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6 6 



pmiirraD mv williau blackwooo ahd aoirt, KDrHJiVBtJif. 






No. CCCCV. JULY, 1849. Vol. LXVL 

No. II. 

EXCAMP3IENT AT Cladich. Time — Eleven, a.m. 

Scene — I7ie Portal of die Pavilion, 

North — ^Buller — Seward. 


I Kxow there is nothing you dislike so much as personal observations 


On myself to myself— not at all on others. 


Yet I cannot help telling you to your face, sir, that you are one of the 
finest looking old men 


Elderly gentlemen, if you please, sir. 


In Britain, in Europe, in the World. I am perfectly serious, sir. You are. 


You needed not to say you were perfectly serious ; for I suffer no man to 
be ironical on Me, Mr BuUer. I am. 


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! 


Were you shocked, 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. 


Taming to me, he said in a whisper, ^^ What a wreck ! " 


2 Christopher under Canvass, [Joly* 


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 


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. 


Now you speak sensibly, and like yourself, my dear BuUer. I wear well. 


Your enemies circulated a report — 


I did not think I had an enemy in the world. 


Your Mends, sir, had heard a rumour — ^that yon had mounted a wig. 


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. 


That you had lost your hair — and that, like Sampson — 


And by what Delilah had my locks been shorn ? 


It all originated, I verily believe, sir, in the moved imagination of the Pcn- 
sive Public : 

** Res est solicit! plena timoris Amor." 


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 — 


Yes, all emphasis, and may the Four be friends for life. 


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 — 


Ay — ay ; heaven bless them all I 


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. 


They haye theu* foults, sur— 


So hare we. And 'fcLs well for us. Without faults we should be unbre- 


In affection I spake. 


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. 


What if you hi^ipened to liye in the neighbourhood of the nuisance? 


Emigrate. Or remain here— encamped for life— with imperfect characters- 
till the order should issue — Strike Tent. 


My Boy has a temper of his own. 


Original— or acquired? 


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 


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 






No — ^North. A milder, meeker, Christian Lady than his mother is not 
in England. 


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. 


The Edict is promulged. 


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. 


Young Christopher North ! Incredible. 


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. 


And never has Chrxsiopher been in the Sulks since that day. 


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. 


Your first Love ? 


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. 


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 ? 


It has. 


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. 


A Good Temper, friends— not a good Conscience— is the Blessing of Life. 


locked to hear you say so, sir. Unsay it, my dear sir — unsay it — per- 
nicions doctrine. It may get inroad. 


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. 


The Sage ! 




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. 


And their fathers before them. 


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 ! 


Dear sir. 


Even my Image will sometimes reappear — and the Tents of Cladich — the 
Camp on Lochawe-side. 


My dear sir — it will not be evanescent 


And withal such Devils 1 But I have given them carte blanche. 


Nor will they abuse it. 


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 


For what? 


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. 


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 ? 


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. 


I felt a drop of rain on the back of my hand. 


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. 


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. 


Odd enough. I cannot conjecture where it comes from. It must be dew. 


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 ? 


No. But something dM. Look at the quicksilver, Buller. 


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 


What colour would yon call that Glare aboat the Crown of CmachanP 


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. 


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. 


liker Evening. 


Dimmish and darkish, certainly — ^bnt imlike Evenhig. I pray yon look at 
the Son. 


What about him? 


Thongh nnclonded— he seems shronded In his own solemn light— expecting 


There is not much motion among the clouds. 


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 


Still some blue sky. Not very much. But some. 


Cmachan! you are changing colour. 


Grim— very. 


The Loch*8 like ink. loould dip my pen in it 


We are about to have thunder. 


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. 


And mine. 


What ? Dying away ! Some incompreheDsible cause Is tuning the thun- 
derous masses round towards Appin. 


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? 


Who said what? 


How ghastly all the trees ! 


I see no trees — ^nor anything else. 


How can you, with that Flying Dutchman over your eyes? 


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. 


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 ! 


Coruscation — explosion— are but feeble words. • 


The Cathedral's on Fire. 


I don't mind so much those wide flarings among the piled clouds, as these 
gleams oh I 


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 ! 


Nor man. 


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. 


It is constitutional in the Sewards. North, I am sick. 


Give way to gasping— and lie down — nothing can be done for you. The 
danger is not — 


I am not afraid^I am faint. 


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, 


Unreasonable to expect it. Try twenty— in twenty languages. 


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 ? 




How's 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 


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 


The Boys are safe. 


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. 


Over and gone. How breathable the atmosphere I 


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 


What a picture ! 


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? 


What it is to have an imagination I Worth all my Estate. 


Let us exchange. 


Kot possible. Strictly entailed. 

10 Ckristopher under Camnus. [Joly* 






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 


My fiincy is contented to feed on what is before my eyes. 


Doff, then, the Flying Dutchman. 


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. 


Gaze with me, my dear sir, on what lies before our eyes. 


The Rainbow I 


Foot miles wide, and half a mile broad. 


Thy own Rainbow, Cmachan— from end to end. 


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. 


I asked you, sir, have the Poets well handled Thonder? 


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. 


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. 


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 ! 


Is that the singing of larks? 


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. 


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 ? 


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 


How have the Poets, sir, handled thunder and lightning? 


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. 


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 


I am not a Laker— I am a Locher. 


Tweedledum — tweedledee. 


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 


It is fiuiltleBS ; but not a Scotch critic worth a curse but yoursrff 


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, 


Yes, you can. 


There was Lord Eames — a man of great talents — a most ingenious man — 
and with an insight 


I never heard of him— was he a Scotch Peer ? 


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 


You are a creature of a wonderful memory. 


*^ 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 ! 


Oh I oh ! oh ! That's murder. 


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^ 


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 


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. 


Lay it into them, sir. 


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." 


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. 


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. 


Well done, Virgil— well done. 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 ! 


Ay, Mr North, in that case the word Ditch— and the thing— would be 
dignified by danger, daring, and death. But here 


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. 


Go on, sir, go on. 


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 

" 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. 


Don*t stop, sur, yon speak to the President of our Agricultural Society — go 
on, sir, go on. 


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— 


He goes on— so do you, sir— you both get on. 


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. 


Glory to the Ditches of the Vale of Amo— glory to the Drains of Dumfiries- 
shire. Draw breath, sir. Now go on, sur. 


'* 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 


And then the " flnmina" — " cava" no more — will be as dear as mud. 


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." 


Agricultural Produce I 


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. 


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. 


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. 


That will do — ^you may stop. 


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. 


You may ait down, sir. 


I did not know I had stood up. Beg pardon. 


I am putting Swing to rights for you, Sir. 


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. 


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. 


You remember Lucretius? 


No, I don't. To you I am not ashamed to confess that I read him with 
some difficulty. TVith ease, sir, do you? 


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." 


What think you of the thunder in Thomson's Seasons ? 


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- 


Capricious Zig-zag. 


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* 

** 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. 


Are they good— or are they bad ? I am dubious. 


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. 


Severe— but just. 


Ha! Thou comest in such a questionable shape — 


That I will speak to thee. How do yon do, my dear sir ? God bless you, 
how do yon do? 


Art thou a spirit of health or goblin damned ? 


A spirit of health. 


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. 


Are we going to wrestle already, Mr North ? 


Stand still ten seconds more. He is He— You are Yon^gentlemen— -H. G. 
Talboys— Seward, my crutch— Buller, your arm— 


Wonderful feat of agility ! Feet up to the celling— 


Don't say ceiling — 


Why not ? cdHng— coelum. Feet up to heaven. 


An involnntaiy feat— the fault of Swing— sole fault— but I always forget it 
when agitated-* 


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. 


18 CkriMtopher tmder Camvats. [Joly* 


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 — 


( 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 ! 


I blush to think I have given you the wrong pi^r. 


It is the right one. But may I ask what you have on your head ? 


A hat. At least it was so an hour ago. 


It never will be a hat again. 


A patent hat — a waterproof hat—it was swimming, when I purchased it 
yesterday, in a pail— warranted against Lammas floods— - 


And in an hour it has come to this 1 Why, it has no more shape than a 


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. 


But you must immediately put on dry clothes — 


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. 


Do— do— go and put on diy clothes. Why the spot you stand on is abso- 
lutely swimming — 


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. 


Do— do— go and put on dry clothes. 


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— 


And whj are thej noi here? 


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. 


Do— do— go and put on dry clothes. 


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. 


Not to-day? Here all has been hush. 


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. 


I Inaiat on you putting on dry clothes. Don't try my temper. 


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. 


What, a Ployer with a Farapluie ? 


I use it, sir, but as a Parasol. Never but on this one occasion had it 
iffironted rain. 


The same we sat mder, that dog-day, at Dunoon? 

20 Christopher under Canvass, [Jalj, 


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. 


Near Orain-imali-chauan-mala-chuilish? 


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. 


" 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." 


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. 


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? 


Here are Mr Talboy trunk, sir. 


IVho brought it? 


Nea, Maister— I dan't kna'— I 'spose Carrier. I ken't reet weell— anco 
at Windermere- watter. 


Swiss Giantess— Billy. 


Ay— ay— sir. 


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. 


Ay— ay, sir. This way, Mr Talboy— this way, sir. 


What is your dinner-hour, Mr North ? 


Sharp seven— seven shaip. 


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 ! ! 


I thoogfat it qneer that you never looked at it. 


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 ? 


On your shoulders — 


And my Book? Lost— lost — ^lostl Not in any one of all my pockets. I 
shall goxnad. 


Not far to go. Why yonr Book's in your hand. 


At eight? 


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 — 


I can pretend to be carrying the landing-net, sir. 


There's a specimen of a Scottish Lawyer, gentlemen. What do you think 
of him? 


That he is without exception the most agreeable fellow, at first sight, I ever 
met in my life. 


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. 


Seward — let's after him. Billy — the minnows. 


Here's the Can, sirs. 

Scene closes. 

Scene n. 
Interior of Deesidc—Tnas^Seven p.m. 
North— Talboys — ^Buller — Seward. 


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 


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. 


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. 


The weight of each repast? 


Calculated at twenty-five pounds. 


Grand total, one hundred. The golden mean. 


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. 


That is but twenty-three, sir ! I have taken down the gentleman's words. 


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? 


Never. Beg pardon. 


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? 


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. 


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 ? 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 


I never angled on a Fast-day. 


A lapnu UnguiB—¥Tom a hundred anglers on the Daer, on the Queen's 


My dear Friend, you ex 


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. 


To-day I saw you fast in a tree. 


You mean my Fly. 


First your Fly, and then, I think, yourself. 


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^ 


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. 


You lost one good fish in rather an awkward manner, Mr Talboys. 


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 ! 


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 — 


Do say, my dear sir, semi-civilised. 


Now it heads the Nations—and I may set. 


And why should that be a melancholy thought, sir? 


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 ! 


In Cornwall it is a household word. 


And in all the Devons. 


Men in Scotland who never heard the name of 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. 


Su*, be comforted — ^you arc under a delusion— Britain is ringing with your 


Not that I care for noisy fame — ^but I do dearly love the still. 


And you have it, shr— enjoy it and be thankful. 


But it may be too still. 


My dear sir, what would you have ? 


I taught you, Talboys, to play Chess — and now you trumpet Staunton. 


Chess — ^Where's the board? Let us have a game. 


Drafts— and you quote Anderson and the Shepherd Laddie. 


Mr North, why so querulous? 


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 

^ Awftj with Melancholy — 

Nor doleftil changes ring 

On Life and hnman Folly; 

BqI merrily, merrily sing^fal la !" 


What a sweet pipe ! A single snatch of an old song from jon, sir— 


Why are yon glowering at me, Talboys? 


It has oome Into my head, I know not how, to ask you a question. 


Let it be an easy one— for I am languid. 


Pray, sir, what is the precise signiacation of the word '< Classical?'* 


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 


The Greeks — and Bomans. 


In the second place — 


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. 


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. 


Thank you, sir. Fitness and Beauty. Anything more? 


Much more. We think of the Greeks and Romans, sir, as those in whom 
the Human Mind reached Superhuman Power. 




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 


It may be that we are all Heathens at heart. 


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." 


Very fine. 


life of old, and long, long ago I In the meek, solemn, soul-stilling hush of 
Academic Bowers ! 




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 


The fit is on him — ^he has not the slightest idea that he is in Deeside. 


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 ! 


1 know where he is, Buller. He called it well a Cathedral-like Library. 


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 


Magdalen College library, I do believe. Mr North— Mr NortJi— awake- 
awake — ^here we are all in Deeside. 


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." 


These were not my very words, sir — 


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. 


I rather fuled there in the Schools. 


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. 


I got up my Logic passably and a little more. 


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. 


Yon might as well have said '^ BuUer "—for I beat Seward in my Logic. 


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. 


And in Classics we were equal. 


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. 


The pupil of language, therefore, sir— pardon my presumption — before he 
can recognise the appropriation of the Sign, must recognise the Thing signified? 


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? 


I should think so, sir. 


The Words of Man paint the spirit of Man. The Words of a People 
depicture the Spirit of a People. 


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 


And yet what coarse fellows hold np their danderheads as Scholars, forsootfa, 
in these our days ! 


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. 


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 


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. 


Ay, sir, and I say so in all humility, this at the gateway, and upon the 
threshold. How much more when he reads. 


Ay, Seward, you laid the emphasis well there — reads. 


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 ! 


Take all things in moderation. 


No— not the sacred hunger and thirst of the soul. 


Greed — give — give. 


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 ? 


Did each sublime spirit always understand himself? 


Urge that, Mr Buller. 


So— and so only— to read, is to be a Scholar. 


Then I am none. 


I did not say you were. 


Thank you. What do you think of that, Mr Talboys? Address Seward, 


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. 


I understand that. 

1849.] Chrittopher under Canvass. 29 




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. 


Let him have his swing, Mr Talboys. 


He has it in that chair. 


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. 


Oh I my dear dear sir, of Poetry we surely had enough — ^I don't say more 
than enough — a few days ago, sir. 


Who is the Poet ? 


I beseech you let the Poet alone for this evening. 


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 ! 


Which is impossible. 


And there is a great clamour for a Standard of Morals. A definite measure 
of the indefinite ! 


Wluch is impossible. 


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. 


You put it strongly, su*. 


Undeniable doctrine. 


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. 


She did. 


Talboys, yon understand well enough the seDse and coiture of the Beantifnl? 


Something of it perhaps I do. 


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 


But the lessons perish— the dedicated soul is a Power in all emergencies and 


Thore are Pharisees of Beanty— and Pharisees of Morality. 


At this day spiritual Christians lament that nine-tenths of Christiaiis 


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. 


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 


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." 


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? 


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. 


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 ? 


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 ! 


And what is the Form ? Do as thou wouldst it be done to thee ! 


Ay — ^my dear friend — ^The form resolves into a feeling. Love thy neighbour. 
That is all. Is a measure given ? As thyself. 


And is there no limitation ? 


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 


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. 


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. 


Tet there have been Philosophers who so misbelieved! 


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 


No ainceie <^ elevating influence be lost out of a World out of which He 
is lost? 


^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 


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^ 


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. 


And if they no longer have immortal souls ! 


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 ? 


I love you, shr, better and better every day. 


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. 


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? 


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. ' 


The Iskmd of Sardinia. 



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 


The Island of Sardinia. 


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- 


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, 


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 

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, 


" 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 


The Island ofSardmia. 


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- 



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 


The Island ofSardima. 


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 

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 


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 


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 forethifflg ht f 


Tfte Island ofSardimd, 


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 

htst characteristic story is told. 
f of six females were sojoum- 


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 


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. 


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 

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. 


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 


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 


The Island of fiardima. 


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 


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 


T7ie Iskmd ofSarduda. 


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 thirte en t h or 
early part of the fourteenth e en t m y; 
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- 


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 

1% Urdbi tby dew-emlNJiiied Mffth, 

■P Qinftd 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 


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. 


The Caxtans.—Pari XIV. 




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 

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 


The CaxtonB.^Part XIV. 


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 

¥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 

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 

" 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 



The Caxtans.-^Part XIV. 


refuge at hand. The spot was well 

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 

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. 


Tke Caxknu.-^Part XIV. 


[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 

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 



ITie Caxtons.-^art XIV. 


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- 

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 


7^ OuUm.^Part XIV. 


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 

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, 

"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^ 


The Cazions.'^Part XIV. 


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- 

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!" 


Tim Ontomt.^-nP^ai ZIV. 


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- 

*^ 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 


7^ CoxicNw.— i\in xir. 


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 


TAe Ccakm.-^Part XIV. 


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^ 


7%e Caxtons.—Pan XIV. 


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. 


The Caakmi.'^Part XJV. 


I thoofffat, ^^Wbat an ay beside the bed, oommimed with my 
iefetobis?" and— fiittiDg own heart and was still ! 


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 


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 

" 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. 


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 

" 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 


The Caxtons,'^F»t XI V. 


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<^ 

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 


Tke Caxtom.^Part XIV. 


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 

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 

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 


Tltf Game Law$ in Scotkmd. 



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 


The Game Lttws in Scotland, 


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, 




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. * 


71k Game Lacs m Scodamd, 


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 

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. 


The Game Lowe in ScodatuL 


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\ 

p rese n t in g 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 


The Game Laws in ScothauL 


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- 

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 


The Game Law$ in Scotland, 


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- 

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. 


The Crome Laws in ScatkauL 


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 





(both yean.) 


























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 























The Game Laws in ScotlantL 


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 

^ 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 


7%e Game Laws in Scotland. 


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 

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& 

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. 


The Game Laws m Scotland. 


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 


The Game Laws in ScotkuuL 


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« 


The Game Law$ in Scotland. 


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, 


The Game Laws in Scotland. 


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 



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. 


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 

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. 




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^ 




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 

"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 

** 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 


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 

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 

For sole reply, Dominique threw 
him the letter. 


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 




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- 

*^ 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 




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 


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 




of judicial seyerity. His dance lost 
nothing of its habitoal^cola indiffer- 
ence, as he replied to Dominique's 
passionate entreaties with a decided 

*^ 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 

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* 


Do mm ique, 


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 

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 




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- 

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 

'^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 


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 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 




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 

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 




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 

^* 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. 


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- 

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- 




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- 

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, 



Ithoafc apparent effort, vaiilted 

16 saddle. With anotberbow 

nile he rode off with hia com- 


iras well done, Yicenzo," said 


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, 

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- 

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 


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 ? '* 


**Not much," r^ed Fontaine 

^' 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 

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 



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 

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 




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 

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 





" 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. 


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 



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 


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 



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 

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. 




(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 



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 

ver hopes a faaUleBs school to see, 
I what ne'er was. nor is. nor is to 


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 

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- 




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^ 

" 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 



\ 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. 


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 

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 




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 




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." 


^ 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 




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^ 


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- 


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- 

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 





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- 




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 


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 — 


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 

108 The Crouming of the Column^ and Crushing ofiht PedeataL [Jnlv, 


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 

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 Q m t k m g cfUm PBiataL LJolf, 


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 

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 


^Af C T a fuwi i, 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 
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 
eon s t i tntion, 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 


Since passing 

Sugar DiU of 


Xtune of the Estate. 





Windsor Forest. 
La Grange. 
Belle Piahie. 
Sir W. South. 
Richmond Hill. 





Slarery value, 
Estimated present Talue, 

Or equal to 93i per cent on 

. a 


original value 

• • 




—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 — 


In 1816 45,U0 

In 1824, reciprocity haying been 

eight years in operation ... 44,994 

British tonnage haying in ) 

Bed ... ) 


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 ... 

... 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 ) ' 


' 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, 


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- 



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 

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 

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, 


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 d nra tia n , 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 


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: — 

Mvket Value. 

1845, £84,054^72 

1846, 89,281,433 

1847, 117,047,229 

1848, 92,660,699 

Dedarad Value. 
Britiih end IrWi pro- 




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, . 


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 

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 

Ncwdcgate's Letter to Mr Lahouchere, p. 17. 

t Total Importo. 

Total Exports. 
Home And Coloolal. 

Balance of Frclfht 


Brllteh Ship*. 

Balance of Trade against Britain. 

Exports and Importa. 













£268,406,878 £60,077,487 




— 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 co untr ymen 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 


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. 

Total, . 

Deduct taxes and 
rates, . £80,000,000 

Interest of mort- 
gages, . 50,000,000 




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, 


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 

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. 



Banking Dxpartmxnt. 


Gold and SOrsr 

Notes in Reserve. 

Gold and Sflrer 

Jnne 7 

— 14 

— 21 

— 28 


* 29,917,000 







The Crowning of the Column^ and Crushing o/Ae 

OcroBBE 1847. 



iMtus Dkpartmsnt. 

BAinaira Dbfaktmbstt. 

Note* iMued. 

Gold and SOrer 


Gold And saver 

Oct. 2 

— 9 

— 16 

— 21 






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 


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 


The Crowning of the Column, and Cnuhing o/Ae Arffifa/, [July, 


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. 


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 w ar mest 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 

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, 



AUGUST, 1849. 

Vol. LXVI. 


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. 



Charles Lamb. 


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 


CSkatiet Lamb. 


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 

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 


Ckarles Lamb, 


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 


Chco'kt Lamb, 


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 

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 

"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. 


Ckarkt Lamb, 


^' 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. 


Charles Lcanh, 


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- 


Charles Lamb, 


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. 


« 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- 


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* 


C^uxrks Lamb, 


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 



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 


Charles Lamb. 


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- 
WMMJ o mt 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. 


Charles Lamb. 


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- 

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. 


Charles Lamb, 


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- 


ChaarUs L(mh. 


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 



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 


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, 


Charles Lamb. 


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 



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." 

" 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 : — 


'* 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 


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 




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 

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. 


The CaxtonB.^Port XV. 




** 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 
ape a ed 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 

*''' 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 


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 ! 


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. 


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 

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 




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 


The Caxtons.'-Part XV, 


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 

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- 

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. 


JTk Ctatmu^^Pcart 


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 

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 ; 


lU Ck3atmi.^Pltirt XV. 


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 



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 


The CaxtOHS.^Part XV. 


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 


The Caxiant.—Part XV. 


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 ! 



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 

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 


Tkt CbxIoM.— Avf XV. 


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 p re serv e d 
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 


71b Oa3Kiomt.—Pari XV. 


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. 



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 



Then, Intent perhaps but to gain 


The Caxtans.—Part XV. 


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 !" 




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 


The CaxtoM.-'Parl XV. 


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- 


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 


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. 


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" 


The Caxtons.—Part XV. 


** 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" 


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 


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. 


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. 


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 

Bat while, on this point, repentance 
seemed genoine^ it was not so with 
regard to his conduct towards Miss 


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 

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 



The Caxtons.'-Part X V. 


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 

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- 

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 


l%e Caxtona.-^Part X V. 


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 

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. 


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 


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- 

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 


The Caxtons.—Part XV. 


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- 


The Caxtons.-^Part XV. 


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 


The Caxtotu.'-'Part XV. 


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 


The Caxtong.^PQrt XV. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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'^ 


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. 


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, 


Jamaihaii in Afrka. 


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 

Jo m ai k an w Africa. 


er^ pine-k^ fire^^and shoots 
tonate Joe, but is" shot down 
Am Ttry next moment, by 
Bomer, whose doable-barrel 

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 


Jonathan in Africa, 


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." 


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 

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 

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, 


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 


Jonathan in Africa^ 


the liring ones some had their limbs 
broken, and erery one had the flesh of 
liis leg worn to the bone, by the shackle 

'''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 

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. 


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- 


Jonathan in Africa. 


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 


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,' 

*'<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 



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 

"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! 

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 



Jonathan m Africa. 


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. 


ne Chmn Hmd^A " SkoH " Yam.-^PiKn 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. 


The Green Hand^A " Sliort " Yam.-^Part HI. 


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 


Tke Green H<md-~A " Short'' Yam.-^Pari III. 


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 


The Green Hand—A " Short'' YoTH.-^Pari III. 


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 


The Qrtoi Sand^A ^^ Short'' Yam.-^Parl IH. 


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 


'<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 


The Green Haiid^A » Short'' Yam.-^Part III. 


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 


IJte Green Hand— A " Short'' Yam.^Pari III. 


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. 


I%e Greeh Hamd—A ** SwH'' Yam.-^Part HI. 


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- 


l%e Gnen Hand— A " Short »' Yixm,^Part IH. 


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 

" 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 


The Green Hand^A " S/torf' Yam.-^Part III. 


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 


7%e Green Hond-'A " Short'' Yam.^Part III. 


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 


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 


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 


7^ Green Htmd—A " Short " YcaiL^Part III. 


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- 


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 


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 

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^ 


I%e Green Hand— A *< Short" Yarn.-^Part III. 


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 


The Green Hand— A '' Short" Yam.^PlKri JJX 


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 


The OnmHmd^A ''Short'' ¥am,--I\trt IIL 


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 


The Green Hand'-A '' ShorV Yam^Pttrt III. 


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 


The Chreen Hand^A " Short " Fom.— i\ir/ ///. 


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 


Tk€ Qrtem Hami—A '' Short'' Ymm.—PHrt IH. 


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 


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 
*^ ih w i i l "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. 


Uie Green Humd^A ^^ Short ^' YartL^Ptai III. 


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 


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 


TV Inswrrectiam m Saiin, 



(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 

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 

But with citizens timid or luke- 
warm, and soldiers the greater num- 
ber of whom were in open mutiny, it 

I%» Angmeticm m Baden, 


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- 

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 


The Insurrection in Baden. 


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 

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. 


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, 

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 


The Insurrection m Badem, 


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 

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 MnoTfto t ton^ M JBcUUHm 


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. 


The Insurrection in Baden. 


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- 

^ 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. 


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* 


Hit Ituurrecium m Badau 


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%e Imurreetkm in Baden. 


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 

'* 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 

** 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 


The Insurrection in Baden. 


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. 


« 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 
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 

** 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- 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 


The Insurrection m Baden. 


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. 


LamaiUni^ RmfobUum 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 

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 


Lamartme's Revolution of 18i8. 


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. 


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* 


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 umm tr m l 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. 


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 

Voyant d^m temps si court leur puisiuico 

Des plus hcureux desseins font avorter le 

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. 


Lamariine^s BevoUUion of 1848. 


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. 


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- 
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 


LmMrime's BMohiHfm qf IMS. 


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- 

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 

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 

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 


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- 


Lamartine's RevobUion of ISiS. 


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' 


" 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* 

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§ pf mn H^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> 


LamartMs EevohUion of l^S. 


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 

''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 


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. 


Latncurtine^s BetohUioti of 1848. 


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. 


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- 
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 



Lamartine^s Revolution of 1848. 


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 


LcoMrtMs RevohUian of IMS. 


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:— 

In 1B36 the produce was 31,057,000 

In 1827 (the fint shock in conte- 

ffumem of the progre s s 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 


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. 


* 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 

** 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 

•* That under the pressure of 100,000 
soldiers, Paris \b not free in her move- 
ments ! We have known {his more Chan 

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. 


mating oenftdence, ear re-estiblisUag 
eredity of diminiBhing taxes, of oar i ec tisg 
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 r e o cm e s 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 


Sg£2(B — GuUa Perdia. 
Time — Early Evening. 



Trim— trim — ^trim — 


Gentlemen, are you all seated ? 


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. 


Not at alL Crotta Percha is somewhat crank — and I am steadying her, sir. 


What is that round your waist ? 

Mj Air-girdle. 


I iasist upon yon dropping it, Longman. It makes you reckless. I did 
lot tiuBk joo were such a a^fiah character. 


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 


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. 


Let me take the stroke oar. 


For sake of the ancient houses of the Sewards and the BuUeiB, sit where 
yon are. We are already in four fathom water. 


The Lines? 


Kea, nea— ^Mister Talboy. Nane shall steer Perch when He's afloat but 
(' aold commodore; 

236 Christopher under OcmooM. [Aog. 


Sbove off, lads. 


Are we on earth or in heaven ? 


On t' watter. 


Billy — mnm. 


The Heavens are high — and they are deep. Fear would rise up from tba^ 
Profound, if fear there could be in the perfectly Beautiful ! 


Perhaps there is — though it wants a name. 


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. 


The Ideal rests on the Real — ^Imagination on Memory — and the Visiontry^. 
at its utmost, still retains relations with Truth. 


Pray you to look at our Encampment. Nothing visionary there — 


Which Encampment ? 


On the hill-side— up yonder — at Cladich. 


You should have said so at first. I thought yon meant that other down— 


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. 


Put up your hands — so — my dear Mr North, and frame the picture. 


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. 


Are yon sure, sir, they are not clonds ? 


If clouds, so much the better. If mountains, they deserve to be clouds ; vA 
if clouds, they deserve to be mountains. 


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. 


The cozey Inn itself from its position is picturesque. 


The Swiss Giantess looks imposing — 


So does the Van. But Deeside is the Pandemonium — 

18i9.] CkriMtopher under Canvass. 237 


Well translated by Paterson in his Notes on Milton, ** AU-DeyiPs- 


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 — 


Fardon me, sir, I have a proposition to make. 


Ton might have waited a moment till — 


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 





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— 


Bir? What^s themeaning of all this — Seward, say—tell, Talboys. 


, 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 — 


Why, the mutiny at the Nore was nothing to this ! 


Lord High Admiral though yon be, sir, yon must obey the laws of the 




How is it? 


Bat it will soon wear off— that^s the saving virtue of Champagne. 


Champagne indeed ! Small Beer, smaller than the smallest size, ion 
^ve not the heart, sir, to give Champagne. 


We had better put about, gentlemen, and go ashore. 

236 Chsrklopher umkr Camoau. I^vg. 


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. 


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 la w 4 i n^ 
let it be three-minute time. 

Fiye— ten — ^twenty — ^* with ihae oonvarBiBg I £oi)gst an time." 


Strike medtam — ^Ten. 


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. 


Plmg her a kiss, sir. 


There— and how prettily she returns it ! 


Happy old man I Go where yon will — 


Ulysses and the Syrens. Had he my air-girdle, he wonld swim ashore. 


«i Oh, mihi pmteritos referat si Jupiter annus I'' 


The words are regretful — ^but there is no regret in the voice that syllables 
them — ^it is dear as a bell, and as gladsome. 


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? 


It is. Music — ^Painting, and Poetiy — 


Sculpture and architecture. 


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. 


Sweetest. That's a miss-moUyish word. 


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- 

1^0 ChnUtpher mmder Cmmmu, 239 



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 




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." 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


Was erer before such disquisition begotten by — an imaginary kiss among 
the Sedges! 


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. 


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 


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. 


Shakspeare is justified, then— and the Lady Julia spoke like a Lady in 
Love with all nature— and with Proteus. 


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 ? 


•» ^°* ®"®— 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 


" 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. 


^ 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 


Then the— Grayishness. 


The what, sir? 


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. 


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. 


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.* " 


A person moralising I He forgot that person was Thomas Gray. And he 
%er knew what you have told us now. 


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. 


Thank yon, gentlemen. The Doctor to done brown. 


** The paths of glory lead but to the g^rata 1 " 
Methinks I could read yon a homily on that Text. 


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. 


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." 


Thank you, sir. That to Beattie ? 


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." 


Very fine. Who says it ? Fergnsson— who was he ? 


The best of yon Englishers are intoleraUy ignorant about Scotland. Do 
you know the Reverend John Mitlbrd ? 


I do— and have for him the greatest respect. 


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."* 


Toll to right. 


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.* ** 


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 — 


No-iio— not Once is enooghr— and enoogh is as good as a feast. 


Smoe foa have a great respeet for Mr Mitford, sir, so have I. But hitherto 
I Ure beea a stranger to his merits. 


^ tat of yon Soottiahers are nitolerably ignorant about England. 


^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. 


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 
IJjim aiiu ea B np to the proper pitch for a sound night's sleep. God bless 

Shorn of your beams, Mr North, eclipsed. 


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. 


My boy, Talboys. 


" 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. 


Nothing can be better. 


" ^ 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. 


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." 


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." 


^ 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 ? 


Whynot— Buller? 


I give way to the gentleman. 

1H9*] Christopher under Canvass. 245 


Kot for worlds would I take fhe word oat of any man^s moutb. 


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? 


Yon could give a "sturdy stroke" yourself, Talboys. What's your 


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. 


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 ? 


" 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