •■■art *■• "• reak ':p hor the foremort topic of conversatioaia
:.•■': sir. .' No. I ,.a;.| :■, niyi^if. To- London — that in the mere simplicity
;ij'irr'i-.v. or thr* n^-xt -iiv. -*•• will hear of her fcrrent nature, she threw her
til" U',r-t. i-'or tfil- -.A/hr. whcTof«,'rc anna round nfr neck, and, poor wo*
htriUi ^h^r not rl-^p iu j>;ace > After man, kissed me.
■ ■— * .". ■- :. ■ '. T
. - ■ .-■-,-..-• i;
'.i~ ■ " ■=-•■■ 1 i
■ •--.A_::r'i-
:!v:.i..- f .'!-
.
'. r i .* " ." .*"■ '""■'.
< - < » - M ■ MM
. -r^ ■■.. . : . -
iT-'-'-r'.Z i-TrllJ"
.-.'..
T": r.'. "^--.-l: '.zi
■ . ■
... . _■ .< ... ^TT
•.:. ■ :.r ■ .
17 / ■ :! : :i: I —
• ■ .-. -• ■ - .
■7 T-r -vrv-.j
'A'r.o---: r:-o:;.:r • .- :::~ '.x'.sl'.lz ^:'A
1849.]
Diary of Samuel Pepys,
501
DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS.
LoBLD Braybrooke has established
a strong claim to the gratitude of the
literary world for his present elegant,
improved, and augmented edition of
the Diary 0f Saamtd Pepys, The
work may now, we presume, be re-
garded as complete, for there is little
chance that any future editor will
oonaider himself entitled to supply the
lacuntB or omissions which still con-
fessedly exist. Lord Braybrooke in-
ibrms ua that, after carefully reper-
uaiiig the whole of the manuscript, he
had arrlTod at the conclusion, " that
a literal transcript of the Diary was
absolutely inadmissable ; and he more
than hints that most of the excluded
passages have been withheld from
print on account of their strong in-
delicacy. We cannot blame the noble
editor for having thus exercised his
judgment, though we could wish that
he had been a Utile more explicit as
to the general tenor and application
of the proscribed entries. The Diaxy
of Pepys is a very remarkable one,
comprehttiding both a history or sketch
of the times in which he lived, and an
accurate record of his own private
transactions and affairs. He chronicles
not only the faults of others, as these
were reported to him or fell under his
peraonal observation, but he notes his
own frailties and backslldings with a
candour, a minuteness, imd even occa-
sionally a satisfaction, which is at
once amusing and uncommon. The
one division of his subject is a political
and social — ^the other a psychological
curiosity. We are naturally desirous
to hevr all about Charies and his cour-
tiers, and not averse to the general
ran of gossip regarding that train of
beantifid women whose portraits, from
the Inxoriant pencil of Lely, still adorn
the walls of Hampton Court. But
not less remarkable are the quaint
confessions of the autobiographer,
whether he be recording, in conscious
pride, the items of the dinner and the
plate with which he appeased the
appetite and excited the envy of some
less prosperous guest, or junketing
with Mrs Pierce and equivocal Mrs
Knipp the actress, whilst poor Mi's
Pepys was absent on a fortnight's
visit to the country. Far are we from
excusing or even palliating the pro-
penMties of Pepys. We have enough
beforo us to show that he was a sad
flirt, and a good deal of a domestic
hypocrite: ail this he admits, and
even exhibits at times a certain
amount of penitence and compunction.
But we confess that we should be glad
to know from which section of the
Diary the objectionable matter has
been expunged. If from the public
part, or rather that disconnected with
the personality of Pepys, we acquiesce
without fru-ther comment in the taste
and judgment of the editor. We do
not want to have any minute details,
even though Pepys may have written
them down, of the dnmken and dis-
graceful exhibitions of Sir Charles
Sedley and his comrades, or even of
the private actings of the Maids (by
courtesy) of Honour. We have enough,
and more than enough, of this inthe
Memoirs of Grammont, and no one
would wish to see augmented that
repertory of antiquated scandal.
History, and the products of the
stage as it then existed, speak quite
unequivocally as to the general de-
moralisation of those unhappy times,
and it cannot serve any manner of
use to multiply or magnify instances.
But whilst we so far freely concede
the right of omission to Lord Bray-
brooke, we must own that we aro not
a little jealous lest, out of respect to
the individual memory of Pepys, he
should have concealed some personal
confessions, which may have been
really requisite in order to form an
accurate estimate of the man. We
cannot road the Diary without strong
suspicions that something of the kind
has taken place. Mere flirtation on
the part of her husband could hardly
Dkny and Ckfrmpondenee of Samuel PepySf F.22.flf., Secretary at the Admiralty
in tke Miiffm €f OtarUs 11, and Jama II, With a Life and Notes by Richabd
Loan Ba^TBnooKE. Third edition, ooaaiderably enlarged. London, 1849.
•mtiusm. .' -;»#.■#-
•'.. I. . i: : ■ ^ — :-•
■■■--. C-" ■■ *
■ ■
x - i
7*1 " " r
t. : . i. . -
1 .
" ::- •■ir:
• • .". i' -" ' . . . 7 1 ". _t .i..'. '• ""1 tZiHt 5^'
- »
:-i:
K:.:-:.
... 1- . ■* .'. ". :^.
r^-i-*.
k ^ • .h
v/i- V; li:,-. A- ; I ;*,.-> : :o sVrp to
iJ: v.ii'/fc'ir a*. 1 ;.-:-. whir*.- I ill no:
t: jv, i. jw^v-:.-. v .- r'rir •.: her ?howiDr
:..•: hfiT C-j^Kt. a:.l t:i-:M-*jv iV.r-.in^' me
t .i ;(iv.P: her •;',:fi':t:il:.z: and Ic wa?
-.0 l!it<i, tlu:. r.T f-iir of ljv %vl:e**
</im\i\'j[ \\f}\:\!'. before me. I was i.'rcc-«l
ti J) >trHi:(bt Ii'-me, v/hi'ih troubled
\uti" : M I '•:;•>■« was really innocent
ill <lee'J, and but cnlpabk* In thought
an^l indinatloii. hi? c-c^p€ was a
iiii^jhty narrow' one, and Mrs Pepys
may well .*tan«l Cfxcuised for the
iitn^ngth and fre'iii'rn':y of her sus-
picion-!. The truth Is/that Pepys, at
h;.'i-)t in tlie earljr^r j>art of his life, was
a very odioui; .«pcclmeu of the Cockney,
and won hi upon many occasions have
))(:f:n juMly pnni;shcd by a sound kick-
in jf, or an ample dose of the cudgel.
Jt .seems to ns perfectly inexplicable
how the cuxc^jmb— who, by the way,
was a n'{,nihir ehurch-^^'oer, and rather
zealous reh'gionlst — could have pre-
vailed upon himself to make such
entries as the fdllowing in his journal:
** Auijmt Ik, lr;G7.— 1 walked towards
Whitehall, but, being wearied, turned
into St Dnnstan's church, where I
hoard an able sermon of the minister
of the iiImo* ; and stood by a pretty,
moilc'st maid, whom I did labour to
lake by iIk^ hand ; but she would not,
but got further and further from me;
and at last 1 couUl perceive her to
taki» ]>ins out of her pocket to prick
me if I should touch her again, which
MM'ing, I did forbear, and was glad I
tlitl Hj.y her design. And then I fell
.^ : _ :_: r: \z*.-Ji
■^'1.1 Jl-r
L.v:
• ;•- ~ ■ • ■*
— T .•.•-?',_"r* »•.»«
L . * i-*^_-T. A.- !.._■: Z • '• i.-"T lAT ^
-" i \
- ■ ■ - ■ a
vr •: ;^<
t ~' ^ — -m ■ -m ..",-
.lo:-^
roci.
r prttty miid ia
ki.i ?he on me;
- i£Xr: her by iIk
rT^f re*i 1 little' and
>: :ir scnnon ended,
:r:£r a!>, and mr
i-:." A\1iai a piiy
: 1=. :3vstion had not
■- wlili her nngosl
kiz wLich the goblin
> :Lc knee of W»t
ii-e **en well be-
w the very head, oq
the hip of Pep.Ts;
nc't fort'Id ns frm
es in fancy with the
nesa of his hovl!
w:-ier :b.i: Mrs Pepys not only
:r h:: iLe Ivd^s, but incoherently
I'-LiioJ. i: limes, on the necessity of
J »:rar&:e maintenance.
The ^at chani] of the book ii its
■iiiiT free-iom fnc^m disgiu:se. Tbe
zeal of antiquaries, and the patriotic
exenions of the literary clnb5, hare,
of late year?, pnt the pubUc in posses-
sion of various diaries, which aremoft
valuable, as throwing light upon the
pijlltical incidents and social maunen
• >f the times in which the authors lived.
Thus we have the journals of hcHMSt
John NichoU, writer to the signet in
Edinburgh, who saw the great Mar-
tinis of Montrose go down from his
prison to the scaffold : of the shrewd
and cautious Fount ainhall ; of tbe
high-minded and accomplished Ev^
lyu, and many others — the mana-
scripts of which had lain for years un-
disturbed on the shelf or in the char-
ter-chest. Bnt it cannot be said of
any one of those diaries, that it ra
kept solely for the use and refcience
of the writer. Some of them may ooc
have been intended for publicatioc;
and it is very likely that the thoughts
of posthumous renow^n never cros^l
the mind of the chronicler, as ho sec
down his daily jotting and observa-
tion. Nevertheless those were famflv
documents, such as a father, if he hid
no wider aim, might have be<]tieatbed
for the information of his children*
Diaries of more moilem date hare,
we suspect, been kept principally with
a view to publication ; or, at least,
the writers of them seem never to
have been altogether devoid of a kind
of consciousness that their locnbra-
tious might one day ace the li;,'bt*
1849.]
Diary of Samuel Pepys.
603
Owing to that feeling, the veil of do-
mestic privacy is seldom withdrawn,
and seldomer still are we treated to
a faithful record of the deeds and
thoughts of the diarist. But Pepys
framed his joanial with no snch inten-
tion. He dorst not, for dear life,
have submitted a single page of it to
the inspection of the wife of his bo-
som— had he been as fruitful as Jacob,
no son of his wonld have been intrust-
ed with the key which could unlock
the mysterious cipher in which the
most private passages of his life were
written. No clerk was allowed to
continue it in a clear, legible hand,
when failing eyesight rendered the
task irksome or impossible to him-
Bolf. There is something of pathos in
Ills last entry, when the doors of the
daily confessional were just closing
for ever. '* And thus ends all that I
doubt I shall ever be able to do with
my own eyes in the keeping of my
journal, I being not able to do it any
longer, having done now so long as to
undo my eyes almost every time that
I take a pen in my hand ; and,
thei^fore, whatever comes of it, I
most forbear ; and therefore i*esolve,
from this time forward, to have it
kept by my people in long hand, and
must be contented to set down no
more than is fit for them and all the
world to know ; or, if there be any-
thing, I must endeavour to keep a
margin in my book open, to add now
and then a note in short-hand, with my
own hand.*' Perhaps it is as well that
the marginal continuation so hinted
at was withheld ; for, in the process
of decanting, the wine would have
lost its flavour, and must have suf-
fered terribly in contrast with the
raciness of the earlier cooper.
The position in life which Fepys
occupied renders his Diary doubly
ioterestmg. Had he been only a
hanger-on of the court, we might have
heard more minute and personal scan-
dal, conveyed through the medium of
Bab May, or Chiffinch, or other un-
acmpulous satellites of a very profli-
gate monarch. Had he been a mere
private citizen or merchant, his know-
ledge of or interest in public events
would probably have been so small,
as to assist ns bat little in unravelling
the intricate hiatorv of the time.
But, standing as he did between two
VOL. Lxvi.— NO. ccccvni.
classes of society, then separated by a
far stronger Une of demarcation
than now, — a citizen of London
by birth and connexion, by occupa-
tion a government official, and
through instinct an intense admu*er of
the great — he had access to more
sources of information, and could in-
terpret general opinion better, than
tHe professional courtier or tradesman.
Shrewd, sharp, and not very scru-
pulous, he readily seized all oppor-
tunities of making his way in the
world ; and though privately a censor
of the more open vices of the great,
he never was so truly happy as when
admitted by accident to their society.
Lord Braybrooke, we think, is too
partial in his estimate of Pepys' char-
acter. If we are to judge of him by
his own confessions, he was largely
imbued with that spirit of meanness,
arrogance, and vanity, which dramatic
writers have always seized on as
illustrative of the parvenu, but which
is never apparent in the conversation,
or discernible in the dealings, of a true
and perfect gentleman.
Sam does not appear to have
troubled himself much about his pedi-
gree nntil he became a person of
considerable note and substance. In-
deed, the curcumstances of his imme-
diate extraction were not such as to
have found much favour in the eyes of
the professors of Herald's College.
His father was a respectable tailor,
and, in his own earlier years, Pepys
had carried doublets to customers, if
not actually handled the goose. ^ The
impressions that he received in his
boyhood seem to have been indelible
through life; prosperity could not
make him insensible to the flavour of
cucumber. The sight of a new gar-
ment invariably kindled in his mind
the aspirations of his primitive .calling,
and very proud, indeed, was he when
brother Tom brought him his ** jack-
anapes coat with silver buttons." In
his way he was quite a Sir Piercie
Shafton, and never formed a complete
opinion of any man without due con-
sideration of his clothes. At the out-
set of his diary we find him married,
and in rather indiflerent cu'cumstan-
ces. He was then a clerk in some
public office connected with the Ex-
chequer, at a small salary. But he
was diligent in his vocation, and pra-
2l
604
Diuary of Sammd P^p9$,
[Ock.
dent in his habits ; so thtt he and his
wife, and senrant Jane, fared not
mnch woree, or perhaps rather
better, than Andrew Marvell, for we
find them living in a garret, and din-
ing on New Year's day on the re-
mains of a tmkey, in the dressing
whereof Mrs Pepys nnfortnnatdy
bnmed her hand. A few days after-
wards, they mended their cheer at the
honseof^^cosen Thomas Pepys'Hhe tur-
ner, where thedumer *'was rery good ;
only the venison pasty was palpable
SiUtton, whid^ was not handsome."
at the advent of bett^ banquets
was near. In the preceding antnmn,
the old protector, Oliver CromweU,
had been carried to the grave, and the
reins of government, sorely frayed
and worn, were given to the weak
hands of Richard. In troth, there
was hardly any government at ail.
The military chiefs did not own the
second Cromwell as their master;
Lambert was attempting to get up a
party in his own favour ; and Monk,
in command of the northern army,
was sospected of a similar design.
The ba& of the nation, in terror of
anarchy, and heartily sick of the con-
sequences of revolution, which, atf
usual, had terminated in arlHtraiy
rule, longed for the restoration of
their legitimate sovereign, as the only
means of arresting fhrther calamity;
and several of the influential officers,
not compromised by regicide, were
secretly of the same opinion. Amongst
these latter was Sir Edward Montagu,
admiral of the fleet, afterwards created
Earl of Sandwich, whose mother was
aPepys, and with whom, accordingly,
Samuel was proud to reckon kin.
Sir Edward had been already very
kind to his young relative, and now
laid the foundation of bis fortunes by
employing him as his secretary, during
the expedition which ended with the
return of Charles 11. to his hereditary
dominions. Fepys, in his boyish days,
had been somewhat tainted with the
Boundhead doctrines, but he was now
as roaring a royalist as ever danced
round a bonfire; and the slight ac-
cession of profit which accrued to him
for his share in the Bestoration, gave
Mm an unbounded appetite for future
accumulations. He made himself
nsefiil to Montagu, who presently
received his earldom, and through his
interest Pepyswas hiBtalkd in office
as derk of the Acts of the Navy.
Other snog jobs foUowed, md
Pepys began to thrive apace. It is
possible that, if judged by ths stu-
dard of morality recognised m Us
time, our friend may have beea
deemed, on the whole, a toknUy
conscientions <^oer; but, aecoidiig
to our more strict ideas, he hsidly
could have piqued himself, like a
modem statesman, on the sBperior
parity of his palms. K not nosdy
avaricious, he was decidedly food of
money ; he cast up his aocoonfts witk
great punctuality, and seems to km
thought that eadi additional hundnd
pounds came into his poasesiot
through a speciai interposition of Pro-
vidence. Now, althoughweknowwdl
that there is a blessing upon koMrt
industry, it would appear that a good
deal of Pepys' money flowed m
through crooked channels. Bribes
and acknowledgments he receiw
without much oompnnctiott or beuta-
tion, only taking care that little en-
doice should be left of the traiusc-
tion. The following extract shows
that his conscience was by no mesas
of stiff or inflexible material : 1
met Captain Grove, who did gito ««
a letter dkected to myself from to-
self. I discerned money to be m it,
knowing as I found it to be, the pro-
ceeds ef the place I have got hm to
be— the toking up of vessels for Tsn-
gier. ButldidnotopenittiUIcsme
home— not looking into it until sU
the money was oat, that I might sty
I saw no money in the paper, if ever
I should be questioned aboat it
There was a piece in gold, and ^
insUver." Pepys made altogeth^
good thing out of the Tangier um-
ment, for which he was aftcnrtrts
secretary, as, besides such mJ^^PJJ*
ings as the above, we read of wj'
ficent silverflagons— "thenobtertthtf
ever I saw aU the days of «/^ J"
presented to him, in grateful adflww-
ledgment of services to come, by w-
den, victualler of the navy. »""*
had twinges of conscience, bat w«
sight of the plate was too ts^Jr
him : " Whether I shall keep th^ ^
no," saith he, striving to cast dot »
his own eyes, ** I cannot teU; wr» "
to oblige me to him fai the ^^^i
the Tangier victualling, "^^^^^
1W9.]
Diary of Samud Pqpys,
605
donbt I shall not; bat glad I am to
see that I shall be sure to get some-
thing on one side or other, have it
which will ; so with a Aierry heart I
looked upon them, and locked them
vp." The flagons, however, did the
bosineas. Ganden was preferred;
and, from an entry in the Diary, made
abont a year afterwards, we most
condnde that his profits were enor-
mons : ** All the afternoon to my
accounts ; and then find myself, to my
great joy, a great deal worth — above
£4000 — for which the Lord be
praised ! and is principally occasioned
by my getting £500 of Cocke for my
profit in his bargains of prize goods,
and from Mr Ganden's making me a
present of £500 more, when I paid
him £800 for Tangier. Thus ends
this year, to my great joy, in this
manner. I have raised my estate
from £1300, in this year, to £4400."
A pretty accretion: bnt made, we fear,
at the expense of the nation, by means
which hardly would have stood the
Bcmtiny of a conrt of justice. It may
be quite true that every man in office,
from the highest to the lowest, from
the chancellor to the doorkeeper, was
then doing the like ; still we cannot
give Pepys the benefit of a perfect in-
demnity on the score of the general
practice. £ven when he tells us else-
where, with evident satisfaction —
" This night I received, by Will, £105,
the first-fruits of my endeavours in
the late contract for victualling of
Tangier, for which God be praised I
for I can, with a safe conscience,
gay that I have therein saved the
king £6000 per annum, and yet got
myself a hope of £300 per annum,
without the least wrong to the king"
— it la impossible to reconcile his con-
duct with the strict rules of morality,
or of duty : nor, perhaps, need we do
80, seeing that Pepys makes no pre-
tence of being altogether immaculate.
He began by taking small fees in a
surreptitious way, and ended by
pocketmg the largest without a single
twinge. It is the progress from re-
muneration to guerdon, as philosophi-
cally expliuned by Costard — " Guer-
don ! — O sweet guerdon I better than
remuneration; elevenpence farthing
better. Moat sweet guerdon 1 — I wiU
do it, sir, in print ; — guerdon^remu-
nerationl"
The common proverb tells us that
money easily got is lightly expended.
In one sense Pepys formed no excep-
tion to the common rule ; for, notwith-
standing divers good resolutions, he
led rather a dissipated life for a year
or two after the Restoration, and was
in the constant habit of drinking more
wine than altogether agreed with his
constitution. This faidt he strove to
amend by registering sundry vows,
which, however, were often broken ;
and he was finally weaned from the
bottle by the pangs of disordered di-
gestion. His expenses kept pace with
his income. The ^^ jackanapes coat,
with silver buttons," was succeeded
by a ^* fine one of flowered tabby vest,
and coloured camelott tuniqne, made
stiff with gold lace at the bands," in
which Pepys probably expected to do
great execution in the Park, or, at
any rate, to astonish Mrs Enipp ; but
it proved to be so extravagantly fine,
that his friends thought it necessary
to interfere. '^ Povy told me of my
gold-laced sleeve in the Park yester-
day, which vexed me also, so as to
resolve never to appear in court with
them, but presently to have them
taken off, as it is fit I should, and so
called at my tailor's for that purpose."
Povy^s hint might have its origin in
envy ; but, on the whole, it was wise
and judicious. Also Mrs Pepys was
indulged with a fair allowance of lace,
taffeta, and such trinkets as females
affect ; and both of them sat for their
portraits to Hales, having previously
been refused by Lely. Furniture and
plate of the most expensive descrip-
tion were ordered ; and finally, to his
intense delight, Samuel achieved the
great object of his own ambition, and
set up a carriage of his own. The
account of his first public appearance
in this vehicle is too characteristic to
be lost :^ " At noon home to din-
ner, and there found my wife ex-
traordinary fine, with her flowered
gown that she made two years
ago, now laced exceeding pretty,
and indeed was fine all over ; and
mighty earnest to go, though the day
was very lowering; and she would have
me put on my fioe suit, which I did.
And so anon we went alone through
the town with our new liveries of
serge, and the horses* manes and tails
tied with red ribbons, and the Stan-
506
Duxry of Samud Ptpys. [Oct.
the saccessM enterprise of Be Euyter
and the Dutch fleet at Chatham. The
account of the plague will be read
with much interest, especially at the
present time, when another terribte
epidemic has been raging through the
streets and lanes of the metropolis.
The progress of the plague through
Europe seems, in many respects, to
have resembled that of the chdera.
It did not burst out suddenly in one
locality, but appears to have pervaded
the Continent with a gradual and
irresistible march, sometimes Ibger-
ing in its advance, and ever and anon
breaking out with redoubled viru-
lence. Several years b^ore it reached
England, the pestilence raged in
Naples, and is said to have carried off
in six months nearly 400,000 victims.
Its introduction was traced to a trans-
port ship, with soldiers on board,
coming from Sardinia. It readied
Amsterdam and Hamburg more than
a year before it broke out in London,
and its malignity may bejudgedof by
the following entry in Pepys' Diary:
" We were told to-day of a BkK>p, of
three or four hundred tons, where all
the men were dead of the plague, and
the sloop cast ashore at Gottenbnrg.
In England there had been great ap-
prehension of its coming, long before
the visitation ; and two exceedingly
unhealthy seasons, occurring in snc-
cession, had probably enfeebled the
constitutions of many, and rendered
them more liable to the contagion.
Pepys' note of 15th January 1662 is
as follows : " This morning Mr Ber-
again, and after he
me, and taught me
something in my work, he and I vcJ^'
to breakfast in my chamber upon a
collar of brawn ; and after we had
eaten, asked me whether we had not
committed a fault in eating to-d^;
telling me that it is a fast-day, ordered
by the pariiament, to pray for more
seasonable weather ; it having hither-
to been summer weather : that li^
both as to warmth and every other
thing, just as if it were the middle ol
May or June, which do threaten a
plague, (as all men think,) to fol-
low, for so it was almost the last win-
ter; and the whole year after hatn
been a very sickly time to this day.
The plague appeared in London m
December 1664, and reached its deaa-
dards gilt with varnish, and all clean,
and green reins, that people did
mightily look upon us ; and, the truth
is, I did not see any coach more pretty,
though more gay, than ours all the
day. But we set out, out of humour
— ^I, because Betty, whom I expected,
was not come to go with us ; and my
wife, that I would sit on the same seat
with her, which she likes not, being so
fine ; and she then expected to meet
Sheres, which we did in the Pell Mell,
and, against my will, I was forced to
take him into the coach, but was sullen
all day almost, and little complaisant ;
the day being unpleasing, though the
Park full of coaches, but dusty, and
windy, and cold, and now and then a
little (kibbling of rain ; and, what made
it worse, there were so many hackney
coaches as spoiled the sight of the
gentlemen's; and so we had little
pleasure.'' The tale of Seged, Em-
peror of Ethiopia, does not convey a
clearer moral. No peacock was proud-
er than Samuel Pepys, as he stepped
that day, in all the luxury of gor-
geous apparel, into his coach, and
drove through the streets of London,
under the distinct impression that, for
the moment, he was the most remark-
ed and remarkable roan in the whole
of his Majesty's dominions. Yet
there were drops of bitterness in the
cup. Betty Turner was not there to
enjoy the triumph, and Sheres, who
must needs join the party, was sup-
posed by Samuel to stand rather high
in the good graces of Mrs Pepys, in-
somuch that he mourned not a whit
when he heard that the gallant cap^ kenshaw came
tain was about to set off to Tangier, had examined
Add to this, the ungenial weather,
and the insolent display of hackney
coaches, obscuringsomewhat the lustre
of his new turn-out, and detracting
from the glory of i*ed ribbons, gilt
standards, and green reins, and wo
need hu^dly wonder if, even in the
hour of triumph, Pepys felt that he
was mortal. It is to bo hoped that,
when he returned home, he vented his
ill-humour neither upon his wife nor
his monkey, both of whom, on other
occasions, were made to suffer when
anything had gone wrong.
Three great national events, which
have not yet lost their interest, are
recorded in this Diary. These are the
plague, the great fire of London, and
1849.]
Diary of Samuel Pepys.
607
liest point in August and September
of the ensuing year. The number of
those who died from it has been dif-
ferently estimated from sixty-eight to
one hundred thousand. London is
now, according to the best authorities,
about four times as populous as it was
then, so that we may easily judge of
the consternation into which its in-
habitants must ha^e been thrown
when the pestilence was at its worst.
Daring the month of September 1849,
the greatest number of deaths occur-
ring from cholera in the metropolis, in
one day, was about four hundred and
fifty— a proportion very small when
compared with the ravages of the
pli^e at its most destructive season,
and yet large enough to justify great
apprehension, and to demand humilia-
tion and prayer for national apathy
and transgression. Yet, great as the
alarm was, when death was waving
bis wings over the affrighted city, it
does not seem to have been so exces-
sive as we might well imagine. The
trath is, that, notwithstanding intra-
nmral interment, bad sewerage, and
infected air, the sanatory condition of
London, since it was rebuilt after the
fiP^^t fire, has improved in a most re-
markable degree. Prior to that event,
the metropolis had at various times
suffered most severely from epidemics.
In 1204, when the population must have
oeen very small, it is recorded that
two hundred persons were buried
daily in the Charterhouse-yard. The
mortality m 1367 has been described
as terrific. In 1407, thirty thou-
sand persons perished of a dreadful
pestilence. There was another in
1478, which not only visited London
with much severity, but is said to
have destroyed, throughout England,
niore people than fell in the wars
which had raged with little intermis-
sion for the fifteen preceding years.
In 1485, that mysterious complaint
called the sweating sickness was very
fatal in London. Fifteen years later,
m 1500, the plague there was so
^«»dful that Henry VII. and his
^^ were forced to remove to Calais,
lae sweating sickness, described as
mortal in three hours, again scourged
■E'Dgland in 1517, and its ravages
J^re 80 great, that, according to
^wwe, half of the inhabitants of most
Q* the larger towns died, and Oxford
was almost depopulated. In 1603-4,
upwards of thiity thousand persons
died of the plague in London alone ;
and in 1625 there was another great
mortality. Since the great plague of
London in 1664-5, down to our time,
no very fatal epidemic — at least none
at all comparable to those earlier
pestilences — seems to have occurred
in the metropolis, and it is therefore
natural that any extraordinary visita-
tion sl^ould, from its increased rarity,
occasion a much higher degree of
alarm. Of all the accounts extant of
the plague, that of Fepys appears to
be the most truthful and the least
exaggerated. He remained in Lon-
don at his post until the month of
August, when he removed to Green-
wich ; and although a timorous man,
and exceedingly shy of exposing him-
self to unnecessary risks, he seems on
this occasion to have behaved with
considerable fortitude. One anec-
dote we cannot omit, for it tells in a
few words a deep and tearful tragedy,
and is moreover honourable to Pepys.
It occun'ed when the plague was at
its height. ^^My Lord Bronncker,
Sir J. Minnes, and I, up to the
vestry, at the desire of the justices of
the peace, in order to the doing some-
thing for the keeping of the plague
from growing; but. Lord! to con-
sider the madness of people of the
town, who will, because they are for-
bid, come in crowds along with the-
dead corpses to see them buried ; but
we agreed on some orders for the pre-
vention thereof. Among other stories,
one was very passionate, methought,
of a complaint brought against a man
in the town, for taking a child from
London from an infected house. Al-
derman Hooker told us it was the
child of a very able citizen in Gracious
Street, a saddler, who had buried all
the rest of his children of the plague ;
and himself and wife, now being
shut up in despair of escaping, did
desire only to save the life of this
little child, and so prevailed to have
it removed, stark -naked, into the
arms of a friend, who brought it, hav-
ing put it into fresh clothes, to Green-
wich ; when, upon hearing the story,
we did agree it should be permitted
to be received, and kept in the town."
It is now generally admitted that
the Account of the Plague, written by
508
Diary ofSamud Pqjyt,
[Oct
Defoe, cannot be accepted as a
genuine narratire, but must be classed
with the other fictions of that re-
marki^e man, whose singular power
of giving a strong impression of
xealitj to every one of his compo-
sitions must always challenge the
admiration of the reader. He has
not, perhaps, aggravated the hoirors
of the pestilence, for that were impos-
sible; but he has concentrated them
in one heap, so as to prodnce a more
awfnl picture than probably met the
eye of any single citizen of London
even at that disastrous period. Fepys,
in his account of different visits which
he was forced to make to the City
when the epidemic was at its height,
has portrayed the outward desolation,
and the inward anxiety and appre-
hension, which prevailed, in more
sober, yet very striking colours: ^^28lA
Attffuit 1665.— To Mr Colville the
goldsmith's, having not been for some
days in the streets ; but now how few
people I see, and those looking like
people that had taken leave of the
world. To the Exchange, and there
was not %ity people upon it, and but
few more like to be, as they told me.
I think to take adieu to-day of the
London streets dO<ft. —
Abroad, and met with Hadley, our
cleri[, who, upon my asking how the
plague goes, told me it increases
much, and much in our parish ; for,
says he, there died nine this week,
though I have returned but six ;
which is a very ill practice, and makes
me think it is so in other places, and
therefore the plague much greater
than people take it to be. I went
forth, and walked to waidsMoorefields,
to see— Grod forgive my presumption I
— ^whether I could see any dead corpse
going to the grave, but, as God would
have it, did not. But, Lord! how
everybody's looks and discourse in the
street is of death, and nothing else 1
and few people going up and down,
that the town is like a place deserted
and forsaken. . . . 6iA Sept —
To London, to pack up more things ;
and there I saw fires burning in the
street, (as it is through the whole
^ty») by the lord mayor's order.
Hence by water to the Duke of Albe-
marle's : all the way fires on each side
of the Thames, and strange to see, in
broad daylight, two or three burials
upon the Bankside, one at the veiy
heels of another : doubtless, all of the
plague, and yet at least forty or fifty
people going along with every one of
them. . . . 20M.— Lordl whit
a sad time it is to see no boats upoa
the river ; and grass grows all up and
down Whitehall Court, and nobodj
but poor wretches in the streets!"
By tills time the plague had beoome
so general, that all attempt to shut
up the infected houses was ahtn-
doned; so tiiat, says Pepys, *^to be
sure, we do converse and meet with
people that have the plagae upon
them." A little later, when the pes-
tilence was abating, we find thig
entry : ^* I walked to the town ; but,
Lord I how empty the streets tre,
and melancholy ! so many poor, sick
people in the streets, full of sores, ud
so many sad stories overheard as I
walk, everybody talking of this dead,
and that man sick, and so many in
this place, and so many in that ; and
they tell me that, in Westnunster,
there is never a physician, and bat
one apothecary, left — all being dead;
but that there are great hopes of a
great decrease this we^ : God aeod
it I " Still, without the ciitle of the
plague, (for it does not seem to bava
penetrated beyond the unmediate
environs of London,) men ate, drank,
and made merry, as though no vial
of divine wrath had been poured oot
amongst them. Even Pepys, after
returning firom the melancholy spec-
tacles of this day, seems to have
drowned his care in more than usnal
jollity ; and his records go far to eon-
firm the truthfulness of Boccaodo, in
the account which he has given of the
levity of the Florentines dormg the
prevalence of a like contagion.
The fire of London, which occnrred
about the middle of tiie sucoeedinif
year, not only dispelled the more
poignant memories of the pltgae,
but is thought to have done ^
service in eradicating its remains,
which still lingered in some parts of
the city, and may pei^aps have bctf
the means of preventing a second
outbreak of this pestilence. On the
second night the confla^tion was
awful: Pepys watched it from the
river, — "So near the fire as we conid
for the smoke ; and all over tlie
Thames, with one's face in the wind.
1849.]
Diary of Samuel Pepys,
609
yoxL were almost burned with a shower
of firedrops. This is very tme; so as
houses were burned by these drops
and flakes of fire— three or four, nay,
five or six houses, one firom another.
When we could endure no more upon
the water, we to a little alehouse on
the Bankside, over against the Three
Cranes, and there stayed till it was
dark almost, and saw the fire grow,
and, as it grew darker, appeared more
and more ; and in comers, and upon
steeples, and between churches and
houses, as far as we could see up the
hill of the City, in a most horrid,
malicious, bloody fiame, not like the
fine flame of an ordinary fire. Bar-
bary and her husband away before us.
We stayed till, it being darkish, we
saw the fire as only one entire arch of
fire, from this to the other side of the
bridge, and in a bow up the hill for
an arch of above a mile long : it
made me weep to see it. The churches,
houses, and lUl on fire and flaming at
once; and a horrid noise the flames
made, and the cracking of houses at
their rum." For five days the confla-
gration raged, nor was Its force spent
until the greater part of London was
laid in ashes. The terror of the cala-
mity was heightened by rumours in-
dustriously propagated, though their
origin never could be traced. The fire
was said to be the result of a deep-
laid Popish plot; and that report,
though ui all probability utterly with-
out ionndation, was at a future day
the cause of shamefid persecution and
bloodshed. A great alarm was raised
that the Dutch, with whom England
was then at war, and whose fleet was
actually in the Channel, had landed ;
flo that a kind of sullen despair and
apathy seiised upon the minds of
*nany. It was long before London
could recover from the blow ; but at
length a new dty, far more substan-
^and splendid than the first, arose
™»i the scattered ruins.
England was at that time contest-
ing the supremacy of the seas with
we States of opulent and enterprising
noUand. Amsterdam was then con-
«|dered the most wealthy capital of
J-ttrope. The Dutch navy was power-
*Wi well equipped, and well manned,
^d the admirals, De Ruyter and De
vvitt, were esteemed second to none
■^^g for seamanship and ability.
The struggle was not a new one. In
1652, after a desperate engagement
with Blake, Van Tromp, the renowned
commander of Holland, had sailed in
triumph through the Channel, with a
broom at his masthead, to denote that
he had swept the English from the
seas. That premature boast was
afterwards terribly avenged. Three
times, in three successive months, did
these foes, worthy of each other, en-
counter on the open seas, and yet
victory declared for neither. Four
other battles were fought, which Eng-
land has added to her proud list of
naval triumphs; but most assuredly
the decisive palm was not won until,
on the dlst July 1653, gallant Van
Tromp fell in the heat of action. A
braver man never trod the quarter-
deck, and Holland may well be proud
of such a hero. For a tune the States
succumbed to the stem genius of
Cromwell ; nor did the struggle com-
mence anew until after the Bestora-
tion of Charles. The first engagement
was glorious for England. The Duke
of York, afterwards James II., com-
manded in peraon : he encountered the
Dutch fleet off Harwich, and defeated
it after a stubborn engagement.
£i^ teen of their finest vessels were
taken, and the ship of the admiral
(Opdam) blown into the air. Mr
Macanlay, in his late published Ilis*
tory of England^ has not deigned even
to notice this engagement — a remark-
able omission, the reason of which it
is foreign to our purpose to inquire.
This much we may be allowed to say,
that no historian who intends to form
an accurate estimate of the character
of James IL, or to compile a complete
register of his deeds, can justly ac-
complish his task without giving that
unfortunate monarch due credit for
his conduct and intrepidity, in one
of the most important and successful
naval actions which stands recorded in
our annals. The same year (1666^ Is
memorable for another victory, when
the Earl of Sandwich captured four-
teen of the enemy's ships. Prince
Rupert and the Duke of Albemarle
were less successful in the engage-
ment which commenced on 1st June
1666. The fight lasted four days,
with no decisive result, but consider-
able loss on either side. The nex.t
battle, fought at the mouth of the
510
Diary of Samuel Pepjft.
[Oct
Thames, ended in favour of England ;
the Dutch lost foar-and-twenty men-
of-war, and fonr of their admirals,
and fonr thousand officers and sea-
men, fell. When we take into consi-
deration the state of the navy daring
the earlier part of the reign of Charles,
it is absolutely astonishing that Eng-
land was able not only to cope with
the Dutch on equal terms, but ulti-
mately to subdue them. We learn
from Pepys the particulars of a fact
long generally known, that in no de-
partment of the state were there
greater corruptions, abuses, and frauds
practised than in that of the Ad-
miralty. The pay both of officers and
men was constantly in arrear, inso-
much that some of them were re-
duced to absolute starvation whilst
considerable sums were due to them.
Stores were embezzled and plundered
almost without inquiry. The fleets
were often wretchedly commanded,
for there was not then, as there is
now, any restriction between the ser-
vices; and new-made captains from
the circle of the court, who never in
their lives had been at sea, were fre-
quently put over the heads of vete-
rans who from boyhood had dwelt
upon the ocean. There was scarcely
any discipline in the navy ; impress-
ment was harshly and illegally prac-
tised, and after each engafi;ement the
sailors deserted by hundreds. So bad
did matters at length become, that,
towards the close of the year 1666,
the fleet was in actual mutiny, and
the naval arm of England paralysed.
The subsequent reform of the navy is
mainly attributable to the firmness
and determination of the Duke of
York, who, being a far better man of
business than his indolent and selfish
brother, applied himself resolutely to
the task. The most important sug-
gestions and rules for remedying
grievances, and securing future effi-
ciency, were made and drawn out by
Pepys, who showed himself, in this
respect, a most able officer of the
crown, and who, in consequence, ac-
quired an ascendency in navy affairs,
which he never lost until the Revolu-
tion deprived him of a master who
thoroughly understood his value. But,
before any steps were taken towards
this most necessaiT reform, her daring
adversaries nimed at the capital of
England a blow which nanowly fuled
of success.
The seamen, as we have said, Ymag
in a state of mutiny arismg from
sheer wanton mismanagement, it be-
came i4)parent that no active nayal
operations could be undertaken in the
course of the following year. All thia
was well known to the Dutch, who
determined to avail themsdves of tha
opportunity. During the spring of
1667, the whole British coast, u hx
north as the firth of Forth, was mo*
lested by the Dutch cmis^ inso-
much that great inconvenience wis
felt in London from the total stop-
page of the coal trade. In the month
of June, De Kuyter, being by that
time fully prepared and equipped,
sailed boldly into the Thames, with-
out encountering a vestige of opposi-
tion. It is not too much to say, that
the plague and fire combined, had not
struck the citizens of London with so
much alarm as did this hostile de-
monstration. AU the former naval
triumphs of England seemed to have
gone for nothing, for here was inva-
sion brought to the very doors of the
capital. The supremacy of the seas
was not now in dispute : it was the
occupancy of the great British river,
the highway of the national com-
merce. Strange were the thoughts
that haunted the minds of mea whilst
that mighty armament was hovering
on our shores : it seemed a new
Armada, with no gallant Drake to
oppose it. ** We had good company
at our table,*' wrote Pepys, upon the
8d of June; '^ among others, my good
Mr Evelyn, with whom, after dinner,
I stepped aside, and talked upon the
present posture of our affairs, which
is, that the Dutch are known to be
abroad with eighty saU of ships of
war, and twenty fireships ; and the
French come into the Channel, with
twenty sail of men-of-war, and five
fireships, while we have not a ship
at sea to do them any hurt with ; bat
are calling in all we can, while onr
ambassadors are treating at Breda;
and the Dutch look upon them as
come to beg peace, and use them sc-
cordingly : and all this through the
negligence of our prince, who had
power, if he would, to master all these
with the money and men that he bain
had the command of, and may now
1S49.]
Diary of Samuel Pepys,
611
have if he would mind his bnsiness.
But, for anght we see, the kingdom is
likely to be lost, as well as the repn-
tation of it, for ever ; notwithstand-
ing so mnch reputation got and pre-
served by a rebel that went before
him." All this was true. Had he
been alive — he whose senseless clay
had six years before been exhumed
and dishonoured at Tybnm — England
would not then have been submitting
to so unexampled a degradation.
Traitor and renegade as he was,
Cromwell loved his country well.
Self-ambition might be his first
motive, but be was keenly alive to
the glory of England, and had made
her name a word of fear and terror
among the nations. He was no vulgar
demagogue, like those of our dogmatic
time. Unlawfully as he had usurped
the fanctions of a sovereign, Britain
sufiered nothing in foreign estimation
^hile her interests were committed to
his charge. What wonder if, at snch
a crisis, Pepys and others could not
help reverting to the memory of the
strong man whose bones were lying
beneath the public gallows, whilst the
restored king was squandering among
his harlots that treasure which, if
rightfully applied, might have swept
the enemies of England from the
seas?
On the 8th of June, the Dutch fleet
appeared off Harwich. Two days
^terwards they ascended the river,
took Sheemeas, and, breaking an
enormous chain which had been drawn
across the Medway for defence, pene-
trated as far as Upnor Castle, where,
ill spite of all resistance, they made
prize of several vessels, and burned
three men-of-war. By some shame-
fol mismanagement the English ships
had been left too far down the river,
notwithstanding orders from the Ad-
miralty to have them removed : they
^ere, besides, only half manned; and
on this oocasion the English sailors
did not exhibit their wonted readiness
^ fight. It was even reported to
•repys, by a gentleman who was pre-
sent, " that he himself did hear many
Englishmen, on board the Dutch ships,
speaking to one another in English;
and that they did cry and say, We
did heretofore fight for tickets, now we
nght for doUars! and did ask how
wch and snch a one did, and would
commend themselves to them — which
is a sad consideration;** Reinforce-
ments arrived from Portsmouth ; but
instead of working, they " do come to
the office this morning to demand the
payment of their tickets; for other-
wise they would, they said, do no more
work ; and are, as I understand ivom
everybody who has to do with them,
the most debauched, damning, swear-
ing rogues that ever were in the navy
— just like their profane commander.**
It seemed, at one time, more than pro-
bable that the Dutch would attack
the city: had they made the attempt,
it is not likely, so great was the panic,
that they would have been encoun-
tered by effectual opposition ; but De
Ruyter was apprehensive of pushing
his advantage too far, and contented
himself with destroying such shipping
as he found in the river.
Meanwhile, great was the explosion
of public wrath, both against the Court
and the Admiralty officials. Crowds
of people congregated in Westminster,
loudly clamouring for a parliament.
The windows of the Lord Chancellor*s
house were broken, and a gibbet
erected before his gate. " People do
cry out in the streets of their being
bought and sold ; and both they, and
everybody that do come to me, do
tell me that people make nothing of
talking treason in the streets openly ;
as, that they are bought and sold, and
governed by Papists, and that we are
betrayed by people about the king,
and shall be delivered up to the
French, and I know not what.** Poor
Pepys expected nothing else than an
immediate attack upon his office, in
which, by some miraculous circum-
stance, there happened to be at the
moment a considerable sum of pnblic
money. His situation rendered him
peculiarly obnoxious to abuse; and
at one time it was currently reported
that he was summarily ordered to the
Tower. These things cost him no
little anxiety; but what distracted
him most was, the agonising thought
that the whole of his private sayings
and fortune, which he had by him in
specie, might, in a single moment, be
swept away and dissipated for ever.
If the seamen who were mutinous for
pay should chance to hear of the funds
in hand, and take it into their heads
to storm the office, there was little
^12
Diary of Samuei Pqfjfi,
[Oct
probability of them drawing nice dis-
tinctions between public and priyate
property : and, in that case, money,
isLgons, and all would find their way
to Wapping. Also, there might be a
chance of a reckoning in any event;
" for," said he, " the tmth is, I do
fear so mnch that the whole kingdom
is undone, that I do this night resolve
to study with my father and wife what
to do with the little I have in money
by me, for I give up all the rest that
I have in the king's hands, for Tan-
gier, for lost. So God help nsl and
€rod knows what disorders we may
fall into, and whether any violence
on this office, or perhaps some se-
verity on our persons, as being
reckoned by the silly people, or i>er-
haps may, by policy of state, be
thought fit to be condemned by the
king and Duke of York, and so put to
trouble ; though, God knows I I have
in my own person done my full duty,
I am sure." So, in the very midst of
the confusion, Samuel, Uke a wise
man, set about regulating his own af-
fairs. He was lucky enough to get
£400 paid him, to account of his sa-
lary, and he despatched his father and
wife to Cambridgeshire, with £1300
in gold in their night-bag. Next day
Mr Gibson, one of his clerks, followed
them with another 1000 pieces, ^^ un-
•der colour of an express to Sir Jeremy
Smith." The two grand silver flagons
went to Kate Joyce's, where it is to
be presumed they would be tolerably
safe. Pepys, moreover, provided
himself a girdle, ** by which, with
flome trouble, I do carry about me
£800 of gold about my body, that I
may not be without something in case
I should be surprised ; for I think, in
■any nation but ours, people that ap-
pear—for we are not indeed so— eo
laulty as we would have their throats
cut." Still he had £200 in silver by
him, which was not convertible into
^old, there having been, as usual on
such occasions, a sharp run upon the
more portable metal. His ideas as to
secreting this sum would not have
displeased Vespasian, but he seems to
have been deterred from that experi-
ment by the obvious difficulty of re-
-covering the silver at the moment of
need. These dispositions made, Pepys
obviously felt himself more comfort-
able,^ and manfully resolved to abide
the chances of assault, impMoniiwat,
or impeachment.
None of those calamities held fain.
After the navy of Holland had ap-
peared from the waters of theThimes,
an inquiry, of rather a strict and rigo-
rous nature, as to the eanssB of the
late disaster, was instituted; hot,
where the Uame was so widdy
spread, and retort go easy, it was dif-
ficult to Ax upon any particiilir ric-
tim as a propitiation for tiie officiil
sins; and Pepys, who really under-
stood his business, made a gaUaot tod
successful defence, not only tot fain-
self, but for his associates. We need
not, however, ent^ into that ■atter,
more especially as we hope that tfae
reader feels sufficient interest in P«p^
and his fortunes, to be curious to
know what became of his money ; nor
is the history of its disposal aad re-
covery ^e least amusing portion of
this narrative.
Mr Peter Pett, commissioiierof tfae
navy, who was principally Uanabie
for the loss of the ships at Chatfam,
had been actually sent to the Tvwer;
and our Mend Pepys, bemg sunnoied
to attend the cooncii, had an awfid
misgiving that the same fhte wu in
store for him. He esc^ied, however;
*^ but my fear was such, at mj goiB|
in, of the success of the day, that I
did think fit to give J. Hater, wfaomi
took with me to wait the event, nj
closet key, and directions wfaeie to
find £500 and more in stlfer aad
gold, and my tallies, to venovetii
case of any misfortune to me. Hose,
and after being there a little, my wife
came, and two of her feilow-traTefiefS
with her, with whom we drank-^
couple of merchant-like men, I tfaiv,
but have friends in onr conntiy. Tb^
being gone, my wife did give me so bad
an account of her and my father^ sm-
thod, in buryingof onr g^d, tfastiw
me mad; and she herself is net plotf^
with it— she believing that my^
knows of it My fiather and shew
it on Sunday, when they were gone to
church, in open daylight, in tbemiw
of the gnden, where, for ^^^^
knew, many eyes might see theia»
which put me into trouble, andlpi^
sently cast about how to have it bacK
again, to secure it here, the io^
being a little better now.**
The antumn was well advanced fae-
1849-]
Diary of Samuel Pepys,
518
fore Fepys could obtain leave to go
down into the conntiy, whither at
length he proceeded, not to shoot part-
ridges or pheasants, but to disinter his
buried treasure. We donbt whether
over resurrectionist felt himself in such
a quandary.
** My father and I with a dark-lantern,
it being now night, into the garden with
my wife, and there went about our great
work io dig up my gold. But, Lord !
what a tosse I was for some time in, that
they could not justly tell where it was;
that I began hastily to sweat, and be
angry that they could not agree better
upon the place, and at last to fear that it
was gone: but by-and-by, poking with a
epit, we found it, and then began with a
spndd to lift up the ground. Bbt, good
God ! to see how sillily they did it, not half
afoot nnder ground, and in the sight of the
world from a hundred places, if anybody
by accident were near hand, and within
eight of a neighbour's window : only my
father says that he saw them all gone to
ehureh before he began the work, when he
laid the money. But I was out of my
wits almost, and the more for that, upon
my lifting up the earth with the spudd, I
did dkcem that I had scattered the pieces
of gold round about the ground among
the gram and loose earth; and taking up
the iron headpieces whereyerthey were
put, I perceired the earth was got among
the gold, and wet, so that the bags were
all rotten, and all the notes, that I could
not tell what in the world to say to it, not
knowing how to judge what was wanting,
or what had been lost by Gibson in his
coming down; which, all put together,
did make me mad; and at last I was fix-
ed to take np the headpieces, dirt and all,
and as many of the scattered pieces as I
could with the dirt discern by candle-light,
and carry them into my brother's cham-
ber^ and there lock them up till I had eat
a little supper; and then, all people go-
ing to bed, W. Hewer and I did all alone,
^ith seTeral pails of water and besoms, at
last wash the dirt off the pieces, and part-
ed the pieces and the dirt, and then began
io tell them by a note which I had of the
value of the whole, in my pocket; and do
find that there was short abore a hundred
pieces ; which did make me mad ; and
considering that the neighbour's house
was so near that we could not possibly
Bpeak one to another in the garden at that
place where the gold lay— especially my
father being deaf— but they must know
what we had been doing, I feared that
they might in the night come and gather
some pieces and prevent us the next morn-
ing; so W. Hewer and I out again about
midnight, for it was now grown so late,
and there by candle-light did make shiflb
to gather forty-fiye pieces more. And so
in, and to cleanse them; and by this time
it was past two in the morning; and so to
bed, with my mind pretty quiet to think
that I have recovered so many, I lay in
the tmndle-bed, the girl being gone to bed
to my wife, and there lay in some disquiet
all night, telling of the clock till it was
daylight."
Then ensued a scene of washing for
gold, the study of which may be use-
ful to any intending emigrant to Cali-
fornia.
'^ And then W. Hewer and I, with pails
and a sieve, did lock ourselves into the
garden, and there gather all the earth
about the place into pails, and then sift
those pails in one of the summer-houses,
just as they do for diamonds in other
parts of the world; and there, to our
great content, did by nine o'clock make
the last night's forty -five up seventy-nine:
so that we are come to about twenty or
thirty of what the true number should be;
and perhaps within less ; and of them I
may reasonably think that Mr Gibson
might lose some : so that I am pretty
well satisfied that my loss is not great,
and do bless God that all is so well.
So do leave my father to make a second
examination of the dirt ; and my mind at
rest on it, being but an accident : and so
gives me some kind of content to remem-
ber how painful it is sometimes to keep
money, as well as to get it, and how
doubtful I was to keep it all night, and
how to secure it in I^don : so got all
my gold put up in bags."
And then did Samuel Pepys return
to London rejoicing, not one whit the
worse for all his care and anxiety, yet
still incubating on his treasure, which
hehad prudently stowed away beneath
him, and, says he, "my work every
quarter of an hour was to look to see
whether all was well ; and I did ride
in great fear all the day.''
We have already hinted that
Pepys was by no means a Hector in
valour. The sight of a sospicioua
bumpkin armed with a cudgel, on the
road, always gave him qualms of ap-
prehension ; and in the night-season
his dreams were commonly of robbery
and murder. For many nights after
the great fire, he started from sleep
nnder the conviction that his premises
were in a bright flame : the creaking
of a door after midnight threw him
into a cold perspiration; and a reported
noise on the leads nearly drove him
bU
Diary of Samuel Pepy$.
[Oct.
past his judgment. He thus reports
his sensations on the occurrence of the
latter phenomenon :—
'' Knowing that I liavp a great sum of
money in the house, this puts me into a
most mighty affright, that for more than
two hours, I could not ahnost tell what
to do or say, but feared i\\U night, and
remembered that this morning I &aw a
woman and two men stand .suspiciously
in the entry, in the dark; I calling to
them, they made me only this answer,
the woman saying that the men only
come to see her; but who she was, 1
cannot tell. The truth i<i, my hou.«e is
mighty dangerous, having so many ways
to be come to ; and at my windows, over
the stairs, to see who goes up and down ;
but if 1 escape to-night, I will remedy it.
God preserve us this night safe ! ^Oy at
almost two oVlock I home to my house,
and, in great fear, to bod, thinking every
running of a mou^e really a thief ; and so
to sleep, very brokenly, all night long,
and found all safe in the morning."
All of us have, doubtless, on occa-
sion, been wakened from slumber by
a hollow bellowing, as if an ox had,
somehow or other, fallen half way
down the chimney. Once, in a
remote country district, we were
roused from our dreams by a hideous
flapping of wings in the same locality,
and certainly did, for a moment, con-
jecture that the foul liend was flying
away with our portmanteau. The
flrst of these nntimeous sounds usually
proceeds from a gentleman of Ethio-
pian complexion, who is perched some-
where among the chiumey-pots ; the
latter we discovered to arise from the
involuntary struggles of a goose, who
had been cruelly compelled to assist
in the dislodgement of the soot. Some
degree of tremor on such occasions is
admissible without reproach, but
surely old Trapbois himself could
hardly have behaved worse than
Pepys upon the following alarm.
'* Waked about seven o'clock this
morning, with a noise I supposed I heard
near our chamber, of knocking, which
by-and-by increased ; and I, now awake,
could distinguish it better. I then
waked my wife, and both of us wondered
at it, and lay so a great while, while
that increased, and at last heard it plainer,
knocking, as it were breaking down a
window for people to get out ; and then
removing of stools and chairs ; and
plainly, by-and-by, going up and down
our stairs. We lay, both of us, afraid \
yet I would haTO rose, but my wife woold
not let me. Besides, I could not do it
without making noise ; and we did both
conclude that thieves were in the konse,
but wondered what our people did, whom
we thought either killed, or afraid ad we
were. Thus we lay till the clock struck
eight, and high day. At last, I removed
my gown and slippers safely to the other
side of the bed, over my wife ; and there
safely rose, and put on my gown aiui
breeches, and then, with a firebrand ia
my hand, safely opened the door, and eiw
uor heard anything. Then, with fear, 1
confess, went to the maid*d chamber door,
and all quiet and safe. Called Jane ap,
and went down safely, and opened m$
chamber door, where all well. Thei
more freely about, and to the kitcbei,
where the cookmaid up, and all safe. So
up again, and when Jane came, and we
demanded whether she heard no nciise,
she said ^ Yes, but was afraid," but im
with the other maid and found notluog;
but heard a noise in the great stack cf
chimneys that goes from Sir J. Miones*!
through our house ; and so we sent, and
their chimneys have been swept this
morning, and the noise was that, avd
nothing else. H is one of ihf utott ei-
traot-dinartj accUIcnU in wy Ufii *ai
gives ground to think of Don Qaiiutc'i
adventures, how people may be surprised;
and the more from an accident last aigbl,
that our yonng gibb-cat did leap down
our stairs, fh>m top to bottom, at tw»
leaps, and frighted us, that we coold iMi
tell whether it was the cat or a fcpint,
and do sometimes think this morning that
the house might be haunted.*'
Had our space admitt^ of it, we
should have been glad to copy i few
of the anecdotes narrated by Pep)rs
regarding the court of King Cbaries.
These are not always to be depended
upon as correct, for Pepys usaaUr re-
ceived them at second hand, iua pit
them down immediately without ta-
ther inquiry. We all know, from ex-
perience, what exaggeration preraili
in the promulgation of gossip, aod
how difilcnlt it is at any time to ascer-
tain the real merits of a story. T^
raw material of a scandaloos anecdote
passes flrst into the hands of a skitfil
manufacturer, who knows howtogi^
it due colour and fit proportion ; am
when, after undergoing this proceVi
it is presented to the public it ^oibi
puzzle any of the parties coDcerDedto
reconcile it with the actual facts. Ib
a court like that of Charles, there a
always mixed up with the profligKf
1849.]
Diary of Samuel Pepys,
515
a considerable deal of wit. Sach men
as Sedley, Rochester, £therege, and
Killigrew, were privileged characters,
and never scrupled to lay on the
varnish, if by so doing they conld
heighten the effect. Neither the
station, nor the manners, nor, indeed,
the tastes of Pepys, qualified him to
mix with sach society, and therefore
ke can only retail to ns the articles
which came adulterated to his hand.
It is rash in any historian to trust
implicitly to memoirs. They may,
indeed, give an accurate general pic-
ture, but they cannot be depended on
for particulars : for example, we en-
tertain a strong suspicion that one-
half at least of the personal anecdotes
related by Count Anthony Hamilton
are, if not absolutely false, at least
most grossly eicaggerated. We shall
allude merely to one notable instance
of this kind of nnisrepresentation which
occnrs in Pepjrs. Frances, more com-
monly known sis La Belle Stewart, a
lady of the noble house of Blantyre, was
beloved by Charles II., with probably
as much infusion of the purer passion
as could be felt by so sated a volup-
tnary. So strong was his admiration,
that it was currently believed that the
fair Stewart, failing Katherine, had an
excellent chance of being elevated to
the throne ; and it is quite well known
that her virtue was as spotless as her
beauty was imrivalled. In spite of
the opposition of the king, she married
Charles, Duke of Lennox and Rich-
mond ; and Iier resolute and spirited
conduct on tbat occasion, under very
trying circnnnstances, was much and
deservedly extolled. And yet we
find in the earlier pages of Fepys
most scandalous anecdotes to her dis-
credit. In the second volume there is
an account of a mock marriage be-
tween her and Lady Castlemaine, in
which the latter personated the bride-
groom, making way, when the com-
pany had retired, for the entry of her
royal paramour. On several other
occasions Pepys alludes to her as the
notorious mistress of the king, and it
was only after her marriage that he
appears to have been undeceived. His
informant on this occasion was the
honourable Evelyn, and it may not
displease our readers to hear his vin-
dication of the lady—
'* He told me/' says Pepys, ^ the whole
Btory of Mrs Stewart's going away from
Court, he knowing her well, and be-
lieyes her, np to her leaving the Coart,
to be as Tirtnous as any woman in
the world : and told me, from a lord that
she told it t-o but yesterday, with her own
mouth, and a sober man, that when the
Duke of Richmond did make love to her
she did ask the King, and he did the like
also, and that the King did not deny it :
and told this lord that she was come to
that pass as to have resolved to have
married any gentleman of £1500 a-year
that would have had her in honour ; for
it was come to that pass, that she would
not longer continue at Court without yield-
ing herself to the King, whom she had so
long kept off, though he had liberty more
than any other bad, or he ought to have,
as to daJliance. She told this lord that
she had reflected upon the occasion she
had given the world to think her a bad
woman, and that she had no way but to
marry and leave the Court, rather in this
way of discontent than otherwise, that
the world might see that she sought not
anything but her honour ; and that she
will never come to live at Court more
than when she comes to town to kiss the
Queen her mistress's hand: and hopes,
though she hath little reason to hope, she
can please her lord so as to reclaim him,
that they may yet live comfortably in the
country on his estate."
" A worthy woman," added Evelyn,
'^ and in that hath done as great an
act of honour as ever was done by
woman." The fact is, that it was next
thing to impossible for any lady to
preserve her reputation at the court
of King Charles. Those who handle
pitch cannot hope to escape defile-
ment ; and daily association with the
Duchess of Cleveland, and other
acknowledged mistresses of the king,
was not the best mode of impressing
the public with the idea of a woman's
virtne. Frances Stuart, a poor un-
protected girl, did, we verily believe,
pass through as severe an ordeal as
well can be imagined : the cruel accu-
sations which were raised up against
her, were no more than the penalty
of her position ; but no stain of dis-
grace remains on the memory of her,
whose fair and faultless form was
selected as the fittest model for the
effigy of the Gonius of Britain.
In a small way, Pepys had some
intercourse with the ladies of the
court, though it must be confessed
that his acqnwntances were rather of
old
the lower sphere. He was a stauDch
admirer of that splendid spit Are, Lady
Ctustlemaiiie, who#e i>ortrait he greatly
eoveted. ** It is," iim)th he, '^a most
blessed picture, and one I must hare
a copy of." Mary Davis seems to
have been no favourite of his, princi-
Dkuy of Samuel Pepy$. [Oct.
Sir Charles Scdlej, aa was the case
when Sam assisted at her toilet. Here
again we tind that arch-iutrigner,
Knipp, countermining the domestic
peace of poor innocent Mrs Pcpjs.
^'Thence to the King^s house, and
there saw The Humorons Lieulauaif
pally because she was an object of a silly play, I think ; only the Spirit
especial detestation to the monopo-
li>iuj» C';istlemaiuo. He styled her an
" im{KTtinent .<lut," and, one ui<;ht at
the theatre, ** it vexed me to see Moll
Davis, in the box over the king's, and
niv Ladv C'astlemaine's, look down
upon the king, and he up to her ; and
so did mv T-.adv Castlemaine once, to
see who it was : but when she saw
^[oll Davis, she hx^ked like tire, which
troubled me." Why it should have
troubled Pepys, we cannot i)crfectly
comprehend. ' With Nell (iwynne,
Samuel w;V5 upon exceedingly easy
terms i and no wonder, for she and
Kuipp lH.'longed to the same company.
" To the King*-* house: and there, go-
ing in, met with Knipp, and she took us
up into the tireing-rooni^; and to the
women's shift, where Nell was dressing
herself, and was all unready, and as very
pretty, prettier than I thought. And into
the scene-room, and tliero sat down, and
she gave ui» fruit; and here I read the
questions to Knipp, while she answered
me, throujuh all her part of " Flora Fig-
arys," wliich was acted to-day. But,
Lord! to sec how they were both painted
would make a man mad, and did make
me loathe them; and what base company
of men come^ among them, and how
lewdly they talk! and how poor the men
are in clothes, and yet what a show they
make upon the stage by candlelight, is
very observable. But to sec liow Nell
cursed, for having so few people in the
pit, was pretty; the other house carrying
away all the people at the new play, and
is said, now-a-daye, to have generally
most Company, as being better players.
By-and-by into the pit, and there saw the
play, which is pretty good."
Wo dare wager a trifle that Mrs
Pepys died in total ignorance of her
husband having been behind the
scenes. Probably Nelly's style of
conversation would have found less
favour in her eyes. True, she had
been introduced* to Nelly on a pre-
vious occasion; but the little lady
seems then to have been on her good
behaviour, and had not made herself
notorious ^'ith Lord Bnckhurst, and
in it that grows stery tall, and then
sinks again to nothing, having two
heads breeding npon one ; and thea
Knipp's singing did please tis. Here,
in a box above, we spied ^Irs Pierce;
and, going oat, they called us, ud
brought to us Nelly, a most pretty
woman, who acted the great p«Tt of
Cceiia to-day very fine, and did it
pretty well. I kissed her, and so dkl
my wife ; and a mighty pretty sool
she is. We also saw MrsBeD,
which is my little Roman-nose black
girl, that is mighty pretty : she il
usually called Betty. Knipp made u
stay in a box and sec the dancings
preparatory to to-morrow, for tkt
Goblins^ a play of Suckling^s, not act-
ed these twenty-five years — which,
was pretty ; and so away thenoe,
pleased with this sight also, and spe-
cially kissing of Nell."
We have searched these Yolames
with some curiosity for entries which
might throw any light on the histoiy
and character of the Duke of Moa-
mouth. Of late he has been exalted
to the rank of a champion of the Fio-
testant cansc, and figures in party
chronicles rather as a martyr than a
rebel. Now, although there is aa
doubt that he was privy to the desigai
of Sydney and Unssell, the object d
his joining that faction still remains a
mystery to bo explained. We can
understand the spirit that animated
the Whig Lords and Republican plot-
ters, in attempting to sabvert the
power of the crown, which they
deemed exorbitant and dangerons
to the liberties of the subject
The personal character of the meo
was quite reconcilable with the mo-
tives they professed, and the prin-
ciples they avowed. Bat that Moa-
mouth — the gay, fickle, licentioiHi
and pampered Monmonth — ^had any
thought beyond his own aggrandise-
ment, in committing anch an act of
monstrous ingratitade as rebellioi
against his indulgent father, seems to
us an hypothesis onsubatantiated by
1849.]
Diary ofSamMel Pe^#.
517
even a shadoir Of proof. We do not
here allude to hiB second treason,
which bronghthim to the scaffold— his
motives on thai occasion are snffi-
cientlyclear: he never was a fayonrite
with his nnele ; he aimed at the crown
throng a false assertion of his legiti-
macj; and the knaves and fools who
were his counsellors made nse of the
cry of Protestantism merely as a cover
to their designs. Monmouth's first
treason was undoubtedly his blackest
crime: for, had he been the rightful
hetr of Britain, he could not have ex-
perienced at the hands of Charles
more ample honour and affection. It
hf tiierefore, vnduable to know what
position he occapied during the earlier
period of his life.
The following are some of Pepys'
entries, which we think are histori-
cally lettable : —
*3l8t Dec. 1G62.— The Duke of Mon-
XQoath 18 in so great splendour at court,
and 80 dandled by the King, that some
doubt that, if tlie King should have no
child by the Qneen, which there is yet no
appeanmce of, whether he woold not be
acknowledged aa a lawful son ; and that
there will be a differeiioe between the
Dokd of York &nd him, which God pre-
Tentl . . 8thFeb.l663.— The little
Doke of Monmouth, it seems, is ordered
to take place of all Dukes, and so do fol-
low Prince Rupert now, before the Duke
of Buckinffhamy or any else
27th April.— Tlie Queen, which I did not
know, it seems was at Windsor, at the
late St George's feast there; and the
Doke of Monmouth dancing with her,
with his hat in his hand, the King came
in and kissed bim, and made him put on
his hat, which everybody took notice of.
• . . • 4th May. — 1 to the garden
with my Lord Sandwich, after we had sat
an hour at the Tangier committee, and
after talking largely of his own businesses,
we began to talk how matters are at
court: and though he did not fully tell me
any such thing, yet I do suspect that all
is not kind between the King and the
Biike,(York) and that the Kuig's fondness
to the little Duke do occasion it; and it
nay be that there is some fear of his
l^eing made heir to the crown. . . .
22d Feb. 1664.— He (Charles) loves not
the Queen at all, but is rather sullen to
her; and she, by all reports, incapable of
children. He is so fond of the Doke of
Monmouth that everybody admires it ;
and he says that the Duke hath said,
that he would be the death of any man
that says the King was not married to his
mother 11th September
1667. — Here came Mr Moore, and sat
and conversed with me of public matters,,
the sum of which is, that he has no doubt
there is more at the bottom than the re-
moval of the Chancellor; that is, he do
verily believe that the King do resolve to
declare the Duke of Monmouth legitimate,
and that we shall soon see it. This I do
not think the Duke of York will endure
without blows."
These are bnt a few of Pepys' notes
relative to this sabject, and we think
there is much signiiicancy in them.
The fondness of Charles for Mon-
month was, to say the least of it,
extravagant and Injadicions. He
promoted him to the highest grade of
the nobility; he procured for him a
match with one of the wealthiest
heiresses in Britain ; and he allowed
and enconraged him to assume ont-
ward marks of distinction which had
always been considered the preroga-
tive of Princes of the blood royal /
In the words of Dryden —
** His favour leaves me nothing to require,
Prevents my -wishes and outruns desire;
What more can I expect while David lives?
All but his kingly diadem he gives."
Such nnprecedented honours heaped
upon the eldest of the bastards of
Charles must necessarily have been
extremely annoying to the Duke of
York, and were ill-calculated to con-
ciliate his favour, in the event of
his succeeding to the crown. They
certainly were enough to give much
weight to the rumour long current in
the nation, that Charles contemplated
the step of declaring Monmouth legi-
timate, and of course they excited in
the mind of the youth aspirations of
the most dangerous nature. At no
period of his career did the son of
Lucy Walters display qualities which
can fairly entitle him to our esteem.
As a husband, he was false and heart-
less ; as a son, he was undutiful and
treacherous. Pepys always speaks of
him disparagingly, as a dissipated,
profligate young man ; and he is borne
out in this testimony by the shameful
outrage committed on the person of
Sir John Coventry, at his direct insti-
gation. Again he says, " 16th
December 1666— Lord Brouncker tells
me, that he do not believe the Duke
of York will go to sea again, though
there are many about the king that
would be glad of any occasion to take
Tfiary of Samuel Ptpys.
[Oct. \^%
l-.m ■ -: if t'::? worlil. ho itanJing in
I'.iir 'w-^v^: and ^eemiT'l v* ir.ean the
iJute r.f Moniiiomh. who jprmU hi?
!:::;e :".':• !r.'"'?t \i«.""ii>ly and idle of
a-y ::..:ii. r.:r w::i he liiforanyihinir :
vi*. ;..^ -j't-ak- a* if il wvre ii-.'t imj»os-
ii. ■.•:■ ^■.■.: ibe k';::j would own him
f. r l.i* > n. xr.\ liia: tinro was mar-
:;.\;o l'.:wttn ;.:5 ir.vtiier and hi in."
'\:\i^ wa> a 5:raiijo t:b.imj'* 'ii to put
f.-r-vari in iho caii>o if liUrtv and
r-. 'i-i-n.
\V.- :. :v,- iaLo • "r leave of iho?o
V. ■.. 'r.t-. t:.:^ i'r;>.;l ^-f ^hich hx<
;.!*■ I 1- 1 i:> j.i.u^ ylea?ant hours,
l-viiy ...lie iv.r.st '.■••jTrt that tlio health
. f IViy? c 'r..ii.".".rd him to alandon
1.:* dai.v ia5k >:• lailv : f-r l-v far the
i;i.>: iiiiorf^ilr.z '.oiii'duf iho n-i^ of
( :: ai 1 1- s r»; : . a : n ? r. u i 11 antral d i by his
j\n. Had i::< l>iary been continued
l^•^^n i-i \\.: liov.'luiivni, wiih the
<a::ie -;.'ii:: w],io!i characterises the
ixtani jvni'in, it would havo been
iii\^.'f ilu- m-'^t useful l.i-iori« al re-
i-.T-ls in the Kivlish lauiiuau'e. IVpys,
1 .yi'ud the imnudiaie splure vi his
i^wn ••ttice, was ni> ]>artisan. He
lii vi r ilirows an uunccis-arv mantle
over the taults even of his frii-nds and
[■atr.-ns. Xo man wa- ni"iv alive to
the criminal conduct of Charles, and
lii-i slianieuil nedect of juiMic duty.
He has )ii? i^nips and pirds at the
l»nke I'f York, tliondi he entertained
a hi^h. and. we think, a just opinion
of tiie natural abilities uf that prince:
ar.d while he pives him due credit for
a sincere desire to reform abuses in
that public department which was
umler his superintendence, li»' shows
himself bv no means blind to his vice?,
and besettinjr ob-tinacy. Kven the
Karl of Sandwich, to wlmm he was so
nuich intlebted, does not escape. On
C'ue occasi«.»n, Pepys took upon liini-
sclf to perfonn the danperous office
of a Mentor to that high-spirited
nobleman, autl it is to the credit
with his pnrse. Considering that he
owed everything he possessed in the
world to the earl, wc think he might
liave opened his cotifers, at such a
pinch as the following, without any
Israel itUh contemplation of secarity.
'• After dinner comes Mr Moore, and
he and I alone awhile, he telling me
my Lord Sandwich's credit was like
to be undone, if the bill of £i'<Mniy
Lord Hinchingbroke wrote to mc about
be not paid to-morrow, and that, if I
•lo not help them about it, they have
no way Imt to let it be protested. S"),
tiudin? that Creed had supplied them
with £15u in their straits, aud that
this was no bif^ger sum. I am vorr
willing to serve my lord, thoujrh not
in this kind : but yet I will endeavocr
to get this done for them, and tfae
rather because of some plate that was
Iodised the other dav with me. bv my
lady*s order, which may be in part
security for my money. Tliis do troa-
ble me ; but yet it is good lock that
the sum is no bigger." AVe cannot
agree with ]A>rd Braybrooke that
Pepys was a liberal man, even to his
own relations. Wc do not go tie
lenffth of saying that he was deticieot
in family duties, but it seems to ds
that lie might have selected a fitter
gift for his father than his old sloes ;
and surely, when his sister Paulina
came to stay with him. there w:ij no
necessity for insisting that she should
eat with the maids, and consider her-
."^elf on the footing of a servaDt.
Whatever Pepys may have been ia
after life, he portrays himself in hi^
Diar}' as a singnlarly sclAsh man: uor
is that character at all inconsistost
with the shrewd, bnt sensual, and
somewhat coarse expression of hi^
features in the frontispiece. Yet it
is impossible to read the Diary with-
out liking him, with all bis faolt^
There was, to be sure, a great deal of
clay in his composition, but also many
of both parties that no breach of sparkles of valuable metal ; and per
frieu<lship ensued, (iood advice was
an article which Samuel was ever
ready to volunteer, and his natural
shrewdness rendered his councils really
valuable. But, like many other peo-
ple, he was not alwavs so readv
haps these are seen the better from
the ronghness of the material in which
they are embedded. This at lea^t
must l>e conceded, that these Tolnmef
are unique in literature, and 50 they
will probably remain.
Pt mUul I'tj }yil!i'ua IJ!nchrootl and SouSf EJinlmr^,
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
Ko. CCCCIX.
NOVEMBER, 1849.
Vol, LXVI.
THE TRANSPORTATION QUESTION.
The great qaestion of Secondary
P0HISHMENT8 has now been settled
by experience, so far as the mother
coontry is concerned. It is now
imown that imprisonment has no
effect whatever, either in deterring
ftom crime, or in reforming criminals.
Goyemment, albeit most unwilling
10 rfecnr to the old system of trans-
portation, has been compelled to do
so by the uuanimoas yoice of the
coontiy ; by the difficulty of finding
tecommodation for the prodigious in-
ereaee of prisoners in the jaUs of the
kingdom ; and by the still greater diffi-
colty, in these days of cheapness and
dedining incomes, of getting the pcr-
•008 intmsted with the duty of provid-
ing Additional prison accommodation,
to engage in the costly and tedious work
of additional erections. An order in
eoondl has expressly, and most wisely,
•athorised a return to transportation,
nnder snch regulations as seem best
calcolated to reform the convicts, and
(Bminish the dread very generally felt
in the colonies, of being flooded with
aninnndfttion of crime from the mother
country. And the principal difficulty
Mt now is, to find a colony willing to
leeeiye the penalsettlers, and incurthe
iMcB thought to be consequent on their
nnxeetricted admission.
It is not surprising that government
■honld have been driven from the
nhions system of substituting impri-
Bonment for transportation ; for the
reeolts, even during the short period
that it was followed out, were abso-
lotely appalling. The actual augmen-
tation A criminals was the least part
<if tlie evil; the increase of serious
yoL. Lxyi.— NO. CCCCIX. .
crimes, in consequence of the har-
dened ofienders not being sent out of
the country, but generaUy liberated
after eighteen months' or two years'
confinement, was the insupportable
evil. The demoralisation so strongly
felt and loudly complained of in Van
Diemen's Land, from the accumula-
tion of criminals, was rapidly taking
place in this country. The persons
tried under the aggravation of pre-
vious convictions in Scotland, in the
three last years, have stood as fol-
lows : —
Under aggra^-a-
Yeftw. Total convicted, tion of previous
convicUona.
184G 2936 858
1847 3669 1024
1848 3669 1043
— Parliamentary Reporti, 1846-48.
So rapid an increase of crimes, and
especially among criminals previously
convicted, sufficiently demonstrates
the inadequacy of imprisonment as a
means either of deterring from crimes,
or reforming the criminals. The same
result appears in England, where the
rapid increase of criminals sentenced
to transportation, within the same
period, demonstrates the total ineffi-
cacy of the new imprisonment system.
Transported.
Vears. England and Wale?. Scotland.
1846 2805 352
1847 2896 456
1848 8251 459
Andof thefutility of thehopc that the
spread of education will have any efiect
in checking the increase of crime, deci-
sive proof is afforded in tlie same cri-
minal returns ; for from them it appears
that the number of educated criminals
2m
^yi The Transportation Qnestion, [Nov.
in Enzland is above twice, in Scotland ttnedncnted^ — the number?, daring the
rV' t thrtf tinui nwf a hilj that of tU la^t three years, beinjr as follows :—
Years.
FS«2_%..VD
Euucatcd.
AND Wales.
SrOTLAXD.
i:JiMB!ed.
Uneducated. '
154.T
io.r";3
l,''.3n7
•20,1 7»;
7,';i*8
0,n5'>
9,»;j*i
3,155
3,5(;2
3.985
903 ,
1,048 1
911
Nay. what is still more alarming.
It distinctly apjM'ars. from the same
return*, that the proportion of eda-
cated criminal* to uneducated i3
steadily on the increase in Great
Britain. Take the centesimal pro-
portions given in the last ret am s for
England— those of 1848 :—
IVp?*" .f Ir.»f J :
<■■".
1<W.
IS*'.
' IMl.
1S49.
1M3.
1*44.
1
ist«.
i'>4r.
1M-. ;
I'nahHf t.» rea.l or wr-te.
sr»o3
XI .-tt
»a.2i
:«.^'5
31 .no
».77
3rt.«l
*>.«
.11.10
S1J|<
Iin|«Hectlv,
•
5A.4H
as 37
hsjs:
:>N.-H
i»7.r.<»
5tf.2S
aK.-'u
».al
MlSV
d&SI
AW 11,
.
HM»7
S.2S#
7.40
il77
h.w2
S.I2
S.3S
7.n
. 7.79
U.53
Siijvrri-^r. .
•
U.32
(I..17
0.45
ii.-«
U.47
0.42
0.,*J7
0..14
' 0.2S
U.J7
N>.it lucerliir.ed.
•
2.<JU
2.45
427
2.;i4
2.V1
2.41
. &ao
L78
1.90
Li0l
— PaHiiimtMtarif JietHm* for Knofond, 1
The preat increase here is in the
criminals who have received an iw-
perfect education, which class has in-
creased as much as that of the totally
nneducated has diminished. Unhap-
pily, imperfect education is preci.?ely
the species of instruction which alone,
in the present days of cheapened pro-
duction and diminishing wages, the
great body of the poor are able to
give to their children.
Mr Pearson, M.P., who has paid
great attention to this subject, and
whose high official situation in the
city of London gives him such ample
means of being acquainted with the
practical working of the criminal law,
has given the following valnable
information in a public speech, which
every one acqnainted with the snbject
must know to be thoroHghly well
foanded : —
** In the year 1810, which is the earliest
account that we possesa in any of our ar-
chives, the number of commitmentei, of
assize and sessions cases, was 514 G. In
the year 1848, the nomber of commit-
ments for sessions and assize cases was
80,349. Population daring that period
had increased but 60 per cent, whilst
the commitments for crime had increased
420 per cent. I should not be candid
with this assembly if I did not at onoe
Bay, that there are various distarbing cir-
eumaianees which intervene, during that
paiiody to prevent tha appmnt inereaM
S4S, p. 12.
of commitments being the real estiBais
of the actual increase. There wu tiie
transition from war to peace. We ail
know, that from the days of HoUitig-
irhed, the old chronicler, it has beea said
tliat war takes to itself a portion of thi
looee population, who find in the casul*
ties of war, its dangers, rewards and
profligate indulgences, something like a
kindred feeling to the war made vpM
society by the predatory classes. Hence
we find that, when war eeaaes, a nurter
of that class of the community are thnm
back on the honest portion of ma^y
which, during the period of war, tei
been drained ofi". Besides this, there ait
other co-operating causes. There is tht
improved police, the constabulary, nial
or metropolitan, who undoubtedly detcd
many of those oficnces which were t»-
merly committed with impunity. Tbeie
is also the act of parliament for payiag
prosecutors and witnesses their expenfca^
which led to an increased number of pi^
secutors in proportion to the number <f
crimes actually detected. These circm-
stances have, no doabt, esevdied a eoih
siderable influence over the inerease ii
the commitments ; but after haviig te
35 years paid the olosesi atteation te the
subject, having filled, and still filUni^ »
high office in regard to the admhiiitntiM
of the law in the city of London, I aa
bound to say, that, making fhU dednrtiea
from the number which every fieeUng rf
anxiety to raise the eonntry from the ia-
putation of increasing in ita eriwB>l
character dktatee — aller maldng every
dednetion, I a» bonid with ihaM aw
1849.]
The Transportation Question.
521
hamility to aoknowledge, that it leaves
a very large amount of increase in
the actual, the positive number of com-
mitmeuts for crime. Sir, this is in-
deed a humiliating acknowledgment ;
but happily the statistics of this coun-
try, in other particulars, warrant us
in drawing comfort from the conviction,
that even this fuct affords no trne repre-
sentation of the state of the moral char-
acter of the people — no evidence of their
increasing degradation of character or
eonduct, in anything like the proportion
or degree that those statistics would ap-
pear to show. I appeal to history — I ap-
peal to the recollection of every man in
this assembly, who, like myself, has
passed the meridian of life, whether society
has not advanced in morals as well as in
^ mrts, science, and literature, and every-
thing which tends to improve the social
character of the people. Let 'any man
who has read not our country's history
mlone, but the tales and novels of former
times — and we mast Arequeutly look to
them, rather than to the records of his-
tory, for a faithful transcript of the morals
of the age in which they were written, —
let any man recur to the productions of
Fielding and of Smollett, and say whether
the habits, manners, and morals of the
great masses of our population are not
materially improved within the last cen-
tury. Great popular delusions prevail as
to the causes of the increase of commit-
■cnts fbr criminal offences in this conn-
trjy whidi I deem it to be my dnty to
ciuleaToiir to dispeL Some ascribe the
mersAse to the want of instruction of our
joath, some to the absence of religions
ttai*hing| some to the increased intemper-
aneo, and some to the increased poverty
of the people. I assert that there is no
foondation for the opinions that ascribe
the inerease of crime to these causes. If
the absence of education were the cause
of erime, snrely crime would be fonnd to
bftTe diminished since education has in-
ereaaed. For the purpose of comparing
the present and past state of education,
for its influence upon the criminal statistics
1^ the nation, I will not go back to the
lime when the single Bible in the parish
was chained to a pillar in the church ; or
when the barons affixed their cross to
docaments, from inability to write their
names. I reftr to dates, and times, and cir-
cumstances within our own recollection. In
the year 1814 the report of the National
Soeiety says, there were only 100,000
children reeetving the benefit of educa-
tion. Now there are above 1,000,000
under that excellent institution, besides
the tens of thousands and hundreds of
thousands who are receiving education
under the auspices of the Lancaster! an
Society Schools. But some may say that
the value of education is not to be esti-
mated by numbers. Well then, I reject
numbers, if you please, and try it by its
quality. I ask any man who listens to
me if he does not know that the national
schools, and other gratuitous establish-
ments in this country, now give privileges
in education which children in a respect-
able condition of life could hardly obtain,
such was the defective state of instruction
in this country, 40 or 50 years ago.
(Cheers.) No man, therefore, can say
that the increase of crime is attributable
to the absence of education. If it were
BO, with education increased 800 per
cent during the last 30 years, crime
would have diminshcd, instead of in-
creased, 400 per cent." — Timesy Aug. 28,
1849.
The immense expense with which
the mainteuauco of such prodigious
numbers of prisoners in jail is
attended, is another most serious
evil, especially in these days of
retrenchment, diminished profits,
and economy. From the last Keport
of the Jail Commissioners for Scot-
land— that for 1848— it appears that
the average cost of each prisoner
over the whole country for a year,
after deducting his earnings in con-
finement, is £1G, 7s. 6d. As this is
the cost after labour has been gene-
rally introduced into prisons, and the
greatest efforts to reduce expense
have been made, it may fairly be
presumed that it cannot be reduced
lower. The average number of pri-
soners constantly in jail in Scotland is
now about 8500, which, at £16, 78.
Gd. a-head, will come to about
£53,000 a-year.* Applying this pro-
portion to the 60,000 criminals, now
on an average constantly in confine-
ment in the two islands, f the annual
expense of their maintenance cannot
be under a million sterling. The
prison and county rates of England
alone, which include the cost of pro-
secutions, are £1,300,000 a-year. But
that result, enormous as it is in a
country in which poor-rates and all
local burdens arc so rapidly augment-
* Prison Report 1848, p. 73.
t In 1848, the number oommitted fmr serious offences was 73,770.
522
Tlie Transportation Question.
[Nov.
ing, is but a part of the evil. Under
the present system a thief is seldom
transported, at least in Scotland, till
he has been three or four years plying
his trade; during which period his
gains by depredations, and expenses
of maintenance, cannot have averaged
less than £25 yearly. Thus it may with
safety be affirmed, that every thief
transported from Scotland has cost the
country^ before he goes, at least £100 ;
and that has been expended in training
him up to such habits of hardened
depravity, that he is probably as
great a curse to the colony to which
he is sent, as he had proved a burden
to that from which he was conveyed.
Sixteen pounds would have been the cost
of his transportation in the outset of his
career, when, from his habits of crime
not being matured, he had a fair chance
of proving an acquisition, instead of a
curse, to the place of his destination.
As the question of imprisonment
or transportation, so far as Great
Britain and Ireland are concerned,
is now settled by the demonstrative
evidence of the return of a reluct-
ant government to the system which
in an evil hour they abandoned,
it may seem unnecessary to go into
detail in order to show how abso-
lutely necessary it was to do so;
and how entirely the boasted system
of imprisonment, with all its adjuncts
of separation, silence, hard labour,
and moral and religious instruction,
has failed either in checking crime, or
producing any visible reformation in
the criminals. No one practically
acquainted with the subject ever
entertained the slightest doubt that
this would be the case ; and in two
articles directed to the subject in this
magazine, in 1844, we distinctly
foretold what the result would be.*
To those who, following in the wake
of prelates or philanthropists, how
respectable soever, such as Arch-
bishop Whately, who know nothing
whatever of the subject except from
the fallacious evidence of parliamen-
tary committees, worked up by their
own theoretical imaginations, we re-
commend the study of the Tables be-
low, compiled from the parliamentary
retums since the imprisonment system
began, to show to what a pass the
adoption of their rash visions has
brought the criminal administration of
the country. t
It is not surprising that it should be
so, and that all the pains taken, and
philanthropy wasted, in endeavouring
to reform criminals in jail in this coun-
try, or hindering them from returning
to their old habits when let loose within
it, should have proved abortive. Two
reasons of paramount efficacy have ren-
dered them all nugatory. The first of
these is, that the theory regarding the
possibility of reforming offenders when
in prison, or suffering punishment in
this country, is wholly erroneous, and
proceeds on an entire misconception
of the principles by which alone such
a reformation can in any case bo
effected. In prison, how solitary so-
* See the ** Increase of Crime, and Imprisonment, and Transportation,*' Blachtood'f
Magazine f May and July 1844, vol. \y. p. 532, and vol. Ivi. p. 1.
+ Table showing the number of commitments for serious offences in the undermen-
tioned years in England, Scotland, and Ireland : —
Years.
England.
Scotland.
Ireland.
Total.
1837
23,612
3,126
24,804
61,542
1838
23,094
3,418
25,723
52,235
1839
24,443
3,409
26,392
54,244
1840
27,187
3,872
23,833
54,892
1841
27,760
3,562
20,776
52,118
1842
31,309
4,189
21,186
56,684
1843
29,591
3,615
20,126
53,332
1844
26,542
3,577
19,448
49,565
1845
24,309
3,537
16,696
44,542
1846
25,107
2,901
1 8,492
46,500
1847
28,833
4,635
31,209
64,677
1848
30,349
4,909
38,622«
73,770
'-ParHatnentarif Retnrnf, 1842-8.
* IrisU lUbeUion.
1849.]
The Transportation Question.
523
ever, you can work only on the intcl-
lectual faculties. The cKtive powers
or feelings can receive no development
within the four walls of a cell, for they
have no object by which they can be
called forth. But nine-tenths of
mankind in any rank, and most cer-
tainly ninetecn-twenticths of per-
sons bred as criminals, are wholly
inaccessible to the influence of the
intellect, considered as a restraint
or regulator of their passions. If
they had been capable of being in-
fluenced in that way, they would
never have become criminals. Per-
sons who fall into the habits which
bring them under the lash of the
criminal law, are almost always those
in whom, either from natural disposi-
tion, or the unhappy circumstances of
early habits and training, the intel-
lectual faculties are almost entirely
in abeyance, so far as self-control is
concerned ; and any development they
have is only directed to procuring
gratification for, or furthering the ob-
jects of the senses. To address to such
persons the moral discipline of a prison,
however admirably conducted, is as
hopeless as it would be to descant
to a man bom blind on the objects of
sight, or to preach to an ignorant boor
in the Greek or Hebrew tongue.
Sense is to them all in all. Esau is
the true prototype of this class of
men ; they are always ready to ex-
change their birthright for a mess of
pottage.
No length of solitary confinement,
or scarce any amount of moral or reli-
gions instruction, can awaken in them
either the slightest repentance for their
crimes, or the least power of self-con-
trol when temptation is again thrown
in theup way. They regard the period
of imprisonment as a blank in theur
lives — a time of woful monotony and
total deprivation of enjoyment, which
only renders it the more imperative on
them, the moment it is terminated, to
begin anew with fresh zest their old
enjoyments. Their first object is to
make up for months of compulsory
sobriety by days of voluntary intoxi-
cation. At the close of a short
period of hideous saturnalia^ they are
generally involved in some fresh
honsebreaking or robbery, to pay for
their long train of indulgence ; and
soon find themselves agaui immured
in their old quarters, only the more
determined to run through the same
course of forced regularity and willing
indulgence. They are often able to
feign reformation, so as to impose on
their jailors, and obtain liberation on
pretended amendment of character.
Bat it is rarely if ever that they are
really reclaimed ; and hence the per-
petual recurrences of the same charac-
ters in the criminal courts; till the
magistrates, tired of imprisoning
them, 8cnd them to the assizes or
quarter-sessions for transportation.
Even then, however, their career is
often fai* from being terminated in this
country. The keepers of the public
penitentiaries become tired of keeping
them. When they cannot send them
abroad, their cells are soon crowded ;
and they take advantage of a feigned
amendment to open the prison doors
and let them go. They are soon
found again in their old haunts, and
at their old practices. At the spring
circuit held at Glasgow in April 1848,
when the efiects of the recent impri-
sonment mania were visible, — out of
117 ordinary criminals indicted, no
less than twenty-two had been sen-
tenced to transportation at Glasgow,
for periods not less than seven years,
witliin the preceding two years; and the
previous conviction and sentence of
transportation was charged as an ag-
gravation of then: new offence against
each in the indictment.
The next reason which renders im-
prisonment, in an old society and
amidst a redundant population, utterly
inefficacious as a means of reforming
criminals is, that, even if they do im-
bibe better ideas and principles during
their confinement, they find it impos-
sible on their liberation to get uito any
honest employment, or gain admission
into any well-doing circle, where they
may put their newly-acquired prin-
ciples into practice. If, indeed, there
existed a government or parochial
institution, into which they might be
received on leaving prison, and by
which they might be marched straight-
way to the nearest seaport, and there
embarked for Canada or Australia, a
gieat step would be made towards
giving them the means of durable re-,
formation. But as there is none such
in existence, and as they scarcely
ever are possessed of money enough, on
624:
leaving prison, to carry them across
the Atlantic, they are of necesj^ity
obliged to remain in their own coun-
try— and that, to persons in their situa-
tioo, is certain ruin. In new colonies,
or thinly-peopled countries, such as
Australia or Siberia, convicts, from the
scarcity of labour, may in general be
able to find employment; and from the
absence of temptation, and the seve-
rance of the links which bound them
to their old associates, they are often
there found to do well. But nothing
of that sort can be expected in an old
and thickly-peopled country, where
the competition for employment is imi-
versal, and masters, having the choice
of honest ser^^ants of untainted cha-
racter, cannot be expected to take
The Trantpartatkm Question. [Nov.
subject, it was stated by the Home
Secretary, Sir George Grey, tiiat
while the prison discipline at Penton-
yille promised the most cheering i-c-
salts, it was among those trained
there, and subseguenilt/ transported,
that the improvement was visible ; for
that no such results were observed
among those who, after liberation,
were allowed to remain in this coun-
try.
But while it is thus proved, both
by principle and experience, that the
moral reformation of offenders cannot
be effected by imprisonment, even
under the most improved system, in
this country, yet, in one respect, a
very great amelioration of the priso-
ner's habits, and extension of his
persons who have been convicted of powers, is evidently practicable. It is
crimes, and exposed to the pollutions
of a jail.
Practically speaking, it is impossible
for persons who have been in jail to
get into any honest or steady employ-
ment in their own oonntrv; and if thev
do by chance, or by the ignorance of
their employers of their previous his-
tory, get into a situation, it is ere long
discovered, by the associates who come
about them, where they have been, and
they speedily lose it. If you ask any
person who has been transported in con-
sequence of repeated convictions, why
he did not take warning by the first, the
answer nniformly is, that he could
not get into employment, and was
oblif^ed to take to thieving, or stance.
Add to this that the newly- reformed
criminal, on leaving jail, and idling
about, half starved, in search of wor)^
of necessity, as well as from inclina-
tion, finds bis way back to his old re-
sidence, where bis character is known,
and he is speedily surroimded by his
old associates, who, in lieu of starving
integrity, offer him a life of joyous and
well-fed depravity. It can hardly be
expected that human virtue, and least
of all the infant virtue of a newly-
reformed criminal, can withstand so
rode a trial. Accordingly, when the
aothor once asked Mr Brebner, the
late governor of the Glasgow bride-
well, what proportion of formed cri-
minals he ever knew to have been
reformed by prison discipline, he an-
swered that the proportion was easily
told, for he nether fmew one. And in
the late debate in pariiament on this
easy to teach a prisoner a trade ; and
such is the proficiency which is rapidly
acquired by the imdivided attention
to one object in a jail, that one
objection which has been stated to
the imprisonment system is, that it
interferes with the employment of
honest industry out of doors. No
one can walk through any of the
well-regulated prisons in Great Bri-
tain without seeing that, whatever
else yon cannot do, it is easy to teach
snch a proficiency in trade to the
convicts as may render them, if their
depraved inclinations can be arreated,
useful members of society, and give
them the means of earning a liveli-
hood by honest industry. Many of
them are exceedingly clever, evince
great aptitude for the learning of
handicrafts, and exert the utmost
diligence in their proMCUtion. Let
no man, however, reckon on their
reformation, because they are thus
skilful and assiduotis : turn them out
of prison in this country, and you will
soon see them drinking and thieving
with increased alacrity, from the
length of their previous confinement*
It is evidently not mtellectual cunning,
or manual skill, or vigour in pursuit,
which they in general want — it is tiie
power of directudg theur faculties to
proper objects, when at large in this
conntr}', which the}' are entirely with-
out, and which no length of confine-
ment, or amount of moral and rellgioos
instruction communicated in prison, is
able to confer upon them. Here then
is one great tmth aaoertUBed, by the
1849.]
The Transportation Question,
525
ODly sore guide in sach matters —
experience — that wliile it is wholly
impossible to give prisoners the
power of controlling their passions, or
abstaining from their evil propensities,
when at large, by any amount of
prison discipllDO, it is always not
only possible, bat easy, to communi-
cate to them such handicraft skill, or
power of exercising trades, as may,
the moment the wicked dispositions
are brought under control, render
them nse^l and even valuable mem-
bers of society.
Experience equally proves that,
tiumgh the moral reformation of con-
victs in this country is so rare as, prac-
tically speaking, to be considered as
Impossible^et this is very far indeed
from beingthe case when they are re-
moved to a distant land, where all con-
nexion with their old associates is at
once and for ever broken ; where an
honest career is not only open, but easy,
to the most depraved, and a boundless
supply of fertile but unappropriated
land affords scope for the exercise of
the desire of gain on legitimate objects,
and affords no facilities for the com-
mission of crime, or the acquisition of
property, by the short- hand methods of
thdt or robbery. Lord Brougham,
in a most able work, which is little
known only because it runs counter to
the prejudices of the age, has well
explained the causes of this peculi-
arity:—
** The ii«w emigrants, who at various
iimos oontimied to flock to the exteoBive
country of America, were by no meana of
the same description with the first settlers.
Some of these were the scoariugs of jails,
banished for their crimes; many of them
were persons of desperate fortunes, to
whom every place was equally uninviting;
•or men of notoriously abandoned lives, to
whom any region was acceptable that
eflbred them a shelter from the vengeance
of the lawy or the voice of public indigna-
tiim. But a change of scene vrill work
some improvement upon the most dissolute
of characters. It is much to be removed
from the scenes with which viUany has been
oonstantly associated, and the companions
who have rendered it agreeable. It is some-
thing to have the leisure of a long voyage,
with its awakening terrors, to promote re-
llectioB. Besides, to regain once more the
privilege of that good name, which every
unknown man may claim until he is tried,
presents a powerful temptation to reform,
and furnishes an opportunity of amend-
ment denied in the scenes of exposure
and destruction. If the convicts in the
colony of New Hollaud,though surrounded
on the voyage and in the settlement by
the companions of their iniquities, have
in a great degree been reclaimed by the
mere change of scene, what might not be
expected from such a change as we are
considering ! But the honest acquisition
of a little property, and its attendant
importance, is, beyond any other circum-
stance, the one most calculated to reform
the conduct of a needy and profligate
man, by inspiring him with a respect for
himself and a feeling of his stake in the
community, and by putting a harmless
and comfortable life at least within the
reach of his exertions. If the property
is of a nature to require constant industry,
in order to render it of any value ; if it
calls forth that sort of industry which
devotes the labourer to a solitary life in
the open air, and repays him not with
wealth and luxury, but vrith snbsistenoe
and ease ; if, in short, it is property in
land, dirided into small portions and
peopled by few inhabitants, no oombina-
tion of circumstances can be figured to
contribute more directly to the reforma-
tion of the new cultivator's character and
»» ♦
manners.
In addition to these admirable
observations, it may be stated, as
another, and perhaps the principal
reason why transportation, when con-
ducted on proper principles, is attended
with such immediate and beueficial in-
fluences on the moral character of the
convict, that it places him in sitna-
tions where scope is afforded for the
development of the domestic and ^enc'
rous affections, A counterpoise is
provided to self. It is the impossibi-
lity of providing such a counterpoise
within the four walls of a cell — the
extreme difllculty of finding it, in any
circumstances in which a prisoner can
be placed, on his liberation from jail in
his own country, which is the chief
cause of the total failure of all attempts
to work a moral reform on prisoners,
when kept at home, by any, even the
most approved system of jail discipline.
But that which cannot be obtained at
home is immediately, on transporta-
tion, found in the colonies. The cri-
minal is no longer thrown back on
* BaovoHAM's Colonial Policy, i. 61, ^.
526
The Transportation Question.
[Nov.
himself in the solitude of a cell — he is
not surrounded by thieves and prosti-
tutes, urging him to resume his old
habits, on leaving it. The female con-
vict, on arriving in New South Wales,
is almost immediately married ; ere
long the male, if he is industrious and
well-behaved, has the means of being
so. Regular habits then come to
supplant dissolute — the natural affec-
tions spring up in the heart with the
creation of the objects on which they
are to be exercised. The solitary
tenant of a cell — the dissolute fre-
quenter of spirit- cellars and bagnios,
acquires a home. The affections of the
fireside begin to spring up, because a
fireside is obtained.
Incalculable is the effect of this
change of circumstances on the charac-
ter of the most depraved. Accordingly
it is mentioned by Mr Cunningham, in
his very interesting Account of New
South WcUes^ that great numbers of
young women taken from the streets of
Ix»ndon, who have resisted all efforts
of Christian zeal and philanthropy in
Magdalene Asylums or Penitentiaries
at home, and embark for New South
Wales in the most shocking state of
depravity, become sensibly improved
in their manners, and are not unfre-
quently entirely reformed by forming,
during the voyage, temporary connec-
tions with sailors, to whom, when the
choice is once made, they generally re-
main faithful : so poweif ul and imme-
diate is the effect of an approach even
to a home, and lasting ties, on the female
heart.* The feelings which offspring
produces are never entirely obliterated
in the breast of woman. It has been
often observed, that though dissolute
females generally, when they remain
at home, find it impossible to reform
their own lives, yet they rarely, if
they have the power, fail to bring up
their children at a distance from their
haunts of iniquity. So powerful is the
love of children, and the secret sense
of shame at their own vices, in the
breasts even of the most depraved of
the female sex.
It has been proved, accordingly, by
experience, on the very largest scale,
not only that the reformation of of-
fenders, when transported to a colony
in a distant part of the world, takes
place, if they are preserved in a due
proportion of numerical inferiority to
the untainted population^ to 'an extent
unparalleled in any other sitiuition;
but that, when so regulated, they con-
stitute the greatest possSfie addition to
the strength^ progress^ and riches of a
colony. From official papers laid be-
fore parliament, before the onhappy
crowding of convicts in New South
Wales began, and the gang-system
was introduced, it appears that be-
tween the years 1800 and 1817— that
is, in seventeen years — out of 17,000
convicts transported to New South
Wales, no less than six thousand had,
at the close of the period, obtained their
freedom from their good conduct^ and
had earned among them, bu their free
labour, property to the rnnount of
£1,500,000 ! It may be safely affirmed
that the history of the world does not
afford so astonishing and gratifying
an instance of the moral reformation
of offenders, or one pointing so clearly
to the true system to be pursued re-
garding them. It will be recollected
that this reformation took place when
17,000 convicts were transported in
seventeen years— that is, on an average,
1000 a -year only — and when the gang-
system was unknown, and the convict
on landing at Sidney was immediately
assigned to a free colonist, by whom
he was forthwith marched up the
country into a remote situation, and
employed under his mast«r*s durection
in rural labour or occupations.
And that the colony itself prospers
immensely from the forced labour of
convicts being added, in not too great
proportions, to the voluntary labour of
freemen, is decisively proved by the
astonishing progress which Australia
has made during the last fifty years ;
the degree in which it has distanced
all its competitors in which convict
labour was unknown ; and the mar-
vellous amount of wealth and comfort,
so much exceeding upon the whole
that known in any other colony, which
now exists among its inhabitants. We
say upon the whole, because we are
well aware that in some parts of Aus-
tralia, particularly Van Diemen^s
Land, property has of late years been
most seriously depreciated in valne —
partly from the monetary crisb, which
• CuNNirroHAM's New South Wales, i, 262.
18*9.] Tht Traniportaiion Quettion. 527
has affected tbat distant setllement as wbich have not cnjojed tbat advan-
vell as the rest of the empire, and lage, These returns are decisive,
partlj from the inordinate number of They demonstrate that the progress
convicts who bare been sent to that of the convict colonies, dnriog the
one locality, from the vast increase laathalf century, has been three times
of crime at home, and the cessations of
transportation to Sidncj ;— a nnmber
which has greatly exceeded the proper
and salutary proportion to freemen,
and has been attended with the most
diaastroQS results. But that the intro-
duction of convicts, when not too de-
ipid as that of those enjoying
eqnal or greater advantages, to whom
convicts have not been sent ; and that
the present state of comforls they
enjoy, as measured by the amount
per Iiead of British manufactures they
triple that of any
praved, and kept in due subordination other colony who have been kept
by being in a tiTiaU minority compared entirely clear from the supposed stun,
to thefrtemen^ is, so far from being an but real advantages, of forced labour.*
evil, the greatest possible advantage Accordingly, tlie ablest and best-
to a colony, is decisively proved by the informed statistical writers and tra-
parliamcntary returns quoted below, vellers on the Continent, slruck with
showing the comparative progress the safe and cxpedilioiis method of
during a long coarse of years of Aus- getting quit of and reforming its
tralla, luded by convict labonr, and convicts which Great Britain enjoys,
the Cape of Good Hope and Canada, from its numerous colonics in every
— PoaTEK'a PaHiamentaTj ToMtt, 1846, p. 13].
Eip«rtfl, pef head, to the following couatries in I83S.
Uait»l Stales of America,
(^oiula,&c., ....
BriU.h We« India Islanaa, .
AoftnUia, ....
E.pMtt.
P^P^...
U,O0O,000
1,500,000
900,000
100,000
£]2,42S.eO.S
2,739,29t
VaM53
835,637
£0 17 8
1 16 0
3 12 0
8 U 0
— Poktbr's PariiamtHlarif TaUa.
528
The IVanspartatum Question.
[Nov.
part of the world, and the want of
which is so severely felt in the Conti-
nental states, are ananimous in con-
sidering the possession of such colo-
nies, and consequent power of un-
limited transportation, as one of the
very greatest social advantages which
England enjoys. Hear what one of
the most enlightened of those writers,
M. Malte-Brun, says on the sub-
ject : —
" England has long been in the habit of
disposing of its wicked citizens in a way
at once philosophic and politic, by send-
ing them oot to cultirate distant colonies.
It was thos that the shores of the Dela-
ware and the Potomac were peopled in
America. After the American war, they
were at a loss where to send the con-
victs, and the Cape of Good Hope was
first thought of; but, on the recommenda-
tion of the learned Sir Joseph Banks,
New South Wales obtained the prefer-
eiice. The first vessel arrived at Botany
Bay on the 20th January 1788, and
brought out 760 convicts, and according
to a census taken in 1821, exhibited the
following results in thirty-three years,
viz. —
Free settlers, men, women
and children . . . 23,254
Ck)nvict3 . . . .13,814
37,068"
In 1832, that population had risen
to 40,000 souls.* In 1821, there
were in the colony 5000 horses,
120,000 homed cattle, and 350,000
sheep. It consumed, at that period,
8,500,000 francs' (£340,000) worth of
English manufactures, being about
£8, 10s. a-head, and exported to
Enrope about £100,000 worth in rude
produce.
*' Great division of opinion has existed
in France, for a long course of years, on
the possibility of diminishing the fre-
quency of the punishment of death, as
well as that of the galleys; but a serious
diificulty has been alleged in the expense
with which an establishment such as
New South Wales would cost. It is
worthy of remark, however, that from
1789 to the end of 1821, England had
€xpended for the transport, mainteniinoe,
and other charges of 33,155 convicts,
transported to New South Wales,
^5,301,023, being scarce a third of what
the prisoners would have cost in the
prisons of Great Britain, without having
the satiflliMJtion of hsTing dumped into
useful citiaens those who weze the shuie
and terror of society.
^ When a vessel with eonviets on
board arrives in the colony, the men who
are not married in it, are permitted to
choose a wife among the female convicts.
At the expiration of his term of pionish-
ment, every convict is at liberty to return
to his own ooontry, at his own expense.
If he chooses to remain, he obtains a graol
of land, and provisions for 18 moatits:
if he is married the allotmeat is laiger,
and an adequate portion is allowed for
each child. Nnml^ers are provided with
the means of emigration at the expeoss
of government; they obtain 150 acres of
land, seed-corn, and imj^ements of hus-
bandry. It is worthy of remark that,
thanks to the vigilance of the authorities,
the transported in that colony lose their
depraved habits; that the women beeone
well behaved and frnitftil ; and that tiie
children do not inherit the vices of their
parents. These results are sofficient to
place the colony of New South Wales
cmumg the most ncbU fkUanthnnpic in-
s^itytum$ in the world. After that, can
any one ask the expense of the establish-
ment!"— Mixtb-Brun, Q^ographis U»i-
perseUe, xii. 194-196.
But here a fresh dlfficolty arises.
Granting, it will be said, that trans-
portation is so immense a benefit to
the mother country, in affording a
safe and certain vent for its criminals;
and to the colonies, by providine
them with so ample a supply of forced
labour, what is to be done when they
will not receive it? The colonies are
all up in arms against transportation ;
not one can be persuaded, on any terms,
to receive these convicts. When a
ship with convicts arrives, they begin
talking about separation and inde-
pendence, and reminding us of Bunk-
er's Hill and Saratoga. The Cape
sliows ns with what roelin|[s colonies
which have not yet received them
view the introduction of criminals;
Van Diemen's Land, how well founded
their apprehensions are of the conse-
qnenoes of sach an invasion of civi-
lised depravity. This difficulty, at
first sight, appears not only serious
but insurmountable. On a nearer
examination, however, it will be
found that, however formidable it
may appear, it could easily be got
over; and that it is entirelj owing
It now (1849) exceeds 200,000 souk.
1849.]
The TVafuportation Question,
529
to the tnie principles of transportation
haying been forgotten, and one of the
first daties of government neglected
by onr mlers for tbe last thirty years.
It is very remai^able, and throws
an important light on this question,
that this horror at the influx of
coDTicts, which has now become so
general in the colonies as to render it
ahnoet impossible to find a place
where they can with safety be landed,
is entirely of recent origin. It never
was heard of till within the last
fifteen or twenty years. Previous
to that time, and even much later,
transportation was not only regarded
by the penal colonies without aver-
aioii, but with the utmost possible
ecmipliicency. Hiey looked to a
series <tf heavy assizes in Great
Britain with the same feelingB of
anxious solicitude, as the working
daases do to a good harvest, or the
Lcmdcn tradesman to a gay and
Bioaey-spending season. Spirits never
were so high in Sidney, speculation
never so rife, property never so valu-
able, profits never so certain, as when
the convict ships arrived well stored
^th compulsory emigrants. If any
one doubts this, let him open the early
onmbers of the Colonial Magazine^
and he will find them filled with resolu-
tions of public meetings in New
Sondi Wales, recounting the immense
advantages the colony had derived
from the forced labour of convicts,
and most earnestly deprecating any
intermission in their introduction.
As a specimen, we subjoin a series of
resoltttions, by the Grovemor and
<7aimcil of New South Wales, on a
Sitition agreed to, at a public meet-
g held in Sidney, on 18ih February
1638.
Betolvtions of the LMulaOve Council, New
Som^ Wales, llth July 1«36.
4. MemUed, — Thai, in opinion of this
«oiuicily the nuiaeroiiB free emigrants of
eharacter and capital, including many
officers of the army and navy, and East
India Company's serrice, who have set-
tled in this colony, with their fibmilies,
together with a rising generation of
aative-boxn aulijects, oonstitate a body of
colonists who, in the ezeroiae of the
social and moral relations of life, are not
inferior to the inhabitants of any other
dependency of the British crown, and
are sufficient to impress a character of
respectability upon the colony at large.
5. Resolved — That, in the opinion of
this council, the rapid and increasing
advance of this colony, in the short space
of fifty years from its first establishment,
in rural, commercial, and financial pros-
perity, proves indisputably the activity,
the enterprise, and industry of the oolo-
nists, aud is wholly incompatible with
the state of society represented to exist
here.
6. Retolred. — That, in the opinion of
this council, the strong desire manifested
by the colonists generally, to obtain
moral and religious instruction, and the
liberal contributions, which have been
made from private funds, towards this
most essential object, abundantly testify
that the adranoement of virtue and
religion amongst them is regarded with
becoming solicitude.
7. R^dted, — That, in the opinion of
this council, if transportation and assign-
ment have hitherto failed to produce all
the good effects anticipated by their
projectors, such failure may be traced to
circumstances, many of which are no
longer in existence, whilst others are in
rapid progress of amendment. Amongst
the most prominent causes of fiulure may
be adduced the absence, at the first
establishment of the colony, of adequate
religious and moral instruction, and the
want of proper means of classification in
the several gaols throughout the colony,
as well as of a sufficient number of &ee
emigrants, properly qualified to become
the assignees of convicts, and to be in-
trusted with thehr maaagement and con-
trol.
8. Be9olred, — That, in the opinion of
this council, the great extension which
has latterly been afforded of moral and
religious instruction, the classification
which may in future be made in the
numerous gaols now in progress of erec-
tion, upon the most approved principles
of inspection and separation, the most
effectual punishment and olassifioation of
offenders in ironed gangs, according to
their improved system of management —
the numerous free emigrants now eligible
as the assignees of convicts, and the ac-
cumulated experience of half a century —
form a combination of circumstances,
which renders the colony better adapted
at the present, than at any former period,
to carry into effect the praiseworthy in-
tentions of the first founders of the sys-
tem of transportation and assignment,
which had no less for its object reforma-
tion of eharacter than a just infliction of
punishment.
9. i2ew/«»rf.— That,inthe opinionof this
530
The Transportation Question.
[Not.
council, no system of penal discipline, or
secondary punishmentjWill be found at once
so cheap, so eflfective, and so reformatory,
as that of well-regulated assignment — the
good conduct of the convict, and his con-
tinuance at labour, being so obviously
the interest of the assignee ; whilst the
partial solitude and privations, incidental
to a pastoral or agricultural life in the
remote districts of the colony, (which
may be made the universal employment
of convicts,) by eflfectually breaking a
connexion with companions and habits
of vice, is better calculated than any
other system to produce moral reforma-
tion, when accompanied by adequate
religious instruction.
10. K^iolixd. — That, in the opinion of
this council, many men who, previously
to their conviction, had been brought up
in habits of idleness and vice, have
acquired, by means of assignment, not
only habits of industry and labour, but
the knowledge of a remunerative employ-
ment, which, on becoming free, forms a
strong inducement to continue in an
honest course of life.
11. Ii€$oiud. — That, in the opinion of
this council, the sudden discontinuance of
transportation and assignment, by depriv-
ing the colonists of convict labour, must
necessarily curtail their means of pur-
chasing crown lands, and, consequently,
the supply of funds for the purpose of
immigration.
12. Resolted. — That, in the opinion of
this council, the produce of the labour of
convicts, in assignment, is thus one of the
principal, though indirect means, of bring-
ing into the colony free persons : it is
obvious, therefore, that the continuance
of emigration in any extended form, must
necessarily depend upon the continuance
of the assignment of convicts.*
It is not surprising that they viewed,
at this period, the transportation sys-
tem in this light; for under it thej had
made advances in population, comfort,
and riches, unparalleled in any other
age or country of the world.
How, then, has it happened that so
great a change has come over the
views of the colonists on this subject ;
and that the system which they for-
merly regarded, with reason, as the
sheet-anchor of their prosperity, is
now almost universally looked to
with nnqualified aversion, as the cer-
tain forerunner of their destruction ?
The answer is easy. It is because
transportation, as formerly conducted,
was a blessing, and because, aa con-
ducted of late years, it has become a
curse, that the change of opinion has
arisen in regard to it. The feelings
of the colonists, in both cases, were
founded on experience — ^both were, in
the circumstances in which they arose,
equally well founded; and both were
therefore equally entitled to respect and
attention. We have only to restore
the circumstances in which the convicts
were a blessing, to revive the times
in which their arrival will be regarded
as a boon. And to effect this, can
easily be shown not only to be at-
tended with no difficnlty, but only to
require the simultaneous adoption by
government of a system of punish-
ment at home, and of voluntary emi-
gration at the public expense abroad,
attended with a very trifling expense,
and calculated to relieve, beyond any
other measure that could by pos-
sibility be devised, the existing dis*
tress among the labouring classes of
Great Britain and Ireland.
To render the introduction of penal
labour into a colony an advantage,
three things are necessary. 1st, That
the convicts sent ont shonld be for the
most part instructed in some simple
rural art or occupation, of use in the
country into which they are to be
transplanted. 2d, That they should
in general be beginners in crane, and
a small number of them only hardened
in depravity. 3d, What is most im-
portant of all, that they shonld be pre-
served in a due proportion, never ex-
ceeding afourtfi or ajifth to the free and
untainted settlers. Under these con-
ditions, their introduction will always
prove a blessing, and will be hailed as
a boon. If they are neglected, they
will prove a curse, and their arrival
be regimled as a punishment.
Various circumstances have con-
tributed, of late years, to render the
convict system a dreadful evil, instead
of, as formerly, a signal benefit to the
colonies. But that affords no ground
for despair ; on the contrary, it fur-
nishes the most well-grounded reason
for hope. We are suffering under the
effects of an erroneous regimen, not
any inherent midady in the patient.
Change this treatment, and his health
will soon return.
ColoHial Magazine, i. 431, 433.
1849.]
The Transportation Question,
531
It is well known that the greatest
pains have of late years been taken, in
(his conn^T^, to instruct prisoners in
jail in some usefnl handicraft; and
4hat, 80 far has this been carried, that
oar best-regulated jails are more in
fact great houses of industry. The
genend penitentiary at Pentoni^iile,
bi particular, where the convicts sen-
tenced to transportation are trained,
preyious to their removal to the penal
a most pemicions Influence on the
class of convicts who have, during that
period, been sent to the colonies. In
so far as that change of system has
diminished the frequency of the in-
fliction of the punishment of death,
and limited, practically speaking, that
dreadful penalty to cases of wilful
and inexcusable murder, it must com-
mand the assent of every benevolent
and well-regulated mind. But, unfor-
settlements, is a perfect model of tunately, the change has not stopped
arrangement and attention in this im- there. It has descended through
portant respect. But it is equally every department of our criminal
well known that it is only of late years jurisprudence, and come in that way
that this signal reform has come into to alter much for the worse the class
operation ; and we have the satisfac-
tion of knowing that already its
salutary effects have been evinced,
in the most signal manner, with the
convicts sent abroad. Previous to the
year 1840, scarcely anything was done
on any considerable scale, either to
teach ordinary prisoners trsides in jail,
to separate them from each other, or
to prepare them, in the public peniten-
tiaries, for the duties in which they
were to be engaged, when they arrived
at their distant destination. The
county jails, now resounding with the
dang of ceaseless occupation, pursued
bj prisoners in then: separate cells,
then only re-echoed the din of riot and
revelling in the day-rooms where the
idle prisoners were huddled together,
and beguiled the weary hours of their
captivity by stories of perpetrated
crime, or plans for its renewal the
moment they got out of confinement.
Bat the ideas of men are all formed
on ^e experience of facts, or the
thonghts driven into them, for a con-
siderable time back. The present
nniversal horror at transportation is
founded on the experience of the pri-
soners with which, for a quarter of a
century, New South Wales had been
flooded, from the idle day-rooms or pro-
fligate hulks of Great Britain. Some
years must elapse before the effects
of the improved discipline received,
and laborious habits acquired, in the
jails and penitentiaries of the mother
country, produces any general effect on
pnblic opinion in its distant colonies.
of criminals who of late years have
been sent to the penal colonies. The
men who were formeriy hanged are
now for the most part transported;
those formerly transported are now
imprisoned; and those sent abroad
have almost all, on repeated occasions,
been previously confined, generally for
a very long period. As imprisonment
scarcely ever works any reformation
on the moral character or habits of a
prisoner, whatever improved skill in
handicraft it may put into his fingers,
this change has been attended with
most serious and pernicious effect on
the character of the convicts sent to
the colonies, and gone far to produce
the aversion with which they are now
everywhere regarded.
It has been often observed, by those
practically acquainted with the work-
ing of the transportation system in
the colonies, that the Irish convicts
were generally the best, and the
Scotch, beyond all question, the worst
who arrived. This peculiarity, so
widely different from, in fact precisely
the reverse of, what has been observed
of the/ree settlers from these respec-
tive countries, in every part of the
world, has frequently been made the
subject of remark, and excited no
little surprise. But the reason of it
is evident, and, when once stated,
perfectly satisfactory. The Scotch
law, administered almost entirely by
professional men, and on fixed prin-
ciples, has long been based on the
principle of transporting persons only
The relaxation of the severity of who were deemed irreclaimable in
oar penid code at home, during the this country. Very few have been
last thirty years, however loudly sent abroad for half a century, from
called for by considerations of justice Scotland, who had not either com-
and humanity, has undoubtedly had mitted some very grave offence, or
582
The Tramportaiioti QtiesHatL.
[Not.
been fonr or five times, often eight or
ten times, previously convicted and
imprisoned. In Ireland, under the
moderate and lenient sway of Irish
county justices, a poacher was often
transported who had merely been
canghtwith a hare tacked up nnder
his coat. Whatever we may think of
the justice of snch severe punishments
for trivial ofiences,inthe first instance,
there can be but one opinion as to its
tendency to lead a much better class
of convicts from the Emerald Isle, than
the opposite system did from the
shores of Caledonia. Very probably,
also, the sjBtem of giving prisoners
*^ repeated opportunities of amend-
ment,^' as it is called in this country —
but which, in fact, would be more aptly
styled *^ renewed opportonities for
depravity** — has, from good but mis-
taken motives, been carried much too
far in Scotland. Be this as it may,
nothing is more certain than that the
snbstitntion of a race of repeatedly
convicted and hardened otfendera,
under the milder system of punish-
ment in Great Britain, daring the last
twenty years, for one comparatively
uninitiated in crime, such as were
formerly sent out, has had a most
pernicious effect on the character of
the convicts received in the colonies,
and the sentiments with which their
arrival was regarded.
But by far the most powerful cause,
which has been in operation for above
a quarter of a century, in destroying
the beneficial effects of the system of
transportation, and substituting the
worst possible consequences in their
stead, has been the sending out of con-
victs in too gre€U a proportion to tXi^free
population^ and the consequent neces-
sity for substituting the gang for the
assignment system. This is a matter of
the very highest, indeed of paramount
importance; and it may safely be
affirmed that, unless a remedy is found
for it, all efforts made to render the
system of transportation palatable to
the colonies will prove nngatory.
Fortunately the means of reimdying
that evil are not only easy, but, com-
paratively speaking, cheap, and per-
fectly efficacious ; and they promise,
while they remedy the above-men-
tioned evil, to confer, in other respects,
signal benefits both on the colonies and
the mother oonntry.
New South Wales was originally
selected, and not wUhont aaffielent
reasons, as the place for the establish-
ment of penal colonies, beenose the
distance of it from the mother cosntry,.
and the length of the voyage, ren-
dered it a very difficalt mmtXmr dthsr
for runaway convicts, or those who
had served their tune, to get home
again. Once sent ont, yoa were, in
the great majority of cases, elesr of
them for ever. This dromnstanoe
was no disadvantage, but rather the
reverse, to the oolonyt and oertamlya
very great advantage to the panst
state, as long as the nnmber of cqb-
viets annually wsd% ont was iaooii-
siderable, and the whc^ oonrict popi-
lation formed a small minon^ to the
number of free settlers. ^Wlien tiie
whole number committed a-year m
England was 4500, and in Seodaad
under 100, as it was in Great Britain
in 1804 or ld06, the setUemoit oT
convicts on the distant shores of
Australia worked welL They were
glad to get the 300 or 400 annimlly
sent out; they were benefited by
their forced labour; and the free
settlers were in soffieient nnmbeis
to keep them with ease in sabJectioB,
and prevent their habits from con-
taminating those of die free inhabi-
tants of the colony. But when the
commitments from Gkeat Britain and
Ireland had risra to 50,000 or 60,000
a-year, and the convicts sent ont to
3000 or 4000 annnally, as tiiey have
done for some yean past, the esse
was entirely altered. The polluted ,
stream became modi too large and
powerful for the land it was intended
to fertilise; it did more harm than
good, and became the ol^ect of uu-
form and undisgoised aversaon.
The distmee of Anstralia firom the
mother oonntry, whidi fbrmerljhad
been so great an advantage to both
parties, now became the greatest
possible evil ; becaose it prevented, at
the time this great influx of convicts
was going on, the immigratioD of
freemen from preserving anjPthing like
a due proportion to it. When the eoa^
victs rose to 2000 and 3000 yearly , the
free settlers shonld have been rdsed
to 8000 or 10,000 annnal^. This
wonld have hept all right; becanse
tiie tainted popoladon wonM have
been alwa^v in a sMall ndnori^*
1849.]
The TranspcTtatUm Question,
533
pared to the Turtnoiis; order woald
have been presonrcd by the decided
Ba|oritj of the weU-dispoeed ; and the
aasignmeiLt system, the parent of so
miic^ good, BtUl rendered practicable by
tiie ceaaeless extension of free settlers
In the wilds of nature. Bnt the
distance of Australia rendered this
nipracticable, when the emigration
of freemen was left to its own nn-
aided resonrces. Steam navigation
eontribnted powerfully to throw it into
the back-ground for all but the very
highest class of emigrants. The Toy-
age to Anatralia is one of fourteen
Ihonsand miles ; it takes from five to
six months, must still be performed
^ sailing vessels, and costs about
£16 a-h^d for the ordinary class of
emigrants. That to America is one of
tiiree thousand miles ; it takes from a
fortaight to three weeks, is performed
by great numbers of steam as well as
aailmg vessels, and costs from £3 to
£4 a-head for the same class of pas-
•eogera.*
lliese fiMsts are decisive, and must
always continue so, against the choice
of Australia, as the place of their desti-
nation, by the great bulk of ordinary
emigrants. Several young men of
sood fiunily, indeed, tempted by the
high profits generally made there in
the wool trade, and the boundless faci-
UtieB for the multiplication of flocks
wUch its prairies afforded, have set-
tled there, and some have done well.
Bat of ordinary labourers, and persons
to do the work of common workmen,
thece has always been felt a very great
defidency, for this simple reason, that
th^ ooidd not afford the expense of
the voyage. The settlers were almost
entirely of the better class, and they
were in no proportion at all to tbe
number of the convicts. This dis-
tinctly appears, not only from the ex-
travagant wages paid to shepherds
and common Ubonrers, generally not
less than five or six shillings a- day,
but from the very limited number of
emigrants, even daring the distress
of the last three years, when the vol-
untary emigration had reached two
hundred and fifty thousand annually
from the British islands, who have
gone to our colonies in New South
Wales.t
This unhappy turn of affairs has
been attended with a double disad-
vantage. In the first place, the vast
increase in the number of convicts
sent to Sydney, compared with tbe
small number of free settlers, has for a
long time past rendered the continu-
ance of the assignment system impos-
sible ; and the gang stfsiem, to take off
and embody the surplus numbers,
became in a manner a matter of neces-
sity. The manners of the colony, its
habits, its prospects, its morality, have
been seriously damaged by this change.
The emancipated convicts who have
made money, known by the name of
^^ canary birds,** have pressed upon
the heels, and come to excite the
jealousy, of the free settlers. The
accumulation of convicts in the lower
walks of life has checked the immigra-
tion of free labour, perpetuated the
frightful inequality of the sexes, and
led to the most lamentable disorders.
The gang system, of necessity intro-
duced, because free settlers did not
* While we write these lines, the following advertisement, which appeared in the
of Oct. 10, will illuBtrate this vital difference : —
* EmoBATioir. — The nndenigued are prepared to forward intending emigrants to
every eoleny now open for colonisationy at the following rates of passage-money : —
To ^dney, £15; Melboome, £15; Adehude, £15; Swan River, £20; Van Diemen's
Land, £20 ; New Zealand, £18 ; Cape of Good Hope, £10 ; Natal, £10 ; California,
£25; New York, £2, lOs.; PhiUulelphia, £2, 10s.; New Orleans, £3.— HABaisoN
& Ck>ri — 11 Union Street, Birmingham,**
f Emigrants from Great Britain and Ireland to Australia and New Zealand: —
1830, 1,242 1836,. 3^124 1842, 8,534
1851^ 1,561 1837, 5,054 1843 3,478
1882^ 3,733 1838, 14,021 1844, 2,229
1839, 15,726
1840, 15,850
1841, 32,625
1833,.
1834,.
1835,.
4,093
2,800
1,860
1845,.
1846,.
830
2,227
— P^nm's PwHimmmary TMm^ 1848^ p. 236.
534
The TransporiaiUm Qfiestion.
[Nov.
exist to take the convicts off under the
assignment system, perpetuated in the
colonj the vices of the hulks, the
depravity of the galleys. The whole
benefits of transportation to the con-
victs, their whole chances of amend-
ment, are lost, when, instead of being
sent to rural labour in the solitude of
the woods and the prairies, they are
huddled together, in gangs of four
or five hundred, without hope to
counterbalance evil propensities, or
inducement to resist the seduction of
mutual bad example. These evils
were so sensibly felt, and led to such
energetic representations to the gov-
ernment at home, that at length the
colony was pacified, but at the same
time its progress checked, by an order
in council in 1837, that no more con-
victs, for a limited time, should be
sent to Sydney or its dependencies.
But this only shifted the seat of the
evil, and augmented its intensity. The
convicts, now swelled to above four
thousand a-year, could not be kept at
home ; they required to be sent some-
where, and where was that place to
be ? Van Diemen's Land was select-
ed, being the most southernly portion
of New Holland, and of course the
farthest removed from this country ;
and thither nearly the whole convicts
of Great Britain and Ireland, soon
above thirty-five hundred annually in
number, were sent for several years.
The consequence of this prodigious in-
flux of criminals into an infant colony,
so far removed from the parent state
that it cost £20 a-head to send a
common labourer there — and of course
no free emigration in proportionate
numbers could be expected without
public aid — might easily have been
anticipated. Government did nothing
to encourage the simultaneous settle-
ment of free settlers in that distant
land, thus flooded with convicts, or
so little as amounted to nothing.
The consequence was, that, ere long,
three-fifths of the inhabitants of the
colony were convicts. Every one
knows, none could have failed to anti-
cipate the consequences. The morals
of the settlement, thus having a majo-
rity of its inhabitants convicts, were
essentially injured. Crimes unutter-
able were committed ; the hideous
inequality of the sexes induced its
usual and frightful disorders ; the
police, how severe and vigilant soever,
became unable to coerce the rapidly-
increasing mnltitade of criminals ; the
most daring fled to the woods, where
they became bush-rangers; life be-
came insecure ; property sank to half
its former value. So powerful, and
evidently well-founded, were there-
presentations made on the subject to
the legislature, that it became evident
that a remedy must be applied ; and
this was done by an order in council
in 1844, which suspended entirely for
two years the transportation of mak
convicts to the colonies. That of
females was still and most properly con-
tinued, in the hope that, by d(»ng so,
the inequality of the sexes in Ansdralia
might in some degree be corrected.
But this measure, like all the rest,
not being founded on the right prin-
ciple, has entirely failed, ^e aoen-
mulation of offenders in the British
islands, from the stoppage of the usual
vent by which they were formerly
carried off, soon became insupport-
able. The jails were crowded to suf-
focation ; it was ere long found to be
necessary to liberate many persons,
transported seven years, at the expira-
tion of two, to make way for new
inmates. The liberated convicts were
soon back in their old haunts, and at
their old practices ; and the great in-
crease of serious crimes, such as rob-
beries, burglaries, and murders, de-
monstrated that the public morals in
the great towns were rapidly giving
way, under the influence of that worst
species of criminals — ^retumed convicts.
The judges both of Great Britain and
Ireland, in common with every person
practically acquainted with the subject,
and who had daily proofs, in the dis-
charge of their important official duties,
of the total failure of the imprisonment
system, were unanimous in recom-
mending a return to transportation.
All the temporary expedients adopted,
such as Gibraltar, Bermuda, &c., soon
failed from the rapid increase of con-
victs, who greatly exceeded all the
means left of t^dn^ them off. Govern-
ment b€K»me convmced that they had
made a step in the wrong direction ;
and they most wisely took counsel firom
experience, and determined to resume
the practice of sending convictsabroad.
But, on the threshold of the renewed
attempt, they were met by the refusal
1849.]
The Transportation Question,
of the colonies to take them. The Cape
is almost in rebellion on the subject;
mnd in despair of finding a willing
colony, it is said they have in contem-
plation to send them to be roasted
under the White Cliffs, and increase
tiie already redandant population of
Malta.
It is not necessary to do any such
thing. The solution of the transpor-
tation question is easy, the method
to be followed perfectly efficacious.
(rovemment have only to commence
the dischctrge of one of their most im-
portant social duties to get rid of all
their difficulties, and render the immi-
gration of criminals, as it was in time
past, as great a blessing to the colonies,
and as ardently desired, as of late
years it has been a curse, and earnestly
deprecated.
l^ransportation is a blessing to a colony
when the convicts are kept in a mino-
rity, perhaps in a fourth or a fifth of
the community to which they are sent,
and when they are not hardened in
crime, and all instructed in some use-
fol trade. In such circumstances, they
are the greatest possible addition to
its strength, riches, and progress, and
will always be gladly received.
Transportation is a curse when the
convicts sent out ai*e so numerous,
and the firee settlers so few, that the
former forms a lai*ge proportion of the
community compared to the latter, and
when their habits are those of harden-
ed irreclaimable criminals, instead of
youthful novices in crime. If they
become a majority, certain ruin may
be anticipated to the colony thus
flooded with crime.
The difficulties which now beset the
transportation question have all
arisen from our having pursued a
coarse, of late years, which rendered
the settlement of convicts a curse in-
stead of a blessing, as it was at first,
when the system was dhrectly the
reverse. To render it a blessing
again, we have only to restore the
circumstances which made it so for-
merly— sending out the convicts when
not completely hardened in depi;^vity,
and in such a proportion to the free
settlers as to keep them a snudl mino-
rity to the free and untainted part of
the community. The immigration of
convicts to our colonies is like that of
the Irish into western Britain : every-
thing depends on the proportion they
bear to the remainder of the popula-
tion. They are very useful if a fourth;
they can bo borne if they arc a third ;
but let them become a majority, and
they will soon land the country in the
condition of Skibberecn or Conne-
mara.
We cannot diminish the numbers
of convicts transported ; on the con-
trary, woful results have made us
aware that it should be materially in-
creased. Experience has taught us,
also, that voluntary unaided emigra-
tion cannot enable the free settlers in
Australia to keep pace with the rapid
increase of crime in the British islands.
What, then, is to be done ? The an-
swer is simple : Discharge in part the
vast duty, so long neglected by govern-
ment, of providing, at the public ex-
pense, for the emigration of a certain
portion of the most indigent part of the
community, who cannot get abroad
on then* own resources, and settlb
TUEM IN THE SAME COLONY WITH THE
CONVICTS. Do this, and the labour
market is lightened at home; the con-
victs are kept in a small minority
abroad ; the colony, thus aided by the
combined virtue and penal labour of
the mother country, is secured of pro-
sperity and rapid progress; and its
rate of increase will soon induce the
other colonies to petition for a share
of the prolific stream.
At present, there are, or at least
should be, above 5000 criminals an-
nually transported from the British
islands.* The cost of settling a free
labourer in Australia is about £16
a- head. To send 16,000 free labourers
♦ Sentenced to be transported : —
England.
ScoUand.
Ireland.
Total.
1846, . . 2805
352
753
3810
1847, . . 2896
456
2185
5687
1848, . . . 3251
459
2C78*
6388
#
Rebellion.
'Parliamentary Jieturne, 1 846-8.
VOL. LXVI. — NO. CCCCIX.
2n
536
Tke TrmtportaiiamQtKgtiim.
[Nov.
with these 5000 criminals would
cost jast £256,000 a- year: call it
£300^)00 yearly, to make room for
the probable increase of criminals,
from the growing necessities or de-
pravity of the mother country, and
provide for the extra and unavoidable
expenses of an infant establishment,
and the transportation qoestion is at
once solved, a great relief is afforded
to the distressed labourers of the
parent state, and a certain market for
our manufactures provided, which will
double every two or three 3rear8, as
long as the system is continued.
Let government, by an order in
conneiK propose these terms to the
it would amount to £800,000 or
£900,000 annually. What a r^ief at
once to the maMmfteturere of Great
Britain, now labouring so severely
under the combined emct of foreign
competition and a declining home
market, and the starving peaaantiy
of Ireland, where half a million of
stout labourers — admiralde workmen
in a foreign conntiy, though wretched
ones in their own — are pining in hope-
less destitution, a burden upon theur
parishes, or flocking in ruinooa mnlti-
tudes to Liverpool and Glasgow.
But where is the £d00,000 to come
from? The Chaneellor of the Ex-
chequer has no money ; taxation has
colonies, and we shall see if any of reached its limits ; and loans an out
them will refuse them. K none will of the question. What ! have free
close with them, let them at once trade and a restricted cunency, then,
establish a new colony on these prin- so quickly prostrated the resonroes of
ciples, in some unoccupied part of the country, that the nation which, m
New Holland. In twelve months, 1813, with eighteen millions of m*
there will be a race for who is to get
a share of the fertilising stream. Six-
teen thousand free settlers, and five or
six thousand convicts, annually sent
to any colony, would cause its num-
bers to double every two, and its
prosperity to triple in value every
three years. Everything would go
on in a geometrical progression. It
would soon rival California in progress
and reputation. Capital would rapidly
follow this scene of activity and pro-
gress. Moneyed men are not slow in dis-
covering where labour is plentifhl and
comparatively cheap, and where their
investments are doubled in amount
and value every two or three years.
A colony thus powerfhlly supported
by the parent state would soon dis-
tance all its competitors: while the
Cape, New Zealand, and Australia
were slumbering on with a population
doubling every ten years, from the
tardy and feeble support of free emi-
grants on their own resources, the
establishment thus protected would
double in two or three, j Volun-
tary emigrants would crowd to the
scene of activity, progress, and opu-
lence. The 20,000 persons annually
sent out would immediately become
consumers of our manufactures to the
extent of £150,000 a-year :* and this
rate would be doubled the very next
year I At the end of live or six years,
habitants, at the close of a twenty
years' costly war, raised £72,000,000
by taxation, and £80,000,000 by loan,
cannot now, with thirty millions, for
so very important an oliject, after
thirty- three years of unbroken peace,
muster up £300,000 a-year? A shil-
ling a gallon on the 6,259,000 gallons
of whisky annually consumed in Soot-
land cdoney in demoralising the com-
munity, would provide the reqninte
sum, and tend to equalise the rumous
exemption which Sa>tiand now enjoys
in the manufacture of that attractive
and pernicious liquor. A similar duty
on the 12,000,000 gallons annually
consumed in England, would raise
double the sum. But if government,
despite the £100,000,000 we were
promised by free trade, cannot afford
£300,000 a- vear for this vital ol^ect,
let it be laid on the counties as part
of the prison or comity rates. Ahttie
reflection would soon show every
person of sense in the country, that
its amount could speedily be saved in
prison and poor rates.
Simultaneously with this change, an
alteration, equally loudly called for,
should take place in the administra-
tion of our criminal law at home.
The present system of inflicting short
impmonments at first, and reserving
long imprisonments and transporta-
tion for criminals who have plied their
* At the rate of £7, 14s. a-head— the present rate in Amtnliak
1849.]
7^ Transportatiom Question.
537
trade of pillage for two or three years,
^(Hild be abolished. Imprisonment
should oonaist of three kinds : — 1. A
▼ery short imprisonment, perhaps of
a weeJc or ten days, for the youngest
criminals and a first trifling ofience,
intended to terrify merely. 2. For a
second offence, however trivial — or a
first, if considerable, and indicating
aa association with professionid
thieves — a long imprisonment of nine
num^s or a year^ sufficient to teach
everyone a trade^ should invariably be
inflicted. 3. The criminal who has
been thus imprisoned, and taught a
tnde, should, when next convicted,
be imtamdy transported. In this way
a triple advantage would be gained.
1. The immense number of prisoners
DOW constancy in confinement in the
British ishinds would be materially
lessened, and the prison-rates propor-
tionally relieved. 2. The cost of now
maintaining a convict in one of the
pnblic penitentiaries, to prepare him
ror transportation, not less than £17
or £18, would be almost entirely
saved; he would be prepared for it,
in the great minority of cases, by his
previons imprisonment. 3. The oha-
eacter and habits of the convicts sent
out would be materially improved,
by getting comparatively young and
nntainted men for penal labour, in-
stead of old offenders, who have learned
no other trade than that of thieving.
To the country it would undoubtedly
save £60 or £80 on each criminal
transported, by removing him at the
commencement of his career, when
his reformation was possible, instead
of waiting till its close, when he had
lived for three or four years in flash-
houses and prisons at the public ex-
pense, paid in depredations or prison
rates, and acquired nothing but habits
which rendered any change of cha-
racter abroad difficult, if not impos-
sible. The prisons would become,
instead of mere receptacles of vice,
great houses of industry, where the
most dangerous and burdensome part
of our population would be trained
for a life of industry and utility in the
colonies.
For a similar reason, the great ob-
ject in poor-houses, houses of refuge.
hospitals, and other institutions where
the destitute poor children are main-
tained at the public expense, or that
of foundations bequeathed by the
piety of former times, should be to
prepare the young of both sexes, by
previous education, for the habits and
duties of colonists; and, when they
become adults, to send Mem abroad at
the expense of the publie or the institu-
tion. Incalculable would be the
blessings which would ensue, both to
the public morals and the public ex-
penditure, from the steady adoption
of this principle. It is a lamentable
fact, well known to ail practically
acquainted with this subject, that a
large proportion of the orphan or des-*
titute boys, educated in this manner
at the public expense, in public insti-
tutions, become thieves, and nearly
all the giris prostitutes. It could not
be otherwise with young creatures of
both sexes, turned out without a
home, relation, or friend, shortdy after
the age of puberty, into the midst of
an old and luxurious community,
overloaded with labour, abounding in
snares, thickly beset with temptations.
Removed to Australia, the Cape, or
Canada, they might do well, and
would prove as great a blessing in
those colonies, where labour is dear,
women wanted, and land boundless,
as they are a burden here, where la-
bour is cheap, women redundant, and
land all occupied. Every shilling laid
out in the training the youth of both
sexes in such situations, for the duties
of colonial life, and sending them to it
when adults, would save three in fu-
ture prison or poor rates. A pauper
or criminal, costing the nation £15 or
£20 a-year, would be converted into
an independent man living on his
labour, and consuming £7 or £8 worth
yearly of the manufactures of his na^
tive country.
The number of emigrants who now
annually leave the British shores, is
above 250,000 1 * No such migration
of mankind is on record since the days
when the Goths and Vandals over-
threw the Roman empire, and settled
amidst its ruins. It might naturally
have been supposed that so prodigious
a removal of persons, most of them in
♦ Vii. :— 1847, 258,000 ; 1848,248,000; 1849, understood to be still larger.—
Parliamentary Btp<nis.
538
ne Trtauporiaiiam QMettiom,
[Nov.
the prime of life, would hare contri-
bat^ in a material degree to lighten
the market of labour, and lessen the
number of persons who, by idleness
or desperation, are thrown into habits
of crime. Bat the result has been
just the reverse ; and perhaps nothing
has contributed so powerfully to in-
crease crime, and augment destitution
among the labouring classes of late
years, as this very emigration. The
reason is evident. It is for the most
part the wrong class which hcu gone
abroad. It is the employer, not the
employed ; the holders of little capi-
tals, not the holders of none. Left to
its own unaided resources, emigration
could be undertaken only by persons
possessed of some funds to pay their
passage. It took £100 to transport
a family to Australia ; £20 or £30 to
America. The destitute, tiie insol-
vent, the helpless, could not get away,
and they fell in overwhelming and
crushing multitudes on the parish
funds, county rates, and charity of
the benevolent at home. Labour be-
came everywhere redundant, because
so many of the employers of labour
had gone away. The grand object
for all real lovers of their country
now, should be to induce government
or the counties to provide means for
the emigration, on a large scale, of
destitute labourers^ chained by their
poverty to the soil. About 150,000
paeons have annually emigrated from
Ireland for the last tlu^e years,
carrying with them above half its
agricultural capital; and the conse-
quence is, that in many districts the
land is uncultivated, and the bank-
notes in drcukUion^ which^ in 1846,
were £7,500,000, have sunk in August
1849 to £3,833,000!* The smaU
cultivators, the employers of the poor,
have disappeared, and with them their
capita] — ^leaving only to the owners
of land a crowd of starving, unem-
ployed labourers, to consume their
rents. A million of such starvmg
labourers now oppress the industry of
L^land. Such is the result of agita-
tion at home, and fr«e trade in emi-
gration abroad. The American papers
tell us, that each of these starving
Irishmen, if strong and healthy, is
worth 1000 dollars to the United
States. Free-trade emigration can
never send them out — ^it can transport
only those who can pay. A large
increase of penal emigration, coupled
with such a proportionate influx, at
the public expense, of free settlers, as
would prevent it frx)m becoming an
evil, at once solves the transportation
question, and is the first step in the
right direction in that of Emigration.
See Dublin University Magazine^ Octoher 1849, p. 372.
i849.]
My PenmnUar Medal, — Part I.
539
MY PENINSULAR MEDAL.
BY AN OLD PENINSULAR.
PART I.— CHAPTER L
On the evening of the 13th of Feb-
Tuary last* I was sittmg in my library,
mt my residence in Square, when
a donble knock at the door announced
the postman. Betty presently entered,
bringing, not as I anticipated, a letter
<Hr two, bnt a small packet, which
•evidently excited her cnriosity, as it
•did mine.
The first thing upon the said packet
that canght my eye was a large seal
of red wax — the royal arms I — then,
above the direction, ^^ On Her Majes-
ty's service 1 "—just beneath, the word,
» Medal!*' Yes, the medal that I
had earned five- and- thirty years be-
Ibre, in the hard-fonght fight on the
hill of Tonlonse — long expected, it
was come at last ! And, let me tell
yon, a very handsome medal, too;
well designed, well executed; and
accompanied with a very civil letter,
from that old soldier, and true soldier's
friend, Lord Fitzroy Somerset, the
militaiy secretary. This letter being,
no doubt, precisely the same as hun-
dreds of *^ Old Peninsulars" have by
•this time received, I presume I am
guilty of no breach of confidence in
here transcribing it for the benefit of
my readers: —
** Horse-Guardf, Slat January 1849.
" Sir, — I am directed by the Com-
mander-in-Chief to transmit to you
the Medal and Clasps graciously
awarded to you by her Majesty under
the general order of the first of June
1847. I have the honour to be, &c.
" Fitzroy Somerset."
As I never attempt to describe
my own feelings, except such as are
describable, I shall not relate what I
•now felt on the receipt of this much
•desired, anxiously expected medal.
Bnt this I will say; — long live the
Queen! long live Queen Victoria I
God bless her I Ob, it was a kind
thought: it was a gracious act. It
comes to cheer the heart of many an
old soldier, and of many a middle-aged
^^[entleman like myself, who got no-
thing but honour and aching bones
for his share in the Peninsular glories ;
and now has something that he can
add to the archives 6f his family, and
leave to those who come after him.
'^ Graciously awarded to you by her
Majesty:" Yes; and I feel it as much
so, as if her Majesty's own gracious
hands had placed it in mine. And, if
ever she wants defenders, so long as
this arm can wield — but enough:
romance would be out of place.
After the delivery of the medals
had been proceeding for some time, I
was coming, one morning, out of the
Horse-Guards, when I met old Major
Snaffle, who had just got his. The
major belongs to that class who are
known in the army by the name of
*^ grumblers ; " and, having been
knocked down by the wind of a shot
at the Trocadero, having been brought
away in the last boat but nineteen
from Corunna, having seen the battle
of Salamanca from the top of a tree,
having been seized with the ague but
an hour before the storming of Bada-
joz, having again been very ill in the
south of France from eating unripe
grapes, having regularly drawn his
pay and allowances, and never having
been absent firom his regiment on sick
leave when he could not get it, now
justly deems himself a very ill-used
man, because more has not been done
for him. " Well, major," said I, " I
wish you joy. So you have got your
medal at last." " Yes," growled the
major, or rather grunted, " at last I
have got it. Long time, though, six-
and-thirty years — long tune to wait
for half- a- crown."
My own profession, at present, is
very different from that of arms.
Nor can I presume, having been in
but one general action, to rank with
those brave old fire-eaters of the Pe-
ninsular army, whose medals with
many clasps — bar above bar — tell of
six, seven, eight, critical combata or
more, in which they took a part under
the illustrious Wellington, in Portu-
MO
My Peninmhr MedmL^-Ptofi I.
[Not.
fal, in Spain, in the south of France.
\y the bye, how I should like to see
the Duke's own medal ! What a lot
of bars he must have ! — what a glori-
ous ladder, step rising above step in
regular succession, when he sits down
to soup in his field- marshal's coat 1
But I was going to say — to return
from great things to small — so far
from Mug able to claim high military
honours for myself, though serving
nnder his Grace's orders in the Penin-
sular war, I was not tb^re at all in a
strictly nullitary capacity. Yet as,
from this very circumstance, I had
oppcMtunities of seeing soenes, charac-
ters, and incidents, connected with
the British army, of a different kind
from those described by other writers
on the subject, I am indueed, by the
arrival of my medal, to place on record
a short narrative of my personal ad-
ventures in the Peninsula and south
of France.
Yet, ere I commence the yam, a
word, one word, for the honour-
ed dead. Many, who came home
«afe from the Peninsula, fell at
Waterloo. Others were borne from
the western ports of Europe across
the Atlantic, to be marks for Ken-
tucky riflemen and New England
bushfighters. Of the survivors, mul-
titudes upon multitudes have gradually
dropped c^; and those who now re-
main, of the legions that conquered at
Yimeira, at Vittoria, and at Orthes,
to receive her Majesty's gracious
gift, are probably fewer in number
than those who are gime. One ^^ Old
Peninsular" I have heard of, in whose
own family and connexions, had all
lived, there would have been fourteen
or fifteen claiaaoants of the medal. He
is now, if he still survives, the only
one left. In my own connexions we
should have made seven ; and now,
besides myself, there remains only
one venerable uncle, who is comfort-
ably located in a snug berth in Canada.
There was my honoured father, who
received the thanks of parliament for
his services at Corunna, and pounded
the French batteries at Cadiz. There
was my cousin, Tom Impett, of the
68d, whom I found with a musket-
ball in his leg two days after the
battle of Toulouse, in a house full of
wounded men and officers. He died
in Canada. There was anothei* vene-
rable uncle, as kind an nnde as ever
breathed, and as honest a man as
ever lived. He died, to his honour,
far from rich, after having been per-
sonally responsible for m^ons upon
millions of public money, the sinews
of war, all paid away in hard cash for
our Peninsular expenses. He was ge-
nerally known at headquarters by a
comical modificadoa of his two Chris-
tian names. There was Captain, after-
wards Colonel B-^ — , of the Boyal
Engineers, a quiet, mildHtemperod
man, with military ardour glowuig in
his breast — the man of edacatioii and
the gentleman. We met near the
platform of 8t Cyprien ; and he had
the kindness to entertain me with a
oaka disquisition on the fight, while
we were both in the thick of it. He
had his share of professional employ-
ment in the Peninsular sieges, and got
a bad wound or two; but lived to
fortify Spike IsUnd, and was «t length
lost at sea. And then there was colo-
nel H , who commanded a Poita-
guese brigade with the sank of bfigt-
dier-general — an extraordinary oem-
positioo of waggery, shrewdness, chi-
valry, and professionid talent, fie
came down to Lisbon while I vas
Uiere, on his way to England, qidie
worn out with hard service and the
effect of his wounds, or, as he told ns
himself, ^^miripped at every sean.'^
He died not many days aftier, on his
passage to England.
Now for myself. I commenced
keeping my terms at Trinity CoU^gSy
Cambridge, in the year 1809, the
seventeenth of my age. A college
life was not altogether my own choice;
for nearly all the males of my &milf ,
for three generations, had served or
were serving their country either in
the army, navy, or marines, to the
number of some ten or twelve ; and I
myself had always looked forward to
wearing the king's uniform. More-
over, as the Peninsular war had al-
ready commenced when I went to col-
lege, and I had learned at school the
use of the broadsword and small
sword, had heen drilled, and ooold
handle a musket, my thoughts often
turned to military scenes, especially
when I read in the daily journals «f
victories won, first by Sir Arthur
Wellesley, then by Lord Welliogton.
But, once at Cambridge, I canght the
1849.]
My PemnuUar Medal.— Part L
fever of academic emulation. My
coaain B (brother of the Captain
B — — above mentioned,) had been
senior wrangler, and had given me
some naefal hinta as to the mode of
reading with effect ; I read hard, ob-
tained a Trinity scholarship in my first
year, first class the same year, ditto
the aecond year, and stood fair for a
place among the wranglers. Bat now
my health broke ; not, however, from
hard living, but from hard atudy. I
was compelled to give np ; and, not
cfaooaing to read for a middling degree
after having been booked for a high
one, determined to go oat among the
hoys. Now my penchant for military
adyentnre returned with full force. I
was miserably out of health, with an
€9Loellent constitution — in proof of
which I always found that I lost
groimd by nursing, but gained by a
rough open-air life. A campaign or
two would be just the thing for me.
And I beg to offer this suggestion to
growing young gentlemen who are
aickly, and consequently hipped, as I
was. If, with rough living — that is,
with mocb moving about, and constant
exposore tothe atmosphere — ^yougrow
worse, I can give you no comfort ; you
are a poor creature, take all the care
of yooraelf yon can. But if, with the
same icind of life, yon grow better,
stronger, stouter, heartier, saucier,
depend upon it, you have some sta-
mina. This was my case. I saw
that a sedentary life was not the life I
was made for ; an active life was the
life for me; and my thoughts dwelt
more and more on the Peninsula. I
mbbed op my French, procured a
Oil Bias in Spanish, ditto in Portu-
gnese, a Portuguese and a Spanish
grammar, and, for a sick man, made
wonderful progress in all the three
languages.
But, alasl there was a hitch. I
was an only son, and an only child —
intended for the law I My dear father
had ahready made me a present, while
at school, of Fortescue De Laudiinu ;
and liiad already gobbled np a por-
tion of that excellent work — ^for I was
always an omnivorous reader — and
had digested it too. And then what '
would my dear mother say, if I talked
to her about going to be shot at for
the benefit of my health ? It was a
delicate point to manage, and how to
manage it I knew not.
In the long vacation of 1812, which
closed my third year at Trinity Col-
lege, Cambridge, I brought matters
to an explanation. My father's
ship, the , 74, was then in the
Downs, and we had lodgings on Wal-
mer beach. I stated my desire to
enter the army, and my firm convic-
tion that nothing else would restore*
my shattered constitution. But my
father was inflexible, my mother an-
swered all my arguments, and I saw
that I had no chance.
But when one way of gaining an
object fails, another sometimes pre-
sents itself. My two ancles, of whom
I have spoken, were already in the
Peninsula, both of them in the same
department, the senior at the head of
it, with the privilege of occasionally
nominating his own clerks. Their
friends in England heard from them
now and then ; and I saw a letter
from my senior uncle to % particular
old crony of his own, who had influ-
ential connexions, asking him why he
did not come out to the army with the
rank of A. D. P. M. G.,* instead of
staying at home, and eating roast pig
for supper.
Like all the hipped, a miserable
race, I was constantly thinking about
myself; and now a happy thought
struck me. As to parliamentary inte-
rest, to be sure I had none. Besides,
being under one-and- twenty, I was
not of an age to aspure to an officer's
rank, in a department of so much re-
sponsibility as the paymaster- gene-
ral^s ; therefore, the above staudiug
of assistant-deputy, which put an
epaulet on the shoulder at once, was
not to be thought of. But then, if
Buonaparte would only have the kind-
ness to keep us in hot water two or
three years longer, I might rise to the
said rank by previous good conduct in
the office of clerk, and that my uncle
could get me at once.
* For ihe benefit of the uninitiated, assiBiant-deputy-paymaster-general; A.A.D.
P. M.G., acting-assistant-deputy-paymaster-general; a long title, but not so long, by
four syllables, as that of the letter-carrier of a certain German war-office — Ober-
kricgtveniammlnngrathBverhandlttDgpapieraufhebergehiilfe.
My Peninsular Medal, — Part L
542
I again broke ground with my
hononred parents. My father assured
me that, if I went to Lisbon, where he
had been stationed with his ship, I
should find it a hell upon eartli :
though I afterwards learned that he
had contrived to spend a tolerably
happy life there. **And as to your
being attached to headquarters, and
following the movements of the army,
I," said he, " have seen quite enough
of service ashore to be able to tell you
that you will be soon sick of that."
But, to cut the story short, my dear
mother now began to incline to my
view of the subject. To be sure a
clerkship was not exactly what they
had thought of for me — but it might
lead to something better — no man's
education was complete without a tour
on the Continent — the usual tour
through France, Italy, and the south
of Germany, was rendered impossible
by the war — and where, in all Europe,
could a young man travel, except in
Spain and Portngai? Fighting, and
paying those who fought, were diffe-
rent things— I might keep out of the
way of bullets, and yet contrive to see
the world.. In short, these arguments
prevailed. A letter was written out
to my uncle, begging him to write a
letter to the head office in London,
nominating me as one of his clerks for
Peninsular service. I went baek to
Cambridge, attacked Spanish and
Portuguese with renewed ferocity,
took my degree of A. B., and returned
home in the eirly part of 1813, just in
time to meet a letter from the best of
uncles, stating that he had written to
the home authorities, and was anxi-
ously expecting my valuable assis-
tance in the Peninsula.
Nothing was now wanting but the
nomination from London. That anxi-
ous month 1 Morning after morning I
watched for the postman's knock ;
and, at every such summons, it was
myself that opened the door to him.
But great bodies move slowly, and
official dignity delights to announce
itself by tardiness of action. At
length the wished-for communication
arrived ; a letter, *' On His Majesty's
Service," of no common magnitude ;
a seal of correspondent amplitude ;
and an intimation, in terms of stately
brevity, that I was appointed a clerk
of the military chest attached to the
[Nov.
Peninsular army, and was to attend
at the office in London to receive my
instructions.
During that month the bostle of
preparation, in our nsnaUy qniet domi-
cile, had been immense. Stockings
sufficient to set up a Cheapside hosier,
shirts enough for a voyage to India,
flannel commensurate with a visit to
the North Pole — everything, in short,
that could be thought of, was prepared
for the occasion i^-ith kind and provi-
dent care. I said farewell, n»ched
London, reported myself, got my
orders and an advance, booked my
place for Falmouth, and fonnd myself
the same evening a passenger to Exe-
ter by the fast coach.
In those times, the journey from
London to Falmouth by the fast coach
was a light off-hand affair of two
nights and two days. We reached
Exeter on the second night, and there
I was allowed the indnlgenoe of three
hours' bed, till the Falmouth coach
was ready to start. As part of the
said three hours was occupied in un-
dressing and dressing, and part also
in saying my prayers, I entered the
new vehicle far more disposed for
sleep than for conversation. But
there I fonnd, to my consternation, a
very chatty passenger, perfectly /mA/
He was a man of universal informa-
tion— in short, a talented individual,
and an intellectual character; had his
own ideas upon morals, politics, theo-
logy, physics, metaphysics, and gene-
ral literature ; was particularly anxious
to impart them ; and was travelling to
obtain orders in the mm and hollands
line. Ah, what a night was that !
Oh the dismal suffering which a prosy
talker inflicts on a weary head ! Of aU
nuisances, the most unconscious is
the bore. I do think the Speaker of
the House of Commons is the most ill-
used man in the three kingdoms. Re-
flect : he must not only hear — he
must listen ! And then think what a
time ! — hour after hour, and day after
day I For a period amounting, in the
aggregate, to no small portion of the
life of man, must that unfortunate vic-
tim of British institutions sit and
hearken to
" Now a louder, now a weaker,
Now a snorter, now a squeaker ;
How I pity Mr Speaker !*'
Some portion of such suffering I my-
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal, — Part L
643
^f was now compelled to endure, by
my commnnicative friend in the Fal-
mouth coach. To be sure, it was
only a single proser ; but then there
was variety in one. He commenced
by a few remarks on the weather, by
which he introduced a disquisition on
meteorology. He then passed, by an
easy transition,- to the question of
secondary punishments ; glanced at
the theory of gravitation ; dwelt for
some time on heraldry; touched on
hydrostatics ; was large on logarithms ;
then digressed on the American war ;
proposed emendations of our autho-
rised version; discussed the Neptu-
nian theory ; and at length suspended
his conrse, to inform me that I was
decidedly the most agreeable fellow-
traveller he had ever met with. The
fact is, I was sitting up all this time
in the comer of the coach, in a state
of agony andindignation indescribable,
meditating some mode of putting a
stop to the annoyance, and mentally
seeking a solution to the question —
What right has a very stupid person
to make your brain a thoroughfare
for his stupid ideas, especially when
yon would particularly like to go to
sleep? He mistook my silence for
attention, and thought he was appre-
ciated. This went on till daylight —
continued to breakfast- time — proceed-
ed dnring breakfast — ceased not when
we had re-entered the coach — talk,
talk, talk, df omnibus rebus et quibus-
dam aliis — still the same stream of
atnff. That long, that dreary journey
from £xeter to Falmouth ! Tlie soft
Inll of somnolency came at length to
my relief; and I began to nod my
assent, much to my tormentor^s grati-
fication. But presently I was dead
asleep ; and, most unfortunately, my
head dropped forward into the pit of
his stomach. The breath, knocked
ont of his body, escaped with a gasp,
like an Indian*s ^^ ugh 1" In a moment
I was broad awake, and made a thou-
sand apologies, which he politely ac-
cepted, and renewed the thread of his
discourse. Again, I dropped off; and
again my head dropped forward.
Another ^^ughT* another ocean of
-apologies, another resumption of the
endless yam. The other passengers,
two sedate and remarkably silent
gentlemen of Falmouth, in broad-
^brimmed hats and drab coats of a
peculiar cut, had each his weather-
eye open,^ and began to enjoy the joke
amazingly. Gradually, once more,
the incessant clack subsided in my
ears to a pleasing hum ; I was off;
the cervical, dorsal, and lumbar
muscles once more lost theur tension
beneath the narcotic influence of
incessant sound ; and my drowsy
head gave a pitch as before, with the
same results — ** ugh!" — apologies un-
limited— ditto accepted — and more
yam. The Quakers— I beg their
pardon, the "Friends" — are, you
must know, eminently humourists.
This, please to take notice, arises from
their superior intelligence, and high
degree of mental culture ; the result
of which is high susceptibility. You
might now have seen, in our two fel-
low-travellers in the Falmouth coach,
what you would see nowhere but in
their ** connexion" — two men ready to
die of laughing, and each looking as
grave as a judge. For a few miles it
went on. Talk — sleep — head pitched
into bread-basket — " ugh !" — pungent
and profound regrets — regrets accept-
ed— talk recommenced— and so on
with a perpetual da capo. At length
the most gifted of gratuitous lec-
turers began to perceive that he was
contributing to the amusement of the
party in a way that he had not intend-
ed, and grew indignant. But I paci-
fied him, as we drove into Falmouth,
by politely soliciting a card of his
house ; stepped out of the coach into
the coffee-room of the hotel, out of
the coffee-room into bed as soon as it
was ready, and made up for two
sleepless nights by not coming down to
breakfast till two o'clock the next day.
The Lisbon packet was not to sail
for a week. My extra baggage
aiTived in due time by the heavy;
and I occupied the interval, as best I
could, in a pedestrian survey of the
environs of Falmouth, walks to Truro,
Pendennis Castle, &c. I was much
delighted with clouted cream, and
gave the landlady an unlimited order
always to let me have a John dory for
dinner, when there was one in the
market. N.B.— No place like Fal-
mouth for John dories. Clouted cream
always ask for, when you go into the
West — very good with tea, not bad
with coffee ; and wiewi., unimpeachable
with apple-pie.
544
My PeninmOar M^daL^^Pmri I.
[N«T.
The packet, that was to have the
honour of ooDTejing mefrom Fahnoath
to Lisbon, was a litUe tub of a gun-
brig, ydept the Princess Wilhelmina.
Judging from her entire want of all
the qualities requisite for the service
on which she was employed, I pre-
sume she must have obtained the
situation through some member of
parliament. Uer captain was laid up
with the gout; and we were to be
commanded by the mate, who turned
out to be a Yankee, and an ugly cus-
tomer; but more of him anon. At
the same hotel where I had established
my habitat^ was a military party,
three in number, waiting, like myself,
for the sailing of the packet ; yet not,
like myself, men fresh in the service,
but all three regular ^^ Peninsulars" —
men who had returned on leave from
the British army, and were now about
to join, in time for ihe opemng «f tiie
campaign. They bad eatablished
themselves in a front dnwing-ffoom
on the first floor, seemed yery fond of
music, and had good voices. But aa
they alwajTS sang together, and each
sang his own song, it was not ea^to^
determine the vocal powers of eadL
The coffee-room was quite good enongk
for me ; and there I liad the honour
of formiug the acqnaintamoe of ao^
other fellow-voyager that was to be—
a partner in a large London boose in
the Manchester line, whom, to avoid
personality, I beg leave to diatwigmrii
by the name of G^gham. He bad
many of the peculiarities of Oockaof -
ism, and some that were entir^ bis
own ; butlfound him a vary pteasaat
oompanion, and we pttrambolatfld the
town and neic^boorfaood in oon*
pany.
GHAFTBB U.
My first chapter brought me, on my
way to Portugal, as far as the Boyal
Hotel, Falmouth. At this stage of
my travels, I must beg to detain the
reader for a short space ; for here it is
that I may be said to have had my
aeasouing ; here, in fact, I obtained
my first introduction to military so-
ciety, and to military life, as it pre-
vailed at the British headquarters in
the Peninsula. This advantage I
gained by falling in with the party of
*^ Peninsulars " already mentioned,
who were on their way out, like my-
self. I must also make my readers
better acquainted with my friend
Gingham, whom I hope they will not
dislike on further knowledge. Ging-
ham and I afterwards campaigned in
company. I must premise that he
bad a touch of romance ; and, as I
afterwards discovered, had not been
brought up as a merchant.
It was the early spring of 1813 : a
year big with events of import to
Spain, to France, to England, aud, in
fact, to the whole of Europe. On
leaving London by the fast coach, we
bad bowled away over frozen roads.
But at Falmouth, the trees were bud-
ding in 4he hedgerows, the sun was
shining, the birds were singing; while
the soft air stole gently by, and,
whispering, sportively saluted us as it
passed, like some coy Djmpb innsftle
— that idea was GinghamV— ^the sky
was clear, and the btfe danced ia tte
sunshine onthedistanthiUs — Gmgfaaii
again. Towards the .afiernoon, it
generally fell oabn. The capackms
harbour, smooth as glass, tihoiQgb
gently undulating at its entraooe, whb
the swell of the Atlantic yiattoUed
laaily in, bore on its bosom not only
the tnb-like Princess Wilhelmina and
her Yankee mate, but many a naUe
vessel of ampler :tQnnage, that showed
so water-line in the transparent and
silent mirror on whioh it floated, and
seemed to hang suspended between
earth and heaves, motionleBS in the
sun-lit and misty ether.
A very odd fish was that Giogfaaia.
We enjoyed our walks amaskigly.
He was going out to Lisbon in a luge
way, on a mission of mercantite apeoa-
lation, with full authority from his
firm to do anything and everytiiiBg,
whether in tiie way of oontsacts Ibr
the army, buying np commiiiaariat
bills, engaging in monetary tranaao-
tions, or, above all — for that was bis
ohief object — ^forminga Peninanlar con-
nexion, and opoung a new market lor
British goods. His was, indeed, a
voyage of enterprise and of diaoovery.;
not, however, his first. Hts mannere
were precise. He was a biggier in
Idi90
My Penmndar MedaL^Pwri L
bib
little things, bat had large Ideas, and
lots of geDtlemaolj feeling. Like
many other CookneTs of those days,
lie was always dressed, and always
oonsdons of being dressed. His hat
was white, with the exception of the
interior green of the brim, which
matched with his spectacles. His
gloves were white, his unmentionables
were wliite, and so was his waistcoat.
His white cravat was tied before in a
Bort of pilot-balkxMB, or white rosi-
eradan puff. His hair also was
pcKnatom'd, and powdered white.
His very pigtail, all but the narrow
eilk ribbon that held it together, was
white. His coat was not white, but
H light pepper-and-salt, approaching
to white. On the whole, there was
so much white in his general appear-
ance, that on board the packet he at
once received the name of *' the white
man.'' He was generally well-in-
lormed, but particidarly so in matters
of commerce. Our intimacy increased
lapidly, and I afterwards, indeed very
soon, found the advantage of it. He
was naturally of a eommunlcative dis-
poaition, while he had much to eom-
mimicate that was worth knowing.
In me he found a willing hearer ; for
I was glad to receive any kind of nse-
M information. With the prospect
before us of a campaign in common,
we aoon knocked up a sort of friend-
ahip.
Giogliam eould do the handsome
thing. Two days before our embarka-
tion he insisted on my dining with
Mm — ^taking my chop with him, he
called it~in return for half a beef-
atake, which he had accepted from
jne At breakfast, his own being de-
layed. I entered the cofiee-room at
tlM appointed hour ; but was ushered
vp atairs into a private room with
0ome degree of ceremony by the
waiter, who, I observed, had on
gjovea, knees, silk stockings, and
pomps.
Gingham was there. He had order-
ed a regular q[)read. We sat down.
The landlord, who had not hitherto
made himself visible, emerged on this
iestive occasion, brought in the soup,
lK>wed, and retired. Gingham said
grace. The soup excellent: it was
turtle I "Capital turUc!" said I;
^' had no idea that anything half so
good was to be had in all Falmouth."
" Always take a small stock when I
travel," said Gingham ; " got a dozen
three-quart cases from Combill. Just
found room for it in my travelling
store - closet. " " Travelling store-
closet 1" thought I : " what a capital
fellow to campaign with I"
Soup removed. £e-enter landlordt
attended by waiter. John dory, in
compliment to me, splendid. Large
soles, fried. " I despise the man
that boils a sole," said Gingham. It
was despicable, I admitted. "My
dear sir/' said he, " allow me to lay
down a principle, which you will find
useful as long as you live. With
boiled fish — turbot, for instance, or
John dory — always take sauce. You
did quite right, in allowing me to
help you to sauce just now. But with
fried fish, at least with fried aele —
this, for Instance — ^never, never per-
mit sauce or melted butter to be put
upon your plate." It was a manoeuvre
to get me to try the sole, after the
John dory. *^ Fried sole without
butter?" said I. " Try it my way,"
said Gingham, helping me : ^* take
some salt — that's right — now put to-
that a modicum of cayenne — there — a
little more— don't be afraid of putting
enough— cayenne, though hot, is not
heating, like common pepper — now
mix them well together with the point
of your knife." I obeyed implicitly.
^' Now then," said Gingham, with a
look of exultation, ^^ try that." I
tried it ; and owned that I had never
known, till then, the right way of
eating fried sole. It was excellent,
even after the John dory. Try it, only
try it, the first time a fried sole ap-
pears on the dinner table, undw which
are your legs.
A peculiar sound at the aide-table
now announced that he of the pumps
was opening a bottle of champagne..
Up to that moment we had managed
to put up with Madeira, which was
the fashionable dinner wine in those
days. N.B. — Good wine to be got at
Falmouth. It comes direct from
abroad, not vi& London.
Fish removed. Door opens. Though
rejoicing in those days in a very fair
appetite, I was rather alarmed, after
such a commencement of our humble
meal, at the thought of what might be
coming. But Gingham had a delicacy
(tf taste, which never overdid things.
My Peninsular Medal, — Part I.
546
Enter once more the landlord, bearing
an elegant little saddle of Dartmoor
mutton, and andibly whispering to the
ivaiter, ^^ Boiled fowls and tongue to
follow." I commenced this history
with a resolution to conceal nothing ;
therefore, away with reserve : both
mutton, fowls, and tongue were excel-
lent. '^A little more Madeira, Mr
Y — ," said Gingham. The currant
jelly had distasted my mouth. I
merely put the glass to my lips, and
set it down again. Gingham observed,
and at once discovered the reason.
^^ Take a mouthful of potato," said
Gingham, ^^ the hottest you can find
in the dish." My taste was restored.
Table cleared again. I hoped the
next entree would be the cheese and
celery.
During the short armistice. Ging-
ham, who delighted to communicate
useful knowledge, resumed the subject
of the potato. Like all merchants
who pay frequent visits to the Penin-
sula— and Gingham had been there
often — he was knowing in wines, and
in everything vinous. "Yes," said
he, " nothing like a mouthful of hot
potato to make you taste wine. There
are lots of things besides, but none
equal to that. The invention is my
own."
" Then," replied I, " I presume you
use it at Oporto and Xeres, when you
make purchases ? "
" Why, not exactly that neither,"
said he. " The worst of it is, it makes
all wine relish alike, bad as well as
good. Now, in buying wine, you
want something to distinguish the
good wine from the bad. And for
this purpose — " The landlord and
waiter reappeared.
** Sorry, Mr Y — , there is no game,"
said Gingham. " Fine jack hare in
the larder this morning, but rather
late in the season. Wouldn't have it.
CJan you finish off with one or two
light things in the French way ?"
. " My dear sir, my dear sir 1"
The table was this time covered
with such a display of patisserie^ maca-
roni, and made dishes, as would have
formed of itself a very handsome
petit souper for half-a-dozen people.
Gingham wanted me to try every-
thing, and set me an example.
The whole concluded, and the cloth
-about to be removed, " Mr Ging-
[Nov.
ham," said I, ^^ yon said grace before
dinner, and I think / on^t to say
grace now." The waiter drew up
reverently with bis back to the ude-
board, adjusted his neckcloth, and
tightened with his right hand the glove
upon his left.
We sat sippmg our wine, and nib-
bling at a very handsome dessert. I
wanted to know more aboat distui-
guishing good wine from bad.
" I have made large purchases of
wine on commission," said Guogham,
*^ for private friends ; and that, you
know, is a delicate business, and
sometimes a thankless one. But I
never bought a bad lot yet ; and if
they found fault with it, I wonldn^
let them have it — kept it myself, or
sold it for more in the market."
" You were just on the point," said
I, "of mentioning a method of dis-
tinguishing good wine from bad."
" Well," replied he, " those fellows
there, on the other side of the Bay of
Biscay, have methods innomerable.
After all, taste, judgment, and ex-
perience must decide. The Oporto
wine - merchants, who know what
they are about, nse a sort of silver
saucer, with its centre bulging up-
wards. In this saucer they make the
wine spin round. My plan is dlf-
ffiiTfint "
" I should Uke to know it," said I.
"Well, sir," said he, "mix with
water — two-thirds water to one-third
wine. Then try it."
" Well ?"
" If there is any bad taste in the
wine, the mixing brings it out. Did
you never notice in London, even if
the port or sherry seems passable
alone, when you water it the compound
is truly horrid, too nauseous to drink?**
"The fact is, though a moderate
man, I am not very fond of watering
wine."
" The fact is," continued Gingham,
" there is very little good wine to bo
got in London, always excepting such
places, for instance, as the Chapter.
When you return, after having tasted
wine in the wine countries, yon will
be of my opinion. Much that yon get
is merely poor wine of the inferior
growths, .coloured, flavoured, and
dressed up with bad brandy for the
London market. That sort comes
from abi-oad. And mach that yoa
1W9.]
My Peninsular Medal, — Part I,
547
get IS not wine at all, but a decoction ;
a vile decoction, sir; not a drop of
wine in its composition. That sort is
tbe London particular." I felt that I
was receiving ideas.
"Now, sir," said Gingham, "ray
cold-water test detects this. If what
yon get for wine is a decoction, a
compound, and nothing but a com-
pound, no wine in it, then the water
— about two-thirds to one- third —
detects the filthy reality. Add a
lump or two of sugar, and you get as
beastly a dose of physic as was ever
made up in a doctor's shop."
** Just such a dose," I replied, " as
I remember getting, now you mention
it, as I came down here by the fast
eoach, at an inn where I asked, by
way of a change, for a glass of cold
white- wine negus. The slice of lemon
was an improvement, having done
duty before in a glass of gin punch."
"Shouldn't wonder," said Ging-
ham. * ^ And if what you buy' for port
or sherry be not absolutely a decoc-
tion, but only inferior wine made up,
then the water equally acts as a de-
tective. For the dilution has the
effect of separating, so to speak, the
respective tastes of the component
parts — ^brings them out, sir ; and you
get each distinct. You get, on the
one hand, the taste of the bad brandy,
harsh, raw^ and empyreumatic : and
yon get, on the other hand, the taste
of the poor, paltry wine, wretched
8tuff,^the true vinho ordinario flavour,
that makes you think at once of some
dirty road-side Portuguese posada,
Bwanning with fleas."
" But what if you water really good
wine?"
" Why, then," said Gingham, " the
flavour, though diluted, is still the
flavour of go<^ wine."
"I should like," said I, "to be
knowing in wines."
Seeing in me a willing learner, he
was about to open. But at this mo-
ment the mail drove into the yard of
the hotel; and, knowing that Ging-
ham was always ravenous for the
London journals on their first arrival,
I insisted on our going down into the
public room, taking a cup of coffee,
and reading the papers. We had
talked about wines ; but, being neither
of OS topers, had taken only a mode-
rate quantum suff.^ though all of the
best kind. Gingham, out of compli-
ment to me, wished to prolong the
sitting. But, knowing his penchant
for a wet newspaper, I was inflexible.
We rose from the table.
I felt that I had been handsomely
entertained, and that something hand-
some ought to be said. The pleasing
consciousness, however, of having
eaten a good dinner, though it excited
my finest feelings, did not confer the
faculty of expressing them. I began :
" Sir, Mr Gingham ; I feel we
ought not to leave this room, till I
have expressed the emotions — " Then,
taking a new departure, " Really, sir,
your kind hospitality to a compara-
tive stranger— "
" Well, sir," said Gingham, laugh-
ing, " I will tell you how it was. Do
you remember your first breakfast in
the coffee-room, the day after your
arrival by the mail ? I was present,
and enjoyed it amazingly."
" Oh, sir ! oh, sir ! " said I, a leetle
taken aback ; " really I was enor-
mously hungiy. In fact I had eaten
nothing during my two days* previous
journey; and was so sleepy on my
arrival, that I got to bed as fast as I
could, without thinking of ordering
supper. And when I came down
next morning, or rather afternoon,
why, to tell you the truth, I made it
breakfast and dinner in one ; and
perhaps I did seem a little savage in
ray first onset on the Falmouth — "
" No, NO, NO I " exclaimed Ging-
ham, interrupting me. " That was
not it. No, NO, NO! far from it.
My dear su*, you merely disposed of
two or three plates of ham and eggs ;
then a few muflSns, with about half-
a-dozen basins of tea. After that —
let me see — after that, to the best of
my recollection — after that, you took
nothing, no, nothing, but the mutton
chops. No, sir, it was not the quan-
tity. I have often made as hearty a
meal myself; and, if we campaign
together, I trust we shall often make
as hearty a meal together. Nothing
like campaigning for an appetite. No,
sir; that was not it. It was your
manner of taking it."
^ ^ My manner of taking it ? Really !
And pray what did you see in my
manner of taking it ? "
" Sir," said Gingham, with emo-
tion, " I know this house. I have
548
long used this honse. Everything in
this house is good. The accommoda-
tion is good. The attendance is
good. The wine is good. The din-
ners are good. The breakfasts are
good. Now, sir, I have seen some
persons conduct themselves in this
honse in a manner that filled me
with scorn, disgnst, and indignation.
They arrive by the London mail, sir,
as yon did, and go to bed. In the
morning they come down into the
public room, and order breakfast.
They breakfast, not like you, my dear
sir, very moderately, but enormonsly.
That I could forgive; after a long
journey it is excusable. But, sir,
what I cannot tolerate is this : They
find fault with everything. The tea
is bad ; the coffee is bad. They take
up the silver cream-jug ; examine the
clouted cream ; smell to it — yes, sir ;
they actually smell to it — and smelling
to anything, I need not say, is as
great a betise as a man can commit at
table — ask the waiter what he means
by bringing them such stuff as that ;
and, before they have done, gobble
up the whole, and perhaps call ^r
more."
" Call for more ? Why, that, I
think, is exactly what I did."
" Yes, my dear sir," said Ging-
ham, ^^ you enjoyed it ; and you
took a pretty good lot of it ; but you
did not find fault with it. Not so the
people I am talking of. The fact is,
sir, we Londoners have a great idea
of keeping up our dignity. These
persons wish to pass for people of
importance ; and they think impor-
tance is announced by finding fault.
Item, they are enormously, indecent-
ly hungry, and ftiUy intend to make
a breakfast for two, but wish to do it
surreptitiously. On the arrival of
the beefsteak, they turn round the
dish, and look at it contemptuously,
longing, all the whUe, to fall to.
Yes, sir, they turn round the dish
two or three times ; then stick their
fork into tho steak, and turn it over
and over; perhaps hold it up, sus-
pended by a single prong, and ex-
amine it critically; and end all by
pushing away their plate, drawing
the dish into its place, and bolting
the whole beefsteak, without taking
time to masticate. Sur, there was a
man in that coffioe-room this morning,
My Penmsular Medai, — Pttrt L
[Not.
who gmmbled at everything, and ate
like a dog. In short, they clear the
table of eatables and drinkables ; then
call the waiter, and reproach him,
with a savage look, fbr bringing them
a tough beefiiteak ; and, in aplaintive
voice, like ill-used men, inquire if
there is any cold meat-pie."
I owned, ftt)m personal observa-
tion in the public room, to the graonl
correctness of this sketch.
*^ Now yon, sir," oontinned Ging-
ham, *^ enjoyed yoor break&st, and
made a good one; but fbund ikalt
with nothing ; because, I presimie,
there was nothing to find flinit with.
I like to see ft man en^y liis meids.
And if he does, I like to see him
show it. It is one of the tok^ by
which I judge oi character. Yov
oondnct, my dear sur, commanded my
respect. fiMiall I say more ? It won
my esteem. Then and t&ere my re-
solution was formed, to invite yov, at
the first convenient opportnnity, to
partake of my hnmble ho^tattty.**
It was too much. I extended my
fist. A shaking of liands, of some
continaance— cordial <m my part, and
evidently so on Gringham's, by tke
pain I felt in my shoulder.
'' WeU, sir,*' said Gingham, ''I had
ahneady learned that you were a pas-
senger for the Peninsula. I was a
passenger for the Peninsula ; and, as
we were to sail together, and pro-
bably to campaign togetiier, I re-
solved to introduce myself. I said,
This lad — I beg your (Mundon, tiiis
youth— excuse me, this genHemaa,
this young gentleman — fbr I mess
yon have some ten years the advan-
tage of me in that respect — this
gentleman is, like mys^, bound for
the headquarters of the Pemnsniar
army. I know somettdng <^ cam-
paigning; he knows notiiing. We
campaign together.**
*' Well now," said I, '« that is just
what I should like amaaingly."
Gingham now took the initiative,
and put fbrth his paw. Again we
tackled, and, in the true pnmp-liandle
style, so dear to EnsuBlmien, ez«
pressed mutual cordiality: onl^that
this time, being better prepared, I
reversed the deetrie stream, and
brought tears into Gingham's eyes.
He sung out, ^^ (^ I " and nibbed his
arm.
184».I
My PminsHhr Meded. — Peart L
549
''The rest," said Gingham, ''is
easily tokl. After breakfast yoa
waUtod <mt into the oonrt-yard, lit a
^igv, and stood on the steps. I lit
aaoCher, followed, and had the plea-
aors of making yoor acqnaintaace.'^
I gave aa«Bble expression to my
profomd sdf-congratalatlons.
'^ AUow me, however, to add,'^ said
Gingham, " yon raised yourself great-
ly la my esteem by asklDg the waiter
fat » red herring. The request
evinced a superiority to vulgar pre-
Jodioea. Your way of putting it, too,
was in perfect good keeping : for you
did not commit yourself by ordering
A rod herring ; but asked whether
yoa oonld have one in the coffee-
roooi. Believe me, I was pained,
when he stated that red herrings
were not permitted; and could but
«dmire your self-denial, in accepting,
as- a snhstitate, the mutton-chops/*
We adjourned to the public room.
C^iBgham had entertained me hospi-
tid>ly and handsomely. Yet this was
the saaie Gingham who, when I made
him take part of my beefisteak at
teeaktet, because his own was de-
layedi proposed that we should desire
the waiter to tell the landlady to
charge oidy half a beefsteak to me,
and half a beefsteak to him, Ging-
ham. My rejection of this proposal
was the inunediate occasion of the
dinner, at which the reader has just
been {Mresent.
While we were eviscerating the
papers, fresh from London, Gingham
leMied over the table, with the air of
* man who had something important
to eommnnicate. He looked me ear-
nestly in the face.
" Mr Y— ," said he, " what do you
say — to a red herring — this evening —
for supper?"
"lliank you. You must excuse
me. Nothing more to-night, but one
cap of coffee, and perhiq>s a cigar.
Not even an anchovy toast. I really
couldn't."
" WeU, then," said Gingham, " to-
morrow at breakfast. We will en-
gage a room up stairs, and ask leave
of nobody. I have brought down a
small bwrel from London — always
take 8(Hne when I visit the Penin-
sula—get them in Lower Thames
Streets Yoa will pronounce them
eaieeUent."
The ofi^ was too good to be de-
clined.
Next morning we ordered break-
fast up stairs. Lideed, a fire had
been lit in one of the parlours, by
Gingham^s directions ; and there I
found him, with the table laid, and
the herrings ready for cooting. Ging-
ham had secured a small Dutch oven ;
not with the design of hiking the
herrings — no, no, he knew better
than that — bat to keep them hot
when done. The doing he reserved
to himself, on the plea of experience.
I was not to assist, except in eating
them.
" Do you understand cookery, Mr
Y— ? " said Gingham.
I ingenuously owned my deficiency
in that branch of education, which is
no part of the Cambridge curri-
culum.
** Three months at headquarters,"
said he, ^^will make you an excel-
lent cook."
It so happened that the parlour, in
which we had located ourselves for
the purpose of cooking our herrings,
was not that in which we had dined
the day before, but one adjoining the
larger apartment occupied by the
three miUtary gentlemen, with whom
we were to cross the Bay of Biscay.
A boarding, removable at pleasure,
was the o^y separation between the
two rooms. We had not yet become
acquainted.
Shortly after I joined Gingham,
two of the three entered their parlour;
presently the third followed. They
rang the bell, and ordered breakfast,
all in high good humour, and talking
incessantly. We were not listeners,
but could not help hearing every word
that was said.
" Good blow-out that, yesterday."
— " Pity wo didn't know of it sooner;
might as well have dined with them."
—"Turtle, too."— "Ton your ho-
nour?"— "Turtle, and lots of cham-
pagne. Cau^t the waiter swigging off
the end of a bottle in the passage." —
"Who are they?"— " Don't know;
can't make them out. Both going
out with us in the packet, though." —
" Think I remember seeing the white
fellow at Cadiz ; almost sure I did ;
and afterwards again at Madrid. Al-
ways wore his hair in that way, well
floured and larded, except when it
My Peninsular Medai, — Part L
550
was too hot, and combed down
straight on each side of his ugly face."
— " What a nose I Prodigious I A
regular proboscis." — ** Yes, and all on
one side, like the rudder of a barge."
— " Let me tell you, a very good thing ;
for if it was straight, it would bo
always in his way." — " Always in his
way? Why it would trip him up
when he walked." — Omnes, ** Ha, ha,
ha." — " Going with us, do you say?
Hope he don't snore. Why, such a
tromba as that would keep a whole
line-of-battle ship awake." — " Bet
you a dollar he's blind of one eye."
—'' Done." " Done. Book it, major."
— ril trouble you for a dollar. He
does walk a little sideways, but it isn't
his eye."—" What is it, then ? One-
eyed people always walk sideways." —
'* Why, I'll tell you, now. It's a
principle which most people observe
through life."—*' What principle?"—
** Guess."—" Come, tell us, old fel-
low. None of your nonsense." —
" D'ye give it up ?"— " Yes, I give it
up. Come, tell us." — " Follow your
nose." — OmneSy " Ha, ha, ha." —
"Capital! capital! That's the best
we've had for some time. Follow
your nose I Capital ! Ha, ha, ha." —
" Well, that's it, depend upon it.
Other people follow their noses by
walking straight forward. That white
fellow walks sideways, but still follows
his nose." — " No, no, major. Your
theory is fallacious. When he walks
his nose points backwards. His nose
points over his left shoulder, and he
walks right shoulders forward." I
looked at Gingham, and laughed.
Gingham was looking rather grave,
and feeling his nose. " No, no. I
tell you he walks left shoulders for-
ward."— " Bet you a dollar." —
" Done."—" Done. Book it, major."
— " I'll trouble you for a dollar. Saw
him this morning, all in a bustle.
Took particular notice of his nose." —
"Who is the young chap?"— "Oh,
he's a regular Johnny Newcome, that's
evident." — " Johnny Newcome? Yes;
but I wish he wasn't such a chap for
John dories. Price in the market is
doubled." Gingham laughed and
looked at me. " Suppose he's a sub
going out to join his regiment." —
" No, no. Got such lots of baggage.
No regimental officer would be ass
enough to take such a heap of trunks.
[Nor.
Load for three mules." — " He'll soon
knock up. Those long fellows always
knock up." — " Shouldn't wonder if he
gets the fever next autumn. Then
what will his mammy say ?" — " Well,
but what did they dine about? Thou-
sand pities we did not join them." —
"Oh, I suppose it was something of
a parting feed ; taking leave of Old
England, you know : toasting Miss
Ann Chovy, Miss Mary Gold, Miss
Polly Anthus, and all that kind of
thing." — " Hang it all; a good dinner
for eight people; thousand pities we
missed it."
By this time, our cookery was pro-
ceeding in due course. Two splendid
bloaters, whole, lay extended where
chestnuts arc roasted ; while two more,
split open, hung suspended from alarge
toasting-fork, held by Gingham, who
told me to look and learn, but not to
meddle. With a clear bright fire, they
soon began to spit Nor was there
wanting another token of onr opera-
tions. For now the savoury odour of
four red herrings, simultaneously un-
der a brisk process of culinary prepa-
ration, difiused itself through the
apartment, and no doubt through the
whole hotel, from the cellar to the
attics. The effect on our friends in
the next room was instantaneous.
Conversation ceased. Then there was
a deal of sniffing — then audible whis-
pering and suppressed laughter — then
again, a dead silence. Gingham and
I exchanged looks. " We must be
acquainted," said Gingham, quietly;
" and the sooner the better." I saw
he had made up his mind, and was
prepared for what was about to take
place. Then the conversation was
heard a little louder, but not distin-
guishable. There was evidently a
council of war. Much laughter. Then,
audibly spoken, " Are yon fond of
herrings ? " — " Very ; capital for
breakfast." — " So am I, very ; thatis,
of red herrings. Fresht can't endure
them." — "Nor I; they have such a
horrid smell. But a bloater,— often
dined off them up the country ; didn't
we, major ?" — " Oh yes, lots of times.
But you were moderate. Never could
manage above half-a-dozen at a sit-
ting."-" Ring for the waiter."— "No,
no ; nonsense. Major M — , you."
After a moment's pause, one of the
party left the room ; walked, appa-
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal. — Parti,
lentlj to the end of the passage ; then
walked badL again; opened our door;
entered, and politely apologised for
the mistake. He was a middle-aged,
well-built, gentlemanly-looking man,
with bonhomie beaming in his counte-
nance, and came at once to business.
His eye dropped upon the herrings.
^* Beg ten thousand pardons. Oh I
I see it's here. We perceived that
bloaters were frying somewhere in the
honse, and thought we should like to
try a ifew. Will you have the kind-
ness to inform me where they can be
procored ? Didn't know there was a
ainffle bloater in all Falmouth."
1, in my simplicity, thought the
major was really asking for informa-
Uon^ and was going to tell him of
eeveral shops where I had seen
bloaters ; but Gingham was too
quick for mc.
" Here is a barrel-full," said Gmg-
ham, pointing to the comer of the
room. ^' ShaU be most happy to sup-
ply you and your friends with any
qaantity. Do me the favour to accept
of two or three dozen."
" Oh no, sir," said Major M — ,
drawing up, as if he had been misun-
derstood. The major was playing a
higher game. ^^ Couldn't think of
Buch a thing. Thought you had pro-
cured them in the town."
*' Indeed, su*," said Gingham, " I
don't think the town contains their
equals. They are from London direct.
Always take a small barrel with mc
when I visit the Peninsula. Get
them in Lower Thames Street."
" Really, a most excellent idea,"
said Major M — . ^*I wish I had
done the same. Well, I think I never
will return to headquarters again
without taking a barrel of red her-
rings." The Major cast a sort of
domesticated look about the room,
B8 if he felt quite at home with
us.
*^ €rO it. Major I" said an opening in
the partition, sotto voce.
" Come, Major," said Gingham, *' I
see you and the gentlemen your com-
rions are old campaigners. So am
Suppose we waive ceremony. You
see we have got our cooking apparatus
all ready. Suppose— do us the favour
—excuse the shortness of the invita-
tion—I shall be delighted, and so will
my friend here, if you and your party
TOL. LXVI. — NO. CCCCIX.
551
will oblige us with your company to
breakfast."
" Yes, yes. Major," said the crevice,
as before. ** Yes, Major, yes," said
another crevice.
^^ Beally, sir," said the Major, with
an admirably assumed look of polite
embarrassment, and turning a deaf
ear to his two prompters behind the
scenes — " really, sir, I hardly know
how to thank you sufficiently for your
obliging invitation. But — shall we
not intrude? You meant to break-
fast in private. You have, perhaps,
business? Matters to arrange, pre-
paratory to the voyage ? "
** None in the world, sir," said Ging-
ham, " till after breakfast. Our only
business here is to cook our bloaters
and eat them, which we could not do
in the public room below. Do, pray,
oblige us by negotiating this little
affair. Major, and persuade your
friends to favour us with their com-
pany."
The Major, in fact, was negotiating
already ; and a capital negotiator he
made. He might, had he pleased,
have walked off, at an earlier stage of
the proceedings, with a whole pile of
herrings ; and even that, at college,
wc should have thought a capital coup.
But the Major was not so green.
" Well, sir, since you are so very
pressing, I shall have the pleasure of
communicating to my comrades your
kind invitation ; and I presume," he
added, bowing politely to me, " I may
also have the honour of saying,
the invitation of your friend, Cap-
tain Y— ."
I bowed in return, too much taken
by surprise to disclaim the rank so
unexpectedly conferred ; and a little
sore at being saluted ^^ captain," by
the same voice which I had heard,
just before, proclaiming aloud, that if
I was a regimental officer I was an
ass. The Major bowed again ; backed
out of the room, still bowing, and
closed the door.
The remaining negotiation was not
of long continuance. His two friends
were already in the passage, hard by
the entrance of our apartment. A
dead silence — one irrepressible burst
of laughter, instantly hushed — again
dead silence — a tap at the door — door
opened by Gingham — and enter ths
THREE FENIMSULABi^.
2o
552
My Penmsular MedaL^-Part I.
[No?.
I really could not help admiring tbe
perfectly free and easy, but at the
same time qaiet, self-possessed^ and
gentlemanly style of their entree, and
of their bearing during the first few
moments of onr interview. 'Oingham
expressed his gratification ; was happy
to see them. Advancing on their
right flank, taking np a central posi-
tion, and then facing to the left,
** Allow me," said the major, ** to
avail myself of my brief priority of
acquaintance, and to introduce — Gap-
tain Gkibion, of the Royal Engineers,"
(bowing, on both sides) — "and Mr
Commissary Capsicum," (more bow-
ing,)— " half-brothers, I need not say
— the family likeness is so striking.*'
Gingham presented Mr Y — . Mr
Y — (booby !) presented Gingham.
"Not very striking that family
likeness, though," thought I, of course
taking seriously what the wag of a
major spoke with perfect seriousness.
The captain of the Engineers was a
pale-looking man, buttoned up to the
chin in his regulation frock-coat, rather
above the common height, air mili-
tary and symmetrical. Education had
traced on his countenance the lines of
thought ; and, in short, his whole ap-
pearance was a little aristocratic, and
what we now call dtsiingu^. His
*' half-brother," the commissary, on
the contrary, who appeared at least
twelve years his senior, was a short,
pursy, pufiy man ; with a full, rubi-
cund, oleaginous, and pimpled visage;
a lar^e, spongy, purple blob of a
nose, its broad lower extremity pen-
dulous, and slightly oscillatory when
he moved ; a humorous twinkle in his
eye, which was constantly on the
range in search of fun ; two black,
bushy tufts for eyebrows ; his hair dis-
tributed over his ample pericranium
in large detached flocks, each flock
growing a way of its 0¥ra, and no two
alike; coat flying open; waistcoat
open, all but the two bottom buttons;
a bull neck, with very little cravat ;
and a profuse display of shirt and
frill. His shirt and fnll, imperfectly
closed, revealed his grissly chest;
while his nether extremities were set
off to great advantage by a pair of
tight blue kerseymere pantaloons with
a scarlet stripe; and someUiing — ^I
suppose, as bustles were not then the
fashion, it must have been his tailors'
clumsiness — inparted a peculiar
breadth and bulge to the tail of his
coat. H« wore splendid gaiters of
bright nankeen, with mother-of-peari
buttons. No oereotony when giratle-
men meet. We were all quite at
home in a moment.
There was a little hitch. All tbe
party were quite of one mind and
will, in the project and pmpose of
cooking and eating bloaters. B«t
how were five coolu to cook at one
fire?
We all saw it together. I looked
at the partition. ** Better noship
that," said the oommisaary. Tbe
commissary, I soon saw, was, by
common consent, the commanding
officer of the party. We went to
work; and in no time the partition
was cleverly removed, and stowed
away on one side. We thus made
onr small parlour a large one, with
the additional advantage of two fires
instead of one for our culinary openi-
tions. Gingham, noeanwhile, had
^pped out of the room ; but returned
in a few minutes, looking quite inno-
cent. He had been absent to some
purpose, as the result shortly proved.
We now found full employment with
the herrings, roasting and toasting.
Gringham, the ci^[)tain, and the major,
at the larger fire; I and Mr Com-
missary Capsicum at the other.
Gingham, when he left the room,
had given his order ; a carie bkmeke
to the whole establishment to extem-
porise as handsome a brei^aat as
circumstances would permit, with a
special caveat against delay.
Enter the waiter, with a tray, and
a large table-cloth. — ^Previooa set-o«t
trani^erred from the table to the tray,
and placed on the sideboard. — Two
tables run into one — afresh tablecloth
laid. — ^Exit waiter.
Enter waiter again, with plates,
cups and saucers, knives, forks, and
spoons, basin, two sngar-basine— in
short, all the apparatus of a break-
fast-table.— ^The whole laid, in the
twinkling of an eye. — Exit waiter.
Enter waiter a third time, with a
large tray — bread, (varieties,) butter,
water-cresses, ham, t<Higne, cold fillet
of veal, cold chii^ceU) cold pigeon-pie,
all the cold eatables. — ^Boots handed
in finom the door a Uuve block of
quince marmalade, on a mr&r salver.
1949.]
My Penmndar Medal, — Part I,
US
— ^Booto banded in small jars : potted
flhrimpa, pickled oysters, pot of Scotch
lioiiej, strawberry jam, other jams. —
Boots handed in one larger jar, a
Porti^ese conserve, quartos de mar-
meias, (N. B. qninces cnt np into
lumps, and boiled in Brazilian sugar.
Poortngnese beat all the world in
sweatmeats, and quartos de marmeku
beat all the rest.) I gnessed Ghig-
ham had given the landlady the key
c»f his travelling store-chest. — Boots
handed in mQk, cream, clonted cream.
Boots handed in two splendid brass
kettles of boiling water, one of which
waiter placed on each ^re. — ^Exit
waiter.
A temporary paose. Dnring this
lull, the utmost energies of the house
were in exercise below, to provide
with despatch the remaining materiel
of our humble meal. I observed,
from time to time, that he of the com-
missariat eyed the preparations with
peculiar benignity. It was all in his
way, as I subsequently had the
plMsnre of experiencing, among the
sources of the Adour and the Graionne.
•* Ever been with the army ?" said he.
—"Never," said I ; "but hope to be
•Doo."— *' Hope you'll often dine with
me. But don't spofl that fine bloater.
There, hold it a little further from the
fire. Bed herring shonld be toasted,
not burnt to death. Done, when the
iMdEfoone is crisp ; not before. But
should not be done quickly, like
nmrder in Shakspeare. Do it slowly,
ray dear sir ; do it slowly. If you do
it tet, you bum all the flavour out of
it.** I saw he was a connoisseur.
Yet — stupid, conceited, arrogant
jomig coxcomb — so inexperienced
was I tiien, so indignant at the
fliiadow of interference, so unaccus-
tomed to anything that bore the least
semblance of control, I inwardly
cmrled at even these valuable and truly
philanthropic suggestions — thoueht it
mil exceedingly odd, and took it for
dictation.
Lots of bloaters were now toasted
or roasted, and prepared for eating.
Just as we were ready, for the fourth
time enter waiter, bringing eggs,
coffee-pot, two tea-pots, (tea and
soifee ready,) muffins, hot buttered
rolls, &c,j &c.^ &c But among the
etceteras I really must pause, to spe-
cify a certain delicate sort of round
west-country breakfast cake — piles of
wliich were also brought in, buttered
and smoking hot. Gingham whispered
the waiter, "Keep on bringing them.^*
Gingham, with his usual judgment,^
had prohibited anything hot in the
shape of chops, steaks, cutlets, grills,
rashers, or even kidneys. It was a
herring Inreakfast; and he excluded
what would only have divided the
appetite, and interfered with the
bloaters.
We made a capital breakfiEut.
Everything was excdlent Hie pile
of breakfast cakes received x>erpetual
accessions, but never gained in height.
The bloaters, however, were the staple
of our meal; and Gingham's barrel
suffered a considerable reduction. As
we were all sensible people, or wished
to i^)pear so, there was very little
talk ; and what there was referred to
the important business in hand. At
length it was clear that we had break-
fasted. Gingham was beginning to
recommend the knick-kiuckeries —
jams, pickled oysters, marmalade.
Each seemed disposed to pause, yet
none had quite left off. Our guests
were evidently telegraphing, and ex-
changing looks of approval, when —
Enter the waiter once more, bring-
ing, upon a silver tray, two curiously
shaped bottles cased in a sort of
wicker-work, with glasses. A splen-
did Italian Uqueur! It was sipped,
approved, tossed off with wonderful
despatch. One by one we gradually
leaned back in our chairs, and the
bottles began to move round, as if
spontaneouslv. That is, I cannot
exactly say 1 saw any one pass them ;
but from time to time, first here, first
there, I noticed a littie finger pointing
to the ceiling; a movement whkt
certainly had something to do with
the {»t>gress of the bottles. We sat,
sipped, and chatted. Our breakfast
was an accomplished foct.
^^ Hear, hear, hear I" Mr Commissary
Capsicum was on his legs. Knuckles
rapped ; glasses jingled ; ^^Hear, hear,
hear!" — ^The telegraphic communica-
tions of his two friends had intimated
to him their wishes: the unexpeo-
ed bonus of the liqueur, coming in at
the last, had awakened, in his own
bosom, its most benevolent emotions :
he rose to acknowledge our hospi-
tality ; and in his friends' name, as
^54
My Peninsular Medal. — Part I,
[Not.
well as in his own, to invite us that
day to dinner.
His address I shall not attempt to
report. It was brief, well-bred, and
well- expressed ; had several good
points, and was heard with immense
applause. He invited ns to dinner ;
gave Gingham^s health and mine;
and concluded by observing that,
*^ conscious that he had not made a
neat and appropriate speech, he
begged leave," (filling, and suiting the
action to the word,) " to drink long
life and prosperity to us, in a neat
and appropriate bumper." Consid-
ering it was our first meeting, I did
think that was a little broad.
Gingham returned thanks, and gave
the health of Major M— , 11. A.
Major AI — returned thanks.
I returned thanks, and gave the
health of Captain Gabion, R. E.
Captain Gabion returned thanks,
sat down, and rose a second time, but
was anticipated by
Gingliam again, who gave the health
of Mr Commissary Capsicum.
Mr Commissary Capsicum returned
thanks.
With respect to the dinner, it would
not do. It was our last day before
sailing ; Gingham had whole reams of
letters to write ; I also had matters
to attend to ; we pleaded the circum-
stances, and begged to be excused.
Our friends saw the difficulty, and
reluctantly accepted our apologies.
There was a mementos pause. Then
all three rose from the table at once,
again thanked us politely for our hos-
pitality, and withdrew to their private
apartments. Shortly after, looking
out of the window, I saw them walk-
ing down the street, all arm in arm,
and each puffing a cigar.
Gingham stood pensive by the fire,
his elbow on the mantelpiece, his head
leaning on his hand.
'* I fear," said I, " your exertions
to entertain your guests have wearied
you."
«.• He made no reply. I went up to him.
Ho seemed to awake as from a reverie.
*^Hang it!" said Gingham, in a
plaintive tone, ^^ there should have
been some mashed potatoes."
" Never mind, my dear sir — excel-
lent breakfast; everything went off
capitally. I, for one, enjoyed it
amazingly."
*^ Yes," said Gingham, mournfully ;
*^but, to make the thing complete,
there should have been some mashed
potatoes with the bloaters. Had I
only known of it in time ! By the
bye," added he, "I thought once or
twice, you did not seem entirely at
your ease. Nothing more gentlemanly,
my dear sir, than your general man-
ner. But at times, it struck me, you
did appear a little — a little — stiffish.
You must get rid of that before we
reach headquarters."
"Well," said I, "I'll teU you.
That * captain' stuck in my gizzard.
There's the truth. Coupled with what
we heard previously, and Major M—
must have known that we heard it, it
was just the same as calling me a
donkey to my face."
" Oh, that's nothing," said Gingham.
" Don't distress yourself about such
trifles as that.'*
" To tell you the truth," said I,
"the whole thing appeared to me
a little too free and easy. Here were
you and I preparing to take a quiet
breakfast, when those three guerilla
fellows, with their off-hand Penin-
sular manners, actually took us by
storm, made a most ferocious attack
on your barrel of herrings, sunk it one-
third, drank up your two bottles of
liqueurs, and civilly wished ns good
morning. Now, when I was at col-
lege, to be sure we were merry enough,
no etiquette, no ceremony there. But
then there was a certain gentlemanly
feeling, which forbade vulgar familiar-
ity in any shape. And as to people
that assumed, or made free, I always
kept them at arm's length."
" Well, Mr Y— ," said Gingham,
" I see plainly how it is. Follow mv
advice. If you can't take a joke,
resign your appointment, forfeit your
money, and return to London. You'll
find it awkward enough living among
military men on actntd service."
" I trust," said I, "by adhering to
my invaria1}lc rule, never to offer a
deliberate insult, but at the same time
never to brook one, go where I will, I
shall be fortunate enough to escape
disagreeable rencontres."
" Nonsense I" said Gingham, look-
ing very serious, and sp^iklng quite
in a sharp and peremptory tone—
" nonsense 1" Then softening a little,
"Bencontres, my dear sir? Ben-
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal, — Part L
bb^
contres? Nothing of the kind. Ren-
contres? Yon talk like a militia
officer. Rencontres? You'll soon
dismiss all that kind of thing from
your thoughts, after you have seen
two or three rencontres with the
French. Rencontres? No, no; no
field of forty footsteps at headquarters.
Rencontres? It would be a perfect
absurdity, where men have the chance
of being shot gratis every day of their
lives, without going out of the way
for it. Rencontres? No; I did not
mean that. What I meant to say
was this: you would infallibly be
made a general butt. Rencontres?
Why, A& Y — , if you show any
nonsense of that sort, you'll be tor-
mented to death. Rencontres? Oh,
what lots of fun they'll take out of
you ! Meanwhile, think yourself for-
tunate that you are now getting a
seasoning. I am truly glad, for your
sake, that you have had the opportu-
nity here at Falmouth, and will have
the opportunity on your passage out,
of seeing something of militaiy men
and modes before you join. You
may, and probably will, be dubbed,
on your arrival, a Johnny Newcome.
But, at any rate, you will not be a
Johnny Raw."
Gingham closed the conference by
walking to the other end of the room,
and steadfastly contemplating his own
beautiful physiognomy in the glass.
During our conversation, his hand
had frequently visited his nose. He
now stood opposite the mirror, slew-
hig his head first this way, then that,
and at length broke silence : —
*' Well, I was not aware of it ; but
I do think that my nose is a little
crooked.'*
" I presume," said I, " you have no
sisters?"
" I have none," replied Gingham.
" Nor are you, I apprehend, a mar-
ried man ?'*
"There, alas, you are right again,"
sidd Gingham ; " but what has that
to do with it?"
" Your wife, or your sisters, if you
had any, would have told you that
yon have a very crooked nose."
" Well, but," said Gingham,
"there's my mother. My dear
mother never told me that my nose
was crooked."
" Your mother, probably, is totally
unconscious of the fact ; and, should she
hear any one else assert such a thing,
would deny it most strenuously."
"Nay, but," said Gingham, "though
I have neither sister nor wife, and
supposing my dear mother to be blind
to my personal defects, I have — in
short, Mr Y — , before I left Lon-
don, I took a tender leave of her
whom I hope to persuade, on my next
return from the Peninsula, to accept
the baud and the heart of a Gingham.
Sue did not tell me that mv nose was
crooked. She mentioned various ob-
stacles to our union ; but she never
mentioned Mo/."
" Then," said I, " depend upon it,
she means to have you. And depend
upon this, too ; she will tell you your
nose is crooked when you have made
her Mrs Gingham, if she does not tell
you so before."
"As to my walking sideways,"
said Gingham, " that's a palpable
fiction."
" Here," said I, " come to this ex-
tremity of the room, and place your-
self opposite the glass." He came,
and placed himself accordingly.
" Now walk straight down upon
the glass, keeping your eye fixed upon *
your reflected nose."
"What nose? Which nose?" said
Gingham, in a state of obvious alarm.
"Do you mean the nose in my
face ?"
" I mean your nose in the glass."
He walked as I had directed.
" Well, really," said Gingham,
" it's extraordinary ; it's very curious.
When I walk and look at my nose in
the glass, it appears quite straight
again— just as it ought to be, in the
middle of my face."
" That's just it," said I. " Then
you walk sideways. Depend upon it,
if you walked straight, your nose
would appear crooked."
He repeated the experiment again
and again, muttering to himself,
"Very remarkable, very curious;
quite a natural phenomenon."
" Don't distress yourself about your
nose," said I ; " it is a good enough
nose, in magnitude respectable, though
not strictly rectilinear. Make your-
self easy ; and say, with Erasmus^
* Nihil me poenitet hugeous nasi.' "
556
My Penmsular MedaL — Pari L
[Nov.
CHAPTER III.
Where Giogham got his classical
knowledge, I had uot at this time
ascertained. Certain it is, he was a
very fair classic. Bat there was one
dreadful drawback to his character,
and, in a man of his gravity, a strange
one: I mean his offensive, horrid
practice of making most atrocious
Latin puns. A pun in English he
viewed with utter contempt. It
stirred his bile. No English pun
escaped his lips. But for a Latin
pun, he scrupled not to lay under
contribution even the first-rate Latin
poets, Virgil, Ovid — nay, his favour-
ite author, Horace ; and if I, influ-
enced by bad example, was weak
enough, in an unguarded moment, to
commit the same offence, he stole my
puns, and made them again as his
own.
On the eve of our embarkation we
strolled forth, after an early dinner,
for a parting view of the sunset from
the castle. Walking up town, we
met the man of rum, the sleep-murder-
ing Macbeth of the mail-coach. Still
he was talking — for want of company,
talking to himself. But his eyes were
set, half- closed, and dim ; hiis aspect
was peculiarly meditative, and his
course curvilinear. He had taken on
board plus <Bquo of his own samples.
Perceiving our approach, he gave a
lurch to clear us. But his legs, being
not altogether under management,
brought him exactly in the cUrection
which he sought to shun; his sto-
mach, which had already suffered so
many assaults in the coach, most un-
fortunately impinged upon my elbow ;
and again it was ^^ ugh I** His gummy
eyes expanded, and gleamed on us
like two fresh- opened oysters. Awhile
he gazed with drunken gravity ; then,
turning round, bent over the roadside
gutter, as if about to tumble in, and
jocosely imitated the operation of
drawing a cork. His organs of vision
then assumed a slow movement of
horizontal ascillation, and gradually
settled on a pastry-cook's shop over
the way. Towards this point he di-
rected his zigzag approaches, recom-
mencing his agreeable conference with
himself, in teims of which we could
catch only the words — ^^ Archimedes
— screw — pneumatic chemistry — soda
water— pop !" He left with ns the
odour of a very bad cigar, which led
Gingham to remariL that he was
^^ backy plenus*' in more senses than
one.
The influence of bad example is
dreadful. Emerging from the town in
our way to the castle* we met a meny
party, male and female, all equestri-
ans save some six or eight, who occu-
pied the interior and exterior of a
post-chaise. Gingham, who saw into
a thing at once, pronounced them a
wedding party ; and a buxom dame,
who was mounted on a lively little
west country galloway, the bride.
' ' Pony subit conjux," said L *' Yes,"
said Gingham ; ^' but if that dear lady
rides so near the carriage, oh ! oh !
oh! she will infallibly be capsized!
^ Pony sub curm niminm propinqni !'"
We reached the hill in time, saw a
glorious sunset, and retnmcd to let-
ter-writing, and a light sapper on
hashed duck.
As Gingham appears more than
once upon the stage in the course of
my Peninsular adventures, and I
should really be sorry to annoy the
reader, as much as I was annoyed
myself, with his perpetual suid abomi-
uMe perversions of classic latinlty, I
beg leave to dispose of this part of Uie
subject at once, before we get to sea.
Saflice it to say, then, that in the
spring of the year 1838, jost a quarter
of a century after the period of whkh
I am now writing, I once more left
London for Falmonth, en rouie to Lis-
bon, though with an object fer diffe-
rent from that of my voya« now to
be recorded, and in a far different ca-
pacity. Science, in these five-and-
twenty years, had done wonders ; and
I had secured my passage in London^
not by a miserable tub of a salting
packet, but by a well-foond and fast
Peninsular steamer. The day before
the steamer was to start from Fal-
mouth, I walked down to the water's
side to take a view of her. On the
quay stood Gingham. By one of
those strange comcidenccswhichflome-
times happen in life, we had again met
at Falmouth, and were again to cross
the Bay of Biscay in company. I
laid.]
Aiy Pemnsuiar MedaL — Part L
557
recognised him : he did not recognise
me. Time had somewhat changed
hid look, his dress very little. Its
predominant aspect was still white.
His nose, too, was mimistakeable.
Perceiving at once that be was, like
myself, a passenger to the Peninsula,
I availed myself of the freedom con-
ceded in sncii cases, and commenced a
eonyersation by some remark on the
steamer.
*^ I presume, sir,'^ said he, ^^ you are
a passenger ?^*
*^Yes, Mr Gingham, and so are
yoiL Glad to meet you.^' He stared,
l)iit admitted the fact.
^* Bui, sir," said he, " yon have the
advantage of mo."
" Well, well," said I, " you'U find
me oat to-morrow on board the Gua-
dalquivir. Fine ship that. To-mor-
row, you know, as Horace said, when
bei was off by the steamer : — * Cras,
ingins I iterabimus lequor 1"
The effect was instantaneous. Ging-
ham did not speak, he shouted: —
'* Pine with me : I have got ajohn dory."
We walked off to the town — I rub-
bing my shoulder, which Gingham
shook, when he shook my hand — ^he,
Unt a few paces, thoughtful and silent.
I expected a burst of sentiment.
" By the bye," said Gingham,
*^ while your hand was in, you might
just as well have quoted the other line,
for that, also, refers to our voyage."
" The other line ?"
*^ Yes, the other line. Don^t you
see that pair of rooks flying over the
harbour ?"
'^ Rooks fly in droves. I see no
rooks."
*^ Bight," said he ; ^^ they are a
coople of crows."
^' But the line from Horace, referring
to onr voyage ?"
'*Not only referring to it," said
Gingham, ^^bat highly encouraging.
^ Nil desperandum two crow duce, et
auapice two crow."
^^ Gingham, you are incorrigible."
To reach the street from the water^s
aide we had to pass through a narrow
passage, and there met the stewardess
of the steamer, who was going on
board. She stalked along in clogs on
tiptoe* her left hand gathering up, be-
hind, her doak, gown, petticoat, &c.,
while her right hand bore an umbrella
4uie size larger than a parasol, ahd a
reticule one size less than a pannier;
emerging from which pannier appeared
the ugly mug of an enormous Portu-
guese red ram cat, the pet of the
stewardess, and the constant compa-
nion of her Peninsular voyages.
^^ My cat inter omnes," said Ging-
ham.
But I have rambled, and am a
quarter of a century wide of the mark.
The period of which I have now to
write, the important period to which
my present narrative refers, is not the
more recent year, 1838, but the re-
moter year, 1813, glorious in the
annals of England ; the year that saw
the commencement of Napoleon^s
downfal; the year of triumph and
rout beneath the walls of Yittoria;
the year of a still sterner and equally
successful conflict at St Sebastian;
the year, too, that furnished a name
for a princess of a royal line, that
Queen Victoria who, in her high
estate and royal clemency, remem-
bered and rewarded the long-forgotten
and long unrecompensed heroes of
those bygone times. In the early
spring of that year, 1813, I was there
at Falmouth, a raw youth, launched
on the wide world in search of adven-
ture, burning to reach the headquar-
ters of the Peninsular army, fully
capable of making a fool of myself
when I got there, and anxiously wait-
ing for the sailing of the Princess
Wilhelmina gun-brig, which, for want
of a better, performed the office of
Lisbon packet. It was well for me
that, at Falmouth, I had already fallen
into friendly hands.
On the morning of our embarkatioui
March the — th, 1813, Gingham went
early on board the packet, for his per-
sonal baggage was bulky and various,
to see to its stowage — part in his berths
part in the hold. It was settled be-
tween us that he was to return ashore,
that we were to breakfast together at
the hotel, and afterwards go off to-
gether to the packet, which was still
lying in the harbonr, and was to sail
about noon.
I waited breakfast for Gingham, but
no Gingham came. At length I re-
ceived a long note from him, dated on
board the packet. It began by stating
that an attempt had been made to
impose upon him, and that he was
My Pefiinstdar Medai, — Part I,
558
determined not to stand it. The at-
tempted imposition, as I learned from
him afterwards, was this : —
Gingham walked down from the
hotel to the water's side, and engaged
a boat, which was to take him on
board the packet for eighteenpenco ;
he, Gingham, understanding thereby,
according to the tenor of many previ-
ous bargains at the same rate of pay-
ment, that he was to be taken on
board, and put on shore again. On
this, however, the last day of our
abode at Falmouth, the two boatmen,
thinking they might safely try it on,
and conjecturing also that Gingham's
time might possibly be too valuable to
bo wasted in discussion, determined to
take a different view of the subject,
and exact a second fare for landing
him. The boat reached the packet.
Gingham went on board, the boatmen
made fast to a harbour-buoy, and
waited the result. Gingham went
below, made his arrangements, came
on deck, and hailed his boat to take
him ashore. The elder boatman
civilly touched his hat, and remarked,
with a winning smile, that they hadn't
been paid " nuffin" for bringing him
on board. Gingham replied, that he
should pay as usual when they had
got back to the quay. The boatman,
courteous as before, again touched his
hat, and answered, simpering, " Beg
your pardon, sir, but this ear last day,
when the peckit's hofF, jeddlemen hol-
ways pays bofe ways, cummin aboord,
and gooin back again." " Oh, do
they?" said Gingham, and walked
down into the cabin, where he quietly
wrote his note to me, in a hand that
beat copperplate ; and breakfasted
upon sea biscuit, junk, and ship's
cocoa, the steward not having yet got
off his stock of groceries for the voyage.
Everybody on board knew Gingham,
and he had no difficulty in getting
his note brought ashore in the ship's
boat, without the knowledge of the
two 'longshore fellows, who were riding
at the buoy, and who still thought
they had the best of the bargain— as it
is a rule in harbour, or at any rate was
in those days, that no private passen-
ger by a packet passed or repassed
except by 'longshore boats. Gingham
"waa now all right, and did not care
one farthing for the boatmen ; for he
already had the bulk of his things on
[Nov.
board, he was on board himself, and
his note advised me respecting his re-
maining matters ashore. He continu-
ed below, having resolved, as he told
me afterwards, to keep the boatmen
waiting alongside till the packet was
off, and then give them ninepence.
Meanwhile he sent up, by the steward,
an injunction to the people on deck,
who enjoyed not a little the false posi-
tion of the two boatmen, not on any
account to let them come on board.
Gingham's note to me, which was,
as I have already intimated, a beau-
tiful specimen of commercial penman-
ship, was to the following effect:—
That he was detained on board by
his determination to resist a gross
imposition; that the laundress had
still in her kee))ing a small quantity
of his linen, which she was to bring
to the hotel about breakfast-time;
that he had settled with the servants
that morning ; and that the landlady
was indebted to him in the snm of
two shillings, he having paid his bill
the night before, in which bill was
included the charge of two shillings
for a cold-meat breakfast, which he
should not take; that he requested
me to get back the two shillings from
the landlady; that he would also
thank me to receive the liuen from
the laundress, see that it was correct
per invoice, (washing- bill, I presume,)
check her account, liquidate it, and
bring the linen on board with me.
Meanwhile a curcumstance arose,
which was of great moment in itself,
and gave Gingham a further advan-
tage in his affair with the two Fal-
mouth lads. An extra mail for
Lisbon had aiiived from London,
sent off by despatch to catch the
packet before she sailed; and, by
management of Gingham's partners,
who were influential people, brought
Gingham letters on a matter of some
importance. These letters were taken
off to Gingham by a trusty drab-
coated Falmouth " Friend," in another
'longshore boat, and rendered it ab-
solutely requisite that he shonld go
ashore, and perhaps defer his voyage..
The packet at this time was sur-
rounded with boats and bustle, the
two boatmen still fast to the bnoy;^
and Gingham had no difficalty in
returning ashore by the boat whicb
brought off his mercantile friend.
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal — Part L
559
without being observed by them.
In fact, they were half asleep, still
secure, as they thought, of their
victim, and affording no small sport
to the crew of the packet, who saw
how thines were going. I shall only
mention here, that the communica-
tion, received by Gingham from Lon-
don, related to a grand financial
specnlation, an idea of his own,
having reference to the monetary
transactions at headquarters, which
were very large, and as well conducted
as circumstances permitted, but at-
tended with great difficulties, and
considerable loss to the British gov-
ernment. Gingham's plan would have
been backed by private capital to any
amount. It was knocked on the head
by the peace of 1814 : but I have more
to say about it hereafter.
True to her time, the laundress
arrived at the hotel ; not bringing, as
Gingham had described it, a small
quantity of linen, but attended by a
man with a barrow, wheeling two
large buckbaskets, each piled with an
immense heap of shirts, white in-
expressibles, white double-breasted
dimity waistcoats, — in short every
tbing white, — a stock for a voyage to
China. On the interior of the collar
of one of the said white double-
breasted dimity waistcoats, I noticed
the cypher ^ ! — No. 1 of the fourth
dozen I So profuse was Gingham in
his provision for the habiliment of his
own elegant exterior. I settled with
the laundress, engaged the barrow-
man to go off with me in chai-ge of
the linen, and take back the baskets,
finished my breakfast, paid my bill,
and went on board. Such was my
first embarkation for the Peninsula.
Little dreaming that there was a
spoke in my wheel, and that some time
was still to elapse between my depar-
ture from Falmouth and my arrival
at the British headquarters, I had
longed for the day of the packet's
saiUng. But now, when the wished-
for moment had arrived, a lot of little
things, coming upon me at the last,
quite put it out of my head that I was
quitting my native land, and about to
enter on new scenes, mingle with
strangers, embark in active life,
and master-— where alone they could
ht mastered, on their vernacular
soil — two ancient, expressive, and
kindred languages, which I had
conned rudimentally on the banks
of Cam. Nor did I dream that I
went to earn a prospective claim to
a Peninsular Medal; and jot down
mental memoranda, still vividly legi-
ble, of all I heard and saw, for the in-
formation and amusement of readers
then unborn. " Gooin' off to the
peckit, sir? Here, Bill, hand the
jeddleman's boxes." Then, when we
were half way to the brig, — ** AVherry
'ot on the worter, sir. Ope you'll be
ginnerous a little hextiy for the lug-
gidge, sir. Wherry dry work pullin',
sir."
Gingham, when I reached the
packet, was not on board. The cause
of his absence was explained to me-
by the steward, who assisted in stow-
ing away the contents of the two
buckbaskets in Gingham's berth.
During this operation, the steward,
who fully participated in the anti-
pathy to 'longshore boatmen common
to his class, communicated to me,
with no small glee, the occurrences of
the morning ; and begged me to take
a sight, when I went on deck, of the
two expectant gentlemen at the buoy.
There they were, sure enough, very
much at their ease — quite satisfied
that Gingham would want to be taken
ashore again before the packet sailed,
that theirs was the boat that must
take him, and that they had the game^
in their own hands.
On deck I met our three breakfast
guests of the day before. They
greeted me cordially, made many
inquiries afler Gingham, and intro-
duced me, as a particular old crony
of theirs, to Staff-Surgeon Pledget,
who had arrived by the mail over-
night, and was also a passenger to-
Lisbon, on his return to the British
army. I soon began to perceive that
it was a standing rule with my three-
new acquaintances, regular " Penin-
sulars," to extract fun from even the
most common incidents — in fact, from
everybody and everything. Staff-
Surgeon Pledget, as able a man in
his profession as any staff- surgeon
attached to the Peninsular army, was
matter-of-fact personified; and the
dignified cordiality with which he
received an old crony of <//et>«, evi-
dently afforded the three hoaxers
560
My Peninsukw MedaL — Part L
[Nov.
exti*aordl]iai7 sport. Major M — did
the presentation with perfect coolness
and amenity. Gammon was bis
element. Mr Commissary Capsicum
winked his eye in the richest style of
comedy, and nearly made me spoil
all by laughing. Captain Gabion
looked gravely on, and langlied inter-
nally. His sides shook, his elbows
twitched, and his countenance wore
its usual expression of melancholy.
Presently after was seen approach-
ing a man-of-war^s boat, pulling at
the steady rate, which indicated that
it conveyed an officer of rank. The
boat came alongside with a graceful
sweep ; twelve oars stood upright, as
if by magic ; and a tall, military-look-
ing man, who had lost an arm, rose,
politely took leave of the lieutenant in
charge of the boat, ascended the ship^s
side, with the aid of his single hand^
faster than some people perform the
same difficult operation with two,
and stood on deck. This was the
brave Colonel of the cavalry,
who was going out with us to rejoin
his regiment. He had loet his arm at
Oporto, on that memorable occasion
when the French, to their astonish-
ment, found the British army on their
side of the Douro ; and when the
British army, too, quite surprised at
finding itself, as if by magic, on
the opposite bank of a broad, deep,
and rapid river, and struck with ad-
miration at the bold conception and
skilful execution which had effected
the transition under the enemy*s
nose, with one consent dubbed its
illustrious leader " Old Douro." By
that title, from that time forward, he
was commonly known at headquar-
ters : and is it not a glorious one, so
won, and so conferred, and truly wor-
thy of descending in his family ? On
that occaaion, I was told. Colonel
charged through the enemy at
the head of his regiment, and, aa
one good turn deserves another,
thought he might as well charge back
again. It was in this second charge
that he lost his arm.
Arrived on deck, the colonel made
a somewhat semicircnlar bow to all of
us, and immediately recognised Mi^or
M~. His valet followed him, and
presently went below. The next mo-
Qfent, the colonel began to take a first
▼iew oC the yesse!, and tamed (ran
us for that purpose. Captain Grabion,
first nudging Mr Commissary Capsi-
cum, whispered Major M — ^ ^^Come,
major, give us the colonel." Tba
major, li^ving an arm too many, in a
twinkling whipped one bdiind him,
stepped to the gangway, and did the
colonel^s first appearance to the life.
To execute the colonel^s recognition of
himself, for want of a better anbetatote,
he advanced, with the cokmel^s three
military strides, to me. I, carried
away by the drollery of the scene, so
far forgot myself that I did the miy<»r.
This caused a genwal laugh; the
colonel turned round, and caoi^t me
and the major bowing, grimacing, and
shaking hands. He saw at once what
had been gomg on, and laughed too.
But the miyor wished to shift the
responsibility. '' That Pledget," said
he, *^ keeps us in a oonstAnt roar."
Mr Staff-Sorgeon Pledget looked a
little surprised When the miyor gave
us the colonel^s horizontal salutation to
the company assembled. Pledget took
it all in earnest, and bowed in retain.
One other arrival followed. Aahors
boat came o£E^ having four more paa-
aengers— a lady, two gentlemen, and
a female attendant. One of the said
gentlemen, an Irishman, waa the
lady^s brother : she, in fai^ and form,
a perfect specimen of Iriah beauty ;
he, both in person and in feature, all
that might be expected in the brother
of such a sister. In this respect he
presented a remarkable contraat to
their fellow-passenger, who waa a
young Irish officer of the East India
Company^s navy, and, what made it
more remarkable, the accepted swain,
as we afterwards had every reaaoa to
conclude, of his fair conntrywonuuL
How shall I deecribe thia lovriy youth ?
His head was large; hiafaoepromgioaa-
ly large wadjlat; his featnree were lu-
dicrously diminutive. Fancy a foil
moon seen broad and white through a
Shetland miat--in short, a fall BDOon
of putty; then fanc^, atadL exactly
in the centre of this moon, the little
screwed-op pogfaoe of a little og^
monkey, and yon have him to a X.
His two little twinkling eyes, deep
sunk beneath the beetlhoig brow of kit
prominent and maaaive forehead, and
in such cloae proximity that nothing
separated them bat the bridge of hia
mMe, weie conataatlyand inqoliltive^f
1849.]
My Fenmsular MedaL — Part L
561
on the mov6. The nose itself was too
inAignifioanft to merit a description.
Yet it was not exactly what is called
% squashed nose> but a nose withont a
nib. It conveyed to yon, indeed, the
IMunful impression that some unfeeling
barber had sliced off its extremity,
and left the two unprotected nostrils
staring yon full in the face, like the
open ports of a ship. His ears were
like an elephant^s,— large, loose, thin,
flat, and nnhemmed. His mouth, like
that described by a distinguished au-
thoress, ^^ had a physiognomy of its
own." Not very observable when
quiescent, in speaking it became
cnrionsly expressive, and, at times,
anormonsly elongated or strangely
curvilinear. It had also, under the
same drcnmstances, another pecu-
liarity. It was a travelling mouth :
yes, it travelled. When it talked, it
was constantly shifting its position,
Bot only up and down, but side-
ways and obliquely. In the utter-
ance of a single sentence, it would
traverse the whole extent of his
fieice. It was now high, now low;
BOW on this side, now on that. It
ranged, at will, the whole breadth of
Ilia conntenance from ear to ear ; so
that at times he was all mouth on
<me side of his face, and no mouth on
the other. This gave him the addi-
tional advantage, that his profile could
maintain a dialogue with you, as well
as another man's full face. When
convening with his lady-love, side
bj side at the dinner-table, he never
turned to look at her — he had no need.
Viewing her with one eye, like a duck,
ia tones of deferential tenderness he
addressed her from the cheek that
waa nearest hers. His perfectly
weU-bred deportment, nay, elegance
of manner, his inexhaustible fund of
flood humour, and amusing waggery,
did not, I am sorry to say, prevent
his acquiring, and bearing during the
▼oyage, the name of Joey : allusive,
I presume, to the feats of month per-
Ibnaed in tiiose days by the far-
finned Grimaidi. The malevolent
SBtpicion, that a title so derogatory
was any suggestion of mine, I scorn
to notice. To this, however, I do
confess, tiiat, ere we had been four-
and- twenty hours at sea, as a slight
token of my profound veneration for
the stateliest and the loveliest of
£rin*s daughters, I proposed, and it
was carried unauimously, that sho
should bear the name of Juno. And,
the colonel having pronounced her
brother a pertect Apollo, I also pro-
posed, and it was also carried unani-
mously, that we should call him Mr
Belvidere. But I am anticipating.
On the practice of giving sobriquets,
so common at headquarters, mudi
remains to be said hereafter. As to
the maid-servant, she was a quiet
little Irishwoman of about five-and-
thirty, in a duffle cloak with pink
bows, snug straw bonnet neatly tied
under her chin with a pink ribbon,
and snow-white cotton stockings, ex-
hibiting a rather broad instep, which
led me to conjecture that she had not
always worn shoes. Her mistress
called her Kitty, and that name she
was allowed to keep, as no one on
board thought he could improve it.
It is time to get to sea. Gingham,
where are you? what are you about?
We shall be off, and leave you be-
hind. Noon, our hour of sailing,
was now near at hand. The anchor
was hove short ; the sails were shak-
ing in the wind ; the skipper came
on board ; the foresail was then set ;
still there was no Gingham. Those
talented individuals, the two boatmen,
still supposing Gingham was on board,
were getting a little uneasy. They
were now wide awake, and anxiously
peering at the ship with their hands
over their eyes, watching every one
that came on deck, but watching in
vain. Their uneasiness evident^
increased, as our remaining time di-
mhushed ; till at length, as the town
clock struck twelve, the capstan was
manned. The anchor was then hove
to the tune of "Off she goes," per-
formed on a single fife in admirable
time, marked by the tread of many
feet. The flood- tide was beginning
to make ; but we didn^t care for that,
as we had wind enough from the north-
east, and to spare. Other sails were
now set, and we were beginning to
get way ; while I was intently eyeing
the shore, expecting to see Gingham
shove off, and perfectly sure he would
come, because he had taken no steps
for the re- landing of his baggage.
But I did not look in the right di-
rection. Gingham, detained to the
last moment, and then, having settled
My Peninsular MedaL — Part I,
562
all things to his satisfaction, at liberty
to prosecute his voyage, had made
his arrangements mih his usual judg-
ment. It was a near thing though.
He put off from a part of the town
lower down than the quay from which
he usually embarked, so as to cut in
upon us as we glided down the har-
bour ; and was within a few fathoms
of the ship before I saw him. He
was then standing upright in his boat,
completely absorbed in a London
paper, but with one hand waving his
umbrella, without looking up, to stop
the ship. Stopping the ship was out
of the question. Indeed, I fancied the
skipper would have been glad to go
without him. The boat, coming end
on, and not very cleverly handled by
the Falmouth fellows, bumped against
the side of the ship, which, as she
was now under way, they were afraid
of missing altogether ; and the shock
almost pitched Gingham and his
umbrella into the water. He came
on board amidst general laughter,
and the hearty greetings of such of
the passengers as knew him — none
heartier than mine. " How his green
spectacles would have frightened the
fishes ! " said Mr Commissary Capsi-
cum to Captain Gabion. "Don't
joke on such a serious subject," re-
plied the captain; *'had he gone
over, we should have quitted England
without getting a sight of the last
London newspaper."
The two worthies, who, still
expecting to see Gingham emerge
from the cabin, had so long waited
for him in vain, were by this
time in an awkward predicament.
When the ship first began to move,
they had no resource but to unmoor
from the buoy, out oars, and pull
away in company. But this, it was
soon clear, would not do. The ship
was getting more and more way, and,
had they pulled their hearts out, would
soon have left them astein ; when,
as their only chance, they pulled close
alongside, and made free with a rope's
end that was dragging through the
water. This one of them held, after
giving it a turn round a bench ; while
the other kept off the boat from the
ship's side by means of the boat-hook.
[Nov.
While they were being thus dragged
through the wat^r, each, as he could,
from time to time touching his hat,
each beseechingly simpering, each
saying something that nobody could
hear, and both anxiously looking for
Gingham on deck, to their great sur-
prise they saw him come alongside in
another boat, as I have already re-
lated; and, before they could say
Jack Robinson, he was on boai*d.
After our first greetings, I called
Gingham's attention to the disagree-
able position of our two friends, who
were still holding on alongside, and
dragging through the water. Indeed,
I was disposed to hold an argumeot
with him on the subject, and thought
a different view might be taken of
their case. " No, no," said Gingham;
*^ this is the first time any Falmouth
man has ever attempted to impose
upon me, and I mean it to be the last."
The breeze, no unusual circumstance
in such localities, stiffened as we ap-
proached the entrance of the harbour,
where the high land closes in, and the
sea-way is comparatively narrow;
and, meeting the swell which came
tumbling in from the ocean with the
flood-tide, knocked up a little bit of
an ugly ripple. The situation of the
two boatmen was becoming every
moment more awkward. We were
now going six knots, (through the
water, mind you, not making six knots
— that, against such a current, was
quite beyond our tubby little Wilhel-
mina's capabilities ;) the ripple was
gradually becoming nastier ; the boat-
men, still touching their hats from
time to time, stiU blandly smiling,
and still making unheard bnt pathetic
appeals to Gingham's generosity, did
not like to let go till they had got
something ; and I really thongbt the
end must be, that their boat would
be swamped alongside. At length,
Gingham put an end to the farce,
by screwing up ninepence in a bit of
paper, and throwing it into the boat,
telling them it was threepence more
than they deserved. They then let
go ; and we left them poppUng np and
down, like a cork, in the broken water,
and scuffling about in the bottom of
the boat for the scattered coin.
1849.J Disenclumiment. /^03
DISENCHANTMENT.
BY DELTA.
I.
Although from Adam stained with crime,
A halo girds the path of time,
As ^twere things humble with sabllmc,
Divine with mortal blending,
And that which is, with that which seems, —
Till blazoned o^er were Jacobus dreams
With heaven's angelic hosts, in streams.
Descending and ascending.
n.
Ask of the clouds, why Eden's dyes
Have vanished from the sunset skies?
Ask of the winds, why harmonies
Now breathe not in their voices?
Ask of the spring, why from the bloom
Of lilies comes a less perfume?
And why the linnet, 'mid the broom,
Less lustily rejoices?
in.
Silent are now the sylvan tents ;
The elves to ^ry elements
Resolved are gone; grim castled rents
No more show demons gazing.
With evil eyes, on wandering men ;
And, where the dragon had his den
Of fire, within the haunted glen.
Now herds unharmed arc grazing.*
* A clearer day has dispelled the marrels, which showed themselves in heayen
above and in earth beneath, when twilight and superstition went hand in hand.
Horace's
*' Somnia, terrores magkos, xniracula, sagas,
Noctarnos Lemures, portentaque Thessala,**
as well as Milton's
^* GoTgons, Hydras, and Chiniieras dire/'
have all been found wanting, when reduced to the admeasurements of science ; and
the ^ sounds that syllable men's names, on sands, and shores, and desert wilder-
nestet," are quenched in silence, or only exist in what James Hogg most poetically
terms
^ That undefined and mingled hum.
Voice of the desert, never dumb.^'
»^
The inductive philosophy was '^ the bare bodkin" which gave many a pleasant vision
** its quietus." ** Homo, naturae minister," saith Lord l^con, ** et interpres, tantum
ikoit et intelligit, quantum de naturae ordine se vel mente observaverit : nee amplius
sett nee potest." — Not, Organnm^ Aph. I.
The fkbnlous dragon has long acted a conspicuous part in the poetry both of the
north and south. We find him in the legends of Regnar Lodbrog and Kempion, and
in the episode of Brandimarte in the second book of the Orlando Inamorato. He is
also to be recognised as the huge snake of the Edda ; and figures with ourselves in
the stories of the Chevalier St George and the Dragon — of Moor of Moorhall and the
Dragon of WanUey—in the Dragon of Loriton—in the Laidley Worm of Spindleton
5^ Duemthamtment. [Not.
IV.
Xo more, as horror stirs the trees,
The path- belated peasant sees
Witches, adown the sleety breeze.
To Lapland flats careering:*
As on through storms the Sea-kings sweep,
No more the Kraken huge, asleep.
Looms like an island, 'mid the deep.
Rising and disappearing.
V.
Xo more, recfined bj Cona's streuas,
Before the seer, in waking dreanw,
The dim fonereal pageant gleama,
Futnrity fore-aliowing;
No more, released ftHHn chnrchjard trance.
Athwart blue midnight, spectres glance.
Or mingle in the bridal dance.
To vanish ere oock-crowing.t
Heugh— in the Flying Serpent of Lockbome — ^the Snake of Wormieston, &c. &c
Bartholinus and Saxo-Grammaticns Tohmteer us some curions information regarding
a species of these monsters, whose particular oiSoe was to keep watch orer hidden
treasure. The winged Gryphon is of ^ auld desoent,'* and has held a place in nnni-
tnral history from Herodotas {Thalia, 116, and Melpcmenty 13,27) to Milton (Para-
dite Loft, book v.) —
** As when a Grrphon, through the wilderness,
With -winged course, oVwhill or moory dale.
Pursues the Arimaspian,*^ &o.
* Of the many mysterious chapters cf the hnraan mind, smrely one of the most
obscnre and puzzling is that of witchcraft. For some reason, not sofficiently explained,
Lapland was set down as a fiftToorite seat of the STgies of the ^ Midnight Hags.**
When, in the ballad of ** The Witch of Fife/' the anld godemao, in the exercise of
his conjugal authority, questions his emnt spouse legardiiig her nocturnal absences
without leave, she is made ecstatically to aaswer,
" Whan we came to the Tiapland lone.
The fairies war all in array ;
For all the genii of the Nortii
War keepyng their holyday.
The warlocke man and the weird womyng,
And the fays of the woode and the ite^
And the plumtom hunteris all were there,
And the mermaidis of the deep.
And they waehit us all with rae witch-water,
Distillit fra the moorland dew,
Quhill our beauty bloomit like the Lapland rose.
That wylde in the foreste grew/*
Qmtm's Wake, Night Ist
^ Like, but oh how diArent," are these unearthly gomgs on to the details in the Wtl-
pnrgis Night of Faust (Act t. Scene 1 .) The '^ phantora-himterB^ of the north were
not the " Wilde Jttger" of Burger, or "* the Erl-king" of Goethe. It is related by
Heame, that the tribes of the Orippewis Indians suppose the northern lights to be
occasioned by the frisking of herds of deer in the ^elds aboye, caused by the haloo
and chase of their departed friends.
t It is Teiy probable, that the i^>paritional risit of " Alonae the Bmye" to ike
bridal of " the Fair Imogene,'' was suggested to M. G. Lewis, by the sleiy in the old
chronicles of the skeleton masquer taking his place among the wedding ceyelleny at
Jedburgh Castle, on the night when Alexander III., in 1286, espcoised as his second
queen, Joleta, daughter of the Count le Drenx. These were the palay days of por-
tents; and the prophecy uttered by Thomas of Broildoona, of tbe storm which was
to roar
" From Hois's hills to Solwsy aea,^
WIS supposed to haye had its fhlfihneat in the death of the lamented si«iaroh,iHiMi
VI.
Alas! that Fancy's fount sfamild cease!
In rose-hnes limn'd, the myths of Greece
Have waned to dreams — ^the Colchian fleece,
And labours of Alddes : —
Nay, Homer, even thy mighty line —
Thy living tale of Troy divine —
The sceptic scholiast doubts if thine,
Or Priam, or Pelides !
vn.
As silence listens to the lark,
And orient beams disperse the dark,
How sweet to roam abroad, and mark
Their gold the fields adorning :
But, when we think of where are they.
Whose bosoms like om* own were gay.
While April gladdened lifers yonng day,
Joy takes the garb of monming.
vm.
Warm gnshlng thro' the heart come back
The thoughts that brightened boyhood's track;
And hopes, as 'twere from midnight black.
All star-like re- awaken;
Until we feel how, one by one,
The faces of the loved arc gone,
And nieve for those left here alone.
Not those who have been taken.
IX.
The past returns in all we see,
The billowy cloud, and branching tree;
In all we hear— the bird and bee
Bemind of pleasures cherish'd ;
When all is lost it loved the best.
Oh ! pity on that vacant breast,
Which would not rather be at rest.
Than pine amid the perish'd!
X.
A balmy eve I the round white moon
Emparadises midmost June,
Tune trills the nightingale on tune —
What magic! when a lover,
oeenrred, only a few months after the appearance of the skeleton masquer, bj a fall
from hifl horse, over a precipice, while hunting between Bomtisland and Kinghorn, at
a place still called '' the King's Wood-end."
Wordsworth appears to haye had the subject in his eye, in two of the stanzas of
hlfl lyriOy entitled PreuntimentSf — the last of which runs as follows: —
" Ye daunt the proud array of war,
Pervade the lonely ocean £ar
As sail hath been unfurled.
For dancers in the festive hall
What ghostly partners hath your call
Fetched from the shadowy world.^*
—Poetical Works, 1845, p. 176.
The same incident has been made the subject of some very spirited verses, in »
little volume — BaUads and Lays from Scottish History — published in 1844; and
which, I fear^ has not attracted the attention to which its intrinsic merits assuredly
•nliae it.
,566 Ditenc^tatUment, [Nor.
To him, who now, gray-haired and lone,
Bends o*er the sad sepulchral stone
Of her, whose heart was once his own :
Ah I bright cUt»am briefly over!
XI.
Sec how from port the vessel glides
With streamered masts, o^er halcyon tides;
Its laggard coarse the sea-boy cliides,
AU loath that calms should bind him ;
But distance only chains him more.
With love-links, to his native shore.
And sleep^s best dream is to restore
Hie home he left behind him.
XII.
To sanguine youth^s enraptured eye,
Ilcaven has its reflex in tiie sky,
The winds themselves have melody.
Like harp some seraph sweepeth ;
A silver decks the hawthorn bloom,
A legend shrines the mossy tomb,
And spirits throng the starry gloom,
Her reign when midnight keepeth.
xiu.
Silence overhangs the Delphic cave;
Where strove the bravest of the brave,
Naught mot the wandering Byron, save
A lone, deserted barrow ;
And Fancy's iris waned away.
When Wordsworth ventured to survey,
Beneath the light of common day.
The dowie dens of Yarrow.
XIV.
Little we dream — ^whcn life is new,
And Nature fresh and fair to view,
AVheu throbs the heart to pleasure true.
As if for naught it wanted, —
That, year by year, and ray by ray,
Romance's sunlight dies away,
And long before the hair is gray,
The heart is disenchanted.
1849.]
Across the Atlantic.
667
ACROSS THE ATI.ANTIC.
Another book from the active pen
of oar American acquaintance, the
able seaman. The question having
been raised whether Mr Herman Mel-
ville has really served before the mast,
and has actually, like the heroine of a
well- known pathetic ballad, disfigured
his lily-white fingers with the nasty
pitch and tar, he does his best to dis-
sipate all such doubts by the title-page
of his new work, on which, in large
capitals, is proclaimed that Redburn
is " The Sailor 'boy Confessions and
Reminiscences of the son of a gentleman
in the merchant service ;^^ and, colla-
terally, by a dedication to his younger
brother, ^^ now a sailor on a voyage to
Chinay An unmerited importance
has perhaps been given to the inquiry
whether Mr Melville's voyages were
made on quarterdeck or on forecastle,
and are genuine adventures or mere
Hobinsonades. The book, not the
writer, concerns the critic ; and even
as there assuredly are circumstances
that might induce a youth of gentle
birth and breeding to don flannel shirt,
and put fist in tar-bucket as a mer-
chant seaman, so the probably unplea-
sant nature of those circumstances
precludes too inquisitive investigation
into them. We accept Mr Melville,
therefore, for what he professes to be,
and we accept his books, also, with
pleasure and gratitude when good,
jost as we neglect and reject them
when they are the contrary. Redburn^
we are bound to admit, is entitled to
a more favourable verdict than the
author's last previous work. We do
not like it so well as Typee and Omoo ;
and, although quite aware that this is
a class of fiction to which one cannot
often return without finding it pall, by
reason of a certain inevitable same-
ness, we yet are quite sure we should
not have liked it so well as those two
books, even though priority of publi-
cation had brought it to a palate un-
gated with that particular sort of lite-
rary diet. Nevertheless, after a de-
cided and deplorable retrogression, Mr
Melville seems likely to go ahead
again, if he will only take time and
pains, and not over- write himself, and
avoid certain affectations and pedantry
unworthy a man of his ability. Many
of the defects of Mardi are corrected
in Redburn, We gladly miss much
of the obscurity and nonsense that
abound in the former work. The
style, too, of this one is more natural
and manly; and even in the minor
matter of a title, we find reason to
congratulate Mr Melville on improved
taste, inasmuch as we think an Eng-
lish book is better fitted with an Eng-
lish-sounding name than with uncouth
dissyllables from Polynesia, however
convenient these may be found for the
purposes of the puff provocative.
Redburn comprises four months of
the life of a hardy wrong-headed
lad, who ships himself on board a
trading vessel, for the voyage from
New York to Liverpool and back..
As there \a no question of shipwreck,
storm, pirates, mutiny, or any other
nautico - dramatic incidents, during
Wellingborough Redburn's voyage out
and home ; and as the events of his
brief abode in England are neither
numerous nor (with the exception of
one rather far-fetched episode) by any
means extraordinary, it is evident
that a good deal of detail and inge-
nuity are necessary to fill two volumes,
on so simple and commonplace a
theme. So a chapter is devoted to
the causes of his addiction to the sea,
and shows how it was that childish
reminiscences of a seaport town, and
stories of maritime adventure told hin>
by his father, who had many times
crossed the Atlantic, and visions of
European magnificence, and, abovo
all, the frequent contemplation of an
old-fashioned glass ship which stood
in his mother's sitting-room, and
which is described with considerable
minuteness, and some rather feeble
attempts at the facetious — how all
these things combined had imbued
young Wellingborough with a strong
craving after salt water. Other cir-
cumstances concurred to drive him
Redburn : his First Voyags, By Herman Melville, anthor of Typee, Omoo, and
Mardi, 2 vols. London, 1849.
VOL. LXVI. — ^NO. CCCCIX. 2 P
568
Acrots the A
forth upou the world. Ho hints at
family misfortunes. His father had
been a merchant at New York, in a
flourishing business. Things were
now less prosperous. " Some time
previous, my mother had removed
from New York to a pleasant village
on the Hudson river, where we lived
in a small house, in a quiet way. Sad
<lisappointments in several plana which
I had sketched for my future life ; the
necessity of doing something for my-
self, united to a naturally roving dis-
position, had now conspired within
me to send me to sea as a sailor.^'
And yet it would appear that he might
have done better than plunge thus
recklessly into the hardships and evil
associations of a merchantman's fore-
castle ; for he more than half admits
that he was erring and wilful, and that
he had kind relatives and sympathis-
ing patrons, who would have put him
in the way of earning a living other-
wise. Redbum, however, seems to
have been in some respects as preco-
cious as in others we shall presently
find him simple and inexperienced. A
mere boy, adversity had aJready con-
verted him into a misanthrope, at an
age when most lads are as yet without
plans for their future, and know not
disappointment in any more important
matters than a treat to the play, or an
extra week's holiday. The forward-
ness of the rising generation is remark-
able enough in England, and has been
amusingly hit off by one of our clever-
est caricaturists. In America, there-
fore, which notoriously goes ahead of
the old country in most particulars,
and whose inhabitants lay claim to an
exti'aordinary share of railroad and
earthquake in their composition, boy-
ish precocity is possibly stiU more re-
markable ; and one must not wonder
at finding Master Redbum talking in
misanthropic vein of the worid's treat-
ment of him, how bleak and cheerless
everything seemed, and how "the
warm soul of him had been flogged out
by adversity." This, at an age when
the stinging memory of the school-
master's taws must still have been
tolerably vivid about the seat of his
breeks, seems rather absurd to begin
with. It was under the influence of
such feelings, however, that this infant
Timon left bis home to cast his lot
npon the wide waters. His friends
[Nov.
were evidently either very angry with
him or very poor ; for they allowed
him to depart with but one dollar in
his pocket, a big shooting -jacket with
foxes* heads on the bnttona, and a
little bundle, containing his entire kit,
slung at the end of the fowling-pieoe
which his good-natured elder brother
pressed upon him at parting. Thus
equipped, he tramps off to the steamer
that is to carry him down the Hudson,
early on a raw morning, along a mnddy
road, and through a driajdOng rain.
The skyey infln^cea will at times
affect even the most stmcal, and the
dismal aspect of external nature makes
Master Redbum rev^ to his blighted
prospects — ^how his soul is afflicted
with mildewr^^and the firnit wfakh,
with others, is only blasted after ripe-
ness, with him is nipped in the ftnt
blossom and bud." The blight ba
complains of is evidently of a most
virulent description, for it ^^ leaves
such a scar that the air of Paradise
miffht not erase it.'* As he has just
berore told us how, whilst walking
along, his fingers "worked moodily
at the stock and trigger'* of his bro-
ther's rifle, and that he had tiionght
this was indeed " the proper way to
begin life, with a gun in your hand,**
we feel, upon hearing him croak so
desperately, some apprehension for
his personal safety, and think his bro-
ther would have done as well to have
kept his gun. On this last point we
quite make up our minds, when we
shortly afterwards find him levelling
the weapon at the left eye of a steam-
boat passenger who is so imprudent
as to stare at him, and bullying the
steward for demanding the ftre,
(which is two dollars, whereas Bed-
bum has but one,^ and looking cat-
a-mounts at his less needy (SbHow-
voyagers, because they have the rude-
ness to enjoy theur roast beef dinner,
whilst he has had the hnprovidence to
leave home without even a cmst hi
his wallet. It seems the anther's aim
to start his hero in lifb nnder ereiy
possible circumstance of disadvantage
and hardship; and to do this, be
rather loses sight of •probability. At
last, however, Redbmn reaches New
York, with gun and handle, fbxea*
heads and slK>oting-ja(dcei, and has-
tens to visit a friend of his brollier's,
to whom he is recommended. A kind
1849.]
Across the Atlantic.
569
welcome, good supper, and warm bed,
go some way towards dissipating his
Ul hmnonr; and next morning the
Mend accompanies him to the docks
to seek a ship. But none of his
brother's kindnesses prosper him.
The gnn, as we have seen, has already
led Mm to the yerge of homicide, the
ibxee' heads are yet to be the soorce
of innumerable vexations; and Mr
Jones, a silly young man, does more
barm than good, by taking the direc-
tion of Redbnm]s affairs, and acting
as his spokesman with Captain Riga,
<^ the regular trader, Higklandery
then loading for Liverpool.
^ We found the captain in the cabin.
which was a Tery handsome one, lined
widi mahogany and maple ; and the
stewaid, an elegant-looking mnlatto, in a
gofgeoos tnrban, was setting oat, on a
wrt of sideboard, some dinner^erriee
irideh looked like silver, but it was only
Kitannia ware highly polished. As soon
as I eloped my eye on the captain, I
^ught to myself he was just the cap-
tain to suit me. He was a fine-looking
nuus, about forty, splendidly dressed,
with very black whiskers and very white
teeth, and what I took to be a free fhi.nk
look out of a large hazel eye. I liked
fdm amazingly."
The scene that ensues is quietly
bnmorous, and reminds us a good
deal of Marryat, in whose style of
novel we think Mr Melville would
succeed. The upshot of the confer-
ence is that Bedbum ships as a boy
on board the Highlander. By vaunt-
ing his respectability, and the wealth
of his relations, his injudicious friend
famishes Riga with a pretext for
withholdmg the customary advance
of pay ; and although the sale of the
fowling-piece to a Jew pawnbroker
parodnces wherewith to purchase a
xed woollen shirt, a tarpaulin hat,
and jack-knife, Redbum goes on
boara but slenderly provided. His
reception is not very cheering.
^ When I reached the deck, I saw no
one but a huqge man in a laige dripping
pta^jaeket, ^o waa cidking down the
mainhatches.
'^'What do yon want, Pillgarlic!'
said he.
^HVe shipped to sail in this ship,* I
replied, aomndng a little dignity to chas-
tise his ftnriliarity.
•♦What for— • tailor t' said he, look-
ing at my shootiiig-jaoket.
'' I answered that I was going as a
' boy;* for so I was technically put down
on the articles.
" * Well,* said he, * have you got your
traj>s aboard I '
*' I told him I didn't know there were
any rats in the ship, and hadn't brought
any 'trap.*
" At this he laughed out with a great
guffaw, and said there must be hay-seed
in my hair.
^ This made me mad; but, thinking he
must be one of the sailors who was going
in the ship, I thought it wouldn't be
wise to make an enemy of him, so only
asked him where the men slept in the
vessel, for I wanted to put my clothes
away.
" • Where's your clothes ! ' said he.
'' * Here in my bundle,' said I, holding
it up.
"'Well, if that's all you've got,' he
cried, ' you'd better chuck it overboard.
But go forward, go forward to the fore-
castle; thafs the place yon live in aboard
here.'
^ And with that he directed me to a
sort of hole in the deck of the bow of the
ship; but looking down, and seeing how
dark it was, I asked him for a light.
'^^ Strike your eyes together and make
one,' said he, ' we don't have any lights
here.' So I groped my way down into
the forecastle, which smelt so bad of old
ropes and tar, that it almost made me
sick. After waiting patiently, I began
to see a little; and, looking round, at last
perceived I was in a smoky-looking plaoe^
with twelve wooden boxes stuck round
the sides. In some of these boxes were
large chests, whidi I at once supposed to
belong to the sailors, who must have
taken that method of appropriating their
< bunks,' as I afterwards found these
boxes were caUed. And so it turned
out.
^ After examining them for a while, t
selected an empty one, and put my bundle
right in the middle of it, so that there
might be no mistake about my claim to
the place, particularly as the bundle was
so small."
The ship is not to sail till the next
day ; the crew are not yet aboard ;
there is no mess, and Redbum has no
money. He passes a wretched night
in his evil-smelHng bunk, and next
morning is crawling about the deck,
weak fi^m hunger, when he is accosted
by the first mate, who curses him for
a lubber, asks his name, swears it Ifl
too long to be handy, rebaptises him
by that of ButUmsj and sets him to
clean out the pig-pen, and grease the
670
Across the Atiantic.
[Not.
main-topmast. Having accomplished
these savoury duties, and narrowly
escaped falling overboard from his
unwonted elevation, Redbum is
ordered to the quarterdeck, where
the men are divided into watches,
and he falls to the lot of his friend
the first mate, who tries hard to get
rid of him to Mr Rigs, the second
mate ; but ^Mr Rigs refuses the tyro,
even as a free gift. Redbum now
gets sea-sick, and, when ordered on
deck to stand the first night-watch,
from eight o^clock to midnight, he,
feeling qualmish, requests one of the
sailors to make his excuses very
civilly to the chief mate, for that he
thinks he will go below and spend
the night in his bunk. The sailor, a
good-natured Greenlander, laughs at
his simplicity, and doctors him with
a canikm of rum and some ship bis-
cuits, which enable him to get through
his watch. Minute incidents of this
kind, reflections, reminiscences, and
thoughts of home, occupy many
chapters ; and, at times, one is in-
clined to think they are dwelt upon
at too great length : but, as before
hinted, it is necessary to do something
to fill two volumes. A slight incon-
sistency strikes us in this first portion
of the book. Redbum, a sharp
enough lad on shore, and who, it has
been seen, is altogether precocious
in experience of the world's disap-
pointments, seems converted, by the
first sniff of salt water, into as arrant
a simpleton as ever made mirth in a
cockpit. Mr Melville must surely
have had Peter Simple in his head,
when describing "Buttons" at his
first deck- washing. " The water
began to splash about all over the
decks, and I began to think I should
Burely get my feet wet, and catch my
* death of cold. So I went to the
chief mate and told him I thought
I would just step below, till this
niiserable wetting was over; for I
did not have any waterproof boots,
and an aunt of mine had died of con-
sumption. But he only roared out
for me to get a broom, and go to
scmbbing, or he would prove a worse
consumption to me than ever got hold
of my poor aunt." Now Redbum,
from what has previously been seen
of him, was evidently not the lad to
caro a rush about wet soles, or even
about a thorough ducking. On the
Hudson river steamer, he had voluu-
tarily walked the deck in a dreary
storm till soaked through; and his-
first night on board the Highlander
had been passed uncomplainingly in
wet clothes. He has borne hunger
and thirst and other disagreeables-
most manfully, and the impr^sioa
given of him is quite that of a stub-
bom hardy fellow. So that this sud-
den fear of a splashing is evidently
introduced merely to afford Mr Mel-
ville opportunity of making a little
mild fun, and is altogether out of
character. Equally so is the elaborate
noltWe with which Redbum inquires
of a sailor whether, as the big bell
on the forecastle "hune right over
the scuttle that went down to the
place where the watch below were
sleeping, such a ringing every little
while would not tend to disturb thenir
and beget unpleasant dreams." The
account of his attempts at intimicv
with the captain, although humorous
enough, is liable to a similar objec-
tion; and, in so sharp a lad, such
simple blunders are not sufiSciently
accounted for by ignorance of sea
usages. His recollection of the bland
urbanity with which Captain Riga
had received him and Mr Jones, when
they first boarded the Highlander,
induces him to believe that he may
reckon on sympathy and attention m
that quarter, when bnUied by the
rough sailors, and abused by the
snappish mate. He had vague ideas
of Sunday dinners in the cabin, of an
occasional lesson in navigation, or an
evening game at chess. Desirous to
realise these pleasant visions, but ob-
serving that the captain takes no
notice of him, and altogether omits to
invite him aft. Buttons, as he is
now universally called on board the
trader, thinks it may be expected that
he, the yotmger man, should make the
first advances. His pig- sty and
chicken-coop cleanings have not greatly
improved the aspect of his dothes^ or
the colour of his hands ; but a bucket
of water gets off the worst of the
stains, and a selection from his limited
wardrobe converts him into a decent
enough figure for a forecastle, ^though
he still would not have excited much
admiration in Broadway or Bond
Street.
1849.]
Across the Atlantic,
671
" When the sailors saw me thus em-
ployed^ they did not know what to make
of it, and wanted to know whether I
was dressing to go ashore. I told them
no, for we were then out of sight of
land, bat that I was going to pay my
respects to the captain. ,Upon which
they all laughed and shouted, as if I
were a simpleton; although there seemed
nothing soTery simple in going to make an
•erening call upon a friend. When some
4>f them tried to dissuade me, saying I
was green and raw ; but Jackson, who
aat looking on, cried out with a hideous
.^n — ^ Let him go, let him go, men; he's
■a nice boy. Let him go; the captain has
Bome nuts and raisins for him.' And so
he was going on, when one of his yiolent
fits of coughing seized him, and he almost
choked For want of kids, I
slipped on a pair of woollen mittens,
which my mother had knit for me to carry
to sea. As I was putting them on,
Jackson asked me whether he shouldn't
call a carriage ; and another bade me
not forget to present his best respects to
the skipper. I left them all tittering,
andy coming on deck, was passing the
cook-house, when the old cook called
After me, saying I had forgot my cane."
The Jacksou here referred to is a
prominent character in the book, an
important personage amongst the in-
<nates of the Highlander's forecastle.
He was a yellow-visaged, whiskerless,
squinting, broken-nosed ruffian, and
ills head was bald, ^^ except in the
iiai)e of his neck and just behind the
•ears, where it was stuck over with
short little tufts, and looked like a
worn-out shoe- brush." He claimed
near relationship with General Jack-
son, was a good seaman and a great
bnlly, and, although physically weak,
and broken down by excess and dis-
ease, the other sailors gave way to,
and even petted him. He had been
at sea ever since his early childhood,
and he told strange wild tales of his
experiences in many lands and on
many distant seas, and of perils en-
conntered in Portugnese slavers on
the Afirican coast, and of Batavian
levers and Malay pirates, and the like
hornble things, which composed, in-
deed, all his conversation, save when
lie found fault with his shipmates, and
cursed, and reviled, and jeered at them
— all of which they patiently endured,
as though they feared the devil that
glared out of *^ bis deep, subtle, infer-
aal-looking eye." All who have read
Omoo, (the best of Mr Melville's
books,) will remember that the author
is an adept in the sketching of nautical
originals. Jackson is by no means a
bad portrait, and doubtless he is
" founded on fact ;" although much of
his savage pictnresqueness may be
attributed to the clever pencil of his
fonner shipmate. Riga is another
good hit. The handsome captain,
with the fine clothes and the shining
black whiskers, who spoke so smoo£
and looked so sleek when his craft lay
moored by New York quay, is alto-
gether another sort of chai-acter when
once the anchor is up. Seamen never
judge a captain by his shoregoing
looks. Tyrants and martinets afloat are
often all. simper and benevolence across
a mahogany plank ashore. But cer-
tainly there never was a more thorough
metamorphosis than afour- and-twenty
hours* sail produced in Captain Riga.
His glossy suit and gallant airs dis-
appeared altogether. " He wore no-
thing but old-fashioned snufT-coloured
coats, with high collars and short
waists, and faded short-legged panta-
loons, very tight about the knees, and
vests that did not conceal his waist-
bands, owing to their being so short,
just like a little boy's. And his hats
were all caved in and battered, as if
they had been knocked about in a
cellar, and his boots were sadly
patched. Indeed, I began to think he
was but a shabby fellow after all, par-
ticularly as his whiskers lost their
gloss, and he went days together
without shaving ; and his hair, by a
sort of miracle, began to grow of a
pepper and salt colour, which might
have been owing, though, to his dis-
continuing the use of some kind of dye
while at sea. I put him down as a
sort of impostor." This the captain
certainly is, and nltimately proves to
be something worse, for he swindles
poor Buttons and another unfortunate
" boy" out of their hard-earned wages,
and proves himself altogether a far
worse fellow than the rough mate,
whose first salutation is often a curse
or a cufi^, but who, nevertheless, has
some heai't and humanity under bis
coai-se envelope. Of various other
individuals of the ship's company
sketches are given, and prominent
amongst these is the dandy mulatto
steward, called Lavender by the crew,
572
Acrau the Adimiic.
[Nov.
from his having been a barber in New
York. Following the example of the
captain, whose immediate dependant
he is, Lavender, when at sea, lays by
his gorgeous tnrban, and sports his
wool, profusely scented with the resi-
due of his stock in trade. *^ He was
a sentimental sort of darky, and read
the Three Spaniards and Charlotte
Temple, and carried a lock of frizzled
hair in his vest pocket, which he fre-
quently volunteered to show to people,
with his handkerchief to his eyes."
It must have been sympathy of race,
not congeniality of disposition, that
made cronies of Lavender and the
methodistical black cook. Thompson,
the sable Soyer of the Highlander, was
known as the Doctor, according to the
nautical practice of confounding the
medical and the gastronomical pro-
fessions. He is a capital portrait,
scarcely caricatured. On a Sunday
morning, ^^he sat over his boiling
pots, reading out of a book which was
very much soiled, and covered with
grease spots, for he kept it stuck into
A little leather strap, nailed to the keg
where he kept the fat skimmed off the
water in which the salt beef was cook-
ed." This book was the Bible, and
what with the heat of the five-feet-
square kitchen, and his violent efforts
to comprehend the more mysterious
passages of scripture, the beads of
sweat would roll off the Doctor's brow
as he sat upon a narrow shelf, oppo-
site the stove, and so close to it that
he had to spread his legs out wide to
keep them from scorching. During
the whole voyage he was never known
to wash his face but once, and that
was on a dark night, in one of his own
soup-pots. His coffee, by courtesy so
called, was a most extraordinary com-
pound, and would not bear analysis,
sometimes it tasted fishy, at others
salt ; then it would have a cheesy
flavour, or — but we abridge the un-
savoury details with which Rcdbnm
disgusts us upon this head. 6ambo*s
devotional practices precluded due
attention to his culinary duties. For
his narrow caboose he entertained a
warm affection. " In fair weather he
spread the skirt of an old jacket before
the door by way of a mat, and screwed
a small ringbolt into the door for a
knocker, and wrote his name, ' Mr
Thompson,' over it, with a bit of red
chalk." The old negro stands before
ns as we read ; oookmg, praying, per-
spiring, and with all the Indicrooft
self-s^ciency of his tribe. Mr Mel-
ville is very happy in these little
touches. Max the Dutchman is an-
other originid. Although married to
two highly respectable wives, one it
Liverpool and the other at New York,
at sea he lb quite an old bachelor,
precise and finical, with old-fashioned
straight-laoed notions abont the duties
of sailor boys, which he tries hard to
inculcate npon Redbnm. Upon the
whole, however, Red Max, as he is
sometimes called — ^his shirt, cheeks,
hair, and whiskers being all of that
colour — is tolerably kind to the young-
ster, in whose welfare he occasionally
shows some little interest. Jack
Blunt, to whose description the anther
devotes the greater part of a chapter,
is not quite so happy a hit — rather
overdone— overioaded with pecnliari-
ties. Although quite a yonng fellow,
his hair is turning gray, and, to check
this premature sign of age, he thrice
in the day anoints his bnshy locks
with Trafalgar Oil and CopetAagen.
EUxir, invaluable preparations retailed
to him by a knavish Yankee apothe-
cary. He is also greatly addicted to
drugging himself: takes three pilte
every morning with his cofEee, and
every now and then pours down ^* a
flowing bumper of horse sots," Then
he has a turn for romance, and sings
sentimental songs, which must have
had an odd enongh sound from the
lips of one whose general appearance
is that of ^^ a fat porpoise standing on
end ;" and he believes in witchcraft,
and studies a dream-book, and mutters
Irish invocations for a breeze when
the ship is becalmed, &c., &c Rather
mnch of all this, Mr Melville, and not
equal, by a long chalk, to what yon
once before did in the same line. As
we read, we cannot help a comparison
with some former pendllings of yooii^
which, although earlier made, rderred
to a later voyage. Involuntarily we
are carried back to the rat-and-cock-
roach-haunted hull of the crazy little
Jule, and to the strange collection of
originals that therein did dwell. We
think of bold Jermin and tunid Cap-
tain Guy, and, above all, of that glo-
rious fellow Doctor Long-Ghost. We
remember the easy natimd tone, and
1849.]
Across the Atlantic.
573
weU-8ii8tained interest of Uie book in
which they figured; and, desirons
though we are to praise, wc are com-
SMea to admit tiiat, in Redbum^ Mr
elville comes not up to the mark he
himself has made. It is evident that,
on his debut, he threw off the ridi
cream of his experiences, and he must
not marvel if readers have thereby
"been rendered dainty, and grumble a
little when served with the skim-milk.
BedBmm is a clever book, as books
now go, and we are far from visiting
it with wholesale condemnation ; but
it certainly lacks tbe spontaneous
flow and racy orl^nali ty of the author's
South Sea narration.
To proceed, however. ^^ Redimni
grows intolerably JkU and stupid over
mnmeoutkmdish old guide-books,^' Such
is the lieading of Chapter XXX. ; and,
from what Mr Melville says, wc do
not, in this instance, presume to dif-
fer. We are now in Liverpool. Much
of what Redbum there sees, says, and
does, will be more interesting to
American than to English readers, al-
though to many even of the latter
tiiere will be novelty in his minute
account oi sailor life ashore — of their
boarding-houses, haunts, and habits ;
of the German emigrant ships, and the
salt-droghers and Lascars, and of
other matters seemingly common-
place, but in which his observant eye
detects much that escapes ordinary
gazers. We ourselves, to whom the
aspect and ways of the great trading
city of northern England are by no
means unfamiliar, have derived some
new lights from Redbum's account of
what he there saw. Clergymen of the
Church of England, we are informed,
stand up on old casks, at quay comers,
arrayed in full canonicals, and preach
thus, al fresco^ to sailors and loose
women. Paupeht are allowed to lin-
ger and perish unaided, almost in the
public thoroughfare, within sight and
knowledge of neighbours and police.
Curious, seemingly, of the horrible,
Bedbum visits the dead-house, where
he sees " a sailor stretched out, stark
and stiff, with the sleeve of his frock
rolled up, and showing his name and
date of birth tatooed upon his arm.
It was a sight full of suggestions : he
seemed his own kead-stone.'^ Wc would
Implore Mr Melville to beware of a
frtoit by no means uncommon with a
certain school of writers at the pre-
sent day, but into which it would be
unworthy a man of his ability to fall.
We refer to that straining for striking
similes, at the expense, of truth and
good taste, of which he has here fur-
nished us with a glaring example. A
dead sailor's name is tatooed upon his
arm; tlierefore — mark the conse-
quence— he seems his own head-
stone. How totally inapt is this ;
how violent and distorted the figure !
Such tricks of pen may, by a sort of
tinsel fitter, dazzle for a moment
superficial persons, who weigh not
what they read ; but they will never
obtain favour, or enhance a reputa-
tion with any for whose verdict Mr
Melville need care. Neither will he,
we apprehend, gain much praise, that
is worth having, for such exaggerated
exhibitions of the horrible as that
afforded in chapter YL of his second
volume. Passing through Lancelott's
Hey, a narrow street of warehouses,
Redbum heard ^^ a feeble wail, which
seemed to come out of the earth. . . .
I advanced to an opening, which com-
municated downwards with deep tiers
of cellars beneath a crambling old
warehouse ; and there, some fifteen
feet below the walk, crouching in
nameless squalor, with her head bowed
over, was the figure of what had been
a woman. Her blue arms folded to
her livid bosom two shranken things
like children, that leaned towards her,
one on each side. At first I knew
not whether they were dead or alive.
They made no sign ; they did not
move or stir ; but from the vault came
that soul-sickening wail." We can-
not quite realise the ^^ opening'* in
question, but take it for granted to be
some sufficiently dreary den, and are
only puzzled to conjecture how, con-
sidering its depth, the woman and
children got there. Redbum himself
seems at a loss to account for it. This,
however, his compassionate heart tar-
ried not to inquire; but, perceiving
the poor creatures were nearly dead
with want, he hurried to procure them
assistance. In an open space hard by,
some squalid old women, the wretched
cfiiffonieres of the docks, were gather-
ing flakes of cotton in the dirt heaps.
To these Redbum appealed. They
knew of the beggar-woman and her
brats, who had been three days in
574
Across tJie Atlantic,
[Not.
the pit or vault, with nothing to eat,
but they would not meddle in the mat-
ter; and one hag, with an eicagge-
rated morality that does not sound
very probable, declared " Betsy Jen-
nings desarved it, for she had never
been married ! " Taming into a more
frequented street, Redbum met a po-
liceman. " None of my business,
Jack," was the reply to his applica-
tion. " I don't belong to that street.
But what business is it of yours ? Are
you not a Yankee ? "
*' Yes," said I ; " but come, I will
help you to remove that woman, if you
•say so."
*' Tliere now. Jack, go on board
your ship, and stick to it, and leave
these matters to the town."
Two more policemen were applied
to with a like result. Appeals to the
porter at an adjacent warehouse, to
Ilandsome Mary the hostess, and
Brandy Nan the cook at the Sailors*
boarding-house, were equally fruit-
less. Hedbum took some bread and
cheese from his dinner-room, and car-
ried it to the sufferers, to whom he
gave water to drink in his hat — de-
scending with great difficulty into the
vault, which was like a well. The
two children ate, but the woman re-
fused. And then Redburn found a
•dead infant amongst her rags, (lie de-
scribes its appearance with harrowing
minuteness,) and almost repented
having brought food to the survivors,
for it could but prolong their misery,
without hope of permanent relief. And
on reflection, " I felt an almost irre-
sistible impulse to do them the last
mercy, of in some way putting an end
to their horrible lives ; and I should
almost have done so, I think, had I
not been deterred by thought of the
law. For I well knew that the law,
which would let them perish of them-
selves, without giving them one sup
of water, would spend a thousand
pounds, if necessary, in convicting
him who should so much as offer
to relieve them from their miserable
existence." The whole chapter is in
this agreeable style, and indeed we
suppress the more revolting and ex-
aggerated passages. Two days longer,
E^bum informs us, the objects of his
compassion linger in their foul retreat,
and then the bread he throws to them
xemains tmtasted. They are dead,
and a horrible stench arises from the
opening. The next time he passes,
the corpses have disappeared, and
quicklime strews the ground. Within
a few hours of their death the nui-
sance has been detected and removed,
although for five days, according to
Redburn, they had been allowed to
die by inches, within a few yards of
frequented streets, and with the M
knowledge and acquiescence of sundry
policemen. We need hardly waste a
comment on the more than impro-
bable, on the utterly absurd character,
of this incident. It will be apparent
to all readers. Mr Melville is, of
course, at liberty to introduce ficti-
tious adventure into what professes
to be a narrative of real events ; the
thing is done every day, and doubtlesg
he largely avails of the privilege. He
lias also a clear right to deal in the
lugubrious, and even in the loathsome,
if he thinks an occasional dash of tra-
gedy will advantageously relieve the
humorous features of his book. Bnt
here he is perverting truth, and lead-
ing into error the simple persons who
put their faith in him. And, from the
consideration of such misguidance, we
naturally glide into the story of Mas-
ter Harry Bolton. Redburn had been
at Liverpool four weeks, and began to
suspect that was all he was likely to
see of the country, and that he must
return to New York without obtain-
ing the most distant glimpse of ^^ the old
abbeys, and the York minsters, and
the lord mayors, and coronations, and
the maypoles and fox-hunters, and
Derby races, and dukes, and duchesses,
and Count d^Orsays," which his boy-
ish reading had given him the habit
of associating with England, — when
he one day made acquaintance, at the
sign of the Baltimore Clipper, with ** a
handsome, accompli^ed, but unfortu-
nate youth, one of those small but
perfectly-formed beings who seem to
have been bom in cocoons. His com-
plexion was a mantling brunette^ femi-
nine as a girl's ; his feet were small ;
his hands were white ; and his eyes
were large, black, and womanly ; and^
poetry aside, his voice was as the
sound of a harp." It is natural to
wonder what this dainty gentleman
does in the sailors' quarter of Liver-
pool, and how he comes to rub his
dandified costume against the tany
ia49.]
Across the Atlantic,
575
jackets of the Clippers^ habitual fre-
quenters. On these points we are
presently enlightened. Harrj Bolton
was bom at Bnry St Edmunds. At
« very early age he came into posses-
sion of five thousand pounds, went
up to London, was at once admitted
into the most aristocratic circles^
gambled and dissipated his money in
a single winter, made two voyages to
the East Indies as midshipman in a
Company's ship, squandered his pay,
and was now about to seek his for-
tune in the New World. On reach-
ing Liverpool, he took it into his head,
for the romance of the thing, to ship
as a sailor, and work his passage.
Hence his presence at the docks, and
his acquaintance with Redbum, who,
delighted with his new acquaintance,
prevails on him to offer his services to
Captain Riga of the Highlander, who
graciously accepts them.
** I now had a comrade in my after-
noon strolls and Sunday excursions ; and
as Harry was a generous fellow, he shared
with me his purse and his heart. He
sold off several more of his fine vests and
trousers, his silver-keyed flute and ena-
melled guitar ; and a portion of the mo-
ney thus furnished was pleasantly spent
in refreshing ourselves at the roadside
inns, in the vicinity of the town. Re-
clining Jside by side in some agreeable
nook, we exchanged our experiences of
the past. Harry enlarged upon the fas-
cinations of a London life ; described the
curricle he used to drive in Hyde Park ;
gave me the measurement of Madame
Yestris's ankle ; alluded to his first intro-
duction, at a club, to the madcap Marquis
of Waterford ; told over the sums he had
lost upon the turf on a Derby day ; and
nade various but enigmatical allusions
to a certain Lady Georgiana Theresa, the
noble daughter of an anonymous earl."
Even Redbum, inexperienced as he
is in the ways of the old country, is
inclined to suspect his new friend of
^*' spending funds of reminiscences not
his own,** — that being as near an
approach as he can make to accusing
the he-brunette with the harp-like
▼oice of telling lies — until one day, when
passing a fashionable hotel, Harry
points out to him ^^a remarkable
elegant coat and pantaloons, standing
upright on the hotel steps, and con-
taining a youn^ buck, tapping his
teeth with an ivory-headed riding-
whip." The buck is ^^ very thin and
limber about the legs, with small feet
like a doll*s, and a small, glossy head
like a seal's,*' and presently he steps
to '^the open window of a flashing
carriage which drew up ; and, throwing
himself into an interesting posture,
with the sole of one boot vertically
exposed^ so as to sftow the stamp on ii
— a coronet — fell into a sparkling con»
versation with a magnificent white
satin hat, surmounted by a regal
marabout feather, inside.** The young
gentleman with the seal*s-head and
thecoroneted-boot, is, as Harry'assurcs
Redburn, whilst dragging him hastily
round a comer, Lord Lovely, a most
particular *^old chum** of his own.
"Sailors,'* Redbum somewhere ob-
serves, "only go round the world
without going into it; and their re-
miniscences of travel are only a dim
recollection of a chain of tap-rooms
surrounding the globe, parallel with
the equator.** This being the case,
we would have him abstain from
giving glimpses of the English aris-
tocracy, his knowledge of which seems
to be based upon the revelations of
Sunday newspapers, and upon that
class of novels usually supposed to
be written by discarded valets-de-
chambre. But we are not let oflf with
this peep at a tmant fashionable. Mr
Bolton, having found a purse, or
picked a pocket, or in some way or
other replenished his exchequer, rigs
out Redburn in a decent suit of clothes,
and carries him off to London, pre-
viously disguising himself with false
whiskers and mustaches. Enchanted
to visit the capital, Redburn does not
inquire too particularly concerning
these suspicious proceedings, but takes
all for granted, until he finds himself
" dropped down in the evening among
gas-lights, under a great roof iuEuston
Square. I-^ondon at last," he exclaims,
"and in the West End!'* If not
quite in the West End, he is soon
transported thither by the agency of a
cab, and introduced by his friend into
a " semi-public place of opulent enter-
tainment,*' such as certainly exists no-
where (at least in London) but in our
sailor-author*s lively imagination.
The number of this enchanted mansion
is forty, it is approached by high steps,
and has a purple light at the door.
Can any one help us with a conjec-
ture? The following passage we take
576
Across the AUantic,
[Nov.
to be good of its kind : '^ The cibman
being paid, Harry, adjusting his
whiskerB and mnstacfaes, and bidding
me assume a lounging look^ pushed kts
hat a litUe to one side, and then, locking
arms, we sauntered into the house,
myself feeling not a little abashed — ^it
was so long since I had been in any
courtly society." A pair of tailors
strutting into a casino. It would
seem there are cockneys even in
America. The " courtly society " into
which the Yankee sailor boy and his
anomalous acquaintance now intrude
themselves is that of ^^ Imots of gentle-
menly men, seated at numerous
Moorish-looking tables, supported by
Caryatides of tnrbaned slaves, with
cut decanters and taper -waisted
glasses, journals, and cigars before
them." We regret we have not room
for the description of the magnificent
interior, which is a remarkable speci-
men of fine writing; but we must
devote a word to the presiding genius
of the mysterious palace, were it only
for the sake of a simile indulged in by
Bedbum. At the further end of the
brilliant apartment, *^ behind a rich
mahogany turret-like structure, was a
very handsome florid old man, with
Bnow-white hair and whiskers, and in
a snow-white jacket — he looked like an
almond-tree in blossom,^^ Enshrined
in mahogany turrets, and adorned by
BO imaginative a pen, who would sus-
pect this benign and blooming old
sinner of condescending to direct
waiters and receive silver. Never-
theless these, we are told, are his
chief duties — in short, we are allowed
to suppose that he is the steward of
this club, hell, tavern, or whatever
else it is intended to be. Bolton
speaks a word to the almond tree, who
appears surprised, and they leave the
room together. Redbnm remains over
a decanter of pale-yellow wine, and
catches nnintelligible sentences, in
which the words Loo and Rouge occur.
Presently Bolton returns, his face
rather flushed, and drags away Red-
burn, not, as the latter hoped, for a
ramble, ^* perhaps to Apsley House,
in the Park, to get a sly peep at the
old Duke before he retired for the
night," but np magnificent staircases,
through rosewood-doors and palatial
halls, of all which we have a most
florid, hi^-flown, and classical de-
scription. Agun Bokon leases him,
after being very oracular and myttit-
nous, and giving him money for hw
journey back to Liverpool, and a letter
which he is to leave at Bmy, shooM
he (the aforesaid Bolton^ not retmn
before morning. And thereapon he
departs with tiie almond-tree, and
Redbnm is left to his meditations, and
hears dice rattle, has visions of finmtic
men rushing along corridors, and
fancies he sees reptiles crawling oror
the mirrors, and at last, what with
wine, excitement, and fatigne, he falls
asleep. He is roused by Hany
Bolton, very pale and desperate, who
draws a dirk, and nails his empty
purse to the table, and whMes
fi^cely, and finally Bcreama lor
brandy. Now all this sort of thing,
we can assure its author, is in the
very stalest style of minor-tiheitre
melodrama. We perfectly reracmlMr
our intense gratification when wit-
nessing, at country fairs in onr boyish
days, a thrilling domestic tragedy, in
which the murderer rushes on the
stage with a chalked £soe and a gory
carving-knife, howling for ^* Braauiy!
Brandy!!" swallows a goblet cf
strong toast and water, and is tran-
quillised. But surely Mr Melvifle
had no need to recur to such anti-
quated traditions. Nor had he any
need to . introduce this fkntasdcsl
gambling episode, unless it were upon
the principle of the (Ad. cakes of roses
in the apothecary's shop — to make np a
show. We unhesitatingly qualify tiie
whole of this London exji^tion as
ntter rubbish, intended evidently t»
be very fine and effective, bnt whidi
totally misses the mark. Why wiR
not Mr Melville stick to the ship?
There he is at home. The wont
passages of his sea-going narrative
arc better than the best of his metro-
politan experiences. In fact, the
mtrodnction at all of tlie male bronette
is quite impertinent Having got
him, Mr Melville finds it necessary to
do something with him, and be is
greatly puzzled what that is to be.
Bolton's character is full of inconsis-
tencies. Notwithstanding his twt^
voyages to the East Indies, and Ids
great notion of "the romance** of
working his passage as a comrnoi
sailor, when he comes to do duty on
board the Highlaador he proves 1dm*
1S49.] Across the Atlantic,
self totallF ignorant of nantical mat-
ten, and is so nerveless a mari-
ner that, on ascending a mast, he
nearly falls into the sea, and nothing
can indace him again to go aloft.
This entails npon him the contempt
and ill-treatment of his officers and
shipmates, and he leads a dog's life
between Liverpool and New York.
*^Few landsmen can imagine the
depressing and self-humiliating effect
of findhog one's self, for the first time,
at the beck of illiterate sea-tyrants,
with no opportunity of exhibiting any
677
and volunteered the following curious
information : —
^ In some places in England, he eaid,
it was oufltomary for two or three yonng
men of highly respectable fkmilies, of
undoubted antiquity, but unfortunately
in lamentably decayed ciroumstanoee,
and threadbare coats^t was customary
for two or three young gentlemen, so
situated, to obtain their liyelihood by
their yoices ; coining their silyery songs
into silvery shillings. They wandered
fh>m door to door, and rang the bell —
Are the ladiet and gentlemen in ? Seeing
trait about you but your ignorance of them at least gentlemanly-looking, if not
everything connected with the sea-
life that you lead, and the duties you
are constantly called on to perform.
In andi a sphere, and under such cir-
cnmstanoee, Isaac Newton and Lord
Baoon would be sea-clowns and
bompkins, and Napoleon Buonaparte
be coffod and kicked without remorse.
in more than one instance I have
Been the truth of this; and Harry,
poor Harry, proved no exception."
Pom* Hany, nervous, effeminate, and
Moaitive, was worried like a hare by
the nide sea-dogs amongst whom he
liad so imprudently thrust himself.
His sole means of propitiating his
tormentors was by his voice, and
«( many a night was he called upon to
rinff m those who, through the day,
liad insulted and der&ed him."
Amidst his many sufferings, Redbum
was Ids only comforter, and at times,
of an evening, they would creep under
the lee of the long-boat and talk of
the past, and still oftener of the
jfotnre; for Harry referred but un will-
ingly to things gone by, and especially
wmild never explain any of the mys-
teries of their London expedition, and
bad bonnd Bedbnm by an oath not to
queatioB lum concerning it. He con-
rased, however, that his resources
sumptuously apparelled, the servant
generally admitted them at once ; and
when the people entered to greet them,
their spokesman would rise with a gentle
bow, and a smile, and say. We oomcy
ladies and gentlemen, to sing you a song ;
fee are singers, at your service. And so,
without waiting reply, forth they burst
into song ; and, having most mellifluous
voices, enchanted and transported all
auditors ; so much so, that at the con-
clusion of the entertainment they very
seldom fkiled to be well recompensed,
and departed with an invitation to return
again, and make the occupants of that
dwelling once more delighted and happy."
Should it not be added that these
errant minstrels of ancient family,
decayed drcumstances, and courtly
manners, had their &ces lampblacked,
and carried bones and banjos, and
sang songs in negro slang with gurg-
ling choruses ? Some sudi professors
we have occasionally seen parading
the streets of English towns, although
we are not aware of their being cus-
tomarily welcomed in drawing-rooms.
We ask Mr Herman Melville to ex-
plain to us his intention in this sort
of writing. Does it contain some
subtle satire, imperceptible to our
dull optics ? Does he mean it to be
at end ; that besides a chest of humorous? Oris he writing seriously ?
ciotfaee— relics of former finery — he
liad but a few shillings in the world ;
and, although several years his senior,
he was glad to take counsel of the
sailor boy as to his future course
of life, and what he could do in
America to earn a living, for he was
determined never to return to Eng-
land. And when Redbum sug-
fletted that his friend^s musical
talents might possibly be turned to
Meoanty Hany caught at the idea,
(although that seems scarcely pos-
sible,) and does he imagine he is
here recording a common English
custom? If this last be the case,
we strongly urge him immediately to
commence a work *^ On the Manners
and Customs of the British Isles.*'
We promise him a review, and gua-
rantee the book^s success. But we
have not quite done with Hany
Bolton, and may as well finish him
ofif whilst our hand is in. Objections
578
Across Hie Atlantic.
PJOT.
being foand to troabadourismg in
!New York, the notion of a clerkship
is started, Harry being a good pen-
man ; and this brings on a discussion
about hands, and Kedbum utterly
scouts the idea of slender fingers and
small feet being indicative of gentle
birth and far descent, because the
half-caste paupers in Lima are dainty-
handed and wee-footed, and more-
over, he adds, with crushing force of
argument, a fish has no feet at all !
But poor Harry's tender digits and
rosy nails have grievously suffered
from the pollution of tar-pots, and
the rough contact of ropes, and often-
times he bewails his hand's degrada-
tion, and sighs for the palmy days
when it handed countesses to their
coaches, and pledged Lady Blessing-
ton, and ratified a bond to Lord
Lovely, <fec. &c. All which is abun-
dantly tedious and commonplace, and
will not bear dwelling upon.
Fart of the Highlander's cargo on
home-voyage was five hundred emi-
grants, to accommodate whom the
** between-decks " was fitted up with
bunks, rapidly constructed of coarse
planks, and having something the
appearance of dog-kennels. The
weather proved unfavourable, the
voyage long, the provisions of many
of the emigrants (who were chiefly
Irish) ran short, and the consequences
were disorder, suffering, and disease.
Once more upon his own ground, and
telling of things which he knows, and
has doubtless seen, Mr Melville again
rises in our estimation. His details
of emigrant life on board are good ;
and so is his account of the sailors'
shifts for tobacco, which runs short,
and of Jackson's selfishness, and
fiingular ascendency over the crew.
And also, very graphic indeed, is the
picture of the steerage, when the
malignant epidemic breaks out, and
it becomes a lazar-house, frightful
with filth and fever, where the wild
ignorant Irishmen sat smoking tea
leaves on their chests, and rise in
furious revolt, to prevent the crew
from taking the necessary sanitary
measures of purification, until at
last favourable breezes came, and fair
mild days, and fever fled, and the
human stable (for it was no better)
^as cleansed, and the Highlander
^wled cheerily onwards, over a plea-
sant sea, towards the mnch-desired
haven. Two incidents of especial
prominence occur daring the voyage-
one at its outset, the other near its
dose. Whilst yet in the Prince's
Dock, three dnmken sailors are
brought on board the Highlander by
the crimps. One of them, a Portu-
guese, senseless from intoxication, is
lowered on deck by a rope and rolled
into his bunk, where the crimp tucks
him in, and desires he may not he
disturbed till out at sea. There he
lies, regardless of the mate's angry
calls, and seemingly sunk in a trance,
until an unpleasant odour in the fore-
castle arouses attention, and Jackson
discovers that the man is dead. Yet
the other sailors doubt it, especially
when, upon Red Max holding a light
to his face, ^^ the yellow flame wavered
for a moment at the seaman*s motion-
less mouth. But then, to the mlent
horror of all, two threaids of greenish
fire, like a forked tongue, darted out
from between the lips; and in a
moment the cadaverous face was
crawled over by a swarm of wormlike
flames. The lamp dropped from the
hand of Max, and went out, which
covered all over with spires and
sparkles of flame, that faintly cradded
in the silence ; the uncovered parts of
the body burned before us, preciself
like a phosphorescent shark in a mid-
night sea." Spirit- drinking, the sea-
man's bane, had made an end of
Miguel the Portuguese. What shocked
Redbum particularly, was Jackson's
opinion *^that the man had been
actually dead when brought on board
the ship; and that knowingly, and
merely for the sake of the month's
advance, paid into his band upon the
strength of the bill he presented, the
body-snatching crimp had shipped a
corpse on board the Highlander."
The men trembled at the supernatural
aspect of the burning body, but reck-
less Jackson, with a fierce jeer, bade
them hurl it overboard, which was
done. Jackson knew not how soon
the waves were to dose over his own
corpse. Off Cape Cod, when the
smell of land was strong in the nos-
trils of the weary emigrants, orders
were given, one dark night, in a stiff
breeze, to reef topsails ; and Jackson,
who had been deadly ill and off duty
most part of the voyage, came upon
1849.]
Across Vie Atlantic,
67a
deck, to the surprise of many, to do
his duty with the rest, by way of
reminder, perhaps, to the captain, that
he was alive and expected his wages.
Having pointed pretty freely to Mr
lielville^s defects, it is fair to give an
example of his happier manner.
''At no time could Jackson better
■ignaliee his disposition to work^ than
vpon an occasion like the present ; which
generally attracts every soul on deck,
from the captain to the child in the
steerage.
^ His aspect was damp and deathlike ;
ihe blue hollows of his eyes were like
vanlts fall of snakes, [another of Mr
Melville's outrageous similes] ; and, issu-
ing 80 unexpectedly fh>m his dark tomb in
the forecastle, he looked like a man
raised from the dead.
** Before the sailors had made fast the
Mef-tackle, Jackson was tottering up the
rigging ; thus getting the start of them,
and securing his place at the extreme
weather end of the topsail-yard — which
is accounted the post of honour. For it
was one of the characteristics of this man,
that, Uiough when on duty he would shy
away from mere dull work in a calm,
^et in tempest time he always claimed
the van, and would yield it to none ;
and this, perhaps, was one cause of his .
imbounded dominion over the men.
^Soon we wfere all strung along the
main-topsail yard ; the ship rearing and
plunging nnder ns, like a runaway steed ;
each man griping his reef-point, and
sideways leaning, dragging the sail over
towards Jackson, whose business it was
to confine the reef comer to the yard.
** His hat and shoes were off ; and he
rode the yard-arm end, leaning back-
wurd to the gale, and pulling at the
earing-rope like a bridle. At all times,
this is a moment of frantic exertion with
sailors, whose spirits seem then to par-
take of the commotion of the elements,
as they hang in the gale, between heaven
and earth — and then it is, too, that they
are the most profane.
^'Haul out to windward I' coughed
Jackson with a blasphemous cry, and he
threw himself back with a violent strain
upon the bridle in his hand. But the
wild words were hardly out of his mouth
^Ihen his hands dropped to his side, and
the bellying sail was spattered with a
torrent of blood from his lungs.
" As the man next him stretched out
his arm to saye, Jackson fell headlong
firom the yard, and, with a long seethe,
plunged like a diver into the sea.
** It was when the ship had rolled to
windward ; which, with the long projec-
tion of the yard-arm over the side, made
him strike far out upon the water. His
fall was seen by the whole upward-gaz-
ing crowd on deck, some of whom were
spotted with the blood that trickled from
the sail, while they raised a spontaneous
cry, so shrill and wild, that a blind man
might have known something deadly had
happened.
'* Clutching our reef-points, we hung
over the stick, and gazed down to the
one white, bubbling spot, which had
closed oyer the head of our shipmate ;
but the next minute it was brewed into
the common yeast of the waves, and Jack-
son never arose. We waited a few
moments, expecting an order to descend,
haul back the foreyard, and man the
boat ; but instead of that, the next
sound that greeted us was, 'Bear a
hand, and reef away, men ! ' from the
mate."
If it be possible (we are aware that
it is very difficult) for an author to
form a correct estimate of his own
productions, it most surely have
strudc Mr Melville, whilst glancing
over the proof-sheets of Redbum^
that plain, vigorous, unaffected writing
of this sort is afar superior styleof thing
to rhapsodies abont Italian boys and
hurdy-gurdies, to gairish descriptions
of imaginary gambling-houses, and
to sentimental effusions about Harry
Bolton, his ^^Bury blade,*^ and his
" Zebra,*' as he called him — the latter
word being used, we suppose, to indicate
that the young man was only one re-
move from a donkey. AVe can assure
Mr Melville he is most effective when
most simple and unpretending^ and
if he will put away affectation and
curb the eccentricities of his fancy^
we see no reason for his not becoming
a very agreeable writer of nautical
fictions. He will never have the
power of a Cringle, or the sustained
humour and vivacity of a Marryat,
but he may do very well without
aspiring to rival the masters of the
art.
Redbum is not a novel ; it has no
plot ; the mysterious visit to London
remains more or less an enigma to
the end. But having said so much
about Harry Bolton, the author deems
it expedient to add a tag touching
the fate of this worthy, whom Red-
bum left in New York, in charge of a
friend, during his own temporary ab-
sence, and who had disappeared on
580
Across iheAtUmiic.
[Not.
his return. For years he hears
nothing of him, but then falls in,
whilst on a whaling cmise in the Pa-
cific, with an English sailor, who tells
how a poor little fellow, a conntryman
of his, a gentleman's son, and who
sang like a bird, had fallen over the
side of a Nantucket craft, and beea
jammed between ship and whale.
And this is Harry Bolton. A most
lame and impotent conclusion, and
as improbable a one as could well
be devised, seeing that a sailor's life
was the very last the broken down
gambler was likely to choose, after
his experience of his utter incapacity
for it, and after the persecution and
torments ho had endured from his
rude shipmates on board the High-
lander.
AVhen this review of his last work
meets the eye of Mr Herman Melville,
which probably it will do, we would
have him bear in mind that, if we
have now dwelt upon his failings, it is
in the hope of inducing him to amend
them ; and that we have already,
on a former occasion, expended at
least as much time and space on a
laudation of his merits, and many un-
deniable good qualities, as a writer.
It always gives us pleasure to speak
favourably of a book by an American
anthor, when we conscientiously can
do so. First, because Amencans,
although cousins, are not of the house ;
although allied by blood, they are in
some sort strangera ; and it ia an act
of more gracefol lx>nrtesy to laud a
stranger than one of onredves. Se-
condly, because we hope l^er^y to
encourage Ammcans to the coUiva-
tion of literature — to induce someta
write, who, having talent, have not
hitherto revealed it ; and to stimnlate
those who have already written to
increased exertion and better things.
For it were fiilae modesty on onr part
to ignore the fact, thai tibie wonu of
Maga have much weight and mm
readers throughout the whole lengu
and breadth of the Union — ^that her
verdict is respectfully heard, not only
in the dty, but in the hamlet, and
even in uiose remote back-woods
where the law of Lynch prevails.
And, thirdly, we gladly praise an
American book b^aose we praise
none but good books, and we 6am
to see many such written in Aii^^»f^
in the hope that she wiU at last awake
to the advantages of an international
copyright. For surely it is Ihtie cre-
ditable to a great country to see her
men of genius and talent, her livings
and Prescotts, and wo will also say
her Coopers and MelviUes, pubUshing
their works in a foreign ciqpltal,as
the sole means of obtaining that £ur
remuneration which, alSioogh it
should ne^er be the sole object, is
yet the legitimate and hononraUe
reward of the labourer in literature's
paths.
1849.]
Peace tmd War Agiiaiore.
581
FSACB AKD WAB AGnATORB.
Ir the experience of the last twelve
months has not opened the eyes of
the most inveterate of Mr Cobden^s
4)a(mdam admirers to the real quality
of their idol, we very much fear that
such nnhappy persons are beyond the
leadi of the moral oculist. From the
first moment of his appearance npon
the political stage, while yet nnbe-
praised by Peel, and unrewarded by
that splendid testimonial, accorded
imto him by judicious patriots, one
moiety of whom have since done
penaace for their premature liberality
m the Gazette^ we understood the true
capabilities of the man, and scrupled
not to say that a more conceited per-
aonage never battered the front of a
hnatSigs. Some excellent but decid-
edly weak-minded people were rather
offionded with the freedom of our
remarks npon the self-sufficient Cagli-
oatro of free trade, in whose powers
of transmutation they were disposed
to i^ace implicit reliance and belief.
The Tamworth certificate, which we
afarewdly suspect its author would now
give a tnfle to recall, was founded on as
evidence sufficient to condemn our ob-
stinate blindness and illiberality ; for
who could donbt the soundness of an
cpmioa emanating from a statesman
who was jnst then depositing, in a
mahogany wheelbarrow, the firot sod,
raised with a silver spade, on a rail-
way which, when completed, was to
pove a perfect Califomia to the share-
holders? It is not impossible that,
at this moment, some of the share-
holders may be on their way to the
actual Califomia — having found,
through bitter experience, that some
kinds of diggings are anything but pro-
ductive, and having learned that elderly
orators, who make a practice of study-
ing the gyrations of the weather-cock,
OAybe sometimes mistaken in their
calculations. Matters fared worse
with us, when it was bruited through
the tmmpet of fame, that, in every
considerable capital of Europe, multi-
tudes had assembled to do homage to
the apostie of the new era. Our com-
passionate friends, possibly deeming
OS irretrievaUy committed to folly,
put on mooming for onr transgres-
sion^ and ceased to combat with our
adversaries, who classed us with the
worst of unbelievers. One facetious
gentleman proposed that we should
be exhibited in a glass-case, as a
specimen of an extmct animal ; an-
other, indulging in a more daring
flight of fancy, stigmatised us as a
cankcrworm, gnawing at the root of
the tree of lib^ty. We fairly confess
that we were pained at the alienation
of friends whom we had previously
considered as staunch as the steel of
Toledo : as for our foemen, we, beinff
used to that kind of warfiBure, treated
them with consummate indifference.
Yet not the less, on that account, did
we diligently peruse the journals,
which, nrom various lands, winsed
their way to the table of our studv,
each announcing, in varied speech,
that Richard Cobden was expatiating
upon the blessings of free-trade and
unlimited calico to the nations. These
we had not studied long, ere we dls«
covered that, upon one or two un-
fortunate points, there was a want of
understanding between the parties
who thus fraternised. The foreign
audiences knew nothing whatever
about the principles which the orator
propounded ; and the orator knew, if
possible, still less of the languages in
which the compliments of the audi-
ences were conveyed. In so far as
any interchange of ideas was con-
cerned, Mr Cobden might as well
have been dining on cold roast mon-
key with the Kmg of Congo and his
court, as with the bearded patriots
who entertained him in Italy and
Spain. His talk about reciprocity
was about as distinct to their coni-
prehension, as would have been his
definition of the differential calculus ;
nevertheless their shoutings fell no
whit less gratefully on the ear of the
Manchester manufacturer, who inter-
preted the same according to his own
sweet will, and sent home bragging
bulletins to his backers, descriptive of
the thirst for commercial interchange
which raged throughout Europe, and
of the pacific tendencies of the age.
Need we remind our readers of what
followed? Never had unfortunate
682
Peace and War Agitaiort,
pTon
prophet been possessed by a more
lying and delasive demon. The
words were hardly out of his month,
before the thunderstorm of revolu-
tion broke in all its fury upon France,
and rolled in devastating wrath over
every kingdom of the Continent.
Amongst the foremost agents in this
unholy work were the friends and
entertainers of Mr Cobden, for whose
tranquil dispositions he had been fool-
ish enough to volunteer a pledge.
How he must have cursed ^^ my
friend Cremieux, " when he found
that unscrupulous gentleman giving
the lie to all his asseverations ! No
man, unless cased in a threefold
covering of brass, could have held up
his head to the public, after so tho-
rough and instantaneous an exposure
of his miserable fallacies. But our
Kichard is not to be easily put down.
No one understands the trade of the
agitator better ; for, when baffled,
put to silence, and covered with ridi-
cule on one topic, he straightway
shifts his ground, and is heard de-
claiming on another. It is his mis-
fortune that he has been compelled to
do this rather frequently, for in no
one single instance have events real-
ised his predictions. Free trade,
which was to make every man rich,
has plunged the nation in misery.
Reciprocity, for all practical purposes,
is an obsolete word in the dictionary.
The Continental apostles of commer-
cial exchange have been amusing
themselves by cutting each others*
throats, and hatching villanous
schemes for the subversion of all
government ; nor has one of them a
maravedi left, to expend in the pur-
chase of calico. The colonies are up
in arms against the policy of the
mother country. Undismayed by
these failures^ still the undaunted
Cobden lifts up his oracular voice,
advocating in turn the extension of
the suffrage, the abolition of standing
annies, financial reform, and what
not. It matters not to him that, on
each new attempt, the rotten tub on
which he takes his stand is either
kicked from under his feet, or goes
crashing down beneath the weight of
the husky orator — up he starts from
the mire like a new Antseus, and,
without stopping to wipe away the
unsavoury stains from his visage,'holds
forth upon a different text, the
paragon of pertinaciona preachers. We
could almost find it in oar hearts to be
sorry that such singular plack should
go without its adequate reward. Bat
a patriot of this stamp is sure to be-
come a nuisance. However numeroos
his audience may be at first, they are
apt to decline when the folly of the
harangue is made patent to the mean-
est capacity, and when current ev^ts
everlastingly combine to expose the
nature of the imposture. The popu-
larity of Cobden, for some time back,
has b^n terribly on the wane. Few
and far between are his present poli-
tical ovations ; and even men of hb
own class begin to consider him a
humbug. We are given to under-
stand that, in a majority of the com-
mercial rooms, the first glass of the
statutory pint of wine is no longer
graced with an aspiration for his pro-
sperity and length of years ; and some
ungrateful recreants of the road now
hint, that to his baleful influence may
bo attributed the woful diminution of
orders. That exceedingly mangy
establishment, ydeped the fSree-tnde
Club, of which he was the fatlier and
founder, has just given up the ghost;
and great is the joy of the denizens of
St Jameses Square at being relieved
from the visitations of the crew that
haunted its ungamished halls. Ordi-
nary men might be disheartened by a
succession of such reverses — ^not so
Cobden. Like an ancient Roman, he
gathers his calico around him, and
announces to a gratified worid that he
is ready to measure inches with the
Autocrat of all the Russias I
Cobden is fond of this kind of feat
About a year ago he put out the same
challenge to the Duke of Wellington
and the Horse Guards, just as we find
it announced in the columns of BeW$
Life in London^ that Charles Onions
of Birmingham is ready to pitch in-
to the Champion of England for five
pounds a-side, and that his money is
deposited at the bar of the Pig and
Whistles. But even as the said cham-
pion does not reply to the defiance of
the full-flavoured Charles, so silent
was He of the hundred fights when
Richard summoned him to the field.
Failing this meditated encounter, our
pugnacious manufacturer next des-
patches a cartel to Nicholas, and no
1849.]
Peace and War Agitators.
response haying arrived from St
Petersborg, he magnanimously pro-
fesses himself ready to serve oat the
house of Hapsbarg ! Really there is
no setting bounds to the valour or the
ambition of this vaunting Achilles,
who, far stronger than his prototype,
or even than the fabled Hercules^
slates that he can crumple up king-
doms in his hand as easily as a sheet
of foolscap. We stand absolately ap-
palled at the temerity of unappeasable
Felides.
Our readers are probably aware
that, for some time past, there has
been an attempt to preach up a sort of
seedy Crusade, having for its osten-
sible object the universal pacification
of mankind. With such an aim no
good man or sincere Christian can
quarrel. Peace and good-will are ex-
pressly inculcated by the Grospel, and
even upon lower grounds than these
we are ail predisposed in theii* favour.
So that, when America sent us a new
Peter the Hermit, in the shape of one
Elihn Burritt, heretofore a hammerer
of iron, people were at a loss to com-
prehend what sort of a mission that
could be, which, without any fresh
revelation, was to put the matter in a
clearer light than was ever e^ibited
before. We care not to acknowledge
that we were of the number of those
who classed the said Elihu with the
gang of itinerant lecturers, who turn
a questionable penny by holding forth
to ignorant audiences upon subjects
utterly beyond their own contracted
comprehension. Nor have we seen
any reason to alter our opinion since ;
for the accession of any amount of
noodles, be they EngUsh, French,
Dutch, Flemish, or Chinese, can in
no way give importance to a move-
ment which is simply and radically
absurd. If the doctrines and precepts
of Christianity cannot establish peace,
check aggression, suppress insubordi-
nation, or hasten the coming of the
millennium, we may be excused for
doubting, surely, the power of Peace
Congresses, even when presided over
by so saintly a personage as Victor
Hugo, to accomplish those desirable
ends. We do not know whether Alex-
ander Dumas has as yet given in his
adhesion. K not, it is a pity, for his
jnresence would decidedly give addi-
tional interest to the meetings.
VOL. LXVI. — ^NO. CGCCIX.
58a
Even on the score of originality, the
founders of the Peace Associations
cannot daim any merit. The idea
was long ago struck out, and promul-
gated, by that very respectable sect
the Quakers ; and though in modem
times some of that fraternity, John
Bright for example, have shown
themselves more addicted to wrangling
than befits the lamb-like docility of
their profession, we believe that oppo-
sition to warfare is still their leading
tenet. We can see no reason, there-
fore, why the bread should be so un-
ceremoniously taken from the mouth
of Obadiah. If the ingenious author
of Lucretia Borgia and Hans of Ice-
land wishes to become the leader of a
great pacific movement, he ought, in
common justice, to adopt the uni-
form of the existing corps. He cer-
tainly should treat the promenaders
of the Boulevards to a glimpse of
the broad-brimmed hat and sober
drab terminations, and conform to
the phraseology as well as the ha-
biliments of the followers of William
Penn.
It may be questionable whether, if
the experiment of free trade had suc-
ceeded^ Elihu would have obtained
the countenance of so potent an auxi-
liary as Cobden. Our powers of
arithmetic are too limited to enable
us, at this moment, to recall the pre-
cise amount of additional annual
wealth which the member for the West
Riding, and the wiseacres of The Eco-
nomisty confidently predicted as the
necessary gain to the nation ; it was
something, the bare mention of which
was enough to cause a Pactolus to
distil from the chops of a Chancellor
of the Exchequer, especially if he be-
longed to the Whig persuasion, and
was, therefore, unaccustomed to the
miracle of a bursting revenue. But
as no such miracle ensued ; and as, on
the contrary, Sk Charles Wood was
put to his wit's end — ^no very formi-
dable stretch — to diminish a horrible
deficit by the sale of rope-ends, rusty
metal, and other material which was
classed under the head of government
stores, it was clearly high time for our
nimble Cobden to shift his ground.
Accordingly he fell foul of the army,
which he would fain have insisted on
disbanding ; and this move, of course,
brought him within the range of the
2q
584
Pe€ice and War Agitaiors*
[Nov.
orbit already occupied by the eccentric
Eiihn.
It is not very easy to attain to a
distinct understanding of the means
which the Peace Association proposed
to adopt, for carrying out this benevo-
lent scheme. Most of the gentlemen
who have already figured at their de-
bates are so excessively muddle-
beaded, that it seems impossible to
extract from their speeches the vestige
of a distinct idea. This much, however,
after diligent study, we have gathered,
that it is proposed to substitute arbi-
tration in place of war, and to render
that mode of arrangement almost ne-
cessary by a general European disarm-
ament. Nothing could tally better
with the views of Cobden. A higher
principle than that of mere retrench-
ment is thus brought to bear upon his
darling scheme of wiping off the army
and the navy; and we must needs
confess that, to a considerable propor-
tion of the population of moaem
Europe, the scheme must be extremely
palatable.
Standing armies, we are told, are
of no earthly use in the time of peace,
and their expense is obviously unde-
niable. If peace could be made uni-
versal and perpetual, there would be
an end of standing armies. The best
means for securing perpetual peace is
to do away with standing armies,
because without standing armies there
would be no facilities for war. This
is the sort of argument which we are
now asked to accept ; but, unfortunate-
ly, we demur both to the premises and
the conclusion. Indeed, in a matter
of this kind, we utterly repudiate the
aid of logic, even were it a great deal
more scientifically employ^. That
of the free-traders is, if possible, worse
than their arithmetic, though, a year
or two ago, the^ were readv to have
staked their existence on the infalli-
bility of the latter.
The experience of the last eighteen
months has given us all some tangible
proof of the advantages of standmg
armies. Setting aside tiie Denmark
affair, and also the occupation of Rome,
there has been one aggressive war
waged in Europe by sovereign against
sovereign. That war, we need hardly
«ay, was commenced by Charles Albert
of Sardinia, who, basely and perfidi-
onsly avaiHag himself of the intestine
difficulties of Austria, attempted to
seize the opportunity of making him-
self master of Lombardy. We need
not recapitulate the history of that
campaign, so glorious to the veteran
Radetsky, and so shameful to his un-
principled opponent : but it is well
worth remarking, that the whde of
the sympathies of Mr Cobden and his
radical confederates are enlisted on
the side of the Italian insurgents ; and
that, with all their professed horror
for war, we never hear them attribute
the slightest blame to the SardiBians
for having marched in hostile amy
across the frontier of a friendly power.
Nor is this all. In every case where
the torch of insurrection has been
lighted, we find the advocates of peace
clamorous in their approbation of the
movement Without knowledge, with-
out judgment, without anything like
due consideration either of the provo-
cation given on the one side, or the
license claimed on the other, tiiey have
invariably lent their voices to swell
the revolnti(Miary cry, and backed the
drunken populace in their howl against
order and government. Whoever was
loyal and true has been branded
as a ruffian and a murderer. Assassi-
nation, when it proceeded from the
mob, was in their eyes no office at
all. Some of them, employing terms
which we never thought to have heard
an En^hman utter, have rather
chuckl^ over the spectacle of nobles,
priests, and statesmen stabbed, shot
down, hewn with axes, or torn limb
from limb by savages, whose itrodty
was not equalled by that of the worst
actors in the early French Bevolntion,
— andhave not been adiamed to vtsdi-
cate the authors of such hideous ont-
rage.
Aggressive war we deprecate, to
say the least of it, as strongly as any
peace orator who ever spooled froma
platfbnn; bntwebyno noMans think
that peace, in the catholic sense of
the word, can be at all endwigered by
the maintenance of standing annies.
80 far as the militaiy establiiAiment
of Great Britain is concerned, we have
already had occasion, in a fonner
paper, to show that it is barely snffi-
dent fbr the ocoopation of our lane
and numerous colonies, and greaUy
inferior in prmntion to that of any
other ooontiy m Svope. We oer*
1849.]
Peace and War Agitators,
tainlj do not intend to resame that
discnssion, because the sense of the
nation has nnequivocally condemned
the pragmatic fools who provoked it ;
and even the Whigs, who coquetted
with them, have seen the folly of their
ways, and are not likely, in a hnny,
to attempt any numerical reduction.
But we go a great deal farther.
We maintain, that without the assist-
aaoe of the standing armies through-
out Enrope dnring the late critical
iunctnre, anarchy would now have
been triomphant, and civilisation
liave received a check so terrible, that
ages might have elapsed before we
ooald have recovered from its effects.
Bevolntion is incalculably a greater
disaster than war ; and the higher the
point of civilisation to which a nation
nas attained before it permits the de-
mocratic flame, smothering beneath
the surface of all society, to burst out
into fhry, the more dangerous and
difficnlt to extinguish must be the
oonflagration. But for the regular
army of France, red republicanism
would now be triumphant, and a new
Belgn of Terror have begun. The
annies and discipline of Prussia alone
preserved the Khenish provinces and
the Palatinate from anarchy, plunder,
and devastation ; and, failing those of
Austria, Vienna would have been a
heap of ashes. Ultra-democrats, in all
•IpeSf have exclaimed against standing
armies as instruments of tyranny for
fluppressing and overawing the people,
and they have argued that such a force
is ineompatible with free institutions.
8och dedamation is perfectly natural,
both now and heretofore, when we
reflect who the individuals are that
use it. No class of persons are more
bitter against the police than the
fffofeasional thieves. To them the
ooiistable*s baton also is an emblem
of intolerable tyranny, because it in-
terferes with those liberal ideas re-
garding the distribution of property
which have been philosophically ex-
pounded and reduced to ethics by
certain sages of the socialist school.
The democrat hates the soldier, because
Iweonaiders him an obstacle in the
wa^ of tiiat political regeneration
which is merely another word for the
inatitotion of a reign of terror.
We do not, however, think it neces-
aaiyto ester into any elaborate exposi-
585
tion of the idleness of the peace move-
ment. So long as the gentlemen who
have gratuitously constituted them-
selves a congress exhibit so much com-
mon sense as to retain the semblance
of consistency, we should hardly feel
ourselves called upon to interfere in
any way with their arrangements.
We should be the last people in the
world to grudge to Mr Ewart, or any
other senator of such limited csdibre,
the little notoriety which he may
chance to pick up by figuring in Paris
as a champion of paofic fraternity.
The paths towards the Temple of
Fame are many and devious ; and if a
man feels himself utterly wanting in
that intellectual strength which is ne-
cessary for attaining the summit bj
the legitimate and l^ten road, he is
certainly entitled to clamber up to any
odd pinnacle from which he can make
himself, for a moment, the object of
observation. In minor theatres, it is
not uncommon to find a broken-down
tragedian attempting to achieve some
popularly in a humble line, by jump-
ing as Harlequin through a clock, or
distorting his ochre-coated visage by
grinning magnanimously as the clown.
To such feats no fair exception can be
taken ; and we doubt not that a roar
of laughter, proceeding from the throats
of the most ignorant assemblage of
numskulls, is as grateful to the ears of
the performer as would be the applause
of the most enlightened and fastidious
audience. We believe that, in the
case of the Congress, audience and
orators were extremely well suited to
the capacity of each other. The peo-
ple of Paris, who drank in the rolling
periods of the pacificators, were ex-
ceedingly amused with the exhibition ;
and testified theur delight, 1^ greet-
ing the reproduction of the uurce, in
the shape of a Vaudeville at the
Th^tre des Varidt^, with unextin-
guishable shouts of laughter I
Neither shall we make any comment
upon the singularity of the time se-
lected for these demonstrations. The
members of the Congress expressly set
fi>rth, that it was theur desire to impress
upon the governments of Europe the
folly of maintaining large establish-
ments, and we presume that they en-
tertained some reasonable hope that
their r^nonstrances might at least be
heard. We need scarcely point out to
586
Peace and War Agitators.
[Not.
onr readers the eminent fitness of the
present juncture for carrying these
views into effect. We have great
faith in the extent and power of human
idiocy, but we hardly supposed that
any body of men could have been con-
gregated, possessed of so much col-
lective imbecility as to conceive that
this was a proper moment for securing
the conviction, or enlisting the sym-
pathies of any government in their
scheme. We are, however, forced to
conclude, that a good many of them
are sincere; and, believing this, our
regard for their honesty rises in a cor-
responding ratio with the decline of
our respect for the measure of their
intellects. It would probably be un-
just and wrong to confound some of
these simple souls with men of the
stamp of their new ally, who use their
association merely as a means for the
promulgation of part of their political
opinions, but who, in reality, are so
far from being the friends of peace,
that they seem bent upon using their
utmost efforts to involve the whole of
Europe in a new and desolating war.
While, therefore, we drop for the pre-
sent any further notice of the proceed-
ings of the Peace Congress, we feel it
our imperative duty to trace the steps
of Mr Cobden since, arrayed insheep^s
dothing, he chose to make his appear-
ance in the midst of that innocent
assembly.
Whatever sympathy may have been
shown in certain quarters towards the
Itab'an insurgents, that feeling has
been materially lessened by the awful
spectacles afforded by insurgent rule.
We are, in this country, a great deal
too apt to be carried into extravagance
by our abstract regard for constitu-
tional freedom. We forget that our
own system has been the gradual
work of ages ; that the enlightenment
and education of the people has inva-
riably preceded every measure of sub-
stantisd reform ; and that it is quite
possible that other nations may not be
fitted to receive like institutions, or to
work out the social problem, without
more than British restraint. Arbi-
trary government being quite foreign
to our own notions, is invariably re-
garded by us with dislike; and our
decided impulse, on the appearance of
each new insun*ection, is to attribute
the whole of the blame to the inflexi-
bility of the sovereign power. So
long as this feeling is merely confined
to expression of opinion at home, it is
comparatively, though not altogether,
harmless. Undue weight is attached
abroad to the articles of the jM'ess,
enunciated with perfect freedom, bat
certainly not always expressing the
sense of the community ; and foreign
statesmen, unable to appredate this
license, have ere now taken nmbrage
at diatribes, which, could the matter
be investigated, wonld be fonnd to
proc€^ from exceedingly humble
sources. So long, however, as our
government professed and acted upon
the prindples of non- interference,
there was little likelihood of onr being
embroiled in disputes with which we
bad no concern, simply on aoooimt
of liberal meetings, tavern speeches,
or hebdomadal objurgations of des-
potism.
The real danger commenced when
a government, calling itself liberal,
began to interfere, most nnjostifiably
and most unwisely, with the ocmoema
of its neighbours. Powerless to do
good at home, the Whigs have ever
shown themselves most ready to do
mischief abroad; and probably, in
the whole history of British diplo-
macy, there stands recorded no trans-
action more deplorable, from first to
last, than the part which Lord Pal-
merston has taken in the late Italian
movements. It is the fashion to laud the
present Fordgn Secretary as a man of
consummate ability ; nor is it possible
to deny that, so far as speech-making
is concerned, he certainly surpasses his
colleagues. We were almost inclined
to go farther, and admit that no one
could equal him in dexterity of read-
ing offidal documents, so as to mys-
tify and distort their meaning ; but
were we to assign him pre-eminence
in this department, we should do sig-
nal injustice to Earl Grey, who un-
questionably stands unrivalled in the
art of coopering a despatch. Ability
Lord Palmerston certainly has, but
we deny that he has shown it in his
late Italian negotiations. Bestless
activity is not a proof of diplomatic
talent, any more than an appetite for
intrigue, or a perverse obstinacy of
purpose. Men of the above tempera*
ment have, in aU ages, been hdd in-
competent for the duties of go ddicatt
1849.]
Peace and War Agitators.
687
and difficnlt a station as that of minis-
ter of foreign affairs ; and yet who
will deny that the whole course of oar
recent diplomatic relations with the
aonth of Europe, has been marked by
an nnnsnal display of restlessness, ob-
stinacy, and intrigae? Public men
must submit to have their labours
judged of by theur fruits ; it is the pe-
nidty attached to their high office, and
most righteously so, since the des-
tinies of nations are committed to their
hands. Lord Palmerston may pos-
^ly have thought that, by dictating
to the goyemments of Italy the na-
ture of the relations which, in his
opinion, ought to subsist between
them and their subjects, he was con-
sulting the honour and advantage
of England, faUSlling his duty to the
utmost, and providing for the main-
tenance of the public tranquillity of
Europe. We say it is possible that such
was his thought and intention ; but, if
80, surely never yet did a man, possess-
ing more than common ability, resort
to snch extraordinary means, or employ
snch incapable agents. Of all the men
who could have been selected for such
a service. Lord Minto was incalcu-
lably the worst. We have nothing
whatever to say against that noble-
man in his private capacity; but,
throughout his whole public, we can-
not say useful, career, he has never,
on one occasion, exhibited a spark
even of ordinary talent, and it is more
tiian questioned by many, whether his
intelligence rises to the ordinary level.
Through accident and connexion he
has b^n thrust into state employ-
ment, and has never rendered himself
otherwise remarkable than for a most
egregious partiality for those of his
family, kindred, and name. And yet
this was the accredited agent sent
ont by Lord Palmerston to expound
the intentions and views of Great
Britain, not only to the sovereigns of
Italy, but also to their revolted sub-
-jects.
We say nothing of the diplomatic
employment of such a representative
as Mr Abercromby, at the court of
Turin. The correspondence contained
in the Blue Books laid before parlia-
ment, shows how singularly ignorant
that minister was of the real posture of
affairs in Italy ; how eagerly he caught
at eveiy insinuation which was thrown
out against the good faith and pacific
policy of Austria; and how com-
pletely he was made the tool and the
dupe of the revolutionary party. It
is enough to note the fruits of the Pal-
merstonian policy, which have been,
so far as we are concerned, the utter
annihilation of all respect for the Bri-
tish name in Italy, insurrections, wild
and wasting civil war, and, finally,
the occupation of Rome by the French.
Whatever may be thought of the pru-
dence of this latter move, or whatever
may be its remote consequences, this
at least is certain, that, but for Oudi-
not and his army, the Eternal City
would have been given up as a prey
to the vilest congregation of ruffians
that ever profaned the name of liberty
by inscribing it on their blood-stained
banners. To associate the cause of
such men with that of legitimate free-
dom is an utter perversion of terms ;
and those who have been rash enough
to do so must stand convicted, before
the world, of complete ignorance of their
subject. No pen, we believe, could
adequately describe the -atrocities
which were perpetrated m Rome, from
the day when Count Rossi fell by the
poniard of the assassin, on the steps
of the Qnirinal palace, down to that
on which the gates were opened for the
admittance of the besieging army.
Not the least of Popish miracles was
the escape of Pius himself, who be-
held his secretary slain, and his body-
guard butchered by his side. Of these
things modem liberalism takes little
note : it hears not the blood of inno-
cent and unoffending priests cry out
for vengeance from the pavement ; it
makes no account of pillage and spo-
liation, of ransacked convent, or of
harried home. It proclaims its sym-
pathy aloud with the robber and the
bravo, and is not ashamed to throw
the veil of patriotism over the enor-
mities of the brigand Garibaldi !
When, therefore, not only a consi-
derable portion of the press of this
country, but the government itself, is
found espousing the cause of revolu-
tion in the south of Europe, we need
not be surprised if other governments,
at a period of so much danger and
insecurity, regard Great Britain as a
renegade to the cause of order. Our
position at present is, in reality, one
of great difficulty, and such as ought
588
Peace and War AgiMtom.
[Nov,
to make us extremely cantioas of
hidnlgiDg in unnecessary bravado.
The state of our financial affairs is
anything but encouraging. We are
answerable for a larger debt than any
other nation of the world ; and our
economists are so sensible of the
weight of our burdens, that they
would fain persuade us to denude our-
selves even of the ordinary means of
defence. Our foreign exports are
stationary ; our imports immensely
increasing; our home market reduced,
for the present, to a state of terrible
prostration. Free trade, by destroy-
ing the value of agricultural produce,
has almost extinguished our last hope
of restoring tranquillity to Ireland, and
of raising that unhappy country to the
level of the sister kingdoms. It is in
vain that we have crippled ourselves
to stay the recurring famine of years,
since our statesmen are leagued with
famine, and resolute to persevere in
their iniquity. The old hatred of
the Celt to the Saxon is still burn-
ing in the bosoms of a large propor-
tion of the misguided population of
Ireland ; and were anv opportunity
afforded, it would break forth as vio-
lently as ever. So that, even within
the girdle of the four seas, we are not
exactly in that situation which might
justify our provoking unnecessary
hostility from abroad. So far we are
entirely at one with the Peace Con-
gress. When we look to the state of
our colonies, the prospect is not more
encouraging. Through Whig misrule,
our tenure of the Canadas has become
exceedingly precarious. The West
Indies are writhing in ruin ; and even
the inhabitants of the Cape arc ram-
pant, from the duplicity of the Colo-
nial Office. Our interest is most
cleariy and obviously identified with
the cause of order ; for, were Britain
once actively engaged in a general
war, it is possible that the presence
of her forces would be required in
more than a single point. Of the
final result, in the event of such a
calamity, we have no doubt, but not
the less, on that account, should we
deeply deplore the struggle.
Such being our sentiments, it is
with considerable pain that we feel
ourselves called upon to notice as
strong an instance of charlatanism
and presumption as was ever exhi-
bited in this coontiy. Fortunately,
on this occasion, the offender has
gone so far that no one can be
blind to his delinquencies; for, if there
be any truth in the abfltraot principles
of the Peactf Association, their last
disciple has disowned them ; if the
doctrines of free trade were intended
to have universal application, Bichard
Cobden, in the face of the universe,
has entered his protest against them.
It signifies very little to us, and less
to the powers against whom he has
thundered his anathemas, what Mr
Cobden thinks proper either to profeas
or repudiate; still, as he has been
pleased to attempt the performance of
the part of Guy Fawkes, wo judge it
necessary to conduct him fh>m thecoal-
cellar, and to throw the light of the
lantern upon his visage, and that of
his accomplices. And, first, a wmd
or two as to the occaeion of his last
appearance.
The recent Hungarian rising is by
no means to be classed in the same
category with the wretched Italian
insurrections. Much as it is to be
deplored that any misunderstanding
should have arisen between the Aus-
trian cabinet and the Hungarian Diet,
so serious as to have occasioned a
war ; we look upon the latter body as
uninfluenced by those wild democratic
notions which have been and are
still prevalent in the west of Enrope.
Whatever may have been the case
with Kossuth, and some of his more
ambitious confederates, the mass of the
Hungarian people had no wish what-
ever to rise in rebellion against their
king. Their quarrel was that of a minor
state to which certain privileges had
been guaranteed ; against the presomed
infringement of which, by tiieir more
poweiful neighbour, they first pro-
tested, and finaUy had reconrse to
arms. Their avowed object, through-
out the earlier part of the struggle, waa
not to overturn, but to maintain, cer-
tain existing institutions : and it Is
rcmaricable that, from the day on which
Kossuth threw off the mask, and re-
nounced allegifuice to his sovereign,
the Hungarians lost confidence la
their leader, and their former en«i;y
decayed. We need not now discoss
the abstract justice of the Himgarian
claims; but whatever may be tiranght
of these, we must, in oommcm fidmeaa
1849.] Ptace and War Agitaiors. 589
to Aiurtria, consider her peculiar posi- of bad faith, and nmning imminent
tion at the time when they were risk with regard to her own dependcn-
songht to be enforced. Concessions cies. Those active revolutionists, tbe
which, daring a season of tranquillity, Poles, whose presence behind every
might have been gracefully made, were barricade has been conspicuously
rendered ahnost impossible when de- marked and unblushingly avowed,
manded with threats, in the midst of showed themselves foremost in fdl the
insurrection and revolt. It was but disturbances which threatened the
too obvious that the leaders of the dismemberment of Austria. By them
Hungarian movement, forgetful of their the Hungarian army was principally
fealty to the chief of that great empire officered; and it now appears, from the
of which their country formed a part, intercepted correspondence of their
were bent upon increasing instead of nominal chief, that the Hungarian in-
lessening the difficulties with which surrection was relied upon as the first
Anstria was everywhere surrounded, step for a fresh attempt towards the
and eager to avail themselves of dis- restoration of a Polish kingdom,
tractions elsewhere, for the purpose of Under these circumstances, the Czar
dictating insolent and exorbitant felt himself imperatively called upon
terms. In short, we believe that the to act; and his honour has been amply
real claims of Hungary, however they vindicated by the withdrawal of his
may have formed the foundation of forces after his mission was accom-
the discontent which ripened into war, plished, and the Hungarian insurrec-
were used by Kossuth and his col- tion quelled.
leagues as instruments for their own It would undoubtedly have been
ambition ; and that, by throwing off far more satisfactory to every one, if
the mask too precipitately, they the differences between Austria and
opened the eyes of their followers to Hungary could have been settled
the true nature of their designs, and without an appeal to arms ; but such
Sorieited that support which the realm a settlement was, we apprehend,
was ready to accord the men who, utterly beyond the powers even of the
with a single and patriotic purpose, Peace Congress to effect; and the
demanded nothing more than the next best thing is to know that tran-
recognition of the rights of their quillity has actually been restored,
country. That a great deal of sympathy should
It was but natural that the inter- be shown for the Hungarians, is, un-
Tention of Bussia should have been der the circumstances, by no means
Tiewed with some uneasiness in the unnaturaL It is no exaggeration to
west of Europe. Every movement of say, that hardly one man out of a
that colossal power beyond the boun- thousand, in Britain, comprehends the
daries of its own territory excites a merits of the dispute, or is able, if
feeling of jealousy, singularly dispro- called upon, to give an intelligible ac-
portionate to ^e real character of its count of the quarreL Such amount
resources, if Mr Cobden's estimate of of knowledge, however, is by no
these should be adopted as the true means necessary to qualify a platform
one ; and we fairly confess that we orator for holding forth at a moment's
have no desure to see any considerable notice ; and, accordingly, meetings
ftogmentation made to the territorial expressive of sympathy with the pcs*-
possessions of the Czar. But the as- scented Hungarians were called in
aistance whidi, on this occasion, has many of our larger towns, and the
been sent to Austria by Russia, how- usual amount of rhodomontade uttered,
ever much we may regret the occasion by gentlemen who make a point of
which called the latter mto activity, exhibiting their elocntionary powers
cannot surely be tortured into any upon the slightest colourable pretence,
aggressive design. Apart from all Had these meetings been held earlier,
onr jealousies, it was a magnanimous they might have been worth some-
movement on the part of one power- thing. We shall not go the length of
ibl sovereign in fevour of a harassed assuring the very shallow and con-
ally; nor can we see how that assist- ceited personages who constitute the
anoe could have been refused by oratorical rump, or public debating
Bnsflia, without incurring the reproach society of Edinburgh, that theur opi-
590
Peace and Mar Agitators.
[Not.
nions are likely to be esteemed of sur-
passing importance, even if they were
to bo beard of so far as St Petersburg
or Vienna ; for their utter ignorance
of the aspect of foreign affairs is such
as would excite ridicule in the bosoms
of those whom they profess to patro-
nise and applaud. But if they really
were impressed with the notion that
the claims of Hungary were of such
mighty importance, how was it that
they tarried until the consideration of
all constitutional questions had been
swallowed up in war — until those who
fully understood the true position of
Hungary, and her rights as legally
guaranteed and defined, were forced
to acknowledge that, through the
violence, treachery, and ambition of
the insurgent nobles, all hope of a
pacific settlement had disappeared;
and that the best result which Europe
could hope for, was the speedy
quenching of an insurrection, now
broadly revolutionary and republican,
and thi*eatening to spread still wider
the devastating flames of anarchy?
The explanation we believe to be a
very simple one. Most of them knew
tis much of the affairs of Cappadocia
as they did of those of Hungary, and
they would have been equsdly ready
to spout in favour of either country.
Late in July, Mr Bernal Osborne,
backed by Mr R. M. Milnes, whose
knowledge of politics is about equal
to his skill in the construction of dac-
tyls, brought forward the Hungarian
question in the House of Commons,
and thereby gave Lord Palmerston an
opportunity of unbosoming himself on
that branch of our European relations.
His lordship^s speech, on that occasion,
was very much lauded at the time ;
but on referring to it now, we are
somewhat at a loss to understand how
it could have given satisfaction to any
one. It was, indeed, as insulting to
Austria, whose back was then supposed
to be at the wall, as any opponent of
constitutional goveniment could have
desired. Alliance was sneered at, as a
mere empty word of no significance
whatever : nor can we much wonder
at this ebullition, considering the
manner in which his lordship has
thought proper to deal with other
powers, who attached some value to
the term. This topic was, farther, a
congenial one, inasmuch as it afforded
the Foreign Secretary an opportunity
of gibing at his predecessor, Loid
Aberdeen, whose sense of honour does
not permit him to identify the solemn
treaties of nations with folios of waste
paper ; and who, therefore, was held
up to ridicule as a pattern of "anti-
quated imbecility." But, after all
this persiflage, which could serve no
purpose whatever, save that of giving
vent to an unusual secretion ofPalm-
erstonian bile, it appeared that his
lordship was actually to do nothing
at all. He regretted, just as much as
we do, and probably not more than
the Austrian cabinet, that no accom-
modation of differences had taken
place. He said, very truly, that
whatever the result of the struggle
might be, it could not strengthen the
stability of the Austrian empire ; but
at the same time he distinctly repu-
diated all intention of interfering be-
yond mere passive advice, and he
could not deny the right of Austria, if
it thought proper, to call in the aid of
the Russian arms. His condosioD,
in short, was sound, and we only re-
gret that, while it was so, the tone
and temper of bis speech were not
equally j udicious. This debate in the
House of Commons was immediately
followed up by a public meeting at the
London Tavern, presided over by Mr
Alderman Salomons.
We had not the good fortune to be
present on that occasion ; but, from the
accounts contained in the morning
papers, it must have been an assem-
blage of a singularly motley kind.
There was a considerable muster of
Radical members of parliament ; the
Financial Reform and the Peace As-
sociations were respectively represent-
ed; Lord Nugent and Mr Milnes
stood forth as delegates from the
Bards of Britain ; JuHan Harney and
Mr G. W. M. Reynolds headed a
numerous band of Chartists; and Lord
Dudley Stuart, as a matter of course,
was surrounded by a whiskered pha-
lanx of Poles, Hungarians, Italians,
Grermans, and Sicilians, each one
striving to look more patriotically
ferocious than his neighbour. Thefirst
sympathetic resolution was moved by
a Quaker, and seconded by no less a
person than Richard Cobden, ifdio
bad only been prevented from attend*
ing the previous debate in the House
1S49.]
Peace and War Agitators.
of Ck>mmons by a swan-hopping ex-
pedition on the Thames.
Then it was that 'Mr Cobden first
faTonred the world with some econo-
mical views, so exceedingly novel and
startling, as to excite, even in that
audience, unequivocal symptoms of
incrednlity. He set out by laying it
^own as a general rule, that every
separate state onght to be left to the
management of its own affairs, with-
out the interference of any foreign
power whatever. " If," said he," this
had been a question simply between
Hungary and Austria, I should not
have appeared here to-day, nor in-
deed would it have been necessary for
any of us to have appeared here to-
day. So long as the Hungarians were
left to settle their affairs with the
government of Vienna, they were per-
fectly competent to do it, without the
interference of the citizens of Lon-
don." This is intelligible enough.
So long as central governments are
merely fighting with their own depen-
dencies, there is no room at all, ac-
cording to Mr Cobden, for interfer-
ence. It matters not which side pre-
vails: they must be left wholly to
themselves. This doctrine could not,
we think, have been very acceptable
to the Poles ; since it amounts to an
enture admission that Russia has a
right to deal with them at her plea-
■sure ; neither is it altogether consis-
tent with our ideas, or interpretation
of the law of nations. But it is Cob-
den's view, and therefore let it pass.
To him, theu, it mattered nothing
whether Goth or Hun prevailed — it
was the intervention of Russia that
peremptorily called him to the plat-
form. Now we must own, that we
cannot understand this sort of reason-
ing, though it may possibly be suited
to the capacities of a Manchester
audience. If, as many people no
doubt conscientiously beUeve, Austria
was trampling upon the liberties of a
brave and loyal people, not only
Justice, but humanity demands that
our sympathies should be enlisted on
their side. We cannot acquiesce in a
doctrine which would have left the
Greeks (lamentably small sense as
Hiey have shown of the benefits of
liberty) to toil on for ever under the
grievous yoke of the Ottoman : nor
are we prepared to carry our apathy
691
to so extreme a length. The in-
tervention of Russia could not, by
any possibility, alter the complexion
of the quarrel. It might either crush
freedom, or maintain constitutional
government and the balance of power
in Europe ; but the principle of the
contest, whatever that might be, was
declared before Russia appeai'ed, and
according as men view it, so should their
sympathies be given. The whole ques-
tion, however, as Mr Cobden put the
case, turned upon Russian interference.
If Mr Cobden^s next door neigh-
bour happened to have a dispute with
his operatives, touching the interpre-
tation of certain points of the Charter,
and if the latter, in their zeal for en-
lightenment, were to set fire to their
master's premises, we apprehend that
tlie honourable member for the West
Riding, (having neglected his own
insurance,) might blamelessly bear a
hand to quench the threatening con-
flagration.. Further, if he were
assured that the said operaUyes,
assisted by a gang of deserters Trom
his own mills, were trying their hands
at an incendiary experiment, preli-
minary to operating upon his calico
warehouses, how could he be blamed,
if he sallied to attack the rioters in
their first position ? Yet, if we are
permitted to compare very great
things with small, this was precisely
the situation of Russia. If she did
not assist Austria, the flame would
have been kindled in her own provin-
ces ; if the Hungarian insurrection
had triumphed, Poland would have
been up in arms. With the old par-
tition of Poland we have nothing now
to do, any more than with the junction
of the Slavonic provinces with Aus-
tria. Right or wrong, these have long
become acknowledged facts in Euro-
pean history, and the boundary divi-
sions have been acquiesced in by a
congress of the assembled nations.
We cannot go back upon matters of
ancient right and occupation ; were
we to do so, the peace of every nation
in Europe must necessarily be dis-
tm'bed, and no alternative would re-
main, save the Utopian one of par-
celling out territory according to the
language of the inhabitants. Boun-
daries must be settled somehow.
They were so settled, by the consent
of all the nations, at the treaty of
592
Peace and War AgitatorB.
[NoY.
Vienna; and our duty, as well as our
interest, is to adhere to that arrange-
ment. Russia, by assisting Austria,
has in no way contravened any of the
stipulations of that treaty. From the
moment when the Hungarian party .de-
clared their country independent, and
proclaimed a republic, a new cause of
discord and misrule was opened in
the east of Europe, and the greatest
of the eastern potentates was not only
entitled but forced to interfere. It by
no means follows that we, who uphold
this view, have any partiality or liking
for Russian institutions. No man
who lives in a free country, like ours,
can possibly sympathise with despot-
ism, serfism, and that enormous
stretch of feudal power which is given
to a privileged class — we must regard
such things with a feeling nearly
akin to abhorrence ; nor can we, with
our Saxon notions, fancy existence
even tolerable in such a state of
society. But our likings or disgusts
cani^t alter matters as they stand.
We cannot force other nations to see
with our eyes, to think with our
thoughts, or to adapt their constitu-
tions according to the measure of our
accredited standard of excellence.
That amount of irresponsible and
uncontrolled action which we term
freedom, presupposes the existence of
a large and general spread of intelli-
Sence throughout the community,
xed laws of property, consolidated
social relationship, pure administra-
tion of justice, and wisdom and
temperance on the part of the
governed and the governor. Such
things are not the rapid results of
months, or years, or centuries. They
are of slow growth, but they are the
inevitable fhiits of order; and very
blind and ignorant must that man be
who does not see the hand of progress
at work even in the institutions of
Russia. That country emerged from
barbarism later than the rest of
Europe, but, since the days of Peter
the Czar, its strides towards civilisa-
tion have been most rapid. Com-
merce has been established, manu-
factures introduced, learning and the
arts cultivated, and such a foundation
laid as, in no very long time, must
perforce secure to all ranks of the
people a larger share of freedom than
they .are now qualified to enjoy.
Revolution caimot hasten such a
state of matters, but it may materially
retard it. Foolish and short-sighted
men seem to think that revolt is a
synonymous term with freedom, aod^
accordingly, they hail eadi fr«sh out-
break with shouts of indiscriminate
approval. They can draw no dis-
tinction between the revolt oi the
barons and that of Jack Cade in
England ; they are as ready to applaud
Spartacus as Brutus ; they think a
peasant's war as meritorions as the
up-raising of the standard of the
League. They never stop to consider
that freedom is a mere r^ative tenn,
and that it is worse than useless to
pluck down one form of government
by violence, unless a better is to be
reared in its stead. And who can
venture to say that this would have
been the case with Hungary ? Who
would predict it with certainty even
of Poland, were that dismembered
kingdom to be restored? It is noto-
rious that Poland went to pieces
under the weight of its elective mon-
archy, and the porpetoal feuda, tur-
bulence, and tyranny of a lawless and
fierce aristocracy. No donbt, men
will fight for these things — they wiU
fight for traditions, and bad ones too,
as keenly as for the most substantial
benefits. A century ago, the High-
landers would have fought to the
death for clanship, dueftainship,
heritable jurisdictions, and the right
of foray and of feud ; but will any
man now raise up his voice in favour
of the old patrmrchal constitiition?
In Ireland, at this moment, we believe
that a laiqge body of the Celts is will-
ing to stand up for a restoration of
the days of Malachi of the GoMea
Collar — a form of government which,
we presume, even an O'Connell would
deMcline. This is just the case with
our sympathisers. They take it for
granted that, because tbere is revolt,
Uiere must be a struggle for freedom,
and they are perfectly ready to aoeept,
without the slightest engamination,
any legend that may be coined for
the nonce. GroUible as a considerable
number of the British public maybe,
especially that section of the pnUic
which delights in platform oratofy^
we really could not have believed that
any assemblage could be so ntteriy
ignorant, as to receive a statement to
1849.]
Peace and War Agitators,
593
the effect that the old constitation of
HuDgaiy bore a close resemblance to
onr 0¥ni I
We are tempted here to insert an
extract from the works of a popular
writer regarding the constitation of
Poland, because it expresses, in ex-
cellent langnage, the opinions which
we are attempting to set forth in this
article, and denounces the folly of
those who confound the term freedom
with its just and rational application.
Will the reader favour us by perusing
the following passage with attention?
— ^when he has done so, we shall state
from whose eloquent pen it proceeded.
" Of how trifling consequence it
most be to the practical minded and
hnmane people of Great Britain, or to
the world at large, whether Poland be
governed by a king of this dynasty or
of that — whether he be lineally de-
scended from Boleslas the Great, or of
the line of the Jagellons — contrasted
with the importance of the inquiries
as to the social and political condition
of its people — ^whether they be as well
or worse governed, clothed, fed, and
lodged in the present day as compared
witS any former period, — whether the
mass of the people be elevated in the
scale of moral and religious beings, —
whether the country enjoys a smaller
or a larger amount of the blessings of
peace ; or whether the laws for the pro-
teetfoB of life and property are more or
lessjostly administered. ^Fhcse are the
idl-important inquiries about which
we busy ourselves ; and it is to cheat
US of our stores of philanthropy, by
an appeal to the sympathy with which
we regard these vital interests of a
whole people, that thedeclaimers and
writers upon the subject invariably
appeal to us on behalf of the oppressed
and enslaved Polish nohon-^carefully
obscuring, amidst the cloud of epi-
thets about ' ancient freedom,'
*' national independence,' ^ glorious
republic,' and the like, the fact that,
previously to the dismemberment, the
term nation implied only the nobles ;
— that, down to the partition of their
territory, about nineteen out of every
twenty of the inhabitants were slaves,
possessing no rights, civil or political ;
that about one in every twenty was a
nobleman — and that that body of
nobles formed the very worst aristo-
cracy cf ancient or modem times ;
putting up and pulling down their
kings at pleasure ; passing selfish laws,
which gave them the power of life and
death over their serfs, whom they
sold and bought like dogs or horses ;
usurping, to each of themselves, the
privileges of a petty sovereign, and
denying to aU besides the meanest
rights of human beings ; and, scorning
all pursuits as degrading, except that
of the sword, they engaged in inces-
sant wars with neighbouring states,
or plunged their own country into all
the horrors of anarchy, for the pur-
pose of giving emplo3rment to them-
selves and their dependants." And
the same writer, after remarking upon
the character and conduct of the pri-
vileged class in Poland, in language
which is just as applicable to those
of the Hungarian nobles, thus ac-
counts for the insurrection in 1880.
The Italics are his own. " We hesi"
tote not emphatically to assert^ that it
was wholly^ and solely ^ and exclusively ^
at die instigation^ and for the selfish
ben^t^ of this aristocratic faction of
the people^ that the Polish nation
suffered for twehe months the horrors
of civil war, uxjts thrown back in her
career of improvement, and has since
had to endure the rigours of a con*
queror's vengeance. The Russian
government was aware of this ; and
its severity has since been chiefly
directed towards the nobility." And
in a note appended to the above para-
graph he says, *•*' The peasants joined,
to a considerable extent, the standard
of revolt ; but this was to be expect-
ed, in consequence of the influence
necessarily exercised over them by the
superior classes. Besides, patriotism
or nationality is an instinctive virtue,
that sometimes bums the brightest in
the mdest and least reasoning minds;
and its manifestation bears no propor-
tion to the value of the possessions
defended, or the object to be gained.
The Russian serfe at Borodino, the
Turkish slaves at Ismail, and the laz-
zaroni of Naples, fought for their mas-
tors and oppressors more obstinately
than the free citizens of Paris or
Washington did, at a subsequent
period, in defence of those capitals."
And who was the author of these
very lucid and really excellent re-
marks? We reply, Richard Cob-
den, Esq. The curious in -such
594
Peace cmd War Agitators,
[Nov.
matters will find these, and many
similar passages, in a pamphlet entit-
led Russia^ by a Manchester Manufac-
turer, which was published in 1836,
for the purpose of showing that, on
the whole, it would be an advantage
to British commerce if Russia were
to lay violent hands on Turkey, and
possess herself of Constantinople I
But it is time we should return to
the London Tavern meeting, where
we left Mr Cobden, this time denoun-
cing the active interference of Russia.
Here the apostle of peace was cer-
tainly upon ticklish ground. Large*
as his estimate undoubtedly is of his
own influence and power, he could
hardly expect, that, because he and
some other gentlemen of inferior en-
dowments wei*e pleased to hold a
meeting in the London Tavern, and
pass resolutions condemnatory ojf the
conduct of the Czar, the immediate
consequence would be a withdrawal
of the Russian forces. Under such
circumstances, as he must have per-
fectly well known, the expression of
his opinion was not worth the splinter
of a rush to the Hungarians, unless,
indeed, he were prepared to follow up
his words by deeds. On the other
hand, he was debarred, by some fifty
public declarations, from advocating
the propriety of a war: not only
upon the general pacific principle — ^for
that might easily have been evaded,
— but upon economical considerations
connected with his darling scheme of
reducing the Biitish navy and army,
which would be clearly incompatible
with the commencement of a general
European conflict. An ordinary man,
entertaining such views and senti-
ments, would probably have consi-
dered himself as lodged between the
horns of an inextricable dilemma.
Not so Cobden, whose genius rose to
the difficulty. The experience of a
hundred platform fights had taught
him this great truth, that no proposi-
tion was too monstrous to be crammed
down the public throat, provided the
operator possessed the requisite share
of eflrontery ; and he straightway pro-
ceeded, secundum artem, to exhibit a
masterpiece of his skill.
Probably not one man in all that
room but had been impressed, from
his youth upwards, with a wholesome
terror and respect for the magnitude
of the Russian power. That, at all
events, was the feeling of the Poles,
and decidedly of the Polish cham-
pions. But in less than an instant
they were disabused. Most of oar
readers must have seen how a small
figure, painted on a tiny slip of glass,
may, when passed throngh the aper-
ture of a magic lantern, be made to
reject the attitude and dimensions of
a giant : Cobden's trick was exactly
the opposite of this; he made the
actual giant appear in the dwindled
proportions of a dwarf. " I will tell
you," said he, *^how we can Ining
moral force to bear on these armed
despots. We can stop the supplies.
(Loud cheers.) Why, Russia can't
carry on two campaigns beyond her
own frontiers, without coming to
Western Europe for a loan. She
never has done so, without beiog
either sulxsidised by England, or bor-
rowing money from Amsterdam. I
tell you I have paid a visit there, and
I assert that they cannot carry on
two campaigns in Hungary, wiUiout
either borrowing money in Western
Europe or robbing the bank at St
Petersburg. (A laugh, and a cry of
*■ Question.') That must be a Russian
agent, a spy, for this is the question.
I know,'* continued our magniloquent
Richard, *'*' that the Bnssian party,
here and abroad, would rather that I
should send agamst them a squadron
of cavalry and a battery of cannon,
than that I should fire off the ftcta
that I am about to tell yon. I say,
then, that Russia cannot carry on two
campaigns without a loan.'* We
believe that the latter part of Mr
Cobden's statement is tolerably accu-
rate, so that he need not give himself
any further trouble about the produc-
tion of his indicated horse and artil-
lery. We agree with him that Russia
might be puzzled to carry on two
vigorous campaigns without a loan;
but we should be glad to know what
country in Europe is not in the same
predicament? War, as everybody
knows, is a very costly matter — not
much cheaper than revolntion, though
a good deal more speedy in its results
— and every nation which engages in
. it must, perforce, liquidate the ex-
pense. Great Britahi conld not, any
more than Russia, go to war without
a loan. In such an event, the only
1849.]
Peace and War Agitators.
595
difference would be that the British
loan must necessarily be six or seven
times greater than that of Rossia, for
this simple reason, that Russia has a
large standing army levied and pre-
pared, whereas we have not. Now
what is there to prevent Rnssia from
negotiating a loan ? The first qnes-
tion, we apprehend, is the state of her
finances — ^let ns see whether there is
any symptom of approaching bank-
mptcy in these. The debt of Rnssia,
according to the most recent authori-
ties, is seventy-six millions, being as
near as possible one tenth of our own.
Her revenue is about seventeen mil-
lions, or one-third of ours. So far,
therefore, as the mere elements of
credit go, Russia would, in the eyes of
the capitalist, be the more eligible
debtor of the two. There could, we
apprehend, be no possible doubt of
her solvency, for, with large resources
behind, she has a mere fraction of a
debt, and her power of raising reve-
nue by taxes has been little exercised.
Onr readers will better understand
tliis by keeping in mind, that, while
the revenue presently levied is just
one-third of ours, the population of
Russia is considerably more than
double that of Great Britain and Ire-
land. Mr Cobden, however, accept-
ing, as we presume he must do, the
alx>ve official facts, draws from them
inferences of a very startling charac-
ter. ^* Don*t let any one talk," said
he, '^ of Russian resources. It is the
poorest and most beggarly country
in Europe. It has not a farthing.
Last year there was an immense de-
ficit in its income as compared with
its expenditure, and during the pre-
sent financial year it will be far worse.
Russia a strong political power!
Why, there is not so gigantic a poli-
tical imposture in all Europe.*' And
again, *^ Russia a strong, a powerful,
and a rich country I Don't believe
any one who tells yon so in future.
Refer them to me." We feel deeply
obliged to Mr Cobden for the last
suggestion, but we would rather, with
his permission, refer to facts. If the
poorest and most beggarly country in
fSorope has contrived to rear its mag-
nificent metropolis from the marshes
of the gelid Neva, to create and main-
tain large and well- equipped fleets in
the Baltic and the Black seas, and to
keep up a standing anny of about
half a million of men, without increas-
ing its permanent debt beyond the
amount already specified, all we shaH
say is, that the semi-civilised Russian
is in possession of an economical
secret utterly unknown to the states-
men of more favoured climes, and
that the single farthing in his hand,
has produced results more wonderful
than any achieved by the potency of
the lamp of Aladdin. But the climax
has yet to come. Waxing bolder and
bolder on the strength of each succes-
sive assertion of Russian weakness
and impotency, the Apostle of Peace
assumed the attitude of defiance : *^ If
Russia should take a step that re-
quired England, or any other great
maritime power, like the United
States, to attack that power, why, we
should fall like a thunderbolt upon
her. You would in six months crum-
ple that empire up, or drive it into its
own dreary fastnesses, as I now
crumple up that piece of paper in my
handll!" Here is a pretty fellow
for youl This invincible fire-eater
is the same man who, for the last
couple of years, has been agitating
for the reduction of the army and
navy, on the ground that the whole
world was in a state of the profound-
est peace, and likely so to remain!
This cmmpler-up and defier of em-
pires is the gentleman who held forth
this by-gone summer, at Paris, on the
wickedness of war, and on the spread
of fraternity and brotherly love among
the nations! Why, if old Admiral
Drake had risen from the dead, he
could not have spoken in a more war-
like strain, only the temper and tone
of his remarks would have been diffe-
rent. A hero is bold but temperate : a
demagogue blustering and pot-valiant.
It is but right to say, that this
impudent and mischievous trash,
though of course abundantly cheered
by many of the poor creatures who
knew no better, did not altogether
impose upon the meeting. Mr Bemal
Osborne could not find it in his con-
science to acquiesce, even tacitly, in
this monstrous attempt at imposition^
and accordingly, though ^*he coincided
in much that had been said by tho
member for the West Riding, ho
must take the liberty to say that, in
exposing the weakness of Russia, he
596
Peace and War Agitators.
[Nov.
had gone rather too far. Forewarned
was forearmed, and let them not lay
it to their hearts that the great empire
was not to be feared, but despised."
And therefore, ho, Mr Osborne,
" would be sorry if any man in the
meeting should go away with the
impression that the monstrous Pan-
sclavonic empire was to be thoroughly
despised." Neither did the chairman
exactly approve of the line of discus-
sion which had been introduced by
Mr Gobden. He said, with great
truth, that they had nothing to do at
present with the resources of Russia ;
their business being simply to consider
the wrongs of Hungary, and to give
utterance to such an expression of
opinion as might act upon the British
government. Mr Salomons is a prac-
tical man, and understands the use of
mob-meetings, which is to coerce and
compel Whig administrations to do
precisely what the frequenters of the
London Tavern desire. Better versed,
by a great deal, in monetary matters
than Mr Cobdeu, ho knows that finan-
cial discussions are utterly out of place
in such an assemblage ; and, moreover,
we have a strong suspicion that the
latter part of Mr Cobden^s speech, to
which we are just about to refer, must
have sounded harshly in the ears of a
gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion,
initiated, after the custom of his tribe,
in the mysteries of borrowing and
lending. Up to this point we have
considered Mr Gobden in the united
character of peace-maker and bully :
let us now sec how he contrives to
combine the hitherto antagonistic qua-
lities of free-trader and restrictionist.
Having, satisfactorily to himself,
demonstrated the pitiable weakness of
Bnssia, and having got over the
notorious fact of her large bullion
deposit, and her purchases in the
British funds, by explaining that the
first is the foundation of her currency,
and the second a private operation of
the Bank of St Petersburg — an estab-
lishment which, accor&Dg to his
showing, is no way connected with
the government — Mr Gobden proceed-
ed to unravel his schemes for paring
the claws of the northern Bear. It
has the merit of pure simplicity. Not
one penny is henceforward to be lent
to the Eossian government. The
capitalists of Europe are heno^rth to
look, not to the secarity, bat to the
motives of the borrowing power. K
they think that the money required
is to be expended in purchasing mu-
nitions of war, in fitting out an
armament, or in any other way
hostile to the continnance of peace,
they are grimly to close their cof-
fers, shake their heads, and refuse
to advance one single sixpence,
whatever be the amount of percent-
age offered ; and this kind of mond
force, Mr Gobden thinks, wonld not
only be effectual, bnt can easily
be brought into action. Let qb bear
him. ^^Now, will any one in the
city of London dare to be a party to
a loan to Russia, either du^cdy or
openly, or by agency and copartner-
ship with any house in Amfltevdam or
Paris ? Will any one dare, I saj, to
come before the citizens of this firee
country, and avow that he has lent
his money for the purpose of cntthig
the throats of the innocent people d
Hungary? I have heard such a i^o-
ject talked of. But let it only assume
a shape, and I promise you that we,
the peace par^, will have such a
meeting as has not yet been held in
London, for the purpose of denonncing
the blood-stained project — for the
purpose of p<Hnting the fin^ of soorn
at the house, or the individosJa, who
would employ their money in sodi a
manner — for the purpose of fixbg
an indelible stigma of ii^amy upon the
men who wonld lend their money for
such a vile, unchristian, and iMufbar-
ous purpose. That is my moral force.
As for Austria, no one, I aappoae,
would ever think of leading her
monejr." We shall, ty-M^-bv, have
occasion to see more of Mr Ckilbden in
connexion witii the Ajostrian loaa ; in
the mean time, let na keep to the gene-
ral proposition. The meaning <3 the
above imadomed fustian is simpty
this^that no man shall, in ftitnre, pre-
sume to lend hii money without con-
sulting the views of Aur Gobden and
his respectable confederates. This
nkase — and a magmficent one it is—
was raptnzonsly received by hia an-
dience ; a fiat of approval which we
set no great stwe on, seeing that, in all
probalHlity, not fifty of tiMwe excel-
lent {Manthiopiats could ^*'^^»■^*^^
as many ponnda for tJie penaanent
purpose of inreatmeat. Bnt ftbe idea
1849.]
PecKe and War Agitators.
697
of coQtrolUog, by their sweet voices,
the moDetary operations of the great
banking-houses of the world, the
Rothschilds, the Barings, and the
Hopes, was too delicions a hallucina-
tion not to be rewarded with a cor-
responding cheer. Now, setting aside
the absolnte impudence of the pro-
posal— for we presume Mr Cobden
most have known that he had as much
power to stay Uie flux of the tides, as
to regulate the actions of the money-
loiders — ^what are we to think of the
new principle enunciated by the ve-
teran firee-trader? What becomes
of the grand doctrine of buying in
the cheapest and selling in the dearest
market, without the slightest regard
to any other earthly consideration,
«ave that of price ? Will Mr Cobden
HOW venture to persuade us that he
luid some mental reservation, when
he iHTopounded that ever-memorable
madom; or that dealers in coin were
to be regulated by a different code of
moral laws fit>m that which was laid
down for the use of the more fortunate
dealers in calico ? We presume, that,
witiKmt cotton, and blankets, and ma-
timiery exported from this country,
the riaves of Cuba could hardly be
made to work — ^why, then, should we
not dap an embargo on these articles,
and point wiUi the finger of scorn,
disgust, and execration, to every man
who tn^cs in that unholy trade?
And yet, tf our memory serves us
right, no very long time has elapsed
since we beggared our West Indian
colonies, solely to drive a larger trade
ia those articles with the slave plan-
tations, for behoof of Messrs Cobden
and Co. Slavery, we presume, is an
institution not congenial to the mind
of Mr Cobden — at least we hope not,
and we are sure he would not he will-
ing to admit it. In point of humanity,
it IS rather worse than war ; why not,
then, let us have a strong exercise of
moral force to abolish it, by stopping
the supplies ? The withdrawal of our
custom, for three or fouryears, would ef-
fcHStnallyknockCubaonthebead. Why
sot try it ? We should like to see Mr
CkiMen's face, if such a proposition
were made in Parliament ; and yet is
it not as raticmal, and a great deal
moie feasible, than the other ? But it
is a positive waste of time to dwell
tetiNT vpon such a glaring absurdity
as this. Baron Rothschild, member-
elect though he be for the city of
London, will care very little for the
extended digit of Mr Cobden, and
will doubtless consult his own interest,
without troubling himself about Man-
chester demagogues, when the next
Russian loan is proposed.
Having delivered himself of this
remarkable oration, Mr Cobden very
wisely withdrew; perhaps he had a
slight suspicion of the scene which
was presently to follow. The majority
of the meeting consisted of gentlemen
whose notions about moral force were
exceedingly vague and generaL Their
strong British instincts, inflamed by
the stimulus of beer, led them to
question the use of abstract sympathy,
unless it was to be followed up by
action ; and accordingly Mr Reynolds,
a person of some literary as well as
political notoriety, thought it his duty
to give a more practical turn to the
deliberations of the meeting, and
thereby cut short several interesting
harangues. We quote from the report
of the Times of 24th July.
« Mr G. W. M. Reynolds, whose re-
marks were frequently followed by inter-
ruption and cries of 'question,* next
addressed the meeting. He avowed his
belief, that in so holy, sacred, and solenui
a canse, England must even go to war in
defence of Hungary, if necessary . (This
assertion was received with such hearty
cheering as proved that the speaker had
expressed the sentiments of the vast body
of the meeting.) All the moral effects of
that meeting (continued Mr Reynolds)
would be perfectly useless, unless they
were prepared to go fturther. If the
government would employ some of the
ships that were now rotting in our har-
bours, and some of the troops now march-
ing about London, that would really
benefit the Hungarians. (Cheers.) France
used to be rewded as a barrier against
Russia, but Fnmce was no longer so,
because that humbug Louis Napoleon
(tremendous cheers — and three hearty
groans for Louis Napoleon)— that rank
impostor (continued cheering) —
** The Chairman here interfered, and
much interruption ensued. If anything
could disturb and ii\jure the cause which
they were met to support, it was such
remarks as they had just heard. (" No,
no.") If he (the Chairman) were a spy
of Russia, he should follow out the course
pursued by Mr Reynolds. (Much con-
ftiAon and disi9P««halion.)"
598
Peace and War Agitaiars.
[Nor.
We really cannot see wherein the
anthor of the Mysteries of London was
to blame. His proposition had, at all
events, the merit of being intelligible,
which Mr Cobden's was not, and he
clearly spoke the sentiments of the
large majority of the unwashed. He
certainly went a little out of his way,
to denounce the President of the
French Republic as an impostor: a
deviation which we regret the more, as
he might have found ample scope for
such expositions without going further
than the speeches of the gentlemen
who immediately preceded him. We
need not linger over the ensuing
scene. Mr Duncan — "said to be a
Chartist poet" — attempted to address
the meeting, but seems to have failed.
We do not remember to have met
with any of Mr Dnncan^s lyrics, but
we have a distinct impression of hav-
ing seen a gentleman of his name, and
imputed principles, at the bar of the
High Court of Justiciary in Edin-
burgh. But if the sacred voice of one
poet was not listened to, the same
meed of inattention was bestowed
upon another. The arms of Mr R.
M. Milnes were seen hopelessly gesti-
culating above the press ; and Lord
Dudley Stuart, for once, was cut
short in his stereotyped harangue.
The case was perfectly clear: Rey-
nolds was the only man who had
enunciated a practical idea, and ac-
cordingly the voice of the meeting
was unequivocally declared for war.
We hope that the Peace Congress,
and the economists, and the free-
traders, are all equally delighted with
this notable exhibition of their hero.
If they are so, we certainly have no
further commentaiy to offer. To se-
cure peace, Mr Cobden openly defies
and challenges Russia ; to further
economy, he does his best to inflame
the passions of the people, and to get
up a cry for war; to vindicate free
trade, he proposes henceforward to
coerce Lombard Street. Is there, in
all the history of imposture, an in-
stance comparable to this ? Possibly
there maybe; but, if so, we are certain
it was better veiled.
The evil luck of Mr Cobden still
clung to him. Within a very short
time after this memorable meeting
was held, the Hungarian armies
surrendered at discretion, and the in-
surrection was thoroQgbly qnencbed.
Not two, not even one complete cam-
paign, were necessary to put an end ta
an ill-advised struggle, in which the
hearts of the Hungarian people were
never sincerely enlisted; and good
men hoped that the sword might now
be sheathed in the eastern territories
of Europe. That portion of the press
which had sympathised with the in-
surgents, and hailed with frantic de-
light the suicidal resolution of the
Hungarian chiefs to separate them-
selves for ever from the house of
Austria, was terribly mortified at a
result so speedy and unexpected ; and
did its best to keep up the excitement
at home, by multiplying spedai in-
stances of cruelty and barbarity said
to have been wrought by the victors
on the persons of their vanquished
foemen. That many such instances
really occurred we do not for a
moment doubt. When the passions
of men have been inflamed bydril
war, and whetted by a desire for ven-
geance, it is always difficult for the
authorities to preserve a proper re-
straint. This is the case even among
civilised nations ; and when we reflect
that a large portion of the troops on
either side engaged in the Hungarian
war, cannot with any justice be termed
civilised, it is no wonder if deeds of
wanton atrocity should occur. Indeed,
late events may lead us to question
how far civilisation, on such occasions,
can ever operate as a check. Who
could have believed that last year, in
Frankfort, a young and gallant noble-
man, whose sole offence was, the free
expressions of his opinions in a par-
liament convened by universal suff-
rage, should have been put to death
at noonday by lingering torments,
and his groans of agony echoed back
by the laughter of his brutal assassins?
The names of Felix Lichnowsky and
Von Auerswaldt will surely long be
remembered to the infamy of that
city which was the birthplace of
Goethe, and boasted of itself as the
refined capital of the Rhenish pro-
vinces. A veil of mystery still haogf
over the circumstances connected with
the assassination of Count LaU>nr; and
though we are unwilling to give cur-
rency to a rumour, whidi woSd entail
infamy on the memory of one who
has since passed to his acconnl, the
1S49.]
Peace and War Agitators,
599
victim of an unbridled ambition,
strong saspicions exist that a Hun-
garian minister was directly privy to
that act of dastardly and crnel mur-
der. But there is no manner of
doubt at all as to the atrocities which
were committed in Vienna when that
hapless city was in the hands of the
red republicans and the Poles. Pil-
lage, murder, and violation were crimes
of every-day occurrence, and it is not
wondeifnl if the memory of these
wrongs has in some instances goaded
on the victors to a revenge which all
must deplore. As to the military
executions which have taken place,
we have a word to say. The sup-
pression of almost every revolt has
i)cen followed by strong measures on
the part of the conquerors, against
those who excited the insurrection.
Our own liistory is full of them.
Succeeding generations, according to
Uieir estimate of the justness of the
cause which they espoused, have
blamed, or pitied, or applauded the
conduct of the men who thus perilled
and lost their lives ; but the necessity
of such executions has rarely or never
been questioned. We allude, of
oourse, to those who have been the
leaders and instigators of the move-
ment, and upon whom the responsi-
bility, and the expiation for the
blood which has been shed must
fail; not to the subordinates who
ought to be, and almost always
are, the proper objects of mercy.
The most ardent Jacobite, while he
deplored the death, and vindicated
the principles of Lords Balmerino and
Kilmarnock, never thought of blaming
the government of the day for having
sent those devoted noblemen to the
block. But in their case the execu-
tion assumed the character of a ter-
rible national solemnity — not hastily
enacted, but following after a delibe-
rate trial before unprejudiced judges,
upon which the attention and interest
of the whole country was concentrated.
And, therefore, while posterity has
be^ unanimous in expressing its ab-
horrence of the bloody butcheries of
William, Duke of Cumberland, after
the battle of CuUoden, no reflection
has beei^ thrown upon the mmisters of
George II. for having allowed the law
to taJke its course against the more
jprominent leaders of the rebellion,
VOL. LXVI.— KO. CCCCIX.
even though the S3rmpathies of many
good men have been enUsted on the
losing side. Now, we do not hesitate
to condemn most strongly the conduct
of Austria on the present occasion.
No judicial process, so far as we can
learn, has been instituted ""against the
captive chiefs, save that which is equi-
valent to no process at all — the sen-
tence of a court-martial. Except in
cases of the most absolute necessity,
the functions of the soldier and the
judge ought never to be combined and
confounded. When the flame of civil
war is once trodden out, the civil
law ought immediately to resume its
wonted supremacy. Treason and re-
bellion are undoubtedly the highest of
all crimes ; but, being the highest, it
is therefore the more necessary that
they should bo subjected to the gravest
investigation ; so that in no way may
the punishment inflicted, on account
of a heinous breach of the law, be
mistaken, even by the most ignorant,
for an act of hunied vengeance. We
may perhaps have no right to object
to the measure of the punishment.
We cannot know what charges were
brought, or even substantiated against
the unfortunate Hungarian leaders of
Arad. We are quite unaware what
disclosures may have been laid before
the Austrian government as to the
participation of Count Bathyany in
Kossuth^s republican schemes. One
and all of them may have been guilty
in the worst degree ; one and all of
them may have deserved to die ; and
it is even possible that circumstances
may have rendered such a terrible
example necessary, for the future pre-
servation of order ; but the manner
in which the punishment has been
dealt, is, we think, wholly indefens-
ible. It is no answer to say, that the
administration of the laws of Austria
is different from that of our own, and
that we are not entitled to apply the
measure of a foreign standiurd. No
point of legal technicality, or even
consuetude is involved ; there is but
one law which, whatever be its ex-
trinsic form, ought to regulate such a
proceeding as this — a law which, we
trust, is acknowledged in Austria as
well as in Britain — the law of justice
and humanity. The most suspected
criminal, when arraigned before secret
and biassed judges, loses, in the
2r
600
Peace amd War AgiMon,
[Nov.
estimation of the public, half his
impnted criminality. He has not
had a fair trial ; and, if condemned,
it is possible that his execution maj
be considered rather as a case of
martyrdom, than as one of righteoas
punishment. A conrt-martiai never
18 a satitrfiactory tribunal ; least of all
can it be satiB&ctory when the object
of its inquiry arises from a civil war.
The judges have seen too much of the
actual misery and ruin which has
occurred to be Impartial. That pro-
pensity to vengeance, from which it
can hardly be said that even the
noblest nature is altogether exempt,
80 nearly akin is it to righteous indig-
nation, is at such times unnaturally
excited. The fiery zeal, which shows
BO graceful in the soldier, is utterly
nnsnited to the ermine ; and when the
ermine is thrown, as in this instance,
above the soldier^s uniform, there
can be very little doubt that ancient
habit and inflamed passion will
supersede judicial deliberation. By
acting thus, we conscientiously believe
that Austria has inflicted a serious
injury on herself. She has given to
those who are her enemies a heavy
cause (tf argument and reproach against
those who are her well-wishers ; and
the inmiediate and not unnatural
result will be an increased amount of
aympathy for the political fugitives,
aiid a great disinclination to canvass
their true motives and their characters.
Francis Joseph at the outset of his
reign will be stigmatised — most
unjustly, indeed, ibr the fault lies not
with him — as a relentless tyrant, and
aU who escape from tyranny are sure
of popular though indiscriminate com-
passion.
We have thought it our duty to
make those remarks at the present
time, because out of this Hungarian
affair a question has arisen in which
we are to a certain extent implicated,
and which may possibly, though we
do not think probably, be productive
of most serious results. We allude,
of course, to the joint demand of
Kussia and Austria upon Turkey for
the surrender of the political fugitives
at Widdin. In common with the
whole public press of this country, we
consider such a demand, on general
C^oonds, to be unexampled and unjust.
The abstract right of every indepen-
dent nation to aftwd shelter to politi-
cal fugitives, has, we believe, never
been questioned ; but, even had it
been donbtfid, there are Teiy many
reasons, founded upon humanity aad
honour, why all of us should combine
to protest against a claim 00 imperi-
ously and threatenifigiy advanced.
Cases may arise, and have arisen,
where the rprivilege has been scanda-
lously abused. For example, the
Baden insurgents have fled for shelter
across the frontier of Switzerland, and
have there remained hatching treason,
collecting adherents, and waiting for
an opportunity of renewing tiieir
treasonable designs. In such a case,
we conceive that the threatened
government has a decided right to
require the sheltering eonn^ to
remove or banish those fngitires from
its territory, and in the event of a
refusal, to declare that a proper
casus belH, But this, it will be seen,
is widely different from a demand for
the surrender of the fugitives ; and we
presume that, in the case of the
Hungarians, no allegation can be
made, that they have sought harbour,
and remain in Turkey, with a view
towards renewing their attempt Un-
questionably it is quite compet^Di for
states to enter into treaties in fulfil-
ment of which political fugitiTes must
be surrendered when claimed. Such
a treaty is said to exist between
Russia and Turkey ; but it is deariy
not applicable in the case of such of
the Hungarian refugees as haye claim-
ed the sheltOT of the latter power.
Russia, in this quarrel, appears only
as the all^ of Austria ; and sIm can
haye no nght to admit the latter to a
direct participation in any of the
stipulations oontauied in her pecidiar
treaty. No Hungarian is a snliject of
Russia; and, therefore, rmder that
treaty, he cannot possibly be reclaim-
ed. With regard to the To^iA reAi-
gees, there oMtainly does seem to be
a difference ; and we care not to own,
that we feel far lees interest for them
than for the Hungarians. Their own
national struggle excited tfarongliont
Europe great sympathy and compas-
sion. No matter what were the
merits of the kind of goyemment
which they sought to restore — ^no man
could be cold-blooded enou^ to forget
that the kingdom of Poland had been
1849.]
Peace and War Agitaiort,
601
Tioleiitly seized and partitioned ; and
though sober reas(m, and, in fact,
good faiUi, compelled us to abstain
from espousing the cause of those who,
bj solemn European treaty, had been
confirmed as subjects but wbo had
risen as rebels, we yet gave our hospi-
tality to the fugitive Poles with a
heartiness greater and more sincere
than was ever accorded on any other
occasion. All ranks in this country,
and in France, combined to do them
honour ; and the general wish in both
countries was, not to aflford them a
mere temporary shelter, but to give
them a permanent habitation. For
this purpose, and to fit them for indus-
trial employment, the British govern-
ment gave an annual grant of money,
and ti&e private subscriptions were
munificent. Some of the exiles most
creditably availed themselves of the
means so placed within their reach,
and have become amongst us usefhl
and esteemed citizens. But there
were others, and the larger number,
who utterly misinterpreted this sjrm-
pathy, and never would abandon their
dreams of Polish restoration. For
this we cannot blame them ; and we
most needs allow that they received
much encouragement to persevere in
those dreams from men who ought to
have been wiser. They took undue
advantage of their situation, and pre-
ferred living in idleness, though cer-
tainly not in affluence, upon eleemosy-
nary aid, to gaining their bread
honourably by active industry and
exertion. This was certainly not the
best way of securing the afiection of a
practical people like the British to
them and to their cause; and the result
has been, that the moral prestige of
the Poles has greatly declined in this
conntry. We are not arguing from
inference, but from facts ; for we are
pcnfectly certain that if the Emperor
Nicholas had made his visit to London
in 1834, instead of nine or ten years
later, his reception by the public
would have been materially different,
fiince then, the Poles have altogether
forfeited the esteem of the friends of
order, by coming forward as the
most active agents and instigators
of revolution all over the continent
of Europe. In France, in Italy, in
Germany, and above all, in Hungary,
th^ have thrust themselves forward
in quarrels with which they had no-
thing to do, and even have violat^
that hospitality which was accorded
them on account of their misfortunes.
It is time that they should learn that
the British public has no sympathy
with unprincipled condottieri. No
amount of tyranny, inflicted by one
nation, will entitle an exile deliberately
to arm himself against the constitu-
tion of another. Foreign service —
manly open service inde^ is honour-
able, but foreign conspiracy is, beyond
all doubt, one of the basest and the
worst of crimes. Now, we are not
versed enough in treaties to know what
are the exact terms of the conditions
made between Russia and Turkey.
We hope, for the sake of Bern, Dcm-
binski, and the others, that they
merely apply to the surrender of those
who shall take refuge in the neigh-
bouring territory on account of war
waged, or revolt raised, against their
sovereigns ; and though, should such
be the nature of the contract, there
may still be a doubt whether the Poles
are entitled to plead exemption under
it, that doubt, we presume, will be
given in their favour by the sheltering
power ; at all events, we think it very
unlikely that any distinction will be
drawn betwixt the two classes of
refugees. Still we arc compelled to
mamtain our honest and sincere con-
viction that, apart from other and
greater considerations, there is no-
thing in this demand of Russia and
Austria, to justify us in active inter-
ference. The demand has not been
made on us; it does not refer to
British subjects; and it in no way
concerns our honour. We have no-
thing more to do with it, in the
abstract, than if it was a demand
made by the Shah of Persia upon the
Emperor of China. We beg especial
attention to this point, because we
observe that some of our journalists
assume that Great Britain and France
will act together vigorously in resist-
ing the demand. Now, we hold, tbat,
though both countries may have a
clear right to protest against such a
demand, on the ground of its being
at variance with the law of nations,
neither of them has the right to make
that a pretext for ulterior measures,
or for resorting to the desperate ex-
pedient of a war. The representatives
602
Peace and War Agitators,
[Nov.
of both 1)0 were, it is said, have advised
the Porte to retarn a firm refasal to
the demand ; and, since their advice
was asked, we hold that they were
clearly right in doing so. They were
acting merely as assessors, or rather
as expounders of international law.
Bat suppose that Russia should make
this declinature a casus belli with
Turkey, — what then? We have in
that case a most decided interest ;
because it is part of our policy that
Russia shall not, under any pretext
whatever, lay her hand upon the
Turkish dominions, or force the pas-
sage of the Dardanelles. Our policy
may be wrong, and Mr Cobden thinks,
or thought so : still we are committed
to that view; and we can hardly
escape from interpreting the conduct of
Russia, if she shall persist in enforcmg
her demand by dint of arms, into an
overt attempt to get possession of the
Turkish territory. But France has no
such interest as we have. Our reason
for disputing the possession of Turkey
with Russia is a purely selfish one.
We wish to prevent the latter power
from coming into dangerous proximity
with Egypt, and we have a kind of
vague idea that some attack is medi-
tated upon our Indian provinces. It is
quite possible that these notions may
be visionary or greatly exaggerated,
and that Russia wantS^ nothing more
than an open passage from the Black
Sea — a right which, if free-trade doc-
trines are to be held of nnivei*sal appli-
cation, it does seem rather hard to deny
to her. Still, such is our idea, and in
our present temper we shall probably
act accordingly. But France has no
real interest at stake. She has no-
thing to lose, suppose Russia got pos-
session of Turkey to-morrow ; and wo
are very much mistaken if she will go
to war fi*om a mere spirit of chivalry,
and in behalf of a few refugees with
whom she is in no way connected.
However disturbed may be the state
of Franco, or however inflammable
may be the minds of her population,
she has statesmen who wiU not suffer
her to be committed to so egregious
an act of folly. If Russia perseveres
in her demand to the utmost, on
Britain will fall, in the first instance
At least, the whole weight of the re-
sistance. We agree with the Timesy
that *^ this demand for the surrender
of the refugees, is either a wanton
outrage for an object too trifling to be
insisted on, or else it masks a more
serious intention of hostility against
the Turkish empire ;" but we are not
prepared to adopt the conclusion of
that able journal, that ^^ the govern-
ments and the nations of Western
Europe are resolved to oppose that
demand, even to the last extremity.'*
On the contrary, we believe that the
opposition would be left to Great
Britain alone.
We trust no apology is necessary
for having wandered from our text
on a topic of so much interest ; how-
ever, we ask Mr Cobden's pardon
for having left him uncourteously so
long.
We were remarking that ill-luck
in the way of prophecy and presenti-
ment still clung to Mr Cobden, even
as Care is said to follow the horseman.
Hungaiy speedily succnmbed, and
Russia did not ask for a loan. Now
that the Hungariuis were beaten and
victory impossible, we presume the
next best thing for that unfortunate
people would be to bind up theu:
wounds, and let them return as speed-
ily as might be to their usual industrial
employments. Austria, at the con-
clusion of the contest, finds herself
largely out of pocket. She has troops
whoi^e pay is greatly in arrear, and she
has made temporary loans which it is
absolutely necessary to discharge.
She might, if she were so disposed,
liquidate the claims of the first, by
letting them loose upon the conquered
Hungarians, from whom they probably
could still contrive to exact a fair
modicum of booty ; she might pay off
the latter by resorting to wholesale
confiscation, and by sweeping into
her public treasury whatever the war
has left of value. But Austria has
no desire to proceed to either extre-
mity. She knows very well that it is
not for her interest that Hungary
should become a sterile wa^te; anil
she is further aware that the best
mode of securing tranquillity for the
future, is to foster industry, and to ab-
stain from laying any additional bur-
den upon the already impoverished
people. Therefore, meditating no
further conquest, but, on the con-
trary, anxious to sit down to the
sober work of reparation, Austria
1849.]
Peace and War Agitators.
60S
proposes to borrow in the public
money-markets of Europe a sum of
seven millions. The advertisement
meets the eye of Mr Cobden, who
straightway rose in wrath, indited a
letter to a certain Mr Edmund Fry,
ordaining him to convene a public
meeting in London, for the purpose of
considering the said advertisement,
and agreeing ^^ to an address to the
friends of peace and disarmament
throughout the world, on the general
question of loans for war purposes,"
and on the 8th October, the intrepid
orator again mounted on the platform.
This time, we are sorry to remark,
that the meeting was neither so vari-
ously nor so interestingly attended 2A
before. The Chartists very properly
thought that they had nothing what-
ever to do with foreign loans ; and,
besides, that they had already been
regaled with an ample allowance of
Mr Cobden's eloquence on the sub-
ject. The two parliamentary poets
were doubtless writing odes, and did
not come. Also there was but a poor
sprinkling of M.P^s ; but Lord Dudley
Stuart was at his post, and Friend
Alexander ; and beyond these twain
there appeared no notable whomso-
ever. Mr Reynolds must have been
sadly missed.
Mr Cobden^s first speech at this
meeting — for the lack of orators was
such, that he was compelled to indulge
his audience with two — was a very
dull and dreary aflfair indeed. He
began first with loans in general, and
went on in his usual style of asseve-
ration. '^ I say that, as I have gone
through the length and breadth of
this country with Adam Smith in my
hand to advocate the principles of
free trade, I can stand here with Adam
Smith also in my hand, to denounce,
not merely for its inherent waste of
national wealth, not only because it
anticipates income and consumes capi-
tal, but also on the ground of injustice
to posterity, in saddling upon om*
heirs a debt we have no right to call
npon them to pay — the loans we have
titus day met to consider." It is very
hard that unfortunate Adam Smith
should be made answerable for all the
eccentricities of Mr Cobden. Little
did the poor man think, whilst ham-
mering his brains at Kirkcaldy, that
thdr product was to be explained at
a future time, according to the sweet
will of so accomplished a commenta-
tor! Adam Smith had a great deal
too much sense to expect that wars
would cease to arise, and government
loans to be contracted. His remark
is not directed against loans, but
against the funding or accumulation
of them, which most of us, in the pre-
sent generation, are quite ready to
admit to be an evil. The remedy to
which he pointed, was the establish-
ment of a sinking-fund to prevent
debt from accumulating ; but so long
as Mr Cobden's economical views are
acted on, and the currency maintained
on its present basis, the idea of a
sinking-fund is altogether visionary.
The evil which Adam Smith com-
plains of is permanent funding, not
loan. There is nothing imprudent in
a man borrowing a thousand pounds
from his banker, if he regularly sets
apart an annual sum out of his income
for its repayment: but it is a very
different thing when he hands over the
debt undiounished for his successor to
discharge.
Having preluded with this little piece
of hocus, Mr Cobden came to the point,
and attempted to show that Austria
was in such a state of insolvency that
it was not safe for any one to lend
money to her. AVe by no means
object to this sort of exposition. If
it be true that the finances of the
borrowing party are in a dismal state,
we are none the worse for the infor-
mation ; if the statement is false, it is
sure to be speedily disproved. We
have no objection to concede to Mr
Cobden the possession of that almost
preternatural amount of knowledge^
which is his daily and perpetual boast.
When he tells us that he knows all
about the produce of the mines of
Siberia, because ** I have been there,
and I know what is the value of those
mines" — when he speaks positively
as to the amount of specie in the
vaults of the fortress of St Peters-
burg, and states that he knows it —
*« because I have been on the spot,
and made it my business to under-
stand these things " — and when, with
regard to the general question of
Russian finance, he observes that
^^ few men, probably not six men in
England, have had my opportunities
of investigating and ascertaining npon
604
the best and safest anthoritj on the
spot, where alone you can properly
nnderstand the matter, what actnallj
is the state of the resources of Rnssia,^*
— we listen with a kind of awe to the
words of this egotistical Exile of
Siberia. Bat though not six men in
England are qiialiiied to compete with
him in his knowledge of Russian affairs,
we suspect that it would be no difficult
matter to find six clerks in a single
banking establishment a great deal
better acquainted with the state of
Austrian finance than Mr Cobden.
His object, it would appear, is less to
warn the great capitalists — who indeed
may be supposed to be perfectly
capable of taking care of themselves —
against the danger of handing over
their money to Austria, than to secure
the poor labouring man with ten
pounds to spare, against defraudment.
We were not previously aware that
people with ten pounds to spare were
in the habit of investing them in the
foreign funds. We hope to heaven
such is not the case, for we happen to
be acquainted with several very
estimable porters and Celtic chabmen,
who have saved a little money ; and,
should the mania for foreign invest-
ment have reached them, we should
tremble to approach any comer of a
street where those excellent creatures
arc wont to linger, lest we should
be assailed with the question, " Hoo's
the Peroovian four per cents?"
or, "Div ye ken if they're gaun
to pay the interest on the New
Bonos Areas bonds?" We have
hitherto been labouring under the
delusion that the accumulations of
the working classes were safe in the
British Savings Banks, or Funds ; but
we are now sorry to learn from Mr
Cobden that such is not the case. ** I
knewmyself," said Mr Cobden, "many
years ago, when resident in the city,
a man who worked as a porter on
weekly wages— his family and him-
self being reduced to that state that
they had no other earthly dependence
— and yet that man had Spanish bonds
to the nominal amount of £2000 in
his pocket. They were not worth
more than waste paper, and came
into the hands of poor men like this
porter, who had no experience and
knowledge in such matters ; and it is
to guard such poor men that I now
Peace and War Agkatort,
[Not.
utter the voice of warning." We
have not read anything more affecting
since we perused 7^ DairyimuCg
Daughter. Mr Cobden does not tell
us that he immediately organised a
subscription for the behoof of the
wronged individual ; bnt we thmk it
probi^e that he did so, and, if it be
not too late, we shall be glad to con-
tribute our mite — on one condition.
The next time Mr Cobden teila this
story, will he be good enough to spe-
cify the precise sum which the porter
paid for those bonds? Onr reason
for requiring particular information as
to this point, is founded on a fact
which lately came to our knowledge,
viz. that the name of a promising
chimney-sweep stands recorded in the
books of a certain railway company,
which shall be nameless, as the i»o-
prietor of stock in new shares, to an
amount of neariy double that pos-
sessed by Mr Cobden*8 acquaintance.
The railway has not paid a single
farthing of ^Uvidend, several calls are
still due, and the market price of tiioae
shares is considerably below lero.
The chimney-sweep is a steady yoang
man, whose only failing is an inve-
terate attachment to whisky: he
never was in possession of five pounds
in his life, except on the day ihken he
became the nominal proprietor of that
stock. We make Mr Cobden a pre-
sent of this anecdote, in case he
should have occasion, in the course of
some future crusade, to warn labour-
ing people against indnlging in rail-
way speculation. It is quite as genmne
and forcible an illustration as his own ;
and we suspect that for one person in
the position of the porter, there are
at this moment some hundreds in
possession of transferred certificates,
like the chimney-sweep.
In sober sadness, it is pitiable to
see a man reduced, for sheer lack of
argument, to such wretched clap-trap
as this. The wildest kind of rant
about ftreedom and tyranny would
have been more to the purpose, and
infinitely more gratefol to the popular
ear. Mr Cobden's estimate of his
own position and European impor-
tance is delicious. *^ I have no hesi-
tation in saying that there is not a
gOTemment in Europe that is not
Drowning upon this meeting 1 " What
a mercy it is that Nidumui had bo
184^.]
Peace and Wear Agitator i.
^5
suspicion of the tremendous influence
of the man who was once rash enough
to tmst himself in his dominions 1
We positively tremble at the thought
of what might have ensued had Mr
Cobden been detected on his visit to
the Siberian mines ! The governments
ai Europe frowning on Mr Cobden's
meeting — what a subject for the clas-
sical painter I
We need hardly trouble our readers
with any remarks upon the speech of
Lord Dudley Stuart. His monomania
on Continental subjects is well known,
and he carries it so far as to hazard
the most extravagant statements.
For example, he set out with insinu-
ating that this Austrian loan was
neither more nor less than a deliberate
attempt at swindling, seeing that it had
not received the sanction of the Diet ;
" and, consequently," said Lord Dud-
ley, ^^ nothing could be easier than
for the Austrian government, when-
ever they found it inconvenient to pay
the interest of the loan, to turn round
and call those who had advanced the
money very simple people, and tell
them that they ought to have made
dae inquiry before parting with it.
It might be said that this would be
a moat extraordinary and outrageous
coarse for any government to adopt ;
but they lived in times when mon-
archs performed acts of the most
unusual and the most outrageous
description; and it seemed almost
as if the dark ages had returned, such
49eenes of barbarity and cruelty were
being enacted throughout Europe, by
order, and in the name of established
governments." Lord Dudley Stuart
Is one of those who think that no
crowned head can sit down comfort-
ably to supper, unless he has pre-
viously immolated a victim. His
idea of the dark ages is derived from
the popular legend of Raw-head and
Bloody-bones. Confiding, and it
would appear with justice, in the sin-
^ar ignorance of his audience, he
went on to say : — " Certain writers
and speakers were never tired of
uttering warnings against the danger
of an infuriated mob. But had any
of those popular outbreaks, as they
were called, ever been attended with
an amount of cruelty, rapine, and
spoliation, to be named in compari-
son with the deeds of the despots
of Europe? At Paris, Vienna, and
Home, for a time, power was in the
hands of the people — the wild demo-
cracy, as it was called. Where were
their deeds of blood and spoliation ?"
Lord Dudley Stuart might just as
well have asked, where were the
victims of the guillotine during the
supremacy of Robespierre. We have
known metaphysicians who could not
be brought to an acknowledgment
that the continent of America has an
actual existence, or that the battle of
Waterloo was ever fought, owing to
what they were pleas^ to style a
want of sufficient evidence. Lord
Dudley Stuart is precisely in the same
situation. He has patronised foreign
patriots to such an extent, that he l^-
lieves every one of them to be a saint ;
and if he saw with his own eyes a
democrat piking a proprietor, he
would probably consider it a mere
decepiio visus. Not that he is in the
slightest degree short-sighted, or in-
credulous, whenever he can get hold of
a story reflecting on the other side. On
the contrary, he favoured his audience
with a minute description of several
floggings and executions, which he
had, no doubt, received from his
foreign correspondents; and actually
threw the blame of the apostacy of
some of his Polish protegees from the
Christian faith upon the Czai* ! This
is a topic upon which we would rather
not touch. Men have been known to
deny their Saviour for the sake of
escaping from the most hideous per-
sonal agony, but we never heard before
of apostacy conunitted for such motives
as Lord Dudley has assigned. *^ Some,
but very few men, whose lives had
been devoted to fighting against Rus-
sia, and whose religion seemed to con-
sist in that alone, lured, no doubt, by
the hope of entering the Turkish army,
and again waging war against their
implacable enemies, Russia and Aus-
tria, had been induced to accept the
ofiers of the Porte, and to embrace
Islamism." We hope it may be long
before we shall be again asked to ex-
press our sympathy for those wretched
renegades from their faith.
Mr Cobden having gathered wind,
again started up ; and this time he did
not confine himself to mere economi-
cal prose. AVe rather think that he
felt slightly jealous of the cheering
606
Peace and War Agitators.
[Nov,
which Lord Dudley Stuart's more ani-
mated speech had elicited ; for it is a
well-known fact that the majority of
people would rather listen to the
details of an atrocious murder, than
to a dissertation upon Adam Smith.
Accordingly he came out hot, furious,
pugnacious, and withal remarkably
irrelevant. Throwing aside all con-
sideration of the Austrian loan, he fell
foul of the Czar, whom he facetiously
compared to Nebuchadnezzar. Listen
to the Apostle of peace ! *^ The man
was incapable of appreciating any-
thing but a physical-force argument,
and he (Mr Cobden) did not think he
was departing from his peace princi-
ples, in resorting to a mode of admo-
nition which the nature of the animal
was capable of understanding. He
surely might be excused from admo-
nishing, if it were possible, a wild
bull, that, if he did not take care, he
might run his head against something
harder even than his own skull. He
therefore said, that if the Emperor of
Kussia attacked us, we might herme-
tically seal the ports of Russia, and
there would be an end of the matter.
There could be no fighting between
England and Russia. If the question
wei*e put to a jury of twelve compe-
tent men, belonging to any maritime
power, who were perfectly indifferent
to the quarrel, they would at once say
that as England and Russia could not
come to collision by land, the only
question was, what naval force would
be required by England to blockade
Petersburg, Archangel, Odessa and
Riga for six months of the year, and
that the frost would keep up the
blockade for the other six months.''
But the best is yet to come. Mr Cob-
den is perfectly aware that the senti-
ments of such an eminent European
pei*sonage as himself must have terrible
weight on the Continent. When the
Czar reads the report of the speeches
delivered at the London Tavern, he will
burst into a paroxysm of fury, order
some hundred serfs to be instantly
knouted to death, and send for the
minister of marine. When it is known
at Vienna that Cobden has declared
against the Austrian loan, Frtnci»
Joseph will gnash his teeth, and desire
Jellachich, Radetsky, and Haynau to
concert measures with his brother em-
peror for taking vengeance for thi»
unparalleled afiront. What, then, are
wc to do ? Is there no danger to Great
Britain fi*om such a combination?
None — ^for we have a guarantee. A
greater than Nicholas has promised to
stand between us and penl. People
of Great Britain I read the following
paragraph, and then lie down in secu-
rity under the charge of your protect-
ing angel.
''Ifhe (Mr Cobden) were toid tka$
he ran the risk o/ provoking these brutal
tyrants to come Ikere and attach ^M
country^ HE would reply that hb
WAS FREPAHED TO TAKE THE BISK
UPON HIMSELF OP ALL THAT THET
COULD DO I "
After this, Ave have not another
word to say. Yes — one. Before Mr
Cobden's meeting broke up, the Ans^
trian loan had been subscribed for to
more than the required amount.
1849.]
The French Navels of 1849.
C07
THE FREKCH NOVELS OF 1849.
During the twelve months that
have elapsed since we devoted a sheet
of Maga to a flying glance at French
novels and novelists, there has been a
formidable accumulation upon our
shelves of the produce of Paris and
Brussels presses. Were theu- merit
as considerable as their number, the
regiment of pink, blue, and yellow
octavos and duodecimos would need
a whole magazine to do them justice.
As it is, however, a line a volume
would be too much to devote to some
of them. The lull in literature which
ensued in France, on the shock of the
February revolution, has been suc-
ceeded by a revival of activity. Most
of the old stagers have resumed the
quill, and a few ^^ green hands" have
come forward. As yet, however, the
efforts of the former have in few
instances been particulai-ly happy;
whilst amongst the latter, there is no
appearance worthy of note. Upon
the whole, we think that the ladies
have been at least as successful as the
men. Here is a trio of tales from
feminine pens, as good as anything
that now lies before us. Helene, al-
though it may not greatly angment
the well-established reputation of that
accomplished authoress, Madame
Charles Reybaud, is yet a very pleas-
ing novel, approaching in character
rather to a gi-aceful English moral
tale, than to the commonly received
idea of a French romance. It is a
story of the first Revolution ; the scene
is in Pi-ovence, and subsequently at
Rochefort, on board ship, and in
French Guiana. The chief characters
are Helen, and her father, the Count
de Blanquefort, a steadfast royalist,
who traces back his ancestry to the
crusades; her lover, a plebeian and
Montagnard; her godmother, Madame
de Rocabert, and Dom Massiot, a
fanatic priest. Lovers of mysterious
intrigues, and complicated plots, need
not seek them in Madame Rcybaud's
novels, whose charm resides for the
most part in elegance of style, grace-
ful description, and deUcate and
truthful delineation of character. In
one of her recent tales — a very attrac-
tive, if not a very probable one — Le
Cadet de Colobricres, she admirably
sketches the interior of a poor noble-
man's dwelling, where all was pride,
penury, and privation, for appearance
sake. The companion and contrast to
that painful picture, is her description
of the domestic arrangements of
Castle Rocabert, where ease, placi-
dity, and comfort reign; where the
ancient furniture is solid and hand-
some, the apartments commodious,
the cheer abundant ; where the anti-
quated waiting women, and venerable
serving men, are clad after the most
approved fashion of Louis the Fif-
teenth's day, and disciplined in accor-
dance with the most precious tradi-
tions of aristocratic houses. Madame
de Rocabert herself is a fine portrait,
from the old French regime. Forty
years long has she dwelt in her lonely
chateau, isolated from the world, on
the summit of a cloud-capped rock.
AVidowed at the age of twenty of an
adored husband, she shut herself up to
weep, and, as she hoped, to die.*
Contrary to her expectation, little by
little she was comforted; she lived,
she grew old. Time and religion had
appeased her sorrow, and dried her
tears. There is a tenderness and
grace in Madame Reybaud's account
of the widow's mourning and consola-
tion, which reminds us of the exqui-
site pathos and natural touches of
Madame d'Arbouville. That such a
comparison should occur to us, is of
itself a high compliment to Madame
Reybaud, who, however, is unques-
tionably a very talented writer, and
to the examination of whose collective
works it is not impossible we may
hereafter devote an article. At pre-
sent, we pass on to a lady of a different
stamp, who docs not very often obtain
commendation at our hands; and
yet, in this instance^ we know not why
we should withhold approval from
George Sand's last novel. La Petite-
Fadette^ one of those seductive trifles'
which only Madame Dudevant can
produce, and is free from the pernicious
tendencies that disfigure too many of
her works. In this place we can say
little about it. A sketch of the plot
would be of small interest, for it i»
COS
as slight and inartificial as well may
Ih.'; and an attempt to analyse the
bouk's peculiar charm would lead as
a length incompatible with the omni-
nm -gatherum design of this article.
La PetiU FadetU is a story of peasant
habits and superstitions, and these are
treated with that consummate artis-
tic al skill for which George Sand is
celebrated^-every coarser tint of the
picture mellowed and softened^ but
never wholly suppressed. Fadette, a
precocious and clever child, and her
brother, a poor deformed cripple^
dwelt with their grandmother, a
beldame cunning in herbs and simples,
and who practises as a sort of quack
doctress. The three are of no good
repute in the country-side ; Fadette,
especially, with her large black eyes
and Moorish complexion, her elf-like
bearing and old-fashioned attire, is
alternately feared and persecuted by
the village children, who have nick-
named her the Cricket. But although
her tongue is sharp, and often mali-
cious, and her humour wilful and
strange, the gipsy has both heart and
head ; and, above ail, she has the true
woman's sldll to make herself beloved
by him on whom she has secretly
fixed her affections. This is the hero
of the story — Landry, the handsome
son of a farmer. Love works miracles
with the spiteful slovenly Cricket, who
hitherto has dressed like her grand-
mother, and squabbled with all comers.
Although the style of George Sand's
books is little fovourable to extract,
and that in this one the difficulty is
increased by the introduction of pro-
Tincialisms and peasant phrases, we
will nevertheless translate the account
of Fadette's transformation, and of its
effect upon Landry, upon whom, as
the reader will perceive, the charm
has already begun to work.
^^ Sunday came at last, and Landry
was one of the first at mass. He
entered the church before the bells
began to ring, knowing that la petite
Fadette was accustomed to come
«arly, because she always made long
prayers, for which many laughed at
ner. He saw a little girl kneeling in
the chapel of the Holy Virgin, but her
back was turned to him, and her face
was hidden in her hands, that she
™ght pray without disturbance. It
^«« Fadette's attUude, but it was
The Frtndk Kacek oflSAS.
[Nov.
neither her head-dress nor her figure,
and Landry went out again to see if
he could not meet her in the porch,
which, in our country, we call the
guenilUkre^ because the ragged beggars
stand there during service. But Fa-
dette's rags were the only ones be
could not see there. He heard mass
without perceiving her, until, chaafing
to look again at the giri who wu
praying so devoutly in the duHpe!, he
saw her raise her head, and recognised
his Cricket, although her dress and
appearance were quite new to him.
The clothes were still the same-^ier
petticoat of drugget, her red apron,
and her linen coif without lace ; but
during the wec^ she had washed and
re-cut and re-sewn all that. Her gown
was longer, and fell decently over her
stockings, which were very white, as
was also her coif, which had assumed
the new shape, and was neatly set
upon her well-oombed black hair ; her
neckerchief was new, and of a pretty
pale yellow, which set off her brown
skin to advantage. Her boddioe, too,
she had lengthened, and, instead of
looking like a piece of wood dressed
up, her figure was as slender and
supple as the body of a fine honey-bee.
Besides all this, I know not with what
extract of flowers or herbs she had
washed her hands and face daring the
week, but her pale face and tiny hands
looked as clear and as ddicate as the
white hawthorn in spring.
** Landry, sedng her so changed,
let his prayer-book fall, and at the
noise little Fadette turned herself
about, and her eyes met his. Her
cheek turned a little red — not redder
than the wild rose of the hedges ; but
that made her i^ipear qnite prettf
— the more so that her black eyes,
against which none had erer beea
able to say anything, sparkled so
brightly, that, for the moment, she
seemed transfigured. And onoe more
Landry thought to himself:
'' ' She is a witch; she wished to
become pretty, from ugly that she
was, and behold the miracle has been
wrought!'
^^ A chill of terror came over him,
but his fear did not prevent hia baring
so strong adesire to approach and speiUc
to her, that his heart throbbed with
impatienoe till the mass was at an end.
^^ Bat she did not lookat him a^^ain.
1849.]
The French Novels qf 1849.
and instead of going to nm and sport
with the children after her prayers,
she departed so discreetly, that there
was hardly time to notice how
changed and improved she was.
Landry dared not follow her, the less
so that Sylrinet would not leave him
a moment ; bnt in abont an hoar he
sacceeded in escaping ; and this time,
his heart urging and directing him, he
found little Fadette gravely tending
her flock in the hollow road which
they call the Trame-cm- Gendarme,
because one of the king's gendarmes
was killed there by the people of La
Cosse, in the old times, when they
wished to force poor people to pay
iaillage, and to work withoat wage,
contrary to the terms of the law,
which already was hard enough, such
as they had made it."
Bnt it is not sufficient to win
Landry's heart: Fadette has much
more to overcome. PabUc prejudice,
the dislike of her lover's family, her
own poverty, are stumbling-blocks,
seemin^y insunnountable, in her path
to happiness. She yields not to dis-
couragement ; and finally, by her
energy and discretion, she conquers
antipathies, converts foes into friends,
and attains her ends — ^ali of which are
legitimate, and some highly praise-
worthy. The narrative of her tri-
bulations, constancy, and ultimate
triumph, IS coucbed in a style of
studied simi^ity, but remarkable
fascination. Slight as it is, a mere
tbteitey La PetUe FadeUe is a graceful
and very engaging story; and it would
be ungrateful to investigate t5o
cloeely the amount of varnish applied
by Madame Dudevant to her pictures
of the manners, language, and morals
of fVeBoh peasantry.
La Fatmlie Rdcour is the last book,
by a lady novdist, to which we diall
now refer. It is the best of a series
of six, intended as pictures of French
society, in successive centoiies, ck>s-
ing with the nineteenth. The five pre-
viooB novels, which were published
at pret^ long intervals, being of no
Tcry striking merit, we were agree-
ably surprised by the lively and well-
sustained Interest of this romance, the
last^ Madame de Bawr informs us,
which she intends to offer to the pub-
lic. Paul R6conr, the penniless ne-
phew of a rich ci^ltallflt, ia defirauded
609
by a forged will of his uncle's inherit-
ance, which goes to a worthless cou-
sin, who also obtains the hand of a
girl between whom and Paul an ar-
dent attachment exists. The chief
interest of the tale hinges on Paul's
struggles, after an interval of deep
despondency, against poverty and the
world — straggles in which he is
warmly encouraged by his friend Al-
fred, a successful feuilleUmiste and
dramatic author; and by a warm-
hearted but improvident physician, M.
Dnvemoy, whose daughter Paul ulti-
mately marries, out of gratitude, and
to save her from the destitution to
which her father's extravagance and
approaching death are about to con-
sign her. Paul is a charming charac-
ter— a model of amiability, generosity,
and self-devotion, and yet not too
perfect to be probable. There is a
strong interest in the account of his
combat with adversity, and of the tri-
bulations arising firom the folly and
thoughtlessness of his wife, and the
implacable hostility of his treacher«
ous cousin. How the story ends
need not here be told. The first four-
fifths of the book entitie it to a high
place amongst the French light litera-
ture of the year 1849; bnt then it
begins to flag, and the termination is
lame and tame — ^a falling off which
strikes the more from its contrast with
the preceding portion. The author-
ess appears, in some degree, conscious
of this defect, and prepares her readers
for it in her preface. *^ The second
volume," she says, ** waa written
amidst the anguish and alarm which
revolutions occasion to a poor old
woman. Although bnt ill- satisfied with
my work, I have not courage to recom-
mence it. I appeal, then, to the reader's
indulgence for my last romance, happy
in the consciousness that my pen has
never traced a single word which was
not dictated by my lively desire to
lead men to virtue." So humble and
amiable an ap<dogy disarms criticism.
Having given precedence to the la-
dies, we lo& around for some of their
male colleagues who may deserve a
word. Amongst the new candidates
for the favour of romance-readers is
a writer, signing himself Marquis de
Foudras, and whose debut, if we err
not, was made in conjunction with a
M. de Montepin, in a romance ea*
titled Lt$ Chiralun du Lansquenet —
a long- winded imiutioa of the Sae
school, extremely feeble, and in exe-
crable taste, bat' which, neTcrtheless,
obtained a sort of circnlating library
success. Encooraged by this, Messrs
Foadras and Montepin achieTed a
second novel, npon the whole a shade
better than the first : and then, dis-
solving their association, set off scrib-
bling, each ** on his own hook ;*' and
threaten to become as prolific, althongfa
not as popular, as the great Dnmas
himself. The last prodnction of M.
de Foadras bears the not unattractive
title of L€s OenttOtommes Chasseurs.
It is a series of sporting sketches and
anecdotes, of various merits in most
of which the author — who would evi-
dently conviuce us that he is a genu-
ine marquis, and not a plebeian under
apseudonyme — himself has cut a more
or less distinguished figure. To the
curious in the science of venery, as
practised in various parts of France,
these two volumes may have some
interest ; and the closing and longest
sketch of the series, a tale of shoot-
ing and smuggling adventures in the
Alps, is, we suspect, the best thing
the author has written. Unless, in-
deed, we except his account of a stag-
hunt in Burgundy in 1785, in whidi
he gives a most animated and graphic
The FremJk Xactis of 1849.
[Kor.
and usages of the English hunting-
field, — ^^ We were still ahead, and
had leaped I know not how many
hedges, ditches, and rarmef, when I
observed that Lord Henry, who had
refused to take either a whip or spurt^
struck repeated blows on the flank of
his horse, which, still galloping,
writhed tmder the pressure of its mas-
ter's fist. Looking with more atten-
tion, I presently discovered in milordi^
hand a sharp and glittering object, in
which I recognised one of the degont
chased gold toothpicks which men car-
ried in those days. I saw at once that
poor Ccntr-de-Lion was done up." la
spite of the toothpick, Ccewr-de-LioiL
refuses a leap, whereupon his master
huris away the singidar spar, leaps
from his saddle, draws his hunting-
knife, and plunges it to the hilt in the
horse's breast ! — with which taste of
his quality, we bid a long farewell to
the Marquis de Fondras.
It were strange indeed if the name
of Dumas did not more than onoe
appear on the nnmerons title-pages
before us. We find it in half-a-doaen
different places. The amusing Char-
latan, who, in the first fervoor and
novelty of the republican regime,
seemed disposed to abandon romance
for politics, has found time to imite
both. Whilst writing a monthly
account of the mishaps of a dull-^og journal, in which he professes to give
of an Englishman, who arrives firom the detailed history of Europe day \fj
the further extremity of Italy to join day — forming, as his puffs assure as,
the party of French sportsmen. Of the most complete existing narratiTe
coui-se Lord Henry is formal, peevish, of political events since Febmary 1848
and unpolished ; the very model, in
short, of an English nobleman. Dis-
daining to moimt French horses,
which, he politely informs his enter-
tainer, have no speed, and cannot
leap, he has had four hunters brought
from England, npon one of which,
*^ a lineal descendant of Arabian Go*
dolphin^ and whose dam was a mare
unconquered at Newmarket," he fol-
lows the first day's hunt, by the side
of a beautiful countess, by whose
charms he is violently smitten, and
~he has also produced, in the oonrseof
tlie last twelve months, some tweoty-
^^^ or thirty volumes of friyolities.
Thus, whilst with one hand be ifi-
strncts, with the other he entertains
the public. For oar part, we have
enjoyed too many hearty laughs, both
with and at M. Dumas, not to have
all inclination to praise him when
possible. In the present instance, and
with respect to his last year's tribute
to French literature, we regret to say
it is quite impossible. He has been
who rides a little old Limousin mare, of trifling with his reputation, and with
piteous exterior, but great merit. The the public patience. Since last we
pace is severe, the country heavy, the
Arabian's CTandson receives the go-by
from the Limousin cob, and shows
signs of distress. The following pas-
sage exhibits the author's extraordi-
nary acquaintance with the customs
mentioned him, he has added a dosen
volames to the Vicomte de Bragdommn
which nevertheless still drags itsdf
along, without prospect of a termina-
tion. A tissue of greater improbabi*
lities and alMsardities we have rarelj
1849.]
The French Naveis q/'1849.
enconntered. Certainly no one but
Alexander Dumas would have ven-
tured to strain out so flimsy a web to
so unconscionable a length. Are there,
we wonder, in France or elsewhere, any
persons so simple as to rely on bis re-
presentations of historical characters
and events ? The notions they must
form of French kings and heroes,
courtiers and statesmen, are assuredly
of the strangest. We doubt if, in any
'countiy but France, a writer could
preserve the popularity Dumas enjoys,
who caricatured and made ridiculous,
as he continually does, the greatest
men whose names honour its chronicles.
Besides the wearisome adventures
of Mr Bragelonne and the eternal
Musketeers, M. Dumas has given forth
the first three or four volumes of a
rambling story, founded on the well-
known aflfair of Marie Antoinette's
diamond necklace. Then he has com-
pleted the account of his Spanish
rambles, which we rather expected
he would have left incomplete, seeing
the very small degree of favour with
which the first instalment of those
most trivial letters was received. In
the intervals of these various labours,
fae has thrown off a history of the
regency, and a historical romance, of
which Edward III. of England is the
hero. The latter we have not read.
On French ground, M. Dumas is some-
times unsuccessful, but when he med-
dles with English personages he is in-
variably absurd. Finally, and we
believe this closes the catalogue —
although we will not answer but that
some trifle of half-a-dozen volumes
may have escaped our notice — M.
Dumas, gliding, with his usual facility
of transition, from the historical to the
speculative, has begun a series of
ghosc-stories, whose probable length
it is difScult to foretell, seehig that
what he calls the introduction occu-
pies two volumes. Some of these tales
are tolerably original, others are old
stories dressed up a la DumcLs. They
are preceded by a dedication to M.
Dumas' former patron, the Duke of
Montpensier, and by a letter to his
friendf Y^ron, editor of the ConstitU'
/fonnei!, theatrical manager, &c. These
two epistles are by no means the least
diverting part of the book. M. Dumas,
whom we heard of, twenty months
ago, as a fervid partisan and armed
611
supporter of the republic, appears to
have already changed his mind, and
to hanker after a monarchy. Some
passages of his letter to his friend are
amusingly conceited and characteris-
tic. "My dear Vdron," he writes,
" you have often told me, during those
evening meetings, now of too rare oc-
currence, where each man talks at
leisure, telling the dream of his heart,
following the caprice of his wit,
or squandering the treasures of his
memory — you have often told me, that,
since Scheherazade, and after Nodier,
I am one of the most amusing narra-
tora you know. To-day you write to
me that, en cUtendant a long romance
from my pen — one of my interminable
romances, in which I comprise a whole
century — you would be glad of some
tales, two, four, or six volumes at
most — poor flowers from my garden —
to serve as an interlude amidst the
political preoccupations of the mo-
ment : between the trials at Bourges,
for instance, and the elections of the
month of May. Alas I my friend, the
times are sad, and my tales, I warn
you, will not be gay. Weary of what
I daily see occurring in the real world,
you must allow me to seek the sub-
jects of my narratives in an imaginary
one. Alas! I greatly fear that all
minds somewhat elevated, somewhat
poetical and addicted to reverie, are
now situated similarly to mine ; in
quest — that is to say, of the ideal —
sole refuge left us by God against
reality.** After striking this despond-
ing chord, the melancholy poet of
elevated mind proceeds to regret
the good old times, to deplore
the degeneracy of the age, to declare
himself inferior to his grandfather,
and to express his conviction that his
son will be inferior to himself. We
are sorry for M. Dumas, junior. " It
is true,** continues Alexander, " that
each day we take a step towards
liberty, equality, fraternity, three
great words which the Revolution of
1793— you know, the other, the dow-
ager— let loose upon modem society
as she might have done a tiger, a lion,
and a bcuu:, disguised in lambskins ;
empty words, unfortunately, which
were read, through the smoke of June,
on our public monuments all battered
with bullets.** After so reactionary a
tu-ade, let M. Dumas beware lest, in
612
77&« French NaveU of 1849.
[Nov.
the first fight that occurs in Paris
streets, a Red cartridge snatch him
from an admiring world. His moan
made for repablican illusions, he pro-
ceeds to cry the coronach over French
society, unhinged, disorganised, de-
stroyed, by successive revolutions.
And he calls to mind a visit he paid,
in his childhood, to a very old lady, a
relic of the past century, and widow
of King Louis Philippe's grandfather,
to whom Napoleon paid an annuity of
one hundred thousand crowns — for
what ? " For having preserved in her
drawing-roams the trdditions of good
society of the times of Louis XIV.
and Louis XV. It is just half what
the chamber now gives his nephew
for making France forget what his
uncle desired she should remember."
Take that. President Buonaparte, and
go elsewhere for a character than to
the Debit de Romans of Mr Alexander
Dumas. How is it you have neglected
to propitiate the suffrage of the
melancholy poet ? Repair forthwith
the omission. Summon him to the
Elys^o. Pamper, caress, and consult
him, or tremble for the stability <d
your presidential chair ! After liouis
Napoleon, comes the turn of the legis-
lative chamber; apropos of which M.
Dumas quotes the Marquis d' Argen-
son's memoirs, where the courtier of
1750 bewails the degeneracy of the
times neither more nor less than does
the dramatic author of a century
later. ^^ People complain," M.d'Ar-
genson says, *^ that in our day there
is no longer any conversation in
France. I well know the reason. It
is that our cotemporaries daily be-
come less patient listeners. They
listen badly, or rather they listen not
at all. I have remarked this in the
very best circles I frequent." " Now,
my dear friend," argues M. Dumas,
with irresistible logic, ^^what is the
best society one can frequent at the
present day? Very certainly it is that
which eight millions of electors have
judged worthy to represent the inte-
rests, the opinions, the genius of
France. It is the chamber, in short.
Well ! enter the chamber, at a ven-
ture, any day and hour that you
please. The odds are a hundred to
one, that you will find one man
speaking in the tribune, and five or
SIX hundred othera sitting on the
benches, not Usteoing, bat intempt-
ing him. And this is so trofi, that
there is an article of the constitntioi
of 1848 prohibiting intermptioBi.
Agun, reckon tiie number of boxes
on the ear, and fisticnflb given in the
chamber during a year thmt it has
existed — they are innumeraUe. All
in the name — be it well nnderatood—
of liberty, equality, and fraternity ! **
Rather strange language in the mootli
of a citizen of the young repnUie;
and its oddness diminishes tiie sur-
prise with which we find, on tamiag
the page, the captor of the Tuikriea
paying his devoirs to the meet ih«-
sently prosperous member of the
house of Orleans. ^^ MoDaeignenr,"
he says, to the illnstrions hnateid of
the Infanta Louisa, ^^ this book is
composed for yon, written purposely
for you. Like all men of elevated
minds, yon believe in the impoasible,^
&c. &c. Then a flonrish about
Gralileo, Oolombus, and Fulton, and
a quotation from Shakspeare, some
of whose plays M. Dnmas has been
so condescending as to tnuulate and
improve. Then poor Scheheraaede is
dragged in again, always apropos of
^*I, Alexander," and then, the flooriih
of trumpets over, the fan begins and
phantoms enter.
Although not generallj partial to
tales of diabUrie — a style, which the
Germans have overdone, and in which
few writers <tf other nations have soc-
ceeded — ^we have been much amused
by the story of Jeam, le Trounemr^ in
which, upon the old yam (tf a plaot
with the evil one, M. Paul de Musaet
has stmng a clever and spirited series
of Gil-Blas-like adventniesy inter-
spersed with vivid glimpses ii histo-
rical events and perscmages, with h«e
and there a ganuBhing of qniet saiiie.
'' The life of Jean le Tronyeor," says
the ingenious and p^mataking anthor
of these three pleasant little volumes,
'* is one of those histories which the
people tell, and nobody has writ-
ten. . . . This fantastical personage
is known in several conntnes, nniur
difierent names. In Provence he is
called Jean V Henreox ; in Amgoo,
Don Juan el Pajarero— that is to sav,
the Fowler or Birdcatdier; in Italy
Giovanni il Trovatore. His real name
will be fonnd in the conrse oif the fol-
1849.]
The Frendi Noveb o/1849.
613
lowing narratkm. His death was
rrimted to me in Lower Brittany,
where I did not expect to meet with
him. This circomstance decided me
to write his history, uniting the vari-
ons ehronicles, whose connexion is
eyident." That accomplished anti-
qnariaa and legendary, M. Prosper
M^rim^ wonld doubtless be able to
tell US whether this be a mere author's
flsbterfuge, or a yeritable account of
the sources whence M. de Mnsset de-
lired the amusing adventures of John
tht Finder. We ourselyes are not
■afSdently versed in the traditions of
Provenoe and Italy, Arragon and
Brittany, to dedde, nor is it of much
interest to inquire. M. de Musset
may possibly have found the clay, but
he has made the bricks and buUt the
lionse. It is a light and pleasant
edifice, and does him credit.
The main outline of the story of
Jean le Trouveur is soon told, and
has no great novelty. The interest
lies in the varied incidents that crowd
every chapter. In the year 1699
there dwelt at Aries, in Provence,
a commander of Malta, by name
Anthony Qaiqneran, Lord of Beaujen.
After an adventurous career, and in-
numerable valiant exploits achieved
in the wars of the Order against Turks
and barbarians; after commanding
the galleys of Malta in a hundred
anccMsfid sea-fights, and endnring a
long captivity in the fortress of the
Seven Towers, this brave man, at the
age oi neaiiy eighty years, dwelt
tnnquilly in his castle of Beaujen,
reposing, in the enjoyment of perfect
health, from the fatigues of his long
and busy life, and awuting with
seeming resignation and confidence
the inevitable summons of death.
Only two peculiarities struck the
neighbours of the old knight : one dT
which was, that he avoid^ speaking
of his past adventures; the other,
that he would attend mass but at a
partkolar convent, and that even
there he never entered the chapel,
Intt kneded on a chair in the porch,
his &ce covered with his hands, until
the service was concluded. It was
ai^yposed by numy that he was bound
by a vow, and that his conduct was a
mark <tf penitence and humiliation.
And although the commander never
went to confession, or the communion
table, his life was so pure, his
charities were so numerous, and he
had rendered such great services to
the caase of religion, that none ven-
tured to blame his eccentricities and
omissions. Bat one stormy day a
littie old Turk, the fashion of whose
garments was a century old, landed
from a brigantine, which had made
its way up the Rhone in spite of wind,
and, to the wonder of the assembled
population, approached the commander
of Malta, and said to him — ^^ Anthony
Qaiqneran, you have but three daj^
left to fulfil your engagements." An
hour later, the old knight is in the
convent chapel, assisting at a mass,
which he has requested the superior
to say for him. But when the priest
takes the sacred wafer it falls from
his hands, a gnst of wind extinguishes
the tapers, and a confused murmur of
voices is heard in the lateral nave of
the church. In i^ite of himself, the
officiant utters a malediction instead
of a prayer, and, horror-stricken, he
descends the steps of the altar, at
whose foot M. de Beaujen lies sense-
less, his face against the ground. The
ensuing chapters contain the com-
mander's confession. Long previously,
when languishing in hopeless cap-
tivity in a Turkish dungeon, he had
made a compact with a demon, by
which he was to enjoy liberty and
healthy and thirty years of glory and
good fortune. At the end of that
term he must find another person to
take his place on similar conditions,
or his soul was the property of the
fiend. Scarcely was the bargain con-
cluded, when he doubted its reality,
and was disposed to attribute it to
the delirium of fever. In the uncer-
tainty, he studiously abstained from
the advantage of the compact, hewing
thereby to expiate its sin. His
health returned, his liberty was given
him, but he sought neither glory, nor
wealth, nor honours, living retired
upon ten thousand crowns a-year, the
^t of the King of France and other
princes, for his services to Christen-
dom, practising good works, and cul-
tivating his garden. He began to
hope that this long course of virtue
and self-denial had redeemed his sin,
when the warning of the demon, in
the garb of the Turkish captain,
renewed his sdarm, and the mter-
rapted mass convinced him of the
graceless state of his soul. Xo act
of penitence, the saperior now assured
him, could atone his crime. Too
high-minded to seek a substitute, and
endeavour to shift its penalty upon
another s shoulders, M. de Beaujen
attempts the only reparation in his
power, by bequeathing half his wealth
to charities. To inherit the other
moiety, he entreats the superior to
select a foundling worthy of such
good fortune. The superior is not at
a loss. "I have got exactly what
you want," he says ; '' the chorister
who answered at the mass at which
you swooned away has no relations.
I picked him up in the street on a
winter's night, fourteen years ago,
and since then he has never left me.
He has no vocation for the church,
and you will do a good action in re-
storing him to the world.-' The cho-
rister boy, who had been baptised
Jean le l>ouve, is sent for, but cannot
at first be found ; for the excellent
The French SaveU of 1849. [Nov.
often heard in the shop, to which the
town-archers bad more than once
paid a visit. K a stranger staked
his coin on a turn of the cards, or
throw of the dice, it was no mere
hazard that transferred his dncats to
the pockets of the regular fireqnenters
of the house. Seated upon a post,
opposite to this honest establishment,
John the Fonndling watched each face
that entered or came out. After
some time, he saw approaching from
afar the captain of the brigantine,
with his fiat turban and his great
matchlock pistol. When the Turk
reached the barber^s door, John
placed himself before him.
" Sir stranger," said the boy, " did
you not arrive here this morning from
the East, on important business whlck
concerns the Commander deBeanjear
" »Si," repUed the Turk ; " but I
may also say that it is business which
concerns you not."
"You mistake,*^ said John; "it
does concern me, and I come on pur-
reason that, hidden in the recesses of pose to speak to you about it.*'
the superior's bookcase, behind a row
of enormous folios, he had listened
to all that had passed between the
commander and the monk. As soon
as he can escape he repairs to the
castle of Beaujeu, where his good
looks, his simplicity and vivacity, in-
terest the old knight, who receives
him kindly, resolves to make him his
heir, and sends him back to the con-
vent to announce his determination
to the superior. The foundling is
grateful. His joy at his brilUant
prospects is damped by the recollec-
tion of the commander's confession
and despair. He resolves to astonish
his benefactor by the greatness of his
gratitude. The following extract,
which has a good deal of the Hoff-
rmmnsche flavour, will show how he
sets about it.
In the sti-eet of La Trouille, which
took its name from the fortress built
by the Emperor Constantine, dwelt a
" Tis possible," said the old cap-
tain ; " ma mi non voler^ mi nan poter^
mi non aver tempos
" Nevertheless," firmly retorted
John, "you must find time to hear
me. What I have to commonicate to
you is of the utmost importance."
"Do me the pleasure de andar al
diable .'" cried the Turk, in his Franco-
Italian jargon.
" I am there ahready," replied the
lad ; " rest assured that I know who
you are. I will not leave jon till
you have given me a hearing."
The old Mussulman, who had hither-
to averted his head to try to break
off the conversation, at last ndsed his
melancholy and aquiline countenance.
With his yellow eyes he fixed an
angry gaze upon the chorister, and
said to him in a full strong voice : —
" Well, enter this shop with me.
We will presently speak together."
There was company in the barber's
barber, who, to follow the mode of shop of the Rue de la Trouille, when
the barbers and bath-keepers of Paris, little John afld the captain of the
sold wine and entertained gamesters.
Young men, sailors, merchants, and
citizens of Aries, i^esorted to his shop^
some to transact business ; others to
discuss matters of gallantry or plea-
sure; others, again, to seek dupes.
Of a night, sounds of quarrel were
brigan tine raised thecurtain of checked
linen which served as a door. In a
comer of the apartment, four men,
seated round a table, were absorbed
in a game at cards, to which they
appeared to pay extreme attention,
although the staJce was bat of a f^w
1849.]
Tlie Frencli Novels o/1849.
miserable sous. One of the gamblers
examined, with the corner of his eye,
the two persons who entered ; and,
seeing it was only a lad and a Turk
of mean and shabby appearance, he
again gave all his attention to the
game. The master of the shop con-
eeiTed no greater degree of esteem
for the new comers, for he did not
move from the stool on which he was
sharpening his razors. At the further
end of the apartment a servant stood
beside the fire, and stirred with a stick
the dirty linen of the week, which
boiled and bubbled in a copper caldron.
A damaged honr-glass upon a board
pretended to mark the passage of
time; and small tables, surrounded
with straw-bottomed stools, awaited
the drinkers whom evening usually
brought. Bidding the chorister to be
seated, the captain of the brigantine
placed himself at one of the tables,
and called for wine for all the com-
pany. The barber hasted to fetch a
jug of Rhone wine, and as many
goblets as there were persons in the
room. When all the glasses were
filled, the captain bid the barber dis-
tribute them, and exclaimed, as he
emptied his own at a draft. —
" -4 /a saltUe de Leurs Seu/neuries /"
Thereupon the four gamblers ex-
changed significant glances, whispered
a few words, and then, as if the
politeness of the Turkish gentleman
had caused them as much pleasure as
surprise, they pocketed their stakes
and discontinued their game. With
gracious and gallant air, and smiling
countenance, one hand upon the hip
and the other aimed with the goblet,
the four gentlemen approached the
old Turk with a courteous mien, in-
tended to eclipse all the graces of the
courtiers of Versailles. But there
was no need of a magnifyiog-glass to
discern the true character of the four
companions ; the adventurer was de-
tectiole at once in their threadbare
coats, their collars of false lace, and
in the various details of their dress,
where dirt and frippery were ill con-
cealed by trick and tawdry. A mode-
rately experienced eye would easily
have seen that it was vice which had
fattened some of them, and made
others lean. The most portly of the
four, approaching the Turkish gentle-
man, thanked him in the name of his
VOL. Lxn. — vo. ccccix.
615
friends, and placed his empty glass
upon the table with so polite and
kindly an air, that the Turk, touched
by his good grace, took the wine jug
and renlled the four goblets to the
brim. Some compliments were ex-
changed^ and all sorts of titles used ; so
that by the time the jug was empty
they had got to calling each other
Excellency. The barber, putting his
mouth to the captain^s ear, with such
intense gravity that one might have
thought him angry, assured him that
these gentlemen were of the very fjrst
quality, whereat the Turk testified
his joy by placing his hand on his lips
and on his forehead. In proportion
as mutual esteem and good under-
standing augmented, the contents of
the jug diminished. A second was
called for ; it was speedily emptied in
honour of the happy chance that had
brought the jovial company together.
A third disappeared amidst promises
of frequent future meetings, and a
fourth was drained amidst shaking of
handSffriendly embraces, and unlimited
offers of service.
The barber, a man of taste, ob-
served to his guests, that four jugs
amongst five persons made an uneven
reckoning, which it would need the
mathematical powers of Bareme duly
to adjust. For symmetry's sake,
therefore, a fifth jug was brought, out
of which the topers drank the health
of the king, of their Amphitiyon, and
of Bareme, so appositely quoted. The
four seedy gentlemen greatly admired
the intrepidity with which the little
old man tossed off his bumpers.
Their project of making the captain
drunk was too transparent to escape
any spectator less innocent than the
chorister ; but in vain did they seek
signs of intoxication on the imper-
turbable countenance of the old Turk.
In reply to each toast and protestation
of friendship, the captain emptied his
glass, and said : —
*^ Much obliged, gentlemen ; mi trap
No sparkle of the eyes, no move-
ment of the muscles, broke the mono-
tony of his faded visage. His parch-
ment complexion preserved its yellow
tint. On the other hand, the cheeks
of the four adventurers began tofiush
purple ; they unbuttoned then: doub-
lets, and used their hats as fans. The
2s
616
Tke French Novels of 1849.
[N07.
signs of intoxication they watched for
in their neigfabonr were maltiplied in
their own persons. At last they got
quite drank. He of the fonr whose
head was the coolest proposed a game
at cards.
" I plainly see," said the Tnrk, ac-
cepting, ** that the Signori n'esserptu
Jaueurs per habitude.'"
" And how," exclaimed one of the
adTentnrers, " did your excellency
infer from onr physiognomy that in-
contestibletrath?"
" Perch^,"" replied the Turk, " on
my arrival yon broke off in the middle
of yonr game. A professed gambler
never did such a thing."
They were in ecstasies at the noble
foreigner's penetration, and they called
for the dice. AVhen the captain drew
forth his long purse, stuffed with gino-
vhes^* the four gentlemen experienced
a sudden shock, as if a thunderbolt
had passed between them without
touching them, and this emotion half
sobered them. The Turk placed one
of the large gold pieces upon the
table, saying be would hold whatever
stake his good friends chose to venture.
The others said that a g6novhe was a
large sum, but that nothing in the
world should make them flinch from
the honour of contending with so
courteous an adversary. By uniting
their purses, they hoped to be able to
hold the whole of his stake. And
accordingly, from the depths of their
fobs, the gentlemen produced so many
six-livre and three-livre pieces, that
they succeeded in making up the
thirty-two crowns, which were equi-
valent to the ginovese. They played
the sum in a rabber. The Turk won
the first game, then the second ; and
the four adventurers, on beholding
him sweep away their pile of coin,
were suddenly and completely sobered.
The captain willingly agreed to give
them their revenge. The difficulty
was to find the two-and-thirty crowns.
By dint of rummaging their pockets,
the gentlemen exhibited four-and-
twenty livres : but this was only a
quarter of the sum. The oldest of the
adventurers then took the buckle from
his hat, and threw it on the table,
swearing by the soul of his uncle that
the trinket was worth two hundred
livres, although eren the simple dio-
rister discerned the emeralds thtt
adorned it to be but bits of bottle-
glass. Like a generoos player, ikt
old Turk made no difficolties; be
agreed that the buckle should stand
for two hundred livres, and it was
staked to the extent of twenty-four
crowns. This time the dice was 0»
favourable to the captain, that ^
game was not erea disputed. Hv
adversaries were astounded: thef
twisted their mustaches till they
neariy pulled them up by the roots;
they rubbed their eyes, and coned
the good wine of Rhone. In the third
game, the glass jewel, already pledged
for twenty-four crowns, ^esed entire
into the possession of the Tnrk. Then
the excited gamblers threw npon the
table their rings, their sword-knots,
and the swords themselves, assjgning
to all these things imaginaiy Taloe,
which the Turk feigned to accept is
genuine. Not a single game did they
win. The captahi took a string, and
proceeded to tie together the tinsel
and old iron he had won, when he
felt a hand insinuate itsdf into the
pocket of his ample hose. He seized
this hand, and holding it up in the
air —
*'*' Me$sirs^^ he said, *' vonu etierdes
coqmms. Mi 9cper que voms aetr
trichey
'' Triche ! " cried one of the sharpens
He strips us to the very shirt, and then
accuses us of cheating! Morbkul
Such insolence demands pnuishment"
A volley of abuse and a storm of
blows descended simultaneously npon
the little old man. The fonr adven-
turers, thinking to have an easy bar-
gain of so puny a personage, tlurew
themselves npon him to search hit
pockets; but in vain did they ran-
sack every fold of his loose gaments.
Th^ purse of gold g^tovhes was not
to be found ; and unfortunately the M
Turk, in his struggles, upset the tripod
which supported the copper caldron.
A flood of hot water boiled abont the
legs of the thieves, who uttered
lamentable cries. But it was far
worse when they saw the overturned
caldron continue to ponr forth its
scalding stream as unceasingly as the
allegoric urn of Scamander. The four
* A large gold coin; then worth neariy a hundred Freneh lifres.
1849.]
The French NaveU of 1849.
sharpers and the barber, perched upon
Btoola, beheld, with deadly terror, the
boiling lake gradoallj rising around
them. Their situation resembled that
in wfakh Homer has placed the valiant
and light-footed Achilles ; but as these
rognee had not the intrepid soul of the
eon of Feleus, they called piteously
upon God and all the saints of para-
dise ; mingling, from the force of
habit, not a few imprecations with
their prayers. The wizened carcase
cf the old Turk must have been proof
against fire and water, for he walked
with the streaming flood up to his
knees. Lifting the chorister upon his
ahonkters, he issued, dry-footed, from
the barber's shop, like Moses from the
boeom of the Red Sea. The river of
boiling water waited but his departure
to re-enter its bed. This prodigy
aoddenly took place, without any one
being able to tell how. The water
Boboded, and flowed away rapidly,
leaving the various (Objects in the shop
vninjinfed, with the exception of the
legs of the four adventurers, which
were somewhat deteriorated. The
aervant, hurrying back at sound of the
aeofSe, raised the caldron, and re-
anmed the stirring of her dirty linen,
nnsuspicions of the sorcery that had
just been practised. The barber and
the foor sharpers took counsel to-
gether, and deliberated amongst them-
aelvea whether it was proper to de-
nounce the waterproof and incom-
Imstible old gentleman to the authori-
ties. The quantity of hot water that
bad been spilled being out of all
proportion with the capacity of the
kettle, it seemed a case for hanging or
burning aUve the author of the in-
fernal jest. The barber, however,
assured his customers that learned
physicians had recently made many
marvellous discoveries, in which the
old Turk might possibly be versed.
He also deemed it prudent not lightly
to put himself in communication with
the authorities, lest they should seek
to inform themselves as to the man-
ner in which the cards were shuffled
in his shop. It was his opinion that
the offender should be generously par-
doned, unless, indeed, an opportunity
occurred of knocking him on the head
in some dark comer. This opinion
met with general approbation.
Whilst this councU of war is held,
617
Jean and the old Turk are In con-
fabulation, and a bargain is at last
concluded, by which the commander's
soul is redeemed, and Jean is to have
five years of earthly prosperity, at the
end of which time, if he has failed to
find a substitute, his spiritual part
becomes the demon's property. Two
years later we find Jean upon the
road to Montpellier, well mounted and
equipped, and his purse well lined.
Although but in his eighteenth year,
he LB ahready a gay gallant, with some
knowledge of the world, and eager for
adventures. These he meets with in
abundance. A mark, imprinted upon
his arm by his attendant demon,
causes him to be recognised as the son
of the Chevalier de Cerdagne. Thus
ennobled, he feels that he may aspire
to all things, and soon we find him
pushing his fortune in Italy, attached
to the person of the French Marshal
de March in, discovering the Baron
d'Isola's conspiracy against the life of
Philip y . of Spain, and gaining laurels
in the campaigns of the War of Suc-
cession. There is much variety and
interest in some of his adventures, and
the supernatural agency is snfiiciently
lost sight of not to be wearisome.
Time glides away, and the fatal term
of five years is within a few days of
its completion. Bnt Jean le Trouve,
now U 7Vo«r«icr, is in no want of
substitutes. Two volunteers present
themselves ; one his supposed sister,
Mademoiselle de Cerdagne, whom he
has warmly befriended in certain love
difficulties ; the other a convent gar-
dener, whom he has made his private
secretary, and whose name is Ginlio
Alberoni. The demon, who still afiects
the form of an old TniiLish sailor,
receives Alberoni in lieu of Jean, to
whom, however, — ^foreseeing that the
young man's good fortune may be the
means of bringing him many other
victims — he offers a new contract on
very advantageous terms. But Jean
de Cerdagne, who is now Spanish
ambassador at Venice, with the title
of prince, and in the enjoyment of
immense wealth, refuses the offer,
anxious to save his soul. He soon
discovers that his good fortune is at
an end. The real son of the Cheva-
lier do Cerdagne turns up, Jean is
disgraced, stripped of his honours and
dignities, and his vast property is
€18
The Frendi Navels 0^1849.
[Not.
confiscated by the Inquisition. The
ex- ambassador exchangesfor a squalid
disguise his rich costume of satin and
velvet, and we next find him a mem-
ber of a secrrt society in the thieves'
quarter of Venice. The worshipful
fraternity of Chiodo — so called from
theirsign of recognition, which isarusty
nail — live by the exercise of various
small trades and occupations, which,
although not strictly beggary or theft,
are but a degree removed from these
culpable resources. Jean, whose con-
science has become squeamish, will
accept none but honest employment.
But the malice of the demon pursues >
him, and he succeeds In nothing. He
stations himself at a ferry to catch
gondolas with a boat-hook, and bring
them gently alongside the quay; he
stands at a bridge stairs, to afford
support to passengers over the stones,
slippeiy with the slime of the lagoons ;
he takes post in front of the Doge's
palace, with a vessel of fresh water
and a well-polished goblet, to supply
passers-by. Many accept his stout
arm, and drink his cool beverage, but
none think of rewarding him. Not
all his efforts and attention are suffi-
cient to coax a son from the pockets
of his careless customers. At last,
upon the third day, he receives a piece
of copper, and trusts that the charm
is broken. The coin proves a bad one.
His seizure by the authorities, and
transportation to Zara, relieve him of
care for his subsistence. At last,
pushed by misery, and in imminent
danger of punishment for having struck
a Venetian ofliccr, Jean succumbs to
temptation, and renews his infemtd
compact. A Venetian senator adopts
him, and he discovers, but too late,
that had he delayed for a few minutes
his recourse to diabolical aid, he would
have stood in no need of it. He
proceeds to Spain, where he has many
adventures and quairels with his for-
mer secretary, Alberoni, now a power-
ful minister. His contract again at
an end, he would gladly abstain from
renewing it, but is hunted by the In-
qubition into the arms of the fiend.
After a lapse of years, he is again
shown to us in Paris, and, finally, in
Brittany, where he meets his death,
but, at the eleventh hour, disappoints
the expectant demon, (who in a man-
ner outwits himself,) and re-enters
the bosom of the chnrch, his b&d
bargain being taken off his hands \>j
an ambitious village priest. The
book, which has an agreeable viva-
city, closes with an attempt to explain
a portion of its supernatural incidents
by a reference to popular tradition
and peasant credulity. Near the ram-
parts of the Breton town of Gn^rande,
an antiquary shows M. de Musset
a moss-grown stone, with a Latin
epitaph, which antiquary and no-
velist explain each after his own
fashion.
^^ Let us see if you understand that,
M. le Parisien^^^ said the antiquaiy.
"Up to the two last words we shall
agree; but what think yon of the
i4r«. /n/.?"
"It appears to me," I replied,
" that the popular chronicle perfectly
explains the w^hole epitaph — An, Inf.
means cars infema ; that is to say,—
^ Here reposes Jean Capello, citizen
of Venice, whose body was sent to
the grave, and his soul to heaven, by
infernal artifices.' "
" Atranslatlon worthy of a romance
w^riter," said the antiquary. "Yon
believe then in the devil, in compact
with evil spirits, in absurd legrads
invented by ignorance and supersti-
tion amidst the evening gossip of our
peasants? Yon believe that, in 171S,
a parish priest of Guerande flew awaj
into the air, after having redeemed the
soul of this Jean Capdlo. Yon are
very credulous, M. le Parisien. This
Venetian, who came here but to die,was
simply poisoned by the priest, who
took to flight ; the town doctor, hav-
ing opened the body, found traces of
the poison. That is why they en-
graved upon the tomb these sylliMes:
Ars, Inf.^ which signify arsenki w-
fusio^ an infusion of arsenic I will
offer you another interpretation-
Jean Capello was perhaps a saltmaker,
killed by some accident in our salt-
works, and as in 1718 labourers of
that class were very miserable, they
engraved upon this stone, to express
the humility of his station, Ars, Jnf.^
that is to say, inferior craft."
" Upon my word I " I exclnimed,
" that explanation is perfectly absurd.
I keep to the popular version : Jean
le Trouveur was sent to heaven by
the stratagems of the demon himself.
Let sceptics laugh at my superstition,
1849.]
The French Novels o/1849.
I shall not quarrel with them for their
incredulity."
We see little else worthy of extract
or comment in the mass of books
before us. M. M^ry, whose extraor-
dinary notions of English men and
things we exhibited in a former article,
has given forth a rhapsodical history,
entitled Le Transport^, beginning
with the Infernal Machine, and end-
ing with Surconf the Pirate, full of
conspiracies, dungeons, desperate sea-
fights, and tropical scenery, where
English line-of- battle ships arc braved
by French corvettes, and where the
transitions are so numerous, and tho
variety so great, that we may almost
say everything is to be found in its
pages, except probability. Mr Dumas
the younger, who follows at respect-
ful distance in his father^s footsteps,
and publishes a volume or two per
monUi, has not yet, so far as we have
been able to discover, produced any-
thing that attains mediocrity. M.
Sue has dished up, since last we have
adverted to him, two or three more
capital sins, his illustrations of which
are chiefly remarkable for an appe<ar-
ance of great eflbrt, suggestive of the
pitiable plight of an author who, hav-
ing pledged himself to public and
publishers for the production of a
aeries of novels on given subjects, is
compelled to work out his task, how-
ever unwilling his mood. This is
certainly the most fatal species of
book-making — a selling by the cubic
foot of a man^s soul and imagination.
Evil as it is, the system is largely
acted upon in France at the present
day. Home politics having lost much
of the absorbing interest they pos-
sessed twelve months ago, the Paris
newspapers are resorting to their old
stratagems to maintain and increase
their circulation. Prominent amongst
these is the holding out of great at-
619
tractions in the way of literary
feuilletons. Accordingly, they con-
tract with popular writers for a name
and a date, which are forthwith
printed in large capitals at the head
of their leading columns. Thus, one
journal promises its readers six vol-
umes by M. Dumas, to be published
in its feuilleton, to commence on a
day named, and to be entitled Les
Femmes. The odds are heavy, that
Alexander himself has not the least
idea what the said six volumes are
to be about ; but he relies on his fer-
tility, and then so vague and compre-
hensive a title gives large latitude.
Moreover, he has time before him,
although he has promised in the in-
terval to supply the same newspaper
with a single volume, to be called
Un Homme Fort, and to conclude the
long procession of Fantomes, a thou-
sand and one in number, which now
for some time past has been gliding
before the astonished eyes of the
readers of the ConstitutionneL Other
journals follow the same plan with
other authoi*s^ and in France no
writer now thinks of publishing a
work of fiction elsewhere than at the
foot of a newspaper. To this fcuille-
ton system, pushed to an extreme,
and entailing the necessity of intro-
ducing into each day^s fragment an
amount of incident mystery or pun-
gent matter, sufficient to carry the
reader over twenty- four hours, and
make him anxious for the morrow^s
return, is chiefly to be attributed the
very great change for the worse that
of late has been observable in the
class of French literature at present
under consideration. Its actual con-
dition is certainly anything but vigo-
rous and flourishing, and until a
manifest improvement takes place,
we are hardly likely again to pass it
in review.
620 Ckriittffhir twdw Ctaw w. [Nor.
No. V.
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.
Camp at Clmdich,
Scene — The Pavilion. Time — After breakfasi.
NOKTH — ^TaLBOTA — Se WAJU> — ^BUIXEB.
NOBTH.
I begin to be doubtful of this daj. On your visits to us, Talboja, you haye
been most unfortunate in weather. This is more like Angnst than Jime.
TALBOYS.
The very word, my dear sir. It is indeed most august weather.
NORTH.
Five weeks to-day since we pitched our Camp— and we have had the
Beautiful of the Year in all its varieties ; but the spiteful Season seems to
owe you some cdd grudge, Talboys — and to make it a point still to assail your
arrival with ^^ thunder, lightning, and with rain.*^
TALBOTS.
*' I tax not you, ye Elements ! with unkindness." I fed assured tbej
mean nothing personal to me — and though this sort of work may not be very
favonraUe to Angling, 'tis quite a day for tidying our Tackle — and making
up our Books. But don't you think, sir, that the Tent would look nothmg
the wcHTse with some artificial light in this obscnration of the natural ?
NORTH.
Put on the gas. Pretty invention, the Gutta Percha tube, isn't it ? The
Electric Telegraph is nothing to it. Tent illuminated in a moment, at a pig's
whisper.
TALBOTS.
Were I to wish, sir, for anything to happen now to the weather at all, it
would be just ever so little toning down of that one constituent of the orches-
tral harmony of the Storm which men call — howling. The Thunder is perfect
— but that one Wind Instrument is slightly out of tune — ^he is most anxioas
to do his best — his motive is unimpeachable ; but he has no idea how muck
more impressive — how much more popular^— would be a somewhat subdued
style. There again — that's positive discord— does he mean to diaconcert the
Concert — or does he forget that he is not a Solo ?
BULLER.
That must be a deluge of— haiL
TALBOTS.
So much the better. Hitherto we have had but rain. '' Mysterious horrors !
Uail I"
'^ 'Twas a rough night.
My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it."
NORTH.
Suppose we resume yesterday's conversation ?
TALBOTS.
By all manner of means. Let's sit close — and speak loud— else all will be
dumb show. The whole world's one waterfall.
NORTH.
Take up Knight on Taste. Look at the dog-ear.
18^9.] Christophar under Canxxus. 621
TALBOYS.
*^ The most perfect instance of this kind is the Tragedy of Macbeth, in which
the character of an ungrateful traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant, is made
in the highest degree interesting by the sublime flashes of generosity, magna-
nimity, courage, and tenderness, which continually burst forth in the manly
but ineffective struggle of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn
the human mind, first against the allurements of ambition, and afterwards
against the pangs of remorse and horrors of despair. Though his wife haa
been the cause of all his crimes and sufferings, neither the agony of his distress,
nor the fury of his rage, ever draw from him an angry word, or upbraiding
expression towards her ; but even when, at her instigation, he is about to add
the murder of his friend and late colleague to that of his sovereign, kinsman,
and benefactor, he is chiefly anxious that she should not share the guilt of his
blood : — ^ Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck ! till thou applaud the
deed.' How much more real grandeur and exaltation of character is displayed
in one such simple expression from the heart, than in all the laboured pomp
of rhetorical amplification."
NORTH.
What think you of that, Talboys ?
TALBOYS.
Why, like much of the cant of criticism, it sounds at once queer and com-
mon-place. I seem to have heai'd it before many thousand times, and yet
never to have heard it at all till this moment.
NORTH.
Seward?
SEWARD.
Full of audacious assertions, that can be forgiven but in the belief that
Payne Knight had never read the tragedy, even with the most ordinary
attention.
NORTH.
Buller?
BULLKR.
Cursed nonsense. Beg pardon, sir — sink cursed — mere nonsense — out and
oat nonsense — nonsense by itself nonsense.
NORTH.
How so?
BUIXER.
A foolish libel on Shakspeare. Was he the man to make the character
of an ongrateful traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant, interesting by sublime
flashes of generosity, magnanimity, courage, and tenderness, and---<lo I repeat
the words correctly? — of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn the
human mind.
NORTH.
Boiler— keep up that face — ^you are positively beautiful —
BULLER.
No quizzing — ^I am ugly — ^but I have a good figure — ^look at that leg, sir 1
NORTH.
I prefer the other.
TALBOYS.
There have been Poets among us who fain would — if they could — have so
violated nature ; but their fabrications have been felt to be falsehoods— and
no quackery may resuscitate drowned lies.
NORTH.
Shakspeare nowhere insists on the virtues of Macbeth — he leaves theur mea-
sure indeterminate. That the villain may have had some good points we are
all willing to believe — few people are without them ; — nor have I any quarrel
with those who believe he had high qualities, and is corrupted by ambition. But
what high qualities had he shown before Shakspeare sets him personally before
us to judge for ourselves? Valour — courage — intrepidity— call it what yon
will— Martial Virtue —
622 Christopher under Canvass, [Nor.
" For brave Macbeth, (well he deserves that name,)
DiBdaining fortune, with his brandished steel,
Which smoked with bloody execution
Like valour's minion,
Carved out his passage till he faced the slave;
And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him.
Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps.
And fixed his head upon oar battlements."
The "bleeding Serjeant" pursues his panegyric till he grows faint — and is led
off speechless ; others take it np— and we are thus — and in other ways— pre-
pared to look on Macbeth as a paragon of bravery, loyalty, and patriotism.
TALB0Y8.
So had seemed Cawdor.
NORTH.
Good. Shakspeare sets Macbeth before us under the most imposing circum-
stances of a warlike age ; but of his inner character as yet he has told us
nothing — we are to find that out for ourselves during the Drama. If there
be sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, and every exalted virtue, we
have eyes to see, unless indeed blinded by the lightning — and if the sublime
flashes be frequent, and the struggle of every exalted quality that can adorn
the human mind, though ineffectual, yet strong — why, then, we must not
only pity and forgive, but admire and love the " traitor, murderer, nsurper,
and tyrant," with all the poetical and philosophical fervour of that amiablo
enthusiast, Mr Payne Knight.
BULLER.
Somehow or other I cannot help having an affection for Macbeth.
NORTH.
You had better leave the Tent, sir.
BULLER.
No. I won't.
NORTH.
Give us then, My dear Buller, your Theory of the Thane's character.
BULLER.
" Theory, God bless you, I have none to give, sii-." Warlike valour, as
you said, is marked first and last — at the opening, and at the end. Surely
a good and great quality, at least for poetical purposes. High general repu-
tation won and held. The opinion of the wounded soldier was that of the
whole army ; and when he himself says, " I have bought golden opinions
from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not
thrown aside so soon/' I accept that he then truly describes his position in
men's minds.
NORTH.
All true. But we soon gain, too, this insight into his constitution, that
the pillar upon which he has built up life is Reputation, and not Respect of
Law—not Self-Respect ; that the point which Shakspeare above all others
intends in him, is that his is a spirit not self-stayed — leaning upon outward
stays — and therefore —
BULLER.
Liable to all —
NORTH.
Don't take the words out of my mouth, sir ; or rather, don't put them into
my mouth, sii*.
BULLER.
Touchy to-day.
NORTH.
The strongest expression of this character is his throwing himself upon the
illicit divinings of futurity, upon counsellors known for infernal ; and you see
what subjugating sway the Three Spirits take at once over him. On the con-
trary, the Thaness is self-stayed ; and this difference grounds the poetical
opposition of the two personages. In Macbeth, I suppose a certain splendour
1849.] Christopher under Canvass. 623
of character — magnificence of action higli — a certain impure generosity —
mixed up of some kindliness and sympathy, and of the pleasure from self-
elation and self- expansion in a Tictorioos career^ and of that ambition which
feeds on public esteem.
BULLER.
Ay— just so, sir.
NORTH.
Now mark, Buller — this is a chai-acter which, if the path of duty and the
path of personal ambition were laid out by the Sisters to be one and the same
path, might walk through life in sunlight and honour, and invest the tomb
with proud and revered trophies. To show such a spirit wrecked and hurled
into infamy — the ill- woven sails rent into shreds by the whirlwind— is a lesson
worthy the Play and the Poet- and such a lesson as I think Shakspeare
likely to have designed^-or, without preaching about lessons, such an ethical
revelation as I think likely to have caught hold upon Shakspeare^s intelli-
gence. It would seem to me a dramatically-poetical subject. The mightiest
of temptations occurs to a mind, full of powers, endowed with available moral
elements, but without set vhrtue— without principles — ** and down goes all
before it." If the essential delineation of Macbeth be this conflict of Moral
elements — of good and evil — of light and darkness — I see a very poetical con-
ception ; if merely a hardened and bloody hypocrite from the beginning, I see
none. But I need not say to you, gentlemen, that all this is as far as may bo
from the exaggerated panegyric on his character by Payne Knight.
TALBOYS.
Macbeth is a brave man — so is Banquo — so are we Four, brave men — they
in theur way and day — we in ours — they as Celts and Soldiers — we as Saxons
and Civilians — and we had all need to be so — for hark ! in the midst of ours^
" Thunder and Lightning, and enter Three Witches."
BULLER.
I cannot say that I understand distinctly their first Confabulation.
NORTH.
That*s a pity. A sensible man like you should understand everything. But
what if Shakspeare himself did not distinctly understand it ? There may have
been original en*ata in the report, as extended by himself from notes taken in
short-hand on the spot — light bad — noise woree — voices of Weird Sisters
worst — matter obscure — manner uncouth — why really, Buller, all things con-
sidered, Shi^peare has shown himself a very pretty Penny-a-liner.
BULLER.
I cry you mercy, sir.
SEWARD.
Where are the Witches on their firat appearance, at the very opening of tho
wonderful Tragedy ?
NORTH.
An open Place, with thunder and lightning.
SEWARD.
I know that— the words are written down.
NORTH.
Somewhere or other — anywhere — nowhere.
BULLER.
In Fife or Forfar? Or^isome one or other of your outlandish, or inlaudish^
Lowland or Highland Counties ?
NORTH.
Not knowing, can't say. Probably.
SEWARD.
" When the Hurly Burly 's done,
When the Battle's lost and won."
What Hurly Burly ? What Battle ? That in which Macbeth is then engaged ?
And which is to be brought to issue ere " set of sun " of the day on which
*' enter Three Witches ?"
624 Ckriaiopher under Camoau. [Kor.
NORIH.
Let it be so.
SEWARD.
« Upon the heathy
There to mMt with Macbeth.'*
Tlie AVitches, then, are to meet with Macbeth ou the heath on the Eyening of
the Battle ?
NOBTH.
It would seem so.
SBWABD.
They are ^^ posters over sea and land" — and, like whifEs of lightning, can
ontsail and outride the sound of thnnder. Bat Macbeth and Banquo mast
have had on their seven-league boots.
NOBTH.
They must.
SKWARD.
^ A dmm, a dnun t
Macbeth doth come."
Was he with the advanced guard of the Army ?
NOKTH.
Not unlikely— attended by his Staff. Grenerals, on such occasions, usnallj
ride — but p^aps Macbeth and Ban<tao, being in kilts, preferred walking in
their seven-league boots. Thomas Campbell has said, *^ When the drum oi
the Scottish Array is heard on the wild heath, and when I fancy it advancing
with its bowmen in front, and its spears and banners in the distance, I am
always disappointed with Macbeth^s entrance at the head of a few kilted
actors." The army may have been there — ^but they did not see the Weirds—
nor, I believe, did the Weirds see them. With Macbeth and Banqno alone
had they to do : we see no Army at that hour — we hear no drums — we are
deaf even to the Great Highland Bagpipe, though He, you may be snre, was
not dumb — all ^^ plaided and plumed in their tartan array" the Highland Host
ceased to be — like vanished shadows — at the first apparition of ^^ those so
withered and so wild in their attire" — ^not of the earth though on it, and ali?e
somewhere till this day — while generations after generations of mere Fighting
Men have been disbanded by dusty Death.
SEWARD.
I wish to know where and whem had been the Fighting? The Norwegian^
one Sweno, had come down very handsomely at Inchcolm with ten thousand
dollars — a sum in those days equal to a million of money in Scotland
NOBTH.
Seward, speak on subjects you understand. What do yon know, sur, of the
value of money in those days in Scotland?
SEWARD.
But where had been all the Fighting? There would seem to have been tf^o
hurley-burleys.
NOBTH.
I see your drift, Seward. Time and Place^ through the First Scene of the
First Act, are past finding out. It has been asked — ^Waa Shakspeare ever
in Scotland ? Never. There is not one word in this Tragedy leading a Scots-
man to think so — many showing he never had that happiness. Let him deal
with our localities according to his own sovereign will and pleasure, as a pre-
vailing Poet. But let no man point out his dealings with our localities as
proofs of his having such knowledge of them as implies personal acquaintance
with them gained by a longer or shorter visit in Scotland. The Fighte at the
beginning seem to be in Fife. The Soldier, there wounded, delivers his rela-
tion at the Eing*s Camp before Forres. He has crawled, in half-an-hour, or
an hour — or two hours — say seventy, eighty, or a hundred miles, or more —
crossing the ridge of the Grampians. Rather smart. I do not know what yon
think hero of Time ; but I think that Space is here pretty weU done for. The
Time of the Action of Shakspeare's Flays has never yet» so fiir as I ksoWf
1849.] Chngtopher under Comvoss. 625
been, in any one Play, carefully investigated— never investigated at all ; and
I now announce to you Three---don't mention it — that I have made discoveries
here that will astound the whole world, and demand a New Criticism of the
entire Shakspearean Drama«
BULLER.
Let us have one now, I beseech yon, sir.
HORTH.
Not now.
BULLER.
No sleep in the Tent till we have it, sir. I do dearly love astounding dis-
coveries— and at this time of day, an astounding discovery in Shakspearc !
May it not prove a Marc's Nest !
NORTH.
The Tragedy of Macbeth is a prodigious Tragedy, because in it the Chariot
of Nemesis visibly rides in the lurid thunder-sky. Because in it the ill motions
of a human soul, which Theologians account for by refemng them all to sug-
gestions of Beelzebub, are expounded in visible, mysterious, tangible, terrible
shape and symbolisation by the Witches. It is great by the character and
person, workings and sufferings, of Lady Macbeth — by the immense poetical
power in doing the Witches — mingling for once in the world the Homely-
Grotesque and the Sublime — extinguishing the Vulgar in the Sublime — by the
bond, whatsoever it be, between Macbeth and his wife — by making us toler-
4ite her and him
BULLER.
Didn't I say that in my own way, sir? And didn't yon reprove me for
saying it, and order me out of the Tent ?
NORTH.
And what of the Witches ?
BULLER.
Had you not stopt me. I say now, sir, that nobody miderstands Shak-
-speare's Hecate. Who is Sue ? Each of the Three Weirds is = one Witch +
one of the Three Fates — therefore the union of two incompatible natures —
more than in a Centaur. Oh ! Sir I what a hand that was which bound the
two into one — inseverablyl There they are for ever as the Centaurs are.
But the gross Witch prevails ; which Shakspeare needed for securing belief,
and he has it, full. Hecate, sir, comes in to balance the disproporton — she
lifts into Mythology — and strengthens the mythological tincture. So does the
** Pit of Acheron." That is dassical. To the best of my remembrance, no
mention of any such Pit in the Old or New Statistical Accoont of Scotland.
NORTH.
And, in the Incantation Scene, those Apparitions ! Mysterious, ominous,
picturesque— and self-willed. They are conmianded by the Witches, but
under a limitation. Their oracular power is their own. They are of unknown
orders — as if for the occasion created in Hell.
NORTH.
Talboys, are you asleep— or are you at Chess with your eyes shut ?
TALBOYS.
At Chess with my eyes shut. I shall send off my move to my friend Stir-
ling by first post. But my ears were open — and I ask — when did Macbeth
first design the murder of Duncan? Does not everybody think — in the mo-
ment after the Witches have first accosted and left him ? Does not — it may
be asked — the whole moral significancy of the Witches disappear, unless the
invasion of hell into Macbeth's bosom is first made by their presence and
voices ?
NORTH.
No. The whole moral significancy of the Witches only then appeal's, when
we are assured that they address themselves only to those who already have
been tampering with then: conscience. " Good sir I why do yon start, and
seem to fear things that do sound so &ir ? " That question put to Macbeth by
Banquo tarns our eyes to his face— and we see Goilt. There wia ao start
626 Christopher under CamfOiS, [Nor*
at " Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor,"— but at the word " King" well might
ho start; for eh?
TAtBOYS.
We must look up the Scene.
NORTH.
No need for that. You have it by heart— recite it.
TALBOYS.
^ Macbeth, So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Banquo, How far is't call'd to Forres !— What are these,
So witherM, and so wild in (heir attire;
That look not like the inhabitants of the earth.
And yet are on't ! Live you ? or are you aught
That man may question I Yon seem to understand me.
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips: — You should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
Macbfth, Speak, if yon can;— What are yon !
IH Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of Glamis !
'2d WUdt, All hail, )»Iaobeth ! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor !
Sd Witch. All hail, Macbeth I that shalt be king hereafter.
Banquo. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair ! — I' the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show t My noble partner
You greet with present grace, and great prediction
Of noble haTing, and of royal hope.
That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not:
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow, and which will not;
Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear
Your fayours nor your hate.
lit Wkeh. Hail I
2d WUch. Hail !
3<i Witch. HaU I
1<{ WUch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
2d Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier.
Sd Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:
So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo I
Ist Wit^. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail I
Macbeth. Stay, you imperflBct speakers, tell me more:
By Sinel*s death, I know, I am thane of Glamis;
But how of Cawdor ! the thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman; and to be king.
Stands not within the prospect of belief.
No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence
You owe this strange intelligence ! or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting!— Speak, I charge you.
[ Witch<i vanith.
Banquo. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them: — Whither are they Tanish'df
Macbeth. Into the air, and what seem'd corporal, melted
As breath into the wind. 'Would they had staid !
Banquo. Were such things here, as we do speak about !
Or have we eaten of the insane root.
That takes the reason prisoner.
Macbeth. Your children shall be kings.
Banouo. You shall be king.
Macoeth. And thane of Cawdor too; went it not so 1
Banquo. To the self-same tune, and words."
NOBTH.
Charles Kemble himself could not have given it more Impressively.
BULLSR.
Ton make him blush, sir.
1849.] Christopher under Canvass, 627
NORTH.
Attend to that " start" of Macbeth, Talboys.
TAIJ80Y8.
He might well start on being told of a sudden, by such seers, that he was
hereafter to be King of Scotland.
NORTH.
There was more in the start than that, my lad, else Shakspeare would not
have so directed our eyes to it. I say again — it was the start — of a murderer.
TALBOYS.
And what if I say it was not ? Bat I hare the candour to confess, that I
am not familiar with the starts of murderers — so may possibly be mistaken.
NORTH.
Omit what intervenes—and give us the Soliloquy, Talboys. But before yon
do so, let me merely remind you that Macbeth's mind, from the b'ttle he says
in the interim, is manifestly rummating on something bad, ere he breaks out
into Soliloquy.
TALBOYS.
" Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme. — I thank you, gentlemen. —
This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill— cannot be good: — If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor:
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs
Against the use of natnrel Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings:
My thought whose murder is yet but fantastical
Shakes so my single state of man, that function
Is smothered in surmise; and nothing is.
But what is not.''
NORTH.
Now, my dear Talboys, you will agree with me in thinking that this first
great and pregnant, although brief soUloquy, stands for germ, type, and law
of the whole Play, and of its criticism — and for clue to the labyrinth of the
Thane's character. " Out of this wood do not desire to go." Out of it I do
not expect soon to go. I regard William as a fair Poet and a reasonable Phi-
losopher; but as a supereminent Play-wright. The First Soliloquy must
speak the nature of Macbeth, else the Craftsman has no skill in his trade. A
Soliloquy reveals. That is its function. Thereui is the soul heard and seen
discoursing with itself— withhi itself; and if you carry your eye through — ^up
to the First Appearance of Lady Macbeth — this SoUloquy is distinctly the
highest point of the Tragedy — ^the tragic acme — or dome — or pinnacle— there-
fore of power indefinite, infinite. On this rock I stand, a Colossus ready to be
thrown down by — an Earthquake.
BULLER.
Pushed off by— a shove.
NORTH.
Not by a thousand Buller-power. Can you believe, Buller, that the word
of the Thkd Witch, " that shalt be Bong Hereafter," sows the murder in
Macbeth's heart, and that it springs up, flowers, and fruits with such fearful
rapidity.
BULLER.
Why — Yes and No.
NORTH.
Attend, Talboys, to the words " supernatural soliciting." What " super-
natural soliciting" to evil is there here? Not a syllable had the Weird
Sisters breathed about Murder.. But now there is much soliloquising — and
Cawdor contemplates himself o4/ec^^e2^— seen busy upon an elderly gentlemaa
628 Ckrit^taphtr tmder Otammm. [Nor.
called Dnncan — after a fashion that so frightens him suhjectwefy — that Banqno
cannot help whispering to Rosse and *
" See how oar partner 's rapt I"
TALBOYS.
" My thought whose mnrder's yet fiutastical." I agree with you, sir, in
sospecting be moat have thongfat of the murder.
KOKTH.
It is from no leaning towards the Weird Sisters — whom I never set tj^s on
bot once, and then without interchanging a word, leapt momentarily out of
this world into that pitch-pot of a pood in Glenco— it is, I say, from no leaning
towards the Weird Sisters that I take this view of Macbeth's character. No
** sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, tendemeaa, and every exalted
quality that can dignify and adorn the human mind," do I ever snfier to pais
by without approbation, when coruscating from tlM character of any weU-
disposed man, real or imaginary, however unaccountable at other times his
conduct may appear to be ; but Shakqiearc, who knew Macbeth better than
any of us, has here assured us that he was in heart a murderer — for how long
he does not specify — before he had ever seen a birse on any of the Weird
Sisters' beards. But let's be canny. IVUboya — pray, what is the meaning of
the word '* soliciting," '^ preternatural soliciting,'* in this Solfloquy ?
TALBOYS.
Soliciting, sir, is, in my interpreting, " an appealing, intimate visitation."
NOBTH.
Right. The appeal is general — as that challenge of a trumpet — Fcury Queen^
book III., canto xii., stanza 1 —
" Signe of nigh battail or got rietorye " —
which, all indeterminate, is notwitlistaiiding a cAa&m;!e— operates, and is felt
as such.
TALB0T8.
So a thundering knock at your door — w^hich may be a friend or an enemy.
It comes as a summoning. It is more than internal urging and inciting of me
by my own thoughts — for mark, sir, the rigour of Sie word ** supernatu-
ral," which throws the soliciting off his own soul upon the Weirds. The
word is really undetermined to pleasure or pain — the essential thooght being
that there is a searching or penetrating provocative — a sturing np of that
which lay dead and still. Next is the debate whether this intmnve, and pun-
gent, and stimulant assault of a presence and an oracle be good or ill ?
NORTH.
Does the hope live in him for a moment that this bome-visiting is not ill —
that the Spirits are not ill? They have q)oken truth so far— ergo, the Third
** AU hail !" shall be true, too. But more than that— they have spoken truth.
Ergo, they are not spirits of Evil. That hope dies in the same instant, sub-
merged in the stormy waves which the Wast from hell aronses. The infernal
revelation glares clear before him— a Crown held out by the hand of Mvder.
One or two struggles occur. Then the truth stands before him fixed and
immutable--" Evil, be thou my good." He is dedicated : and passive to fate.
I cannot comprehend this so feeble debate in the mind of a good man — I can-
not comprehend any such debate at all in the mind of a previously settled and
determined murderer ; but I can comprehend and feel its awful significancy
in the mind of a man already in a most perilous moral condition.
SEWARD.
The "start " shows that the spaA has caught— it has fallen into a tun of
gimpowder.
TALBOTS.
The touch of Ithuriel's spear.
-^ KOKTH.
thi^i^ not say, then, that perhaps the Witches have shown no more than
s<us— the Fascination of Contact between Passion and Opportinity ?
1849.] Christopher under Catnoass. 629
SEWARD.
To Philosophy reading the hieroglyphic ; but to the People what ? To them
they are a reality. They seize the imagination with all power. They come
like *' blasts from hell " — like spirits of Plague, whose breath-— whose very
sight kills.
"^ Within them HeU
They bring, and round about them ; nor from Hell
One step, no more than from themselves, can fly."
The oontagkm of their presence, in spite of what we have been saying, almost
reconciles my understanding to what it would otherwise revolt from, the sudden*
ness with which the penetration of Macbeth into foturity lays fast hold upon
Mnrder.
BXTIXER.
Pretty &st— though it gives a twist or two in his handling.
SEWARD.
Lady Macbeth herself corroborates your judgment and Shakspeare's on her
hnsband^s character.
TALBOYB.
Does she?
SEWARD.
She does. In that dreadful parley between them on the night of the Mnr-
der— she reminds him of a time when
" Nor time nor place
Did then adhere^ and yet you vould make both;
They have made themselyes, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you."
This — mark yon, sir — most have been before the Play began I
NORTH.
I have often thought of the words — and Shakspeare himself has so adjusted
the action of the Play as that, since the encounter with the Weirds, no opportu-
nity had occurred to Macbeth for the " making of time and place." There-
fore it must, as you say, have been before it, Buller, what say you now?
BULLER.
Gagged.
NORTH.
True, she speaks of his being *^ full of the milk of human kindness." The
words have become favourites with us, who are an affectionate and domestic
people — and are lovingly applied to the loving ; but Lady Macbeth attached
BO such profound sense to them as we do ; and meant merely that she thought
her husband would, after all, much prefer greatness unbought by blood ; and,
at the time she referred to, it is probable he would ; but that she meant no
more than that, is plain from the continuation of her pruse, in which her ideas
get not a little confused ; and her words, interpret them as you will, leave
nothing ^* milky" in Macbeth at all. Milk of human kindness, indeed I
TALBOYS.
« What thou would'st highly,
That would'st thou holily; would'st not play fsAse,
And yet would'st wrongly win: thou'dst have great Glamis,
That whieh cries, ' Thus thou must do, if thou have it;
And that which rather thou dost fear to do,
Than wlshest should be undone.' "
Thai is her Ladyship's notion of the " milk of human kindness "I V^ I wish
somebody would murder Duncan — as for murdering him myself, I am much
too tender-hearted and humane for perpetrating such cruelty with my own
hand!"
BULLER.
Won't you believe a Wife to be a good judge of her Husband's disposition ?
NORTH.
Not Lady Macbeth. For does not she herself tell us, at the same tune,
that he had formerly schemed how to conmiit Mnrder?
C30 ChrisU^piker wukr Camtati. [Nor.
BUIXEB.
Gagged agaio.
KOBTH.
I see no reason for donbting that she was attached to her husband ; and
Shakspeare loved to put into the lips of women beautiful expressions of lore-
bat he did not intend that we should be deceived thereby in our moral judg.
ments.
SEWARD.
Did this ever occur to you, sir? Macbeth, when hiring the murderers who
are to look after Banquo and Fleance, cites a conrersation in which he bad
demonstrated to them that the oppreasion under which they had long suffered,
and which they had supposed to proceed from Macbeth, proceeded really from
Banquo ? My firm belief is that it proceeded from Macbeth — that their suspi-
cion was right— that Macbeth is misleading them — and that Shakspeare means
you to apprehend this. But why should Macbeth hare oppressed his inferiors,
unless he had been — long since— of a tyrannical nature ? He oppresses his
inferiors — they are sickened and angered with the world — by his oppression-
he tells them 'twas not he but another who had oppressed them — and that
other — at his instigation — they willingly murder. An ugly affair altogether.
KOBTH.
Very. Bat let us keep to the First Act — and see what a hypocrite Mac-
beth has so rery soon become — what a sarage assassin ! He has just fol-
lowed up his SoUloquy with these significant lines —
^ Come what come may,
Tliut and the hour rnn tkrom^ the roughest day;"
when he recollects that Banquo, Rosse, and Angus are standing near. Richard
himself is not more wily — gaily — smily — and oily ; to the Lords his conde-
scension is already quite kingly —
*' Kind gentlemen, your pains
Are registered where every day I turn
The leaf to read them"—
TALBOYS.
And soon after, to the King how obsequious !
" The serTice and the loyalty I owe,
In doing it, pays itself. Yoor Highness' part
Is to receive oar duties; and our duties
Are to your throne and state, children, and servants;
Which do hut what they should by doing everything
Safe toward you love and honour."
What would Tayne Knight hare said to all that ? This to his King, whom
he has resolred, first good opportunity, to murder !
NORTH.
Duncan is now too happy for this wicked world.
" My plenteous joys,
Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves
In drops of sorrow."
Inraders — traitors— now there are none. Peace is restored to the Land— the
Throne rock-fast — the line secure —
" We will establish our estate upon
Our eldest, Malcolm ; whom we name hereafter.
The Prince of Cumberland : which honour must
Not, unaccompanied,' invest him only.
But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine
On all deservers."
Now was the time for " the manly but ineffectual struggle of every exalted
quality that can dignify and exalt the human mind" — for a few sublime
flashes at least of generosity and tenderness, et cetera — ^now when the Gra-
cious Duncan is loading him with honours, and, better than all honomis,
1849.] Christopher under Canvass, 631
lavishing on him the boundless effusions of a grateful and royal heart. The
Prince of Cumberland ! Ha, ha !
" The Prince of Cumberland !— That is a step
Ou which I must fall down^ or else o'erleap,
For in my way it lies.'*
But the remorseless miscreant becomes poetical —
" Stars, hide your fires !
Let not light see my black and deep desires :
The eye wink at the hand ! yet let that be,
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see ! "
The milk of human kindness has coagulated into the curd of inhuman ferocity
— and all this— slanderers say — is the sole work of the Weird Sisters ! No.
His wicked heart — because it is wicked — believes in their Prophecy — the end
is assured to him — and the means are at once suggested to his own slaughter-
ous nature. No supernatural soliciting here, which a better man would not
successfully have resisted. I again repudiate— should it be preferred against
me — the charge of a tendresse towards the Bearded Beauties of the Blasted
Heath ; but rather would I marry them all Three — one after the other — ^^nay
all three at once, and as many more as there may be in our Celtic My-
thology— than see your Sophia, Seward, or, Bnller, your —
BULLER.
We have but Marmy.
NORTH.
Wedded to a Macbeth.
SEWARD.
We know your affection, my dear sir, for your goddaughter. She is insured.
NORTH.
Well, this Milk of Human Kindness is off at a hand-gallop to Inverness.
The King has announced a Royal Visit to Macbeth's own Castle. But Cawdor
had before this despatched a letter to his lady, from which Shakspeare has given
ns an extract. And then, as I understand it, a special messenger besides,,
to say " the King comes here to-night." Which of the two is the more
impatient to be at work 'tis hard to say ; but the idea of the murder origi-
nated with the male Prisoner. We have his wife's word for it — she told him
80 to his face — and he did not deny it. We have his own word for it — he
told himself so to his own face — and he never denies it at any time during the
play.
TALBOYS.
You said, a little while ago, sir, that you believed Macbeth and his wife
were a happy couple.
NORTH.
Not I. I said she was attached to him — and I say now that the wise men
are not of the Seven, who point to her reception of her husband, on his arrival
at home, as a proof of her want of affection. They seem to think she ought
to have rushed into his arms — slobbered upon his shoulder — and so forth. For
had he not been at the Wars ? Pshaw ! The most tender-hearted Thanesses
of those days — even those that kept albums — would have been aabamed of
weeping on sending their Thanes off to battle — much more on receiving them
back in a sound skin — ^with new honours nodding on their plumes. Lady Mac-
beth was not one of the turtle-doves — ^fit mate she for the King of the Vul-
tures. I am too good an ornithologist to call them Eagles. She received her
mate fittingly — with murder in her soul ; but more cruel — ^more selfish than
he, she could not be — nor, perhaps, was she less ; but she was more reso-
lute— and resolution even in evil — in such circumstances as hers — «eems to
argue a superior nature to his, who, while he keeps vacillating, as if it were
between good and evil, betrays all the time the bias that is surely inclining
him to evil, into which he makes a sadden and sure wheel at last.
BUIXER.
The Weirds— the Weirds !— the Weirds have done it all !
•VOL. LXVI.— KO. CCCCIX. 2 T
032 Chrutopher under CoMuosff. [Nov.
KOBTH.
Macbeth— Macbeth !— Macbeth has done it all I
BULL£R.
Furies and Fates I
NORTH.
AVho make the wicked their victims !
SEWARD.
Is she sublime in her wickedness ?
NORTH.
It would, I fear, be wrong to say so. But I was sneaking of Macbetli's
character— not of hers — and, in comparison with him, sne may seem a great
creature. They arc now utterly alone — and of the two he has been the more
familiar with murder. Between them, Duncan already is a dead man. Bat
how pitiful — ^at such a time and at such a greeting — ^Macbeth'a cautions—
** Mj dearest LoTe,
Duncui comes here to-night !
Lady, — And when goes henoe 1
Macbeth, — To-morrow, as he purposes.
Lady, — Oh, neyer
Shall sun that morrow see !"
Why, Talboys, does not the poor devil —
TALBOYS.
Poor devil 1 Macbeth a poor devil ?
NOIITH.
Wliy, Buller, does not the poor devil?
BUIXEB.
Poor devil 1 Macbeth a poor devil?
NORTH.
AVhy, Seward, does not the poor devil —
SEWARD.
Speak up — speak out V Is he afraid of the spiders ? Yon know him, sir^
you see through him.
NORTH.
Ay, Seward — reserved and close as he is — he wants nerve — pluck — ^he is
close upon the coward — and that would be well, were there the alightest
tendency towards change of purpose in the Pale Face ; but there is none-—
he is as cruel as ever — the more close the more cruel — the more irresolute the
more murderous — for to murder he is sure to come. Seward, you said
well — why does not the poor devil speak up^speak out ? Is he afraid of the
spiders ?
TALR0Y8.
Murderous-looking villain — no need of words.
NORTH.
I did not say, sir, there was any need of words. Why, will yon always be
contradicting one ?
TALBOYS.
Me ? I ? I hope I shall never live to see the day on which I contradict
Christopher North in his own Tent. At least— rudely.
NORTH.
Do it rudely — ^not as you did now — and often do— as if yon were agreeing
with me — but you aie incurable. I say, my dear Talboys, that Macbeth so
bold in a " twa-haun'd crack" with himself in a Soliloquy— so figurative— and
so fond of swearing by the Stars and old Mother Night, who were not aware
of his existence — should not have been thus tongue-tied to his own wife in
thek own secretest chamber— should have unlocked and flung open the door
of his heart to her— like a Man. I blush for him— I do. Sodid his wife.
BULLER.
I don't find that in the record.
NORTH.
Don't you? " Your face, my Thane, is as a book where mea may read
1849.] ChrUtoplier under Canvcus^ 633
strange matters." She sees in his face self-alarm at hia own morderoos inten-
tions. And so she counsels him about his fi^o^ — lil^e a self-collected, trust-
worthy woman. " To beguile the time, iook like the time ;" with further good
stem advice. But — " We shall cpcak farther," is all she can get from him in
answer to conjugal assurances that should have given him a pidpitation at the
heart, and set lus eyes on fire —
*' He that's coming
Mast be provided for ; and you shall put
This night's great badness into my despatch ;
Which shall, to all oar nights and days to come,
Give solely sovereign sway and Masterdom."
There spoke one worthy to be a Queen I
SEWA&D.
Worthy 1
NOBTH.
Ay — in that age — in that country. 'Twas not then the custom ^^ to speak
daggers but use none." Did Shakspeare mean to dignify, to magnify Macbeth
by such demeanour? No^to degrade and minimise the murderer.
TALBOTS.
My dear sir, I cordially agree with every word you utter. Go on — ^my dear
sir — to instruct — to illumine —
SEWARD.
To bring out ^* sublime flashes of magnanimity, courage, tenderness," in
Macbeth —
BULLER.
*^ Of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn the human mind" —
the mind of Macbeth in his struggle with the allurements of ambition I
XOBTH.
Observe, how this reticence — on the part of Macbeth— contrasted with his
wife^s eagerness and exultation, makes her, for the moment, seem the
wickeder of the two— the fiercer and the more cruel. For the moment only ;
for we soon ask ourselves what means this unhusbandly reserve in him who
liad sent her that letter — and then a messenger to tell her the king was coming
— and who had sworn to himsdf as savagely as she now does, not to let slip
this opportunity of cutting his king^s throat. He is well-pleased to see that
his wife is as bloody-minded as himself— that she will not only give all ne-
eessary assistance — as an associate — but concert the when, and the where, and
the how — and if need be, with her own hand deal the blow.
SEWARD.
She did not then know that Macbeth had made up his mind to murder
Duncan that very night. But we know it. She has instantly made up hers
— we know how ; but being as yet unassured of her husband, she welcomes
him home with a Declaration that must have more than answered his fondest
hopes ; and, therefore, he is dmost mute — the few words he does utter seem
to indicate no settled purpose — Duncan may fulfil his intention of going in the
morning, or he may not ; but we know that the silence of the murderer now
is because the murderess is manifestly all he could wish-— and that, had she
shown any reluctance, he would have resumed his eloquence, and, to convert
her to his way of thinking, argued as powerfully as he did when converting
himself.
BULLER.
You carry on at such a pace, sir, there's no keeping up with you. Full up,
that I may ask you a very simple question. On his arrival at his castle,
Macbeth finds his wife reading a letter from her amiable spouse, about the
Weird Sisters. Pray, when was that letter written ?
NORTH.
At what hour precisely? That.I can't say. It must, however, have been
written before Macbeth had been presented to the King — for there is no allu-
iotm in it to the Song's intention to visit their Castle. I believe it to have been
written aboiit «a hour or so after the pfophecy of the Weirds— either in some
634 Christopher under Canvass, [Nov.
place of refreshment Dj the road- side— or in such a Tent as this — kept ready
for the General in the King*o Camp at Forres. He despatched it by a Giily
— a fast one like your Cornwall CUppw — and then tumbled in.
BULLER.
When did she receive it ?
NORTH.
Early next morning.
BULLER.
How could that be, since she is reading it, as her husband steps in, well on,
as I take it, in the afternoon ?
NORTH.
BuUer, you are a blockhead. There had she, for many hours, been sitting,
and walking about witli it, now rumpled up in her fist — now crunkled up
between her breasts — now locked up in a safe — now spread out like a sampler
on that tasty little oak table — and sometimes she might have been beard by
the servants— had they had the unusual curiosity to listen at the door — mur-
muring like a stock-dove — anon hooting like an owl— -by-and-by barking like
an eagle — then bellowing liker a hart than a hind — almost howling like a wolf
— and why not ? — now singing a snatch of an old Gaelic air, with a clear,
wild, sweet voice, like that of *' a human 1"
'' Glamis thou art, aud Cawdor ; and Bhalt be
What thou art promised."
" Hie thee hither,
Tliat I may pour my epirits in thine ear,
And chastise with the valour of my tongue,
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which Fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crowu'd withaL"
BULLER.
Grand indeed.
NORTH.
It is grand indeed. But, my dear Buller, was that all she had said to her-
self, think you? No — no — no. But it was all Shakspeare had time for on
the Stage. Oh, sirs I The Time of the Stage is but a simulacrum of true
Time. That must be done at one stroke, on the Stage, which in a Life takes
ten. The Stage persuades that in one conversation, or soliloquy, which Life
may do in twenty — ^you have not leisure or good-will for the ambages and
iterations of the Real.
8EWARD.
See an artist with a pen in his hand, challenged ; and with a few lines he
will exhibit a pathetic story. From how many millions has he giyen you—
One ? The units which he abstracts, represent sufficiently and satisfactorily
the millions of lines and surfaces which he neglects.
NORTH.
So in Poetry. You take little for much. You need not wonder, then, that
on an attendant entering aqd saying, *^ The King comes here to-night," she
cries, ^^ Thou^rt mad to say it !" Had you happened to tell her so haif-an-
hour ago, who knows but that she might have received it with a stately smile,
that hardly moved a muscle on her iHgh-featured fh)nt, and gave a merdfol
look to her green eyes even when she was communing with Murder !
NORTH.
TVhat hurry and haste had been on all sides to get into the House of Murder I
'' Where's the Thane of Cawdor t
We coursed him, at the heels, and had a purpose
To be his purveyor : but he rides well :
And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath help him
To his home before us — Fair and noble Hostess,
We are your guest to-night"
Ay, where is the Thane of Cawdor? I, for one, not knowing, can*t say. The
gracious Duncan desires much to see him as well as his gractous Hostess.
1849.] Chriatopher under Canvass. 685
^ Gire me your hand :
Conduct me to mine host : we lore him highly,
And shall continue our graces towards him.
By your leare, Hostess."
Ay — whereas the Thane of Cawdor? Why did not Shakspeare show bun to
ns, sitting at sapper with the King?
TALBOTS.
Did he sup with the King ?
BULLER.
I believe he sat down — but got np again — and left the Chamber.
TALB0Y8.
His wife seeks him out. '^ He has almost supped. Why have you left the
Chamber ?" " Has he asked for me ? " " Know ye not he has ?"
NORTH.
On Macbeth's Soliloquy, which his wife's entrance here interrupts, how
much inconsiderate comment have not moralists made I Here — they have
said^is the struggle of a good man with temptation. Hearken, say they —
lo the voice of Conscience ! What does the good man, in this hour of trials
say to , himself? He says to himself — *' I have made up my mind to
assassinate my benefactor in my own house — the onlv doubt I have, is about
the consequences to myself in the world to come.'* Well, then — "We'd
jump the world to come. But if I murder him — ^may not others murder me?
Retribution even in this world." Call you that the voice of Conscience ?
8EWABD.
Hardly.
NORTH.
He then goes on to descant to himself about the relation in which he stands
to Duncan, and apparently discovers for the first time, that " he's here in
double trust ;" and that as his host, his kinsman, and his subject, he should
*^ against his murderer shut the door, not bear the knife myself."
SEWARD.
A man of genius.
NORTH.
Besides, Duncan is not only a King, but a good King —
** So clear in his great office, that his yirtues
Will plead like angels, tnimpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off.''
That is much better morality— keep there, Macbeth— or thereabouts— and
Duncan's life is tolerably safe— at least for one night. But Shakspeare knew
his man — and what manner of man he is we hear in the unbearable context^
that never yet has been quoted by any one who had ears to distinguish between
the true and the fidse.
" And pity, like a naked new-bom babe,
Striding the blast, or heayen's cherubim, horsM
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.''
Cant and fustian. Shakspeare knew that cant and fustian would come at
that moment from the mouth of Macbeth. Accordingly, he offers but a poor
resistance to the rhetoric that comes rushing from his wife's heart— even that
sentiment which is thought so fine— and 'tis well enough in its way—
'^ I dare do all that may become a man;
'Who dares do more is none" —
is set aside at once by —
" What beast was it, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me I"
We hear no more of " Pity like a naked new-bom babe"— but at her horrid
scheme of the murder—
^6 Chrittopher nuder Cmmxtu. [Nor.
" Bring forth men-children only !
For thy nndaonted BMttle should oompoee
Nothing bat males !"
Shakspeare does not paint here a grand and desperate straggle between good
and evil thoughts in Macbeth*s mind — ^but a mock fight ; had there been any
deep sincerity in the feeling expressed in the bombast — ^had there been any
tnie feeling at all— it would have revived and deepened — ^not faded and died
almost — at the picture drawn by Lady Macbeth of their victim —
" When DoDcan is asleep,
Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him,"
the words that had jnst left his own lips —
^'Uia virtues
Will plead like angels, tmmpet-tongued, a{;ain8t
The deep damnation of his taking-off,"
wonld have re-mng in his ears ; and a strange medlej — ^words and music—
would they have made — with his wife's
** When in swinish sleep
Their drenched natnres lie, as in a death,
What cannot yon and I perform upon
The unguarded Duncan 1"
That is my idea of the Soliloquy. Think on it.
TALB0Y8.
The best critics tell us that Shakspeare's Lady Macbeth has a commandmg
Intellect. Certes she has a commanding Will. I do not see what a com-
manding Intellect has to do in a Tragedy of this kind— or what opportunity
she has of showing it. Do you, sir?
Kosm.
I do not.
TALBOYS.
Her Intellect seems pretty much on a par with Macbeth's in the planning
of the murder.
NORTH.
I defy any human Intellect to devise well an atrodons Murder. Pray, how
would you have murdered Duncan ?
TALBOYS.
Ask me rather how I would — ^this night — murder Christopher North.
NORTH.
No more of that — no dallying in that direction. You make me shudder.
Shakspeare knew that a circumspect murder is an impossibility — that a mur-
der of a King in the murderer's own house, with expectation of non-discovery,
is the irrationality of infatuation. The poor Idiot chuckles at the poor Fury's
device as at once original and plausible — and, next hour, what single soul in
the Castle docs not know who did the deed?
High Intellect indeed !
TALBOYS.
The original murder is bad to the uttermost. I mean badly contrived. What
colour was there in colouring the two Grooms? No two men kill their master,
and then go to bed again in his room with bloody faces and poignards.
BULLEE.
th^nir f^o. w.n?""^^.^^"'' esteem for her Ladyship's tSents. Am I, sir, to
^X T ^is "if™ himself, after the same game, would have hunted no bet-
for thA^ir^ u "^^""^V ^"* ^^ ^^''""^^ that this will cany the Plot through
lor the Stage wcU enough. The House, seeing and hearing, will not stay to
1849,] Christopher under Canvass. 687
criticise. The Horror persuades Belief. He knew the whole mystery of
marder.
NORTH.
My dear Buller, wheel nearer me. I would not lose a word you say.
BULLER.
Did Macbeth commit an error in killing the two Grooms ? And does his
Lady think so ?
TALBOYS.
A gross error, and his Lady thinks so.
BULLER.
Why was it a gross error — and why did his lady think so ?
TALBOYS.
Because— why — ^I really can't tell.
BULLER.
Nor I. The question leads to formidable difficulties— either way. But
answer me this. Is her swooning at the close of her husband's most graphic
picture of the position of the corpses — ^real or pretended?
SEWARD.
Real.
TALBOYS.
Pretended.
BULLER.
Sir?
KORTH.
I reserve my opinion.
TALBOYS.
Not a foint — ^but a feint. She cannot undo that which is done ; nor hinder
that which he will do next. She must mind her own business. Now dis-
tinctly her own business is — ^to faint. A high-bred, sensitive, innocent Lady,
startled from her sleep to find her guest and King murdered, and the room full
of aghast nobles, cannot possibly do anything else but faint. Lady Macbeth,
who '^ all particulars of duty knows," faints accordingly.
NORTH.
Seward, we are ready to hear you.
SEWARD.
She has been about a business that must have somewhat shook her nerves
— granting them to be of iron. She would herself have murdered Duncan had
he not resembled her Father as he slept ; and on sudden discernment of that
dreadful resemblance, her soul must have shuddered, if her body served her
to stagger away from parricide. On the deed being done, she is terrified after
a different manner from the doer of the deed ; but her terror is as great ; and
though she says —
** The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures — 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted Devil — "
believe me that her face was like ashes, as she returned to the chamber to
gild the faces of the grooms with the dead man's blood. That knocking, too,
alarmed the Lady — ^beUeve me — as much as her husband ; and to keep cool
and collected before him, so as to be able to support him at that moment with
her advice, must have tried the utmost strength of her nature. Call her Fiend
— she was Woman. Down stairs she comes — and stands among them all, at
first like one alarmed only — astounded by what she hears — and striving to
simulate the ignorance of the innocent — "What, in our house?" "Too
cruel anywhere!" Wiat she must have suffered then, Shakspeare lets us
conceive for ourselves ; and what on her husband's elaborate description of
his inconsiderate additional murders. " The whole is too much for her" — she
" is perplexed in the extreme" — and the sinner swoons.
NORTH.
Seward suggests a bold, strong, deep, tragical turn of the scene — that she
fiiints actually. Well— so be it. I shaU say, first, that I thmk it a weakness
638 Christopher under Canvass. [Nor.
in my favourite ; but I will go so far as to add that I can let it pass for a not
unpardonable weakness — the occasion given. But I must deal otherwise with
her biographer. Him I shall hold to a strict rendering of account. I will
know of him what he is about, and what she is about. If she faints really,
and against her will, having forcible reasons for holding her will clear, she
must be shown fighting to the last effort of will, against the assault of womanly
nature, and drop, vanquished, as one dead, without a sound. But theThaness
calls out lustily— she remembers, " as we shall make our griefs and clamours
roar upon his death." She makes noise enough — takes good care to attract
everybody's attention to her performance — for which I commend her. Calculate
as nicely as you will — she distracts or diverts speculation, and makes an
interesting and agreeable break in the conversation. — I think that the obvious
meaning is the right meaning — and thcU she faints on purpose.
NORTH.
Decided in favour of Feint.
BULLER.
You might have had the good manners to ask for my opinion.
NORTH.
I beg a thousand pardons, Buller.
BULLER.
A hundred will do, North. In Davies' Anecdotes oftJte Stage, I remember
reading that Garrick would not trust Mrs Pritchard with the Swoon — and that
Maeklin thought Mrs Porter alone could have been endured by the audience.
Therefore, by the Great Manager, Lady Macbeth was not allowed in the
Scene to appear at all. His belief was, that with her Ladyship it was a feint—
and that the Gods, aware of that, unless restrained by profound respect for the
actress, would have laughed — as at something rather comic. If the Gods, in
Shakspeare's days, were as the Gods in Garrick's, William, methinks, would
not, on any account, have cx])osc(l the Lady to derision at such a time. But
I suspect the Gods of the Globe would not have laughed, whatever they might
liave thought of her sincerity, and that she did appear before them in a Scene
from which nothing could account for her absence. She was not, I verily be-
lieve, given to fainting — perhaps this was the first time she had ever fainted
since she was a girl. Now I believe she did. She would have stood by her
husband at all hazards, had she been able, both on his account and her own ; she
would not have so deserted him at such a critical juncture; her character was
of boldness rather than duplicity ; her business now — her duty — was to brazen
it out ; but she grew sick — qualms of conscience, however terrible, can be
borne by sinners standing upright at the mouth of hell — but the flesh of man
is weak, in its utmost strength, when moulded to woman's form — other qualms
Assail suddenly the earthly tenement — the breath is choked — the " distracted
globe" grows dizzy — they that look out of the windows know not what they
see — the body reels, lapses, sinks, and at fidl length smites the floor.
SEWARD.
Well said — Chairman of the Quarter- sessions.
BULLER.
Nor, with all submission, my dear Sir, can I think you treat your favourite
murderess, on this tr}'ing occasion, with your usual fairness and candour. All
she says, is, ** Help me hence, ho I " Macduff says, " Look to the Lady" — and
Banquo says, ** Look to the Lady" — and she is ** carried off." Some critic or
other— I think Malone — says that Macbeth shows he knows " 'tis a feint" by
not going to her assistance. Perhaps he was mistaken — know it he could not.
And nothmg more likely to make a woman faint than that revelling and
wallowing of his in that bloody description.
NORTH.
By the Casting Vote of the President—7'>fVi/.
TALBOYS.
Let's to Lunch.
NORTH.
Go. You will find me sittmg here when yon come back.
1849.] Clifistoplter under Canvms. 639
SCEKE II.
Scene — The Pavilion, Time — after Lunch.
NOBTH — ^TaLBOTS — BULLER — SeWARD.
NORTH.
Clandins, the Uncle-king in Hamlet, is perhaps the most odious character
in all Shakspeare. Bat he does no mmecessary mnrders. He has killed the
Father, and will the Son, all in regnlar order. Bat Macbeth plunges himself,
like a drunken man, into unnecessary and injurious cruelties. He throws like
a reckless gamester. If I am to own the truth, I don^t know why he is so
cruel. I don't think that he takes any pleasure in mere cruelty, like
Nero—
BULLER.
What do we know of Nero ? Was he mad ?
NORTH.
I don^t think that he takes any pleasure in mere cruelty, like Nero ; but he
seems to be under some infatuation that drags or drives him along. To kill is,
in every difficulty, the ready resource that occurs to him — as if to go on murder-
ing were, by some law of the Universe, the penalty which you must pay for
having once murdered.
SEWARD.
I think. Sir, that without contradicting anything we said before Lunch
about hiiB Lordship or his Kingship, we may conceive in the natund Macbeth
considerable force of Moral Intuition.
NORTH.
We may.
Of Moral Intelligence ?
Yes.
Of Moral Obedience?
No.
SEWARD.
NORTH.
SEWARD.
NORTH.
SEWARD.
Moral Intuition, and Moral Intelligence breaking out, from time to time,
all through — we understand how there is engendered in him strong self-dis-
satisfaction— thence perpetual goadings on — and desperate attempts to lose
conscience in more and more crime.
NORTH.
Ay — Seward— even so. He tells you that he stakes soul and body upon
the throw for a Crown. He has got the Crown — and paid for it. He must
keep it — ehie he has bartered soul and body — ^for nothing ! To make his first
crime ^ooc^— he strides gigantically along the road of which it opened the
gate.
TALBOYS.
An almost morbid impressibility of imagination is energetically stamped,
and universally recognised in the Thane, and I think, sir, that it warrants,
•to a certain extent, a sincerity of the mental movements. He really sees a fan-
tastical dagger — he really hears fantastical voices — ^perhaps he really sees a
fantastical Ghost. All this in him is Nature— not artifice— and a nature
deeply, terribly, tempestuously commoved by the near contact of a murder im-
minent— doing— done. It is more like a murderer a-making than a murderer
made.
SEWARD.
See, sir, how precisely this characteristic is proposed.
640 ChriUopher tmder Ckmvttn. [Nor.
BULLER.
By whom ?
BEWARD.
By Shakspcare, in that first Soliloqnj. The poetry colouring, throughout,
hLs dlscoarsc, is its natural ef9orescence.
NORTH.
Talboys, Seward, you have spoken well.
DULLER.
And I have spoken ill ?
NORTH.
I haye not said so.
BUIXJER.
We haye all Four of us spoken well— we haye all Four of us spoken HI—
and we haye all Four of us spoken but so-so— -now and heretofore — in this
Tent — hang the wind — ^there^s no hearing twelye words in ten a body says.
Honoured sir, I beg permission to say that I cannot admit the Canon laid
down by your Reyerence, an hour or two ago, or a minute or two ago, that
Macbeth's extrayagant language is designed by Shakspeare to designate hypo-
crisy.
KORTR.
Why?
BULIiER.
Ton commended Talboys and Seward for noticing the imaginatiye— the
poetical character of Macbeth^s mind. There we find the reason of his extra-
yagant language. It may, as you said, be cant and fustian-— or it may not—
but why attribute to hypocrisy — as yon did— what may haye flowed from his
genius ? Poets may rant as loud as he, and yet be honest men. '^ In a fine
frenzy rolling," their eyes may fasten on fustiiui.
NORTH.
Good — go on. Deduct.
BXTLLER.
Besides, sir, the Stage had such a language of its own ; and I cannot help
thinking that Shakspeare often, and too frankly, gaye in to it.
NORTH.
He did.
BULLER.
I would, howeyer, much rather belieye that if Shakspeare meant anything by
it in Macbeth's Oratory or Poetry, he intended thereby rather to impress on ns
that last noticed constituent of his nature — a yehement seizure of imagination.
I belieye, sir, that in the hortatory scene Lady Macbeth really yanquiahes — as
Uie scene ostensibly shows — his trresolntion. And if Shakspeare means
nresolution, I do not know why the grounds thereof which Shakspeare assigns
to Macbeth should not be accepted as the true grounds. The Dramatist would
seem to me to demand too much of me, if, under the grounds which he expresses,
he requires me to discard these, and to discoyer and express others.
SEWAKD.
I do not know, sir, if that horrible Inyocation of hen to the Spirits of Mur-
der to unsex her, be held by many to imply that die has no need (Xf their help?
NORTH.
It is held by many to proye that she was not a woman but a fiend. It
proyes the reyerse. I infer from it that she does need their help — and, what
Is more, that the gets it. Nothing so dreadful, in the whole range of Man's
TVa^c Drama, as that Murder. But I see Seward is growing pale — ^we know
his mfirmity — and for the present shun it.
SEWARB.
Thank you, sir.
NORTH.
I may, howeyer, ask a question about Banquo's Ghost.
^„ SEWARD.
WeU— well— do so.
1849.] Christopher under Canvass, 641
TALBOYS.
Ton put the qaestion to me, sir? I am inclined to think, sir, that no real
Ghost sits on the Stool— bat that Shakspeare meant it as with the Daggers.
On the Stage he appears — ^that is an abuse.
NORTH.
Not so sure of that, Talboys.
TALBOYS.
Had Macbeth himself continued to believe that the first-seen Ghost was a
real Ghost, he would not, could not have ventured so soon^after its disappear-
ance to say again, ^^ And to our dear friend Banquo.^' He does say it — and
then again diseased imagination assails him at the rash words. Lady Macbeth
reasons with him again, and he finally is persuaded that the Ghost, both times>
had been but brain-sick creations.
" My strange and self-abase
Is the initiate fear, that wants hard use : —
I am but young in deed ."
BULLER.
That certainly looks as if he did then know he had been deceived. Bat
perhaps he only censures himself for being too much agitated by a real ghost.
TALBOYS.
That wonH do.
NORTH.
Bat go back, my dear Talboys, to the first enacting of the Play. What
could the audience have understood to be happening, without other direc-
tion of their thoughts than the terrified Macbeth^s t^wildered words? He
never mentions Banquets name — and recollect that nobody sitting there then
knew that Banqao had been murdered. The dagger is not in point. Then
the spectators heard him say, " Is this a dagger that I see before me ?" And
if no dagger was there, they could at once see that 'twas phantasy.
TALBOYS.
Something in that.
BULLER.
A settler.
NORTH.
I entirely separate the two questions— first, how did the Manager of the
Globe Theatre have the Eang's Seat at the Feast filled ; and second, what
does the highest poetical Canon deliver. I speak now, but to the first. Now,
here the rule is — ^' the audience must understand, and at once, what that which
they see and hear means'' — that Rule must govern the art of the drama in
the Manager's practice. You aUow that, Talboys ?
TALBOYS-
I do.
BULLER.
Rash — Talboys— rash : he's getting you into a net.
NORTH.
That is not my way, Buller. Well, then, suppose Macbeth acted for the
first time to an audience, who are to establish it for a stock-play or to damn
it. Would the Manager commit the whole power of a scene which is perhaps
the most — singly — effective of the whole Play —
BULLER.
No— no— not the most effective of the whole Play —
NORTH.
The rival, then, of the Murder Scene— the Sleep- Walking stands aloof and
aloft — to the chance of a true divination by the whole Globe audience?
I think not. The argument is of a vulgar tone, I confess, and extremely lite-
ral, but it is after the measure of my poor faculties.
SEWARD.
In confirmation of what you say, sir, it has been lately asserted that one of
the two appearings at least is not Banqao's — but Duncan's. How is that to
be settled but by a re^ Ghost — or Ghosts?
642 Christopher under Canvass, [Nor.
NORTH.
And I ask, what has Shakspeare himself undeniably done elsewhere ? In
Henry VIII. , Queen Katherine sleeps and dreams. Her Dream enters, and
performs various acts — somewhat expressive — minutely contrived and pre-
scribed. It is a mute Dream, which she with shut eyes sees — which you in
pit, boxes, and gallciy see — which her attendants, watching abont her npou
the stage, do not see.
SEWARD.
And in Richard III— He dreams, and so does Richmond. Eight Ghosts
rise in succession and speak to Richard first, and to the Earl next — each
hears, I suppose, what concerns himself— they seem to be present in the two
Tents at once.
NORTH.
In Cymbeline, Posthumus dreams. His Dream enters — Ghosts and even
Jupiter 1 They act and speak ; and this Dream has a reality — ^for Jupiter
hands or tosses a parchment-roll to one of the Ghosts, who lays it, as bidden,
on the breast of the Dreamer, where he, on awaking, perceives it ! I call all
this physically strong, sir, for the representation of the metaphysically
thought.
BULLEK.
If Buller may speak, BuUer would observe, that once or twice both Ariel
and Prospero come forward " invisible." And in Spenser, the Dream of which
Morpheus lends the use to Archimago, is — carried.
SEWARD.
We all remember the Dream which Jupiter sends to Agamemnon, and which,
while standing at his bed^s-head, puts on the shape of Nestor and speaks ;
— the Ghost of Patroclus — the actual Ghost which stands at the bed^s-head
of Achilles, and is liis Dream.
NORTH.
jVIy friends. Poetry gives a body to the bodiless. The Stage of Shakspeare
was rude, and gross. In my boyhood, I saw the Ghosts appear to John
Kerable in Richard IH. Now they may be abolished with Banqno. So may
be Queen Kathcrine's Angels. But Shakspeare and his Audience had no diffi-
culty about one person's seeing what another does not — or one's not seebg,
rather, that which another does. Nor had Homer, when Achilles alone, in the
Quarrel Scene, sees Minerva. Shakspeai-e and his Audience had no difficulty
about the bodily representation of Hioughts — the inward by the outward.
Shakspeare and the Great Old Poets leave vague, shadowy, mist-shrouded,
nnd indeterminate the boundaries between the Thought and the Existent—
the Real and the Unreal. I am able to believe with you, Talboys, that
Banquo's Ghost was undei*stood by Shakspeare, the Poet, to be the Phantasm
of the murderer's guilt-and-fear-shaken soul ; but was required by Shakspeare,
the Manager of the Globe Theatre, to rise up through a trap-door, mealy-
faced and blood-boultered, and so make " the Table full."
BULLER.
Seward, do bid him speak of Lady Macbeth.
BEWARD.
Oblige me, sir — don't now — after dinner, if you will.
NORTH.
I shall merely allude now, as exceedingly poetical treatment, to the discre-
tion throughout used in the showing of Lady Macbeth. You might almost
say that she never takes a step on the stage, that does not thrUl the Theatre.
Not a waste word, gesture, or look. All at the studied fulness of sublime
tragical power-^et all wonderfally tempered and governed. I doubt if
Shakspeare could have given a good account of everything that he makes
Macbeth say— but of all that She says he could.
TALBOYS.
As far as I am able to judge, she but once in the whole Play loses her perfect
self-mastery — when the servant surprises her by announcing the King's
coming. She answers, ^ tbou'rt mad to ^^^ \l \* ^hich. is a maimer of speaking
1849.] Christopher under Canvass. 643
used by those who cannot, or can hardly believe tidings that fill them with
exceeding joy. It is not the manner of a Lady to her servant who unex-
pectedly announces the arrival of a high — of the highest visitor. She recovers
herself instantly. ' Is not thy master with him, who, wer't so, would have
informed for preparation ? ' This is a turn colouring her exclamation, and is
spoken in the most aolf-possessed, argumentative, demonstrative tone. The
preceding words had been torn from her ; now she has passed, with inimitable
dexterity, from the dreamed Queen, to the usual mistress of her household —
to the huswife,
NORTH.
In the Fourth Act — she is not seen at all. But iu the Fifth, lo ! and be-
hold ! and at once we know why she had been absent — ^we see and are turned
to living stone by the revelation of the terrible truth. I am always in-
clined to conceive Lady Macbeth^s night-walking as the summit, or top-
most peak of all tragic conception and execution — in Prose, too, the crown-
ing of Poetry! But it must be, because these are the ipsissima verba — yea,
the escaping sighs and moans of the bared soid. There mast be nothing,
not even the thin and translucent veil of the verse, betwixt her soul show-
ing itself, and yours beholding. Words which your " hearing latches"
from the threefold abyss of Night, Sleep, and Conscience I What place for the
enchantment of any music is here? Besides, she speaks in a whisper. The
Siddons did — audible distinctly, throughout the stilled immense theatre. Here
music is not — sound is not— only an anguished soul's faint breathings — gasp-
ings. And observe that Lady Macbeth carries — a candle — besides washing
her hands — and besides speaking prose— three departures from the severe and
elect method, to bring out that supreme revelation. I have been told that
the great Mrs Pritchard used to touch the palm with the tips of her fingers,
for the washing, keeping candle in hand ; — that the Siddons first set down her
candle, that she might come forwards, and wash her hands in earnest, one
over the other, as if she were at her wash-hand stand, with plenty of water in
her basin — that when Sheridan got intelligence of her design so to do, he ran
shrieking to her, and, with tears in his eyes, besought that she would not, at
one stroke, overthrow Drury Lane — that she persisted, and turned the thou-
sands of bosoms to marble.
TALBOYS.
Our dear, dear Master.
NORTH.
You will remember, my friends, her /our rhymed lines — uttered to herself in
Act Third. They are very remarkable —
" Nought's had, all's spent,
Where oar desire is got without content:
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy."
They are her only waking acknowledgments of having mistaken life ! So —
they forebode the Sleep- Wtdking, and the Death — as an owl, or a raven, or
vulture, or any fowl of obscene wing, might flit between the sun and a
crowned but doomed head — the shadow but of a moment, yet ominous, for
the augur, of an entire fatal catastrophe.
SEWARD.
They do. But to say the truth, I had either forgot them, or never dis-
covered their significancy. O that William Shakspeare I
TALBOTS.
O that Christopher North I
NORTH.
Speak so, friends — 'tis absurd, but I like it.
TALBOTS.
It is smcere.
NORTH.
At last they call him << black Macbeth,'' and ^^ this dead Butcliet." ^^
644 Christopher under CamxMts, [KoT.
with good reason. Thej also call her ^^ his fiend-like Qneen,*^ whldi last
expression I regard as highly offensive.
BULLER.
And they call her so not without strong reason.
NORTH.
A bold, bad woman— not a Fiend. I ask— Did she, or did she not, " with
violent hand foredo her life ? " They mention it as a rumour. The Doctor
desires that all means of scdf-harm may h« kept out of her way. Yet the im-
pression on us, as the thing proceeds, is, that she dies of pure remorse —
which I believe. Sho is visibly dying. The cry of women, announcing her
death, is ratbor as of those who stood around the bed watching, and when the
heart at the touch of the invisible finger stops, shriek — ^than of one after the
other coming in and finding the self-slain— a confused, informal, perplexing,
and pcrplext proceeding— but the Cry of Women is formal, regnlar for the
stated occasion. You may say, indeed, that she poisoned herself — and so died
in bed— watched. Under the precautions, that is unlikely— too refined. The
manner of Seyton, ^^ The Queen, my Lord, is dead,'* shows to me that it was
hourly expected. How these few words would seek into you, did yoa first read
the Play in mature age ! She died a natural death— of remorse. Take my
word for it — the rumour to the contraiy was natural to the lip and ear oif
Hate.
TALBOTS.
A question of primary import is — What is the relation of feeling between him
and her ? The natural impression, I think, is, that the confiding affection—
the intimate confidence — is ^^ there "— of a husband and wife who love one an-
other— to whom all interests are in common, and are consulted in conmion.
Without this belief, the Magic of the T^edy pennies — vanishes to me.
^^ My dearest love, Duncan comes here to-ni^t.** ^^ Be innocent of the know-
ledge, dearest Clmck " — a marvellous phrase for Melpomene. It is the full union
— for ill purposes — that we know habitually for good purposes — that to me
tempers the Murder Tragedy.
NOBTH.
Yet believe me, my dear Talboys — that of all the murders Macbeth may
have committed, she knew beforehand but of oxe — Duncan's. The haunted
somnambulist speaks the truth — the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
TALB0Y8.
" The Thane of Fife had a wife." Does not that imply that she was privy
to 1^0/ Murder?
NORTH.
No. Except that she takes upon herself aU the murders that are the off-
spring, legitimate or illegitimate, of that Urst Murder. But we know that
Macbeth, in a sudden fit of fory, ordered the Macduffe to be massacred when
on leaving the Cave Lenox told him of the Thane's ffight.
TALBOTS.
That is decisive.
NORTH.
A woman, she feels for a mnrdered woman. That \& all — a touch of nature
— from Shakspeare's profound and pitiful heart.
TALBOTS.
" The Queen, my lord, is dead." " She should have died hereafter ; There
would have been a time for such a word"— Often have I meditated on the mean-
ing of these words— yet even now I do not fully feel or undeestand them.
NORTH.
Nor I. This seems to look from them — " so pressed by outward besiegings,
I have not capacity to entertain the blow as it requires to be entertained.
With a free soul I could have measured it Now I cannot."
TALBOTS.
Give us, sir, a commentary on the Revelations of the Sleeping Spectre.
NORTH.
I dare not. Let ^s be cheerfuL I ask this — when you see and hear Kemble*
1849.] Christopher under Canvass. 646
Macbeth — and Siddons-Macbeth — ^whom do you believe that you see
and hear ? I affirm that you at one and the same instant — (or at the
most in two immediately successive instants — yet I believe in one and the
same instant) — know that you see and hear Kemble — or if that accomplished
gentleman and admirable actor — Macicady be performing the part — then
Macready ; — and yet believe that you see and hear Lord Macbeth. I aver
that you entertain a mixt — confused — self-contradictory state of mind — that
two elements of thought which cannot co-subsist do co-subsist.
TALBOYS.
Dejwe they cannot — de facto they do.
NORTH.
Just 80.
TALBOYS.
They co-subsist fighting, and yet harmonising — there is half-belief— semi-
Illusion.
NORTH.
I claim th£ acknowledgment of such a state — which any one who chooses
may better describe, but which shall come to that eflfect — for the lowest sub-
stratum of all science and criticism concerning Poesy. Will anybody grant
me this, then I will reason with him about Poesy, for we begin with some-
thing in common. Will anybody deny me this, then I will not argue with
him about Poesy, for we set out wiUi nothing in common.
BULLER.
We grant you all you ask — ^we are all agreed — ^* our unanimity is won-
derfuL"
NORTH.
Leave out the great Brother and Sister, and take the Personated alone. I
know that Othello and Desdemona never existed — that an Italian Novelist
began, and an English Dramatist ended them — and there they are. But do I
not bdieve in their existence, ^^ their loves and woes?^^ Yes I do believe in
their existence, in their loves and woes— and I hate lago accordingly with a
vicious, unchristian, personal, active, malignant hatred.
TALBOYS.
Dr Johnson's celebrated expression, " all the belief that Poetry claims"—
BULLER.
Celebrated ! Where is it ?
TALBOYS.
Preface to Shakspeare— is idle, and frivolous, and false ?
NORTH.
It is. He belies his own experience. He cannot make up his mind to
admit the irrational thought of belief which you at once reject and accept.
But exactly the half acceptance, and the half rejection, separates poetry from
— prose.
TALBOYS.
That is, sir, the poetical from the prosaic.
NORTH.
Just so. It is the life and soul of all poetry — the lusus— the make-believe
— the glamour and the gramarye. I do not know — gentlemen — I wish to be
told, whether I am now throwing away words upon the setting up of a pyra-
mid which was built by Cheops, and is only here and there crumbling a little,
or whether the world requires that the position shall be formally argued and
acknowledged. Johnson, as you reminded me, Talboys, did not admit it.
TALBOYS.
That he tells us in so many words. Has any more versed and profound
master in criticism, before or since, authentically and authoritatively, lumi-
nously, cogently, explicitly, psychologically, metaphysically, physiosologically,
psychogogically, propounded, reasoned out, legislated, and enthroned the
Dogma?
NORTH.
I know not, Talboys. Do you admit the Dogma ?
54G Christopher under Ctmvass. [Not.
TALBOT8.
I do.
NORTH.
Impersonation— Apostrophe— of the absent ; every poetical motion of the
Soul ; the whole pathetic beholding of Nature— involve the secret existence
and necessity of this irrational psychical state for grounding the Logic of
Poesy.
DULLER.
Go on, sii*.
NOBTn.
I will— but in a new direction. Before everything else, I desire, for the
settlement of this particular question, a foundation for, and some progress
in the science of Murder Tragedies.
SEWARD.
I know properly two.
BULLER.
Two only ? Pray name.
SEWARD.
This of Macbeth and Richard HI.
DULLER.
The Agamemnon— the Choephone — ^the Electra— the Medea —
SEWARD.
In the Agamemnon, your regard is drawn to Agamemnon himself and to
Cassandra. However, it is after a measure a prototype. Clytenmestra
has in it a principidity. Medea stands eminent — but then she is in the right.
DULLER.
In the right?
SEWARD.
Jason at least is altogether in the wrong. But we must — ^for obvions rea-
sons—discuss the Greek drama by itself; therefore not a word more about
it now.
NORTH.
Richard lU., and Macbeth and his wife, are in their Plays the principtl
people. You must go along with them to a certain guarded extent— -else the
Play is done for. To be kept abhorring and abhorring, for Five Acts
together, you can't stand.
SEWARD.
Oh I that the difference between Poetry and Ldfe were once for all set down
— and not only once for all, but every time that it comes in question.
DULLER.
My dear sir, do gratify Seward*s very reasonable desire, and once for all set
down the difference.
SEWARD.
You bear suicides on the stage, and tyrannicides and other cides — aU simple
homicide — much murder. Even Romeo's killing Tybalt in the street, in repara-
tion for Mercutio's death, you would take rather differently, if happening
to-day in Pall Mall, or Moray Place.
NORTH.
We have assuredly for the Stage a qualified scheme of sentiment-— grounded
no doubt on our modem or every-day morality — but specifically modified by
Imagination— by Poetry— for the use of the dramatist. Till we have set
down what we do bear, and why, we are not prepared for ^tingoiahiog what
we won't bear, and why.
DULLER.
Oracular I
SEWABD.
Suggestive.
NORTH.
And if so, sufficient for the nonce. Hamlet's undo, Clandios, seems to me
to be the most that can be borne of one purely abhorriUe. He is ma^ disgust-
1849.] Christopher under C€mvass, 647
ing besides — drunken and fool. Able he is — for he won the Qaeen by
^^ witchcraft of his wit ;" bat he is made endurable by his diminisht proportion
in the Flay — many others overpowering and hiding him.
BULLER.
Pardon me, sir, but I have occasionally felt, in course of this conversation,
that you were seeking — in opposition to Payne Knight — to reduce Macbeth to
a specfes of Claudius. I agree with you in thinking that Shakspeare would
not give a Claudius so large a proportion of his drama. The pain would be
predominant and insupportable.
NORTH.
I would fain hope yon have misunderstood me, Buller.
BULLER.
Sometimes, sir, it is not easy for a plain man to know what yon would be at
NORTH.
I?
RULLER.
Year—you.
NORTH.
Richard III. ts a hypocrite — a hard, cold murderer from of old — and
yet you besur him. I suppose, friends, chiefly from his pre-eminent Intellectual
ITaculties, and his perfectly courageous and self-possessed Will. Ton d«
support your conscience — or traffic with it — by saying all along — ^we are only
conducting him to the retribution of Bos worth Field. %ut, friends, if these mo-
tions in Macbeth, which look like revealings and breathings of some better ele-
ments, are sheer and vile hypocrisy — if it is merely his manhood that quails,
which his wife has to virilify — a dastard and a hypocrite, and no more— J
cannot abide him — there is too much of a bad business, and then I must
think Shakspeare has committed an egregious error in Poetry. Richard m.
is a bold, heroic hypocrite. He knows he is one. He lies to Man — ^never
to his own Conscience, or to Heaven.
TALBOYS.
What?
NORTH.
Never. There he is clear-sighted, and stands, like Satan, in open and
impious rebellion.
BULLER.
But your Macbeth, sir, would be a shuffling Puritan—a mixture of Holy
Willie and Greenacre. Forgive me
SEWARD.
Order— order — order.
TALBOYS.
Chair—- chair — chair.
BULLER.
Swing — Swing — Swing.
NORTH.
My^ dear Buller — you have misunderstood me — I assure you you have.
Some* of my expressions may have been too strong — not sufficiently
qualified.
BULLER.
I accept the explanation. But be more guarded in future, my dear sir.
NORTH.
I will.
BULLER.
On th^t assurance I ask you, sir, how is the Tragedy of Macbeth morally
saved ? That is, how does the degree of complacency with which we consider
the two murderers not moraUy tahit ourselves — not leave us predisposed
murderers ?
NORTH.
That is a question of infinite compass and fathom — answered then only when
the whole Theory of Poesy has been expounded.
VOL. LXn,^NO, ccccix. %^
Gid CamHopher trndar Oamau. [Nor.
• BUUSR.
Whew!
The difference established between onreontemphitioii of the Stage and of
Life.
I hardly 0iq[»ect that to be done this Snmmer in this Tnt.
Friends! Utilitarians and Religionists shndder anddmiL They conaJderfte
Stage and Life as of one and the same land — ^look on both throngh one glass.
£h?
The Utilitarian will settle the whole qnestion of Life npon half its data—
the lowest half. He accepts Agricoltnre, which he understands logically—
but rejects Imagination, which he doeaiiot understand at all— because, if yoa
sow it in the track of his plough, no wheat springs. Assuredly not ; a difierent
plough must furrow a different soil fortibat seed and that harvest.
In'ow, my dear ur, yon speak like jmmei^ Zoa always do so— iheTash-
ness was all on my akte.
Nobody caies — hold your tongue.
KOBTn.
The Beligionist errs from the opposite quarter. He brin|;8 measures from
Heaven to measure things of the Earth. He weighs Clay m the balaaiee of
Spirit. I call him a Religionist who overruns with religions mles and con-
ceptions things that do not come under them — completely distinct from tbc
native sunplidty and sovereignty of Rdigion in a piously religious heart. Both
of them are confonnders of the sciences whidi investigate the Facts and the
Laws of Nature, visible and invisible^subduing inquiry under precon-
ception.
BULUCR.
Was that the Gong— >or but thunder?
NORTH.
The Gong.
TAIAOYS.
I smell sea-trout.
Scene m.
Scene— /Veiuife. Time— o/iter 2>Mjicr.
NORTH — DULLER — SEWARD— TALBOYS.
NOBTH.
One hour more — and no more — to fihakspeare.
BX7LLER.
May we crack nuts?
NORTH.
By all moans. And here they are for yon to cnaok.
BULIiHE.
Now for some of yom* ctsiounding Discoveries.
NOS3H.
If you ;gathcr the Movement, scene by scene, of the Aetion of this Bnona,
jou see a few weeks, or it maybe months. Ttoe omst be iime'lo kiir that
1849.] Christopher vnder Canvass, 649
Malcolm and his brother have reached England and Ireland— thne for the
King of England to interest himself in behalf of Malcolm, and mnster his
array. More than this seems mireqoired. But the z^th of tyranny to
which Macbeth has arrived, and particularly the manner of describing the
desolation of Scotland by the speakers in England, conveys to you the notion
of a long, long dismal reign. Of old it always used to do so with me ; so
that when I came to visit the question of the Time, I felt myself as if baffled
and puzzled, not finding the time I had looked for, demonstrable. Samnel
Johnson has had the same impression, but has not scrutinised the data. He
goes probably by the old Chronicler for the actual time, and this, one would'
think, must have floated before Shakspeare's own mind.
TALBOTS.
Nobedy can read the Scenes in Bngland without seeing long-protracted
time.
** Malcolm, Let ns seek out some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
Macduff. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men,
Bestride our down-fallen birthdom: Each new morn.
New widows howl ; new orphans cry; new sorrows
Strike heayen on the face, that it resonnds
As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
Like syllable of dolour."
NORTH.
Ay, Talboys, that is true Shakspeare. No Poet — before or since — ^has in
SO few words presented such a picture. No poet, before or since, has used
such words. He writes like a man inspired.
TALBOYS.
And in the same dialogue Malcolm says —
^ I think our country sinks beneath the yoke ;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds."
NORTH.
Go on, my dear Talboys. Your memory is a treasury of ail the highest
Poetry of Shakspeare. Go on.
TALB0Y8.
And hear Kosse, on his joining Malcolm and Macduff in this scene, the
latest arrival from Scotland : —
'* Macdvff. Stands Scotland where it did !
Rone, Alas, poor country !
Almost afraid to know itself ! It cannot
Be oall'd our mother, but our grave : where nothing;,
But who knows nothiiig, is once seen to smile ;
A¥here sighs and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,
Are made, not mark'd ; where violent sorrow seems
A modem ecstasy ; the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask*d, for who ; and good men's liyea
Expire before the flowers in their caps.
Dying, or ere they sicken."
NORTH.
Words known to all the world, yet coming on the ear of each individual
listener with force unweaken'd by familiarity, power inei'eaaed by repetition^
as it will be over all Scottish breasts in sectda sectdorum,
TALBOYS.
By Heavens I he smiles I There is a sarcastic smile on that incomprehen-
sible face of yours, sir— of which no man in this Tent, I am sure, may divine
the reason.
NORTH*
I was not aware of it. Now, my dear Talboye^ let na here e{QdftA?iQiQ2i V^
650 Christopher under Canvass, [Not.
ascertain Shakspeare^s Time. Here wc have long time with a Tengeance— aa</
here tee have short time ; for tbis is the Pictube of the State of Poob
ScaTLA>1> BEFORE THE MuRDER OF MaCDCFF^S WiFE ASD ChILDBEX.
BULLER.
^Miat?
SEWARD.
£h?
NOBTH.
Macduff, moved by Rosse^s words, aaks him, you know, Talboys, *^ how
does my wife ? " And then ensues the affecting account of her murder, which
you need not recite. Now, I ask, when was the murder of Lady Macduff
perpetrated ? Two days— certamly not more — after the murder of Banqno.
llacbeth, incensed by the flight of Fleance, goes, the morning after the mur-
der of Banquo, to the Weirds, to know by *^ the worst means, the worst."
You know what they showed him — and that, as they vanished, he exclaimed—
^ Where are they! Gone! — Let this pernicious honr
Stand aye accused in the calendar! —
Come in, without there!
Enter Ls50x.
Len, What's your grace^s will!
Miub, Saw yon the weird sisters!
Len, No, my lord.
Mach, Came they not by you!
Len, No, indeed, my lord.
ilfac6. Infected be the air whereon they ride;
And damn'd all those that trust them!— I did hear
The galloping of horse: lAlio was't came by!
Len, 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word,
Macduff is fled to England.
Mach, Fled to England \
Len. Ay, my good lord.
Mach, Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
The flighty purpose never is overtook.
Unless the deed go with it: from this moment.
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand. And even now
To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:
The castle of Macduff I wiU surprise;
Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' Uie sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace his line. No boasting like a ibol:
This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool.*'
And hb purpose does not cool— for the whole Family are murdered. When,
then, took place the murder of Banquo ? Why, a week or two after the Mur-
der of Dancau. A very short time indeed, then, intervened between the first
and the last of these Murders. And yet from those pictures of Scotland,
painted in England for our information and horror, we have before us a long,
long time, all filled up with butchery over all the land ! But I say there had
been no such butchery — or anything resemblmg it. There was, as yet, little
amiss with Scotland. Look at the linking of Acts n. and III. End of Act
II., Macbeth is gone to Scone — to be invested. Beginning of Act lU., Ban-
quo says, in soliloquy, in Palace of Fores, ^^ Thou hast it lunr." I ask, when
is this NOW? Assuredly just after the Coronation. The Court was moved
from Scone to Fores, which, we may gather firom finding Duncan there for-
merly, to be the usual Royal Residence. ^* Ent^r Macbeth as King.'* *' Onr
great Feast " — our " solemn Supper " — " this day's Council "—all have the
aspect of new taking on the style of Royalty. *' Thou hast it now," is for-
mal—weighed— and in a position that gives it authority — at the vcar begin-
ning of an Act — ^therefore intended to mark time — a very pointing of the finger
on the dial.
BULLER.
Good image-— short and apt.
1649.] Christaplter under Canvciss. 651
TALBOYS.
Let me perpend.
BULLEB.
Do, sir, let him perpend.
NORTH.
B&nqno fears ^^Thon play^dst most fonllj for it;" he goes no farther— not
a word of anj tyranny done. All the style of an incipient, dangerous Bnle—
donds, but no red rain yet. And I need not point ont to yon, Talboys, who
carry Shakspeare unnecessarily in a secret pocket of that strange Sporting
Jacket, which the more I look at it the greater is my wonder — that Macbeth^s
behaviour at the Banqnet, on seeing Banquo nodding at him from his own
stool, proves him to have been (hen young in blood.
" My strange and self-abuse
Is the initiate fear that wants hard use.
We are yet but young in deed."
He had a week or two before committed a first-rate murder, Duncan's — that
night he had, by hired hands, got a second-rate job done. Banquets — and
the day following he ^ve orders for a bloody business on a more extended
scale, the MacdnfTs. But nothing here the least like Eosse's, or MacdufTs, or
Malcolm^s Picture of Scotland — during those few weeks. For Shakspeare for-
got what the true time was — ^his own time— Me short time; and introduced
long time at the same time — why, he himself no doubt knew — and you no doubt,
Talboys, know also— and will you have the goodness to tell the ^^ why" to the
Tent?
TALBOYS.
In ten minutes. Are you done?
NORTH.
Not quite. Meanwhile — ^Two Clocks are going at once — which of the two
gives the true time of Day ?
DULLER.
Short and apt. Go on, Sir.
NORTH.
I call that an Astounding Discovery. Macduff speaks as if he knew
that Scotland had been for ever so long desolated by the Tyrant — and yet till
Rosse told him, never had he heard of the Murder of his own Wife 1 Here
Shakspeare either forgot himself wholly, and the short time he had himself
assigned — or, with his eyes open, forced in the long time upon the short — in
wilfol violation of possibility 1 All silent ?
TALBOYS.
After supper — ^you shall be answered.
NORTH.
Not by any man now sitting here— or elsewhere.
TALBOYS.
That remains to be heard.
NORTH.
Pray, Talboys, explain to me this. The Banquet scene breaks up in most
admired disorder — " stand not upon the order of your going— but go at once,"
— quoth the Queen. The King, in a state of great excitement, says to her —
** I will to-morrow,
(Betimes I will,) unto the weird sisters:
More shall they speak ; for now I am bent to know,
By the worst means, the worst: for mine own good.
All causes shall gire way; I am in blood
Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more.
Returning were as tedious as go o'er."
One might have thought not quite so tedious ; as yet he had murdered only
Duncan and his grooms, and to-night Banquo. Well, he does go *^ to-morrow
and by times " to the Cave.
652 ChaiUopkar umier Camvam. [Nor:
" Witch. — Bj the pricking dmf tlmmbs,
Something wicked this waj eomes :
Open, locks, whoever knodob
Macbdk. — How now, yon secret, BliMsk, and miilBighl Hags ! "
It is a '* dark Cave " — dark at all times — and now " by times " of the morn-
ing ! Now — observe — ^Lenox goes along with Macbeth — on sneh occasions
'tis natoral to wish "' one of oorseives " to be at hand. And Lenox had
been at the Banquet. Had he gone to bed after that strange Snpper ? No
donbt, for an honr or two— like the rest of " tiie Family." Bnt wheth» he
went to bed or not, then amd there he and another Lord had a confidentiai
and miracolons con^-ersation.
TALBOTS.
Miracolons ! What's micaealoHS about it ?
NOBIH.
Lenox says to the other Lord —
^ M^forwtmr $peeehm have hvA Ui yovr thonglitay
\^ch can interpret further ; onlyj I say.
Things have been strangely bonie : the graoionfl T>nn<mii
Was pitied of Macbeth — marry he was dead.
And tie right raliaiU Banqmo waiiad too laU ;
Whom^ you may «ay, if it pUaac yon, Fltance kilUdy
For FltanetjUdr
Who told him ail this about Banqno and Fleanee? He speaks of it quite
familiarly to the ^^ other lord," as a thing well known in all its bearings.
But not a soul bat Macbeth, and the Tlu^e Murderers themselves, codd
possibly have known an^-thing about it ! As for Banqno, ** Safe in a ditch
he bides," — and Fleance bad ^ed. Tha body may, perhaps in a few days, be
found, and, though ^^ with twmity trooched gashes on its head," identified as
Banquo's, and, in a few weeks, Fleance may turn up in Wales. Nay, the
Three Murderers may confess. But now all is hush ; and Lenox, unless
endowed with second sight, or clairvoyance, could know nothing of the
murder. Yet, from his way of speaking of it, one might imagine crowner's
'quest had sittea on the body — anditfae report been in the Tima between
supper and that after-supper confab I I am overthrown— everted — snbrwted —
the contradiction is flagrant^-the impossibility monstrous — ^I swoon.
BUIXBB.
Water — ^water.
ITOIRH.
Thank you, Buller. That's revivifying — ^I see now all objects distinctly.
Where was I ? O, ay. The " other Lord" seems as waiiock-wise as Lenox
— for he looks forward to times when
^ We may again
Qive to our tables meat, sleep to onr nights;
Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives "
An allusion, beyond doubt, to the murder of Banqno 1 A snddeo thought
strikes me. Why, not only must the real, actual, spiritual, corporeal Ghost of
Banqno sate on the stooi, but *^ Lenox and the other Lord," as weQ as
Macbeth, saw him.
BULLER.
Are you serious, sir ?
NORTH.
So serious that I can scarcdy hope to recover my nsnal spirits to-day.
Have yon, gentlemen, among you any more plausible solution to offer? All
mum. One word more with you. lienox tells the ^^ other Lord "
" From broad words^ and 'cause he fall'd
His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear,
Macduff uyes in disqrace ; Sin, can tou tkll
WnEftB BE BBSXOW% BIHSKLB \^^
1840.] Ckruk^pher umler Omwm, 653
And the " other Lord," who is wonderfoUy^well infbnned for a person
^^:Stiictly aaoDTmons," replies that Macdnf^
** Is gone to pray the holy lung, (Edward) on his aid
To w&ke Northnmberiand, and warlike Siward."
"Nay, he mlnntely describes Macduff's snrly reception of the King^ messenger,
tent to inirite hhn to the Banquet, and the happy «ty}e of that official on
getting the Thane of Fife's '' absolnte, Sir, not I," andD. I/O. I And the
aame isunetoss *^ Lord in waiting" saysr to Lenox, tiiat
^ thit report
•• thu report
HaJQt 90 exatperate the king, that he
Prepares for tomeefttempt ofwar.^*
1 shonld like, to know first where and when these two gifted inditidnals picked
np all this information? The king himself had told the Qaeen, that «ame
night, that he had no^ mk^ to Macduff— bat that he had heard '« by the way"
that he was not oomiog to the Banquet — and he only i^xzmr. the- iU^t of Mac-
duff after the Cauldron Scene — that is at end of it : —
^ Macbeth, Come in, without there !
Enter Lenox.
Lenox. What's your Grace's will !
Macbeth, Saw yon the Weird Sisters I
Lenox. No, indeed, my Lord.
Macbeth, Infected be the air whereon they ride;
And damn'd all those that tmst them ! — I did hear
The galloping of horse : Who was't came by ?
Lenox. *Ti9 ttco or three, my Lord, that bring you vord,
Macduff is fled to England.
Macbeth, Fled to England T*
For an Usurper and Tyrant, his Majesty is singularly ill-informed about the
movements of his most dangerous Thanes I But Lenox, I think, must have
been not a little surprised at that moment to find that, so far from the exas'
peraUd Tyrant having ^^ prepared for some attempt of war ^^ with England — he
had not till then positively known that Macduff had fled ! I pause, as a man
pauses who has no more to say — not for a reply. But to be sure, Talboys
will reply to anything — and were I to say that the Moon is made of green
cheese, he would say — yellow —
TALB0Y8.
If of weeping Parmesan, then I — of the " cheese without a tear" — Double
Gloster.
NORTH.
The whole Dialogue between Lenox and the Lord is miracuUms. It
abounds with knowledge of events that had not happened — and could not
have happened— on the showing of Shakspeare himself; but I do not believe
that there is another man now alive who knows that Lenox and the ^^ other
Lord" are caught up and strangled in that noose of Time, Did the Poet ?
You would think, from the way they go on, that one ground of war, one
motive of MacdufiTs going, is the murder of Banquo— perpetrated since he is
gone off I
TALBOYS.
Eh?
NORTH.
Grentlemen, I have given you a specimen or two of Shakspeare^s way of
dealing with Time — and I can elicit no reply. You are one and all dumb-
foundered. What will you be — where will you be— when I —
BULLER.
Have announced " all my astounding discoveries!" and where, also, will
be poor Shakspeare — ^where his Critics ?
NORTH.
Friends, Countrymen, and Romans, lend me your ears I A da^zlltk^^
654 Christopher under Ctmvau. [Nov. 1849.
spell is upon us that veils from oar apprehension all incompatibilities — all
impossibilities — for he dips the Swan-qnill in Power — and Power is that which
joa most accept from him, and so to the utter oblivion, while we read or
behold, of them all. To go to work with such inqoiries is to try to articulate
thunder. What do I intend ? That Shakspeare is only to be thus criticised ?
Apollo forbid — forbid the Nine ! I intend Prologomena to the Criticism of
Shakspeare. I intend mowing and burning the brambles before ploughing the
soil. I intend showing where we must not look for the Art and the G^as
of Shakspeare, as a step to discovering where we must. I suspect — I know
— that Criticism has oscillated from one extreme to another, in the mind of
the country — ^from denying all art, to acknowledging consummated art, and no
flaw. I would find the true Point. Stamped and staring upon the firont of these
Tragedies is a conflict. He, the Poet, beholds Life— he, the Poet, is on the
Stage. The littleness of the Globe Theatre mixes with the greatness of human
affairs. You think of the Green-room and the Scene-shifters. I think that
when we have stripped away the disguises and incumbrances of the Power, we
shall see, naked, and strong, and beautiful, the statue moulded by Japiter.
Printed hy William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh.
BLACKWOOD^S
^ EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCX.
DECEMBER, 1849.
Vol. LXVI.
THE NATIONAL DEBT AND THE STOCK EXCHANGE.
The idea of associating history with
some specific locality or institution,
has long ago occurred to the skilful
fabricators of romance. If old walls
could speak, what strange secrets
might they not reveal ! The thought
suggests itself spontaneously even to
the mind of the boy ; and though it
Is incapable of realisation, writers —
good, bad, and indifferent — have
seriously applied themselves to the
task of extracting sermons from the
stones, and have feigned to repro«
duce an audible voice from the vaults
of the dreary ruin. Such was at
least the primary idea of Scott, in-
comparably the greatest master of
modem fiction, whilst preparing his
materials for the construction of the
Heart of Mid-LotJiian, Victor Hugo
has made the Cathedral of Paris the
title and centre-point of his most
stirring and animated tale. Harrison
Ainsworth, who seems to think that
the world can never have too much of
a good thing, has assumed the of3ce of
historiographer of antiquity, and has
treated us in succession to Chronicles
of Windsor Castle, the Tower, and
Old St Paul's. Those of the BastUe
have lately been written by an author
of no common power, whose modesty,
rarely imitated in these days, has left
us ignorant of his name ; and we be-
lieve that it would be possible to
augment the list to a considerable
extent. In all those works, how-
ever, history was the subsidiary,
while romance was the principal in-
gredient ; we have now to deal with
a book which professes to abstain
from romance, though, in reality, no
romance whatever has yet been con-
structed from materials of deeper
interest. We allude, of course, to
the work of Mr Francis ; Mr Double-
day's treatise is of a graver and a
sterner nature.
We dare say, that no inconsiderable
portion of those who derive their
litenuy nutriment from Maea, may
' be at a loss to understand wnat ele-
ment of romance can lie in the his-
tory of the Stock Exchange. With
all our boasted education, we are, in
so far as money-matters are con-
cerned, a singularly ignorant people.
That which ought to be the study of
every citizen, which must be the
study of every politician, and without
a competent knowledge of which the
exercise of the electoral frtinchise is a
blind vote given in the dark, is as
unintelligible as the Talmud to many
persons of more than ordinary ac-
complishment and refinement. The
learned expounder of Thucydides
would be sorely puzzled, if called
upon to give an explanation of the
present funding system of Great
Britain. The man in easy circum-
stances, who draws his dividend at
A Financial, Monetary y and StatUtical Hitiory of Enffland, from the Revolution
«f less to ike pretent time. By Thomas Doubleday, Esq. London: 1847.
CkronieUi and Charaeten of the Stock Exehanpe, By John Framcis, Esq. Lon-
don: 1849.
VOL. LXVL^NO, CCCCX, "^ ^
656
The National Debt and the Stock ExcJumge.
[Dec.
the Bank, knows little more abont
the fands than that they mysteriously
yield him a certain return for capital
previoasly invested, and that the
interest he receives comes, in some
shape or other, from the general
pocket of the nation. He is amum
that consols oscillate, but he does
not very well understand why, thongh
he attrilNitef tbeir rise or fall to
foreign news. R never ocenrs to hfm
to inqnire for what reason that which
yields a certain retnm, is yet liable
to snch surprising and violent flnctiift^
tions ; he shakes his head in despair
at the mention of foreign exchanges,
and is not ashamed to avow his in-
capacity to grnplft with Hie leooo-
dite question of the currency. And
yet it may not only be safely, bat it
onght to be moet bmdly avonred, tiiat
without a due tomprAeoskfa, fk the
monetary system of tiilB eouMry,
and the geaeral commereial princi-
ples wiaA regalate the afflOn of the
world, history is noWng more thaa a
tiamie of bamn tets and perpeloM
contradictions, which it is pntedem
to oontemplate, aad ntteriy impoM-
ible to leoaiioile. Nay mere, all
history which is written by anthoRS
who have Med to acknewiedge the
tremendene potency of the moaetaiy
power in direetfaig the destinies of
nationa, and who have neglected to
Bcmtinlse closely the soofoe and
operation of that power, nrast neces-
sarily be faUadooa, and can only mis-
lead the reader, by (Use pictmes of
the condition of the pmwnt ae con-
trasted witti that of a foimer age.
No eloquence, no genius^ will avail to
compensate for tiiat radical defect,
with which some most popular writera
are justiy chargeable, and a glaring
instance of which we propose to exa*
mine in the couxse of the praeent
paper.
The study is said to be a diy one.
Certainly, until we have mastered
the details, it does look forbiddmg
enough; but, these once mastered,
our eyes appear to be touched with
fairy ointment. What formerly was
contusion, worse than Babel, assnmes
a definite order. We behold, in
tangible form, a power so terribly
strong that with a touch it can
paralyse armies. We behold U gia^
anally weaving around us a net,
from which it is impossible to escape,
and claiming with a stem accent,
which brool^ no denial, a right of
property in ourselves, our soil, our
earnings, our industry, and our child-
ren. To its influence we can trace
most of the political changes which
perplex maiddnd, and which seem to
baffle explanation. Idke the small
rspttle ef the old Norttanmhrian
legend, it has grown into a nmsstroos
dragon, capable of swallowing ap
both herd and herdsman together.
The wisest of our statesmen have
tried to check its advance and failed;
the worst of them have encouraged its
growth, and almost declared it harm-
less; the meat adroit have yielded
to its power. Interest after interest
has gone Anm in SIm y^ia, sln^gie
to ^ipeae it, and yet its appetfte isitt
When, ia fhtars Tonrsr te hiilery
ef this great nation and its depeata-
oies shall be adsqaaMy written, the
anBaM mast, peKbroe, givedaepio-
minence to that power wWefa ws
weakly aad iboUsfaly «veiloek. Hi
will then see, ttat tfan awtcUem kh
dastry displayed by Grant Biitaia if
hr less the qMBtaneovs rosalt of boU
and boMst exertion, than the atrqggb
of a dire necessily which compais as
to go on, beeanse it is tarth and ima
tostandstilL HewiMundentaadtbt
true sonroe of all our marveUons aa-
chinery, of that skiU in arts w^ch the
worid never witnessed before, of oar
pewere of prodnctioii pndied to the
utmost possible extent. And he wiD
understand more. He will be stUe te
comprehend why, witfani the cireait ef
one island, the most aoloanal formaes
and tte most abfeet aaiseiy siieeld
have existed together; wfayBritos,
admitted to be the richest of At
European states, and in one sense
imagined to be the strongest, should
at this moment exercise tess hiflBSBce
in the comunls of tiie world than sbe
did in tlie days of Cromwell, aad,
though well weaponed, be terriM to
strike a blow, lest the leceil sbeold
prove fhtal to herself* TheknoeMs^
of such things is not too difficnU for
our attainment; and attain it we most,
if, like sensible men, we are desiMW
to ascertain tiie seoniity or Che pie-
cariousness of our own positisn.
1849.3
The Naiional Debt and the Stock Rtehange,
657
The history of the Stock Exdiange
ioTolves, as a matter of Decessity, the
history of our national debt. From
that debt the whole fobric arose ; and,
interesting as are many of the details
connected with stock-jobbing, state-
loans, lotteries, and speculative manias,
the origin of the mystery appears to
ns of far higher import. It involves
political considerations which ought
to be pondered at the present time,
becaase it has lately been averred, by
a writer of the very highest talent,
that the Revolution of 1688 was the
cause of nnmingled good to this
country. That position we totally
deny. Whatever may be thought of
the folly of James II., in attempting
to fbrce his own religion down the
throats of his subjects — however we
may brand him as a bigot, or de-
nounce him for an undue exorcise of
the royal prerogative — he cannot t)e
taxed with financial opjyrBssioD, or
general state extravagance. On the
contrary, it is a fact that the revenue
levied by the last of the reigning
Stuarts was exceedingly moderate in
amount, and exceedingly well ap-
eed for the public service. It was
" less than that levied by the Long
Pariiament, which has been estimated
at the sum of £4,862,700 a-year.
The revenue of James, in 1688,
amounted only to £2,001,855; and
at this charge he kept together a strong
and well-appointed fleet, and an army
of very nearly twenty thousand men.
The nation was neither ground by
taxes, nor impoverished by wars; and
whatever discontent might have been
excited by religious bickerings, and
even persecution, it is clear that the
great body of the people could not be
otherwise than happy, since they
were left in nndisturbed possession of
their own earnings, and at full liberty
to enjoy the fruits of their own indus-
try and skill. As very briUiaut pic-
tores have been drawn of the improved
Btate of England now, contrasted with
its former position under the admmis-
tration of James, we think it right to
exhibit another, which may, possibly,
surprise our readers. It is takeu from
Mr Doubleday's Financial History of
Ungland^ a work of absorbing inter-
est and uncommon research : we have
tested it minutely, by reference to
docQineiite of Uie time, and we be-
lieve it to be strictly true, as it is un-
questionably clear in its statements.
** The state of the countiy," says Mr
Doubledaj, ^ was, at the close of the reign
of James II ., very prosperous. The whole
annaal revenue required from hii subjects^
by this king, amounted to only a couple
of millions of pounds sterling, — these
pounds being, in yalue, equal to about
thirty shillings of the money of the pre-
sent moment. So well off and easy, in
their circumstances, were the mass of the
people, that the poor-rates, which were
in thoee days liberally distributed, only
amounted to £300,000 yearly. The
population, being rich and well fed,
was moderate in numbers. No such
thing as 'surplus population' was even
dreamed of. Every man had constant
employment, at good wages; bankruptcy
was a thing scarcely known; and nothing
short of sheer and great misfortune, or
culpable and undeniable imprudence,
could drive men into the Gazette bank-
rupt-list, or upon the parish4>ooks. In
trade, profits were great and competition
small. Six per cent was commonly given
for money when it was really wanted.
Prudent men, after being twenty years in
business, generally retired with a com-
fortable competence: and thus oompeti-
tiou was lessened, because men went oat
of business almost as fast as others went
into it; and the eldest apprentice was
frequently the active successor of his re-
tired master, sometimes as the partner of
the son, and sometimes as the husband
of the daughter. In the intercourse of
ordinary life, a hospitality was kept up,
at which modem times choose to mock,
because they are too poverty-stricken to
imitate it. Servants had presents made
to them by guests, under the title of
'vails,' which often enabled them to
realise a comfortable sum for old age.
l^c dress of the times was as rich, and as
indicative of real wealth, ad the modes of
living. Gold and silver lace was com-
monly worn, and liveries were equally
costly. With less pretence of taste and
show, the dwellings were more substan-
tially built ; and the furniture was solid
and serviceable, as well as ornamental—
in short, all that it seemed to be."
The above remarks apply princi-
pally to the condition of the middle
classes. If they be true, as we see
no reason to doubt, it will at
once be evident that things have
altered for the worse, notwithstand-
ing the enormous spread of our manu-
factures, the creation of our machinery,
and the constant and continuous labour
of more ^[lAii. 9b dtuVos^ vok^ ^ \k^.
C58
77ie Naiional Debt (md the Stock Extkange.
[Dec
But there are other considerations
which we must not keep out of view,
if we wish to arrive at a thorough
understanding of this matter. Mr
Macaulay has devoted the most inte-
resting chapter of his history to an
investigation of the social state of
England under the Stuarts. Many of
his assertions have, as wc observe,
been challenged ; but there is one
which, so far as wc are aware, has
not yet been touched. That is, his
picture of the condition of the
labouring man. Wc do not think it
necessary to combat his theory, as to
the delusion which he maintains to be
so common, when we contemplate the
times which have gone by, and com-
pare them with our own. There are
many kinds of delusion, and we sus-
pect that Mr Macaulay himself is by
no means free from the practice of using
coloured glasses to assist his natural
vision. But there are certain facts
which cannot, or ought not, to bo per-
verted, and from those facts we may
draw inferences which are almost next
to certainty. Mr Macaulay, in estimat-
ing the condition of the labouring man
in the reign of King James, very proper-
ly selects the rate of wages as a sound
criterion. Founding upon data which
are neither numerous nor distinct, he
arrives at the conclusion, that the
wages of the agi-icultural labourer of
that time, or rather of the time of
Charles II., were about half the
amount of the present ordinary rates.
At least so we understand him, though
he admits that, in some parts of the
kingdom, wages were as high as six,
or even seven shillings. Thevalue^
however, of these shillings— that is,
the amount of commodities which
they could purchase— must, as Mr
Macaulay well knows, bo taken into
consideration ; and here we apprehend
that he is utterly wrong in bis facts.
The following is his summary : —
" It seems clear, therefore, that the
wages of labour, estimated in money,
were, in 1C85, not more than half of what
they now are ; and there were few articles
important to the working man of which
the price was not, in 1685, more than half
of what it now is. Beer was undoubtedly
much cheaper in that age than at present.
Meat was also cheaper, but was still so
dear that hundreds of thousands of families
»<;»rcely knew the taste of it In tht cogt
^/ ^keat thtrt hat httn ter j Uttle oliaitg*.
The average price of the qnarter, dnriog
the last twelre years of Charies II.,
was ffty Bkiilingt. Bread, therefore,
such aa is now given to the inmates of a
workhouse, was then seldom seen, eren
on the trencher of a yeoman or of a shop-
keeper. The great majority of the nation
liTcd almost entirely on rye, barley, and
oats."
If this be true, there most be a vast
mistake somewhere — a delusion which
most assuredly ought to be dispelled,
if any amount of examination can
ser\'e that purpose. No fact, we be-
Heve, has been so well ascertained,
or so frequently commented on, as the
almost total disappearance of the once
national estate of yeomen from the
face of the land. How this could
have happened, if Mr Macaulay is
right, we cannot understand ; neither
can we account for the phenomenon
presented to ns, by the exceedingly
small amount of the poor-rates levied
during the reign of King James. One
thing we know, for certain, that, in
his calculation of the price of wheat,
Mr Macaulay is decidedly wrong —
wrong in this way, that the average
which he quotes is the highest that he
could possibly select dnring two
reigns. Our authority is Adam Smith,
and it will be seen that his statement
differs most materially from that of
the accomplished historian.
''\n 1688, Mr Gregory King, a man
famous for his knowledge of matters of
this kind, estimated the average price of
wheat, in years of moderate plenty, to be
to the grower 3s. 6d. the bnshel, or elpht-
and-twentff shillings the quarter. The
grower's price I understand to be the
same with what is sometimes called the
contract price, or the price at which a far-
mer contracts for a certain number of
years to deliyer a certain quantity of com
to a dealer. As a contract of this kind
saves the farmer the exjiense and trouble
of marketing, the contract price is gene-
rally lower than what is supposed to be
the average market price. Mr King bad
Judged eight-and-twenty shilliDgs the
quarter to be, at that time, the onlinary
contract price in yeara of moderate
plenty."— Smith's Wealth of Nations.
In corroboration of this view, if so
eminent an authority as Adam Smith
requires any corroboration, we snb-
Join the market prices of wheat at
Oxford for the fonr yeara of James's
t^\^. T)Dk!^^^^sc«;gntrQ struck fh)m
1849.] The National Debt and the Stock Exchange.
the highest and lowest prices calculated
at Ladj-day and Michaelmas.
1685, . . 43.8 per qr.
1686, . . 26.8 ...
1687, . . 27.7 ...
1688, . . 23.2 ...
659
4)121.1
Average, per qr., 30.3 J
Flesh meat was commonly eaten by all
classes. The potato was little cultiyated ;
oatmeal was hardly used ; even bread was
neglected where wheat was not ordinarily
grown, thoagh wheaten bread (contrary
to what is sometimes asserted) was
generally consumed. In 1 760, a later date,,
when George III. began to reign, it was
computed that the whole people of Eng-
land (alone) amounted to six millions.
Of these, three millions seyen hundred
and fifty thousand were believed to eat
wheaten bread ; seven hundred and thirty*
nine thousand were computed to use bar-
But the Oxford returns are always
higher than those of Mark Lane, which
latter again are above the average of fe^^ b7e7d7" eight ^^'u^dredVud^erghtJ'.
the whole country. So that, in form-
ing an estimate from such data, of the
general price over England, we may
be fairly entitled to deduct two shil-
lings a quarter, which will give a
result closely approximating to that
of Gregory King. We may add, that
this calculation was approved of and
repeated by Dr Davenant, who is
admitted even by Mr Macaulay to be
a competent authority.
Keeping the above facts in view,
let us attend to Mr Doubleday's
statement of the condition of the work-
ing men, in those despotic days, when
national debts were unknown. It is
diametrically opposed in every respect
to that of Mr Macaulay: and, from
the character and research of the
writer, is well entitled to exami-
nation : —
'* The condition of the working classes
was proportionably happy. Their wages
were good, and their means far above
want, where common prudence was joined
to ordinary strength. In the towns the
dwellings were cramped, by most of the
towns being walled; but in the country,
the labourers were mostly the owners of
their own cottages and gardens, which
studded the edges of the common lands
that were appended to every township.
The working classes, as well as the richer
people, kept all the church festivals,
saints' days, and holidays. Good Friday,
Easter and its week, Whitsuntide, Shrove
Tuesday, Ascension-day, Christmas, &c.,
were all religiously observed. On every
festival, good faro abounded from the
palace to the cottage ; and the poorest
wore strong broad-cloth and homespun
linen, compared with which the flimsy
fabrics of these times are mere worthless
gossamers and cobwebs, whether strength
or value be looked at. At this time, all
the rural population brewed their own
beer, which, except on fast-days, was the
ordhiary beverage of the working man.
eight thousand, rye bread ; and six hun-
dred and twenty- three thousand, oatmeal
and oat-cakes. All, however, ate bacou
or mutton, and drank beer and cider; tea
and coffee being then principally con-
sumed by the middle classes. The very
diseases attending this full mode of living
were an evidence of the state of nationaf
comfort prevailing. Surfeit, apoplexy,
scrofula, gout, piles, and hepatitis; agues
of all sorts, from the want of drainage ^
and malignant fevers in the walled towns,
from want of ventilation, were the ordi-
nary complaints. But consumption in
all its forms, marasmus and atrophy,
owing to the better living and clothiug>
were comparatively unfrequent : and the
types of fever, which are caused by want,
equally so."
We shall fairly confess that we
have been much confounded by the
dissimilarity of the two pictures ; for
they probably furnish the strongest
instance on record of two historians
flatly contradicting each other. The
worst of the matter is, that we have
in reaUty few authentic data which
can enable us to decide between them.
So long as Gregory King speaks to
broad facts and prices, he is, we think,
accurate enough; but whenever ho
gives way, as he does exceedingly
often, to his speculative and calculating
vein, we dare not trust him. For ex-
ample, he has entered into an elaborate
computation of the probable increase
of the people of England in succeed-
ing years, and, after a show of figures
which might excite envy in the breast
of the Editor of The Economist, he de-
monstrates that the population in the
year 1900 cannot exceed 7,350,000
souls. With half a century to run, Eng-
land has already more than doubled
the prescribed number. Now, though
King certainly does attempt to frame
an estlmalQ ol \\i^ "ovxxs^^t ^\ >^<^'?i^
6G0
The NaiiamU Debt md Ae Siock Ewekmge.
fD«c.
who, ia his time, did not indulge in
batcher meat more than once a week,
we cannot tmst an assertion which
was, in point of fact, neither more nor
less than a wide gness ; but we may,
with perfect safety, accept his prices
of provisions, which show that high
which, however, might wdl bear am*
plification. It is ^yond ail doubt,
that, before the Revolution, the agri-
cultural labourer was the free master
of his house and garden, and had,
moreover, rights of pasturage and
commonty, all which have long ago
living was clearly within the reach of disappeared. The ksser freeholds, also,
'" " "' ' have been in agreat measure absorbed.
AVhen a great national poet put the
following lines into the mouth of one
of his characters, —
the very poorest. Beef sold then at
l^d., and mutton at 2jd. per lb. ; so
that the taste of those viands must
have been tolerably well known to
the hundreds of thousands of families
whom Mr Macaulay has condemned
to the coarsest farinaceous diet.
It is unibrtunatc that we have no
clear evidence as to the poor-rates,
which can aid us in elucidating this
** Even therefore griere I for tliose yeomes,
EnglaBd*^: pecaliar and approMtat* tons,
Kaovra in tto otbtr kad. Umk boMtt hk
Leartli
And field as (ree»aft the htsL L»rd hii toraaj,
Owing subjection to no human vassalage.
matter. Mr Macaulay, speaking of Save to their king and law. Hescearet^
that impo6t, says, ^^ It was computed,
in the reign of Charles 11., at near
seven hundred thousand pounds a-
year, much more than the produce
either of the excite or the customs,
and little less than half the entire
revenue of the crown. The poor-rate
went on increasing rapidly^ and ap-
pears to have risen in a short time to
between eight and nine hundred thou-
sand a-year — that is to say, to one-
sixth of what it now is. The popula-
molntc,
liMiding the van on erery daj of battle,
Aa men who know the Uessinfi ibe^ ddCond ;
Uenco arc they irank aud genurous in peace.
As men who aave their portion in itf plentj.
No other kingdom shows soeh worai and
happiness
Veiled in such taw m<i<'« thirrfiw ItBra
»»
we doubt not that he Intended to
refer to the virtual extiipation of a
race, which has long ago been com-
pelled to part with its birthright, in
tion was then less than one-third of order to satisfy the demands of inexor-
what it now is." This view may bo
correct, but it is certainly not borne
out by Mr Porter, who says that,
^^ 80 recently as the reign of George
II., the amount raised within the year
for poor-rates and connty-rates in Eng-
land and Wales, was only £730,000.
This was the average amount col-
lected in the years 1748, 1749, 1750."
To establish anything like a rapid
increase, we must assume a much
lower figure than that from which Mr
Macaulay starts. A rise of £30,000
in some sixty years ia no remarkable
addition. Mr Doubleday, as we have
seen, estimates the amcMmt of the
rate at only £300,000.
But even granting that the poor-
rate was considered high in the days
of James, it bore no proportion to the
existing population such as that of the
present impost. The population of
£ngiand has trebled since then, and
we have seen the poor-rates rise to
the enormous sum of seven millioos.
Snrely that is no token of the saperior
comfort of our people. We shall not
do more tbsa allude to auotViei to^V^
able Mammon. Even whilst we are
writing, a strong and unexpected cor-
roboration of the correctness of our
views has appeared in the public prints.
Towards the coQUdeDceaient of the
present month, November, a depnta-
tion from tiie agricnltoral labourers of
Wiltshire wait^ upon the Hon. Sid-
ney Herbert, to represent the mtseiy
of their present condition. Their
wages, they said, were finom six to
seven shillings a-week, and they
asked, with much reason, how, upon
such a pittance, they could be e^qpc^^ed
to maintain their familiea. This is
precisely the same amoiuit of nominal
wage which Mr Macanlay aeaigns to
the labonrer of the time of King Jaaes.
But, in order to equalise the valoes,
we must add a third more to the lat-
ter, which is at once decLsive of the
question. Perhaps Mr Macanlay, m a
niture edition, will condescend to ex-
plain how it is possible that the la-
bourer of our times can be in a better
condition than hia ancestor, seeing
that the price of wheat is nearly
d!irab\»l, tad that of bvlelierHBeat
1849.]
The National Debt and the Stock Exchmge.
6C1
fallj qnadrapled ? We are content to
take bis own authorities, King and
Davenant, as to prices ; and the re-
sults are now before the reader.
These remarks we have felt our-
selves compelled to make, because it
is necessary that, before touching upon
the institution of the national debt,
we should clearly understand what was
the true condition of the people. We
believe it possible to condense the
leading features within the compass of
a single sentence. There were few
edossal fortunes, because there was
no stock gambling; there was little
poverty, because taxation was ex-
tremdy light, the means of labour
within the reach of all, prices mode-
rate, and provisions plentiful: there
was less luxury, but more comfort,
and that comfort was far more equally
^tribttted than now. It is quite true,
that if a man breaks his arm at
the present day, be can have it better
set ; bat rags and an empty belly are
worse evils than indifferent surgical
treatment.
We are very far from wishing to
attribute this state of national com-
fort— for we think that is the fittest
word — to the personal exertions of
Jamee. We give him no credit for
it whatever. His bigotry was far
greater dian his prudence ; and he for-
feited his throne, and lost the i^e-
gianee of the gentlemen of England,
& eoBsequence of his insane attempt
to tfamst Popery upon the nation.
But if we regard him simply as a
finaneial monarch, we most admit
that he taxed his subjects lightly,
used the taxes wiiich he drew jadi-
iuooriy for the public service and cih
taUi^ment, and imposed no burden
■pen posterity.
The pecoHar, and, to them, fatal
policy of the Stuart family was this,
tiiat they sought to reign as much aa
posaibie independent of the control of
parliaments, llad they not been
biinded by old traditions, they must
bave seen tbst, in attempting to do
80, they were grasping at the shadow
witboat the possibility of attaining the
substance. They came to the Eni^ish
throne too late to command the pubUc
parse, and at a period of time when
voluntary subsidies were visionary.
They looked upon parliaments with an
eye of extreme jealousy ; and parlia-
ments, in return, were exceedingly
chary ot voting them the necessary
supplies. Corruption, as it afterwards
crept into the senate, was never used
by the Stuarts as a direct engine of
power. The sales of dignities by the
first James, detrimental as they prov-
ed to the dignity of the crown, were in
substitution of direct taxation from
the people. When supplies were with-
held, 01* only granted with a niggardly
hand, it was but natural in the mo-
narch to attempt to recruit his exche-
quer by means of extraordinary and
often most questionable expedients*
The second James, had he chosen to
bi'ibe the Commons, might have been
utterly too strong for any combina-
tion of the nobles. William III. was
tronUed with no scruples on the score
of prerogfttive. He saw clearly the
intimate and indissoluble connexioB
between power and money: he secured
both by acquiescing in a violent chsmge
of the constitution as it had hkherto
existed ; held them during his life, and
used them for the furtherance of his
own designs ; and left us as his legacy,
the nucleus of a debt ccmstmcted on
such a sdieme that its influence must
be felt to the remotest range of poate-
rity.
That the exigencies of every state
must be met by loans, is a proposi-
tion which it would be useless to
question. Such loans are, however,
strictly speaking, merely an anticipar-
tion of taxes to be nused from the
country and generation whidi reaps
the benefit of die expenditure. Such
was the dd prineipte, foonded npaa
law, equity, and reason ; and it sig-
nifies nothing how many instances of
forced loans, and breach of repay-
ment, may be colled from onr eurlier
history. Mr liacaulay says, *^ Erom
a period of immemorial antiquity, it
had been the practice of every Eng-
lish government to contract debts.
What the Kevolution introduced was
the practise of honestly paying them."
This is epigrammatic, but not sound.
From the time when the Commons
had the power of granting or with-
holding supplies, they became the
arbiters of what was and what was
not properly a state obligadoo. In
order to ascertain the actual value of
a debt, and the measure of the credi-
tor's claim, we must necessarily look
662
The NahonalDebt and the Stock Ext^anffe.
[Dec.
to the nature of the security granted
at the time of borrowing. Forced
extortions by kings are not properly
debts of the state. The sanction of
the people, through its representa-
tives, is required to make repa3nnent
binding upon the people. The prac-
tice which the Revolution introduced
was the contraction of debt, not in-
tended to be liquidated by the bor-
rowing generation, but to be carried
over so as to affect the industry of
generations unborn ; not to make the
debtor pay, but to leave the payment
to his posterity.
When William and Mary were pro-
claimed, there was no such thing as
a national debt. We may indeed
except a comparatively small sum,
amounting to above half a million,
which had been detained in ex-
chequer by the profligate Charles II.,
and applied to his own uses. But
this was not properly a state debt,
nor was it acknowledged as such till
a later period.
To those who are capable of appre-
ciating that genius which is never so
strongly shown as in connexion with
political aflairs, the conduct of WU-
liam is a most interesting study. It
would be impossible to exaggerate his
qualities of clear-sightedness and de-
cision ; or to select a more forcible
instance of that ascendency which
a man of consummate discernment
and forethought may attain, in spite
of eveiy opposition. He had, in truth,
very difficult cards to play. The dif-
ferent parties, both religious and poli-
tical, throughout the nation, were so
strongly opposed to each other, that
it seemed impossible to adopt any
line of conduct, which should not, by
favouring one, give mortal umbrage
to the others. It was reserved for
William, by a master-stroke of policy,
to create a new party by new means,
which in time should absorb the
others; and to strengthen his govern-
ment by attaching to it the commer-
cial classes, by a tie which is ever the
strongest — that of deep pecuniary in-
terest in the stability of existing
affairs. At the same time he was
most desirous, without materially in-
creasingthe taxation of England, to
raise such sums of money as might
enable him to prosecute his darling
object of striking a death-blow at the
ascendency of France. The scheme
answered well — possibly beyond his
most sanguine expectation. Nor was
it altogether without a precedent.
'^ la Holland," saya Mr Doableday,
" the country of his birth, the Dutch
king and his advisers found both a pre-
cedent to quote, and an example to fol-
low. By its position and circumstances,
this country, inconsiderable in size and
population, and not naturally defensible,
bad been compelled to act the part, for
a series of years, of a leading power in
Europe ; and this it had only been
enabled to do, by that novel arm which a
very extensive foreign trade is sure to
create, and by the money drawn together
by successful trading. Venice had at an
earlier period played a similar part ; but
a series of struggles at last led the huck-
stering genius of the Dutch into a system
at which the Venetian public had not
arrived : and this was the fabrication of
paper money, the erection of a bank to
issue it, and the systematic borrowing of
that money, and the creation of debt on
the part of government, for only the
interest of which taxes were demanded
of the people. Here was machinery set
up and at work ; and, in the opinion of
interested and superficial observers, work-
ing successfully. It was, accordingly,
soon proposed to set up a copy of this
machinery in England, and in 1694, the
blow was struck which was destined to
have effects so monstrous, so long con-
tinued, and so marvellous, on the fortunes
of £i^;land and her people ; and the
establishment, since known as the Bank of
England, was erected under the sanction
of the government.'*
The worst and most dangerous
feature of a permanent national debt
is, that, during the earlier stages of its
existence, an appearance of factitious
prosperity is generated, and the nation
consequently blinded to its remote
but necessary results. The tendency
to such a delusion is inherent in
human nature. Aprh nous le dehiffe !
is a sorry maxim, which has been
often acted on, if not quoted by states-
men, who, like a certain notable Scot-
tish provost, being unable to discover
anything that posterity has done for
them, have thought themselves en-
titled to deal as they pleased with
posterity. The proceeds of the eariicr
loans enabled William to cany on his
wars ; and the nation, pnffed op with
pride, looked upon the new discoveiy
as something far more important and
1849.]
Tfie National Debt and the Stock Exchange.
663
valaable than the opening of another
Indies. Nor did William confine
himself merely to loans. Lotteries,
tontines, long and short annuities,
and ever}' species of device for raising
money, were patronised and urged on
by the former Stadtholdcr, and the
rage for public gambling became un-
controllable and universal. As we
have just emerged from one of those
periodical fits of speculation which
seem epidemical in Great Britain, and
which, in fact, have been so ever since
the Revolution, it may be interesting
to the reader to know, that the iutro-
duction of the new system was marked
by precisely the same social pheno-
mena which were observable four years
ago, when the shai'es in every bubble
railway scheme commanded a ridicu-
lous premium. We quote from the
work of Mr Francis : —
" The moneyed interest — a title familiar
to the reader of the present day — was
unknown until 1692. It was then arro-
gated by those who saw the great advan-
tage of entering into transactions in the
funds for the aid of goyernment. The
title claimed by them in pride was em-
ployed by others in derision; and the
pnrse-proad importance of men grown
suddenly rich was a common source of
ridicule. Wealth rapidly acquired has
been invariably detrimental to the man-
ners and the morals of the nation, and in
1692 the rule was as absolute as now.
The moneyed interest, intoxicated by the
possession of wealth, which their wildest
dreams had never imagined, and incensed
by the cold contempt with which the
landed interest treated them, endeavoured
to rival the latter in that magnificence
which was one characteristic of the landed
families. Their carriages were radiant
with gold; their persons were radiant
with gems; they married the poorer
branches of the nobility; they eagerly
purchased the princely mansions of the
old aristocracy. The brush of Sir God-
frey Kneller, and the chisel of Caius Gib-
ber, were employed in perpetuating their
features. Their wealth was rarely grudged
to humble the pride of a Howard or a
Cavendish; and the money gained by the
father was spent by the son in acquiring
a distinction at the expense of decency."
It is curious to remark that the
Stock Exchange cannot be said to
have had any period of minority. It
leaped out at once full-armed, like
Minerva from the brain of Jupiter.
All the arts of lulling and bearing^ of
false rumours, of expresses, combina-
tions, sqneezings — all that constitute
the mystery of Mammon, were known
as well to the fathers of the Alley, as
they are to their remote representa-
tives. Nay, it would almost appear that
the patriarchal jobber had more genius
than has since been inherited. Wil-
liam^s retinue did not consist only of
mercenaries and refugees. Hovering
on the skirts of his army came the sons
of Israel, with beaks whetted for the
prey, and appetites which never can
be sated. Vixere fortes ante Agamem-
nona — there were earlier vultures than
Nathan Eothschild. The principal
negotiators of the first British loan
were Jews. They assisted the Stadt-
holdcr with their counsel, and a Me-
phistophelcs of the money-making
race attached himself even to the side
of Marlborough. According to Mr
Francis : — *' The wealthy Hebrew,
Medina, accompanied Marlborough in
all his campaigns ; administered to the-
avarice of the great captain by an
annuity of six thousand pounds per
annum ; repaid himself by expresses
containing intelligence of those great
battles which fire the English blood
to hear them named ; and Ramilies,
Oudenardc, and Blenheim, admini-
stered as much to the purse of the
Hebrew as they did to the glory of
England." •
It has been estimated, upon good
authority, that from fifteen to twenty
per cent of every loan raised in Eng-
land, has, directly or indirectly, found
its way to the coflers of those uncon-
scionable Shylocks; so that it is small
wonder if we hear of colossal fortune*
coexisting with extreme national de-
preciation and distress. We might,
indeed, estimate their profits at a much
higher rate. Dr Charles Davenant,
in his essay on the Balance of Trade^
written in the earlier part of the last
century, remarked — " While these
immense debts remain, the necessities
of the government will continue, inter-
est must be high, and large premiums
will be given. And what encourage-
ment is there for men to think of
foreign traffic (whose returns for those
commodities that enrich England must
bring no great profit to the private
adventurers) when they can sit at
home, and, without any care or ha-
zard, get from the state, by dealing
60^
Tie Katianal Ddft amd At iStoeft Exebmage.
with the excheqaer, fifteen, and some-
times twenty, thirty, forty, and fifty
per cent? Is there any commerce
abroad so constantly advantageoosV"
We apprehend not. Capital is defined
by the economists as the accumnlation
of the savings of industry. Sach men
as Rothschild have no doubt been
Industrious, but not according to the
ordinary acceptation of the term.
Their industry- is of a wholesale kind.
It is confined to a resolnte and 83rste-
matic endeavour to avail themselres
of tlie saviu^s of others ; and we need
hardly state that, in this pnrsolt, they
^ve shov^n themseiyes most emi-
nently successful.
The remarkable change which took
place in the monetary system of Eng-
land, under the auspices of William,
oould not, of course, have been efifected
without the concurrence of parliament.
That body had certamly no reason to
charge him with neglect of theurinter-
osts. The representatives of the
people for the first time began to
understand, that there might be cer-
tain perquisites arising ifrom their
situation as men of trust, which could
be made availal^ to them, provided
they were not too scrupulous as to the
rcquu-ements of the crown. The mas«
tifif which had bayed so formidably at
James and his predecessors, because
none of them would deign to cajole
him, became at onoe amenable to a
flop. Mr Macaulay should have writ-
ten : '^ The revolution of 1686 did not
introduce the practice of regnlariy
summoning parliaments ; what it in-
troduced was the practice of regvlarly
bribing them.^ Mr Francis, though
■an apologist of King William, who, as
he thinks, was compelled to act thos
from imperious necessity, is not blind
to this stigma on his memory. He
also believes that the settled animosity
between England and France, which
has caused so mauy wars, and led to
ench an extravagant expenditure of
blood and treasure, is mainly to be
attributed to the persevering efforts of
W^illiam of Orange. The foliowmg
smnmary is of much interest : —
** The parliamentary records of Wil-
liam's reign are curioos. The demands
which he made for money, the hatred to
France which he encouraged, and the fre-
quent supplies he receired, are reraark-
^le features in his history. Efery art
[Dec
employed; at ooa tine asdld remon-
strance, at another a haughty menace, at
a third the reproach thai he had Tentuied
his life for the benefit of the country.
The bribery, daring this reign, was the
commencement of a system which has been
very injurious to the credit and character
of England. The support of the members
was purchased with places, with contracts,
with titles, with promises, with portions
of the loans, and with tickets in the lot-
tery. The famoas axiom of Sir Robert
Walpole was a practice and a principle
with William; he found that custom could
not stale the iafiuite variety of its efeet,
and that, so long as bribes comtinned, to
long would supplies be free. Exorbitant
preminms were given for money; and so
low was public credit, that of Jive miUioni
granted to carry on the war, only two and
a half millionsreaekedtke Exchequer. Long
annuities and diort annuities, lottery
tickets and irredeemable debts, made their
frequent appearance; and the duties,
which principally date from this periodj
were most pernicious.^'
These things are dements of import-
ance in considering the political his-
tory of the country. They explain the
reason why the great bulk of the
nation never cordiaUy supported the
new succession; and why, for the
first time in English history, their
own representative house lost caste
and credit with the commons, fifty
years later, when Charles Edward
penetrated into the heart of England,
he met with no opposition. If tihe m-
habitants of the eonntiea throned
which he passed iAA not join his stan-
dard, they tbonght as little of making
any aettre opposition to his advance ;
ti^erel^ e^ibiting an apatiiy totally
at variance with the high national and
independent spirit which in all times
has characterised the Engli&h, and to
be accounted for on no other ground
than their disgust with the new sys-
tem which, even then, had Awolte the
amount of taxation to an extent
seriously felt by the eonaoBalty, and
which had so oorrapted parliament
that redress seemed hopeless within
the peaceful limits of the oonstitation«
The proclamation issued by the prince,
from Edinburgh, bore direct reference
to the funded debt, and to the noto-
rious ministerial bribery ; and it must
have found an echo in the benrts cf
many, who began to peroeive that tiie
cry of civil and retigions liberty is
the standard stalking-horse finr every
1849.]
The NaUomdDelbt and (he Stock Eaekangt.
revolution, but that the resalt of i-ero-
lations is too commonly an imperative
demand upon the people for a large
augmentation of their burdens, backed
too by the very demagogues who were
the instigators of the violent change.
In this crisis, the moneyed interest,
which William had so dexterously
created, saved the new dynasty — less,
certainly, from patriotism, thiim from
the fear of personal ruin.
It is a memorable fact that, from
the very first, the Tory party opposed
themselves strenuously to the creation
and progress of the national debt. It
Is well that those who, in our own
times, bitterly denounce the system
which has landed us in such inextri-
cable difficulties, and which has had
the effect of rearing up class interests,
kreconcilably opposed to each other,
in once- united England, should re-
member that for all this legacy we 9re
specially indebted to the Whigs.
Except by Tory ministers, and in one
case by Walpole, no attempt has
been made to stem the progress of the
eorreot; and this consideration b
doubly valuable at this moment, when
it is proposed, by a vigorous effort, to
make head against the monster griev-
ance, and, by the establishment of an
inviolable sinking-fund, to commence
that woriL which liberal and juggling
potittcians have hitherto shamefully
evaded. It is more than probable that
*^ihe moneyed interest" will throw the
whole weight of their influence in
opposition to any such movement;
unless, indeed, they should begin
already to perceive that there may be
worse evils in store for them than a
just liquidation of their claims. Mat-
ten have now gone so fiur as to be
perHoas, if no practicable mode of
ultimate extrication can be shown.
.Real property cannot be taxed any
higher — indeed, the landowneFS have
claims for relief from peculiar burdens
imposed upon them, which in equity
can hardly be gainsaid. The property
and income-tax, admittedly an im-
politic impost in the time ofpeaee,
cannot remain long on its'present foot-
ing. To tax professional earnings at
the same rate as the profits of accumn-
lated capita], is amanifest and gross in-
justice against which people are begin-
ning to rebel. Tliere is no choice left,
except between dii*ect taxation and a
6G5
recurrence to the B3r8tem whidi wo
have abandoned, of raising the greater
part of our revenue by duties upon
foreign imports. The Ibrmer method,
now openly advocated by the financial
reformers, is, in our opinion, a direct
step towards repudiation. Let the
fundholders look to it in time, and
judge for themselves what results ai'o
likely to accrue from such a policy.
One thing is clear, that if no effort
should be made to redeem any portion
of the debt — but if, on the contrary,
circumstances should arise, the pro-
bability of which is before us even
now, to call for its augmentation, and
for a coiTCsponding increase of the
public revenue — the financial reformers
will not be slow to discover that the
only mterest hitherto unassailed must
submit to suffer in its turn. The
Whigs ajre now brought to such a pass*
that they cannot bope to see their
way to a surplus. We shall have no
more of those annual remisHons of du-
ties, which for years past have been
made the boast of every budget, but to
which, in reality, the greater part of our
present difficulties is owing. Had a
sinking fund been established long
a^, and rigidly maintained, and at tha
same time the revenue kept full, the na-
tion would ere now have been rei4>iug
the bffliefitof such a policy. We'should
have had the satisfaction of seeing our
debt annuallydiminishing, and the inte-
rest of it becomingless ; whereas, by th«
wretched system of fiddling pwularity
which has been pursued, the debt has
augmented in time of peace, the annual
burdens absolutely increased, ruinous
competition been fostered, and inter-
nal jealousies excited. The Whigs,
who arrogate for themselvefi, not only
now but in former times, the guardian-
ship of the liberties of Britain, have
taken especial pains to conceal the
fact that they were, in reality, the
authors of our funding system, and
the bitterest opponents of those wh»
eariy descried its remote and ruinous
coBsequenees. Their motives cannot
be eoncealed, however it may be th«r
interest at the present time to gloss
them over. Lord Boliogbroke thus
exposes their oecult designs, in his
" Letters an the Use of History.''
^ Few men, at the time (1688), looked
forward enough to foresee the neceiwary
eonseqaenees of the new constitution of
G06
Tke National Debt and the Stock Exchange,
[Dec.
the reTenne that was soon afterwards
formed, nor of the method of fanding that
immediately took place ; which, absurd
as they are, hare contiuaed ever since,
till it is become scarce possible to alter
them. Few people, I say, saw how the
creation of funds, and the multiplication
of taxes, would increase yearly the power
of the Crown, and bring our liberties, by
a natural and necessary progression, into
more real though less apparent danger
than they were in before the Revolution !
The excessive ill husbandry practised
from the very beginning of King Wil-
liam's reign, and which laid the founda-
tion of all we feel and fear, was not the
effect of iguorance,'mistake,or what we call
chance, but of design and scheme in those
vho had the sttay at the titne, I am not
so uncharitable, however, as to believe
that they intended to bring upon their
country all the mischiefs that we who
oame after them experience and appre-
hend. No : they saw the measures they
took singly and unrelatively, or relatively
alone to some immediate object. The
notion of attaching men to the new go-
vernment, by tempting them to embark
their fortunes on the same bottom, was a
reason of state to some ; the notion of
creating a new, that is, a moneyed interest^
in opposition to the landed interest, or as a
balance to it, and of acquiring a superior
interest in the city of London at least, by
the establishment of great corporations, was
a reason of party to others : and I make
no doubt that the opportunity of amassing
immense estates, by the management of
funds, by trafficking in paper, and by all
the arts of jobbing, was a reason of pri-
vate interest to those who supported and
improved that scheme of iniquity, if not
to those who devised it. They looked
no further. Nay, we who came after
them, and have long tasted the bitter
fk'uits of the corruption they planted,
were far from taking such alarm at our
distress and our dangers as they de-
served."
In like manner wrote Swift, and
Homo, and Smith ; nor need we won-
der at their vehemence, when we dir-
ect our attention to the rapid increase
of the charge. William's legacy was
£16,400,000 of debt, at an annual
charge to the nation of about
£1,311,000. At the death of Queen
Anne, the debt amounted to fifty- four
millions, and the interest to three mil-
lions, three hundred and fifty thou-
sand—being nearly double the whole
revenue raised by King James I The
total amount of the annual revenue
tinder Queen Anne, was more than
five millions and a half. Under
George L, singular to relate, there
was no increase of the debt. At the
dose of the reign of Greorge XL, it
amounted to about a hundred and
forty millions ; and, in 1793, just one
hundred years after the introduction
of the funding system in Britain, we
find it at two hundred and fifty-two
millions, with an interest approaching
to ten. Twenty-two years later, that
amountwas more than trebled. These
figures may well awaken grave con-
sideration in the bosoms ol all of us.
The past is irremediable ; and it would
be a gross and unpardonable error to
conclude, that a large portion of the
sum thus raised and expended was
uselessly thrown away; or that the
corruption employed by the founders
of the system, to secure the acquies-
cence of parliament, was of long con-
tinuance. On the contrary, it is un-
deniable that the result of many of
the wars in which Britain engaged
has been her commercial, territorial,
and political aggrandisement ; and that
bribery, in a direct form, is now most
happily unknown. The days have
gone by since the parliamentary guests
of Walpole could calculate on finding
a note for £500, folded up in their
dinner napkins — ^since great companies*
applying for a charter, were compelled
to purchase support — or when peace
could only be obtained, as in the fol-
lowing instance, by means of purchased
votes :— " The peace of 1763," said
John Ross Mackay, private secretary
to the Earl of Bute, and afterwards
Treasurer to the Ordnance, " was car-
ried through, and approved, by a pe-
cuniary distribution. Nothing else
could have surmounted the difficulty.
I was myself the channel through
which the money passed. With my .
own hand I secured above one hun-
dred and twenty votes on that vital
question. Eighty thousand pounds
was set apart for the purpose. Forty
members of the House of Commons
received from me a thousand poonds
each. To eighty others I paid five
hundred pounds a-piece." Still wo
cannot disguise the fact, that a vast
amount of the treasure so levied, and
for every shilling of which the indus-
try of the nation was mortgaged,
never reached the coffers of the state>
1849.]
The NcUional Debt and the Stock Exchange,
667
bat passed in tho shape of bonuses,
premiums, and exorbitant contracts,
to rear up those fortunes which have
been the wonder and admiration of
the world. Nor is it less palpable
that the fortunes so constructed could
not have had existence, unless ab-
stracted from the regular industry of
the country, to the inevitable detri-
ment of the labourer, whose condition
has at all times received by far too
little consideration. Add to this the
spirit of public gambling, which, since
the Revolution, has manifested itself
periodically in this country — the sud-
den fever-fits which Seem to possess
the middle classes of the community,
and, by conjuring up visions of un-
bounded and unbased wealth, without
the necessary preliminary of labour,
to extinguish their wonted prudence
— and wo must conclude that the
funding system has been pregnant
with social and moral evils which
have extended to the whole commu-
nity. Before we pass from this sub-
ject— which we have dwelt upon at con-
siderable length, believing it of deep
interest at the present point of our
financial history — we would request
the attention of our readers to the
following extract from the work of
Mr Fi-ancis, as condemnatory of the
policy pursued by recent governments,
and as tending to throw light on the
ultimate designs of the Financial Re-
form Associations. It is quite poss-
ible that, in matters of detail, we
might not agree with the writer — at
least, he has given us no means of
ascertaining upon what principles he
would base an " efficient revision of
our taxation ;" but we cordially agree
with him in thinking that, as we pre-
sently stand, the right arm of Great
Britain is tied up, and the Bank of
England, under its present restrictions,
in extreme jeopardy at the first an-
nouncement of a war.
** It is one great evil of the present age,
that it persists in regarding the debt as
perpetual. Immediately the expenditure
is exceeded by the reyenue, there is a
demand for the reduction of taxation.
We, a commercial people, brought up at
the feet of M'Culloch, with the books of
national debt as a constant study, with
the interest on the national debt as a con-
stant remembrancer, persist in scoffing at
any idea of decreasing the encumbrance:
and when a Chancellor of the Exchequer
proposes a loan of eight millions, we
growl and grumble, call it charitable,
trust for better times, and read the Oppo*
sition papers with renewed zest.
^ There is no doubt that the resources
of the nation are equal to far more than
is now imposed ; but it can only be done
by an efficient reyision of our taxation,
and this will never be effected till the
wolf is at the door. A war which greatly
increased our yearly imposts would, with
the present system, crush the artisan,
paralyse the middle class, and scarcely
leave the landed proprietor unscathed.
The convertibility of the note of the Bank
of England would cease ; and it would be
impossible to preserve the charter of Sir
Robert Peel in its entirety, while twenty-
eight millions were claimable yearly in
specie, and the gold of the country went
abroad in subsidies.
^* In an earlier portion of the volume,
the writer briefly advocated annuities as
one mode of treating the national debt.
There would in this be no breach of faith
to the present public ; there would be no
dread of a general bankruptcy; there
would be no need of loans ; and, had this
principle been carried out, the national
debt would be yearly diminishing. In
ten years, nearly two millions of termin-
able annuities will expire, and it behoves
the government to inquire into the effect
which the conversion of the interminable
debt into terminable annuities would
have on the money market.
*^ It is absolutely idle for the Financial
Reform Association to think of effectually
lowering the taxation of the country,
while twenty-eight millions are paid for
interest ; and it is to be (eared that great
evil will accompany whatever good they ,
may achieve. That there are many offices
which might be abolished ; that it is a
rule in England that the least worked
should be best paid ; that an extravagant
system of barbaric grandeur exists ; that
the army and the navy, the pulpit and the
bar, are conducted unwisely; and that
great men are paid great salaries for do-
ing nothing,— is indisputable; but it is
equally so that great savings have been
effected, and that greater efforts are
making to economise further. There is
a faith pledged to the public servant as
much as to the public creditor ; and,
whether he be a colonel or a clerk, a
man of peace or a man of war, it is
impracticable, imprudent, and uig'ust to
attempt that which would as much break
faith with him, as to cease to pay the
dividends on the national debt would be
to break faith with the national creditor.
<< These things are paltry and puerile
668
Hke National DdU and the Stock Excktmffe. [Dec
compared with that which, excepting a
total reTision of taxation, can alone
materially meet the difficulties of Eng-
land ; aad the gentlemen of the Reform
Association ai« aware of thie. Tbej
nay cat down salaries ; lower the de-
fences of the country; abolish ezpen-
Blre forms and ceremonies ; amalgamate
s few boards of direction ; reduce the
ciril list ; and do away with all sinecures.
Bat the eril is too rast, and the diffl-
•nlties are foe gigantic, to be met in so
B&mple a manner. Nor will tfaeee gentle-
men be satisfied with it while there are
eight hundred millions at which to lerel
^ir Quixotie spear. R^udiation was
darkly alluded to at one meeting of the
Association, and, though it has since been
denied, it is to be feared that time only
is required to ripen the attempt"
Turn we now from the national
debt to its eldest offspring, the Ex-
change. Marvellous indeed are the
scenes to wbidi we are introduced,
whether we read ita history aa in the
time of William of Orange, enter it at
the period when the SouUi Sea bubWe
had reached its utmost width of dis-
tension, or tread its precincts at a more
recent date, when railway speculation
was at its height, and the Glenmutchkln
at a noble premium. John Bunjan
could not have had a glimpse of it, for
he died in 1688: nevertheless his
Vanity Fair is no inaccurate prototype
of its doings. No stranger, indeed,
may enter the secret place where its
prime mysteries are enacted : if any
uninitiated wight should by chance or
accident set foot within that charmed
circle, the alarm is given as rapidly as
in Alsatia when a bailiff trespassed
much that, after a time, the commis-
sions exigible for each himdfide trans-
action could not afford a decent sub-
ttstence for all who were engaged in
the business. People who buy mto
the stocks with a view to permanent
investment, are not usually in a hurry
to sell ; and this branch of the profies-
sioD, though, strictly speaking, the
only legitimate one, could not be very
lucrative. Gambling was soon intro-
dm^d. The flnctuatioiiB in the price
of the fiwds, whidt were frequent in
those unsettled times, presented an
irresistible temptatioB to buying and
sdling for the account — ft process by
means of whidi a smail capital may be
made to represent fictitiously an en-
ormeos amoiuit of stock : no tnnsfeis
bong required, and in &ct no sales
eflSdcSed, the real stake bnng tiie dif-
ierenoe between the buying and the
■dling prices. Bat, the natural fiuc-
toations of the stoda not affording a
nffident margin for tiie ayaiice of the
^leeuiatDrs, all sorts of deep-laid
schemes were hatdied to elevate or
depress them unnaturally. In other
words, fraud was resorted to, from a
▼ery early period, i(x the purpose of
promoting gain. The following may
serve as an example: — ^^The first
political hoax on record occurred in
the reign of Anne. Down the Queen's
road, riding at a furious rate, ordering
turnpikes to be thrown open, and loudly
prodauning the sudden death of the
Queen, rode a well-dvessed man, spar-
ing neither spur nor steed. From west
to east, and from north to south, the
news spread. Like wildfire it passed
upon the sanctuary. With a shout of through the desolate fields where
'^ Fourteen hundred fives ! ** the slogan
of their dan, Jew, Gentile, and prose-
lyte predpitate themselves upon the
rash intruder. In the twinkling of an
eye, his hat is battered down, and
amidst kicks, cuffs, and bustling, he is
ejected from the temple of Mammon.
But, lingering in the outer court and
vestibule, we can gain some glimpses
of the interior worship; imperfect,
indeed, but such as may well deter us
from aspiring to form part of the con-
gregation.
The creation and transferable cha*
racter of public funds, necessarily in-
volved the existence of a dass of men
who deal in such securities. That dass
multiplied apace, and multiplied so
palaces now abound, till it reached
the City. The train-bands desisted
firom their exercise, furled their c<dour9»
and returned home with their arms
reversed. The funds fell with a sudden-
ness which marked the importance of
the intelligence ; and it was remarked
that, while the Christian jobbers stood
aloof, almost paralysed with the in-
formation, Manasseh Lopez and the
Jew interest bought eagerly at the
reduced price." The whole thing was
a lie, coined by the astute Hebrews,
who then, as now, accumulated the
greater part of their money In this
disgraceful and infiunoos manner, and
doubtiess had the aodad^ eren to
glory in their shame. A more Ingeni-
18490
I%e NaHamal Debt and ihe Siodi Exchmige,
oub trick was played off in 1715, when
% sham captore was made in Scotland
of a carriage and six, supposed to
eontain the unfortooate Cbeyalier St
George. The news, being despatched
to London, instantly elerated the funds,
^and the inventors of the trick laaghed
in their sleeves as they divided the
profit." Modem jobbers will do«ibtles8
read these recoi'ds with a sigh for the
giory of departed times, just as a
schoolboy bitterly regrets that he was
not bom in the days of chivalry.
Universal rapidity of commnnication,
and the power of the press, have ren-
dered snch operations on a laiig;e scale
ahnoit impossible. The electric tele-
graph has injured the breed of carrier
pigeons, and more than half the poetry
of fraudttlent stock-jobbing has dis-
i^eared.
The range of the jobbers speedihy
extended itself beyond the compaii-
tively narrow field presented by the
fmids. Exchequer Inlls with a
variable premiam were invented and
bronght into the maiicet, a large and
lucrative basiness was done in k)ttery
tSdcetBy and even seats in parliament
were negotiated on the Stock Ex-
change. Joint stock companies next
came into play, and these have ever
since proved an inexhaustible mine
of wealth to the jobbers. Nor were
they in tlie least particular as to the
nature of the commodity in which
they dealt. Thomas Guy, founder
of the hospital called after his name,
acquired his fortune by means similar
to those which are now made matter
of reproach to the Jews of Portsmouth
and Plymouth. It is a curious fea-
ture in the history of mankind, that
money questionably amassed is more
often destined to pious uses than the
savings of honest industry. The con-
science of the usurer becomes alarmed
as the hour of dissolution draws nigh.
*^ His principal dealings were in those
tickets with which, from the time of
the second Charles, the seamen had
been remunerated. After years of
great endurance, and of greater
labour, the defenders of the land were
paid with inconvertible paper ; and
the seamen, too often improvident,
were compelled to part with their
wages at any discount, which the con-
science of t^e usurer would offer.
Men who had gone the round of the
669
world like Drake, or had fought hand
to hand with Tromp, were unable to
compete with the keen agent of the
usurer, who, decoying them into the
low haunts of Rotherhithe, purchased
their tickets at the lowest possible
price ; and skilled seamen, the glory
of England's navy, were thus robbed,
and mined, and compelled to transfer
their services to foreign states. In
these tickets did Thomas Guy deal,
and on the savings of these men was
the vast superstructure of his fortune
reared. But jobbing in them was as
frequent in the high places of England
as in ^Change Alley. The seaman
was poor and uninflnential, and the
orders which were refused payment to
him were paid to the wealthy jobber,
who parted with some of his plunder
as a premium to the treasury to dis-
gorge the remainder.'* But frauds
and injustice, even when counte-
nanced by governments, have rarely
other than a disastrous issue to the
state. So in the case of those sea-
men's tickets. That the wages due
to the sailor should have fallen into
arrears during the reigns of Charies
and of James, need excite little sur-
prise, when we remember that the
revenue in their day never exceeded
two millions annually. But that the
abuse should have been continued
after the revolutionary government
had discovered its easy method of
raising subsidies — more especially
when ample proof had been given of
the danger of such a system, by the
want of alacrity displayed by the
English seamen when the Dutch fleet
burned our vessels in the Thames and
threatened Chatham — is indeed mat-
ter of marvel, and speaks volumes as
to the gross corruption of the times.
So infamous was the neglect, that at
length the sailors' tickets had accu-
mulated to the amount of nine millions
sterling of arrears. Not one farthing
had been provided to meet this huge
demand ; and in order to stay the
clamours of the holders, — not now
mariners, but men of the stamp of
Thomas Guy, — parliament erected
them into that body known as the
South Sea Company, the transactions
of which win ever be memorable in
the commercial history of Great
Britain.
The existence of this company
C70
The Naiianal Debt and the Stock Exchimge.
[Dec
dates from the reign of Queen Anne ;
but for some years its operations were
conducted on a small scale, and it
only assumed importance in 1719,
when exclusive privileges of trading
within certain latitudes were assured
to it. AVo quote from Mr Doubleday
the following particulars, which ut-
terly eclipse the grandeur of modem
gambling and duplicity.
*' As soon as the act had fairly passed
the Houses, the stock of the company at
once rose to three hundred and nineteen
jter cent ; and a mad epidemic of specu-
lative gambling seemed, at once, to seize
the whole nation, with the exception of
Mr Hutchison, and a few others, who not
only preseryed their sanity, bat energeti-
cally warned the public of the ultimate
fate of the scheme and its dupes. The
public, however, was deaf. The first
sales of stock by the Court of Directors
were made at three hundred per cent.
Two millions and a quarter were taken,
and the market price at one reached
three hundred and fort i^ — double the first
instalment according to the terms of
payment. To set out handsomely, the
Court voted a dividend of ten per cent
upon South Sea Stock, being only a
half-yearly dividend, payable at midsum-
mer 1720. To enable persons to hold,
they also offered to lend half a million
on security of their own stock ; and
afterwards increased the amount to a
million, or nearly so. These bold steps
gained the whole affair such an increase
of credit, that, upon a bare notice that
certain irredeemable annuities would be
received for stock, upon terms hereafter
to be settled, numbers of annuitants de-
posited their securities at the South Sea
House, without knowing the terms !
About June, when the first half-yearly
dividend was becoming due, the frenzy
rose to such a pitch, that the stock was
sold at eight hundred and ninety per cent.
This extravagance, however,made so many
sellers, that the price suddenly fell, and
uneasiness began to be manifested ; when
the Directors had the inconceivable auda-
city to propose to create new stock at one
thoutand per cent, to be paid in ten in-
stalments of one hundred pounds each.
Strange to relate, this desperate villany
turned the tide again, and, to use the
words of Anderson, * in a few days the
hundred pound instalment was worth
four hundred!*^*
We invariably find that the success,
whether real or pretended, of any one
Bcheme, gives rise to a host of imitations.
If any new company, whatever bo its
object, is started, and the shares are
Belling at a premium, we may look
with perfect confidence for the an-
nouncement of SIX or seven others
before as many days have elapsed.
This is, of course, partly owing to tho
cupidity of the public ; but that cupidity
could not manifest itself so soon in a
tangible form, but for the machinations
of certain parties, who see Uieir way
to a profit whatever may be the re-
sult of the speculation. Amidst the
ruin and desolation which invariably
follow those seasons of infnriated and
infatuated gambling, to which we are
now tdmost habitnsSted, such men pre-
serve a tranquil and a calm demean-
our. And no wonder: they have
reaped the harvest which the folly of
others has sown. At the hottest and
most exciting period of the game,
they have their senses as completely
under control as the sharper who baa
deliberately dined on chicken and
lemonade, with the prospect of en-
countering afterwards an inebriated
victim at Crockford's. They may
play largely, but they only do so while
their hand is safe ; the moment luck
changes, they sell out, and leave the
whole loss to be borne by the unfor-
tunate dupes, who, believing in their
deliberate falsehoods, still continue to
hold on, trusting to the advent of those
fabulous better times which, in their
case, never can arrive. It has been
80 in our own times, and it was so
when the South Sea bubble was ex-
panding on its visionary basis. ^lul-
titudes of minor schemes were pro-
jected, subscribed for, and driven up
to an exorbitant preminm. The
shares of really solid companies par-
ticipated in the rise, and mounted
correspondingly in the market. The
nominal value of aU the sorts of
stock then afloat was computed at no
less than five hundred millions; beiDg
exactly double the estimated value of
the whole lands, houses, and real pro-
perty in the kingdom 1
The collapse came, and brought ruin
to thousands who thought that they
held fortune within their grasp.
The history of the downfall is not less
suggestive than that of the rapid rise.
It has had its parallel in our dajrs,
when the most rotten and unsubstan-
tial of companies have brasened out
their frauds to the last, doctored
1849.]
27ie National Debt and the Stock Exchange.
acconuts, declared fictitions dividends,
aud threatened with legal prosecution
those who had the courage and the
honesty to expose them.
** The minor babbles burst first, when
the South Sea schemers were foolish
enough to apply for a scire facias agskinat
their projectors, on the ground that their
schemes injured the credit of the grand
scheme. This turned quondam allies iuto
furious enemies. The scire facias was is-
sued on 13th August 1720, when the
downfall began; and Mr Hutchison saw
his predictions completely fulfilled. The
South Sea villains, in sheer desperation,
declared a half yearly dividend of thirty
per cent due at Christmas, and offered to
guarantee fifty per cent per annum for
twelre years! They might as well have
declared it for the thirtieth of February.
Ererything was done to prop the repu-
tation of the directors, but all was in vain;
and when the stock fell at last to one
hundred and seventy-fiye, a panic ensued,
and all went to the ground together, to-
tally ruining thousands, and nearly drag-
ging the Bank and East India Company
along with it.*'
Mr Francis gives us some interest-
ing anecdotes of the casnalties arising
from this gigantic scheme of impos-
ture. Gay, the author of the Beg-
gar^s Opera^ was a holder of stock,
and at one time might have sold out
with a profit of twenty thousand
pounds — an opportunity very rarely
vouchsafed to a poet. In spite of
shrewd advice, he neglected his chance,
and lost every penny. One Hudson,
a native of Yorkshire, who had suc-
ceeded to a large fortune, went deeply
into the scheme. From a miUion-
uairc he became a beggar and insane,
and wandered through the streets of
London a pitiable object of charity.
But it would be work of supereroga-
tion to multiply instances of similar
calamity. They are reproduced over
and over again at the conclusion of
every fit of wild and reckless specula-
tion ; and yet the warning, terrible as
it is, seems to have no effect in re-
straining the morbid appetite.
It would, we apprehend, be impos-
sible to find any one who will advo-
cate gambling upon principle ; though
a multitude of excellent persons, who
would shrink with horror were the
odious epithet applied to them^ are,
nevertheless, as much gambler^ as if
they were staking their money at
VOL. LXVI.— XO. CCCCX.
G71
rouge'et-noir or roulette. The man
who buys into a public stock with the
intention of selling in a week or a
fortnight, in the expectation of do-
ing so at an advanced price, or the
other who sells shares which he does
not possess, in the confident belief of
a speedy fjfll, is, in everything save
decency of appearance, on a par with
the haunter of the casino. He may,
if he so pleases, designate himself an
investor, but, in reaUty, he is a com-
mon gamester. This may be a hard
truth, but it is a wholesome one, and
it cannot be too often repeated, at a
time when general usage, and yield-
ing to temptation, have perverted
words from their ordinary significance,
and led many of us to justify trans-
actions which, when tried by the
standard of morality, and stripped of
their disguise, ought to be unhesita-
tingly condemned. " He that loveth
gold shall not be justified,'' said the
son of Sirach. f^ Many have sinned
for a small matter ; and he that seek-
eth for abundance will turn his eyes
away. As a nail sticketh fast be-
tween the joinings of the stones, so
doth sin stick close between buying
and selling." Tliis spirit, when it
becomes general in the nation, cannot
be otherwise than most hurtful to its
welfare, since it diverts the thoughts
of many from those Industrie pur-
suits which are profitable to them-
selves and others, and leads them
astray from that honourable and up*
right course which is the sure and
only road to wealth, happiness, and
esteem. This has been, to a certain
extent, acknowledged by government,
even within our own time. The per-
nicious effect of the lotteries, originally
a state device, upon the morsds and
condition of the lower classes, as tes-
tified by the vast increase of cnme,
became at length so glaring, that these
detestable engines of fraud were sup-
pressed by act of parliament. Tliey
still linger on the Continent, as most
of us have reason to know from the
annual receipt of documents, copiously
circulated by the Jews of Hamburg
and Frankfort, offering us, in ex-
change for a few florins, the chance of
becoming proprietors of several cha-
teaux on the Rhine, with boar-forests,
mineral springs, vineyards, and other
appurtenances. We presume^ from.
g:2
TkeXational DOt tmdthe Skxk Extkamge.
[Dec.
the continoity of the circular?, that
Israel still finds its dupes : but we
never happened, save in one of Charies
Lever's novels, to hear of any person
Incky enough to stumble on the ticket
which secured the right to Henkers-
berg, Bettlersbad, or Narrenstein. The
extent to which lottery gambling was
carried in this country seems to us
absolutely incredible. Derby sweeps
were nothing to it.
" In 1772," says Mr Francis, « lottery
magazine proprietors, lottery taOoT?, lot-
tery ataymaker?, lottery gloTcrs, lottery
hatmaker?, lottery tea merehants, lottery
barbers — where a man, for being shared
and paying threepence, stood a chance of
receiving £10; lottery shoeblacks, lottery
eating-houses— where, for sixpence, a
plate of meat and the chance of 60 gni-
seas were given; lottery oyster-staU^ —
where threepence gave a supply of oysters,
and a remote chance of five guineas, were
plentiful; and, to complete a catalogue
which speaks volumes, at a sausage-staU,
in a narrow alley, was the important in-
timation written np, that, for one far-
thicg*s worth of sausages, the fortunate
purchaser might realise a capital of five
riiillings. Quack doctors, a class which
formed so peculiar a feattore in Tillage
life of old, sold medicine at a high price,
giving those who purchased it tickets in
a lottery purporting to contain silver and
other valuable prizes."
A new discovery waa presently
made, which had a serious effect upon
trade. Money-prizes wctc discon-
tinued, and shopkeepers, parcelling
out their goods, disposed of them by
lottery. As a matter of course, this
business, commenced by disreputable
adventurers, proved most injurious to
the regular dealer. People refused to
buy an article at the regular price,
when it might be obtained for next to
nothing. They were, however, utterly
wrong, for the staple of the prize
goods, when inspected, proved to be
of the most flimsy description. Tickets
in the state lotteries became the sub-
ject of pawn, and were so received by
the brokers, and even by the bankers.
Suicide was rife ; forgery grew com-
mon ; theft increased enormously.
Husbands and fathers saw theu* wives
and children reduced to absolute star-
vation, and weeping bitteriy for bread,
«nd yet pawned their last articles of
bousehold fumitare for one more des-
perato chance k the lottery. WWea
betrayed their husbands, and phmder-
ed them for the same purpose. Ser-
vants robbed their masters ; commis-
sions and offices were sold. Insu-
rance was resorted to, to aooommodato
all classes. Those who had not money
to pay for tickets might Insure a cer-
tain number for a small snm, and thus
obtain a prize ; and so lottery grew
upon lottery, and the sphere was in-
definitely extended. It was not un-
til 1826 that this abominable system
was finally crushed. The image of
the vans, placards, and handbiUs of
Bish is still fresh in onr memory ; and
we pray devoutly that succeeding ge-
nerations may never behold a simaiar
spectacle.
It would be in vain for ns, within
the limits of an article, to attempt
even the fkintest sketch of the specu-
lative manias which, from time to
time, have affected the prosperity of
Great Britain. Some of these have
be^i quite as baseless aa the South
Sea bubble, and may be directlj traced
to the agency and instigation of the
Stock Exchange. Others were founded
iq)on schemes of manifest advantage
to the public, and even to the pro-
prietary, if cautiously and wisely car-
ried out ; but here again the passion
for gambling has b^n insanely de-
veloped, and encouraged by those who
sought to make fortunes at the ex-
pense of their dupes. There is at all
times, in this country, a vast deal of
unemployed capital, which, in the
cant phjrase, " is waiting for invest-
ment," and which cannot well be in-
vested in any of the ordinary channels
of business. The fact is, that within
the area of Britain, it has been long
difficult for a capitalist to sdect a
proper field of operation; and the
tendency of recent l^lalation has
materially increased the £fficulty. The
country, in fact, may be considered aa
entirely yjuMfe. Agricnitnral improve-
ment, on a laige scale, which implied
the possession of a tract of unprofit-
able country, was considered, even
before the repeal of the com laws, as
no hopefril speculation. Since that
disastrous event, the chances have
naturally diminished ; and we soqwct
that, by this time, very few peo^
have any fEuth in l%r Bobert Peel's jvo-
posal for establishing new eetanies in
Ck>nnaDgfat. Whenwe find tbe Whig
Id49.] The National Debt and ti^ Stock Exchange.
Lord Monteagle denouncing free
trade as the bane of Ireland, we may
be snre that few capitalists will sink
their fnnds in the western bogs, hoping
that they may appear again in the
shape of golden gnUn which may defy
the competition of the fertile valleys
of America. We have qnite enough
of factories for idl the demand which
67^
** Let them shake the bagi
Of hoftrdingabbote; angela imprisoned
Set tbon at liberty : the iaJb ribs of peace
Must by the hun^ now be fed uoon :
Use our oommistum in its utmost force.^*
Acting upon this principle, they
made their business to find out new
channels of investment — an easier
task than the discovery of a north-
is likely to come for years : instead of western passage in the arctic regions
building new ones, it is always easy,
if any one has a fancy for it, to pur-
chase abandoned mills at a veiy con-
siderable discount; but we do not
find sach stock eageriy demanded in
the mariret. Foreign competition has
extinguished several branches of in-
dustry to which capitid might be pro-
fitably applied, and materially injured
others; so that moneyed men really are
at a loss fbr eligible investment.
This want has been felt for a long
time; and the uncertain policy of our
ministers, with regard to colonial
affiuTB, has undoubtedly had an in-
— and to represent these in all the
glowing colours which are peculiar to
the artists of 'Change Alley.
The year 1823 was remarkable for
the commencement of an epidemic
which proved, in its effects, even more
disastrous than the South Sea delusion.
It would be tedious to enumerate or
discuss the causes which led to this
sudden outburst ; some of them have
been indirectly traced to the operation
of Sir Robert PeePs famous Currency
Act of 1819, which fettered the Bank
of England, whilst it left the country
bankers free to issue unlimited paper.
jnrions dkct upon the prosperity of and to the respite of the smaller notes
these dependencies. We have anni-
hilated much of the capital invested in
the West Indies, and have withdrawn
affreat deal more. It is long since
Adam Smith urged the propriety and
the policy of identifying some of our
more important colonies with Great
Britain, by the simple process of in-
corporation, thus extending materially
the^ field of the capitalist upon se-
curity equal to that which he can
always command at home. Such an
opportunity is at this moment afibrded
by Canada ; but it seems that we will
rather run the risk of seeing Canada
merge in the United States than make
any sacrifice of our pride, even where
our interest is concerned. A con-
siderable deal of capital has gone to
Australia ; but we suspect, from late
events, that the future supply will be
limited.
^ Before the railways opened to ca-
pitalists a channel of investment which
appeared exceedingly plausible, and
which was, in a great measure,
guaranteed by the result of experi-
ment, vast masses of realised wealth
accnmnlated from time to time. Upon
these hoards the members, myrmidons,
and jobbers of the Stock Exchange,
cast a covetous eye: they whispered
which had been previously doomed to
extinction. Whatever may have been
the cause, speculation began and in-
creased at a rate which was quite un-
precedented. All kinds of ridiculous
schemes found favour in the public
eye : nothing was too absurd or pre-
posterous to scare away applicants for
shares. Mining, building, shipping,
insurance, railway, colonising, and
washing companies were established:
even an association for the making of
gold was subscribed for to the full
amount, and doubtless a balloon com-
pany for lunar purposes would have
been equallv popular. This period
was marked by the appaiition of an
entirely new animal in the precincts
of the Stock Exchange. Bulls, bears,
and even lame duclra, were creatures
coeval with its existence; but the
^^ stag,^* in its humanised ifbrm, first
appeared in 1823. The followuig
sketch might pass for a view of Capel
Court some two-and-twenty years
later: —
^ The readhiess with which shares wercf
attainable first created a class of specu-
lators that has eyer since formed a marked
feature in periods of excitement, in the
dabblers in shares and loans with which
the courts and crannies of the parent
to each other, in the language of King establishment were crowded. The scene
J<^— - was worthy the praoilffaaMtiBt^ WU&
T>!C
^ •
•wat-r.-v*''..
c tvr.:a3:3ff
-rrvrlues
~"-t
*^:.j
I ■;--;*
• •- r.r.-sisit^
:iiii ■r:=-
• <
*-'.>
r rli
;._ .^- t.^X'^
.i-r- r: :
• * ■ ^^^^
.:-*rr*
•-vr
▼ :;: ▼.=I-£rT»3
jV-l cr^iJ-
ii-t :
:.-^ry^ ;.
.n^:
•■• "> -r-:a £
ns---— a
»■' »^~
'•■.rr
I** '..«•
.:i. u:.i • ..JUT" 11 ?"-?►?—
'-. ^r.ir •A»-:»^. nr^'.r ^^. v--i i cii"r »/
T-'-'. »a^'— 7 itiT-riAf in t -^ilin^ ir i ir^-
ir rlirM ;a»-» hi •..»:: n^i-^-'i "ii "tie iirt*
I*' uifif^'T"' :;«*- •*•!! la' »:i7»«TKa!wu
Z."*/ «''.*-' la/ T— ^ -iiirT^ Tu-i -via
iii4fT% i:nii*->fla4 T :uiui>#»'i n 'in* •sime
•*vir. itiin;^ ia-^a*tj ▼ru -iuvri ▼•hiwr
•.•konjia-; •-•: uutMitr piinr. ■3x«» ji'iia.
,TiJir r.^-iiij^ jir.t auniUKiit. •noscivm if a
it-v i|:i;ai«Li« a ii.' line ▼rh * r«nt:in»
jriw. |ar.ii»r»-t i innp irifmiL -ttiIi* i*
t»»ji-»M'^ft iijs j-Mnnna '*\ 'Jut iBiuTLJXif
fT^'TJL li ^-ftTT •nraer- uit zi r^^sj
9vr»ic t^iWA. aijjn:: :*i nwa a&Mi ^a^cei?
'ioifoiiMuiip Uit }r»ruara. if & sirv ouil-
ta.% f«* -Vf * *&lZi3^ T!l« KfKLS Lu 34G1
wvnkj U \ca p-«- * Tier* I fvtsd my-
•«If/ fce «T:t«9y * ai fiKa nmtmmj m I
tiMTT Laii pJbcsd CTi 4oe »ie. and tbrj
]ttA<l« ia Umrt l«««<fa«f ' poeketi, valked
ttp a&l 44rfni wish a Ba^siftecst ftru,
wkuiUai^ »6«t lukrflbwwaii T, or Mcafua*
allj koKA:iij( aa Italiaa tir. Serenl
grare perKiBaf ei «to^ in el^ne Moivlta-
tK/n, wwwMmg rm all wbo appraaeiiH, and
M^aiiiu: to reiiTeliend an J iatrasioD. Some
lad4, wboife &6efl annonneed their Hebrew
crrij^in, and whoee mtfeeUaneons finery
wa« finely emblematical of Rag Fair,
paMed in and oot; and besides these,
there attended a strangely Taried rabble,
exhibiting in all sorts of ttrrmi and ages,
dirty habiliments, ealamitons poverty,
and grim-Tisaged rillany. It was canons
to me to hear with what apparent intelli-
gence they discnsHed all the concerns of
the nation. Erery wretch was a states-
wan; and each cxwld explain, not only
all that had been hinted at in parlia-
ment, but all that was at that moment
pausing in the bosom of the Chancellor of
the Exoheqaer.' ''
Tho Bkctch is not over-coloured.
No one cun have forgotten the sudden
•warm of floth-flies, called from cor-
l^ption into onistoncQ daring the heat
%I T!i- 1U'»T!?' Tngiix. Eltl t3»? r.li-
ruito*- lira if -uujturamx -PTasi lirj
tei-"iini»ifL -L znmaiiiL if "nls kiad
— ^T-r X an. vf. ^cfa»st ni'^fatz eis* —
Urr nihxiip inTir7 n *n»sifrr : $?r t»
»«tn.'-jniiw mil -MTifggmn': ii&T» nf^l
in. miL iri^'^s zuic sgnorristazfi. i»
'.:>nin4inj!Ti».
Hiinia ir : •crJ -v^iii asai."iTn7h^ ^ fr^iii
*T»r7 lotff. T^jicifi-f&xx-aGKpaiiiei
■*«ci^iiL?ai*it 5ic fi:i]&£«cS: bz:^4iie par-
^SLu if rmc TinrjcVwi sxr t« esdaat-
*fi !▼ ±H^ fkRL i3as ixe i.Aaiiiwi isd
iiifrT7-r»5i aip» •M^K^ozass w«r« project-
•»tL -vtiia 1 ii^QEBa^ i^sbsccbed casixal of
£4-fcl^'54>-«ri>j . <X cccrse only a mere
±vx»aL of ui§ ivscay was acmiDy
pm '>3w^ : fcfil ^e gafbBag in the
Ki:fj« waft enxsG^ The greater
port 'i-f ifie 'rapcsal actsaSr afascracted
&«:a t&« covKsrr went in'tbe shape of
famxa Vjms^, of whkh there were no
contracted during
w very shortly
bef'jre. to aa aaMant of about fiftj-six
■liliktts. Ob sxteen of these loans
interest has ceased to be paid. We
find amoDfT the bonowen sodi states
as Chili, Beeooa Ajres^ Colombia^
Gnatemala, GundnljaTa, Mexico,
and Pent, not to mention Greece,
Portngal, and Spain, eonntries which
have set to Eorope a scandalons ex-
ample of repudiation. Most of these
loans purported to bear interest at the
rate of six per eent, and some of them
were contracted for at so low a figure as
$8 ; nevertheless, with all these seem-
ing advantages, it appears marvellous
that people should have lent their
money on such slender security as
the new republics could offer. We
observe that ^Ir Francis has revived
the antiquated scandal touching Jo-
seph Hume*s " mistake" with regard
to the Greek bonds, a story which
has been a sore thorn in the side of
the veteran reformer. We think he
might have let it alone. The real
mist^e lay on the part of those who
assumed that Joseph's philanthropic
interest in the Greek cause waa so in-
tense as to suffer him for one moment
1849.]
The National Debt and the Stock Exchange.
to lose sight of his own. His anxiety
to back out of a bad bargain was per-
fectly natnral. Ho never was an
Epaminondas, and he felt justly irri-
tated at the foolishness of the Greeks
in persisting that he should sustain
the heroic character, at the expense
of his privy purse, when the stock
had fallen to a discount. If, when it
rose again to par, the Greek deputies
were weak enough to repay him the
amount of his loss^ with the uttermost
farthing of interest, that was their
concern. When a senatorial sympa-
thiser gives the aid of his lungs to
the cause of suffering humanity, he
has surely done enough. Why mulct
him further from the pocket ?
Those foreign loans, and the drain
of bullion which they occasioned,
speedily brought on the crisis. It
was a very fearful one, and for the
second time, at least, the Bank of Eng-
land was in danger. It was then that
mighty establishment owed its safety
to the discovery of a neglected box of
one pound notes, which, according to
the evidence of Mr Uarman, one of
the principal directors, saved the credit
of the country. The coffers of the
bank were exhausted, almost to the
last sovereign ; and but for that most
fortunate box, cash payments must
have been suspended in December
1825, a position of affairs the issue of
which no human intelligence could
predicate. Subsequent legislation has
not been able to guard us against the
possibility of a similar recurrence.
All that has been done is to insure
the certainty of an earlier and more
frequent panic, and to clog the wheels
of commerce by rendering discounts
impracticable at periods when no
speculation is on foot. But as far as
regards the stability of the Bank of
England, under our present monetary
laws, no provision has been made, in
any way commensurate to the addi-
tional risk occasioned by the absorp-
tion of the twenty millions and up-
wards lodged in the savings-banks,
all which must, when required, be
repaid in the precious metals ; and in
^ase of any convulsion, or violent
alarm, it is clear that such a de-
mand would be made. The experi-
ence of 1832 has clearly demonstra-
ted how the fate of a ministry may be
made to depend npon the position
675
of the establishment in Threadneedle
Street.
It is perhaps not to be wondered at
that, in a commercial country like
ours, wealth should command that
respect and homage which, in other
times, was accorded to the possessors
of nobler attributes. We make every
allowance for the altered circum-
stances of the age. High and heroic
valour, as it existed before, and un-
doubtedly still does exist, has not the
same field for its display as in the days
when Christendom was leagued against
the Infidel, or even in those, compara-
tively later, when contending factions
made their appeal to arms. Our wars,
when they do occur, are matters of
tactics and generalship ; and physical
courage and daring has ceased to be
the path to more than common re-
nown. Where most are loyal, and no
treason is at hand, loyalty is no con-
spicuous virtue. Those who are dis-
tinguished in the walks of literature
and science need not covet adulation,
and very seldom can command it.
Their fame is of too noble and endur-
ing a quality to be affected by ephe-
meral applause; and it is good for
them to work on in patience and in
silence, trusting for their reward here-
after. The substantiality of wealth,
the power and patronage which it
commands, will inevitably make its
possessor more conspicuous in the
eyes of the community, than if he were
adorned with the highest mental attri-
butes. All things are measured by
money : and when money is acknow-
ledged as the chief motive power, he
who knows best how to amass it can-
not fail to be the object of attention.
But the marked and indiscriminate
homage which is paid to wealth alone,
without regard to the character of the
possessor, or the means through which
that wealth has been acquired, is, in
our estimation, a feature disgraceful
to the age, and, were it altogether
new, would justify us in thinking that
the spirit of independence had declined.
We shall hold ourselves excused from
illustrating our meaning by making
special reference to a recent but strik-
ing instance, in which wealth suddenly
acquired, though by most iniquitous
means, raised its owner, for a time, to
the pinnacle of public observation.
We prefer selecting from the pages of
e76
The XoHimQl Debi mMd tkt Siodk
[Dec.
Mr Fnnds the portrait of ft man
whose character displayed nothing
that was great, generous, beneToIent,
or noble : whose whole life and whole
energies were devoted to the ac^oi-
BuioD of pelf: whose manners were
ooarse ; whose person was nnprepos*
eefieing ; whoee mind never ranged
beyond its own contracted and money-
making sphere ; and who yet com-
manded, in this England of oars, a
homage greater than was ever paid to
rirtne, intellect, or valom-. Sach a
man was Nathan Meyer Rothschild,
the famous Jew capitalist.
Originally from Frankfort, this re-
markable man came over to England
towards the close of last century, and
commenced operations in Manchester,
where he is said to have speedily
trebled his first capital of £20,000 :—
** This," MjB Mr Fraxicis, « was the
foondaiion of that colosBal fortane which
afterwards pasted into a proverb ; and in
loOO, finding Manchester too small for
the mind which could grapple with theae
profits, Rothschild came to London. It
was the period when such a man was
anre to make progress, as, clear and com-
prehensiTe in his commercial views, he
was also rapid and decisive in working
<mt the ideas which presented themselves.
Business was plentiful ; the entire Conti-
nent formed our customers ; and Roths-
child reaped a rich reward. From bar>
gain to bargain, from profit to profit, the
Hebrew fioancier went on and prospered.
Gifted with a fine perception, he never
hesitated in action. Haring bought some
bills of the Duke of Wellington at a dis-
count— to the payment of which the faith
of the state was pledged — his next ope-
ration was to buy the gold which was
necessary to pay them, and, when he had
purchased it, he was, as he expected, in-
formed that the government required it.
Government had it — but, doubtless, paid
for the accommodation. ' It was the best
business I ever did!' he exclaimed tri-
umphantly ; and he added that, when the
government had got it, it was of no ser-
vice to them until he had undertaken to
convey it to Portugal."
Rothschild was, in faet, a usurer to
the state, as greedy and unconscion-
able as the humbler Hebrew who
discouuts the bill of a spendthrift at
forty per cent, and, instead of hand-
ing over the balance in cash to his
victim, forces him to accept the moiety
in coals, pictures, or cigars. His
information was minute, exclusive,
and nmified. AH tlie arts which had
been employed on the Stock Ex-'
change in eixiier times were revived
by lum, and new ^' dodges'' intro-
duced to depress or to raise the mar-
ket.
'^ One cacse of bis meceM was the
wcrecy with which he ahimided all his
transactioof , and the tcrtnons policy wiih
which he misled those the most who
watched him the keenest. If he pos-
sessed news calculated to make the funds
rise, he would commission the broker iHio
acted on his behalf to sell half a million.
The shoal of mem who usually folkw the
■ovements of othen sold with him. The
Bews BOOB passed through Capel Court
that Rothsdiild was beanag the maikety
and the fnads felL Men looked doobt-
ingly at oae another; a general panic
spread ; bad news was looked for ; and
these united agencies sank the priee two
or three per cent. This was the result
expected ; and other brokers, not usually
employed by him, bon^it all they could
at the reduced rate. By the time this
was accomplisbed, the good news had ar-
rived; the pfeasnre ceased; the funds
rose instantly; aad Mr Rothsdnld reaped
his reward."
The morality of the ring baa Boaie*
times been called in qnestioo ; but we
freely confess, tiiat we would rather
trust ourselves implicitly to the ten-
der mercies of the verieat leg that
ever bartered horse-flesh, than to
those of such a man as *^ the first
baron of Jewry^ — a title which was
given him by a foreign potentate, to
tiie profanation of a noble Christian
order.
Such were the doings of RothachOd:
let us now see him in perBon. '* He
was a mark for the satirista of the day.
His huge and somewhat slovoily ap-
pearance ; the lonnging attitode he as-
sumed, as he leaned against his pillar
in the Royal Exchange ; his rough and
rugged speech ; his foreign accent and
idiom, made caricature mark bun as
its own; while even caricature lost
all power over a subject which defied
its utmost skilL His person was made
an object of ridicule; but his form
and features were finom God. His
mind and manners were fashioned by
circumstances; his acts alone were
public property, and hj these we have
a right to judge him. No great benevo-
lence lit up his path ; no great charity
is related of him. The preea, ever
ready to chronicle liberal deeds, waa
1S49.]
The National Debt and the Stock Exchange.
almost silent upon the point ; and the
fine feeling which marked the path of
an Abraham Goldsmid, and which
brightens the career of many of the
same creed, is unrecorded by the
power which alone could give it pub-
Hcity."
Mr Disraeli, in some of his dever
novels, has drawn the portrait of a
great Jew financier in colours at once
brilliant and pleasing. His Sidonia,
whilst deeply engaged in money-mak-
ing pursuits, is represented as a man
of boundless accomplishment, ex-
panded intellect, varied information,
and princely generosity. He is the
very Paladin of the Exchange — a
compound of Orlando and Sir Moses
Montefiore. The extravagance of the
conception does not prevent us from
admiring the consummate skill of the
author, in adapting his materials so as
to elevate our ideas and estimate of
the Hebrew idiosyncrasy. Sidonia is
as much at home in the palace as in
the counting-room ; his great wealth
ceases to be the prominent feature,
and becomes the mere accessory of the
polished and intellectual man ; avarice
never for one moment is permitted to
appear ; on the contrary, the prodi-
gality of the munificent Hebrew is
something more than Orients. We
may refuse to believe in the reality of
such a character, which implies a com-
bination of the most antagonistic pur-
suits, and a union of mental attributes
which could not possibly coexist ; but,
this difficulty once surmounted, we
cannot challenge the right of so emi-
nently gifted an individual to take his
place among the true nobility of the
earth. We fear, however, that such
a phoenix of Palestine has no exist-
ence, save on paper. Certain it is,
that Rothschild was not the man;
and yet Rothschild, in his day, com-
manded as much homage as the novel-
ist has claimed for Sidonia. Great is
the power of money ! Princes feasted
with him ; ambassadors attended him
to the tomb ; and yet, for all we can
learn, he was not equal, in moral
worthy to the meanest pauper in the
workhouse. He would at times give
a guinea to a street beggar, not for
the object of relieving his wants, but
to enjoy the joke of seeing him ran
away, under the apprehension that
the donor had been mistaken in the
677
coin! His wealth was gained by
chicanery, and augmented by syste-
matic deceit ; and yet attend to the
words of the chronicler :—
^ Peers and prinoes of the blood eat at
his table ; clergymen and laymen bowed
before him ; and they who preached loud-
est against mammon, bent lowest before
the mammon-worshipper. Gorgeous plate^
fine furniture, an establishment such as
many a noble of Norman descent would
envy, graced his entertainments. With-
out social refinement, with manners which^
ofiensiye in the million, were but brusque
in the millionnaire ; he collected around
him the fastidious members of the most
fastidious aristocracy in the world. He
saw the representatives of all the states
in Europe proud of his friendship. By
the democratic envoy of the New World,
by the ambassador of the imperial Rass^
was his hospitality alike accepted ; while
the man who warred with slavery in all
its forms and phases, was himself slave to
the golden reputation of the Hebrew.
The language which Mr Rothschild could
use when his anger overbalanced his dis-
cretion, was a license allowed to his
wealth ; and he- who, when placed in o
position which almost compelled him to
subscribe to a pressing charity, could ex-
claim, " Here, vwite a cheque — I have
made one — fool of myself 1 ** was courted
and caressed by the clergy, was f6ted and
followed by the peer, was treated as an
equal by the first minister of the crown^
and more than worshipped by those whose
names stood foremost on the roll of a com-
mercial aristocracy. His mode of dicta-
ting letters was characteristic of a mind
entirely absorbed in money- making ; and
his ravings, when he found a bill unex-
pectedly protested, wete translated into
mercantile language before they were fit
to meet a correspondent's eye. It is pain-
ful to write thus depreciatingly of a man
who possessed so large a development of
brain ; but the golden gods of England
have many idolaters, and the voice of
truth rarely penetrates the private room
of the English merchant."
Poor as Lazarus may be, let him not
envy the position of Dives. Even in
this world, riches cannot purchase hap-
piness. Any pecuniary loss was enough
to drive Rothschild to despair. His
existence was further embittered by
the dread of assassination— no uncom-
mon symptom, when the mind is rarely
at ease; and those who knew him
best, said that he was often troubled
with such thoughts, and that they
haunted him at ' moments when he
67^
woald willin^rlv' have forgotten thorn.
•* Happy ! ~ he said, in reply to the
compliment of a gnest — '* me happy!
what ! happy when, jost as yon are
going to dine, yon have a letter placed
in yoar habile, saying. '' If yon do not
«end me V//), I will blow your brains
ont ? ' Happy ! — me happy ! " We are
not comp<i?>ioDate enoagh to wish that
it had been otherwi«e. Sach thonjhts
are the foreshadowin;^ of the end of
those who have prospered beyond their
deserts, and have failed in making
even that negative expiation, which
conscience sometimes extorts frum the
apprehensions of unscmpnlous men.
And here we shall close onr re-
marks. There is still a fertile field
bcfure ns, on which we might be
tempted to enter : bnt that di5cu<v«ion
would bring us too near onr own days,
and involve the resumption of topics
which have already been handled in
I^Iaga. The time doubtless will come,
when, after the cessation of some new
fit of speculation, and when men are
cnrsing their folly, and attempting by
late industry to repair their shattered
fortunes, some historian like Mr Fran-
cis shall take up the pen, and chron-
icle our weakness, as that of onr fathers
is already chronicled. In the mean-
time, it would be well for all of us
seriously to lay to heart the lesson
3fy PenhuMlar 3Iedal.^Pari IL
[Dec.
which may be drawn from this inter-
esting record. Speculation, carried
beyond dae bounds, is neither more
nor less than a repetition of the old
game of Beggar my Neighbour,
onder another form. To fair and
legitimate enterprise we owe much of
onr modem improvement ; which has
been further rendered necessary by
the pressure which has increased, and
is increasing upon us. To unfair and
illegitimate enterprise, undertaken for
the sole purpose of immediate gain,
we owe nothing save periods of great
misery and desolation. The game of
Beggar mt Neighbour may be
played privately or pmblicly. Some
of us have taken a hand in it privately,
with what results we shall keep to
ourselves. For several years lick,
onr statesmen have played the public
game, and played it well. They have
succeeded in inflicting successively a
blow upon each great interest of the
country, by dealing with each sepa-
rately, and by alienating the sympathy
of the others. The game is now
pretty well played ont ; and when we
come to reckon onr counters, it is
evident from the result, that not one
of the parties so dealt with has been
a winner I WTio, then, are the gainers?
AVe think the answer is plain. They
are the Capitalist and the Foreigner.
MY PENINSULAR MEDAL.
BT AX OLD PENINSULAR.
PART II. — CHAPTER IV.
We held our course, after part-
ing with our friends in the boat, and
were soon at the harbour's mouth.
The breeze continued to freshen, and
the swell to increase. Our little
Wilhelmina now began to give ns a
specimen of her qualities as a sea-
boat. Labouring through the curled
und crested seas, creakuog, groaning,
vibrating from stem to stem ; now
balancing, with her keel half bare, on
the summit of a lofty surge, now deep
in a liquid trough ; now kicking up
behind, now running her nose bang
into a bank of water ; now pointing
skywards, as if bound to the moon,
and not to Lisbon ; now pitching, now
jig-jigging it, she simnlatcd the paces
of a Spanish genet — a great deal of
action, very little progress.
By the time we were clear of the
harbonr, and in comparatively smooth
water, the wind had shifted to the
north-west ; onr course lay south,
and, being sheltered by the land, we
soon exchanged the jig-jigging of onr
exit from port for a far more agree-
able, because more equable motion,
as we drove over ocean's swell. It
had already become palpably evident
that none of onr military friends were
good sailors. Now, however, they
were all able to stand without hold-
ing— all, I should eay, bnt one un-
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal— Part II,
C79
bappy individual, and that was Mr
Commissary Capsicum, who had been
reduced to a miserable state of disor-
der by the active movements of the
brig, and whose actual symptoms
were by no means those of convales-
cence.
Night closed in. It was past twilight,
yet not wholly dark — in short, that in-
terval between twilight and perfect
night, for which in English we have no
word, but which the richer language of
Bums expressively designates as "the
gloaming." Little more than enough
of it to fill the sails and give the vessel
way, the wind was soft, and at times
scarcely perceptible. The waves heav-
ed lazily ; the ship surmounted them
with measured rise and fall ; and,
though the heavens were overcast, a
light, different from that of day, clear
but faint, was equably diffused on all
sides. The tremulous surface of the
ocean, dark, but distinguishable to the
horizon, was there sharply outlined
against the pale but still luminous
sky.
Since we left port in the morning,
what with showers and spray, wind
and sunshine, I had been more than
once wet through and dry again. The
consequences were now perceptible.
I shivered inwardly. My mind, too,
was ill at ease. After much reflec-
tion, and some self-examination, I
came to this conclusion : that some-
thing was requisite, something was in-
dispensable, in my actual condition both
of mind and body. What that some-
thing was, did not instantly occur to
me. I asked myself the question
point-blank — I answered it. The
problem was solved: I wanted — a
Dightcap. Down I rushed into the
oabin. " Steward, bring me some hot
water and a little brandy."— " Yes,
sir ; a glass of hot brandy and water,
sir ; coming directly, sir." — " No, no,
steward ; that^s not what I called for.
Bring the brandy and the hot water
«eparate. I'll mix for myself."
'* Quite right," growled a feeble
voice. It was poor, unhappy, still-
very-far-from-perfectly-recovered Mr
Capsicum's. The falling of the wind
had so far abated the ship's move-
ments, that his worst symptoms were
now relieved. Still, however, he was
far, very far, from well. Most of the
passengers had turned in ; but there,
by lamplight, sat poor Capsicum at
the cabin table, from sheer listless-
ncss, destitute of sufficient energies to
put himself to bed, a lamentable spec-
tacle.
" Suppose you join me, then," said
I. " Do you good."
" Can't, can't," said he, plaintively.
" Couldn't get it down, if I knew it
would make me well this instant.
Wish I could. I'll see you take
yours, though. That'll be some com-
fort, anyhow."
The steward now brought hot
water, half a lemon, lump-sugar,
tumbler half full of capital brandy. —
'* Here, steward, you may take the
lemon away with you. Don't want
it."
" Quite right," gi'unted Capsicum,
who thought himself a connoisseur in
all things eatable and drinkable.
" Quite right; no rum, no lemon."
Spite of his pitiful plight, he now,
con amore, set himself to watch my
operations critically; as if, from the
brewing, he would form an estimate of
my judgment, capabilities, taste, cha-
racter, and general attainments.
With the silver tongs I extracted a
lump of crystal sugar, th« largest in
the basin. The present " without"
system was not then in vogue, nor
have I adopted it yet. But now there
was a hitch— how to melt the sugar.
In the tumbler it must not go — there
was the brandy : that had been an in-
fringement of all the laws of potatory
combination. I felt that I was under
observation, and that my character
was at stake. I placed the sugar in
the spoon. " Quite right," said Cap-
sicum.
Yet neither, according to the mo-
dem practice, did I wash the sugar,
half melted, from the spoon into the
tumbler, with a stream of hot water.
That, I submit, is an approximation
to the error of immersing the sugar in
the unmixed brandy. No, no. Hold-
ing the spoon over the tumbler, I
carefully dropped upon the sugar three
drops of the boiling water. It was
enough. The sugar gradually sub-
sided into a pellucid liquid, which filled
the spoon. Capsicum, who, sick as
he was, still watched my proceedings
with the deepest interest, and with a
patronising air of mild benignity, re-
peated his testimonial—" Quite right."
680
My PmnmOt^ 3iedaL-^art IL
[Dec.
Waiting till the Biigar wag wholly
difisolved, I then at length infoaed
Biffioient hot water to scald the raw
i^uritB, then added the sngai. Two
or three stirs sufficed ; not a bead
floated on the surface. The mixture
was made— tumbler about half an inch
from Ml— a ^' stiff un." Capsicum
raised himself from the table on which
he had been leaning, with folded annSt
like a cat watching a moose, and gsre
a snort of approbation.
*'*' Yon and that white il^ow old afi-
quaintance ?" said Capsicum.
*^ Our acquaintance/^ replied I,
^^ commenced at Fabnouth about a
week ago."
*^ Oh ! thou^t perhaps he was some
family connexion," said Capsicum.
«« The connexion is quite recent, as
I tell yon," said I ; *^ but I certainly
don^t mean to cut it. Hope to dme
with him at headquarten, eveiy day
Vm disengaged."
^' Dine with him at headquarters ?"
replied Capsicum. *^ You'll jdo nothing
of the kind, I can tell you that, sir.
That is, you'll dine with him at my
table ; pretty of ten* too, I trust. Hope
I shaU frequently have the pleasure of
fleeing you* both. But at his own
table, if you're twenty years at head-
quarters, you won't dine with him
onoe ; take my word for that. John
Banrymore wouldn't suffer it." Here
was a blow I
" Well, but that's a thing I can't
understand," aaid I.
** Well then, I must make you un-
dantand it," replied Capsicum. ^^You
are going out on an appointment as
clerk In John Barrymore's Depart-
ment. Isn't it so?" I bowed as-
sent.
ii Very well. That white chap does
business in commissariat bills. Svhen
he gets a bill, he's dymg to get the
cash. Your Department pays the
cash. Don't yon see, my dear sir?
It wouldn't do. It would be utteriy
at variance with all the rules of pn>-
priety, for any man in your Depart-
ment to be on terms of intimacy with
any man who does business in bills.
Besides, it would be contrary to head-
quarters etiquette ; everybody would
talk about it. Now," added Capsi-
cum, with a self-approving air, ^^ now
I've done my duty by «fi)hn Barry-
niore. Kotioed you were veiy thick.
ThoQ^^t rd tdl you, thetat e|9«-
tonlty. Oh me! (^ me!" ^ai^uac,
panting, gaainng, pressing huhaads
on his stomach, and swaying his head
from side to aide,) ^^ how veiy ni I d»
feel I Sucha horrid aenaation ! adoat-
hdow-howishness — a sort of a eone-
overishnessl The exerti<» of tilkiiig
has made me quite bad again. Here,
steward! stewaid! I most ao m
deck this inatant." He tomed justly
green.
'' Yet," said I« h<4iiag he woidd
soon be better, '' Mr Gmgfasia, it
seems, can dine with^oKjWiAootaoj
breach of propriety."
^^ Yes, yea, to be aore he eio,''
said Capsicum ; ^^ and so can 700.
Our DeiwrtQieiit d<Mi't fingv the cash.
Don't yon see? That makes aU tke
difference. Hope you'll hoth dine
with me ofkan."
" Shall be very bai^y," rn>lied I:
^^ much obliged tat your kiad invitar
tion. But still I can't undentaal
Mr Gingham haa beenat headqnaitaR
before, and knows headquarters. He
also knows, I siq[>poaeY that yoar
•humble servant is a clerk of tbe miU-
tary chest. Yet it was he himwlf
who made the propoaal that he aad I
should campaign together."
'* Can't explain that," said Capa-
cnm ; " must leave him to expilaiii
that as he can. Oh I here he oomes.^
Gingham, before he tuned in, bad
becm on deck, to take a last look at the
weather, to commune with the aileat
night, to scrutinise the horiaon, taaoli'
loquise with the donds, and perbaps
for some better and more aoieBin par-
poses: for Gingham, with all liiaf^
ties, was a man of religioas piincip^
and of devotional feeling, utd am
not who knew it. HenowapproadieJ
and seated himself with as at tae
cabin table.
"Saw you at Cadia," said Caf»;
cnm. ''Thmklsawyoaattfadnd.
" I saw you at Canton," oooHri»-
plied Gingham. Gafaicnm lookad a
little queer.
"At Canton?" said Capstorm.
"Saw me at Canton? Pid rf^
though ? Come, come, now yoore
jokii^f, you know. Did yon thoofST
really ? How was I dresaad?''
" You were drasaed like «I>^
were ; not exactly as you are **"!J'
now. You had a long, taper Rif^*
1849.]
My Peninsuiar MedaL — Part 11,
G81
reaching down to jonr heels ; no hair
on your head besides. You had slip-
pers, scarlet and gold, turned up at
the toes. You carried a fan ; and
didn^t I once or twice see you followed
by a fellow who carried a parasol over
your head at the top of a long pole ?
You had — "
** ru tell you what," said Capsicum
precipitately ; ** I'm a Christian for
all that, and my father was an Eng-
lishman. True, I was bred at Can-
ton ; but I wasn't bom there. Bom
at Macao. My mother — ''
Here, in a voice which ran through
all the notes of the gamut, not how-
ever in due order, but like the cat's
minuet, high and low alternately,
Gingham strack up a strange out-
lan<&sh sort of utterance, whether
talking or singing I could not tell ;
but, if singing, it was the rummest
song I ever heard — a jumping, disso-
nant compound of bass and treble.
Capsicum responded in a similar
fugue. The two funny rogues were*
speaking Chinese! The discovery of
Capsicum's semi-gentilo extraction
tickled my fancy not a little.
*^ So," said Capsicum to Gingham,
*^ yon and Johnny intend to make a
joint concem of it at headquarters."
" That's how we've settled it," re-
plied Gingham.
^^ Can't be," said Capsicum.
•^ Thought you knew all headquarters'
rules, regulations, and observances."
^* Thought I did know something
about them," replied Gingham.
"Well, then," replied Capsicum,
^' don't you know what department
younff Johnny here belongs to?"
" Your department, the commis-
sariat department, I always under-
stood," replied Gingham ; " saw his
name put down so in the list of pas-
sengers per packet at Faimouth. If
Mr Y — will oblige me by r^erring to
a document, which I had the honour
of handing him before dinner, he will
find hims& there designated accord-
ingly."
Sure enough, so it was : " G. Y — ,
Esq., Commissary- General's Depart-
ment, in A. C, with Gingham Ging-
ham."
"But didn't yon happen to know
that Mr Y — , as you call him/' said
Capsicum, "was J(^ Barrymore's
own nephew ?"
" Of that circumstance I was not
cognisant," replied Gingham, " till I
happened to become aware of it by
the conversation during dinner. Still
I retained my former impression, that
Mr Y — belonged to your department,
not to the military chest."
"The long and the short of it,'*
said I to Gingham, " is this. Shirty
here, I am sorry to say, gives me to
understand that, at headquarters, as I
am attached to the military chest, and
not to the commissariat, I cannot have
the pleasure of stretching my legs
under your table, when you give a
spread. My regret is undissembled
and profound."
" Nor," said Gingham, " while we
both retain our present positions, can
we be more than common acquaint-
ance."
The shock of this denouement was
diverted by Capsicum. Spite of his
sea- sickness he had purpled up; his
eyes flashed and twinkled beneath his
massive .and contracted brows ; he
growled, he gmnted, he wheezed, he
snorted, he puffed ; for a time he could
not articulate. Either he performed
admirably, or he was regularly riled.
At length, recovering his breath, not
once looking at me, but leaning over
to Gingham on the table, he whis-
pered hurriedly, " What does he mean
by that? Shirty? Who's Shirty?'*
Again he turned very green, and sat
back in his chair, panting, and sway-
ing his head, like a man ready ta
faint.
I was sorry to see him so ill, and
begged to apologise. He with the
greatest propriety might call me
" Johnny Newcome," yet it ill became
me to call him " Shirty." The name
was casually suggested by his profu-
sion of frill, &c. &c. &c.
" m tell you what, Mr Johnny,'*
said Capsicum, " it's well for you I'm
so bad as I am : wish I was better,
for your sake. Wouldn't I pitch into
you at once, and give you a precious
good hiding ? Oh dear ! oh me I I am
so very bad !" Then, rallying again :
" Ah, I wish you did belong to my
department! Wouldn't I detach you
on outpost duty? Wouldn't I make
you ride till you had no leather left?
Wouldn't I send you bullock-hunting
over the sierras ? Oh, dreadful !
dreadful ! What a homd sensation this
682
My Peninsular Medal. — Part 11.
[Dec.
sea-sickness is ! Well, good nigbt. I
suppose I shall be called Shirty as
long as I live.*' He tottled off to his
berth.
^* Yes, yon may say that," said
Joey, from behind his cm*tain. Joey
was right. Ten years after, I heard
an old Peninsular speak of Capsicum
by the name of Shirty.
There is certainly something very
r adhesive in a sobriquet ; that is, if it
happens to stick when first applied.
A lubberly big boy once gave me a
thrashing at school ; and I gave him
— the only redress in my power, as
we were not allowed to throw stones
— the name of '* Buttons." He had
cheated me at the game ; and he had
many on his jacket. ^^ Buttons" was
his name, to his dying day.
Gingham and I remained at the
table. ^*Mr Capsicum is quite
right," said Gingham. " Very pro-
per it should be so. Not the less
sorry on that account. At Lisbon,
yon will, in fact, have joined. From
the time we land, then, our commu-
nications must be limited to the ordi-
nary civilities of social life: until," he
added, with a confidential look,
" having digested my grand financial
project, with Lisbon as the basis of
my operations, I am prepared to pro-
mulgate it, as authorised, at the
headquarters of the British army.
Then," said he, proudly, "I shall
take such an entirely different foot-
ing, so high above the vulgar impu-
tations which always attach to a
dealer in bills, that, without exposing
either you or myself to criticism, I
may again permit myself the pleasure
of cultivating your acquaintance, on
our present terms of friendship— I
may say, intimacy. At any rate,
while we remain on board the packet,
that intimacy, I trust, will experience
no diminution. Good night, sir."
We shook bands: bis manner, I
thought, a little stiff.
Left alone in the cabin, leaning on
the table, the night-lamp shedding a
dim and dubious light, my small
modicum of brandy- and- water ex-
pended, and the time gone by for
brewing another, as the steward had
turned in, I sat and ruminated.
Gingham, watching his opportunity,
had benevolently endeavoured to
make me sensible, that, as a clerk on
actual service, I sbould soon be en
gaged in duties which oonld not be
performed to my own credit, without
care and circumspection ; and that I
might find myself, ere long, in soae
responsible situation, demanding the
utmost caution and energy, to compen-
sate my inexperience. Since the morn-
ing, for we had been much together dar-
ing the day, through his friendly sug-
gestions, I had, in a measure, become
conscious of all this : I was beginning
to feel the value of such a monitor;
and now, it appeared, he was lost to
me in that character! Then there
were other considerations of a deeper
kind. I remembered the dinner at
the hotel ; I remembered the break-
fast; I thought of the travelling
store-closet. To have lost such a
companion of my first campaign-Hit
was, indeed, a loss! Had I never
dined with him, I could have better
borne it I
At length I came to this oondu-
' sion ; that, as all the other passen-
gers had retired to rest, I — ^bad better
do the same. I was about to put my
decision in execntlon, when my atten-
tion was arrested by a lamentable
cry, which issued from the berth of
poor Mr Commissary Capsicum. *' I
can't— I can't— rm stuck 1— weak as
a rat I Ob, I am so very bad I Here,
steward! steward!— ah! ob!" Hav-
ing beard his monody to the ^d, and
waited in vain for a second stave, I
flew to his assistance.
Poor Mr Commissary Capaicom
bad contrived to divest himself of hii
diurnal habiliments; and was nofr
embellished with a red bamuidemtti;
and an elegant night-shirt, which fit-
ted—as if it bad been made for him.
I found him— in what an attitude I
One leg he had contrived to hoist
into his berth. Quoad that leg, he
was kneeUng on the mattress. Tbe
other leg was stretched towards iha
floor, which he barely touched with
his extended and agonised toe. In
this painful position, he was cUwing
with both bands at the board in-
tended to keep him in bed, equally
nnable to advance and to recede.
Something— either the wooden tester
— or the proximity of his shake-down
to the deck above — or what else I
cannot pretend to say — ^prevented ids
further movements. He wanted
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal, — Part II,
Gsa
strength ; there he was, literally, as
he expressed it, stuck. I expressed
the deepest sympathy.
Joey whipped on his drawers and
dressing-gown, and was with us in a
twinkling. Joey, seeing all other
expedients vain, brought his shoulder
to bear, and commenced a series of
well-directed hoists, each hoist accom-
panied with a musical " Yeo-heave-
ho." I laughed; Joey laughed; poor
Capsicum himself caught the infec-
tion: his whining and whimpering
gradually glided into a deep pectoral
chuckle. The object was at length
effected. Capsicum was stowed for
the night ; but not without vigorous
and long-continued efforts, both on
Joey's part and mine. *' Can't ima-
gine what caused the obstruction,"
said I ; "it's prodigious ; it's incre-
dible." "Incredible, but true," re-
plied Joey ; " suppose we call it ' A
tail founded on facts.' " " Good
night. Good night, Mr Capsicum."
" Good night, Mr Capsicum ; good
night." "Good night; ah! oh I
What shall I do ? Suppose I should
be taken bad again before morning I
Thank you both. Good night. Two
impudent, unfeeling young hounds.
Good night."
So terminated our first day afloat.
CHAPTER V.
It has been intelligently remai-ked,
that, in writing travels by land or by
sea, the traveller has only to jot down
everything just as it occurs, and he
will be sure to produce a book worth
reading. This rule may be excellent
in theory ; but, gentle reader, it will
not do. Only look here. I have not
jotted down one tithe of the incidents
of the first ten hours since we left har-
bour; and see what a long yam it
makes. A man who, in travelling,
really registered everything, would
yam away at the rate of a quarto a
week.
There w, however, an observation
which is much more to the purpose ;
namely, that one day at sea is very
like another. This we certainly
found out, in our voyage from Fal-
mouth to Lisbon. For, with the
exception of changes in wind and
weather, little occurred to vary our
daily existence ; at least till we got
off Oporto, and took in fresh passen-
gers. During the first night after we
left Falmouth, the wind got round to
the S.W. We had three days of it,
regnlar Channel weather: thick,
cloudy, squally — much rain — the ship
pitching, labouring, creaking, strain-
^Si groaning — going every way but
the way we wanted to go — all the
passengers, except Joey, more or less
indisposed — and nobody pleased but
the skipper, who whistled a perpetual
" Yankee doodle'' rondo, and seemed
to exult in our miseries. " I calcu-
late,'' said Joey, " if this lasts much
longer, we shall come to anchor in the
Downs." For want of anything to
relate, and for the benefit of the
reader, should he cross " the Bay," I
shall here beg leave to sav a few
words respecting that horrid malady
to which landsmen are subject on
board ship, and respecting my own
mode of dealing with it. Experto
crede.
My case resembles that of many
other persons; i.e., in foul weather
on board ship, you do not, we will
say, at once get thoroughly ill ; but
certain disagreeable sensations, quite
sufficient to call a man's attention to
himself, such as giddiness, prostration
of strength, awful depression of the
whole system, and still more awfui
sensations at the pit of the stomach,
induce the painful consciousness that
you are veiy, very far from well, and
in some danger of being worse before
you are better. In this state of tho
case, the " indication," as the doctors
say, is to keep off daddy Neptune's
last outrage, the detested crisis.
Don't give car to the good-natured
friend who says, " You had better be
ill at once, and get it over." That
may do very well in a sail from West
Cowes to Allum Bay ; but it won't
answer if you are a fortnight at sea.
You may be " ill at once," if you
please ; but don't be certain " you'll
get it over ;" if once you begin, you
may go on for a week. Keep well,
then, if you can.
Now, as long as you can keep your
6e54
Ic^, and keep on deck, yon can gene-
rail v effect tliia. In vonr berth, also,
in a recnmbent postnre, jon may
manage to escape tbe dire catas^
trophe. The real difllcnity is this :
that, in passing from one of these
states to the other, e.^., in tnmingrn
at night, or taming ont in the morn-
ing, in all hnman probabilitT jon be-
com<; a miserable victim. You mnst
dress — Ton mnst undress — and, in tbe
conrse of doffing or donning, ten to
<me yonr worst apprehensions become
a reality. What, then, is the remedy ?
Now, don't stare, bat be advised.
Till you are fairly seasoned, which
yon probably will be in three or four
days if you do as I tell you, don't doff
or don at all. Keep on deck all day,
get thoroughly cold, tired, and drowsy,
rush below at night, throw yourself
on yonr mattress as yon are, go to
Bleep at once. In the morning, the
moment yon tnm out, rush on deck.
Ko shaving; no titivating. Ton
mnst wash, must yon ? €ro forwards,
then; wash in the open air; wash
anywhere but below. '* Beastly,
though, to go day after day without
a change." Beastly, I admit; bnt
not so beastly as day after day of
convulsive paroxysms and horrid
hcavings; and, depend upon it, if
once you begin, there is no tdling
how long it may last. ^Vhereas fol-
low my plan, and in three or four
days yon arc all right — you are sea-
soned— the ship may dance a polka,
and you not the worse for it. Yon
may then go below, and stay below,
with perfect imponity — treat vonrself
to a grand universal scrub and a clean
shirt — and, if you are a shaver, shave
—only remember you are shaving on
board ship, and mind yon don't cut
off your nose. After aU, it's a matter
of taste, I admit: and tastes arc
various. If you consider a three-days'
shirt, and a rough chin, greater evils
than vomitory agonies, and spasms
of the diaphragm, why, do as yon
like; shave, titivate, change your
linen, and retch your heart up.
During the three days of fonl
weather, wind S.W., I contrived to
keep about, by following the method
indicated above. On the fourth, the
wind returned to the N.W., with an
occasional brash of rain; and we
were again able to hold oar conrse.
Jfy Pemnmhr JfedaL^-Pkirt U.
[Dec
I was then myself again, past the
power of ^a-sicknesB ; and eonld walk
the deck with Joey, cast aoconnts
with Gingham, sit oat the ^mier
withont dedining son^ respectftilly
ogle the lovely Jnno, and occaaonaDy
extort a giggle. On the morning of
tins same (htr, impaled by corioeity,
I approached the berth where lay de-
poeated the unhappy Cmpacnm, and
drew his curtain. Ah f is thai Cap-
ncnm? Alas, how clianged! He
looked like death. I spoke to him.
His lips moved, bnt his voice was in-
andible. I felt his pnlse. It was
scarcely perceptible. He was in a
state of collapse!
Deeming the exigency cogent, I
fetched Mr Staff-surgeon Pledget
Pledget, after due examination, pro-
nounced it a serious case, prescribed
a restorative, departed to eomponnd,
and soon came back with it — only
about half a pint. With some diffi-
culty, poor Capsicnm was got np in
his berth, and the restorative was got
down. Anticipating recalcitration.
Pledget had come provided with a
small horn. Having swaUowed the
dose, Capsicnm found his voice.
^* Ah me I" he feeMy whined, with a
look of inexpressible horror and d»-
gnst, and his hand pressed upon the
pit of his stomach ; ^^ ah|kne ! is it an
aperient ?" Then, in a low and indig-
nant growl, " Never took physic be-
fore, in an my life." He lay back on
his bolster, with dosed eyes, in feeble
and sulky silence. Pledget witlidrew,
and I remained.
Presently, reopening hia eyes, he
cautiously looked aromd. "Is that
fellow gone ?'* he whispered. I nod-
ded. " Look in the cabin,** he whis-
pered again.
"Gone on dedc,** said I; "not
quite right yet, himself. Do you want
him? ShaU I caQ him back?**
"No, no; nonsCTScI I say, yon
mix me a glass of Mof— yon know
what— the same yon to(A yooiaelf
t*other night.**
I hesitated. There was no doubt
in the w(Mid it would do him a deal
of good. Bnt then he was mider
treatment; he was medkuJfy iB.
What was I to do?
He looked at me apneafingly,
coaxingly, tonchingly. "Fd ^ as
much for yon*** said he.
1849.]
Hfy Pmmsukar MedaL^Part U.
685
There was no standing that. I
cl&ncalarly gave my orders to the
steward. The steward grinned, and
brought the materials. In dne time
the mixture was made ; and, in a very
short time after, the patient had stowed
it away. ^* I shall get np,^' said he.
^^Just help me out." I sent the
steward to request the aid of Joey.
By unshipping the board at the side,
we got CapuHcam out of his crib, far
more easily than we had got him in.
But, alas, his legs doubled under him ;
he was helpless as an infant, and al-
most fainted away. At length we
managed to dress him ; and seated
him in ftiU fig at the cabin table, with
his enormous snufi'-box open befdre
him. At dinner, that day, he managed
the wing of a ciiicken and a slice of
tongue. Couldn't a currant dumpling,
though — was set against it by the
wine sauce. Pledget had the credit
of the cure.
I omit to relate, in extenso^ how we
were chased by what we took for an
American sloop of war, but what
proved to be an English frigate ; how
the arm-chest was got upon de<^ when
we expected to be brought to action ;
and how the muskets were found, like
poor Capsicum, stuck — rusted to-
gether inta a mass, for want of look-
ing after ; how badly the said firigate
threw her shot, sending the &rst,
which ought to have gone ahead of us,
slap through our topsail, and the se-
cond, which should have been a more
direct communication, half a quar-
ter of a mile wide ; how the Major
and Captain Gabion saw the said shot
as they were coming, while I saw
nothing but the splash in the water ;
how our leisure hours were solaced by
two combative drakes, shut up to-
gether in the same coop, which fought
inceesantly, day and night, from the
beginning to the end of the voyage —
if you held a lantern to them in the
dark, they were still fighting ; how,
when one hen laid an egg^ the others
pecked at it, and gobbled it up ; how
the skipper was rude to everybody
on board — to the Major, it appeared,
grossly so. These particulars, with
many others, I defer to my quarto
edition.
Tet let me not omit tbe skipper's
confidence to Joey ; how he thought
passengers lAonld be victnalled on
board ship. " Fust, good flabby pea-
soup, as thick as batter — plenty on it
— let 'em blow out their jeckits with
that. When it's took away, why, then
perpose a glass of bottled porter all
round. Fust dinner aboard ; w(m't it
make some on 'em bolt ? ^
Perhaps, my dear madam, the best
way of giving you a general idea of
our voyage, wUl be to present you
with a description of our mode of life
from day to day. The rule with our
military friends was, to take fun out
of everything ; and' they proved them-
selves perfect adepts in all the means
and methods thereto available ;
hoaxing, quizzing, shaving, imitating,
trotting, cajoling, bamboozling. Pled-
get co^d not make it out — ^wondered
what it idl meant ; and one day
gravely asked me, if I could explain
the nature and cause of laughter.
Laughter he viewed as a psycholo-
gical problem ; we had plenty on board ;
but he could not solve it. The best
thing was, that Pledget himself
caught the infection at last, and be-
gan to laugh. It was curious to
watch the first stirrings of nascent
humour in Pledget's mind. Towards
the close of the voyage he had actu-
ally, though by slow degrees, concoct-
ed a joke ; and, had om* passage
been to the West Indies, and not to
Lisbon, he would perhaps have got
so far as to try it on. The victim of
the said joke was to be Capsicum.
Capsicum's birth at Macao, and breed-
ing at Canton, had transpired through
Joey. Pledget's primary idea was,
that Capsicum might possibly have a
penchant for a dish of stewed puppies.
This bold, ingenious, and comical
conception, as he fed on it from horn-
to hour, and from day to day, in
about three days' time began to grow
m his mind ; and, as it gi-ew, it rami-
fied. Fh)m one thing to another, at
length it came to this : that, with my
co-operation, Joey's, and the stew-
ard's. Capsicum was to be persuaded
that a batch of puppies had actually
been littered on board. Capsicum,
kept momentarily cognisant of the
progress of Pledget's plot, by the
treachery of those to whom it was
confided, was prepared to humour the
joke, whenever Pledget commenced
operations. Pledget, big with his
own ides, walked the deu fbr honn
My Penins9dar IfedaL^Part IL
t^crether. mbbini^ hw handa in an
er^t;W7. anil lanijhmiT till he wliim-
pt^reii/ When Joey or I took a turn,
he ^as 3oon 07 onr aide, ioreechinjj
in .1 rjipiilly a;^cen«iin{j j^amiic, with
piiuGjent (ieli:^lit, and mneh cachin-
nafion, • Puppiea! puppies I Oh. air,
won't they be nice ? P<>or old Capii-
cnm ! — pup7>ie3! puppies!"
The day before we maiie the coast
of Spaing I was fairly •' trotteiL"""
You miwt know, I fancied in those
flay-* I could iiu;?. Item, my dear
father ha^l brontjht home, from the
Peninanla. aome very pretty Portu-
gnet^e air:^, of the kind called mo<lI'
nh^a — which modinhaa I had at my
finj^era' end^j. Xow, there are two
very di.-'tinct idead, which young
people are apt to confound. If they
h ippen to know a pleasing song, they
fancy themaelves pleasing singers :
often quite the reverse ; the finer the
song, the fouler the butchery. I wish
singing wa^ visible, and not audible ;
for then we could keep it out by
.•hutting our eyes. Well, this is how
it was : leaning, as I was wont,
over the ship's side, my face to the
horizon, my back to the company, I
won't pretend to say that I exactly
sang for their benefit : oh no ; I sang,
as I had right to do, for my own
amusement; though I certainly did
sing loud enough to be heard, without
being listened to. Presently by my
side leaned Captain Gabion. I ceased.
He hummed a mellifinons song of
Lusitania.
**Pjty the Lisbon music-sellers
donH print their music,^ said he ;
'* Write it all. Quite a fuss, some-
times, to get a song you fancy."
^^ That explains something I never
understood before," said I. "All
the songs I have received from Por-
tugal are in manuscript. Pray, what
is a modinha, strictly speaking ?"
" Why, a modinha," replied he, " in
common parlance, means any song
that you happen to like. Modinha :
a little mode ; a little fashion ; any
little fashionable sone. But the grand,
regular music of the Portuguese —
oh I thaVs magnificent — their church
music for instance. Yon must know,
once a-yoar, in one of the Lisbon
churches, they sing a grand mass for
the souls of deceased musicians. Of
coarse, on such an occasion, all tho
[Dec-
living forces of the xmisical world are
put In requitttion. The last time
I WIS ac Lisbon, I attended — advise
you« as a musical maiL, to do the same.
Oh ! wasn't that a grand harmonious
cradh ? Elxtraordinary fellows, some
of those singing monks and firiars!
Fancy one whole side of an immense
church, from the floor to the roof, a
grand bank of chorus- singers, as high
as Shakspeare's Cli^; e«ich bellowing
like a bull ; yet each with a voice as
finely modulated a^s the richest violon-
cello, touched by a masters hand.
Then there was one fellow, a bass, who
stood up to sing a solo. Never beard
anything like that. He struck off, deep
down in his throat — ^ye&, air; and
deeper down in the scale, too, than I
ever heard any man go before — ^with
a grand magiiificent double shake,
Hke — like — like the flutter of an eagle.
Then down — down — down the vil-
lain dropped, four notes lower, and
gave such another. I advised him
to go to England. His name was
NaldL But kt me see — oIk — we were
talking about modinhas. Why, sir,
the fact is this — if yon want to hear
what I call the vemacnlar basis of
the modinha, yon mnst go np among
the hills, a few leases out of Lisbon."
^' I suppose,'' said I, '* my best plan
will be to go by the mail. "
"Yes," replied he; "any one in
Lisbon will show yon the booking
office : unless, by the bye, 70a prefer
palanquin, in which case I would
advise you to order relays of black
bearers from Jigitononha ; or, you
might do it on two donkeys. WeU,
sir ; when you're 'up there in the
mountains, among the goats, wolves,
wild buflfdoes and rhod^endrons, the
altitude about corresponding to lati-
tude 66° N. in Europe, and to— let
me see — latitude—say latitude 50^ in
the United States — of course you'll
feel hungiT. Step into the first notel.
But Pd advise yon— don't order three
courses ; you'll find it come expensive ;
better rough it with something light-
say a beef-steak and a botUe of port.
That bufifalo beef, capital. Port— let
me see — are you particular in your
port? Better ask for the Algarro
sort. Well, sir ; after yon have &ied,
just step out into the village— walk
into the first wine-shop. Yonll pro-
bably find half-a-dozen peasants there
16^9.]
My Peninsular Medal. — Part IL
687
— big, mnscular, broad-chested, good-
humoared-lookiDg fellows — goatherds
and all that kind of thing. Look ont
for the chap with the guitar — you'll be
sure to find him in the wine-shop;
order a qnart tumbler of wine— just
taste it yourself— then hand it to him
— and tell him to play. The moment
he has tossed off the tipple, he begins
Skiing. The other six fellows stand
up ; throw back their shoulders ; bulge
ont their chests ; and begin smirking,
winking their little black eyes, snap-
ping their fingers, and screwing their
backs in such an extraordinary man-
ner as you never beheld — all in
cadence to the guitar. That's the
first access of the musical oestmm.
The guitar goes on — strum — strum —
stmm — alow monotonous jingle, just
two or three chords. That's the ac-
companiment to the singing that's
about to begin. At length, one of the
fellows commences — air and words
both extempore ; perhaps something
amatory, Minha Maria^ minhaquerida ;
or, it may be, something satirical, if
they see anything quizzable — some-
thing about yourself. While that
first fellow is singing, the chap next
him stands, still winking, screwing,
smirking, snapping his fingers; and
begins, as soon as the other has done.
So it goes on, till all the half-dozen
have had their turn. But the curious
thing is this : though all the songs are
different, different in the iemoy dif-
ferent in the style, different in the
compass of voice, different in the pitch,
different in the words, the same ac-
companiment does duty for all : the
chap with the guitar goes on, just
tinkling the same chords, till the whole
is finished. Then, if you want it da
capo, give him another tumbler of
wine. If you've had enough, why,
then, you know, you can just fork out
a moidore or two, tell them to divide
it, and take your leave, — that is, if
yon don't want to see the fight for the
money : but that's not worth your
while ; mere rough and tumble, with
a little knifing. Only mind; don't
give dollars or patacas. They prefer
gold."
I really thought I was now trotting
Captain Gabion, who was a musical
amateur. Villain ! he was operating
to dap the saddle on me, in a way I
little suspected. ^'Then," said I,
VOL. LXVI. — ^NO. CCCCX.
*^ each of these fellows, I suppose, has
sung a modinha. "
" Why, no ; not exactly that^
neither," said the Captain. " I'll teU
you. Curious sort of music it is,
though ; the national music, in fact.
When you see one of those big athletic
fellows expanding his chest, sucking
his breath, his whole pulmonary region
heaving, labouring with the song he is
going to sing, why, of course you'd
expect him to break out like a clap of
thunder. But, instead of that, forth
comes from his big throat a very
mouse- like issue of those mountain
throes; an attenuated stream, not
altogether unmusical though, of
growling, grunting, squeaking ca-
dences— for the compass of their voices
is perfectly astonishing — a string of
wild and rapid trills, very short notes,
very long notes, mostly slurred, never
staccato; and, if you should happen
to notice, siniilar, in its intervals, to
the music of Scotland. With your
musical knowledge, of course yon
understand what I mean by intend.
Well, sir; that sort of mountain music
is what I call the national basis of the
Portuguese modinha. Take one of
those wild airs, arrange it scientifi-
cally, with suitable symphonies, ac-
companiment, and all that sort of
thing — ^no difficulty to you — the mo-
dinha is then complete. "
This was by no means a bad theory
of the modinha of those days; an
Italian graft upon the native stock ; a
scientific modification of the music of
the peasantry ; so wild, so expressive,
so sweet, so thrilling, never have I
heard songs to compare with those old
modinhas. Once, at a party in the
house of a Lisbon lady, we persuaded
her married daughter to sing; a
round, fat, rosy -brunette little dump
of a woman, famous for singing mo-
dinhas. She kindly took her guitar,
spat in her handkerchief, and gave ns
them in such style as I have never
but once heard since — and then the fair
vocalist was not a Portuguese. Wliat
rich expression, what rises and falls,
what rapid execution, what accurate
intonation, what power, what tender-
ness, what point, in that soft, flexible,
delicate, yet rich, full, brilliant, and
highly-cultivated voice I Alas, the
modinha of that day is rapidly passing
into oblivion. It has yielded in Lisbon
ess
My PeniMular MedaL^Part II.
[Dee.
society to a new style of songs, still
called modlahas, the words gsaenUly
nadye, as they used to be ; bat the
mnsic, modtm Italiaar-irtterly des«
titnte of sentimeat ; a constant
straining at effsst, and a eoastettt
'' I understand, '' said I,, '"^that m
erery part eS tim Pewasnla yon meet
vith a kind of songs tliat may be
called loeal. "
'"^Yes/' said tbe Captain; '^ail, il
I may so say, pieyineial ; aU pee»-
Hav; all highly cbaraeteristic; andaU
ezeeUMit. Eren the oocasioaal songs
are good as cempesitioas ; that is to
say, songs which refer topoiitks, pass-
mg events, and so tetb. DM yo«
ever hear this?" He gave FaviMM
los Ingkie^.
'* Very pleasing, and very lively,"
said I. ^ This is in the same style."
I befsa to strike up Qmmda el Ptp^
^Den't let^s h&Fe any more Spa-
nish," said tlie Captabi. **S«g
something Fortngoese." I gave Ob
aoidados do otmercio^
*^ Qaite hnmoroos," said he, ^ hot
very pleasing mnsie. This is the
Portuguese national soBg." Ho gave
£&, Principe exceiaa^
*^ Some of the satirical songa," said
I, ^^ axe very weM set." I gave E»ku
senhoras da moda. The Captain, I
observed, looked at his watdi. Little
dseamt I the traitor was working
against time.
'^ This, now," said he, *^ is what
may be called the sentimental style ;
short, bat expressive, like tbe serions
Siigram of the Greek Anthology."
e gave Tu me chcanaa tua widm.
^' The finest I have heard, though,"
said I, '^ in that style, is the Spanish
n
'' No, BO," said the Captain ; ^ give
na something Portuguese ; something
by an old Padre. They are the fel*
lows that knock off the best raodinhaew"
I gave Fat me confi^ar.
The oondnsion of this my third
song was followed by load shouts of
laughter, a general elapping of haads^
and cries of ^^Eneore! encore! bravo!
viva! encore! enoorel" I tamed,
and stood the centre of a semicirclel
Around me were ranged the delighted,
applaoding passengers ; the Cofoael,
the M^r, Capsicum, Pladget, Ging-
ham^ Mr Belvidere, Joey, lad, oh I
leaning on Joey's arm, the lenljr
Jnno; the whoto party, at my ck>
pense, in the highest pomibie state eC
hilarity. Tbe skipper in tiie beck-
ground, leaning en timbiBMele, steed
surveying the whole twiflttstiQe vith
his firne set in a saieastie seowl^ as
tieoagh it had first been cart ia plssUr
e£ Paris, and then pmnted wiih led
o^re. Kitty's beanet sfpesnd ea
the level of tiwdeek, proytctiagteei
tke oalMB staiixk Near her, pnte
iatsoft attentbns^ stood the Cebasl^
fionkey, lavisidng^ winks andiriwiig
simpers. iBunediat^ abeve ■e,jBi
the shronds, witii his face dowaiimds,
like a »onl»y in a tree, hmig Sdov-
bcdl the nigger ; his twe eyes, M of
wonder and deU^^,. gioateag liki a
basilisk's, and projeetirtglike astiaaed
rabbit's; his moatfa exteaMacnes
Ihs fkce in so fareadagri%yom'dheie
l^ugfat bis throat had been catfiM
ear te ear. The appfasma hsn&g a
Utde sidMided, each m torn paid ana
complhnent. Jnnoy the ewkaatang
saoey witch, dropped me a demsn
sad very low cuiisy, begged te thaak
me, and preeipitalaly pat her haad-
kerchief to her fiice. GJaghaa ad-
vised me to cultivate myvoice { begpd
to assure aw I had very goed Me,
and only wanted modalatioB, fiaiOa-
lity, aocuracyt and eaeeutlon, ^n^^
little attention to time and tane, sad
care to avoid paasing into tbe wmag
key — nay, had no doubt, if I teek
painS) I should aooae day aoqaim ea
ear. Just when I was annoyed psrt
bearing. Pledget, titteriag with eo-
stasy, whispered ataiytiix>w, "CepH
tal joke ! the Captain did it admiiabtjr.
Almost as goodas pappies !-pap|naH
— puppies l" ,,
'' Your Gompfiment last, air," end
I, ^* comes in the pr(q>6r piace. Allev
me to designate it as itdeaerres-oe
ass's kidL"
Pledget turned a litde pale, nid
drew up ; said something thatseesMd
to stick in his tiiroat, about ''lio»
roadng, and asses braying." ,_
We were on tiie edge of a rflgwj
tiff. The general garrulity dro»»
into a dead Bileace» and the whirfj
party looked concerned. TheCflJ»«
at once interposed, and iMiete* *
our shaking hands. This <Vf^
was performed accordingjiyr ssnn*B
1849.]
Mp Penmsukur MtdoL — Peart IL
689
cases provided) with immense c(»rdlal*
it7 on both sides.
^^ Captain Gabion, I'll troable yon
for a dollar," said the Major.
"No, no; I'll trouble you for a
dollar," replied the Captain.
"How do you make that out?"
said the Major. " You've lost ; that's
evident."
"What do you mean by lost?"
said Captain Grabion. " Didn't I
make Mr Y — sinj» three songs
within the given time ? Iladn't I two
minutes over, when he finished the
last? Weren't they all three Portu-
guese? I took good care of that.
Wasn't that our bet?"
" Yes, Captain ; all right," said the
Mi^. " But one of your songs was
Spaoish. That was an infringement."
" Didn't understand any conditicm
of that sort," replied Captain Gabion.
" All the party heard the bet. Let
the company decide."
One said one thing, one another.
By common consent it was referred to
GinghaHL, who had held his tongue.
Gingham decided that the Captain had
loet.
"Veiy well," said the Captain,
** then I have had all my trouble for
nothing. Rather hard, though, to
fling three songs yourself; get three
more oat of a gentleman that has a
particular objection to singing, in
lorty minutes ; and then have to pay
a dollar besides. However, book it.
Major. Very kind of you, though,
Mr Y — : equally obliged- Trust
you'll often favour us." We all went
below to prepare for dinner; but I
had not heard the last of my singing.
We were now on the look-out for
Ca|>e Villano, uid began to feel the
N. wind which blows down the W.
coast of the Spanish Peninsula ten
months in the year. This wind, as
you get further to the S., is generally
attended with a clear sky. But in
our present latitude, meeting tiie
npper or S.W. current of air, which
comes charged with the vapours of
the Atlantic, it produced incessant
rain. The rain commenced, as in-
deed rain often does commence, about
three o'clock p.m., and kept us below
aU the evening; obliging us also to
lay-to till daybreak, as the skipper
did not like to run nearer in by night,
with such weather.
From dinner to tea we managed to
crack on, without finding the time
hang heavy on our hands. After tea
the conversation was resumed, but in
the course of an hour or two began to
flag ; when Gingham enlivened it by
vdunteering his services in brewing
a bowl of punch. The offer was re-
ceived with tumultuous applause;
except that Capsicum, who thought
nobody understood brewing so well
as himself, politely expressed a doubt
as to Gingham's capabilities. Ging-
ham avowed, with much seriousness,
that he " yielded in punch-making to
no man." A discussion arose, in
the course of which I ventured to
move, and it was carried, that a bowl
of punch should be brewed by each,
and that the company should award
the palm after finishing both.
Capsicum brewed first. The ma-
terials were not wanting. The
steward brought rum, brandy, lemons,
all the etceteras. Gingham, chival-
rous in his rivalry, tendered limes in
Ueu of lemons : " always took a few
when he travelled — got them in Pud-
ding Lane." Capsicum's sense of hon-
our would have declined the limes ; but
the company ruled otherwise. The
bowl was brewed — a perfect nosegay
— and stood smokmg in the centre of
the table. In a very short time after,
each man had his quantum before him.
" Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel,
(chairman,) " punch is nothing with-
out haimony. I beg leave to call on
^Ir Y — for a song." Much q>plaose.
" Hear ! hear I hear ! A song by Mr
Y — 1 hear! hear! hear!"
I had not quite recovered the ad-
venture of the morning, and was far
from disposed to sing. Had sung
enough for one day — fdt rather hoarse
— begged to decline — ^but all in vain :
the company would take no denial.
I was obstinate. Joey began to talk
of keelhauling ; the Major suggested
the old mess fine, a sugared oyster ;
while a soft admonition was heard in
the distance, " The bird that can
sing, and that won't sing, mvst be
made to sing."
Not to sing was just then a prin-
ciple as fixed in my mind as any
theorem in the first six books of
Euclid. The company became per-
emptory. At length, tired of saying
no, I rose, and begged leave 1<^ «&V
$90
My Pemnsular Medal, — Part 11,
[Dee.
the chairman whether, if I Bang, I
shonld have the usual privilege of
calling on any other gentleman pre-
sent. The chairman hesitated to re-
ply. He saw his position: I might
call npon him. I now had the best
of it. The chairman laughed, leaned
over to Capsicum, and whispered a
remark about " generalship." Capsi-
cum growled out something, of which
I could only distinguish "jockey" and
** young fox."
I was still on my legs, and con-
tinued,—" Well, Mr Chairman, as
my very equitable proposal is not met
so promptly as I antidpated, woidd it
not be better if the company resolre,
instead of extorting a solitary aong
from an individual who has already
contributed largely this day to the
common stock of amusement," {hear!
hear! hear!) " that every person pre-
sent should either sing a song, or tell
a story ?"
CHAPTER VI.
The Colonel looked quite relieved ;
the company, also, appeared content.
"Well, gentlemen," said he, "as it
seems to meet your approval, suppose
we accept Mr Y — 's proposition. I
will begin. Sooner, any day, tell a
dozen stories, than sing one song.
My story, at any rate, like Captain
Gabion^s last song this morning, when
he had only twelve minutes to spare,
will have the merit of being short. — A
little more punch, if you please.— Al-
low me, then, to break ground, by
relating an anecdote of my esteemed
and much-lamented friend
MAJOR KRAUS0.
Some of you knew the Major well —
are doubtless aware, also, that in a
fit of excitement, which led to tempo-
rary insanity, he fell by his own hand.
The circumstances, however, which
gave occasion to that melancholy
event were known only to myself.
At the time when we were forming
and drilling the Portuguese army,
which afterwards proved so effective
in the field, the Major and I were both
stationed in winter-quarters at L — .
In the same town were two regiments
of newly-raised Portuguese cavalry,
which it was requisite to have in com-
plete efiidency against the opening of
the campaipi in the spring. The
Major— a stiff hand I need not say, a
regular Titan of the German school-
was appointed to drill one; and I,
for want of something to do, under-
took the other. In this duty, there
sprang up between us a little rivaby,
amicable of course, as to which of us
should first have his regiment ready.
The Major had his own ideas ; and, I
thought, teazed his men, and exacted
too much. He had an eye to a fidd-
day ; I had an eye to actual service.
Foreigners say, we teach our cavalry
everything, except pulling up. Bnt I
can tell you, before an enemy superior
in force, and pressing you too dose,
nothing acts more effectually as a
check, than riding through them.
Well, we both drilled according to
our views. One morning the Major
announced to me, that he considered
his regiment perfect, and that I most
SI with him and inspect it. We went,
e put them through ; I looked on ;
they performed admirably. Finallj,
he drew them up in line. Ridmg to
the front, he surveyed his work with
pride. Then, taking a fiank position,
he made me notice now accurate the
perspective— every sabre sloped at
the same ande, everything in its
place — ^yon might have stretched a
gardening line from one end of the
regiment to the other. Just then, un-
fortunately, a new idea entered the
Major's mind : he proposed riding to
the rear. Away we went. Alas! hia
discipline had not extended to the
horses' tails 1 Every tail was whiskiog :
horses, Spanish and Portuguese-;-all
long tails, no cock-tails— every tail in
motion. In front, they stood like a
wall : in the rear, it was whisk, whisk,
whisk, — swirl, swirl, swirl — switcb,
switch, switch — ail down the line. It
was too much for the poor Major. He
was perfectly dumfounded— looked
like a man out of his wits— took a
hasty leave— rode home to his billet,
and shot himself. I now beg leave to
call on Mr Y— , for either a story
or a song."
'' I thought Major Krauss was still
living," said Pledget.
1849.]
My Peninsukw Medal, — Part IL
en
" Mr Capsicnm, " said the Colonel,
*''' have the kindness to fill Mr Pledget
a bumper. Always the fine, you know,
if any one calls a statement in question,
when story-telling is going on. Now,
if you please, Mr Y — . "
"Gentlemen," I said, " I have seen
nothing of service, and little of the
world. Perhaps, therefore, you will
permit me to relate an anecdote, which
I had from a near relative of mine, a
naval officer; and which remaikably
illustrates the characteristic coolness
of British seamen. It was the act of
a common sailor, who bore among his
messmates, in consequence, the name
of
SLUICT SAM.
"It was at the evacuation of Toulon.
My aforesaid relative was then a lieu-
tenant, and had been landed with a
party from his ship, to take charge of
one of the forts in the harbour.
When Buonaparte, through theremiss-
ness of our Spanish allies, took the
hill which commanded the anchorage,
and we were forced to withdraw, the
lieutenant received orders to bring off
his party, and the ammunition which
had been landed from the ship.
There were several barrels of gun-
powder to be brought away. These
were stowed in the after part of the
boat, between the officers and the men,
to be under inspection ; and were set
on end, to save room. In pulling for
the ship, the boat had to pass another
fort, which was on fire. The English,
yon know, on coming away, burnt
everything they could — that is, I
mean, everything connected with the
public service, ships, stores, store-
houses, buildings. Just as the boat
was passing, the fort blew up. The
fragments of the explosion filled the
air; and a rafter charred with fire
fell into the boat, stove in the head of
one of the powder-baiTcls, and stood
upright in the powder. Its superior
extremity was still burning. There
was a dead silence. The men went
on pulling, as if nothing had happened.
In an instant they might all be blown
to atoms. It seemed the easiest thuig
in the world to seize the smoking and
crackling brand, pluck it out of the
powder, and throw it into the sea.
But that, doubtless, would have been
instant destruction ; one spark, shaken
off in the operation and falling, would
have done the business. Eveiybody
saw the hitch. Still the men pulled
away. It wouldn't do to stir the
brand ; and it evidently wouldn't do
to leave it where it was. " Ship your
oar, Sam," said the lieutenant. Sam
did so. Not a word more was spoken,
or necessary. Sam coolly took off
his hat, dipped it into the sea, filled it,
carefully and thoroughly sluiced the
whole surface of the exposed powder
in the barrel ; and then, having in this
way made all safe, slowly drew the
rafter out of the barrel, and pitched it
overboard. — ^I beg here to call on Mr
Commissary Capsicum."
" Well, gentlemen," said Capsi-
cum, " I wUl tell you another boat-
story ; and though the care of Provi-
dence was singularly illustrated in tha
wonderful preservation which Johnny
has just related, I think it appeared
quite as remarkably in the case which
I am about to relate, of
THE MAN THAT WASN'T DROWNED.
" I am now a military commissary ;
I was once a naval one. I made my
debut in the Btitish service as a cap-
tain's clerk, and sailed in that capa-
city on board the Negotiator, 74,
which was under orders for Lisbon.
On our arrival in theTagus, we found
there the Protocol, 120, the Pacifica-
tor, 100, the Persuasive, 80, the Con-
ciliator, 74, the Preliminary, 60, the^
Envoy, bomb, and the Intervention,
fire-ship. The next day, the captain
of the Protocol came on board, and
was invited by our own skipper to
stay and dine. But he knew the
Lisbon weather too well — foresaw a
gale ; and, not relishing the idea of
getting a wet jacket in returning at
night to his ship, persuaded our skip-
per to go and dine with him. The
Negotiator's boat was to fetch the
skipper. Sure enough, the wind fresh-
ened about sunset, and in an hour or
two it began to blow great guns. Our
boat went, however, as arranged.
Nasty work, boating at Lisbon, xou
may think it's nothing, in harbour.
But I can tell you this — ^whenever
there's a storm at sea, there's sure te
be a little hurricane in the Tagus.
No matter what's the direction of the
wind outside— in the Tagus 'jqtl \ivi^
^2
Mb
IL
[Bee.
it r'jh: ap yt rijht d^>wn. Well,
featlizi:3. Prococoi KiTL*4»i N.^*>-
tiAUtt a>x :•> tliizijL of recnmiii? such
a ni^ht aa tj^ — c>dkx^ him d sh^ke-
do^n on l>:anl — as^ored bim Le'd be
iwampie*! — ail to no pTirTii:ie: Xe^^
tUc*. r vraltl gTk as hii beat wms come.
Ja^ &3 tbej were le^fijig the £hip*i
•iti:, on*} of lb* boaic's crcw leU over-
t«;^nL Ere^rv effort was made to
recover him, btzt with what socce&s
Toa ELiv ea.-ily 5iipfH>se. The ti'lo
WjLr nmninr down like a torrent : the
will 1 cacie roaring op from the bar,
acd la^d the water into froth and
forv : the >priv h^df tllle«i the boat :
it was piicL-dark. Allwoa done that
ODoM \^ done, bat to no purpose : the
man was giro a ap for lo«t : the boat
retamed to the ship. The skipper
came into the cabin qnlte sorrowM-
like, that he had k»6t one of bis best
■len, bat didn't for^ei to tell me to
jamp down into the boat, and see to
the handing up of half-a-dozen fine
melons, presented to him by Protocol.
Down I went, in the dork, over the
ship's side, got into the boat, groped
aboat, foond fire melons and handed
them np ; coaldn't find the sixth. I
was jost stepping ont of the boat to
return on board, when the thought
0tnick me, what a bk>wing-vp I shoold
get firom the skipper, when I told him
a melon was missing. I paused, re-
newed mj search, happened to put
ray hand down to the gunnel of the
boat, to support myself in stooping.
My band lighted upon something ; it
wasn't the gunnel. I felt it — pitch-
dark ; couldn't see the tip of my owa
nose. It was a man's foot! I felt
further — a man's leg ! Some one was
hanging on, outside the boat, with his
beel uppermost, and his head imder
water. I held him fast by the leg,
and sang out for help. The man was
got on board insensiUe, and to all
appearance past recovery. When he
fell overboard alongside the Protocol,
he had hooked on by his foot, and in
that way had been dragged under
water all the time they had been row-
ing about in the dark to find him, as
well as afterwards, while they were
pulling for the ship. We all thought
him a dead man. The doctor siud,
^ No : if he had been, he would have
let go.' Doctor ordered a sailor's
flttuiel shirt and a ketUe of boiling
; had tke patient stripped, and
in liot blankets: ndled up the
dannel shirt into a boJl, poured into it
the boiling water, and dapt it to the
pit of his stomach." (Here Pledget
took OGt his tabieta, and made a
note.) ~ AMut with this, and other
gentie restoratives," continued Cap-
scum. ** the man rcoov^^. The
skipper, glad as he was when the
d-jdor reported it, didn't forget to
give me a good blowing-np for the
melon, which I suppose one of the
boat's crew had grabbed in the dark."
'* Of cc'orse he didn't forget tiiat,*'
said Joey, who had listened to this
narrjLtive with profesc^ional interest.
•• FrAv. do you happen to know what
time elapseii from the man's falling
overboard till he was unhooked?*'
^ The little dog forgot to mention,^
replied Capsicum.
^ What little dog?" said Joey
eagerly. ** I am quite an amimal man.
I am particularly fond of dogs."
^- The little dog whose tail ciried
so tight, that it lifted him off lus hind
legs. Will you oUige us, Mr Ging-
ham?"
*"• It is extraordinary oiough, gen-
tlemen," said Gingham, ^^tbat thcngfa
ths^ee most interesting anecdotes have
been related, we have not yet had
either a ghost storr, a love story, or a
touch of the pathetic The first of
these omissions I will now endearour
to supply, by relating an occurrence
which befel me during the short time
I was at school, and in winch the
party most prominent was a strange
sort of an individual, who went among
the boys by the name of
THE CO^UmOIL.
*' He was oar writing-mnster. Bs
was our ciphering-master. He was
also our drawing-master. He was a
foreigner. Not a boy in Hie school
knew whence he came ; bnt ht cer-
tainly was not an EngUshman. In
person be was gaunt and uncouth. Ho
was a mild, quiet sort of a BEinn ; hat
his eye had a sinister expresaioo,
and he was savage when pro-
voked. It was commonly reported
among the boys, not oidy that he
could do extraordinary conjuring
tricks, but that he was a UMster <£*
magic, far deeper and daricer tluB
1849.]
My Peninsular MedaL — Part IL
693
legerdemain. He lived alone in a
solitary cottage, which, with its gar-
den and long shrubbery, skirted the
road, abont a mile out of the town
where was our school. This cottage
had never been entered by any of the
boys ; strange stories were told about
it ; and we viewed it with a sort of
awe. You must know the gentleman
in question had a remarkable habit of
sitting. AVhen he came to us at one
o'clock, he immediately took his seat
at his desk; and never rose till his
two hours were up. This circum-
stance suggested to my mind a con-
juring trick, to bo played off on the
conjuror. One day, just before his
mrrival, I spread some shoemakers'
wax on his bench ; and aftenvards,
when lie was fairly seated, I gave out
among the boys that I had conjured
the conjuror, and that at three o'clock
be wouldn't be able to go. The boys
were all expectation. It struck three.
He attempted to rise — an unseen
power held him fast. At length,
amidst much tittering, he contrived
to get free ; but only by extricating
himself from that pait of his habili-
ments which was in immodiate con-
tact with the bench. He did not
exactly pull them o£f ; but, poor man 1
he was obliged to pull himself out of
thom. The master lent him another
pair ; he went homo filled with rage,
hot perfectly cool, having first con-
trived to identify the culprit ; and his
own, having been carefully detached
with a hot knife by the master's
daughter, Miss Quintilian, as the
boys called her, were sent after him
with a message of kind condolence,
packed by her fair hands in a brown
paper parcel, into which I contrived
to slip a fig-leaf. Next day he re-
i^ipeared at the usual hour. All
went on smoothly for about a fort-
night. At the end of that time, one
af&moon wheu I was showing up my
sum, he addressed me, observing that
I had always been particularly dili-
gent with my arithmetic, and that, as
the holidays were at hand, he hoped
I would do him the favour of drinking
tea with him that evenmg. Some of
the boys tried to frighten me — said
he bottled the thunder and Ughtning,
and kept it corked down, ready for
nse — oh, wouldn't he give mo a touch
of it? Others encouraged me. I
went. Tea over, ho told me that he
had contrived a little exhibition for
my amusement ; then flung open the
folding doors of the parlour, and dis«
closed a large sheet, hanging as a
curtain in the doorway. * I must
go into the next room,' said he, 'and
take the candles with me, or you will
not be able to see the exhibition.' He
withdrew, leaving me alone in the
dark, went into the next room, and
commenced the exhibition — a sort of
phantasmagoria — to me, sufficiently
surprising; for the phantasmagoria
had not at that time been brought
before the public. One of the figures
was a whole-length likeness of my-
self, which suddenly vanished, and
was replaced by a skeleton. The
exhibition finished, the conjuror re-
turned with the lights ; and, by way
of supper, treated mo to a glass of
negus and a slice of seed-cake. Ho
then intimated that it was time for
me to think of playing the Bedford-
shire march, but that before I went
he had something to say to me, if I
would follow him into the next room.
We adjourned : and there, amongst
other strange sights, I saw one of the
identical IxHtles containing the thun-
der and lightning — expected to be
blown up sky-high. The conjoror
now addressed me. Alluding to the
unfortunate afi*air of the wax, he
remarked that his conduct to me had
been uniformly kind; that he had
always ettcourag<ed me, commended
my diligence, and helped me in roj
difficulties. Then, in an I4)pealing
tone, he inquired how I could have
made such an ungrateful return, as
to play him that horrid trick of the
wax. At the same time opening a
drawer, and producing his corduroys^
he pointed out to me their damaged
condition, and put it to my best feel-
ings, whether that was the way to
recompense kindness such as his. I
felt at once that my conduct had been
immeasurably bad, and most humbly
expressed my compunction. 'No,'
said he, ' that is not sufficient. The
offence was public, so should be also
the reparation. Promise me that
to-morrow, before the whole school,
you will come up to my desk and
apologise.' Perhaps this was only
Just; but I hesitated. He pressed
me ; but I would make no such pro-
<iH
J^
Ifedki^iWf 17.
ii:'^ame5:rj".<£V. t^'^ "r of iw-pj 'i !rr-
fr.n^ ^>:r/ fui jh^. - is iMsiemtd i'Jt
Ht j±*f IK iir:<x£r 11-^ Ittik possi^re
in,: li* rxr6sfi. r&i c^-bip**! tbe rir-
Wiia Tc« Ltve ^a 10
tbe <K&i -i^ is t:« wi2 £^ a ^i^e,
wrS:^ vI2 ^ vvQ iai-> tbe rc<akL
wisbc-^t a ci»l Tt* fcll zwxrm hi^
sp in tbe L<aTeik«^ «b<hl a lustre vluidh
^T* to ercTj pcc-oiiii^ix c*f«t the
distiixtness oif dij. But ilw slinib-
berj. as I «kxn«»i h :o ^ain tbe Foai,
was dark— <ijuk — dark. Ai its ex-
tremiiT, LowcTer, tb« moment I
emerged firom the garden into tbe
field. I descried tbe gate ; and to thai
point, with my eres fixed upon it, I
directed mj steps. Sadde&lj, to mv
no small siirprise, the gate began to
datter and rattle, as if riolentiT
shaken bj the wind. This was the
more extraordinary, because the night
was as calm as it was brilliant : not a
breath of air was stirring. Nor was
any creature visible ; yet still the gate
went on, rattle, rattle, datter, clatter,
as if shaking itself for its own amuse-
ment. Presently, as though violently
pushed by invisible han^ the gate
swung wide open ; then began swing-
ing iMckwards and forwanb, swing,
swing, backwards and forwards, first
into the road, then into the field, with
a bang of the latch at every swing.
The last time it swung fieldways, it
stood open of itself; suddenly fixed
by an unseen power at its utmost
range. Then appeared a tall dark
form, gliding into the field through
the gateway from tbe road, and de-
scending towards me by the path. It
was the form of the conjuror himself I
Yet, in its appearance, there was
something appalling, and, I may say,
unearthly. It did not step out,
neither did it altogether glide. With
amotion compounded of the two, it
first advanced one leg, then, after a
[Dec
oAcT, sun moving
soieHBlr extended, with
tbt ficvfigger pointiag to tbe moon :
a&d. as tbe tail image approached and
pasfoi me. I coold Astrndly diMom
tbi* i^p^ified visage of the coojuror,
soa bs: calm, his bead tamed
Ar^Hj ca oae side, bis brow knit,
kis eves fixed anon the moon. With-
€cx kokiDg behiad me to see what
bfftmf of bim after he paaed, I
korkd GB : and had already arrived
witJuB abc*&t fifty paces of the gate,
wben it again began to rattle and
swiix? as viotenUy as at first — again
sto:d open — and again the same form
appeared, gfiding, as before, from the
rotid into the fieM, and descending
towards me down the path. Tbe ana
was still extended; the finger still
pointed nujesticaUy to tbe moon ; the
Bovemoit also, a mixtnre of striding
and sliding, was still the same. Bat
tbe conjuror's face, not turned as
before towards the moon, was this
time directed towards me. The
eyes ^ared full in nunc — but, oh,
what eyes! Tbey had stolen the
gleam of the luminary on which thej
were fixed before; each eye was a
moon! the window of a brain that
glowed internally with a white heat!
With a Vxik of horrid vacuity fixed on
my face, again it passed ; and I, not
at all coveting a third interview, cat
away for the gate, and up the road
homewards. I had no reooUectlon of
what occurred afterwards, till I was
roused fifom my slnmboa next mora-
ing by Miss Qnintilian, who stood by
my bedside with a lump of sugar and
something nice in a teacup, whidi,
9kt 9aady her pa bad ordered me
to take. We broke np, returned te
school after the holidays, and found
a new writing-master, the conjuror's
cottage shut up, and the conjuror him-
self gone — nobody knew whither. Miss
Qnintilian said she woidd tell me how
he went, if I promised not to mention
it to her pa :— she had seen him with
her own eyes, riding away over the
church, astride on abroomstick.— Now,
sir," added Gingham, bowing to lir
Bclvidere, '*I trust that yon wiU
favour us. Bv the bye, Ckdond, befwe
we proceed, hadn't I better Inrew my
promised bowl of punch ? "
My story will be a vciy shw^
i(
1819.]
My Peninsular Medal, — Part II,
695
one," said Mr Belvidere, who spoke
little, and, as it afterwards appeared,
had a mighty matter on his mind.
" The punch will take no time,"
said Gingham. ^^ I have everything
ready."
The chairman, governed by the evi-
dent sense of the company, awarded
priority to the punch. Gingham
stepped aside, the steward was smart
with the kettle, and in less than two
minutes a fresh bowl was on the table.
With such punch in Olympus, suffice
it to say, nectar had soon become a
drug. The chairman now called on
Mr Belvidere, who proceeded forth-
with to relate
TUE TRIAL.
'^ I was once staying at Bath, about
fifteen years ago, and, while there,
became very thick with the officers of
an English cavalry regiment. One
day, when I dined at the mess, it so
happened that there was also present
a young gentleman, a sub, who had
joined that morning. It was a prac-
tice in many regiments, in those days,
I suppose I need not mention, when a
sub joined, to take the first oppor-
tunity of trying him, as it was called —
that is, trying his mettle. In the pre-
sent instance, the time fixed was din-
ner. The youth was quiet and well-
bred, a little reserved, and apparently
not quite at home. Doubts were ex-
pressed whether he would show pluck.
When dinner was on table, and we
were all assembled, the senior officer
present politely requested the young
stranger to take the office of vice; and
he, with equal politeness assenting,
seated himself at the bottom of the
table. A grim-looking countryman of
mine, the major of the regiment, a
jovial red-faced off-hand sort of a per-
sonage, full of whisky and waggery,
was the individual appointed to make
the customary trial, and took his seat
at table to the vice-president*s left.
Soup and fish removed, an attendant
placed before the young gentleman a
boiled leg of mutton. Presently the
major, addressing him, said, ' PU
thank you for a bit of that vale.'—' I
beg your pardon,' said Mr Vice ; ' I
rather think it's mutton, not veal:
shall I have the pleasure of helping
you?' The major made no reply.
Presently the major began again:
Til thank you for a bit of that vale.'
— * I tell you,' said the sub, * it's not
veal ; it's mutton. Shall I give you
some?' Again the major was silent.
After a pause, the major renewed the
attack : * I'll thank you for a bit of
that vale.' — * I'll soon let you know
whether it's veal or mutton,' said the
newly-arrived, jumping up. Then,
with one hand seizing the leg of mut-
ton by the knuckle, with the other
the major by the collar, and wielding
the gigot like a club, he banged it
about the major's sconce till the com-
pany interposed. The major, fairly
basted with half-raw gravy, and
dripping with caper-sauce, flung up
both his arms above his head, in an
ecstasy of delight, and, exultingly
waving his hands, exclaimed at the
top of his voice, ' He'll do I he'U do V
Perhaps we shall now be favoured
with a story or a song by Mr Staft'-
sm-geon Pledget."
" Yes, yes, "said the Colonel, laugh-
ing, " the old major took it all with a
very good grace ; a capital fellow he
was, too. Sorry to say, one of his
peepers got a little damaged, though,
on the occasion. I could not do that,
now that I am minus a claw."
"Why, Colonel d'Arblcy!" said
Mr Belvidere, looking the Colonel
very hard in Jhe face, '* I really ought
to apologise. Wasn't at all aware that
the hero of my story was sitting at
the head of the table. Ah, I see — I
recollect. The same features ; yes,
exactly. I think, though, Colonel,
you were not then quite so tall."
" Well," replied the Colonel, " Pm
not quite sure that I had done grow-
ing. I entered the service young.
Now, Mr Pledget, sir, if you please."
*' I really feel quite at a loss, sir,'*
said Pledget. " I have served in dif-
ferent parts of the world ; but I posi-
tively never met with anything half so
curious and interesting as the extra-
ordinary incidents which I have heard
this evening."
" Why, Pledget, man," said the
Major, " you were on the expedition
to Buenos Ayres. Come, tell us some-
thing about those lassoing fellows, or
the lovely seiloras, with their fine-
tumed ankles and slaughtering eyes."
"I'll tell you," saidPledget, "some-
thing that I picJied up at the Cape, on
the passage. It relates to a cele-
l: *1 L:»i -
liw
IL
[Dec
1; h. J hi Tt ■jttt' Bit.
i t :••'£ r: ITT reii-
I rr-liri ix L :■ - •
, . • - ■ ' - ■ * V •■ - _ -
»rr H. 'T**^!-!'!!. lir ^^^ -.Ti '1=~^ >i.-.t?-
V — . 'Tl-: isjLl^iri- S£ ii-:!:zii*i.
ai - : .tti ra -j ti. ?5 i- :•: ri c:' LI 3i- V — .
alre. iz a 3 i^er l«.s- Ttr. rrr*ii bar.
kt-rrrvdr, iioiji:: fx to iLLike ii4
frr-iije fr:cn t:ic '^^^ox. iz:d -a^ked
awiT. V — . h'XTL TLJv.r-g lae fc^i-
t:vv. Wis in az 12 yij — **A:Ttirf*i tiae
r . Li — :rir.lri:_= bjTif* — r^sab-jOL.
a5J±:r ererybwv be niei- Lad tbtj
Sr^'a lib rrecn b«igr M*anwbiie,
ir£tc:Jn.T an or-wnTmiir i^'ii-j^ V — «
back was izmei. tbe laiiiL>>rd's ton
tCK^k a bair-pencH of ^rr&en p^int, and
paimed on a pasel o: tke apanaiefit
an I'Xi^n iac-sUmle of tbe green bog.
Prei?3thr. in a |>;-rfteci fevtr of exche-
nent, the nainndist renuned. still
inqoiriog eag^lj for bis green bng.
The fimilv looked innocent, shook
their heads, and said nothing. V —
agtkin l/e^an to search the rooou till at
length his eyes lighted on the panel.
* Ah ! ' be exclaimed, ^ mr green
bTig! Ab, I liave finded yon now,
my dear little nanghtj green bog ! -
^Ah non!' he added, after two or
three ineffectual attempts to pick the
pictore off the panel — 'ah non! it
not is my littei green bog " Wtiether
V — was near-flighted, I know not.
Bat, if so, I can easily aoooont for his
mistaking a painted green bng for a
real one; for, gentlemen, I am slightly
near-sighted myself;" said Pledget;
*'^ and last autumn, I do assnre yon,
while I was out shooting on my bro-
ther's estate iu Kent, a humble-bee
got np right nndcr my nose, and I
actually Maaed away at it with both
barrels, mistaking it for a pheasant.
I know it was nothing bat a humble*
bee; for my shooting companion, a
yonng Oxonian, my own nephew in
fact, posltirely aaanred me. I can't
WJc- I'askiiHZ I Bmst be a liule near-
arsa«d. WeiL hn tiiat is not all
a:r.>ax V — . Tne J/uckman one day,
t»b*STinr iiim ^i* T^err cnzioas in ento-
^-A'jsj. ttiliKi'wi a variety of richly-
?:■'• .'-jT^i iliiLeiiis fr.>m the plcmase
ii 'i<£r^ shredf of silk, d^c; then
cfiTirt:: fC'^enne Use-bottles: fastened
t3kt ^Biaaieiiis lo the Uoe-botties with
gsm: and. when V — was oat^
tnrzed tbe bhic-boctte loose in his
bedr»:^ni. T — came home — went
cJTcCi 10 tja slwpin^ apartment — the
wbc>le bc^Tiseboll. assembied and lis-
lesjsg. «':«! coifiide in the passage.
Pre=»z:t;y the row began. V — wis
hrari ^iVria. first uttering cries of as-
1 : iljinicai aa J delijbt. then flouncing
al'T'^i lie room, jumfnng over the bed,
4>ay>arinf tbe water-jog, in hot pnr-
sai: of the nonAe»:ript varieties of the
bi^e-bottle. At length a heavy bang
was f jllowed by a dead silenoe'; then
came a cry of piteons lamentatian.
Tbe familventerHL with svmpariiiigng
looks. Poor V— had' broken his
shin, in an attempt to leap the table.
Tae femalers rashed lior brown paper
and vinegar. The wonnded man was
extricated from the npmned legs of
the table, and led oat limping into the
common apartment^ to be doctored.
The landlord, prafitmg by the oppor-
tnnitv. opened tiie bedroom window,
and the Une-bottles escaped. The
naturalist, who never knew by what
means he had been begniled, made
fpeqacnt, and I need sot sav vain, in-
qnhries. for similar 'prit l&tel bottle
bine homing-beards.' — I beg leave ti
caU on mv frie^ the Mafor."
«'I," aaid the Major, ^aswcU tt
Captain Gabion, waaon the retreat la
Ckxtmna, and now beg leave to idnit
an incident conneeCed with
TBS EMBAaKAHOSI.
^ After we had served out the Freach,
on the heights there, jest above the
town, we had no farther tronble te
signify, 80 far as tiwy were cefcenwd
—a pretty deal, tiiou^ in getting oar
own army embarked. I waa the last
man on shore bnt two. Towards the
close of tbe basinesi, I went down to
tbe i^Sioe of embarkation — foimd old
Bine Breeches (a sobriquet which
I had in the morning been scandal-
ised by hearing applM to my ho-
noured father) there, the officer la
1849.]
My Pemnaukar MedaL — Part LT,
697
charge, saperintendlng. There he
was, up to his knees ia the surf, giving
fats ordei*s, helping the wounded into
the boats with his own hands, direct-
ing everything. Such a precious scene
of noise and confusion I never wit-
nessed. ^ Iladnt you better embaric
at once, sir?* said he. 'No — I'd
rather wait a while,' said I. * Hadn't
you better go in this boat ?' said he.
* No, sir ; I'll go in the boat you go
in,' said I. *Then you'll have to
wait quite to the last ; I intend to be
the last man off,' said he. *Veiy
well,' said I. * If you really mean
to wait, sir, I shall have to request
yonr assistance,' said he. Didn't
<|nite understand what that meant,
but determined to stick to Old Blue
Breeches. Don't you see? It was
my best card. You don't suppose I
was going to be boated off to a tran-
flfK>rt, when I could go home in a
8eventy-four ? Well, sir, at length
the men were all embarked — the sick,
the wounded, every man John of
them. The last boat- load had shoved
nfE, and there now only remained the
captain's own gig, ready to take ns
on board. Of course, I expected we
Bboold be otL, like the rest, without
delay. No, no ; Old Blue Breeches
had a different way of doing business.
He tarns round to me, and says, ' I
mm going to take a walk throngh the
town^ sir. Will yon favour me with
your company?' 'Should hardly
thisAi there was time for that, sir,'
flMud I; ^bnt if it will answer any
piiriKMe, and yon really mean to go, I
shall be happy to go with you.'
Thought some of the French might
iiave got in. ^I want to look into
llie different wine- houses,' said he,
'^ just to see if there are any stragglers.
Am ordered to bring all off: sb^dn't
like to leave a man behmd.' Away
we w«it — he, I, and old Powers, the
Irish coxswain, almost as rum an <^
-diap as Old Blue Breeches himself.
He searched all the wine-shops for
stragglers — found none. Besides our
tlHree selves, there wasn't an EngUsh-
man in Comnna. Came back throngh
the sally-port that opened on the
l>lace of embarkation. At the sally-
port Old Blue Breeches made a halt,
mmroaged in his pocket, brought out
the key. *• Took care to secure this
yesterday,' said he: *jnst wait a
moment, while I lock the door.' lie
locked it, and brought away the ke}-.
Down we went to the boat. I hung
behind, wanting to be the last man
off. Old Powers was playing the
same game, but it wouldn't do.
' Now, sir, if you please,' said Old
Blue Breeches ; ' company first.' In
I got. 'Won't I help yer honour
in? ' said Powers to Old Blue Breeches.
* No, no, old fellow,' said he ; ' that
won't do, you know. Get in first
yourself, and help me in afterwards.'
Powers grinned, and tumbled in over
the stern. Old Blue Breeches got in
last. We shoved off. ' Three dieers,
yer honour?' said Powers, as ho
took his seat by the tiller. *Ay,
ay; three cheers,' said Old Blue
Breeches ; ' and may the French soon
catch such another whopping.' Three
hearty cheers by the boat's crew, and
away we pulled for the ship. Old
Blue Breeches and I, both of us pretty
considerably done up. Neither spoko
for some minutes. Thought I should
like to have that key ; took a fancy
to it. 'I suppose you mean to keep
the key ? ' said I. * Indeed you may
say that,' said he. 'I do mean to
keep it; and I have got another to
put to it. Last man ashore here at
Comnna; so I was at Toulon, in
1793. Then, also, I locked the gate,
and brought away the key.' Now
that's what I call cool.— Will you
favour us, Captain Grabion?"
*^ I should esteem it a favour,"
replied the Captain, '' if I might be
permitted to tell my story last. Per-
haps the gentleman opposite to me,"
(bowing to Joey,) '*will have the
kindness to take his turn now. Mine
will then be the only one remaining.
Mr Chairman, will you sanction this
arrangement ? " The chairman bow-
ed. Joey began : —
" A previous narrator remarked,
that no one had told either a ghost-
atory, a lore story, or a pathetic
story. The first deficiency he himself
supplied ; and, though I cannot say
that I ever saw a ghost, I certainly
never experienced anything so like
seeing one, as while I listen^ to that
extraordinary and appalling narra-
tive. I, gentlemen, have no love
story to tell, but I have a stoiy of
true pathos ; and you shall hear it, if
such is your pleasure."
My Peninsular Medal. — Part JL
698
In token of my acqaicscence, I
stepped to my berth, took out two white
pocket-handkerchiefs, handed one to
Joey, and kept the other ready for
nse.
" Gentlemen," said Joey, deposit-
ing the disregarded cambric on the
table, " I will tell my story, bat only
on one condition. It is ho fiction;
and what I stipulate is this— that,
since I relate it with a heart still
wrung by recollection, as to men of
manly feeling, and in perfect good
faith, 80 you will listen with serious-
ness and sympathy."
We looked at each other. Each
made up a face; all were grave, or
appeared so ; and Joey, with great
earnestness of manner, and a voice
husky with emotion, commenced the
narrative of
THE MONKET AND THE CAT.
" While I was serving on board
the East India Companj^'s cruiser the
Jackal, we were one time employed
surveying in the Persian Gulf. Being
iufested with rats, we one day re-
quested our interpreter, when he went
ashore, to bring off with him a cat
from the nearest village. He return-
ed, bearing in his arms, gentlemen,
such an extraordinary specimen of
feline beauty as, I will venture to
say, has never graced a British mena-
gerie , or sat upon any hearth-rug in
the United Empire. Her elegance,
her gentleness, her symmetry, I will
not wrong, by attempting to describe :
I should feel the poverty of the English
language. Her two eyes had each a
chaiTn peculiar to itself. One was a
pure celestial blue, the other green as
an emerald. It was at once felt, by
every officer on board, that a creature
60 superb was not to be employed in
the vulgar office of catching rats.
Our only thought was, to treat her
with the care and tenderness which
her beauty merited. As she was un-
questionably the princess of cats, and
as her coat was a soft tawny, in hue
somewhat resembling the odoriferous
powder of which our friend Mr Cap-
sicum makes such copious use — com-
bining the two circumstances, we
agreed to call her Princeza. Prin-
ccza at once established herself as
the pet of the ship. What wonder?
[Dec.
We had no other domestic animal on
board, save one solitary monkey — ^his
name Jocko, his character, I grieve
to say, a revolting compound of arti-
fice, egotism, and low malignity.
'^ But now anew circumstance arose,
which increased cor interest in the
lovely Princeza. Almost immediately
she arrived on board, it became evi-
dent, from unmistakable indications,
that she was about to be a mother.
Her interesting situation, indeed,
might have been detected by ao
observant eye, when she first em-
barked. In anticipation of the
earnestly expected event, it wis
decided that Princeza should be pro-
vided with every accommodation in the
officers' cabin. A basket, appro-
priated to her nse, was lined and half-
filled with the warmest and softest
materials ; and in the cabin this basket
was deposited. Not that we appre-
hended injury from the crew. Oh no!
our only fear was, that Princeza and
her expected little ones would be over-
nursed, over -petted, over -fed — in
short, killed with kindness. Judge,
gentlemen, what were my emotions,
when, one morning early, returning to
the cabin from my duty on deck, I
heard Princeza purring in her basket
with more than usual vehemence, and
discovered, on examination, that she
had become the happy mother of four
dear little lovely kittens." Here Joey's
voice quite broke down. At length,
mastering his emotions, he proceeded :
^* Well, gentlemen ; anxioos to ex-
amine the little interesting accessions,
I softly introduced my hand into the
basJiet. But Princeza was now a
mother, and had a mother's feelmgs.
DonbUess apprehending injory to her
little offispriuff — ah! conid I have
injured them? — ^ui an instant, poor
thing, she got my hand in chancery.
Her foredaws, stmck deep, held me
faster than a vice ; with her hind claws
she rasped away the flesh, sparring
like a kangaroo ; while, with her for-
midable teeOi, she masticated my
knuckles. After admiring awhile this
affecting illustration of maternal ten-
derness, I attempted to withdraw my
hand. But ah, gentle creatnrel she
only stmck her claws the deeper,
spurred more vigorously, and chewed
with redoubled eneigy. Only by
assistance was I extricated ] nor was
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal, — Part II,
699
my hand perfectly recovered, till a fort-
night after Frinceza was herself no
more ! Well, gentlemen ; for greater
secorlty it was now resolved that,
«very night at eight o*clock,Princeza^s
basket should be set on the cabin table.
There it was placed the first night ;
and next morning, one of the kittens
was found— can I utter it? — dead I
No malice was suspected : the disaster
was attributed to natural causes.
Another night came. We used no
precautions. In the morning, we
found another kitten — deadl Sus-
picion was now awake, but over-
looked the real culprit. The third
night, I determined to watch. The
basket stood, as before, upon the
table: Princeza, with her two re-
maining little ones, lay snug and
warm within : a lamp, burning near
the entrance, shed its light throughout
the cabin ; and I, with my curtain all
but closed, kept watch within my
berth. In the dead of the night,
when all between decks was quiet,
save the snoring of the men, the flit-
ting of a shadow made me sensible
that same one, or something, was
moving in the cabin. Presently,
approaching stealthily, like Tarquin,
or Shakspeare^s wolf, appeared —
gentlemen, I saw it with my eyes —
the form of Jocko I With silent
grimaces, advancing on all fours,
stealthily, stealthily, a step at a time,
he approached, he reached the table.
There awhile he paused ; then threw
a somerset, and alighted upon it.
The moment he was landed, the pricked
ears and anxious face of Princeza
appeared above the basket. He ap-
proached. She stirred not, but con-
tinued to observe him, with all a
mother's fears depicted in her coun-
tenance. Jocko now laid one paw
upon the basket's edge. Still Princeza
moved not. Blackest of villains I he
cuffed her — cuffed her a^ain — again ;
— in short, repeated his cuffs, till,
terrified and bewildered, the unhappy
mother leaped from the basket on the
table, from the table on the floor, and
flew out of the cabin. Then did that
monster in a monkey's form quietly
take her place, and settle himself down
for a night's rest, in the midst of the
warmth and comfort from which he
bad ejected the lawful tenant. All
was now discovered. The doable
murderer of the two preceding nights
lay housed and genial in that basket.
Anxious to see and know the whole,
up to this moment I had controlled
myself. But now, too hastily, I
rushed from my berth, to seize the
detected culprit. The noise alarmed
him. Snatching up a kitten in one
paw he sprang from the cabin — on
deck — up the rigging. Pursued,
though it was night, he dodged his
pursuers, taking advantage M the
gloom. At length, hard pressed, see-
ing his retreat cut off and his capture
inevitable, he dashed the kitten into
the briny deep, and suffered himself
to be taken. With diflSculty I pre-
served him from the fury of the men.
Suflice it to say, that night he was
kept close prisoner in a hencoop, and,
next morning, hanged. But on, how
shall I relate the sequel? The re-
maining kitten was found severely
injured, crushed doubtless by Jocko's
incumbent weight, and died within
eight-and-forty hours. The mother,
bereaved of all her little ones, went
mewing about the ship as if in search
of them, languished and pined away,
refused all consolation, and expired
about eight days after. We now
became sensible of our loss in its full
extent : and this, gentlemen, was felt
by all on board to be the acme of our
grief — the ship was left without a
pet! Oh, could we have recalled
Princeza and her kittens ! Oh, could
we have recalled even Jocko I"
At the conclusion of this tragic nar-
rative, which was recounted to the
end with unaffected feeling, the com-
pany awhile remained silent, respect-
ing Joey's sensibilities. Joey looked
very much as if my tender of the cam-
bric had not been altogether superflu-
ous. At length the conversation was
renewed by Gingham.
" Your truly affecting story has a
moral, sir. I am an olServer of the
habits of animals. Monkeys are very
fond of warmth."
" Well, sir," replied Joey, with a
deep-drawn sigh, ^' I shoold like to
hear your moral at any rate."
" The fact is, sir," said Gmgham,
" on board ship, what is a poor
wretch of a monkey to do? At night,
probably, he is driven to the rigging.
He would gladly nestle with the men,
but the men won't have him *, for, to
700
My Penmmdat Medaln-Part IL
[Dee;
say nothing of tbe general ridieiile i^
feUow wonld incur by having a moo-
key for his bedfellow, ten to one the
poor wretch ia swanuing wkh fleaa
as iHg as jackasses, to say nothing o£
enormoiu ticks in the creases iA hia
dirty skin. Monkeys, sir, like dogs,
scratch theBselves a great deal, &i
cleanse themselves very Httle. New
depend npon it, when the weather ie
oold and the wind high, mcmkeya
never sleep in trees. Is it likely tlH»,
en board i^p, that they prefer aleep-
iBg aloft? — that ia, if a nonkey ever
deeps. Did yon cnFer see a maftkey
aaleep?''
"^ GaaH sty I ever did," retried
Joey. ^^ I have seea them nodding.
But the moral?"
'' The mora}," said GMgham, '' is
simply this. The next time yon sail
with a monkey and a cat on bomd, if
yon provide a basket for the cai, pro-
vide another for the monk^."
"^ Obviou^yl'' replied Jfocff.
*' Woald we had thonght of that en
board the Jackal I Obvioasly I ''
'' May I ask,*' said Gingham, ^ how
yen contrived to hang the monkey?"
^' Of e(»rse," reptied Joey, ^^ he
was first pinioned."
" Exactly," said Gli^ham ; '' so
I conjectnrecL Otherwise I shoidd
consider the haagiag oC a m<Hik0y no
easy matter."
*' Now, Captain Grabion, if yon
please," ssud the Colonel,, inter*
posing.
^^ The poncfa is neariy ont," replied
the Captain, *^ and, if I might be ex-
cased, I shoald really feel thaakfal foe
the indulgence. I have nothing to
tell bat an ngly dream ; and thai
dream rdates to a snbject which, as I
believe my military fnenda ban pre-
sent are aware, is constantly and paia-
fally present to my iftiad. The less
said abont it the better."
^ Come, oome, Ci^ptain Gabkm,"
said the CQk>nel; ^^ never thmk of
that, man. Youll see Old England
again, I tell yon, and rise t<» rank in
the service. Come, give as yov
story."
It is well known that^ among the
officers who embarked lor the Penin«
sala, there was occasionaUy one who
qaitted his native shoreewith a atn»ag
piesestiment that he shenld aever see
them again, bat fall in action. In
sneh instaaceathe mhidntshndthe
impieseion almost eoastantly. It was
not the coward's fear of &aUh-far
firom it. If ever it was foi^tlm, tbs
moment waa that of coofliet and peril ;
and then, it was sooietimes reilM.
'' Come, old fettew," said the Colo-
nM; " yomr stocy, if yea pleiM."
The Obtain was abent to refdj,
when a mnsical voice, pitehodia alto,
was heard from the atate-cibia:—
" Kitty, Kitty, come down ; cone
down, I tell yoa. Yea'U eatdi yur
death o' cold, standing tlMn ii the
dtanght withont yoor beonet. Cone
down, child, tUa instant."
Kitty waa now seen ^^iding fnm
the feet of the cabin stain into ber
mistreaa's apanmeot IheCotal's
keen eye glanced in that dindue;
oara took tte same. ApaifoClegawaa
Tiaifcte at the betttfa ef tk
" GiqMd, yon viU«nl Capidr
ahaated the Cokmel, '' cone Iwie;
come directly, air. Aboard or aakre,
that rascal never misses an ^pporta-
nity of making kva. Here, CoH^
Capid 1 "
The Colonel's gentlenaa, wiA is-
noeenee pictured m his ooimtoiaBoe,
now entered, stepped qnietlyoptoUe
foot of the table, aad w^^vm
twitdied his for^kKk.
'' What are yon abent tbeie OB titt
caAun staira, sir?" said the O^faA.
" Can't yon let the yoaag wmmb »
^niet, and be hanged to ya?" .
"Ivos ownra-caminin do»nin«»
the cab'n, yer honoar, jist to aw tf
yer henonr vmmted henaytUwt.
The Colonel's gwtlMMB, I «««
to have stated beftwe tbta, was aa ga
Ught dragoon, and a Cocka^y^^
had lost an eye, on the same octfaja
when the Colonel lost an ana; oa-
tained hie dischafge ; aad £roia ttfi
tune followed the Cotenerft fi)Ktiaea|
Hialoes, I presume, had gwMdM
the name oTCapid. He w«« o^
well-behaved, handy Mow eMJga »
had that particolar way of ^?»^
eaaphatie and geaticalatefr, whica <»«
thigoiflhes old soldiers who hare »J^
their discharge ; made himself ou^v^'
sally wefal to the Colonelt ^^J^
hkn to dseas and ondiea^ ?«»*»
aad evemng, the Cokmel beioflf J[
pendent fiom tim leesof a fi>*^°^.
in eonse^oence, waa a piivileg^^
1849.]
Afy Peninstdar MedaL—Part IL
701
son : liad the enirde of the cabin at
all times and seasons; and, being
ready and sometimes sentimental in
his replies, seldom made Ihs appear-
ance amongst ns without being as-
suled with qnestioBS on all sides. The
Colonel was now aboat to give him a
regular jobation, but the M^or stroek
iZL
"I 887, Cupid, very conyement for
courtship those cabin stairs in rainj
weather. Eh, Cupid ?"
"Courtship, yer honour!'' said
Cupid. ^^ I Tosn't not a-doin nothink
of the kind. I tos (^vny a-meditatin,
fike."
" Oh, meditating were yon, though,
Cupid ?" said Captain Gabion. "Well,
pra^ what were you meditating about?
Come, tell us your thoughts.''
" Vhy, sir," replied Cupid, "I vos
a-meditatin upon the hair and upon
the sea. Got plenty of bofe vhere
T8 now are ; nothink helse, has I can
see ; so it yos owny natral I should
meditate. And I yos jist a-thmkia
this : that the haur is made for men,
and the sea is made for fishes, heach
for heach; and t'other yon't do for
myther. Pull a fish hout of his own
lieUment hinto the hair, and he dies.
And pitch a man hoot of his own
heliment hinto the sea, and he's
drownded."
"Really, Cupid," said Capsicum,
"tiiat neyer struck me before. It's
▼«ry curious."
"Wherry," said Cupid. "But,
please yer honour, I thought of some-
think helse, yitch I consider it's more
kew-msser stilL And that's this :
that, though too ranch vorter drownds
a man, and too much hair kills a fish,
yit a fish can't do yithout a little hair,
and a man can't do yithout a little
drink." Cupid's eye, as if he had said
too much, dropped, and fell upon the
punch-bowl.
Amidst the general applause and
merriment excited by this appeal, I
pushed oyer a tumbler to Joey, who
took up the punch-bowl, and soon
transferred its remaining contents into
the glass, which he handed, brimming,
to Cupid. The next moment it stood
empty on the table. Cupid smacked
his lips.
" Cupid," said the Colonel in a tone
of aathori^, " what's your opinion of
that punch ?"
"Pertickerly obleegcd to yer ho-
nour," replied Cupid, " and to haul
the company yot's present." Cupid
then made a nip at his kuee, as if
suddenly bit ; and, ayailmg himself of
the stoop, whispered Joey : " Please,
sir, did the Comal brew it hissclf?"
With a twitch of the moutb, and a
twist of the eye, Joey indicated
Gingham.
" Come, Cupid," said the Colonel,
^I want a direct answer. Tell mo
your opinion of that punch." The
Colonel had a plot.
" Bless yer art, yer honour," said
Cupid.
"Come, speak up, sir," said the
colonel.
"Speak up, man," said Gingham.
"Veil, yer honour," said Cupid, "I
haulyays speaks the troof^ except I'm
bordered the contary. Pleasant tipple,
wherry. But if so be I hadn't not
a' seed it in the p«nch-bowl, yhy, I
shouldn't not a' knewed it vos punch,
not no how."
"What drink do you like best,
Cupid?" said the Major. "What
d'ye think of water, now ?"
" Vhy, I think this, yer honour,"
replied ^upid : " I'm a pertickler dis-
like to yorter ; that's vot I thluk. I
youldn't ride no oss into no yorter,
no, not for nothink."
" The fact is, gentlemen," said the
Colonel, " Cupid thinks no man can
brew a bowl of punch like himself.
What say you ?— shall we give him a
trial ?"
Capsicum consented — Gmgham
consented — ^we all consented. The
thii'd bowl of punch was carried by
acclamation. Cupid retired to brew.
" If he beats mine," said Capsicum,
"I'll give him half-a-guinea for the
recipe."
" A guinea," said the Colonel,
" with a promise not to communicate.
Cupid never takes less."
Cupid returned with the punch-
bowl, having executed the arcana
aside. His punch had the aroma of
arrack, though not arrack punch in
the strict sense of the word. Capsi-
cum's was a nosegay ; Gingham's beat
nectar; but Cupid's put them both
out of court, by consent of the com-
pany. " Now, Captain Gabion," said
the Colonel^ " we'll trouble you for
your story."
Ifj PauMS^ar McdaL—Part U.
[Dec.
**WiilkC<u iSs^ara^eixMnt of cnxr
jsrtTk*!:* Itftwers." siii xke Captain,
*^ nj fdfc!in^ ai tbe pcstsent moiDexit is
JBKc' iiiis. itai I xHrxer drank punch
bef ;«r- WdL getilesiiexL if too will
bare ii K^ I proofed u> relate
" Sc^me c«f tic fries i* bere assembled
ar? well awire — wbj sbonlU I conceal
ii r — f>>«* f<c<r sereral moaths past, a
lodul has bea pres^ln^ on mj mind.
Tbej are also aware of the canse. I
certainlj hare an impreaaon that I
shall never see England again. Bat
how that impression began, thej are
H'-A aware. What I am now about
to relate will afic^rd the explanation.
Yet what i: the scl^: of mj narra-
tire ? A dream — a mere dream : and
a dream ea^v acconnted for bv the
ciixr^imstacces in which it was dreamt.
&:» it i5. Colonel d'Aiblej knows,
the >Iajor knows, that I never shrank
from periL I have faced death; to
all appearance, certain death. And,
unless I felt prepared to do the like
again, I shooid not hare been now
returning to the army ; — no. I wonld
rather have quitted the service. Death
I am (H^pared at any time to meet ;
yet this presentiment of death is a
burden upon my spirits. By the bye,
my glass is empty. Uadn*t I better
replenish it ere I begin ?
^^ Yon arc aware, sir, that ill health,
the effect of hard service and hard
knocks, obliged me to retnm to Eng-
land last spring. In the course of
the autumn, I quitted Cheltenham,and
resided at Woolwich. There, I was at
a military party. We kept it up all
night. Next morning, I was unex-
pectedly summoned to London; and,
on my arrival, found work cut out for
me, — ^papers to be prepared — public
offices to be visited — ^lots of going
about — lots of writing — all wanted
instantly. Some parliamentary wretch
had moved for returns, and I was to
get them up. In short, the work could
be done in time only by my again
sitting up all night. It was on the
day after these two sleepless nights
that I had my dream. Where, do
you think? And at what hour? At
nooD, with the sun shining above my
head, on a bench in St James's Park.
*'I had just been calling in at the
Horae-Goaids for a chat, my business
completed, the excitement oyer, and
was proceeding westward on foot al(Hig
the Birdcage Walk, when I began to
feel nenroos and done np. All at once,
my faculties eiq^erienced a sort of col-
l^ise. My whole frame was sdzed
with a dejbily chUl ; I shirered spas-
modically ; my strength seemed gone ;
and I beome most en<»inoiisly drowsy.
Just at that moment — ^I suppose it
was some anniversary, a birthday
peihaps — bang, bang, the Park gnus
coomienced finng, ckise at hand. In
the midst of the firing, I sat down on
a beikch, and, in no time, dropped
asleep. Then began my dream.
*'^ It was a general action. The curious
circomstance is, that I was still in the
Park. The guns firing a holiday
salute became the French poeition,
whidi occupied the plateau of a low
range of hills. At the foot of this
range, in an avenue extending along
its foot, was I alone. The firing went
on, bang-banging, now no longer a
fpu'de-joie — Uie report was tlut of
shotted guns. I heard not only thdr
discharge, bnt the moan of the balls,
and the whisk of the grape; yes, and
the rattle of musketry, the shouts of
men charging, and all that kind of
thing. I saw the dust, the smoke,
the occasional flash, quite as much as
yon can see of any battle if you're in
it. Yet, all this time, I knew I was
in the Birdcage Walk. Presently, in
the direction of the Green Park, I
heard a more distant cannonade, whidi
was that of the British poeition. It
was now time to change mine; for
some of the shot firom our gims began
to pass up the avenue, dose to me,
tearing, rasping up the gravel, crash-
ing among the trees, cntting down
boughs, and rifting the trunks. Yet
something kept me fixed. At length,
looking in the direction of the British
position, I distinctly saw a round-shot
come hopping up the avenue— hop —
hop — ^hop — nearer and nearer — but
slowly — slowlv — slowly ; it seemed all
but spent. Just when I thought it
had done hopping, it took one more
jump, and, with a heavy pitch, fetched
me an awful polt in the right side.
That moment I felt that I was a dead
man ; killed in action, yet by a friendly
ball, and while sittingon a bench in
St James*8 Park! The vision now
1849.]
My Peninsular Medal, — Part IL
703
passed. The noise and firing ceased;
troops, smoke, dost — all the concomi-
tants of combat vanished ; the Bird-
cage Walk and its beaatifhl environs
resumed their ordinary appearance.
" Presently, while still sitting on the
bench, I was accosted by a tall saUow-
looking gentleman in black, who
smirked, bowed, and handed me a
letter with a broad black border — the
seal, a tombstone and a weeping wil-
low. It was addressed to myself —
an invitation to attend a funeral. I
pleaded my engagements — wanted to
get back to Woolwich — ^begged to be
excused. * Sir,* said he, in courteous
accents, ^ you really must oblige us.
Unless you are present, the funeral
cannot take place. Hope you won't
disappoint us, sir. I am the under-
taker, sir.* I somehow felt that I had
no choice, and went. The gentleman
in black met me at the door.
" Other parties were assembled at the
mansion ; but not one of the company
— I thought it rather strange — either
spoke to me, or looked at me, or
snowed the least consciousness of my
presence. The undertaker was vS\
attention; handed round black kid
gloves; fitted first one with a hatband,
then another; and, last of all, ad-
dressed me : ' Now, sir, if you please,
this way, sir ; we only wait for you,
sir.* I followed him. He led me into
an adjoining apartment, where stood
the coffin, surrounded by mutes. I
wished to read the name on the lid,
but was prevented by the pall.
*' How we got to the place of inter-
ment, I recollect not. The only thing
I remember is this: as I saw the
coffin carried down stall's, hoisted into
the hearse, conveyed, hoisted out, and
at last deposited by the side of the
grave — every movement, every jolt,
every thump, seemed to jar my whole
system with a peculiar and horrid
thrill. The service was performed,
the coffin was lowered, the grating of
the ropes grated upon my very soul ;
and the dust sprinkled by the sexton
on its lid blew into my mouth and
eyes, as I stood by the brink of the
grave, and looked on. The service
concluded, the undertaker, attendants,
and company withdrew; and, what
d'ye think ? — there was I left remain-
ing in the burial-ground, with no com-
panion but a solitary gravediggerl
He set to work, and began shovelling
in the clods, to fill the grave. I heai*d
their thud; I seemed to feel it, as
they rattled in quick succession on the
lid of the coffin.
'' ^ You'll soon be filled in and aU
right, old feller,* said the gravedigger,
as he proceeded with his work.
^^ A strange idea had gradually occu-
pied my mind. It seemed absurd —
impossible; and yet it ofiered the
ovXj conceivable solution of my sen-
sations at that horrid moment. I-
addressed the gravedigger, —
" » My friend,' said I, ' have the
goodness to inform me whose funeral
this is.'
"'Whose funeral?* replied the
gravedigger. '' Come, that's a good
un. Vhy, it's YOUR OWN.'— I'll trouble
you for a little more punch."
VOL. ixn.— jvo. ccccx.
%h.
70i
Spam under Nanatx and
[Dee.
8PAXH miBIB NABVASZ AXD CBBinDUU
The condition of Spidn since the
last French revelation, and especially
since the commencement of the present
year, has been taken as a theme of
unbounded self-gratnlation by persons
who ascribe her tranqniliity and
alleged prosperity to their own patriot-
ism and skill. For many months
past, the friends, organs, and adherents
of the dominant Camarilla have not
ceased to call attention to the flonrish-
ing state of the conntry ; repeatedly
challenging the Continent to produce
snch another examine of good govern-
ment, internal happiness, and external
dignity, as is now aflRoirded by the
fortunate land which their patrons and
masters rule. When so many Euro-
pean states are revolutionised and
unsettled, it is indeed {feasant to hear
this good report of one which we have
not been accustomed to consider a
model f^ the imilation of its neigh-
bours. Delightftd it is to learn that
Spain has cast her bloodnstained
slough of misrule, discord, and c<MTap-
tion, and glitters in renovated come-
liness, an example to the nations, a
credit and a blessing to herself, a
monument of the disinterested exer-
tions and unwearied self-devotion of
her sage and virtuous rulers. We are
anxious to believe that these glowing
accounts are based upon fact, and
worthy of credence— not a delusion
and a blind ; and that the happiness
and prosperity so ostentatiously
vaunted exist elsewhere than in the
invention of those interested in pro-
claiming them. But we cannot forget
that the evidence produced is entirely
ex'parie, or lose sight of the great
facility with which the French and
English press and public accord credit
and praise to the present government
of Spain, simply on its own or its
partisans' assertions of the great things
it has done^ and is about to do. It is
not easy to obtain a correct knowledge
of the condition of the bulk of the
Spanish nation. That the country
prospers means, in the mouths of the
schemers andplace-hunters of Madrid,
and of the smugglers of the frontier,
that there is a brisk flow of coin into
their own pockets. That it is tranquil
signifies that no rebellions banner is
openly displayed in its tenitofy. Ko
matter that the goverameDt is canied
on by shifts, by forced ioaiifl and fbce-
Btalled taxes and ruinous contracts;
that the public scarvants ci all grades,
irregularly paid^ and with bad ex-
amples b^ore them, peculate and take
bribes ; that the widow and the orphan,
the maimed soldier and the super-
annuated pensioner, continnally with
long arrears due to than, are in rags,
misery, and starvation ; that to &e
foreign creditor is given, almost as a
favour, no part of the interest doe upon
the capital he has disbunsed, but the
interest on a small portion of the
aecnmulatirai of vnpaid dividends;
that the streets and highways swam
with meBdicanta, and are pcrPoos from
the mnltitndeof robbers; that the
insecurity of life and pgojperiy in
countiy-plaoes drives the rich propiie-
tOTB into the towns, and prevents their
expending their capital in the im|MDve-
ment of their property ; and that the
peasantry, derived of instroctloii,
example, andencouragement, deprived
too, by tlie badness and aeardty of
the commimications, of an advanta-
geous mariiet for their prodnce, sink,
as a natural cofisequenoe, daily deeper
into sloth, ignoranee, and vice. What
matter aU these things? The miseries
of the suffering many are lightly
passed over by the prosp^tnis few:
in Spain the multltiide have no voice,
no remedy but open and armed resis-
tance. Thus it is that Spanish revo-
lutions and popular outbreaks startle
by their suddenness. Until the vic-
tim openly rebels, his murmurs are
unheard : the report of his musket is
the first intimation of his misery. In
England and in France, abuses, op-
pression, and injustice, of whatever
kind, cannot long be kept ficom the
light. It is very different in Spain,
under the present regime. There the
liberty of the press is purely nominal,
and no newspaper dares denounce an
abuse, however flagrant, or speak above
its breath on subjects whose discussion
is unpleasing to the governing powers.
On the first indication of such pre-
sumption, number after number of the
1849.]
S^pain under Narvtuz and Christina,
705
ofifending journal is seized, fines are
inflicted, and if the editors audaciously
persevere, they may reckon with
tolerable certainty on exile or a prison.
On the other hand, the ministerial and
Camarilla organs, those of the Duke
of Valencia and of Seiior Sartorius,
and of the dowager queen, and even
of the dowager^s husband — for his
Grace of Rianzares follows the fashion,
and has a paper at his beck, (partly
for his assistance in those stock ex-
change transactions whose pursuit
has more than once dilapidated his
wife's savings,) — papers of this stamp,
we say, carefully disguise or distort
all facts whose honest revelation
would be unpleasant or discreditable
to their employers. From the garbled
and impeifect statements of these
Journals, which few Frenchmen, and
scarcely any Englishmen, ever see, the
** Madrid correspondents " of French
and English newspapers— not a few
of whom reside in Paris or London —
compile their letters, and editors
derive their data (for want of better
sources) when discussing the condition
and prospects of Spain. Hence spring
misapprehension and delusion. Spain
is declared to bo prosperous and happy;
and Spanish bondholders flatter them-
aelves, for the hundredth time, with
the hope of a satisfactory arrangement
— to which their great patience cer-
tainly entitles them, and which they
might as certamly obtain were the ill-
administered revenues of Spain so
directed as to flow into the public
coffers, and not into the bottomless
pockets of a few illustrious swindlers,
and of the legion of corrupt underlings
who prop a system founded on immo-
rality and fraud. The system is rotten
to the core, and the prosperity ot Spain
is a phantom and a fallacy. Not that
she is deficient in the elements of
prosperity : on the contrary, the
country has abundant vitality and
resource, and its revenue has been for
years increasing, in the teeth of mis-
government, and of a prohibitive
tarifl', which renders the customs*
revenue almost nominal. But it mat-
ters little how many millions are col-
lected, if they be intercepted on their
way to the exchequer, or squandered
and misappropriated as soon as
gathered in.
In the absence of better evidence as
to the real state of the country than
that whose untrustworthiness we have
denounced, the narrative of an unpre-
judiced and intelligent traveller in
Spain has its value ; and although the
title of a recently published book by
Mr Dundas Murray,'*' proclaimed it to
refer but to one province, yet, as that
province comprises many of the prin-
cipal Spanish posts and cities, we
hoped to have found in his pages con-
firmation or correction of our opinion
as to the true condition of the nation,
and more particularly of those mid-
dling and lower classes whose wel-
fare is too frequently lost sight of in
the struggles and projects of political
factions. Since those pleasant *^ Ga-
therings'' in which many home-truths
were told with a playful and witty
pen, no book on Spain worth naming
has appeared ; and if Mr Murray's
visit be recent, which he does not en-
able us to decide, he had abundant
opportunity during his pretty long
residence and active rambles — aided,
as we learn he was, by thorough
familiarity with the language — ^to col-
lect materials for a work of no com-
mon interest and importance. He has
preferred, however, to skim the sur-
face : the romantic and the picaresque,
sketches on the road and traditions of
Moorish Spain, are evidently more to
his taste than an investigation of the
condition of the people, and an expo-
sure of social sores and official cor-
ruption. His book is a slight but
unaflected production, containing
much that has been said before, a
little that has not, some tolerable de-
scriptions of scenery, a number of
legends borrowed from Conde and
other chroniclers, and here and there
a little personal incident which may
almost pass muster as an adventure.
Young Englishmen of Mr Murray's
class and standard of ability, who
start on a tour in Spain, are of course
on the look-out for the picturesque,
and think it incumbent on them to
embody their experiences and obser-
vations in a book. Such narratives
are usually praiseworthy for good
• Th€ CUtei and Wilds of Andalusia, By the Honourable R. Dundas Murrat*
London: 1849,
706
feeling and gentlemanlr tone: and
indeed would be almost perfect, did
they combine with those qnalities the
eqnallj desirable ones of vigour and
originality. But doubtless we shall
do well to take them as they come,
and be thankful ; for it is not every
one who has fortitude and courage to
travel for any length of time in the
fiea-and-robber-ridden land of Spain.
And as we cannot expect to meet
every day with a Widdrington, a
Carnarvon, or a Ford, so we must
welcome a Murray when he presents
himself, look leniently npwn his repe-
titions, and be grateful if he occasion-
ally affords us a hint or a text. It is
perhaps a pity that Englishmen do
not more frequently turn their steps
towards the Peninsula, instead of per-
tinaciously pursuing the beaten tracks
of Italy, Switzerland, the Levant;
the furthest of which is now within
the leave-of-absence ramble of a de-
sultory guardsman or jaded journalist,
covetous of purer air than Fleet Street
or St James's afford. Spain, we can
assure all who arc rovingly inclined —
and Mr Murray, we are certain, will
corroborate our word — has at least as
much to interest as any of the above
regions, and much more than most of
them. And assuredly an influx of
British travellers would, by putting
piastres into the pockets of the abori-
gines, do more than anything else to-
wards improving roads, towards
cleansing ventas of the chinches and
other light cavalry, against whose
assaults Mr Murray was fain to cuirass
himself in a flannel bag, towards
ameliorating the Iberian cuisine,'and
diminishing the numbers and audacity
of the knights of the road. For, as
regards the last-named peril, greatly
increased by the dispersion of the re-
publican and Carlist bands, and by
the misery prevalent in the conntry,
Englishmen, if they have the reputa-
tion of travelling with well-filled
pockets and portmanteaus, have also
that of fighting stoutly in defence of
their property ; and if they would
make it a rule to travel two or three
together, with light purses, a sharp
look-out, and a revolver a-piece— or,
as Mr Murray and his companion did,
each with a double-barrel on his
shoulder — they might rest assured
there are not many bands otbn^ii^
Spain under Xarvaez and Ckrittma.
[Dec.
on Spanish roads bold enough to bid
them, in the classical phrase of those
gentry, " J5oca abojoP* which means,
freely interpreted, "Down in the
dust, and with the dust !^* But let the
traveller be on his gnard against a
surprise, and, to that end, avoid as
much as possible all night- travelling,
especially by diligence, which to
many may seem the safest, on account
of the society it insures, but which is
in reality the most dangerons mode of
journeying, for there the pusillanimous
hamper and impede the resistance
contemplated by the bold, and the
bravest man can do little when jammed
in amongst screaming women and
terrified priests, with a carbine point-
ing in at each window of the vehicle.
We find Mr Murray and his friend
riding unmolested through an ambns-
Oide where, a couple of hours later,
three caksas full of travellers, in-
cluding a colonel in the army, were
assail^ by no more than three high-
waymen, and deliberately and unre-
sistingly plundered. For the travel-
ler in Spain there is nothing like the
saddle, whether for safety, indepen-
dence, or comfort; and as to time,
why, if he is short of that, he had
better not visit the conntry, for there
all things go despado^ which means
not with despatch but leisurely, and
for one " to-day" he will get twenty
"to-morrows," and most of these
will never come. And, above all, let
him put no faith in the word police,
which, in Spain, is a mere figure of
speech, the thing it indicates never
appearing until it is not wanted ; and
let him not reckon on an escort,
which is rarely to be obtained even
by paying, and on roads notoriously
dangerous, except by tedions formal-
ity of application, to which few will
have patience to submit. And even
if granted, it usually, as in the case of
the calesas above cited, is either too
weak to be useful, or lags bdiind, or
fairly turns tail. To which pmdent
course it is more than suspected that
the faithless g^nards, who are mostly
pardoned robbers, are frequently sti-
mulated by promise of a share of the
spoil. Nor are they, if aU tales be
true, the only dass in Spain whose
duty it is to protect the pnblic, and
who foully betray their trust. Dnr-
\xi\^\.\A&\it«sASLt year of 1849, ciled as
1849.]
Spain under Narvaez and Christina,
707
80 prosperous a one in Spain, rob-
beries in the capital, and on the roads
within a radius of twenty leagues
around it, have been so numerous and
audacious, and perpetrated with such
impunity, that the finger of public
suspicion has pointed very high, and
the strangest tales — which to English
ears would sound incredible — have
been circulated of the collusion of per-
sonages whose rank and position
would, in any other country, preclude
the idea of participation, however
secret and indirect, in gains so lawless
and iniquitous. But in this, as in
many other matters peculiar to the
Peninsula, although the few may be
convinced, the many will always
doubt, and proof it is of course
scarcely possible to obtain. In so
extensive and thinly peopled a land
as Spain, and which has been so long
a prey to civil war and insurrection,
security of travelling in rural dis-
tricts, and on cross roads, is only to
be obtained by increased cultiva-
tion of the soil, and by improving the
condition of the peasantry. But in
the capital, and on the roads leading
to it, and in the to^ns and villages,
some degree of law and order might
be expected to prevail. A glance at
the Spanish papers, any time for the
last six months, proves the contrary
to be the case. Their columns are
filled with accounts of atrocious assas-
sinations and barefaced robberies in
the very streets of Madrid ; of dili-
gences stopped, and travellers plun-
dered and abused ; of farmers and
others carried off to the mountains in
open day, and detained until ran-
somed ; and with letters from all parts
of the country, complaining of the in-
security of life and property, and of
the sluggishness and inefliciency of
the authorities. Such statements are
of course rarely admitted into the
ministerial prints, to read which one
would imagine that the very last
malefactor in the country had just
fallen into the hands of the guardias
civHes^ and that a virgin might conduct
a gold-laden mule from Santander to
Cadiz, unguarded and unmolested.
Since the death of Ferdinand, no
such opportunity of improving and
regenerating Spain has been afforded
to a Spanish ministry, really solicitous
of their country's good, as during the
present year. It opened inauspiciously
enough ; with an impoverished exche-
quer, a ruinously expensive aimy,
Cabrera and ten thousand Carlists in
arms in eastern Spain, and with insur-
gent bands, of various political deno-
minations, springing up in Navarre
and other provinces. There was every
prospect of a bloody civil war in early
spring. But causes, similar to those
which, on former occasions, bad frus-
trated their efforts, again proved fatal
to the hopes of the Carlist party.
With great difficulty, and with little
aid beyond that of contributions levied
in Catalonia, Cabrera had subsisted
his troops through the winter. But,
when spring approached, money was
needed for other purposes besides
mere rations. In the civil wars of
Spain, gold has often been far more
efficacious than steel to overcome dif-
ficulties and gain a point. But gold
was hard to obtain. Revolutions had
raised its value ; and those who pos-
sessed it were loath to embark it in so
hazardous a speculation as the resto-
ration of Count Montemolin. This
prince, who, for a Spanish Bourbon,
is not deficient in natural ability, has
one unfortunate defect, which more
than counterbalances his good quali-
ties. Infirm of purpose, he is led by
a clique of selfish and unworthy ad-
visers, some of whom — evil counsel-
lors handed down to him by his
father — have retained all the influence
they acquired over him in his child-
hood. Amidst the petty wranglings
and deplorable indecisions of these
men, time wore away. A sum of
money (no very large one) was all
that was needed to achieve a great
object, which would at once have mul-
tiplied fifty-fold the prestige of the
Montemolinist cause, and have placed
vast resources at the disposal of its
partisans. Between the sum required
and the advantage certain to be ob-
tained, the disproportion wajs enor-
mous. I-.etter after letter was re-
ceived from Cabrera and other pro-
moters of the Montemolinist cause
in France and Spain, urging and im-
ploring that, at any sacrifice, the
money should be procured. But this
was beyond the power of the incapable
ojalcUeros who surrounded the young
pretender. Without conduct, energy,
or dignity, tUe^ \i«jiTkSA.^«iSi!^^^2?sa*-
708
Spain under Narvaez and CAritHma,
[De&
Htj calculated toobtain credit orindnce
confidence. In all tbeir attempts they
ipiserablj failed. At last, towards
the end of March, a mmonr was spread
abroad that Connt Montemolin was
on his way to Catalonia, to head his
faithfol adherents. Soon this was
eonfinned by newspaper paragraphs,
and presently came a romantic account
of his arrest on the fix>ntier, when
about to enter Spain. The next news
was that of his return to England,
which was almost immediately fol-
lowed by an article in a London paper,
denying point-blank that he had ever
left this country, declaring that the
journey was a hoax, and that the
Spanish prince had been arrested by
proxy. And although this article,
which was extensively copied by the
press of England and the Continent,
elicited an angry contradiction from
a hanger-on of Count Montemolin,
yet many persons, of those most versed
in the intricacies of Spanish intrigue,
were convinced that its statements
were founded on fact, and that the
Count was in reality secreted in Lon-
don at the very time he was supposed
to be travelling towards the Pyrenees.
And some of his own partisans, who
credited the reality of the journey, de-
clared theur conviction from the first
to have been, that he would be be-
trayed before he got through France,
fiince by that means only could certain
individuals, who dared not refuse to
accompany him, hope to return to
the flesh-pots and security of their
London home, . and to avoid encoun-
tering the perils and hardships of
mountain warfare. The abortive
journey or clumsy hoax, whichever
it was, gave the finishing stroke
to the Catalonian insurrection. Ca-
brera, seeing plainly that nothing was
to be hoped from the feeble and
pusillanimous junta of advisers who
swayed and bewildered Count Mon-
temolin by their intrigues and dis-
sensions, found it necessary, after
sending repeated and indignant letters
and messages to London, to abandon
a contest which it was impossible for
him to maintain single-handed, and
from which many subordinate chiefs,
and a large portion of his troops, had
already seceded. His little army fell
to pieces, and he himself fell into the
liands of the French anthorities, by
whom, after a brief detention, he waa
allowed to go at large. The game
was now good for General Concha and
his fifty thousand men. The scatter*
ing and hunting down of the broken
bands of insurgents was exactly the
sort of amusement they liked ; a fine
pretext for magnificent bulletina, and
the easiest possible way of gaining
praise, honours, and decorations. Be-
fore summer came, Catalonia was
quiet The most vigorous effort made
by the Cariists sinoe the Conventkn
of Bergara ; the one offering the best
chances of success, and on which the
very last resources of the party,
(even, it is said, to a few jew^ and
pictures of price— the last relioB of
princely splendour,) had been ex-
pended ; the effort, in short, of whose
happy issue such sanguine expecta-
tions were entertained, that some of
the leading adherents of the caose de-
clared that, " if they failed this time^
they deserved never to snceeed,'^ had
terminated in complete abortion. On
the sierras of Spain not a Cariiat
cockade was to be seen ; in the coffem
of the party not a dollar remained.
Many of its most valued members,
disgusted by the weakness of their
prince, and by the baseness cf hisoonn-
cillors, withdrew from its ranks, and
made their peace with the existing
government. And now the most
steadfast well-wishers of Count Mon-
temolin are compelled to admit, that
few contingencies are less probaUe
than his installation on Uie SpaDiih
throne.
Delivered from the dlsqnietade and
expense of civil war, backed by an
overwhelming majority in the Cham-
bers, and having no longer anything
to fear from that *^ English influence,"
of which the organs of Christina and
Louis Philippe had made such a bug-
bear, the Spanish government, it waa
expected, would deem the moment
favourable for those reforms so greatly
needed by the country. It was fidl
time, and it was now quite practicable,
to adopt ext^uive and systematic
measures of retrenchment in the
various departments of the adnunis-
tration ; to reduce the army; to regu-
larise and lessen the expense of col-
lecting the revenue, which, like a crop
intrusted to negligent and dishonest
Twpers^ is wasted and pillaged in the
1849.]
Spam under Narvatz and Christina.
709
gathering ; to encourage labour and
iudnstry ; to stimulate private enter-
prise, to which the tranquillity of
Spain was sure to give a first impetus;
to enoonrage and co-operate in the
formation of roads and canals, so
essential to agriculture, which there
languishes for want of tbem ; to give
a death-blow to smuggling by an
honest and sweeping reform of the
absurd tariff ; and, if they could not
give money to the public creditor, at
least to come to a loyal understanding
and arrangement with him, instead of
vexatiously deluding him with fair
promises, never kept. Instead of at
once, and in good faith, setting about
these, and many other equally requi-
site reforms, in whose prosecution
they would have been supported
by a large number of their present
political opponents j instead of riveting
their attention on the internal mala-
dies and necessities of the country,
and striving strenuously for their cure,
— turning a deaf ear to the clamorous
voices abroad in Europe, and thank-
ing heaven that the position and
weakness of their country allowed her
to stand aloof from the struggles of
her neighbours — what did the Spanish
government? They acted like a
needy spendthrift who, having sud-
denly come into possession of a little
gold, fancies himself a Croesus, and
squanders it in luxurious superfluities.
They had come into possession of a
little tranquillity — in Spain a treasure
far rarer and more precious than
gold — and, instead of using it for
their necessities, they lavished it
abroad. Aping wealthy and power-
ful nations, they aspire to interfere in
the domestic affairs of others, before
thinking of putting their own house
in order. Rome is to be the scene of
their exploits, religion their pretext,
the Pope the gainer by their exertions.
From their eagerness in the crusade,
it might be supposed that Rome and
the pontiff had some great and peculiar
claim on the gratitude and exertions
of Spain; with which country, on the
contrary, ever since the death of Ferdi-
nand of petticoat- making memory, un-
til quite recently, they have been on the
worst possible terms— the Holy See
having openly supported the cause of
Don Carlos, refosed the recognition of
Isabella, and the investiture of the
prelates she appomted, and played a
variety of unfriendly pranks, of no
material consequence, but yet exceed-
ingly painful and galling to the
bigoted portion of the nation, who
considered their chances of salvation
not a little compromised, so long as
their government was thus in evil
odour and non- communication with
the head of the Church. Altogether,
the attitude assumed by Rome to-
wards Spain, since 1833, was most
detrimental to Queen Isabella, because
it sent a vast number of priests (al-
ways active and influential partisans)
to the side of the Pretender. Con-
sidering these curcumstances, when
Rome at last, at its own good time,
and in consideration of concessions,
and also because it suffered pecuniarily
by the duration of the rupture, again
took Spam into favour, and acknow-
ledged her queen as Most Catholic,
Spain, in her impoverished condition,
would surely have sufhcientiy re-
sponded by her best wishes for the pros-
perity of the Pope, and for the safety of
his pontifical throne. She might also,
if it was desired, have sent that poeti-
cal statesman, M. Martinez de la Rosa,
to display his eloquence in Italian
counsels. But Spanish pride, the
bigotry of the queen-mother and her
son-in-law, the fanaticism of some,
and the hypocrisy of others, could
not be contented with this. Pinched,
starved, indebted, as Spain is, nothing
would serve but to despatch to Italy,
at heavy cost, a useless corps darmee.
Little enough has it achieved. The
troops have got a bad name by their
excesses, and the generals have been
treated slightingly, almost contemp-
tuously, by the French commanders,
who, doubtless, at sight of the half-
disciplined Dons, felt old animosities
revive, and thought how much they
should prefer a trip to the Trocadero
to this inglorious and unprofitable
Italian campaign. To console Ge-
neral Cordova and his staff, however,
for the necessity of playing second
fiddle to the French, they have been
praised, and caressed, and decorated
by his Holmess, and by that enlight-
ened monarch, Ferdinand of Naples ;
and they have been allowed to send
an aide-de-camp to Barcelona for
three nice little Spanish imiforms,
which they are to have the honour of
prescntiDgto three nice little Neapoli-
taQ princes. Whilst this popinjay
genend and his men-at-arms idle their
time, and spend their paj, in Italian
quarters, the Moors besiege'and can-
nonade the Spanish possessions in
Africa, within sight of the Andalnsian
coast, whence not a soldier is sent to
the assistance of the beleaguered gar-
risons. A most characteristic sample
of '* things of Spain." In this country
we are blind to the propriety of leav-
ing your own bam to be pulled down,
whilst you build up your neighbour's
mansion. And, to our matter-of-fact
comprehension, it seems dishonest
to waste money in a frivolous for-
eign expedition, when starving credi-
tors are knocking at the door. But
we are a shop- keeping people, and it
is folly to subject Spanish chivalry to
the gauge of such grovelling, mer-
cantile ideas.
Notwithstanding the draft of troops
to Italy, the Spanish government has
ventured to decree an extensive reduc-
tion in the army. In view of the penury
of the exchequer, of the total suppres-
sion of the Carlist insurrection, and
of the small probability of any fresh out-
break in a country worn out as Spain
is by civil wars and commotions, they
could not, in common decency, avoid
some such economical measure. So a
third of the army has been formed
into a reserve, which means that
the officers retain their full pay — with
the exception of those who volun-
tarily exchange from the active army
into the reserve, thereby putting
themselves on half-pay— and that the
sergeants and privates, with the ex-
ception of a skeleton staff, return to
their homes, and no longer receive
pay or rations ; but ai*e to hold them-
selves in readiness, until the regtUar ex-
piration of their term of service, to join
their colours when required. From this
measure the government anticipates a
great saving, and their partisans hint a
million sterling as its probable amount.
But it is a peculiarity of Spanish admi-
nistration that the real economy of a
change of this kind can never be as-
certained, even approximatively, until
it has been for some time in force.
By a strange fatality, the most brilliant
theoretical retrenchments crumble into
dust when reduced to practice. This
lias been so repeatedly the cage in Spain^
Spain under Narvaez and Christina.
[Dec.
that we receive such annonncements
with natural distrust. In this in-
stance, however, it is impossible to
doubt that there will be a considerable
saving, although far less than would at
first sight be expected from the reduc-
tion, by nearly one- third, of an army of
120,000 men. The reduction will dc
facto be confined to the soldiers and non-
commissioned officers; for, Lalf-pay in
Spain being a wretched pittance, and
usually many months in arrear, few
officei*sare likely to avail themselves of
the option afforded them. With refe-
rence to this subject, we shall quote an
extract from a Madrid newspaper,
a strenuous opponent of the present
government, but whose statistics we
have never found otherwise than trust-
worthy ; and which, in this case,
would hardly venture to mis-state
facts so easy of investigation. " Calcu-
lating," says the Clamar Publico of the
30th October 1849, " that the reduc-
tion in the active army amounts to
40,000 men, there still remain 80,000,
too great a number for a nation which
yields no more than 90,000 electors of
deputies to the Cortes ; besides which
tliere should aJso be reductions in the
staff. In Spain there is a general for
every four hundred soldiers — [we be-
lieve the Clamorlo be mistaken^ and the
proportions of generals to be even hurger
than here stated ;] and although we do
not possess any great magazines of
clothing, arms, ammunition and other
military stores, our army is yet the
dearest of the whole European con-
tinent, as is proved by the following
statement. [A statement follows of
the annual cost of a soldier in the
principal Continental services, showing
the Spanish soldier to be tht most
expensive of all.] From all which
we infer that the economy decreed is
by no means that requireaby the con-
dition of the treasury, and permitted
by our present state of profound peace,
llie Spanish nation cannot maintain
the immense army with which it is
burdened. Retain, by all meaoSf
the artillery, the engineers, the staff-
corps, and the other elements of war
which cannot be created at brief
notice. Keep up, on fnll pay, the
framework of officers necessary to
form, at two months* notice, an army
of one hundred thousand men on a war
establishment^ whenever it may be
1849.]
Spain under Narvatz and Christina,
necessary; but, whilst wo are at peace,
restore to agriculture and the arts a
portion of the men now employed in
carrying arms." Under the regency
of Espartero, the Spanish army was
reduced to 50,000 men, and that when
the country was far less tranquil
than at present, when a Moderado
junta was plotting, at Pai'is, the
downfall of the government, and
Christina and Louis Philippe fur-
nished abundant means of corruption.
Then such an army was too small ;
now it might well be deemed ample
for a country that at most contains
thirteen or fourteen millions of inha-
bitants, with few fortresses to garri-
son, few large towns in which to
guard against insurrection, and, above
all, with a population that would evi-
dently rather submit to misgovern-
ment than plunge again into war.
From external foes Spain has nothing
to fear ; and, even if she had, we are
by no means sm*e that, paradoxical
as it may seem, a reduction in her
army would not be one of the best
means of guarding against them. For
retrenchments that would enable her
to acquit herself, at least in part, to-
wards her foreign creditora, would
assuredly procure her, in the hour of
need. Mends and allies far more effi-
cient in her defence than her own
armies could possibly be. For how-
ever prone the Spaniai'ds as a
people are to exaggerate their power
and means of self-defence, it must
surely be patent to the sensible por-
tion of the nation that, in case of ag-
gression from without, they must look
for aid to France or England. And
although it will doubtless confirm the
opinion of Spanish Moderados and
French Orleanists as to the invariably
mercenary motives of Great Britain,
we will not conceal our conviction
that the readiness of this country to
succour Spain would be much greater
if she were paying her debt to English
bondholders, than if she were still inher
pi*esen t state of disreputable insolvency.
At least we are quite certain that
"the pressure from without" would
be materially influenced by such a
consideration. And this reflection
naturally leads us to ask in what
711
position Spain would have found her-
self, had the projected expedition from
the United States against Cuba taken
place and succeeded. The danger
appears at an end for the present;
but it may recur, under the rule of an
American president who will not in-
terfere to prevent the piratical enter-
prise. As to its chances of success,
we find some striking facts whereon
to base an opinion, in a recently
published book on Cuba, the work of
an intelligent and practical man, on
whose statements and opinions we are
disposed to set a high value.* From
MrMadden*s evidence it is quite plain
that the Spanish colonial government
is admirably calculated to excite a
desire of independence, or, failing
that, of annexation to America, in the
breasts of the people of the Havana ;
and what is more, that it has already
done so, and that a body of liberators
from the States might confidently
reckon on being received with open
arms by a very considerable fraction
of the inhabitants. When the mother
countr}' is deplorably misniled, it is not
to be expected that the dependencies
should be models of good government.
"In 1812," says Mr Madden, "the
coustilutiou being proclaimed in Spain,
the whole people of the colonies were
assimilated to the inhabitants of the mo-
ther country, with respect to representa-
tion In 1818, the good eflfects of
colonial representation were manifested
in the successful efforts of Senor Arango
with the king, Ferdinand VII., for Cuban
interests. He obtained a royal ordinance
from his majesty for the abolition of re-
strictions on Cuban commerce. From this
epoch, the prosperity of the island may
be dated. Instead of being a charge to
the imperial government, it began to re-
mit large sums of money yearly to Spain;
instead of having authorities and troops
paid by the latter, both were henceforth
paid by Cuba. An army of 26,000 men,
sent from Spain in a miserable plight,
was maintained in Cuba, in a few years
entirely equipped and clothed, and dis-
ciplined in the best manner, without cost-
ing a real to the Spanish goyernment.
From 1830, the treasury of the Havana,
in every embarrassment of the home
government, furnished Spain with means,
and was, in fact, a reserved fund for all
its pressing emergencies. When the civil
♦ The lUand of Cuba : itt Rttourcn, Progrest, and Protpects. By R. R. Madden,
iff. R.I. A. London: 1849.
712
Spain under Narvaez and Cirittma.
[DecL
list failed Qaeen Christina, Caba furnished
the means of defraying the profuse expen-
diture of the palaee. The contributions
arising from the island formed no small
portion, indeed, of the riches bequeathed
by Ferdinand VII. to his rapacious widow,
and to his reputed daughters."
In 1841, the same writer says, Cuba
yielded a net revenue to Spain of a
million and a quarter sterling, for-
nished timber and stores largely forthe
Spanish navy, and entirely supported
the Spanish army in Cuba. From
the amount here stated, deductions
bad to be made, or else the revenue
has diminished since that date ; for Mr
Madden subsequently sums up by say-
ing, that "Cuba produces a revenue of
from ten to fifteen millions of dollars ;
of this amount, upwards of three mil-
lions (£600,000 sterling) are remitted
to Madrid ; and these three millions of
taxes are paid by a class not exceed-
ing four hundred thousand inhabitants,
of free persons of all complexions."
A Spanish writer estimates the reve-
nue, in 1839, at eleven millions of dol-
lars ;* and an English one, who had
good opportunities of obtaining infor-
mation, although he is sometimes ra-
ther loose in his statements, declared,
six years later, that " Cuba contri-
butes fiflymillionsof reals, or £500,000
sterling, of clear annual revenue to
the Spanish crown." t From this con-
current testimony, the sum annually
pocketed by the mother country may
be estimated at £500,000 to £600,000
sterling; an important item in the
receipts of the Madrid government
— more so, even, from its liqnid and
available nature, than from its amount.
Moreover the revenues of Cuba, like
the mines of Almaden, are a ready
resource as security for a loan. But
how has Spain requited the services
of her richest colony? Of course
with gross ingratitude. Strange to
say, the equality of rights sanctioned
by the despotic Ferdinand was arbi-
trarily wrenched from Cuba by the
liberal government that succeeded
him.
^The new Spanish constitution shut
out the colonists from the imperial repre-
sentation. This most unjust, impolitici
and irritating measure affords a fair spe-
cimen of the liberality and wisdom of
Spanish liberalism. It produoed a feel-
ing of hatred a^nst the mother country
that never before existed in Cuba. In
1836-7-8-9^ [years passed by Mr Mad-
den in the Havana,] a general feeling
of disaffection pervaded the whole white
Creole community of Cuba. All the intel-
ligence, education, worth, and influence
of the white natives of the island (or
Creoles, as they are there called) was
enlisted against the govemment and the
sovereign of Spain, and an intense desirs
for independence excited. The old rapa-
cious policy ^of Spain was renewed, <^
considering every species of Cuban pro-
duce as a commodity of a distant region,
that it was legitimate to burden with
oppressive taxes." i^
Now, it appears that by one of those
strange absurdities which arc of no
unfrequent occurrence in Spanish go-
vernments, American settlers in Cuba
have been, and still are, exempt
from a variety of personal contribu-
tions and other imposts, which the
natives have to pay. The laws of the
island forbid the establishment of
foreigners in Cuba; and though the
settlement of Americans has been
connived at, out of respect to the laws
the settlers were supposed, by a curi-
ous fiction, not to exist. B!ence the
exemption.
''This immunity," says Mr Madden,
(p. 83,) '* drew great numben of settlers
to Cid}a, from the Southern States of
America; so that some districts on the
northern shores of the island, in the vici-
nity, especially, of Cardenas and Matan-
zas, have more the character of American
than Spanish settlements. The prosperity
of the island has derived no small advan-
tage fh>m those numerous American esta-
blishments. Improved modes of agricul-
ture, of fabrication, of conveyance, were
introduced by the Americans. Several
railways have been made. In the course
of ten years, no less than ten have been
carried into effect. At the opening of the
first, from Havana to Guinea, in 1837,1
was present. To American enterprise
and energy solely, I have reason to know,
this great undertaking was indebted. The
loan for it was made in England; bnt the
projectors, the share-jobbers, the engineer,
and the overseers, were Americana. . . .
Cuba, ever since I knew it, haa been
slowly bnt steadily becoming Ameriean-
* Marluki, ii. 472.
+ HuoH£8' Retd<UioHi of Spain, iL 383.
t The Island of Cuba, pp. 55-6.
1849.]
Spam under Narvaez and C7tri8iina.
713
ised. I pestered my snperion with my
opinions on this subject in 1836-7-8-9.
' LiberaTi animam meam' might be fairly
said by me, if the star-spangled banner
were floating to-morrow on the Moro
Castle^ or flaunting in the breeze at St
lago de Cuba. In the course of seven
years a feeling, strongly preralent in the
colony, in favour of independence, has
been changed into a desire for connexion
with the United States. It is needless
for recent political writers on Cuba to
deny the existence of a strong feeling of
animosity to the mother country, and a
longing desire for separation. From my
own intimate knowledge of these facts, I
speak of their existence. If England
could have been induced, in 1837, to gua-
rantee the island of Cuba from the inter-
vention of any foreign power, the white
inhabitants were prepared to throw off*
the Spanish yoke. There was then a
Spanish army nominally of twenty thou^
sand men in the island, but the actual
number of native Spaniards in it did not
exceed sixteen thousand. The leading
men of the Creoles had then little appre-
hensions of the result of an effort for in-
dependence. A liberal allotment of land
in the island, for the soldiers who might
be disposed to join the independent party,
was a prospect, it was expected, which
would suffice to gain over the army. . . .
It is not to England, now, that the white
natives of Cuba look for aid or counte-
nance in any future effort for independ-
ence. It is to America that they now
turn their eyes; and America takes good
care to respond to the wishes that are
secretly expressed in those regards."
These are the opiDions of a man
several years resident in Cuba, evi-
dently a shrewd observer, and who
can hardly be suspected of misrepre-
sentation on this head; and we do
not hesitate to place confidence in
them in preference to the rose-tinted
accounts of the Madrid Heraldo, and
other official prints, according to
which the present happiness, pros-
perity, and loyalty of the Havaneros
are such as were never surpassed in
the annals of colonies. Mr Madden,
we have seen, is of opinion that the
Creoles and resident Americans, if
guaranteed from foreign intervention,
are of themselves a match for Spain,
and could throw off her yoke and defy
her efforts to reimpose it. What,
then, would be the state of affairs, if
three or four thousand Yankee volun-
teers, who, by themselves, we suspect,
could give occupation to all the dis-
posable part of the sixteen thousand
Spaniards in garrison, were suddenly
to drop upon the Cuban shore, by
preconcerted arrangement with the
disaffected? In 1849 this has been
within an ace of occurring; in a future
year, not very remote, it may actually
occur. What would Spain do, when
news were brought her that the red-
and-yellow banner was replaced by
the speckled bunting of the States?
Would she declare war against Ameri-
ca, on the strength of the war-
steamers she has been lately building^
with her creditors' money? Brother
Jonathan, we suspect, would mightily
chuckle at the notion, and immediately
seize Puerto Rico, and perhaps make
a dash at the Philippines. But the
Spanish government, loud as they can<
bluster when sure of impunity, would
hardly render themselves so ridicu-
lous. No; in the hour of their dis-
tress they would piteously look abroad
for succour, and turn their discomfited
countenance to the old ally to whom,,
in their brief day of seeming pros-
perity, they forgot their numerous
obligations. It is our belief their ap-
peal would not be made in vain. But
although this country, being great and
powerful, could afford to forget its
cause of complaint — as a man over-
looks the petulance of a froward child
— it would be right and fitting that
an amende honorahie should previously
be exacted from Spain, and that
humiliation should be infiictcd on her
arrogant government, for an insult
which, let them mis-state the circum-
stances as they like, was far from justi-
fied by the alleged provocation. And
moreover, before a move was made,
or a note transmitted by the British
government on behalf of Spain- robbed-
of-its-Cuba, a solid guarantee should
unquestionably be exacted for an
equitable and speedy adjustment of
the claims of the ill-used holders of
Spanish bonds.
These gentlemen, roused at last by
a long series of neglect and broken
promises to depart from the suaviter
in modo, and to substitute an energetic
remonstrance for the honeyed and
complimentary epistles they have been
wont to address to the president of
the Spanish council, are raising a fund
to be employed in the advocacy of
their claims by an agent in Madrid.
Spam umder Narvatx ami Ckrutiaa.
714
Although the gndud progress of the
sabscription does not bespeak the
fond-holders very sangnine in their
hopes, they may rest assured that this
is a step in the right direction . Their
only hope is in agitation— in keeping
their jnst and shamefully-neglected
claims before the worid, and in snch a
conjunction of circumstances as may
enable the cabinet of St James's to
put on the screir, and compel the
Spanish goTcmment to be honest.
Aj5 to an appeal to arms, however it
might be justified in equity, and by
references to Yatel and other great
authorities, it would hardly be con-
sonant with prudence, or with the
spirit of the times: but other means
may be devised ; and in the event of
a European war, we can imagine more
than one circumstance in which, as in
the case of the seizure of Cuba by
America, Spain would be too happy
to subscribe to the just conditions thu
country might impose for the settle-
ment of Eufflish claims. But there is
danger in delay ; and if we are un-
willing to believe that Spain is, in the
words of one who knows her well,
'^irremediably insolvent,"* there is
no doubt she must speedily become
so, unless some radical change takes
place in the views and system of her
rulers. What she needs is an honest
government, composed of men who
will make their own advantage sub-
servient to their countiy*s weaL '* My
firm conviction," says Marliani, '^ is,
that when the day comes that men of
heart and head sbali seize, with a firm
grasp, the rudder of this vessel now
abandoned to the uncertain move-
ment of the political waves, they will
take her into port. ^>ain is in the
best possible position to make a giant's
stride in the path of prosperity. She
offers to the foreigner a thousand
honourable and profitable specula-
tions; the application of capital to
public works, to agriculture, to mines,
will be an inexhaustible source of
profit." t When M. Martiani wrote
this, capitalists were more prone to
embark their money in distant specu-
lations than at the present day. Bot
still the principle holds good; and
there can be no question in the minds
[Dec
of any who have stodied Spain, that
an honest and moderately aUe govern-
ment is all that is wanted to devdop
her vast resonrces, and enable her to
come to an honourable oompromtse
with her creditors, who, there can be
little doubt, wonld show themsdres
accommodating, if they saw evidence
of a desire to pay, and had 8(»ne cer-
tainty that, when they had accepted
an arrangement advantageoos to
Spain, It wonld not be In^en in a
few months, leaving tbem in worse
plight than before. How this has been
repeatedly done was lately deariy
exhibited in a letter addre^ed by a
Spanish bondholder to the^ Timay of
which we here quote a portion: —
''Between 1820 uid 1831, Spun eon-
tracted loans as follows, [detail girea],
to the amount of 157,244,210 doUan.
And on no portion of these loans does
Spain now pay interest. In 1834 theze
was owing, in interest npmi those kens,
49,541,352 dollars ; and the Spuish go-
vernment then offered, at a meeting of
bondholders, held at the City of London
TaTom, to give for all thoee loans, and the
interest upon them, new stock, on the
following terms : — A new netiTe five per
cent 8to^, npon which the interest Bhonld
be alwnys punctually paid, for two-thirds
of the capital ; a new paMire stock for
the remaining third ; nnd a defienred itock
for the OTordne interest^ on condition thai
they had a new loan of £4,000^000 ster
ling. These terms were agreed to, sad
the oonTcrsion took place; and there were
iBSaed in exchange for the old loans and
OTerdae inUrest, £33,322,890 fire per
cent actire stock; £12,696,450 pasaTe
stock; and £13,215,672 deferred stock.
These are the stocks now in the market,
in addition to the £4,000,000 loan then
granted. In two years after this trur
saetion, the Spanish goTcmment stopped
payment again, and left the bondholdeis
in the same situation, with one-third of
their capital cancelled, or made paeare
stock, which bears no eoopons, and is,
consequently, not entitled to claim in>
terest. In 1841, the Spanish gorem-
ment paid the actire bondholders four
years' interest; i.e., from 1836 to 1840,
in a three per cent stock, instead of cash,
and which produced the holders abont
fonr shillings in the pound ; (this it the
three per cent stock now in the English
maricet, on which the interest is paid.)**^
It is not very easy to get at infor-
* Ford's GatXerings from Spain.
t HUloire PolUigut de VE^xtgne Modems^ iL 424.
t City article of the Timet, September 14, 1849.
1849.]
Spain under Narvaez and Christina,
715
mation aboat the amoant of Spanish
debts, accumulated dividends, and so
forth ; bnt the above Incid statement
of the liabilities to foreign creditors,
combined with the testimony of other
anthonties before ns, leads to an ag-
gregate estimate of the whole debt,
external and internal, at upwards of
one hundred and twenty millions ster-
ling,— probably at the present time
nearly or quite one hundred and
thirty millions, unpaid interest being
added. Without entering into the
intricate complications of the ques-
tion, we shall not be very wide of the
mark in asserting, that less than three
millions sterling per annum, in the
shape of dividends, would constitute
an arrangement surpassing the wildest
dreams in which, for a long time past,
sane bondholders can possibly have
indulged ; in fact that, considering the
amount of passive stock, and the con-
cessions that would willingly be made,
it would pay what would pass muster
as the full dividends. An enormous
sum for Spain — will be the remark of
many. We beg to differ from this
opinion. An enoimous sum, certain-
ly, for a dishonest Spanish govern-
ment. Charity begins at homo in
Spain as much as anywhere; and if
people squander their cash in paying
creditors, how shall they enjoy their
little comforts and luxuries, and make
up a purse for a rainy day ? How
shall the royal family of a poor and
insolvent kingdom have a civil list of
half a million sterling, besides crown
property and appanages to Infantes?
— ^how shall Queen Christina and her
nncle, the ex-king of the French, be
repaid the sums they lavished to oust
Espartero, and to bring about the in-
famous Spanish marriages ? — how
shall the same illustrious lady make
her investments in foreign funds, and
add to her hoard of jewellery, already,
it is said, the most valuable in
Europe? — ^how shidl Duke Mnfloz
play at bulls and bears on the Bolsa,
and give millions of francs for French
salt-works? — how shall the Spanish
ministers, men sprung from nothing,
and who the other day were penniless,
maintain a sumptuous state and realise
princely fortunes ? — how, finally, shall
the government exercise such influence
at elections as to reduce the numerous
and powerful party opposed to them
in the country to utter numerical in-
significance in the legislative assembl}^
and to fill every municipal office with
their own creatures and adherents?
It is a very singular fact that, al-
though for many years past the reve-
nue of Spain has been steadily increas-
ing, the annual deficit always conti-
nues about the same. Thus much can
be discerned even through the habitual
exaggerations and hocus-pocus of
Spanish financial statements. M.
Mendizabal, in his budget for 1837, (in
the very heat and fury of the Carlist
war,^ showed a deficiency of seven
millions sterling, the revenue then
being about £8,700,000 sterling. In
1840, the minister of finance stated
the deficit at £6,800,000 sterling, the
revenue having then risen to upwards
of ten millions.* And since then the
deficiency has averaged about five
millions sterling ; and even now, that
Spain is declared so prosperous, will
^ot be rightly stated at a much lower
figure, although fiuance ministers resort
to the most ingenious devices to prove
it much less. But if it is so trifiing as
they would have us believe, why do
they not pay their dividends ? Forced
loans, anticipated imposts, unpaid
pensions, and shabby shifts of every
kind, show us how far we are to credit
their balance-sheets. One financier —
that very slippery person, Seflor Car-
rasco — actually showed a surplus —
upon paper. " The present revenue,"
wrote Mr Ford in 1846, " may be
taken at about twelve or thirteen mil-
lions sterling. Bnt money is compared
by Spaniards to oil—a little wiU stick to
the fingers of those who measure it
out ; and such is the robbing and job-
bing, the official mystification and
peculation, that it is difficult to get at
facts when cash is in question." The
sum stated, however, is about the
mai'k, and bears out Lord Clarendon^s
often-quoted declaration in the House
of Lords, that the Spanish revenue is
one-half greater than it was ever be-
fore known to be. Few men have had
better opportunities than Lord Claren-
don of acquiring information on the
affaurs of Spain ; and his well-known
friendly feeling towards her present
Maruaki, ti., 430 and 471.
716
Spam %mder Karvatu and
[Dec.
rulers precladea the saspidoii of his
giving a higher colouriDg than the
strictest troth demands to any state-
ment likely to be prejudicial or un-
pleasant to them. It is a fact that the
revenue is still upon the increase ; and
it has augmented, in the last fifteen,
years, by more than one-half, for
in 1835 it was bat seven hundred
and fifty-nine millions of reals, or, in
round numbers, £7, 600,000sterling. It
certainly seems strange that, with an
increase of revenue of at least four
millionii, the decrease of deficit should
barely amount to two, although the
country, at the former period, was
plunged in a most expensive war, and
had an enormous army on foot ; the
estimate for the war department alone,
for 1 837 — according to Mr Mendizabal's
budget already quoted, presented to
the Cortes — being upwards of seven
and a-half millions sterling, or within
one miUi'on of the total amount ofesti-
maUd revenue. Thus we see that Spain
presents the curious phenomenon of an
expenditure augmenting in proportion
as the revenue increases. In most
countries the puzzle is the other way;
and how to force the revenue up to the
expenditure, is the knotty point with
statesmen. The most benevolent can
hardly help suspecting that some foul
play is at the bottom of this augmenta-
tive propensity of Spanish financial
outgoings. But Spain is par excel-
lence the country of itching palms;
and in view of the statements wo
have here made, and which defy refu-
tation, most persons will probably
agree with a writer ahready cited, when
he says that, ^^ with common sense
and common honesty, much might be
done towards releasing Spain from her
financial embarrassments. Perhape
it is not too much to say, that a vigor-
ous government, capable of enforcing
taxation, might, with integrity and
energy, and a forgetfulness of selfish
gains, pro\ide for the interest of every
portion of her debt, and, in the
end, pay oflf the principal. . . .
If Spanish finance ministers, and the
capitalists and sharpers by whom
they are surrounded, could bring
themselves to think of their own for-
tunes less and of the nation's more,
we should hear very little of new fo-
reign loans. A virtnoos native efibrt
is wanted; themselves must strike
the blow I All goyemments are bound
to support theur several departments,
and obtain a sufficient revenue ; and
the administration of Mon and Nsr-
vaez has not the excuse of want of
power."* This is the language uni-
versally held by all persona acquaint-
ed, finom actual observa^n, with the
extent and abuse of Spam's resources.
The taxes in Spain are exceedingly
light in proportion to the population,
but they are unfairly distributed, and
most iniquitously collected — ^the state
paying an enormous percentage on
most of them, and being bendes
scandalously robbed by olficiala of
every gprade. But the inequality of
taxation in Spain, which presses (by
the threefold means of direct impost,
excise, and exorbitant import duties
upon manufactures) especially on the
peasant and agricnltnrist— crushing
the very nerve and right arm of Spa-
ni^ prosperity— brings ns to the coo-
sideration of a recent measure, firom
which much good has been predicted,
and from wUch, as we trust and be-
lieve, advantage will ultimately be ob-
tained.
An ably condncted French perio-
dical, which acquired oonsiderabie
weight under Louis Philippe, firom the
circumstance that its closing artxde
expressed, ever^ fifteen days, the
views and opinions of the govern-
ment, and which, since it ceased to be
official, has shown a strong Orieanist
leaning, put forth in a recent num-
ber a glowing statement of the im-
mense advantages to be derived by
Spain firom the newly promnlgated
tarififbilLt Prepared by a pfevious
artido in the same review, which had
taken for its base, and accepted as in-
controvertible, a tissue of seomlons
and mendacious statements strung
together by a Salamanqnino doctor,
and notoriously instigated by a ^>a-
nii^ minister and ambassador, with
reference to the suspension of relations
between England imd Spain^ we wers
no way surprised to find, in the dis-
cussion of the internal situation tji the
latter conntry, implicit reUasoe placed
• BertlatioM of Spain, 365-6.
t Rtxiw da Dwx M^mdct, V« AoOit 1849.
1849.]
Spain under Narvaez and CkrMna.
717
on the fignres and assamptions of
Spanish financiers, and a most ncHee
conviction that their showy theories
and projects wonld be honestly and
effectually pat in practice. Under
the ingenions ono-sidedness and appa-
rent good faith of the writer, it was
not £fflcnlt to discern an inspiration
derived from Claremont or the Hotel
Sotomayor. The object of the article
was to prove that Spain, relieved from
the incubus of English influence, and
blessed with an enlightened and ho-
nest government, is rapidly emerging
from her political, sociaJ, and financial
difficulties ; nay, that this astound-
ing progress is half accomplished, and
that the despised land has already
risen many cubits in the European
scale. "We ask," says the writer,
after summing up at great length the
benefits conferred on Spain by the
Narvaez cabinet — benefits which, for
the most part, have got no further
than their project upon paper — " We
ask, is not Spain sufficiently revenged
for thirty years of disdain ? Would
not this job of the nations have a
right, in its turn, to drop insult upon
the bloody dunghill whereon display
themselves these haughty civilisations
of yesterday's date ? " Having given
this brief specimen of style, we will
now confine ourselves to figures,
for most of which the writer in the
Revue appears to be indebted to Mr
Mon. The result of his very plau-
sible calculations is an immediate
annual benefit of thirty-four million
francs to the consumers of foreign
manufactures, ninety-two millions to
the country at large, in the shape of
increased production, and a clear gain
of sixty- three millions to the public
treasury. We heartily desire, for the
sake both of Spain and of her credi-
tors, that this glorious prospect may
be realised. If this is to be the result
of what the Revue des Deux Mondes
admits to be but a timid step from the
prohibitive to the protective system,
what prosperity may not be prophe-
sied to Spain from further progress in
the same path ? Nor are these a tithe
of the benefits foretold, and which
we refuse ourselves the pleasure
of citing, in order to make room for
a few remarks as to the probable
realisation of those aU'eady referred
to. And first, we repeat our previoos
assertion, that in Spain the real bene-
fit of such a measure as the new tariff
can never be rightly estimated till
the law has been for some time in
force. There is so much tampering
and corruption in such cases, so many
interests and persons must be satisfied
and get their shai*e of the gain,
that such reforms, when they come,
often prove very illusory. AVith re-
spect to the tariff, we will take no
heed of the statements of the Spanish
opposition, who denounce it as a most
defective and bungling measure, from
which little is to be expected. In
Spain, as much as in any country,
the men out of power will admit little
good to be done by those who are in.
Neither do we profess to have digested
and formed our own opinion upon the
probable working of a tariff which
comprises 1500 articles, (about twice^
and a half as many as the British
tariff,) and whose complications and
conditions are anything but favourable
to its easy comprehension and appre-
ciation. We can argue, therefore,
only from analogy and precedent; the
latter, especially, no unsafe guide with
a people so wedded as the Spaniards
to old habits and institutions. The
pacific manner in which the great
army of Spanish smugglers have re-
ceived the tariff, is a strong argu-
ment against its practical value. The
Revue des Deux Mondes estimates the
number of smugglers in Spain at sixty
thousand. This is far under the
mark; and it is the first time we have
known the Spanish smugglers to be
reckoned at less than one hundred and
twenty thousand men, whereas we
have seen them rated as high as four
hundred thousand, which, however,
could only be explained by including
all those persons in the country who
are directly or indirectly connected
with the contraband trade. But the
figure is not important. The principal
point, and that which none will dispute,
is that the Peninsular smugglers form
a powerful army, including the finest
men in the country, and capable, as
we fully believe, if assembled and with
the advantage of a little drill, of
soundly thrashing an equal numbei* of
Spanish soldiers, detachments of whom
they not unfrequently do grievously
ill-treat. Now how is it, we ask, that
this formidablQ and ^eaocsil^ t\u^^^^^
718
Spain under Narvaez and Chritiina,
[Dec.
body have submitted withoat an indi*
cation of revolt to the passing of a
law which, if the Revue des Deux
Mandes is right, will entirely take
away their occupation? The self-
styled manufacturers of Catalonia,
most of whom are extensive
smugglers, are as acute judges of
their own interests as any men in
Spain. In Andalusia, on the Portu-
guese frontier, in nearly every frontier
province in short, men of wealth,
ability, and consideration are at the
head of the contraband traffic. It is
not to be supposed that all these have
their eyes shut to the meditated de-
struction of their interests, or that
they thus tranquilly receive a blow
which they believe will be fatal. It
will be remembered by many that
when first the new tariff was seri-
ously brought forward, and appeared
likely to become the law of the land,
the Catalan newspapers and other
organs of the smuggling interest were
furious in their denunciation of it:
alarming rumours were set abroad,
insurrections were talked of, and there
seemed a very pretty chance of a
pronundamiento in favour of prohibi-
tive duties and contraband trade.
But suddenly modifications were
talked of, the publication of the bill
was postponed, the storm was allayed
and has not again arisen. There was
something so remarkable in this sudden
stilling of the troubled waters, that
persons, who are either very maUcions
or better versed than their neighbours
in the ways of Spain, did not scruple
to assert that there had been buying
and selling, that weighty arguments
had been advanced and had prevailed,
and that the result was to be the
emasculation of the tariff bill. No
trifling consideration would suffice to
clench such a bargain, and doubtless
the concession, if obtained, was weU
paid for ; but what of that ? The
trade of a smuggler is the most pro-
fitable in Spain, excepting, perhaps,
that of a cabinet minister; and it was
worth a sacrifice to retain a traffic
whose profits, the Revue dee Deux
Mondes assures us, range from 60 to
90 per cent on the value of the cotton
tissues introduced, and a lower per-
centage on silks, woollens, and other
goods, of greater value in proportion
to their bulk, weight, and difficulty of
transport. For this percentage, the
master-smuggler receives the goods
without the frontier, and delivers them
within, supporting all charges, and
running all risks : it is a premium of
insurance, as regularly fixed as that
of any marine risk at Lloyd's. Bat
does the Rome suppose that the pre-
sent very high charge for passage will
not be materially reduced, sooner than
altogether relinqnished ? Spanish
smuggling requires capital and sta-
bility, on the part of those undertaking
it on a large scale, and is a sort Sc
monopoly in the hands of a certain
number of individuals and companies.
These pay the working smugglers (the
men who lift the bales, and drive the
mules, and fight the custom-house
officers) a few reals a-day, a few
dollars a rim, and pocket enormous
profits. Amongst themselves, they
are leagued to maintain the high rates
of insurance. But now that the cus-
tom-house steps into the field as a
competitor, removing prohibition and
lowering duties, we may be well as-
sured the smugglers have lowered
theirs ; and an inquiry at Perpignan,
016ron, Mauleon, on the Five Can-
tons at Bavonne, or in any other
smuggling depot on the Pjrenean
frontier, would, we doubt not, satisfy
the Reoue of the fact. The Spanish
custom-house must cut lower yet to
beat the smuggler. The Revue ad-
mits that, on certain articles of great
consumption, (silk,) the difference is
still in favour of the contrabandist,
even at the duty of thirty to forty-
five per cent ad vahremy fixed by
the tiuiff bill, and at the old high roe-
mium of smuggling insurance. But
whilst we insist and are confident
that the latter will be reduced, (and
therein find one reason of the tranquil
indifference with which the tariff has
been received by the smuggling popu-
lation of the Peninsula,) we are by no
means certain that the former has not
been considerably raised by the altera-
tions and modifications that took
place in the tariff, between the date of
its passing the chambers and that of
its publication by the government;
alterations by which the ad vahrem
duties imposed on several important
classes of merchandise have been con*
verted into fixed duties. This change,
which may very well prove a Juggle
1849.]
Spain under Nan'oez and Christina,
7ia
brought about by the golden wand of
the smuggling fraternity, at once in-
validates the calculations of the Revue,
which are all based upon the ad
valorem percentage originally pre-
scribed by the tariff law, and upon
the assumption that the high contra-
band premiums are immutable and
unreducible.
Setting aside the mere financial
consideration of the tariff question;
losing sight, for a while, of the gi'cat
accession of revenue it is universally
admitted that Spain would derive from
an honest and effectual reduction of
her import-duties on manufactures,
which she herself can produce only of
inferior quality and at exorbitant
rates ; losing sight, also, of the moral
obligation there is upon her to adopt
all such measures, not injurious to
any great class of the community,*
as shfil enable her to pay her way,
and acquit her debts to home and
foreign creditors, — temporarily avert-
ing our view, we say, from these
considerations, we fix it upon others
whose weight none will deny. What
are the chief causes to which the
major part of the crime, misery, and
degradation prevalent amongst the
lower classes in Spain, is attributed,
by all impartial observers of her social
condition ? They are three in num-
ber. The demoralisation produced by
smugglmg; the burdens upon agri-
culture, and impediments to its pro-
gress ; the high prices the peasant is
compelled to pay for the most neces-
sary manufactures. Upon the evil of
smuggling we need not dwell, nor
dilate upon the ease of the transi-
tion from defrauding the goveniment
to robbing upon the highway, and
from shooting a douanier to murder-
ing the traveller who may be so rash
as to defend his purse. By the lower
classes in Spain the smuggler is ad-
mired and respected, and his calling
is deemed gallant and honourable ;
by the classes above liim he is toler-
ated, and often employed. His ran-
dom, perilous, fly-by-night manner of
life, made up of alternate periods of
violent exertion and excitement, and
perfect idleness and relaxation, exact-
ly suits his taste and temperament :
it will be hard to wean him from his
illicit pursuits, though they should so
decline in profit as only to yield him
bread, garlic, and tobacco. You
must find him occupation profitable
and to his taste before you can
reclaim him; for he will not dig,
and would rather rob than beg.
Whenever such import-duties are
adopted in Spain as will really stop
smuggling, there will undoubtedly be
a great increase of crimes against
property, innumerable bands of rob-
bers will spring up, and probably
there will also be risings under poli-
tical banners. The present moment
is by no means unpropitious for the
experiment. The government of
Spain has perhaps the power, but we
doubt that it has the will. We have
shown cause for believing that the
recent change will prove delusive, and
of small benefit. If we are mistaken
— and it is very diflScult to decide
beforehand of the result of Spanish
measures— we shall sincerely rejoice.
We have already observed that,
whilst the brunt of taxation is borne
in Spain by agriculture, that interest
obtains in return scarcely any of the
facilities and encouragements to which
it is fairly entitled. Spain is the rash
child that would run before it can
walk, and consequently falls upon its
face. She dashes headlong at the
* At the first hint of a project of reform in the tariff, the cry in Spain, and especi-
ally in Catalonia, has invariably been, — " Protection for our manufactures!" So loud
was the clamour, that it might have been imagined millions of months were depend-
ent for bread on the fabrication of Spanish calicoes. Now, the Retue des Deux
Mondes estimates the total number of hands employed in these much-vaunted cotton
manufactures at thirty-one thousand ; and even this number we are induced to believe
considerably over-estimated, from minute and interesting information on the subject
we have recently obtained from an intelligent Spaniard, long resident in Catalonia.
And amongst the manufacturers are a number of Frenchmen, and other foreigners ;
for, in fact, Spaniards have little taste for mechanical occupations, and have too fine
a climate not to love the open air. So the '* protection," so violently insisted upon,
is for this handful of operatives, who make bad calicoes at exorbitant prices; or
rather, if the truth be told, it is for the master-manufacturers, most of whom are
also master-smugglers.
VOL, LXVT.— NO. CCCCX, ^ ^
720 Spam uadmr Narcaa and Chrittma. [D«cl.
grosteBt and mosl costij impw^ Imiliropical eKoltstioB* A» vegRrds-
mento realised hy other countries ; the in^iiilee giTeit to ^anub cicdit».
forgetting that she faaa stood stiU. it is bat a few days siDea w» lead^
whilsl thaj moved ODwaidsY. and that, with seme aatonlwhwent? at the baKJap-
a wise man gets a. bed to lie upon' rit7 andhnimdenoe of the plan {(mmr-
befora tcQnbUBg himaelf aboaia silkav. nat»g tboogb it does hoaa. m Sp$aUk
oomlek In all the acta of life Spain finance ninistor), the aarat^ewentby
is imaeMnraUyinferiar tomoit.other which Mr Biwfo MmriUo, in oiderto*
fimopean miiflau* In agncoltoral diminish the acknowledged deficit is
implementSy in eaits and. other, i^ bidgeftfer the jear 1350, nniots
nehidea of transport, in hea methedsi tbeafmy andstatofonetioBaries of »
of elaboratittg her pnodnais, and hen month's pay;, md penaienen^aad half*
meana oi canymg thenHsbeiB oanr- p^rmen of two nM»tfas' nn«Bi of
tones behmd aU the world. Yasi sabsistenca, besidea w^oig o^ in s
traots of her turitoiy are dwoiala foe still meee oneeranenioaB iimmiki,
want of that impiitian for whieh UMK other pvesnqg dauns npon tl» trea-
dem ingennttgr and uiventioiit hava gory. The budget itself la a tralyen*
deyised sock great. fadyUtiea: tha riooa dooBment. The coatoms* refps*-
broad waters, of her nighty riyen^. noeia swollen by tbaaappoaedprafil*
i^ch in othttr conntsieB woold. ho of the new tariff; the expenaoa of 1h»
aim witii traffio and bordered, wilb war d^avtmeatareboWyaat down aa
Tillages, ave chokad. and desolatai. a redaction- whieh nrasl necoad rathsr
'' The Goadia^Tir, navi«id)le ia tha with Mr Minllo*s wiah tiant wHk Un
timeof theBomansasfar.aaGocdaya,, enpeeiatiensw On the dibit sMsfigaiw
is now soaroely practicabla fov saiBog atoo the daima of thopobito Meditar»
▼esaels of a moderate siee up ta ferinackle8sthaniadae,oertairiy,bBfe
Seville."* Few are the boate» scanty «Mr fer nMO than will b» paid^ Tba
the dweUiflgs^ npMi the green wayea rasoltof theestiniata'ia, aananalYflMBa
and flower^grown shores of Tagfaaaad. satisfhetoiy, or woold. bo aa, aa leasts
£bro. When these g^riooa natioai if there were the sli^iteat dHnea of
arterieaarethns iie|^eoted,we neednot hs jastifioition t^ the actaai raesipia
eaqpectaitifieiaiLottes. Canals are sadly andexpeaditareof theyearferirindh
wanted^ and haro been often planned,, it ia made. To retBEDi bawevor, tar
bat thfiQT have got no fiurther than the. the imprortnienla and publia wMfcs
want and the pcqjeet. As to roads^ annonneed by the Smrnt^ dm Dmm
tin main lines are good, bat they are Mondm* We certamly find i& tba
few, diyergiag fieom the capital to thee budget a sam of abont threa hnndre*
varions frontieis ; and the cross-roads tiionsand ponndi nfwalhiBg neva
(where there axa any,) and the conn- than Inlfthe igyohmtaiy oanUiblian
tcy tracks, are mostly exeecable^ and wnmyJhMn-tiioanhjippj laajriisyii an±
often impassable fer wheels. Bat alL pensionera— set down ta roads, rail-^
thiSyweareinfeimedbythei2AWfr<iaa waya, and canals^ Isttomsgnifttenl'
Dtnus M<mde§f is on the era of a som to ceoiplete ti» yidaabla watsr-
thorough change^ *^ Labov, like oommanieaiioos and the natoraek ef
credit," says thait periodical, ia ita roads pronubwd to eapeetant Spato?
article on Spain, ^^ haa reoeiyed a Bbudly, eyen if applied aa. appai^
beneficial impulse. The roads are. jHriated, which little esoagh of it
repaired, the means of water-cony^- ey«r will bou Aa to nitwaja, they
ance are being improyedor teiminat- are oertamly ftayiai^ bvt that is aa
ed, railroads are begnn^ Thecreation mneb as can be said. Thara is a
of a yast system ($tumnble) of ad* thirty mile railroadopen between Bar-
jacent roads will soon connect all parts- oelona and Mataro, upon which accr-
of the territory with these yiyifying- dents seem of pretty frequent oocur-
arteries." We scarcely know which rence ; and that said, we haye said
is most admirable ; the cleyemess that aU. A good many others have been
contriyea to condense so many mis- planned, inyolying the moat magnl-
statements into so few words, or this ficent projects ol tonnela thcMJ^
tone of candour, coayiction, and phi- chaias of meantalnwi yisdnrtn oyea
• FoBD^ p. 26.
1849.]
Spain under Nanmez and Chriatma.
721
great rivers, cuttings throngh dense
forests, and the like ; and at some of
these there may be attempts at work,
enough to justify demands for funds ;
but their termination is altogether an-
other matter in a country where,
according to its national proverb,
things are begun late, and never
finished. Doubtless it is a satisfac-
tion to Spanish pride, when it sees
other European countries veined with
iron tracks, to be able to talk of
Spanish railroads as things that are
not only projected, but begun. A
great country like Spain must not lag
behind in the race of improvement,
and its natives would deem themselves
linmillated if they did not attempt to
have what England, France, and Ger-
many enjoy. Nothing can escape
these ambitions hidalgos. They have
lieard of the electric telegraph, and it
is easy to discern, by newspaper pa-
ragraphs, that they are agog for the:
novelty, although the country has just
been put to considerable expense by
the completion and improvement of
the aerial semaphores. These woiic
very well, the Dian'o Mercantil of
Valcneia told ua the other day ; but
fogs are a great nuisance, the elec-
tric plan is mnefa better and surer, and >
a German company has offered to lay
any length of wires at the rate of two
hundred pounds sterling per league ;
and the Diario trusts the government
will keep the matter in view, and
adopt the new system, if it can be
done without obstacles arising from
political disturbances, and from the
ignorance and malevolence of the
people. If the electric telegraph were to
await thecomi^tion of the ^^ vivifying
arteries ** of railroad promised by the
more sanguino friends of Spain, the
German company would do well to
offer its services elsewhere ; but evi-
dently there is some notion of carry-
ing the posts and wires across coun-
try, over sierras and despobladoa^
with boards, no doubt, affixed here
and there, requesting the public to
"protect the telegraph." How long the
posts would stand — how long thewires
might escape injury from the super-
stitious peasantry, or from robbers and
smugglers, interested in retarding the
transmission of their misdeeds, is an-
other question. Really, to use a po-
pular comparison, the establishment
of electric telegraphs on Spanish soil
seems to us about as necessary and
sensible as to affix a gilt handle to
the door of a pig-stye. Not that wer
would, in any way, assimilate ta
the unclean beast our friends tho
Spaniards, whom we greatly esteem,
and desire to see more prosperous :
but thus it is with them ever. They
would fain pass over the rudiments,
and attain at a bound that height of
civilisation which other nations have
I'eached only by a toilsome and pa-
tient progress.
The deamess of roost manufactured
goods in Spain, and especially of the-
commonest and, as Englishmen would
consider, most essential articles of
clothing, is, we are fully convinced, a
grave impediment to the moral and
physical progress of the lower classes
of Spani^tls; If, quitting certain
frontier districts, where smuggling
gains diffuse a fallacious appearance
of prosperity, we penetrate into the
interior of the country, we behoM a
rural population sunk in filth and
sloth, wrapped in squalid woollen
rags, basking listlessly in the sun,
dwelling oftentimes in community'
with their domestic animals. Tct,
give him but the means, and no
man more than this self-same Spanish
peasant loves clean linen and neat
attire. If he is dirty and shirtless,
and afflicted with vermin and impuri-
ties, it is because he has never had
the means of being otherwise. How
can he, out of his scanty earnings,
supply himself with the calico sMrt
and clean jacket of jean or flannel
which, in the countries of their manu^
future, are within the reach of the
poorest labourer, but whose price is
trebled, before they reach him in
Spain, by exorbitant smuggling pre-
miums or imfport-duty, and by an
expensive and deftctive system of
transport. We cannot agree with
those who assert the Spaniard of the
lower dass to be a bom idler, who
will never willingly do more work
than procures him the day's fhigal
meal. We have too great f^th in bis
natural good qualitiea to receive this
opinion otherwise than as a calumny.
At any rate, before deciding thus
harshly, give him a chance, which he
has never yet had ; show him the
possibility, ^hic\\ li^ )^a& t^ks^x i^'v*
1^90111 under Nansuz cmd Ckristma,
7^2
Eccn, of attidning, by his own eicer-
tions, to comfort and respectability ;
pat the necessaries of life within his
reach, which they hav^e never yet
been, and spnr him, with his own
pride, to cleanliness and industry.
Teach him, in short, self-respect,
which he can hardly feel in his
present sunken condition, and, rely
upon it, he will make an effort and
take a start.
It is not our intention to dwell np-
on the recent temporary displacement
of the Narvaez ministry, at the very
moment when its stability and power
seemed most assured, when the ex-
ultation of its partisans was the loud-
est, and the subjection of the nation
most complete. The singular manner
of the change, the ignoble agents by
whom it was immediately effected,
the obscurity and inaptitude of the
individuals who for a moment made
their apparition at the helm, to be at
the next thrown overboard ; the
strangely heedless and inconsistent
conduct of the young Queen, and the
ambiguous attitude of her mother,
have found abundant commentators,
and the whole episode has been wittily
and not unjustly compared to one of
those old Spanish comedies based on
a palace intrigue. We cannot, how-
ever, admit that the entire glory of
the curious and abortive plot belongs
to the apostolical camariua which is
alleged to exist in the palace, and to
consist, amongst others, of the feeble
and bigoted king-consort, of a fana-
tical confessor, a hysterical nun, a
Jesuitical secretary, and others of simi-
lar stamp. Time will probably dissi-
pate part of the mystery that now
envelops the affair; but, even now,
those accustomed to watch the show
will have shrewd suspicions whose are
the bands that pulled the wires and
made the dull puppets dance. The
hands showed little skill, it will per-
haps be urged, in the selection and
manoeuvring of the dolls. This ob-
jection will hardly stand. When a
juggler misses his trick, it is still
something if he hides his arm from
his audience. And as to the incapa-
city of the agents, they were probably
[Dec
not employed until others, abler but
less docile, had refused to act. Wc
entertam little doubt in what quarter
the attempt was fostered — ^perhaps
concerted. Notwithstanding the out-
ward cordiality of the French and
Spanish governments, it is notorious
that the old alliance between Queen
Christina and a lately deposed mon-
arch still exists, for the attainment of
objects dear to both their hearts. In
what manner these objects were to be
advanced by the recent shnffle of the
Spanish political cards, is not at first
sight apparent. But we entertain
scarcely the shadow of a doubt, that
the arch-plotter whose inflnenoe has
more than once wrought evil to Spain,
had a hand in the game. We would
be the last to press hardly npon the
fallen. Did we feel tempted so to do,
we should truly feel ourselves rebuked
by the noble example of that illustrioos
Lady, who has fbi^tten the treachery
of the king in the sorrows of the exile,
and has extended that sympathy and
kindness to the dweller in the English
cottage, which she could not have
been expected again to show to the
inmate of the French palace. We are
guarded, then, in the expression of our
regret, that one who, by the pursuit
of purely personal objects, has been
the cause of great calamities to his
native land, should still indulge his
dynastic ambition at the expense of
the tranquillity of another conntiy,
previously indebted to him for much
discord and misery. And we deem it
a pamful sight when a man whose
years already exceed the average spxa
of human existence is still engrossed
by plans of unscmpnlous aggrandise-
ment, still busied with Machiavelian
intrigues, still absorbed in the baser
things of earth, instead of addressing
himself to considerations of higher
import, earning by his virtnes in ad-
versity that respect refused to his
conduct in prosperity, and passing the
last days of his life — ^the posthumous
ones of his royalty — ^resigned, revered,
and beloved, like one who preceded
him on his throne and in his banish-
ment, and whose name was on his
lips in the hour of his fail.
1849.]
The Green Uand-^A " Short'' Yam.-^Part VI.
723
THE GREEN HAND.
A "short" yarn. — PART VI.
**\Vell, ma'am," continued the
naval man, on again resuming his
narrative, " as I told you, the sudden
hail of ^ Land !' brought us all on deck
in a twinkling, in the midst of my
ticklish conversation with the Judge.
" f I alio! you aloft!" shouted the chief
officer himself, " d'ye hear, sin*ah ! use
your eyes before hailing the deck ! "
*' Land, sir I " came fallmg down again
out of the sunlight ; ** land it is, sir,
— broad away on our larboard bow,
sir."
By this time it was about half-past
nine, or ten o'clock, of the morning.
Heading nearly due south-east, as we
now were, the Indiaman's bowsprit
ran up into the full white blaze of light,
in which her flying jib-boom seemed
to quiver and writhe far away from
her like an eel in water; while the
spread of her sails against it loomed
twice as large as ordinary, from the
sort of hazy double-edged look they
had, with a twinkling thread of sun
drawing all round them like a frame,
as if one saw through a wrong- screwed
glass. You'd have thought by the
glance under the fore- course, over the
ship's head- gratings, she was travel-
ling off quietly into some no-man's-
land or other, where it would be so
bright we should all have to wear
green spectacles : the light breeze
being almost direct from nor'west, and
so fairly in her favour, with the help
of her studding-sails she was making
wonderful progress for such a mere
breath — about four knots to the hour,
as I reckoned. The aur aloft appeared
in the mean time to be steadying and
siuMng^ though the water kept smooth,
and her bows scarce made a noise in
it : the wide soft swells of the sea just
floated np of a pale blue, and lifted her
on, till she went seething gently down
into it again ; only, if you put your
head over the starboard side, and
listened, you thought you heard a sort
of dull poppling ripple coming along
the bends from round her counter.
As for the line of horizon on one bow
or the other, 'twas hai'dly to be made
out at all, with a streaky white haze
overlying it, up in the sky as it were,
on both sides, behind the dazzle of
light. However, the passengers were
fancying all kinds of fine tropical
matters lay hidden thereaway; and
in fact, what with the notion of land
after a long voyage, and what \>'ith
the faint specks of bright cloud that
seemed to be melting far off in the
glare — to any one last from Gravesend,
that had never seen anything stranger
than Richmond Hill of a Sunday, the
whole thing ahead of the ship would
have rather an enchanted sort of a look.
At length the third mate was seen to
shove his spy-glass together in the top-
gallant cross-trees, and came slowly
down the rigging. " Well, Mr Hick-
ett?" said the chief officer, meeting
him as he landed on deck. *'*' Well,
sir," said Rickett, " it is land after all,
Mr Finch ! " The mate rapped out
an oath, and took another turn :
Macleod screwed his mouth as if he
were going to whistle, then pulled his
red whiskers instead, and looked queer
at Rickett ; while Rickett stood peer-
ing into his spy-glass as he would have
done into his hat, had he still been a
foremast-man. The mate's eye met
his, then turned to the passengers lean-
ing over the poop-railing ; and they all
three walked to the capstan, where
they began to overhaul the charts, and
laid their heads together out of ear-
shot.
Now, whether this said land just
made out on the north-east, trend-
ed away back to south-east, as the
clearer look of the horizon to star-
board made one think, it was hard ta
say — though in that way of it, there
were seemingly two plans for widening
her distance. Either Fmch might
think it better to keep hold of a fair
wind, and just edge her off enough to
drop the point on her weather quar-
ter— when, of course, if things stood
as they were, we should soon set a
good stretch of water betwixt us and
the coast; or else they might brace
direct round on the other tack, and
head right south-west'ard, out to sea
again; lUow^Vi \i ^^^«fe ^>i^m'S^
7H
The Gr^eu Bwd--A ^^ShoH^^ Vmn.^'^Part VI.
CP«e.
the cnrrent wonld set ns every bit as
much in its own direction as ever. Ac-
cordingly I sidled nearer to theeapstan,
and watched anxiously for what the
third mate had to proposa, a&er ham-
ming and hawing a little, and scratch-
ing his head under his cap for half a mi*
note. ^^ At Any rate, Mr Finch, sir,"
«aid he, '^ more especially the captain
being off charge, I may say, why, Td
advise ye, air, to ~." Here he
•dropped his voice ; bat Finch aj^ar^
en^y agreed to what he said.
^' Seady aboot ship there ! " said the
second mate aloud to ihe boatswain
forward ; and in tan minntes afterwards
ihe Seripgapatam was furiy ronnd, as I
bad e&pected, beading ft a right angle
to her former coarse, with ihe breese
before her starbonrd beam, and the
ann biasing on the other. I walked
forward to the bows, and actnally
atarted to hear how load and dear<tiie
ripple had got nnder them of a sadden ;
meeting her with a plash, as if she
were making six or seven knots head-
way, while the canvass seemed to
draw so nraoh stiffer aloft, you'd have
aapposed the breeae had freshened as
soon as the helm was pat down. The
mates looked .aver the side and aloft.
Tabbing iheir hands and snulmg to
each other, as maoh as to say how
£Ast she was faanling off the bad neigh-
bonrhood she was in, though the heat
was as gveal; as ever, and yoa didn't
feel a breath more air below, nor see
the water ruffle. To my notion, in
fact, it was just the set of the current
against her that seemingly freshened
her way, the ship being now diieet in
its teeth ; so that, of coarse, it wonhi
keep bearing her up all tiie time away
north-eastward, with her own leewi^
to help it ; and the leas could any one
notice the diffievenee betwixt the water
going past her side, and Aer pasiiing
the water. This tack of hen, which
Bickett, no donbt, tiiou^t anefa a safe
plan, might be the very one to put her
in a feally dangerous way yet; lor
whw they did discover this nnder-tow,
how were they to take her out of it,
aftw all? Probably by tiying to
stand fair across the stream .of it to
southward, which, without threetimes
the wind we had, wouU at best take
«8 out many miles nearer the land it
set upon, orjieave us perhaps becahned
tn the midst of k.
The truth was, that although I
hadn't seen what like the land was,
and couldn't have said, by the charts
where we were, I began to have a faint
notion of whereabouts we possibly
soon might be, from what I remem-
bered bearing an old qnartemaster ui
the Lris say, a couple of yean before,
legarding a partionkur spot on tiie
aouth^west coast, where the cnnenteat
some seasons, as he phrased it, made a
reguiar faee^^ouise meeting. The old
feUow gave me also, at the time, some
bearings of the nearest ooaat, with the
landmarks at the month of a river a
little futhernoctii — ^whidi, be said, he
would know if you set him down there
of a dark night, though he had been
in his bed at Grosport the minute be-
fofe, if theie was jost a rig^t streak
of sky to the eastwaid— <nanid^, a big
Uack rook like two steps, and a block
at the foot of them, somewhat the
shape of a chipped hcrfyostone, n»-
ning down on one side ont of a high
dieaidland, like an admiral's cocked
hat, with six mop^-hoaded trees npi-
on the root of the rock, for all tke
"world like hairs on a wart. Here I
««coIlected how my worldly anthori^
pointed modestly for example to a
ease of the kind on his own nam.
The opposite shore «f its month was
flat, with a heavy white aocf ; bnt it
abut in so far npon the other, he said,
that, steering from the sonth*ard, one
would never know these was a aver
there at aU. The Bamfanr he calkd
it; bnt if hemeanttlieBeaibanM^ghe,
we ooold scasoely be near ir, or tfaift
much towurd being afaieast of St He-
lena. For all I saw, indeed, we might
have nothing to eastward of ns save
a hard ooast, or else the ssmI^ ooaat
Harther down, shoaling ont of sight of
laodl At any rate I knew we must
hare got into the tail ef the great sea-
stream from round theOape of Good
Hope, whidi would, no donbt, s^t ont
at seaonViana's Bank, and tnm parti|ir
to nopth^eastward thereabents; so
that It wasn^ a very bad gness to
suppose we were getting iqp some-
where near C^m Fiio, the iikaHest
place in liie world to find old Bob
Martin's ^ mase," which we «sed to
joke about so in the Jiris.
What was dene, though, leqnired
.to be done quiekly , and I lo^^wd aboot
for Tom Westwood, tili I saw hia nn
18^.]
The Green Hand^A " Short'' Yam.-^Part VI.
725
the poop amongst the rest, talking
sgain to Miss Hyde, as they all crowd-
ed towards the lee-quarter to watch
the land-haze seemingly dropping
astern. My heart swelled as it were
into my throat, however, at such an
appearance of good understcmding be-
twixt the two, — whereas there was
she^ an honr ago that very morning,
would scarce favour me with a look
or a word 1 — and, for the life of me, I
couldn't have spoken to Westwood at
the time, much less gone hand in
hand ; for that matter, he didn t seem
to be suspecting aught wrong to
trouble himself about. What to say
or do, either, I couldn't think ; since
the more he cut me out, and the less
fiiendly I felt to him, the less could I
risk the chance of showing us both up
fer what we were, — ^which, of course,
would bring him in for the worst of
It ; as if /, by Jove, were going to
8ei*ve him some low trick for the sake
of shoving him out with the young
lady. Meantime I kept fidgeting
about, as if the deck were too hot for
me, snatching a glance now and then,
in spite of myself^ at Violet Hyde's
fairy-like figure ; so different from
the rest of them, as she stretched
eagerly from below the awning over
the slup's quarter-gallery, trying to
make out where, the land lay, — ^now
putting her little hand over her eyes
to see better, then covering them alto-
gether from the dazzle, as she drew
£i her head again and shook her bright
brown hair in the shadow, answering
Westwood^'Confound him I The In-
dian servant each time carefully pok-
ing out tJie red and yellow punkah-
ifringe for a cover over her, while the
passengers were one and all ready to
cry at not seeing the land, and leav-
ing it behind. The Judge himself
was the only man that seemed to have
a dim notion of something queer in
the whole case; for every few minutes
he walked quietly to the break of the
poop, where I noticed him cast a
doobtfol look down upon the ^^ chief
officer ; " and when the surgeon came
up, he asked anxiously how Captain
Williamson was, and if he couldn't be
seen bdow. However, the surgeon
told hum the captain had just fallen
for the first time into a good sleep,
and there was no admittance, bat
he was likely to be much better soon.
By this time there was no standing
out from under the awnings, and the
quarterdeck and poop had to be well
swabbed to keep them at all cool, the
steam of it rising inside with a pitchy
hempen sort of smell you never feel
save in the Tropics ; the Seringapatam
still feeling the breeze aloft, and lift-
ing on the water with a ripple forward,
although her big courses went lapping
fore and aft every time she swung.
The long white haze on the horizon
began to melt as the sun heightened,
clearin<? fi-om under the wake of the
light, till now you could fairly see the
sky to eastward. Near noon, in fact,
we had almost dropped the haze alto-
gether on the ship's quarter ; and at
first I was glad to see how much way
she had ma^e in the two hours, when,
on second thoughts, and by noticing
some marks in the loom of it, I had
no doubt but though she might be
farther off, why it was only while she
set more up to north-eastward, —
so that we were actually, so to speak,
leaving it by getting nearer ! How-
ever, as die men were at dinner?^ and
most of the passengers gone off the
poop, down to " tiffin," I made up my
mind to try what I could do in a quiet
way, towards making the mate think
of it more seriously.
" Ah," said I, in a would-be briric
and confidential kind of way, *^ glad
we're leaving that — a — ^you know, that
land, Mr Findi." ♦* Indeed, sir," said
he indifferently. " Oh, yon know,"
eaidl, "it's all very well for the/wMwn-
gers there to talk fine abont land — ^Utnd
— but you and I, Mr Finch, don't need
to be told that it's always dangerous
at aca, you know." The mate lifted
his head and eyed me for a moment
or two, between the disgust a sailor
feels at seeing a fellow pretend to
aught like seamanship, and a parti-
cular sort of spite toward me which
I'd noticed growing in him for the
last few days, — ^though I daresay my
breakfasting that morning in Sir
Charles's cabin might have brooght it
to a height.
" Land dangerous, sir I " answered
he carelessly, as he went on wiping
his quadrant again; "who put that
into your head ? " " Oh, well," re-
turned I, just as carelessly, " if it's to
leeward of course, — or with a current
takmg you XA'vr^x^ \Ss.v— ^jb&^ ^^^.
726
The Green Hand-^A " Stert " Yam.—PM VL
{Dec.
Bat IVe no donbt, Mr Finch, if this
wind were to — ah — ^you know, heaye
moreiabaft, that's to say, get stronger,
the craft wonld at least stand still,
till you got her — " "What on
earth are yon talking about, Mr
Ford— Collins, I mean?" asked he
sharply. " Really, sir, IVe got some-
thing more to attend to at present,
than such trash about a current, and
the devU Imows what else I " " How,
why, Mr Finch ! " said I, seemingly
surprised in my turn, ** are we not in
a current just now, then ? *' " Cur-
rent 1 " replied Finch, almost laugh-
ing outright, "what does the man
mean?" "Why every one thinks
so, in the cuddy," said I, as if rather
taken aback, and venturing what
you fair ladies call a 'fib,' — "ever
since we picked up the bottle last
night." This, by the bye, had got
spread through some of the men to
the passengers, though, of course,
nobody knew what had been in it
yet. " There^ I declare now," con-
tinued I, pointing to our lee-bow,
where Td had my eyes fixed during
the five minutes we spoke, " we can
try it again ; do you see that bird
yonder on the water?" The mate
turned his head impatiently, and
" Look, watch him, sir," said I. This
was a tired man-o'-war bird afloat
about twenty fathoms ofi^, with its
sharp white wings stretched just
clear of the water, and its black eye
sparkling in the sunlight, as it came
dipping on the long smooth hot-blue
swell into the lee of the ship's lofty
hull, till you saw its very shadow in
the glitter below it. The Indiaman
seemed to pass him as if he rode
there at anchor; only the curious
thing was, that the bird apparently
neared her up from leeward, crossing
her larboard quarter within a fathom
or two, when all of a sudden he got
becalmed, as it were, in the wake
right astern, and by the time either
of us could walk to the ship's taffrail,
she was close over him ; as if, when-
ever her hull was end-on, it took his
surface-drift away from him, and,
what was more, as if the ship kept
hold of it— her eighteen feet or so to
his little inch of a draught— for it
couldn't be owing to the wind. How-
ever, the man-o'-war burd took offer
•Of the next sweU to get air in his
wings, and rose off the heaye of it
with a sharp bit of a scream, avay
after some black boobies diving for
fish, which no doubt he would catch,
as they dropped them at sight of
him.
The mate upon this started and
looked round, then aloft. "C<hi-
found itl" said he to himself, "if
this breeze would only freshen I
There is a sort of set on Uie surface
just now," continued he to me, 000U7
enough, "though how yon idlers
happened to have an idea of it, puz*
ales me, unless because you've no-
thing else to do but watch the water.
Currents are pretty frequent here-
abouts, however." " Dear me ! '*
said I, "but if we should — **
" Stuff, sir 1 " said he quickly, " the
coast here must be steep-to enough,
I should think, since if it weren't for
the haze, we'd have sighted it thirty
miles offl What we want is wind
— ^wind, to let's cross it." "But
then a calm, Mr Finch," I said ; " Tm
hanged afraid of those calms!"
" Well, well, sir," said he, not liking
just to shake me off at once, after my
proving less of a ninny in sea mat-
ters than he had supposed, "these
long currents never set right ash<»e:
even if we lose the wind, as we may
soon, why, she'll take off into the
eddy seaward, sir, if yon must know,
— the dead-water in-shore, and the
ebb-tide, always give it a safe toni!''
All this, of course, was as much to
satisfy himself as me. " Well, tiiat's
delightful I " said I, as if quite con-
tented, and Mr Finch walked away
hastily down one of the poop-ladders,
no doubt glad to get rid of me in a
decent manner, though I saw him
next minute glancing in at the com-
pass-boxes. " Keep her up to her
course, sirrah ; luff, d'ye hear ! " said
he to Jacobs, who was, perhaps, the
best helmsman aboard. "She falls
off tremendous bad, sir," answered
Jacobs, with another whiri of the
spokes ; her want of actual headway
making the Indiaman sag dead away
to leeward, as she shared into the
force of the sea-stream, running more
and more direct upon her starboard
bow. One minute the courses would
sink in with a long sighing fUl to the
lower-masts, the next her topsails
would flutter almost abadc, and the
1849.]
Tilt Green Hand-'A "5%ort" Yam.— Part VL
727
heat even in the shadow of her awn-
ings was extreme, yet she still seemed
to have a breeze through the white
glai'e aloft. I Avas determined to
bring things to a point somehow or
another, so I followed the mate down
the steps. "Oh, by the bye, Mr
Finch 1 " said I eagerly, " suppose
one of those dreadful — what do yon
call 'em — ah, tornadoes — were to come
on ! I understand this is just the way,
near Africa — bafl^ng breeze — heat
suffocating — hazy atmosphere — long
swell — and current rising to the sur-
face 1 " At this Finch stood up in a
perfect fury. *' What the devil d'ye
mean, sir," said he, " by dodging me
about the decks in this fashion, with
these infernally foolish questions of
yours ? " " Oh, my fine fellow,"
thought I, " you shall settle with mo
for that." "Tornadoes never blow
hereabouts, except off- shore, if you
must know, sir 1 " he rapped out,
sticking his hands in his jacket-pock-
ets as he said so, and taking a turn
on the qnarterdeck. "That's quite
a mistake, I assure you, sir I " said I,
carried away with the spirit of the
thing : " I've seen the contrary fifty
times over, and, from the look of the
sky aloft just now, I'd bet " hero
I stopped, recollected myself, put the
top of my cane in my mouth, and
peered under the awning at the sea
with my eyes half-shut, as sleepily
as usual with my messmates the
cadets. The chief officer, however,
stepped back in surprise, eyed mo
sharply, and seemed struck with a
sudden thought. " Why, sir," said
he rather anxiously, " who may —
what can you know of the matter? "
" Pooh I " replied I, seeing some of
the passengers were coming on deck,
" I'm only of an inquiring turn of
mind! Yon seafaring persons, Mr
Finch, think we can't get any of that
kind of knowledge on lana; but if
you look into Johnson's Dictionary,
why, you'll find the whole thing
under the word Tornado : 'twas one
of the pieces I'd to get by heart be-
fore they'd admit me into our yacht-
club — along with Falconer's Ship-
wreck, you know!" " Indeed!"
said the mate, slowly, with a curl of
his lip, and overhauling me from
head to foot and np again ; " ah, in-
deed! Th^t was the way, was it,
sir ? " I saw 'twas no use. I dare
say he caught the twinkle in my
eye ; while Jacob's face, behind him,
was like the knocker on a door with
trying to screw it tight over his quid,
and stuffing the knot of his necker-
chief in his mouth.
" Of course, sir," answered I, let-
ting my voice fall ; " and the long
and the short of it is, Mr Finch, the
sooner you get your ship out of this
current the better ! And what's more,
sir, I daresay I could tell you how ! "
Whether he was waiting for what
I'd to say, or thinking of something
just occurred to him, but Finch still
gazed steadily at me, without saying
a word ; so I went on. " You must
know I had an old uncle who was
long in his Majesty's royal navy,
and if there was one point he was
crazy upon, 'twas just this very matter
of currents — though, for my part, Mr
Finch, I really never understood what
he meant till I made a voyage. Ho
used to tell my mother, poor woman,
— who always fancied they had some-
what to do with puddings, — that he'd
seen no less than half-a-dozen ships
go on shore, owing to currents. Now,
Jane, he'd say, when you're fairly in
a current, never you try to cross out
of it, as folks often do, against the run
of it, for in that case, unless the
wind's strong enough, why, instead of
striking the eddy to take your craft
right off-shore, it'll just set you over
and over to the inside. You'll cross,
in the end, no doubt — but ten to ono
it's exactly where the water begins to
shoal ; whereas, the right plan's as
simple as daylight, and that's why so
few know it! Look ye, he'd say,
always you cross with the stream —
no matter though your head seems to
make landward ; why, the fact is, it'll
just set you outside of itself, clear into
its own bight, when yon can run off to
seaward with the eddy, if ye choose.
That's the way to cross a current, my
uncle used to say, provided you've
but a light wind for handling her with I
Now, Mr Finch," added I, coolly, and
still mouthing my stick as before— for
I couldn't help wishing to give the
conceited fellow a rub, while I lent
him a hint—" for my own part, Ican't
know much of these things, but it does
seem to me as if my uncle's notions
pretty well siuted the c«sft va.^J^^sjd.^'''
728
TkeOreen H<md—A ''Short''
i.— jRart FI-
[Dec.
Fiiicli was too much of a fair seamau
fiot to catch my diift at once, bat iu
too great a passion to own it at the
time. " D'ye think, sir," said he, with
a face like fire, " so much sense as
there is in this long rigmarole of yours,
that Tra such a — that's to say, that I
didn't know it before, sir ? liut what
1\ e got to do with yow, Mr Collinson,
or whatever yom* name may bo — yo\i
may have been at sea twenty years,
for aught I care — but I'd like to know
fv/it/ you come aboard here, and give
youi'solf out for as raw a greenhorn
as ever touched ropes with a kid
glove ?" *' Well, Mr Finch," said I,
** and what's that to you, if I choose to
be as green as the North Sea whaling-
ground V" "Why, sir," said Finch,
working himself up, " you're devilish
cunning, no doubt, but perhaps you're
not aware that a passenger under a
false rig, in an Indiaman, may be
dapped in limbo, if the captain thinks
Hi ? Who and what are you, I ask ?
— some runaway master's mate, I
suppose, unless you've got something
deeper in hand ! Perhaps," ended he,
with a sneer, '* a pickpocket in dis-
guise ? " " Sir," said I, getting up off
the bulwark I'd been leaning upon,
*' at present I choose to be a cadet,
but, at any rate, you shall make an
apology for what you said just now,
€irl" " Apology 1" said the mate,
turning on his heel, '' I shan't do any-
thing of the sort! You may be
thankfid, in the mean time, if I don't
have you locked up below, that'Q all !
Perhaps, by the bye, sir, all you want-
ed was to show off your seamanship
before the young lady in the round-
house there ?" Here the glance the
fellow gave me was enough to show
lie knew pretty well, all the while,
what we were matched against each
other for.
I could stand this no longer, of
course ; but, seeing that one or two of
the passengers were noticing us from
the poop, 1 looked as polite as possible
to do when youVe lost your temper ;
and, in fact, the whole disappointment
of this hair-brained cruise of mine —
not to speak of a few things one had
to stand — carried me away at the
moment. There was no scheme I
wouldn't rather have been suspected
of, by this time, than the real one —
namely^ having gone la chaae ol \VcAfi.\.
Hyde. I took a card oat of my pocket,
and handed it quietly to Mr Finch.
'^ Yon don't seem able to name me,
fiir," said I : " however, I give you
my word, you may trust that bit of
pasteboard for it ; and as I take you
to be a gentleman by your place in
this ship, why, I shall expect the
satisfaction one gentleman should give
another, the first time we get ashore,
although it shouid be to-moirow morn-
ing ! " And by Jove ! thonght I, I
hope I'm done with the corsedest
foolish trick ever a fellow played him-
self I The man that ventures to call
me green again, or look at me as if he
wanted to cool his eyes, hang me if he
shan't answer for it I As for a woman,
thought I — ^bat oh, those two blue
eyes yonder — c<mfiound it 1 as I caught
sight of a white mnsUn skirt in the
shade of the poop-awning above.
I must say, for Finch, he took my last
move coolly enough, tnming round to
give me another look, after glancing
at the curd. '' Indeed !" said he, as
if rather surprised ; " well, sur, I'm
your man for that^ though it can't he
just BO soon as to-morrow morning !
A Company's officer may meet a lieu-
tenant in the navy any time — ay, and
take his ship off the land too, I hope,
jur!" and with that he walked off
forward. Lieutenant ! said I to my-
self ; how did he give me my commis-
sion so pat, I wonder ? and I pulled
out another card, when I found, to
my great annoyance, that, in my hnny
that morning, I had happened to pot
on a coat of Westwood'a by mistske,
and, instead of plain ^Mr Ck>Uina,"
they were all '' laeuftenant West*
wood, R.N." Here^ another con-
founded mess I thought I, and all will
be blown in the md ! fioweiver, on
second thoughts, the notion struck me,
that, by sticking to the name, as I
must do now at any rale, iiiiy, I
should keep Westwood dear of aU
scrapes, which, in hn case, might be
disagreeable enough ; whereas, at prs-
«ent, he was Imown only as the
Reverend Mr Thomas — and, as for Ait
either shamming the griffin, or giving
hints how to work the ship, he was one
of those men you'd scarce know for a
sailor, by aught in his manner, at
least; and, indeed, Tom Westwood
always seemed to need a whole M-
1849.]
The Qnen Htrnd^A " ShoH " Yam.-^Part VI.
729
somewhat of a stir, to show what ho
really was.
Five minutes or so after this, it
dldn^t certainly smprlsc me much to
flee the Indiaman laid on the opposite
tack, with her head actually north-
by-east, or within a few points of
'Where the light haze faded into the
•eky ; the mate seeming by this time
to see the matter clearly, and quietly
making his own of it. The ship be-
gan to stand over towards the outer
set of the current, which could now
be seen rippling lilong here and there
to the surface, as the breeze fell
slowly: you heard nothing save the
faint plash of it astern under one
counter, the wafting and rustling of
ber large main-course above the awn-
ings, for she was covered over like a
caravan, — the slight flap of her jil»
far ahead on the bowsprit startled
you now and then as distinctly as if
you got a fillip on your own nose ;
itiiestunsail, high npbesidothe weather-
leech of her fore-topsail, bung slack
over the boom, and one felt each use-
less jolt of the wheel like a foot-slip
in loose sand when you want to run,
— all betwixt the lazy, listless voices
of the passengers, dropping and drop-
ping as separate as the last sands in
an hour-glass. Still every minute of
air aloft helped her nearer to where
Ton saw the water winding about the
horieon in long swathes, as it were,
%laer than the rest, and swelling
brim-full, so to speak, out of a line of
iight ; with the long dents and bits of
ripple here and there creeping towards
it, till the whole round of the surface,
as far as you could see, came out into
the smooth, like the wrinkles on a
nutmeg. Four bells of the afternoon
watch had struck — two o'clock drnt is
— when Rickett the third mate, and
one or two men, went out to the arm of
the i^rttsail-yiHrd across the bowsprit,
where they lowered away a heavy
pilcfa-pot with a long strip of yeliow
bunting made fast to it, and weighted
a little at the loose end, to mark the
*9et of the current: and as the pot
'smnk away out on her larboard bow,
oae could see the bright- cokwred rag
deep down liirongli the -oteaa* blae
water, streaming almost fairly nortk.
8iie appeared to be nearing the tmn
<if the eddy, and the chief officer's
epirHs began io rise : Bickett screwed
one eye close, and looked out under
his homy palm with the otlier, doubt-
ful, as he said, that we should ^^ sight
the land ofl-deck before that. As
for this trifle of an air aloft, sir," said
he, " I'm afraid we won't" — " Hoot,
Mr Beckett," put in Macleod, stepping
one of bis long trowser-legs down
from over the quarterdeck awning,
like an ostrich that had been aloft,
" ye're aye afraid ; but it's not easy
to see, aloft, Mr Fench, sir." " How
does the land lie now^ Mr Macleod?"
asked the first officer. " Well, I
woiddn't wonder but we soon dropped
it, sir — that's to east'ard^ I mean,"
replied he ; " though it's what wc call
a bit mountainous, in Scotland — not
that unlike the Grampians, Mr Fench,
ye know I " " Hang your Grampians,
man I — what's dfiead of us, eh ?" said
the mate hastily. *' Why, sir," said
the Scotchman, there » some more of
it on the nor'east, lower a good deal
— ^it's just flush with the water from
here, at present, Mr Fench — ^with a
peak or two, trending away too'ard
north ; but the light yonder on our
starboard bow miS^es them hard far
to see, I may say."
In fact, some of the men forward
were making it out already on tho
starboard bow, whore you soon could
see the faint ragged shape of a head-
land coming out, as it were, of the
dazzle beyond the water, which lay
flickering and heaving between, from
deep-blue far away into pale; while
almost at the same time, on her star-
board quarter, where there was leas
of the light, mother ontUne was to be
seen looming like pretty high land,
though still fainter than the first. As
fDr the space betwixt them, for aught
one could distinguish as yet, there
might be nothing there except air and
wat^r over against the ship's side.
'' Well," said the mate briskly, after
a little, " we're pretty sure, iioir, to
have t^e land-breeze to give us sea-
room, before two or three hours are
over, — by which time, I hope, we'll
be m the eddy of this infernal csrrent,
at any rate!" However, I was
scaioe sure he didn't begin to doubt
the plan I'd given hun ; whereas had
he known the whole case in time, and
done the thmg ihen^ it was certain
enough, — and the best thing he could
do, even aa\tNi%a\\«i5»^>a3iXN»s^i^«^
730
The Green Hand^A ''Short'' Yam.^Part VL
[Dec.
mc now, why, suppose anything hap-
pened to the ship, mightn't he turn
the tables on me after all, and say I
had some bad design in it ? I loitered
about with my arras folded, saying
never a word, but watching the whole
affah* keener than 1 ever did one of
Shakspeare's plays in the theatre after
a dull cruise ; not a thing in sea, sky,
or Indiaman, from the ripples far off
on the water to ugly Harry hauling
taut the jib-sheet with his chums, but
somehow or other they seemed all to
sink into me at the time, as if they'd
all got to come out again strong.
You hardly knew when the ship lost
the last breath of air aloft, till, from
stealing through the smooth water,
she came apparently to a stand-still,
everything spread broad out, not even
a flap in the canvass, almost, it had
fallen a dead calm so gradually.
However my troubles weren't seem-
ingly over yet, for just then up came
the Judge's dark kitmagar to the
gangway where I was, and, from the
sly impudence of the fellow's manner,
I at once fancied there was something
paiticular in the wind, as if he'd been
seeking mo about-decks. *'S'laam,
mistrec I" said he, with but a slight
duck of his flat brown turban, " Judge
sahib i-send Culley Mistree his chup-
prass,'* — message^ foraooth I — " sah'b
inquire the flavour of gentlyman's Ees-
luchee Coompanee, two-three mo-
ment !" ** The flavour of my East-
India company, you rascal!" said I
laughing, yet inclined to kick him aft
again for his impertinent look ; '' speak
for yourself, if you please !" In fact the
whiff of cocoa-nut oil, and other dark
perfumes about him, came out in a
hot calm at sea, when everything
sickens one, so as to need no inquiry
about the matter : however, I walked
straight aft to the round-house, and
in at the open door, through which Sir
Charles was to be seen pacing from
one side of his cabin to the other, like
a Bengal tiger in a cage. " Harkye,
young man," said he sternly, turning
as soon as I came in, with my hat in
my hand, "•' since I had the honour of
your company here this morning, I
have recollected — indeed I find that
one of my servants had done the same
— that you are the person who molested
my family by various annoyances
beside my garden at Cro^doii, «mV^
" Indeed, Sir Charles !" s«dd I coolly,
for the bitter feeling I bad made me
cool : " they must have been nninten-
tional then, sir I Bat I was certainly
at Croydon, seeing my mother's house
happens to be there." "You must
have had some design in entering this
vessel, su: !" continued the Judge, in a
passion ; " 'gad sir, the coincidence is
too curious! Tell me what it is at
once, or by — " " My design was to
go to India, sir," answered I, as
quietly as before. " In what capacity ?
— who are you ? — ithat — who — what
do you want there^ eh ?" rapped out
the Judge. "I'm not aware, sii*,"
said I, "what right you've got to
question me; but I — in fact I'll tell
80 much to any man — why, I'm an
oflScer in the navy." Sir Charles
brought short up in his pacing and
stamping, and stared at me. "An
oflScer in the navy!" repeated he;
" but yes— why — now I think, I do
remember something in your dress,
sir, — though it was thence that struck
me! In short then, sir, this makes
the case worse : yon are here on false
pretences — affecting the very reverse,
sir — setting yourself up for a model of
simplicity, — a laughing-stock indeed!"
" I had reasons for not wishing my
profession to be known, Sir Charles,"
said I ; " most special reasons. They're
now over, however, and I don't care
who knows it!" "May I ask what
these were?" said the Jndge. " That
m never tell to any man breathing!"
I said, determinedly, llie Judge
walked two or three times fore and
aft ; then a thought seemed to strike
him — he looked out as if at the decks
and through below the awnings, then
shut the door and came back to me
again. " By the way," said he seri-
ously, and changing his tone, " since
this extraordinary acknowledgment
of yours, sir, something occurs to me
which makes me almost think your
presence in the vessel, in one sense,
opportune. I have reason to entertain
a high opinion of naval oflioers as
technical men, professionally educated
in his Majesty's regular service, and
— ^you look rather a young man — but
have yon had much experience, may I
ask?" "I have been nine or ten
years at sea, sir," replied I, a little
taken aback, " in various parts of the
\tQtWV^ ^''Y V*^^^ fAme snspicioa
1849.]
The Green Hand— A " Short'' Yam.-^Part VI.
731
lately," he went on, " that this vessel
is not navigated in a — in short, that
at present, probably, we may be in
some danger, — do you think so, sir ?"
** No, Sir Charles," I said, " I don't
think she w, as matters stand, — only
in a troublesome sort of quarter,
which the sooner she's out of, the
better." " The commander is, I find,
dangerously unwell," continued he,
" and of the young man who seems to
have the chief care of the vessel, I
have no very high — well — that^ of
coui*se I — Now sir," said he, looking
intently at me, " are you capable of— in
short of managing this Company's
vessel, should any emergency arise?
I have seen such, myself, — and in the
circumstances I feel considerable
alarm — uneasiness, at least I — Eh,
sir ?" " Depend upon it, Sir Charles,"
I said, stepping toward the door, " in
any matter of the kind I'll do my best
for this ship! But none knows so
well as a seaman, there are cases
enough where your very best can't do
much !" The Judge seemed rather
startled by my manner — for I did feel
a little misgiving, from something in
the weather on the whole; at any
rate I fancied there was a cold-blood-
edness in every sharp corner of his
face, bilious though his temper was,
that would have let him see me go to
the bottom a thousand times over,
had I even had a chance with his
daughter herself, ere he'd have yielded
me the tip of her little finger : accord-
ingly 'twas a satisfaction to me, at the
moment, just to make him see he
wasn't sJtogether in his nabob's
chair in Bengal yet, on an elephant's
back!
" Ah, though ! '^ said he, raising his
voice to call me back, ** to return for
an instant — there is one thing I must
positively require, sir — which you will
see,in the circumstances, to be unavoid-
able. As a mere simple cadet, observe
sir, there was nothing to be objected
to in a slight passing acquaintance —
but, especially in the — in short equi-
vocal— sir, I must request of you that
you will on no account attempt to hold
any communication with my daughter,
Miss Hyde — beyond a mere bow, of
course I 'Twill be disagreeable, I as-
sure you. Indeed, I shall — " " Siy, "
said I, all the blood in my body going
to my face, '^ of all things in the world,
that is the very thing where your views
and mine happen to square ! " and I
bowed. The man's coolness disgusted
me, sticking such a thing in my teeth,
after just reckoning on my services
with the very same breath, — and all
when it wasn't required, too ! And
by heaven I thought I, had she
shown me favour, all the old na-
bobs in Christendom, and the whole
world to boot, shouldn't hinder me
from speaking to her ! What I said
apparently puzzled him, but he gave
me a grand bow in his turn, and I had
my hand on the door, when he said,
" I suppose, sir, as a naval oflScer, you
have no objection to give me your
name and rank ? I forget what — "
Here I remembered my mistake with
the mate, and on the whole I saw I
must stick by it till I was clear of the
whole concern, — as for saying my
name was Wcstwobd, that I couldn't
have done at the time for worlds, but
I quietly handed him another card ;
meaning, of course, to give Westwood
the cue as shortly as 4)ossible, for his
own safety. The Judge started on
seeing the card, gave me one of his
sharp glances, and made a sudden step
towards rac. " Have you any relation
in India, Mr Westwood ? " said he,
slowly ; to which I gave only a nod.
'*What is he, if I may inquire?"
asked he again. "A councillor or
something, I believe," said I care-
lessly. " Thomas Westwood?" said
Sir Charles. " Ah, " said I, wearied
of the thing, and anxious to go. " An
uncle, probably, from the age?" he
still put in. " Exactly, that's it 1 "
I said. "Why — ^what! — why did
you not mention this at first?" he
broke out suddenly, coming close up ;
" why. Councillor Westwood is my
very oldest friend in India, my dear
sir ! This alters the matter. I should
have welcomed a nephew of his in my
house, to the utmost! Why, how
strange, Mr Westwood, that the fact
should emerge in this cmioiis manner 1 "
— and with that he held out his
hand. " Of course, " said he, " no
such restriction as I mentioned could
for a moment apply to a nephew of
Councillor Westwood I " I stai-ed at
him for a moment, and then—" Sir,"
said I, coolly, " it seems the whole
matter goes by names ; but if my name
were the devil, or the apostle Paul, I
732
TTk Gnen Hamd^A ^' Short'' Yanu-^Part VT.
[D€C
don*t «ee boiv it can make a bit of
ilirTerence in me : what's more, sir, "
said L setting my teeth, " whater«r
mv name mav be, depend upon it, I
shall never claim acquaintance either
with you or— or — Miss Hyde I •' "With
that i Hnng straight ont of the cabin,
leaving the old gentleman bolt upright
on the floor, and as dumb as a stock-
fish, whether with rage or amazement
I never stopped to think.
I wient right forward on the Indian-
man's forecastle, clear of all the awn-
ings, dropped over her head ont of
si^t of the men, and sat with my legs
amongst the open wood- work beneath
the bowsprit, looking at the calm, —
nobody in si^t bat the Hindoo figare,
who seemed to be doing the same.
Westwood! thonght I bitterly;
then in a short time, when the mis-
take's foond ont, and he got safe pait
the Cape, perhaps, — it'll be nothing
but Westwx)od ! He'll have a clear
stage, and all favonr : but at any rate,
how^<T it may be, ru. not be here,
by heaven! to see it. That cnrsed
oouncillor of his, I suppose, is another
nabob. — and no doubt he'll marry her,
all smooth! Uncles be — I little
thonght, by Jove! when I knocked off
that yam to the mate about my uncle
— but, after all, it's strange how often
a fellow's paid back in his own coin !
The heat at the time was unbearable,
— heat, indeed ! 'twaan't only heat,—
but a heavy, close, stifling sort of a
feeling, like in a hot-house, as if yon'd
got a weight on your head and every
other bit of yon : the water one time
so dead-blue and ^ssy between the
windings of it, that tlie sky seemed
to vanish, and the ship looked float-
ing up into where it was, — then again
you scarce knew sea from air, except
by the wrinkles and eddies running
across each other between, toward a
sullen blue ring at the horizon, —
like seeing through a big twisted sieve,
or into a round looking-glass all over
cracks. I heard them chie up every-
thing aloft, except the topsails, — and
thei/ fell slapping back and forward to
the masts, every now and then, with a
Ifttt^i like a thousand spades clapped
down at once over a hollow bit of
ground — till all seemed as still be-
tween as if they'd buried something.
I wished to heaven it were wiiat I
.^at the time, and the thonght of Vio-
let Hyde, that I might be as if I never
had seen her, — ^when on glandng up,
betwixt the figure-head and the ^p's
stem, it strack me to notice how much
tiie land on her starboard bow and
beam seemed to have risen, even dur-
ing the last honr, and that without
wind ; partly on acconnt of its clear-
ing in that quarter, perhaps ; but the
nearest points looked here and them
almost as if yon could see into them,
mnghening barer ont throngh the hue
of the distance, like pnrple blotches
BpreM/^g in it. Whereas, far away
astern of us, when I crossed over her
headworks, there were two or three thin
white streaks of haee to be seen jast
on thehorizon, one upoa another, above
which yoa made ont somewhat like a
dim range of peaked land, tren^ng
one oouMn't say how far back— ail
showing how fidriy the coast was shut-
ting her in upon the sonth-east, as
die set farther in- Aore, even wlula
the ran of the current bade fair to
take her well dear of it ahead ; wfaidi
was of course all we need care for at
present. Her want of steerago-way,
however, let the Indiaman sheer
hither and thither, till at times one
was apt to get confused, and suppose
her more in with the land-loom than
she really was. Accordingly the mate
proved his good judgment by havings
a coiq)le of baafts lowered with a tow-
line, to keep her at least stem-on to
tiie current, — although the trouble of
getting out the laandi wonld hav«
more served his porpose, and the
deeper loaded the better, since in tut
there were two favonraUe drifts instead
of one, between every stroke of the
oars. The men pulled away rather
snlkily, their stnuv hata orer their
noses, the dip of the hawser scaiee
tautening at each strain, as they
squinted up at the Seringapatam's idle
figure-head. Fiurniypart I had thonght
it better to leave him by himself, imd
go below.
When I went into the cuddy, more
for reliefs sake than to dine, the pas-
sengers were chattering and talking
away round the tables, hot and chok-
ing though it was, in high glee be-
cause the land was in sight from the
starboard port- window, and they fhn-
cied the ofltors had changed their
mind as to ^^ touching '^ there. Evevy
DOW and then a cadet or two woold
1849.]
Zla Grtm Hand—A " Short " 7am.—F(Mri VI.
73IJ
start np, with their silver forks in
their huids, and put their heads out ;
some asked whether the anchor had
been seen getting ready or not;
o^ers dispnted abont the colonr of
tropical trees^ if they were actnally
green like English ones, or perhaps all
over blossoms and frait together— the
whole of them oTidontly expecting
bands of negroes to lino the shore as
we came in. One young fellow had
taken a particular fancy to have an
earthworm, with earth enough to feed
it all the rest of the voyage, otherwise
he couldn't stand it ; and little Tom-
my's mother almost went into hys-
terics again, when she said, if she
conld just eat a lettuce salad once
more, she'd die contented ; the mis-
sionary looking up through his spec-
tacleiy in smprise that she wasn't
mom interested about the slave-trade,
whereof he'd been talking to her. As
fbr Westwood, he joined quietly in
the fhn, with a glance now and then
across to me ; however, I pretended
to be too busy with the salt beef, and
was merely looking up again for a
moment^ when my eye chanced to
catch on the swinging barometer that
hung in. the raised skylight, right
over the midst of our noise. By
Greorge I ma'iun, what was my horror
when I saw the quicksilver had sunk
ao far below the mark, probably fixed
there that morning, as to be almost
shrunk in the ball I Whatever the
merdiant service' might know about
tiie instrument in those days, the Afri-
can coast was the place to teach its
right use to us in the old Iris. I laid
down my knife and fork as carelessly
as I could, and went straight on
deek.
Here I sought ont the mate, who
was forward, watching the land — and
at oneo took him aside to tell him the
fact. ''W^sir," said he coolly, ''and
what of tiiat ? A sign of wind, cer-
tainly, before very long ; but in the
meantime we're «iir0to have it off the
land." " That's one of the very rea-
sons," said I, '' for thinking this will
be from seaward— since towards even-
ing the land'U have plenty of air with-
out it 1 But more than that, sir," said
I, '' I tell you, Mr Finch, I know the
west coast of Africa pretty well-— and
ao far south as this, the fflass falling so
low as twenig'Uoen^ is always the siga
of a nor' westerly blow I If yon'i-c a
wise man, sir, you'll not only got your
upper spars down on deck, but you'll
see your anchors clear ! " Finch had
plainly got furious at my meddling
again, and said he, '' Instead of that,
sir, I shall hold on everything aloft, to
stand out when I get the breeze!'*
" D'ye really think, then," said I,
pointing to the farthest-off streak of
land, trending away by this time
astern of as, faint as it was ; '' do yon
think yon could ever weather that
point, with anything like a strong
nor'-wester, besides a current heading
you in, as you got fair hold of it
again?" " Perhaps not," said he,
wincing a little as he glanced at it,
"but you happen always to suppose
what there's a thousand to one against,
sir I Why, sir, you might as well tako
the command at once I But, by G — !
sir, if it did come to that, I'd rather
— ^I'd rather see the ship lost — ^I'd ra-
ther go to the bottom with all in her,
after handling her as I know well
how, than I'd see the chance given to
you /" The young fellow fairly shout-
ed this last word into my very ear —
he was in a regular furious passion.
" You'd better let me ak)ne, that's all
Tve got to say to you, sir ! " growled
he as he turned away ; so I thought it
no use to say more, and leant over
the bulwarks, resolved to see it out.
The fact was, the farther we got off
the land ww, the worse — seeing that
if what I dreaded should prove true,
why, we were probably in thirty or
forty fathoms water, where no anchor
could hold for ten minutes' time — ^if it
ever caught ground. My way would
have been, to got every boat out at
once, and tow in till you could see the
colour of some shoal or other from
aloft, then tako my chance there to
ride out whatever might come, to tha
last cable aboard of us. Accordingly
I wasn't sorry to see that by this time
the whole bight of the coast was slowly
rising off our beam, betwixt the high
land far astern and the broad bluffis
upon her starboard bow ; which last
came out already of a sandy reddish
tint, and the lower part of a clear
blue, as the sun got westward on our
other side. What struck me was, that
the face of the water, which was all
over wrinkles and winding lines, with
here and there a quick ripple, when I
»70 t
4o±
The Green Hand— A " Short'' Yam.^Pari VI.
[Dec.
went below, had got on a sudden qoite
smooth as far as you <!ould see, as if
they'd sunk down like so many eels ;
a long uneasy ground-swell was be-
ginning to heave in from seaward, on
which the ship rose ; once or twice I
fancied I could observe the colour
different away towards the land, like
the muddy chocolate spreading out
near a river mouth at ebb-tide, — then
again it was green, rather ; and as for
tlic look of the coast, I had no know-
ledge of it. I thought again, certainly,
of the old quartermaster's account in
the Iris, but there was neither any-
thing like it to be seen, nor any sign
of a break in the coast at all, though
high headlands enough.
The ship might have been aboat
twelve or fourteen miles from the
north-east point upon her starboard
bow, a high rocky range of bluft*8, —
and ratherless from the nearest of what
lay away oft* her beam, — but after this
you could mark nothing more, except
it were that she edged farther from the
point, by the way its bearings shifted
or got blun-ed together: either she
stood still, or she'd caught some eddy
or under- drift, and the mate wadked
about quite lively onco more. The
matter was, how to breathe, or bear
your clothes — when all of a sudden I
heard the second mate sing out from
the forecastle — " Stand by the bracks,
there ! I^ok out for the topes'l hawl-
yairds ! '* lie came shuffling aft next
moment as fast as his foundered old
shanks could carry him, and told Mr
Finch there was a squall coming off
the land. The mate sprang up on the
bulwarks, and so did I — catching
a glance from him as mucli as to
say — There's your gale from seaward,
you pretentious lubber! The lowest
streak of coast bore at present before
our starboard quarter, betwixt east
and sonth-east'ard, with some pretty
high land running away up from it,
and a sort of dim blue haze hanging
beyond, as 'twere. Just as Macleod
spoke, I could see a dusky dark vapour
thickening and spreading in the haze,
till it rose black along the flat, out of
the sky behind it ; whitened and then
darkened again, like a heavy smoke
floating up into the air. All was con-
fusion on deck for a minute or two —
off went all the awnings — and every
hand was ready at his station, fisting
the ropes ; when I looked again at
the cloud, then at the mates, then at
it again. "5y George!" said I,
noticing a pale wreath of it go cnrlmg
on the pale clear sky over it, as if to
a puff of air, — ^^ it is smoke ! Some
niggers, as they so often do, boming
the bush!" So it was ; and as soon as
Finch gave in, all hands qnietly coiled
up the ropes. It was scarce five
minutes after, that Jacobs, who was
coiling up a rope beside me, gave me
a quiet touch with one finger — " Air
Collins, su-," said he in a low voice,
looking almost right np, high over
toward the ship's larboard bow, which
he couldn't have done before, for the
awnings so lately above ns, — " look,
sir — there's an ox-eye!'' I followed
his gaze, but it wasn't for a few
seconds that I found what it pointed
to, in the hot far-off- like bine dimness
of the sky overhead, compaored with
the white glare of which to westward
our canvass aloft was bat dirty gray
and yellow.
'Twas what none but a seaman
would have observed, and many a
seaman wouldn't have done so, — hnt
a man-o'-war's-man is used to look
out at all hours, in aU latitudes, — and
to a man that knew its meaning, this
would have been no joke, even out of
sight of land: as it was, the thing
gave me a perfect thrill of dread
High aloft in the heavens northward,
where they were freest from the sun —
now standing over the open horizon
amidst a wide bright pool of light, —
you managed to discern a small ^verj
speck, growing slowly as it were out
of the faint blue hollow, like a star in
the day-time, till you felt as if it
looked at you, from Grod-knows what
distance away. One eye after another
amongst the mates and crew joined
Jacobs's and mine, with the same sort
of dnmb fellowship to be seen when a
man in London streets watches the
top of a steeple ; and however hard
to make out at first, ere long none of
them could miss seeing it, as it got
slowly larger, smking by degrees till
the sky dose about it seemed to
thicken like a dusky ring round the
white, and the sunlight upon oar sea-
ward quarter blazed ont doubly
strong — as if it came dazzling off a
brass bell, with the bright tongue
swinging in it far off to one side,
1849.]
The Green Hand— A '* Short " Yarn.-^Pari VI.
735
where the hush made jou think of a
stroke back upon ns, with some terri-
fic sonud to boot. The glassy water
by this time was beginning to rise
imder the ship with a stmggling
kind of uneqnal heave, as if a dant
you couldn't see kept shoving it down
here and there with both hands, and
it came swelling up elsewhere. To
north -westward or thereabouts, be-
twixt the sun and this ill-boding token
aloft, the far line of open sea still lay
shining motionless and smooth ; next
time you looked, it had got even
brighter than before, seeming to leave
the horizon visibly ; then the streak
of air just above it had grown gray,
and a long edge of hazy vapour was
creeping as it were over from beyond,
— the white speck all the while tra-
velling down towards it slantwise
from nor'ard, and spreading its dark
ring slowly out into a circle of cloud,
till the keen eye of it at last sank in,
and below, as well as aloft, the whole
north-western quarter got blurred
together in one gloomy mass. K
there was a question at first whether
the wind mightn't come from so far
nor'ard as to give her a chance of
running out to sea before it, there
was none now, — our sole recourse lay
either in getting nearer the land
meanwhile, to let go our anchors ere
it came on, with her head to it, — or
wo might make a desperate trial to
weather the lee-point now far astern.
The fact was, we were going to have
a regular tornado, and that of the
worst kind, which wouldn't soon blow
itself out; though near an hour's
notice would probably pass ere it was
on.
The three mates laid their heads
gravely together over the capstan for
a minute or two, after which Finch
seemed to perceive that the first of
the two ways was the safest ; though
of course the nearer we should get to
the land, the less chance there was of
clearing it afterwards, should her
cables part, or the anchors drag. The
two boats still alongside, and two
others dropped fi-om the davits, were
manned at once and set to towing the
Indiaman ahead, in-shore ; while the
bower and sheet anchors were got
out to the cat-heads ready for lettine
go, cables overhauled, ranged, and
dinched as quickly as possible, and
VOL. LXVI. — NO. CCCCX.
the deep-sea lead passed along to take
soundings every few minutes.
On we crept, slow as death, and
almost as still, except the jerk of the
oars from the heaving water at her
bows, and the loud flap of the big
topsails now and then, everything
aloft save them and the brailed fore-
sail being already close furled ; the
clouds all the while rising away along
our larboard beam nor'west and
north, over the gray bank on the
horizon, till once more you could
scarce say which point the wind
would come from, unless by the huge
purple heap of vapour in the midst.
The sun had got low, and he shivered
his dazzling spokes of Ught behind
one edge of it, as if 'twere a moun-
tain you saw over some coast or other:
indeed, you'd have thought the ship
almost shut in by land on both sides
of her, which was what seemed to
terrify the passengers most, as they
gathered about the poop-stairs and
watched it, — which was the true land
and which the clouds, 'twas hard to
say, — and the sea gloomed writhing
between them like a huge lake in the
mountains. I saw Sir Charles Hyde
walk out of the round-house and in
again, glancing uneasily about : his
daughter was standing with another
young lady, gazing at the land ; and
at sight of her sweet, curious face, I'd
have given worlds to be able to do
something that might save it from the
chance, possibly, of being that veiy
night dashed amongst the breakers on
a lee-shore in the dark — or at best,
suppose the Almighty favoured any
of us so far, perhaps landed in the
wilds of Africa. Had there been
aught man could do more, why, though
I never should get a smile for it, I'd
have compassed it, mate or no mate ;
but all was done that could be done^
and I had nothing to say. Westwood
came near her, too, apparently seeing
our bad case at last to some extent,
and both trying to break it to her and
to assure her mind ; so I folded my
arms again, and kept my ejes hard
fixed upon the bank of cloud,* as some
new weather-mark stole out in it, and
the sea stretched breathless away be-
low, like new-melted lead. The air
was like to choke you— or rather there
was none — as if water, sky, and every-
thing else wanted /j/f, and one would
8c
73G
The Green Hand'-A " Short'' Kwnw— ArT
[Dec
fain have caught the first iiish of the
tornado into his mouth — the men
emptying the dipper on deck from tlic
cask, from sheer loathing. As for the
land, it seemed to draw nearer of it-
self, till every point and wrinkle in
the headland off our bow came out in
a red coppery gleam — one saw the
white line of surf round it, and some
blue country beyond like indigo ; then
back it darkened again, and all aloft
was getting livid-like over the baro
royal mast-heads.
Suddenly a faint air was felt to
flutter from landward ; it half lifted
the top-sails, and a heayy earthy
swell came into your nostrils — the first
of the land-br^ze, at last; but by
this time it was no more than a sort
of mockery, while a minute after yon
might catch a low, sullen, moaning
sound far off through the emptiness,
from the strong surf the Atlantic sends
in upon the West Coast before a squall.
If ever landsmen found out what land
on the wrong side is, the passengers
of the Seringapatam did, that moment ;
the shudder of the top-saUs aloft
seemed to pass into every one's
shoulders, and a few quietly walked
below, as if they were safe in their
cabins. I saw Violet Hyde look
round and round with a startled ex-
pression, and from one face to another,
till her eye lighted on me, and I
fancied for a moment it was like put-
ting some question to mo. I couldn't
bear it ! — 'twas the first time I'd felt
powerless to ofier anything; though
the thought ran through me again till
I almost felt myself buffeting among
the breakers vrith her in ray arms.
I looked to the land, where the smoke
wo had seen three-quarters of an
hour ago rose again with the pnff of
air, a slight flicker of flame in it, as it
wreathed off the low ground toward
the higher point, — ^when all at once I
gave a start, fbr something in the
shape of the whole struck me as if I'd
seen it before. Next moment I was
thinking of old Bob Martin's particular
landmarks at the river mouth he spoko
of, and the notion of its possibly being
hereabouts glanced on me like a god-
send. In the unsure dnsky sight I
had of it, certainly, it wore somewhat
of that look, and it lay feir to leeward
of the weather; while, as for the dead
9iuii4a appearance of it, old Bob had
specially said you'd never think it was
a river ; but t^hen again it was more
like a desperate fancy owing to our
hard case, and to run the ship straight
for it would be the trick of a bed-
lamite. At any rate a qnick cry from
aft turned me ronnd, and I saw a bine
flare of lightning streak ont betwixt
the bank of gray haze and the dond
that hung over it — then another, and
the clouds were beginning to rise
slowly in the midst, leaving a white
glare between, as if yon could see
through it towards what was coming.
The men conld pull no longer, bat
ahead of the ship there was now only
about eight or ten fathoms water,
with a soft bottom. The boats were
hoisted in, and the men had begun to
cine up and hand the topsails, which
were lowered on the caps, when, just
in the midst of the hnbbnb and con-
fusion, as I stood listening to eveiy
order the mate gave, the steward came
np hastily from below to tell him that
the captain had woke up, and, bebg
much better, wanted to see him im-
mediately. Mr Finch looked sur-
prised, but he turned at once, and
hurried down the hatchway.
The sight which all of us who
weren't busy gazed npon, over the
larboard bulwarks, was terrible to see :
'twas half dark, though the sun, drop-
ping behind the haze-bank, made it
glimmer and redden. The dark heap
of clouds had first lengthened ont
blacker and blacker, and was rising
slowly in the sky like a mighty arch,
till yon saw their white edges below,
and a ghastly white space l^hind, ont
of which the mist and scad began to
fly. Next minute a long sigh came
into her jib and foresail, then the
black bow of cloud partly sank again,
and a blaze of lightning came ont all
round her, showing yon ercry face on
deck, the inside of tbe ronnd-honsa
aft, with the Indian Judge standing in
it, his hand to his eyes. — and the land
far away, to the very swell rolling in
to it. Then the thunder broke over-
head in the gloom, in one fearfnl sud-
den crack, that. yon seemed to hear
through every comer of cabins and
fbrecastle below, — and the wet back-
fins of twenty sharks or so, that
had risen ont of the lAy snrface,
Tanisbed as suddenly. The Indiamaa
luid sheered almost tmadaide oa to
1849.]
The Green Hcmd-^A " Slwrt'' Yam.^Pmi VL
737
the clonds, her jib was still tip, and I
knew the next time the clouds rose we
should fairly have it. Flash after flash
came, and clap after clap of thunder,
mch as you hear before a tornado —
yet the chief officer wasn't to be seen,
and the others seemed uncertain what
to do first ; while every one began to
wonder and pass along questions
where he could be. In fact, he had
disappeared. For my part, I thought
it voiy strange he staid so long ; but
there wasn't a moment to lose. I
jumped down off the poop-stairs,
walked forward on the quarterdeck,
and said coolly to the men nearest
me, ^^Ruu and haul down that jib
yonder — set the spanker hero, aft.
Yon'U have her taJcen slap on her
beam : qnick, my lads !" The men
did so at once. Macleod was calling
out anxiously for Mr Finch. " Stand
by the anchors there !" I sang out^
"to let go the starboard one, the
momem she swings head to wind!'*
The Scotch mate turned his head ; but
RidLett's face, by the next flash, show-
ed he saw the good of it, and there
was no leisure for arguing, especially
as I spoke in a way to be heard. I
walked to the wheel, and got hold of
Jacobs to take the weather- helm. We
were all standing ready, at the pitch
of expecting it. Westwood, too, hav-
ing appeared again by this time beside
xne, I whispered 4o him to run for-
ward and look after the anchors —
when some one came hastily np the
after-hatchway, with a glazed hat and
pilot-coat on, stepped straight to the
binnacle, looked in behind me, then
at the black bank of cloud, then aloft.
Of com^e I supposed it was the mate
again, but didn't trouble myself to
glance at him fhrther — when " Hold
on with the anchors !" he sang out in
a loud voice — " hold on there for your
lives I'* Heavens I it was the captain
himself I
At this, of course, I stood aside nt
once; and he shouted again, " Hoist
the jib and fore-topmast-staysail —
stand by to set fore-course!" By
Jove I this was the way to pay the
ship kead off, instead of stem off,
from the blast when it came — and to
let her drive before it at no trifle of a
rate, wherever thai might take her!
" Down with that spanker, Mr Mac-
leod, d*ye hoarp roared Captain
Williamson again ; and certainly I did
wonder what he meant to do with the
ship. But his manner was so decided,
and 'twas so natural for the captain to
strain a point to come on deck in the
circumstances, that I saw he must
have some trick of seamanship above
mc, or some special knowledge of the
coast, — and I waited in a state of the
greatest excitement for the first stroke
of the tornado. He waved the second
and third mates forward to their posts
— the Indiaman sheering and backing,
like a frightened horse, to the long
slight swell and the faint flaw of the
land air. The black arch to windward
began to rise again, showing a temble
white stare reaching deep in, and a
blue dart of lightning actually ran
zig-zag down before our glaring fore-
to'gallant-mast. Suddenly the cap-
tain had looked at me, and we faced
each other by the gleam ; and quiet,
easy-going man as he was commonly,
it just flashed across me there was
something extraordinarily wild and
raised in his pale visage, strange as
the air about us made every one
appear. He gave a stride towards me,
shouting "Who are — "when the thun-
der-clap took the words out of his
tongue, and next moment the tornado
burst upon us, fierce as the wind from
a cannon's mouth. For one minute
the Seringapatam heeled over to her
starboard streak, almost broadside on,
and her spars toward the land, — all
on her beam was a long ragged white
gush of light and mist pouring out
under the black brow of the clouds,
with a trampling eddying roar up into
the sky. The swell plunged over her
weather-side like the first break of a
dam, and as we scrambled up to the
bulwarks, to hold on for bare life, you
saw a roller, fit to swamp us, coming
on out of the sheet of foam— when
crash went mizcn-topmast and main-
to'gallant-mast: the ship payed swiftly
off by help of her head- sails, and, with
a leap like a harpooned whale, ofi* she
drove fair before the tremendous
sweep of the blast.
The least yaw in her course, and
she'd have never risen, unless every
stick went out of her. I laid my
shoulder to the wheel with Jacobs,
and Captain Williamson screamed
through his trumpet into the men's
ears, and waved his hands to ride
738
The Green Hand— A " Short " Yam.— Part 77.
[Dec.
down the fore-sheets as far as theyM
go; which kept her right before it,
though the sail could be but half-set,
and she rather flew than ran — the
sea one breadth of white foam bade to
the gushes of mist, not having power
to rise higher yet. Had the foresail
been stretched, 'twould have blown
off like a cloud. I looked at the cap-
tain : he was standing in the lee of the
round-house, straight upright, though
now and then peering eagerly for-
ward, his lips firm, one hand on a
belaying-pin, the other in his breast —
nothing but determination in his
manner ; yet once or twice he started,
and glanced fiercely to the after-
hatchway near, as if something
from below might chance to thwart
him. I can't express my contrary
feelings, betwixt a sort of hope and
sheer horror. We were driving right
towards the land, at thirteen or four-
teen knots to the hour, — ^yet could
til ere actually be some harbourage
hereaway, or that said river the
quarter-master of the Iris men-
tioned, and Captain Williamson know
of it ? Something struck me as won-
derfully strange in the whole matter,
and puzzling to desperation, — still I
trusted to the captain's experience.
The coast was scarce to be seen
ahead of us, lying black against- an
uneven streak of glimmer, as she
rushed like fury beforo the deafening
howl of wind ; and right away before
our lee-bcam I could see the light
blowing, as it were, across beyond
the headland I had noticed, where
the smoke in the bush seemed to be
still curling, half-smothered, along the
flat in the lee of the hills, as if in
green wood, or sheltered as yet from
seaward, though once or twice a
quick flicker burst up in it. All
at once the gust of the tornado was
seen to pour on it, like a long blast
from some huge bellows, and up it
flashed — the yellow flame blazed mto
the smoke, spread away behind the
point, and the ruddy brown smoke
blew whitening off over it:— > when,
Almighty power ! what did I see as it
lengthened in, but part after part of
old Bob's landmarks creep out ink-
black before the flare and the streak
of sky together— first the low line of
ground, then the notch in the block,
the two rocks like steps, and the
sugar-loaf shape of the headland, to
the very mop-headed knot of trees (m
its rise ! No doubt Captain Wittiam-
son was steering for it ; but it was
far too much on our starboard bow —
and in half an hour at this rate we
should drive right into the surf you
saw running along to the coast ahead
—so I signed to Jacobs for god-sake
to edge her off as nicely as was pos-
sible. Captain Williamson caaght
my motion. '^ Port ! port, arrah ! ^
he sang out sternly ; ^^back with the
helm, d'ye hear ! " and, pulling out a
pistol, he levelled it at me with one
hand, while he held a second in the
other, " Land!— land, by G— df"
shouted he, and from the lee of the
round-house it came more like a shriek
than a shout — '^ I'll be there though
a thousand mutineers — ^ His eye
was like a wild beast's. That moment
the truth glanced across me— ^is was
the green leaf, no doubt, the Scotch
mate talked so m3r8terion8lv oi. The
man was mad! The land-fever was
upon him, as Fd seen itb^ore in men
long off the African coast; and he
stood eyeing me with one foot hard
stamped before him. Twas no use
trying to be heard, and the despera-
tion of the moment gave me a thought
of the sole thing to do. I took off my
hat in the light of the binnacle, bowed,
and looked him straight in the face
with a smile — when-his eye wavered,
he slowly lowered his pistol, then
/ati^^W, waving his hand towards the
land to leeward^ as if, but for the gale,
you'd have heard him cheer. At the
instant I sprang behind him with the
slack of a rope, and grappled his arms
fast, though he'd got the furious
power of a madman, and, daring half
a minute, 'twas wrestle for life with
me. But the line was round him, ann
and leg, and I made it fast, throwing
him heavily on the deck, just as one
of the mates, with some of the crew,
were struggling aft, by help of the be-
laying-pins, against the hurricane,
having caught a glimpse of the thing
by the binnacle-light. They looked
from me to the captain. The ugly top-
man made a sign, as much as to say,
knock the fellow down ; but the vrhole
lot hung bac^ before the couple of
pistol-barrels I handled. The Scotch
mate seemed awfuUy puzzled ; and
others of the men, who knew torn
1849,]
The Green Hand-^A " Short " Yam.^Part VL
739
Jacobs what I was, came shoving
along, evidently aware what a case
we were in. A word to Jacobs served
to keep him steering her anxiously,
so as to head two or three points more
south-east in the end^ furiously as the
wheel jolted. So there we stood, the
tornado sweeping sharp as a knife
from astern over the poop- deck, with
a force that threw any one back if he
left go his hold to get near me, and
going up like thunder aloft in the
sky. Now and then a weaker flnre
of lightning glittered across the scud ;
and, black as it was overhead, the ho-
rizon to windward was but one jagged
white glare, gushing full of broad
shifting streaks through the drift of
foam and the spray that strove to rise.
Our fore-course still held ; and I took
tiie helm from Jacobs, that he might
go and manage to get a pull taken on
the starboard brace, which would not
only ilant the sail more to the blasts,
but give her the better chance to make
the sole point of salvation, by helping
her steerage when most needed. Ja-
cobs and Westwood together got this
done ; and all the time I was keeping
my eyes fixed anxiously as man can
fancy, on the last gleams of the fire
ashore, as her head made a fairer line
with it; but, by little and little, it
went quite out, and all was black —
though I had taken its bearings
by the compass — and I kept her to
that for bare life, trembling at every
shiver in the foresail's edge, lest either
it or the mast should go.
Suddenly we began to get into a
fearful swell — the Indiaman plunged
and shook in every spar left her. I
could see nothing ahead, from the
wheel, and in the dark : we were getting
close in with the land, and the time
was coming; but still I held south-
east-by-east to the mark of her head
in the compass box, as nearly as might
and main could do it, for the heaves
that made me think once or twice
she was to strike next moment. If
she went ashore in my hands ! why, it
was like to drive one mad with fear ;
and I waited for Jacobs to come back,
with a brain ready to turn, almost as
if I*d have left the wheel to the other
helmsman, and run forward into the
bows to look out. The captain lay
•raving and shouting behind me, though
010 one else could either have heard or
seen him ; and where the chief officer
was all this time, surprised me, unless
the madman had made away with him,
or locked him in his own cabin, in re-
turn for being shut up himself, — which
in fact proved to be the case, cunning
as it was to send for him so quietly. At
length Jacobs struggled aft to me again,
and charging him, for heaven's sake,
to steer exactly the course I gave, I
drove before the full strength of the
squall along-decks to the bowsprit,
where I held on and peered out.
Dead ahead of us was the high line of
coast in the dark — not a mile of swell
between the ship and it. By this time
the low boom of the surf came under
the wind, and you saw the breakers
lifting all along, — not a single opening
in them ! I had lost sight of my land-
marks, and my heart gulped into my
mouth — what I felt 'twould be vain to
say, — till I thought I did make out
one short patch of sheer black in the
range of foam, scarce so far on our
bow as I'd reckoned the fire to have
been : indeed, Instead of that, it was
rather on her weather than her lee
bow ; and the more I watched it, and
the nearer we drove in that five mi-
nutes, the broader it was. ** By ali
that's good I " I thought, " if a river
there is, that must be the mouth of
it ! " But, by heavens I on our present
course, the ship would run just right
upon the point, — and, to strike the
clear water, her fore-yard would re-
quire to be braced up, able or not^
though the force of the tornado would
come fearfully on her quarter, then.
There was the chance of taking all the
masts out of her ; but let them stand
ten minutes, and the thing was done,
when we opened into the lee of the
points — otherwise all was over I
I sprang to the fore-braces and be-
sought the men neai*me, for Grod'ssaket
to drag upon the lee one — and that as
if their life hung upon it — ^when West-
wood caught me by the arm. I merely
shouted through my hands into his
eai* to go aft to Jacobs and tell him to
keep her head a single point up, what-
ever might happen, to the last, — then
I pulled with the men at the brace till
it was fast, and scrambled up again to
the bowsprit heel. Jove! how she
surged to it : the little canvass we had
strained like to burst; the masts
trembled, and the spars aloft bent like
740
ThB €heen, BomiA ^^Skmt'' Ymm.'^Pwi VL
U^m.
whip-shafts, ereiything below groaa-
ing again ; while the swell and the
blast together made yon dizzy, as 700
watched the white eddies rising and
boiling oat of the dark — her cntwater
shearing through it and tiie foam, as if
yea were going under it. The sound
of the hurricane and the surf seemed
to be growing together into one awfoi
loar, — ^my very brain began to tun
with the pitch I was wroHght up to—
and it appeared next moment we
should heave &r up into the savage
hubbub of breakers. I was wearying
for the crash and the wild c(HUfasion
that would follow — ^wheii all of a sod-
den, still catching tiie fierce msh of
the gale athwart her qaarter into the
fore-course, which steadied her though
she shuddered to it — all on a sodden
the dark mass of the land seemed as
it were parting ahead of her, and a
gleam of pale sky opened below the
dusk into my very face. . I no moffo
knew what I was doing, by this time,
Bor where we were, than the spar
before me, — till again, the light broad-
ened, glimmering low betwixt the hijg^
land and a lamp of rising level on the
other bow. I hurried ait past the
confused knots of men holding oa to
the lee of the bulwarks, and seized a
spoke of the wheel. *^ Tom,'' shouted
I to Westwood, ^^ run and let free the
spanker on the poop I Down with tlM
hehn — down with it, Jacobs, my ladl"
I sang out; ^^ never mind spars or
canvass !" Down went the h^ ^the
spanker helped to lufif her to the
strength of the gust— and away she
went up to port, the heavy swells
»^ling her in, while the rush into bar
staysail and forecourse came in one
terrible flash of roaring wind, — tearing
first one and then the other dear oat
of the bolt-ropes, thmigfa the loose
qf^anker abaft was in less dai^^,
and the way she bad from both was
enough to take her careening vooad
the point into its lee. By heavens 1
there were the streaks of sofifc baas
low over the rising moon, under tha
broksa doods, beyond a far line af
dim Mngy woods^ she herself ymt
tipping the hollow behind, big and lad
— ^when right down from over the
dood above us came a spoai of xalot
then a sheet of it lifting to the blast
as it hcHvled across the point* ^^ Stand
by to let go the larboMd anchor] " I
sang oat through thetrompat; and
Jacobs pot the hehn loUy dcnniatlfaa
Hiomei^ tiU she was eoniQg liead to
wind, when I made fiMward to the
mates and men. *^Let— ipo!** I
shouted : not a look tnraod a^uast
me, and away thnndered the cahia
through the hawse-hole; she shook
to it, shaerad astern, and brought up
with her anchor fast. By that line
the rain was pladiing down ia a par*
fiact deluge— yon couldn't see a yaid
from yoib— all was one whilo pear af
it ; akhoui^ it soon began to drsps
a^in over the headland, as the tor-
nado gathered new food oat of iL
Another andior waatetgo,eiriUepayad
out, and the ship soon bogaa to swiag
the other wi^ to the tide, pitching att
the while on the short swell.
Thogala still whistied i\a9B^
spars for two or three homs,
which it began by de|pr«es to UL
▲boat eleven o'clock it was olsar
moonlight to leeward, the air frash aai
cool : a delicioas watoh it waa, ta^
I was walking tiie poop by mysalb^
two or three man loui^pii^ t^iffSif
about the foncastle, and iUckatt be-
low on the qaarterdeek, when I aasr
the chief officer himself rash up from
below, staring wikUy rennd faini, as
if he thought we weie in sonus dmna
or other. I leaded at fisst the mate
would have straek Biekett, from the
way he west on, bat I kept aft whwe
I was. The eddies ran past the
Indiaman's side, and you haaid the
&st ebb of the tide nidiing and lip-
pliag sweetly on her tant caUes ahee^
plashing id>oat the bows and benii
We were in old Bob liartm'a
whatever that might be.
1849.] '
The Vinon of Sudden BtaOi.
741
THE VISION OP SUDDEN DEATH.
[The reader is to understand this present paper, in its two seotions of The
Vision^ &c., and The Drecan-Fugue, as connected with a previoos paper on
The English Mail-Coach, published in the Magazine for Octob^. The ulti-
mate object was the Dream-Fugue, as an attempt to wrestle with the utmost
efforts of music in dealing with a colossal form of impassi(med horror. The
Vision of Sudden Death contains the mail-coach incident, which did really
occur, and did really suggest the variations of the Dream, here taken up by
the Fugue, as well as other variations not now recorded. Confluent with
these impressions, from the terrific experience on the Manchestor and Glasgow
mail, were other and more general impressions, derived from long familiarity
with the English mail, as developed in the former paper; impressions, for
instance, of animal beauty and power, of rapid motion, at that time unprece-
dented, of connexion with the government and public business of a great
nation, but, above all, of connexion with the national victories at an unex-
ampled crisis,— >the mail being the privileged organ for publishing and dispers-
ing all news of that kind. From this fanction of the mail, arises naturally the
introduction of Waterloo into the fourth variation of the Fugue ; for the mail
itself having been carried into the dreams by the incident in the Vision, natu-
rally all the accessory circumstances of pomp and grandeur investing this
national carriage followed in the train of the principal image.]
What is to be thought of sudden
death ? It is remarkable that, in dif-
ferent conditions of society, it has
been variously regarded, as the con-
summation of an earthly career most
fervently to be desired, and, on the
other hand, as that consummation
which is most of all to be deprecated.
Cfl^ar the Dictator, at his last dinner
party, (oma,) and the very evening
before his assassination, being ques-
tioned as to the mode of death which,
tin his opinion, might seem the most
eligible, replied — ^^ That which should
be most sudden." On the other
hand, the divine Litany of our Eng-
lish Church, when breathing forth
supplications, as if in some represen-
tative character for the whole human
race prostrate before God, places such
a death in the very van of horrors.
'^ From lightning and tempest ; from
plague, pestilence, and famine ; from
battle and murder, and from sudden
death, — Oood Lord, deliver t«."
Sudden death is here made to crown
the climax in a grand ascent of
calamities ; it is the last of curses ;
and yet, by the noblest of Romans, it
was treated as the first of blessings.
In that difference, most readers will
see littlQ more than the difference be-
tween Christianity and Paganism.
But there I hesitate. The Christian
church may be right in its estimate of
sudden death ; and it is a natural
feeling, though after all it may also
be an infirm one, to wish for a quiet
dismissal from life — as that which
seems most reconcilable with medita-
tion, with penitential retrospects, and
with the humilities of farewell prayer.
There does not, however, occur to me
any direct scriptural warrant for this
earnest petition of the English Litany.
It seems rather a petition indulged to
human infirmity, than exacted from
human piety. And, however that may
be, two remarks suggest themselves
as prudent restraints upon a doctrine,
which else may wander, and has wan-
dered, into an uncharitable supersti-
tion. The first is this : that many
people are likely to exaggerate the
horror of a sudden death, (I mean the
objective horror to him who contem-
plates such a death, not the 9ubfef>
tive horror to him who suffers it)
from the false disposition to lay a
stress upon words or acts, simply
because by an accident they have
become words or acts. If a man
dies, for instance, by some sudden
death when he happens to be in-
toxicated, such a death is falsely
regarded with peculiar horror; as
though the intoxication were sud-
denly exalted into a blasphemy.
But that is unphilosophic. The man
was, or he was not, habitua/fy a
drunkard. If not, if his intoxication
were a solitary accident, there can be
no reason at all for allowing special
emphasis to this act, simply because
through misfortune it became his final
act Kor, on the other hand, if it
742
were no accident, bat one of his
habitual transgressions, will it be the
more habitoal or the more a trans-
gression, because some sndden cala-
mitj, surprising him, has caused this
habitual transgression to be also a
final one? Could the man have had
any reason even dimly to foresee his
own sudden death, there would have
been a new feature in his act of in-
temperance— a feature of presumption
and irreverence, as in one that by pos-
sibility felt himself drawing near to
the presence of God. But this is no
part of the case supposed. And the
only new element in the man's act is
not any element of extra immorality,
but simply of extra misfortune.
The other remark has reference to
the meaning of the word suddem. And
it is a strong illustration of the duty
which for ever calls us to the stem
valuation of words— that very pos-
sibly Caesar and the Christian church
do not differ in the way supposed ;
that is, do not differ by any diffe-
rence of doctrine as between Pagan
and Christian views of the moral
temper appropriate to death, but
that they are contemplating different
cases. Both contemplate a violent
death ; a BtaOaporos — death that is
Btatos : but the difference is — that the
Roman by the word *^ sudden ** means
an urdingering death : whereas the
Christian litany by " sudden " means
a death without ufoming^ consequently
without any available summons to
religions preparation. The poor mu-
tineer, who kneels down to gather
into his heart the bullets from twelve
firelocks of his pitying comrades, dies
by a most sudden death in Cesar's
sense : one shock, one mighty spasm,
one (possibly not one) groan, and all
is over. But, in the sense of the
Litany, his death is far from sudden ;
his offence originallv, his imprison-
ment, his trial, the mterval between
his sentence and its execution, having
all furnished him with separate
warnings of his fate — having all
summoned him to meet it with solemn
preparation.
Meantime, whatever may be thought
of a sudden death as a mere variety
in the modes of dying, where death in
some shape is inevitable — a question
which, equally in the Roman and the
Christian sense, will be variously an-
swered according to each man's variety
The Futon of Sudden DeaA.
[Dec
of temperament — certainly, upon one
aspect of sudden death there can be
no opening for donbt, that of all
agonies incident to man it ia the most
frightfhl, that of all martyrdoma it b
the most freezing to human senalMii*
ties — ^namely , where it surprises a man
under circumstances which offer (or
which seem to offer) some hurried and
inappreciable chance of evading it.
Any effort, by which such an evasion
can be accomplished, must be as
sudden as the diuiger which it affix«t&
Even thai^ even the sickening neces-
sity for hurrying in extremity where
all hurry seems destined to be vaio,
self-baffled, and where the dreadfal
knell of too iate Is already sounding in
the ears by anticipation— even that
angroish is Uable to a hideous exaspe-
ration in one particular case, namdy,
where the agonising i^peal is made
not exclusively to the instinct of self-
preservation, but to the conscience, on
behaJf of another life besides your own,
accidentally cast upon your protection.
To fail, to collapse in a service merely
your own, might seem comparatively
venial ; though, in fact, it is far firom
venial. But to fail in a case where
Providence has suddenly thrown into
your hands the final interests of an-
other— of a fellow-ereature shuddering
between the gates of life and death ;
this, to a man of apprehensive con-
science, would mmgle the misery <tf an
atrocious criminality with tiie miseiy
of a bloody calamity. The man is
called upon, too probably, to die ; but
to die at the very moment when, by
any momentary collapse, he is self-
denounced as a murderer. He had
but the twinkling of an eye for his
effort^ and that effort might, at the
best, have been unavailing; but firom
this shadow of a chance, small or
great, how if he has recoiled by a
treasonable ^ocAef^f The effort »n^
have been without hope; but to
have risen to the level of that
effort — would have rescoed him,
though not from dying, yet firom
dying as a traitor to his duties.
The situation here contemplated
exposes a dreadful ulcer, lurking far
down in the depths of human nature.
It is not that men generally are sum-
moned to face such awful trials. Bat
potentially, and in shadowy outline,
such a trial is moving sublerraneovdy
in perhaps all men's natures— mutter*
1849.]
The Vision of Sudden Death,
ing nnder groand in one world, to be
realised perhaps in some other. Upon
the secret mirror of our dreams such
a trial \& darkly projected at intervals,
perhaps, to every one of us. That
-dream, so familiar to childhood, of
meeting a lion, and, from languishing
prostration in hope and vital energy,
that constant sequel of lying down
before him, publishes the secrei frailty
of human nature — ^reveals its deep-
seated Pariah falsehood to itself—
records its abysmal treachery. Per-
haps not one of us escapes that dream ;
perhaps, as by some sorrowful doom
of man, that dream repeats for every
one of us, through every generation,
the original temptation in Eden.
Every one of us, in this dream, has a
bait offered to the infirm places of his
own individual will; once again a
snare is made ready for leading him
into captivity to a luxury of ruin;
again, as in aboriginal Paradise, the
man falls firom innocence ; once again,
by infinite iteration, the ancient Earth
groans to God, through her secret
caves, over the weakness of her child ;
*^ Nature from her seat, sighing through
all her works,** again ^ Ogives signs of
woe that all is lost ;*' and again the
counter sigh is repeated to the sorrow-
ing heavens of the endless rebellion
against God. Many people think that
on,e man, the patriarch of our race,
could not in his single person execute
this rebellion for all his race. Perhaps
they are wrong. But, even if not,
perhaps in the world of dreams every
one of us ratifies for himself the ori-
ginal act. Our English rite of ^^ Con-
firmation," by which, in years of
awakened reason, we take upon us
the engagements contracted for us in
our slumbering infancy, — how sublime
a rite is that! The little postern
gate, through which the baby in its
cradle had been silently placed for a
time within the glory of God's coun-
tenance, suddenly rises to the clouds
as a triumphal arch, through which,
with banners displayed and martial
pomps, we make our second entry as
crusading soldiers militant for God,
by personal choice and by sacramen-
tal oath. Each man says in effect —
*' Lo ! I rebaptise myself ; and that
which once was sworn on my behalf,
now I swear for myself." Even so in
dreams, perhaps, under some secret
743
conflict of the midnight sleeper, lighted
up to the consciousness at the time,
but darkened to the memory as soon as
all is finished, each several child of our
mysterious race completes for himself
the aboriginal fall.
As I drew near to the Manchester
post-office, I found that it was con-
siderably past midnight ; but to my
great relief, as it was important for
me to be in Westmorland by the
morning, I saw by the huge saucer
eyes of the mail, blazing through the
gloom of overhanging houses, that my
chance was not yet lost. Past the
time it was ; but by some luck, very
unusual in my experience, the mail
was not even yet ready to start. I
ascended to my seat on the box, where
my cloak was still lying as it had lain
at the Bridgcwater Arms. I had left
it there in imitation of a nautical dis-
coverer, who leaves a bit of bunting
on the shore of his discovery, by way
of warning off the ground the whole
human race, and signalising to the
Christian and the heathen worlds,
with his best compliments, that he
has planted his throne for ever upon
that virgin soil; henceforward claim-
ing the jus dominii to the top of the
atmosphere above it, and also the
right of driving shafts to the centre of
the earth below it ; so that all people
found after this warning, either alofl
in the atmosphere, or in the shafts, or
squatting on the soil, will be treated
as trespassers — that is, decapitated by
their very faithful and obedient ser-
vant, the owner of the said bunting.
Possibly my cloak might not have
been respected, and the^'u^ gentium
might have been cruelly violated in
my person — for, in the dark, people
commit deeds of darkness, gas being
a great ally of morality — but it so
happened that, on this night, there was
no other outside passenger; and the
crime, which else was but too pro-
bable, missed fire for want of a crimi-
nal. By the way, I may as well
mention at this point, since a circum-
stantial accuracy is essential to the
effect of my narrative, that there was
no other person of any description
whatever about the mail — the guard,
the coachman, and myself being
allowed for— except only one — a horrid
creature of the class known to the
world as insiders, but whom young
744
7%e Vision ofStuUen Deaih.
[Dec
Oxford calldd sometimes ^ Trojans,''
in opposition to oar Grecian selves,
and sometimes ^* vermin." A Turkish
Effcndi, wlio piques himself on good-
breeding, will never mention by name
a pig. Yet it is but too often tbat
be has reason to mention this animal ;
since constantly, in the streets of
Stamboul, he has his trousers deranged
or polluted by this vile creature run-
ning between his legs. But under
any excess of hurry he is always care-
ful, out of respect to the company he
is dining with, to suppress tlie odious
name, and to call the wretch ^^ that
other creature," as though all animal
life beside formed one group, and this
odious beast (to whom, as Chrysippus
obser\^od, salt serves as an apology
for a soul) formed another and alien
group on the outside of creation.
Now I, who am an English Effendi,
that think myself to understand good-
breediug as well as any son of Othman,
beg my reader*s pardon for having
mentioned an insider by his gross
natural name. I shall do so no more :
and, if I should have occasion to
glance at so painful a subject, I shall
always call him ^^that other creature."
Let us hope, however, that no such
distressing occasion will arise. But,
by the way, an occasion arises at this
moment ; for the reader will be sure
to ask, when we come to the story,
*' Was this other creature present?"
He was »ot ; or more correctly, per-
haps, it was not. We dropped the
creature— or the creature, by natural
imbecility, dropped itself — within the
first ten miles from Manchester. In
the latter case, I wish to make a
philosophic remark of a moral ten-
dency. When I die, or when the
reader dies, and by repute suppose of
fever, it wUl never be known whether
we died in reality of the fever or of
the doctor. But this oUier creature,
in the case of dropping out of the
coach, will enjoy a coroner's inqoest ;
consequently he will enjoy an epitaph.
For I insist upon it, that the verdict
of a coroner's jury makes the best of
epitaphs. It is brief^ so that the
public all find time to read it ; it is
pithy, so that the surviving friends
(if any can survive such a loss) re-
xnenber it without fatigue; it is upon
OAth, BO that rascals ai^ Dr Johnsons
<2ftnnotpidLhole6init. ''Died through
the visitation of intense rtnpidity, bj
impinging on amooolightntghtagaiDBt
the off hind wheel of the Glasgow maE!
Deodand upon the said wb^ — ^two-
pence." What a simple l^pidazy
inscription! Kobody much in the
wrong but an off- wheel ; and with few
acquaintances; and if it were bst
rendered into choice Latin, though
there would be a little bother in find-
ing a Ciceronian word for *•' off- wheel,"
Morcellus himself, that great master
of sepulchral eloquence, could not
show a better. Why I call this little
remark moroLf is, from the compenr
sation it pomts out. Here, by the
supposition, is that other creature oa
the one side, the boast of the world;
and he (or it) gets an epitaph. You
and I, on the contrary, tlie pride of
our friends, get none.
But why linger on the subject oC
vermin ? Having mounted the box, I
took a small quantity of landanum,
having already travelled two bmuiiei
and fifty miles — via., from a pomt
seventy miles beyond London, upon a
simple breakfast. In the taking of
laudanum there was nothing extraor-
dinary. But by accident it drew upsn
me the special attention of my asses-
sor OB the box, the coachman. And
in tliat there was nothing extraordi-
nary. But by accident, and with
great delight, it drew my attention Is
the f&ct that this coachman wss a
monster in point of size, and that he
had but one eye. In fact he had
foretold by Virgil
" Monstnim borrendum, informe, hig«ai,
cai lumen ademptuio.** #
He answered in every point — a mon-
ster he was — dreadful, shapeless, huge,
who had lost an eye. But why should
that delight me ? Had he been one of
the Calendars in the Arabian KigktSi
and had paid down his eye as ths
price of his criminal curiosity, whit
right had /to exult in his misfartnne?
I did nt>t exult: I delighted in ns
man's punishment, though it wess
even merited. But these personal
distinctions identified in an instant sa
old friend of mine, whom I had known
in the south for some years as the most
masterly of mail-coachmen. He
the man in all Europe that could
have undertaken to di-ivc six-in-hani
full gallop over Al Sirat — that famnoi
18^.]
The Vision qfSuddm Dmth.
715
Inidge of Mahomet across the bottom-
less golf, backing himself against the
Prophet and tweotj such fellows. I
used tocall him Cyclops mastigapkorus^
Cyclops the whip- bearer, until I ob-
served that his skill made whips use-
less, exoept to fetch off an impertinent
fiy from a leader^s head ; upon which
I changed his Grecian name to Cy-
clops dipkrekUes (Cyclops the chario-
ter. ) I, and o thers nio wn to me, studied
under him the diphrelatic art. Ex-
cuse, reader, a word too elegant to be
pedantic. And also take t^s remark
from me, as a gage d^amiiie — that
BO word ever was or can be pedantic
which, by snpporting a distinction, sup-
ports the accuracy of logic; or which
fiUs up a chasm for the understanding.
As a pupil, though I paid extra fees,
I cannot say that I stood high in his
esteem. It showed his dogged ho-
nesty^ (thoogh, observe, not his dis-
cernment,) that he could not see my
merits. Perhaps we ought to excuse
his absurdity in this particular by re-
membering his want of an eye. not
made him blind to my merits. Irri-
tating as this blindness was, (sorely
it could not be envy ?) he always
eourted my conversation, in which art
I certainly had the whip-hand of hhu.
On this occasion, great joy was at our
meeting. But wliat was Cyclops do-
ing here ? Had the medical men re-
commended northern air, or how ? I
collected, firom such explanations as
he volunteered, that he had an interest
at stake in a suit-at-kiw pending at
Lancaster; so that probably he bad
got himself transferred to tbis station,
lor the purpose of connecting with his
professional pursuits an instant readi-
ness for the calls of his law-suit.
Meantime, what ve we stopping
for ? Surely we've been waiting long
enough. Oh, this procrastinating
mail, and oh this procrastinating post-
office 1 CanH they take a lesson upon
that subject from me? Some people
have called me procrastinating. Now
you are witness, reader, that I was
in time for t?tem. But can tkey lay
their hands on their hearts, and say
that they were in time for me ? I,
during my life, have often had to wait
for the post-office : Uie post-office
uever waited a minute for me. What
are liiey about ? The guard tells me
that there is a large extra accasMila*
tion of foreign mails this night, owing
to irregularities caused by war and by
the packet-service, when as yet no-
thing is done by steam. For an exiwa
hour, it seems, the post-office hm
been engaged in threshing out the
pure wheaten correspondence of Glas-
gow, and winnowing it from the chaff
of all baser intermediate towns. We
can hear the flails going at thia
moment But at last all is fiuLshed*
Sound your horn, guard. Manches-
ter, good bye; weVe lost an hour by
your criminal conduct at the post-
office : which, however, though I do
not mean to part with a serviceable
ground of complaint, and one which
really is such for the horses, to me
secretly is an advantage, since it coi»-
pels us to recover this last hour
amongst the next eight or nine. Off
we are at last, and at eleven miles
an hour: and at first I detect no
changes in the energy or in the skill
of Cyclops.
From Manchester to Kendal, which
virtually (though not in law) is the
capital of Westmoreland, were at thia
time seven stages of eleven miles each.
The first five of these, dated from
Manchester, terminated in Lancaster,
which was therefore fifty- five miles
north of Manchester, and the same
distance exactly from Liverpool. The
fii-st three terminated in Prestou
(called, by way of distinction from
other towns of that name, proud Pres-
ton,) at which place it was that the
separate roads from Liverpool and
firom Manchester to the north became
confluent. Within these first tkrae
stages lay the fouudatieu, the progress^
and termination of our night^s adven-
ture. Dnriug the first stage, I found
out that Cyclops was mortal : he was
liable to the shocking affection of
sleep— a thing which I bad never pre-
viously suspected. If a man is addicted
to the vicious habit of sleeping, all
the skill in aarigation of Apollo him-
self, with the horses of Aurora to exe-
cute the motions of his will, avail him
nothing. ^^ Oh, Cyclops I " I exclaim-
ed more than once, ^^Cyc^ps, my
friend ; thou art mortal. Thou suor-
est." Through this first eleven mttee,
however, he betrayed his infirmity- —
which I grieve to say he shared with
the whole Pagan Pantheon — only by
abort stretobea. On waking w^ ha
746
made an apology for himself, which,
instead of mending the matter, liud an
ominous fonndation for coming dis-
asters. Ttie summer assizes were
now proceeding at Lancaster : in con-
sequence of which, for three nights
and three days, he had not lain down
in a bed. Durmg the day, he was
wuting for his uncertain summons as
a witness on the trial in which he
was interested; or he was drinking
with the other witnesses, under the
vigilant surveillance of the attorneys.
Daring the night, or that part of it
when the least temptations eidsted to
conviviality, he was driving. Through-
out the second stage he grew more
and more drowsy. In the second
mile of the third stage, he surrendered
himself finally and without a struggle
to his perilous temptation. All his
past resistance had but deepened the
weight of this final oppression . Seven
atmospheres of sleep seemed resting
upon him ; and, to consummate the
case, our worthy guard, after singing
'* Love amongst the Boses," for the
fiftieth or sixtieth time, without any
invitation from Cyclops or myself,
and without applause for his poor
labours, had mooidily resigned himself
to slumber — not so deep doubtless as
the coachman's, but deep enough for
mischief; and having, probab^, no
similar excuse. And thus at last,
about ten miles from Preston, I found
myself left in charge of his Majesty's
London and Glasgow mail then run-
ning about eleven miles an hour.
^ What made this negligence less
criminal than else it must have been
thought, was the condition of the roads
at night during the assizes. At that
time all the law business of populous
Liverpool, and of populous Manchester,
with its vast cincture of populous
rural districts, was called up by an-
cient usage to the tribunal of I^ipn-
tian Lancaster. To break up this old
traditional usage required a conflict
with powerful established interests, a
large system ofnew arrangements, and
a new parUamentary statute. As
things were at present, twice in the
year so vast a body of business rolled
northwards, from the southern quarter
of the county, that a fortnight at
The Vision of Sudden Death.
[Dec
least occupied the serere exertions of
two judges for its despatch. The
consequence of this was — ^that every
horse availablefor sncha service, akng
the whole line of road, was exhausted
in carrying down the multitudes of
people who were parties to the diffe-
rent suits. By sunset, therefore, it
usually happened that, through utter
exhaustion amongst men and horsest
the roads were all ulent. 'Except
exhaustion in the vast adjacent oouity
of York from a contested dectioB,
nothing like it was ordinarily wit-
nessed in England.
On this occasion, the usual sQence
and solitude prevailed along the road.
Not a hoof Bor a wheel was to be
heajrd. And to strengthen this false
luxurious confidence in the noisdess
roads, it happened also that the night
was one of peculiar solemnity and
peace. I myself, thongh sligfaUy
alive to the posubilities of peril, had
so far yielded to the influence d the
mighty calm as to sink into a pro-
found reverie. The month was An-
gust, in whidi lay my own birth-day ;
a festival to every thonghtfol man
suggesting solemn and often agh-
bom thoughts.* The county was ray
own native county — ^npon which, in its
southern section, more than upon any
equal area known to man past or
present, had descended the original
curse of labour in its heaviest form,
not mastering the bodies of paoi only
as of slaves, or criminals in mines,
but working through the fieiy wilL
Upon no equal space of earth, was, or
ever had been, the same energy of
human power put forth daily. At
this particular season also of the
assizes, that dreadful hurricane of
flight and pursuit, as it might have
seemed to a stranger, that swept to
and from Lancaster all day long,
hunting the county up and down, and
regularly subsiding about sunset,
united with the permanent distincticn
of Lancashune as the very metropolis
and citadel of labour, to point the
thou^ts pathetically upon that
counter vision of rest, of saintiy re-
pose from strife and sorrow, towards
which, as to their secret haven, the
profounder aspirations of man's heart
a bir«?/AV^""" } **^® *^« Buggestion of this word to an obseiire remomhnaee of
oeautiflil phrase m GIraldus CambninsiB, viz., $UMfnriota cogkaiUme$.
1849.]
The Vmon of Sudden Death.
arc continnally travelling. Obliquely
we were nearing the sea upon onr
left, which also must, under the pre-
sent circnmstances, be repeating the
general state of halcyon repose. The
sea, the atmosphere, the light, bore
an orchestral part in this universal
lull. Moonlight, and the first timid
tremblings of the dawn, were now
blending; and the blendings were
brought into a still more exquisite
state of unity, by a slight silvery
mist, motionless and dreamy, that
covered the woods and fields, but
with a veil of equable transparency.
Except the feet of our own horses,
which, running on a sandy margin of
the road, m»le little disturbance,
there was no sound abroad. In the
clouds, and on the earth, prevailed
the same majestic peace ; and in spito
of all that the villain of a schoolmaster
has done for the ruin of our snblimer
thoughts, which are the thoughts of
our infancy, we still believe in no
such nonsense as a limited atmo-
sphere. Whatever we may swear
with our false feigning lips, in our
faithful hearts we still believe, and
must for ever believe, in fields of air
traversing the total gulf between
earth and the central heavens. Still,
in the confidence of children that
tread without fear every chamber in
their father^s house, and to whom no
door is closed, we, in that Sabbatic
vision which sometimes is revealed
for an hour upon nights like this,
ascend with easy steps from the sor-
row-stricken fields of earth, upwards
to the sandals of God.
Suddenly from thoughts like these,
I was awakened to a sullen sound, as
of some motion on the distant road.
It stole upon the air for a moment ;
I listened in awe ; but then it died
away. Once roused, however, I
could not but observe with alarm the
quickened motion of our horses. Ten
years* experience had made my eye
learned in the valuing of motion ; and
I saw that we were now running
thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to
no presence of mind. On the con-
trary, my fear is, that I am miserably
and shamefully deficient in that qua-
lity as regards action. The palsy of
747
doubt and distraction hangs like some
guilty weight of dark unfathomed re-
membrances upon my energies, when
the signal is fiying for action. But,
on the other hand, this accursed gift
I have, as regards thought^ that in the
first step towards the possibility of a
misfortune, I see its total evolution :
in the radix, I see too certainly and
too instantly its entire expansion ; in
the first syllable of the dreadful
sentence, I read already the last. It
was not that I feared for ourselves.
What could injure us ? Our bulk and
impetus charmed us against peril in
any collision. And I had rode
through too many hundreds of perils
that were frightful to approach, that
were matter of laughter as we looked
back upon them, for any anxiety to
rest upon our interests. The mail
was not built, I felt assured, nor be-
spoke, that could betray me who
trusted to its protection. But any
carriage that we could meet would be
frail and light in comparison of our-
selves. And I remarked this ominous
accident of our situation. We were
on the wrong side of the road. But
then the other party, if other there
was, might also be on the wrong
side ; and two wrongs might make a
right. That was not likely. The
same motive which had drawn us to
the right-hand side of the road, viz.,
the soft beaten sand, as contrasted
with the paved centre, would prove
attractive to others. Our lamps, still
lighted, would give the impression of
vigilance on our part. And every
creature that met us, would rely upon
us for quartering.* All this, and if
the separate links of the anticipation
had been a thousand times more, I
saw — ^not discursively or by eflfort —
but as by one fiash of horrid intui-
tion.
Under this steady though rapid
anticipation of the evil which might
be gathering ahead, ah, reader I what
a sullen mystery of fear, what a sigh
of woe, seemed to steal upon the air,
as again the far-oflf sound of a wheel
was heard! A whisper it was — a
whisper from, perhaps, four miles off
— secretly announcing a ruin that,
being foreseen, was not the less inevit-
• " Quartering*^ — this is the technical word ; and, I presume, derived from the
French cartayer, to evade a rut or any obstacle.
74S
2%tf Vimm ofSmddm Dtath.
[Dec
flMe. What Qcmldbedoito--who ma
it tint cooM do it — ^to cheek the
storm-flight of these Biaiiiacsl hones ?
What I oonki I not seiM the rems
irom thegrai^ of the shimberiDgeoadi-
man? Yon, reader, think that it
would have been in yimr power to do
so. And I quarrel not with your
estimate of yourself. Bnt, from the
way in which the coachman's hand
was viced between his npper and lower
thigh, this was impossible. The gaard
sateeqnently found it impossible, after
tins danger had passed. Not the
grasp only, but also the position of this
Polyphemus, made the attempt im»
possible. Tou still think otherwise.
See, then, that bronze equestrian
statue* The cruel rider has kept the
bit ta his horse's mouth ibr two cen-
turies. Unbridle him, for a minute,
if yon please, and wash his mouth
with water. Or stay, reader, unhorse
me that marble emperor : knock me
those marble feet from those marble
sttiTups of Chariemagne.
The sounds ahead strengthened,
and were nowtoo cleariy the sounds of
wheels. Who and what could it be ?
Was it industry in a taxed cart ? — ^was
it youthful gaiety in a gig? Whoever
it was, something must be attempted
to warn them. Upon the other party
rests the active responsibility, but
upon t» — and, woe is me! that us
was my single self— rests the respon-
sibility of warning. Tet, how should
this be accomplished? Might I not
seize the guard's horn ? Already, on
the first thought, I was making my
way over the roof to the guard's seat.
But this, from the fbreign mails being
piled upon the roof, was a difficult,
and even dangerous attempt, to one
cramped by nearly three hundred
miles of outside travelling. And,
fortunately, before I had lost much
time in the attempt, our finntic horses
swept round an angle of the road,
whidi opened upon us tiie stage where
the colfision must be accomplished,
the parties that seemed summoned to
the trial, and the impossibility of sav-
ing them hy any communication with
the guard.
IBefore us lay an avenue, straight
as an arrow, six hundred yards, per-
haps. In length ; and the umbrageous
trees, which rose in a r^ular line
from either side, meeting mgh over-
head, gave to it the dianMster of a
eathednl aisle. These trees lent a
deeper sotesuiity to the eariy 11^;
but there was still light enough to
perceive, at the fimher end of tins
gothic aisle, a light, reedy gig, ia
which w<He seated ayoung man, and,
by Mb side, m young lady. Ah, yooi^
sur! what are you about? if it ia
necessary that yov should wfaoper
your communications to this yeuag
lady— though really I see nobody at
this hour, and on this soBtaiy nad,
likely to oveihear your eonvenatieii
— ^is it, therefore, neoessaij that you
should carry your lips forwud to hent
The little carriage is Greepittg on at
one mile an hour; and the parties
within it, being tiius tend^y engaged,
are naturally bending down their
heads. Between them and eUnity,
to all human calculation, there is but
a minute and a half. Whatisittiiat
T shall do? Strange it is, and to a
mere auditor of the tale, ndght seem
laughable, that I should need a sug-
gestion from the lUad to prompt the
sole recourse that remamed. Bat
so it was. Suddenly I remembered
tiieshout of Achilles, and its eftet
But could I pretend to shout like tin
son of Peleus, uded by PaSas? No,
certainly : but then I needed not the
shout that should alarm all Asia mi-
litant ; a shout would sofllce, andi as
should carry terror into the hearts of
two thoughtless youngpeople, and one
gig horse. I shoutecf-and tiie young
man heard me not. A second time I
shouted — ^and now he heacrd me, for
now he raised Wb head.
Here, then, all had been done that,
by me, couid be done : more on my
part was not possible. Mine had been
Iho first step : the second was for the
young man : I3ie third was for God.
If, said I, the stranger is a hove
man, and if, indeed, he loves the
young girl at his side-— or, loving her
not, if he feels the oUigation prenng
upon every man worthy to be called
a man, of doing his utmost for a wo-
man confided to his proteetlOB--ho
will at least make some effort to save
her. If ^uxi foQs, he will not perish
the more, or by a death more enud, for
having made it ; and he will die, as
a brave man should, with his fooe to
the danger,and with his aim abont the
woman that he sought in Taia toaave.
1840.]
Th€ Vmm ofSmUm Death.
Bat if he makes no efibrt, shrinkiDg,
without a straggle, from his duty, he
himself wiQ not the less certainly
perish for this baseness of poltroonery.
He will die no less : and why not ?
Wherefore should we grieve that there
18 one craven less in the world ?^ No ;
let him perish, without a pitying
thought of ours wasted upon him ;
and, in that case, all our grief will be
reserved for the fate of the helpless
girl, who, now, upon the least shadow
of failure in hint, must, by the fiercest
of translations — must, without time
for a prayer — must, witiiin seventy
seconds, stand before the judgment-
seat of God.
But craven he was not: sudden
had been the call upon him, and
sudden was his answer to the call.
He saw, he heard, he comprehended,
the ruin that was coming down : al-
ready its gloomy shadow darkened
above him ; and already he was mea-
suring his strength to deal with it.
Ah ! what a vulgar thiug docs courage
seem, when we see nations buying it
and selling it for a shilling a-day : ah !
what a sublime thing does courage
seem, when some feariul crisis on the
groat deeps of life carries a man, as
if running before a hurricane, up to the
giddy crest of some mountainous wave,
from which, accordingly as he chooses
his course, he descries two courses,
and a voice says to him audibly —
*' This way lies hope; take the other
way and mourn for ever ! " Yet, even
then, amidst the raving of the seas
and the frenzy of the danger, the man
is able to confront his situation — is
able to retire for a moment into soli-
tude with God, and to seek all his
counsel from hun! For seven seconds,
it might be, of his seventy, the stranger
settled his countenance steadfastly
upon us, as if to search and value
every clement in the conflict before
him. For five seconds more he sate
immovably, like one that mused on
some great purpose. For five he sate
with eyes upraised, like one that pray-
ed in sorrow, under some extremity of
doubt, for wisdom to guide him to-
wards the better choice. Then sud-
denly he rose; stood upright; and,
by a sudden strain npon Sie reins,
I'aising his horse's forefeet from the
ground, he slewed him roand on tha
pivot of his hind legs, so as to plant
749
the little equipage in a position neariy
at right-angles to ours. Thus far his
condition was not improved; except
as a first step had been taken towards
the possibility of a second. If no
more were done, nothing was done;
for the little carriage still occupied
the very centre of our path, though
in an altered direction. Yet even
now it may not be too late : fifteen
of the twenty seconds may still be
unexhausted ; and one almighty bound
forward may avail to clear the ground.
Hurry then, hurry ! for the flying mo-
ments— tJi^ hurry ! Oh hurry, hurry,
my brave young mant for the cruel
hoofs of our horses — tiiey also hurry !
Fast are the flying moments, faster
are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not
for htm^ if human energy can suffice :
faithful was he that drove, to his
terrific duty ; faithful was the horse
to his command. One blow, one
impulse given with voice and hand
by the stranger, one rush from the
horse, one bound as if in the act of
rising to a fence, landed the docile
creature's fore -feet upon the crown or
arching centre of the road. The
larger half of the little eqtfipago had
then cleared our over- to wering shadow:
tfiat was evident even to my own
agitated sight. But it mattered little
that one wreck should float off in
safety, if upon the wreck that per-
ished were embarked the human
freightage. The rear part of the
carriage — was tliat certainly beyond
the line of absolute ruin? What power
could answer the question ? Glance
of eye, thought of man, wing of angel,
which of these had speed enough to
sweep between the question and the
answer, and divide the one from tho
other? Light does not tread upon
the steps of light more indivisibly,
than did our all- conquering arrival
upon the escaping efforts of the gig.
That must the young man have felt
too plainly. His back was now turned
to us; not by sight could he any
longer communicate with the peril;
but by the dreadful rattle of our har-
ness, too truly had his ear been in-
structed— that all was finished as
regarded any fhrther effort of His.
Already in resignation he had rested
from his struggle ; and perhaps, in his
heart he was wintering — ** Father,
which art above, do thou finL^
750
The Vision of Sudden Death.
[Dec
in heaven what I on eai-th have
attempted." We ran past them
faster than ever mill-race in onr
inexorable flight. Oh, raving of
hurricanes that most have sounded in
their young ears at the moment of
our transit ! Either with the swingle-
bar/or with the haunch of our near
leader, we had struck the off- wheel of
the little gig, which stood rather
obliquely and not quite so far advanced
as to be accurately parallel with the
near wheel. The blow, from the
fury of our passage, resounded terri-
fically. I rose in horror, to look upon
the ruins we might have caused.
From my elevated station I looked
down, and looked back upon the scene,
which in a moment told its tale, and
wrote all its records on my heai't for
ever.
The horse was planted immovably,
with his fore-feet upon the paved
crest of the central road. He of the
whole party was alone untouched by
the passion of death. The little
cany can*iage — partly perhaps from
the dreadful torsion of the wheels in
its recent movement, partly from the
thundering blow we had given to it —
as if it sympathised with human
horror, was all alive with tremblings
and shiverings. The young man sat
like a rock. He stirred not at all.
But his was the steadiness of agitation
frozen into rest by horror. As yet
he dared not to look round ; for he
knew that, if anything remained to
do, by him it could no longer be done.
And as yet he knew not for certain if
their safety were accomplished. But
the lady
But the lady ! Oh heavens ! will
that spectacle ever depart from my
dreams, as she rose and sank npon her
seat, sank and rose, threw np her arms
wildly to heaven, clutched at some
visionary object in the air, faintiug,
praying, raving, despairing! Figure to
yourself, reader, the elements of the
case ; suffer me to recal before your
mind the circumstances of the unpar-
alleled situation. From the silence
and deep peace of this saintly sum-
mer night, — from the pathetic blending
of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight,
dreamlight, — from the manly tender-
ness of this flattering, whispering,
murmming love, — ^suddenly as from
the woods and fields, — suddenly as
from the chambers of the ur opening
in revelation, — suddenly as from the
ground yawning at her feet, leaped
upon her, with the flashing of cata-
racts. Death the crownM phantom,
with all the equipage of his terrors,
and the tiger roar of his voice.
The moments were numbered. In
the twinkling of an eye onr fljing
horses had carried us to the termina-
tion of the umbrageous usle ; at right-
angles we wheeled into onr former
direction ; the turn of the road carried
the scene out of my eyes in an instant,
and swept it into my dreams for
ever.
Dream-Fugue.
ON THE ABOVE THEME OF SUDDBH DEATH.
" Whence the sound
Of instruments, that made melodions chime,
Was heard, of harp and organ; and who moyM
Their stops and chords, was seen; his ?olant tonoh
Instinct through all proportions, low and high,
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.
TumultuoamimamenU,
n
Par, LoH, B. xi.
^ Passion of Sudden Death 1 that once Rapture of panic taking the shape,
m youth I read and interpreted by which amongst tombs in churches I
the shadows of thy averted* signs;— have seen, of woman bursting her
• ** Averted signs."— I read the coarse and changes of the lady's agony in the suc-
cession of her inyoluntary gestures ; but let it be remembered that I read all this
»om the rear, neyer once catching the lady's full face, and even her profile imper-
1849.]
The Vision of Sudden Death,
sepulchral bonds — of woman^s Ionic
form bending forward from the ruins
of her grave, with arching foot, with
eyes upraised, with clasped adoring
hands—waiting, watching, trembling,
praying, for the trnmpet^s call to rise
from dust for ever ; — Ah, vision too
fearful of shuddering humanity on the
brink of abysses! vision that didst
start back — that didst reel away — like
a shrivelling scroll from before the
wrath of fire racing on the wings of
the wind ! Epilepsy so brief of horror
— ^wherefore is it that thou canst not
die ? Passing so suddenly into dark-
ness, wherefore is it that still thou
sheddest thy sad funeral blights upon
the gorgeous mosaics of dreams ?
IVagment of music too stem, heard
once and heard no more, what aileth
thee that thy deep rolling chords come
up at intervals through all the worlds
of sleep, and after thirty years have
lost no element of horror?
1.
Lo, it is summer, almighty summer I
The everlasting gates of life and sum-
mer are thrown open wide; and on
the ocean, tranquil and verdant as a
savannah, the unknown lady from the
dreadful vision and I myself are float-
ing : she upon a fairy pinnace, and I
upon an English three-decker. But
both of us are wooing gales of festal
happiness within the domain of our
common country — ^within that ancient
watery park — ^within that pathless
chase where England takes her plea-
sure as a huntress through winter and
summer, and which stretches from the
rising to the setting sun. Ah ! what
a wilderness of floral beauty was hid-
den, or was suddenly revealed, upon
the tropic islands through which the
pinnace moved. And upon her deck
what a bevy of human flowers — ^young
women how lovely, young men how
noble, that were dancing together, and
slowly drifting towards us amidst
music and incense, amidst blossoms
from forests and gorgeous corymbi
from vintages, amidst natural caroling
and the echoes of sweet girlish laugh-
ter. Slowly the pinnace nears us,
gaily she hails us, and slowly she dis-
appears beneath the shadow of our
mighty bows. But then, as at some
signal from heaven, the music and the
VOL. LXVI,— NO. CCCCX.
751
carols, and the sweet echoing of girl-
ish laughter — all are hu6he£ What
evil has smitten the pinnace, meeting
or overtaking her? Did ruin to our
friends couch within our own dreadful
shadow? Was our shadow the sha-
dow of death? I looked over the
bow for an answer ; and, behold ! J;he
pinnace was dismantled ; the revel and
the revellers were found no more ; the*
glory of the vintage was dust ; and the
forest was left without a witness to its
beauty upon the seas. " But where,"
and I turned to our own crew — ** where
are the lovely women that danced
beneath the awning of flowers and
clustering corymbi? Whither have
fled the noble young men that danced
with them f " Answer there was none. .
But suddenly the man at the mast-
head, whose countenance darkened
with alarm, cried aloud — ^^ Sail on the
weather-beam! Down she comes
upon us ; in seventy seconds she will
founder!"
2.
I looked to the weather-side, and^
the summer had departed. The sea^
was rocking, and shaken with gather*
ing wrath. Upon its surface sate
mighty mists, which grouped them-
selves into arches and long cathedral
usles. Down one of these, with the
fiery pace of a quarrel Arom a cross-
bow, ran a frigate right athwart our
course. ^^ Are they mad?" some
voice exclumed firom our deck. *^ Are
they blind? Do they woo their ruin?'*
But in a moment, as she was dose uponr
us, some impulse of a hea^y current
or sudden vortex gave a wheeling bias
to her course, and off she forged with-
out a shock. As she ran past us,
high aloft amongst the shrouds stood
the lady of -the pinnace. The deeps
opened ahead in malice to receive
her, towering surges of foam ran after
her, the billows were fierce to catcb
her. But far away she was borne
into desert spaces of the sea : whilst
still by sight I followed her, as she ran
before the howling gale, chased by
angry sea-birds and by maddening
billows ; still I saw her, as at the mo-
ment when she ran past us, amongst
the shrouds, with her white draperies
streaming before the wind. There she
stood with hair dishevelled, one hand
clutched amongst the tackling— rising^
752
ThBVidamofSitddmDe^aL
n>ee.
sinking, flattering, trembling, pny'>
ing— there fikr leagues I saw her as
she Blood, raising at intarrals one
hand to hearen, amidst the fiery crests
of the porsning waves and the raring
of the storm; nntil at last, npon a
sound from afiur of malidoos laughter
and mockery, aU was hidden fdr ever
in driving showers ; and afterwards,
but when I know not, and bow I know
not|
3.
Sweet funeral bells from some In*-
calcnlable distance, walling over the
dead tiiat die before the dawn,
awakened me as I slept in a boat
moored to some familiar shore. The
morning twilight even then was
breaking ; and, by the dnsky revela-
tions which it spread, I saw a girl
adorned with a garland of white
roses about her head for some great
festival, running along the solitary
strand with extremity of haste. Her
mnning was the running of panic ;
and often she looked back as to some
dreadfhl enemy in the rear. But when
I leaped ashore, and ibllowed on her
steps to warn her of a peril in front,
alas I from me she fled as from another
peril ; and vainly I shouted to her of
quicksands that lay ahead. Faster
and fiister she ran ; round a promon*
toiy of rock she wheeled out of sight ;
in an instant I also wheeled round it,
but only to see tiie treacherous sands
gathering above her head. Ah^ady
her person was buried ; only the fair
young head and the diadem of whito
roses anymd it were still visible to
the pitying heavens ; and, last of all,
T^as visible one marble arm. I saw
by the early twilight this fair young
head, as it was sinking down to dark-
ness saw this nuurble arm, as it rose
above her head and her treacherous
grave, tossing, fruiltering, rising,
clutching as at some fldse deceiving
hand stretched out from the clouds^—
saw this marble arm uttMing her dying
hope, and then her dyingdespair. The
head, the diadem, die arm, — these
all had sunk; at last over these also
the cruel quickiand had doeed ; and
no memorial of the fliir young giri
remained on earth, except my own
solitary tears, and the nineral bells
from tHo desert seas, that, rising
again more softly, sang a requiem
ovor the grave of the boned child^
and over her blighted dawn.
I sate, and wept in secret the tean
that men have ever given to the me-
mory of those that died befbre the
dawn, and by the treadieiy of eailli,
our mother. But the tears and flmcral
bells were hushed sndd^y by a shout
as of many nations, and by a roar
as from some great khig'sartilleiy ad-
vancing rapidly along Ihe valkys, and
heard afar by its edioes among the
mountains. ^Hudil" I said, as I
bent my ear earthwards to listen^
''hush I -*. this eitiier is the very
anarchy of strife, or else**— and that
I listened more profoundly, and said aa
I raised my head — '^ or else, ohhea-
vensl it is wOary that swaOows up
aUstriib.''
i.
Lnmediately, in tmc^ I was car-
ried over land and sea to some distant
kingdom, and placed upon a triumphal
car, amongst companions crowned
with laurel. The darkness of gather*
ing midniffht, brooduig over all the
land, hid mm us the mighty crowds
that were weaving restless^ about ear
caidage as a oentre — ^we heard them,
bat we saw them not. Tidings had
arrived, within an hour, of a grandeur
that measured itself against cemtaries ;
too full (tf pathos they were, too full
of joy that adcnowledged no fountain
but God, to utter themselves 1^ other
language than by tears, by restless
anthems, by levsrfoerationB risag
from every choir, of the (Haria ui
tBDcMM* These tidingB we tliat sato
upon the laurelled car had it for
our privilege to puUish amoagst all
nations. And afaready, by signs
audible through Ae daikness, by
snortings and tramplings, our an-
gry horses, that knew no fbar of
flttsfaly weariness, upbraided ua witii
delay. Wherefore wot it that ws
delayed? We waited for a secret
word, that should bear witness to the
hope of natfons, as now aooomplished
for ever. At midnight the secret
word arrived ; which wctd was —
Waterioo and Beoovend CfaiisteB-
dom! The dreadful word shone \ff
its own light; before us it went;
high above our leaders* heads it rode,
and spread a golden light over tiie
paths whidi we travenwd. Sivy
1849.]
I%e Visum of Sudden Deaik.
753
dtjj at the presence of the secret
word, threw open its gates to receive
ns. The rivers were silent as we
crossed* All the infinite fbi^ests, as
we ran along their margins, shivered
in homage to the secret word. And
the darbiess comprehended it.
Two hoars after midnight we reach*
ed a mighty minster. Its gates, which
rose to the clonds, were dosed. But
when the dreadfol word, that rode
before ns, reached them with its
golden light, silently they moved
back upon theur hinges; and at a
flying gallop onr equipage entered the
grand aisle of the cathedral. Head-
long was our pace ; and at erery al-
tar, in the little chapels and oratories
to the right hand and left of our
coarse, the lamps, dying or sickening,
kindled anew in sympathy with the
secret word that was flying past.
Forty leagues we might have run in
the cathe&il, and as yet no strength
of morning light had reached us, when
we saw before us the aerial galleries
of the organ and the choir. Every
pinnacle of the fret- work, every sta-
tion of advantage amongst the tra-
ceries, was crested by white-robed
choristers, that sangddiverance ; that
wept no more tears, as once tiieir
fathers had wept; bnt at intervals
that sang together to the generiUions,
saying—
" Chaant tho deliteivr^s praise in every
tongue,"
and receiving answers firom afar,
'^ such fts once in heaTca and earth were
STing.'*
And of their chaunting was no end ; of
our headlong pace was neither pause
nor remission.
Thus, as we ran like torrents — ^thns,
as we swept with bridal rapture over
the Campo Santo* of the cathedral
graves— suddenly we became aware
of a vast necropolis rising upon the
far-ofl* horizon — ^a city of sepnlchreSy
built within the sainUy cathedral for
the warrior de«d that rested from
their feuds on earth. Of purple gra-
nite was the necropolis ; yet, in the
first minute, it lay like a purple stain
upon the horizon — so mighty was the
distance. In the seeoi^ minute it
trembled through many changes,
growing into terraces and towers of
wondrous altitude, so mighty was the
pace. In the third minute ahready,
with our dreadful gallop, we were
entering its suburbs. Vast sarco-
phagi rose on every aide, having
towers and turrets that, upon the
limits of the central aisle, strode for-
ward with haughty intrusion, that ran
backwitii mighty ^adows into an-
swering recesses. Every sarcophagus
showed many bas-reliefs— bas-relie&
of battles— bas-reliefe of battle-fields ;
of battles from forgotten ages— of
battles from yesterday — of battle-
fields that, long since, nature had
healed and reconciled to herself with
the sweet oblivion of flowers— of bat-
tle-fields that were yet angrv and
crimson with carnage. Where the ter-
races ran, there did we run ; where the
towers curved, there did tve curve.
With the fiight of swallows our horses
swept round every angle. Like rivers
in flood, wheeling round headlands;
like hurricanes that ride into the se-
crets of forests ; £aster than ever light
unwove the mazes of darimess, our
flying equipage carried earthly pas-
sions— ^kindled warrior instincts—
amongst the dust that lay around us ;
dust oftentimes of our noble fathers
that had slept in God from Cr^ to
Trafiedgar. And now had we reached
the last sarcophagus, now were we
abreast of the last bas-relief, ahready
had we recovered the arrow-like flight
* Campc S(mto» — It ia probable that most of my readen will bo acquainted with
the history of the Campo Santo at Pisi^— composed of earth brought from Jerusalem
for a bed of sanctity, aa the highest prize whidi the noble piety of crusaders could ask
or imagine. There is another Campo Santo at Naples, formed, howeyer, (I presume,)
on the example giyen by Pisa. Possibly the idea may have been more extensiyely
copied. To readers who are unacquainted with EngUnd, or who (being English) are
yet unaoquamted with, tile cathedral cities of England, it may be right to mention
that the grares wxihin*«ide the osthedralt often form a flat payement oyer which oar>
riages and horses micht roll ; and perhaps a boyish remembrance of one particular
cathedral, across which I had seen passengen walk and bnrdena eaxried| may hav#
assisted my dream.
754
77^ Vitkm of Sudden DeM.
[Dec-
of the iOiliiitable central aisle, when
coming np this aisle to meet ns we be-
held a female infant that rode in a car-
^flge««s frail as flowers. The mists,
which went before her, hid the fawns
tbat drew her, bnt oonld not hide the
shells and tropic flowers with which
she* played — ^bnt conldnot hide the
lovely smiles by which she nttered
her trost in the mighty cathedral, and
in the cherobim that looked down
npon her from the topmost shafts of
its pillars. Face to face she was meet-
ing ns ; face to face she rode, as if
danger there wero none. ^^ Oh baby !"
I exclaimed, ** shalt thon be the ran-
som for Wateiioo? Most we, that
carry tidings of great joy to every
people, be messengers of nun to thee ?"
In horror I rose at the thought ; bnt
then, also, in horror at the thought,
rose one that was scolptnred on the
bas-relief— a Dying Thtmpeter. So-
lemnly from the field of battle he rose
to his i^t ; and, nnslinging his stony
trnmpet, carried it, in his dying an-
gnish, to his stony IJps — sounding
once, and yet once again ; proclama-
tion that, in tky ears, oh baby I most
have spoken fiom the battlements of
death. Immediately deep shadows
fell between ns, and aboriginal silence.
The choir had ceased to sing. The
hoofs of oar horses, Uie rattling of onr
harness, alarmed the graves no moro.
By horror the bas-relief had been un-
locked into life. By horror we, that
were so full of life, we men and our
horses, with their fiery fore-legs rising
in mid ahr to their everlasting gallop,
were firosen to a bas-relief. Then a
third time the trumpet sounded ; the
seals were taken off all pulses ; life, and
the frenzy of life, tore into their chan-
nels again ; again the choir burst forth
in sunny grandeur, as firom the muf-
fling of storms and darkness ; again
the thunderings of our horses cairied
temptation into the graves. One cry
burst from our lips as the clouds,
drawing off from the aisle, showed it
empty before us—" Whither has the
infantfled ? — is the young child caught
up to Cxod ? " Lo ! afar off, in a vast
recess, rose three mighty windows to
the clouds ; and on a level with their
summits, at height insuperable to
man, rose an altar of purest alabaster.
On its eastern face was trembling a
crimson gloiy. Whence came thatf
Was it from the reddening dawn that
now streamed through the windows?
Was it from the crimson robes of tiie
martyrs that were punted on the win-
dows? Was it from the bloody bas-
reliefs of earth? Whencesoever it
were— there, within that crimson ra-
diance, suddenly appeared a female
head, and then a female figure. It
was the child — ^now grown np to wo-
man's height. Clinging to tiie homa
of the altar, there she stood— sinking,
rising, trembling, fidnting-^raving,
despairing ; and behind the volume of
incense that, night and day, streamed
upwards fit>m the altar, was seen the
fiery font-, and dimly was descried
the outline of the dreadful being that
should baptise her with the t^fa«m» of
death. But by her side was kneeling
her better angel, that hid his face
with wings ; that wept and pleaded
for her; tnat prayed when «£? could
not ; that fought with heaven by tears
for her deliverance ; which also, as he
raised his immortal conntenanoe from
his wings, I saw, by the glory in his
eye, that he had won at last.
6.
Then rose the agitation, spreading
through the infinite cathedral, to its
agony ; then was completed the pas-
sion of the mighty fugue. The gc^den
tubes of the organ, which as yet had
but sobbed and muttered at intervals
— ^gleaming amongst clouds and surges
of incense — ^threw up, as from fbon-
tains unfrithomable, columns of heart-
shattering music. Choir and anti-
choir were filling fast with nnknown
voices. Thou also. Dying Trumpeter !
— ^with thy love that was victorious,
and thy anguish that was finishing,
didst enter the tumult : trumpet and
echo— fkrewell love, and frtrewdl
anguish — ^rang through the dreadful
eanctuSn We, tiiat spread fiight be-
fore us, heard the tumult, as of
fiight, mustering behind us. In fisar
we looked round for the unknown
steps that, in fiight or in pursuit, were
gathering upon our own. Who were
these that followed ? The fiices, which
no man could count — ^whence were
iheyf " Oh, darkness of the gnve f
I exclaimed, '' that from the crimson
altar and from the fiery font wert vi-
sited with secret light— that wert
searehed by the effulgmice in the an*
1849.]
The Vision of Sudden Death.
756
gel's eye — were these indeed thy
children ? Pomps of life, that, from
the burials of centuries, rose again to
the voice of perfect joy, could it be ye
that had wrapped me in the reflux of
panic ?" What ailed me, that I should
fear when the triumphs of earth were
advancing ? Ah I Pariah heart within
me, that conldst never hear the sound
of joy without sullen whispers of
treachery in ambush ; that, from six
years old, didst never hear the pro-
mise of perfect love, without seeing
aloft amongst the stars fingers as of
a man's hand writing the secret le-
gend— ** €uhe8 to ashes^ dust to dust P^
— wherefore shouldst thou not fear,
though all men should rejoice? Lo I
as I looked back for seventy leagues
through the mighty cathedral, and
saw the quick and the dead that sang
together to God, together that sang
to the generations of man — ahl raving,
as of torrents that opened on every
side: trepidation, as of female and
infant steps that fled — ah! rushing, as
of wings that chased ! But I heard a
voice from heaven, which said — " Let
there be no reflux of panic — let there
be no more fear, and no more sudden
death I Cover them with joy as the
tides cover the shore 1*' That heard
the children of the choir, that heard
the children of the grave. All the
hosts of jubilation made ready to
move. Like armies that ride in pur-
suit, they moved with one step. Us,
that, with laurelled lieads, were pass-
ing, from the cathedral through its
eastern gates, they overtook, and, as
with a garment, they wrapped us
round with thunders that overpowered
our own. As brothers we moved tOc
gether; to the skies we rose — Hb the^
dawn that advanced — ^to the stars that
fled : rendering thanks to Grod in the
highest— that, having hid his face
through one generation behind thick
clouds of War, once again was ascend-
ing—was ascendingfrom Waterloo— in
the visions of Peace : — ^rendering
thanks for thee, young girl I whom
having overshadowed with his inef-
fable passion of Death — suddenly did
Grod relent; suffered thy angel to
turn aside his arm ; and even in thee,
sister unknown 1 shown to me for a
moment only to be hidden for ever,
found an occasion to glorify his
goodness. A thousand times, amongst
the phantoms of sleep, has jie shown
thee to me, standing before the golden
dawn, and ready to enter its gates —
with the dreadful Word going before
thee — with the armies of the grave
behind thee ; shown thee to me, sink-
ing, rising, fluttering, faintmg, but
then suddenly reconciled, adoring: a
thousand times has he followed thee
in the worlds of sleep — through
storms ; through desert seas ; through
the darkness of quicksands ; through
fugues and the persecution of fugues ;
through dreams, and the dreadful re-
surrections that are in dreams — only
that at the last, with one motion of
his victorious arm, he might record
and emblazon the endless resurrec-
tions of his love I
[Dee.
putkalv, the Iriaii iumm of 18i«,
and tiM £an^>eu rerofaitkM of 1^48
■ wqiijacca— tfarlfcerhMgf,wtth-
4Wt aqifmiig tkai the ame paad-
fitMj whea emied mto pndioe in
1846, proceed wmdk widelj differam
reBBlts frtm tkooe wiikh kad attended
tkeir adoption, to a oertaia esdeaft,
ter jean beisR.
Tlie obserratioa isafiur one, aad
appaieailj of material weigkt m tke
great qaeelioii now at iasae in tlie
nalioB. WImb piopeilj eooadered,
It giTes no ooantenanee to the fee-
trade meaffores which the right hon.
baronet haa introdaced, bat onlv
ahows that it is to the combination of
those measnres, with another element
of still more general and potent
agency, that the disaster has been
owing. In the in terra], be it recol-
lected, between 1842 and 1846, the
new currency restriction hHU were
passed. The Bank Charter Bill of
England received the royal assent
in 1844, that of Scotland and Ireland
in 1845. Free trade in grain was
introduced in Jalj 1846 ; in sagar, in
May 1847 ; in shipping, in May 1849.
The harvests of the years from 1846
to 1849 have been, as nsnal in this
climate, checkered : that of 1846 was
fair in grain, bat sadly deficient in
potatoes; that of 1847 was above an
average in both ; that of 1848, defi-
IMfi. Xhekar-
OBtke vhole.
be expected !■ firtme
It M anee 1846, tiMreiDftt,
to kMk,m
for the real proof of the
wttch Sir fiobert Peel has
the
toh wfUbe eatvdy
hoo.
to the
pointiBg out
of the conairy bcfaie
aad weahaU
the sriifect by
to its real aoaree,
to detach froai theqaeation
done a
of trath, bj
iatibe state
after 184<i;
to foOowap
been so often referred to as explaining
the phenomena. The inqniiy is the
more important, that the Protection
party as a body have, with a few
striking and illnstrioas exoeptioBS,
never seen the currency question in
its true light, as accompani^ with that
of free trade, and, by not doing so,
have both volontarily relinqo^ed
the most powerful lever wherewith to
shake the strength of their opponents,
and failed in instructing the public
mind either in the real causes of their
sufferings, or the means by which they
are likely to be alleviated.
Various circumstances have been
studiously kept out of view by the
free-trade party, in reference to the
years from 1842 to 1846, which really
were mainly instrumental in produc*
1849.]
F^ee Trade at its Zenith.
767
ing the prosperity of that period. And
many others have been emphatically
dwelt upon, in reference to the years
since 1846, which really had very
little hand in producing these disas-
ters.
The first circnmstanee which had a
powerful influence in producing the
prosperity from 1842 to 1846, was the
return of fine seasons after five bad
hiu^ests in succession, which closed
in 1841. The summer, and still more
the autumn, of 1842, was a long and
unbroken period of sunshine, which
gladdened the hearts of men after the
long series of dreary and cheerless
years which had preceded it. The
subsequent years, from 1842 to 1846,
-were very fine seasons, the harvests
of which were all above an average.
This is decisively proved by a oompa-
risoo of the average prices of grain
for the years from 1839 to 1841, and
from 1842 to 1845.* The tariff of
1842 without doubt contributed to
bring about, in some degree, this re-
duction of prices; but still, as the
sliding-scale was then in operation,
and the import duties were in general
8s. and 9s. the quarter, the efieet
must have been mainly owing to the
succession of fine seasons. No one
can have lived through that period,
without recollecting that this was the
case. But the cheap prices which
result from abandant harvests and
improved cultivation at home, are the
greatest of all puUic blessings, as
much as the cheap prices arising from
an extended foreign importation and
declining agriculture at home, are the
greatest of all curses. The first en-
riches the manufacturer, by the pre-
vious comfort of the fsnner, and the
plenty diffused through the land by
bis exertions; the last gives a tem-
XK)rary stimulus to the manufacturer,
by the cheapness which is fatal to the
domestic cultivator, and, by abridging
the home market, speedily makes the
manufacturer share in his ruin.
The second circumstance which
tended to prodooe the prosperity firom
1842 to 1845, was the glorious suc-
cesses which, in the first of these
years, socceeded to the Afl^anistaun
disasters. We all recollect the throb
of exaltation which beat in ibe breast
of the nation when the astonishing
news arrived, in November 1842,
that a single Delhi Gazette had an-
nounced the second capture of Gabnl,
in the centre of Asia, and the dictating
a glorious peace to the Celestial Em-
pire, under the walls of Nankin. Not
only was our Indian empire secured
for a long period, by those astonishing
triumphs, but its strength was demon-
strated in a way of all others the best
calculated to insure confidence in its
future prosperity. The efieet of this
upon our manufacturing and commer-
cial prosperity was great and imme-
diate. Confidence revived from m
marvellous a proof of the resources
and spirit of the nation, which had so
speedily risen superior to so terrible a
disaster. Speculation was renewed
on a great scale, from the sanguine
ideas entertained of the boundless
markets opened for our manufactures
in the centre of Asia, and in the
Chinese dominions. Sir Robert Fed
is entitled to great credit for tibe
glorious turn thus given to our East-
em affairs, and tiie gleam of sun-
shine which they th^w upon the
affairs of the nation ; for his fortitude,
when the previous disastrous news
arrived, was mainly instrumental in
producing it. But free-trade prin-
ciples, and the tariff of 1842, had no
more to do with it than they had with
the affairs of the moon.
The third circumstance which tended
to bring about the prosperity firom
1842 to 1845, was the revival in the
home market, which, on the first
gleam of returning prosperity, arose
with redoubled energy firom the
very magnitude of previous dete-
rioration and suffering. During the
long train of disasters wtich fid-
lowed the great importation of grain,
and consequent exportation of the pre-
cious metals, inl8d9— which compelled
* Afianige prke of wheat hi London in—
1888, ... 87 11 1842,
1889« . . . ea T 1843,
1840, - - - 66 < 1844,
1841, . . - M « I845>
9. d.
49 0
47 4
4C 8
60 10
To8
Frtt Trade ai iU Zauih.
[Dec.
the Bank of England, for the first time
TCoorded in historr, to hive reoonrse
to the Bank of France for assistance —
all classes <^ the people had under-
gone Tenr serere prirations. The
depression had been general in extent,
and unprecedented in duration, till it
was entirely thrown into the shade by
the effects of the terrible monetary
<uisis of October 1847. Stocks of
goods were reduced to the lowest
amount consistent with the keeping up
even a show of business ; comforts of
various sorts had been long abandoned
by a large portion of the middle and
working classes. At the same time,
capital, in great part unemployed, ac-
cumulated in the hands of monered
men, and the competition for safe
inyestment lowered the rate of in-
terest. It was soon down to 3
and 2^ per cent. In these circum-
stances, the reTival of trade, owing to
the Eastern victories and fine harvest
of 1842, acted immediately, and with
the most vivifying effect, on the home
market. A rush took place to replace
worn out garments, to revive long
abandoned but unforgotten enjoy-
ments. This result always ensues,
and is attended with very important
effects, after a long period of depres-
sion and suffering. It is beginning,
though in a slight degree, and from
the same causes, amongst us at this
time. But no opinion can be formed,
of the extent or probable duration of
such revived activity, from its intensity
on its first appearance.
The last, and, without doubt, the
most important circumstance which
produced the great prosperity firom
1842 to 1845, was the monetary
•change produced by the Bank Charter
Act of 1844.
Sir Robert Peel admitted, in the
debate on the currency at Uie opening
of last session of parliament, that the
act of 1844 had failed in one of its
principal objects — viz., the dis-
couraging of perilous and irrational
speculation. He might have gone a
«tep further, and admitted that it had
been the greatest possible encouragery
for a short season^ of the most obturd
and dangerous undertakings. The
proof of this is decisive. The Bank
Charter Act was passed in May 1844,
and from that time till the first check
experienced in October 1846, was,
beyond all comparison, the wildest
and most absurd season of specula-
tion ever known in English history.
Among others, railways, to the amount
of £363,000.000 sterling, received the
sanction of the legislature, within two
years after the new Bank Charter
Act had passed. And so far was
government from giving any check to
these undertakings — the results of
which, monstrous when oo-existing
with a fettered cnrrency, are apparent
in the present wreck of railway pro-
perty— that they gave them the utmost
encouragement, both by lowering the
sum required for deposits from ten to
^Yii per cent, and by bestowing, at once
in public and private, the most lavish
encomiums on the immense present
and prospective blessings they wodd
confer upon the country. It is not
surprising that a government, looking
only to temporary objects, did so;
for the railway mania, while it lasted,
and before the ruinous effects in which
it necessarily terminated, when fet-
tered by the currency lavi-s, had de-
veloped themselves, gave a passing
stimulus to Jthe demand for labour,
and increase to industry, which ren-
dered men blind to the whole conse-
quences of the course on which tb^
were launched. Sir Robert Peel ably
and emphatically enforced the favonr-
able condition of the nation, and dwelt
with peculiar emphasis on the dimi-
nution in criminal commitBients
through the country, in his (^lenuig
speech of the session of 1846 — ahhoigk
he ascribed it to the free-trade mea-
sures, not the first effect of the gene-
ral insanity on the subject of railways.
It is now perfectly apparent, and is
generally understood, Uiat the fatal
Bank Charter Act was the main cansB
of the ruinous railway mania whieh
has since spread distress and roin so
widely through the country. The
reason is evident. It at onoe eman-
cipated the Bank directors from evcfj
consideration, except that of makiBg
the most, as ordinary bankers, (tf their
capital ; and subjected them to soch
heavy expenses, from the vast quan-
tity of specie they were obUg^ to
keep in their vaults, as rendered a
very extensive pushing of their busi-
ness in every direction a matter of
necessity. The effect of t^ese con-
curring circumstances was soon appa-
1849.]
Free Trade at iU Zenith.
769
rent. Interest was lowered, immedi-
ately after the passing of the Bank
Charter Act, to two per cent for first-
class biils, or still lower, as appears
from the sabjoined table famished by
Messrs Gomej and Overend, *^the
greatest bill-brokers in the world." *
The facility of getting discounts in-
creased beyond idi precedent the issues
of the banks. Those of the Bank of
England rose to £21,000,000 ; and of
all country bankers in a similar pro-
portion. The total notes in circula-
tion, in England done, reached
£28,000,900 ; m Great Britain.andlre-
land they exceeded £89,000,000. It
was this copious issue of notes which
gave, for the time at least, nearly
sufficient accommodation for the im-
mense undertakings which were set
on foot ; which, beyond all doubt, both
gave birth to, and nurtured the in-
fancy of that vast network of railways
which.so soon overspread the country,
and, while it was in course of forma-
tion, diffused such generid prosperity
over the land.
Had the impulse thus given to in-
dustry, and the enormous domestic
undertakings thus set on foot by the
sanction and with the approbation of
government, been cautiously sustained,
as a similar impulsehadbeen during the
war, by a corresponding increase of
the circulation, based on a footing
which was not liable to be contracted
by a failure of the harvest^ or an
enhanced demtmdfor gold in foreign
states^ it might have been the com-
mencement of an era of prosperity,
and a general spread of happiness,
nnprecedented in British annaLs. It
had one immense advantage, which
distinguished it both from the previous
lavish expenditure during the war,
and the extravagant South American
speculations whidi ended in the mone-
tary catastrophe of' December 1825.
The money was all expended at
home, and on undertakings useful
to the nation. No man will dis-
pute, that, whether or not all the
railways undertaken during that pe-
riod were in themselves reasonable,
or likely to yield a dividend to
the shareholders, they were beyond
all doubt, one and all of them, advan-
tageous to the public. They afforded
facilities for the transit of goods and
the conveyance of passengers, which
were not only an immense advantage
to individuals, but a great relief and
benefit to the commerce and manu-
factures of the country. So far from
being blamed, government deserve the
very highest credit for having given
this direction to the industry and
expenditure of the nation. Their
fault consisted in the simultaneous
and fatal measures they adopted re-
garding the currency.
Having taken this great step in
the right direction, it b^me the first
and most important duty of govern-
ment to have provided, simultaneously
with the commencement of the under-
taking, a currency independent of
foreign drains^ commensurate to the
vast addition made to the industry
and engagements of the nation. Its
capital was far more than adequate to
the undertakings, how vast soever.
This is MOW decisively proved by the
event. Two-thirds of the railways are
finished; the remaining third is in
course of construction ; and interest is
in London from three to two-and'a-half
per cent. But capital alone is not suf-
ficient for carrying on imdertakings.
Currency also is requisite ; and if that
be deficient, the most boundless over-
flow of capital will not avert a
monetary crash, or save the nation
from the most dreadful calamities.
Here, too, the event has thrown a
broad and decisive light on this vital
question, and the cause of our calami-
ties. Interest was fixed by govern-
ment, after the crash, for advances by
the Bank of England, in October 1847,
at eight per cent ; it rose, in private
transactions, to twelve and fifteen per
cent. Why was that? Not because
capital was awanting, but because the
bankers, from the drain of specie to
buy foreign grain, and the operation
of the Bank Charter Acts of 1844 and
1845, could not venture to issue notes
* Rate of diseoant of fiisi-elMi bills at the undermentioiied perioda: —
1844
Jan.
2i
FM>.
Ifaieb.
ApriL
Ibj.
Jon*.
2
July.
2
Aug.
« — ^
EMp*.
Oct
1|
Nor.
Dm.
2
2
2
If
IJ
2
700 J^m Trtuk oiiiB ZmdtL [Hr.
totbflircattomen. ThenAtioBmeni- One when tU other bnaobtB of ib-
1)ledagrefttarBT,inwliidiTastitQni dMtry:, foreign anddofootic, were id
of pioTOiooB enated in the migeeinee en nnnaaei state of activlbf;, fhw tiie
at its diapoBsI, but a series of absurd aodden letmn of mospen^ after a
S^Qpilations affecting tiieoonunissttiat long period of sainring. To ezpeet
Iffoinented the grain thej eontaineil that the nation, withoak aome addU
being issued to the soidien. Acoord- lion to its cimepcj, eonii ceny ont
ln^7, when the abenrd nstridianB ao great an incrsaae in ita nader-
were removed, tidngs soon began to tak&gi, was sa hopetow aa to Im sgian
amend. When the Bank Charter tiistanarmj^with ahalfaddedtoite
Actwaspr^faiiyorgrepealedtbyLotd montlM, b to go on snoflesiftifly wife
John Buflsell's Anions letter of Octo- ao addition made to its diHiflmiioa of
btf 1647, the effect was iastantaneovB rations. And it is OTldent thet thin
in sUaying the psnic, and interest addition to the enrrenejr eonld be
gradoall J lUl, nntil now mone j has oifectaaUy made onl j by oateadhy
becoom ovttflowing, and it is to be tiie paper ebcolatkn on a aoale pro-
had at two per cent, althongh the portioiMd to the ineraaaa ot wotk
yesFB ainoe that time liaTe beoi the nadertaken. By no poaafbie
most diaastroos to capital ever known oodd gold, in adeqaate
In the British annals, so that no sab- be breaght to the seeae
aaqaent Increase has been possOile. the plaee where it was rminirBd ; sad
What government ahoold have done, even if broaght tiwrs, no leliaaee
when they engaged the nation in tbe oonid be plaoAonitaeontinniBgthsm
vast system of inland lailwm, was for any length of time. On tlie oca-
what Pitt aotnally did, with each tiaiy, notldng is more eertam thsn
happy effiact, when ite cnnency was that it woald speedily be re-ezpoited
eaqMsed to a similar strain from to other countries where it was km
fioraign ezpenditore, and immense en- ]dentifnl, and, therefore, nMre vaina-
cagemenis, in 1797. They should Ue ; and tina ite sopport woqU hate
Jiave provided a carrem^ under pro- been lost at the veiy time wfaaa It was
per control as to amount, but capable most rsqnired.
of being increased, aooording to the The rise of ptioes daring the war,
wante aad engagemente of sodely, wben sadi a dmnestie caireaey
and, above all, not liable to be with- provided by government in adMgnale
drawn by the mutations of com- quantities, was really owteg* ^o^ •^
meroe, or the demaad for gold hi much te the ciicnlation haviag be-
foreign states. The example of Great come redaadaat, as to ite having per-
Britain during the war, when a gigaa- mitted an adequate remnaenoien to
tic expenditure, varying from eighty be given to indastry . ThiB is a
to one hundred and twenty millions hnportant eonsideration, whieh Mr
yeariy, was carried on for twenty Taylor has moat ably iUnstratsd.
Tears with the aid of sueh an expaa- The proof that the drcaifllaon had aot,
«ivedtWMaf«pe«miMy--not only with- lifce tbe assignate of fWaoe, beoomo
ant any lasting diatress, save from the redundant, te to be foand In two
nlk^ppage of foreign markets, but with thmgs which an deeisiva of the paint:
vk% vtm>it pro^fieriiy and happmen to 1. At no period of the war waa tbane
™ ^'^^^ although guineas had al- aaydifibrenee betwaen the price of aa
together disappeared from the dren- artide whea paid in baak notes aad
tej^-^as not only an example of when paid in silver. No bmu ever
riflrT^.'^'^^^bn^^liobestindi- saw the price of aaythteg five poands
^^of Aovitwastobedoae. No ia bank notes, and foar pounds tan
P^oa more loudly called for sudk a shUUags te sflver. OM bore aasa^
pr^ttonaiy measure than one m haneed price, beeaaae it was laqnned
m«Iff «™i !u ■^SfS" ^ govern- uigentiy for the opentioBS of tbe Cea-
men^ no legs than £363 000,000 was tiwntal armiea. 2. The increase m
short ^!^^^ wdways in the the paper dradatioa, considflfable as
equS T2^^"^ r^^^. ™™ it was, was yet not so great as the
ttoneV il ITv JTl^ ^ ??* ^"« ^ Pwa»«l ««« shnultaneons increase m
*600 0OOf2?!i . ^S^^^'*^'*^ ow n*tional industry, as mcssured
"^.W0,000 dunn^ the war-at a by our exports, iteports, and puMic
1849.]
expendittire.* Prices rose, therefore,
and reached, for a time, more than
doable tluair level anterior to the con-
gest, not because too mach paper had
been pot in circnlation, but becaose
enough had been issued to let the de-
mand for labonr keep pace with the
enUu^ged undertakings of the nation.
In^ead of imitating this great and
decisive example of wise and states-
manlike poii<7, what did Sir Robert
Peel and the Free-traders do, on the
commencement of a similar period of
vastly augmoited national industry?
Why, tbey did just the reverse. Not
only did they make no provision for
enlarging the currenov of the nation
at the time, when they themselves
had occasioned or sanctioned so im-
mense an increase to its undertakinga,
but they took the most effectual mea-
Bures possibk) to amiraci the circula-
tion, both in gold and pi4)er, directly
in proportion to the necessity for its
expansion. They first passed a law
whidi limited the circnlation of the
Bank of £ng1and, irrespective of the
notes issued on the basis of ffold in their
coffers, to £ 14,000,000 ; and that of the
whole banks in Great Britain and Ire-
land to about £32,000,000 ; and then
they introduced a system of free trade
which permitted the unllmitedentrance
of foreign agricultural produce at a no-
minal duty, and thereby sent nearly
half the gold headlong out of the
country. Under the inloenoe of this
Free Trad^ at iti ZeniA.
761
monstrous system, the gold in the
vaults of the Bank of England was pro-
gressively diminished, until, in the end
of October 1847, it was reduced to
£564,000 sterling in the banking de-
partment; at the very time that, by the
same judicious law, above £8,000,000
of sovereigns were lying useless, and
locked up in the issue department of the
same establishment The governor of
the bank veipr candidly admitted, in
his examination before the House of
Lords, that the bank, under the exist-
ing system, might have broke while
there were still £8,000,000 of sove-
reigns lost to them and the nation in
the cellars of the issue departmentf
Of course the whole banks of the
country were compelled instancy to-
contract their credits, and force pay-
ment of their debts, and thence the
universal distress and ruin which
ensued. And all this took pUcc at the
veiy time that the bank had eight
millions of sovereigns chained up by
act of parliament in its cellars, at
the issue end of the building; and
when the government, which m>
chained it up, had landed the nation,
by act of parliament, in engagementa
requiring an expenditure on railway
shares of £363,000,000 in the next
four years. You may search the
annals of the world in vain for a simi-
lar instance of infatuation in the
rulers of a nation, and self-immolatioD
in a people.
• Teus.
BtakNolMinOir-
culatioo— TotaL
Official Value.
Import!.
Declared Valna.
Bevvnm.
1797
1798
1799
1813
1614
1816
£10,542,365
18,695,830
12,959,800
23,120,930
24,801,000
27,261*651
£28,917,010
27,817,087
29,556,687
lUoovds destroyed
by Ire.
51,358,398
67,420,437
£21,013,956
25,122,203
24,066,700
82,622,771
81,822/)63
£19,852,646 ,
30,492,995
85,811,018
68,302,861 ^
70,240,813
72,208,142 j
— Alison's Europe, c. 41, § 69.
1* In reference to this state of things, the following important eyidence waB giyeo
by the gorernor and depnty-goyemor of the Bank of England : —
" You had only £1,600,000 in the banking department for the payment of your
liabilities ! — Yes.
** If anybody had called upon yon for anything beyond Chat million and a half, you
mast have stopped payment 1 — Yes, we most.
'' At th« same time, if then bad been no sepuation between the two departmente^
and the Bank of England had been eondncted on its old principle, instead of being
within on« million and a half of stopping, there wonld haye been very nearly
£8,500,000 of treasure in yoor vanHif— We should haye had £6,600,000 in our
Tanlta."— Iroriif ' .BfpofC 1848.
7£2
J>« Trade of ks ZamOu
[Dec
Ii win be Slid tkas tbe rmst impor-
Uik« of p:ii&, in tke coarse of 1^7.
vas a miaer of MoessitT, firoai tbe
fuhire of t^ pouio crops m IreUnd
in tW preoediBg anauui; and diat,
be t^ oosseqnences wiut tker bjit,
tb^T cauoc be ascribed to Sir Bobeit
PeidortbeFr&^•t^aders. !■ one sense
this is BadonbtodiT tme. It is oeitaia
that tbe most staosch Procectknists
would nerer hare obfoded to tbe
laj;pes< importatioB of grain, and ex-
portatioQ of soTereigns, in a period
sacb as that of serere and unlooked-
for scarcitT. It was tbe precise obyeci
of the sliding-scale to admit grain, in
periods of flcardtr, free of aJl dntj.
Bot what the Free-traders and Sir Ro-
bert Peel are chargeable with, is bar-
ing established a sj-stem of curaicj so
fettered and restricted bj absord regn-
latioos, that the exportation of sore-
reigns led mecesiaribf amd iMteriktbbf to
« amtradiom of paper accownmodaiiomj
amd a skock to credit ocer tke vAofe
ccmmtry: and aggrarated the danger bj
a monstitms regulation, which exposed
the bank to tbe risk of stopping pay-
ment when thej had still eigbt mil-
lions in gold— enough to hare ennUed
them, perhaps, to go on — at one end of
theirestablishment. They are respon-
sible for tbe dreadful enx>r of baring
not only done nothing to extend and se-
core tbe cnrrency from being exported
or contracted, when they hi^ added so
enormoosly to the internal engage-
ments of the kingdom, bat done erery-
thing, by the establishment of a perma-
nent system of free trade, and a per-
manently fettered currency, to secure
its reappearance on oocasi<m of erery
future recurrence of an indifferent
harrest, or any continuance of a great
importation.
It is the consciousness of this ter-
rible calamity, impending orer the na-
tion, which terrifies all the directors of
banks, and paralyses industry in so
grievous a manner orer the whole
eovntry. If you ask any moneyed
Man, what is the cause of the insecu-
rity so unirenally complained of in
Boney transactknus orer tbe ooimtry,
and tbe Rluctance of bankers to ad-
Tanoe largely, eren when their coffers
are oroflowing, to persons of the best
credit? they will inrariably answer,
that tbey are afraid of a commercial
crisis ; that tbey do not know when it
may come on ; and that tbeymost be,
at all times, prepared fin-astonn. It is
this indefinite dread, tbe natural re-
sult of tbe catastrophe of 1847, which
renders diem so cantioos, and keeps
the nation starred of accommodation,
at tbe rery time that Lombard Street
Is oreffiowing with money seeking for
Inrestment. It is no wondor they are
afraid. The sword of Damocles is sus-
pended orer their beads, and thence
their torer. Tbey know that tbe heary
rains, and consequent importation of
grain, in 1839 into tbe British Islands,
Ibroed the Bank of England to apply
for aid to the Bank of France, cused
tiie United States Bank of America to
stop payment, and re&doed three-
fourthB of the traders in tbe United
States bankrupt. The reooUection of
the dreadful crisis of 1847, brought cm
by the great importation of grain and
exp<Mtation of sorerngns in &at year,
Is fresh in their minds. They see the
Importations of food going on withoat
Intomission, in the face of exceed-
ingly low prices, at the rate oijiftfen
wUltioms of qmartart a-year, being
neariy quadruple that of 18S9, iriiidi
was four million quarters.* They
know that the grain countries will take
our gold to any amount, but not our
manufactures, because they do not
want them, or are too poor to buy
them ; and they ask. How Is all this
grain to be paid? In what Is all this
to end ? How are the bills, drawn to
pay for these exports, to be met? So
general is this feeling <tf dread, from
the effects of a drain on our metallic
AU kinds of
Omln.
Or*.
Floor.
Cwt
Total
A ** *'
* Imported, moDth
endings
AMHmKUJ*
April 5, 1849, . .
Aug. 6, 1849, . .
Sept. 6, 1849, . .
Oct 10, 1849, . .
1,110,306
990,270
928,258
1,123,434
320,784
295,667
332,434
290,713
1,213,888
1,088,776
1,039,269
1,213,640
iMnAaa Q»tt«, April 20, 1849.
Ditto, Aw. !», 184SL
Ditto, Smi. 20, 1849.
Ditto, Oct. 30,18491
1849.]
Free Trade oJt its Zenith.
76S
resources to pay for the vast importa-
tions of grain going forward, that when
the author, in the beginning of last
autumn, said to the chief officer of one
of the first banking establishments in
Britain, that " three weeks' rain in
August would render half the mer-
chants in England bankrupt," he re-
plied— " Sir, three weeks' rain in
August will make half the merchants
in Europe bankrupt."
That it is this fatal dependence
of the currency, and consequent credit
of the country, on the retention of its
gold circulation, under circumstances
when, from the vast importation of
grain going forward, it is impossible to
retain itj which is the real cause of the
calamitous state of the country for the
last three years, and not either the
potato rot or the European revolutions,
to which the Free-traders ascribe it, is
evident from the slightest considera-
tion. The potato rot of 1846, which
has been the sheet-anchor of the Free-
traders ever since — the scapegoat
which they hoped would answer fbr
all their sins — ^was never, by the most
determined of their party, set down
as having occasioned a loss of
above £15,000,000 sterling. Call it
£20,000,000 to avoid cavil. The
strength of the case will admit of any
concession. Now, the value of the
agricultural produce of the United
Kingdom, prior to the free trade in
srain, was generally estimated at
£300,000,000.* A deficiency of
£20,000,000, or a fifteenth part^
might occasion, doubtless, the most
acute local distress in the districts in
which it was most severely felt; but it
could never, irrespective of its action on
the currency, occasion a general mone-
tary and commercial crisis. England
and Scotland exported little or nothing
to the boys of Mnnster and Connaught,
where the failure occurred. There is no
more reason, had it not been for the cur-
rency laws, why a failure of the potato
crop in Ireland should have produced
a monetary crisis in Great Britain,
than a failure in the potato crop of
Norway.
Again, the revolutions in Europe in
1848, of which so much has been said
to account for the distress, are equally
inadequate to explain the phenome-
non. They could, of course, aflfect
the European market for our export
goods only ; and they, taken altogether,
only amount, to the countries affected
by the revolutions, to £13,000,000—
little more than a fourth part of our ex-
ports, which vary from £51,000,000
to £60,000,000. Supposing a half of
this export, or £7,000,000, had been
lost, during the year 1848, by the
French, Grerman, and Italian revolu-
tions ; what is that amidst the mass,
thirty-fold greater, of our total manu-
factures, which some years ago were
estimated at £133,000,000 for the
home market, and £50,000,000 for
the foreign. They are now unques- •
tionably above £200,000,000 annually.
But let it be supposed that the whole
defalcation of our exports, from
£60,000,000 in 1845, to £53,000,000
in 1848, was owing to the European
revolutions, and none at all to the
paralysis of domestic industry by the
effects of free trade and a fettered
currency — seven millions deficit, out
of £200,000,000 annual produce of
manufactures, is only a twenty-ninth
part. Is it possible that so trifling a
deficit can have been the cause of the
terrible calamity which overtook the
country in 1848 and 1849, the more
especially as the harvest of 1847 was
so good, that, by orders of govern-
ment, a public thanksgiving was re-
turned for it? That calamity was
unparalleled in point of extent, and
has, in two years, swept away at least
one half of the whole commercial and
manufacturing wealth of the kingdom.
The thing is perfectly ridiculous. The
failure of an eighth part of our annual
export, and a twenty-ninth part of
our annual creation of manufactures,
might occasion considerable distress
in the particular places or branches of
* Viz.— 19,1 35,000 arable acres, at £7 each,
27,000,000 aeres of grass, at £6 each,
15,000,000 do. wastes,
— Porter's Progress of ike Nation^ 158; 2d edition.
£133,945,000
162,000,000
5,000,000
£300,945,000
764
Ftm Ihidt ai ^ ZmUk.
[Dee.
mflumfiietaro principally aflbded, but
it could never explain the oniyerBaK
paralysis, affecting the home trade
even more than tiie foraign, whidi
followed the monetaiy crisis of Octo-
ber 1847.
Again, as to the Enn^ean revolu-
tions of 1848, although, nndonbtedly,
they largely oontribnted to intermpt
the commerce of tliis country with
central Europe, and may fairly be
considered as the principal cause of
tiie decline in the exports of that year,
yet it may be doubted whether the
influx of wealth, tcom the distracted
monarchies of Europe, whidi they oc-
carioned, did not more than counter-
balance that disadvantage. England,
during the convulsions of franco,
Germany, and Italy, became the bank
of Europe. Wealth flowed in ih>m all
quarters, for investment in the only
capital left which held out the pros-
pect of security. The solid specie
which then "Was brought to London
for purchase into the British fhnds, in
the course of 1848, has been esti-
mated, by c<Mnpetent authorities, at
£9,000,000 sterlhiff. Beyond all
doubt, this great influx of the precious
metals from continental Europe — at a
time when it was so much required, in
consequence of the enormous exporta-
tion of specie which free trade was
inducing, and the monstrous monetary
laws which contracted the paper cir-
culation in proportion as it was with-
drawn— ^haa a powerful eff'ect in coun-
teracthig the evils we had brought
upon ourselves, and sustaming the
currency and national credit, which
the Free-traders had done so much to
destroy. And as this was an allevia-
tion of the evil at its fbuntain-head,
it is next to certain that the European
revolutions of 1848, so Usr from hav-
ing occasioned the distress m Great
Britain in that year, had a material
effect in abating it.
It is vain, therefore, for the iVee-
traders to push forward extraneous
and separate events, as the cause of
the dreadful calamities which have
overtaken the country since October
1847 ; calamitiea which all the wit-
nesses examined in both Houses of
Parliament, in the committees on
commercial distress, described as aUo-
gether wiparaBded. They arose, evi-
dently, not fh>m the faUure of crops in
a pcrtteular plaee, or tk6 foBpuaiy
stoppage hi the ftndgn voit fat a par-
ticular branch of numnSusture — cansea
which only toadied the eztremttiea—
bat from some great eanse affecting
the heart of tlie empire, and wbkm
through it paralysed all its meadwnL
And when it is recollected that, after
having landed the nation in extra do-
mestic enngements, for the next four
years, to the amount of £300,000,000;
the government adopted th^ moat
dedstve and effocUve measaieB to
contract the currency, and, after mak-
ing it mainly dependant on tiie reten-
tion oimM in the oonntiy, they took
steps wbkk sent that gold headlong
abroad — in exchange for enormoasly
increased importations, the fnat of
tne trade— it is not difficult to &-
cover what that came waa«
But an these evils, it is said, ara
over. We have passed tinvugh the
desert, and arrived at the promised
land. Free trade, dii^ohied from the
extraneous drcnmstaaces which hava
hitiierto concealed iti real elfect, is aa
length beginning to appear ha its trus
colourB. The Continent is padfied;
the trade to France and Gennanyhaa
revived; tlie revenue is improving;
the exports in September worn
£2,000,000 more than in the cones-
ponding month <tf last year: wait a
little and we shall soon be in Elysianif
and ftiee trade and a iMered cuiieucj
will reaUse all their promised advan-
tages. We are not unaware of the ^
Pwms which are already song ftum
the Liberal camp on thia snliject, and
it is precisely for diaft rsaaoa that^
when FRsx naiDs n at ire a*
NTTH, we have takan the oppor-
tunity to examine its efihela. We
have seen that the prosperity tnm
1842 to 1845 arose ffom extnuMoas
causes, with which the tariffof the
first of these years had nothing to do;
and that the disastOTS tcom 1847 to
1849 were not in any senaible degree
owing to external or separate eala*
mities, but were tiio ^Brect and ine-
vitable effect of the establishment of
a system of free trade, at the veiy
time when the indastry of the nation
was manacled fay the reatriction of
absurd and deatoiiotive monetary
laws. Let us now examine our pre-
sent condition, and see whether or
not we are hi as emviahle pomikai at
1849.]
Fres Trade at its Zenith.
765
home or abroad ; whether the Industry
of the conntry can possibly surviye,
or its revenue be maintained, nnder
the present system ; and whether the
seeds of another catastrophe, as ter-
rible as that of 1847, are not already
spread in the land.
In one particular the Free-tradera
are unquestionably right. Beyond
all doubt, the external circumstances
of the nation, at present, are in tiie
highest degree favourable to its manu-
facturing and trading interests. We
are at peace with all the world, and,
thank Grod, there is no immediate
appearance of its being broken. The
markets of continental Europe have,
for six months past, been entirely laid
open to our merchants, by the settle-
ment of France under the quasi
empire of Louis Napoleon, and the
extinction of the war in Italy and
Germany. Bome is taken ; Hungary
IS subdued ; Baden is pacified ; the
war in Schleswig is at an end ; the
Danish blockade is raised ; California
has given an extraordinary impulse
to activity and enterprise in the
West; the victory of Goojerat has
extinguished, it ia to be hoped for a
long period, all appearance of dlstor-
bance in the East. The harvest,
just reaped, has been uncommonly
fine in grain, both in Great Britain
and Ireland: that of the potatoes
above an average in the latter island.
The Chartists of England and Soot-
land, astounded at the failure of all
their predictions and the defeat of all
their hopes, are silent ; the revolu-
tionists of Ireland, in utter despair,
arc leaving the Emerald Isle. Amidst
the gcnend pacification and cessation
of alarms, old wants and necessities
begin to be felt. Men have disco-
vered that revolting will not mend
their clothes or fill their bellies. New
garments are required, fix)m the old
being worn out ; the women are cla-
morous for bonnets and gowns; the
men are sighing for coats and waist-
coats. Provisions are cheap to a de-
gree unexampled for fourteen years ;
wheat is at 41s. the quarter, meat
at 5d. a pound. Capiud in London
can be borrowed at 2^ per cent, in
the provinces at 3}. That great Liberal
panacea for all evils, a huge inmorto^
Hon of foreign produce, is in full ope*
ration. Th& year it will probably
reach in valiie at least £100,000^000
sterling. Let ns then, in these emi-
nently favourable circumstances, ex-
amine the effects of the free-trade
system.
First, with regard to the revenue,
that never- failing index of the national
fortunes. The revenue for the year end-
ing Oct. 10, 1849, bemg the last quar-
ter that has been made up, was only
£236,000 more than that for the year
ending Oct. 10, 1848. That is to say,
during a year when free trade was act-
ing under the most favourable possible
circumstances, and when the pacifica-
tion of the world was reopening mar-
kets long closed to our manufactures,
the revenue only rose a mere trifie
above what it had been in the year
wasted by the triple curse of a mone-
tary crisis, European revolutions,
Chartist disturbances and Irish rebel-
lion. Why is this? Evidently be-
cause the effect of free trade and a
restricted currency acting together,
and the dread of a fresh monetary
crisis hanging over our heads from the
unprecedented magnitude of our im-
portations in every branch of com-
merce, have depressed industry at
home to such a degree, that even the
reopening of all the closed markets of
the world, and the rush to fill up the
void, created during fifteen months of
stopps^e of intercourse, has been able
to produce no sensible addition to the
public revenue.
Next, as to the exports. The re-
opening of the Continental markets,
the pacification of India by the vic-
tory of Groojerat, and the impulse
given to American speculation by the
gold of California, has occasioned a
considerable increase in our exports,
on which the Free-traders are pluming
themselves in an extraordinary de-
gree. We should be glad to know
in what way free trade pacified India,
extinguished revolution in Europe,
and vivified America by the Califbr-
nian diggings. And yet, had these
distant and adventitious occurrences
not taken place, would we have had
to congratulate the manufacturers on
a rise of two millions in September,
and a rise of seven or eight millions on
the whole year ? Ajid what, after all,
is a rise of our exports from
£53,000,000 to £60,000,000 or even
£63,000,000 in a year, to the tx>tal
mannfEusturing industry of the country,
whicb produces at least £200|000,000
766
Free Trade at ita ZemA.
[Dec
anntiillj ? It is scarcely the addition
of a thirtieth part to the aonnal manu-
factured production. The Free-traders
are hard pushed, indeed, when they
arc constrained to exult in an addi-
tion to the national industry so trifling,
and wholly brought about by fortu-
nate external events entirely foreign
to their policy.
In the immense and increasing
amount of our Imports, however, the
Free-traders may indeed see, as in a
mirror, the real and inevitable result
of their measures. Their amount for
this year is of course not yet known ;
although, from the returns ahready
procured, it is certain that they
will greatly exceed the level of
last year, which reached £94,000,000.
In all probability they will con-
siderably exceed £100,000,000. In-
deed, in the single article of grain,
the excess of 18^9 over 1848, since
the one shilling duty began in Feb-
ruary, has been so great as much to
exceed in value Uie augmentation
which has taken place in our exports.*
The importation of grain in the first
eight months of 1849 has been more
than double what it was in the cor-
responding period of 1848, and that
in the face of a fine harvest, and
prices throughout the whole period
varying firom forty-five to foity-ooe
shillings a quarter of wheat. The
importation at these low prices hts
settled down to a regular average
of about 1,200,000 quarters of all
sorts of grain a-month, 'or between
fourteen and fifteen niillions of all
sorts of grain in a year. This is
just Vifowth of the anmuU nUmstence,
estimated in all sorts of grain at
60,000,000 of quarters. This im-
mense proportion free trade has
already caused to be derived from
foreign supplies, though it has only
been three years in operation, and the
nominal duties only came into opera-
tion in February last.
So vast an increase of importation
is perhaps unprecedented in so short
a period ; for, before the change
was made, the importation was so
trifling that, on an average of five
years ending in 1835, it had sunk
to 398,000 quarters. Indeed, the
importation before the five bad har-
vests, from 1846 to 1840, had been so
trifling, that it had become nominal
merely, and the nation had guned the
inestimable advantage of being self-
supporting.f With truth did that
decided free-trader, Mr Porter, say.
1,735,778 qn.
349,727 cwt.
119,867 „
306,400 „
73,605,759
'* In the eight months np to the 5ih of Septemher 1849, the qnantitiea of foreign
food taken out for home consamption have been —
Foreign Wheat, . 8,887,596 qrs. Maize, .
Foreign flour, 2,956,878 cwt. Foreign baeon,
Foreign barley, 1,018,858 qrs. Salted beef, .
Foreign oats, . 869,077 „ Salted pork, .
Foreign rye, . 219,810 „ Eggs, (number)
All these amounts are largely, and the most important of them rery largely, in
adyance of the imports of the first eight months of 1848.
Abstract of grain imported in quarters in seven months of firee trade-
Wheat, . . 3,887,596 qrs. Rye, . . . 219,810 qrs.
Flour, (2,966,878 owt.,) 985,293 „ Maiae, . . . 1,785,778 „
Barley, . . 1,018,858 „
Oa^. . . . 86,077 „ L".roi^*5^eJ»^'M.2,«.
t Quarters of wheat and wheat-flour imported into Britain from 1807 to 1836,
both inclusive : —
Qnsrten.
1819, 1,122,188
1807,-,-,^ 379,833
1808, -T
1809,- 424,709
1810,., 1,491,841«
181 !,.,,_ 288,366
1812,»,.^^ 244,885
1818,-,.-^ 425,659
1814, 681,888
1815, J:
1816,.,..^ 227,263
1817,-.-,^l,020,949»
1318,.,-,^1^93,5U»
1820
1821,
1822,
,*»*»*».»
84,274
2
imm^m^^m'mm
1823,4w«,
1824_
1825
1826
1827,
1828,««M
1829,^^
12,187
15,777
525,231
315,892
772,183
842,050
1,364,220*
1831,^
1832
1833,
1834,
1835,M«M»
lOw0,M'«MW
1837, —
1838r
1839,
1840,
*Bii4
QnartcfB.
1,491,631
325,425
82,346
64,653
. 28,483
. 24,826
. 244,087
.1,834,452*
2,690,734*
^,889,782*
1849.] Free Trade at its ZentVu 767
in the last edition of his valuable as all this has takeu place daring a
work, entitled the Progress of the season of prices low beyond example.
Nation — *^ The foregoing calcolations it is evident that it may be expected
show in how small a degree this to be still greater when we again
country has hitherto been dependent experience the nsnal vicissitudes of
npon foreigners, in ordinary seasons, bad harvests in our variable climate,
for a due supply of our staple article of The returns prove that ever since the
food. These calculations are brought duties on foreign grain became no-
forward to show how exceedingly minal, in the beginning of February
great the increase of agricultural pro- last, the importation of com and
auction must have been, to have thus flour into Great Britain and Ire-
effectively kept in a state of indepen- land has gone on steadUy at the
denceapopulationwhich has advanced rate of 1,200,000 quarters a-month ;
with so great a degree of rapidity, and that now seven- eighths of the
To show the fact, the one article of supply of the metropolis, and of
wheat has been selected, because it is all our other great towns, comes
that which is the most generally con- from foreign parts. f How British
sumed in England; but the position agriculture is to go on staggering
advanced woidd be found to hold good, under such a frightful load of foreign
were we to go through the whole list importation into its best markets,
of the consumable products of the it is not difficult to foresee. Every
earth. The supply of meat, during scholar knows how Italian agricul-
the whole years comprised in this ture decayed, under a similar impor-
inquiry, has certainly kept pace with tation of grain from the distant pro-
the growth of the population ; and, as vinces of the Roman empire ; and
regards this portion of human food, how directly the fall of the empire
our home agriculturists have, during was owing to that fatal change,
almost the whole period, enjoyed a Patting aside all minor considera-
strict monopoly." * tions, which crowd upon the mind in
Things, however, are now changed, considering -the probable eflfects of
Protection to domestic industry, at this prodigious change, there are three
least in agriculture, is at an end ; of paramount importance which force
prices are down to forty shillings the themselves on the attention, any one
quarter for wheat, and half that sum of which holds the fate of the empire
for oats and barley ; the prices of suspended in a doubtful balance,
sheep and cattle have fallen enor- The first is. How is the revenue of
mously to the home-grower, though £55,000,000, and the interest of mort«
that of meat is far from having de- gages at least half as much more,t
clined in the same proportion ; and, to be provided for under so great a
AVBBAOS QUARTCB8.
1801 to 1810^ 600,946 183i;to 1885, 398,509
1811 — 1820,^ 468,578 1836 — 1840, ,...1,992,648*
1821 — 1880, 534,292 • Five bad yean In suooeuion.
— Porter's Progrets of the Nation^ 137, 138, second edition.
* Porter's rrogreu of the Nation, second edition, p. 139.
t Take as an example the importation into London, from 24th to 29th September
1849 : prices being — wheat, 4 Is. 9d.; barley, 278.; oats, 17s. lOd.
FORBION. BRITHH.
Qn. <ln.
Wheat, . . 18,028 ^"JtS?**^
Barley, . . 8,319 *^'
Oats, . . 23,408 7 ino
Beans, . . 2,620 '
62,875
—Week from Get, 29 to Nov. 3.
X The mortgages of England alone are estimated, by the best anthorities, at
£400,000,000. Those of Ireland and Scotland are certainly at least half as much
more, or £200,000,000. Indeed, oat of the rental of £14,000,000 a-year, now in
part become nominal in the former country, it is usually reckoned that £10,000,000
go to the holders of mortgages.
VOL. LXVI.— NO. CCOCX. '^ ^
768
Fru Trodt oJt Us Zemlk.
[Dee.
redaction in the valae of the stupto
articles of British agricaltaral pro-
duce? It has been seen that the total
value of the agricultural produce of
the empire was, anterior to the late
changes, about £300,000,000. If
prices fall on an average a fourth, in
consequence of foreign importations,
which is a most moderate supposition,
probably much within the truth, this
£300,000,000 will be reduced at once
to £225,000,000. But the disastrooa
effect of such a reduction is not to be
measured by its absolute amount, con-
fiidorable as that amount undoubtedly
is. Its dreadful effect lies here, ths^
the £75,000,000 thus cut off, absorb
nearly the whole profits of cultivation,
out of which both the rent is paid to
the landlord, and the fanner obtains
the means of livelihood. The re-
mainder is the cost of production, and
it is not lowered in any sensible
degree. Thwi tJie whole loss falls om
the cuUiwUors, This is just what has
happened under a similar course of
policy in the West Indies, where the
indolent habits of the emancipated
slaves, and free trade in sugar, acting
together, have destroyed the profits
of agriculture; and of course the
islands are rapidly returning to the
jungle and the forest.
Now, if a deficiency at aJl approack-i
ing to this occurs in the revenue de-»
rived from land — the sources of Mr«e-
Jifths of the income of the United
Kingdom — how, in the name of oom»
mon sense, is the revenue to be paid ?
How are the jointures of the widows,
the interest of mortgages, and the
other charges on the land, to be made
good, when the change of prices has
absorbed nearly the whole profit of
cultivation? If they are recovered,
what is to remain to the landlord?
How are the home manufacturers, and
the numerous class of shopkeepers in
towns, and, above all, in the metropo-
lis, who are supported by their expen-
diture, to be maintained? It is very
easy to say the fall of rents is a land-
lord's question, and the mass of the
people have no interest in it. Who
support the manufacturers and shop-
keepers over the country ? The land-
lords and holders of securities over the
land furnish at the very least a half
Of that support. Of the £5,400,000
a-jear, which the liicom<i T«x. ^yq-
duces, £3,200,000, or more than a
half, comes from the land. Uow
wide-spread, then, will be the distreas
produce<l over the community, and*
above all, to the shopkeepers in towns,
from a change which threatens to diy
up the principal sources from which
their sales are paid.
In the next place. How is the no-
tional independence to be maintained
when we come to import so large a
proportion as from a fourth to a third
of our subsistence from foreign states?
If the chances of war, or a Continental
blockade, interrupt our usual sources of
supply, what is to come of the people?
Who is to guarantee us against fa-
mine prices on any deficiency of oar
usual supply from abroad, and our
people from becoming, as the Ro-
mans were in former days, the sport
of the winds and the waves? Observe^
nearly all our foreign supply cooms
frpm two countries only, Knssia, or
Prussia, whom it inflaences, and Ame-
rica. If we lose our maritime supe-
riority— and who will secure its conti-
nuance, now that the Navigation Laws
are repealed? — wo may be at once
blockaded in our harbours, and re-
duced in three months to the alterna-
tive of starvation or submission. But
supposing we are not at onoe reduced to
so humiliating an alternative, is it not
clear that, when we have come prac-
tically to depend for the food of a third
of our people on two foreign states, wa
are entirely at the mercy of those two
countries, and can never venture to
assert, even in form, our independence
against them? Without fitting out a
ship of the line, or equipping a
battalion, they can, by the mere
tlu*eat of closing their harbours, at
any time starve ns into submission.
And what are the nations beneath
-whoso feet proud Albion is thus con-
tent to place her neck ? Knssia and
America, the two most rising coun-
tiies in existence, and both of which
are actuated by the strongest and the
most undying jealousy of the ancient
glory and maritime preponderance
of this country.
Mr Gurney, "the greatest bill-
broker in the world," has emphati-
cally declared in public, on more than
one occasion, that the country cannot
go on with its present expenditure ;
Vci^x. Iv^.QvKKQOO a-yoar, op thechargeA
1849.]
JVee Trade ai iU Zemih.
7C9
of the army and navy, is more than
can possibly be afforded ; and that, if
% great redaction is not made, we shall
become bankrupt. His remedy for
this is to disband onr troops, sell onr
ships of the line, and establish the
roign of peace and bill-broking through*
ont the world. On the other hand,
*Uhe greatest captain in the world," the
Dake of WeIlington,has made the fol«
lowing remonstrance to several snc-
cessive administrations, on the total
inadequacy of onr present establish-
ments, by sea and land, to secure the
national independence in the political
changes which may be anticipated in
the lapse of time : —
*^ I hare in vain endeayonred to awaken
the attention of different administrations
to this state of things, as well known to
our neighbours (riyals in povrer, at least
former adyersaries and enemies) as it is
to ouTseWes.
■ • • • •
^ We ought to be with garriwmf as fol-
lows ai the moment war is declared :— *
Men.
CHiannel Islands (besides the mili-
tia of each, well orffanisedy
trained, and dlBcipUned) 10,000
Plymouth 10,000
Milford Haven 5,000
Cork 10,000
Portsmouth 10,000
Dover ... ... ... ... 10,000
Sheemess, Chathaia, aad ilia
Thames 10,000
^ I suppose that one-half of the whole
regular force of the eonntry would be
stationed in Ireland, which half would
giye the garrison for Cork. The remain-
der must be supplied from the half of the
whole force at home, stationed in Great
Britain.
''The whole force employed at home
in Great Britain and Ireland would not
afford a sufficient number of men for the
mere defence and occupation, on the
breaking out of a war, of the works con-
structed for the defonce of the dockyards
and nayal arsenals, vtHhout leaving a
tingle man ditpotable.
''The measure upon which I have
earnettiy entreated different ctdtniniitrth'
tiom to decide, which is constitutional, and
has been inyariably adopted in time of
peace for the last years, is to raise,
embody, organise, and discipline the mi-
litia of the same number for each of
the three kingdoms united, as during
the late war. This would give an organ-
ised force amounting to about a hun-
dred and fifty thousand men, which we
might immediately set to work to disci-
pline. This amount would enable us to esta-
blish the strength of our army. This, with
an augmentation of the force of the regu-
lar army, which would cost £400,000,
would put the country on its legs in respect
to personal force, and I would engage
for its defence, old as I am.
" But as we stand now, and if it be
true that the exertions of the fleet alone
are not sufficient to provide for our de-
fence, we are not safe for a week after the
declaration of war.**
" I shall be deemed foolhardy in engag-
ing for the defence of the empire with an
army composed of such a force as militia.
I may be so. I confess it, I should in-
finitely prefer, and should feel more con-
fidence in, an army of regular troops.
But I know that I shall not haye these.
I can haye the others; and if an addition
is made to the existing regular army al-
lotted for home defence of a force which
would cost £400,000 a-yeifr, there would
he a sufficient disciplined force in the field
to enable him who should command it to
defend the country.
'' This is my yiew of our danger and
of our resources. I am aware that our
magazines and arsenals were yery inade-
quately supplied with ordnance and car-
riages, as well as stores of all denomina-
tions, and ammunition.
^ The deficiency has been occasioned in
part by the sale of arms, and of yarious
descriptions of ordnance stores, since the
termination of the late war, in order to
diminish the demand of supply to carry
on the peace seryiee of the ordnance, in
part by the confiagration of the arsenal
whieh occurred in the Tower some years
ago, and by the difficulty under which all
goyemments in this country labour in
prevailing upon parliament, in time of
peace, to take into consideration meamret
necessary for the safety of the country in
time of war**
* I am bordering upon 77 years of age
passed in honoor. I hope that the Al-
mighty may protect me from being again
witness of the tragedy which I cannot
persuade my contemponuries to take
measures to ayert."
These are strong words, as all those
of the Duke of Wellington, and all
other men of powerM and clear intel-
lect, are, when they are ronsed and
thoroughly in earnest. But when
charged with snch a snlject, the
means of defence and independence to
his conntry, wonld a man of his pa-
triotic feeling nee expressions less
strong, when he saw both endangered
by the weakness of ancQeaBl^^ ^^as^
770
Fru Trade at Us Zenith.
[Dec.
istratioDs, acting io obedience to the
dictates of a blind and infatuated
people ? Bat if our independence has
been thus menaced by the inadequacy
of our defensive armaments by sea and
land in time past, what is it likely to
be in days to come, when the public
revenue, and the resources of the king-
dom, are prostrated by the combined
action of a currency fettered by the
acts of 1844 and 1845, and national
industry overwhelmed with foreign
competition under the free-trade sys-
tem of 1846 ?
In truth, the peace congresses which
now amuse the world, and give an
opportunity for clever but chimerical
and ignorant men to declaim upon
the speedy advent of a political mil-
lenoium, are nothing more than an
effort, on the part of the free- trade
party, to escape from the consequences
of their own measures. Mr Cobden
And the Free-traders of England now
see as clearly as any body, that
cheap prices and a large revenue,
cither to individuals or nations, can-
not by possibility co -exist ; that the
£100,000,000, promised us from the
abolition of the corn laws, have van-
ished into thin air, and that the reduc-
tion of the income of the whole classes
of society under its operation will be
so considerable, that it is quite im-
possible the national expenditure can
be maintained. As the touching of
the dividends is not for a moment to
bethought of — as that would be bring-
ing the tempest back with a venge-
ance on the moneyed class who evoked
it — his only resource, to make our
expenditure square with our reduced
Income, is in disbanding the soldiers,
instituting a national guard, and sell-
ing our stores and ships of war. Ho
is quite serious in that ; and, like all
other fanatics, he is not in the slight-
est degree influenced by the decisive
refutation of his principles, which the
universal breaking out of hostilities,
and arming of the world, in conse-
quence of the French Revolution of
1848, and the momentair triumph of
liberal principles, has afforded. He
is perfectly aware, that if industry
was protected, and we had a currency
equal to the wants and necessities of
the nation, we might, with our ex-
tended population, raise £100,000,000
a-^car, with more ease Wi«a'97eiv»NT
do fifty millions, and thus secure the
independence of the country, and bid
defiance to all our enemies. But that
would lower the valne of money in
the hands of the great capitalists, and
would amount to an admission that
he had been wrong ; and, rather than
risk that, he is content to prostrate
the national defences, and hand us
over, unarmed, to the tender mercies of
the Chartists and Repealers at home,
and the Red Republicans or Cossacks
abroad.
The more intelligent of the Liberal
party are now intent on a different
object, but one equally descriptive of
their secret sense of the failure of their
grand panacea of free trade. They
are full of the incalculable effects of
the application of science to agricul-
ture ; expatiate largely on the analysis
of soils and liquid manores, and
indulge in learned disquisitions on
the application of the refuse of towns
and common-sewers to the improve-
ment and fertilisation of the soiL
From the Edinburgh Review^ which
treats its readers to a learned expasi
of Liebig's principles, to Sir R. Peel's
proteg^, the Dean of Westminster,
who boasts of having tripled the pro-
duce of his land by liquid manure,
this is the grand remedy for the evils
which they now see they have intro-
duced. It is singular, if there is any
truth in these discoveries that though
man has been labouring at the soil for
four thousand years, and dnring that
time had an ample supply of these
fertilising streams, they have never
been brought to light till free trade
made them a question of life and
death to a powerful party in the state.
Having had ample experience of the
application of these liquid manures on
the largest and most favonrable scale,
we arc able to ^ve a decided opinion
on this subject. Liquid manures are
of great service in enriching meatkno
lands, or forcing up coarse 6v/ luxuri-
ant a'ops of vegetables, such as cabbage
or cauliflower, of which the leaves or
stems, not the seeds or roots, form an
article of food. But they do not per-
manently enrich the soil : their effect
is over in a few weeks. A fresh inun-
dation of the fertilising stream is then
requisite, the effects of which are
speedily evaporated. On this account
wi^ «x^\<\i^\i^ vaa^^licable to grain
1849.]
Free Trade at its Zenith.
771
crops, and of veiy doubtful service to
potatoes or turnips. In the emphatic
language of farmers, they put no
hecart into the ground. The vegeta-
tion they force on is entirely in leaves
and stems, not in seeds or roots.
If they come into general use, they
may increase the determination of the
agricultural industry of the country to
grass cultivation, and render England
in modem, as Italy was in ancient
times, one great sheet of pasturage ;
but they will never overcome the
difficulties with which free trade has
environed our farmers in the raising
of grain crops, or enable them to com-
pete with the harvests of the Ukraine,
or the basin of the Mississippi.
In the third place — and this is per-
haps a more vital consideration than
any — How is the constant recurrence of
monetary crises, similar to that which
has left such woful desolation behind
it, to be avoided upon every recur-
rence of a deficient harvest at home,
or a straitened importation from
abroad ? The people of England are
sensitively alive on this subject. They
watch the rain in autumn with the
most intense anxiety ; and, if it falls
a few days more than usual, the ut-
most alarm pervades all classes. They
know well what rain in autumn por-
tends. They see rising up, in dismal
perspective before them, a great im-
portation of grain, a vast export of
sovereigns, the screw put on by the
Bank of England, a contraction of
credits by eveiy bank, every man
finding his creditors on his back, and
one-half of his debtors bankrupt. All
this they see, and see clearly ; but the
minds of a large portion of them are so
benighted by the free-trade dogmas,
that it never occurs to them that aU this
is the creation of their o>vn policy, and
is in no degree imputable to the laws
of Providence. They think the thing
is inevitable. They believe that there
is a natural connexion between three
weeks* rain in August and a monetaiy
crisis, just as there is between a simi-
lar deluge and flooded meadows, or
destroyed bridges. The evil, how-
ever, is entirely of human creation,
and may, with absolute certainty, be
avoided by human means. There is
no more reason why three weeks* rain
in August should produce a monetary
crisis, than three weeks* rain in Novem-
ber. It is our ruinous monetary laws
which render them cause and effect.
But assuming that the monetary
laws are to continue, and free trade to
be persisted in, it will become the
people of this country, and especially
the trading classes^ to consider well
the inevitable effect of such a state of
things on the monetary concerns of the
country, and, through them, on the
solvency of every one of themselves.
We have seen that the heavy rains
and large importations of grain in
1839 produced the severe and long-
protracted period of distress from 1839
to 1842 ; and that the potato failure
in 1846, acting on the Bank Charter
Act of 1844, occasioned the terrible
catastrophe of October 1847. But
what was the importation of grain, in
either of these periods of distress or
famine, to that which is now taking
place, and has become habitual in
the face of exceedingly low prices f
In 1839, the whole grain of all kinds
imported was 4,000,000 quarters, an
amount in those days unprecedented.
In 1846 and 1847, 12,000,000 quar-
ters, under the stimulus of famine
prices, was imported in fifteen months.
But now, after a fine harvest, and
with wheat at 41s. a quarter, we are
importing annually, as our average
amount^ fifteen millions of quarters of
foreign grain ! How are the most
terrible commercial disasters to be
averted, if this immense amount re-
ceives any augmentation from bad
seasons? Nay, how are they to be
averted even in ordinary seasons, with
so immense a drain on the metallic
resources of the country? This is
a question in which the mercantile
classes are far more interested than the
agricultural — for with them a mone-
tary crisis is an affair of life and death.
With landholders, cheap prices, unlesa
very long continued, are merely an
affair of temporary loss of income,
because the land itself remains, and
it is the value of the annual fruits
only that is affected.
To compensate so many perils, past,
present, and to come, have free trade
and a fettered currency, since they
were simultaneously brought into
action in this country, afforded such
a spectacle of internal prosperity and
concord as to render them on the whole
772
F^ node at ^ ZaM.
[Dec
to oar national independence, and
even esiBtenoe? Alaal thie view ia
now, i[ possible, more alanning than
the prospect of dangers to come, so
mnch have the realised and ezperi»
enced evils of the new system exceeded
what the most sombre imagination,
fraaght with the most gloomy images,
conld have antieipated. Amidst the
infinite variety of topics bearing on
this subject, we select the five fol-
lowing, as bearing decisively on the
subject: — ^The increase of the poor*
rate, both in Great Britain and Ire-
land ; the increase in emigration ; the
increase of crime ; the decline in rail-
way travelling, and the ruin of agri-
culture in Ireland.
With regard to the increase of the
poor-rate, since free trade and the
new monetary system were intro-
duced, we have the best possible
authority in the foUowiog statement
in the last number of a leading
journal. ^^It appears," says the Edin^
burgh Review, * \ from Mr Com missioner
Symmon^s report on pauperism, that
the poor-rate in England has now be-
come heavier ih<m it uxu before 1885
when the New Poor Law was intro'
dueed. It was, in 1834, £7,373,807 ;
it was in 1848, £7,817,459. Every
ninth person now in England is now
a pauper : and the increase of paupers
during the last two years has been
doable in proportion to the rela*
tive numbers of criminals."* In Ire-
land, above 2,000,000 persons are
paupers; and the poor-rate since
1846 has risen from £260,000 a-year
to £1,900,000, though it was in the
first of ^beee years only (1846) that
there was any general failure of the
potato crop. In Scotland the poor-
rate has nearly tripled in the last
three years ; it has risen from £185,000
a-year to £560,000. In Glasgow, the
poor-rates, which anterior to 1846
were under £30,000 yearly for the
city and suburbs, rose in the year
1848-9 to £200,000, and in the
present year (1849-50) amount to
£138,500. Nor is it wonderful that
assessments have increased so pro-
digiously, when the augmentation of
paupers has been so alarming. The
following is the increase in the city
of Glasgow parish, being about a
half of the city and snbnrba, doriag
the hut thiee years : —
Tear.
1845-6,
1846-7,
1847-8,
Total nnmbcr of
7,454
15,911
61,852
The total number of paupersrelieved
in the city of Glasgow and suburbs
in the year 1848-9 was 122,000;
being exactly a third of the popnior
tion receiving parochial reli^.
The enormous and unpreoedrated
increase of emigration in the last three
years is still more alarming and de-
scriptive of the fatal disease under
which the body politic is labouring.
Previous to 1846 the annual onigra-
tion had stood thus; —
1838, .
93,222
1839, .
62,207
1840, .
90,743
1841, .
118^92
1842, .
128,344
1343, .
57,212
1844, .
70,686
1845, .
93,501
1846, .
129,851
But free trade and
a fettered cnrrener
soon doubled
these numbers. The
emigration stands thus in
roond nmn*
bers: —
1847, .
•
•
258.461
1848, .
•
•
248,582
For 1849 the numbers have notyel
been made up; but that they have
much exceeded 300,000 is well kmnm,
and may be judged of by the foUow-
iag facts. From the offidal retm
made up at New York, and published
in the New Yorh Herald of October
10, it appears that, up to that date,
there had landed, in tiiai harbour oIom^
238,487 emigrants, of whom no Iws
than 189,800 were Irish. If to these
is added the emigrants who went to
Boston— where 13,000 landed in the
same period, and those who have gone
to Canada, where above 60,000 landed
last year*-it is evident that the total
emigrants fix>m the United Kingdom
this year must have considerably ex*
ceeded 300,000; being probably tba
greatest emigration, firom anycountiy
in a single year, in the wh^e annals
of the world. It considerably exeeeds
the annual increment of the popnla*
tion of the United iDngdom, which ii
• JSdMnrgh Review, October 1848, p. 524.
1849.]
Ftm Trade at Us Zenith.
773
about 230,000: so that, under the
combined action of free trade and a
fettered currency, the pofulation op
Great Britain and Ireland, which
FOR three centuries HAD CONTI-
NUALLY BEEN ADVANCING, HAS TOR
THE FIRST TIME DECLINED. The Free-
traders may boast of an exploit which
all the enemies of England have never
been able to effect. This has become
so notorious, that it has passed into an
ordinary newspaper paragraph; which,
without attracting the least attention
—though it is the most striking thing
that has occurred in English history
for five centuries — is now making the
ronnd of the public prints.
It is in vain to put this dismal fact
down to the account of the Irish fa-
mine. That occurred in the winter of
1846-7, three years ago, since which
period we have had good harvests ;
notwithstanding which the emigra-
tion has, since that, been constantly
about 250,000 ; and this year, in the
midst of a fine harvest, has turned
300,000.
The increase of crime during the
last three years has been equally
alarming, and illustrative of the griev-
ous distress which, for that period, has
affected the industrial interests of the
empire. Having, in the last Number
of this magazine, fully discussed this
subject, we shall only observe that,
during the last three years, the in-
crease of crime in the two islands has
been nearly 50 per cent. Sir R. Feel,
in spring 1846, when the railway
mania was at its height, and full em-
ployment was given to railway labour-
ers and mechanics in every part of the
country, dwelt with peculiar emphasis
and complacency on the diminution
of commitments which appeared in the
preceding year, as the most decisive
proof of the beneficial effect of hie
measures in 1842. We hope ho will
dwell with equal emphasis on the m-
creaee of crime since that time, and
draw from it the appropriate concln-
fiion as to the wisdom of his subse-
quent measures.
The woful state of the railway
interests thronghout the country, and
the steady and alarming decrease of
the mileage profits, on an average of
all the lines, is another internal symp-
tom of the dreadful effects of the new
system which, within the last three
years, has been introduced. Railway
property, within the last three years,
has almost everywhere declined to a
half, in many great lines to a third of
its former value. In one of the greatest
lines in the kingdom, the £50 shares,
all paid up, are now selling at £14,
and were even lately down as low as
£ 10. The following is taken from the
Times of October 21 :—
^ The subjoined table exhibits the num-
ber of miles opened at Michaelmas in
seven consecutive years, and the average
traffic per mile during the first nine
months in each year : —
Years. MUea Opened. TttJRe per iiille«
1843 ... 1,586 ... £2,330
1844 ... 1,770 ... 2,500
1845 ... 2,033 ... 2,640
1846 ... 2,498 ... 2,560
1847 ... 3,375 ... 2,200
1848 ... 4,178 ... 1,^5
1849 ... 4,980 ... 1,780
The decline in the last column, from 1845
to the present year, is sufficiently alarm*
Ing, and looks like a sinking to zero."
To what is this lamentable sinking
of property, in so important a branch
of public investment, to be ascribed?
We are aware that much of it is owing
to unproductive branch lines; but
what is the main cause of these branch
lines having, contrary to general ex*
?ectation, proved so unproductive?
t is in vain to ascribe it to the
cholera: that only temporarily af-
fected parts of the kingdom ; and, at
any rate, it is now over, and govern-
ment have very properly appointed a
public thanksgiving for its termina-
tion. It is equally in vain to ascribd
it to the monetary crisis of 1847 ; that
is long since past : capital is overflow-
ing, and interest in London is again
down to 3 and 2^ per cent. It is evi-
dently owing to one canse, worse than
plague, pestilence, and famine put
together— viz. the wasting away of
the internal resources of the conntry,
under the combined operation of fteo
trade and a restricted eiirrency : free
trade delaging ns with foreign goods
in every department of industry, and
a restricted currency paralysing every
attempt at competition in our own.
We are very complacent : we not
only present our shoulders bare to the
blows of the enemy, but we tie up onr
own hands, lest, under the smart of the
injury, wo should be tempted to re-
turn them.
77i
JVee lYade ai iU ZaM.
[I>ce.
Bat by far the most deplorable
effect of nee trade and a fettered car-
rency is to be seen in Ireland, where,
for the last three years^ misery unex-
ampled and nnntterable has existed.
We shall mention only three facts of a
general nature, descriptive of the state
of that unhappy country since the
simoom of the new principles blew oyer
it, and leave our readers to judge of
the state of things to which they point.
In the first place it appears, fh)m a
parliamentary return, that the holders
of farms who, in 1845, were 310,000
over the Emerald Isle, had sunk in
1848 to 108,000. Two hundred and
two ihoiuand cuUivatora of land have
disappeared in three years, and with
them at least half of the capital by
means of which the land was made to
produce anything.
In the second place, as we noticed
in our last Number, the bank re-
turns corroborate, in the most fearful
manner, this alarming decrease in the
agricultural capital and industry of the
country. Ireland, it is well known, is
almost entirely an agricultural oountiT'.
Now, from the returns of the bank-
notes in circulation in Ireland, as made
to government in terms of the act of
1845, it appears that, while in August
1846, ihart were £7,500,000, they had
iunk, in August 1849, to £3,838,000/
Othello's occupation is gone ! The
bank-notes can find no employment :
the bankers no customers. Free trade
and the bank restrictions have in three
years reduced the circulation which
the country could take off to half of its
former amount.
In the third place, if we cast our
eyes across the Atlantic, we shall see
where the cultivators and agricultural
capital of Ireland have gone. During
the years 1847 and 1848, out of the
250,000 emigrants who annually left
the British Isles, about 180,000 were
from Ireland. But this year 1849,
when the duties on grain became
nominal in February, outdid all its
predecessors in the magnitude of the
stream of human beings which it
caused the Emerald Isle to send across
the Atlantic. It has been already
mentioned that> up to October 10,
1849, 189,800 Irish emigrants had
Unded at New York, besides 10,000 •
at Boston. If to these we add the
probable number to Canada, perhaps
30,000, we shaU have at leaat 2S0,00a
Irish who have emigrated oi one year
to America — and that a year of
general peace, a fine harvest, rec^wn-
ed Ck>ntinental markets, and revived
manufacturing industry in the empire.
And the Irish county members formed
a large part of % R. PeePs majority
which carried free trade in 1846.
Truly they have smote their consti-
tuents hip and thigh.
After these facts, and the woful one,
that about 2,000,000 paupers are kept
alive in Ireland by a poor-rate of
£1,900,000 a-year, whidi is croshinr
the little that remains of industry and
cultivation in the country, it is super-
fluous to go into details. But the fol-
lowing extracts ftom that powerful
free-trade journal. The Timet^ are so
graphic and characteristic of the diect
of its own favourite measures, that we
cannot forego the satisfiiction of pre-
senting them : —
^ The landed gentry and fBrmbMan in
this eoonty, [Limerick,] impelJed by a
national caUmity, now at a crisii
out example in Ireland, have in
plation a meeting to repreaent to lui Ex-
cellency the liOxd-Lteatenant the utterly
prostrate condition of all agrieal>
tanl property, and the nniTenal fail-
ure of every expedient in the best
rural economy to snstaoa the Irish
farmer — destitute of capital, bereft ef
legitimate protection, and overwhelmed
by poor-rates and taxes — agaimtt tk^
fret'trade imparts of ike whole worid.
The ministerial policy of Great BritaJB,
under sanction of a law which thesMands
of her loyal snbjeots deprecated, iarites
ike foreign trader from ail parte knon% to
the c<mpam to impart ai a namimal dtUjff
and tkien tufert him to export in specie
onltfyforhis awn eountrgf What other
ballast hare the fleets of foreign vessels
conveyed from our shore for the last three
years hut metallie and bank carreneft
With such immeasurably unequal com-
petition at his very door, the aattfe
crower finds ao fnaritt for tftc pradmee ef
his honest industry, unless ai a priM mhoUf
incompatible wUh tke position of a sottent
man. He sells, alas ! only to lose, and
the selfish foreigner is sure of profit on
every cheap venture ; while his specula-
tion renders no equiralent whatever to
the revenue or taxation of that state
which encourages his importations at the
expense of our own independence ; fbr the
permanent independence of those king-
doms implies the prosperity of Irish pro-
duce, and its prefereace in the Engiit^
1849.]
Free Trade at Us Zenith.
775
market. Ireland, unfortanately, has no
trade or mannfkctare to employ her peo-
ple, and wherefore is best known to Eng-
land ; bnt her only staple, agriooltnre,
which all nations, ancient and modem,
loved to cnltivate, will soon be little more
than a name. The causes and effects of
this disastrous revolution the philosopher
and historian will hereafter do justice to.
A preparatory meeting, relative to the
above, is now being held, with closed
doors, in the county court. Lord Mon-
teagle in the chair. Poor-rate was the
monster grievance of discussion. The
meeting broke up at 8 o'clock, it having
been decided to collect facts from every
district of the country in connexion with
taxation and valuation of property." —
Limerick Chronicle, of Saturday, Oct. 2G.
** The Land Question. — A letter from
Kilrush, dated the 27th inst., and pub-
lished in the Cfare JoumcUy says : — * So
eager are the country farmers to make
sale of their grain, that every day is a
market. Two causes seem to influence
them ; first, their present and urgent
necessities press upon them, and, secondly,
an opinion prevails, which appears not to
be confined to the west, that it is more
secure to have the money in their pockets
than to leave the crop to become a prey
to agent or poor-rate collector ; and also
that, in the event of no reduction being
made in the annual rent, they may have
no difiiculty in walking off. Such are the
feelings operating on the minds of the
majority of the farmers in this locality.
It is now too plain and obvious, that
should a reduction in the rents take place
here, it will come two years too late, as
the greater number of the fanners (for-
merly comfortable) have not as much as
would support their families for half the
coming year. This is a sad but true
state of things, in a district where, some
few years since, the rents were paid, per-
haps, more regularly than in any other
part of the south of Ireland. A few have
left their holdings, after selling every
article, leaving the naked walls of a house
to the landloi^, and gone to a neighbour-
ing townland, where the quality and
cheapness of the land presented a greater
encouragement ; but such cases of flying
tenants have become so common of late,
that every paper teems with similar state-
ments. }/ iM are to hate the land cufti-
TcUed heref the rente mutt not only be re-
duced to half tke former price, but the
tenant mast be assisted to set the orop^
and encouraged to introduce a proper
method of cultivation, otherwise the land
will be left idle, and tke majority of tke
present occupiers wiU become innuUes of
tke uorkkouse: **— Times, Oct. 31, 1849.
^ There must also be taken into aeeount
the dire domestic privations endured for
the last three years of famine, the general
flight of tenants with the landlords* rent»
the desertion of the land, impoverished to
the last degree by the runaways, yet for
whose dishonesty and abuse of solema
contract the unfortunate proprietor is held
responsible — the abandoned farms being
still subject to accumulation of poor-rate
and taxes. Then come the distraint, the
impounding, the sale and sacrifice of pro-
perty ; while the home market, titamped
by free trade teitk foreigners, has left land-
lord and farmer no help or resource what-
ever to bear up against the intolerable op-
pression of financial burdens, sanctioned by
law, under the free constitution of Great
Britain ! One case of grievous suffering
by a respectable family in this county was
communicated to the preparatory meeting
on Saturday last, by one of the gentlemen
present. The possessor of a rent-roll of
£1500 a-year landed estate, which netted
£1200 annually four years ago, vas abso-
lutefy compelled to subsist witk kis feife and
seren ckUdrenfor three months of tke past
twelve, witkout tke ordinary comfort of a
meat dinner ; a cup of weak tea or coffee,
and the vegetables of the kitchen-garden,
commonly furnishing the table of this
most wretched household ! Incredible
and appalling as this may appear, we
have been assured it is not a solitaiy in-
stance of the excessive want and privation
known to exist." — Timesy Nov. 4, 1849.
So much for the working of free
trade and a restricted currency in the
Emerald Isle. One would suppose,
in reading these melancholy accounts,
we were' not dealing with any people
in modem times, but transported back
to those dismal periods, after the fall
of the Roman empii'e, when the con-
temporary annalists contemplated tha
extinction of the human race, from the
desolation of some of its provinces.
This dreadful state of things in Ire-
land is but a repetition of what, under
the operation of these causes, aided by
the fatal step of unqualified emancipa-
tion, has for some years been going on
in the West Indies. We have not
room to enlarge on this prolific subject,
teeming as it does with facts illustra-
tive of the effects of the free-trado
system. They are generally known.
Suflace it to say, the West Indies are
totally ruined, British colonies, on
which £120,000,000 sterling has been
expended, and which fifteen years
ago produced £22,000,000 worth of
agrlcxiltuT%i \it^\)i!^ ^\L^K»a^l^^^'^l^
been VxrettOT^wXA-^ ^^\xwjA- ^^^
776
F)m Tnuk aiits Zem^
[DflC
fee-simple of all the estates they coa-
tam would not seU for £5,000,000
ateiiing. We know an estate in the
West Indies, which formerly nsed to
net £1500 a-year, and to which £7000
worth of the best new machinery
was sent within the last five years,
which the proprietor would be too hap-
py to sell, machinery and all, for £5000.
Canada has lately shared largely
in the moral earthqmULe which has so
violently shaken all parts of the Brit-
ish empire. We snbjoin an extract
from the temperate and dignified
statement of their grievances, lately
published by 350 of the leadhig men
at Montreal, to show how largely
free trade enters into them.
'^ BdoDging to all parties, origins, snd
creeds, but yet agreed npon the advaotage
of co-operation for the performance of a
oommonduty to onrselves and our country,
growing out of a common aecesstty, we
bare consented, in view of a brighter and
happier fatore, to merge in oblivion all
past diflTerences, of whatever charaoter, or
attributable to wbateyer source. In ap-
pealing to oar fellow-colonists to nnite
with us in this oar most needftal doty,
we solemnly conjure them, as they desire
asacceasfol issne, and the wvlfkre of their
country, to enter upon the task, at this umk
mentoos crisis, in the same fraternal spirit.
" The reversal of ike ancient jaoliey of
Great Britain^ vhereby the mtharevfrom
the coloniee their wonted protection in her
fnarkett, hae produced the mott ditattrout
^fecte upon Canada, In surveying the
actual condition of the country, what but
ruin or rapid decay meets the e^? Our
proyincial government and civic corpor-
ations embarrassed; our banking and
other securities greatly depreciated ; our
mercantile and agricultural interests alike
unprosperous ; real estate scareely sale-
able upon any terms ; our unrivalled
rivers, lakes, and canals almost unused;
while commerce abandons our shores, the
<ireulaiting capital amassed under a more
Javourable system is dissipatedy with none
ftrom any <j[uarter to replace it 1 Thus,
without available capital, unable to effect
a loan with foreign states, or with the
mother ooontry, aMfcoag^ offering eecority
greatly superior to that which readily
obtains money both from the United States
and Great Britain, when other than eol-
oaists are the applicants: — crippled,
tfaereibre, and cheeked in the fhll career
of private and pablie enterprise, this
possession of the British erown — eu
ooutttry — stands before the world m
humiliating ooatraet vrith its immediate
neighbours, exhibiting every symptom of
a nation fitf t sinking to decay.
*' With superabundant water-power
and cheap labour, especially in Lower
Canada, we have yet no domestie maan«
ftctures ; nor can the meet saagoine, «n-
less under altered drcnmstanees, antici-
pate the home growth, or advent fren
foreign parts, of either capital or enter-
prise to embark in this great source of
national wealth. Oar institutions, unhap-
pily, have not that impress of permaaenca
which can alone impart security and inspire
confidence, and the Canadian market is too
limited to tempt the foreign capitalisL •
" Wliile the adjoining states are cov-
ered with a network of thriving railways^
Canada possesses but three lines, which,
together, scarcely exceed fifty miles in
length, and the stock in two of which is
held at a depreciation of from 50 to 80
per cent — a fatal symptom of the torpor
overspreading the land.** — Titne$, Oct. 31.
In what graphic terms are the is-
evitable resnlte of fne trade and a re*
stricted cnrrency here portrayed by
the s^erers nnder their efiisetsi
Colonial protection withdrawn ; home
industry swamped by foreign ; canals
nnnsed ; banks alarmed ; capital db*
sipated; rivers and harbours unten-
anted ; property unsaleable I One
would have thought they were tna-
scribing from this magaaine some ni
the numerous passages in whteh wa
have predicted its effects. And M
England recollect, Canada now em-
ploys 1,100,000 of the tonnage rf
Great Britain. Let it be stmek ofl;
and added to the other side, and the
British tonnage, employed in canyin^f
on our trade, will, in a few year8» be
made less Hum thejbrman.*
* British tonnage to British North American oeloniee, 1846,
To United States of America, . • • .
Total tonnage in British trade to all countries, •
Deduct Canadian tonnage, . • • •
British tonnage after losing Canada,
Foreign tonnage after gaining Canada,
-PoBTBa's Parliamentary Tahlee, 1846, p. 62.
The repeal of the Navigation Laws in 1847 gave such an impiike ta ftmign
1^76,162
905,133
4,294,738
l/)7<,18ft
8,228,671
1,808,888
r,078,18g
Strip-
1849.]
Frte Trade at Us Zenitk.
777
One would havo thought, from the
present state of Canada, that our co-
lonial secretary had followed the ad-
vice of Franklin in his '^ Bules for
making a ffreat Empire a tmall aneJ'*
** If you are told of dueontent$ in your
eolonies, never believe that they are gene-
ral, or that you have given occasion for
them ; therefore, (fo not think of applying
dny remedy or of changing any qffentive
mtanure, Redresfi no grievance, lest they
■hoald be encouraged to demand the re-
dress of some other grievance. Yield no
redress that is just and reasonable, lest
they should make another demand that is
unreasonable. Take all your in/ormatiom
of the state of your cdloniei from your
goternort and officers in enmity with
them.
** If you see riral nationt rejoicing at
the prospect of your disunion with your
provinces, and endeavouring to promote
it — if they translate, publish, and applaud
all the complaints of your discontented
colonists, at the same time privatel/
stimulating yon to severer measures —
let not that alarm or offend you. Why
should it ? You all mean the same thing."
—(RuUb 16 and 17.)
If our rnlei-s had followed the ad-
vice of the sages of former times, in-
stead of the theories of modem bul-
lion ists and interested parties, they
would have avoided this unparalleled
accumulation of disasters. Hear the
S-eatest and wisest of men, Lord
aeon, on the subject : —
** ' For the home trade I first commend
to your consideration the encouragement of
tillage, which will enable the kingdom to
provide com for the natives, and to spar*
for importation ; and I myself have known
more than once, when in times of dearth,
in Queen Elizabeth's days, it drained much
coin of the kingdom to fiunish ua with
€orn from foreign parts.'
'' Ho added also —
" ' Let the foundation of a profitable
trade be so laid that the exportation of
home commodities be more in value than
the importation of foreign, so we shall be
sure that the stocks of the kingdom shall
yearly increase, for then the balance of
trade must be returned in money.'
** And Lord Bacon went on to give this
wholesome piece of advice : —
^ * Instead of crying up all things which
4Lre either brought ft'om beyond sea or
wrought by the hands of strangers, let us
advance the native eommodities of our
own kingdom, and employ our own
countrymen before strangers.' " — Bacom't
Etsayt,
^ Trade," says Locke, ^is necessary to
the production of riches, and money to ths
carrying on of trade. This is principally
to be looked after, and taken care of; for
if this be neglected, we shall in vain, by
contrivances among ourselves, and shuf-
fling the little money we have from one
hand to another, endeavour to prevent
our vrants : decay of trade will quickly
waste all the remainder; and then the
landed man, who thinks, perhaps, by the
fall of interest, to raise the value of his
land, will find himself cruelly mistaken^
when, the money being gone, (as it will be
if our trade be not kept up,) he can get
neither farmer to rent, nor purchaser to
buy, his land." ....
*' If one-third of the money employed
in trade were locked up or gone out of
England, must not the landlords receive
one-third less for their goods, and, conse-
quently, rents fall — ^a less quantity of
money by one-third being to be distri-
buted amongst an equal number of re-
ceivers! Indeed, people, not perceiving
the money to be gone, are apt to be jea*
Ions, one of another ; and each suspecting
another's inequality of gain io rob him of
his share, every one will be employing his
skill and power, the best he can, to re-
trieve it again, and to bring money into
his pocket in the same plenty as formerly.
But this is but scrambling amongst our-
selves, and helps no more against our
wants than the pulling of a short coveriid
will, amongst children that lie together,
preserve them all from the cold — soum
will ttarre, unlea the father of the family
provide bkter, and enlarge the eeanty
catering. This pulling and contest is
usually between the candid man and the
merchant."— Locke's TfoHfes, v. U, 70,
71. Connderatione on Bate of Interett
and Baiting the Value of Monsy.
We add only the opinion of a great
authority with the Free-traders, Mr
Maltbns, which seems almost pro-
phetic of what is now passing in this
countiy. We are indebted for it to
the Morning Poit^ which has consifl-'
tently argu^ the doctrines of protec-
tion and an adequate currency since
they were first assailed.
" If the price of com were to fall to 60s.
ping, that, in the first year after the loss of Canada, the foreign shipping employed in
■our trade would exceed the British, even supposing we only lost two-thirde of Cana-
dian trade by its independence.
778
Trtt Tradt ai sto ZemtL
[Dec:
a qaiiter, and labour md otlier eonunodi-
ties neariy inpiDportMiiy there eaa be no
doabi ih*^ the itoekholder would be bene-
fited nn&irly nt the expense of the in-
dostrions djunee of soeiety. During the
twenty years, beginning with 1794, and
ending with 1813, the arezage priee of
wheat was about 836. ; during ten yean,
ending with 1813, 928. ; and during the
Ust five yean of this sane twenty, the
priee was 108s. In the eonne of these
twenty yean, goTemment borrowed near
£500,000,000 of real capital, exelnsiTe of
the sinking fund, ai the rate of about fire
per cent interest. But if oom shall fiJl
to 60fl. a quarter, and other commodities
in proportion, instead of an interest of
fire per cent., the goTemment will really
pay an interest of seren, ei|^t, and nine,
and for the last £200,000,000, of ten per
eent^ This must be paid by the industrious
classes of society, and by the landlords ;
that is, by all tiiose whose nominal incomes
Tary with the rariations in the measure of
ralue ; and if we completely wuceeed i»
the reductiom of tke price of com amd
labour, this increased interest must be
paid in future trcm a roTenue of about
katf tke nomifuil valme of tke na^onal
imame ta 1813. If we consider with
what an increased weight the taxes on
tea, sugar, malt, soap, candles, &c, would
in this case bear tm tiie labouring classes
of society, and what proportion of their
income all the aetire, industrious middle
orden of the state, as well as the higher
orders, must pay, in assessed taxes and
the rariouB artides of custom and excise,
tkefrtMemre will appear to be abeolutdjf
tMtolerabU. Indeed, if the measure of
Talne were really to fall as we hare sup-
posed, there is great reason to fear that
the country would be aheolwidy unabU to
eoiUinme the payment oftkepreeemt inUrenl
of ike maHoMl debl»-—Maliku^» Eeaam,
This was Mr Malthns's anticipatioii
of the effect of wheat falling to M)s.
What would he have said of it at 40s.,
its present average price? We recom-
mend the oondnding paragraph to the
notice of the fnnd-holderst by whose
inflaence the late changes have main-
ly been introdooed.
But let the Free-traders be of good
dbeer — they have done marvellons
things. They have accomplished what
no British statesmen, ance the days
of Alfred, have been able to effect.
Tliey have stopped the growth of our
population, and, f<v the first time for
fonr centuries, rendered it retrograde.
They have sent from two hundred
and fifty to three hundred thousand
people yeariy out of the country, for
three years, in seaieh of food, lliey
have lowered the Iridi dicalatioD
of notes a half. They have, with
one blow, swamped the Poor-law
Amendment Act in England, and ren-
dered rates higher, even with prices
extremely low, than they ever were
in Engii^ history. They have ex-
tirpated 200,000 cnltivatonin Ireland.
They have cut £80,000,000 a-year off
from the remuneration of eultivatioa
and the encouragement of the home
market to our mannfiutures in Great
Britam. They have lowered railway
property more than a half. They
have destroyed, at least, a half of the
whole commercial and trading wealth
of the manufacturing towns. They
have made the nation dependant, ia
two yean, for a fourth of its subsis-
tence on foreign states. They have
rendered the maintoiaaee of the na-
tional independence, if the prnent
system is persisted in, impossible.
They have destroyed £100,000,000
worth of property in the West Indies.
They have sown the seeds of revolt in
Canada, and rendered its separation,
at no distant period, from Crreat Bri-
tain a matter of certainty. They
have repealed the Navigation Laws,
and thereby cut off the right am of
our naval strength. They aie &at
laying the seeds of dismemberment in
our colonial empire. They will soos
reduce, if unchecked in their career,
the immense empire of England to
two islands, oppressed with taxes,
eaten up by paupers, importing a third
of thdr annual submstence from for-
eign states, brought in in foreign bot-
toms. These are the effects of frbb
TRADE AT ITS ZENITH. What wUl
they be at its Nadir?
INDEX TO VOL. LXVL
Abercromby, Mr, in S&rdinia, 5S7.
Across the Atlantic, 567.
^neas, Payne Knight's criticisms on, 375.
Africa, Jonathan in, 172 — its deserts, 464.
Agricultural interest, orerthrow of, by the
free-traders, 115 — population of Wales,
character, &c. of the, 830.
Agriculture, alleged injury from the game
laws to, 73 — distressed state of, in Ire-
land, 774— and Spain, 719.
Album, our, for the last page of, 205.
Alfieri, the autobiography of, 294.
Alison on taste, remarks on, 13— K>n Vir-
gil, 246 — on Homer, 255.
America, increase of its shipping under the
reciprocity system, 117, 118— cost of
raising grain in, 120 — forests of, 464.
Andalusia, Mr Dundas Murray's work on,
705.
Anne, Queen, national debt under, 666.
Anti-game law association, the, 63.
Antro de Nettuno in Sardinia, the, 40.
Ardara, early paintings in, 46.
Army, Cobden's crusade against the, 584.
Art, specimens of early, in Sardinia, 46 —
influence of religion on, 261.
Artist, the, not a mere imitator, 412.
Asia,its mountains, 462 — table-lands, 4 63.
Assignment system for conyicts, adran-
tages of the, 532.
Atala et lUntf, Chateaubriand's, 801.
Atheism, Christopher, &c. on, 81.
Attitu in Sardinia, the, 43.
Audiganne, M.,on the state of France, 233.
Australia, commerce of, in relation to the
, conyict system, 527 — exports per head
to, ib, — obstacles to free emigration to,
533.
Austria, the contest between, and Hun-
gary, 589 — Cobden on, 591.
Austrian loan, Cobden on the, 602.
AUTOBIOORAPHT — ChAT£AUB&IAND*S Mb-
MOiRS, 292.
Bacon, Lord, on the principles of trade,
777.
Bad temper, Christopher on, 5.
Badbn iNsuBiiEcnoN, the, 206 — as one
result of the reyolutionary moyement,
429 — ^its causes, &c., ib,
Baden-Baden, state of, 431.
Baltic shipping, increase of, under the
reciprocity system, 117, 118.
Banditti, Sfl^inian, 41.
Bank, danger of the, in 1823, 675 — char-
ter act of 1844, the, 758.
Barton, Bernard, letters of Lamb to, 149.
Bawr, Madame, tale by, G09.
Beattie,Dr, on Gray's elegy, 242.
Beauty, Christopher on the faculty of,
29 — relations of yirtue to, 259.
Blair, Dr, on Virgil's description of thun-
der, 12.
Blanc, Louis, his " Protest," 234.
Blind, one of the Baden insurgents, 208.
Bolingbroke on the national debt, 665.
Boroughs, predominance giyen by the
Reform Bill to, 113.
Boswell's Life of Johnson, on, 296.
Botany Bay, effects of the transportation
system on, 528.
Braybrooke Lord, his edition of Pepys'
Diary, 501.
Bread stuflb, importation of, 766.
Brentano, one of the Baden insurgents,
206,207,208,211,215.
Brigands, Spanish, 706.
Bright, Mr, motiyes of, in his anti-game-
law agitation, 63 — on poaching, 70.
Brougham, Lord, on the marriage law of
Scotland, 269 — on transportation, &c.,
525.
Brown, Dr Thomas, on Gray's elegy, 241.
Bugeaud, Marshal, 227.
Buonaparte and the Bourbons, Chateau-
briand's pamphlet called, 804.
Burritt, Elihu, 583.
Bute, Lord, bribery under, 666.
Butler's Analogy, the argument for im-
mortality from, 311.
Byron, on a passage from, 367 — ^his de-
scription ofVelino, 372— his autobio-
graphy, 295.
Cabrera, the last insurreption of, 707.
Cadet de Colobriires, the, 607.
Caesar's Commentaries, on, 292.
Campbell, Lord, attack on Lord Lynd-
hurst by, 131 — on the Scottish marriage
biU, 265, 273.
Canaanites, presumed relics of the, in
Sardinia, 86.
Canada bill, debates on the, 131— com-
merce of, in relation to the conyict
system, 527— exports per head to, i6. —
effects of free trade on, 776.
Canadas, ciyiL RByoLunoN in — a Re-
medy, 471.
Cape, commerce of, in relation to the con-
yict system, 527 — resistance in, to its
being made a penal settlement, 535.
Cardiganshire, rarity of the English lan-
guage in, 328.
Carlist moyement^ the U.tA^\a.^\i«Ssb^^*l^1 <
780
Index.
[Dec.
Carlsruhe, the rcTolt at, 206— capture of,
by the Prussians, 215.
Carta de Logu of Sardinia, the, 40.
Carthaginians in Sardinia, the, 34 — ^their
disappearance, 36.
Castlemaine, Lady, 516.
Cavaignac, General, during tht Jane con-
flict, 231, 232.
Caxtons, the. Part XIV. chap. Ixxx., 48
— chap. Ixxxi., 55 — chap. Ixxxii., 59 —
chap. Ixxxiii., 60 — Part XV. chap.
Ixxxiy.y 151 — chap. Ixzxy., 162 — chap.
Ixxxri., Vi?ian — at the entrance of life
sits the mother, ib. — chap. IxxxTii.,
The preceptor, 155 — chap. Ixxxyiii.,
The hearth without trust, and the world
without a gnide, 157— chap. Ixxxix.,
The attempt to build a temple to for-
tune out of the ruins of home, 169 —
chap, xc. The reanlta — perrerted am-
bition, &c., 160 — chap, xoi.,164 — chap,
xcii., 165 — chap. xciiL, 167 — chap,
xciv., 171— Part XVI. diap.xcv., 277
—chap, xcvi., 283 — chap. xctU., 285 —
chap, xcviii., 286 — chap, xeix., 289 —
chap, c, 290 — Part the Last, chap, ci.,
391— chap, cii., 393 — diap. clii., 394>—
chap, civ., 396— chap, ct., 897— chap,
cvi., 400 — chap. cyIi., 403-— chap. CTiii.,
405.
Celtic race, character of the Welsh, S85.
Chapman's Homer, on, 257.
Charles II., sketcluu of the iimtt o(^ 601,
ei teq.
Charles Lamb, 133.
Chartism, preralenee of, in Wales, 337.
Chateaubriand's Memoibs, 292.
Chauteaubriand, Tanity of, 300 — ^his loe-
cessiyc works, 301.
Chatham, Lord, his syBtem of colonial
policy, 471.
Christ's Hospital, Chatlee Lamb at, 186.
Christianity, Christopher on, 30.
Christian morality, on, 30.
Christina, Spain undctr, 704.
Christopher under Canvass^ ms Dies
Bo&EALBS.
Christopher in the Sulks — m sketch, S.
Church of England, state of the, in Wales,
333 — of Scotland, opposition of, to the
marriage and registration bills, 266.
Civil Revolution in the CutiHAfl — a
Remedy, 47 L
Clamor Publico, the, 710.
Classes at Yverdun, the, 104.
Classical, on the significance of, 26.
Claudius in Hamlet, on, 639, 646.
Close boroughs, advantages of the. III.
Coal, export of, from Wales, 329, 330.
Cobden, review of the career of^ 681,
et acq. — speech of, at the Hungarian
meeting, 591.
Cockbum <^ Ormieton, oharaeter of, 351.
Coleridge, intimacy of Lamb with, 136 —
Talfourd's account of, 142.
Coloiiial policy, Bxitiah BYstam «!, il\.
Colonies, effects of the protective system
on, 110 — virtually disfranchised by the
Reform Bill, 113 — influence of the
transportation system on their com>
merce, 527.
Comic, present rage for the, 145.
Conimeree, effects of the protection sys-
tem on, 110 — effects of the new cur-
rency system on, 123 — colonial, influ-
ence of the transportation system on,
627.
Commons, house of, all elaases represented
in, prior to the ReforM BUI, 111.
Confiscations, the nvoliitioBary, ia
France, 225.
Conjuror, the, 692.
Constitution, the GraimD, and lie rejec-
tion, 425.
Consumer and prodvotr, diSBreni in-
terests of, 112.
Convict system, gtmenJL iwkw of the,
619, et teq.
Convicts, instmction of, in » trade, 620.
Copper, smeltiMg, &e. of, in Walee, S29,
330.
Cordova, Genera], in Italy, 709.
Com Laws, the abolition <Mf the, 11&
Coronna, the embarkation at, 696.
Cotton manufactures, profits &c. OB, in
America, 473.
Cowan, Mr, on the gnne lawi^ 68.
Crichton, Mr, on game-law proeeevtioM^
70.
Crime, increaee of, 126, 773 etotioticsof,
for Wales, 332— eUtistice of recent,
519.
Criminals, reformatioD of, is New Sovtb
Wales, 526.
Cbowrino of the CoLUSlf, tlM, Mid th
Crushing of the Pedestal, 198.
Cruaehan, thnnder-storm on, 8.
Cuba, state of, prospeeta of its ■epai'eiioa
from Spain, Ac, 711,«t t^gt.
Cunnlngkame, Mr, on the iiifwiiieii ef
convicts, 526.
Currency system, the aew, aad lie eSsets,
122, 756, 759, «e Mq.
Davenant, Dr Charles, on the nalieai)
debt, 663.
Dead, moumtng for the, ia Satdinia, 43. '
Death, Butler's argvment regardiaff, 3821
Delta, Disenchantment by, ^S»
Democracy, error of principle ef, 282.
Democratic tendencies in Waleo, iafln-
ence of dissent on, 337.
De Ruyter, Admiral, 511.
DiART OP Samokl Pxptb, 56L.
Dickens, the worics of, 88(K.
DiesBorealeSjNo. L, sonnet onnadiag, 18.
Dies Borealeb, Na II. Chrietoplier
under canvass, 1 — Chrieto^ier in the
sulks, a sketch, 8 — on teoipcr, 5- a
thunder-storm, 6, gt teq, — ^ViigU'a da>
•cription of thunder, 11 — ^Lvereiias^,
15— Thomson's, 16— arrival of Talbeys,
\n~-vii>^ ^^B(^<&«^Qn of elaetieid, 26
1849.]
Index,
781
-^on scholftnliip) 27"H>n beanty ud
morals, 29 — Qirigtianity and jAb
morality, 80 — Scepticiflm and its le-
8ult8, 31 — No. UI^ on impersonation^
238— Shakspoare, 239— Inishail aid
its churchyard, 240 — Gray's elegy> «6.—
on Alison and Virgil, 246— on a paa-
sage in Hamlet, 252 — and one in
Homer, 255 — the seli^nstainnieitt of
the Homeric heroes, 258 — Alison^
Essay on Taste, 259--«n rirtue and
tIoo, 2G0 — influence of religion on art,
261— on materialism, 262— No. IV. 368
— a rain storm, 864 — on angling, 866
— on Byron's desoription of the Clir
iumnns, 367— and of Velino, 872— «ii
immortality, and Butler's argument for
it, 380— No. V. on Maoheth, 620. ,
DlSENCHAMTHKHT, by A, 56dw
Disraeli's Essay on the literary ebaiaotei^
297.
Dissent, staUstks of, in Wales, 83^— foB-
tering of chartism by, there, 838.
Dominique, a sketch from life : the two
students, 77 — Mother aad Son, 79 —
The double duel, 88 — ^Five years later,
85— The Horse-riders, 87— Foes and
Friends, 91.
Dormitory at Yyerdan, the, 99.
DoUBLSDAT's FINiJfOJAL BIBXaRT OV £N«r
LAND, roTiew of, 655.
Dream-Fugue on suddea death, a, 750.
Dreams, the, in Shakspeare, 642.
Drysdale cfrttts Janieson, game-law de-
cision in, 75.
Dodeyant, Madamt, La Petlie Fadettf
by, 607.
Dumas, Alexandre, recent BOrels ef^ 610
— works announced by, 619.
Dutch, naval coateit3 of the* with £o|^
lead, 500.
Dyer, George, 14 K
Earth, peninsular tendency ia thft^ i6il—
its interior, 462.
Eas-a-Bhrogich, caye at, 9.
Ecclesiastical property, aboMi coaneoted
with, in WaJes, 354.
Economists, rise of the, US*
Education, sketches of the PestaloBiaa
system of, 93, et Mq. — relaiiona of come
in Great Britain to, 520.
Ehrenberg, discoTeciee e4 sigarding the
Infusoria, 466.
Eiohbald, Lieatenant» in Baden, 208, 210.
Eleanora, Guidicessa of Sardinia, 39.
Electric Telegraph, proposed intiodAOtion
of, into Spain, 721.
Embarkation, the, 696.
Emigrants, annual number ef,537.
Emigration, inorease of, under the firee-
. trade system, 126, 772— its expense to
different lociJities, 538.
Emulation, r^'ection of, by PesialoBit95.
Enfant Trouy^ of Paris, the, 226.
Enghien, the Due d', conduct of Quiteaa-
briand on the murder of, 804.
England, growth of, under the nayigatioa
laws and restrictive system, 108 — feel-
ing of alienation in Wales from, 327 —
crime in, compared with .Wales, 332 —
the naval contest of, with the Dutch,
509 — statistics of crime in, 519.
English Mail-coach, or the glory of
motion, 485 — going down with victory,
496 — continuation: the Vision of Sud-
den Death, 741.
English autobiographies, rarity of, 299 —
language, partial diffusion of the, in
Wales, 328.
Enzio, King of Sardinia, sketch of, 38.
Erbe, one of the Baden insurgents, 208.
Essai Hibtorique, Lamartine's, 301.
Evelyn, the diary of, 502 — account of
IiMly Frances Stuart by, 515.
Expatriation, effects of, in reforming cri-
minals, 525, €t seq.
Exports, decrease of, 123 — eolonial, influ-
ence of the transportation system on,
527 — influence of jQree trade on, 765.
Famille Reoour, the, 609.
Farmers, alleged injury firom game to the,
73 — and farming in Wales, state of,
830 — of Canada, effects of the restric-
tive system on, 476.
Female characters of Shakspeare, the, 239.
Fergusson on Gray's elegy, 242.
Feudal system, alleged origin of the
game laws with the, 66.
Fickler, one of the Baden insurgents, 206,
208, 211.
Finance, importance of the subjeet o^ and
general ignorance regarding it, 655.
Finances, the French, effects of the late
revolution on, 232 — the Russian, Cob-
den on, 595 — the Spani^,^ statistics re-
garding, 7 1 1, at m^.
Fire of London, the, 508.
Fleet, the English, state of, under Charles
II. 510.
Foreign interference. Whig, 586.
Foreign shipping, increase ot, under tiie
reciprocity system, 117.
Foudras, the Marquis de, novels of, 609.
Foundlings, numben of, in Paris, 226.
Fountainhall's diary, on, 502.
FaANCB, THE Rkvolution ov 1848 i.v,
lAmartine's account of, 219.
Franchise, practical extent of the, before
the Reform BUi, 111.
F&AKcis' Chsoniclbs of thb Stock Ex-
change, review of, 655.
Frankfort parliament, the,aad itsfall,425.
Frankfurt, occupation of, by the Prus^aus,
427 — atrocities of the Rad republicans
in, 598.
Frxb Tbadb at its Zenith, 756.
Free trade, review of the effects oi; 108.
Fbencu novels of 1849, the, 607 — anto-
biograi^ea, multitude and character
of, 298 — materialism, on, 26L
Frdbel, one of the Baden insurgents, 208.
Funding system, general ignoranoa re-
782
Index,
[Dec.
garding the, 655 — eyils accruiDg from
it, 666.
Fuorisciti in Sardinia, the, 41.'
Gagern, Herr Ton, 485.
Game, increased consnmption of, 71.
Gamb laws in Scotland, the, 63 — exa-
mination of the arguments against, 68
— alleged cost of prosecutions under, 69.
Gang system for conTicts, evils of the, 682.
Gayford, Mr, on the injury done by game,
69.
Genie du Christianisme, Chateaubriand's,
801.
Gentilhommes Chasseurs, the, 610.
Gentry, the Welsh, character of, 385, 838.
Geography, physical and general, distinc-
tion between, 460, 461.
George II., debt contracted under, 666.
German unity, failure of the realisation
of, 424.
Germany, Rrvolutionary, what has
SHB attained 1 424 — northern and
southern, disunion between, 428.
Gibbon's autobiography, on, 292.
Girardin, M. during the revolution of
1848,227.
Girondists, Lamartine's History of the,
220, 221.
Giudici in Sardinia, the, 87.
Glasgow, increase of pauperism in, 127,
772— the Queen's visit to, 861.
Godwin, William, Talfourd's sketch of^
141.
Goegg, one of the Baden insurgents, 206,
208, 211.
Goethe, on the autobiography of, 295 —
the centenary of, 485.
Good temper, Christopher on, 5.
Gore district in Canada, state of, 473.
Government, indifference of the, to Scot-
tish affairs, 264.
Grain, importation of, under the free-trade
system, 118, 119, 766.
Grammont's memoirs, on, 501.
Grange, Ladt, new light on the story of,
347.
Gravitation, Sir J. Herschel on, 459.
Gray's Elegy, on, 240.
Great Britain, progress of, under the
navigation laws, 108 — her colonial
policy, 471 — her position in relation to
the continental powers, 587 — origin of
the national debt of, 657, 662 — state of,
under James II., 657 — ^progress of the
national debt, 666.
Greeks and their poetry, Christopher on,
25 — emblems employed by the, for im-
mortality, 880.
Green Hand, the. Part III., 183 — Part
IV., 305— Part V., 436— Part VI., 723.
Grey, Earl, on the Reform Bill, 146.
Groben, General Von, in Baden, 214.
Grove, Mr, on the co-relation of the phy-
sical sciences, 460.
Gumey, Mr, ou the coat of the army, Ac,
763.
Guy, Thomas, founder of the hospital, 669.
G Wynne, Nell, Pepys' account of, 516.
Hamlet, on a passage in, 252.
Hazlitt, Talfourd's account of, 143.
Hecate of Shakspeare, the, 625.
Hecker-Lied, the, 435.
Heidelberg, the insurrection in, 206—
entrance of the Prussians into, 214.
H^lene, remarks on, 607.
Herschel, Sir J., on gravitation, 459.
Heskir, imprisonment of Lady Grange at,
347.
Hesse-Darmstadt, revolutionary attempt
at, 208.
Heyne on the Homeric heroes, 257.
Highlanders, improvement in the charac-
ter of the, 336.
Himalayas, heights, &c.,of the, 462.
Hirschfeld, General, in Baden, 212.
History, association of, with locality, 655.
H'Lassa, city of, 463.
Hohenzollem-Sigmaringen, aoquisition of,
by Prussia, 434.
Homer, the dreams in, 642.
Hope of Rankeillour, connexion of, with
the case of Lady Grange, 348, 350.
Hospitality, Sardinian, anecdotes of, 42.
Hugo, Victor, and the Peace Congress,
583— his Ndtre Dame, 655.
Humboldt's Cosmos, remarkson, 456,^«<7.
Hume's Autobiography, on, 293.
Hungary, the movement in, its objects,
&c., 588 — meeting to sympathise vrith
it, 590 — the executions in, 599.
Hay, Lord, 358, 355.
Imitation not the perfection ofQert, 412.
Immortality, Christopher on, 9^ —Butler's
argument for, 380, et teq.
Impersonation, on, 2i38, 645, 646.
Imports, increase of, 128, 766.
Imprisonment, experienced inefficiency of,
519 — its expense, 521 — causes of its
failure, 522.
India, completion of the British empire
in, 108.
Industry, effects of the late revolution on,
in France, 283.
Inishail, churchyard in, 240.
Insects, formation of rocks by, 465, 466 —
those of America, 467.
Insurrection in Baden, the, 206.
Intellect, predominance of, in France, 299.
Ireland, the round towers of, 86 — the
Queen's visit to, 861 — reoent statistics
of crime in, 522 — depressed state of
agriculture in, 774.
Irish, resemblance of the Sardes to the, 40
— transported convicts, superiority of,
and its causes, 531.
Iron, produce, &c, of, in Wales, 829, 830.
Irreligion, influence of, in France, 224.
Italy, proceedings of Lord Minto in, 587
— the Spanish army in, 709.
James II., revenue, &c., of Great Britain,
under, 657.
^^^uX^'^T^^'^^^T, romance of, 612.
1849.]
Index.
783
Jeffrey's exposition of Alison on Taste, on,
13.
Jews, revolutionary tendency of the, in
Germany, 435~ear]y connexion of the,
with stock-jobbing, 663.
Johnson, Boswell's life of, 296.
Johnston's Physical Atlas, review of,
456.
Joint-stock companies, rise of, 669 — those
ofl823, &c., 673.
Jonathan in Africa, 172.
Journalists, the, the leaders of revolution
in France, 219 — their political predo-
minance there, 299.
Kaloolah, review of, 172.
Karnes, Lord, on Yirgirts description of
thunder, 12.
Khoouawur, pass of, 463.
Knight, Payne, on Virgil's iEneas, 375 —
on Macbeth, 621 .
Kossuth, views of, in Hungary, 589.
Krauss, Major, 690.
Labouch^re, Mr, on Canada, 478.
Ladenburg, skirmish at, 212.
Lamartine's Revolution of 1848, 219 —
on his history of the Girondists, 220,
221 — his Confidencet,tknd Raphael, 298,
801— his vanity, 300.
Lamb, Charles, 133 — Miss Mary, 137.
Lamoriciere, General, during the June
conflict, 231.
Land, the protective system in its rela-
tions to, ill.
Landed interest, predominance given by
the Reform Bill over the, 113.
Landscai painter, qualifications neces-
sary for Se, 412.
Language, effects in Wales of the differ-
ences of, 327.
La Patrie on the industrial state of
France, 233.
Laudenbach, revolutionary attempt at,
208.
Lawrence, (U.S.,) rise of, 472.
Le Grice, Mr, account of Charles Lamb
by, 135.
Leiuingen, Prince, manifesto of, 434.
Lloyd, Charles, 139.
Locke on the principles of trade, 777.
London, consumption of game in, 72 —
importation of grain into, 120— the
great plague of, 506— the fire of, 508 —
importation of grain into, 767.
London Tavern, Hungarian meeting at,
590.
Long Parliament, revenue raised by the,
657.
Lopez, Mannasseh, stock exchange fnnd
by, 668.
Lord Advocate, the, his Marriage and
Registration bills, 263.
Lotteries, evils, &c., of the, 671.
Louis Philippe, conduct of, during the
revolution of 1848, 227, 228— intrigues
of, in Spain, 722.
VOL. LXVI. — KO. CCCCX.
Lovat, Lord, connexion of, with the ease
of Lady Grange, 347.
Lowell, rapid progress of, 472.
Lucretius, description of thunder by, 15.
Lyell, Mr, on gradual subsidence and up-
heaval, 465.
Lyndhurst, Lord, Lord Campbell's attack
on, 131.
Ltnmouth revisited, 412.
Macaulay, Mr, examination of his picture
of England under the Stuarts, 658.
Macbeth, criticisms on tragedy of, 621,
et 9eq, — Lady, on the character of, 622.
Mackay, J. R., revelations of parliamen-
tary bribery by, 666.
McNeill, Mr, on the proposed Marriage
and Registration bills, 266, 270.
Madden, Mr, on the state of Cuba, 711,
et $eq.
Mail-Coacu, the, or the glory of motion,
485— going down with victory, 496 —
continued, 741.
Malta, proposed to be made a penal colony,
535.
Malte Brun on the transportation system,
528.
Malthus, Mr, on the corn-law question,
777.
Man that wasn't drowned, the, 691.
Manasa, lake of, 463.
Manchester, (U.S.,) rise of, 472.
Maiming, letters of Lamb to, 147.
Manufactures, protective system toward,
1 10 — French, effects of the late revolu-
tion on, 233 — progress of, in the United
States, 471 — profits on them there, 473
— of Spain, the, 719.
Manufacturing population of Wales, cha-
racter, &c., of the, 329.
Mar, the Earl of, 352— Lady, 354, et $eq.
Mardi, remarks on, 172.
Marriage bill, the proposed Scottish, 263.
Massachusetts, advantages from manu-
factures to, 472.
Bfaterialism, on, 261.
Mayo's Kaloolah, review of, 172.
Medina the Jew, 663.
Meiroslawski, the leader of the Baden in-
surgents, 210, 212.
Melville's Redburn, review of, 567 —
Mardi, remarks on, 172.
Mery, M., le Transports by, 619.
Mettemieh, a Baden leader, 208.
Meyer, Dr, 329.
Military, revolt of the, in Baden, 430.
Milnes, R. M., the Hungarian question
brought forward by, 590.
Miners of Wales, character of the, 329, 33 1 .
Minto, Lord, proceedings of, in Italy, 587.
Mitford, Rev. Mr, on Gray's elegy, 242.
Monetary crises, danger of, 762, 771.
Moneyed interest, rise of the, 112 — its
origin with the Revolution, 663.
Monitorial system, the, as used by Pesta-
lozzi, 95.
784
Indtx.
Monksy Mid tlie Mft, tke, 698.
HonflMmth, the Daks o^ Pepys* aMoant
0^516.
If aateM«lia» tlM Coont, elnutmeiery &e. of;
707.
llonipeiisiar, the Dae de, weaknesB of,
dnug the Revolatioii, 228.
Moore's life of Byron, on, 295.
MOAAL Aim SOCIAL OOHIHTIOH OF WaUB,
the, 326.
Molality, state of, in Wales, 3S3.
Morals, iatpossOiitity of a definite staa-
dara o^ 29.
Moroseaeaiy Chiistopher on, 5.
Moeqiiito,the,467.
MotioB, the glory of, 485.
Movntains, Mis Somerrille, fte. on, 462.
Mnrder tiagedies, on, 646.
Morillo, ft»^»i*ta^l Boiieaes, &e. oif 720.
MaRay,Mr Dandas^hisOAndalosta," 705.
My Dieam, 702.
Mt PamiisuLAn Mbdal, Part ^chap. i,
539— ehap. ii., 544--ohap. iii., 556 —
Part II. ehap.iT., 678— «hap. t., 688—
ehap. Ti., 690.
Napoleon,Chateaabriand'Baoeonnt of, 803.
Nabtao, Spair wvol, 704 — ^ndnistry,
the recent displacement of, 722.
National character, the Welsh, 835.
National debt, introdaction of the, by
William III., 662— 4t8 progress, 666—
the Spanish, 714.
NaTIOIIAX. DKBT UfO SVOCK EZCHAKOS,
the, 655.
National guard of Paris, desertioD of the
Assembly by the, 229.
National independence, danger to the, 768.
Natond children, nnmbers, &c. of, in
Paris, 226.
Nainralist, the, 696.
Nature as a reTelatiott,on, 81.
Naiigation laws, growth of England un-
der, and eftcts of their repeal, 108.
Nelson on the importance of Sardinia, 33.
Nemoors, the Doc do, 229.
New Sooth Wales and the cooTict system,
on, 526, el neq, — ^resolati<Mis of conncil
of, in fifcTOor of transportatiott, 529.
NiohoU's diary, on, 502.
Niti pass, the, 463.
Nobility, present poweriesmeas of, in
France, 219.
Noraghe of Sardinia, the, 34, 35.
North American colonies, present state of
the, 471.
Oakrille, viUage of, its history, &e., 473.
Obsearity as an element of the sublime,
on, 33.
OffenbuTg,the democratic meeting at,206.
Orleans, the Dnehesse d',her heroism, 229.
Osborne, Mr B., on the Hungarian ques-
tion, 590 — on Rnssia, 595.
Psci in Sardinia, the, 41.
Palmerston, Lord, the interference sys-
tem off 587 — on the Hungarian ques-
tion, 590.
[Dec.
ris, number of foundlings, &e. in, 236
— ^Lamartine's account of the June cna-
flict in, 231 — ^finances of, after the Be-
Tolution, 232 — the peace oongressat,
583, 585.
Parlisjuent, all classes represented in,
before the Reform BiU, 1 1 1— jnstiee of
colonial representation in, 477 — bribing
of, under William III., 664.
Pauperism, increase of, 127.
Payne Knight, tet Khisht.
PbaCS AHD WAK AOITAIOBS, 581.
Peace congress at Paris, the, 583, 585.
Pearson, Mr, on the state of crisM, 520.
Peasantry, depressed condition of the, in
Spain, 719
Peel, Sir R., reriew of his free-trade mea-
sures, 1 14, 756, a mq.
Peninsulas, Mrs SomeiriUe on, 461.
Pbpts, diart op, 501.
PssTALozziAif A, 93 — tho dormitory, 99 —
the refectory, 101— classes, 104.
Peter, one of the Baden insurgents, 206,
208,211.
Petite Fadette, the, 607.
Peueker, Geneial, in Baden, 214.
Pbilups' Waubs, &C., reriew of, 826.
Phcenicians, probable settlement o€ the,
in Sardinia, 34.
Physical Geookapbt, 456.
Pinna Marina, the, 40.
Pitt's currency system, contrast between,
and Peel's, 760.
Plague of London, the, 506.
Planets, irregularities among the, 459.
Plutarch's Litos, on, 292.
Poaching, proportion of prooecntions for,
70.
Poetry, modem, aifectatioBs of, 840.
Poetry, For the last page of our album,
205— Disenchantment, 663.
Poland, Cobden on, 593.
Poles, rerolutionary efforts of the, 601.
Political economy, rise of, with Adam
Smith, 113.
Pomptilla, monument to, 47.
Poor-rates, present amount of the, 126, 772
— ^progress of the, fW>m James U., 660.
Pope, the, Spanish interrentifla oa bdialf
of, 709.
Population, diminution of the, 778.
Potato rot, alleged influence of the, 763.
Poussin, Gaspar, the landscape of, 413.
Piess, the Spanish, state of, 705.
Prisoners, aldTantages of industrial in-
struction to, 530.
Producer and consnmer,di1bTent interests
of; 112.
Proprietors, number of, in France, and its
llUlU0HCe, ^aOm
ProtectiTe system, growth of England
under the, 108.
Prussia, OTcrthrow of the Baden insur-
gents by, 212 — new constitution of,
428— occupation of Badeo, fte. by, 433.
Prussia, the Prince of, in Baden, 212,
1849.]
Index,
785
Radiealiflin, prevalence of, in Wales, 387.
Radnorshire, predominance of English in,
328.
Ragionatori in Sardinia, 41.
Railroads in Massachusetts, origin, &c. of
the, 472.
Railway mania, causes of the, 753.
Railways, depreciation in, 773.
Rain, picture of a storm of, 364.
Rainbow, a, 10.
Rastadt, revolt of, 430 — its surrender,
431.
Raveau, one of the Baden insurgents, 208.
Reciprocity system, effects of, on British
and foreign shipping, 117.
Red republicans, resistance of Lamar-
tine to the, 230.
Redburn, review of, 567.
Refectory at Yverdun, the, 101.
Reform Bill, change as regards represen-
tation by the, 111, 113.
Registration bill, the proposed Scottish,
263.
Religion, influence of, on art, 261— state
of, in Wales, 333.
Representation, practical universality of,
before the Reform Bill, 111— jastioe of
colonial, 477.
Revenue, influence of free trade on, 765.
Revolution, class by which headed, in
France, 219 -comparison between it
and war, 585.
Revolution of 1688, origin of the nation^
debt with it, 657.
Revolutions of 1848, alleged inflnenee of
the, 763.
Revue des denx Mondea, the, on Spain,
717.
Reybaud, Madame CharleSi Hdene, &c.
by, 607.
Reynolds, O. W. M. at the Hnngarian
meeting, 597.
Richard III., on, 646, 647.
Robbery, prevalence of, in Spain, 707.
Roman law, the, in regard to game, 66.
Rome, effects of fVee trade in grain on,
109— the insurgent party in, 587 — in
tervention of Spain in affairs of, 709.
Romish superstitions, on, 44.
Rosa, Salvator, the landscape of, 4 12.
Rothschild, Nathan, sketch of, 676.
RoTAL PROOBE88, the, 359.
Rousseau's autobiography, on, 293.
'^ Russia, by a Manchester manufacturer,"
extract from, 594.
Russia, growth of, under the protective
system, 109 — ^her intervention in Hun-
gary, 589— Cobden on it, 591— and on
her finances, 594.
Rutherford, Mr, his Marriage and Regis-
tration bills, 268.
Sailors' tickets, jobbing in, 669.
St Kilda, Lady Grange imprisoned at, 847.
Salem, (U.S.,) rapid progress of, 472.
Salomons, Mr, at the Hungarian meeting,
590, 596.
Sand, George, La Petite Fadette,by, 607.
Sandwich, the Earl of, 504.
Sardes, probable origin of the, 84 — their
resemblances to the Irish, 40 — ons-
toms, character, &c. of, 42.
Sardinia, the island of, 83.
Sardinia, proceedings of Mr Abercromby
in, 587.
Saxons, crossing, &c., of the, in Britain,
837.
Scholar, Christopher, on the, 27, et seq.
Science, rapid revolutions in, 458.
Scotch, races fh>m which derived, 337 —
transported convicts, inferiority of, and
its causes, 531 — law, principle of the,
relative to game, 66.
Scotland, the Game Laws in, 63 — proper*
tion of game-law prosecutions in, 70 —
necessity of a secretary of state for, 264
—the Queen's visit to, 1849,859— reeent
statistics of crime in, 519---expen8e of,
the imprisonment system in, 521.
Scott, Sir Walter, autobiography of, 298
—on his Heart of Mid-Ix»thian, 655.
Scottish Marriaqb and Rkoistration
BILLS, the, 263.
Secondary punishments, best system of,
519.
Sepoltnre de is Gigantes in Sardinia, the,
34, 86.
Shakspeare, on the female characters of,
289 — criticisms on his Macbeth, 621,
et M^.— the dreams in, 642 — his Richard
III., 646, 647.
Sheemess, capture of, by the Dutch, 511.
Shepherd, Mr,his essay on the game laws,
64, 69, 72.
Shipping interest, effects of the Reform
Bill on, 1 14 —of the reciprocity system,
117.
Sigel, lieutenant, one of the Baden insur-
gents, 208, 209, 210.
Sketoher, the, Lynmouth revisited by, 4 13.
Sketching, preparation necessary for, 413.
Slaver, sketches on board of a, 177.
Sleep-walking scene in Macbeth, the, 648.
Sluicy Sam, 691.
Smith, Adam, influence of his Wealth of
Nations, 113— flree-trade movement due
to, 219— on the price of wheat, 658.
Smith, Bobus, 15.
Smith of Chichester, painting by, 414.
Smugglers, the Spanish, 717.
Solar system, irregularities in the, 459.
Somervillb'b Physical Gboorapht, re-
▼iew of, 456.
Sonnet, '* A ftriend returned," 18.
South sea company, origin and history of
the, 669.
Spain under Narvaez and Christina,
704.
Spanish bondholders, proceedings of the,
713.
Speculation, mania for, and examples of
it, 672, et seq.
Stag, the stock exfiliA.u^«>^1^.
786
Index,
[Dec. 1849.
Stalactite oave in Sardinia, a^ 40.
Stanley, Lord, reply to Lord Campbell
by, 131.
Stevenson, C, on the injnry done by
game, 69.
Stock exchange, sketches of the, 655 —
frauds on it, 668.
Stock-jobbing, rise of, 668.
Storm, gathering of a, 6.
Strayed Rbtellbr, the, review of, 840.
StruTC, the Baden insurgent, 208, 211.
Stuart, Lord Dudley, 605.
Stuart, the Lady Frances, 515.
Stutgsirdt, meeting of the German parlia-
ment at, 425, 426.
Sudden Death, tisioii ov, 741 — Dream-
ftigue on it, 750.
Sulkiness, Christopher on, 3.
Superstitions, Sardinian, 45.
Sweden, upheaval and subsidence in, 465.
Sznayda, General, in Baden, 212.
Talfourd*s final memorials of Lamb,
review of, 138.
TariiT, the new Spanish, 717.
Taste, impossibility of a standard of, 29.
Temper, Christopher on, 3, €t fa.
Tenant, alleged injury from the game
laws to, 73.
Thames, entrance of the Dutch fleet into
the, 511.
Thiers, views of, on the first Revolution,
224— his conduct in that of 1848, 227.
Thirlwall, Dr, 829.
Thomson's description of thunder, on, 16.
Thunder^ Virgil's, &c., descriptions of, 1 1,
€tHq,
Thunder-storm, a Highland, 6, et $eq.
Tibet, fertility, &c., of, 468.
Times, influence of the, in England, 219
— account of the state of France by,
232— on railway depreciation, 773— on
Ireland, 774.
Tin, exportation, &c., of, from Wales,
830.
Tories, the, early opposition of, to the
national debt, 665.
Trade, state of, 128, et ieq.
Transportation question, the, 519.
Travellers, intolerance of, toward Romish
superstitions, 44.
Trial, the, 695.
Trout, best size of, 22.
Trutschler, one of the Baden insurgents,
208.
Tunny flshing in Sardinia^ 40.
Turkey, position of, regarding the Hun-
garian fugitives, 600.
Ttndale's Sardinia, review of, 83.
United States, system of, regarding
manufactures, 471 — exports per head
to, 527.
Upper Canada, contrast between, and the
SUtes, 473.
Van Diemen's Land, excess of convicts
sent to, 534.
Vanity, displays of, in French aatoUs-
graphies, 298.
Vegetable life, distribution, Slc, of, 4^8.
Velino, on Byron's description of, 372.
Vendetta in Sardinia, the, 41.
Vice, relations of, to beauty, 259.
Vicomte de Bragelonne, the, 610.
Vienna, atrocities of the Red republieans
in, 599.
Vincent, the Chartist lecturer, 338.
Virgil, Alison on, criticised, 246— Payne
Knight on, 375.
Virtue, relations of, to beauty, 259.
Vision of Sudden Death, the, 741.
Volcano, changes wrought by the, 465.
Wages, relations of prices of wheat to,
124.
Wales, the moral and social condition
OF, 326 — the report of the commission-
en on, t6.
Walpole, Sir Robert, 352, 853— parlia-
menttfy bribery under, 666.
War, the agitation against, 581— eom-
pared with revolution, 585.
Webster, Mr, on American manu lectures,
473.
Welford on the game laws, 65.
Wellington, measures of national defence
urged by, 769.
Welsh language, predominance of the, in
Wales, 828.
Wemyss, Captain, game-law ease of, 75.
West Indies, effects of negro emancipa-
tion on the, 114 — free-trade policy to-
ward, and its effects, 115, 775— depre-
ciation in, 11 6, note— exports per head
to, 527.
Westminster school, taking leare of, 94.
What has retolutionisino Germany
attained 1 424.
Wheat, prices of, at various times, 658 —
average price of, in London, 757, note.
Whigs, foreign interference system of the,
586.
White, Jem, a friend of Lamb's, 136.
William III., introduction of the national
debt and the bribery system nnder, 662.
Wilson, R., on the game laws, 65.
Witches in Macbeth, on the, 623, 625.
Words, Christopher on the knowledge of,
27.
Wordsworth, letter from Lamb to, 149.
Working classes, condition of the, nnder
the Stuarts, 659.
Wortley Montague, Lady Mary, 854, €t
ieq,
Wttrtemberg, the new constitution in, 429.
Young, Mr, on the effects of the recipro-
city system, &c., 117.
Y verdnn, Pestalozsi's establishment at, 93.
Zund-nadel musket, the, 214.
PrirUed by William Blaehcoodand Sons, Edinburgh,
K'-
.\* ir ■ \
■^. A ,S
10*. :■*« /
■5^
\