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THE 



Gentleman s Magazine 



Volume CCLXXVII. 
JULY TO DECEMBER 1894 



Prodesse 6- Delectare 




E Pluribus Unum 



Edited by SYLVANUS URBAN Gentleman 



CHATTO- & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
1894 



166435 



• • ? _• 




CONTENTS of VOL. CCLXXVII 



Among the Fishermen, By F. M. Hoi.MES 289 

Arctic Regions, The Buried Elephants in the. By Rev, D. GaTH 

Whitlky 275 

» Artists, The, Translated from the Russian of the late V. M. 
Garshine by Jessil Mackenzie i 
Balance, The, of Power, By James Hutton. . . . 487,595 
Beefsteak, The History of a, * By Josiah Oldfiet.D, M.\. . , 533 
Bengal, Reminiscences of the " Mafassal" Law Courts of. By A. D. 

Bolton 75 

Birds, A Haunt of. By Rev. J. H. Crawford, F.L.S, . . 316 

Borland, By PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A 447 

Brctanic Isles, The, By Thomas H. B. Graham . . . .474 

Bronze Axe, The, By Annie Armitt 325 

Buffalo Run, A, at One Tree Creek. By L. R. Ord , . . 297 
Buried Elephants, The, in the Arctic Regions. By Rev. D, Gath 

Whitley .275 

Caesars, Under the, in Britain. By W. B, Paley . . . .400 
Carlyle and Taine on the French Revolution. By H. SchQtz 

Wilson 341 

Catacombs, The, of Paris. By Neil Wynn WiLLL^MS . , 97 
Cecils, In the Halls of the. By W. Connor Sydney, M.A. . , 570 
Census, The Indian, of 1891. By E. O, Walker, C.i.E, . - 133 
Cloud, Fog, and Haze. By Dr. J, G. McPherson, F.R.S,E. . 123 
Colombia, A Lady's Life in. By Barbara Clay Finch . . 63 
Cures, Old Scottish. By Alex. W. Stewart , , . .419 

• Curiosities of Pearls. By Herbert Jamks GiRRiNS , . . 306 
** Darkness, The, behind the Stars." By J, E. Gore, F.R.AS. . 407 
Date OboUim Belisario. By Rev. Alan Bromrick, M.A, . . 426 
Diocletian's Palace at Spalato, By Percy Fiizgerald, M.A . 266 
Dog, The, in British Poetry, By R. Maynard LEONARD . . 84 

"Duke "Combe. By H. Lacey 51 

Dunton, John, Bookseller . . , . . . , . .167 
Ecclesiastical Pamphlet Wars. By G. L. Apperson . . .413 
Fcrgusson, Robert : Scottish Poet. By Alexander Gordon . 375 
riction. The Women of. By H, ScHUTZ WrLSON . . .34 

Fishermen, Among the. By F. M. HOLMES 289 

Fotath Estate, The. By A Fellow of the Institute of 

■ Journalists 40 
French Revolution, Carlyle and Taine on the. By H. SCHUTZ 
Wilson 341 

Gascon Tragedy, A 17 

Harvest Songs, Some English. By Laura Alex. Smith . .153 
Haunt, A, of Birds. By Rev. J. H, Crawford, F.L.S. . . . 316 
Histoiy, The, of a Beefsteak. By Josiak Oldfjeld, M.A . . 533 
todian Census, The, of 1891. By E, O. Walker, CLE, . . 133 
Italia, Roba d'. By Clare Sorell Strong .... 504 
Italy, The Pities of. By George Widdringtox . . . .613 
Italy, Women Novelists in, at the Present Day. Wy Mary 

Hargrave . , , 145 

Jefferies, Richard, as a Descriptive Writer. By IRVING MUNTZ . 514 
John Dunton, Bookseller . * . ♦ , , . , .167 
Lady's Life, A, in Colombia. By Barbara Clay Finch . . 63 
Lord Macao's Watch. By John W, Sherkr, CS.L , . . 433 
Lowlands vfnn/T Highlands, By E. Ravleigh Vicars . , 203 
Lncretius and His Science. By E, W. Adams . . . .188 
Male, The Wail of the. By One OF Them 360 



i 



IV 



Contents, 



4871 



I 



Missus and I. By Rev. Alan Brodrick, M.A- 
Modern Penolo^. iJy G. Ravleigh Vicars, M.A. 
Money-Spider, The. By PHIL RoBINSON 

Napoleon 

Old Scottish Cures. By ALEX. VV. Stewart. 

One Tree Creek, A Buflfalo Run at By L. R. Ord 

Pamphlet Wars, Ecclesiastical. By G. L. Appf.RSON . 

Pankobil^ Sanitary StmgKles at. By John Beames 

Paris, The Catacombs of. By NEIL WvNN Williams . 

Pearls, Curiosities of. By Herbert James GiiiRiNs . 

Penology, Modern. By G. Rayleigh Vicars, M.A, 

Pities, The, of Italy. By George Widdrington . 

Power, The Balance of. By James Hutton , 

Roba d' Italia, By CLARE Sorell Strong . , . . , 

Robert Fergusson : Scottish Poet. By Alexander Gorhon 

Reminiscences of the ** MafassaJ " law Courts of Bengal. By A. D, 

Bolton 

Rest By Arthur L. Salmon 

Rivuli Montani. By John Buchan ...... 

Sanitary Struggles at Pankobil By John Beames 
Some English Harvest Songs. By Laura Alex. SMITH 
Spalato, Diocletian's Palace at. By Percy Fitzgerald, M.A. * 

Specialist^ The. By E. H. Lacon Watson, M.A 

" Stars, The Darkness behind the." By J. Ellard Gore, F.R.A.S. 

Sunday Afternoon. By S, Swithin 

Swans and Swan -Songs. By Rev. JOHN Edward FIELD, M.A. . 
Table Talk. By Sylv anus Urban :— 

Comic Opera in England — Mr. Fitzgerald's "Savoy Opera" — 
Origin of the latest form of Comic Opera -Gilbert ian 
Humour — Chaucer BibliogTaphy — Pepys Redivivus — 
Pepys* Shortcomings^'* The Tree of Knowledge "—The 

Slain BuU-fighter 

Scott's **Fair Maid of Perth "—Hal of the Wynd— Border Ani- 
mosities— -P'olk Satire in English Districts^Guildhall 
Publications — London's Pohtical Action . . * . 
Infant Marriages— Not Confined to the UpperCIass —Marriages 
of Children in Arms— Unsatisfactory Results of Early 

Marriage 

Motives of Infant Marriage — Early Parentage — .\n Illustration 
of Shakspeare— An Anarchist Poet— By Woods and Pas- 
tures^On Foot — An Unexpected Encounter— Vanitas 
Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas ...... 

War as a Reforming Influence— War or Peace— Discipline— 
The Shape of the Novel ....... 

•* Eighteenth Century Vignettes " — Among the Old Bookmen — 

The Bull Fight again — Attempts of the Bull Fight to 

Invade Paris — Suppression in F" ranee of the Bull Fight — 

English Defenders of Cruel Pastimes— North versus South 

Tragedy, A Gascon ..,»... 

Two Mates, The, By Edward Heins . 

Under the Ciesars in Britain. By W. B. Palev . 

Wail, The, of the Male. By One of Them . 

Watch, Lord Macao's. By John W. Sherer, C.SJ, 

Weather Wisdom. By Percival H. W. Almv 

Women Novelists in Italy at the Present Day. 

Hargrave 

Women, The, of Fiction. By H. SCHUTZ WlLSON 
*' Zo They Zay/ By Oscpou H ARTIER , 



95 

627 
109 

228 

419 
297 
413 
587 
97 
306 
627 
6.5 

595 
504 

37 > 

75 
6J5 
j68 
587 
153 
266 

467 
407 

2CX> 

250 



103, 
2tl 
322 

427 
538 




I 



THE 

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE 

July 1894. 
THE ARTISTS. 

Translated from the Russian of the late V. M. Garshine 
by Jessie Mackenzie. 

L^DYAYDOV, 

TO-DAY I feel as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. 
It was such unexpected luck ! Off with my engineer's 
epaulettes ! away with instruments and calculations ! 

Yet is it not too bad to rejoice thus over the death of my poor 
aunt, simply because she has left me a legacy enabling me to send 
in my papers ? However, she certainly entreated me when dying 
to give myself up wholly to my favourite pursuit ; and, besides other 
reasons for delight, 1 now rejoice at being able to carry out her 
earnest wish. It happened one evening. . . . What a look of surprise 
came over our chief on being told that I was leaving the Service ! 
But on my explaining my object in so doing, he just gaped at me ! 

" From love of art ? H'm !— hand in your papers.'* 

I said no more, turned on my heel and walked out. But what 
more did I need ? To be free and an artist ! Is not that the height 
of felicity ? 

I felt impelled to go off somewhere, to leave Petersburg and 
the crowd behind me, so, hiring a skiff, I made for the open bay. 
The water, the sky, the town glistening afar in the sunlight, the deep 
blue woods fringing the edge of the bay, the tops of masts in 
Cronstadt roadstead, the dozens of steamers shooting past, the 
sailing boats and Finnish barks skimming by — everything appeared 
to me in a new light. All this is mine, it is all in my power ; I can 
grasp it all, transfer it to canvas, and place it before a public amazed 
at the power of art. It is true, one should kill one's bear before 
•^ou ccLxxvii. NO. 1963. R 



' " fit • 




^m^iefs^f^'s Magazine 



disposing of his skin, and until I attain celebrity there 
enough, , . . 

My skiff cut swiftly through the unruffled waters ^ the boatman, 
a fine, strong, handsome fellow in a red shirt, bent to his oars un- 
weariedly, first forward, then backward, powerfully propelling the 
boat with ever)^ stroke. The sun was setting, and played with such 
effect on his face and red shirt, that 1 lonj^ed to sketch him in 
colours. (I always keep a small box by me, supplied with canvas, 
colours, and brushes,) 

"Stop rowing and sit still for a moment ; I want to paint you," 
I said. 

He flung down his oars. 

" Just place yourself in the net of lifting your oars," 

He seized his oars, brandishing them aloft like the wings of a 
bird, and so settled himself in a capital pose. 

Having quickly sketched in the outline, I set to work to paint. 
Wiih what a peculiar feeling of delight did I mix my colours, 
knowing that no one would tear me from thena during the remaind 
of my life. 

The boatman soon began to weary ; his fearless expression grew 
languid and bored- He commenced to yawn, once even wiping his 
face on his sleeve, for which he had to bend his head down over his 
oar. The folds of his shirt were quite spoiled. Such a nuisance ! 
I cannot bear a model to move. 

" Can't you sit quieter^ my man ? " 

He grinned. 

" What are you laughing at ? " 

Again he grinned sheepishly, saying : 

" It seems so strange, sir ! " 

" What seems so strange?" 

" Why, as if I were such a rarity that I required painting — as if 
I were a picture." 

" I intend making a picture of you, my good fellow." 

" What do you want it for? " 

"To learn by. I paint small pictures first, and then larger ones.'* 

" Larger ones ? " 

*' Of three sajens even." 

He was silent, and then gravely asked : 

"Then you can paint saints, too?" 

**Yes, I can ; but I paint pictures," 

•* Really." He reflected a little, and again inquired ; 

*' What is the use of them ? " 




I 



The Artists, 



"The use of what?" 
" Why, of the pictures '* . . . 

Well, of course, I did not set to work to read him a lecture on 
the importance of art, and merely replied that hard cash was given 

rfor these pictures, a thousand, two thousand roubles, and upwards. 
The boatman was quite satisfied and relapsed into silence. My 
■ody was a great success (those glowing tones of red fustian are 
fcr>' beautiful by the light of the setting sun), and I returned home 
supremely happy. 



11.— R YABEEXINE. 



r 

H an(i 
■ Stat 



Before me, in a constrained position, stands Tarass, an old male 

model, whom Professor N has ordered to be placed with his hand 

on his head, ibis being **a highly classic pose," as he asserts in his 
(icrman-Russian. I am surrounded by a whole throng of comrades, 
sitting like myself before their easels, palette and brushes in hand. 
In front of everybody sits Dyaydov, assiduously copying Tarass, 
although he is a landscape painter. There is a smell of paints, oil, 
and tarpentine in the class-room, and a dead silence. Every half 
hour Tarass takes a rest ; he seats himself on the edge of the 
wooden chest which serves him as pedestal, and from a model 
h« reverts to an ordinary naked old man ; works his arms and 
legs, which are numb from not moving, dispenses altogether with 
ihe prescribed use of a pocket-handkerchief, &:c. The pupils crowd 
round the easels, examining each other's work. There is always a 
crowd round mine ; I am a very promising pupil of the Academy, 
and bid fair to become ** one of our coryphees," to use the happy 

repression of the art critic, Mr. V. S , who said long ago, 

"Ryabeenme will make his mark," That is why all look at my work. 
After five minutes all again take their places, Tarass climbs on to 
his pedestal, places his hand on his head, and we daub away. . , . 
And so on every day. Tiresome, is it not ? Yes, I made up my 
mind on that point long ago ; it is all very tiresome. But I am like 
an engine when the steam valve is opened, I am threatened with two 
iltemalives i either to roll along the rails until the steam is exhausted, 
or, swerving from them, to become, instead of an iron monster, a heap 
of fragments. • . . I am on the rails ; my wheels grip them firmly, 
and if I swerve, what then ? At all costs 1 must travel on to the 
statioo, notwithstanding that the aforesaid station appears to me as a 

ck hole in which I can distinguish nothing. Some say that 
iartistic productiveness will be the outcome. As to the artistic part I 
have no doubt ; but— productiveness. . , . 




i 



4 The Gentleman s Magazine^ 

WTien I visit an Exhibition and look at the pictures, what do 
I see? Canvas with colours laid on— laid on in such a manner 
as to represent the artist's impressions— and the impressions which 
different objects have produced are all similar. People go and 
admire : " How skilfully are the colours laid on I " And that is alL 
Whole books, whoJe piles of books, have been written on the subject j 
many of them I have read. But I cannot make much out of Taine, 
Carricre, Kugler, and all the writers on art, including Prudhon. 
They all discuss one topic : What is the meaning of art ? and whilst 
reading, the thought forthwith crops up in my mind, Has art any 
meaning? I have not observed the elevating influence of good 
pictures on mankind, why should I believe in its existence ? 

Why should I believe ? And yet believing is a necessity to rae^ 
an urgent necessity; but how can I goon beheving? How can I 
convince myself that my whole life through I shall not be pan- 
dering solely to the imintelligent curiosity of the public {and well 
were it only curiosity and nothing more — the arousing of bad 
instincts, for instance) and to the boasting of some wealthy stomach- 
on-two-legs, who leisurely goes up to the picture in which I 
have lived and have suffered, my beloved picture, painted not with 
brush and colours, but with nerves and life-blood, and mutters : 
*' H'm * , . not so bad," buries his hand in his bursting pockets, tosses 
me a few hundred roubles, and carries it away from me, together 
with the appertaining excitement, sleepless nights, griefs and joys, illu- 
sions and disillusions. And I pace the crowd alone once more. 
Mechanically do I draw from the life in the evening, mechanically 
paint from the same in the morning, arousing the astonishment of 
professors and comrades with my rapid successes. And why do 
I act thus, whither am I tending? 

Here have four months elapsed since I sold my last picture, and 
as yet no conception for a new one has dawned upon me. 

If only some idea would arise in my mind, I should be thankful 
... A brief respite full of oblivion. I would step out into my pic- 
ture as into a monaster)^ I would think solely of it. The questions : 
Whither tending? What for? vanish whilst I am at work; one 
thought, one aim, is present with me, and putting it into execution is 
my delight. My picture is the world in which I live, and to which 
I am responsible. Here worldly morality ceases. I am re-created 
in my new world, and therein 1 realise my worth and uprightness, or 
worthlessness and falsehood, in my own way, independently of the 
outside world. 

But it is impossible to go on painting for ever. In the evening, 



I 



I 



I 



The AriiUs. 



■ 



I 



when milight interrupts work, I return to everyday life, and hear 
anew the everlasting question, " What for ? " not allowing me to fal! 
asleep, causing me to toss about feverishly in bed, to gaze into the dark- 
ness, as if an answer were written somewhere there. And 1 sleep the 
deep of the just towards morning, in order, on awakening, to sink into 
mother dream-world, in which live only the images shaped by my 
own brain, which take concrete form before me on canvas. 

"AVhyareyounot working, Ryabeenine?" my neighbour inquired 
loudly. 

I was so buried in thought that I started on hearing this question. 
The hand holding the palette relaxed ; the tails of my coat dropped 
into the colours and were smeared with paint ; my brushes lay on the 
floor, I glanced at my study ; it was done, and well done. Tarass 
stood out on the canvas as if alive* 

•' I have finished," I replied to my neighbour. The class broke 
npL The model, getting down from his pedestal, dressed himself ; 
all noisily collected their belongings. Conversation began. They 
came over to me and praised me. 

"The medal, the medal . . , the best study," said some. Others 
kept silence. Artists do not care about praising one another. 



IIL—DYAYDOV, 



It seems to me that my fellow-students look up to me. Of course 
my sedate age as compared with theirs has something to do with it. 
In the whole Academy there is only Volski who is older than I. This 
Volski, a man of forty- five^ quite grey, enters the Academy at that 
^e, and begins school again — is not that zeal ? But he works away 
do^edly ; in summer time he paints studies with great perseverance 
from morning till night, and m all weathers ; through the winter he 
paints unceasingly as long as it is daylightj and draws in the evening. 
Id two years he has made great strides, though Providence has not 
endowed him with much talent. 

Then there is Ryabeenine— that is another matter— a highly gifted 
nature ; but, on the other hand, a terribly idle dog. I do not think 
he will turn out much, though all the young art students are his 
admirers. His passion for realistic subjects is to me particularly 
soange ; he paints peasants^ their bast-shoes, leggings, and short fur 
^>ilc8, as jf we did not see enough of them in real life. And what 
is of roost importance, he scarcely works at all Sometimes he takes 
his place and polishes off a picture in a month, causing everyone to 
cxdaim as over a wonder, whilst admitting, however, that in technical 




i 




6 The Gentkmajis Magazine. 

qualities there remains a greal deal to wish for (in my opinion ti 
technical part of the work is ver)% very weak) ; and then he throws up 
even doing studies, loafs about gloomily, addressing no one, not even 
me, although it seems that he shuns me less than the other fellows. 
A strange lad ! Those people who do not find full satisfaction in art 
surprise me. Cannot they understand that nothing so elevates a man 
as creation ? Yesterday I finished a picture and exhibited it, and 
to-day they have already begun inquiring about the price. I will not 
let it go for less than three hundred roubles. They have given two 
hundred and fifty for others. I am of opinion that one should never 
reduce a price once named. One is the more thought of in conse- 
quence. And I am the less likely to come down, as the picture is 
sure to sell ; the subject is taking and sympathetic— a winter sunset; 
the black tree-trunks in the foreground stand out sharply against the 

redness of the sky. That is the kind of thing K paints, and how 

his things go off ! They say that this winter alone he has made as 
much as twenty thousand roubles. That is not so bad ; he can 
manage to exist, I cannot make out how some artists contrive to be 

in want ; for of K 's canvases, not one is left on his hands, all 

sell. One requires merely to face the business frankly. Whilst one 
is painting a picture one is an artist, a creator ; once the picture 
painted, one becomes a dealer, and the more wide-awake one is in 
the matter, the better. The public frequently attempts to get the 
better of us, too* 



//'. —R YABEENINE, 

I am living in the 15th Line, Sredni Prospekt, and four tiroes a 
day I pass along the quay where the foreign steamboats come along- 
side. I like the place for its motley colouring, animation, crowd, 
and noise. I hkc it because it has supplied me with many subjects. 
Here it was, whilst gazing on the dock labourers carrying sacks, 
turning windlasses and capstans, conveying trucks with all sorts of 
loads, that I learnt to draw the man of toil 

I walked home with Dyaydov, the landscape painter, a man who 
is as good and as guileless as a landscape, and passionately in love 
with his art. As for him, he is not troubled with doubts about any- 
thing. He paints what he sees : he sees a river and paints a river; 
he sees a swamp with sedge-grass, and paints a swamp with sedge* 
grass. Of what utility are the river and the swamp to him ? he 
never reflects. Apparently he is a man of education ; at least he 
got through his exams, as engineer. He threw up the Ser\ice, for 
fortunately some legacy turned up, affording him the possibility of 



k 




\ 

I 

I 



I 



TAe Artists, 

without work. Now he paints and paints away ; in summer 
be sits from morning to night in a field or a wood making studies ; 
in winter he com ])oses sunsets, sunrises, mid days ; landscapes before 
and after rain ; winter subjects, spring subjects, &c., without cessa- 
tion. His engineering he has forgotten, and does not regret it. 
Only, when we pass by the wharves, he often explains to me the uses 
of the huge masses of iron and steel ; they are portions of machines, 
boilers, and different things which the steamers have discharged. 

** Just see what a great boiler they have dragged here,'* he said 
lo me yesterday, striking the resounding metal with his stick, 

" Vou don*t mean to say we cannot make them ?" I inquired. 

•' Yes, we make them too ; but in small quantities, not sufficient. 
See what a number have been discharged here. And it is nasty 
work when it comes to the rep>airing ; do you see the joint is loose ? 
Look here, too^ the rivets are loosened. Do you know how the job 
is done ? A man seats himself inside the boiler, holding the red- 
hot rivets with pincers which he grasps with both hands, pressing his 
chest on them with all his might ; and outside the master strikes the 
red-hot rivets with a hammer, and raises little protruding heads like 
tbat'* He pointed me out a whole row of little knobs running 
along the joint of the boiler, 

•* But sorely, Dyaydov, it is like hammering on human breasts 1" 

" Ves, just like. Once I tried getting into a boiler, and after the 
Ibunh rivet I could hardly crawl out. My chest felt quite shattered. 
But the men manage to get accustomed to it. It is true they die off 
like flies ; they stand it for about two years and then, e%Tn if still 
aliie, they are rarely fit for anything. Just think of having to endure 
the strokes of a mighty hammer on one's chest during a whole day ; 
asd lo make matters worse, inside a boiler, in a suffocating atmo- 
sphere, and in a constrained attitude. In winter the iron freezes, it 
is perishing, and they sit or lie on the iron. Over there in that 
boiler — look, the red one, so narrow that silting inside it is impossible 
— the man has to lie on his side, placing his breast underneath. 
Those Deaf 'uns have heavy work." 

"Deaf'uns?" 

••Why, yes, that is what the workmen have christened them, 
Tbey frequently become deaf from the hammering. And you 
imagine the>* are highly paid for such galley -work ? Next to nothing ! 
For here neither training nor skill is requisite, only human flesh. . , . 
If you only knew, Ryabeenine, how many distressing impressions 
one receives at the works ! I am so glad to be clear of them for 
good and all. My life was simply a burden to me at first, gazing on 




i 



8 



The Gentknmn s Magazine, 




all these miseries. . » ^ Now it is another thing to have to deal 
nature ; and one has no need to injure anyone in order to turn her 
to account, as we artists do. .^ . , But look, just look, what grey 
colouring ! " he suddenly interrupted himself, pointing to one corner 
of the sky, ** further down, there, under the cloud . . . how lovely 
with the greenish tint ! Look, if one were to paint like that, just like 
that, no one would think it was true ! And yet it is worth seeing, eh ? " 

I expressed reiy assent, though, to tell the truth, I saw nothing 
beautiful in a dirty-green bit of Petersburg sky, and I interrupted 
Dyaydov, who was beginning to expatiate upon yet another scarce _ 
perceptible tint fringing another cloud. ■ 

*' Look here, where are your Ueaf 'uns to be seen ? " 

*♦ Let us go to the works together, and I will show you everything. 
To-morrow even, if you like. But you surely do not intend painting 
these Deaf 'uns ? Give it up, it is no good ; surely there must be 
other more cheerful subjects ! However, we will visit the works 
to-morrow, if you like," fl 

We drove to the works to-day, and examined everything. We ^ 
saw a Deaf 'un, too. He was sitting in a constrained attitude in a 
corner of a boiler, placing his breast underneath to receive the 
blows of the hammer, I gazed at him for half an hour ; the hammer 
rose and fell a hundred times. The Deaf 'un kept shrinking away. 
I shall paint him. ^ 

V,— DYAYDOV, ™ 

Kyabeenine has imagined something so idiotic, that what to think 
about it I do not know. Three days ago I conducted him to the metal 
works; we spent a whole day examining everything, and I explained 
all the processes to him (to my astonishment I have forgotten my pro- 
fession very little), and at last I took him to the boiler department. 
They were just then engaged on a gigantic boiler ; Ryabeenine 
crawled into it, and gazed for half an hour at the way the workmen 
hold the rivets with pincers, He crawled out again pale and upset, 
and was silent the whole way back. And to-day he announces to 
me that he has already begun painting a Deaf 'un at work. "What 
an idea ! What poetry is there in dirt ! Here I can say, un- 
restrained by anything or anybody, what I would of course not say 
to everyone — in my opinion the whole of the peasant theme in art is 
a pure monstrosity. Who wants those celebrated " Haulers of the 
Volga," by Ryaypine ? There is no question that they are splen- 
didly painted, but that is alL Where is the beauty, harmony, 
elegance? And is it not for the reproduction of elegance that art 
exists in the world ? 



J 



The A r lists, 9 

It is otherwise with me 1 Yet a few more days' work and my peace- 
ful " May Morning " is finished. The water in the pond is scarcely 
rippled, the wilJows bend their branches over it ; dawn appears on 
the horizon, the small fieecy clouds being tinged with a pinky hue* 
A woman's figure is walking along the steep bank, carrying a pail 
libr water, and frightening a flock of ducks. And that is all: it 
seems simple, and, nevertheless, I distinctly feel that the poetry in 
the picture asserts itself. 

Such is art ! It incites man to calm and gentle musing, soothing 
his hearL But Ryabeenine's " Deaf 'un " will have no effect on anyone, 
for the simple reason that everyone will run away from it as quickly 
as possible, so as at any rate not to offend their eyes with filthy rags 
and dirty faces. It is curious \ for ear-splitting, unpleasing combina- 
tions are not allowed in music. How is it thai artists may reproduce 

downright ugly and repulsive forms ? I must talk it over with L* ; 

he will write an article, and will cut up Ryabeenine's picture. And 

be deserv*^ it. 



r 



J Z ^R VABEENISE. 

It is two weeks since I left off going to the Academy. I sit at 
home and paint. The work has quite tired me out, though it pro- 
gresses capitally. I ought rather to say not though it progresses, 
bttt because it progresses capitally. The nearer it approaches com- 
pletion, the more and more terrible does what I am painting appear 
lome. And besides, it seems to mc that this will be ray last picture. 
He sits there before me in a constrained attitude, in a dark corner 
cf the boiler, a man attired in rags and panting from fatigue. One 
^d not see him at all were it not for the light which pierces through 
^ round holes bored for the rivets. The little circles of light speckle 
lus clothes and his face, shining in golden spots on the rags, on the 
dishevelled and blackened beard and hair, on the livid face, from 
which pours blackened sweaty on the sinewy and lacerated hands, 
311(1 on the weary, broad, and sunken chest. The heavy, constantly 
^^a:ed blows fall on the boiler^ causing the unfortunate Deaf 'un to 
^^Wall his strength in order to retain his constrained position. As 
Diuch as it is possible to represent the strength he has to exert, I have 
done so. Sometimes I put down palette and brushes, and get further 
a^y from my picture, just opposite to it. I am satisfied ; nothing 
I Lave ever done has been such a success as this awful thing. The 
misfontine, however, is that this satisfaction does not relieve but 
toftores me. This is no painted picture, but a disease which has 
leached its crisis. How it will terminate I know not^ but after this 




i 



lo The Gentleman s Magazine, 

picture I feel it will be useless for me to continue painting. Fowlers^ 
fishermen, and sportsmen, with typical physiognomies and every kind 
of expression, all ** that rich province of genre," of what good is it to 
me now? I shall never make such an impression as with this 
** Deaf 'un," if indeed it does impress people, , * . 

I made an experiment 1 called in Dyaydov, and showed him 
my picture. He merely said, **\Vell, my dear fellow ! " with a gesture 
of surprise. He took a seat and gazed for half an hour, then silently 
took his leave and went off. Apparently he was impressed . . . all J 
the same, however, he is an artist. ■ 

1 place myself opposite my picture, and it impresses tne ; I gaze 
and cannot tear myself away ; I feci for that worn-out figure. Some- 
times I can even hear the blows of a hammer. . , . It will drive me _ 
mad, I must cover it up. I 

I have covered easel and picture with a cloth, and still I sit on 
in front of it, reflecting over the undefmed and the awful which so 
torments me. The setting sun casts a slanting yellow streak of light 
through the dusty pane of glass upon the easel on which stands the 
canvas. It looks just like a human figure ; just like the spirit of the 
earth in ** Faust " as represented by German actors. M 

, , . IVer rufi mir ? ■ 

Who calls rae? I did, I created thee here myself. I evoked 
thee, not from any **sphere/ but out of the suffocating, dark boiler, that 
thou mightest terrify by thy apparition that clean, well-dressed, hate- 
ful crowd. Come forth, thou who art nailed to canvas by the strength 
of my power, gaze forth from it on the fashionably attired throng, 
and cry to them, *' I am an eating sore ! " strike them to the heart, 
deprive them of sleep, stand before them like a phantom ! Destroy 
their peace of mind as thou hast done mine. . . . 

Ay ! this is what will happen ! . . . My picture is finished, 
placed in a gold frame, two porters carry it oflf on their heads for 
exhibition at the Academy. And there it hangs, surrounded by 
*' Noons" and "Sunsets," in a line with "AGirl with a Cat," not 
far from a twenty-one feet high picture of " John the Terrible trans- 
fixing Vaska Shecbanov*s foot with his iron staff.'' It is of no use 
saying that jjeople will not look it j they will look at it, and even 
praise it. The artists will set to work lo examine the drawing. The 
critics will listen to their remarks, scribbling in pencil meanwhile 

in their note-books. Mr. V. S alone is above borrowed ideas • he 

gazes, approves, extols* and squeezes my hand. L^— , the art-critic 
tbxTows himself with fury on my poor *' Deaf 'un/' crying, «* But where 
is elegance here ? 7 ell me where is elegance ? " and entirely demolishes 





The Artists. 



-xi 



mc. The public — well, ihe public pass by apathetically or with a wry 
face ; the ladies merely remark, *' Ah^ quit est laid at homme" and 
sweep on to the next picture, to " The Girl with a Cat," looking at 
which they say, *' Ver)-, very sweet/* or something of the sort. Sedate 
gentlemen, with bullock's eyes, stare a little, cast their eyes on the 
catalogue, emit something between a grunt and a snuffle, and move 
contentedly funher on. And, maybe, only some lad or young girl 
«top> attentively, and reads in the weary eyes gazing, martyr-like, 
out of the canvas, the sobs I have depicted in them. 

And then ? Then the picture is exhibited, bought, and carried off. 
ftTiai will become of me ? All that I have lately gone through, is it 
to be in vain ? Is everything attained in this one effort, after which 
will begin rest, and the search for harmless subjects ? . . . Harm- 
ks! subjects! Suddenly I recalled how one of the keepers of the 
gallery, composing the catalogue, called to hts clerk: 

**Martinov ! write, * No. 112 — First love scene : A girl picking a 
rose,'*' 

**Marunov 1 write, *No. 113 — Second love scene: A girl smelling 
arose,"' 

Shall I, too, "smell a rose," as before.^ or shall I swer\'e from 
the mils ? 



Vir^—DYAYDOV, 

fnine has nearly finished his "Deaf *un," and to-day invited 
at it. I went with a preconceived opinion, and I must 
was obliged to alter it. The impression is very powerful. The 
^wing is splendid. The modelling stands out. Best of all is the 
^tislic, and at the same time eminently realistic, lighting. Without 
^tloubt the picture would have merits, were it not for the strange, wild 

**b)€ct L perfectly agrees with me, and bis newspaper article 

•ill appear next week. W'e shall see what Ryabeenine wOl say then. 

^course it is difficult for L to pull the picture to pieces from 

point of view of execution, but he can touch upon its significance 
production of art, which will not bear debasing to the use of 
^vulgar or gloomy idea, 

To-day L came to see me. He praised my picture. He made 

* few remarks on several points of detail, but praised it on the 
^le. If only the Professors would look at my picture through his 
! Sorely I shall at last receive that to which every pupil of the 
y aspires — the gold medal 1 the medal and four years of Life 
d at Government expense, and, in years to come, a professor- 
Ap. No, I cannot be mistaken, I shall then throw up this dismal, 



12 The Gentleman s Magazine, 

voikaday, dirty woik, where one inns against some " Deaf "im * like 
Ryabeenine's at ereiy step. 



My picture has been sold, and removed to Mosoow. I hare 
leoehred the piice. and at my coTmades request I bai« to get up an 
entertainment at the •*\'ienna " resamanL I do doc know Ux how 
long this has been the custom, but neaziy aH tbe iserry meetii^ 
of young artists come off there, in a comer roocQ ecga^ed for the 
occasion. The room is large and lofiy, with a diandelier. bronze 
candelabra, a carpet and fuiniture dingy from time 2Lzd the fumes 
of tobacco* and a grand piano, which has seen much serrice ^ its 
day under the Irreh- fingers of impforisirg p^sniss : the bqg AX>king- 
gbss alone is new, fta- it has :o be renewed two or thrse riires a year, 
epcry time that roerchanrs, =:s:ead of aitisss, engage die comer 
room for a spree: 

A whole crowd cf people assembled : painters of ge=re. painters 
of landscape, scxJptors, two critics belcrrng to sccae s=ill paccror 
other, and a few ra5:-j^s They sec to wcrk crfr.kirg asd talking: in 
half an hours time they were already in high sfois. Anxi so was I. 
I remember being shaken,, and rr.Tk^g a speech- Taen I esnbraced 
die critic arxi drink •^hrccheriscte'' with hi]=. We crank, talked, 
and embraced a great ceau nKuming to ocr csirare at r^cr in the 
nnming. It seesrs thit rro SeiJcws nude rae^sexTes ccci&ftahte 
for the nfgr: in that ccsner rccci I cccLd hxrcly gee hccae. and 
threw my^eif undressed oc zzx bed. e^oerieodrig zitiztwhilse the sen- 
saacQ of rcckfrrg in a beat : :t see=ed js if tbe rccc swijed and 
went nrcsi. toceiher w:± the 'r^i and =«. This occtfuzed fcr aboct 
tw\> minutes* 2=d then I went tw> sleecv I <erc awikeiiiir^ ir^ry late: 
My head ich^id. I 5;> =,25: js if lead hid ceen peered =:tc =iy body. 
Fee a loci t:=e I cocid =cc cnclcse my eyesv ird wie-:: I ccened 
tJjsem I beheid the easel— bire. the rkttr^ gcce. Tn? reciZed what 
I hid gcoe thrccgh in rajrtirg it. and =cw i: hit? £1 1:? regin ofer 
3;$ii=i . . - Ah. =:t Gcd : I zi",sc pet an e=>i t.^ n : My bead 
aches wcrse and wcrv?. dirkness envelccs aae. I g^ t? sleeo, 
awake; and again drop o£ And I cannoc ciscagriish whechff I am 
sorrocnded by a dearh-^Lte sr-rress cr a deaiinlnu: ncee. a chaos 
cf sccsds xziosaa:: terr.bfe t.> th^ ear. Maybe :: s-ete stfTzsess, 
yet somechzcg is rinjinjc and fceoiicsi;^ whjrcng ami fras^; dsrocgh 
k alL Jose tke a hnge dbccsand-ccwer rianr. rcmriac oat 

* ^^^ _ : - / -1 : : _ ,. 



Tlie Artists. 



n 



whilst the dull rolling of falling water and strokes of a machine 
are audible. And above all this there rises one note, never-ending, 
protraaed, and overpowering. And I want to open my eyes, to 
get up, to cross to the window, to open it, to hear living sounds, 
human voices, the noise of cabs, a dog's bark, to free myself from 
this everlasting row. But I have not the strength 1 Yesterday I 
got drunk. And I must lie here, listening and listening, on and on. 

And I doze off and again awake. Again the knocking and 
Rttring somewhere, shrill, nearer, and more persistenL The 
blows come still nearer, and beat in time to my pulse. Are they 
upon me, upon my head? or are they within me? Resonantly 
Bhrilly, and evenly, , • . ** one, two," '' one, two." . , . They 
strike on the metal and on something besides. I clearly hear the 
blows upon the iron, which clangs and vibrates j at first the 
hamtDer falls with a dull thud as on a soft substance, then clearer 
Md gradually clearer, until at last the huge boiler rings out like a 
bdl. There is a pause ; again quiet ; then louder and yet louder that 
onbearable, deafening sound. Yes ; this is what it must be ; at first 
they hammer on the malleable red-hot rivet, and then it hardens. 
And the boiler rings out once the head of the rivet has hardened I 
tuiderstand. But those other noises . , . what are they ? I try to 
grasp what they can be ; but a film overclouds my brain. It seems 
4s if remembering were so easy, and then something whirls round 
at roy head, in agonising proximity to my head, and what it is 
I know not, it is impossible to seize it. , . . Let the Jtoise con- 
tinue, I will not trouble myself about it 1 I am conscious, but my 
Ocmory is gone- 

And the noise increases and decreases, the sounds now rising 
till ibey become agonising torture, now seeming to disappear. But, 
Apparently, it is not the noise that disappears, but I myself who 
%ppear somewhere. I hear nothing, I cannot move a finger, lift 
^ eyelid^ or qvj out. Numbness restrains me, and terror surrounds 
B"^ and I go off to sleep in a high fever. I do not quite awake, but 
*Pptar to be in some other dream. Apparently I am visiting the 
torU again » but not those I went over with Dyaydov. These are 
^ huger and gloomier. On all sides are gigantic furnaces of un- 
sown shapes. The flames shoot up from them in sheafs, blackening 
^f and walls of the building, which were black as charcoal before. 
The machines sway and creak, and I can scarce pass between the 
'^^Iving wheels and running and quivering straps \ not a living 
Wil is to be seen. There is a knocking and roaring somewhere, 
^ is where work is being carried qxi. There is a furious noise 




I 



14 The GentUmans Magazine. 



\ 



I 



Y 



there, and frantic blows are falling ; it is awful to me to go there j 
yet something seizes and leads me, and the blows are ever louder, 
and the noise more terrible. And behold everything flows together 
with a roar, and I perceive ... 1 perceive a strange disfigured 
creature, cowering on the ground from the blows which fall on him 
from all sides. A throng of people, armed with whatever falls to 
hand, level the blows. Here are all my acquaintances, with in- 
furiated countenances, striking with hammers, mallets, cudgels, fists, 
the creature for whom I cannot find any fitting designation. I know 
who he is— it is he to the life, . , . I fling myself forward* want to 
cry, " Stay, why this . . ." and suddenly I behold a pale, mutilated, 
unusually awful countenance, awful on account of its being my own 
countenance, I watch how I, my other self, raise a hammer with 
all my strength to deal a furious blow. . . . 

llien the hammer crashes down on my own skull And every- 
thing disappears ; for a little while I still realise the darkness, the 
stillness, the voidness and immovability, and swiftly I, too, vanish away. 

Ryabeenine lay in complete unconsciousness until evening. At last 
his landlady, remembering that her lodger had not left his room that I 
day, thought of entering, and seeing the poor lad lying stretched out 
in a high fever, and muttering all sorts of nonsense, she got fright- 
ened, emitted some exclamation in her incomprehensible dialect, 
and sent the girl off for the doctor. The doctor came examined, 
felt, listened, and grunted a little, seated himself at a table, and 
having written a prescription, went off, while Ryabeenine continued 
to wander and toss about. 

IX.—DYAYDOV, 

Poor Ryabeenine was taken il! after yesterday's spree. I went 
over to him and found him lying unconscious. His landlady looks 
after him. I had to give her money, for not a kopek remained in 
Ryabeenine's table. I do not know if the cursed woman took all, 
or whether, perhaps, all his money remained at the '* Vienna " re- 
staurant. Truly we feasted well yesterday \ we had a lively time ; 

we drank " brotherhood ' with Ryabeenine. I drank with L , too. 

He has a beautiful soul, that same L -^ and how he understands 

art ! He realised in his article so delicately, as no one had done before, 
what I wanted to express in my picture, and I am deeply grateful to 
him for that. I must paint some small trifle, perhaps something 
.\ la Klever, and present it to him. Yes, by the way, is his name 
not Alexander ? and is to-morrow not his name-day ? 

But with poor Ryabeenine it may fare badly ; his large picture 



The Artists. 



n 



competition is not nearly finished yet. Should his illness last a 
then he will not get a medal. And then — farewell to the 
nip abroad. I am very glad of one thing— that, as a landscape 
jwintcr, I do not compete with him ; his comrades, however, are 
probably rubbing their hands. 

Btii I cannot leave poor Ryabeenine at the mercy of fate ; I must 
arry him off to hospital 



A*. - R YABEENINE. 

On looking round me to-day, after many days of unconsciousness, 
I had to consider for a long time where I was. At first I couid not 
even make out the meaning of the long white roll before my eyes — 
It was my own body, wrapped up in the clothes. Having with great 
difficulty turned my head to right and left, from whence sounds 
reached ray ears, I made out a long faintly-lighted ward with two 
TOWS of beds, on which lay the muffled -up forms of the sick ; the 
figure of a knight in armour standing between the large windows 
with loweied blinds (and which turned out to be merely an enor- 
mous brass wash-hand basin) ; the figure of the Saviour in a corner, 
Tiih a dimly shining image-lamp, and two colossal tile stoves. I 
the gentle intermittent breathing of my neighbours ; the 
jd gasps of a sick man lying somewhere further on, somebody's 
Kiceful snore, and then the deafening snore of the warder, probably 
pbccd on duty at the bedside of someone dangerously ill, w'lo, 
naybe, was still alive, and maybe already dead, and lying just like 
to patients who are yet alive. We who are alive. , , . " Alive," I 
tnuseti, even whispering the word. And suddenly an unusual, 
pleasing, cheering, and peaceful sensation which I had not ex- 
pentnced from quite a child came over me, together with the 
conviction that I was far from death, that a whole life still lay before 
Die, which I should certainly make use of in my own way (oh, that 
you may be sure of !). I turned on my side, though with difficulty, 
*^ossed my legs, placed my hand under my head, and went off to sleep 
jusiisl did in my childhood, when 1 used to wake at night by the 
iidcofnoy slumbering mother, with the wind beating at the window, 
^ the storm howling pitifully in the chimney, and the beams of 
*be house snapping like pistol shots under the cruel frost ; and I 
^ to begin to cry softly and feel frightened, and want to wake 
^Jy mother ; and she, half awakening, would kiss me, making the sign 
0^ the cross over me through her sleep ; and, quieted, I would curl 
ttiysclf up in a little ball and drop off, with comfort in my little heart 





e 



The GentUnmtis Magazine. 



Good heavens ! how weak I have become ! To-day I tried to 
get up and cross from my bed to the bed of my opposite neighbour 
— some student or other recovering from a fever — and I nearly fell 
down half-way. The mind recovers more quickly than the body. 
When I gazed around I could hardly take in anything, and it was 
with difficulty I could recall even the names of my most intimate 
acquaintances. Now everything has come back to me, not as past 
facts, but as a dream. No, k does not worry me. No, The old 
order of things has passed irrevocably away. This morning Dyaydov 
brought me a whole pile of newspapers, in which my " Deaf 'un " 

and his *'May Morning" are much lauded. L alone has not 

praised me. And, as far as that goes^ it does not matter now. It is 
so long, long ago. I am very pleased about Dyaydov ; he has 
been awarded the large gold medal, and will soon be going abroad. 
He is inexpressibly contented and happy, his face shining like a 
Shrovetide pancake. He inquired if I had any intention of com- 
peting next year, after being hindered as I have been through ill- 
ness. It was a sight to see how wide he opened his eyes when I 
replied, " No." \ 

" Seriously ? " " 

" Quite seriously," I replied. 

"Then what are you going to do ?" 

" We shall see," 

He went off thoroughly puzzled. 

XL— DYAYDOV, 

I have lived through these two weeks in a maze of excitement 
and impatience, and have only just calmed down, sitting in a car- 
riage of the Warsaw Railway, I cannot take it in. I am a Tra- 
velling Scholar of the Academy, an artist starting off abroad for four 
years to perfect himself in Ait I Vivat Acadania / 

But Ryabeenine, what of Ryabeenine 1 I met him to-day in 
the street, stepping into a cab to drive to the terminus. " I con- 
gratulate you," he said, "and you must congratulate me, too/' 

" Congratulate you on what ? " 

" I have just got through my exams, for the Teaching Seminary." 

The Teaching Seminary I An artist, with talent too 1 And he 
will be wasted ; he will go to seed in the country. Can the fellow 
be mad ? 

Dyaydov was right this time, Ryabeenine did not turn out 
much of a success after all. 



17 



A GASCON TRAGEDY. 



I 



VERY late on the evening of St. Catherine's Day (Nov. 25), in 
the year 1388, Jean Froissart, Canon and Treasurer of 
Chimay* accompanied by a friendj rode into the little town of Ortais 
(some twenty miles from Pau), and dismounted at the hostel of the 
"Moon," a small inn still in existence and known to modern travel- 
lers as " La Belle Hotesse." ' 

Having sent word of his arrival to the castle of the Count de Foix, 
whom be had come to visit (with the view of acquiring information 
at first hand of the wars in Gascony and Spain), the historian, who 
bort letters of introduction from his patron^ the Count de BloiSf was 
at once received with every hospitality, and remained as his lord- 
iliip's guestj so he expressly tells us, for more than twelve weeks* 

Ortais, or Orthez as it is now spelt, was once» as wc may learn 
from modern guide-books, a place of considerable importance, as 
the residence of the Princes of BcarOj until, at the close of the 
iifteeniK ceatury, they removed to Pau. 

Of the " Castle of Moncada," built after a Spanish model by 
Gaston de Foix in 1240, and dismantled by Cardinal Richelieu, but 
one stately lower and a few ruined walls remain. 

The associations of the place seem, curiously enough, to be 
nwttly of a sanguinary cast. On the heights above the little town 
(J'eb. 27, 1814) we defeated the French army under Soult in a 
bloody engagement, the only one in which the Duke of Wellington 
*w ever injured. 

From the Gothic bridge, or rather from the tower in the centre 
ofit, the Calvinistic soldiery, who took the tower by assault in 1569, 
^ said to have precipitated into the river the Roman Catholic 
priests found with arms in their hands who refused to abjure their 
religion. 

We may here note two facts important to our story, viz. that the 
Ptoiestant College at Orthez was founded by a Queen of Navarre, and 

* Chraniquti de Francfy AngUUrrt tt tTEspaigtu, Rcveu par Denis Sauvage 
it FontcnoUlcs-CT-Brk. FoL JandeToumcs, Lyon, 1559-60-61 (Bk. III., ch, 8.) 

VOL. CCLXXTII. NO. 1 96 J. G 




i 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 





i8 



that the Catholic establishraent instituted by Henry IV., after V\i 
version, is now deserted after having for some time been used as a 
manufactory, so a recent guide-book informs us. M 

Lastly, the castle— more particularly the tower— "was the seen" 
of unparalleled crimes during the life of the brutal Gaston Phcebus, 
who filled its dungeons with the victims of his unbridled passion; 
among them his own kinsman, the Viscomte de Chateaubon, Pierr^ 
Arnaul, the faithful Governor of Lourdes,* and finally his aivn i«M 
and only child, whom lie killed with his knife here in (he dark cell in 
which he had caused him to be immured. Blanche de Navarre," we 
are further told, •*was poisoned here" by her younger sister, the 
Countess de Foix. That was in 1466. 

The place was in fact a complete mediaeval Chamber of Horrors, 
and the " brutal Gaston Phcebus," Comte de Foix, has been handed 
down in history as a monster of profligate iniquity in a period when 
such celebrity was no trifling achievement. 

Al the close of the fourteenth century the feudal system was at 
the height of its power. The tremendous forces inevitably developed 
within itself by European society for dealing with a chronically 
recrudescent chaoSj seemed only too often^ — in their independence of 
an y public opinion — to act in the direction of unmixed evil 

The despotic defiance by feudal lords (the ideal " wicked barons ** 
of later romance) of the conceptions of right and wrong, law and 
outrage, which were in an irregular way beginning to leaven society, is a 

' The horrid murder of Pietre Aroaiit is described m detail \Chr^mqu€^ iii. 6) 
l>y the Chevalier d*Espaiog du Lyon, whose store of nntcdotes beguiled, as mell 
they mighr, ihe long rule from Pamiefs (where F. had met him) to Orlais. The 
Count, his relative and liege lord, having invited the Governor of Lourdes to a 
parley, adjured him to give up ihe citadel. The latter declined, \»iLh profuse 
apologies, s lying he was in honour bound to the King of England , who had 
placed him iherew On this De Foix, in mortal lage^ drew a dagger, and crying 
••Ha, traitor i ' No^' sayest thou? By this head il shall not be for nought!" 
stabbed him fiercely m five places. '*0h, my lord ! " cried Araaut, •' you do no 
knightly deed to send for me and then murder me 1 " '* Bnt stabbed he was 
whether he liked it or not " [foutcfm il eui rfs cinq coups de dagui) is the stngiibr 
comment ; and the Count ordered him to be thrown into the castle ditch, where 
he shortly afterwards died. But not a knight nor barctt da^cd stir a finger U 
pmtni it. . * . De Foiu's •* neighbours/* the kings of France and England, were, 
the same informant tells us, a perpetual source of diplomatic anxiety to this 
" sage ptince,"' who was careful never to offend unnecessarily any ^reat lord* 
He could levy any day more mess-ai-arms than either of the kings of Aragon 
and Navarre. In response to Froissart's cross*examimit1oQ his companion was 
going on to recount the fate of young Gaston, but it was too late for so long a 
atary, as the travellers were just then arriving at Tarbes, where they made 
Ihemselves very comfortable at the ** Star,^ 




A Gascon Tragedy. 



19 



of bora 
B^ Froii 



peculiar to the age wbenthe power of the former, already at its 
ttnithj had yet no cause to fear extinction from the new influences of 
gunpovrder, the printing-press^ and general enlightenment 

This is one of the great sources of interest attaching to the period 
of fiistory illuminated for us by the brilliant colouring of the greatest 
of bora chroniclers. 

Froissart in his history seems to live for the purpose of accumu- 
inforroation on every subject which might interest posterit>\ 
istent, inaccurate, as he often is, heartless {(pit pis est) as he 
often seems, endowed neither with the simple Christian pathos 
of Joinville nor the thought of Christine de Pisan, much less the 
diplomatic judgment of Comines, as to his capacity for telling a 
*tory there can be but one opinion ; and nothing in his whole work 
fcrmsamore complete, instructive, and dramatic episode than that 
iJiJcfly and inaccurately abstracted in the passage we have quoted 
from Mr, Murray's " Guide." 

The genealogy of the Counts of Foix and Beam, according to 
^Art di Verifier Us Dates, extends, with but one break of the direct 
iccoKsion, from the tenth century to the end of the fifteenth, where 
ttiBcrges m the royal house of Navarre ; and of all who bore the 
le none were more famous, or infamous, than the particular 
IJaston III., called " Phoebus," in the annals of the De Foix family 
csted by Denis Sauvage ; whether on account of his superlative 
personal attractions, or of his passion for the chase, seems not quite 
cenain. Certainly no one would conjecture^ from Froissart's descrip- 
^ that the gentleman who on this November evening, in the year 
of grace 1388, received the chronicler into his magnificent chateau 
*n<l "made him good cheer " for some three months was identical 
•itbihe " monster of iniquity," the brutal tyrant whose cold-blooded 
Bidder of his only son brought to an end the long generations of the 
ancient barons of Foix. 

Yet Froissart indubitably saw the ogre in his castle, knew him, as 

I *' at home," and was, it may be presumed, disposed to take 

and especially the rich and powerful, as he found them, wiih 

perbps no special care as to how they treated their other fellow- 

J^gs. The Count was at this time, he tells us, about fifty-nine 

J"ar8 of age. 

"1 tell you I have seen in my time many knights, kings, princes 

*wl others, bu: never none have I seen so handsome, so tall, so well 

builC as the Count Gaston Phcebus. He was so perfect in all 

'cspects qu^on ne le pouuoit trop loner — an Admirable Crichton, in 

L 'let, as we are shown by the detailed portrait that follows. 



\ 





20 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

A splendid Jigiire of a man, brave, beautiful, accomplished, munt* 
ficent, with a bright colour, a winning smile, and green eyes, from 
which darted now and then an amorous glance. ■ 

A sage statesman, and a wise ruler, a skilful and daring warrior 
(for had he not fought in all parts of Europe, slaughtered the 
♦* heathen " in Prussia, engaged, on his own account, the Powers^ 
Spain, England, Aragon, and Navarre, and even defied the King^ 
of France himself, with tolerable success?) ; '*he loved what should 
be loved, and hated what should be hated." Most regular in all 
religious observances, il disoit planie d'oraisons, with every night a 
** Notturne " of the Psalter, Hours of our Lady, The Holy Spirit, and 
the Cross, with Watches for the Dead \ and ever)^ day five florins 
given in small change to the poor, and alms at the gate for all comers. 
The Count was also an ardent sportsman, and even an auUwr upooH 
his favourite subject, fond of dogs above all animals — we are told 
elsewhere that he kept several hundred^ — liberal and hospitable. 
At midnight, the dinner hour, twelve varlets carried twelve torches 
to light him and his numerous guests to the dining hall, where a 
plentiful banquet was daily spread pour souper qui souper vouhit. 
None spoke to the Count (who, by the way, was particularly partial 
to fow!^ especially the legs and wings) unless first addressed. At 
other times he was approachable by anyone, and spoke them fair 
and " lovingly," though his answers were brief and presumably to the 
point. - The castle was, of course, thronged with knights and squires ^ 
from all quarters ; it was a great centre of news, and there was muchH 
talk of " love " and " feats of arms," the principal " news " in the good 
old days of Jean Froissart, 

Then there was music. The Count was well skilled in the art, 
and had many a song, rondeau, and virelet sung before him of an 
evening. These fanciful forms of verse were just becoming popular.^ 

' The book is inlitled Miroir dt Fhibus da dtdxiits dt la Chasse dis hita sauvaigps 
^ dfs oyieaux d€ prokt and seems to have been first printed in black letter about 
1505, and by Anthoine Verard (in 1507) with woodcut illustrations, of which two 
editions copies are in the British Museum. Dc Foix is cited as a great authority 
on sporl by Jacques de Fouilloux in his Vma'k^ 4to, 1585, Froissart brought 
the Count four greyhounds (called Tristan, Hector, Brown, and Roland) from 
England (f. Sainfe^Palaye^Mitn, sttr la Chasst), Froissart himself, as he 
travelled on horseback wilh his portmanteau behind hiin, was always acoom- 
panied by one of these animals. 

^E.g,f on the critical occasion of the defection of D'Armagnac, when othcfs 
thought of retreat. * ' As we are here, my lord, " said Dc Foix to his falhcr, • ' we will 
fight your enemies," and he started off with 1,700 mai at helm y and 6,000 foot, 
killed 1 1,003 Spaniards, and chased their king out to sea, bringing his son and 
hioihei home as prisoners. The Count was then quite a young man. 

* Masd^eu {HisL dc h Foisie /rawfw'jtf) says that Froissart did much to bring 



A Gascon Tragedy. 



2X 



Frotssart^ moreover — on such terms were the two — had brought the 
Count a precious volume written out by himself at the request of 
King Wincelaus of Bohemia, Duke of Luxemburg and Brabant, and 
containing all that "gentle Duke's"* poetical works. Every night 
liter difloer was Froissart requested to read this book aloud (it was 
called, he tells us, " Meliader "), and during the reading no one dared 
to utter a sound, so anxious was the Count that it should be heard 
properly ; but such literary points as occurred to him he would 
himself discuss with the reader, ** noi in his native Gascon^ but in 
poi French and fair r 

^In truth, De Foix was quite an ideal host, and with all the lavish 
munificence of his court (no visitor departed without a handsome 
^Mfituf\ a careful and strict man of business. He kept a safe in 
fcprivate room. Twelve agents managed the estates under a con- 
troller, who had to show vouchers for everything to the Count 
himgclf; and there were four copying-clerks who had to be ready 
, {^tncmx^noii pi^ fussent presis) when the master of Foix stepped 

P hurriedly out of his study to read and answer letters. 
This last detail of the accounts has a touch almost of Gilbertian 
burlesque when we consider that after a successful foray, the popular 
form of rural visit in the fourteenth ccntyr>% among the Arma- 
piacs or other relatives or neighbours, there would frequently be a 
<iottD or a score of distinguished prisoners in the dungeons at Orthez. 
The "hag" made at Cassieres in 1362 alone (dhifie seuk prise\ as 
^^scribed in a previous chapter, and which included the Count 
lyArmagnac (husband of De Foix's eldest sister) himself and many 
^ inferior nobles, brought in a sum total of r,8oo,ooo francs, doubtless 
H duly apportioned on the credit side of the " roolles & livres escrits" 
H aforesaid, minus the expense of each prisoner's board and lodging. 
^ For the Count "never loved wild debauch, hot foolish extravagance^ 
but tould know each month what became of his property." His 
H economy is exhibited in an anecdote related elsewhere, but which, as 
H Fwissart himself is so fond of saying, is not altogether out of place 
H *>ȣ, although it chiefly illustrates the popular practical joke of the 

V ttton mto vogue. Of the poems composed by the worthy canon himself, Esiienne 
m ^Mqnier, in his interesting miscellany, La Rttkenfus d^la Frame y Book vL, ch. 5, 

P'^iUst taken from a volume of the same which he had seen in Francis I.'s 
^^ Bbraiy jt Fontaineblcatt, One of these pieces, ciled by Sainte-Palaye {Memoirs cf 
^H 'rtiaarr), was a pastoral in honoui of Gasion Ph-cbus— a truly Arcadian subject ! 
^P 'The Royal balladmonger Is no other than Winctlaus VI, (or IV.), King of 
■ wohcmia. Emperor of Germany and son of Charles IV., known to history as *' the 
" dnmltaftjl/' whow! cruellies and debauchery earned him the name of the " Nero 

*fGtinjuiy." He succeeded his father in 1378, and having been bom in 1359, must 

'^ have been in his thirtieth or thiriy-fiirst year. His sister Anne married 

RicHtrd II, 




Z2 The GentUmatis Magazine, 

fourteentli century. One Christmas night, when the house was 
crowded with guests, an intimate friend and neighbour, one ErnaBton 
d'Espaigne (a gentleman of remarkable physique), happened to be in 
the great gallery, to which you go up by twenty-four steps, where 
there was a chitnmy, and sometimes, when the Count de Fobc was at 
home, a fire, but a very small one, such was his rule, and none other- 
wise, however cold it was. "Lord, what a wretched fire," exclaimed 
the cheery^ D'Espaigne, who had probably been out hunting all day, 
"for such a frosty night!" and without more ado he tripped oflT 
down the gallery and steps and out into the courtyard, w^here, as 
had noticed from the windows, there chanced to be a number 
donkeys standing laden with wood. Promptly seizing the bigg 
he carried it upstairs on his shoulders, and threw the animal, fe 
uppermost, wood and all, upon the fire, amid roars of laughter from 
De Foix and the company. This was on a festive occasion, and 
neither ass nor wood belonged, as it happened, to the Count. . . . 
But to return to our serious narrative. And well as any did he know 
whom to trust, and hmv to take what belonged to him without, we may 
be sure, waiting to be asked. Nor need we wonder that he was con- 
tinually amassing treasure against a rainy day; for even he w 
anxious as to the future. 

But with all this external splendour and prosperity there was 
skeleton in the cupboard, a death's head at the nightly banquet. 

The Count de Foix and Madame his lady were not on good 
terras, nor had been for a long time : and their only son was, alas ! 
no more. On this latter point Sir John, as we know, was curious. 
He had probably too much tact to ask De Foix himself how the 
death (of which he had heard from his fellow -traveller D'Espaigne) 
had occurred. The green eyes might have replied with a flash of 
something different from love. No; he discreetly inquired of an 
ancient and notable " Esquire " of the House, and heard and has 
recorded for our benefit the whole " piteous tale." 

It is difficult not to smile at the "jolly -good-fellow " after-dinner 
eloquence of Froissart's account of his noble host. Nothing more 
natural was ever penned by an easy-going and uncritical visitor 
entertained in so sympathetic and sumptuous a style. Moreover, 
the clironicler, if he lacked depth of feeling and perception, was 
single-minded in his industry, For some forty years, as we know, 

never rested— travelling, inquiring, exploring records and docu- 



n- 

1 



The eoilless quarrels of DWrmagnnc arose from the claims of ihc latter 
Sf> had been disinherited by his father for not appearing in arms against the 
l&i&rds {y, note, p. io) lo certam lights then conferred upon the hcto of ihis story* 



J 




I 



mews, and sparing no expense (which his own or a patron's purse 
could supply), and nightly noting down the results of his labours. 
Hid he deliberately gone aside to falsify the personal character of 
in important personage in history, he might have given good politic 
«a$OM for it. Suppose the account written — nothing is more 
likely— during the early part of his stay at Orthez, and that the 
gBtttte Count had asked him one evening to read aloud his own 
wrk instead of those eternal rondeaux and virelets of the '* German 
Nero,** nay, even insisted on despatching one of his ready •* clerks " 
tofetdi the MS. : how then ? And, to take the least danger, fancy 
qoajrclling, on account of a few private peccadilloes, with a man who 
Wsuch priceless information to give relating to every war of the 
last twenty years ! Doubtless Froissart acted for the best. The 
probability is also that his hasty and brilliant portrait was perfectly 
SMere. In any case it forms an admirable introduction to the 
tiagedy that follows. 

The Count and his lady— so said the ancient esquire in private 
conference with the Canon — were not, '* truth to tell," on good terms, 
The rason is simplicity itself. The Countess was the sister of the 
f^iogof Navarre, by whom the Sieur d'Albret had been *' pledged " 
with the Count, for the sum of fifty thousand francs,^ He was kept 
iaone of the dungeons at Orthez by his uncle Gaston. The latter, 
bowing the King of Navarre to be " crafty and malicious," was 
tinwiilicg, in spite of the entreaties of the Countess, to give his 
brother in-law credit for this amount 

The event seems to show that he here exhibited the prudence 
fcr which Froissart guve him credit. 

But the lady was bitterly wroth. " My lord," said she, " you do 
tut Kini honour to Uie King my brother when you will not trust 
^"li for fifty thousand francs, // yeu nei>er got more out €f the 
^'ff^^naa aud Labrissicns^ than you have had aheady^' she con- 
tiDued^ treating the Count's commercial warfare with his relatives as 
o^c might an abuse of their hospitality, " that should suffice you ; " 
*^d the Countess concludes with a clinching argument. Fifty 

Compare ihe figures given ibove (p. 2iy. These were gold francs, first coined 
* '3^ bldJ called francs <J cltr^'al (from iheir bearing a motmled figure of ibe 
""B) w disunguisbed from the franc a fitd inlrcKkced by Charles V, Silver 
'^c» rio not appear til! 15 75. Chcruel, Dkt, dcs InstitutioHSj &'c. 

^t franc d'or may b« roughly valued at about j^i. The ransom of King 
J™o wkn capimcd at Poitiers in 1356 was 3,000,000 crowns, or something 
****«« one and a half and Iwc million ponnds sterling. But ihc fluctuations 
w^BWuey values in the fourteenth century baffle calculation. Vide Michelct, Hist. 
^' * Those of Labieth, olhen*'ise called Albreth. Sauva^. 





{ 



24 TAe Gentleman s Magazitu, 

thousand francs was the precise amount of the marriage settlemenT 
which her lord, as she reminds him with some asperity, was bound 
to hand over to Monseigneur her brother, presunubly in trust for ■ 
her» To which the Count Gaston Phccbus replied curtly, " Madam, 
you say truth. But if I thought the King of Navarre would so 
reckon the sum, the Sieur D'Albret should never leave Orthez till I 
had been paid the last penny. But since you ask it, I will let him 
go, not for love of you, but of my son." 

And at this point we may conjecture how the speaker " parted 
with rude strides among his dogs." 

So, however, the matter was arranged.* D'Albret gave a bond 
to his highness of Navarre {who became De Foix's debtor) and w*ent 
back to France, where he married the Duke of Bourbon's sister. 
Before that, however, he had repaid " at his ease " the sum due to ■ 
the King of Navarre, But it was never forwarded to De Foix. 
Therefore he suggested that the Countess should pay a visit to her 
brother and explain that the Count took it much amiss that he was 
not paid '* what was his," The lady readily consented to do so, and 
went ofT to the court at Pampelune to her brother, who received her 
gladly. The Countess gave him her message straight to the point 
But the King (w^ho also had a genius for saying what he meant) 
replied, " My fair sister, that money is yours ; De Foix owes it 
you for dower, and long as / have control over it never &ut of the 
Kingdom of Navarre shall it go" 

" Nay, my lord," quoih the Countess, ** that will be to make too 
great hatred betwixt myself and the Count. If you hold to your word 
I shall not dare return to my lord. He will slay me. He will say 
I have deceived him." 

' The business-like manner ia which these affairs were conducted may be seen 
from the case menlioncd in a preceding chapter (III.). The ransom of the 
Count cl*Ariiiagnac am o an ted to 260,000 francs. The Trince of Wal«(*'The 
BUck Prince ") on one occasion, being requested to beg him ofif, replied (with that 
royal tact and good sense to which wc ar« stUl accustomed) that, ♦' aU things con- 
sidered," he could not undertake to do so* •* You were taken/* he replied to 
D'Armagnac, ** in fair fight, and our cousin De Foix risked his person and men 
in adventure against you, and you must abide the result. Neither toy royal 
father nor myself would like to be asked to give up what we have lawfully got.'* 
In fact, they went (as no one has told us belter than Froissarl) rather to the 
opi^oaitc extreme. , , . The Princess approached the subject in the kindness of her 
heart, with feminine artfulness, by asking vaguely for a gift. But the noble Gaston 
Phoebus, qui fn ses ksongna assis dir veoit, wa» too many for her. He was, he 
said, a poor knight in quite a small way <'• petit home "), who could not make 
expensive presents ; he had many outgoings, castles and tmvns to build (the 
magnificent chitcau at PftU» famous as the birthplace of Henri IV., was in fact 
then in course of reconstruction) ; and he only consented, as a great favour, to 
knock off the odd 60,000 francs. 



A Gascon Tragedy. 



25 




I don't know," concluded her royal brother, " what you will do 
^ue voui /triz\ whether you will go or whether you will 
1 am master of this money to take care of it for you, and 
never ^o out of Navarre." 

the Countess also stayed, for she did not dare return to Foix j 
the Count, who had been on good terms with her before, began 
consumed with hatred against her, though she was in nought 
tobhme, for not giving his message (he knew the malice of the 
King) and returning to him. And thus matters remained. Now 
the young Gaston, son ' of my lord, was grown to a fine youth, tall 
and handsome, very like his father in build. Being now some fifteen 
or sixteen years of age, he was married to a young lady, the daughter 
of the Comte d'Armagnac, " sister of the present Count ; " and it was 
hoped that this alliance would heal the feud between the two families. 
And the fancy took him to pay a visit to his uncle and his mother 
ifl Navarre ; and he went, and stayed there some little time, and then 
took his leave. But he could not, by any means, persuade his 
to return with him. For, she asked, had the County his 
\ spedaiiy charged him to bring her hack ? and the boy could 
ooly say, No ; there had been no special mention of that at his 
<l«p«rture. So she dared not come. For she knew her husband to 
^ cniel (this and the remark of Arnaut's quoted above are the 
first suggestions that he was anything but "gentil"), at least in 
matters where he found cause for displeasure. So Gaston went alone 
to take leave of his uncle the King at Parapelune. 

The King of Navarre received him hospitably, and gave rich 
ts both to the young Count and to his attendants, and kept 
there ten days. 

Just before their departure, Gaston's uncle drew hira aside and 
8**e him a little purse full of powder, and said, *' Fair nephew, you 
nuut do as I tell you. You are aware that the Count de Foix is 
*wngiy enraged with your mother and my sister, which I much 
•'g'et, as doubtless do you. Now, to bring them on good terms 
*Siin, as soon as you have opportunity, take a little of this powder 
v^ sure no one sees you) and put it upon his food : and as soon as 
*^ he has eaten it, his one desire will be but to have your mother 
'PJQ with him, and they will love one another and live together in 
P^ : which you must surely desire. But be sure to tell no one," 

Only son born of the Counless. lie had two others, of one of whom we 
"""ptseoily. On the death of the Count, Yvain, here described as ill-disposed, 
*** in attempt to seize the irvheritance. The Count had expressed a wish 
*^PTtferhis illegitimate offspring to the legitimate hcir^ of whom he had a poor 



1 



A Gascon Tragedy, 



29 



"Having told you so much,** says the ancient escjuire, as if 
Froissan would have let him stop there, " I may as well tell you the 
end, " And thus it was. A servant having informed the Count that 
Gaston would not eat, and that his food lay there all untasted, and 
implored him to take thought for his son, the indignant father 
strode upstairs to the tower, trimming his nails the while, as ill luck 
vould Kave it, with a small knife. The prison door being opened, 
he went up to the boy standing in the comer (consumed with 
*e bow not what innocent indignation, faint with hunger, and 
tecmbling before the wrath of his father)^ and angrily asking him 
*hat he meant by not eating, the baron with his right hand, in which 
the knife was covered, " all but the size of a gold piece," ** jobbed " 
him, as one would say, roughly, in the neck, and went downstairs 
3gain. The blade, it seemed, could hardly have touched the flesh, 
^'lythicg to speak of; but by ill fate it chanced upon a vein, and 
^nder the circumstances that was enough. Poor young Gaston^ 
*^c hope of the De Foixs, ** turned aside " from this trying world of 
st^uncles and suspicious, cut-throat fathers, and then and 
died. 
H'hen the Count heard of it (he had only just got back to his 
, and would not believe the news at first, till he had sent some 
ie sti) he was taken with one of his chronic attacks of indig- 
^^'on, mingled, we may believe, with some serious regret that he 
^^ not been more careful. 

*^* Ah, Gaston, an ill chance this for me and thee. I shall never 
'^'^vt such joy again as I had before. Woe worth the day thou 
^«itest to Navarre ; " and he sent at once for his barber, and then 
^ered mourning for himself and his retainers. 

There was a grand funeral, of course, and much weeping and 
'^^ing, and that was all. 

And thus did God preserve the gentle Count de F'oix from the 
^^Csof his royal relative. But it was not for very long. 

Three years later we find' Gaston Phctbos in the woods of 

^veterre — after a long summer morning devoted to his favourite 

t of hunting— they had just killed and cured a bear-priding 

^ a party to the little village of Rion, where lunch had been prepared. 

It was **deep noon " (basse nonnef and very hot, and the room 

^^ been nicely decorated with refreshing and sweet-smelling 



^«e 



y 



* Tbc wily trace of I he ecclesiastic about Froissart is his chronology, expressed 
*^ terms frimt^ tiira, viprcs^ and nonne^ modified by the epithet hauU or 



I 




30 The Genikmans Magazine. 

greenery. The Count sat down and called for water* Scarcely 
had he dipped his fingers (which were "long and fair") in the 
silver bowl held by two squires, when his face turned white, bis feetfl 
trembled, and with one cry, •* Lord God, have mercy on me, I am 
dead," he fell back senseless ; and though they applied bread, water, 
spices, and such mediceval restoratives, he was gone in half an hour, 
gone— shall we say?— to meet Pierre Arnaut, Gaston, and other 
known and unknown victims of his lust and cruelty. 

The well-known Court doctrine as to the damnation of a " man 
of quality '* applies with far more point to a feudal tj'rant, who was 
also at least a stark man of action, than to his enfeebled descendant 
of the Revolutionary period. 

To deny heroism, nay» romantic grandeur, to the former, would 
be absurd. But life, somehow, to the reflecting eye, assumes under 
their regime a sombre hue. 

The mere recurrence in Froissart's descriptions of words expressive 
of rage and ill-temperissuchastostriketheeye. Someone is for ever be- 
coming courroud^enfclonne, &c., a prelude to someone else h^mgdkoll^^ 
decapift\ or, in some other form, Gcds. Eternal freebooting **chevau- 
ch<^es," burning villages, outrages, and piteous deaths teem through 
the volumes. Indeed, were every description of bloodshed in these ■ 
pages printed in a congenial red, not the most brilliantly illumi- 
tiaied mediaeval missal would compare with their daring hue. The 
thing does not seem matter for melancholy to the parties chiefly 
concerned. With a light heart do they join the frequent fray, 
" fighting and cleaving one another so well it was wonder," with as 
sincere joy as any hero of Mr. Rudyard Kipling's. Even to Froissart 
as spectator, and much more to the warriors themselves, did it 
appear that there was nothing else half so well worth doing. To 
those who thought otherwise, matters appeared, we know, in a very 
different light. 

"The Count de Foix assured Froissart, while complimenting him 
^^ >>is history, that more remarkable things had occurred id " the 
^ast fifty yg^^ I. ^1^^^ ^„ ^hrec hundred before them. Oddly enough, 
*Ws is just what most of us think at the present day. But from his 
pomt of view, in which "feats of arms" were the chief events of 
interest, he was not altogether wrong, 

1^ truth it was a fearful time, a period of moral and intellectual 
stagnation • the earth full of triumphant iniquities ; righteousness, it 
would seem scarcely venturing to look down from Heaven j the 
hearts of men (of the few who had leisure or peace to reflect) failing 



A Gascon Tragedy. 



31 



\ 
I 



ibem for fear and for looking after those things which were coming 
Dpon the world, where so faint and far glimmered the dawn of a 
better day. 

The miser)- of the common people was something terrible, and 
of all countries perhaps France suffered most. The Seven Years* 
War of Burgundy and Ghent, which ruined half the north of Europe 
and*' was deplored by Turks, Pagans, and Saracens" — "you may 
judge," confides the chronicler, ** how it affected adjoining countries.'' 

Charles V". ** stifled," as a French historian tells us, ** all spirit of 
liberty," The crushing burden of taxes was yearly increased. The 
experijiient of a permanent iaUk was first applied in the thirteen 
serenties. Civil revolt was everywhere stirring : and ever)'wherei 
whether headed by a Rienzi, a Wat Tyler, or an Estienne Marcel, 
repressed in blood. In 1358 burst forth the blind, wild-beast fury of 
the Jacquerie ; stamped out in turn by the fierce reprisals of indig- 
Mot feudalism, assisted by the ver>' Count de Foix of whose heroism 
»e have heard so much. Yet this was but an item of calamity to 
ihe chronic invasions of the English, whose kings and princes well 
*^o to have spent their leisure time, seldom interrupted by a " rain 
ofstoiKS'* from heaven, in "chevaucher "ing up and down the 
harried and mangled provinces which, by a curious irony, they per- 
sisted m calling their own, 

h is quite a pathetic reflection that the only proposed " invasion 
of England '* (13S5) was, like several of later date, a miserable and 
niinous failure, ridiculed by Froissart with such scathing details of 
English contempt as French historians, otherwise given to citation of 
t^ author, do not like to reprint And while a return of the black 
<3cath decimated the population, whole countrysides were often, by 
iJie forays of the nearest resident nobility, swept of the better class 
of inhabitants, whose ransoms had to be ground out of a starv^ing 
Pttsaiidy, only left behind for this useful purpose. The condition of 
*^e latter, at the close of the fourteenth century, may be studied from 
^ nudf in the bald and agonising ** Plaint of the poor commoner 
3nd labourer," preserved in the first volume of MonstreleL 

h was also an age of peculiar and frantic extravagance among 
upper classes. The chronicler of St, Denis goes so far as to 
•'^^ute the defeat of his compatriots at Crecy (1346) to their 
ndiculous and impossible style of dress. While the upper clothing, 
^'ie of the most expensive materials and elaborately embroidered, 
*** so tight that to take it off *' was like skinning a person," and 
f^iiired assistance, the sleeves were so long that they almost swept 
^^ ground. At the date of Poitiers, ten years later, French knights 




i 



The Gentleman's Magaziiu. 



^ 



and nobles went about laden with gold and jewels. The Duke of 
Orleans, brother of Charles VL, wore, embroidered upon his sleeves, 
"at full length," the ballad *'Ma dame, je suis plus joyeux." The 
itotti of the tune were represented by five hundred and sixfy-eigki 
pearls I 

The contrast of such barbaric luxur)^ with the appalling misery 
of the labouring classes seemed almost to be part of a natural law. 
The lower orders, ill -fed, neglected when not oppressed, fell io 
thousands, as a contemporary Latin poet tells us, "before the lightest 
breath "of the destroying plague.' "^^ But Death respe^ed princes^ 
nobles, kni^hts^ gentlemen ; of these few die^ because tht life allotted 
them is one of enjoy ment.^^ " To the poor life is more cruel than 
death." The pleasures of life, indeed, seemed strictly reserved for 
the upper classes. Upon the phenomena of unrestrained individual 
conduct we have in this sketch specially dwelt. ^m 

King John, by no means a bad specimen of a king, after raisingH 
600,000 florins by the sale of his " flesh and blood " (Villani's ex- 
pression), i.e. his daughter Isabel, aged eleven, to Galeazzo Visconti, 
the most ferocious tyrant in all Italy, who hunted men in the streets 
of his capital and cast them alive into ovens, escaped from the burden 
of his national and feudal responsibilities to the Paradise of — London, 
where, as we commonly read, he ate himself to death. In 1364, 
Charles VL, torn in pieces by the unchecked fury of every evil 
passion — bloodthirsty and other — found adiflerent refuge, in insanity. 
Had there been a few more monarchs like Pedro the Cruel, we 
should never have heard ill of the Comte de Foix, It is but for one trait 
that we recall this monarch, who in any museum of the moral mon- 
strosities of the age w*ouid occupy a class by himself. When at the 
suggestion of " a trusty Jew '* (whose fair daughter he loved) Pedro 
had despatched a "sergeant " to strangle his wife (sister of the King 
of France), he revoked the order two days later, thinking that the 
murder of a virtuous lady of such high Umage might run counter to 
some dimly discerned ethical convention. 

It was, unfortunately, too late. The sergeant, wearying of the 
*' pretty orisons " which she had leave to say first, had stifled the 
queen with a cushion ; and thus the whole force of Pedro's repent- 
ance was diverted upon the Jew. The man of money was beguiled 
awhile by the redemption of his teeth at 100,000 crowns apiece, 
which (the biographer of Du Guesclin gravely tells us) seriously im- 
poverished him. But to Pedro it seemed but poor fun. The wicked 
Jew was accordingly tortured in true mediaeval fashion, blinded with 
» Cited from ft FrcDch MS. in Wright's edition of Piers Plowman, 



A Gascon Tragedy 



33 




I 



irons, &c., &a, Uartelc^ and finally hanged. A catalogue of the 
fill crimes of the century would fill mmy volumes. It is yet 
more appalling to think to how many an individual, 

Pinned lo earth by the weight 
And persistence of hate 

<rf lije imtans tyrannus of feudalism, death itself, from poniard or 
tope, must have been welcomed as a relief. Justice, though assisted 
by the revival of torture, did but feel in the dark after minor wrong- 
doers, without affording peace or security to the average harmless and 
industrious citizens. True, there was the cloister. But that nothing 
oaybe wanting to complete the picture, religious ties and hopes are 
enfeebled. The Papal Court of Avignon has already been described 
by Petrarch as a very sink of iniquity ; and in 137S came the great 
ecclesiastical schism, shaking men's religious convictions, and under- 
raining the allegiance of the Church long before Reform had attained 
or power to replace it 

Mediaevalisra, in fact, with all its fierce chiaroscuro of dark and 
Jtoy splendour, is at its apogee, on the very verge of the 
precipice down which are doomed to slide all human institutions 
tfaai have run their course. 

And through the whole scene, past pillaged house and wasted land, 
u» gay converse with robber baron, knight, and esquire, good queen 
and wicked prince, ever goes '^gallivanting" the cheery Froissart, 
Canon of Chimay, and J£?/-^//V^«/ Canon of Lille (for the reversion 
Mvcr fell in), recking as little of Church preferment as of the unpaid 
tatem bills in his parish at home — filled with but one thought, the 
splendour of his age and the magnificence of the portrait of it which 
he would leave behind, and "well knowing," as he avows with his 
Qsual frankness, that " when I am dead and rotten this grand and 
^^ history shall be known far and wide, and all noble and 
worthy folk shall therein take great pleasure and profit." 

GEO. H* POWELL. 




CCLXXVll. NO, 1963, 



J4 The GenlUman's Magazine. 



THE IVOMEN OF FICTION. 

Di« Menschhctt isl hcdingt tlurch BeJiirfnisse* Sind dii^c nicht berrtedigl 
so crweist sie sich tingeduldig. 

Goethe. 

THERE is a small but most unhappy class of men — men to 
whom a high ideal is given, but who yet seldom or never find 
in life their ideal woman. Such men cannot marry trivially or 
ignobly, and therefore seldom marry at all. They experience a 
strong inner impulse towards worthy marriage, and axe, nevertheless, 
prevented by some inscrutable, unseen power from knowing, wooing, 
winning, and wedding a noble woman. Sometimes, a prey to despair, 
some of these enforced celibates of misfortune "are drivt-n o'er the 
shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess " : at other times they merely 
subside into the dull torpor of sad solitariness \ but, in many cases, 
they find a refuge — a comparatively forlorn refuge — in the glorious 
women of fiction. *^ Things seen are mightier than thinj^s heard ;'* 
but the women of fiction are at least attainable. The men of whom 
we are thinking— mostly men of great heart and of fine imagination — 
are full of tenderness for, worship of, and delight in, their ideal 
loves ; would be capable of compassing a woman with sweet observ- 
ances and with fine protection ; are created to love, through their 
higher nature, all that is best and noblest in woman ; are worthy to 
be her companion, and merit the treasure of her deepest love. It 
seems a hard lot to be endowed with an imperative ideal longing, 
and yet to find no realisation of it. 

The bachelors by compulsion are doomed to incomplete life— to 
lives embittered by the desolation of lonely longing, and by ihe 
torment of unsatisfied desire. They know the vain waiting which 
makes the heart sick, and they feet that want of love which leaves 
the heart empty and the career joyless. The dream which is implanted 
in them contains and remains a yearning unfulfilled. They are 
haunted by a vision of fair women, dowered with the loveliness of 
love, the charm of grace, the magic of beauty, the warmth of tender- 
ness, the truth of constancy, the coolness of purity, \Ve, the unfor- 



r 



The Women of Fiction. 



35 




tunalc» cannot call these delicate creatures ours, but yet knowr, even 
to our sorrow, that such beings exist The poet receives into himself 
the idea of a true woman, and then gives it forth, possibly someti.iies 
enriched and ennobled by his own shaping imagination. The true 
ideal is based upon the real ; there must be models for the exquisite 
iigures that poets paint, and yet we, the unlucky, seldom meet ideal 
women in actual life. Nevertheless, they must and do exist — for the 
fortunate few, or occasionally for the unworthy aspirant. For he 
who observes the facts of life will notice, with deep dejection, that 
when a woman is bent upon marriage she exercises little more choice 
ih^does a cow. Henry Taylor makes his Philip say, truly — 

How liitle flattering is a woman's love 2 

Given commonly to whomsoever is nearest, 

And propped with most advantage ; outward grace 

Nor inward light is needful : day by day 

Men wanting both are mated with the best 

And loftiest of Gad's feminine creation, 

Whose love lakes no distinction but of gender, 

And ridicules the very name of choice. 

Men feel this depressing truth with the " sense of tears in human 
ihiiigs." 

Oa rare occasions, the despairing idealist who is, as it seems, 
irtNtrarily shut out from paradise, is tempted to cry, with Ziphares 
W'Mithridates," 

By Heaven ! I think it greatest happiness 
Never to have been l>om ; and next to that. 
To die. 

In his anguish the desolate victim tries to find solace in desperate 
remedies. He observes, perhaps, that not all the marriages that he 
^ see into are noble or happy ; and he asks himself, defiantly, 
*^eiher ihe sadness of solitude may not be better than the degrada- 
'^ of ignoble companionship. He notes, with horror, the squalid 
"Cental misery of some unions ; and then he turns, with some feeling 
0' tiistressed comfort, to the solitary pipe. In hours of leisure, by 
^^ lonely fireside, the blue wreaths curl suavely upwards, and the 
"^ottien of fiction (some of whom, if they were living, might object to 
tobacco), float tn fairy visions by the empty hearth, and fill the vacant 
^'-chair. These heroines are almost always with us, though they 
^•ioi be persuaded tu stay long enough. They can always be 
"^ted, and, in the worst wintr>' weather, they never fail to come. 
^*€d, they often — bless them for it \ — come when uninvited. They 
*^ always in a good humour ; and are actuated by a gracious^ 
S^^ierous desire to give to a solitary worshipper all the benefit and 




i 



^ Tie Gentlermgds Jia^cnne^ 

deJi^ht ^ ±eir ^Juurnin^ and aacred presoicfc I haye Icxawzr - ^n* *!* 
Innq ami 3till knijtv iiem ^vdL Thev oevor ^mfe die rfmf qt 
itint rhe ^race. Their blesaeti miywir.n is tn rfrnr-rt^ tu cnin&]x to 

Kt\^ 3A we^ diink of diein. we are comgaHed by socfe. i dbmi of 
witnesses Thev bdnn^ tn ail ime^ and appear in. afl. ggwrrTTTTt^^ 
Ther r>eautiei ^ary. Tiie? srs^dse^JL and fiiir : ace lail < mri* BLasriinid) 
^ir m^rnaiau : tlie? are gentle^ soft^ and rimdg. or bcllimit. wDCtr. -wi.^ 
■vi^adciis. Their ^ariecy s infrniri* as ±enr witE&ey is mesisCEbfe. 
Dear v> the heart and predoca co die ^ncr b c&is almcisc noai. 
berlejw h«5«t of noble, of p f a r om r fweedieansw We cannut eien 
eniiir^srate the hsumcmg bisons of a. crowd sq Eavdr and sa dear ; 
fcot wft ma7 ipcdally snmmoo. op a. few, x ¥Br7 few^ of t&e deaLECst 
and the 'r^eat 

We will caH op the spints oclj of chose thor we cm wot^iip and 
can >>vft. The wotnen of fiction mc fade Lady Marfjetaa^ Gooeiils^ 
Mf^. Madcemiesi, Bedcy Sharps ; bczt it b coc tcM£zj oar him to 
j^pea k of iia^ women, ercn thoogh thej be, as tber o6en are — far they 
may be earlier to diaw — as profocmdly tme to iifie as are die darling 
heroines tA stoiy and of song. Nor will we coofoond good and bad, 
or \vK\Kn to the artful daims of those who would gladly be thought to 
be higher crtatnrts than they are. In that sad marine accident 
which happened (some years ago) at Misennm, Acerrima, with a 
riew to save herself, called out that she was Agrippina, and was, in 
con%e^|uence, incontinently done to death. If tender, we will yet 
be just ; and our little list can only be suggestive— cannot pretend to 
f>e in any way complete. We must deal with our lofty theme through 
glimpses and through hints. 

How shall we, gravelled for lack of space, select from Shakspeare's 
heroines ? They must come first ; they are, happily, so many, and all 
are so divine. If we must restrict ourselves, say, to two of them, let 
us select Imogen and Desdemona. God never made women purer, 
tenderer, lovelier, than these two. Imogen is a royal lady, while 
Desdemona is only the daughter of a patrician ; but each chooses 
nobly for herself, and, in defiance of parental authority, gives heart 
and hand to a lover who is her souFs free election. Their lots are 
different : poor Desdemona is piteously done to death by the hand 
that she so loved ; while Imogen forgives an erring husband — we 
forgive him only because she forgives him — and the curtain falls 
upon a prospect of supreme and regal wedded happiness. These 
:ar, divine ladies resemble each other specially in the qualities of 
tiest womanly purity and modesty. Imogen prayed her husband 



The Women of Fiction. 



n 



I 



'*or^ forbearance"; Desdemona a:>ks, in her chaste, wondering 
sinip»licily : 

*• Dost thou, in conscience, think— tell me, Emiha— that there 
be "^w-omen do abuse their husbands in such gross kind ?" 

And these sweet saints of wives are so nobly constant, so tender, 
so forgiving, and so true. It is the arch- fiend's mock to slay 
Desdemona for a suspicion of faithlessness in a woman who could 
not be, or even conceive being, false. It took an I ago to bring 
al>out that tragic result ; as it required the devilish arts of an lachimo 
to induce the besotted Posthumus to believe in the supposed sin of 
^r, royal Imogen. This princess was incapable of being, even of 
thought, foul or false ; but yet both these peerless creatures are 
traduced, and become the victims of their own transcendent virtue. 
0, the pity of it ! But it is the dark of night that makes the stars 
shine so gloriously. Their background of slanderous mischance 
Tenders the heroines more brightly fair and noble. 

The si>ectator, the reader, knows these lovely ladies for what they 

Me, and pities to see them so villainously defamed and wronged. 

They are dearer to us for the very trials and troubles which set ofl 

^eir lustrous puritj' of soul. And how beautiful they must have 

befinj though, in Shakspeare's infinite variety, there is a fine but 

strong difference between their charm, Desdemona is more meek, 

Pnile, lender, timid ; Imogen, though not wanting in these 

i^ulities, has a somewhat loftier and more heroic touch of peerless 

pncccss. The shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her 

golden hair. Would Desdemona have gone to Milford Haven? 

•^ia also had locks of gold ; Desdemona is, in very essence, so 

•^^ more English than Italian that we can credit her soft beauty 

tuh fair hair, and with a blonde complexion. What gift in life 

^^^i Compare with the rapture of having won the love of such 

woinea? Posthumus might return to his earlier, better self ; might 

*^ti well improve upon that, and might be much ennobled by the 

•oity love of such a noble wife ; but on the sad death-bed of woeful 

^*^*^ona attend the tears and praises of all time. 

As we learn to know and love such women, we feel, reverently, 
"^ ideal a relation— the loftiest granted to humanity — marriage 
°^y ^e. Shakspeare's good women are, too, such ladies. A heroine 
'^^s a god-like woman ; and his heroines are fully that. They 
*^fair, and — fairer than that word— of wondrous virtues. Winsome, 
S'^ful, feeling, they do not attach or attract through the mere 
*^'^; but are, in their loveliness and in their charm, physical 
*yi*s and expressions of spiritual, ideal beauty— of a beauty which 



i 



The Women of Fiction. 



39 



great c-itnet The Shakspenan ladies are always distinguished by 
fine roanners, and by voices gentle and soft and low. The delightful 
women of real life we may sometimes catch a glimpse of in the park, 
in the iheaire, or crossing the pavement to enter a carriage, but we 
do not oAen actually find ourselves in touch with them ; while with 
the woman of fiction we enjoy that liberal intercourse which soul to 
soul aifordeth. And what variety and contrast there is between such 
Ideals * Take Undine, the dainty darling of weird, watery romance, 
>nd comi>are her with the slightly tame and highly proper young 
l^esof Jane Austen. Dear Gretchen is one of the most memorable 
'Wnen of the poetic drama. With natural instinct exposing her to 
demonic influence and temptation, and given over to such dire 
«ffrows, she remains intrinsically pure and womanly, and shares so 
loftiiy the ultimate triumph of good over evil. Think, too, of Cole- 
"<lge's lender Genevieve, Then there is Mrs. Browning's Lady 
Geraldine, '"pure as the snow on high hills," who likes to be rich in 
<Jrder to shaie wealth with love, and condescends so sweetly, with 
*oraan's noble, self-sacrificing generosity, to her enraptured poet. 
Let us not forget Sophia Western, whose sweet femininity seems so 
<^clly wasted upon so coarse a scamp as Tom Jones. Ethel New- 
come and Laura Bell should not be overlooked, nor dear Mme, de 
|Iorac ; and, when rapt with the rage of our own ravished thought, 
vividly picture to charmed fancy the heroines of Charlotte Bronte, 
resemble somewhat their creatrix, in respect that they suffer 
long pressure of dull sorrow; that they have intense imagi* 
^tiofi, which is at war with the sad facts of life ; that nearly each 
Remakes but timid claims upon happiness; that almost every one 
oftbemis of nervously weak physique; and that they are hopeless, 
''ip'^ssed, depressed. They are female problems in an unintelligible 
•wld. The lengthy ladies of Richardson need not long detain us ; 
^ we think with a kind of fond rapture of the fair, tender saint in 
^mont and Fletcher's ** Philaster." Hero-worshipping Dorothea 
•'^ke, serving a false idol so devotedly, has soft, yielding charm, and 
^onot omit allusion to Eve and to the Lady in *' Com us." What, 
the line stretch out to the crack of doom ? It almost might do 
) t>m we must exercise self-restraint and be satisfied with a few 
iestive types* The " sense aches " at those that we include, and 
at many that wx omit. The theme is one fraught with undying 
^ with noble charm. It is no waste of time to have " conveniency 
*^ conversation ^' with such exquisite creatures. Men — and especially 
^^ unhappy ones to whom fate denies a knowledge of the real 
'*il woman — may well thank God for the Women of Fiction. 

H. SCHUTZ WILSON 



so 



I 



40 The Gentleman i Magazine. 



r^ 



THE FOURTH ESTATE. 



THE Fourth Estate is organising. The recently-founded Insti- 
tute of Journalists, with its Royal Charter, does not yet 
ioclude the whole journalistic body. As a matter of fact, many of 
the leading Press- men of to day, who are an honour to the profession, 
and seek to make it honourable, have not yet seen their way to join 
the Union. Very few of the large company of men of letters who 
contribute frequently to the daily and weekly Press, adding thereby 
to its moral authority and educational influence, but who do not 
profess to pursue journalism as the sole, or even the main, business 
of their lives, have been asked to associate themselves. Nevertheless, 
though the Institute is still very far from being all-embracing, it has 
become "a great fact." At the last annual conference held in 
London the membership was reported as 3,556. That means that ■ 
the great majority of the working journalists of the United Kingdom 
and Ireland have entered the Union, and that the Institute is by far 
the most comprehensive and best-equipped organisation of Press- H 
men which has yet been formed. 

Happily, defence not defiance, is the object of the new Union, 
It is true that Mr. Charles Russell, of the Giasgow Herald, in his 
presidential address last September, remarked ; '* We must be strong 
in point of numbers, strong in earnestness of purpose, strong in actual 
performance, and then there will be little that we cannot effect, and 
little that we cannot prevent/' These words, however, may be safely ^ 
accepted as innocent of any threat. The words, *' tliere will be little ■ 
we cannot efTect/' certainly do not foreshadow any great revolutionary 
design under which the Fourth Estate will acquire a dangerous 
authority or will secure indefensible privileges. The Press looks 
with no envious eye on any of the other estates of the realm ; and 
if under the guidance of the Institute it attempts to alter its relations 
to any of them, probably the most it has at present in its mind is the 
amendment of the law of Ubel, in the interests not of licence, but of 
freedom of discussion of questions affecting the public interest^ and 
of fair play. At present all journalists — and especially all newspaper 



The Fourth Estate, 



41 



tors — ^feel thai ihey have not the amount of protection 
S^Dessary for the promotion of work undertaken solely for the 
'wrelfare of the people, or of the State ; and that while they are not 
infrequently dragged before the courts without adequate cause, and 
thus burdened with costly defences^ they are loo often made the 
^^ctims of awards of heavy damages, returned and assessed without 
BdiyTDe or reason. The Institute has a duty to discharge to itself 
Vmnd to the public in striving to eifect an amendment of the law of 
■ libel. But, as a corporate body, it means to concern itself mainly 
with professional affairs. Its object is to make journalism increasingly 
eflective and honourable by taking care that the members of the craft 
aw, in respect of education, character, and capacity, fit for the great 
task of informing, guiding, and educating the public in their own 
•ffiirmrhether local, or national, or imperial- 
There are to-day men in the profession who do not like to con- 
wicr themselves veterans^ who remember that when they in their 
youth proposed to join the Press, they were warningly told that no 
inin was fit to be a reporter who could not write at least as good a 
speech or a lecture as the one he reported. A quarter of a century 
*80 probably a majority of the reporters for the Press were either 
'gnorant of shorthand, or practised an imperfect system of their own 
fflfflufacture, and made no pretensions to verbatim note^taking. 
iiauy of these men, however, were remarkably well-educated, and 
*^<lcly read — '* stickit " ministers or " stickit '' dominies, gentlemanly 
ia their manners, and personally acquainted with dignitaries in all the 
^J>er ranks of hfe — men who had missed their way in other pro- 
fesifics through some moral lapse or occasional unsteadiness of 
tabii, and who prided themselves on their ability to produce reports 
of speeches which were considerable improvements on the originals. 
This type of reporter has now, however, almost completely dis- 
*PP«rcd» In these days nothing more quickly ends the career — 
W Kid the life too — of a Press-man than intemperate habits. The 
^endcs of the daily Press require unfailing steadinesSj the strictest 
'''"pttince in the regulation of the daily life. The man who yields 
^^Hc social temptations that surround him speedily ends his engage- 
ttJcnt ; or, if he manages by strength of will and professional dexterity 
looold on to his post, it is soon seen that he is burning the candle 
^* l>oih ends, and is preparing for himself an early grave. 

Another cause of the marked change in the pcrsonnd in the 
°^^s is the wide dissemination of a knowledge of shorthand, and 
especiajiy of Pitman's system. Phonography is now taught in our 
P^J^'c semmaries, and the numbers of men who by its aid are 



I 



Tlie Gcntlematis Magazifi 

enabled to dispense with the need of making the speeches thej 
report is legion. The attainment of the power of wTiting 150 01 
200 words a minute, in legible phonographic characters, by man] 
shorthand students in every part of the country, has enormouslj 
enlarged the number of applicants for reporterships, and the large 
increase of the supply of shorthand writers over the demand foi 
them in the Press has certainly a tendency to depreciate the statiu 
of the profession. Naturally, the journalists who have formed th< 
Institute do not like to see the labour market thus over-supplied 
with inexperienced and incompetent workmen. One of the com 
monest remarks made by the " old hands " to the young aspirajitj 
who commend themselves by telling of the number of words pa 
minute they can take down, is that shorthand writing, or evec 
the power of verbatim note-taking, is not of itself sufficient to 
make a man a good reporter or a successful journalist ; that while 
the power of taking a verbatim note is indeed an essential quali- 
fication of a reporter for the Press, he must likewise be possessed 
of literary taste and skill, and be able to write intelligently on 
even a wider variety of subjects than that which formed the dis- 
course of King Solomon \ that he must likewise be endowed with a 
physical constitution fitted to bear up against prolonged spells ol 
the most onerous duties. Notwithstanding these depreciatory and 
warning assurances, the number of applicants for admission to the 
profession is still increasing, and it may be that the number oi 
inadequately furnished men, content with low wages, who are 
forming connections with the Press, is increasing too. 

This is one of the chief evils the Institute of Journalists is meant 
to check, A system or scheme of examination is now under its 
consideration, for the express purpose of securing that no uneducated 
men shall henceforth enter^ or rather that only well-educated men 
shall be allowed to enter, the profession bearing the diploma 01 
the credentials of the Institute, The scheme of examination, which 
has received the endorsement of the annual conference of the 
Institute, applies to pupil -associates and members. The examina- 
tion for the pupil-associateship is to include — {a) English History : 
(^) English Literature ; (^) Arithmetic, up to and including vulgar and 
decimal fractions^ with easy questions in algebra and the first book 
of Euclid ; (<f) Geography, especially of the British Empire ; (<f) Latin, 
or French, or German, at the choice of the candidate, by the tran$- 
Jation of easy passages into English ; (/) a paper, of not less than 
500 words, on one of six specified general topics ; {g) correction ol 
twelve inaccurately constructed sentences ; {h) to condense a reporl 




The Fourth Estate. 



43 



words into a report of from 200 to 300 words ; and to write 
paragraijhs upon three incidents briefly narrated by the examiner ; 
(/) General Knowledge, The examiners may test and take into con- 
sidcnition any candidate's knowledge of shorthand. But examination 
in this subject shall be optional. 

The candidate for the second division or membership is re* 
quired to show proficiency in the following subjects : {a) the English 
Ittigittge ; {h) English Literature ; {c) English Constitutional and 
Political History ; {d) Political and Physical Geography, The can- 
didate shall also be examined in— (^) Latin ; (/) either French or 
German^ at the choice of the candidate; (g) Natural Science or Malhe- 
matics ; (A) General History ; (/") Political Economy, No candidate 
skill be regarded as proficient in the English language unless he is able 
lo satisfy the examiners of his mastery of composition, and of his 
apdtode at condensation and precis writing. It shall be an 
mstniction to the Examination Committee to prepare papers^ in 
ihe first instance, in so far as regards subjects {a) to (//), up to about 
the standard of the Oxford or Cambridge Senior Local Examinations, 

ij equivalent examination in Scotland, Ireland, or Wales. In 
as regards subjects {e) to (/) a much lower standard shall be 
to be sufficient ; and the examination shall be conducted 
throughout with a special view to the requirements of practical news- 
paper work. The candidate shall be also examined in — (/) the 
jmndples and practice of the Law of Newspaper Libel and Copy- 
; and (k) means shall be taken by paper, or by vivd voce 
ition, to test the candidate's general information. For 
reporters there shall be an optional examination ln^{a) Verba- 
tiJn Reporting ; (/*) Condensation ; (r) Descriptive Writing ; {d) the 
conduct of the best known branches of public and legal business. 
Candidates passing this test shall be awarded special certificates. 

The hterar)' or scholastic requirements of this examination may 
appear to many readers not particularly exacting. They are, how% 
^^'ETi sufl&cient, if insisted on, to secure on the part of the future 
'ocnibers of the Institute such a command of the art of composition 
^ •ill take the sting out of the taunting phrase, ** Reporters' 
^glish." It is not at all likely, however, that the entrance examina- 
"*> will restrain the rush that is now being made to the profession, 
^tprobabihty rather is it will increase it by strengthening the im- 
pression that journalism is a calling fit and intended for gentlemen ; 
^in these days of universal education of a comparatively advanced 
**derthe demand for anything like gentlemanly, as distinguished 
^ tuanual or industrial, employment is becoming increasingly 



i 



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inmi 



I 



44 TAe Gentleman s Magazine, 

urgent. One important result will, however, be secured— the statu 
of the Press-man and of his profession will be raised. The door 
be barred against the ignorant and will be opened only to 
educated— surely a necessary and a natural requirement at a tiini 
like the present, when the readers of newspapers are being dailj 
increased by young men and women who have successfully passed 
through the standards of the schools. 

Two words of warning to the enthusiastic novitiate may hen 
respectfully offered. The first is, the profession of journalism is 
arduous one \ the second, it is not in itself a likely road to fortui 
Undoubtedly the Press is an " Open Sesame " to many privileges and 
pleasures. It secures admission to the most eligible seats oi 
places at all public meetings and ceremonial functions, however higl 
or select the company may be^ and however clamorous the demand foJ 
entrance by persons of wealth or social ambitions. It commands stalli 
or boxes at places of entertainment, alike the most popular and the 
most exclusive. If at limes it is subjected to slights and affronts It 
can assert its power with promptitude and efTect, and win an 
attention and a deference befitting a Minister of State, It has iti 
times of leisure too. One reporter, who was known to have i 
voracious appetite for work, w*as wont to show a pencil that had 
lasted him for three months in a summer or autumn of exceptional 
dulness. Further, many pleasant excursions fall to the lot of the 
working journalist— a trip to the country to fulfil some light en- 
gagement, a short river or sea voyage to describe at leisure some 
new route, or a visit to some centre of general or world-wide 
attraction where the daily duties required are just sufficient to save 
one from cnnuu But, as a rule, the daily routine of work is laboriou£ 
and exacting. The journalist that knows his duty, knows that his 
time is never his own* A sudden call— a fire, a tragedy, a greal 
commercial disaster, a railway collision, unforeseen calamity in its 
myriad forms, bringing loss of life and destruction of property tc 
others, but opportunities of distinction to the wielders of the pen ol 
the ready writer — may send a reporter scores of miles away on the 
briefest possible notice, and at the end of a previous arduous engage- 
ment with which he had hoped to complete to his own satisfaction 
his day's work. Aware of this liability to unexpected demands on 
service, the ambitious and the conscientious reporter never loiters ovei 
his work, but strives to get it iinished at the earliest opportunity, and 
so be ready for the emergency which, if promptly and successfully 
met, will bring credit to his paper and reputation to himself. 

Every journaUst of distinction who has risen from the ranks 




TJU Fourth Estate, 



45 



Itts his Stories to tell of triumphs achieved by promptitude of 
action, by speed of penmanship, and by capacity for endurance. 
And every journalist of experience has witnessed feats performed 
the recital of which in the hearing of younger men stimulates their 
oa] and quickens their esprit dt corps. The writer has known of 
a four-column speech delivered by the late Lord Sherbrooke, when 
fliil Mr I^we— one of the most difficult speakers the phonographer 
ew followed — written out by a single reporter during a railway 
Journey between Glasgow and Preston, en route to Manchester. He 
kssccQ a colleague rise from the sub-editorial chair at eight o'clock 
at night, and, filling a breach in the reporter's arrangements, attend 
important meeting, produce a four-column report for next day*s 
paper— all the while keeping a general supervision of his own proper 
tort He has known two reporters make a five hours' railway 
journey, take full notes of a six-column speech, re-travel the same 
iray, and each produce an independent verbatim report. He 
seen men work, not eight hours nor sixteen hours, but 
tteity hours at a spell, and be ready for duty on the following 
^, Of course, such calls and such exertions are exceptional ; and, 
ia these days when reporting stafiTs are more elaborntely organised, 
wd ibcn the wider field of news supply makes demands on the 
space inconsistent with the page reports of single meetings of former 
tiiBci, they are becoming increasingly rare. Still they may be taken 
ss illustrations of the heavy taxes which from time to time are 
wddcnly made on the strength and the capacity of the reporter. 
Moreover, the conditions under which the work has sometimes to be 
^ add to its onerousness and its dangers. In the old hustings 
^W notes had occasionally to be taken in the open air in the 
•Bidn of a blinding snowstorm or in a numbing frost ; occasionally, 
^ under tlie fire of rotten eggs or putrid fish discharged against 
*i unpopular candidate bending over the reporters' bench. At 
^ present time, when the social condition of the people so per- 
^^tly engages the attention of the public, the reporter, as special 
^'ttmissioneT, is required to explore fever dens and to invade the 
^ts of the most reckless criminals. The dangers and hardships 
*Q *hich the reforming commissioner is exposed are, it is true, 
^^ compared with those bravely undertaken by the military 
^^'^tspondent Still they are at times sufficiently real to make a 
'^'ttc trial of nerves and of power of endurance, and they form 
^ inconsiderable contribution to the sum total of trying experience 
*^'di the reporter for the Press is called upon to undergo in the 
Pf^tctuion of his arduous calling. 




46 Th^ Gentleman s Magazine^ 

The duties of the sub-editor are, in some respects, still mod 
exacting. His work is more regular, but it is also raore constant. Tb 
easy times that now and again come to the reporter never read 
the sub-editor. He must be constantly at his post, and he mu^ 
produce the paper whoever is resting. Nowadays, the ordinary news 
agencies and supplies are so productive of copy that, even during i 
dull recess, the material available for filling the paper is always largell 
in excess of its space capacity. This constant surplus of suppl 
adds to the difficulties and responsibilities of the sub-editor, whos 
duty is to keep every item of news in the several departments in fail 
proportion, in view of its comparative importance. The commercial^ 
the shipping, the sporting, the local, the Parliamentary, the foreigrt 
news services, along with the reviews of books, and even tbi 
editorial demand for space for leading articles, are all under his cy€! 
Perhaps the most constant of his occupations is the restramt 
excessive zeal, followed by a series of revisions and curtailment! 
and reapportionments, until the block at the newspaper Temple Bal 
is relieved and the daily paper is pieced together. And while hi 
has his eye and his hand on every departnaent of the work, he hai 
constantly, like the reporter, to be on the watch against a surprise 
A telegram may come to hand which, if published as received 
would be unintelligible to the great mass of the readers, and there 
fore valueless. It is his business so to correct it or add to it as t< 
bring out its real meaning. Herein lies all the difference betweei 
intelligent and slovenly sub-editing— the competent sub-editor is abh 
to make his news speak and live ; the incompetent fills his papd 
with blunders and riddles^ Further, at the last moment, news mu 
come to hand of some great disaster or of the death of a man d 
world-wide fame. The sub-editor who knows his duty ruthlessW 
sets aside as much of the matter which he has carefully prepare! 
as is required for the effective presentation of the later and mon 
important news \ he falls back upon his '* resen'es " ; he quickli 
brings from the treasury of his books of reference elucidatinj 
material, and next morning he has the satisfaction of feeling that hii 
energy and enterprise have made his paper universally talked about,; 

Of course, the duties of the editor-in-chief are more responsibly 
still As a general rule the editor charges himself specially with the; 
supply and supervision of the leading articles. This is a duly which' 
brings him into contact with specialists in all the spheres of modera 
culture. He must be a strong man — widely read, endowed with & 
shrewd, sound judgment and resolute will— not to be mastered hf\ 
them. He must at the same time be a quick, sympathetic, adaptive, 





Estate, 



47 



SttQ, in order to be able to manage his opinionative contributors and 
boding their wills to his without letting them suspect it, extract 
fromthera the best they have to give in the way most fitted to catch 
the opportunity of the day and hour. At the same time, however, 
Ik icall)- skilful editor maintains a close supervision of all the literary 
depQitraents, thai he may be able the next morning to point out 
emy weikness or defect, and to discover who is responsible for it, 
while he marks and commends what is good and effective. In this 
tjy he keeps his whole staff in full sympathy with himself and in 
tiie best of working trim. 

\\ has already been stated that the members of this honourable 
ind laborious profession are not too munificently remunerated. A 
reporter for a countr>' weekly paper seldom receives a higher weekly 
fJKe than is paid to a journeyman printer, and frequently he is 
ttpccted to assist either in the counting-house or m the case-room. 
TTie salaries of junior reporters on the daily Press are not under- 
tttcd when they are set down as between £,\oo and ^^150, The 
iOre experienced men on the better class provincial dailies receive 
feDra;^i5o to, perhaps, ^^250; while the remuneration of the heads 
oflhe staff may range from ^^250 to ^4oo^very rarely indeed 
reaching £,1^0^ even when special descriptive work, or art and 
JJiasicjl criticism is expected of them. The rate of the sub-editorial 
pBy is on the whole a little higher, but few of the best men on th^ 
l*st papers are allowed as much as ;£!4oo or ;^5oo per annum ; 
*^ik the editors who receive ^i^oco or more may be counted on 
^ ten fingers. It is true» indeed, that many opportunities of an 
^J^mentation of income present themselves. A man of modest 
finbition, who is content to settle down in a country town, may, by 
;|Mheriag into his hands the local correspondence, make a fair income 
<Sltof pcnny-a-lining. The supply of a report of a weekly market 
^irhich there is something like a universal demand may yield a 
litilc fortune — so long as the local Press man can keep the service 
<«t of the rapacious raaw of the London news agencies, which appoint 
^ own correspondents and secure customers by offers of low 
*»itt. A man of enterprise and of energy can, however, easily 
**ttte a large constituency for himself, and establish a fairly re- 
^Wnetattve connection* Most of the members of the reporting 
**fiof the daily papers also succeed in time in obtaining more or 
^ profitable correspondence, and thus add considerably to their 
*"^nie. This kind of business is, however, perhaps most fully 
'^''cloped by the gallerj- reporters and lobbyists at Westminster. 
"^ right of entry is Umited to the members of the London papers, 





t 



48 TAe Gentkffian s Magazine. 

and to such of the provincial journals as are able or willing 
maintain a special Parliamentary staff. The raembers of the 
mentary corps, who are paid by the papers they represent at the 
modest rate of six or seven guineas a week while Parliament is in 
session, possess, therefore, a certain monopoly of the service. As a 
rule they are not over-driven if they are but moderately paid by 
their own papers, and therefore they are able to accept supplementary 
engagements for provincial papers as reporters or as writers of 
political gossip or of descriptive Parliamentary letters. A few of 
them are able to make really handsome incomes ; but even the most 
successful of thera, however arduously they may work, never com- 
mand such an income as is easily within the reach of a populai 
doctor or barrister of comparatively moderate ability. 

The experience of the leader-writers is perhaps the hardest 0/ 
all. Many a young man of brilliant parts joins the Press in the 
belief that he will there enjoy a mental freedom such as is denied to 
the clergy as sworn upholders of the Articles and Confessions of 
the Churches. For a time all goes well with the enthusiastic, ardent 
young men who give to their employers the full benefit of all their 
talents and learning and increasing experience. By-and-by, how- 
ever, the political partisanship or the editorial supervision of the 
paper changes. New questions arise, on which the editors or pro- 
prietors and the leader-writers find it difficult or impossible to agree. 
Grey hairs, too, begin to appear, before, as yet, there is any conscious 
diminulion of intellectual power, though the mind may be becoming 
less supple, less adaptive, less responsive to hints from headquartewL 
Thus it comes to pass that men who still feel themselves in the 
prime of life, and who were wont to be praised and feted, discover 
a declining enthusiasm for their work in quarters where it was 
formerly highly appreciated. Next comes the galling raortifjcation 
of unsympathetic editorial revision, to be followed in time by re- 
jection of contributions and reduction of salary. As a ruk% it must 
be admitted that newspaper proprietors deal patiently and generously 
with writers whose brilliant work and devoted service laid the 
foundation of their papers' prosperity and of their own fortune 
Yet it does loo frequently happen that the writer who, in the heyday 
of liis prosperity and fame has been indifferent to worldly considera- 
tions, and has failed to secure his future by a partnership, finds him- 
self compelled either to suppress his own convictions and write 
against his own beliefs, or let himself be shelved when still in the 
maturity of his powers — his prestige declining and his income 
diminishing— while those of other men in other professions, much 



The Fourth Estate. 



49 



1 

I 



his inferior in capacity and in the power of work, are steadily 
iflcrtasing. The journalist who toils unselfishly for the pubhc, 
making everybody's concerns his own, all too frequently neglects his 
pcnonal interests. Often at the end of the day he is himself a neglected 
roin, having little comfort or consolation beyond the reflection that if 
success has not been achieved it has been deserved. Of course 
mifly Pressmen, especially those endowed with the business instinct, 
ilo wifl fame and fortune. In their declining years, as jiroprietors 
uf prosperous papers earning high dividends, they have 

That which should accompany old age : 

As honour, lovtv obedience, troops of friends. 

Bui the prizes which await the journalist, however gifted and 
industrious he may be, are really few and slight compared with those 
which are to be won in the other learned or scientific professions ; 
and though, as a journalist, I think no higher or nobler profession 
^ mine exists, I must ask young men of talent and ambition to 
W not once, but twice and thrice, before they decide to enter it, 
Meanwhile, those who are connected with it, and wish to magnify % 
hiTc many calls to activity. The Institute of Journalists may find a 
boroble, but not to be neglected sphere of usefulness in putting an 
» end to a scandalous underpayment such as I have been shocked to 
ft ^cam prevails in some parts of England — viz. a halfpenny per line of 
^Lffittcr used, whether in the form of news or of a leading article. 
^Bfibbly, loo, the women journalists, connected more especially with 
■ At society and fashion papers, need kindly supervision and advice, 
Some action should also be taken to secure pecuniary benefit to the 
*nter of more important and telling articles that may be and are 
now by shrewder men of business for their own enrichment. As 
already been indicated, an amendment of the law of libel is 
cogently required, and probably some joint demonstration by the 
P>wsof the United Kingdom, asserting the rights and the power of 
the Fourth Estate, would have the effect of securing for it greater 
c^nsidcraiion in the Courts of Law than has for some time been 
cficaded to it. 

In these and other spheres the new Union will doubtless find 
oicinxoi rendering important service to the journalism of the United 
Kingdom, As in the past, however, the Press has owed its influen- 
^JAlpoiition to, and has held it by, the character of ils individual 
®^*^rs, so m the future its authority, its power for good as an 
•^ocaiioaal agency, must depend mainly on the honesty, the self- 
"^Pcct* the incorruptibility, as well as on the talents and devotion of 
*ou ccLxxvii. NO. 1965. t 




50 The Gentlematis Magazine. 

the rising race of journalists encouraged to look upwards by the 
Institute lately founded. It may be that the road to increased 
influence will be found in a decline of partisanship and a growth of 
independence. Possibly the day is not far distant when the Fourth 
Estate will claim to be the master of both political parties, and refuse 
to be the servant of either except in so fisir as the party is a wise and 
disinterested servant of the public. The resources of the modem 
daily newspaper as guide, philosopher, and friend to the man of 
business and commerce, as well as to the pob'tician, to the social 
reformer as well as to the religious teacher, to the scholar and 
scientist as well as to the omnivorous devourer of news of all kinds 
and from all climes, are now being developed even more fully and 
marvellously than is the Union of the working journalists in defence 
of their own interests and for the greater honour of their craft. 

A FELLOW OF THE INSTITUTE OF JOURNAUSTS. 







^^ DUKE'' COMBE. 

A CURIOUS CHAPTER IN LITERARY BIOGRAPHY, 

AMOXG my earliest recoUections of books, before I had even 
mastered the difficulties of the alphabet, is an edition of 
** Dr. .S}!!^^*^ Three Tours." The bright and glaring tints of Row- 
iindson's illusirations were a special deh'ght to me, and although 
I do not retneraber, at that time, reading the text, the adventures 
cf the eccentric and didactic D.D., as delineated by the pencil of the 
toous caricaturist, from the moment when, head resting upon hand, 
^ meditates upon his momentous expedition until, last scene of 
«fli where the worthy is laid in his grave— to save him from the 
Ws of piratical scribblers — afforded many hours of pleasant amuse ■ 
oi€iit to my childhood's days. Although " Dr. Syntax " was rcpub- 
bsbed with JacsimiUs of the original plates five-and-twenty years 
«?o by Mr. Camden Hotten, few people are now acquainted with 
>twk which, on its 6rst appearance, attained an extraordinary 
poptjiarity, and was considered by our grandfathers to be a classic^ 
•onbjrof a place beside "Gil Bias," "Don Quixote," and *'Hum- 
l*ffcy Clinker," or have any knowledge of the author, who, at one 
toe, was set side by side with Churchill as a satirist, his *' Diabo- 
^^ creating quite as great a sensation as "The Rosciad" or 
* The Times" of that clerical bruiser. Willbm Combe was also one 
^'^iHcnaost voluminous liiti-raicurs that this country has produced, 
*^^ his life is one of the strangest records of a dead and gone 
****€ of society to be found among the curiosities of literature of 
the eighteenth centur)*, 

The stories of the earlier years of this strange, eventful life are 
**haiyandso full of contradictions that one never knows when one 
" 05 safe ground. The fog begins even with Combe's birth and 
P'^^ntage, and concerning these points there is little certain beyond 
™^^ci that he was born in Bristol in the year 1741. It is generally 
'W^ttsiocd that his father was a Bristol merchant, and a writer in 
^^atid Queries, in 1866, took a great deal of trouble in searching 
^ the records of all who bore the name of Combe in that city 



4 




thai at Oxlor „ce of h» NevertV^e\ess ne ^ 

^ .n live ^^^^^ ^ , ^ his ui^*^^^' ^ \. on.l at bis dea 

''"•na i' *'>'^ "t; reuuousbip, ^^^^c on Sopr 



I 



pTOp»erly» between him and which two lives and their issues 

Whetlicr by one of those extraordinar>' fatalities which occur 

*iow and again death removed those two barriers to affluence, or 

whether, upon the strength of his ^£"2,000 and unlimited credit, he 

started as a man of fashion, there seems to he no means of detcr- 

ttiifiing. In the biography attached to the ** Letters to Marianne " 

^ is stated that he lived abroad several years ; that he was called to 

*he Bar in 1768 ; that his handsome person, polished manners, and 

MiteHectual accomplishments gave him the entree into the best 

society, and so led him into a life of extravagance. At the time of 

Combe's death. The Bristol Observer published some recollections of 

^ytti, ♦♦He came to the Hot Wells," says the writer, ** about the year 

'768. He was tall and handsome in person, an elegant scholar, and 

'^ghly accomplished in manners and behaviour. He lived in a most 

Prtjicdy style, and, though a bachelor, kept two carriages, several 

•^^rses, and a large retinue of servants. He had resided abroad 

^^ several years. He was generally recognised by the appellation 

^f 'Count* Combe." 

In London, his magnificence won for him the sobriquet of 

I^uke " Combe. He had taken a house in Bury Street, then one of 

*^*^e most fashionable streets of the town, and he was among the very 

*^^ males ever admitted to that celebrated ladies^ club, **The 

Coterie.'* He became quite the hero of the hour by, according to 

■™I«ore, "kicking' Lord Lyttleton downstairs for callmg Lady Archer 

^ «irunken peacock, on account of the sort of rainbow feathers she 

^•^ m the l.abit of wearing. Sir Egerton Brydges (" Note on 

Suppressed Memoirs ") gives a milder and more probable version of 

^^ story by saying that by his firmness Combe induced his lord- 

***ipio retire. In curious contradistinction to the manners of the age, 

Combe neither gambled nor bet, and in living was so abstemious 

^\ he drank only water. In one of his ** Letters to Marianne" 

he records having, through the doctor's recommendation, 

Madeira for the first time. His one passion was ostentatious 

y* And whatever might have been his means, they were quickly 

"^pated, creditors became clamorous, an execution was put into 

"is house, his fine friends turned their backs upon him, and one fine 

't'oming *• I)uke'^ Combe disappeared and was lost sight of for many 

^ year 10 come. 

And now follows a period of poverty, degradation, and strange 
^^fnturts, the stor)- of which reads like an eighteenth century 
■"^veL Upon quitting London, he made his way on foot to Chatham, 
•^re he enlisted as a common soldier. One day, while he was 



i 



54 The Gentleman s Magazine. 



i 



t 



marching, wear>'-footed and dusty, with his company through 
provincial town, he was recognised by one of his former associate 
" Is it indeed you. Combe ? " exclaimed the gentleman. " It is 
but a philosopher should be able to bear anything," was the repl 
as he passed on. The gentleman soldier, however, did not hide h 
light under a bushel, and became quite a hero while quartered^ 
Wolverhampton by one night, in the parlour of a tavern where i 
was billeted, capping a Greek quotation rolled forth by a schoo 
master of the town, and afterwards conversing with the pedagogue^ 
that language. The Homeric tongue in the mouth of a commc 
soldier would be startling even in these days j how much more su 
prising was it, then, at the time of which I write, when the rank an 
file of the army were dra^vn from the veriest scum ? Combe did ni 
attempt to conceal the fact that he was a gentleman as well as 
scholar, though he was silent about his previous history, an 
naturally became to the townspeople the subject of general curiosit; 
Roger Kemble, the father of all the Kembles, who was the manage 
of the Wolverhampton Theatre at this time, got up a benefit ft 
" the unknown," to enable him to purchase his discharge ; and 
was announced that the beneficiaire would deliver an address betwe^ 
the play and the farce. The curious, who were on the tip-toe i 
expectation that he would disclose himself, crowded the houJ 
But in this they were doomed to disappointment, for after expressir 
his thanks for the patronage accorded him, he added, " And noi 
ladies and gentlemen, you wish to know who I am?*' — a paus 
" I am, and ever will be, your grateful and obedient sen-ant 
Then, with a graceful bow% he retired. 

Having bought himself out of his red coat, Combe tried 
establish himself as a teacher of elocution at Wolverhampton, ai 
desired to number Sarah Kemble, then quite a girl, among \ 
pupils; but the prudent mother considered him somewhat tc 
fascinating for such a position, and he seems to have been severe 
snubbed by the matron, and, perhaps, by the daughter as wel! ; 
all events, his pen was always hostile to the latter when she becar 
the great Mrs. Siddons, and he loved to tell how he remember 
her standing in the wings of the Wolverhampton Theatre knocki 
two pieces of tin together to imitate the sound of the clicking o- 
windmill Not long did he remain in the Black Country capk 
where the advantages of elocution were not appreciated. We r* 
hear of him as a waiter in country taverns, where now and ag 
he was recognised by some old acquaintance. Then, after atiroe^ 
escape, according to Mr. Camden Hotten, from the importunities 




his father, with whom he had quarrelled and refused to be recon- 
he crossed over to the Continent and entered the French 
His second trial of soldiering would appear to have been 
as brief as his first, though how he again contrived to abandon the 
muiket is nowhere recorded. His ne^tt metamorphosis was into undcr- 
cooi[,at Douay College, where he attained such celebrity for his soups 
thai the professors did all they could to induce him to change his 
iiitb and attach himself permanently to the house. Here occurs 
another hiatus, and then we find the wanderer back again in England* 
It V .uld appear that it was George Stevens, one of the editors of 
^i uciiicare, a friend of the old days, who, now meeting him in 
looe menial position, first suggested that he should turn his edu- 
cation and accomplishments to account, make a trial of literature, and 
induced him to return to Ix>ndon, 

Combe, under the influence of the philosophic afFectalions of the 
tunes, does not seem to have been much troubled by his degradation, 
and appears to have regarded — or to have pretended to regard- 
wdi vicissitudes of human life as beneath the care of a philosopher, 
^iher, as Mr. Camden Hotten stated, Corabe was too protid to 
accept help at the hands of his father^ who was probably disgusted 
at his spendthrift habits, or whether indeed he was the natural son of 
^ old gentleman who had left him the fortune* is of very little 
'foment ; but the following extracts from a letter written to Rousseau 
*fld published in Ackermann's ** Repository of Arts ** (3rd Series, 
^pter iii page 205) in 1824, are curious and suggestive. Combe's 
*^ttaintance with the author of '* Le Contrat Social " probably com- 
"'^fictd during Rousseau's visit to England in 1766] the letter is 
''^ dated, but 1 should say was written early in the seventies, when 
f^e wnter was about thirty years of age. 

" I am at this moment, like you, in a crowded and populous city, 
^ere pleasure is the object of universal idolatry, where all are 
^^'^tering towards the same enjoyments, and involved in the same 
^^ipations ; yet 1 feel myself alone amidst all the tumults of it 1 
^^fore recommence my letter: I write to you from this solitude, 
^f ^orld, or, I should rather say, from one corner of it to another. 
■^^e\c me, my friend, that if your letter had not afforded me a 
^^jcci, I should have been very much at a loss how to have 
*^^rcsijed or what to have said to you. Time and chance have so 
^fdcred matters with me that it is long, long since I have written a 
^^ter of friendship or sentiment. My pen is so unaccustomed to the 
"•iiiness that it trails heavily along the paper, and I scarcely know 
^ to conduct it to those pleasing purposes of affection which were 



i 



56 The Gentleman s Magazine, 



1 



i 

led— 

iceV 
ner 
of 



\ 



once its best and dearest office. When we first knew each other, I 
was surrounded with a crowded throng, who called thenaselves my 
friends— my friends they were while Fortune rode in my chariot with 
me ; but I do not complain. Fortune did not abandon me. I 
deserted Fortune, and with the goddess, the crowds who surrounde 
her altars. In losing Fortune, it is true, I lost a few pleasing thou 
shadowy connections ; but I was restored to myself, and to m}*self 
have lived almost the whole of the interval which has fled away since 
we were wont to pass so many pleasant hours together. My former 
life is a vision which is now almost effaced, and there is little left of 
it but the ghosts of friendships now no more ; and when I venture to 
open my lattice and look into the world, I miss so many of tho; 
faces which were so pleasant to behold, and see others so chan 
by time and sorrow, that I am disposed to shut my window in hast 
and withdraw from so mortifying a spectacle. ... I have neither 
fortune nor friends, neither father^ nor mother, nor brother nor 
sister. I do not possess the more endearing ties of life, and those 
which are supposed to conduct most to its felicity — I mean the con-^ 
nections of marriage and of children ; and yet without all theseS 
various objects of human pursuits I am happy and contented, 
perfectly resigned to my lot atid condition, and should exceedingly 
repine at being obliged to change it with any one person in the world 
however loaded and adorned he might be with honours, riches, and 
greatness. I pity everyone's infirmities ; I laugh with those who 
laugb, and weep with those who weep. . . . My eyes, I fear, ha^'e 
looked uijon you for the last time ; they will behold you no more, 
and as in my vainest moments I can have no reason to suppose that 
you will give me any written acknowledgment of this long letter, I 
must consider it as a last farewell to you," 

Combe*5 first acknowledged literary production was **The Philo- 
sopher in Bristol," published in 1775, which is a series of essays 
something after the style of "The Connoisseur" or "The Ad* 
venturer." But the first of his writings that brought him into fame 
was a satirical poem, a la Churchill, entitled *' The Diaboliad ; 
Dedicated to the Worst Man in His Majesty's Dominions." This 
achieved such a success that it was followed by a Second Part, and 
in the same year by "The Diabo-lvady: Dedicated to the Worst 
Woman," 5:c, Sir Egerton Brydges says : " A quarrel with the late 
Lord Hertford was the cause of his principal satires ; his heroine 
was an old Dowager Countess of Home. I remember distinctly the 

* It ts not obligatory to lake these words literally, as they would apply wilh 
equal force had Combe simply reoounced all communication with bb family. 




I 



impression those satires made when I was a boy, and how 
of the severest passages were on everj-body's lips." Another 

loritysays (Campbell in his •' Life of Mrs. Siddons")that the hero 
«s Simon Lord Irnham, who had induced Combe, under the 
of a handsome sum of money which was never paid, to 
3 casi-ofT mistress of his, and " The Djabohad " was penned 
out of revenge. In the three poems Combe runs amuck among the 
bsKionable celebrities of the day with a bitter fur)' not inferior to his 
Biodel Churchill. In the Times obituary it was said that "there 
*» hardly a person of any note of his time with whose history he 
wsnol in some degree acquainted. He knew others as well as he 
*a3 known to them ; " and in the satires he doubtless paid off many 
>flol<! score he owed to those who had feasted with hitn in his 
Prodigal days and deserted him in his poverty. *'The Diaboliad'* 
scries was quickly followed by other pasquinades r ** The First of 
Apiil; or the Triumph of Folly ; " *' An Heroic Epistle to Sir Joshua 
^eyuolds," "The Royal Register," caustic sketches of political 
^•»n>ciers, &c., &:c, 

In t777 Combe, according to Mr. Hotlen, came into some more 
'^ey at the death of his father — or was it through the removal 
^jf tHe two lives that stood between him and the further provisions 
^f Aldcmian Alexander's will? Be that as it may, notwithstanding 
^ stoical professions of his days of poverty, he again plunged into 
w« extravagances of fashionable life, dissipated his second fortune 
W quickly as he had his first, and then, pursued by a swarm of 
^ilors, took shelter, under the arrest of a friendly one, within the 
"Herties" of the King's Bench, where he passed the whole forty 
ftiBiining years of his life. 

In order to understand the possibility of such an existence, it 
™^)f f>e necessary to give some account of an institution concerning 
'he nature of which, although it has passed away within living 
^ory, roost people at the present day are profoundly ignorant, 
"ilhin the portals there were little indications of a prison, for you 
icmnd yourself in a street crowded with people, talking, loitering, 
^''fbfifering at butchers', bakers^ cook-shops, taphouses, hawkers 
^^"8 their wares, and all the bustle of a low neighbourhood ; and 
^*^ was not a phase of society, from the highest to the lowest, 
*"*l ^ not represented among the eight hundred or a thousand 
^^t that were usually congregated within the walls. Those who 
™d the means to do so could live as riotously here as in any other 
^ of London, give parties, dinners, suppers, to which any- 
^^ in or out of the prison, coukl be invited j here ladies and 



i 




The Gentleman* s Magazine, 

gentlemen rubbed shoulders with fashionable courtesans, black' 
and swindlers. At this very lime a Mrs. Montgomery, a celebrai 
society beauty, and a notorious woman known as Fanny King, gave 
almost daily receptions and soirees. But the debtor need not live 
within the walls unless he chose to do so, for the "Liberties,* 
which were really a survival of the old sanctuaries, included an area 
of three miles, comprehending all St. George's Fields, one side of 
Blackman Street, and a portion of the Borough High Street ; and 
these limits were so elastic that a wag once remarked that to his 
certain knowledge they had on one occasion extended to the East 
Indies ! Prisoners were permitted to pursue their avocations during 
the day in any part of London, and were only compelled to sleep 
within the three-mile radius. The cost of these privileges was five 
guineas for small debts, eight for the first hundred, and half that 
sum for each additional hundred. " Day Rules *' could be pur- 
chased for 4J. 2d, the first day and 31. 2d, for each succeeding 
one ; but these did not permit the debtor to sleep outside the prison 
walls. Readers of ** Nicholas Nickleby " will remember that the 
father of Madeleine Bray was '*a Ruler," and resided with his 
daughter in a shabby house *'not many hundred yards from the 
Obelisk." 

William Combe lived at No. 12 Lambeth Road, and there worked 
with the most indefatigable industr)' at his pen. The list of his 
acknowledged works, most of which bore other authors* names, that 
Combe compiled at Ackermann's request shortly before his death, is 
a very long one» and besides these, he said that he had contributed 
more than two thousand columns to newspapers and magazines. It 
was he who compiled Adam Anderson's *' Origin of Commerce," a 
work of great research and labour ; Anderson's ** Secret Expedition to 
Eg>^pt," Viscount Grant's "History of the Mauritius," Mackenzie's 
" Voyage to the South Atlantic," and various other books of voyagi 
and travels ; it was Combe who wrote the life of the notorious George] 
Hanger, one of the bucks of the Regency ; supplied the text 
Farington's *^ Views of the Thames ; " wrote " The Devil on Two 
Sticks in England," a continuation of Le Sage's **Le Diable Boiteux.** 
He also supplied clergymen with sermons. Indeed, he was a ready 
writer upon any subject, and had a marvellous power of imitating the 
stales of other authors. One of the cleverest of literar}- forgeries was 
his *' Letters of the late Lord Lyttleton," in which the manner of that 
notorious personage is so perfectly imitated that they even deceived 
his mother and his closest friend, Windham, and for years ever>^body 
regarded them as genuine. In 1S02 Combe edited for ColoneJ 



1% 
to^ 



"Duke" Combe. 



59 



I 



Grtirillc a newspaper called ** The Pic-Nic." Horace Smith, in a 
notice of his brother affixed to his " Comic Miscellanies in Prose 
and Vtrse/' writing of Combe, says : 

"If a column or two of newspaper remained unsuppUed at 
ibe last moment, an occurrence by no means unusual, Mr. Combe 
would sit down in the publisher's back room, and extemporise a 
letter from Sterne at Coxwould — a forgery so well executed that it 
•odd never excite suspicion." Indeed, these were afterwards col- 
lected and published in volume form as genuine epistles by the 
author of "Tristram Shandy." All letters, therefore^ not to be 
found in the first collected edition of Sterne's works, 1780, should 
t»c regarded as apocr)phal. Combe used to say that it was with 
^Ji^ Sterne's " Eliza " was in love, and boasted of having had 
pm*ate assignations with her. In 1789 Corabe*s pen had been hired 
ra support of Pittas government, for an annuity of £200^ which 
**!< taken away at the minister's fall in i8or, renewed when Pitt 
Pttumcd to power, and finally suppressed at his death. In 1S03 
Combe was engaged upon the staff of the Tmes, writing articles 
onder the signature of "Valerius." Crabbe Robinson, in his 
I^F)', gives us a glimpse of him at this period: "It was on my 
first acquaintance with Walter I used to notice in his parlour a 
'^arkabty fine old gentleman. He was tall, with a stately figure 
N handsome face. He did not appear to work much with his 
n but was chiefly a consulting man. U'hen Walter was away 
^ ^sed to be more there and to decide as a dernkr ressorL In 
^ "Letters to Marianne" there are frequent references to his 
WUTning home from the Times office in the early hours of the 
looming. Thus we fmd that, in Combe*s case, the "Liberties" of 
^ King's Bench extended across the Thames to Printing House 
^^i«. In the course of time Combe grew so accustomed to his 
'^^tthat he had no desire lo exchange it for another. Walter 
^ered to compromise with his creditors, but he declined the 
P'^'Posal. " If I do so, I shall have to sacrifice the little means 
* possess," he replied. " The best chambers in the Bench are 
nune by right of seniority for a few shillings a week. My habits 
"*^ become so sedentary that, if I lived in the airiest square in 
^^R, I should not walk round it once a month ; 1 have plenty 
^f friends come to see me ; I can still give my little suppers and 
*")Dy good society, and I have an excellent library." Sir Egetton 
^n^gcs, in the " Note " previously quoted, met him about this time, 
^^ thus describes him : " He had lived long enough out of the 
•*^H at least out of the highest ranks, lo have some coarseness 





6o The Gentleman s Macradne 



'i> 



It 

i 



of accent when I conversed with him ; but he had two delightful 
attractions, he was manly and unaffected. He was, perhaps, seventy- 
seven, but he did not look more than sixty-five. He was of middle 
size, muscular, and of a countenance rather rough and heavy than 
elegant, brilliant, or intellectual." 

It was in i8io that Combe was first introduced to Ackermann. 
Ackermann was a German who came over to England to draw 
designs for coachbuilders, and about 1796 opened a print shop, 
first at 96 and afterwards at loi Strand, there ultimately becoming 
one of the most famous of London publishers. Combe was en- 
gaged to contribute to Ackerraann's " Poetical Magazine," and write 
up to Rowlandson's illustrations, and it was in iSio, when he was 
three score and ten, that the most famous of his compositions,^^ 
but for which his name would now be unknown to all but litenujH 
students — " The Tour of Dr. Syntax in Search of the Picturesque '* — 
was first issued. The history of this work is somewhat curious. It 
is thus told by Adolphus in his " Memoirs of John Bannister, 
"Dining at a tavern with John Bannister and a third persoi 
Rowlandson was asked, 'What are you about, Rowly?* *\Vhi 
nothing in particular ; I think my inventive faculty has been some- 
what sluggish of late ; I wish one of you would give me a hint.* 
Being asked of what kind, he answered : *I feel in a humour to 
sketch a series where the objects may be made ridiculous without 
much thinking. I have been making a tour in Devon and Cornwall 
with a friend, who, although I made sketches on ihe coast for him, 
wishes me to introduce adventures at inns and other comic incidents. 
But what can I do for such a hero^a gentlenun weighing 17 st. ? 
For such scenes he is quite out of the question. I want one of 
a totally different description.' * I have it,^ said Bannister ; ' you 
must fancy a skin-and-bone hero, a pedantic old prig in a shovel- 
hat and rattle-traps, and place him in such scrapes as travellers 
frequently meet with— hedge ale-houses, second and third-rate inns, 
thieves, gibbets, mad bulls, and the hke. Come, give me a sheet of 
paper, and we will strike off a few hints.' The paper was produced. 
Bannister gave his ideas, Rowlandson adopted them, Combe ex- 
plained them by a well-written poem \ and to this conversation, and 
to the lively invention of Bannister, the public is indebted for a 
highly -favoured publication." 

1 may add that Combe was quite unac<-|uainted with Rowlandson, 
and during two years he each month received a picture, and wrote 
the letterpress without meeting the artist or ever knowing what was 
to come next. The success of the work was enormous ; everything 



Duke " Combe, 



6> 



\ 



I 
I 



U Dr. Syntax ; there were Syntax hats and coats and wigs ; 
body read it, and everybody quoted it Collected in book 
tm, in one year it passed through five editions. It was not until 
l&, after many spurious imitations had appeared, that the second 
, "Dr. Syntax in Search of Consolation" (on the death of his 
spoiise) was issued. The third» " Dr. Syntax in Search of a Wife," 
quickly followed, and in 1S22 appeared the last and poorest of 
ihe series, "Johnny Quce Genus," the history of a foundling, Intro- 
duced imo the previous work. Among other tasks he executed in 
conjunction with Rowlandson» were *' The Dance of Death," and 
"The Dance of Life," 

Combe was twice married. A reference has been previously 
n>ade to his first match, which was a very unhappy one, and the 
ptir lived apart, the lady mostly residing in Ireland, but seemingly 
on Amicable terras with her husband, for in the *' Letters to 

Marianne,'* frequent mention is made of " Mrs. C ," to whom 

Marianne sent, at Combe's desire, specimens of her needlework, 
rhich »ere very graciously acknowledged. Camden Hotten says 
she died in a lunatic asylum in 18 14. Previous to this, in iSio, 
Combe made the acquaintance of Charlotte Had field, the sister of 
the well-known architect and of Mrs, Cos way ^ the artist's wife ; she 
^^ at that time a still handsome woman of forty, and, after the death 
<>f»lie first, became the second Mrs. Combe-. But this matrimonial 
venture docs not appear to have been more comfortable than the 
former one ; Charlotte Had field was a strange, eccentric creature, 
according to the showing of her own sister's letters, and lived apart 
fium her husband, whom she survived by several years. 

Combe in his latter years wrote a very minute autobiography^ 
Mdhad arranged that a young man, whom he had adopted, prob- 
*'>Jya natural son, should publish it after his death. But just before 
^ erem, which happened in i823» the protege offended the old 
^^^ by manning Olivia Serres, the daughter of the self-styled 
f nncess Ohve of Cumberland, and Combe employed the very last 
•^y* of his life in destroying a record which might have almost 
ri^'allcd the '* Confessions '* of his friend Rousseau in interest. 
Su<:h frequent reference to the '* Letters of Marianne " has been 
^'^^^ in this article that I cannot conclude without giving some 
*^tnint of that book. In the early years of the present century, 
Umbc made the acquaintance of a mother and daughter named 
°rcioke, who were at the time in very straitened circumstances, 
^^be appears to have conceived an affection, presumably platonic, 
fw iKe daughter, Marianne, and greatly befriended her and her 




62 The Gentleman s Magazine. 



A 



mother, settling them in a house at Camberwell, which he 
furnished at his own expense. Almost daily he wrote letters to 
Marianne, many after his return at four or five o'clock in the morn- 
ing from his labours in the Times office, and mostly couched in 
warmer terms than are usually employed by a septuagenarian. By- 
and-by, however, a young man named Birch came to lodge with the 
Brookes, and paid great attention to Miss Marianne, seemingly with 
the young lady's approval, after which a coolness sprang up between 
her and her elderly admirer, though Miss Brooke never failed to 
visit him when she was in need of his assistance. After the old 
man^s death she had the infamous meanness to hand over his letters 
to Birch, who at once published them. There is a copy of the little 
book in the British Museum, which is said to have belonged to 
Acker mann, annotated probably by his own hand, the notes containing 
much valuable information and several important corrections as to 
certain points in Combe's life. 

In one of his letters Horace Walpole brands our author as "that 
infamous Combe, the author of the * Diaboliad.' " But Combe would 
be naturally antipathetic to such a very superior person as the master 
of Strawberry Hill, who, moreover, had not escaped the lash of that 
satiric pen- Even judged by the low moral standard of the age. 
Combe in his early days was, no doubt, a shady character, ** Yet," 
says Dr. Doran, in ** The Last Journals of Horace Walpole," " he 
was a friend of Hannah More, whom he loved to make weep by 
improvised romances, in which he could pile the agony with wonder- 
ful effect/' Horace Smith frequently visited him, and records that 
he never left without admiring his various acquirements and the 
philosophical equanimity with which he endured his reverses. In 
the Times iox June 1823 will be found an eulogistic but stiltedly- 
written obituary notice of hira ; but the writers of obituaries are 
usually too much under the influence of the nil nisi bonum maxim 
for their opinions to be of much value in estimating an individual's 
private character. As an author, Combe has long since passed into 
oblivion. That he was a man of learning and remarkable ability 19^ 
beyond dispute, but everything he did was hack work, written f 
mere bread and cheese, and his most notable creation, " Dr. Syntax 
which is little, if anything, more than facile doggerel, has only been 
kept alive by Rowlandson's illustrations. Yet his career is a curious 
and interesting chapter in the literary history of a period the tradi 
tions of which survive only in books. 

H. LACEV. 



10 



p^ 




63 



A LADY'S LIFE IN COLOMBIA. 



I 



t 



"IITHERE h Heligoland, dear ? " 

W •' Don't you know, dear ! It's one of those places 
Sunley has just discovered." 

^ I remember rightly, two charming young women said this in 
^^^^ some little time ago. It sounds absurd, of course ; but upon 
my honour the geographical knowledge of ninety-nine hundreds of our 
educated fellow creatures is not very much further advanced. 

"Going to Columbia?" as I volunteer the information. "Oh," 
with a pause of uncertainty, " I see. Co/z/wbia, British Co/wwbia," 
»»lh a delidte but distinct accent on the ///w, to gently intimate my 
*lWtt>mings, 

"No, not British Columbia," meekly ; " Colombia, in South 
Aocrica. you know/* 

'*0h I "" with an air of having imperfectly heard my first an- 
^'^isccment, but noto being qnite on firm ground. ** South 
Anierica^^H^f course. And will you be far from Buenos Ayres, 
^? I have some cousins there" 

As my own geographical knowledge, though extensive, is not 
tti»IrinHcd, and I am unable to tell to a few hundred miles how 
^ I shall be from ray questioner's kin, I answer cautiously, "Oh, 
y^s^-some distance, I fancy." 

As my readers may possibly be also a little Hazy as to my where- 
*«^, I will briefly mention that Colombia is in the north-west of 
^ih .\mcrica, with an area of over three hundred thousand miles, 
"^ Repubhc, is divided into nine states, was formerly known as 
"'^ Granada, and rejoices in a constitution dating from 1863. 
*^c Country was first discovered in the sixteenth century — by the 
^y. iHink what a century that was to live in, when the possibilities 
^Jf happening on a new country seemed practically limitless I The 
^^^^ pessimist would have found life worth living then I A 
^P^ftish exploring party, under Belcazar, started from Peru on a 
'^^W search for the Temple of the Sun, which, adorned with 
^QoUofpure gold, was said to be somewhere in the ranges of the 



i 



64 



The Gentkmaii s Magazine, 



^esfl 



Andes. As Amyas Leigh and his men sought and did noi fi 
Manoa, so Bclcazai and his band never reached their goal, but tin 
did come on some rich gold-producing 'gravel, which induced th< 
to found a colony ; and one little town at least, Mariquiia, looks 
quaintly old world as any of our English medijeval cities, >vith 
old Spanish ruins and archways, taking one back for good thi 
hundred years. It is a bit of a place ; but Spanish piety \i 
redundant in those days— piety which had effected an absolu 
divorce from morality— and seven churches were built the; 
which but one is left. 

Though the Temple of the Sun never gladdened their ey 
colonisation of Colombia was a lucky thing for the Spaniard 
There was gold, and there were Indians. Spanish arithmetic ma< 
the product riches for the white man* and hideous, hopeless slaves 
for the brown. Spain has a fair amount of human suffering 
answer for, with her little arrangements of the holy office and t 
autos-da-f^ ; but nowhere perhaps has Spanish cruelty been moQ 
full-blown and frightful than in the barbarities inflicted on 
gentle, friendly aborigines who fell under their joke in the Ne 
World. About a century ago Colombia shook herself free oft 
Mother Country, and seems at present, having no navy, and 
much of an army, and therefore being incapable of showing her icel* 
to her neighbours, to chielly occupy herself in a series of litli 
revolutions between the Liberals and the Consen'atives. A ihousani 
men were killed in 1877 in a fight in the plains below Frias, whi 
an English lady and gentleman watched from iheir windows. 
1885 the two opposing parties fought for a bridge at Mariquita, a 
the next day an Englishman from Malpaso rode past, and coun 
forty corpses, the amiable Colombian custom in time of war 
" Let the dead bur}- their dead." During this little war the 
mentioned Englishman had in his charge ^S,ooo of gold, which 
better security, he took to bed with him. Fortunately, in 
little affairs Colombians keep themselves to themselves, and d 
molest English, or any other strangers within their gates ; but 
communication with the coast is cut off, it sometimes happe 
for a year the unhappy foreigner is unable either to send or r 
letters, and his horses and mules are always appropriated 
Government when a war is on, an allowance for them, h 
being generally made afterwards. 

People who go to Colombia must make up their minds 
their nerves behind them. Revolutions and earthquakes 
however, though common, not being serious, only a bttle 



beii 



A Ladys Life in Colombia. 



65 



I 



de terre, rattling china and shaking doors — not like the 
Riviera secousses— lurkes, alligators, and scorpions being 
tig the commonplace facts of existence ; and if the husband is a 
ical man to one of the mining companies, his wife must make 
mind that about every four days in a fortnight he will be 
away on his long round, and, unless she can go wth hira, she must 
make herself happy alone — ser^^ants don't sleep in the house— with 
1 baby and a revolver. On the other hand, to set against all these 
coto— the pros — the climate, the scenery, the flowers, the birds, the 
'wcs. To a botanist, an entomologist, an ornithologist, a naturalist, 
Colombia would be paradise. 

Our destination was Frias, which we reached at long last. Some- 
how, in these days, distance seems so annihilated with expresses and 
mail steamers, that it has all the charm of novelty to hear of a real 
cM'fiishioned journey, where one has time, and more than time, to 
«tt where one is going. 1 think Ruskin would approve of Colombian 
tttTcfliug. We are certainly not whisked over the country in a train 
iike parcels, as I think he soratiwhere unkindly says is the way of us 
fflttiems. We began in the ordinar>' way — mail from Southampton 
mllo. twenty-four (Htys — and we took the same time to do the 
hundred miles from there to Frias ! We started by waiting at 
K^nanquilla— it seems rather an Irish way of putting it, but VfcJitf— 
^ a steamer to take us up the Magdalena ; and fifteen hours after 
we set out, we broke our crank, and had to run into the bank 
*^ *ait there five days, till another boat came and rescued us. 
Another day we struck on a sandbank, otherwise the voyage was 
^e^entfui — " kinder monotonous," a Yankee fellow-traveller 
■'S'W^ed, but very delightful. The scenery was gorgeous ; the 
^trs, trees, and shrubs exquisite ; and some days the mountains 
'^ercquiie close. The river is beautiful, full of islands, and alligators 
**tl called ** loathly,*' who take the air on the sand-banks with their 
»*ful jats fl?ide open. If the old ballad maker had ever seen an 
*%tor, he could have turned Kempion's lady into even a more 
l*^<liyirorm " than he did. In one day we counted a hundred and 
*^^ly. The heat was terrible ; and when we got to Honda, a pretty 
hWlcji^ce, something like a Welsh village, with mouniains all round, 
**«4a relief to stay there a few days, till the mules came down to 
fetch OS, Prias is forty miles from Honda, and the road 1— /7 ny en 
^P^' Thirteen miles driving across the plains in a buggy — 
Qunog \^hich we alternated pleasingly between a break-neck gallop 
^od I crawl— brought us to Lombi. The nature of the nmd may be 
^^*^ when I mention that we were three hours and a half doing 
'OLccLxxvn. NO, 196J. r 



A Ladys Life in Colombia, 



67 



our cofiee fivepence a pound, and our eggs twenty-five for 
ntling \ A man and his wife and child, with three servants and 
^ee mules can live here and pay all expenses, including niai7.e 
sugar-cane for the beasts, for £^\o a month. En revanche, 
room candles are twopence halfpenny each, and petroleum three 
sixpence a gallon ; and it must be admitted that clothing 
in awful price. White drill, linen, and brown holland can be 
at very big prices, good calico there is none, and the 
wit is like paper. Boots are well-nigh unattainable luxuries, 
id a pair of canvas shoes for a two-year-old boy cost four shillings. 
Ho«tver, as it really does not matter ufhat one wears in this most 
tmsoj>histicated region, the want of fashionable attire is not so awful 
is it might be. The latest mode in bonnets, par examfrle, is a thiii^ 
I wiih ivhich we have absolutely no concern. Nothing is ever seen 
■itcrt but sugar-loaf hats, made of the very finest straw. The sight of 
H|iad| on her travels is startling to the uninitiated. Imagine her 
^pM on a small mule, with a very long flowing habit, put on ort^ 
tht dress, her head and body covered with a large sheet, for the sake 
^tfcootoess, merely the face showing ; a sugar-loaf hat, and a snial 
the crowning effort of elegance. One Yankee dame added 
'. effect by insisting on retaining a dress improver under her 
which had at least the merit of originality. Colombian fashion 
for ball dresses such curious combinations as blue and 
plush, and white, thickly covered with a floral design in brown 
bloe, heavily ruched and puffed, and enriched with a front 
^ of pale green spotted satin. At a dance, or " bail<5," wall- 
ers are things unknown, as there are at least ten men to every 
*waan present The music consists of a " tiply " and a '' bandola " ; 
•ielofds of creation are refreshed with acquadiente— the native spirit 
"-fOTO, ind beer— at three shillings a pint : the women with sponge 
'^a, dulee, and tea. As soon as a dance is ended, etiquette forbids 
loan to talk to his partner ; so the lady is solemnly conducted to a 
*>t among the rest of her sex, her cavalier makes a magnificent bow 
*^ retires to tekind, who congregate on the opposite side of the room 
^a tind of sheep and goats arrangement, terribly contrary to the 
^icwiuf any British match-making mamma of well-regulated mind. 
Alone dance, which ended at 3.30 a.m., when it was pitch dark, the 
Ptttsleft in a procession, riding mules, and carrjing lighted tallow 
^dlcs. Carriages are not; everyone rides ; and the mules, who are 
^BJOte numerous than, and generally very superior to the horses, 
*'Wigc^i2 to j[,2Q each, while a horse can be bought as low as jC^. 
^ marveUous surefootcdness of these mules makes them perfect 

F2 




68 



The Gentleman's Magazine. 



and wm| 

>s. I ha^i 
[ be riddd 

'■■ J 

I, inqumiM 



treasures in a region where every place is up and down, and m 

some of the roads, so calledj are like flights of stone steps. 

no hesitation in saying that some of these creatures could 

with absolute safety up and down any staircase in England. 

** The weather ? " Do I hear you, as a true-bom Briton, 

anent the national subject? We have none. That perpetual ninii 

roenng, that wearisome reiteration of inanity, ''talking about thi 

weather," is unknown here. We have a climaU—^nd a climate \\ 

Itnows how to behave itself in a rational and regular manner — not 

fits and starts and inconsistency, such as you endure at home Ox 

climate— let me beg you not to mention "weather" again — : 

delightful, like an English May or June on its best behaviour, 

neier varies (think of that, O ye happy islanders, who put up 

parasol one day and wrap yourselves in furs the next !). That is 

case with us here at Frias. Of course, as one goes up or down, ll 

temperature changes, A few days' ride from here in the plains, it 

100° in the shade ] while going upwards, great coats and furs 

desirable. Indeed, high up, where it is all rock, bare, or overgroi 

with lichen, when water actually boils it is cool enough to drink. 

Frias we live in the open air, literally, as doors and windows st2 

always open— at least, I can more correctly aver that windows 

never shut, as they do not exist, and there are only wooden shutters I 

their stead Our time is six hours behind England ; and we oughtj 

be, if we are not, healthy, wealthy, and wise, for we go to bed sooM 

where about eight, and get up with the sun. I remember, j 

Switzerland, being dragged up the Righi by conscientious friends | 

see the sun rise there— the railway in itself was a nightmare— al 

being only too glad when, thanks to a beneficent fog, the sun did 1 

rise— at least, dispensed with our attendance at his lev^e. Herd 

is rather different to the marrow -piercing cold of that unfrien^ 

mountain ; and it is worth while, even to the laziest of mankind,! 

see Ruiz (18,000 ft) and Tolima (i 9^000 ft.), both extinct vokanc) 

meet the dawn. Think of two glorious heights which could Iq 

down from four and five thousand feet upon the Jungfrau, and h^ 

their own with the mighty nursery of the Nile— Ruwenzori itself !j 

always wonder that men never invented mountain worship, wljj 

assimilating their raultitudinous cults. They always seem so un^ 

proachably sublime— unchanging monuments of omnipotent migM 

However, to the ordinary mind, perhaps, ordinary things are roa 

congenial— the population, for example, which is very ordinar)*, j 

have seen but one Colombian lady with any pretensions to go^ 

breeding. The people are a mixture of the Indians discovered fa^ 




J 



A Lady s Life in Colombia, 



69 



tar and the Spaniards. The ordinary workpeople, called peons, 
the whole, handsome, but small, idle, and ignorant. There 
[•re a few blacks, descendants of slaves emancipated in 1S54, but the 
ijority, from intenrjairiage with the peons, are of mixed blood The 

iniemiamage is rather ^fa^on de parier, for, as a matter of fact, 
nianiage is a ceremony more honoured in the breach than in the ob- 

le^ as it is a very expensive process, and in the country districts 

are rarely seen. 
The mention of slaves reminds me that I have not said anything 
*bout geld -fields. They are alluvial, that is, the gold has been 
'weathered " away from the original reefs, and is found in a gravel 
»ni|josed of quartz and a reddish clay. It is washed out by water, 
H under considerable pressure, through a pipe with a short tube at 
^«cnd, shaped like a cannon, and called a monitor. Through this 
Ihe water passes with tremendous force, sufficient, it is said, to cut a 
nan in half, and describes a parabolic curve for a distance of a hun- 
^Jtwi lo a hundred and fifty feet. It falls on the face of the cliff on 
tlttdj the gravel hes, and a few hours' working will wash away a cliff 
of considerable size in an almost incredible manner. It is a very 
bating sight. The gravel, in a muddy stream, runs down a ditch 
'ilha iharp grade called a sluice, paved with oblong b!ocks of wood, 
^ecn the crevices of which the gold, from its greater weight, sinks, 
•xi cin be picked up at stated intervals — "clean-ups,** as they are 
^^. At Malpaso, after six weeks' washing, they cleaned up ^5,000 
•"fgold It was the gold to which the poor natives of the country 
•^td their destruction. The Spanish Conquistadores had no mercy j 
'Ddlhe Indians, made into beasts of burden, died by the hundred 
"^^ the lash, as they carried the hide-bound packages to the coast 
^ ^ shipped for Spain, 

^Vc are in a land of flowers here — such orchids as my poor pen is 
J^'^^ttlesB to describe. Oleanders and magnolias grow wild ; and in 
•"^wm garden we had in April Marecbal Niel roses, dahlias, sunflowers, 
^ large sweetwilliams, heliotrope and tuberoses, all in full bloom, 
^''tfe are oranges, lemons and guavas in plenty ; andj oh, if I could 
^^ give the very faintest description of the forest ! Just about us 
*^are extensive clearings, as this is an old settled region, and of 
^^^, higher up, in a colder temperature, the tropical trees and 
"^^ers merge gradually into others less luxuriant, till Spanish oaks 
breached. Palms come up to where we hve, but hardly beyond, 

Jg to the ferns, many of which can be easily ridden under, while 

of the hanging ones are twenty feet in length. In the plains 
•^ gSt to the real forest, and there one stops appalled at the utter 



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70 714^ Gentleman s Magazhie. 

inability to describe the gorgeous luxuriance. Let me take the 
of one abler than myself — Frederick Boyle. 

"Great tree-ferns meet across the bubbling water, their fn 
translucent as green glass where the sunlight flicks through a can 
of leaves. Every tree is clad and swathed in creepers, huge snali 
of vegetation, bare and ponderous, sunning their jewelled heads 
a windy height above, or slender tendrils starred with blossom. Hei 
and there is a vast hollow pillar, reticulated, plated, intertwined— th 
casing of a parasite which now stands unaided, feeding on the rotie 
debris of its lale supportj and stretching murderous arms abroad, i 
the world of leaves above to clasp another victim. Other trees ai 
fading to a lovely death under shrouds of fern, which descend froi 
the topmost branches xn a gray-green cataract soft as a fall, three fw 
thickness of lender sprays. Great sheaves of bamboo make an arc 
of verdant feathers overhead. A thousand tropic blossoms unkm 
to us clothe earth and brushwood in a veritable sheet of colour. 
The forests of the New World seldom show that dim and awful glooi 
so impressive in tracts of oriental jungle, probably because all i| 
land was densely peopled when the Conquistadores came. Bufl 
the older parts where undergrowth is checked gray Spanish mo 
drooping from the boughs has much of the same effect. I do nott 
member where I described the trees thus solemnly caparisoned 
'standing like cloaked mourners in procession,' I do not now thi- 
ef a better form of words." 

Let me add one or two touches of colour from a master hand 
the hand of him whose *' At Last " ends the dream of his long life- 
the glowing splendour of the tropics. " Trees full two hundred Ii9i 
high, one mass of yellow or purple blossom to the highest twigs, an 
every branch and stem one hanging garden of crimson and oraiig 
orchids or vanillas." "The full sun -gleam by upon the enormoi 
wall of mimosas, figs, and laurels, which formed the northern fores 
broken by the slender shafts of bamboo tufts, and decked with 
thousand gaudy parasites \ bank upon bank of gorgeous bloom, pil< 
upward to the sky, till where its outline cut the blue flowers ai! 
leaves, too lofty to be distinguished by the eye, formed a ' brok< 
rainbow of all hues quivering in the ascending streams of azure VBk 
until they seemed to melt and mingle with the very heavens.'- 

1 wish I could name the trees, but many are unknown to n 
Some I do know — mahogany, cedar, ceiba-trees — and cacti, lian< 
matapolos of all sorts and kinds. Do you know what a ceiba, 
cotton-tree, is like ? If not, let Kingsley tell you. " The hug( 
English oak would have seemed a stunted bush beside it Bor 




I 



A Ladys Life in Colombia, 

roo'^, or rather walls, of twisted board, some twelve feet high 
rose the enormous trunk full forty feet in girth, towering like 
«)me tall lighthouse, smooth for a hundred feet, then crowned with 
boughs, each of which was a stately tree, whose topmost twigs were 
Miwo hundred and fxfry feet from the ground. And yet it was easy 
for the sailors to ascend, so many natural ropes had kind Nature 
bwered for their use, in the smooth lianes which hung to the very 
einh^ often without a knot or leaf. Once in the tree, you were 
tithin a new world, suspended between heaven and earth, and, as 
Gary said, no wonder if like Jack, when he climbed the magic bean- 
stalk, you had found a castle, a giant, and a few acres of well-stocked 
pwk, packed away somewhere behind that labyrinth of timber, 
flower gardens at least were there in plent>% for every limb was 
covered with pendant cactuses, gorgeous orchises, and wild vines ; 
and while one half the tree was clothed in rich foliage, the other half, 
utterly leafless, bore on every twig brilliant yellow flowers, around 
*iiich humming-birds whirred all day long. Parrots peeped in and 
out of every cranny, while, within the airy woodland, brilliant hybrids 
Med like living gems upon the bark, gaudy finches flitted and 
tittmiped, butterflies of every size and colour hovered over the top- 
'Sosiiwrigs, innumerable insects hummed from mom till eve \ and 
^tten the sun went down, tree-toads came out to snore and croak 
till dawn. There was more life round that one tree than in a whole 
*ltore mile of English soil" 

Near us the beasts are not numerous, owing to the many clearings ; 
^t we have within two days* ride pumas, jaguars— the '* lions " and 
"^eis*' of the New World — bears, deer, and wild pigs. By the 
'iy.the puroa is infinitely more dreaded than the larger and fiercer 
J>piar, a?, unlike the latter, it has a gruesome habit of following a 
Duman trail. Its own trail can always be distinguished from the 
"tiger's" by the small heap of earth thrown up by the forepaws, 
^humming-bird —the ''oiseau mouche,"as BufTon calls it— is very 
*^iftinoii here. The old French naturalist gives a pretty description 
^ it, which it quite deserves. '* Of all animated beings it is the 
^ elegant in form and the most brilliant in colours— our precious 
**Oncs cannot be compared in lustre to ihis jewel of Nature, who has 
^wed on it all the gifts which she has only shared amongst other 
^'^ Lightness, swiftness, grace, and the most splendid clothing 
•^ belong to this little favourite. The emerald, the ruby, and the 
^1*^ sparkle in its plumage, which it never defiles with the dust of 
"^ earth, and scarcely ever deigns to touch the green turf for a 
^^^Xit It is always on the wing, fluttering froai flower to flower, 



J 






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3 



Tke GtntUmads. 

tiicflr fvcshness as well as dudr b rJ Hta r TT 
and ofily inhabits those ciinmfiea 
\ hlcotn. It ia in the wsucmest rg gj u —i f. of the Neir 
species known of these birds aze found ; for 

in imnimirT to the tempexace xones only remain theie 
Tbcy ttCB to follow thesms, toads 
god lo fi;f oa ffe wiagi of Z^hyr at the tzain. q£ an etgrT»a I 
l^ieie are also exquisite hnllriffiWi> mpgrniTTTtg ten inches 
fki^ lovely green bttdcsr and teffiea. One of tiiese latter 
flue day, put under at ^asa^ and fo 
g)ai0» amd m the coiddle of the night the firefly was 
Ao«t the foooH % perfoa ball of light. The whole 
jHMI lb^ citct nas sn meaiiny that the creature was 
10 escape. It had two " lamps " m us head, wiiick 
^ght when it was at rest ; but apparently the real fights were 
the wings. 

Bat we b«ve Mi9^ fonm d iasect fife, aks I be^des 

iie^ies aiid htasaldM bctterfliea^ In Stanley's "' Darkest 

g^^es a blood-curdling account of kts little friends in the forest. ^ 

are not vamgjoriociiv and we cheerfolly gm him the pas. He o 

does US in the qoantisir of chfierent spedcs ; but «o#— would thai 

^ I— in the qoahty of their kind attentions. Hit hare die ^gge 

he if eoanentFy at home here— only we call him nesua. He i 

'pery sraaQ iea, a sort of mulium in fano airangenieQi, and boi 

hirmelf chiefly in the toes, down by the nail, but sometimes to 

iotes of the feet. If not removed quickly, it swells to the size q 

pea, and the foot and leg inflame and break into sores, and one h 

about, sorrowful and stockingless, in a native sandal, for many a t 

Every night people arm themselves on retiring to rest (?) with 

needles, wherewith to dislodge the unwelcome guest. The>' ^h 

that if wc would only follow native customs, and go about baref 

and give up that extraordinary British habit of perpetual wash 

we should be free from his attentions ; but the remedy sounds w. 

than the diseases ^ . ,, ,. 

The ^trus, or gadfly, generally confines itself to the cattle, 
occasionally goes for higher game. The egg is deposited under 
skin and forms a large tubercle. Quite recently, a man had on 

Lhis arm, and another unlucky wight had one extracted from 
comer of his eye. , , . 

Ixodes-AngUc^ licks-swarm on the Uees m the plams, 
infest every creature they can hang on to. They are perfecUy 
and as large as a lady bird ; and when once they fix on the ski 




tuck the blood, it is impossible to pull them off, and they can only 
I be lemoved by add or grease. 

The walking-stick insect, or "mata o caballo'* — death to the 

kjRC— so called because it is believed that if it gets into the horse's 

food it is fatal, is about six inches long, six-legged, greenish- brown 

in colour» with long antennes, the body no thicker than a piece of 

thin twine, and the legs than coarse thread. He is not so dreadful — 

bui the ants ! To keep anything from them, cups must be set in 

loup plates full of water, and food must be placed in plates on the 

top of the cups. (It sounds rather like the house that Jack built.) 

The big, red soldier ants bite ; the very liny biack ants swarm into 

and over everj^thing sweet, and infest the bread. There is another 

black ant, which, unlike its relations, may be considered ** a boon 

^d a blessing to men" ; but the first introduction to his kind was a 

•'tl^e alarming. An army of them invaded the house one morning. 

They were apparently en route for somewhere, and could not break 

"*tif line for such a trifling obstacle as a house. They came right 

trough : the walls and floors were covered. Clothes were hastily 

thrown into boxes, curtains and vallances turned up, furniture put 

'^o a heap in the middle of the room, and the inmates retreated, 

•^a^ing the ants in possession. They were a couple of hours marching 

^'^rough, but they not only did no damage, but proved of immense 

•^Jiefii, as they cleared out every scorpion, beetle, and cockroach in 

^ place. One day an army on the march met a two-year-old 

•^ie, who did not yield them the pas ; so they went straight over 

^^1 to his extreme discomfiture, and he had to be hastily removed, 

^^^'^esscd, and dusted, to shake ofT the invaders. If King Solomon 

^ lived in Colombia, he would have thought it hardly necessary to 

^ ^he sluggard "go to the ant.*' You see, it comes to him instead. 

There are snakes in plenty, but almost the only one to dread is 

^ terrible y^r de lanct^ so gready feared in Trinidad and Martinique, 

L *^b is here called tya. There are many coral snakes— some six 

L ^evea feet long — of which one kind is said, I know not how 

P^*y, to be venomous. It is unfortunate that the poisonous snakes 

r/^<k people, while the harmless ones are always anxious to get 

^y> A young English lady discovered a snake in her bedroom, 

^ one evening a family were visited by one in the gala. One 

^^ture, kept by an Englishman in a box, was apparently some kind 

lica For four months it ate nothing but one small kitten, which 

^lly seemed very short commons for a personage eight feet long ; 

an old torn cat was put into its box not long since, but, being a 

'^teian, it resolutely declined to have a coil put round it, and 






enikmans Magazine. 




ielivered such weighty and discriminating blows on the snake's head 
hat the latter declined further combat, and the cat was released 
dclorious. Up here in the hills snakes are not so numerous as in 
:he plains ; still, it is not safe to venture out after dark, as they 
:ome out on the paths, and even the verandahs. The more pigs 
here are the fewer snakes, as their hides are impervious to bites, 
md they trample down and tat them I Well might the Jews call 

Ee unclean beasts \ 
BARBARA CLAY FINCH. 



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75 



REMINISCENCES OF 
T^J^E " MAFASSAL " LAW COURTS 
OF BENGAL. 



I He word "Mafassal," sometimes written *' Mofussil," and in 

^ various other ways, is most intelligibly translated by the 

'^^d ** provincial," so that these Indian Courts may be roughly said 

riave their counterpart in the County and Magistrates' Courts of 

l*Sland, For several years after we had assumed responsibility for 

^ administration of the law in our Indian Empire, the old Musul- 

^^^ names of " Amin," ** Sadrdla/' " Nizimat Addlat," " Diwani 

^<Ulat," ** Sadar Nizamat Adalat," and '* Sadar Diwani Adalat " were 

J^^^ned, until the Acts of the Indian Council reconstituted the 

Ourts — which now are known by the names of High Courts, District 

^^ Sessions Courts, Small Cause Courts, Subordinate Judge's, 

***iasiff's, District Magistrate's, Joint Magistrate's, Assistant Magis- 

^^*e*s, and Honorar)' Magistrate's. The High Court is not 

^•taiiassal," except so far as it is the Supreme Court of Appeal in 

'^^^gal ; and the other tribunals have distributed amongst them all, 

***d more than all, the judicial work, both civil and criminal, that 

^^^ County Courts, Recorders, Quarter and Petty Sessions perform 

**^ U\is country. It is not my purpose to give a full account of these 

Courts, with their large staffs of subordinate ofificials, and all the 

■^^nute details of their procedure. It will be sufficient to mention 

^*^at one judge unites the civil jurisdiction of a District Court and 



the 



cnaiinal jurisdiction of a Sessions Court, whilst under him are the 



^"^ Courts of Subordinate Judges and Munsiffs, and the Criminal 

^^^^^ of the various magistrates I have already named. This 

^''^eration is not exhaustive, as there are other Courts in non- 

[^**'ation provinces, and in odd corners, so to speak, of the Empire j 

^hey may be considered as quite exceptional, and need no other 

-^T^^on in a description so concise as this must be. The District 

^ Sessions Judge is, with but one or two exceptions, a European. 

Has an original civil jurisdiction, broadly speaking, unlimited. 




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76 



The Genile7itans Magazine. 



with a supervision and appellate powers over the Subordinate Ju 
and Muosiif ; and he has a like unlimited jurisdiction in crim 
cases — except that he cannot hang a European — with similar pow< 
of supervision and appeal over the magistrates. He is always^ 
covenanted civilian, who has gone through the grades of assista 
and joint magistrates, at which latter stage he has had to choc 
between a judicial or an executive career, the two bifurcating ic^ 
one, a District and Sessions J udge» the other, a Collector and Disti! 
Magistrate, As the counterpart of the barristers and solicitors 
the English Courts, there are advocates, pleaders, and *' Muktaia 
The advocate, who is always a barrister, is known to the mass of natiti 
by the appellation of " ballister sAhib/' or ** counsly sahib." He isj 
very important man in the eyes of his client. The climate precJudI 
the possibility of his impressing the public by that factitious additid 
to his dignity, a wig ; and in many pans of the " Mafassal " the gow 
and bands are also dispensed with. In fact, it has been within nfl 
experience that these sedate and learned gentlemen have so far fo 
gotten both the dignity of the Coun and the profession as to app« 
in a jaunty, light lounging- coat, or even in the brilliant stripes 
white flannel of a lawn-tennis suit. But, in spite of these disadvi 
tages, he is considered a necessity in all big cases, or where 
litigant, anxious about the result of his case, is not too penurious 
avaricious to pay his price. He is supposed to have, in an esp 
manner, the ear of the Bench, both in Court, and, sometimes, I re 
to say, out of it By a delusion, which is still common eno 
amongst the natives, he is believed to have opportunities of put 
in a word for his client at odd and, what I may call, uncanoni 
moments. He is credited with being on those easy terms with 
European dispensers of the law, that during a comfortable chat o 
a cheroot at the billiard-table, or at the convenient intervals t 
may occur between the games of lawn-tennis or racquets, with 
any breach of propriety, he may metaphorically "button-hole" thi 
or give the conversation a turn upon the merits of his case ; tho 
for the sake of appearances, the whole matter is afterwards formall] 
argued through, as if the Court had never heard anything at al 
about it. Of course, if there be an advocate on both sides, tl 
power may be partially or wholly neutralised. By the still m 
unenlightened clientSj who suppose that 

Every door is barred with gold| and opens but lo golden keys, 

he is credited with a still more elective power ; or, to put it 
a more vulgar form, he is able to " grease the wheels of justices 



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1 



I 



RemtHiscefues of the '' Mafassar Law Courts, yy 

^^m\x\k z Utile "palm oil." It may be considered impertinent to 
remark n-en that the practices suggested exist merely in the imagin- 
ations of the grossly ignorant, but nevertheless it is a fact that the 
wie^ is a possibility, if not more, in the minds of many whose 
^nailed experience of life has taught ihem that everyone has his price, 
^e^ides these fictitious claims upon the public confidence, he is more 
justly considered to have the ear of the judge /// Court — sometimes 
from his superior abilities and education, sometimes from his Euro- 
P^'aji pluck and energy, sometimes from his better social position, or 
Sometimes from all combined. It may be that when the magistrate 
^^ <^nsidered weak, and the advocate is one with a talent for bullying, 
toere is a demand for his services ; but this has, to a certain extent, 
''^^ctcd, and with some very young ci%^lian magistrates there is a 
^/^■^dency to be prejudiced against the party that retains an advocate, 
. '^e pleader combines the work of both barrister and solicitor. He 
^ Mostly a native, often a Bengali, and generally a smart, able prac- 
^*t:ioner. They are to be met almost in crowds at every local bar 
^•lere there is work to be had. They are keen and often successful 
^^^mpetitors with advocates in the struggle for clients, having the 
^<i vantages of a more familiar acquaintance with the native languages, 
^^Hich are the languages of the Courts — where there are no inter- 
pT^lers — and being free to do work which by etiquette or procedure is 
^ot done by the members of the higher branch. They mostly speak 
^^^i^^'sh well and fluently, having been perhaps well-educated at the 
^^cutta University, from which many have obtained degrees ; and, 
*Hen successful in their profession, acquire a social status and a 
''expect from both their fellow-countrymen and Europeans that very 
^'^ native advocates in the *• Mafassal " ever obtain. There may be 
* s<Jft of clique amongst them, more understood than expressed 
'^^^^pSn when the first European advocate or pleader appears on 
^ *cene, but it is not the determined boycottism that we find in our 
.J^'^ country amongst the highly-respectable businesses of life ; and 
^'i native gentlemen are particularly approachable and courteous, 
^7^ ever ready to be friendly to anyone who is a gentleman and 
^ -^ take the Httle trouble to be courteous to them. All the 
^^^^e, it is not an easy thing for a European, whether advocate or 
^^^^ader, to establish a connection in the •* Mafassal." The com- 
^^^^viors are too many and the competition too keen for that, even 
"^t^ete an ignorance of the language is not an additional obstacle. 
*^ **Muktar" — pronounced "mooktar" — or law agent, is quite 
V^^^iar to the genius of the country. He has no exact counterpart 
^ti England, but he bears some resemblance to the old pettifogging, 



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78 The GenilemaH*s Magazine 




ignorant attorney, with a few common points of pnctioe 
fingers' ends — a race now extinct He is the first recomse of the 1 
gant who wants advice cheaply. Both the certificated " Moktar' 
the empiric prowl about the purlieus of the Courts in swarstf 
grabbing at every client that has any kind of law-business in han<3 
Then a traditional and stereotyped mode of helping a dient tte^ 
have is to, as they think, improve his case by snppfessing sovne &ct^ 
and adding others. Every witness, before he is allowed to m tntc 
Court, is well drilled and taught, and has practised his evidence 
before them till he is believed to be tolerably safe. Unfoirtunately 
the necessity of improving their case — more especially, perhaps, when 
it happens to be a very simple one — is so thoroughly rooted in the 
imaginations and habits of native litigants, that the " Muktar" woold 
stand little chance of getting on in his profession if he neglected or 
was above this mischievous trick ; and the idea of winning a case by 
telling the simple, short, unramished truth has yet got to be realised 
by the public The consequence is that a magistrate has sometimes 
to decide in favour of a litigant who, with every one of his witnesses, 
has perjured himself. Some magistrates say that they can zeadOy 
detect when a witness is speaking untruth, but though I believe this 
to be to a great extent true, it helps little to the arriving at a 
decision, to the unmasking of the whole deceit, or the discov< 
the true state of facts. The " Muktar" often conducts the case him« 
in the Magistrates* Courts. His chief aim there is to impress the 
client with his energy and zeal ; and consequently every technical 
objection, however microscopic, is raised, and the patience of the 
magistrate is frequently strained beyond judicial endurance. In 
cross-examination his efforts are chiefly directed to making the 
witness contradict himself— which, as I have already observed, is not 
always of much importance in influencing the decision of the Bench 
— and it generally ends, after many irrelevant questions, by his being 
summarily told to stop and sit down. In most instances the "Muktar" 
chooses the advocate or pleader for his client, and he is not always 
above doing a little smart practice for himself at that time. He 
will sometimes, when his client is not able to look after him, pretend 
to have retained an advocate for a certain fee* whib all the time he 
has retained a junior pleader on a much smaller fee, pocketing the 
difiference himself* Or he will, having retained the advocate at a 
fixed fee, debit his confiding client with just double the amount, so 
that he gets sometimes a good "haul-' out of the case. In man^ 
instances, though, he is wretchedly paid, taking just what he can get 
do I mean to imply that there may not be some very honourable 





mmt^^^es of 




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sptions among the class. He has often the sole conduct of the 
in the preliminary stages, and, as often as not, the advocate or 
ler finds his ser\'ices have been called in when some hideous 
hlujider has completely or almost destroyed the chances of success. 
He has, as a rule, the first word with the client, and has the general 
conduct of the legal business, whether contentious or not, of certain 
re^lar clients, for whom he also registers documents, and gives all 
ihe infonnation he can at the various stages of progress through which 
the business goes. He is, in short, the legal agent or servant of 
lliae wealthy natives, of whom it may be literally said that the 
bwinessof their lives is the endless Htigation they have in the Courts, 
men irho are never free from legal contention of some sort. Some- 
times when be instructs advocates or pleaders he assumes a knowledge 
*hich he docs not possess, and those gentlemen find, to their disgust, 
»lu{ what they relied upon as facts are pure fictions. 

The interiors of the Courts afford little to describe. The Judge 
or Magistrate sits on a dais with a table in front of him, while just 
iwteatb sit the advocates or pleaders. Behind them sit the " Muk- 
^>" and behind them stand the public, whilst the parties and wit- 
"*»« are examined in much the same position as you find in most 
^gliih Courts. Some of the Magistrates' Courts, though, are simply 
e^ciable. The advocates or pleaders are elbowed and crushed by 
^ odoriferous crowd pressing to the front, and a badly-placed punkah 
^^ its partial breezes to the Bench alone. Perhaps, too, the dais is 
^^Vf high, and it is only by an occasional stand on tiptoe by a 
moderately tall man that a view of the magisterial countenance can 
^obtained 

^tile episodes of an exciting or amusing character sometimes 

^^n. I remember, once, an elephant was being sold by auction in 

^*^tion of a decree, and^ for some reason or other, it had not its 

'^'^l*^ "mahout," or driver, on its back. The sale was taking place 

'^^He large open ground or plain round the Courts, and a small 

^^^d had assembled to listen to the bidding. What with the noise 

^^ Uie absence of its proper keeper, the animal began to show signs 

^^itation, which of course only increased the excitement and the 

'^ amongst the people. Suddenly it ran at one of the spectators, 

"^^ked him down, and was proceeding to tread the life out of him 

"^^oneof its ** grass-cutters," standing by, struck it with a spear 

^ drove it off. The driver on its back then got frightened and, 

/Etching his opportunity as the elephant went under a tree, seized 

^Ui of a branch and swung himself up. The elephant tried once 

Vwice to push the tree down, but, not being able to do this, it 






I 



80 The Genileman's Magazine. 

wandered about in the thorough enjoyment of its liberty, a 
turn of its body sending the panic-stricken but still curious i>eople, 
now collected in large numbers, scampering in all directions. Soon 
it came upon a dog-cart belonging to one of the judge^s clerks, who 
had probably left his work to see the spectacle. The horse had been 
taken out, and the elephant, lifting the whole vehicle up in its trunk, 
with as much ease, apparently, as I should lift up a small terrier by 
the scruff of the neck, let it fall with a crash to the ground. By this 
time ever}'one who had any description of a vehicle within the vicinity,^ 
and could get away, began to drive off as fast as possible. The CourtdH 
became demoralised, all turning out to witness what would next take 
place. The *' grass-cutter " went to the animal, which, though it 
suffered him to approach, would by no means allow him to get on his 
back, or control him in any way. The police sent round a notice to 
the few European bungalows — it being near the time for the evening 
drive— to the effect that they should stay at home, or lookout for the 
elephant. There was no need to proclaim the danger to the native 
bazaar, though I believe it was done, as the news would spread far 
faster in its natural course. The Courts suspended work for the day, 
not only because it was near the time to do so, but because it was 
impossible to stop occasional stampedes into them by frightened 
crowds at every new movement of the elephant, and because everyone 
was in too excited a state to do any business. At last another elephant, 
which was kept at the police " lincs,'^ arrived on the scene, with chains 
and a number of men armed with spears to capture the truant, but 
immediately it caught sight of its would-be capturers tt turned tail 
and bolted, with its pursuers following, and was not secured until early 
the next morning, about thirty miles distant, by its proper ** mahout" 
At other limes it has happened that the course of justice has 
been suspended by, what may seem to many, a strangely small cause^ 
contrasted with the story I have just told. There was once a District 
and Sessions Judge— "and a good judge, too "—who had a particular 
antipathy to the notes of a bird which is generally known over some 
parts of India as the '* brain fever" bird-'the proper ornithological 
name being, I believe, " Koel.*' The above nickname suggests the 
annoyance it causes to the many Europeans who, when the tempera- 
ture is high in the hot months, suffer from cerebral irritation. It 
begins in a comparatively low key, getting gradually higher and 
higher in tones of greater and greater despair at each repetition of 
notes, which I have often heard jokingly described as resembling the 
words "we feel it" When it has reached a point at which its excited 
feelings seem to be most intense it stops and begins again with little 




I 

I 



Rmiuiscences of ike '' Mafassar Law Courts. 8i 

or no interval. One dreadful peculiarity of tliis bird is that it sings 
at night as well as by day, and very frequently takes its position just 
outside the open door of a bungalow, where some restless being is 
ttying to steal a few hours of unconsciousness in the sultry heat. 
Now you can imagine the effect upon one of fine nervous organisation 
in such a climate, in the heat of the day, perhaps after having had a 
ftight's performance of this dreadful chant, with a crowded odoriferous 
Court, and a case perhaps too hopelessly entangled with lying, and too 
badly conducted by some second-rate pleaders to give one a chance 
of ever extricating the truth, except by chance. Well, the story is 
wrrent that this judge used to keep a loaded gun in his Court, ready 
at hand, and whenever one of these intolerable nuisances began to 
»iil he would rush out, stalk, shoot it, and, returning into Court, 
cjuietly resume the proceedings as if nothing had happened of an 
BJiforeosic character. 

Tile Court buildings are generally spacious single-storied blocks, 
*ilh a verandah round the four sides. There is, however, rno waiting- 
rocm accommodation for the numerous pleaders and " Muktars," still 
less for the crowds of htigants. In most stations the pleaders have 
^^^^^ at their own expense, a small bungalow, wherein they sit in 
one long room waiting for their cases to be called on. This room is 
opcfi to the public, and the most important points of law, and 
kwsiacss of the most vital interest to clients, are discussed and settled 
^^c in the midst of a noise and bustle sufficient to make the 
inexperienced European, accustomed perhaps to settle, or see matters 
*^ of this kind in the quiet of a barrister's, solicitor's^ or some 
P'^'ile room, wonder how it can be done. But it is all a matter of 
*^°stoiii, and the native pleader has always been in the habit of giving 
^ Wleuiion, whether it is to advise, argue points of law, or write 
^^ documents, in the midst of what the good old-fashioned house- 
*^^used to call '*a duck market," In some places there is a very 
'Espcctabie law-hbrary, got up by private subscription ; and advocates, 
*hos€ bungalows are perhaps a little distance off, sit there waiting 
fctlhdr cases, or consulting with their clients. The " Muktars " squat 
^^X2Si erection of grass and thatch, which we should in England 
^ 4 ihed ; whilst the unfortunate litigants, for whom primarily, 
P^'^ly at whose expense, all this wonderful system of law, these 
^% buildings and staff of officials are kept up, sit or stand any- 
^hae, often in picturesque groups, in the verandahs, under the 
pcaf^peepul" and "parca" trees, or in the blistering sun. At one 
^^^ of the year there blows a hot wind from the west, with ail the 
•<^ce o( a hurricane. Clouds of fine white dust rush along, covering 
"^^ ccLxxvii. NO. 1963, G 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



Vm il 



i 




everything and blinding everyone. Then the European shuts up \m 
bungalow, and lives the day in darkness, but the wretched witne 
and the still more wretched suitor or party in the cause has to sr^ 
sheltering himself as best he can, day after day in attendance, an 
often for many days after the date fixed for his case to be tried. 

In the extensive ground round the Courts markets thrive, money- 
changers and licensed stamp-vendors seem to do a brisk trade, anc:^ 
most articles that are procurable in the bazaar shops can be hac:^ 
with a little judicious bargaining, both cheap and good. Beggar??^ » 
fakirs, and cripples of every description mingle with the crowd, xy^JM 
take their daily and regular position on the roadside leading to th^^ 
Courts. In one station there was an old woman, whom the nativ* 
called a witch. She lived close to the Magistrates' Courts^ in a vei 
small grass hut, something similar in shape to those erections 
which our own gipsies live under the hedgerows. Here she k< 
twenty cats, each one answering to its name by springing on to h ^ ^ ' *■ 
shoulder in turn as she called it. She seemed a half-witted, perfectL 3 
harmless old dame. Whether, like ** Miss Flite/* she had had K i » 1 
mind crushed, both "youth and beauty" blighted, and her vicini^fc.^ 
to the Courts and her fancy for cats could be connected with tkr-»« 
history of some dreary lawsuits and injustice, 1 never knew. Soc^** 
after 1 saw her first she was evicted by the authorities, or taken air-SK.3 
by her relatives ; at all events she and her house disappeared, anci J 
never heard of her again, H 

Some curious cases crop up in these Courts occasionally. ^ 
remember one in which the only real point at issue was the ident/r^ 
of a village. It really was doubtful, from the evidence, whether i t 
had one name or another, whether there were one or two villagc^^» 
and even whether it existed at all or had become merged in son» ** 
other. Native accounts are generally beyond the European ir^** 
tellect. Fortunately for the judicial brain, the Procedure Co.^ 
enables them to be handed to experts, who can submit an abstrai 
of their investigations to the Court. 

The Bench, more especially the District and Sessions Jud^e, }^^^ 
subject to various annoyances, or what would be considered such ir^ ^ 
England. He is immediately and solely subordinate to the Hig^ ^I^ 
Court, and it is the constant practice of* perhaps, disappointe-'^^^^ 
suitors to send anonymous letters to the latter, with accusatioi 
against the partiality of the judge. In one, 1 remember, it w: 
seated that he watched the eye of an old influential planter 
the district, i^ho was in the Vabit cf attending the Court for 
he was interested in ; and the innuendo was, of course, that 




*emtnis€ences of the ** Mafassar Law Courts. 83 

ions were given in accordance with some well-understood ocular 

1. Another judge had, in open Court, expressed his disapproba- 

of the practices of some weaUhy native gentlemen who had 

ed a sort of ring for the purposes of what, in legal parlance, is 

' niaintainance " and "champerty." Immediately after this 

ved an anonymous letter of a ver)' threatening character, and, 

loger still, he very soon after died in a way mysterious enough 

K*anant sl post-mortem examination being held. The result of the 

ination, I beheve, sufficiently accounted for the death without 

ifying the uneasiness felt that there had been foul play ; but the 

sc of death was, I understood, a rather unusual one, and the 

cidence created a good dea! of suspicion, which to this very day 

ct, perhaps, entirely remo\'ed from the minds of some. 

J\Q\ infrequently one witnesses fierce combats between a couple 

niesin the open ground round the Courts. They are in consider- 

€ numbers, the properties chiefly of " Muktars" and litigants, and 

ys secured to the trunk or bough of a tree, or to the wheel of a 

Stive vehicle from which, perhaps, they have been unharnessed, 

ccasionally they break loose, and immediately " go for " some other 

cy close by, and then most desperate fights take place. They 

like wild bea5ts, rear, kick, bite, and roll each other over in the 

; and it becomes a combat a ouirance^ until their owners or 

filers rush to the spot, and with difficulty secure them again. And 

*« ibe midst of the dense crowd round the Courts you will often see 

* "fatBrahminy bull walking lazily along to find some more suitable 

V=^';ture, or on his way to join the herd of cows which daily grazes 

K^ the scanty grass. Little or no notice is taken of him, his 

^'•[•^utice h a sufficient guarantee of his disinclination fur any kind 

*^ ^gij^ession that necessitates the least activity. 

fhe Court hours are from n \.m. to 4 p.m., unless ihey are 

^^ged, as they sometimes arc during the few hottest months, and 

ft ">«ithcy are from 7 a.m. to 1 1 a.m. There is always a considerable 

jp ^td lingering round and about the various offices, long after 

"'^ Courts rise, but it gradually dwindles away, and by sunset the 

^actbusy scene has completely changed. 

A. D. BOLTON. 






G2 



84 Tim Gentleman s Magazine, 



tn 1 



\ 



THE DOG IN BRITISH POETRY. 

THE critic of poetry who cares nothing for dogs is at once 
warned away from this article. For I will admit readily 

that comparatively few British poems about dogs are great ^ in 

the sense that Wordsworth insisted upon— and the rest must be 
approached sympathetically for the subject's sake. It is, after all, 
merely a question of the personal equation,* Not even with th ^ 
assistance of Mr. Henky, say, can " the smooth-faced, snub-nose 
rogue " be induced to delight in poems devoted to warlike themes .-? 
or the misogynist be made to take pleasure in love-sick ditties 
But, without further forewords I will attempt, iin short space, to 
review the position of the dog in British poetry, from the middle 
ages to the present day. 

In the mediaeval metrical romances are found the first note- 
worthy references in our language to the dog. Thomas the Rhymer 
of Ercildoune, wrote "Sir Tristrem'' some time in the thirteenth 
century. The story is familiar, of course, but the pathos of it is 
here augmented by the knight's dog also being brought under the 
spell of the fatal love potion. 

An hounde thcr was biside 

Thai was y-clept Hodain, 
The coupe he licked that tide, 
Thoogh doim it sett Brengwaiu* 

Tristrem and the beautiful Ysonde of Ireland, 

Thai loved wilh all her might, 
And Hodain dede a1 so, 

When Tristrem was banished to Wales, and fought for Trianour 

The king a welp he brought 

Bifor Tristrem the irewe . . , 
His name was Peticrewe, 

Of him was michel priis, 

* This is clearly shown by two chance criticisms of my recent book, *' The 
Dog ID British Poetry'* : "An unfortunate idea badly carried <i^\'^'—Athtn^uw%. 
•' A trwe anthology, and one of the most delight/ul we know of, both from die 
dog- lover's point of view, and that of the lover of poetry." — Saturday ligviem. 




The Dog ill British Poetry 



85 



irnoTe interesting than these occasional references is an anony- 

^^''^^ rendering, done in the fourteenth century, of one of the stories 

t "^-fee *' Seven Sages/' an Indian romance, written probably before 

^^ CZr"hristtan era. The story would not, of course, be complete with* 

D^'^t: a. moral, which is that women are not to be implicitly believed; 

Jpc^ the romance will be recognised as an earher version of the tragedy 

IF " Bethgellert "—an ancient Aryan myth that has come down to 

HP^ through several European sources. A knight had a baby boy» 

■*^d loved nothing half so well, except another jewel — "a greyhound 

•^*^l was good and snel " (swift). The nurses deserted the child 

"^^ile ihey went to attend a tournament which was being held close 

^ hand IVfeanwhile ''a nadder," disturbed by ** trump, tabor, and 

"^Icxiy, and heraldis' loud cr)'," crept from a crevice, intending to 

slay the infant. The greyhound, however, was on watch — 

There they foughten logelhcr long, 

An«! eiiher wounded the other strong. 

'The cradle went upside-down, but the child "had nought but 
good"— 

It no woke nor it no weep, 

Bui all still and sleep. 

^^Vn the maids returned they were dismayed not to discover the 

toy. Seeing that the greyhound was bloody, they told their mistress 

^t the animal had gone mad in their presence, and had eaten the 

child The distracted mother repeated the lie to the knight, who 

M a frenzy slew his dog, as the favourite " set both his feet on high 

tipon his breast to make solas." A serving*man, ordered to take 

lie cradle away, discovered the child, and exclaimed, ''Alas ! thy 

good greyhound ! Here is thy son whole and sound." The knight 

ru seized with remorse, and, going to a fishpond in his orchard— 

For ihe dole of his hound 

He leapt in and sank lo ground. 

There is one other metrical romance in which the dog plays an 
important part^discovered in a collection of MSS., found late in the 
reign of Henry VI, Arcadas, King of Aragon, had an unfaithful 
steward, who, baffled in his own designs on Queen Margaret's virtue, 
induced the king to banish her by means of a false charge of unfaith- 
liilness. The Queen was escorted by Sir Roger, an old knight, who 
is intercepted by Sir Marrock, the steward, and slain. But Sir 
Roger had a dog named Truelove, which, for weal or woe, would not 
Crom his master go, and at last buried him. For seven years (the 
same length of time that Greyfriar's Bobby stayed by his master's 
graiTe), Truelove remained by Sir Roger's body, and then, one 



The 



's Magazine, 



lastide, ran away to the king's paJace. The dog did not find 
in he sought and went away. But he paid a second visit to the 

shortly afterwards, and, finding Sir Marrock, "hent" him by 
iroat. The courtiers followed Truelove to Sir Roger's grave. 

They told the king all thus ; 
Alas ! said King Ardas 

Whal may this be to mean? 
I troH' Sir Marrock, by God's pain* 
Have iiain Sir Roger by some train, 

And falsely flemed' my queen. 

fir Roger's body was exhumed and found to have suffered no 
lecomposition, and the incident closes thus- — 
Sir Roger's corse» without delay, 
They buried it the other day, 
With nipny a bold baron ; 
His hound would not from him away, 
But ever on his grave he lay. 
Till death had brought him down, 

John Barbour (fourteenth century) describes very graphically, in 
his ** Bruce," the pursuit of the patriot by John of Lome, and how 
Bruce put the bloodhound off the scent by wading through some 
water. And Blind Henry the Minstrel relates, about a century 
later in his poem on "Wallace/' the protagonist's escape from a 
bloodhound by his killing his treacherous companion Fawdoun. 
The sleuth stoppit at Fawdoun still shestude, 
Nor fiiilher she wald, frae time she found the blude. 

William Stewart tells, in his ** Bulk of the Cronicles of Scot- 
land," of a bloody battle between the Picts and Scots, all about a dog 
that the Picts stole during King Carthlyntus's hunting party in the 
Grampians. Chaucer has numerous references to dogs in the 
Nonnes Preestes Tale, where the rape of Chanticleer is related ; in 
the " Book of the Dutchesse ; " and in the prologue to the " Canter- 
bury Tales," where we make the acquaintance of that charming 
prioress, who 

was so charitable, and so piteous 

She would weep if that she iaw a mouse 
Caught in a trap, if it were dead, or bled. 
Of small hounds had she, that she fed 
With roasted flesh and milk and waste! bread* 
But sore wept she if one of them were dead. 
Or if men smole it with a yard smart — 
And all was conscieoce and tender heart. 

In the Knightes Tale Chaucer makes a passing reference to T.yci 

gus' alauns— a long extinct Caucasian breed. Juliana Bern* 

' Banished. * Made of fine flour. 



The Dog in Briiisk Poetry. 



87 



twioress of Sopwell Nunnery, is our earliest poetess, and in her 
*'Boke of St Albans," published in 1481, are to be found the famous 
Unes on the properties of a good greyhound : "a greyhound should 
beheaded like a snake, and necked like a drake," &c. 

Following chronological order the great Sir David Lyndsay 
comes next, with a long poem entitled " Bagsche's Complaint" 
This poem is, as so many other dog poems are, a parable to show 
the (ate of the unfaithful steward^ but the poet displays exceeding 
shrewd observation of the habits of dogs. 

Among the poets born in the fifteenth century, George Turbcr- 
villc is distinguished by his love of dogs, not only in his translation 
from the French, •' The Noble Art of Venerie," but in other poems. 
He has an excellent epigram addressed "to his loue that controllde 
tis dogge for fawning on him," in which he comes to the conclu- 
sion— 

But now at last (good faith \) I plainly see, 
Thai dc^ more *ise than women friendly be ; 



tod adds— 



The proverb old is verified in you, 

Love me and Love my Dog — and so adieu ! 



The inimitable Sir John Harington has several "wittie ejij- 
§^s"of a similar nature, and there are numerous admirable doggy 
«QiiIes in his translation of " Orlando Furioso." On the title-page of 
llifi translation appear-; a picture of Bungey, the favourite spaniel 
Wllich Sir John has immortalised. Who reads Michael Drayton's 
cpus^ ** Poly-Olbion," nowadays? But if one has the 
lo wade through it, a fine description of a coursing- match 
w3l be found as a reward. 

Shakspere shows his careful study of nature in the case of 

dogs as in all other directions. His finest and most famous passage 

in which dugs figure is the reported conversation between Theseus 

«Dd Hippolyta on the music of the hunt. The King invites the 

Queen to mark ** the musical contusion of hounds and echo in con- 

jiinction»" and she replies — 

I was with ilercutcs and Cadmus once, 
When in a wood of Crete lliey bayed the bear 
Wiih hounds of Sparta : never did I hear 
liuch gallant chiding ; for, besides the groves, 
The skies, the founlains, every region near* 
Seemed all one mutual cry : I never heard 
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 




len there are Helena's humble likening of herself to Deraetrjus's 
iel, " The more you beat me I will fawn on you " \ and Edgar's 




he Dog in British Poetry, 



89 



eleg)'," wrote Sir Walter Scott, " turns upon a circumstance 
when I kept greyhounds, I felt a considerable alloy to the 
I mean the necessity of despatching the instroments and par- 
four amusements when they begin to make up by cunning for 
|cncy of youthful vigour/' Thomas Yalden has a fable— 
le treachery of a farmer's dog — as good as Gay's, and that 
great deal. Thomas Tickell left behind him an interest- 
lent on hunting-dogs," in which he gives some admirable 
n the choice of dogs and their training and breeding. But, 
;, the classic poem on this subject is by William Somervile. 
hase " is long and exhaustive— perhaps exhausting, as well. 
son's comment on this poem was : ** Somervile is allowed 
men to write with great intelligence of the subject, which is 
equisite to excellence, and though it is impossible to interest 
ion readers of verse in the dangers or pleasures of the 
! has done all that tradition and authority could effect" 
icrvation of doggy traits in his Fables impress one with its 
■d truth." How admirably drawn is that village cur, " the 
l^y of the place," that yelps at everj'thing indiscriminately, 
/es its due reward ! 



\ 



Thy teasing longne had judgment tied, 
Thou hadst not as a puppy died : 



tne knows well babbling Ringwood, and that mastiff, which, 
; with two fighting dogs, learned the truth of Butler's 
rf* Those who in quarrels interpose must often wipe a bloody 
■rnspits are no more, but Gay's turnspit, which gave cook 
■ich trouble, enables us to see the spit still turn. The 
fcrals are not so happy, but his elegy on Shock is a pleasant 
ope's Bounce is one of the most famous dogs in British 

(Bounce to Fop" points a moral and adorns a tale. In 
the lines were attributed to Gayj but there is strong pre- 
dence that Pope was their author, Notbmg better in its 
e found than Pope's version— not translation — of the his- 
in the Odyssey, In sending it to Henry Cromwell, 
** Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of 
friends . . , And Homer's account of Ulysses's dog 
roost pathetic imaginable, all the circumstances con- 
an excellent proof of the old bard's good nature." The 
tion on the collar of one of Bounce's pups, given to 
ince of Wales, 

I am his Highness* dog at Kew. 
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you ? 




= =r , ,1 1 iMn-> r ^\« 




v- v^r- n.- :i^::^ • n^ J :L-r "^ ^^1= irrs-^ ^inj ib- d 
..'_-- -c*.:-, TV-.: v-i-.-t :.r : -= : :_? ^::z.^r- v^^r ^iiilrer 

i:yr!, V.f i/. .r: :.rv';.>v:. A '— ^ir--:- :t:»t^- ^^.nt . wa Dog 
»f,/: »/.'. /;.;;./,;;.': vrv.'-.-. -.it-, l.n i" •:t-.ir.:e< E\e--;'«irv Xov 

Joy " uiA uiuj h»rr. w*: have- rhc H'.r.. -A'. R. Sper.cer w::h his fame 

^ ,|i/| o/ Jjnh^'illr.H. I ^'^ve a-.reacy referred to :he probal 

fis of ll*«- »""y. I"'^ »*'^' ^*'**'''' *^ ^^^^'" '^^^ purports to be tl 



■Jt Pi 



^8*s grave neai Snowdon. A very inferior version of the legend 

**s irritten years afterwards by Richard Hengist Home, the author 

^'^ "Orion." Wordsworth published three poeras on dogs, of which 

tAe best^ and the best-known, is '* Fidelity." Both he and Scott, 

^aspired by the welJ*known tragedy on Helvellyn, wrote verses to 

commemorate the fidelity of the dog which watched so long over his 

HMster's mangled remains. Miss F. P. Cobbe, and the Rev. H. D, 

Jiawnsley, have refuted finally the sinister suggestion that Cough's 

femer sustained life by feeding on the corpse, and some enthusiasts, 

not content with the immortality conferred by the poets, have raised 

VL Stone on the mountain slope to the dog's memor)\ It is interesting 

to compare the two poets' treatment of the same theme. 

The best serious Scottish effort is undoubtedly Hogg's " Auld 
Hector," which challenges comparison with any poem on dogs : 

Come, my auld towzy trusty friend, 

What gars ye look sac dung wi' wae ? 
D'ye think ray favour's at an end 

Because ihy head is turn in' grey ? 

Although ihy strength begins lo fail, 

Its best was spent In serving me ; 
An* can I grudge thy wee bit meal. 

Some comfort in thy age lo gie ? 

Iti the first canto of ** Mador of the Moor," which poor Hogg 
*Totc to rival Scott's ** Lady of the Lake," is a description of the 
itnt>tiuous staghound Jowler, which does much to enrich a poor 
pertonnance. Scott, considering his love for dogs and his famous 
^da, is disappointing; for, apart from his poem on the Helvellyn 
'Strident, he wrote no verses devoted exclusively to " the friend of 
^" Arthur Hallam, it may be remembered, in a pretty passage 
pictured Scott surrounded by his dogs, Southey did the dog better 
l^'siice than his successor in the Laureateship. Southey's description 
^' 'he meeting of Roderick, the last of the Goihs» and his dog 
^'^Ooti, has always seemed to me very fine, notwithstanding the 
^^^ of Maginn, the Bohemian writer of the brilliant Homeric 
°^^ds. The incident here described caused Moore searchings of 
^ and he wrote to Byron for his opinion on the subject '* As 
^ 3j I could judge," Byron replied, " by a cur of my own (always 

% Boatswain, the dearest, and alas! the maddest of dogs!) Ihad 

(balf a wolf by the she side), that doted on me at ten years, and 

ale me at twenty. When I thought he was going to enact 

^*P*s, be bit away the backside of my breeches, and never would 

^^^''^t to any kind of recognition in despite of all kinds of bones 




The Dog in British Poetry. 95 

Elizabeth Banett Browning has immortalised the dog " Flush/' 
given to her by Miss Mitford, both in a sonnet and a longer poem ; 

Whiskered cats arotnteti fiec, 
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee 

Cologne distillations ; 
Nuts lie in thy path for stones^ 
And thy feast«dlay macaroons 

Turn to daily rations J 

Chax!^ Tennyson-Turner composed a most tenderly pathetic sonnet 
on a drowned dog. Lord Tennyson himself wrote of ** Old Roa's " 
(Rover's) heroism at a fire — a splendid and unique poem in its way, 
and one which would be much more popular were it not in the 
Northern farmer's dialect ; and, of course, the late Laureate made 
numerous references in his writings to dogs. Str Francis Doyle 
celebrated a regimental pet— the "Fusiliers' Dog'' — and inscribed 

^ OP a dog's monument — 

^K If God be lore, tvhat sleeps below was not 

^V Without a spark divine, 

' Robert Browning's "Tray/' included in all popular selections of his 
works, is a description of an incident actually witnessed in Paris, 
vfaere a dog saved a child from drowning, and then plunged into the 
water again to save the child's doll The poet here and in " Arcades 
Ambo " pointed the finger of scorn at vivisectors. A very clever 
poem is that of Dr. Norman Madeod, " The Waggin' of our Dog's 
Tailt" in which a dog moralises upon the people he meets. The 
iaUowing is a fair specimen : 

He saw a laddie swaggcrin* big 

Frae lap to tae sae Irimi O ! 
Quo' he» " It's no' for a dog to laugh 

That once was a pup like him, O i " 

^Smong Eliza Cook's numerous verses on dogs, only those addressed 
to One of Ancient Race are worth reading. But the finest poet of the 
dog from the modem standpoint is without question Matthew Arnold. 

I Who can read that perfect poet's elegies on Geist and Kaiser with- 
out being touched? The first-named companion he pictured 
thus : 
We stroke thy broad brown paws again. 
We bid thee to thy vacant chair, 
We greet ihee by the window pane, 
Wc hear thy scuffle on the stain 
We sec the flaps of thy large ears 
Quick raised to ask which way we go ; 
Crossing the frozen lake, appears 
Thy small black figure on the snow. 



fOUC 

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94 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

Very tender and true is the pathos breathing through every 
the humour of ^'Kaiser" is above praise. In Arnold*s elegy on 
his canary Matthias we are introduced to other dog- friends. 
Lastly, Calverley's amusing lines on his *' crumple- visaged Ti " should^ 
not be overlooked* \ 

When I come to living poets my task is more difficult. The 
noblest Roman of them all^Mr. George Meredith^mters a charac- 
teristic lament for his dead dachshund Islet. 



There lived with us a wa^jring hamourist 

In that hound*s arch dwarf-legged on boxing-gloves. 



I 



Mr. Gerald Massey is the author of some pathetic lines on a dead 
boy's dog and his portrait. Sir Edwin Arnold's translations of Eastern 
poems show us the dog in excdsis^n the beautiful legend from 
Islam's Rosary, and that grand Indian epic the Mahabharata. Mr. ^ 
Lewis Morris in "Songs of Two Worlds" and "In a Laboratory **■ 
delivers his soul against vivisection with more of the emotion of the 
poet than the common sense of the practical man. Mr. Buchanan's ^^ 
*' Willie Baird" shows the critic of the "Fleshly School" at htsH 
best, and the pathos of the schoolmaster's story and poor old 
Donald is pleasingly free from alTectation. Most will quarrel 
with the inclusion of Mr. G. R. Sims, Mr. W. H, Mallock, and 
Mr. Rawnsley, among the poets ; but Mr. Sims has told a strong 
story "to the missionary." Mr. Mallock's spirit of inquiry has led 
him to effectively question the hereafter of dogs, and Mr. Rawnsley 
has shown a fine knowledge of his favourite animal in " W^e meet at 
morn." Finally, there is Mr. William Watson, the youngest pupil of 
the Muse, ^vith an excellent epitaph : 



His friends he loved, Hk felleit earthly foes. 
Cats, I believe, he did but feign to hate. 



I 



The evolution of poetry about dogs (and that of dogs themselves) 
is worth investigation. But I must here be content with letting my 
hasty review suggest its own conclusions to the reader, who, if ha 
peruse the poems to which I have called attention, cannot fail tol 
feel a deeper attachment to 



The joy, the solace, and the aid of man» 

The rich roan's guardian and the poor man's friend, 

The only creature faithful to the end. 






R. MAYNARD LEONARD. 



95 



W 



MISSUS AND I. 

A WILTSHIRE BALLAD. 



HAILE zheppurds wattched ther vloks by naight "- 
It do vriz, zartin zure ! — 
Yew zilver ztars, ye zhines zo braight, 
Bekase He wor zo poor ! 



I zeems to zee, thic laimeztoan Cave, 

His Mayden Mawther maild ! 
The zhadow of luw*s launly Grave, 

Swathing th' Immortal Chaild ! 

III. 
I zits, and studs ! — 

Mai missus zleeps, 
Past years vlit zoftly by ; 
Wee patterin' vootsteps near me creeps, 
And wakk up mimory. 

IV. 

I mainds, when I wint coorting her, 

A rose-bloom on hur veace ; 
Our vurst kiss, neath the vriendly vir, 

Hur blushing vargin greace ! 

v. 

I nivver velt a man, till then, 

Aveard, with Uzzah's 'and, 
To touch the Hark !— 

But bless *ee ! then, 

I 'gan to hunderstand, 



96 The Gentleman s Magazine. 



VI. 



That man and mayd med mak this earth 

The hangers resting-place ; 
Vind Heaven amang their children's mirth, 

Or else vind Hell's disgrace ! 

VII. 

Rooin ov hempires ! — gashly wrecks, 

Vlung on the zhores ov Time ; 
Death-spactres, shriekin* vrom those decks, 

Skarred wi' Kain's brand ov crime. 

VIII. 

It do vriz shairp, ould Veather Time I 
Ow zound poor mawther zleeps ! 

The winder 's gr^y wi vorest-rime, 
Ow peart thic moonbaym peeps. 

IX. 

Peep on !— and kiss hur zilvery hayr. 

Peace — wisper droo hur dream ! 
Zhew she the zitty hilt vour-squayr, 

Plashed by Luw's crystal stream. 

X. 

Waife ov ma yewth ! 

Our dead zleeps well- 
One, neath the deep blue zea, 

Tangled wi' weed and pink zea-shell — 
He be not dead to we ! 

XI. 

Missus and I ! — 

We humbly waits 

(She wor mai boyish luw) ; 
Kneeling outzide vaith's gowlden gates. 

Till we be caalled abuw. 



ALAN BRODRICK. 




THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS. 



H 



OW many there are iti this England of ours who, quicker than 
the fleeting days, picture to themselves with a loving eye 
sotne tillage churchyard as a calm and slumberous refoge 'twixt time 
and eternity ! 

In the midst of life's wear and tear, its "fitful fever," it appears 
good to them to rest the eye of the mind upon the green-turfed 
tnounds that swell towards the rustling trees, in which bird calls to 
bird amidst a calm, a holy silence. The flowers that nod in the 
fitful breezes* the swaying trees beneath the cloud-flecked blue above, 
an, all appeal with the sympathy of a dumb life to the living who are 
to di& In imagination they see the rustic folk crossing the meads 
to Sunday w*orship— drawing closer and closer to them as they lie 
there. In spite of the cold earth, they feel that they will not 
be alone. A human sympathy will brood over them, named or 
nameless dust though they may be. No \ A quiet English church- 
yard has no horrors for the speculative thinker on the future, or at 
least none that will bear comparison with theg!oom-shrouded depths 
of catacombs. To such a one, penetrating the darkness that veils 
the J>ones of the dead thousands, the thought that he may hope to 
rest one day beneath the flowers and trees, comparatively close to 
the glorious light of sun, will fall like a refreshing dew upon his 
soiil. 

To some people it will come as a surprise to hear that there are 
catacombs at Farii. 

The fame of the similar collection of human remains at Rome 
would appear to have dwarfed out of sight the wondrous quarries 
that stretch beneath the greater portion of soulhern Paris, Never* 
theless, the catacombs of the French capital are a wonderful and a 
weird sight, and one that is open to any member of the public who 
makes a written application to Monsieur le Prefet de la Seine. 
Their historical origin b interesting, and aptly exemplifies the changes 
that liroe brings in its train* From a remote past down to the seven- 
teenth centuf)"^ they were merely quarries whence stone was drawn, 
*nd drawn to keep pace with the growth of the city above them. 

\OU CCUUCVIL NO, 1963. K 



i 



i 



98 TAe Gentleman s Magazine* 

The natural consequence of this drain upon the vitals of Tncci 
support was a subsidence, in 1774, which^ by damaging property a 
bringing about numerous accidents, informed the public that so] 
one must do something, or that nobody would be left to do a 
thing. 

In 1777 a still stronger hint from below roused the Governm4 
to an activity, which expended its energy in supporting with piers a 
buttresses the most dangerous portions of the affected area. Th« 
works, continued from year to year, proved a fertile source of expens 
In 1784 the question arose as to the disposal of the relics i 
mortality which wrere to be removed from the disused cennetery \ 
the InnocentSp 1 

It was suggested that the quarries should be still furth^ 
strengthened and rendered compact by their adoption as catacomb! 
The suggestion met with approval, was adopted, and the transfer i 
the vast accumulation of bones entered upon with all due precai 
tions* It was thus that the quarries became the garner-room of tf 
Destroyer ; it was thus, as the various cemeteries within the cl 
ceased to yawn for their dead, that they were made to yield up thj 
silent tenants. 

In 1786 the catacombs were solemnly consecrated. At 
period the bones and skulls were being cast down on the floors of 
caverns and passages in great heaps, without any attempt at order 
arrangement ; nor was it till the year 1812 that the authorities con 
menced the work which has culminated in the present artia 
presentment of that which once formed the framework of livl 
thousands. 

Come ! we will descend together as two members of the pubi 
and see a portion of this underground and siknt world that extent 
its ramifications beneath 200 acres of Paris. We are in possessKl 
of our " permits," and according to direction find ourselves at tl 
principal entrance on the right of the Place Denfert-Rochereau, 

We take our places in the qneus of those about to descend. \V 
buy candles* An obliging stranger tears off a square piece fromj 
newspaper and hands it to us with a polite bow. The careful 
courteous man ! He explains to us that presently it will be usdfi 
if only *Mes messieurs " will adopt this plan of catching the droppitii 
of a flickering candle held in the bare hand ; and so saying | 
triumphantly thrusts his candle with a ripping, tearing noise ihrouf 
the paper. The idea is good, so good that it travels along the qu^ 
and each candle soon boasts a paper guard. One o'clock strifci 
The door guarding the entrance to the ninety steps that lead i 



^ 



t 




The Catacombs of Paris. 



m 



^low swings open. Its harsh grating is the signal for a brisk 

^silUde of match'firing reports. The matches are applied to the 

<5indles ; a strong odour of tallow seethes through the mellow sun- 

thine^ and through its sickly fumes we commence to slowly advance. 

AJready the leading file has vanished within the doorway, and as we 

^ turn approach the orifice a dull roar pours sullenly out to meet us. 

'^ramp, tramp, tramp — we have passed beneath the archway, we are 

<^^scending the spiral of the stone staircase. The air is heavy with 

'ne clangour of ponderous footfalls— murky with candle smoke 

"^^i veils with weird elTect the flickering, draught -driven light. As 

™*« and just so far, as we can see above and below us, all is in move- 

^*^^nt ; dresses, coats, candles whirl slowly, uncertainly dowmvards, 

TTic very walls seem to writhe in the uncertain light, to mutter and 

'^^oan with inarticulate voices, 

Down, down, down ! All are in the rock-home of Death. A 

'*^Ciment*s pause, a silence falls on the chattering crowd. Then, 

^-^*^»ghted with their second's fear, they sway onwards through a rocky 

gallery. Rock on either side of them, rock above them ; here 

^^*ie and arid, there slimy with oozing water and foul growths. The 

passage broadens out, it narrows, and ever and ever there is the 

V>\ack hne on the roof that marks the road. Suddenly a black shadow 

on the left or to the right. The eye plunges into the depths of these 

side roads, and recoils aghast at their mysterious gloom. The lights 

^ * on, A thin glitter seams a dark gap with a flickering, broken 

^ ' '- of light. " Ah," says the guide. '* Yes, a chain I " 

Still, forward, the shadows to right and left grow in size \ some 
^^ve a sentry silently guarding their obscurity from rash obtrusion ; 
*here there is no sentry there is a chain. 

A sudden check from in front breaks the continuity of the 
^'^ movement. 

^^ move on again, and lo I the rocks en either hand contract, 

J'QAnge colour, break out into the gruesome design of a symmetrically 

"* Wall of bones and skulls. From the level of our heads down to 

^ l^vel of our feet, skull rests upon skull, and leans back against 

^ ''myriad bones behind. The shivering candlelight falls with un- 

*^^ rays upon the formal tiers ; it flashes coldly upon the grinning 

^^ penetrates the mortarless crannies of the wall, and ever shows 

y^^ of many shapes and cun'es. Now it lights up a rent in some 

^ "^ ghastly, jagged wound which haunts one with the thought 

^^ murder. Anon, it shimmers with erratic play on the trickling 

^*^f that, pursuing its silent way from year to year, has crusted with 

^^th gloss the skull beneath. 






lOO The Gentleman s Magazine, 

Again the crowd checks. In the moment's pause yoi 
the wall An earth-stained skull, perhaps because larger t 
comrades, centres your attention on its sunken orbits. You 
over it, are drawn to it, and as in a dream lay hands on its i 
cranium. The cold, clammy contact I Ah \ how different fir 
warmth of a loving friend. Yet perchance this^ this too, w^ 
friend, the loadstone of a deep, broad love. ■ 

On again, once more, and this time quicker. The skul 
past in confused lines. It is a dance of death. A rock shoe 
view, bursts through the skulls. It is marked with black chai 
which tell you that "it is sometimes better to die than to live. 

Rock and lettering fade back into the darkness, but aga 
again the light outlines a phrase such as " Tombeau de la P 
tion," ** Tombeau des Victimes," or a motto that sinks deep li 
soul. 

The designs in skull and bone become more complicated- 
walls become more lofty, rush from straight lines into curves, : 
the form of chapels. Around and about you are skulls, skulls, 
Once these residues of men were even as you and I are now, 
of it, each mouldering bone was once part of a life— a life ! 
now, Tragedy and Comedy lie indifferently side by side, 
and poverty, the great and the low, lie jaw by jaw. 

None too great, none too humble to enter into Death's 
gift to the darkness that reigns in the catacombs. Their wor 
passed away, and the old order has given place to the new ths 
surges and seethes by their crumbling bones. They have be 
a tide in the ocean of life, they have flawed and they have ebt 

But even as you dream or gibe, according to temperara 
one of these chapels, a faint, prolonged rustle comes stealing 
ear, swells and falls, and vanishes mystenously as it came. 

What is it? The guide catches an inquiring eye, and ex 

with a wealth of incisive gesture, that it is the rats moving 

makes the blood run cold with the horror of his account of 

\ who have been lost in the catacombs and hunted to their dei 

the sharp -teethed rodents. 

He expatiates with pardonable pride on the precaution 
taken by the authorities to guard against casualties of this i 
and sinks his voice to a whisper as he mentions the lost hi 
of 1871. He points to the dark, chain-barred passages as I 
you who and what these men were. 'Tis a tale that dwell 
blood- red past— a past which gave birth to the Commune 
^^ The Germans had besieged Paris and taken it ; they had e 



The Catacombs of Paris. 



lOI 



^^e ciiy as conquerors, and with their departure the humiliatet 
^^persensiti%'e city was to be further outraged by its own bas( 
passions* The National Guard had been even during the siege" 
<lisaffected towards the Government of the Republic, and with the 
departure of the Germans, it saw in the weakness of the Govern- 
*^^nt ihen located at Versailles its opportunity for revolt J Not having 
'^^^^ disanned, it possessed a brute force which gave it courage to 
^^ — ^it carried off the cannon to the heights of Montmarlre and 
Belleville, under the plausible excuse of preserving them from the 

I^his was, in effect, revolt : and so President Thiers read it. 
^^^ attempted the removal of the cannon on March i8. He failed ; 
■^^id sq commenced the insurrection of the Commune and a siege ot 

A hundred thousand National Guards, together with the desperate 

^•^racters common to every great city, w*ere the thews and sinews 

VHis social revolution, which was directed against property and 

^^^our- masters. It was initiated by working men, but in its short 

'*^ of two months it was to seek power of the devil of cruelty, and 

^^^^ encourage lo the surface of Parisian life the petroleur and p^tro- 

*^\ise. It was to grow drunk with blood, and with sottish fury to 

^«'e ihe Hotel de Ville, the Palais de Justice, the Tuileries, the 

^^inistry of Finance ; it was to corrupt its own body with murderous 

"^^cess, and to slay by day and by night. Within the restraining 

•tafJuence of the Republican army concentrated at Versailles, it stung 

itself like a fire- imprisoned scorpion. 

But the debilitated Government at Versailles was recuperating ; 

It drew the siege closer, and hurled shot and shell faster and faster 

^^'to the writhing city. It sent out its troops under Marshal 

^^acfrlahon, and with bayonet and bullet it bore down the Cnm- 

"'^'iists, slew them without trial, without mercy, with no quarter for 

J!^^**lcur or piftroleuse* Ten thousand corpses lay beneath its 

'^ory ; the streets and prisons were red with blood ; the mark of 

destroyer was on mansion and humblest of humble buildings. 

^y the lurid light which the recollections of the Commune emit, 

guide's answers to a bystander, that the lost hundred were 



th^ 



fl^l L^De partie dc la garde nalionale, la plus dangereusc, la plus redoulcc, cellc 
Kj^**tM3»nt le «iige n'avait pas craint, en presence de I'ctrartger, sous ses yeux, 
^Tt **s t>ombcs, de chcrcher i renvtrser par des coups de niain le gouvernement 
li* ^ defense nationale, cclle portion haineuse et ficvrcuse de la mil ice citoyenne 
f^ ^it point rendu les armcs, ct vommee de le faire, avait rcpondu par un tefus 
,*^^1 aux injonctioa* de ramorild.— De Beaumont-Vassv, Hut, dc la 



Ofj 



^antrn 1871, 



i 



S02 



The Genilemans Magazine 




insurgents and part of the garrison of Fort A'anves, becomes power- 
fully suggestive. And to here a question and there a question he 
makes reply, of how the insurgents fled before the Republican 
troops, on the fall of Fort Vanves, And how they had rushed away 
from the bayonets on their track to endeavour to seek safety in the^ 
silent gloom of the catacombs, ■ 

His graphic words, intensified by the environment, reconstruct 
the scene, paint it with the vivid colours of a nightmare to the eyeballs 
straining to the dark mouth of the passages beyond. In thought, he 
takes us with the panic-stricken soldiers into the labyrinth. We feels 
a feverish fear of pursuit driving us further and further into th^B 
secretive gloom. A halt — and our labouring hearts grow calmer 
amidst the silence that yields no shout, no muffled footfall of 
pursuer. But our torches consume faster and faster away ; we must 
again seek light of day. Yet how t Everywhere, road across road, 
silent skull by silent skull, with never a clue to the open air, to the 
living world above. Again panic seizes us ; we run, run madly with 
many a stumble, for life. Exhaustion finds us alone. Our comrades 
gone* Our torch, guarded with trembling hand, burning low. We 
hear the rats gathering in their hordes outside the pale of kindly, 
merciful light They throw down a skull that roils heavily to our 
feet. The light^ 

Ah ! It must have been awful to have died in that thick black- 
ness with never a ray of light or hope. And we grow thankful 
that, as two of the public, we move on and on to the exit at the Rue_ 
Dareau, and find there life and sunshine. 

NEIL WYNN WILLIAMS. 




TABLE TALK. 



Comic Opera m England. 

MJ^. PERCY FITZGERALD'S sketch of the Savoy Opera 
supplies a striking chapter in the history of dramatic and 
musical entertainment in England Apart from the altogether excep- 
tional ability of the two men, the librettist and the composer, to 
whom the most brilliant and successful of the series are due, the 
cxpennaent still in progress is interesting as the only successful 
attempt yet made to establish a genuinely national opera in the 
country. Many of my readers may remember the latest and most 
ambitious of their efforts, when, some thirty years ago, Macfarren's 
"Hdvellyn " and other works were given. The result of these, as of 
other previous experiments, was disastrous. The Lyceum, under 
the management of S, J. Arnold, was known as the English Opera 
Hoose, and many works which still rank high in musical estimation, 
oocabJy Baraett's ** Mountain Sylph," were given. These included 
productions by numerous composers, from Braham to Mvicfarren. 
Tbey were not wholly English, the most successful of all being Weber's 
**Der Freischiiti," which preceded the ** Mountain Sylph" by about 
tea years, being first given \xi English in 1S24. Drury Lane, under 
consecutive managements, produced English operas by Balfe^ Wallace, 
Benedict, and other composers ; Harrison and Miss Louisa Pyne 
played Enghsh operas both in London and in the country^ but 
kinterspersed with them, if I rightly remember, adaptations from 
'the French. I am, at any rate, safe in saying that no previous 
experiment has been so continuous, so successful, or approximately 
so remunerative as that of which, in his '* The Savoy Opera," ^ ^Ir. 
jPercy Fitzgerald has constituted himself the historian. 

Mr. Fitzgerald's " Savoy Opera." 

IN the course of his task, Mr. Fjt;:gerald becomes the biographer 
of Mr. Gilbert and also, to some extent, of Sir Arthur Sullivan. 
Upon Mr. Gilbert's literary career he dwells admiringly, pointing out 
in how many lines he has attained excellence and even eminence. 
To the writer of " Sweethearts," " Tragedy and Comedy," '* Dan'l 
^ Chatto & Wind us. 





-1 AW 




104 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

Druce," and otiier similar works, including even pieces sucl 
*' Charity," " RandalFs Thumb," and "Tom Cobb," it is imposs: 
to refuse the title of a dramatist. His experiments in ** Ten 
lurvydom " stand alcne and apart — things which no one 
approached. In some of these, which have no aid of music, M 
Gilbert shows to higher advantage than in comic operas his am: 
gifts. This is, however, but a single opinion, and is probably 
that of one in ten of my readers. I, none the less, regard 
Palace of Truth/' and "Pygmalion and Galatea/* to say nothing C 
** Sweethearts," which is just as fantastic as either, with an affeciio 
that I am not able to bestow on **The Pirates of Penzance" c 
'*The Mikado/' masterly and popular as I own these to be. 1 
is with the Savoy operas that Mr, Fitzgerald is primarily cor 
cerned. His prefatory sketch of Mr, Gilbert's career has, howeve 
much interest. Abundant justice is done to Mr. Gilbert's raoi 
serious efforts, and a word of favourable comment is bestowed npc 
pieces such as " The Ne'er Do Well " and " Brantlingham Hall 
neither of which succeeded, while one had the unenviable fortune; 
be presented in two different shapes and to fail in both. I 

Origin of the Latest Form of Comic Opera. i 

IN the success of " Cox and Box," in which Mr. Gilbert had no sha 
the libretto being by Mr. Burnand, the first suggestion of i 
series of Savoy Opera seems to be found, "Thespis among iJ 
Olympians,'' produced at the Gaiety on Boxing Day, 1871, was Ml 
Gilbert's first effort at operatic extravaganza as distinguished fron 
burlesque, in which form of composition he had made some previou 
essays. I am one of the few people who recall the performance atth 
Sl James's of *' Dulcamara," Mr. Gilbert's first dramatic productior 
a burlesque on old lines, but showing a freshness and drollery nc 
then common in that form of composition. On March 27, 1871 
at the Royalty Theatre, the partnership of Gilbert and SuUiva 
began wnth '* Trial by Jury," subsequently transferred lo the Strand. I 
the eariy work Mr. Gilbert exhibited most of the peculiarities b 
which his subsequent pieces are characterised. Banter of som 
dignitary, of which a species of comic autobiography forms a par 
underlies most of the operatic work. In this case it was a judge, 1 
his " Bab Ballads" bishops had been a special object of his railler 
In subsequent days we were to ascend from an admiral to a loi 
chancellor, and royalty itself was not quite to escape the harden* 
jester. Not less prophetic^ so to speak, of the future, was Sir Arthui 
share, and the music had, besides its drollery and beauty^ thatalmc 
ecclesiastical flavour which has since remained a principal charm. 




Table Talk. 



105 



GlLBERTIAN HUMOUR. 

'X tR. FITZGERALD'S work consists of record rather than 
A.\l comment, and, as such, is the more important. Having 
^tuessed himself most, if not all, of the first representations of ihe 
Sa^ay operas, Mr. Fitzgerald is a trustworthy chronicler. In addi- 
tion, moreover, to the analogue of the play and the description of 
tViecharaciers, he gives us gems from the dialogue, and reproduces as 
illustrations many of the most picturesque or suggestive scenes. I 
<io not know whose is the indiscretion, but Mr. Gilbert's proceedings 
at rehearsal, comic enough in many cases, but always valuable as far as 
tiw effect to be produced is concerned, are faithfully depicted. When 
an actress, more than a little proud of her position, told Mr, 
Gilbert that she objected to standing anywhere but in the centre of 
thestage^ Mr. Gilbert good-naturedly and persuasively urged, " Oh 1 
^ui this is not Italian opera ; this is only a low burlesque of the 
ytorsi jjossible kind." Always equally firm, but not always equally 
Jitc, \?as the great master of "Topsyturvydom " with men. It may 
iotoest Mr Fitzgerald as well as the reader to know that at the pro- 
duction of one of his early pieces, long before the Gilbert-Sullivan 
^junction, an old and obstinate ballet-master refused to set 
tianceasMr, Gilbert wished* It could not, the ballet-master 
'Pfotested, be done, and he paced up and down the stage muttering 
'^^Hatcan he know about it?" "Very well,-' said the peremptory 
»dno less obstinate author, "cut out the ballet ! " It is needless 
^J ay that, in defiance of impossibility, all that was required was ulti- 
'JWelydone, One utterance of Mr. Gilbert I will quote from the 
Iful volume. *' I have no notion," writes he to Mr. Fitzgerald, 
^l^t Gilbertian humour may be. It seems to me that all humour, 
P^Pwly so called, is based upon agrave and quasi-respectful treatment 
^''i^ie ridiculous and absurd." Notwithstanding this protest, Mr. 
'^'^«raJd holds that there is a special sort of '* Gilbertian humour *' 
«*hich the dramatist has the patent. 



Chaucer Bihliography, 



I T is now some years ago since a suggestion of mine as to the 
^ desirability of a complete Bibliography of Chaucer drew upon 
^ febuke (rom the zealous and erudite founder of the Chaucer 
^^y, who declared that the task had been accomplished. It was 
* ^ of the story of the gold and silver shield. The founder and I 
^^ not mean the same thing. At a recent meeting of the Biblio- 
*^piucal Society, Mr. H. B, Wheatley, F.S.A., read an important 
OQ the Bibliography of Cliaucer, in which the desirability of a 



i 



io6 



The GentUmatCs Magazine. 



guide to the scattered pLiblications of the poet was said to have been 
long felt In late years only has it been possible to marshal facts, 
many of which have been recently collected by Professor Skeat and 
other diligent and indefatigable students. Apart from MSS^ of 
which very many are in existence, four folio editions of the '* Canier- 
bury Tales " were printed, as is pointed out, in less than half a 
century by Caxton, Pynson, and Wynkyn de Worde* 1 am gkd to 
think that the work is likely to be undertaken, and can only hope 
that a specially desirable portion on which I previously insisted* the 
collation of the editions, and the declaration of the manner by which 
they can be identified, may be included in the scheme. This is 
chiefly useful to collectors, but is not without value to students. 

Pepvs Redivivus. 

MR. WHEATLEY has got half through his task of supplying 
the unabridged *' Diary of Samuel Pepys/*' to which I 
have previously referred. Four volumes out of eight have now 
leen the light, and the great diarist stands revealed to us in his 
true light. Not altogether calculated to raise our estimate of 
Pepys is the new information conveyed. As a *' human document," 
however, to use the slang of the day, his diary is the most precious 
we possess. Compared with his avowals, the frank debauchery of 
Casanova, the affected sincerity of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and 
the cynical sensuality of Retif de la Bretonne seem hypocrisy. It 
is marvellous now to conceive of men hesitating as to the interest 
of these self-con a dences, and giving them grudgingly bit by bit— i 
Now for the first time do we realise their fall significance, and find- 
how bare has been laid to us a human heart Jealous, libertine-^ 
cowardly, self-seeking, and " indifferent honest " is Pepys, but so 
from disliking him we have always prized his company and shake 
him, so to speak, by the hand. Now even, when we know hii 
better than ever, we cannot turn v?holly away from him. We pu 
up our lips and frown sternly at his peccadilloes. In the end w 
forgive him, he is such an amusing rascal I wonder if anyone 
pointed out how like he is to a creation (long subsequent) of Beau 
marchais ? Figaro is Pepys in Court livery. 






Pepys' Shortcomings, 



THE chief information we get with regard to Pepys is, as oni 
may say, concerning the more animal aspects of his nature— 
Upon his physical maladies he is needlessly difTusc. His mor^^ 
I G. "Bell & Sons. 



aOraents are more interesting to diagnose. He pleads in excuse 
of having purchased a pair of gloves trimmed with yellow ribbon 
(>f**Doll our pretty 'Change woman," that "she is so pretty, that, 
Godforgi\*eme 1 I could not think it (the expense) too much ;" 
then adds, with the naivete!; and candour that are the special 
of his confession — *' which is a strange slavery that I stand in to 
ily, that 1 value nothing else near it." But a poor excuse, how- 
r, is this homage to beauty, for those proceedings with Mrs. 
\c, often repented of and often renewed, which can incur from no 
moralist condemnation sterner than, in his penitential moods, Pepys 
is himself disposed to award. It is much to be regretted, however, 
that his adoration of the sex is accompanied by no great chivalry of 
When Mrs. Lane contracts a disastrous marriage he is only 
IS to escape the necessity of contributing to her aid. To his 
he behaves occasionally with intolerable rudeness, blackening 
fC)e,and owning to having once pulled her nose— surely the crown- 
indignity that can be put upon the fair sex. So hard did he 
I, moreover, that he made her weep, and, as he himself holds, 
without cause, since he opines that he must have hurt her. 
[Cntise Mr. Pepys, to bring tears into those eyes which shone so 
[br^gbtiy and concerning the glances of which thou wert so jealous 1 



**The Tree of Knowledge." 

iT DO not care as a rule to deal with matters that appear in 

|A other periodicals, especially things which I do not and cannot 

)ve. For once I depart from my practice. Under the head 

TTie Tree of Knowledge," many writers, some of them among 

who have made the boldest studies of feminine aberration, 

[«*ve discussed publicly, and, of course, before girls among others, 

^* duties of a mother in enlightening her daughters as to respon- 

***"itics and perils concerning which, to such, a mother only can 

,JP^< My own feelings rise in revolt against such investigations 

•^^orksof general circulation. I am going to scold nobody, not 

y^ the women who counsel what I think against beauty and 

rotate, I i^i]\ not even contribute any further ideas of my own. I 

'**y quote, however, with approval, a few words from different par- 

*^Pitors in the dispute who partake my view. Most outspoken of 

^ is Mrs. Lynn Linton : " I deprecate the public discussion 

^ ^e whole subject. I think it indecent and unnecessary, 

^^t are certain things which belong to the secret life of the 

i^oine, and to drag these out into the light of day is a violation 



I 




loS The Gentleman s Magazine, 

of all tlie sanctities, all the modesties of one's existefi__ 
Zangwill treats the notion with contempt. To tell girls c^'rtaijrthmgs 
is» he says, *'to credit them with a prurience which eren the woman- 
novel shall not persuade me to believe in. Since the whole question 
is never discussed honestly, the pother about it affords ine no instruc- 
tion and but little amusement." Mr. Walter Besant coquets a liitJe 
with the subject, but ''as to the expediency of teaching a giri what 
very likely her own father has never known " has doubts. Briefly and 
judiciously the Chief Rabbi holds *' that no necessity exists for 
a mother to disclose to her daughter those facts of which during her 
childhood she has been kept ignorant." Mrs. Gosse also speaks tem- 
perately and timidly, I am, at least, not alone in my dislike to such 
discussion. 

The Slain Bull-fighter. 

WHAT I have before said concerning the detestable influe 
of the Spanish bull fight has been amply justified. Thanks, 
principally to them, the Spaniard is the cruellest and most ferocious 
of European races. I have spoken of the mother holding out her 
infant to crow over the sight of a horse gored and ript up, and 
stumbling as it entangled its feet in its own intestines. On these 
horrors I will not further dwell Proof, however, of the influence 
of the sport is supplied in the fate of Espartero, gored to death 
in the Madrid arena while discharging his functions as matador. 
The poor fellow— for such, though loathing his occupation, I 
must call him— was carried outside to die. The audience, provided 
with a sensation the more, would hear of no stoppage of the enter- 
tainment, and the wrrida de toros, or baiting of the bulls, went on 
without a moment^s respite. Can my reader fancy anything much 
more grim than the life-blood welling away from the man outside ^ 
while the acclamations by the mob of his successor were ringing ij 
his ears ! I see that the question of repressing the bull^fight is- '^ 
about to be raised in the Spanish Parliament, Not very sanguin ^ 
am I as to the result. 1 fear indeed, that, supposing the resolutio 
to suppress the bull-fight to be carried in Parliament, an attempt b-^^ 
enforce the measure would bring about a revolution. Enforce^te«<j 
however, it must be if Spain is to rank as a civilised country, anr — jj 
if Europe is not still, as has been said, to "end at the Pyrenee^^,** 
What is worse is that the contagion has spread beyond the Pyreneei^^s, 
and that the fairest cities of Southern France are grievously infectt^^^d 
with it. An attempt, however, to introduce into Paris the thin err^<i 
of the wedge was, I am glad to think, a failure. 




SVLVANUS URBAH, 



■ 



THE 



ENTLEMANS MAGAZINE. 



August 1894, 



THE MONEY-SPIDER. 

By Phil Robinson. 

FLORA BUNCE was a widow, as comfortable in mind, body, 
and estate as any plump and satisfactorily dowered widow 
lid be. The deceased Bunce, though well enough off (when on 
Ih) to have lived without worrying himself, was an abject» 
liserable martyr to the notion that he was *'a man of business/' 
■iwito such an extent did he crucify himself and complicate corre- 
spondence over the veriest trifles, that his widow not only hated but 
^as terrified at the very mention of business, and, above all, of 
•*k|al business." Even the formalities as sole executrix and legatee 
^hich (supported and comforted during the process by at least half 
* ^ozen men of the law) she had to go through were almost more 
^l^n she could bear. Every time she found herself " commanded " 
")■ "Victoria, by the grace of God," &:c., or *' Hereby summoned," 
'^•Ji which fail not to execute" something, she considered herself 
*^y 1 degree off being a criminal, and within a measurable distance of 
^L And so when all was over she vowed she would have no more 
^ it, and putting all her affairs unreservedly into the hands of the 
*^ solicitor, Mr. Jabez Stamps, she retired into the backwaters of 
^'ramiuil life at Nutborough, and was living as quietly and peace- 
"^y as is permitted to a rich and somewhat foolish widow when the 
^J^ts about to be recorded occurred. 

Having had no children of their own, the Bunces had made 
"Cmselves responsible for an orphaned nephew, as far as it was 
^'^le for anybody to l>e " responsible " for such a combination of 
^^Ps as seemed to have entered into and possessed themselves 
^^^^<i person of Mr. Reginald Bunce, lieutenant in the Bumpshire 
^oj- ccLxxvri, NO. 1964. I 




I lo The Gentleman s Magazine. 



frt™ 







Militia. His own income, alone equal to a full captafi 

•* allowances," only sufficed to meet his mess-bills and what 

pleased lo call his " regimental " expenses, while for such c< 

disbursements as he was put to by competing in trotting 

on public high roads^ conveying prize-fighters about thecour 

subsequent magisterial decisions thereupon^ and indulging ir 

and sundry other diversions for spending money which neec 

individually specified, but can be lumped together, precisely 

under the usual newspaper heads of ** Sj>ort and the Dra 

went for a while to the tents of Israel, and thereafter to his m 

aunt. ■ 

In approaching his uncle the young Milillaman had alwfl' 

careful to "play up to the dear old chap's craze," as he callec 

to make each loan an affair of most elaborate " business.' 

the help of a whiskified and out-at-elbows solicitor he m; 

surd affidavits, drew up and had engrossed and duly stampe 

vinded statements about nothing, took care to see ev< 

J roperly witnessed, endorsed, docketed, and red-taped, ar 

despatched the whole in duplicate to his uncle. To such 

had Mr. Bunce worked himself up in his ideas of being b 

like, that the receipt of these impudent requests for money p< 

delighted him, and for several days he would revel in trying 

holes in the preposterous documents sent to him, but alwa 

eluded eventually by signing, stamping, witnessing, en( 

docketing, and red-taping one of the sets of papers, and i 

them back with the money. With his aunt, Mr. Reggy's pn 

on the first occasion he had to appeal lo her was preds 

reverse. Without any warning he had suddenly descender 

Nutborough, and with a lively but most complex narrative 

woes, conjured up in ten minutes impending dangers of such 1 

complications of legal business, chiefly by rattling off all k 

irrelevant technical phrases and lawyers' jargon, that the go 

declared she w*ould be terrified out of her wits if he went < 

that, as it was, she wouldn't get a wink of sleep that afternoi 

he must really go to Mr. Stamps. "No," she said firmly, 

use, Keggy, your showing me those horrid i>apers,** as the 

proceeded to tug laboriously out of every pocket imposing 

of an emphatically "legal"' aspect, ^' fwt the kast, I have 

I will never have anything to do with business, and I w 

There ! You must go to Mr. Stamps." Which Reggy— ha^in 

general order on Mr. Stamps to pay over, at any lime, any su 

Mr. Reginald Bunce, might need, without reference to her- 



The Money-Spider. 



Ml 



fully djd^ and went on to rejoin his party at Six-mile Bottom the 
*ainc evening much replenished in purse and spirits. Nor after 
this was the widow ever worried about her nephew's affairs, for 
Mr. Sumps had his written authority to supply Mr Reginald^ and 
Hr, Reginald had his authority to draw upon Mr. Stamps. 

>kOw, it must have been about this time that it occurred to the 

solicitor that there could be no harm in investing the widow's idle 

surplus for her (and his own) advanLige ; and so it came about that 

ta -various brokers' accounts Mrs. Bunce figured for considerable 

holdings in very speculative stocks. But when all the banks in 

Pii^iagonia went smash one after the other, and revolutions kept 

f^f^taking out on the Equator, and the brokers, for a consideration, 

" osirried over " these same stocks for Mrs. Bunce, the fortnightly set- 

liirigs of differences became sufficiently serious to alarm Mr. Stamps. 

^ yeir later the new Equatorial Administration repudiated the bonds 

of ITS predecessor, and about the same time the Patagonian banks, 

Wa,%-ing failed to '* reconstruct," were swamped in a new Government 

** I-^tnancial Institute," which threw overboard ali the speculative 

a^ssc'j of the previous concerns. In these two catastrophes the 

^3^3^k of Mrs. Bance's fortune disappeared beyond recovery (even if 

raraps had dared to face the publicity of litigation), and the 

/.or was frightened in downright earnest. There was nothing 

^Qff it under the circumstances (from Mr. Stamps's point of view) but 

*'^^bify the accounts, and this he proceeded to do at once, having 

'^^body to interfere with him: doubling the widow's expenses all round, 

"multiplying Reggy's borrowings by three, and adding on an extra 

ihotiajid legal expenses ; and as for the hulk of the deficit still 

Quiring explanation, he trusted to chance. 

^ile matters stood thus the sohcitor received one day a letter 
^'^considerably surprised him. It was from Reggy, who informed 
'^'^tbt he had failed to pass his "final," and had therefore deter- 
*'«'*edio ** cut ''the army, and, eschewing dissipation, to purchase a 
P^^^^JCr&hip in his cousin's Nutborough brewery, and settle down. 
^ li»c top of this came Reggy himself, who further surprised and 
'^'P'cKed Mr. Stamps by developing an exceptional business shre\vd- 
"^'Hthe manner in which he inquired into his aunt's investments, 
5^a discussed the methods for raising a large sum of ready money for 
' ^ purchase of the partnership in question and the paying off of 
^^^^ liabilities. In fact* the nephew appeared to be quite a reformed 
^ ^^er. He went off, promising to return next day and " go 
/^roiigj^ly into the whole thing, as there was no use in waning 
^^^ ^hen there was business to be done," 



112 



"he Gen 




I 



By the post next morning there reached Mr. Staraps further d ^5- 
concerting rnatlers, in the shape of a number of documents fro^i^ 
Colonel Barbecue, his co-trustee in the Bunce estate — (the 6mi h^^^ 
been " Bunce iS: Barbecue ")— who announced that he intended losi^-^^ 
that day month in the steamer Tortoise^ with a view to the sale of )r^ 
business and estates in Barbados to a City Syndicate that we^ 
ready to purchase at ^150,000, Among the documents were lett 
addressed to Mrs. BuncCj which he put away in his safe, and his wr 
(an attested copy), in which he bequeathed all that he possessed tot^i* 
only son and his son's family, and failing them to Flora Bunce a«^<i 
her next of kin. Now, Mr. Stamps had never met Colonel Barheci-*^, 
but there was a brief straightforwardness in his letters and papers tiraat 
made the solicitor apprehensive of trouble when it came to audit m. ng 
the widow's accounts. So that when Reggy arrived he found ^Ir. 
Stamps very uncommunicative and none too amiable. As a matter 
of fact, the solicitor was in his gravest mood, and lectured the 
cx-lieutenant of Militia upon the reckless manner in w*hich he Tiad 
wasted his worthy aunt's income. Whereupon the very thing tK^H 
Mr. Stamps wished happened, for Reggy at once asked for the figiireJH 
Having got them he whistled softly to himself. *' I had no i(ie5^»" 
said he, *' I had spent so much as that in three years. How mon^='y 
flies ! " and by-and-by departed and made his way straight 
town. 

Here he at once forgathered with the seedy little solicitor wi 
had so often helped him out of his messes with Israel, and confid^=^^ 
to him his suspicions that ''Stamps is chiselling my aunt and m 
*' We'll soon find out if he is," said the man of law; " but I shall hx 
to ask you for a fiver or two to polish myself up in the way of cloth 
&:c ; " and when, a few days later, they met again at the railway static 
Reggy was vastly gratified at the change that *'a fiver or two " h^^^^ 
made in the little man's appearance. Not only were his cloth -^ 
eminently professional and respectable, but he had about him a genec^^ 
suggestion of suppressed wealth, which insisted, however, in spite 
himself, as it were» in betraying itself in (what appeared to be) a fi^^*^! 
old-fashioned gold chain and bunch of venerable seals^ a gold-head -^* 
umbrella, gold-mounted glasses (" theatrical properties, my d^^^ 
boy,** said he to Reggy in confidence ; " my landlord goes on ev^ **^ 
year as one of the crowd in the Pantos."). The most eloquer^ ^ 
respectable, and the only shabby, item of his outfit was a very anci^^^ 
despatch-box, that looked as if it held^ and had held, documents ^ 
unspeakable importance, and Stamps was distinctly impressed by *' ^^^ 
solicitor, Mr. Tweezer* of Great Marlborough Street," when Re^I^^ 






^1 





The Moncy-SpidcK 



II 



him. Mr. Tweezer pursued his investigations with infinite 
md leisureliness. 
Urgent telegrams from his clerk in town regarding cases (they 
were real cases enough, for Stamps was cunning enough to look 
for them in the Cause- Lists in the morning's Standard) that were 
coming on took him away every other day, and during these absences 
Mr, Tweezer employed himself in tracing the cheques Mr. Stamps 
had given on Reggy's behalf, and comparing these accounts with the 
leceipts over Reggy's signature that Mr. Stamps held. The results 
*ere eminently satisfactory to Mr, Tweezer, and at the end of a 
fonntght (during which he had become a great favourite with the 
Widow, and had got at his fingtrs* ends every detail as to her invest* 
roems and expenditure) he was able to inform Rcggy that, if he 
chose* he could send Mr. Stamps to the Old Bailey, and thence, 
pmbbly to a dozen years penal servitude at least. And so he took 
tislejve^ to work up the case and find out, through a friend on the 
Stock Exchange, what transactions had passed in the matter of Bunce 
invcsiraenls in Patagonians and Equatorias, *'in the course of which," 
^dhe/*l shall not be surprised to find that, one way and the other, 
some fifty thousand has gone wrong." 

Mr. Stamps was not quite at his ease, for the more he thought of 
't the more he felt convinced that "that Tweezer " had ferreted out 
•^we than he spoke of ; a great deal more, in fact, than was agreeable 
to Mr. Jabez Stamps. But he had told no one of the approaching 
of Colonel Barbecue, and this event bothered him more than 
cared to confess, allhough, as he would say in an aside to himself, 
■* convenient fire in the office will settle a great deal/' .So lime 
«ipped by, and the Tortoise was on the high seas. The Colontl would 
*^'*e in about three weeks. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Tweezer was weaving his web round the uncon- 
SQous Jabez, and had woven to such good purpose that the Solicitor- 
"*ieral, who was retained, said "the rogue was as good as in gaol." 
^^ secretly as possible an order was obtained to take possession of 
^^' Stanips's offices at Nulborough, and on a certain Thursday 
J'^^^'ng Mr, Tweezer and Reggy were finishing breakfast, their 
^^'^ge was already downstairs, and the cab waiting at the door, 
•■^^ady for a start for Nutborough and for the first step in that 
J*^Ngn which was to end in the overthrow and imprisonment of 
^'^f worthy and much respected fellow-citizen," when Reggy 
'^''^^ced oflf his seat as if a bomb had exploded under the chair. 

"By Jove!" he cried excitedly, *' read that," and then began 
'^^g himself The Boots at the door, with a portmanteau in each 






( 



at =• HijaoioL 



/-*/ raiTii -^ r.:: ;Tr.=r zr i ■:LJi:i=:n. :nt!:i. wrziz znly cce 
hf^-A-"" ■.^:»«?2r: "=:::- ^3c:i icrr "cr tis izr; xmi _Iuuuiix:i: r:r::ccb 

r'is. " .' " :r.«t :r" i-a:r "ir:"L tcst nrwi zi:i ictEi ^^"^^ likii lusiCics 

; -f, V*.-. ¥i:. ir v.c L^cr. inii r:e^ TaniKiL jxm :d oce on 
iv; •> .'--. v/.irr. • tr, ?i3:aci Hjsr-.rsi. — ^iiii ir . fiear^ 'shouted 



^J^^i^: ■'- ■-'•i -icr/jir. :•: .--IT 1-1 ±ti sr-riL zzvLd icar. i=d iwar 
:vr; iS r,ri>,-^ .x^iiiu-.;! 1 i^x^z-^r^i z-:tr-i it zccii =er»aat3^ -arrh BooCs 
^.»a:.-; '>5^'vivv-r.:f " -..~-~^ " lie issrr-. Tircn: ihe scsijtsw locking 
vi v*->;>'. v; .: i vz r v nii lad i'l^sz rice ry. Tze- ri«^ cirfrered 
vm!^.^ -.*,-' 1.. -.-.It --e cr j::-.z7. -/ zic rizavay^ izd rsrzTTiei iheci ro :heir 
f/'^r-.'i. -wr.^* h.'^Ji ir^i i'-i -i-..inJ:«irz::a:c icii^i rie whole scene 
-*^*- ir.- ";*- tr» - •':•' ■-'.- iii-'i'.- :: lie :cher^. r;adi=^ trom the 
r.^*;vt "t^ "r^ -.sri-Ti'/'- '--!• '-^- ri^iziTeiei the soccitcr and his 

\%j "5 -."ft R.^2;?7 ar.i Tireei^r r-ii reached e.e hospinl and, 
;'•' .' 7::.;- .r.'O r.t ?X1, ca:r-£ TsiLi i sto-e-wall sort of shock a^ziinst 

" vV-:„.' he Vi/i, ^^ '*-'*i: i5 I:? Voure Mr. Reginald Bance, I 

V|J,J,',^ > ■' 

Mr M;.rolrl Twee/.er, I suppose?" interrupted the serjeant, 
'«"'! M,.:ri, throijj5h a hole in the wall, to an unseen personage who had 
ii ho;.rv bii^h, " Mercs another couple of 'em." 

" What do you mean?" cried the indignant Reggy. 

" Mem?" rci>Ucd the serjeant, leisurely taking a great note- 



The Money-Spide^ 



Wv 



out of his pocker, whtic dick from the hole in the wall told 
^^^WcAthless pair that they had just been "kodaked *'—'* mean ? 
"'%, I mean that youVc the third couple of Bunces and Tweezers 
^^\ have been here already. And how many more that blessed 
si&pfd paragraph will send here heaven only knows." 

By this lime Mr. Tweezer had pulled himself together. ** How 
Qn we be identified? " he asked- ** Cy letters in our pockets? — card 
case*?" 

" Vou can be identified/' said the serjeant, " by anj body that will 
satisfy me," 

** Will you come with n-je to ihe T^w Courts? " 
*• What for?" 

•* To see the Solicitor-Generah'* 
•MVhanihedo? ' 
" Identify rae.' 

•• If the Solicitor-General will identify youy that will satisfy w^,'* 
id the Serjeant ; and in another minute Tweezer, tightly gripping 
n as if he were running him in and feared he might attempt 
, was whirling off to Temple Bar, 
Straight to the Solicitor-Generars private room flew the little 
'freezer; close behind him, to the admiration of the crowd in the 
igc, flew the serjeant of police. 
The great man was just coming forth. **Ah, Mr. Tweezer! 
Whr, what's the matter?" 

*' Thank you, Sir Robert, thank you. Will you please identify 
mc before this serjeant {Aside.) It's connected with the case Bunce 
T, Stamps, Sir Robert," 

•* Ves, certainly. This is Mr. Tweezer, solicitor, whom I know 
trell,*' replied the SoIicitor-GeneraK 

** Thank you, sir/' said the serjeant, and the pair were off again, 
like a couple of madmen, Tweezer a spirited first, once more into 
the hansom, and whirling back to the hospital. 

Meanwhile Reggy, left behind, was speaking through the hole in 
ihe waJl *• Shall 1 have to be identified too ? " he asked. 

" Certainly," said the hoarse voice; and out stepped Inspector 
Waikinsv 

" (Sot a telephone here ? '' 
'* Vcs, inside. Step in." 

And Reggy got in. "Put me on to 1200 ;" and he was put 
on, " Whos there ? " " Davies." '* Is that you, Taffy ? " '' Yes. 
that's me ; who are you ? " " Guess from my voice." (And then to 
the inspector, " Now, then, you listen.") ** Guess from my voice. 



Who am I - " * VeiL if /nu ire lat Mr. 1 i^^sfnaf ft . Bance it is a 
very ;50od .mitanon "»t lis roic^ ' 
••'.V ill -.hat in, .nspecror?" 

• No, ;ir, ' --ai*i :fa«i irncai : * Mr. Daviea -sfiil ha-ve to came here." 
.So 3.«icc* leiPJi i^in- ■•'Ijme to *:t- Patnck'a FfiTpital straigDt 
away. Lite r itiirh, I :eil 7011. C jme. ' • Ail rigfai;*' w^ the reply ; 
and ".n a luarter if in loiir the 'viiL^ ai :fae baokmak^rs appeared. 
A nroad J^nn :jversprfcati i£r. Woikins 3 feamres js the ▼ebaan of 
the ring incmached- 
•• Hailn, ^Vititms : ' 
•' H.'.w d"-;e do, iCr. Davies ? ' 

•*\Vhr. iCr. Honca, ^hati the matter? Wjs amxid you were 
smashed in. ' 

" N'ot i 'lit of ix ; but tve ^Qt :q see a patient here who is- 
Its most imnorant, and diey "^i^culdnt 'et me in tiH I was 
idcnhtied. ' 

Here T'Jtreezer, triumphant of c::untenance, arriveti. and aH being 
satisfactcrv. they signed their names in a bock and went insidei But 
here another stone-wail shcii met them. A surgeon barred the 
way. " The patient can see no one." 
•* But the letters ? '' said Mr. Tweezer. 

"Oh yeis, the letters — you can have those. Is it aU right, 
inspector? ' 

•* Its all rliht. sir : the Solicit jr-General speaks for Tweezer, and 
Mr. Davies for Burxe."' 

'* Right ; 111 bring the letters.'' 

\rA presently down «:ame the surgeon with two letters. *' Are 
you Mr. Bunce ? " ** Ycs. ' *• This is yours, then.*^ "And you are 
Mr. Tweezer ? Then this is yours." 

The two men seized the letters and began to read. As they read» 
the expressions that came over their faces were so astounding that 
even the policemen, accustomed to such scenes, were quite taken 
aback. The surgeon looked on amazed. Mr. Taffy Davies remarked, 
" Backed a stiff un— liet a fiver.'' But the two read on as men in 
a dazed trance, finished their letters, turned them upside down, 
round and round, read them all over again, and then gazed into 
each others faces with looks of utter stupefaction. Then they 
exchanged letters and each read the other's ; and then they got up 
and without a word walked out into the open air, "just like two men 
walking in their sleep," said the surgeon. 

The solicitor was the first to speak. " Such a beautiful case too I '* 
and the whole of a bursting heart was in the word. 



The Money-Spider 



1 1 



* He's not a damned rogue after all," said Reggy, addressing the 

zon in a vague, bewildered sort of way. 

Then abruptly turning to the surgeon, *' Can't we see him ? We 

won'c say a word to him. Let us see the poor old chap," And 

there was something in Reggy's voice, something, too, in his eyes^ 

I that Tjreighed with the surgeon- 

■ " He will not recognise you, and you must not attempt to speak 
to him," And in a few minutes, in a darkened, softly carpeted room^ 
ihey found themselves by the bedside of Jabez Stamps. 

" He's shaved all his whiskeis off ! " whispered Reggy to the 
I surgeon, who only replied with " Hush I " " And liis hair has beeti 
H dyed dark ! ^ (" Mush ! ") " And what is he saying ? " 
■ The surgeon stooped down, " He's raving," and they all went 

I softly out, '* He has been raving ever since he came in. The only 
two words I have heard him repeat distinctly are * Barbecue ' and 
•Money-Spider.'" 
" And U'hatV^ asked the bookmaker abruptly. 
" • Money-Spider,' " replied the surgeon. 
" Whew ! ^ whistled the other and flew dosvn the stairs. 
The inspector followed, and when the others got down to the 
hall ihey found Mr, Davies at the telephone and Mr. Watkins on 
the steps lookmg up to the sky. (The bookmaker had told him he 
warned to say something *'very private indeed" to his grandmother^ 
and •' he'd be obliged if the policeman would just step out and see what 
kind of a day it was," which he had done). ** Now then, can't you hear 
lAe ? " said the bookmaker. " Who arc 3 ou getting at ? " was the 
reply, "If you can hear what I say and don't do as I tell you,. 

I 111 " 

^^ ••What's the matter, Taffy?" asked Reggy, feeling in a way re- 

^"sponsible for the bookmakers behaviour. 

But Taffy was listening at the telephone, " Ves ; Money-Spider. 
1 lell you* All you can get on.'' '' -'\nd a bit for me, Taffy," said 
Keggy, ** Right ; and going halves with Mr. Reginald Bunce 
D'ye hear ? '' " Yes ; a thou' if you can. Whew ! " he whistled 
again. 

^^ " Uliat is it, Taffy ? " asked Regg}\ 

^B "Come here," he replied (and as they passed Watkins, "All 

^kgi^t, Watkins, I've got on a fiver for you"), *' come here. Did you 

^^SH^ar *tm say as the mad un upstairs said ' Money-Spider V Why^ 
that's the very name they're going to give the Arachne colt, and it's a 
rank outsider for the Eclipse, and at all Jehosh-^phat to nothing. 
We're on for a thou'— and well pouch it, see ft-e don't," Like 



i 



-T 



"Af .Tfcziimzer J Jifigxzzxc 



ifflr- e---27 rcasT nsrnnr inzr Xi. ^sn^ "«c«5 iiralir^ny sopo- 
sxii^is, rrpf tie arzoaciL mzniiir a: ms m ^rrt f vas J i ^tiiy m ffW i wit 

trr-jziz Tr.zrr ▼iiet iii ipsir rg ue srairs. JifigEr "wcm dovn flwa 
-iiir-trr^ mr nf -^ :ifi5= zn. zii* iiicas far ^i* EdJipsc- 

2^^ in ?: TODT 7 frsEz-:. viu -vk znsokstL ~ I scisZl be aS day it 
i::!;: :r_:»lir-bD:iz zcrzrjsns^' b* saiL ti- tie sztkcci, ■* on behalf of 
l/L' Liiiijzt. I wll f-ftfTT tie =3mmas)ns&r?e bere in case ii should 
re ^-jssiiie ix ne t: s;e£k. t: 1^. Stettts.^ 

- Verr r:oL'' stii tre sizasnzL i=iz the p-ea: doois dosed i 
iiKurii tiiar. 

-.--t:! Fj"t z sTufafjt zzsi t:c ! Jzsi r-r accursed lock! I 
nzb: izv* btiif irj btaf :i: 2ri-:n J^thz: bat ^:»ae through." And 
th;:5 d.stziiJT 5£5:«:q±=i^ ^^=5^7 J^ r::". s:™-.; on a bench in the 
SL'Sfi u:-T:irc: af :he tr-bCir-hz^rst whLe ht wsn: tq tel^raphto 
h:5 Ltn-. rj :c :: ▼dctt berseli. hr: t: c:ce up :o icwa at once. -And ! 
ihez r^t :2.'=iz hack mi izoed Tm^eerer, a^d ihc two knocked thdr ■ 
htsi? '.■.•zt'±r^ rrs: :he ^tttsrs -ht: -ib^ had so strangely come by, 
asd i: tr.r ert thex wcr^ ^d wjscr than tber hid been before. 

The ler.er :d Ks^zj wss sht-rL - 1 had the honour,"" said the 
wrher. ^ c: tzL^Tjiziz yozi fiihcr's esreetn. ar-d for many yeare ihe 
coxn;."c:e csnddcnce of yozr uncle, as d it is therefore with a cone- 
syjnzlnz ser-se of h-rs:liat:on that I nDw appeal t? yourgencraiiyas 
the SjT. SLnt nephew of two of my o'.dest and best friends to allow 
bygones to be bygones, and for the sike of long and faithful serrice to 
your family to forgive an o!d man's lapse from honesty, and to screec*- 
his name and memory as much as possible from public shame." And- 
there was a postscript : "There will be a surplus over from the chequ^ 
which I have forwarded to Mrs. Bunce, and I should wish this give^^ 
to the Vicar to assist in the restoration of my old parish churd^^ 
where I had ho|jed one day to be laid honourably to rest among m^ 
own kith and kin.*' 

The letter to Mr. Tweezer was shorter still. Apologising on s^ 
brief an acquaintance for asking aser\ice, he sought that gentleman^ 
good ofticcs (knowing him to be in the confidence of Mr. Reginald 
Uunce) to revisit Nutborough, remove from the office records a^ 
evidences of irregularities (now made good), to assist in disposing 
the l)usinc»s at the best price he could, and, after repaying hims 
for these invaluable services, to lodge the balance to his credit under ^ 
certain name at the Federal Bank of Philadelphia. 

No wonder they were puzzled. 

To understand what had happened we must go hack to Nut:::^ 



r, where we left Mr. Stamps awaiting Colonel Barbecue's return. 

Ij and Mr. Tweezer had been gone about a fortnight when one 

ling, under the heading ** Disasters at Sea," the solicitor read, 

every fibre of his body trembled with excitement as he read, 

the Tortoise had gone down with all hands and passengers. The 

was witnessed from the Pento lighthouse, but it was impossible 

render assistance ; and among the names of the passengers whose 

had been recovered the solicitor read, " Colonel Barbecue 

his only son, Mr. Arthur Barbecue, with his wife and infant 

All gone ! and Flora Runce and Reggy heirs to ;£'i 50,000 ! 
Mr. Stamps saw at once how, by a single bold stroke, he could 
fttrieve the past, and be sufficiently enriched to retire (somewhere 
ahfoad) on a handsome income. That very day he lunched with 
the widow, and before going "ventured to bother her with busi- 
ness just for one minute — only a couple of signatures, nothing 
owrt Yes, there — yes— thank you; and there — thank you. Thal^s 
tair 

Even Mrs. Bunce ought to have seen that the solicitor's hands 

'nttrtmbling as he presented the corner of each document for her 

«?RatUTe, covering the rest with the blotting paper. But she didn't. 

"Oh!" she cried suddenly, and so suddenly that Mr. Stamps, 

«i his ner^^ous excitement, nearly fell over backwards. *' Look ! 

t's a money-spider ! There's money coming to me ! *' 

To her astonishment the grave man of law rushed towards her, 

re? where? " he fairly shrieked. " Kill it ! HU it ! " 
*'^'o, no," laughed the widow, ** it's lucky to have one," 
" ^^ill it ! kill it ! ^ cried Mr. Stamps, trying through his glasses 
^ ^ch sight of the liny insect, which by this time was tripping gaily 
^^•^ the widow's open palm. 

"Indeed I won't," said she, amused ; *' IVe got it in my hand, 

*^^ • 'n not going to kill it. Besides, I want the money, for I'm 

S^'Og to repair the church. I've promised the Vicar I will." 

^^she looked up from the wee black speck^that vanished, as she 

^^ among the lace on her wrist— at the solicitor, and to her 

™*^cment he was holding on to the table with both hands, as pale 

*|host, and breathing heavily, " and for all the world like a man 

^°*^tohaveafit." 



did 



She 



jumped up, helped Mr. Stamps to a chair, rang the bell, and 



*^d some wine. By the time it came the solicitor had so far 
^d as to laugh a ghastly laugh and wipe his forehead. 
^'^ in a few minutes he seemed himself again, apologised for 




r 



120 The Gcntlemaiis Magazine. 

his absurd behaviour, and explained how all his life he had \A 
infiuenced by stupid supt-rstiiions. 

'* I don't think they're stupid at all," said the widow ; " I 1 
superstitions, and raoney-spiders above all" 

A twinge crossed her visitor's face^ and he went on and told : 
how once he had lost all the will business of a wealthy client by 
going to him on a Friday, because as he was starting he passed 1 
cross-eyed men ; and how on another .day he missed a bargain I 
sale of house property by meeting a funeral and going back to 
office, 

Ahogetherj when he was gone, Mrs. Bunce was astonished i 
so solemn and serious a man of business as Mr. Jabez Stamps sb 
be so absurdly upset over a money-spider. " And want to kill it 
my dear," said she to Mrs. Rutherford, her companion and confidaj 
** Vou should really have seen him. I thought he kid taken l 
of his wits. But h£ didn't kill it:' 

Meanwhile Mr. Jabti/ Stamps had got all he wanted, and hai» 
seen his clerk and a ueedy client who dropped in ** witness 
signatures — "a mere matter of form only"— made off to Londoi 
speedily as possible. 

Next day he saw the Syndicate, and as power of attorney from 
heirs of Colonel Barbecue transferred, pending probate, the est; 
in Barbados for ;^i 50,000. Both sides to the bargain were in! 
earnest about closing it, and agreed that delay must at all costi 
avoided, as the estates, being a going concern, had to be taken 
hand at once \ and all the papers having been duly prepared pend 
the Colonel's return, three or four days sufficed to see the widow 1 
the orphan robbed of their fortune, and the whole sum banked 
the credit of the rogue. 

And that night the Syndicate and Mr. Stamps dined toge< 
royally at the most expensive table in London, and some time aS 
midnight parted on the best of all possible terras with themsel« 
each other, and the world in general. 

On reaching his hotel the solicitor sat down, and drawit^ 
cheque for ^50,000 in favour of Mrs. Bunce, wrote that lady a k 
which, if it had reached her with no one near to reassure her, wc 
assuredly have brought the widow to the verge of lunacy, opei 
up as it did interminable vistas of "legal business." 

Briefly, and omitting all the sanctimonious expressions, it s 
that he, Jabez Stamps, had been led away by temptation to «pecu 
with her fortune, that the exact amount he had gambled with 
lost was under ^50^000. that he had never had a happy day s 



The Money-Spider. 



121 



commenced his course of dishonesty, that fortunately, before 

it VIS too late, and while he was still in a position to do it, he had 

tcpcnted of his conduct, and that he enclosed a cheque, payable at 

ght, for the full amount of ^50,000, and the cheque was duly 

endosed. 

Then he wrote the letters to Reggy and Mr. Tweezer that had so 
tonlshed those gentlemen ; and finally he drew up a paragraph for 
insertion in the Bumpshire Chronicle and County Gazette^ to the 
tffect that their worthy and much respected fellow-townsman, Mr, 
jakz Stamps, had received news of so distressing a character regard- 
ing his only child, a daughter who had married and settled in 
Australia, that he had left at once for the Antipodes. 

en his work was finished the man of law read the letters 
ly over, lingering admiringly over the frequent Biblical 
Inferences to ** Christian charity " and '* repentant sinner " which they 
coQiained ; and, half persuaded that he was really a most virtuous 
person, went to bed. "Better," he said to himself as he went to 
ilttp, "to be left unmolested with ;^i 00,000, than be hunted up and 
'onied for the odd jf 50,000," So it certainly was, 

Next morning he awoke, feeling as brisk and bright as possible, 
*Tid after breakfast went forth, first to one hairdresser, who took 
<j(r his whiskers and beard, and then to another, who dyed his sandy 
^ocks^and then got into a cab to go to the bank to arrange for the 
transfer of his balances, and> that completed, to do some shopping, 
^^ his passage by the steamer sailing next day, and to post his 
tetters. 

Bui the day went very differently for Jabcz Stamps. 

^^e was lying back in his hansom well content, and planning a 
I'feof ease abroad, when in an instant there was a crash, the whole 
^'''Wkraent. with the trees on it and the vehicles, seemed to be 
*''"^ up into the air in chaos» a terrible stunning roar seemed to 
^'^Kishead— and that was all He never reached the bank to 
*^sf« the money. 

^^t, days afterwards, with a dull and horrible humming in his 
^ he awoke, in a dark room in St. Patrick's Hospital, It was 
^*^ the Dying Ward. But he didn't know that. There were 
%res by his bedside \ he did not know who they were ; he could 
^^fJiember nothing. His poor pale lips would try to speak, but only 
^t* intelligible word escaped them — Money-spider, And so he died. 
■^•^^ ihey took his body back to Nutboroogh, and buried him 
^i^Ong his own folk ; and nobody else ever heard of the disgrace 
'^ which he had so narrowly escaped by death. 



Zii jcunc vi :2e: ::aii2. jXtl Tr W UL^jsr. tianmi Ab: mI ihmwiih of ^e 

stranasr. -soar -zizaef :zd± nmjisz. ~iK ■ujr**- in Hr. SCaziip5'*s bag 
insTiE: U; he Toamcss. ^ -erfgrr arier: jf die i.i.ii^ii^ of die 

Azsd jJUasKs-'-^caaer' ^e 'y*t is: x ^^=*""» : jxed. what he 
had jor :he race-js szact Tniceg mdK'.xnzse ^jljiL ofbislaciBej al 
The -siiJL sekL ■ <"urui:'.x :o Lfh Dzncs. * mii e Et '.jr: icszl was Tt — j<TT ii g 
iKu^; for 5e9i 



123 



CLOUD, FOG, AND HAZE. 



UNTIL recently, very liule was accurately known about these 
familiar phenomena, ** A cloud is just a cloud, a fog is just 
a fog, and a haze is just a haze/' is what the ordinary observer might 
readily answer when asked about them ; and the scientist could really 
say very little more as to their formation and nature. The phenomena 
koown as haze, fog, and cloud, with their development into mist and 
fain, cannot be definitely discriminated ; they are different in ap- 
pearance and structure, yet to a great extent the difference is in 
degree, not in character. Not even the most experienced observer 
in the country can differentiate the determining boundary of each* 
lt\, fact, they are, popularly speaking, only the successive develop- 
jnent of the same process. 

The material essentials for the formation of haze, fog, and cloud 
dust-particles and water- vapour. Dust in the atmosphere pro- 
duces a haze ; and the thickness of a haze of this kind principally 
depends on the amount of dust present, when the relative humidity 
the atmosphere is very low. But as the water- vapour in the air 
the dust- particles have more moisture to seize ; and, by a 
derfully keen affinity, they secure this moisture, so as to form 
larger particles, called, in the aggregate, a fog. When in this state, 
ihc thickness of the fog depends principally on the degree of satura- 
lion of the atmosphere. Between the haze and the fog, however, 
there is no distinction in kiiid^ the difference of appearance being 
madnly one of degree. After the air is saturated, and the condi- 
tions are such as to cause supersatu ration, a few of the dust-particles 
have so much water deposited on them that they form cloud - 
panicles, in which the original solid elerr.ent is infiniiesiinally small 
compared with the liquid element. When the particles in the^cloud 
combine, they fall as ordinary rain. 

^\^thout dust there could be no fogs— only dew on the grass and 
road. Our bodies would be always dripping. The cleanly house- 
keeper would be more irritated by the ever-clammy walls and wet floors 
than by the dust-enemy with which she hourly wages war. If steam 



124 The Gentleman s Magazine. 



i 



be admitted into a glass vessel containing filtered air (that is, air ] 
fied of the dust-particles by being driven through cotton -wool), 
see nothing ; the chamber is quite clear and transparent. But ifsC^ 
be admitted into a glass vessel containing common air, a d4 
cloud rises, and a beautiful white fog is formed within it. Iim 
filtered air there is no dust to seize the water-vapour of the steJ 
in the common air thousands of dust-particles lay hold of the m 
ture with greedy affinity. The fine particles of dust in the air, tB 
jict as free-surfaces on which the water- vapour, under certain coi 
tions, condenses into fog. Every fog-particle, therefore, has i 
bosomed in it an invisible dust-particle. Such a condition of 
atmosphere may alarm some ; yet it is true. Our breath on a i 
morning soon makes the dust-particles reveal themselves to the 
the steam from the tea-urn shows their presence. 

One of the most remarkable discoveries in modern times in 
sphere of meteorology is the counting of dust-particles in air. 1 
has been ingeniously effected by Scotland's most brilliant ull 
university scientist, Mr. John Aitken, F,R,S., of Falkirk. He 
been able to enumerate the *' gay motes that people the sunbean 
For elaborate investigations he has constructed an instrument wh« 
can determine millions of dust -particles in a cubic inch of sor 
specimens of air ; but he has been able to make a pocket ** dm 
counter" which is not much larger than a well-filled cigar-case, 
ordinary purposes. After thousands upon thousands of experime- 
he has never found air, even on the Scotch or Swiss mountains, withi< 
many dust -particles suspended. In an ordinary room in Edinbuij 
there are from one to four millions of particles in the cubic incj 
Eighty millions have been determined in a cubic inch of air near 
gas-heated ceiling j and close on five hundred millions were countc 
in a cubic inch of air rising from the flame of a Bunsen bcme 
On the Rigi Kulm, near Lake Lucerne, he found as {k:w as 3,36^ 
particles in the cubic inch, and on the top of Een Nevis the towef 
number was 5,360. The lowest number counted by him anywbcc 
was 3,280 in the cubic inch of air at Kingairloch, in Argyleshin 
It is a blessing that most of these are inorganic ; yet by the cultut 
in gelatine of the organic particles, an astonishing number of livin 
germs can he detected, especially in the foul air of close lane 
crowded schools, and filthy bedrooms. Of course a very smj 
proportion of the dust -particles seize hold of tlie water-vapour f 
form the fog-particles ; there is never moisture enough for all, othfl 
wise we should never be able to travel from one place to another 
^darkness visible would be the universe^ 



Cloud, Fo^, and Haze, 125 

it, then, that one henrs of a dry fog ? Is it not always 
»^^t? No. In many fogs, when all exposed surfaces are quite 
r. there are great quantities of water-particles in the air, ever falling, 
^cse drops, however, are so very minute that they are invisible 
^der ordinary conditions, and, being so extremely small, they 
'"^poMte as soon as they approach the exposed surfaces, which are 
cor less heated by radiation. A simple instrument can be con- 
tJctcd for counting them. It consists of a glass micrometer, 
t'idd into squares of a known size, a spot-mirror below to illuminate 
and a strong magnifying lens to detect the drops on the stage. In 
fog so thick that objects beyond 100 yards were quite invisible, 
£^ surfaces of bodies exposed in the open air have been found dry ; 
t DO fewer than 300 drops per second have been observed falling 
\ a square inch of the stage. Of course this high number did not 
M for long, and very soon it fell to a tenth part. On the occasion 
that particular observation, the number of dust-particles in the air 
14 very high, varying from 720,000 to 1,250,000 in the cubic inch. 
^t number of water- particles in a fog^ therefore, seems to be very 
Tge, and it is difficult for anyone except an experienced observer to 
■nigine how they can evaporate so quickly that they do not wet the 
posed surfaces. But it must be borne in mind that the particles 
•'fi extremely small — so small that they are not felt to fall at all on 
*^e face of the observer. 

But this is even more remarkable in the case of cloud-particles, 
*^e the drops are larger. Yet the number in clouds is very 
'^eady. Though the number of dust-particles in the air will keep 
Wy uniform for intervals of several hours, in clouds they are 
^wA to vary every few minutes. Why is this ? Mr, Aitken 
took careful observations of the air in a cumulus cloud on the Rigi 
Kulni, and also of the clear air immediately outside of it. That is 
^ilydone on a cloud-capped mountain \ the observer has only to 
'^cnd below the cloud to reach the clear air. Near the lower limit 
<« (he cloud there were sometimes about six times as many dust- 
I'lfiides in the cloud as in the clear air. This simply meant that the 
*«ciKiing air from the valley was both moist and dusty. The clouds 
•nich form during the day on hill-tops are mostly composed of 
^^cy air, which has ascended to the upper regions, expanded, 
^^H and condensed part of its vapour. 

^e cloud- particles can be counted as easily on the mountain- 
topasthe fog-particles in the valley below. A similar instrument is 
^™P%ed. The number varies from time to time. The denser the 
^^^^ the greater is the number of drops falling ; as the cloud thins 

^^^ccLxxvii. NO. 1964. K. 



I 



126 



Tfie Gentlemafis Magazine. 




\ 




away, the number gradually diminishes. Very heavy fa\ls seldom 
last more than a few seconds ; but Mr. Aitken on the Rigi Kulro 
counlcd t,20o drops per second upon the square inch of the stage. 
This, it will be observed, is four times the highest number counted 
\\\ a fog. On that occasion the number of dust -particles was about 
50,000 per cubic inch. 

Though one can speak of a dry fog, it is not so intelligible to 

think of a dry cloud. Yet surfaces are sometimes exposed in a 

cloud without becoming wet. Many are familiar with the drenching 

which a real Highland mist gives in a short time ; and one might 

naturally expect that a cloud would wet exposed objects to some 

extent. The air is packed full of water-drops, showering downi at 

the rate of thousands of drops to the square inch every minute ; yet 

exposed surfaces are frequently as dry as in a fog. This seems like 

a contradiction of terms. Cloud-particles are always falling, yet 

objects exposed are not covered with the moisture. Why is this J 

What is the cause of the peculiarly paradoxical phenomenon ? It tt 

radiant heat. The sun's rays, falling upon the upper surface of a 

cloudy are partly absorbed by the cloud, but a good deal of lh« 

heat penetrates the cloud and reaches the bodies below. These tbui 

become heated in turn, and throw out heat into the supcnncumben 

air. When, then, the cloud particles fall into this warm stratum of ail 

they are evaporatedj and the dust-nuclei remain invisible and drj 

There may, therefore, be continuous showers of fine rain falling int 

the warm stratum of air which floats on the surface of bodies wilhoi 

getting down to moisten these exposed objects. In fact, it always rain 

It is pretty conclusively ascertained that the density of 

cloud depends principally on the number of water-particles, ai 

not so much on the number of dust- particles. In the obsen 

tions already described, whenever the water-particles fell at the n 

of about i,oao per square inch per second, the limit of visibility 

the cloud was about 30 yards ; and as the limit of visibil 

increased, the rate of fall decreased. Comparing this with the resi 

indicated in the observations made on the fog» a curious fact 

noticed. An object could be discernible through only 30 ya 

of the cloud, whereas in the fog it was discernible too yards. T 

number of dust-particles in the cubic inch of the cloud-air 1 

50,000, whereas in the fog-air the number was 1,250,000; thus 

number of dust-particles on the top of the mountain was onl 

twenty- fifth part of the number at the bottom. Yet the number 

cloud -panicles at the summit was four times the number of 1 

panicles at the base of the mountain. It would thus appear 



thus appear thil 



Cloud, Fog, and Haze. 



127 



nsation the thickness depends chiefly on the number of 
, and only in a secondary way on the nuniber of dust- 
cles. These are important facts, which till very recently were 
e unknown. 

[The other day Mr. Aitken laid before the Royal Society of 
pburgh the results of fifteen thousand observations made in 
ferent parts of the world during the last few years. This is a 
pument of patient observation^ unfortunately made in his search 
f health. It must be kept in mind thr.t the greater number of 

ft- particles found in the air the greater is the condensation of the 
our and the thicker is the atmosphere. The limit of visibility 
|t)Ugh the haze is thus determined. Mountains are fixed upon 
ich are at known distances from the observer, say, 20, 50 and 70 
If the nearest mountain is just visible, the limit is 20 j if half 
le, the limit is 40; if the third part only of the farthest mountain 
risible, the limit of visibility is 210, and so on. The observations 
made at Kingairloch and Alford, tn Scotland, and at Rigi Kulm^ 
Switzerland. If these were absolutely accurate, both as to the 
Bnting of the dust-particles and the deteiminalion of the limit of 
ibility through the haze, then the product of the number of particles 
a cubic inch multiplied by the number representing the limit 
told be a constant. The nearer the perfect accuracy the nearer 
llic constant thus determined to the average of the constants. 
f example, at Kingairloch, when the air was very dry {humidity 
Ik 7 dcg. to 10 deg.), the number of dust- particles per cubic inch 
t23,6So, when the limit of visibility was 100; theiefore the constant 
t product of these numbers) is 2,368,000. Now, the average for 
tfai hundreds of observations, when the limit of visibility varied 
ti 13 to 250, was 2,250,04s, which shows the closeness of the 
crraiions. Again, at Alford, with the same humidity, the mean 
lundreds of observations brought out 1,998,736 as the constant ; 
at Rigi Kulm the constant was 1,987,376 — a remarkably close 
indeed. This remarkable result is a suflicient test of the 
racy of Mr. Aitken's observations in counting particles and in 

ining distances. 

The well-known phenomenon of haze occurs when the air 
ot saturated, but when moisture is still deposited on the dust- 
ides. The temperature requires to be down to the dew-point 
the fog can be formed. There is, however, no hard and fast 
between what we call clear air and ho^e. There is some ha/e 
e clearest air, otherwise we should look into a gloomy blackness 
d of the gloriously deep blue when we turn our eyes to the 

tc 2 




fl 




The Gent/emans Magazine. 



~a 



zenith on a summer day. The distinguishing dmracterislic of 
is the deposition of the moisture on the dust-particles at a wi 
stage than when fog-particles can be formed. Hot weather, t 
fore, is very frequently accom|>anied by a thick haze. All ob« 
are familiar with this pthenomenon. The vibratory moverae 
the air above the horizon on a hot summer day indicates one 
of the haze. The exceptional weather in March last waa 
licularly favourable for the study of the phenomenon. Ii 
observations in Strathmore, Scotland, we were specially forlu 
for the temperature during the day and at night was excepli< 
different. For nearly a fortnight, it registered from 5 deg. to i^ 
of frost at midnight, while at midday the thermometer wa 
quently above 100 deg. Fahr in the sun. Even in the aften 
we registered 55 deg. (in the shade) at five o'clock, and 39 d 
seven o'clock, a fall of 16 deg. in the shade during these two ll 
In the morning hoar-frost lay heavy on the ground ; but sud< 
the sun's rays pierced through the cloudless sky. The hoar-fro 
the action of the heat soon " melted, thawed, and resolved itsclj 
a dew." This evaporated in intensely fine particles of moil 
The air soon became sultry with what the natives of the distric 
'* frosty heat," and a ^m^ haze was formed. Gradually this deef 
as the heat increased, until the lower ridge of the Grampians 
beyond ihe limit of visibility. When the sun was at its heigl 
haze was intensely thick, yet it never went into a fog. 

So fine is the gauzy texture of a waving summer haze, that 
not so easy to observe its gradual formation ; yet in all cases 
formed in certain temperatures, though unperceived, before ih 
or the cloud. Occasionally, however^ the gradual process ca 
determined to a considerable extent. AV^hen the air is dam| 
still, the successive stages of the condensation can be noted in 
proximity, gliding on and thickening by imperceptible degrees 
lucid transparency to flimsy haze, then dimming fog and sadd 
cloud, ultimately clearing itself in a bright shower of rain, lili 
shifting stages of a fairy transformation scene. Verily **ihe 
nothing new under the sun" in nature, for the circularity of 
ever continues. The rain that falls is soon again evaporated \ 
sun 5 genial heat, to saturate the air for a fresh haze, fog, clouc 
rainfall. The writer of ** Ecciesiastes '' had been a careful ob 
of nature. 

There is a strongly marked difference between a country foj 
a town fog ; even the most casual observer must have noticed 
The former is vanishing, the latter is persistent ; the former part 



cloud, J^0'\ and Haze, 



129 



ilstapour the more freely the smaller it is, the latter clings the more 
^emciously to its vapour the smaller it is \ the former lends lo pro- 
<iuce a minimum number of water-particles, with a greater tendency 
10 fall, the latter a maximum number, with a reluctance to leave the 
"oaiing position. In the former there is a tendency to part with the 
*iter-vapour, in the latter there is a keen struggle to seize and keep 
hold of It; the former tries to rain away, the latter holds en firmly 
^^ give torture to mankind ; the former is chastely brilliant, the latter 
^'dirtily dull. With a vanishing country fog there is no inconvenience, 
^"^^ with a persistent town fog there is danger as well as annoyance, 
''^e density and persistence of a town fog are affected by ihe rate 
^d constancy of the direction of the air circulation, the rise and fall 
**^ the temperature, the rate at which the condensation is taking pbce, 
^d Ihe affinity of the condensing nuclei for water-vapour. This 
^^t is the only influence which it is within the power of man to 
'^ulate, and even that with difficulty and skill. It is not the matter 
^^ smoke that makes the town fog so much more dense and persis- 
-t)l, though that to some extent causes the peculiar colour which is 
^Mniistakable as being born of city life ; it is the intense affinity of 
^^*lc particles of dust in the town air for water-vapour. The country 
though there may be plenty of nuclei present, is a coarse-grained 
[feliiiof condensation, for all the condensing vapour is collected on 
^comparatively few centres ; whereas in a town fog, the vapour being 
^distributed over an almost infinite number of centres, gives rise to a 
^'^ grained structure, with great light-obstructing powers, and remark- 
■^'c persistence. It is the composition of the particles that the 
**'Jlist has to fear. Numerous particles of dust which have no 
*'^iiy for water-vapour can give a dense fogging only when the rate 
^^ Ojndensation is much more rapid than is ever experienced in 
^"^it ; whereas particles having an affinity for vapour cause dense 
^ing under all rates of condensation. 

Wjth regard to the calamiiy of town fogs, the disease has been 

'^nosed ; but what is the remedy, and how is the treatment lo be 

led out ? The particles which have a keen affinity for water- 

. f^Dur must be removed or lessened in number ; and that can be 

•^ ^e by altering the composition of the products of combustion. 

I^fcire the particles are thrown into the atmosphere^ they must have 

^ir keen affinity for water- vapour destroyed. The battle against 

\% must be fought on that field. There is no doubt that the sul- 

^IJT in the coals is the most fruitful generator of fogs. It has a very 

-Hsilive affinity for water-vapour. Now, if one only considers that i^ 

cent of ordinary coal is sulphur, some idea can be had of the 



I 



i^o 



The Genilcman's Magazine, 



manufacture of fog in a quiet and humid atmosphere, 

London or Glasgow, where an extensive river flows t 

with filth; and throwing warm vapour in ihe air, fogs will ne 

though sulphur aggravates them very much. In such cases 

bed is warm, partly due, no doubt, to the constant flow of n 

into it from manufactories. The air is heated by the fir«s i 

in calm weather. A current of cold air passes over the 

mixes with the warm saturated air ; and the resulting temp 

lower than that which prevailed before. The condeosal 

place, and soon is the city wrapped in a " pea-soup " fog, ti 

hapSf for days. In the country the fogs are white and pui 

the cities they are grey and dark with smoke. The colour o 

disc, as seen through a Highland fog, is unsullied by i 

though its rays are rendered powerless by the dense mass \ 

venes ; but in a large city it varies from a light pink to a 

according as it is observed in a comparatively clear part al 

or in a busy, smoky atmosphere. ■ 

It is now ascertained beyond doubt that sulphur from 

sumed coals is the active producer of the dense and persists 

London and Glasgow, and other large cities, combined, < 

with the low situation, the warm river, and the calm air to 

found. The burnt sulphur condenses the air in very fine 

and the quantity of burnt sulphur is enormous. About se^ 

half millions of tons of coals are annually consumed ir 

That means that 93,750 tons of sulphur are burned ever 

London fires. If we consider that, on an average, twice th 

of coal is there consumed on a winter day that is consul 

summer day, no less than 347 tons of the products of com 

sulphur (in extremely fine particles) are thrown into th< 

atmosphere every winter day. That quantity is simply i 

true as the report is. It is astounding to thtnk of the vast 1 

particles that are vomited out every second, thirsting foi 

form fog. And this accounts for the persistent fogs il 

curse of London in mild weather. 

It is curious to notice that in the year 166 1 John Evely 
petitioned the King in favour of taking drastic measures 1 
the smoke nuisance in London ; and it seems a most ext 
and unaccountable fact that now, in 1894, two hundred a 
three years later, matters are infinitely worse, instead of b 
they were. He refers to the fact that the " smutty all 
destroying the orchards about the Strand and Barbican, 
pares the city of London to the " face of I^lount Etna, the 



Cioud, Fog, and Haze, 



i^i 



Vulcan, Stromboli, or the suburbs of Hell." In reference to the 
iiwrreased death-rate from smoke, he remarks : **How frequently do 
TTc hear men say, ' He went up to London and look a great cold, 
thich he could never afterwards clear off again/ " In dedicating his 
artide on '* Fumifugium " to the King, Evelyn speaks strongly of the 
injurious elTects of the smoke and fog on the health of the Royal 
household. " Nor must I forget," he says, " that illustrious and 
divine Princesse, your Majesties only sister, the now Dutchesse of 
Orlems, who, at her highnesse late being in this cit)', did in my 
liearing, complain of the effects of this smoke both in her breast and 
iungs, while she was in your Majesties palace." 

There is no doubt that foggy weather is prejudicial to human life, 
apart from the actual cold, by the irritating action of the sulphur and 
5001 on the respiratory passages ; by the withdrawal of light from 
our daily life, with corresponding mental depression j by the ^' fog 
fcbt«a," occasioned by the sewer emanations ; and by the increase 
fiftk carbonic acid. The death-rate is increased by the accidents 
•Uetidant on the fogs. Men fall into the river, deaths on the railway 
»e increased, people get run over in the street, and so on. There is 
a ioM of money to railway companies, steamship owners and mer- 
chants, besides a considerable amount of valuable time. 

But as for a remedy, how are the fogs to be removed ? Nature is 
'hebesi dearer of the nuisance. During this last winter the fogs have 
h^ nothing compared with those of 1890 and 1891, because the 
•'f^dshave been persistently keen and dust removing- The Hercu- 
^ power has been at work in the Augean stables of the city, and 
^ousands of pounds have been saved by the mystic influence of the 
'"Keen agent. Of course, electricity can bring down the smoke in 
*ht atmosphere ; but the quantity is so infinitesimal that it is prac- 
Mly absurd to think of using this in cities. There is little doubt 
"^^in ordinary winters all that can be done is to minimise the out- 
P"l of soot and of such gases as are accidental products of com- 
hisiion ; and the only way to do this seems to be the compulsory use 
^^ properly constructed grates, and of a certain kind of coal in 
^*elling- houses. We have already legislated for the proper stoking 
^ ftianufactory fires. What we ought to have is legislation upon 
hoiisc.fires ; and until we gel it, nothing whatever can be done to im- 
P'°ve the existing state of matters. 

Mr. Aitken has shown by valuable experiments, both with the 
"•^si-counter and by the hazing effects, that the smoke in Glasgow 
^^^ Edinburgh reoches Falkirk ; that north-west of that town the air 
"generally pretty clear of haze ; but that in the other directions the 




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M-?KZiL50N*- 



7 HE INDIAN CENSUS OF 1891 



•" I'^^HE importance of the decennial enumerations of the Intliaa 






peoples, in respect of their religions, their literacy, their 
upations, their migrations, and their physical infirmities, can 
scarcely be exaggerated. For the numbers furnish evidence as to 
che iDoral and material condition of the people which it is the 
elToit of a good Government to improve. It is not permitted to the 
officials who deal with the compiled statistics and the reports to 
be entirely impartial in the enumeration of the deductions drawn 
Irom the figures before thcra. The inclination is naturally, and 
often unconsciously, to throw a strong light upon such facts as seem 
10 give evidence of progress under a beneficent administration, and 
to shade such as savour of unfavourable reactions. In the present 
instance the impartial reader of the reports must admit that on the 
whole ihey furnish food for satisfaction ; that if progress has, in the 
epoch under review, not been very marked, there is at least no sign of 
retrogression. If we compare, as we shall do later on, the figures of 
ifae census with the statistics of trade, we think it will be possible to 
daini that under the present Government of India the country has, 
m the decade 1 88 1 1891, reasonably prospered. Apart from the 
broad features presented by the census, the reports abound in in- 
teresting and curious details of caste practice, and of social and reli- 
gious customs. In a brief paper like the present a few quotations in 
regard to these can only be made, but it may be observed that the 
reader who can afford time to peruse the series of volumes from 
which the general report of the census is compiled, as well as the 
latter, will be amply rewarded by the complete acquaintance with the 
elements composing our Indian Empire which is in this way to be 
obtained. 

The attitude of the people towards the census enumerators is re- 
ported to have been distinctly helpful; in many cases total tndtfference 
was eidiibitcd. The suspicion formerly current would seem to have 
died out. Here and there curious reports were in circulation as 
10 tbc motive for the census. In Mandla, for example, it was 
thought that all young girls of a marriageable age were to be kid- 



k 



134 '^f^^ Gentleman s Magazine, 

napped ; in Raigurh, that a human sacrifice was required to appefi 
a bloodthirsty goddess, and such persons as were not recorded 
the books would be sacrificed \ at Bilaspur it was said that all pers< 
not found in their houses on census night would forfeit their lanl 
property ; in another part of the country an idea was afloat I 
Government having annexed Upper Burma would send every tl 
man, woman, and child to colonise their new possession. 

The first synchronous enumeration of the people of India 
made on February 17; 1881. There had been previous counts^ 
effected at different times and by independent agencies, conseque 
no uniformity had been secured in the arrangement of the statiit 
obtained The census under review was taken on February I 
1S91, nine days later than the termination of the epoch of ten ya 
which was due to the fact that it was necessary to select a moonl 
night for the operations. The total population of India (indue 
the Native States) in i88r was 253,795,514, and in 1891, 287,179,7 
an increase in ten years of 33,386,201. This is not entirely dufiS 
excess of births over deaths among the enumerated populatioi 
18S1. The annexation of Upper Burma in 18S5 added 3,06 
souls to the Indian Empire, and some tracts w^ere not num 
iS8r, Of the population counted in that year the increase has 
27,821,420, showing the average annual rate per cent, to be I 
If maintained, this rate would double the population in about ni 
two years. It would appear that even in the densest districl 
Bengal food is still forthcoming for the new generation, and wi 
average density throughout the country of 184 persons to the scji: 
mile, India was able last year to export from Bombay alone 450|i 
tons of wheat. At the same lune, although the question is one] 
within the scope of the census^ it must not be forgotten that 
immense number of the people go through life with insufficient fit 
This fact, coupled with the difficulty which exists in providing \ 
occupations by which industrial products in demand elsewhere t 
be sent abroad in exchange for food, makes it doubtfiilj as 1 
Mr. Baines, the Census Reporter, whether the rate of increase 1 
shown will be maintained. He adds, however, that at pr« 
the occupied tract has not probably reached the limit of its proc 
tiveness. In Burma, according to Mr. Eales, the excess of 
average earning power over the average cost of living is gtfi 
than in any other Indian province, probably higher than in Engld 
pauperism is unknown, hospitality general ; and the province J 
naturally attracted much emigration from India. I 

It will be of interest in this connection to treat briefly of'. 




The Indian Census of 1891. 



35 



auses affecting ihe birth and death rates of the people of India, 
%bicK have been investigated in the provincial censuses, and re- 
viewed by Mr. Baines in his imperial report. 

As regards the births. Marriage, as is well known, is a universal 
*luly. With the Hindus it is a principle of relicion lo beget a son \. 
tbe father's future state is dependent upon the performance of 
obse(|uics by his son. The forest tribes as they come into contact 
*ith Brahmnnism adopt the general practice. MahomcdanSj mostly 
inverts from Brahmanlsm, have not abandoned it ; and, as Mr. 
Bain« points out, to this universality of marriage, not to the early 
age of marriage, is lo be attributed the enormous number of births. 
Of women in India between fifteen and twenty-five years of age, 87 
per cent are niamed ; in Europe the highest proportion, 22 per 
wm., is found in France, 

In regard to offsprings men of the higher castes are said lo be 
i^stas prudent as the majority of European races; but among 
*He lower classes reproduction is unrestrained. Infanticide is not 
now known to be practised, but there are grounds for believing 
tbt feamle infants are sometimes wilfully neglected. Mr. O'Donnell, 
^ superintendent of the Bengal Census, finds high birth rales 
^ting among the Mahomedans and aboriginal tribes, and attribuies' 
*JjCm to the absence of all restriction on widow marriage, which is 
"Scounienanced by Hindus. The Musalman, with his more varied 
ind nutritious dietary, is probably in addition a more vigorous man 
^n the Hindu. In Burma, where food is plentiful and life easy^ the 
l^puhtion is increasing by 2-19 per cent, per annum. The high 
*«^lh rate is by general agreement said to be due largely to exces- 
^'^'t niortality among infants of both sexes, and among young mothers 
'^ childbirth. In India 26 per cent, of the children born do not 
"^t twelve months ; in England the percentage is 15-6. Many girls 
*^« conjectured to die unattended- In the Punjab, Mr. 2^£aclagan 
*^Pposes the habit of neglecting female infants to be most rife in the 
^^Ire of the province among the Sikhs, On the other hand, although 
^^^e males are born than females, there is a higher mortality in the 
^ year of life among the former than the latter. Boys are said to 
^ft>ore difficult to rear. There is in Bengal heavy mortality among 
/"^Mahomedans owing to the prolificness of the women in early 
^ > out of 10,000 women 78 1 only live beyond 50 years of age, and 
^^tig the Hindus 1,283. It is well known that throughout India gene- 
y husbands cohabit with their wives after the first signs of puberty 
^he latter, and consequently undue demands are made upon the 
^^cal strength of females, which lead to premature decay. Thus, 



A 




136 The Gent kf nans Magazine. 

as Mr. Baines remarks, the early age of marriage abbreviates 
mean lifetime, of a generation. Out of thirteen millions of gi 
between ten and fifteen years of age, 49-5 per cent are married ai 
I "5 per cent, are widows. Among diseases peculiarly rife in Indi 
cholera causes 309,000 deaths yearly, smallpox 126,750, and fcv 
Jj 397^300- -^s illustrative of dangers peculiar to tropical countri 
it may be remarked that 20^000 people die yearly from snake bi 
Regarding the general increase of the population, a material chat 
has been cITccted by the complete organisation of famine relief wli 
has of latt years been introduced, and by the improved communis 
tions by which food supplies can be transported from fruitful 
deficient districts. In the famine of 1S77-79, the Mysore proviii 
iilone, then ill supplied with railways, lost one -fifth, or i,ooo,ooo» 
its population. Disasters of such magnitude do not now occur, 

1'he rates of increase of the Hindus, Sikhs, and Parsis arc le 
than the mean rate for ihe whole population, while those of the Jaia 
Musalmans, Christians, and Jews are above it. Christians hai 
increased by one-fifth in the ten years. One piobable cause of tli 
higher rate among the Musalmaris has been mentioned above ; bqi 
according to Mr. O'Donnell, in Bengal proper, in longevity, th 
Hindus have the advantage over the Musalmans. The Forest 
Aboriginal tribes show a very large increase in the ten years, but pal 
of this is not real, but due to more exact returns for liengal all 
Burma ; and it is said that while the Negritic or Dravidian rad 
tend to increase rapidly, the Mongoloid people of Bengal, exc< 
where they have adopted Mahomedanism, tend to decay. 

There are some interesting speculations in the census reports 
to the circumstances which determine sex at conception ; 1 
hypothesis is ventured, and supported, Mr. Baines thinks, wh 
birth registration is best exemplified in the case of the Madi 
Presidency, that male births have a tendency to increase relatively 
female as the amount of nutrition gets lower among the people ; t 
converse produces a tendency to female births. Further kno 
facts dispose to the belief that the superior age of most husbands 
that of the wives in India leads to more males being born ; and C 
theory finds support from the fact that female births are m^ 
numerous among the hill tribes, where the ages of the sexes^ 
marriage are more even. Still Mr. Baines does not consider C 
there is sufficient evidence to permit of assertion of this view, 
another idea has been put forth to account for the excess of ] 
births, namely, that of inherited volition ; the desire for male 
spring among the Hindus, associated with religious notions. 




The Indian Census of 1S91. 



perpetuation through many generations, determined a consti- 
onal tendency. Mr. Baines, however, rightly disregards this 
uence as a potent one, for it cannot, with respect to the preserva- 
of the race, exclusively prevail. In the parts enumerated, in 
h 1881 and 1891, males are returned as 129^899,318 and 
3,887,849, and females as 123,894,196 and 137,727,085, the per- 
tage annual increase for the former being i'o8, and for the latter 
11. Thus the disparity between the sexes is ciiher becoming less by 
ural processes, or there is now less reluctance to furnish details 
ng females to the enumerators. Among the Buddhists, 
tribes, Parsis, and Jews the numbers of each sex nearly 
Jfoach equality. Looking to the future increase of the popula- 
tion and to past mortality in childhood, an important fact may be 
deduced from the statistics for children of certain ages. The census 
of 1891 shows 29,945»Si6 children of ages between ten and fourteen 
T^' This number relatively to the whole population shows an 
^J'crcase of two millions above what is due to the mean rate of increase 
of the people. More children now live to reach trn years of age 
^ttdid in iSSi in families generally. This fact would seem to 
^» that the conditions under which young children live in India 
^^^ improved during the epoch, and to imply progress in the 
^^trial welfare of the parents. 

'^c area of the Indian Empire is now put down at one and a 

'*''nillion square miles. With a population of over 2S7 millions 

r^'^^^thus an average density of 1S4 per square mi!c. In France 

^ '«S. gu^ ^hg average for India by no means gives an idea of 

/'^*'Ve densities of different parts of the country ; forest, moun- 

^<i sandy tracts are but scantily populated, while ground that 

2^naa.l]y inundated and easily cultivated is overcrowded. But 

" "* stich districts the wealth cf food obtained has been so large as 

^*t of newcomers. In Dacca the number of souls per square 

^^ increased in the ten years from 713 to S65 ; in Patna from 

^ ^ S52 ; in Mozufferpur from S25 to 912 ; and in Sarun from 

930. Broadly speaking, had any great pressure in fruitful 

A^en experienced by the people in finding a livelihood the fact 

** Kave been demonstrated by increased immigration. This during 

^'^ years has not been large. The fact has been ascertained by 



din 



^ out what people are living in provinces other than those in 



* they were born. It is true that in this way only the inler- 
*^^ial immigration is known, but it may be accepted as typical of 
^5^*iexal tendency. Here it should be observed that a very large 
*^^r of the aliens are wives who, for the sake of acceptable 




fi 



23$ Tii GrKilcmMKs iTji^a:nm€, 

• ^■'T^^urm^ xrt nzTrei sr irjsL tri±::r bctiTCires. The figares 

Twrmir ^r^T-v tlTITJIi^Pt DC liS i^SnitL ini DC NsTTe SCSlSCS fijT whld 

f:r--r*5 cusrfi :r :*iSi. z:^ 5.rp = .. r ^£ ir is^wi.aad 5.450,399111 il 
Ta* isiisr-rr :: zuirrrrt s ^is art <cr:»=irffr z^zm than h was 
rar? i^:. T*:.:5 liw :c rjir>*_ l rsserxl suieaieEi. and does 
irciT :: ^.irzj.-i.iE: zr^ss sfens-i "rj iiniae- To such cnti 
:r:n-:iir*rf 25 Assltt lsi 3-irzaL "w^ih uier f:^ ' J":J soils and s 
T»:«:iLi^?(=5^ r. iLJii: reerrenff i^: ^.— izm-sis wocldbcattra 
tDi i:. ii:-: tbfr bti- ii:i:Lru*i :^ :>.= :":cz:>er isd increased by 

£zLx-:--«:c iLi.-f Tuart rijtf j frrc: Beczil aad Madras to 
^'irs: It^l:£s. >r-:j:s SezJEssr.:*. ir*i >!^zr:r:u5. Tlie number 
iS;c irt :5.^^^ :rc 3«5=srtl i^d i^.":? frr Miiras ports. It iss 
£ri.r: . ::■; irrti.TLJCJ tbu £:r..rrLrj;c d>£s. cc shonldL offer tc 
1-i.j^ r:-:-. i- u;i: -- ibs ytsz ziz^Lfz rtT:.£» 6.0=0 persons reta 
f- . - \: z ::C:c_»£^ rr-rsfrsfr "v-.V:: liecz i^5.^Dr ruz«es in saTings 

'iiri^'t i2)i iTuifiucs iTretrt: re ibe n:^ pxent causes al 
:r.i ".hi — :-^-:r«i:5 re ib± rerr-'e- A '.irre efr..:x from the Ma 
•r^^^i: r. r -w:-- i se^r: :: bi-re :<-!:: rcrzs: :::tTd bv :he first : and 
1 .rr.-- . T :.:i«f x *ri:r«irL: ie— i-ss - :>.- ? -nn c:5-.r:c: of ihe pc 
i^i :: "i r~r i<— :".;fi=:ir.: c:":"re --ilirLusftTercf Bengal in 
Tir: Tc T-ir.i-I.-f f:.:.i> t. :'r.e N-ili disir.r: :r. 1SS5 and 1 
«"-L - 5 ::: >: --t ~ ji< ::' r:-^r.:r- ^ere iur—tr-er: :o a dep< 
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:i-. .::> : > .: :: .* - 7«=r rin:. ^>..~ ur. in B:^i. suffered 
>i .^r: i..-:- >..vi> --. :>>5 -ri :5a>. ir.i ::v.> ::Trr. hi> cccayc 
V -fi - : ■-. >-:^ i.si*C:rs :-. 1 lir^-:: :r srr-il'.er scale throu^ 
: .; c:. : ■- .-^_ir:^ ;^e :-ie i~i r:» :\\T.t rejTie. 

T.~. >:;.: r.cj .: :*"^r:z.-.:.e* ic; r:"f.r.i-i :c ;r.?c.r.::y, ceafmu 
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ir.i -:;? .: r.ve -r.i :h.r:^-f.ve, :>.ire ^ere 5:.:;r in iSSi. 
7i.:>; :r. i>^:, Nc wUfe :< >u^;<:ii -5 5;"ec:«'";. jrecifposii 
ir.j^-r. :y . :: :r.e :.r-5s: :: iT-r.;- jr .tIi-:: is cr.e. :: is .".yparent^ 
in ir.CTei3.rc :'e. N'cr.:cl c >fc<^ .s scii :c rreviil mos: ai 
>[ c r.^ . '. s .:r. i . i ::<: c.:n c r. c :>. e T re v. i ..r. rcc es. T'r. e majori: y cf ; 
a5ic:i.: w.:h xIvMrni-v-src. ere c^v-Ti-r. :r.e act:-? c: ::ve and ten y 
Oc:::-j is ?r.e crcie ::":: : c::'~e cx'-^c? c: i55:. 1^7.215 were rerc: 
ir.i in i?.^i. i .r.S: :. I'-ncni^s :~ni> n.iny \.c:ln;s in the al: 
I*.ci-.< where d-<: s:crn:s '-ix,^. .: s..;.'.> .\ c.so :'re.^uen:Iy ca 
>' "• in I artisans whj work in .-.n :i-."*. .sphere cfccrid wood smd 



The Indian Census o/ iS^u 139 

such as potters, washermen, and bbcksmiths — are often liable to it. 
Forty percent, of the blind are over fifty-fne years of age ; the numbers 
foTthcepoch we are considering were 526,748 and 458,868. Leprosy, 
the mysterious disease which has baffled inquiry and yields so little 
to uatment, aitticted 131,968 in 1881, and 126,244 in 1891. The 
Rumbersare not trustworthy, since the fear of segregation has given a 
njotive for concealment of many cases. In one report it is suggested 
that there is a constitutional tendency to this disease in Dxavidian 
fees; and that there is a larger proportion of it among people living 
^ihc hills— as large as 15 per 10,000— than among dwellers in the 
pliJDS; perhaps, says Mr, Maclagan in the Punhb Report, owing to 
ttu; nature of the grains that form the staple food Again^ syphilis is 
supposed by some to manifest itself as leprosy. Generally, Mr. 
Biincs thinks, it is developed most in a poor and illnourished popu- 
^tion, and is hkely to give way as the standard of maintenance 
J^v^nces, It seems to begin its attacks at about the age of twenty- 
yevs; prevails most at fifty years, after which age those afflicted 
to die off. 

reviews of the religions of India which the census reports 
rd will repay perusal by the searcher after the curious in religious 
The term " Hindu " is held to include those of modern sects, 
ihc Brahmo and Ar>a Soma], which are dissociated from 
1 worship, and practically embraces peoples of all shades of thought 
cherish no particular dogma. In iSyi, Hindus numbered 
7»73i,7-7- The trinity of the Hindu religion as a belief has been 
Dived by philosophers. It became an accepted article of the 
igion subsequent to the age of the Vedas, which show forth the 
tuiiive iaith, with which the early Aryan races seemed to have been 
C«ed, in the unity of the Deity in whom the universe is compre* 
Hymns are addressed in the Vedas to Vishnu as the author 
"life At a much later age he is associated as the second person in 
t trinity, with Brahma and Siva. They are charged, according to 
ofcisor Wilson, ** severally, for a time, %vith the creation, jireserva- 
'^and temporary annihilation of material forms/' and they corre- 
H^iul in metaphysics to matter, spirit, and lime, and in natural 
P*i^5o5onhy to earth, water, and fire. The mass of the people know 
^^oihin^ of a trinity. They call upon Brahma as an abstract 
I^"Cj|iL». He cannot be represented in material form. Vishnu is 
'^^>pp<rd in one or other of his incarnations ; very generally as the 
infant Krtshna, He has been nine times incarnate in different 
f^<>fihe world, comprising millions of years. Krishna is the latest 
'•^^ation but one, for the purpose of overthrowing tyrants and of 



4 




The Gentleman $ Magazine. 



140 



rescuing the oppressed. He is the darling god of the Hindu 
and the stories of his display of human feelings in his childhood 
the shepherds, and of his tender caresses of the village girls, app^ 
strongly to feminine emoiions. Krishna is regarded as the princips 
of love, and it is his tenderness for the sufferings of mankind whi 
has attracted by far the larger portion of the Hindus to 
worship. 

The worship of Stvaj the third person of the Hindu trinity, 
conjectured by Fergusson to have been acquired from the Turani 
races with whom the Hindus mixed in India, He thinks that 
phallic emblera came from the Tartars. Siva in the trinity, accordi 
to the conceptions of philosophers, is time, or the annihilator. I 
images are, therefore, often accompanied by sombre ceremonials. : 
the adoration of Siva under the type of a phallic stone is the outo 
of another mode of thought. According to this all death leads to 
life, all destruction to reproduction \ so that in process of time S 
came to be worshipped often in his more auspicious aspect. In 
phallus we have the symbol of new life. 

While all Hindus may be said to be worshippers of both Vishi 
and Siva, they are, as regards the practice of ceremonial, the votari 
of one or the other. The philosophical Ideas concerning the relatii 
of spirit and matter from which the tangible forms of Hindu worsb 
have been evolved, ars the j)eculiar property of the Brahman pries 
and the learned few ; the mass of the people bow before rudJ 
images, go through ritual by rote, and eagerly contribute to 
support and minister to the wants of the priestly caste, which 
regard as representative of deity. Such tables as those of the ce: 
afford little information as to the growth or otherwise of Hinduisi 
As shown below, the number of professed Hindus would appear, 
the period under review, to have fallen away, some having bee 
Mahomedans. Those who have lived in India of recent years 
aware that in the new generation of Hindus two schools have sp: 
up, the monotheistical and the material, the adherents of whii 
have broken away from Brahmantsm ; and it seems probable 
they will increase. But the greater part of the population, 
victims of ignorance and superstition, will for long most U 
remain idol-worshippers. The multiplication of minor religi 
sects is endless. It has been the interest of the priestly casii 
protect the cults of the aboriginal races, and by the worship ol 
attributes of the Deity personified in action, the character 
inclination of each individual finds its peculiar satisfaction. Ad 
this that the ignorant have provided for them the material object 



rudJ 

I 

ism 

\ 



^A 



The Indian Census of i8gi. 



141 



^rship wherein each special attribute is supposed to dwell, and 

une idea may be formed of the various notions which Brahmanism 

includes and fosters. The distinction existing between followers of 

this or that god is mostly one of practice and ceremony, and of 

^He manner of food eaten. Wliile they may worship one another's 

fod, one sect may partake of meat and spirits, while to the other 

*t»ese things are denied. The Bishnois, for instance, abstain from 

tobacco, drugs, and spirits, will not kill living creatures, and prevent 

^^ spOTtsman, if possible, from approaching their villages, which 

^'ften swarm with antelopes and half- tame birds. Millions of Hindus 

^'^ said to be Saktas, or worshippers of the female principle in 

""^ttire, especially of Devi, the Sakti of Mahadeo, but conceal the 

*<^, since the initiation in her secret worship involves indecencies. 

Asx extreme sect of Saktas— the Vama-Charis— are credited with 

•'^dTilgirvg, both men and women, in indescribable orgies. The 

J^ildsbenis of both sexes worship no god but Krishna, and at time 

^^ prayer both males and females divest themselves of their clothes. 

*tie Jogis, cr Yogis, by the practice of austerities have passed 

*^>ond the worship of material forms, and do not participate in 

■^^remonial ; their characteristic belief is in the power of man over 

ture and the occult influence of the will by means of austerities. 

are among the many extravagances of religious conception 

^^ with. There are other sects which the Brahmans count as 

^terodox : the followers of Kabir, for instance, dating from the 

»iirteenth century, who condemn all caste and idolatry, and hold that 

all who love God and do good are brothers ; ^' of Rohidas, in the 

^Htfcnth century, who disbelieve also in caste, and worship an 

rtutcrial being. 
The Musalmans number 57,321,164, and their rate of increase 
^^^ been greater than the mean rate for the whole population; in 
-^^ngal they were, in 1S72, half a million less than the Hindus : now 
^^eyare one and a half millions more. Several causes to which this 
^Jicrtase may be attributed are at work ; widow marriage is practised, 
^ the reproductive class thus increased ; the Mullahs are propa* 
^andists; all the agricultural castes by becoming Musalmans can 
^ in the social scale j and finally, Musalmans are polygamists 
*beii ihey can afford more than one wife. Mr, Robertson, in 
^^ Central Provinces Report, notices that in the Kagpur plain 
^glect of religious duties and assimilation to Hindu manners are 
toRiiuQp^ characteristics of the rustic Mahomedans ; and although in 
^^^ cities animosity runs high between the rival sects, it is very 
'^^^ for Mahomedans in most parts of India to take part with 
'^^ ccLXXvii. NO. 1964. L 




r 



The Genile^natis Magazine, 

Hindus in the festivities which mark holy days. 
Mahomedanism in India does not necessarily imply 
herence to its principles. 

Buddhists, most of whom are found in Burma and the I 
Mountains, now number 7,151,361. Some modem travel] 
been disposed to think that Buddhism is a religion peculiar^ 
to the character of the Burmese, and as having operated to 
charity, tolerance, and cheerfulness in the Mongol. Some 
by Mr. Eales in the Burma Report expose this fallacy, for ai 
mass of the people of Bmrraa, as well as other countries wh 
dhism is nominally professed, the teachings of Sakya Man; 
imbibed nor practised. Mr, Eales says, " Little true B 
is to be found in the mass of superstitions which go to roak 
religion of the common people ; " the worship is animistic it 
the worship of Nats, or spirits. "In every house a cocoa-ni 
up as an offering to the Nat who guards the house, and is 
when its milk is dried ; when the rustic Burman builds his 1 
offers fruits to the Nat ; similarly, when a son is born, or 
plague breaks out." When Mandalay was founded in 1857, 
nant woman was slain at night, in order that her spirit m 
come the guardian Nat of the new city. She is said to have I 
shape of a snake^ and the king made offerings of fruit and f( 

Forest tribes (classed as animistic) are 9,280,467 in \ 
Sikhs, 1,907,833 \ Jains, 1,416,638 ; Parsis, 89,904 ; O 
2,284,380; and Jews, 17,194* About 43,000 persons b 
minor rehgions or profess to have none. 

The Christians have increased by one- fifth \n the te 
Most converts are drawn from the lower classes. Those v 
been in India can realise how unwilling natives of good pos 
to adopt a creed which involves loss of caste and operate 
their social interests, that these considerations are not so stron 
the lower classes, and that they possess greater receptiv 
regard to emotional appeals which neither their inteUige 
their education dispose them to analyse. These are the re 
Mr. Baines in 1881 ; and in the case of the Tamil convec 
Madras Presidency, where the largest Christian churches ai 
the experienced will be found to agree with them. It i 
sinuated that motive is always present, but it sometimes is. \ 
broadly, the Indian native is as ready to be benevolenl 
European, and Christianity would give him fortitude and cc 
time of trouble which his idol-worship does not, but " cast< 
one great obstacle to its acceptance. 



t 



The Indian Census of 1S91. 



43 



Eduation among the young is proceeding, but at a low rate. 
Under iosiruction in 189 1 were 2,997,558 males and 197,662 females. 
There is an increase over the figures of 1881 of 315^649. But per- 
sons wbo are able to read and write but are not at school are 
iJ,097t53o in number, an increase of over fifty per cent since tSSi ; 
they fornj, however^ only 4*2 per cent of the whole population, ex- 
cluding children at school, and the figures have been swollen since 
1885 ^ ^c addition of 573,826 persons in Upper Burma, where the 
najorily of boys are instructed by the Buddhist priests. The Parsis 
tie shown to be the best educated community; Jews and Armenians 
arc also well educated; and of the Buddhists of Lahul and Spiti one- 
lenii are able to read and write. Mr. Baines does not hold out 
cncooiagement of the rapid acquisition of education by the masses ; 
iHitCTacy is little felt in the homes of the people, and the indoor life 
of the native is still regulated by the customs to which he duly 
conforms. Generally speaking, school and college education is 
^ded as the means of gaining some material advantage, and not 
«tlje means of social and intellectual progress. 

Reference has been made above to the uncertainty that attends 
tie future in the provision of livelihood for a population increasing 
*l the present rate in districts already congested. In this connection 
** important to notice the number of persons in 1891 engaged in 
'wtetries and professions whose developments have been influenced 
''y European enterprise in India, and fostered by the present ad- 
""ioiitration^ and how they have increased in ten years. In the 
'I'wjulacture of cotton^ jute, and hemp goods in 18S1, 5,758,551 
pttKmswere employed, and in 1891, 9,281,659 ; of silk, 85,440 and 
^*9f397 ; of iron and steel» 473j3<5i and 1,572,911 ; of other metals, 
'4itJ39 and 464,648. Persons engaged in medicine have increased 
^ 1 88^500 to 514,074 ; in law, from 31,628 to 226,163 ; in literarj' 
*Qrk,from 35,700 to 280,705 ; and in education^ from 170^701 to 
A497. Railways furnish occupation for 285,187 persons ; 'posts 
^ telegraphs employ 827,074, and 54^1^30 aJ*e engaged in the 
^tivation of tea and coffee ; while the numbers manufacturing 
batches and scientific instruments have increased from 3,020 to 
''>*j8, and preparing chemicals from 81,033 to 200,117; coal 
ciiflers were 3,763 in i88r, and 41,672 in 1891. One of the most 
'^nlung changes, and perhaps most significant of the growing wealth 
^f the country, is the increase of workers in gold, silver, and precious 
^^^'^€5, from 472,956 to 1,783,874. 

Speaking generally, 8,730,977 persons have been added in ten 
y^ to the numbers following industrial callings in which European 

1 3 



T44 ^^^ (jenfiemans Magazine, 

capital has largely been invested, and which Government has 
favoured. Thus almost one-third of the increased population during 
the period of ten years under review have found occupations other 
than pastoral and agricultural, upon which almost the whole of the 
people have, until recent years, been dependent. This is a feature 
which augurs well for the future. 

The imports of merchandise in 1881 were valued at ^50,308,834, 
and in 1891 at ^7i»975'370i taking the pound sterling as equal to 
ten rupees. Cotton goods from the United Kingdom accounted for 
23 million pounds sterling of the former and 30 1 million poundB 
sterling of the latter ; imports of iron, machinery, and railw*ay planff 
had also largely increased. Notwithstanding the local spinning mills 
which work up a large quantity of raw cotton into yarn and twist, 
which is in great demand in China, this staple to the value of 13 
million pounds was exported from India to England and the Conti- 
nent of Europe in 18S1, and of 16^ million pounds in 1S91. Indigo, 
wheat, rice, opium, oil seeds, jute, hides, sugar, tea, coffee, gums, 
and tobacco, together with raw cotton, account for most of the 72 
million pounds at which exports were valued in 1S81. The gross 
value in 1891 was 100 million pounds. - 

The average value of the external trade per head of the population 
in 18S1 was 9^, 7^., and in 1S91, lu, lod. This is in itself a gauged 
of the increased wage of the labourers ; but what is far more indioi'^l 
tive of the growth of prosperity generally is the fact that to the existing 
hoards of treasure in India 41 million pounds in gold and 89 millioa 
ix>unds in silver were added in the ten years. It is true that mor^^ 
recently gold has been exported, hut with the object of buying chetgH 
silver. Such is the general condition of the country— one of increa3^ 
ing capability of production and of gradual development of ntrmm 
sources of wealth. It is true that the benefits that should be felt t>y 
all have not reached a large part of the people ; and it is admitted 
that " abject poverty" is still very prevalent, but Mr. Baines brings to 
notice that land revenue has increased ; more salt is consumed— an 
unfailing indication of the greater purchasing power of the peasant; 
post cards and stamps are more largely dealt in; and third-class rail* 
way passengers are growing in number yearly. Such evidence is 
cited as conclusive of a gradual amelioration in the condition oi 
the peasantry', and few who know the country will be found to den/ 
it. On the whole, the Government of India may be congratulated 
upon the substantial progress which the census has revealed. 

WALKER. 



J 





A\VELL-KNOVVN Italian journalist was asked the other day 
by a Belgian contemporary anxious for information, what 
influence was exercised by modern literature upon Italian women. 
Ae Tq)lied, with that wit of which brevity is the soul, " None what- 
^Ptr.'* This rather severe criticism, although it may be true in the 
tttiin, yet by no means applies to a large and daily-increasing number 
of Italian women, whose intellectual attainments equal those of the 
vomen of any natioa They have entered the field of literature 
tnd are doing good work there, although few are known outside their 
Miive country. Italian women have not yet begun to travel ; they 
'"Knot such "globe trotters*' as their American and English 
*to, and, like the men novelists of Italy, they are not cosmopolitan 
^ihtit interests. Their books portray the life around them, giving 
■^as a rale, well-drawn and artistic pictures coloured with Italian 
and passion, at the same time governed by modern thought 
entirely free'from that romantic sentimentalisra which is still, in 
'"Reminds, inseparably connected with Italian productions in art. 

Among the numerous women writers in Italy at the present day, 

"^^ the Marchesa Colombij Matilde Serao, and Bruno Sperani^ 

^^J he singled out as especially worthy of ailtention. 

Of these, the writer known as NeiSra devotes herself more than 

Others to the ordinary society novel, giving us pictures of girls 

women in upper and middle-class society. Her '* Lydia," for 

"^nce, is the story of a pretty, frivolous, society girl, continued 

^ some fifteen years of the heroine's Ufe, from her teens until 

**** is over thirty-three years of age. Pretty, dainty, vapid, and 

^^, without any guiding impulse at all, she flirts through her 

youth, without even affection, until she suddenly falls in love 

*^^^ a thoroughly worthless man, and ends her butterfly existence 

Jistwhen she is really beginning to live. "Lydia" is a wonderfully 

^^d piaure of the frivolous girl 



i 



-.^ -.jr-^ _v.lz-j:^: ir Uiir :vrs r'XTt^ =. Ire. z=>f ibere is a <ielkci( 
»-T -:^ ;: -_:c — :t.;==s.-- :f nj4 -rsrr ss:= vb: "»T-.:es the story) 
•«: n:.— ..r,\Lr.r:T irc riSEr^cinsesc Viisi s. rsal - oSer ' comes 
-'s:: 37:.t: i r. rrl; -i^ri =i: : : -tiriTcr. jnr ber p' i— -'. >Gkiiig sister— i 
^ '--■^- :c-::i.^ s.:; ^ nic* .iiy iz- be ^'TisefuL" The en 

^^f^ -"" ^^ ^ ^ '- ~ --^i =L=£r is delizhnu:, and ai the c 

^ -^ ^'^ ^tT" "~-^^^ ^'*-*7 irn=^t=:e=t is foiind for the pr 
'»->'^ r-ersejL sb£ sc-eii £:.:oi o: t-irs en her wedding-day— not fi 
^"^^r*!^?' ^;:* ^^^^ -- seeris '^e ziost correct thing to da 
r ^^^*-^=^^~ ^ :o.;cr.es tne srinzs of passion, but La Marcl 
v-olombi IS more £isr:r«i::-z L- her quieter ever^'day stories, ' 
her quaim humour and clever touches of nature. 

Matilde Serao writes with more warmth and passion ; her ca 

IS ^>r^der and her types of life are more varied. She has the i 

exuberant imagination and the glow of the South. Of Greek-It 

irentage, Madame Serao began to write at a very eariy agi 



Women Novelists in Italy at the Present Day, 147 



s newspapers.. Her journalistic experiences famished her with 
lerial for a powerful novel, "The Life and Adventures of Ric- 

Joanna." It is rather a remarkable book for a woman to 

ve written, being a clever study of a man's career as a journalist, 

itten at great length, from his childhood to advanced middle age. 

I'e are introduced to Riccardo Joanna as a little boy li\Tng a 

hernia n hfe with his father ; then as a handsome young man of 

tjcal and literar>' tastes, the spoilt and petted darling of the 
stcxiatic ladies of Rome, wasting his time in dancing attendance 
the various beauties among them. 

The following extract is taken from the description of one of his 

;, wasted days during this period of his life. The passage also 

to illustrate Madame Serao's love of lengthy, detailed descrip- 

1, often carried to excess in her books. Riccardo Joanna has 

lied into a fashionable confectioner^s shop in the morning hours, 
lod observ es there 

Tlje )*cautiful blonde Countess Beatrice di Santaninfa, with her g^reen eyes 
M her enigmatic smile. She knew Joanna vcrj' well, althougli they had never 
■eti mtroduced ; knew that he was the favourite journalist among the ladieii, 
flw laved the mixture of languor aD<! audacity in his prose- writings ; knew well 
bt he *as the chronicler of feminine elegance, the deifier of fcmdnine beauty, 
(ithe posed for him, half closing her clear, transparent emerald eyes, nibbling 
ika, irailing ; on her full red lips lay a provoking border of sugar \ she 
cuded her queenly hand ^AJlh a pretty gesture to point out certain brown 
«, bending slightly as she did ^o ; then drank her glass of port &low1y, 
her ajin in a statuesque pose ; her emerald eyes wide open, dilated 
the level eyebrows. . . . Riccardo was fascinated ; a ray of southern 
l^layed on the while-marble fittings of the shop ; attentive wsLiterti came 
»CDt from the little tables to the counter, carrying plates of cakei and 
vf Malaga, Marsala, Xcres ; the air was full of an odour of sweet things-* 
iCreflm» vanilla, chocolate ; in the little fountain on the counter the water 
jMH musically ; now and then was heard Lhe fizz of seltzer, foaming from 
iJWinio tumbler— and Riccardo gave himself up most sweetly to the seduction 
'ihc moment, which lulletl his senses. The Countess Santaninfa enchanted 
in the warm, soft sunshine, in the midst of those odours of sweet things and 
'wy reflirctioDs of wines and syrups, with her knowing elegance of attire, 
of material, harmony of lims and line, with her bizarre and provoking 
'7. haughty and self-possessed, and her triumphant femiQine coquetry, which 
"^e alt lac live the bolder it is. All these things realised his dreams as. a 
snH an adorer of woman. An ecstatic languor took possession of him, a 
beaiitic state, into which the blonde, grcenneyed Countess threw a touch 
pungency of unsatisfied longing. She went away — the goddess dis' 
And Riccardo felt a sensation of cold, as if he had entered a vast 
soliiude. Hereupon, in that coldness, in that bitter feeling of aoUtudei 
pecuniary trouble awoke again. 

rdo passes his days jn this fashion, accompanying another 



i 



i^S Tiu Gcfdlcnums Magasime. 

rnunissf :: ":>-- r^-i-u-Jras, then attending a fashionable concert 

sni ar Lz:si:tzrziiz bzzas:. zZ the rime with a gnawing sense of not 

hrrasT cnni^rr. n.iner :o jay his awn cab-lares, &c But foitone 

izvzMiTs ibt trlll;m: weakling : a step onward, and he is the dcitr 

yjimi: fdnar :>:' z. newsTJCjer, which, however, £suls and comes to 

ar ibruTi: sa£ Heri. a: the naning point of his life, he makes an 

zw:':^ Lm.-r.:jiii3L. : v a resDl've to commit suicide, the hero of 

adsimnr intnfs- — :':'j?wed bj a lack of comage and an ignominioai 

haci:n:i-.-i'j: ::^£ rur.r-nr zwzr. The conclusion of the book pre- 

ssr*:? _i.iirr*i^:5n: ir: ibt raas: jiessimisdc colours possible. We find 

zhi Ttsr: :r" z brlLiLzr. b-: wsiced rouUi developed into a weary, 

r. Jclti-a^rei r-.,-- v.ir.:..: iisiis, wiihout hope, without domestic 

11^5 hif .13* z.?z:TLii:z. ittzziz ::* announce die sale of 100,000 

r.-ir.«;s ;i: r.:? nfvr?rc:i£r. A r:iC«re hoj^eJess picture of the journalistic 

:::*'^*:r r,-it.ji n..: n; rnurt-vei. '^^■e trust it is overdrawn, c^■en from 

tr I:^;:^ :i:cr.: :.: ^ .=t Tr-e jconr of the cynical editor is \aat- 

hi-s*?i rr irv i.T-f t:..s.->:-. A: the end he is living to dissuade a 

v.^^r^ 12^:^ vb: :.l£ r:r:e :: >..:=:. bent on entering the ]( 



.:» 19^ 



-,^L>:-:.:i;, J. ..-.--irij '.lizst wcs: co, ia a roicc as weak tt 

1 -••.; vx't :is: -v.- « t.-.r;r fr.d titt: jneiiiir^ -.hs *aus:rophe of ihc jounuKsl's 
r^-.-;- ". - N.c ::: s:. .ir^ crct', 'r*t:z.'j.zJ-^ cir.M&\Tophe Tite an iJl-destiojing 
:i'r..:x:-v- s:i;-: ii. : r^...,: «v ..ri-irrusC irr:=*:}: '±e J-r.gs. cr :: £?od bullet in ^ 
:i:i..z- .:•: .rr-:: .. -.: ; Lr-.rrLrj::: r.r.-.r;;" '-is ie^rh wbich a::racts admiiaiion 
^-■- i -^ i r^. .. ;r:: -T';->fw N. : T-i >==::, znlLu:?. v-igar, daiiy c^- 
s..-.-\:i:v; .-..^< .-; ,>.:...; p.c«. :>=:«?:»■▼;= !:« a f<rt:oa of your pride, 
.\r!; ... ■ i.c s&-r.: .-= i >ti:^i- :. zs:^i: liy y.z bii laieuclj :o a failh." 

>-T^i vr-iT L'= srih-jaiiscic younz man, undeterred by such 
i .\*.-". » - .'.-r^T^-?^ iivl^:^-^ iIm: he will sull be a journalist, Joanna's 
''""* -;■•:? ■ vVc >i"v y:-u. the- :" And so the book ends. 

' - — ^sii ' ^ n-:i=.s:j.:;:~ c:* which was recently published b] 

V- --.^:T>;u.'irTr ^ 'ertur: :s Matilce Seraos most glowing aw 

:.uss',*ir^:;r -i^-cr. z: cr^-^: :er.*nh and with unsparing detail— a 

»Ni:\ .vr i-jcirc-r. ihc ii^cr.bes the cinerent scents of different 

s\\^vn\i . vi.-^.;.-.5^ while, rir.i. cr purple, or when she writes page 

aNv: ;>.* .^v: h.-uj^h.'.i cuue> y^rfcnued bv a person who is aboi 

'"is^^ h*':;.-:r.e :< i hYjuro^ nervous girl, utterly selfish an 

t hcAr:. 1 -:$ o.-r.:b:rji::cn of the unrestrained imaginatii 

BK-rt: cLr.a odd cv-tisn: naturally makes a dangeroi 

"^ _^^^^ ^-^^ *-- i> collect is first seen at the convei 

fcwie *he at one time throws herself into religious fenour 



Women Novelists in It<^b «^ ^'^^ ^resent Day. 



r49 



tooihcr tries lo commit suicide because her essay is not approved 
by the professor. •*She has too "luch imagination, /^^/^j/^," 
kis verdict. Later in life, when she is married to a sickly 
ftoud, she fascinates the good-natured, weak husband of her best 
ind, and the two go off together, she exclaiming hysterically : 
taitii, it is all fate ! '' 

Addio, Amore!" {Fartu^ell L&it! also just translated), is 
•^r story with an excitable, hysterical girl as its heroine, the 
laid in Naples. She is not heartless, like Lucb in "Fan- 
but simply an unhappy victim of her own temperament. It 

ttcn with Madame Serao's osual exuberant imagination and 
style, and perhaps without the undue lengthiness observable 
J of her works. The descriptions of life in Southern Italy 
_ in themselves, 
^tuno Sperani is, I think, by far the most interesting of these 

i»riters, because her writings, though they may not surpass 
^ of her contemporaries in style and descriptive powers, yet show 
dcr interest in the social problems of the day, a more humanely 
iwphic spirit. Her books are usually written " with a purpose " 
tthe ?exed question as to the aims and ends of true art, and the 
I of a story to be written with a purpose !). She is essentially 
RDan of large and broad ideas, and wide, warm-hearted sym- 
es, and these qualities transpire in her literary work before 
Ihers. Dalmatia is Madame Sperani's native province, but she 
low for some years resided permanently in Milan, the literary 
t of Italy. Among her numerous works *'Numeri e Sogni *'' 
^trs and Dreams^ an allusion to the lottery system in Italy) 
lies the foremost place. It is the life story of a painter, and 
ithoress enters fully into the mental trials and discouragements, 
» and downs of the artist who is trj'ing to realise his ideals in 
Dto the wide gulf between inspiration and fulfilment. His 
!ttic life is another problem, Adriano is of humble parentage, 
n his father's death leaves his congenial life in Milan, and goes 
C at home in order to look after the familvt settling down at the 
tome, a little shop in a country village. To please his mother 
irrics Filomena, a good village maiden, who is very devoted to 
but has not the slightest understanding of her husband's artistic 
IL On his side, Adriano is fond of her, in a way, and supposes 
b be all that is necessary in marriage. At first all goes smoothly ; 
ttntsherasa Madonna for the village church. But, as children 
I and the usual cares, Filomena not only loses her good looks, 
flows herself to sink into the unattractive nurse of children and 



i 



hiasas^sxL -grrf^ n: rnr^ snf wHirnr aaj g^ of mind. The 

rcrr imt sisci, *%ii jij: -0^x1=5 r-.nHfir u rfc cf iranril i ing disippointiog 

zr 115 -"gr— Hif jftL Bic nnr & iisv rrmmr eoftas die housdxild. 

T.TTfwmsi X vcxnx. of *i;'rair ^ & yju ag girl fizde mote than a diild, 

cmns 1: I*v£ ^xi ^en. ^e s iol ac pBTBDaCr md has atakotfbr 

pc --:— -£ -riuzr ^fram: rsibrrais. Ix. a fev Tcais the natmal Rsok 

i:ili:nr=^ An-ami ±112 iis i3sal nf waman in her, and she lores bhn, 

:i— se^igTgs ±fc Jajostt an iiTirinic r aac, Oneof the saddest scenes 

IT 5:=i3c x=rns bevssi. J Ti. i mru xnd her hiwhand., She leoog- 

-nsef bg Tc^i^»">^wn*qf iz ttm* bsn lawg her; he respects her and ii 

xcz±Ei£: r: hsz. mc jivs ramt le craajrled— it hknreth where il 

IsTir^. Tie rvr -n-iint-Tars^ sac^ aioiie. each tzmnDing to hint the 

o±i£:^ m esTTiTiged =v ±i£ tstt rs v*adi shooU bind them together. 

Fiircprii, ± bsr gfTtr'jhJi r. '^i — g 13 sacnnoe herxlf in oidei tc 

zr^ bf biscar^f bzDciasss. S^ vZ ^ avay, and leave him- 

frsr- £•= Airazir cz=zi:x bccstc ri&. The only possible adotioi 

cicTr?* ^rrci Eiijf il. -vbr wT3:es rr ssrr^jcshe has marnedinorie 

tc izr^itlj rzn Acrazc's ibzccrrs roa her. There are passages 

pe£ibEi=rriruisb(xSc.a=icr:ie ceer^ tme note of real human fedini 

is scz^ietzass trocbed in aa excas^ccal manner. The nncongenudit 

of maiTLzge wt±i:c: k?Te bas re«r been pktored so boldly and y« 

so del:ca:elT. 

"Le Tre I>on=e' ^ Twif tl^-^i^Ki is a short story of peasu 
life. Here ihe soce cs' cneedoz: is the rebellion of a young prie 
agair^s: the crdinances of ihe Church. He falls in love with 
beautiful peasant giri, Crlsdna, and, after a struggle with himse 
resigns his priestly oSce and marries her. 

*• II Romanzo della Morte " {Tke Romance of Zkath) deals wi 
the old question : Is the woman who has, perhaps through no n 
guilt of hers, sinned against conventional morals, to be for e^ 
lalxK)ed by society, whilst the man goes scot-free ? This is work 
out in a beautiful and poetical story in Madame Sperani's o 
way. Argia, the heroine, suffers greatly, but is not condemned : 
ever. 

Madame Sperani's short stories (of which a volume is publish 
with the title " Nella Nebbia ") are interesting sketches charmii^ 
treated, models of artistic workmanship. Among them is a pre 
story of child life (her own) entitled "Le Due Case" {The 7 
Houses), The sketch of the tram-driver gulping down his dinner, 
he stands by his horses, in constant dread that the next tram w 
appear before he has had time to finish his meal, is very graph 
and forcible— " Un Desinare " , (-4 Dinner) is the title. "Ur 



rn Novelists in Italy at the Present 

Istitutrice" i^A G(rvcmesi) is another bfiautifully-written picture ot 
the life of a teacher in a girls' school. 

It is extremely difficult to give short extracts from Madame 
Sperani's works, especially from her longer works» which ought to be 
read in their entirety. Perhaps one or two from " Nella Nebbia *' 
may not be without interest. 

The first, from ** Una Istitutrice." Ernestina, the teacher^ has been 
promoted to a school of more importance, with higher pay, and 
ipends the eve of her departure in the old college, deserted and 
silent on the first night of the holidays. All her past life, dull and 
bin, passes before her, and her conclusion is : 

"To love! to love J*' she said, her voice choked with tears. "To have 
«W CTeatore in the world to caress one, to pity one J ... A child ! Oh I if I 
wly had a child lo press to my heart ! - . . " 

Next morning, at dawn, the cab comes to take her away to the 
tiew life. The old priest, Don Antonio, meets her at the gate, as he 
is tt)ming to say mass, 

Thejrwerc good friends, although no mistress in the college was less religious 
'^ ihc Btti both met on the common ground of great honesty of purpose and 
•"^pnt tmhappiness. And such people always end by understanding each other, 
*<>»ever great may be the differences of opinion which separate thein. 

Th« old priest and the poor teacher, slill young, though apparently grown 
*'*'1| exchanged a few words, a few good wishes ; the dearest wish of all— that of 
^soon free from their chains— they did not need to express, it could be read 
tatlWireyes. 

"FirewcU I *' said the priest, when the bcil had ceased tolling ; ** keep up your 
ttwage OS you have always done,'* 

"And you too ! " replied Emcstina soflly. " Farewell 1 " 

TTie priest disappeared behind the black door of his church, the driver 
'dipped up hia horse, which set off at a smart trot* by way of beginning the day 

tracstina Maggi folded her arms over her grey dress and tnrned her ga2e to 
the mn^ ^j,q appeared just at that moment at the end of the long, straight street, 
^e»hagcdiscof fire. 

From ** Un Desinare," the conclusion of the tram-driver's hasty 

In the meantime the tram was almost full. The conductor stood at his post 
^ lie platform behind, 
^^me one grumbled at the long delay. 
Always the way on this hnel" exclaimed a big man with a basket of 
_o»iage» on his knee. 
" ^»*Hcy. driver ! ^take baste ! " 

lT»c driver, his wife, and the child shrugged their shoulders, their eyes fixed 
<Ki the end of ihe street 



L 




Three or four more spoonfuls, bigger Ihan the rest, if possible^ were galpcd 
down in baste. It seemed now as if the irtan's great hunger were appeased, and 
as if he made haste just from habit, in order to finish his portion and to fortify 
himself against the cold of the evening. He swallowed with difficulty^ his neck 
swelling with the effort. 

His wife spoke to hJm in low tones, 'he little boy ventured to chatter. 
*' Here it is ! " exclaimed the woman a.11 at once. 
The driver said somethicg in a choked voice, 
•* Lift me up, mother ! Lift me up ! " 

When the child found hinisclf lifted as high is the level of the paternal breasl, 
he stretched out his liltJte hands towards the whistle and pretended to blow it* 
with the grace of a little Cupid. 

Bui the driver had no lime for sentiment, lie finished scraping the bottov of 
the tin dish, gave it back to the woman, and mounted to his post, stamping his 
feet to warm himself, whilst his little boy watched him intently with adnUring 
eyes and a little disappointment. 

At the moment of starting, the man seemed to feel a sort of remorse ; he turned 
lo pat his little bo/s cheeks ; then seized the reins, and the horses moved on. 
" Good-bye ! " 
" Good-bye, daddy I " 

The woman and the child waited a minute, then lurned and disappeared ia 
the fog which was coming <>q at nightfall. 

The tram began to slide rapidly along the rails, and the glass of the windows 
rattled its usual music. 

'*The only amusement in society I" cried the man with the mecbanicol 
mouse, 

**The only present for children 1 '' replied he of the halfpenny watches. 
The crowd passed by laughing. 

MARY HARGRAVE, 



fe 



^53 



SOME ENGLISH HA RIPEST SONGS. 

These ate the songs for the toilers to siiig in the heat of the harvest. 

-w "jr T HEN the ricks are thatched, when the labour money is paid, 

^^ \f when the plough has turned up the soil carpeted with grass 

sind stxibble, and the han^est moon has risen and lived her short but 

gloriously golden career, then comes the harvest-home and the harvest 

song. In England we have the harvest sermon in the village church, 

the supper in the barn, interspersed with many a jest and many a 

song ; and it is of these same songs, so typical of rustic life, that I am 

going to speak. In those countries where the vine is cultivated there 

H » **^ cViA to the merriment which follows on the anxious days of mois- 

B t0n£ig^' l'^^ ^^"^^ ^s gathered, the wine-press trod, the vintage 

I bouquets put together and presented to the ladies connected with 

" the wine farm, and all the time there is a perfect festival of song, 

simple and bright and full of harmony* In Tuscany, in France, in 

Oennany, and in Russia, there are numbers of harvesting songs, all 

more or less full of poetry, and instinct with charming melody; there* 

lore we should like to think that our own country is not far behind 

in this matter of harvest singing, although the gleanings are not 

associated with the romance of the grape. Here are a few specimens 

of harvest songs which have become characteristic of certain counties. 

Unfortunately, harvest suppers, and har^'est songs with them, are dying 

oat, and the sooner we preserve any glamour of characteristic humour 

or pathos they may have owned the better. As the sailors' chanties 

were used to lighten the labour of hauling and heaving before the 

days of the steam-winch and the patent capstan, so were the harvesters' 

sotigs required to help the reapers and the gleaners in the times 

when the sickle had not even given place to the broad hook, much 

less to the machine. The harvest supper was always an occasion for 

the singing of good, old-fashioned songs, of which each man had his 

own ri/ttrioirt^ which he gave untiringly year after year. Such standard 

works as ** John Badeycorn," " Carrion Crow," and *' The Farmer's 

Boy" <iTC, or rather were, an indispensable part of the harvest-home 






154 7^ GemtUmoMS Mmgmzime. 

soppcxs ; and at Cone Dtedc ^ g uugahlr e, tbe two fioflowing tiadi- 

frrmal toosts woe gcxiezany grvcs.: 

Here's Ti^j«?rf« lo ihe maiBtet^ 

Who iiilfes tile faarvcst-^nt ; 
s^nA Tii>arr?i to rhe Trmfri ; 

She always takes lier part. 
Here's aealtli to the pi mmftitt ; 

He ploughs and so«s the oaen ; 
And h ealth ro the hnntsnan, 

Who mscmy hkiws his harau 

Here's health to die baxlej mam ; 

And h«"aTth to ?H«» num. 

Who always can 
Bochhazrow and pIovKghaad sow; 

Whc, when it's well sawn. 

Win see it's well mown. 
And nked x cazefixl gleniv 

And stacked in the bom 

To lie dzT, safe fron hano. 
Till he r^n t^^^^h it ^^*»t, 

In Conre Dale one of the penalties for overthrowiDg a load used 
to be to eat the sapper in silence, without songs, without shouting; 
and in the Eastern counties that of "losing the goose " as the/f2^^ 
resisiance at the evening banquet was observed, this being, of cooise, 
the goose. "Losing the goose "^ is still a synonymous term for •'over- 
throwing a load" When, however, no overthrowing had taken 
place, the head man would stand up in his place, at the end of 
supper, and sing : 

Well ploughed, well sown ! 

Well reaped, well mown ! 

Never a load o'erthrown ! 

Why shouldna we sing ? 
Chorus, Harvest home. 

Another version runs : 

Well ploughed, well sown ! 
Well reaped, well mown ! 
Well carried home ! 
Ne'er a load o'erthrown. 

Two other variants are quoted by Miss Charlotte Burne, in* her 
volume of Shropshire folk-lore. One was heard in 1885, at Corve 
Dale, by Mr. Thomas Powell : 

"We have ploughed and we have sowed, 
"We have reaped and we have mowed, 
And we have brought home every load. 
Hurrah for harvest home ! 



Some English Harvest Songs. 



155 



W 

H The other is : 

^^^^ Mr, Bruae is a very good man, 

^^^^B He treats his 'osses as well as he cao ; 

^^^^H W^z'c once tttrntd ovtr and twice stuck fast ^ 

^^Hl But we've brought his hftrvest safe home at last ! 

With which confession of unskilful harvesting I will leave the subject 
^^of overthrowing. 

B Many very quaint customs connected with harvesting are 
^ recorded in almost every work Tvhich touches upon folk-loroj and 
fnost of these are not infrequently accompanied by music. We have 
the making of the "kern-baby" or "mell-doU" of Northumberland 
and Durham, which used to be preser^'ed from harvest to harvest, and 
carried home to the sounds of dancing and singing. The German 
custotD of leaving the last few ears of com uncut for " Woden's 
share; " the cutting the *' neck" at the end of the reaping, which is, I 
believe, a Salopian ceremony ; and the crying the mare at the end 
of harvest, were all more or less musical customs, or at least neces- 
sitated the singing of certain words. 

Miss Lucy Broadwood and Mr. J. Fuller Maitland, in their 
recently published volume of" English County Songs," have included 
several harvesting songs, the first being from Sussex, where it is 
knoim as **The Mistress's Health :" 

Here's a health unto the mis-tcr-ess, the fairest of twenty. 
CJkfirus, O, is she so ? is she so ? is she so ? 

Is ycut glais full, or is your glass empty ? 
Ckarus. Come, let us know, let us know, let us know. 

We'll drink him out so deep, and we'll sing ourselves to sleep. 

And sing ho, and sing ho, and sing ho. 

{Repeat for Ch&nti.) 

When sung at harvest-homes, at the words "0, is she so?" 
le singers carry candles up to the mistress, as if to investigate her 
claims to be the " fairest of twenty/' 



THE MISTRESS S HEALTH,"^ 




^ 



»p 



m 



t^ 



Sola. 



is she so? is she so? is she so? 

> This is the tune (with some differences) of the old Christmas carol, '* God 
rest joOf xneny geoUemen/' 



I 




^ 



^F 



Sda. 



^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 9 ^ m ^"^ 



wFjurm 




Om 



1 1 ^^ I . ^ .'I "" ' ' ^ i 



tm like kB pK 0rfi 



^ 



:«=*: 



f ! > 



y- ^ t >.^*.- >».^ 



^ 



KMCKv, S9 bm^s l» ikee. 






Uo > A«r J<ib^ *Ti» al-»iOiiti«» ttat «e «a«cincWcll iaMlDe,vcUbiiik»««1l 




^^^^^ : g cK-g-t^ 



1 



groond, And so Jet the mis - tress - ** health go rotmd. 

From Hampshifc comes the following harvesting ditty : 

THE REAP'HQQK AND THE SICKLE. 

Come «ll yott lads and ksscs, tosethcr let us go 

Into Bome pleaiant cornfield, our coarage for to show. 

With the Tcap-hook and the sickle, so well we clear the land, 

The farmer wys, '* Well done, my lads ; here's liquor at yoar ODmmand.'* 



Same English Harvest Songs. 



157 



By daylight in the morning, when ihe birj.s m sweetly sing, 
They are such charming creatures, they make the valky ring, 
"NVc will reap and scrape together til) Thofbus do go down, 
AVith the good old leathern bottle, and the beer that is so brown. 
Thcti in comes lovely Nancy, the corn ail for to lay, 
Sbc is my chnrming creature, I must begin lo pray. 
Se« how she gathers it, binds it, she folds ii in her arms, 
Then gives it to some waggoner to till a farmer ".s barns. 
Now harvest's done and ended, the com secure from harnij 
All for lo go to market, boys, we must thresh in the bam. 
HeTe*i a health to all you farmers, likewise to all you men. 
I wuh you health and happiness till harvest comes again. 

THE REAP HOOK AND THE SICKLE, 



^ 



^^^^^^ 



TTie same words are sung in Oxfordshire to a tune known as 
Xhe Good Old Leathern Bottle,'* which I also give here. 

THE GOOD OLD LEATHERN BOTTLE. 



^j 






¥=^^~fr'^A I " I [. I -^*-j *.^ - i-r- ^ 



Chorus, 




^u^ 



v-iT 



„ : rr r Z^zz-n I riz^r r^3as= " prt lh» nott t& 
-jr. c:iz7.:nrrr=i:: — .^ii: ziztt-s: ?nnr vhidiis* 

iz ^^11 ----- zzi z irsr — =20= fJitrf z, hzrr. for ct«5 

t-j: r — .1 rrj. ;::= zr.rrs- TsrtrTT*'' mni. M: nuc viih 



T*:. ^ -^ 



:s^ Tsc ::: mc suL. 
am. TT- saauii nxr suss&s ga free ? 

Si::. ▼ i 5.- a.-r. spZ, 
rr-.-. izr *:i? nir T.rgr-'s viC 






-rr__= — ih^-i^ 



^ ^^'-7-.--^^ 



:; T - ■ * ^^ 



:5=»: 



TT-ir- 






# 
. ^ I — -1=^ ^I ■ ^_ ~ 

6 '• •• 1 ''^'^h^.i^^ 



m 



m: 



4' i /; /fl^^^^^^ 



J) 



I hirn: an: f' w srjnj,'s more thoroughly typical of harvest -home 
iliiiii tliiri Wiliihirc orjc ; it is redolent of the bonhomU of the plan- 
lihil f.c;ivm, nnd full of healthy life and honest mirth. 

• I \\v nl.'iM* i-. llu- liinc of •'The Miller of the Dee," only major imtead of 

illlllUl. 




st Songs. 



159 



In Cleraent Scott, in that most channing of latter-day idylls, 

^'oppy Land Papers," says of the following song that " it is a quaint 

fVJ ditty, and is worth preserving, now that village songs are forgotten, 

•ind the labourer only cares for the latest music-hall doggerel or 

"WiiiiiW the Clouds roll by." 

A A'0/l/^OI.A' HARVEST SONG. 
Now Lammas Day is over, bop, we will begin ; 
We will cut down ibc com» and carry it in ; 
We will reap, wc will mow, we will sweat to the brow ; 
>Vc will cut down the corn that so sweetly docs grow. 
We have an old man thai is tilling the land ; 
His back it is bent, and he scarcely can stanti ; 
He wil! get up in the morning and do all he can, 
And pray God to reward the old harvest man. 
A man that ia lazy, and will not come in. 
He will hinder his master, and likewise the men. 
We will pay him his wages and bid him t>egone ; 
For what shall we do, lads, with such lazy one? 
Now harvest is ended wc will make a great noise. 
And our roaster will say, ** Von are welcome, brave boys.'* 
We will broach the old ale tub, and box it along, 
And now we will end the old harvest song. 

** The Barley Mow " is one of the most popular of harvesting 
songs^ and is to be heard in several counties. It is customarily 
chanted at the supper, after the carrying of the barley is completed 
— when the stack, rick or mow of barley is finished. The size of 
drinking-measure is doubled at each verse. The brown bowl is 
tpposed to contain half a pint. As the song goes on the words 
icreas^ in number. After *' Nipperkin, pipperkin," the singer adds 
ic of the larger measures, pint, quart, pottle, &:c-, at each successive 
always finishing with '* and the brown bowl." 

THE BARLEY MOW. 




rf-^ J^^g-g-P 



Here't « health to the bar • ley 
We'll drink it out of the 



mow. my boy«, A health to the har-!ey 
nut<»tiruwt) bo* I, A health 10 the bar-^lcy 



5ne: 



^ 



:^3t 



«=*: 



The nip-per-kin, pip-p«r-ldn, and tb« Irrown bowt* A 



*y 




6o 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



There is a distinct Suffolk version of this song; it is given by Mr, 
J. H. DLxon in his ** Songs of the Peasantry/' and M. Sandys, in his 
" Specimens of Cornish Provincial Dialect," quotes a Cornish and 
Devonshire version. 

In some parts of Suffolk a curious custom existed a few yens 
ago at the harvest suppers, of singing that quaint old song, " I am 
the Duke of Norfolk," or ** Paul's Steeple," one of the company 
being crowned with inverted pillow or cushion, and another pre- 
senting to him a jug of ale» kneeling. Probably in this custom there 
is some allusion to the homage formerly paid to the Lords of Nor- 
folk, who were always possessors of immense domains in the county. 
To ** serve the Duke of Norfolk " seems to have been equivalent 
to making merry. In Suffolk, he who is crowned with the pillow is 
to take the ale, raise it to his lips, and to drink it off without spilling 
it or allowing the cushion to fall. The country people in W^arwick- 
shire used also to use a cushion for a crown at their harvest junket^j 

ings. 
^ DUMB, DUMB, DUMB, 




^^ 



^ 



the Duke of Nor - folk. Newly come to Suffolk, Say 




at * tended or no, no, no! GtKxlDuHI^^^ot of .fcnj^d. And 




tcoded 



now» now« now. 



I 



you shall be at - lefld-ed, And you shall be at- 

There is also a version of "The Barley Mow Song," peculiar to Suf- 
folk, which is as follows : 

Here's a health to the barley mow. 

Here*5 a health to the man 

Who very well can 

Both harrow, and plow, and sow. 

When it is well sown, 

See it is well mown, 

Both raked and gravelled dean. 

And a bam to lay it in* 

Here's a health lo the man 

Who very well can 

Both thresh and fan it dean. 

Tn a note appended to some specimens of harvest songs 
IVs '* Popular Music of the Olden Time " it is remarked tha 



Same English Harvest Songs, 



i6i 



wrest men were mtroduced on the stage in the early drama, it 
laJmost invaiiably for the purpose of making them sing or 
te." In Dodsleys old plays we find this old harvest-home song 
led as being ** usually sung by reapers in the country ; " it 
lally printed in Nashe's "Summer's Last Will and Testa- 
Merry, merry» raerry, cheary, cheary, cheary» 
Trotrl the black bowl to me ; 
Hey, deiTv, derf>% with a poup and a leaiy, 
I'll trowl it again to thee; 
Hooky, booky, we have shorn. 
And we have bound. 
And we have brought harvest home to town. 

some parts of England we still hear this variation of the song : 
Hooky, hooky, we have shorn, 
And bound wliat we did reap ; 
And we have brought the harvest home, 
To make bread good and cheap* 

time of this is known as " The Country Farmer's Vain 



THE COUNTRY FARMEF^S VALV GLORV 



TA^erJully. 



p:s?=^^E^- | ^ 



Repeat in Chorus, 



r^TT rrgiSg^ 



THE COUNTRY FARMER'S VAINGLORY, 
Our oats they are hoed, and our barley's reaped, 
Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped ; 
Harvest home ! Han-est home ! 
We'll memly roar out our harvest home, 
Han'est home ! Harvest home ! 
We'll merrily roar out our harvest home. 
We'll merrily roar out our harvest home. 
We cheated the parson, well cheat him again ; 
For why should the Vicar have Ofie in ten ? 
One in ten ! One in ten I 
For why should the Vicar have one in ten ? 
For why should the Vicar have one in ten ? 
For staying while dinner is cold and hot. 
And pudding and dumplings burnt to pot ; 
Burnt to pot ! burnt to pot ! 
Till pudding and dumplings burnt to pot I 
Burnt to i>ot ! burnt to pot ! 




td2 Thi KJimLltwmam's Afagasine. 



Tr«1 irak aT Ae 

Jtkt Tagacii . Oiii Sa^jaad ! 

TTns :s i2 .*tc '^a^vs ac iig sco^ wbaee origlii is obscure, as is also 
its CE&rr .mac. 

r,£:£ =ujLr£5r-J5rojwE. 

Cisns X ?^esr sal S<iL 



Our la^-or » c'sa^ 

Our >*ra* in oill stoee 

Xcw $w«3. vij:& rich ^I&s of the la;^!. 

Let «ai:it oisui tbtfn oke 

Fee rit<? FP^^D^ aad the nke» 

Hvs can d3c h» lass In his band. 
For Oeres^ ic 

No o,*urti<r can be 

Sc hap t"^ j& w«. 

l-* -naooince. rastizne, and mirth, 

\V::h cvir sweetheart ot spouse. 
And rejoice o'er the fruits of the earth. 
For Ceres* Cicc. 

John Applebj was a man^s name« be liTcd near the sign of the Kettle ; 
His wife she was called Joan v^uiet. because she conld scold but a little. 
John to the alehouse would go« Joan to the gin-shop would run ; 
John would get drunk wiih the woccen, and Joan would get drunk with the n 

Sow, Joan she was no great eater, and John he wasn*t a glutton ; 
And so for to tickle their jaws, they bought *em a shoulder of mutton ; 
John in an angry mood caught the mutton up in his hand. 
And out of the window he threw it, while Joan she was at a stand. 

X(ow, Joan she was at a stand, didn't know what to make of the matter ; 
So catching it up in her hand she after it threw the pUtter ; 
An old woman pasang by, and sc«ng the mutton there lay. 
She cau^l up both mution and platter and with it she ran away. 




English 



Songs. 



ow, John be had got a fiill barrel, well seasoned with hoane-grown hops, 
10 for to finish the (juarrel, this question lo Joan he pops ; 
•' Shall we spicket the home-brewed, Joan, and all our neighbours regale ? 
Although we have lost our mutton, we have not lost our ale. *' 

en the oeighboars came flocking in (oh, wasnH there just a commotion ?) 
l^'ith **Wastebutt " and most of his kin all aiming lo get at the lotion. 
the^r banged the old barrel about, and pulled the spicket out too, 
Sayiog, ** We'll all get drunk to-night, for what have we el&c to do ? " 

This -was taken down from the Kentish hop-pickers by Mr, 
Samuel Willet, of Cuckfield, Siissex, and is included in "English 
County Songs,'' It is supposed to have been originally a political 
song directed against Oliver Cromwell. In several Kentish squibs 
be is called a brewer, and is moreover often described as a 
dninkard, together with his wife, who is nicknamed Joan, 

JOUN APPLEBY. 



^ 



1 r ~T [* 



d d d- 



» ft ^ K r f^ 



e= A d d A -^=s=f- 



i 



^^^ 



^^ 



)^ ^ W 



^ET^L:4-C-g C g C C pi 



^^ 



S^a 



A certain amount of pastoral romance has ever been connected 
^iih harvesting, and the reapers' scngs in many countries have at- 
tained a rare amount of perfection, and consequent popularity. In, 
'^^ce, for instance, the grape-harvest has furnished numerous 
"^iutiful legends and songs, and likewise in Italy ; the wheat- 
^^Pers in Russia have certain chants which always form part of the 
^^njonies of this season* Many are doubtless familiar with the 

^^y vineyard chorus in the play of " Claudian,*' and numerous 
^**^t^s which occur in opera and other scenic representations ; but 

^I'cve few are acquainted with the songs in vogue amongst the 
^esters of the homely potato. Certainly the idea is not suggestive 



qfatfcpomy;apatPcofiepomDeswia bMMU By seems, to ay 
lS»ekMortt,9iigjh%bicoogR»as;9cttfefi«iean^ Out thae 
mofkm do sng, aod ling vdl tocL Ajisbife^ die CDditt| /or 
o^tlbe Scoldi potaiD c ofcit a ti oii, as of so nHmy Q(tbo agn^ 
panaksy pfesents qoice a pktsicsqae feacore dmi^ ibe 
of AogiBt, Its fidds dinx^dd vitfa women whose t^f^etnwt^^ 
tiMPiifh Cur frocn bd^ or cfen cleaalj, lias yet an denient ttf the 
artiilk, m tbdr roqgh, stnped pettiaiat, loose pdnt jacket, and 
cottoo handkrrcfakf as bead-gear. 

I remember meeoog qaite a crowd of tbem ooe anemooo when 
reliiriuog from Ardrossan to the little Ayrshire vOfa^ where I was 
siafiDg^ Tbef were singing in ckorDS as they wended their homeward 
way. I wa5 attracted by the really hartDOoiocEs manner in which the 
clionu was given, and then as I got within an easier hearing distance^ 
I was itrtick with something In the time that seemed familiar to me. 
Where had I heard those joyous notes before ? And then it flashed 
across my mind that it was a iavotiriie song of the Dutch herring- 
lUhers. \Miat possible affinity could these potato- harvesters of 
Ayrshire ha%*e with the hardy ocean toilers of Holland ? And yet, as 
I listened more intently, I was more and more firmly convinced 
that it was the same tune. I tried to make out the nature of the 
words they were setting to it; but the peculiar dialect in which they 
were rendered made it impossible, and an attempt at clearing up the 
mystery by entering into conversation with one of the women, who 
had loitered a little way behind the rest, proved equally unsuccessful 
The whole party were soon out of sight; but every now and again 
there came, wafted by the soft summer wind, the refrain of their 
song* I cannot hope to solve the mystery of the connection, for 
perhaps few know the original melody and its purpose ; but the fact 
remains that I was gazing on to the Firth of Clyde, wnth a back- 
ground of Ayrshire scenery, and a chorus of Scotch women's voices, 
now almost too far away to be heard distinctly, singing a Dutch sea- 
song at the close of their long and tiring day's work. 



Allegro. 



DE NiEUlVE BARING, 
The New {Fresh) Herring. 




^^m 



^^^m^ 





Some English Harvest Songs. 



I r ^ ■ — ^ I »^s=w^^s 



^^ 




' 1 i i 

H TWi^ C^A YEN CHURN SUPPER SONG. 
is is sung at the "chum suppers" given by the farmers 
ing the remote dales of Craven, to their men at the close of 
r-harvest. At these suppers the men mask themselves, and 
armless practical jokes on their employers, &c The song 
n different dales, but the version given is the popular one. 

God rest you merr)' gentlemen ! 

Be not moved al my strain. 
For nothing study shall my braio, 

Bot for to make you laugh. 
For I came here to this feast, 

For to laugh, carouse, and jest. 
And welcome shall be every guest 

To take his cup and quaff. 
Chorus,— ^^ frolicsome everyone, 
Melancholy none ; 
Drink about. 
Sec it out, 
And then we'll all go home. 
And then well all go home. 

This ale it is a gallant thing ; 

It cheers the spirits of a king ; 
It makes a dumb man strive to stng, 

Aye, and a beggar play I 
A cripple that is larac and halt, 

And scarce a mile a day can walk, 
When he feels the juice of molt 

Will throw his crutch away. 
Chorus,— "V^^ frolicsome, &c. 

'Twill make the parson forget bis men ; 

Twill make his clerk forget his pen ; 
*Twill turn a tailor's giddy brain. 

And make him break his wand. 
The blacksmith loves it as his life. 

It makes the tioker bang his wife; 
Aye, and the butcher seek his knife 

When he has it in his hand. 
C^^riix.— Be frolicsome, &c. 




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Ai -Ji-!? are bijTzakirg. 



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LVCRA ALEX. SMITH. 



I 



i6' 



JOHN DUNTON, BOOKSELLER. 



HE trout, gliding warily through the pools and shallows of the 
river Chess, were, one fine evening, sent darting hither and 
ler by the plunge of a heavy body in their midst. Almost 
»lly surprised was John Reading, who lay fishing on the bank, 
tti he beard a voice he knew screaming for help. Hastening in 
direction of the cries, he beheld his little cousin, Johnnie Dunton, 
ndering and splashing. Lying down flat and making a long arm, 
'caught the boy by his collar and pulled him to land. Johnnie, 
was on his way back from the day-school he attended at Chesham 
his Uncle Reading's house at Dungrove, stated, in explanation of 
t accident, that he was so absorbed in thinking what he would do 
\n he became a man, as to forget where he was going. Hence 
cold bath. Another time he was nearly choked by swallowing a 
[Det, which, fortunately for him, bolted up again unexpectedly. 
is experience did not deter him from thrusting a bristly ear of corn 
irn his throat, just to see how far it would go. It slipped beyond 
h of finger and thumb, and only the timely arrival of some of 
Reading cousins (always at hand when Johnnie was in danger) 
Eved him from suffocation. 

Johnnie was not exactly a pattern boy. He often played truant 
im school, and the excuses he made for his absence were false. He 
ned his school-fellows once in robbing an orchard; and while the 
St went to work among the apples, he was posted as sentineL 
eing, or thinking he saw, somebody approaching with a thick stick, 
gave the alarm. Upon this the robbers unloaded and fled, he 
illowing as fast as he could scamper. He would oftencr have joined 
such adventures, had it not been for his cowardice. In his '* Life 
d Errors " — the strange autobiography which he has beiiuealhed 
posterity— he alludes repeatedly to this failing. He tells us, too, 
U he was idle, and " could improve fast enough in anything else 
t the art of learning," Lessons he disliked, inasmuch as they 
kept him confined, and were too diiScult and unpleasant" His 
tigious training was doubtless of the strictest, for the Readings and 



I 






Tii GcKiUmans Magazine, 

:Li: .-ni ":t xhc-zi he wis 5urrouaded at Chesham were rip' 
j j_ H= >j.i rif =odc=s of Heaven and Hell. Of Hea?c 
: zi *rj.i :rcai=.ei a z'-Inpse on first reading, with atte 
1 .-r. ?>j:~ XT. : ::■ :>- :err:rj c: He" he hardly dared lo thir 

7; >.i — -— ^ K-J.-r irjcire-i as a prowling skeleton wit! 

o.-r: -.- ::i r^h:. xni inbrcr-z-isi in iis left hand. He looked c 
\ - : f-.r^ :hii ^7~»ir.:::r- tJic-^h. as a very remote event, and trust 
i: .: *>.:^"i ijTrri-h "^Izi- :bj.: :: =i:^b.i be persuaded by tears ; 

J:c.-=ii ziii-* ■-.< frsi ar^eirance in the world on May 

xrf: — Ln :>.e zrerril r^r*\::i- the ieaih of Cromwell and die 

ii.'TU.:--.-- ,*:" :r.i Siviarts. Hjs zivrrhsr w^a a native of Chesham, w 

<!"c h.-.i i ^._.ll^i^:c< cjnr.ec:::- c: married sisters and brotl 

:l.> :-:;-. ■*• - : ^-a-jic frcci ih-e sLr.e d.itrici, was rector of Grafll 

::*. tl^r.;.;:^ijc:s;.ur2. ii :l»i une cf his son's birth; but the d 

o: r s T*;:V:. i y^ir ireranris^ so 3 Ticked him that he resigned 

» \.r^ ir...! wir.: :: Iniitr.i is chap*-i:a and secretary to Sir H 

l.'iSvisr^. JL :v.< v.r«sr cc iJ:e Frlvy Council. Before leaving, he 

'.r,.>uv. >..s .:-f-r.: sec tc :I:ie keeci::^ of his sister, Mrs. Reai 

lU* >Avi rx'"<c^iC n.:c «" r^irry ajiiiz for seven years, and he rema 

::•. Irvv.: *,; :V: ovir :hx: 7«ir.:d. O:: his renim he obtained thel 

o; A>;.\" Cl.**:,'r, r.sjir Trlr^. .\i:er a b::. he took a second 

I: r.cvvcv; *:'u: >..< roy s 7c^»fr.c^. r.^T. :o conip'.ete the family c 

•'"- - '-*v: *i> -*. r.o hurr.- :^ co azior.^: strangers, for so 

A. >M-v\; u* r •- He "<tjc~^ ^t^v." he tells us, at the pro 

V : v\iv. *j: l"*. -*i-v.^e 2r.: :>c V=i Rrai:r.*:5. The distance to ^ 

: ■ ^^- .; *^\ \fc :? : :^i ..-^7.:^. s^ezied :=i:::ense, and it was 

-x .•.M\'. .-c.::: ".^jl: >e <^-: ,u: jr. t>.e journey. Yet' he 

iw.vv- TxTvvv.- cc :,* :>e «:>ir^e. i~d w^s har: y at home — e: 

::"..'.sVvL ;?jl: >> :.;:->: <■:--. >.:— ur.rerr.::t:ri:".y to his books. 

,.... . . . . ^ hear: on his son's enterin 

:tc John D--::n in lineal d( 

;T*i\i t? his father's desire; b 

, r^jTuritijr. for the career, disi 

:-.:v.. Wv.r. he ^^.l^ y:--.:v :i:nL:jLr with. ::r. as was of:en thi 

:r. thv^csc viays. he hid h<-i-: ir.s::- cted t,-' syea**^ in it. Not so C 

:: was r.ew :c» r.rr?^ ir.i vn:ser.tii di~:-hies the most rep 

i.-o notvr. ot r.a\-.r.i to nias-.^r thes<: " bro'ice. " &i)^ he, **; 

nssc/.itior.s.'" Morcwcr. he *r.ii fj.licr. ::-. love with a Miss 

^au^.v.e3» considerably older thin h:n-L<elf, who was sp 

some weeks a: the rectory. He ::ll:Tid her :imely about wb 

she went, but lacked the coura-e t: sav what he felt— in f: 



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wmon, Booksei 

Wdlylnew himself. He divulged this secret to nobody, but, brood- 
ing thereon, he became restless and miserable, after the manner of 
the Enfant Prodigue. 

Fairly puzzled by his son's " unsettled mercurial humour," Mr. 

Dunton would, if it had not been for his backwardness in Greek, 

have sent him to Oxford there and then. He attempted to interest 

him ID philosophy, logic, metaphysics, morality— but in vain. At 

Icngtli, after careful inquiry, he apprenticed him to Mr. Thomas 

Parkhurst, a bookseller of credit in London. John, however, soor> 

decided that he could not stand the confinement. " In the compass 

of a few days," he says, ** I was resolved to make a journey of it 

hoaae again, having satisfied my curiosity." He would not listen to 

Mr. Parkhurst, who urged his, at least, apprising his father of his 

intention. All this he considered ''would take too much lime, and 

perhaps disappoint me of my journey." On the road to Aston,. 

doubts arose in his mind as to the reception he would meet with; 

thtse increased so fast that, on getting to the village, he quartered 

febself on a neighbour, and it was only after he had been there 

5wne days that the fact of his return was broken to his father. 

Mr, Dunton, though the mildest of men, could be stern if he chose. 

Kc ordered his son to go back immediately, and was obeyed with- 

<wt a murmur. Thanks to the influence of Mr. Parkhurst, a great 

cJiiQge now came over John, He began to love books as much as 

^^* had hated them before ; and when, at the end of his month's pro- 

^tion, he was formally bound apprentice for seven years, he was- 

li^ite content His devotion to books did not chill his heart. He 

^always a love-affair on hand. A '* young virgin," lodging for a 

^^foe with the Parkhursts, was the first successor to Miss Saunders,, 

*Q<1 he paid her the same sort of blundering attention. He was 

'^oic^d, once, at receiving an afiectionate note requesting him io 

^'^ her in Grocers* Hall Garden the same evening. He wrote 

^tepting the proposal, and repaired to the spot in good time. She 

P'^lly appeared, and begged to know what he wished to see htr 

*bout, He reminded her of her note, but she denied having set t 

*^* ; whereupon they stood staring at one another for son e 

•^ents, and then separated abruptly. It aftenvards transpiied 

^* the enticing missive had been composed and despatched by 

*°^e of his roguish companions by way of a joke. The Htt'e 

'ncident reached Mr. Parkhurst's ears, and perceiving that the 

young virgin" was inclined to give her admirer encouragement, he 

^t her home without more ado. John's next flame was Alig^ 

^chel Seaton, of whom we leain little except that she was corn^v 




The Gentleman s Magazine, 

and coquettish. He used to meet her at a dancing-school she 
attended, and he owns to having wasted much time, which should 
have been devoted to his master's service, "in visits, letters, an^ 
fond intrigues*" 

He was in his seventeenth year when he lost his father, who dii 
at Aston at the age of forty eight. He was present at the time, ai 
the parting words of admonition addressed to him by the dying mui 
made a deep impression on him. Back in town, he showed increased 
<iiligence. His courtship of Miss Seaton ceased (to the infinitt 
satisfaction of her parents), and he turned his mind to grave* 
matters. But this steady fit did not last long. Party spirit ran hid 
among the London apprentices. The terms Whig and Torj' m 
just been adopted in England, and keen was the rivalry betwed 
those on either side. Our friend caught the infection, and a(l4 
making the discover)' that he was a ^\^lig, rushed into the fra 
The Tories having framed an address to the King against 
petitioning-for-Parhamenls, he was appointed treasurer of a coun 
niovement, and assisted in preparing a counter-address, to whii 
thirty thousand signatures were, he declares, obtained. Oftb^ 
twenty apprentices deputed to hand this to the Lord Mayor, he 
one. His Worship promised to acquaint the King with its purpoi 
and then advised the youths to return home, and " mind the bm 
ness of their respective masters." The youths complied—; 
regaling themselves ** very plentifully " at a neighbouring tavern. 

As his seven years' apprenticeship drew to a close, nothing woul 
please John but to celebrate the "funeral " of this epoch in his \\% 
by an entertainment to one hundred fellow -apprentices, whi(^ 
hospitable proceeding put him to much expense. He was now aboii 
to start as a bookseller and publisher on his own account, with hj 
own way to work in the world. He received every assistance M 
good Mr. Parkhurst, by whose advice he avoided the rent of a whol 
shop by beginning with half a one and a warehouse. He was all 
allowed by a friend the use of a "fashionable chamber," by which) 
possibly meant a room in which to hold interviews. He was soe 
besieged by hackney authors^ eagerly proffering their own works <; 
more commonly, abridgments of other people's— a form of literatu 
which found no favour with him* He thus describes his dealin| 
with the tribe : i 

I ha<l pome acquaintance witli this generation in my apprenticeship, i 
had never any warn affection for thetn, in regard I always thought their gn 
concern Iny more in hi^'v much a theei ihan in any respect they bore to \ 
co-iimociwcalth of learning; indeed, their learning lay often in as little tinm 






John D union ^ Bookseller, 

their honesty, They will pretend to have studied six or seven ye&rs in the 
lAvlirian Librury, to have turned over the Fathers, and to have read and digested 
the tbtilc compass of Human and Ecclesiastic History — when, alas I they have 
BcTCf been able to understand a single page of Saint Cyprian, and cannot tell 
fw wbethet the Fathers lived before or after Christ. And as for their honesty, it 
i« very remarkable. They will persuade you to go upon another man's copy, to 
Heal his thoughts, or to abridge his book which should have got him bread for his 
lifetime ! When you have engaged them tti)on some project or other* they will 
nilr you tM three or four sheets perhaps ; take up three oi four pounds upon an 
«B«»t oocasioo, and you shall never hear of them more. ' 

Dunton, who was now twenty-one, made a good beginning in 
buiiness* Copies of the first book he printed were exchanged 
idiintageously throughout the trade, and some funeral sermons, in 
those days in great demand, went off well His position seeming to 
be established, his friends urged him to marry, though he had grown, 
himself, somewhat indifferent in that matter. Miss Sarah Doolittle 
WW recommended to his notice. She was the daughter of a popular 
pteachcr, of one of whose works he had undertaken the publication 
"You will have her father's copies for nothing/' said her advocates; 
"liii book on the Sacrament, you know, has sold to the twentieth 
ftitlioiv which would have been an estate for a bookseller ! " Since 
becoming his own master he had ceased to be regular in going to 
church ; and he admits that it was %vhile " strolling about as fancy led 
^•ti/' one Sunday, that he turned into the meeting-house of Dr. 
Saiflud Annesley in Little St, Helen's. Dr. Annesley was the most 
floiible Nonconformist minister of the time, and a preacher much 
iQ vogue. John can have profited but little by the sermon, for 
^ attention was fixed on a young lady in the congregation who 
"almost charmed him dead." She proved, on inquiry, to be one of 
^c preacher 5 own daughters, and to be " pre-engaged." He was 
idvtsed, though, by one who knew the famjly» to make advances to 
hei elder sister, whom he had observ^ed with her. He first sought 
^^e Consent of her father, and in this he was seconded by Mr. Park- 
'^'HBtjwho gave him an excellent character. The consent obtained, 
**sct about courting Elizabeth Annesley, and won her in the end.' 
We liked euphonious names, and began at once addressing her as 
"Itis/' while he signed himself "Philaret." The courtship, begun in 
t<i*n, Was continued at Tunbridge Wells, whither the Annesley family 
^ gone. John always supposed that this move was made in order to 

^if( and Erron^ vol. J. p. 6 1, 

*No{tbelea*t among Dr. Annesley 's claiim to distinction was the fact ihji* 
^*4*faiUer oi' iwenly-tivt: children— or •* a quarter of a hundred," as he U'5ia^\i 
*'*''^^ ill? sqm total of bis contributions to the current population, V 



I 



I 




^ookseller. 173 

.^^stant round, and that they do to-day, that they do to-morrow/' 
"^^ was seized with an itch, as he called it, to embark in some 
^^'^mtsing venture. There were ^£"500 owing to him in New 

^tigland, and he thought that if he went out there to waken up his 
^*^ editor, lalting with him a cargo of books likely to sell well, he might 
^^ substantially the gainer. Hfs plan was to go alone, leaving 

* Ins'* to look after his interests at home. His books were not of a 
^^Jft that would draw a crowd of purchasers at the present day, but 
^^cy were selected with care. As a precaution, he divided them into 
^^wo portions, and had them stowed on two ships, one of which 
^grievous to relate) was wrecked on the way. By this mishap he lost 
^loperty which he valued at £,^^0, 

He took passage himself in a vessel of 150 tons. The Susannah 
^md Thomas (such was her awkward name) sailed from Gravesend 
<<Mi November 2, 16S5. She was commanded by Thomas Jenner, an 
American, whom our hero describes as 

ti gnifif Urpaulin who scarcely ondersftood civility. And yet he bad some 
ttetifi^ of divinity, and went not only constantly to prayers, but also took 
lum to expound the Scriptures, which gave offence to several of the 



The mate and boatswain were good seamen and honest fellows ; 
Bt ihe gunner, though obstinate and quarrelsome, was 

■MA M ptuillanimous that he had rather creep into a scabbard than drair 
MTotd* He could scarce endure the noise of his own giins. 

The crew generally were efficient When it blew hard, ** it was 
iffictilt to tell whether they or the elements made the most noise, or 
■tich would first leave off scolding." Then there was the poor, 
viUiDg, cabin boy^ whom ever>'body bullied. There were thirty 
passengers including Dunton and his servant-apprentice, a youth 
iwroed Palmer : the others were people who had been more or less 
4TOplicated in the Monmouth rebellion, and were fleeing the country. 
They were caught in a terrific gale in the Downs off Deal, and 
^cir ship, being leaky, seemed likely to founder. When things were 
4t their worst, the sailors called on the passengers to ** go to prayer," 
*> ihcy were going down for certain. One of the latter had a 
^tional work entitled "Crumbs of Comfort," from which he 
Proposed reading a prayer ; but the others would not agree to this. 
1*0 nothing but an extemporary composition would they listen. So 
^0 of them prayed in turn, and a psalm was sung, in which Dunton 
''^l " too sad '' to join. It was with difficulty that Jenner brought 
^ f essel to anchor at West Cowes, where she lay weather-bout^ri 
vou ccucxvii. NO. 1964, M 






^rz^ri^ 







.'*► ;''urr ■z.c.r^ : t-^ ir,r r-r-i. n:^ n=rr t::s tc --' -nrrr- T •- ^ 

■ .^-'V- ■fir.-. >r*.- .ll:trr.:t::I. 
•..•./l v.T s;:.-j- :-■: \r.vl irr=:l :ti Hicr^ Z'lnrjn ttis iuxi: a5cai 

»v. « ;..ij>- -ir- :f * .-. £iJ. >- 51:1 ' A shir ttxs iiscr.ei a) ibe 
?/,•■.::'. v^/. 1.-.-. .i.!-:.- -: :e i t.i.'i^-t:;:-. :r.e :£ r-iS -::zxr:iH 
::'.-.r:_-4 -Jiii :rjiiZ- T^ie ~T;ir* ?v;ri she cocldbc 
'...■ yj^r^i^r."*'^ i-^^-" =«^7^ r*:ji::c:. ~he could 
■:.:-»-.:-.':tr7. 1:1.1 brz^ -iie iJi-T zeir-r. ihccgh »e 
. •--•'. --iir Llriiiij.' ""::.*:: i shir ^tls capcwed 
..* -T.iC'^': vft •.irT:^! ;c in:: sLiTery, with no 
: - ;: •---tL- :'rt=d-.=- The ~tr- ir.:u-b: was enough 
: v-tr> frtti'.cm Br.::r. g- board the Suiannahani 
%-:^': ^:7cr. :j c'tir de^ks, and make ready for an 
' r,yyy/:::,*:.\. 'f >.'; r,r*w, ar.d ill en boird (rhinton included), armed 
t .'fri /:iv':>. *■•?» %':.;^V:-.e: ca^it handiesi, and prepared to give the 
I f.rmy ;i warrr, r-^/ij/.i^n ;. b-t her size, as she loomed nearer, cqn- 
/if,/<'! th*: r.;i|,*j,ir. il'iai, in an engagement, she would overpower his 
f.h;iil ' »J'<» ; -.'*, 'iml'rr rover of an increasing mist, he managed to 
I lip oil. A O-.w hour. lalr;r there was a second alarm. Everyman 
,11 to \u- K'"» ; ^'"^ ^ >untfm, seized with terror, lingered below till he 
I r mi ihniiwiyiiU'/'" *'':*^» " Where is Mr. Dunton that was so valiant 
\u\\\ I* " * *'■ ^»^*'^*^ "*^*' * '^'^^^ ^^'^^^ ^"^ faltered out, " Coming • 
"^' '" , \ \ inn cmly wrkinK my ruffles." At length he stumbled up 

' "".**?*' ..t inhm vrrat relief, that the supposed Sallee-man "was no 
HUM nr.^^"i* ■ ^' 



J. 'XX. 


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John DunioH, Booksi/ier. 175 

I Virginia merchant that was equally afraid of our ship.** 
IS valour returned. 

Bay of Biscay ihey encountered another storm, during 
tiated by sea-sickness^ he lay too weak to move, except 
Ip of Palmer, who kept well. As wind aod sea subsided, his 
rived, and he was eager to resume his place at the captain's 
by that time, owing to their slow progress, it seemed 
leiher their provisions would last the voyage. Food was 
A measure too scanty to satisfy his cravings. He bethought 
of a nice litde store of dainties put up by the prudent 

tter to regale me on my voyage,'* says be, '* she hnd laid out about 
MUS, prcsenrca daroorins, cherry brandy, and the like knick-knacks ; 
jet, 1 was not much the belter for them, for being so long sick, my 
W$s afraid they would turn sour and so be spoiled, which he t(X>k n 
O prevent, for finding of 'em toothsome, he fed an 'em like common 
; 'em all up before I got well.'* 

who stood in favour with the cook, managed once or 
een meals, to smuggle a dumpling to his master's berth ; 
irprisedat this, he was threatened with a beating, ** which," 
)n, " I resented very ill, because the captain's mess (of 
as a member) had eat up all my share of the fowls tho' 
lear ten dozen." 

me he witnessed the gambols of %'arious sea-creatures, and, 
le else to swallow, believed all the wondrous stories re- 
lem which the sailors had to tell. A monster was sighted 
;aDce off, that can only have been a progenitor of the 
A shark in search of a dinner came nearer. The 
: of a swordfish and thresher indicated that a whale was 

about, and presently he beheld one squirting columns of 
into the air, beneath a cloud of vaporous spray* True Lon- 
he was, he could only compare the vision to " a town full 

chimneys in the midst of the sea," The harpooning of 
md porpoises afforded some sport \ but the cold was 
intense, and no wonder ! The ship was making for the 
•wfoundland, and was soon wedged fast against an iceberg. 
of wind occurring, she and her towering captor were 
ether into milder latitudes, where, the iceberg beginning 
sy parted company. This peril past, it was found that the 
xwrd would just last a fortnight, if that The daily 
for each individual was therefore reduced to " a pint ^^ 
bread in proportion." If it had not been that some coa 

^ N 2 




z£ zrsss : bee ind Uioe 

i=r '±31 the par 

^KTinnegifi 

nr:. - :?rer the ice," 1 

"nil- qrarrnc 5£=jsr 2nd priratio 

: HTmnc tbsr be: sdv (as thon 

srnL^ciisc ££ "zz ibe rood to tal 




-= :^ ^: - --TT.- ^--TT rar iKTx sTiTt* x=in±»£r. Regarding I 
"^-^'srt. ^-. - r.i: ..^-_; i -.ir ^^s^r- TprrrS^ r»=r:^n protested 
*~- .1 * '— * T- .3 T-.n "^ii Iruiei ^TSTi iiis^ i-s*.'^ ixiber than und 
r --- -»-=- r-:-:ii:^'r sens. Tn-r= -ns ibe Srcraey back, to 
:^ -t. •: :x -.: -^^iirr: :;ir :« sal iocxe diqzc tben. of gettiflg 
« .- V T - r. iTijr^..; Y r.s iriiTM bs: — ar amLDgement dep 

H* 1 -. T . .-_: r. fnidm: r.-irrtd^sn r^artrrs ia the boose 

• '^^ ■ -~ : -i.-^ . - ?- nr^i ~l5:=i5w tr Irainas from Linwi 

--.-^, :^- ^ .- ,.-_ r..~ :u:_-r^ T-:ir x -nriir.ise frr his books, fo( 

::.-r :.::^ ' ^ -• - :^i.-T^ :-i r.:_i :fr.s zirrr b^i ru: into port;: 

*.. -•>: :.:•,- :.... \ :_i f.-,:-: ::C:^ >,- bai. as ye:, no icasot 

"''-"■' " - - - - -- v:-.~ -v-:ir x crri^il rerercfon, due ma 

;*""''• '-■::..'" -^.rjTti'Kie^. iriose ~.:~e was held in hon 
. TV -.- - .: ^ - . ^ . jj:^,;^ vrc:;i lii^t frrs-irz: cf ihe city wis < 
'"y^^';^ ■ ' -~: *: ^i5 -V.:ac*i :t -.he O-rrsmor and magist 
^ ' ■ -^ ~ ^i . : ▼- HiJL Hi rr-iie hi—self known, of co 

' ■ ^ " • '^^ ■ ■ -- - -^ rer-:i=-r^ vi-^ -J-.e Rev. Increase Mj 

J, r^'i''.;"/ V ^^' -■•^■-:^i -.i 3;.e-r:cr of Han-ard Cofl 
• xjl. ^ !^ r "^ -':::- :-ri Niibirle: Ir. Conon Mather, who 
v^^ r ~ ' r^ '^ -<>£.i X :ie:y cus:r=ier, and this may 

iN>n^er^'^'vVt ;^ '': ':^- Vr' "^ ""'^^ ^^ Heaven " the 
sellers -^-V- V." .-^^ * ' ; "■" "" ^*^ Introduces us to the I 
tv^ p-— er^— • ^^*^* ■'^" " ^ thr.v-.r.;. From booksellers he p 

the ini^elUr^^.r^? '^'"^ '" ^r^"' ^^ "^^"^ ^"'"S^ ^°' 
Among ihc*^ Ve-1 ^'^ """ V""^"-- ----s wxrehouse to pick and eh 

attractive. o~ " "^^ '^"^^^ ^--^se ponraiis are distinctl; 

empty chaiterb^^ ^^^•^ ^^-ton, anodier a simpleton, anoth 

^ X : a :ounh was a reputed witch who had sol 



John DuntoHy Bookseller. 



m 



Itolhe devil. In the persons of Miss Comfort Wilkins, daughter 
his landlord, and Mrs. Joanna Breck, a pretty widow of twenty- 
>, he presents us with more pleasing types. Comfort Wilkins was 

t charming Puritan maiden, modest and gentle, yet frank and free, 
n her father's lodger, cadaverous from long fasting, she took an 
interest at once, and made his restoration to strength her care. As 
suffered from the cold, she had his bed, of nights, warmed with a 
ling-pan — an instrument which supplied Serjeant Buzfuz with 
ling a point in the case of Bardell versus Pickwick, She also 
1%0D his heart by sending his wife a present of a "rich looking-glass," 
[imendcd, possibly, to insinuate the other's beauty, or indicate her 
singleness of mind. As for Mrs, Breck, whom he calls '*the 
of Boston," he hints pretty broadly that she would have 
him as a second husband, had " Iris " not existed. 
igh its natural features are unchanged, Boston of to-day 
intly resembles the place described by Dunton more than two 
iluries ago. It reminded him, he says, of Bristol. He mentions 
*• streets many and large, paved with pebbles.'' The houses, 
Jgh flimsily built of shingles and brick, struck him as *' hand- 
contrived" He testifies to the excellence of the shops, where 
jorts of commodities " were to be found. Over the garden's 
id orchards he speaks of, the city has since spread. Modern 
irellers enlarge on the beauty of the common fringed by creeper- 
wered vilKis, and the spot thus depicted is doubtless the same 
tjincient state : 

re i& a small but pleasant common where ihe gallanls, a little before 
walk with their marmalet madams,' as wc do in Moorfield, till l!ie nine 
bcU brings them home ; after which the constables walk their rounds to 
order kept, and to take up loose people. 

nine o*clock bell and the simultaneous appearance of a cou- 
sounds vexatious. The laws, indeed, under which the young 
iCottiraunity was growing, were strict, though not unnecessarily so, 
ptere were some punishments attached to certain misdemeanours 
pBd crimes. For drunkenness, whipping or a fine ; the same for 
Jteng a woman (against her will presumably) in the street. For 
i^rsingand swearing, the tongue was branded with a red-hot iron ; 

f\ were gagged and put in the pillory for passers-by to revile. 
ic this the law in England," observes John, " it might cure the 
that is in many women^s heads." For graver misdeeds there 
graver measures. The sentence on murderers was death, as 
•»oon those convicted of practising witchcraft, which was thoroughly 
' An et^uivalenl ejEpression, probably, to sweetbcart. 





-=_^-\ji_ — ' --^-^ — - rzz. -zs: r=i3=3CE- In shot, consideriog 
z:;^ >.>-.-i =jL^ :— sr — -~--^- mjr f±r-i*r yeazSi she seems to 
:s2M — -^ ^ -.-=rt — ^^*^ z «-.:&-:=£&. TboQgh Donton bad 

diere are scattered 




{icai < 'fHVifi of OQS 
««£ Aey have m loAf 
dotii^uishit; 
fieu o£ czpoBiig out 
aUtheyddl 




t ±ie xrnroarhing execution 
:cz rrrvxxation, and while 
cs-d Id death, he was 
:nr 'rs:ied him. He had 
r-tr.t?*s.'. T ^ zrxrx. t-:^ a:s=vr«-s?.i3s£ ±i- _-.:sbce of his scntenOi 
ai\; ^-> :x!r.ra=-:- Tw..-:^ r-:-n=£ zie vjrlic. be was subjected to 
^■^^^ ~ -"^ "- - ^^^."^ :r^ '.irrir:; A >g"*-" ^ re iiree sennons from 
^^^^^'^^ ---.^i ^- :zx:v^ j2 ::r\2Stt le vxs rcciily :ipbraided — almost 
"=-«*- - ^ - - ^-."^ 3 av-.-r* vr T.ni ^^srs c^iti OQ, and Cunt hope* 
.T i.:iz:^: z ^.%-fx:x^s^ rx>.»; ret: If .m ji: - — ^ cccid have leconded 
2im :.- T.- ■_ - : t: ,>c -^ - r^:-- rre xsswr:;=!C^ pren him by Cotton 
^'^-^ 7— T^ *^ :sc-.:»-ri?.' r>- rir*- ^isc scm^Mis he would e«c 
*'^^" --" ' '- .'- i^TTc -r^i irz r:e execution. Increase 
\Li.:*i- .:; .1^ :: r.-i-^.--. re^^- "r s sense r. :r whii was known as 
-■; Nzv :*.-- ■ .>; .-,^ i^ i=cr=cvis auiier.c*. One of the 
.^•^r.T: V ^ ;.^ ^ -'--'i^ * -~riC!L;?i." i cicenl r^sh ensued, and it is 
^^^~-^~^ ■*-- -"-^ *^ -c serrccs xociosn:. An adjournment 
wxj --:- -iii t: r?::-ir .4i^-*. wier^ the preacher resumed his 
-.^c.-rsi. .r-Z'.>; -.--e r, yr:. ?il-vi i=d r^i:.::!, was conveyed in 
1 cir: : : :>- cLlrwv. ji =J:e -c. z^f-r^ cyin^, he warned the croird 
izx-^ ^-— ie--*js^ s^y-r^ :: hid Sk= h.5 ni:r-= 

/"^ t_^~" ^ "-=^1:=^^ >iiy :cr :he tnihtia when all men that 

W^ ;.^;\ ,^"^^ '^^ -^^>-^ >-^-- -^ exercise, l^inton joined the 

' 'V ■--—^^^^■6 i F-ie, 23 he was ur.e\;ujLl :o handling a musket; 

^^••!!^t{^^^^ W '^'** ?<-■■- nr.ci his pan L-i the manoeuvres without 

- -ir.g r.irr.se.: or ar.yhc^y else. I: was i=ipossible for him, whil« 



»lhe cr ^^^^^ 5*nnon, aUuded with regret :o the reoMl imrixiuctioo 

rn i k, "'^l^ ^^ * '* ^'"^ ^^ slroag drink called r-a:.* which lh« Bosionul* 
m 10 have found to their taste. 



John Dunton, Bookseller, 



179 



iged, to give attention to trade. The sale of his books 

, and being advised to try Salem as a fresh centre, he 

bsferred the remainder of his stock there, with Palmer in charge. 

first Palmer **took money apace;" but afterwards he "fell to 

»ting" and neglecting his business, which brought down on him 

Be grave reproof from his employer 

Of Dunlon's various expeditions about the country^ the most 
fcresting was, perhaps, a visit to Natick, a place some twenty miles 
tf^ to attend an annual lecture addressed by their pastor to the 
hrertcd Indians. A large party of friends from Boston made the 
imey on horseback, each ridur having a lady seated behind him, 
ttilon was favoured with the society of Mrs. Breck ; another 
ralier had charge of Comfort Wilkins ; while a third— a gay spark 
Hied Cook — had a frivolous Mrs. Middleton as his companion* 
Ictr way lay at first through thick woods, which afforded grateful 
tiler from the scorching sun. From these they emerged on a 
ttey dotted with spruce trees and watered by glistening streams. 
■B pftth was rough in places, and the women, even if provided 
|IE^|»lli0DS, must have found their seat on the crupper anything 
■ way. On reaching Natick, they tied up their steeds in an old 
BUand passed along rows of wigwams to the spot where the Indian 
cbini, or king, and his queen were stationed, surrounded by dusky 
endants* The king, it seems, had **asort of horse face." The 
fen, whom Dunton says he kissed (a respectful salute, no doubt, 
j)ected from white strangers), is described as ** considerably up in 
Ifi-' She wore a body and buskins of moose-skin embroidered 
lb coloured beads, and a mantle of blue cloth. To the lecture^ 
lich consisted of an address in their own language followed by a 
lOon in English, the assembled Indians hearkened with breathless 
totion. Their conversion to Christianity, as is well known, was 
lt»o the courageous labours of the Rev. John Eliot» now an aged 
kn living at Roxbury, who had translated the Bible into their 
i*gue. His attendance was alone wanting to complete a most 
ppfessive scene. 

J For long after his return to England, Dunton was a hero among 
w kindred But his position was not satisfactory. There had 
n no revival in trade while he was away. Again, his recent 
npnse, regarded commerciallj', was a failure \ for besides the 
of half his venture at sea, he left behind him jifjoo in debts 
^<^h his friend Wilkins undertook to recover for him -if he coul^J 
ti that unlucky bond he had given his sister-in-law was still ijw 
*eined, and he hardly dared show his nose out of doors c '*' 



i 



Tke Gentleman s Magazine, 

fear of being arrested by ber creditors. To one with his hatred of 
icstraint, ihis sort of life soon be<^ine intolerable. Obtaining bail, 
be went abtoad and spent nine months in wandering through 
Holland and Germany. At last» hearing that his sister-in-law had 
settled her debts, and understanding that a change in the political 
wind was at hand, he ventured to return honae. He was glad to 
settle down, '^ My humour for rambling,^ he says, " was now pretty 
well off, and my thoughts began to fix rather on business." He took 
a shop with the sign of the *' Black Raven," opposite the Poultry 
Compter — a prison so named — and resumed trade on the very day 
that the Prince of Orange (William III.) reached London after landing 
at Torbay. This coincidence he cor\sidered most auspicious. His 
•• itch " for printing returned in all its force. Theology and poetry 
were the subjects he most favoured. Poetry was no more market- 
able then than it is now. It was different with works of religious 
inquiry ; many of those he published had an extensive sale. 

His idea of ideas was what he was pleased to term " Athenianism. 
It had its origin in the Xtyii*- *:«i acowtr rt kcki br<poi' of Acts xvii* ti. 
He thought that even as Athens had once enlightened the barbaiim 
world by her learning and culture, so he and some feliow*worke5 
might supply information to a hungry public. This was to be done 
in a journal called the Athenian Mercury^ wherein questions on al> 
topics would be considered and answered. At first there were but 
four people in the management— the originator himself, who walked 
off with the glory \ Richard Sault, a Cambridge graduate, who under- 
took the drudger)^ : Dr. Norris^ a walking storehouse of miscellaneous 
knowledge; and lastly, Samuel Wesley, with whom Dunton had not 
as yet quarrelled. Few of the queries addressed to the Mtmty 
were genuine at first. They were framed by the managers in order 
to call forth information already prepared. The wisdom thus 
evinced caught public attention. The journal was a great and 
immediate success. " It grew every week upon our hands," writes^ 
Dunton. "The impatience of our querists and the curiosity of tbei*' ^ 
questions required much accuracy and care." The staff had soo^; 
to be increased, and the united body became known as th^ 
** Athenian Society." A presumptuous being, one Brown, had tb^ 
audacky to start a rival paper, the Lactdizmonian Memiry—zxi cxa*::^* 
imitation of the other. But the Athenians extinguished hit^ 
and his design in a manner so high-handed as to be scarc(*i 

credible. ^ 

It is not all projectors of periodicals that live to read a laudator^ 
history of their own enterprise ; yet such was the experience C^^ 




^ 



T)union and his collaborators.^ Prefixed to the history were compli- 
nientary poems testifying to the excellence of the paper both in plan 
a^id matter. Nahum Tate, the T>aureate, chanted its merits in some 
ponderous lines. Another versifier, in allusion to certain parodies 
on their undertaking, thus addressed the Society : 

Let your opposers trifling jests pursue : 
They write for minutes, but for Ages you, 

Mrs, Rowe (the " Pindaric Lady," as Dunton j^tyles her) saluted 
ibem as ** matchless men/' Lord Halifax and Sir William Temple 
were supporters of the Mercury^ and freely used its pages. Swift^ 
at that time domiciled with Sir William, was one of those whose 
approval found vent in an ode — and such an ode ! ' Dryden, after 
reading it, assured " cousin Swift " that he would never be a poet. 
The Mercury existed for six years only. The death of Sault re- 
tnoved its main support, and the subsequent secession of Dr, Norris 
left Dunton with a heavier load on his hands than he liked. So he 
^et (t drop. 

On the death of a cousin, Dunton succeeded to a small property at 
Cbesham* The importance of being a landowner fairly turned his 
J>€id,and he fancied his estate, which consisted of a few farms, far more 
^iluable than it really was. He had always disliked the " noise and 
ouuy " of business, and his wife, being now in failing health, could 
^ longer help him as she used. He removed to quieter quarters 
Jod devoted his tintie to study. He attended book-sales and secured 
Oiny rare volumes. But hardly had he settled down to this more 
congenial mode of life when " Iris " died. The blow was cruel, and 
«€ felt it deeply for a time. Mrs. Dunton seems to have been as 
*Kttnable a woman as her sister, Mrs. Wtsley, but without the 
tacr^s severity. "She had such a stock of good nature," says her 
^'usband, ** that I never went home and found her out of humour." 
He had once assured her that, if he survived her, he would never 
"draw again in the conjugal yoke.'* Nevertheless, within a year of 
^ death, he married Sarah Nicholas (whom he always calls 
"Valeria"), only child of Mrs. Jane Nicholas, a widow of consider- 
^ means living at St. Albans, This step, from which he antici- 
P^^d great worldly advantage, turned out disastrously. By it he 
forfeited the friendship of many of the Annesley family who thought 
°^ bd remarried too soon ; his relations, also, with his mother-in- 
**»Mrs. Nicholas, though cordial at first, did not long continue so. 
"^tti engaged to her daughter, he had led her to believe that he 

* Histery of the Athtnian Hocuty^ by Chtrles Gildon, 



i 



Gentleman s 




was in affluent circumstances ; but this was untrue. Two of his 
farms at Chesham were already mortgaged : on the security of a third, 
he prevailed upon her to advance him a sufficient sum to carry out 
a plan certain (he considered) to yield heavy profits. This was no 
less than a journey to Dublin, and the sale there of the precious 
tomes he had been for long collecting. Benighted Ireland, he 
thought, would be all the better for some sound literature, and the 
introduction of a little Athenianisra, as represented by himself 

Among his books were works on "divinity, history, philosophy, 
law, physic, mathematics, horsemanship, merchandise, limning, 
heraldry, music, fortification, fireworks, husbandry, gardening, &c" 
They weighed about ten tons, and he expected to clear ^^1,500 by 
them. He held three auctions^ a •'farewell sale/' and a "packin 
penny"— five distinct transactions conducted on the purest pria 
ciples. 

" I must do myself the justice to assert," he writes, ** that I had oone 
those unworthy ways thai have been usetl in some other auctions, I had not 
seiier to advance the price, and draw on unwary bidders." 

He enjoyed the favour and patronage of some of the leadia 
citizens, notably the Bishop of Clogher and Colonel Butler, whoin 
he calls the Maecenas of Ireland, Yet there were many in his own 
trade who regarded his advent with disgust, considering that his sal 
were spoiling their market. At the head of these was one Patri 
Campbell, a most odious Scotchmanj and cock -of- the- walk ama 
the Dublin booksellers. Patrick was a hypocrite who would "sa; 
grace over a choppin of a!e and all the time be contriving how to 
overreach you." A quarrel, arising from some petty cause, was 
soon established between him and the new-comer, and an un 
scrupulous adversary he proved. His creatures invaded the sale- 
room, interrupting and ridiculing the proceedings. He induced the 
proprietor, by an offer of double the rent given by Dunton, to trans- 
fer the use of the salesroom to himself; so that our friend, at the 
close of his second auction, was rudely dispossessed, and obliged to 
move his property, at great expense, elsewhere, Dtinton's indignation 
was aroused by this treatment. *' I wear my pen as others do thci*" 
sword," was a favourite declaration of his, and he now drew up ^ 
s::atement of the Scotchman's turpitude, intending to have it printed ^ 
but such was Campbell's influence among the printers that they, oti^ 
and all, declined the order. He had his statement, therefore, pastec:^ 
on a board and hung on the wall at his new quarters for everybody 
to read. 

In spite of these worries, he found time to look about h 






r 




John Dunton, Bookseller, 



183 



description of the country, while WJUiam III. was on the 
throne, has a certain value. On the political condition of Ireland, 
iic has little to say. He pronounces the Irish " a nest of disarmed 
bzy rebels that have the will, though not the power, to cut our 
throats." Owing to the severe laws in force agairjsi Roman Catholics, 
he complete extirpation of their faith was, he opined, only a matter 
of time: and, this achieved, England might accomplish her sister's 
■ibjugation with ease.' He witnessed very complacently the parade 
*iih which my Lords Justices (Lords Galway and Winchester) per- 
onned their devotions at Christ Church on Sundays : 

When ihcy go to church the streets, from the Castle gate lo the church 
r-«s alto the greai aisle of the church, to the foot of the st&irs by which 
*9 liceod 10 the place where ihcy sit —are lined with soldiers. They are 
by the pursoivants of the council -chamber, two cnaccs, nnd (on state 
) b)r ihe king and pursuivant at arms, their chaplains and gentlemen of the 
Id, with pages and foolraen bareheaded. When they alight from their 
<in which commonly the Lord Chancellor and one of the prime Nobility sit 
^ ^) the sword of state is delivered to some lord lo carry before 'em ; and 
Ifcc like manner ihey return back to the Castle, where the several courses at 
Bscraie ushered In by ketitc-drums and trumpets. 

Though he usually shunned theatres, we fmd hnn el Ix) wing his way 
^t' the Smock Alley playhouse. Here, amidst a babel of brogues, 
' s*l eating oranges and inspecting the occupants of the boxes, 
^o?e display of "vanity and fop|3ery " struck him as unexampled, 
^ntly the curtain rose on the " Squire of Alsatia," in which 
popular actor named Wilks assumed the leading character To 
''''iton the piece, though fairly performed, seemed vicious in its 
"dency, and it is with shame he confesses that he sat it out* He 
^ a stor)', by the way, of the said Wilks which has a familiar 
^^^. The Smock Alley troupe went down, soon after, to Kil- 
f^ny, where Wilks, while fighting a stage duel, was supposed to 
^iiin by his adversary. A clown of a countryman who was 
''^it, and took the scene for real, fled from the house horror- 
™^eii, and announced the tragedy to all he met. The news 
•^^bcd Dublin in time. Lamentation was general, and some poets 
*^^e half through appropriate elegies, when the favourite reappeared 
^fe and sound. 

^'inton enjoyed several rambles in the country. In company 

*"^ six friends, he made a three days' expedition on horseback 

^^ the county Kildare, finishing up with the Curragh Races. 

^^ spent some time at Kilkenny as the guest of a jovial and 

^**r men than he was (Strafford, for instance) had expressed the same 
^^ng before. So much for human prescience t 




.lift Mairsc^JL, Cne vss x ^nitzsir it die 
:esrKSXSVCs^ ±c .yriiiirursi ^riuTiini i»ttfi iis 

jCcrr, vi :hft3xeBen^5r3ac3rac5iiEaim:il3ew5 2t:5e Pk^unoit 
■g^jf^^ffA and iiBBeif 'oa. i* ie iad onr iff xs 





Bisfo=^ uuin^ 5ir ^.Tcam* L-mmnt ! Argil ^ saake it np wi 
F jcruk Cimur^I. mr iis •-^ernrss »e?s a e irc: e d with scorn. I 
luKi suTje: =c iet^TK ct z:3 -rmpTTToi 19 zffsbet his enemy in 
fcrbxnia:^ ▼'--ck ; viiile Picacifi dacf paDajn (tfie cofiee-boa 
yuMgfTjtsrx, V-Jt* dsclarid bt -^ccud check its saiLe, at any late i 
I^^'->ix- 'Jj rr.i'T.irjz a L'cy i: r:e jcz cc bs tabae, and chaigii^fl 
y^.r,j V, a~ »'-> rad r. . Tz'zis exrcscre of Campbell he addi^ 
ar. ~ i/x/,'ir-^ ''-i =.is cccTesrcn in IreLzsid : ■* and these togcAo 
frjrr:^ a v/.-zie :'j which he gave the title of '•The Dnbfil 
rucMf^jtT W;:r. the eiceprloc cf his Asierxan letters, it is the leas 
UTtSfjmt of hii wrlungs ; hrn cren sex i: b a labour to get throogh 
</inng to his obscuriues of style, his use of fictitious names, an 
hw general dolncss and proliiity. 

But troubles soon arose which banished all else from his mind 
Whatever pleasure his suy in Ireland may have afforded him, i 
had not enriched him. Before long, he applied to his mother-ir 
law for a further loan on the security of his already heavily-encun 
Inrrcd land. She, however, had begun to perceive the manner i 
man he was, and refused. He pressed her urgently, but st 
remained obdurate, and at last declined to see him, her daughtc 
who continued to reside with her, adopting the same course. ¥: 
rushed into print at once, and published his " Case with respect 
Madam Jane Nicholas," showing hims«lf to be in the right, and li 
in the wrong -a proceeding which only sened to embitter the feu 
Mutual reproaches and recriminations followed. Here is a J 
rourteouB extract from a letter written to him, at this juncture, by 1 

wife : 

I write to let you know that if you think much of providing for me, I 
very willing you nhould have all your yoke and burden (as you call it be 
married) removed, and return me my fortune, and we will be both single. A 



John Dunton, Bookseller, 



185 



k 



you {.hall have youf land^ if you will return mc my money, and sure that wUl 
pkisc you. For I, and alj good people, think yau never married me for love, 
tmf for By money ; *»*! so you have had the use of it all this while to banter 
■ad tra^ tt ne tnd my mother by your maggoty printers. 

.Vs time went on, he drifted further into difficulties. Authorship, 
wliich it had pleased him to exercise as a pastiine, he had now to take 
to for a livelihood ; and very humiliated he felt at joining the ranks 
of the much-despised hacks " who keep their grinders moving by 
tijetravnilof their pens." It was while thus circumstanced that he 
set about the composition of that curious work the " Life and Errors 
of John Dunton, written in Solitude ; showing how he would think, 
speak, and act, might he live over his days again." The opening 
autobiography has all the air of truth. The lessons he draws from 
bis errors are obvious enough, and may be summed up as inculca- 
ting virtue and prudence. The writer's vanity is rampant throughout. 
He makes us acquainted with a crowd of his contemporaries— note- 
worthy people in his eyes, but only in so far as they have reference 
to himself. Authors head the list, and on their heels press book- 
sellers, printers, binders, stationers, auctioneers, engravers on copper, 
Gotten on wood, licensers, journalists, together with his customers, 
boiekctors, and eminent persons generally. He bestows much 
woooionous eulogy on the passing procession ; but where he owes 
^grudge, he stabs. 

His next publication, *' A Living Elegy," is a lengthy address to 
^creditors, describing his embarrassment as only temporary, and 
•^king out that his property is worth ^^r 0,000. An offer made by 
oaeofthem, to take ten shillings in the pound, he loftily rejects, 
•^ng an exact date, two years ahead, when they may all look to 
^og paid in full. The death of Mrs. Nicholas (an event on which 
'^c was evidently counting) occurred in the interval, but did not affect 
•iis condition- He had no home worthy of the name to offer his 
''^^nor had she any intention of joining him. He thought to raise 
'^curind by WTiting political tracts in Whig interests. One of these, 
wtiiled ** Neck or Nothing," was an attack on Oxford and Boling- 
"'oke, and caused some sensation. Swift expresses surprise (ironic- 
*^y)atibe other side leaving so doughty a challenge unanswered.^ 

Dimton petitioned both the King (George L) and Parliament for 
*^*iie recognition of these services, but without any notice being 
•^n of his appeals. He continued to produce pamphlets and 
*^Uibs, his style becotning more and more violent, scurrilous, and 
"^Coherent. Often he is uninteliigible. He had inherited a taint of 
"^^nity, and it now became evident that his mind was deranged* 
» Public Spirit 0/ the Whigu 



. fi> 



with rfaeumatism, 

zo have spent some 

-« zr. rT=. »-i.cr ae jlia tft^ his release some- 

Ti:^=f n= n: sicrr xjixiedber ; and the utmost 

.-c-=: rrf- :=: 1=1 s s =a: be -died in obscurit}' " 

■Lf--i=r-i_.:r. i3ki z;ai F^rr.Ted his second wife 



-.::r.-^: :^ r=f -r~ -^s :. z^cxdsssl "tj-t^ P^^^cy, Dunton is an 
=^=-: — - -^nr^r 1.^1=^-^ = ii-z rsen F:r xzjxiGe examining bis 
TT^-^ T-— i_- : ir zLiiT -_- nnrnn r=- The main interest of 
::ir : :-.^^ r - -^-r ^ -s^s nr rs isscriic :- :-:" the manners and 
riic r~ . z:^ lr.^L;.r~ r:^ ~:.ia. ±ini:r^ wr-riz »i:h some ingenuity 
—:. : -- r.r-:=:-i. ^ :-i^^ rrni izircnE: zli=. ? "■rri." His account, 
i^:. ::= ?^- * iir H, re i.ni r^ Iijmct? L? "Jie same as that given 
": -V -^ T :*-i^::c- :r :.s :.,.v-x;ct :c rm wrrL-.y. In his ** life 
X-' ; I---r-- ■ :^_ i^ : .-Tticir-- r^c-is; air^ss p.i5sa£es which nobody 
irr^-T Tr:r- ': r.s t-:z-^ sr e ::::r ler^c jls rrlginaL They occur 
^ rt:? : ; < : i:.::r^ v-~: sicrfi sir-^^j-s. izd ire zarked by consider- 
u.: ;7- :vL-:-t: ^.m-i--:^. T-r; rr- rc.y r:ppose that they are 
rr.T-t- -:r: s:t. i ;. "f tixt- jfrnccs be h^i heard or read. An 
■r^z: -z :: i-.s r: r- :c -t-- He is c5<c:.:ra^j:g the pursuit of 
f:ir~ ' ~ 1^ :. zTTT;; ir-i iffrrrrcs fr;= a higher and worthier 






:: :zs uod. xcd enectuary 
- ; : : : V : ^r- ■ .:. : ;. : w_,. ; i ; -je r-i^ili. ze il rivs pointing that way : 
. --,.- k :i- T .-.: .- ;: r-=Ti.«>- :-,-ii rlez**, Trrroseto it ihe enjoj-mcnt of 

i.- ::- -'-■ ^ ■ :-- ---W-- i::i re '.-->.-. ::": i: ;-.inrs again towarJs Go:l 

T-e r:=7i--^:- :: .re h-ir. :: the r?.a^.euc needle is a fine one 
ar.f -=-. ex7res>=i: ru: -are .M-r.:: Vieve :r^: the idea was Duntons 
oxr.. I: :5 the >ar.-:? - :>- ::L>e c:' :he verse wi:h which his paiic-s 
are :::c:i"7 srrl-klei. The clcer Pisneli has detected him trnn- 
scrilir.z i'-^ Frar.cis Csr-.rr.e and Cowley without acknowled- 
men:, and sets him down as "a \?v scribbler whose mind has nc> 
elegance, and whose rhymes are doggerel."- The following linos 
from a poem on " Fair-weather Friends * may well be his. Though 
poor enough in themselves, they contain an apt simile : 

See how my shadow tracks me where I go ! 

I itop — it stops : I walk — and it do:h so. 



• A'ry info the Language oj America, By Roger Williams. rrintcd in 
L,ODdon in 1643. 

= Note lo Preface ol Nichols's edition of Life and Errors. 



John DuntOfty Bookseller. 



187 



I nm with winged flight, and still I spy 
My waiting shadow ran as &st as I. 
Bnt when misfortune's cloud obscures the day, 
And through the gloom I have to take my way, 
My shadow disappears !— then, all alone, 
O'er man's inconstancy I'm left to moan. 

'When he wrote thus, his pet owl — a bird he prized as sacred to 
Athene — was dead. His only remaining friends were a faithful nurse, 
mn old spaniel named " Mettle/' and an embroidered waistcoat all 
in tatters. 



i8S Tie G€KtUmta£s Mmgmtimg. 



LUCRETIUS AND HIS SCIEl 



IK Lacxedns we hzte the first great <»"nt«pi^ of that 
anomaly— a '^soentificpoeL'' A philosopher accordi 
limits, he was yet one of 

. • • tfKwc me *"»^*^ 
Poets w!ia8e thoo^its esnck the blood of &e wvmUL 



In diose passages where he has cast off the shackles of h 
and g^YenfoIl lem to his matrhlrs^ inspiiatioQ he haisprQ 
sdf worthy to lank with the greatest masters of Terse. T1 
and intense earnestness of diooght which characterise th 
and, above all, the sincere desire shown to make the lot of 
liappier by weaning them from those passions and re^k 
<irhich torn ''the life of a fool into a hdl here on earth,* i 
work with a human interest and a charm which belong to 1 
the productions of his age. 

His merits were eariy recognised by those competent 

and the powerful influence which his genius exercised ove 

^^essors is well shown in the frequent imitations of his ph 

and style to be met with in the works of the greatest of the 

poets— Vergil — and also in those of Horace and Ovid. 

modem times the star of the old Roman Epicurean has been e 

in the ascendant, numbering among his admirers such light 

cism and poetry as Lambinus, Milton, Goethe, Voltaire, to 

no others. But, as the tide of this paper signifies, we shall 

his work rather from a scientific than a poetic standpoint : 

books of his " De Rerum Natura " he presents with strils 

and originality, and with a wealth of iUustration and analo 

own the Epicurean system of the universe. Thoroughlj 

pathy with his subject, the weak points of Epicureanism, i 

vigorous and loving touch, appear almost strong, while th< 

constitute its strength are made even more striUngby the inej 

stores of argument and iUustration he brings to bear up 

But notwithsunding his enthusiasm for the tenets of his t 

is never betrayed into dishonesty. Difficulties and anom 



•ring up, but with these he givipples earnestly and fairly, and often^ 

[judged from his own point of view, successfully. There is no 

shuffling, and his righteous scorn for those who cover the falseness 

of their doctrines by the complexity and obscurity of theii language 

is seen in his wrathful denunciation of Heraclitus. " No writer," 

says Professor Sellar, in his most appreciative account of the life 

*nd work of Lucretius, "ever used words more clearly or sm- 

cerdy," If ever the Epicurean philosophy could have been patched 

up into a semblance of reasonableness, our poet was the man to 

have done it, 

.\lthough the meritss^ Lucretius as a poet have always received 
l^eDefous recognition, yet there are speculations in his science ' so 
twin advance of his times, that it is only in this century that the 
extraordinary nature of many of his anticipations of modern scientific 
thought has been duly appreciated. The caustic and supercilious 
Citech speaking of his philosophy, says (alluding to his hypothesis 
of chance) that he could *' be the strongest argument of his own 
opinions, for it seems impossible that some things which he delivers 
ihould proceed from Reason or Judgment, or any cause but Cliance 
«d unthinking Fortune." Even Lord Macaulay, while admiring 
his keen moral sense, and the picturesque nature of his descriptions, 
«Ugmatises his philosophy as being for the most part '* utterly worth- 
^lea* With the growth, however, of our knowledge, and with a more 
appreciative study of the system of Epicurus, there are many who 
^ no longer hold with the great essayist that the teachings of the 
Garden constitute " the silliest and meanest of all systems of natural 
>J»d moral philosophy." ^ 

One of the first impressions that must strike a reader of Lucretius 
•* the conviction that he had that which the Scotch elder thought so 
^inenily desirable— viz. "An unco' guid opinion of himself," as 
*«11 as a very poor one of ordinary mortals. From the serene 
'f his calm philosophy he looks down with a half-pitying, 
t'.mptuous condescension on the follies and mistakes of man- 
kind Unlike Newton, he seems to think that he has sounded the 
universe to its bottomest depths by the plummet of his fancy ; and 
IR one place he speaks of himself as gaining a wreath from the Muses 



i 



^hiik wu of courie essentially ihat of Democritus, "cujus foitliLus 
Mat sao9 irrigavil." — Cic^rp. 
is plea<anT, however, to find thai this *' vulgar error " was avoiJed by that 
^t^ftlindcd and liberal knight Sir Thomas Browne, who both in his Rth^io 
'^'^*fi aivd Pieudiydoxia EpkUmica speaks most favourably and charitably of 
^Pi^nuand his philosophy. 

^OL CCLXXVIL KO. 1 964, O 



( 



190 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

the like of which had graced the brows of no mortal before.' But 
even his very arrogaDce sits well upon him. For, after aU» perhaps 
it is not so much an inordinate consciousness of his own powers 
which lifts him op, as the firm conviction that in the teachings of his 
master Epicurus, whom he lauds in those frequent bursts of har- 
monious verse which pleasantly relieve the stern tenor of his poem, 
he has found a lever which will enable him to elevate mankind by 
liberating them from debasing superstition and needless fear, and so 
make life at least worth the living. This system of philosophy he is 
persuaded is the only true one. Hence his contempt of all others, 
and his lofty satisfaction that while men are groping about in dark- 
ness, he at least basks in the sunshine of truth. 

Concerning the details of the life of Lucretius, there is mudr 
conjecture and but little certainty. Born probably of an illustrious 
patrician family (Munro), he was brought ** up to the realms of light " 
somewhere about 99 B.C. ; and there is a legend to the effect ihal, I 
maddened by a love philtre administered him by his mistress, he 
died by his own hand in the forty^fourth year of his age, the day of 
his death being that on which one of his greatest admirers — Vergil- 
received the t&ga virilkP- But although so little information of a 
biographical nature concerning him has reached us, yet in 00c 
respect he has been unusually fortunate. For his likeness, cut out 
on a black agate, has survived to our own time, so that we arc 
enabled to gaze on the very features of the poet. His claim to th^^ 
remembrance of posterity rests upon a single w*ork of 7,400 hexa- ^ 
meters, the extraordinary nature of which, and the man-ellous raann^'^ 
in which he has in some of his speculations anticipated modcr^^ 
scientific thought, entitle him to the peculiar consideration of thos;-'^ 
interested in ancient science. Indeed^ the first two books of th»«- 
** De Rerum Natura " especially, read almost like a modem treati^^ 
CfX\ the atomic and kinetic theories of matter ! 

The three foundations— the tripod — on which the whole scien^^ 
of the " De Rorum Natura " rests, are the three grand and philosopK ^ 
conceptions of the indestructibility of matter; the essential unity ^ 
all its seeming varieties ; and the reign of law in the univer^^^'- 
There is a wonderful passage in the first book in which the poet stat^^ 

' IV. 2-5. 

» Professor Sellar, after a most judicial balancing of the pros and cons of ^^ 
matter, neitlier wholly accepts nor wholly rejects the trad I lion. He is incli*»**^ 
" rather to tre.it the story as a meagre and distorted record of tragical events id •^'** 
poet's life than as a literary myth.'' 

* This last-mentioned limb of the tripod is not, however, so firm as or.s co»«*^ 
wish. More wilt he said regarding this later. ^B 



ftcrehus and his Science. 




191 



ibe first of these truths in a manner which shows that he fully and 
iutdligentiy perceived its importance. In it he declares that 
nothing arises except at the expense of something else, a statement 
which modem chemistry has done so much to illustrate. In these 
remarkable lines it is clearly taught that, although Nature may resolve 
^body into its constituent elements, yet she does not annihilate, but 
fc-forms these first principles into fresh compounds. The death of 
the one combination is the birth of a new order of things, the case 
being one, not of annihilation, but of transformation.' 

The conviction, ajiain, that there is but one form of primordial 
Witter mnning through all its apparently endless varieties, seems to 
W taken deep root in the mind of Lucretius. Nor is this con- 
present to him simply in a crude and rough form, but in one 
jjafly beautiful and profound. For he will not admit a supposi- 
^ such as that of Heraclitus, which teaches that fire is the first 
^JJttter ; nor is he better pleased with the doctrine of Anaximenes 
*TThjles, which assigns the origin of all to air or water respectively. 
He goes deeper than this, *' Is it not betttr," he asks, " that you 
*^ould settle that there are certain bodies endowed with such a 
^itire, that if, say, they have formed Fire, yet the same atoms, a few 
filing been taken away, and a few allotted, and their arrangement 
^^ motions having been changed, can make the gentle breaths of 
•^.and so in like manner all other things are mutually interchange- 
? " • And again : '* Truly, as I think, matters stand thus : there 
certain bodies which by their connections, motions, arrangement, 
iiiion, and conformations make up fire, but these having changed 
i*«cu order, change the character of the substance, and are, in 
[tHeinseivcs, neither like fire, nor aught else which moves the sense." -* 
**To such a degree," he adds a few verses later on, "is it in the 
Po^cr of those bodies which are the foundations of things to accom- 
P*i«H, simply by a change in their arrangement." ** The atoms of 
^^K^ius thus differed from one another not in the nature of their 
fiat matter, but in their sliapes, sizes, weights, and iheir capabihties 
^'^P'Jsiticn and arrangement. With these, then, does he undertake to 
"""•Wup the universe. It is impossible not to admire the grandeur 
•"d boldness of such a conception as this. 

Jii more modern times, though we are fain to term certain bodies 

'dements" on account of our experimental inability to reduce them 

_^*'iy simpler forms of matter, yet none the less art: we i)ersuaded 

^ht apparently various forms of matter differ not essentially, but 

'ft intimate structure. It was suggested by Prout, in 1816, that 

' ^ i5*3fi4. I * r 79S. &c. ] ' I. 684, &c, j * I. 827. 

o 2 






p 



192 The Gentkiuans Magazim, 

hydrogen was the primordial matter, which by successive c 
tions formed the other elements— a hypothesis analogous to 
Heraditus, hydrogen being substituted for fire. Being fou 
however, on an untenable assumption, it had regretfully to be H 
aside. In late years, however, Sir W. Thomson's (Lord Keid 
vortex ring theory of the atoms has enabled the hypothesis tol 
revived in (as Wurtz remarks) a less objectionable form, and <3 
moreover, bearing a strong likeness to the Democritan and Lucreti 
conception. At any rate, the student of organic chemistry especii 
feels the force of Lucreti us's remark that the atoms can accom 
a vast deal by a mere change of arrangement ; seeing as he does 
two bodies composed of exactly the same elements, and having, 
precisely the same number of atoms of each in the molecule, y 
a difference in the structure of these molecules can differ const 
ably in their properties. (Isomerism.) And now let us consider^ 
remaining foundation of our poet's philosophy. 1 

One of the most transcendent merits of the philosophy of 
*' De Rerum Natura " is, as has been pointed out by Profc 
Sellar, its assertion of the reign of Law in the operations of Nal 
One of the chief grounds on which its veneration for Epicuru 
based is that he unfolded the majesty of Law ; he showed w 
could and what could not happen ; how to the powers of everytli 
is set a fixed limit, to go beyond or transgress which is not wti 
the power of things to accomplish. From this principle is shownl 
baselessness of certain fears which had troubled and disturbed m 
kind^ and the impossibility of certain combinations, for it is x 
" Scilicet id certa fieri ralione necessust." ' 

But at first sight it seems an unwarrantable stretch of indulgci! 
to give a philosophy which maintained the hypothesis of chance 
the " fortuitous concourse " of atoms the glory of having asser 
the government by Law. It may fairly be asked, "How could it 
possible to dogmatically assert ' what could and what could 
arise' if all be the result of a fortuitous concourse?" It will 
interesting, therefore, 10 inquire how far we may give Lucretius 
credit of having been an expounder of the grand doctrine of I 
in the natural world. And in the first place, we may remark 1 
the theory of the " fortuitous concourse," as set forth by our poc 
not so repugnant to (indeed, it is quite consistent with) the cow 
lion of Law, as the meaning of the phrase would seem to con' 
For the teaching of Lucretius on this point is as follows. Fi 
the very first the atoms had, as part of their peculiar nature, cer 
' IL 710* Also V. 55-58 antl V, 924* 



Lucretius and his Science. 



'93 



inherent properties, capabilities, and affinities.' Now, the first 
prime cause in the construction of the universe was their property 
of motioiL The atoms by this motion of theirs traversed the infinite 
void, and, meeting with other atoms clashed with them, and by 
these impacts fresh motions were engendered. If two atoms on 
collision were unsuited the one to the other — that is, if their 
ainities, &c,, were not satisfied those of the one by the other — no 
combination could result. By degrees, however, after infinite 
experiments, in which all other possible combinations had been tried 
without result, all those atoms which were able mutually to 
sitiify each other's capabilities and affinities came together and 
formed a permanent combination. Thus all those "first prin- 
ciples " which were mutually fitted to join each other and form 
"earth'' were united into a close congeries, while those atoms 
*hich entangled in these were yet unsuited to form part of this 
luiion were expelled by the blows and collisions of the several 
"seeds "composing earth, and, like meeting with like, formed other 
^es, such as air, ether, &:c.- Clearly, the idea of a fixed law 
i«>s through all this account. These combinations of atoms are 
^tmd by certain conditionij which cannot be transgressed. This 
Infinite expenment theory of Lucretius, false or true^ is not indeed 
*"Jlilte that of some modern scientists which we have heard expressed 
*" almost similar language. That Lucretius held the doctrine of the 
"feriuitous concourse " cannot, therefore, be urged as a valid ob- 
J^ion to his claim. But we must confess with regret that he just 
^f^es short of asserting the universality of law. There are times 
•neo he falters and wavers in his allegiance to this grand truth ; 
'^tn there is in his philosophy a struggle between law and some- 
^"^ else — call it w*hat you will, but which is not law. This is 
^ticmly shown in the doctrine of the " clinamen " or ^'dedtnaiio 
^^orjtm," which Lucretius, as a good Epicurean, of course taught. 
According to this notion, the atoms turn aside from their straight 
^^^e a little at some point in their journey down the void, 
''wugh neither is there any fixed time at which Ihey do this, nor 
^^f particular spot where it must take place. This defiection is, 
^ever, so slight that it can only just be called a deflection, lest 
it should be said that bodies fall obliquely, which sense (which is an 
fefallible judge) would refute.^ It is difl!icult to conceive anything 
more contradictory to the conception of an orderly government 

' The **Vi« utomonim'^ of the Epicurean disputant in the De Natura 

» See V. 416-S0S. I ■ IL 216-224 and 11. 243. 



i 



194 ^^^^ Gentleman s Magazine, 

of the universe by law than this» The ** necessity " of Dcmc 
was truly preferable to this " regnum et licentia atooaorum' 
Epicurus and Lucretius. There are also other and minor instai 
in which we may see this hesitation between law and caprice, \ 
for instance, in the conflict of the words " ratio . . . casu . | 
forte," ^ when he essays to explain the cause of disease. We q 
not, therefore, unreservedly and freely award to the philosophy; 
Lucretius the praise which a full acknowledgment of tliis print 
would deserve. 

Having now considered the broad principles, let us then des( 
and glance at some of the more particular tenets characteristic 
science of Lucretius, beginning with the atomic theory. 

Two things only are to our poet sui generis — Matter and I 
Vacuum, AH others are mere accidents and incidents of thfi 
With regard to the first mentioned, having proved that it cannot I 
destroyed, he next essays to demonstrate that neither can it tell 
finitely divided, but that there remain certain particles so small d^ 
the sense is not cognisant of them» which cannot by any means! 
broken up. These atoms, according to him, are not all of one shaj 
or size. Some are smooth and round; these com|X>se substafl 
which give pleasure to the senses. Some are hooked and jaggcl 
these pain the senses. Others, moreover, are slightly angula 
they enter into the composition of bodies which neither gl 
absolute pain nor pleasure, but rather tickle the organs of ^ 
ceplion. For example : those atoms which, impinging on the nosui 
produce the sensation of a pleasant smell, are smoother and freer fiN 
asperities than those which give rise to the opposite effect ; and 
on. Again, the atoms of iron or stone aie larger than those of h 
or fire, which latter are, however, larger than those which comg 
the lightning.'' 1 

The material theory of smell here set forth is in part still retail 
though of course we do not go to the length of asserting that! 
pleasant smells are caused by sharp lacerating particles, nor that 
opposite sensation has its origin in those which are nicely rounl 
off! It is, perhaps, in these shallow attempts to explain sensai 
that one realises most vividly to what a degree the old philosopl 
underrated the difficulty of the problems which they had set thi 
selves to solve. i 

Although men of science would be loth to accept an atomic tM 

deduced from such speculative reasonings as those of Lucretiu^ 

that matter is made up of leash is a conclusion from which, m 

the phenomena of physics and chemistry are attentively considei 

» VI. 1090, &c I » IL 381-430. 





Lucretius and his Science. 



i9i 



L there appears to be no possibility of escape. Matter then, not being 

|H iniinhely divisible, the next and most natural question is^ ** What is 

i the nature of these atoms ? " To this question there have been many 

answers, but none of them quite satisfactor)'. Lucretius conceived 

them 10 be absolutely solid, hard bodies containing no vacuity, and 

hence indivisible, eternal, and free from all manner of change.* The 

that the atoms were hard solids was also favoured by Newton ; 

bw It (ails to explain their perfect elasticity, and it is also (as Wurtz 

►Jemarks) hard to conceive that indivisible solids should be of different 

[ires. The most ingenious as well as the most starthng view comes 

imSirW. Thomson (now Lord Kelvin), which we have already 

Rfmed to.* Paradoxical as it seems we might almost designate his 

hypothesis as an immaterial theory of matter. For, according to 

phiro, each atom of matter is a vortex ring in that all-pervading medium 

the Ether, thus, as has been pointed out, putting the perception of 

n»ittcTon precisely the same footing as our perception of light or 

»^iMi heat — viz. as '* a mode of motion of the ether." But to return 

to Lucretius and his philosophy. 

No nice distinctions troubling his mind, he secures motion for his 

itcttns as a property^ by virtue of their weight This motion of theirs 

^totTjcsihem perpendicularly downwards through space. Having now 

'ihown ihat all things result by the conglomeration of primordial 

hes, eternal, free from change, and endowed with motion, his next 

is to find a reason which will explain the meeting of atoms with 

*onis to form compounds. And here, following Epicurus, a pitfall 

^gaciously avoided, into which he might very well have bten 

ijed. It was open to him to assert that atoms meet with atoms 

^Hg to their different weights, whereby a swifter motion was given 

^^e heavier than to the lighter body. But recognising the not loo 

^''^^ent fact that all bodies, whether light or heavy, fall in vacuo with 

^*^ct]y the same velocities,^ the apparent difference in swiftness when 

*ii^g in the air being due to effects produced by that medium,' he 

^^ to seek elsewhere for an explanation. 

In order, therefore, to account for these combinations of atoms 

^^ philosopher assumes that they do not always move in exact 

''^ht lines, i.e, their directions of motion are not always and 

• 1.609-614. 

« * Strange as it may seem, this explanation was m a great measare anticipateil 
^ Descartes. 

* 'Frima moventur ctiim per se primordLi rcrum.'— II. 133, 

^ ' This was one of the points in which Epicurus corrected the physics ©f 
^J'^'^sapcritus, this latter asserting that heavy bodieii did fall faster than light ones. 
' The experimental proof of this principle was furnished by Gnlifeo. 



I 




i 



196 The Gentleman s Magazine. 



1 



everywhere quite parallel, silencing any objections to this \ 
pointing out the impossibility of proving the opposite.' Thii 
the only place where Lucretius would have us accept as 
theory the only merit of which is that it cannot be proved false 
in this he is only following out faithfully that dogma of Epicurus 
Munro thus clearly expresses : " Whatever cculd be brought 
test of sense and was confirmed by it was true ; all opinions, 
which could not be brought to such a test, and at the san 
were not contradicted by it, were to be held to be equally true, 
great is his antagonism to the religion of his countrymen th; 
satisfied, when he is unable to do more, if he can but point 01 
natural process which may possibly have produced such and 
result, provided that he demonstrate that it can arise withe 
necessity for supposing supernatural intervention. This posti 
the "clinamen" is also used by the Epicureans to expL 
existence of free-will, this, according to thera^ having its birt 
the tendency of the atoms to decline a little from the straight 
Naturally enough this assumption was soundly ridiculed 
oi>ponents of Epicurus, and, along with the doctrine of ih 
corpus^ quasi sangtm^ furnished a butt for the amusement 
satisfied critics of the type of the Academic Cotta in the "De 
Deorum." Cicero elsewhere scornfully asks whether the ato; 
lots which shall decline and which shall not,^ But, having 
lated this dogma, of necessity atoms must clash with atoms, 
by their meeting cause the formation of things. 

And now we come to the next division of Lucretius's tfc 
atoms, Le, his kinetic theory of matter, which bears a Strang 
ncss to the modern doctrine, and in which he perhaps app 
most nearly the speculations of modern science. Indeed, ^i 
interpolation of a little scientific jargon about the " mean fre^ 
'•average diameter of the molecules," &c., his descriptior 
almost pass for a text- book of the kinetic theory of matte 
own day 1 

The motion which the atoms had originally, he declare 
lost when they unite to form complex bodies ; for the particl 
posing a body are never still, but know no rest, flying hit 
thither, coming into collision with each other, then rebound 
to strike again, and so on to eternity— 

' IL 243-250. 

- See the epistle of Epicurus to HerodotU!^ in iht' tenlli book of Diog, 



Lucretius and his Scietue, 197 

. . . for it seemed 
A void was made in Nature ; all her bonds 
Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring alOTn-strcams 
And torrents of her myriad universe, 
Ruining along the illimitable inane, 
Fly on to clash together again, and make 
Another and another frame of things 
For ever. 

Those atoms which on striking each other rebound only to a 
short distance, owing to the multitude of collisions, and whose 
tnotions are thus confined to a small space, being " stopt by their 
mutual twinings," compose hard and dense substances such as iron 
^odibe rock. In those cases where they have more freedom of path 
^d when struck are able to rebound farther, and where consequently 
^ uamber of impacts is less— of them are formed the less dense 
^ies such as the air. In other cases, again, the primary atoms of 
*wngs wander through the great Inane and do not form combinations 
^th each other— solitary wanderers they through the Void 
Wound.' 

The atoms have ahvays been in "perpetual motion *' from the 
"•^t, and will ever remain so ; * and it is this inherent motion 
Which is the cause of the formation of new combinations and the 
^^ing up of the old. Moreover, although the number of impacts 
^^ong the molecules is so many, yet it is not sufficient now and then 
^ prevent the release of particles, which are thus liberated from 
"^eii" bonds.' Such, then, is a brief summary of the kinetic theorj' of 
^^^retius, which is, as far as it goes, unexceptionable.'* Two things, 
'heii^ according to him, are indestructible — matter and motion. 
**^ these two ideas together and we have a crude expression of 
|he great experimental truth of the " conservation of energy." As an 
^lllistration of his assertion that occasionally solitary atoms break 
"•^QSe from their unions, we may take the case of our atmosphere. 
^e know that in passing through space we are losing particles of our 
acnal envelope by reason of this very motion of the molecules. 
But this loss is made up to us by the accession of fresh particles of 
^*^^if from those regions of Space we are travelling through* These 
wtter ^iii therefore correspond to the free and uncorabined *' seeds '* 
"""'^h Lucretius conceives to peregrinate the universe. 

^Ow, as this paper does not profess to be an exhaustive analysis 

^ ^<e II. 62-111. I ML 297-299. 

. ^^ 1024-1048. 

"Xlic atoms *' collide, they recoil, they oscillate."— 7>«f/a/A 




4 



{ 



198 The Gentle7nans Magazine. 

of the philosophy contained in the " De Reruro Natura " {\ 
would indeed be impossible within such limits), mention must 
omitted of many things upon which I should have been discoursii 

, . . ni iam sub fine laborum 
V^eLi trahflLin et terris festinem advcrtere proram. 

We will, therefore, conclude with a brief notice of the Lucre 
astronomy, which, if it does not display any marked degrecj 
sagacity, is at least curious and amusing. It is indeed both curii 
and absurd, and it is in this department, perhaps, that he con 
nearest deserving Creech's stricture. When we state that, accord" 
to him, the sun, moon, and stars are about the size they seem U 
possibly a little larger or a trifle less ; ^ that the sequence of 
and day may be explained on the supposition that the sun is 
hilated daily, and is every morning re-created by the streaij 
together of fiery atoms ; '^ that the cause of the sun's yearly jounj 
ings may probably be the existence of two currents of air gf»iil| 
contrary directions* each coming into operation at an appoilf 
time, the one driving the sun from the summer signs to the re^ 
of frost, while the action of the other is to propel tt back from tt 
dismal parts and to restore it again to the grateful realms of heal 
it will be seen how far divorced his notions are from anything 
our own. But even here, amid much chaff, we may now and ai 
come upon the grain of truth, and, wherever our poet does hit itf 
a correct theory, he is usually abreast of even our nineteenth-ce 
science. As an example may be taken a passage in the fifth 
to which Tyndall deservedly applies the term " remarkable." 
is occasioned by the necessity for some explanation of the fact 
although the sun is only as big as it appears to be, yet it can 
forth such an abundance of genial and life-giving light and 
Lucretius recognises this objection to his statement, and 
endeavours to remove it by the analogy of a small spring of 
fertilising large districts of land But this does not quite satisfjj 
acute perceptions, and he gives as an additional reason the hypot^ 
contained in the following lines : " Perchance also the sun, beail 
on high with his rosy torch, may possess about him much fire \ 
dark heat which is manifested by no brilliance, so that being % 
bearing it may greatly increase the potency of his rays."* The I 
comment on the foregoing passage will be found in these wer<^ 
Tyndall's : *' , , . Besides its luminous rays, the sun pours I 

' V, 564-591- 

" V, 658-665. The notions ihat ihe sun was kindled afresh daily, vul 
it was no bigger than il seenis^ originaled from Henidilus. 
• V. 637-642. I * V. 61CU614. 



k 



Lucretius and his Science. 



J 99 



a muUitxide of other fays more powerfully calorific than the luminous 
ones, but entirely unsuited to the purposes of vision/' This passage, 
cotitainitig as \i ^j^^ ^he utterance of modern science, reads almost 
like 3 Paraphrase of the verses of the old Roman philosopher. The 
expression, too, "caecis fervoribus," reminds us forcibly of the '*dark'' 
or "itivisible" heat rays we talk so much aboul now. 

^^e theory of Lucretius that there are currents of air which 
^^ the planets along in their courses is a curious one, but it is not 
«ithom a more modern counterpart ; and we can well imagine that 
•l*ould be the most obvious explanation that would offer itself to a 
*y^ein-monger eagerly searching after a plausible reason for the 
Phenomena in question. We find, moreover, that that somewhat 
wraiic genius, Kepler, invented the theory^ of a vortex of an im- 
"^^tcrial fluid which, perpetually circling round the sun, carried in its 
f^in iKe planets, just as a stream would a boat on its surface. No 
^'^at stretch of imagination is needed to detect the similarity between 
^^*s conception and that of our poet. 

The whole of the Lucretian astronomy is a faithful reflex of both 
*^e doctrine and spirit of that of Epicurus as set forth in his letter 
^*^ %thocles in the tenth book of Lacrtius. In both we find the same 
^^'^fiess disregard of the principles on which true science is based ; 
7**^ Uinc IJstlessness (if we may term it so) and utter want of interest 
*** ihe subject under discussion ; the same curious delight in tacitly 
^Qrnitting at almost every other line that their so-called explanations 
^'^ itiere guesswork, covering a profound ignorance of the true theory ; 
^*^. lastly, the same discouragement of any attempt to find out the 
"^th by original research. These traits are well shown where he 
^Is with the rival theories concerning the cause of the phases of 
"'^ moon: the phenomenon, he says, may be explained by supposing 
^°^ moon to be luminous in one half only, and to possess a rotary 
o^oiion, "... As the Babylonian doctrine of the Chaldees refuting 
^ theory of the astrologers strives to prove contrary to it, just as if 
"^t could not be quite as possible which each of them contends for, 
^that there were any considerations why you should adopt this 
explanation less than that" ' Truly a very easy-going sort of science ! 
Perhaps, however, on a closer comparison, one may allow that 
Lucretius in some of these matters has shown himself a little less of 
f aA invenebrate than his master, though there is but little to choose 
■ between them in this branch of natural philosophy. 
H £t iam ternpus equum fumantia solvere colla. 



E. W. ADA.MS. 



» V, 727-730. 






2cx> The Gentlematis Magazine. 



SUNDAY AFTERNOON. 

A PANTO UM. 

AN early dinner after church, 
An easy-chair, a cheerful fire, 
New books inviting my research — 
What more could any one desire ? 

An easy-chair, a cheerful fire : 
Just forty winks to rest the eyes — 

What more could any one desire ? 
Behold, six uninvited flies ! 

Just forty winks to rest the eyes : 

A rare indulgence is a doze ; 
Behold, six uninvited flies, 

Baiting my inoff*ensive nose ! 

A rare indulgence is a doze ; 

Quite wide-awake I cannot keep 
Baiting my inoffensive nose, 

Flies will not let me fall asleep. 

Quite wide-awake I cannot keep — 
Something is crawling on my brow. 

Flies will not let me fall asleep, 
A brace is kissing me just now. 

Something is crawling on my brow ; 

Three flies explore my ear and eye 
A brace is kissing me just now ; 

I capture one triumphantly. 

Three flies explore my ear and eye. 
Two warm their feet upon my cheek ; 

I capture one triumphantly. 

And well-earned rest in slumber seek. 



Sunday Afternoon. 201 

Two warm their feet upon my cheek : 

I muse on Egypt's plague of yore, 
And well-earned rest in slumber seek, 

Wishing the flies would cease to bore. 

I muse on Egypt's plague of yore, 

I nap by fits and wake with starts, 
Wishing the flies would cease to bore, 

Ere that my leisure hour departs. 

I nap by fits and wake with starts ; 

Let me arouse myself to read. 
Ere that my leisure hour departs. 

Why should these madding flies succeed ? 

Let me arouse myself to read. 

New books inviting my research ; 
Why should these madding flies succeed 

An early dinner after church ? 

S. SWITHIN. 




^ 



IF ten people were asked what kind of scenery is most calculatl 
to ''produce " poets, nine at least would at once reply in favoi 
of mountainous and striking surroundings. 

The fact is exactly the opposite. There is no doubt that hills, mooj 
and bold scenery generally, are infinitely more popular than the flj 
and fen Jands, in spite of a spasmodic interest in the latter, when t 
Inverted Torch casts its shadow over the tomb of a Lowland Laurea: 

But it is not of Tennyson that we would now speak, excepting iru 
far as the initial conditions and subsequent outcome of his indivic 
ality help to prove the assertion that poets are almost always bonm 
flat and tame districts, or else in a city which nullifies scenery. 

One thing is certain, that though surroundings may develop 
poet they can never make one. A poem is like a plant, it has i 
root in nature, while its form depends upon culture or accidenti 
circumstances ; and what is true of the poem is equally irue of tl> 
poet, who may say with Ulysses, "I am a part of all that I have met 

In Abercromby*s " Weather," he proposes the quaint theory tha 
the religion of a country is largely determined by the cheerfulness ( 
depression climatically induced in its inhabitants. 

Certainly, the contrast between the ornate ritual of Italy or Spai 
and the severe simplicity of Presbyterianism, is as sharp as betwei 
Spanish sunshine and Scotch mists, so far as outward effect is col 
cerned. 

Be this as it may, natural surroundings afford a key to 
national and individual temperament, which finds a more or 
faithful expression in music and poetry. 

Far back, when Britain was being fought for by the old 
and Cymric tribes, a difference has been traced between the 
of the Gaelic Celts of the Upland and that of the Cymr>\ 

The music of the Gaels was sweet, lively, and rapid ; that of 
Cymry slower and more monotonous. 

The type of character found among the hills is usually m.4 





^nd natural than in the flats, where it is more readily refined, 
ilyt;cal, g^d often morbid. Falstaff's simile of melancholy is the 
Q^ a Lincolnshire bag-pipe." Flat and extensive scenery en- 
[courages the expansion of egoistic generalisation, but it does not ap- 
pearto inspire so much patriotic affection as is the case with hilly parts. 
The emigration that goes on from Lincolnshire and other flat counties 
»Kverj'lafge» while the Highlander is a most unwilling wanderer. 
H ^^Jjilly countries are more poetically inspiring than the Lowlands, 
^■^Mt a glorious poet Switzerland should have brooght forth ! But 
" ^here is the poet of the Swiss ? 

^^'e find Ruskin admitting, *'The Swiss certainly have no feelings 
'fspecting their mountains in any wise corres|)onding with ours. 
• The training for which the mountain children have to thank 
^w Muotta Thai was in soundness of breath and sturdiness of 
j™b» tir more than in elevation of idea." Their three great States 
[*'C named not after their glorious peaks, but after their forests. 

^Vliy(Joes it so often happjen that the sight of grand scenery 
j**sktns feelings of fervent emotion in the stranger, and no fine ap* 
^P'ttiation at all in those living amongst it ? Who can recall the first 
[poipse he ever had of the snow-capped mountains, without acknow- 
[ Wging ti^jjt j4 ^2^s a supreme moment in his life ? A moment some 
'^Mt to be almost divine — an Eesthetic sacrament. 
^t stately glacier-clad Alps rise from the deep blue water far 
'^^hcre the sky glows like the heart of a sapphire above their 
'"^ Crests, all dazzling and unearthly in their lonely beaut}\ 
*n^ pilgrim and the sojourner may see all this with pure wonder 
pleasure, but explain it how we may— by want of culture, unde- 
"^^ intellectual appreciation, or eieteness of race^it ts all the 
' ^ regards any result, for '* there is silence on the hills " whether 
'*^t^rland or Greece. 
^* ^ quote Ruskin once more, *' The spirit of the hills is action, 
mP ^^ the Lowlands repose." 
» "* ithoui going into any tedious details of heredity or similar bye* 






^ we will take a glance at some readily recollected names of 
J?^ "^ho have been bom away from mountains or very imposing 
^mUSj ^^jj ^^^^ ^^ j^Q^ many exceptions there are by which to prove 

^^It, To many poets, as to Spenser, *' Merrie London " has been 

^ost kindly nurse." 

V-haucer was born there. Prior, Milton, Pope, Gray, Hood 

^*-5i Rogers, and Byron all saw the light first in London. 




^Owning, a true poet of cities and the heart of man, was born 



^t 



I 



204 The Gentleman s Magazine, 

Rtiskin, who is surely a poet in his grand devotion to the beauti- 
ful, was a Lx>ndoncr. 

Philip Bourke Marston, whose blindness hid from him the "cvet- 
lasting babel of the Euston Road," lived there, though his fancy 
created a dream home among roses and lily-bells in the Wind 
Gardens. 

Shelley was born in Sussex, Collins at Chichester. 
The poet whom Byron called " Nature's sternest painter, yet the 
best," was born on the flat ugly coast of Suffolk. 

Crabbe sang his own surroundings when he described 
A shaving fen . , . 
In dark tempestuous nigbt. 
• There never trod the fool of men, 

There flocked the fowl in wintry flightt 
There danced the moot's deceitful light 
Above the pool where sedges grow. 

Another Lowland poet was Cowper. His life was passed in the 
quiet counties of Hertford, Huntingdon, and Buckingham, and he 
has shed a literary grace over the dull levels of the Ouse. 

Whether an admirer of Cowper or not, no one can question his 
pure taste, or the real enthusiasm he felt for the simple scenes he so 
lovingly lingers over. 

The rippks on the river and the very herbs were dear to hinw 
The tall poplars along the banks of the creeping stream were his friends, 
and when the quivering of their tiny leaves was silenced, as the trees 
by cut down upon the grass, the lonely man lamented over the 

Whispering shade of Ihe cool colotinade, 

Where the winds play no longer and sing in the leases. 

Nor Ouse on his bosom theif image receives. 

Lincolnshire claims Jean Ingelow as a native of Boston, the fen- 
land capital, where the stately foreign-looking belfry of which she has 
sung, still stands out as a landmark for miles round as it did in da>*s of 
old, when the blazing cresset flared from its lofty lantern, and the 
bells clashed and chimed to warn the fenmen of the rising floods. 

The old Mayor climbed the Belfry Tower. 

The ringers rang by two, by three. , . . 

play up, play up, ye Boston Bells ! 

Flay all your changes, all your swells, 

play up the '* Brides of Ed derby I" 

Men say it was a stolen tide. 

The Lord that sent it He knows all, 

33ut in mine ear will aye abide 

The message that the Bells let fall. 

And awesome Bells they were 10 me, 
That in the dark rang " Endciby I" 



i 




Lmvlands versus Highlands. 

AU is peaceful and torpid now ; even the flood fear has ceased to 
^Ijunt ihe fens, since after a dry summer they are more likely to need 
^mgatjon than drainage. 
Old Fuller wrote : 

Ai Cod hath tempered the hody together ♦ . . assigning to each member the 
pfopes office tliereof» so the same Providence haih so wisely blended the benefits 
of f his county, that take collective Lincolnshire, and it is defective in iiolhing. 

This thorough- going championship of the best abused county 
in Eiigland is less hkely to pass unchallenged than if the same 
rords were adapted to the cultured life-work of the Laureate to 
irhom Lincolnshire gave birth. 

Teiinyson was saturated with the spirit of the Lowlands, and 
iang of what he saw. Born at Somersby, sent to school at Wain- 
icet, which is near the coast, he knew the great plain from the 
woodland to the water's edge. 

Locksley Hall," "Mariana of the Moated Grange," and certain 
H^ag»of *'In Memonam" are unmistakably exact in their local 

To instance the first of the three poems alluded to, let the 
tender but see Skegness, the original setting of " Locksley," and the 
ion force of many allusions will be understood at once. 

It is a curious place this Skegness-on-Sea, and if we had to describe 
it briefly, it would be as the Home of the Three Dimensions, since 
straight lines express its actual appearance— a line of sand, a 
of sea, and a line of sky. On the north, the sands run towards 
thorpe ; to the south, they stretch in an unbroken level down to 
tar Point ; the sea crawls up from the east ; and on the west, low 
ics, fringed with shaggy tufts of sand-grass like pixie's hair, form a 

high-water mark seldom reached now by the receding tides. 
A vast plain of marsh land begins at the edge of the coast, with 
intersecting its wide treeless fields, until the wooded wold 
ntiy rolls its royal green skirts down to the shelving border of the 

But over all there broods an unique charm for those who can 
>fgive the grim monotony of limitless outline. 

^« peculiar melancholy— sometimes gentle, often terrible, but 
**J^ tKere—captivates still, as it did \n the days wheti Tennysoi^ 
"Joung. 

Here about the beach 1 wandered, nourishing a youth stiblime 
With the fairy tales of science and the long result of time. 

tfce ^^ ^^ stayed, in an old house lately pulled down, which ^ 
."^^inalof ^ 



CCUtXVlI. NO. 1964. 




Hs 



Tm C 




Aad aC the stvoy 




Calm aad ttSl fig^ oa 7 
ThaHm^vith all its 
And citMracd cums and tcsBenm^ tqm ■ i ■ 
To BiDgk vidi the boondii^ ^.^-^^ . 
Calm and deep peace in this vide air, 
ThcK lesTcs that redden to the 6dl ; 
And inmy hcait, if calm at all. 
If anj caim, a calm despur. 

Before considering any complete exceptions to the rale, 
mention the names of four English poets who are partial ex 
having been bom in hilly, but not mountainous scenery, 
and Chatterton were bom at Bristol, and no one could c 
where the Durdham Downs are within sight. Coleridge wa 
Ottcry St Mar/s, in a lovely Devonshire village, but the I 
School was his boyish home. Wordsworth was a native 
morcland, and became a poet of the Lakes. 

The first real exception — a poet bom amongst tl 
romantic scenery— was Caedmon, whose wild Whitby home 
powerful atmosphere around his half legendary figure. 

Strange that Yorkshire has never produced a great p 
this cowherd of the seventh century, when it can boast of 
\)c)ld landscapes on the moors and along the coast than Lir 




Lowlands versus Highlands, 

Unless we force an allusion to the possibilities of poetic 
1 the Bronte family, the record is a blank. 
\ we had a Welsh poet of any national note since Merlin and 
? 

der to deal with the Highlands we must look at the Scotch 
ut in doing so, we are met by the disconcerting fact that 
great poets were both bom in the Lowlands. Scott was 
Edinburgh ; Bums in Ayrshire, where, ** Out in the fields 
iel, amid the birds and wild flowers of a Lowland farm, he 
kis first lessons, and conned them with all his earnest heart 
i the bandies of the plough." 

ison was bom in Roxburghshire, James Hogg was a Selkirk- 
rpherd, and Campbell was a native of Glasgow. As to 
is claims are so merged in the distant past, that we can only 
I with Caedmoo, as a brilliant, but legendary exception. 
iOn is, perhaps, in reality the most bona fide Highland poet 
ad. 

ets with the inspiration of the hiOs and mountains strong 
in, we may mention Scott, whose love of the romantic 
bout Edinburgh was only surpassed by his enthusiasm for the 
Sy What Ruskin calls the spirit of action throbs buoyantly in 
whether we honestly believe that verse to be poetry or not 
ly there are many who would say Scott's best poetry rs 
I in the prose of his novels. He was thoroughly alive to 
^veness of — 

I Each purple peak, each fiinty spire 

I Baihed ia floods of living fire ♦ . . 

f Their rocky summits split and rent, 

, Formed turret, dome, or battlement. 

bough a Londoner by birth, and associated with 
quiet scenery, must be classed with the poets of the 
his first strong impetus towards poetry carae to him in 
He was loo tempestuous, too much absorbed by the 
nd Drang" of passionate life, to find Lowland quietude 
Sadly he dwells upon the days when youth was his, and 
fection for the hills swells up freshly as ever : 

Years have roUM by Loch na Garr 

Since I left you. - . . 

Yd stilt are you dearer than Albion's plain. 

England I ihy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roam'd on the moanlains afar. 

Oh ! for the crags that are wild and majeslic, 

The tte«'p fro'*ning gloriei* of dnrk Lo'ch na Garr. 




20S 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



mouo- 



t 



The poetry of Burns is a gentle minor beside the vigorous moun- 
tain melodies of Scott, and the tender pathos of his style is 
essentially that of the Lowlands, It is argued by those who claim the 
great poetical superiority of the Highlander over the Lowlander» thai 
the people as a mass are full of poetic imagination, and that the veiy 
existence of such a peasant-poet as Bams proves these innate qualities 
to be ready to burst forth whenever educational advantages shall be 
iheirsp To this we can only reply that Burns does not represent the 
Highlanders ; and, as poetry cannot be hid long, ask in return, why 
more of it has not appeared ere this ? We may be referred back tc» 
some of the sweet Scotch songs, and their charm we are fully p«- 
pared to acknowledge, but at the same time we need not forget that 
all countries have their imaginative folk-songs, no matter hoir 
primitive in their development — from the weird, crooning melod)* 
vith which the coloured nurse sings of the far away '* Blue water," 
to the European national varieties. Some are, of course, sweeter 
than others, and the Scotch song must ever rank high, though how 
many were composed by Lowland Scotch we shall never know now. 

So far, we have confined our ground to England and Scotlaodg] 
with a remark upon the absence of poets among the Welsh 
tains, while, as regards Ireland, Moore was born in DubUn, a 
with fine scenery, but at present we have no singer from the 
romantic part of the island. 

It must be thoroughly understood that we do not for an ins 
assert that there are no poets in hilly countries, but we ask why 
are so very few, comparatively, and why poetry has died out to such^ 
a remarkable extent in such countries as Greece and Italy, while it 
never seems to have existed in Switzerland ? 

Look at the giants of Germany — Goethe, Schiller, and Heiw 
Heine was born at Diisseldorf, not at all in a wild or romant 
locality. Schiller was a native of Marbach, which is not particularl; 
remarkable either. Goethe was born at Frankfort-am-Maine, 
is decidedly flat, the highest hiHs in view being the Taunus, lo^ 
than the Malverns, and the pine-woods near the nver supply t 
highest ground upon which the inhabitants wander. We 
purposely left Shakespeare, our greatest English poet, out of 
list until we spoke of Goethe, in order to point out emphati( 
that both were born in quiet scenery, Shakespeare's home 
Stratford being the very reverse of wild or hilly ; yet who is tl 
among the mountains like these poets of the Lowlands ? 

France comes next. Molibe was born in Paris, which is 
Voltaire was a Parisian also, and we instinctively class these 



hat 



Lowlands versus Highlands, 



109 



ientative men with Sheridan and Pope, both of whom were 
ty. Victor Hugo may be taken as an exception to the 
eral rule ; he was born at Besan^on, where the Jura is in sight. 
The two great dramatic poets of Spain, Lope de Vega and 
deron, were born at Madrid, upon an elevated plain. 
Camoens was a native of Lisbon, which is extremely beautiful 
Italy may be represented by Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, and Petrarch. 
pence 'is, so charmingly situated, that Dante and Boccaccio had 
|) scenery around them calculated to enrich poetic fancy. Of 
iisc it is difficult to find any part of Italy that is not attractive 
I interesting, Tasso's birthplace, Sorrento, is on the hills, but a 
id of plain separates them from the bay. Ariosto was born at 
ggio, which is on a plain ; and Petrarch's native place, Arezzo, 
jjso on the flats. 

Irhis gives three German poets, all born away from the mountains ; 
|e French poets, t^vo of whom were born in a level urban locality ; 
I Spanish poets, both born in a city on a high plain \ one Portu- 
isepoet, born in a beautiful city j five Italians, two of whom 
pe born in a city, one in striking scenery, and two on a plain. 
iThis ver}' incomplete and bird's-eye glance at the continental 
shows a balance in favour of the theory that they are not found 
e most romantic and mountainous parts. 
lilt is the same with the three American poets, Longfellow, Edgar 
1^ and Wait Whitman, who, though born in varied scener}', all 
ivey the distinct impression of having been influenced by other 
kal beauties rather than mountains, Longfellow's inspiration 
I drawn far more from the "forest primeval," "the pines and 
J hemlocks," than from any lofty heights* Poc found in the sea 
most sympathetic aniiphon, whether of music or of gloom. 
sang of *'the Body and the Soul of the Modern Man." 
was a youth his associations were of the sea, and *' the 
mg Hempstead plains in the middle of Long Island," He 
** I have often been out on the edges of these plains toward 
and can yet recall in fancy . , , the cool of the slightly 
tic evening air, and note the sunset/' It is in the forest and 
Jsca that he sought his ** manly strophe," In the " Song of the 
»ood Tree *' he hears 

A muimaring, fateful, giant voice out of the earth, and sky, 
Voice of a mighty dying tree id the redwood forest dense. 

her he stands "on the beach at night alone, as the old 

iways her to and fro singing her husky song," or is ** filled 

all the voices of the universe," as he hears the " proud music of 



r 



210 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 




the storm," it is ever by "the shores of the water, ... In the 
dimness of the solemn shadowy cedars " that the " gray brown bird ' 
sang "the carol of death, and a verse for him I love." 

Space forbids any forlher examples, though the atmosphere sug- 
gested by Matthew Arnold's pictures of the "star sown vault of 
heaven, and the lit sea's unquiet way,'' is as distinctly individual to 
his poetry as the spirit of Swinburne's poems seems to be shadowed 
>— full of beauty, sadness, and the sea — in two of his own short lines — 

The land hulb two lords that are deathless. 
Death's self, and the sea. 

Rossetti's love of the "wandering water," of glowing art, and of 
nature's melancholy, never appears to extend to the mountains. 

Without any attempt to make cosmopolitan poets locally repre- 
sentative, or to allude to either heredity cr association, the fact 
remains, that there is an absence of imaginative genius just where we 
should most naturally look for it. 

Among the meadows and corn lands the air is pulsing with the 
singing of wild birds, but high upon the mountains all is stilL Is it 
so with the poets ? Perhaps Bjornson^s words about grand scenery 
contain some explanation : " If you do not rise above it, it will 
crush you." 

Is it so strange, after all, that it should be in the far-sweeping 
fenlands— the haunt of Guihlac, Hereward, and Hugh — that the 
breath of poetry stirs ? 

Where the land is still dreamy, in remote solitudes where red 
poppies nod, and great dusky moths flit through the grasses by the 
pools J where the twilight of the world still lingers, and we may 
catch faint echoes of music-beats from afar, "like linnets "in the 
pauses of the wind'— for the air is heavy with memories marc 
exquisite than hope. 

E, RAYLEIGH VICARS. 




' I have paid of late attention, which some may judge excessive, 
to Sir Walter Scott, it is, first, because he is far and away the 
t interesting English (or Scottish) man of letters concerning 
anything authoritative is known ; and secondly, because the 
fcarance of Mr. lang's new edition of the Waverley Novels 
lishes roe with constant temptation to recur to the theme. Scott's 
f weaknesses, inconceivable as some of them seem, endear him 
is. His worth meanwhile shines, and flames, and dances like 
sun on an Easier morning. The alteration by Mr. Lang of 
arrangement of Scott himself when he issued the immortal series 
forty-eight volumes enables us to trace more easily the fatal 
jct of the overwork, undertaken under a strong sense of respon- 
Uity, beneath which Scott's intellect gave way, and to which 
hnately his life succumbed. Scott^s latest editor includes ** The 
it Maid of Perth *' among the works written while still in the full 
Isession of his powers, and traces decadence in its successor 
Inne of Geierstein," and, I suppose, collapse in ** Count Robert of 
lis.** I am disfrosed to regard this view as too favourable* To 
r thinking, signs of decay of style and method are painfully evident 
'*The Fair Maid of Perth," which I have always felt lacking in 
xipathy and in some respects perverse. Hal of the Wynd is, with 
Scott's effort to ennoble him, a common swash-buckler, and his 
dentme is an uninteresting and preaching little Puritan; Bonthron 
as bad as Bamardine doubled with Ragozine, Scott*s touch 
led him, indeed, in dealing with nearly all the characters, and for 
cc the sympathy for which he bids is denied him. In the censure 
ma, of course, comparing with himself, and his shade can scarcely 
humiliated when the only outside comparisons on which I venture 
i from Shakespeare. 




::i2 Tlu GentUnians Magazine, 

Hal of the Wynd. 

I AM inclined to think that Scott would not in his early life have 
demanded our admiration for a character such as Harry Got 
or Hal of the Wynd. Soldiers of fortune, murderers, and villains 
of all sorts he gives us, and he has a certain respect for the in- 
stinct of combat Few of his characters are more popular than 
his Dugald Dalgetty in "The Legend of Montrose." Over his 
pedantr)' and his care for the main chance, Scott lingers caressingly. 
It is easy to see that this follower of Gustavus Adalphus is dear to 
the heart of his creator. So far, however, from challenging our 
admiration for his moral character, Scott makes his real soldiers 
and his noblemen accept him only for the sake of expediency, and 
speak of him with withering contempt, Bothwell, in "Old Mor* 
tality," is a reckless persecutor, and has but small mercy on those _ 
with whom he is sent to deal. Scott, however, though he assigns I 
—as he IS always quite disposed to do — sufficient respect to his 
birth, IS no more disposed to pardon his excesses or cruelty than he is 
those of the enthusiast Balfour of Burley, by whose hand he perishes. 
I might go through the Waverley Novels and show that Scott, while 
painting men ** jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel," t>r 
even robbers and caterans, such as Rob Roy, never seeks to associate 
blood-thirstiness with moral worth until he paints the armourer of 
Perth. This man even has vindication for some of his outrages. It 
may also be pleaded that characters such as this were of the timtt 
Scott shows the smith, however, apart from his blood-lust— considerate, 
tender and even a bit of a moralist In this character 1 see the 
strongest proof of Scott's waning powers. To these, at least, I 
choose to attribute it, rather than hazard the suggestion that his 
nature had become subdued to that it worked in, until he wa^^ 
growing as fond of gore as the producer of the modern novel 
adventure. 



Border Animosities. 

A ND this brings me to another aspect of the matter— 1 
/\ expressions of derision, disapproval, discontent, mut 
jealousiies, rivalries, hatreds, and the like. The most conspicuous^ 
comic illustration of international dislike was when one of Napoleoa^ 
generals or attendants, 1 forget which, but the stor)' is well know^ 
would not leave him alone with a visitor from Corsica, adding, to tt:^ 





TabU Talk, 



213 



ipoleon, himself a Corsican, that he mistrusted all those 
Ined fellows. Animosities and dislikes are, of course, strongest 
nediately across the borders of two countries. What English lad 
not learned of the misdeeds of Taffy, otherwise Davy, the 
Ishman and the thief, and of the evil fate that befell him at the 
wis of his justly-incensed neighbours on the other side the border ? 
ftow of no similar nursery rhyme concerning the Debateable Land 
I its occupants. On the borders between England and Scotland, 
rever, feuds were more bitter than on the Welsh border, and 
ed until a much later period. The forays were incessant and 
Wy, and of constant recurrence. Far too serious were they to be 
subject of banter or of proverbs Their incidents and pkripHies were 
eed better suited to the heroical ballad, which is wholly occupied 
I them. Our constant feud with the French during the period 
ti we occupied the most fertile portions of France has enriched 
bch folklore with matter not too gratifying to the vanity of 
(lishmen. I have myself heard the mistral called the English 
d by a Proven^ farmer, coupled with the explanation that from 
{land came neither good man nor good wind. We need go no 
her in the search after animosities than the term Perfide Albion 
mplied to us by our Gallic neighbours, 



Folk Satire in English Districts. 



)NE need not go abroad, however, in search of impolite terms. 
We can be sufficiently discourteous to each other, as when we 
Ik of Essex Calves. Some counties and districts naturally fare 
ter than others in this respect. A Yorkshire Tyke conveys the 
a of sturdiness as well as unamiability, but nothing wilt force any- 
^g but an unflattering significance upon calf. Foote, always insolent 
i ill-natured, after a dispute with a squire who said that he came 
to Essex, pretended to be interested in the information, saying, 
ideed! Who drove you?" Northuniberland/which Mr, Swinburne 
^^ses, finds, so far as I am aware, no censor, the only rhyme con- 
*^»ig its sons that I can find in Mr, Norlhall*s " English Folk* 
^mes," to which I have previously referred my readers, being con- 
'^in the distich 

" Noithtimberland, hasty and hot, 
Wesimorlaad to prcd the Scot.'* 

^ ^ townsj however, rather than districts, that as a rule are worst 
^» We hear, it is true, in ** Notes and Queries " of 





^^4 



and 3t 







And axe told alao of 
-Deal 

Rhfme, it win be kcd, has a. good dol to do with the setectioB 
epithet. And, again, ve axe iu&Uuu ed tliat 

I ha^e omitted all ni i ncucc to the wise men of Gotham, li 
cngaUant of utterancei is that concerning Heptonstall, in Lai 

shire — 

" In Hali£u thoc's many a pnxxj girl. 
In HeptoBStaU there's nooe." 

A terrible imputation is cast npon Winwick, that 
*' The dmrch at little Winwkk 
It stands upon a sod. 
And when a maid is married there 
The steeple gives a nod." 

Here I will quit my subject 

Guildhall Publications. 

THE Library Committee of the Corporation of the Gil 
Ix)ndon is doing admirable service in printing the reo 
and other documents preserved in its archives. Some years ag 



Table Talk, 215 

editorship of Mr, John E. Price, F.S.A., a handsome 
\ finely illustrated volume on the Guildhall and its treasures. 
Is was followed but recently by the Calendar of Wills enrolled 

the Court of Husting— a work of iodescribable importance to 
iquaries and genealogists, to the merits of which I drew attention 
lilie time of its appearance. This work was edited by Dr. Reginald 

Sharpe, Records Clerk in the office of the Town Clerk of the 
jy of London. Under the same admirably competent supervision 
\ now appeared the first of three volumes, entitled " London and 
^ Kingdom." The idea of this was suggested by a phrase used 

Mr. W, J. Loftie, F.S.A^ who says, *' It would be interesting 

go over all the recorded instances in which the City of London 
krfered directly in the affairs of the Kingdom. Such a survey 
Md be the history of England as seen from the walls of the 
Sttldfaall/' Such a history Dr* Sharpe will shortly give us, the 
Bt instalment having now appeared^ It is the political history 
the City that Dr. Sharpe illustrates, principally from its own 
pihives. This aspect, as he says, has scarcely been regarded by 
tKvious writers. Yet the geographical position of London and the 
^narkable courage and enterprise of its inhabitants have made its 
^erference or its adhesion to a side always important and not seldom 
piisive, 

I T is pleasant to find that the influence exercised by the City has 
I always been on the side of freedom. Readers of constitu- 
•tal history are, of course, aware of this. They know that in the 
Rhty struggle of the Commonwealth, London was constantly 
fal to the Parhament ; that London train bands, without ex- 
Hence, defeated the highly-trained soldiers of the King ; and 
^t it was not until the establishment of a new tyranny that 
^ndon, held down by a strong military force^ began to coquet with 
^ Royalist. This portion of our civic records has not, however, 
* been reached, Dr. Sharpe's first volume extending only to the 
featlh of Elizabeth. In this earlier period, however, the action of 
^ citizens was always similar. They resisted the tyranny and 
Wression of kings, and insisted on the maintenance of their charters. 
*^e side London espoused was almost always successful, and the 
^'^ it took in opposing rebellion was active and honourable. Who 
doubt that the rebellion of Wyatt would have been successful 
' Longmaos. 



London's Politiwl Action. 




2i6 The Gentlematis Magazine. 

had London opened its doors to his followers ? Among the instances 
of London's action to which Dr. Sharpe draws attention in the por- 
tion now issued are the contest between Stephen and Matilda, in 
which London held the balance ; the tyranny of Longchamp, the 
overthrow of which was the City's work ; the great charter, in the 
wresting of which from the rdactant king the barons were backed up 
by the citizens ; and the conquest of Aquitaine, and practically of 
France, by Edward III. and Henry V., with money which London 
supplied. These instances might be multiplied. It is impossible 
to do full justice to this spirited and laudable undertaking until 
its completion and the appearance of the index. The more picturesque 
chapters of the book have probably appeared ; what is to come, 
however, is of more immediate and more obvious, if not of more vital, 
importance. 

Sylvanus Urban. 



THE 



GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 

September 1894. 



" ZO THEY ZAY." 

By Osgood Hartier. 

Whispering tongues can poison truth. 
Chapter I. 

THE SCANDAL. 

*• T EASTWAYS, 'tis tunable suspicious," jerked Abigail Hoyle, 
I ^ shutting her jaws with a righteous snap. 
" Thur b'ain't two interpretations to be putt upon it, as I can 
zee," said Mistress Dimity, smoothing her apron. 

" An* he so kind to me, too, when I buried my boy ; I don't like 
vur to believe it," said Mrs. Susan. 

** You'm always too much carried away wi' yer feelings, Susan, 
an' that's the truth ; but when 'tis a question atwixt right an* wrong 
. you should putt yer feelings in yer pocket." 

" Well, I worn't never one for gossip myself," said Abigail ; *' but 
I never heerd a scandal like this yere— never. Wot's the wurld 
a-comin' to ? " 

The wood fire was blazing on the old-fashioned hearth, the 

copper crocks were shining brightly on the shelf, the blue plates 

st<>(>d in rows on Abigail's spotless dresser ; and the old farmhouse 

kitchen looked the picture of comfort, with its red-tiled floor and 

low-beamed ceiling and row of flower- pots on the ledge of the 

• diamond-paned window, while the group of three housewives gathered 

round the teacups formed an ideal gossiping party. There was 

Abigail* mistress of Brimblecoombe Farm, white-capped, prim, 

precise ; and Mrs. Dimity, widow, and proprietor of the village post- 

VOL. CCLXXVII. NO. 1965. Q 




2i8 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

office, radiant in a new black silk apron with tiny pockets 
numerous infinitesimal frills ; and Susan Stacey, a younger woman 
than cither of the others, and not so righteous in her own esteem. 

*' Here's my Ephruro," announced Abigail ; ** but he 'ont hecr a 
word agin the parson." 

A good-hearted, kind-faced farmer now joined the tea-partj, 
saluted the lady guests in his hale, hospitable fashion,*^and kissed his 
wife — a custom he had contracted when she was pink and white and 
young, and still continued now she was grisly and sharp- fearuied. 

" An* what's >'<7i/r opinion o' the scandal, Mr. Hoyle?" said the 
widow, facing round upon him. 

" Vokes had a sight better mind their own consarns — ^ihat's whit 
I d' say, and parson 'ull mind his. Missis, Til thank ye for a cup 
o'lay.'' 

Abigail attended to her husband's wants, and then resumed her 
gossip with the ladies. ** See how oncommon fcss he is wi' all the 
young mothers and childern ; I did always say 'twom't natteral m a 
single man." 

" liyou was a mother, Mrs. Hoyle, you*d speak up for 'n a bit,^ 
said Mrs. Stacey, adding regretfully to herself, " so kind he was to 
my 'Arold, too ! " 

'* Pish, Susan I " sneered Abigail. *'An' then if any of the maids 
went astray they always went straight to parson, and he wur* shockio* 
aisy wi' them.*' 

" Ay, he*d shake hands in the street wi' a 'ooman as I'd gather 
up my skirts to pass," said Mrs. Dimity. 

*' Zure, I d' b'lieve he'd open the Kingdom of Heaven to the veif 
worst if 'twas in his power," said Susan thoughtfully. 

** His Maaster have a-done that afore 'n," said Ephraim qi* 
" Yes, that was the style of his preachinV* said Abigail, igf ^ 
her husband's remark, "with never a word for them as wasnt 
sinners. Many*s the time I've said to Biddy Scrivens, up Clay'angav 
* A vury good sarmon, Mrs. Scrivens, for them as needs it ; but 
Where's the teachin* for such as we ? ' " 

" As I'm churchwarden, not one of ye caan't gainsay be wttr % 
oncommon popular preacher 1 " ventured Ephraim* 

" But dangerousj dangerous, Mr. Ephrum. Why, aafter these 
goin's on I shall feel onaisy about my girl goin' to 'is Bible Claass.** 
** An' well you may, Mrs. Dimity* 111 be bound my girl shaaa' 
go no more, an* she so rare an' conscientious wi' the dairy an a'. 
She's that looked up wi* the parson, too. I did always say *twOTn\ 
in reason for maids to be so crazed on a Bible Claass, Sunday aa^cr- 
noons^ when 'em. m\ght he out walking wi' their young men*** 



- Zo Tfuy Zayr 



219 



** WoU, Mtssts, womenfolk is wonderful contrairy/' said Ephraim 
at last ; " thur, yoa was all mazed on the parson one time (an' not 
one OS can preach like 'n for miles round)i an' proud as could be to 
get 'n a dish o' lay, every one of ye, an' now you'ni ready for to 
scratch *s eyes out.** 

*' An' reason too, Ephrum, after what weVe a-heerd." 

*• Aafter what youVe concocted, more like," he responded. 

•*My! if this ain't Sex'on Tomkins a-cominV' exclaimed 
Mistress Dimity, " he d' know all the rights o't." 

On ordinary occasions these ladies would not have condescended 
to intinaate conversation with Joe Tomkins, the sexton, but no\v» as 
be knew more of the scandal than any one else, he became a person 
of great importance, and Abigail received him graciously, and imme- 
diately began to ply him with questions. And Joe, pleased to find 
himself the hero of the hour, proceeded to unfold his information. 

•* Well, I tull ye how *twas, Mrs. Hoyle; 'twas like this yer. I'd 
beerd tell of ghosties up vicarage " 

**Ghosties! the Ghost of Sin in flesh an' blood more like," 
interrupted Abigail. 

" But a didn't blieve in no ghosties myself, havin* dug the graves 
fifteen year come Whitesuniide, an' never havin' seen 'ny ghost, above 
groun' nor below, zo I zays, zays I, a'll jest go up vicarage an' watch 
00 a bit. Zo 1 was in hidin' behind they shnibbery trees one even- 
ing about sundown, an' all on a sudden I zeed comm' on a most 
tarnation beautiful young woman, wi' blue flowers in her hair, an' 
trailin' her white dress behind her down the path, an' callin' 
* I>arliii*,' in a voice 'ud have made ye cry if you hadn't known what 
she wor." 

" Lor' ! An* what was her like ? " cried the ladies. 

•* Oh, all white an' tender-lookin', with gurt dark eyes ; an' hair 
streamin' down her back, so brown as a berry^ an' so bright as 
thick copper kittle ; an' a quare sart o* way wi' her, as *ud soon make 
& vule of a feller — only who'd a-l bought o' the parson ? " 

♦• Mebbe 'tis some poor unfortunate he's shellerin'," suggested 
Efjhraim. 

•• Poor unfortunate ! I be surprised at yc, Ephrura ! What 
have the parson to do wi' poor unfortunates in bis house, I should 
like to knowl*" 

*• Tis a-countenancin' sin, at best,'^ said Mrs. Dimity, 

•»*Oirist did not Magdalen spurn,'" quoted Ephraim, beneath 

breath, 

** WuU, thur, 'lis a tuifble quare job; but we'll get to the bottom 



I 



or 

I 



b 



2 20 TA€ GeniUmafis Magazine, 

tr said the sexton emphatically. « We mun call a vestry n!^? 
I investigate into \ or you and I must make inquiries, Mr. Ephruin_ 
'tis a plain duty." ]■ 

" No, no," said Ephraim, ** let's leave \ to the squire." H 

" Squirt : Squire ain^t none too partiklar hisself," said AbigaiLi 
with infinite scorn. *• There was the mj^tery o* poor Molly " |B 

''The aristocracy s deep in vice an' sin," said the sexton ; "moM 
shame to 'em ! " ' ^| 

"Well; 'tain't to be expected parson should practise morals, 
when he don' so much as tache 'em," continued AbigajL '*Thur^s 
Bill Turner an his wife, as fights every day reglar, an' parson, 'stead 
of tellin' of 'era to bide paceful, zays to 'em, *^Tis better by half for 
ye to part nor to live like cat an' dog,' za>^ he. 'N' if that ain 
breakin' marriage lavFS, I dunno wot is ! " 

**Zure," said the sexton, "aafter they'd swore in church to pul 
up wi' one another, whatever 'twore, they oughter ha* gone throueli 
wi' it. Holy Scripture d' tache to love yer enemies, howsomdever 
they'm of yer own household. Not but wot it must be turrTile 
aggravatin' to have a wife always naggin' at ye— eh, Mr. Ephrum ? " 

•* Ay, zurc/' answered Ephraim deprecatingly, as if he had had 
no experience in the matter. " But I don't misdoubt there's allow- 
ances to be made both sides ; the Lord knows ! " 

*"Tis_>w/w always makin' allowances for volks, not the Lord' 
said Abigail. " He d' judge th' onrighteous wi* justice." 

" An' raercy, too, wife ; wi' mercy, too.'* 

** Ephrum don't only look on one zide, an' that's the saft one, 
said Abigail, who certainly never inclined to the *' soft " side of a 
question herself. 

" 'Tis a wonder we hadn't found out nothing about it before. 
said Mrs. Dimity, renewing the attack, "but thick wold Hanner 
wur ahvays so close, an' ihur ain't 'ny maid more'n her, an* never 
a body goes there charing." 

'* \\q\\ I did always say 'tworn't hospittable that we was never 
so much as asked to the vicarage gate all these years, an* parson 
always pleased an' ready to take a cup o' tay long o* we." 

** There's many things isn't as they should be," said Tomkto& 
with the air of one who knew more than he liked to say. " You 
as churchwarden, Mr. Hoyle (Squire he don't count), an* I as 
sexton, must put it to rights." 

** What's the need for wt to meddle, Tomkins ? If parson have 
adone wrong, 'twill be brought home to 'n. Let us leave it in the 
Lord's hands." 



**Z(C? They Zay\ 



22\ 



"I make bold to say the Lord's hands is full enough," said the 
Upotent Abigail ; '* we must take it inter our own hands when 
fngs come to a paass like this yere." 



Chapter II 



THE SPIES. 

E lo5*al churchwarden was at length driven to defy what he fe!t 
sadiy conclusive evidence, and consented to act as spy in con- 
nction with the sexton in order to prove that there ** worn'l nothing 
it," Accordingly these two minor dignitaries of the church pro- 
ved stealthily to the vicarage one moonless night, and look up 
the garden a concealed position, which commanded the front 
idows. These were opened wide on the verandah, and the shaded 
It from within streamed softly over the trellised vine, and far 
ross the lawn. The room, with its polished floor strewn with mats 
various " bedizenments from furrin parts'* (as Joe afterwards 
ted), its books, pictures, and gracefully arranged flowers— trailing 
r the mirrors and standing in rose-bowls on the floor— showed 
lasuaJ refinement, and formed a delicate background to the picture 
ich met the eyes of the unwilling spy and his comrade. The vicar 
in his arm-chair by the hearth — where a low red fire burned, 
»ugh it was but early autumn—and on the mat at his feot, half- 
lining, was the "Ghost of Sin," whom Efjhraim had prayed not to 
Her back was turned to the window, but there was something 
Uing, even so, in the graceful white-clad figure, with the bright 
►wn hair falling to her waist^ and tangled on the vicar's knees— in 
Joe described her charms so vividly that it was said, "If it 
o'ta-been the parson, 'twould have been the sexton^ zure enough." 
vicar was speaking in a more tender tone than even the children 
e village had ever heard from him. 
* I mustn't leave you so long alone, little one." 
I was not alone, darling," (The spies started at the musical 
of the sweet, dreamy voice.) " Vou said God walked in the 
n in the cool of the day, but He is there in the noonday, too. 
Him among the flowers in the sunshine — He is always among 
owers and the sunshine, didn't you know ?— and He was so 
ful and strong and young. He took my hand, and said, * Come, 
"— (" Blasphemy ! " hissed Tomkins. •* P'raps 'tis in the 
pha,'* said Ephraim) — "and He led me all down the streeti 



222 



where I have never been, to the church where you were preachiin^^^^ 
But no one listened to you, for they were all tliinking of themselve^^g; 
'They do not worship Me,' God said» ' in the cold» dark church, CTVjf 
their hearts are filled with uncharityand their own vain-glor>%' O^j/- 
side the gate was a poor woman weeping. * Vet she is nearer Heav-en 
than they,* He said, * for she is sorry for her sin, and they think the/ 
have no sin.' Then he led me far away to a beautiful cathedra/, 
full of flowers and pictures and blended colours and mystic 
music. And I wished you were there, darling, to see it and make 
your church like that, till He said, * These are but idolaters ; though 
they think they worship Me, they fall down to Diana of Ephesus.' 
And we went to strange worlds which God had made ; and by the 
shore of the sea, which is His ; and among the winds, which speak 
His voice. And then we were in a great city, thick with fog and 
sorrow. The sound of it was as the sound of one great cry, and I 
saw (K)or women toiling, and children bearing bitter blows and 
hunger, and men turned to brute beasts in their misery and sin. * I 
hear their cry, though they know tt not, and I have coai passion,* 
God said, and He wept— and I wept, too, and was frightened, and 
asked Him to bring me home again. . . . And then I was in the 
garden, waiting for you.'* 

" Poor child ! " the vicar murmured. Then he bent over her pas- 
sionately, and wound his fingers all amongst her hair, " Nona, 
ray girl I " he said, and kissed her. 

The two spies turned away — they had seen enough. " \Vhat 
need we any further witness?" said Torakins. " His '^W — an' he'%-e 
a -been our parson this twenty year ! " 

*' Lord ha' mercy ! " groaned Ephraim. 












Chapter 111. 

THE parson's ghost. 

The " parson '' was sitting in his study. The dingy walls were 
lined ^with dingier books, piles of dusty papers covered the tabid 
and the woman's hand which had scattered flowers about the 
other rooms seemed absent here. An October sun shone dilutedly 
through the uncurtained windows, which opened to the ground, and 
dried leaves>wept in upon the bare floor. The dense shrubberies 
outside were glowing with gold and red» as they burned themselv^ 






h 




^hey Zay'' 



wti> dcay, and only the little study seemed sombre, colourless, and 
'ifibcautiful. The more, therefore, was the eye attracted to the one 
"^^ in the monotony of the walls, where hong a wooden crocifix, 
^ near it the picture of a woman's face. It was not a Madonna — 
"^'^Ogh it seemed to have sacredness in its owner's eyes— for the 
°^ghthair was not confined in nun-like draperies, nor was there any 
^«den sadness in the lustrous *eyes. Open on the table was a 
^ with a beautiful miniature of a^little child. These two faces 
'^presented the love and the sorrow of the vicar's life. 

He was evidently passing throughTa bitter struggle^ and the lines 
^'lich pain had marked upon his face were not hidden by his wonted 
^ial smile. He was looking now as his parishioners had never 
**ea him, or they might have spared the agony they inflicted. Two 
upers were lying open before him, the first of which ran thus : 

*'Sif, — Wc, the undersigned parishioners, beg that you will attend 
X meeting at the vestry, in order to settle some unpleasant business 
w/iicb has been lately brought to light in the parish. 

" Signed. ■ /* 

The second was a letter i 

*• Dear and Revemnd Sir,, — Excuse the liberty I take in writing 

you. Sir» as (Churchwarden, my duties is not always Pleasant. I 

tc thb (private and confidential) out of respect to Your Reverence, 

id to prepare you for the matter of the Vestry Meeting of which we 

Lve advised you. It is (though we pretends no Interference) with 

rcgaJ^d to a Young Person, not known to the Parish, who is residing 

your Household. With my respects and apologies, 

** Yours obediently, 
" Ephhaim Hoyle (Churchwarden)." 



*• It has come at last — I knew it must come," he groaned, *' O 
|Ood ! have I not borne enough, that I must go through this alsOj 
and the secrets of my heart be opened to their rude gaze ? . . . I 
wouJd have shielded you, little one. Perhaps I have been to blame 
in concealing it j but what was it to them ? " Then, with a groan, 
wrung from his inmost soul, he pushed the papers from him, and, 
kneeling down, he prayed. 

^Vhcn prayer is no mere formula it is something so mystic that 
ihe most sceptical must speak of it with reverence. It is strange 
tbaX nothing daunts the praying soul— nor science, nor reason, nor 
pni)^r unanswered, nor any other creature. The vicar had prayed 
in sorrow for half a lifetime with apparently no result ; yet be prayed 



1 



i 



224 The Gentleman s Magazine, 

still Twenty years ago he had in agony " besought the Lord 
tears " for the precious life of a young, loved wife, and it had b< 
denied him. Through twenty years he had supplicated for rea« 
for his child, but the Christ who healed the afflicted and the mai 
centuries ago, granted no touch of healing now. 

Yet still he believed in pra>^r, and still he prayed. 



Chapter IV. 

*' parson's " LAST SER&ffON. 

On the following morning the vicar was striding down the ga; 
path through mist and rain, and was quickly followed by N'o^ 
whose fond vigilance he could never evade. Her damp hair cl* 
about her shoulders, and her eyes looked wild as a chased gaze! 
as she clasped her " darling's "neck» and prayed him not to leave h 

"Not to-day, Darling, not to-day ! It is so sad and lonely ; a 
there is no sunshine, and God is not there to-day." 

" Only for a while, my childie. Spare ma to do my duty, t 
then I will come back and take you away ; you shall be ray li 
home-friend always, and I will not leave you any more." He 
her back to the house, as she still c!ung to him, sobbing hysterica 
" You leave me to go to those people who hate you " (" How d 
she know that? " he thought), "and they are all unkind to me ; 
trees and things all laugh at me. — Darling !" 

"Hannah !" called the vicar quietly to the waiting-woman, " 
care of your mistress, it is one of her bad days." 

Once more he left the vicarage, and turned towards the vilil 
and the farmers and other leading parishioners were all assembl 
the vestry by the time he reached it. He shook the rain froin 
heavy coat^ and entered for the ordeal *'Good-moming, gentlenn 
he said, to which there was a muttered response, followed by 
oppressive silence. The vestrymen, hitherto so self satisfied, 
ready to be condemnatorj', began to feel themselves in a distinct 
embarrassing position. Who was to cast the first stone? Nowihl 
the accused stood before them, not one felt hold enough to brin 
forward the accusation — and they were further disarmed by thegrai 
pained mien of their late revered pastor ; it was not that of 
culprit. 

At length Ephraim rose, and opened his mouth to speak, but ! 




''Zo They Zay^ 



^own again in confusion without uttering a syllable ('*If only ihe 
women was here, they'd speak faast enough/' thought Torakins), 
^^d finally the vicar himself relieved ihem of their embarrassment, 

** Gentlemen," he began (and there u-as not one present but 
^•^^Hed himself miles away), *^ nay, my friends, brothers, and beloved 
P^nshioners of twenty years* standing, I am deeply grieved to ftel 
mat I have not yet won your trust and confidence." (In spite of 
themselves, there were dissentient voices.) ''I have been deeply to 
**l4tnc " (cries of '• No» no "), *' both in concealing from you the facts 
I of tuy personal history* — which I imagined were of no concern to any 
L *^"t myself— and for my conduct prior to my coming among you." 
H ('^ Was strange that not even Tomkins thought, *'Now we shall hear 
" sooieihmg \ *' but each man felt himself to be more culpable than 
^ parson.) " I will try to alone for the first fault by making full 
^^fession to you now ; for the second, I, and another, do life- long 
P^*^ance." There was a painful pause ; then he continued, slowly 
*^ bravely, " When I came to you, I was not a single man, as I let 
IJ^U believe, but a widower I did not think I should ever have to 
"^^k of this— of her . . . and thought to heal my wound by con- 
ing it. I was a man broken down, lonely, bereft ; God forgive 
*^ if -my private sorrows have caused me to diisclurge imperfectly 
^y duty to you." (** Don't ye, sir/* was a smothered sob.) ** My sin 
this— that I, who had vowed myself to celibacy for a manifest 
•S^son, broke that vow, overcome by love for the loveliest of 
[▼otxien, and made her my wile. I had no right to risk bringing 
'tti&^ry to future generations— for members of my family, for 
generations past, had been afflicted with the terrible disease of 
insanity, and I swore before God I would not be responsible for 
Perpetuating it. I have chafed bitterly against this law of heredity ; 
*^<^I know it to be just ... I cannot even speak of the perfect 
^Ppiness of our home for two short years . . . then our little 
p" Was bom. . . . l*hank God, she did not live long enough to 
^^ her child would bu always hopelessly insane. ... I became 
/Our vicar, and gained some comfort by my work among you, and 
^^'^ unfailing kindness to me " (stifled moans). " Do not think my 
^^^% afflicted child was a burden to me ; my anxiety became also 
^ Comfort, for she has brought the blessing of a daughter's love to 
Home of a lonely man. , . , I shrank from exposing her to any 
^^ or unsympathetic gaze, and she has lived in such seclusion that 
^ ^ ircre not even aware of her existence." 

llere again he almost broke down, but braced himself for further 





I 

^M *' Now that I am speaking to you thus painfully, I will say w1 

^B in my cowardice I have often flinched frora putting before you. First. y^ 

H I warn > ou to beware of the slanderous tongue of gossip and scandal, 

V so often rampant in our midst, and so fruitful of evil within our little 

■ village. Gossip always perverts, and often entirely creates, the evil 

■ of which it prates. See to it, each one of you, that you set a watch 
I upon that * world of iniquity among your members,^ lest it be a 
f * restless evil, full of deadly poison.' And most, I earnestly pray 

you, in the name of my poor child, to jealously guard the fair name 
and fame of ^Voman. How can I speak to you of the sanctity of 

I womanhood ! Oh, be very tender towards those — wives, mothers, 
sisters — who are your own* JBi konourable to those who never can 
be yours. And sacredly shield a maiden's good name, her most 
priceless possession ; an idle word from you may take away what it 
will be too late ever to retrieve. I appeal to your honour as men ; 
I appeal to your conscience as Christians. 

** I ask God's forgiveness, and yours, for my sins and shortcomings 
towards Him and towards you. But if I should never speak to you 
again, let me deliver once more the message I have so often striven 
to teach, • Be ye followers of the Lord Jesus Christ,' " 

There was not a soul present at that moment but would have 
worshipped the very ground he trod on, yet there was not a sign nor 
a sound as the vicar passed among them and went his way. 

After a pause Ephraim rose unsteadily to his feet, and began to 
speak in a husky voice. "Gentlemen," he sard, "a nobler parson, 
nor a ignobler churchwarden, ye couldn't huv had. I that oughter 
hev opheld the honour of my raaaster was of the fust to spy on him, 
an' listen to wicked stories about 'n. Gentlemen " (his voice grew 
huskier, and he did not raise his eyes to the ** gentlemen " he was 
addressing), '* we must make what amends we can to him we've hit 
so cruel hard, but we caan't tak back the blow. Him that have lived 
pure an* holy an' ChristUke among us these twenty years ; him that 
have toiled for us early an' late \ him that have borne our burdens like 
as if 'iwas his own — an' hid his own great sorrer from us— him*s the 
one we've bin accusin'. . , . God bless him 1 , , * an' her, poor 
thing ! 

'* Gentlemen, liavin* discharged my stewardship so onfaithful, I 
here resign my post of churchwarden, an' may the next fill it better 
nor what I've done." 

•' You'd have thought to hev heerd 'n," said Tomkins afterwards. 



''Zo They Zay^ 



227 



^^'^g the proceedings to Abigail, " that he was foremost in spyin' 
^^ 'stead er bein' edged on to it by all of we." 

**Thur," said Abigail, "I'm afeard he ain't nothin' but a poor 
liUicompoop ; but then, he always wor." 

But even Tomkins had been impressed by the vicar's words. "I 

don't tak much account o' sarmons (havin' heerd so many) in a 

goitidl way," said he ; " but 'tis when they comes weekendays an' 

onexpected they sart o' touch ye up like. N'y sarmon iver I heerd 

wom't more to the pint nor what parson said 's mamin'." 

"Twas a turr'ble pity Squire worn't there," said Abigail ; "it might 
have done 'n a power of good" 



^i8 



The dnikfuans Magazine 




NAPOLEON? 



" T 'ETAT, c'est moi," the boast of the fourteenth Lot 
1 ^ more true, and, indeed* was wholly true, of hi* 
cessor, who by his talents alone trampled out the smc 
embers of the Revolution, and having gained imperial po 
wielded it as to reduce the nations of the Continent to abjc 
mission, and so impregnated the events of his age with his j 
character that, from his assumption of power lo his fall, the hi 
Napoleon is the history of the continent of Europe* and that 
is never so true or so deeply interesting as when his everyday 
his private correspondence are laid bare, and the secrets of hi 
macy, and his relations to the great soldiers and civilians by w 
was surrounded are unveiled. Even now, when two general 
men have passed away, the interest in the motives and action 
great Emperor is as keen as ever* and the receptacles of Stale 
diaries, and private correspondence are being forced to yield' 
treasures. It is but in these later times that the comments a 
respondence of Napoleon himself, and the memoirs of his mc 
Talleyrand, of Metternich^ of Maret, of Davout, Lannes, Mac 
Marbot, and Pion have seen the light, and still more recent! 
Vandal and TatistchefT have rewritten, and have shown th 
were justified in rewriting, the story of the period from 1 
Erfurt, and from thence to the very edge of the catastro 
Moscow. It is to the latter part of this period that the atter 
our readers is at present directed, inasmuch as heie are disck 
events, almost irresistible, that brought about the war with Pa 
1809, and the gradual alienation of Russia from the French'l 
Now, also, we learn how important a factor was the question of 
in the Franco-Russian quarrel, and the curious manner in v< 
was connected with what may be called the double and conte 
neous courtship of Napoleon. The outline of these events h 
been before the world, but the exact particulars, the indirect 

' NapQL'm et Akxamirr, Par Albert Vandal. Paru 



h_ 



Napoleon^ 



229 



^rici the actual steps taken between the several parties are here 
^t-st time disentangled and related, and invest the previous 
^dc^ ^itb the precision and colouring of a (inished picture. 

^^^ if the knowledge thus acquired depicts more clearly the 

maive\\oy^3 industry of Napoleon, his versatility, his broad and lofty 

mbiUon, it also displays the profound immorality of his public cha- 

tacler, S}^^ absence of truth and honesty in his peraonal and political 

transactions, and the intense selfishness of his thoughts and actions, 

^% indeed, of his alone. He continues to express his perfect confi- 

^^ce in Alexander while taking strict precautions against his pro- 

"^We breach of faith ; while, on the other hand, Alexander continues 

"^ fulsome adulation of Napoleon at a time when his distrust was at 

'^ height. Their discussions at Tilsit as to Turkey can only be com - 

^''^d to those of a band of brigands anticipating a robberj'; and later 

^^^ ^hen the partition was found to be im practicable, they lay it 

^*^C ian$ qu" tiles en soient prealabkment conrenues, ** He is a Greek 

^he lower empire/' said Napoleon of his friend, on whom he pro- 

^^^€d to rely ; and the opinion of Alexander, if less concisely 

^^pr^sed, was at least equally uncomplimentary : **He is," said he, 

* man to whom all means are good by which he can gain his ends, 

^^kX ^ith whom all, even to his passion, is calculated/' 

In mere diplomacy the friends were not unequally matched, but in 

^*nt of action the great soldier had the advantage. While proposing to 

share with Alexander the empire of the world, he regarded him as 

"^^ nieansby which he purposed to keep the Continent in subjection, 

^ <iestroy Austria, and to compel England to sue for peace; but these 

^ds gained, as he said to the Abb^ de Pradt, '* Russia alone will stand 

**Ween me and the mastership of the world, and her I shall crush." 

Nor was he without the means of so doing. He was the Chief of the 

Cc»n federation of the Rhine, and had possession of the Prussian 

'^^^toryand fortresses which, with the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, gave 

"i^n the command of the whole frontier of Russia in Europe, and the 

P^'*''erat any moment of thrusting a Polish rapier into her vitals. No 

"^^bt, hadSpainbeen conquered, Napoleon, with Austria a subservient 

"^y» would eventually have reduced Russia to, at least, a passive sub- 

"^^ion, and have been the unquestioned master of Europe from 

^^'2 to the Ural Mountains, and from the point of Italy to the shores 

° tJie Baltic. Dis alittr visum. In Spain were fostered the hopes 

^* encouraged Austria to open war and Germany to arm her secret 

?^^ties until, at the last, reduced more by the snows than the arms 

P ■'^Ussia, the banded nations of Europe shook the colossus to his 



I 



230 The Gentleman's Magazine. 

At this time the key to the cotiduct of Napoleon > 
in the course of events in Spain. After Baylen he v 
with affection for Alexander, and anxious to meet and embrace la^ 
*• As to making Silesia the price of the Principalities, he had noiao 
thought seriously of it than of the resuscitation of Poland. Alexand 
had only to name his wishes, and they should be gratified,*" H 
fact was that the alliance which at Tilsit ministered to his ambitic 
at Erfurt had become necessary to his safety. To it he trusted 
force the disarmament of Austria, and to keep down Prussia and t 
discontented in Germany. With Russia to protect his rear, be s 
his way to a war of extermination in the Peninsula, ** Spain was 
be regenerated— saved from the greedy grasp of England" 
instructive comment upon the Napoleonic maxim, " Ce que la po 
conseille, la justice Tautorise." 

To that large section of mankind who are unable to look 

the surface, Napoleon never appeared so secure and so irresistibU 

when, desirous to display to Europe his close union with Russia, 

held at Erfurt a Court of Kings and Sovereign Princes, where e 

the chiefs of German literature, Goethe and VVieland, bowed be 

him^ and accepted from him marks of honour. Europe might ^ 

indeed, be dazzled and alarmed The thrones of Spain, Naj 

Holland, the new kingdom of Westphalia were occupied bymem^ 

of his family. Bavaria, Saxony, and Wiirtemberg were erected 

kingdoms by his grace. Under his presidency the Confederatioi 

the Rhine had taken the place of the Holy Roman Empire. Oc 

word it depended whether Prussia should exist as a memory oi 

and he had but to give the signal and the whole chivalry of Pol 

would have rallied round the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, and fo: 

the partitioners of their rifled kingdom to disgorge the spoil. Ru 

so far, was his obsequious ally 5 Austria, silently preparing for 

was, nevertheless, forced for the time to obey the conquero 

Austeilitz, and to exclude the much-needed commerce of Eng 

from her ports. "Thrones, dominations, princedoms, viij 

powers " bowed before his sway^ and from Archangel to Lisbon, 1 

Lisbon to Trieste, every port was closed against the mistress of 

seas. "I will no longer," said Napoleon in 1807 to a cird' 

diplomatists, *' tolerate an English ambassador in Europe; I 

declare war against any Sovereign who receives one at his Court 

But the serenity was of the surface only. The surrendc 

Baylen and the victory of Vimiero had shown that, at least in 

Peninsula, the eagles did not always hold their pride of p 

Wellesley, with prescient eye, had already foreseen that the fat 






^ 
¥ 



Europe would be decided in the fields of Spain : Talleyrand, from 
within ihe edifice, had betrayed its weaknesses to both Russia and 
Austiia ; and the Czar, awaking from the dream of Tilsit, was aware 
of the dangerous vortex upon which he was almost commanded to 
embark. The canker was already in the bud, the axe was already 
forged and sharpened that was to be laid to the foot of the Imperial 
tree ; but in the meantime were to intervene two years of a most 
Singled and intricate diplomacy, another occopaiion of \'ienna, 
though accompanied by one, at least, very doubtful victor)% a dis- 
^Irous war in Spain, and finally at its close that marvellous invasion, 
ttceeding in magnitude anything recorded in history, in which the 
flightiest force of man contended with the powers of nature, and 
'ctired crushed and mangled from the contest. 

At Erftirt, as at Tilsit, when the Imperial autocrats met to con- 
spire against the liberties of Europe and the independence of the 
"^tirkish Empire, England alone was their stone of stumbling — 
^ngland alone barred their way to universal empire, and her destruc- 
^on was the seal of their unholy compact. **When I have taken 
^cre," said Napoleon, even then a prey to the infirmity of minds 
'loblcr far, though less aspiring, than his own, "when I have taken 
^^, I shall find there much treasure and arms for 300,000 men ; 
'*Hall raise all S}Tia in arms, march upon Damascus or Aleppo, 
P'^laim the abolition of slaver}% and put an end to the tyranny of 
^^ Pachas. All the discontented will join me. I shall take Con- 
^*^tinople, found a new empire in the East, find my place in history* 
'^^j probably returning to Paris by Adrianople, crush the house of 
^*^stria by the way." His hatred of England was no doubt sincere, 
**^^ not without cause ; that of Alexander was probably simulated 
*^ please his associate, for the material interests of his kingdom at 
**^^t time largely depended upon the commerce of England, and the 
^^^nch alliance exposed the loyalty af his subjects to a severe and 
*^^Uigerous trial 

Wore reaching Paris from Erfurt, Napoleon had made his 
S^oeral arrangements for the campaign which he knew to be im- 
I*^^ding, but which it was still in the power of Alexander to prevent. 
^^ Alexander was no longer the young enthusiast for military glor>'. 
"^had broken off with the fair and frail Narishkin, and had not as 
^ Come under the spiritual dominion of Madame de Krudener, 
^* present mentor was Speranski, by whose aid he proposed to 
L^^'^h and civilise the material rough-hewn by Peter the Great and 
]~*^herine. In Napoleon he feared the astute soldier and diplomatist. 
*^' be still admired the lawgiver and administrator, the restorer 



h 




232 Tlie Gentleman s Magazine, 

order, the patron of the arts and sciences, whose example in these 
respects he proposed for his imitation. His military ambition was 
confined to the conquest of Finland, the rectification of his European 
frontier, and the maintenance of the standpoint he had acquired in 
Turkey. A war with Austria was supremely distasteful to him. He 
had, moreover, recently received with imperial magnificence the 
Sovereigns of Prussia, and had fallen to some extent under the 
influence of Queen Louisa, whose charms, though slightly on the 
wane, were enhanced by a toilette the graces of which the historian 
has condescended to notice, though its effect upon the Russian 
Court was somewhat counterbalanced by the personal appearance 
and unpolished manners of her husband. ^ 

Napoleon soon became aware that, though the appearance ofwl 
alliance must be preserved, his success in the coming struggle must 
depend U|X>n his own efforts. Though much displeased with the 
refusal of Alexander to join in minatory language to Austtjir 
Napoleon was careful to conceal this, and to proclaim on all occa^f 
their absolute accord In his correspondence with his brothers, Wt 
the German Princes, and even with his Ministers, he refers to Russia 
as with him in all respects. ** We never !iave pulled so closely 
together. Alexander is as indignant as I am at the condut 
Austria." His violent diatribes were issued in their joint ns 
and he thus extended the suspension of arms with Turkey, not 
without consulting Alexander, but at a time when in the opinion of 
Sebastiani, his Ambassador at the Porte, Russia was in a position to 
threaten even Constantinople. Also, on leaving Paris for Spain, be 
was careful to assure Alexander that he trusted to him to prevent 
any outbreak on the part of Austria, or any inconvenient manifesu- 
tion in Germany. Not the less did Alexander determine not to be 
dragged into an aggressive, nor indeed into any, war. Behind a 
cloud of fair speeches to Caulaincourt, and expressions of confidence 
in and aflTection for Napoleon, he remained immovable, and when 
Schwartzenberg anived from Vienna at his Court, the moderation of 
his language was such that it rather encouraged Austria to act, as 
savouring of neutrality. 

But however slight may have been Napoleon s hope of active aK3 
from Russia, the nominal alliance at least secured him from attack: 
from that quarter, and this, at that juncture, was of immense iiP 
Dortance ^\^ith Spain insurgent, France cravmg for peace, Germar* 
honeycombed with secret societies, had Russia united with Austri 
Prussia would certainly have risen, such aid as England could affoT 
would not have been withheld, and the consequences might 



it onlf 





Napoleon. 



fatal But AJexander, though alarmed and distrustful, was not 
ired for so decisive a step, nor so flagrant and open a breach of 
, The course he took, though nearly allied to neutrality^ was 
jch as in the event of the fall of Austria would give him a claim 
share of the plunder, and that share was Galicia. 
>n reaching Paris from Erfurt Napoleon's attention was first 
tied to Spain. It was necessary for the maintenance of his 
tation, and before he could deal with Austria, that he should 
t a decisive blow, put down the insurrection, at least for a time, 
liis brother at Madrid, and by force of numbers drive the English 
•of Portugal. He at once withdrew from Germany his tried 
«rs of the army of the Rhine, replacing them from the newly- 
Sd levies. The veterans traversed France by various routes, and 
towns through which they passed were ordered to welcome ihera 
\ as much display as possible. From Bayonne they crossed tho 
Cnees in eight divisions, led by as many famous generals, and 
ttnanded by Napoleon in persort To pave the way for the 
Klition proclamation was made of the abolition of all local 
|troi,"or Customs duties, of feudal rights, and of the Inquisition, 
about two-thirds of the convents were suppressed ; and yet so 
Use was the feeling of the nation that even these deservedly hated 
llutions became almost popular because put an end to by Napoleon. 
6 Spaniards made a gallant but ill-organised resistance, and were 
ten at Tudela and elsewhere ; Joseph, after an attempt to escape 
flangerous an honour, was enthroned at Madrid, and the English 
er Moore had to retire, and, after a brilliant defence, to embark at 

bna. This, which it has been suggested by a French historian 
not suit Napoleon to witness, he left to Souk and Ney^ and 
Rcned back to Paris, where he arrived late in January i S09, after 
absence of nearly two months, and whence he directed Champagny 
'iwiblish a number of falsehoods as to his having destroyed 80,000 
•iviards, and of an invasion of Sicily by Murat, as he said, to 
ipose upon and alarm the English. 

I Napoleon reached Paris in violent ill-humour, which he vented 
P^n Talleyrand, less prudent than usual, and Fouche, who had 
"'^td to speculate upon his probable death in Spain, and upon 
^*^*^QC dc Chevreuse, whom he exiled from Paris. He accused 
*^^«yrand, with coarse violence, of speaking in disapproval of the 
1^ of the Due d'Engbien and of the occupation of Spain, after 
'*^g advised both— a charge which the late revelations show to 
'^^Ij^ennot unfounded, though Napoleon was incited to the act 
^ °^* Own fears of assassination. Talleyrand received the storm 
^^^ ccuxvij. NO. 1965. R 



I 



234 Tlie Gentleman s Magasijie, 

with his usual impassive calm, but he retaliated wiin 1 merest by bis 
advice to Mettemich and Roumiantzof, who was in Paris upon the 
special business of the letter to England This letter, signed by 
both Sovereigns, had been addressed to the King of England, from a 
notion that the double signature would elicit a direct answer. An 
answer caine, but, as oti a former occasion, it was addressed by the 
Foreign Secretary to the French Foreign Minister, It was calculated 
that the English Ministry, wishing to continue the struggle, would be 
afraid to avow it, and would take shelter in an evasive reply. The 
reply, however, was both prompt and direct. It declined any 
negotiation that did not include all the allies of England, even the 
Spanish insurgents. Prince Kourakin, the regular Ambassador from 
Russia, was a vain, pompous man, chosen for his rank and wealth, 
and much laughed at by the Parisians, and of no account ia 
diplomacy, Roumiantzof, Alexander's chief Minister, though a 
warm supporter of the French alliance, was never negligent of 
Russian interests. He admired Napoleon, but was alarmed by hi* 
impetuosity and sudden changes of front. He gave his admiration,, 
but withheld his confidence, so that on some occasion Napoleon' 
remarked : *' Notre alliance finira par etre honteuse ; vous ne voulcf 
rien, ct vous vous m^fiez de moi." It was true* Mettemich, then 
representing Austria, was also at Paris, endeavouring, though witli 
little success, to persuade Napoleon that Austria, though she had 
not recognised the new Kings of Spain and Naples, was pacific 
He was a statesman of the highest class, a keen observ^er, far-seeing, 
well bred, not over scrupulous, drawing conclusions which the 
results show to have been well founded, and who could stand un- 
moved the rudeness of Napoleon, at that time frequently shown 
at his expense. It was true, and is the one fragment of truth in 
a vast mass of correspondence, that neither party wished for war. 
Austria did not undervalue the fearful danger she incurred from 
the great military skill of Napoleon, or the large forces that he 
held cantoned in North Germany. Her choice, however, lay 
between two evils, and she was unwilling, by the disbanding 
of her troops, to leave herself at the mercy of an unscrupulous 
foe \ while Napoleon had many cogent reasons for avoiding, or 
least postponing, the contest. But Austria could 00 longer afford \v^. 
nourish her army in her own country, and the finances of Napol 
as is now well known, were at that time in a very depressed 
ditton, and neither could he support his vast accession of force 
his own territories. Reasons of finance, therefore, even were 
no others, made war a necessity, and for it both parties had 
mm^ time been prepared. 



Napoleon, 235 

ipoleon calculated on 400,000 men as sufficient for the cam- 
He had raised the annual conscription from 80,000 to 
>o, and had given this a retrospective action over four years, so 
py bringing up the arrears thus invented from the past, and 
^ting the demand on a future year, he commanded an 
ise accession to the rank and file of his army, while from St, 
jx Fltrche, the Polytechnic, and the various military colleges 
;hout France, he drew a large number of youths, mostly the 
f returned anigrh and Royalists, more or less qualified to act 
pers. To those who remonstrated against the cruelty of such a 
is answer was, " Tel est mon bon plaisir." This arbitrary and 
Btive draft excited great discontent and alarm. The funds, 
Y low, fell considerably, and a few outbreaks in the west had 
\ put down by force. The Guard and the cavalry, under 
►res and Lefebvre, had already been despatched from Valladolid, 
be victory of Tudela and the surrender of Saragoza soon 
prds placed Lannes at the disposal of Napoleon, Davout, 
dotte, and Oudinot were already in Germany, Massena, at 
Of^ was engaged in the organisation of the central division of 
my ; and thither also was sent Berthier, with instructions for 
poocentration of the several divisions upon Ratisbon or 
Bwonh, according to circumstances, in the fulfilment of which 
owed that a first-rate chief of the staff is not necessarily a 
ttcnt general. Prince Eugene had the command in the north 
ly, a post for which he proved unfit ; but he was loyal to his 
icior, wasone of the family, and in this Napoleon only followed 
lample of legitimate monarchs, 

be Austrian preparations were on a similar scale. The Arch- 
\ John and Ferdinand were placed with 50,000 and 40,000 men 
Jrth Italy and Galicia, and the Archduke Charles, a really great 
■al, witli 200,000, on the Inn and Isar, forming the main and 
id body of the army. These were regulars. There was also a 
fre of 200,000 drawn from the Militia, 

iapoleon, anxious to make the most of the alliance, attempted 
id Alexander so to commit himself as to be unable to withdraw 
pofticipation in the war. He proposed a double guarantee for 
ht^rity of the Austrian dominions providing Austria should 
Dt To this Alexander agreed, but the proposal came too late, 
anti-French party, including a number of Russian nobles resident 
ienna, was supported by the popular cry, so that the more 
cnt opinions of the Archduke Charles and of the Emperor 
elf were borne down, and the guarantee, which indeed could 

R 2 



236 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 




scarcely have been relied upon, was refused. It was 
popularity of the war that led the Archduke, at a soi 
period, to issue a rather revolutionary proclamation, 
support, in the cause of liberty, of the Itah'ans, the Pol 
people of Germany, then for the first time recognised 1 
Such an appeal from Austria was not likely to be prodi 
a final effort, Napoleon proposed a joint note by the two 
calling upon Francis to disarm, with the threat that if refi 
matic relations should be broken off. This was d« 
Alexander, on the ground that the threat would wound t 
tibilities of Austria and rather tend to precipitate than ti 
action. The position of Alexander was critical. He si 
destruction of Austria, avowedly contemplated by Napoli 
give him a French province for his neighbour, and proba 
the restoration of Poland; while by supporting Napoleol 
either mitigate his severity or, at the worst, lay claim \ 
Caulaincourt, himself a man of honour, still continued to { 
his Imperial friend \ Napoleon judged him less favourably, 
insisting upon a Russian force on the frontier of GalicI^ 
trusted to Poniatowski and the Polish contingent to CI 
province or to give employment to the Austrian division, ' 
justified his foresight, for though Alexander compliet 
demand he made various excuses for delay, and iinall 
command of the force to Prince Galitzyn, a veteran who 
notions were of the school of the Seven Years' War, and 1 
so slowly that the Poles overran the province and had od 
been driven out of Warsaw before the Russians took the ! 
encouragement of the Poles, a sore subject with Alexi 
repeatedly denied by Napoleon, who asserted that he 
thought of exciting them to rise ; whereas there remains a 
Berth ier to Poniatowski, May 9, 1809, in which he writes' 
rinsurrection de la Galicie, cela foumira des bataillons ut 
wonder, therefore, that the Poles and Russians nearly cam 
for the possession of Cracow. Their success led the Pold 
the resurrection of their kingdom, to which the revival c 
orders of knighthood by the King of Saxony probably coa 
Both Napoleon and the Archduke were out in their calo 
to each other's movements, the latter very seriously so. The 
assumed that Napoleon would not be ready before 
Napoleon expected the attack towards the end of April.] 
nf fact the Austrians crossed the Inn on April to, an 
reached Paris on the 12 th. Napoleon left on the followi 




Napoleon, 



iched Donauworlh on the 17th. Never were his mUilary 
displayed to greater advantage, By the misapprehension of 
r the French divisions were widely separated. Davout was at 
in» Mass^na and Oudinot at Augsburg, and at a point between 
ere the troops of Bavaria and Wiirtemberg, The Archduke 
;d, before the arrival of Napoleon, to advance between the 
divisions, and to attack the German troops, thus isolated. 
on at once grasped the circumstances. He withdrew Davout 
Atisbon, adding to the order, with his own hand, "Activity, 

Je me recomraande i vous." Massena and Oudinot he 
;d from Augsburg, and himself led the German troops in the 
, thus, by his more rapid movements, turning the Archduke's 
;ainst himself. The result was entirely successful- The 
US fought well, but were out-generalled. The French won 
:les of Thann and Abensberg, and at Eckmiihl Davout gained 
id a title worthy to be associated with that of Auerstadt. 
ut was captured, and with it the Austrian magazines, 
n was taken by assault, and the Archduke, driven across the 
\y left the way open to the capital. It was before Ratisbon 
ipoleon was struck on the foot by a spent ball, and that 
, seeing the soldiers hesitate at the assault, seizing a ladder, 
It that, *' Though a Marshal of France, he had not forgotten 
bad been and still was a grenadier.''^ It was on the way 
alisbon to Vienna, during a halt at Molk, on the Danube, 
;curred the gallant deed related naost graphically, though 
ly^ by Marbot, its hero. It was important to the Emperor to 
'hat force held the opposite bank ; but the night was stormy, 
: broad and rapid river covered with trunks of trees and other 

matter. Marbot, though warned by the Emperor of the 
; danger of the passage, crossed in a boat with a sergeant and 
i, as yet undecorated, reached the opposite bank, and under 
)f the night captured and brought back in safety three 
rs. It is gratifying to learn that Napoleon, highly pleased, 
ed the soldiers, gave money and liberty to the prisoners, and 
id the boatmen, who had been pressed on pain of death, with 
the sum offered to them. 

irfts at Ratbbon, after leading the assault, that Marbot and his party, 
cir way in the crooked lanes of the place^ were guided by a French 
published there, to whom they behaved with a gallantr}' creditable even 
bmen. Here also it was that a young Parisian dandy, Lannes's youngest 
aoap, fioding hts flowing pantaloons rather in the way in war, cut them 
ll tus sabre, and, to the great amusement of Lannes and the soldlera, 
sledged, though not exactly in the plight of Witherington. 



j^ptlcgged, th 







bftbe 

oC the 

* •"^t of 100,000 men 
SSiooo lad 
loidieFiciid 

Phwsed under 

^"di a dense mass of 1 

«it as they advanced. 

«nd sent Marfaoc, _ 

*I mrder hun la charge Jkome 

de chiller i jftmd'y Marbot, feeling the nn 

ovder, tried, bat in Tiin, to ddi:ver it in private. ^«-«, 

foricTOSL **ls it thus, sir, yoa speak to a Marshal of France 

have yon punished for this impefttnence." The charge 

^ww repeated with no lack of vigour. "You see,'* said 

** that my wessagc took eHect." In the evening BessiL^ 

Lannes had a violent altercation. Lannes quoted the Empi 

order. •♦ Yes,** said Bcssieres, " the Emperor informed me that I 

to obey your advice." " Advice, sir," retorted Lannes, '* do you 

know that in military matters orders, not advice, are given ?l| 

challenge passed, and the quarrel was about to be settled on theif 



^^ Mass^na, their senior, scandalised at the idea of two Marshals 

**^ting in the presence of the enemy, interfered and separated them* 

^ Etnperor took part with I^nnes, and Bessitfres submitted so far 

to ask Lannes where he wished the cavalry to be placed. The 

swcr showed a great want of taste and temper. " I order you to 

^ce them in such and such a place, and there to await my orders/' 

e two had been sworn enemies from the lime when Lannes and 

^urat were rivals for the hand of Caroline Bonaparte, when Bessi^res 

bad befriended Murat The marshals were brave soldiers, but most 

of them were men of violent and unrestrained tempers, and, like 

their great master, apt to use very coarse language. 

The batde ended with the day, but had the Archduke persevered 
u might have gone hard with the French, so great was his pre- 
ponderance of numbers and artillery; but during the night reinforce- 
ments were passed over, and long before dawn, when the fight was 
Tesumed, the numbers and the artillery were nearly equal. The 
second day, like the first, was bloody in the extreme. The villages 
of Aspem and Essling, though held, were held with fearful loss. 
Soon after daybreak the Austrian centre was again attacked ; this 
time by Lannes, who broke the line and penetrated as far as the 
enemy's headquarters, which were defended by the Archduke in 
person, a standard in his hand. At the critical momentj in mid 
oreer, Lannes was seen to halt and retreat, to the great relief of the 
«ncmy and to the astonishment of all The bridge, which had once 
«T twice been broken and hastily repaired, had finally given way, 
ind Davout and the remainder of the army, with the ammunition, 
^erc left powerless on the right bank. The Austrians, aware of what 
M happened, redoubled their efTorts. The French fought with the 
fcry of despair Aspern and Essling were four times and eight 
tinics lost and won ; the French wounded, cut off from medical aid, 
^untended where they fell; Lannes, not merely a brave soldier^ 
^t what was far more rare in that cluster of warriors, a fair general, 
"K old and tried comrade of Napoleon, fell mortally wounded, the 
^ of Napoleon's marshals who had so fallen. Massena, short of 
*"»munition, covered the retreat with the bayonet, without the loss 
°^a single gun. To him was committed the charge of the island. 

The killed and wounded at the battle were said to have reached 
50,000 men. The experience of Austerlitz was not lost upon 
■^^stria, and the French had never been so stiffly opposed or sus- 
**i«ed so severe a loss. Essling was claimed by both parties as a 
^ory, and was certainly in some respects, like Eylau, a drawn 
^t. The retreat of the French, and the delay that followed, 




^^ce r«r G^nilefmaHS Magazine. 

^iMKraJ V rjrcei rr :<£sse!i the " prestige " of the Great Captoin, ai 
rV aJ'^r;: .*c :.*ii rnije was against him as an engineer. It is w 
incw-i i"^^: r"iv: c:sK»r was :he work of an Austrian officer, « 
:rvMt i .x-i; J T^^r:^c iT-i; leiTier doating masses into the channd,s 
Ti?a,*v o," icr-.- X arj« l-am^-ciul, which carried everything befoi 
".>>: ^o:: . c * jc jsc;-i rr\? di>-s. and two more were spent ie 
:ttv»%-;T^ r.^- vcc -xioi nc duerosir.g of the dead. The heavy 
.irtc *.s vv^ >-.r ,rvc xi u^brLviged river, forced Napoleon to ps 
.icKt :n: ;.*v: ^i-'* -,*w c jl: ."Cvt? renew the contest. 

*A>..*: N^.x*is.vi" xwairsd nsiziforcements from France, an( 

A;«tf^ .s V^^C X* — ."cr luly. r.e busied himself with immense tb 

*:c**v •JV'.'. :i. orr* vc jl ^cccd passage of the river. He com 

. v: aijiv ,-» '. .*c.i« .r:." in icspregnable fortress capable of 

:.i .t.it^;, . >c ^ Xlc i-:rv. which might possibly have been att 

•ooi 1 :v^ * ,•$ r.i- Vhe execution of the works was comi 

v.» Vi,fe<sv''.i. .*^: Ni^VLijcr. yliar.ed and directed. As he said 

>v»i ^-^ " ', v.. * •' ; r- rsc r.*::: i Ji guerte que je ne puisse &i 

•«^N :»^v'a^: IV^^Vv"". ^v:r:>cjLrrixges» cannon, he knew how to 

•iu-t'jtv. :v v.-v. ^.* cxs: : he knew also how to construct a 1 

AZKi >.a^ x*tv>:ii>; "^^vi Arrached to the army a corps of 1,500 ! 

W 'WW >£x-^^. or ra:h«fr br.vip?*. for there were three laid p 

icsivv. j^vi! •■. cs ^;rvr^ irojch to resist any floating masse 

j^i ^s: ;h>:nx. As an additional securit] 

Tv^..^- aS:vx: :h<£ bridge the great iron chain, 

' ^ " >a/. ?«:• used at the siege of Viei 

*v:< -MS vv:r: *c:ed by the 20th of Jur 

;- .u o"cc rrc-^h: into the island, and p 

^ :vaoc :cr a nur»iber of doating brid 

>;:va*.:* tv.i^ht bo crossed at once I 

nuittbv" o: ■.:;.^\.\>. ;'>.c yr;:yara::ons were concealed by the 

aikI ^».KvU\l v>a-.ic;cc ot :hc ground, and the enemy, thus 

as to :ho y^wc ot crossing, :hn?w up works which 

useless* a:xl :':^c rassa^c was erected at a point when< 

could be turv.ed. <:\ ^ccks were thus emplo>-ed, during wl 

Arv-hdukc Jchp., susxesstul a-a.nst Eugene, but recalled 

3^id of the main army, retired u-jon Comom and Raab, folic 

jhe Italian army, which there gained a victory, and afterward 

j^tgipoleon to assist in the renewed attack. 

By the 4th of July, all being ready, the passage was 
jur>'^^ * fearful storm of thunder, lightning, and rain, but l 
j,y a c^^^ bright day. The troops passed under cover of 
^jnonade, and tt.e French attacked at daybreak on the [ 



wv.^.. 


N: >; 


■.*». 


«h.tN \l 


.u . 


.*» 


•.;i -.V 


a->v= 


a 


:bo I 


■> : S.V 




;Nc*>-.\c ,v 




;ioi».i 


^V"V 


^ 


ib.t; 


;hc ■ 


\r. 




Napo 




,000 tnen, speedily increased to 180,000, with 550 guns, to 
aeet 140,000 men and 400 guns. The battle took place on the 
Aain of the Marchfield, in front of the \illage of VVagram, Davout 
Bed the right, Mass^na the left, but, disabled by a fall from his 
horse, he sat in an open carnage in the midst of the fight. Oudi- 
not and Bernadotte led the centre, Marmont, with the cavalry, 
foTmed the reserve. The battle lasted till the evening, and was 
renewed on the following morning, Davout still on the rightj 
Massena and Bernadotte on the left, and Cud i not and Marmont 
in the centre. The Guard and heavy cavalry were now in the rear. 
The Austrian aim was to turn the French right, and intervene 
between it and the Danube, and the weight of their attack fell upon 
Davout, whose position was surrounded. *' Tell him to hold firm/' 
tasihe Emperor's message,, '* and the battle is won." Macdonald, who 
liidiong lain under the Emperor's displeasure, so distinguished him- 
*elfthat he received the rank of Marshal on the field of battle. This 
*is also a tacit acknowledgment that he had saved Eugbne in Italy. 
"Sire," said he to the Emperor, " henceforward I am with you for life 
*nd death." Bernadotte, dissatisfied with the share of praise allotted 
'0 the Saxons, addressed them in a gazette of his own, which gave 
gteai offence and caused his departure from the army. 

Such was the battle of Wagram, one of the most severely contested 
.|f the French battles, in which they lost 27,000 and the Austrians 
'>S»<>OQ killed and wounded. The Austrians retired in good order, 
prelected by their artillery. Fortunately for them Bessiferes and 
Ussalle, being wounded, were not in command of the cavalr>'. They 
finally reached Znain, when an armistice was signed, even Napoleon 
fttnarking that " enough blood had been shed," Negotiations for a 
peace followed. Aostda was well aware of the intense jealousy of 
Russia on the subject of Poland, and anxious to lead Napoleon to 
•41 a part of Galicia to the Grand Duchy of W arsaw, and so raise 
™5card between the ill-yoked allies. But Napoleon was as superior 
to his adversaries in the cabinet as in the field. He proposed that 
P*n of Bohemia should be given to Saxony ; but to escape from so 
'oconvenient an arrangement, the proposal for the annexation of a 
i**^ of Galicia to Warsaw was arranged to come from Austria, and 
^ only assented to by Napoleon. At one time Napoleon had con- 
Jcmplated forcing the resignation of Francis, and the division of his 
cnjpire into the kingdoms of Austria, Bohemia, and Hungary; but 
^^ battle of Talavera, and the knowledge that the failure of the 
**peditloti on the Scheldt was due rather to the bad generalship of 
^^ English than to ability of the defence, disposed hira to modera- 



alida he had allotted a million and a half to the Grand Duchy, 
rid half a million only to Russia, or as Napoleon described it to a 
ussian officer, " Lemberg avec encore quelque chose," He remarked 
iViat things might have been better had Roumaintzof been present, 
but that he had done the best he could for Alexander's interests, 
though he could not neglect the claims of those who had served him 
welL The blow was severe, and the dissatisfaction ivas not confined 
to the Czar, but was loudly expressed by all classes in his capital. 
Napoleon, whose policy, always tortuous, now led him to conciliate 
R>iissia and so give to discontented France a prospect of a lasting peace, 
difeaed Caulaincourt, with the aid of Roumaintzof, to prepare a con- 
vention such as might satisfy /Vlexander with rej^ard to Poland. Alex- 
aj^dercertainly had not reaped much benefit from the alliance. I^nland, 
Ulten from a kinsman, though a considerable, was scarcely a credit- 
J^hle gain ; the semi- Polish territory on his frontier had been largely 
'^tigroented ; the Silesian fortresses and the great commercial cities 
<*f Hamburg and Dantzic were in the hands of the French ; the 
lucrative commerce with England w^as suspended ; and Napoleon 
^^ actually, in secret, suggesting to Austria to oppose the acquisition 
^ Russia of the Danubian Provinces, The government of Russia 
^^ been defined as *• a despotism tempered by sa/a/ts." The en- 
couragement recently given to the Poles had raised in the sa/i?Hs a 
feeling verging on madness. Their loyalty, as Alexander was well 
'*are, had been in his father's time strained, for a less matter, to 
t'^e breaking point. To ease this strain was important, and when 
Napoleon, who, at any rate till Spain was disposed of, did not wish 
*^ quarrel with Russia, proposed the anti- Polish Convention, it was 
^^ once gladly accepted. It provided that the kingdom of Poland 
'would never be re-established ; that the words '* Poland " and 
Polish" should not appear in public or private documents, and 
^^^t the old Polish Orders should be suppressed. The Convention, 
"^tended by Napoleon to take the unofficial form of a letter, 
'^l^^tander, taught by the past, insisted should be recorded as a 
■^S^ar treaty. 

, And now a new element was to be introduced into the negotia- 

*^^s, already sufficiently complex. Napoleon, on his return from 

*^nna, held at Fontainebleau a Court of Kings and Princes, his 

^llitK, who came, with hatred in their hearts, to congratulate him 

his victories over their brother Germans. Here also he received 

brother Louis, who had incurred his severe displeasure by his 

Y^*^^^tory policy in Holland, and by his very moderate attempts 

^ Suppress the contraband trade with England. But the one subject 



i 




(2. 



244 ^^ Gentleman s Magazine. 

which, at that time, eclipsed all others in his mind was the considerati 
of his marriage, and of the divorce which must precede it. Josephi 
a kind*hearted, though frivolous woman, had always been regar< 
with jealousy by the Imperial family, and especially by the si&' 
and Murat ; and Corvisart — who, scandal said, had declined to as 
in the substitution of a child— had recently given an opinion l 
there was not the slightest hope that Josephine could have issi 
The idea of a divorce was not a new one, (ieneral Bonaparte h 
threatened it, for domestic reasons, on his return from Egypt. ] 
1^05, when the marriage of Eugene with a Bavarian princess w 
on the "tapis," the Austrian Minister Had hinted that Napolc^ 
himself might seek alliance with one of the old dynasties, ai 
Josephine became aware that a divorce was possible. In 1808 tl 
subject was revived by Fouche, who actually suggested it to t 
Empress, probably without instructions from Napoleon, but with t 
certainty that the step would be only nominally censured ( 
Napoleon*s arrival from Vienna it was taken up in earnest, a 
being decided upon, was accepted by Eugene and Hortense as 
cvitable, and so pressed upon their mother. At a family coun 
held December 15, 1809, Josephine gave a most heart*brol 
assent, and on the following day a decree of the Senate settled ! 
future position and income. The civil marriage was thus ea 
disposed of, but the religious ceremony had been solemnised 
Cardinal Fesch, under a general dispensation by the Pope, and 1 
not so easily to be set aside. The Pope was a prisoner, and it i 
not to be supposed that he would grant to Napoleon what, sc 
years before, he had refused, on principle, to his brother J^ro 
With a Russian bride the difficulty would not have arisen, 
Napoleon, beginning to anticipate difficulties of another chara 
in that quarter, felt it necessary to clear the way for an alliance ^ 
Austria, for which an ecclesiastical divorce was a necessary \ 
liminary. Finally, on a declaration by Napoleon that he had n< 
really consented to the marriage — that is to say, had deceived 
Pope, the Cardinal, and Josephine— a commission of seven obsequi( 
prelates pronounced the marriage void ; z proceeding contrary to ( 
practice of the Church of Rome, but accepted without scruple 
the Imperial brother and father of the possible brides. Neithern 
the proposal for the new marriage delayed till the divorce was pi 
nounced. 

At Tilsit a marriage had been talked of between Jerome Bonapa 
and the Princess Catherine of Russia ; and at Erfurt Talleyrand I 
C^ulaincourt, under the direction of Napoleon, had mentioned 




Napoleon. 



245 



Alexander the idea of a marriage between Napoleon and his younger 

Sister. Alexander, then under the influence of Napoleon, himself 

wrought the subject forward, and expressed his cordial approval, but 

added that his mother had the disposal of her daughters. Napoleon 

^i<i not fully commit himself, but he considered that there existed 

*Viat he called *'un engatjement de tacite honn^tete." He now, 

November 22, directed Caulaincourt to revive the subject, to announce 

the forward state of the divorce, and to ascertain whether Alexander's 

consent to the marriage could be counted upon. Also he was to 

'Sport upon the personal and physical qualities of the Princess Anne 

so far as he could ascertain them* In theraeaniime Napoleon over- 

P**''»ered Prince Kourakin with attentions ; offered to assist the Czar 

^^li French shipbuilders, and to promote the issue of a Russian loan. 

y^ the rejoicings for the Peace he spoke publicly of how his great 

^^nd and ally had added Finland, Moldavia, and Wallachia to his 

^^te^ropire. " France,'* said he, ** feels no jealousy on this account j 

'iiuch so," he added, "that though I could easily have i^iven the 

'•'^ole of Galicia to the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, I allotted to it but 

^'^all part, lest I should cause disquiet to my ally ; " and finally he 

-^^^''cd assistance to Alexander, then rather worsted by the Turks, 

^ evidently wished for the marriage, and nothing could exceed his 

^^**^plaisance. To Champagny, he said, ** Repetez que nous sommes 

^^spos^s a faire tout cc qu'on voudra," to the no small surprise of 

j*^th Alexander and his Minister, who had never received so straight- 

^*"^ard and unreserved a letter. Under cover of the atmosphere 

*»His created was ivritten the letter of November 22, though, before 

^^s despatch, came the insistence of Alexander that the anti- Polish 

Convention should take the form of a regular treaty ; and, though 

"^uch annoyed that his secret views should be thus divined, Napoleon 

consented, but charged Caulaincourt to agree to enough to quiet 

^^atander and no more. That was to agree only that Poland should 

not be re-established ; a promise which did not prevent him, through 

^tiroc^ from giving encouragement to the Polish leaders then at Paris, 

*"Q who in the event of a quarrel with Russia would be valuable 

'"*^liaries. 

, Shortly afterwards Napoleon, becoming impatient, did not wait 
** ^hc reply or the report* but, December 1 2, authorised Caulaincourt 
*^kc a formal demand for the hand of the Princess, and even, if 
^ent well, to solemnise the marriage by procuration, as the divorce 



to 
all 



-^ On the point of being pronounced, but closing with the extra- 
I ^i^fcary demand for ** une rdponse categorique dans le d^lai de deux 
^*'^." At the arrival of this letter the Csar was absent, and it did 





I VM-i^ 



246 T/ie Gentleman s Magazine. 

not reach him till his return to St. Petersburg^ December 28, whe^^ 
he repeated to Caulaincourt that, had the answer depended on hi 
he should accept then and there, but that he must have ten days 
which to gain the consent of his mother, which Caulaincourt thoug! 
would be obtained. 

Napoleon did not share this opinion, and as in his operation^^ ^ 
both civil and militar)^ he always took care to be provided wth a — ^^ 
alternative, in case the first plan should fail, so here he looked to Austri^S: li 
to provide that alternative, and he instructed Champagny to set -^^ 
foot certain enquiries, and thus provide for the event of an unfavou^^^ ^ 
able report upon the Princess or of a refusal. As early as November 1 ^ 
Champagny had sounded the Austrian ambassador on the sub 
which it appears had also been spoken of between Metternich an 
the French agent at Vienna ; and before November 15 a conversatio ''^ 
between Floret, the Austrian Secretary of Legation, and M. Semonvillc^ 
leaving no doubt as to the consent of the Austrian Court, had beei7 
reported to Maret, and by him communicated to Napoleon, so that 
there was a sure alternative. The family council, the consent of 
Josephine, and the decree of the Senate occurred on Deceniber 14-15, 
and were followed by a letter from Caulaincourt, who had not as yet 
received the despatch of December 1 2, but who was sending oflF the 
draft of the Convention to be ratified by Napoleon. 

Late in Januar>' Napoleon held a council of the great officers of 
state, nominally to deliberate upon the proposed marriage. The 
Emperor, opening the proceedings, pointed out that four marriages 
were open to him —with a daughter of Russia, of Austria, or of Saxony, 
or with a native of France, which last he should prefer, but that for 
reasons of state it was inadmissible. There was no official report oi 
what passed, but Louis Bonaparte and Le Brun are understood to 
have spoken for Saxony j Murat, Cambac(^res, and Fouchd for 
Russia j Talleyrand, Eugene, Fesch, Maret, Mollien^ Berthier, and 
Fontanes for Austria. The Cardinal, as became a Prince of the 
Church, objected to Russia on ecclesiastical grounds, observing that 
" un tel mariage ne serait point dans nos mceurs," a remark much 
quoted at the time, and which seems to have produced an effecL 
Lacuee, Minister of War, spoke of Austria as no longer a great Power* 
" No longer a great power?" said the Emperor; "on voit bien, 
monsieur, que vous n'etiez pas \ Wagram ;" but he expressed no opinion 
as to his choice. The Council again met on February 6, but it was only 
to hear that the Emperor had decided in favour of Austria. 

Alexander's absence, and the subsequent delays, retarded the 
answer so long that Napoleon suspected that the Czar was n 



I 



L 






waiting " poux filer un refus " until the treaty should be signed, and 

ihias his object gained without the sacrifice of his sister. But on 

ibis occasion the Corsican was more than a match for the Greek, 

a^^d at his own weapons. He was, said Maret, "trop fier et trop 

fi^ ** lo be taken in, and decided to infiict instead of receiving the 

swglit- Napoleon, therefore, did not wait for the reply, but on the 

bre^^jjjg yp Qf the Council on Febmaiy 6, Prince Eugene delivered 

^^ Prince Schwartzenberg the formal proposal for the hand of the 

-'^crhduchess Marie Louise, which was at once accepted, and the 

^J^tract signed. The answer from St. Petersburg, despatched on 

^briiary 4, was practically a refusal, since it postponed the marriage 

^^ years on the ground of age. It did not reach Paris until after 

1^^ closing of the contract with Austria. 

Having administered the slight, Napoleon, by no means wishing 

^ break off the alliance, attempted by a skilful manipulation of 

^^ to show that he had not turned to Austria till after the 

*^ussiin refusal ; but Alexander *' semblait convaincu qu'on avait 

*^tt des deux cotes h. la fois," which was just what had really been 

4)ne. Politically, no doubt, the Russian match would have been 

advantageous to France, but socially, of which the Emperor 

It much, Austria stood first. Russia was young among 

rergns, and could only, as was remarked by Talleyrand, 

pretend to an equality on the ground that nobility and ancient 

lineage could be compensated by extent of territor}-, Napoleon 

WMS SO accustomed to break down all barriers that stood in his way 

that even in such a matter as a marriage he could not be expected 

to be over-scrupulous, nor was he. Marriages between crowned 

ids ^rere not in those days conducted with the observances, not 

[to say the decencies, of private life, and a similar allowance must, 

is to be presumed, be extended to those of revolutionary generals. 

tnay be pleaded for the connection between General Bonaparte's 

[•marriage and his appointment to the command of the Army of 

Italy ; but political necessity is a poor plea for his repudiation, after 

so many years, of the ecclesiastical marriage, on the ground that he 

never really consented to it. Here, too, the second wife was chosen, 

and the choice approved by !ier brother, before the divorce of the 

axxual wife, or her knowledge that it was about to take place. The 

proposal to Austria also was made and accepted while that to Russia 

remained unanswered. Had the Russian answer been an acceptance 

it would have been awkward, and beyond the power even of the 

great statesman, so celebrated in that line, to explain away. 

Napoleon's first step, after an attempt to show that the two pro- 



1 







i 



248 TAe Gentleman s Magazine. 

posals were not concurrent, was to assure Alexander that the raaniagc 
would tn no way affect his political or personal relations with Russia 
or its Emperor, In announcing ihe engagement with Austria he 
assumed that it was he who had declined the Russian alliance, much 
as he would have preferred it, on ecclesiastical grounds, and on that 
of the youth of ihe Princess, points which he had hinaself set aside. 
Alexander not only did not show any sense of the affront, but he sent 
a special envoy to be present at the marriage, of which he expressed 
high approval, and which was, he declared, a pledge of peace 
Europe. 

It has been said, and with a certain amount of truth, that n 
the breaking off of the marriage nor the discourtesy that accompanied 
it were the cause of the subsequent war between France and Russia. 
But if they did not cause the war the marriage might very well have 
prevented it. No doubt the main cause was the encouragement 
given to the Poles, and the large Galician addition to the Grand 
Duchy of Warsaw ; but the marriage would probably have led to the 
signature of an anti- Polish treaty, which would have damped the 
ardour of the Poles, and to some extent have calmed down the strong 
feeling at St. Petersburg. 

Either marriage might have been regarded as a pledge of peace 
to Europe, for Europe thirsted for peace^ and had great reason to 
dread the renewal of war. Russia had enough on her hands on the 
Danube ; Austria and Prussia, Spain and Portugal, Germany and the 
States on the Rhine and on the Scheldt, were thoroughly exhausted. 
The treatment of the Pope by Napoleon was universally disapproved. 
France had borne an iron rule so long as it brought foreign weal 
and military glory, but, persisted in, it had ruined her commerce," 
retarded her manufactures, and left her fields to be tilled imperfectly 
by women and children. She was, in her own expressive p! 
"saign^e au blanc," Peace was the universal cry, and the 
branch might at this time have been well and honourably held out 
to Europe, and the internal improvements developed since the Peace 
of 1815 might have been advanced by many years. 

The marriage, supported by a great majority of the Council, and 
pushed forward with more haste than dignity, was on the pattern of that 
of Louis XVL, and for that among many other reasons was never 
popular in France. It was, however, consummated with the us 
extensive signs of rejoicing, and in due time the birth of a son w, 
regarded as a pledge for the establishment of the Napoleonic dynasty. 

And thus was closed the period, brief but pregnant with conse 
quences important to all Europe, that connected the Conference of 



"lid 

. Uy 
^hrase^ 



vcr 

4 

;ty^ 




Napoleon, 



149 



Erfurt with the war with Austria and the second marriage of Napoleon. 
The events that followed, and occupied the years 18 10-18 12 — the 
marriage, the renewed difficulties with Spain, the alienation of 
Sweden, the encouragement given to the Poles, and the gradual 
coolness and final breach with Russia, are chiefly known as having 
been succeeded by the campaign of Moscow. The war itself, 
aggressive, ill conducted, and deservedly fatal to Napoleon, has been 
liilly described by many who, like S^gur, were sharers in its dangers, 
and who bear testimony not only to the courage but to the indomitable 
endurance of the French soldiers. The causes leading to the war, 
far more difficult of explication than the war itself, occupy the latter 
part of M. Vandal's second volume, and are unfolded and related 
therein a manner worthy of the earlier portion of his work, and cal- 
culated to sustain his reputation as in the foremost rank of the living 
historians of France. 



vox- 



CCUtStVII. MO. 1965. 




SWANS AND SJVAN-SONGS. 



WITH poetry and myth and fable the swan is always a favotin 
among birds. The strange soUtude that he loves, the snow' 
white plumage in contrast with the dark water^ and the royal digni 
of his bearing as he sails along, all combine to clothe him wi 
mystery as well as beauty. Cygnus, the Swan, as Ovid tells, 
King of the Ligurians, on the banks of the Po ; and there he 
wandered among the gloomy poplar trees, singing plaintive son; 
of sorrow for his cousin Phacthon, who had been hurled into lb 
river while he rashly drove the horses of the Sun ; for the pop! 
were the sisters of the bright child of sunlight, burying him beneai 
their shade \ and the mourner's hymn murmured on while ih 
white plumage covered his limbs, and the membraned claws ere 
iipon his feet^ and the long neck stretched out, and the swan sailei 
forward upon his lonely, melancholy course among the maishi 
and pools, afraid to rise into the sky from whence his friend h; 
fallen. 

Jupiter changed himself into a swan that he might fly into 
arms of Leda, who would otherwise have none of him. " Ho 
near," says FalstafF, "the god drew to the complexion of a goose 
And we are familiar with Juno's pair of swans, who always '* went 
coupled and inseparable." The chariot of Venus, too, was drawn bv^ 
swans, and Horace calls them purple swans, of which we seem tdH 
hear nothing elsewhere ; though a legend of the American Indians" 
tells of the red swan falling from the evening star and staining Uii 
ivaters of the Great Lake with her blood, shed by the wound of 
magic arrow. 

But the swan among animals, like the snow among things i 
mate, is the accepted type of unspotted whiteness and gracefi 
purity. ** All his geese are swans," says the proverb of the opiimi: 
When the satirical censor of Roman morals drew a caricature of 
fulsome flatterer, he made him call the Ethiopian negro a swan. 
The black swan, on the other hand, is a proverb of rarity, or indeed 
of impossibility; and the same satirist Jn his cynical vein Likens x 



% 





Hwas 



I 



Swans and Szoan-Songs. 251 

wife who possesses beauty and virtue, together with wealth and 
ancient lineage, to such a bird : 

i Rara avis in terris, nigjoque simiUima cygno. 

Perhaps the black swan was unknown until Australia was found; 
but it is one of the marvels of that strange land, and the Swan River 
so called because the feature that most impressed its dis- 
coverers was the number of its black swans. 

Swans for food, like peacocks, are still an occasional luxury ; but 
in the middle ages of England no great banquet was held to be duly 
served without the one bird or the other. So Chaucer's monk — 
A fat swan loved he best of any roost. 
By an old tradition at St. John's College, Cambridge, three or 
four cygnets are roasted for the Fellows' table on St. John's Day. 
Another survival is at Stratford-on-Avon, where a swan of Avon is 
always served at the annual civic banquet. 

Moses, indeed, was thought to have forbidden the swan, from the 

clan's of St Jerome's Vulgate down to those of r.uthcr and King 

James's translators ; but the old Seventy translators of Alexandria 

understood him to mean the porphyno or purple water-hen, and the 

Levisers of our own day have taken it to be the night-owl • there- 

we have no reason to suppose that the swan was ever reckoned 

^ng things unclean. 

Sometimes it has appeared as a pet bird. There is a legend of a 
ter of Julius Caesar^ by name Germana, lleeing from Rome with the 
ince of Tongres, when, as they were resting on the ivay, a servant 
aimed an arrow at a swan. The bird flew for refuge to the lady, who 
Lptured it and fed it from her hand, and made it her companion 
iceforward. More historical is the favourite swan of St. Hugh of 
IJncoln, the fearless prelate who rebuked the sins of Henry H. and 
Coeur de Lion. As he walked by his palace-moat the bird would 
swiin towards him ; he gave it foodj and it put its neck into his sleeve 
to caress him ; it flew off to the fens at the breeding season, but 
lalways came back to its master. The country-folk believed that 
<when their bishop was absent the coming of the swan always betokened 
his return. Ancient art commonly represents him with the bird at 
his side. Thus he is to be seen, among other saints and heroes, 
upon the steeple of St. Mary's at Oxford, with his face turned towards 

I his cathedral city in the north. 
A popular myth is the song of the swan when it is about to die: 
This pale faint swan 
Who chants a doleful hymn to hi*! own death. 
And from ihe organ-pipe of frailly sings 
ills soul and body to (heir lasting rest. s 2 



aiine 

r' 
c 



252 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



So spoke Prince Henry when Pembroke told him that his di 
father, King John, was singing. And twenty centuries before SI 
speare's time, far back in the days of the old Attic drama, this 
already a familiar fancy ; for x-Eschylus made the vengeful Clytacm* 
nesira glory over her victim Cassandra : 



Like a swan. 
Chanted her lasti her dying wail, she lies. 



^And in this mneteenth century the same fancy serves the poet 
purpose still. The " Irish Melodies " tell the legend of Fionn 
the daughter of King Lir. changed by her wicked stepmother i 
swan and longing for the sound of the first mass -bell which is 
liberate her from the thraldom : 



into 



I 



When shall the s^^nn, her death-note singing. 

Sleep with wings in darkness furled ? 
When shall heaven, il* sweet bells ringing. 

Call my spirit from this stormy world? 

The great Laureate, too, touching the fable with inimitable 
among his earliest work, passes it on with a new power to those wl 
shall come after him : 

The wild swan's death hymn took the soul 

Of that waste place with joy 

Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 

The warble was low and full and dear ; 

And floating about the under -sky, 

Vrevaiiling in weakness, the coronach stole 

Sometimes afar» and sometimes anear ; 

Bui anon her awful jubilant voice, 

With a nmsic strange and manifold, 

FlowM forth on a carol free and bold ; 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals» and harps of gold« 

And the tumuh of their acclaim is roll'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 

And the creeping mosw^cs and clambering weeds. 

And the willow- branches hoar and dank. 

And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. 

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bankp 

And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 

The desolate creeks and pools among, 

Were flooded over with eddying son^. 

'The sons of the swan's dying moments is the only one that it ef«r 
otters; at once its ^^st and its last effort ; but it is always a naelody 
^^ transcendent sweetness, beyond all that other birds can attain lo. 




Szcans and Swan-Songs. 



^11 



So when Virgil, whose native Mantua was famous for its swans, 
would describe the future golden age of the world, he said that the 
owls should vie with the swans in song. When Horace wishes to pay 
the highest corapliment to the genius of Pindar, he calls him the 
swan of Dirce ; and when he predicts his own poetic immortality he 
tells us that he feels the white plumage growing upon his arms and 
fingers, and the hard skin upon his legs, while he is changing into 
ihe white bird, to soar in the skies, half man, half swan, far above the 
Stygian waters* Following up tire fancy, Ben Jonson gave Shake- 
speare his title of the Swan of Avon, and modern writers have made 
Viig;il the Swan of Mantua, and Homer the Swaji of Meander. 
And who shall venture to deny that there is music in the shrill 
trumpet-call of the whooper-swan when he tells the Icelander that 
the sun is about to rise again after the long raonlhs of his night of 
winter ? 

If wild swans have become rare visitors among us they abound in 
other lands. In the creeks and marshes about the Crimea, and else- 

t where along the shores of the Black Sea, the peasants gather up their 
touills as they drift ashore in vast numbers, and ply a thriving trade 
ID them, as doubtless their forefathers have done for ages. The many 
swans of those coasts helped to supply Homer with his apt simile, 
rhen he described the busy eagerness of the Grecian hosts upon the 
(lain of Troy, *• Like the many tribes of feathered fowls, geese or 
mes or long-necked swans, this side and that they fly, joying in the 
ide of their wings/' And upon oiu own shores and up our streams 
le wild swan of former days has left the impress of his name. 
'Swanage is a corruption of swan -wick, a wick or creek where wikings 
invaded the swans' solitude, and Swansea is the swans* isle. Three 
townships in Norfolk are called Swanton, and tell of swans upon the 
livers and broads. Swanley and Swanmore^ Swanscombe and Swan- 
bourne, with many others, carry on the same tale. 

But our English swan has long become a private possession, and 
one that in old times was highly prized. Great ecclesiastics, the 
prior of Spalding or the abbot of Peterborough, rivalled noble earls, 
Huntingdon or Leicester or Essex, in the goodly flocks which they 
m^ntained upon the marshy flats of the eastern districts. And in 
the Wtst they were preserved with the same jealous care. Richard 111., 
just before his brief reign closed at the Battle of Bosworth, directed a 
commission "to at maners ShirefTes, Eschetours, Baillieffes, Con- 
stables, Swanneherdes, and all having the Rule of freshe Ryvers and 
Waters in Somersetshire, especially in the freshe Waters or Ryvers of 
Merkmore, Cotmore, etc., that the King hath geven al Swannes in 



1 



254 



The Gi 



J2££ 




Off loid psfe silc* Tte 

fnxok tlie fammLll i c ae noir y down to tbei 
vt piumml in dke Btidah Mssano, i* > nM i ifi ^i ^ the 
oinien of an ranks op to die King and Qocen. The; 

ii^5. **L wWcs ^Bsv oe *^T** B0W mo ^> piii qb, i&i 
kortebyf ti pici|)eiiy the ssaa with two nicki^ tiM 
Viodias' CoiDfaiif . TheswamoftheDtike ofSofRjCb* 
lOMigfiinrf Willi one nick oC cr esceat lbfin» 
poalld fines let in a square like a gikBiu o ; wfaile 
Oarcnce'ft had two paialkl tines, and the Duke of Norfolk^j 
tazn devices like keys. The Kiog^s swans were dtstingi 
times by a mdely'down crown, as the proper toark 
tooietimes by a pair of swofds for the Dnciiy of Lancaster. 

The swan-itpping, when the swans were taken up (for so 
is esiplained) for the purpose of marking them^ was an in 
annual ceremony* On the Thames, where the City Com 
the chief owners of the birds, the anthorities went in 
barges up the river, beginning on the Monday after St. F 
Bot the annual holiday was not irithoat its dangers to 
uppers, who armed themselves with swan-hooks to secure 
birds and imprint their mark with safety. 

Many a tale is told of their great suength. That the 
swan's wing will break a man's arm, whether hierally true 
become a proverb. Naturalists tell of a swan attacking a 
was approaching her nest, and trying to fight her way on boa 
her wing was stripped bare to the very bone by a fierce strok 
the gynwale. Another story says that a fox was swimming 
a nest of cygnets, when the mother-bird boldly faced him uj 
water and fought until she killed him. Very forcible, there 
the simile with which Shakespeare describes the stubborn 
of the Yorkists at Wakefield : 

As I hsive sc«n a snan 
With bootless labour swim ag^st the tide, 
And spend her strength with over- matching waves. 

Reverting again to the realms of myth and fable, we n( 
birds seem to have found little favour with the old fancieci 
constellations. They could see the bear, greater and lesser,^ 
and the bull, the ram and the he-goat, as well as the a 



;re 

] 




Swans attd Swan-Songs, 255 

scorpion, and the fishes. But if other birds were wanting, there was 
at least the swan, soaring in mid-heaven, and having its long neck 
and outspread wings, each tipped with a star of light. And indeed 
a fancy no less venerable has peopled the skies with many swans ; 
for, as Mr. Baring-Gould has pointed out in his popular " Myths ot 
the Middle Ages," the Apsaras in the Vedic mythology of India are 
twt personifications of the white fleecy clouds floating upon an azure 
sky like swans upon the blue waters of a lake. They become divine 
beings, gliding about amid the beauty of heaven, ready to unite 
themselves with those who have won the meed of heroes on the 
eanh ; and many a pleasant fable tells of a swan-maiden descending 
among men and wedding herself with one who seeks her, until in 
some unwar>' moment he forgets his promise and reveals to another 
the divine origin of his bride, and the spell is broken. Then the 
*lute feathers clothe her form again, and the swan soars away, unable 
'Ogive further solace to the heart of a frail and imperfect mortal. 

Early in the eighth century a certain noble king was homing 
*n a forest, and being weary he rested beside a lake where a swan- 
maiden of surpassing beauty was bathing in the water. She could not 
flee, because he stole her golden necklace which she had laid upon 
li« bank ; whereupon he claimed her as his bride, and she bore him 
seven sons, each of them wearing at his birth a golden necklet like 
itiat of their mother. But the father cast them out into the forest, 
and there six of the little boys were robbed of their chains, and 
became swans and lied away j but the seventh and fairest was 
n^ured by a holy hermit, preserving the mystic chain. He grew up 
^obe a knight of high renown, and in due course he entered the lists 
on behalf of a lady whose inheritance was threatened by a neigh- 
during noble. He won her cause for her, and became the husband 
of her only child, and the lord of her duchy. She is variously repre- 
sented as Duchess of Bouillon, of Cieves, or of Brabant. She forgot 
•lis injunction that she must never inquire his name and origin ; and 
at once a swan, his brother, who had brought him to the castle in a 
little boat upon the river, reappeared with the boat and bore him 
^^ay again. But a daughter was born in the meantime^ and from her 
was descended the famous Godefroy de Bouillon, king of Jerusalem. 
*^"ch in brief is the popular medi.^val legend of Helyas, Knight 
<^the Swan. Another form of it is the tale of Lohengrin. He was the 
wnof Percival, one of the Knights of the Holy Grail The bell of 
^J* Temple of the Grail at Monsalvat rang mysteriously, telling 
^f Some sacred right was being invaded by an evil-doer, and 
^ *^ ^ell to Lohengrin to obey the solemn call, a swan came in sight, 



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:it ^1= ::=.- liir^sjif rie z:2»i±j. Xct he 
± ■-:::=^- -^rinirt zie i^:z, H=rT ih* Fcwio; 
:r -^-i± ^iLicr in :^ ir** :ci :±e binks of 
i:^ :«=: rin:- -ei :«=.« 'zi^. i=,i ar.er a 
= :=-i.:r=i --i.iz -r::=z. src tn-^r-d i:- H raven 
in :c i "S^ p i — '" g ir=i.rcrr it p-rcaching 
:zL iz^ z^ ziljiri z: le h-sr ccump-icn now. 
li a=.-nr*r i; -t=r i.::.»i2_ L.:.i|=4r=: "los -cie :::i iij- skir driwn by 
i i-viz. ir-Ji i r-.uiiii iZsLJz. nt ;5=r5 :; f^h: h^er ZTiarre:, ar.d asks 
r^ r^'ji L= -. .i r^-v-ri i._- z =:--5-je :- I't c:-c:i::.r., tha: she 
▼;- n-iTtr i.:£ :. ? n.i ml iLL=Lt. _ * r= 71:— se .5 7.ibl:c*y dven; 
v^ '.^z -...diiunir -.r;: - rir^.t f ^V- ir.i Telrarr.unc filfs. but 
rrt-i-r -.i i>i-'T= r. > -ft. CTir.i z\t sine r.:^h: aprroaches Elsa as 
a ■.->^ -I'*- i.M -r—t :~p.:r.r_j -tr :=:er:esi.:n for herself and 
7t::i""-r.i. '.'.r.:r.-.t= :: yiii- '±t zziLit's mind wiih doubts. 
'I'TJt T.tc. ci;. a: :hc •fctci.™ C^^-d -P^-'> =ock> the nameless 
itrar.tft: : 

V."»r lit €r. itr s^s Land ci5C-^c=::rer, 

SKc is '/.tn'-.td ; the marragertes are ended : but no sooner are the 
yitM'A ],i\T alone than Elsa begins to plead for the forbidden 
knowl*y];.^c. In s[iite of all his piteous appeals, she first begs and then 
dcrnanrls to learn of Lohengrin his name and rank. Then the swan 
si\i\f*:nr% in the distance. The two must now come again before the 
Kin^, ; und I^)hengrin sorrowfully announces that he must reveal the 
M't rcrt which his bride demands to know, and then he must depart, 
Nirarcr romirs the swan, 

I )cr Schwan ! Scht dort ihn wiedcr nahn ! 
\Vehc ! er nalil ! cr naht, dcr Schwan I 



Swans and Swan-Songs, 257 

ute dove of the Grail hovers over the skiff, and Lohengrin 
delay. He gives to Elsa his golden horn, his sword, and his 
at she may give them to her brother if he shall return. Then 
I into the skiff he loosens the swan's golden chain, and the 
iks, but in its place the lost Gottfried rises ; and while Elsa 
less in her brother's arms, the dove draws the skiff away and 
rin is gone. 

story of Lohengrin, says Mr. Baring- Gould, is a mixture of 
Itic romance of the Sangreal with the German legend of 
and Helias is but a form of Ala or l^aladh, the Keltic word 
an. 

greatest compliment that the old genealoi^nsts could pay to 
erious family was to deduce its descent from this mythical 
tUd there is an Icelandic Saga which carries the tale back a 
Bep, and tells that Helias himself was a son of Julius Cxsar, 
Mty presume that the myth arose from the memory^ of some 
frthe North bearing the name of Sweyn, or the Swan, and 
ttg in his war-ship adorned with a swan for its figure-head. 
jUike the descendant of Cygnus in the /Eneid, he was one 

Bsni 
roan 



Whose helm confessed the Imcagc of the man, 
And bore wilh wing* displayed a silver swan. 



ling to the region of history, we find that at the time of 
in Conquest Adam Fitz-Swanne, or Fitz-Sweyn, was a 

noble of Danish birth in the North of England, bearing the 
Swan as a cognisance in accordance with his name. His 
lants were the Magnavilles, Earls of Essex, who inherited the 

device; and from them it passed on to the Bohuns, for 
de Bohun, first Earl of Hereford, one of the guardians of the 

Charta, married Maud Fitz-Piers, the heiress of the 
filles. 

\ letter of the commonalty of England to Pope Boniface 
ng the King's rights in Scotland, in 1301, was signed and 
by a hundred and four knights and barons, among whom 
imphrey de Bohun, fourth Earl of Hereford, and his seal 
I a swan with a shield suspended from its back. His sister, 
narried Roger, heir of the great Norman house of Toni. 
ne had long been famous in warfare, for a former Roger de 
had led a party of marauders into Spain to escape from the 
Miial peace in which Richard the Good was reigning in 
idy ; and Ralf de Toesny had been a companion of Duke 
^ whom bis master had sent to climb a tree beside the Seine, 




I'TziJi'Tf.iZKj MarosdxjT 



A 



Lini ~:r..- ..i^ ::- : ■?:.- nf Hsnr} af Pnmce -irnh the caD to rise 
and i^'-r— -::::r D-.-.ixSTi. vti: bai las: bees sinin ai JiartEBo: 
Kj:*tr: \'rt ?:•: :?- 5.: if-j: anf _-Ji=*. 'wiss ^if jmc Ihrhi oTToni, and 
-a'.-:rjTi:::zrj*:i il:r^: Z-rrnr-i a: lie bck rf CafizTerock in 130a He 
viti ■_ u::?}- imi^-^' t-": g iuLiiJ, ani aiifT^f^ shieif and banner, all of 
vt:-.^ jir. : .^1:7-2=: vni iDt ^-sns^r Tnr.TTTizae, or sieeve, which distin- 






'i.^-n-Ti* 



.•.. :i-r. :; _ .r-, c iicr: sa^Tic 

Hr ...i_=:f £ -.: :»t --.:-= Sji-lfi: icibr S'war ; and his seal upon the 
•.::_-'.-.: !rr.*: hif ±t zLZJzn-^t :: Tic: ?urro::nced by a border of 
virii5 Li.i 1.-^-5. V--J:: 1 '.rrrijf C^iVr ^* 0> : for a bend b e tw een 
\\ '-.'.!i5 hii "irrt- lilt vTLLiLi. z€ £«:'~"zn, 2^ ihe swan had been their 

"•'."r.t:! iht H:->* ::" T:=i :- iis tnra passed away, Alice, the 
slr.er a.id r.t::c-=s :f:ie Swaii -Knlgh: who figured at Carlaverod:! 
zL^ni-jO. G*^ cf: Wirwiik — ^n:: ±.e fanhous hero of the Guy's Qiff 
l*:gtr.d "srh^ ilcTT :'r.e D-n Cdt ani ihs Green Dragon and the 
'Sarace-. G:ir.L i.: G-y cr Be2uchaz:r, :he hero of Falkirk, "the 
:>li'.**: ho-r.d -f .\rd-:-z 1: Gavestor.'s ir.5ul:s, and one of the four 
tJirU Lv v.horr. Gives: on was behv^ded a: Blacklow HilL Eail 
Thorna-i, the sor. ^fGuy. a warrior of Crecy and Poiciiers, assumed 
the .S-A-ar. of the Tonis for his crest, as his son Richard, the next 
carl, ihe conqueror of 0'.ven Glendwr, assumed their red maunche 
tipon his shield. Afterwards Anne, the grandchild of Earl Richard 
and h':iress of his honours, broui:ht the earldom to her husband, 
Richard Ncvil, the Kingmaker : and he in turn adopted the Swan of 
}ii^» predecessor':, which appears upon his seal rising as a crest out of 
a coronet. 'Ihe same crest is still borne by the family of Greville, 
iipr/n vvliom the earldom of Warwick was bestowed by George II., 
uliilc iv.o swans serve also as the supporters of their shield. And, 
iigaiii, ih*- iJear of the Ileauchamps and the Swan of the Tonis are 
the two supporters of Earl Beauchamp's shield. 

'I'hc had^c of the liohuns passed on also to the Courtenays ; for 
ill 1^25 llii^h (^ourtenay, Earl of Devon, married Margaret de 
llohun, d.iuj^hicr of Humphrey, fourth Earl of Hereford, and of 
Eli/ubelh his wife, a daughter of Edward I. Their swan, collared 
ami chained and holding a feather in its beak, supports the shield of 
Sir William ('ourlcnay on his monument at Powderham, where he 




Swans and Swan-Songs. 



died in 1485 ; collared, but unchained, it adorns the fa^rade of the 
great Cistercian Abbey at Ford, as a memorial of their benefactions 
to the house ; collared and chained and with outspread wings it 
appears among numerous badges on a fireplace erected by Bishop 

reter Courtenay in the episcopal palace at Exeten 
With another Humphrey, the seventh Earl of Hereford, greal- 
griLndson of King Edward 1., the male line of the house of Bohun 
oauic to an end ; but he left as his co-heiresses two daughters who 
l>eciLme the wives of princes. The elder was Eleanor, who was 
married to Thomas of Woodstock, l-^uke of Gloucester, the youngest 
son of Edward HL This lady seems to have been an enthusiast for 
tHe swan badge of her ancestry. Her seal bears the device of a boat 
Boating on the water, carr>'ing an angel who holds an heraldic tablet 
fc frith two swans combined with tlie shields of Magnaville and Wood- 
^ktoek and Bohun ; while two ffwans, collared and chained, occupy 
^'llie prow and the stern of the vessel. The duchess, together with 
her husband, founded a college at Pleshy in Essex, near to the old 
castle of the Magnavilles, and their swan is the prominent device 
Upon the seals of their coUege. Among her personal possessions, 
also, which the duchess bequeathed in her will, was a Psalter, the 
dasps of which were enamelled with white swans. To her daughter 
Johanna she gave two beds, one of cloth of gold of Cyprus orna- 
Diented with swans and letters Y j another of white " tertaryn " with 
lions and swans. A legacy to her son Humphrey was two volumes, 
©ne **a book of vices and virtues," and the other a histor)' in French 
Tcrse of the Chivaler a Cigne. Her will was made in 1399, and in 
the sanae year she died, two years after the murder of her husband 
at Calais, her widowhood having been spent in the convent of 
Barking. A superb brass, still to be seen in the chapel of St. 
Edmund in Westminster Abbey, shows that her friends were careful 
to deck her grave with her favourite symbol The swan, sometimes 
in its simplicity, sometimes with wings expanded^ sometimes also 
collared with a ducal coronet and chained, appears over and over 
again upon the monumenti It is constantly repeated between the 
words of the inscription around the border ; it stands in the central 
pediment of the elaborate canopy ; it forms a crocket in the taber- 
nacle-work ; and lastly, as an old print shows, it was displayed upon 
a shjeld which has now been lost. 

The duke himself also favoured the device ; for on one of his 
seals he appears on horseback with a background diapered w*ith 
swans and ostrich feathers, and on another his shield hangs on the 
trunk of a tree, for " Woodstock," with two swans before it ; and 



I 



I 



_ XT to vrV 



Joan 



2^^ TV and Henry v., to^^ J^i^j j^e appears 

•j:5=:-sirc£;^:5S 



|:ii« 



^^ ""'for it v^as l^trthe'bhhop'^ v^«^^^;"r T.ears ago, -hen ih' 




►Idtng* 
red>U| 



* — lb 
\vo feet to' 

?:^tr;Sdo- r:^;;;. ^ j. 



>s .till to be ^^<= ,, ten «eet ^n ^^^^ , «"'"^;^; of » P 
jecttag*'^*°^^^ i,, ^«^''"%S The White S*at, 




Swans and Swan-Songs, 



263 ^ 



collared with the golden coronet and chained, with outstretched 
neck and tail and spreading wings, stands between two trees. Beside 
ine of them, to which the chain is fastened, there is the crescent and 
:ax. At each end of the corbel is a shield ; the one bearing the 
tbrt^e lions of England and the three lilies of France with a distinc- 
ive label ; the other bearing the arms of Mortimer quartering those 
>f Willianci de Burgh, Earl of Ulster. The latter shield is explained 
tbe fact that Elizabethj the only child and heiress of De Burgh, 
-as married to Lionel, the first Duke of Clarence, third son of 
•Edward III* ; and their only child, PhiHppa> was married to 
Edmund Mortimer, Earl of i^Carch ; whence this appears to be the 
sHield of one of their descendvints. The other, if its white label has 
not been altered, is the shield of a Prince of Wales. Now a second 
Edn:iund Mortimer, grandson of the former, succeeded to his earl- 
dom and estates at six years of age in 1 398 ; and Henry, Prince of 
Wales, afterwards King Henry V., was appointed guardian of his 
person and estates, thus becoming virtually the lord of Clare. He 
iras the same prince upon whose seal we have already seen the 
swan-emblem with the bird collared and chained. To him, there- 
fore, the badge and the one shield are evidently to be assigned ■ and 
Ihe other shield is that of his youthful w^ard* So the lucky preserva- 
lian of this venerable sign has saved the house from becoming 
merely another Swan Inn among the many. 

Among the curious customs of chivalry in the days of the 

renets was one which seems to connect itself with the swan as 

llmlitary ensign, and yet seems to look further back as if it had its 

in the old superstitions of their Norse forefathers, A knight 

*ould invoke the swan as he would invoke his Ciod, in vowing the 

performance of some great feat of arras. Sometimes he would make 

^ similar vow before the peacock. But the swan seems to have been 

*He favourite, and it looks as if the more novel peacock were merely 

^ substitute which fancy might suggest, just as sometimes both birds 

^ould be set aside and the invocation would be to the ladies. When 

^ward I. was about to make his last expedition against Scotland \n 

*3o6, a State banquet was served on the Feast of Pentecost in the 

l*3iace at Westminster, at which the Iving conferred the dignity of 

*^thood upon the Prince of Wales, and the Prince proceeded to 

^ abbey-church to bestow the same honour upon two hundred 

Companions. During the banquet two swans in nets of gold were 

^ upon the table by the minstrels, and the King swore before God 

^^^ the svirans that he would never return till he had taken vengeance 

-Pon Bruce for the slaughter of Comyn ; a vow which had not been 



i 



264 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



broken when be expired at Burgh-on-the-Sands, Prince K< 
vowed in the same manner that he would not stay two nights in 
place till he had arrived in Scotland to carry out his father's resolve. 
The Earls of Warren and Arundel, and the rest of the newly ^created 
knights, were invited to make similar vows before the swans. 

It was probably with reference to the same custom that Edward 
lILj on the occasion of some Christmas sports at Oxford, hi 
surcoat and shield wrought with the strange motto : 

Hayt Hay, the wythe swan, 
By Codes soule I am thy man. 

And swans at the same time adorned the trappings of his horse. 

Edward the Black Prince adopted as a device swans with 
heads, together witii his better-known badge of the plume 
ostrich feathers. He possessed large and costly chamber -hangii 
of black tapestry, with a border of red, upon which both th< 
symbols were embroidered ; and in his will, dated at Westmi 
the day before his death, he bequeathed one such set of hangings 
Canterbury Cathedral, to be used for the high altar and 
other altars, and around his own tomb, and the rest to serve 
hangings along the choir above the stalls on all chief festivals. W 
his son Richard also he bequeathed a hanging of worsted em- 
broidered with mermen of the sea, and its border of red and black 
embroidered with swans with ladies' heads and ostrich plumes. 
The lady-headed swans also, without the ostrich plumes, adorned 
the border of a similar gift bestowed upon his widow, a hanging 
of red worsted with eagles and griffins. It may be that in the 
Black Prince's zoology the mermen and the griffins were as much 
Irving realities as the eagles and the ostriches \ but at least 
was careful that his swans, which he favoured most of all, shoul 
not be reckoned among the vulgar herd of terrestrial fauna, 
** cignes ove testez de dames " are but one of the many links whi 
connect the snowy plumage of the bird, whether in picture or 
poetry, with ideal beings of a loftier nature. So in classical art 
white-robed figure^ with large wings as of a swan, represent 
Victory. In Christian art the same figure represents an angeU 
of the " principalities and powers " of heaven. It is the human i 
decked with the spotless clothing of a swan, and the idea takes 
origin from the primitive Aryan myth. Thus, when Dante want 
a fitting description of an angel, it was a being with outspread 
like those of a swan : 

Con r ale aperlc chc par can di ctgno. 



Swans and Swan-Songs. 



265 



There is long life in myths, and fables are easy to fabricate. 
Quite lately some ingenious inventor published a description of a 
present that was to be given by the Queen of England to her grand- 
daughter on the occasion of her marriage with the Prince of 
ftoumania. It was to be a pleasure-barge, shaped as a swan, with 
ks body containing a cabin to hold ten persons, and an imposing 
; JKOW, eighteen feet in height, formed by its neck and head, so in- 
; /jfeniously devised that when in motion it would have the appearance 
of a colossal swan swimming on the water. A contradiction *' on the 
hi^est authority " speedily followed. But— j^ non h vero i ben trovato 
— the story serves to remind 11s that the ensign of the unknown swan- 
bjgfat from the North, handed on from Magnavilles and Bohuns 
the royal descendants of the House of Plantagenet, still ex- 
as we trust, its beneficent influence for promoting advancement 
preserving tranquillity as well among Eastern as among Western 



JOHN EDWARD FIELD. 



▼OX- CCLXXVII. IfO. 1965. 





DIOCLETIAN'S PAI^CE 
AT SPA LA TO 



Ai ch ) tgct , Bobert AdEHB, fcmd kaneif ar Rome scodying lor 
Ia nae HodES. «Bafair ttfaHnxtioos he tdh 

die rmas 
mmhitioos 
f RiMiian or Gfecxan 
tcBiples^ ampintlieatrea^ nd 
solidtti- that could defy 
'The pmrate bat spln&l edifices ID wfaicii the 
and Athens resided have al petidicd. The more 
of Vmttfiis and Fliaj co ovin ce vs that the most 
of modern aich ile c tu re axe &r tofetior to these superb 
n gnoidetv or rkgrnrf. There b not any misfoitane 
cotdd more lament than the detractioii oC 
A refledioQ eminendy jodiooiB and reaDy original, 
basis for arcfaitectunl effect and reform. 

**This thooght,*' he goes on, "often occurred to me during 
residence in Italy, nor could I help considering my knowledge 
architecture as imperfect, uiiless I should be able to add the obser- 
vation of a private edifice of the ancients to my study of iJictf 
public works," The question was, ^Vhe^e were such opportuniM 
of study to be found ? 

As he wandered among the Roman monuments he was particu* 
larly struck with the great Baths, the work of the Emperor Diocletian. 
Their system of decoration left a deep impression, and, with that 
of Raphaers Sianze in the Vatican, was to supply him with many 
ideas which he later utilised when adorning interiors at home^ It 
occurred to him that this great prince, who had a sort of passion 
architecture, which had prompted him to erect many grand 
expensive structures at Rome, Nicoraedia, Milan, PalmjTa, and 
places, had also built himself a monumental palace in 



Diocletian s Palace at Spalato. 



267 



[^rhicli was scarcely known and still less visited. Here was what he 

.souglit. He had seen in the accounts of former travellers that the 

[palace was in fair preservation, though it had never been "ob- 

'ed with any'accuracy." He was convinced from the specimens 

lie tiad examined^of the Emperor's work that his taste was superior 

to that of his own times, and that he must have formed a school 

of artists whose labours would well repay examination. After due 

ioquiry, and weighing all the advantages and objections, our 

young architect determined to carry out his scheme, and visit these 

interesting remains. 

He made his [preparations carefully. He induced Clerisseau, a 
French architect and antiquary — the same, I presume, who wrote a 
fine, richly illustrated folio on French antiquities — to accompany 
Idm. He also engaged two draughtsmen, of whose skill and accuracy 
he had long experience. 

On July ir, 1757, the party set sail from Venice, and after a 
ten days* voyage, on July 22, reached the coast of Dalmatia. He 
describes, simply enough but enthusiastically, the sight that greeted 
the travellers as they sailed into the bay. '* The city of Spalato, 
thoDgh of no great extent, is so happily siluatt-d that it appears, 
«licii viewed from the sea, not only picturesque but magnificent. 
As we entered a grand bay and sailed slowly towards the harbour, 
the marine wall and long arcades of the palace, one of the ancient 
temples, and other parts of the building which was the object of 
otir voyage, presented themselves to our view, and flattered mc, from 
lijis first prospect, that my labour in visiting it would be amply 
^waided." This it was certainly destined to be, for his many works 
^1 more or less reflect the gracefully poetic tone of the jymvsA facade 
\thsX was now opening before him. 

Nor can we feel any surprise that he was thus affected. As our 
res fall on the fine print, Bartolozzi's work, which portrays the 
:tie, we can call up that morning, and the delighted surprise with 
ich the traveller welcomed the enchanting view. There was the 
irgotten cit>' — thejong, elegant colonnade overhanging the waters, 
lestined, in smaller shape, to reappear on the banks of the Thames ; 
tere was the graceful campanile beside the hexagonal Temple of 
'upiter ; the ancient houses incrusted into the walls. Over all was 
tran<iuil, even forlorn tone of solitude and abandonment. It 
reined a picture from a dream, full of romance ; and the semi- 
■baric figures of the natives in their effective dress— half Greek, 
Turkish — added a picturesque element to the scene. Mr, 
[itckson, the^latest visitor, gives an interesting picture of the ira- 







"Sir "TT "^■rti^:i5- aaL s>hc ctiiKiiiciQO odtt 
wlk. u)d aeuljtk 
Tbe tvo leapkiaie 

: ^zr: fsiss sill eiisL, and fom 
:3£s:. ciscipesrcc, aadataoi 
rt. rrNrri. G»^ siia iwaiB, 
a: -re Irat. or \Ves% Gile, 
from i^BcTjCotoibe 



T.Tt z — -^ ::- :=r-z- .?=-=. ^:.: recur i^rans: ai once iheif 
l:::.!::^!^-..:. - ■ n ::. =r-:-^ z-ni r.^j^5rrr k the inhabiunts. 
T'rz- '.-zz^^- .- -.: -. r.«.i.t -Ji-zir Jr^x-T^ : b^t ihe suspidoos 
'■"t.iK'-.-.r: r --jn r -: r-c -.:-r- vtrt ?LrT-v:=j£ and measuring the 
'• .•^.f.\-=r..7^.-. ^T : L r-zT: --..:-.— :-it*r -vts correved lo them for- 
-' zxtT.)z z—r. -.r ;-i-.:- -^ .: -.:- 4i.t i TSer had been promised a 
:':rT-i- ti-t^- t-itt -_•; x-L-rrr-e* ii Vecucst but h had not 
1.-7^ fi T:-? V Li i.- 1:1- : :i7 m^rrrrorci. A son of Caledonian 
-nTifeii.^ T-i-* ::■:*. r^rf :c :cr mv£^.e:5 : for it chanced that* 
^r'.*±i£r V:- r-^TrfrL Gj^lsthsl rrci^iirosr-in-chief of the Venedlfl 
y.^'j^. -■-.i.-:fi:; :•= := r.:? tLi^j- i-i " :r.:erposed in my behitf 
T.-j: ^'.^''-L-LT^rt ZZ.L itzL rzr_rLl :? a rcUte manr says Adaiti- 
\'-. 'i\-jy: rt in*; := "J^t ir.-z-rced c.^ctrine that '•bluid is thicker 
•hi.'. -^i-itT- H > tf:r^ "^e:^ fe-rcr.de-d by Count Mariovich, an 
'^r.'.r.:irT cf :=t p-ire, mi "st rrchib'iion was withdrawn. Th* 
( ,<,\*:rr.zr, he -ever, r.ill =z57:c::-.is- "ceLiiled an officer," who wi^ 
c.r-zf.vz'i r.'A '.J lj=e sizh: cf :he=i. The shrewd Adam appli^ 
hjrri^ii »':■"' redoubled ztz. :? get his work done, for, as he sai< 
naturally er.c -zh, * :'"e fear cf a second interruption added to tf» 
io/i«JStry ; lind, by unwearied ap7/iication during five weeks, we cor<3 
nl<:tcd, wiih an accuracy that afforded me great satisfaction, th(^ 
parts of our work which it was necessary to execute on the spot- 
Inlccd, after he had been there some time his zeal prompted hi* 
to dig in various quarters, and, he says, " very probably I might h3.^' 
Iliad*; w>ine useful discoveries, had not the repeated alarms an< 
I (iiiifilaints of the inhabitants prevailed on the Governor to send ta^ 
llic niohl positive orders to desist. I was therefore obliged, thoug* 
wiih rri;ret, to obey, and hastened to finish what remained uncoio- 
nlcti'd above-ground." We may admire this honest enthusiasm, stnd 
inny Hpcculftle, too, on the wonder cf the natives at the proceeding* 



Diocletian s Palace at Spalato. 



269 



M th€ p>ersevering Englishmen. Considering the shortness of the 
iwe, the result was really wonderful, for we have a vast tome of 
>eamiful drawings, with abundance of measurements, plans, surveys, 
Is the result. Nearly one hundred drawings, plans, restorations, &c, 
•fcre made. 

That visit look place nigh on a hundred and forty years ago. 
Attractive as the place is, it seems strange that so few travellers 
ind tourists have followed the example of Robert Adam. The latest 
[^as that accomplished architect, Mr. Jackson, who has given a 
pleasing account of his visit, and showed such interest in the remains 
lh«i he w*as selected to design a new campanile for the cathedral in 
In adjoining city. Lady Strangford and l?ir Gardner Wilkinson 
ve also recorded their impressions of the place. Before Adam, 
*ever, we can trace but few visits to the interesting ruins, save 
haps that of the Abb^ Fortis. A sort of mystery, indeed, as 
ough it were some enchanted palace, seemed to hang over it. The 
arm was the living interest given to the old ruins, among which the 

lived and flourished, and pursued their avocations. 
Nothing seems to me more interesting than a place which exhibits 
traces of a general mixture of successive races who have struggled 
displaced each other. It is reading history in the most dramatic 
, for you see before yoo at every turn the scenic particoloured 
noes of the contest for survival. It is thus with the interesting little 
y of Arras, where we pass by Spanish arcades, the Flemish hoods 
ornaments, all blended with the French tokens of the present 
Here are the memorials of the Turks, Venetians, and 
ailive Dalmatians. All travellers have been struck by the 
Places they encounter at every turn of the old, most picturesque 
Venetian rule. The winged lion shows itself here and there, as do 
^ steeples, windows, and stone balconies of that period. Another 
itJBuntic element is the presence of the Jews, who, forty years ago, still 
•ote the turban and gown, and suggested Shylock to Sir Gardner 
"•IVitison. They are of the line of the Spanish Jews expelled in 
^*93i and for long compelled to live here in a Ghetto. The palace, 
W^W'JVer, was fortunate in its treatment. There are many famous old 
^^''JCttires which have disappeared, owing to the inhabitants helpiiig 
wttijselves to the stones until they have gradually destroyed the 
•hole. The Turks were great offenders in this way. But Spalato 
*** favoured, owing to its being encompassed by walls. The inhabi- 
™*t» were glad to avail themselves of the old existing walls as aids to 
■*^r own buildings. In some places they built on the old foundationsj 
Adam noted that the *' modem works are so intermingled with 




Sfi-i^: 



1 *L-^e IS scmetriing 




bcc He 

oC Its betQgBB 

fix Ins 

^■iBdior his snuplidt^iiidl 

ier paaecaior oc the dim-' 

arsOonaslbe 

^B^^k cwMm y the nstifCK 

■■■c^ vfai^i were 

E* ^^^ took possessaan 

: ttl vider the power of the I 

tft>ril5l 

diewmrs oftbe 

re ■■■iiig or ifiterestiflg 

of tbe wan are all stil 

•ttd defaced neariyinto 

Tbe fsfode of the 

mmd the centiaJ 

k in and disfigured that 

c^ it an out and keep it in 

em vails, balconies, grew- 

it has been o^-crlaid. The 

. ^ haU are still visible, but 

Vk taas^ vldst ^e nofaie open gaDay hasahaost entirely disappeared* 
*nie assies faa^e been iled np^ vost oC the columns have been 
taken anay, probably by ihe Venedans when they robbed the Porti 
Amea, Mod^n doors and windows are pierced at e\-ery fc* 
feet, and numbeis of houses aie built tip in front of it. Still, in spite 
of an this disfigiiTemefit, there is lanch left that is very interesting. 

The want of good water was, however, a serious drawback, but 
this was supplied after the usual magnificent fashion of the Roma"' 
There may still be seen the imposing arches of the great aquedi* 
which brought the water from Salona, with the conduit pipe iiset 
Among the modem improvements, it is actually proposed to lepW 
the old aqueduct, adding a mile or so of arches that are bckttl' 





There are great towers at each comer. The accommoda- 
need to be brge, for it contained not only apartments for 
eror and his immense retinue, but vast open spaces for 

There were barracks for the Praetorian guards, and two 

temples^ It indistinctly suggests the design left by Inigo 
r his great palace at Whitehall — of which only a fragment, 
[ueting Hall, was attempted. 

travellers in the course of their surveys were able with 
ase to trace out the exact outlines and divisions of the 
quarters, some of which had to be followed into the private 
id gardens of private houses. Mr, Jackson found many a 
fragment incorporated with the homely modern walls, 
irything is vast and overwhelming," he says, " and it is with 
of awe that one passes under the huge arch stones of the 
Vo great streets, each about 40 feet wide, intersected each 
the centre. These were entered by four gates, or gate- 
(icrced in the colonnades that enclosed the palace. Great 
seat the corners. Of these gates, one was called the Porta 

Golden Gate, another the Porta Aena, or Brazen Gate. The 
irea was of a striking pattern— a small doorway in a richly- 
^ad^^ which was set-off with columned niches and lunette 

a pattern th^t was often reproduced by the architect in 
showy works, 

I, in his great work on the ruins of the Palace of Dio- 

:.aiid bv no means sDecukiivc 




k^ 



de£3 

die dor 
band, 

it, aadm 

Empire am 

jmd periiaps 

of the old< 

y. The 

banr do sa 

i^ boose, a dty 

to make the 

into several 

Mil boildiDgs. The 

in the nudst of much 

emj w btiL of the old V 

Outade the town can be seen aaf 

of a solid tover, lentd on dw debatable ground between 

Payniia, a oo^ of vantage against the tapacious 

Talks. Tbe place ttomds in charming fragments of Venetko 

architecture. Soone of the palaces of the old nobility have reall]^^ 

fine windows, and many a cotntyard, of which a glimpse is cai-*-^-^ 

in [jaasing, is rich with graceful arcades and staircases. The coloi 

nades of the peristyle have been built up into private hot 

with windows, doors, and balconies between the columns, a- 

among ihera are two or three chapels, which are picturesque enouj 

The restorers, who were very busy at the time of Mr. Jacksc^ 

viait, are eager to level all these houses and open out the colonnac^l.^ 

But, as Mr. Jackson points out, the whole fabric is so shattered ^'S-mj 

the rcnyoval of the houses would bring all down together. " L-fc: i 

much to be desired," says Mr. Jackson, *' that the piazza may be 1«| 

as it IB : fanrinaling as the idea may be to restore the peristyles m 

itH original appearance, most persons of sensibility would rather tm^w 

the ancicnl work, mixed up as it is with the accretions of later 




Diocletian s Palace at Spalato. 



^n 



than a renovated copy, however faithful." Persons of sensibility 
will cordially agree with him, and it is to be lamented that this 
vrholesome principle has been so neglected in our own country. 

The Temple of Jupiter is a fine structure, octagonal in shape out- 
side, almost circular within, having a dome and a series of sunken 
arches between columns that support a richly carved cornice. The 
e0ect is truly striking and original, I have mentioned the grace 
with which the campanile— a modern structure of the sixteenth 
centiiry, but harmonising well — rises above the clustered houses. 
There is something strange in this union of what is Christian and 
Pagan. Within it is a large circular hall, domed^ a rich cornice 
running round, supported on columns- This is now used as the 
cathedral : very imposing it is. The tribe of restorers and maimers 
have been at their ill-omened work, and Mr. Jackson, on his visit, 
^k found the whole of the cornice and the capitals removed, to be 
^ replaced by new and sharply cut ones. Yet the old work was not much 
If decayed — not so much as to interfere with its supporting power. 

I Nothing can supply the harmony of the moulded details. 
The elegant mediaeval campanile, with its five storeys and beauti- 
ful open arches^ is said to date from, or at least was begun in, the 
thirteenth century. It is supposed to be in a ** shaky " way, and 
^T. Jackson points out substantial reasons for its state— being built 
^thout foundations, weakened by staircases in the wall. Still, to have 
^ted from the thirteenth century is to have done pretty well. Apart 
from its Roman origin, the interior of the cathedral is most attractive 
froin its rich and elegant adornments of the Renaissance period, and 
"C found it astonishingly dirty —the walls as black as those of a London 
*^^Urch. " I was anxious," says Lady Strangford, *' to see a great black 
Garble sphinx, brought from Egypt— as were also the columns placed 
^m ^^ the entrance —where it had stood undisturbed since Adam's 
H Visit over a hundred years before. Its calm dignity and repose 
^Jitrasi curiously with the two lively, snappingy snarling lions of St. 
^^k, which lie close to their venerable cousin." She had heard 
^^ there was yet another sphinx in the city, which she was anxious 
*^, but was assured by one of the savanh^ Dr. Illich, that there 
^ DO such thing. He, however, made inquiries, and it was 
^'^inly amusing, as she says, to find him arriving the following 
, ^^ing to tell her that, after some inquiries, he had discovered it in 
courtyard of a private house* where it had lain for centuries 
^h damaged. In every direction there were reminders of this 

The cathedral struck her as much resembling '* the exquisite tittle 




THE BURIED ELEPHANTS IN 
THE ARCTIC REGIONS. 



^' 



OWARDS the end of July in iSi6 the Russian vessel Rurick^ 
commanded by Lieutenant Kotzebue, was passing through 
Behring's Straits. The Enrich had "been specially equipped by Count 
omanzoff at his own expense, and had been provided with every - 
ing necessary to insure the success of an exploring expedition, 
Ker commander was a tried sailor ; her surgeon, Dr. Eschscholt-;, 
iras a man of great ability ; and the poet and naturalist Chamisso 
vras also on board. 

The Eurick, though frequently beset by fogs, passed Behring's 
Straits safely, and on the ist of August entered a great sea- 
sound, which extended for two hundred miles into the Arctic lands 
of North America. 

ICotzebue and his companions were the first Europeans who had 
visited these regions, and they gazed on the newly-discovered lands 
^wid) the greatest interest and delight. As they sailed up the broad 
sea-sound towards the east they saw that the land to the south was a 
vast plain, which was perfectly flat, and extended as far as the eye 
could reach. This boundless plain had not a rock or tree to break 
the monotony of its surface, but it was brilliantly green with grass and 
moss, and bright with beautiful flowers* A placid river wound 
through the verdant expanse, and lakes and swamps appeared on its 
broad surface, while in the distance were snow -clad mountains. On 
the northern shores the hills were higher* but they were only gently- 
rolling uplands. 

At length the Rurick cast anchor near a large island, which was 
green with moss and on which willow bushes were growing, which 
were the only trees seen in the neighbourhood. This island Kotzebue 
named Chamisso Island, and the bay around he called Eschscholtz 
Bay, in honour of the Rurick's doctor. On the east coast of this bay 
there were cliffs 120 feet high, and above them a boundless plain 
covered with moss — which rendered its aspect brilliantly green — 
stretched away to the horizon^ On the 8th of August a striking 





fiop of dhcae ke-dft 
a. faoc ibi^ ban on tbii 

cliffs of keni 

andtbegitit 

m loot thkk, M^Hi 

Among these 

tiie great fiir-da< 

the Rossaams irert well 

iaSibcm. Atlbc 

ibeice^^liife at Eschschflht 

U like burnt bom, 

tbcj describe in the fblLot 

ior the strong stndt 1^ 

pbce.* ^ This stfange ds- 

in a desolate itgioA 

in the present 

soon to be oA 

ki m dcscdbe the depbant, the boocs 
bf Rotseboe In such au extiaoidioai? 



which became extinct long i^ 
anj elephant no«r hiding. Its name 
b the Vaim ot h , and it «as donlipcd to the northern r^ons of J 
the globe. The Mammoth (or £i^ktts ^migeniMs) was muchl 
laiger than any exisdng deplttnt, and was also more clumsy and" 
btilky. Its hair was of three different kinds. First came a thid^ 
msp wool of a d^ir 6iwn colour ; then a longer kind of hair tcJ 
inches in length - and last of all thick bristly hair of a reddish-biowO'' 
colour, which was often nearly two feet in length. In addition \P 
this great led^hairy coverii^ the Mammoth had a long flowing 
roane which reached from the head to the tail. The tusks of ih^ 
Mammoth were not straight like the present elephant's, but were i» 
the fom of huge circles, the points of the tusks curving so far b«*- 
wards that they almost touched the animaFs forehead. The tx^^^ 
' K9t^Hc"s y^ja^t^ voL L p. 320. 





the Mammoth were also covered with tufts of long 

ther great bunch of hair covered the end of its tail 

me Mammoth, the great hairy elephant of the North, 

of which Kotzebue discovered in the ice-cliflfs at 

I Bay, in the desolate regions of Arctic America. 

Captain (afterwards Sir John) Franklin set out to 

* Mackenzie River in North America, and to examine the 
Arctic Ocean to the west of the mouth of that riven 
assist Franklin, H.M.S. B/ossom, a frigate of i6 guns, 

} by Captain Beechey, was ordered to pass through 
traits, and to wait for Franklin's arrival in Kotzebue 
lius an opportunity would be afiforded for examining 

* the ice-cHRs discovered by Kotzebue, and for bringing 
of the elephants' tusks and bones which were embedded 
£echey vividly describes his approach to Bchring's Straits, 
jerness of ail on board to examine this wonderful 
reen Asia and America. It was towards the end of July, 
t the Blossom approached Behring's Straits. The night 
il, and perfectly calm and serene. The sky was cloudless, 

lidnight sun—which was hardly more than its own 
►ove the horizon— shone brightly over the waters. The 
liooth, the wind was fair, and the sea-birds in Rocks 
»und the vessel As they sailed through the Straits they 
wonderful prospect, for they were able to see both conti* 
a on the left, and America on the righL They entered 

Eund on July 22, and beheld the great moss-covered 
wamps stretching away in endless monotony ; and at 
om anchored in Eschscholtz Bay. 
loring party soon set out to examine Kotzebue's ice-clifis, 
t thorough examination of them was made by the English 
;rs. Beechey and his companions found that these cliffs 
or several miles along the shores of the bay, and that they 
iX high ; but they were decreasing in height, for the ice 
i much since Kotzebue's visit, Beechey and his party 
to the conclusion that the cliffs were not formed of pure 
zebue had stated, but that they consisted of frozen mud 
with an externa! easing of ice ; and they further discovered 
fs of frozen mud all round the shores of Kotzebue Sound, 
and tusks of the Mammoth, buffalo, deer, and horse were 
»e ice-cliffs, and particularly beneath them. At the foot 
fs the debris which had fallen from them had formed 
t which many tusks of elephants and musk-oxen were 




EL 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 

discovered. Like Kotzebue and his party, Beechey noticed thei/w^ 
smdl which proceeded from decaying animal remains, of which Ml-^ 
Collie— ^who accompanied Captain Beechey — says : " A very stronfl 
odour, like that of heated bones, was exhaled wherever the fossiIi( 
abounded," * Beechey also found Mammoths* bones in other placeil 
on the shore of Kotzebue Sound, and perceived the strong smdl fld 
some spots where no tusks or teeth of elephants or of any othed 
animals could be discovered. The officers of the Blossom observed 4 
large river flowing into Kotzebue Sound from the south-west, whidi 
they named the Buckland, in honour of that eminent geoIogisU 
They proceeded up it for a long distance, until they met with pin4 
trees scattered here and there and musk-oxen began to show tbemj 
selves, although none had been seen at Eschscholtz Bay. The ho#j 
tility of the Eskimo, however, soon forced the explorers to return. 

The result of Beechey's exploration was, that Kotzebue^s stata* 

ment of the bones of the Mammoth being found in the ice-cliffs wi< 

fully confirmed ; but Beechey stated that these cliffs were not formoj 

of pun ice^ but of frozen mud and gravel, and that the ice formed 

only a thick external coating, a few feet deep, over the £ace of tht 

cliffs. I 

In 1848 H.M.S. Heraidy commanded by Captain Kellet, enteral 

Kotzebue Sound to assist in tlie search for Sir John Franklin. Thl 

vessel had on board many scientific officers, who gave a moi 

interesting account of the strange regions around Eschscholtz Baj 

From Norton Sound right up to Point Barrow the whole country wfl 

a vast level moorland, green with mosses and lichens and plentifud 

adorned with brightly coloured flowers. The alder and wUU» 

formed low bushes, and at Wainwright Inlet, a boundless plai;! 

without tree or shrub, and covered with mosses and Ucheo 

appeared in sight, and extended to the horizon. Great bogs ait 

swamps were visible on this dreary expanse, and reindeer, beaJ 

and wolves were wandering over its desolate surface, the oa 

animals to be seen in this solitary wilderness. The ice-cliffs 

Eschscholtz Bay were thoroughly examined by the officers of tl 

Herald, and the results of their investigations were very striki* 

The cliffs were found to extend along the southern shores of d 

bay for a distance of seven miles, and to be from forty to ninety fC 

high. They were formed of three distinct strata. On the top ^ 

a thin layer of decayed vegetable soil, from two to five feet thick, sU 

formed by the decay of mosses, lichens, and willow bushes, Tti 

came a layer of clay, sand, and gravel, from two to twenty feet tl^ 

» i^arraiivt ofBitehifs Voyagf, vol, ii. p. 599. 



T/ie Buried Elephants in (he Arctic Regiofts. 

iill of bones, teeth, and even ftair of animals. In this bed of earth 

he tusks of elephants (Mammoths) abounded, no fewer than eight 

ieing brought away ; the longest of these, though broken, was 

II feet 6 inches in length, and weighed 243 pounds- The other 

bones discovered at this place belonged to the musk-ox, buffalo, 

hoTse, and deer* Like all the other explorers who had visited the 

spot, the officers of the Herald observed the strong smell at the place 

"•here the bones were discovered, which they also noticed at other 

places on the shores of Eschscholtz Bay, and which, doubtless, pro- 

<^eded from decaying animal remains. The position of the bones 

"> the ice-cliffs is admirably described by Dr. Goodridge of the 

Sirald^ who says that **a Mammoth tusk having been noticed pro- 

t^^ding from the ground, was traced downwards by digging to the 

^ih of eight feet, and the skull, with a quantity of hair and woo!^ 

^as found lying on a thin bed of gravel, beneath which was solid 

^''^spfltrent ice. Enveloping the bones there was a bed of stiff clay, 

^eral feet in thickness, and mixed with them a small quantity of 

^^JcJcs and vegetable matter. A strong, pungent, unpleasant odour, 

^ that of a newly-opened grave in one of the crowded burial-places 

London, was felt on digging out the bones, and the same kind of 

'*el!, in a less degree, was perceptible in various other places where 

: cliffs had fallen," • 

Below the bed of sand and gravel containing the remains of 

phants and other animals, the officers of the Herald found that 

i cliffs consisted of pure ice^ from tift'enty to fifty feet in height. 

le ice was solid, but was yearly decreasing in thickness, and 

its melting, the peat and gravel fell down, causing icy rubble, 

t the bottom was pure ice, and this was quite solid at the 

Ottom of the cliff. Thus Kotzebue s statement was confirmed, and 

inion of Beechey — that the ice was a mere coating over the 

and gravel — was shown to be erroneous. It followed also that 

climate of Eschscholtz Bay must have for some time been grow- 

wirmer, in order to account for the continual decay of the ice- 

At the mouth of the Buckland, cliffs of ice were also dis- 

but no bones were found in them. A third scientific exami- 

'<>H had, therefore, fully confirmed the announcement of the dis 

of elephants' bones in the Arctic regions, and had demonstrated 

former times — not very long ago, speaking geologically — the 

te of the frozen regions of the North was much warmer than it 

present, and that in that period enormous herds of animals lived 

flourished in what is now a desolate wnldemess. 

' Zedfigy of the ^ Htrtdd* pt 7. 





The GeniUmoMS Magazine. 

Mote than tiiis, reccBt inTCsbgatians have brought to light tbc 
that, scattered all over Alaska, in its c^entral forests and in its 
uplands, bones and ttisks of Mammoths are found in great 
Sir H. HovQffth mentions that some time ago a skeleton 
of a Mammoth was foond near the sources of the Yukon,* and 
Dr. Dall refers to the finding of fossil ivory in Alaska, from the 
Mammoth (and perhaps also from the Mastodon), in the following 
words t 

*' Fossil ivory is not unconunoD In many parts of the valLe>s 
of the Yukon and the Kuskoqnim. It is usually found on the 
surface, not buried as in ^bcna ; and all that I have seen has been 
so much injured by the weather that it was of little commercial 
value. It is ttstially blackened, split, and so fragile as to break 
readily in fueces. A lake near Nushagak, the Inglutalik River, and 
the Kotto River, are noted localities for this ivory." ^ 

The ice-cliffs in Kotzebue Sound were examined by Dr. Dall in 
iSSo, and by Mr. Nelson in iSSi, and the bones of Mammoths were 
again Ibund in them by these explorers. On the bankaj^y^-'^er 
and middle Yukon also Mammoths' bones have been lound in great 
abundance, and they have also been met with along the course of the 
Porcupine River. It is also singular to note that the remains of the 
Mammoth have been discovered in the desolate islands of St George 
and St. Paul, which belong to the Pribilof group, and in the island of 
Unalaskba a tooth of a Mammoth was lately brought to light 

Let us now sum up the results of these discoveries. All round 
the flat shores of Rouebue Sound there are bones of Mammoths and 
tiac« of their remains, and in addition to the tusks and teeth 4 
these great elephants, there are found in the same region abundant 
remains of buffaloes, wUd horses, musk-oxen, and deer ; we may, 
therefore, conclude that the frozen soil in this portion of the Arctic 
legions is full of the remains of these animals, which all perished at 
the same period, and which no longer live in this region of the frorcn 
North. How the tusks, teeth, and bones of the elephants got int^i 
the ice-cliffs at Eschscholtz Bay we do not decide, and doubtless if 
the other ice-cliffs in this dreary region were thoroughly explored they 
would also be found to be full of Mammoths' remains, for the strong 
smell which has been found to come from these cliffs, in many places 
where no elephants' bones have been discovered, shows that decay- 
ing animal matter is present in them in great quantities. More than 
this, the whole region of Arctic America, from Kotzebue Sound il 



\ 



« TU MAmmotk and the Fl*od^ p. 30a. 
■ AloikA and its fi€smrca^ p 47^ 





€ Burte^^lffmrntfi^^f^K^^rctii Regions, 28 r 



fej" north as Point Barrow, abuunds in elephants' bones. This part 
of Alaska is a vast flat moorland covered wiih moss, and without a 
tree or even a bush, and the soil only a few feet below the surface is 
permanently froren. On these great plains, long ago, where now only 
^ few reindeer and arctic foxes occasionally appear, there flourished 
fe olden times a hardy vegetation, and vast herds of elephants, 
buffaloes, and musk-oxen wandered to and fro, which in some 
inexplicable manner were all swept away by an extraordinary cata- 
strophe, acconopanied by a change of climate equally remarkable. 

Txt us now turn to Siberia, and we shall find that precisely similar 
phenomena are presented in that wonderful country. 
V Siberia may be said to consist of two great zones or regions 
~ ^ich, roughly speaking, divide the country into two divisions. As 
*^e proceed from the south towards the north, and leave the steppes 
Behind us, we enter the great forest region, This extends from the 
pUrals to Kamtschatka, and reaches north as far as the Arctic Ciicle, 
"•whilst in the valleys the forests extend still further to the north. 
^^eyond the great belt of forests comes the region of the Tundras^ 
**'hich are bare moss-covered plains without bush or tree, and which 
Xtend in dreary monotony to the shores of the Arctic Ocean. Now, 
remains of the Mammoth and rhinocercs are found in both 
ons, but they chiefly abound in the great moss-covered plains of 
Tundras. When the Russians entered Siberia they heard from 
He natives strange stories about gigantic animals which lived under- 
ground, and which came up during the night. The Chinese also 
related how great beasts lived in Siberia in hidden caverns and holes 
i^ the depths of the earth, and that now and then they became visible. 
"Tlicse strange stories had a basis of fact in them, for they were 
feiinded on the undoubted tnith that from time to time perfect 
^^iti of the Mammoth and rhinoceros had been discovered in the 
^*^en soil of Siberia. 

Isbrant Ides, who traversed the Chinese ICmpire in 1692, lelates 

^ftit extracrdinary circumstances connected with these discoveries, 

**Jd after speaking of the annual inundations of the Siberian rivers, 

^ ^ys : ** The masses of earth deposited by these inundations 

*^**»ain on the banks, and becoming dry, VvC find in the middle of 

^*rti the teeth of the Mammoth, and sometimes even the Mammoth 

^Ure. A traveller who lived with me in China, and who employed 

^*bolc year in seeking for their teeth, assured me that he once 

^t^iind in a piece of frozen earth the head of one of these animals, 

iriih the flesh decomposed, with the tusks attached to the muzzle 

Irie those of elephants, and that he and his companions had great 

VOL. CCUtXVU, NO. 1965. U 



:^i - -^i_X5 






•,-j: :--l: ."■,-. .1.-- .-■^: n z=-:: " ^i.:.=f r:ii f:i:r= :c :2:r: liTerr: 
:i*'c :=s^ r^.-::- ~': : ur^fTT^r^ 1.:: i-: :^ r: 5:m =i-t- ^ rr::ousd 
-.-,.-:-. .-. L— - --. ^'. - -r-n.:- 1 r:^ i I-Cirzzi.ici ijcs ih^ icsaB! 

>.^. . -:::-.: :■ -..-.fir- ir-_-.-r -_:^. i:-i :'.^j=i—r.rJL^ 2^= z±iy tltfr^Tiis, 
:s.-^,.\ v-t .-V. r.ir.ii :; 1 -=l: ziirt Tzz^zrt ird :hi:ker Lirfie 
y* V .Vi.- -_ -.:.i: -..-.it: J- ■ ^1: ri -j± ;=i_i^-r." ijj;^ av. -thecounny 
Ti.: vi.-.: -- 1.- 1 v.:t i-Li'^i::!^ ti. :;: i^-iri :z: tbeT^irers. ar.d wcK 
-ir-^rri.-^- ."-~ii -. i-.i -1:. ii:-= =^:=:-=r:c5. The cinute 

•.-:■: ,«.'i-.-. -.: --.::•- t -.; '.i.-iL -;. :i. lit :::i=r e^inh presencd 

'."- r..: : ".:l:^ \ i . ..■.l;5i n^lt 1."-= .zr.prrsi::- it :he rime : Ik:*^ 

•' v^.r--; v.'.- :. rri.t -•- 1 :-.":".i:t : :r.f.nr-i-J:r.. In :he middle 
'.: .i .". '■';'.*. -r '.'-^ ?. -i'.ir_: —ft ■---•"/ 2.:::Te :r. explorin,' the 
r. ',.**' ■:.'■'- '-'--■■'•: ' "' "'--':"^- --"- i~.:r.^ :>.:5e -K-h: :her. vcyazedalonr 
r:/: ''ir-Ary ^^ :■.*.-.. r.:r.t ■-'ftr--- rr. :re j.:::vr :*-ir. :wo brothers named 
I. •.//;■>., ■- ro f.'.rr. 1731 :'. iT-f v:ya;ti to ar.d fro from the mouih 
*,i •:.- V-:r.': ':: ''^- -'-^ ■*'-^- '"-^ *-"- ■'-■ --^r-' *^^ '-e Tchoutchis on ihe 
r:.-.'. V# :.:..: r..ak:r.g t:.ei: v:ya^cs :he Lar»:ews were told byth^ 
i.;;*iV': '-.;^':^^'i^.^ that tr.-j bor.es, a-d even tke bodies of hug<^ 
M;iinrn'/J.'., w':r': i^ein;^ cor.tir.uaVA- found on the shores of the fro?^*^ 
o' '-.'iij an'l ''Orr>': of these bodies were even covered 7vith hair, and 
wrn: in a ]><:r(cr.l stale of preser\ation. None of these discoverie?! 
|,r;v.<:vr:r had as yet been examined by competent naturalists, butth*^ 
iur<-fUiil v(:rili<ati(;n was soon to take place. 

Ill ilu! winter of 1771, some native Siberians (Yakuts) »'^^ 
hwuWuy on llic banks of the river Vilui, which falls into the U"-^ 
iir;iily tw<» hundred miles nc;rth of Yakutsk. The countr)-on tn^ 




T^hc Suried Elephants in the Arctic Regions. 



l>a,nks of the Vilui is mountainous, and the hills are covered with 
dense forests full of bears and wolves. The Yakuts, whilst hunting 
neax the Vilui, were amazed at finding the body of a huge animal 
Vialf buried in the frozen sand, near a low gravelly bill on the binks 
of the river. The animal was a rhinoceros, and the carcase was 
lying on its right side in the sand, and was in a good state of 
preservation. The flesh was perfectly preserved, and was covered 
"w^ith skin which resembled tanned leather, and even the eydids had 
escaped decay. Strange to say, the body bore upon it stiff bunches 
of hair as stiff as bristles, so that the animal might be called the 
hairy rhinoceros. The horns were gone, but traces of them could 
\>e discovered- When a Russian official reached the spot the body 
had considerably decayed, and the flesh (like the remains at Ksch- 
scholtz Bay) exhaled a strong pungent odour. The soil near the 
VUui is of an extraordinary character, for it is perpetually frozen 
ai a depth of a few feet below the surface, and the rays of the sun 
in the brief summer never thaw the ground, in the most exposed 
tituations, beyond a depth of two yards. The body of the rhinoceros 
had consequently been preserved from decay, by the frozen soil by 
thick it was surrounded In 1772, fortunately for science, the 
celebrated naturalist Pallas was at Irkutsk, and thoroughly examined 
*<Jme of these remains. He was struck with their excellent preser- 
vation, and with the amount of hair which still remained on some 
<*f the limbs. Concerning the last feature, he writes ; " We have 
»evcr,so far as I know» observed so much hair on any rhinoceros which 
^ been brought to Europe in our times, as appears to have been 
pftsemed by the head and feet we have described.'^ Some remains 
^^ this rhinoceros are now to be seen in the Zoological Museum at 
St. Petersburg. 

In 1787 we hear of another similar discovery. The river Alascya 
''^s in hills west of the Kolyma, and after pursuing a winding course 
^Tough swamps and moss-covered plains, falls into the Arctic Ocean 
^^ a pomt some distance to the east of the mouth of the Lena. Now, 
*^ 1787 the river washed away a portion of its bank, and disclosed 
^he body of an enormous Mammoth, which was standing upright. It 
*^ as perfectly preserved as when it was entombed, as it was still 
*^<Jvered with skin, and in some places with hair. Now, it has been 
*fped by some that the Mammoths did not live in northern Siberia, 
"*^^ ihat they had their abode in the more genial regions far to the 
*^^th, and that their bodies were carried down by the great Siberian 
^^ers for hundreds of miles, until they reached the shores of the 
^ctic Ocean. This cannot have been the case with reference to the 



I 




rj r. J-: :.:•' ,•-. t- rr\ ::= -r/zr^izz^ ±. 

*/:.< Tir- :.:-v.v.-^r- .: . .»-:r:i:..-r : r- ~^ v-mzr I ^.r^ refer 
. .Jill Tir.r^ rT.tr-:^^.':-! -'- 1 -"-=: -.-ur:-::-- t:zsjzi.:zx^t r*- i com- 

rx af-immcr:'" .•.rr=. r: r.= ::-r^— v.i»i±r rcinr zze ^r.-< — ^ rrf the 
L^na. a-.» /c :•.':- i ^ TiiLiir^z^.'::^ ir/.-zLn^ -~"*^'"'^y' fr*^*-" ^ *a *T 

rsr. j^tn. ' inr. :.-.'▼ -t^tr :ti:i:r± -:t± in* vis ^^--^iiFi^trly rhi^ei fcr 

.-,: Vi/v*.»^ V ': ■ :-t-= -T-i-i:! -.-r".!;.!:!: :?n_ I-- 1 rani jfsaa^J^ 

r/ V..-: c./.V't-'; r> r.^rrfi :: -->•= ;-i:e r.e ■■-2s. hi^erer, :oo lateL 

Wv.-i t^ ar.d i>»n 'id d^ : irri -^x-lj il tbt f esh. >? tha: Hrtle more 

•r^Ar. \rj: \L*i.f/^'- ---' "-'^ Mi.-=i:-'- rt=L3l=ed S'.ilU he 5'jcceeded in 

tfA.*-J^:.'l :•'.»-' 7 ;'Visds wt^h: of hair, ini he deuched a portion of 

tti/: hi'Jft wr.i'ii was o>ver*d »::r. thick rir : he also observed that the 

:tTnffti\ wa.% iiThisYitd with a lor.z rriane The description given by 

Arjarirv ffi tr.'; Mammoth, and of the place where its body wasfoundi 

V: VI inters: ■■/.i"g i^»^t ^ '^il^ quote his own words. He says: "Tb^ 

jila/ 1' wh«;rc I found the Mammoth is about sixty paces distant irot^ 

th*- %lior'', an'l nearly one hundred paces from the escarpment of tb* 

iM' iihiu whirh it had fallen. This escarpment occupies exactly tb« 

iiiirldlf lirtwccn the two points of the peninsula, and is two mil^ 

Imit/ ; ;nwl in the l>la<-e where the Mammoth was found this rock has 

ii ni'i|iriulir.iil.'ir rlcvation of thirty or forty toises. Its substance is a ■ 

I Inn, piiff u «• ; it inclines towards the sea; its top is covered withi " 

l.iyri' nl iiioH;* and friable earth fourteen inches in thickness. During 

i)i<* hnit ol the month of July a part of this crust is melted, but 

till- HMit ri'innins frozen. Curiosity induced me to ascend two ■ 

ntlu'i lull'* »« soMU' distance from the sea ; they were of the same I 



The Buried Elephants in I he Antic Regions, 285 



substance, ^nA less covered with moss. In various places were seen 

enormous pieces of wood of all kinds produced in Siberia ; and also 

Mammoths' horns in great abundance appeared between the hollows 

of the rocks ; ihey were all of astonishing freshness. The escarp- 

I meni of ice was from thirty- five to forty toises high \ and according 

B^o the report of the Tungusians, the animal was, when they first 

^^■jP ii, seven toises below the surface of the ice." This account, it 

^Blb be noticed, calls to mind the ice- cliffs in Kotzebuc Bay. Adams 

Biw cliiTs of pure ice, covered wiih moss, containing Mammoths' tusks 

and remains, and he observed driftwood on the icy shores : these 

itere the very phenomena observed by Kotzcbue when examining 

tlbc ice-chffs at Eschscholtz Bay. Adams brought away nearly all ihe 

bones of the Mammoth, as well as portions of its hide and hair, and 

ibe skeleton is now in the Zoological Museum at St» Petersburg. 

After the discovery of the Mammoth, which was examined liy 

Adams, many more bodies were found, and the fmding of iht* 

carcases of these great hairy elephants has gone on in Siberia down 

to the present day. Near the river Tas, in northern Siberia, another 

body was found by the Samoides in 1839, which was discovered buried 

ift frozen grave), and retained its ilesh and thick red hair. In fact, 

H seems quite certain that all northern Siberia is one great graveyard 

^f Mammoths, and that these gigantic elephants are buried in the icy 

*o'l in vast numbers, and also that their bodies are still covered wnh 

skin, and thick hair.' 

fiut the most interesting account of the finding of a Mammoth's 

*y is that which is given by a German engineer in the Russian 

^^ce, called Benkendorf, It appears that in the summer of 1846 

^^nkendorf was sur\^eying, in a steam-launch, the river Indigirka, 

'*^tch falls into the .Arctic Ocean some distance to the east of the 

^'^outh of the Lena. The country was flooded, and the Indigirka, 

**ollen by the melting snows, foamed furiously along and tore up 

'^ banks in all directions. While examining the flooded country, and 

****Mling on the Hat moss-covered banks of the river, Benkendorf and 



his 



Companions saw a huge black mass floating amidst the rushing 



^ters, which they speedily recognised as the body of a Mammoth. 

J»cy made the carcase fast with ropes and chains, and next mornin"; 

they succeeded in bringing the body to the bank ; the appearance it 

ihxs\ presented shall be described in Benkendorfs own words^* who, 



' Stit H, Howofth gives a most interesting list of these discoveries m las 
ible work eotitlet] 'Hie Mammoth and ihe Flood^ chapter iv. 
■ I qootc from an article by Professor Boyd Dawkins on Tkt Rmnfit of the 
Jfyi^^^h^ in the Popular Scufut Enfiew for l86S. 




2 So Th€ Gentleman s Magazine. 

*i:tT telling b:w the gigantic elephant's body was brought to Lmd, 
proceeds -ls follows : '• Picture to yourself an elephant with the 
"x>iy c:»verei wiir. ihick far. about thirteen feet in height and fifteen 
:r- .irjT.r., ».:h t-sks eigh: feet long, thick, and curving outward 
zi uSe:r er.d>. 2 s::*u: rrjnk of six feet in length, colossal limbs of 
.x-e .^i A r.-.:'!\-i: in ihickness. and a tail naked up to the end, 
w'r :>. v::s c.vtr^i -a-i-j: :h:ck rjfty hair. The animal was fat and 
»i".. iT:»-n d =:.:>. hsi cvenaken him in the fulness of his poweis. 
H:f ^v^r.-r-Ti-:-. ke. br^-e. rjked ears lay fearfully turned up over 
--r«i ri:.i 1::.: :ie &h raiders and the back he had stiff hair 
i;«:L: 1 ■:•:: .- ;.r^il% Ike - niane. TT.t long outer hair was deep 
:r:vT.. ^-i :.:.-m'.- r:»::ri- Tzt zip of the head looked so wiidi 
ire >-- r»,r;:--:ii u ::i : ::::-> i^: :: resrmbled the rind of an old 
:.~k :-;■;. ;- -^j j-^i-s .: t;^ cleaner, and under the outer hair there 
i. t^-.-i'i i-. .--vrirr ; vcol. verr 5>^fL w^rm, and thick, and of 1 
■:.. : \ :<-: \- : .- . _: Tv^ -^; ,r2^ wtll protected against the coM. 
".>. • - . . 1 ;,;^-:^:* :f :he zr-izn: w:is fearfully strange and lili 
.; •- - -:: :-; -*-:•= ."c :~ rr=:sen: eler'narts. As compared with 
-'- -'■ -' -i.: r.:.r:?w ::5 beii wis rrczri. the brain-case low ind 
T»i " r . : : ■ i :-. r k i- i =:.- ± were zi-h, ^er. The teeth «« 
V, ..-»;•- . . ;»_: ; .rr.Ln: i? zn awk'w:ird arima-, but compaied 

* " * > " .;*.::? L5 IT .--nrii= 5:re»i ::? a coarse, ugly, dray- 
''•' ^ - - . ■ : :. .-£•>: n-sc : :c - irelirz: of fear as I approached 

-•- . ■ i.;". V i: -r.t~'i-i i ;=< g^ve the animal an ap- 

^ - . - -^ :v .^- : ~ ^-.: r:;re i- ; nczier.: and dfrtrov 

" * * *--■•< . -. :i:T-z-^:i> thf "rwr.k? cz :he h\-er «r^ 

^^ > ■ . ■ . i- —■: :r :-.f r-ij. r; f.:.:d. u=d s-:- a sudden 

-^' * • "" -v;.. .-r-i-i -. :^i -jr:^. i-d swe: : away ih«5 

" ^ • - - •. - -:::^ :L.5c:vir- f: Ma=::::c:h5' bodi^^ 
^ "■ - "^ m:. .-.-: : >T • - =rr f=jL:: - u- -ber coSi-arc-*^ 

* " * ^ ^ ^ • .* v:-. :..v.:~il ir i ir= ::r.5:ar.::v takinSS 

' ^ . V . i.. V:- vi r,^: r^-in :rird:ha:ir** 

? - * -.1 - -;:sv:-i:e - i.cerr.essesw m »- 
'^ ■ ^ > ^ V . ,-:. ^: r.r.- w^ie-g tribes ^^ 
' ""^'^ '- •- ■ *-■-•- n- T^> T'r.ise Siberians al:^^ 

^ '^■' -->^> T . ::, iscr.rifw :r =::^hE lead^ ^ 

«^ 

....->v N.>;9»ii.r 5<r_^-=:<nt. Hence ^ 
.^- :cc:t< ITS r<>ri rcund. andi» 
^ - >5-v --"csw .2 :act. :: IS now qniC- 



'^ -'- -'^ - -"- i.-:- - i:=>^ jr. ::.rc.r;: u:e carca5«>^ 



Buried Elephants in the Air tic Regions, 2S7 



Certain that the whole of the north of Siberia, from the Kara Sea to 
Bebringfs Straits, is one vast graveyard of elephants, and that in the 
K>zen soil of these desolate plains the bodies of these great animals 
■re buried in vast numbers. 

r ^lore than this, the bones, tusks, and teeth of the Mammoth are 

found in enormous quantities scattered over the ground and buried 

in the soil of northern Siberia. So numerous are these relics on the 

plains along the shorts of the Arctic Ocean, that the native Siberians 

B^Te busy all through the brief summer collecting Mammoths* tusks 

^^nd teeth, which they sell to the Russian traders. Bodies of the 

Mammoths are only occasionally discovered, but their tusks and 

teeth can be found in countless numbers. .Still more extraordinary 

is the fact that in the Arctic Ocean, to the north of Siberia, there are 

folate islands covered with ice nearly all through the year, which 

ite Utrraily packtd with bones of elephants, rhinoceroses, and 

buffaloes 1 These islands lie in the Polar Sea, north of the mouth of 

^ Lena, and are known as the New Siberian Islands, while others 

nearer ihe shore are called the LiakofiT Islands, after their discoverer. 

The quantity of fossil ivory that has been taken away from these 

islands is most extraordinary. In 182 1 a supply amounting to 

*o,ooo pounds was obtained from the New Siberian Islands, and for 

scores of years ivory hunters have enriched themselves at these 

*oaderful islands, whilst the supply seems to be practically exhaust- 

^. and even the sta appears to contain in its bed an unlimited 

^'ipply of ivory.* 

Northern Siberia is at present an icy wildernessj in which the 

suiBiDer lasts little more than two months. The ground is perma- 

"^ntly frozen at a depth of only five or six feet beneath the surface, 

^ this perpetually frozen soil extends downwards to an unknown 

%th. The only vegetation found in the great plains of northern 

^'^a is composed of mosses, lichens, and a few feeble flowers, so 

^3 the reindeer, arctic fox, and bear alone can exist in these icy 

''^Ous^ which have well been called " The grave of Nature." Com- 

^^ sense says that the Mammoths coiiid never have lived in 

°^Hem Siberia when that country possessed its present icy climate, 

i "^ ^hese great elephants could then have obtained no food At a 

/^cr period, then, this dreary region must have enjoyed a temperate 

'**^ate, and when forests overspread the Siberian plains which reach 

^e Arctic Ocean, the Mammoth, rhinoceros, and buflalo wandered 

"^ them in vast numbers. How were these great animals de- 

^ / The New Siberian and Lbkoft" Islands were thoroughly explored by Baron 
^^U «,d Professor Bunge in i8S6. 








food roled 

The soil 
c ci^ikants 



FTrTT- ■• ■" ZZ^ Z ZOT 




.=: i=± -Lz: IE ::^ — =r.ti ■=T . ri:V^ y mtnr k. and tbe 



e It SfcCnersa. s nova 



:j.ts wHrn_ET- 



2S9 



AMONG THE FISHERMEN. 



RTJN out from Yarmouth on this bright summer morning. 
Away from the sluggish VarCj croM'ded with some of the 
6nest fishing smacks in the world, away over the sea-water dis- 
coloured by the sands, out into the open till the fiat shore fades and 
the heaving billows toss all around ! 

Onward we rush for hours, curvetting over the rolling waters, and 
then in the dim light of evening, or it may be in the dawn of the 
next day, we sight the glint of white wings on the horizon. Larger 
ley grow and ever larger ; nearer and nearer they approach, and 
then, behold ! we are among a fleet of vessels cruising hither and 
thither, but each at a respectful distance trom its fellow. 
•' What cheer, oh ? " 
** All well." 

Deftly we are steered into the line of ships ; over goes a huge 
beain with a monstrous big net attached, and we find ourselves 
cmising in the line with the rest. We have joined one of the North 
Sea fishing fleets, and we are now part and parcel of it. 

There are many of these fleets— -perhaps a score- cruising in the 
North Sea and employing about 20,000 men. They hail frojii the 
north-east coasts of Britain^from Lowestoft, Yarmouth, Grimsby^ 
Hull, and so on ; and each boat of the fleet cruises for eight weeks 
at a time, all the year round. Then it returns home for a week's 
change ; and after the seven days ashore its fishermen set forth again 
to join their neighbours toiling on the deep. In all weathers they 
may be found afloat— when the sunlight sparkles brightly on the 
curling wave, or when sleet and snow swirl down in bitter cold. 

They arc deep-sea fishermen, and cruise, some of them, 250 
miles or so away from home. Each fleet has its name, "Short Blue," 
•• Red Cross," ^^Durrant's," " Elwood's," &c. They fish by trawl-nets, 
that is, huge bags of net enclosing a large quantity of water, and kept 
open by a big beam, varying from 36 to 50 feet long, which is trawled 
or dragged astern by the boat as it cruises. A man of great experience 
— known as the Admiral—has charge of each fleet, ajid signals when 
to dip trawls and when to draw them. 




-yj-i . £«- ^T^f^-.-WAcr .- 3!a£az2JB£. 



- « "..^. 



iCll ■- 


. .-s^~:=. 


Sl^Tl- 


". "T :.: 


n .. >i ar. ::-' 


-^^\- -^-jsZL .: 


X-^i;rt:- 


-.JlkZ, a 


▼"151- 


-.•" trc 



-_.!_• TTjTi. z i= — ulisnm*- xbDoigh the ubiqaitous 
:..T ;r_=4 u."«:L i: lisss: ir tine izboci. No)okeis 
ir^ii 1 £=ix 2^c:£: 2. 3i£ zsuini bc^cv lo haul in the 
._ r- v^'^s zrt -mmso-raiE ai^wn cm liie stout litdc 
r'T?T-..:.ig IT -verr iani : n: i:^e, wben the bitter 
i.i.ic :=-=. :r :L~.r?.c snuir lashes the iifcce, to lianp 
-irjiii ::: v.rt -ji.;=zj:- _: ztl; it. tie izsw. dc txen if sream be used 
.; liu r tr:z: "Hii iti. .--nz ":ȣri irt ibt ve: neis to be coiled up 
L*T .Lzr.-irz __t:-. :r iix: pzrr- iizs^ znt ibe 5sb to be sorted and 

T-.-i'^ -.:i::i -_:t :*a2:r^ jc ibt bnxes of nsh on board the 
'j-.^-'iTi. Tl-. f.rrii :rt rsri-Lr.v T-.snei rj sezmers, and sometimes 
-.n :::s: l:^ i^ I'Ij^il -.. ; :.lii;ii '.^t zirry bame ihe fish that has been 
ii-'_-:-'_ T:.; r_zr. ^^.£ -jk ±&i ::z brxts and feny them to the 
■^LTTirrz — ?" s' ii 1.1.1=:.. .'jiii I. fiiSr::!; asd dangerous peifonnanoe 
:: j« •.: rr:-^ \2.^ :,: r.^ :.- bisLrf. Low fn the stem thougb the 
''ji.T- -T5 -rj.y :•*_ -. t: -Jit bemiiz sea tosscs them up and down l&e 
c.-ciilt-iit'.?. L.- i :::e- r^-iscs tbtir rafi high above the little boaW 
'-»cl'-v. T-'r..'/::, ^ -JLeir rzr^ zre danced about hither and thitheii 
hiAT- £^-d '-:-», -:•=-:- career c: being sicashed against the carrier's 
«:ct. ir.d ni^ ?_litn!T s-sr-^ni- fir away. 

'I ^ r.tivt L.-.^.ii ibiard :r. >ra5 like this requires strength and 
d';>::trl:y ir.dtti. Htre r.ir.ds a sto-t athlete of a man poised on 
\:,t :r.*-ar. <.i l t.-^ ar.d hc'.dir.z a.ofi a big box of fish. Crash! 
•he boit */-rr.:.r a.'iir.s: the iron side of the carrier. Swing I the box 
hcs gone, '^-t :"•■-- next secor.d another wave has washed the boat i 
away, and bhe := sct-sawing and leaping at her rope some distance 
off. Ifad ht n':t ^wung the box aboard at that ver^- second, he 
would have Vj]>\>\\:Q over with his heavy burden, down into the 
Ijoat it:^clf, fjT overboard into the seething sea, or, at the very 
J>csi, he would have lost his chance and had to nurse his heavy boJ^ 
until another favouraljic moment : as it is, he is heaving at another 
trunk and j^rcparing to swing it aboard at the smallest opportunity. 

Tliis son of thing is going on round a large part of the carrie*" 
Tilt: small craft arc flocking near like a covey of birds. Thcyha^""' 
( asl their ropes aboard and are fastened tight, but the heaving s^ 
causes ihetn lo jump and strain and see-saw at their ropes inth^ 
shadow of the rolling hull. 

Hoarding the fish lasts for an hour or more, and sometimes i,sc^ 
i»r i.Ooo l)ox(^s arc put on the carrier. Then, when the boats are a - 
•Msi off, full speed ahead is the word, and away steams the vessel fo^ 



Among ike Fishermen ^ 



191 



lingsgate, or other ports such as Yarmouth or Hull, at ten and a 

miles an hour. 

The fishing fleet may be 300 miles from Billingsgate, but the 
friers are pretty punctual. They know where the various fleets are 
\ be found, and they appear amongst the smacks with admirable 
gularity. Should they come at night, a hissing flight of rockets 
Etokens their presence. Then the fleet begins to cluster round 
pro all sides, yet keeping a safe distance^ and soon the small boats 
IQ pass between. Strong, stout boats they are, almost half as broad 
I they are long ; strong, and stout too, are the smacks themselves, 
kd strong and stout the carriers. 

They all need their strength for steady, regular work on the wild 
Orth Sea, For if it has its delightful days of summer it has its 
•dly rough weather of winter. The huge waves come crashing along, 
Hashing and swamping ever>*thing within their power. 
I The steam carriers are of somewhat unusual shape— that is, 
It bow runs up very high, but the bulwark sloi)es sharply down 
» the stern. Thus they can cut through raountamous waves and 
jlkecp their decks fairly dry, while their powerful engines send their 
III steadily along in heavy weather. 

The coming of the carrier is a great event of the day in the 
bep-sea fisher s life, but the hauUng of the trawl is another. Even 
N: most seasoned veteran shows some interest in this, to see what 
sh is in the great net. Then there are the meals, and, of course, 
ill forms a chief article of diet. No persons can get fresher fish 
>an the sraacksmen, an advantage which perhaps they do not fully 
fjreciate. 

So the time wears along, marked by hea^y bursts of toilsome 
^, some hours of leisure, and spells of sleep. Day follows day, 
■til at length the two months have passed, and the smack returns 
^ her week at home. 

Steam trawlers are making their appearance on the fishing- 
^unds. They are usually specially built vessels of about 100 
^; they can steam well and are fashioned on lines fit for the rough 
^iher they have to encounter. 

Such a vessel will probably have a trawl-beam of elm nearly 
^ f<?ei long. To each end is fixed an iron foot or runner, like the 
*^ner of a sledge, which, resting on the bottom of the sea, raises 
'^ beam a yard ox so above the ground The top of the net*s 
'^nih is fastened to the beam, the lower being weighted to drag 
' *Jown, and keep it gaping open. Its length is about 60 feet, 
^^ \i gradually narrows to the end called the bag, where the 




I 



292 




The Genlkmans Alagaztfte. 



Near the mouth the 



meshes are closer, 
inches in size. 

To work this huge and heavy net a steam winch and wire 
hawsers are used. As it sweeps along at a depth of sometimes 
nearly 200 feet, its weight through the water lowers the steamers 
speed to about hall its usual rate, and causes the vessel to roll 
horribly— to a landsman — from side to side. And so she swings 
along, rolling from port to starboard, gathering up a rich gleaning 
from the sea. 

And sometimes the catch is a very good one. As the steam 
winch gets to work, and presently the huge beam comes up, and 
the "bag" of the net floats on the uneven surface of the water, 
it is seen full of a phosphorescent heap. With a right goodwiW 
it is drawn aboard, and when it is unfastened the fish fall 00 
deck knee-deep about the lucky men. Imagine standing literall; 
knee-deep in fish, glittering and gleaming and slimy, in the palfl 
starlight. 

There is a monster halibut, p>erhaps 300 lbs. in w«ght, soiufi 
big cod, a dog-fish, skate, herring, flat fish in number, and haddock 
galore. Haddock, perhaps, are the greatest in quantity, then cod 
or flat- fish of various sizes ; but whatever they are, all the varieiia 
are sorted into the boxes, and back goes the trawl-net into the sca- 

Once uixjn a time floating grog-shops, called copers^ used w 
cruise among the fleets, and cause incalculable mischief. They hailed 
from foreign ports, Dutch, German, or Belgian, and sold an utterly 
vile and abominable liquor called aniseed brandy, which used to inflame 
even the strong North Sea fishermen to madness. Further, when 
money ran low, as it is apt to do when wasted in drink, fish and gear 
belonging to the boat were stolen at times, and exchanged for ihe 
vicious stuffl And when, after an orgie on the coper^ the men were 
returning drunken to their smack, some of them have gone to thi^ 
bottom through their inability to manage their craft properly ; w< 
still, it is said that some men became so maddened that, after ragii 
like demons, they have sprung overboard and sunk like lead in 
watery depths. 

But in 1SS2 the practical Mission to the Deep^Sea Fishermen' 
started, having as one of its chief objects opposition to the 
It sold tobacco as the c'eptrs did, but much cheaper ; it has suppli* 
good and readable literature instead of the vile stuff offered by th 
floating grog-shops ; it has attended to the injuries and sores of the fis 
men. The Mission vessels, nearly a dozen in number, are fl< 
churches, libraries, and dispensaries, and three of them ate 



^ 



Among the Fis/iertPten, 293 

ped bospitals for the treatment of serious injuries, such as the 
ages of limbs. In a few years the copers were nearly all driven 
le sea by the spirited and cheerful opposition. 
[erring fishing is the crown or flower of the smacks men's year, 
ally, miles of nets are used in the iiidustr>\ The " harrin " — 
je men call them — swim in shoals, and trawl-nets are not 
The boat slips out from harbour, with her nets duly 
d. and shoots away to meet the shoals. Overhead float the 
H||arp-eyed and ready to pounce when the herring swing in 

Presently, over goes a buoy, made of sheepskin and puffed out 
t air ; the net is attached to the buoy, and as the boat flies 
ird, the net with corks to float it, stretches over the sea. To the 
!rend of the net leads are fastened, which sink it in the water, 
11, when the long net is out, the men wait. 
Look ! a bright gleam flashes on the water. It floats onward 
ird the buoyed-up line, and the men gaze with eager interest ; 
it sway still further onward to where the deadly net hangs^ 
ly to clasp the silvery "harrin'' in a last embrace? Yes, the 
ll is coming this way ! One buoy bobs under, then another, 
then the whole line of corks plunges beneath the waves. The 
Sis begin to move. First, one buoy is hauled in, and then the 
ll of netting is seen thickly studded with the silver)' fish. They 
I to swim their way onward, but the meshes caught their gills, 
they are prisoners, held fast 

Heavy work is this, the hauling in of the huge net — perhaps 
e thousand yards of it— filled with weeds and sea rubbish, as 
as fish. The hold is soon loaded with a glittering mass, and as 
boat becomes piled with her cargo she heaves but heavily to 
roll of the sea. She is becoming too full, and the skipper must 
id his sails for home. 

Herring are surface or floating fish. Like pilchards and mackerel 
' are found not far from the surface of the sea, though even a 
sh from some outside body will send them diving dowTiward. 
er denizens of the deep, called bottom fish, are found, as the 
le implies, not far from the bottom of the sea. These fish, 
jh are principally haddock, cod, plaice, soles, and turbot, are 
{ht by the trawl-nets or by line. 

[)ti some parts of our coasts nets are spread for surface fish 
' the shore. The tide runs far out, and leaves the sands or 
l-flats nearly dry. A line of poles is fastened in the sand, 
ing out to sea, and with nets hung between : at the end of the 




I 



296 



The GcntUmari 5 Magazine. 



monster was lanced and harpooned J^io ind again, until ai 
mighty struggles it died. Sometinies a boatload of men was 01 



enonnous tail. The whale 
which made oil, and for 



was, of coon 
the whalebone 




turned by the lashings of its < 
valuable for its fat, 
yielded- 

But whale-fishing is not what it was. At first sight there is 
much connection between the freedom of the le^nathans of the 
and the garish gas and white electric light of our streets* But 
use of these illuminants, and the discoveries of other materials fc 
liibncating machinery than whale oil, have largely reduced the hunting^ 
of these monsters of /he sea. They may gambol as they list, for 
there is not now such a demand for their blubber or their bone. 

At one time the British whaling fleet numbered over 150 vessels ; 
now they are under a score. It was also a fluctuating business, and 
that caused capitalists to be shy of embarking their money in these 
ventures. But steam has penetrated to even this branch of industry 
—possibly to endeavour to revive it, or, if we may be forgiven the 
pun, to put more " steam " and go into it. Yet with the advant 
of steam -whalers, and even vessels passing the winter in Green 
the fishery does not pay~a matter-of-fact test to which tnost ihii 
have to submit m this practical workaday world. 

So it looks as though whaling is doomed, especially as much 
is now obtained from seals, whose skins are also of commercial value 
The sperm-whale fisher>' in the South Seas is chiefly in the hands 
our American kinsmen. 

Yet if whale-hunting is declining, food fisheries are increasing^ 
at all events m value. Statistics which have been collected under 
Government since 1 885 point to a steady rise. The money value at 
the port of landing may be estimated at seven millions sterling yearly 
— figures which are far beyond those of Norway, Holland, France, or 
even of our Canadian brethren ; while in England and Wales alone it 
has been estimated that there are over 8,000 boats and more ll 
43,000 men and boys employed in the industr}-. 

K. M. HOLMES. 




IK 






^ BUFFALO RUN AT ONE TREE 
^ CREEK. 

UKBROKEN plain, rolling as far as the eye can reach in an 
endless succession of hill and hollow, scantily covered with 
short grass— not making a smooth sward like an English lawn, nor yet 
dotted with myriads of flowers as the prairies are popularly supposed 
to be, but short, coarse wire-grass, growing in little tufts, between 
rhich the hard thirsty clay soil shows plainly, baked by the hot siin 
July and August to a dirty yellow colour, shaded in basins where 
is less parched with a faint tinge of green. On a knoll, beside 
le of the larger hollows, still containing a little water, was pitched 
survey camp, consisting of four tents and a dozen Red River 
irts, and over all the bright August sun shone with the clearness 
id brilliancy of early autumn. More than the usual Sunday con- 
rnt per>'aded everything \ even the horses, standing knee-dee{) 
the grass bordering the pond (called " slough " in the parlance of 
►e West), seemed lazier and more drowsy than usual, enjoying the 
raxra fresh air and their well-earned rest. In one of the tents, 
^ivhose door flaps w-ere thrown wide» two men were lounging, one 
a camp- stretcher, and the other on a tumbled pile of blankets 
[and buffalo robes. The small folding table bore an assortment of 
Im plates and cups containing the remnants of what we dignified by 
(ihc title of lunch, a meal consisting of cold bacon, bread, ai}ple-jack, 
[and the ubiquitous tea that is the mainstay of a Canadian woods - 
loan's or plainsman's life ; and the floor of the tent w^as littered with 
numbers of letters and papers. Yesterday had brought the mail 
courier, and the morning and previous night had been spent in 
jCvelUng in the unusual luxury of a good square read, all the more 
lished as fully two months had passed without a word from the 
[outside world or a sight of any face other than those of the ten men 
>f rhe party. 

Colton lay back among his blankets puffing a short pipe con- 

itedly and reading over and over again two letters, but giving most 

►f his attention to the one in feminine characters, his cheerful English 

VOL- CCLXXVII. NO. 1965. X 



J 



^ffalo Run at One Tree Creek. 



■99 



■ft ' 

I 



until when a mile or two had been passed we began 
\i for antelope, riding*on the tops of the highest rolls in the 
d searching the field with a double glass, an article almost 
sable in this sport, as the American prong-horn is a very small 
in comparison with his African cousins, and his colour so 
«sembles the parched surface on which he lives that keen 
required to distinguish him from a tuft of grass or large thistle. 
liles out, ourselves undiscovered, we saw a fine buck, and 
ring to circumvent him 1 found that Colton was dividing the 
of an attack of *' ague '* with his bronco. As our heads rose 
dine of a hill, the cal'H appeared about five hundred yards 
va curious basin-shaped depression in the prairie, of which 
B in front of us formed the circular rim. One look showed 
horses could get no nearer, so we accordingly picketed them 
ollow in which we were sheltered, and I, by virtue of age and 
kce, directed the attack. 

IT only chance,*' I said, " is to keep along the outside of this 

sheltered by it, and work round towards hira in the hope 

dge may bring us near enough for a shot, or be cut by a 

valley, or that he may feed nearer. He doesn't look as if 

white hat would humbug him. If you follow round to the 

mil go this way. They have almost no sense of smell, and 

in sight for protection." 

fright," said Colton, with a sort of hysterical quiver in his 
lis fingers gripping the rifle till they showed white under 
sunburn, and we separated ; but before I had gone more 
hundred yards the sheltering ridge failed me, through the 
t walked in rising up and flattening out to its level. Hunters' 
vdecreed that 1 must not encroach on my comrade's ground, 
refore, being out of the hunt myself, I sat down to watch his 
mts, and ver>' amusing they were. Stooping almost double, 
)ping as softly as if approaching a camp of hostile Indians, 
\ rifle in readiness for instant use, he stole cautiously down 
ffw, even breathing with care, but unluckily with his cap of 
id white tweed held well above the crest of the hill ; and in 
,e direction the unsuspecting buck fed slowly, so that the 
esult turned on whicfi first sighted the other. Nearer and 
bey approached, and I, seeing that he must be directly oppo- 
game and well within two hundred yards, beckoned frantically 
to look up and take his shot. But Colton had apparently 
)oint to be reached before showing himself, and the cloth cap 
Jowly on to within the buck's line of sight i the next moment 

ats 




.^ 7 .It Gc?:.:tnians Magazine. 

re ^^^ ^---'^ "-. --. ^'^- — '^ down went his graceful head in tk 
--:■•--'■-"";- ^"■*: ^:'-^^-^ peculiar lo him, and then followed a 
>'---. -':"'' - :}- ^' '^'■-y.^ ^'^'^-y yards of Colton. A steady 
5--i-'i -• •': -■^- --;-'-= 7-^- a :r-chtcned wheel, and he was off like 
e-.e Tir.i- '^;; ;\V'!-"ri'"A!^^ ?^"t^ '^'^ distance, crawled cautiously 

-7 "-"- -'-" " .' " tj'-^— ^--CT sr.ct. An anxious look— nothing 

<::: r. r- =- -"_; "■ J f^;. 1";^ /" f-'' derisive yell of " Ah, tenderfoot !" 
"re >:Jr:-r:^" = >- - ^r.- stcvcsi upright to find master «i^' at 
■— - '■-'': " : " '^'J' "^"-'-$2. ^^ ^ 5-ggested, "what that idiot 
^-^-"-- " ■•; :,V;::* '"^:-*"di::-:eniper, for there was some 
c; :"i ----■ "'y'\ =; "."^^"'7^*^--^^^^ ^^'d acknowledged that he had 
Si-." f * V ",7_ ; :^; A' ".V: .'^^^^^^ -owhere but straight ahead, 

'• ■--'-■ '■■; ''^"^ ■ r^ T" ^^^n^ numberless ravines and 

s- ^> ■" ' ■-] ^r:;? "' J.':^^^h~'^^.^ Canon, on the Red Deer 

•^ -\ -"-■ ■ - *■ ^." - -;— : -'^ -^J :s- How it got its naraeoT 

" ■ ■ ;;; ^ .:f " "^ ^^--^.v.ure. seldom at fault, is hen 

> -^. 1- -.: r-:.. - r- ^r^::: ::ver. working for ages of geologic 

; .. -i> r.: - c-^— :. >:^e-. r.— dred feet below the level of 

:-- v ;. -. .-- :.-> r.r.. y >.wr. ::s course at the bottom ; the w- 

: - :c-v> >-:■- rjy.e =:^r.>-c..o.i7=^ rocks, ironstones, and daji 

:-j:: .^- v.->; :-; -^j^ — :^.'^.*;?1*.'^ "J -^* !'^'^^ ^*" ^^^^ or vegeiatioo, 

■"'; "' '\ '"^ ■" ' ■ :" ".^IV^J"" ^ \"*;'^'^ ^^ ^^^^^ brightens the 

y • ■ ■ '"'"^ ■■ -" . '1^^^" """^ --"y--^ ^y branching canons, it is 

.' ^-,. . :. -.- >^ :--.: -i::? :-.:r.e has wrou^h: ihe curious and 

>^- ^ ^ ;-"^^ ;;' -"^^y^ :-^^^^ -^e -inds -f the Indians the 

. v.. . . : .:.:". ».:.r ::\::.~,: ."■.:> -"cr.cint deniDns. 

^ ■ * '" ■■'' '■ ■ y ■ -^ - ■■ "^- :^"'^«^^ nie :he creeps;' said 
V • - : - ,::-:>^ :-- " -v bay< :;, ^h^ ^.i^in. *-And yet,I 
^" - - -• '^^' ■ ■"" ■.■■^■=«^ s-.j-.d. Vou remember that I 
-^- "-"- ■-■- ^i|^^"~>e I Kid had a row with my 
' -^ - --^ - -'- -"• •* ""■- I may as well tell youthe 
^'^'" * . » " -■> -"-: I ••^.--5 er.^aced :o the lister of an 

;'; "• " ^ ■...:■ -: ■;:--:t. -^-ncei, I believe, by the 
> -.-v?. -. .r,-. :: nji-k;::::: ::. arc as I was, while i« 
. .'.■. . .;>:-..-: :~ ■.:". i '.:»x: r.iy temper and came 
[[•^ -' ^^ -■- •■• :.:■.:: :. .: r-? d:r.c. :? r.-.^ke my fortune. I 
":^"^ ;-* -.^ ^.■- :*:.-.:>.■..; r.-. r.-.«de .:. I -ied working fori 

i!!. *. ^ ^" >.-.\"-;/*. ■•' --• .-.:: :>.c :cv,- m.-^r.:hs I couM standof 
'''"y- ''^^''^; '- ^'- ^ \-' " - ■ " : ■■■ • -~- "-^ V'''^?';c:s, and, worst ofall, 
*^'<^->o .x-.i :,v. ..'. s,v.^. ..-._-.: "- :he vas: diiTerence. Then 1 



\* . 






Buffalo Run at One Tree Creel*. 



loi 



ou; and though I have enjoyed the summer and seen a bit of 
ry, I am no nearer independence than I was at home. So you 
incy ihat I ought to be happy when I say that ray governor 
lund out that after all he is my governor, overlooked it all, and 
n to say that he will not only give me a sort of junior partner- 
but has even spoken to— er — er— er " 

The inexpressible she? " I broke m with a laugh, 
I'es ; and I've heard from her as well ; so, in short, I'll sail for 
nd as soon as you take the party in at the close of the survey; 
er— er — that's her likeness," heconduded rather lamely, handing 
he photo of a sweet-faced English girl. He was again glowing 
kappiness, and I fear there was some envy in my thoughts as I 
ktulated him. Fortune seemed so confoundedly partial : here 
fellow after a year of mild roughing it coming in for all sorts of 
uck, while I had taken wind and storm, summers heat and insect 
md winter's cold and misery, year after year with no prospect of 
luck. And yet one could not be really envious of Colton, a fellow 
>m there was no guile, though not an Israelite by a good deal, 
lOTOUghly on the square j and besides, we were after antelope, 
nvy and the blue devils cannot exist through an afternoon's 



5 were now well out on the plains again, and as Mach^ Manitou 
lot frighten antelope, I was not astonished at seeing a couple 
rolling country to the south-west of the canon, across a valley, 
i^uple of miles away. They were fine bucks and whilst through 
V I studied a line of approach, I heard a hoarse whisper from 
I of : ''* I say, chief, what are those things ? Look ! look ! '^ 
{uflfalo ! by the original great horn spoon," and a thrill ran 
fh me as in single file, walking slowly down a slope in the 
appeared a small band of eleven of them. They were all bulls ; 
il so great a distance that could be easily decided. The cows 
id in a curly or wavy coat that is almost a fleece and they alone 
f the robes for our sleighs and carioles ; while the coat of the 
i wry long and shaggy over the hump and shoulder, but short 
mooth over quarters and ribs, the animals thus appearing tre- 
)usly heavy in the forehand, and quite different from their 



Rbn 



was shivering again with excitement ; even the prospect 
:omfortable income and bride in futuro paled before the 
t delight of a buffalo run ; and truly, next to the ecstasy of 
g a heavy salmon on light tackle, there is no pleasure to equal 
5t sight of big game. Off saddle, and cinch up the horses, and 




J^jtzL^Tz^z:!. : JSzrjsime, 



5_i±=:£ 15 bajJEce with along 

«. - . _ - - - --^ n- : — ,: -=• -^ :»:iic5 fiiriT iaio tfcc stinnps, 

. -^ - __:^ ^---^ — -->-i —_- — ,-- Irii zii-l" 2 ticro= sbo-Id go into 
-... -,- ^' --- - -- _: I ™-'^- 1.7 iLic zxpsSerii^ <x sen leather 

...^ _--j^ ::ni- "n' ":^ ^i;! ;i:i::i^± — »''=^ ibea. m well home, 
. __ -^ - - -_^ ^ - T-.:: :-j: -— .-'-r * ^--r-* rsesx, and if Old 

- -_ - --- ^ z:-:-T. ' I =:. — i? Tf"= ir*^ nearer,"* we will txot 
- --.1. :- :i - -^ ' 1^ '. ^-.z. ir. '- -^^sz^zzz ihes^-znin. Tryto 
: '^r.: ^ .: ji r n ::i -=^ l'J.2 v : - - nn -*rr fis for Uie nrstmik, 
r ;: . : ' ^.i-^ :-_::r ::": 1 r:' it =~^"~~ is "zbe cows do, SopuA 
^ - :« ^ :r-T r .:" 2^: n^" :•= 1 r r fi^ "rciai:erbeget5»ann«d 
:• :u : -n- ^ --r:.-. ._: i-i i~ - -v=- -" 7-'- 5:=rie a badger earth 
zT. :.= :^.i- r ":::; ^::r^:s: i: l:.- :i -Jit rtirs crossicg one of the 
l::;..- : ":^- ;.m.::i :'" r^L^fr-i:.^ mi ji-ll be down, hoiseand 
=u^. : - : - : If :-:: r r-l jr. 7: -i=r:::iria:: rUbu buLatood 
.-: -.: ; : - v.: ::-:rj -:i .: ^'tr — ^i:L.-i •"-•• V.'e must charge in 
:.::;. r^ ;.t 1 vri,r^ _:i~ : iz z T-is-.l^i. i=.d then stick to one till 
:e :■.'■ s -_- ^r - - 1 i 'L ;=' 17 :=^ tit rtirest knoll and look oat 
3;r T. i II : -.-i sL-nt ::r ; :c ; zni n:w — ^rJlf.ais.V.*" Keep- 
".: ~: ;"V.-i - ;■: _ :__ -jc :: i_f::Ter7. :";r -are niust lose i» 
>-j-:;.-. " .,-:-.-:: 1 :.f-: : -r;— .>.:—=« 1: ZYermuch about tl* 
>.-:: . .-.-. .<. .--; -■-: :z — i rr:r.z t? dread the puny 
: : . .- : ■• ;.- 1 -:_ - = t . .'. -r; tr:::t-d eer-:!y through the 
j*j: :■ L . - ^-i 7--.- TrtriV- 7..-=- ar.d again catching 

^ .>,:^ .: -: I " .M 1 .^lif .f : -JT zi'-.i 1" the ro'/.s of the plain 
:: .-: : i^^L -li V-; v e-: :J:^ : ^r.te-:rg cih:5 cinch meant 
"c . "^ : i-. - . V - :. 1- i r : V . ~.:r. >..? sr.zr eirs y ricked forward and 
- :r --: -:<- r r" -'z : i i^" T-^t-f I 'z : iic" seen:, was hoMin; his 
~iz:. : ^' .- :. ;•: t I'rf : z:<.=ilr-'5 5^e->e^, tco. were awaxenedi 
a £-• t;^ - - ^^ - - j^ -.; - j - .-:. :-.e c-e'.i5c ; :^ tvzs gone, and one could 
:ci". :'i: :-; >:- -^ v.:>::ef --::= tz.::-r.ti ":y excitement asthes^i^ 
:r:: :-:.;i _f - ;.-i N\zr:r -r.i r.ezrer we swung, keeping*^* 
d:--7. -. :>c ■-;.'. -? i-I 5:c-er.r.^ "ry :'-= szr.. while the unsuspicio*^ 
't'-.'x >:::::--: ,-.- i ^i:*.-.e:. A ^".iir.T^e :f them among the hiB** 
^~d 1 :-- :-~: :-: !=:.:..;> :>.rll". ye:. Another glimpse, and OW 
Hal r-? se-r. :.r..: ,u-r.: the f=ver. 1 :.>:k round at Colton^wb** 
^ye? zre b-:-:r.z vri:~. e\c::er--:er*:. ar.d sciV.y pull the rifle out of** 
^--^-e. Two hur.dred yzrc?. ar.d s::'.'. -ndiscovered. " At the ^ 
hr.i. \y,y ' ■■ :« - hearse whisper, as I feel my beart fairly junJpJ"^ 




Buffalo Run at One Tree Creek. 

food horse strains at the bit. ** Keep cool "—though I am 
ng myself. A hundred yards to the last shelter —fifty — a dozen 
Mos !" and with the wild, glorious delirium at its height, we 
he rise and rush furiously upon the quarry. One bull, leading 
hers by a dozen yards, kept on towards the right, and after 
oUon reined the buckskin, answering with a wave of his hand 
fle to my yell ** Adws" for there was no sign of buck ague 
vousness about him now ; he sat in his saddle as if he had 
there, while the pony's fidgety trot had given place to a 
id rushing gallop, as they disappeared towards the north, and 
it crack of the Winchester echoed through the hollows. The 
ider of the herd wheeled sharply and struck westward in a 
3, lumbering canter^ going much faster than they appeared to do; 
th my eyes on the nearly black hide of the coveted youngster, 
wed in hot pursuit. No need for a guiding bit for that small 
the reins lie untouched on the graceful neck now stretched 
d in a swift gallop, as the gallant horse, with the fire of many 
er hunt in his veins, swept over hill and hollow well up on the 
lank of the snorting band, and the thunder of hoofs on the 
oil rattled through the air. Jfy little friend could run much 
than his elder brothers, and had so well sheltered himself 
[ their huge carcases that the one or two shots I fired showed 
lilt, until a sudden turn of the herd to the left exposed him in 
>f them, and my snap-shot taking effect on his horn, down he 
irith a stumble. A swing in the saddle, a pressure on the left 
\ and Hal shot into the gap ; and I gave a sigh of relief at the 
I that I had him all to myself^ as now, thoroughly frightened, 
ed at redoubled pace over the rough and hilly prairie to 
But he was not mine yet ; he would run up the long 
of the hills and then wheel and charge furiously down the 
ibrupt descents, and as Hal had to slacken his speed at down- 
Jopes, at each turn the bull gained a few yards on the now 
horse and seemed untouched by the bullets I snapped at him, 
he httle brute did run j Over hill and dale we tore at furious 
now scattering the gravel on a knoll, now brushing through 
og grass of a coulee, and over the rough ground the bull 
ied his distance at every stride. A small plateau of a hundred 
in extent gave me the opportunity I sought ; a word to Hal 
irered by a splendid rush that reduces that forty yards to 
, the eye flashes clear along back- and fore-sights as buffalo 
>rse rise in their stride, and clearly through the rattle of hoofs 
)ttU the trigger comes back the pat of the striking ball that 






KJ Jifagazine, 



".:-.'.. - r.i.ris-:- iT.:-. .-.:;:-=;:=.:-; his hitherto successful 
_ - -^ : : : ; T -:.: i.v-: i .:-^ ^t-: e j-irpc towards the aeek— <bc 
_-. .•_-.; . . .: f r: n- _: vi_--- i lied, the p'lucky horse responded, 
_^- _ T; -i;:-! ." - T^r..i: "— -T^ :"^: hr was ours at last. 1 leaned 
.»--.:: ;»:.:-:■--'-; --- "-^= w.-.h.r. a few feet of the buffalo's 
: _^;- - ::^-r ■«-«- - ir.= nr: :f pressing the trigger when 
;»-::;;:. r.— : . : ■•_: :- i "."r-i: .: w:i> o-:y another ruse, attempted 
::!_ :.' : : . . r.T-. : lir. :± I wa? :hrown nearly out of tiae 
..:.i— : - " :-- -^ .r^ n>tl: it a frintic clutch at the mane, 
■--— -i.. " ■ -: ^■— r 1^1^ «£r a r:-:k whilst I twisted my boots 
. .:■: ~ — - - _: 1 ^.T— :-_z:-i. :r:r- the now panting bronca I 
. .>:--- I" .:: r. f ti . 'Jr ere lav the bull stone dead. My last 
. . -. -...: rr_;». :. :: :' ": ^':e:i^-i- as 1 afterwards found, passed I 

- _• ■ - :.- ^--1 . .i-zri.- "r:5 Icf: shoulder: and yet he had 1 
-.: ■_ -.1 : _T T:-! :.-:^ "c.:"r. 2.: Tvirer.tiV undiminished speed i 
;,; . ; !; . ':.'.. VL5 ". r; ". lis:. 05sadciing and giving Hal 
;-,'..- \ ■:.:,.■- - rrii?- I walked up the nearest hill and 
-^- . ■ ■ ; .;. T .' 1 ^ ^■: .:.!;.::": 'cut the horizon was unbroken 
^ . ■ . - -- -i- m: ^-"i ".re ere-, k ::> r.-tnte, and a search with 

- ^ .. — ■ r ::-..- i ■ "f r" : • r.^ r.: :" cvir.^ ob;ect, I concluded 

-■.."■ ^-:i ■ 5 --r.t. i-i :"-:;: his ^ame. like mine, 

' - -, - - ■ . V 1 7-_f: .:■ k -■::: u"-. So I cut out the usual 

-■ ' -> ^.. 1 : ri--. jj.i.:..v.t, ^.tve a glance to mark the 

--■-■-■. :^- ■ ----. --- .:-.M ::.= ?i ::. ar.d pushed the good 

v. I.- - , ..- ..- 1 . . i ^^:r«- .-. :-.t i:ric:::n of the spot where 

^. * -' -, -.: ■ ^ 1. ;■-■.,:. br :: wards the One Tree. 

-"- :! ■ r' ■ - — -; ..■-r:r :vct r* --.:>. my chase had led me 

- . -■-.'•..■ ■. .■.;^ -. 1 ; >,i-.-:r- the f.eld with my glass, and 
«"-■■• e- :;:.■.->:---.:.: irftir.c: .tr.d be^ir.nin^ to recover 

* ^- "^ . -"i".:- -.-,.:k .-- z.r.-.rs: c.;:c:: line north -eastward ata 
r- ■ . ". V^ -■ ^- . .<i:f^ii "ST. ;h r.-.y luck, and encouraging and 

,-^ --"- - ." . 1 :-. _fri :vcr :he .:.>: few hours from the aight 

- -."■■>.:.-.. c .. :-.::■■.. "in:. :lvir)- thrill of hope and doubt vras 
* ' - • • • ■ > . . ■ : , u— : ■- i l:r,: at yroach wi:h nerves strung as ^<"' 

» V- ■.-.■,• : , ,-.i ^;::\.l rush wiih horse and man in pe:l'«^ 

> -v.v.. .'. :. . :v. ;-.::-:> :f anv.ety until I had singled out n"* 

^^'. '-,> .'.^^- -..-....: :.;...- r.: :\ar thi: Hal was outpaced after ea^ 

■' vi.v. j ■■ ■ : " ■ .-. : • ^' V. : .- ^ ; - j: g". :r. ?U5 ch.trge down the long hollo^ 

* •" •"** ■"" '- ^-'-ery .:> wt closed upon him; and lastly, t'' 
Sv^; Nr.;.-': s^" •■•'^'^ -^"-*'-v.>h;v.in: thi: he was actually dead from thx 

iv.>> *--'; >^«*: An.; v.M:;n— ^c^od old Cohon, lucky beggar- 
^;::v- ^.^v/.i*, ,- •.^rc■.:^ \A::e. and a successful run after one ' 



A Buffalo Run at One Tree Creek, 305 

ew buffalo on the plains. I rose sharply over a ridge in 
^ Standing sullenly in the nearest hollow is the large bull, 
tart he gives at my appearance tells that his shoulder is 
I send a bullet through his heart as I pass him, putting the 
ite out of his pain and swing rapidly on to where the little 
stands with down-drooped head and no response to Hal^s 
rhinny—his foreleg is broken. But what is that among the 
5 beyond ? — a shattered rifle-stock ; and here too lies the 
aglish lad. The comely face I had last seen glowing with 
easure, and excitement is now cold and still, turned up to 
lOon sky, its wholesome colour changed to a dull livid ashen 
e a small spot of crimson stains his under lip. His first 
mt had been his last ; keenly intent on his game, he had 
knoll riddled with badger-holes, the young horse had come 
leath him, and Colton, turning over once, had broken his 
died without pain. The shadows of the lonely One Tree 
and shorten as the seasons pass over the desolate prairie ; 
moden headboard marks his grave, and near by lie the 
; bones of his horse and the buffalo. Thus ends his day of 
. happiness ; truly " against ill chances men are seldom sad.' 

L. R. CRD. 



^ P^arl-shell b the only one which can be said to bear any 

. ^ ^bUnce to the oyster, though even this is evidently of a different 

'*^Us, jhe colours of pearls differ according to the shells in which 
. ^ ^re found. The first kind often produce those of a fine shape 
^ ^ ^ excellent lustre^ but seldom of that very fine colour \Yhich 
*^iinces their price. The second kind produce pearls having the 
^^^iishcasE of the inner shell of the "pinna'' itself, which seems to 
I ^Dfinn the opinion of Reaumur that the pearls are formed from the 
^^^tinous fluid which makes the first rudiments of the shel!. An 
^^ineni authority on the subject has given it as his opinion that the 
P^arl found in this shell is the *' penim " or " peninim " of Scripture, 
^od that this name is derived from its redness. The English trans- 
action of the Scripture, erroneous and inaccurate in many things more 
^Jiaterial, transforms this " peninim '' into rubies, without any other 
foundation than identity of colour. The Greeks, however, have 
translated it literally " pina '' or " pinna/' and the shell they call 
"l>mnicus"; while many places are named m the writings of Strabo, 
^eophrastus, Elian, and Ptolemy as being famous for this kind 
of pearl The third sort of shell produces pearls of extreme white- 
Jiess, called *'darra" or **dora" in Arabic, which seems to be a 
l?eneral term applied to all kinds of pearls in Scripture, whereas the 
"peninim" is one in particular. But though the character of this 
pearl lies in its exceptional whiteness, there are from all accounts 
•weral shades or differences in it, the best having the appearance of a 
^^ution of alum, limpid, railky-Jike» and even with a certain almost 
^perceptible cast of a fiery colour. The size of the pearl varies 
•"^cording to the time it has been in process of manufacture, and 
according to the extent of its irritating cause. Climate, also, has no 
aoubt something to do with it, as the largest and finest specimens 
^ found in warm-water districts, while the mussels and oysters of 
'^'^er waters, like those of Great Britain, do not seem to be capable 
3'ielding very large, though they afford many small, pearls. 
It has also been observed that some of the most beautiful pearls 
^ produced in those places of the sea where fresh water falls— such 
^ ^or example, those obtained southward of Suakim in the Red Sea, 
i^^c there is abundance of fresh water, and in the island of Foosht 
, ^ modest mussel, in fact, which abounds in many fresh-water 
^^s, and certain other bivalves (scientifically called anodons, 
'^use they "have no posterior teeth at the hinge "), often contain 
^^ fine pearls. During the last century pearls worth ^^^i 0,000 
^''e taken from mussels in the river Tay, and the pearl fisher)' 
^^ Scoibnd, where the people seek the pearl animals in the slime 




3* 7^ \^xzl£^K^M s 3fagaztne. 

' rzzzT-. II — -i "ir2Sd= zsiT i^zrzs e^pCorment to many hundreds 
[ TcTriz^ uic T -H^"'-- i rnci :c sev-nl ^9a5ands a year. 

T\± -zLzt :c Teirla zis bes:: =: all ages comxnensuiate with 
litz i-ii-ir- 1=. "11:= Eisc esceziilj. ibej have been greatly admired, 
=d t-:rzi::ci 5c== :f n :-tr bar* been paid for them. Ptiny 
;baerrt< -'-^- leirli irt '±* nnsc val-.ib'e and excellent of all 
x?sr-::-5 Tt:--*s i=:i fr;- :— SariD:ir"5 comparing the Kingdom <rf 
Kt2.vc=. -.; i p-i-iT- :: Is e-j-.ir-: iber r:i:i5: have been held in very 

z1z:l cs ':c iz it-l: nn^ I: :» said that Julius Caesar gave a 

cearl :: zzt =i:-Jttr :: >Lirr_5 Sr-tus ihat was valued at ^48,417 lo*- 
cc :-r 7Tirs<=-: zi:-±- . uii Ce-:pitra dissolved one worth 
j£z2'.zzz — T^r-^iT. V-::'r. sr.e draiii at a supper with >laic 
An::rT. F r.::i :.zit :ziner:i:r.il there have been fisheries of pcad 
in :'-t Pzrsiin O^"-" ir.d Kic Sei ir.d in the bays of Ceylon; and 
wr.e- C:".L=:-^_5 i~ve-l -.n Oie Gulf of Paria, on his first voyage to 
Ar:ier:i- r.e tj.^ Lsti-isred ::^ nnd the precious gems abounding 
there :r. --; ir::lle'.cd ivLir.r.iies. His men landed, and saw the 
Inii-" .v:~er. ^d:med w:ih splendid pearls round their arms »5 
we.. i.i r:und their ne-:k5 : bu: their possessors seem to have bce^ 
perfe::'}- i^-Dron: c: the tr-e value of the gems, as it is recordc^^ 
that ar. Indian wor-.an jave one of the sailors four rows of her peart ^ 
merely in exchange for a broken earthenware plate. The Spanisf^ 
king forbade anyor.e to go within fifty leagues of the place where sudc^ 
riches were found without the royal permission, and took possessiocr^ 
of the fisheries tor hirnselt .: but so cruelly did the Spaniards behav^ 
to the natives, making them perforce dive for them, and brutally ilU- 
treatin- them when they were unsuccessful in pearl-finding, that"on^ 
morning at dawn the Indians assailed the Si>aniards, made a saiua 
gumary slaughter of them, and, with dancing and leaping, ate them^ 
both monks and laymen.'' 

Th.j islands of Cubagua and Margarita were the principal seat::- 
of the pearl fishery, which was also carried on extensively in the Gu^ 
of Paria itself, on the coast of Cumana. 

rhe deep-water fishery— that is to say, the fishery in aboi^ 

twelve fathoms -is conducted now pretty much as it was i^J 

Co.umbus's time. Men accustomed from their infancy to an an^ 

phibious sort of life, and trained to be expert divers, are engaged 

the work, and go down naked into the sea in order to pick up tip 

marvellous pearl-breeders which lie at the bottom. They may briiP 

up a prize or a blank, but down they go time after time, spendio 

their lives in the occupation, and finding a reward either in wages C 

m a co-partnership in the lottery upon which they are engage^ 



Ceylon, ihe pearl-fishers go out in company in their boats. Each 
It carries twenty men, of whom ten are rowers and ten divers. 
The divers take turn and turn about al plunging, and remain under 
water for a minule and a half or two minutes. Some of them are 
said to be able to stay down as long as five minutes, but this power 
I is exceptional, and only to be acquired by long practice. Trained to 
the work from childhood, the divers go down, with the greatest intre- 
pidity, to a depth of from four to ten fathoms. To assist them in 
their descent they use a large slone of red granite, having the 
smaller end bored so as to admit a rope, which is ro\e through it. 
When about to dive, the diver seizes this rope with the toes of his 
nght foot, and with the left foot secures a network bag for his 
^^ysters. He then takes hold of another rope with his hands and is 
fet down from the boat to his diving-ground, the stone helping 
tc> sink him. When at the bottom he casts himself loose from the 
stone, picks up his oysters, and when leady to return jerks the rope 
^y which he w^as let down, and he is then hauled up, leaving the 
st^one to be recovered by its own rope. The chief danger the 
<Jiv€rs have to encounter, after the preliminary physical difficulties 
^tcndant ui>on diving and w^orking at so great a depth have been 
got over, is from ground-sharks. The divers in the Persian Gulf are 
^ontio resort to magic and to religious enchantments in the hope 
^^ guarding against these horrible creatures ; but as an additional 
^^^^ more effectual precaution they are armed with a short stick. 
Pointed at either end, which they thrust into the shark's mouth, they 
^<^rtiselves getting away while the monster is engaged in fretting 
?^'^^ his uncomfortable meal A story is related of one diver who, 
^^ing explored a rock on which he expected to find oysters, was 
•^Ut to return to the surface of the water, when, casting his eyes 
^P^'ards, he saw a huge ground -shark lying in wait for him, and 
^^ting off his retreat. Terrified at the sight, and unable to get out 
•'^Jige, he was beginning to give himself up for lost when a happy 
^^laght occurred to him. He took his sharpened stake, which was 
*^ amall to stop the jaws of the shark, and going to a sandy nook 
^Vie rock began to stir up the mud, and to make such **a dust in 
^ water" as to effectually obscure the enemy's vision. Having 
'^^^tinued this till he was forced to quit for want of breath, he swam 
V* hastily in another direction, and arrived at the surface exhausted 

1^^ in safety. At the top he was rescued by the boat in attendance, 
Practically none the worse for his alarming experience. Some of the 
^"^^Ts are armed with a long knife, which ihey use not only as a 
"^t*«nce against marine assailants but for the purpose of detaching 



» 
h 



~ .>-..■ - : -_^ z'--_±r=, -'. — :f x^.:i:.=rc-iLil7 These of :he strong "byssas," 
:r n : :~_":.ri. i.i-iir= zi izi. rz'ii "vliz. x ztl'j re-zcinng greit strength 
i: i'^zrz--7ZL't :l Tii fL-ir liT^ lein celled inro die boatiritbbis 
rdi f-L :: :-?Tzr= izi zi i£=^. — - -oicr is tikea oa shore, and as 
>:i:- li iie -=::=^. ^ :i=I:^vi=d rz^t i'cZ 'in Ceylon and the East 
lz±,'t:T j= i_~ii-i -~:r:^ -J::= 7«i*"-- -' """"'zi the proceeds belong, 
ird *T.r^— T V '.jjizrL jr. i:.=s i~ :- the zrocnd to the depth of 
i^: :- -V : irir :- t — •" f.:ijrt hi^nr pLicesy cleared and fenced 
r:.i.-:i ::r -_:± -. it-.ism. mct. -ers.::: hiTL:i^ his own separate divison. 
>-f =■:■::- ij :-:-± sr-t_-li"~ *i"= Tiiii^i. thriu^h i state of putrefaction 
ir L *j.-= le::-; Lr- —^-^ in eoi/.f ipe::ie«i. without the slightest 
iiT-i-E- :f j= 1.-'^ -Jir ;c^-j-. is =:^zh: he :he case if they were forced 
:7c:: V -i- ±-;s.-. IT. i -Ji± :7=tir :r z:.i55el is ziiautely examined fo 
uc -ri-:::.ii c;=Li. >--:'■: ir cliiiLLni 2nd crying the pearls they art 
7^ic-i -Jit.-ll;-- 1 l.r.i ;: j.i'^. ic-zriirz to iheir sizes ; the smallest 
iTi v-ic ic-vi if >rivi-7ciri. mi :he rssr pui up to auction and sold 
:: L^.v! .-.-:=- ^s: :,ii:r T.-; izii'^ ;r serd pearls, also called ounce 
rc-ir 5. rrz:. :>.= r rc.~.^ 5.:".i zj "he :cnce and not by tale, are vastly 
:>■; r: :<: - ^: ;r . _i izd ;.* =:— :c. As they increase in size theirnnm- 
'r«:r^ ;:r: ;. :?-_:- ^-.il i^-rriLse. 'srhich is ere reason of their great prict 
^V- -j^-. i >:.:;.-. --^-'.i :r5:uer.:'.v is b:z as a I:::Ie tare, some as Wg 
i? 1 '-i~;- •-*;^ ^r.i :: fiv ire :c:jLs:cr.a"y :*rund of thesize ofahcssc- 
"r^:ir, i.:>.r_^:i :"' , :ii:--i--.= i ird usu-'.'v c :' a bad shape, and of little 






:':: /^jj'.-r.sr.ir.^ : the first is in March and 
Ay: ". :.-i :i-.i '.j.i: :- Aur.s: ird ScTtcnb^r : and the more rain that 
^^ < .n :>: vi«: :;::- z:::i y'eniifiii i:z :hc rsheries 

Ir. -A O--T1. '.■ i-ar ::" :he '^Vrivir.zs of Linnxiis," by Richard 
Vu:;ri-. MV. y i:. :: is Su.:i :ha: L:nr.jei:s made a remark- 
ar'.j .1>cv:vj:v :c:j.::r,: :: :>.e cenrrati^n of pearls in the ri\tr 
V»i::Lr".-:v.u5s^.. .1 ^>.= .^:■:^^.. K'lcr.: ideally known as Jfva mar^fiti- 
'.•-:.\ :'.„".: ir. sivjrj.' rivers cf Grei: Britain and Ireland; that 
tr.:s /s^ v.:/. '-^ji: :;•.::•.-:.". reiv.irkab'y we'.' : and that in some places 
tr.i" :.-::: :;>-:v::rs ::: :be yurycse of keeping it and taking out 
t.'.o rci:., wr.icr.. :n .. Ci^rti n : erod, will be renewed again. The 
ci<ccver>-. h:'.vd\ir, c:--:r.-i yrincipally a method which Linns^s 
:.und of pur.ir.;: :>_^ livV.vts in:: a state of producing pearls at bis 
'I'leasure, ihouch t>.e r>..i: e~e:: did not take place for several yeai^ *' 
but that in five c: six years after the operation the pearl would ha^'* 
acquired the size of 2 -vetc:-." Dr. Puheney regrets that we »^ 
unacr.i:ainted with the means by which Linnxus accomplished tb^ 

^aordinar}- operation, which must have been considered of gre' 




Curiosities of Pearls. 



1 1 



rtance, since it is recorded ihat the author was rewarded with a 
ficent premium from the States of the kingdom on that account. 
1 Saxony the trade in fresh-water pearls dates from the year 
; a code of regulations exists in connection with it. The 
els and other *' anodons " are deposited in beds prepared for 
, and examined ever}' five years by means of special instruments, 
yield varies from two to ten pearls from each, and with extra 
and attention in the cultivation there is no doubt that the pro- 
ion would be increased. 

'he Swedish Government established some beds on a similar 
aple, from which very satisfactory results were also obtained, 
mussels, however, are gradually disappearing from many Euro. 
rivers where pearls formerly were found in large numbers, chiefly 
g to the fact that the streams have been transformed into 
nis by the rush of water from mountains and high hills, the 
5 being thus rendered uninhabitable for the molluscs as well as 
lany kinds of fish. It is interesting to know that quite recently 
iiinguished scientist has discovered what he believes to be a 
acal method of procuring the manufacture of pearls through 
ce. Should at any time the pearl market of the world be 
usly menaced by the threatened exhaustion of the fisheries, 
an ingenuity is to step in and supply the demand. The process 
>ted is simply to bore holes in the shells of the pearl-oyster with 
nier, introducing through these perforations little balls of glass 
slopping the holes hermetically with corks. After four weeks' 
the balls of glass are found to be covered with a thin layer of 
L In six months the layer has become of a sufficient thickness 
! permanent, and the size of the jewel thus manufactured is in 
ortion to the period allowed to elapse. Of course, this has its 
ation, inasmuch as the mollusc will not deposit nacre or mother- 
iarl indefinitely, its only object being to protect itself from irrita- 
by the intruder. The expert quoted is of opinion that pearls 
be made of various colours to order by selection. 
n»c clever Chinese have several ingenious methods for making 
E>earl-yielders' habit of covering foreign substances with mother- 
£arl useful as well as profitable. They open the shells of certain 
odons " and keep them open by means of small wooden wedges ; 
then carefully insert into the membranes of the oyster small 
*8 of Buddha, and other objects of glass, wood, stone, or metal, 
^ards withdrawing the wedges and putting the bivalve back into 
t>«d. The little creatures not being in any way hurt by the pro- 
*i soon cover the object with layers of the mother-of-pearl, and in 






Curiosities of Pearls. 313 

with clear water, and the several liquors suffered 
: water being then poured off, the pearly matter remains 
m, of the consistence of oil, called by the French 
ffient." A little of this is dropped into a hollow bead 
iss, and shaken about so as to line the internal sub- 

which the cavity is filled up with wax, to give solidity 

Pearls made in this way are, in fact^ distinguished only 
Ira] by their having fewer blemishes, A pearl to be 
be perfectly round or drop-shaped^ have a perfectly pure 
be slightly transparent, free from specks, spots, or 
d possess the peculiar lustre characteristic of the gem. 
e grain weight satisfying the above conditions is worth 
. ()d,y while their value increases with their weight, and a 
y grains would be worth from £^0 to ^100. Round 
this weight are of such rare occurrence that they com- 
onal prices. 
>rdinar>' treasure, illustrating the successful manner in 

precious gems can sometimes be produced by the 
trocess," was lately shown by the Smithsonian Institute, 
sari the size of a pigeon's egg, of an exquisite rose colour, 
itacle containing it was the original fresh-water mussel in 
been formed. The nucleus of this wonderful stone was 

nor less than an oval lump of bee*s-wax^ which had been 
Ft for a few years between the valves of the mollusc, which 
proceeded to coat it with the pink nacre it secreted for 
« The mussel was kept in an aquarium while engaged in 
ik. It belonged to a species common in American rivers, 
;ested that the result of the experiment opens to every - 
sibility of establishing a small pearl factory for himself by 
k full of tame mussels and humbugging them into making 
pearls" for him. Only, the intending experimentalist 

against avarice ; the •* nucleus " must be introduced 
• mantle of the creature, or it will not irritate sufficiently ; 
1, it must not be too large. A great surface takes a long 



: is known of the natural history of the pearMish. Pisca- 
ties inform us that the bivalves are invariably found stick- 
n the mud by one extremity ; the mussel by one end, 
by the small sharp point, and the third by the hinge or 
rhich projects from the round. It is also stated that 
nadons live apparently uninjured under extraordinary 
s ; one lived for eight months wrapped up in dry wool, 
atvi i. Na 1965. y 



L 





h 



TKeytere 

wife of Kapo* 

of dkesn idudi fetched 

of the Imperial dynasty. 

the snap» vhicH 

te j^ i^oock Me»ca. Tahitt. 

le case of lUtbar, supply the 

peails. One of the most 

of WW, vas ihat which the travdlcr 

two ktmdred years ^o for 

of die Sltth of Persia, and is 

j^i35/»Q. The Pcrsaan mooani 

coUecboti of jewellery 

peazisy four or five mchei 

and spoil them in cascade 

a peaii weighing twelve and i half 
the daylight ; it is wtwth about 
£3^000. The one o«iied lif Priocess Yousoupoff is trntqoe ^ 
faesntj. H was sold by Geai^biiB of Calais, in 1620, to PhiiiptV. 
of Spaa fa Soiooo dncats ; its present valae is about ^36.000. 
The Pop^ om bs accessioii, becane the owner for the time being of 
a peaxl, left bf one of his prniecessots upon the throne of the 
Vatkan, whidi onDot be of less Tihiethan j^^qoco. The Emprfli 
Frederick h^ a neddace composed of thirtytwo pearls, the total 
Taloe of which has been estimated at ^ 3S»<^oo* Her mother, QucCB 
Mctoria, has a nedUace of pink pearls worth ^£^16,000, That of 
ihe Bitfoness Gostave de Rothschild, made up of five rows of these 
precious ston^ is valued at ^40,000, while that of the Baronesl 
Adolphe de Rothschild is even more costly stilt. Both these ladiei" 
have given orders to their jewellers to bring to them any " pearls ol 
great price ** which may come into their hands in the way of busU 
ness ; the gems are usually purchased by one or other of these laditt 
and added to her necklace. Good judges are doubtful whether 
to award the palm to either of the above two or to that of thi 
Empress of Russia^ which has seven rows of pure white pearls valued 
at something like 80,000 roubles, but the stones of which are perhapi 




Curiosities of Pearls. 



jiS 



il to the eye. The one belonging to the Grand Duchess 
; six rows, and is said to have cost ^^36,000. 
moiselle Dosne, a sister of M. Thiers, has a necklace of 
)ws, which has taken her thirty years to collect and has 
upwards of ^15,000, The Empress of Austria possesses 
ihe most beautiful black pearls it is possible to find \ her 
id that of the Czarina of Russia are, in fact, the most 
I the world for pearls of this colour. 

me Leonide Ltblanc sold her necklace of pearls a year or 

for nearly ;^8o,oco, but in consequence of certain matters 

:re whispered about at the time she bought it back. The 

it graduate in size, and are exceedingly beautiful in shape 



most extraordinary pearl in the world is known as the 
m Cross," It consists of a group of nine pearls, naturally 
gether in so regular a manner as to form an almost perfect 
)5s. Seven of them compose the shaft, which measures an 
a half in length, while the two arms of the cross are formed 
*arl on each side. All the pearls are of fine lustre. This 
ig freak was discovered by a man named Clark, while pearl- 
Western Australia. He regarded it as a miracle, and, enter- 
; superstitious dread of it, he buried it In 1S74 it was, 
dug up again, and since then it has changed hands many 
ts value is said to be j£" 10,000. How it chanced that these 
:re grouped together in so curious a way no one has as yet 
e to satisfactorily explain. It has been suggested that a 

of serrated seaweed may have got into the shell of the 
id that the succession of teeth along the margin of the 
^ have caused the deposition of mother-of-pearl at regular 
so as to form a string of pearls in a straight line. The cross 
d in the shell of the mollusc, just as it was taken from its 
:ment. 

Professor Huxley was not far from the mark when he once 
I that "an oyster was a far more complicated piece of 
y than the finest Swiss watch," none of our readers after 

tl sure, will be inclined to doubt. 

HERBERT JAMES GIBBINS 




X 1 



_ AC JZKSMttLJl 



E:~ 



.-L HAV?rr CF BIRDS. 



^ asuitr -vnft X ^M 'inr mind An 
ii: Iiiraj IS laey are ihere. 



o 




s^isiirjc. -'.i-s: i*^ s iHE-niy. xai 7»iir canxxcc sake him oau 
r^jE r-~ hi?z5t: i ^iirtr '? t w « y, 3ur =iiiric ''^yn^^ are of:gn wook*' 
tulr - ^v^ ^g".-^ ^ 'it> ^u ' ^ -^-TT :ae rjicnrs ^:£ the bird bte»*> 
j[^!»=:r *:ui :irjs& n" ^ic sjii :it -^auri 2e zabicaZT rests as W 
c>j»:3z. r.=^ T-r=x :rtt snsi ^cc miy rt iris frirttH bat what is» 

saci aLr:^*tsirjrx rs itr^Uki "sne :esr Tiuiid 'ziz locg a^ ^ 
rx-ii::r^ ::-; n- ^iiiiige irv-rrci-i. r::i bi-ifTtf ^xih ler is iramediatal 
oii vt i-r^ 3Cuus-^ ict:;, ani reir.cies rLTcr-sei with uie dark steuJ*- 
*',;tr rr, ;:.rw -r^. vrll asss Ti- r^irr^r ^1;:: j. zecwork cf tranche** 
i.vx^;^-* v^ 3;:^, T-Z1.3. i i^ jicucSw riific and undisturbed "^ 
^c ,^'^r^- .^vctv.'is a SKT*. Hi- i:^:* is procec ii vely coloured' 
*"x*« * -.^^ c" :; ::Hi s*.** v^cir ut?^ biir^ the inaer workings o 



VsT- ^ - j:-^r Txr-^ os« iireir yassicn for bird-nesting— n^ 
^v:i i *-v^ * ,-^ -.-cc.rr-c -T" i*' in i:s:^':xr:£- ilie bcilders, but to get ^ 
?<vv c.-v-i i v^- :-::/ u-r-^imi. Trese ksts are hard to fin<L K^ 
SN^fc4;s< cN.^ 1;- cixc.'-- i.oits=L i^^iT IT. brake or wood copse, ^ 
'^^ v-^- cc: .-»• T^rjKii iscirx tie tr-ciosc branches of beech ^ 
< »». *j S>M,^^ t^.;-r 2:.:32j i: eutct-V tbe things round abo^^ 
."St i- vwf .^ t>; v^^ ^^Ts -lai^lT ecccgh that they are not ^ 
***x. i-vi >,K ^ v^ ^^ _^^ ▼inosr' rcer the spot again and ag^^ 
%«N^; ^^^^_ .x^ «^^ ^^^,^ ^ =i25took for a bunch of 1^ 
\r^^ ^^^^^'^^^ >i^« '■^ -^ =tf^ cc the chi5-chaff, with the aperture 

"^^ ^ ^^^- TSiAt ci:=r cc bci^ in the fork of the fir tree, ^ 






A Haunt of Birds, 3 1 7 

mbling the lichen-covered bark, is the nest of the 

the dainliest sample of natural architecture. 

J birds foresaw those risks from the first, and consciously 

ch devices, were to credit them with a more than human 

; that they learned from bitter experience to be more 

ere they placed, and how they concealed their nesls, is an 

ea. The more generally accepted interpretation is that 

were bom who unconsciously harmonised their fabric 

urroundings ; that the nest of such would h^vt a better 

escaping, and the nestlings of handing down the peculiarity 

nerations. 

are few more careless builders than the blackbird and the 
By preference they place their nesls in a low furze or 
h, or sapling fir tree, where the passing boy is sure to see 
easily reach thera. But every year a few build on the 
ways a safer place than a bush, or higher up among the 
of the full-grown tree, where they are more difficult to get 
fiot improbable result will be that the bush-building black- 
thrushes will be exterminated ; and those which, if they do 
more cunning nests, manage to place them in more 
inaccessible places, will be lefi to carry on the race. 

le is generally more soberly coloured than the male, so 
the period of incubation, when she is almost constantly 
It and an easy prey to any enemy, she may have a majii- 
iftce of escaping observation. Again, the explanation seems 
i bright-coloured females-=if there were such in the past — 
srved, and removed, whilti the less obtrusive brooders were 
ntinue their labours and carry on the species. When male 
lie are equally brightly coloured, it is generally safe to 
bat the situation of the nest places the sitting bird beyond 
of observation. Such is the case, for instance, with the 
r, and also with the various tits, 

, the bird leaves the nest, ihe eggs are found to be more or 

ctively coloured. White, which is probably the primitive 

not common, for the simple reason that in an exposed nest 

ie easily seen. White eggs, therefore, or those only slightly 

id spotted, are usually placed in holes, or perfectly con- 

the shape of the nest. Instance the swift, the sand -martin, 

the various tits, and the swallow. Colour has invariably 

of concealment, so that those who are accustomed to 

n the nest can tell why they are thus spotted and shaded 

of sea-birds are distinguished by a ground colour of sand 



-rtz-i-Ttrx -- JSz^^zzzme, 



:.r-t:-:s. ^^-^"^ =i=T of ihesoi- 
s sni -v^-zs bcexss. so chatvbcn 



-T- n: —= T ^g - ~!f^ iTi rnxxnsnzr»±iT szft. Srcae, fike the 
- -«=- — ^ --m 'TfT-r- -r- ▼zns *:;z?=. bcz ^e ex:^»ODS only 
— rw: ^irti —-j:. i£ ~— " TL-2Z± ^^~ zi=S3 n biOis. T^s eggs oC the 

rr^ 1:=- -: r.-iiir ^..rr^ r:ezs*i.-?-s — :— rce ^ r " »'-^>=^ gees the 
r:n:. ^i:^ -=- :i-= - .- .— -^f ;ii sour; nizrr'' "js-rre zi rT«dpitaB 

Ti's - .:n--: iLi-:^ ^-is: zi^zrei- t-^* 5: jrc^ i5 — ^ remain ui 
"± r^r. IT: -.". — r-ir.-i:'- r^^'—fi Lii :he :s:cbe;. and not 
:^-r:.- .Li.i 1:^ :.ii::--r '"zrsz "e^ £.5^7 "Li'iir — rziLs sb-i and lie 
.-Hi-. :ir ::>- ::_i: l-". iii^ zn; mr iir V-^ 7 :: re rv*rl>:kcd. 

>.:.'^-: r"; i t^-t :f TTti =im -::rr^'::ir irz-iTTuSs re th-e sxuun device 
T^* ^:- .:: :rj vii.;^ rrETurs ct ^r^r^t t: ^* re £ad mnldplT, 

r- T-; r.-T .^> ? -r^::.zzr: T.vr i -liuccsLDi icbsrs -B^rb rrssent them- 

T:^i >^r.^ <:::•. i ni^caiu zsrr re rssd r: —frrrei a zizch wider 
~^V* -■ - ^— -•-r: :;ir^ t^ tsst nr Ter=r::i-i :: Ifri ihe vinpof 
:irir.r.^j':: ^: -ji-^ r^z^sr ^i:jcz»rcs ±-:«ir : i-sdrrzr r:i- Pleasandf 
Tr-^ .T :.— r^-^.:— fruri iJ: r^^ -w-ir f=T* =— -zles^ and dusied 
'■ :: :.'.- ■: - ;-. T: .: : ^TT :t: i rn5=7 slrre :r take a more 
^"* "'- - *:.-.:: T: ; :ji:i:rr ::.■?_ - 1 rf-tT r^r/v crvered wilh 
.■^.,-,- N • ;. ,r.::;.^ : - r-i^^. l-it^-tc rthini, ihe hde 
?■%'"" ' ■■ - ^ * - , - - ri - : : v :- r-trv viz ti. 1 r: -5-5 c: ceado* 
"■-^ ' " . : ; -u^ir : 1 — li zsmz i:^r-_ I- front is an 

* '^ ■' * ■> ~>.-.T. .:^i. vr-iTi -.:: :_:i:»:-f-:-=-fr sull linens, 
"" " — '^ --* -. ..I; ;--£ir- T.ir.-:_ r^ii ::" :'-- s:rt-=. Here 
* - - ""^ - ■ V :.;.: : -if, rr^:~ r.-i?. «r.i ~-:id:*w birds, 

'""""- ■ :." : -i^irzr-ri .; - j-l - iri-n;. T5:h:ch comes 

^^ > ." : .: .-£ >j.-i :j_t.v iirmi :y :_r. i-iiv when the 

^./. _ ' " ^ -^ * >r^-- v:rur^ r r 1. rr- :—:. he ricks up the 

"'". ■- - ■ ->-■:.:.•; .vzi:*; :: :"--: jirLir.:. :z : re urh: within 

* \,^ ' ' " - - >? V- :r Liv:.-:; --j; r.::ti: ever so litLe. 

v,^i/." f " - j-^-:-: -^r:. :- :-= --.:>: :-'v v^rzes with the 

«^--~> /: i"^-' -" . . :. , 

'**—'--- 'iiir-:^?.;. r.-'if f:e~c:.T -^t* from the 
*-■'-•-".* .-"-■-*-. ... : . ■ * -. 

.--^^«. ,, ' r"? -~ - ^- "- .- :-e vcr.- centre of the 

iS^ - • -'" - - ~— "'•^- ::--:- t'-e -us: be several 

-- .'i-.-n.r.. -_:j :— „. :: - - r...-: :- -.he :>-5e n^asoniy 



A Haunt of Birds. 



319 



some bridge* Being thus sufficiently concealed, the eggs are 
te. No enemy sees them, so as to give an advantage to some 
y individual which may lay eggs with a dash of protective colour 
Ihem. 
But what about the bird himself? He is somewhat difficult to 
fy. As he stands there, bobbing in his spasmodic fashion, 
bably because he eyes an intruder, he suggests certain affinities to 
wren and even to the robin. In general appearance, however, he 
ist resembles the thrushes, among whom we shall tentatively in- 
ide him. He seems to prefer a rapid running stream such as this, 
ough sometimes found beside stiller and larger waters hke the 
reed. Whereas the kingfisher, who sometimes favours us with a 
ops down on the surface, plunging perhaps overhead, but 
maining beneath for above a second or two, the water-ousel 
up his tail, disappears for a considerable interval, and emerges 
may be a few yards down the stream. All this is going on now. 
hat happens below water it were hard to say, as only in very 
ourable circumstances is it possible to have him under observa- 
n. But probably he descends head downward, propelling himself 
his wings until he touches the bottom, when he takes hold of 
me stone or other object with his grasping feet. Certainly it can 
ily be by a very considerable and sustained effort that he keeps his 
ition down there. 

There is nothing in the anatomy of the animal to suggest a water- 
rd. All the resemblances are superficial, and imply a recent 
Option of his present habits. He has every appearance of a land 
(d which, late in life, has taken to the water. Probably at one 
le he was as dainty as that water-wagtail, and merely stood bobbing 
the brink. But finding indications that food was plentiful all the 
r round, and competition was absent, by degrees he ventured 
Iher in. And one day, stat^ding on a boulder like a timid bather, 
tried his first plunge. And the effort to get to the bottom, and 
need to hold on, and the food he found there, all tended to bring 
t»ut these surface changes which make of him a clumsy, though in- 
esting aquatic bird. 

A chafi&nch has just risen from the grass, where he has been vary- 
bis usual hard diet with a caterpillar, to the lower branch of an 
tree. And now he darts out to secure an insect which is dancing 
!lhe air. Most birds are in the habit of doing this occasionally. 
the stream a spotted flycatcher has been at work ever since 
came, darting out in this manner every few minutes, and returning 
.the same spot on the pal ng. The flights of the chaffinch are 



J 



A Haunt of Birds, 



321 



liing, the same deeply-cut gape is needed as in the 
UIows. 

her birds appear, each of which has its little tale to 
k rises from the meadow, and ascends straight up 
te. His cousin, the titlark, mounts the height of the 
lails down in a side4ong course, singing as he goes, 
sues from his long tunnd in the sandy bank, and 
th his jerky flight to join the swallows on the lade. 
5 its own share in this little world of tree, and furze, 
id meadow, shut in between the bank behind and the 
ont ; its own peculiar haunts and habits. This place 
i out by the present tenants, these habits were not 
lay. They are of distant origin, and of slow growth, 
hammer prefers the bare paling for his simple lay, and 
or grassy bank for his nest. The chaffinch sings and 
the leafing trees. The greenfinch sits beside the 
nests in the bushes underneath. The willow- wren still 
same branch on ash or elm, but chooses for its nest a 
J in ihe grass at the foot of the bush. The air for the 
ee for the chaffinch, the paling for the yite, the bush 
iroat, the meadow for the lark, the rush for the sedge- 
:>ulder in the middle of the stream for the water-ousel, 
a scene so contracted that one could cast a stone from 
irizon, little more than a hollow ploughed out at one 
slf'Same stream, contains so many different forms, and 
terest and delight for all who care for those things. 



J. H. CRAWFORD 



tjible talk. 




^ 



m die cas£ of 
It IS one of 

iS| of ooonci 
be felse a scxm 

closer thao 
tlie people 
it prevent the tw 
their tottfOB 
or cxmtefdiiM 
whfa gienefil re- ' 
tntths. Those boro, 
the ikct that that 
thait state interests tie 
So few persoDS ootR' 
by these oooditioDs, that so long as child 
OQofined to royal houses^ it was not worth while 
with the sobject Not epen when the custom of contracting 
was for finanriil leuoos adopted by the wealthy and titled 
clasKS did it possess geneial interest. The joyless and loTcless 
unions which have been recorded seldom achieved the purpose for 
which they were made. On the other hand, society showed iiseU 
indulgent to the aberrations of those who, entangled in unblcsX 
nuptials, sought and found distraction or enjoyment in unlipensed 
unions. 

Not CoNFiKED to the Upper Class, 

WITHIN recent years, however, the discovery has been mad 
that, so far from being confined, as had been supposed, l 
royal or aristocratic houses, infant marriages were in the sixteeni 
century common in some parts of England among all dasse 



able Talk, 

>tne ten years ago Mr. J. P. Earvraker, a well-known antiquaryi 
[drew attention to the records concerning such unions which are 
preserved in the Chester Diocesan Registry. A collection of deposi- 
tions in trials in the Bishop's Court, Chester, concerning child 
marriages, divorces, troth plights, adulteries, affiliations, and other 
similar matters has now been edited far the Early English Text 
Society by Dr. Fumivall, and constitutes very startling and suggestive 
reading. 

The volume thus made up is, with characteristic humour (?), 
dedicated to "The Antiquaries of Chester, in the hope that they 
"Will at once hang one of their number, to encourage the rest forth- 
^th to print all the depositions and other valuable material in the 
l>iocesan Library at Chester, which they have so long and so culpably 
left in MS. only." The preface — or, as Dr. Fumivall elects to call it, 
ibrewords^is disfigured by personal and controversial matter, such as 
the Doctor cannot, for the life of him, leave out ; but the substance 
of the work forms a mine of curious and valuable information con- 
cerning social life in England under the Tudors. Dr. Furnivairs 
^eal in regard to works of this class is wholly disinterested and 
highly to be commended, and 1 cannot but hope that other registers 
^»ill be studied with equally satisfactory results. 



Marriages of Children in Arms. 

CHILD marriages are known to have been contracted so early 
as the age of two to three years, when^ of course, the consent - 
^g parties (!) are unable even to speak, and have to he carried to 
^^tiTch and held up in the arms of relatives or servants. No recollec- 
^on of the ceremony in some cases prevails, and the boy-husband 
^r girl-wife knows only by hearsay in latter years of the important 
•tep that has been taken. In the case of John Soraerford, who at the 
^ of fifteen years and upwards seeks to divorce his wife Jane 
Brerion, otherwise Somerford— Elizabeth Parkinson, of the parish of 
.^sbury, gives evidence that "soon after the said John Somerford 
was bom" he was sent to his nurse. By her he was "nourished 
4 twelf moneth," and after that "the said John was send for homme 
ta his Parentcs, and there continued two yeres and a half," The 
ehlldren were then " raaried together and dwellid together at 
Brerton the space of X yeres." It is interesting, but not at all sur- 
prising, to find that these early nuptials were frequently ruptured or 
unfulfilled when the parties came to years of discretion. Jane 
Brerton, or Somerford, thus declares " that she would neuer have the 



324 



The GentUmati s Alagazine. 



said John, and the said John is of the same mynd also," Margaret 
Osboston (born Hothersall), of the age of six or seven, was married 
to Alexander Osboston. Robert Harrison bears witness that at 
" the same tyme, videlicet at the said marriage, the said Margaret 
was about the age of vj or vij yeres, as it semed to this deponent, 
bie reason she was partlie borne in arraes and parti ie led to Lowe- 
church, where ihey were Maried bie Sir Thomas French, then 
Curate there, and after the said Marriage, the said Alexander went 
to Guerdon, to his grandmother's, where he dwellid during her lief; 
and the said Margaret at Hothersall with her father where she dwelt 
still yet, and hath done sins. And further, he saies, that the said 
Alexander, after and before he came to thage of xiiij yeres did 
euer disagre and dissent from the said Marriage ; and bie open 
wordes declared that he wold neuer have the said Margaret to his 
wief. And also he saies they neuer dwellid together ; neither by any 
other meanes ratified the said manage." 



r 



Unsatisfactory Results of Early Marriage. 

most cases the bride and bridegroom were taken home 
their respective parents. In some instances, indeed, they w« 
respectively into domestic service. At times, however, othef^ 
formalities of marriage were complied with or travestied, John 
Andrewe, who at the age of about ten was married to Etenc 
Dampart, declares that "the first night they were maried they lay 
both in one bed, but ij of her sisters lay belwene hym and her." 
Being asked if since he came of age he had ever fancied her, he 
plaintively, if ungallantly, declared, " No, neither sins nor afore, nor 
neuer in his hart tolte her for his wief ; for, at the tyme of their 
manage they knew not what they did, or els this respondent wold 
neuer have had her." Elizabeth Budge deposed that after her 
marriage with John Budge, aged it or 12, the said John would eat 
no meat at supper. " And whan hit was bed tyme, the said John 
did wepe to go home with his father, he beynge at that tyme at her 
brother's house. Yet neuertheles, bie his father's intreating and 
bie the perswasion of the priest, the said John did comme to bed to 
the Respondent far in the night, and there lay still, till in the 
morninge, in suche sort as this deponent might take unkindness 
with hym, for he lay with his backe toward her all night." 



SVLVANUS imBAN. 




THE 



GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 



October 1894, 



THE BRONZE AXE. 



By Annme Armitt. 



THE nNDING OF THE AXE. 

AMONG the neolithic men who inhabited Britain there was one 
richer than all the rest. He had a bronze axe. He had 
:ome possessed of this in a curious manner. One morning, as he 
Iropped through the trap-door of his dwelling into the little canoe 
loored beneath it^ he heard a cry of greeting not unlike the weird 
>und made by the brown owL It carae shivering across the grey 
rd sunless waters of the lake where he dwelt with his kind The 
,lake was near the sea-shore ; a low belt of hillocky ground separated 
fKtay the marshy land over which the highest tides sometimes 
flowed. There were several islets in the lake, and on one of them a 
girl stood, with her hand held to her mouth. It was she who had 
auered the cry. 

The young man knew who she was. He had befriended her in 
former days, and afterwards, in spite of a vast diflerence in their 
education and social positions, a desultory intercouise had been kept 
up between the two. 

The girl belonged, in fact, to an inferior race. She was a remnant 
of the river-drift man, of the palaeolithic creatures who dwelt in caves 
among wild beasts, and were in turn dcvourcrs and devoured of their 
unpleasant neighbours. Her name was something like Gwlnythdr. 
Il contained no vowels, pure vowel sounds having been considered 
effeminate by her forefathers ; their introduction into the language, 
even by babies learning to speak, had been strenuously resisted. 

VOL. CCLXXVII, NO. I966. 2 



■.=^ In i^-ii. "no: in£ z. bait bandy; be 
31. pliis : b£ ^iDsessed radc 

-?2S, ±:^s dcbsare^y fa d« 

S.£ ^-»i^ £sxizieis of inde 
T-- -_ af 21=^:. ^•'^ T^ -^~ i r aii. ^i* hidfi, Crfinffl »d 
i:»si:;- :;:i.i nr ^ ^ a rr-i=r^:. £zin~*"f. zaf 7»i23Sed, laiher thin 

Ei-j-z "lilt t:;i=:c=:i: :: agr r..r:ri. H* Tirssfjsei dccnesac cattle, 
r^i— vtrt :r-pt:i iizpz." ljiil; l ▼"imi-r. "•xj -3 raeJT shehe (Wff 
i;«t "nr.ir rit zz^tf z i=rr aSfiiitinj in 1:=. snriaszre cq the part of 
--itt Liiir- iiELTs: JUs fv^''~i Hi -vxs. in fan. a man of many 
z»-jSMitzSj-.z:jL iiil 'X ixfr-LZi2£zt '£Zirrj=r.fL^t^ Xereriheiess, he had not 
iiS }tr. =«* yT L iir:Ti.2£ Ci. 

Ht ;'-_Liei i_:r =Lri:»t tivxrir -±it rz-1 in£ irben he reached hef 
ii«t F'-tr.nei i~'i* — •-.; ".: *>" ~:; Zi*rs=J: ::Ti;'n ihe nairow space bdiind 
- '" T'-i-z 'jrjiz, TXi niSTriJj 2. iTt^i iTzzjc, TiiZkfLj shaped, and hollowed 
cn=- I: T-L-: li-.r Li.-,;n.ifi :: niCi r^r. b~ Ae girl was light and 
T^zzJLjt, b :_* bti STTzz: :; -Ji-e i=>r.d -wbere he fa::nd her. and could 
*a.i-Ij vrjzL iziLz. Htr rizhs -B-irr i=:rb:b:o:is ; she would as soon 
"■^l*: :t. \':jl1zv ti-.^t if -wii :- irylir.i : sx;ner. perhaps, bccanse, 
:r- '\t ".'r^-.r.tli lit i-rz -e-:tL s'-e czi.i d-ck o-j: of sight whene^ 
i-_'r -a-lil-.ti t:- es-izp^ cr-s-emtiin. Ker languajie was very little 
<ii:T^er.: ::.=: :hi: c: Linzzra-^ bi: she wss sparing of it. She 
Vy.r.\'z*i \'j the east ar.i ni^died. " A r.range thing. Come and see.** 
If'; ■*•:-: whtre her zesrjres indicated, until he reached the 
taitt.T; sr.orc of the mere. There the girl leaped lightly on the 
K-'y'*rA, zltA began to walk seaward without giving further informa- 
liorj. Mnagrat heaved his canoe to his shoulder and followed hef- 
H*^ was sure that she had a reason for what she did. 

l'n;senlly thetwo came to a salt-water channel that meandered 

ll»roiij/h half-flfxjded land to the sea. The tide had been high thtJ-'* 

J>>Kl«t ; drifted weeds lay in brown lines on the scanty marsh grassed 

'Mie man and the girl took to the water again and went down \h* 

channel. Here was an island higher than the rest, covered wit* 

low-^'rowinjr, wind-distorted vegetation. It was an island thn^ 

possessed a rock, and under the rock was a hole drier than th^ 

hurroiuuling soil. There Gwlnythdr had of late chosen to make 

bcr home. 

Slic landed here now, and crossed the space to the oppoate 




The Bronze Axe. 



327 



t Arrived there, she stood still and gazed ; and truly there 
B wonderful thing to gaze at In a small boat made of skins, 
at such as she had never seen before, lay a dead man. His 
was fair, his hair was long and yellow ; a moustache of the same 
iir covered his upper lip. He wore a garment woven of divers 
tirs, bright to the eye, smooth and soft to the fingers. A strange 
X)n lay in the boat beside him. 

■Jow Gwln)'thdr had never seen a fair-haired man before, nor 
Linagrat. She had never seen a man so tall, for he was seven 
high. Both she and her companion were small and dark. 
had, in fact, come across the first Celt whom an untoward fate 
drifted to the shore of Britain. He was dead now ; he could 
tell them where he had started from, nor how the storm or his 
error had brought him here. He lay there, rigid and still, in 
boat that had certainly not been built for this voyage ; and in 
ight hand he still grasped a bronze axe. 
*What is he?" said the girl, the raurmurings of new awe and 

suggestion awaking within her. "Is there, then, another 
itry, and men more good to look upon than we are ? I knew of 
Its, and of men^bot this \ " It was impossible for her to express 
stirring thought within her. 

'*He is dead ; he can tell us nothing," said Linagrat, 
He stooped and undid the clasp of the dead man's fingers about 
handle of the weapon. He knew its shape well enough \ but of 
t was it made? He turned it round, felt its edge, and then, 
I a strange excitement, quite unlike the girl's, he tried it on the 
a of a stunted willow. 

" It cuts 1 " he said- " It is not stone, nor flint, nor bone. It is 
per than one, finer than the other, harder than the third. Now 
H begin my new house I " 

^s swarthy cheek flushed, his dark eye burned. He looked at 
jirl, with the axe in his hand, as if he and it had become one. 
' It shall be," he said, '* the best house on all the mere." 
^ And the dead man ? " said Gwlnj^hdr. 
'We will take him and his boat and sink them in deep water." 
* Will he not come back for his axe ? " 
■ Nay, he will find plenty with his fellows among the dead, if 

are like him. This is the only one I have. You are a good 
Gwlnythdr. I am sorry you are of those that dwell among the 

K If it were not so " He felt the axe again, and his eye 

dreamy. He saw before him visions of enormous advance 




Z2 



t=:l 




■TTag'Tfr n 
IE TmirixB 
US ^uaL -fnimf x scrs. H> 
niifi- ^yg'" a: L V" ' Miiiiii'i' iT^ - II I af Tr .' t^tf* 
i^ icsc iizhem. '*-yTTT -z: mvif x -^.aiiMf- "mi ■■i !«'■■■» ix 

ui sea link 'js-jct. S* Ta: xi?icETEi -vamEd si be " 
aift deilc"rL -*t«^ hiw ±e rcci iriim Ej oaf =:aiie 2 





** asii :x, =a=. JZi-.nn -rzer* x :x=i± ztdc 
T^ tujisti 2r«i :zi-'&£ -wzxzsa r30£ r ^ 

f^/Md Vy bt 21 -WIT 



be ^ e ^ c d 

V2£ 13 Z3!^:i2K into ID' 



;vt of r.;.T- Kt -s^*::: en wiiii 



Ee ntf^sed, how^ever, 10 gi 
bis zxv veapoa — which 



At 'jut his bs-ise 'rai £ris*-*d. It iras, as he said, a better hoi9> 
than any thi: ha.d be^n see- brfzre on m^rsh or mere. Then ^ 
i//y^)il a wife to occzyy i: «-l± him. But he was told, when 1 
opened ne;;otiations with the rejitives of such maidens as he fand^^ 
that no girl of that ^-illage would make her home in a habitatL 
built by the mysterious implement Must he then dwell alone ? 
Jxrth^/ugbt him of Gwlnjthdr, who was not likely to be particular, 
who bad a right to share his good fortune. He had neglected 
somewhat of late. 

He sought her now on the marshy island where she lived alc^* 
She h^ originally been one of a large family who inhabited a 
on the mainland. The men of her race, unlike the lake-dwel" 
look each only one wife. There was not much room for 
in the holes which they occupied in common with their usi 
larKe families of scrambling, half-naked, half-amphibious chili 
Gwlnylhdr's father had the misfortune to get the worst of an aigu.: 




^^^^ The B\ 

into which he inadvertently fell with a neigl 
cave-bear. Her mother speedily married a luckier man. But the 
luckier man did not care for his wife's first family, and after a time 
Gwlnythdr was turned out to fend for herself. It was at this critical 
period of her existence that Linagrat came across her and befriended 
^^T. She was then half-starving, but she soon learnt to supply herself 
'^itH a fair amount of food. She was a clever trapper and fisher ; she 
covild swim hke a duck, and climb like a squirrel ; with a sharp piece 
of stone between her fingers she could burrow like a rabbit. She could 
sleep huddled together on a tree where the branches made a little plat* 
form, or crouched in a hole scratched out of a sandhill, with tolerable 
corn fort. But her favourite habitation was the marshy islet. This was 
visited neither by wolves, nor bears, nor the wild ox that roamed 
^^ woods, nor the fierce boar that sometimes turned to bay there, 
"^^r prolonged residence was made manifest by a heap of shells, 
*^^es, and feathers near the entrance to her hole. When Linagrat 
^^ited her she was neither setting traps, nor wading in the shallows, 
'^^r lying flat on her face on the bank, trying to catch something. She 
'''^s making herself a new skirt of rushes, with sea-gulls' feathers 
P';;3-ited in the edge for a border. Slie was thinking of Linagrat, and 
'fishing that she did not belong to the cave-people, but had decent 
^tijing of wool or of dressed skins like the girls who dwelt in the 
*^oden lake-houses. 



be 



Her loneliness, her vanity, her ardent desire to 



In touch with the higher civilisation from which she was excluded, 
^<i wrought her to this pitch of inventiveness. 
- '* What a queer thing you are making ! " said Linagrat, and she 
^^'^g her work on one side in disappointment, and stood up in her 
^ garments of rush and skin, 
J *' I suppose," said Linagrat, eyeing her critically, "that you would 
^^W better if you had better clothes." 

^he reddened as she answered, ** I am making better clothes," 
**Oh, those things ! I mean like other people's.*' The tyranny 



I 



Cronformity is very great among primitive people, and Linagrat 



I 



^ ^Id not entirely escape it, though he was of those who lead the new 
'^tfcartures. 

** That," he added, " could be managed after." 
•^^fterwhat?" 

•* After we are married, My house is ready, and I want a wife." 
•' Oh 1 " This went beyond her highest hopes, but she waited 
^ more. 

'' The other girls won't come. Will you ? " 

"Why won't the other girls come?" she asked cautiously. 





330 The GefUlematts Magazine. 

" They say the axe is uncanny ; you know it isn't" 

" It belonged to the dead man," she answered slowly, 
you had not taken it. He might come for it." 

"Very well," he retorted ; "do as you like. I and the axe 
live together." He turned away to his canoe. 

" Stop ! " she cried. " i never said I would not" 

He looked at her, waiting. %^ 

" It is a good home, and I am tired of being alone," she said. 

"So am I." .^ 

"The bears could never get at me there — nor the tide eith**^'' 
Sometimes I think the tide will fill the hole while I am asleep in iri^ ^ 

•* You will come, then ? " 

** Yes, but I will finish my dress first," she answered. Even ^*^ 
her simple mind some form of trousseau seemed of importance. 

" They will point at me otherwise," she said ; "the other girls.'* -^^ 

•' As you will. When shall I come for you ? " 

** In three days." 

He stepi'ted into his canoe ; then, as an afterthought, he tum^sraa 
and tcssed a large fish from it to the bank. 

** \ ou won*t need to catch any more until I come," he said. 

Thus the bargain was concluded. 



11. 

THE HOLDING OF THE AXE. 

V'^xfcxxvvuv!^ nuvie a: fir?: a very satis&ctory wife to Linagrat S/xc 
v^>i*v ATr.>>Ni :n hor decorated skirt, and was so much pleased ^^ 
•V cvwvr.: Jl:^:n::o:l ;: excited among "the other girb" that sIb.^ 
^vunW hv^>5;ir:t jir,o;her w::b a border of shells instead of feather^ 
5>>V s;tv.».\ii xhcr.x to^«her c:i nishes» and interlaced them along th.^ 
nv-^v^ v>t A i^-jtrr^^cr.: :hji; she already possessed. It was a ver^ 
»AXuvUK^K»v "ooj:^^ V.V " oc' in old skirt, and the jingling it mad ^ 
>fc^^^\ nSv >kA'X<\l ipxvv her ji rleasirvg sense of importance. 

^vNs" \5tow h4Tvl :o S: v.cw ro cast refuse bones through the traj^ " 
Nv\SH \u;o ihs' Uie ::*.*:ejid of leaving them to accumulate on th ^^ 
^\ssW*\ dkvrk A»i to use the varioos utensUs for the purpos^^ 

5^'^ %«)L A cA^^HUl coKu-ar.x-r^ because she loved to listen, an ^^ 

^"^ ^vunNj^.^I %h^^ >fcA* tu- o;' ivi^as. loved to talk. She did nc=^^^ 

^K^<t^U^^ ^^"^^ ^ ^^^ ^^ ^^ w of small consequence?^ ' 




Bronze Axe. 351 

^"C applauded none the less readily. Her home was a prosperous 

^^e * she was lifted to a height of luxury of which she had hardly 

^''^a^med ; her husband was good-natured ; he did not force her to 

*^*^ all the hard work, as her father had forced her mother, nor did 

**^ Itick her if she got into his way. She ought to have been 

■^^I^Temely happy, and at first, perhaps, she was. The lake- villagers 

'^^^c not cordial, but they did not absolutely refuse to hold cora- 

^'^'J^riication with her, and if her husband did not find them so 

^^><=:ially disposed as aforetime, he was occupied with his own schemes, 

^^^^ci had someone at home to whom he could talk freely. He was 

^^trisfied, as many original men are, with successful work and domestic 

•yxaopathy. 

She surprised him one day, however, by asking if it was not time 
^O^^" him to take another wife. 

"Why should I ?'* he said " You do all that is necessary." 
** But they call you already in the village, * The man with one 
■^rifc ! * " 

Now this term was synonymous with an accusation of direst 

IP<^^*ert)% The men in the lake- villages measured their wealth by the 
■camber of their cattle and their wives: both depended to a great 
^^gree on the size of their house, and Linagrat had the largest of all. 
** There is room here for five, for six, for seven wives," said 
^'•'■inythdr, looking round her proudly. So great, indeed, was the 
Pfiessure of custom, so heavy the force of public opinion, that this 
P^^t creature was ready to resign her present position of sole house- 
**^^stress and exclusive possessor of her husband's affections, only 
"^t he might act like other rich men. Her mother had been the 
^^e wife of the man who slept on the ground in a heap of dirty 
^«ns when he was not hunting or feeding, and poor Gwlnythdr 
"3a\ight polygamy a sign of advanced civilisation. Did it not at 
'^a^i: mean labour shared in cooking and cattle-tending ? 
K The suggestion was unwelcome to Linagrat. He found his 

H P^^sent life agreeable enough. Nevertheless, to oblige Gwlnythdr, 
"^ unade an application to the father of a dark-eyed lass who was 
L '^own as Treu. 

B *'Give the evil thing up to the mystery -men," said the man, " and 

" y<^^ shall have my daughter to wife." 

" VVTiat ! give up the source of my wealth ! " cried Linagrat 
^-oolc you, with it I mean to make such palisadings that no beast 
^He forest, great or small, can break into my seed-land to destroy 
^. ^ grain, as happened twice before. Part with my axe I Never \ ' ^^^ 



332 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

Unngrat did not particularly want Treu, but he apologised to 
Gwlnythdr for the failure of his mission, and went on with bis 
palisading. When it was finished and the beasts fenced out, 
Gwlnythdr's stepfather, or some other palaeolithic man of the district, 
liked its inside appearance so much that he climbed the barrier and 
helped himself to what he found desirable, Linagrat thereupon 
declared war against the whole race to which the thief belonged. He 
attacked with his bronze axe every adult male of them whom he 
met, and produced such terror among them all that they picked up 
their poor possessions of skins and shaped stones, and tramped off 
through the woods to find some happier spots where their fellow-man 
was less unfairly equipped. Their departure was a benefit to ihe 
whole lake settlement, and, seeing this, Linagrat, who was a man of 
public spirit, called the elders together, and offered to share has 
advantages with them. He would, with his bronze axe, help in the 
labour of clearing and enclosing a piece of land for the common 
good. The work of chopping with stone and flint had been so 
tedious that the area of cultivated land had been kept very small. 
It could be enlarged to the advantage of the whole community, and 
within the shelter of the high palisades even the women and little 
children could work with safety. 

*' The axe is bewitched ; we will have none of it," was the 
answer. 

But Linagratj who had a political instinct and a taste for oratoryp 
was prepared with a reply. 

** I found this thing," he said,* '^ another man had made it, a man 
cleverer than you or I. Why should it be evil? It has come, 
perhaps, out of the earth, and been prepared in a way we know not. 
Do not many things come to us from the earth, and all of them good ? 
— the wood that rises from year to year in the trunk of the tree to 
make the walls of our houses ; the seed that hides itself as it climbs 
the stalks and bursts into bread at the top ; the grass that the 
beasts eat^ and so make of themselves flesh for our platters ? Y 
and the stones and the flint of which we fashion our hammers and with 
which we tip our arrows. The beasts can make nothing of th 
things, but we, who are wiser than they, turn them to service. More 
than this, is there not the fire hid in the wood that we know how to 
find, while the birds perish for cold among the branches that hold 
the secret heat ? Yea, and is there not the clay hidden under the 
turf, soft and dirty ? But we have learnt to fashion it with our hands 
and to heat it with our fires until it is hard and dean ; until it will 
hold for us even the running water. There are men who know not 



I 
I 



W ClUL H 



The Bronze Axe. 



333 



these secret things, and there are doubtless other secrets which we 
have not yet discovered ; but the earth and the water hold them 
ready for us, and this man that was wiser than we are, he had found 
out some of them." 

** Who was this man ? '* 

Then he told the story of the dead Celt, and all looked at the 
mystery-men to know if it were possible \ but they, who had once 
been the sacred holders of all knowledge, were now jealous of any 
knowledge that did not come through themselves. 

** It is not true," they said ; " there is no such man in all the 

Whoever heard of one that had hair yellow like straw ? " 
** He came from beyond the water." 

" He could not come that way. Do we not see the water from 
le tree-tops as far as the very point from which the sun rises every 
lomiog ? There it must be boiling hot. No man could live in it 
\T a moment." 

But Linagrat asked : ** Has it not been said that our forefathers 
Line from over the water long ago, and brought with them all the 
llicst things that we now have, and that the cave-dwellers possess 
»t ? It may be that beyond the sea there are good things yet to 
►me." 

**You speak old lies. Our fathers came out of the ground. 
Pack to the ground they go, and we with them." 

** This man came, and where one was there may be others like 



•* It cannot be, or we should have seen them before." 
•* They have not yet, perchance, found the way. They may come 
Iter, and bring with them weapons like this one. Then they will 
I find us ill -prepared, and drive us away before them as we, have driven 
ithc cave-people. Let us put our wits together, and make the best 
'iireapons and boats and defences, and seek, moreover, in the earth if 
[there be any substance like this, with so keen and fine an edge— for 
iflomewhere I know the earth holds it." 

But the mystery-men said that the axe was bewitched, and came 
[from the evil powers that dwelt in dark places — the goblins that 
[lighted torches at night in the marshes and misled men to their 
undoing— the ghouls that shouted on the shore when the mist came 
lown to the edge of it and beguiled belated hunters, and especially 
>st little children, into the woods to be devoured there. Others 
lid that it was made by the ghouls themselves, and hardened with 
the blood of the infants they had destroyed. So after that the lake- 
dwellers shunned Linagrat more and more. 




A 



334 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



In spite of this he prospered. His crops were better than those 
of other men, and he could help them in a time of dearth. He bore 
no malice ; he was generous to his fellows ; but still they were not 
satisfied. Then there came from the north a tribe of men who 
attacked the village^ because they wanted its habitations and ife 
clearings for themselves, Linagrat led the defence. He prepared ' 
pitfalls and palisadings on the shore ; he drove concealed stakes into 
the bottom of the lake to make the water* approach to the habitatiofis 
more difficult. Then he burst out upon the beleaguering foe at the 
head of the villagers, whose young men did not refuse to follow him. 
With his bronze axe fixed at the end of a long pole he scattered 
death in the ranks of his foes. His weapon was so light and sosbirp 
that it dealt three blows where his followers struck one. His enemies 
tried in vain to close with him in order to obtain the advantage of 
their shorter and heavier arms ; his eye was swift to see, his feet 
nimble to move, and his arm did miracles of agility. The besj^gcB 
turned at last and fled, so the lake-village was saved. 

** Surely," he thought, " now they will hear reason." 

But the mystery^-raen had said the word, and would not unsay it 

" It is the magic of the axe that brought the foes upon us," ibcy | 
declared, "so that Linagrat might play the hero and become 
of us all." 

They seemed to think that the axe was a kind of magnet (nflt 
that they knew of such an actual power) that attracted or repuls^ 
peril at the will of its owner. 

A child was bom to Gvvlnythdr. It prospered at firsts and ihfi 
mother was happy; but whispering words came to her from the 
meddling gossips on the mere. 

" Are you not afraid to let it Uve in the same house as the axe?** 

" How can the axe hurt the child ? " she asked. 

" Have you not heard that it is fed on the lives of infants? Thai 
without new blood it will lose its magic power ? " 

" It is not true," said Gwlnythdr \ but she was very ignorant— 
with such as she a spoken word may set strange thoughts in motion. 
She watched the axe from day to day with a suspicion that developed 
into fear. 

" It gets dull," said her husband, feeling its edge. •* I must 
it sharper," 

He ground it on a stone, but still remained unsatisfied ; he 
given the axe rough work to do, and now he was afraid of 
away by too much grinding, because there was no other in the 
like it. Its material was precious to him. 




'ou thmlt more of that thing than of wife or child," said 
Gwlnythdr pettishly. 

**If I did," he answered her in jest, ** would it be strange? There 
18 but one such axe on the whole earth, within my knowledge ; but 
there aie many women, many children." 

Her fear and mistrust grew, and one day, mistaking some words 
that he uttered, she took the child and fled. He returned to the 
great house to find it empty. 

At first Linagrat thought that his enemies had stolen his wife and 
diild; then that they were drowned In the lake; but the neighbours 
laid, *' It is the goblin of the axe that has taken them." 

He heeded none of their murmurs until a whisper reached him 
that his wife was not dead ; she had hidden herself with her child in 
te" old dwelling-place. 

He sought and found her there. She looked worn and haggard ; 

baby was ill and wailing. The mother had weaned the child 
Wore she left her home, and here on the sea-marsh were neither 
*nilk nor bread to be had. 

'' Why have you done this thing? " asked Linagrat, as he looked 
St the wretched pair with the wrath of a man who desires to do the 
ben for all things that are his. 

" Lest you should take the child's life to make your axe good 
sgaln" she answered; and she told him all her fears. 

" ^Vm I a man like that ? " he asked her with sorrow. " Have I 
been such a husband and such a father that you can think this thing 

She hung her head in shame, 

*■ It is you who hurt the child by keeping it here. Bring it back 
the house," he said 

She brought it back, and they dwelt together as before; but not 
the same confidence and sympathy. 

" Is the axe good again ? " asked Gwlnythdr. 

And he answered, ** It wanted but an edge. It is as it was at first." 

Then she thought, " It is the child's life that it is eating away, 
though Linagrat knows it not.* 



IIL 

THE LOSING OF THE AXE. 



IE night, when Gwlnythdr was alone with her child, the trap-door 
thrust open suddenly by a blow from beneath. It had been care- 



1 r.f -fl 



k 



336 The Genikmati s Magazine, 

lessly secured, because the times were now peaceful, and no strange 
could steer his barque safely among the hidden stakes of the Xakz. 
Through the hole in the floor a terrible-looking creature appeared^ 
it had two heads— one like that of a goat, and the other like thai oC 
a grey wolf. 

*' I have come for the axe," it cried, 

** Alas ! '* Gvvlnythdr answered, clasping the child to her in tenor, 
and never doubting that this monster was the axe*s rightful owner 
and probably the original maker of it ; " it is not here, my hus 
has it with him." 

The creature rose further. With a torch made of the pith of a 
reed dipped in fat — but Gwlnythdr thought that it was the goblin-iire 
of the marshes — it threw a wavering light over the place, a dreadfiil 
light that flickered and travelled and trembled, and sought out the 
child where she strove to hide it in her thin cloak. It revealed many 
other implements in the great hving-chamber, but not the axe. 

" When I come again, let it be ready," said the monster, *■■ or I 
take the child instead." So it sank through the floor. 

Gwlnythdr, with many tears and much trembling, told her 
husband what had happened. If she could have secured the ai« 
without his knowledge she would gladly have done so, but this she 
found impossible. Even when he slept the axe was hung withtb 
reach of his hand. 

" It is the goblin of the axe,*" she said, " who must have it again, 
or the child's life. Let the dreadful thing go." 

" The goblin shall have the axe," said Linagrat grimly, " but ia 
a place that he desires not." 

He remained at home and watched night after night, leaving the 
trap -door always unfastened. He hung the axe now on a place oa 
the wall above it. It was his custom at this time of the year often 
to spend the night on the marshes, snaring the night-feeding birds 
that were abundant there. He took pains now to make it seem is 
if he went away as usual. The axe hung always on the wall. Hc 
seemed to have no present use for it. 

At last the two-headed creature returned ; it thrust out a hairy 
hand for the axe, but another hand seized the weapon first and 
swung it high in the air. The monster dropped out of sight through 
the trap- do or. 

*' The goblin will want his axe no more," said Linagrat as be 
shut the door with a low laugh ; " nor will the axe pine for a while 
for the taste of blood.'* And he cast himself down to sleep. 

In the morning, however, there was great consternation in 




Bronze 



337 



lOT tne chief of the dealers in mystery was found dead, 
fcating in his boat on the lake^ half hidden by a pile of strange 

•* It is the magic of the axe that has brought ibis trouble upon 
osp" said the more superstitious; but Linagrat spoke no word, nor 
did Gwljiythdr dare to speak. 

After that his isolation was more complete, and Gwlnythdr wept 
in her solitude while she watched her baby pine away. 

•• Cast away the axe," she said to her husband ; " it is, perhaps, 
an evil thing." 

** It has done good and no evil," he answered. 
** It kills my child" 

•* It has brought wealth to your child, and will bring more," 
** What is wealth to one that is dead ? Was it any joy to the 
yellow -haired man in his boat that the axe lay beside him ? It had, 
perchance, wrought his undoing." 

■* You speak idle words. Your child will live to slay his foes 
ith it, as I have slain mine." 

•'He will need it then, for the earth will hold no friend of hts. 

rhere are your friends or your fellows, you that were the companion 

»f many before this came to you ? What is wealth to a man that sits 

me while the rest point at him ? Or a big house that is empty ? 

le axe must be the child's playmate if he lives to desire one, for be 

III find no other. But he will not live. The axe eats away his life." 

Her constant sadness wore upon her husband, and so at last did 

unfriendly looks of the people. 

"It was an evil day when we found the axe," said his wife, when 
I lie came in once with a gloomy look, and found her absorbed in the 
child as usual. *• There is no joy in your heart nor health for the 
child Tvhile the uncanny thing hangs upon the wall.*' 

Her tears felt upon her infant*s wan face as she spoke. 
**It was an evil day when I took a foolish woman to wife," he 
in sudden wrath. " How can one stand alone against the 
risdom of all his fellows? Henceforth you shall have a husband 
richer than the rest." 

He took his axe, dropped into his canoe^ and called the elders of 

place to follow him. \Vondering they went, the younger men in 

train, until they reached the deep channel where the Celt lay 

There Linagrat stood up in his boat. 

** Wise man and strong," he shouted, as he held the axe above 

head, " take back your gift ; for a good thing is evil in the 

hands of fools." 



33« 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



He swung ibe wcopoa and let it go ; it ctit more than one sliining 

de bcliDrc it tottched the grey water ; a hiss, a splash, and ibc 
I brosKixe msseen no more. He turned and went back to his homt 

This was in the morning. In the evening the father of Ttca 

■elohflou 

* 1 win, if T«i pksse^ now ^ve you my daughter to wife.'' 
•»Is not one enough— loo many?** he asked bitterly, ">'o 

liter, kt her come. Hcncclbrth I live as the people will, andnot 

Be did no iPOoiii& and seemed indifferent to the prospect of i 

m^ boncu Gwlnytlidr was, however, pleased. Her baby was 

i a ; ^e hnd no inxeKSt in anything but nursing it ; she wodd 

tlM of IkSp; dbe woold be ^b»d» also, of a companion, for her! 

am^F and silenL He discoursed to her no moreofl 

ttare. She therefore set the house in order hasdlj,! 



Oft 



dif, die mde rites and 



bargainings 



^\ 



pnmitiv 
B dbe CBStam was, was lifted through 
il was not ooBsidcred lucky that a bride shouldc 
Het tatend stood to receive her, the door 

ent away. Henoefbnh, this was her hone;] 
BB her master. She and Linagrat gaied 
MCNki^ and iQpA he wondered why he should hare taken 
^ vtffe^ lto|||k dhis one was comely to look ui>on. 
Ildin S^od kom^* saod Gwlnjtiidr, coming eagerly ft 
Hnk yon wS ISk iL* There was something in the new 
Mt dMtande her pRpare to tike the second place at once, 
Y«iw it « m soni Wome.* The dark eyes of the new coi 
aae fo a wooden peg that was emj 
"^ Hkd te Uft hinC <bc»?' she asked her husband. 

*•• littilidHBnfid me first it would have himg there stilL* 
aft her in snrprix^ and G whijrthdr was breathless 






tepmloQgagoL'* 
bo; Yi» sinke to her,** she just 

of her siMMlder. «^Vhy could 
Jfi^'^i^ Af ux€l We had 



tlMlfcm^rW irnma 
idi^whoisl 



answered 
ter than his fe 




^he Bronze A\ 



inagrat fooited at her still in surprise. This introduction to 

^i»is new life was not what he bad expected, and he did not under- 

^v^and it» Two women to hang over the cooking-pots instead of one^ 

Liwo to chatter foolish words in his ears while he pondered his plans 

of work — these were all the consequences he had foreseen of his 

^^cond marriage. 

Suddenly Treu smiled, and then her face was very bright and 
•ympaihetic. 

** The axe is gone," she said, *' but much is left." She turned to 
Owlnythdr and added, "Show me your baby." 

The mother held it forward eagerly, and Treu took it into her 



i»>»t 



■* Poor child," she said softly ,• *' it looks so thin and white, I fear 
it must die." 

"It was the axe," said Gwlnythdr, weeping again. 
Nay, my sister, the axe could never have hurt it. It was only 
who bated your husband who told you so. You killed the 
lUd when you took it to that dreadful place. But, perhaps, even 
*low, we may save it. I will do my best to help you." 

'*I wish you had come before,'^ said Gwlnythdr, as she caught 
'ht child to her breast again, and fell to crooning over it, 
Treu turned once more to Linagrat and spoke. 
I never believed that you would give up the axe, 1 thought 
you were strong." 

I was alone," said Linagrat. He read in her eyes that he had 
?n a hero to her, and that she would have helped him before if she 
*^ known how. 

*• You are alone no more.*' She smiled again, but more timidly 
before, and she put out her hand tentatively. When he took it 
found courage to go on. 

•• When I heard you speak to the men who accused you of 
lolding commerce with the ghouls, I knew that you had two things 
rhich thc>' possessed not ; one of them you have thrown away^Oh 
Lt I had been there to hinder you l^the other you still have." 
i* What is that other?" 

«* Wisdom !'* she said softly. "I knew it was yours when you 

'^cred your accusers. It is that thought which is not for to-day 

,|y or for yesterday, but for to-morrow and the years to come. 

>i<J yo^ "Ot look into the very heart of things, and speak from it? 

Hit the rest gabbled foolishness." 

•« t)id you have all these thoughts on that day when no man 
.p^^e a word for me ? " 



i 



£ bs£ t ica bet a poor nnn like ^ 



2Z TZK^ imiWiffi^ 

li.'nf nnr tsx 7*11. 



3l(xc IBS 3i£ ^s. Tbs ulin Snag is kft. It makes yoa tbdt 
r ^les^ ^fdl :f 7i^ Xcme can tite tha tbi^ fioAjon 
z imL rhiinEg 1; nnif £, 1 xsk^ name 10 help yon, to $uiid by f oo, 
iss ysL iSTi'mr. hl'Jijci. ^ji Iij^k, I'tfi.auBtte as tlie ochd toen vie. I 
an. sue 3zrcs»h~ ^r-ae, nm 1 xzv^ TZie gz& to know wisdom when it li 
snr^vT n 2&L. jijii :£ ^3S I X3£ snxc : erf* SQcli tiifM^iti 2S yoon ac 
sssaL be -jaaas. rs^ i^s ±ac ^=c t:^ an denm all the trees b tk 
^rsfkf. xmi n ranif j^lL ^e r in u'uzjuus m It.* 

-^T^L ixv: sgcxsL vx: w^st visdooi,* be aiiswaed, as be Stssod 
jicitnnc imr: bsr ffs S3£ isevS^^ ai tlteir soft bijghttness ; "it v 
X vcri :±i£ stsstt-sdc^ igada ib^ «ii3e tib^ practise oo^ filtf • 
^STbsi 7:k swie&c. x I iTidrvuTd what it siionld be But itoe'i 
_ liae I d^ ox r-i6epaaiwi It is ilie «^iaiige thit te 
^ =7 ^:^ sziEc Toc pc; TOOT hand in mine and ^id itafr 

is ?=rrj^ihazIbiTCbroa^yoobackhope,''shcanswcnd. 
~ »^ =»::^ :iii:: ^^is::- The fiist " mairiage of true minds* 
r=r in iii: pmirpe community. 



RL YLh A1W)^TAINE 
ON THE FRENCH REFOLUTION. 



IT is beyond doubt or question that the French Revolution is one 
of the most striking and memorable events in modem history; 
"^t, much as has been written about it, numerous as are the sources 
'if evidence^ it is nevertheless true that the judgments, even of thinking 
^d of cultured men^ are divided upon the questions of the essential 
character and of the lasting influence of the great convulsion. One 
School of thought holds the Revolution to have been a very gigantic 
assertion of liberty, while another school of historians would main- 
tun that the Revolution was but a colossal carnival of crime. The 
two great champions of these conflicting judgments are Carlyle and 
Henri Taine ; and we may well leave it to such paladins of prowess 
ro fight out the quarrel, as, in three great tragedies, the final issue of 
the strife is determined by the duel combats of Richard and of 
fKichroond, of Hotspur and of the Prince, of Macbeth and of Macduff, 
consider Carlyle to be the greater writer, but hold that Taine is the 
tor historian. If Carlyle had known as much as Taine knew, how 
ferent would have been his work ; how much truer might have 
;n his view of the Revolution 1 If Taine had written about Crom- 
ill he would, no doubt, have overlooked many English sources 
[ef mformation ; and Carlyle, writing upon a French theme^ was 
tnacquainted with many of those invaluable authorities which the 
rofound research of Taine so profusely cites. Setting aside personal 
ind general historical qualities, Taine had, indubitably, a much wider 
id deeper knowledge of the facts of the Revolution. 
I^t us see where the great champions differ in their estimates of 
the soul and essence of the Rei^olulion. It seems convenient to 
It, in the first place, by brief extracts, Carlyle's philosophy of the 
reat moral and social earthquake. " For ourselves, we answer that 
French Revolution means here the open, violent Rebellion and Victory 
[of disimprisoned Anarchy against corrupt, worn-out Authority. . . , 
For as Hierarchies and Dynasties of all kinds, Theocracies, Arislo- 
craci^ Autocracies, Stmrapetocracies have ruled the world, so it was 

VOL. CCLXXVIl, NO. 1966. A A 




of Proridciice, that this same Victorious 
SiDsciiIoctism, French Revolution, Honors of 
Ftcndi Refohttiaii, or vfaai dise mortals name it, should have its 
iBZfL . . . Sinelj m great PfaenooieQon : nay, it is a transandiJttsl 
ooe, oferstcpfNng aU inks and expexi^ice ; the crowning Phenomenon 
of ov modem tioBft. - . • Whereby, however, as we often say, sbill 

seem attainable — this^ naroely, that Mao 
IS life rest do more on holkyimess and a Lie, but on solidity and 
Idbd of tfOlk. Wckone the bcgguliest truth, so it ^ one, ifl 
tor the wofgwBcA sham. . , , Sansculottism will bum 
; bat «te m ■Kombcstible it will not bum. Fear no( 
it fisr what it is — the portentous, inevitable 
dbe mirarnWi^ b^;inning of much. One other thing 
of it — that it, too, came from God ; for hiS 
iiutioQ» by the way, would include murdei. 
In one pmge Cariyle eipteacs an abstract opinion upon \k 
of tty e tii oondoctiQg a revolution, when revolution n 
Ott the other band be this conceded ; when thiiu 
ft lie tibat is muH^ ti'tiiig thee, extinguish iL Lies exist there 
oa^ 10 be oti^gwshed : ihey wait and cry earnestly for extinction. 
Hilk «dli mcanidttle^ in idiat spiiit thou wilt do it : not with 
hifeRdt vilh hovhagi sdish mlcDoe ; but in clearness of heart, witli 
holy «ilk CCB^% almost wt&i pity. Thou wouldst not replace 
Lie by a new Lie, which a new injtistice of thy ^ 
of adl other Lies? whereby the latter tndd^ 
than die begumt^g.'* 

that the men who shaped and led the Freocb 
ae afl with Cariyle. To the terrible disorder 
tyS^fe Cariyie makes but slight and insufficicait 
We shofl hn<e to go to Taine for full and clear infornutiofl 
OH ihtt htattch of the sahjecL As a proof of Carlyle's occasiooil 
iWHt of k a u*l e4g t te iKX may be cited that he gives Barbaroot 
as a Voitar to Mafamr Robad, whereas Buzot was the lover that she 
lonrad* ** P i tfi iot i sm copson s nol with thieving and felony," says 
Gldllle; bm *naBe proves deady that patriotism— as that wa 
iioderstood in the Itei«hilttaci— was ck>sdy allied with thieving anA 
MOi^, and with even worse things and darker crimes. "Ko» 
fkieaii^ this Rcvoliitioa is not of the consolidating kind." Of the 
JmMtA* dob Cui|ie mfs^ "This Jacoluns' Club, which at &nt 
IS dxMi^ to be a new celestial Sun for 
the NatkmSk had, as dungs aU have, to work throush 
its appointed phases ; it bumed, Mfatiintr dy, more and more 




I 




Carlyle and Tainc on ifw French Revolution, 343 



ti4 more sulphurous, distracted — and swam at last through the 
tonished Heaven, like a Tartarean Portent and lurid-burning 
tison of Spirits in Pain." If a grandiose this is surely a somewhat 
Igte estimate of the terrible Mother Society of the Revolution, 
lune will show us the thing more clearly. *' A set of mortals has 
ICD who believe that Truth is not a printed Speculationj but a 
lU;tical Fact ; that Freedom and Brotherhood are possible in this 
nth, supposed always to be Belial's, which the 'Supreme Quack' 
Is to inherit ! " So says Carlyle ; but the reign of the rulers of 
|e Revolution was not a reign of saints, but a reign of demons, 
fceir truth was the truth of Belial ; and their brotherhood was the 
ptherhood of Cain. The class which was, in essenccj the criminal 
pas became the governing class. 

I Carlyle, in one place, admits that "patriotism is always infested 
L will) a proportion of mere thieves." He recognises the fact that 
Wicalism is closely allied to Rascaldom ; and sees that men may 
m confusion, famine, desolation, regret the days that are gone." 
Such is Paris ] the heart of France like to it Preternatural sus- 
., doubt, disquietude, nameless anticipation, from shore to 
* In September 1792, "Whatsoever is cruel in the panic 
of twenty-five million men, whatsoever is great in the simul- 
ms death-defiance of twenty- five million men stand here in 
ipl contrast, near by one another." Carlyle always assumes, I 
|tok too readily, that the twenty-five million, bound in one national 
toulse, thought, and felt, and wished, and acted together and alike; 
pweas it is historically clear that the terrible Jacobin rule was the 
fc of a base minority, which dominated by terrorism and ruled by 
pD& If, during the foul reign of Louis XV., there were a general 
ponal sentiment in favour of more honest and capable govern- 
|tot, the rule of the Jacobins, and the facts of the Revolutton, when 
fe Jacobins had established the Terror, were the product and the 

bt of the despotism of a minority of the vilest and the vulgarest ; 
^^n for whom murder had become a sport and blood a jest ; 
^Den who could entertain and put into practice the grandiose 
jception of rivalling the St. Bartholomew butchery. Danton's 
dred hours of the long agony of the September massacres (Sep- 
|>er 2-6, 1792) Cariyle calls **Wild Justice.'^ Surely, in the name 
mmanity, the name of Justice should not thus be taken in vain. 
3y the tone and spirit of Carlyle's philosophy are too apologetic 
^ch a bloody saturnalia of cruelty and of crime. However, 
|e will show us presently that Carlyle was not fully acquainted 
the details of this colossal act of murder. 




i^ A 2 





The GentUmatis Magazine, 



During all its course the Revolution haul omitted to do away 

with scarcity and hunger ; and those of the people that were not 

in Jacobin pay were suffering cruel want, Carlyle, when narrating 

the atrocities carried out by CoHot d'Herbois, at Lyons, speaking 

specially of the slaughter, by shooting (assisted by bayonet and spaded 

of two hundred and ten victims, telb us that *»it beconaes a butdiery 

too horrible for speech," and adds, ** Such is the vengeance of an 

enraged republic. Surely this, according to Barr^re's phrase, b 

justice under rough forms (*sous des formes acerbes')." Again, as in 

the case of the September naassacres, the misuse of the woid 

"justice " in connection with such horrors revolts the consdencc and 

the judgment Carlyle, however, admits that "one begins to be sick 

of death vomited in great floods." But for his theories, but for the 

absence of more knowledge, the human heart of him would haw 

been yet more revolted by the wholesale slaughter of so many and 

such innocent victims. The noyades, fusillading, guillotiniog of 

Carrier at Nantes, his "republican marriages" even, do not, I 

think, stir in Carlyle sufficient indignation. He says, in accordance 

with his theory, "Indeed, all men are rabid, as the time is;" and 

thus he seeks to explain infrahuman cruellies* " But the Fact, let 

all men observe, is a genuine and sincere one ; the sincerest of 

Facts ; terrible in its sincerity, as very Death." Murder is a bct» 

^hich includes certainly "very Death ;" but victorious "Liberty" 

scarcely needs to cause so much suffering or to pour forth sod 

rivers of blood. The theories which Carlyle, basing them upoi 

his preconceived ideas, evolved out of the Revolution somewb^ 

obscured his judgment, and certainly deadened his great wir^ 

heart. His feeling was, doubtless, nobler than his philosoph 

Unnaturally harsh seems Carlyle's view of the piteous and degrade 

end of the unhappy young Dauphin. 

And so *' rigour grows, stiffens into horrid tyranny," until ** 
nation has tried sansculoltism and is weary of it" " The Freoi 
people risen against Tyrants," It is a loud-sounding phrase, but 
is very certain that not all the tyranny of all the kings or govec 
ments since the days of Pharamond has even remotely eqiialled I 
tyranny of the Terror. Monarchs had never been so unjust 
so inhuman. Liberty had been greater ; happiness had been moi 
life had been safer and property more secure ; and never had \ 
time been stained so darkly by such floods of innocent blood, 
by so many murders so pitilessly committed. Of the sorrows a 
sufferings, of the misery and torture caused by and in the Fnei: 
Revolution no tongue or pen can adequately speak. The sad 





rlyle and Taine on tfie 



name of liberty was degraded to the gorj' gutter, flowing beneath a red 
and blood-stained scaffold. The ciimes, cruelties, oppression com- 
mitted by the long line of monarchs pale before the honors 
committed by the Jacobins in a time so short though so intense. 

In considering the conflicting views of the two great authorities 

I have given precedence to our own great writer ; and have essayed 

to present fairly his leading ideas about the Revolution ; and now we 

turn to consider the doctrines of the eminent French author, whose 

profound and extensive knowledge of facts renders him invaluable to 

students and to thinkers. If Taine had written before Carlyle, then 

Carlyle's work would probably have been different in tone, and 

^ould certainly have been based upon fuller knowledge. Unless you 

^^^ confute Taine's statement of facts, you must of necessity adopt 

**is conclusions. Let us begin by citing some of Taine's leading ideas. 

After an appalling picture of the men who really ruled, Taine says, 

"Tel est le people politique qui, \ partir des derniers mois de 1792, 

'^gTie sur Paris, et, i travers Paris, sur la France, cinq mille brutes ou 

vaunens avec deux mille drolesses." The Palais Royal harboured 

" loate cette population sans racines qui flotte dans une grande ville, 

ei qui, n'ayant ni metier, ni m<;nage, ne vit que pour la curiosity ou 

potir le plaisir, habitues des cafes, coureurs de tripots, aventuriers et 

d^classes, enfants perdus, ou surnumt^raires de la littcrature, de Tart et 

du barreau, dercs de procureur, ^tudiants des <$coles, badauds, 

fl^eurs, eirangers et habitants d'hotels garnis ; on dit que ceux-ci sont 

^ttarante mille \ Paris." The contingent thus depicted formed by no 

*^eans the worst class of those who adopted politics as a pursuit 

during the Revolution. The Jacobin rule meant wild anarchy 

tempered by frantic despotism. The Jacobin conquest of France had 

**tended, in April 1792, wholly over more than twenty departments, 

^^ partially over the other sixty. ** D*un cote sont les declasses de 

^out ^f^j^ igg dissipateurs qui, ayant consumd leur patnmoine, ne 

j**^Vcnt souffrir ceux qui en ont un, les hommes de neant h qui le 

^*^rdre ouvre la porte de la richesse et des emplois publics, les 

J ^^^ux, les ingrats qu'un jour de revolution acquitte envers leurs 

iteurs ; les tetes ardentes, les novateurs enthousiastes qui 

■^bent la raison le poignard a ia main^ les indigents, la plebe brute 

Miserable qui, avec une idee principale d'anarchie, un cxemple 

^*^punitd, le silence des lois et du fer, est excitee fl tout oser. 

Ce n'est pas un gouvernemeni qui tombe pour faire place \ 

autre, c'est tout gouverneraent qui cesse pour faire place au 



uti 



^^^tisme intermittent des pelotons que renthousiasme, la credulity, 
^ misere et la crainte lanceront \ I'avcugle et en avant." ^Ve are 




^^^.^. --^- -^ ^_ - ;_- I'ln^rr;:: — ■ — r-T>> TTiirt f*:"^ on w 

— ^ ^ — -— _jni£r — --^ '■rs airsacy sabiectedto 

' .-tiL ^ -ii T. :; -^-' — - ==. — • — 'r^' — " iin£ liisrf xuc no iDOis 



•'•■ — ' 



nn: ssTxcm. iss 



::rnr- ir Touvnir ^^■^•- ■• ^r cj poor k 
'^ if rsjiDtnsirerc looked 



v.r .r-^ -•■ -j-^ji..^ '7- --: 1:1=1 "z:::-:*! :- ziit Tmar jiscaaac 

iiit '-vrv;tr.i:xt r--it i;i>::: i^ rr:"r-i-';f^r.i ' Du: vbsn sbi had tonile.itl*' 
vi.i:it i.UL.-iLi-.T:-_j ::i-.:ir -jLjz biit i^i ri:»: rtssr. zasforthe parttoiiiA 
ii*r 11.1.::: 1^1- j-i« 1- Jmiii.t liisrf v-i^ ^b-n n:> Is.-ir, no ordeii«> 
]^-' *-t -i'. i.--:-_i*iir:T7 id ibt rjfiz :: r_rL:. Izssojciaoe, anpgjno* 
vr-i'-i-v- jti -_'. - '"-^r ^- trt' 7 .v-^t -r-. cr-jtltie&. and massacres; ffl^ 

J «*-'-' v_r. r^-^-'itr vi^ trv-c -p r- Trie siccber society, and ^ 

■v:vv.':.*:u. - i-i^.vvt 1 r:- p- it:- ::t-?- it '-2 vie et de la conscience 
C-: V..'. ,=r: } TL.' 1. : ' T.- -.rt v-i= - : :;r.r=::n 2znor*g good citiicnSf 
»:.'., :r. rr^uiy '_i.5.e: viit.-.- lir^ir^if. czuli not combine fo^ 
'>.:::.v;. '.'": ■; rr^rirrr -bts.: -.trr :rlr..ri iv ihe ruthless minority, coitJ^ 
;/.v/: ',:' :":,- ;L'.'.',:r. 1- i i:.t :rizi:r.i: :::L^^e5. Political briganda^^ 
':mi.>.4*.'.': ar.'i :r.::~:ii:ui -j-'-ap^iy Frince ; and the true patriot-^ 
;.'/. \:,': i^rof'— ,;or.a: ','-;— c.u'.i cr.'y ^:^h for even the bad days thi^ 
v.';."; r.o r.'i'^r'j. Th-; m'.ers c: :r.e Rcvo'.uiion were more fiends tha,- 

'I o.uf: ;fiv';s a full and vivid account of the horrors of the umtf 
I ii-. i.;jrrativ<; i'^, of course, too long to be recounted here ; but ever 
t.tii'l«:iji v.hrj desires to comprehend the French Revolution muS 
•>Aui\y 'rjiiiK-. An I'.nglishman would have to live for years in Paris 
:iihI inii'.t hiivc access to the best sources, before he could learn » 
naif h as Taine knows. 

'liiki* one instance of Revolutionary fervour. The mayor c 
I niy( •, xvas ,„i^. Hiitz, a venerable magistrate, of high integrity, an 
» « •>i\-,iaMt l»rni'fact()r of the public and the poor. By his will he ha 
"■!» i:\,... >,j iivu's to the indii;cnt, and he had, the day before h 
»auiilr\, \\\\v\\ a hundred crowns to the local bureau de charitL Tl 
hniuan \m asi, in its l>lind ferocity, wanted a Revolutionary mayc 



French Revolut 




one Truelle ; aod, crying out **Mort au maire ! " fell upon the aged 
worthy, covered him with kicks and blows, and threw him down the 
staircase. A woman, in a transport of liberal feeling, jumped upon 
the victim's face, and repeatedly plunged her scissors into the eyes of 
ihe still living man. A cord round his neck, Huez was dragged 
through the street, and through the gutter, before his agonies finished. 
At Caen the populace assassinated Major de Belsunce, also a good 
*nd beneficent man, in a like way \ and another liberal-minded 
^oman ate the heart of the murdered man. These Jacobin playfol- 
Dfisses were scarcely the result of ** suspicion," whether ** preter- 
natural " or other : they were the deeds of men and women who were 
elevated to " the height of the Revolution/' One fancies behind them 
the grin of Mephisto, operating, not against the peace and life of an 
^ocent young girl, but acting merrily en gros. Louragan d^insur- 
Action was a squalid inferno of lewdness, robbery, and blood. The 
Sttuation was severely tragic ; " car c'est la guerre en pleine paix, la 
pitne de la multitude brutale et ensauvag<5e contre F^lite cultivee, 
^noable, confiante, qui ne s'attendait h rien de pareil, qui ne songe 
P^ m5me h se defendre et h. qui manque toute protection." 

" Une insurrection contre la propn<f t(£ n'a pas des limites," says 

Taine ; and he gives pregnant illustrations of his doctrine. In the 

f^ranche-Comt^ forty chateaux, or seignorial mansions, were pillaged 

or burnt ; at Langres three out of every five chateaux were devastated ; 

^^ le Dauphin^ twenty-seven were burnt or destroyed ; in the 

utile Viennois five ^vere ruined, and all monasteries sacked. 

Nine were destroyed in Auvergne, and seventy-two in !e Malconnais 

^ndle Beaujolais, and this without counting Alsace. Lally Tollendal 

presented in the tribune letters of desolation, which described the 

•turning, demolition, pillage of thirty-six chateaux in one province^ and 

K^T^e accounts of worse injuries to the person. In I^nguedoc 

M. de Barry was cut in pieces before the eyes of his wife, who was 

^'^ut to be confined, and who perished of the horror. In Normandy a 

P^ysed gentleman was exposed upon a^^^r^^rand his hands burnt off. 

Jo the Franche-Comte Mme. de Bathilly was forced, with a hatchet 

^^ Upon her head, to give up her title deeds and her land. Mme. de 

^tQnay, with her two daughters fainting at her feet, was compelled 

^ similar surrender by means of a fork pressed against her neck. 

Comte de Montjustin and his wife, " ayant pendant trois heures 

.^ Pistolet sur la gorge," were dragged from their carriage and thrown 

^^^^ a pond, Le Baron de Montjustin, one of the two-and4wenty 

P'^pular gentlemen of his district, was suspended for an hour in a well, 

*'iile the canaiiie debated loudly whether they should let him fall in or 




k 







lAer tni of death. Le Chevalier d'Am% 
dogged raked thiough the village. 2d 
Idbfcis cfdiiDwsaiui his hair were torn out, 
% wanmd the vicdm. ^* Invasion barbate^ 
ce qiTelle a oommenc^ par la violence, et 
k rcxpropriattOQ de toute une dasse ;'* 
Akfc profes se d to substitute liberty f« 



the better classes (roin lil 
destroyed feroctously unarmed mai 
[txtnx increased* ThtcarUit 
and cottid only be acquire*) 
It active pnnidpaiion in, all Jacobin 
iations became frequent^ and defiun- 
Mea voe suspected of being suspect. 
dcMSf dmger^ and were always ^xtM 
began, increased by the fact that the 
w^a^ ooald not fly for refuge to the provinces 
receive fana. The minoiity of crime becv^ 
of op p c eae d France. Men were put to ^ 
heCMne, potitkaily, they did not lend Mf^^^ 
mggan to die Jacofaia ^ctkn; and honest men were pillaged in or^ 
to sapftf Ac needs or pkas fl ies of the Jacobin criminal canaiUt. 

Tlie Assenibly itself became a disonkrly a^hue^ a mockery ^ 
a delibeiatiTe parfamenL Said Mirabeau, ^* notre nation de singed 
4 kijwc de ti e o o qa B te ." It was dominated by femmes du h 
hffiUes ditmwm wmtfiks tt (mMmamdkSt who clap their hacc^ - 
add their shrill cries to the oniweEBl Umiult. The audience can i>^ 
depended upon, because it, and even the women who crowd i^ 
Ipdleiies^ are paid. £mtMgmsmsm€ ei hrmthaka ; noise always. "-^ 
burlesque upon a Chamber, admirably painted by Taine in ^\Vf 
'• L'Assembl^ Constituante et son CEuvre.'' It was an instance ^^^ 
anarchy complicated with despotism. Meanwhile, as security ceas^^^ 
and property disappears, work is wanting. There is next to no brta^ 
and there is no money with which to buy bread. The Jacob^ 
populace may benefit by the Revolution ; but the honest workir:^'^^.^ 
man and the tradesman are being ruined. The people, in the rig^ 
sense of the word, are sorely injured ; but the wicked exist by pD 
Taine says again, *' Consid^rez les principaux les plus 
. . . nulle idee politique dans leurs tetes notices ou creuses ; n 
comp<^tence, nulle experience pratique," They take the contndux 
for an evangel. " * A mes principes,' writes DesmouUns, ' s^est ps\ 



w^ 




J 



Carlyle and Taine on iJie Fretuh Revolution, 349 



aisir de me raettre 2t ma place, de raontrer ma force a ceux qui 
naient mdpris^ ; de rebaisser i raon niveau ceux que la fortune 
t places au-dessus de moL Ma devise est celle des honnetes 
\ \ Point de supcrieur.* " So speaks the procureur-gtnkral de ia 
vme. "Sous le grand nom de liberie c'est ainsi que chaque 
\i cherche sa vengeance et sa pature." Desmoulins and Loustalot 
I poor and ambitious ; " Danton, autre avocat du second ordre, 
d'une bicoque de Champagne, ayant emprunt^ pour payer sa 
•ge, et dont le manage gen^ ne se soutient qu'au moyen d'un 
3 donnd chaque semaine par le beau-p^re limonadier ; Brissot, 
bmc ambulant ; Marat enfin, ^crivain siffle, savant manqu^, 
osophe avort(^, falsificateur de ses propres experiences, pris par le 
ricien Charles en flagrant d^lit de tricherie scientifique," 
at had been under-veterinary surgeon in the stables of the 
ite d'Artois. " Danton, pr<^sident des Cordeliers, pent dans son 
'ict faire arreter qui bon lui semble, et la violence de ses 
ions, le tonnerre de sa voix, lui donnent, en attendant mieux, 
Duvernement de son quartier. Un mot de Marat vient de faire 
sacrer a Caen le major de Belsunce. ' Peuple, c'est-i-dire vous, 
gens de la rue qui m'^coutez, vous avez des ennemis, la cour et 
iristocrates. Mettez la main, une main rude, sur vos ennemis, 
r les pendre.'" Such were the injunctions of leaders in the 
ier days of the Revolution. 

'* Le peuple est le souverain ; et les passions populaires la seule 
e effective." Such is the new dogma. " Sur leurs maximes de 
rtd universelle et parfaite ils aient installc un despotisme digne 
Dahomey, un tribunal pareil k celui de P Inquisition," The 
folutionary is the tyrant. Under the new regime " les places 
It point ^t^ donnifes h, la capacity, i I'exp^rience, mais k la 
isance, a I'intrigue et k I'exageration. Ce sont li nos JacobinSj" 
Taine knows and draws them "well. " Jamais on n'a tant parl<£ 
I si peu dire." 

R^obespierre had, says Taine, **une perfection de stdrilitd 
llectuelle qui n'a pas ^te surpassi^e;" Any member de €e souverain 
''tique may say, ** Ainsi, qttelles que soient ma condition, mon 
Jxip^tence, mon ignorance, j'ai piein pouvoir sur les biens, les 
les consciences de vingt-six millions de Frangais, et, pour ma 
e-part, je suis czar et pape." Carlyle has scarcely recognised 
important fact. The five or six thousand Jacobins of Paris 
\ the corrupt and bloodthirsty despots of "liberty,** Woraan- 
d was degradingly unsexed by the Revolution. Consider only 
len as Th^roigne, Rose Lacombe, and the iricoteuses of the 



Uromen ; 



1 




w6o knows oomoceof the 



offifcc ^ 

he 

to bcL Themder 
than CailTleGan 
to Caiiyle^ phil osop hy, 
who knowi what Taine can teadi him — and he 
more— win possbiy agree with Taxne's coodosioiis. The 
the Jacobins were men as iwrrflrrtnaPy despicable as 
mere bntcheii and fiendsL No leader of the RevolatioD 
perhaps, Mirabeau) was mentally or morally a man 
Measoieless scoundretism and mental insufficiency were 
upwards to the top of affairs. 

Taine presents as with a picture, complete as viTid, of the 
of the Revolution. Carrier said significantly, "Nous fe 
dmciibre de la France, plutot que de ne pas la r6g^n^rer 
manibre," and the view which he held was that of the true ; 
Jean Bon Saint-Andr^ declares that "pour etablir solidei 
r^publiquc en France il fallait r^duire la population de 
moiti^/' Cuffroy declared in his journal that it would be 
in the interest of the Revolution, to reduce France to a c 
five millions of inhabitants, 

"Ainsi, sous le r<^'gime de la liberty la plus subl 
prince dc cette fameuse declaration des droits de I'ho 
legitime tout ce que la loi n'a put d^fendre, et pose l'6galit^ 
Ic principc dc la constitution fran<^aise, quiconque n'est pas 





I 



I 



and Taine on the French Rcvohition. 351 

est exdu du droit commun." Honest citizens were in a pitiable 

position. Gentlemen and officers, and men of any properly, were 

niassacredin the street, ** Les Jacobins n'ont qu'h menacer." In 1 791 

ifiere were "autant de vols que de quarts d'heure et point de voleurs 

putxis; nulle police ; de^ tribunaux surcharges .... presque tous 

ies Hotels ferm^s ; la consoramation annuelle diminu^e de 250 millions 

tl^^^s le seul faubourg Saint*Germain .... nulle sCiret^ pour les biens, 

les -vies, les consciences." The majority of citizens were deprived of 

tJieiir religion and shut out from voting. Terror and tyranny raged 

in tlie provinces as well as in Paris, and the horrible details are to 

^ <"«ound in Taine's '* Premit;re Etape de la Conqu^tc." The brigands 

cotr^posed an army, like those of Tilly, of Wallenstein ; an army paid 

W pillage \ ** vraie Sodome errante et dont Tancienne eiit eu horreur, 

• * . .^vec des complications de Iubricit<§ int^narrables le massacre se 

*^^^*eloppe.'' The Jacquerie was an orgie of fiends. 

•'Si le roi e{it voulu combattrc " (on August 10) ** il pouvait encore 
*^ d^fendre, se sauver et mcme vaincrc." On this point we have 
tH^ invaluable testimony of Napoleon Buonaparte, who says, *' Le 
cl^^teau " (the Tuileries) "^laitattaqu^ par la plus vile canaille ... * la 
pi'^inibre d^charge eUt dispers<5 des combattants de cette esp^ce. La 
plias grande partie de la garde nationale se montra pour le roi," 
t>ajiion said, " J'avais pr^par^ le 10 aout," and he caused brave 
^andat to be murdered. 

The Queen had remitted to Danton 50,000 ^us just before that 

^riible day, and the Court had had Danton in pay for two years ; but, 

^y a double infidelity, he took the money of the King and used it to 

P*"*^mote the emcutc. " De Sades, qui a pratiqu^ * Justine * avant de 

^crire, et que la revolution a fait sortir de la Bastille, est secretaire 

^^ la section de la place Vendome." Marat was demanding the murder 

*^f 260,000 men. In the "Seconde Etape de la Conqu^te " Taine 

''PUins the composition of the Revolutionary sans-adoiies. " Aven- 

^'«rs, malfatteurs, gens tares ou dec lasses, hommcs perdus de dettes 

d'Fjonneur, vagabonds, difserteurs et soudards, tous les ennemis 

^* du travail, de la subordination et de la loiseliguentpourfranchir 

^^rnble les barri^res vermoulues qui retiennent encore la foule 

*^ tonnicre, et comme ils n'ont pas de scrupules tls tuent ^ tout 

\^l^cs. Sur ce fondement s't?tablit leur autorit^: h. leur tour ils 

^*^^nt, chacun dans son canton^ et leur gouvernement, aussi brut 

^ leur nature, se compose de vols et de meurtres : on ne peut 

, ^^dre autre chose de barbares et de brigands." We do not find 

,^^ Carlyle had any such insight into the forces that worked revolu- 

^1 or into the characters of the men, as contemptible as evil, who 





ours that were the last hours of so many, Tnany unhappy 
the ruthless Terror. He does not come much into a 
Fouquier-Tinville, or Sanson, and never rides in a tuna 
mental chastity shrinks, whenever possible, from contact iv 

At the time to which we have now approached " Dant 
tout ; Robespierre est son mannequin ; Marat tient * 
Danton, by the way, was the only member of the Conventi 
also minister. Danton designed and organised the hellisl 
of September. He explained that " c*est moi qui Ta fait 
que je ne recule pas devant le crime quand il est ndce 
je le di^daigne quand il est inutile. I)e Taudace, et encore < 
et toujours de I'audace I Nous ne pouvons gouverner qt 
peur. Les republicains sont une minorite infinie . . . le 
France est attach<5 k la royaut^. 11 faut faire peur aux r 
The paid and selected butchers of the prisons were 300 
— ^20 to each prison. They were paid francs a day, 
food, and drink found, and had all the privileges whicl 
to patriots. The populace was at once sourerain tt bmirrti 
w^as, of course, heartily with Danton in connection 1 
murders. 1 found, when visiting the Conciergerie, that tl 
of the victims are not dependably recorded ; and no one 
now how many were slaughtered in this way. 

Restricted by want of space, I can only touch lightly 
points of highest interest and deepest meaning out of the 
revealed by the clear search-light of Taine's ardent and co 
labour. I must refer readers to the great work itself. C 
styles of the two great writers. It is of interest to cc 
white heat of Taine with the ruddy flame of Carlyle. ] 
larger and fuller are the analysis and the narrative presented 




Tine on the French Revolution. 

been unanimous in the Revolution, the many atrocities, by means of 
which villains ruled and ruined the people^ might have been escaped. 
e **sans-culolte faction regnent dans une capitale de 700,000 ames 
la grace de huit ou dix mille fanatjques et coupe-jarrets,"and that 
hich is true of Paris applies also to the provinces. Terror is the 
^tneaxis by which the minority triumphed, " et, comme ils ont fait 
main basse sur le pouvoir, ils font main basse sur I'argent." In one 
house they stole to the value of 340,000 ^cus. The monthly cost of 
■ttipporting the Revolution in Paris was 850^000 francs, " c'est-i-dire 
pour payer leurs bandes. Danton, puisant ^ millions dans le tr^sor 
public," threw great sums to his dogs of the Cordeliers and of the 
Commune. Danton, who began life with almost nothing, left, at his 
^ea.th, 85^000 francs "en biens nationaux achetes en 1791." Robes- 
pierre» with his glutinous slime of subtlety, "qui pousse les autres 
sans s'engager, ne signe ricn, ne donne point d'ordres ;" lets him- 
self be satisfactorily paid, not with money, but with blood and 
P<*Wer, and with the joy of killing his rivals and his enemies. The 
wnpKJtent Roland was minister during the massacres in the prisons. 
^Ve find the revolting details of the September massacres, which 
l^led for six days and five nights, too horrible to be transcribed ; 
but the reader will find alt the facts in Taine's "Seconde Etapede la 
Cotiquete." As for those who do not belong to the Jacobin faction, 
" tout ce qui n*est pas elle ne vit que sous son bon plaisir, au jour 
^ jour, et pai grace." It was surely well worth while to destroy 
the tyranny of the old regime in order to replace it by such noble and 
perfect "liberty"! Madame Roland, in the early days, demanded 
only two illustrious heads — but her ideal was outstripped. 

*' Dans ce grand naufrage de la raison et de la probitt^ qu'on 

*PP«l]e la rdvolulion jacobine . . . il ne reste de femmes patriotes 

*1^^ les dernieres de la dernitire classed* But ** huit raille hommes 

*^uchent chacun 42 sous par jour \ ne rien faire." Labour has been 

^^glected in favour of Jacobin "politics." Spoliation goes on with 

*ctiv^ brutality, and the owner of the pillaged house is " trop beureux 

^^tiii sa femme et ses filles ne sont pas outrag^es devant lui." Of 

^ cnanners and appearance of the true " Liberal " of that day— 

^ 79 2 ^Taine gives lively and pleasing sketches, " Ceux qui ne pen- 

^^^ pas comme nous seront assassinds, et nous aurons leur or, 

^^^ bijoux, leurs porlefeuilles." The rule of the "gouvemement 

**^t^uisiteuTS et des bourreaux" continued its monstrous course. 

^^U(s domiciiiaires became a standing curse, and the law of the sm- 

**^ increased its terrible activity. The bandits attempted to renew 

t^e massacres in the prisons* Cartts de avis me were indispensable to 



354 



The Gentlcmans Magazine. 




the security of life, and could only be purchased by full adhesion to the 
Jacobin miscreants. Conspiracies in the prisons became a pretext, 
which overfed the guillotine with crowds of victims. Life was wholly 
unsafe, and, if retained, was to honesty almost unendurable. Carlyl^ 
attributes the horrors and the excesses of the hideous Revolution i-*^ 
an incalculable force developed in a distracted but united natiosc^^ 
Taine holds that they are to be ascribed to a very comprehen5il> ^*^ 
exercise of godless ferocity on the part of a criminal faction, whic^^ 
could only exist by terrorising the honest majority* of citizens. O 
lyle seems to argue that the execution of the King was qui' 
inevitable^ a thing about which rdl Frenchmen were virtualC^^ 
agreed. *' But, on the whole, let no man conceive it possible 
Louis is not guilty." 

We must believe that Carlyle was imperfectly informed, and inc 
to the view of Taine, to the effect that, if the French people couIj^-^ 
have been honestly polled, the majority were royalists, and would bav^-^^ -^ 
saved both King and monarchy. Carnot voted for death, but recor£^^ 
that " Louis XVI eut ^te sauve si la Convention n'edt pas d<^libti^ ^* 
sous les poignards." Sl Just, now rising into hateful notice, was authc^ ^^ 
of *' un poeme ordurier d'apr^s la * PuccUe,' *' and had made his dkbm^'^^ 
inXxi^hy vol domestique. Hen riot and many other of the Jacob' ^ r^ 
leaders had been guilty of theft before they took to politics. Sa-^^^'S 
Taine, " Je ne crois pas qu'en aucun pays ni en aucun silxle on ait"^ W 

un tel contraste entre une nation et ses gouvernants." Carlyle woiz miM 

hold that the Government was the nation. ** Pour composer le pajr — — rti 
il n'y a plus guke, en juin 1793, 1^^ ^^s ouvriers instables, les « ^a' ii"T" ' 

bonds de la ville et de la campagne, les habituds d'h6pita!, les sot w'l- 

Ions de mauvais lieu, la populace d<^gradde et dangereuse, \^ 

d^class^s, les pervertis, les dC'vergond^s, les detraques de toute esp L, ^ % 
et k Paris, d'oii ils commandent au reste de la France, leur troupe, «tJne 
minority infinie» se recrute justement dans ce rebut humain </"' 
infeste les capitales, dans la canaille epileptique et scrofuleuse *i3"'p 
h^ritifere d'un sang vicid et avarice encore par sa propre incondi-a^^'c; 
importe dans la civilisation les d^g^n^rescences, rimbeciUite, ^^s 
affolements de son temperament delabr<^, de ses instincts retrogro^*^^ 
€t de son cerveau mal constmit " Taine*s view differs in very essence 
from that of Carlyle, and I believe that the French writer knew mucfc, 
much more. 

The time was shortly to come — ^it had not quite come yet — whe^^ 
the main question of the Revolution would be whether Robespien****' 
the scdkrai who outlasted the others, could maintain supreme powe^^' 
Aftei the decree of the 23rd Prairial he succeeded to the full r^k \3^'^ 





r 



rlyle and Taine on the French Revolution. 355 



t, and put to deatli, without remorse or hesitation, all rivals, 
ill enemies, and all " aristocrats." With Robespierre fell the 
Jution. '\\Tien gas superseded oil an old lady asked "what 
;o become of the poor whales." 

If the occurrences at Bordeaux, Maxseilles, Aries, Lyonsi 
dn we have no space to speak, but Taine tells of them all. 
Jacobin Terror lasted virtually from May i, 1789, until June 2, 
; and historj*, with the exception of the intense but short time 
B Massacre of St. Bartholomew, cannot find a parallel to this 
d of brutality and blood, of which *' Le Gouvernement R6vo- 
inaire" of Taine contains the full and living record. 
he Jacobins ordained many of the worst regulations of Socialism. 

rendered marriage fragile et prkaire ; they wholly abolished 
\ssancc pattrnclU^ and increased the number of foundlings in a 
to 63,000. The final and definite object of the Revolution 
* la dictature de la minoriie violente." The policy of Danton 
'*un despotisme institu^ par la conqu^te et maintenu par la 
te, le despotisme de la plcbe jacobine et pansienne, voilii son but 
I moyens," Damon admits, " J'ai fait instituer le tribunal rdvo- 
maJre ; j'en demande pardon ^ Dieu et aux hommes. Dans les 
utions I'autorite reste aux plus sci^lerats," The last " authority" 
le Revolution was Robespierre, whose feline, iinvlrile nature 
nned the heartlessness of the barren doctrinaire with the cruelty 
B coward. Taine gives a fine and true portrait of that Titan of 
\ the demagogue Danton ; who was yet better than Robespierre. 
Kiplay, with whom Robespierre lived, in the Rue St. Honore, 
\ permanent jurj^man of the Revolutionary tribunal, at a wage of 
een francs a day, and collaborated with his patron. Robespierre 
at his own dwelling, frequent conferences " avec les pr<!*sidents 
ibunal rdvolutionnaire, sur lequel son influence s'exer^ait plus 
jamais." The law of Prairial put all lives at his disposal. 
Kxp^die sur-le-champ I'arret^ qui suppose des conspirations 

les detenus et qui, instituant les moulons ou dt^nonciateurs 
Q^ va fabriquer les grandes fourndes de la guillotine, afin de 
r ct diSblayer les prisons en un instant." Suspicion had attained 
demoniac proportions that "on faisait guillotiner son voisin 
^ue le voisin ne vous fit pas guillotiner vous-m^me. Impossi- 
s compter sur sa vie et sur la vie de personne pour vingt-quatre 
i," So far has "liberty" advanced. St, ^mx^ furteux avec 

is the pupil and disciple of the master with whom he will fall* 
ies Gouvemements " Taine shows the power, and the terrible use 
of it, of the representatives of the canailh regnank. Carrier 



I 



J 



ztf GenzUmaatz JuTt ^.m. T »y y 



! 




u: vui jt .1=". j-'"=i. _' c ic -rfSLm zzs: im. iir* rearms- sl s«." Ti*^ 

-.rji'T'int la rullr.rine. l iiiricilzt I -iriTT-T-.r 

rv-'.nsiis ▼is. • f n ;*iur- tr ^ ai5 

cii "arrjise if 'ii-'iimiiini iV.nii ice :c ±is 

srrhir. -j-.a-r^m n -.le ■r.-r- i-»n :f ±e 5-±' 

1''.rt znacc&i^iz :f ▼:ii:r:!i 17 -ritiSii Zjszizcs wis cc j^'-gr^ff^ J. 
x'zx:L:rr Ct Virier:ii x ^ -^: :riei -_lii he ttis the rsrrssMsr e 

oi'.r,r. ' Z.-ir^z^'^ :•=. '-le ±ei=^ rz-re:.- z:uz£ isr^^jz ^.vx^nHs, 33=?^ 
:r-^..i-jiri vj t^zi'zzLi "i-ziieif i:irrt> ziiirf. retw^ss:! ih- ar^ 10 tb-^ 

r.'A r*r^i-::?- is -i:^ TTxTilcd :: ; :- -J:;* irzi-esw rrxcad their coarse 
U'J'--t::ir- -'4 -i^'- -7 ^;-^ ^- -7 ^r^ " LarLmche isTitadt les 
:Zs3. i .ihfir.d.!-- i tllis-nr-^ t' i ::-'i:; ce la -^-zci:::!.' Lebon 
ciK i '-i-ij ir.l 1 7 -~^ i^- ■^--" i *2«:'"-i i=i -^ fca=<L The woA 
iri.^ '^Carliii Hjj.riTc," ar.d -±e rrl h:rei -±a: ihi: would not be 
f»;/*.-/. "Lfebc- -a rer^verse c'z= c:-r ce p^^iag dans restomac, 
fii: f'-:lllcT >5 c-;.:i ftm—es t: 1= 5a y-ersi-r.e 'es ccnduSt aaposie."' 
Ti:r.* -h-.Tsrs -;=- >'-^ t'-t ;i::l:- :=ii=:3 -s^r.D sunrrei :he 10 Ther- 
rr.iior had a.i-.-'.v-'-itel er.zrzzzjLS nrt-r.es. Tallien, Tavogues, 
?.ov-re ^wr-o f.r • -,-cs frar.cs Ir. 'js.icrjf: acquired a territory worth 
r-.^.-oco frar.cs;, Fo-cht, Earro?, Ar.irc Dur-.on:, Merlin, De Thioa- 
vi:>;, \^yj^% Sa'.icetr, Rewbt". Rv-sse.in, Chiteauneuf-Randon, 
and r/.r.';r» ar-i sTricimens of rr.or.ey-niaking Revolutionaries. The 
apathy of the peo^/.e towards the Revolution is a frequent subject of 
Ja^o'/in complaint. " Le laboureur est estimable," reports a repre- 
scnUlivc, " mais il est fort mauvais patriote en general." The adminis- 
tration, " dcj?i deux fois plus nombreuse et deux fois plus couteuse que 
sous Vancien r(:gime," was remarkable for its inefficiency. Terrorists 
iind inquisitors are useless for all purposes of good or honest govem- 
incnt. riaces were only given to enraged Jacobins. 

I^'ouquier-Tinville was not above a bribe. If a lump sum were 
paid him he took it and let the person be guillotined ; but he saved 
Mcsdamcs de IJoufflers, who paid him 1,000 crowns a month. 
«• Ayant Ic droit de disposer arbitrairement des futurs, des libert^s et 
dcs vies, ils peuvent en trafiquer." 

AH honest property became the "patrimony" des sans-culoties. 




The system was **k vendre la justice, k faire un commerce de 

dcnonciations, h. tenir sous le sequestra au moins 4,000 ra«5nages. lis 

ne se disent patriotes que pour ^gorger leurs fr^res et acqu^rir des 

richesses." Two Revolutionary corps, the " Hussards Amdricains" and 

the *' Legion Germanique,'* were very active in human butchery. They 

worked by shooting and by noyades* Women who sensed the pleasure 

of these assassins were sometimes saved from the fwyades ; but many 

women were driven mad by brutid treatment. A witness says that he 

s^w a hedge of the corpses of seventy-five women, all naked and lying 

*^n their backs. These paid zealots of murder shot batches of twenty- fl ve 

^^ a tinie ; and ih^sc phiiosophes humanitaircs put to death young girls 

^^<i boys, and even children of six years old, " On calcule qu'au 

^^*^uiT de la Terreur la liste totale des fugitifs et des bannis contenait 

plus de 150,000 noms, Dans Paris 36 vastes prisons et 96 violons, 

^^ geoles provisoires, que remplissent incessarament les comitesre- 

^oWtionnaires, ne suflSsent pas au service." In France there were 

'Siore than 40,000 gedks ptainsoires and 1,200 prisons. In Paris, 

Respite daily wholesale executions, there were, 9 Flor^al, an 11, 

7*840 diUnus \ 25 Messidor, 7,502, In Brest were 975 detenus^ more 

tTum 1,000 in Arras, more than 1,500 in Toulouse, more than 3,000 

/n StrasbuTg, more than 13,000 in Nantes. In Vaucluse and the 

Bouches du Rhone Maignet reported 12,000 to 15,000 arrests. A 

liltle before Thermidor Beaulieu reports about 400,000 prisoners. 

Taine calculates that there were, in France, in 1791, 258,000 in 

[prison, 175,000 imprisoned in their own houses; another 175,000 

tinder surveillance by the commune, making a total of 608,000 

ms deprived of liberty and in danger of death. 

'* Le relev^ de ces meurtres n'est pas complet, mais on a compt^ 

7,000, la plupart accomplis sans formalit^s, ni preuves, ni delit, 

fctre autres le meurtre de plus de 1,200 femmes, dont plusieurs 

rtog^naires et infirraes," At Toulon the number shot greatly exceeded 

,000 ; the great noyades at Nantes slew 4,800, but no records of the 

ilcr noyades were kept. Infants at the breast, children of five or six 

old were drowned ; and then there were "les innombrables 

icurtres populaires commis en France" between July 14, 17S9, and 

,ugust 10, 1 792, and the September and other massacres. *' On peut 

Ljmcr que dans les onze dxf'partements de TOuest le chifTre des 

ions de tout age et des deux sexes approche d'un demi-milKon. 

iier signe contre-r^volutionnaire et decisif, i^Lint des hommes 

igds et reguliers de moeurs." The people — not the populace — 

I (Tered heavily ; 7,545 peasants, labourers, and other honest work- 

ig people were put to death. ** Ce qu'il y avait de pis sous 

VOL. ccLxx^'ii. Ko. 1966. B ^ 



358 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



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Robespierre, c'est que, le matin, on n etait jamais cenam de couchcr 
le soir dans son lit "^a hard condition, clearly attributable lo the 
playfulness of Liberty. " La r<5publique ne pourrait s'^tablii que 
sur le cadavre da dernier des honnetes gens \ " or so said Rep^^ 
sentative Javogues* At the time at which the Jacobin conquest was 
completed the distress in France was terrible — worse than it \c^ 
ever been under the andcn regime. The Republic had for four yeajs 
made war against all property, and against all who could give em- 
ployment. The people had not gained by the Revolution, which 
had cost the country in four years 5,350 millions in excess of 
ordinary expenditure. The finances were deranged ; assigmts of 
100 francs had fallen in value to 33 francs. At 10 Thermidoc 
hunger and starvation were raging in Paris, as in the provino 
People were dying miserably of famine* and the guillotine does n 
furnish nourishment. *^Si cela continue, disent les ou^Tiers, 
faudra nous <5gorger les uns les autrcs, puis qu'il n'y a pas plus rien 
pour vivre"— an imperfect result of such an ideal revolution, Tain^| 
has collected all the facts in *' Les Gouvernds.'* ^ 

The dawn of hope and joy fora suffering people came with the death 
of Robespierre, ** Ainsi finit le gouvernement de la convention; 
and with that ceased the most cruel ills of France. " La religi 
du vol et du meurtre" was abandoned for a truer worship. 
Revolution brought about a military despotism, which w^s yet mu 
better than itself; and a return lo law and order brought ba 
monarchy. 

The book of M. Taine is a monument of conscientious laboufi 
of noble morality, and of intellectual power. He was w^ell acquaint 
with English literature, and must certainly have known Carlyle 
work on the Revolution ; but it is noteworthy that he does n 
refer to our great writer, Carlyle's iron theories jumped only I 
readily at any facts that might seem to support them ; but Tai 
could not work in that way, and could not sympathise with con 
elusions which were not based upon exhaustive study. There is, 
naturally enough, a vast quantity of loose thinking about so complex 
an event as the French Revolution, which is often lauded for 
having disseminated '* new ideas ; " but neither insurrection nor 
rebellion are exactly new ideas, and we in England know of a great 
rebellion in which, broadly speaking, the only blood shed was the 
blood that flowed in battle. Furthermore, tyranny, anarchy, 
barbarity, robbery, wholesale murder are not quite new ideas, even 
if they be true ideas, and are crimes which had been practised 
before the fall of the Bastille. The great distinguishing feature 





Carlyle and Taine on the French Revolution, 359 

the Revolution is that it plucked the muzzle from all restraint, that 
it enfranchised all vanity and vice ; that it would, but for that 
revulsion of outraged humanity which sickened at last at the sorry 
spectacle of rivers of innocent blood, have ruined France. The 
latest and ripest fruit of the French Revolution is, perhaps, the god- 
less anarchist and bomb-thrower of the distracted hour in which I 
now write ; and I hold that the vivid and masterly picture painted by 
M. Taine teaches the truest " philosophy " of that inhuman Revolu- 
tion, while Carlyle attracts by his passionate picturesqueness, hi 
graphic grip, and his most fervent emphasis. 

H. SCHUTZ WILSON. 



B B 2 



Tid GtKiUmoMS Magazine, 



THE irAIL OF THE MALE. 

^Y CXE OF THEM. 




% rlAs. I hold none of the he 

gh: to be mairied, or that they 

-z^err tzac^ rir-r tr r^* isi sdtch, be the husband's shado 

tic -^'t^-"*^ 5 rzTse — er ihe c o- in society and the drudge at 

I irci SCT ■*-«• x::r±.::rii is unwomanly that can be well i 

& w.Tiatz. "w^r rsscecs L gseL f and can win the respect of 

I izi r-ti :"'^: wroe^i sbccLd be telegraph clerks and nei 

r^r^nrti!:^ izo ircv* aZ drctcss and Poor-law guardians, ai 

3S1T rjisi ird sc.:*:: if thsy r'ease. and wear divided skirts ( 

Srcnecs r: :- ==^e5 ihsr:: birp-ier ; and as to the vote, I say 1 

vMTi rr?i ?7^ii ::::i shc*^ ihenselves the "ekal o*man"- 

s^vtr :-- :r :.---.Mr^; el>e. They can fight too, if they li 

vT-'Cii 1 i-i. r-— "r.e m c:rc:is<s. ar.i play golf, and smoke, or 

:,v.. I >-- i il-^iv? s;i:i :c in-in, " Star.d aside — let women 

:^. . :^ r.i :>iT -.ir c~ ^i cugh: to be allowed to do ; let th< 

V .rr ,"" ": r.;. r*el :: jut ; con': put Aem down by force; le 

V ,VT :-. i>f\xc jlI'.t :>.e rrin.cr. of :heir own sex, deal with i 
: J:.- > w .:r. r.^r. F.^r :!..". n'.ir. ar.d women I say, * A fair f 

> . - ■ <^-^-.: ^n.ir. i." .:u:d~ — "late: anguis" (or anguish 
:rv r ::c: y '. t>.e f^rixn:? t?-cth is hid in the new movenn 
r*a.''. r/.> ::• .'.r.r/x tr.s y«::>.cr., ir.d man has to bear the bite, s 

. r.c :a.: :>^ nur. ire '.^slr.^ their ::•/:«, the children ar 
:>,:,: w,v *:.-:-. The husband thinks this a little hard, 
c - .,v\rer, :ho \-5^ is irreivarab'.e. Causes, platform orator)', an 
< .0 >:v*r.tfrA..y ir^ st.itab'e for the unmarried and for widows 
x^c.;:-: :r,\; r.i^rr.ed won:cn n-.-y no: influence profoundly publ 
xv,vv.;:s - Vhcy do. and they always have done and will; but i 
^fv '""' .*^'"^ ^^'" absor: :io:i in detail is another. If a \^ 
"^ '- -A .;• bv so:v.c:h:ng outside the house unconnected with tl 



The Wail of the Male. 



361 



all that in it is, the home life, the home feeling, the 
e loves— the best of all that a man marries for, the best of all 
a woman and only a woman can yield — must syffer. You can 
: the situation about anyhow ; you can speak of a larger horizon 
be sex, of a nobler ambition than " to darn stockings and be the 
ave of miserable man " ; you can plead for the cultivation of 
mind, and what not (as though anyone in his senses wanted a 
teenth -century woman's mind uncultivated); but when all is said 
ione, once centre a woman's thoughts upon, and engross her time 
the details of a cause in such a way as to absorb her entirely, 
ber vocation as wife and mother, as the cement of her social 
s, the support and comfort of her husband, the adored friend 
X children — in one word, the angel in the housc^is gone. She 
say she doesn't want to be an angel in the house ; but that is 
she led man to suppose she was going to be when she married 
and that is why he undertook to support her. If she now raises 
lead from her writing-table, impatient of interruption as she is 
K)sing her franchise speeches, and says to her husband who still 
% About for a kind word or a gentle look, " You have given me 
ten whom I don't want, and I keep your accounts — what more 
ou require ?"— the husband feels the serpent's tooth and retires, 
angel, ^' he says, " is gone out ; I shall see her no more ; " and 
irinks into his study with his headache or his worries, and the 
I upon his brow— w^hich, by the way, she has had no time to 
e. Her door is then locked. *' That woman," she writes, 
fuld be bothered with the petty cares of a household, at the 
and call of a man, her temper tried, her time wasted^ when she 
lowers of thought and a voice and a presence capable of thrilling 

sands upon the political platform^ this is indeed " At that 

ent tlie merry voices of the children are heard in the hall — just 
! in from their morning walk, bursting with health and spirits. 
political mother rises angrily, and, opening the door, appears at 
)p of the staircase ; at sight of her the little ones cower in fear. 
*s get out of mother's way, quick," they wliisper ; and before the 
I rebuke reaches them they have shrunk away into cupboards 
passages to avoid the maternal wrath. 

tow can such a w*oraan be expected to look after her husband's 
a-s and dressing-gown ? She has better things to do. Or notice if 
3ks well or ill (perhaps she herself has a headache), or remem- 
hether there is anything the matter with him or not — or care 
— when there is a great and really important question occupying 



I 



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The Gentleman s Magazine, 




^ she n 



Husbands some years ago used to be jealous of the Puseyite 
parsons, who hurried their wives off to service, early conmHinior^^ 
confessions, and functions, and monopolised their spare time iriit» 
church bazaars. These ladies habitually neglected their housebol ^^ 
work and lost interest in the husband and his pursuits (not so mut 
in their children, whom they brought up, or tried to bring up, in 
Gospel according to Pusey). But the advanced woman usually cot 
ducts her house with vigour, rigour, and economy; the kitchen 
the tradesmen are dealt with as necessary evils and endured wit 
fortitude. But endurance ends there ; why sentiment, palaver, an ^^^ 
gush should waste more of her valuable time she does not see. Tlr'* "^ 
husband notices the gradual but steady change in his circle : olC^^^ 
friends are given the go-by, and cease to call. All the genlii^ J^'* 
elements which make the charm of life are dropped or snubbc*-^^ 
young girls are sneered or terrified out of countenance, the childrap^'^ 
are glad to get out of the house, and loth to come back; mes--^' 
grace of character seems unrecognised unless intellectual poiss"^c^ 
or capacity for some definite work is discerned; sensibility is atr *» 
discount ; horny sort of people with hard faces and loud tongao* 
stare at the husband as they meet him in the hall— they dofl'/ 
know perhaps whether he is the husband — and in the words of tbe 
song, *^ he don^t know where he are,'^ And the distracting tiling about 
it all is that the work that is being done is, in the main, all right : only 
for the man the tender domesticities are dead ; in place of refresh- 
ment and verdure and peace, there is a barren and dry land where 
no water of life is, let alone wine of comfort — the angel in the house 
is gone. 

The children also go as soon as they can, and as far as they oul 
They make their friends outside. They don't want to bring them 
home. They have no *' home " to bring them to. 

And last of all the husband goes — goes to his club— goes any- 
where. He leaves off going upstairs after finding the door habit- 
ually locked, or risking an impatient frown from the lady whose 
bureau is covered with reports and statistics, but who forgets to 
give him the invitations or a kiss. What superfluous tenderness she 
may have left may be squandered upon some aged and obese dog 
which sleeps in her bedroom and perfumes the drawing -room. Oh, 
yes ! he can smell doggie all through that Piesse & Lubin ! 

*• My good man, you are too absurd. Do you not know that 
dogs are better than men, and not nearly so much in the wjty as 
children ? They take up less room, and are grateful for less 
she might dd, " get a great deal more than husbands." 





Jfat/ of the 

Well, at one time tbe husband used to hurry home and seek his 
X<e ibe first thing at the end of his heavy day. ** There," he said 
to Inimselfj as he inhaled the fcctid atmosphere of the Underground, 
*• j \ist a brisk walk." Then the sharp knock at the door, the bound 
up> one flight of stairs, and — oh ! well, she is not there. " Missus is 
gox^e to her club, sir,*' says the page boy, with a grin. " Says there's 
a ciebate, and she mayn't be 'ome till late." 

And then master goes out, and he a'n't *ome till late, €t voiM / 

fe And it's all right, that is the annoying thing about it. If only 

®^<^ were not married, it's all right ; if only there was no husband 

"^i^Vj a few business wrinkles to be smoothed out, no children— 

^*a*lx ! listen to a sleepy child babbling the Lord's Prayer in its night- 

go-^ni, when at that very moment she might be seconding Mrs. 

Snortum O' Blazer's eloquent speech on the desirability of depriving 

^^n of the franchise 1 

Past seven ! Good gracious ! ** William, call a cab ! If I'm 
f^^ot there by a quarter to eight diat dreadful little creature, who 
Scratches her head and slaps her thighs, will be asked to second 
Stiortum's, and the worst of it is, s/w speaks better than I do^ hateful 
^tUe thing." " Good-night, mother," says a timid little voice, and a 
Httle head peeps out of a half- opened door, as she hurries down- 
stairs ; but she does not hear, or heed, and makes no answer. 
''Mother's cross, I suppose," says the child j " I wish mother wasn't 
always cross." But children soon forget, and whilst the mother is 
flushed with loud and eager talk in the ladies* smoking-room— 
where, however, there is very little smoking done, and a good deal 
of sensible talk, as well as gammon =-angels bend over the rosy 
'.slambers of the innocent child. 

And it's all right in a way. That, I repeat, is the exasperating 
ing about it 

Aren't you glad I take an interest in the woman's franchise ? " 
Very glad, my dear," says the husband ; and he is quite sincere. 
" Don't you approve of women having votes?'* 
" Certainly, my dear ; I approved of it long before you thought 
ibout it." 

" Then what are you always grumbling at me for when I am 
rorking so hard for it?" 

And the poor man is speechless, and she tosses her head trium- 
►hantly and sits down to correct that scorching proof, which shows 
ip the meanness and selfishness of husbands who are jealous of their 
•tves having a career, &c. ** Career away now as much as you will, 
ly dear, "at last mutters the man to himself j "the time is past when I 



3^4 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



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ate out my heart — ay, cried myself crazy too, though you did not 
know it — because you could greet me after a week's absence with 
the distrait look of a woman imerrupted against her will, and state 
with injured surprise at my discomfiture ! 

" x\hj well ! of course your mind was filled with excellent tbings^ 
I did not know you were actually making ^precis of the Contagwi>-'^ 
Diseases Act for Slogger MacGun, M.P., and that he had beenwiL^^^ 
you two hours and had not left you five minutes. The silver-gi-^^H 
puff-box which I brought you from Germany must have seemed tin^^^^ 
after MacGun's solemn and sentimental diatribes. I couldn ^ '^, 
reasonably expect you to take much notice of such a trifle as a silve^^ 
puff-box, and I quite accepted the tacit rebuke for so trivial a#^^ 
offering when you changed it a few weeks afterwards for a toast X^^ 
ing-fork. 

'* I was not surprised^^much more useful, my dear, of course, 
quite think so." 

** Oh, I am glad of it. I thought you looked cross again." 

Oh, well ! the time for being cross has almost passed too» Tiirf ^ 
husband can never win in that game. There are some things wbico / . 
if ihey are not felt cannot be explained. The woman who does Ti*M-iK 
feel wins an easy victory, if the man feels at all, for she plays hi^.*^^ 
with loaded dice: only the consequences ! For, as the gamesr.^^fj 
sacrifices honour, she flings away the very pearl of her womanhoo iglL^ ^ 
her heart. Man, being no doubt a poor critter and not always upnzpto 
date, is very slow to believe that a woman can let her heart fl 
filched fi'om her by her "rights" — or her conceit, ambition, vaE:::^/^F 
or anything else. When he at last grasps the fact that her best ^^eif- 
hood has been stolen, he is not exactly grieved or cross ; he rasa-kes 
every allowance, he is patient, he is reasonable, he hopes otrhcr 
people won't notice ; he lets the woman down easy, he feels he ^i^»c*ts 
to cover and hide away the shame of it all, but his love dies— it cf *-« 
hard, but it dies. 

I have said I have much sympathy with the woman's t\%^^^ 
movement generally. The Married Woman's Property Bill wa-*- * 
legitimate triumph ; to man's shame be it said, it was thwarted ^^'^^ 
twenty years. The female franchise will come, and come shortly '^* 
to man's shame be it said^ it is being thwarled even now (1891^^^^' 
Men's opposition to women entering trades and professions is vaic-i^^,, 
and cowardly. *' My good sir, you are giving your case away;*- 
this is so, why do you object to your wife spending her best time ar 
energy indoors and out upon furthering objects so desirable?" 

" Because," replies man, "she is my wife,'* 




of the 

'* Just so — the woman is to exist only for your pleasure, comfort, 
ajid convenience." 

" But is she not a woman — and queen by grace of tenderness, and 

ardent sympathies, and helpfulness— ihe goddess of tlie house^ 

*^e delight and joy and purifier of her social circle ; yet owing a 

certain loyalty, and some concession of self, some special devolion to 

'jer husband and children ? " 

•* Somewhat too much of this — you bore me. All women cannot 
t*^ such abject wives and devoted mothers." 

* * Exactly so. There are plent)' who need that independent sphere 
^^t^icih you, a married Amazon and franchise swashbuckler, were 
u ri derstood to renounce when you entered the wedded sphere. Those 
^^c>rrien should be single, or widowed, or select women with a 
'^^ocation." 

**What nonsense ! Can no married woman then have a sphere 
^^^yond the man, the nursery, and the social circle ? " 
^f •* Why, yes ; there are many exceptions to every rule — to this rule 

"^Hole classes of exceptions." 

There is the scientific wife who aids her husband, and makes 

>ti<iependent researches for herself ; the political wife, who advises 

Vion about his speeches, and w^ho manipulates his party friends \ the 

^ife^ho paints in her husband's studio almost as well as he does, 

irHo follows her passion for music or literature, often to the benefit 

^f tier children and her circle. There have been many such cases ; 

•JUt when they have been married successes it usually turns out that 

^^^e are no children or that the wife's work has begun as a help- 

'^^te lo her husband, or that the husband shines chiefly with her light, 

^*^ dances round her as a genius. No number of such varieties alter 

^ '^^ct that when women place husband, home, children, and the 

. .^'^sand socialities springing directly from these, second or even 

,^ ^""^ amongst the things which make life worth living, they suffer a 

^^ change" into something not sweet — although it is undoubtedly 

^ ^*"e and strange." This may be all right, but the woman who thinks 

- ^Hf)uld be above-board, and let the man know it before he marries 

* and then — and then — ^why, he would not marry her, and both 

^^Ht be happy ; he would look elsewhere and get a woman who 

^/T'^^ed to be a wife, and she would look elsewhere and find a sphere 

/*et^^ as the woman of the future, she might labour for the regenera- 

^^ of both sexes unencumbered l)y the weaknesses of either. 

Happy married life is notoriously inimical to the wmmn-ouiddt- 
^^-huse sphere. The lady says : '* I am glad that women who are 
^^le, and have the time, should fight for just laws. I would lend a 



i 



366 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

helping hand, and I wish them all God-speed ; but many there are 
who can do this work better than I can. I have my own work. My 
husband, children, books, work, society, and parochial affairs, in 
which my children too find work and interest This is enough Cot 
me — my time is well filled, and I am happy." And so when we look 
around us at a woman's-rights assembly, and note the writers, the 
speakers, and the esprits forts of the movement, they are chiefly 
single, or widows, or very ugly, or those who see little and want to 
see little of their husbands, or whose husbands are failures, or 
nonentities, or villains, or who have no children or sphere cut out for 
them at home. Others have been disappointed, and got soured. 
Much good is being done by these movements, and many noble 
women there arc who are engaged in them. Of the egregious 
rubbish occasionally talked at the women's clubs it is not edifying 
perhaps to speak — rubbish about their independence of the male — 
about lifting him condescendingly to their own exalted level (when 
they have reached it), about his degraded tastes, and their own 
immaculate purity. How the poor creature is hectored and bullied 
at their little conferences ; how they swear they will not marry him if 
he has ever loved another, and will straightway leave him if he ever 
loves another ; how what is sauce for the goose should be sauce for 
the gander ; what a horrid wretch he is, and how kind it is of them 
ever to allow him to marry them at all — he their equal indeed ! 
Why, they arc far superior to him ; there never can be equality of the 
sexes when only man is vile, and if woman is ever vile it is only 
because man makes her so, and he must be coerced, and whipped, 
and threatened, and cut, till he is good, and then woman will 
occasionally — very occasionally, perhaps, as a great favour — become 
the mother of his children, and allow him to support her. All this 
and much more — exaggerated mixed sense and nonsense — we are all 
familiar with ; and gradually the sense is being disengaged from the 
nonsense, and when the screeching sisterhood has been succeeded 
by the bawling brotherhood, and the screech and the bawl is over, 
something worth doing will, after all, have been done, laws been 
passed, evil discouraged, blots removed, and the world made better 
and wiser, for all which things thank God ! 

But meanwhile, above the screeching and the bawling, a long, 
sad cry is heard— it is neither angry nor hysterical, it is the tvail of 
the male. He does not want to put down anything or anybody, he 
objects to no woman having her rights, the poor thing is merely 
calling aloud for a ivifc ! 

She comes ! she comes ! It is our dear English girl whom we 



The Wail of the Male. 367 

used to know ; only a little more up to date, a little better educated 
than her grandmother, a little more thoughtful perhaps, but quite 
merry, full of rosy life, with the sunlight in her hair, the lithe limb and 
the blithe laugh, and eyes that are not ashamed to weep, and a true 
and tender heart withal, 

** At leisure from itself 
To soothe and sympathise." 

There is room for you still, my dear — the reaction has already 

begun — ^you and such as you will always be wanted ; you don't wear 

rough coats with huge buttons and waistcoats and billycock hats ; 

you don't smoke and call men by nicknames ; perhaps you have not 

graduated in honours, nor made a speech, nor read Zola ; but you are 

just charming and sensible, and quite clever and thoughtful too ; 

and you will be a good mother and a loving — not an abject — wife ; 

and as you develop you will be not quicker-witted than you are now, 

but wiser ; and your husband will not only adore you but he will 

seek and take your counsel upon all sorts of subjects. In your 

pretty drawing-room where there are always flowers, in your house 

where the voices of the children make music and are not snubbed or 

silenced, and where tears are not scolded but soon wiped away, 

where pain and sickness awaken a thousand tender attentions and 

sorrow draws out hearts and softens them even more than joy, there 

is a sound of cheerful talk — friends gather where they are welcome — 

there is music, there is recitation, and perhaps acting, and I should 

not wonder if the children sang hymns on Sunday ; but there is one 

sound which is never heard in your house, my dear : it is the wail 

OF THE MALE. 



i- -T_T:j_-r.-^t . « i- j^rrmr. 



-T— ^ - 



_ -V -"-■.-. ^'.V/. 



(y 7- 



-.'- 'z^..:z ir 



v.: :::, 



i^zzr^zi. zi-i : - . -r:i Tizs^s, Wbea uie sky is 

T-zz "li TTr^T.l'VL LI 1 ZZxt -JZk g.jgpS tEUS irilh itS 

STt:Lzi. rLT-J:--- iizrfs tzi=- to Mmsdves 
s :-^:r --:t zL-jitL Ye: erer asd auon- 









13 1 U-. 



'.''.*^ r^V-T 



his time in a 
iiTi^z i= ..LIT 2s sn ox. ard is 

li-ii- in r^ih, his only re^raids 

:tru-r. irTzrocail peace of mini 

i hj-Fteifih. hrraewards. Towii^to 

clni-iic n:-.:rrains and tiainping 

7 i-TZi in ihe far recesses of the 



iyy.c 



:',':. ::: i 5 '.•'-• i rtr".'_: :r.. Mirju'-'j he seis oui on his 
r.\ -t'l ii'.kcd -si-t: IT. 1 c-ri:;:u? basket, with a good 
'.ii pv'-i:-v LT.i r.ijr. >..:'rs :- hs hear:. The first taste of 
/,/, r.';-.-:vjr.d :/.ts.= -:c is ="tt: cr.:.:^h. He enjoys the sharp, 
bra'.ir.;: air: tr.C; ihor. n:'.-r.u:r. V-r: ir-ikes a pathway fit for a king; 
t?*': '/.';ncry fi^li hi5 soul, ani niakes him long to tell it in fitting 
v/or'is. But by-ar.d-by the cory^rtzi ].ari of him triumphs over the 
:<:tr.or';aK A man in these dc^^cnerate days may not walk with 
iii.|.iiriity over miles of rough heather and rock. Before evening he 
h;r, longed many times for the flesh-pots of Eg)'pt ; and, when he 
i\t,r.', read) home footsore and weary, for him the noble sport of 
bill II i\uW\i\\i, has lost its charm. 

liiil why sliould this be so ? Is not the air purer? Are not the 
tiniit more plentiful, and the waters clearer than below in the valley? 
And ii the way, perhaps, is arduous and full of obstacles for the 
liiniil, is there not sufficient recompense in that feehng of pride 
which' comes from dilficulties surmounted? Moreover, there are 
bniiis which meander (luietly through their glens and rise in some 
^.n-eii, nip.sliapi'd hollow ; to these the man of weak heart andfeeble 



Rivuli MoittanL 369 

\ can resort. For the strong and hardy, the rocky watercourses 
i craggy ravines are reserved. 

A day on the hills is full of varied pleasures. A feeling of ex- 
BU-ation seiEes a man as he tramps over the dew- covered grass and 
! green shoots of the young heather, with the *' caller" mountain 
blowing about him. He heartily despises lie-abed loungers, albeit 
was one himself the day before. Every little incident or sound 
him delight — the finding of a curlew's nest, or a group of 
ley ferns, the cry of the black grouse, the confused murmur of 
akening life from the valley. He stops now and then to bury his 
|d in a bank of wild thyme, or watch an adder gliding among the 
:kens. His heart leaps with joy, when he reaches the stream, to 
the clear brown water eddying round grey whinstone rocks, and 
ng in cascades into pools where the black moorland trout He. 
\ great source of pleasure in this sport is the never*ending variety 
scene* Here are no long stretches of sluggish water or shallow 
nt, which weary the soul of a lowland fishennan. Here are no 
bushes to catch the flies. The banks are bare but for trailing 
ys of heather and whortleberry. The fish are very easily caught if 
once understand their habits. It is no use to stand on a bank 
th your shadow falling on the stream. In such a position you 
ght whip the water till Doomsday, and get nothing. But if you 
cast from behind some rock toward the foot of one of the dark 
pools, you will often have the pleasure of getting a dozen or 
in one place. It is no uncommon thing here for a man with 
te flies, at one cast, to get a trout on each* 
Further up, where the burn is small and we leave the glen and 
le out on the moor, the stream is a succession of little jets of 
\r spouting into cup-shaped hollows in the rock. If there has 
1 rain lately good trout can be got in places where one least 
tcts them. They come up, I suppose, in the spawning time, and 
ir go back ; but linger, each in his separate pool, fattening them- 
es during the summer. In many little runlets where there is 
i!y enough water to cover them, you may catch trout from a 
Iter to half a pound in weight. Worm is the only lure to use; 
fly, I have found in my experience, does well lower down. The 
are peculiar in their colour. Near the river they are yellow- 
ied and abundantly spotted with red ; higher up the spots become 
and the backs darker ; and near the source, except for a small 
d of white from tip to tail, they are as black as pitch, so that the 

try fellows of these parts call them *' coal-heads." 
But, were angling all the pleasure^ one might quote with reason 



J 



370 




The Gentleman 



\ 



the neat Latin proverb: " Nimium sndoris, pr:emii parutn." Itwnuld 
hardly be worth our while to tear our clothes and scratch out legs (i^ 
the sake of a basketful of small burn trout. For the lovei of the 
beautiful and the student of Nature there is much interest in ikc 
moors. In the corries, where the shingle is imcrspersed with junipr 
bushes, you may find the rock-brake and the rose-bay willo ' 
In the crevices of damp rocks, where the spray of the cascades ctu 
falls, I have found the filmy fern with its pretty, silvery frondi 
There are many small caverns where the green spleenwort grow 
amid thickets of oak and beech ferns. The little Alpine lady's-mani 
and the mountain saxifrages shine among the white pebbles like 
set in silver ; and high up among the heather and crags yoa miy 
clumps of mountain polypody and beds of cloudberries, 
hunting is most exciting work, more especially if it be ferns you 
looking for. Frequently you have to climb dizzy rocks and 
through treacherous bogs if you would gain your heart's desire. 

For the lover of birds the moors should be a happy huQtii 
ground. I have often wondered why some capable naturalist has 
thoroughly explored the bird life of our hills. The H ighlands pro] 
have been searched \ likewise the Lowlands proper. But 
places which are neither highland nor lowland, where the hi; 
hill is scarcely three thousand feet, contain, I am sure, manyrviy 
little dreamed of by scientific societies. I consider myself 3 
good ornithologist j yet I have met with many a bird up there 
I had never seen or heard of before. The shepherds have their 
names for them. " Heather lintie " covers at least five difli 
species of birds ; and such words as ''hill blackie," "keelie hawk,' 
" crow," •' felty," seem to be loose generic terms. The ring ouzel 
a common bird with us. It may be seen flitting among the h 
bushes any day in summer, and occasionally with it the little moi 
tain finch. I know one rift in the hillside where a colony of 
doves dwells ; but they are much disturbed by incursions of incrli 
the blue^hawks of falconry. In the bogs> snipe, redshanks, and 
duck are as plentiful as thrushes in the woods \ and in higher 
golden plovers are common. In the winter wild swans and geese 
shot by the farmers. An old man, who was almost crippled 
rheumatism, told me that he got it by shooting wild geese. He 
to go out before three o'clock in the cold mornings and lie patii 
for hours among the wet rushes. You may occasionally mi 
heron fishing ; but they seem, as a rule, to prefer more low 
streams. In the springtime curlews and lapwings scream their 
cries, in the hope of scaring away a chance intruder from their ncsis ; 




meadow pipit (moss-cheeper in Scots) pipes over the heather 
gh the summer ; and in the autumn the whirr of the blackcock 
e most frequent sound. A man might revel for days in the 
idise of animal and floral life which these moors afford, 
yet to me the first and greatest attraction is the scenery. Up 
burnside there are numberless little nooks and dells glowing 
t colour and beauty. You may have had little success in fishing ; 
i vasculum may be empty of specimens ; and you may be toiling 
lards under a broiling sun, which makes the rocks burn like hot 
I But suddenly you come on a little green glade among birch 
S, with the water curling through great masses of saxifrage. The 
; is strewn with the star flowers of the " grass of Parnassus," and 
air redolent of wild thyme and sweet-scented fern. You fling 
rsclf down and long no more for the valley. 
Sometimes the sights which one sees by these streams are quite 
jiic. T knov one bum where the colour of the water is the 
Est sapphire. The ruddy brown of some of the mosses and 
Sns, the warm green of the oak ferns, and the emerald grass 
last strangely with the grey rocks and white shingle. But to 
mch places you must tramp many miles. They are only to be 
d in the heart of the great upland region of Tweedside. 
dsworth never penned a truer line than when he wrote — 

** True beauty dwells in deep retreats." 

U one time Nature must have been more attractive than she is 

idays. UTien a Kelpie dwelt in every stream, and fairies danced 

he greensward, and an honest herd was in hope (or fear) of 

ting a brownie when he went out to the hill, with what strange 

Dgs a man must have fished these waters. But science and 

cr-of-fact philosophy have driven away these idle dreams and 

as only the rocks and the heather. It is easy to see how simple 

jie believed in such beings. A curl of foam is often like some 

g thing, and the sound of angry waters might be mistaken for 

cry of a malignant demon. Here we are on classic ground. 

I blue, broken-backed hill in the distance is Bodsbeck Law% the 

ic of Hogg's famous tale. You can see from the tops of some of 

! fells the green Eildons, cleft in three by the Devil at the com- 

jl of Michael Scott, where Arthur and his knights, as the story 

^ lie sleeping until the chosen warrior comes to blow the magic 

and set thera free to right the wrongs of the earth. Perhaps 

all it is better that such fancies should be left to fools and 

; jt:n — better for the hard business of life. But many a man, I 





Rkmli Montani, 373 

nd of compassionate condescension on all lowlanders. But 
young and strong, what is thereto hinder you from sleeping 
with a plaid round your shoulders ? In a mild night of 
iome sheltered corrle, a bed of brackens is a couch for a 
he good lady at the Clachan of Aberfoyle had strong views 
ibject, for she assured Bailie Nicol Jarvie and his friends 
light amang the heather wad caller their bloods — that they 
;ep in their claes, as mony a gude blade does in the 
*• Yet one is thankful that the worthy Bailie did not take 
:e, for he "wad hae been sair hadden doon wi* the 
»" if he had. 

anglers in moorland waters take a bock in their pocket to 
1 the fish are shy or their legs tired. It is a good thing so 
M the man lives not who enjoys that special branch of un- 
l fishing known as ** drowning a worm." Our likes and 
re many and varied. Mr. Stevenson has a fondness for 
a volume of Hazlitt's essays or Heine's songs with him. 
mself thinks Charles Lamb tbe worst possible companion 
lis, because he is so delightful an author to read at home, 
k beside a stream is inseparably connected for me with 
br as often as I went thither I read his essays. But, when 
left the glens for the high moorlands, you will be in need of 

another kind. The quiet gossip of Izaak W^alton may 
)u in the valleys ; up there he nods and grows wearisome. 
h peace and reflection, you say, give us the poetry- of war 
t deeds. In the heart of the Border country, that '* holy 
le ideal/* what can be more suitable than the ballads of the 
? For the first time you fully appreciate such noble lays as 
It Willie," or *' Jamie Telfer o' the Fair Dodhead." The old 
ers, with their modem followers, have an added charm ; 
nk that the long-resounding lines of Homer have never so 
ndeur as when read aloud in the clear air of the hill-tops. 
Hi's whole nature is freshened. He may be a porter, or 
i clerk in town ; but here be feels himself on a level with 
and great ones of the earth. In the valleys he may have 
stance and much sorrow ; on the moors he is rich with 

of nature which are not bought with money, but fall to the 
man, be he peer or peasant, of good and honest heart. He 
Jom and lightheartedness— a freedom, not of turbid revolu- 
and a gaiety possessed by no feather-brained reveller. He 
mbitious of vain ihingSt but the cool breath of Athena in 
ns blows away all idle fancies from his brain. In the old days 
:xtJtxTii. Na 1966. c c 



ROBER T FERGUSSON: 
SCOTTISH POET 



I. 



|N November zS, 17S6, Robert Bums entered Edinburgh for 

the first lime. We are told by his biographer Cunningham, 

had special opportunities of knowing, that though he came with 

hopes, good prospects, and valuable letters of introduction in 

pocket, he remained in a state of irresolution for several days. 

wandered about the city, apparently listless and aimless. He 

ided Salisbury Crags and gazed upon " Auld Reekie " ; he 

led Holyrood, stared at the shops, surveyed the Castle, and went 

Allan Ramsay's house, uncovering his head as he entered. But 

noteworthy hour, while engaged in his peregrinations, he strolled 

the old churchyard in the Canongate. His visit was not a 

jless one, for he sought out a simple grave that held the 

tins of "an elder brother in misfortune," whose memory he 

ly cherished. There was no stone to mark the spot, only the 

grass, nipped by the winter's cold, covered the grave. Burns 

in tears, his head bare, and he sobbed as he stood. Kneeling 

he embraced and kissed the sod. It was the tribute of his 

heart to the genius and sad fate of Robert Fergusson, who, 

than any other poet, had been his inspirer and his model 

had already written of him as " Fergusson the writer chiel', a 

dess name ! " Meeting with Fergusson's poems in the town of 

r, at a time when his own muse was dormant, he had " strung 

his wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour," This visit of 

[Ayrshire bard, taken with the circumstance that followed it three 

iths afterwards, when Burns caused a tombstone to be placed 

Fergusson's grave, links in immortal remembrance these two 

lers in the muses." 

I In the days that have followed, Burns has had at least his fair 

re of the world's honour. Fergusson has not had anything like 

c c 2 





he great originals ; and whoever puts Fergusson right with 
mnot do better than dedicate his labours to the memory of 
ffho will be the best delighted of the dead." Mr. Stevenson 
Rger than he is now when he wrote this. It is expressed 

his accustomed liveliness, and with quite his usual vigour. 

statement is true, nevertheless, and those who have read 
" Burns' literature " will certainly agree with the writer. It 
y intention here to attempt such *'an account of Fergusson's 
light well be wTitten." Space forbids that ; but I shall be 

if I can present a succinct outline of the young poet's 
ough by no means uneventful career ; and, following that, 
-iticism of his work. 

!rt Fergusson was bom in Edinburgh on September 5, 1750. 
)graphers have given the 17th as the date of his birth, but 
an undoubted mistake. He was the fourth of the family, 
:hird surviving child. His father was William Fergusson, a 
r Tarland, in Aberdeenshire, and his mother, Elizabeth 
youngest daughter of John Forbes, tacksman or tenant^ of 
)n, Hillockhead, and Wellhead of Kildrummy^ also in 
ishire. William Fergusson had served an apprenticeship to 
jit in Aberdeen, and on the death of his master, in whose 
e had, on the completion of his apprenticeship, presum- 
ained, He removed to Edinburgh in 1746, shortly after his 
n-law, John Forbes, had returned from fighting the High- 
15 at Culloden. Mr. Fergusson held several clerkships in 
»h and its neighbourhood, but wind and weather seera to 
rn dead against his fortunes. He came to his last haven as 
I clerk and accountant in the offices of the British Linen 
f, Canongate, Edinburgh. This was in 1762, and here he 
I, a trusted and valued servant till his death in 1767. 
Fergusson was a man of industry and integrity. Yet beseems 
>een one of those mortals who deserve success without ever 
lieving it. The poet's mother also was a woman of great 
\d it would appear that she was a busy housewife as well, 
usband, in one of his earlier letters, says : " My wife has had 
• several months on the stocks, which, I hope, will soon be 
' launching." The web, whatever it consisted of, must have 
lly wanted in a household where the annual income, at its 
IS only a few degrees higher than that shown by the 
abstract of expenses, prepared by William Fergusson 

b I 



378 The Gentiematis Magazine. 

Abstract of Expenses, Anko 175 i. 

House rent ;^i 10 o 

Coals . 2 12 o 

Candies o 19 6 

Bread 468 

Milk 245 

Flesh and fish 3^2^ 

Salt, greens, and barley . . .088 

. . . (torn away with wafer) . . I 10 4 

Washing o 13 o 

Quarter payments for children, &c. . I 15 o 

£"^9 5 9\ 

N.6.— 4r. 2\d. and chance for shoes, shirts, clothes, &c 

Both the parents, it is well to note, came 'of a poetic stock, so 
that Fergusson by blood was allied to the Muses. In view of our 
author's last tragic days, it is also of importance to understand that 
his parents had a deep sense of the value of religious training. 
Mrs. Fergusson, especially, is spoken of as a woman of sterling 
piety. 

William Fergusson had been four years in Edinburgh when the 
poet was born. The family were then living in a little house in the 
old Cap and Feather Close, which was situated close to the neigh- 
bourhood of the present North Bridge Street. The young child's lot 
was not cast in pleasant places, for poverty may be said to have 
haunted the doorstep. In the year following his birth, 1751, his 
father writes of him in a letter, '* Rob, the young one, is a thriving 
boy." As he got a little older, however, he became a sickly child, 
and throughout his life he was never free from constitutional weakness. 
His earliest education was received from his mother, who taught her 
"darling gentle Robert" his "letters." In the seventh year of his 
age he went to school, his tutor being a Mr. Philp, in Niddry's Wynd, 
situated in the spot where South Bridge Street now stands, and nearly 
opposite Allan Ramsay's famous shop. The Wynd abounded in 
curious, antique houses, many of which had formerly been the 
residences of notable townsmen. Here he remained for only six 
months, but during that time he must have made extraordinary 
progress, for at its close he was entered as a scholar in the Latin class 
of Mr. John Gilchrist, one of the masters in the Edinburgh High 
School. This famous institution was not then established, as it is now, 
under the Calton Hill, but it stood on the ancient site of the Black- 
friars Monastery of King Alexander II., at the bottom of Infirmary 



Robert Fergusson 



Scatiisk Poet. 



379 



Street and in the vicinity of the Cowgate. Fergusson continued at 
this school for about four years, from 175S to 1761. All this time 
he was a weak lad, with frequent illnesses, which occasioned as 
frequent absences from school. But he held his own in the class, 
being a better scholar than many, and nearly on a level with the best. 
Indeed, according to some of his biographers, he was a kind of 
youthful prodigy in general aptitude; and the following story, 
belonging to High School days, has been told with much gusto, 
" It was while his studies were interrupted by ill-health that he first 
acquired a taste for books, and it is a somewhat remarkable fact that 
while yet a mere child (in his eighth year) his chief delight was to 
pore over the Bible, the Proverbs of Solomon being his especial 
^vourite. One day he entered his mother's apartment in tears, 
calling upon her to *whip him.' On inquiry being made as to the 
reason for such a ver)*^ extraordinary request, he sobbed, *0h, mother, 
he that spareth the rod hateih his own child '—a noticeable illustra- 
tion/' says his naive biographer, " of the vivid impression that his 
leading made." Say rather, if there be any truth in the story, that 
Fergusson had already developed his talent for mimicry and humour, 
and that he was playing tricks with his pious mother. His 
High School master, >fr. John Gilchrist, is described by Henry 
Mackenzie, " The Man of Feeling," as **a good-humoured person with 
I A good deal of comedy about him," Fergusson, no doubt, proved an 
[apt pupil in comic matters as well as in construing Latin. With 
ird to the High School curriculum of those days, " The Man of 
Ling'* says: "The scholars went through ihe four classes taught 
||jy the under masters, reading the usual elementar>' Latin books — 
'for at that time no Greek was taught in the High School— and so 
on op to Virgil and Horace, Sallust, and parts of Cicero. . ♦ . The 
hours of attendance were from 7 to 9 a.m., and, after an interval of 
,3J3 hour for breakfast, from 10 to 12 ; then, after another interval of 
ra hours for dinner, the scholars returned for two hours in the after- 
noon-** This was pretty stiff daily work for an ailing boy, and it 
certainly required to be lightened by a little " comedy." In those 
days the High School lads were a disciplined republic, sometimes 

I given to taking the law into their own hands. When the ** black- 
guards " of the Cowgate broke out into open attack, the " puppies "^ — 
that is to say, the High School bull-dogs — were wont to arise in their 
wrath and growl down the attack. Many a battle was thus fought, 
chronicled by no muse; and the "puppies," though the superior 
animals, did not always get the best of it* Fergusson was too young, 



ll^eeli 



^^ no 



k 



r-isr ---' •■' zj-.v- i^ssri ins sidsss nttle, and seen the fists do 

zizLT T -r^ -.r.. e-»^ : r^ dif not akc part in the fighting himself, 

ri: T-_ :. .. ..: -j^zilI-jl- ^:ii. thast vho had been taught, as Daiae 

— --' T7ji r- .-._i: riiin:'.-!^ ":: ** smote a cobbler, spin aloia, 

r:ij-i . -.:-.-.-. ^r.L r. .1 i::r r*iiiii-s *" — in other words, to break* 

v::._ T :.;: : ^.:rr=Lis: t-:ir. ftdbsw and hold the bonnet or hand- 

;„;='-- 1 -r:. .-: .;«-.:. -: dviai H.c'^ ?ch!X>l boys when fighting. He 
r-ji. «^-: i:.-sc "_ ru.-'ii r: ni ihe craziest of Edinburgh High Scbod 
r*.-^"- "^ ^:'.4r Sr.-.r. :t • I^eirzimiie: ~i who had become "the pride of 
*v- -^->v ..r.:: i:u z-^-a:. :i: zz-.t hacksrers in the High School Wynd." 
-..1^ ::■;-- : -. :.i; : -. ^fsr rrcircirfd -Triih humbly passing throng 
-- : V ^^ : ' .^ T- :: :i- :.^rj:rx TTer the top of it." "You uu^ 
Til." rw - T ■:_:-< 1 "_^::r.er -: Tz^zct. "to keep my fingers off the 
V i«: I.: 1 : : : ; r - zrr z.?rj. LTLir.s: ihe strong ; to carry no tales oat 
.- >:•- : .. . -:::.ri 1;-.:. .iii L rr.e man. obey the stem order of a 
J".-?— '-.■::. '■ :_-^ i=T\iL-i r.-T T-ivmie? without wincing, like one 
i:_- _i :.^-r.M.i r.- :; :ii ir.i: btr.er for them." These were the 
i .:- . ..- -: ,: r-.T r« 1-? r. ^>.::>. Fergusson was trained. At tM 
-.r. ; \'zr. ^ .> :. i-:.. v; .^r.-jirr - library Fund " in connection wA 
t^'i >:::•.. . - : . * ;- -^i r;r.±:=::«s: r.is tithers poverty, it isworthviule 
^. r . 1 :.- ::j.: V,. :»;- y:rr-^>:-"5 crr.tr.bi:tion towards the "Fund" 
L^ :•:> vLs :-, :r.^ . r^. :r.i .r. :7ti. two shillings and sixpence. 

l". : - : ": ; -^ . ^- . - ^-f :T:.r.f firred fr:-. Edinburgh High School 

":■-*. /■:i---.l: ^:.v•: -- - ^r.ii-e. This circumstance has pualed 

>:-=:::.«. .;r.-.-. :.->. : _: :s re^rr. :< no-.v perfectly clear. AViiliam 

^"t-j-_fr - - i -i ---5 -L-> i-:-r.:. ir.d he could ill afford to pay for his 

-•-:• 5 lI-ji: :- ..-::^;h :he kir.cr.ess of Eord Finlater, vhose 

--"-■-:r r.:^:r>.-5 _:::>.;:- ir.-l.i-ar had been, in Aberdeenshire, a 

T -t=:-r.-: . -. :: .: : -r^jir/.. .^r 5jh."»l."-rsh::\ was obtained in favour of 

— /:.tr:i: :"--.- T'^r.Iee Or.ir.'.r.:ar School. This scholarship came 

f-'-." :. ■.:-.:"i:::,r. ^v. ;.v. iv.-rtir.cauon) left by the Rev. Da^'i<I 

^tT-ii^jT.. ;■: >:r:i:h:"ar:ir.:. ::i terr.^s of a deed dated December :o» 

^^''jz: '- v;'r.:-.':\ V.j st^rc: ihn.:. " boiPL; now aged, and wanting heirs of 

n:s ov.n \j'Ay to ir.heri: the >anie,"' he bequeathed a certain sum of 

money for the *• pious use al"ter mentioned, viz. : for the use, main- 

icnanrc, an«l education of two poor male children not under the age 

of nine years at their admission, or above fourteen years while they 

are at the School of Dundee, of my own surname and nearest decree 

of l)l<>(;cl to me, whom failing any other two young indigent m^^ 

children of my own surname." Fergusson, no doubt, became entitle^ 

under the terms of the last clause only. He was a "poor scholar" 

now, in the literal sense, enjoying free education, free board and 



Robert Fergvsson : Scottish Poet. 



381 



^ ^ n the house of "a burgher of good report," with sufficient 

plothes and necessaries for his body, head, and feet,'* his coat 

being always of a grey colour lined with blue sleeves." Fergusson 

kntlBued at the Dundee Grammar School as a bursar lad from 1761 

^ 1764, when, being over fourteen years of age, he was no longer 

igible for the benefits of the '* mortification." His parents, 

ipcver, were anxious that their lad should live to " wag his head 

a pu'pit " (the most glorious destiny, in their opinion, for such a 

n), and William Fergusson had made up his mind that, if possible, 

bert should go from school to the University. Fortunately, the 

bod clergyman's benefaction provided that "how soon and when* 

pever the said (two) children, or either of them, shall attain to 

|ic said age of fourteen years complete," the patrons were " to 

pake trial if they, or either of them, be capable of learning, and 

p» an inclination to be scholars, and if found so capable," they 

Perc " to be put to Saint Leonard's College, of Saint Andrew's, for 

le space of four years, and the said patrons" were '4o entertain, 

^ntain, and furnish them at bed, board, and with clothes, and 

*ber necessaries." Under this provision Robert Fergusson by- 

Kd-by proceeded to the University of St. Andrews, but, in the 

(Utumn of 1764, being no longer a Grammar School boy, he 

ccompanied his mother on a visit to an uncle, Mr, John Forbes, of 

^CHind Lichnot, a farm in the neighbourhood of Old Meldrum, in 

Aberdeenshire. In a letter from William Fergusson to his wife 

written from Warriston's Close, High Street, Edinburgh, where 

e family were now living), under date August 17 of this year, he 

ysi " It gives mu no small satisfaction to find you have had so 

ble a meeting with your brother and sisters, and that Rob has 

out thejaurney" This was probably Fergusson's first visit to 

P^^deen shire. He was now in his parents' native region, and had 

Pportunities of seeing the varied life of the stout-hearted country 

Nfe. It was the time when " banks o' corn bent down wi' laded 

pfi** of which he afterwards sang in his "Farmer's Ingle." The 

^Ids were white unto harvest, and it is possible that he may have 

"lowed the reapers at their work. From Round Lichnot, Fergusson 

•^med to Warriston^s Close, and he resided with his parents 

Nrefor over two months, his father now being in the service of the 

^tish Linen Company. 

On December 7, 1 764, '* William Fergusson, writer in Edinburgh," 



<^ompeared " before the trustees of the mortification in Dundee, 



F*d "produced to the patrons proper certificates of his son, Robert 
Fergtisson, being properly qualified for going to the College \ the 




i 




- •■: "-- «.■■^■ -'ia 



.V.V c:...z: 



: ^ ■ , -1 ::. "S *'^-^' "i':''^ 

:i: -^ :h^ rriinijtrv oi^^'^ 
-. . :. r.i-:r:>: : known ^^ 
■ :. ::r. ; fjnd cf prjc::"! 
■:c;.:.:e :v..\cc in occa^^''-' 
::■: : :" " K.■.bo^:Fe^^^^^"^■ 
:^.^ ::.ck5 seem never t<? 
■:a7> -t'urwards. dcscrib^-^ 
:n::> l-vcrAriiv, inasinr'^ 
:;::..: Fcr-jsson. "^^'^ 
>:-ry aiimervorutft-'"; 
:. V.:: a fine laddie io' ^ 



^^^Rci 



obert Fer^isson : Scottish Poet, 



" Various interesting anecdotes have been collected with regard 
is student days, but these must here be passed over. During 
astyear of his attendance he sudcrcJ expulsion from the Univcr- 
for being concerned as an accomplice in '* a riot committed . . . 
IxwLs Grant about one o'clock of the morning of this 26th of 
ch (1768)/' He had also " wantonly given up John Adamson's 
e to be prayed for." There must have been strong extenuating 
iinstances in the case, for he was " received in again at a 
ting of the masters" four days afterwards. All this time he was 
bbler in poetry, receiving occasional sensible advice from his 
r brother Henry, who was a fencing-master in Edinburgh, and a 
on of great intelligence. His wits were sharpened no doubt by the 
t^isra of his student friends, several of whom afterwards became 
)us, while the more mature counsel and advice of such men as 
essor VV'ilkie must have been very helpful. None of these early 

kfibrts survive (with the possible exception of his " Elegy on 
th of Dr. Gregory ")■ ^^^ ^ crisis had now come in his 
'His father had died in 1767 ; his college days must needs ter- 
ite, for the years in which he could benefit from the "Mortifi- 
^n " were now past ; so he returned sad and without a purpose 
s widowed mother and sisters in Edinburgh, 
ileanwhile his brother Henry, who was eight years his senior, 
gone to sea. Mrs, Fergusson was bravely endeavouring to keep 
use over her head by ** letting a spare room to lodgers." She 
now living in Jamieson's Land, in the neighbourhood of the 
s-raarket. Young Fergusson was tossed on a sea of doubt and 
itilty. What was he to do? Like Othello, his occupation was 
L The weeks sped past, and the spring of 1769 still found him 
and irresolute. But at length he determined to pay another 
to his uncle, Mr. John Forbes, in Aberdeenshire. Mr Forbes 
a man getting on in the world. He was both farmer and factor, 
had held the farm of Round Lichnot, about two miles to the 
h of Old Meldrum, on the road to TurfifT, and he was now tenant 
rorresler Hill, another farm about two miles to the north-east of 
Meldrum, on the road to Metblick. It was through this gentle- 
I's means that Fergusson had obtained his bursary, for Mr. Forbes 
tJie ear of Lord Finlater, Chancellor of Scotland, whose factor he 
been, and whose influence was great. When Fergusson for- 
V lived in this neighbourhood it had been the time of early 
^^^ I now it was the season — 



k 



When nature bung her mantle green 
On every blooming tree. 



1 




;S4 The Gentleman s Magazine. 



when birds be^n to sing in ihe wood of Lichnot, and the primroses 
Cine c'-: cr. ihe braes, ^^"ith his uncle Fergusson remained for 
ib:.:: six nicnihs, and we are warranted in saying that they were an 
■.^.is^c-ed co-r'-e. A painsiaking, plodding, " bawbee "-mating, 
riiner- cf-facu albei: mos: wonhy farmer and factor, was just as ill- 
r.ite-i : :■ ur.cersur.d and symparhise wi:h an irresolute, romantic, and 
iK-ivwird y--ng poc'^ as was ;hat great senior partner in the house of 
Os'r»i".i:s::r.c ^ Tre^ham :o understand or sympathise with the 
va^ar^es c: yiur.j: Fr.mcis Osba'distone. If it be true, moreover. 
t-.i: Fer^-ssrr.. in c^ddition :o week-day escapades in the Lichnot 
"iV^:.i ir.i :r.e f.e'.ds- was -ccusiomed "to assemble the servants who 
r-d been dii-ined :r:ni : -I'.ic worship on the Sabbaths, and, taking 
r.s sund a: :he n::.;:h of :he p^a:-s:ack, he would address them for 
r.-.:re :>.:Ln an h^"-: a: a :-.n:e in language so eloquent and fer\id that 
Mr. r::r.is :he y.-e:? cousin ■ cisiirctly remembers to have often 
si-^n :h=ni 'rair.ed :n :oars —if th:s be true, the worthy man must 
>a-.e ':<-::: s^-.d y ru-'.Cv: :.^ understand the young lad, and may have 
v".. .:::.d ■".>:>; r '-j.e ^.is cw-r gv.:d or ower ill." At any rate the 
: :v. .M ■ . ..;-.;::: :r.e;. uarTc'.^d :.nd " : arted, ne'er to meet again." 
C:.- d-- r\.:^us>.r. .--;-i--.red :n s?rr.- guise at his uncle's di:ir.er- 
:..:.. 'i j-.-.i :..Nir. an '"..u: .: t'.vo*s diversion in the wood of Lich- 
-::. .• • : -g tr^^s ui-.i <-v.:-_::-g en the branches, with the result that 
b > «-■.-,- ■.■::i^ t:-; n-.a::;. n-a:<s ■:: re:::, and wear and tear). Lord 
■ .::.T ::r:: ..r.,:.'.: '.;:,-.". :n;.^na:e w^re guests on this occasion, 
,.".■.:: :d::.: '-.-.< h:-T::".c.".. \\t ir.dijr.antlv ordered Feriiusson 
. ^- . ■: -:--n-. : :: n/.-vLU :r.su.n .:> :>.e poet's young cousins were 
- . :>'. '. :. va ". r";::^j-s:r. a s'.'.y. sor.sitive youth, was stung to 
• « - V :ic V.-:-: :.::.■. -.,::'ved his httle all in a bundle, and 
.:.■>■': i >:::>■"--■■> • r:-.i:'::.V. -saxrcnce *" in his pocket, so: 
v.- . ^ ,- ■■.■.:^:^ ani :."-c. Sr:;kL?; care had sung long ago that— 



■ce. 



> n. : a v^r.- old man, but he was old 
:'-- a>.^ve incident had probably been 
:..- ::ad to '?<:-ar. When he found that 
'■--.><:. n hegan to cool, and. guessing 
: :u.:ss.:-:gcr a::er Fergusson to beg his 
? J yon h:n: a sum of money to pay his 




Robert Fergusson : Scottish Poet, 

tray. The poet was in a mighty rage, and he resolutely refused either 
to go back or to accept a penny. So he footed it to Edinburgh, 
Jiving on his wits and the sympathies of strangers, just as Oliver 
Goldsmith had done many a day in kindred plight. 

The journey had its effect, however, upon Fergusson, and it sent 
him to bed for a fortnight. Then once more he had to face the 

P problem of how to get a livelihood. Like many an ex-*' divinity 
student " similarly circumstanced, he might have become a school- 
roaster; but Fergusson was scarcely constituted of the stuff from which 
pedagogues are made. For the othtr learned professions he had 
not, as we have seen, the means to prosecute the necessary studies. 
He took, therefore, as a last resource* that which came to his hand, 
this being the post of " writer," or copyist, in the office of the Edin- 
burgh Commissary Clerk, Mr. Charles Abercroraby, The poet was 
Kan expert penman, but his remuneration never rose higher than a 
Hknere pittance, and he had to write, write, until his fingers ached. 
^pHe was now brought into contact with many persons who were con- 
nected with the Law, and he formed numerous friendships. He 
became a theatre-goer and cultivated the society of '* several players 

Isuid musicians " ; associations quite congenial to his character as a 
poet, but not too well -fitted in those convivial times to aid his 
advancement in the world. Chief among these boon companions 
was Mr. Woods, then the leading actor in the Scottish capital. During 
this lime Fergusson was Ihe author of several pieces more or less 
fugitive, but it was not until 1771 that the poems which have rendered 

I him famous began to appear in Rttddiman's Weekly Magazine^ a 
publication which had been started in 1768, and had obtained an 
admost immediate popularity. The price of the magazine was i^^., 
and it had a brilliant staff of contributors, numbering many of the 
chief literary men of the day. Fcrgusson's first attempts were 
feeble, and they were far from warranting the praise bestowed upon 

I them by the editor. They consisted of English poems couched in 
the most artificial style, and unrelieved by a single brilliant line. 
But with the publication of the *^ Daft Days" in 1772 Fergusson 
Tti^y be said to have *' come to his own." The first lines in the poem, 
and indeed every line, are instinct with the spirit of artistic grace 
and fine poetic genius. No strain like- 
Now mirk December's dowjs face 
Glovers owcr ihe rigs wi' sour grimace, 
While, through bis nihiimttm o* space, 

The bicer ee'd sun, 
Wi' blinkin* light and steclin' pace 
His race doth ran — 





7"^" GtKtkmans Magazine 



r.2.:. :oir. rc:iri fir.re A.'.:in Ramsay ceased to sing. "Honest 
.-. .:.T ■ -1.. r: ^ b^i-cr. ce-'i founecn years, and no worthy minsuel 
r.:.-. ^•;: :.-,>;- :r ?:r.kc :re Soo:ush lyre. Allan himself had gone 
:.- ~ i^ j:-.\i • : .--: ^ >:r.^'e skilled versifier to sing his eleg-. 
Kr:c-: v.-./. ■-. :-i .v.:;'r^v of *-The Shipwreck," had been in 
y :. ->.-,: ^ -. - 5 . . .-.- A " Mir.sircl " Beattie had now become famous, 
r-.: vo.-; : ■• , -; «.-. : r^ :>r .-. poet who would speak to them in 
:-,•- , % - - - '. .-• ,-. V>.c success of the "Daft Days," and ihe 
.v.> . . ..: - •:v.:.i«:"::iv.:-i,*' VMS enormous. The magazine 

^. s ^ ., -..J .■.-..:■.■.: -".: r.>ur through bonnie Scotland, leal- 
>M-..-. ". - *".- xi :"-:r. -:s:*a:n:od the rising bard. If a Scots poe: 
V --,..:.>■ ■. .". ::" rem vacint. Robert Fergusson would have 

rv , ■ %. ,.■ :-,' ;- . •■»,-::>.;.- c.n.v.date for the bays. "Minor" 
x-.s .•■>v<- :; ■■/;.:vc V :v.. Fs.T^ii5?on was now a personage in 
:*."- >,*.-.. ^' .V. ■.;..'. . r > s;.-:i:y w.is coveted ; and he continued to 
";v ,<-.:, ^. .". :," r-w. .-.r.i \\\;Ie o' young men." 

:- > ■ ,'.- > v.^::- "..^: :.r.ii:ed to the city, but extended aliT 
••..^ < ■", .. . . ..■-.^.'v* VT.\--v.'.:ouse, North Belton, Balledraund. 

. * . \ .-. ■..-.:.<■■ -■'.: hj :rc :i:cntlY visited, and someot 

- ,-. . - ,- , ..> ." :: .-.v. :>.j country. 1 ii a letter addrcj^- 
..•■'.■■-.'. . , .. >.. .-.;..:/..':": c vV.ivV of the Morfn'j!^ Post,:^.^ 
• , ■ ■ .'■■: > ". ,... -> •■' > .><.'v: .■.:cs, says he had "such a richncv 
, .•.•■•.-.>...- - : .\ ■ \ ■.■.:,■-. I : c:" laucy. His manner was? 
:'/..•. ^ ". ^ .. . . ".v:..-^-.*. .'..:>- vorson around him, and infuse-^' 

•.■' .• : ,■ •,.•■.> .■; . ■: • • ■■■^:; .■-"■" v^'-- i':*c spirit and animation vhi-^' 

■■ , .. " > ^' • /. -\ ■.: > -.v.r/.ors, another i n:i mate friend, v^'-" 

w,> ." -,. ..-.N , ■•0 , :" ,-.,^ ■ ,^^:'> earliest biographers, describin- 
:■. v>. . ■.',•"...' ■.•.\''v .".< "ll-.^ M.ijosty's Gla/ier for Scotland 

VarVaraen: Close, which Fergusson oW" 

•av'.:>.>oa:--.Ov^'.i of the Commissary C^cr.<^ 

"vAo.l ■. a' so SMtes that the poet had "^'• 

■oa: /v.s t\^r social hfe." He further ?";" 

v.!';Oom!ncn ilow of Hudibrastic humou:. 

'.-a: >o possessed a magnificent voice, a^- 

>: :':e swoe: songs of Scotia ; that he cou.^; 

Ard r.e'er say nay, we need not be surprise" 

^l:: at:er by all convivial souls, of v^Jic*"' 

Far.iburjih had at that ilnie a -greater progeny than probably a-- 

otn.or city of similar si/.e in Furope. Facilis est descensus Averni l"'^'' 

FerL;usson it was easy, too easy, and ultimately it led to madnt'-^' 

In the words of " A. B. C«[rosartl,'' the most painstaking oi -' 

Kcrgussons biographers (to whom I here express the detT^-'^'' 



\-- - ■ 






Vv . ,. 


> - 


\ > . > J 


. a 


■s 


'■- V. .'.> 


• », 


ov.-.-. 


V. 


".^ 


."•-v Vw* 


\\ a< 


.'.v.'.". * 


■:^ 


\ 


.:-. .*:>■ 


^ ■ ■ . 


i ■•.'.: ■ 


^ ■ 


;^". 


>-<j:''. 




W'.'.- 


\v 


V." 


'.s.\ur. 


*'-.*..'. 


cov/.d 


SI* 


*..^ 


- V. ... . 


:>an 


t:;ke : 


.3 


•* 


vivai' o 


v.-r".:*. 


ilu: : 


^0 


\Y 


as ea« 


.erlv 



Ssati( 



Robert Fergusson : Scottish Poet, 



387 



igations) i " Fergusson was at this perJod plunged into a course 
dissipation, hostile to all steadiness of purpose, and calculated 
Ificially to increase the difficulty of emancipating himself from the 
r condition of life in which he was placed." This testimony is 
e, and it is set forth with kindly generosity. Meanwhile the poems 
kh were laying the foundations of his literary immortality came 
tk and fast from his pen. In some of them he described with 
licking gusto and admirable fidelity the free and easy life of his 
ie ; in others his spirit wandered to rural solitudes— the calm 
e of nature — and there it was soothed. Thus, toiling, rejoicing» 
rowing — more frequently sorrowing than rejoicing — onward through 

brief life Fergusson went. 

For a short space he left the office of the Commissary Clerk for 
It of the Sheriff Clerk, but he soon returned, and continued there 
lined to the oar till the end came, receiving a small sum per 
fe for his *' writing." As he turned off the folios day by day, 
I can imagine him sa)nng, as Charles Lamb was wont to say in 
liewhat similar case, " These be my Works " ! It was an age of 
^ndence. Good things came to few who were without patrons. 
lesson had many friends (consisting mainly of those connected 
k the Law), but he had no influential patron who could extend 
lelping hand. His companionship was courted ; he was a fellow 
infinite jest and most excellent fancy ; people applauded, and 
ted with admiration ; but no one came forward to lift him out 

le mire. 



f mav he 



My curse upon your whunslane hearts, 
Ye E*nbrugb gentry ! 



may here exclaim, repeating the malediction of Burns. Help 
I come at last, from his brother Henry and a kind friend ; but 
feme too late, when the poet was cold in the earth ! 

Walter Ruddiman, the publisher, seems to have fairly retnunerated 
H for his contributions to the Magazine. Fergusson is said to 
H received " not large but regular payment, and two suits of 
Ihes — an every-day and Sabbath suit — every year," and Mr. 
ttJdiman himself testifies that the profit upon a little volume of 
» collected poems, published by subscription in 1773, was at least 
50. Fergusson was a great lover of the theatre, and, like Faistaff, 

loved to take his e^se in his inn. The Edinburgh Theatre Royal 
S then a popular and a celebrated house ; but the poet's " inn " 
s of no great pretensions. His favourite resort of this kind was 
ickie Middlemist's Oyster Tavern, in the Cowgate, situated at the 




i 





■wi* ber smile serene** «jM* 

Aoiw^gWy nndermmed3- 

l)fe 1^ and fb1Iowii^B^& 

deeply attache^=^ 



be gtre way to her 



luctli. 



i 



tkeeaxth 
T^tiyliiteettiea. 

But tboo^bedidiiatgcitosea, be relioqiushed the city, and tcv-^^ 
lodging? in the YiQage of Retaliig. Here he did not long reiii»^n» 
liowever, but either from choice or necessity returned to his fon^:^*^ 
haunts. M<^mwhfle nature, whose mills, like those of God, gri ™1 
•lowly, yet grind exceeding small, was still silently registering '^^^ 
nroteit against his excesses. Though scarce twenty- four, Fe^ssc:^"* 
natural force was already abated. He still frequented Lucr^* 
Middlemist's, but he could no longer eat the *' cauler oysters '' wl^-*^^ 
praiftcs he had sung. " He was obliged to take them pickled/ '" 
ihc «ympathetic Sommers. 

And now we approach the tragedy of Robert Fergusson's ^«*' 
Deep down in his inner nature were the seeds of a strong religi^'''^ 
emotion. In a sense he may be said to have inherited this feeJ/z^fi 





Robert Fergitsson: Scctlish Poei, 



ad it had been diligently fostered in his youth. Nor must we 
irget that scene when, in his younger days, he had held forth on 
►undays from the " mouth of the peat-stack " to the Aberdeenshire 
ostics. Sommers tells us that during the last years of his life the 
•oet had "serious impressions of religion," In 1772 he had 
•ccasion to run down to Haddington, and going into the old church- 
ard there, he met the celebrated preacher and writer, Dr. John 
Town. Brown was an able man, who had risen from being a 
kcrd laddie" to a great position as a scholar and a divine. He 

8 E very zealous, too, and he took this opportunity of "improving 
occasion." The personal ascendency of such a man must have 
«n great. David Hume, a person of very difTerent mental cahbre 
in Fergusson, felt it, sceptic though he was. Hume declared that 
'. Brown was a preacher who spoke '*as if Jesus Christ were at 
t right hand." The conversation sank deep into Fergusson*s soul, 
iugh it does not seem to have had any immediate effect. Tom 
"■Timers saw Fergusson on the day before he went to Haddington, 
e also saw him on his return, and he testifies that Fergusson was 
ite self-possessed. But the tragedy still kept brewing ! 

VVnh Fergusson 's religious struggles I cannot deal. I simply 
Lie a few facts. Tn 1774 we are told by Sommers and others that 

incident happened which forcibly recalled the Haddington con- 
"■nation to mind. Fergusson had a favourite starling, and one 
ght a cat, which had stolen its way down the chimney into the 
►el's room, seized upon the poor little bird. It cried piteously, 
I d Fergusson awoke, but he was too late to save its life. The poet, 

whose brain incipient madness was already developing, worked 
mself into a frenzy, and applied the moral to his own case. Like 
^< poor starling so suddenly done to death, he, too, was on the edge 
Uoom, and the great reaper, whom no mortal may resist, might at 

^taoment cut him down, and then then there was eternal 

**naent ! In the black and dark night, the blackness of darkness 



"^Pt into the poet*s soul, a blackness of darkness that was never 
f*in fully lifted Henceforward he read no book but the Bible, 
'^ its message for him seemed to have no joy in it. He ceased to 
"*te poetry and burned all his MSS. He communed much with 
'• Erskine (immortalised by Scott in "Guy Mannering "), whose 
^^rch of the Grey friars was near his mother's residence. In all 
^ gloom he yet talked at times about becoming " a bright and 
|l!ng light." His old associates knew him no longer. All this 
**« death had him in his grip. The end was hastened by an 
^^emperate outburst at a county election in which he had taken 
ViL.ccj.xxvn. NO. 1966. n D 





- t:;_ ' ^:— :•:•;.- r-t r_ii :; :•= rersovtd 
~:.~ ^i-i.rr -— ---— ?::.:.i. Lr. a nook of 
r. r .T-- ji^ iiii-r^i^re TI3 erected by 

: IT V :-c "-i I-;.*! ..±5? T»:ei l>:ked :o"^ 
r^--r- T:=r: :i v:.i. re r:^:*^! aieninc 

.- :-.: -- r:-^i=i= fr:n iheir ztZs^-lt^ 
z ..rri ; ." 1 —z-i^ i: : -^r. y:-r.z lucrts 

T.-:-- -:.i^ ir.ij :f iti:h- There is no 
■ : ■ :»T-^ > -n r -ij- divf, ir. :he whole 

::.-::_ 1- :j_i -jil5 ::-:*:Te-i :d :rr.xonal:5e 
-- :^::i-i5!t7: In.r. Ir. :r.e coning 
:-ij.i :-- 1 ::zi:_-ri ::*: n-. -'Who 

:- L " Tf - . i i :y i o: e: - *• they think =e 

V _ -: : - >--i r = - h -rr — n- ' 2 «h"irJ 



:r= -.."r £*:i;.er. r:' whrr/. hehai 



A.;: 



asv. 



C- :^er.-h:cfO. 



ir Is. 1 



; his dc2:h. ::: ccmr-inT with 
"-■.ey :': .ir.d :he roe: chcerfulf 
e hin-- a ::::*e cf a'.e ar.d^ome 
r he e\: resse L jrcit gTa:i:u(it 
::«i::her for vac hours in the 
cheered l'ergus?un byassiinn: 
They yo.r:ed wi:h ihepoe- 
ly. Neither of them, however. ^'^ 
rds saw him in life. He had I-"- 
um, his ravings throughout hi'^ 
From time to time he had lu^^J* 
ister were accustomed to visit hJO- 
ihev saw him for the last time- 1^ 



Robert Fcrgtisson : Scottish Poet. 



a raw and chilly evening, and the dying poet complained of the 
He lay on a straw mattress, and he begged his mother to 
} the bedclothes lightly around his feet and sit upon them. She 
so^ and he looked fondly into her face, and said, " Oh, mother, 
is kind indeed I' But he still complained of the cold in his feet. 
r.mother and sister could not restrain iheir tears. "What ails 
said Robert, " Why sorrow for me ? I am very well cared 
here and want for nothing — ^only it \^ cold, very cold, Vou 
1 told you it would come to this at last." The time arrived 
the visitors must needs leave. When they were going Fer- 
lon cried, *' Oh, do not go yet, mother I hope to be well soon ! 
^ do not go yet l^do not leave me ! " But the keeper was firm, 
ihey had to retire. Thai night, alone in the darkness, with no 
g eye save that of Heaven upon him, lying on a miserable bed 
w, the mad poet died, 

few days afterwards a small company of sorrowing fn'ends as- 
led at Bristo Port and folk)\ved the body to its rcsiing-place in the 
ngate churchyard. There it lay for over twelve years without 
nc to mark the spot, until Robert Burns caused the memorial, 
h still remains, to be placed over the grave, in April 1787- It 
a simple inscription, and the following epitaph \ 

No fculptured marble here, nor pompous lay. 

No sioried urn, nor animated bust ! 
This simple slone directs pale Scolia's way 

To pnuT her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

that Scotland — that Edinburgh in particular — ^should so forget 

pour her sorrows " ! 
The following ts SomraersVdescription of Fergusson's personal 

arance : 

** He was about five feet six inches high, and well -shaped. His 
Biplexion fair but rather pale. His eyes full, black, and piercing 

nose long, his lips thin, his teeth well set and white. His neck 
Ig and well proportioned. His shoulders nnrrow and his limbs 

H^ but more sinewy than fleshy. His voice strong, clear, and 

lodious. Remarkably fond of old Scots songs, and the best 
hger of the * Birks o' Invermay ' I ever heard. When speaking he 
quick, forcible, and complaisant. In walking he appeartd 

^rt, erect, and unaffected." 

I may add that the only authentic portrait of Fergusson is that 
^med by his friend Alexander Runciraan the painter, the 
final of which may be seen in the portrait gallery, Queen Streit, 
Fnburgh, 



^obcrt Ferf^usson: Scottish Poei 



393 



^ This gift of perfect manipulation of human speech, either in prose 
^ ^^fse, is one that has come very rarely in the history of genius to 



'''^iter so young as Fergusson. It has more usually been the growth 



^iv 



maiurer years* This peculiar gift is something difTeren from 



^U'lne afflatus — the poet's inspiration ; there may be less of genius in 

*^ but there is infinitely more of talent. In a few lines^ in a vivid 

>ord picture, Fergusson succeeds in giving us a living, breathing 

franscript from Nature. The right note was sounded in the opening 

s&inza of the very first ScotUsh ^o^m he contributed to '^Ruddiman.'* 

It was this quality which struck the "minor poet" of the day, usually 

the dullest of mortals, and caused him to sin£ — 

Seu soft and swtetymtr verses jingte 
And your mtU xoards sat meetly min^e^ 
'Twill gar baith mariied fowk and single 

To roose your kj s ; 
When we forgather round the ingle 

We'Jl chant your praise, 

[t was the same quality, too, which struck the honest country folk 
well as those •* in city pent " : 

Yt've English plain enough nac doubl, 
And Latin, too, but ye dio suil 
Vour lines to fock ihat*s out about 

'Mang hills and braes. 
This is the thing that gars me shout 
Sac hud your praise. 

Now, the wonder of all this is increased when one recollects that 
"ergusson was but a lad of twenty or so when he obtained his 
[supremacy. His English poems were almost, if not quite, worthless. 
ley had the ring of the conventional, artificial period about them, 
l^thout any redeeming felicity, or originality of genius ; and though 
Ihey obtained some vogue, they are now^ except in the personal or 
antiquarian sense, absolutely without interest. I have read them, 
and re-read them, and read them again, and I must honestly testify 
that from the first line to the last I have found but two or three 
stsmzas which have struck me as having any genuine ring of true 
poetic metal. Here is one of ihese stray pieces — lines which 
Thomson, perhaps, might have written. The subject is " Nature/' 

jmd he says : 

From the deep bosom of the watery main, 
Arrayed by thee, majestic Venus rose, 
With waving ringlets carelessly diftuscd, 
Floating luxurious o'er the restless surge. 

This Other has a distant cadence of Gray's "Elegy"; 



394 ^^ Genilemans Magazine. 

Sweet are the waters to the parched loi^iie ; 

Sweet are the btossoms to the wantoa bee ; 
Swee: to die shephcfd soand the lark's shrill soi^ ; 

Bci sweeter £ir is solitode to me. 

Wb:z: liese £vo exceptions (which to some may .scarce seem 
excsccccs^ the English poems may, in my opinion, rest in deep 
ccctjccl B-: when Fergnsson comes back to the " brave utterance," 
be hxs xlw:iys a &in:ral noce. The note may sometimes be simple, 
i^ Liz^sjery =:at be hzld, but, as in the following, it is always an 

V2rli=ki be: scanty pleasnre glean 

Yn£ icxwy hill or barren plain, 

\'V bs: wizrer oudst his nipping train 

Wt' mssen spear, 
Sezii^ i=ic c«ier a' his bleak domain, 

Aai g^iics the weir. 

Xiixi.r«r"i*55 iizzrruss c£' Fergusson's knack in handling the 
ancisuri wrxi :zsctr«c Bcrcs and which he adopted, might be 
^'=;iT. :^: 1 :iv scemz-izs zizs: sufrce. Take the following : 

vr,*u i "^-r-cks i; lb*; diwcin,* J-y, 
J:.i-- -rcues c^imiz' frit :r.e srriy, 
^"~ c_::r :c-rr5«» :ii: 5:r:c:hlv f liy 

'"*v * ■"-.> : - V ---. i ire j>...I :brr-^r. Au'.d Reekie in the rough 

* -r.\ :> . V- ,-;:.. ."c >«ir scrs iz-:ws ri^chiwell. and here are the 

^ *.• " .: >vxcz«i i r^T^ess Tce:. when Xa:ure is against him, 

M.": T'^r^:lls i:.-! ; s w^rrocks seed's: 
'-.*>% :_r-jn ii :"ii: .qf'e ricek 

.'->: 7r«! ^iic irr* : 
■ , * rurs iTfei -xzA -ozre :> ><«i 

'* V * - *v >v -^ »'l ^ »',"s.«r ^ioilezzsc's. for :li home in *' Jamie- 

^ ^" ^ V *-:, > X- ^s^x • r^c iLr>i ■* was porridge and cold 

'■ "^ *v . . \ : vx\- -V. :s.- riT:: ,cc :*^: ncre generous cheer spoken 

s - .-i.v\\ v,> i.x: cicK-i i> :lie =:c::o :o the "Farmer's 

^' t!u:*v ini*rin;s luaraas jg n^v ria Eacc!io, 
*.^.^ win, >4 R^Txs^sra 

V^ . "N^^^ : 'C tt.ifT-. ic icuic w^. like ihe present writer, 
Vvy >,>>»,^ . f.-^s 4lx^► »L-:>4r5 NKS. rsd hiTc winiessed the sun 



Robert Fergus son : Scott is A Poet. 395 

rise over Auld Reekie. The sight is one not readily forgotten, but 
Fergusson hits off the picture in a few words : 

Upon the tap o' ilka lum 
The sun began to keek. 

in his "Ode to the Bee/* too, what a sweet melody is in the 
line: 

Whose soughs the saftest slumbers bring. 

How vivid is his portraiture ! — 

In July month ae bonny morn. 

When nature's rokelay green 
Was spread ower ilka rig o' corn 

To charm our rovin' e'en ; 
Glouring about I saw a quean, 

The fairest *neath the lift. 
Her een were o' the siller sheen. 

Her skin light snawy drift, 
Sae white that day. 

To take lines or couplets from a particular poet and compare 
tliem with lines or couplets from some other poet, is always a pro- 
ceeding of doubtful wisdom, albeit it was a practice much favoured 
by the late Mr. Arnold, one of the acutest of critics ; but, avoiding 
this snare, there can be no harm in our claiming the highest excel- 
lence and distinction for such lines as the following from the Edin- 
burgh poet: 

Till death slip sleely on and gie the hindmost wound. 

or. 

The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near. 

or, 

'Twas e'enin' when the spreckled gowdspink sang. 
When new fa'en dew in blobs o' crystal h;ing. 

or this quartet in a different strain, from the earliest of his poems : 

For Gregory death will fairly keep 

To tak* his nap ; 
He'll till the resurrection sleep 

As sound's a tap. 

or this — rich with suggestion for folks of Auld Reekie : 

Now morn wi' bonnie purple smiles 
Kisses the air-cock o' Saunt Giles. 

and, finally, might not these lines have been Burns's own ? — 

Is there on earth that can compare 
Wi' Mary's shape and Mary's air, 
Save the empurpled speck that grows 
In the saft fauld o' yonder rose ? 




?-^ ." " -^ ; 









:~ :." 


:v fi-er 


•It *.. 


r.c -::c: 


- j.» 


:y.:a:hs 


r:^r 


:■.? :heni- 


la :", 


-■.les: 5:d 


"■■ "^ 


hillv £-d 



.g5 wi:- a 



^::" rrec.y ;:r 



■ "•■ ■' I » 






^5 :be n->Ic cf the 
iM: :r huvr written : 



rnnsculine fire of 
-•out the farmsiead 
r.JjihiiR-ale cr the 



Robert Fergicsson : Scottish Poet, 397 

Like thee by fancy winged, the muse 
Scuds ear and heartsome ower the dews, 
Fu' vogic and fu* blythe to crap 
The winsome flowers frae nature's lap, 
Twinin' her livin* garlands there 
That lyart time can ne*er impair. 

or this, in a different strain : 

For they were never made to dree 
The adverse gloom o' fortune's e'e ; 
Nor ever preed life's pinin' woes ; 
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose. 

And does not the whole sweet breath of spring breathe in the 
words? — 

Frae fields where spring her sweets has blawn 
Wi' cauler verdure ower the lawn, 
The gowdspink comes. 

Has ever the misery of a bird in its prison cage been sung more 
C^ujuisitely than this ? — 

In window hung how aft we see 
Thee keek around at warblers free. 
That carol saft and sweetly sing 
Wi* a' the blytbeness o' the spring. 
Like Tantalus they hing you here 
To spy the glories o' the year, 
And though you're at the burnie's brink 
They downa suffer you to drink. 

All readers recollect Milton's gorgeous description of the stream that 
lan through Paradise. ' In Fergusson it is : 

A cauler burn o' siller sheen 
Ran cannily out ower the green. 

Keferring to the ancient custom of the maidens of Auld Reekie on 
the morning of May-day, our poet writes : 

On May-day in a fairy ring 
We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring 
Frae grass the cauler dew-draps wrin^ 
To weet their ten. 

In all this it is more than a city poet who speaks. But then 
Auld Reekie is as much a country as a town. From many a quarter 
to-day — and how much clearer a century ago was the prospect ! — 
one may look out on blue sea, grey crag, green hill, or " gowany " 
field ; and Fergusson, amid all his riot, lived a double life, feeling 
in bis inmost heart the solace that is Nature's gift to her children. 



^^^^^cs/iv^^r^/^v. 




^^'^'^'^ isoiL iras: paKOTs and 

aw: :=u«y5 it a[T ^recrioQs, and 

. EmnL mc IE s^c rf m base, xo farm 

ician: ^^as Se in :±ie Racnaa times. 

s cerisbi, ibr corn vas 

:an: ^e» 3ICS bsTc been great 

t ^cssB -*-r aD«^t:>.^e latest dajs 

, 5,a=a3=s isa^iTL jt i^m: naosr JiiSss Osar fct the 

■-- ^ ^=^ ™^ '^^^^ *^ ^•:=T ito ^ counUT^but 

:=L.-«=at Tmri-t^ L ^leir Tinsrass ibioogh thedense 

^^_^"-=^ ^^ =^ jnusnatt. S«,55e= siracks were kf 

1 z. 2rL c=ima: ^ucs b?- drrag down the trees 

"^^^P^ be=5g szrpdsed in their 

Jl~l^"^ ri.jr,'*"^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^-'^^ Tne forests 

^I'Z^ ^~^^-*Z!^ '^^^er tbizs h is eow, whilst 

'.7~ .7J^ ~. ' **.''^ r*^^^^ ?wx=:p5 through which 

./'~ -^'f^ r*^.*^ ^^^I^^^" ^^-'" ^ ^*^ seaL Here and 
----■ -J- ^^"^ '^ — "^^^ circ^l^r estrenchnents of 

V^ : *I *^^^*^^^ — '^ cescenced to cut off 




.._ * ** "*- — -^-=5ec: tneir looung, but 

1-^ ..^".^^* "^~-T1J;1^tJ? ^"'^' ^"^ ^'""*~ ^'^ ^^ skiUand 
",l^^ :-^^ --"^1- ™1, '.*/ rr" '~*^'^* -^ §^- at iheir perseca- 

-^, ^ " I.-T'^^.a.*^!^^^ *" -'•"~j^-^^>^t'r.g could be employed 

^.r ^-^ ^ ^^^aii'T m:r ^:r** "jess accessfb.^e Tvnionsofthc 

'■;l. - -;.!:"?T'r ^''" ^"^^ ^^^^^-^=*:^^T rcac^ca*! turaofmind, 
s -^ - .sl"^- ^ > f^ ^ .^^--^^trj^ Tossession of all the best 
^/" .1. '^ . '. '-"Cr ^'^^ ^'»s^c:zi5:•T good care not to be di^ 

"^.^ "1.- V^,"^ _* ^r^ JT-=5CQs:s cc war into the Roman armies 
^ :x%J-"-* ,>^^^^' ^""^ -^''*^ ^iKaincd as slaves, whilst the 

^' ^^^ -^^^'^■^^^■^ — ^- nvanv hard-fought battles in 



"^nder the Ct^sars m Britam, 40J 

lc undisciplined Britons went down before the steady order 
^cihorts and vexillations, like dr)' grass before the flames. 
*^^ strongly 'fortiHed posts, placed with admirable judgment at 
■^^n-on-Usk, near Newport, in Monmouthshire, and at Chester, 
^5kck the mountaineers of Wales. These places were garrisoned 
^ong period by the Second Legion, called " the Augustan," and 

'Vrentieth, "the valiant and victorious." Detachments of these 
E>5 occupied a line of minor fortresses extendin^r over the 
■^Ty between the two principal depots. 

^fice secure in their new possession, the P^omans speedily began 
ter its appearance, (".real avenues were cut in the v/oods, and 
^ made through them, the sohdity and excellence of which 
Duld hardly surpass even now, with all our scientific knowledge 
accumulated experience. These roads were seldom more than 
t fifteen feet wide, but varied both in xridth and in mode of con- 
tion according to their importance. They ran with exceeding 
tness from place to place, turning aside neither for river nor 
ntain. In most cases they were raised a little above the sur- 

of the ground; they were provided with mile-stones^ and at 
vals, upon some of them at any rate, were postins^houses where 
's of horses could be obtained. The curator viarum, or super- 
ident of roads, was an officer of much importance, and was 
onsible for the maintenance of the bridges and the general 
iency of the whole system of communications. Most of the 
fi-roads are still in use, but many a straight green lane in rural 
,iand, little known even to the people of the locality, was at one 
\ a Roman road, and has witnessed the sturdy march of the bronzed 
riors from Italy and Spain, from the sandy plains of Northern 
ca or the wild woods of Germany. 

As communication became easier, colonies of veterans and lime- 
iied soldiers were established at various places along the principal 
is. The lands were apportioned amongst them, clearings were 
ie and farms set up ; largely tilled probably by the slave- labour 
he Britons themselves. 

Whenever it was possible, the Romans placed their most important 
es in the angle formed by the junction of two rivers, or with a 
tr on one side and a marsh on the other. York is a good example 
the former, lying between the rivers Ouse and Fosse. As the 
ncipal seat of the government of the Province of Britain, its safety 
S of the first importance. It was strongly walled* its garrison, the 
Ih Legion, called " the victorious," was kept up to its full strength 
I farmed a reserve from which the trocps, hard tried with keeping 





W& a Tiew to a«.kiJttr^ 6fliD 

die Rooiaii power was jcf 

of neoessxtr. Other puts of BriUBk 

Dotdettitnteof bfc iuliful coaaHy sests» pnmdediritb 

mpcfP Tg m 1 i f < ! d floow^ cJ a b o t atebe a t Mi^ air jin^eme pts, and die pc^* 

iDfgotteit hath. As to ^c latter, imlced, the Romans were ibadai 

oondvesp for tbeie most be oany cxiQiitij bovnes eioi now impro^ided 

with a both-foom. It was, howeiper^ in the gteat natter of varmiog 

that they were so much our soperiors. The system of hypocaosts 

or OBdefgrocmd fines exten^ng beneath pa^cfl fioois, most have (af- 

doced £»* better results than onr chonsy method of wanning one si^ 

of a room only. The hypocaust was fired estemally, as a greenhoo^ 

IS now^ no fael was broc^t into the house, there were no smo^' 

chimneys to spoil the furniture of the rooms and the tempers of the 

occupants. As the fire burnt up, the parement would acquire ai»ii 

dififuse a pleasant warmth, and when once sufficiently heated, probably 

very little firing would be required. No doubt the sptem is appliable 

only to houses built, as those of the Romans were, entirely on the 

ground- floor, but we have often wondered why someone to whom 

ground'Space is no particular object does not erect a house waim*^ 

upon this most scientific and admirable principle. The walls d t^^ 

villas, when uncovered, are usually found to be only a very few i^ 

in height, which seems to indicate that the upper part of them w^ 

of wood. That these houses were in many cases ultimately dcstr^^ 

by fire seems pretty certain, from the quantity of wood-ashes (o^^ 

lying upon the burnt and discoloured pavements. 

The approach to some of the larger and older towns would M^* 
presented a curious appearance, to our ideas. Imagine a narro* 
paved lane with stone sarcophagi and small sepulchial bi ' 
somewhat resembling perhaps those at Pere-la-Chaise, placed 



1^ sor 




Ijnder the Cissars in Britain, 



403 



sides of it. Box and yew trees planted between the tombs lent 
ppropriate solemnity to the resling-places of the dead. The low 

walls of the town, composed of stones and tiles set in concrete of 
best quality, stretched on either hand, and had two or three 
ow gateways defended by round towers. Within the gateway, 
traveller found himself in a perfect maze of extraordinarily nar- 
lanes and alleys, with little houses and shops like those of an 
ntal bazaar. With all this apparent crowding, the Roman towns 
have been more healthy than those of the middle ages. As we 

seen, the bodies of the dead, sometimes buried, sometimes 
ed, and at others enclosed in liquid plaster of Paris and placed 
rcophagi above ground, were invariably disposed of outside the 
s. The public sanitary conveniences were also outside, whilst 
irater supply was brought from springs at a distance, instead of 
I largely obtained from filthy shallow wells in the town. As it 
just in these three most essential respects that the mediaeval 
^dwellers were so utterly ignorant and careless, it is, we think, 
ibic that the Roman towns were by no means insalubrious places 
iidence. 

'erbaps the most remarkable of the Roman fortifications still 
ng in this country is Pevensey Castle, in Sussex. Not that it 
ty other Roman work at all answered to what we call a ** castle." 
is case the name is derived from a Norman castle built within 
fcmicircular wail which constituted the defence of the Roman 
rment. Here and there fragments remain of a Norman breast- 
or parapet which has been added upon the Roman work. The 
• is wonderfully perfect throughout much the greater part of its 
it With its solid half-round lowers at frequent intervals, its 
did masonry with bands of tiles, it requires but the sound of 
iiuus2j^A the serried ranks of spears to carry us back 1,600 years 
le great days of Imperial Rome. At one place the wall, under- 
d by mediceval seekers after its cut stone, has fallen outwards, 
lies in huge solid masses which nothing short of explosives 
1 possibly break up. The situation as usual is admirably chosen. 
ably the open or south side was then directly washed by the 
BOW receded about a mile, but it is within signalling range of 
hy Head on the one hand, and Hastings Castle Rock on the 
■, whence look-outs could command an immense range of the 
wieL Inland, the view over the Weald of Sussex is singularly 
, although the place lies low in perfectly flat country. The re- 
able outlook from most of the Roman camps or stations is 
kI one of their most striking characteristics. At Templeborough, 




404 7"^^ Gentleman s Magazine. 

near Rotherham, in Yorkshire, there are in a cornfield wellmaiked 
traces of a square encampment. Defended on the north side by the 
river Don, on the east by the marshes into which the Rother pix»- 
bably then spread out, the place is scarcely noticeable from the high- 
road to Sheffield passing along its southern side. Leave that road 
however, although but a few yards off, and ascend the slight upheav»B^ 
in the cornfield, and at once the view opens out in a marvdIo» 
manner. Very perfect British works frown upon it from Wincobanl 
Hill, only two or three miles away to the west; but in spite of the*- 
elevation it seems to us that in days when neither side possessed arv ^ 
long-range weapons, the Roman position was the stronger of ihi. 
two. Some years ago excavations were made at Templeborou^ 
resulting speedily in the discovery of the basement of a temple, ai» 
of a stone recording the presence of the Fourth Cohort of Gauls 
but as usual, lack of funds rendered it impossible to continue ttr* 
work, and it was covered up again. The camp now seems likely 
be soon obliterated beneath the advancing slag-heaps of a hr^k 
sleel-works ; a degradaiion from which we devoutly hope it will "fci 
for ever preserved. 

The excavations now making at Silchester, near Reading, by tlie 
liberality of the iTukc of Wellington, promise to throw much light uf^oft 
many vexed questions connected with the economy of the Roina;i 
towns in Britain. After the usual destruclion which befell the place 
on the departure of the legions, the site seems to have been d^ 
serled, with the result that the Roman foundations, instead of beinf 
buried many feet below those of modern houses, lie but a few inche* 
under the soil of the fields. The arrangement of the streets especiifly 
has been already largely traced out, and much more may be boprf 
for by degrees as the work progresses, Calleva Atrebatum, « 
Silchester was in all probability termed, was perhaps the most n- 
portant town on the great road to Bath and South \V'ales. Thero*** 
to Clausentum, a port supposed to have been at Bitterne, on Soutl'' 
ampton AVater, diverged here from the western road, and pa^c<^ 
through Venta Belgarum, or Winchester. The latter name, by th* 
way, seems to be very plainly a corruption of Venta Castrum. 

Although the towns possessed local government in a high de^ 
electing their own rulers and being quite independent of the \vn^ 
officers, save as regarded the sum of money fixed as their tribute to 
Rome, the general government of the Province was essentnl'y 
military. It rested indeed entirely upon the army, and when that 
was withdrawn the whole fabric, buih up with such skill and pjlf^ort 
during four hundred years, fell to the ground. In many wvj^"^ 



i 




Under ike Co'sars in Britain. 



405 



man occupation of Britain resembled our tenure of India at the 
!entday. Besides its military character, hke us they made much 
of the native raw material in holding the country in subjeciioa 
( chief commands were usually held by otficers sent direct from 
Ine, and a certain number of Italians were always to be found 
Ihe ranks. Whilst careful to let no tribe get too powerful, they 
skilful in availing themselves of the jealousies and discords 
Sting amongst the various chieftains, and after the suppression of 
risings under Caractacus and Boadicea, do not seem to have had 
:h trouble with the natives. 

The mineral wealth of Britain attracted the especial attention of 
Romans. There is reason, in fact, for thinking that it was one 
the chief objects of their conquest of the island. Copper, tin, 
, and lead were what they chietly sought^ and they seem to have 
ined possession of the chief sources of those metals at a very 
y period of the occupation. The art of separating silver from 
dore seems also to have been known to the Romans. Their little 
baces, fired with wood or coal as either was most handy, were at 
rk in the forest glades of the Wye Valley ajid the Weald of Sussex 
. Kent, smelting iron ores for export, during probably the whole 

the Roman rule endured. 
X^ troops were by no means allowed to lead idle lives in time 
^^pe. They constructed the roads and fortifications, were em- 
ycd in surveying work for various purposes, and in draining the 
Ifshes. Near the important station of Lindum, now called Lincoln, 
lensive dykes and causeways remain in the fen country, which 
re is every reason to believe were carried out by the Romans, 
haps the most remarkable of the great works executed by the 
dicry were the lines intended to keep back the warlike inhabitants 
Caledonia. The first of these consisted of a chain of forts across 
Lowlands of Scotland from the Forth to the Clyde, and was 
uted about eighty years after Christ by Julius Agricola, one of 
most able of the Roman pro-pra:tors or governors of Britain, 
tout forty years later the Emperor Hadrian erected a massive slone 
ill running for 70 miles over hill and dale, from near Carlisle to the 
fOcat Wall's End. A stout earthen bank and deep ditch formed 
of this work, which was further strengthened by walled and 
isoned towns about every three miles, with watch-towers at 
bvals between them. These works seem to have answered their 
Srpose on the whole, but the northern frontier remained to the last 
eak spot in the defences of the country. 

Besides the important mining industry, considerable manufac- 
voL. ccLxxvn. NO. 1963. ^^ 




DARKNESS 



pEOPLE who do not give the matter sufficient consideration 

P seem to think that the number of the stars is practically 

finite ; but this idea is totally incorrect^ and due to complete 

noiance of telescopic revelations. It is certainly true that the 

tger the telescope used in the examination of the heavens, the 

ore the number of the stars seems to increase, but we now know 

there is a limit to this increase of telescopic vision. And the 

dence clearly shows that we are rapidly approaching this limit, 

ough the number of stars visible in the Pleiades at first rapidly 

with an increase in the size of the telescope used, and al- 

gh photography has largely increased the number of stars in this 

narkable cluster, it has recently been found that an increased 

gth of exposure —beyond three hours^ — adds very few stars to the 

Inber visible on the photograph taken at the Paris Observator)* in 

5, on which over 2,000 stars can be counted. Even with this 

je number on so limited an area, vacant spaces of considerable 

t are visible between the stars, and a glance at the original 

Dtograph is sufficient to show that there would be ample room for 

vy times the number actually visible. 

On a photograjjh of the great globular cluster Omega Centauri 

tly taken in Peru with a telescope of thirteen inches aperture, 

individual stars composing this superb cluster can be distinctly 

n and counted, although to the eye it seems to be a mass of 

ffiumerable" stars. The enumeration has been carefully made 

Mr, and Mrs, Baily, and gives 6^389 for the number of stars in 

I cluster. They are of opinion, however, that the actual number 

tially greater, and we may perhaps conclcde that it contains about 

^000 stars. If the whole sky were as thickly studded with stars as in 

cluster— which of course it is not— the total number visible in 

whole heavens would be^ I find, 1,650 millions, a very large 

*>^iber, of course, but not much in excess of the present human 

* The title of this article was Euggcsted by a passage in Mr, H. Rider 
'Sgpid's mterestiflg work, Montezuma's Davghttr^ p. 1S6. 

V • 1 



i 



4oS The Geniletnans Magazine. 

population of the earth, and I am not aware that the number ol tk 
tirrh's inhabitants has ever been described as " infinite." 

C/uSters such as Omega Centauri, and even the Pleiades, ait of 
c.-^urse remarkable and rare exceptions to the general rule of stdlir 
cif :r.b'Jiion. and the heavens in general are not — even in the richei 
r»:r..or.5 of the Milky Way— nearly so rich in stars as the globular 
c j>:ers. The fact of these clusters being; remarkable objects prow 
:h*: :r.ey sre unusually rich in stars, and there is strong evidencc- 
inii::.-*e amruntin^ to absolute proof in the case of the globular 
j.jfCir*— :r-i: :hese clusters of stars are really and not apparentif 
. .sf. um: :hty are aciuaily systems of suns, and fill a comparativelr 
. T. :?i v:;»3ie :r. space. We cannot then estimate the probabk 
^^^:.^i■: ::" :>.e irl<:b'e stars by counting those visible in one of these 
-..:. ^: :"_>:crf^ We mus; draw our conclusions from oiha 

.:.-■: .-> ."■ :ri $ky. Or. a photograph of a rich si>ot in the con- 
s'; .11 - JiiT.-i^ ::.'«£- by Dr. Roberts in August 18S7, in that 

. rr. -••-> *i^ .7- .-: :re M.".«y Way which lies between Gamma and 
:». :; .' jLT... r.: "is? :h:.r. i?.rc6 stars have been counted on a space 
. i ■, ' >: ji-i icj-^-i*5v. C'n :h:s beautiful photograph— a paper print 
.: \ V-. \ v.r:* . :ri->ir.:ei ::> n:e by Dr. Roberts, lies before me as 
*. *- -; :* ; >:::-N. ::"::. :;^;r. :h.:ci!y strewn, have numerous andcoffl" 

-.-; . .:.-^r : ^-t <.".;-*« be:ween them, and "the dark back- 

. ■ - .*;':_-;-; .s vcrv c.^nsvicuous even in this rich region. 

. • -. . - ■ :■:. ^-1 '. 5"".:t«^> :r.i: :r.ere wo'j'd be ample room 

. . - . - -■,>.':-- r-^i: cf <:-r5 ac:j-"y visible. The same 

- , ..- - ■". ri-Z-: :'-'. 7r:::^T.i'. ';-.? of \m::ous portions of 

-■- -.i.- : :'. rr::~-:~> Her.n- -*. :he r.-.r.s Obser^'atorr. 

-• - -.::-. Tt. x.'r-ertss : *:-.^:o^rarh gives^ 

■ > ■ • * ■: -■ ~ : ; ?<> :u: -s the rt.::on in quoL'on 

. .- ■*:-: :-.?--"::•;:: :s ::: i-rje :o be taken as 

- \.. *,>■-- - .:- -■":- "t;i.:r-5 re "- r.'.u:h more thir.ly 

■ . >~ 'f f : .1 .~- the ;\".:.? : h . to jrap of W 

^ ■ . ■ ^ . ~: . " ; V r . : j"< , ,15 '.h:V.'v jtrc-wr. with >;ir5 

■>"."'-' V : ^' ;. ~'C jT.v :hT:v-:hTee r.^il'".'»^ 

"^ \^. • : . j: ;- :f y:r.~:e. l-ik'n^ the cc*ni- 

■ ^ ■ - * . -*. ~t: j.Tf .ii~:.:". :". 15 we.list"^ 

. - '. . . : - -:- ;c"--:;r jii—tca bya^ 

^^ - ^ * - , >^ . .J. :* > -.--•; :^\:- ;\:;;i-::.:: t hit the 

^ •- - ' - --, ;.- jL-^;f: :;:.>:::e5 Joes roc 

■^'-' "^ ■- •-'»".". .'.■^; :.< t .«. .".bf:--ti-;. 



•* The Darkness Behind ike Stars" 409 

at this number of 100 millions will not probably be largely 
tased by any increase of telescopic power is shown by the fact 
ht, Celoria, using a small telescope of power barely sufficient to 
' stars to the eleventh magnitude, found that he could see almost 
ly the same number of stars near the northern pole of the 
Y Way as were visible in Sir William Herschel's great reflector ! 

indicating that — here at least— no increase of optical power 
materially increase the number of stars visible in that direction, 
^erschel's gauging telescope certainly showed far fainter stars 
those of the eleventh magnitude in other parts of the heavens. 
[>uld, therefore, have shov^n fainter stars at the Galactic Pole 
if such stars existed in that region of space. Their absence 
I certain proof that very faint stars do not exist in that direction, 
ibat, here at least, our sidereal universe is limited in extent. 
1X1 examination by Miss Gierke of Professor Pickering's catalogue 
ITS surrounding the North Pole of the heavens shows that "the 

stars are overwhelmingly too few for the space they must occupy 
iverage brightness ; and they are too few in a constantly in- 
ing ratio." ' Here again a *' thinning out " of the stellar hosts 
5 clearly indicated, and suggests that a limit will soon be reached, 
ftd which our most powerful telescopes will fail to reveal any 
fcr stars. 

ct us see what richness of stellar distribution is implied by this 
^r of 100 millions of visible stars. It may be easily shown that 
rea of the whole sky, in both hemispheres, is 41*253 square 
tcs. This gives 2,424 stars to the square degree- The moon's 
rent diameter being slightly over half a degree (31' 5"), the area 
\ disc is about one- fifth of a square degree. The area of the 
e star sphere is consequently about 200,000 times the area of 
ill! moon, A total of 100 millions of stars gives therefore 500 

to each space of sky equal in area to the full moon. This seems 
be number, but stars scattered even as thickly as this would 
br at a considerable distance apart when viewed with a telescope 
I high power As the area of the moon's disc contains about 
square minutes of arq there would not be an average of even 
ttar to each square minute. A pair of slats half a minute, or 30 
lids apart, would form a very wide double star, and with stars 
d at even this distance the moon's disc would cover about 3,000, 
X times the actual number visible in the largest telescopes. 
lut in addition to this conclusive evidence as to the limited 
5 visible stars, derived from actual observation and the 
• Natute, Augtist 9, 1S88. 




i 



--- 'rr.*.'7i*xn. 



jrJLrzzi:zi, 









— :i= r-ini-irir :f -_:•; -i.-.Le sen wliJ 

"^:^: V .1.^ ii"..:ii± TT.z:! "Lid ir-Ti —■£«■:■» ^ 
~.\.=i't. --LTTes iirfii--; ij -Jic ^yjsitd'^ 

~ "-= =-^=.1=^^ :r.in-rir i: iz.t r.vtn cisoact 

i-i. : = = --ts i^m-ilrrliedby 
' rJat 

: c r e 7 r: ^ c ni : r^". :o :ii2 Cr 
i ^± jj. :-j.".i Lave as OT* 

- = "5- * ;I± sMnace ci ihe^^ibB 

--■- — "* : -~t ::" '.izhtaforCfidliy 

= rrnrrary. ccispand^^ 

firkness behind the 

■ v~" " ' - -" - -"-^^^ -:: r i: — :icr.i:ude is about 

^ ^ " "- - -■- " '-? ts::r.-.i.:- ;? evidently m-i^ 
■--■" '.'- ~:it ":.-..-> i:jLr5 ^«r.r.:.: therefore* 

'--'/.- "-"-'■ '^- =-" -■■- 5:-rs several biotheies 

--/■■--- -■- -=-■">- -"nnite. u< we >etm coni- 

' -J- - ■'- '-^-"^"i-e :: -^-\pec: that the numiJ^ 

:-i:--- . - i-ifr.-.e .^:<:. but. as I have sho^n 

:■ 11= '■::■:: jiirs is certainly unite: and w 

■"-' ^'^^^ >-:er^:ei :ha: ihere may be 5» 

---^- - J" ~:^:r;::on in the ether, bej-ocd* 

T-..i:: . -.? hy-. ::hesis was supported by«* 

> :'t-^ i-i. ^:^^:ve. In a recent paper on"" 

-.-.= -t..-kr.:-yn Italian astronomer, sugg^ 

:- :: ". I'r.". TeaV.y takes place it may probably •* 

:-..;-. i- •/-> tt'r.er, bu: to tme particles of D>^ 

.--.err.tV.iT s-.^ce. He refers to the supp^ 

:r.t-3' •.ii--. ct la.ling stars, and metcori«s '^ 

.'.:-;r.-:5-.s, r/.d r.e shows that the quantity of ntf**^ 

»- -^e tr.e required extinction would be very ^^ 



i 



The Darkness Behind the Stars'' 411 



indeed that a quantity of this matter scattered through a 
"le equal to that of the terrestrial globe, if collected into one 
would only form a ball of less than one inch in diameter I 
an readily admit the existence of such a minute quantity of matter 
ine slate of subdivision scattered through space, but it seems 
e much more probable that the limited nun^ber of the visible 
is due, not to any extinction of their light by absorption in the 
or by fine particles of matter, hut to a real " thinning out " of 
ars near the limits of the visible universe, Celoria's observation, 
ioned above, seems to prove that near the pole of the Milky 
very few stars f^iinter than the eleventh magnitude are visible 
in a large telescope. Now this absence of the fainter magni- 
^nnot well be due to any absorption of light, for numerous 
■is of the sixteenth and seventeenth magnitudes are visible, in 
parts of the heavens ; and if in one place why not in another ? 
>hn Herschers observations of the Milky Way in the Southern 
sphere appear to render the hypothesis of light extinction very 
)bable. He says that the hypothesis, " if applicable to any, 
aally applicable to every part of the Galaxy, We are not at 
y to argue that at one part of its circumference our view is 
sd by this sort of cosmical veil which extinguishes the smaller 
itudes, cuts off the nebulous light of distant masses, and closes 
iew in impenetrable darkness ; while at others we are compelled 
ie clearest evidence telescopes can afford, to believe that star- 
n vistas lit optn^ exhausting their powers, and stretching out 
id their utmost reach, as is proved by that very phenomenon 
1 the existence of such a veil would render impossible, viz. 
te increase of number and diminution of magnitude, terminating 
mplete irresolvable nebulosity." 

low then arc we to explain the limited number of the visible 
? If space be infinite the number of the stars >vould probably 
ifinite also, or at least vastly greater than the number actually 
le. It has been suggested that, owing to the progressive motion 
jht, the light of very distant stars may probably have not yet 
led the earth, although travelling through space for thousands 
surs ; but considering the vast periods of time indicated by the 
igical record, and the probably longer period during which the 
r universe has been in existence, this hypothesis seems very 
;isfactory. It seems to me that the most probable hypothesis 
at all the stars, clusters, and nebulie visible in our largest 
jopes form together one vast system which constitutes our 
■ Universe, and that this system is isolated by a starless void 



412 The Gentleman* s Magazine. 

from other similar systems which probably exbt in infinite space. 
The distance between these separate systems may be yery great 
compared with the diameter of each system, in the same way that 
the diameter of our Visible Universe is very great compared with the 
diameter of our solar system. As the sun is a star and the stars 
are suns, and as our sun is separated from his neighbour suns in 
space by a sunless void, so may our universe be separated from other 
universes by a vast and starless abyss. On this hypothesis the 
supposed extinction of light, which may have little or no perceptible 
effect within the limits of our Visible Universe, may possibly come 
into play across the vast and immeasurable distances which probably 
separate the different universes from each other, and may perhaps 
extinguish their light altogether. 

Another hypothesis which also seems possible is that the lumini- 
ferous ether which extends throughout the Visible Universe may be 
confined to this universe itself, and that beyond its confines the 
ether may thin out, as the earth*s atmosphere does at a certain 
distance from the earth's surface, and finally cease to exist altogether, 
ending in an absolute vacuum, which would of course arrest the 
passage of all light from outer space, and thus produce the black 
background of the heavens, " the darkness behind the stars." 

J. E. CORE. 



413 



ECCLESIASTICAL PAMPHLET 
IVARS. 



THE pamphlet as a controversial weapon, or, indeed, as an active 
literary force, is dead, or at least moribund. Three or four 
times within the last quarter of a century it has been galvanised into 
a spasmodic existence. The first occasion was in iSyo, when the 
extraordinary success of the Rev. H. W. Pullen's little skit called 
**The Fight at Dame Europa^s School," produced an astonishing 
multitude of imitations, translations, and parodies, writicn from a 
great variety of points of view. Like everything else in these days 
of collector mania, these pamphlets were carefully collected by several 
enthusiasts — the Marquis of Bute has a specially large collection — 
and one of these collectors, a well known bibliographer, ^!r. Falconer 
Madan, published a list thereof some twelve years ago, vt-ith all the 
usual bibliographical apparatus, in the invaluable pages of Notes and 
Queries, Nearly 200,000 copies of the original pamphlet were sold, 
and the list of imitations and translations which were published be- 
lireen 187 1 and 1878— a few referring to Irish policy or the Russo- 
Turkish war of 1877 — contains about 150 items. Most of these 
were published in 187 1 and 1872, and this was the first spasm of 
pamphlet revival. 

The second came a year or two later, when an imperial title for 
the Queen, as Empress of India, was proposed by Lord Beacons- 
field. In opposition to this proposal Mr. toward Jenkins issued a 
pamphlet entitled " The Blot on the Queen's Head ; or how little 
Ben, the head waiter, changed the sign of the * Queen's Inn ' to 
* Empress Hotel, Limited,' and the consequences thereof By a 
Guest ;" and a mild pamphlet war ensued. The third revival came a 
little later still, when Mr. Gladstone issued his famous brochures on 
the " Vatican Decrees." The appearance of his first challenging little 
publication led to quite a brisk engagement of controversial pamphlets, 
in which both sides to the dispute were fairly represented. Besides 
these three special occasions, there were one or two minor outbreaks 
of pamphlet fever, as at the time of the Alabama settlement, and 



J 



414 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



again when the Russo-Turkish war was approaching a aisis. Eidj 
general election^ also, brings forth a great host of leaflets and fom^ 
phlets of a kind ; but these are ail so exclusively for party, or indeed 
local consumption, and have so few claims to be considered in any 
respect as literature, that they may safely be neglected by any student 
of pamphleteering. 

The pamphlet as a weapon of controversy has been sa] 
by the modern magazine article, which discusses every possible and 
impossible proposition with serene impartiality. Both sides of* 
question may often be found presented with equal ability within llic 
covers of one number of a magazine or review — a triumph of toloi-^ 
tion almost impossible of conception to our forefathers. We 
the poison and the antidote side by side ; to those who went before ^ 
us poison was poison, and was to be treated as such, while antidote=^3aE5 
were applied in ways more forcible than is compatible with the aJ M'l - 
tolerant temper of the present day. The growth of the magazitr^aK^n« 
article of the modern type has been the death of the parophi^^ -^t 
Ecclesiastical subjects were formerly in marked favour with pa r m, m- 
phleteers, but the gravest questions of theological belief and d 

ecclesiastical government and discipline are now dealt with in t ^~^ h 
all-embracing arena of the j>eriodical discussion forum, and \ i.e 
theological pamphlet as a living force is almost extinct It used^ 
be far otherwise. In the whole history of modern religious life 
thought, that is, during the three centuries and more that l^-^^*^] 
elapsed since the triumph of the Reformation in England, there b-^'* 
been not a few noteworthy ecclesiastical pamphlet wars. , 

The first, and one of the most famous, of these paper conA*^^ , 
bears the name of the Martin Marprelate controversy. It was s^>^ ' 
but short, for it only covered a period of about two years — that *5 ^^ 



say, the controversy strictly so called. There were various 



for«- 




ninners preceding this precise period, and the echoes of the ^^ 
trover?y did not finally die away until Ihey were drowned i*^ * 
thunder of the guns that ushered in the great Civil War. ^\^^e^ ^ ^ 
Commonwealth was overthrown, and Charles II. returned to his ^thc*" 
throne, both the poUtical and the ecclesiastical conditions ^^ , 
country were so entirely different to what they were in the ^P . 
Queen Elizabeth, that the Martin Marprelate controversy was as o^* 
as Julius Caesar. 

The essence of the Martinist dispute may be defined 9^ 
truggle of the early Puritans against the civil power of the ^^ t. 
, and against episcopacy in general. The fight was nat foif^ 
any love of theological or ecclesiastical liberty in the abstf*"- 





colleagues on the episcopa 
intolerant, the Puritan leaders were equally so when 
f obtained the power. It can hardly be wondered at that the 
Utes fought hard, for they were attacked on two sides. On the 
s they had to hold their ground against the Roman Catholics, who 
rted steadily and relentlessly to recover their ancient hold upon 
church and kingdom of England ; while on the other they had 
zombat the assaults of the Precisians, or Puritans, who attacked 
ecially their temporal power — the secular arm of the prelacy, so 
peak — with the greatest determination. But beati possidenks^ and 
least when possession includes the use of secular prerogatives. 
\ first great encounter between Puritanism and Prelacy, of which 
pamphlets known by Martin's name are the relics and the monu- 
t, was, as was said, short but sharp. Several of the church's 
ilants were hung— the three hundredth anniversary of their 
1^ was commemorated last year by many Nonconformists- — 
rs died in prison, and the controversy was temporarily extin- 
bed, only to be revived in still more deadly earnest on the fields 
J'aseby, Marston Moor, and ^\*orcester, with the ultimate result 
, although prelacy was restored, its old temporal powers, its 
liar prerogatives, were destroyed for ever. 

The pamphlet that fairly started the controversy was called "The 
Ktle" of Martin Marprelate. It bore the fantastic imprint: 
inted oversea in Europe within two furlongs of a Bounsrng Priest 
ie cost and charges of M. Marprelate gentleman." As a matter 
act, it was printed secretly at East Molesey in October 1588. 
3 '* Martin " really was is still a matter of uncertainty. He may 
e been John Penry, who was hanged in 1593, or either of his 
tpanion Puritans, Job Throckmorton or Henry Barrowe. But 
is not a matter of very great importance. Between the publi- 
Dn of the " Epistle " in 15S8 and the cessation or suppression of 
paper war in 1590, some twenty-six or seven pamphlets were 
^, distributed fairly equally between the two sides, Prelatical 
Puritan, and including one or two which impartially attacked 

sides. One of these neutral pamphlets professed to be by 
^e Percevall the Peacemaker of England. Sweetly indevoring 
pUs blunt persuasions to botch up a Reconciliation between 
'^n and Mar-tothcr." Plain Perceval's intentions were ex- 
»it> but peace was not then possible. The Puritan pamphlets 

printed at secret presses in various parts of the country, and 
y of those issued on the other side were privately printed in 
don. Many and strict were the searches (or the wandering 




4:5 Ti£ Gtnikmads Magazine, 

zrsses, "irL.-— ?s=rr i=.f Barrowc and their friends voiied to such 
rz*yi p=rr«35e : re: 'wtr: ao etck socoess. The leading spirits on 
±it r=r-MT side, bom-erer. mere capcnred, and their execution or 
arrrsiczas^i *ir:cr^ the conrroreisT to a dose for the time ; for 
±1* "•"■; -ir~^7 ~ 5 rroe asd rxe iiaoler's kers are in their several ways 



J :cTT Trars liier. mbes the prolonged struggle between King and 
rxrliinie^ ■•■ils raroilj neirlrig the arbitrament of the sword, the 
23=r:-r*r^iil pi^irilet agiin made its appearance. The Puritans 
ie=i : =: fr=ci sszrez presses sheaves of tracts against Laud and the 
C:»=r: rarrr. iziz zzi-.r,< :r.e undue exercise of the royal prerogative, 
TLt tJTeriljr ^.Tiins: the r-i^^er of the prelacy. "The patience oC 
T^z. <"^i=- :- :"-•:"," sivs Green, ""was slowl)* wearing out Ther^ 
^13 1 SLZiitr. Z7«£r:?w:h of vimlent pamphlets of the old Maitir""- 
yiiTZTtiizt n-:«- yitn, whcse names no one asked, hawked libels 
wbrse -rrbrrsiiT z.d cr-e kr.ew, from the door of the tradesman t^:» 
tbe i:»:r ::" the 5.:u:re." And throughout not only this preliminary 
tizr:;ii :•: sc.ctr. sjnd stress, but right through the years of annecS 
srtirz'-e which e=.ied in the execution of Charles and the establisl*"^ 
E>r-t ::' th^ C:=ir:2onweaIih, an innumerable host of pamphlet^ 
pr-tz^i frcz: the rresses on both sides. Some, especially thos-^ 
rcihli&hed curln; the years of war. were purely military, and som^ 
T-£re T^irtly r»:li::c:il : but in the mass of them ecclesiastical an^ 
'•:'..:: :il .--estic^ns were hopelessly entangled, for in those stona^^ 
:.— =< there -srii^ ar-i could be, no distinction between the twa 

Tr.. ruinf.ty :f ephemeral literature produced during theCiv"* ' 
''•"::? Ter :c is re^.ly astoiir.ding. Many large private collections c:^' 
such :_':".: ^iticns huve been formed, and there are, says Carlyle,i ^^ 
h.? :rT:.iuct::n :d " Crom wells Letters and Speeches," " thirty ^^ ^ 
f.::y thc-sjir.d -jr.read pamphlets of the Civil War in the Briti^^ 
Musvur.-. a'.or.e : h'j^e piles of mouldering wreck, wherein,' at ^^^"^^ 
r.ite c: r^rhars one 7«enny weight per ton, lie things memorabl^^^ • 
The :v.r.:?hie: c."^r.t:r.ued to be an effective party weapon througho ""^ 
the >;;ver.teer.th century ; but, passing by many minor controversi ^ 
over which plenty o( printers' ink was shed, we come to the fi^^ 
decade c:" the eighteenth ceniur)- — that reign of Queen Annewhi^^" 
m.\> :air*y be regarded as the golden age of the pamphlet. 

A bibliography of the tracts of Queen Anne's time would ^ 
into'.crably voluminous. It would have to include in its politi^^' 
section the brilliant papers of St. John, Swift, and Prior, and ^ 
ondlesy: host of printed missiles by many writers now quite unkno^*^* 
"»ng tracts relating to literature — not to mention those ^v 



I 



Ecclesiastical Pamphlet Wars. 



417 



tphlets the Tatler, the Spectator^ and their imitators— it would 
ludc much controversy in which the names of Pope, Dennis, and 
ber writers and critics would figure very prominently ; and in 
pLlters ecclesiastical a considerable collection of pamphlets would 
kve to be grouped under the name of Henr>^ Sacheverell, 

• The ecclesiastical pamphlet war represented by this well-known 
toe was not of the same immediate nor ultimate importance as 
It associated with the Marprelate tracts • but, like the latter, it was 
?rt, and while it lasted, very violent. The whole slory of the 
Jheverell controversy is exceedingly dry and uninteresting to raosl 
dern readers, but those who wish to study the subject can easily 

so in the pages of Burnet's "History " and Burton's " Reign of 
ten Anne,'* or in those of Macaulay and Green. The original 
Bphleis are dull and dry enough, ** Perhaps the driest and most 
►lerable passage in all political domestic history," says Miss 
ckland, "is that called the * Affair of Dr. Sacheverell.' All old 
i^ries in country halls are provided, among other literary nuisances 
kaining to the last century, with two or three duplicate copies of 
kily-bocnd tomes bearing the above title ; the paper the vilest 
ow-stained, wire-w^ove ; the print and orthographical arrangement 
IT enough to be in unison with thedulnessof the inexplicable cen- 
ts. No person can open these books without perpetrating a succession 
Irawns ; no person, excepting for the purpose of professional in- 
flation, ever endured the reading of two pages of the narrative." 

• historians have had to turn over the arid pages of these dead 
l>phlets» and at least one enthusiastic bibliographer has been found 
ixig to make a careful catalogue of the ancient weapons of 
troversy. 

T^he two leading features of the famous sermon preached by Dr. 
iheverell in St. Paul's Cathedral on November 5, 1709, which led 
>is trial and all the paper war which raged around his name, were 
denunciation of religious tolerance, and the upholding of the 
-trine of non-resistance to the Crown in its extremest form. The 
jhe\*erell pam[)hlets consist of short and catch-penny lives of the 
^rend hero, several sermons preached by him at various dates, 
^^ks by dissenting writers on such sermons and their preacher, 
\ other sermons and replies in support of the High Church doc- 
f^s. The list of Sacheverell pamphlets is a record of sermons, 
feches, answers, letters, replies, thoughts, vindications, and 
^^derations, with endless variations of title, in long and wear!- 
^e procession. The total number of distinct and separate pub- 
jl-tioiis connected directly or indirectly with the controversy, 






t^rmr Tw jCii r ^i iiir* X.afarr 3r ha ^Bibiiogn^ of 
-eL~ '■"■■■ ■■ «- 31 as !eB rEozr rzd : aad saos of these ut 
soBosoesw sni izmcmes ir rie 3bcs: esbemexal boi 

M 11 — 1 g i.ii i X ■?- nimy i r jt ^r^ »ti mr - -i ■ ■ rrwra! indoSOT md 

£. au 1= iHiiniwnng. jnii:f it r^s sc:ir ;:g : h and, indeed, 

f ^*B I *-rrnif s ttctt. 

I— pjiiMi ::3s .i-iuimfpr zc :ae egTOsenth cestszy batli&ie 
L s 2K f=2Csss33L Tannrnn'i'r Iz W3s x nme of qnkt and 
Us -B-a ii r^ r^,.4K ra: ssrm-sxrs * "^ * ■ as a penodof 
tfM ■ mat ^.ijgfuti i Tn . is Taffm^Y js x Sxt^TEuan age of pext 
i.i>r*c TBuzc It -riffv X s ?esirT5sd. tbe absence of^ 

:2K TtTi'irra yBnrhur' sac. x qoiec and evenly war 
. isxaniEss: 'iv JZXT ^vif^r 3C3nBS» ttTttii the ootbicik 
^^fwriir-iat pcranxmf. B^zrkes '^ Redecdons" aod 
ani iiJi i wAciua ti xs. f-poch of stonny poGtxal 
rii£ srzessEccaL ;m'"j^^-» slombercd uodliB 
■ P >»OL ir Si-«7xs3z ani Jas jza cum g 2S ±e pfibixadon of " TncB 

lirj ami 1557. Tbe issoe of these pan- 
ne Tirfrirnriar of %esf many replies aod 
It ai C3I2SL The histonr of the 
r^ :i :::t; r--ir=-rir^fr5f r- viijch thev gave rise, may be 
r^>2? -I N^t'v-iniz. r-^sey. ind Mrzlev. It w'lA be safi- 
-- aE"- rra: .:^ ;kc rrsir eccLissiscical pamphlet war, both 
'^ imi n cs : -nr.i-^ rtsils^ so tar as they can be dis* 
--:r-rs?^ r-ss- >s:^ :v r^^iizs^ Jiiwcrazcs to the Church of England 
^T^ V ITU T^^-a. 12 .=-^ :::;Lr 1=7 rr-v.-rcs confiict of the kind, 
>iT- r:r."-- r^:rr.ins. Z2« mr=rT««r5T recresected by the Marprdate 
Ts:.-->i. iRrr.c^ c?- z: rx Jj-"! '-Vir. izsi :- ihe end to the compete 
"t::Tr-'\r'^ "::rc ^ -t-it rrisir-imnis; Srch ecclesiastical and politicaL 

N .:t -:^ • T^si::^ XT rre Tjnes * the history of our ecclesiastical 
r*ir:-.%:.i.^ %;z^ .v;iw< rr 12: i^iL Mz. Glidstone's " Rome and the 
^-^vs. r i^T.ci:^ XX x^iuircc." i::il hi-s - VaticarJsm " broaght about 
i ^^iisnxAr.c ^s^"-;:* re rz»i rasrcJec f^m of contro\-ersy : hot tii« 
^^.'.ts^ i:~ ssi« iPir; ic '.e-i^c js zi jch rclirlcal as ecclesiastical, i^ 
^^c *T:s:uit5 «vii iiota^'i ^cit. The newest or oldest notions i" 
i>Q^05r iavt a TTtirys rt ecMsastxal co^emment are now regula'^ 
fci^-\ '^,*^KrT^»«Krs^i tc: ircTord. a=d cesaolished, in the pages of 
■«^*?*»^«»v"s ioxi ?t«nr«5s;. i3C razTTLveceerl:^ is practically extinct 

C. I- APPERSON. 




419 



OLD SCOTTISH CURES. 



yr ANY and varied have been the methods adopted by mankind 
r J. for the removal of those aihnents with which their flesh is 
cted. Superstitious and religious ceremonies, miraculous talis- 
Cis, the herbs of the field, the flowers of the woodland and the 
den, empirical potions, skilfully concocted drugs, mechanical 
ices, and allopathic and homcjeopathic medicines have all been 
5rted to, and the advocates of each could adduce more or less 
isfactory testimony as to the beneficial results attributable to the 
! of his own particular remedy. Every age has different cures 
tn those of its predecessor ; fashion holds sway even here. How 
ny remedies familiar enough to our grandparents are unknown to 
\ Yet they had quite as much to commend them as the widely- 
led nostrums of our own day, and perhaps it would be well for 
Ferers if they oftener placed reliance upon what are contemptuously 
led ** old wives' cures." Let me recall some of these which had 
\ sanction of the most famous physicians of their day. In a 
antiy with such a variable and severe climate as that of Scotland 
the inhabitants have been always specially proneto chest com plaints. 
Kat was at one time considered by many people almost a specific 
r pleurisy was a decoction of the seneka rattlesnake root, rendered 
ireeable by the addition of cinnamon water. The dose was from 
'o to four tablespoonsful thrice daily. Young cabbage leaves 
»plied warm to the side were also used in cases of the same ailment 
Or obstinate coughs, or that dire disease consumption, asses' milk 
*s prescribed. It was drunk at its natural temperature, and half a 
'*it was usually taken thrice daily along with a little bread Goats' 
^ was also much favoured, and both on that account and also 
^og to the sheltered situation of the village at the base of the Ochils, 
l^r Logie was frequented by consumptive patients in days before 
* discovery of the Airthrey Wells attracted invalids to the neigh- 
'^^ting Bridge of Allan. To live almost entirely on butter-milk 
**^ to eat freely of raw oysters were also remedies which were 
^^*cribcd. For a sore throat the popular cures were to keep black- 





Old Scottish Cures. 421 

Bments were held in high esteem for their supposed curative 
rcTs, while certain waters were currently believed to possess 
ling virtues equal to those of the Biblical Pool of Bethesda. I 
Dot here refer to those wells formerly dedicated to saints, nor to 
le mineral springs such as St. Bernard's at Edinburghj Airthrcy at 
Ige of Allan, or Slrathpener in Ross-shire, whose tht:rap€uiic 
ities are still acknowledged. But there were here and there 
Ughout the country small lakes and pools to which superstition 

ascribed virtues untraceable either to martyr or mineral. 

of these sheets of water was the Dhu {i.e. black) Loch, a 
fitain tarn in Dumfriesshire a few miles westward from the seat 
le Duke of Buccleuch at Drumlaorig Castle, The prescribed 
e of cure adopted there was to bring a piece of rag from the 

En and cast it into the water- If the rag floated it was a 
:be patient would recover. The messenger had then to 
le of the miraculous water to the sufferer. It did not 

er how long the journey might be 5 but the bearer of the 
ions fluid must neither salute nor speak to any person on the 
If the rag sank on being thrown into the loch» then it was 
rss to do anything else ; the recovery of the patient was beyond 
. Reference to this and other uncanny cures is made in 
fiction with a case which came before the Justiciary Court in 
, and is quoted by Robert Pitcairn in his " Criminal Trials." 
e Palerson, tasker in Newbottle, was accused " of the crime of 

»and witchcraft in abusing of the people with charms and 
(orts of enchantments, and niinistering under the form of 
cine of poisonable drinks, and of art and part of the murder of 
Miller in Ford Mill about Martinmas last, and of um while 
,bclh Robertson by the said poisonable drinks. For curing of 
s Brown in Turnydykes of an unknown disease by ministering 
im of drinks, rubbing him with salves made of divers green 
K, and causing him to pass home to his own house, and at his 
bedside to sit down on his knees three several nights and every 
thrice nine times to ask his health of all living wights above 
mder the earth in the name of Jesus. And thereafter ordained 
aid James to take nine pickles of wheat, nine pickles of salt, 
line pieces of rowan tree, and to wear them continually upon 
or his health, committing thereby manifest sorcery and witch- 
Itcm» for abusing the people with a certain water brought by 
bfth of the loch called the Dhu Loch beside Drumlanrig, and 
Bg of his own bairn with the said loch water, by washing of 
soiin at every neuk thereof thrice, and casting in of the bairn's 
:lxxvii. no 1966. p p 




i 



X22 Tiu G€ntUmans Magazine. 

5=r£ := tbt 5^i '.:<^ and leaving of the sark behind him, affiiming 
ir^ f irr:-* >r.: :Lt come fjnh of the loch at that time the patient 
» ^'i r:c^eacs. a=i a naelhin^ appeared to him the paUentwoold 

S:i-'5^:er. -Jiec in a certain way, was supposed to have a beB^ 
f r-;^ i^i-n :c ihr huzLin body, quite distinct from that whidi « 
s^.- issoziiri w.th baUiing. In the Island of Mull, and also ia« 
t:*; SsiL-: -'— sc^ri :r. the land of Morven, there are to be sea < 
iisf 5iLL5^-r= :'■ - ".txizes of roci in which large holes have been a* 
-riiiiri :t ire iriT iind wesT of centuries. To these were broo^ 
rjcszzrrc-s; TiiiriSw and ihe tops of nine waves having been col- 
enrc IT 1 Tss&el :>.« water was thrown over the person's head. The 
-: : . IT'* r^rii ^-rt was also collected, but it had to be spilled onll* 
C-. *^*i. rr-iTiiner ihe juiient walked thrice through the hole, takinj 
-^^ ?: =jcv!£ iccjrdinz to the couree of the sun, a manner of 
T.-.v^ss rr5,T£i"rL^ back to the Druidical rites of our ancestors. 

A sc:-::.- wnch had a southward course was also supposed to 
-.^sssss* 5ver^ vrr-esL In 1623. according to the " Ancient Recoids 
. . ■ jsc - ^- . " A —j:-: r-inxed Thomas Greave was charged with witch- 
,—--:. - ':^% -^ :'ii kji persons pass through hesps of yaim sewnl 
: rm-s. ^isv r^ :'-^.r siirks :n south-running water, and the like." 

,''-- 7::i:.5ir £jr:h. besides forming a resting-place forthedcai 
« .- : -^ -.-.;-: ;-i :: :;^ 1 JurjLtive agency in not very dissimilar fashioB 
.' . -riSi-.: i^y. wher. r::ud baths find favour with jiatroas 
. -^.-:> - ::-; "-"ul ?7i<. I: was formerly the custom in Bread* 
..;-.. .-,-:>-- y^rs:- wj^s sunerinj: from a lingering fever, to Iff 
■ , .: , •: ■;- 1 -i V r.-..-.::e< ur.icr clods of earth, the j>rocess being 
\ ^ ■ -, : , 'i- :>-:;; ':<::jrL cr thrice af:er sunset 

V. , %*:-,- :.i5 :. r.-iy r<:^^r r.:ade to sacred stones and suchlike 

.^ . ".: .": t'isi 5 :: be seen in the Antiquarian Museum i" 

'.: .5 1 -^t yi:-:i c:"ivor>- which formerly belonged to 

/ . • :v ; rj.- rivk. ^r.i um> therefore popularly known as 

V . X - .c i ■ I: ^r^s >-7:.:s.d to ci:rc madness. The '• Leugh,' 

^. , -, . -.-.■■,-. wi:? .:: :r.e t.r-'.e j:mmon thro'j|j:hout the Highlands. 

■as of larger size. Some of thee 

a pebbly appearance, and to deri« 

^ -? j-<:.T-ry to dip the stone in water, which tl« 

= -;.~ -i -: wa? w.ished with. Perhaps the n»o* 

—':-.: <: ".-i - :>e p-v':bli.' set in an ancient co!fl 

- . , ■ •> — . " b\ r ^ A er :':vl- hundred years u has 

- , .: .-. * ;.: H-u-o. :::e pic: u residue >c.i: cfi>!' 

.: l.ar.ark. '\\\c " Ue jx^nny/ 






,. - N*. V 



Old Scot lis h Cures. 



423 



!h has acquired a world-wide reputation as the original of Sir 

ter Scott's *' Talisman," specially escaped condemnation when the 

h of Scotland impeached many similar articles, the reason being 

"it had pleased God to annex certain healing virtues to the Lee 

y which the Church did not presume to condemn," The thera- 

ic reputation of the '• Lee penny," which was once very great in 

?!ydesdale, was latterly mainly restricted to the cure of persons who 

i been bitten by mad dogs, but nowadays the unfortunate victims 

labies have more faith in M. Pasteur than in the venerable 

acen charm, A more sensible remedy for the eflects of dog-bite 

^ven by a corresfKjndent of the Mdinlntrgh Advertiser of September 

1772. He advocates the application of dry salt as soon as pos* 

e to the woundj and the keeping of it there for some time. If the 

gets wet with the bleeding, he says it should be renewed, for the 

readily imbibes the moisture, thereby expelling the canine 
K7n. 

Silver, which was held in high esteem as a protection against evil 
nns, was also supposed to cure skin diseases. It may surprise 
y people to learn that the use of electricity as a remedial agent 

Ot a modern idea. The Philosopliical Transactions for 1758 

tion several cures effected by means of it in Berwickshire, A 
ng woman residing in Ayton, who was unable to put her right 
; 10 the ground owing to a contraction of the knee muscles, was 

6ted by a course of electrical shocks, which, it is stated, ex- 
ied over two months, fifty or sixty being given daily during that 
The narrative continues : ** She sat close by the machine, 
, grasping the phial in her hand, she presented the wire to the 

1 or conductor, and drew the sparks from it for about half a 
lUte. The phial being thus charged, she then touched her knee with 
wire, and thereby received such severe strokes as would some- 
» instantly raise a blister on the part." In the other cases the 
tents were palsy, ague, and rheumatism. A woman was cured of 
fness by holding the phial in her hand while another person 
iding on a cake of resin put the end of the wire into her ear, 

profuse perspiration. 
An account of these old-fashioned remedies for mortal ills would 
incomplete without reference to a quaint volume, which was 

known in its day as " Tipperraalloch's Receipts." The book 
arculatcd extensively throughout Scotland in the early part of last 

ly, but is now very scarce. Indeed, so far as the writer is 
e, the only accessible collection where it is to be found is the 
ry of Writers to Her Majesty's Signet in Edinburgh, which is 

F F 2 





Old Scoiiish Cures, 



425 



Ued to the part "draweth all the evil to itself and dieth," 
•^psy may be prevented by wearing a girdle of wolf's skin. 
Md anyone have been so negligent as to omit this necessary 
fcaution, "powder of a man's bones burnt, chiefly of the skull 
» is found in the earth, cureih the epilepsy ; the bones of a man 
b a man ; the bones of a woman cure a woman." Lethargic 
piduals should follow the sage M one neff's advice: "Burn the 
fic skin of a hare with the ears and nails ; the powder thereof, 
^ given hot, cureth the lethargy perfectly." Deafness may be 
Jhred by pouring a mixture of onion juice and ants' eggs into 
^r, and *'the blood of a wild goat given to ten drops of carduus 
Jr doth powerfully discuss the pleurisy." 

^her times, other customs. We are amused by these ludicrous 
Iriptions for restoring the human body to a healthy condition. 
tnay not the men and women of a future generation have made 
advances in the science of therapeutics that they in their turn 
tnile at the methods of the allopathists and ihe homoeopath ists 
a<]ay« and laugh outright at our credulous trust in nostrums ? 
\^ a more potent factor in cures than most people either believe 
admit. 

ALEX. W. STEWART. 




427 



TABLE TALK. 



Motives of Infant Marriage. 

very difficult to find any adequate reason for Infant Marriages 
^^lo recur to the subject of my last month's Table Talk — 
gh such unquestionably have existed. Now and then a 
5y bargain is made. The father of a boy of two gets fiom the 
t of the bride, who is older, ** nionie to bie a pece of land,'* 
ftccutes a bond to repay it if the boy does not keep to the 
Un. Sometimes, howtjver, the inducement is inconceivably 
J. James Ballard, of the age of ten to eleven, complains to 
ncle that Anne Ballard had enticed him with two apples to go 
ber to Colne and to marry her. The marriage ceremony was 
»rmed, without the consent of any of John's friends, by Sir 
*r Blakey, then curate of Colne. The next morning and ever 
\ John has repented of his indiscretion. It is satisfactory to 
in this case that Sir Roger, the said curate, was " ponished by 
Archbushop of York his grace for marieing at inconvenient 
s and unlawfull persons after the tyme of the Solempnization of 
laid mariage." Such reasons for marriage as are advanced are, 
>urse, mercenary. John Fletcher thus marries his son Thomas, 
ten, to Anne Whitfield, aged nine, the daughter of William 
tfield, being in debt, in order to "get somme money of William 
tfield to the discharge of his debts," Elizabeth Hulse says 
in "the chappell of Knoiisford, what time she knowis not, bie 
Dn hit was done when she was but three or iiij yeares old," she 
married to George Hulse, because her friends thought " she 
d have had a ly vinge bie hym." George, however, was appren- 
ifor ten years in Congleton, and on his return she found herself 
bie *' to fansie or cast favour to hym." In the case of Elene 
tam, her grandfather vvas known to be rich, and it was hoped 
he would do good to the young couple, and perhaps settle a 
Uipon her. Elene proved, I am sorry to say, a light of love, 
hut both her farm and her husband. The grandfather, dis- 



428 The Geniletnans Magazine, 

approving of her conduct, left her nothing, and Georgp, lid^ 
excellent cause, since she would have brought him a family ready- 
made, pleaded for and obtained a divorce. Other reasons advanced 
are of the same kind — some vague hope of providing for a cEd 
at the expense of others. 

Early Parentage. 

ONE cannot but pity the victims of these untimely experimenlSr 
especially a girl married, as she sometimes was, when to^ 
young to speak the words of the ceremony, which had to be said fo^ 
her by the person holding her in her arms. The position of the boy • 
moreo\-er, engaged in labour in one town or village, and knowing 
that in another parish a wife is growing up to womanhood, is not easily 
conceived. There is small wonder that so many of these marriages 
came to nought or ended in divorce. It is with those alone that finish 
in separation that Dr. Fumivall is concerned. He is of opinion* 
however, that ver>* many marriages were ratified w^hen the children 
retched the age of choice, and proved as happy as other cases of 
normal selection. The age of choice was fixed at twelve for a girlancJ 
founeen for a boy ; which seems to indicate that children were more 
forwani then than now, since to bind in irremovable bonds infants 
of an aire so tender would now be regarded as cruelty and infamy - 
A '.zi thus married for the family advantage, if he had any spirit c?* 
ii\iT.:ure, was likely to cast off his bonds and change his abod^^ 
\Vc :>.u> hear v-^:" more than one youth going to trail a pike in tlx^ 
•r/.rs; I^:. r urr.iva". has travelled outside the Chester Registers an. *^ 
>.-> vv'\c:ei a few cases of early marriages. One case is given of ^ 
h- .:iX~-vr.: ^f three who, in the airos of the clergjman, declared ths^^-^ 
'"; V .- ^\: ".earr. r..-* cort- that cay. The priest answered, "Vou mu ^^ 
> v; V ::. ".tt'e -ijre ar.d then go play you." Instances are advanced' 
." .^ . , ^. -. nh,- art rcrents before they are fourteen, and in one ca:^^*^ 
,x- , • , : - . » arc twc'.v-e. The most interesting historic record is th -^^^ 
.» ;",- :v^-r.ac? x^c S:* Sir.iv-^ncs DEwes and Anne Clopton. ^- " 
t"r- .^.>>: :."-i r:..;c i*a> thirte^r. years and a half and the groo ^° 



'.:3- 



s 



An l:-.i >rRvT:?N* of Shaksplark- 
v':\ ^": is trcsi stnr.ce rrv>ceed:ni:5 cast is almost whoIO 
>^v .:: As s^.-^h. i\\:r^ :t :< edifyir.g. Fanc\- in these days ^ 
' -^nT V ^^ > vJL.:i:hter w.th his wa'kiniz-stick until she troth- 
^ '^-^^c.- :.^ ;>.' --.ar o; his chcire : As becomes a Shakesi)earian 
V^^. ri., rros sor:^? :V.us:ra::or. of Shakspeare, and giv^ 



Table Talk. 429 

)unt, which I dare not repeat, of the proceedings of John 
e and Alice Belen, which proceedings, as he says, render 
ible as fact the statement of Brondelio in The Taming of 
■1 iv, i. 95-6 : " I knew a wench married in an afternoon as 
K 10 the garden for parsley to stulfe a rabit." A more 
book Dr Furnivall has not given to the world. I dare not, 
, commend it to general perusal. It is decidedly not a 
' Book," to quote the name of another work edited by the 
iter for the same series. 

" An Anarchist Poet. 

lRCHY has found a poet, a genuine poet, deficient neither 
n lyrical faculty nor in inspiration. I am not going to give 
e nor introduce his works to the notice of a single reader. 

or was, obviously an epileptic, and died by suicide, a 
I jury found, while of unsound mind, and he left behind a 

since published, of remarkable passion and power, from 
t seems that he was growing out of the most violent of his 
s. It gives us "pause,'* however, to find a man of powerful 
•and genuine talent advocating the wildest theories of 

■ One of the most violent of his poems is directed against 
Be- hearted gentlemen and the mud-hearted Bourgeois." Again 
5 a man, on the point of suicide, at least to kill someone in 

Are there no masters of skves, 

Jeering, cyDical, strong— 

Are there no brigands (say) 

With the words of Clirist on their lips, 

And the daggers under their cloaks— 

Is there not one of these 

That you can steal on and kill ? 

lor js an Irishman too earnest and savai^e to possess any 
'. His grave counsel is, how*ever, strangely like the comic 
lendation of another Irishman in the pit of a theatre^ when 
)pular deni^en of the gallery was abotJt to be thrown over, 

perhaps, by the instinct of self-preservation, he called out : 
Baste him, boys ; kill a fiddler with him ! " 

■ By Woods and Pastures. 

the time when the rest of the world is disporting itself at 
Scarbro*, Ilfracombe, or Cromer, seeking health at Hom- 
imbing peaks in Switzerland, or shooting grouse in Scotland 





^'.Tir^'mxt . ^ 



VsrJ^Ki. 



_ -^rzssz: rx:sz:rer of ibe namcoi 
: :.= ---. ^ 2Zii c^snnes himsdf 

-^-- zr.Lzz. :c u.-t ground depicted in 
zr ro:i sixrizx is creatneedd 
.-r. £:ii ZTT* iaieed stretched to 
r.::^. r-: - '-"^ and Havcring-atte- 
f>^ : : vzi r»-; linle iaierest for mj 
:. nzr^nDT :: z=T r-racsice. Noo^y 
r-==i-L- i=-z'r^"-L- md accessible as 
:ir= 25 ir^ 'JLtj zzt beicj; so rapidly 
:r -:r:.r:f rirriz ilziDs: at ihetieltc- 
:^ ti? i=.\zzzics and followers con* 
ns:-: ^ -^>s zisy :« found wiihin 
^.::ji T-=£se ire. however, but 
r.™ Tnt Tcn- existence of the 
irj-=i.:£z=ri. If we lake the great 
z-1^ T-^rr.-j: coroinc on a genuine 
: 1 rr^i. sr celi^haally (misjnained 
T-— TT niss be:":^re one gets clear of 
. ::r.-:zrr-:r s'jots. Conditions of 
A re&ider:: a: Surbiion wiD not 
f .: I.f.ri. n:T will a denizen of 



: -iT--3^fzi I r^r the cycle. Ih^^ 
'-■ ' i-. ^ :.e-- r '«-r.ee*. though the dang« 

T: .--i "jLT^e'v augmented when i 

>- i:5L?.7 .iri.z you from behind. ^^J' 

:-> - --'.e. sees nothing. With head 

i-:?^ r; hurries through the sweetest 

^>i nf ; e Jirrareniiy to their beauties' 

^sj- r:.:r. r:w. under his 






.---. ir.v ::orating occupation I ^^ 
i vc . T.-* beat a record and reach 
;■ :c>s tin-ie than any predecessor 
:«.~ :: be bciieved, a conifortin? 
-■•. ^i-.-^w::-:;; assurance of virility- 



Table Talk. 



431 



; very conditions of the race deprive it, to me, of all variety and 
ght Vou are compelled to keep to the roadways and the dust. 
I cannot take the deHghtful cot across the fields or pause and 
:h the kingfisher beneath the willows. From all the delights of 
country you are barred, except glimpses of the hedgerows and a 
*'n scent of the lime- flower or the meadow-sweet. What does it 
ter that over your head the elm- trees interlace, forming endless 
ss and cloisters ? Vou cannot lift up your head to behold them. 
I pass through a lovely rustic village, and your time is spent in 
^ding dismay and consternation among geese too frightened to 
ulge an anserine dignity^ or in guarding your own flank from 
assault of the village cur; Stop at home is my advice, if the 
f condition of seeing suburban London is on a bicycle. 



An Unexpected Encounter. 



)NE of my most favourite walks is from Enfield to Cheshunt or 
the country adjoining. The walk is open to the disadvantage 
; for a raile or two along Baker Street it is in the midst of houses. 
sse are, however, not seldom pretty and flower-laden, the air is 
;ht and invigorating, and you feel yourself in the country. Trees 

fields are immediately behind the houses, and you are sensible 
►heir vicinage. So soon as you pass Forty Hill you come upon 
balls (Theobalds) Park, and you are in the midst of the loveliest 
iure that pastoral England can boast. The house, as historians 
»\nr, belonged to Lord Burleigh^ whose son exchanged it with 
les L for Hatfield. The old building no longer exists, but a good 
ise, including a museum of Egyptian antiquities and belonging to 
Henry Meux, has been erected on the site. This, which may, I 
feve, be viewed, 1 have not seen. Just off the road through the 
k, where one path branches off to Waltham Abbey and Cross, I met 
old friend, one of the oldest and least communicative of friends, 
a.d heard that he had taken up his abode at Theobalds, but I had 
gotten it. This was none other than Temple Bar. Thoroughly 
^1 groomed and in splendid condition^ he stood sheltered by secular 
ts and gazing meditatively on green lawns and smiling meadows. 

is impossible to imagine a change more complete than was 
Igesled, For the endless roar of London traffic the quiet of an 
diess Sabbath. Now and then a farmer*s cart, or even a carriage, 
iot by, and anon a cyclist whirred along, not even turning aside to 
ok at a thing perhaps fifty yards out of his way. 





72r G€milammms Magazine. 



I 



[fVabcre vbes, anKxig the statues of Popes, 
Tjilcjlv . m: Se=cs at K^rcae, he came across a discrowned 
zjcr" Tikisjc off* his hat he made a lot 
:f n^ £=id aduresszng i said, '* If ever yoo 




ss nmcpc rac^ jxbz tcvc I bope j^:c «ill remember the man who 
-vBs TcuxE 3: j-nL 3r :3ie 2ik of pscr szafoctmie.'' I have little in me 
IE SES3e~jk± in-^-Bg :£ a A^-os aad xedecdoci. I ovo, howerer, to 
if ht sac t3 :^ o&i p£e, and to addressing it aloud. 
Ib^L ~w^aeacha:^ishere ! Not very long ago 
jE'^rrnT^f. wx± zxk± 7ii>-K?y beads of txarocs. then swathed in banners, 
»» I 'TiTTg ±is TTicsBcir It X bcTO » hSs tomh, era 'king's daughter' 
^ ia££ TTivaL i riiifa . " juc> ^>aiir>ffd vith thonders of cannon and 
-jrmTsr if riels. sad siiv sfC scnk to the knees in grass and 
iirws^ jmc. iissrnig lx±e rrar 2S jooder than the coo of the ring- 
unwi n- ae sc-aor it 3ie >t. Ho» caU yoa this ? Is it dignified 
•Tg nvi'Turi c. rr s c ^lilwiMW'-L ? ^ I ^oc no answer bat soch as my 
^si s;ccuei ^ 19 1^ qraescocz^. The old gate seemed smiling 
dtasnii a:ii inxrsseiciu wixi 2s mace perhaps than, in view of mjr 
^iniiix mr Tsaat— 5 w-il be. To ooe who had not previously been 
::XR :2i£ ^»:c «3s jwessEic w±h assocxarions, and he wonkl bedollof 
ioai »:nr ^x»k£ x w^iaLv zasKTvcd. Lamb was once a resident at 
^""•fe«^v:ss. r:r.feiii rue a ztije cr rwo away, and is buried not «ry 
-r ^.sciT^ n Ecsanmrc ci=ci:Tirc. Could he in one of his wander- 

>> — ^ r^THt; i::cc: 1 sr* soch &s ihis. the world would have been 
:^^ -^«-xr r*- unicss: essiy cc - Elii" Charles Lambs, bowercr, 
- -"^^ -"""^ -'^i =re r* j»riScr:ies ir. the lanes of Theobalds, and 
-"- "t^^r:: %-c-r rct^rs fjc r.tricc rither than commendation for 

r^ . ^- n:: :t i? ^ tttLtt . : ;Lr 5Cn:r ci scniimcnt. 

SYLVAXUS URBAX. 



THE 



NTLEMANS MAGAZIiNE. 

November 1894. 



LORD MAC A OS IVATCH. 



By John W. Sherer, C.S.I. 



tT TILL you corae, presently, for a walk? I have something 

V V particular to say to you." 

The speaker was Rowland Warbeck, and the girl he addressed, 
acquiescing, showed unmistakable signs of gratification. 

She was Isabella Martyn ; welKgrown and of a fine figure, but 
>re than swarthy in complexion. She had ample dark hair, dark 
is with yellowish whites, full cheeks, large lips, fine teeth— a trace, 
eed, of tropical luxuriance in all her endowments which spoke 

birth in some distant, fragrant island nearer the Equator than 

live, and set in emerald seas. 

Flora Martyn was her half-sisler ; for their father — an army surgeon 
•ho, through a share in a Government contract, had been enabled 

retire early, had married, in his early youth, a ^Vest Indian. 
is was when his regiment was at Barbadoes. She died in giving 
th to a daughter, and the widower married again in England. 
L Martyn, on leaving the service, had taken a roomy old house 
village near ^Varwick, and its gardens and orchards and closes 
Uie him believe that his dream of ending as a country gentleman 
k3 come true. 

There was in the same place a real country gentleman of a 
fecription fast disappearing. The Warbecks had for many genera- 
U8 occupied Corapton Manor, but had at length fallen on days un- 
''ourable to their continued existence. The family had never had 
lich ready money» but only possessions which gave the impression 

affluence. 

VOL. ccLxxvn. KG. 1967, G Q 




Lord Macao's Watck^ 



435 



Jelief that Flora in every way reciprocated the -young man's 
ion ; only as he bad chosen not to be demonstrative, she had 
io opportunity of indicating the real state of the case, Sancroft 
miy a blind* In the first place, the curate held that a priest, as 
llled himself, should not mari)'. Next, he was not at all ihe 
)f youth Flora cared for. No— Rowland should come forward 
s true colours at once ; he would be surprised at the change 
ora's demeanour. She was only waiting to display her real 
nents. Isabella could promise, for herself, every assistance, 
owland was radiant with self-complacency. What a happy hit — 
ling in the half-sister ! It was most fortunate he had thought 
king a clean breast of it to one so worthy of reliance. 
Dear Isabella! " he cried, '* you are the best of women. I will 
dtly follow your advice. To-morrow forenoon shall see me up 
r place prepared for the campaign. What excuse can I make for 
ig again so soon ? I know. I have it. Flora has asked to see 
Macao's watch. I will bring it up with me.** 
Lord Macao's watch 1 I have heard you speak of it. Yes, 
►retence will do as well as another." 

nd soon after the two parted. But Isabella, as she paced 
wards, repeated the words " Lord Macao's watch," and a 
iar shadow darkened the West Indian eyes, as a sinister idea 
rd her brain. 



I 



11. 



hat Isabella had told Rowland was true. Truth had happened 
I her book as well as fiction ; and a relation of facts is always 

than the creation of fancies. 

ext day, the lover, bent on conquest, appeared as he had 
>sed, and he brought the watch with him. His mother had 

the daughter of the first Lord Macao, a public officer sent 
D embassy to China, bearing friendly messages and presents 
\ Emperor from George III, Among the latter, a gold watch 
ed with diamonds and bearing the royal initials on the back 
»phires. An elegant work of art, and valuable both intrinsically 
for its historical associations. In i860 it was found in the 
IT of a cabinet in the Summer Palace at Pekin, and being con- 
fd as loot was annexed by a military man^ and subsequently 
or his benefit in London. The purchaser was the second Lord 
0, who presented it to his sister, Mrs, Warbeck, for her life- 
It was ultimately to revert to the holder of the title. The 

G G a 





-t -" 



Tki Gentleman 5 Magazine, 



r-^j- 1 i.::^r Lri -.r.e reciTic::: an emperor, ihe precious object 
Tif-.- .-.•-:-?.i- b=^:-red :,^ the uTiibassador. But it was called 
r,^ jiini :^ :: re:::.~te :r.e rcoperry cf the second lord by leptinate 
rnrr^ ;r :: irt m-::i l >r->e in which the appellation was conett. 
Tnf w^-ii wLi tf::.: ::: s sn-oag leader case, and this agun a- 
c..->sri ir 2. w:»:c£r ":»:\ ••nih br-iss clamps and a patent lock wbost 
ki*" WL5 'js-i-L - iziA.-hrd :: :: :-y a cord. 

A*:-zr i: i ij:;.Tr.:mu?n c: :he curiosity had been prolonged till 
r.1 v^iTi siJisT'i-i. Jwi wli^i yropDsed lo Flora to take a siroU fi4 

• I'lr ::if 22>f s^-V- by.*" he s'jggested, "till we return;" and 

:•": rr wsf rri.-L-::: 7 '.ire :: i" :: cupboard, but Isabella whispered- 

' >■ r.»rr- ;r i^r^i :.;: ::" -^is To:>ni : Top it in a drawer upstaia" 

r.-T^ «^-r.: zi: :: :.-r5N. ir.i :>o£ the little box with her. W^ 

>*xi r^r.xi i.-TT :.Tii w^ ninir.g. her sister cried : "I have to go 

*.-^*-r :r.= -I^lct. ltjI —— y as well accompany you two till oar 

:-.:•> >£» .:-:-i I '•-,.. :^ zcicy in a few minutes.'' Isabella went 

'-.. ^ . r -1 f r'^.1— T'C. d.-» r.ei the rijiht drawer — found the 

.'-.-. -• . •: -^-i.;.- :re wi:rh jut.ro: laced i- Her booty she 

... . ' •-- .--T v---->:Sr. Tr.en tr.e walk took i;lace.ar.d 

:- . - : r> .:,?f r-\ r.g 7.:LT':ed w::h s:>ter, went off on their 

*• . >. ■::—..?:.> -:: :r.i "«r:.:-c5. That evening Rowland carried 

*- . .. ' ■. -. x-j. v; wi:r'- :r. iis b:x. The wood was strong 

.• . - . ■ : : v-f r:: 7-:f.5.1"e to say. by the weight, whether 

r- « ■ ^ ir . - ¥-!> r:-: :r-ere. N\- su>r-:.::on existed, and therefore 

-■. * :.r -\:;z. I >i xll:: r^i a h.ilf- year's allowance of nfit 

- ~ . -,-fv :i:i .: v:;^ r^.i - i:-y or S3 after the exhibition of 

■ •■ % 

• : >"-■": :.~= 1^1 ir. rfter the payment of this money 

-- ^, ,.. « :%>;<- "t :f the sar.:e atnottnt—nfty pounds— pfi^' 

-. ■ ^ .- * ; r^i-:.?- 5.-.: :y ; r".:r.i aur.t who resided at Brighton. 

- - . ■ ':- :.-. rii-. -r.i «■*>, cf course, the subject of a vaitn 

« . ■.'^>. . r . ".;. ~ i.> 

- . ,-.-,->i Tk:v'.i-j; vrrT:$ei and was accepted— subject to 

- :-^ ' i'i- -.-^--a-;.??. r^v a had naturally to ask whit 

^ . \ • . ^ v.-:> :t :-i ; -.'-rj: s-u:re, r-nd it was frankly explain«<J 

;. "r.vs ;■■ -iti. -.?:: the Manor had been given up. ^' 

» , - : ,• >f >-- i- -r.i w.th the proceeds Rowland propose 

^ ■ : ^'^ v'c-■,"^^■^?w i'^urln^:: his father's lifetime he shofll<l 

- ^' ,^: t'; ::. — ^ 0:i Mr.Warbeck was too defeated hy 

-. :,' ' i^*; -V .v:< :f h:> own. and accjuiesced inanypropoa- 

?v-. > %'•,-- »v- :::v. rv;;:rc r.:n:. IV. Manvn had intended to gi« 




decided 



whole, 



a handsome dowry, 
promised well. 

11 parties were satisfied, and the marriage was fixed for June, 
iome time after the incident of the watch at Compton Lodge, 
of the maidsen^ants was dismissed. Her name was Susan 
She was not suspected of dishonesty, but being good-looking 
hly, and had disobeyed orders. She had asked leave to go 
ick, and it had been refused. The same evening Flora had 
er in a distant part of the Manor park with a soldier. Mrs. 
n was told, and an inquiry made. Susan's excuse was 
c thought the prohibition only applied to Warwick, and that 
d gone to her aunt, who lived in Compton, and had sent a 
sage asking her to call. She had no idea she should meet this 
ier. Mrs. Martyn was considerate, and willing to believe 
Ik's story might be true. But the aunt had gone charing, and 
I day or two the matter stood over. When the aunt returned 
story proved untrue, and Susan was dismissed. And directly 
rwards Rowland began to receive letters signed S. F. 
rhe girl had been a Sunday-school attendant, and wrote well. 
Dne said, "Can you expect happiness if you marry a thief?" 
■ler, "Are you sure you have got Lord Macao's watch ?'* A 
% "Who sent the fifty pounds?" Rowland took no notice of the 
communication : it seemed pure insult. But after the second be 
irally examined the wooden case. The watch, of course, was 
t* He determined to have no secrets with Flora. He would 
ply retate what had happened. As he was starting for the 
nor the third missive came. He took the doctor as well as 
ra into his full confidence. The girl was not embarrassed, and 
jested an inquiry after Susan. She had left the neighbourhood, 
kit was suspected, with the soldier. He was a bad character and 
fcurchased his discharge. Then Flora laughingly said : " The 
piling in a police investigation is to search the premises. Come 
ly room.'* Half in joke, they went. She locked the door, and 
;ui explaining her arrangements. " Here I keep my cuffs and 
she cried, opening a box on the dressing-table ; and she 
all receptacles in the same way. At last she remarked : 
you must see my desk, papa, the one you gave nie.^' It was 
lly displayed — but Dr. Martyn casually observed : " I forget 
t you open the secret drawer." Fulcra recalled to mind that it 
hned a lock of a school-fellow's hair. She thought there would 
1 laugh j perhaps a quizzical inquiry as to the sex of the tress, 
blushed and stammered— "Oh, you do not wish to see that" The 




i 



_ ti. 



^.^:^:yT.::% .- J*f^r^2ZZKC. 






■fv zzi. I: conuined 



-- 1. _' - -■ ■-.^■.-. --^ :■ : -J" :^:z:zr I.' i T.tT Irvrr d:>::'V=red an 

■^ '*- " ■-- -^ ::^ J-:- vr^rTifrfi :: J^r-s-ju-.d : "':::iiu:h 

••-"■■"- T^.:i — ..r- :-T;--.r * I: ir'STr-; ir:}"-h:r^ ■ai^ngabout 

- -r.^ r.: ■^-- 1 : : : : :: tt.: re rrea-Jy siTr-r/r-enei 

— -- - :-.::= .^ :: ::.: r j-n^r ' Trt:_rd lun: hzd a iitde 
■*" •- — ~-. . : zr II.: ^iT-LTfi il. >.->r business u&iis* 

-~"' T.- ' _: : ■ _- "^ V ;'-i * _ ■ 1 :.:_t.i >i2d ihs ni^ r.sv?" and 

* ". • ' ": ■ ~ ; ^•t r :: _r:i_-f m'-::: n:y trjLr.ks and 

":: - --.: ..:--' Tf fi - A^'ty h:5 never 

.-- ^ :--:--:- :-:.-;::. A c:::j-"io:5 

- ■- : : .1:1:-;:. :..= .rf:r-A:::n: 'Miss 

- - - ."-.'■. ",^71 r i.r.f""rr .7 rrrU'i.— I'r.^ n'.vstcrv, i* 

■ - ^ :-: . . : .: :;-i :f 1 ; :^i; .rir;-. mi fjl'ybeliertd 

• - - :*.".■; : .-_r 1 :•::". >.;: :":.--£- -" ■"' Ri."w!ir.d 

- - • - :^ I::--- ::■ .i::=: -::: <: : — vinrcd ofthe 

• ■'■ ■ ■ ► ■ : v_: - :f: _-ce-: :h-: :he d-:e of the 

■ - "- "■- » -■ ■ •«"— - riz.TiTi-i : -? :r.VLi:;^i::or. ff^ 

■■-■ -' ■- v:. : r- - - _:: 71?? It.:: cbliv::::. It :^3ic 

• • - :- - - .- -r :: :-i-:ii =^^T.:.:n. a-d :ha:iU5!icic'S 

. ■ ■ :.;:.- -.:i :■.•- ^ir/ r^id.y liid out. Pi:: this 

■ ^- . -~ 1 ■ := r :: :: :.^ -K-j-iercd ar thai I^ 
-■>.:'•. !: ■«^i^ r:: :i.:. he ur^ei, ":o e=:her lan'i'y 

- ..- .. ..-:. rv. 1 :.. z.-fL v 1 ir- nylitzy had been cicJ:'^'^ 

. . >. ".-?.'! li- - ;rl If_;.e^!:. h-d to be t:«-d a" tha: h^" 
;. -:; 1 ' i i::.' ?-:--A ?_:h -n -.idgr.td surprise that t'^ 

- • *.7.\ :■:•.- ::--i -. y.:r«s ycssessi^n, that Dr. MaT.}"^ 
. -.-^i;.:. 'f :r -.:r. ->r.- sir: r.^".y ;r- Rowr'.jnd in these wor^*' 

. -s.- Isix. .1 .? i-ii : i^: -::rif^ :~ Er.g'and, she knows noth>''5 
ire. : :>c Jif:..-: ' 

Vlr>^ Mi-T-r. vi5 & w:~2r. cf grod principles and of a kinu»f 



Lord Macao s WatcL 



439 



on ; and from the time of her marriage had determined to 
Iconsiderale to Isabella, and make her life as enjoyable as circum- 
^ces permitted. She never liked the West Indian, but she veiled 
\ antipathy. But now that events had so come about that it was 
nous that if Flora was guiltless, somebody had committed a spiteful 
bac, her bias overcame the excellent lady, and her dislike of the 
p-daughter, long smouldering, burst into flame at last, and she 
lliiounccd, without circumlocution, that "Isabella is at the bottom 
tlie whole thing." 

jW'hen the doctor entreated his wife to state on what grounds she 
led her accusation, she replied in heated but illogical language : 
[suppose, my dear, you acquit Flora; if you do not, say so at once. 
( everyone know that you consider my daughter a thief and a 
r)'-leller. (^ome, Martyn, answer one plain question: If Isabella 
lot guilty, who is?" 

"Well, Bessie, of course that is a question I cannot answer. If 
lould, the embrogiio would be at an end. All I ask is^ do not 
ag an accusation against any person whatever that you cannot 

" Cannot prove ! Are we to be guided in life by the rules of the 
p Bailey? Is there no such thing as moral proof? Every cir- 
nisiance points to Isabella, and yet I am not to speak. My own 

f:ious child is to be dragged to the bar, and yet I am not to speak. 
y, some one very likely will declare that / took the watch. And 
people will sneer and snarl, *If you did not take it^ mention 

did.' And I K'/// mention. It was Isabella. There! You are 

f too ridiculous, Martyn, sometimes." 
' These excited diatribes threw no fresh light on what was obscure^ 

they tended obviously to make the step-daughters position a 

t painful one. Flora behaved ver)' sweetly^ In a calmer moment 
Regained her mother's ear. *' Dearest," she whispered, *' I am sure 
j>Uwill listen to me. Isabella knew nothing about my desk. I 
pvc never shown it to her. She could not have been aware it even 
M a secret drawer, much less know how to open it. Now I do not 
^ to accuse anybody, but I must tell you that when papa first gave 
|c the desk I did show the drawer to Susan. And then, again, 
M spite could Isabella have against me ? We have never been 
worn friends : we lake different views of things, but we have never, 
I* the other hand, had any misunderstandings. Now I did lose 
^aa her place." 

** I think," answered her mother, "that k is our duty as Christians 
*be very careful in our estimates of character. Susan was a 0ighty 




I 




r it, ia bei^ fcsty. But theit u t 

■Bdadboef ; xnd as great between men 

ommstwoithy tbom men, 

imHWJif. I dbotdd be sorry thsl 

Ik ^ftcult for Flofa U> knovf^ 
I alter tier behaviour to 
tqr the West Indian, wl 
had to pat up iJiih 
prei io os ly ciril 2nd titentift. 
r^ set agsxDst his elder dioghltf. 
: siie siMJiiki go away for a timt 
Rcascftu. Itconsuttd 
had held 2 post in tbe 
cnt off when contemplating 
r, Nettie Roseau, had been 1 pUf 
and they constantly corresponded. 
been projected, and now, tind^ 
Dt. Manyn, the idea was carried ouL Isabella ie^ 
Lodge; the name of the good surgeon's home, as sobor- 
ifioaie to the Manor. 

We an knov hov ■e aiying a time of suspense and uncertainty b : 
the days cra«i hopes fameoish, usual occbpations seem colourlc^ 
Ennui marks sudi a period fur her own. But the doctor w* 
determined to wait the tttm of events. 

And an incident was not long in occurring, which, though it <W 
not at first seem to have any necessary connection with the dead' 
lock, created excitement, and in the case of the father— distress. 
A telegram was received after break&st one morning, containing 
the following words : — " Isabella missing. I^ast seen with a Mr^ 
Cavendish. Police communicated with.** It had beta sent by 
Mrs, Roseau, and en its receipt Dr. Martyn at once left ^o' 
Brighton. 



IV. 

On arriving at the Roseaus the doctor found the family i« 
genuine agitation. Nettie was an exceedingly undesirable com- 
panion for Isahena, or anyone else ; but, though full of dece»^^ 
and unwholesome imaginations, she had too little heart to ^ 
anything reckless. Her great ambition was— to be like a vi^ 
She dressed, as far as was possible, in masculine costume; *** 



k 




Lord Macao $ Walclu 441 

brusque, talked slang, and ogled the other sex, as she per- 
had remarked or experienced that ilie other sex ogled their 
sex. As she had no opportunity of riding or driving, she 
dd not show the courage so often possessed by girls, so she 
lid only emphasize her desire of manhood by collars, waistcoats, 

fing-sticks, and by smoking cigarettes, or^ at least, lighting them 
throwing them away when no one was looking. Still, with all 
proclivities, she did not lose her head. Of course she was 
ely examined, and freely admitted that she and Isabella had 
a person, whom ihey supposed to be an officer, on the West 
and had talked to him. Nettie had even stood at the railings 
watched the moonlight on the sea, whilst the other two took 
him by themselves. The Lothario was a tall, handsome man, 
p said his name was Cavendish, and that he was heir to a rich 
fcle, who did not wish him to remain in the cavalry any longer, 
tbella was certainly much taken with her admirer, but she — 
Sllie^never supposed it was more than an ordinary flirtation, 
\ the morning that her friend disappeared, leaving a note to say 
)X she had made up her mind to entrust her happiness to her 

rr Cavendish. 
When the local police had been first communicated with they 
|(de inquiries from their metropolitan brethren, and it came out 
|t the man Cavendish was not unknown in Scotland Yard. It 
|s believed he had been in the army, but he was mixed up with 
jUiy doubtful transactions, and indeed was suspected of compli- 
in one or two prominent robberies. Up to this time, how- 
r, he had escaped detection, and being very alert was known 
1 police circles by the name of the *' Weasel," as he was under- 
pod to be the party thus alluded to, in localities where bad 
bracters congregate. The guardians of the public security were 
jpfuse in promises of unceasing vigilance, and expressed a con- 
fcnt hope of soon tracing Cavendish (the name said to be one 
\ many aliases), and of affording satisfactory information of what 
Id really taken place, to the Roseaus and Dr. Martyn. 
I The prospect, however, of following up an evildoer when once 
psorbed in the labyrinths of the immeasurable city did not seera 
pght, or at any rate immediate, and Mariyn returned sorrowfully 
Nc, not satisfactorily wiser than when he set out 
I He was still obstinately opposed to Flora's marriage, whilst the 
atch affair remained a mystery ; and the lovers never thought of 
g matters into their own hands, or thwarting the earnest deter- 
ion of the old man» And so the tedious days crept along, and 



E 




I 



i 



[ 



t The Gentleman s Magazine. 

^be^ii to nami^ aQ the faces at Cocnpcoti wUh maib of am^ 
diiifcss. 

WatiB[ lud come igam ; cooie agauo, too, with ^cvtniy, anu Minv 
Miafv but not viifa a still, dreainy descent of feathery dakei 
The north wind blev fierodjr ; the saov was borne aslant, aund deep 
were piled op agpinst cveiy o|)posiDg obj^CL By the warn 
&e the ^[artvss sal, ooogratulattng themselves that tm 
5 or |j l ca«iic was caUtog them to battle with the wild elemeoti 
they s*t there came amoog the gusts a sound like a human 
It was Tcpeated more than once, and the doctor, jumping uf^ 
: to die tem doot; which he unbarred and opened Lp^ 
^icss/iA^ in a fainting and almost seIlS^ 
Isabella, with a thin and worn face, on 
of fi o icDc e weic plainly risible. The three who 
the oooalbctahle room vied with each other in tender 
te vpfoftmsie woman was soon Id bed and supplied 
soch food as she could afterwards tale. 
wdl to relate her adventuruj:, she bad i 
to d l tf.i B wr Sbe ooold not explain her madness in goiog 
A ntBid sbaiger. farther than by declaring that she was at 
the tMe the prey oCchagiiii and iciBOfse, and thought that any (tege 

the lot she had inflicted on hersdt 

s; ^ he had promised, and for a time was 

she would not join htm in an ebbopte 

her lather, the wretch cruelly iQ^ 

for herself during long absencci 

of Acae «as prolonged unosuallj, she madeeveJT 

but he came in and found her 

for travelling He locked lit* 

that the police interfered ^ 

made off by the window, and the 

and notwithslanding theteiritiic 

■in W»«ki:^BeL Tooched by the gentleness of 

ptcpnrcd to make what repomtion i^ 

^>iiinfcimfiiniiunother£ttilL She i^ taken Lord Macio^ 

the fifty ponnds, with the help of Nettie 

lf^«ister% letter of ackD0«le(4' 

hnd been put under lock ^ 

^' VKhni^nilkecBKlpginlwheie Fkini and Rowland fe(« 

\m t^ %nNI«shnaks ^ *■!*■* Hi*"r _ and aomentarily anticipated > 

to dtsappotntment 
|Mid whob mider such drcumstao^ 






Lord Macao s Watch, 



443 



Id disbelieve her ?) that what happened to the watch she did not 
w. It was removed from its place of security, although Isabella 
( concealed the key of the wardrobe about her person. 
iMrs. Martyn had been, however, sufficiently right for much self- 

Eplacency, and though she would not hazard a prophecy, she 
ight it legitimate to look knowing, and with a nod of the head to 
biate that there was ** more behind." 
ut to the lovers and to Dr» Martyn the old weariness returned ; 
onging for clearance and justification ; the distaste for duties 
h seemed provisional only ; and a sense of oppression at the 
lessness with which the world pursued its course, not noticing 
"dead flowers by the wayside, or the cloud that frowned ahead. 
[One evening, when the old father was smoking and musing in his 
dy by himself, a servant announced that a beggar-woman wanted 
iee him. He always granted interviews to the distressed. A 
lop, drunk and dirty, entered the room with unsteady steps. Dia- 
lled and defaced — but still Susan Figge \ Martyn recognised 
l^and she must have been recognised in the kitchen. But down- 



respectability had settled to ignore her. 



The 



*HE slithering words, the half-mastered consonants, betrayed 
fan's sad decline. But the imperfection of her speech did not 
ten the earnestness with which she delivered what she had to 
|. The disclosure was painful enough for Dr. Martyn to hear. 
Was to the effect that the Cavendish who had married Isabella 

fe soldier with whom she— Susan^ — had absconded. \Vith that 
nee for true marriage which even the most giddy of her class 
possess, she had secured her certificate — ^" the lines," to use 
rown words — and cherished it like an amulet 
jit was curious, but the girl showed no resentment against 
fcella ; on the contrary, seemed drawn to her by sympathy as a 
pW'Sufferer. But her whole nature was dominated by that desire 
pcvcnge on the betrayer, which indicates the trace of a passionate 
pchment. She called herself Quaife, that being the name under 
ich her husband had enlisted; though his previous career was 
listinct, and it was thought he had entered the array to escape 
pervatioQ for the time. 

Susan described that he occasionally became better oiT— on a 
1^ — and that it was during a period of abrupt prosperity he 





art first and arrange the interview. This was done. 
Juaife and gave him the day and the hour fixed — 
fc'ening. When he had explained the posilioHj she 
nnd support him. 

irrived. A London detective and one of the county 
eted in a room next the doctor's study. 
an hour before the time, Susan called, and asked to 
n. He could perceive that she had had recourse to 
was strange in her manner, but perfectly self-con- 
►rought with her a letter, which it was of importance, 
d, the Martyn family should see : but it was not to 
the next day, when she had got clean oK She was 
lusband, and his pals and associates would do her a 
jr could catch her* But she would give them the slip» 
! leave now ? " Yes," said the doctor, *' but you will 
itly when Quaife is here ? " 

agreed upon/' Susan replied. And off she went. At 
ill-featured, upright man arrived, decently dressed, and 
irance in his manner. Ho began to unfold his subject, 
le looked towards the door, and was evidently expect- 

came not. And at length the doctor, thinking further 
jary, gave the signal The officers entered, and in two 
,nd-cuffs were on Quaife's wrists. But at that instant 
into the room, full of excitement and alarm. 
:he matter ? Tom, the gardener's son, coming from 
i found a bonnet and shawl on the bank of White's 
iide the shrubbery gates. 

Qts were Susan's. Tom was a noted swimmer, and 
) dive. 

ithers appeared, breathless with running. The body 
d, but cold and dead. And so love had been too 
: it could not quench itself in revenge. Susan had 
usband, but, when it came to the point, she could not 
him. 

»he had delivered ran thus :^ 

joing away, I should like to clear up the Watch busi- 
the few days I staid on at the Lodge, before Mrs. 
inquire from my aunt^ I saw Quaife, and he asked 
for something he would like. I am ashamed to put 
>ut it cannot be helped now, I found Miss Isabella's 
ed and the key taken awaj'. This made me curious. 



I 



447 



BOZLAND. 



HE peregrinations of the interesting "Little Nell" and her 
grandfather have always exercised a fascination ; and it is 
ious that in the general taste for tracing out Boz's localities no 
has yet thought of tracking the travellers from place to place 
of identifying the localities. Dickens has not only ennobled, as 
generalised, various types of living character, but he has cast the 
e spell over the places where they lived and moved. Few of 
le ramblings offer so dramatic an interest as those of Little Nell 
i her companion ; and yet none are more difficult to trace, as our 
Ihor, deserting his osual practice, seemed purposely to aim at a 
etical indistinctness and generality. Stranger still, though he does 
name a single place^ yet, with surprising art, he contrives to im- 
rt an air of familiarity. 

The first point to be settled is, Where was the " Old Curiosity 
Dp ** ? In various works the house itself has been confidently 
tied on and named. In Portsmouth Street, near Clare Afarket, 
rthe past ten or fifteen years, a tumble down little shop has pro* 
limed itself " The Old Curiosity Shop— immortalised by Charles 
ickens," in a regular inscription across the front ; and numbers of 
ericans and other travellers inquire after it, gaze on it reverentially, 
d interview the owner. I recall the very year when the place was 
t introduced to notice, and the owner of the time told his story to 
: reporters, describing how the author used to come there, which 
might have done. Various members of the family have, however, 
Bwed me that the whole theory is imaginarj', and that they had 
fc^er heard of such a place. Master Humphrey described his nightly 
^b, in one of which he had *' roamed into the city " and first met 
^l She begged to be directed to a certain street at a considerable 
•tance away, indeed, " in quite another quarter of the tmiftt.''^ This 
^^ite another quarter of the town" was not likely to have been any- 
'"Hg on that side of the City* say in the Tower direction, but the 
^s seem to point to something in the West End. Old Humphreyj 
fe leaving the shop, mentions his meeting " with a few stragglers 
*im the theatres," which shows that he was not far from the Strand* 



J 




Bozland, 



porch. The clergyman's horse, "stumbling with a dull blunt 
id among the graves," was cropping the grass. It was here they 

Codlin and Short, the *' Punch and Judy men." They found a 
jing at the public-house* and next morning found that it was "a 
• quiet place, as such a place should be,'* save for the cawing of 
rooks who had built their nests among the branches of some tall 
trees. 

[ have always fancied that this was intended for Bushey — Bushey 
Id be about two days' march from London for an old man and 
lild— that most tranquil and inviting of roadside villages or towns, 
■hich Mr. Herkomer has since lent a sort of celebrity. Boz has 
tly caught its tone and placid charm. The first time I saw it 
ruck me as like one of Catterraole's sketches, and no description 
d give an idea of the old church and its spreading churchyard, 
the tall trees with the rooks. 

yter leaving Bushey^as we take the place to be— the travellers 
:hed for two days in company with the Punch and Judy folk. 
Daay perhaps wonder a little how a child and a very old m^in 
d have found strength to walk for five days in succession from 
[ling till night, covering, as we may suppose, from fifieen to 
ity miles a day. At a tolerably brisk pace^ — for we are assured 
Codlin and his friend were anxious to " push on " so as to arrive 
Dae for the races — ihey must have walked at the rate of at least 
miles an hour. Bo/, however, himself a passionate lover of 
ing — and we ourselves have found it hard to keep up with him — 
td endow his characters with almost superhuman powers in this 
irtion : witness that wonderful Pickwickian walk after the marriage 
►ingley Dell. On the evening of the fourth day they drew near 
town where the races were to be held. From the general excite- 
•t and the importance of the preparations and the vast crowds 
were hurrying to the scene, it is plain that it was an important 
vaJ held at a large town. *' Here all was tumult and confusion ; 
streets were filled with throngs of people, many strangers were 
C the church bells rang out their noisy peals, and flags streamed 
a windows and housetops. In the large inns waiters flitted to 

fro, horses clattered on the uneven stones, carriage-steps fell 
ling down, and sickening smtUs from many dinners " — an odd 
:h — "came upon the sense. The public-houses were full ; vaga- 
d groups gathered round the doors." All which shows that it 
a large important town, and that the races were an event of no 
iiuportance. The town was certainly Warwick — the racecourse 
iescribed as being outside, " on an open heath, situated on an 

VOt. CCLXXVII. NO. 1967. M H 



I 



450 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



cminrncc a full mile distant from the furthest bounds." This is 
certainly the situation of the course, which is now nearly two miks 
from the station. 

After their escape from the racecourse the pair came to a road 
through which they took their way. Here it was arched over wtlh 
trees, and there was a finger-post which announced the way to i 
village that was three miles farther on — as I guess — on the Coventry 
Road. Here was the green and the school and the schoohnasier, 
who entertained them next night and the following one, thus com* 
pleting the seventh day of the journey. On the next morning, NdJ 
and her charge set forth on the " main road *' which took a "windii^ 
course," until towards evening they reached a common ; there ihcf 
encountered the celebrated Mrs, Jarley and the caravans, in which 
they pursued their march, until about midnight they approached i 
town and turned into a "piece of waste ground that lay just ^iihiti 
the old town gate." ' 

This place 1 believe was Coventr)% which was about twelve nm:-* 
from Warwick. NeU, wandering about the place at night, came to 
this old gateway, with its low archway, very black and dark. It Indi- 
an empt>' niche, once filled by "some old statue," and here shesa^ 
Qutlp pass by. The notion of the gate impressed him so pic — 
turesquely that he was determined to bring it in even by " head 3n^ 
shoulders.*' He wrote to his illustrator that he had devised ihi ^ 
subject *' of an old gateway, which I had put in expressly witt» 
a view to your illustrious pencil." By some accident it, however, feXl 
into Phiz's hand, and the sketch is a very dramatic and pleasing on^^ 

The town is described as a "pretty large one," ¥rith an ope*^ 
square, where was the Town Hall, a clock-tower, and a weathercod^- 
There were houses of stone, houses of red brick, houses of bt>"» ' 
and plaster, and houses of wood, many of them very old, wit-^ 
withered faces carved upon the beams, and staring down into ih^^ 
street. These had very little winking windows and low arched door^ 
and in some of the narrower ways quite overhung the pavcroer^'*" 
The streets were very clean, very sunny, very empty, and very dull- 
There were the two inns, and an almshouse, and " noth'mg sccm^?^ 
going on but the clocks," They appear to have remained be^ 
for some time, that is, for perhaps a couple of weeks. 

• \Vc fmtl the author later, when he w as describing the beauiUol ebaic^ ^ 
Tong» making allusion lo some martyred Istdy whose rcnoams had beenodfled* 
in tlic night from four of the ciiy gates. Though he docs not n»ni€ theotfi^ 
shows that Coventry was in his thoughts, as it is stated ia the old ^ide» ^ 
foui of Its many gaits were standiog in the early part of this century. 



Bozland. 



451 



In further proof of the place being Coventry, we find that when 

single gentleman had discovered, through Codlin and Short» 
£re Nelly and her grandfather were, viz., with Mrs. Jarley^ he set 

post with four horses at night, and calculated that they would 
ch the town in good time the following morning. The distance 
5 said to be about sixty to seventy miles. Coventry, by rail, is 
tthei away than this. 

We all know the scenes that occurred — the old man's craze for 

Unbling, and his rescue by Neil As their escape is described^ we 

ive some of the touches which help to identify the town, "the 

ftught streets, the narrow, crooked outskirts," the steep hill crowned 

the old grey castle, the town sleeping below, the far-off river, and 

distant hilk 

During the night they walked on, until towards break of day, 
in they lay down to sleep on the bank by a canal— the Warwick- 
re and Birmingham canaL It was here that a friendly fellow took 
>tii into his canal-boat. He asked them whence they were 

ling, when she gave the name of the village where their friend 

schoolmaster dwelt. They were going, she said, "to a certain 
in the west" He said he was going the same way. The 

ntT)" through which the canal passed is described as a rich one, 
^ running streams and wooded hills, cultivated lands and shel- 

d farms. More than once a distant town, probably Dudley, 
laid, with great church -towers looming through its smoke, and 
Hi factories or workshops, come into view. In the canal-boat they 
Snt the whole day, the night and the day next following. By 
tning they were approaching a great town. The water had grown 
ck and dirty, the paths of coal-ash, and huts of staring brick, 
oke from furnaces, scattered streets and houses, clustered roofs, 

3 piles of buildings trembling with the working of engines, the 
Ink of beating upon iron, the roar of busy streets and noisy 

wds, black vapour, tall chimneys, all denoted a great manufacturing 
—Birmingham surely. The boat floats into a wharf on the 
feiningham Canal. 
At Birmingham they got shelter for the night by a furnace-fire, 

4 when they were about to depart were told that it would be long 
^fore they could get clear of the smoke and factories, " The road 

5 through miles and railes, all lighted up by fires," a strange black 
ad And so it proved to be, " two days and a night," as she 

^ght he had said. On every side there were chimneys and 
^unds of ashes, and engines. They met with bands of labourers, 
^howere in revolt, burning and plundering. Two days and a night 



J 



k 



452 Thi GeniUtnan's Magazine. 

were thus spent, when they came to " a busy town."* which was 
Wolverhanfjpton, 

Here they met their old friend the schoolmaster, who wis 
trudging along to lake up his new charge. After a delay of a daj or 
so, they set off in a waggon, which took two nights and a day K> 
reach its destination. They came to •* a large town," where ibc/ 
spent a night. They passed a large church, and m the streeu wcr^^ 
a number of old houses, built of a kind of earth and plaster aosse(^ 
and recrossed in a great many directions with black beams, wKict-^ 
gave them a remarkable and very ancient look. The doors, lo^ ^ 
were arched and low, some with oaken portals and quaint bendi gg 
The windows were latticed with little diamond frames, 

Bridgenorth, a quaint and delightful old town, which is about ^^ 
dozen miles or so from Wolverhampton, answers this description Ttr"^ 
closely. It is full of these old framed houses. Dickens in Xo^'euib^^^ 
1838 was on his travels with " Phiz " going over the ground, andlhs*- ^ 
getting inspiration. He visited Warwick Castle, Wolverharapto^r-", 
Leamington, but was prevented passing by Bridgenorth as h^ ^ 
intended to do But he spent a night at Shrewsbury, and h. "^^ 
description is probably of that town, though it is rather out of Ncl^ * 
course. He was evidently impressed by the terrible Black Count«^ 
between Wolverhampton and Birmingham, ** as he passed ihroui^^'' 
miles of cinder paths and blazing furnaces, and roaring stcan*^* 
engines, and such a mass of dirt and gloom and misery as I nev^ 
before witnessed." From this he expanded his picture. Fit^'* 
Bridgenorth to Shifnal is about ten miles— from Shrewsbury atx^ '^^ 
sixteen. From Shifnal there was a short stretch to Ton& tlt^^ 
exquisite village where Nell ended her wanderings for ever. 

It will be recollected that the single gentleman, having got *C^ 
the track of the fugitives, set off for Coventry. But the single gentS-^ 
man made a second journey to the North-west with Mr. Garlanda»^ 
Kit, which was a much longer one than the first. They started *^ 
the morning, travelled the whole day, the next night and followi 
day until night again. The roads were bad, and the weather w( 
and there were delays for horses, &c. Thus, supposing ihey goti 
from sixty to seventy miles in the day, they would have coi 
about I So miles. 

There are many indications in Dickens* letters of the excitcm^"' 
and feverish sorrow with which he wrote the close of NelKs pilgrimi^^ 
He shrank, as it were, from the last offices. Nothing shows tl»*^ 
more curiously than ihe sort of incoherence with which the jatl^ 
trite incidents of the journey down to Tong are recorded. But he 





453 



writing with the tragic issue before him, and it pressed on him. 

As it grew dark, Kit," we are told, "could descry objects enough 

[at such times, but none correctly ; now a tall church spire appeared 

view which presently became a tree, a barn, a shadow- Now 

»ere were horsemen, foot-passengers, carriages going on before, or 

leeting them in narrow ways, which when they were close on them 

irned to shadows too. A wall, a min, a sturdy gable-end would 

ise up on the road, and when they were plonging headlong at it 

^*Ovild be a road itself^ strange turnings too, bridges and sheets of 

w'ater appeared to start up, here and there making the way very 

^doubtful and uncertain ; yet there they were on the same bare road, 

*<i these things like the others, as they were passed, turned into dim 

Uusions." It was the prosaic Kit who was affected in this extra- 

'dinar)' way. What the meaning of all this was it is hard to say, 

^^ess it be that the author, who was so poignantly affected by the 

^ptifiding fate of " the child," was endeavouring to pourtray his own 

lotions, though the late George Henry Lewes would certainly have 

isted that these were " hallucinations." It is, however, picturesque 

»Ugh, and prepares the reader for what is lo follow. 

When they were nearly at the end of their journey they must 

^ve touched Shifnal, for we are told they had to take a cross-country 

*ad which brought them towards midnight to Tong, a picturesque 

*ittle place, which had attracted the artist Cattermole^ and whose 

•hurch he sketched in his most graceful fashion. Everyone will 

ll these drawings of the old church and its interior. 

Tong, we are told, is celebrated for its church and castle. The 

^filler is '*a perfect mausoleum of the Vernon family," and a fine 

^*a.inple of Early Perpendicular, with its central octagonal tower and 

^golden chapel. Nothing can be more richly beautiful than its rood 

•creexiand carving. When the schoolmaster and his two companions 

^proached the place, " they admired everything; the old grey porch* 

mullioned windows, the venerable grave-stones dotting the green 

'^fchyard, the ancient tower, the very weathercock ; the brown 

^^ched roofs of cottage, barn, and homestead peeping from among 

trees, the stream that rippled by the distant water-mill, the blue 

'^Ish mountains far away/" 

*• It was a very aged, shabby place; the church had once a convent 

*^onastery attached, for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows 

'^ fragments of blackened walls were yet standing. Hard by these 

avestones, and forming part of the ruins, were two small dwellings 

^^h sunken windows and oaken doors, hastening to decay, empty 

*^d desolate/' One of these was the dwelling which the school- 



J 



butl 




V Magazine, 



am told lkieare$ii 



I iccmed iKcfy sme ifltofsidng ddii 
of ibe pretty vilbge. like ^ otki 
Willi fats magic touci^ tk 
ami Is veil taken ore of en 
Its^KtlBt be and S«r Wahii Scol^ 
false done ifae most sobstmtiil setrt 
as k 'were, o«c tfaexr cootioued castuoft to 
e ^e- Old Mixtrii^* of fictions; and of W 
faeiad. 

pcmeaicd whh the fiai*our of tbe old 

k B c«e of die most complete and pktuitsqot 

Weaeem to see erety stooe. AbM( 

desectkm vhich hefeli ifi 

t]be iaipeaidfaig fiue o£ his little ben)ioe> 

beeft ittCudttlf atHacted by it is certaim 

be faad been staying at Shief^ 

B. (So the Vicar of Toog infonsi 

lisasor, the novel in hand^ oocn- 

and fats coodtisaoQ vastfaJlit 

lus coadjutor that nooe 

or caught his idea a>}i< 

indeed, had caogHt 1^ 

and fats delicate &ketd>es 

of Ae stoiy. He took esttaordinafy 

SodKby sold at their rooms sooK ^ 

ideas of the ' Maypok Inn^'i 

"Mr. Chester atd* 

iir. Cbester looking out d^ 
tatd in tbe ptibyshedvtmoo)^ 
'Maypole Inn*"; -Extai ' 
oTttto'; "^ Uuk Ndl Sleeping ** ; " ^ 

sanall designs for docks, cbai^ 

pvooC of ibe firomispiece of the "Oi^ 

«<SMMd dning of "little NdL" Ii»<^ 

s pnnted in « raised letteis'* fot*^ 

«f dK UMi md tbe aitdKN- in 1869 fofwaftied c«^ 

St Geoise\ Fielda. 

an expedition with ibe ^ 
of tbe ■OHiikm xbools which he was about ^ 



i 




Bozland. 



455 



ibbet " in his *' Nickleby." No one has approached Dickens in his 
tcm of adapting abuses of this kind to the purposes of fiction. 
I3; a master could contrive to extract the more humorous elements 
Eft such unpromising material. With others the characters become 
^6cial and laboured. We have an instance in the case of Charles 
ade and the treatment of the prison abuses in " Never Too I^te to 
tnd," which is after the system of a newspa[)€r report. On this 
lursion his companion was "Phiz," or Hablot K, Browne, whose 
Upathetic pencil was later to reproduce many of these scenes. He 
Bat the close that he "hoped to make out the whole trip." 
Part of the "actuahty" which Dickens infused into his stories is 
bg to such little touches as the following. He wrote to his wife 
t at Grantham he found *' the very best inn I have ever put up at." 
might not seem to concern fiction whether one inn was better 
It another, yet in the story we find the party arriving at **one of 

beat inns in England, the ' George.' " This may have been good 
lire, and owing to gratitude for good treatment ; but in any case it 
ds a reality. 

On his journey down he had an odd rencontn at Grantham with 
did lady, " who had been outside all day on the coach." It turned 

that ?ihe was the mistress of a Yorkshire school, and was re- 
ning from a holiday stay in London. ** She showed us a long 
ler she was carrying to one of the boys from his father, containing 
Bvere lecture (enforced and aided by many texts of Scripture) on 

refusing to eat boiled meat." This incident, it will be reniem- 
td^ is introduced into the stor)\ In the same fashion he develops 
)ther. And the treatment is quite legitimate and consistent ; the one 
lie germ of the other, and a person of such a character might have 
iken in the one way as well as in the other. The text of Scripture 
med to the author too ordinary a practice, so he lengthened it by 
missionaries and the knife with the corkscrew. Again : "In the 
fl there was a most delicious lady's maid> who implored us to keep 
Urp iook-out at the coach windows, as she expected the carriage 
coming to meet her, and she was afraid of missing it. In the end 
I scarcely necessary to say that the coach did not come, but a very 
y girl did." Of this hint he made the following : " A very fas- 
E>us kdy, with an infinite variety of cloaks and small parcels, who 
ily lamented the non -arrival of her own carriage, and made the 
td solemnly promise to stop every green chariot he saw coming." 
They were making for Greta Bridge, which is vividly described. 

house standing alone in the midst of a dreary moor. It was 
fully cold, and there were no signs of anybody being np in the 




M 




af ihe most characteristic and always -to-be-expected in- 
nts connected with the Dickens topography, is the exaggerated 
itions that have grown up about him. As we have seen, he could 
have stayed a couple of days at Bowes and Castle Barnard ; but 

as insisted in the place that he had remained six weeks, on a later 
— a waitress, it seems, who attended upon him during the whole 

his time, and was rewarded by Dickens for finding a gold pencil- 
he had lost, died only two years ago. " Many trustworthy per- 
now living can testify that this person frequently declared that 
les Dickens stayed six weeks." This is not convincing. The 
es who directed the hotel were also a liule uncertain in their 
es as to the length of his stay. They fancied even that he wrote 
of *• Nicholas Nicklehy " in their house, " It is thirty one years 
€ one of the ladies died, and twenty-eight since the survivor 
gned the hotel to the daughter of one— the present landlady " — 
which seems dreamy and immaterial The truth was, he had 
lime to waste, and had to commence and introduce Squeers and 
school scenes almost at once. 
A different question arises as to the original of Squeers. It was 

Mmed that as the house was sketched from something existing, so 

■0 must have been the schoolmaster himself. The result was un- 
unate, but Dickens was not in the least responsible. Squeers is 
Uy imaginative in appearance, manner, and diction, and for the 
X)se5 of fiction it was necessary that he should be so. It was 
ugh for the author that the notorious system existed of which 

lOcers was a type. A wretched pedagogue exercising his sordid 

Bellies, however accurately drawn from life, would be no gain to a 

ition, 
Dr. Rogers, editor of '* The Modern Scottish Nf instrel," related 
a letter to the Daily Navs how he had been travelling in the 

strict in the year 1864, and how one Humphreys, a tradesman of 
place, had informed him that he had been the person who had 
led Dickens' inquiries, calling his special attention to this par- 
W school and schoolmaster. The latter received his visitors %'ery 

^^glitily, and *'did not so much as withdraw his eyes from the 
rations of penmaking during their interview,'* The author, how- 
^ declares positively in his original preface that Squeers is *'the 
esentative of a class and not of an individual-" The subject had 

•^g been in his thoughts. Even when a child at Rochester he had 

5*11 vividly impressed by a lad who had come home from a York- 

we school '* with a suppurated abscess " which his master had 

rtpped open with an inky penknife/' 




Bozlaiid, 



459 



felof ; those who were totally blind were sent into a room ; I stayed 
j:lie wash-house about a month, and the number of boys there 
l^n I left was i8 ; they were all affected in their sight ; I was then 
\ into a room ; there were nine boys in this room totally blind ; 
fclr, Benning, a doctor, was sent for ; while I remained in the 

ih-house no doctor attended us ; I was in the room two months, 
the doctor then discharged me, saying I had lost one eye ; in 

^ I was blind with both ; I went to the wash-house a second lime, 
no doctor attended me then." 

The counsel for the defence was Sergeant rcll, a name that no 
llbt made an impression on the young writer, though he was then 
ly a child. Mr, Squeers^ too, was in the habit of confiscating 
% boys' clothes, dressing them in old, ragged garments, that were 
% large or too tight, as the case might be. 

I The result was that Shaw was cast in heai7 damages, ^300 in 
fell case.* 

, The strangest part, however, was the defence, which was that 
kw was rather a humane and amiable roan — " in private life,'' at 
fel— and that it was the system of his school that was responsible, 
cvowedly founded on the most parsimonious principles, with a 
Iw to suit certain parties." He kept five ushers, and the doctor^s 
^rge for one year, it w*as sworn, was ^100. ^Irs. Shaw was 
^rted to be "tender-hearted." He obtained time to pay the 
s—did pay them — and continued his school. Mr. Cope 
his visit also heard very favourable testimonies as to Shaw's 
ter, that he was " always a civil man, and answered any 
tions of visitors — worthy people, and the opposite of Squeers.** 
\ contra, it should be considered that this is likely to have been 
le testimony of villagers, to whom a school of 300 boys must have 
fought substantial gain and its closing proportionate loss. Dickens' 
lescnpiioD, it is stated, again revived the old odium; it was insisted, as 
I have shown, that the sketch of Squeers was intended for him. " He 
became an object of ridicule to his thoughtless, or perhaps spiteful, 
Jeighbours, which, together with the ruin that soon after overtook 
■un through loss of pupils, broke his spirit and hastened his death," 
I thickens often found himself embarrassed, when charged with 
pus drawing from real life, to vindicate himself; as in the well- 
itown case of Leigh Hunt, he was compelled to have recourse 

*^ined explanations and refinements, which would not hold 

^^•^e caiicms particulars as to the Yorkshire schools were published in the 
^ "^ ChronkU, which Mr, Joseph Cowen has been kind enough to collect 
r*^ to me. 





Bozland. 



461 



lally the worthy watchmaker might have come to believe it. It 
« seen that there is really no similarity between a street dial 
I clock-case in which papers were found concealed ; nor was 
irst hkely to have suggested the second, Dickens' name was 
mphrey," not "Humphreys,*' — though, of course, supposing he 
K)rrowed the name, there would have been an awkwardness in 
iiphreys's" clock. In this story there are many dramatic localities 
I it would be interesting to trace. Dickens knew Epping Forest 
and we tlnd that, before he wrote "Pickwickj" he was ordered 
to Essex. There still stands the old inn at Chigwell— the 
►ole-'Which, however, is not quite so scenic or operatic-looking 
vittenmoles " has made it 

ne of the rioters in *' Barnaby Rudge " was called Stagg, and a 
lar portrait it i^. It is curious that there should have been a 
of his name — one John Stagg, known as the " Blind Poet of 
>erland," who issued at Manchester in 1S21 the "Cumbrian 
ttel; or, Tales Legendary, Gothic, and Romantic." This must 
come under Dickens* notice. The Stagg of the fiction frequented 
>f Dickens' most effective inns, The Boot— described as "a low 
5 of entertainment, and situated in the fields at the back of the 
dling Hospital^it stood at some distance from any high road^ 
vas approachable only by a dark and narrow lane." Not long 
being in this very quarter, I found myself at the end of Cromer 
t, where it touches J odd Street, in front of a modern public- 
*, with the sign of a gilded boot at the top, and " The Boot " 
^ letters displayed across it I made some inquiries, and was 
med that an old mouldering tavern of the name had long been 
e place, which the present landlord, who knew the story and 
pride in the associations of his inn, had rebuilt, 
'rom this northern journey, made in 1838, Dickens gathered 
ic material for several episodes in at least two of his stories, 
n the coach broke down close to Grantham in ** Nickleby,*' he 
led a visit that he paid to York after leaving Castle Barnard, 
made a celebrated fine window of the cathedral the subject of 
itroduced tale. He no doubt found that one which interested 
and touched his feelings^ he could write with most effect The 
ce '* of the tale, who was " the youngest and fairest of her sisters," 
ntended as one more sketch of the lost Mary Hogarth. In the 
itory of Pick>\ick " 1 have pointed several allusions to this to 
painful bereavement ; Indeed, all through his early books will be 
i pictures of young creatures full of life and beauty, such as 
t May lie, wasting away under sickness and sufiTering. 
lie "five sisters of York" not unnaturally suggested to liim the 





462 The Gentleman s Magazine. 

three sisters whom he regarded with such affection ; and the lost 
Alice, like the lost Mary^ was treated by all as the cherished treasure 
of the family. When on this trip we find him writing to his wife 
that ** the same dreams which have constantly visited me since poor 
Mary died, follow me ever)'where. After all the change of seen* 
and fatigue I have dreamt of her ever since I left home. 1 shodd 
be sorry to lose such visions, for they are very happy ona 
I would fain believe, too, sometimes, that her spirit may have some 
influence over them." And that curious high-strung picture (rf 
what Kit felt upon the road near Tong was, as I have suggested, 
likely to have been a picture of his own feelings. It has Dot 
been pointed out with what art Dickens contrived to associate 
his own private feelings with localities — investing them with a sort 
of living original interest. Thus, in David Copperfields piteous 
journey down to Canterbury, Dickens reveals to us his om 
thoughts and feelings of association with s]>ecial places — tenderly 
wrapped up in lavender, as it were, and suggestive of bygone delight- 
ful memories. Here is found the true magic of such topography— no"^ 
in mere accurate description of details, There are places which hair^ 
charm and appropriate suggestions in this way. If my own experiencr^ 
is of any interest, I may say these two places — Canterbury aa^^ 
Dover — are most potent in this way. These tranquil, old-fashionc^ 
places are charged with romantic thoughts of midnight journey"^ 
sukry summer days, the packet sleeping tranquilly and waitir^S 
for night, queer old twisted streets, dramatic landings and cmbor'*^" 
ings. There is the glimpse of Canterbury, too, as it flits by— tt^^ 
solemn cathedral —seen a moment in all its grace— the quiet town ^^ 
its feet. There have been long, restless days at Dover — spent h^-l^ 
in the station, waiting to meet fellow travellers — a visit to CantcJ"* 
bury when something tragic was about to take place at hotnc 
Hence such places become a curious, mysterious background to 
which the eye turns back. Numbers, I have no doubt, feel this sort 
of thing. Dickens was thinking of his mother. '* It always kcp*" 
me company," he says. ** I have associated it " (her image, liJ** 
is) " with the sunny street of Canterbury, dozing, as it were, in lii^ 
hot light J and with the sight of its old houses and gateways, and tb^ 
stately gray cathedral with the rooks sailing round the loiMJ^* 
When I came at last upon the bare wide do\sTis near Dovef 5^ 
relieved the solitary aspect of the scene with hope." He is spcikioS' 
it is true, by the mouth of little Copperfield; but so genuine W^ 
earnest is he, that we have the conviction that these are hisofi* 
personal experiences. 




Bozland, 



463 



Dickens excelled in describing long weary journeys, and in 
gesting the idea of painful protraction — of towns and roads 
kgging by^-of long nights. These journeys seem to stimulate all 
dramatic art We appear to have travelled all (he way with him, 
:h is little Copperfield's weary walk to Dover -done in his most 
id way. As we come into the town and catch the first glimpse of 
s white cliffs and the sea beyond, we always recall it. There is the 
ckwickian journey to Birmingham in a chaise, and Nicholas and 
Uce's tramp to Portsmouth, to say nothing of Bucket's spirited 
base of Lady Deadlock. 

In the walk to Portsmouth the road seems to have been quite 
iliar to the author, as well it might, for it led to his birth-place, 
t here, too^ he again showed his faith in the miraculous walking 
Owers of the human race ; and it seems incredible that Nicholas and 
feeble half-starved Smike could have travelled, on the first day, 
thirty miles and more," to Godalniing. More wonderful still, on 
following day, quite unfatigued, they pushed on, examined the 
SVil's Punch Bowl, and reached to within twelve miles of Ports- 
Uth, where they encountered Mr. Crummies at the public-house, 
-kens was born, as most people know, at Landport, close to 
•"tsmouth, so he knew and described the flavour of the place. 
^ manager and he left their pony at the drawbridge, and, walk- 
up the High Street, soon reached the theatre. There is a 
urcd picture of this building now before me, as it appeared about 
^Xy years before Dickens wrote ; a long, windowless house of 
k»\ing brick, with a large -tiled roof, a Doric portico with steps, and 
ry green door. In a sort of annexe at one end there is a little 
door, to which there is a descent of some steps ; and this is the 
^e-door by which Nicholas and his manager entered. Nothing is 
re vivid, more real and Pickwickian than these theatricals ; the 
tTacters are drawn in the most brilliant fashion ; the dialogues are 
acious, humorous, and natural. They are better, perhaps, than 
Mhing in " Pickwick." As wc all know, Mr. Crummies had lodgings 
St. Thomas* Street, with one Bulph, a pilot ; Nicholas at a 
^acconist's shop on the Common Hard ; and Miss Snevellecct in 
tnbard Street. The old theatre has, of course, been swept away 
kg since. 

The picture is given in that interesting book " The Theatrical 
Jurist," the work of the industrious Winston, who collected every- 
ing conceivable for the stage, and seems to have spent his days 
^ing "cuttings" from old newspapers and transcribing. These 
■ictures of the provincial theatres are coloured by hand, and have 




464 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



singular interest from the air of old fashion and quamtne&s. The 
work is exceedingly scarce. Not many years ago there was still to be 
seen on Richmond Green the old theatre and manager's house, which 
had, far me at least, the entire and perfect Crummies tlavour. A 
very picturesque edifice it was. 

In considering these localities^ta which Dickens has lent w 
vital an interest — we are ap)t to think that he selected them becaas? 
they were suited to his purpose. The truth, I suspect, is that they 
selected him ; that his vivid fancy, as he passed by the places, was 
kindled, and that it suggested to him some episode which became, 
Jis it were, its meaning, and its only meaning. Thus his desciiptwo 
belongs to the place, not from any arbitrary or capricious sclectiofli 
but from an inevitable law. 

In all his London localities I doubt if there be one more id' 
justed to ihe story than that disrail burial ground, with the gate, that 
is found in ** Bleak House." The gate alone is wonderfully dn- 
matic, the graveyard being seen through its bars. Our author bd, 
no doubt» passed it again and again, and it supplied him by wiiyof 
suggestions with the whole chain of events that linked ** Joe," and 
♦* Nemo," and Lady Deadlock. It supplied him with pictures of ^ 
successive episodes. Any one who is much accustomed to writing 
knows how, on the mere sight of an object of this kind, a vision of 
stirring episodes will rise before the mind. The tragic gloom ofthat 
enclosure would have substance for many a tale. 

It is wonderful how Dickens has caught the flavour of the little 
streets and courts that branch out of Chancery Lane. As we wander 
through them now in their altered stale, we feel the breath of the 
Bleak House associations, and see perfectly all the Snagsbys, Brook*. 
*' Nemos," and the rest. The essence of this feeling is that it » 
a sort of fringe of the great Inns of Court, the characters being 
dependent on it, just as round Drury Lane we feel that all is depen- 
dent on the great theatre and coloured by it. The scene is ^^ 
particularly in •* Cook's Court, Cursitor Street," which is, of cotine, 
Tooke's Court. Here it was that the wretched Nemo died and the 
inquest was held. After which dismal incidents were disposed of. 
there was the gloomy buri^al ground surrounded by squalid houses, 

This place has long been known and recognised as a liitl^ 
enclosure, somewhat hard to find, at the end of a passage whicb 
leads out of a flagged court or lane that winds or twists out of DnuT 
Lane, and is called Russell Court As you look up the passage ^i^ 
Russell Court you see the railed gate at the end, and the ^ 
graveyard surrounded by houses, just as Joe and Lady Dcidlock 




Boziana, 



4^5 



it. Recently the London County Council have made a sort of 
'ground of it, and, for some mysterious reason, have actually 

ired the old gate, possibly with some vitw to Dickens associations, 
this mercy we may be thankful. Even as it is now, nothing can 

ter answer to Dickens' description ; it is, in fact, the only place in 
district, or in London indeed, which so answers. But visit it in 
gloaming or at the close of some November day, when the lamps 
lighted, and the delusion is perfect. There is a strange ghasily 

emnity ; we seem to see the shadowy figures looking through the 

Dickens several times alludes to the "little tunnel of a court" 
ich leads up to the gate, and which supplies such an effective 
of the place. It seems to have affected him with a sort of 
rror, for he speaks often of " that hideous archway," with its "deadly 
ins." Tunnel is exactly the fitting word. The exactness of the 
Icription too, even after forty years and more, is extraordinar)-- 

re is the tunnel aforesaid, the iron gate, its lower portion, how- 
r, strengthened with wood In the enclosure itself you can see 

windows close to the ground, the very " kitchen window " pointed 

by Joe. There are the steps on which Lady Deadlock died, 
He half a dozen in number. Hablot K, Browne's two pictures are 
tderfully correct, even to the number of rails in the gate. The 

had been well inspired by the mystery of the place. 
In Lincoln's Inn Fields, close by, close to Inigo Jones' houses, 
find an interesting mansion that also figures \n *' Bleak House." 
ds is a stately stone-fronted structure, with a large *' fore court" 

a semi-circular porch. This was chosen as Mr, Tuiktnghorn's 
idence, and is exactly the sort of one an old-fashioned family 
icitor would choose. It was really Mr. John Forster's house, 
lere he resided for some years, up to his marriage. There is a 
>ne stair, and the rooms are finely proportioned. The ceiling of 

front room was floridly painted, and every one will recall the 
>tirishing Roman who is shown so mysteriously pointing down to 
- body of the murdered solicitor. For some strange reason, this 
coration has since been painted out. Hablot Browne, the illus- 
tor, fell into a curious mistake in dealing with this *' Roman," It 
1^ be remembered that Dickens makes much of his mysterious point- 

Uithe direction of the Frenchwoman who was outside, watching for 
inUDgfaorn. In a second plate, representing the scene of the murder, 

Roman is shown pointing in the other direction, towards the 

! The truth is. Phiz grew somewhat careless, and Dickens 
d not exercise that particular surveillance over his artist's work 

vot, ccLXXvn. so. 1957. 1 1 



466 The GentlemafCs Magazine. 

that he did in the early days. Many instances could be given of 
this odd carelessness. In " David Copperfidd" the author describes 
Peggotty's odd residence, which was an old boat drawn up on land 
and fashioned into a house. In the picture we have, what might be 
expected, an inverted boat, but it is clear from the text that Dickens 
intended a boat that was standing on its keel. He speaks of its being 
left " high and dry "—as though it were a boat that bad been washed 
ashore. Again, Captain Cuttle is pourtrayed in one plate with his 
famous hook on his left hand — in the other, on his right There was 
a time when such mistakes would have agitated our author. We can 
recall his distress when Maclise made the blunder as to the elq)6 
ment in "The Battle of Life." 

PERCY FITZGERALD. 



I 




7HETHER, as Plato held, and as modern sermon-writers 
mdustriously repeat, there be three sides to this our human 
e, body, soul, and spirit^ or whether these two last are not to be 
ied as mere divisions of one principle, may be left, perhaps, as a 
ion for the philosopher and psychologist. Indeed, it is in the 
si degree unwise for an inexpert swimmer to venture himself into 
eep waters of metaphysics, whence, after the most difficult diving, 
s lucky to bring up some scanty pearl or two. On the open 
ce there floats still a considerable quantity of scattered mer- 
dise, easy of attainment, and, for practical puq^oses, valuable 
gh. In plain words, it is obvious that a man's character has, if 
iree^ for the most part at any rate two sides, and that without 
danger of venturing beyond our depth, we may d«Tre to 
^te the temperament of mankind, singly and generally^ into two 
jng factors — the active and the reflective principles. And, as 
[1 warring parties the one's gain is the other's loss, so it is clear 
our superficial gaze that the man of action is not commonly 
[student, nor the dreamy reader of old books a good man of 
In fact, the struggle is not infrequently one of absolute 
, so that we see daily men in whom one side alone of their 
may be said to be in existence, the other having wasted 
atrophy and neglect to the merest inconsiderable fraction 
ler self. But, although in meaner natures there is often a 
contempt for men endowed with qualities opposite to 
as the idle affect to despise the laborious, or the mean- 
idge sees laziness in a generous universality of employ- 
[ng the higher characters there is, as there should be, 
[miration for talents different to their own, and a Wolfe 
fore the capture of Quebec who would freely barter his 
[ar for the fame of a studious recluse in a dull university 
things contrive to balance themselves in a makeshift 
^t the individual be what he may, it may be assumed 
jomewhere waiting for him his antidote, or direct oppo- 
[nd that the pendulum of life, duly weightedf may swing 

] 13 



468 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



with a decent regularity of oscillation. As in general, indeed, '^ 
does ; causing many to exclaim against the monotony of ihisworl*^' 
and some few to rise in active revolt against it with such weapons ^ 
they may find ready to their hands. I 

For my part, I confess to a kindness for the active hfe. In tl^ 
abstract, the idea of travel, of sea voyaging, of visiting many plaoC^ 
and being engrossed with many interests, is fascinating to 
minds. The ordinary man wishes to live. Vegetation is hateful 
him, and if he is compelled to lead a sedentary life he will const 
with wild characters or read with avidity tales of battle and advt 
lure. Even your philosopher is not proof against a longing, at timi 
for companionship with a man who has a reputation for rakishw 
and there is ever a more than common attachment between Soaate 
and Alcibiades, In like manner the gravest professors will sol 
their leisure moments with desperate novels, and a Darwin will 
love tales in the intervals of his worL The hermit feels that he 
lost an appreciable part of life, and by some means or other he 
strive to make up for the deficiency, so that Luther must needs 
someone to fight against, and, failing a mortal enemy, throws his ink- 
pot at the Devil in person. For, while the recluse is often selfcoa— 
scious and awkward in company, the travelled man is a veriuil^^ 
Ulysses for tact and wiliness. There is a sturdy self-reliance aboi4 
the man who has been buffeted by the world that is good to 
He has learned the true value of custom and use, and is not 
cemed overmuch with the trivialities that cramp and confine ib-^ 
scholar's life. And this, indeed, is the true use of activity and iravdL 
that it gives a freer atmosphere, and tlie pettinesses of a commc 
life are blown away by stronger breezes than can be encounte 
in our snugly-sheltered homes. Thus the mind soars to a 
view, and we regard the common troubles and ailments of life 
naught, and even Death itself as an episode, to be borne with for 
tude and lamented with moderation. 

On the other hand, there is a certain charm also even in 
student's existence, and one cannot rest long in a well-fu 
llbrar>' and survey the sober-coloored bindings of the books 
orderly in their shelves without feeling something of their sJil 
influence. An hour among a good collection of books were al* 
sufficient to make some men studious for life. Many have exc 
in the heal of their enthusiasm, that the best of all companions is 
good book. And scarcely any man of w^ide reading but Imi f^*^ 
himself impelled almost irresistibly at times to become a mere boo*' 
worm, and dwell wholly in the imaginations of the past, disKjprcU^i 






The Specialist, 



469 



stem facts of the present. There are many still who, like 
'bridge, would refuse to give up the lazy reading of old folios for any 
<iition to their incomes. There is much to be said even for such 
^Ti as these. For though they lose a great part of life> there is also 
rauch that they gain* They may not have seen the world, but they 
^^^e made acquaintance with the world's greatest minds, and both 
^ ^ise man and the fool are like to reap more good from studying 
^ vorks of those who have penetrated into the heart of the universe 
^ from merely running over the crust of the earth with their own 
t. Ii is more to have read Dante than to have visited Japan, and 
^n a moderate acquaintance with Shakespeare may fairly be 
koned equal with an American tour. 

It is sufficiently obvious that the Perfect Man should be a com- 
Und in equal degrees of these two temperaments, and that he 
\iid be so cons